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.
“That not like anything we’ve seen before,” I say.
“No, and it doesn’t belong here,” Griffin replies. “Finding regeneration therapy morally offensive is not an environmental issue.”
“Who is he?”
“Fern Logos is his name.”
“I suppose he’s dead too?” I ask.
Griffin consults his scribe. “Yes. Around the same time as everyone else. This is odd, though. He was killed in an eco-terrorist attack. He seems to have been the target.” Griffin looks puzzled. “That doesn’t make sense, does it? The eco-terrorists didn’t kill people, and he wasn’t involved in anything they’d attack.”
“Well, there’s another mystery. It’s odd. I know I’ve heard something about regeneration therapy recently, but I can’t place it.”
Soon after Logos speaks, everyone who has spoken over the last few hours comes back out onto the stage as Eric Wong comes forward to stand before the prompter. I’ve seen him often enough now to recognize uneasiness in his manner. Something was troubling him.
“We call upon all governments to restrict the following types of technology,” he reads. “Any form of nanotechnology, biotechnology, genetic modification of any type including gene therapy, tissue, nerve, and bone regeneration research, any artificial intelligence research . . .”
“Stop,” I yell. “Stop the recording.”
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s why I remembered regeneration therapy. I’ve heard that list before. This morning, on RTLM, in the government announcement about registering people at the beginning of the technocaust.”
“Is that so surprising?”
“Yes! Griffin, the lists are identical. Come to the archives with me. Wait.” I get out my scribe. “Back it up, will you? I want to record this speech.”
In the archives, Griffin listens to both recordings. “You’re right. They’re identical.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know. The day’s just about over. Why don’t we see if the others have learned anything that can help us make sense of this?”
Leaving the archives, I almost walk into Hanif. I’m genuinely pleased. I haven’t seen him since the day he rescued me. I’m not even sure I thanked him.
“I was coming to get you,” he says. “We need to talk.”
He looks around. Job-seekers still line the hall. There’s no privacy here.
“We can finish up without you,” Griffin says. “I’ll send my notes to you immediately. You won’t miss a thing.”
I find myself walking toward my office with Hanif, trying not to wonder what unpleasant surprise he might have for me now. I suddenly remember something. “Can I ask where Spyker is?” I say as we turn into an empty hallway.
“Not specifically. She’s being educated. I hear she’s fine. Eventually, she can apply for a job in Security. We find homeless children are often adaptable and fearless. They’re good at the work if we catch them young enough. I’m always on the lookout for kids like that. It gives me some satisfaction to do for them what was once done for me.” We enter my office and close the door. “I came looking for you because someone wants to talk to you.”
“If it’s my father, I’m not ready.” I’ve been expecting this, maybe even waiting for it.
“Not your father,” he replies.
A surge of emotion catches me unawares. To my dismay, it’s disappointment. “Oh, who then?” I try to keep my feelings out of my voice.
“A reporter from The Solar Flare. She says she saw something about you.” Hanif raises one eyebrow. “On a holo-zine? She wants to interview you.”
This is the last thing I want. “But that’s not allowed, is it?”
“We’ve learned from experience that it’s unwise to refuse a specific request like this. If we do, The Solar Flare will accuse the Transitional Council of curtailing freedom of speech. People get very upset. We can’t afford that kind of attention. So, you have permission to give an interview, from Dr. Siegel himself.”
“I have permission to give an interview. Do I have permission to not give an interview?”
Hanif smiles. “No, Blake, you do not. We have to honour this request.”
“Will you come with me?”
He shakes his head. “My identity has to be protected from the media. In fact, if you were accompanied by anyone, the interviewer might portray that as an attempt to control what you could say.”
“So no one can come with me? Not even Erica?”
“Not even Erica. You’ll be briefed by a media officer tomorrow morning, to make sure you understand which areas of your work are confidential. Other than that, I’m afraid, you’re on your own.”