Shades of Grey Page 3

  “Holden Russett,” said Dad, “holiday relief swatchman class II.”

  “Right,” was the gruff reply. “Do your thing, then.”

  While Dad knelt to attend to his patient, I looked about curiously. On the walls were samples of National Color’s full range of universally viewable hues, a guide to colorizing your garden “on a budget” and a poster advertising an all-new color that had just been added to the Long Swatch: a shade of yellow that would give bananas Chromatic independence from lemons and custard. There were also full-sized tissue paper outlines for murals, with numbers for easy reference printed on the blocked panels; and next to the counter were displays of mixing kettles, maulsticks, thinners, reabsorbers, every sort of brush imaginable and, for the prestigiously large jobs, rollers. Beyond the stored cans of paint I could also see the entrance to the Magnolia Room, where customers cleared their visual palette before savoring a particularly fine hue.

  Dad nudged me, and I knelt next to him on the floor. The patient was a mature, well-dressed man of perhaps sixty and was lying prone, head on one side, with eyes staring blankly into the middle distance. He had upset a pot of blue on the way down, and the staff were busily scraping the floor with scoops and trowels to get the valuable pigment back into the can.

  Dad asked the man his name and, when there was no answer, swiftly opened his leather traveling swatch case and clipped a monitor to the patient’s earlobe.

  “Hold his hand and keep an eye on his vitals.”

  The monitor took a moment to read his internal music, and the middle light glowed without flashing, which was a good sign. Steady amber—it might be something as simple as the summer vapors.

  Dad dug his hand into the man’s breast pocket, pulled out his patient’s merit book, then flipped to the back page to read his Chromatic rating.

  “Oh, flip,” he said, in the way that meant only one thing.

  “Purple?” I asked.

  “Red 68, Blue 81,” he affirmed, and I obediently wrote the rating on the man’s forearm while Dad dialed the correct offset into the spectacles. I hadn’t planned on following him into the profession but had been around him long enough to know the drill. Although many of the broad-effect healing hues used in Chromaticology worked irrespective of one’s color perception, the more subtle shades needed Standard Vision to have an effect on the cortex—hence the color offset on the spectacles.

  “He’s a Purple?” echoed one of the salespeople in a worried tone. Purples looked after their own, and if anyone had slacked in his attempt to maintain this man’s continuance of life, there could be severe repercussions.

  “Seventy-four percent,” I remarked after doing some impressive head math, then added, perhaps unnecessarily, “almost certainly a prefect.”

  We rolled the man over so he was on his side, and as soon as the staff and the customers saw the Purple Spot pinned to his lapel, they all went quiet. Only an Ultraviolet having an inconvenient dying event right here in their store would cause more headaches. But this placed Dad under pressure, too. If he tauped this, he’d have not only negative feedback, but some serious explaining to do. Little wonder swatchmen generally stayed away from passing shouts.

  “We should have gone to see the rabbit,” he murmured, placing the offset spectacles over the man’s eyes. “Give me a 35-89-96.”

  I ran my fingers down the small glass discs in his traveling swatch case, selected the glass he wanted and handed it over.

  I repeated “35-89-96” in a professional tone.

  “Sixty-eight point two foot-candles left eye,” said Dad as he slipped the disc into the appropriate side of the spectacles. He set the light value into his flasher, and a high-pitched whine told us the device was charging. I dutifully wrote the time, code, dosage and eye on the Purple’s forehead so follow-on practitioners would know what had been given, and as soon as the flasher was ready, Dad called out, “Cover!” and all those in the shop closed their eyes tightly. I heard a high-pitched squeak as the flasher discharged the light through the colored glass and the offset, and from there to the retina and the man’s visual cortex. It was an odd feeling that you never really became used to. My first flash had been for my combined Ebola-Measles-H6N14 inoculation at age six, and for a brief exciting moment I could see music and hear colors—or at least, that’s what it felt like. I also salivated for the rest of the day, which was usual, and could smell bread for a week, which wasn’t.

  I felt the Purple patient tense as the color seeped into his visual cortex. The disc was a light orange, and enough to bring the Purple back into consciousness. Quite how it did this, no one knew. For all its extraordinary benefits to the Collective’s health, Chromaticology remained a poorly understood science. For Dad, it wasn’t important. He didn’t mix or research the necessary hues; he just diagnosed the problem and administered the required shade. When Dad was in a self-effacing mood, he called it “healing by numbers.”

  But aside from laughing out loud without regaining consciousness—an uncommon but not unheard-of reaction—the Purple actually got worse.

  “Flashing amber,” I noted from the monitor.

  “We’re losing him,” breathed Dad, handing back the 35-89-96. “Give me a 116-37-97.”

  I selected the light green disc and handed it over. Dad swapped to the other eye, yelled “Cover!” again and flashed. The Purple’s left leg contracted violently, and his vitals dropped to flashing red and amber. Dad quickly requested a 342-94-98 to bring the Purple back onto an even keel and reverse the effects of the 35-89-96. This did have a radical effect—in the wrong direction. For with a shudder, all vital signs vanished completely and the ear monitor flicked to steady red.

  “He’s gone,” I said, to a rapid intake of breath from everyone watching.

  “With just a 342-94-98?” repeated Dad, incredulous. “That’s just not possible!”

  Dad checked the disc I had handed him, but there was no mistake. He wiped his forehead, took the ninety-second sandglass from his pack and placed it on the floor next to us. With the heart stopped, ninety seconds was the time it took for the blood to drain away from the retina. Once eye death had occurred, there would be no way to get any more color into the patient’s body, and it would all be over. And that was bad. Not just because he was a Purple, but because his full functionality hadn’t been fulfilled. And anyone who didn’t make target expectancy was communal investment wasted.

  Dad flashed him several other hues but without success, then stopped, thinking hard while the sand slowly trickled through the glass.

  “Everything I’ve tried has failed,” he said to me in a whisper. “I’m seriously missing something here.”

  Everyone in the shop was silent. No one even dared breathe. I looked up at the customers and staff, and they stared back blankly, unable to assist. After all, National Color took care of decorative hues, not healing ones. It was true that they mixed euphoric shades to aid in maintaining a good humor among the residents, but it was always in consultation with the swatchman general.

  I suddenly had a daring thought. “The hues are having no effect,” I whispered, “because he’s not Purple!”

  Dad frowned. Wrongspotting was so rare as to be almost unheard of. It carried a thirty-thousand-merit fine—effective Reboot. You might as well put yourself on the Night Train and have done with it.

  “Even if that’s true, it’s no help at all,” he whispered back. “Red, Blue, Yellow? And how much? We’d need six months to go through every possible combination!”

  I looked down to where I was still holding the man’s hand and noticed for the first time that his palms were rough, the top of one finger was missing and his nails were ragged and unkempt.

  “He’s Grey.”

  “Grey?”

  I nodded and Dad stared at me, then at the patient, then at the timer. The last few grains were beginning to dribble through, and with no plan except the default “do nothing and hope,” Dad removed the offset spectacles, selected a glass disc a
nd, after shouting “Cover!” again, flashed the color into the man’s eye. The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. The Grey convulsed as his heart restarted and the ear monitor flicked back to steady amber. After a few minutes of carefully selected swatches, to which the patient responded successfully and, more important, predictably , he was soon back to flashing green, and everyone in the shop began to chatter in relieved tones about how Dad would be up for some serious A++ feedback and an extra cake chit for saving the life of—they thought—such an eminent resident. We exchanged glances as they said this, but for the moment Dad wasn’t letting on. There was no point in ruining the chances of a full recovery. Besides, the Collective needed every Grey there was—more than we needed Purples, in fact, but no one would ever say so.

  Someone entered the shop in a hurry and knelt down next to us. She introduced herself as Miss Pink, a junior swatchwoman in Vermillion’s practice. She looked at Dad quizzically when she saw just how many hues were written on the Grey’s forehead, and he explained in a hushed tone about the wrongspottedness.

  “You’re kidding?” she said, suddenly looking nervous, as though simply being near such a grevious infractor made her guilty by association.

  “I’ve never been more serious. Do you recognize him?”

  “Not one of ours,” she replied after peering closer, “probably a Grey with nothing to lose on his way to Reboot. Let’s take a look.”

  She unbuttoned the Grey’s shirt to reveal his postcode, but the neatly scarred number was partially obscured by a livid sweep of extra scar tissue. Not content with wrongspotting, the wretched infractor had also tried to hide his identity.

  “It looks like an LD2,” said Dad, staring at the mottled flesh carefully, “but I can’t read the rest.”

  Miss Pink took the Grey’s left hand and stared at it. The second fingertip had been neatly cut above the first joint, rendering his nailbed identification worthless. Whoever he was, he didn’t want us to find out.

  “Why do you think he collapsed?” asked Miss Pink, filling out a feedback slip so we could be on our way.

  Dad shrugged.

  “Mildew, probably.”

  “The Rot?!”

  She said it too loud, and there was an undignified rush for the door as the grim possibility of catching the Mildew overcame natural curiosity and good manners. I’d never seen eight people try to get out a door at the same time, but they managed it. Within twenty seconds we were alone.

  “Actually,” said Dad, who had an impish sense of humor, “I don’t know what he’s got, but it’s not the Mildew. I would hazard a guess that he may have suffered an aneurism. I would recommend a palette of light yellows somewhere around gervais to promote healing, but you should probably keep him unconscious while you do it. Unless, that is,” he added, “the Mildew does come for him.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Pink thoughtfully, “we must always consider that possibility.”

  She fell silent. No one liked talking about the Mildew.

  The Word

  2.3.02.62.228: Approved words to be used in oaths and chastisements can be found in Annex 4 (permitted exclamations). All other cusses are strictly prohibited. Fine for noncompliance: prefect’s discretion, one hundred demerits maximum.

  Miss Pink gave Dad positive feedback, we bade her good day and then stepped out of the shop and back into the close summer heat. We loosened our ties no more than the proscribed amount, and looked about. The square, which before had been busy and noisy, was now deathly quiet. The townspeople had organized a voluntary fifty-yard exclusion zone—not unusual, but pretty pointless. A Mildew sufferer only becomes dangerously infectious an hour after death, when the skin is covered in fine grey tendrils and the victim, whose lungs are now under pressure from the rapidly multiplying moldy growth, will involuntarily expel the spores in a single explosive death cough. That is the moment to panic and leap out of the nearest window—irrespective of which floor you’re on, or whether it is open or not.

  Barring industrial accidents, sudden body failure, angry megafauna, Riffraff and—most relevant to me—the occasional yateveo, the Mildew got everyone in the end. It steadfastly ignored the barriers of hue and took the strongest Violet with the feeblest Achromatic. One morning you’d wake up with long nails and numb elbows, and by teatime you’d be good for nothing but tallow and bonemeal. But paradoxically, although the Mildew was the number one killer by a long stretch, very few people actually died of it. As soon as a victim had been diagnosed and murmured a rasped good-bye to tear-brimmed loved ones, they would be wheeled into the nearest Green Room, where they would drift into a highly pleasurable reverie and, from there, to death. It was safer that way—a corpse could be bagged and safely in the icehouse when it coughed.

  When we reached the small crowd of onlookers at the edge of the exclusion zone, they parted to let us through, but not without a barrage of questions. Dad answered asambiguously ashe could. No, he didn’t know if a Mildew had been confirmed, and yes, Miss Pink had taken control of the situation. He was then asked by a reporter for the Vermillion Chronicle for an interview. He initially refused until the reporter mentioned he was also a newsfeed for Spectrum, so Dad agreed to say a few words. While he was thus engaged, I looked idly about at the gathered townsfolk and made a note of the time. We had thirty-one minutes to catch our train, and if a slowpoke Yellow was on verification duty today and we missed our connection, we might very well be here another day.

  And that was when I saw Jane. I din’t know it was Jane, of course. I wouldn’t find out her name until that afternoon, after she had done her impossible conjuring trick. I didn’t usually stare at girls—less so when Constance was around. But on this occasion I just gaped. I was struck, poleaxed, smitten—whatever you want to call it. I don’t know why I felt that way. Even now, if you took me half drowned out of the yateveo, sat me on a log and said, “Listen here, Eddie old chap, what exactly was it that you found so attractive?” I would simply waffle about her small, almost perfectly upswept, retroussé nose, and you’d consider me insane and put me back. Perhaps I was struck by not what she was, but what she wasn’t. She was neither tall nor willowy, nor had any poise or bearing. Her hair was of medium length and had been tied back in a manner that fell just nine-tenths within permissibility. She had large, questioning eyes that seemed to draw me in, and a sense of quiet outrage that simmered just beneath the surface. More than anything, within her features there was a streak of wild quirkiness that made her dazzlingly attractive. In an instant, Constance and her privileged position vanished from my mind, and for the moment at least, I could think of nothing but the plain Grey in the dungarees.

  I tried to think of a reasonable opening line, as I had several things to say that could be variously described as witty or intelligent, but not both. Quite why I needed to talk to her I had no idea. In half an hour I would be gone from this place, and likely never to return. But a few words with her might brighten my day, and a smile last me a week.

  But my thoughts were interrupted. The crowd had given out a Collective murmur. It appeared that the Purple Pretender was being carried from the shop on a stretcher rather than a seamless polymer bag, which confirmed to everyone’s huge relief that it was not the Mildew. But Jane’s reaction was quite different. It was one not of relief but of concern, and my heart beat faster. She knew who he was—and probably what he was doing there. I took a pace forward and laid my hand on her forearm. But my touch, although innocent of meaning, illicited a furious response. She gave me a look of cold hatred and growled in a menacing voice, “Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

  I was momentarily stunned—not just by the fact that she had used one of the Very Bad Words, but because she had threatened physical violence to someone up-Spectrum, and seemingly without the slightest provocation. I handled it badly, and defaulted to blustered outrage.

  “You can’t talk to me like that!”

  “Why not?”

  It was so obvious a question
that it barely needed answering, but I tried nonetheless.

  “Because you’re Grey and I’m Red, for one thing!”

  She reached forward, plucked the Red Spot from my lapel, dropped it onto the cobblestones and remarked sarcastically, “Can I threaten to break your jaw now?”

  The impertinence was astonishing, and my as-yet-unbroken jaw may have dropped open. I should have asked her who the Purple Pretender was and put her on the back foot, but at that moment Dad called my name, and I turned away. By the time I looked back, the Grey had slipped away into the crowd.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A girl.”

  “With a train leaving in half an hour? Eddie, you really are the most hopeless optimist.”

  They didn’t verify our postcodes down at the station. The Duty Yellow had found a dress-code infraction to deal with—something about work boots with a Travel Casual #3—so after we’d had our tickets checked and claimed our luggage, we settled into seats near the rear of the carriage, with me staring out the window, deep in thought.

  “I’ve got something for you,” said Dad, and he handed me a dented soupspoon that had become thinned with centuries of use.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “The Grey wrongspot’s waistcoat pocket. I took it in lieu of payment.”

  “Dad!”

  He shrugged. “You saved his life. And besides, you don’t have one.” Acceptable rules of conduct were suspended when it came to the spoon shortage. The deficit had gotten so bad that prices were all but unaffordable, and dynastic spoon succession had become a matter of considerable interest. Spoons were even postcode engraved and carried on one’s person to eliminate theft, and good table manners, one of the eight pillars upon which the Collective was built, had been relaxed to allow tea to be stirred—shockingly—with the handle of a fork.

  I pocketed the spoon without further comment, as the wrongspot most certainly did owe me, and we waited for the other passengers to board.