Book 4 The Sleep Waves; Chapter 1:

1. The Nun with Voodoo Dolls

Y

ou meet three kinds of people before death. One kind orders food at a restaurant and says it gently if the order is wrong. The second kind is the nasty kind. As you’ve guessed, they’re far from being gentle. They scream; they whine; they call the manager and make a scene of it all. They exist to prove they exist. The third kind, however, swallows the wrong order without making a sound. They’ll tell you it’s fine, that it’s not a problem at all. That this dish is also delicious, but the truth is they can’t tell that they’ve been wronged. They sure can’t tell that they want someone to see their misery, perhaps even get them the correct order without making scenes. Somehow, they might even believe that they’re being kind to the manager! Confrontation is impossible for some, and the Intuitionist belongs to this ‘some.’

So when the first day in Alphatech arrives like another divorce among celebrities—demanding more drama than, say, the climate control—Kusha finds herself at the Orientation. It’s full of faces—all gleaming like the moon as if stars are shining bright above them, and they’re ready to win the last world war—if needs be.

Their glow, however, will last only a while. No one knows it, not yet, but the Intuitionist does. It’s impossible not to sense it. Not after the warning the King of Mesmerizers gave her. You do not enjoy your first day at your first job when a war hero with voice says that you’ll meet the devil soon.

At least one dream of little dreams of her comes true. She always wanted to stand here. It’s a bridge on the 125^th floor of Alphatech—just another one of many. From here, she can see the arena below—the one-of-a-kind racing ground full of twists and turns surrounded by twelve towers. She saw it before, on her exam day. At that time, she saw it from the 9^th floor, almost near the ground, and she was a guest who had to leave after some incidents. Today, however, she’s a part of it. She will work here. She will live here. She will make the best dreams she can ever dream of, and if things go well, she might even enter the races. That is, if she crosses this internship—the Trial Phase—they call it. Things on the ground sure look different when you’re 100 floors up.

Meera and Rashad both came to drop her off today. Most of the time, Meera complained about Rashad stirring tea too loudly in the morning. When she wasn’t complaining, she mostly advised her. Among those bits of advice, the only one she could pass on to Haley without blushing was: ‘Sweetie, you can wear whatever you want as long as it’s not designed by a hungry daddy or a horny mommy.’

Haley stands beside her and watches the arena—a large backpack on her back, as if she will go hiking up a mountain that doesn’t exist—at least not anywhere nearby. It’s the north-east of Alpha with hilltops full of tea gardens. But she isn’t wearing any jacket with patches today. Even the camera she wears in place of one of her eyes is missing. She reinstalled that after she visited Meera, but now her eyes—one green and the other brown—sparkle in the light. Perhaps she decided not everyone will welcome a girl who replaces an eye with a camera eye. She leans closer and whispers, “Guess what Mami Zintra advised me?”

“I have no context among a universe of advice,” the Intuitionist says. “Only if I could think of all of them together!”

“She said the city people are liars. Just reverse everything they say, and you will be fine,” Haley whispers again, and you’ll think she has said something dangerous, something to be worried about, something like a warning. That is until you look at her face. If the glow from happiness could be measured on a scale, Haley’s face would have the highest score now.

It’s the Admin Tower of Alphatech, and the terrace is gaining a crowd. Crowd. It reminds her about something Rashad told her last night. The important bit—he said it three times: Any crowd can show you the pattern of the world—a micro-unit of the whole, and each time, he rounded his fingers around as if he held a globe on his palm.

It’s been three hours since they all have been waiting, and the Intuitionist began noticing the crowd somewhere around the middle. Most of the beginners are of her age, at least in their looks. A few are on the terrace—watching the arena and the towers. Most are busy gossiping, trying to know as many as they can, as quickly as they can, with as many smiles as they can provide. Not all of them are from the City of Alpha. Half the crowd seems to be from the Old City or the Junk Land or maybe some other cities with wars and diseases to fight.

A while ago, the crowd was more dispersed. The more time passes, the to-be-friend circles become clearer. Which groups will make dreams come true as one becomes evident. And as more time passes, the groups that have been random in the beginning now convert into more diverse ones. Two candidates from the same race or city no longer remain in the same group. And as even more time passes, the Intuitionist notices the last bit of information about the crowd, perhaps the most important bit of it.

She realizes that not all the faces are aimlessly beaming about their aims of dream-come-true. Some faces look as if they do not belong here. At least, not with them. Their eyes look sure of their job today as if they know exactly what they are doing, and they want to finish it and grab that lunch. You won’t find them if you don’t look for them, but you’ll see in your extra glimpses here or a minute-long watch around there. None of them are talking too much. As if they are more interested in hearing.

More time passes still, and this Orientation isn’t starting. That’s when the Intuitionist notices it. Sometimes the hearers open their mouths, and every time they do, they begin with ‘Oh, I heard’.

‘Oh, I heard this year they will do donation projects.’

‘Oh, I heard this year, they will prefer more from the Junk Land.’

‘Oh, I heard they will bring diverse groups into the spotlight this year.’

After an observation this time, the Intuitionist realizes it. It’s them who have made sure no two interns of the same skin or same city will be in the same group. They also make sure that every group has at least one Junklandian or a refugee from warring cities. There is a name for it in Mob Psychology. Isolation while grouping.

Are they designing the crowd? (a) Yes (b) No. Yes.

Kusha looks at Haley, about to tell her what she has just observed, but pauses. Too many people are around, and now that she knows not everyone here is a beginner, chances are they are not as unevolved as them either. They could be High Grades with evolved ears. So the Intuitionist makes the first mistake of the day—a crucial mistake—not sharing with a trusted one she already has.

If she knew that a hunch not shared becomes a boulder that will need a sword to crack, she would have told her right now. But she doesn’t say it. She speaks only 1% of her thoughts and says only a sentence, “I think … the Orientation has already started.”

She says it with a confused whisper, and then, she leaves the terrace with wind and view. Haley follows her as she joins others in the hall. The tension in her skin says: talk to people, find a group, find out what projects they are interested in. Soon enough, she realizes where this tension is coming from. It’s the hearers—the crowd designers again. Sometimes, they look at her and Haley, but randomly, just as they look at others.

The Intuitionist becomes alert—as much alert as you get when you realize you are being watched and probably are being scored, too. Shit! What if they are scoring on socializing? Talking to the only person you arrived with cannot get you a good score on socializing, can it? Did they notice she came with Haley? Yes or No? Of course, yes. Meaning, the Orientation began three hours ago, and she missed the whole part—considering any part is left of it.

As she looks for a booth or a desk that could provide some instruction, panic sets in her. It’s the panic of failing a task she assumed she must do even though no one told her to do it. It’s the feeling of falling behind in a non-existent competition. It’s the sensation of something wrong when nothing is present to be right.

Why do they design the crowd?

Why are they isolating while grouping?

Most important: why are they doing it in secret?

They could ride that little stage over there three hours ago. They could simply tell them to form groups diversely. But they didn’t. They chose to let them think they were doing it on their own.

The Intuitionist walks forward—her footsteps something in between consciousness and limbo. She still looks for someone new to socialize with, but in her mind, she revises all the advice she has heard from everyone for today. And the loudest one that rings in her ears is the one the Mesmerizer has told her: You will meet the devil soon.

* * *

After ten minutes of surfing through the groups, both the girls discover that most are deep into discussing the dream project they can’t wait to deliver. Soon, they separate to cover more groups, which, by now, have already formed into permanent shapes. Some even show the air that they are not allowing entrance to another because, after all, you don’t want too many shades of in-between colors within the same group. And this time, as the Intuitionist notices, it’s the new interns who decide it—not vocally, not with words, but with gestures. With glances or maybe with waves they pass among them with their minds. No one says anything about such decisions, yet it’s there. It just exists.

Kusha takes another look at some of the crowd designers. Her gaze is sharp. They have done their job well. She gazes at a few more of them while Haley now looks for loners who perhaps have realized things late, just like them, and hopefully, are still lurking here and there. Alone. Thanks to the architect of Alphatech, the hallway is wide with twists and turns. You may have checked that turn a while ago, and that doesn’t make the spot covered.

Near a lounge, the Intuitionist sees the girl with a long sword—the one she met briefly the last time she came here. She is with the others who look like they are from SLED or IF. Of course, they are for the security department. Kusha strictly avoids them. She doesn’t want to meet the one who witnessed her falling incident that day. Besides, the girl is silent; she looks like she won’t welcome a talk. As if the only thing she’s interested in is getting to the next page.

“You see them, don’t you?” a voice speaks from behind her.

Kusha turns around to see. It’s a boy. Is he new? (a) Yes (b) No. Yes. She asks herself immediately before even starting a conversation. So, he is new, yet something feels different. One more second, and she finds out what’s different. Almost all of them have bag packs or luggage with them. He doesn’t. Moreover, his posture is different. His shoulders aren’t twitching from restlessness, and his eyes aren’t shifting here and there. As if he is done venturing around and has found out what he is looking for.

Does he belong to those hearers? (a) Yes (b) No. No. Kusha confirms again. Is he a High Grade? No. She frowns. Something feels off about this question. Is he evolved? Yes. Her frown smoothens.

“And you can hear them,” she greets. Her blue eyes are alert, looking for more contexts as to why an evolved man is a new intern with them. Evolved—which means his age isn’t what it appears. He is older than he looks.

“Hear who?” the evolved man asks.

“All of them,” Kusha answers, “All of us, I mean.”

A caution sweeps over his eyes, which disappears almost immediately. Perhaps he didn’t want to be revealed as an evolved man so early. “I’m not from a city,” he says.

Kusha looks at his wrist. He doesn’t have a CRAB. She didn’t notice at first because of his full-sleeve tees beneath his sleeveless jacket with a hood. The way his hair smoothed into spikes towards the front says he keeps his hood on most of the time. And his eyes … She had seen northern lights only in the videos, but if she saw them in real life, they probably would have looked like his eyes—green with tints of black and yellow—a pair angled like big almonds.

Kusha looks away for a moment, checking on Haley—she is talking to some newbies near a corner where most with the heavier baggage are standing. They look like they’re from the Junk Land—from the veins of other parts of the earth—and they don’t want to move, leaving their baggage here and there.

“Why do you think they,” Kusha begins, looking at the green-eyed, evolved man, but she stops, seeing a girl near a bookshelf looking at them now.

The boy notices it. “Relax,” he says. “They can’t hear you from here. High Grades won’t do such low-level jobs. Crowd control and listening are usually handled by the beginners from the previous years. The ones whose projects don’t survive much long. They will starve if they don’t do these things.”

“So what is your, um, project? What do you want to make here?” Kusha asks the question she has been trying to ask someone for the last half an hour.

The green-eyed evolved man smiles without showing his teeth. “Same as everyone. Same as you,” he smiles. “What are you here for? What is your goal?”

Kusha doesn’t answer. Apart from the fact that the boy has asked her question back to her, she realizes she has no project she wants to do. But making a dream project isn’t what she is here for. Or is she? Kusha looks around. All the clusters of youth with passion sunken in their dream-talks. Perhaps this was the purpose of these three hours—letting them all question one another about what they are here for, having them compete for the best dream to grab by making them plunge their palms into the sky.

 Kusha smiles back at the evolved man politely. It’s the same smile the boy gave her when she asked him about his goals. You certainly don’t want to tell someone that you want to know your origin. That you want to find your past. Not on the first day. “I’m looking for something,” she says, not to make it rude. “It will need research, and Alphatech has the right tools.”  

The crowd suddenly shifts to silence. They both check if anything new is happening around the corner where a stage is visible—a raised panel a foot above their floor, welcoming words written at the back. At the corners, colorful ribbons and balloons of cloud are also there, along with a big bright moon.

A woman arrives—blonde hair, large tablet in her hand, her lips and eyes look like she’ll begin with, ‘You must be new here, so you don’t know …’ Kusha knows from being in Meera’s office.

Meera’s film department needed an actress once for a role of a woman hell-bent on world domination, starting with the fish. And for the role, they picked the one with blonde hair, upturned eyes, and the widest possible jaws. If she dies, her jaws can be polished to make a fancy nut-cracker. Kusha asked Meera why they’d do that. Why an archetype should look like a specific physical trait? Meera didn’t answer until they were home.

She said, “Before the war, it was the era of extreme lies, and people were recognizing the liars by their features. The good ones were crying more, and tears removed salt from their bodies. But the bad ones had more salt in them, and so their faces grew puffier, broader. Clenching their teeth from pride made their jaws wider. Within a few generations, their faces began to look like shields, and they never looked down unless their noses pointed upward. Their foreheads gained signs of handling lies, and their faces darkened. On the other hand, truth-tellers’ faces were glowing. And we could tell who were the liars; who were the ones hell-bent on dominating everything on earth starting from fish.”

That day, Kusha didn’t exactly believe Meera. Or maybe she did—Meera wouldn’t lie after all—but she didn’t just grasp it since she hadn’t seen it herself. But today, on the 125^th floor of the Admin Tower of Alphatech, she thinks she can see it now. For some reason, she senses it when that blonde woman, with hair that looks like a plastic wig and jaws that look like nut-crackers, rides the stage. Why does she sense it? Perhaps it’s because how her lips are always curved at a corner. Or because, how the muscles around her nose are crinkled all the time, as if she has smelled the gutters from the Junk Land. And now, all the fish need cleaning before she can even think of dominating them.

Rude! Kusha tells herself, quickly closing her eyes, shaking her head, and opening them right after to check if anyone saw it. Or worse, if anyone has read her thoughts. All these could be just because she watched too many shows made after the war, and it could be because she saw most blonde women with wider jaws and upturned eyes in the villain roles. Labeling can do that. “Keep your mind free from labeling, sweetie,” Kusha whispers what Meera says other times. She makes sure the green-eyed, evolved man won’t hear her.

The blonde woman settles on the stage. Four other girls follow her, each holding a basket made of fake bamboo. The audience of newbies can’t see what is in those baskets. Before they could ponder longer about it, the blonde woman speaks, “Greetings, New Interns!” Her voice is deep as if two frogs could swiftly pass through her throats without getting stuck. With that voice, she easily could intimidate the guard of the secret vaults of the World Bank.

“She has won three dozen awards for … for no specific reason. Let’s say for suspicious reasons, interesting,” the green-eyed man whispers, standing beside her.

Kusha looks at him, wondering how he knows about it. And then she sees him staring at nothing in particular. His green eyes are glowing now. He is wearing something in his eyes, probably checking online about the woman. Kusha doesn’t answer. She notices many others are checking things either through their CRABs or with screens in their eyes, just like him. Kusha feels alert. Most interns seem to be experts in keeping themselves updated in seconds. Are those hearers scoring them about it? For a second, she even wonders whether she should act like she is looking for information in her CRAB.

She checks on Haley, too. She owns no CRAB yet, just like the ones from Junk Land. They will go through different processes to get citizenship along with grades. Alphatech will apply for their citizenship. They’ll receive their temporary CRABs soon, and if things go well, they will be permanent citizens.

If things go well, that is.

The blonde woman clears her throat and reads her speech from her tablet: “The biggest scheme needs the biggest fall for it to work …”

“Who begins a speech like that?” Kusha hears Haley saying. She has come to stand beside her again. If anyone could pause their faces from glowing, it’d be Haley because she has done it now.

“That’s a line from the book: The Art of Giving, Chapter: The Reverse Gain of What Your Hands Give,” Kusha whispers, making sure no one else hears her. Well, except for the green-eyed guy who must have heard her already, considering he still stands beside her, probably looking impressed.

 “… It’s math. Even nature has math,” the blonde woman continues reading, “You copy it to stay aligned with nature, and you select who falls, what falls, and how many falls to keep things running as mathematically as God’s nature itself. That’s how we made Alphatech thrive. We do not fear to lose some. Even God said to give, to drop some of what you have back to the univ—”

“To the poor,” someone interrupts the woman from the back. And the crowd gets eerie silent as if it weren’t already. “God didn’t say burn food in the fire to keep the devil’s wheel running. Don’t act like it’s normal.” The voice speaks loudly from behind again. Everyone tries to look at who it is. Kusha peeks towards the back to see her. A girl with red hair, her age uncertain, but she looks experienced. She’s not a newbie like them. Her face is glowing, but not from the desire to win the last world war with her dreams.

“People define normal. If you have the voice, perhaps you could define it for them,” the blonde woman speaks again with her deep voice, this time, not from her tab, as if nothing apart from ordinary has happened. As if her speech gets interrupted like this daily. As if she had already predicted this, expected something like this. It was a part of her foreseeable math already, and she is even happy that her foreseeable prediction has come true! She will now pick her line from her ready replies and deliver whichever applies. She speaks still without looking at her tablet.

“But I see that you don’t have it—the voice, I mean—otherwise, you would be here defining that on the stage I stand, instead of at the back of the crowd,” she says. “Now, I’m trying to do my job here, if you will excuse me, because I, too, have to walk upstairs and grab that morning coffee. I am human after all, just like you, my lovely little dolls.”

And then, the blonde woman gives the biggest smile anyone in the universe can ever conjure. For several seconds there, she looks like that auntie in the Junk Land who will always have that Mooncake ready for any visitors to her shop.

“Now, my lovely little dolls of this year. Yes, I agree that some of you won’t be able to make your dreams come true. Some of you will leave when the internship period is over. But that’s the process of it. Culling will happen when it’s gotta happen. I cannot sweeten it or beautify it because I will NOT because that’s not the truth. That’s not the fact. The fact is some of you will not make it to the permanent home with us, which I’m sure you already know from the policies you have signed before coming here, if you have cared to read them, that is. This is the internship program. And after six months, the chosen ones will find their homes with us,” she pauses and takes a look at the crowd from one end to another before beginning again.

“Alphatech is a big town, and you will find that safe sanctuary is in every corner of this magical place. All you need is but ask, and you will find your lead. My job is to welcome you and see to your needs so that you, dolls, can go through the process as pleasantly as possible. May the gods give you the benefits to make your dreams come true.” The blonde woman signals the four girls who rode the stage with her holding baskets. They leave the stage and begin swimming through the crowd. Each of them wears something in their eyes, which scans every intern they approach, and then, they hand over a small package to all of them—the packages have ‘Tote’ written on them.

Most of the crowd eagerly wait for their turns to get that package, which now seems to be the most interesting thing. So, not many of them pay attention to the later parts of her speech. She talks something about donations and finding homes and apps that provide prompts to do voluntary work whose sole purpose is to make the world a better place. But not many, including the Intuitionist, pay attention to that part. No one pays attention when they are told about donations, buying marches, installing apps, or social work.

So even the Intuitionist misses the part when the blonde woman says, “During your stay here, some of you will discover that donating to the needy will help you find your peace and light. After all, Giving starts the wheel of Having just as God has designed it …”

When one of the four girls scans the green-eyed boy, she smiles a little before handing him his tote. She moves on to the next one in the crowd on the other side of the Intuitionist. So, she gets temporarily disheartened for not getting her tote yet. But she looks with intent as the green-eyed boy opens his. Inside are some stationary—a small pad, a pen, a t-shirt, and a mug—all with the Alphatech logo. And then, there’s a three-inch by three-inch box. Inside, there is a doll—a base mold of clay—grey and sticky, possibly made of nano-particles, programmable as a cluster. The moment he touches it, it slowly shapes into a chibi doll of a boy. Its eyes are green like northern lights; its dress is a sleeveless jacket with a full-sleeve tee underneath, its hood on. Hair spiked at the front and eyes angled at the corner like big almonds. The doll looks just like the evolved man, only cuter. And right then, he whispers something. Something eerie. Only the Intuitionist hears him.

Most are busy participating in the ‘Awwww’ sound slowly emerging from the crowd. Everyone loves their chibi-doll versions of themselves, and each of them probably thinks his or hers is the cutest of them all while cheering for one another.

Haley receives hers, too, and it looks exactly like her. And she gleams with glows like the full moon itself.

There’s something eerie about the way Haley says, “You know what, I think I won’t wear my camera eye again. My heterochromatic eyes look cute in this one.”

When the Intuitionist finally finds her tote, she goes straight to hold her doll-box. But for some reason, she stops right before opening it. The blonde woman on the stage now speaks something about Lead and home and family: “…You will find your companions as your family here, a bond that you will find forever hard to escape from …” But the Intuitionist doesn’t hear her completely. Instead, she senses that flutter in her stomach, and that sensation of ice-needle piercing her eyes and getting straight to her brain comes again. Something tells her she shouldn’t open the box, and she shouldn’t touch the grey mould of mud that will soon look something similar to her, probably receiving information about her. And no matter how much Haley tells her to, she doesn’t touch her doll.

“I’ll open mine later,” she tells her. And then, she thinks about what the green-eyed boy has whispered to himself when he saw his doll: “I see. So she is the Nun with Voodoo Dolls.”