The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (20 page)

“Stop.” One teaching confirmed. No need for details. “Did
they drop an artificial sun from the sky?”

The helper resumed, unperturbed by the interruption. “The
Temple coined the term ‘artificial sun’ to describe a super weapon dropped from
the sky that could kill many people. The crass attempt at symbolism was
obvious. Their sun, the giver of life, would compare positively with—”

“Was it ever used?” Thomas couldn’t bring himself to look at
the screen.

“I’m sorry. Please repeat your question.”

Thomas squeezed his fist until the nails bit into his palm
and spoke louder this time.

The helper hesitated as if reluctant to answer. Finally, he said
a single word, “Yes.”

“How many died?”

“Difficult to say. At least several hundreds of thousands,
maybe millions if you count the long term effects of—”

“Show me.”

The screen flickered and lit up, showing the same pictures
he’d viewed during his teaching. His breath came in heavy bursts. Finally, he
said, “Stop.” The screen cleared, and the helper reappeared, waiting with an
infuriating patience.

The word exploded from Thomas’s lips. “Why?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“Why did they do it?”

The screen cycled through helpers as if unsure which expert to
select. At last, the original helper returned, looked at Thomas dejectedly and
said, “Unknown.”

Thomas glared at the man, challenging him to come up with a
better explanation. Everything the vicars claimed turned out to be true, and the
keepmasters had no defense. He wanted to go hide in the dining hall and never
hear of the Temple or the keepmasters again.

Then the helper began to speak on his own, his tone no
longer pleasant but concerned. “I note your last several requests dealt with
the horrors of our age—and we had many—but it would be unfair to limit yourself
to such a negative view. I urge you to explore our achievements as well, the writings
of our great thinkers, the scientific discoveries, the works of art.” The helper
opened his arms wide and waited.

Science was Orah domain, and Nathaniel studied history, but science
gave Thomas a headache, and history revealed a time he’d just as soon forget. A
part of him wanted to rush out into the ruined city and race through the
buildings until one of them crashed down on him and ended his misery, but
curiosity made him ask for more.

“What do you mean by art?”

The helper waved his arms as if to encompass the screen, the
room and the universe. “The creative arts. We have so many forms—painting,
theater, literature, sculpture, music.”

The last caught Thomas’s attention, and he repeated the word,
“Music.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t....”

“Please show me music.”

A new helper appeared, if anything more buoyant than his
predecessor. “Welcome to the study of music. Music has evolved throughout
history, an art form that constantly changes. Does any particular style interest
you?”

Thomas had no idea. Most of what he knew consisted of the
sound produced by two flutes and a drum, but a thought struck him—the vicars
disapproved of music.

“Show me music from before the vicars came to power.”

“We have many forms of—”

“Pick one.”

At first, he believed the screen had gone blank, but then he
realized he was watching a scene at night. Fire flashed. When the smoke
cleared, a brightly-lit stage appeared with a dozen young men and women poised
upon it, all dressed in black and made up in ghastly colors.

The drummer began, establishing the beat, and then the others
joined in. The music blared louder than anything he recalled—until he
remembered a similar sound from his teaching cell. The vicars had claimed the
young worshipped death, but he perceived the noise differently now, a kind of music.

Had he finally caught the vicars in a lie?

He leaned in, needing to be sure. “Can you show me their
faces?”

The screen zoomed in on the audience, not children
worshipping death, but revelers at a kind of festival, their faces expressing pleasure,
not despair.

Thomas settled back in his chair. The urge to flee had passed.
He recalled the words of the vicar of Bradford:
The people of this era had enjoyed
unlimited freedom of thought
. This music was chaotic, not to his taste, but
these people enjoyed its sound.

The day had worn on, and his stomach began to growl. He decided
to sample one more before joining his friends for dinner. “Can you show me
something a little... quieter?”

The screen cleared for a moment before revealing a mass of
players holding instruments the likes of which he’d never seen. Peering closer,
he picked out a flute similar to his own, except larger, more polished and
elaborately carved, and another wind instrument, even longer, with more holes
and silver pieces to cover them. Most of the players clutched what he assumed
to be wooden string instruments and held above them something like a thin saw.

The leader in front tapped twice with a stick. The musicians
readied their instruments, with saws raised and pointing to the sky.

Then they began to play.

Thomas took a moment to connect the sounds—rich and sonorous
and somehow woody—with the musicians sawing at their instruments. As he
listened, he caught something else, not a single melody, but several going on
at once. They didn’t get in each other’s way, but worked together, playing off
one another to form a whole piece.

One of the higher-pitched instruments tossed out a melody. A
lower one picked it up, changed it and tossed it back. Then all came together
for a note or two, changing the—he had no word for it—and split apart again in
a musical dance.

He found himself lost in a bouncing, floating joy, which
made him recall trips to the granite mountains as a child, the thrill of
winning a race at festival, the euphoria of finding the keep. It sounded like
something he’d been dreaming about all his life—strange dreams that hinted of
music from long ago—and now he’d discovered the joy again, better than he ever
imagined.

When the music ended, the helper returned. “You’ve been
listening to the first movement of the Brandenburg Concerto Number 2 in F major
BWV 1047, by Johan Sebastian Bach, played by—”

“May I listen again?”

The screen went blank. The musicians reappeared and began to
play once more, but this time Thomas focused on how the dance came into being,
trying to understand the way the different melodies wove in and out. He reached
into his pocket and pulled out the flute that had lain silent for too long,
closed his eyes, and swayed with the sound until he felt it in his fingertips.

Then he joined in the dance.

The next morning, Nathaniel strode into a viewing area,
desperate to learn more about the voyage across the sea.

He puffed out his chest and bellowed a command. “Help. I want
to hear stories about heroes.”

No helper appeared, but instead a catalog of titles showed.
He leaned closer and scanned the list. One title caught his eye:
The Man Who
Toppled the Temple of Light
. He repeated the phrase aloud, affirming what he’d
read. The screen cleared, and a page of text displayed in place of the catalog.

Shortly, a helper with a rich baritone began reciting the
words, which scrolled as he spoke. Before Nathaniel knew it, the story had captivated
him. Abandoning his plan to learn more about the land across the ocean, he sat
and listened. Hours passed as the speaker told of a courageous man who stood up
for his beliefs in the waning days of the prior age. He traveled from town to
town, declaring the truth about the past and urging the people to resist the
encroaching power of the Temple. Many heeded his words, but none would act. In
the end, the deacons drove him back to his village, where he was stoned to
death by his neighbors at the urging of the vicars.

Nathaniel’s hands clenched in sympathy with the persecuted
hero, but the story hadn’t finished. After the man’s death, remorse drove the
villagers to rebel against the Temple. The reaction spread like a wave, and
soon an entire region had walled off the influence of the vicars. They
reprinted banished books and resurrected forbidden ideas. Freedom of thought
flowed once more. The story ended with the seeds of enlightenment planted and beginning
to grow.

The tale left Nathaniel drained. He mourned the man and
blamed the people for not supporting his cause sooner, but he exulted in the outcome.
Though the man had perished, he’d made a difference.

Before he could dwell on it further, the screen cleared and
a woman helper appeared, smiling graciously.

“Thank you for listening to the story of
The Man Who
Toppled the Temple of Light
, author unknown. We hope you’ve enjoyed this book.
If you’re interested in similar stories, please ask and I’ll be happy to make
recommendations.”

Nathaniel crumpled his brow.
Stories?
What had he
been listening to? He recalled his original request and knew the helpers could
be literal.

“Is this story true?” he said.

“No.
The Man Who Toppled the Temple of Light
is a
work of fiction. I can show you a list of nonfiction books if you prefer.”

“What is fiction?”

“Fiction is a class of literature that is the creation of
the author, an act of imagination.”

Orah’s voice echoed in his mind:
What you see is an
illusion
.

He forced his words to be crisp so the helper would
understand. “Tell me more about this book.”

She said the book had been written in the days before the
keepmasters fled, and that the Temple censors had banned it. The work was one
of the last rescued.

“What happened to the writer?”

“We can’t be sure. Most likely, imprisoned or executed.”

Maybe the story was no illusion after all. The author had
invented the tale to show the truth and move others. He believed in his cause
and had paid the price.

The day had flown by with no answers to his original
question, but he’d learned a greater lesson—ideas combined with courage can
change the world.

***

The next day, Nathaniel tried again. He raced through corridors,
searching for information about those who’d crossed the ocean, switching from
screen to screen, uncertain which question to ask. Each corridor led to another
until he’d wandered as far as ever from the golden doors. Nothing remained but
an unmarked anteroom with no screen and a solitary doorway.

He nearly turned back, sensing a blind alley, but curiosity
drove him on. The passageway narrowed, barely wide enough for a single person,
and its ceiling tapered downward until he had to duck his head to continue. The
hall ended at an ornate archway opening into an elaborate viewing area. Unlike
the others, this chamber was crowned with a marble dome, the keep’s sole
concession to grandeur.

Immediately, the air appeared to shimmer, and he struggled
to distinguish between floor and walls. Elsewhere in the keep, the walls had
been broken only by screens. Here, rows of boxes lined the surface, each a foot
wide and a hand high, with their faces protruding. Each boasted an oval
medallion at its center, inlaid with a glittering stone. These came in every
shade and color—blue sapphires and red rubies, yellow and green opals,
honey-colored amber and purple amethyst. The lighting in the room was directed
not for the benefit of visitors but to highlight the stones. As Nathaniel
drifted about, the refractions generated unsettling rivulets of light.

He groped along the edge of one of the boxes, his fingertips
struggling for purchase, and pulled with no success. He tugged harder until the
box groaned, shifting a hair’s breadth. The movement had exposed a gap wide
enough for his fingers to grasp. He positioned his hands, bent at the knees and
grunted. The drawer slid an inch.

A pungent odor filled the air, distasteful but vaguely
familiar.... Not a viewing area but a crypt. The boxes held human remains.

He slammed the drawer back into place and collapsed on a
bench, resting his head in his hands. Dark visions filled his mind—the funeral
for Orah’s father, the tomb of the mother he never knew.

At his feet, another of the medallions lay on the ground as
if waiting for a box of its own. In its center lay a chunk of obsidian, so much
like the talisman he’d imagined hanging from the neck of his knight, at once
clear and black throughout. It was the only one of its kind in the room.

As he stared, trying to penetrate to the heart of the stone,
a flash from above caught his eye. The screen on the wall had lit up. A helper
appeared, but different from the others, older and frailer, more like the
prisoner Samuel than a keepmaster. The corners of his mouth glistened, and old
age spots dotted his cheeks. Black eyes stared out from sunken sockets, giving
him a mournful countenance.

For several seconds, the man stayed silent, as if he’d
forgotten why he came, but then he started to speak. “I have neither time nor
strength for formalities, so let me begin recording with three purposes in
mind. The first is in my role as a descendant of the founders of the keep. Each
of us pledged allegiance to our mission, our goal to impart knowledge, and I will
do that. I’ll recount the final days of the keepmasters. Second, I have a favor
to request. With the third, I’ll repay that favor as a man who is dying. I’ll
bequeath to you what wisdom I’ve gained, the lessons of a lifetime.

“The founders set guidelines for helpers to be cordial and
impersonal but I am a person with a name. I’m called Kiran, which means ray of
light. I don’t know if my parents chose that name as a sign of hope or as a
cruel jest, for I’ve never seen the light of day.

“After we completed recording the knowledge of our age, we
did not vanish. The euphoria that accompanies all quests faded, but we went on
with our lives. We married, had families and continued our research, but
always, we feared being discovered. Over time, we developed our own religion,
based on a dread of the Temple of Light.

“By my grandparent’s childhood, leaving the keep had become
unthinkable. I am the third generation to never venture outside. The fear
gnawed at us and robbed us of reason to live. Fewer couples married. Of those
who did, many decided not to conceive children who’d spend their existence
imprisoned here. And so we diminished. At times, it’s been no life at all, but
I lived nevertheless and will soon die, the last of the keepmasters.

“You, whom I never met, the seeker I awaited my whole life,
can do me one final honor. You’ll find before you a black stone, a color
appropriate for the last of my kind. Behind you, in the corner of the topmost
row, lies the box that awaits it. I chose this to mark my memorial. Please,
take a moment to set the stone in its place, and to remember me and the rest of
us who lived and died in the keep.”

He broke into a coughing fit, reminiscent of the first
keeper in his cell in Temple City. But to his last, Samuel had retained hope
for the future. The man before Nathaniel had none.

“Now let me tell you what I’ve learned. In each of our
lives, we have our mission, the life’s work we choose that consumes so much of
our energies, but we also have the little things we do with the hours and
minutes of our days. As a descendant of the founders, I stayed true to their
ideals throughout my life, but as a man who lives day to day, I failed. I
recall my childhood aspirations—to play outside in the sun, to be free of fear,
to welcome the seekers who would someday surely come—but these things exist in
dreams. Each day, I had the ability to touch those around me, to repay my
parents for their love, to embrace my wife.

“So what is the lesson of a lifetime, the truth I bequeath
to you?”

He wiped his mouth with a soiled sleeve and stared out
before continuing.

Nathaniel slid to the edge of his seat. The answer was
simpler than he’d ever imagined.

“We should not be so seduced by our mission that we forget
how to live.”

The screen went blank. Nathaniel glanced at the floor and
caught the glimmer of obsidian, the last keepmaster’s despair trapped within it
like the darkness. He cradled it in his hand and proceeded to the waiting
container. Using his long arms, he reached up and snapped the stone into place.
Then he stepped back and stared at it, trying to comprehend how it could glow
so brightly and still be black as night.

***

Late August. As the deadline approached, the days weighed
heavily upon Orah. She trudged about the keep as if still bearing her pack, and
Nathaniel seemed no better. Only Thomas appeared unaffected.

That evening during dinner, as Thomas whistled a tune, Orah finally
snapped. “Would you mind for once if Nathaniel and I had some quiet while we
ate?”

“My whistling never bothered you before.”

“I’ve never before been so close to being punished by
your
vicars.”

Thomas remained unfazed, his childlike grin infuriating. “They’re
not
my
vicars.”

“Then why do you defend them?”

“I don’t defend them, though most of what they claimed has
turned out to be true.”

“Well I’ve found proof that their most basic precept is a
lie.” She’d blurted out the words without thought. For weeks she’d waited for
the right moment, wanting so much to impress Nathaniel, and now her revelation
had emerged in a squabble. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He stared back, brows arched in a question. “What did you
find?”

She set her food aside and raised her chin. “The sun is not
the source of all light, and the stars do not revolve around it. I’ll never
pray to the sun again.”

All she’d discovered in astronomy poured out, how the stars
moved in their own paths, how some were worlds like their own, but most were suns
themselves—and the keepmasters had found millions of them.

Thomas gaped at her. “A million suns? Are you sure you didn’t
discover a vat of wassail?”

She turned from Thomas to Nathaniel. “I found a place where you
can see for yourself. Come and I’ll show you.”

Nathaniel stood at once, but Thomas slumped back in his
chair. “You don’t need to show me. I believe you. But who cares if you found a
thousand suns or a million? Our situation remains the same.”

“You’re being lazy, Thomas. Come with us.”

When he refused to join them, insisting he had better things
to do, Orah gave up, content to share her discovery with Nathaniel alone.

She led him along the familiar route and into the elevator, where
she took satisfaction as he clutched the handrail when it began to rise. Once
in the observatory, she ordered the helper to expose the dome to the sky.

She’d picked a perfect night, and Nathaniel reacted
appropriately, spinning around and gawking at the view. When he’d seen his
fill, she directed him to take a seat at the telescope and asked the helper to
point the instrument at the cluster of stars.

“Now put your eye to the glass and behold.”

He stared for a long time. Through the lens the cloud would
become a brilliant whirl of lights, more than he could count in a lifetime, but
when he finally looked up, the doubt in his face confounded her.

“Aren’t you impressed, Nathaniel of Little Pond?”

He slipped out of the seat and drifted toward her, shaking
his head. “I
am
impressed, but such wonders make me sad. So much damage
has been done to our world. So much lost. We both know what our choice should
be.”

She turned away and bit her lip—not the conversation she’d
hoped for.

He stroked her cheek with his fingertips, forcing her to
face him. His doubt had changed to anguish. “But I no longer know if I’m
willing to take the chance. What if the cost is too high?”

She’d always been able to read him, but her instincts failed
her now, not because he’d become opaque—he was as transparent as ever—but
because his thoughts seemed in conflict. “Are you saying you agree with Thomas
that we should betray the keepmasters?”

“I’m not sure what I believe, but I understand better what’s
at stake.”

“What’s that?”

“The two of us. I’d trade all we’ve learned to go back to
Little Pond and spend my life with you.”

She rose on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. He
drew her closer until her head rested on his chest.
If only the helpers
could freeze time and leave us in this moment.

As she counted the too-quick beating of his heart, she
struggled to find an answer. They could not stay in the keep; they must not
betray the keepmasters. Then she remembered the other miracle she’d found.