Blood, Ink & Fire

by Ashley Mansour

  My friends, there is one last library within reach we have not attempted. We all know where it stands. The fortress of the Huntington is not easily breached, and yet breach it we shall. What dreams may be found inside those glass cases, their temperature-controlled rooms, the vast stores of printed treasures? This place, the final mountain we face, be it an Everest or the toothlike peaks of the Karakoram, must be conquered. Tomorrow, with hell and fury in our arms, we will lead an act of extreme conservation and rescue every book, every printed piece of material we can. Together we will save them from the fires of Fell that are sure to come.

  I hear you. I know what you are thinking. No need to text it to one another. This is incomprehensible, you say. For we know the Huntington’s security is nearly impenetrable, and even if we overcome it, tomorrow Fell will be waiting for us. They will be tracking us. That is a certainty. And there’s nothing we can do, try as we might, to prevent this. We will have very little time, minutes only, before they launch their assault upon us. Once we are found, we will have no choice but to make sacrifices. Our lives, the lives of the books. Risers, they are entwined now more than ever.

  Remember this as we storm the Huntington gates at dawn. As we infiltrate the walls of that great institution, think not of the damage wrought in our wake, but instead think of the ones we will save. Think of the Gutenberg Bible. Think of Shakespeare’s First Folio. Think of the Ellesmere manuscript of The Canterbury Tales. Now imagine their pages on fire. Imagine their words crumbling inside the hottest part of the flames. Is it not true you feel this as acutely as if your own soul were in that inferno?

  So I beseech you, Risers: uphold your duty. Feel the flesh between their skins as keenly as your own. Mark every spine as a life that must be saved. For these books are the last of them, Risers. And what will become of us when they are gone? Can humans survive without the stories? Can we separate our existence from the written record of our history?

  Indeed, we can. For a time.

  Or so Fell would have us believe, with their soulless Vales, their wordless, vacant people huddled beneath a shell of lies. What, I ask you, becomes of a human being, a brain altered, a mind withered by confinement and fear?

  What happens, friends, is that our candle’s flame will surely be put out. Because humans and books burning and dying side by side is not a story. It is not fiction. It is a fact. Gaze back through the annals of history and recall the truth: where books are burned, so are people. The death of the books, in time, will be our own.

  Capulet, thank you for funding our final expedition. We wish you and your daughter Juliet well in Ca-Nada. Macbeth and Lady M, your procurement of our firearms has been most successful. Our armaments restocked, we are ready for battle. The Conservation truck is prepared, equipped with the temperature-controlled unit. Goodfellow and Ganymede were kind enough to insulate the vehicle’s chamber against opposing fire. The portable, lightweight cases courtesy of Hamlet and Titus were highly sought after at the local trade; we have only managed to obtain twenty-five in total. That is enough for some five hundred books. Rest assured that what you cannot fit inside, you are permitted to carry in your clothing or satchels. And should some of us stow our weapons to better carry cases, I am sure Macbeth, Lady M, and Ganymede will be at the ready with covering fire. As for protection, we are short one bulletproof suit. I will happily donate mine to the group. Yes, Hamlet, thank you, I’m quite sure. My life tomorrow will be in the hands of my trusted team.

  But now, Risers, I regret there is one thing more we must face before the reality of our expedition. Let us look upon this display, at the face of Verity, the artificial intelligence that has discovered our most precious intel. If for any reason the books themselves are not enough, then look upon the face of this machine, this simulation responsible for wiping clean the slate of humanity. Look upon the face of the future. Empty. False. Wordless. Do you like what you see?

  Fell will be ready to take us. Do not be fooled. They are not here for the books. Not this time. They are here for us. For our blood. To make it run like a hundred tipped inkwells spewing out all that remains of the world before Fell. The likelihood of our own escape is slim, and we will be thwarted by their consuming desire to eliminate the Rising. Will we be ambushed? Possibly. Will some of us be captured? Almost certainly.

  [Let the record reflect that Prospero is passing around a small vial of pills.]

  If you are captured, dear Risers, we have a fail-safe. The failsafe is not for you alone. It is for all of us. It is for the many who will need the books in years to come. I am sorry I cannot offer you anything else, but we could not procure the euthanasia drugs as hoped. I am sure none of us will think ill of anyone who pursues a dance with their firearm upon capture as an alternative. There is no judgment here, my friends. Should you, however, find yourself held captive, under torture, or worse, under immersion, and without a firearm, these Forgetsum pills shall be your redeemer.

  The compound—courtesy of our chemist, Goodfellow, our bioengineer, Ganymede, and our professor of medicine, Titus—will be our salvation. It will bring swift and sure amnesia. You will remember neither our mission nor the Rising. You will not even remember yourselves. The drug will not be fatal, but its effects are severe and long-lasting. There is no way back from the path of forgetting. I’m afraid your death will be a slow one of the brain itself, while the body is kept intact, alert though numbed to the memory of any pain. This horror is a necessity. I am sorry you must bear it.

  [Let the record reflect that each Riser has a single Forgetsum pill in his or her possession.]

  There now. My words are worn. The time is at hand. See each other now around this fire. Look your last, Risers, upon the faces of our dwindling numbers. We have never been fewer than we are now, yet we will never be more again forever after. We must take our chance to execute one last rescue. At dawn, we rise and make the journey together. This final act to be our zenith, the books recovered our auspicious stars.

  What’s that? Why, yes, Lady M. Indeed. We must screw our courage to the sticking place.

  We will not fail.

  INK

  NOELLE

  SIXTEEN

  We’re just a day outside the Winnow, and already I have the road in my bones. Each time Ledger swerves to miss a hazard, asphalt leaks into me, thick and black. The motion makes it difficult to hold anything down. My first twenty-four hours are spent getting acquainted with the RV bathroom.

  I check my reflection in the small mirror above the sink. It’s hard to tell which features belong to me and which can be blamed on the chipped and fuzzy surface. Are the cracks mine? Is the dark splotch beneath my left eye part of me? I could stare for hours, it feels, and not be certain. My reflection is as foreign as the world outside.

  The words my grandfather told me have been echoing in my mind since we set off. We will be safe because I once knew the Risers. I didn’t push him for any more information. Something told me I would find out very soon on my own.

  I let the cold water run and splash my face, shocking my skin awake. I blot my face dry, wondering how I missed seeing what I truly was my entire life. If my grandfather knew all along I was a reader, my parents must have sensed it, too. No wonder they tried so hard to protect me. They gave their lives to keep this outside world away from me. And now here I am, right in the middle of it, running from Fell, a book in my possession, my head full of the knowledge they were going to erase from me.

  My chest tightens as my lungs scream for fresh air. I scramble into the small bathtub, stand on the edge and yank back the curtain shading the small window. I release the latch and smack my palm against the glass, pushing it open. I climb up higher, resting on the ledge, so I can lean out and feel the warm wind against my face.

  The road extends for miles and miles. Grandpa says he doesn’t trust the autodrive feature on the vehicle, even though Hale said it was safe. Grandpa thinks Verity could be listening, so we agree not to turn it on, not even once. Ledger has been drivi
ng without a break, following the route Hale programmed for us.

  We head southeast, away from the sea beyond Fell. We pass abandoned cars at the side of the road, all of them caressed with the characteristic kiss of fire. In the distance, the landscape is barren and brown like a desert. Only a few oddly shaped trees break up the horizon. Every once in a while, we pass a structure of some sort, a house or service station, but all are too destroyed to identify. Rectangles that must once have been billboards are now just blurs of soot swishing by. A few of them have pictures, barely visible. A man on a camel. A woman in a red swimsuit on a beach. A happy guy driving a sports car. These are the few I see, though most have been stripped away by fire.

  The RV swerves, propelling me into the window frame. I grab hold of the ledge to keep from falling. There’s a fork in the road ahead blocked by an overturned truck. We angle around it, narrowly missing the side of the truck. As we turn, my foot slips on the edge of the bath. I lose my grip and crash back against the paneling. Everything spins for a moment. I shut my eyes as the RV steadies. I pull myself up and run out to find Grandpa sitting up on the RV sofa, gripping the foam seat. “What was that?”

  “A truck blocking the road,” I say.

  Grandpa peers out the window. “We turned off. We need to keep heading east.”

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll go see.”

  A curtain separates the living space of the RV from the front, where Ledger is driving. I slide it to the side and lower myself into the passenger seat. His gaze is fixed ahead, his eyes intent.

  “We have to get back on the main road,” I say, checking the program map. “We need to go east.”

  “I know,” Ledger says. “But there was no way through.”

  We pull off into a desolate little town. The buildings are small and flat, painted in cheerful colors. The roads crisscross neatly, free from ash and burn marks. We pass what might be a store with large windows. Inside, the shelves appear orderly, clean. No debris, no chaos or evidence of hungry people having been there scavenging for food. There are a few other parked cars, but something about them feels off, as if they’ve been . . . positioned. Everything about this place feels that way.

  “This doesn’t look like the rest,” I tell him. “Nothing here has been burned, nothing damaged, and yet it’s abandoned.”

  “Or never populated in the first place,” Ledger says. “The paint. It’s too fresh. Too bright. Like it’s brand-new or something.”

  I snap my head to look at him. “You’re saying it’s a fake town?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  I spot something glistening in the road ahead. “Ledger, stop!” I shout. “Stop!”

  He slams on the brakes. The RV screeches to a halt. In the road, a row of nails stand at attention. “It’s a trap,” I whisper.

  Ledger throws the RV into reverse. He makes a three-point turn and steers us back the way we came, away from the nails.

  “What are you doing?” I shout.

  “I saw something. I didn’t know what to make of it before.”

  He brakes at an intersection. “Look,” he says, indicating a street sign with a thick red arrow pointing straight ahead toward the nails. “I was following the arrows before. But I don’t think we’re supposed to.”

  I squint at the red sign, the paint fresh and glistening. I open the door and step down from the RV.

  “Wait!” Ledger shouts, but I’m already jogging toward the sign. When I get to it, I stop. My brain fizzles with the familiarity of the little black letters beneath the arrow. Together they make words. Words only I can read. I run back to the RV, my heart racing. “Turn left.”

  “What? What was that?” Ledger asks, his eyes wide.

  “They’re instructions. Underneath the arrows. We’re supposed to read them, to get through this place.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t, but we need to try. It can’t be any worse than following the red arrows and blowing out a tire.”

  “Yes, it can,” Ledger says. “It really can.”

  “We can’t think like that. If we do, we’ll never get anywhere.”

  “Fine,” he says, pushing the RV out of neutral. “You read. I’ll drive.”

  We turn left and head down a one-way street. Another red arrow points straight ahead. I get out and read the instructions below it. “Turn right,” I tell Ledger when I get back in. Right at the corner sends us east. We’re running parallel with the main road. Now we just have to get on it.

  We pass an on-ramp, and Ledger slows. A red arrow directs us left to the on-ramp and up to the main road.

  “What about this one?” he says. “Looks straightforward enough.”

  “I don’t think so.” I get out and run up to the arrow painted directly on the asphalt. “Non credo quod vides,” I read. And below it: “Go straight.”

  I run back to the RV and hop into the passenger seat. “It’s telling us to go straight,” I tell Ledger.

  “That can’t be right,” he says. “We can see the on-ramp right there, plain as day.”

  The curtain parts. My grandfather stands looking out at the road over my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

  “The red arrows are wrong,” I tell him.

  “But Noelle thinks the instructions written below the arrows are the ones we should be following.”

  “They’re sending us in the wrong direction on purpose.”

  To my surprise, Grandpa smiles. “Of course they are,” he says. “Typical.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What did the last instruction say?” he asks me.

  I look down at my hands. “I couldn’t understand it. The language was different.”

  Grandpa lets the curtain fall. In seconds, I hear the RV side door open and Grandpa grunt loudly. His feet hit the dirt, and I head back with him. Grandpa limps toward the red arrow, struggling with each stride. When we get to it, he stops suddenly. His face falls as he looks at me, his eyes full of sudden shame. “I forgot,” he says. “I can’t read.”

  My heart sinks. “Can’t you try?”

  Grandpa shakes his head. “You don’t understand. The letters don’t make sense. They’re nothing I can recognize. Just empty symbols.” He sighs, clearly frustrated. “Noelle, you’ll have to do it.”

  “But the language. Most of it’s not even English.”

  “Try. Read it to me out loud like you did in the Vale with the simulcast. Let the letters guide you.”

  I stare at the text. Non credo quod vides. I sound the letters out, forming words, letting the reading happen.

  “Stop,” Grandpa says when I’ve finished. “It’s Latin. It means, ‘Don’t believe what you see.’ They want us to continue.”

  We get back to the RV. “Go straight,” Grandpa tells Ledger. “I know it doesn’t look that way, but the arrows are wrong.”

  “Okay,” Ledger says, chucking the RV into gear. We head straight, following the road. The lanes disappear. The arrows are gone. We’re following nothing but open black asphalt. We wind beneath the overpass and start heading away from it.

  “I really hope you’re right about this,” Ledger says under his breath.

  “Believe me, so do I,” I say. The road tapers between two buildings, then begins twisting and circling. We climb up, turning in a complete circle back toward the on-ramp. We crest a hill by the narrow buildings we just passed, and then connect, reunited with the main road. East. That’s the way we’re headed. I glance out the window at the first overpass behind us. The midsection is broken in two. A wide gap in the center plunges to a deep quarry. Had we followed the red arrows, we would have driven straight into it.

  I turn to Ledger. “Did you see that?”

  He nods, eyes straight ahead. “I guess they really did want to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That whoever finds them really is a reader.”

  *

  Pedanta, the first Sovereign, is on t
he horizon. The way is flat and clear now. I find Grandpa in the back and scoot up next to him on the foam sofa. “There’s something I’ve been wondering,” I say.

  Grandpa’s eyes flicker. “What is it?”

  “It’s just that, you were a reader like me, and you knew the Risers. So how did we ever end up in the UVF?”

  A thick sigh escapes Grandpa’s chest. “We didn’t end up there,” he says heavily. “We chose it. I mean . . . I chose it.”

  “Why?”

  “For your grandmother. That’s why I moved us to the Vale. For a life inside Fell.”

  “So she wasn’t a reader?”

  Grandpa’s eyes darken. “No, she was very much a reader,” he says wistfully. “But you have to understand, things were different then. We’d just lived through a civil war. Edith’s family was gone. I was all she had left.”

  “So you chose Fell over freedom?”

  Grandpa shakes his head. “I chose Edith. Pure and simple. I would have gladly spent an eternity with your grandmother under Fell’s rule than live a lifetime of freedom without her.”

  “And you gave up the reading. Didn’t you miss it? Didn’t Grandma miss it?”

  Grandpa gives me a half smile. “When we left, your grandmother never looked back. It was as if our lives before Fell had not existed. She wanted to forget the war, forget all that had happened. Forgetting the words was just part of it.”

  Grandpa lifts up and slides out the foam cushion he’s sitting on, revealing a small compartment in the sofa. He reaches in and takes out the book. Volume I. He holds it for just a moment before placing it on the seat between us.

  “They terrify me now,” he says gazing down at the cover. “I never thought I would feel that way again, but it’s true. The words terrify me.”

  “Maybe you can get them back?” I say, trying to sound hopeful, but I can see it in Grandpa’s eyes. There’s no getting the words back after what Fell has taken from him.

  Grandpa pushes the book toward me. I take it in my hands, searching him for understanding. “I never want you to feel this way,” he says. “I never want you to be afraid, like me. Because the truth is I’ve spent long enough being afraid for the both of us. Go on, open it.”