“It says I’m your father.”
TEN
THE MOMENT LOCKS IN PLACE, MY MIND frozen like a blank screen as shivers ripple from my fingertips to my throat. Suddenly I’m falling, but I never jumped. It’s the sensation of the world slipping away.
This is what my mother was trying to tell me, why she pushed me to seek answers from Dante. How is this possible? Dante is barely a year or two older than me.
A voice calls me back, and I find I’m still on the edge of the fountain.
“Come on, you’re getting wet,” Dante says.
And in that moment, he sounds downright fatherly.
“You’re lying,” I say, pulling my arm from him.
“It’s right here,” he says, holding out the digifile. “Your parents encoded it in your techprint.”
“My father is dead,” I spit at him. “Benn Lewys died on the night of my retrieval. Whoever you are, whatever happened between you and my mom, nothing changes that.”
I don’t stop running until I’m back inside. He doesn’t stop calling after me.
* * *
Jost’s bedroom is across from mine. I stare at his door, knowing it’s late, knowing I don’t want to talk, knowing he’s asleep.
But also knowing that the door will open if I twist the knob.
I do it. His room is too dark to see much. A single beam of light from the security system outside evades the blackout curtains, cutting across the floor and falling on Jost’s still form. I tiptoe to his bedside and watch him sleep. A pillow is twisted in his arms and his hair covers his face. He breathes slowly and rhythmically, and I count each inhale and exhale, willing the steadiness of it to calm me.
When it doesn’t, I climb into bed next to him. He rolls over and wraps an arm around my waist, but his eyes don’t open.
“You’re still dressed.”
I press into him. I don’t want to explain why I’m awake. I don’t want to share what I’ve seen or learned today. Not yet. Not while I still don’t understand any of it.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“I haven’t even tried yet,” I admit.
“Do you want—”
I know he’s going to say talk, but I don’t give him a chance to ask. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even want to think, so I stop the question with a kiss.
He doesn’t object.
In fact, his whole body says yes. His fingers find my jaw and he holds my mouth to his. His grip loosens and his hands slip into my hair, holding me to him. The room falls away. There is only him, and the wonder of how soft his lips are. This is the only real thing I have left. The taut muscles of his back, coiled like wire, as he hovers over me. The way my body aches to float up, to close the space he’s left open between us, but his hands hold me in place.
I stretch against him. His touch erases the agony I feel in my chest, leaving traces of fire where our skin connects.
“I need you,” I murmur into his ear, and he responds by drawing me up, his hands cocooning my back. He cradles me gently as our limbs lengthen and intertwine like vines growing into one another until I can no longer remember where I end and he begins.
But the barriers between us remain intact, and his lips leave mine as he drops them to my ear. “What are you running from, Ad?”
He knows me too well. I rejoice in this knowledge even as I deny it. “I’m not running.”
Jost drops to his back, his hand wrapping into my own. “I won’t make you talk, Adelice, but I wish you would.”
I’m not ready to face this—not even with him, so I turn to him and run a tremulous finger down his cheek. “I’m not running from anything,” I whisper. “I’m running to something. I’m running to you.”
He doesn’t ask to talk again.
ELEVEN
THE LIBRARY SPANS A SPACE AS LARGE as the dining hall in the Coventry, books tucked behind lattice doors. Someone has lit a fire in the hearth, and its heat radiates through the room. I’d never imagined so many books could exist. My experience is limited to the fifteen or twenty hidden in my parents’ room. Here stories from men about the nature of the universe mingle with tales of all-powerful creators. I come from a world created by men, but on Earth, they don’t know how we came to be, whether we are the product of spectacular chance or divine intervention. I find poetry and prose, history and science mixed together into a world of words and thoughts.
Most of the history books are dated. None of them were written after the building of Arras or the Exodus from Earth. I doubt anyone writes books anymore. I flip through them, looking for clues that will link this reality with the one I knew once, but the volumes are full of history I’ve never heard of, places with names that are lost, and people who died long ago.
“I collect them.” Kincaid’s proclamation is nonchalant, but I can tell by the tilt of his head that he hopes I’m impressed.
“My parents did, too,” I say.
Kincaid slides onto the sweeping arm of a sofa, leaning forward. “So you were raised to be a rebel.”
“No—I was raised to blend in,” I correct him.
“And yet here you are. A girl who reads books and runs from the Guild while your mother sits in my prison,” he says with a smile that stops on his cheeks. His eyes stay snakelike, darting ever so slightly at the smallest of my movements.
“Is that a problem?” I ask.
“Not for me. Not yet,” Kincaid says. “My informants within Arras tell me the Guild is none too happy about your unexpected departure from service. It seems you were more than another Spinster to them.”
I keep my gaze leveled on his beady eyes, forcing myself not to blink.
“Don’t fret, child. I’m thrilled you came to me. Any enemy of Cormac Patton is a friend of mine. ‘The signs of war advance,’” Kincaid quotes. “But I wonder why you are here. What are your plans?”
I’m not sure I can trust Kincaid. I know I don’t like him, but he’s opened his home to us. He’s also as eager to destroy Cormac as I am. I turn my attention back to the shelves. “I want answers about this world and Arras. I was hoping to find a book about Kairos.”
“That will be a problem,” Kincaid says, a note of apology in his voice. “Not many books have been published since the Exodus.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“It is, isn’t it? I never took to the Guild’s desire to limit the arts. They felt the arts were too dangerous to the controlled history, but I think it’s barbaric. It’s one of the reasons I settled here. The Guild occupied this estate for a long time. Apparently they weren’t interested in cultivating the arts in Arras, but they were keen on preserving those they took control of on Earth. I have been a much more attentive owner. My staff takes care to attend to the sculptures and libraries, so I’m certain you will find many treasures in my home.”
I’m not exactly interested in Kincaid’s artistic ambitions, but I nod to show I appreciate his effort. “What is Kairos?” I prompt.
“The correct question is, who is Kairos?” Kincaid says.
“Kairos is the name of a scientist, or at least, he’s come to be known as that. I’m told you bear his mark,” he says, returning to my original query.
I hesitate but then I stretch my arm out to confirm it. I see no point in hiding this information. He already knows I’m a traitor to the Guild.
“Who was he then? Kairos?” I ask.
“That’s complicated,” Kincaid stalls.
“Come on. I showed you mine,” I press.
Kincaid’s mouth twists into a bemused grin. “He was the scientist who started the Cypress Project. Rumor is that he didn’t hold with the Guild’s ultimate plan. Bit of a legend here actually.”
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“He vanished.” He sweeps a hand through the air, opening it with a flourish. “Poof! Some of the people left behind after the Exodus dubbed themselves the Kairos Agenda, determined to continue his work.”
“They rose up in his memory?�
�
“More or less,” Kincaid confirms. “Unfortunately, their ambitions died out as the resistance to Arras grew more futile.”
“But the Agenda had a plan to fight back against the Guild?” I ask.
“The Agenda believed Kairos left behind a machine.”
“A machine?” I ask in a breathless voice. “What did it do?”
“No one knows. It’s only known as the Whorl. Its myth is almost as legendary as Kairos himself. Some believe the Whorl could give Earth control over Arras.”
“Instead of the Guild controlling us,” I say.
“I believe it could do more than that. Kairos wanted to end Arras’s dependence on Earth. His machine would have to do more than simply control Arras. I vowed years ago to find it and finish Kairos’s work. If Arras became independent from Earth, this planet could prosper again. I ‘have no delight to pass away the time; unless to spy my shadow in the sun.’”
“Shakespeare?” I guess.
“An indulgence of mine,” he says.
I make a mental note to procure a volume of Shakespeare’s collected works to add to my book of sonnets. Studying them might give me better insight into Kincaid.
“If you’re right, with the Whorl, both worlds could exist?” I ask. It’s too much to hope for.
“I’m almost certain of it, but I’ve had my own men searching for intelligence on the Whorl for years.” Kincaid sinks back against the sofa, and my pulse quickens. He might have the information about the Guild.
“No luck?”
“False leads and dead ends. It probably doesn’t exist.” Kincaid pauses before adding, “But one can hope.” He stands and offers his arm to me, and my heart sinks. I loop my arm through his and he leads me away from the library.
“So that’s all there is?” I ask. “Rumors? Lies?”
“Oh no,” Kincaid says, patting the hand that rests on his forearm. “I have more to show you.”
He leaves me with promises of answers tonight, but little else.
* * *
“It’s an old film about the Cypress Project. Kincaid hopes it will enlighten you,” Dante says. His tone is formal as he leads us into a room with a large white screen at one end. I’ve been avoiding him since the day in the garden, but even though a few days have passed, none of the tension hanging like a cloud between us has dissipated. I wonder if Jost and Erik can sense it.
The walls of the theater are papered in crimson brocade, and the exaggerated figures of women bear torches overhead, glowing gold in the dim room. The carpets here are so plush they look like velvet and the row of armchair-like seats is equally divine. It’s nothing like the spare white room where we watched vids at the Coventry.
The Cypress Project. Greta spoke of it in the Old Curiosity Shop, and Kincaid mentioned it earlier today. He was following through on the answers he promised me. “The Cypress Project is Arras? Is that why our capital is named Cypress?” I say.
“I suppose,” he murmurs. “It would certainly be a reminder of their cleverness.”
“But they didn’t want anyone to know about Earth,” I say.
“Not subsequent generations, but the original population of Arras was quite proud of their achievement.”
“A film is like a vid?” I ask, pointing to the screen.
“Yes.” Dante excuses himself, obviously eager to get away from me. I’m not sorry to see him go. The awkwardness between us is getting harder to hide, and I still haven’t told the others about Dante’s claim.
We take seats and wait for the film to start. Kincaid enters but he doesn’t sit with us; instead he chooses a small sofa placed to the side of the room. Only Valery sits with him. He nods to me, and I turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring at him.
Blurring light streams past me and life bursts onto the screen. The images are in black-and-white and they crackle although there’s no sound. Dante returns and sits next to me. I focus on the screen, feeling Jost’s arm drape around my shoulders.
Tanks roll through cities. Soldiers march in proud lines. Women wave from windows. A man with a smudge of a mustache screams from a podium. Planes drop bombs overhead. Then a man with a shock of white hair appears, speaking directly to the camera. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he looks congenial and important.
“Who is that?” I ask Dante.
“The scientist who discovered the strands,” he whispers.
I suddenly realize that the great scientist Loricel first told me about—the one whose name was long since forgotten by Arras—is the same man Kincaid told me bore the name of the mark on my wrist: Kairos. He moves across the screen, and the camera follows to zoom in on a small machine comprised of whirring gears.
“A loom,” I breathe.
The scientist demonstrates the loom for a group of men. I glance in the direction of Kincaid, who was once an official in Arras, then jerk my eyes back to the screen. Kincaid is watching us as we watch the film, and now I feel his eyes on me.
The film shifts to footage of girls waiting in line to be weighed, to have their eyes checked, and their hands measured. Many smile and wave to the camera. One curls her arm up and stares out fiercely before dissolving into laughter.
“Are those…” Jost’s voice is full of surprise.
“The original Eligibles,” Dante finishes. I forget the tension between us, too wrapped up in the film. “We have to assume from the film that they are. I truly wish we had the sound so we could hear what they’re telling us. Most of the other records have been destroyed. The Guild has worked very hard at ensuring confidentiality regarding the Cypress Project.”
But it’s obvious to me what’s going on, especially as the screen flashes lists of items approved for transport followed by written guidelines for safe addition and eligible participants.
“Wait,” I say as something slowly dawns on me. “Those eligibility requirements weren’t for Spinsters.”
“No, families and individuals had to prove their health and value to earn a spot in Arras’s weave.”
“And those that didn’t?” I ask.
“You’ve seen the evidence,” Dante responds. “Not everyone on Earth migrated to Arras, but they didn’t die out either as the Guild had hoped. Those who were left behind adapted to the changing surface conditions. The war ended quickly. Hitler, the man who started it, had no one to fight, and there were bigger problems to grapple with here.”
“They picked who got to come along.” The unfairness of it grates against my sense of justice.
“They assumed the war would destroy the rest. The few records that have stood the test of time indicate that the war lasted for several more years, stretching out almost an entire decade. The Icebox was less affected as most of the fighting continued in what was known as Europe,” he says.
“Was known as Europe?”
“We have enough information to conclude that most of it is gone now. A large portion of Arras’s population came from Europe, as many of the Allied troops hailed from there. The rest imploded after they left. And of course, many died during squelched riots. The survivors were driven into the Icebox.” Dante keeps his eyes on the screen while he tells me this. He relates it like a newsman on the Stream.
We watch the few remaining images flit across the screen. The program ends with a happy family—two parents, a daughter, and a son—beaming out at the audience. I wonder who they were. And whether they thought this would consign them to immortality, and how they would feel to see the theater sitting in a ruined world. An empty, forgotten Earth.
As the last image vanishes, the lights in the theater come up. I blink against the brightness. Kincaid stands and politely claps.
“I hope you found that informative.” There’s something weary in his voice, a heaviness that doesn’t suit, and I realize the film has moved Kincaid to tears. He’s touched by something that happened hundreds of years ago.
“I think it raises more questions than it answers,” I say. I bow my head a bit in an attempt t
o hide the surprise I can’t quite wipe from my face.
“It’s the story of how our worlds came to be.” Kincaid spreads his hands. “You cannot expect one film to explain everything.”
TWELVE
DANTE FOLLOWS ME OUT OF THE THEATER, but Jost keeps a protective arm around my shoulder. I know I can’t avoid Dante forever, and now that I’ve seen the film, I shrug off Jost’s arm and kiss him swiftly on the cheek. He doesn’t like it, but he gives Dante a terse nod and leaves us, heading back into the main house while Dante and I tarry on the stone path. The lights have dimmed to near twilight, but I can see the outlines of the wild plants and hear the trickle of the nearest fountain.
“Have you told anyone about us?” Dante asks me.
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“I can barely believe it myself,” Dante says.
“But you suspected it. Why?”
“You said your last name was Lewys and, well, because of your mother,” he says.
“You know her?” I ask.
“Of course, she’s your mother.”
I’m having a difficult time composing sentences, and thoughts, for that matter. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not possible. “So you knew her.”
“Yes,” Dante confirms.
“But Benn Lewys was my father,” I say, trying hard to sort this in my mind.
“Benn was my brother,” Dante says.
“He didn’t have a brother,” I say.
“No, his brother left.” Dante blinks several times as if resetting himself. “I left, because the Guild was coming after me.”
It doesn’t explain anything, especially not his claims about his past—our past—or how he wound up on Earth. Still, my mother hinted at this, so I concentrate.
“But,” I say, struggling, “you aren’t old enough to be my father.”
“About that,” he says, scratching his temple.
“Yes?” I prompt.
“Things are different here.”
“Do you have time machines?” I ask sarcastically.
Altered Page 8