Janis Atan was born on the first Centauri, one of the first children of the newly built Canaan, and what I’m reading is like a warped view of the original directive, to build a perfect society, an idea mangled and twisted until it becomes something else. She is obsessed with being chosen, being one of “the best,” with her own knowledge and memory—why memory?—and with bringing “beauty, peace, prosperity, and, most of all, justice,” as if she is the only one who can.
And where shall we, the chosen of the NWSE, find our judge? she writes. From the knowledge that is deepest and the memory that is longest, for it is from knowledge and memory that wisdom is derived. And so I, the first of memory, shall be our first judge, and continue to choose our chosen, that we may fulfill our directive, and build the Superior Earth …
But there are concepts in the words of Janis Atan, phrases here and there that are hauntingly like the Knowing. That memory and knowledge are what make someone worthy. That being without it means you are not. The concept of Judgment to maintain a society’s “perfection.” Condemnation for those not worthy of their status.
The room tries to dissolve again, back to the place of my poisoning. And now that I am dead, suddenly I wonder if memories tug and pull because they are connected. Subtle strings of meaning that I can only feel, never see. I stop fighting, curious, and let myself go to the Archiva receiving rooms.
And fear engulfs me. Confusion, panic. My heart is racing. There’s a glass in my hand, one in Thorne Councilman’s. And it’s my mother giving the orders, telling Thorne Councilman to pour, telling him to begin. I listen to him speaking the unfamiliar words: … we, the noble wardens, the guardians of memory, the architects of Knowing, the builders of the Superior Earth, honor beauty, peace, prosperity, and, most of all, justice …
And now I see the thread. Noble Wardens. Superior Earth. I slow my memory like Beckett slowing down the pictures in the square of light. I hear the clink of a fingernail against a glass, the flash of my mother’s necklace in the light. Feel the hands bruising my arms, the taste of bitter in my mouth. Lian Archiva. Pronouncing my Judgment.
I stop my memory, like a stutter in time. NWSE. Noble Wardens of a Superior Earth. The keepers of memory, of Knowing. Who believe they are the most noble, the most wise, with the longest memories. The most worthy to dispense justice. And now I see. The Council has not been controlling us. The NWSE has been controlling the Council, through Thorne. Thorne, who does what my mother says.
My mother, who Judged me. Condemned me.
Lian Archiva is the judge of New Canaan. It’s Lian Archiva who has been deciding which of us lives, and which of us dies. And that means Thorne Councilman did not kill my brother.
My mother did.
I don’t even remember getting back up the cliffs, packing my gear, or making my way back down through the fields. I did it at a jog, and then I did it at a run, down into the streets, where I pushed around bodies and bumped into shoulders without even pulling up my hood. When Annis’s door shuts, it rattles the dishes on the table. Annis sets down her tea.
“You lied to her,” I say.
Annis stares at me for exactly one second. Then she goes to the front door and locks it, peering once through the window before closing the curtain. Cyrus comes in from the workshop at a trot.
“Byron said you just came running down the street like a maniac, what—”
“You used her!” I say.
“Beckett, what’s wrong with you?” Jill is in the doorway of the resting room, and she’s got Jasmina on an out-thrust hip. I don’t have enough space in my head to register how weird that is.
Annis sits back down at the table, folding her hands in front of her tea. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“I’m not interested in sitting,” I say. I’m sweating, and I’ve barely got breath to speak. And I need to strangle someone. “I am interested … in hearing why you let her risk her life … for you.”
Cyrus turns the lock on the door to the workshop, and Annis narrows her eyes. “If we’re discussing the endangerment of lives, Beckett … That’s your name, isn’t it? Beckett? Then I would be interested in hearing who you really are.”
My gaze darts up to Jill. Her eyes are big, blue, and give me no help.
“You didn’t really expect us to believe you were one of the Knowing, did you? The only thing remotely Knowing about you is that you’d be arrogant enough to think we were that stupid. With her”—she jerks a thumb at Jill—“not able to walk? The Knowing don’t get sick. Nadia never would’ve told such a silly lie if she hadn’t been desperate.”
I don’t think I’ve actually remembered we were supposed to be Knowing since the first day. What would Sean Rodriguez make of that?
“What?” Annis says. “Nothing to say?”
“Annis,” says Cyrus, cautioning.
“No, Dad! After risking my own back and yours. Risking the kids! I won’t sit here and be accused … ”
And then my mind catches up. “They have her.”
“Have who?” says Annis.
“Sam.”
She closes her mouth. And then Cyrus comes to the table, kicks out the end of the bench. “I think you’d better sit after all.”
I sit this time.
“Beckett,” says Jill, “could I speak to you for a minute?”
“No.”
“You two,” says Cyrus, nodding at Nathan and Jill, “get in here. And the rest of you”—heads look down from the loft—“get Grandmama’s box from under my bed and each of you count the beads. Whoever gets it right gets a trip to the pond.”
Luc and Ari scramble down the ladder, Jasmina squirming down Jill’s legs to trot after them. Jill slides stiff-backed onto the bench beside me, head up, Nathan after, and as soon as the resting room door shuts, Cyrus says, “What happened?”
“She’s been Judged and condemned.”
“But it’s not time … ” says Annis.
“They’re keeping her locked up until then. Somewhere deep. Drugged, I think … ”
“What are her crimes?” asks Cyrus.
“Stealing Knowing, writing Knowing, and”—I look hard at them both—“mixing with the rebels of the Outside.”
“Ah.” Cyrus drops into his chair by the clay heater, running a hand over the white hairs on his chin. I see Nathan and Jill exchange a look.
“You used her,” I say, “to get information on the Underneath. Getting Nita to pretend like she cared about her. It was Nita who got Sam to come Outside, to go down in the Archives and write down what she shouldn’t. And it got Nita killed, didn’t it?”
Nathan leans forward on the bench. “You need to shut up.”
I don’t. “That poison was never meant for Sam, was it? They knew she was sharing her food. Sending it out to you. They’d been watching her for weeks … ”
“Now you listen,” Cyrus says. Annis knocks a tear from her cheek like she’s angry about it. “It’s true we picked out Samara. It took a lot of doing to get Nita chosen as her help. We wanted Nita with her, and we wanted Nita to befriend her. We needed an ally, and we chose her. Because she was the sister of Adam Archiva.”
I look at Cyrus. I’m listening, but being still is costing me. “Nita got caught once,” he says, “climbing down the cliffs into the city’s upland parks. She was a kid, she’d been dared, and the girl never was one to back down … ”