Nemecene: The Epoch of Redress (19 page)

The buried past, unfortunately, has a habit of resurfacing, and judging by the changes in activity evident on the campus oval, the digging has already begun. Keeto and his friend have managed to escape the quarantine and are marching with determination through the bustling foot traffic. She sharpens her focus and maps a visual facsimile of his curious sidekick opposite yesterday's encounter at the ivy wall, then afterwards in the arcade, and unequivocally identifies him as one and the same. In the dark, his features were generally obscured, but the mannerisms are an absolute match, leading her to the disquieting suspicion that his involvement with the twins is not altogether accidental. Exactly how much they have confided in him at this point is unclear, but the unusual joining of minds with Keeto warrants some probing.

She traces their hike over the Victory Bridge and through the marble gate, as she formulates an inconspicuous plan to gain access to the archives. First and foremost, her adopted outfit poses a problem. Modesty permeates the cultural norms, and even though there are occasions when nudity is encouraged, such as during certain Unification rituals, daylight exposure is rare and tends to cause considerable upset. A ploy to enter the museum as a typical patron, clad in a pastel colored garment and carrying a mid-sized slippad, accords the best chance of success and requires minimal provisions. Winding back down the spiral staircase to her studio, she browses the area for her most demure ensemble. With several swift twirls of her wrists, she fashions a simple headdress, threads her impatient arms through the wide sleeves, collects her stage prop, and whirls down the steps to the main entrance, attaching the front panel of the robe across her right breast and knotting the belt, as she emerges from the building.

To embark upon the southbound hovertrain becomes her immediate mission. She competes for the nearest vacant marker and secures the back of the wrap, flush to her hairline, in anticipation of the boarding surge. Once seated, she registers the Central Core as her drop location and brings her breathing into alignment with her pulse, while the sequence controllers rearrange the exit queue. Amid the passenger shuffle, a distinguished individual, whom she recognizes as the administrative counsellor, fixes his eyes onto her as she is swept to the rear of the cabin in preparation for the plunge. Her heartbeat races and her face betrays her worries. He knows but somehow elects to remain unnaturally silent, perhaps counting on more compelling evidence to denounce her. Paralyzed by his implied attack, her brain tries to concentrate on her tactical concerns and to ascertain whether signs of her offenses have been wiped clean. Meanwhile, his disapproving glare burrows a hole in her armor, forcing her gaze to shamefully withdraw to her sandals. The short ride to the marble archway is unpleasantly tense.

As the craft closes in on her destination, she again glances at the pensive gentleman. To the casual observer, he would appear to be preoccupied with a mental conversation of his own; however, her intuitive skills are in no manner underdeveloped. Behind his aloof facade, he absorbs her thoughts, surely contemplating the most judicious timing to his ultimate reproach, and exudes an unspoken warning that leaves her rigid and moist. The importance of finalizing what the boys had interrupted last night is not to be undermined. But beforehand, she must learn the gist of the results from their medical lab caper, regardless of the judgment she is risking once the counsellor detects Mashrin's tragic state. Sensing the impending stop at the city center, he folds his arms as he scans the length of her figure. Her lungs compress with guilt. A nervous head check following the drop confirms the integrity of her disguise, and she resumes her anonymous venture into the round room, where she expects to spy the youths covertly sleuthing for leads.

By the Fountain of Bardo, the curator is entertaining a group of novices who have come from the settlements along the coast to conclude their training, under his esteemed tutelage. As she saunters past the arched entryway, flanked by the likenesses of famous historians, the attendant in the Great Hall signals her to advance briskly, so as not to disturb the session in progress, and inspects her permissions. The time elapsed since her previous visit has seen the entire staff and management replaced, which allows her charade as a spiritual sage to proceed unquestioned. Polishing a respectful bow, the young guide escorts her to the rim of the library, where a mute gathering of others of her pseudo status enlighten themselves. There, he lends her a personal automated librarian, which will safely fetch any ancient texts she wishes. She presents her gratitude in kind, quietly joins the other masters in the learning circle, and orients her position for an unobstructed view to the space in the middle, where the boys have carved out their research post.

Feigning an interest in the ecclesiastical ceremonies of the Ming Dynasty, she programs her PAL with a series of publications and releases it to the towering racks. While the loyal retriever is busy sniffing the shelves, she leans her recording tablet against the onyx counter before her, and convincingly directs her hands through the motions, whereas her actual business hovers just above the edge of her slips and straight down a constricting gap, angled akin to the spoke on a huge wheel converging toward the amateur detectives at its hub. Since the transport in from the highlands, she has been watching Keeto, waiting for the opportune moment to entice him into her world, and this very day, extended by last evening's audacious exchange, she seized it. His nocturnal sessions in the artifacts vault has sequestered him adequately from
them
, suitably engrossed as he is in his imagination and blind to her regular appearances. Captivated by the irreplaceable items he has been cataloging, he has exhibited the dreamy enthusiasm of a child, awed by a land full of adventure and intrigue, but today, he seems veritably focused on his task.

As he huddles over layers of periodicals in his usual seat at the broad circular table, occasionally nudging his unconventional colleague as he unearths fragments of relevant information, she studies his facial expressions for visible clues, while her PAL flies amidst the bookshelves and drops each manuscript in her lap as it grabs them. She pretends to read the documents, page after page, and monitors the pair diligently tackling their discouragingly tall mound until Keeto's pupils shrink into two pin-centered brown saucers. Of all the volumes painstakingly restored in this vast collection, he has coincidentally stumbled upon the pivotal editorial in their crusade and is feverishly devouring its contents, raising the eyebrows of at least one nearby onlooker with his hushed excitement. His partner, she senses, is reacting to the discovery with higher than average emotional attachment, in contrast with the intellectual detachment Keeto has assumed, yet the connection is intangible. He is a stranger to her and an unwelcome obstacle to circumvent.

Her next maneuver hinges on their staying immersed in the accounts they have assembled. She must approach them from the rear, masquerading as a humble philosopher aimed at the antiquities section in search of supporting elements for her dissertation, and as she drifts by, ingest the headlines on the news reports they are scouring. The crisp cerulean fibers beneath her modest robe threaten to expose themselves when her stride loosens the knot in her sash. A fleeting hint of her naked thigh catches the sunlight streaming from the crystal dome as she breaches the inner circle. Distracted by her efforts to conceal the clothing malfunction, she ends up on a collision course with a youthful academic walking towards her. He artfully avoids releasing a thunderous mess of parchments onto the tiles with a nimble leap to the side and acknowledges her with a courteous nod. She duly regains her composure and targets the large shimmering print as she veers left behind Keeto and his companion: "Rash of disappearances haunts parents of 9 year olds", "Missing child found with a slice of brain removed", "Common mark links all abductees, parents urged to contact GHU".

Keeto remembers, although she is not surprised. As a youngster, he had displayed the same reflective traits as he does now, cautiously assimilating wisdom beyond his years from the safety of his bedroom, while his sister grew bold and adventurous by overcoming increasingly punishing battles with her internal demons. Nathruyu remembers as well. The captions are as chords plucked on a timeless instrument in near perfect harmony with the ongoing melody, bound inside the void by the cyclical nature of the universe. Her awareness travels there for an instant as she analyzes their significance in the larger context. To intercept the process that will lead him to an ill-favored conclusion has become her highest priority. As Keeto finishes the article transcription and re-shifts his attention to his surroundings, she slides into the adjacent aisle, retreats to the perimeter and arcs her way behind the stacks and towards the exit, shrouding her profile with her sleeve, as naturally as possible. She must retrieve the girl.

Back on her rooftop terrace, she stares wistfully into the sunset. She currently finds herself faced with diminishing alternatives and is reevaluating the soundness of her decisions. For the latter part of the afternoon, she has been consumed by a visceral need to reconcile her doubts with her convictions, but the turmoil persists. She had opted to sever the ties with the father and withhold their whereabouts, thus breaking her precarious bond of trust with him and alienating a useful government insider. Tonight, as her hopefully enlisted ally shares the message in his journal with his sister and their cohort at the Snack Shack, she surrenders to the circumstances and prepares to reclaim the body, lest the GMU order its release to the Special Investigation Force. This particular transgression cannot be contained, as there are three civilian witnesses, two of whom are intent on dodging entanglements with authorities, but the third has yet to reveal his complete saga. Eventually, he will falter, and when he does…

Day 26: Early Evening

I
can feel him watching me. We're back. Turn around and say something. The floor is clear.

"Here, Stitch. Your thrower."

"No. Keep it, just in case. I have another one." You can let go of my hand now. Why is he so serious?

Caroline! She'll be waiting. Quick, an out. "Lockdown in three. You'd better get back."

He's not leaving. What is wrong with him? They're hiding behind his head and peeking around the sides. Are they? Yeah. They're shy. Wait. They're squirming. Is he nervous?

"I can stay with you tonight if you need me."

For what? Seriously. "I'm fine. No one can bust through the fuzz patrol anyway."

"I can." He has a point.

Oh, enough. I have to get to the daze. He doesn't suspect, does he?

"Who'll protect me from
you
then?" Nudge. Not even a smile. This new Zafarian is morose. Now it's my arm.

"Be careful. I won't be far." He's actually worried. Sweet but unnecessary.

Crap! "They're waking. Clip." And so should I.

No time for much. What to wear. The purple one. The blue. Juicy. A bit of skin glow, some lashes, and... No biting! I'm your owner, remember? Mother's jewel. No. I'd better not. Now don't you start with me. Stop talking! Silence? That was fast. Maybe the bump on the head fixed something up there. Oops, the hat. Have to ditch that look. I'll need to cover... Hey, it's... I'll deal with that later. Focus. Ok. I'm missing something. Yeah. Caroline's medical slip, and I'll chew on the way.

Now where's that dribble dropper. At the lift. Grab the handy frequency thrower and... How about a door slam? Stitch is right. It's just too easy. Quick. In the lift. Wait for it...and now a thump. Perfect. Time to clear the lobby. Good. Outside at last. It's so dead with this curfew. That's strange. The lights are out in the orchard. I'd better watch where I'm walking this time. What was that? Freeze! Nothing. Just head for the front gate and stop scaring yourself. Brrr. Did they forget to turn the blowers off? Ok. Now, to get past the... Juicy! The gate is unguarded. But why? Something's not right. He should be right... Oh, no. Don't look. Ahhhhhh!

The protector he's... Crap. I'd better get out of here before someone comes looking for him. Creeps. What if it's... No. Enough already. Just get across the Victory Bridge and head north. Caroline is waiting. Where did I put those directions? Hick. Forgot them. Over there. That man probably knows.

"Excuse me. Can you point me to Almedina Square?" He's frowning at me.

"Almedina Square?"

"Yes. Is it far?"

"Not far enough. Are you sure you want to go there? Alone?" What does he mean by that?

Feeling a little anxious now. "I'm meeting a friend. Is there a problem?" He's acting like he's checking for GMU taggers or something.

"Nobody goes there. It's not safe."

Oh oh. What is Caroline into? Well, I can't turn back now. He's reluctant. Think of something compelling.

"Then I need to get there fast to warn her." Good. He has a slipmap. He's in the maze.

"Of course. Let's see. Ah, yes. Here, take this slip and just follow the blue dot. And be careful. If you start to feel weak, run. And don't look back."

"Thank you."

That was a little disturbing. Can't be worse than last night. I think. Don't quite remember actually. It looks close enough. A bit north, then east near the shores. There's the hovertrain. Whoa! Gets me every time. Now I can relax for a bit until I reach the junction. There it is. Fast ride tonight. I'll just switch to the east-west line and I'm juicy. Destination Almedina—five drops. Phew! Almost there.

"Hey lo, girl." I recognize that giggle.

"Hey lo, Caroline. It's been crazed. I wasn't sure how I'd get out. Everyone got tagged last night."

"No rib! That explains the graveyard today. Hurts, yeah?"

"Eh?" She's pointing to the back of her head. Right, the tag. "Oh that! Like a mangled scan! But it's bearable."

"Not that you've had one though, yeah?" She's looking for my reaction. Don't get baited into it. "So...you solved the mystery then." Stay calm. Try not to look nervous, just puzzled. "The exception." The exception? Oh right.