by Isaac Petrov
“Juf Edda?” The guard stares at her, gobsmacked. “Is that you?”
“Man Kamphuijs,” Edda meets his gaze matter-of-factly. “Now I see why you never have time to finish your homework.”
The floating dreamsenso scene changes abruptly.
Right there, floating above the students, Edda is sitting, elbows on knees, inside a small windowless cell. The cell is mostly empty, except for the bed she is sitting on, a toilet in the corner and a dim electrical bulb hanging from the ceiling. She is wearing the same dark tunic, gaze lost in some point on the wall.
“This is a few hours afterwards, in the morning,” Miyagi says, unnecessarily, since Ximena knows it already as the psych-link to Edda is still active. She can feel her boredom. And her impatience. “Edda has been put in jail, of course.” Miyagi’s voice rises from where Ximena knows he is standing on the amphitheater stage, but she cannot see him in the darkness beneath the floating scene. “But she is not your average drunkard, is she? Juf Edda—Juf is a title of respect for female schoolteachers in the broader region—is quite popular in her native colony of Lunteren, or perhaps controversial is a more appropriate word. And accounts of her little adventure have already spread like fire. Ank, could you please move the POV outside of the jail cells? Just for a second?”
Ximena can only imagine Ank down there waving her hands at Bob, or whispering at it, or whatever dreamtech engineers do to manipulate dream sensorials.
The scene shifts abruptly as the camera moves through the walls, causing Ximena to squint at the sudden brightness of the rising sun. She hears the excited chatter of dozens of voices before her as her eyes adapt to the light.
Gathered on a red-bricked esplanade around the building, there must be a hundred people, maybe more, most in their teen years. They wear long, thick tunics; some plain, some colorful, some wildly patterned. A few dozen bicycles have been left carelessly lying nearby. A horse pulling a cart, loaded with sacks and crates brimming with potatoes, trots across the background, the driver staring at the crowd with blatant curiosity. There is a lone guard by the wooden door to the cells, laughing and chatting animatedly with some of the crowd, probably grateful for the interruption of his usual tedium.
“Popular,” Miyagi says. “You people get the idea. Back to the cell, please, Ank. And forward to Willem’s visit.”
The scene shifts back to Edda in her cell, as the door opens to a thin man in his mid-twenties. He gasps as his brown eyes behind thin glasses lock on her. He dashes forward and inspects her anxiously.
“Hey, Dad,” Edda says with a monotonous voice, and turns her head to the wall, like she doesn’t care. But she does. Oh Goah, you bet she does! Ximena almost gasps as she feels the surge of love splatter like an explosion in her guts, filling her with a warmth that she’s not sure she’s ever felt for any member of her own cozy family. “So you’ve heard, yeah?” Edda asks, glacially.
“I have,” he says with a grave tone as he pushes his thin glasses up his nose. He nods at the guard behind him, who softly shuts the door and leaves them alone.
They could not be more physically different. To Edda’s sharp African beauty, Willem’s pale Northern softness. To Edda’s black, short curls, Willem’s brown, long hair. To Edda’s natural elegance, Willem’s intellectual shabbiness. But Ximena knows that they are not so different after all. At least not inside, where it counts.
Willem holds his daughter’s gaze for a long while.
In silence.
Until she finally sinks her head. “I had a good reason.”
“As usual,” he sighs. “And as usual, the family reputation takes a hit.”
Edda scoffs. “There are more important things than our reputation. Your life, for example.”
“Here we go again.” Willem folds his arms.
She turns towards him, eyes pleading. “Don’t let them kill you, Dad. It’s all a farce!”
Willem sighs again. He looks like a man that has been doing lots of sighing lately. “Listen. Marjolein will be here any moment. She’s dispersing that little fan club of yours outside.”
“What fan club?”
“Doesn’t matter. I promised her your deepest regret and your best behavior, so play your part. I don’t want her to hear any of this nonsense, you hear me? Or you will be in serious, serious trouble.”
“But she’s with them, Dad. She’s aws Head through and through.”
“She’s much more than that, and I’m sorry you cannot see that. Just…” He draws a deep breath. “Edda, please. If you can’t respect my guidance as your Elder, could you at least respect my wishes as your father?”
“But you know I’m right!” Edda stands and steps closer to Willem. “Dem is not real. You know it too!”
Willem presses his lips, walks to Edda, and places a kiss on her cheek. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, girl.” His voice has softened. “The show must go on. You, Bram, and especially little Hans, you are the show now, and all this…” he waves an exasperated hand at the cell walls, “… is only making things harder for you when I… leave.”
“So you still want to uphold your Joyousday, yeah?”
“I must, girl.” He smiles at her, a pinch of sadness in his eyes. “What else can I do? And you will as well, when you reach my age. For Hans’s sake, and for your future grandchildren’s.”
She meets his stern look silently. “Please, Dad… I know I haven’t always been the easiest daughter. But…” She has to stop to keep tears from surfacing.
A muted noise behind the door—approaching steps?—resonates up her spine, making her sharply aware of the urgency. The bitch will be here any second now! The surge of adrenaline dispels her emotions and leaves only purpose. The only thing that matters. The reason Goah put her in this world. Her lifework. And her father is key.
Edda throws herself forward and puts the vial into her father’s hand. “I found this in the Joyousday House, next to the body of Elder Meerman. He was still alive, Dad! But empty—soulless.”
Willem’s eyes widen. “Dem?”
“Same as you now, he didn’t have a trace of Dem before his Joyousday. Whatever that was, it wasn’t Dem. The answer is in that flask.”
Willem frowns and inspects the vial. “How did you hide this? Didn’t they search you?”
Edda blinks. “I asked for the toilet, you need more details?”
She turns her head towards the door. Steps are clearly approaching now. They are right outside. She stands on tiptoe, and whispers in Willem’s ear with the most compelling urgency she can muster, “Dad, hide it! Analyze it in secret—somebody you trust.”
The door opens, and a woman steps in. Ximena recognizes her immediately.
Marjolein Mathus.
A few years younger than her usual historical image, when she was still the colonial Quaestor of Lunteren. Ximena tries to repress the sudden pinch of revulsion, and it’s not only from Edda’s psych-link. It’s been a hundred years since the Dreamwars, but its scars still run deep, especially in the Goah’s Imperia of America.
Look at her, Ximena thinks, twenty-one years of age, and already so full of herself, with those intricate blond braids and that pretentious Quaestor robe. Neanderthal Mark whistles his appreciation at the small, exuberant shape under the thin fabric. Ximena’s eyes flinch at him. Men. They’re all the same, whichever the world.
“Will.” Marjolein smiles at Willem. “Edda.” Her smile freezes and she takes a step closer, inspecting her from top to bottom. “You’ve been a naughty, naughty girl.”
“A repented girl,” Willem says, putting his hands in his pockets and smiling awkwardly. “I’m sure we can—”
“You mind waiting outside?” Marjolein’s large blue eyes drill into his. “It will be just a minute.”
“Uh, of course.” He turns to his daughter, a warning in his eyes, and leaves.
Marjolein turns to Edda, who stares defiantly back at her, lips pressed hard. “I’m disappointed, Edda. You’re making things unnece
ssarily hard on your father. In his last weeks on this plane, he needs peace and family.” She hesitates the briefest of moments. “And love.”
Edda chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure you are more than willing to ease his pains.”
Marjolein’s expression tightens. “Your father paused his relationship with me, if that is what you’re implying…”
“Again?” Edda scoffs. “Let’s see how long this time.”
“You were part of the reason.”
“A pity I’m not the whole reason.”
Marjolein closes her eyes and rubs her right temple slowly. “Is this how it’s going to be?” She opens them and meets Edda’s poisonous gaze. “What have I ever done to you? Is it because of me and your father?”
“I don’t care who wants to fuck my father,” Edda says with exaggerated scorn. “But who wants to kill him, that I do care about, yeah?”
Marjolein frowns her thin, blond eyebrows, her blue eyes locked on Edda’s. “This is very confusing, Edda. Are you implying that I want to kill your father?”
“Yes! Same as Elder Meerman. You poisoned him! You’re poisoning all of us. And in two months, it’s my dad’s turn.”
Marjolein’s eyes widen, her expression honestly baffled. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but says nothing.
Oh Edda, Ximena thinks, feeling her rage. I hear you, but perhaps you should be a bit more subtle.
“I’ve seen what aws Head has done to Elder Meerman,” Edda says. “I’ll tell everybody.”
“Elder Meerman has Dem, Edda,” Marjolein speaks softly, as if Edda were a little kid. “End phase. He is already in Goah’s Embrace. What you’ve seen is just his mortal carcass. The incineration is planned for tomorrow—”
“He had no Dem! We all saw him during his Joyousday. He was… alive and happy. What I saw in the Joyousday House…” Edda shudders visibly.
“Dem. That’s what you saw.”
“What a coincidence, yeah? Nobody’s seen Dem for generations, but when a person enters the Joyousday House, they get infected,” Edda clicks her fingers, “like that.”
“It’s not a coincidence.” Marjolein’s voice is soft and patient. She’s once more the Quaestor, explaining aws Faith—the Faith of Goah—to a recalcitrant child. “We are all infected with Dem, Edda, from the day we are born. But the human mind is marvelous—Goah’s most prodigious creation in the universe. Our brain can resist the constant pressure of Dem for a whole quarter of a century. It used to be more. Much more, they say. There are chronicles of people that turned one hundred. But as the second collapse sped up, Dem got increasingly vicious and killed ever earlier. Until—you know your scriptures, Edda—Kaya Fahey and her revelation of Goah’s Gift. Were it not for our first Pontifex, we would not be here today. Nobody would.”
“Don’t give me the sermon, Quaestor.” Edda’s scorn is filled with poison. “I know the propaganda. I teach it, remember? The whole lot. How Fahey founded the oh so holy Imperia of Goah that saved the last humans from barbarism and extinction. What does that have to do with—?”
“It’s not propaganda, Edda. It’s the truth. It’s history. And it has everything to do with Elder Meerman. In the Joyousday House we perform sacred rites and treatments that have been perfected for centuries. My Joyousday specialists assisted Elder Meerman to let go of his soul in peace, without suffering—with dignity. That’s my office’s last blessing.” Her lips curve into a faint smile. “The Head of Goah is not evil, Edda. We take care of all our children. There’s just no alternative to the rites of the Joyousday, other than the agony of Elder Meerman and his family as his mind vanishes relentlessly for weeks, until nothing—nothing—remains. I know it sounds complicated. And it sure as Dem is. But let that be the concern of aws Head, not yours.”
“Yeah, how convenient. How fucking convenient,” Edda’s sarcasm removes Marjolein’s smile like a slap, “to keep us all ignorant and harmless, making sure we die before we can pose a threat to aws Head’s power, yeah? Not a single tyrant in history has ever come with such an exquisite tool of control,” she scoffs. “No need to repress your people if you kill them early enough. Brilliant. And yet the Joyousday comes a far second place in the perfect tyrant’s toolbox.”
Marjolein takes a deep breath. “I know I’m going to regret it, but please enlighten me, Edda. What’s the first?”
“Mind control, of course. Or in other words: religion.”
Ximena gasps in emotional confusion. So far, Edda’s rough feelings against Marjolein resonate with her, but now the sudden dissonance takes her by surprise. And is not pleasant. On one hand she is feeling Edda’s anger as her own, even as it boils into righteous hate, but at the same time she feels her own beliefs attacked—hammered even—by her words.
“Goah’s Mercy, Edda.” Marjolein throws a nervous glance at the closed cell door. “Never let anybody hear you say that. It’s heresy!”
“It’s truth!” Edda shouts. “Faith and Dem are the two faces of Imperial power.”
“Enough of this lunacy, Edda.” Marjolein’s voice has changed. It is cold and stern. “Enough of your childish conspiracy theories. As teacher—as Juf—you hold a public office and have the same sacred responsibility I have to keep harmony in Lunteren.”
“A teacher must teach the truth, Quaestor.”
“Oh Goah, you’ll flog a dead horse until…” Marjolein shakes her head. “Can’t you see what you’ve done already?”
Edda folds her arms and holds her gaze in silence.
“Your excursion to the Joyousday House—that was desecration, Goah’s Mercy. Of place, of art, and—much worse—of soul.”
Edda’s eyes narrow. Ximena feels the fire of her rage, but Edda keeps her expression cool.
Marjolein sighs heavily. “The Meermans are asking for maximum reparations. And removal of your office.”
“Removal…?!” Edda’s eyes widen. “No, you can’t… My students—!”
“I know what you mean to them, I just spoke with a few outside. But I also have a responsibility to them, and to everybody in Lunteren. To be honest with you, Edda, I’m not sure you deserve the public pulpit, and by allowing you to keep it I might be harming not only your students, but also yourself.”
Edda blinks in silence. Ximena feels her anger dissolving in fear, paralyzing her.
Marjolein continues, “And it’s not just your students that you’re harming. Aline is in the cell next door. Why?”
“A- Aline didn’t—”
“Because she’s your friend, that’s why. She follows you everywhere, like a puppy, same as your students. Where are you taking them, Edda? Do you even care?”
“I, uh…” Edda’s voice is unnaturally weak. But her thoughts and feelings flow strongly through the psych-link. She’s a Juf, and teaching is her life—the life of every Van Dolah. Their calling. What would Dad say if—
“With the trust of followers comes the responsibility of leadership. And it’s a heavy burden, believe me. Please tell me you understand what I’m saying.”
Edda nods in silence and sinks her head.
Marjolein takes a deep breath. “I want to believe you. I don’t know if I do, but I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt. For your students. And for your father. He doesn’t deserve this—not in his last weeks.” She lifts her chin and watches Edda in expectant silence, as if waiting for a word of gratitude.
Edda doesn’t move.
Hold your temper, Edda, Ximena thinks.
“Very well,” Marjolein continues in a formal voice. “This year’s karma increase to the Van Dolahs is hereby reassigned to the Meermans in concept of reparation. You shall spend one more night in this cell. Upon release, you shall go straight to their home and offer a sincere apology. A sincere apology, you hear me? And above all, you shall keep your outlandish theories to yourself.”
Edda doesn’t move a muscle and keeps her eyes locked on her sandals. But her outrage burns deep into Ximena’s guts.
Four
The
Ices of Austerlitz
“So what have we got?” Miyagi paces the stage, hands still placed on his back. It remains dark in the amphitheater, but Ank has conjured a full moon and dashing Milky Way across the starry sky, enough to bathe the professor and Ximena’s fellow students in a creamy gleam. “A rebellious teenager, a worried father about to be ritually dispatched, a pissed-off Quaestor. There’s still something… missing, isn’t there? Something with more, hmm, historical weight.”
Mark turns to Ximena and whispers with an ominous voice, “Aliens.”
Ximena chuckles, and Mark, clearly pleased with himself, returns his gaze to the floating dreamsenso scene over Miyagi’s head, where Edda, still in the cell, sleeps soundly on her side, head over hands.
“Same date,” Miyagi continues, pointing at Edda, “6th of December 2399, close to midnight. Edda van Dolah enjoys her last hours of penitence in Lunteren’s arrest cells. But,” he pauses for effect, “she’s not alone.”
Ximena’s eyes scan the cell methodically. It is dark, but it’s a small empty space. “She’s alone,” she mutters.
“Aliens,” Mark says, smiling radiantly at her.
“Where?” Ximena doesn’t stop her scrutiny of the scene.
“In the Second Wake.”
Ximena turns to him. “How do you know?” Mark’s oh-so-blue eyes seem to glimmer in the moonlight.
Before he can reply, Miyagi says, “Ank, please alter phase to the Second Wake.”
The static scene with Edda in the cell changes abruptly, and yet nothing has changed: Edda still sleeps, the door, the toilet, all in place. But the light… Ximena’s jaw drops at the sudden sharpness of her visual senses, like she was blind before without knowing. As a simple user of the dreamnet, Ximena has never seen the Second Wake—the Traverse, as it is colloquially known—with her own eyes, but she is of course familiar with its traits, and recognizes it instantly.
Everything—every object—radiates its essence vividly. Ximena intellectually knows there are no shadows in the Traverse, but now, in full immersion, she can finally grasp in awe what a true shadowless world really means, even something as unspectacular as an arrest cell. Every surface glimmers its intricate secrets in gray-like radiance. Every wrinkle, every imperfection. No spot remains invisible.