After a long time of that, Samara says, “She is your partner?”
They’re the first words she’s said to me since our so-called deal, and I know exactly what she means just from the tone. From a linguistic standpoint, what an interesting use of the word “partner.” From a Beckett standpoint, what an uncomfortable one. But I did tell her to ask anything. I glance over my shoulder. Jillian’s light has dropped back.
“No,” I say carefully. “Not partners. We’ve just … known each other a long time.”
We walk on, the blue stone every now and again veined by a ribbon of shining black. A passage opens up to the left, little more than a crack, and when I check it with the glasses, I see that it widens, taking an almost perpendicular course. Samara ignores this and stays with the river. I want to ask her questions. A hundred of them. But since I’m following instinct here instead of protocol, I wait.
Then she stops and looks directly at me. Like she did before. I hold my breath. “Why do you want to come to my city?”
And this, I think, is my second challenge. I can see Jill through the glasses, small and far away in the dark. She’s using the cartographer. I turn back to Samara. Her eyes are amber lined with black lash. It’s really not all that hard, breaking protocol.
“I want to study it,” I tell her. When she doesn’t respond, I add, “To learn about it. Like how you live. Your history.”
The mask on her face shows the smallest crack, but I can’t identify the emotion. She asks, “You want to know our history?”
Yes, Samara of New Canaan. Five million times, yes. I can’t tell if she believes me. I really want her to believe me. Since I’ve already climbed out on a limb, I edge a little farther. “History is both my parents’ … ” I try to think of a word that won’t seem foreign to her. “It’s what they were trained for. Finding history that’s been lost.”
I’ve piqued her interest. She walks forward slowly, holding up her light. I don’t bother; I’m on night function. “My family trained for the Archives,” she says. “I think that must be much like history.”
Archives. New Canaan has an Archives. Joanna Cho-Rodriguez may forgive me yet. And Samara has a family. I think I may die of not asking. But she’s doing more talking than I’ve ever heard from her, and I’d be crazy to stop the flow. She pauses again, looks right at me.
“My uncle trained for the Archives, and he used magnifiers to repair the books.”
I wait. I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.
“He used magnifiers to see small things,” she explains. “What do yours do?”
And there it is. The third challenge. I take another look back. Jill’s light is bobbing now. She’s not too close, but I don’t have much time. I touch Samara’s arm, just a little, making her jump, steering her to the other side of a landslide of rock that sparkles in our light. She looks wary, like she might cut and run. Or fight. But I only take off the glasses and offer them to her.
“They help me see,” I tell her. Or that’s one way of putting it.
She sets her jar on the ground and takes the glasses like they might sting or bite, turning them over in her hand. She looks at me through them, her brows down.
“But they only work for me, not anybody else.”
She stares at me so deeply, the glasses held gingerly between two fingers, that this time I see something I recognize. That I know well. She is aching to know. Maybe just as bad as I am.
“Is it technology?” she whispers.
The word is a surprise. A big one. But I can feel myself grinning at her. It’s not only easy to break protocol, it’s downright satisfying. “Yes. That’s exactly what they are.”
“Can you see through walls?”
“Sometimes.”
“Can you see what’s coming in this passage?”
“Yes. For a long way. And there’s nothing in the passage.”
“Can you see inside me?”
I really wish the glasses could do that. “Some things.”
“Like bones?”
I nod. She’s been observant.
“Can they start a fire?”
“Sure.” Okay, that one would’ve been hard to miss.
“Can you see through clothes?”
I smile, mostly because it’s embarrassing. “Sort of. If I asked them to. I wouldn’t ask them to. But it’s against the rules to tell you this stuff, so don’t say anything in front of Jill, okay? You’ll get me in trouble.”
I watch her think about this. Or about something. She’s running one slim finger over the edge of the glasses, slow.
“Did technology heal your ankle?” she asks.
“It helped.”
“Would you show me?”
“Yes. Just … when we’re by ourselves, okay?” I smile at her again. She lays the glasses carefully back in my palm, but I don’t put them on. She’s looking right at me, and I’m thinking about that mask she wears. As perfect and hard as the insides of this planet. But now I don’t think she’s hiding just one or two things beneath it. I think she’s hiding her whole self. Just below the surface. I wonder why.
“Have you … ” Samara stops, drops her gaze. I want her to look up again, so I can see her eyes.
“Have I what?” It works. She looks at me.
“Have you been here before?”
The question was barely a whisper. But what I want to know is, why did she need to ask it? I shake my head. “No. I’ve never been here before.”
Samara picks up her light, and then Jill is coming around the stones.
“Are we stopping?” she asks.
I slide the glasses back onto my face, but before either of us can answer, Samara’s eyes drop closed and she’s just … gone. Away.
“What is—” Jill starts, but I shush her. Last time I saw Samara do this she fell down, so I wait, ready to catch her or the handblown jar, whichever goes first. Her mask dissolves, just like it did before, and this time I watch her concentrate, searching. I see exactly when she finds what she’s looking for. Because she smiles. A real one. It changes her face. Then her eyes snap open and the mask drops back into place again. I feel disappointed.
“In eight and a quarter bells we will be halfway to the boats,” Samara says. “A little sooner, if we move quickly.” Then she glides ahead in that fluid way she has, like she’s melting through the dark.
Jill gives me a look like, What boats?
I don’t have an answer. In fact, I have more questions than I know what to do with. About the Archives and bells and what she knows about technology. What her people might remember about Earth.
We move on down the passage without talking much, Samara pushing our pace until there’s no breath for it anyway. We rest behind a pile of rocks, and then get up and do it again. And again. Moving toward a city I’ve been ordered to find, with the girl I’ve been ordered to maintain contact with. As per protocol. But I’m not sure protocol is right anymore. I’m not sure our training is right.
I want to see what’s inside her again.
I want her to tell me everything.
I want her to want to talk to me.