Jamb (The Cornerstone Series)

by Misty Provencher

  “Oh, crazy man!” Mrs. Neho shakes her head, but she actually laughs. I don’t feel like laughing. I want to brain the Addo for doing what he always does—assuming the best in people. He’s out here in the open, acting like no one’s going to kill him, although the other twelve Addos have all been slaughtered and some were by our own community’s hands. Being so trusting is how The Fury almost got him last time and his assumptions don’t take away our responsibility, if something goes wrong.

  “I gotta say,” Larson grumbles beside Mrs. Neho, “this sure ain’t the brightest plan you’ve ever hatched, Addo. Can’t imagine what we’re gonna do if they all come at us at once.”

  ***

  Mrs. Reese insists that the Addo stay put while the other Cura’s Procella ride the elevator down to the courtyard. Mrs. Reese asks our Alo to stay tucked away inside their apartments, although they are welcome to listen from their doors. When one Alo questions Mrs. Reese, Zane puts it a lot more bluntly, “We don’t need everybody in the way if we’ve got to go hammer-time for the Addo.”

  Ash moves Sean into an alcove beside the Addo. This spot is the most concealed we have in the courtyard, although it’s a little dark, from the shade of the trees. There is a huge rock behind the Addo’s bench that also hides the Addo’s exit door. We can also use the rock as a shield if it comes down to it.

  All of the Contego are staggered in rings, spreading out from the Addo. I’m off to the right, in one of the farthest layers, while Garrett, Robin and Zane are in a little closer, and then Larson, Mrs. Neho, Mr. Middleditch and Mrs. Reese are closest. Zane’s dad instructed us to pace, moving back and forth a small distance, in order to create a jagged line of moving targets in front of the Addo. It will only work if one of the Outer Cura Procella is an armed traitor, but we still try to prepare for everything. I pace, thinking of how we all look like a carnival hunting game.

  It should be easier, it should be second nature now to push the fear out of my head, but it’s not. I repeat my purpose over and over: I’m here to protect. I’m here to help with the same work that my mother and my grandfather dedicated themselves to doing. I try to look like I’m made of steel, even though my body wants to shiver from head to toe like a wet dog.

  Sean doesn’t look any better than I feel, but the Addo doesn’t seem bothered at all. He’s still sitting there on his bench, contentedly wiggling his fingers that are clasped over his round stomach, as if none of these people would ever even think of killing him. His face even suddenly lights up, appearing to flicker in the shade of the trees, when the first Procella comes in with a small platter of cookies. He’s a stout man with a stout face and a head full of spiked hair, the color of sun-burnt bricks. The Addo pokes his head up to eye the platter.

  “Lestyn?” he says. “Ah, good to see you! What have you brought down?”

  “I know how you love the biscuits, Addo Larry.” Lestyn raises the platter with a stout hand. “Where shall I put them?”

  “Pass them!” the Addo says. “Let’s get this Totus started, shall we?”

  “I will pass mine as well,” an Asian man says as he approaches. His voice is flat and he glares at Sean. He has a huge basket filled with things that look like donut holes covered in tiny seeds. When the man walks into my ring, Garrett steps forward, to either stop the man or take his basket, it’s hard to tell which. Either way, it’s obvious that Garrett doesn’t want this man any closer and on instinct, I pace in front of Sean, who is in direct line of the Procella’s glare. The man’s eyes flick away from Sean to me. He gives me a tight grin.

  “Banh Cam,” he says.

  “Oh! Vietnamese Orange Cake!” the Addo booms. “Just as good as cookies! Excellent choice, Dai.” The Addo reaches around Mr. Middleditch, toward the basket, but Ash sways slightly and the Addo’s hand disappears.

  “No samples,” Mr. Middleditch says, and the Addo sighs, but drops his hands back to his sides with a shrug. Besides our Cura, eleven other Procella join us, each with a small basket or plate or tray of cookies, but Ash won’t let Addo sample anything, besides the Oreos that have mysteriously appeared on the bench beside him. Leave it to Addo. He probably had them stuffed up his sweatshirt.

  One of the Alo brings out about a dozen boxes of Oreos from our own Cura’s stores and I watch as they are passed, from door to door, within our own Cura. Our cookies are offered to the other Procella, but they all turn down a taste, just as their cookies are turned down by our Cura.

  Since I can’t ask the Addo openly, I think my question and aim it at his forehead. It seems to take him longer that usual to receive it. He’s probably fielding questions from all over the place. He seems to quiver a little before his eyes seek me out. I smile a tiny apology. I’m still not great at sending thoughts without bashing them into him.

  Ok, we’re not eating the cookies because somebody could’ve messed with them, I get that, but why bother with bringing them at all? …is the question I send him.

  He replies, If ever there was a time for comfort food, a Totus is always it. It doesn’t hurt to have a cookie to help swallow down all the troubles, and you can tell a lot about a Cura by their cookies.

  Huh, I reply back, as I scope out the cookies and sweets that the other Procella have brought with them. It’s like their Curas have been baking in preparation for this Totus and these are their best, sacrificial sweets. The last ones I look at are ours, a half dozen peeled-open boxes of Oreos, being shuffled around the perimeter. Addo’s still got his own box that he keeps dipping his hands into, when he thinks no one is watching. Our cookies say our Cura is too lazy to bake.

  Is that what it says to you? Without looking directly at me this time, Addo’s brow lifts and he tips his head to one side, as if he’s considering my stupidity.

  Yeah. What does it say to you?

  It says, our Cura isn’t busy baking cookies. And it also says that whoever was in charge of stocking our Cura’s pantry doesn’t do anything half way. These are Double-Stuffs, kiddo! He smiles as he bites into the cookie and chocolate crumbs scatter down the neck of his sweatshirt.

  Once all twelve of the other Procella arrive, Addo finally asks, from inside his Contego cocoon, “Is everyone here? Are we ready to get this Totus going?”

  Faces line the layers of balconies, nearly all the way to the top, with only two exceptions. I notice Milo drifting around the edges of the courtyard, the lone face of the first Cura that seems out of place. Mrs. Reese quickly shoos him into a doorway near her, as the Addo begins to speak.

  “Let’s have our Lead Procella introduce themselves, shall we? Don’t be shy, now; we’re all family here. I’ll go first. Hi everybody! I’m Addo Larry of the 13 Cura, and I’m still standing.”

  Then, Addo does a fancy wrist curl, extending a platter-up palm in the direction of the Asian man with the orange cake.

  “Dai,” the man introduces himself with a short, curt burst. “Second Cura, Lead Procella under the late Addo Kamol.”

  “Heema,” the dark beauty across the room says, stepping forward. “Third Cura, Lead Procella, it was my honor to serve the late Addo Gita.”

  Addo bows his head to her, honoring the late Addo whom he had fooled around with at an Indicium or two. A man with a bristly, dark goatee, raises a hand.

  “Wojtek,” the man says, his dark eyes flashing as he surveys the others around the courtyard. “Of the fourth Cura, led by the late Addo Kasia, may she rest in peace.”

  Immediately, the stringy man from one of the high balconies says, “I am Angus. Fifth Cura, under the late Addo Lachlan. May he rest in peace too.”

  A tall man with a long face is next. “Imad,” he says. “Sixth Cura, Lead Procella to the late Addo Fadil.”

  “Kaya. I was Addo Anuun’s. May he also rest in peace.” A woman says. She looks like an adorable little eskimo girl, but she’s got a shockingly deep, no-screwing-around voice.

  “No cookies, Kaya?” Addo asks with a grin.

  “You do not need more garbage food,” t
he woman replies and Addo winks at her, amused. A young man with white-blond hair steps forward. He might be the youngest Procella present.

  “Rolan, of the eighth Cura, Addo Pavla. Peace be to her body.”

  “Looking good, Rolan,” Addo says and the Procella shuffles, suddenly off guard. He pulls himself back together, straightening his spine, before he replies.

  “Thank you, Addo.”

  “I am Tuco,” another man interjects. He’s got an oddly shaped head, as if he’s been beaten and crumpled. One of his eyes are bigger than the other and his long nose looks like it’s been flattened a few times. He’s frightening to look at, but as he speaks, his eyes gloss over with tears. “I represent the ninth Cura and the honorable Addo Ferdinand. May his spirit be blessed.”

  The ninth balcony above us, erupts in soft cheers. The stout man that had come with biscuits raises his hand when Tuco’s Cura quiets down.

  “Procella of the tenth Cura,” he says. “ I am called Lestyn. Blessings to Addo Glyn’s spirit.”

  “Hyo.” An elfish man, who reminds me of a tall Nok, points to his chest. “Eleventh Cura, Addo Bae.”

  “My name is Sisi,” a woman with espresso-bean skin steps forward. She moves like a rolling wave of liquid. “I am of the twelfth Cura. It was my privilege to answer to the beloved Addo Mutegi.”

  “Miranda,” Garrett’s mother says last. “I am from the thirteenth Cura. I am honored to serve Addo Larry.”

  “As we all are honored now,” Tuco says. His eyes seem to swivel a little too far apart, but neither are rooted on the Addo. “So how will you organize us, Addo, since you do not know the business of the twelve Curas left?”

  The other Curas have been told, obviously, about how all the Addos let us down. Instead of the Addos gathering at their annual Indicium meetings to swap info about each Cura, they ended up leaning on technology until it made them flabby about their jobs. The Addos ended up exchanging empty files on thumb drives. And worse, it didn’t even matter, because none of the Addos were bothering to read them anyway. The Indiciums, which were meant to keep the entire Ianua community connected and safe by having the Addos share info, broke down until they were nothing more than off-the-hook, drunken bashes at plush resorts.

  “You haven’t been sold the whole pie, Tuco. The first Cura has not been dispelled, as there is one member still intact,” The Addo says, although he takes another cookie instead of pointing Milo out.

  The quick and violent whispers are incoherent from the balconies above, but the whole courtyard buzzes like a big, angry hive.

  Well, the Addo says in the back of my head, looks like the cat’s out of the bag and the mice are hot about it.

  You kind of did it to yourself, I reply without looking at him. I continue to scan the room and balconies.

  True, he sighs. We might need more cookies for this.

  You haven’t had enough already?

  I won’t judge me if you don’t judge you, he responds. Then to the crowd, he says, “I think we can safely say that even the Addo’s Indicium muck-up indicates that the Cusp has begun.”

  There are only a few murmurs, but many nods of agreement. Trying to track all the movements, to be sure that none of them are happening with malicious intent to kill the Addo, is overwhelming. My eyes flick from one person to another. While shooting the Addo would be particularly tricky, considering all the angles and people and things in the way, I suppose nothing is ever totally impossible. The only thing that’s really keeping the Addo safe is that if there really is a deceptive Cura or even just a traitor in the Hotel, it’s pretty much guaranteed that they’ll never make it out alive. And Garrett’s said that there’s nothing The Fury finds more repulsive than the thought of their own lives being ended.

  “I want to remind you all,” the Addo says, momentarily pausing his cookie consumption, “that a Cusp is simply the time of great change. As human beings, we notoriously turn into a bunch of nervous nellies about any little blip in our routines, but that’s just what life does, kids.

  “For any of you that may not have heard the gossip, the tabloid news is actually true this once. If anyone here is unfamiliar with Walter Fisher, I’d be shocked, however, we don’t have time for a Q & A panel, so I’ll give you the scoop anyway. Walter was my most loyal Alo. He took it upon himself to find an end to The Fury when his own son-in-law, Roger Maxwell, left our community and went to The Fury.”

  I cringe, although I refuse to let it show. I continue to scan the courtyard, and stumble on Garrett, who meets my gaze. His expression doesn’t change, but he winks at me, like a reminder that I’m not my father. Even in his wink, I feel Garrett’s touch, although we’re at least five feet apart. As the Addo continues, our eyes move away from one another, but I try to stand tall and hang onto the feeling of Garrett’s reassurance.

  “I’m here to tell you that Walter succeeded and found the answer, but before he could share the remedy for stopping The Fury, his son-in-law, Roger, returned and killed Walter. Roger stole Walter’s Memory and hid it, to stop the Ianua from overcoming his new community. The Memory fell into the hands of the late Addo Chad, who had faked his death in our community before turning to The Fury. However, Nalena Maxwell, Roger’s own daughter, managed to recover Walter’s Memory with Roger’s help as her Connection. They brought Walter Fisher’s Memory to me and I have blessed it, but several game-changers have also surfaced.

  “First, Walter’s Memory did not include the easy fix we’d hoped it would. Walter found no way to stop The Fury and his final solution happens to be the most risky. A Reset.”

  A collective gasp rolls through the floors above us. Cookie crumbs stop falling from the balconies, mouths stop moving, eyebrows reach for hairlines.

  “A Reset could end the human race,” Heema says.

  “Or it might not. We just don’t know,” Addo says. He shrugs as if none of this is any big deal. “We could always wait until The Fury ends it their own way, with all of us beating each other down or blowing each other up, trying to be that one person who’s left at the top of the heap. That’s what The Fury wants and, unfortunately, they’re aimed in the right direction for it. A Reset is definitely a risk, but it also seems to be the only choice we have left.

  “And that was just the first snag. The second is that you all know what it means now that Walter’s Memory has been blessed. The knowledge from his Memory is available universally and everybody has equal access to what Walter knew.

  “So, if anyone here still hasn’t connected the dots, it means The Fury not only knows the direction we’re heading, but they’re trying to head us off at the pass. They’ve already put a kink in our pipeline, preying on our Alo, so we don’t have the resources we need to get all the dead’s Memories recorded. Which means there is less knowledge available to all of us. And by stagnating the knowledge, eventually, the human race will begin dying of things that could’ve easily been overcome with shared, common sense, or things that could’ve been cured, or could’ve been prevented if we’d been able to use one another’s knowledge to fight our problems together. It’s one big wobbly domino that none of us want to knock over, folks.

  “Which brings us to the third knuckle in our sandwich. The Fury has, as most of you know, organized somehow. While they’ve never been able to pull it together enough to blow down a straw house in the past, they’re going straight for the bricks now, kids. They’ve got a leader they’re calling The Mastermind and he’s motivating his followers by offering each of them a golden apple. And it’s working wonders. This Master-Pain-In-The-Hump has managed to pull together the hooligans and make an army that isn’t constantly running off anymore, to pickle their brains or make babies. While it’s lovely to see human beings with purpose, their purpose it to squash us dead, so it makes it a little harder to want to jiggle my pom-poms for them.

  “And what was that, our third problem? Are we on the fourth now?” Addo asks. Dai nods and the Addo salutes the Procella a thank-you before continuing.
>
  “The fourth monkey wrench is that we don’t have a clue who’s playing the Master Puppeteer. That’s a big can of beans, folks. We really need to find the source of all this bad air. We thought it was Addo Chad, but now we suspect one of the first Cura members is running the show.”

  “Has the remaining member from the 1 Cura been interrogated?” Heema narrows her eyes.

  “Thoroughly,” Addo says. “He is just an Alo, and a young one to boot. He had also petitioned to leave the Cura before the mass exodus happened. He wasn’t high on the hit parade over there, and being such a fresh Alo, you can imagine, they didn’t tell him squat.”

  “It still seems foolish to think he is one of us and not one of them,” Heema says. Across the rings, I see Robin nod even as she continues to scan the room for trouble. “How can you be sure of him?”

  “Oh dear,” Addo sighs. “Probably the same way I am sure of any of you, Heema. I’m not. But I have a great deal of faith that the Universe knows what it is doing, even when I don’t.”

  “You mean, God,” Tuco corrects the Addo solidly. Kaya juts her bottom lip.

  “Torngasak,” she says.

  “Allah,” Imad folds his arms in front of him.

  “Krishna, Jehovah, Thor…I thought we agreed to put aside the semantics?” Mr. Middleditch growls. The Addo just shrugs, taking the opportunity to retrieve another cookie.

  “This again?” he asks his cookie. “Yes, I suppose we can stop solving our problems and take a moment out to play another round of pin the tail on the real deity. Why not? I thought we’ve talked this one to pieces, but let’s hit the high notes again, shall we?” He lays down the cookie and addresses the rest of us.

  “There is room for all your Gods, you know, since there is only one. We’re lucky that he or she or it is big enough to encapsulate everything and every name we can come up with to call it. That’s the man behind the curtain, kids. Or the woman, or the fog, or the being that you blabber to when you’re feeling your spiritual oats. Here’s what I can tell you for suresies: you are all correct. There is one being there, fielding the whole game.