A Song of Silence

Chapter 15

Callisto

You'd think after so long of hiding I might have learned something about the art. Like how in normal circumstances, you get better at something the more you do it. That's not how it works, and I'm so very well aware of that as Ms. Hendrix watches me from the corner of her eye, acting like she's not suspicious at all.

I've never liked to lie, but it's just that I've needed to. You'd think the queasy, nervous, butterflies-in-your-stomach sensation would go away after a while of doing it consistently, or at least that you'd get used to it, but I can't say that that's true for me. While I might have improved at spinning them out, the guilt at the back of my mind will always be present. But I do suppose that's preferable to the opposite, where no one believes that anything is wrong. Then there would be no rulebook for anyone to follow on how we can treat another. Guilt is the natural way of our minds to tell us that we're doing something that isn't right. If our ancestors had found a way to override that entirely, it would most certainly have led to our own mass destruction.

In the middle of our class, while my peers and I are all quietly working on our math worksheets as asked, the glass door separating our classroom from the hall opens and shuts equally as quickly. Looking up slightly, I can see that there is an older woman standing angled toward my teacher with graying hair carrying a navy blue spiral notebook whose lips are moving very slightly, indicative of something not meant to be heard. I pretend not to notice the hushed voices coming from in front of me. I guess there are some perks to sitting in the front, but I can only make out about one in five words of their conversation.

"...recent events...discipline...suggested measures..."

Ms. Hendrix is nodding along as the woman with the notebook speaks. But really, it's not enough to read into anything that she's said, but I take note of it internally.

Ms. Hendrix finally responds to her words, but when she does, it's easy to tell that she is not nearly as skilled in the art of speaking softly. "What do you want me to do about it?" she asks, an edge of annoyance creeping into her voice. It's loud enough to turn a few heads, including mine, but after a few moments, their eyes drop down to their pages, pure white against the gentle brown of the desk, but I sneak a glance upward once again to see what's going on.

A rustle of paper, a flash of color, more whispers. This time, they are so close to silent that I cannot discern what they are saying. If only I could lip-read, then I could understand what they were saying. What recent events did they mean? What were these "suggested measures"? Whatever they are, they can't possibly be good if discipline is involved. Neither can they be good if they are being suggested by the Imperium. The ends justify the means, right? Or at least that's what they believe. I like to say that the means justify the end instead. Maybe it's only so long of having that supposed "justice", meant to root out the "traitors". It at least seems...kinder. You can't fault people for doing the best they could do with what they had. If only they were able to understand that...

The bell rings after what seems like an eternity of hushed conversations and sharings not meant to be heard, and the whole time when I try to finish the worksheet, I am distracted by what they could have been talking about, theories spinning into complex webs in my mind. What could it mean? That, paired with what my parents were trying to hide last night is hard to forget. And with a mind like mine, trained to be suspicious of everyone and never trust anyone, it's too hard not to think about.

Obey. Always obey.

It would be easier if that simple truth existed for me as well.

I look back down at my schedule, despite already having it memorized, and see the Pouring is next. I already knew that, but I do it obsessively anyway. Something about it makes my hands sweaty and slippery, and every time I complete the test, I wonder when will be the time when I will drop it and be left in the shards of glass, bleeding and discovered. I wonder when will be the time when I finally break and the light shines through my cracks, and they see that I was not who I pretended to be. My whole life I have been a silhouette – you can see the outline, but you cannot see the features that would distinguish me from any other person. The light is coming from the wrong direction. But maybe if you were to turn it upon me, you would see something you would rather not have seen. This is how it is with the Imperium, too. In some ways, we are very similar. Only that we have different solutions.

This Pouring comes with yet another announcement, – twice in a week after almost none ever – this time telling us that the list with the mentors for the next few weeks will be shown today directly after the Pouring. Sponsored by our gracious leaders, of course, and the next week on Monday, we will begin the program. I've barely even prepared for it. It's going to be a new person who is trained to weed out people who are like me, supposed traitors to the Imperium. If I had ever thought that it was getting easier, it's sure to get harder with one of them.

Chatter ensues almost immediately, but one of the teachers motions for us to be silent and show respect, and it dies down within a matter of seconds.

"And that concludes today's announcement," our principal finishes cheerfully, like the perfect citizen that the Imperium wants.

The gong rings, and the administrator says in a much more hardened tone than the leader of our school, "Let the Pouring begin." I watch as all those around me stiffen with glazed eyes and rigid spines from the immediate control and struggle to follow their rapid shift, changing my posture so that I am upright, stretched toward the high ceiling.

I grasp the cool, smooth glass pitcher with its simple round bottom and curved handle, and begin the Pouring.

***

Bodies are all around me, squeezing past in every direction, all craning to see the list, disorder that I have not seen for ages. When it finally clears around me, I scan through the names to find my own: Callisto Adalwen.

And right beside the black print and curvy lettering, I find out who will be the source of my terrors for the next few weeks.

Dr. Alaina Everett. Longtime Imperium servant, helper, donor. And one more thing: Imperium vaccine scientist.

But that "vaccine" isn't what they say it is, isn't what they said it was. This "vaccine" is what plagues us all, except me. And they will know exactly how to spot someone who doesn't have their control.