Cerulean (One Thousand Blues) (2 page)

My heartbeat lifts with our speed. If only I could always fly through the waters, for the exhilaration reminds me that I am alive. Humans will never match the dolphins’ speed though, so I must be content with Haku’s ride.

It is hard to imagine the long ago time when humans and dolphins were not partnered. Haku has told me her family’s stories—of slavery and slaughter—from long ago, before we moved under the seas—when people assumed humans were smarter, the only species that really mattered.

The Pairings prevent this from happening again. Each human is paired with a dolphin, partners in the blue world we share. The Pairing is a commitment ceremony: a promise that we will protect one another; a reminder of the co-existence of our two species; and an acknowledgement of our equality. The lifelong union creates a bond as strong as parent, sibling, or mate.

We receive our flipper-fins upon our eleventh ocean cycles and our tail prosthetics on our fifteenth cycles. Both days are exciting, allowing more freedom, more possibilities than before. Neither compares to the seventh cycle though, when the Pairing occurs—when we choose our dolphin partners and commit to them. Girls match with she-calves, and boys with he-calves.

Within minutes of Haku picking me up, I see the high curving walls of Maluhia in the distance. The water-filled hemisphere contains all of our sector’s pods and protects us from the dangers of the seas.

We near a side entrance to the pod complex, nearly hidden amongst the thick algae bloom. I take a moment to gather myself. I must not be seen sneaking back inside Maluhia.

Haku scolds me in the clicks and whistles of Dolphin-speak. “What were you thinking?” Her tail flukes slap through the water as she whistles her distress. “They are watching you so closely already. To leave the pod…”

“I know,” I click back, apologetically rubbing her sleek skin. “But I
must
take risks; I have to feel
alive
… to prevent the Unmentionable.”

“Risks!” She slices the water with her front flippers. “Where did you go?”

“The reef.” I look away.

Her beak nuzzles my hair. “You are still missing ’Bow.”

I sigh. Haku understands.

Haku nudges me toward the hatch. “Look how the turquoise has deepened. You are late for your class.”

“Stingers!” The hatch pulls open far too slowly. After sliding through the round opening, I tug off my tail prosthetic, freeing my legs, and hide it in one of the unused storage bins. My tail is my most prized possession; the prosthetic is cerulean, my favorite of the blues, and measures the length of my body. Sparkly scales coat the upper half, while long, transparent tail flukes decorate the bottom.

My tail is also a dead giveaway that I swam into the open ocean. Only Haku can know I left the pod complex. She alone will protect my secret. But even Haku cannot know of Jesse.

I kick my legs faster, urging my body toward the learning pod. I cannot afford to be late when they are already watching me. The Committee expects so much: punctuality, compliance, and positivity. But the more the darkness sets in, the harder it becomes to meet their expectations.

What if I fail?

The learning pod is one of the few buildings that are oxygen-fed. The ancient learning tools—books and computers—have not survived in the water. Teaching occurs orally: through lecture, discussion, and debate. For that, we must speak words.

As I enter the small room, Professor S. is already calling the roll. “Sequoia, Skye, Soleil, Sunshine, Sycamore,” he reads, waiting to hear each student’s response between each name.

Stingers! He is already past the Cs. Professor S. looks up and scowls in my direction. “Chey—late again? I have to report this.”

Another negative.
My stomach churns, and bile rises in my throat as I sink into my chair. I cannot afford another negative, not now, not when reports are met with increased scrutiny.
Heightened supervision.
How will I meet Jesse again if I am being monitored so closely? I will have to work hard to earn Professor S.’s favor.

I swallow my worries and pay attention. Professor S. is just beginning his lecture, and I excel in languages. Perhaps I can impress him and avoid the negative report.

“Our test tomorrow will cover the transition to the Universal Language. Who can remind the class what prompted this transition?” He paces back and forth, in front of us.

I shoot my hand up.

“Chey.” Professor S. nods in my direction. “Tell us about language in the A.W.”

“In the above-water times, there were different languages for each cultural group, for nearly every con… country.” I remember that unfamiliar word, thankfully. “Altogether, there were over sixty-five hundred different living languages and many forgotten languages. People found it difficult to communicate with one another when they left their sectors—I mean, their countries.”

“Very good, Chey. Class, what changes were made in the B.W.?”

I pause for a second, but no one responds. Sequoia polishes her indigo Skin; Mount’ snores, head pressed against his acrylic desktop. Sol’ stares across the room, toward the curved pod walls, her eyes blank. For some it is lethargy, for others lack of motivation. Either way, the lack of interest is just the beginning of what is to come for them. I know that from ’Bow… and from my parents.

“Changes in the B.W.?” Professor S. prompts, looking irritated.

This is my opportunity. I raise my hand, and Professor S. beckons to me.

“After the Disaster, at the beginning of the below-water times, it was decided to adapt one language to be spoken universally among all of the surviving sectors. The top five languages were voted upon, based on six pre-determined factors, and the winner became the Universal Language.”

Professor S. gazes at me, nodding at my thorough and accurate answers. Every pod member must study the Universal Language for five full cycles during their schooling, but not everyone shares my interest in the languages. Hopefully, my participation will deter him from reporting my tardiness.

Class continues, with more test review, and I answer question after question. I could ace the test without studying. I have specialized in the languages for nearly two cycles.

Each student is assigned a specialty upon his or her fifteenth cycle. Some specialties involve manual labor, like pod construction and food acquisition; others involve intellectual pursuits, like scientific research. The Committee determines our specialties through teacher recommendation, natural aptitude, and performance ratings. Personal preference is not taken into consideration.

The languages incorporate history, story-telling, cultural integration, and a complex understanding of the words of many species. Languages is the rarest of the specialties. In addition to the Universal Language, I have to learn the languages of our fellow underwater mammals. Dolphin-speak is easy. Everyone learns Dolphin-speak from youth.

But Whale-song is another story; the complex sounds of the baleen weave into complicated narratives, with histories soaring back into the A.W.s. I have spent many evenings listening to the poetic lyrics of Humpback-song. I am also one of the only pod members who can understand the rarest of the languages, the Song of the Giants.

After more review, Professor S. dismisses the class with one last reminder to study for the test. He stops me before I leave the room. “Chey, you have so much potential, so much promise…”

“Sorry I was late. I… I just lost track of time. Do… you really need to report my tardiness?” I plead with my eyes too.

“Oh, Chey, I suppose I can let this infraction slide.”

Relief fills me. Taut shoulders and clenched muscles release. I mouth my thanks to the professor, who has always been my favorite teacher.

“And Chey,” he says before I walk away. “The Giants will be coming in six sleeps. They will be singing a full concerto in the Deep.”

The Giants are coming? The Giants are coming! I soar again.

While I have studied their complex language and practiced translating their harmonies, I have never heard the Song of the Giants sung by the Giants themselves.
A dream is coming true.

3

As I leave the dining pod, the light is quickly disappearing, the turquoise of day darkening into the indigo of night. I lingered over my seaweed salad, not ready to face the loneliness of my—home. Maluhia’s paths are deserted; this close to curfew, nearly everyone must be in their residence pods for the night.

I have heard that humans once had entire buildings of their own, with a separate room for each person. It is hard to imagine the luxury. Here, everybody lives in community residences, with only small sleeping capsules as their personal space. Families are the luckiest; they may be granted a larger sleeping area.

I remember living like that at one point, bedding in our family capsule made comfortable by my mother. After my parents were taken, I was sent to the children’s residence. There are so many whose parents are gone.

When I reach the children’s residence, I quickly enter and sign in. The residence mother on duty does not even greet me. I silently swim up flight after flight. The floors are segregated by age, and my capsule is on the top floor.

A few floormates sit around the worn common room, our sleeping capsules along the far wall. Rose lies upon the scratched plastic sofa, her long blond hair flowing all around her, while ‘Fall circles the room. They ignore me. The others must already be asleep.

“How is your med pod training going?” I ask Rose. She spends long hours learning how to treat the illnesses of the water, with her medical specialty.

“Same as always.” Rose closes her eyes and waves me away with her delicate aqua-hued hand.

I float next to ‘Fall. “Catch any fish?”

“Some mahi.” He swims over to his capsule, and his navy-Skinned body disappears into the small chamber.

Typical. Even though we live in such close proximity, we are still all alone. Is the isolation worse in the children’s residence, or has it spread its cold, lonely tentacles throughout the pod complex?

I open my elliptical capsule and drift into the warm waters. It is so small that I cannot extend my arms, sit up, or move. As I close my eyes and relax, my mind reels with the strange meeting at the reef. A person who lives above the Surface… How can this be? Does the Committee know? What would they do if they learned of Jesse?

I must see Jesse again.

I cannot reveal I left the safe waters of the pod complex. Even Haku cannot be trusted with this. While she is loyal to me, she has also sworn to honor sector rules.

If only ’Bow were still here. Never before have I felt so
alone
. I grit my teeth as the joy of new discovery fades and the isolation returns.

As my eyes shut and my thoughts become foggy, a sharp rap on my capsule jolts me awake. The hatch flings open, and one of the Watchers fills the narrow oval of the entrance.

“Miss,” the Watcher clicks. “You need to accompany me to the Authority.”

Dread washes away my loneliness. Somehow, they must have learned of my encounter. This knowledge I carry—of humans existing above the Surface—could be dangerous. The warm waters do nothing to dispel the goose bumps running underneath my Skin; my scales prickle and rise in response.

“Immediately, Miss!” The Watcher’s sharp whistle makes me jump, and I bang my head against the capsule ceiling. He impatiently stomps his flipper-fin.

I follow. I yearn to call to Haku so that I do not have to face this alone, but it would not be right to involve her. She is probably far off, in the open waters. The dolphins leave the pod complex waters every night, eager to swim and socialize in the inky seas.

Will I ever see her again? Dismay burns through my body, coming to rest near my heart.

My arms and legs shake too much to imitate the Watcher’s strong strokes through the water. I paddle behind him, much like a little one learning the motions for the first time. We head straight for the Committee Chambers, passing the curved buildings of Maluhia. Their faded plastics and silicates have been scarred by the churning water and the salty corrosion. I study them, unsure if I will ever be allowed to look upon these places again.

This sector is the only home that I have ever known. The thought of being taken away from all of this, from Haku, makes my heart plummet.

The Watcher holds a portable podlight to illuminate our path. The water has reached its darkest shade of indigo, and the soft glow shines on his night-hued Skin. All of the officials try to stand out from the seas. The Watchers wear Skins of black; the Committee members and others in select positions choose dignified grays. Purple is reserved for the Authority. In one of my private tutoring sessions, Professor S. noted that purple was the color of rulers, in a long ago time, before the wars, even before the old government.

Finally, we arrive at the Committee Chambers. The grandest of all the pods, the chambers contains both office space on the bottom and living space on the upper floors. We swim past the largest entrance, which leads to the Committee’s meeting rooms, and continue on, to the Authority’s private rooms.

The door to the Authority’s office opens, and the Watcher indicates that I should enter. I swim through the small hatch, then up, into the oxygen-fed room. I have been here several times: first to receive condolences for the loss of my parents, and later to be officially reprimanded for rule infractions. This is not the first time that I have been late for my classes.