What does this mean for us? Put succinctly, the “virals” of “The Book of Twelves” are not fiction. They are not, as some have claimed, a mere literary device, a metaphor for the predatory rapaciousness of North American culture in the B.V. period. They existed. They were real. “The Book of Twelves” describes these beings as a manifestation of an almighty deity’s displeasure with mankind. That is a matter for each of us to weigh in the privacy of his or her own conscience. So, too, is the story of the man known as Zero and the twelve criminals who acted as the original vectors of infection. Speaking for myself, the jury is still out. But in the meantime, we know who and what the virals were: ordinary men and women, infected with a disease.
But what of humanity? What of the story of Amy and her followers? I turn now to the matter of survivors.
Next slide?
As everyone here certainly knows, it has been an exciting year in the field—very exciting, indeed. Excavations of several newly discovered human settlements in the North American West, dating from the first century of the Quarantine Period, have begun to bear fruit. Much of this work is still in its infancy. Yet I think it’s no overstatement to say that what we’ve uncovered in the last twelve months alone has signaled a truly radical reconceptualizing of the period.
Our understanding of the early Quarantine Period has long presupposed that no human inhabitants remained in North America between the Equatorial Isthmus and the Hudson Frontier Line following the year zero. The disruption to the continent’s biological and social infrastructures was believed to have been so complete as to render the continent incapable of supporting human life, let alone any kind of organized culture.
We now know—and once again, the last year has been extraordinary—that this view of the Quarantine Period is incomplete. Indeed, there were survivors. Just how many, we may never know. But based on the findings of the last year, we now think it possible, indeed very likely, that they numbered in the tens of thousands, living in a number of communities throughout the Intermountain West and the Southern Plains.
The size and configuration of these settlements varied considerably, from a mountaintop village housing just a few hundred inhabitants to a city-sized compound in the hills of central Texas. But all give evidence of human habitation well after the continent was thought to have been depopulated. These communities also share a number of distinctive traits, most significantly a culture that was both classically survivalist and, paradoxically, deeply attentive to the social practice of being human. Within these protected enclaves, the men and women who survived the Great Catastrophe, and generations of their descendants, went about their lives, as men and women do. They married and had children. They formed governments and engaged in trade. They built schools and places of worship. They kept records of their experience—I am speaking, of course, about the documents known to everyone in this room, indeed to people throughout the settled territories, as “The Book of Sara” and “The Book of Auntie”—and, perhaps, even sought contact with others like themselves, beyond the walls of these isolated islands of humanity.
Using “The Book of Twelves” as a road map, research teams on the ground have identified three such settlements, all named within those writings. These include Kerrville, Texas; Roswell, New Mexico, the site of what has been called the “Roswell Massacre”; and the community we know as First Colony, in the San Jacinto Mountains of Southern California.
May I have the next image, please?
The photograph we see here provides an aerial view of the layout of the First Colony site, which might, for our purposes today, be considered a “typical” human settlement of the Quarantine Period. Situated on an arid plateau two thousand meters above the Los Angeles coastal formation, and guarded to the west by a granite ridge rising an additional fifteen hundred meters, the settlement presents itself very like a walled medieval city—roughly five square kilometers, irregularly shaped, with high ramparts defining the outer perimeter. These steel-and-concrete fortifications, which stood twenty meters high, appear to have been constructed right around the time of the Great Catastrophe. This conforms to “The Book of Twelves,” which asserts that First Colony was constructed to house children evacuated from the eastern coastal city of Philadelphia. Beyond these fortifications, the terrain now presents a mixture of alpine forest and high desert chaparral, but soil samples taken both within and outside the walls indicate that the mountainside was decimated by fire as recently as fifty years ago, and during the first century of the Quarantine Period, the terrain was almost entirely denuded.
The entire settlement seems to have been surrounded by banks of high-pressure sodium vapor lamps. These were powered, we believe, by a stack of proton exchange membrane fuel cells, connected by a buried cable to an array of wind-powered turbines, also dating from the pre-Q period, located forty-two kilometers to the north, in the San Gorgonio Pass. Seismic activity has substantially altered the northern slope of the mountain, and we have yet to locate the power trunk connecting First Colony to its primary energy source. But we hope this will happen in due course.
Inside the walls, we find several discrete zones of human activity, arranged in a ringlike formation and leading to a central core. The outer ring, which has received the most extensive excavation, seems to have served as a staging platform for defense. From these areas we have recovered a range of artifacts, including, at the lowest levels, a variety of conventional firearms of the pre-Q period, yielding at the upper levels to more homemade weaponry, such as knives, longbows, and crossbows. Though more primitive, these armaments were surprisingly sophisticated in their design and manufacture, with arrow points honed to a width of just fifty microns—sufficient, we believe, to pierce the crystalline-silicate breastplate of an infected human.
Moving farther in, we find discrete regions for sanitation, agriculture, livestock, commerce, and housing. Structures in the eastern and northern quadrants of the interior appear also to have served as domiciles, perhaps for married couples or families. The exposed foundation we see near the center seems to have been some kind of school dating from the pre-Q period but converted by the citizens of First Colony to perform a variety of civic functions. We believe that this building, the most substantial structure on the site, could have been employed as a final refuge in the event that the colony’s outer defenses were penetrated. But in daily life, it seems to have served as a kind of communal nursery or hospital.
On their own, these findings are remarkable enough. But there is more. “The Book of Twelves” speaks of First Colony as the place from which Amy and her fellows traveled east, eventually coming into contact with other survivors, including an armed force from Texas, known as the Expeditionary. Is there any archaeological record to support these claims?
I draw your attention now to the large, open area at the center, and in particular to the object located on the northwest corner.
May I have the next image?
This object, which we are calling the First Colony Stone, sits adjacent to the settlement’s central public space. The stone itself is an ordinary granitic boulder of the type found throughout the San Jacinto uplift, standing three meters high, with a basal radius of about four meters. Etched into its surface we find three distinct groups of writings. The first group, by far the most extensive, begins with a date, 77 A.V., followed by a list of what appears to be 206 names in four columns. As we can see, they are presented in family groups and include seventeen different surnames. Though there is some debate on this point, the arrangement suggests that these individuals may have perished in a single event, perhaps one associated with the massive earthquake that struck California at about that time.
Below this we see a second group of three names, also legible: Ida Jaxon, Elton West, and a person named as “The Colonel,” evidently a military leader of some stature. Beneath these markings we see the single word “Remembered.” Our best guess is that these individuals may have perished in some kind of battle, perhaps one in which the fate
of the Colony itself was determined.
It is the third grouping, however, that is the most provocative. As we can see, the etching is much less sophisticated, and exposure to the elements has rendered the names unreadable to the naked eye. Significantly, wear-pattern analysis indicates that these markings date to about 350 A.V., well after the settlement was abandoned. Again, there’s some disagreement on this point, but prevailing opinion holds that these markings are, like the others, a memorial of some kind. Digital enhancement reveals names well known to all.
May I have the final slide?
Of Amy, the Girl from Nowhere, there is no mention. Perhaps we shall never learn who she was, if she existed at all.
There is much we do not understand. We don’t know who these people were. We don’t know what role they may have played, if any, in the extinction of the paramutational race known as virals. And we don’t know what became of them, how they died. This gathering, I hope, will open the door to addressing some of these mysteries. But even more, what I wish is for all of us to come away with a deeper appreciation of the most fundamental questions that define us. History is more than data, more than facts, more than science and scholarship. These things are merely the means to a greater end. History is a story—the story of ourselves. Where do we come from? How have we survived? How can we avoid the mistakes of the past? Do we matter, and if we do, what is our proper place upon the earth?
I shall put the question another way: Who are we?
In a very real and pressing sense, the study of the North American Quarantine Period is far more than an academic investigation of the past. It is—and I think everyone in the room would echo this notion—a crucial step toward safeguarding the long-term health and survival of our species. This is all the more pressing now, as we contemplate humanity’s long-awaited return to that feared and vacant continent.
* * *
91
For Logan Miles, age fifty-six, professor of millennial studies and director of the Chancellor’s Task Force on North American Research and Reclamation, it has been a good morning. A very good morning, indeed.
The conference is off to a roaring start. Hundreds of scholars are in attendance; press interest is intense. Before he reaches the door of the ballroom, a wall of reporters surrounds him. What does it all mean, they want to know, these names on the stone? Were the twelve disciples of Amy real people? What will be the effect on North American reclamation? Are the first settlements going to be delayed?
“Patience, everyone,” Logan says. Flashbulbs fire into his face. “You know what I do, neither more nor less.”
Free of the crowd, he departs the building via a rear exit off the kitchens. It is a pleasant autumn morning, dry and blue-skied, with an easterly breeze coming off the harbor; high above, a pair of airships float serenely, accompanied by the vibrato buzzing of their massive propellers. The sight always brings his son to mind; Race, a pilot in the air service, has just been promoted to captain, with a ship of his own—a great achievement, especially for a man so young. Logan pauses to take in the air before making his way around the corner of the building toward the campus’s central quadrangle. The usual protestors linger by the steps, forty or fifty of them, holding their signs: “NORTH AMERICA = DEATH,” “SCRIPTURE IS LAW,” “THE QUARANTINE MUST STAND.” Most are older—country people, adherents to the old ways. Among them are perhaps a dozen Ammalite clergy, as well as a scattering of Disciples, women dressed in plain gray robes tied with a simple cord at the waist, their heads shorn in the manner of the Savior. They have been there for months, always showing up at precisely eight A.M., as if clocking in for a job. At the start, Logan found them irritating, even a little disturbing, but as time went by, their presence acquired a quality of doomed listlessness, easily ignored.
The walk to his office takes ten minutes, and he is both pleased and surprised to find the building practically empty. Even the department secretary has flown the coop. He makes his way to his office, on the second floor. In the past three years, he has become an infrequent visitor; most of his work is now in the capitol, and he sometimes doesn’t set foot on campus for weeks at a stretch, not counting his visits to North America, which have devoured whole months. With its walls of bookshelves, enormous teakwood desk—a splurge to mark his promotion to department chair, fifteen years ago—and overall atmosphere of professorial seclusion, the room always reminds him of both how far he’s come and the unlikely role that has been thrust upon him. He has reached a kind of pinnacle; yet it is still true that from time to time he misses his old life, its quiet and routine.
He is sorting through a file of papers—a tenure committee report, graduation forms requiring his signature, a caterer’s bill—when he hears a knock and looks up to see a woman standing in the doorway: thirty or perhaps thirty-five and quite striking, with auburn hair, an intelligent face, and energetic hazel eyes. She wears a tailored suit of dark navy and high, somewhat tippy heels; a well-used leather satchel hangs from her shoulder. Logan senses that he has seen her before.
“Professor Miles?” She does not wait for permission to enter but insinuates herself into the room.
“I’m sorry, Miss…”
“Nessa Tripp, Territorial News and Record.” As she steps to his desk, she extends her hand. “I was hoping I might have a minute of your time.”
A reporter, of course; Logan recalls her from the press conference. Her grip is firm—not masculine but meant to convey a message of professional seriousness. Logan catches the high note of her perfume, subtly floral.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. This is quite a busy day for me. I’ve really said all I have to say for one morning. Perhaps you could call my secretary to schedule an appointment.”
She ignores the suggestion, knowing full well that it’s a dodge; nobody would schedule anything. She offers a smile, rather coquettish, meant to charm. “I promise, it won’t take long. I have only a few questions.”
Logan doesn’t want to. He dislikes dealing with the press, even under the most scripted of circumstances. Many times he has opened the morning paper to find himself misquoted or his words taken entirely out of context. Yet he can tell that this woman can’t be brushed off so easily. Better to face the music now, quickly, and move on.
“Well, I suppose…”
Her face beams. “Wonderful.”
She takes a chair across from him and digs into her bag for a notebook, followed by a small recorder, which she places on the desk. “To start, I was wondering if I could get a little bit of personal information, just for background. There’s very little about you that I could find, and the university press office wasn’t much help.”
“There’s a reason. I’m a very private person.”
“And I can respect that. But people want to know about the man behind the discovery, wouldn’t you agree? The world is watching, Professor.”
“I’m really not very interesting, Miss Tripp. I think you’ll find me rather boring.”
“I hardly believe that. You’re just being modest.” She flips quickly through her notebook. “Now, from what I can gather, you were born in…Headly?”
A softball question, to get things started. “Yes, my parents raised horses.”
“And you were an only child.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sounds like you didn’t much care for it.”
His tone, evidently, has betrayed him. “It was a childhood like any other. There were some good points, some bad.”
“Too isolated?”
Logan shrugs. “When you’re my age, these sorts of feelings soften a great deal, though at the time I probably saw it that way. In the end, it wasn’t the life for me—that’s really all there is to say.”
“Still, Headly is a very traditional place. Some would even say backward.”
“I don’t think the people there would see it that way.”
A quick smile. “Perhaps I misspoke. What I mean is, it’s a long way
from a horse farm in Headly to heading the chancellor’s task force on resettlement. Would that be fair to say?”
“I suppose. But I never had any doubts that I would go to university. My parents were country people, but they let me chart my own course.”
She looks at him warmly. “So, a bookish boy, then.”
“If you like.”
This is followed, once again, by a brief trip to her notes. “Now,” she says, “I have here that you’re married.”
“I’m afraid your information is a little out of date. I’m divorced.”
“Oh? When was that?”
The question makes him uncomfortable. Still, it is a matter of public record; he has no reason not to answer. “Six years ago. All very amicable. We’re still good friends.”
“And your ex-wife, she’s a judge, yes?”
“She was, with the Sixth Family Court. But she’s left that now.”
“And you have a son, Race. What does he do?”
“He’s a pilot in the air service.”
Her face brightens. “How marvelous.”
Logan nods. Obviously she knows all of this.
“And what does he have to say about your discoveries?”
“We haven’t really talked about it, not recently.”
“But he must be proud of you,” she says. “His own father, in charge of an entire continent.”
“I think that’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you?”
The City of Mirrors: A Novel (Book Three of The Passage Trilogy) Page 71