Blood, Ink & Fire

by Ashley Mansour

  “We have a new patient,” France says. “His name is William Hartley, and he is very special. I entrust him into your care.”

  France nods to a medical practitioner on her left, who steps forward with a small display. “William Hartley. Age eighty-four. Patient sustained a moderate transverse tibial fracture to the right leg. We have him scheduled for an immediate operation followed by a full bioscan and vital restoration. Patient is in prep for surgery.”

  “Very good,” France says. “Now please escort us to the operating theater.”

  The medical practitioner steps forward, lowering her display. “Right this way.”

  We follow France down the slick white corridor. “We’ve made some interesting advancements of late,” she says. “Using light technology, we can mend your grandfather’s leg much faster than ever before. There will be less pain, and healing time is greatly reduced.”

  We turn into a spacious room at the end of the corridor. Grandpa reclines in a large, cream-colored bed. A young man is checking his vitals and projecting them onto a central display. It’s then I realize Grandpa is inside a glass chamber.

  I turn to France. “What is this? Why is he in there?”

  “It’s simply for your grandfather’s protection. He has been inside Fell many years, and we do not want to introduce any alien viruses or bacteria.”

  Grandpa sees me and sits up. I go to the glass and press my hands against it. “Grandpa!” I shout. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Elle,” he calls back. “They’re taking good care of me.”

  He smiles, and I feel my eyes water. I turn to France. “Nothing can happen to him, do you understand? Nothing.”

  France narrows her eyes. “I assure you, Miss Hartley,” she says coolly, “he will have the very best care.”

  I turn back to Grandpa behind the glass. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “I’ll be fine, Elle. The Pedantians know what they’re doing.”

  “Okay,” I say. I press my palms against the glass and lean my forehead into it. A medical practitioner inside the chamber catches my worried expression. Like the other workers we saw, she’s older, and her eyes look sorrowful. I swallow the clump of emotion gathered in my throat.

  “Take good care of him,” I tell her. “He’s all I have left.”

  She meets my eyes quickly. For that split second, I think she just might understand.

  Ledger and I follow France back to the soli-carts. Ledger slips in next to me. I whip my head around and catch his gaze, his face fraught with concern.

  “He’ll be okay, Elle,” he says, using my nickname for the first time. “They’ll fix him up, don’t worry.”

  I clam up, feeling strangely unnerved. Can he really sense my emotions so keenly? What else he might discover in my presence scares me, and yet the thought of not having him next to me leaves me breathless, empty.

  Soon we’re heading out of the tunnel. I turn my attention from Ledger and focus on getting the lay of the land. Pedanta seems to be circular, with the winding road of the entrance at one pole and the watchtower at the center. We head toward it, speeding along the wide, swooping road. Real grass whips past us, crisp and green. No dry-lawn here.

  “The area you see is our living community,” France says. “All our facilities are here. Food. Transportation. Health care. Everyone also has a residence here.”

  “What’s over there?” I point beyond a pair of hills, to the opposite pole of the circle.

  France nods. “That is where we are going.”

  We wind past the tower, entering the valley between the hills, covered in lush, flowering vegetation. A spot of blue peeks through on the horizon. As we near, it opens up, revealing a huge, crystalline body of water.

  I turn to France. “The ocean?”

  “That is Lake Pass, actually.” Sure enough, as we pull through, I see land on the other side. “And that is the campus,” France says. “Where our scholars go for the knowledge.”

  “The knowledge?” Ledger asks. “You teach people how to read?”

  “The knowledge we still have differs from the knowledge that we have lost,” France explains. “The campus is the place where the knowledge—our collective learning—can be shared, gifted. It is our university, if you like.”

  “That seems confusing,” Ledger says.

  “That’s why I am taking you there, so that you may better understand your purpose with us.”

  “The campus is separate from the rest of the city,” I observe.

  “That’s right,” France says matter-of-factly. “Pedanta was founded on the principles of scholarship. Lives were given for the procurement of the knowledge we have today. Knowing is a privilege one must earn.”

  The soli-cart climbs the crest of a hill, giving us a full view of the lake and the shore. “We need to hurry,” France says. “I don’t want to miss the scholars.”

  I grip the sides of the seat as we plunge down the hillside toward the lakefront. I note Ledger’s hand beside me like an offering. I resist the urge to reach for it as we pick up speed, winding along the bending road.

  “Faster, please.” France says calmly. Full speed now, and it’s all I can do to hold on.

  The lakefront spreads over several miles in each direction. Tiny crimson sails flutter in the breeze, specking the horizon with vivid color. All along the beach, hundreds of people stand at attention. A distant bell begins to chime. The people on the beach snap into action, their movements jarred and unpredictable. As we near, I realize every last one of them is strangely small. Children.

  My mouth falls open at the sight. Hundreds of young children, no older than five or six, cover the beach. The youngest look to be barely out of diapers. They are dressed identically, in little white sailing suits and caps. I watch, stunned, as they trek up and down the beach, hauling boat parts through the sand that dwarf their tiny frames. They drag schooners toward the shore, dredging hundreds of lines in the earth. Dozens of them circle a mast, then work together to lift it into position. Another bunch carry a folded sail toward a mast, then hook it onto the boom and halyard. All up and down the beach miniature schooners are being assembled by the children of Pedanta, all building, working, readying to set sail.

  One by one, the schooners are righted, fitted, finished, and launched, and the sails hoisted. I look out to the lake, the dark water circling in a steady current. It must be several miles across and who knows how deep. The children get in their boats as others surround them and push them out to the water. Not one of them looks old enough to know how to swim, but soon all the boats are in the water, each sail filling with wind, each child a captain of his or her own miniature ship. A row of guards stand at the harbor, watching.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” France asks wistfully. “The human quest for knowledge. It begins here. Today.”

  I nod, speechless. France takes in a sharp breath. I follow her gaze to one ship in the center of the lake struggling to raise its sail. The child—a boy of no more than five years old—tugs with all his might on the halyard. The sail flaps uselessly, jamming as the bow of the tiny schooner dips perilously, plunging into the water. The bow swings out of control side to side. He starts to scream; a sound more animal than human reaches us. He ducks, just barely dodging the swinging boom. The more he panics, the more the tiny boat bobs erratically on the lake.

  “Someone has to help him! What are you doing?”

  France’s glassy eyes betray a hint of sadness, but my question steels her gaze.

  I cup my hands over my mouth to yell. “Someone help him!”

  “Just watch,” she says, too calmly. “Watch it unfold.”

  But I am watching. That’s the problem. Are they seeing what I’m seeing? The boy uses all his weight to pull on the lines, but the sails won’t rise. The schooner is taking on water. All the other boats sail by him, as if he isn’t there, as if his screams are silent. The guards stand by passively as the little schooner founders, a
s the child inside it screams in terror. There’s no denying it a second longer: the boy is going to drown.

  I hold my head not believing what I’m witnessing. “This is insane!” I yell. “You’re just going to stand here and watch him die?”

  Ledger looks back and forth between us. “You have to send the guards, France. He doesn’t have long out there.”

  A wave from a passing boat hits the side of the foundering schooner, rocking it perilously from side to side. The boy falls forward into the starboard side, then climbs up as the schooner dips into the lake.

  I turn to Ledger, his jaw tight, his body coiled up like a spring ready to explode. I glance back to the guards one last time. “Help him!” I scream. “Can’t you see he’s going to drown?” The guards stand motionless, waiting at France’s command, but she says nothing. Her eyes don’t move from the schooner.

  Without thinking, I bolt from the soli-cart and run toward the beach. “Noelle, stop!” Ledger yells as I sprint through the sand.

  The little boy screams and disappears into the blue horizon. I keep my eyes on him, even as his head dips under the tide, as his arms flail desperately above the current. I plunge into the water. I’m waist-deep before my gut sickens and I remember: I’ve only ever seen images of swimming. I’ve never actually done it.

  The current overtakes me. I’m underwater, in a world of blurry blue. I kick my arms and legs the way I’ve seen done in Verity’s stream, but nothing happens. I seem to sink deeper. I take on water. My lungs seize. A sudden calm descends on me. I’m floating lifeless inside the lake, thinking all the while that I know exactly what the little boy must be feeling. The two of us will die here today. We will both end in the first Sovereign.

  A pair of hands lands on the back of my shirt. I struggle at first before realizing I’m being pulled in the direction of air. I break the surface, gasping for breath. I lap at the sky, inhaling clouds, sun, and whatever is beyond them. I cough, releasing the lake back into itself. The lake pulses with tiny waves emanating in all directions from me. From Ledger. I turn, realizing he’s holding me up by my clothes, keeping me afloat.

  Catching my breath, I search the lake for the little boy and the schooner, but I can’t see him. Where is he? I feel the warmth of Ledger’s body in the water, but he’s careful not to get too close. My eyes locate the boy as the top of his blond hair peeks up over the water. He’s farther out, struggling to swim. His cries are muffled, distant. A speedboat passes us and circles the boy. Hurry, I try to shout at them, but only water comes out. The little boy’s head slips under again and doesn’t resurface. “No!” I manage to yell. I reach out for him, even though we’re miles away. My hands find Ledger instead.

  The current shifts, thrusting us together. Our bodies collide. Suddenly I’m wrapped in the smoothness of his arms beneath the water. His hands hold me steady as the torrent of water surrounds us. The warmth of his flesh jolts through me like a current. His eyes, dark and terrified, pierce mine like a flaming spear. I close my eyes, stopping the singe of cosmic fire inside me. That’s when I hear it: a chorus of the stars singing, as if a million voices have a message for me alone. I try to listen, but before I can understand their ringing prophecies, I black out and slip into nothing.

  NOELLE

  EIGHTEEN

  I’m wrapped inside the warm hum of an engine. The breeze licks my face. My body’s grown a second, fuzzy layer, like a cocoon. When I open my eyes, I see Ledger. His hair is wet; his clothes are soaked and stuck to his form. I sit up, shrug off my blanket, and remember.

  “Ledger—” My voice breaks. “The boy?”

  “Take it easy. You took in a little water.”

  “What happened?”

  “You blacked out,” he says, his expression hardening.

  “Where’s the little boy? Did he make it?”

  He points to the front of the speedboat we’re in, where France sits at the helm, two guards on either side. I blink in shock at the sight of her. The little boy! She’s holding him on her knee. He’s laughing and smiling, like nothing ever happened.

  “They saved him?”

  “Something like that.” I probe Ledger with my eyes. “It was strange,” he says finally. “Like they were waiting for something to happen.”

  “At least he’s alive,” I say, relieved.

  “Yeah,” he says, his tone dark. “But you shouldn’t have gone after him.”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “I know. But when I went after you, I had to leave this—” he pulls up the backpack and pats it, and I know he means the book. “It was in the speedboat when it came for us.” I hope no one looked inside, his eyes tell me.

  Without warning, the speedboat veers, changing speeds. I lose my balance and fall backward on the bench. Ledger falls forward, just inches from me. His hands land on either side of me, grasping the edge of the seat, bracing himself against another collision. The memory of his skin, beneath the water, grabs me. The voices I heard singing echo distantly in my ears. His jaw clenches. His eyes are wild with fear, as if whatever happened might happen again. Ledger searches me, his blue eyes reflecting the glint of the surrounding lake. I stare into him, trying to understand what’s radiating between us. What’s going on? I ask him with my eyes.

  He sits up quickly, avoiding my gaze as the speedboat reaches the slip. The engine idles while the guards moor the boat. They help us out onto the dock. From there, I notice hundreds of empty schooners littering the shore. The tiny footprints of the children dot the sand. They lead up the hillside, toward the campus.

  I turn back as France gives the little boy a hug, then lowers him back into the speedboat. The guards rev the engine. The little boy waves to us as the boat pulls away, leaving a thread of white water behind it.

  “I’m sorry if that was difficult for you,” France says, coming over. “The first crossing is never easy.”

  “The first crossing?”

  “Each year a new group of scholars must make the crossing to the campus. It was designed by my grandfather and the elders to weed out those not well suited to the scholarly life, those without the courage it demands. The children who cannot instinctively overcome their fears using the tools we’ve provided them are left behind.”

  “They’re so young, how can you expect them to know what to do?”

  “That’s what the older children are there for. They show them how to make the crossing. They lead them to the water, but in the end, they must choose whether the gift of knowledge will be theirs.”

  I incline to the speedboat, now just a speck in the distance. “So what happens to the little boy?”

  “He will become a worker now.” France turns and leads us toward the campus.

  “And the other children?” I ask.

  “They have honored the knowledge by crossing successfully. They will become our scholars and inherit our legacy.”

  “That little boy risked his life trying to cross.” I feel my insides burn. “Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “The knowledge is a privilege, not an entitlement. It is a gift to be earned. To be valued. There is no value in everyone succeeding.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “They’re just children!”

  “It may be difficult for you to understand,” she says without turning back. “We value the pursuit of knowledge, the human quest to learn. The crossing embeds a lifelong respect and appreciation.”

  “But he could have died!”

  France stops on the path and glares at me. “If he had died, his death would have merely symbolized the thousands who died before him to procure what we know today. The knowledge is that essential to us. It is worth human lives to uphold.”

  “That depends,” Ledger says.

  France’s eyes widen. “Do you not think knowledge is worth dying for?”

  “Only the right kind of knowledge,” Ledger says.

  We end up in front of a smooth, round glass building that greets us with a sharp reflection
of the sun. The area is busy with activity, students passing from one side of the campus to another. Several oddly shaped buildings jut out, cutting up the sky before us.

  We enter the round building. Inside, white spiral ramps wisp up, circling every floor. They swoop up toward the central rotunda, twisting and wrapping around us like the inside of a nautilus shell. A low vibration of activity fills the air with a strange urgency.

  We enter a glass elevator and take it up to the twenty-ninth floor. I watch the levels pass as we rise up one by one.

  “You must have had many casualties over the years?” I say, unable to hide my disapproval.

  France nods. “The lake is over five miles across and a hundred feet deep in places. You yourselves nearly fell victim to the harsh currents.”

  “How can you do it?” Ledger asks. I notice his neck flush with color, his voice harden. “How can you just let those children drown?”

  France looks at him, alarmed. “I thought I had made this clear? We never let them drown. We simply try to let them swim, giving them as long as possible to make it. The minute we save them, the minute we pull them from the water, their chance at the knowledge is gone forever. Is it wrong to give them the best opportunity to save themselves?”

  Before either of us can answer, the elevator stops. The doors open, and we follow France down a hall straight to a set of double doors. France stands before them. “I don’t expect you to understand, but the sacrifices we’ve made to preserve and grow the knowledge have led us to do truly amazing work.” She pushes open the doors, revealing a massive circular room. We stand at the very top, looking down row upon row of curved desks extending to the bottom level.

  There are four walkways and two entrances, splitting the room into equal quadrants. Hundreds of children, teenagers, and adults fill the stations, each with their own air display. They wear smooth white, gray, and yellow caps pulled down over their ears. A clear, ultrathin material floats in front of their eyes and moves with them. Their hands pluck, pinch, and tap the air. Their lips move in counterpoint to their actions as they breathe instructions into the display. Not one of them looks up when the doors clang shut behind us. No one stands at attention here.