My dream is fitful. I operate again on a brain on a table, with a team gathered close, in white coats like mine. Just when I think I’m finishing the work, setting the scalpel down, another brain appears and it starts all over.
I lose count of how many times I repeat the motions. My eyes strain. My hands shake. I can’t go on. I peel my eyes away from the wrinkled flesh and the operating table. The team stares at me, waiting.
“We’re ready,” I say. “Let’s transfer it to the body.”
8
THE GENTLE SOUND of rain wakes me. Water runs down the chute to the small reservoir by the pallet. No new critters inhabit the hut this time. I shake away the dream and peer out the window. Through the soft sheets of rain there’s a person working in the distance, near the edge of my field. It’s the plot of land opposite Drew’s, and to the corner of Sally’s. It’s another potential source of grain.
I head out. My feet squish lightly in the moist soil. The rain quickly soaks my linen shirt and pants.
The girl stands calmly, watching me approach. She has a broad round hat that drips water from the brim like a curtain of rain around her. Plants rise to her knees, with thick stalks and leaves. Behind her a few of the stalks rise higher than my head and hold bright yellow sunflowers.
“Hello,” I say, waving.
She gives me a friendly wave back. “Hi. I’m Li Min.”
The rain and the invisible wall do not block her energy or warmth. She has a wide, genuine smile, straight black hair, and narrow dark eyes like Max’s.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “How long have you been here?”
“Many moons longer than you.” She motions to my field. “You must have just arrived.”
“Yes, from Green.”
“The place with the tree?”
“You know about it?”
“My first plot was closer to the tree. I could see its branches and leaves high above the wall.”
“They moved you? Why?”
She shrugs casually. “Why does anything change? A force acts, and there is no greater force to resist it. So it was.”
“Someone made you move?”
“Yes, I do not mind. This land is better. Just wait. You will see more of my sunflowers bloom. You will smile.”
I smile already. I like her easy, cheerful way of talking. It almost makes me forget the downpour drenching us. “Do you usually work in the rain?” I ask.
“I only work in the rain! It makes the soil softer. And mud is good for your skin.”
“Where were you from on Earth?” I ask.
“Straight to it!” she says with a laugh. “Most of my neighbors come to me only wanting my seeds, though they will not grow in their land.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your dirt grows only your crop. My dirt grows only mine. It is the way of this place. It is a good order.”
“But I planted oats. From Drew.”
“So sorry, they will not grow.”
Something about the way she speaks, the line of her lips opening subtly, reminds me again of Max. “So who were you?”
“Li Min,” she says, “I told you.”
“Tell me more.”
She looks up to the sky, where the rain has just stopped. Light pierces through a few small gaps in the clouds. She takes a step closer, only a foot short of the invisible wall, and sits cross-legged in the dirt. She takes off her hat and lays it upside down on the ground beside her.
“Please,” she says, motioning for me to join.
I sit in front of her and use the wall to brace myself as I lower. My hand stays there, feeling the transparent, stone-like barrier. Li Min holds up her hand and presses it to mine—only an inch away. Though our skin does not touch, a sudden shock of energy courses through me.
I jerk back instinctively. My hand feels cold. I raise it slowly. The blisters are gone.
“You healed it,” I say.
“The small wounds, yes,” she replies, fixing her curious eyes on mine. “But not the scar. It is deep, very deep. Who are you?”
“My name here is Cipher. I was Paul Fitzroy, an American doctor, on Earth. I began in the Blue Tower, and have since been to Red and Green. What about you?”
“Only Yellow, as far as I remember. My story from Earth—what I know of it—is not easy. Do you want to hear it?”
“Yes, please.” Her words remind me of what Hank told me once in the Red Tower. “A friend here said that telling our stories again weakens their hold over us.”
She smiles and folds her hands neatly in her lap. “That sounds nice. But my story’s grip is iron. Let me tell you.”
IT SHOULD HAVE ENDED better for Li Min, because she had the perfect citizenship score: 1,000. Everyone in China started there, but few maintained it. The scores began to fall early. Eight-year-olds failed to complete their homework. Eleven-year-olds sent crude text messages—which they believed to be encrypted, but the State saw every word and pixel. Sixteen-year-olds snuck alcohol or cigarettes. Adults crossed streets when the traffic light prohibited it. People tried to avoid taxes, they failed to pay their bills on time. There were a million ways to drop from the perfect score, and few ways to get the points back.
Li Min had advantages from birth, she knew. Her father had been very rich and left her with the family fortune, though his score had fallen so low he had fled the country soon after she was born. His wealth came from shameful activities—casinos and tourist attractions that praised Western culture and did not honor Chinese heritage. She had three sisters, but by ten she had lost her entire family. Many whispered that the State had eliminated her mother and sisters as punishment, and that she was kept alive only as a hostage the State used to try to control her exiled father.
She ignored these rumors. By the age of five she had learned the value of loyalty to the State. It became her family, and she would not squander her wealth as so many did. She used it to every advantage. She had the best computing chip installed in her brain, doubling her mental processing and memory. The best tutors left nothing to chance, ensuring she excelled in school. The best financial advisers reviewed every purchase to evaluate its impact on her score. She did nothing without thinking about her score. What to eat for breakfast? Which car to drive? Who to marry? Every decision was perfect. Li Min was perfect.
The State agreed. It honored her with titles and public attention. At sixteen, she was chosen with a dozen others for a special pilot program of China’s best to serve the people as role models for the country. Cameras filmed her every move. Sensors reported every heart beat. Journalists wrote articles about the length of her hair, the shampoo she used, and the brands of shoes she wore. All were made in China. Including her husband (she doesn’t remember his name, but he had a respectable score of 957). Their wedding was front-page news. State officials attended as guests of honor. She became all that China hoped a citizen could be.
Then came the pregnancy, and the miscarriage.
It changed something in Li Min. There was no penalty to her score. She had done nothing wrong, even the State recognized her ideal behavior. She ate the perfect diet, got the perfect exercise. Her husband’s genes perfectly suited hers. No one could explain why the baby’s heart stopped after sixteen weeks. It simply stopped, and that was that.