His father tensed, a tick jerking in his face. “Yes, like that. In the first years, Appalachia’s founders—First Cipher Aurelian LeCun’s father among them—got together to decide how the region would be run. Appalachia wasn’tas large then as it is now, but they wanted a government that wouldn’t make the mistakes of the past. They decided that an oligarchy of intellectuals made the most sense. Why allow an autocrat to hold absolute power or take a gamble on a democracy where idiots would elect other idiots to positions of power?”
His reasoning made sense to Soren. “Smart people with the good of the nation at heart should be in charge,” he agreed. “I just don’t get all the restrictive rules geared toward uniformity. People should be allowed to express themselves, to decide things like how they want to spend their lives or who to spend them with.”
“Unity is strength,” Adélard declared, “and order is the highest adaptation. In the founding years, many social codes were experimented with, but one group or another was always unhappy. We discovered that, without equity, citizens reverted to jealousy and theft. Without strict order, there was no peace. So, like with issues of survival in the aftermath of war, the founders asked the Oracle. It laid out the perfect plan to avoid the pitfalls that have plagued so many cultures through human history. By instilling regulations such as shared land and equipment in the communes and equal housing and rationing in the cities, we have minimized human tendencies toward greed.”
“But why all the drab colors? Why allow a machine to pick our mates and assign our careers?”
His father shook his head with a wry smile. “You ask these questions every year, and the answers don’t change. It’s a proven fact—the Oracle knows best. Look, son, on the outside, things are practical, purposeful—uniformity for the sake of unity—and unity is everything. But consider the inside of our apartment compared to your friends? Your mother decorates as she sees fit, with many colors. You have those cartoon character pajamas you still wear, though they’re halfway up your shins. The government hasn’t snuffed out individuality. Should people be allowed to pursue any career path they fancy? Should a man with marginal intelligence be allowed to practice medicine or design cutting-edge equipment just because he wants to? Or a woman with a two-hundred IQ be allowed to open a nursery because she loves flowers?”
Soren leaned his elbows on his knees and hung his head. He’d heard this all before, and it always made sense to his brain—but not his heart.
“What’s this really about, son? Is it because you’re soon to be matched with a wife?”
He swallowed in silence, unsure what to say. His fingertips tapped together, nerves crawling under his skin.I want to be with Nathan,he thought.But I can’t disappoint everyone.
Soren felt his father’s hand on his shoulder and glanced up, questions in his eyes.
“Do you think your mother and I haven’t noticed your tendencies? There’s no shame in being a sensitive soul or lacking athleticism. It’s natural to be curious, to have self-doubt, or wish to pursue forbidden passions. The matching ritual is in place for a critical reason.”
“I know. We have to repopulate,” he said. “Everyone is required to have children, unless they can’t.”
“That’s right.” His father patted his neck and removed his hand. “But no laws forbid you to seek pleasure outside your marriage. Many men who are, shall we say, more delicate, find satisfaction without forgoing their duty to marry and produce children. Your mother and I are solid—an unbreakable union. Despite that, we both have our … hobbies.” He shrugged.
“Are you saying you have other lovers?” Soren’s eyes widened, shock rippling through him at this revelation.
“You’re a young man now, soon to become a full-fledged adult. You might as well know the truth—but don’t tell your little sister,” he stipulated, finger pointed at Soren.
“I won’t!” He blinked, rendered speechless. As intelligent and astute as he was, accustomed to sneaking moments with Nathan, he would have never guessed.
“A marriage works when both parties are happy and satisfied, working together for a common goal. We don’t air our laundry in public, but, if you need sexual fulfillment elsewhere, it can always be arranged. Every man in Appalachiahas a wife, every woman, a husband. What else they do is nobody’s business but their own. Does that ease some of your fears?”
Soren couldn’t believe that his father knew without him ever coming out. There would have been no point, as everyone’s lives were so strictly structured. But if his father was to be believed, he still had a road to happiness. He and Nathan could marry their matches and still maintain their relationship on the side. He could paint in his free time and decorate his home anyway he liked. Pink slippers—just never outside.
Hope welled up, bursting across his face like spring sunlight. He couldn’t wait until tomorrow to meet Nathan and tell him the good news.
“Thanks, Father. It’s such a relief to not have to hide this side of me from you and Mother.”
Pinning him with a serious expression, his father warned, “You must still hide it from the rest of the world. Many citizens are not as understanding as I am. If you’re ever to hold a seat on the College of Ministers, you must uphold every appearance of conformity. Whenever a minister dies or becomes too infirm to perform his or her duties, a new Institute graduate, who has distinguished himself or herself in their field, is chosen to take their place, always keeping the number of oligarchs at twenty-one. It is the College of Oligarchs who vote for the First Cipher. It’s my hope that you take my seat one day. Nothing would make me prouder.”
Turbines whirred. The Core hummed. Soren’s heart thumped. He wanted to make his father proud. He wanted to please Nathan. But the constant looming fear that had shrouded him in a cloud of indecision for most of his life whispered in his mind’s ear.You can’t do both. Maybe neither.
Chapter twenty-two
Hearts at the Divide
Clover Hollow, the next day
Nathan’s flat-bottom boat, stacked with crates of berries, sacks of wool, and wheels of cheese, nosed against the dock northwest of Clover Hollow. The dock attendant signed the manifest, assuring him that the payment in exchange goods—and a few credits per family—would be ready to load when he returned.
He boarded the trolley, one of the few that rattled daily between the docks and inner city. Nathan took an empty seat, nerves chasing each other through his gut. He’d worn his best red-checked flannel shirt, untorn jeans, clean boots, and a splash of aftershave, determined to win Soren over to his plan.
As the electric car rumbled along its tracks, past thickets of trees and languid meadows, the metropolis of Clover Hollow spread at the foot of Core Mountain, a hive of concrete and glass, its angular blocks stacked with intent. The city was laid out in a perfect grid of neighborhoods, each with a school, unity supply house, and Unity House of Worship, factories confined to their zones, research labs to theirs, and centers of commerce nearest the Grand Mall and Unity Hall. Trolleys glided along the banks of Sinking Creek, while peace officers in yellow jumpsuits and black Kevlar vests patrolled on hovercycles, likegiant hornets. Soren had told him about the pre-war vehicles recharged each night by the mountain’s power source.
Cameras tracked every corner, and Ministry banners fluttered from light poles, their mottos glaring down on citizens in identical gray coats and sharp haircuts. Even shrubs were trimmed to exact angles. Every surface scrubbed to gleam. Horses and mules, regulated to outskirt stables. Even dogs marched leashed, their waste swiftly scooped. Posted signs read, “This month’s power hours: 6 to 9 a.m., 6 to 11 p.m. Trollies run from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. 11 p.m. curfew in effect.” Order reigned—clean lines, watchful eyes, logic as law, joy rationed.
Nathan hopped off the trolley, met by a wash of disapproving glares and practiced indifference. He smiled, glad to stand out in his bright clothes and unruly hair. But as he shifted through paved walkways of indistinguishable five-story buildings into the arts district, signs of life sprang up. A shock of orange in a teen’s mohawk, sunlight shattered through stained glass on a shop window, blooming flowers in place of box hedges, a girl with long, red hair pulled into a high ponytail—even the occasional smile.
Arriving at a building marked with a green shamrock, Nathan descended a few steps, entered through a basement door, and left the clack of the streetcars and hum of turbines behind. Watercolors, oils, and ink sketches crowded the room’s walls—riotous, overwhelming at a glance. A young woman on a stool strummed a guitar while other patrons reclined on cushions, reading books from one of many shelves. A whiff of fresh paint and the clink of mismatched mugs felt like freedom’s breath kissing his senses.
