Chapter Fourteen In Which Nothing Is Fine #3
She wanted to argue with this smug unseen writer, whoever they were.
How could this stranger begin to understand the blessings of a city they’d never set foot in?
The Core was built upon the wisdom of the Founders and driven by the data of the citizens it served.
It knew better than any individual person what they wanted, needed, and deserved.
In New Ionia, you were given your place in society and you lived the best version of your life possible.
What was a little data compared to all of the many benefits?
She wasn’t a sleeping child, or whatever that first writer had called them.
She was a grown adult who understood the way her city worked—or at least, the way it worked most of the time, a treacherous voice whispered in her head.
“Do you think the city’s truly selling our data?” Daphne said. She was paging through the blasphemous book. “I don’t want to believe it, but . . .”
“You shouldn’t,” Zada said. It was her turn to take the thin volume out of Daphne’s hands. “Believe it, I mean. These books are here for a reason. They aren’t to be trusted.”
“But they might have a point,” Daphne began. “Never mind. I’m sorry. You’re right. This isn’t what we came for. Let’s keep looking.”
Zada put a hand on the wall and felt something strangely familiar as she pulled herself up. She turned to examine it. Her palm had landed on a small, almost perfectly round disk. She took a step back and for the first time, really examined the surface of the wall.
It was made of trash.
From floor to ceiling, the back wall was made up of densely compacted detritus—she couldn’t identify most of it in the low light, but she caught a corner of a bottle and what appeared to be several screw-top lids.
The patchwork of color was the result of different hues of glass and plastic, melded together.
“What are you looking at?” Daphne said in her ear. Zada jumped.
“I think this is all trash,” Zada said slowly, her gaze traveling the span of the library wall. “But why would there be a wall of trash here?”
“Maybe it’s public art,” Daphne speculated.
“Down here?”
“Private art,” Daphne corrected herself. She tilted her head, considering the striations of bright artificial color, all mashed up together. “Actually, hang on. I saw something earlier—”
She dashed away, leaving Zada alone to stare at the wall, uncomprehending. Within moments, she returned with a thin, floppy booklet featuring a picture of a flaming green bin on the cover.
“Trash! A Geology Zine,” Zada read aloud.
“It was in the New Ionia section,” Daphne said, thumbing through the pages.
The booklet seemed to be barely holding together, and there was a grease stain on one of the pages.
“Okay, it says here that the mountain New Ionia is built upon is—” Daphne scrunched her nose.
“Huh. It says it’s artificial. That this was once a landfill. ”
“What?” said Zada. She shut her eyes briefly, trying to make sense of the words in front of her. “That’s just what it says. That doesn’t mean that it’s true.”
She reached out, tracing her fingers over a fold of what looked like it might have once been discarded clothing.
“But what if it is?” Daphne asked. “What if we’re really living on top of a mountain of garbage?”
“No,” Zada said forcefully. “The mountain, it’s real. It’s made of granite. That’s why we build up. Because the mountain is too difficult to excavate. Why would they lie about this? What purpose does it even serve?”
“I don’t know,” said Daphne. “But it certainly seems as if they might have lied to us quite a lot.”
“None of this makes any sense at all. We’re not—we’re not sleeping children, are we?” Zada tore her gaze away from the wall to stare at the unassuming booklet. “Who wrote this?”
“Let’s see,” Daphne flipped to the end of the booklet. “This says it’s the property of a public library in . . . Ohio? Isn’t Ohio unlivable?”
“Do you think the sisters believe this?” Zada wondered. “They can’t possibly. They’re citizens of New Ionia too.”
“But they don’t participate in Heartsong,” Daphne pointed out. “Not to mention the secret underground library that we’re standing in. Having possession of even one of these books is grounds for Extrication. Why would they keep these here unless they believe it’s the truth?”
“They seemed so normal,” said Zada. There was a brief pause.
“No, they didn’t,” said Daphne. “Sister Patience drives like she’s trying to achieve warp speed.”
Despite the circumstances and her growing headache, Zada smiled.
“I am never getting in a suncart with her again,” Zada said. “Why don’t we—”
A click sounded behind them. The door to the secret room was opening again. Daphne stilled, then her eyes went wide. She ducked behind a shelf, gesturing for Zada to follow.
“—couldn’t have found it,” Sister Justice was saying. “Really, what are the—”
With a creak, the door swung open. From her vantage point behind the shelf, Zada could see Sister Justice and Sister Patience, their movements tight and jerky with—worry? Anger?
Zada didn’t think. She didn’t assess the risks or the possible consequences or even the rudeness of interrupting a nun. She felt dizzy with revelations, almost drunk from the series of mental somersaults brought on by these strange books.
Before Daphne could hold her back, Zada bolted out from behind the bookcase.
“What the hell is going on here?” she demanded.