Noology (3 page)

A labored pounding on my water-warped
door spurs me into action the next morning. Immediately, I remember the tense
moments of last night and pause to collect myself before answering the door and
confronting Tate. I take a deep breath and brace myself against the unknown
repercussions. Instead I am greeted by a slightly older man with the same
physique as Tate, but rich sapphire eyes flecked with hints of potent amethyst.

“Rian!” I shriek, violently throwing my
arms around my brother. He returns my embrace with bear-like fervor.

“I brought you this.” He produces a
handful of plump strawberries glowing a vibrant ruby red unlike anything I have
eaten in months.

“Oh my God! Where did you…?”

“The perks of being friends with sons of
the Cabinet.”

Rian is in his final year of medical
school and is what we refer to as an Ascender, a student testing into a medical
tier above that of his or her parents. When he took his SMART’s during his
third year, he tested as a tier one doctor. Since then, he has been taking his
finishing classes with the other tier one’s and living in the accommodation
reserved for the elite. There is still no power or useless amenities, but the
buildings are in superior condition and the typically wealthy tier one’s get
first pick of the food delivered to the city. Only one percent of students are
categorized as Ascenders because the stacked socio-economic system afflicted by
enormous disparities between classes makes it almost impossible to traverse
class boundaries. The unequal distribution of resources is typically too large
a burden to overcome, except for by the select few.

“Go ahead, try them,” he urges.

I pinch the tiniest sliver off of the
first strawberry, and my mouth explodes with tart yet sweet flavor. I close my
eyes to fully contemplate the diversity of sensations at play on my palate
because I do not know when I will next have access to untainted foods. I pop
the rest of the crisp delicacy into my mouth and carefully pulverize the pulp
into increasingly small morsels.

“I will save the rest for later. So,
what’s new?” I probe.

“Well, I have been struggling immensely
with Functionality of the Human Bipedal Musculature with Professor Jensen.”

“I’ve heard horror stories about that
class. Does he really give entirely spontaneous exams?”

“Yes, in fact I had one yesterday. That’s
why I decided to pay you an impromptu visit. I figure he can’t give another
exam for at least a day. But it does keep you on your toes, not knowing when he
will give the final.”

“It’s an awful lot of stress though,” I
deduce. “What else is new?”

“Things with Amy are going swimmingly. We
have been spending as much time together as possible, and I may even ask her to
marry me after we both graduate.”

“Oh Rian, that’s fantastic. I am so happy
for you.”

He beams back at me, a line of worry dropping
from his brow. “Good! I was worried you would not approve”

Personally, I think Amy is spoiled
rotten. She is the daughter of cabinet member Jerry Ballard and his wife
Suzanne. The pair had named their child Amy, short for Amygdala, in homage to
her presumably genetically determined superior intellect. Having always been an
only child and raised in the lap of luxury, Amy is accustomed to having her
every last whim fulfilled. Lucky for Rian, her newest object of desire is him.
After convincing her father of his proven intellectual prowess, the two have
begun dating steadily and I truly am happy for Rian. He deserves a better lot
in life, and Amy could provide just that.

           
“I
cannot wait to see the look in her eyes! Those deep, earthy…”

           
“Dull,
dreary…” I mumble.

           
“What
was that?” Rian questions.

“Nothing. Congratulations.” I lean
forward and kiss his flushing cheek as he stands in the doorway. I can tell he is
honestly happy, and to me that is all that matters. “Do you want to come in?”

“No, I’d best be going. I love you Avey.
Stay strong my beautiful flower.”

I give him one last desperate hug and
watch him depart down the corridor. So strong. So confident. He is already
filling out from the improved access to food and water that comes with proven
academic excellence. Who knows when I will see him again, but I hope it is
soon.

I grab my
History of Neuroscanning Technology
textbook and trudge down the
suffocating hallway until I reach the imposing study door. Steeling myself for
another meaningless day absorbed in memorizing obscure details, I pry the doors
open and cross the stained carpet. I fold my aching body into my favorite
decrepit chair and commence with my endless reading.

I absorb the smell of crisp autumn air as
I burst through the creaking glass doors that mark the entrance to our humble
dormitory, fondly nicknamed Crusty Hall after the impermeable layer of grime
that has settled over the entire establishment.

As I embark on my journey across the
compound, I breathe in the cool valley air and gaze at the endless expanse of
foliage persisting just beyond the city limits. Certet is positioned at the
base of a towering mountain range on the eastern border and along a glimmering
blue lake at the southern end. Much of the vegetation consists of hearty oaks
and magnificent pines with a smattering of coniferous brush. Fall is my
favorite season in the city as the leaves begin to turn, situated between the
oppressive humidity of the summers and the crippling snows of winter.

I amble along the well-worn path and
contemplate the multitude of times I have passed this way, and the many more
journeys in my future. Beneath the drapery of the lumbering trees, I reconsider
the last conversation I had with Tate. I haven’t spoken to him in over three
days, which feels like a lifetime in the hostile and antisocial environment of
strict competition that frames my existence. Tate is my rock, keeping me
grounded when the tempestuous stresses of school threaten to rip me from my
sanity.

Within a half-hour, I am outside the
hospital building. The contrast between its gleaming white exterior and the
crumbling ruins surrounding it could not be starker. Amidst a city in shambles,
this resolute pillar beckons and inspires awe in its audience. Behind it lies a
drab concrete block within which pharmaceuticals are continuously produced by
computer-driven machinery and robotics that provide the irreplaceable compounds
required daily for some and sporadically for others.
 

Power became an issue with the loss of
resources following the system-wide collapse. Thus, what little fossil fuel
remained was used up in order to maintain the hospital and the backbone of the
new government. Currently, a mixture of technologies are employed to reap
enough electricity to power the facility, however, all other electric
mechanisms have been sacrificed including lighting, automobiles, and
communication systems both within and between cities. In Certet, we harvest
enough energy to fuel the hospital and manufacturing plant through employing
wind turbines, solar panels, and water mills. Typically there is enough energy
generated between the three to continue to operate the medical scanners,
analytical computers, and surgical machinery essential to supporting the highly
developed medical system at hand.

The equipment and the massive structure
of the buildings have been rigorously maintained in pristine condition by the
handful of construction workers, mechanics and electricians in the city. Some
third tier doctors turn to these archaic professions rather than adopting the
brand of “goggle monkeys” or attempting to prostitute themselves in exchange
for life sustaining resources.

As I cross the sharply defined threshold,
I hear the door vacuum seal itself against the perils of the natural world. This
building houses a supremely controlled environment authorized by and
painstakingly preserved by man. Following the snaking linoleum pathway, I come
upon the central hub of the hospital. The directory dictates which floors and
rooms are reserved for each medical title bestowed on first or second tier
graduates along with the specific procedures carried out in each location.
Unfortunately there is not enough power left after funneling electricity to the
vital hospital equipment and pharmaceutical manufacturing plant to fuel the
elevator, so I must surmount the maze of stairs.
  

I finally spot the neurology ward and
swiftly slip into the nearest room:
Patient
203 Luke Gaston
. The professor is already attaching the slithering cables to
the patient’s skull with translucent suctioning electrodes. Glancing around the
claustrophobic space, I spy Tate hovering near the far wall. He has been
staring at me since I entered and his gaze does not waver as I rapidly avert my
eyes. Why are his eyes, normally calm and serene having a piercing effect that
compresses me within their grasp?

Shifting my focus to the other end of the
small hospital room, I am confronted by a face entirely similar to my own save
the pastel yellow irises the color of marigold petals. Standard shoulder-length
blonde locks frame a chiseled jaw with elevated cheekbones and an elongated
neck. Women are destined to be five foot five with slim but toned musculature with
overly long legs and delicate arms.

I migrate across the slippery tile to her
side.

“Hey Avelyn,” she sleepily begins. “I was
hoping to see you today.”

“Hi Nirvana. How could I afford to miss
this practical? All of this stimulating learning so early in the morning; it’s
enough to make me chirp with joy.”

She smirks in response to my sarcastic
jibe.

“In all seriousness, this is going to be
on the SMART’s, right?” I prod.

“Of course. It’s all on the test, every
stinking detail.” An exasperated sigh escapes her lips.

My friendship with Nirvana is an unlikely
one. We met our first year of medical school when we were living next to each
other in the same dormitory. Gradually we developed a respect for one another’s
potential for success, and thus we became permanent study companions. We always
provide moral support and a helping hand in the face of a cruel examination
process, and ultimately we aspire to graduate as distinguished tier two doctors
capable of building lasting careers. Whether our friendship will survive beyond
the confines of academia remains yet to be seen. But for now, Nirvana is my
confidant and perhaps the only person, besides Tate and Rian, capable of
appreciating my cynical humor.

“Okay students, settle down. We are going
to transport Mr. Gaston here to the MRI down the hall. Everyone follow in single
file, and keep quiet. We must respect the other patients undergoing treatment.”

One by one we trail behind our professor
like ants tracking an aromatic odor of sweetness across fractured tree bark. An
irritating squeal persists throughout the journey since the gurney has a loose
and wobbling fourth wheel. After an eternity of patiently ignoring the
provocation posed by the squeaking, we converge in the vast room containing the
immaculate MRI.

The patient arranges himself carefully on
the flat white platform and it begins to glide into the attached cylindrical
section. Immediately the foreign orb begins to whir and a magnified digital
image appears on the wall. Color-coded regions of the brain integrate to form
an intricate and beautiful picture as the projection expands before my eyes.
This blob, this amorphous entity is the seat of all that is human. It is the
resting place of one’s soul.

A chill runs up my spine, tentacles of
ice spreading from my core to the tips of my extremities. I shiver. Without
this organ, we would cease to exist. Our entire society, a construction
produced in the confines of this pile of flesh. It is responsible for war and
hate, but also peace and love. Cruelty and compassion. Fault and perfection.
The power-hungry drive that almost doomed our species.

The harsh fluorescent bulbs ignite
overhead and I am ripped from my daydream.

“All right, you are dismissed. I
sincerely hope that you paid close attention to the procedure used to conduct
an MRI scan because it will appear on your SMART’s. Good luck studying.” With
these parting words, the class disperses like a flock of ruffled pigeons
longing to take flight.

 
I turn to leave, but a firm pressure on my shoulder halts my
progress. Whipping around, I am caught off guard by Tate’s look of sheer
desperation.

“Come with me to the lake. Now,” he
insists.

“I don’t know Tate. I have a lot of
revision left to do and I don’t really know what is happening between us…”

“We need to talk. It’s important. Please,
for me.” Something in his forlorn plea cracks my own personal barrier.

“Alright, let’s go. But only because you
asked with those big doe eyes of yours,” I snidely reply. Tate grins sheepishly
and together we retrace our steps through the hospital and back into the
daylight.

We cross the crackling pavement, scoured
and sun-bleached, and begin down the heavily trafficked dirt path leading to
the glistening lake. Overgrown tentacles of brush impede my progress, and I
stumble in an effort to keep pace with Tate’s longer legs. His face is a mask
of resolve as I implore him to slow down. He does walk more slowly, but only
for a few strides before sheer determination once again compels him to race
down the aisle.