And I hold it out to Beckett.
It might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
I turn the book over in my hand. This is hand sewn, and the paper is coarse, also handmade, but different from other ancient paper I’ve felt. Mostly because it hasn’t had time to become as ancient as I’m used to.
I think what I’m holding is answers.
Samara goes to the other empty bed and lies on it with her back to me, hair cascading down to the floor. I don’t know what to make of her right now. She set my ankle, but this is at least twice she’s come close to getting me killed. She lied to me, ran from me, has barely tolerated me since, and I would’ve sworn when we were under the floor, if I’d kissed her then, she would have let me. I wanted to. I couldn’t help it. And now she’s handed me a gift, and we’re back to no eye contact.
I sit in the corner with the rounded wall, my back to the warm clay, run a dirty hand over the stained cover. When I open to the first page, I say, “You wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you want me to read it?”
“Because I want you to understand.”
Well, that makes two of us.
A lamp hangs from the ceiling, flickering in a draft, and I forget that its light is dim, that I’m hungry and tired, or that this floor is cold. The words are precise, some in ink, some in a kind of soft black that reminds me of charcoal, but what I don’t see are mistakes. Nothing crossed out. Nothing rewritten. Samara thought about what she wanted to say in here, and a lot of it is personal. Really personal. And I’m looking through her words into a world where the safety valves of the brain have been taken away. Where everything you do or say is so permanent that it’s paralyzing. Where good memories are the painkiller that can kill you. Where bad memories can make you not want to live. How did they get this way?
Some things are familiar. Like this bit of social injustice I’m sitting in right now. A copy-and-paste from the history files of Earth. And the stories about Earth and the first colonists—they’re like so much I’ve read, fables spun to explain the facts, but always with the truth hidden somewhere inside. But which is the truth, and which are the lies? I can’t tell yet. But I think it has to do with the Forgetting, the sickness Samara thinks of as a cure. It can’t be a cure. Not like that. Not by losing what you are.
I turn the last page and shut the book. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but it’s been a long time. If I was on the ship right now, or in a classroom in Texas, what I just read would have been considered a document of incredible importance. A firsthand account of a newly discovered culture. Dad and I could have debated the evolution and ethics of New Canaan for hours. But this is real, not some abstract concept. And people are living it and dying it. Right now.
This is Samara.
Jill’s breathing is quiet, even, the house silent around us. Samara is exactly as she was, head not half a meter away on the bed. She hasn’t moved, but I don’t think she’s sleeping. I try to decide if I would have the guts to do what she did the day she ran, when I knew I wouldn’t be able to forget it. When I knew I’d live it again. I’m not surprised anymore, that she screamed in the cavern. I’m surprised she isn’t screaming all the time.
“What would you have gotten in return,” I ask, my voice low, “if you’d given Jill and me to your Council?”
She doesn’t move. “The life of my parents.”
I lean forward, elbows on knees in the itchy cloth. I don’t know what to say.
“I thought I could make a bargain,” she whispers, “a trade for my parents and my life until Judgment, that I could buy enough time to find out how the Forgetting works, so I could heal the Knowing. So the Outsiders would see through the lies and rebel. And the city could be warned.”
About me. The coming Earth.
“But in the cave, I remembered … ”
Her back is still to me, but I see what’s going to happen. Every muscle has tensed, the speed of her breathing doubled. “Samara,” I say, “look at me.”
She hesitates, and then turns over. Her mask isn’t on, and I see raw fear. Terror of what the memory is going to make her feel.
“Keep looking at me, and just say it,” I tell her. “Don’t go there. Just say the fact, and put it away.”
She looks at me, still breathing hard. I watch her fight to keep her eyes from closing. She whispers, “My brother. Adam. Before he died, he Forgot. I didn’t Know then. I didn’t understand … ”
And to have one of the Knowing Forget would rock their social order. Exactly like what Samara wants to do now. “Did they poison him?” I ask. “Like they tried with you?”
She blinks her beautiful eyes. It’s answer enough. And now I’ve come full circle. Because I’m not angry at Samara Archiva anymore. I’m angry for her. She never asked for this, and what’s the first thing that happens when she tries to make it right? She walks straight into two kids from Earth who should’ve never been there in the first place. I run a hand through my tangled hair. What a mess.
“Hey,” I say sharply. “Samara, stay here.” Her eyes snap open. “Look at me, and tell me what you need to do.”
She whispers, “Most of the Knowing think I’m in seclusion. If I go to the Changing of the Seasons, no one would have to admit I’ve been gone. There wouldn’t be any reason for Thorne to condemn my parents, and I would have time to get into the Archives, maybe find the Forgetting, before Judgment … ”
Because she’s not going to live past Judgment.
“How long before the Changing of the Seasons?”
“Two days after the next waking.” She keeps her eyes on mine. “I’m going to do it.”
What she’s going to do is walk back into that city and get killed. At Judgment, or by poison, or some other way first.
She closes her eyes again, but I think she’s just exhausted. I lean back against the warm wall. She could be right. If public perception is what her Council is counting on, then a break in that perception might be all that’s needed to drive them out of power. Like the United States in the Fifth World War. And it might be best for all of New Canaan, Outside and Knowing alike. The fear I saw in this house and that body at the bottom of the cliff are enough to convince me of that, even without her book.
These thoughts might be the opposite of protocol.
And then I think, really think, what it would mean to Samara to Forget. To have the Knowledge of her book, but not the burden of her memories. I don’t want it just for her people. I want it for her. I watch her face, and I’m glad she has her eyes closed, because she is so beautiful and I know I’m being an idiot and there’s really just nothing to be done about it. And there’s no way she’s going back down into that city alone.
“Beckett,” she whispers.
I lift my head.
“Some people … call me Sam.”
“Really? Which do you like better?”
“Sam.”