STRUGGLE FOR THE FUTURE
Alice landed on a hard surface with a thump. I am inside the school and past the magnetic dome. Armington is so busy with intellectual pursuits that he forgets to enable the security system. Hmmm... no pain! Why? It was a hard fall. And how is it possible to perform five flips in the air without being affected by the force of gravity?
She stood up reluctantly, too tired to remember anything beyond what she had told Peter and needed to tell him again on this day. She had to remember; the fate of progress depended on it.
Alice saw a blurry shape that approached her. Upon closer observation she saw a boy slightly younger that she, wearing the regulation school uniform. He had chestnut hair, the same color as Max's, gray eyes that nevertheless seemed black, and a slightly wrinkled forehead. He constantly gazed slightly upward in a stare that could only be matched by her own. Many people consider this a sign of arrogance, but I think that arrogance could only be shown by those who look down on others, viewing themselves to be superior. Truly great people look up, to the stars, toward the future. Peter* walked forward showing no signs of worry, yet.
"Oh, hello, Peter," she said, jumping in front of him, "We need to speak, privately." She was putting great emphasis on the last word. - "Of what?" Peter* inquired, "Science or politics?"
Such a limited view of the world! How can he classify everything into two categories when there is so much in the world! This is strange, especially for an intellectual such as himself. But maybe he is correct; mathematics is a science, so are art, music, physical education, and history. Although history is mostly politics... And since he condemns senseless pleasures... I have to stop thinking. My head is in pain.
She hesitated.
"Um...This has to do with both. Now are we going to talk or not?" She made her voice more demanding; that seemed to work at convincing anyone to do anything.
"Very well," said Peter* with some inconfidence.
Luckily I still have a vial of sleeping gas. She extracted one from her pocket and opened it close to Peter*'s eyes. He fell immediately. Alice rushed to him, catching his head before he hit the ground. Now I must drag him to the janitor's closet down the hallway. DO, BUT DO NOT THINK, ALICE! The pain in her head was difficult to ignore, as if someone was sewing pieces of thread into her skull with a laser-guided sewing needle. Alice briefly remembered that many medieval civilizations used to torture their criminals by not allowing them any rest; those who had broken the law were given food, drink, and quality living conditions, anything but sleep. Such people died within ten days, if not less. She lifted Peter* by the collar of his shirt and dragged him toward the closet.
As she took a step forward, Alice realized that she was helpless without her brain's assistance. High educational standards and the constant use of the mind in all activities have destroyed any instincts in her, including movement without thinking. "You must eat not because you are hungry, but because you know that you require energy to survive. You must sleep not due to a built-in sense of fatigue, but due to your brain's knowledge that your organism will be destroyed without rest. You must walk because your mind, not your reflexes, instructs you to reach a certain destination. Reason is control; instinct is submission. You must not submit," Peter had told her during one of their previous philosophical discussions. That is all fantastic, Peter, she thought, but your ideology leaves me either confused or in great pain for the moment. How ironic that now I am using my mind to move you! AAAA! No, you must think if you must move!
With great effort she forced her feet to move forward, performing tasks of infants with great difficulty. Her body pressured her mind to sleep and fall into a period of unconscious repose. However, all logic, all her future depended upon not giving in.
After several seconds of being on the verge of screaming out loud, Alice reached the closet and opened the door with a skeleton key that she extracted from her pocket. She dragged Peter* into the closet and barred the door from the inside with one of the janitor's metal snow shovels. With great uncertainty she extracted an injecting needle from another pocket. The plan was to inject a pain reliever into Peter, not causing any lasting pain, but waking him up because the organism still reacted to the unpleasant feeling several seconds before the pain reliever began to work.
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