The Hitchhiking Effect

The Burden of Indigo-1

THE BURDEN OF INDIGOThe road was a relic of the past: a six-lane highway complete with a wide, planted median. Overgrown, most of the plantings had died; only a few stubborn oleanders survived, battling the weeds, crabgrass, and summer drought. The lane-divider stripes had faded to a dull gray, and, poking through cracks in the asphalt, bunches of golden field grass decorated the pavement.

Bypassing the village, the highway stretched to the western horizon, separating fields of yellow hay, cutting between rolling hills dotted with black oak. Framed by the orange-pink sky, a dark figure walked beside the median. It was a man. He was burdened with a backpack and was ambling in the energy-conserving gait of an experienced wanderer.

Nearing the outskirts of the village, the man stopped. Shading his eyes, he glanced back, watching the sun disappear; then he turned and walked across the three lanes. He stopped on the shoulder of the road, looking down the main street—the only real street—of the village.

His shoulders were rounded and slumped as if he carried a much heavier load than a backpack. He grasped a carved and polished walking stick, his only adornment—except for his color. Clothes, backpack, hair, beard, all exposed skin: from head to foot, the man was the color of dark blue ink. Indigo.

The indigo man saw no one on the village street, not even a dog; suppertime.

Cautiously he walked into the village, inspecting the buildings as he moved down the center of the street. His search was specific, not the unmotivated curiosity of an idler. Above the general store a faded sign read Enjoy Coca-Cola. He’d seen the red-and-white signs in many villages, advertising a beverage that was no longer made. On both sides of the street, the houses were identical boxes peeling a grayish paint. He stepped around the hummer pad at the center of the town. The circular disc of concrete with steps, ramps, and railings was well maintained, at odds with the general appearance of other structures.

Continuing down the street, the indigo man passed a school, the post office, a few more houses, and finally paused at the edge of town before a small, dirty building. Yes, there was the sign over the door, dusty but legible: C.P. Hostel.

Sighing, the indigo man stepped up to the heavy oaken door. He placed the palm of his hand against a metallic sensor inset in the door and waited, knowing that somewhere a computer recorded his identity and noted his location.

A whirr and a click. The door swung in.

Taking one tentative step inside, the indigo man looked about the large single room. It looked and smelled like a barracks: neat and clean. At the far end, arranged in a row across the hall, were five old-style military bunks, all made up, with hospital folds. Behind the bunks were two doors labelled M and W. Immediately in front of him was a heavy wooden dining table with ten chairs of matching black oak. To his right was a recreation area: a card table with several open books and a half circle of folding chairs, ringing a blank holoview bowl.

As his gaze moved around the room, the wrinkles on the indigo man’s forehead deepened into a frown.

He was alone!

Setting his pack and stick at the head of the dining table, he stepped to a bank of machines along the left wall. Near the selector buttons on each machine was a sensor identical to the door plate. He palmed the sensor on the food machine and waited. A whirr. After receiving his selection, he returned to the table. He ate mechanically, chewing each mouthful of stew thoroughly before washing it down with the weak ale.

Finished with the meal, he stepped back to the machine bank and returned to his place with a Shadowsmoke capsule. Breaking the ampule, he inhaled the shadowy blue smoke. Immediately he felt a grabbing at the base of his skull; then a warm, almost liquid sensation spread down his spine, relaxing him and washing away his fatigue. He took another deep breath and dug through his pack, finding a small blue journal and pen.

LA-Couver Zone: June 5, 2049

I begin this journal today because something strange is happening to my color. I was assigned indigo on January 19, 2027. Recently the indigo has begun to change. It is fading!

For some time I have suspected the change, but only last week discovered a way to check. I cut a lock of my hair for a standard and each day I compare it to a new hair-snip. The indigo color is slowly fading each day. The change just noticeable.

So I will keep this log to record the progress of this strange color transition. Twenty-two years wandering. Never closer than a kilometer—as the law prescribes—to any of the regional urban domes, but I have visited the undomed villages of the Seaboard, the Gulf Zone, and the LA-Couver Area. And even once, long ago, I traversed the great heartland of the country, walking ten, eleven, twelve days between hostels. I saw the floating fishing villages of the Great Lakes. But the interior is for the young. Now I must find a hostel each night, to eat and rest.

Never, during this wandering, have I heard of anyone losing their color.

Perhaps my experience is unique?

It has occurred to me that I may be sick. Years ago I was sick and saw strange things. I had been wandering the Southeast, near the old rocket departure sites, and developed a fever and congestion in my lungs—viral pneumonia. As the law allows during illness, I stayed more than one night in the local hostel.

But the severity of the illness required that I be moved to the regional med center, where I remained for several weeks. I hallucinated, forgetting my color, even believing that I was a freeman.

I don’t think I’m sick this time.

As I walk each day, I have considered a number of possible explanations. One recurs. It makes my heart race, my throat tighten. At this very moment, my hand shakes at the thought. The theory: I am getting better, perhaps cured! Is it possible? Could I once again be rid of the color? Able to stay in one place—to work, to play, to read—to be a living part of that place? To once again be free? Is this possible? I do not know. It seems a dream.

I am lonely and need someone to talk with.

Directly overhead, the sun was a fireball, the air heavy and hot; heat waves shimmered off the road’s pavement. Only a Cooper’s hawk defied the summer heat, circling over the fields of freshly mown and windrowed alfalfa. Feeling dizzy, the indigo man rested under a giant eucalyptus, the tree towering over the shoulder of the road, shedding strips of sandy outer bark, exposing its blanched trunk. Out of breath, he inhaled deeply and felt revived slightly by the pungent, medicinal odor of the tree. Nearby he heard a dog bark. Too hot to chase rabbits, he thought, closing his eyes.

“Okay, colored man, up!”

Flinching at the unexpected sound, the indigo man snapped open his eyes. He stared into the bore of a rifle. Sighting down the barrel of the gun was a towheaded youngster of fifteen or sixteen with cold, blanched-blue eyes. Beside him stood another boy, grinning an empty smile and holding a huge black dog. The boy’s grin exposed two missing front teeth.

The dog growled menacingly.

Swallowing, the indigo man tried to work up saliva in his dry mouth.

“Hush up, Midnight,” the boy holding the dog said, giving the animal a vicious jerk on its collar. His speech was slow, the words slurred.

“I said get up, colored man,” the towhead repeated; his words were cold and precise. He motioned threateningly with the rifle, a .22 automatic.

Stiffly, the indigo man stood up.

“Get your hands behind your head,” the towhead ordered, snapping off the words. “Ain’t he a prize, Jeff?”

Jeff giggled.

The indigo man eyed the dog, which drooled saliva and continued to strain against its collar.

“Dirty c-c-colored man,” Jeff said and shuddered. Blushing, he glanced at his friend, then spat on the ground. The indigo man had heard the derisive term many times. “W-What’re you going to do with him, Tyler?” Jeff stared at the boy holding the gun, eyebrows raised.

For the first time, a wry grin broke at the corners of Tyler’s mouth. But his eyes remained cold, not matching the smile. “Well now, that depends,” he said, jacking a round into the chamber of the .22. The indigo man’s stomach churned, but he didn’t move. “Think I’ll shoot him”—the boy sighted down the rifle again, pointing it at the indigo man’s heart—“unless…unless he cooperates.”

Midnight whined.

“Don’t shoot him, Tyler,” Jeff pleaded, his voice rising in pitch. “H-h-he’ll cooperate.” He turned to the indigo man, nodding. “Won’t you?”

Tyler flashed Jeff a reassuring smile. “You know, I’ve always wondered if these guys were painted all over…”

Jeff frowned, struggling to understand his friend. The indigo man understood, and his heart raced.

Tyler’s grin dissolved into a scowl. He fingered his own shirt. “Under his clothes, dummy,” he said impatiently.

Slowly the wrinkles disappeared from Jeff’s forehead as he caught on. “Oh…Me, too.”

“Strip,” Tyler whispered at the indigo man.

He took off his clothes, watching the rifle carefully.

The dog lunged, barking at the indigo man’s movement.

“Come on, come on, hurry up,” Tyler ordered, “we got to get home for lunch soon.”

The boys both giggled as the indigo man stripped off his shorts. He stood up, naked. The boys laughed hard, tears rolling down their cheeks. The dog howled, joining in.

Catching his breath, Tyler said, “Now that’s what I call a prize, a real prize.” He wiped his eyes. “Turn around, colored man.” The laughter grew louder, but it was forced.

The indigo man felt sweat roll down his ribs. He could barely breathe.

“Now that’s really a cold blue ass. Did you ever see anything like it, Jeff? Bend over!”

The indigo man heard a strange sound—a growling groan. He knew it wasn’t the dog. Before he turned he realized that the sound had come from Jeff. Cautiously turning, he saw Tyler kneeling over his prostrate friend. Jeff moaned. His face was red, neck muscles knotted, his limbs and body stiff—convulsed by a seizure. The indigo man took one step toward the boys.

Looking back over his shoulder, Tyler shouted, “Hold it!” He picked up the rifle and made a shooing gesture at the indigo man. “Get! Move it, old man.” He fired a round near the indigo man’s feet. “Now!” the boy screamed, and his eyes were murderous.

Sweeping up his clothes, pack, and stick, the indigo man stumbled across the loose shoulder of the highway, hurrying down the road.

After a few minutes, he looked back at the empty highway and stopped to dress. But he was shaking too hard. Finally his breathing slowed and his shivering stopped. He dressed. His fear dissolved, replaced by relief. Exhausted, he massaged the numb fingers of his left hand. For a moment, he thought of Jeff, but felt no compassion.

LA-Couver Zone: June 6, 2049 The color continues to fade.

Today I had a terrifying experience with two freeman boys. I should have been outraged, humiliated, shamed, but I felt none of these emotions. At the time I was simply afraid. When it was over and I was safe, I was overwhelmed with relief. Nothing else. I have forgotten how to feel anger, pride—the others. Perhaps they are the luxuries of freeman.

One of the boys I met today will wear color soon. From his eyes, I would guess he will be assigned scarlet.

I am tired. Very, very tired.

Again this hostel is empty. No one to talk to.

The next day the indigo man stopped early to get out of the heat. The hostel was a Quonset hut. He palmed the sensor and waited.

Whirr. Click.

Pushing the metal door inward, the indigo man entered the hostel and stopped. A man eating at the dining table looked up. Even seated, his size was impressive—a giant. He was beardless, in his forties, and the color of bright, fresh blood: scarlet. The scarlet man nodded shyly and shifted his gaze back to his food.

“Hello,” the indigo man said, acknowledging the giant’s silent greeting. He placed his pack and stick by the table, glancing about the hut. An air conditioner filled the air with a low hum. He wiped his sweaty head with the back of his hand and sniffed. “The stew smells good.”