daynight (6 page)

“They didn’t mention anything about interplanetary travel?” I say. He rolls his eyes and I join him and marvel at the simply executed ham and cheese omelet before me. It’s a little rubbery, but I quickly inhale it. In the last 24 hours I’ve only had a stale bagel and cup of juice.

“Do you also do dishes, cleaning and laundry?” I joke when I’m done.

“Don’t push your luck, gorgeous,” he says. I grimace. The complement makes me feel uncomfortable, since the last person to call me gorgeous was Tristan. I don’t like being stuck in a suite with Blake or being around any guy for that matter. It makes me feel like I’m cheating on Tristan, even though I can’t cheat on a dead boyfriend. Not that he was a great boyfriend in the end, but it’s not like I got to resolve the whole cheating issue before he died.
 

Blake must see the displeasure on my face and adds, “Give me a break. It’s not like I’m trying to hit on you, Kira. I don’t even know you. We’ve been assigned partners for training, that’s it. But don’t ask me to pretend like you aren’t beautiful and probably used to having everyone bend over backwards to cater to you—which, by the way, I was not trying to do by making your stupid breakfast.”

Pompous much? I plaster on a fake smile, get up from the table and without response to his insult, take his plate and mine, and hand wash them in the sink with some Industrial City dish soap. That insult was so uncalled for, but I’m going to ignore it. Once done with the dishes I slip past Blake and try to leave through the door to our suite, which won’t budge, and has no easily apparent way to unlock it. They locked us in. I wonder why? Don’t want the new Recruits exploring? That sucks since exploring seems appropriate for our supposed arrival on alien land.

“It’s locked,” Blake says. I continue to smile, but in my head roll my eyes and give a sarcastic ‘thanks.’ Couldn’t have figured that out on my own. Still upset by Blake’s inflammatory comments, I retreat to my room to look for my watch, which I swear I was wearing when I went to sleep. Mine has vanished, but an ‘Industrial City’ issue has been placed atop the dresser. I put it on and notice it is 18:59. As the time changes to 1900 hours I hear a click and our escort arrives to release us from captivity.
 

We follow the man—who doesn’t even bother to introduce himself, exchange pleasantries, or respond to questions—through a winding maze of hallways painted different bright neon colors to a door marked UNIT 27 TRAINING CLINIC. We’re ushered inside and greeted by two nurses who separate Blake and I into separate white-walled examination rooms.
 

The nurse asks me a series of questions about any unusual symptoms or issues I might have had since our arrival. Other than feeling ill and parched when I first entered, and the lump on my head I got while trying to leave, I haven’t had much time to experience any issues, as I was drugged and forced to sleep for hours, I tell them. Yes, I was able to get breakfast down. No, I never vomited. Yes, I feel fine now. No breathing issues, no rapid heartbeat, no intestinal distress, no seizures or convulsions, no skin lesions, no dizziness, seeing spots, or fainting. Seriously people, what were you expecting?

Once they’re done with the invasive interrogation, they check my eyes, ears, nose, heart, lungs, skin, and palpate my abdomen to make sure I’m not lying. Then the parasites drain my blood. I ask why, but they claim it is ‘standard procedure and will occur often,’ like I should know what their standard procedure is. Making sure my high DNT levels are still intact? The nurses then leave us be for a few minutes to confer with the doctor before returning to give both Blake and me shots ‘to help us further acclimate to our surroundings.’ The needle hurts going in and the sting lasts for several minutes after. When the nurse tells me she’ll see me tomorrow I am too upset to speak.

To reach our training room we head out a set of double doors to a dimly lit outdoor walkway, illuminated by soft up-lights in the path and the occasional wall light. I lean over the walkway railing and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Once I do adapt to the new lighting my senses overload.

I am indeed in an unknown place, albeit not enough different from Earth to think I’ve left it. Although it’s late evening the temperature is hotter than any record setting San Diego day, but very arid, desert-like heat. Despite it being dry, sweat immediately beads and starts to drip down my back. It won’t take long outdoors to be drenched in a sticky stench, but I try to ignore the fact my bra strap is uncomfortably soaking up all the mess and focus on what little I can see in the poor lighting.

The walkway runs along the top edge of a very steep and deep canyon that is lit with a myriad of colors, making it look both eerie and majestic, if that’s possible. Sparse, dry, treeless vegetation in form of cacti and brush is scattered between what appears to be paved paths and a concrete floor. I look up at the sky, but the lights of the canyon obscure any view of a moon or stars. Long cables crisscross the canyons between platforms and I swear I see someone zipping across by pulley. Two enclosed ‘bridges’ are in view and from the whooshing noise emanating from them—some sort of train, perhaps?

As we approach one of the spotlights shining into the canyon I see it is covered with a variety of large, nasty looking bugs. Beetles with long antennae, jumbo cockroaches, and fuzzy spiders. Remind me to stay away from the lights. Or maybe it’d be safer to know where and what the creatures are. I wonder what’s hiding in the brush, thinking of all the fun stuff I’d encountered or could’ve encountered on canyon hikes in San Diego. Snakes? Lizards? Scorpions? Coyotes and mountain lions? Hopefully most the wildlife has chosen to live outside the city borders.
 

 
I screech when a cockroach at least four inches long lands on my shirt. It is no use to try to shake it off, as it has no intention of relocating without encouragement. “Please get it off me,” I say to our escort with urgency. “I hate bugs. Especially really large ones.” The escort keeps walking, but Blake plucks it off my shirt and flicks it a few feet away.
 

“That was a waste of some good protein,” he jokes. The multi-colored lights and shadows make him look like a maniacal clown or an extra in a purposefully deranged music video.
 

“Disgusting. The moment we’re expected to eat bugs will be the moment I head home,” I mumble, speeding up my walk to catch up with our escort. I can hear Blake laughing behind me, likely remembering my last attempt to jump ship.

The sight of several men herding a pack of mules up the canyon, all loaded with boxes reminds me of my parents’ pictures of their trip to Santorini, Greece. My parents had ridden donkeys up a switchback trail cut into the cliffs and told us the donkeys were used to not only transport people, but supplies. I’d always envied their trips, but it’s my turn for an adventure.

Blake appears to also be taking in the new landscape with awe, particularly when he sees a figure whooshing along one of the paths at high speeds by skateboard.

“Suh-weet!” he says. “Can I try?” he signals to our escort.

“Later. It’s time to move along. Your training room is up ahead on the right,” our escort says, first words spoken, in a low rumbly tone.

“Where are all the people and the city center?” I ask. From my count, I’ve seen a few dozen people at most.

“This is a restricted area solely used for training,” he explains. “And since you showed up off-season you won’t encounter the masses until you transfer to Garden City High.”

“How many Recruits come during the peak season?” I ask.

“More,” he says. Helpful.

“What about the other Recruits who greeted me when I arrived yesterday?” I ask.

“They already finished their training and are en-route to their final destination assignments.” He then rushes ahead, signaling our ‘conversation’ is over.

Blake and I walk as slowly as allowed, until we’re pushed into a large room the size of a school gymnasium with its ceiling several stories high. The room’s walls are a sunny yellow, except for the one hundred-eighty degree curved screen directly ahead of us. We’re motioned to sit in two front-row chairs, center of a row containing what looks like massage chairs on steroids. Each row of chairs is suspended from the ceiling by heavy cables. Twenty seats per row times five rows equals a hundred seats. Do they really usually have that many Recruits?
 

“This is sick,” Blake says to signify his approval of our training room, even though upon sitting down, we’re both strapped into the chairs like death row inmates. My chair is attached to Blake’s, our armrests shared. The seats are so close together I can’t help but brush my arm and shoulder against Blake’s, much like you’d experience on an airplane, though I lean away from him since I’m still irked that he called me the equivalent of a pampered princess. Why couldn’t he be a perfect gentleman like Ethan was? I sigh just thinking about Ethan and my fantasy that he carried me to my room and tucked me in upon my arrival.

We’re each given a tablet computer device and simple instructions how to use it. Although it seems powerful, the function has been limited to serve for training purposes. We can type or record notes by voice annotation, as well as ask questions about each subject, and the answers are immediately pasted into the notes program. We’re warned, however, that we can only ask questions relevant to the subject being taught, as it is being taught. I test the claim by typing in ‘Where is Thera?’ and I get a standard response saying, ‘Please post your inquiries during training sessions relevant to the subject at hand,’ which isn’t very helpful.

I’m less interested in the functions of the simple computer and more interested in the fact it has the now familiar ‘Industrial City’ logo on it. I haven’t met a product or device yet that didn’t have those markings—a telltale sign that capitalism isn’t alive and well here, and thus I’m betting democracy isn’t either. When I’d signed the SCI paperwork, Spud had mentioned that I’d be subject to the rules and regulations of the Institute. Well, get on with it then. I want to know what the rules are, folks. How stupid was I to sign those papers? My bet—off-the-charts.

“Have you noticed that everything is manufactured in Industrial City?” I whisper to Blake.

“Yeah, hard to miss the logos,” he says with a smirk. “So, are you talking to me now?” His eyes brighten. While my eyes are gold-rimmed green, his are a bright emerald color that are so pure they look manufactured.
 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t not talking to you. I just wasn’t talking while I dealt with some… bad memories… about the night of the explosion,” I say. Might as well be honest with him, so he realizes that he’s not to blame for my mood. He did say some things that were pretty nasty, but I decide to forgive, forget and give him my patented ‘all is right’ smile.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m sorry, too. For the things I said. They were rude.” He maintains his gaze and I imagine him thinking, ‘but probably justified.’ What can I expect given how people
perceive
I was raised? My parents have money. They just choose not to spend it on or share it with their children, in an overblown effort to make sure we are anything but pampered. ‘You need to earn your own way in this world, not leech off us,’ my father always says.

I continue to stare at Blake’s eyes. The last time I saw eyes this pretty was when I met Ethan. Ethan’s sparkly sapphire eyes had blown me away. Blake’s eyes have a similar brightness and glimmer. “Do you wear contacts?” I ask. Maybe they have some new line of contacts that give cute guys an alien, jeweled feel.

“Nope. These,” he says, pointing at his eyes, “are all natural. I’ve got perfect vision, even at night. I’m like a cat,” he jokes.
 

Predatory cats come to mind. Lions, tigers, panthers, cheetahs… Blake simply does not give off the warm and fuzzy vibe of your average house cat. He radiates the bad boy vibe. Best to be wary of my flatmate. I sink back in my chair, trying to remember where the conversation started anyway. Oh yeah, Industrial City products and the implication that the democratic process doesn’t exist here.

“Think our training will cover the uh, expectations or rules of wherever the heck we are? Garden City? Thera was it? Do you really believe we’re no longer on Earth?” I ask.

“We were in the middle of the ocean one minute,” he responds, raising his eyebrows. “And then the next, we were on solid ground. So unless they figured out how to hide a giant island behind a floating barge, I’m thinking they’re onto something about the having left Earth thing.”

“I guess,” I grumble, his condescending tone annoying me.

Could it really be that easy? Our government spends billions of dollars on space programs and all it really takes is a short boat ride followed by an uncomfortable stroll down the hall of an abandoned building to hit intergalactic soil? If someone had discovered a way to leave Earth so easily why wouldn’t it be publicized? People cash in on lesser exploits everyday and this one would be akin to winning the lottery a thousand times over. Forget finding new Egyptian treasure, Biblical documents, or a new species of monkey, proof of human life beyond Earth? Now that’s huge. Front-page headlines and preempt-all-your-scheduled-TV-programming kind of huge.

As I ponder, the screen lights up and the image of the tall man who’d greeted us this morning appears.

“Welcome to Thera, Recruits. I’m sure you have many questions, and I’m confident we’ll get them answered for you. Our first unit will describe Thera and its city and unit structure. The second will describe the rules and regulations each inhabitant need know for their assigned unit.”
 

To the contrary, I doubt they’ll make a dent in my questions.

Mandatory exercise time is enforced
at 2230 hours. Wouldn’t want the Recruits going soft. I’m happy to get out of that chair, though. As comfortable as they are, especially during the periodic messages, I was going insane. At the content of the training sessions and at the proximity to Blake, who despite the strong declaration of platonic intentions couldn’t help but brush his hand and arm against mine. And also because I nodded off and woke to my head on his shoulder. He looked all too amused at my unconscious attempt to be cozy. Ugh.