GUARDIAN RECORD: ARIANNA MAXWELL
SANCTUARY ONE, ALBANY CITY, NEW TRITON
478.3.4.02
TWO AND A HALF TEN-DAYS LATER
When I was young, I had not understood how love expands, that it was not a finite resource. Nor had I understood that victory was not merely in grand accomplishments, but in the small things, like answering to a new name or watching a child learn to laugh without fear. Then, I had but an inkling of how valuable it was to belong, to be known and to know as an intrinsic part of a whole, rather than merely fulfilling duty.
The Eldest, her Consortium, and citizens called our home Sanctuary, but with my friends—my family—and in my private logs, it was Sanctuary One. Truly, it should have been the second. Someday, perhaps, Pallas Station would be Sanctuary Two in more than name. Someday, I hoped, any Recorder who wished freedom could find it, not merely the children the Consortium itself had abandoned.
Max began the process of removing neural chips, and the Recorder-doctor stayed with us and assisted him, though it was unclear whether or not he stayed voluntarily or under threat of reclamation. Elinor Williams remained as well, and Yrsa Ramos promised to return once her service time ended in three quarters, though I had not expected her to do so. Elinor noted that Yrsa’s motivation might be selfish, as Daniel Parker served alongside Jackson, Quincy, and the other former marines who had become our security force.
Once Sanctuary One’s gates were repaired and the former marines armed, which local authorities did not appreciate, we moved our temporary infirmary back to the clinic. The injured former marine, Knox, had recovered, although he was still not steady enough to join our security team, so Cam’s tank was the only one we needed to relocated to the clinic. As Max and the Recorder-doctor removed the neural chips, however, more tanks burbled. Then, one by one, the children emerged, free from Consortium technology. Their hair began to grow in, and they chose names of their own.
While the majority of the children adapted easily enough, a few struggled. I understood. Though the omnipresent threat of reprimands had lifted, their change of status and restrictions was its own sort of cage. Adjustments were not always easy for me, either, although the quarters I shared with Nathaniel were already home.
Bustopher, of course, stayed with us and consistently claimed the most comfortable chair and any piece of Nate’s black clothing he left out. I had not realized how much a cat could shed, so two and a half ten-days after we became Sanctuary One, I went in search of a spare cleaning bot. I found a storage closet with several models and was debating which would best serve the purpose when my communications link chimed.
“Arianna?”
The use of my name still summoned a smile. “Yes, Tia?”
“Cam’s mother finally signed his medical care over to Sanctuary.” She huffed. “Since we don’t have a Recorder proper on site, you’ll need to head over to the Hall of Records to accept. I made an appointment for this evening, and Jackson, Quincy, and Hodges will be your security detail.”
I frowned. It was not that I resented my escort, since no one had seen Julian Ross and the Consortium was still under threat. Rather, my discontent was on Cam’s behalf. How could his mother turn away from her son?
Even so, I temporized. “She might have been waiting for the university to accept responsibility.”
“Well, that didn’t happen, either,” she stated. “It’s downright evil the way they shimmied out of the work-study contract. I’m almost glad they booted me.”
“Tia,” I began.
“Don’t get me wrong. I truly am grateful. If you hadn’t offered me a place here. I would’ve had to take a job in the belt, and I’m glad I won’t have to raise Zeta out in who knows where. But I’m also glad Alec and Zhen talked Eric into finishing up.”
I closed my eyes. “He was, indeed, angry.”
“Rightfully so.” Tia exhaled sharply. “He still is, just better at hiding it. So . . . second, Kye’s mom says preliminary results for the prototype are good. She wants you, James, and Daniel to stop by the lab later.”
“You must remind me.”
“I already set both alarms, so your ID bracelet will chime. Third, Jordan wanted you to know that we’ve had three more requests for ungifting and we’re running checks on the families. Fourth, I’ve already notified Quincy that the uniforms should be arriving this afternoon.” She chuckled. “I think that Clarissa might be more excited about the uniforms than anyone else.”
I could not help but smile. “Given the way she has repeatedly asked about their arrival, I am inclined to agree.”
“Which leads into the last point.” Her tone grew serious. “Clarissa wants to talk to you about one of the children who is playing hooky. I’ve already spoken with Quincy about it. They’re looking.”
“Very well,” I said and signed off.
Leaving the cleaning bot unclaimed, and having no idea what hooky might involve, I headed to Clarissa’s classroom to suggest additional controls in case it was a computer-based pastime, but when I arrived, she was distraught. One of the six-year-olds, the little one I had found in the Hall of Reclamation, had not returned after the midday meal. After reassuring Clarissa that Sanctuary’s gates were sealed but I would check the gardens myself, I made my way out-of-doors, taking my cane with me, should I need it.
Nate waved at me from the field where he was teaching the older children a wilder, rougher game than my cohort had ever been allowed to play. I waved back. They took advantage of his distraction and tackled him, and the entire group tumbled to the lawn in a flurry of shouts. Laughter rose and fell like music, as necessary to me now as the hum of circulation fans on a ship.
Swallowing the urge to remind them to be careful, I began my search, my steps more rapid and my limp intruding as the minutes passed without finding her. The little one disliked the smell of the greedy tilapia in their ponds, so it was unlikely that she sought refuge there. Refuge—
I turned and made my way to the brook where lavender and lilies whispered in the faint breeze. I had been correct, for there she sat on a rock, her arms wrapped around her legs as tightly as a drone’s tendrils.
“Little one.”
She startled and scrambled to her feet. Her eyes seemed too large for her tiny face, and her smile did not come as quickly as the other children’s. The errant thought again crossed my mind that perhaps we were too many, but there was not one I would give up.
Not a one.
I knelt before her, and the moss’s dampness seeped through my leggings. After a moment of hesitation, I brushed a smudge of dirt from her chin, then I held out my hand. She took it and raised her somber brown eyes to mine, and then, I knew exactly what to say.
“Have you ever made a boat?”