Are you Red Hot?

Wallace bumps Jonah out of the doorway, and gropes for the light switch, and pushes lightly as he tends to do.  “You guys get going.  I’ll see you tonight, at Jonah’s.  Just take the emergency exit at the ground floor, and hide behind the bushes.  Nobody will know.  The warning switches are so corroded they don’t work anymore.”  He takes one last look into the room as the light fades, and he pushed Ben past himself.  Everything looks the same save the fingerprints.

Wallace locks the door.

Ben and Jonah push the emergency door open slowly.  It’s rusty hinges only let it open so far, which is fine with them.  The lanky kid could squeeze through easily, but he returns to the main desk.  Ben buys a moment pushing Jonah out the door, then opens his coat to hold the book and charger away from his body.

“Are you so fat you have to remove your coat to get out?” Jonah whispers through the slit.  His coat and shit are dirtier than ever.

“You know what I have.  We’ll have to wash when we get home.”  Ben points at the dirt and rust stains.

“Oh, damn it like Lawrence!”  Jonah pulls Ben hard and helps him shove the door shut.  Its hinges relent sooner, but rust and dirt make the jamb tight.  Ben kicks the door’s swept pattern off the concrete pad before crouching inside a row of corn, ripe for harvest.

That Winterhaven’s chief elder, Lawrence, had his family name plastered on everything and supplanting His name was supposed to be a way of keeping the flock from uttering the lord’s name in vain.  It didn’t matter.  “If you’re going to cuss use the right name.  Not that pompous bastard’s,” Ben said without the slightest restraint.

“That’s an odd request, even from a half-sibling.  Sorry.  What do we do now?”

Ben said “My barn, and wash these clothes before anyone finds out.”

It may seem silly, but memorizing the useless trivia of surroundings is half the key to survival.  The other half is knowing what to do with it.  They thread their way through crops and back-streets to his barn outside the greenhouse walls.  It isn’t much of a chore.  They’d done it before.  Children do that.  Teenagers monopolize on it for silly purposes.  They are almost adults, and purpose grows like curiosity used to.  Ben’s rivals his incredulity.

The dash through the fresh snow to the barn leaves tracks they hadn’t laid under the white dusted glass of the town greenhouse.  The snow is deep and the wind is blowing hard.  They hold their coats tightly in the short dash to the stone-walled barn.  Only the roof is wooden shakes, and neither material holds the heat.  Ben directs Jonah to a sink, and points out the soap.

The oddity to Jonah is that Ben ran backwards.  “What was that?”

“Two sets of footprints; one forward and one back.  It looks like whoever was out here already left.”  Ben’s stokes the nearby stove and begins peeling clothing.  “Pull off the shirt.  I’ll get the pumps started.”  He removes items from his coat pockets.  Jonah’s eyes pop as he produces not only the two books they had been looking at, but also the charger and the electronic device.

“I’ll take it back.  It’s a library!  You’re supposed to check things out.”  He flips a breaker on the wall to power-up the well pump.  A rack of batteries on the wall store what power the wooden windmill above can harness.  The pump moans to life somewhere in the pipes, as a single pin-point of light shines down on them.  “Now we read the books.  Keep washing.”

Ben plugs the power cord into the unit.  Jonah lets loose a loud sigh of relief when the screen glows a square of light.  “Well, we didn’t break it.  Don’t get it wet.  How are we going to read, in the dark, while working?”

Ben shoves a book into the slot and says “Just read.”

To their surprise, the device does.  It begins talking in an odd dialect, something like his grandfather sounds, but more intense.  The words are soft, rounded, pronounced evenly and slowly.  “The Earth Day celebration began informally in the nineteen-seventies as a rebellion by the baby-boomer generation against the polluting policies of large multinational corporations.”

The story is confusing to them.  They have no idea what a nation is.  They don’t know how a baby can be made to boom.  But regardless of shivering shirtless in the barn, the words rebellion, and generation, and 1970 all make sense.

Jonah whispers “Add 400 to 1970 and you get 2370, at least.  The world is lot older than even Mr. Simpson told Wallace.”

“Much older.  Four or five times as old.  And they rebelled.  From now on, remember that the elders lie,” Ben concludes.  “This information is far older that them.  I wonder why they don’t want us to know.”

They watch a crowd in the bright sunshine singing.  They’ve never seen crowds that big.  It has more people than in all of Winterhaven combined, but they’re almost all one generation.  The song’s words don’t make any sense.  It’s in a place called San Francisco.  They’ve never heard of that place either.

“I think we can get back to this.  These are both history lessons, but it’s more remote than this one.” Ben shakes his hands part-way dry, and rubs them the rest of the way on his still dirty shirt.  He holds up the other book.  As he swaps the books he says, “At least this one is from Winterhaven.  Maybe it’ll tell how many years lapsed between the year of the Star-sword and this 1970 date.  It might also tell us about the start of the lies.”

The book flickers.  Jonah this time says “Just read,” and is pleased that the device does.  They shiver and scrub under the small LED light dangling at the end of a long thin wire.  The device begins with the prologue.

   “Prior to leaving Proncyn, the founding families for stellar system HD 10867 began a detailed genetic catalog.  Knowledge gleaned from founder’s databases on Iceland, Easter Island, the Martian Colonies, and Procyn III itself led the mission planners to enforce an unusual marital system on what is now called Winterhaven, to avoid the pitfalls of what is generically called Founder’s Syndrome.  In each example, genetic mutations of a single founding family have the tendency to propagate throughout the population within a dozen generations, and non-mutated versions of the gene are lost from the current stockpile.  These mutations are not limited to a single type of deformity or predisposition, and often run the gambit of existing known and sometimes heretofore unknown diseases.”

They listen intently as it goes on in its softened dialect.  The T’s are delicate and ticking, unlike their hard snapping ones.  Vowels roll instead of bark.  It’s almost like music.

   “The marriages of Winterhaven families are to be temporary for the first ten generations, so that a man and woman can bear anywhere from two to four children as a couple.  Then the couple splits, and marries others.  Each coupling is expected to bring children into this world, and hopefully with them genetic diversity.  No couple is allowed to permanently stay married as on Earth or Proncyn.”

Jonah asks, “What the hell is Proncyn?”

Ben whispers “Shut-up.”  The machine continues without pausing.

   “Three generations into the Winterhaven experiment, some psychological abnormalities became evident in the families of three founders.  When combined, the genetic abnormalities lend to schizophrenic disorders in offspring.  A committee of founders was convened to determine methods of removing the genetic flaws from the populace, and review the genetic disposition of individuals that may or may not be carriers of those genes.  The records within this book indicate the actions taken by the committee and imposed as law for the disposition of the individuals both carrying and affected by genetic disorders.”

   “Chapter One, Formation of the Founders Committee, September 2583.”

“What?”  Jonah’s voice echoes through the barn.  After some calculations in his head, and in a lower voice he says, “That makes this year 2983?”

“I don’t know which year the year of the Star-Sword is.  You could be off by a hundred easily.”  The machine resumes without prompting.

   “The senior geneticist Alicia Simpson returned the first evidence of an inheritable marker upon the request of Winterhaven’s psychologist Dr. James Portnoy, who had three pre-teens in the Star-Sword’s brig.  Each displayed sudden mood swings, ranging from violent outbursts to hallucinations of persecution.  The three are related only by one father, that being the captain of the ship, Captain Lawrence, and two unrelated maternal families, N’Domon and Cooper.”

The boys gape and turn to each other.  Ben says “Stop reading,” as a command to the machine.  “These people, they only have one last name.  Isn’t that weird?  And Lawrence?”

“So, the Lawrence family is from the Captain, and they’re psychotic?”  At that moment, they both hear the barn door creaking open.

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Jonah found his old language tutor, who had been placed at the central library.  Wallace, although very tall, had never been much more than a mouse.  Librarian was all anybody else could manage to believe him to be.  And so it was decided for him by the elders two years ago.  Wallace is four years older than either of them, and still growing into his own huge shoes.  His overriding honesty is what Johan is counting on when he asks him that same question.  “Yes, there are some files in the basement, but you can’t read them,” Wallace said ever so quietly in reply.

Jonah wants to yell, but in the old library loud voices can get you expelled for a year.  He asks, “Why not?  Is there a law or something that’s supposed to keep the books out of the public’s hands?”

“No, you don’t understand.  You need a machine to read them.  They are little books, like the size of this bookmark.  There’s only one machine that works anymore, and they only turn it on once every decade.”

“A machine that reads?” Ben asks incredulously over the checkout counter.  “This gets more unbelievable every minute.”

Wallace waves them to the end of the counter.  “No, I can show you.  Follow me.”  Wallace slides a few hardbacks and leatherbacks with him to the end of the counter, and then grabs some keys from the last desk drawer.  He looks to be sure nobody else is watching, and waves for them to follow.  Leaving footprints behind on the dusty stairs, to the sub basement they go.  Wallace retrieves the keys, opens the heavy door, and fumbles for the light switch.

The cavern as large as the library above has a concrete floor, rows of concrete columns, gobs of dust, but only two pieces of furniture.  One is a gang of school desks, welded together to make a large desktop with fixed chairs.  The other is a bookcase of sorts, too shallow front-to-back and too short from shelf to shelf to hold real books, but sealed with dusty glass.  “Over here,” Wallace says, and points to a desk in the middle of the gang.  “This one works, but I don’t know how to turn it on.”  Wallace removes a plastic bag from a small skinny box, and sets it gently back on the desk.  “Be careful with it.  If the boss finds out I’ve let you in here, I’ll get nothing but hard labor for the rest of my days.”  They shiver at the thought of working outside in winter time repairing high windows and heavy concrete and rock walls.  It’s labor assigned by the elders for the morally wicked.

Chained to the desk is a device the likes of which Ben has never before seen.  He sits down.  It’s too big to fit in a pocket, but smaller than most books he’s ever read.  He lifts it carefully and turns it over.  There are no obvious buttons, just a silvery face imbedded in a white plastic case, and two holes in the end.  One is a mere slit, the other a small round impression with a metal stud inside.  Wallace adds, “The power cords are under the desk.”  Ben fishes for the wire, and pushes the round plug in the round hole.

Ben says, “We might have to wait a bit.  The batteries, if there are any, are probably discharged.”  From here, they wait for the four rotors on the roof to dump a small fraction of electricity into the device, and hope it doesn’t fail.  Unlike the top story of the building, in the basement they can’t hear the constant groaning of the wind turbine gears above.  “How old are these things?”

“Centuries.  Nobody knows for sure.”  Wallace opens a dusty glass case, and fishes out a thin item.  “This is the card catalog for this library.”  He hands it to Jonah, who looks it over and passes it to Ben.  The words on the end confirm Wallace’s words, and an arrow on the end tells them what to do with it.  Ben shoves it in the slot until it stops moving.  The silver screen lights up and it shows the words and asks out loud, “State your search criteria.”

Befuddled, Ben doesn’t know what to do.  He’s never heard a machine talk before.  Jonah asks over his shoulder, “Why is the world only four hundred years old?”  A list on the screen shows items like ‘The Geologic Ages of Earth’ and a match criteria of 65%.  Several dozen items appear, all with lower ratings, and a pull-bar on the side shows the list growing as they read.

“Try that one,” Jonah suggests the first with the highest match.

“What do I do?” Ben asks, almost afraid of it.

“Touch it,” Wallace says.  Ben does, the screen flitters and shows a number.  “That ten digit number corresponds to a number on this card catalog.  You just get the card, and shove it in.  Then you read.”  Jonah is already muttering the number over and over.  Once he’s convinced he won’t forget, he runs to the cases.  He continues repeating the number over and over as he wipes dust off the glass.

“Maybe that isn’t what I want to ask,” Ben says.  He pushes the screen in the corner a few times, before asking a new question, “Why does Winterhaven have no Leibniz family?”

The resultant list is disorganized, containing mostly entries for Calculus.  The item ‘Winterhaven Founding Families and Exclusionary Genetic Control’ appears on the second page.  Ben taps that one, memorizes the number and begins his search among the dusty cases.

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Breaking from the window view, Ben places the history book with his others.  He hefts and carefully opens his calculus book.  Like all the books, it’s old thin pages crackle instead of bending in his fingers.  Individual cellulose fibers fly into the thin cold air.  His breath freezes the microscopic shards against the old wavy window glass.  Monsoon moisture worked deep into window crevices now form a thick autumn frost between the second and third panes.  He carefully turns the pages to the front, to check the print date there: 327 YSS.  It’s seventy years old.  He knows YSS means ‘Year of the Star-Sword’, but beyond that it holds no meaning.  There is no star nor sword hidden among the snow dusted firs and larches leaning in the wind.

Ben turns to the checkout list inside the back cover.  Here, he can plainly see the names of previous students, as often written by their mothers as themselves using all four proper family names.

He’d always been forewarned about inbreeding, but he didn’t understand why they kept such meticulous track of great grandparents.  They’re all dead.  Generations had read this book, including his maternal-paternal great grandfather.  His name is at the top of the page.  The book is special to him for that reason, not for the information it holds.  He evaluates his own position on the contents and reconsiders his friend’s point.

“Maybe you’re right, Jonah.  This math book implies a longer history.  These names, Euler, Newton, Leibniz, we don’t have any of these names on Winterhaven.  They came from somewhere.  But there are none here, and everyone is required to have at least two children with four spouses by law.  It still feels like fiction; men flying across the stars.  Wars with Xanadians.  We can’t cross a big river unless it’s frozen solid.  Bridge timbers are too short and can’t withstand the summer mudflows.  Besides how much dirtier could their sky be than this?”

He said ‘a history’ as his language has diverged.  The soft consonants get hard pronunciation as a Darwinian response to yelling through the harsh winds of Winterhaven.

Jonah says nothing for now.  Winning an argument against a friend and half-brother by father is a double edged sword.  They look through the frozen window onto a wintry sky streaked here and there with the black soot of chimneys burning wet wood.  Most stoves double-burn the creosote out of the natural tars by drafting the smoke over an iron re-burn plate.  Jonah had wire-brushed his mother’s ashy re-burn plate as part of his weekly chores.  “Smoke only shows where there’s tar.  All the fires make carbon dioxide.  I wonder if we’re repeating their mistakes too.  I just wish we knew more about them.”

“Maybe we can.  Your friend, Wallace?  The one that works in the library.  Do you think he could find anybody named Newton?”

The library is a massive building of old construction in the core of town both under and inside the ring of greenhouses.  You can spot the old multi-storied buildings by the straight lines and square corners of concrete and brick. The newer are cheap field stone and mortar and lie outside the greenhouses.

“Maybe there is another library inside we haven’t been told about.  One that tells if not about Earth, at least tells of a time before 400 years ago.”

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