2 BREAK

After a few minutes, everything stopped and I felt fine again. I didn’t understand what the hell just happened, but it terrified me that memories of the aptitude testing lingered when everyone I knew said I shouldn’t remember a thing. I regained my feet and shrugged off the event, thinking it might be a side effect of the strange IV fluid. My TV wasn’t on, and it was probable I had imagined the words on the screen.

Deciding it couldn’t hurt, I started to get out supplies to make a cup of tea. After I microwaved a mug of drinking water, I added a tea pouch and stirred. Mr. Barton told me they used to sell many different teas from other countries in a wide variety of flavors and colorful packaging. I didn't know if I believed him or not—everything was made in New York, the only country in a vast and empty world.

I sat down on my bed and turned on the TV, disappointed to see regular programming. News channels reported on the progress of Absolute Knowledge, promoting visits to local Collection Parlors. There were two movies on as well, also focused on the importance of Absolute Knowledge.

I finished the cup of tea and turned off the TV; there was no need to use electricity on things I had already seen. I grabbed a worn down textbook from the shelf with Calculus written on the cover. The math on the inside was above my knowledge level, but I liked to read it anyway. The book was interesting enough to keep me occupied while I waited for curfew and my door to lock.

Enforcers were notoriously ruthless at night, and they weren’t the only danger, so I never stayed out past curfew. I set the book down on my desk and climbed into bed, knowing I should try to sleep. I hoped I would see Mary Dunn tomorrow, the cute girl who lived a few flats down from me. She was also sixteen and had long brown hair and beautiful blue eyes. The excitement of the day and thoughts of Mary made sleep difficult, but it came eventually.

When the alarm clock next to my bed buzzed and woke me from a deep slumber, it was eight AM. I grabbed a small plastic cup from the kitchen and put a splash of drinking water in it to brush my teeth. I walked into the bathroom and dug through the cardboard box marked ‘Hygiene.’ As long as I completed at least one session a week, I got a box full of hygiene stuff for free. Otherwise, I'd have to buy it from the store.

Brushing my teeth, I looked in the mirror. I wasn’t too skinny and had developed some muscle by doing some routines in my flat. My father would be shocked at how much I looked like him. I had his deep green eyes, defined jaw line, and medium-length brown hair. After appraising my appearance, I applied a generous coat of deodorant.

After changing clothes, I walked over to Mr. Barton's flat. He saw me coming and opened the door expecting me for our morning tradition. Edgar Barton was in his thirties and rather tall and well-built compared to others his age. He was holding an old paperback novel and kept his thumb pressed on the page as he let me in.

“Morning Mr. Barton,” I said.

“Good morning, Jake. I put the coffee on.”

That was one of the many things I loved about being friends with Edgar Barton. He always shared his coffee.

Mr. Barton closed the door behind him and sat down at the table, returning to his book. A Tale of Two Cities was printed on the worn spine. Most of his books were contraband and illegal. I stopped asking to read them a couple of years ago. Mr. Barton told me I couldn't read them because I was a Thinker. He said if I did, I would be sent to the Sculptors. He was a teacher, teaching some of the digital education classes for a monthly paycheck. It wasn't enough to get him out of the Slums, but it was sufficient to keep him from having to visit a Collection Parlor.

“How was your aptitude test?” he asked as he continued to read the frayed book.

“I don’t know. The operator told me there were anomalies and they’d get in touch with me when they figured them out.”

He looked up from the text and raised an eyebrow. “Do you remember anything from your test?”

“Some shapes and patterns. They mean nothing to me, but I saw them again last night when I got home to my flat.”

“I’m sure it was just the side effects of the IV,” he said as he dismissed the idea. “Keep me updated if you hear anything else.” He looked back down and continued reading his book.

“Good book?”

“Mmhmm.”

“What's it about?”

My question caught his attention, and he once again looked up and shook his head.

“Must be about two cities,” I said. He knew I had no intention of finding out. He scared that idea out of me long ago. I always wondered what was in those books, though—the ancient manuscripts from a different time.

Edgar set the book down, stood, and poured two large mugs of coffee. He brought them to the table and handed me one. Some people put cream and sugar in their coffee, but that was an expensive practice neither of us cared for. Edgar and I drank it black—it was better that way.

“What do you have going on today?” he asked as he took a scalding sip of coffee.

“I'll probably do another session, then hopefully spend some time with Mary.” I cursed myself for mentioning it. Edgar liked to capitalize on every opportunity he could to mess with me.                  

“Mary you say?” he asked, a sly smile forming on his face. I could tell that I was in for it.

“Yeah,” I conceded. “You know how I feel about her.”

I sipped at my coffee and looked down. I was eager to change the subject. Both Edgar and I knew how much of a crush I had on Mary.

“Just tell her how you feel. You’re never going to get anywhere if you don’t say anything,” he said.

“I promise I’ll mess something up. I’ll be awkward or say something wrong, and then Mary will never want to talk to me again.” I was eager to change the subject.

“Hmmm. You do have a tendency to act awkward.” He flashed me a grin. “I’ll make things easy for you and tell her how you feel!”

Desperate to escape the hole I dug, I said, “Anyway, I've been reading that Calculus book you lent me. It's a lot more complex than the algebraic ones. Could you help me learn derivatives sometime?”

“Sure, Jake,” he laughed as he backed off about Mary.

“I want to get out of the Slums and live in a high-rise apartment in the Mids or Upper Level one day.”

“Well, come up with a Paragon Thought. You'd be set for life.”

“If only,” I replied. There were only twelve Paragon Thoughts in over one hundred years, probably all discovered by the Prolific.

“Or just steal an airship and fly up to the Mids yourself.”

“Even if I knew where to find an airship, I wouldn’t be able to fly it. The only ones I’ve ever seen were Enforcer Dropships. You and I both know that people who get taken away on those don’t come back,” I said.

He winked. “Maybe they’re just getting a free ride to the Upper Level. Living it up in a high-rise apartment.”

I snickered. “Maybe so.”

“It looks like your only choice is to create a Paragon Thought, then.”

“Yeah, maybe one day. I bet you have one in your head, Mr. Barton.”

“Actually, my mind is filled with poison. If the Government found out what I knew, well … let's just say no amount of sculpting could repair my mind. I know too much. Things that should be known by a … sorry. I shouldn't press my views or criminal activity on you.”

It was so strange. Mr. Barton was one of the worst criminals known to society, yet he was also one of my best friends. He stayed inside reading books and drinking coffee while actual criminals wandered the streets selling illegal drugs and stealing. Worse yet, in the eyes of the law, he was considered treasonous. Was there something wrong with what he did? I was thinking about it more often than I should.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I finished drinking my coffee. “I'll see you later Mr. Barton. I’m going to try to meet up with Mary.”

“Good luck, kid,” he said with a smile. “Just tell her how you feel. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

“I’m not insane; I’m just playing it safe.”

“Playing it safe and bottling up three years of feelings are two very different things. I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Ashton.”

“I promise I’m working on it,” I said. He did have a point.

I thanked him for the coffee and walked outside. The air burned, and it would only get worse. If I was lucky, I'd be able to hang out with Mary inside. I ran across the street to her flat and knocked. She opened the door and motioned for me to come in. I hustled past her, and she sealed the door behind me. Aside from a few cosmetic differences, our flats were identical. All the flats in this district were. I turned to Mary and smiled as I pulled off my bandana.

“Hey, Jake,” she said with a smile that sent my heart racing.

“Hey, how's it going?”

“The usual.” Mary started walking over to the couch then stopped short, as if remembering something.

“Hey, I made something for you. C’mere,” she said, jumping in excitement.

She skipped to the table, and we sat down. Mary grabbed a manila envelope and passed it to me. I looked over at her, and she was beaming, which only made me more anxious.

I opened the worn envelope and pulled out the folded paper. This wasn't cheap fibrous paper; this was white paper, the type the upper class used. The cost alone made me even more nervous, and I looked up at her with concern.

“Mary … this paper is expensive.”

“Look, Jake. You've been a great friend, and I wanted to make something for you. It's a gift. And I got a good deal on the paper. Bought it off of one of those traveling merchants. Go on! Open it up.”

With hesitation, I unfolded my gift and opened a drawing of me. It was incredibly realistic. Mary had rendered me using charcoal and various colored pencils, the most precious and expensive of her art supplies. She had even signed her name with real ink in her beautiful ornamental form, and there was a small heart next to her signature which I knew I would spend hours trying to interpret.

“Mary … I don't know what to say. This is incredible,” I said as I looked up at her, blushing.

“You like it?” she asked, her voice timid.

“I love it. I’ll hang it above my bed.”

She leaned in to hug me and my heart kicked rapidly. When she pulled back, I'm sure my face was red.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“I forgot to ask you! How was your aptitude testing?”

“Still waiting to hear. They think there was some equipment malfunction,” I replied. I didn’t want her to think I was crazy for seeing shapes and a message on my TV. I refolded the paper with care and returned it to the envelope.

“So, what's the plan for today?” she asked.

“I was going to do a session since I'm close to buying my next education lesson. What about you?”

“I was just going to draw, maybe go shopping later. How do you afford all those lessons?”

“I never use the pill.”

“Jake … that must be excruciating. I've seen people refuse it and they got pretty messed up.”

“I've been doing it for three years. The extra pay is worth it. I get a lot more credits without the pill,” I said, surprised I hadn't told her before. The tiny pill cost about a fifth of the earnings from a typical session.

“I'm glad we don't go to Collection together; I couldn't stand to see you in that kind of pain,” she said with a frown.

“It's only temporary. Once the connection is established it's painless.”

She shrugged. “I guess, but I wouldn't be willing to go through that.”

I pulled out the pack of mint gum from my pocket, shaking out a piece and offering it to Mary.

“You sure, Jake?”

“Of course I am.”

She took the gum and chewed. I popped a piece into my mouth, embracing the flavor of the Gods. My mind was filled with incorrect terms. The Collectors didn't care about incorrect thought. Few incorrect thoughts were treasonous, and the thoughts that were treasonous were only a liability if the Thinker knew what they meant. I only knew one treasonous word: Democracy. I was very thankful I didn't know what the word meant. A few years ago a boy in my class had spoken it and afterward he simply disappeared. Rumors went around that the Sculptors got him. There was a very real temptation to bring up the word with Mr. Barton, but I thought better of it.

“This is where the rest of my credits go,” I said, laughing.

“At least you don't smoke. As if we need more noxious fumes down here. I'm just glad the filters take care of the smog.”

Mary and I continued to talk for a while, and I watched her start a new sketch. She usually didn’t like it when I looked over her shoulder when she was drawing, but she didn’t seem to mind as much this time, apparently growing more comfortable around me.

“How about a game of Shift?” I asked.

Mary smiled, then reached behind her tin of pencils and pulled out a ragged deck of Crown playing cards. It was by luck she had come across a physical deck of cards, and by even more luck she had been able to purchase it for so cheap. The traveling merchant who sold it to her tried to sell it for five hundred credits, a fair price for the condition and rarity of the item. Mary had looked through the deck and counted only fifty-five cards. One was missing, which reduced the value to two hundred credits—a day’s worth of thinking, but not out of reach for someone in the Slums. While the cards were somewhat frayed on the edges, the plastic coating gave them a satisfying amount of slip when held, a drastic improvement over a homemade cardboard set. Plus they were a collector’s item, likely at least one hundred years old.

We had eagerly been looking for another four of hearts to replace the lost card, but settled on using one of the two jokers as a substitute. Unfortunately, the merchant didn’t know of any games to play with the deck, and the knowledge wasn’t available to the public through the New York Internet System in every residence. Because of this, we had made up our own game, one we played on a regular basis.

Shift was fun and much better than the limited gaming options offered on our personal computers. To make things even better, we would throw in friendly wagers, placing a bet of a credit per hand. Mary was a lot better than me at cards, and I lost more money than I ever won.  Spending time with her more than made up for the loss, though.

“I’ll deal,” she said.

I gave her a suspicious look. There were no doubts about the fairness of her dealing, I just liked to blame her for stacking the deck when dealt a garbage hand.

“Fair enough, but I’m watching you,” I said with playful, narrow eyes.

She smiled and dealt each of us seven cards. Mary laid down a three of diamonds and passed the turn. I smirked and laid down my three of clubs and took her three of diamonds. Victory was within reach. She pouted and drew an extra card. She managed to win with a strong combo and took my credit with satisfaction, outplaying my moment of greatness.

“You’re lucky we play with such a low buy-in; you’d be broke otherwise,” she said. It was a playful jab, but I had to take the bait.

“It’s one loss. Let’s play another. Five credits.” My pride was at stake.

I lost three more hands in a row, asked to deal, then lost two more.

Mary tried not to laugh and eventually failed after my ninth consecutive loss, but I found it impossible to be angry at her.

“Well, it looks like I’m going shopping with you and you’re buying us lunch with your new fortune,” I said.

“Agreed,” she said, happy with the arrangement.

Mary pulled on a light jacket and zipped it up. After tying an orange bandana around her mouth, she was ready to go. I put my bandana on and pulled my hood over my head. The next moment we were out on the streets and walking toward the shopping center.

Although it was early in the morning, the smog from the Undercity was already thickening the air. The large lights at the top of the Slums illuminated the otherwise dark scene. People were walking around, and the streets were bustling with activity. It was hard to believe some people lived outside at all times. The Slums were crowded, but anyone with a decent stream of thought should have been able to afford a standard flat and utilities. People who lived outside distinguished themselves with a thick cough and pale skin that had a slight yellow hue as if stained by the air.

Mary and I continued along the road, and it wasn’t long before we came up to a large man wearing a huge backpack with various goods tied to the back. He was dressed in a rugged jacket and wore an electronic respirator mouthpiece. The emblem on his coat identified him as a merchant from the Scavenger Guild, the largest legal organization of traveling merchants.

Traveling merchants didn’t wander the Mids or Upper Level of New York; they were exclusive to the Slums and searched far and wide for new wares to peddle across the large districts. Supposedly they had people combing through the garbage from the upper levels to find valuables to resell to the public.

I could see Mary’s eyes light up as she saw him. We approached, and he waved at us.

“Care to browse my wares?” he asked in a distorted voice through the mouthpiece.

“Please,” Mary said.

Carefully, the man unfolded a small square of blue tarp and set it down on the concrete curb. He took off his pack and placed it on the worn surface. He grabbed a small cylinder from one of the outside pockets and motioned us closer. We both stepped forward, and he placed it on the ground, pressing a large button on the top.

The canister made a sharp hissing sound and formed a thin barrier of energy between the three of us and the outside air. A second later the canister emitted a spray of gas and purged the smog from the air inside the bubble. We removed our bandanas, and he removed the respirator.

“I don’t like my customers breathing in smog while they browse my goods, and I’m not going to breathe it myself,” he grimaced. “What can I interest you in this morning?”

“Just browsing. What have you got?” Mary asked.

“Really depends on what you’re looking for. I’ve got a lot of utility gadgets, some clothing, some books, collectibles, spices, trinkets, you name it.”

“What do you have book wise?” This brought about an eye roll from Mary. She always joked about how much time I spent buried in books. After making the comparison that she spent just as much time with her artwork, she concluded it was fair, but asserted the difference was that she was creating something new, while I was merely absorbing something old.

He pulled out an assortment of books from his pack and handed them to me. Most were standard literature available in the bookstore south of my flat, but there was one title that stuck out from the rest: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding. The print on the cover was barely visible, and the author’s name was missing. The pages of the book were mottled and yellow, but the ink of the text was dark enough. I flipped through it quickly and looked up at the man. Perhaps Mr. Barton would find it as interesting as I did.

“Have you read this yet?” I asked.

“Haven’t had time. This book is meant for you, though. I’ll give it to you for free if you buy something else,” he said as he dug in his pack for more things to show Mary. Merchants weren’t known to give anything away for free. It was bizarre, but I decided to take him up on the offer anyway.

Mary ended up buying a blue rubber ball, a candle that smelled like vanilla, and a steel ruler with visible markings. I purchased a circular magnet, a length of parachute cord, and took the free book. Overall, it cost me seventy-three credits—not a bad deal. I took my extra bandana from my pack and wrapped up the book before putting it in the bottom of my bag. Mary put her belongings in her backpack, and we both thanked the merchant before replacing our bandanas on our faces as he turned off the canister.

There was no planning to shop with a traveling merchant. They came and went unexpectedly, but I’d found it was always worth browsing their wares if there was the opportunity. Mary and I continued toward the shopping center and entered the open door of the building. There was a thin barrier of energy that maintained a pressure gradient which kept the clean air in and the bad air out.

“What are you looking for?” I asked her.

“Just more tea, maybe another packet of paper for art, that sort of thing.”

I nodded and followed her around. A group of Enforcers were questioning an elderly man wearing a battered coat. He was clinging to a can of soup. Mary and I moved closer to listen.

“I just need one can to get through the day. They won’t let me do Collection this week,” he said.

“Merchandise is not to leave the store without full payment,” an Enforcer retorted.

“How am I supposed to pay if I can’t work?” he demanded, tears in his eyes.

“Not our problem. Relinquish the canned good, citizen.”

If he couldn’t work as a Thinker, that meant he was already an Exile or in danger of becoming one. If a citizen’s thoughts weren't beneficial toward the Project, then they couldn’t work. If they couldn’t work, it was only a matter of time until they succumbed to death from starvation or exposure to the outside elements once they had been evicted. With limited resources, few people volunteered to take Exiles into their homes. They were more or less always doomed.

“I have to eat,” the man said, his voice weak. Tears rolled down his haggard face.

It broke my heart, and I swore I’d always work to improve my thinking so this would never happen to me. I couldn’t always help the Exiles, but I could help this man.

“Excuse me,” I said to the group. They all turned to me as I walked over. I pulled a twenty credit piece out of my wallet.

“I’ll pay for his soup, a loaf of bread, and some drinking water,” I said, handing the credit chip to the man.

His eyes welled up in tears again. “Bless you, son,” he said, grabbing my arm with both hands and shaking it, giving me a gracious smile.

An Enforcer gave him a shove on the chest and he staggered back, almost losing his footing. “Watch your language and don’t loiter. Don’t even think about stepping into the credit section of the store,” the Enforcer said to him.

The man gave a weak nod to the Enforcer, then walked over to pick up some bread and water before getting in line to pay.

“That’s nice what you did,” Mary said as we walked away. “I hate seeing Exiles. It’s heartbreaking.”

“I can’t always help, but I like to when I can. He was in for a beating if I hadn’t stepped in.”

“Yeah, that wouldn’t have been good. You’re sweet, Jake.”

I smiled at her and grabbed a few things of my own as she added a box of tea to her basket. I hadn’t done it to impress her, and I knew she would have done the same if I hadn’t stepped forward.

After paying, we exited the store with plans to grab some lunch. While Mary was putting on her backpack, a hooded man sprinted past and snagged the bag, taking it and pulling it close to his chest while maintaining his quick momentum. Mary stood motionless and stunned.

“Stay here!” I yelled as I took off after him, my sneakers struggling for purchase on the slick pavement.

The man was quick, but so was I. We barreled down the street at breakneck speed, diving to the left and right to avoid people who jumped back in surprise and yelled after us. I looked back to see three large robots chasing us with their lights flashing. This was now Government business.

I kept up my speed, trying to limit my breathing. Even with the bandana, I was taking in large quantities of toxic air due to my physical exertion. As I continued to chase the man, I could no longer restrain myself and took large, full breaths. I’d be damned if I let him take Mary’s belongings.

I was gaining on the man now. He looked back for a split second, lost his footing, and flinched when I dove forward and tackled him to the ground. Without a second of hesitation, I reached back and punched him square in the face. The hit drove him to the ground, and I was able to reclaim Mary’s pack. He was gaunt, and the yellow tint of his skin identified him as an Exile. The man wore an expression that was a combination of shock, anger, and fear.

“Do not move, citizens!” a metallic voice commanded from behind me. I lowered the pack to the ground and raised my arms in the air. The Enforcers were here. I looked back and felt a strong blow to the side of my neck—the hooded man dared to punch me in the presence of Enforcers. Taken by surprise, I fell to the ground hard and raised my hands to protect my head.

Almost instantly an Enforcer was standing over the man and lifted him to his feet in an iron grasp. A flood of relief washed over me until I was lifted the same way, feeling an enormous force squeezing my wrist. Startled, I tried to explain the situation but was cut off by the third Enforcer. My bandana was torn from my face and my identity was confirmed.

“Citizens Jacob Ashton and Lewis Gale, you are both charged and found guilty of one count of public disturbance, one count of theft, and one count of public violence.”

“He sto …” I started to defend myself but was cut off by the unwavering Enforcer.

“As punishment for your crimes, you will each lose functionality of the hand used to strike the other citizen. The break of the wrist will be clean, and medication for pain will not be provided.”

The Enforcer holding the hooded man pulled his arm to the side and chopped down on his wrist with incredible force. There was a wretched snapping sound as the man’s wrist broke with cruel precision. The man’s hand flopped down at a terrible angle, and he cried out in pain. The Enforcer released him, and he fell to his knees, holding his arm close to his chest, tears cascading down his face. Panic was beginning to take over my body, but it was no use struggling against the hydraulic pumps which gave the Enforcers unmatchable strength.

“The break was clean,” an Enforcer reported to the one in charge after scanning the man’s wrist.

“He stole from me! I did nothing wrong!” I yelled at the calculating lead Enforcer. It was no use. There was no reasoning with them; they were ruthless robots run by millions of lines of code. The Enforcer that was holding me pulled my arm to the side, and I fought back tears. Panic had all but blanketed me into a state of disbelief. Was this really about to happen?

I felt an incredible crackling deep within my bones. Pain splintered up my arm and through my body in waves, and I looked over to see my hand flopped over backward, the skin around my broken wrist already turning a sickly purple. Still in shock, I stared at my wrist, dumbfounded. What had I done wrong? Suddenly, the grip on me released and the three Enforcers were standing over me. They scanned my injury.

“Sir, this break wasn’t clean. I’m seeing compound fractures,” the Enforcer said.

“No matter. We’re done here,” the leader said to the other.

“The consequences of your crimes are completed,” the lead Enforcer said. The flashing lights on the Enforcers turned off, and they walked away.

Mary ran up to the scene and raised her hands to her mouth when she saw my wrist. It must have looked horrible. Looking up at her, I felt the full force of the pain and vomited all over the street. After that, everything went dark.