The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) Page 23

  Finally, the helper awoke. “Temple trees get their power from a wire rising up from underground. You’ll find a metal plate at the base of each tree for maintenance. Unscrew the cover and cut the wire to disable the tower.”

  A minor victory. The trees stood isolated and easy to access, protected only by the myth of temple magic. Disabling them increased their likelihood of success.

  The helper, however, had more to say. “Be advised that what powers them is strong enough to kill you, so take the necessary precautions to protect yourself.” He appeared pleased to have found an answer, and then added, “Do you have another question?”

  For the rest of the afternoon, she thrashed about like a child trying to assemble a puzzle while the helpers teased by withholding pieces. Still she made progress, keeping careful notes and, when appropriate, printing pictures and diagrams.

  The next day she focused on transportation. The Temple had banned all forms of fast travel, by animal or machine. What if the vicars had held something back for themselves? If the deacons could move faster than the seekers, she and her friends would soon be caught.

  The topic led to more discoveries. People of the prior age traveled often and at high speed—mobility defined their age. Though few went to the stars, they took casual trips anywhere in the world. Did that include crossing the ocean? The helper told her yes.

  “In great boats, big enough for ocean travel?”

  “Yes,” the helper said, “but only for pleasure, because ocean voyages took too long. Most people were unwilling to spend a week or more when they could cross in hours.

  She’d witnessed the vastness of the ocean on the map and wasn’t about to let such a bold statement pass. “What did they use to cross the ocean in hours?”

  “They flew.”

  “Do you mean like the flying wagon that brought us here?”

  “No. In flying machines.”

  “Do you mean like birds fly?”

  When the helper responded yes, she hardly blinked, staying focused on one question—what machines did the vicars retain?

  She learned most travelers used fast wagons. Some, like the giant snake that had brought them to the keep, moved hundreds of people at once, but only on a preset path. Other smaller ones went almost anywhere, and nearly everyone had one.

  Flying machines, giant boats, fast wagons. Now time for the most important questions.

  “Does the Temple possess flying machines?”

  “No. The cost to maintain them would be prohibitive, and they’d be impossible to hide.”

  “Fast wagons?”

  “We believe so, though they’d hardly be fast. No highways survived the Temple’s purge. It’s logical, however, to assume they’d keep some form of advanced travel for emergencies.”

  “Show me a fast wagon.”

  A broad roadway appeared, coated with the now familiar black rock. Hundreds of fast wagons rolled along it on four wheels, moving at incredible speeds. They raced across the screen, sleek and low, and wide enough to seat three people across. No threat here—no such roads existed.

  Next she asked to view the wagons on dirt roads. Out of their element, they lumbered rather than glided, but still easily outpaced a grown man running. She recognized their flaw—too wide for trails through the trees. If the seekers stuck to the woods, the vicars would be unable to catch them.

  She scoured her mind. What other obstacles might the Temple present? At once, she realized her oversight. She’d focused on the wonders of the past but had overlooked the horrors.

  She crept closer to the screen and lowered her voice as if afraid the vicars might hear. “Did they keep weapons?”

  The helper paused. When he finally spoke, he responded with the one word she’d come to dread: “Unknown.”

  An obvious next question occurred to her, but she hesitated to ask—at least until she thought of Thomas in the teaching cell. Anger overcame doubt. “Will you provide the seekers with weapons?”

  This time, the screen blanked. When it brightened again, the woman who had first welcomed them to the keep reappeared. Apparently, this question required an answer from an elder. The keepmaster’s lips stretched into a thin, unyielding line.

  “The council knew the question of weapons would arise one day. We debated among ourselves and decided the abuse of knowledge had brought the world to its current state. It seemed foolhardy to encourage you down a similar path, so we determined to eliminate weapons from the keep. Of course, the foundation is here for you to re-invent them if you insist, but we refuse to help.

  “The Temple of Light needed only ignorance to overturn our world. Let knowledge be your weapon to reverse the damage.”

  The image faded.

  Let knowledge be your weapon....

  The plan was coming together, but she still lacked a way to spread the truth. On a whim, she printed a picture of a ship that could cross the ocean—a curiosity to show Nathaniel. As the paper slid from the wall slot, an idea came to her.

  “Is there a way to print my words?”

  “Yes,” the helper replied. “Say the command ‘record’ and as you speak, you’ll see your words appear on the screen. Edit them as you wish. When done, say ‘print.’”

  “Can I print more than one copy?”

  “As many as you wish. Say ‘print’ followed by the number of copies.”

  Dinnertime was drawing near. She’d be late if she tried now, but the solution seemed so close.

  “Record.”

  The screen cleared.

  “Nathaniel and Thomas are my dearest friends.”

  The words appeared as she spoke them.

  “I would do anything to protect them from harm.”

  The new sentence followed the first.

  “Change the word ‘harm’ to read ‘the Temple of Light.’”

  Instantly, the last phrase changed.

  “Print.”

  Immediately, a page came out with her exact words in bold lettering.

  “Print five times.”

  Five more copies slid through the slot in the wall. She checked each. Not a single mistake.

  A new thought struck her. “How do you turn my voice into words on a page?”

  “Your voice is recorded and stored. The sound is interpreted into text to be printed or displayed on the screen.”

  “May I listen to it?”

  “Yes. Say play instead of print.”

  She took a deep breath and swallowed to moisten her throat. Time to try.

  “Record.” She paused to think through the words. “May the light protect my dear Nathaniel from this reckless venture.” After a respectful interval, she said, “play.”

  Her voice sounded unfamiliar and timid, like a little girl scared of her shadow. Worst of all, the passion of it embarrassed her—the way she spoke Nathaniel’s name.

  “How do I make my words go away?”

  “Say ‘erase.’”

  She did, and released a long stream of air when the helper confirmed they were gone.

  Her stomach began to rumble, but she suppressed her hunger. Thoughts tumbled around in her mind and arranged themselves into a vision. She’d always been organized, but never before did she have to plan for a revolution. Unknowns abounded, yet for the first time, she believed their goal possible.

  She gave the order again. “Record.”

  A shiver started at the small of her back and traveled up her spine. Steadying herself, she took a deep breath and spoke, her voice becoming firmer with each syllable.

  The words burned into the screen.

  They read, The Truth about the Darkness.

  Chapter 32 – The Potential for Greatness

  The details of Orah’s plan were snapping into place like the pieces of a puzzle, but one item remained unresolved: Thomas. Over the summer, she and Nathaniel had come to value what the keep offered. Thomas had not. With little sense of its wonders, he’d surely vote no. As the deadline loomed, she dreaded the choice: forsake the
keepmasters or abandon Thomas.

  She brought up the issue over dinner, hoping to provoke a reaction. “Summer’s ending, Thomas, and soon you’ll need to choose. I’d be happy to introduce you to the helpers if you’d like. In the two weeks remaining, you might still learn enough to make the appropriate choice.”

  “What makes you think your choice is appropriate?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge. I was trying to remind you how little time is left. Visiting the helpers might give you a better perspective.”

  “What perspective is that? Nathaniel found maps that show an ocean we can never cross. You learned to predict the movement of the stars but can’t change their course. Have either of you solved a problem or invented anything new, other than finding ways to blame the Temple for the world’s ills?”

  Orah grimaced. Too close to the truth. She’d learned much but mastered little, falling short of the keepmasters’ expectations. Yet now, based on a belief in potential, she was about to cast her lot for a dangerous and improbable venture. She glanced at Nathaniel for support. He shook his head, intending to calm her down, but his unwillingness to confront Thomas fired her up instead. Better now than on decision day.

  “At least we’ve tried, Thomas. What have you accomplished?”

  Thomas displayed the grin that had infuriated her since childhood. “I mastered my own subject, different from yours, and I’ve gone beyond it.”

  “Are you going to amuse us again with stories about custard?”

  “Don’t belittle my accomplishments until you hear them. If you like, I can show you now.” He shoved his meal aside and stepped to the door, waiting at the threshold for his friends.

  Dumbfounded, Orah shrugged and followed with Nathaniel trailing behind.

  Thomas led them through the keep, apparently more familiar with its layout than she realized. With no hesitation, he found the anteroom for art and strode down the corridor to music. In the viewing area, he asked them to sit while he stood beside the screen. Once they’d settled into their places, he bypassed the helper and announced some foreign sounding words followed by a number.

  The helper vanished, replaced by a gathering of musicians clutching strange instruments. A man who seemed to be their leader called them to order with a small wand. The musicians arched their backs at the ready. Some of them positioned saw-like sticks over ancient strings banned long ago, while those with wind instruments raised them to their lips.

  With a smile on his face, Thomas took out his flute and did the same.

  They began to play, and Thomas played with them, note for note.

  The music filled the air, gladdening her heart with its sound, but its interwoven melodies seemed complex, impossible to duplicate with the temple-sanctioned drum and two flutes, and far too challenging to master without weeks of practice.

  Now Orah understood how Thomas had spent his days, and his time had been well spent. These musicians were likely the best of their age, and Thomas was their peer.

  At the end, the music soared like ships taking off to the stars. The musicians went silent and set their instruments down, but Thomas continued to play, enhancing their tunes with his own creations.

  This time, Thomas was right. Here was innovation reborn, the reason the keepmasters had locked themselves away for fifty years. But Thomas cared nothing for history or politics—only his music. He gazed out as he played, envisioning a place more sublime than any she’d ever known, and she could only applaud.

  ***

  Nathaniel cradled the device in the palm of his hand. Orah had made remarkable progress, and now she’d handed him the final stroke—an opaque cube with rounded edges, slightly larger than his fist and fashioned of the same substance as the deacon’s star. As he stared, trying to see through to its core, it took on the color of water. The cube bore no features save a red dot and a tiny lever on one end.

  “Are you certain this will work?”

  “Yes,” Orah said. “The keepmasters have assured me. We only need to record the words, and this device will transmit our message at the appropriate time.”

  He pointed to the dot and lever. “What are these for?”

  “The piece is too small to retain much strength from the sun, so it contains its own power source, but with limited duration. The helper said to slide this switch only when ready.”

  “How long?”

  “He couldn’t be exact. With no direct sunlight, a month at most. With some exposure, maybe more.”

  Nathaniel had spent the day with Orah composing messages. She’d fanned out the results on the table—four sheets of paper. All had the style of a Temple bulletin except for a title on the top and a signature at the bottom. The title described the content, beginning with, The Truth about, followed by the Temple claim under dispute—the darkness and teachings, medicines and temple trees. The signature read, The Seekers of Truth.

  The truth simply stated would arouse the people, but this cube would provide the proof. All that remained was to record the message.

  He handed Orah the script they’d crafted, but she declined. “I’ve heard my voice from the screens. No one would follow me.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  “Trust me, your voice is stronger. They’re more likely to listen to you.”

  He began to argue but stopped as the realization came crashing down. The one who spoke from the cube would be interrupting the human embodiment of the light in this world. Recording this message was a death warrant.

  He held out his hand for the script. “Show me what to do.”

  ***

  Thomas slipped into his sleeping chamber and ordered the helper to lower the slab. He recalled his first night, how he worried the bedding would be too hard, but as the strange material enveloped his body, he found the slab more comfortable than his bed back home.

  He lay still, slowed his breathing and waited for the lights to dim, but after a restless minute, he asked the helper to leave them on. Aside from avoiding nightmares, he had a lot to think about.

  Nathaniel and Orah had become secretive in the past few days, and now, instead of researching the keep independently, they worked together. Though the debate would wait until tomorrow, they’d made their decision, all except for his fate.

  Despite the bright lights, exhaustion overcame him. His eyelids drooped, and his mind began to replay scenes from a younger day. A traveling peddler used to visit Little Pond each spring and bring some curiosity to attract a crowd. One year, he placed a wooden box on the ground and urged everyone to gather round. Thomas, as one of the youngest, took a seat in the front. With a flourish, the peddler sprung open the box, and out popped a squirrel on a leash.

  With one hand, the peddler held the end of the leash, and with the other, he played a penny whistle. The squirrel began dancing to the music. At the climax of each refrain, the peddler yanked on the leash and the squirrel reared up on its hind legs, looking for an instant like a grotesque little man, tiny fingers grappling at the air and eyes bulging out.

  People clapped and children laughed, but the spectacle horrified Thomas. That evening, he was too upset to eat. His father scolded him: No squirrel deserves so much concern. Accept the order of things. That night, he cried himself to sleep.

  He shook off the memory, sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His friends were smarter than him and braver, but he knew something they’d overlooked—leaving the keep would seal their fate. Orah’s careful planning might buy them a few weeks, but eventually they’d be caught and punished. Their only hope would be to barter the secret of the keep.

  The keepmasters had caused their share of harm, and the vicars had done some good. With no clear idea of who stood on the side of right, better to avoid confronting authority. Better to yield to the order of things.

  Yet he worried about his perspective. Was it his own, or had the teaching clouded it as Orah claimed? Had he now become the dancing squirrel, with the vicars tugging the leash?

&
nbsp; ***

  Decision day. Thomas suggested they meet outdoors, in the place where they’d entered the Temple of Truth less than three months before. They settled on the landing with the gold plaque, on the topmost of the fourteen stairs.

  A warm September breeze blew through the gap formed by the skeletons of once-great buildings. A few wispy clouds enhanced the blue sky, forming chevrons along the boulevard as if pointing the way home.

  Thomas nestled between his friends and gazed at the bleak landscape. “So unlike Little Pond. By now, we’d have taken our final swim of the season. The pond would stay warm enough for another month, but a chill in the air would keep us out of the water till next summer.”

  Nathaniel picked up on the thought. “Soon our neighbors will take to the orchards for apple-picking. Remember how we picked—ten in the sack and one in our mouths, so crisp they cracked when you bit into them. By evening we all had stomach aches.”

  Orah had little tolerance for nostalgia. “Nothing can compete with childhood, but going back to being a child isn’t one of our choices. The options before us are to stay in the keep, negotiate with the vicars, or fight for change. We can’t stay here, and only fools would trust the vicars. That leaves one choice.”

  Thomas stroked the granite on which he sat. “You’re so smart, Orah. Can’t you think of another way? I’d trade anything to be sitting on a log on the banks of the pond instead of this hard stone.”

  She stared out as if searching for a different answer, then shrugged. “Sorry, Thomas. With what we know, the vicars will never let us roam freely, no matter what we offer. Look how they treated the first keeper, and he had just one scroll. Our only chance to go home is to confront them with the truth.”

  Thomas went limp. “I wish I’d never been taken for a teaching.”

  “But you were,” Nathaniel said, “and through your pain, we learned what the vicars are.”

  Orah rested a hand on his arm. “I’ve only spent a short time in the teaching. I’ll never understand what you went through, but we both witnessed the reason for teachings—to create fear. Don’t let that fear keep you from doing what’s right.”