Zada’s eyes widened. It was a voice she knew well, a voice that had celebrated her good fortunes and comforted her when things went wrong, coaxed her through writing her name for the first time and insisted that someday Zada was going to amount to something. Only two months ago, the owner of that voice had been deliriously happy when Zada had crashed into Buford and sparked her Heartsong. And this morning, she had braided Zada’s hair and assured her how delighted Zada would be with Buford, how clearly they were destined for each other.
“Morning,” said Sister Patience. “What’s all the commotion?”
“A pair of young fugitives,” Zada’s mother answered in her no-nonsense work cadence. “We just want to talk with them before they do anything rash.”
Daphne’s thumb stroked the back of Zada’s hand. Zada’s heart thumped hard in her chest. Her throat was impossibly dry, and she could feel a cough welling up. She swallowed.
“Of course,” said Sister Justice. “What do they look like?”
One of the other guards answered. “Two females, aged eighteen.One tall with short dark hair and brown eyes, likely in a suit. One shorter and stout with dark blond hair and gray eyes, wearing a wedding dress.”
“Well, the good news is they sound very distinctive,” Sister Patience replied. “If we see them, we will certainly let you know.”
Heavy booted footsteps approached the cart.
“Do you think they could have climbed in here when you weren’t looking?” asked the second guard.
Sister Patience snorted. “This cart barely carries us. We would absolutely notice if we were dragging along two stowaways.”
Zada swallowed again. The cough was still clawing up her throat. She eyed the crack in the basket, trying to judge how far they were from the ship and freedom. She could see her mother’s boots, which were a slightly smaller size than those belonging to the other guards with her. Zada had seen those boots countless times before, muddied and tossed aside in the entryway of her home.
A pause. A long pause. Zada watched the boots step closer. Then, through the crack, she saw the face of her mother. She’d crouched down to examine the cart. Zada stared at her mother, who stared back. There was no way her mother didn’t see her, no way she didn’t recognize her. The moment stretched so long that Zada stopped counting the seconds, was only aware of the sweat down her back and a prickling sensation in her hands. Any second now, her mother would speak, would open her mouth and turn Zada in. Her mother’s eye left her field of vision. This was it, thought Zada.
“All clear,” said her mother, and the cart rolled on.
The sisters’ ship bay was an echoing space underneath the community center, far enough underground that the lower part of the walls had been visibly hewn from piles of compressed trash.
“I can’t believe they tried to teach us that they built this city on a mountain,” said Daphne.
“A beacon of hope, lifted on high,” Zada quoted.
“And all along it was just a heap of garbage.”
In a way, it was the whole story of New Ionia. The mountain, the Founders, the miracle of the Core and the gift of Heartsong—enchanting stories made all the more appealing by the truth’s fundamental ugliness. Nobody wanted to live on a pile of trash. Nobody wanted to admit that a city governed by a set of powerful algorithms was a city asleep. Nobody wanted to face the hard task of choosing how to live your life.
That was the story of New Ionia, but it wasn’t their story. They hadn’t just uncovered corruption and lies. The truth was terrible, but it was also beautiful. It came in many forms: the sly cracking of a joke, the thrill of singing while standing shoulder to shoulder at an unsanctioned concert, the careful mercies of their school friends, the contours of Daphne’s smile and the feel of her lips against Zada’s.
“On the way out of here, could you tell me more about grotto rock?” asked Zada.
Daphne nodded. “Of course.”
“The ship’s ready to go,” said a novice hovering nearby. “We’ve packed you each a few changes of clothes and some other basic supplies. A few books that might be helpful, too. Some are on practical skills you’ll need.” He lowered his voice. “And a smattering of political theory from the privatecollection.”
Zada shivered in delight. She thought of the sheer volume of knowledge left to explore and felt almost dizzy. Not just politics, but stories, too. So many voices had been silenced for her, and now—maybe she could ask the nuns about some kind of book exchange.
“We even found a case for your triple cello,” said the novice, handing over an instrument case with a smile. “Sister Patience is ready for liftoff. You’ll be in the back, in the cargo hold.”
Zada and Daphne crossed the concrete floor toward the small, unassuming ship. At the door, Zada turned.
“What is it like out there?” she asked. “Do you happen to know?”
“It’s hard to describe,” said the novice.
“That bad?” said Daphne.
The novice smiled. “Not bad at all,” he said. “Just different. You’ll see.”
They climbed into the ship, shutting the door behind themselves. They climbed past the heaps of boxes and what Zada supposed was their own luggage.
