《Absolute Knowledge》


 Thoughts

    How many thoughts do humans have each day? If you''re not a Prolific, the answer is fifty to seventy-five thousand. How many of those thoughts have value? All of them.


    <h1 style="text-align: center"></a>1 THOUGHTS</h1>


    ¡°Jacob Ashton,¡± the woman in the suit called out at the front of the lobby. I gained my feet and gave her a nervous smile which she returned with cold disinterest. She was tall and slender, and her graying hair was pulled back in a neat bun. ¡°If you¡¯ll please follow me to the back.¡±


    I walked across the grime-coated linoleum floor as I followed the assistant to the exam room located behind a reinforced steel door. There were others in the lobby, waiting for their exams. Some of them, mostly young like myself, had a nervous spark of hope, while the veterans sat with something that more or less resembled a disheartened sense of duty. The other people waiting in the lobby faded away as I walked. My heart pounded in my chest as I prepared for my three-year evaluation, the evaluation which could decide my future for the rest of my life.


    ¡°Any health problems we should know?¡± she asked in a flat voice.


    ¡°No, ma¡¯am.¡±


    ¡°Very well, if you¡¯ll have a seat, we will get started.¡± She pointed to a cushioned red chair.


    The woman¡¯s heels clacked against the surface of the floor, and I took a seat in the chair. I breathed deeply and tried to collect myself, though I knew the jittery nerves wouldn¡¯t affect my performance. I heard that this wasn¡¯t going to be like a typical thought collection session, but rather a system presenting challenges for my brain to solve, problems I wouldn¡¯t remember when waking up.


    The restraints on the chair latched around my arms and legs, and I tried to keep my breathing calm.


    ¡°Just relax please, Jacob,¡± the woman said as she rubbed an icy alcohol wipe on my forearm, the strong scent flooding my nose and bringing about more anxiety.


    ¡°Will this hurt?¡± I asked, already knowing the answer.


    The woman gave a sigh, indicating she¡¯d responded to the same question many times. ¡°Yes, it will, but only for a second.¡±


    She slid a long IV needle into a large vein in my arm, and I winced. There was a cold sting as the fluids slid into me.


    ¡°Your session will take about four hours, and you¡¯ll be paid for your time regardless of whether we select you for a unique Government position,¡± she said as she put the headgear with the neuro pads on my head.


    ¡°Breathe deeply for me, Jacob,¡± the woman said as she injected a blue fluid into the IV bag that hung above the chair. The color trickled down the tubing and connected with my arm. I breathed in several deep breaths as my vision went white and my head began to spin.


    Hours later, I awoke with the impossible feeling of weightlessness and weighing a ton. Worse, balancing my head proved difficult and my limbs felt like rubber. The IV tube was coiled and replaced back in its position on the bag, and my arm was bandaged. The chair still bound my wrists. The woman walked over and flashed a small light into my eyes, her voice faded in and out as I tried to focus on the shifting light.


    ¡°How did I do?¡± I asked.


    ¡°The system is still evaluating your performance. There were a few¡­ anomalies,¡± she said, apparently choosing the word with care.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡±


    ¡°Yes. We just need to see if something malfunctioned in the system. Nothing to be concerned about. If anything, it will be good news for you. Do you remember anything from the test?¡±


    The strange thing was that I was actively processing information in my head during the session. I recalled the problems I was solving. They made little sense in a logical way, but I remembered the strange, distinct geometric shapes and patterns of light and color.


    ¡°Lights, shapes, and colors,¡± I responded as I fought to remember the distant events through the haze.


    ¡°Probably a dream or the side effects of the IV serum,¡± she answered. ¡°You¡¯re free to go now, Jacob. We will contact you if you are of interest to us.¡± She unfastened the restraints, and I started back toward the lobby.


    ¡°Please collect your payment and vouchers from the desk.¡±


    I returned to the reception desk in the lobby and waited behind a few other Thinkers before it was my turn. As I walked up to the desk, a re-purposed Enforcer robot confirmed my identity with a retina scan before handing me a summary sheet of the session, and a week¡¯s worth of drinking water and food vouchers.


    Name: Jacob Ashton


    Age: 16This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Test: Tri-Annual Aptitude Evaluation


    Session Length: 04:00:00


    Thoughts: NA


    Thought Originality: NA


    Aptitude Assessment: NA


    Base Value: 600 Credits


    Originality Bonus: NA


    Tax: 192 Credits


    Total Payment: 408 Credits


    After exiting the Government building, I walked forward on the dark street. A tattered bandana wrapped around my face shielded me from the wretched smog that stagnated down in the Slums of New York, the synthetic cloth providing suitable protection for short excursions. It had been worse so I couldn''t complain. I wanted to get the hell out of the Slums, like everyone else. A partially corroded vent on the filthy asphalt groaned then shot a blast of scalding steam up toward me. My old sneakers protected my feet as I jumped off the vent with drowsy reflexes. Despite knowing these streets quite well, one could never predict the sporadic pattern of the vile vents coming from below the ground.


    New York was built skyward; the history lessons I had learned taught me that there was once only one level. Now, New York consisted of four levels if you count the Undercity which housed most of the utility plants and farms.


    Neon signs illuminated the hazy air in the Slums and advertised their goods and services. On each sign hung a camera that looked onto the street. I kept my hood over my head as I walked through the Slums¡ªI found it better to go unnoticed.


    For the past three years I had been on my own. I had my own flat, paid my own bills, and worked my own hours. There weren¡¯t many employment options, so I did what most others did: I worked as a Thinker. In other words, I sat in a chair for four hours every day with electrodes and neuro collectors attached to my head. Working as a Thinker was the best way to earn a living within the confines of the law.


    The Thought Collectors stored all thoughts as data for the Collective Thought. Absolute Knowledge was the end goal, the goal considered to be perfection. The Government promised everyone they would be well off, never having to work again once they completed the project.


    As I walked, I looked at the faded posters as I always did, the relics of a grand purpose.


    ¡®Your thoughts are valuable!¡¯


    ¡®Only you can help us achieve Absolute Knowledge!¡¯


    ¡®You are special!¡¯


    The faded red ink looked dull compared to the bright colors on the posters. Children sat reading books on verdant green grass, others were climbing trees. There weren¡¯t any trees in the Slums anymore. One of my neighbors, Mr. Barton, used to have a tree in his house, a ficus he called it. It must have cost him a considerable sum of money, but he said it was well worth it. Mr. Barton swore it made the air in his flat fresher, but I couldn''t tell. The air filters took care of most of the smog anyway.


    After I had paid my bills and eaten, I would put all of my remaining money toward educational lessons to improve my thought output and quality. The Government promised more pay for those who purchased an education. Education was the key to Absolute Knowledge, they said. The digital lessons weren''t cheap, and Mr. Barton used to berate me for spending everything extra on them.


    ¡°You won''t earn more. Believe me. I used to spend everything on education, trying to get out of the Slums. The payments never increased. Once you are born in the Slums, you don''t leave,¡± he told me.


    I walked to the nearest grocery store, a large building denoted by neon green lights and an increased presence of Enforcers. All the stores had large gates and were lined with Government issued linoleum flooring. I grabbed a plastic cart from one of the stands at the entrance, the dull green material having faded long ago. Despite the hour and assuming it was before curfew, the grocery stores were almost always crowded. City run stores were split into two sections, vouchers and credits. The voucher section contained basic, cheap goods such as bread, canned soups, and frozen meat. The credit section was much more expansive, but the prices were high¡ªsomething I wanted to avoid to get out of the Slums.


    Many people were browsing the closely watched aisles of goods, congregating and discussing the rumors of the streets. An Enforcer walked up to a group of young men that stood huddled around in a tight cluster, unmoving for several minutes. Most of the Enforcers in the Slums were older models deployed in the riots that took place when I was around four years old. They were bulky things with heavy, geometric plate armor, hydraulic servos, and large energy rifles welded to their arms. They were painted matte black, and the Enforcers that worked outside were often coated in a layer of rust. They had a single lens system on their heads that gave them vision.


    The Enforcer gave a gruff beep, indicating the group of men needed to stop loitering. It took a series of aggressive steps forward until they moved. The people in the group complained and protested their innocence as they continued to shop.


    Not wanting to attract trouble, I grabbed the necessities ¨C a loaf of bread, a few cans of soup and vegetables, and one luxury item: a pack of mint chewing gum. The pack of gum wouldn''t be covered by my vouchers, but it also wouldn''t cost me too much. Chewing gum was a far cheaper vice than smoking cigarettes, something many people in the Slums did. I approached the automated console and bagged my groceries in a brown paper bag, then inserted the voucher and twelve credits for the pack of gum. The light above the exit gate turned green, and I was free to go. The Enforcers guarding the door scanned my bag as I exited the store.


    I popped a piece of the mint gum into my mouth and chewed slowly after walking out of the store, the tingling sensation flooding my tongue. I raised the frayed bandana back over my face and moved at a brisk pace, heading home. The artificial lights of the ceiling faded, and the smaller streetlights crackled to life, their light pale and dull. I looked at the scratched mechanical watch on my wrist. It was already eight PM.


    The door of my flat scanned my retina and opened with a click. I walked in and closed the door as fast as possible, preserving my fresh air. I put my drinking jug under the Government owned water pump. The machine quickly consumed my voucher and dispensed one gallon of drinking water. Some people in the Slums filtered their own water so they could trade their vouchers for other things, but the salt water from the tap wasn''t safe to drink, and I didn''t trust their filtration process. It was a good way to get sick or worse.


    I would wait awhile to eat. Not only did I want to savor the piece of gum for as long as possible, but I was also still feeling sick from my testing session.


    Suddenly, a sharp spike of pain jolted through my head and I collapsed to the cold floor of my flat. Geometric patterns flashed behind my closed eyes; the image of my surroundings burning into my mind. Colors danced around the gray floor and sent waves of pain shooting through my head. I tried to scream but couldn¡¯t. I heard my TV power on and opened my eyes to see a flickering screen. There were words on it, blurred by my distorted vision and the splitting pain reverberating in my skull. I read a single sentence:


    ¡®You¡¯ve got my attention now, Jacob.¡¯

 Break

    <h1></h1>


    <h1 style="text-align: center">2 BREAK</h1>


    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¡ªeverything 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¡ªthe 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¡ªit 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.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°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¡ªa 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¡ªnot 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¡ªthe 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.

 Friends

    <h1 style="text-align: center"></a>3 FRIENDS</h1>


    My eyes slowly peeled open, and I was unsure where I was. It looked like my flat, but then again, so did every flat in the district. Thick goop blurred my vision, and I tried to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and was surprised to feel a sharp pain. Grimacing, I lowered my arm and rubbed my eyes with my left hand. I was in Mr. Barton¡¯s flat, there was no doubt now. I heard the coffee pot bubbling and could smell Mr. Barton¡¯s signature brew, the unique dark coffee with accents of orange and chocolate. I turned my head and saw Mary sitting on a chair looking at me with worried eyes. She got up and ran into the kitchen when she saw me stir.


    ¡°He¡¯s awake!¡± she shouted.


    Mr. Barton walked over and stood in front of me. ¡°Jake, how are you feeling?¡±


    ¡°Terrible,¡± I said in a groggy voice.


    ¡°That I don¡¯t doubt. Your wrist has a compound fracture,¡± he said as he appraised me.


    ¡°They said the break would be clean,¡± I croaked.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid it isn¡¯t,¡± he said.


    I grumbled under my breath and looked down at my wrist. It was wrapped in heavy medical cloth and not the cheap stuff. Mary stood to the side of him looking at me nervously, and I could see tears pooling in her eyes. Still, I didn¡¯t understand how she had managed to get me here. I weighed at least fifty pounds more than her.


    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry Jake,¡± she said, her voice wavering as the tears spilled down her cheeks.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    I gave her a weak smile. ¡°It¡¯s not your fault. I wasn¡¯t going to let someone steal your things.¡±


    She smiled back half-heartedly, and I could see she was suppressing more tears of guilt.


    The light on the front door glowed red.


    ¡°How long have I been asleep?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been over ten hours. I gave you something for the pain, and I imagine you¡¯ll be needing another dose soon. I¡¯m going to put dinner on for the three of us, then you can have more medicine,¡± Mr. Barton said.


    ¡°How did you get medicine? I can¡¯t afford it,¡± I said, but he was already back in the kitchen. Mary was still staring at me.


    ¡°Did you get your stuff back?¡± I asked, turning to Mary.


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯m so sorry. You did nothing wrong.¡±


    I nodded and closed my eyes, drifting back into sleep despite the aching pain that was throbbing through my arm.


    When I awoke again, Mr. Barton was handing me a large tray with a bowl of steaming potato soup and a large slice of bread with melted cheese. The three of us ate in silence, and I could only hope Mr. Barton didn¡¯t disclose my undying crush for Mary when she had brought me here. I was content with the way things had been going and was so thankful for the time and memories I had with her. I was unable or unwilling to convince myself to take things further for fear of losing the person dearest to me. I knew what it was like to lose everything, and I never wanted to go through that again.


    The food took away the edge of hunger. Mr. Barton brought over another ladle of potato soup and a thick slice of bread for me, which I gladly accepted. We enjoyed the meal, but it was evident that both Mary and Mr. Barton were concerned with my health.


    After dinner, Mr. Barton brought over three steaming mugs of coffee and passed them out. Mary took her mug and eyed the drink with caution.


    ¡°I¡¯ve never had coffee before,¡± she said, swirling the contents of the mug in slow circular motions.


    Mr. Barton and I looked at her in shock, then smiled.


    ¡°It¡¯s the best drink available, and Mr. Barton happens to be a brew master,¡± I said, mustering the energy for social conversation now that my stomach was comfortably full.


    We drank the coffee in peace, enjoying each other¡¯s company.


    ¡°Thanks for the coffee, Mr. Barton,¡± I said.


    He nodded and gave me another dose of the liquid medicine, sending me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 Delusions

    During the night my sleep turned feverish, and my dreams stormed with delusion. I awoke in a cold sweat only to see the light above the door still glowed red. Sweat beaded on the surface of my skin, and I suppressed a deep shiver. Shaking, I pulled on the large comforter that sat at the foot of the couch and tried to get warm. My body felt like it was covered in ice. I thought it best to let Edgar and Mary sleep. In my confusion, I shifted onto my side only to put my full weight on my wrist. I fainted from the pain and slipped into the coldest and longest night of my life.


    When I woke up again, I had sweat through my clothes and could feel the heat of my body building up and burning. I threw the large blanket off and tried to get out of my shirt.


    ¡°Help,¡± I croaked. It wasn¡¯t much at all; it was a weak and desperate attempt to wake Mary or Mr. Barton, but it was enough. Mr. Barton turned on the light and gasped when he saw me. Acting quickly, he gave me a cocktail of pills, had me sit up and stay awake, and made me strip down to my boxers and sit without a blanket. He had instructed Mary to remain in the other room; even in my delusional state, I didn¡¯t want her to see me like this. Powerful shivering took over my body, and my teeth clattered together like bricks.


    ¡°What¡¯s wrong with me?¡± I managed.


    Mr. Barton walked over and unwrapped my bandage.


    ¡°Look away. I don¡¯t want you to see this,¡± he instructed.


    I did as he said and felt cold air rush over my wrist.


    ¡°Mother of God,¡± he murmured.


    Unable to resist, I looked over and was horrified at the sight. My wrist was puffed out to three times its normal size and was purple in color. Besides that, thick yellow pus with streaks of blood leaked from pustules that had formed. The purple discoloration continued down my hand and up my forearm. The sight made me sick.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    ¡°Jake, your arm is infected. I¡¯ll get you some medicine in the morning that will make you better.¡±


    ¡°I ca ¡­ I can¡¯t afford anything.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about money. I can get it,¡± he said with grim determination.


    Mr. Barton brought over a large basin of water and a washcloth. He cleaned my arm as gently as possible. After cleaning it, he re-wrapped my arm in fresh medical cloth and gave me a couple more pills with a glass of water. I drifted back into a sleep peppered with hallucinations and discomfort.


    When I awoke again, Mary was approaching with a bowl of oatmeal.


    ¡°I¡¯m not hungry,¡± I croaked.


    ¡°Mr. Barton says you have to eat it,¡± she said, her voice firm.


    Not daring to fight her, I grumbled then accepted the bowl and got a few spoons of it down when Mr. Barton re-emerged with an unlabeled orange pill bottle.


    ¡°This medicine will help you, Jake,¡± he said as he uncapped the lid. He placed one blue pill in my bowl of oatmeal which I ate with some difficulty. Though my fever was down, I still felt weak and exhausted despite sleeping for almost twenty-four hours straight.


    Things remained the same for the next three days. Throbbing pain, fever, and irrational thought plagued me. Mary and Mr. Barton took turns watching me, and the medicine Mr. Barton had acquired slowly staved back the infection in my arm, taking the swelling down and returning my arm¡¯s coloration to something closer to normal.


    Out of guilt or loyalty, Mary stayed over at Mr. Barton¡¯s flat at night, unwilling to leave my side. Mr. Barton told me he could tell Mary really cared for me, which brought a smile to my face.


    After he was satisfied that the infection was gone, Mr. Barton created a cast with thin slivers of steel and medical cloth. He coated the fabric in a thick wax-like material, and set it into a cast that was about the same as the expensive ones sold at the hospital. Though Mr. Barton wouldn¡¯t hear of me repaying the cost of the medicine, I was sure I owed him over four units for my recovery. Without the medication, I would have lost my arm or my life. It was such a humbling experience to have people around me like Mary and Mr. Barton. They saved me in my time of need, and that wasn¡¯t something I would forget anytime soon.

 Catch-22

    The pain was improving drastically, and the cast did wonders to keep my arm in place while the bones healed. Mr. Barton was confident my wrist would heal correctly if I left my arm in the cast for a couple of months. After a remarkable recovery, I returned to living in my flat.


    The sight of the Enforcers patrolling the streets now made my stomach drop and brought back the lingering fear of another severe injury. They had snapped my wrist like a toothpick, without emotion, as if it was as simple of a task as walking.


    Deciding it was best to catch up on my sleep and relax, I sat on my couch and grabbed the book I had purchased from the merchant instead of watching TV. I sealed the room to my flat behind me and put on a kettle of tea, struggling to use my fingers in the bulky cast.


    I was relieved that the strain of my running had not caused the frayed spine of the book to fall apart; had that happened the pages could have been seriously damaged. The cover looked like it had sustained heavy wear in its lifetime, but the cardboard had served its purpose in protecting the manuscript. The paper didn¡¯t look synthetic, but it was also so mottled that if it were real paper, it wouldn¡¯t be worth much. The page with the year of print said 1991; it had to be a typo. Books that old didn¡¯t exist.


    History taught us there had been a great flood in 2039 that had wiped out New York completely. Survivors rebuilt the country into what it is today, but almost everything, including all books printed before 2039, had been destroyed or sucked into the toxic Atlantic Ocean. The book in my hands suggested one of three things: the print date was a typo and it was supposed to read 2091, the book was as old as it claimed to be and had somehow survived the Great Flood, or there was never a Great Flood of 2039. The third thought was dangerous¡ªworse than incorrect. It was the kind of thinking that got someone sent to the Sculptors.


    A wave of fear rippled through my mind as a realization dawned. The book could be potentially treasonous. I could have Edgar test it before I read it, but I had paid for the book and didn¡¯t have anything else to do if I decided not to read it. I felt something else as well, a deep thirst for knowledge. Perhaps the book could help me improve my thought output and lead to my own Paragon Thought. Unless the book included history and dates that precluded 2039, I would assume it to just be a simple typo. Deciding to learn the book¡¯s secrets, I turned the page and started reading:


    ¡°An Inquiry into the understanding, pleasant and useful. Since it is the understanding that sets man above the rest of sensible beings, and gives him all the advantage and dominion which he has over them; it is certainly a subject, even for its nobleness, worth our labour to inquire into. The understanding, like the eye, whilst it makes us see and perceive all other things, takes no notice of itself; and it requires art and pains to set it at a distance and make it its own object. But whatever be the difficulties that lie in the way of this inquiry; whatever it be that keeps us so much in the dark to ourselves; sure I am that all the light we can let in upon our minds, all the acquaintance we can make with our own understandings, will not only be very pleasant, but bring us great advantage, in directing our thoughts in the search of other things.¡±


    I paused after the first paragraph. This was no ordinary book; the first paragraph alone told me more about Absolute Knowledge than anything I had ever known. While it made no mention of Absolute Knowledge itself, it was clearly a book about the project, perhaps even in its earliest stages of development.


    I continued for a few pages:


    ¡°Our business here is not to know all things, but those which concern our conduct. If we can find out those measures, whereby a rational creature, put in that state in which man is in this world, may and ought to govern his opinions, and actions depending thereon, we need not to be troubled that some other things escape our knowledge.¡±


    Something was wrong with this book. Panic shot through my body like venom and my heart pounded in my chest. My mind was telling me to stop reading before it was too late. This book was a book of treason. Still, was there truth to this? I had only read through a couple of pages, but was it too late to turn back? Was the damage already done? I knew I should stop reading, but I wanted nothing more than to see if there was any truth to the words. Pressing on, I was intent on finishing what I had started. I could destroy the evidence when I was done.


    Three hours later I finished the book with more questions than answers, hungry for more but full of fear. It was impossible to tell when the book was actually written based on the text, but it was peppered with incorrect words. A long length of the book talked about God in relation to man. God was referenced as a person. Mr. Barton made frequent references to God or Gods, and I simply understood it to be another incorrect word in his expansive criminal vocabulary.


    When I closed the cover of the book and slid it under my couch, I noticed my hands were shaking. I knew I needed to go to Mr. Barton for help, for advice. I dreaded it knowing he wouldn¡¯t take it well. He would know I knew better than to keep reading after spotting a single incorrect word.


    Despite my fears, I stayed awake and re-read the entire book to get a better understanding. It was satisfying to get such an interesting perspective on ideas. The author¡¯s writing was rather difficult to break down and understand at certain points because I was unfamiliar with many of the terms mentioned in the book. It was also the first time I had ever seen thoughts compared to infinity. Before reading the book, I only thought infinity to exist within the confines of mathematics. Infinity was a complex idea, and after reading the book about what it had to do with thoughts, both simple and complex, I didn¡¯t understand anything more about it than before. If the author¡¯s words were truth, I now knew more about the formation of ideas than ever before, and perhaps I would be able to increase my thought output.


    Even if I could increase my thought output, it wouldn¡¯t make a shred of difference if I was sent off to the Sculptors for knowing and understanding treasonous words. No matter how I looked at it, I knew I needed to consult Mr. Barton. Teaching classes for a living was out of the question, and I didn¡¯t want to sink to the level of becoming a criminal. Until I got this sorted out, I wouldn¡¯t be able to visit a Collection Parlor, wouldn¡¯t have an income, and wouldn¡¯t have any vouchers for drinking water or to purchase basic food. In other words, I was screwed. Cursing, I realized seeking Mr. Barton¡¯s help was my only option. I wouldn''t dare put the financial burden on Mary and rely on her kind nature. It felt terrible to need Mr. Barton¡¯s help and put him in another problematic situation right after he had saved my life and incurred huge expenses I wouldn¡¯t be able to repay any time soon.


    I walked into the kitchen of my flat and opened one of the drawers which held my vouchers and spending credits. Roughly twelve hundred credits, three water vouchers, and two food vouchers. Assuming I needed to drink a minimum of half a gallon of water a day, I had roughly six days to live without the help of anyone else and without breaking into my credit reserves. Education was out of the question now; the next lesson would have to wait while I tried to figure out how I was going to survive. I opened one of the lower cabinets in the kitchen and pulled out the large steel safe I had purchased from a traveling caravan the previous year. After dialing the combination into the safe, the door popped open revealing a small brown paper bag filled with all of my credit savings I had been putting aside throughout the years. In total, it was just over three units, enough to keep me holed up in my flat for a couple months.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    I would be able to purchase food and water vouchers on the streets from individuals with my credits at a better rate than purchasing food and water for credits directly from the Government. At best, I could manage three months without going to a Collection Parlor, or resorting to becoming an entrepreneurial criminal. Surely Mr. Barton could help me come up with a solution within three months. One thing I was certain of was I wouldn¡¯t take anything else from him other than advice, and I would work to repay him for taking care of me in my time of need.


    Content with my plan, I replaced the brown sack in the safe and put my remaining vouchers and spending credits back in the drawer. The fear I had ruined my life in a few hours¡¯ time was slowly fading and I went to sleep with mixed feelings and jumbled dreams.


    In the morning, I ate a quick breakfast and packed the book in my backpack along with a few of the texts Mr. Barton had lent me. Today was the day I would tell him of what I had done and hope for the best. If anyone could help me, it was him.


    I pulled the bandana over my face and exited my flat into the dark streets of the Slums. Though I was tempted to visit Mary, I knew it wasn¡¯t a good idea¡ªI had too much on my mind and didn¡¯t want to involve her in my mistakes or put her in any danger. The Sculptors, like many other things, had always seemed like stories invented to keep people off the streets and working to further Absolute Knowledge. Things were entirely different now that I actually had reason to fear them. It was as if they had become a very real, tangible thing, and I had given them a reason to take me away.


    I walked over to Mr. Barton¡¯s flat and knocked on the heavy steel door. My heart was already pumping in my chest. My biggest fear was not that my life was in danger, it was that I¡¯d lose Mr. Barton as a friend. Mr. Barton opened the door and quickly motioned me inside.


    After taking off my bandana, it was clear he could see something was wrong with me.


    ¡°Are you okay, Jake?¡± he asked.


    ¡°I honestly don¡¯t know. I uh ¡­ I bought a book from a traveling merchant and don¡¯t think I was supposed to read it.¡±


    Mr. Barton¡¯s expression went blank. ¡°Do you have the book with you?¡±


    I nodded and pulled the book out of my backpack. His expression changed instantly; first it was shock, then anger.


    ¡°Where did you get this?¡± he hissed with venom in his voice.


    ¡°I told you, a traveling merchant,¡± I managed, sounding weak. My legs shook.


    ¡°How much of it did you read?¡± he asked in the same tone, a mix of fear and anger.


    ¡°All of it.¡±


    ¡°The Sculptors will kill you for this. I assure you they¡¯re very real.¡±


    Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt my strength and courage fade. ¡°What can I do?¡± I said, looking down and avoiding eye contact.


    Mr. Barton sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. He was silent. The only noise suppressing the deafening silence was the burbling of the coffeemaker.


    ¡°I suppose I¡¯ll need to teach you a few things,¡± he said, sighing again. He looked defeated. ¡°I¡¯m not going to let you die because you know a bit of truth.¡±


    A grave silence filled the room as the coffee machine completed its brew cycle.


    ¡°What you managed to read is one of the most treasonous pieces of literature you could have possibly found, a book worth about thirty units on the black market. The author¡¯s name is John Locke, a British philosopher.¡±


    I didn¡¯t know what British or philosopher meant, but knew the book was worth about five months of income as a Thinker, an unthinkable sum of money.


    ¡°Was the book actually written before 2039?¡± I asked.


    ¡°It was written almost five hundred years ago in another country,¡± he replied. ¡°This copy is still extremely rare; I¡¯m surprised it survived so long.¡±


    ¡°Is there truth to the book?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Yes, more truth than anything you have ever read. Almost everything you know is a lie. All the history and literature you have read is a lie. The only truth you know is the laws of English, mathematics, and science.¡±


    I was taken aback by this. More questions filled my mind; the hunger for truth was sharp and frantic. Before I could ask anything, Mr. Barton was already talking again.


    ¡°It¡¯s time we start your first lesson, Jake.¡±


    I nodded. We¡¯d probably be going over new books or New York¡¯s real history. I frowned when Mr. Barton pulled out a Collector canister and set it on the table.


    ¡°We¡¯re going to see how poisoned your mind is from reading Mr. Locke¡¯s work.¡±


    I nodded again and sat still while he attached the electrodes and neuro collectors to my head.


    ¡°Do you have a trash bin I can use?¡± I asked, worried about the vertigo from the connection.


    ¡°You won¡¯t need it. Collectors were refined long ago. The pill they give you does nothing. It¡¯s another way for the Government to reduce what they pay for thoughts. When you choose to take the pill at a Collection Parlor, the Collector doesn¡¯t send a harsh jolt of electricity to targeted areas of your brain.¡±


    I was baffled. Mr. Barton flipped the switch on the Collector and the light indicating a secure connection turned green. There was no nausea and no sensation of my brain being ripped in half.


    ¡°Now, what you¡¯re going to do is not think about An Essay Concerning Human Understanding,¡± he said simply.


    As soon as he said the name of the book, another light started blinking red.


    ¡°You thought about the essay. If this were real, the Government would know what¡¯s in your head, and you¡¯d be dead within an hour after they scour your brain for everything you know with horrible torture.¡±


    This made me mad. ¡°How the hell would I not think of it when you say it?¡± I shouted, the lights on the Collector continuing to blink red.


    Mr. Barton pointed at the lights with anger in his eyes. ¡°Every time that light flashes, the Government knows you know something you shouldn¡¯t. Every time that light blinks, the Government will wipe you off the face of the Earth without leaving evidence you ever existed. Your flat will be cleaned, someone new will move in, and you¡¯ll simply disappear forever. You will be nothing but an insignificant memory to those that cared about you. Even those you consider among your best friends won¡¯t question your death or go looking into it; they know better than that. When that light blinks, you will cease to exist. Not even Mary will go looking into your death.¡±


    That last attack sent anger flooding through my veins.


    ¡°How can I not think about something when you say the name of it? It¡¯s impossible. And Mary would look into it, just like I would for her,¡± I seethed.


    ¡°You¡¯re referring to a Catch-22, and I assure you this isn¡¯t one.¡±


    ¡°A what?¡± The anger I felt was growing into hot fury.


    ¡°It¡¯s an expression coined by Mr. Joseph Heller in 1961. A Catch-22 is a situation that is impossible to escape. In his novel, he presents the idea in the example of fighter pilots in World War II. While I know you don¡¯t know what World War II or a fighter pilot is, just know they were people with an extremely dangerous job during an extremely dangerous period of history. To try to get out of doing their jobs, these individuals would go to a doctor to request a mental evaluation for insanity in the hopes they would be found insane and incapable to do their assigned work. Unfortunately for the pilots, by seeking a psychiatric evaluation in the first place, they had demonstrated their own sanity and could therefore not be declared insane.¡±


    It didn¡¯t make any sense. ¡°That¡¯s just as impossible of a situation as not thinking of something when you hear it,¡± I responded.


    ¡°How could the pilots have gotten out of their jobs?¡±


    ¡°They couldn¡¯t have. You just said it was a Catch-22.¡±


    ¡°Was there something different they could have done to avoid their situation and the infinite loop of impossibility they faced?¡±


    ¡°I suppose they could have had their friends ask for them to have their evaluations done,¡± I responded as I tried to fight the frustration that was creeping up again, threatening to take control of my actions.


    ¡°Well, yes, but that probably wouldn¡¯t work either. If their friends also wanted to get out of the job, which I assure you they did, then by requesting their friends have an evaluation for insanity, they had to be sane enough to recognize insanity and therefore couldn¡¯t get out of the jobs themselves. If they asked someone insane to ask for them, then the insane person, who would still be flying as I mentioned before, couldn¡¯t be taken at their word. They wouldn¡¯t be able to recognize insanity, but if they could recognize insanity, then they wouldn¡¯t be insane, and both individuals would still have to fly. In the end, everyone did their jobs and no one could be deemed too insane to fly.¡±


    This was too much for me. ¡°So there was no way for them to avoid flying?¡±


    ¡°No. That¡¯s why it¡¯s called a Catch-22. It was an impossible situation to escape.¡±


    I slammed my fist on the table and glared at Mr. Barton, ready to either walk out or hit him.


    ¡°So how is my situation different from theirs?¡± I asked, my voice low and cool, anger and frustration boiling my mind.


    ¡°Because I can help you break the infinite cycle. An Essay Concerning Human Understanding.¡±


    The light on the Collector didn¡¯t blink red.