The Adaline Series Bundle 1 Read online

  The cubes were much bigger than the Boys were used to, and 62 did a double-take when he saw a Boy sitting with his feet dangling off the edge of a bed. These beds weren't all bars and sterile padding like the gurneys that he remembered from his time confined in a medical office on Level 2. These looked soft and comfortable. 62 felt a deep desire to sprawl out on top of his own bunk and rushed down the hall to find his cube.

  When he arrived at the door labeled with his number, one of the sleek white Machines approached and extended its hand in greeting. “Welcome, Boy 1124562. I am Physical Therapy Specialist Unit 74-320. I will be assisting in your recovery from your training sessions.”

  62 reached out tentatively and grasped the hand of the Machine. Its grip was firm, but the smooth skin felt cool against his own. The Machine looked more like a Man than the Nurses had, but somehow that made 62 feel less at ease. He never liked it that the Machines pretended to be something they weren't.

  "Can I just call you PTS?"

  The Machine tilted its head. "That is a suitable designation." The PTS released 62's grasp and put its hand into the data lock beside the doorway. The door slid open and 62 stepped through. He breathed in deep, taking in the sterile smell of clean sheets and a spotless room. 62 waited for the sound of the door closing behind him, but when it didn't come he turned to see the Machine still standing outside.

  “Is there anything that I can get you?” The PTS cocked its head with programmed concern.

  “No, thank you.” 62 stared at the Machine.

  “Your testing begins next cycle. Sleep well.”

  The door slid shut just as 62 lay down on the most comfortable bed he'd ever rested on.

  CHAPTER 6

  62 FLOATED ON AN IMAGINARY breeze as he slept. Behind closed eyes he created a wide open space with splashes of color displayed haphazardly in every direction. The shapes moved away from him as he flew by, making room for him to stretch out wider than he ever could in real life.

  A tiny ray of light broke through the colorful tapestry. Although the break in the pattern was on the very edge of his consciousness, it was blinding. 62 shielded his eyes with his hand as he swam through the air toward it. “Hello?”

  The voice coming through the pinhole was faint, but familiar. “Can you hear me? I'm trying to reach Chobham.”

  62 concentrated and pulled the light toward him until he could feel its heat on his face. “You've found it. Are you coming in?”

  Fingers wiggled into the opening. They pulled at the edge of 62's dream until the small hole widened into a door. 71's face pushed through the light. His smile beamed almost as bright as the opening around him.

  “What do we have here? It appears my student has learned to paint!”

  “Don't tell the Men in manufacturing.” 62 grinned as he backed away from the opening. He waited until 71 pushed all the way into his dream before willing the tear to seal itself up.

  “I'd never.” 71 shook his head and his beard wagged in an arc over his chest.

  “Good. Although if I was a real painter, maybe I could convince the Community to have purple Machines.” 62 laughed at the idea and all the color swirling around them turned to various shades of violet.

  “Not likely.” 71 put his hand into a cascading stream of lavender, letting the color saturate his white tunic.

  The pair stood in silence for a few moments watching the landscape around them. The colors pushed against one another, blending and fading wherever the differing tints met. 62 was reminded of a book called Impressionist Landscapes that 71 had shown him in a dream once. The two had spent an entire rest period turning the pages. 62 had pushed the paintings out of the book and into the dream and they'd walked through them together.

  “It would be nice.” 62 muttered.

  71's smile spread wide on his cheeks. His white beard danced as he spoke. “It would be. And, maybe I'm wrong and you can convince the Head Machine that Adaline needs a more diverse palette.” 71 paused for a moment and cleared his throat as he collected his thoughts. “That brings me to the reason I came to visit.”

  62 had thought that 71 was just checking the connection between them. With the distance between T.A.S.K. and C.A.T., 62 hadn't been sure that he'd be strong enough to bridge their telepathic link across the distance.

  “What's wrong?”

  “I've come to discuss the problem of your chip.” 71 touched the back of his student's neck, hovering over where he knew the tiny data chip lay.

  “What problem? 42 fixed it before. He said the switch to this one made it so no one could see my anomaly.” 62 pulled away from his teacher. Getting the chip replaced wasn't something that 62 liked to think about very often. The procedure had started with a dangerous doctor trying to erase his memory. It ended with another doctor cutting his neck to replace his chip.

  “Oh, we did. Your readings are absolutely, superbly, amazingly average.”

  “Then what's the problem?” 62 lifted his hands in the air in exasperation.

  “Well, maybe nothing. But probably, something.” 71 walked on a river of purple paint. After a few strides, 62 followed him. “The solution to your excited mental activity while dreaming was to implant a copy of someone else's data. That is, a copy from someone who never had a sleep anomaly reported as a Boy. The inherent problem with 42's brilliant solution being that now your environment has changed.”

  62 groaned. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It's simple, really. When you perform physical tasks your heart rate, adrenaline levels, breath – virtually every bodily function that your chip records – will be elevated in direct relation to your exertion.”

  What 62 thought was a pause in 71's explanation turned to an extended silence.

  “... And then?”

  “Oh, well that's it. The chip that 42 gave you is special. As your body moves, it pulls your data and calculates what kind of activity you are doing. Instead of recording anything, it matches your activity to historical readings from another subject for that type of activity. It even syncs with a time when he was your age. No matter how much you pant, sweat and pump those tiny muscles of yours, the chip will always display his hum-drum average physical exertion readings.” 71 leaned toward 62 and tapped the spot on his neck where the chip rested just under the skin.

  “So what? I don't understand.” 62 rubbed his hand across his forehead. These explanations from his teacher made his head hurt.

  “So, you probably shouldn't do your best.” 71 shrugged.

  “Not do my best?” 62 was on the cusp of physical training that, coupled with his Career Aptitude Testing, would define the rest of his life. T.A.S.K. would place him in the career he would have until the day he died. Now his teacher wanted him to not give it his all? The colors in the dream shifted from purple to red. “Isn't that the whole point of T.A.S.K.? To do the best you can so that you're put in the right career?”

  “For most Boys it is.” 71 nodded. “But for you, it is a place in which to be the opposite of noteworthy. If anyone suspects that your data isn't reading correctly, it could be very bad. Your chip readings are going to be exceedingly average, so make sure that you always finish in the middle of the pack. If there are plenty of Boys ahead of you, and plenty of Boys behind you, then your data should be fine.”

  “But what if I'm not average? What if I'm the slowest Boy out there?” 62 stomped his foot on the ground. The liquid pushed out from beneath the force of his foot and rolled across the horizon. The ripple turned to a wave that crashed against a wall in the distance.

  “That isn't very likely. You are one of the most active Boys I've seen in a long while – in both mind and body. I imagine that if you were let loose into these tests that you'd naturally score quite high.” 71 smiled with pride.

  “But you're saying that if I score well then they'll know I have bad data.” 62's shoulders drooped. It seemed as if everywhere he turned he was told not to be himself. “I don't want to be bad.”

  71 stepp
ed closer to his young brother and placed a reassuring arm across the Boy's shoulders. “Don't be bad. Just be average.”

  CHAPTER 7

  62 AWOKE TO THE SOUND of his cube door sliding shut. He opened one eye and scanned the room. He was still alone, but a pile of clothes was laid in a neat pile in front of the door. When he got out of bed to investigate, the bed folded up behind him and disappeared into the wall.

  “Well, I guess it's time to get up.”

  When 62 started to unfold the clothes, they were unlike any he'd seen before. From the Nursery to C.A.T., he had only worn loose-fitting tunics. All of the Men he'd ever seen were dressed the same. But these clothes were tight and stretchy. The pants and shirt hugged him like a second skin. He twisted his waist left and right, stretched his arms high above his head, and then squatted as deep as he could. The clothes stretched with his every move, hardly moving an inch from where they started. He patted his hands around his knees and elbows where thin padding wrapped his joints.

  The cube door slid open and the PTS unit entered. “Good morning, Boy 1124562. I see you found your clothes. I trust they are satisfactory.”

  “Please, just call me 62.” The attentiveness of the Machine made him uneasy. He was used to being watched closely by the Nurses, but they didn't usually take interest in any one Boy.

  “Of course, I'd be glad to refer to you as 62.” A smile projected from beneath the translucent skin on the PTS's face. “Are you ready to proceed to testing?”

  “I guess, so.” 62 pressed against the wall as he passed by the PTS unit, making sure that the Machine didn't touch him. He exhaled when he made it out into the hall, glad to be out of the confined space. A Boy waved to him as he passed. It took a moment for 62 to recognize 56 as the Boy from across the hallway from his old pod. He sprinted a few steps to catch up.

  “How was your night?” 56 seemed less anxious than he had been before getting on the transport unit.

  “Comfortable, but weird,” 62 answered. “How about yours?”

  “I couldn't sleep. I must have been up half the sleep cycle.” 56 turned right down a side corridor and 62 followed. “But that PTS came in and got me to relax and then...” 56 made a deep snoring sound and closed his eyes. As soon as his eyes closed, he took a misstep and tripped over his own feet.

  62 helped steady his brother. “That thing fogged you?”

  56 snorted. “Heck no! It rubbed my shoulders and back. I guess I hold a lot of tension in the lower left quadrant of my back. That's what the PTS told me.”

  “You let that thing touch you?” 62 cringed.

  56 eyed his brother. “Of course. How else could I get rid of that knot?”

  They took a turn down another corridor. 62 was hopelessly lost. “Hey, do you know where we're going?”

  “Yeah. The PTS gave me directions.” 56 chuckled to himself. “PTS. Man, that thing is funny. First, he told me to break a leg, and then when I told him I'd do no such thing he said it was just a way to wish someone good luck. Machines, man. They're so weird.”

  The pair of brothers passed through a set of double doors. Inside, they found themselves at the top of a great flight of stairs. Chairs flanked either side of the staircase and after a quick survey 62 figured that half of C.A.T. could sit down to watch whatever was happening on the floor below. 56 and 62 started the steep descent into the heart of the arena.

  Boys began filtering down similar stairwells all along the edges of the cavernous room. By the time 62 and his mate made it down to the bright padded platform, nearly two dozen others had already arrived and claimed their place on the mat. 56 moved toward a small group of Boys in the far corner, but 62 stayed on the fringe of the mat.

  It took a few minutes for the last of the T.A.S.K. participants to arrive. One of the last to come in was a young Man. He came down the stairs halfway and then stopped as if to take in the scene. While several of the Boys watched the curious figure, the rest were too enthralled in their conversations to notice him. Once it was apparent that no one else was coming, the Man yelled down at them.

  “Hello!” His voice boomed over the group, drowning out all the other voices. “Welcome to your first cycle of Training and Skills Kinesiology. I am Man 844139, and I will be in charge of your training for the duration of your stay here.”

  844139 skipped down the stairs. He jumped off the third-to-last stair and landed on the floor with a light step. “I find my full number to be both common and cumbersome. You will all refer to me as, Trainer. Are we clear?”

  Several Boys nodded.

  Trainer's voice boomed. "I didn't hear a response. Are we clear?"

  “Yes, Trainer!” all the Boys chanted.

  “Fine.” Trainer nodded at the group. “Does anyone know what we do in Training and Skills Kinesiology?”

  62 raised a lone hand. “T.A.S.K. is where our bodies are tested for action, reflex and response.”

  “Correct!” Trainer turned and started running up the stairs. He called over his shoulder, “Now, everyone follow me!”

  62 waited for most of the Boys to begin their sprint up the stairs ahead of him. Once he found the middle of the group he began his sprint up the staircase. He had only made it up fifteen stairs when his breath caught in his chest and a strange pain began piercing his side. He focused on the feet of the Boys in front of him. A Boy to the right of him stopped abruptly on the stairs, holding his right side and panting heavily. Several brothers tripped over him as their momentum carried them over his spot on the stair. 62 barely missed being pulled down into the toppled bodies when another Boy to his left grabbed his elbow for support as he tripped on the lip of a stair.

  Within minutes, the entire group had slowed, stopped or fallen at various places along the stairs. 62 didn't have to worry about outpacing anyone. He had a stinging pain climbing up the front of his shins, a rib that felt like it was trying to escape his skin with every breath, and a burning in his chest like nothing he'd ever felt before. He leaned against one of the chairs along the side of the stairwell and looked up at Trainer. The Man was already standing on the edge of the top stair, looking down at the Boys floundering below. He shook his head and trotted back down the steps toward the group.

  “Everyone hates the first day.” Trainer shouted above the Boys' heads. His voice echoed back on them a second later. “I don't care how tired you are. You're not allowed to stop moving.”

  Trainer helped a few Boys near the top complete their ascent. When the rest of the group stayed halted on the staircase, he grabbed the first panting Boy he met and pushed him up a few stairs. “You will complete this exercise if I have to drag you to the finish myself!”

  “I'd let you carry me,” another Boy in the group mumbled.

  “Excuse me? I don't know if I've made myself clear to you sorry sacks of flesh. You will pick yourselves up and finish this task. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Trainer!” everyone not already moving up the stairs yelled back.

  62 took two deep breaths, then forced his feet to move. He huffed and puffed his way forward until he finally reached the top of the stairs. He looked around to the Boys who'd made it to the top before him. Although all of them had reddened faces and short, panting breaths, none of them was brave enough to sit down. 62 moved to the side and turned to watch the remaining Boys struggle up the steps. Trainer was behind them, pushing the last stragglers up one step at a time.

  Once everyone finally reached the top, Trainer touched the wall behind the last row of chairs. A door opened, revealing a hidden compartment. Trainer reached in and began to pass out the small tubes of liquid that were tucked inside. Each of the Boys gulped the cold nutrition down. A wave of misery passed through the group once they'd emptied the tubes and several of them held their stomachs, faces tight.

  “Don't drink so fast. Your bodies are having a hard time with the increase in physical activity. Take small sips and you won't feel like throwing it back up.” Trainer took a sip from his own tube. A smile of satis
faction spread across his face. “There are 100 steps on each of these rows. This was just the first one. We're going to run to the next set, then jog down them. We'll come back up the next one over, and keep going all the way around the stadium until we end up right back here.”

  62 groaned with the rest of his brothers. He looked across the group at 56 and mouthed, “Is he insane?”

  56 nodded before trotting away on unsteady legs.

  It felt like the first training session would never end. There were eight stairwells in the stadium, which meant the Boys had ascended and descended eight hundred steps by the time they'd finished. That didn't count each painful step that the group had run between stairwells. Trainer had run with them, and made the whole ordeal seem like a breeze. The Man hadn't even been short of breath when the training session was over. When other groups of Boys entered the stadium for their turn in the arena, he had enough breath to tell the other trainers how slow and useless this new batch of Boys was as they passed on the stairs.

  62 limped down the corridor to his cube. Many of the other Boys in his pod leaned against one another for support, whispering complaints as their feet swelled and their knees knocked clumsily. 62 was determined to make it on his own, though. If Trainer could hop from stair to stair without more than a trickle of sweat, then 62 knew that one day he would, too.

  “How was your first session?” The PTS offered 62 its hand in support when it noticed him struggling.

  “It was fine.” 62 ignored the Machine's gesture to help and hobbled past.

  “I've set up an ice bath for you, 62.” The PTS responded to 62's rejection by continuing to hold out its hand and walking with him toward his cube. “A towel and fresh set of clothes are laid out on the floor for you beside the tub. I encourage you to stay in the ice for as long as you can stand it. When you are done, just touch the button near the wall and the tub will put itself away.”

  “What's an ice bath for?” 62 eyed the PTS suspiciously.