I can’t breathe. Have we run out of air already, or is there something wrong with my lungs?
What if the elevator drops again? What if it falls all the way to the lobby? A gardener’s academic block doesn’t include much physics or human anatomy; I have no idea what to expect from a plummet to the ground.
I try to suck in a deep breath, but only a weak wheeze escapes my throat. I’m panicking, obviously, and that realization leads to a terrifying certainty: Management won’t want an instructor who’s prone to panic during emergencies. How could they trust me to calm and lead a class full of children during a crisis if I can’t even compose myself?
My throat is closing, and I don’t know how to open it. I’ve forgotten how to—
“Breathe.” The cadet’s voice echoes in the silent elevator.
Shocked, I can only stare into the dark in his direction. His advice adds a new layer of anxiety to my fear of this confined, unlit space. We’re not allowed to converse with members of another bureau beyond the prescribed greetings and any communication required to perform a necessary joint task.
Trigger 17 is violating the fraternization directive.
He must be defective.
The thought sends a chill across my skin. Suddenly the elevator feels even smaller and darker than before. Tighter somehow, as if there isn’t enough room for my lungs to expand.
“You have to calm down, or you’ll hyperventilate. Is that what they teach at the Workforce Academy?” the cadet demands softly. “How to panic until you pass out?”
Of course not!
Indignation pierces my fear, but I don’t know how to respond without breaking a rule myself. Nor can I understand why I want so badly to do that very thing. Is that impulse a sign of a defect in my own genome?
“You don’t have to say anything. I know Workforce isn’t taught to take risks,” he says. But he can’t possibly know that for sure, any more than I know what Defense cadets are taught. Even if he is right.
I want him to stop talking. When Management finds out that he violated the fraternization directive, they might assume I did too. Because why would he keep talking if he got no response?
Would telling him to stop be a violation, or might Management consider that a necessary communication? I don’t know, and the possibility that I might be found guilty by association makes me feel as if not just the elevator but the entire world is closing in on me.
I’m breathing too fast again.
“Okay. Just calm down and listen.” Clothing rustles as he shifts on the other side of the elevator. “Concentrate on the sound of my voice and you’ll be fine.”
His voice.
I wish I wasn’t hearing it yet….It’s much lower and smoother than the voices of the boys in my bureau. I find it oddly pleasant.
“Back when I was Trigger 7, a boy named Mace 7 locked me in a closet during a tour of the Defense Bureau. The space was dark, and it smelled weird, and there must have been an air-conditioning unit nearby, because all I could hear was the growling of the motor and the whistle of air through some massive vent. I tried to yell for help, but no one could hear me over all that noise. At first I just wanted to curl up in the corner. But that would be behavior unbefitting a future soldier.”
I can picture it—a young Defense cadet alone in the dark, determined to stay true to his training in spite of his fear—and I want to hear more. Maybe because I’ve never been spoken to by a cadet. Maybe because I’ve never truly considered what life is like for members of another bureau. But probably because Trigger 17’s voice is captivating. It commands attention.
He should stop talking for his own good, but I hope he won’t.
“I was in there for hours,” Trigger continues in the dark, and since I can’t see him, it’s almost as if this moment isn’t really happening. As if I’m imagining it. “I tried to find a creative solution to an impossible situation, as I’d been trained. I opened all the boxes, but they only held paper. I stacked them to try to reach a vent in the wall, but it was too high. I tried to pull the pins from the door hinges but couldn’t without any tools.”
I listen, fascinated, and it’s like I’m there with Trigger 7 in that storage closet, trying to rescue myself through methods no Dahlia 7 would ever have thought of. Methods no Dahlia, Poppy, or Violet would ever have been taught.
“No one noticed I was missing until they wound up with an extra tray at dinner, and even then it took them so long to find me that I thought when they finally opened the door, they’d be greeted by my emaciated corpse.”
My chest feels tight at the thought that we could be trapped in this elevator for hours. That our absences could go unnoticed.
“My point is that someone did come, eventually, and when my instructor finally opened that door, he found neither an emaciated corpse nor a crying child. He found a cadet standing at attention, reciting everything he’d learned in class that week between sets of jumping jacks.
“They’re going to find us much more quickly than they found me that day, because it won’t take long for someone to notice that the elevator doesn’t work. And when they open the doors, what they’re going to find is Dahlia 16, composed and confidently reciting a list of evergreen trees suitable to grow in warm climates. Or whatever they teach you gardeners.”
He noticed my name. I’m surprised by the warmth in my cheeks. Then I laugh out loud when I realize what he’s said.
“Hydroponic gardeners don’t grow—” I slap both hands over my mouth, and my face burns even hotter with guilt for my infraction.
“The power’s out, so the cameras don’t work,” he says. “And I won’t tell.”
But that isn’t the point. The only way society can function efficiently is through the division of duties and personnel into distinct and independent spheres. We learn that before we’re even old enough to walk. No good can come of my speaking to Trigger 17.
Yet somehow I’m breathing normally, finally. His story distracted me from the dark elevator and the possibility of plummeting to our deaths.
The light comes back on and I exhale. Then I realize that the elevator looks too dim. Too yellow.
“Automatic emergency lights.” Trigger points at the corner over my head, and I twist to look. “The camera is still off.”
There’s no red power light.
My focus falls from the camera and lands on his face, but I don’t realize I’m staring until his gaze meets mine. His lips turn up into a small smile and his left brow rises.
I look away, my face burning again, and Trigger laughs. “There’s no rule against looking.” At the edge of my vision, I see him shrug. “I’m going to look.”
My face is on fire now, but I can’t stop him from staring at me. I can’t even tell him to stop without breaking a rule. So I steel my nerves and stare back at him.
He has thick dark eyebrows and long lashes. A straight nose. A square jaw and generous lips. And that’s where my gaze snags. I can’t look away from his mouth, and I have no idea why.