Shaded in Civility

Gerald remembered the day Warren had been admitted asylum in the Hub, it was the first day in 2 seasons anyone had crossed The Grand Foyer from the Outside. Gerald had been 15 at the time but he knew even then that wild, preteen Warren would never quite fit into Society at the Hub. The atrium was soaking in sunlight that streamed through the glass dome high above the skylights of the entrance. White conference rooms and study areas littered the sides of the foyer, the gray cushions soft enough to sit and focus for a while but not soft enough to sleep on. Three sets of double doors connected the far end of the hall to a nondescript building, the right of which had opened for Warren.

He had walked through the foyer with his back straight and his head held up, but his eyes darted about looking for some unknown predator. Warren’s new Hub-issued uniform still stiff from its vacuum-sealed packaging, refused to drape over his gangly body. He managed to keep the Hub-issued suitcase at his side but even from Gerald’s distance, he could see Warren’s white knuckles gripping the handle, it was only filled with essential toiletries and more uniforms. The differences between a man who had been born in the Hub and a man from outside were always conspicuous. Outsiders were unruly, even in their genetics. Their hair was always long, untrimmed, and unstyled, their skin weathered and wrinkled from days spent in the Sun outside, and, of course, their expressions were dramatic, reactive, they could never maintain their composure as well as an Insider.

Gerald’s classmate had been standing there with him, the name of whom he could not remember now, nearly 9 years later, but he could remember they had been discussing the lecture on historical societal expectations and roles presented by their Lecturer earlier that day and the classmate, some Executive Administrator now, surely, had made the crude remark.

“He’ll be gone before we can settle into our careers, why they bother to let people cross is a mystery to me anyways.”

“To live in the Hub is a privilege.” Gerald had said almost automatically, although he preferred to not have an opinion on the lives of Outsiders.

Hub-born individuals could never be threatened with being Sent Out, but they could be prescribed Adjustment Sessions, where Hub values were realigned within the individual if for some reason they had decided to act against the better judgment of the Hub, but nobody had been sentenced to that in several years. Any Injustice was public knowledge within the Hub and all children of the Hub knew the world Outside could kill them in an instant. Not from the air or increased radiation from The Last War, but by the people who were left. The Hub was safe, the Hub provided, the Hub prospered, and civility remained intact.

“Yeah, but they’ll never understand that. We hand them that privilege and they still think they can improve the Hub, make it a better place for all. They never realize, we don’t want everyone to live here. The Hub would collapse, it’s not built for the many. I mean, even the Lecturer has said, the old beliefs of saving the many never worked, that’s why the Hub was created. To protect the prosperity of the few, so that at least some humanity might be saved.”

“Protect the prosperous.” Gerald had said, absentmindedly thinking about what might really be left of humanity inside or outside the Hub as he watched Warren follow the signs deeper into the belly of the society he knew could only benefit the few.

“And may the Hub reward you.”

Gerald hadn’t seen Warren again until two years ago when he’d assumed the supervisor role in Accounting in charge of Warren’s department. Before his job in Accounting, Gerald generally avoided Outsiders if he could help it. He felt they could never muster the cold dread or hardened lungs necessary to actually fight for their place in the Hub, they were always too animated, too outspoken, never willing to bend the right ways. The native language of the Hub was a charade of polite niceties and small talk that could not be accomplished without great control over one’s emotions.

“Please sit, Warren,” Gerald motioned with his right hand to one of the chairs in front of his office desk. Crisp light filtered through the high rise’s windows behind Gerald who sat down in his own chair, but it did nothing to brighten the sinking feeling in Warren’s stomach upon walking into the ill-used room. Gerald’s office, twice the size of Warren’s living quarters, was a statement; dark wood furnishings, a navy carpet, and large windows meant only for office reports and performance reviews.

Gerald fixed a smile to his face as Warren sat in the leather cushioned seat. Everything in the room except their tan Hub uniforms was navy, black, or dark brown with gold or silver accents. Warren was no longer skinny and wide-eyed, he had grown taller and been afforded adequate rations to put on another 15 pounds or so in the last nine years, but his dark brown eyes were steely now, unfazed and certainly not generous. He didn’t even try to be pleasant, only neutral.

“Can you tell me why we’re here, Warren?” Gerald brought his hands together as if he were about to pray, but Religion was largely kept within the household and closely monitored by Family Values.

“I believe, sir, my performance review this year will be due in a few weeks.”

Gerald’s painted smile widened and he blinked slowly as he nodded his head in agreement.

“Precisely, Warren. I’m afraid I called you in here a few weeks early because we just haven’t quite seen the numbers we were hoping for this quarter, from you, in particular. Care to illuminate why?”

Warren tried to maintain his poker face, he could not help a small parting of his lips in astonishment.

“I believe, sir,” he started again, as this was the appropriate response in the workplace for a subordinate when a superior asked a direct question, “that my performance indicators grew substantially since last quarter, 15% overall. My yearly performance numbers saw an overall increase by 12%, 4% better than last year’s, if I remember correctly, sir. Top percentile for our department, sir.”

“Yes! Precisely, Warren. Very tip-top, on all your numbers. Good, so we’re on the same page.”

Gerald reached forward for the plain, white envelope sitting on his desk on top of what Warren presumed were his performance numbers for the last three years, at a minimum. He opened the envelope and quietly read the letter, his smile never faltering as his eyes consumed Warren’s judgment.

Gerald was probably not much older than Warren if Warren had to guess, maybe 3 or 5 years, but Gerald exuded the kind of confidence that only came from never having experienced a rocky day in one’s life besides a few bouts of constipation and the occasional cold. Warren couldn’t help but think Gerald had been perfectly molded for the Hub, pushed and nurtured into a facsimile of what Gerald could have been instead of exactly what the Hub expected him to be. The juxtaposition between what Gerald said and Gerald’s attitude about what he said was commonplace etiquette in the Hub and was something Warren had learned to adapt to in practice, although he did often miss the straightforward language and expressions of the world outside. Faking indifference or even remote contentment had never been Warren’s strong suit and he was starting to think that was perhaps the real reason he would never fit in the Hub, it was courteous to be amenable, after all.

“Warren, I’m pleased to tell you you’ve been ReAssigned! How exciting, you’ll be starting in Textiles first thing tomorrow.”

Warren blinked, debating protest and whether it was worth the effort.

“I believe, sir, I’ve been in Accounting for the last six years. Since Graduation, and as you’ve said yourself, my performance numbers were over target for our department. I would like an appeal.”

Gerald smiled even bigger, as though he’d anticipated Warren’s response.

“I’m afraid, Warren. I won’t be able to do that. Appeals are only valid for Hub-born residence, as you well know. And as I said earlier, the numbers we’ve seen from you this quarter just weren’t what we were hoping for. Your transfer is a privilege, Warren! Be grateful it is only that.”

Warren only stared dumbfounded for a moment before plastering his own smile to his face.

“I believe, sir, you’re right. How lucky I am.”

No Outsider ever held a superior position, and none ever would, it was in the by-laws. And try as Warren might to fit the same mold as Gerald, Warren could not forget his experiences as a child.

Gerald could see it, in the fire behind Warren’s eyes as he told him about his transfer to Textiles, a significant demotion as transfers were only given to those who had committed an Injustice against the Hub and, if you were an Outsider, this was a Second Chance. Living in the Hub was a privilege, except for those entitled to be there. Below the transfer information had been a message for Gerald:

Continue to surveil through end of day. Move on to Henry G starting in your department two weeks from tomorrow, new grad. Frequents West Wing Meal Hall, 11 AM. Final Warren report Sunday at 6:30 PM.

“May the Hub reward you, Warren.” Gerald said cheerily as Warren stood up to leave, he finally nodded politely before walking out the door.

Warren had a habit of frequenting the laundry floor in the East Wing, although Gerald knew his quarters were in the North Wing. Warren often went there to chat with a few other Outsiders that had crossed into the Hub the same year. Their discussions were always in hushed tones under the drone of washers and dryers running, unable to be overheard unless you were standing in the room with them, but each laundry floor contained a ventilation hall off-limits to anyone not in Maintenance and Machinery. Gerald’s Executive Manager had encouraged Gerald find any way he could to keep tabs on Warren and had particularly liked his ingenuity in utilizing the ventilation hall, it amplified any sound coming from the laundry rooms. This was where Gerald had gone each time he’d spied Warren heading for the East Wing’s fifth floor and without fail heard every word of Warren’s discussions about the disparities in the Hub through not but a square foot of ventilation.

Warren was always discussing the same things, the nuisances of death and chaos that reigned outside in roving groups. Most often he talked how the Hub did not actually support its citizens, but was a shade of enforced labor. Instead of being lashed or killed or raped, he would say, you were docked portions in the Meal Halls until your body became emaciated, given reduced stipends for hygiene care and fresh clothing distributed at the Commissary, and depending on your department, over or under-worked to make a point of your contention before being Transferred or subjected to Adjustment depending on your birth. Gerald had seen these repercussions distributed to Outsiders, but very rarely to Insiders, after all, Insiders understood their place in the Hub well enough. Gerald thought that if Warren and the others would just fall in line like those Hub-born, they would be productive members of the Hub. It really wasn’t too difficult to do as you were told.

***

“I’m being transferred to Textiles in the morning.” Warren looked to Phillipa and Riker who appeared unfazed by the news.

“Dead man walking.” Riker sighed under his breath, continuing to pretend to read in the chair across from the machine spinning his tan uniforms. It was the weekly Hub newsletter, outlining community events for each department, the upcoming menus in the Meal Halls, and other Hub-related news. Information about the Outside world was never reported.

“We’re all dead men walking, and women. Sorry, Phillipa.”

Phillipa had kept her gaze down, repairing a stitch in one of her older uniforms. Six combination stacks sat along each wall surrounding six tables in the middle of the room for waiting, sewing, folding, and ironing. There were only a few other men in the room sitting at two of the far tables from Warren, Phillipa, and Riker.

“It won’t be long, now. They must have found you out, somehow. Perhaps we shouldn’t meet anymore, Riker,” she murmured.

“It doesn’t make a difference now, Phillipa.” Riker sounded tired. “We die out there, we die in here. Doesn’t seem to make much of a difference. Besides, nothing to find out they don’t already know.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Warren shook his head. “You both must continue the efforts, humanity cannot be doomed in this way to always live under a constant thumb-“

Warren stopped himself, sighed, and began to pace in front of a few of the machines. He had already made this point before and he had explored the idea of being killed by the Hub with Phillipa and Riker many times, they knew the risks of entering the Hub and they knew the risks of meeting.

Warren heard one of the other men in the room cough lightly behind him over his left shoulder. When he’d turned to face the room again, there was only one man left sitting at the far corner of the table, as far from Riker as the man could get. Much farther from Warren than the cough he had heard.

“It could mean our lives.” Phillipa shot at Riker, daring a glance at him.

“We live in fear out there, we live in fear in here. Doesn’t seem to make much of difference.” Riker said again.

That was when Warren noticed a small flutter from behind the vent to the left of Riker’s machine on Warren’s right. Warren did not approach or turn his head in its direction, but looked moving only his eyes to find a pair of bright green eyes staring back at him. He could see the cut of a jaw and nose in shadows, partially obscured by the ventilation, and instantly recognized the eyes looking out at him.

“So long as we live,” Phillipa whispered.

Warren’s heart dropped into his stomach, he knew then that he would not make it through his first full day in Textiles tomorrow.

“Is that really all we should strive for?”