Exile

PROLOGUE-2

I was met with something unexpected myself. When I decided to change my current job to something better paid, I didn’t expected them to send me such an offer from the distribution list. I surreptitiously took the folded computer foil out of my pocket and read through it again: “The Medical Academy of Palm Springs has reported a need for a florist technician. The Rector will be waiting for Miss Julietta Kaphoolie at 11am on July 3rd inside the main building's office.”

I don’t think there could’ve been a mistake, the foil showed my data, with the official hologram of the recruitment agency. This type of material wasn’t used just to play a prank on someone. They’re some strictly accountable foils, marked and impossible to forge. Who would feel like it, either way? Nobody was interested in me to that extent. There wasn’t anything to be interested in.

***

Chris left for work and I was preparing for my interview. I thoroughly cleaned my nails, combed my hair and, after a bit of thinking, gave up on makeup. As for my clothes... that was more difficult. None of what I had in my closet fit for a prestigious university like the Medical University. Finally, I decided to pick my navy blue pants with a matching vest and a creamy blouse which I kept for special occasions. This will have to do, worst case scenario I’ll have to simply purchase an outfit more suitable for work. Assuming of course that they even accept me...

I was so nervous that I left home already at ten. I arrived there fifteen minutes later, so I decided to go to a nearby park and cool down a bit. I’ve never been in this district before. It was very elegant, clean, but to my relief there were many B3 and even C1 walking around the streets – although admittedly the latter were just painting the fence of one of the houses, built in the style which was common more than two centuries ago. Some very rich people must live there since I saw two tiny spruces and a magnolia on their property. They must have cost a fortune. For a split second I wondered whether I should call them and ask if they need a florist, but I immediately gave up this idea. I didn't want to be anybody’s maid, even for good payment.

The park was founded near the academic complex. It wasn’t natural – nor did I expect it to be, only private parks sometimes were – but it was very well designed. Different species of trees, lawns, flower beds with realistically reconstructed flowers... and only sanded alleys the benches were real. There wasn’t any way to distinguish where the polymer vegetation ends and the illusion begins.

Even though I knew that it was only a delusion, I paused and opened my mouth in amazement upon realizing that fluffy animals with long hairs were jumping along the branches of the trees! It took me a moment to remember that these were squirrels, which used to live in places like these. They were recreated brilliantly, just like the large birds with rainbow-colored tails, walking lazily on the grass. I haven’t seen them anywhere else, except for in a holographic zoo. It was clear that first-class technicians were hired here, because everything looked so authentic that if it were not for the sign at the entrance which reads ‘Videoplastic Park’, I would have been deceived.

The illusion was intensified by sounds of the birds flowing from hidden speakers, as well as the smell of moss, grass and trees – the aromatic sprays must have been hidden somewhere, but I couldn’t see them. Big boulders scattered here and there were probably brought from the mountains, judging by their color and shapes, and in the depths of the park a beautiful surprise awaited: a small, beautiful waterfall. A real one! I even put my hand under the falling curtain of water just to make sure that it was wet and cold. In the lake, to which the cascade fell, swam colorful fish but I didn’t dare trying to check whether these were alive or just cybernetic creatures. I thought about how if I got a job here, I would be able to spend my break in this place and I felt that I really wanted that.

I’ve been to many similar places before, but it’s my first one seeing one as beautiful as this. Living in a rich neighborhood was great after all. ‘Our’ park, although still pleasant and definitely not ugly, wasn’t such a miracle. For a short time I sat on the bench by the waterfall, ate a portion of ice cream and drank some sparkling water with artificial juice. During this time of day the park was rather empty, I’ve only encountered a few people taking a lonely walk and two families with children, both A3 class.

I quickly got off the bench and apologized when one of the families approached.

“Please, don’t get up,” said the mother of the family, a platinum blonde in navy blue second skin-type clothes, which embraced her gorgeous figure like a glove. She smiled kindly at the sight of my confusion. “This is a public park, and you don’t disturb us at all.”

“I... I have to go. Have a nice day,” I stammered incoherently and ran away. Although this lady was elegant and cultural, I felt awkward around her. In the Greenwood District, where I grew up, seeing a person of class A was a rare occurrence and we were taught to stay out of their way from young age – not because they could do something to us or the law required it. We knew class A consisted of the most important people, and those who work the hardest, which is why we had to respect them and help them as much as we could. That’s what we were told at home and at school.

I wanted to be helpful, to be socially useful, but I still had no idea how. Until now I worked in a greenhouse belonging to a large florist studio and it was a nice job, but I had little contact with people. I wanted that to change with all my heart.

Since it was almost time, I began moving towards the buildings of the Medical Academy, feeling my throat tightening with each step. I was overwhelmed with the mere sight of these magnificent, ultra-modern buildings, I couldn’t even imagine how I’ll be able to gather the courage to cross one of their thresholds. Truth be told, I hesitated so much at the gate that a handsome guard in a black uniform noticed it and took pity on me.

“Do you have any business here, miss?” he asked. The diamond-shape caste mark between his eyebrows indicated C1 classification, and this fact gave me comfort. If he was hired here, then maybe I’ll be accepted too.

“I’m here to talk to the rector about a job,” I said, taking out my ID card.

He examined it carefully, then took a clean, rectangular visual registration plate from the desk drawer and put it in the marker. He entered my data and after a while the same plate slipped out, but already decorated with my photo and a hologram with the inscription: Juliette Kaphoolie, B3, guest. The security guard quickly attached the pin, pinned the ID to my vest and handed the card back to me.

“Building A, first floor, corridor A, office number one,” he said in a kind tone. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

I smiled at him gratefully and with a more confident step walked towards the building pointed to me, located in the center and giving the impression that it was made of only glass. The academic year hasn’t yet begun, so it was almost completely empty. I only came across two cleaning machine operators, one of whom was eating his second breakfast while the other was repairing something in on his remote-control console. None of them paid me any attention, so I went unhindered to the first floor and sought office one. On its door hung an old-fashioned plaque with the decorative inscription ‘Rector's Office’. I knocked, timidly at first, then a little harder. A woman's voice came from the speaker on the wall:

“Come in!”

I touched the door. They opened, letting me into an elegant office, lined with a foam rug and decorated with framed graphs. They showed some charts and diagrams that I didn’t understand. Behind a modern desk sat a young woman with an inverted V mark on her forehead – making her an A3. She wore a perfectly tailored deep purple costume with black insets, which made it look like it was taken from the exhibition of the most sophisticated kind of fashion house. My knees softened immediately, especially when she gave me a cool, professional, appraising look.

“What is your business here?” she asked. Her voice was complaisant, contrary to my fears, there was no shadow of dislike, disregard or superiority.

“I have an appointment with the rector which concerns work.”

“Miss... Kaphoolie, directed by the assignment office?”

“Yes. Here is my referral and identification card.”

I handed the documents to the secretary, who took them indifferently and placed them in a separate compartment in the binder on the desk. Then she got up and approached the wall. The door hidden inside it opened.

“Mr. Rector, Juliette Kaphoolie is here.”

“Send her to me, Sandra,” a male voice answered from inside, “and bring us two caffetinos.”

“Yes, sir,” this time I thought I heard a note of hesitation in the woman’s voice, or maybe it was just my imagination. The idea of an A3 making caffetino for a representative of class B3 seemed completely surreal, and as I passed the secretary I gave her an apologetic look.

Behind the desk, which was stylized as a piece of furniture from the last century, sat a short, thin man of old age. In front of him stood a brass plaque with the decorative inscription: Professor Harold Brotsky. The rector had a likeable, carefully shaven face decorated with a perked nose, a network of wrinkles around the eyes and almost completely gray hair. It surprised me a little. Nowadays, signs of old age are rarely seen in people before ninety. Apparently, Mr. Brotsky must have belonged to the small percentage of people allergic to the anti-age pill. He didn’t seem concerned with that fact, however.

There was a stylized mark resembling an arrowhead on his forehead, which I expected anyway. Who else but an A1 could be the head of such a prestigious university? My intimidation doubled. I have never had the chance to talk with a representative of such a high social class and I didn’t know how I should behave. The Rector must have sensed it because he smiled at me kindly.

“Please, take a seat,” he said with such courtesy as if I belonged to class A. “Are you the florist technician recommended by the recruitment office?”

“Yes,” I said, sitting up shyly on the chair I was pointed to, “I am a florist with a specialization in tropical plants, Professor.”

He nodded in approval.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what you’re doing here,” he said. “The thing is, our Academy has obtained, after many years of efforts, permission to create its own greenhouse. We’re planning to give real flowers to outstanding students on the occasion of handing them their diplomas or to important guests, but first we must grow the flowers. You see, what we’d like to see is the special types, not ones that you can get at any floral studio.”

“I understand,” I was still trying to control my nervousness and raging heartbeat. I casually brushed my fingers against the desk. As I thought, it was real wood, not synthetic. The university must have been richer than I thought.

“Unfortunately, we were allocated only half the time for this task,” the rector said. “So, we began looking for someone who could perform two functions at once. It isn’t appropriate for our Academy to offer anyone a part-time job, it would lower our prestige. We chose you from the list sent to us by the office, because it is indicated in your data that you’ve also completed a librarian degree.”