<~?~ART 006 TK: Aerial photograph of First Colony excavation>
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?
<~?~ART 007 TK: First Colony Stone>
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?
<~?~ART 008 TK: THESE TWELVE
Brad Wolgast
Lacey Antoinette Kudoto
Anthony Carter
Alicia Donadio
Lucius Greer
Michael Fisher
Sara Wilson
Hollis Wilson
Hightop Jones
Theo Jaxon
Mausami Patal
Peter Jaxon, Beloved Husband
“And he shall be called the Man of Days for all the days he gave to humankind.”>
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. T
he 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?”
“I’ll rephrase. Going back to North America—you’d have to concede it’s pretty controversial.”
Ah, thinks Logan. Here we go. “Not to most people. Not according to the polls.”
“But certainly to some. The church, for instance. What do you make of their opposition, Professor?”
“I don’t make anything.”
“But surely you’ve thought about it.”
“It’s not my place to hold one voice above any other. North America—not just the place but the idea of the place—has sat at the center of humankind’s sense of itself for a millennium. The story of Amy, whatever the truth is, belongs to everyone, not just the politicians or the clergy. My job is simply to take us there.”
“And what do you think the truth is?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. People will have to judge the evidence for themselves.”
“That sounds very … dispassionate. Detached, even.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I care a great deal, Miss Tripp. But I don’t leap to conclusions. Take these names on the stone. Who were they? All I can tell you is that they were people, that they lived and died a very long time ago, and that somebody thought well enough of them to make a memorial. That’s what the evidence says. Maybe we’ll learn more, maybe we won’t. People can fill in the blanks however they like, but that’s faith, not science.”
For a moment she appears nonpluss
ed; he is not being a cooperative subject. Then, reviewing her notes again: “I’d like to go back to your childhood a moment. Would you say you come from a religious family, professor?”
“Not especially.”
“But somewhat.” Her tone is leading.
“We went to church,” Logan concedes, “if that’s what you’re asking. It’s hardly unusual in that part of the world. My mother was Ammalite. My father wasn’t really anything.”
“So she was a follower of Amy,” Nessa says, nodding along. “Your mother.”
“It’s just the way she was raised. There are beliefs, and there are habits. In her case, I’d say it was mostly a habit.”
“What about you? Would you say you’re a religious man, Professor?”
So, the heart of the matter. He feels a growing caution. “I’m a historian. It seems like more than enough to occupy myself.”
“But history could be said to be a kind of faith. The past isn’t something you can actually know, after all.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“No?”
He settles back to gather his thoughts. Then: “Let me ask you something. What did you have for breakfast, Miss Tripp?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a straightforward question. Eggs? Toast? A yogurt, perhaps?”
She shrugs, playing along. “If you must know, I had oatmeal.”
“And you’re quite certain? No doubts in your mind.”
“None.”
“How about last Tuesday? Was it oatmeal or something else?”
“Why this curiosity about my breakfast?”
“Indulge me. Last Tuesday. It wasn’t very long ago, surely you ate something.”
“I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Not worth remembering, in other words.”
She shrugs again. “I suppose not.”
“Now, how about that scar on your hand?” He gestures toward the one holding the poised pen. The mark, a series of pale, semicircular depressions, runs from the base of her index finger to the top of her wrist. “How did you get that? It looks to be quite old.”
The City of Mirrors Page 71