I lift my head to see who exactly deemed it acceptable to interrupt my nap. It was a worker, naturally. Probably another one of the Captain’s cronies, come to take us to our death.
“Come with me,” He states robotically. Not asks, states. The nerve of some of these people…
We pick ourselves up regardless, to follow the guy out the door. I notice that he has a number embroidered on his uniform. Glancing around, I realize that all the workers do—each have their own special number of identification. Where have I seen this before?
“Echoe,” Lark whispers. “They each have a number. This is like the Holocaust, don’t you think?” That’s what it was! “Except here, the Jews aren’t persecuted. The artists are.”
I’m silent as I consider this. He’s right. I wonder if there’s a specific person behind all this, like Hitler. Or maybe it’s a group of people, all equally evil. Probably a group, I decide, trying to separate fantasies from reality again. I really need to get used to doing that. If it were a single person, it would be all too easy to overthrow them. An assassination would be too simple. There’s got to be a whole system of people, so if one dies, there’s somebody to easily and seamlessly assume their place. That’s so much more logical.
We walk monotonously down the halls, all of our steps in perfect coordination. I try to clear my mind, but there is a relentless buzz in the background. More like a hum, actually. Kind of like… the sound bees make as they toil away in the hive: a ceaseless droning.
Leave it to the Administration to take the two worst things—the Holocaust and bees—and find a way to merge them into a single form of misery.
Finally, we reach our destination, saving me from my mind. The door opens, revealing who else but the Captain and an assistant? This time it’s a woman beside him, with very plain features. Her dishwater blond hair is pulled into an immaculate bun, and her cardboard eyes stare blankly ahead. She holds a tablet and is watching us expectantly. The Captain studies us. He motions for us to sit in the chairs provided, facing right at them. We do.
“Where is the rebel base?” he asks, cutting right to the chase. No form of conversation, no formalities from him. I expected as much, all things considered. But a rebel base? What?
“Excuse me, sir? A rebel base?” Lark inquires, looking just as befuddled as I.
“The rebel base, from which you got your instructions. Where is it? I suggest you tell the truth.”
“With all due respect, sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Lying is a very bad idea. We hold your lives in our hands, and have gained knowledge of an operating rebel base. It appears to encourage creativity and expression, resembling your protest group, and it is highly unlikely you came up with the idea all by yourselves. So I will ask you again, where is it?”
Now it is my turn to speak. I lace my words with venom. “There is no rebel base that we are aware of. We were just two kids that had a love for art, and were unable to let it go. Consequently, we created a place to express ourselves. That’s it. End of story. No if’s, and’s, or but’s. That’s all there is.”
“Stop lying, you fools! It will not end well!”
“I am telling the truth! Are you really so bigot as to not—“
YOU ARE READING
The Artists' Palette
Fantasy"The earth without art is just 'eh'" Echoe Springs lives in a dystopia where the Administrators (opposers of creativity and art) rule with an iron fist. In an act...
