Aura, p.2
Aura, page 2
The Cog moves up the line and enters the food bank, but before we can relax in his absence, the ugly, guttural tone of a CASS monitor blares out from the building’s open door.
We all freeze.
It's a noise I hear in my nightmares.
What sounds like a scuffle breaks out inside the food bank. Seconds later, a body is flung out onto the wet pavement. It's a boy, not much older than I am. His face is covered in blood.
He tries to scramble to his feet, but the Cog who started the beating is right behind him, kicking him down again, out into the crowd. The boy lets out a groan as his body skids along the pavement, stopping right in front of me.
I catch his eye, and my heart stops.
I know him. I used to go to school with him.
Matty-something.
He was a shy kid, super-bright, always by himself. I always thought he'd turn out to be Elite.
His eyes lock onto mine. He recognizes me too. His thoughts crash like waves into my head.
He’s going to kill me.
Help me.
Please.
I don’t want to die.
“I want a volunteer!” The Cog addresses us all. “And if I don't get a volunteer, I'm going to start shooting.” He paces up and down the line as if he's briefing a troop of soldiers. Matty looks down at the ground, shaking in fear. The Cog renews his threat. “I'll count to ten.”
The Cog’s count is met with silence. Matty looks up.
The Cog laughs.
“If that’s what you want,” he says, raising his gun and pointing it at a young woman at the end of the line.
“No! Wait! I’ll volunteer!” The man next to her puts his hand in the air.
Satisfied, the Cog lowers his gun. He takes a few steps backward and leans against his truck.
“This scab is an enemy of The Society, and we need to give him a suitable punishment,” he says, flexing a black-gloved hand. “Got it?”
The volunteer nods and approaches Matty.
At first, he dances around him, unsure of himself, of where – or how – to strike. Matty has curled himself up into a ball, protecting his head with his arms.
The first blow lands, and he cries out. The volunteer, suddenly confident, begins to hit him without mercy.
Someone help me.
I can’t get him out of my head. I feel his terror as if it’s my own.
I want to help him, but I’m powerless.
I hate being powerless.
People are pouring out of the food bank to watch. I let them push in front of me. Now I’m at the back of the crowd with a barrier of sweaty, dirty bodies between Matty and me.
Events like this are a daily occurrence in The Society. I should be used to them by now, but I think if I get used to them, then the bad guys will have really won. Life shouldn’t be like this.
Someone grabs my arm and pulls me back, into the food bank, away from the chaos.
Seb.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I wipe the rain from my face and try to calm myself down.
I've known Seb since we were kids. We're the same age. We were equals before the 11+ exam. Before the men in white coats inserted memory disks into our brains and categorized us.
Like all Elites, Seb got to stay in school until he was sixteen, before starting work for the government at The Telepathe.
He's a Clinical Research Agent – a medic – now, and he's the one person without a barcode that I talk to. I don't see him often, but we chat online, and he's here at the food bank every month, handing out parcels.
“That was Matty,” I whisper, knowing that he knows Matty from school too.
“I know,” he says, pulling out a chair. “Take a seat. They're going to be a while.”
I sit, dripping rain onto the floor, and watch as he collects tins and packets of food to fill up a bag for me to take home.
“He recognized me,” I say. “He looked right at me.”
Seb runs a hand through his hair, “Me too.”
He pulls up a chair opposite me and hands me the bag of food.
“Thanks.”
He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something and then stops.
“What is it?”
He looks behind him, making sure that we’re still alone. “There’s a van leaving from The Creek tonight.”
At first, I think I haven't heard him right.
The Creek is the wasteland that separates the Old City from the border. It's so far from the bright lights of Central Square that unless the inhabitants cause trouble for The Society at large, they're left to get on with their misery.
There's only one reason Seb would be telling me this.
“Seb – ”
“You could get out,” he says.
My eyes dart around the food bank. The fresh blood smeared across the floor is like a warning. I can't believe Seb is saying this out loud. Defecting is as much an offense against The Society as anti-government thinking.
Still, we were all going to go once. Before they took Dad. I used to hear him and Mum talking about a camp somewhere in the forest.
I hold out my arm to Seb, and he scans my barcode in exchange for the food. "Wouldn't you miss me?" I ask, forcing a grin.
“I’m being serious, Aura.”
“Really? Because you sound completely nuts.”
The crowd is still cheering outside. It’s an ugly sound. I can’t hear Matty’s pleas in my head anymore.
“Do you know something?" I ask, searching his face for clues. "Are we in danger?”
He chews his bottom lip. “I just know that you could get away from all of this.”
Years ago, I promised myself that I wouldn't listen to my friends' or my family's thoughts, figuring that if I did, I'd be no different from the CASS monitors I despised. It would be a betrayal of trust, like reading a private journal. But sometimes, it sure is tempting.
“Are you leaving too?”
“I can’t.”
Can't – or won't. Seb is Elite, so he has a comfortable life here.
“Mum will never leave. Not with Dad still here.” I shut my eyes as I realize what my words really mean. Not until Dad is dead.
I shake my head, trying to erase the thought.
“You can persuade her.”
“Even if I could, we don’t have the money.”
He puts a hand in the inside pocket of his coat and pulls out a vial full of tiny iridescent blue pills. He hands it to me.
“Seb?” I hiss. “What are you thinking?”
I turn the vial over in my hand, and the little pills sparkle like jewels.
DN8.
“Where did you get these?”
DN8 is the flagship product of Calvin Aldrich’s company, Edcal Pharmaceuticals. The drug is provided by the government as a “health and wellbeing pill” to stop us all from keeling over due to lack of nutrients – at least, that’s what the adverts say.
Dad had other theories before they took him.
He believed that DN8 regulates Workers' thought patterns, making them compliant with whatever the government wants.
Everyone in The Society is supposed to take one pill each day, though the Elite often save theirs up to binge when they want to let their hair down.
“That bottle is worth a ticket across the border twenty times over,” Seb says.
Could we do it? Could I persuade Mum?
I think of Reece. My best friend. He left for the border with his mum and his older brother over a year ago. I have no idea if he made it.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, snapping me out of my reverie.
I check the screen and thud back into reality.
It’s a job alert.
“I’ve got a shift at Purity Healthcare.” I hand the vial back to Seb. “If I get caught with these, I’ll be shot.”
He’s about to say something else when people begin to drift back into the building.
He slips the bottle back into his inside pocket.
“There's a van leaving at 10:00 p.m. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.” He stands up, signaling that it’s time for me to go.
“I won’t – but thanks for looking out for me.”
He looks disappointed. Worried. “Always.”
I head back out into the rain.
The Cog is tossing Matty's unconscious body into the van. The "volunteer" is dripping in sweat and looking around at the thinning crowd as if he's coming out of a trance. I'm not sure if he realizes yet what just happened.
On my way to the bus stop, I pass Barrack Road. I leave the bag of food Seb gave me at Number 101 – my own little act of rebellion in a world gone mad.
Chapter 2
The Work Alarm is ringing through the streets when I step into place at the shuttle stop with the other Workers.
It’s 7:00 a.m. already.
I'm just in time.
The shuttle glides into view – a big sixty-seater – its sleek black façade out of place amongst the crumbling buildings on the block. The doors open with a hiss and we troop toward them, scanning our barcodes on the ID panel as we enter.
As usual, the Elite seats at the front of the shuttle are empty, and the back of the shuttle is already full of Workers. There are no more seats available, so I stand, gripping the handrail. The doors snap shut.
“For your security, your thoughts are being monitored,” the familiar message warns.
We sweep through the Old City streets, passing derelict buildings and an occasional dead body left by the CSOs to decay in the elements as a warning to others about what happens when The Society gets crossed.
The scenery improves as we leave the Old City behind.
A so-called Smart City, The Society has been constructed in a series of concentric circles. This driverless shuttle travels all the way through it to get to the workhouses on the other side.
Concrete and cement are replaced by swaths of shiny green plastic and colorful polyurethane flowers as we approach the Artificial Gardens. Here, a gargantuan portrait of President Robert Wolfe appears on the roadside, as if welcoming worthy strangers into his lands.
Instead of entering the Gardens, we head into a tunnel, which takes us down below street level to continue our journey underground.
Shuttles can travel over a mile in ten seconds on this section of the route, and the initial acceleration almost makes me lose my footing. I widen my stance and grip the handrail more tightly to steady myself.
For a few moments, before the shuttle's digital windows come to life, we are cocooned in darkness, and then the video feed of the city above us begins to play.
The Artificial Gardens whiz by in a blur of color before The Neighborhood flashes into view.
President Wolfe’s Neighborhood project has already relocated the Workers who serve the Elite to this part of the city. The baristas, the personal shoppers, the Botox clinicians – they now live in sensor-enabled identikit houses with ‘modern surveillance and a phone app to optimize your living experience,' according to the ads.
All of their activity is tracked and reported back to the analysts at The Telepathe. The app tells them when to eat, when to sleep, when to wake up, when to go to work. They don't need a Work Alarm here.
Eventually, everyone left in the Old City will be moved into The Neighborhood. Once the Old City is demolished, there’ll be nowhere to hide.
The shuttle pauses at the underground stop in The Neighborhood and more passengers join us. They wear neatly-pressed uniforms and an air of arrogance that comes from having paid jobs to go to.
I roll my eyes at their attitude. I’m sure the time will come when they’re competing with Artificial Intelligence for their jobs like the rest of us.
After The Neighborhood stop, the shuttle races along beneath the Golden Belt, which is home to exclusive boutiques, high-end eateries, private schools and hospitals, the state-run TV station, and the sprawling gated community known as the Inner Sanctum.
This is where the Elite and their families reside.
The Inner Sanctum has always been a source of wonder to me. Seb doesn’t brag about his new home, but I’ve seen the pictures online. It’s hard to believe that real people live in such unparalleled luxury.
The Elite want for nothing, and in return, they live to serve The Society and further its agenda. I guess for them, luxury is a reasonable trade-off for freedom.
It could have been my life, if not for Mum’s interference with my 11+.
I cast the thought aside. My life as a Worker may be pretty bleak, but at least I’m not aiding and abetting The Society.
The shuttle stops again. There’s a line of Workers from the night shift waiting to board.
“Alight here for the Golden Belt. Please take all of your belongings with you.”
The doors open, letting in a gust of air, and the passengers from The Neighborhood get out. I watch as they march off into the underground station.
The shuttle pulls away again.
The next stop will be Central Square – the heart of The Society and home of The Telepathe.
The pixels in the digital windows glitter as the crystal and chrome exterior of The Telepathe rushes into view. Central Square looks deserted now, but by this evening, it will be transformed, teeming with the lucky thousands who have managed to get tickets for the Assembly while everyone else is watching at the big screens or at home on TV. The screenings are compulsory; no one misses an Assembly.
The shuttle pushes on for another ten minutes or so before starting to decelerate.
When we resurface onto street level, the bright lights of The Society are behind us. Soon the road turns into a dirt track.
“Alight here for Purity Healthcare Systems. Please take all of your belongings with you.”
Most of the workhouses are owned by corporations: Cellectra, Purity Healthcare, Clinic Inc., and Beautopia, to name a few. There are hundreds scattered around this part of the Old City, far from the Inner Sanctum and Central Square. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.
The Purity Healthcare workhouse, a windowless room about half the size of a basketball court, isn’t particularly big.
Three ceiling fans covered with layers of dirt hum quietly above two dozen sewing machines in the filthy room. Two cutting machines sit in a corner gathering dust. I think “Purity” must have been having a laugh when they came up with their name.
The sewing machines at each workstation have little benches for the operators, with piles of white fabric set by the side.
We scan in with our barcodes, toss our phones into a big plastic box, and find a workstation, wary of the two Cogs standing guard at each end of the room.
Our job is to make bed sheets, pillowcases, and uniforms, cutting and stitching from the moment we arrive to the moment we leave.
During the workday, we’re allotted a two-minute bathroom break and a ten-minute lunch break. Lunch is served at our workstations, usually a hunk of bread and a mug of soup.
Today our schedule will be different because of the Announcement. We'll be given a hot meal in the kitchen while we watch the broadcast.
By the time we file into the kitchen at lunchtime, my fingers are numb, and my back aches.
Each of us grabs a bowl from a stack at the beginning of the line and fills it with a ladle full of stew from the big stainless steel urn at the end of the counter. We carry our meals to a long wooden table while the supervisor, Mrs. Proctor, wheels a TV into the middle of the room. It splutters to life, and we all fall silent.
It’s time.
The Society logo appears onscreen, and the music starts to play.
I think of Mum, and wonder where she’s watching. I hope she’s at home with Selena.
The presenter's face fills the screen, all white teeth and red lipstick. She touches her ear, listening to a message from the producer, nodding somberly, drawing out the tension. They like the Announcements to have a touch of drama.
Dad said once that when he was a kid, the talent shows used to announce their winners like this.
The executions are our entertainment now.
The first mug shot appears onscreen. It’s an old man – older than Dad. I take a breath.
“Christopher Martin, 69, has been found guilty of loitering after curfew and resisting arrest,” says the presenter.
The kitchen remains silent. I wonder if any of the Workers here are like me, waiting to hear the fate of a loved one.
The second mug shot is of a boy who looks to be about my age. It’s rare that a young person is executed. They’re more valuable as research subjects.
“Adam Reeves, 17, has been found guilty of possessing Liceptopan with the intent to supply.”
The presenter explains the charges for the benefit of her viewers: “Liceptopan, an illegal substance also known as ‘Ice,’ can cause damage to the brain and central nervous system and has been linked to Alzheimer’s Disease and stroke.”
There’s a longer dramatic pause before the final photograph is revealed.
I hold my breath.
My knuckles are white, where they grip the edge of the table.
The third picture appears onscreen, and there's a moan from the corner of the room, followed by a clang as a spoon drops onto the tiled floor.
The Cogs raise their guns, and everyone turns to the source of the sound – a dark-haired girl whose eyes are fixed firmly on her shaking hands.
“Maria Emery, 43, has been found guilty of possessing and circulating religious texts.”
The slow sludge of the girl’s thoughts is almost audible.
She knows the woman in the photo.
I’ve seen about 40 public Announcements in my life, and this is the first time I’ve been in the same room as someone who has had a loved one in the execution lineup.
Yet all I can think is ‘it’s not him.’
For another month, Mum and Selena and I have hope.
“Do we have a problem?” Mrs. Proctor asks the girl. The girl shakes her head, trying to cover her shock.
Mrs. Proctor signals to the Cogs to remove the girl from the room. An outburst like that can't be ignored. They'll punish her when the workday ends.
We finish our meal, and Mrs. Proctor turns off the TV, signaling that the break is over.
