The Record Keeper E-Book

Agnes Gomillion

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The Record Keeper is a visceral and thrilling near-future dystopia examining past and present race relations.After World War III, Earth is in ruins, and the final armies have come to a reluctant truce. Everyone must obey the law—in every way—or risk shattering the fragile peace and endangering the entire human race.Arika Cobane is on the threshold of taking her place of privilege as a member of the Kongo elite after ten grueling years of training. But everything changes when a new student arrives speaking dangerous words of treason: What does peace matter if innocent lives are lost to maintain it? As Arika is exposed to new beliefs, she realizes that the laws she has dedicated herself to uphold are the root of her people's misery. If Arika is to liberate her people, she must unearth her fierce heart and discover the true meaning of freedom: finding the courage to live—or die—without fear.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

By Agnes Gomillion and Available From Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Preface

Part One: The School House

The Rebel

The Pit

The Student

The Last War

The Queen Bee

The Librarian

The Rebirth

The Rooster

The Keeper Faction

The Kitchen Maid

The Assignment

The Spy

The Giant

Part Two: The Village

The Memory

The Awakening

The Sick Room

The Auntie, Sky

The Uncle, Kiwi

The Boy, Fount

The Messenger

The Factions

The Committee Meeting

The Ultimatum

The Party

The Black Book

The Second Trip to the Village

The Truth About the Fever

The Senator

The Gamble

The Fallout

Part Three: The Kongo

The Desert

The Gust

The Compromise

The Scorpion

The Armistice

The Bandits

The Silver Pin

The Bandits’ Camp

The Optimist

The First Test

The Breath

The Champion

The Invincible

The Double Helix

The Apex

The Trainee

The Truth About Voltaire

The Omen

The Journey Back

The Teacher’s Pet

The Guard and the Notebook

The Heartbreak

The Record Keeper

Back to the Pit

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Also Available from Titan Books

BY AGNES GOMILLION AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

The Record Keeper

The Seed of Cain (June 2020)

TITAN BOOKS

The Record Keeper

Print edition ISBN: 9781789091151

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789091168

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: June 2019

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2019 Agnes Gomillion

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To Herron always, and Lana. More, to the birds and the Byrds, especially Bill and Connie.

RECORD OF THE LIFE

OF

ARIKA COBANE

AN

AMERICAN SLAVE

WRITTEN BY HERSELF

“To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless one. It is necessary to darken his moral and mental vision, and, as far as possible, to annihilate his power of reason. He must be able to detect no inconsistencies in slavery … If there be one crevice through which a single drop can fall, it will certainly rust off the slave’s chain.”

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

EDITED BY M. LARK PARADISE

SOUTH CAROLINA COLONY

c.1739 A.D.

PREFACE

Dear Reader,

The following record is no fiction. I am aware that many of my adventures will seem incredible to you. And yet, they are true. I have not concealed names or places that you might substantiate the facts as they come to pass. I cannot know where or when you are. If you are Kongo or friends of the English. Will you keep my words or toss them away? I cannot know. And yet, like any good Kongo, I hope my story, faithfully told, will persist. I will speak it out onto these pages so, even when I die, my story will live on. And even when these pages die, breaking into dust, my story will live. Now in a book, now in a letter, now on a breath. Now in a song, now in a dance, now in the sea. Now, I cannot imagine. Such things are best left to the one true God, Soltice.

Arika Cobane

THE REBEL

SOUTHEASTERN NORTH AMERICA 170 A.E., AFTER THE END

I sang a song as I sprang from the womb—which is not unusual. After nine months many Kongos come like baby birds—crying and craning. What’s strange is that I remember being in my mother’s womb. The heat of the birthing channel, the thickness of the fetal fluid, the embrace of my enemy—Funiculus umbilicalis. It wrapped around my neck before I realized. I opened my unborn eyes to see it reared up over me, and I caught the snake by the throat. I tossed it over my shoulder like a braided scarf. Thus, I was delivered. Embattled and calling like a canary.

I recall the shock of the cold world on my skin, and the hands that caught my slippery form. I can’t forget my mother’s face—because I never saw it. It was hidden from me, and I from her, in accordance with the law. The laws, back then, were many. And this one applied only to us, the darkest race in the southernmost territory—the Kongo.

They say my voice resounded that day. A victorious refrain, although I don’t personally recall the song. Years later, my papa sang it to me again and again, until I remembered:

I am Arika of House Cobane.

Do not swaddle me.

I dare you.

I dare you.

* * *

In keeping with full disclosure, I’ll share my reservations. Men, as you know, are not permitted in birthing rooms in any American territory, except the Northridge, where male doctors attend. How, then, my papa came to hear my first song, from his hut, where he would have been obliged to wait, I cannot know. All I can say, without trampling on his memory, is this: for seventeen years, before I met him and he sang it to me in buttery baritone, that song he could not have heard clung to the back of my throat like coal.

Shortly after my birth, I was settled in the Cobane nursery, with every other baby born in the village that year. They called us brothers and sisters and we suckled from the same handful of heavy-breasted attendants. I milked one ripe coconut, touching toes with my sister, who fed off the other. Across the room, our brothers fed in much the same way. We were not related by blood, but we were closer than family; we were comrades! So close, the lines between us blurred. I was me, and them, and us—and we were comrades!

Instead of one mother, we had many. And every Kongo man was our father. On Sunday afternoons after work in the field, mother would come en masse, forming a line so long it curved like a hazel rainbow. I remember hearing her slough off the week as she waited to mother us, pulling her neck from side to side so it popped.

I remember the day she ran late. I cried incessantly, so a nursery attendant offered me her dry breast. I sucked in a mouthful of sour milk, retched and pushed it away—only to have her pull me back and pin me by the neck. She was new, and didn’t know any better.

I broke free, of course. I reared back and sent out a cry to my comrades. Hurrah! They rallied at once. Hurrah! Waking from their naps, slapping their own tits away. With me at the helm, we bawled—Hurrah!—until our cries reached the fields of Cobane. Our mother came at once—as I knew she would. I saw their face in the nursery door, like dawn, and I gave the okay. We settled down, cooing like kittens. We had won.

In the old world, where they studied the stars for signs, they’d say I was born on a cusp. Part bull, part twin, double-minded and stubborn, practical and adventurous. The old world had many strange beliefs. This one seemed true that day, as I curled in our mother’s lap. In my ignorance, I supposed my bullishness had won the day. I knew not the law of the land, the Niagara Compromise. I had not heard of its omnipotence. Nevertheless, it hemmed us all in, every day.

The next morning, I was classified as a Record Keeper. I woke early, as a pair of dark hands lifted me from our crib. His dark lips kissed my forehead as he carried me out of the nursery and across the meadow to the big white house serviced by the Cobane village. I was one year old that morning.

A Teacher with a pale face received me. She took me to a small crib where, alone for the first time, I cried. I cried and cried, growing weak and sick. I imagined my nursery family waiting, just beyond the ecru cage of bars, and I called to us—Comrades—but we did not come. That was the first night of the first phase of my training, Separation.

The second night was the same, as was the third. I resisted for seven times longer than any initiate before or since. As a result, I was held back from my class and spent the next phase of my training, Ingraining, in my dormitory—alone—with three exceptions. I heard conversations through the power-fan grates, though I never spoke back. Second, a trio of nervous Clayskin maids, diplomats from the Clayskin Territory, alternated bringing my meals.

My third companion was one of three dozen diplomats from the Northridge, where the English people dwell. These diplomats handpicked us from our village nurseries and lived with us in the Schoolhouse. I never learned this particular woman’s name. I called her Teacher.

“The Niagara Compromise, Article 4, Section 3, Kongo Classification.” She paced before me, wan-faced, as she lectured. “We, the Committee of Representatives, have observed two brothers of men, each as dark as the other. The first has a narrow nose and ample intellect.”

She stopped, turned and thumped my nose.

“His hair grows in the thick bush fashion, and his mouth is finely drawn.” She waved a hand at my cap of dark brown hair, declining to touch it. Then her eyes skimmed my mouth, leveling on the small black dot just above it. I ducked my head, hiding the mole from her sight.

She slid a glossy drawing of a Kongo man onto my desk, pointing out his features with a bony finger. “The Second Brother has a heavy nostril,” she said, tapping his nose. “He is brutish in mind and sparsely furred. His mouth is like his spirit, coarse and low. Both men are Kongo, each as dark as the other. But the First Brother, the Record Keeper, shall rule the Second.”

I studied the picture, then blinked up at her. We’d gone over this before, hundreds of times.

Her lip curled. “You, girl, are classified as a Record Keeper. Your role, under the Compromise, is to manage the Second Brothers of your race—the workers. See to it that they know their place is in the field. You are better than them and you must conduct yourself accordingly. Now, repeat after me: no yelling, no running, no jumping—for the greater good.”

“No yelling, no running, no jumping,” I said.

Her eyes, the color of overcooked broccoli, narrowed. “Do you enjoy solitude, girl?”

I glanced at my dormitory window. There were other students in the Schoolhouse. Each morning, they filed out for exercise. They were stiff-backed, even as they played for an hour, then filed back in. Only then was I let out for exercise, a walk with Teacher close beside me. “No, Teacher. I would play with the others,” I said.

“Then, for both our sakes, be assimilated! No yelling, no running, no jumping for the greater good.”

I didn’t know what be assimilated meant; I decided it meant be quiet. I stiffened my back, like the students at play, and whispered, “No yelling, no running, no jumping—for the greater good.”

She nodded. “Now again.”

For five years, I learned the hallmarks of my classification—reading and writing. And, in time, I assimilated—or, at least, I appeared to. In truth, my spirit lay dormant. When Teacher wasn’t looking, I imagined myself complete with wings arching from my back. And in my head, where she couldn’t follow, I flew on those wings to my family.

I was seven when I got approval to join my peers in the next phase of training: Primary School. On the first day, I scurried along the Schoolhouse halls until I found the primary classroom door. I grasped the knob and stepped inside with a sigh. Finally! There, in stiff chairs, with their hair braided back too tight, was the skin of my skin, my family. And, just like that, my spirit awoke. My assimilation fell away.

“Comrades!” I cried, swelling with love. I hiked up my skirt and took the helm, jumping onto the nearest desk. It was occupied, but I didn’t care.

“Comrades! It is I!” I dipped my knees and threw up a fist. “To me!”

Slowly, they turned, pupil after pupil, eyes narrowed and intelligent. But they didn’t move. I frowned.

Suddenly, the classroom door opened behind me. Heels clicked, coming my way. It must be the rules, I thought. No yelling, no running, no jumping. They’d been quieted. I shouted again to wake them up, “Comrades, it is I! To me!” Leaping onto another desk, and another, I pleaded, buying time for them to rally. How long did it take me to realize that they wouldn’t?

When it finally struck me, like lightning square in the heart, I slipped and fell. My nose cracked against the ground and spurted blood.

Above me, the other students jittered nervously as the heels at the door clicked closer. They whispered a name I didn’t recognize. “Jones,” they choked. “Jones!”

A gray skirt stopped beside me. Pointed boots protruded from beneath. The toes, fortified with steel, were black as rat snakes. A drop of blood shivered on the tip of my nose, as one toe began to tap. Tap. Tap…

THE PIT

The tapping stopped as a voice spoke from above. “Do you know what happens to children that won’t learn their lesson?”

My eyes peeled from the boots and rolled up the skirt. I shivered, meeting her eyes. Ice blue and colder than her voice.

“Primary Cobane, I asked you a question.” Her eyes sparked. “Answer me!”

My fear ripened and my teeth chattered in my head, sounding an alarm—run! I obeyed without thinking. Taking her by surprise, I jumped to my feet, and sprinted through the classroom door.

I didn’t look back, but a pinch in the back of my throat told me she followed.

I sped up, racing down the hall, pumping as fast as my hobbled skirt would allow. My heart beat like a bird as I looked for escape. Suddenly, I found it, a window at the end of the wood-paneled hall. I lowered my head, ripping my skirt as I ran.

For years, I’d watched the workers from my dormitory window. In bambi cloth britches, they swayed with their labor, in the heat of the Kongo sun. They were hundreds of yards away. I couldn’t hear their song. But I learned it from the rhythm of their work: swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle.

I imagined I toiled along with them as I ran. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. The song became my breath, in and out. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. I lengthened my stride, and leapt up from the ground as my back began to tingle. I imagined I felt something sprouting there—my wings! They would lift me! Into the air, into the trees, where the wind breathed. Swinging the sickle, catching the wheat, tossing the wheat, swinging the sickle. I was close now. I’d dive through the window, fly to the village, rally my comrades there—only, would they rally?

I was at the window, about to leap, when I faltered. I pivoted, looking for another route. There wasn’t one, and she was right behind me. I was cornered. I squared my shoulders and turned to face her.

“Primary Cobane,” she said, delight in her eyes. “Students must not run in the Schoolhouse.”

Before she could say more, I threw up a fist and charged at her middle. “Hurrah!”

Her hand darted out like a viper, opening and snapping shut, barely missing my throat.

I reared back, rallied, and charged again. “Hurra—”

Her fist drove into my ribs. I flew back, cracking my head on the pane. The last thing I saw was her nametag etched in gold, pinned to a cold, hard breast—Headmistress Jones.

* * *

A garbled sound woke me. A whisper crackling in and out—and there it was again! A girl chirping in the pitch black, but I couldn’t make sense of her words. My eyes strained to see her. I tried to shift, turn my head, but I couldn’t move. I was locked in a space so tight, I barely fit. I was seated upright, my arms around my knees and my chin jammed between.

I was certainly alone, so what was that voice? A ghost? And where was I? A tomb? Suddenly, I remembered. The wan-faced Teacher had warned me of a dungeon in the Schoolhouse basement. This was not a tomb, but the Pit. Panicked, I arched my back and gasped for breath, bruising the knobs of my spine as, all around, the indistinct harping continued.

My only concept of time came each day, when Jones opened the iron grate above. Over my heart’s refrain—hold on, hold on, hold on—I’d hear her ask the question. The same one, every day: do you need more? When I didn’t answer, she’d give me a swallow of water, then slide the grate shut for another day.

Day three—the dark is complete. It sucks my bones to the marrow. Do you need more?

Day six—my grip on reality frays. My memories wobble. What is real? Did I only imagine my birth—my mother, my comrades? Were we all, like wings, merely figments?

Day eight—I am disappearing. Hold on Hold on Hold on. My nails grip the flesh of my arms, carving crescent moons in my biceps. My mind unravels. Do you need more?

Day ten—I am gone, lost in a dream, when the grate opens above me. Clean air rushes in and I drink it, as quick as I can. Suddenly, a hand grasps my arm and lifts me out of the Pit.

Blood needled through my limbs as she—Jones—dragged me from the dungeon. Bright light scorched my eyes. And, oh, the thirst! The thirst made me delirious. She pulled me up the stairs and down corridors until we came to the window from whence I’d attempted escape.

“Open your eyes,” she commanded.

I did, seeing nothing but frightful shadows. Her gigantic form, a massive fist raised like a thundercloud.

“You will learn your lesson, girl. You will learn your lesson now.”

The thundercloud zoomed and clapped. My nose broke. Fluid spewed. My neck snapped left and right. And still, the fist came. Relentless, whaling. Whumph, a tooth cracked. Whumph. My thirst paled as my head swam with pain. I dove and dodged—no good. The blows were methodical, falling again and again. I had to think. There had to be a way out. I twisted wildly. She caught me in the temple—once, my ears rang—twice, I went limp.

A sound woke me sometime later. A garbled whisper. The same voice from the tomb! Only now, the harping made sense. Broken exchanges I’d heard through the power-fan grates and whispers of pure fear. She’ll beat you like nothing for this. More, ’cause you’ve made her wait. Listen to me! Fall down with the first blow, okay? And don’t scream. It’ll make her mad. Don’t plead; roll over and grovel. Play dumb. She’ll like that. She likes to see the marks. So turn your face up, okay? Can you hear me?

I opened one eye just as the shadow fist fell again. I angled my chin up, crack, it drove into my jaw. Again, again. Her hands, slick with blood and sweat, lost their grip. I slid to the floor. Fear whispered in my ear.

Whatever you do, stay far back from her feet. She’ll kick like a donkey.

I curled into a ball, just in time. Her heavy foot drove the air from my lungs. I heaved with two more blows. Umph umph. My lips puckered and blood pooled in my mouth. Her leg swung back once more. My dread mounted. Back—up, up—for the blow, it swung. It would finish me. It would strike and I’d be done.

Don’t plead! Roll over and grovel. Play dumb. She likes that.

Instinctively, I obeyed. My shoulders convulsed. I lay down on my belly and turned my face up, a humble swollen thing.

She grimaced, unsatisfied.

If you can, drool and roll your eyes. She likes that.

My neck stiffened and my gut resisted one final time—No! I will not. I will—Oh, but the pain was bad. And her leg was swung back for the kill. I hung my head, rolled my eyes and let my lip hang. Drool trickled down my chin.

For a heavy second, her leg hung there, suspended with my fate. Then, finally, she stepped back, shaking life into her dominant hand.

I collapsed.

She cracked her joints. “For a First Brother, you’re a stupid mule, aren’t you?”

Make sure you agree with everything she says, but stay quiet.

With my cheek flush to the ground, I nodded vigorously.

“Now, let’s see if ten days in the Pit taught you anything.” She bent, grabbed me by the neck and breathed into my ear, “Do you need more?”

When she came for me, I’d been dreaming of my papa, judicious with his affection, but fierce. He would look me over from a distance, with his hands tucked in at the waist, until he found something familiar in my face—a crooked tooth, an attached lobe. Then, he would smile. His song was always the same, and he sang it over and over, until I repeated.

Say Papa.

Say Papa!

Come now, say Papa.

Say Papa.

Say Papa!

Come now, say Papa.

A tear joined the mess on my face as I looked up at Headmistress Jones. Silver fish eyes, yellow hair, a thin line of lip. “Please, no more,” I said. “Enough.”

She straightened and pulled me upright.

My nose ran, tracing jowls on my cheeks.

“Very well. Now, stand up and follow me.”

Her gaze sat upon me as I struggled to my feet, clutching the windowsill for balance. There was a thin line creeping up from the center of the pane. Once it reached the top, the glass would break in two. I froze.

If you jump now, the glass will oblige.

I looked out at the workers dotting the field like black ants. Their heads bowed, so I couldn’t see their faces. I craned my neck to look down. We were quite high. I’d never make it. Biting my swollen lip, I turned from the window and limped after Jones.

Even after this incident, I struggled. During long lectures, my chair became a thousand pointed quills beneath me and my legs would riot, itching to jump and run. On especially bad days, I would slide one hand beneath my desk and pull my bambi skirt up, inch by inch, so the power fan—with its chill hush—cooled the rebellion in my limbs. It was months before I, finally, quieted completely. My wings, the run, the wood panels, the sun were one by one forgotten.

THE STUDENT

Ten years later, two days before I completed my training at the Schoolhouse, I began to remember. I was seventeen that winter, the year of the Great Drought, and my ambitions consumed me. I’d risen from last in the class to teacher’s pet—Jones’ favorite. I was valedictorian of the seven of us set to graduate—two from Cobane and West Keep, one each from East Keep, Covington and Hannibal. On that particular day, the day it all began, I arrived to class hours before dawn in search of the meeting.

I let myself in and surveyed each corner of the moonlit room. Seeing I was alone, I shut the door carefully behind me—wishing I could lock it. I settled for a firm tug, then, as if in a trance, I moved across the wood floor to the classroom’s only window.

It was small and square, overlooking the village beyond the Schoolhouse gates. As I gazed out, letting my eyes detangle the nappy mat of streets, Jones’ voice warned me. Don’t tarry! Find a seat and read, girl. I grimaced; as always, she was right. But, for once, I ignored her.

Twenty minutes passed. Then, suddenly, a flash of light in the east end of the village caught my eye. I looked quickly, but it was gone. A candle snuffed out, no doubt, to avoid detection. I curled my lips into my mouth and bit down, concentrating on the place the light had flickered a moment before.

Slowly, my eye adjusted, and I saw them. A dozen human shapes, standing in a circle around a central figure as dark as the night. A cluster impossible to detect, unless one knew to look for it. And, as far as I could tell, I was the only one who knew. I’d discovered the pre-dawn meetings last week by pure chance.

I’d been organizing Teacher Saxon’s office when a newspaper cartoon shifted into view: a Kongo man with a tattooed head, a thick nose and fleshy lips—all the marks of a worker. Dark eyes glared from his black face, covered in white paint. His huge fist, raised above his head, gripped a bloody dagger.

I glanced at the caption: A White-Face Rebel Attacks! Next to the image, a headline in bold font: Voltaire’s Rebel Army Ravages the South. Wide-eyed, I skimmed the article. Late January—Rebels at Hannibal House—a handful of Record Keepers injured. A month later, a raid at River Run—fifteen dead. All organized by the Rebel, Voltaire, the leader of the White-Face Army. Trembling, I shoved the clipping under a stack of exams. I hadn’t looked at it again. I told myself the danger would never reach Cobane. Our village was known all over the Kongo for our loyal, peaceful workers.

Even so, I couldn’t sleep that night; I’d gone to the senior classroom to study. I happened to look from the window—and there they’d been, across the meadow, in the isolated east end of the village. Twelve dark moons around a black nucleus. All that morning I’d searched for a legitimate reason a group of workers would meet in the middle of the night. I couldn’t find one. Troubled, I woke to watch them the next night, and the next.

On this, the seventh night, I pressed my nose against the classroom window, determined to identify the attendees. No doubt they were Rebels—Second Brothers who refused to take the Rebirth. But were they White-Face Rebels, members of Voltaire’s Army? Plotting an attack? I squinted, searching for a smear of white paint on their faraway faces. I didn’t see any paint, but the distance between us was great and I couldn’t be sure.

When it was time for class I gave up my vigil. Exhausted, I made my way to my desk to start my morning routine. It was always the same. Opening my pack, I set my ink at the top right corner and two quills beside it. At the top left, I lined up my required readers. I placed a dictionary, a notebook and my extra reading material on top of that pile. Taking a deep breath, I sat as, over the next hour, my classmates arrived in gossiping pairs.

Covington, tall and thin with a stork-like neck, bumped into my desk as she entered, spilling my ink. “Oops, sorry,” she said lightly. “I wouldn’t want to upset the valedictorian.”

My hand shot out to right the ink. I glowered. The lip of the glass jar was cracked. “Of course you’d love to upset me,” I said, smiling tightly. “But, since you study half as much as I, I’m not worried.”

“Half as much,” she agreed, showing her teeth. “And yet, I’m right behind you. If you don’t get the highest score on the Final Exam—you can bet, I won.”

I turned my head so Covington could see me roll my eyes. She was talking to her usual cohort, East Keep, and didn’t acknowledge me. Something hot bubbled in my gut.

In truth, she was right. I was on top, but the race was tight. I could stomach losing if we were only competing for valedictorian. After all, even the last in our class—the West Keep twins—would move on to Hasting House, home to all the Record Keepers. However, we weren’t just competing for top marks at the Schoolhouse—more was at stake. The governing body of America, the American Assembly, was in flux.

Two days ago, the Assembly politicians had successfully voted to remove a Kongo representative. This meant one Senatorial seat that, by law, had to be filled by a Record Keeper, was up for grabs. On that same day, the Director had ordained by special decree that the senior who scored the highest on the Final Exam, the entrance exam to Hasting, would replace the ousted Senator and infuse the Assembly with fresh ideas.

Disobedient students could be sent back to the field. Ordinary Record Keepers were vulnerable too. At the whim of a vindictive Teacher or Dana Kumar, the Director of the Kongo, we could all be reclassified as workers. Senators, however, were above reclassification.

None of my peers knew of the open seat. I’d learned of it directly from Teacher Saxon, who favored me. More, only I knew that Rebels were meeting in Cobane. With Voltaire’s Army gaining traction, the safest place in the Kongo would be in the Assembly. If I was going to land that seat, I had to beat Covington.

Just then she laughed, throatily. My eyes skewered her. Beside her, East Keep smirked at the drops of ink on my desk. Lifting my chin, I turned my back on them. I ripped out a sheet of paper and began sopping the spilled ink. A student’s desk should be neat and tidy. I scrubbed vigorously until the desk was warm and polished beneath my hand. Cleanliness reflects the ideals of the Niagara Compromise. I opened my notebook to a fresh page. I chose a quill, and kept busy, writing the preamble to the Niagara Compromise from memory.

We, the human remnant, in order to form a more perfect species…

I was bent over my desk when Jones arrived. I set my quill down and began checking my page for errors. It wasn’t until Jones’ words penetrated my studious fog that I realized something was amiss.

“Class, say hello and welcome to a new student, Hosea Khan Vine.”

Stunned, I looked up.

Teacher Jones, a big woman, cleared her throat. Ahem.

I jumped and spoke with the rest of the class. “Hello and welcome.”

She nodded. “Hosea will sit in on lecture for our final two days.”

She turned to address the new kid privately, and I felt something poke my shoulder. To my right, Jetson Cobane, my house brother, had jabbed me with his quill. He was the one chosen to take my place at the Schoolhouse when they thought I would die from crying that first week. When I did, eventually, recover, they had consulted the Compromise and kept us both. Jetson reminded me ceaselessly that my stubbornness had saved him from life in the field.

“Psst. Do you know anything about this?”

I shook my head and shrugged, facing forward again, just in time. Teacher Jones was frowning at me as she spoke.

“A volunteer, please. Hosea is in need of a tutor for the next two days. He’ll need notes and an introduction to our Schoolhouse customs. The tutor must have a work-up of the Final Exam structure, as he’ll be taking it with you next month.”

Another shocked silence. Behind me, I felt my classmates exchanging curious looks. I could even guess their thoughts.

A new kid, a worker from the look of him.

Did I hear correctly? Is he really from the Vine House?

There hasn’t been a Vine Keeper in years!

For good reason, Vine workers are rotten. All they do is drink liquor and smoke hash.

Nothing good comes from the Vine.

I brushed the end of my quill along my chin and mulled. So long as Covington remained distracted with her social schedule, I had a fair chance of beating her. But what of this new kid? Had he trained privately? Would he ace the Final Exam? Was he eligible for the Senator seat? I worried my lip. Jones was tricky when it came to questions. Too few would garnish more homework. Too many would land you in the Pit. Cautiously, I raised my hand.

Jetson spoke out of turn. “Teacher, forgive me, but how is that possible?”

Jones sniffed. Under her gray uniform, she was covered all over with heavy slabs of visceral fat, as hard as muscle. Her voice tended to pound from her throat in a bark—especially when she smelled defiance. “How?” she replied.

Surreptitiously, I lowered my hand.

Jetson ventured on. “Yes, how? How is he going to pass a test in three weeks that we’ve been preparing for our whole lives? It’s impossible.”

She lowered her gaze to Jetson. “Mister Cobane, you’re not to speak on this matter again. Hosea’s presence here is a matter for us all to accept. Is that understood, Mister Cobane?”

In the Kongo, the titles Mister and Miss were customarily reserved for workers.

Jetson bowed his head. “Yes, Teacher.”

Jones turned back to the new kid.

I wilted at my desk. I’d gone ten years without a rebuke from any Teacher, especially Teacher Jones. I had to be careful not to ruin my record in these last days. Teacher Jones called my name, and I immediately composed myself.

“Yes, Teacher,” I said.

At this, Jones smiled, the solid pudge of her cheeks swallowing her eyes. “Very good. Girls, move back a row. Hosea, take the desk beside your new tutor. Arika, introduce yourself.”

My jaw dropped. Surely not! I’d not volunteered to be the Vine Keeper’s tutor—had I? Teacher Jones gestured toward me. A commotion began to my left. The West Keep twins were vacating their double desk. Their eyes, black and beady, exchanged a stony look of annoyance as they repositioned themselves at my back.

I stared stupidly at their empty seats. They already despised me, and now this!

The new student, I couldn’t remember his name, paused before me on his way to sit. I felt his attention settling on me, like dust.

“Arika?” Teacher Jones prodded.

Steeling myself, I glanced up and got my first look at Hosea Khan. It passed in a blink of the eye. I looked up at him, over at Jones, and back down at my notes. It was a flutter almost too fleeting to remember, and yet, in it, I know now, the whole world changed.

Jones called me to task—Ahem.

I composed myself. “Hello,” I said. I saw the new student’s mouth twitch with amusement. I huffed and swallowed my welcome.

Jones sniffed aggressively. “Arika, you must welcome our new student.”

Fixing my eyes on the chalkboard over Jones’ shoulder, I jerked out a stiff smile. “Hello and welcome. My name is Arika Cobane.”

I don’t know whether he continued to smirk or acknowledged my introduction. He remained silent, however, taking the seat assigned to him.

Jones seemed oblivious to the tension that gripped the room. Wanting no more trouble, I picked up my quill and pretended to write as I studied the new student. Was he special, more advanced? I couldn’t guess.

“Arika,” Jones said. “Shift over and share your reader with our new student.”

My nostrils flared. Why did the valedictorian have to sit with the new kid? Reluctantly, I scooted my desk over half an inch. I thought I heard him chuckle.

With a loud screech, he slid his desk the rest of the way. It collided with mine.

Stiff-necked, but conscious of Jones’ attention, I angled my reader a quarter inch so he could read along—if he strained.

Jones began to lecture, pacing back and forth. As Record Keepers in training, we studied everything about the seven continents of the old world as well as the solar-powered new world. We’d been over this material time and again. Even so, I took copious notes, lifting a shoulder so that the new kid, whoever he was, wouldn’t benefit from my work.

An hour later, Jones paused to retrieve a new box of chalk from her desk. I set down my quill to massage my palm. She moved back, front and center, to write a question on the board. I glanced at it and recited the answer in my head. I was about to signal for her attention when she called on Jetson for the third time in a row. He stuttered a reply. I winced—wrong again! I glanced covertly at the new kid then sat back, revealing the top page of my notes:

* Return Library book.

* Finish model crystalight assignment for Teacher Saxon.

Hastily, I added a third task to my daily to do list: Reconsider friendship with Jetson. He was nice enough, but how useful would nice be when I was a Senator at Hasting? When he failed, for the fourth time, to answer correctly, Jones picked up her ruler and strode to his desk.

“What chapter are we on, Mr Cobane?”

“Chapter five,” Jetson guessed.

Obi, wrong again! I froze, forgetting to hide my notes from the new kid. It made no difference. His eyes were glued to the steel edge of Jones’ ruler. I followed his gaze. Nearly everyone boasted marks from it, dark lines along their forearms and wrists. No one but Jetson had these scars on their face.

The ruler flashed, opening a gash on Jetson’s cheek. “Arika!”

I dropped my quill. “Yes, Teacher?”

She glared at Jetson as she barked at me, “What chapter are we on?”

My eyes flew, like magnets, to Jetson’s bright green gaze. His full mouth was pressed thin. I didn’t like his study habits—but I did not wish him pain. In the corner of my eye, Covington passed a note to East Keep, who snickered and passed it somewhere behind me—no doubt to the West Keep twins. Jetson’s cheek oozed. The twins put their heads together and chippered.

My chest throbbed. Jones wanted an answer and I was running out of time.

Just then, she turned slightly, showing me her profile. Time was up.

I opened my mouth to answer. Then, for some reason, I glanced at the new kid. His hand was fisted on our joined desks, veins popping. Jones tapped the ruler on her thigh, snap snap—snap! There was a reason that ruler had never marked me.

I cleared my throat. “We’re technically covering chapter thirty-one, the last in our reader,” I said. “But, when Hannibal questioned our use of the Joust as a deterrent to Kongo aggression, you introduced the current segment. We’re to move back on track this afternoon.”

“Excellent, Arika. Mister Cobane can learn from your example.” She turned and brought the ruler down—snap—on Jetson’s face. Satisfied, she returned to her lecture.

I huddled over, scribbling furiously. The power fan kicked on with a noisy buzz. Even so, I heard the talk going on behind my back. Some was about the Vine Keeper, but most was about me, punctuated with an ugly word—a word I hated.

I lifted my chin and ground away at my notes, reminding myself that fielding jealousy was part of being valedictorian. I felt a jab in my shoulder—East Keep. I kept writing, determined to keep busy. Jab jab—that one hurt. I ducked my head, writing nonsense words now—bits and pieces of memorized text, squiggles and punctuations. The sharp tip of the quill ripped through the page. I dipped ink and kept writing.

Finally, East Keep forced the issue. She wrote the word down and passed it to the twins. They folded it and tossed it over my shoulder. It opened, ugly on my desk—TRAITOR!

THE LAST WAR

In the fall before I met Hosea Khan, I accepted the Silver Medal Award in old-world history. In my winning essay, I outlined the events leading up to the Last War, the war that destroyed the old world, save a sliver of the east coast of old North America.

Every Record Keeper knows the paramount forces behind that catastrophe, as they validate our aversion to electro-technology. The conclusion I drew in my essay, however, was extraordinary. I argued that the fate of the old world could be traced to a single instant.

I had many unfortunate moments to choose from. For example, in a last-minute decision, the Director of the Omega Project, the final brainchild of the bankrupt SETI group, decided to cut costs by using the Allen Telescope Array in place of more sophisticated models proposed for the Project. It was an important decision since the Allen elements linked directly to the Internet and left the whole world vulnerable to attack.

If not that moment, I might have pinpointed the minute Steve Kalowitz, a manager on the Project, relinquished control of the monitor room to Henry Burns, an overworked intern. Leaving an intern unsupervised was against protocol, but that night was the last of the year, and Kalowitz was eager to celebrate with his wife and triplet toddlers—all of whom died eight days later when the first heavy bomb, dubbed “the Volcano Maker,” landed. I could have chosen the moment one of the radio telescopes transmitted a signal to the undermanned control room, a process that took less than a second. Or the moment Burns, in receipt of the signal, comprehended its significance.

The Allen telescopes were designed to scan the sky for artificial radio waves. A synthetic signal, such as the one transmitted that night, could have come from an extraterrestrial society, with superhuman transmitters. Or, more likely, the signal was a hoax—a human hacker fishing for dramatic entry into the worldwide network he intended to destroy.

Regardless, the telescopes collected the signal and fed it into imaging software. A moment later, the Project monitor displayed the software’s yield—a sheet of music! Staffs, a treble clef, time signature and waves of black notes.

In my essay, I wondered why Burns, presented with this chillingly sophisticated image, did not immediately send for Kalowitz, who would have called the Project Director, who would have alerted the American President, who might have saved the world. But I found no satisfying answer. Instead, Burns downloaded the signal and processed it into sound: a long overture of static, a series of beeps and drones, a moment of silence, a tune.

Listening, Burns sighed. By no coincidence, we think, the tune was one his grandmother Burns had sung to him in the crib. Her sweet face came to his eyes that night, and her breath to his nose. The chorus crested, and his heart melted—in an instant.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread upon me

And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be

For you will bend, and tell me that you love me

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Lulled by the familiar ballad, Mr Burns relaxed his ordinarily cautious nature. He emailed the song to his mother, Patricia, who sent it to her brother, Jonah, who forwarded it to his entire address catalog.

A recipient of Jonah’s email had a premonition of danger and marked the attachment as potentially hazardous spam—too late. The virus had learned to propagate itself. It infiltrated every computer that came within range of an Internet signal, even momentarily. At 98.9 percent saturation, the virus began to feed. Confusion, blackout, global meltdown. Whoever launched the Volcano Maker, United Korea we think, triggered the Last War—the end of an age. The United States responded, along with the Pax-Putinia, violating the Upper-East Treaty. When that treaty fell, all the old allegiances and grudges resurfaced in total war.

On account of the blackout, aerial navigation was imprecise. Bombs exploded hundreds of miles off target, shattering alliances and bolstering animosity. As the lines between nations dissolved, mad men took over each of the seven continents, and bombing continued, destabilizing the crust of the Earth. The ten-year Continent Conflict ended when a parasitic organism rose up, we think, from the magma layer and killed millions before it was contained. Crashing seas of molten lava, unpredictable quaking, and boiling geysers that sprayed strange bacteria and disease left most of the world uninhabitable.

Hungry herds of refugees sought shelter, strength and new world order. Eventually they found it, on a stable island that was old North America. They organized into tribes and managed a few years of peace before fighting broke out again, a six-year race war. When the three remaining armies—the Dark Kongos, the Brown Clayskins and the Whites, called English—finally agreed to end it, they met in the north country, near Niagara, and hashed out a compromise.

THE QUEEN BEE

At last, the bell chimed for break. I snatched my reader from our joined desks and headed for the classroom door. I wasn’t running from my classmates, or their note, I assured myself. I opened the door and yanked it shut behind me, smoldering.

None of them knew what it took to be the best—complete focus. While I pulled extra study sessions, they watched old-world television in the Reel Room. While I squeezed in hours at the library, they smoked hash in the gardens. They had inside jokes and illicit meetings with the Clayskin merchants, and I had the ear of the Teachers.

They called me traitor now, but someday soon they would wish they had done the same. My time was coming. Stooped over, with busy little strides, I increased the distance between me and the senior class.

“Arika!”

Ducking my head, I hurried on.

“Arika, wait! Arika!”

With a sigh, I turned to see Jetson, Covington and East Keep gaining on me. Jetson was waving me down. He stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Jetson,” I said. My eyes avoided his cheek.

Covington snorted. “I think what Jetson meant to say is—Arika, what are you doing out of the library?”

East Keep snickered. “I hardly recognize you without a book under your nose.” She wrinkled her own nose, which was short and stout.

I looked between them dispassionately.

“Leave off,” Jetson said. “She bagged the Silver Award, didn’t she?”

“She won the award last year,” Covington pointed out. “So, what’s her excuse now? We’ve barely laid eyes on her in weeks.”

“Not that we want to,” East Keep added. “I don’t know how you stomach her.”

“Graduate Assessments are this week, or did you forget?” I said to Covington.

Her cheekbones were set at a sly angle. She looked down her nose at me. “I remember the Assessment; I’m just not dwelling.”

I clutched my books. I’d spent many anxious nights speculating on the Assessment. If even one Teacher objected, I’d be reclassified, despite acing the Final Exam.

“Besides,” Covington added, “everyone knows that Teachers only object out of spite. If you’ve put them off that badly, you’re vexed regardless.”

My eyes cut to her. “So I should, what—hang out in the Rec Room drinking punch and varnishing my nails?”

Covington’s eyes lit. Jetson stepped between us. He looped an arm around my neck and spoke in my ear. “At least you can take a break and come to the gathering East Keep is hosting tomorrow.”

On cue, East Keep brandished a pink, elaborately decorated invitation. She tried to hand it to me. It reeked of flowers.

“No thanks.” I ducked from under his arm.

“Come on. It’ll be fun,” Jetson wheedled. He quirked one brow. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re going to a nail party?” As the only boy in our class, he generally avoided them.

“It’s not a party!” East Keep said, flapping the invite. Cloying waves of perfume advanced against me.

Taking it from her, Jetson set it on top of my books. His buffed nails gleamed. “At least read it before you say no. We called a preliminary Planning Committee meeting. All you have to do is show up.”

“And don’t wear that blouse,” Covington said, arching a brow.

I looked down at my dress to see a large dark blotch across the front. My notebook, cradled with my reader against my chest, was also smeared with ink.

East Keep took a step back, covering the rest of her invites protectively. “Obi, Arika! Did your ink explode or something?”

In my haste to make the door after class, I had forgotten about the cracked ink container. I dabbed anxiously at the blotch with a handkerchief—Jones had a keen eye for messiness.

“Or maybe you’re trading fashion advice with the new kid,” Covington said, jerking her chin back toward the Vine Keeper. He was ambling our way, deep in thought.

“Obi, look at him. Straight from an old-world jungle,” East Keep said.

Everyone laughed, except me. I frowned sympathetically. Toward the end of class, Jones asked him to comment on a simple issue. In response, he’d sat silent as a mute as we all drew the same conclusion—he was even dumber than he looked. It wasn’t his fault. The Rebirth pills were known to backfire sporadically. Instead of scrambling memories as intended, they made lesions in the brain, causing terrible mental side effects.

“He’s twenty at least,” East Keep said. “That’s old enough for thirteen Rebirths, and thirteen misfires. He must be completely feral.”

“All that bulk and a spoiled mind,” Jetson added, shrugging. “If he can follow simple orders, he’d make a fine Guardsman.”

My eyes roved over the boy’s taut muscles. Every year, the most robust male workers were selected for specialized erasures and trained to police the three territories. Jetson was right. Ferals made excellent Guardsmen, but terrible students. He was no competition for Senator.

Covington grimaced. “Don’t be cruel, Jetson. Only field hands have to protect their feet. The Captain of the Guard is an English gentleman. He wouldn’t stomach those shoes. I bet the Supply Room Merchants won’t even sell them.”

They laughed again as Jetson struck a gentlemanly pose, showing off his belted tunic. His leather sandals laced up his ankles and legs.

I shifted my books to cover the stain on my shirt. The Vine Keeper had a silver medallion around his neck, but it was dull and needed polishing. If he entered the Main Hall like that, he would be done for—socially crucified.

Before I thought, my mouth opened. “And how do you know the Captain of the Guard, Covington?” I said. “Or, for that matter, since when do you talk to Clayskin merchants? From what I hear you do everything but talk.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What have you heard?”

“They say a jeweled cuff for a kiss is the going rate. A spool of thread for—more. It’s no wonder you wear such finery.”

She snapped. “Hush up, Arika!”