Blackbird

The Midnight Vault is open

“Mother, what is that?”

His little fingers jabbed the screen, focusing her attention on the dog in the photograph. She didn’t know what kind it was, but it was a large one, with the same docile smile that most dogs had in photos. Its pink tongue was hanging from its mouth. She stared for a moment before answering. The hum of the Aves system grew louder as the little robotic bird hovered around them. Its red eyes flashed as it took an account of the room and its occupants. Mrs Green leaned toward the console and looked at the image again.

“That’s a dog,” she said.

“Can we get a dog?”

“No.”

“Why?”

The Department Of Family informed her that her child would eventually grow out of the age of questioning everything, but that she should entertain questions to help him develop a strong brain for his future of work. According to the documents sent home with him as an infant, the boy was excused for the content of his questions until he was sixteen years of age. Her job was to guide him towards asking permitted questions as he grew older. Although he didn’t ask as many as he used to, his questions surprised her. She wondered if all children were surprising, because even though the images were of emotionally compromised people, the child was still unnaturally curious about them and their animal.

“They are extinct now,” she said.

“Why?”

“They did not pass the efficiency evaluation.”

“Why not?”

She sighed and sat down beside her young son. “Our people have come this far because efficiency was our most valuable asset. Dogs… and all animals that were once called pets distracted us from working, as we have to feed and care for them. They give nothing of value back, so they did not pass the efficiency evaluation. Do you understand now?”

He nodded, his large brown eyes still staring at her. “Am I efficient?”

“Not at the moment, but when you become an adult, you will be.” She stroked his black hair. “You will work and serve this great nation. You will take on the roles that your parents did before you.”

“And what about you and Dad?”

She smiled, and stood up again. “That is enough about the future, son. Please return to your history homework.”

He turned his face back to the screen and continued to click through the images, his retina scanning and downloading the information.

“Mother! Mother!”

She returned to the console. “Yes?”

“This family has two children!”

“It does.”

“Why?”

“Because their parents did not respect the law of efficiency. If you move to the next slide, you’ll see that they died of poverty in the wastelands.”

“Oh.” He swiped to the next image, and tilted his head as he studied the emaciated corpses burning on a pile of general waste. One held a little doll in its arms. He wanted a doll, too. He wanted everything.

“One child is enough to maintain efficiency, son.”

“Oh. OK.”

“Is that all for now?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She waited for Aves to begin its routine scan of the entire house. Its little black body was absent, presenting her with an opportunity. She quickly ran down the hall and went into the bathroom. Behind the quietly closed door, Mrs Green slumped down in a blubbering, red-faced heap. Her stomach muscles contracted as the tears and sobs overwhelmed her.

The unmistakable buzz of Aves came right up close to the door, hovering around the keyhole, sending a little beam of red light through the gap. She gasped; she was not on the toilet. She grabbed some tissue from the roll holder and stuffed it into the keyhole. The robot’s buzzing faded away. It would try again in a minute until the routine scan was complete. She had minutes.

She raced through all of the options in her mind, each one reminding her of him. Where was he now? Probably dead, or lobotomized—she didn’t know which was worse. She held her breath again. There was someone behind the door.

“Mother is just having privacy. Please go back to your work.” She didn’t hear anything, so she put her head to the floor and looked under the door. His feet were still there. “Adam, please go back to your homework.”

He said nothing, but she lay on the floor and watched the little feet turn around and walk away. She got back up and leaned against the door.

She looked up at the clock above the toilet. Any moment now, it was going to flash red when it had determined an unnecessary amount of time had been spent in the bathroom, and they would send someone out to assess her. That would be one assessment too many.

Gemma Green had been awarded a biological child because her parents and their parents before them had proven competence and genetic superiority. She would not lose him now. This was a test, and as she did with all tests, she would pass.

She went to the sink to splash her face with cold water. Dabbing her damp skin on the towel, she took one last look at herself in the mirror, a deep breath entering her lungs.

“You are exemplary,” she said to herself in the mirror, steadying her breath. “Exemplary woman. You will get your son back.”

A Tuesday, one year before.

It started when she found the papers. “Ivo, what is this?” She held out the sheets of paper as though it were toilet roll he’d just wiped his arse with and left for her to find.

“Oh, you found them. Thank you.” He took them from her and rearranged them on the desk. She watched, fascinated, but frightened nonetheless.

“What is it?” Her frown changed from disgust to fear.

“You found my writing.”

“This isn’t writing. It makes no sense. The sentences don’t link up as they should. Where are the agreements? What is the purpose of this? Where did it come from?” She was going to cry. Repulsion, fear, confusion—she didn’t know, it was simply a surge of pressure threatening to release itself through her eyes. This was no exemplary behaviour. She shut it down.

He appeared to know what she was thinking. “You can relax in here,” he said with a sardonic smile, gesturing to the sound proofing on the walls. “There are no prizes for letting your hair down, but it’s worth it. I wrote these myself.”

She covered her mouth in horror. “What? Why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.” He shrugged. It felt good.

“This will lose us our efficiency credits…,” she began, “and you know how irresponsible that would be.” Her bottom lip lost all foundation again. “This is dangerous.” Her breathing, erratic like never before, forced her to sit down in the chair. “We have a child, Ivo. Think of him.”

“I do think of him, and as his father, I think I have a right to bring poetry into his life.”

“This wasn’t the agreement.”

She was right. It was not the agreement. Marriages in the district were outperforming those in other districts, thanks to efficiency measures introduced a century earlier. Humanity, like the bacteria it depended on for survival, would compose its own form of binary fission: those who agreed with the changes grew in one way, and those who did not, grew another, somewhere else. The Greens were too young to remember the protests, or the relocation of the extremists. They had been protected by the Good Father, and out of respect, efficiency was a priority. Mrs Green did not know poetry, and she didn’t want to. She only knew what she’d been trained to do: raise a human child, and a superior one at that.

She studied the man she had been paired with for a stronger chance of a successful conception. Overall, she had been happy with the Department of Family’s choice of Ivo Green. Even with his hearing impairment, his genetic strength and intellect scan brought him into the top 1% of compatible partners. Successfully raised by parents who had come from a long line of successful genetic pairings, Ivo was a model husband and father. His semen, checked and tested before the marriage was permitted by the state, provided Mrs Green with three viable embryos. She was proud of herself. Something to put on her CV. The others, she hoped, would go to another family who shared her values. Her values were exemplary, as it said on her record.

They ate dinner together that evening, Mrs Green choosing to pretend the incident with the papers hadn’t happened. If her husband were to sabotage the family unit, she was certain that the state would give her sole custody after considering just how exemplary she was. Perhaps Ivo was a test. Perhaps he was a short term feature in the household. There was no questioning, only testing. Preparing food cost two efficiency credits per meal, so the Greens used their printer instead. Ivo leaned over his bowl of nondescript sustenance, his shoulders sinking. “It would be nice to eat something else,” he muttered, watching the grey puree drop from his spoon back into the bowl. His son watched, and started doing the same. “I would like to eat something else. Like… steak, or fish pie.” Father and son’s eyes met, the latter smiling at his father’s facial expressions.

Mrs Green, refusing to take the bait, rolled her shoulders back. “This is a more efficient use of our time.”

“What’s steak, Daddy?”

“It’s a piece of cow.”

“Cow?”

“Ivo…”

“Yes, son. We used to eat meat from animals, fish from the sea, and vegetables from the ground, or—”

“Ivo…” she said again, almost choking on the fear. “Please,” she said, lowering her voice through gritted teeth, “not now.”

“Dinner is the perfect time for family conversation.”

“I agree, but we’re not talking about that.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs Green.”

He said no more, and thought instead of what she might have looked like naked. He wondered what it would have been like if they’d conceived their son naturally. His thoughts often lingered here, and they were growing stronger. She didn’t have to be beautiful, but she was. He swallowed some more of the grey food, and dismissed himself from the table. His wife and son didn’t say anything.

Mrs Green saw him again two hours later in the doorway of her room. He’d never been in there, nor had he ever tried to cross the boundary. He looked over her shoulder. “Can I help you, Ivo?” she asked, folding her arms so he couldn’t see her breasts through the corporation night gown. His shirt was unbuttoned. She tried not to look at the black mark under his left collarbone, but it was strange. She absorbed it in her peripheral as he spoke, believing he had her full attention.

“I wondered how you sleep.”

“Why?”

“You’re my wife. Don’t you think it’s strange how we live so… separately?”

“That… this isn’t strange, Ivo. It’s how we all live. What’s got into you?”

“Do you want to have sex, Gemma?”

Hearing her first name made her feel strange. The sound of her name gave her a tingling sensation, and it surprised her. She folded her arms even tighter. Her nipples would give her away.

“No! Good God, no,” she said, rejecting the image in her mind. “What’s wrong with you?”

He straightened. “It’s odd, that’s all. I’ve never had sex with a woman, and I think it’s strange.” She could see more of the mark. It was a tattoo, and she’d never seen one before… at least… not in reality. She would not let curiosity endanger her, and she moved back to start closing the door.

“Ivo. Go to bed, or I’ll have to call Dr Ibrahim.”

“Fine.” He turned away from her and headed down the corridor. He passed his son’s room, and peered in. The boy slept soundly, his face a picture of seraphic calm. The stars projected onto his wall and ceiling, circling the room. Ivo stopped for a moment, and felt a pang of—what? He wasn’t sure. He silently rushed back down to the basement to think about it.

Wednesday

He discovered her rummaging in the basement. “Hello,” he said, trying not to sound threatened. She jumped, and turned around, eyes as wide as those of a poorly-skilled thief caught red-handed.

“Ivo. I was just… I was…” She couldn’t find the words. He smiled. He had always insisted she call him ‘Ivo’, and she had insisted that he always address her as ‘Mrs Green’.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Feel free to look around.”

“What is all this?”

“My study.”

“I didn’t know you… how do you find the time?”

“I make it.”

He was more efficient than she thought. “You should let your employers know that you’re so… freed up.”

“That’s a terrible idea. I do what is asked of me, and that’s that. Everything else is mine.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything. She stood, fidgeting with her fingers.

“Do you want to see my drawings?”

She didn’t answer, but she let him reach the top shelf of a bookcase. He moved several state-issued manuals out of the way and retrieved a vintage scrapbook. Its imperfections were alluring, and she couldn’t believe he’d made it himself. He flipped it open and presented it to her.

“This one is a blackbird.”

She looked down at the drawing of the creature. It seemed so familiar, but she couldn’t place it. “Did you imagine this?”

He laughed slightly, smiling at her. She had never noticed his dimples before. “No, they’re real.”

She gasped. It was a dangerous thought, but she enjoyed the thrill.

“Ivo,” she asked, lowering her voice. “Why is there no surveillance in here?”

“I have my ways.”

“How long have you been breaking the law?”

“Since Adam was born, more or less.”

Adam. The child that had brought them together to live in shared accommodation. “Can I ask, why?”

He admired her bravery. “Only if you’re sure?”

She could have gone back up the stairs and reported him to the authorities. Her record alone would allow her to maintain her custody of their child. It wouldn’t be ideal, but there would be solutions. Instead she stood there, making friends for the first time in her life. She nodded, listening to Ivo talk about something as unusual as birds.

“They sing. They’re songbirds.”

“What do they sound like?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged.

She felt the heat radiating in her cheeks. “Ivo, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I know what you meant. They only pick up human voices.” He moved a hand to the side of his head and felt the implant with his fingers. It lay hidden under short, curly hair. “It’s to help me stay efficient.”

“So, what… where do you get your images from to copy?”

“I don’t copy them. I’ve seen them.”

So had she. Under his collarbone. A blackbird.

Thursday

Mrs Farmer at work told her that they’d taken him away in a van. He’d been on his way to work. There was no trial, no discussion.

Officers from the council visited her to interview her about her daily life and her mental state, of which she satisfied them enough for it to remain once a week. The basement remained concealed behind a storage unit. Ivo’s things remained untouched by prying hands.

For that, nothing else happened.

Every afternoon, she returned home to her child, and every evening, they did his homework at the console. It was when she was alone in her room that she learned of the world outside, and what had happened to Ivo.

It started with a simple note, slipped under the back door of the house. It said:

Console in waste dispenser. Blackbird.

She waited, peering through the crack of her door for that final bleep. Shutdown. All doors locked, all equipment switched off, even Aves.

One potato, two potato, three potato… Where had she heard that before? Her eyes welled up. Ivo. Everything strange and forgotten fell from his mouth on a daily basis, and she’d ignored him. All these years, she ignored him. The husband. The male figure. The donor. The bleep snapped her out of her guilt, and she ran to the kitchen, pulling the handle of the dispenser open. There it was. She quickly slipped it into her cardigan pocket and raced back to her room, almost giggling with how dangerous it was.

Under the covers, she opened the console. It required a password. She stared for a moment, and remembered the note. She typed in the word Blackbird.

“Hi Gemma.” It was Ivo on the tiny screen. Fit and well, and with a beard now.

“I am sorry for never truly being honest with you, but I’m sure you understand I was taking a risk in telling you anything. If you find this, it is because you have put your trust in me. What I am about to tell you is distressing, but often the most painful words are the ones we avoid hearing. The rarity of truth can be attributed to its unique way of not sparing anyone’s feelings; truth will spare none now. Whatever I say, this does not make you any less of an exemplary woman.” That stung. It felt like mockery. “I want you to read about the Holloway case after this video. The file is in the top corner of this screen. Once you have all of the information, this console needs to go in the incinerator.”

She listened attentively. She listened to everything, no matter what she felt.

“Please let me wash your hair,” she said, following Adam into the bathroom.

“I washed it yesterday.”

“You have lice.”

They wouldn’t argue with that. He got into the shower, and with the water in his eyes, he couldn’t see that her hands were shaking. She took the pliers out of her pocket with one hand, washing his hair with the other. If she was wrong, they’d take him away for good.

“Ow, Mother you’re hurti—”

She pushed his head against the wall and applied the pliers. One, two… it was out. She held it to her face in horror, inspecting the evil thing. “Bastards,” she said under her breath as she looked down at the bleeding wound at the side of the boy’s head. “I’m so sorry, Adam.” He was sobbing uncontrollably, the shampoo in his eyes adding to the discomfort. She crushed the spyware under her shoe and held him, soaking her own clothes in the process. “I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t see.”

She rinsed the shampoo out of his eyes and dried him with the towel. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She couldn’t stop crying. She’d let them do this to him. She’d let them take him away for routine procedures, never questioning what they were doing. Exemplary woman.

The Holloway child had been bugged, because the Department Of Family suspected violation of the terms. The Holloway child, held over their parents’ heads, was a test. Adam had become a test. Adam was the first test she would fail.

“We’re going away, Adam,” she said, cradling him. “We’re going away to somewhere else.”

“The wasteland?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

They left as soon as the shutdown ended. She hoped he would be all right in the boot. It was going to take a couple of hours to get to safety, but they had twenty minutes to get out of the district. Ivo had explained that every data centre in the district required downtime, and in those windows, she could run. This was the first one of the day.

She held the steering wheel steadily, trying to think of anything else in order to keep her knuckles from turning white. One potato, two potato, three potato…

She pushed the accelerator down as hard as she could, remembering to change gear when the engine sounded overloaded; she’d almost forgotten how to drive. She laughed at herself and thought back to the efficiency certificates she’d framed on the wall for exemplary walking. All meaningless now. She shook her head and looked around at the morning unfolding on the road before her, and quietly thanked whoever was listening for its emptiness.

No one was coming. Her eyes flitted to the rear view mirror and back, over and over again. No one. She looked ahead. It didn’t seem so bad. Concrete waste became straggly vines embracing old railway sleepers and abandoned vehicles. The further she travelled, the greener it became. “They don’t guard the west gate. Not only is it just the waste disposal firms who work there in the pollution, but they know that if they can make you frightened of yourself, why the hell would you leave? Genius, really,” Ivo had said in the recording. She felt silly. Wow Gemma, you really are exemplary. She had been exactly that: frightened of her own instincts, her own thoughts, and her own feelings.

She slowed when she found what she was looking for, and dared to ask, what if I’m wrong?

What would they do to her if she’d taken state property out of the district? The further she was from the walls, the more she realised that it was nonsense. He was her child. She stopped under a canopy of trees and got out of the car. This had to be the spot. A single red scarf flapped on a branch above.

She opened the boot and lifted Adam out. He’d been sleeping, somehow, his pillow under his head still. The wind was brisk, so she helped him put his jacket on. The wound was healing, but it angered her every time she saw it. Ivo told her everything. “They stick an implant in the kid. The parents don’t notice at first, because the manual says they naturally stop wanting to create things. They stop asking questions. Wonder dies out on their lips.” She felt sick, and thought of the drawings she’d disposed of without a second thought. He’d made them without any instruction, any praise—just an inherent need to please his mother. He didn’t understand it. None of them did. “Why does the blackbird sing his heart out every morning?” Ivo had asked, loading the dishwasher. She didn’t know anything about birds, or nature. Ivo, with a permanent patience in his face, gave her a wistful smile and said, “Because that’s just what he does.”

She held her son’s hand as she led him to the clearing, her heart threatening to choke her as it rose up her throat. Something about the boy’s trusted grip reassured her.

The men in the grey camouflage saw them coming, and gestured for them to follow, their rifles aimed at the trees behind them. The ease of the meeting frightened her. They could be anyone. It could be a test. The brushing of their legs against the long grass became the loudest sound in the world. The birds in the trees overhead called to them in strange voices, but they were drowned out the closer they came to the watchtower. There were people back there. Lots of people, and dogs.

She wanted to turn back. She’d be sent to the wastelands for this. She looked down at her son and panicked. She bent down to scoop him back up, but something ran out of the bushes and lunged at them. Adam laughed excitedly. Gemma stepped back. It was a dog. A dog, wagging its tail and circling them with a few excitable barks.

“Adam!” Ivo called. Gemma looked up and saw him moving through the long grass. He wore the same uniform as the rest of the resistance. He approached them and ruffled his son’s hair. “Tell your dog to sit.”