Chapter Twenty Two In Which a Door Is Closed
Zada froze. “Buford,” she managed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but—”
“No,” said Buford, “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you more, after that first night. Do you love her?”
“Yes,” said Zada, glancing at Daphne, who squeezed her hand again.
Buford nodded. “I love someone else, too,” he said, and Zada felt herself start to breathe again.
The doors rattled ominously.
“By order of the New Ionian guard, you are to open this door immediately!” a booming voice called.
It was followed by a quieter, more dignified voice. “Daphne Fallow, don’t embarrass yourself any further,” said Chancellor Fallow. “You have until the count of five, and then you won’t like what happens next.”
“I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” Buford said quietly. “The quickest way out of here is the maintenance door. Two lefts, then a right. You’ll come out facing the back exit from there.”
“Understood,” said Zada.
“Five,” intoned Chancellor Fallow.
“But what about you?” Zada said.
“I’ll be fine. My family will protect me. And Legislator Bassey is doing what she can to reform this place,” said Buford in a low voice. “We’re planting seeds of change where we can. In the meantime—”
“We need to go,” said Daphne, glancing at the door.
“Four.”
“Just take care of yourself. We’ll do what we can for the city,” Buford said. He pointed down the hall. “Two lefts and a right.”
“Thank you,” Zada told him.
“Three.”
Zada and Daphne took off running again.
“Two.”
They’d just passed through the first door when the sizzle of a dematerializer announced the end of the countdown. They could hear the doors swing open, the artificial candle apparently melted away.
Then Buford was saying in a loud, clear voice, “They went that way! To the right!”
And then Zada and Daphne were racing through the next door, lungs burning, legs burning. The pounding of guard boots grew fainter. The guards had followed Buford’s misdirection.
“There’ll be more guards outside,” Daphne warned.
Zada nodded grimly. They had come to the last fork. They flung open the door and slipped out into the alley, the searing sunlight nearly whiting out their eyes.
“You two,” said Sister Patience. “Get in the back, now.”
“Where’re we going?” asked Daphne.
“To our ship, and then out of the city,” Sister Justice told her. “Now quickly—”
The large wheeled crate hooked up to the solar-powered cart was stacked to the brim with pieces of intricately made lace, nearly overflowing.
Zada and Daphne clambered onto the crate, and Sister Justice proceeded to pile scraps on top of them until Sister Patience said, “That’ll have to be enough. Girls, try not to breathe too much.”
The wheels began to turn. Zada lay on the rough wood, draped in white and cream and ivory like a giant veil, Daphne still maintaining a firm grip on her hand.
All around her, the familiar sounds of the city filtered in—passersby talking, the rumble of hyper-carriages, and the beeping of horses.
A high, thin alarm began to sound. Zada immediately recognized it as the city guard’s siren.
Her hand not holding the triple cello and bow tightened around Daphne’s.
“It’s all right, just stay calm,” said Sister Justice, seemingly to Sister Patience, but she had pitched her voice to be heard over the din.
Zada concentrated on breathing shallowly, staying very still, and not utterly crushing Daphne’s hand in hers.
She knew the sisters were right. If anyone found them back here, it wouldn’t just be Counseling and Extrication for Zada and Daphne.
Their apprehension would also make the nuns a target—not just Sister Patience and Sister Justice, but also possibly the entire order.
There was nothing to do but fight the urge to scream, to move, to run.
The cart rolled forward a few inches, then paused. Several more inches, and then it halted again. They were stuck in traffic, and Zada had a good idea of the cause. The city guard was stopping vehicles for questioning.
Zada bit the inside of her lip. It was hot under all of that fabric. A bead of sweat formed at the small of her back.
The cart crawled onward. Zada couldn’t track where they were anymore. There was a crack in the wood at the bottom of the crate, and she focused her eyes there, trying to watch for landmarks, but the roads all looked the same. The siren wailed on and on, growing closer with each reverberation.
“Good morning, sisters,” said someone from just up ahead. “Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?”
Zada’s eyes widened. It was a voice she knew well, a voice that had celebrated her good fortunes and comforted her when things went wrong, coaxed her through writing her name for the first time and insisted that someday Zada was going to amount to something.
Only two months ago, the owner of that voice had been deliriously happy when Zada had crashed into Buford and sparked her Heartsong.
And this morning, she had braided Zada’s hair and assured her how delighted Zada would be with Buford, how clearly they were destined for each other.
“Morning,” said Sister Patience. “What’s all the commotion?”
“A pair of young fugitives,” Zada’s mother answered in her no-nonsense work cadence. “We just want to talk with them before they do anything rash.”
Daphne’s thumb stroked the back of Zada’s hand. Zada’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Her throat was impossibly dry, and she could feel a cough welling up. She swallowed.
“Of course,” said Sister Justice. “What do they look like?”
One of the other guards answered. “Two females, aged eighteen. One tall with short dark hair and brown eyes, likely in a suit. One shorter and stout with dark blond hair and gray eyes, wearing a wedding dress.”
“Well, the good news is they sound very distinctive,” Sister Patience replied. “If we see them, we will certainly let you know.”
Heavy booted footsteps approached the cart.
“Do you think they could have climbed in here when you weren’t looking?” asked the second guard.
Sister Patience snorted. “This cart barely carries us. We would absolutely notice if we were dragging along two stowaways.”
Zada swallowed again. The cough was still clawing up her throat.
She eyed the crack in the basket, trying to judge how far they were from the ship and freedom.
She could see her mother’s boots, which were a slightly smaller size than those belonging to the other guards with her.
Zada had seen those boots countless times before, muddied and tossed aside in the entryway of her home.
A pause. A long pause. Zada watched the boots step closer.
Then, through the crack, she saw the face of her mother.
She’d crouched down to examine the cart.
Zada stared at her mother, who stared back.
There was no way her mother didn’t see her, no way she didn’t recognize her.
The moment stretched so long that Zada stopped counting the seconds, was only aware of the sweat down her back and a prickling sensation in her hands.
Any second now, her mother would speak, would open her mouth and turn Zada in.
Her mother’s eye left her field of vision. This was it, thought Zada.
“All clear,” said her mother, and the cart rolled on.
The sisters’ ship bay was an echoing space underneath the community center, far enough underground that the lower part of the walls had been visibly hewn from piles of compressed trash.
“I can’t believe they tried to teach us that they built this city on a mountain,” said Daphne.
“A beacon of hope, lifted on high,” Zada quoted.
“And all along it was just a heap of garbage.”
In a way, it was the whole story of New Ionia.
The mountain, the Founders, the miracle of the Core and the gift of Heartsong—enchanting stories made all the more appealing by the truth’s fundamental ugliness.
Nobody wanted to live on a pile of trash.
Nobody wanted to admit that a city governed by a set of powerful algorithms was a city asleep.
Nobody wanted to face the hard task of choosing how to live your life.
That was the story of New Ionia, but it wasn’t their story.
They hadn’t just uncovered corruption and lies.
The truth was terrible, but it was also beautiful.
It came in many forms: the sly cracking of a joke, the thrill of singing while standing shoulder to shoulder at an unsanctioned concert, the careful mercies of their school friends, the contours of Daphne’s smile and the feel of her lips against Zada’s.
“On the way out of here, could you tell me more about grotto rock?” asked Zada.
Daphne nodded. “Of course.”
“The ship’s ready to go,” said a novice hovering nearby.
“We’ve packed you each a few changes of clothes and some other basic supplies.
A few books that might be helpful, too. Some are on practical skills you’ll need.
” He lowered his voice. “And a smattering of political theory from the private collection.”
Zada shivered in delight. She thought of the sheer volume of knowledge left to explore and felt almost dizzy. Not just politics, but stories, too. So many voices had been silenced for her, and now—maybe she could ask the nuns about some kind of book exchange.
“We even found a case for your triple cello,” said the novice, handing over an instrument case with a smile. “Sister Patience is ready for liftoff. You’ll be in the back, in the cargo hold.”
Zada and Daphne crossed the concrete floor toward the small, unassuming ship. At the door, Zada turned.
“What is it like out there?” she asked. “Do you happen to know?”
“It’s hard to describe,” said the novice.
“That bad?” said Daphne.
The novice smiled. “Not bad at all,” he said. “Just different. You’ll see.”
They climbed into the ship, shutting the door behind themselves. They climbed past the heaps of boxes and what Zada supposed was their own luggage.