The Worth of Knowledge

He grew up in an orphanage with the same questions as many of the other orphans. He spent many days sitting on the front steps of the orphanage watching adults stroll past. He would see a man with a similar hair color and wonder, ‘Could that be my father?’ or a nice-looking lady who could tuck him in every night and think, ‘Maybe she’s my mother!’ All of his dreams were in vain, though, as no one ever came to rescue him from the filth and pain.

On his eighteenth birthday, he was taken to the public offices and assigned his official number: 85297401. The ink had been painfully and almost carelessly stabbed into the soft flesh of his right inner arm. He was given documents, a key and three sets of his uniform before he was shoved out into the street. Petrified, he scrambled through his papers to find the directions to his housing quarters. He ran through the streets as his heart pounded, hoping he would make it inside before curfew arrived.

As he swiftly maneuvered the streets, he could feel the eyes scrutinizing his every movement, knowing from this day on there would be no more hiding amongst the throngs of other people or behaving mischievously with his childhood friends. He had to be perfect in every way. He had to be a model citizen in every sense of the word for he knew what became of those who did not follow the rules or flagrantly displayed any flaw.

His dwelling was tucked away in the corner of the uppermost story of the tallest building in the city. As he charged forward, he checked the time on his standard-issue watch. Curfew was breathing down his neck. He readied himself with the key in his hand, jamming it into the lock upon his arrival. Twisting the key hard to the right, he wrenched the door open and threw himself inside as his watch struck curfew. He kicked the door shut and laid on the floor, attempting to catch his breath.

Once he recovered from his trek, he took inventory of his dwelling. There was a small bed shoved into the corner of the room with a kitchenette opposite. A faded rug covered the floor and a set of drawers were situated at the foot of the bed, only big enough to hold his uniforms and documents. A small messenger bag rested on top of the drawers. The bag was standard-issue, same as everything else, but he investigated it in case anything of importance was contained within. He searched every pocket, but only came up with a small slip of paper which contained an address. Too exhausted to think about it, he shoved the slip of paper back into its hiding place followed by his important documents. He set the alarm clock which rested next to the bag before retiring to bed.

He arose in a timely fashion and followed his pre-determined schedule. Everything was timed down to the minute. He was always right on time – never early and certainly never late. Something niggled at the back of his mind, though. The paper. He worked in the same vicinity as the address contained on the paper. On his lunch break one day, his curiosity gained the upper hand. He acted as if he were going for a stroll, all the while keeping his peripherals tuned into his surroundings. A few days later, he noticed something he had not noticed in the days prior. It was a wooden door. He strolled past, promising himself to follow up on it the next day.

The following day he knocked on the door and was yanked inside by an older woman.

“Are you crazy?” she asked him in a harsh whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me what this place is,” he replied. He could see rows upon rows of shelves with rectangles standing side by side on them behind the woman.

“There is nothing for you here. You must go. If they find you here, we’ll both be dead,” she said. She pushed him towards the door, but he noticed something odd.

“Where’s your number?” he asked. She looked perplexed. “You don’t have one, do you?” Again, she didn’t reply. “Who are you?”

“I can’t answer. It is far too dangerous.” She continued to shove him toward the door.

“I need your help. I have questions I need answers to. I’ll do anything if you’ll help me,” he pled. At this she stopped shoving him.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Anything,” he said. She pondered his offer for a few moments before relenting.

“I’ll help answer your questions in exchange for your secrecy. You don’t tell anyone about this place or about me. Understand?” The threat in her voice was not missed.

“Understood.” And he meant it.

“I can’t help you at this moment. You’ll have to return tomorrow. I will warn you. The path you are pursuing is treacherous. You can be exterminated for even setting foot in here.”

“It is a risk I am willing to take,” he responded before he slipped out the door and back into the rhythm of his normal life.

He laid in bed thinking about the things he could possibly learn. His anticipation nearly robbed him of sleep, but he managed to relax enough to arise refreshed and energized in the morning. At the same time as the previous day, he slipped through the mysterious door.

The things he learned in the following days and weeks shocked him. He learned the rectangular items were called books and they contained knowledge of what once had been. He learned the place was there in secret and it had gone underground in the days of the plague when hundreds of thousands of people died. The robots took over as humanity crumbled. Many journals and histories had been left at this underground place as people died. He read hundreds of accounts of parents separating themselves from their children in the hopes of saving them. One account caught his attention. It spoke of a little boy who lived happily outside of the city until the day he was sent away. Nobody had left the city after the plague passed; it was forbidden by the bots. The little boy in the account also had a name. An actual name.

Tears came to the young man’s eyes. He wept for loss and he wept for joy. He wept for the loss of his parents but also for the joy of the knowledge they left behind. He knew he had to leave the city and find the house mentioned in the account. He had to have answers.

“Would you mind if I kept this?” He held up the account. The lady sucked in a sharp breath.

“You know what will happen if they catch you with it, right?” she asked.

“I’m aware,” he responded.

The lady looked hesitant to release the book to him. She held the bridge of her nose with her fingers, pondering her answer.

“Fine,” she relented. “But you must return it. If they find it, all of this is for naught,” she said as she gestured to the rest of the books.

He nodded his thanks as he left the secret place, book tucked away in his bag. His mind was busy thinking up escape routes. Over the next few days, the pieces fell into place. He figured out the when, where, and how of his escape. He snuck small preparations into his bag and built a stockpile.

Finally, the day came for his great escapade into the unknown. He dodged cameras and bots and made the transport out of town. The ride was bumpy, but he kept his mind on his goal. Once the transport reached its destination, he slipped away from the detail and found his way using the account. It lead him to a rickety, run-down house in the middle of nowhere.

There was a road running in front of the house although the pavement was broken. The glass in the panes was shattered and darkness veiled the interior. He carefully crept his way up the steps to the door. The door hung by a hinge and was missing the knob. Gingerly, he entered the house. Dust swirled around him making him sneeze and cough. As he looked around, he recognized a fireplace and bits of living room furniture. Most of the furniture was stripped of their outer coverings leaving only the skeletal frames of what once was. Frames laid scorched and twisted in the fireplace.

He went onwards, looking for more clues. He came to a room with a small bedframe. He vaguely recognized the room, but he decided not to linger. He moved further on and came to a room with a bigger bed in it than the previous one. As he looked around, there was a door which stood out. It seemed relatively untouched. He twisted the knob and the door sprang open. The door opened into a closet. On the far end of the closet was a rocking chair with a folded quilt. On top of the quilt was a heart-shaped locket. It seemed as if it was calling to him, begging to be opened. He stood pondering for what seemed like hours. It didn’t matter what he knew or didn’t know was in there. They would never believe him. He pulled the account from his bag and shoved it under the quilt. He closed the door to the closet and ran back to the detail.

Before long he was bouncing back towards the city. He knew trouble laid ahead of him, yet he wasn’t afraid. He knew the truth he had so desperately longed to know. He once had parents who loved him and cared about him. He had a name, an identity. He was more than a number.

Upon arrival in the city, the bots arrested him. In the interrogation room, a bot sat across from him with a stack of papers. It seemed eerily human in its mannerisms. There was a long pause before the bot spoke.

“85297401,” the electronic, metallic voice said. “You broke the rules. You left the city.” It paused again. “Do you know what that means?”

“I have a name,” he said coolly.

“Your name is 852-“

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “That is the identity you gave me.” The bot only stared at him, empty of emotion. “I have a name.”

He stared into the eyes which were void of all human emotion. The eyes dared him to say more, to dig his pit deeper.

“What do you think your name is?” the bot finally said.

The young man fell silent for a few moments. He weighed his options. It would not matter if he said it or not. He would only be remembered by his number. He could feel a prickle run up his spine. After careful consideration he stood and said, “My name is Tobar.”