Chapter 3
It doesn’t take long for me to get there. There are constant cargo trains running up and down the old light-rail tracks late
at night and it’s easy enough to jump on the back of one and blend into the shadows.
The Huntington is dark, the entrance covered with dead leaves that crunch under my boots as I walk toward the entrance. An
old chain-link fence wraps around the perimeter, but it sags among the weeds and overgrowth almost like an afterthought. There’s
nothing to protect inside anymore, anyway.
As quietly as I can, I climb the fence and land on the other side, looking up at the cream-colored facade.
The sky beyond is covered in light pollution that traps the orange light of Post Angeles beyond.
From this angle, the building looks ancient, and the sky gleams like it’s on fire.
It’s almost like I could be standing in Pompeii or something, a spectator at the edge of a world that ended centuries ago.
It’s eerie, and it fits the mood.
I’m closing in on the hour timeline they gave me, so I quickly find a broken window and slip inside.
Debris crunches underfoot against the marble floor as I pass faded spray paint tags, the scrawl unreadable in the low light.
A massive staircase curves upward, covered in old vines that have broken in through the windows above. My eyes fall on gleaming
white rectangles every few feet: the ghosts of art that used to hang. They were whisked away to private collections soon after
all museums and libraries were shut down. This place used to be both. Now it’s just a place where I might catch tetanus.
I look around, tucking my hair behind my ears as my eyes adjust to the dark. They didn’t say where they’d be, and this place
is massive. I take a careful step, making sure to tiptoe around shattered glass from a bottle near the bottom of the stairs.
“Ripley Hart.” A voice cuts through the darkness. “I kind of hoped you were a little smarter than this.”
I spin to see Ms. Astor standing in the hallway, the faint glow from outside illuminating half of her face.
I freeze, waiting for sirens or the splash of red-and-blue lights of the Hammers, and my mind spins off in a million different directions. If Ms. Astor is here, then I am screwed. Was this all a trap? A test? Whatever it is, I’ve failed.
I stare at Ms. Astor. She’s not old, but she isn’t exactly young, either. I could just make a run for it. That might give
me long enough to call my parents and tell them to run—
“Don’t even think about it,” Ms. Astor says, her voice lilting with irritation as she starts walking toward me. I lurch backward,
half expecting her to grab me, but she surprises me as she strolls right past me. I pivot, keeping my eyes on her.
“Don’t even think about what?” I press, my voice sounding squeaky and scared even to my own ears.
“Running,” Ms. Astor says. Her fingers linger on the door, a spray-painted Ionic column in black stark against the wood. Before
I can ask, she yanks the door open, the hinges groaning. Beyond, pitch black, a yawning pit: a staircase down.
“You’re the one who messaged me?” I ask foolishly, hating how confused I sound. “What do you want?”
Ms. Astor dusts her hands on her pants like I’m boring her.
None of this makes sense. If she was going to turn me in, she would have done it in front of everyone at school. I am the
biggest pain in her ass, and we all know it. Hux is probably a close second, but I know that at least his scores make up for
half of his antics. I have nothing to redeem me.
When Ms. Astor still doesn’t answer, my ears fill instead with the uneven thump of my own heartbeat. My nervous system has been running on adrenaline for hours—since that first text. The question comes out again, more desperate this time.
“What do you want?” My words echo.
Ms. Astor finally looks at me. There’s something in her expression I’ve never seen before. I’ve been under her watchful gaze
for two years, and she’s always blended perfectly into our beige world. Low bun, flat looks, slow movements. But here, her
eyes are bright, her mouth upturned a little, enough that a scar on her upper lip seems to appear. She has copper studs in
her ears.
Out from under the harsh lighting of the training room, I can see her for real. She’s beautiful.
Finally, she clears her throat delicately. “What do I want? I want you to follow me and not ask any more questions until we’re
somewhere where no patrol drones can hear you.”
“You’re not turning me in?” I ask, desperate.
She shakes her head. “No.”
I try to hide the fact that I’m reeling—it’s like I was about to walk the plank and someone just yanked me back to safety.
And slowly a smirk slips up the side of my mouth. I rock back on my heels.
“You just lost your leverage, Ms. Astor,” I reply, keeping quiet because her point about the patrol drones is totally fair.
“You’re not going to turn me in, so why would I follow you?”
Ms. Astor purses her lips and nods like she’s thinking it over. “Because, Ripley, I’ve taught you for two years. You want to know what’s down here.” And then she disappears into the darkness.
I stand alone for a moment, tonguing my cheek as I consider her words.
I should prove her wrong. I should spin around and march myself home. That would show her.
You want to know what’s down here.
Not if it’s going to get me killed. Not when I’ve spent the past hour certain I was marching to my death. All I have to do
is fly under the radar. Refine data, watch my DopaMine feed, forget about the stories I used to write. Follow every rule.
Become beige. I’ve got a chance to go live.
For another six months.
My heart stutters at the thought, and I’m following her before I can list the thousands of reasons why this is a terrible
idea.
It’s hard to see in the stairwell, but I keep my eyes fixed on my feet and the strips of gently glowing treads along every
step. I rush down the first two flights—we’re headed underground now—but can’t catch up to Ms. Astor. Only my ragged breathing
accompanies me, but there’s only one way to go: down. Finally, the stairs flatten and lead me to an extinguished “Exit” sign
near a rusted door.
I must be beyond the grounds of the Huntington by now. My hands push against one and then another metal door. As I take in
the sight beyond, my breath catches in my throat.
Low lighting carves out a massive tunnel.
My mother used to tell me stories about a half-finished subway system that Los Angeles was building when the earthquake hit.
It’s not safe down there, she’d tell me.
As I lean on the railing, my hands wrap tightly against the chipped yellow paint as an entire other world seems to open below me.
Low light hangs from old work lamps tethered to the high tunnel ceilings, illuminating a stunning sight below: a maze of shelves.
Every row is crammed in narrow vertical strips . . . books.
I’ve never seen so many books. They line the tunnel walls. Bookshelves packed with spines. Carts filled to the point of tipping,
their wheels balanced on the half-finished tracks. Old wooden crates stuffed to the brim, overflowing. It makes me think of
Nef. When we moved, when my parents went silent in the new After and I was alone and scared, she was the first friendly face,
sometimes the only friendly face I’d see all day. We’d make up stories on the playground, pretending to be mermaids or witches
or aliens. When those stories spilled over, we wrote them down, and she was the first person to read about Saffron and Orion.
She’d love this.
It takes me a moment to realize I’m not alone anymore. There are people working—dozens of people. Some push carts, others
load up canvas bags with massive tomes and small brick-sized paperbacks. A couple of them glance up at me curiously.
My feet move on their own and I half stumble down the stairs, my mouth gaping at the sight.
A book is a rare thing now.
My grandmother used to tell me that, when the Last War started, it was a race for resources. Everything had to feed the machine
of war. They burned it all—the books with the last of the forests, something called gasoline with other minerals they used
to mine—all to power what would become Alba. Thankfully, once Alba was up and running, it was able to save itself, discovering
new fuels across the globe, new battlegrounds for us to conquer for resources.
But back then, they burned all the books to try to win the war.
Whenever my grandmother said this, my mother would always tsk and shake her head. She believed, back when she believed in
things, that they did it on purpose.
In her childhood, she remembers them coming for the books.
Books, my mom used to say, are dangerous things.
They don’t seem dangerous now. Only excitement fizzles along my veins. I reach the bottom of the steps and stare up at the
massive wooden bookcase. This close, their smell fills my nostrils: musty, but not in a bad way. Along the cracked spines,
I make out some of the gold lettering.
The Odyssey. Gone with the Wind. Fahrenheit 451.
My algorithm dictates what I watch. My DopaMine feed is programmed to feature faces I like, problems I struggle with, the happy ending I want. Mine. But this is like peering into someone else’s soul. These books could make me cry or make me angry; I’d love some of them and
hate others. In a moment, I feel like a voyeur. Each is a slice of someone’s soul, bared for me.
As I reach out for a book I feel Ms. Astor appear beside me.
I lower my hand quickly—I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch them.
“What is this?” I ask quietly, turning to watch the workers move books.
“We call ourselves Lyceum,” Ms. Astor answers. “That’s the fancy name for it, at least.”
“You’re librarians.” The word sounds ridiculous. I’m surprised I even know it. “Vigilante librarians.”
Ms. Astor laughs, and I jump a little, realizing I have never heard that sound before. It’s foreign and jarring, etching laugh
lines that look at home on her face. Down here, I realize, she’s not who she has to be up there.