Alienated (3 page)

"You
must remove the blade."

I
didn't understand what he was saying. "You're not human," I told him.
That much was obvious, but at the time I had not seen many of his kind. The
Committee used them as messengers—glorified servants. It was said that these
alien creatures could live a thousand years; but no one knew the secret of
their longevity. There was so much we still didn't know about them. "You
came to kill him."

He
shook his head. "Your father is not dead."

I
frowned. "Papa?" A surge of hope struggled to the surface. I dropped
beside his body and knelt. "Papa?" I felt his jugular vein for a
pulse. I must have pressed too hard; I eased up. I couldn't feel anything.
"I-I don't—" I stared at the alien's face on the screen.

He
raised his voice. "Remove it now, Aurora."

Papa
wasn't moving. He looked so . . .
dead
. Hot tears drained from my eyes.
My fingers twitched. I reached for the knife, even as the muscles in my arm
writhed disobediently. A strangled gasp escaped, and I sobbed as my hand closed
on the wooden handle. I will never forget the sound of the blade leaving his
flesh.

"Open
the door," the alien messenger said. "Allow me to help."

I
choked, staring at the blade in my hand. The blood ran from it in thick gobs
and splattered Papa's shirt.

"No,"
I breathed. "You've done enough."

I
was on my feet. My palm pressed flat against the scanner. The bolts slid back
and the door swung open.

The
messenger's thin lips parted to speak, and what looked like a bewildered
expression creased his smooth brow. But it didn't last long.

I
plunged the knife into one black eye and drove it with both hands as hard as I
could. I remember there was screaming—but it hadn't come from him. I shrieked
with everything in me, all the fear and rage and confusion tangled and messy
and roaring out of me as the black orb popped, splashing, as the blade of the
knife pierced whatever kind of brain the alien had behind it, as he toppled
over and I fell on top of him with an unyielding grip on the knife, the same
blade that had killed my father.

I
grunted, my hands covered in thick black mucus. I stared down at the grey face.
Frozen, it gazed up into the night sky, one eye intact but lifeless, unable to
blink away the rain, the other deflated and wrinkled around the blade in its
hollow socket.

As
if in a dream, I heard an impossible barking sound behind me. Papa was trying
to cough, but blood pooled in the way, garbling his efforts.

"Papa?"
I released the knife and crawled back inside, moving behind him and lifting his
head onto my knees. "Papa, can you hear me?"

He
coughed and blood trailed from the corners of his mouth. His chest heaved,
gushing life from his open wound. "Aurora . . . Baby?"

"I'm
here, Papa. Right here. You're going to be all right." I wiped my hands on
my shirt, but the black mucus clung to my skin like a fungus. I had to find
something to wipe it off—and to stop Papa's bleeding, apply pressure to the
wound.

A
strained chuckle passed his bloody lips. "Just a branch . . . knocking . .
. and all this." He coughed hard. More blood spilled out.

"Papa
. . ." I could tell his injury was severe, but he was talking, and that
had to be a good sign. "I'll call the doctor, and she'll—"

"No—"
he rasped, his eyes rolling up to meet mine. "No doctor . . . too late for
that." Again he chuckled, weak and strained. His head rocked side to side.
"Oh, Aurora . . . a fool's death . . . for an old fool. I'm sorry . . . so
sorry—" He coughed in a violent fit.

My
tears came all at once, blurring my eyes and streaking my cheeks. I could not
speak.

"Just
the wind . . ." Papa gasped, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe.
"Just the wind." He smiled sadly up at me. "There wasn't anybody
there—"   

Thunder
shook our small farmhouse to its foundation. Then lightning struck down, and we
lost power. Papa lay still, breathing shallow, and I sat with his head in my
lap, caressing his cool, moist forehead in the darkness. I don't remember how
long I stayed with him.

But
I soon became aware of my hands, that I was rubbing them hard against the slick
floorboards. The strange black mucus remained. And it was spreading. Already,
the stuff had climbed to my elbows. I could only stare. My stomach heaved at
the sight of it.

How
was this possible?

Stifling
a sob, grimacing as my fingernails dug into tender flesh, I scratched and tore
at the sticky black. But it was no use. The mucus was like tar, holding fast to
my skin. And it continued to creep up my arms and shoulders as if the scrubbing
had awakened it somehow, catalyzing it into action.

I
clawed at my neck, my jaw, my cheeks as the mucus slithered along. I became a
victim of my own imagination. In my mind's eye, I could see the stuff seeping
into my mouth, my nose, my eyes and ears, and I was powerless to prevent it. I
shrieked until my ragged throat allowed no more sound to escape.

Then
everything was still.

 I
gazed down at Papa's head in my lap, his eyes closed, his mouth sagging open
like he was sound asleep—only for the first time in my life, he wasn't snoring
loud enough to wake the neighbors, five kilometers away. He was still
breathing, but he hadn't heard me scream.

I
watched my hands glide to his wound, drawn to it somehow. My palms met the warm
pool of blood and pressed downward. I don't know why. I don't remember what
thoughts were going through my mind. It was as empty as the vacuum of space.
But I remember the warm sensation that tingled down the surface of my arms. It
felt like sunlight.

Papa's
eyes stirred, opened. He inhaled deeply and frowned at his belly where the
blood had flowed moments ago.

"Aurora?"
He coughed, his lungs now clear. "What's happened?"

His
big, strong hands touched mine, gently removing them from his wound. Only it
wasn't there anymore. Just the blood stains remained, the only evidence that he
had been impaled on his own knife.

"I
don't believe it," he gasped, squeezing my hands. He looked up at me.

The
light in his eyes dimmed. His smile faded.

"Aurora
. . ." He swallowed, struggling with his words. It wasn't that he couldn't
speak. He just didn't seem to know what to say. "Your skin . . ."
Something akin to horror retracted in his eyes.

"I
need to wash," I said in a hollow voice.

I
set the back of Papa's head on the floor and staggered to the bathroom, reeling
as if my legs were no longer my own. Behind me, a flash of lighting flared
through the open door, briefly illuminating my path. I turned sharply and
stumbled into darkness, my knees knocking into the cupboard under the sink, my
hands groping for the cold steel handles. They squeaked, and water hissed into
the basin. I pumped both palms full of liquid sanitizer and scrubbed at my
hands, rubbing the lather up my arms, my shoulders, my neck. Even my face.

I
rinsed the soap from my skin and shut off the water. I dried myself with a soft
blue towel.

I
could see it: an aquamarine-blue, Papa's favorite color.

The
power was out; there were no lights other than the occasional flash of
lightning behind me, flaring down the hallway in a blast of white. But I could
see in the dark.

I
blinked, staring into the mirror.

My
eyes—large, glistening black orbs—stared back.

Every
night the dream is the same—implanted into our subconscious as we sleep,
fertile soil for it to take root and grow. In the Dreamscape, the nexus of our
collective mind's eye, our Protectors guide us, teaching us what to fear,
showing us what it means to be safe from all harm.

But
some have begun to inject themselves with stimulants to stay awake, to free
their minds of the Dream. They are taken to the Protectorate for examination.
We never see them again.

You
must guard your thoughts, or they will betray you.

* * *

We
awaken to the sound of an alarm at dawn and rise from our bunks. We prepare for
the day's productivity, consume our morning rations and report to the factory
to take our positions on the line.

You
glance at me across the conveyor belt and catch my gaze as our hands move with
a deft, mindless familiarity.

What
does it mean
? I hear your thoughts as
if they are my own.
They have never shown us such a thing before
.

I
blink at you. I do not wish to consider it.

Why
an image of outsiders living under the sun
?

It
was only a split second in the Dream, a momentary flash of unfamiliar sights
and sounds.

Each
night as we sleep, the Dreamscape shows us what remains of the outside world:
bitter, lonely desolation. In stark contrast, we see the harmony of our Hive
minds working in unison, mingling as streams of sweeping, vibrant colors in an
endless pool of scintillating light.

But
last night—

Our
Protectors provide everything we need
.
Here in the Hive we are secure from the broken remains of generations past, the
toxic air that would burn our lungs to ash. Our Protectors give us work to do.
They give us purpose.
As long as we focus on our quotas
—

What
the Protectors give, they can just as easily take away
, you interject.

There
is a pause in my thought process. You sense it.

When
our Protectors found us, we were mere apes. They made us what we are. The human
species would no longer exist if not for them
.

What
remains of it
. You blink at me.
I
am going to double my STIM dose. If I do not sleep, I will not dream. And if I
do not share in the Dream, I will no longer fear being alone
.

We
are never alone; our thoughts blend whenever we project them into the mind of
another. We share them as one body, and it is horrific even to consider living
outside the Hive. We would be so separate, cut off from the others of our kind.
We were not designed to live in isolation. We would self-destruct.

You
would try to leave the Hive
? I must
know.

Biologically,
we are no different from our grandparents' generation. We could live as they
did
.

It
is impossible. The Protectors would not allow it. They have probably already
monitored your thoughts and will pull us from the line
.

You
glance at the female beside you, intent on her work.
I will project my
thoughts into her mind. She will be taken instead
.

You
cannot mean this.
I should report you for even thinking such a thing
.

You
will not. You love me
.

I
look down.
Your thoughts are dangerous
.

Do
not shut me out. Please. Just think: Why would such an image enter the Dream?
We have always seen the outside as a barren wasteland, devoid of life. Why
would we be shown humans planting fields and thriving in sunlight
?

There
is nothing left
. The Atomic Wars
incinerated everything. Humankind was nearly extinct when the Protectors
arrived from a distant star to accelerate our evolution, turning us into their
efficient, telepathic workforce.

I
will lose the fear they have programmed into me. I will not dream
.

There
is no way it will work.
All must sleep
.

The
Protectors do not
.

How
would you know such a thing?

I
will lose my fear of solitude, and I will find a way out of the Hive
.

Your
thoughts are no longer welcome.

Please—do
not shut me out. Think. We cannot be the only ones contemplating the Dream
right now
.

No
one speaks of it
.

No
one speaks! When was the last time you heard the voice of another human being
?

The
Protectors do not tolerate noise from us. We believe they have sensitive ears,
but no one knows for certain.

They
might as well have cut out our tongues
!

We
still have them. I stick mine out at you. No one sees. Our productivity rating
remains a steady 98.7%.

Last
night, someone interfered with the Dreamscape. It had to be one of our kind
.

I
blink at that.
Impossible. Such a thing is beyond our abilities
.

You
hesitate, forming the thoughts.
What if . . . there is one among us who has
continued to evolve beyond the Protectors' design? What if this human now has
the ability to interact with the Dream, to mold it any way she sees fit
?

All
this you infer from a single image
. I
shake my head.
Humans living outside
.

If
there are outsiders, how else would they speak to us but in the Dream
?

There
is no one beyond the walls of the Hive
.

I
shut you out. I have to. I cannot allow your thoughts to interfere with my calm
center of being. You only endanger yourself by continuing down this path. The
Protectors will not allow you to leave the Hive.

They
are stronger than they appear. Their power is one born of minds altogether
different from our own. Despite our advanced state of evolution, we could never
hope to interfere with the Dreamscape. We live only to serve our Protectors.

* * *

We
finish our shift on the line, sorting parts of a machine so complex we cannot
even fathom what it will be once completed. We return to our bunks for rations
and rest.

I
close my eyes. The Dreamscape welcomes me as it does every night, and I drift
off to sleep amid the hum of a million like-minds. Tonight, all is as it should
be. There is no flash of imaginary outsiders to interrupt the beauty and
tranquility of this realm. I sense only the presence of our Protectors,
hovering over us, guiding our minds, blessing us with peace.

* * *

My
eyes open. It is a new day.

So
much for your outsiders
, I project my
thoughts towards you.

But
your bunk is already empty.

Instead
of assuming my position on the line, I am asked to report to the second
sublevel office of the Protectorate. There is a single chair in the center of a
dark room, and a light shines down upon it. I sit as the door slides shut
behind me.

Are
you well, Human 3476
? a Protector's
thoughts enter my mind.

I
blink into the darkness but see no one.
Yes
. I nod.

We
are glad
.

My
head whips backward as they enter it in a rush of static energy, probing my
mind, digging, sorting through thoughts and memories, replaying the interchange
we had on the line yesterday, thought for thought. I cannot hide anything from
them. I cannot shut them out.

They
want to know where you are.

This
one carries no rebellion
.

He
is not an instigator
.

He
will return to the line
.

I
stumble, swooning as I am released from the interrogation room. I resume my
place at the conveyor. Another female now stands across from me. She is nothing
like you.

* * *

Our
productivity rating dips below 96% today. Cautious glances are directed my way,
but everyone guards his or her thoughts. The day's work is slow, tedious. I
have never noticed before how the hours drag on . . . without your mind mingled
with mine.

If
you are still alive beyond these walls, if you have found those outsiders of
yours, then speak to me in the dream. Prove to me that you were right, and add
something to the Dreamscape that will show me how to find you. Tonight, when I
dream, show me the way.

I
will be waiting.

I
glance up and clear my throat. The sound of it makes the humans around me stare
wide-eyed, petrified for a moment. I smile back.

"Everybody
sleep well?" I ask aloud.