 
### JOSIAH THE REFORMER

By Jared Wallace Carter

Copyright 2013 Jared Wallace Carter

Smashwords Edition
CHAPTER 1

The bar and the General met every Tuesday night. It was here that he ordered his favorite brown ale and sat, watching people lie. The reason he enjoyed his time so immensely was because he could relax and be entertained, knowing that the lies he heard did not matter. He did not feel the need to correct anyone. They were petty and harmless.

There was a woman wearing gaudy jewelry around her neck and wrists, her age probably mid-forties, and she was talking to a handsome young man. Their discussion was heavily one-sided with the woman expounding upon her disappointment in and fear of her young butler who had become aggressively seductive toward her. It was not a typical tale, but the General had heard many women's conversations share the underlying motive of desperation.

The man in the frayed hat, the one with a week's worth of untrimmed, gray beard carrying a cane in one hand and a pint in the other just gave his entire inheritance to the local church. The General perceived that he was no church-going man. All too often people assumed that the church should be the worthy recipient in their tales. The General silently wished that the old man would have pretended to give his money to the nuclear weaponry fund. Even a donation to the mass migration process would have been more interesting. The church was boring and overdone.

The bartender denied several times of being a communist and philosopher after the ways of the infamous Englishman. His argument was always, "I own a bar for great's sake!" However, it was in that very bar, in the early hours of the morning that shouts of a secret meeting could be heard.

The beauty here was that no one was at war with anyone but himself. They were not traitors or terrorists or radicals. They were simple. On this night, the General sat at his back table and relaxed, knowing that lying was simply a way of humanity, and he need not try to stop it all. In fact, he found it rather amusing. Everyone in the bar was fooling and being fooled because they did not want to know anything different.

It was a near mile from Jack's office to the General's bar. No one was driving the roads, but he chose to walk the length despite the cold, dreary flurries. He knew of his friend's Tuesday night habits and decided to take him up on his offer to "drink intelligently together any time." It was a matter of confrontation. He knew the General more than most people claimed to. He knew of the man's ugly past, of his intellectual risings, of his micro-expression interests and the hobby it became. He also knew that, though the General would deny it, he remained strongly influenced by humanism and was quite narcissistic. However, he pretended very well not to be. It came as a product of his studies. Part of the reason the General respected Jack so much was because of his genuineness. "Give me five minutes of conversation with any man and I'll give you a liar. The only exception has been you." It was the only compliment Jack had ever held on to.

He strolled, hugging himself in his thick jacket, on the sidewalk which traveled through the park. Whenever he had a chance he would take this favorite route, glance at the two massive oak trees in the park's center, follow the four merging streams, and continue on by the fountains and down through the mall.

He reached the old bar door with no indication of its name or business. "If you don't know, you don't belong," the bartender said. As he opened the door, the heat from a blazing fireplace immediately rushed his face. He glanced around the front, the bar on his left, old wooden tables on his right, mostly seated and mostly talkative. He gave word to the barman, heard word from the barman, and took his drink to a lonely table in the back where the General was seated in the table's only chair.

Jack never saw much of his old friend those days. It might even be said that they were no longer friends, only acquaintances. Times had changed. Upon seeing the General, Jack thought it odd that he was not dressed in the usual serious attire of business. The man sat in a heavy flannel shirt, worn khaki pants, and an old pair of tan slippers. It was what a retired man wore while whittling, piecing a puzzle, or reading a book. And so it was what the General wore while enjoying his drink and sit.

"Well, there you are Jack. Glad you could make it. I hear you've been doing plenty fine."

"Yes, sir. Plenty enough," he said as he was about to take his seat.

"Let me get a handshake from you, Jack, before you sit. There it is. In fact, why don't you pull up a couple more chairs. I'm expecting some others to join us."

Jack did so and took his seat directly across from the General.

"I'm glad you took me up on my invitation, Jack, especially glad for tonight. But it has been a while. Do I need to remind you?"

Jack was a freelance journalist and was successful as one because he had the respect and trust of the most interesting man in the country, and often was the only journalistic soul allowed in official meetings and therefore had the monopoly on reporting the decisions and news of the migrations and colonies.

"No notepad, sir. Not a scratch of paper or a drop of ink. I come only as a friend."

"No doubt, no doubt." His words faded into a mumble as he returned his eyes to the drinking customers. His eyes swept the room and fixed upon a man who had just entered the door, letting in some of the snow from outside, and shaking off the rest as he continued to walk. If he had not the notion of knowing exactly where he was walking to, he looked to be lost. The thin-faced man was dressed in an expensive black suit with an obtrusive green tie. The only word present in Jack's mind was serpentine. And to the dismay of Jack, the serpentine man bypassed all others, ignored the bartender, and took a seat to his left.

The General introduced him. He was a high-staking entrepreneur, investor, first-class business man, and as recent, a successful lobbyist. No need to state that his neon tie was bought at a higher price than Jack's current attire. As he responded with "my pleasure," Jack watched to see if his tongue flicked. It didn't. Instead, his small mouth and quite normal tongue started a small-talk conversation about the stock market. He waved to the waitress, ordered a whiskey coffee, Jack his usual gin, and the General had another pint of ale.

Being caught up in the conversation which turned from the market to the writing styles of the Report, Jack was quite startled when he caught a glimpse of an elderly man directly over his shoulder. Even more to his surprise, the old man clapped his shoulder, shook his hand, and took his seat to the writer's right. He was a professor and Dean of Humanities at the University of the City. In the academic world he was a highly renowned theorist and was well argued in philosophical and ethical issues, although not everyone agreed that he had the right ideas about ethics. Perhaps the power of his arguments had as much to do with his fatherly tone as with his intellect and wit. He was twenty years passed retirement but still remained at his classroom home. He had said before that the perfect death would be to faint forever before his students with a meaningful yet unfinished sentence. He ordered red wine.

Whether this was a prior engagement of the other three, Jack did not know, but by the expression on the General's calm face, he knew that he wasn't intruding. In fact, the General was genuinely glad that he had made it to this particular discussion. He couldn't have planned it better.

The discussion began.

"To catch you up, Jack, we've been meeting quite frequently lately," a dull tired expression seemed to hide behind his pretense, "discussing the first three colonies. Their successes, failures, the philosophy of it all, and what not. The fact is that we pretty much agree on everything."

All knew that the General was a very powerful man, both in stature and in intellect, and much more in authority. Ever since he became the General, graduating from his top-rank at the Intellectual Force Agency, and had been seated head of the colonization movement, not many dared oppose the man. This, however, did no good. In fact, it proved much opposite. It was why he cherished his Tuesdays even more so than before. He was never opposed, never challenged, and always knew why. He winked at Jack.

"And now you have come on the perfect evening with inexplicable timing. For tonight, we talk about the fourth colony of which I believe to be the only colony you hold an interest in. Am I right, Jack?"

He grinned nervously as he caught on to the General's invitation. He did know about the fourth colony, and he very much meant to oppose it.

"I wouldn't say it's the only colony I care about, sir." It felt strange to call him sir, but it seemed to be owed to him nonetheless. "We have many of our people at those colonies. However, they are well-off. I would just say that I have a special interest in the fourth colony."

"If anybody knew what we do about the colony, who wouldn't have a special interest, eh?"

With a shuffled glance towards the green man who had just snidely spoken, he directed his attention toward the General to reply. He first, however, read the General's obvious expression and thought it best to address this thought.

"No one knows from me, sir." The General was then appeased and relaxed. "That's just it, though. I would assume most people would be extremely interested, and most likely the majority would have a sort of a fit over the matter!" He was already getting excited, too excited. The eyes of everyone at the table told him so. It had always been the case that he was excitable about the things he cared for most. It was what caused him to be a successful writer. He wrote with passion, convincing his readers to boldly answer what needed to be answered. However, he knew its danger all too well. In his excitement once before, he had made such an exclamation that had caused him to resign from his position in the Department of Ethics. Even though ironic, as crooked as his department was, he was still held to his word under oath, and he had broken that oath. He took a deep breath.

"It is this that brings up an exact curiosity of mine. If I can be frank with you General, and I believe I can, then let me ask you this. Why do we still have the fourth colony information classified when every bit of the fifth colony is public knowledge? Most people think the fifth colony is the fourth colony!"

The General took his time to answer. He took a sip from his ale and leaned forward on the table.

"I don't know why you're asking that question, Jack. You know the answer. People just don't quite understand what is best for them, and for others. If they knew the current situation with the fourth colony, you're quite right when you say that they would have a fit, but more so than a fit, but rather a moral dilemma." He then sat back in his chair, casual and relaxed. "So while people are arguing and debating over what should be and how it should be, then positive interests for the project falls, funding drops, and the future of colonization is delayed. And the future of colonization is the future of the people. This is the reason you are here, isn't it, Jack? You are the people. So the fourth must remain classified for now until it is successful." Jack knew the colony would never be successful, but he knew better than to say so. "And the fifth colony has well met the criteria for a successful and healthy colony, and may even end up more sustainable than the first, but we won't be able to agree or disagree with that for another ten years or so. Because of this, we had no reason to withhold information about the fifth, and, as we hoped, it has drawn negative curiosity away from the fourth and has transformed it into positive curiosity towards itself."

The General had finished his brief dissertation, drained the remaining ale from his mug, and motioned the waitress for another. The men to his left and right sat smugly in adoration of their idol.

Jack, on the other hand, was aggravated. The General seemed to be handling the colonists' happiness and freedom with a rather apathetic approach. After all, what the General had in mind was to imprison these people into their own homes and not even a place the people could consider a home at all. He referred to the colony as a project, and that is precisely the word he meant. It was an experiment. If this colony could be successful, then colonization could spread to more areas more quickly. No more looking for the perfect situation. Can colonies survive harsh realities? It was an important question in need of an answer, and therefore in need of an experiment. But all of this was simply swept under the rug with talk of funding and positive perception. This talk was kept up by the three until Jack could no longer hide.

"But, General, you must see what you are doing to the colonists is wrong."

The two strangers were taken aback and had quickly swung their eyes to Jack. The General still remained quite calm, but his face showed an expression of strength and sternness.

"Jack, I have this respect for you of a different sort than I do for most people, but I will withdraw it if you openly portray me as a man careless of his people. Let me let you in on something you have apparently missed. I do not create colonies to destroy people's lives. I create colonies to expand life so that it can experience a newness that has never been experienced before, and all this while knowing it as a regularity. That is my work. I do not create despair for people. And yes, certain actions were taken, deemed by you to be wrong, that have secured the safety of the happiness of the people. So, Jack, why do you call what I do wrong?"

Immediately, Jack regretted the particular phrasing of his accusation and of the interruption it caused. He was taken aback at the tone of the General who had apparently taken his question as a disrespectful attack. It was nothing of the sort. He tried to rephrase.

"General, please excuse me. I didn't mean that you are in the wrong, but that–"

"But that is precisely what you meant, Jack. So, let me say 'please' this time, and please get to your argument before you say more that you regret. I know your views on this matter, but not to a point. This is the very reason I am glad you have come, so that you can tell me that I am wrong, but do so with reason and not out of hot-headedness. Hot-headedness leads to hot arguments, and then these gentlemen here will get riled up. And we can't have that because then we will be worse along than if we had not gathered here at all, and you will probably leave us feeling quite ill with yourself. So please, continue and explain."

The General held Jack as an intellectual friend, "a man worth talking with," as he would say. Despite him thinking of Jack as a little naive in his views on "imaginary men" and morality, he respected Jack for arguing well on their behalf. So he ordered Jack another drink and motioned for him to continue.

"It's just that when you, or rather we, confine these people to the structure without letting them outside, it seems that we are trapping them without the hope of anything good, without beauty, and without freedom."

"I don't feel like I have to ask you, Jack, but apparently I do. Do you not realize that we cannot let them outside because it is dangerous?"

"I know all about it, sir, but what about the dusk or the dawn? Can they not enjoy themselves, even then?"

"Sorry to intrude, but I feel I have a question for you, young man, before you continue on. I feel it to be quite important." It was the first time that the old professor addressed him. "What do you mean by 'enjoy'?"

"Excuse me," he replied only because it was all he could reply. He unconsciously assumed that all knew the meaning of enjoy very well, for it was very often used.

"What do you mean in saying the word 'enjoy'?" The professor rephrased the question, but the rephrasing had no different meaning than the original question. However, he then realized that the professor knew the definition of enjoy, of course, but it was not the definition that was in the question but the philosophy of it, the essence of the meaning he had used.

"I quite agree with the professor, Jack." Once again, the General took over the discussion. The professor beamed with even more pride than before, revealing that his smile lacked a couple of teeth. "I feel you have a manipulated sense of joy. What makes you think that being free in the twilight will be joy rather than pain, or satisfaction rather than unfulfillment? For what good is it to know that something exists but never being able to see it in its fullness and perfection? Why would you only let them see the birth and death of a day without seeing the life of it?"

"I'm no philosopher, General, but rather straightforward. What I'm trying to say is that the people would be happier if they could see the nature even just part of the day rather than being trapped the entirety of their lives. It just doesn't seem right."

"Through your eyes, Jack, they are trapped, but only through your eyes. They see life as they only can, the way that they know it. If I was one of these people, and I was able to see the birth of the day, I would strive to see its life, just as I would see that my newborn son would grow through life. I realize that you have no children of your own, Jack, but let's just imagine that you had a son and were only allowed to see his birth and death. Is that happiness? Would you enjoy that? If I know you at all, Jack, you would be tortured by this and would desire to see your son live. It is because of this yearning that they cannot see it at all. Because if they never see it, then they will never miss it. You know it's often said that you don't know what you've missed, but I say if you don't know then you haven't missed anything at all, and if they get just a glimpse as you are suggesting, that will drive them mad, mad enough to rebel against the limits of the dusk and dawn which will lead them to experience the unkindly strength of the sun."

Even though the discussion continued and he still fought for the rights of the colonists, his words were weak because he was convinced that the General was right, and not only just right but perfectly right in the sense that if anything differed in the slightest it would be wrong. He washed his failure down with his remaining drink. He was only talking because it was his duty, not because he was trying to change anything. So he meandered through his meaningless questions and responses and came to a silent, unknown agreement, although not unknown to the General, that the colonists should be trapped in their own isolated lives and minds. It would serve the best for the well-being of the people. The conversation then turned to more light-hearted philosophy of which Jack remained mostly silent. For him, the night slowly drew to a close. Finally the waitress collected the often-filled mugs and glasses and cleared their wooden table. As they rose, Jack addressed an issue that had been plaguing his mind for the past dizzying hour.

"There is one more thing, General, that I'm worried about. The people there now, in the fourth colony, well, they are from here. They have experienced daylight to the fullest and through all of their lives. You can't take that away from them. And because they will remember life here, they will hate life there. Although the future colonists may be free in the entrapment, the first generation will see that the day is being withheld and that they are stuck for the rest of their lives in a dark dungeon, however elaborate that dungeon might be. They didn't have a choice. They didn't know where they were going or what they were getting into. They were blindly led into this captivity. How will you address that?"

"I'm glad you asked that, Jack, and I would have been disappointed in you if you hadn't, but I'm sorry to inform you that I cannot give you the details of the solution. Just know that it's being taken care of by the Captain and his team."

"That's a pretty big issue, General, and you're really saying that's all that you can tell me?"

"That's all that I will tell you, and let's leave it at that. Have a good night."

And the four men walked outside.

\---

Before the colony was ever discussed openly, it had to be planned in the quiet. There were few who ever knew all the details of the fourth colony. For most, including the architect, they saw the colony in dim light.

The elderly architect had had his hand in the development of another colony, but that was years ago. Since then, his hand had become plagued with severe arthritis and could not even grip a pencil to write his name, let alone draw out drafts or blueprints. However, there was not another man that the General could trust with the assignment. So if there was no one else, the General would also have to trust the elderly architect's amanuensis who happened to be the architect's own son. In the General's experience, although a creative and mathematical mind may be genetic, trust is not. A man is born with a blank slate. Scoundrels can be raised by saints and saints by scoundrels. But in this case he had no choice. The son was the right hand to his father. Everything the father described, the son understood. He was a prodigy, but he was also a wasted prodigy. All he did was draw line by line, curve by curve as was dictated by his father. There was not a single mark on that paper that was of the son's own origin.

They had their own elaborate system in developing plans. Instead of pinpointing by his crooked hand, he would pinpoint by mouth, identifying points on his patented grid paper. The son who had worked for so long with his father knew what to do when certain instructions were given. Slide, corner, grin, bridge, veer, line, stag, kiss, level, etc. Mathematical art is what the young man called it. The father simply called it work.

These were the requirements given. The colony must be contained in one structure or all structures must be linked with indoor connections. The structure must harness available energy. It must meet the specified size and area to contain residencies, hospitals, laboratories, employment facilities, etc. The layout must be complex enough to hinder exploration while at the same time hinder boredom. A strange requirement. But what struck the architect strangest of all was the elaborate fire prevention and extinguishing requirement yet a very specific requirement of only a limited number of exits and those to be unnoticeable. Considering the size and population, it didn't calculate correctly, not even close. However, it didn't much matter. The requirements were highly classified as would be his own blueprints, and there would be no second guessing the General and no second opinions allowed.

The two artists worked together for long hours scrapping many works that would have been considered suitable. The old man detested suitable. He came across many suitable designs in his life. Does it work? Yes, it serves its purpose. But is it beautiful? Is it practical to the utmost? No. No it's not. So scrap it and start over.

The colony took on a dome shape with exits at North, South, East, and West. Only four. And unnoticeable. An inner wall allowed a buffer of ten feet between itself and the outer wall. It was then quartered to be used efficiently in whatever space may be used in each. The inner wall would contain four entrances per quarter at equal distances. Firm walls ran from the inner wall to the center without any openings until it met a circular center which would be further designed into the social center. Each quarter would climb four levels and fall two.

It was this work that brought the two to a meeting with the General at their own working space. "Always better to work where you work best," he said over the phone, "if that's alright with you." Of course, the architect wouldn't refuse this man's wishes, and so the General was invited over to the old man's own house where he had his office in what was once a spare study.

The General stood at the door. He held his breath for a moment only to get a sense of relief upon his release. The bothersome troubles of the tens of meetings were piling upon his back and creating such a burden. None lately were progressive.

He knocked. The door was open. Greetings were given. Quickly to the point, the business began after coffee was offered and denied.

The General wore his professional attire and spoke with a professional air, representing the authority he knew the elder to hold for him.

"I don't quite know if you understand the importance of this colony. I realize that the guidelines that I gave you may have been strange, but this colony is also a little different than the others. I hope that I'm not offending you in withholding some of this information. It is still highly classified."

The General could care less if the classification offended the architect. It would always remain classified no matter how offensive it may be. It was only that the man was his elder, and for that reason he held up this pretense.

"Not in the least, sir. You are in such a position to do so. In fact, nothing else was necessary to accomplish this task. Consider me a mathematician that only needs an equation to solve. Are you sure you would not like something to drink?"

"It won't be necessary. Have you the plans ready?"

"Of course." The old man led him into his room of work. He had already prepared for the General's visit. The room's walls were plastered with photographs of the great built feats of the ages. A large window lit the room with soft sunlight and looked out upon his garden. It was in that garden that his hands found their only activity. Carved models of his previous projects sat upon tables and stands. In the center stood a large easel holding his current plans but hidden by a draping, tan sheet. A single, deep red mahogany chair sat before the easel as if a throne for the General.

Instead of taking his seat, he peered at the plastered photographs and was immediately startled at what he saw.

"Is this the Parthenon? And the Taj Mahal!"

"I believe it is, sir, though I must confess to knowing very little about them."

"I have not seen this in another man's possession in all my life. They are absolutely beautiful."

"That's the only thing I truly know of them. And that there are no more architects that can accomplish such beauty."

He had the General's full attention. A man with such history in his house must be a man of greatness. Even if he knew so little, at least he knew.

"May I take you up on that coffee?"

He took it with three spoons of sugar and no cream. As the General sat in his red throne, the architect withdrew the sheet in a quick, sweeping motion. There stood, in detail, the fourth colony.

"I thought it the most natural thing to make it a dome. It gives the layout a circular shape in which allows us a good bit of playing room as far as the complexity of the layout goes. The idea of multiple buildings with connectors seems pointless and might even lead to some curiosity, and as I can understand, curiosity must be downplayed. The hallways and wings will cause the separation needed and depending on the details of these halls will at least hinder boredom in the colony. However, it's only a matter of time before the people start exploring sections unless actions on your part are taken, whatever those actions may be."

The colony was lined almost like a maze, hallways leading to hallways leading to doorways and rooms. However, it was organized and focused. It was simple enough as to not lead to confusion. It was very well planned.

"Also, it is perfect for energy and considering the uniqueness of the colony and based on what you informed me, I figured that the energy source would be quite obvious to you. And so the exterior is lined accordingly.

"Another thing is this; you said that it must not lead to exploration. If that is the case, then I believe your colony should be focused on the social life. This isn't technically my field of expertise, but if you're asking for my opinions then please take this as well."

He pointed to the very inner circle.

"This is the social area or the common area or whatever you want to call it. It should draw the people away from the edges to the center to stifle exploration and to fulfill boredom. It's the only place to be a part of the people as a whole. This is your social area, your entertainment area, the area that keeps them focused. It should be in the very center of everything."

The General couldn't suppress his grin. He was very pleased. After so many failed and disappointing discussions and meetings, something was finally right. Something was finally working. The colony was finally progressing. He sat happily, contemplating the intelligent design and sipped his coffee going over every minute detail of the great architecture's masterpiece.

"The only regret I have about this is that I cannot tell the world about this. It's history. It's your Parthenon. However, it has to remain silent. And we must be content to know between ourselves that no one could have done better."

The old man broke into a large yellow grin.

"Thank you, thank you! I don't care for the fame. I don't know who built the great feats, I only wish to see them. Would it be possible, sir, if I'm still alive, to visit the colony once it has been built?"

"On my word, you can."

He knew the architect would die before the chance came to fulfill the promise. He knew his words were empty. In fact, the old man died the next month while tending to his garden.

# CHAPTER 2

The people went into the transporting ship in pairs with a specific number identifying their seats. It was as if they were simply flying across country, only this time they were traveling to another world and their seats resembled a sort of vertically standing glass coffin.

An IFA man was among the migrators. He had a handsome face and a strong build, both made more apparent by his confidence and his military uniform. He had always known he had a gift of charm and flattery. The difference, though, between him and others was that he knew how to be, what he called, complexly charming. Those he charmed weren't even aware of his efforts. They only knew they liked having him around and that he always proved himself intelligent and useful. However, he also knew those he couldn't fool, and so he never tried. The General was one of those people. The General had witnessed this persuasive talent in action as he oversaw a mission of the IFA man in an effort to gain information from an active and notorious anarchist group. He then made note of this in order to use it as he saw fit in the future. It was because of this gift that the IFA man was traveling to the colony, assigned to a peculiar position. He gladly accepted.

The nurses, those who would tend to the passengers during the length of the flight, seemed to flock to this man as he came onto the ship. In fact, they would hover around him for the majority of the flight as he slept. For him and his fellow travelers, it would only seem an overnight trip, but for the nurses and attendants, it was always a very long three months.

The glass coffins were lined up as circles within circles, the most outer circle lining the edge of the ship and the most inner circle holding only a handful. Each circle would have coffins on the inside and outside so as to have every person in each coffin facing another. Those across from each other tended to be of opposite genders, male and female. The nurses never knew if this was by design or by chance.

The job was not demanding. In fact, it was viewed by most to be quite boring. The ship was fully closed and so there was no opportunity to peer out into space and watch the systems turn and the planets rise. They simply tended to their patients, their 'term of duty' as they called it. Three months there, three months back.

There were three things to make sure of: food, hydration, and muscle stimulus. Food and hydration were taken care of automatically through tubes. They simply had to monitor them on the screen and adjust as they saw fit. Muscle stimulus on the other hand was done manually. Each person received ten surges each time. Only on this flight, in one particular section, there was an exception. The handsome IFA man, by specific order, was to receive double the amount of surges every time.

The misinformed travelers walked to their assigned cases and, as they were instructed beforehand, stood back against the wall, hands by their side, and feet firmly placed in the plates on the floor. They were then injected to induce a light coma, and they slept as they stood. Since the coma happened so quickly, it also had a bizarre effect on the people's faces. It seemed to have frozen whatever expression they had lastly held. Whatever they felt at that last second, they seemingly felt for the remaining months. It was this that led the nurses to their favorite past-time aboard ship.

"So you see this guy here, the one who's going to get the double dose," a veteran nurse who was then on her tenth voyage, but not all to this particular place, explained to a young, pretty novice nurse how she kept herself amused all these years, "well, let's say he's been away at war for a long time. Now he is finally returning home to his wife. However! Along the way, he meets this little cutie." She points to a rather attractive brunette female patient facing the uniformed man. "It happens that he seldom received many letters from home. Not that his wife never wrote, you see, they mostly got lost in the mail. But he thinks perhaps that his wife has been unfaithful. He convinces himself that he has an excuse, and what would you know, he has a fling."

"Oh-!"

"Hold it. I wasn't finished. You see, this guy right here," a strong, muscular patient in his mid-forties, "he is her boyfriend. No, wait. Let's make him the brother. So her brother finds out about this affair, for she was already promised to another man being one of those arranged marriages, but being the scoundrel he is - he looks like a scoundrel, doesn't he - bribes his sister with the knowledge he gains by uncovering the woman's affair. Then he uses that money to buy something nice for her," she walks to a very feminine and petite woman of about thirty years, standing to the strong man's left, "his prostitute wife!"

"Oh, stop it!" The nurse had said it out of pretended shock, but she was actually a little intrigued and would have been disappointed if the woman had actually stopped her ad-libbed drama. The woman simply ignored her.

"But you have to admit it though, don't you?"

"Admit what?"

"That the brother is being quite the hypocrite with a prostitute wife!"

"Oh, that's disgusting." But it was true. She had to admit that.

"Don't rule it out though."

"Rule what out? That the soldier murders the brother?" She meant it sarcastically, but the storytelling nurse actually considered the possibility.

"Interesting but no. The soldier falls in love with the prostitute wife after a night with her. She wanted anything else to be with the man she was with. He was a little abusive after all. The two ran away together. But only to be found and murdered by his first fling."

"Gross!" She glanced back at her characters.

"Well, he never loved the first one, though she did love him. In fact, he was her first love. He did in fact love the prostitute. It just goes to show, though, doesn't it?" It was as if the old nurse actually believed the stories she told. Perhaps she did. Once they had awoken, she never seemed to be polite to those whose characters were cruel or wicked. She even eyed some of them with intense suspicion.

"Sorry you had to die. You are quite handsome." She walked up to him to speak to him face to face, and she whispered, "But you kind of had it coming with all the sleeping around and all. What about their names?" She spoke to the other nurse while still looking deeply into the man's face.

"It's your story."

As the trip continued and the months passed by, the nameless man became a spy, a traitor general, a courageous navy man, a prisoner of war, and a sly impersonator, having countless affairs, murdering, being murdered, a scoundrel, a hero, while always remaining a man in a glass coffin.

The unloading took three days. People were awoken in shifts. The military man unshipped in the first shift, the first one on the new planet. They exited the ship just as they entered, only this time severely dazed and weakened. The military man, however, still walked strongly, the double treatments making all the difference. As he left, the nurse who had spent the most time with him looked at him longingly and curiously. She realized that she knew very little of him. She knew his name, his military status, and his handsome face but nothing else. If she had known, she would have realized how shallow her fictional tragedies compared to the man's actual past. He never had a mistress. He never had an affair. He never had any other romance other than with his wife. His wife never left him. His wife was never unfaithful. And his wife was never murdered, though that was not quite true in his own eyes.

In the world he left behind, his wife died three years before. She was elegant and beautiful. She was intelligent and resourceful. She was sweet and outgoing. She was happily pregnant with their future daughter, who no doubt would have been more beautiful than his beautiful wife. But his daughter was never born. His wife was a researcher of the reservations, observing and intermingling with the desert savages. He had always been wary of "those unpredictable people," but even they mourned her death. On what would have been her last visit to the desert until their daughter was born, her vehicle broke down twenty miles before reaching the village. She was ill prepared. She had no water or any means of communication. She had no hope but to walk to the village and stay until help arrived. She died of dehydration and exhaustion in sight of the village well.

Perhaps this was why he gladly took the job. Perhaps this was even why the General personally offered him the job. He was stationed on a planet with no sun, and he had always been fully aware of that fact. Ever since her death, he never wanted anything but overcast. It was impossible to hate the sun. No one ever hated the sun. He did. He hated clear days and could never look up without his gut being torn. Fifty feet away and the sun still burned down on her. It had no mercy, not even for his daughter. And after her death, without any remorse, the sun continued to shine. No mercy. No help. Just heat.

A large, towering man in a military uniform much different stood in sight as he stepped into a new world. By the looks of this world, they all might as well have been shipped to a facility within sight of their old home. Nothing seemed drastically different. Nothing ever would. The man in waiting was wearing a colony uniform, but even when he lived "back there" he had worn still a different uniform. The nurses had no way of knowing that their handsome passenger had never fought in a war per se. He had never killed a man, he had never fired upon anyone, and he never had a need to return home. He was an IFA man which meant he fought against the homeland's terrorists and anarchists. He was, essentially, a spy and an interrogator. His force was intelligence, not strength. His bravery was not shown at the front lines but at the poker table, which can prove to be equally as deadly if ever he was found out. Being still alive proved his success. In the IFA size meant very little and proved nothing, although if given the chance he felt confident that he would be able to hold his own.

The towering man who greeted him had indeed been to war and had returned home without his left leg from the knee down.

"You're walking well already. Much better than I did when I first got here. And much, much better than they are."

The grin that held his face throughout the greeting turned into a chuckle. The first of the new colonists stepped onto solid ground were walking as if they were toddlers just learning. They wobbled and stumbled, bumping into each other and causing each other to fall which led to a large pile-up. As they tried to stand back up, they held their weight against each other or slowly climbed the walls until they reached their feet. The military man's face gleamed with amusement.

"Why am I so much better off?"

"Because you got the double dose. Twice the muscle stimulus means twice the strength."

"Why not just do that with the rest?"

He leaned in a bit closer and replied in a hushed voice.

"It's all part of the plan, rookie. It'll take some time for them to get into decent shape again. It's not allowed for them to go outside of the colony before they are in approved shape, and before they are in that approved shape, it so happens that a severe storm damages the gates and they sit unable to open and await their repair."

"And that will be enough?"

"The Captain seems to think so."

So he was one of those, he thought. He always tried to stay away from stereotypes. Underestimation was a reoccurring flaw in his field. But he couldn't help think of this man as just a brute who obeyed orders. He was a henchman.

"This story that he came up with can only last for so long, don't you think. The people are not dumb. It's possible that they may catch on to this, and what then?"

"One thing you need to learn, rookie, if you're gonna be a part of this, is that we follow orders." Just as he thought. "We don't make 'em, and we also don't carry 'em out by ourselves. It's not up to us to create a process. We don't just make up stuff because we want to, and we think we can. This is an organized action. It's not like every man does his own thing, what he thinks is best, to try to drive these people out of their mind."

"So this Captain and his idea, if it's supposed to be so grand, what is it and how does it work?"

"I'm not so sure I could really explain it to you. Although I understand it to the tee, I'm not the one to ask about it. You are to report to the Captain. So if you would, follow me and I will lead you to him. Afterward, I will give you the tour and explain to you your duties."

The man walked briskly, leading the rookie to the office of the Captain. As the rookie followed, he tried to catch the layout of the colony. The large man kept silent. He was a man of few words who couldn't care less for small chat. So instead of keeping a forced conversation going, the rookie attempted to take everything in. They traveled the hall leading straight from the gate to the center, passing hall after hall. After passing a lengthy section of a smooth, bronze-plated wall that grabbed the rookie's attention, they reached the large common room. They passed through, reached the other side, turned right down a hall immediately afterward and stopped by a great elevator, much larger than anyone he had ever seen, and there were four of these elevators, side by side and across from one another. However, they did not enter it. Instead, they stood in front of a fifth elevator, much smaller and only could be opened with a key. The door slid open as the military man punched in the numbers into the electronic pad. They stepped in and traveled upward to the fifth floor. The rookie would find that the other elevators had no such option.

The rookie made his way to the Captain's lobby alone. He had already assessed that this man must be similar to the General and he should not attempt the use of any flattery. The secretary, a very beautiful lady dressed in red, had eyed him curiously ever since he had stepped from the elevator. She was quite different than any of the other women working for the colony, most who were military. She was definitely not military. In fact, it seemed to him that she was simply a friend who had just come along to keep the Captain company. Perhaps the Captain played favorites after all.

"May I help you, sir?" An unexpected soft, almost motherly voice accompanied the pleasant figure. But up close, he noticed that she was attractive in a strange way, and yet the next moment with a different facial expression, she became rather unapproachable. He could never determine if she was altogether beautiful or off-putting.

"Yes, ma'am. I am an IFA officer. I've just arrived on the ship. Here are my papers from the General, himself. And it is my understanding that I am to speak with the Captain."

"The General, himself, you say. It's an honor to even handle his papers." This caught him by surprise. Had she just spoken sarcastically of the General? But she had said it in such a tone of kindness that he had trouble distinguishing her voice just as he had her looks. "However, the Captain is not in at the moment. If you would like, you can set up an appointment, and we will get back to you. Just fill this out, giving your name, rank, and call number, and we'll let you know a specific time whenever the Captain is available."

"I was told to meet with him as soon as possible."

"I know you must meet with him, but the ship was not as punctual as we had hoped, and you missed your appointment today by three hours." Was that sarcasm? "However, I believe the Captain will be back within two hours. So if you would please leave your information, you will be contacted when he is available."

The more she spoke and the more he listened and looked upon the secretary, the more frustrated he became. He didn't even know why. He didn't often get frustrated, and she was simply doing her job. In the short span of their discussion, she had been physically attractive and hideous, as well as vocally kind and bitter. All had been paired with each other in that short time.

"Of course, dear. Take a seat, make yourself comfortable, and there are a few magazines for your choosing on the table."

As quickly as he was frustrated, he was put at ease. Attractive and kind, he thought. The couch he had sat in was quite comfortable, and just as she had said, three magazines were spread on the table: The People's Life, Family Encouragement, and The Comedy Volume. Picking up what seemed to be the most legitimate option, he began to skim the articles of the People's Life. He had never been a reader of common magazines and was at that time reminded why. Most of the articles were vague, useless, and only seemed to fill the empty spaces of the magazine pages. Page eight: Be Wise With Your Time. Page twenty-one: Neighborly Nuances. Page fifty-eight: Making Your House a Home. Skimming through the latter article, he found more vague and idle writing.

" _A big move can be different and difficult for many, but if you were to make the right adjustments to your current living space, the place where you live can become the place that you love."_

But soon after, his eye caught a line printed in bold.

" _In order for you to be happy where you are, you need to forget where you came from."_

Interesting, he thought, very interesting. He continued to read a bit more carefully.

" _When you compare a new place to what you consider home, then the place where you are currently cannot become home. In a sense, you cannot have two homes at once. If you still consider where you lived in the past home, you will not be happy in the house that you are living in now. So how do you change your house into a home? By changing your perspective."_

He was astounded and very impressed. He had been exposed to propaganda and subliminal works before. He had even helped create such works. It made perfect sense for them to be displayed here. After all, this was the perfect setting for it.

"It's very impressive!" He had said it so loud and so abruptly that he had startled the odd secretary.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"The articles. They're already being introduced to it."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you are talking about."

"The magazines. They are brilliant. 'You need to forget where you came from.' It's genius. Have you read them? I think they'll fall for it. In fact, I know they will, especially in the state they are now. The whole thing is perfect."

"Again, I do not know what you mean." She seemed to be scolding him. Attractive and bitter. "I would dare say that you should not let your opinions slip so easily, if you understand me correctly, even in such an empty place as this."

"Of course, of course. I've forgotten myself. It just took me off guard. It's done so well."

His sentence faded into a mumble, and he began to mumble to himself, disregarding the scornful secretary. He had underestimated the Captain and the underlying of the plan. He eagerly read through the other magazines. He picked up Family Encouragement whose writings seemed even more watered down than the previous one. There were only a few statements that he read that seemed to be purposeful. Several statements encouraged good morale and work ethics. Motivation would be needed for the people to work, better motivation than collecting currency. One in particular grabbed his attention because, although it was subliminal, it seemed quite pointless.

" _The family is a group of providers, providing for each other to show love and gratitude."_

The problem with it, he thought, was that there were not many strong families in the colony. Many were single, and many were unmarried. It was an ironic statistic that the divorce rate was steadily decreasing in the motherland. The decrease, however, was not due to a sense of morals but rather a lack of commitment. Divorce wasn't happening simply because marriage wasn't happening. The cons of commitment outweighed the pros. He found it even more ironic that the couples would make the commitment to move together to a different planet before they would commit to marry one another. There always had to seem to be a way out, a comfort in knowing that this might not have to be the way things will end. That was their family. So before the family could be used for motivation, the family needed to be created. Perhaps the Captain knew that as well. He continued to read, but most of the words were wasted space, just something to read without giving the reader any sustenance. In the midst of this wasted space, though, were perfect statements which would seem to be nothing to the common reader but would float around in their mind until it would anchor itself into an idea, the Captain's idea.

He was ushered into the Captain's office after the two hours had passed. The secretary led him and had bid him farewell with a grin that offset her face. Hideous and kind. The door opened to an immaculate office, quite different than any officer's office he had ever seen. It was a scholar's study. It was a librarian's library. It was an explorer's trophy room. Books filled the room's many shelves. Globes spun where they sat on the desk. Maps, paintings, and artifacts filled all empty spaces. On the wall in direct eyesight upon entering the office, as a centerpiece of the room, was mounted the enormous head of a lion.

The Captain stood with his back to the rookie. He was a rather tall man, equivalent in muscle, with a military cut. He wore the colony uniform, but his was more elegant than the others, well fitted, and he deemed it necessary to wear a purple and satin beret which he wore quite handsomely.

"You must be our new rookie." He spoke with his back still turned against him.

"Yes, sir. My name is -"

"Do you know what it takes to convince someone that what has been real his entire life isn't real at all?" The Captain spoke thoughtfully, disregarding the rookie's attempt at an introduction. But the Captain still faced the lion as though talking to it instead.

"No, sir." The rookie was taken aback at the Captain's rudeness.

"It takes time." At this, the Captain turned about and faced his new arrival. It was strange to the rookie that the man looked to be much older than he had expected by his stature from behind. The man had aged above his years. His face showed deep wrinkles, faded color, and shriveled lips. It was his eyes that were contradictory. They showed youth. They showed brilliance and eagerness. It was as if through his whole life he had been anxious and stressed, but for the first time he was happy, content, and excited. The rookie could never grasp any idea of the Captain's true age. He then realized how much time he spent observing the man's features. He then quickly responded.

"Yes, sir. I imagine it must take a good bit of time to do this. The mind is a strong thing and memories aren't easily altered. How much time would you say, sir?"

A grin of cleverness crossed the Captain's face.

"No, no, my fellow. It's not about how much time. It's a matter of how we use it."

"I don't quite understand, sir."

"We can control time, rookie." He said it so matter-of-factly and paused as if to let the idea sink. "Think about it. There are no other clocks besides ours, no other way to determine the time. We can manipulate the second by changing its very definition. Our second doesn't have to be a specific length." He sensed the rookie's growing confusion which was not difficult to do as the rookie's expression obviously gave him away. "Do you know how long a second is, rookie?"

"Well, yes sir, I do." Doesn't everybody?

"Then let's hear it."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Come over to the desk. Give it two taps, one to start the second and another to end it to test to see if you really know how long a second is."

Two taps were given.

"Are you sure that's a second?"

"Not entirely, but I think that was fairly accurate."

"What if I were to tell you that a second is just slightly longer than what you just gave me?"

"Well, sir, I guess I could've cut it a little shorter than it was supposed to be."

"Exactly, rookie. Don't you see? Nobody knows how long a second is. What you just gave me was very well near a second, but nobody knows exactly how long a second is without a clock. If someone told you that a second was actually longer than you think and that the clock agreed with him, you would believe it without thinking twice, rookie. If someone said the same thing in the opposite effect, that a second was actually shorter, who would doubt it as long as the clock proved it was just so? It's absolutely perfect, rookie. Can you imagine it? Two seconds, two different seconds, that is, a long one and a short one. During the day we will lengthen the seconds just a bit which in turn will make the hour longer which will make the working day a good bit longer but still lasting the same amount of 'time' as it did before, the same amount of 'time'. And when they sleep, we will shorten the second, which gives them less sleep in the same amount of 'time'. Are you finally getting the picture, rookie? More work and less sleep without them realizing it. I can just hear it now. 'Doesn't it seem like today's just going by really slow to you?' 'It doesn't seem like I got much sleep at all.' And they'll get tired, rookie, unexplainably tired. And that is precisely what we want. We want them to get so tired that they are hallucinating. That's when we get them. That's when we tell them that there is nothing else but here and now."

At that moment, he looked much younger than before. His eyes were still lit up and his face shined with a youthful expression.

It was truly a masterpiece of simple intelligence. No one would ever think of it because no one would question something so simple. No one second guesses time. He was a man of genius. The complexity and the challenge of the colony excited him. It was never the love for the people or even the duty for the motherland that brought him to the colony. It was the impossibility. "It's the equivalent of convincing them there is no tomorrow," the General told him. This was the closest the Captain had ever come to using his full potential. And he strove. The slightly eccentric Captain became the only man to convince an entire world that there was no tomorrow.

"You see, Rookie, we here are rebels but not the nonsensical Confederates or those fruity utopianists -" The Captain held a contemplative look on his face, grabbed a nearby notepad and wrote the word 'fruity' on the end of an already written list. "I like to consider myself as a second George Washington."

"Who, sir?" He hadn't followed what seemed to be a sudden change of conversation. To add to his confusion, he had never heard of the name mentioned. A look of disappointment swept the Captain's face.

"I figured as much. Even an IFA man has lost his sense of history. What is that phrase they teach you, the rule of three?"

"When there is no other explanation, find three, sir."

"Oh, come. Please entertain me and speak the original line."

A little embarrassed, he continued. "With nothing to explain, find three again."

"You even speak it like that townie that coined it, rhyming explain and again." The Captain became slightly giddy. "You're not a townie, are you, Rookie?"

"No, sir."

"Very well." He then addressed him with a more serious tone. "If you ever want to be a man of any importance you need to know your history. But with you, it may not even matter in the end, because, rookie," he severely emphasized because, "you may be with us, but you are no rebel."

Again, the rookie's confused expression betrayed him. He knew little of rebels and nothing of the history the Captain implied. Without knowing why, he felt insulted that the Captain so quickly decided that he was "no rebel." He wanted to respond but simply had nothing to say. Instead, the Captain continued.

"Imagine that the colonists are the loyalists, loyal to everything they ever have ever known and experienced. And who better to be loyalists than them. They are perfect for it because they don't even realize there is a need for a rebellion. To them there is no problem. To them everything is as it should be, only a little inconvenient at the moment. Our job can be said to turn the loyalists into rebels without them knowing it. After all they don't even know we're among them as rebels. So while they are the perfect loyalists, we are the perfect rebels. We will lead them to freedom, freedom from their entrapment. As of now, they are in ignorance of us and of a problem. We will erase that problem from their ignorance. Then there will never even be a possibility of a problem."

"Are you speaking of rebelling against the General, sir? Against the motherland!" The Captain was mad! How could anybody betray the General? He then felt proud of being 'no rebel' and considered himself a proud loyalist, a term he had never heard but could guess its obvious meaning. What had he gotten himself into by coming to a rebel colony?

"Certainly not. We do not wish to rebel against the General. There is no need. The General is nobody. The sun, that's who is king. The only difference between you and the General, aside from a few years' experience, is that he knows who George Washington is. Let's just hope you're no Benedict."

The Captain turned his back again, facing the lion once again. Many words spoken had gone over the rookie's head, and the Captain knew so. He just didn't care. The newcomer must catch on quickly. An IFA man must be good for something. After all, he had been sent by the General, himself. Upon seeing that the conversation was over, the rookie began to walk out.

"Rookie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"For your first assignment, gather all the books from the colonists. Every single one."

"How, sir?"

"You're an intellectual force. Figure a way. When there is no way, find three."

He left the office.

There was no way to collect. Not right now. Not ever. How do you make people give up their books without questions, without suspicions? If they were to remain 'unnoticed rebels' how could he just trot on in and demand people's belongings? The Captain was insane. What kind of man was he to run a colony? Take all the books! How! Perhaps they won't react if they are too tired, if the plan actually works. What the rookie thought was genius seemed to be recklessness and insanity. Rebels, loyalists, George Washington! And the nonsense about the General and the sun. Nevertheless, the Captain was the leader and was to be obeyed.

# CHAPTER 3

If nature had been allowed to take its course, the time of day would have been noon, and noon would have been the tenth hour of the day. However, nature had nothing to do with the fourth colony, and the fourth colony had nothing to do with daylight. Daylight had no bearings on the current time, for the clock showed noon with noon being the twelfth hour of the day. Twenty-one days had passed within the structure, twenty-five outside, and with every day that passed inside, the people yearned for a day outside, but a day outside of the walls was not possible. News came about that disaster had come by storm and exiting was temporarily impossible due to extensive damage to the gates, just as the officer predicted. The people were trapped inside, but they never considered the possibility that the gates would never be repaired. So they trudged along, working and communing, and biding their time until they could venture out into an alien landscape. They would soon be living their lives just as they had before, only this time without war, without the dullness, without legalism, without the politics of the radical party, or without whatever a colonist had come for. They would never quite know it, but instead, what they got was a life without fulfillment.

Their realization of what was truly going on was altogether absent. Likewise, the catalyst needed for the encouragement of thinking and questioning was absent. The people simply tended to their jobs and obligations. Each person had a specified work to do which seemed to keep them idly busy while still being productive for the on-going of the economy and for the well-being of the people. The people were kept isolated in their individual jobs and kept from seeing the synergy of their efforts. They knew their responsibility, they knew what their responsibility did, however they did not know how their responsibility tied in with others' responsibilities. There was no purpose given to the people, just work. It was the intelligence of the Captain which came to this conclusion. Man finds enjoyment in purpose and fulfilling that purpose. In the opposite effect, man despises a lack of purpose and becomes weary in fulfilling nonsensical work. With this in mind, the goal was not to gain weariness by annoyances since repetitive annoyances would eventually lead to a hatred toward the work. That hatred would then serve as the catalyst needed to cause some sort of rebellion. The goal was indifference, a constant feeling of neither hatred nor enjoyment but of simple apathy. The Captain and his men saw to it that the people did not care enough about the work to want to do it while at the same time did not despise the work enough to not want to do it. The work should just be done.

In order for this to happen, motivation was needed. Just like any job, the real motivation did not lie in internal motives of the individual but in the promise of payment. However, in the current condition, in the humble beginnings of the colony, there was no money. Promises of a currency-based economy were given. Supposedly they were to use the same as the motherland. But for the present, the economy and the paycheck were given in amounts payable as upgrades or downgrades. In this economy, depending on how one worked, one could theoretically receive a paycheck for negative amounts. Everyone received food, everyone received housing, and everyone received needed goods, but not everyone received luxury. A man's comfort in living was directly related to his work ethic. However, there were certain positions in the work force that were deemed more important than others, and those positions received higher luxury with less input because the position required more than the normal amount of intelligence. The harder a person worked, the more hours he worked, the skills he had and learned were all taken into account to provide him with whatever housing and food quality that matched his worth in the workplace. No man was ever poor. No man was ever too uncomfortable in his housing. Others were simply better or worse off. This was, and would continue to be, the basis of the economy.

The majority of the inhabitants were very close to the same age, with the average age being thirty. The oldest was a man of sixty who had been specially recruited for the developmental work of colonial technology. As far as the Captain was concerned, ten years was enough time for his work to be done in. If he lived longer, it was good but not necessary. The youngest was an eight year old girl, the daughter of a recruited agricultural technician. All the inhabitants had either been recruited or carefully included. Thirty had been deemed the proper age, old enough to be mature, yet young enough to be able to start a fresh family and continue the colony for a good while longer. There were very few children, and if the Captain had had his way, there would have been none. Their inclusion was part of a compromise. The colony needed certain recruits for their particular talents, and those recruits would not be enticed to come without their families. Upon hearing of one particular recruit, Jack had made a special visit to the General, expounding on the cruelness and inconsiderateness of such a promise made. Jack had only learned of this after the fact and was too late, and so he could only vent his frustrations upon the listening General. "There was no call for such a pretense!" Such a shout was heard by all in the bar, and even some outside, for Jack had intentionally disrupted the General's Tuesday night. However, the only thing left to be done was to let it play out and let the man play his part.

"I wouldn't call myself an explorer, at least not in the likes of Lewis and Clarke."

Needless to say, the Captain was pleased to have this man aboard, even if that had been his only reference. He was a man of short-stature and a red face. He always walked about in the clothes of his past excursions. Many said that he had a case of the Napoleon complex, though few could say who or what Napoleon was. He was always willing to boast of himself and of his expeditions and hunts, though few ever wanted to listen through his entire saga. So whenever he met someone new, he always poured out his tales and opinions firstly and quickly in order to say all of what he wanted to say.

"Who?" said the poor, unfortunate inhabitant who naively lent an ear.

"Never mind. But I am quite the traveler and have been to numerous places considered to be among the most beautiful places on the planet. However, the most memorable of my travels were to the ruins of the beauty in West America. The places were absolutely horrendous but incredibly beautiful at the same time. It requires imagination. What did it used to be? In its fullness, what must it have looked like?"

"We know what it looked like. We have photographs."

"That is true, and it does help in the process of imagining, but it's not the same. When you're there, no photograph is really in mind. It's almost as if you had never seen any in the first place. It's almost as if the place in reality and in the photograph is two different places. In fact, they pretty much are. It's very much a shame."

"What's a shame?"

"The ruins, the destruction of the natural monuments. It's true, however, that the Leutians proved themselves to be the most civilized enemies in history, using such tactics as to avoid the loss of life. If they had used their peculiar nuclear weapons on the cities, then they could have been thoroughly wiped. Millions upon millions. But their warnings did enough damage to the lands and made West America bow. It turns out that their tactics had another effect. Against nationalism. By destroying the beauty that made the nation itself, by bombing the actual land, it hit emotions quite hard. The Leutians are smart. They are not killers if they don't have to be, but because they killed the land, the very scenes represented on the currency, the national monuments that were world renowned, a great depression occurred.

"You can rebuild a structure. You can hold a memorial for those that were lost in an attack, but there is no bringing back the amazing beauty in those places. The land's majesty was attacked and destroyed, and no one ever expected it. Why would anyone ever bomb the high mountains just to bomb the high mountains? No one would have ever thought that the great dome would ever fall. Why would it? That's why it hit them so hard. They thought it would stand for eternity, but now it's no longer a dome at all.

"They weren't thoroughly destroyed though. The bitterest fact is that there still remains enough of the dome to know it used to be something great. It's this reminder to the people that they can't have what they used to have. It's like something at the tip of their fingers that they cannot reach. There is a strange loneliness in knowing that your home has been desecrated. It's that loneliness that destroyed the nationalism because in a sense, it was no longer the same nation. You want to be able to fix it, but you just can't. No one can.

"Disappointing for the adventurers who would have loved to see it in its prime. I would have loved to see the geyser fields and the glaciers and the glades but it's of no importance now. I've come to a new place to find such things, to be a Lewis or a Clarke, maybe even a Columbus. That's exactly why I've come here. You can always scan from the sky and get the topography, but the eye serves such more purpose in declaring beauty. I'll find a new dome, a greater dome, figuratively of course. I doubt many glaciers have scored this land. But there's something out there that is so bizarre that it's gorgeous, even more bizarre than the fields of sculpted columns that were bombed."

"So you think there's something like that here? I guess there could be as large as it is. However, I'm guessing that the land isn't as hospitable as home nor, from what I've heard, is it as full of vegetation."

"Of what we know. But I think that we don't know much. The topographic maps that have been graphed show some promising points that I shall check. The bottom line is that this land needs beauty. The colony needs attractions just as any does. We can't live in a boring land. It's not good for business. It's especially not good for nationalism."

"How much has been mapped out?"

"All of it, which makes my job a little bit easier, but a little bit tedious having to sort through all those maps. I should be getting them soon and when I do, after I've done my pin-pointing and marking, I'll be off, surviving as a traveler and explorer."

The non-exploring man couldn't help but to give a small chuckle at the idea of the man peering over an infinite number of pieces of maps.

"What's funny about that? What's so funny?"

"You mean to tell me that you're going to sift through detailed maps of the entire globe and 'pin-point' whatever looks to be a possible piece of scenery? You're never going to find anything at that rate. You won't even make it out of the colony. What if there are no grand monuments to be found? What if the points of interest you say you have found turn out to be a bunch of mediocre scenery?"

"Then I'll keep looking. I'll keep looking till I find something even if it takes my whole life."

The man would repeat his monologue to anybody who would lend their attention. He did so until the day he lost his memory. All of the inhabitants were to be pitied, but it was Jack's opinion that this man was to be pitied above all. Only no one else had the knowledge and the heart to do so.

\---

The rookie had struggled through numerous ideas concerning the Captain's orders. How was he supposed to collect all the books? Every single one of them? They must have numbered into the tens of thousands. Taking them by force was out of the question. That would not only infuriate the people and cause suspicions, but it would also at the same time tie up all their manpower. With the inhabitants already in such a fragile state, they could not afford to use the men needed to collect the books and still have enough men to handle the mess created by it. He concluded that it would have to be done with intelligence, and, if possible, with no one but himself. That was the very reason he gave me these orders, the rookie thought. He just needed a way to persuade the people to give their books up willingly. And soon. Since the plan was working and the people were confused and forgetful, the surest thing to remind them of their own past was the books and journals they had close at hand every day. Find three, he kept whispering to himself. Find three. Find three.

He sat at a desk in an office given to him, quite bare. The paper that sat on his desk was just as bare and his pencil had no eraser for he had chewed it off in his nervous thinking. He slipped on his jacket without thinking as it had subtly grown colder in his area. He had been told by the military man on his tour of the colony that the heating system was a little weak in that particular area. He had said that as he was explaining the master thermostat. It was quite important because in the outside world, the nights with their chill were just as deadly as the days with their heat. The thermostat regulated the temperature at a comfortable seventy degrees. However, the nearest unit to the rookie's office needed repairs. For some reason or another, it was not putting off enough heat. It must be dark outside right now, he thought. However, no desire or curiosity to see if it was night or day accompanied his thought.

It had taken several days, mounds of crumpled paper, and multiple damaged pencils for the rookie to have his epiphany. It came to him as he was putting on his jacket.

In three days' time the rookie had the temperature drop to twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit, not quite deadly but far beyond comfortable. All the inhabitants were bundled up with all that they had, but none were quite prepared for this. They had been told that the temperature of the land was consistent with that of their tropics. They were miserable, they were befuddled, and they were desperate. Another day passed by at twenty-five degrees for good measure.

"My good people," the rookie announced in the commons packed full of people who had gathered upon instruction and who huddled even closer just for warmth, "the system of electric heaters has gone out and is under repair." This was immediately followed by menacing murmurs from the crowd who were beginning to think that the colony was slowly falling to pieces. "But do not worry. Don't murmur amongst yourselves and do nothing. There is a way that we can heat the place up again. We have a furnace as a back-up measure, but we have no fuel. In order to get the temperature up the quickest, we must burn paper. It is paper that burns the hottest and the longest." He hesitated after the last statement, hoping he had not gone too far. However, the people were desperate enough to want to believe it and so they did. "We need to collect all of the books and journals and magazines. Anything and everything that is paper or has paper in it. It is essential," he strongly emphasized essential, "that everyone give everything that they have. So donate all of your books and journals and papers, then check to see if your neighbor has done the same. If we do not get the furnace going as soon as possible and if we are not able to keep the furnace going, the temperature will drop lower, and we will all be in danger of death." A little dramatic, he thought, but it seemed to be working. "It is so essential that we have everything that if anyone is found with books or journals or any type of paper, they will be severely penalized. Did you hear me? If you hold back anything, you will be severely punished. This is for our own well-being. We must have every single bit. Every moment counts."

The books piled quickly. The amount was much more than he had anticipated, but he dared not show his surprise. The inhabitants took his last statement to heart and they hurried back, some with arm-loads and some with cart-loads. All the tales of different worlds, different people, and different lives would be thrown into the fire. Fantasy, romance, adventure were all to be burned. The recollections of their own past, their families, their old homes, their fond memories, they too would be burned to keep the people warm. Despite the steadily increasing amount, hardbacks, paperbacks, leather-bounds, the Rookie insisted upon expounding in his encouragement. The temperature was therefore lowered another five degrees.

"My people," he began again, "my people, the furnace has been fired up." A cheerful murmur arose from the cold crowd. "But we still need as much paper as we can get. We still need all of it. It's not too much to ask. So bring out your books! Bring out your journals! Bring out your stories! Bring out your empty pages!" He felt a strange sense of excitement as he stood upon the table, addressing the crowd below with a loud voice. He swelled as he saw them respond like hard-working ants, back and forth, streaming in steady lines, placing their pages upon the enormous pile. They had no idea.

Everyone seemed to heed his words. Some more than others, perhaps those who felt chilled the deepest or those who wanted to exploit their chance of exercising authority, took strongly to his command to search their neighbors. He had used penalization as a scare tactic with hopes that all would willingly comply. He had never been keen on delivering the punishment to the disobedient. However, those searchers found their neighbors guilty of not parting with their treasures and brought them before the rookie. What sickened him the most was not that he had been disobeyed, but that those who had delivered their guilty neighbors to him smiled so self-righteously. The Captain was impressed with the Rookie's tactics and briefly said so at some point later. The only part the Captain actually played in this charade was to suggest that the guilty people not be punished too severely. Make an example, but don't dishearten the people. The advice was taken. The Rookie turned those found guilty over to another military man who stood by the book pile. The man had once been a drill sergeant and so it seemed very practical for this man to be the scolder rather than the rookie. He was pleased to hand them over and be a spectator with the rest of the colony

"ARE YOU SHIVERING?"

Whether it was the still low temperatures or the fright of the man's loud and intimidating voice, no one could tell, perhaps it was both, but everyone, even those far in the background, could tell that their guilty neighbors shivered violently and uncontrollably.

"I THOUGH YOU WANTED TO BE COLD! YOU MUST LIKE IT! WHY ELSE WOULD KEEP YOUR BOOKS! I SAID WHY DID YOU KEEP YOUR BOOKS!"

One mumbled something between his chattering teeth along the lines that only one didn't matter and that it was very important to him.

"MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR LIFE? MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR LIFE?"

No one heard the meekly said 'no, sir' escape his lips.

"IF EVERYONE THOUGHT THE SAME AS YOU, WE MIGHT DIE BY TOMORROW! ONE DOESN'T MATTER? ONE ABSOLUTELY MATTERS! DID YOU NOT HEAR WHAT THIS MAN SAID? EVERY SINGLE PIECE OF PAPER MATTERS!"

This went on for some time. It was not often that he was able to fall back into his old habits and he quite enjoyed it. Those guilty were reprimanded publicly, and those viewing wanted nothing more than to be unnoticed. In addition to their reprimand, they were sentenced to hard labor, organizing the tens of thousands, if not a hundred thousand, books into a manageable way so that they could be delivered to the furnace. However they were not to be the ones to deliver. It was still the Rookie's responsibility to see that they were successfully collected and stored.

"If there is anyone else holding back any book or paper, we will give you a chance to do so without punishment. We will not continue with the furnace until we are sure that we have it all."

After a measly amount of books had been brought forth after the rookie's last words, and after the vigilant searchers no longer brought forth anyone else, he was quite confident that they had every piece of writing was brought forth. He then had to ensure that they were never seen again

.

\---

Many days had gone, even more on the outside. With every single day that passed, the working day increased. They would go in earlier but still on time. They would finish later but still on time. Every night grew shorter, but the clocks still showed the same count. The people grew weary. Everyone felt it, but no one explained it. They were too tired. This naturally led to a decrease in the work efficiency, but that hardly mattered since that was very much taken into account. The necessary work was still getting accomplished. If there was ever any fall back in the necessities, those in uniform with clear minds would step in and help.

Minds grew weaker. The outside world faded due to the busyness of the work day, due to exhaustion of their minds, and due to the daily dose of medication which the people were told would give them more energy. It didn't. Without anything to refer to the things of home, home was forgotten. The gates were still under repair, but they too were long forgotten by most. They were the only people in the world between the walls. They were the only people that existed.

It was for this time specifically that men like the Rookie had been recruited. Intelligence and persuasion were needed to keep the fragile state from breaking.

A man in the well-known colony uniform was standing in position at his post. He had never been a part of a military unit nor the IFA but had been recruited nonetheless for his persuasion skills. He had been a spokesperson for a variety of tobacco companies during his previous ten years and had the biggest role in overturning its prohibition in the years before, provoked by cigarette companies which used catalytic carcinogens 'on a genuine mistake.' He was a very wealthy man, but, as seemed to be a trend among the recruited, money had not lured him to the colony. Money meant nothing to him. It was the chance and the challenge. Because of men like him, the colony military was very unmilitaristic, though there were those who knew nothing but conventional military, and consisted of such a wide variety of recruits that the unit was rather more like a company of idealistic anarchists.

"Can we not go outside?" It was such a straight-forward question. The woman was rather confused as to why she didn't think she could venture outside and also as to why she was even asking the question. It was as if she was just passing through and had abruptly asked without ever having the intention. This had startled the uniformed man, but he didn't miss a beat. He couldn't afford to.

"Outside? What do you mean by this? Can anyone go out of a side?"

"Out of here, I mean, to the outdoors."

"Again, ma'am, I must admit I don't quite follow your logic. The way I see it, we have always only been able to go through doors. We cannot go into the doors, nor does it seem that we can go out of the doors." The man paused with a fake sigh. "Shall I call the nurse for you, ma'am?"

"No! I just want to be outside, with the sun and the grass and the trees. I just want to be outside." The more confused she felt, the more agitatedly she reacted.

"Ma'am, please, I still do not follow you. You are just talking nonsense. What is the sun, what is grass, what are trees? Please, allow me to call for the nurse. I really believe you are taking on a fever of sorts."

"What? I do not have - What do you mean, what is the sun? Is it not the great light in the sky that gives us the day, which warms us and, and - What do you mean, what is the sun? And the grass, the green grass that comes from the ground. Are you to say that you do not know?"

"Ah, but of course, I now know. You have been dreaming. You can't always tell dreams from reality, you know. The mind is incredibly complex, even to the point where it even tricks itself. My mind has done so to me on occasion. I once dreamed that I was looking into this hole that had no ending so if anything were to be dropped down into it, it would never find a bottom. The next day after the dream, I went to look for it, only to never find it. Then it came to me long after this, that the hole was just an exaggeration of a sink pipe I had been looking down into. The hole that I searched for but never found was not able to be found simply because it did not exist. It was all a dream and the dream was just an exaggeration." He straightened his hat as well as his jacket. "Let me guess. Does this 'sun', does it show up as you wake?"

"Well, yes. So you do know about it?"

"And does it disappear as you retire to sleep?"

"Then why do you say there is no sun if you know about it?"

"Ma'am, don't you realize? What you think to be the sun is simply your mind exaggerating the light in your room. The light is above you and as you wake, the light is on. As you sleep, the light goes off. It was a dream, ma'am. The sun is simply the light in your room. And as for the grass, it is an exaggeration as well, most likely of the floor in the common area. It is surely green, you know."

"But it was so real, and not just real, but I feel like I've seen it many times before."

"Of course, ma'am. Dreams reoccur many times, especially if you are exposed to the subject of your dream every single day."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe..." She thought deeply as if trying to remember her dreams. "But it just seems so real." She was talking quietly to herself. Her expressions betrayed her acceptance. "If you are right, sir, I really should go to the nurse!"

"I think you will be fine. I'm sure it is just a case of delusional dreams, but I'll have the nurse give you something to calm your nerves. Please allow a fellow of mine to take you in my stead for I need to remain at post, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sir, but I think I'm alright to go myself."

"Indeed, but it would make me feel a little better to have you escorted."

"Of course, sir. Thank you very much. I'm so sorry about this. I must sound so ridiculous to you."

"Not at all, ma'am. Not at all. As I said before, just as it has happened to you, it has happened to me."

The Rookie reached the uniformed man to relieve him of the woman. He had no specific post at the time and was still floating in his responsibilities.

"Yes, here he is. If you would, my fellow, please escort this kind woman to the hospital to see a nurse. Tell the nurse she needs something to calm the nerves."

Ever since he had collected the books, he was looking and hoping for his next big moment. He had grown tired of taking care of such trivial business.

"Of course, but a calming of the nerves can be just as easily remedied with a strong drink and a change of scenery. However-"

But before he finished the thought, the blank expression of the woman's acceptance instantly turned into a vivid, animated expression and such was this expression that it caught the attention of the rookie and halted him in mid-sentence, bewildered by her seemingly bizarre excitement. Scenery. The woman heard the word, but at that moment it was more than just a word. At the very sound of scenery came glimpses of her beautiful home. Memories of the green, flat-topped foothills, of the numerous wheat fields lining cold, clean creeks, of towering cedars and poplars side by side, memories of the outdoors rushed through her mind.

"Scenery," she whispered and again, "scenery" with growing excitement, until she shouted "Scenery!" Then she dropped suddenly.

With a quick grasp of the arm and a hard yank, the uniformed man took the rookie aside.

"Rookie! Never, ever say anything of the like again! When I, or anyone else for that matter, tell you to do anything, you say 'Yes, sir' and keep your mouth shut from then on. We are on the winning verge here, but one slip up like that and they remember. If one person is able to remember then every person is able to remember. Never say anything about scenery again. Don't even say anything about change again. 'Yes, sir' and 'no, sir' to us and just simple casual talk to the others, nothing more."

"Is she dead?"

The uniformed man eased his release of the rookie's arm and turned to address the woman only to find the woman lying unconscious on the floor, her body contorted due to the unexpected collapse. It seems that her mind, in visualizing the vividness of her memories, which were only vaguely in mind beforehand, was so taken aback by the sudden flood of those vivid memories that it used all concentration to interpret the images, removing concentration from all other actions including bodily motions. Thus, the woman was lying on the floor, still unrecovered. After having been checked, she was still breathing.

"You better thank your luck, rookie. I'm not sure what happened to her, but you take what you get. Now take care of her."

"What do you mean?" The uniformed man knew the process if such an occasion should arise. The Rookie, however, had either never been told or had missed it, and lacked the knowledge of the Captain's controversial corrective actions.

"Don't play dumb, rookie. Now do it."

"How? What am I supposed -"

"Stop. Just shut up. Take her to the hospital, ask for a doctor, and tell the doctor that the Captain said that the woman needs four doses of the medication to ease her mind."

"But two is the maximum. Anything more than that might - "

"Just do it, rookie."

"What if she starts to wake while I'm carrying her?"

"Then you really need to get a move on."

The rookie obeyed with obligation as the uniformed man left him to his duty. The woman was still lying on the ground. With no one else in sight, he heaved the woman from the ground and onto his shoulder and made his way to the hospital. He had never done such a thing, and although he had to and did pass a physical conditioning for the IFA, he soon realized that he was not fit enough for this. The woman's limp body slowly slipped downward, and her feet dangled, nearly touching the floor. He soon had to pause in the hall to resituate. If any of the true militants in the colony had seen him then, they would have been ashamed and embarrassed. It was a sloppy sight. She was draped over his right shoulder, her long hair hanging away from her face, her clothes disheveled, and her face growing pink. She was still mindless to the world.

He headed onward. He was strongly hoping that his way to the hospital would be void of any people, or at least of any crowds. He was wearing the colony uniform so the people would at least recognize him as someone with authority, but an unconscious woman hanging from his shoulder would be sure to inspire curiosity. He began to create excuses in his head. "She took a nasty slip farther down this hall which resulted in her head hitting the floor which in turn resulted in her unconsciousness. I happened to be near when it happened but was not close enough to prevent it. It's unfortunate, but accidents happen. Now I'm taking her to the hospital to get treated." It was a believable story and simple enough. He kept on, still no one within sight, but the hospital was still far off.

It didn't take long until his feet were slowing and his head was aching. His frustration in the situation was growing all the while. The uniformed man's words ran through his head. What disrespect and arrogance! He had no right to act in such a way. Retracing the man's words he quickly became more irritated. It was a fluke. No one else would have had such a reaction as that woman. What kind of person collapses from thought anyway? The Rookie was intelligent, having gone through many years of graduate studies, earning his doctorate, and gaining solid standings in officer training, but he was not strong physically. Her weight was pressing down on his shoulders. He grew hot and started to sweat, but he walked on.

Further down the long hall, a dim figure slowly approached. It looked to be only a single person who was strolling towards him at a slow but steady pace. The Rookie's pace quickened in return. He began to sweat even more due to the exercise and anxiety. The person drew nearer and was close enough to be identified as a male. The Rookie gave up his pace and stopped in his tracks. The simple story he had practiced slipped his mind. He drew closer and reached an audible distance. As he approached, the rookie exhaled and was immediately relieved. The man was in uniform and passed by without even a word or a glance.

The rookie resumed his pace once again. However, he only continued his walk for another ten minutes until a crowd of men and women came his way, this time without any hope that they might be officers. He couldn't guess where they might be headed, but the civilians came closer. They seemed to be a group on the younger side of the colony average. They were loud with laughter and giddy talk as was the custom of young men and women who were involved in a circle of interests and relationships. He was quickly annoyed with their behavior, and they seemed ignorant of his presence. The Rookie puffed up his chest and straightened his posture as much as he could with the woman still heavy on his shoulder. As they were passing, they were instantly hushed at the sight of the military man carrying a limp, unconscious body. A small scream escaped one of the young women.

"Oh my! Is she dead?"

"No, she's not dead. She'll be fine and will fully recover once she's safely to the hospital." He had said this with a sense of superiority and arrogance. He was above such nonsense as all this.

"Well, what happened to her?"

"She slipped and her head hit the floor."

It wasn't as eloquent as what he had practiced, but he didn't care to convince these people.

As soon as he finished the statement, the woman on his shoulder let out a deep, soft moan. Although it was soft, it was loud in the ears of the Rookie, so much so that it frightened him, and his grip on the woman was lost. She dropped to the ground. As she was lying on the floor for the second time, she gave another moan, this one louder and filled with pain rather than awakening. She was still not fully conscious.

"Get out of here!" The Rookie became enraged with embarrassment. They had seen his mistake, some with shock, some with awe, and some even dared to giggle. But his exclamation seemed to work, and they quickly skirted off down the hall and resumed their stroll. He figured that they would be filled with gossip and rumor-making because of the scene they had just witnessed. He was furious.

He knelt down beside the woman's body, turned her over, and looked into her face. Nothing. He lightly slapped her face to test her consciousness. Nothing. After letting out a sigh of relief he hoisted the body on his shoulder and once again started towards the hospital. He soon reached a junction and turned the corner, nearing the hospital. As he straightened his path down the new hall, the woman's voice pierced his ear again.

"Where am I?"

Extremely taken aback, so frightened at the voice and what the voice meant for the situation, he reacted out of instinct and threw her body away from his, and as she fell his glance caught her suddenly wide eyes, and her soft, sad words seemed to echo in his head. Her body hit the wall and fell to the ground, a third time. She sat with her shoulders leaning against the wall. To his dismay, he saw a red streak on the wall where her head had slid. He checked her pulse and breathing. She was still alive. He didn't know what to do. As he stood there, a minute passed. His dismay slowly turned to relief because she then seemed to be fully unconscious, not from some strange phenomenon but from actual trauma. His practiced story then had some truth to it.

He finally reached the hospital and spoke to the nurse at the desk, then to the doctor, and spoke as he was ordered. Four doses. The woman was released into their care and never seen again. It was later told to him that she finally was given what she originally desired.

The rookie, nor any other officer, allowed such a remembrance to occur again. After over one hundred years, all that was wished by the General and all that was planned by the Captain, was reached and was successful beyond anyone's imagination and recollection.

# CHAPTER 4

However old they say she is, she already looks dead, he thought. He peered at her white, wrinkled face. Her wiry hair matched the color of her skin, or rather the lack of color. Her wrinkles ran deep into her face creating dark canyons around her eyes and mouth, crevices in her cheeks. The boy continued to stare at her, waiting by her bedside. If he didn't know better, he would've thought she was dead. But she wasn't. All one had to do to know that she was alive was to look into her eyes. They were vividly blue at times, although lately they had been steadily graying. He so wanted her to open her eyes, to wake up. Maybe she just needed someone to wake her up. He looked to his mother sitting in a chair beside him still reading her magazine. He slowly lifted his hand toward the old woman and poked her cheek. Nothing. She continued to lie there on her hospital bed quite unmoved. If only she would wake up.

She always had the most interesting stories to tell, perhaps because she was insane. At least that seemed to be the opinion of most people, and they had good reason to believe so. One day she would tell stories of being one of the first people to ever live here when she was just a little girl, but no one could ever follow anything she described in that story. It was mostly nonsense. The next day she would be talking about how her great-grandfather helped build the very hospital she was in and how this placed had changed over the last couple of hundred years. She talked about different lives, different people and she talked as if she lived those different lives and was those different people. She was obviously confused in her old age. After all, she was one hundred and fifteen years old, barely hanging on at some moments, but absolutely thriving at others. However, it was when she seemed to be most aware of herself that she seemed to be the most insane. He was waiting for her to wake up. He was waiting for her to thrive. He poked her cheek again.

"Josiah, stop it!" His mother smacked his hand away.

"But she needs someone to wake her up."

"Let Aunt Junia have her rest. You don't just go poking the poor woman in her face. You know better than that. Maybe you should just come back another time."

"But please let me stay. I won't do it again, I promise. I'll just wait."

"Alright. Can I trust you to behave if I leave for a little bit to go to the common area? I need to take care of some things."

"Yes, ma'am, you can."

"I'll be back in a little bit. Behave yourself and don't be a bother."

He sat still in his chair, twiddling his thumbs, going through his schoolwork in his head, thinking of rhymes and riddles as he waited for her to wake up. She once told him of how, when she was young, she would ride around on a big toy with two wheels, a biciggle. He wasn't sure of how to picture this biciggle which is why he remembered her telling him about it. He always wanted to find one. He even searched around for it thinking that there must be at least one. When he asked others about it they didn't seem to know what he was trying to describe. "A large toy that you sit on with two wheels, and you move your feet on to make it go." He never found it, but he knew it existed. Or at least he hoped it existed.

She moved.

He got out of his chair to move closer and looked into her face, only inches away. He whispered.

"Are you awake?"

No answer. He drew back and returned to his chair by her bedside, twiddling his thumbs. He was quite different than most of the children. On a weekend such as this, most children had already outrun each other, outwrestled each other, and outfought each other. Instead, Josiah sat quietly and had been sitting there most of the morning. He enjoyed running and wrestling occasionally, but it never interested him. The company of the other children always seemed to be a little empty. So he enjoyed his own company better and tended to be a bit withdrawn. The weekend was his escape from what he felt to be a boring week. It was his chance to do something he wanted to do. Many, including children and adults, thought he was a bizarre child since he asked about strange words and found riddles and puzzles to be rather easy when no other person, less any child, could solve them. To them, his mind was strange and "perhaps already going in the way of that woman." Stranger than anything else, which caught a single person's attention more so than others, was that Josiah seemed to notice their opinions but didn't seem to care.

She moved again. When he turned to look at her, his eyes met hers and at this sight his eyes lit up as well as his smile.

"Aunt Juny!"

"Who are you?" She whispered as she woke.

"Well, I'm Josiah. I'm your nephew, great-nephew to be exact, or at least that's what mom tells me. I come here all the time. Mom says you may not remember me so I have to keep introducing myself. I come here all the time and you tell me stories."

"Oh, my. Of course you are my nephew. Sometimes I just can't see very well, dear. These eyes just aren't what they used to be. I -"

Before she could make her next statement, the boy chimed in.  
"Tell me a story, Aunt Juny."

The fragile woman smiled.

"Alright. Well, once there lived a boy, about your age who -"

"Aunt Juny, are you making this one up?"

"You said you wanted a story, didn't you, my nephew?"

"I want a real story. Tell me something about when you were younger like you usually do."

He could see by her eyes that she was trying to sift through her past. It always seemed to take a while for her to speak after he asked this question. Every time he went to her, he always had to ask for a memory instead of a made-up story. It's not that he didn't enjoy stories, but it was only that her memories were more exciting than her stories, than anyone's made-up stories.

"Well, when I was a little girl, we used to go out and play in the rain, my friend and I, and whenever this happened we would -"

"What's rain?"

"Well, it's like falling water from the sky -"

"What's the sky?"

"It's like a space, an open space. Or maybe not. I... I'm not really sure. Maybe it was water falling from the ceiling. That must've been it. In the common area. Maybe in the common area. No, certainly not. Although, it must have been. Is the ceiling blue? If the ceiling is blue then maybe it was from that room. It may not be blue now, but it used to be blue. The water fell from the blue ceiling. Anyway, we used to play in it all day, in the common area. It was so fun, the rain was, especially with a friend. Her name was...what was her name? It started with a J, I think. Judy, Joann, Jannette, Junia. No, I am Junia. Maybe it wasn't a J. What was her name? Anyway, the two of us...we...we would go...rain...sky...what is it... what's... her... name?"  
She quickly fell back into her uneasy yet deep sleep. It was much shorter than usual, almost as if she simply decided not to last long to escape her confusion. It happened often, though. She never was able to finish her story, but even if she had more time, she would not ever finish her story. He listened because he liked the words she used, the ones he never heard before. But once she had fallen back to sleep, she wasn't waking for a long while. The day's lesson was over, so he sat there in the chair watching her sleep and waiting on his mother to return for him.

He wondered if she did indeed make these stories up, but from what he could tell, she at least believed what she told. Maybe that's why everyone said she was crazy. Maybe that's why anyone is called crazy. If you truly believe in the story you've invented, then you should be called crazy. However, he couldn't help but want to believe in what she said, just as she believed.

His mother returned.

"Mom, do you know what rain is?"

"No, son, what is it?" She was quite accustomed to him asking such questions, questions about words he had heard from Aunt Junia and questions about words he had made up himself.

"I think it's water that falls from the ceiling. Aunt Juny told me a story about how she used to play in it when it rained in the main room."

She had learned to play along with his questions for the most part, but she had started to worry about how trusting he had become of the woman, not that Junia was ever distrustful. She was just confused.

"Listen son. You can't always believe what Junia says. To have water fall from the ceilings in the main room doesn't make any sense. There's no reason for that to ever happen. In fact, it hasn't ever happened. The only water that 'falls' is the water from the showers. You see, she's confused. She doesn't always say things that are true, only she thinks they are true."

"So that's never happened before?"

"I'm afraid not. In her old age, she often mixes the experiences she has. She takes a shower and then she visits the main room. She combines the two as one and is convinced that the combination is the real experience."

"What if someone did think what she said was true?"

It was just as she feared.

"Josiah, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone with Aunt Junia anymore. She's getting weaker and weaker each day, and it may be that she may never wake up as you wait for her to."

"She always wakes up. It may take a while, but she always does."

"Well, son, when people grow older, the more they sleep, the less likely they are to wake up. Eventually there will come a time when she will die, and I don't want you to keep waiting for her to wake when she never will again. I at least don't want you to be on your own when this happens."

"But that's not fair."

"What did I say, Josiah?"

On the inside, he was distraught. He knew that in taking away his solitude with the old woman, his mother had extinguished the possibility of him hearing more stories and more words. She would not bother with telling stories to any other person but the boy. No one else wanted to hear her incoherent thoughts. No one appreciated the history of the old woman. She knew that. She had tried to tell her story but only received pity for her insanity. "Poor woman" had been an all too common phrase. Only the boy would listen and only to the boy would she tell.

Josiah began to cry. He searched to remember many of her words but came up short. He then had to depend on his own memory and his own words. However, he had forgotten much and the words that he invented were not real words. Ikker, jube. They had no real meaning, no story behind them. They were just random syllables and sounds. Her words seemed to be real. Rain, sky. Her words seemed to belong in the language as if they should come up in normal conversation but for some reason or another did not. Her stories and her words were his only real delight. Those he called his friends weren't near as interesting, school work was boring, and everything else just came so easily. She and her words interested him because there seemed to be more to them than what he could understand. With accompaniment, he would hear them no more. He cried more than ever.

\---

Months had gone by without a visit to the old woman. Her words were almost forgotten. His mind no longer dwelt on finding significance in strange sounds. Instead, Josiah found his outlet in learning elsewhere. During school he no longer daydreamed about the unknown. He no longer pondered on searching for things that didn't exist. Instead, he devoted himself to his studies, and with no distractions, he excelled. He found that he could calculate quickly. He understood grammar and syntax, but more than anything else, it was his skill in strategy and problem-solving that he found the most interesting. To teach these the children were given puzzles, simple at first then complex. To Josiah, they were just games. He enjoyed solving them and was far beyond the others in speed and cleverness. He understood the thinking that it took to answer the riddles and to solve the puzzles. It was thinking outside of the norms while still staying inside of logic. He had a special mind for it, and this special mind was noted by the teachers. What he found so easily, he noticed, was actually difficult for everyone else. After he had finished his classroom projects, he turned to his neighbors and taught them the basics of how to solve their own. He found joy in this as well, not because it proved that he was better in any way, but because he was helping them. "If you can understand the basics, you can eventually understand the complexities."

On the weekends, instead of visiting the hospital, he would take his break from school by playing with the others. He had done so on occasion before, but not often enough. The other kids thought it strange that he preferred sitting by an old, crazy woman than playing a game of prisoner or running about or wrestling. He was smaller than most of the boys his age and a bit thin. Ordinarily, he would have been a prime receiver of the tortures of the larger boys in his age group. However, Josiah had been allowed to sit in on the classrooms of the older age groups because of his excellent learning skills, and so those older boys saw Josiah as their younger brother, and so they protected him. He had joined in the group and played in their games and enjoyed himself. It was true that no one ever disliked Josiah, but it was also true that no one ever befriended him. He was strange, like something they never could grasp. There was a word for him, but it seemed to be missing.

It didn't take long for the boy's extraordinary capabilities to reach ear of those higher in power. The Captain had always said that talent, especially young talent, was to be reported so it might be put to better use. It was no secret. Josiah was a young boy of great talent. So while in class as the teacher was discussing mathematics, a guard came in and requested Josiah's accompaniment. This disruption, of course, had no effect on his knowledge of the day's lesson because he had learned it long ago. It did, however, have quite the effect on his classmates as they were so riled that the teacher gave up the lesson. Perhaps Josiah the genius was in trouble. They could only hope for so much. Even as young as they were, bad news was good news for gossip.

As the two walked out of the classroom, Josiah was quiet with fear. A man in uniform had come to take him away. Where was he going? What had he done? Thoughts quickly filled and fluttered through his mind, and he steadily grew more afraid. The man in the uniform did little to ease his thoughts for he said nothing but "this way." There was no guessing where. The Captain did not often request the presence of anyone, much less a boy like Josiah. Like most people, Josiah only knew of the Captain but didn't know the Captain, nor had he ever even seen the leader. He was too important of a man to concern himself with the individuals of the colony, but every so often he made exceptions. Josiah was on his way to meet him.

They traveled to the elevators and, to his surprise, passed the large elevators and stood before the farther, smaller one. He had never been in it before, but he always held it as a fascination. The elevator had a keypad, and the guard input a code in order to open the doors. As a result of Josiah's constant observation, he had almost unconsciously watched and memorized the five digit code. After they entered and the doors closed, the guard pressed a button and the number five lit up.

"There's a fifth floor!"

Sometimes excitement overcomes fear, especially when the world has substantially increased. Not only was there a fifth floor which the boy never even heard of, those rumored underground floors proved to be true as well. The buttons listed B, A, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. The larger elevators only listed 1, 2, 3, and 4, and those were the only ones he had ever known. The guard remained silent. Fear crept back in his mind as they traveled upward. He glanced around and in the top corner of the elevator was another one of those strange, mounted objects. They were mounted throughout the colony, but no one knew what they were or what they did. Here it was made more noticeable by the small, enclosed area. If he had known what they were, he would have also known that they were used in the early days but had stopped being used long ago. Though it was a curious object, his mind quickly went back to other things. Where was he going? What had he done?

The doors opened. They walked down the hall, passed by a manned desk, and turned the corner to the opened door of an office.

Upon seeing who was in the room, he was instantly relieved. It was his mother. But as he looked on her face, his fear abounded much, much more. The look on her face was that of immense nervousness and anguish. He had wondered if he too had had that same look upon his face earlier. His attention then turned to the man sitting at the desk. The man was in uniform, but of a slightly different type. This man had such decorations on him that clearly distinguished him as a man of much more importance than anyone else. He was the Captain. He was an overweight man but still looked strong. He was not easily considered to be handsome, but after a time with him, after all his ugly flaws were accustomed to, there was some attractiveness to him. Josiah eventually thought there was something familiar about the man, but upon first seeing him, his hideous mustache was the only thing that caught Josiah's attention.

The Captain rose from his seat as he entered the office. There sat a desk and two chairs across from it. There were paper stacks on the desk with a single bookshelf to the left which had thick, official texts lined together. The man's enormous hands seemed to swallow his own as they greeted.

"Josiah, how are you, son?"

"Very well, sir."

"Well, that's good to hear. I've been hearing good things about you. I've been told that you're the top of your class, achieving more than any of the other students and even teaching the other students."

He found his relief again. He wasn't in trouble. He was led to take a seat by his mother, whose expression had changed and was just a bit uneasy. Perhaps he had mistaken it before.

The Captain took his desk seat again and sat face to face with the two. Josiah then replied his answer.

"Well, I don't really know if I'd go that far. I just enjoy doing it. I don't think it's that big of a deal. It's just fun."

"It's not the schoolwork, it's the leadership. And anyone who says that they enjoy leading is a mark in my book. You show talent. You show cleverness. Above all, though you show care for your fellow neighbors, and that is the most important aspect of our lives. We do what we can for each other to better get along in our lives. We should all strive for the betterment of the people as a whole and that is exactly what you are doing. Your actions show that you care about the well-being of the people and that really impresses me at your age. I've had my eye on you lately. In fact, I've had my eye on you for a while now. I hope that doesn't make you uneasy. But the reason you're here is so that we can simply be acquainted with each other. I see us becoming good friends. So thank you, Josiah, for what you are doing. I expect that we'll be seeing a little more of each other in the future, especially if you keep up the good work. Would you like that?"

"Yes, sir, I would." He didn't quite know what to say, but part of him did want to be in the company with the Captain even though his mustache seemed to twitch every now and then.

"Alright, then. All there's left to do is have a toast."

There was a small cabinet to the left of the bookshelf. He walked over, bent down, and opened up its small doors. As he came back, he held a glass bottle in his hands. Along with the bottle, he brought three fancy glasses, one for himself, one for Josiah the guest, and one his mother. A dark, tan liquid poured from the bottle, an immense aroma filled the room as the liquid filled the glasses. They were handed to each person present, Josiah's glass nearly overflowing.

"To you, Josiah, and to the well-being of our people."

They took a sip.

Josiah was completely taken aback by the thick taste of the tan liquid. In all his life he was limited to water and vegetable drink. This was in every way different than anything he had ever drunk. It was sweet and distinct. It was aromatic and quenching. It was incredible. "What is it?"

"It's cider, my dear boy, and not only any cider but that from the apple. I bet it's quite different than from what you're used to."

"Definitely, sir. It's awesome. I've never had anything like it. I've never seen anything like it. Where did it come from?" He was smiling from ear to ear. In fact, he was grinning because the tartness of the drink stung his jaws.

"Josiah," the mother chimed in, knowing that too many questions are never a good thing in front of the Captain, "before you say anything else, what have you forgotten?"

"Oh, yeah. Thank you, sir. It's really good."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. It's always a nice treat. Although, it can only ever be a treat sadly. Apples have always been so complicated to reproduce that we can only do so with little results. This bottle must have taken two or three years' worth of fruit, but it was well worth it. Perhaps in the future we can celebrate with more, right Josiah?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

With the same abruptness of meeting the Captain was the departing of the Captain. With a short "I hope to see you soon," the Captain left his office and left the secretary to deport them back to their lodging.

His thoughts about the Captain were rather mixed. The cider and the compliments were enjoyable, but there seemed to be a lack of genuineness about him. He had always felt that he knew what was genuine and true when it was spoken, and when he was spoken to by the Captain, he felt little assurance of anything true. He had only heard one thing that was true and that was the Captain's belief of his talent and cleverness. Josiah lingered on this thought. Perhaps he was more talented and clever than the others. Perhaps he was mistaken in what he felt, and what he felt to be false might have been truly genuine. If that was the case, then maybe Josiah would return to the Captain to celebrate with him again once he furthered his talents and cleverness. The apple cider was very tasteful as well as very scarce, and the only possible way to get another taste was to get another invite from the Captain, and the only way to get another invite was with some kind of outdoing the others intellectually and authoritatively. There was one thing. If it wasn't for this, he could see himself yearning for approval and cider rather than what was needed. If it wasn't for this, then he might have convinced himself that he was mistaken. His mother had a fear of the Captain, and not a respectful fear of authority but a "fearful fear," and that taught him all he needed.

# CHAPTER 5

Every night, Josiah and his mother would view their screen together.

Screen time consisted of three programs: comedy, informative introductions, and love stories. The comedy program consisted of a light-hearted stand up man, always the same, joking on the small things and giving a needed relief for the end of the work day. Everyone knew the peculiarities of particular age groups and individuals, but it was funny to hear them joked on by the man on the screen and if it happened to be your age group or even yourself joked upon, it made it even more hilarious. It also consisted of a slapstick-like comedy at some of the more dangerous or cautionary jobs. It is complete nonsense to have a fool work in the labs, knocking the flasks about and burning holes in the floor, filling the room with smoke, all the while trying to escape and running into walls. Complete nonsense happens to be hilarious. Such were the scenes every day.

The most intriguing to Josiah were the introductions. This program ran for one hour, divided into five-minute segments, and therefore contained twelve introductions on individuals of the colony. Only three weeks ago, Josiah himself appeared on the screen with his bit. They were all the same. "Hi, my name is so-and-so. I am so-and-so years old. I work at the so-and-so and do so-and-so. My mother is so-and-so. My father is so-and-so. My other relatives are so-and-so-and-so. I enjoy so-and-so, so-and-so, and so-and-so. And so and so and so." Of course these were prodded by the questioner. The producers would cut any answers that were not deemed appropriate. In fact they had cut much of Josiah's answers, but it didn't matter to him much. He would do another one in a year and so would everyone else. It was this program that kept every bit of Josiah's attention. He never cared much for what they had to say. The screen could be muted, and he would be just as enthralled. He was looking at their faces, tracing similarities. His mother always wondered at this everyday amusement.

It was known among the colony that he had no father. In his section, there was no "My father is so-and-so." This was not uncommon among the people of the colony, but most did have both parents. Of those that did not, most had a parent to die. Few cases had only a mother from the very beginning. Few children could say they never knew their father. Josiah was the only one of his age group. Screen time was the simplest way for him to look.

The love stories that followed were thought of as love stories by the people because they were called love stories by the producers. The producers called them love stories because they had always been called love stories as far as they knew. What love was, no one could really say. They simply consisted of real life reenacted of how couples met, how they created a family, and how much they enjoyed their job. What was comical about it, at least to Josiah, was that the same actors fell in love with each other, had a family, and enjoyed their job over and over again with many different people. Maybe not funny, but still amusing. They went something like this: Man and woman meet at the commons. They of course have known each other all their lives. But that day something was different. He asks how her family is doing and how her work is going and while doing so slides his hand to hers. At this point she would either withdraw or accept his gesture of affection. It wasn't always a handhold, but something of the sort. They never did show a rejection. After all this show was about love. It followed a courtship-like approach to their marriage. It focused on their friendship-based attraction, love for their work, and provision for each other. If this particular couple was old enough to have children, it then followed the progress of their family, the childbirth, the raising of their children, and of course their still strong respect for each other. The children actors portraying the actual children eventually became the acting man and woman. And the cycle continued.

One night in particular, after the months of absence, he thought about his Aunt Junia. It had occurred to him as he watched the introductions that he had never seen her bit on the screen before.

"She has been unwell for quite a while, Josiah, and wouldn't even be able to last through a session. Even if she was well enough, I doubt she would even want to anymore. You know she doesn't like visitors."

She doesn't like any other visitors besides him, he thought. He then felt ashamed of himself because he hadn't seen her in months. He had even forgotten her. But he must go back. And he decided he must go alone despite what his mother had told him. "Poor woman."

He hesitated until the weekend. It would have been useless to try for any day during the week since his absence would be noticed. It was only on the weekend that he could visit the old woman and let his mother assume he had been playing with the others.

When the weekend came, he left his mother and came to where the others met and played. He gave his excuse and headed to the hospital. He hated to deceive people, but in this case he felt he had no choice. He simply had to see her again.

His mind wandered as he walked, but his feet knew to take him to the same room he had visited for years. He couldn't remember the last time she had walked, that her feet had taken her somewhere. She had always been weak and in bed. She had always been a thin, old woman as far as Josiah had known. But she had been like him once. She had been young. She once had a wandering mind and a wandering body. She had simply outlived them both. In weary age, her mind seemed to be fixed to a certain point just as her body was fixed to her bed.

He reached the hospital and went into the doors. In his effort to remain unnoticed, he looked every which way but in front and bumped into a nurse.

"Oh, hey, Josiah. It's been a while since we've seen you here. When she's awake, she always asks about you, you know. Go on in. Maybe she'll be awake. She always does seem to wake up for you. It may do her some good."

"Thank you." He said it so timidly. It had been a mistake coming here and risking being seen. He knew that he had been a fool for thinking that he could slyly come in to a patient's room completely unnoticed, but since he had been seen and spoken to, he could not turn back. He went into her room.

She was asleep. Very rarely was she ever awake when he entered her room. He always seemed to have to wait for her, but this gave him a chance to look into her face and realize that although she was old and weak, she was still human. One day he would be like her. Oddly enough, the idea didn't scare Josiah. If anyone had talked about it much by the word itself, Josiah would have known that he loved that old woman. However, most people only talked about care and provision. He felt that he could do neither of the two. The hospital took care of her and provided for her. He just sat by her side. So he never could put a word to how he felt. But she had taught him that there are words that do exist and there are words that should exist.

He sat there for a while. He had learned to never count the time. It always seemed to go by slower if he did, and it always seemed to go by faster if he tried to remember. Slow seconds and fast seconds. He only wished that the seconds in talking to his Aunt Junia were slow seconds, but they never were. She was always only awake for such a short period.

She moved.

Her hand reached out and grabbed his. He quickly took it and interlocked his fingers with hers. Although her eyes were still closed, he knew that she was awake by the change in her breathing and the firmness and warmth in her grip. It was comforting.

His mother had mentioned that she might soon die. That was months ago, and so she was that much closer. He had never had anyone close to him ever die. However, death was no secret. Everyone knew that everyone died. There were just some that didn't quite understand what it meant. Josiah understood a great deal, but this he did not. Every so often a name would be added to the bronze wall to uphold their memory. In fact, it was called The Wall of Memory. It was taught that this wall had not always been there but was a rather recent addition. Therefore the first name on the wall was not the first person to die, of course, and so that name had no importance. No one could answer who was the first person to die, though if anyone did ask it they would have been rebuked for silliness. Death was never discussed, but neither was it disregarded. When a person died, a person died. No one ever "passed away." Away to where? No one ever "went to a better place." There was no other place to be better. Euphemisms for death, and for anything else, were not part of their language. Even the word "euphemism" was not in their vocabulary.

"I'm glad you're here, Josiah, very glad, but let's not talk just yet." She spoke barely a whisper.

He had wanted to tell her everything, especially how ashamed he was for not coming back to her until then, but somehow she knew. Somehow she understood. Her tone and her warmth told him of forgiveness. There was no need for words in this moment. Josiah then realized that it wasn't about hearing the stories. He was perfectly content with her silent and comfortable company. He just knew that there was something different about this woman. When he was in her presence, there just seemed to be more to everything than he realized. He didn't need to hear her strange words to understand that. If she had never been able to speak, he would have felt the same way. It was simply that her words proved what he felt, that there was something else.

She slowly turned her head to Josiah, opened her eyes, and stared into the boy's. They had turned back into a soft grey with only a hint of her vivid blue.

"It won't always be like this, will it, dear?"

He was caught off guard by her vulnerability. She had always been honest, but he had heard a sound of worry echo in her voice for the first time. He felt he had to comfort the hand that had been comforting him.

"Don't be so doubtful, Aunt Juny. Of course, it will."

"Then let it be as you say." It was as if she had accepted it purely on his word.

She returned her head to her pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her face held no identifiable expression, and her mind either was busy in difficult thoughts or resting with emptiness. He wasn't able to tell. She was a very different woman. Perhaps she could do both at once. It was then that he started to count the time. He had begun to do so subconsciously and stopped when he realized it, but then resumed again because he wanted time to go by more slowly.

"I think I have something to say." She had said it with such insecurity he thought that she might not know what she was saying. She was behaving very differently than he had ever known her to.

"What, Aunt Juny?"

She was still staring at the ceiling.

"What do you need to say, Aunt Juny?"

"Josiah, could you hand me my cloth?"

He looked around the room wanting to help her, but he saw nothing on the tables or shelves, nothing even draped over the chairs. It was neither by the bedside nor on her bed.

"Aunt Juny, are you sure you have one?"

"Did you check to see if it was underneath, dear?"

He crouched down and looked on the floor, and there under her bed was the cloth which somehow managed to get wedged between the bedpost and wall. Whether it had fallen there or had been placed there, he couldn't tell, but it looked as if it had been missing for quite a while and had been collecting dust and grime in the meantime. It was the closest thing to a cloth that he could find.

"Is this it?" He held the cloth with a pinch at a corner because it was so disgusting.

"Oh, thank you, Josiah." But as she reached to grab it, he withdrew.

"It's really dirty, Aunt Juny."

She said that she wanted it nonetheless and as she took the towel, she examined it with interest and agreed.

"It is dirty, very dirty."

"Well, it was lying on the floor, Aunt Juny."

"Will you get me some water so I can wash it?"

There was no sink in the room. There was no running water. In fact, the only water in there was in a pitcher by her bedside meant to drink. It would have to do. The nurses could always replace the water in the morning, he thought. As he brought the pitcher near, she reached out for it. He placed the handle into her hands, but as soon as he released his grip, the glass pitcher fell to the floor and shattered, water and glass both quickly spreading across the floor. Did someone hear it? He held his breath to keep quiet and listened for signs of anyone coming. After he felt convinced that no one was on their way, he looked back to his aunt to apologize. He should have washed the cloth himself. But as he saw her face, he found that it wasn't because of her weak hands that the pitcher fell. She had fallen fast asleep.

He tried to clean up the floor, but it was no use. All he had was a filthy rag, and that wouldn't accomplish anything. He then kissed his aunt on her cheek and ran out of the hospital, hoping that the nurses wouldn't tell his mother that he had been there and that he had caused such a mess. He knew that he could not go there again, not during the week nor the weekend.

Josiah kept to himself and was abnormally quiet afterward. His mother noticed, and his teachers noticed, but no one had asked him why. He was thankful for that, at least. He wasn't thankful for much else. He was bothered by his dreams which occurred more frequently than ever. The pitcher always dropped, and he always ran. That had been the constant variable of his dreams. Water flooded the floors, and he knew there was no way out. If the water continued to rise, then everyone would die, including himself. He was trapped. He didn't know what to make of it, he didn't know what to do, and he had no one to ask. The only person that could help him was his Aunt Junia. Only she had his confidence. He had never shared such intimacy even with his own mother. In fact, as the water rose in his dream, the only person's death he feared was the old woman's, not his own nor his mother's. It was a strange sentiment since he still didn't understand what it meant to die. He could not ask the old woman for fear that his mother would find out about his visits. He had a feeling that she had already been told about his last visit. It had been useless to hope otherwise. However, she had not reprimanded him for it. She had not said anything. Josiah was not the only one being abnormally quiet lately. To him, everyone seemed to be hushed and everything distant.

He couldn't say why he felt the need to see the old woman. It was just that she was perfectly genuine, more so than anyone he ever knew. It often drew tears for him to think that his mother was not so perfectly genuine. She had her own secrets that tied her to everyone else. He felt that he needed to be a part of something separate. He yearned for something, and he just knew that that feeling ceased when he was sitting by her bedside, listening.

So he set his mind to it. He would sneak out of his family room after light-off and visit the hospital area which he knew to always have a light on, though a lesser. He knew the way very well, however, he never before ventured there in the dark.

The lights went off in the room of his family and everywhere else. He waited until he knew his mother was asleep. He climbed out of his bed, towards and through the door. He was at a quick pace, sliding his hand against the hall wall for guidance. Two lefts, a right, a left, a right, through the main doors, the second door on the right. He slowly pushed the door open, slid in quietly and sat in his chair. The lesser light in the room shined faintly on the face of his dear aunt.

"Aunt Juny?" He whispered to wake her. "Aunt Juny?" He whispered louder.

She mumbled inaudibly in her sleep. He then got up from his chair and stood by her bed. He poked her cold cheek. Nothing. Slowly, he returned to his chair without ever taking his eyes off of the woman. And he waited. He knew she would always wake during the day, but he had never been there any other time. There was no promise that she would wake.

He had a feeling, not of fear, but of something that he wasn't quite familiar with or quite sure of. Whatever the feeling was, he knew he felt the need to stay until something happened. She was going to wake up.

He waited, twiddling his thumbs, for fifteen minutes, thirty minutes, an hour, trying to remember her strange words and stories. The problem with remembering the words and stories was that he had no way to imagine them, no way to envision them. Whatever image he applied to any one of her words seemed so fake and transparent that they soon faded from his mind. He simply saw the reality in them when he heard them from whom they were real.

Then she started to sing. He couldn't understand her words since she was still mumbling, but she was definitely singing, and her eyes were still closed, and she was still asleep. Asleep and singing her song. Such a strange woman, he thought. Her voice eventually faded, and she lied silently and motionless once again.

Something was going to happen, he thought. He just had to wait. So he did. He waited until he fell asleep. It was, after all, a good bit into the night. The soft light was comforting. He fought his heavy eyes as long as he could, but eventually he closed his eyes long enough for sleep to take over without him knowing. He dreamed his dream once again.

He awoke with a start. The water had made it up to his neck. But that image quickly fled as he started to panic, not knowing where he was. As he slowly came to mind, his panic didn't cease much because he didn't know how long he had been there. Were the nurses on their way? Would his mother be awake? He tried to calm himself down. He took a deep breath and looked toward the bed.

His breath was suddenly taken from him as the face of the woman startled him. She was facing him. Her eyes were open, but she was not speaking or reacting to the boy's presence in the least bit. Did she see him? Had she gone blind? She seemed to be looking at something with an utmost intensity, but it didn't seem to be anything outside of her own mind. The boy stared into her eyes, but she remained staring into her self with a most serene expression on her wrinkled face. He hated to disturb it, but he had to know what she was seeing.

"Aunt Junia?" He whispered.

"Oh Josiah, my sweet nephew, is that you?'

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, thank goodness. I'd hate for anyone else to miss it. It is so beautiful. And it's been so, so long."

"What do you mean, Aunt Junia? What is it?"

"It's the sun, my dear. It is so beautiful. And today it is so bright. I do remember it. It was always beautiful. The sun in the sky, I do remember it. Do you?"

"I don't, Aunt Juny. I've never seen it."

"What a shame. It is so... it is so beautiful."

"Can you tell me, Aunt Juny? Please tell me."

But she never answered him. As she was looking into the sun, the poor woman died.

# CHAPTER 6

"Teacher?"

"Yes, Josiah?"

"I realize that we've already talked about this but can you go over homonyms again?"

"I believe we can. Did you not understand it then, Josiah? You should have said so."

She knew that Josiah had learned about homonyms before she had ever taught him. But why would he ask the question?

"It's not quite that, but that I heard another word that could be a homonym or maybe a homophone, so I wanted to ask about it."

"I think we've been over a majority of them, but go ahead. What's the word?"

"Sun."

"First of all, let me remind you what a homonym is." It was strange that he needed a reminder. "It's a word that shares the same sound of another word but means something different. Is this what you are thinking?" She knew it was precisely what he was thinking. He never confused what he had learned.

"Yes, ma'am. So what about my word?"

"I'm afraid there's only one son, and as you surely know, a son is a male child."

"And there's no other word?"

"No. I'm not sure what you heard, Josiah, but I assure you that there's no other word."

"You're absolutely sure there is no other 'son' that means something different?"

She felt like Josiah was playing at something. Was he trying to insult her in some way? Why was he asking? And why pick that word? Her tone changed. She put on her superior demeaning tone that she had never used on him before, but he knew it well since she used it often on the trouble makers and the interrupters.

"I'm absolutely sure, Josiah. Can we get on with what we need to learn, or do you have anything else?"

"Rain?"

Frustration was swelling inside of her. She had never known Josiah to act up like this. Then again, he had been acting strangely lately. He had been awfully quiet and inactive in class. Maybe this was a strange stage of his.

"Again, Josiah, no other words. I can give you a list if you'd like – "

"I would very much like it." He was completely oblivious.

"Josiah, listen, please. I can give you a list, but don't waste our time guessing at words."

"I wasn't guessing. I heard them."

"Can I ask from whom?"

He finally caught the frustrated tone of the teacher and became embarrassed. He had never meant any harm. If he were to answer her question honestly he would suffer more embarrassment because those words had come from his Aunt Junia who was well known to be a great source of laughter from his fellows. He had heard the numerous derogatory remarks. So he declined to answer. He was then dismissed from the classroom.

It wasn't bizarre to him that his teacher didn't know. He had simply hoped for the best. What he thought bizarre was that he was dismissed from class because he asked the teacher. Why had she done that? He wasn't troubled by the question for long. He wasn't angry with his teacher. Instead he used the time he had to wait on his mother at lunch. When the time came, he found her in the commons and sat with her for the first time in a long while.

"Mom?"

"What is it, Josiah?"

"My teacher didn't know, but I thought maybe you would. Do you know what a sun is?"

"You know what it is. You are my son."

She glanced at her colleagues who sat at the table with her with a look that seemed to say, "I promise, he actually is a genius."

"Well, yeah. I know that. But is there another word that means something different?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Well, I heard it from Aunt Junia." He had momentarily forgotten that he wasn't supposed to have gone to see Aunt Junia alone, especially when he was supposed to be asleep and so he quickly added, "a long time ago."

"Don't you think that she was talking about someone, maybe her own, no, not her own, but someone else's son?"

"But she said that the sun was an it and that it was beautiful."

"Josiah, do I have to keep reminding you about her mind. There is something I need to tell you since we are talking about her. Son," he twitched at the mere sound of the word, "Aunt Junia has died."

Despite her hand lying on his shoulder as a sign of comfort, she said it so matter-of-factly. Everyone always did. She didn't mean it so coldly, but it came across that way. No one had really ever tried to explain it to him. His dream had taught him more of death than anything else. What he had feared most had come true. The next day her name was added to the wall. He then understood that he would never talk to her again. He would never see her again. Just like he had never talked to, or seen any of those whose names were on the wall before hers since they had been put there. Only this time it actually mattered. What he had taken for her normal doze in the middle of her speaking turned into her death. He at least knew that she was happy when she was dying. Not only was she happy, she was thriving, and her eyes had been vividly blue, even if for the last time. She had no doubt been herself when she had spoken her last words. And what last words they were. He held on to them strongly. He would never forget those words. He knew that much.

Josiah's head hung low, and he regressed once again into his quiet and sulky mood, only this time there was no promise that he would come out of it. That old woman had been his cure before, just as she had always been, but he no longer knew of a way to see her. The only evidence that she had been a part of the people at all was an engraved name on the bronze wall. This was where he found himself without quite knowing why. He spent hours just gazing and searching the names. Hers was simply the last on a list that held numerous names, and he had only then fully understood that they too had once lived but no longer did. "So many names, so many people, and they are all gone. She is gone."

If it wasn't for her absence, he might not have held on to what became his obsession. There was only one thing that filled his mind, only one idea, only one word. Sun. But no one knew what it was. They would say over and over again, "It's not an it. It's a who." There was no sun. Just like her other words, it didn't exist. It was made up. Perhaps she was crazy after all.

He had stopped his pretense of playing with the others. Instead, he spent his time slumped back into his hidden corner, his safe place, and would confide in his puzzles and riddles, which were borrowed from four age groups above. He was soon forgotten by his playmates, and he cared very little. He had always felt so removed but knew he was not alone in his feelings. He saw the look in many people's eyes, including his mother's. They looked exactly how he felt. They just didn't know how to express it, and he was only beginning to learn. It was only later through this expression that he discovered anything true.

For reasons Josiah would never know, the Captain had kept his keen eye on Josiah. He knew that the old woman was Josiah's great aunt and that the two were "peculiarly close." He also knew that the boy had become withdrawn lately because of her death, at least that was his assumption. The Captain had invested in Josiah, and so he felt that a follow-up was necessary in order to "correct what is so strange." Therefore, Josiah was summoned to his office once again, only this time without his mother.

"Here, wear this one."

"I'll be fine, mom."

"Your shirt's not straight. There."

"Mom!"

"Don't ask him any questions. Understand? Don't bother him too much. He's a very busy man as you can imagine, and he doesn't like for people to bother him with nonsense. Don't look so worried." For her to say that betrayed her true feelings. She was exhausted with worry. Her fair face was lined with stress. Even her hands trembled as she combed his hair and tied his shoes. However, despite her worries, she had successfully made Josiah into an "official-looking boy." He thought he had seen a tear in his mother's eye, but her voice remained steady, and she kissed him on his forehead.

"I once asked him for something." Her voice stopped involuntarily in her throat. She paused to recover. Josiah knew nothing of what she was thinking. They never talked about much, at least not anything that really mattered, but the tone she used told him that this mattered. "I once asked him for something, and he gave it to me. He doesn't always give people what they ask for, and even when he does, it's not always what they expect. Just be careful, son. He's the Captain," and as the people all said, she finished the statement with, "and he is good."

He was guided to the Captain by the same, silent guard and knew that to ask him the reason for a second visit was useless. The man would never budge. He was led to the same elevator with the same code, up to the same floor, down the same hall with the same secretary's greeting. This time, however, the Captain was not sitting at his office desk. The door was open, but the seat was empty. Josiah sat in the lobby and bid his time reading magazines. He then heard a door crack, then open, and then close quietly. The Captain appeared and invited the boy into his office. It was only then that Josiah had noticed the door which obviously led to another room adjacent to the Captain's office. It had a keypad lock next to the handle similar to the elevator's. Was it the same code, he wondered.

He had no fear this time. Even knowing that his mother would be absent, he went in mostly indifferent although a bit curious. He had shaken hands once again, this time with a purposeful firmness that he assumed was expected from such an official-looking boy. As he sat, the Captain offered him a glass of cider, and he accepted it, showing the sign of appreciation that expressed physically what was so often expressed vocally. "He is the Captain, and he is good." Only Josiah didn't do it exactly.

It was a fault of the Captain's that he never learned how to interact with children. He had been told long ago that it was of the utmost importance, but he failed to understand this importance and never heeded the wisdom.

The first words the Captain said were, "Your aunt was an old woman." It was an awkward statement from an uncomfortable man. He enjoyed exercising authority on those that he felt superior to. Strangely enough, in the presence of a child, he felt like a smaller, simpler man. Children were the ones who saw through him the most. Perhaps, after all, it is children that know men more than they know themselves. Perhaps children are the ones to first recognize who is truly good and who is simply corrupt or misguided. Josiah found a strange comfort in the Captain's uneasiness. His statement had stung coldly, but it hurt less because he knew that there was no malice involved. The Captain was simply so disconnected with death. He never had anyone close enough to him to be affected by their death, at least at the time. Eventually he would know the effects of death. Eventually he would have to face death. Every person is affected by the absence it causes, sooner or later. In the few cases that people remain far from death's effects, they still must face their own. The Captain never wanted to think about it. For his own reasons, and in following the advice of an old counselor, he removed himself from the people. If the population remained stable, he could care less who was born and who died, as long as it happened. He worked for the health and wealth of the colony without caring about the needs of any. He did not care if the people were good, only that they thought him to be.

"Everyone dies." His mustache twitched in his discomfort. His consolation was failing miserably. However, Josiah knew that if the Captain had spoken of how sorry he was or of how he regretted the tragedy or any other sympathetic line, he would then be lying. The Captain was a deceiver and a charmer and had many pretenses, but at the same time, he spoke very forwardly.

His ignorance of children only led him to speak to Josiah bluntly and authoritatively as he did everyone else. Josiah, meanwhile, sipped his cider.

"I brought you in for two reasons, Josiah. One is to offer my condolences." Condolences seemed such a perfectly removed word. "Secondly, and mainly, I want to encourage you to keep up the good work. There is a time for grief and mourning - "He instantly interrupted his speech. If Josiah had been looking him in the eyes, he would have seen a flash of fear, but the look quickly passed and he continued. "There's a time for grief, and there is an appropriate amount of time for it, but it is not good to linger. Though you might not know it, there are people who still need you to do what you do best. The world is simply a better place when you strive to your full potential. It is not a compliment I pay to everyone. In fact, there are very few people who earn my flattery, but you are different."

So many questions ran through his mind, but he allowed himself to say was "Thank you, sir." The Captain continued his speech which overflowed with authority. That's where his strength was found. That is what Josiah perceived, at least. It was in this speech that the boy finally saw what those close to him must have been familiar with, that the Captain was strong more than he was good. He was attractively strong but in a much more encompassing way than merely physical. Confidence was the base of all his expressions. Even before in his uncomfortable manner, Josiah had recognized a background of boldness. He was comfortable in his position. He knew what had to be done.

The Captain's expectations in someone in particular always had a strangely positive effect on people. He always played to the recruits. Never keeping company with the commoners because there was no need, he only cared for those of exceptional talent and personality. He held similar discussions with few others, but Josiah had then had the Captain's full confidence. The man's expectations in Josiah had a strangely positive effect. The boy wanted to do better. He wanted to strive to reach his full potential. He also wanted to come back for yet another visit which the Captain indiscreetly hinted toward. But he still remained silent, following his mother's advice. It was because of her that he never fully trusted the man. Josiah always heard it in her voice despite what she claimed. "He is the Captain, and he is good."

# CHAPTER 7

Josiah always carried around a jacket with him. He seemed to feel a chill in the air when the others did not and wearing it made him feel safe. It was yet another of his peculiarities. He walked around with his hands often in his pockets, wandering through the world, often finding himself staring at the sickening yet comforting bronze wall. It always glared back.

It was soon after the last meeting with the Captain, after retrieving his jacket he had left behind in his secret corner that he found himself fiddling with something in his pocket. He was a boy that thought deeply and wondered as he walked, but it was often the simple things he took for granted. That the object in his pocket was nothing he had put there himself had escaped his notice. But the more he felt it, the stranger it became. He pulled his hand from his pocket. He often would carry around his riddles on paper, but this was entirely different. It was a thick paper that was tarnished tan. As he unfolded it, he saw its rough edges. It was as if it had been torn out of a book but a book that he had never seen. Once unfolded completely, he saw that it was not his own, like he could forget writing such a thing. It was neither his mother's nor his teacher's handwriting. It was written with such style, such beauty and intent, but it was not the handwriting that intrigued him the most, nor was it the paper. The content of the paper contained no recognizable words, and yet it was clearly a message, a message of foreign words with hidden meanings.

The first line was short and much different than the other proceeding lines. P:ryx/14. He had never seen anything like it. Incredibly strange. True, it had to be a puzzle, but he had never seen such complexity. He had never had a problem solving anything before, but this, this was different. It wasn't only the mere writing that was a puzzle, either. Who had given this to him, and not even directly to him? Who had sneaked into his jacket to make sure it made its way into his hands quietly and secretly? Who would take such time and effort into such an elaborate cryptogram? And why? The thought of it being from the Captain was the most logical conclusion, but that conclusion made him want to throw away the paper immediately. Had the Captain really been watching Josiah so closely that he knew when he had left behind his jacket? Did the Captain know where he spent most of his time, where his secret corner was? But no, not the Captain. It was too strange to be from the Captain. It was too creative. Even the handwriting seemed to belong to an honest man. Honest strokes with honest intentions. The writing he had seen of the Captain was harsh and direct, perhaps with a hidden agenda, but not a hidden message to be properly revealed.

Then who? If it wasn't the Captain, there was someone else watching him. And what could the letter possibly read?

The first line he thought to be a greeting of some sort, like a "to whom it may concern" which headed most letters that he had seen, but he had never seen punctuation or numbers substituting letters. He had no idea how to begin. Instead, he looked further. Except for a small cluster of numbers, the other lines were only made of letters and nothing else, consisting of words and sentences. Though he remained illiterate, he could see that at least.

He reached his room. After making sure of his mother's absence, he closed his door and took out the piece of aged paper. As he unfolded it once again, he caught its strange scent. It reminded him of someone. It reminded him of his great aunt! Could it have been her! Was it from Aunt Juny! Could she possibly have written this before she died? He caught the scent again. But no, it wasn't from her. She could not have written so neatly, nor could she have thought so clearly. And someone had been watching and following him. Someone had reached into his jacket pocket and left that paper just recently. It could not have been Aunt Junia. Aunt Junia was dead. After smelling it closely, he dismissed the exciting idea. It smelled of age but not of her age.

He held back a tear and began to fiercely gather his papers, his old projects, his favorite pencils, one for writing letters and one for solving mathematics, and his blank notepad. He scattered them onto his table and began to search the strange puzzle. He dismissed the first line in its difficulty. He had pondered over it too long with nothing to show and no further ideas. After moving onto the main text, he soon found that nothing was comprehensible, nothing able to be gathered from the maze of letters. There was nothing he had ever struggled with before. However, this letter seemed impossible. He scribbled in his notebook, wasting away the pencils without any use. He had never given up on solving a problem, but he had never had a true problem before, so it seemed. No combination he could muster was correct. No letter seemed to represent another. Josiah became aggravated and angry. Hot tears would leak and his mind would strain and become even busier but with even less results. This continued the cycle until he flung the papers off the table and collapsed with his head in his hands. He had never failed to solve a puzzle. Then, when it seemed to be the most important thing to do, when he had something truly worth solving, he simply could not.

He did not know how long he had sulked in his anger, but he realized that he had fallen asleep, and awoke at the sound of his mother's arrival. He quickly gathered the papers together, hid the mystery, and went to greet her. However, he did have time to glance at one line, and that line he memorized. It was the first line, the most important one: P:ryx/14. Why was it so strange?

They watched their television programs together. Nothing very memorable. Nothing ever was. Even through the introductions, Josiah was inattentive. His mind was focused on the one line. Apparently, it was noticeable.

"Are you alright, Josiah?"

Josiah answered her with words that showed his distant mind. His mother watched the boy's eyes which were not following the screen but gazed past in deep thought.

"Are you thinking about starting that advanced mathematics? Your teacher told me. Are you nervous about that?"

He shrugged.

"He said you would be able to handle it. He told me you knew about it, that you asked him a while ago if you could take more advanced lessons."

"Math? Oh, yeah, I do -" His voice faded a bit. He remained silent for a moment. However, his mind was very quickly turned to the current world by one word that he repeated unknowingly in his head. Then suddenly it came. Math! The first line! It's an equation! He ran off to his room and to his table.

"But the program is still on, Josiah."

"I have to finish up some school work. Good sleep, mom."

He closed his door, dismissing his mother, and repeating to himself the first line, the equation. P:ryx/14. It made much more sense then, why the first line was so strange and different, why the main text could never be solved and the letters never equated with others. It was because it was based off of more complex mathematics than a equals b.

With this epiphany in mind, he began diligently working through the equation. It in itself was a puzzle, a sort of mathematical cryptogram which intrigued him even more. He had to solve a cryptogram to solve a cryptogram. He then began to reassess the importance of the message it must contain. With so much effort taken to hide the message, with absolutely no writing that was immediately literate, and with the letter delivered so secretly and strangely, it must be of the utmost importance. So it must be solved as soon as possible. His curiosity would not allow otherwise. He had done so many that he had naturally developed a process and pattern. However, he had never had to isolate such a small line before, and more so, one with various types of characters. When there seems to be no answer, assumptions must be made. Therefore, for Josiah, P:ryx had to be equal to 14. Slowly, he wrestled out his written equation. There was no way to trust it since it was built upon such an assumption, but he had no other choice but to continue to unravel with a potentially flawed equation as his basis. If he was incorrect, it would be a waste of time, but if correct, a revelation.

The lights went out leaving him in the dark without a single word accomplished. Even with the equation, the task still proved difficult. It took days of spare time, much second guessing, two reevaluations of the equation, a return to the original, and countless scribbles and wasted pages. Finally, though, after a desperate act of rotating the letters, a single word appeared. From. He tried not to get too excited. It could be a fluke, a random set of letters that just so happened to form an understandable word. However, the more he rotated the letters, the more he followed a pattern, the more the message unraveled. Two words. Three words. A sentence. A message. A mystery unveiled. When he stepped back and read the message, how strange, he thought. How strange, indeed.

_From the door of the main room, going North. Third hall left, last hall right, third door left, through back door, 14525, down to B, through door, second door right, door on left. Knock._

That was it, nothing more than strange directions to a place he could not go from a person he did not know. Yet it greatly intrigued him. For the first time in his life, mystery was unfolding. He had never ventured toward where the directions were leading. He could not. He had not even known that there was a floor beneath his own to go down to until recently. But there was that same number. It was the code that the silent guard used for the elevator. 14525. He never forgot it. So he was being told by encrypted directions to break the laws of the world in order to find something completely unknown to him. But by whom? The question bothered him immensely. It was that question which caused his delay. It was that uncertainty that hindered his action.

A week went by. He continuously fingered the folded letter and took it out of his pockets every chance he could to glance over the directions although he had memorized them long ago. He frequently traveled north of the main room and peered down the third hall with the last hall in sight, but he didn't go. He was torn by the directions. He had been instilled with a sense of fear of things of this nature for so long that he dared not think about following the letter, but he knew in his gut that he should go no matter the danger.

He reasoned it out. The letter was addressed to no one but was deliberately delivered into his jacket pocket. It was possible that the deliverer put it into his jacket without knowing to whom it belonged, but not very likely. The fact that it was a cryptogram was a sign in itself. Not very many people would be interested enough to take the time or would be intelligent enough to translate one. The evidence grew stronger in view of the cryptogram's difficulty and complexity. Josiah did not know of a single person who would be capable of translating such a message even if they did take the time to try. It was meant for him. This also meant that whoever delivered the message knew Josiah's intelligence very well and was also more intelligent than any person Josiah had come across. There were many who knew he had a knack for solving puzzles, the teachers, classmates, his mother, the Captain. It could not have been from any of these. They simply were not capable of producing such a thing. It must have been from a stranger, but a stranger who knew Josiah only too well. The directions were very well and very purposely disguised which meant that the writer did not want anyone else to know, or perhaps he could not afford for anyone else to know, and so made it impossible for anybody to understand it if it happened to fall into unintended hands. It was the secrecy that both prevented him and intrigued him. The more he pondered, the more he felt led to go. There was nothing threatening about the message, only direct. There was nothing false about the message, only dangerous. There was no doubt that it was meant for him, and he was meant to go.

But when?

Josiah always thought best as he walked, and as he walked through his world his question became "now?". Was there any other more opportune moment? Should he wait and contemplate the danger even more? Should he weigh and balance? No, there was no diminishing his uneasiness about the message and what it implied. He was never encouraged to go against his teachings except by his own gut. His reasoning told him to dismiss, but his gut told him to journey. Which to follow? Which was more reliable? After wandering for what he had supposed to be a long time, he looked up and became aware of his surroundings and was surprised at where he had wandered. He stood at the north door of the main room. So he went against his teachings. "Now."

He stared down the hall with his feet still planted. It only takes one step, he thought. Just one step. He took it. Steadily and slowly he walked with the directions embedded in his mind. From the door of the main room, going North. He fingered the folded letter in his pocket as he traveled, his excitement beginning to grow. His mind was made. He would follow the message to whatever end it brought him. His heart began to beat faster. Although his nerves were shaking, he forced himself to remain calm, not wanting to draw any attention to a boy headed to a restricted section. Passing by the first hall, he meandered through overlooking adults. He peered at the doors of the hall but kept his eyes in steady motion to appear as a simple wandering child. The crowds lessened as he traveled further away from the main room. With it being the weekend, everyone was usually drawn to the center. Josiah was headed to the fringes. If anyone questioned him or gave him any attention, he could always pretend to be lost. No one did. No one said a word. Third hall left. His pace quickened in the absence of people and out of his growing fear and excitement.

It seemed strange to him though that he felt the need to run toward the source of his fear rather than away from it. It was a different fear, one he wasn't quite familiar with. He passed room after room, hall after hall, peering down and counting as he went. They were on his right and on his left, a maze worth exploring but not at the time. He had to follow his mysterious message. His heart beat more rapidly as he reached the end. Last hall right. As he turned, he stopped. It was a place he had never been, a place he had never seen, and was never supposed to see. The hall was lined with strange doors and plain walls. Nothing prevented him from going on except the verbal restrictions which had been instilled in him. No guards were present. They apparently had their weekend as well. He stepped out and continued, passing the first door, a dark and motionless room. He passed the second door. Again, no activity. Nervously ceasing his footsteps, he reached for the handle but immediately pulled his hand back. Had he heard something? A foot fall? He glanced to his left then to his right, intently listening. No one. No sound. Third door left.

He quickly stepped into the dimly lit room to escape the eyes of the ghost he had imagined. The walls were plain and empty. The room was barren. His eyes were immediately drawn to the eerie wall opposite of him. The secured door seemed so out of place. Through back door. However, it did have a familiar element to it. Beside the handle was a keypad, one he had been expecting ever since he had translated the number. 14525. The door swung open and revealed something that Josiah had never expected. What he thought would be an elevator was actually a staircase. He took a careful first step down and paused. He was headed down to a place he should not have known existed. Not many people did. Apparently, though, his messenger was one of the special few who held the secret. He stepped down. And down. And down. He reached a door marked A with the same familiar keypad. The door was solid. Solid and mysterious. Maybe one day but not today, he thought.

As fascinating as it was with such hidden potential, it was not a part of his current purpose. Down to B. The door was identical to A. He input the same five digits, and he heard the same click. Through door. His excitement welled up inside, not knowing what to expect. He had never even dreamed of such possibilities before the letter, and at that moment he was venturing into a hidden part of his world. As he pushed the door open, he saw the new world.

His first impression was of disappointment. It all looked the same. The same hall with the same doors and the same plain walls. Fear left him. What was the danger in the familiar? He stepped out into the mundane setting. Second door right. It opened up to a strange room, a room with proof of wear, a room that seemed to be a dead end, except for one thing. Door on left. He stood before it, with only one last instruction to follow. His fear quickly returned and had overcome his excitement. It was the type of fear with which he was familiar. It was telling him to run, to return. No one knew where he was. No one even knew of the existence of where he was. He was all alone with no one remotely close. What had he been thinking? He knew that if there was danger, there was also no escape. But his gut continued to say one thing. He lifted his hand in a fist. Knock.

No sound returned from the room. He took hold of the door handle but the handle did not budge. It was locked. Josiah stood there questioning the directions that had been given to him. Had he followed them correctly? Was he standing at the right door, or was he lost? How could he have been so sure that they were for him to follow? How stupid was it to come on a whim like he did. Of course, no one would answer the door. There was no one inside, nothing and no one. The place was barren. The new world proved to be an empty and disappointing discovery. He turned his back to the door and took a step to return to his own world where there was activity, where there were no useless, empty rooms or halls to deceive. However, as he took that first step away, being led without thinking, he quickly turned around and knocked again. Before he had even realized what he had done, four sharp knocks from the boy's small hands landed on the door.

A noise came from within!

Josiah heard movement, a sort of startled shuffle. His heart leapt and paced. A thump was heard as something had apparently fallen to the ground. Someone was in there. Perhaps, and very probably, the person inside was the person who had led him there. But the noise stopped, and once again everything was silent.

The instructions only told him to knock. What else was he to do? Was he to wait? He had already overcome his main fears with sudden impulsive acts of courage. This time, however, he stood there quietly and thought. What was he to do? He was there. He had followed the directions that were meant for him. There was only one thing left for him to do.

"Excuse me -" The words escaped and were caught in his throat. They were barely whispered. "Excuse me," he tried again more audibly, "my name is Josiah. I think I got a letter from you. I found it in my jacket. I figured out the message. They led me here, to you." He wondered if his words made it through the door to be heard. There was no response. "Are you there?" He asked with such simplicity and politeness that his fear ceased in hearing his own voice. It was out. His presence was known. A simple, helpless boy stood outside the door of a stranger's room in a strange place. However, he felt peace in the vulnerability. He heard the same shuffle, only this shuffle was a bit louder and he could hear the quickness and anxiousness in that sound. As it continued, so did the soft thuds. It seemed that with every hurried step, some object fell to the ground.

Josiah stepped back, his eyes fixed on the handle. The shuffling ceased and the room once again fell quiet. A minute passed by, and the boy simply waited, watching the handle for any movement.

Click.

The handle moved. The door cracked. There was a slight hesitation, but it continued to open. Fear immediately swept over Josiah, and he quickly retreated with two steps with an alarming fear of the person living in such a place, so removed from everyone and everything. Who could this possibly be, and what could he possibly want? What a mistake! It could be the last he made, he thought. He was frozen, and the door continued to open. It stopped. The opening was only enough to allow a person to barely slip out. The intentions of secrecy were immediately apparent.

Then it happened. Someone slipped through the opening quickly and with such strange agility. He then shut the door swiftly behind him but with an astonishing silence.

An old man stood before him. The great immediate panic that occurred at his emergence then turned to a strange relief. It was because of the old man's eyes. They were blue, vivid blue, with a look of peace and wilderness, of sorrow and contentment. The man was thoroughly unkempt. His wild, wiry gray hair was matted and frayed and had the look of being roughly sheared with a dull blade. His tangled, white beard seemed to have decided to grow outward instead of downward as it had reached his mid-chest and had also the look of being repeatedly sheared. He was a disheveled old man, and quite pale. However, his paleness was offset by his filthiness. It was the grime that gave him his color. The tattered brown coat that he wore would most likely fill the room with a stale dust if it had been shaken. Beneath that old coat, he wore what once must have been a handsome white dress shirt but was instead a tanned and frayed remnant. The same applied to the darkened and stained olive slacks he wore. But what a dress. Peculiar yet comforting. Josiah had never seen the likes but just like the handwriting and just like the man's eyes, his dress just seemed to be honest.

The boy stood speechless, captivated by the strangest man he had ever seen. In fact, due to the television programs, Josiah had never truly met a stranger until that moment. He did not know the man's name, or his job, or who his family was. He never knew that this old man ever existed. And that was the strangest thing.

"Josiah, my boy -" Josiah flinched at the sound of the old man's voice, not out of fear but from surprise. He had expected a raspy voice to accompany such a tattered figure, but the voice was strong - strong and full - even in his hushed tone.

"I thought you might never come. I thought I had been such a fool. But as chance would have it, you have come with perfect timing. I must apologize for my skittish behavior. There are reasons for my fears of knocks upon my door. Much is to be explained. I imagine you are a bit afraid, but I can reassure you that you have no reason to be, though my word may not quite be trustworthy just yet. You have the right to be wary, my boy, for it was I who sent you the directions which were knowingly put into your jacket specifically in your corner while you were absent. And all for a purpose. You see, Josiah, we are both searching for something."

The boy remained quiet and cautious. He did not sense that the man was harmful, only that he was wild. The man seemed to be omniscient and perfectly wise, something that Josiah had never experienced before. The Captain, in his character and power, paled in comparison. In fact, Josiah thought that it was a disgrace to the stranger to even think about such a man in the moment. But who was this man?

"Ah, but forgive me. I know who you are, but I have yet to introduce my own self. You may call me Historian."

"Historian? Then you must write our history books for school."

"Not quite. However, I could tell you things about our history that would astound you, but I'm afraid that would only serve to drive you off at the moment. We must not be hasty, so let us leave that dialogue for a later time. I am sort of a keeper, if you will. Ah, but you see, even that is getting ahead. I've never had to explain a thing about this to anyone before now so pacing is crucial. It would do no good to unwind everything since there is simply so much to unwind. Little at a time does it. There are many important things that will go misunderstood and missed altogether in the process. I have most likely already done so. For now, for simplicity's sake, let us say that I am a teacher. And I am in the hopes of having you as my student. I predict, though, that you will be the one to enlighten me soon enough."

"What?" It was all the boy could say.

"I'm sorry, Josiah. I hope I haven't completely confused you. I am just talking to myself mostly. I've been at it for too long, it seems. Will you at least accept one lesson from an old man, just for his own amusement?"

"Yes, sir. I guess I can do that."

"Splendid." He drew up an old wooden chair, the only one in the room. "Have a seat, Josiah, if you wish." Josiah took his seat very nervously.

# CHAPTER 8

The Historian stood before the boy with the wall at his back and began to speak as if he was in a lecture hall, only this professor was even stranger than the most eclectic of those in the universities back there.

"Here is the first lesson. Perhaps it is quite different than your other teachers. I will pose a scenario. It is up to you to ask the right questions to reach the right conclusion. However, your questions can only be answered with a yes or a no, nothing else, so phrase your questions rightly. Remember, the right questions lead you to the right conclusion but only if you trust the answers. A man reads and is imprisoned."

It's true that Josiah had never been taught by such a method, but it didn't seem strange to him. He found the method quite intriguing, but he still felt cautious and wary of his teacher.

"A man reads and is imprisoned." Josiah repeated it back. The scenario seemed illogical, but perhaps that was the man's game. He felt unsure and hesitant about his first question. "Is reading illegal?"

The Historian quoted a quick "no" and leaned against the wall behind him, steadily watching the boy as he thought it through.

"So he's not imprisoned for reading?"

"No, he is not imprisoned for reading."

"Okay. So did he know why he was imprisoned?"

"Yes."

"Was the reason part of the known law?"

The Historian abruptly stood to attention. Josiah distinctly heard the word "impressive" come through the man's quick mutter, then he answered back. "Yes and no."

"Yes and no?" Josiah thought that his reply was a bit unfair.

"Yes and no, Josiah. Begin to dissect."

"Does what he was reading have anything to do with his arrest and imprisonment?"

"Yes." The Historian was hiding his excitement, but Josiah's face shined with curiosity and the lesson was no longer the simple school lesson he imagined it to be. Instead it had become something so intriguing that he felt he had to know the full answer.

"Was he told why he was imprisoned?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Was he imprisoned by the lawkeepers?"

"Yes." The Historian's face showed a strange trace of gloom.

"Were they just in their arrest and imprisonment? I mean, did he deserve it?"

"Yes and no."

"Well, did he commit a crime?" The boy didn't know why he wanted the man to be innocent, but he did.

"Yes. Yes, he did."

Josiah's heart sank a bit. He sat quietly for a moment, then his eyes lit up as he had a new hope.

"Did the punishment fit the crime?"

The Historian gave the boy a genuine smile. "No. No, he did not deserve the punishment that he was given."

"Okay, so what was the crime? You said that it was part of the known law. Was it forbidden by one of the neighbor laws?"

"Yes."

"Did he hurt someone?" He asked, afraid of the answer.

"No."

Relieved, he asked another. "Did he steal something?"

"Yes."

"Did he steal a book?"

"Yes, Josiah! Very good."

Everything seemed to be coming together in his mind like a puzzle. He began to visualize the answers that he had and what was missing. The problem was solvable.

"So the man stole a book, was justly arrested for stealing property but was unjustly imprisoned for it?"

"Yes."

"Well, what kind of book was it?"

"Yes or no, only, my boy. We're not quite done yet."

"Was the book a book of government records?" It was the only thing that Josiah could think of that would be so secretive and hold such a burdensome punishment.

"No."

"Was it a book for education?"

"No."

"A book of hospital records?" He was grasping at questions.

"No."

Josiah once again sat quietly, trying to think of something, of anything.

"Keep going, Josiah. Try another track."

"Okay." He sat for another moment, thinking and twiddling his thumbs. "Did the book contain valuable information?"

"More than you can know, my boy. Absolutely."

"Did it contain information about the people?"

"Yes. You're doing splendid, Josiah. Keep going."

"Did it contain information about the current people?"

"No."

"So it contained information about people in the past?"

"Yes."

The answer surprised him. He didn't quite know why, but history was never a subject taught deeply in school. They had two history books that were used in school, but that number paled in comparison to the multitudes devoted to the other subjects, to the sciences and maths. The history that they did have and were taught was a shallow and falsified past that was used merely to teach how life in the colony worked. The bronze wall held the only reliable history of the colony, and there were many names on it that he didn't know about and would never know about.

"So where are we now, Josiah?"

"So we have a book that contains valuable information about the people of the past which the government wrote and that book was stolen for whatever reason."

"No. Not everything you just said was accurate. Be very careful here, Josiah. Go over your last statement and ask it in pieces."

"Okay, let's see. The book does contain valuable information, yes?"

"Yes."

"The information is about the people of the past, yes?"

"Yes."

"And the book was written by the government, yes?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, it was not."

The idea was incredible to Josiah. For him, it was a natural assumption that the Historian couldn't hold against him. No one else wrote books.

"Then who?"

"Yes or no, Josiah."

"Did the doctors write it?"

"No."

"The scientists?"

"No. Keep going, Josiah. You're getting there. Only calm down and think."

"Did the teachers write it?"

"No."

"But if the government didn't write it, and if the doctors, scientists, and teachers didn't, then there's no one else to write it. The only people left are the citizens."

"Exactly, Josiah! That is exactly it!" The odd, old man was absolutely beaming with excitement. The boy was brilliant.

"You mean to say that the book that was stolen was written by a citizen?"

"Yes. That is exactly what I mean."

"But citizens don't write books. They never have."

"Oh, but they have, Josiah. They used to write and they used to write a lot. However, the riddle isn't solved just yet. Keep going."

Josiah tried to continue the best he could, but his mind had just been thrown about by the incredible news, and he wasn't so sure he could accept the idea. He had promised to hear out his teacher, and so he obeyed and continued.

"Alright. So we need to find out what the book was about. I think that may be the key."

"Very good. Ask your questions."

"Was the book about the government?"

"No.

"The hospital?"

"No."

"The schools?"

"No."

"Well, was it any kind of education material at all?"

"Yes, but not in the way that you are thinking."

"I don't understand. If it isn't these things then what is it?"

"Think about who wrote it, Josiah. What would they write?"

The boy took another moment. He sifted through the possibilities and only came to one, a rather foolish one.

"They didn't write about themselves, did they?"

"Yes."

"What? Why would that be important? No one's life is important enough to be written about."

"You might think so but only because you have known nothing else. There is something much bigger than everything you know right now. It's not your fault by any means but -"

"Are you saying that the scenario is true then?"

"Smart boy. Yes." He bent down to level with Josiah, looked him in the eyes, and continued to speak. "I read a book and was imprisoned. It's true. I did steal it. Well, to be honest, I stole many. To me, though, the worse crime would have been if I had not stolen them." He slowly stood back up. "As far as imprisonment goes, yes it was unjust and still is, but my cell is perhaps the most fulfilling cell in the history of our time." The phrase struck Josiah as odd. "I will show it to you if you would like."

"Really!"

"But that must come later. Now you know that I am a criminal, but allow me to explain myself. I was once an important person in the midst of other important people. While doing my work one day, I came across a storage room and saw the most amazing thing, a room filled entirely with books. It came as a surprise to me because I thought that I knew everything there was to know about everything, but apparently some of the others had their secrets, and these secrets were on the darker side, or at least I think so. For quite a long time, no one knew that I had found what they were hiding. I went back to the room occasionally to sift through the books and was just as shocked as you to discover what they were and even more shocked at what they contained inside. I began to take the books a few at a time to an empty room on an unused hallway. I knew that it was only a matter of time before I was caught, but I had to try to find out as much as I could about them, and so I continued with a sort of false hope. I was always so careful and cunning about how I handled the process of moving the books, but I was eventually caught. However, what they knew and what they kept hidden for who knows how long was such a complex issue that my crime against their secret naturally could not be publicly announced or punished. The lawkeepers knew only to arrest me and to deliver me to my new prison on special request by those in higher power. And here, as you might have guessed by now, is my prison cell, but it is for another day. If you wish to come back, come only at the times that are given."

He handed Josiah another encoded message on the same tarnished paper.

"I have spent countless quiet time in this place. It would be only natural for me to know all the patterns of my keepers' comings and goings. After all, to them I am just a lazy old hermit."

"What do they write about?"

"Excuse me?" His concentration had shifted to his imprisonment.

"What was in the books you found? What were they hiding?"

"Have you not guessed? It is the very reason I have brought you here. You see, my boy, these books, they mention something that we are both searching for. Josiah, they talk about the sun."

# CHAPTER 9

A week. A full week. That's how long Josiah had to wait until he could see the Historian again. That is how long he had to wait to get any answer. It did not take him long to decipher the message, but Josiah was frustrated and impatient with what it had said. He had not forgotten about the sun, but since he had been at an impasse with it, he simply grew weary and discouraged. He had pushed it to the back of his mind, but after the Historian it then held his constant attention. He was not crazy. His Aunt Junia was not crazy. The Historian knew about the sun, and if he was telling the truth others before him knew about the sun. What is it? That question gnawed at his mind. What is the sun? And why does no one know about it?

There was no doubt in his mind that he would go back to the old man. The Historian also was confident in the boy's return. He felt that the sun was then engraved in the boy's heart, just as it was in his own and was beginning to haunt Josiah as it had haunted him ever since he first read the word. He knew from experience that it was a curse and would remain so until the sun was either discovered or found to be a lie. If it was a lie, then the man was to be pitied. He would exhaust himself to the very end.

The week passed by slowly, but it did pass. And Josiah returned.

The old man opened the steel door to reveal his prison cell. To the boy's amazement, since he had expected either barrenness or brokenness similar to what he had seen in this new world, the room opened up to something so extraordinary that the word 'cell' had completely vanished from his thoughts. It was the last word he would have imagined to use to describe such a fantastic and bizarre looking place. Every wall was lined with shelves from the floor to the ceiling and not a single inch was misused. The walls seemed to have been made of the many books which the shelves held. However, not even the four walls could contain the vast amount and therefore stacks of books lay on the floor several feet high in a roughly organized manner. A small cot lay in the back left corner snugly against the bookshelves. A great trunk sat at its foot. Josiah only guessed that it held his clothes because he saw no evidence of any other articles than what the man was wearing. In the center of the room sat a large wooden desk made of the same strange material that he had seen in the previous rooms. More books and journals were stacked on and by the desk, the ones which the wise man happened to be studying and examining for answers at the time. What area was not covered by the books was covered by scattered papers, some written with precise penmanship and others with furious scribbling. Pens and pencils were scattered about, most hidden among the piles of papers. The desk top left just enough room for a man to sit and contemplate what was in front of him. Josiah noticed that it must have been there in that chair at that desk that the Historian spent the majority of his waking hours. Beneath the desk, the carpeted floor had been worn to threads, littered with broken pens and pencils, and stained with ink. To the right of the desk was a large pile of crumpled and balled paper, the evidence of the Historian's attempts and frustrations at finding meaning in the books. The edges of the desk were noticeably worn and there centered on the edge across from the seat of the studier, in a space made by pushing the stack of books back a few inches, was a wooden plaque with just one engraved word. Historian.

Josiah tried to take it all in, but everything was so strange and so new. Nothing of all that he was seeing seemed to be real. It was the age that made everything so surreal. The books showed age. The desk showed age. The man showed age. Something so downplayed throughout his whole life and so forgotten was so prevalent in this one room. It was as if everything that didn't belong in his world above was sent to this single room and in this room they grew old. He turned in circles, wandering dizzyingly, looking at all that the room contained. His eyes were as wide as they had been when he had witnessed his first miracle of his Aunt's dying words. His hands felt the leather bindings of the shelved books. He read the titles of the ones who had them, picked up the top of the stacks in his curiosity. He then felt the pages and knew from the first touch that the paper from that first note was as ancient as those he then held. He thought it improper and rude to read from something that seemed so sacred, so he withheld his fingers from turning the first page.

"Historian, are all of these books written by civilians?"

The Historian sat at his desk, reclined in his chair, and was reading from one of the many books, with a pen in hand and another stuck through his thick beard for easy access.

"That is one thing- of many, I'm afraid - that I don't quite understand. Let me introduce you properly. This corner I have devoted to the books that have been written by civilians about everyday life. Day one, day two, day three kind of stuff. Those I call civilities. I never said I was creative." He said so because Josiah just gave a look of disdain. It was a quality he had of being honest by his facial expressions. He then continued. "At first I thought they were meaningless with all the pettiness to them, but now I view them as the most important. Well, perhaps not the most. That is a tough conclusion to come to. Upon reading them and rereading them quite a few times, I found words, thoughts, and descriptions that they share but do not exist any longer. It is in their comparisons that they find their great importance. There is such talk in these that I cannot understand, and yet apparently at some time many understood." The Historian had become silently lost in thought. Josiah just stood, searching the books and gleaning what information he could, though everything seemed to escape him.

"Historian?"

"But there are other kinds of books as well." It was as if he was completely unaware that he had stopped his speech. "And I have managed to organize this place in a manner that I can understand. You know, though, it is quite difficult to categorize when the content of what you are categorizing doesn't make a bit of sense. There are books that are about daily life, about one person's life, about events, about places. Some seem to concentrate in on a small amount of time, while others seem to talk about entire lifespans and longer. Some seem to be written for a tremendously important reason, of which I cannot grasp, and others seem utterly pointless. They are all here, and they are all strange. These books talk about places that I do not know about. They talk about people and names that I have never heard before. They even talk about different kinds of people, very different, that I have never seen in my long life."

"What do you mean different kinds of people?"

"People that are shaped very differently than you and I, or anybody else here. People with four legs and no arms. People completely covered in hair. People that are very small and people that are much, much bigger than we are. Some of these people speak like we do, but some of them do not speak at all, but simply make strange noises. All of it is strange, very strange. And after twenty-seven years, and after reading and re-reading everything in here, I think I understand only a little.

"Well, where are these people? I've never seen one before."

"That I do not know. I have a strange idea but I don't think you'll understand it right now. Eventually I think you just might."

It was Josiah's turn to become quiet, but it was not because he was pondering the different people. He was once again reminded why he had returned.

"Does this have anything to do with the sun, Historian?"

"My, boy, it has everything to do with the sun."

"You mean it's real?"

"I do believe it's a real thing. It's mentioned in so many of these books that I cannot get it out of my mind. It is the constant in everything." The excitement the boy felt seemed so unreal. It was true. There was a sun. He wasn't crazy. His Aunt Junia wasn't crazy. "However, I simply do not know what it is or where it is."

"So we can't find the sun." Disappointment had crept into his voice once again.

"Oh, but I think we can. I know some things and have some ideas that no one is supposed to know or supposed to have. I believe that we can find the sun, but it's not going to be easy. There's a lot that you don't understand and a lot that I can't teach you. But what I can teach you I will, if you want it."

"Of course, I do. I want it." His hope was strengthened, his excitement was beyond what he ever felt, and his want of learning was stronger than ever. "So where is it?"

"That will have to wait for another day. There's too much that goes along with the answer. So much more than you can even imagine with your clever mind. So much more."

The Historian sat at his desk, the boy lay on the cot, and there they read and studied together. Josiah was given a fairly small book with what the Historian thought to be fairly easy language to understand. It was his first book to ever read. He had read books throughout his schooling on multiple and various subjects, but this was his first book he ever truly read. The Historian was reading a leather-bound book with two golden words on the cover, neither of which Josiah recognized. Although the old man had read this book several times before, he continued to study it for yet another time as he did with all the others. Some were more difficult than others, and this particular one seemed near impossible to understand without some kind of special insight. He sat the book down yet again and buried his head into his ink-stained hands.

"What's a cat?"

The Historian raised his head. It was such a simple question, he thought, but it required so much diligent thinking to understand.

"It's another type of person like I was telling you about before. Now, from what you understand, what does this cat look like?"

"Well, it's yellow, it has four legs, and it's really small. I think it's no bigger than your shoe."

"Very good. Does this particular cat have the ability to talk?"

"Nope."

"Strange. I have yet to figure out why some can and some can't. Now, do you think you can draw it for me?"

"Draw it? I guess I can try, but why?"

"It's because you'll remember the cat more vividly if you concentrate on its actuality. That is what you need to remember. The cat does exist. Or at least it did exist at some time else or in some place else. But for some reason we don't know about them. So, let's see what you see."

The boy started drawing what he imagined this person to look like. He had never exercised his mind in this kind of way. He had never drawn something he did not know. He had never drawn based on thin ideas and thick imagination.

The drawing came out as a perfect cat, at least perfectly in the eyes of the boy. The Historian only knew it was a cat because he told the boy to draw a cat.

"That's very interesting."

"Is it bad? I can try to draw it again."

"That's the very point. At this stage, the drawing can't be bad. I have read numerous books that mention cats but none detailed enough to be able to say that this drawing is off. Your idea of a cat may be more correct than my idea of a cat."

"Your idea? Did you draw it too?" The boy's eyes grew big.

"I have drawn it many times and many different ways. None of them are alike, and none of them are like yours."

"Can I see one?"

"Why, yes you can."

The Historian reached in the lower right bottom drawer of his desk. The drawer inched open and required a good bit of effort and tugging to extend out entirely, mostly due to the over packing of papers but partly due to age and wear. He sifted through a handful of papers and found a decent drawing, or what he thought was a decent drawing, of a cat.

"Whoa, is that what one looks like?"

"Well, that's the thing. I'm not sure. I've never seen one to affirm it. But at least we have an idea of what it is. Let's compare, shall we?"

The two drawings were placed side by side. The Historian's drawing was more precise and detailed as he had years of practice and knowledge of those details. Josiah's drawing was a simple childhood sketch but greatly contrasted all other children's drawings if they ever did draw. The two cats were basic in elements but differed in everything else.

"That's the beauty of it, and also the frustration of it. Unless we can come across this person ourselves then we will never know whose drawing is more correct. And your drawing evokes me to think differently. I hope mine does the same for you. Shall we continue in our reading?"

"Okay. Can I keep drawing, too?"

"Always keep drawing. It helps more than you can imagine, or perhaps you may imagine more than you can help now. Keep reading. Understand that first sentence."

"Well, there are so many words I don't know."

"Okay, then. Read the first sentence, and we'll see what we can come up with."

"It all started with a cat who was a master of a house in the middle of a farm town, but now he was the only cat for miles around."

"And the words that you don't know?"

"Cat, house, farm, town, and miles. Historian, I don't know how far I can get if I don't even understand the first sentence."

"I know how you feel, Josiah. Believe me, I know how you feel. But the more you read and the more you ask, then you will start to understand. However, perhaps this may serve as some relief or perhaps not, but there are still words that I do not understand, and one of them is in that very sentence. For now I will tell you what I think these words mean, though eventually I want you to try to figure them out for yourself. So cat we have already gone over. A house is sort of like one of our family rooms, but they seem to be more separated from each other than our rooms are-"

"You mean there's more space between them?"

"Somewhat."

"Then what is in that space? Is it just empty?"

"It is just empty."

"Well, that seems kind of like a waste to me. Doesn't it to you?"

"I'm not sure, but from what I can gather they are a bit larger too and made up of several rooms-"

"Several family rooms?"

"Well, not necessarily. The house was for one family and each room served a different purpose. One room for cooking, one room for eating, one room for sleeping, one room for sitting, one room for reading, one room for washing, and of the sort."

"And they're all like that?"

"I think so."

"But I've never seen a multi-roomed family room. How come I've never seen a house?"

"That's a good question. Perhaps they used to be a part of this place and have been changed into what we have now. Or perhaps they are someplace else."

"What do you mean someplace else?"

"Ah, I'm getting ahead of myself again. It's a little too early to explain, but remember that question and ask it again in the future. But the next word was farm, am I right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Well, you know the vegetables you eat for your meals?"

"Yeah."

"Farm is just another name for a place where those vegetables are made."

"You mean the food lab?"

"Like the food lab, but not quite. It's hard to explain since I believe farms to have been somewhere else which involves a concept that you are not quite familiar with. And that will have to wait till later as well."

"I still don't think I really understand any of this."

"Oh, but I think you're getting it more than I did at the start, Josiah. I think you are understanding."

"I sure hope so. What about town?"

"A town is simply a collection of houses. It is sort of like calling the residence a town. So a farm town would then be a town with a farm. Now for miles. I don't fully understand it. It seems to be a measurement, but I am not sure the length of it. I've never had enough context to fully understand it, but I think it's larger than anything we have."

"You mean it's longer than a meter."

"Much. When I say it's larger than anything we have, I don't mean larger than any measuring units we use, but larger than any length that we have."

"I still don't understand."

"That makes two of us, Josiah. That makes two of us. Write that sentence down and take it with you. Write it in the same code. Learn it. Understand it as much as you can. That's enough for today."

He was reminded of every new word as he spent the next days in the middle levels. As he ate, farm. As he slept, house. As he walked, miles. To live the words is the only way to understand the words, he thought. He was living them the only way he knew how, by comparison. However, it proved to be inefficient as the meanings still eluded him. It was as if he only ever caught a blurred glimpse or a vague scent. In the world he knew, he would never understand the things for which he hoped.

\---

"Are we going to talk about the sun?"

"No, my boy. I need you reading today. And take some notes. Try to understand what you can without knowing what you don't."

So Josiah began to read, and as he read he began to realize just how many words he did not know. It could have been because he was young and did not have such an extensive vocabulary, but that was doubtful. His vocabulary very often outdid the older students and even the adults. The words in the books he had never even heard, not one mention, but they seemed to share the same qualities of the old woman's words. They were real. They were strange, but they were real. They should have belonged, but they did not.

He began to examine the first passages of a variety of books. He would then copy the passage down to paper and mark through the words that he did not recognize. What he found was that he knew most of the words. However, most was not good enough. Upon doing the math, he found that about twenty-five percent of the passages were absolutely unrecognizable and unknowable. From what he could tell, the majority of the unknown words were nouns, some adjectives, but few verbs. There was simply no hope in identifying proper nouns since, just as the Historian said, they all represented different people and different places. But who were these different people? And what did it even mean for there to be different places? These questions he had to set aside. Despite being able to understand the verbs, most of the adjectives, and all of the prepositions and articles, there was still no reconciling the meaning. The context seemed to be utterly useless. The only thing that kept Josiah motivated to continue his studies through the passages was the same thing that periodically startled the Historian out of his own studies.

"It says the sun, it says the sun! Historian, it says the sun!"

"Did you doubt it?"

"No, but it really says it!"

"Now that you believe, keep reading."

So he did, more fervently.

The next two times Josiah had visited the Historian he opened with the same question and received the same response. "I need you reading today." So he did, less fervently. He had his moments of excitement upon reading words that had been whispered by his deathly aunt, but those moments fleeted under the weight of confusion and frustration. Therefore, his mind began to wonder, and his fingers slowly stopped their copying.

"Why Historian?"

"What's that, Josiah?"

"Why do you go by Historian?"

"Well, along with all the books I have found and kept, I also found that plaque that reads 'Historian.' I adopted this for myself because I was the only one who really knew anything about any history of this place, or at least any of its true history. I even started calling myself Historian. It's my purpose or perhaps it's just only what I find purpose in, but nonetheless it's my name."

"There must be something else. You must have a real name."

"Why cannot Historian be my real name?"

"No mother names her child Historian, plus your mother never would've known you would've become a historian. What's your real name?"

"It's been a long time, Josiah, since I've mentioned my birth name, even to myself. I've been Historian for so long. As it is, the name my mother has given me is John."

"So why not go by John?"

"Well, what meaning is there in that? There's no definition in that, nothing that tells you who I really am. Who I really am is a historian."

"So why call me Josiah if there's nothing to my name?"

"That's a little different, my boy. That's all I know you by. That's the only name you have, isn't it?"

"Of course it's my only name. Most people don't have a lot of names or give themselves names. You just are who you are. I am Josiah"

"And I am the Historian."

"But you are also John. I would say that you're identified by this name when no one knows that you are a historian."

"Well, Josiah, what are you really saying?"

"What if you were to call yourself John the Historian?"

"A compromise?"

"Oh, no. I wouldn't call it a compromise at all. I would say that it's more of a true name than anything else. Now you are known by your birth name and your purpose. No matter who gave it to you, I think this tells everyone who you really are."

"Very well, Josiah. My name is John the Historian. What is your real name?"

"I guess I don't really know what it is. I guess for now I'm just Josiah."

"Well, maybe we'll find out your real name sometime soon. Just for simplicity's sake, let's call me Historian. It's just that it's a bit shorter than John the Historian."

"Okay. As long as you introduce yourself as John the Historian to others."

"If I ever get the chance."

# CHAPTER 10

Ever since Josiah's world expanded and ever since he had traveled to the Historian, he yearned to know what was hidden. He had been to each level of the world except one. He passed by that heavy steel door with every visit to his mentor. Level A.

Perhaps this place held more secrets, he thought. Perhaps more answers. Josiah, at the usual time safe from guards and watching eyes, traveled under the floors of the population, further and further away from the Captain. He turned through the many halls. The path had become natural to him. He came to the staircase and opened the door after inputting the code. A green light flashed, and a high beep sounded. He walked through the heavy door once again, and the staircase lay before him. He took each stair with ease, but instead of hurrying along to the Historian like he had always done before, he found himself still before the heavy door of the first level under. He stopped at Level A.

It was a risk. The steel door had the very same keypad that required a code for entrance. But what if it did not have the same code? He could only guess what would happen if it was the wrong code. He had always been extremely cautious when typing in the numbers. Very carefully. If he was wrong, maybe an alarm would sound. If the alarm was set off, then he would be found! What would they do to him if they found him in a place that no one should know even existed? Would they do to him as they did to the Historian, isolate him because he knew of something that could not be revealed? Would he forever be alone? Was opening the door worth the risk?

1-4-5-2-5. Green light. High beep. Click.

He pushed the door open slowly and cautiously. The last level of his world had been revealed.

It opened to a barren hallway, only this was much different than the hallways of Level B. It was lined with heavier steel doors, each staggered as to prevent one from facing another. He walked slowly, carefully placing each step to fall softly on the floor. Although he had looked and listened for signs of guards and found none, he was still paranoid at the thought of being caught.

He passed by each door and pulled each handle only to find that not a single one budged. However, every one of the heavy metal doors had a small window, high for Josiah, but level with an average man's view. And every door had a slot near the bottom. He reached his hand to the slot and gave a small push. Nothing gave. Locked as well. Perhaps it was nothing. But it seemed that everything was different, everything opened to something else, and everything held a secret. The only way to find out was to look through. If any grown man could look into the window, it must not be a secret after all. So there shouldn't be any harm for him to look. The boy tried to jump to see if he could catch a glimpse into the window, but it was too high. After looking around and walking down the hallway, he came to an intersecting hall which led to a desk and chair. He felt an uneasiness as he approached, continually looking behind him. All he wanted was to take the chair.

Upon reaching the desk, he noticed some neatly organized papers sitting on top. At a quick glance he saw that the papers contained photographs of people, though he recognized none. However, he cared more for the secrets behind the door than on top of the desk. He grabbed the chair by its back and lifted, but it was much heavier than the boy anticipated. He heaved it and carried it as far as he could, shuffling his feet into a quick jog before he dropped it. He wasn't even sure why he was carrying the chair to the particular door that first caught his attention. There were other doors right beside him, but he kept going. The boy's arms tired quickly, and he took to dragging the chair. It made such an awful screech that he immediately stopped. Had anybody heard? He looked around, trotted to the nearest hall intersection, peeked around. Nobody. Always nobody, the boy told himself. Never anybody. Just do it, he thought. A long, unbroken screech followed as he drug the chair. He didn't bother to look around, but his footsteps quickened, and he hurriedly reached the strange door he longed to look into. He placed the chair and climbed up. As he was standing on the chair, he gave a quick glance around, then looked through the window.

A face stared back!

He lost his breath. He toppled back off of the chair, onto his back, the chair crashing down as he did. He only expected some thing, but there was no some thing. There was a some one! A someone in a small locked room! His head was spinning as he looked up from his back. He scampered up to his feet and ran, leaving the chair on its side at the bottom of the door. He ran down the hall, through the staircase door, and to the Historian. Despite only seeing the face for a quick instance, he could not put it out of his mind. A face? And a horrible face almost touching the window. Ghastly white with sickly green eyes staring so, so blankly. He kept running.

\---

"Josiah," the Historian prompted in his usual fashion, suddenly after long silences, "how long do you think we've been here?"

"A little over an hour, maybe."

"No, not that. How long do you think this place has been here?"

"Well, it's always been here, Historian. You know that."

"I do not know that, Josiah, and neither do you. In fact, I disbelieve it."

He went back to the book he had been reading. His eyes had not even settled on a sentence before he put it down once again.

"And how many names are on the Wall of Memory?"

"I'm not sure. A lot."

"Will you do me a great favor? Before you return next time, I want you to study that wall. How many names are there, what is the first name, what is the last name, what names have you been taught about, what names have you known. Write down every single name if you can. Learn that wall."

"But everyone knows that the wall wasn't built that long ago, so I don't think it will help in trying to figure out how old this place is. The first name was simply the first to die after the wall had been built."

"What if I told you that the history you have been taught about this place was all wrong? I believe, based on all of this, that there is much more than this place. This place is just as old as the Wall of Memory itself, and the first name on that wall is, in fact, the first person to die here. It is such a ridiculous belief that they would not expect anyone to believe it."

"They? Who are they?"

"Whoever knows the truth! I have my guesses, but that's not what we're after. We are after the truth, not those who hide the truth. I haven't seen the Wall of Memory for quite some time, but I believe that most of those names on the wall never even existed."

"Never existed? But why?"

"Again, I can only guess, but my guess is this. I believe that someone or some ones wanted things to appear as if this place had more history than it really does. I believe that they, whoever they are, want you to think this place is old. It very well may be, but that is not what these books say."

"Then what do they say?"

"Very much the opposite, but let's concentrate on that next time. I believe those names will help."

Josiah sat with his book face down in his lap, completely confused about everything that the Historian had just told him. But more so than anything, he was always brought back to one question. This time he voiced it.

"Does this have anything to do with the sun?"

"Josiah, I know it may not seem like it now," his voice was compassionate, "but everything has to do with the sun. Whether it's hiding it or finding it, everything has to do with the sun."

Josiah was then about to ask if the prisoners on Level A had anything to do with the sun but thought better of it. It might be that the Historian would not allow me to go back, he thought. From the moment he left running, he had already set his mind to return. Perhaps they did have something to do with the sun, or perhaps they were simply dangerous men not allowed to live with the others. He would never know, but he would go back if only to face his fears.

"Are you alright, Josiah?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"I asked you a question, and you didn't respond. I know what I have said may come as a shock-"

"I'm fine. I promise."

"What I was saying was that I want you to write."

"Write what, Historian?"

"Your very own civility."

"But I can't. Nobody does, and I don't know how."

"Oh, but you can, Josiah. Just start writing. Write down things you remember from as far back as you can, especially your times with your dear aunt. Write about what has happened to you, what you have gone through, what you have thought, what you have felt. About every day."

"Why would you want to read that?"

"It is not for me to read, Josiah. It's for you. I will not read it unless you would like for me to do so. You see, I have my own. It is for no one but you, to remind you of what you have done, of who you are, untarnished by old memories and forgotten details. Though perhaps it will prove to be as useful to others as these are to us.

"And, Josiah, bring your school books."

\---

The bronze wall stretched from floor to ceiling and traveled a great distance, even wrapping itself around a corner. There were so many names, more than he realized. He walked the length of the wall, back and forth, and numbered the names before he began to write them. He wondered, with so many names already taking up so much space, if every wall would eventually be a part of bearing the names of past people. However, if the Historian was correct, then the wall was mostly a lie, and the very names that he ran his fingers across, were equivalent to the words he made up when he imitated his Aunt Junia. Throughout the week he visited the Wall to list the engraved names. He could only devote a couple of hours a day to this work in order to avoid drawing attention to himself. The first names were immediately recognizable, as were various others he had been taught and, of course, Junia was a name always in his memory. Despite several history lessons that used the wall as its source, he then realized just how unfamiliar he was with the names and the history of his world.

\---

He was making that journey once again to the Historian, and once again the large letters of Level A pointed his attention to that great door which led to such strangeness. 14525. It all became second nature. Green flash, high beep, click. It looked the same. In fact, it looked too much the same. The chair was gone! Of course, it would have been gone. How long had it been since he last came? People worked here. Guards worked here, but there were none present at the moment. They had only ever seemed a distant threat. However, the missing chair proved their existence. He walked the same hall, turned the same corner, and saw the same desk with the same chair sitting behind. It was not missing, only returned to its rightful position. What scared him the most was knowing that they knew that someone had been sneaking around moving chairs. Someone knew that he had seen something he should never have seen. This thought put fear back into his bones. He didn't dare take another look. It would be too risky to move the chair again. But the boy had passed by that familiar door. He couldn't take his eyes off that window. There was a man, or at least a face, behind it. One he couldn't see but knew was there, always there, just staring coldly, nose nearly pressed against the glass.

He simply had to. The chair seemed to be waiting for him. He grabbed it and began to move it toward that same door. What was he doing? There was somebody. Somebody had moved the chair back before. Were they watching him at that very moment? Before his thoughts stopped him, he dragged the chair. It screeched long against the floor. No one was in sight. No one at the moment, but soon he would see the face. He sat on the chair and pulled his knees up. He paused. There was something wrong with this. There was something awful in this whole thing. He stood up with his eyes closed. He didn't have to open his eyes to see those that would meet his. They were still burned there. In the darkness of his eyelids, he shook in his skin. He just had to see them again, but he second guessed. His eyes still closed, he wished he had never done this. But what was he doing! He had forgotten that the man behind the glass could see him. His eyes flashed opened. Green! Hideously green! The boy caught himself as he was falling back. Just like before. Those eyes were staring straight into his own. Green into blue. Frightful green into frightened blue. Get a grip, the boy said to himself. He's behind a locked door. He reached the handle just in case. Still locked. Yes, he's locked behind the heavy metal door. With that thought, Josiah looked up again. He stared into the man's face, but something was odd. The face was no longer terrifying. It was just open, looking. But it didn't seem to look at anything. It just looked out. "He can't see me!" The words came out so unexpectedly, the boy startled himself. He couldn't seem to hear either. He was locked behind a door with a window, neither being able to see nor hear. The face then seemed more sad than hideous. The face was both soft and hard, hopeless and longing. Without knowing why, Josiah placed his hand on the window. When he removed his little hand he looked in more deeply, trying to see behind the face. There didn't seem to be much to the room but white walls and empty space. Perhaps there was some furniture but not that he could see from the spaces between the window edge and the peering face. Josiah looked into his eyes again, but what then seemed to be the first time. The stranger's face was deathly white, but those green eyes were no longer hideous. They were never hideous. Fear simply projects hideousness into unfamiliar spaces. Those green spaces were beautiful to the boy, still terrible but beautiful. Always beautiful. The boy knocked three small knocks on the window.

Quick retreat!

The man was startled so severely that he fell back and kicked to the farthest wall. The room then came into complete view. All white, padded walls, a single bed, a toilet. Blindingly white. The man had coiled himself into the corner. His thought showed incredibly visible on his face. Severe shock. It slowly turned to confusion and then to a soft curiosity. It was though the man had never heard a knock before, but despite that, he seemed to know the difference between a soft knock and a small knock. This had been a small knock made by small hands. A smile grew on his face. He sat relaxed on the floor. Josiah gave another three knocks. Small knocks. Childlike knocks. The man stood up, happiness apparent on his face. He walked to the window and knocked back, three knocks. Big knocks, but kind knocks. Then he put his ear to the window. Josiah knew what he wanted, and so he knocked again. Three times. The man looked out through the window with a childlike smile. Josiah knew that the man hadn't smiled in years. For some reason, the man behind the locked door put his hand to the window. Josiah met the man's hand with his. The boy's mind filled with emotion and wonder. Never before had such a bizarre thing happened to him.

# CHAPTER 11

When he finally reached the Historian's library and opened the door, he found the old man stretching his body on the bookshelf, trying to keep his many papers which he had strategically attached to his wall from falling.

"Here. Come, come. I need your help. Hold this here. Now this. Okay, great. Have you the names? Excellent. Hold this. Now here is the beginning of our time line. All the writings that were in the process of being written all stop at the same time. So, naturally, very little was actually written on or about this place, about us. The printed books aren't to be worried about yet. Hand me the list. Here, this name, the first one, is - Where is it, where is it? Here!"

He pointed to one of the many papers attached to his shelves. These proved to be hand-written copies of various civility sections. Each piece of paper corresponded to some aspect of history, of some help in establishing the time line.

"So we have his name and a mention of his death. Therefore, his death was indeed recorded before the writing ceased. As was his death, right here, and his, right here. As for the rest of the names, I can't be too sure. Did you bring your school books? Good, good! What I need you to do is to go through your books and identify the names in your books with the names on your list. Let's try to at least identify when they say they lived. And can we track a single family through the many names on your list? If we can find out just how many generations are represented, then we can get a basis for time length."

The Historian paused from his teaching, took a deep breath and a seat, and looked thoroughly over the list that Josiah had created for him.

"This is all brilliant. I've been piecing this together for quite some time, but this, this is the missing piece. We may have to do a good bit of assumption work, but if we're careful, I believe we can figure this out. However, I will say that I do not believe our sources to be very reliable. All the more reason to know."

Though the work did not appeal to Josiah, he did what the old man asked of him. The Historian was clearly excited. Maybe he was born to be a historian, the boy thought. So Josiah sifted through his school books that he was already well-rehearsed in. He compared the historic figures, the names of scientists, workers, leaders, and doctors to the names he had written from the Wall of Memory. He marked the ones common to both.

Meanwhile, the Historian was frantically examining civility passages, looking over the boy's shoulder at the list of names, and writing rapidly in his own shorthand notes and figures and charts.

Once Josiah presented his work which was called well-done, the Historian sat with all his work scattered on the desk in silence for nearly an hour, with the only sound being the old man steadily tapping his foot.

"Based on this family line right here, using all the names we are given, I believe that it tells us this place is very, very old indeed. However, if we are correct about this line right here, it is not quite as old. But if I cut out what I think to be false names, mainly these, these, and this entire section, then follow this family line, well, that is another story altogether. What we do know, despite all of this, just purely based off of that precious lady of yours, is that the sun was last seen over a hundred years ago. To you and me, this is the most important thing. Much more important than figuring out exactly how old this place really is. However, because of this," he waved the papers in his hand, "we do know that we are being deceived. Everyone has been for a very long time."

Josiah grew fonder of the nights with his mother. Though he knew how to avoid conversations with her that led to curiosity about his weekend, and though he often even had to be misleading, he felt closer to her since he began his sessions with the Historian. He never could pinpoint the cause or explain the change, but he knew it was closer to what it was meant to be. At that time, he began to pity her. As they watched the television programs, he pitied them as well. Perhaps he even pitied himself and the Historian. No one knew the truth, and more than that, no one knew that they did not know. But at least he was not alone. Maybe that was it. Maybe he saw that his mother was more alone than anyone he knew. She simply had no one else but him. With every session, with every bit of gained knowledge about the truth, with every closer step to the sun, came a greater fondness toward his mother and a greater pity toward everyone else.

\---

Upon knocking once again on the door of the Historian's quarters, Josiah partially understood what the kind man was doing for him and to him. As he entered, the small boy simply thanked the old man and shook his hand, a motion that he had not done since he first met him.

"Sit down, Josiah. You amaze me, you know that. You have been patient, and you have trusted me in everything. Let us now talk about the sun as openly as we can."

It had seemed so long since he had talked directly of the sun. He had so many questions that he had to let rest, and here he was, given the chance to talk about his strongest desire, yet he felt timid in the discussion.

"Well, Historian, what is it?"

"Starting out very strongly, aren't we. What is the sun? You've asked me that before, and I'm afraid I have the same answer. Even I don't know. With a hundred year gap between seeing and believing, I can't quite say what it is. How did she describe it?"

"She said that the sun was bright, that it was in the sky, and that it was beautiful."

"Anything else?"

"No. That was it."

"And you searched, and you came to me, and you have done all this for that description?"

"No. It was because Aunt Juny was at peace when she saw it last. It was because she wanted me to see it. It's not because I believe it is beautiful. It might be. But it's because she wanted me to see that it is beautiful. I don't know if that makes any sense to you. It doesn't quite make much sense to me, but that's what I understand."

"It makes much more sense than you think, and it makes me think that you are perhaps the wisest person I have known."

"Why?"

"Don't mind why, just know it. So, we know that it is bright, that it is in the sky, and that it is beautiful, but that doesn't tell us what it is. It just tells us what it is like. I believe that we can sift through all the books we want, and we can think about the description from Junia, but none of that will let us know what the sun is. The only way is to experience it. The only way is to see it."

"But how can we? We don't even know where it is.

"Ah, yes. Where is the sun? I have an idea, but that takes a lot of explaining and a lot of time. We have those things, but sadly not enough for today. We must wait. Be patient. I will say this, that the sun is not here. But it does exist. Though we can't see it, we will be able to."

"Why can't we? Why don't we know where the sun is?"

"Because it's being kept from us. Because it has been hidden."

"Why, Historian? Why would they keep us from the sun? I just don't understand what the point would be."

"I don't know, Josiah. I just don't know. I have asked the same question for years, I still ask that same question, but I've never been able to answer it. I have speculated. Maybe for power, maybe for protection, perhaps we'd spend too much time with the sun that we wouldn't work enough, perhaps they don't want us to see something that the sun would reveal. But all that is merely thoughts with nothing to them. Perhaps we'll be able to answer that question when we discover the answer to our many other questions."

"What if there is nothing? What if there is nothing out there, and the only thing that exists is here?"

"Well, then this has all been in vain, and there really isn't more to this life than what we think. But at least you are thinking. The mere fact that you just mentioned that something could be out there is worth all of this, I think. If there is nothing more than what we experience every day, if there is no meaning or reason for the things that are in these books, at least you are a little wiser than you used to be. You are admitting more possibilities than you have ever considered."

"But if there is nothing else, then is there even reason to consider possibilities that do not exist?"

"There is reason because of this one thing, Josiah. Listen to this. There is reason because we do not know that there is nothing else. We will never know for sure that there is nothing else. Even if our whole attempt fails and we find that we cannot find anything out there, we still won't know for sure that there is nothing."

"So in order to find what we haven't found then we should continue to look for what may never be found?"

"You're wiser than you think, Josiah."

"If this place is all that there is, why can't we just be happy with it?"

"Would you ever be truly happy if you knew that there could be something out there, maybe not better, but at least different? Why are you here? Aren't you seeking for what is true? Josiah, if you want to know the truth, if you want to know if there is a sun, then you must not be content with what you feel isn't true."

"It's just got to be there. It's like I can feel it, and I won't let anything get in the way of finding it. Especially doubt.

"That's what makes you different, Josiah, and I'm proud of you for that."

The sun became a somber idea that day. Each seemed to ponder further on his own doubts and questions about everything, for indeed finding the sun was everything. The Historian, though he didn't voice them, had great doubts. For him, they were more exaggerated than the boy's since the old man had been isolated in his thoughts of the sun for years upon years. It all pointed to one conclusion, only the conclusion was not understandable. They departed without further conversation.

\---

"I have something to show you, my boy, something extraordinary. First, I need you to do something. I need you to write down all the words that Junia ever said that don't belong in our language. I need you to concentrate."

The words never left Josiah's memory. They were his treasures, and ever since the old woman died, he held to them even more strongly. The list was quite long.

The Historian scanned the words that Josiah had given him, recognizing most of the words from the various books he had read.

"Here. Perfect. Here, look. This one." He pointed to a word near the end of the list.

"Outside?"

"Precisely!"

"But it doesn't even make sense."

"Then let us make sense of it. In order for you to understand what outside is, you must understand the types of walls first."

"But what do walls-"

"No questions right now, Josiah. Just let me explain. Come with me."  
They walked outside of the room.

"This wall right here," he knocked on the wall of his own room, "it's what I call a dividing wall. It's what you probably always think of when you think of any wall. It's simply a wall that has been built to divide space in order to create rooms, hallways, and whatever else may be needed. This wall divides my room and this room. However, there is also another type of wall. Can you think of the other type, Josiah?"

"I can't see how I could. The only wall I know is just a regular wall."

"Then you are in for a treat, my boy! Come. Let's go find the other wall."

Josiah could see the excitement on the Historian's face very well. He could also tell that the Historian had known this theory for a long time but only then seemed to really believe it. The Historian was having his breakthrough. His pace was very quick, and Josiah struggled to keep up as they traveled through halls and by walls. Every time they would pass by a room or corridors or such areas, Josiah could hear the Historian say, "That's a dividing wall!" and "There's another one!" although these statements were never really directed toward Josiah. As much as Josiah tried to along the way, he could not think of another type of wall. He did not doubt the Historian's mind and the possibility that the Historian was really onto something, but since he didn't know where they were going or what they were going to, Josiah was more irritated than excited, especially since they were practically running.

"Historian, please wait. Where are we going?"

"Ah, sorry, Josiah. Let's stop for a moment then. We are going to The Wall. You see, there are many dividing walls, but there is only one of the other type. And that, my boy, is where we are going. After we actually see this wall, then maybe outside will become even more real to you. But let's keep going. We still must hurry. I can't be about all of this for too long."

They continued down, around, and through passing by many more dividing walls still at a quick pace, and Josiah still remained confused about their destination. The Historian was leading Josiah by the hand through areas that he had never known were a part of everything.

Finally the Historian let go of the boy's hand, and they both stopped and were looking at The Wall. It had a very different look to it than the other walls. The many others were smooth, colored, and dull, and fairly soft to the touch, but this wall was metallic, shiny, hard, with a surprising warmth to the touch. The Historian walked up to it and gave it a knock. The sound of the knock echoed and reverberated in the boy's ears.

"Here it is, Josiah. This is The Wall, the only wall like it."

"It's weird."

"Even more so than you think. This wall is a, or should I say _the_ , Containing Wall."  
"And what does that mean?"

"With a dividing wall, there are places on each side of the wall. For example, with my room, on one side there is my room, on the other side, there is the empty room. Or with your family room, on one side is your family room and on the other side is the hallway. But with the Containing Wall, everything is on this side of the wall, and there is nothing on the other side of the wall."

"I don't really...what?"

"I thought you may not be able to follow me. So I brought this. It's something I made especially for this."

He reached into his pocket and drew out a small red ball. The ball then divided into two half-spheres and inside each part, the hallow ball was filled with small ridges and divisions which made it look very similar to a maze.

"It looks like a puzzle."

"Well, in essence, I suppose it is a puzzle, a very important puzzle. Let me explain it in this way. Do you see inside the ball, the ridges I have put in? Well, they represent the dividing walls, and really everything in this ball represents everything in here, everything we know, the family rooms, the main room, the hospital, the labs, everything. The edge of this ball is the Containing Wall. Don't you get it, Josiah. There are two parts to a Containing Wall. This part," he pointed to the inner portion of the ball edge, "and this part," he knocked again on the metallic wall, "is the _in_ side of the Containing Wall. And this," he put the two half-spheres together and pointed to the whole rounded side, "this is the _out_ side of the Containing Wall. As of right now, it is as if we are inside this ball. What we are trying to do is to get to the outside."

"But I still don't get it. We are at the outside of the ball right now. So really, the ball is inside here."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"Think about it Josiah. If we are at the outside of this ball, and the outside of this ball actually leads to the inside of somewhere else, we are now truly on to something great."

"You mean to tell me that there is not really nothing on the outside of our Containing Wall, but that it will lead us to another inside?"

"I believe it will, or at least something like that."

The boy's face showed blank with thought. For a minute, the boy stood there. The Historian waited, knowing the brilliant mind of Josiah and that soon a conclusion would come of his contemplations. His eyes then squinted and his head leaned. Then almost as if snapped awake, the boy's face lit up with a smile of excitement and a voice to compliment it.

"Then is that where the Sun is!"

"That's just what I believe, Josiah!"

"You mean, that all we have to do is get on the other side of this wall and we've made it, we've found the Sun!"

"If we can get to the other side."

"What do you mean 'if'?"

"I don't know how to get to the other side, Josiah. It's never been done."

The old man's face quickly lost its excited expressions and remembered the gloom he had pondered on for so long. The man, as long as he had known about the location of the sun, had known that he had no way to reach it, but that was always pushed behind and away by his hope of ever seeing his excitement fulfilled. It wouldn't be until after the boy left him, after reading through more books as was his life, that the Historian came across a letter that changed everything.

# CHAPTER 12

What he had searched for so long was seemingly truer every day. What the crazy, old woman had seen and remembered so vividly on her death bed, he could possibly see in reality. He saw his world in light of everything he had learned and had been taught. More so than ever, he felt contained by every single wall.

The times he had with the Historian, what he had come to learn from asking such a simple question, was of more importance than anything he had ever learned from his entire life before, from his teachers or from his mother. How could he learn the truth from those ignorant of it and not seeking it? It was not their fault. He felt no superiority. There was even a strange sentiment of envy as well as that same pity. Did no one actually care to ask a question? Was it only because of Aunt Junia that he actually cared? Perhaps it was, which made him that much more grateful for her. She was fearless. She wanted him to know. She simply died too soon, he thought.

Josiah maintained his daily writings in secret. It felt odd to him to write about himself, but the more he wrote, the more importance he knew the past held. Just as the Historian had instructed him, he wrote as much as he could remember, as many details as he could muster. It was his visits to her hospital bed that he detailed the most, along with the lessons he was taught by the Historian. So much had been said, so much had been learned, and even what was written in the boy's book did not describe his full comprehension.

What he was taught in class seemed petty. He made a point to still exceed but only so no negative attention would be drawn to him.

He had not forgotten about the Captain. Though the Historian never accused their leader, Josiah knew that it was him that was hiding the sun. It was the Captain that knew the truth and suppressed it. It was the Captain that controlled not only the people's future but also their history. He just did not understand why.

While in class, the door was opened by the silent guard. He made eye contact with the teacher, and Josiah was motioned to be dismissed. As he followed behind the man in uniform, he wondered if this man knew anything. Or did the Captain keep all of it to himself? It was a great load to carry. The power of knowing everything did not suffice to alleviate the weight of knowing everything. As they reached the elevator, Josiah slightly smirked at knowing that he could reach the Captain on his own if he desired, only it never occurred to him to do so before. 14525. The levels were listed on its wall. Level B held the truth. Level A held the mystery. Levels 1 to 4 held the ignorance. And Level 5 held the lie.

Josiah did feel a tinge of fear creep on him as they approached. What if the Captain knew about him and the Historian? What would happen to him? But if he was imprisoned, if he was kept hidden from the world just like the Historian, it would only prove to him that the old man was right.

He was led to the office of the Captain. He sat once again alone in a chair waiting for the authoritative man to present himself. His fear only increased as he sat alone. Perhaps, he thought, that is the reason why the Captain waits. However, the Captain soon after emerged from the room next door to the office. He was looking pale and rough, though still strong.

He took his seat behind the desk.

"I apologize for keeping you." He was not, Josiah thought. "There has been some issues arise, and I could not afford to wait. Do you know why you are here, Josiah?"

So that you can take care of another problematic issue, he thought.

"No, sir." He said.

"Things need to progress. You are being kept behind, and that is far from acceptable. What I would like is for you to be posted in the highest grade to learn everything you can. How would you like to be trained as a teacher within the next five years? From there, who knows what you can achieve."

"A teacher?" Is that it? No charges of imprisonment, no arrest, no nothing? Did he really not know or was he playing at something?

"Not right now, of course. But eventually. After all, you are already a teacher to your classmates. Why not have your intellectual skills and your leadership skills developed and used for the benefit of your people?"

If it was not for what he had come to know about the Captain, he would have been greatly flattered and excited. However, all he could muster to say to his man was "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay, sir." He emphasized.

The Captain visibly showed his disappointment in the boy's response, but before he could say anything in return, the silent guard entered the room and interrupted the meeting. He said he had a very important matter to discuss alone with the Captain.

The two men stepped out of the office, leaving Josiah once again alone. Though the door was left open, their mumbled conversation was inaudible. From what he could gather by their tones and expressions, it was troubling news followed by good news followed by more troubling news followed by an epiphany.

The Captain returned smiling and the guard, returning to his silence, left in the elevator. As he walked back into his office, he tossed a piece of paper on his desk.

The greatest fear that Josiah had ever felt filled his gut. He recognized that paper! It was the paper of the Historian! He was sick. What had happened to him? What have they done to him? What would come of that poor man?

"We've come across something very important that you may be able to help us with. It's strictly confidential. Can I trust you?"

"Yes, sir." The boy lied.

"It's written in some sort of code. Do you think you can solve it for me?"

"Yes, sir."

"It does seem to be very complicated, but if you can, I need it done quickly."

Josiah took hold of the old and tarnished paper.

"It looks strange." He played along, but it was that same strange paper that he found in his pocket what he felt was ages ago.

The writing was familiar, but the code was not the same complicated code he was used to in the Historian's letters. It was not complicated. In fact, it was written in a simplified shorthand that the two of them had come up with in case of emergency, in case a message needed to be quickly written or quickly read. He could read this message as if it had been written naturally.

Josiah,

I'm afraid I've been too careless these past days. I should have been more cautious, especially for your sake. I will no longer be able to be with you. But that doesn't change anything. Remember the first time you came to me. Remember the fear you felt but also the excitement. You were afraid, but you kept on going, and you made it to me despite the fear you felt. It may even have been that you made it here because you were afraid. Because, Josiah, excitement and fear go hand in hand. It's not a bad thing. The worst thing would be to allow yourself to fall on the wrong side of fear. You see, fear can either lead you back or lead you forward and it is up to you to decide whether you will seek out the excitement that goes along with it. You have already, and you have done it bravely. Now I will ask even more of you. This is an even greater fear but with even more excitement. The rewards will be beyond what you can understand, beyond what I can understand. That's the very point! It is my greatest regret that I cannot be there with you. But, Josiah, please listen to me. I believe I know you well enough to say this. Do not let my absence hinder you. If you do not seek after this, you will regret it. The sun is there and no matter how safe you are, and no matter how little fear you hold for the rest of your life, you will never be truly happy again. And that is saying much since you are so young. I'm saying this out of truth and love. I am not trying to scare you or put more fear into you. I simply want you to know, my boy. I want you to experience the truth. I want you to see the sun.

I've found a letter that shows us the way. Go to the Wall. Follow the letter.

With all of my heart and knowledge,

John the Historian

He fought his tears. The Captain could not see him react to the message. But that poor man! What has happened? And where is the other letter he mentioned? He feared that it had either fallen out or had been taken separately. He subtly shook the letter. At the bottom of it, the page's edge slightly divided on its right side, forming a tight pocket. The edge of another slip of paper peeked out. As the Captain turned away to give the boy the privacy of concentration, he worked the slip of paper out silently and quickly put it in his pocket without reading its message.

He had to think of something. He doubted the Captain would accept the excuse of not knowing. In fact, it would most likely raise suspicion, a suspicion that the Captain did not have at the moment. The message must still be a message from the Historian, he thought. It still must have a treasonous message. However, he could use the information he knew that they did not know he knew in order to make the falsely translated letter seem legitimate.

"Captain?"

"Do you have it, then?"

"Yes, sir."

He began to read the message.

"Accomplice, the days are coming when I will no longer be able to take part. From my count there are more men than we first guessed. This, however, does not change the plan. It must continue and it must happen soon. Gather more men. Level A -" Josiah stopped reading and looked to the Captain who appeared to be anxious. "What's Level A, Captain?"

The man suddenly grew agitated and defensive. "It's none of your concern, boy."

He quickly snatched the translated paper from the boy's hands and continued to read it silently.

Level A can be entered by the main entrance on the day mentioned before. The first one to be freed should be the green-eyed man. He can help you with the rest. Do not stray from the plan we have spent so many tedious hours developing. Let me encourage you to have no fear. There is none who can overpower you together. Be brave. Maintain your courage. There is great importance if we can only achieve it.

I have found a secret that proves what we know. Go to the Wall. Find the name.

With hope of accomplishment,

John the Historian

Curses came immediately from the tongue of the Captain. Josiah was dismissed with an angry wave. He felt that it was necessary to attach the Historian's name. He only hoped that he had not worsened the wise man's situation. However, he had to act quickly on the true message of the letter. He had very little time. With the concentration of the guards on Level A, he was confident that he could sneak to the lowest level unsuspectingly and find what he was searching for while the Captain searched for the accomplice's efforts in the halls of the imprisoned men.

He had to act quickly before the Captain issued the orders. He went down the elevator to the floor of the population. He dared not take a shortcut to Level B from here, especially since he guessed that the main entrance to Level A was out of this elevator, and it would be well traveled very soon. He took his path. Not a single person of the general population was aware of anything. His eyes were keenly looking for uniformed men, but none were in sight. His only fear was that guards had been stationed at every door that led to Level A out of precaution. However, they must have either acted too slowly or held too strongly by the false directions of the message. The door to the staircase remained unguarded. As he passed Level A, he hoped that nothing came to his green-eyed man. Hopefully there were more prisoners who had such eye color as him. He reached the lowest level, entered the code, and escaped to his haven, hoping no one would follow. He then took out that slip of paper that was hidden in the wise man's message.

If my deeds have been permanent then this letter will be of no use. If someone finds this history and learns of it as I have learned of it, perhaps it will not be too late for them as it is for me. Read this journal. Learn from my mistakes and my foolish hatred. Escape. Find the hidden door on the outer wall. It is flush to the wall, so it must be felt. The key is WASHINGTON. It always will be. If there ever is written another history, consider me a Benedict for a better cause.

He shoved the slip back into his pocket. He didn't have time to ponder everything that was written on the letter. He memorized what was essential. There was a door on the containing wall. Its key is WASHINGTON.

In order find the outer wall, he had to retrace the steps he had taken when the Historian had led him there. He had to start from the Historian's library.

The poor Historian. He was the only one Josiah felt he really knew, and the boy only knew any truth because of him. How could he be gone? Where had he gone? It's true, though, that the Historian had been a prisoner all this time despite Josiah never truly realizing it. The Historian told the boy this the first day they met that he was being held a prisoner. What then happens if the prisoner steps out of his boundary? Without the Historian, perhaps it would be impossible to ever see the sun. This realization sickened the boy. His heart sank, and he began to tear up. His only friend and his only hope seemed to vanish. Could the others be so cruel as to hold the Historian a prisoner forever never to see another person again? Or perhaps they may even be so cruel as to kill him? Josiah pushed the thought out immediately. Was the sun really that big of a secret? And why? Why is the sun a secret? But his thoughts could not linger on that anymore. He had to move. He had to continue on without his teacher. He had to fall on the side of fear which led him forward. He had to find the sun.

Josiah traveled on with commitment and anxiety. His mind was in pieces as he was torn between the sadness and fear of loneliness and the ever haunting and pushing idea of discovery and adventure. He traveled without the Historian to a place where he had only ever been with him. He retraced the path that had been hastily taken and led by the Historian, but they had made their way so quickly the first time, Josiah was not entirely sure that he was going the right way. The dividing walls were all so similar that there was no way to distinguish the true path. He was lost. Left or right? The boy began to panic. He hurriedly went left but immediately questioned his choice. Was it left? No, it wasn't left. It was right. He turned around and followed in the opposite direction. Or was it left? The boy began to cry. He had finally admitted to himself that he had lost the way. They had gone too fast before. He couldn't remember the way. How could he? The Historian had failed to teach him in his excitement how to get there. He knew what the Wall was. The Historian had taught him that, but what good did that do when he didn't know where. He was close. He was on his way to find the sun. He was so close, but he was completely lost. His only option was to continue toward the outer wall. Go as far as he could until he hit the last wall. After all, everything was contained by it, so in order to reach it, he must simply keep going.

So he kept going, and going, not recognizing any of the halls or rooms he passed. He simply kept going. His nervousness grew. Did he hear footsteps? No. It was just his imagination. Keep going, he told himself. Keep going. If they catch on to an empty Level A, they may search this level as well. I don't have much time, he told himself.

Then he saw it. Up ahead, at the end of hall, he saw the familiar containing wall. He ran to it in excitement and joy. He had found it at last, though it was not the same portion as before.

His hand started to glide against the smooth, metallic wall, but he quickly jerked his hand back to his body. It could not be the same wall! The wall as ice cold and his hand was still recovering from its harsh bite. It was not the warm comfort he expected to lead him. It was quite the opposite. It was harsh. It was uninviting. Beyond anything, it was disheartening. He then felt to be more lost and alone than ever before. Josiah wept.

But it had to be this wall!

He guided his left hand lightly and painfully along the cold wall. Although he still didn't recognize the place that he had been taken to, he maintained his touch from that moment on. Then his right hand, placing his left in his pocket to warm. He feared that he might miss the difference between door and wall due to the numbness of his fingertips. He was not quite used to the painful sensation of the biting cold. It was never a part of his normal life. But what was normal? Then his left hand. He was still filled with doubt if this indeed was the same wall that the Historian had shown him before, a wall which was previously opposite to the touch but identical in sight. The thought of the old, fatherly man only brought more frustration to mind. It was never meant to be this way. If only the Historian was here, the cold wall would have easily been explained away with a brave and accurate theory. Or better yet, they would not even have been lost to find the cold wall, at least not so far away from the door.

His misplaced anger grew toward the old man. At that moment he felt that the Historian had overlooked a few things in his teachings. The boy had to come to the conclusion that his teacher simply did not know everything.

His hand stopped immediately. He looked around cautiously and carefully at his surroundings. Could this be it! He drew his hand from the wall and walked away, taking calculated steps, turned around and viewed the scene. It was it! It was the very place that the Historian took him. Without a doubt, this wall was the Wall, as the boy had only hoped all this time. The Historian knocked here. The Historian taught him where he stood. The Historian was right! And from here, he could simply follow the directions given to him. If the Historian was right about the Wall, the Historian would be right about the door. He took to the Wall. His fingertips still aching but with excitement pumping his feeling back and he followed along quickly, the door within his grasp. Soon he was at a trot, happily gliding his whole hand on the wall which didn't seem to be as cold as before. He was laughing for the first time in a long time. He had forgotten about the Captain. He was happy and excited. He was approaching the door and he knew so. But, stop. What was he thinking? He could have missed a subtle crack in the wall while he was running. He could have run by it without even knowing. He slowed down to a steady walk. Then he stopped. He pressed his face against the wall, realizing that the cold had not diminished in the least. He looked down the wall behind him. Perhaps he could see if he had missed the door. Nothing. He looked to his right, in front of him. Nothing. It would be impossible to see the door, just as the Historian had noted. Careful, Josiah, he told himself. The door can only be felt. And he continued slowly, fingertips to the wall. How miraculous it would be to see the sun, how incredible a witness the boy would become to things unimaginable. It was bright, it was in the sky, it was beautiful. He repeated this. Bright, sky, beautiful. Bright, sky, beautiful. He was getting closer. He would tell the Historian all about the sun when he could. He would find the Historian no matter what. It was only because of the Historian that Josiah was searching for the sun. Bright, sky, beautiful.

Then fear crept in. He knew he didn't know anything else about the outside besides that the sun was there. What else was there? Would it be as enormous as this place was to the red rubber ball? Would there be others out there? He knew nothing but the sun. His imagination could only see so much. In fact, in such a critical moment, he was imagining too much. Stop it, concentrate on the wall, feel the door. He worried that his worries clouded his mind and he failed to feel. He quickly backtracked but felt nothing, and continued on. He knew he was getting closer, so he slowed his steps, pressed his fingertips, and strained his gaze. The wall remained smooth, just as it was from the moment he first touched it. There was no division, no crack, no void.

Left hand. He traveled the wall. His fingers continued to feel. His mind continued to wonder. Aunt Juny and the Historian were the ones who deserved to see it, to go to the outside more than anyone, but it was him. For whatever reason, it was him. He knew that both his aunt and the Historian would have wanted it to be so. The wise man could have very well worked it in such a way for it to be Josiah rather than himself. Despite the time spent with him, the old man remained as mysterious as the old woman. He, like her, was wise and understandable but at the same time beyond comprehen - What was that? His fingers felt something. He ran them across again. He felt it. He saw it! It was a gap running vertically. He followed it with his fingers as far as he could reach. He stepped back to look, and there it was. The outline of a door in the containing wall. The door that led to the outside! It was completely flush with the metallic wall. It could easily go unnoticed. There was no knob, no handle, no hinge. How did it open? The only thing he thought to do was push, so he did. He pushed on the left side with all his might. It did not budge. He tried again. Nothing. He tried the right side. The door refused to move. He stood back against the opposite wall and ran shoulder first, ramming his entire body into the door. It moved! Barely, but it moved. The edge of the door's right side showed an inch. With his small hands, he grasped the cold ledge and tugged. He worked at it, using all his strength to budge the door open. A gap slowly appeared and grew. With continued effort, he had enough room to squeeze his body through the very tight opening.

Josiah found himself in a small, transitional room. The door behind him, which he found no way to close, returned to Level B. And the door before him led to the outside. This door was it, the last barrier between what Josiah knew and what he hoped. This door had not allowed a civilian to pass through in over one hundred years. He stepped to the door with the elaborate keypad on its right. He entered the code that was written on the strange message in his pocket.

WASHINGTON.

A green light flashed.

A high beep sounded.

A lock clicked.

As he pushed on the door, it glided open freely.

He then stepped outside.

# CHAPTER 13

The door closed behind him, but it went unnoticed. His eyes laid hold of a scene beyond anything he could ever have imagined. His eyes adjusted to the dawning light of the soft sky. The light was nothing he had ever known. He tried to relate, but it was unfair to the beautiful light to be compared to anything on the inside. At that moment, he knew what dawn was. It was more real than anything he had ever witnessed. His breath turned to ice as he inhaled. It turned to steam as he exhaled. It was such a strange thing, to see his breath, that he started laughing. He breathed in deep and breathed out long just to see the trail of vapor. He looked up and saw what he knew to be the sky. An infinite expanse, colored with the softest hues. The colors of purple, pink, and orange seemed to be living and moving. What he had known of color before was flat and unnatural. These were true. True and alive. He stared in awe at the heavens until he became too dizzy. Then his eyes laid hold of what he knew then to be the horizon. The jagged land met and embraced the spectacular sky. Mountains. He took his first step. His foot found the first experience of natural ground tantalizing. The solid plane of sand crumbled under every step, leaving behind the indention of his small shoe. The flat land traveled impossibly toward the distant mountains. For miles. With infinite disbelief becoming a reality, his wildest imagination could not have escaped his reason to envision anything remotely close.

But where was the sun?

He didn't see it. It was said to be in the beautiful sky, but it was not.

The outside is here. The sky is here.

Where in the sky is the sun? Or is the sky and the sun one in the same?

As he wondered, the sky continued to shift in color, and it began to grow brighter.

There must be a sun.

The great landscape became increasingly beautiful. Green shrubs spotted the desert ground. The sand took a color of a rich tan.

He felt something move across his face, an unseen but steady breeze, cooling and calming. Life had been so stale before. He simply never knew.

Then it happened. A bright ray streamed over the mountain and met the boy's eye. Beam after beam came forth, stretching into the sky until it faded into the colors. Then it peaked. A golden arch began to rise. The boy stared intently and curiously. It slowly became brighter the more it revealed itself. He then understood what he had never been taught. The sun moves! The sun rises! Minute after inspiring minute, the sun continued to rise, and it illuminated everything. The rays met his skin and for the first time, he felt the natural warmth, a warmth growing in him, a warmth fuller than anything he had ever experienced. He then viewed the sun, completely risen, unhindered by the horizon. It proved itself to be greater than the mountains, than anything he witnessed. He was seeing the landscape by light of the sun, and he knew at that moment he was seeing what was truly good. He took off his shoes and stepped across the sand, feeling the cold ground crumble between his toes. He walked toward the sun as if to get closer. His eyes continued to hold to the sun as the beautiful golden globe grew brighter. He began to walk absent-mindedly. He closed his eyes to focus on the refreshing breeze and the warmth of the sun on his face and skin. The ground grew warm beneath his feet.

As each moment passed, the sun continued to rise. The higher it rose, the brighter it became. He looked into the sun, but its brightness was too great. It was blinding. He was forced to look away. Again he tried, and just the same, he had to divert his eyes. Bright and beautiful.

The entire landscape had opened up into a glory more glorious than the Historian could ever have imagined. What a shame he was not here, Josiah thought. He had never known beauty before this.

His face, his arms, his feet grew warmer and warmer. He ventured out farther despite the fear that the vastness might swallow him. He then stood still with his arms held out, absorbing the good of the sun. He was in shear amazement that something that seemed so distant could affect him the way this did. Minute by minute passed, warmer and warmer he grew.

He walked to the nearest shrub, something he had never seen, very unlike the lab vegetation. He plucked a green leaf from the plant and rubbed it between his fingers. The smell, the fragrance of the leaf was astoundingly fresh and unique. What was it?

He noticed the warmth and shed his jacket, placing it on the ground. He bent down and buried his hands in the sand, breaking it up until it ran freely through his fingers. He looked back up to the sun but could no longer even keep a glance.

How has all this been hidden?

Why has all this been hidden?

He stood up from the ground and threw a handful of sand into the air. Minute by minute passed, warmer and warmer he grew.

As he walked, sweat started to perspire from his skin. It was not a new sensation, but still rare enough to be a curious one. He wiped his forehead and walked further still, though neither the mountains nor the sun seemed any closer. He could feel the rays of the sun more definitely on his skin. Tingling. This sensation was new and bizarre. Nothing had or could ever come close. He knew he would see the sun, but he never imagined that he would feel the sun.

It rose higher and brighter. The boy's face was slightly pink. The tingling of the rays subtly moved to prickling. The change of sensation was incredible as well as a bit uncomforting. He slowed his steps and eventually came to a halt. He looked around. Harsh shadows appeared on the desert ground. The boy began to feel nervous. He turned around to make his way back. He then saw for the first time the monstrous dome structure with outer walls of black solar panels. It was a hideous sight that scarred a beautiful and perfect country. He hesitated. There was no comparison. He did not want to go back. But the sun continued to rise, and its warmth quickly changed to heat. It pressed on his neck. He noticed a red tint to his arms. He was a far distance from the door though the black dome seemed to tower above him

He had to get back.

He wiped his sweat from his neck, but was surprised to feel the pain of heat. His arms, his feet, his neck began to feel hot, too hot, burning. His pace quickened. Every step felt greater heat from the sand and the sun. Sweat started to run freely. His heart began to race. Fear became real. Danger caused him to worry. He reached the black door with his arms and feet visibly red. Every touch was painful. The breeze was cruel and intolerable.

He grabbed the handle of the door. With a sudden jerk, his hand let go, burnt red. He started to panic. He turned to grab it again, but again he jerked his hand back, this time to find blisters burnt into his palm. His neck, arms, legs, and feet began to severely burn. Everywhere the sun touched him, he was in agony. He took off his shirt to wrap around his hand in order to turn the handle. The sun burned on his back. The handle wouldn't turn. His legs and his feet began to swell, but the door would not open. His back began to blister. He could smell his hair burning. Without thinking he began to beat his fists on the metal door. With every beat his fists burned. His clothes were smoldering. His neck was swelling. His blisters were bursting. The sun kept burning. He was beating and burning. Beating and burning. His hair was burning. His back was swelling. His feet were splitting. His throat was closing. The burnt and bloody skin of his fists was peeling and slipping. He was beating and burning, beating and burning...beating....burning......beating......burning.........burning.

\---

Level A had been swept, cleared, and stationed rather quickly. Upon seeing no commotion and preventing anything from happening further, the guards not stationed on the upper level were told to thoroughly sweep the lowest level since it held the prisoner responsible for the treasonous plot. To a guard's great surprise, he found an open door along the outer wall. To his greater surprise, he found to where and to whom the door led.

Josiah woke up lying in a bed that was not his. He strained his eyes to open and focus, but all he could see was the soft, dim light of the hospital. He tried to call out, but all he could muster was a whisper.

"Hello?"

"I'm here, darling." The words echoed dreamily through his head. It was his mother's voice, but it seemed more distant than the mountains.

"Mountains," he whispered.

"Josiah, baby, what is it?"

"Mountains, your voice. Where are you?"

"I'm right here, Josiah. Can you feel me squeezing your hand? Baby, talk to me."

"My hands? Hands, hands," he murmured. "Hands, hands. Sands!"

"Yes, Josiah, can you feel mine?"

"Your sands?"

"Oh, poor baby. I'm right here. Okay? I'll always be right here."

He felt extremely weak. He couldn't lift his arms. He couldn't move his legs. He couldn't lift his head. His body was stiff and swollen.

His mother kept her word. She remained constantly by her son's side. The nurses were afraid to approach her since they had been on the receiving end of a mother's violent fits of desperation. No one could explain what had happened to her child. Why was he in so much pain? In all the combined years of the hospital staff, they knew nothing of this, and even less as to how to treat it. All that they were able to promise was to make him as comfortable as possible.

He would often mumble in his sleep, but his words were incomprehensible.

"Severe trauma often leads to derangement," the doctor would say.

"My son is not crazy!"

"Ma'am, I never –"

"My son is not crazy."

He was in and out of mind for a week, sometimes barely hanging on and sometimes thriving. In a last moment of clarity, the boy reached out his hand in search of his mother's. His eyes were open, vividly blue with a look of intense joy. A boyish smile spread across his face.

"Mom?"

"Yes, dear, I'm here." A tear rolled down her cheek as she kissed his disfigured hand.

"It's so beautiful. Oh, mom, you should see it."

"What is it, Josiah?"

"The sun."

The smile disappeared from his face, his blue eyes faded into a dull grey, his hands loosed their grip, and he died.

Word of the bizarre death of the poor, young boy traveled through the colony quickly and even reached into the impenetrable walls of the prisoners' cells. Questions were asked. How did it happen? What did it all mean? What was the sun?

The silent guard finally found his voice, for it was him who had rescued the boy. He spoke of the truth and of the secrets that had been kept for so long, even from him. The Captain's secrets.

"It's too soon!" The Captain said it as he was confronted. For the first time, the strong man's boldness failed and his face showed fear. "They won't understand. It was for their safety! For your safety!"

The guard held his tongue one last time. He rose up against the Captain and delivered him of his duty and his life.

As the guard opened and looked into the Captain's mysterious, locked room, the vicious head of a lion stared back. He continued to search the strange room and discovered secret after secret. Based on what had been revealed, the world was opened, history was changed, and the captives were set free. Though he was against the deceitfulness of his past leader, he still maintained one secret. He burned the picture of Josiah and his mother which he found lying on the desk.

For the first time in his long life, the old, weathered man introduced himself as John the Historian. He knew beyond any doubt that the sun was real, that there was an outside, and that his searching had been meaningful after all. His thoughts did not linger on his own death, though it was surely coming, but on the death of Josiah which promised so much more. His only regret was that the boy never knew his true name, a name the Historian only knew at that moment.

Josiah was at the outside. The sun was setting high, and everything was illuminated. As he looked in all directions, he knew that there was no other outside. He was no longer trapped on the inside, and so there remained no other search. He simply sat in awe and in peace, in the presence of the sun, and knew that someday others would witness the same thing he was witnessing and would enjoy the sun just as he was doing.

The End.

