Academy 7

by Anne Osterlund

  The crickets had tuned their calls, and the frog choir provided the melody. As she wove her way down, over one branch and under another, the song built to its vibrant climax, then timed its instant silence to match the final drop of her feet upon the ground. Aerin knew the choir would begin again within a moment; and sure enough, as she slipped into the garden’s labyrinth, a single amphibian soloist reprised the opening notes of the song.

  The trees welcomed her to their stillness. Heavy humidity had lurked over the day, and while the fall of the sun had eased the oppression, not even the tiniest wisp of a breeze rustled the leafy gowns of oak and cedar. Tonight the garden was at peace. Unlike last night.

  Or perhaps the garden itself was not so different. Perhaps only her eyes and her heart had changed, in some ways and not in others. For hadn’t the garden called her from the first day of her arrival? And hadn’t the fountain, from the first time she had seen its sparkling shimmer?

  She had answered dozens of times.

  But this night she knew why.

  The memory had come after the others, long after the first wave the night before in which she had opened the chest at the back of her mind, allowing herself to see all the moments with her father that had been pushing for attention these past seven years. The screams and tears that had blown through her at the sight of her mother’s dead body had been shock, but they had also been a release. An unknown, unimaginable release.

  It had been too hard, on Vizhan, to think about what she had lost. And after her escape, she had been afraid. But while the simulations had been filled with loss, anger, and death, they had also been filled with her father. And reminded her that he was none of those things. It had hurt, yes, to remember, but the pain had lessened with every memory. And by the dawn, Aerin had known she could survive.

  The memory of the fountain had come later: this afternoon, once she was at peace. It had presented itself. Like a gift. She had seen her father, tall and firm, as he had looked to her when she was seven or eight. She had been angry with him because he had refused to answer her question about her mother.

  He had taken her to a park on some planet whose name she could not remember and had led her up to the wide sunken basin of a fountain. Knowing he was trying to barter for her forgiveness, she had intended to sulk. But that fountain. It had felt huge, with its round rim and long sloping sides. There had been music. And color—bright green and pink and sharp blue that had danced in the streams of water.

  But what she remembered most were the children: running and shrieking and screaming as they dodged the rhythmic beams of spray in the inevitable hope of capture. Her father had motioned for her to join the boys and girls with their sopping clothes and wild movements. And she had wanted to. Oh, she had wanted to!

  But she had been scared. The other children had brothers and sisters and friends, someone else with whom to play. Her father had offered to go down to the water with her, but none of the other children had fathers holding their hands.

  And she had said no.

  He had been hurt. The look in his eyes had shown that he believed she was rejecting him. She had not meant to, but she was too ashamed to admit her fear. Instead, she had sat with her father in silence for a long time at the top of the basin. And envied those children running and playing and laughing in the water.

  He had never taken her back to that park.

  And she had never asked about her mother again. But neither had Aerin ever explained to him about her fear at the fountain. Never apologized. And perhaps never forgiven him for not telling her the entire truth.

  Maybe that was why she had not wanted to remember. Not only because she was afraid of feeling the raw agony of his loss, but because she was ashamed that, despite his death and all his love, she had failed to forgive him this one thing.

  Until last night. When she had finally understood why he had not told her about her mother. Because he had loved her, loved her too much to talk about her, and loved Aerin too much to share with her the pain of his grief.

  And now she could think of only one way to apologize.

  I’ll make you proud, she told her father in her thoughts. I’ll prove to them all that you taught me well, that you were loyal to the ideals of the Manifest, and that Ibelong here in the Alliance.

  She believed that now. Though it had not been the knowledge that she was a citizen that had changed her feelings. It had been her father’s idealism and her mother’s bravery. It was their legacy that had given Aerin the confidence to accept Dr. Livinski’s offer to return. And it was that legacy she must embrace.

  The fountain was waiting for her. It had no fluorescent lights or hidden speakers, but it had color, the deep misty green of Academia’s night and the glittery sparkle of reflected moonlight. The frogs and crickets still sang, their music joined by the ever present shhh of the water’s spray.

  She stretched out her hands, fingers first, letting them disrupt the perfect flow. Her palms opened and closed, striving to capture the streaming essence, but the cool liquid spilled down her wrists and arms instead, dripping into pools beneath her elbows.

  And then she stepped into the downpour, closed her eyes, tilted up her face, and thought with reckless abandon, I am not afraid.

  Epilogue: PUNISHMENT (REPRISED)

  “DANE,” AERIN SAID AS SHE BALANCED ON THE scaffolding. The boards felt warm under her bare feet, and the high sun beat down on her forehead. Her hands tapped the rails running the length of the black tube in front of her. The spiral of the Spindle. Unmoving. “I think we may have underestimated Dr. Livinski.”

  “What gives you that idea?” he said over the whirr of the handheld slicer as he guided it through the ironite surface.

  “That she caught us every time we broke the rules, or that she has us providing her with free labor thousands of feet above the ground.” He curved the Ephesian slicer to the edge and watched the chunk of solid black material fall into the catch basket.

  Aerin pulled in the basket, checked the hooks on the pulley system, and let the container sail down toward the ground. She ignored his lame complaint. “The fact that she created a punishment that helps us all.”

  “Oh really?” Dane flipped off the switch. The whirr subsided as he hung the lightweight tool on a nearby pole. “And what,” he said, hefting their lunch box onto his shoulder, “is so great about spending our summer deconstructing this spinning death threat?” He grasped the rails of the scaffolding and ascended the side of the spiral, failing to wait for an answer.

  Aerin climbed up beside him, securing a perch on the sloping ironite.

  He settled the lunch box by the railing and handed her a water bottle. She grappled with him over an apple, lost the fight, and snagged a nectarine instead, then returned to the earlier thread of the conversation. “Well, from Dr. Livinski’s perspective, she gets to have us clean up our fathers’ mess.”

  Dane groaned. “I should have known this tube was the brainchild of my father’s insanity.” He took a bite of the prized apple and frowned at it.

  Aerin grinned, glad that he could now talk about his father. According to the principal’s grudging admission, the Spindle’s blueprint had been the senior project for her and her once close-knit friends. The simulator had been Emma’s invention; the elevator, Dr. Livinski’s, and Dane’s and Aerin’s fathers were to blame for the moving spiral.

  “You know none of them ever meant to place anyone in danger,” Aerin reminded him. “They thought the tube would deter people from trying to enter the Spindle. After all, who would be reckless enough to fly into such a thing?” She ducked as Dane hurled the apple at her.

  “As I was saying,” he said, “how does Dr. Livinski’s order to dismantle this deathtrap help us?

  “We get to stay here all summer,” Aerin replied. “Neither of us has to find a place to live or a short-term job.”

  “Right, because working thousands of feet above the planet’s surface is such a cushy position, we wouldn’t want to giv
e that up.”

  Aerin leaned back on one hand and took a bite of the soft nectarine. Its rich juice drizzled over her tongue. She stretched out her bare feet in the sun and let them enjoy its healing warmth for several minutes as she dropped her gaze to the scene below, not the Great Hall or its surrounding lawn, but beyond the outer wall to the mile upon mile of city buildings, parks, libraries, and bookstores—just waiting to be explored. “At least we’re free to travel beyond the Wall,” she said, “all summer long. And we don’t have anyone to supervise our work.”

  “You’re right.” Dane drew closer, the shade of his brown eyes changing. “That is a plus.” He leaned forward, hair falling in front of his eyes, and lowered his mouth as though to kiss her.

  Then stopped, his eyes asking permission.

  The sun’s rays radiated up from her feet, through her legs, her arms, her face. There was no shudder, no chill, no irrepressible desire to flee. She linked her hands behind his neck, pulling his mouth close. And felt the warm taste of certainty as her toes curled beneath her.