“It never ceases to amaze me,” Kayko says. “The idea came from the other side of the world, but this house belongs here.”
“Does it always feel so peaceful?”
“Yes. Even with other people around. The house was designed to create a sense of inner harmony, of course, but there’s something about this place as well. My grandmother used to say being here is like being cradled in the hands of a god. Come on.”
We follow the stream along a bare dirt path winding up the hill. The garden looks sparse at first. A single tree or shrub, sometimes just a few rocks are displayed here and there, with space composed of water or grass or moss, or white gravel between. But it doesn’t seem barren. Instead, it seems clear-headed, somehow. As if I’m seeing the gardener’s thoughts about peace and beauty. Even at this time of year, when nothing is blooming, it’s perfect.
We reach a plateau at the top, and I see the smaller, more usual-looking house. Kayko points to a bench. “I love this view. Sit and have a look.” From here, the Japanese house is part of the landscape. The hills around the lake glow, even in this subdued light. Rare splashes of crimson and scarlet are woven into the orange and yellow maples and birches against the evergreen trees, the darker backdrop of fir and pine and spruce that will not change. The colours are mirrored in the calm waters of the lake.
“I wish I could stay here forever,” I say. For a few moments, I’ve felt all right. Then, suddenly and without warning, the weight of my grief presses down. I feel as if I can hardly stand. “I think I need to lie down.” Kayko doesn’t argue. She leads me back to my room. The bed has been made, but it’s still waiting for me. “I thought you said it went into the cupboard,” I say.
“I told them to leave it out, in case you needed it.”
I’m so tired. Kayko fetches a padded quilt from the cupboard and places it over me. I don’t even hear her leave the room.
When I wake again, it’s late afternoon. I wander around the house until I find Kayko, sitting at a kind of low desk built into a window box. She smiles when she sees me. “You missed lunch. Are you hungry?”
“Not really, but I’ll eat.”
She rises. “Good. Wait here. I’ll order something.”
I look down at the papers when she leaves, expecting to see reports about work, something official. Instead, I find pages of short, three-line poems, handwritten. I remember Kayko once talked about writing a Japanese form of poetry.
I probably shouldn’t, but I glance at one. “The homeless girl’s eyes . . .” I read.
“I asked for soup and a sandwich.” Kayko’s voice is unexpectedly close behind me.
I jump away from the papers. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I shouldn’t have been so nosy.”
“The haiku? I don’t mind. I’m not very good at it. It’s more of a writing exercise than anything. Let’s get your lunch,” she says, “then we should talk.” The serious note in her voice makes my heart misgive.
The food looks wonderful in an abstract way, but I eat without tasting. When I finish, Kayko says, “We can stay here as long as you need to. I spoke to Erica while you were sleeping. She’ll come too, if you want.”
I shake my head. “We can’t stay here. They need us at work. And I want to find out what happened, now more than ever. If I can make sense of the technocaust, maybe it will be easier to accept the news about my father.”
“We’ll go back early on Monday, then. I’ll tell Erica.”
“I should tell her myself.”
“Good,” Kayko says. “We’ll call her later.” But she still looks troubled. “There’s something else—” Kayko starts to say. I cut her off.
“Whatever it is, can’t it wait until next week? I’m still pretty shaky.”
“I know, but we should talk about this, because I might be able to do something about it.”
“Something about what?”
“Your father is in prison because he helped the Protectors during the technocaust. That means you won’t be allowed to make a victim statement.”
I go numb. “That decision was made because of me. Erica would never have voted in favour if I hadn’t been so upset by the idea that those people might make victim statements. And now, I’m one of those people. How’s that for justice?”
“It’s not justice at all. I didn’t think so then and I don’t now. Blake, I’m not willing to let this go.”
I laugh. “What can you do about it? Ask the Justice Council to make an exception for me? Because they know me and I’m not like everyone else who’s related to people who ran the technocaust? They’d totally discredit themselves before their real work has even started. I’m not that important. I did this to myself, and I’m stuck with it.”
But when I look at Kayko, there’s that gleam of mischief in her eyes. “That wasn’t what I had in mind,” she says. “We’re not asking the Justice Council for anything. Do you have your victim statement with you?”
“Yes, it’s almost finished. I carry it everywhere. It’s in the bag I brought from the office. Why?”
“I want to record you, reading your victim statement. Then I’ll interview you about your life and post it all on my holo-zine, so everyone can hear your story.”
“Wouldn’t that violate our confidentiality agreement?”
“I don’t think so,” Kayko says. “We didn’t learn any of this because of the work we’re doing with the Justice Council. Will you do it?”
I bite my lip. “I can hardly bear to think my story might never be heard. But this seems, well, self-serving, as if my story were more important than anyone else’s.”
“But don’t you see? Your story is important, especially now. People have got to realize that things are more complex than they want them to be. This isn’t as simple as guilt and innocence. Until everyone realizes that, we’ll never get over the technocaust. But most people don’t think in concepts, Blake, it’s too abstract. They understand stories. Whether they realize it or not, your story will help them understand why we need to be able to forgive.”
“But I can’t say that. Kayko, I can’t even begin to forgive. I hate the people who did this to me, to everyone who suffered.” Hot tears spill down my cheeks. “I hate . . .” I pause, gulp a deep breath, and go on. “I hate my father for betraying everything that matters to me. I’ve never been as good as you and your uncle and Erica, as Griffin and Monique. I was only pretending because I thought you’d lose respect for me if you knew.”
There. Now Kayko finally knows. I stare at my hands, waiting for her judgment. Pity is the best I can hope for now that I have shown myself to be so inadequate.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says softly.
I look up at her. “What?”
“You always ask so much of yourself, Blake. Anyone in your position would feel the way you do. Let me ask you something. Do you like hating?”
“No. I hate it,” I say. When I realize what I’ve said, I laugh. “When we first came here, I thought hate gave me the energy I needed to keep going. But when I met Astral, I started to realize what hate could do to someone. Kayko, I’m tired of hating.”
“Good,” she says. “I think, one day, you’ll be able to let your hate go. Tell your story. That might be the beginning. And maybe not just for you. That’s what I’m hoping.”
“I’m not sure—” I start to say, but she won’t let me finish.
“I know you’re not, but I am. Just trust me, all right?”
“All right,” I say, because I’m too confused to trust myself.
21
At dawn the crows call
the moon beyond the water.
We must leave this peace.
—Kayko Miyazaki
We work hard the next day; Kayko helps me finish my victim statement. Then we record it in her holo-zine lab and she interviews me. Her questions are tactful. She sticks to my story, never asking me to reveal more about my feelings than I want to. I find I can even talk about my father. I begin to realize the work
Kayko’s been doing with us at Queen’s Park must seem terribly limited to her. On Sunday, we edit and format the holograms, getting everything ready to post on her holo-zine site. As always, work has a therapeutic effect on me. It lifts me out of the lethargy that was sapping my strength, makes me feel maybe I’ll be all right.
“We’re done,” Kayko says on Sunday afternoon. “Everything’s posted.”
Will anyone even notice? I wonder. Maybe Kayko and I have just been talking to ourselves. But it would be ungrateful to say that.
We rise before the sun on Monday and Kayko’s driver delivers us to Queen’s Park before work begins. When I see Erica, she hugs me, then studies my face. “You look good,” she says, “better than I expected. I told William over the weekend. He’ll come for a few days, if that would help. Fraser too.”
I shake my head. “Disrupting everyone else’s life won’t make things better. I want to get back into my normal routine.” I wish I could leave it at that, but I can’t. “Erica, what do you know about him?” The question just spills out.
She doesn’t have to ask who I’m talking about. “I tried to tell you about him once. Do you remember? When you started working on the holograms. He never cared about politics, Blake. He was just plucked out of a group of techies who were arrested early in the technocaust.” She hesitates.
“But . . . ?” I prompt.
“But he made himself useful, tracking down techies, and he rose through the ranks until he was very high in Internal Protection. “
Falcon Edwards’s portfolio. I wince. “How high?”
“Until the Uprising, he was Assistant Deputy of Tracking.”
“He must have caught a lot of people who might have gone free otherwise.” My bitterness comes out in my voice. “Does he know I’m alive?”
“Not yet, but he will. Hanif told me, when someone who has been declared dead is discovered alive, their relatives are informed. It’s official policy.”
“What if he wants to meet me? I don’t think I can.”
“Nobody’s going to force you.”
This is all I can handle right now. “I’d better get to work.”
“Are you sure? We’ve started hiring extra staff. The building is full of strangers. If you wanted to take a few more days off—” Erica begins, but I interrupt her.
“What we’re doing now is important.” This sounds harsher than I intended. “Besides,” I add, “I need the distraction. “
“If you’re sure. I checked the work schedule. You’re all in the archives today.”
I’m worried about facing the other aides, but they’re already at work in media booths when I reach the archives.
Terry Raven looks worried. “You really want to work?” he asks. He obviously knows what’s happened to me. I don’t have the energy to explain how important this work is to me now. I just nod and let him load the disk.
The others made real progress with the RTLM recordings while Kayko and I were away. The programming has changed dramatically. I seem to be listening to an official announcement. “Anyone engaged in research or production in the following areas must report to the nearest office of Internal Protection immediately to obtain a technology registration number: any form of nanotechnology, biotechnology, satellite tracking, genetic modification of any type including gene therapy, tissue, nerve, and bone regeneration research, any artificial intelligence research or application, any form of subatomic modification . . .” The list goes on and on. The technocaust has started. The announcement ends by saying, “Failure to report to Internal Protection is a crime. Failure to report anyone who does not obtain a technology registration number will result in arrest. Harbouring anyone who has been ordered to report will result in arrest. Citizens are urged to cooperate in this effort to register those involved in advanced science and technology for the sake of stability within our society.”
Between the propaganda music and a call-in show that invites people to name friends and neighbours who should report to Internal Protection, this announcement is repeated every half hour. The change is hard to understand. RTLM used to taunt the government and demand changes. Now, they’re broadcasting official government policy. How did that happen? Nothing in the broadcast helps to explain.
The recording ends just before lunchtime. I find the other aides already gathered outside the media booths. “I’m ready for a new recording,” I say.
“There aren’t any,” Griffin replies. “That was the last of them.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Kayko says. She looks pale and shaken, and I realize she is the only one of us who was hearing RTLM for the first time. Everyone else looks grim but satisfied. I situate myself beside Kayko, out of Astral’s line of vision. I have no idea how he’ll treat me now, and I’m not ready to find out.
“You did an amazing job while we were away,” Kayko says. “Does this mean we can start on the hologram this afternoon?”
Griffin nods. “Just as soon as we put our notes about RTLM together to see what we’ve learned. That won’t take long. Let’s break for lunch first.”
While we were working, the hallway outside the archives filled with people. A long line snakes all the way back to the main lobby. I remember what Erica said about hiring, but it’s still surprising.
“How did all those people get past Security?” I ask as we enter the stairwell.
“They’ve all been cleared for interviews,” Griffin says. “It was crazy around here on Friday. Just as well you were . . .” he stops and turns bright red.
“It’s all right,” I say quickly. “I know what you meant.” Behind us, I feel as if Astral’s eyes are burning a hole in me.
Conversation at lunch is forced. There are too many strangers in the cafeteria to talk freely about our work, and my friends skirt around the discovery of my father as if it were an unexploded bomb. I meet Astral’s eyes only once, by chance, and we both look away quickly. We were friends, at least. Now, it seems, we’re something worse than strangers.
It’s a relief to find ourselves in the quiet media rooms again. I’m not the only one who thinks so. “At least this area is still off limits to most people,” Kayko says when we all sit down.
“So,” Griffin says, smiling, “let’s find out what we’ve learned about RTLM.” His energy takes some of the grimness out of the task. “These recordings covered a few months in 2353, the time period we’re especially interested in.”
“How do these broadcasts relate to the big rally on the hologram?” Kayko asks. “Didn’t that happen around the same time?”
“Yes, they overlap,” Astral says. “I heard announcements urging people to attend that rally on some of the broadcasts I listened to.”
“And RTLM’s purpose was?” Griffin throws the question out at us.
“To promote hatred for science and technology,” I reply.
“That seems to have been the reason for its existence.”
“And who do you think the audience was?” Griffin asks. Astral answers. “That’s an interesting question. From what you said about radio before we started, I expected the target audience would be disadvantaged people. ‘The poorest of the poor,’ you said. But that’s not the impression I got from listening. Some of the people calling in were quite articulate. They didn’t sound disadvantaged.”
“So the audience was wider than you expected,” Kayko says.
“It’s not surprising RTLM gained a broader audience,” Griffin says, “given the climate of hostility.”
“Yes, but I noticed something odd today,” I say. “This was a pirate radio station. Why would they broadcast an official government announcement?” I explain what I heard.
“That’s interesting,” Griffin says. “Could you date those broadcasts?”
I check the notes on my scribe. “October 2353.”
“How could a station like RTLM become an instrument of the government?” Astral asks.
“They began as enemies, but suddenly they were—how do you say this?�
��on the same page,” Luisa says.
Griffin shakes his head. “And we may never know how. A lot of questions about the past just go unanswered. Well, if that’s all we know about RTLM we can start on the hologram. Blake, why don’t we work on the speakers’ platform?”
“When Falcon Edwards goes into that tent, I’d really like to see what goes on,” I say.
“We’ll all watch that projection,” Griffin agrees. “It would be cruel to leave anyone out.”
As soon as we’re alone, Griffin speaks. As always, he’s very direct. “I don’t know what to say to you, Blake. It doesn’t seem right to express regret at the discovery that your father is alive, but congratulations are hardly in order.”
“Regret is closer to what I feel,” I say. “That’s selfish, isn’t it? To wish my father dead because it would make my life easier? But everything is more complicated now.”
“I think everything was just as complicated before, really. Now, it’s just impossible for you to ignore that.”
Until now, Griffin’s breathtaking bluntness has always been directed at Astral. His honesty hurts, but I know it’s not malicious. Luckily, the recording starts before I think of a reply.
We’re back in the same hot day in August 2353, inside the Hippodrome, facing the stage at the rally. Some of the faces on the stage are familiar, but most are not. “These are just minor players,” Griffin says to me after awhile.
“Everyone important was in that tent,” I reply.
Speaker after speaker rails against technology, against science, against the government for not slowing the pace of technological advance. There is one new twist. Near the end of the day, a man with long blond hair and flowing robes comes onto the stage. He raises his arms, and the crowd falls completely silent. “What man can enter paradise with two hearts?” he says. “When a heart is replaced, that’s natural, but when a new heart is grown from a man’s own tissue and placed within his breast, he will find himself, on the day of resurrection, with not one heart, but two.” His voice rises and the crowd’s energy seems to rise with him. “This is an abomination. We must call upon the Protectors to live up to their name and stop regeneration therapy, and stop the research that feeds this loathsome practice.” The crowd roars as if he’s given them what they’ve been waiting for.
The Raintree Rebellion Page 16
