Calumnia

June 31, 3042

Today, a boy cries out for his mother. And today, she hears him. I groan with equal parts happiness and frustration- happiness because I am that mother, frustration because it's 4 a.m. My ceiling Eye flashes lights and chirps words, bright, unyielding lights and too fast words. A voice chimes that is not my son's, "Wake up! Wake up, Mrs. Hardy! HPPA only wants what's best." I do as told, the shuttle lid sliding open above my floating cot. I look over at my husband’s cot to see his open as well. My feet hit unbreakable glass, warmed by its hidden heaters. Underneath the glass, men, children and women walk in single file lines to their assigned posts. The start of another normal day.

"Mother!" I quickly slip on my required apparel, gray slacks, and a gray scrub-like shirt, taking out the earpiece used to monitor our dreams. A foreboding feeling follows me all the way to my son's room, casting an eerie light and tensing my stomach. My son sits in his starter seat while long robotic arms reach out to clean him for school. He's not wearing his uniform but rather is wearing a mysterious blue shirt. I lean down, reprimanding him.

"Nathan, you know that color isn't allowed. Now hurry. Go change into your uniform before They see you and report you." He looks ready to argue but I cut him off. "Son, we can't have another red flag on your record. They're already watching you because of the last time you said the unpermitted words." Damn. He had said damn at school and the reprimand had been terrible. Nearly too much for me to take. Nathan sighs but orders the robots to switch his shirt.

Pictures line our hallway as I make my way to the kitchen area. Nathan's birth request acceptance, as well as my husband and I's Marriage Match announcement, declaring our genes to be the best combination for a healthy offspring. One acronym appeared, over and over: HPPA; Human and Planetary Preservation Alliance. Our world’s leaders. In the kitchen, my husband, Arturo, sits in his own gray outfit. He pushes a button on our wall and our food tablets pop out. He takes one, as do I. Another voice in the wall says, "Mr. Hardy, your last test revealed your cholesterol is high. Your rations have been reduced.” A brief pause. “HPPA only wants what's best." He smiles at the invisible camera.

"Thank you." Nathan bounds in after his own pill. The Eye informs us that Nathan is hitting a growth spurt and must be introducing more protein. I smile and take note of it, brushing his hair back. He darts away from my hand, as a typical 9 year old does as he steps into our foyer. As usual, I have to stop him from starting the vacuums that will suck the air from our room. Wait for us. I say with my perfected mom glare.

Nathan slips his air tank over his head and pushes the paneled button. The doors slide shut with a hiss, the vacuums wheezing as they pull out all of the oxygen in the foyer. Our air masks suction to our faces, our skin tightens with the lack of oxygen, our stomachs rise as our foyer lowers us to the main Dome and then it’s over. Our son doesn’t wait for the legal check, though children are usually fine to skip it, and immediately joins his classmate’s line.

"Did you put the request for vacation in? The Intel Screen said that our usual planet, dome has cracks. A coworker said Eide seemed a good option because it's been quarantined." I nod absentmindedly.

"They rejected our request until your cholesterol lowers. They don't want us to contaminate the new planet." He nods, as always. Always accepting, never arguing with the restrictions. "Also, our exercise times have been increased." The ceiling Eye beeps.

"All subjects, please report to work stations." We remain in our foyer as a green ray flashes over our bodies, checking if we are wearing our air tank and uniforms. We can remove our air masks once we enter our work domes, but the world beyond our home pods and the work dome is entirely airless. Instant death, They say.

I’ve never tested it.

Once it verifies that we are legal, we step closer to the open door. The lines break, a perfectly shaped hole just big enough for Arturo and I. He goes to the men’s line, with nothing more than a slight head nod. I watch him go a little longer than I mean to, something about the shape of him calling to me. I fight the urge to embrace him. PDA is not welcome on Columnia. My heart feels as though it has left my body with my two family members. I shake the feeling off. Odd day, it must be. Usually I am quite good at ignoring these feelings and even better and stamping them down.

Artificial sunlight brightens up the tunnels. If Earth still stood, it would have been summer. This is Their way of making us feel as at home as possible.

We travel silently, in our designated lines and not one person breaks formation. If they do, the Eyes will catch them and report them; and after three red flags, take them to be terminated. My line stops in sync, to let the Food Tablet manufacturers off at their jobs. The next stop is mine, the Life Transplanters. Our workspace is its own Dome, connected only by a tunnel. We are the most important workers, They say. If we even slacked for a second, the entire planet would feel it.

I’ve never tested it.

Holographic workstations line the walls. We sit simultaneously and begin to work, accepting birth requests, declining birth requests.

"Mrs. Hardy, you're working slower than usual." The same message displays on all of our holograms, with the name differing. Everyone is working slower. A strong gust of reeking air brushes the women's standard ponytails to the side and whistles through the men's close cropped cut.

We look up, together.

A barely visible silver line etches itself in our dome's top. The Calumnian planet’s air whistles as it enters unwelcome into our Dome.

We squint at it, together.

Another burst of wind makes it even harder to breathe. "All subjects, please put on air masks immediately. Please stay calm." The line grows, deepening.

We slip our masks on, together.

The same voice states our motto: HPPA only wants what's best. It's easy to believe They want us safe.

We watch the line grow, its edges widening. We watch quietly, calmly, as a sliver of glass falls and shatters nearby. Our bare skin detects the sudden change in air. Another shard of glass falls and this is when my coworkers erupt into chaos. The door leading to the other Domes slams shut and bolts itself. The letters HPPA glow. We are locked in but we only listen for what HPPA tells us next.

"Please stay calm." A voice from the top of the dome calls. A shout sounds; a blasphemous one.

"We can't be calm!"

"Hush!" We answer, in unison. "HPPA only wants what's best. They'll save us!" But even I begin to doubt the longer time goes on. I think of Arturo and Nathan. Are they watching this same crack? Are they safe in their connected domes?

More time passes, no one shows. Our leader taps on a board, he speaks into a tiny communicator. No one answers.

To my left, a woman named Darina chokes and claws at her throat. A scream bubbles from her chest, seconds before her eyes bug out and her head explodes. I scream myself, even though I can still breathe, at the sight of more and more of my coworkers meeting the same fate. I leave my station then. Why should I sit when my friends are dying? When my child and husband may be as well?

What is left of us, with our newer air tanks, rush toward the door, beating on it with bruised hands. The cracks widen. Another man's air tank explodes, obliterating nearby workers.

"Please stay calm."

I step back, away from the door. "They're not going to save us." I am hushed. The Eye whines, a sign someone has broken a rule. I know that I will have a red flag for doubting them but I no longer care what HPPA thinks. I sit back at my seat, not working.

“Please stay calm.” And I do. However, the calming effect of Their promise does not have a lasting effect on anyone anymore. People scream; people beat on doors and people fall. There are few of us left and we have given up. No more beating, no more screaming, just stoic adults sitting at their same spots. The Eye keeps chanting. “... stay calm. Please stay calm. Please…” We hear the voice distort then quit. The lack of oxygen affects even the technology for our holograms flicker out too. The fake sun stops shining and it grows cold. The cracks are now covering the entire top of our Dome. The air is suffocating but our air tanks manage to hold out. The man beside me dies. The woman across the room does too. I am now the only one left.

What light is left from Calumnia’s suns stays but my vision dims. Fear spikes my heart rate, my ears pop, my throat constricts. The tunnel door starts clicking, a sure sign that HPPA is coming in to save us, to save me.

Thank God, I cry. Or I think I do. It’s beginning to be so hard to focus.

I fall out of my seat, slamming into the ground with a hard crack. The pressure behind my eyes becomes painful, unbearable… but I can still see Nathan’s face. Hear Arturo’s laughter as my ears pop. Just as the shadows increase, Peacekeepers walk in. They don’t run to me. They don’t try to help me. They watch. I reach out. I watch my trembling hand struggle to raise even an inch before it falls to the ground. My eyes flutter close and I sink into the soothing darkness.

In the main Dome, the Intel Screens shows flashes of the victims’ faces. Their Minister speaks sadly about the Dome lid’s malfunction and how the workers were long gone before the Peacekeepers even got there. People watch in brainwashed lines, empty eyes portraying nothing, except for two sets. The remaining Hardys stand alone, rebellion lighting their otherwise agonized eyes. They have seen Christina’s hidden body cam. They have learned of Christina’s role in the Rebellion.

They know the Minister is lying.

Today, a boy cries out for his mother. But today, she does not hear him.