RACHEL

WRITTEN BY RYAN P. C. TRIMBLE

ILLUSTRATED BY JORDAN SCHMID

The sweet, clear woman’s voice coming from the speakers reminded her she was sitting on the train. She had placed her forehead against the window where, from a grate along the bottom of the sill, a stream of smelly, hot air pumped outwards to heat the carriage. Her eyes had gone unfocused staring at the national symbol, etched onto every wall along the platform: a single line, with a red checkmark printed above it.

          There was nothing remarkable about seeing the symbol on the platform—it was emblazoned all over the state. She remembered it staring down at her as a child, from the poster her fathers hung in their bedroom; that same poster now hung on the wall of her office at the Bureau of Economic Pronouncements. The only surface she never saw the emblem on was clothing. Only State Legal Agents wore the emblem.

          The checkmark, the eternal symbol of a decision made, blurred into a single red mass as the train headed into a tunnel. She stared at her reflection—a tired woman wearing green overalls stared back at her. If it hadn’t been for the reflection of the number 5755 (which, for all intents, served as her name) sewn into her jumpsuit’s breast pocket, she may have thought one of her coworkers was peering over her shoulder.

          Rubbing her cheeks with the palms of her hands, she stretched her feet out towards the seat across from her, only to retract them immediately and sit up, embarrassed, when they collided with someone’s knees.

          The woman sitting across from her must have gotten on at Thankful Street. She hadn’t noticed her before—but as she mumbled an excuse to the woman, she wondered how she hadn’t remarked her arrival.

          A pair of piercing eyes, framed by a mass of dark hair, barely stared at her over the top of a book. That woman’s eyes flitted back to the pages of her book the moment their eyes met; she seemed to derive never-ending ecstasy from the delectable literary meal before her. She wore her green jumpsuit as though it were the tenue of a queen and not the standardized outfit assigned to all government employees. She—

          “This is Unification Point. Next stop will be Bright Future Plaza. All non-governmental passengers must alight at Bright Future Plaza.”

          She felt a section of her stomach bite itself. She had never so badly wanted to talk to someone, to offer a compliment, anything. But should she? Of course she should. But what if she shouldn’t? But—

          This is why you can’t even consider talking to her, she said to herself angrily. That checkmark, omnipresent and decisive, had been her downfall as a young woman. Her inability to choose responses quickly on the State Adulthood Test had left her marked as “CI”—chronically indecisive, a designation that meant all decisions for her would be made by state authorities. From her employment to her friend group to her love life, the state had the final word. The state couldn’t bear inefficiency. That’s what got the former country that occupied this land into the economic downfall that resulted in the necessity of a New State.

          The voyage between Bright Future Plaza and her destination—the train’s final stop at Central Island—would take ten minutes, and she needed to prepare to pass through security, despite having worked at the Bureau for nigh on ten years. However, perhaps she had some time to discuss—

          She shook the thought away. She knew it was strictly illegal for her to approach anyone unless she was spoken to first; and to approach with any sort of romantic or sensual intent would only worsen the charges. Doing so was the surest way to get a State Legal Agent to come knocking at your door, the glimmer of light off the shimmering checkmark pinned to their sleeve your last sight.

          Idly questioning how she had never seen this woman before on her commute, she leaned down to grab her bags. She wondered if any other CI had ever felt the same way she did: utterly pointless, ashamed that their mistakes as a child marked them eternally, and wishing they could share these sentiments with anyone. She wondered how she could ever pose that question without shortly after getting called to some dark office somewhere and never appearing again. And she wondered if the woman across from her felt the same.

          Her mind felt like she was back in that classroom, hesitating between answers on the Adulthood Test. The other students, those for whom answers came easily, alternated between glaring at her and laughing at her as they sat waiting for her to finish the exam. Those men and women were now her supervisors, members of the state government, television personalities…

          She couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the woman while gathering her possessions. She sighed dejectedly; the woman had raised her book to cover her face; perhaps she would remain hidden behind Talk to the Stranger, She Won’t Mind the rest of the voyage—

          She stopped collecting her things, a sack yawning open from a half-clenched fist. Talk to the Stranger, She Won’t Mind? Was that really the title of the book?

          No, But the Sentiment Stands.

          The words had not rearranged themselves in any magical fashion; they had simply become different as naturally as the glowing billboards in Victory Square switch from patriotic platitude to patriotic platitude throughout the day.

          She slowly sat up, her eyes on the book’s cover. If it was a media screen, it would be connected to governmental servers, and a Message of Hope would be intercut with the changing images. But the longer she stared, the more certain she was the book was nothing more than an ordinary, non-chargeable, printed book. The woman across from her remained engaged in her book, whose cover read—

          What Do You Want to Know?

          Herein lay one of the principal troubles of being a CI: she legally had to wait to be addressed, vocally, before uttering a sound. As no CI wore any outward identification of their status, she lived in perpetual unease that, should she speak to someone she thought was a CI, she may end up never speaking again. But she had heard rumors that, now and again, one CI found themselves able to speak to another using only their mind, their bodies having evolved to compensate for the lack of vocal stimulation. She had never much believed the gossip, but now, she wondered: was the woman across from her trapped in her mind as she was?

          I Am, Yes. Next Question?

          She wanted to know a million things, but she couldn’t make up her mind which to ask. One question managed to fight its way to the front of the line, though, and she wondered the woman’s name.

          Rachel.

          She had always loved that name. Sure, it was one of only twenty names women could be given, but she always found its euphony preferable to that of names like Zamantha and Tarshleiygh. It was simple, and sweet, and everything she was sure this Rachel could be.

          I’m Blushing.

          She was blushing too, she was sure of it.

          What’s Yours?

          Her mind ground to a halt. She hadn’t been addressed by name in so long, not since she had been taken from her fathers’ home following those disastrous test results. “Five-seven-five-five” were the only words ever addressed to her as an appellation.

          That’s Okay. Five Is My Favorite Number.

          “This is Bright Future Plaza. All non-governmental passengers have sixty-five seconds to alight at Bright Future Plaza. Thank you!”

          This part of the trip disgusted her most, though she understood that it was necessary to keep the State clean of stragglers and poor planners. A stream of yellow-jumpsuited passengers poured onto the concrete platform and rushed towards the lifts and escalators. She could read in their eyes the same expression she read in their eyes every day: Please let me get off the platform before the Transport Officers arrive. Though legally required to wait sixty-five seconds, Officers were known to arrive as quickly as fifteen seconds into the countdown, and to begin stabbing at thirty seconds.

          “Sixty-five seconds have passed. Next stop will be Central Island. Officers, please clear the doors.”

          As though sucked into place, the train doors snapped shut. Then, onto the platform traipsed the folks with the long brown knives shining in holsters at their sides. The train sped off. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that no one had dawdled at the station; but another train would arrive in under three minutes, and who could speak for the future, no matter how bright it was claimed to be?

          “This train’s final stop is Central Island. Please prepare your identification.”

          All she wanted to do was stare at Rachel, and keep—well, not talking, really, but communicating. But she had to prepare her identification, and—

          Don’t Stop. I’ll Miss You.

          She didn’t want to stop. She knew whatever was happening was dangerous, but she didn’t want to stop. For the first time since the day she had hugged her fathers goodbye, she felt actually wanted—and she knew that she had to do something about it.

          She looked at the book’s cover, which had now simply turned grey, and tried to bore a hole through the tome with the power of her look. She stared and stared and stared until, as the train slowed to a stop in the sunny courtyard station of Central Island, Rachel closed the book and stood, slowly, rising as the desire rose in the heart of the woman called only 5755, who stood up brusquely and said:

          “Rachel, I—”

          Rachel shoved the book into her hands. The train doors opened, and Rachel darted from the train.

          The title of the book now read; Meet Me Behind Building Four.

          Trying to keep Rachel’s mane in view, she clumsily collected her own possessions, piling them into her arms as though they were precious remnants collected from a house fire. As she joined the throngs of workers queuing to enter Central Island’s Administrative Areas, she lost sight of the bounce of Rachel’s hair.

          Resignedly, she waited, the chilly March air sweeping across the plaza, the bright sun offering no warmth. When she approached her checkpoint, the line passed into the ring of shadows thrown by the green concrete towers that circled the island, each holding a different state department, and she shivered.

          She had to find Rachel, and she had to find her that day.

          Ten minutes after disembarking, she finally passed through the security checkpoint, nodding at the man who checked her documents as he daily did, reveling in the secret delight that what was to him nothing more than another day signaled the beginning of a new period in her life.

          Building Four resembled each of the other cement monoliths she laid sacrifice at, lonely day in and lonely day out. There were no rules against visiting the backside of the building; it simply served no purpose, so she had never thought to see what lay behind.

          Measuring her steps so as to hurry without having the appearance of rushing, she made her way down the narrow alleyway between Buildings Four and Five.

          There, on the edge of the island, facing away from her, stood Rachel. Behind her, the ocean spread out to an unseen endpoint. From behind Building Four, you couldn’t see the city or its tracts and tracts of squat, identical homes. All she could see was Rachel.

          “Hi.”

          Rachel turned around, the wind whipping her hair around her face, which was scrunched in a smile so broad the edges of her cheeks encroached upon the bottom of her eyes, eyes which sparkled with acceptance and excitement.

          “Hello, 5755.”

          She approached Rachel, acutely aware of how foolishly she clutched her paraphernalia to her chest.

          “You don’t look foolish,” Rachel said, gently holding up one hand and placing it onto her cheek. “You just look wrong.”
          “Wrong?” she giggled. “How could I be wrong? Not with you, here, nothing feels wrong.”

          “You know this is not allowed,” Rachel said quietly.

          “I’ve heard there’s an island miles out to sea,” she blurted, “where CI peoples have gathered for decades, and—”

          “This is illegal!” Rachel exclaimed.

          “I can tell you want to be exasperated,” she said, approaching Rachel carefully. “But your eyes tell a different story. Rachel, we may never get a chance like this again.”

          The two were inches from each other now. The only thing keeping them from embracing was the heft of the belongings she cradled, Rachel’s book sitting on top of it all.

          “We have to try.”

          “Do we?”

          She nodded. “And before any State Legal Agents come back here for a smoke break.”

          The two women stood in silence, their foreheads coming together as their eyes closed, each of them taking the moment to reflect. She had quite forgotten how cold the wind made her feel, especially as it came in off the sea and whipped the weeds edging the cliff into a blustering frenzy.

          “I am curious,” she said, allowing her arms to perch on Rachel’s shoulders, “what the book you’re reading is really called?”

          “Take a look.”

          The sea lapped against the coast miles below them. Something had changed in Rachel’s demeanor. The playfulness in her eyes now read as a warning; 5755 slowly looked down at the book.

          The moment she did, she jerked up her head with a small cry. There Rachel stood, one of the straps of her jumpsuit limply hanging against her arm, the white shirt she wore beneath exposed. On that shirt, a chrome pin in the shape of the same sign that now covered the book stared back at her: a red checkmark floating on a solitary line.

          Rachel took a decisive step forward, and she took a decisive step away—away from the deceit that had been played on her, away from a life she had hoped to begin, away from the only decision she had confidently made in years, and, though not meaning to, away from the edge of the cliff.

          The gleam of the sun off a checkmark was the last image 5755 saw before she slammed into the hungry waves, Rachel far, far above her.