Nita was the one who gave me my Outside name. Nadia. Like she gave me her extra tunic and leggings, which probably weren’t extra at all. Like she gave me secret lessons during the middle bell, when I was supposed to be caching, showing me how to walk, talk, and wear my hair Outside, both of us giggling at my efforts. When I asked why she chose Nadia, she just shrugged and said, “Because it suits.”
Nadia, we decided, worked with Nita, helping in the Archiva family chambers, and she lived with the planters, nearly two kilometers from Nita’s house, at the foot of the mountains near the wheat fields. And three seasons ago, on the first of the dark days, Nadia went Outside, and ate a resting meal with Nita’s family. She was shy at first, quiet. Until she discovered that she didn’t have to be careful. That Nita’s mother, brothers, grandpapa, didn’t mind what she said or what she didn’t. Didn’t mind her ignorance about certain facts—that streets could smell, that you could be cheated in the Bartering Square, that making a clay pot meant getting your hands filthy. They didn’t mind anything about her at all. Love, Nadia decided, was so much easier to feel in the Outside.
And when I climbed back down the supply shaft, back to the opulent lamplight and perfumed silence where my name is Samara, that was when I first began to suspect. A suspicion that grew and grew until I Knew.
That we of the Knowing are not as we should be.
FROM THE HIDDEN BOOK OF SAMARA ARCHIVA IN THE CITY OF NEW CANAAN
Nita told a story once, all of us sitting around the heating furnace in her mother’s house, about how the Earth people liked to eat each other. Complete with sound effects. Her littlest brothers were shrieking with laughter, Nathan smacking her arm, egging her on until she cheerfully explained how Earthlings also had wings on their heads, like the bluedads in the fields, and that was how they flew through the stars.
So far, not one thing I’ve ever heard about Earth seems to be true. Then again, three days ago I didn’t even believe in Earth’s existence, so I don’t Know why being wrong should come as such a shock to me. I’ve slept for six bells, and then another three, unharmed. Beckett showed me his technology, told me that technology could heal. I think he told me the truth. And coming to study the history of New Canaan is nothing like the wanton destruction we’ve been taught Earth would bring.
I sneak a look at Beckett in the light of his jar, Jillian just behind him. He’s thoughtful, one corner of his mouth turned up, a shadow darkening his chin. No sign of wings. Or cannibalism. And he’s been telling me other things. Little things, about a father, a mother, a grandmother he knew as a child, small offerings that he gives along with his blanket and occasional food. Maybe he’s only giving what it doesn’t hurt for me to Know. That would be an intelligent way to gain my trust. And it’s not like he’s once admitted where he’s from. Maybe studying New Canaan means studying us like the plant specimens under glass in the chemistry labs. Maybe Earth will take us away to study us more, like the stories say.
Memory nudges, and I see Beckett smiling, his face open and unguarded as he puts the glasses in my hand. His smile also comes like a gift. One that’s given often. But smiles can be lies just as easily as words. And I don’t think Beckett would be smiling at me if he knew what I’d done.
I need to understand how I dreamed him.
Jillian catches my eye. I think I’ve been looking at Beckett a long time. And just like him, her feelings are open and impossible to miss. Anger—she’s been furious for ten bells now, walking close, no more lagging behind to hide that technology she’s been using. And then I watch her expression change into something like disdain before she looks away. Dismissal. The look carries a sting just as potent as words. Like a candle flame on skin.
And this is why we don’t show our feelings Underneath. Because that flame is going to keep on burning, blistering, while Jillian, who shows no sign of having memory, will forget one day that she ever looked at me like that at all.
I lift my light to the path ahead and try to think of a world where the Knowing could Forget. Where you wouldn’t have to be afraid of love. Or your children. If I can bargain with the Council for time, heal the Knowing with Forgetting, then that world could still be possible. If I cannot, then my time is short, and I might as well indulge in the memory of a smile.
And that sounds a little like Sonia.
I need to be even more careful than I thought. And for different reasons.
I walk fast, and we go a long way, in a silence that might have just as much to say as speech. The water beside us has been slowing, widening for some time, and then we pass into a huge room where there’s not a river anymore at all, but a lake, dark and glossy, pooling to one side. Columns of blue-and-black-riddled stone drip down from the ceiling, climb up from the floor, sometimes meeting in the middle, reflecting in the water, making the rough cavern look almost formal in the shadows of our lights. It reminds me of the Forum.
When I compare the steps in my memory, I think we must be halfway to New Canaan. We’ve made good time. Better than I thought. There hasn’t been the first sign of anyone coming behind us, and there’s no point having the two of them falling down when we get to the city.
I cache the thought about what we’ll do when we get to the city. And with more success than usual.
“We should rest here,” I tell them.
“Beck?” Jillian whispers.
He does a slow turn with the glasses, checking the shadows and peering at the water before he nods to Jillian. And because I Know what he’s doing when I shouldn’t, he sends me a hint of his smile. Conspiratorial. A little naughty. And I flush. Hard. Jillian doesn’t see this, thankfully; she’s sighing with relief, dropping her pack in a smooth, flat section of stone a few meters back from the shore. I turn and face the pool, hoping the dark and my skin will be enough to hide the heat in my cheeks.
I should just ask him. Get the question out in the open. Are you from Earth? See if Beckett tells me lies or truth. And then I tell myself it doesn’t matter. The outcome is the same, and that’s why I don’t bother to ask.
I push a stray curl behind my ear. I feel dirty. Ragged. Unsure and ridiculous. I set my pack on the ground, lift the strap of my book over my head, reach for the end of my braid, and pull the tie.
“I’m going to swim,” I say to no one in particular. I don’t care if I have to sleep in wet clothes. It will be worth it to be cleaner. And I need to do something. Occupy my mind. I’ve been in good control today, but now I’m upset, and that’s when memories pull the hardest.