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  Barker vanishes within our walls, presumably to speak to my father. Only I can see both the Amongus and the accused. Barker stretches and strolls to our water cask. He lifts it and drinks long and deep before setting it down and wiping his brow.

  Undoing people must be hard work.

  “They’re all innocent.” Father speaks, his voice barely reaching my ears. “I pronounce them all innocent.”

  He is, as always, ignored. In this one act, this one compassionate act, the most important man in the world is ignored. Why doesn’t he toss his papers into the sea and stand? Why doesn’t he break from his darkness and show himself at the gate, where the accused and the onlookers could see his opposition? Barker would have nothing to say.

  I don’t understand my father.

  I glance down the street. Walery’s mother stares at me, her chin quavering. Her husband is stoic. I can’t stomach their gaze. I back through my gate and duck behind our canoe, because some horrors should not be experienced from out in the open.

  “Come in, each of you,” Barker calls to the doomed. His voice is calming, hypnotic. Why does he soothe before the kill? Filing in, only Walery looks afraid, not yet resigned to his fate. The gate swings shut, and Barker points at Father. It is a good thing that from a distance the papers are indistinguishable. I don’t know how many debriefings my father could stand.

  “Your Deliverer, Massa, has sealed your sentences. Helia, you incorrectly coded ten children. Into the boat. You are undone. Jordane, you failed to surrender your child to the Developers. Into the boat. You are undone …”

  Liar! The sentences are a sham. I should have destroyed the Amongus boat anchored in the shallows.

  “Walery, for speaking information that could incite rebellion against the PM. Into the boat. You are undone.”

  Incite rebellion?

  I peek over the canoe. All the adults are aboard. Barker turns and marches back toward the gate. Walery stands, frozen in the sand.

  “It’s time now, Walery.” Barker speaks so gently. “Get in with the others. Helia will steer you out to sea.”

  Walery nods and shuffles toward the Shallows. Barker quickly slips out the gate — his job here is finished. I stand. Furious. Throughout New Pert, it will be believed that my father was responsible for this. He not only gives life, he also takes it away.

  But today, I am filled with more; a sense that if I do nothing and watch them go, as I have hundreds of times before, something in me will be undone too. I leap forward and race to Walery.

  “Don’t get in.”

  He doesn’t look up. “Where should I go?”

  It’s a fair question. Out of fear, his family will not receive him back.

  I pause and stare at Father. He sits on the dock, yet he has never been farther away. The next moments are mine to direct.

  “All of you. You don’t need to go. My father did not condemn you. You can go right back out the gate.”

  Helia smiles. “It’s all right, Luca. This is our fate. Come, Walery.” She holds out her hand.

  “Stop! Think. This is not how it has to be. There is nobody watching you.”

  Jordane’s gaze shifts from me to the boat, and he bites his lip. “Maybe —”

  “No,” Helia says calmly. She grabs Walery’s hand.

  “Wait!” I say. “I’ll take him.” I point to Father’s boat. “I’ll take Walery myself. I want to speak to him before he is undone.”

  Helia pauses. “Very well.” She hands me four shackles. “You are the next Deliverer.”

  Jordane pulls up anchor, and another boatload of people sail themselves to their end. They will swing around Rottnest Isle, help each other into irons and chains, and jump.

  After all, we are a peaceful society.

  CHAPTER

  2

  I stand by Walery and watch the boat fade from sight.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Walery asks.

  I have not thought ahead that far, and I stare at the sandy-haired Eleven. He is thin, very thin. The shackles I hold would likely slip off his wrists. He looks me in the eye, and I am uncomfortable. Lowers avert their gazes around Uppers. Especially me. But Walery’s eyes hold no fear now, though he stands minutes past a certain death.

  “I guess we should discuss where you want to sleep.” Outside the walls, voices murmur. The remnants of a crowd. “I can’t let you leave, at least for a while.”

  “You aren’t going to use those?” He nods toward the chains. “Massa really didn’t …”

  I shrug and shake my head.

  Walery looks to the sky. “How many others have you and the Deliverer saved like this?”

  Inside, I ache. The knot that formed inside me while I hid behind the canoe twists and tightens.

  Deliverer. Right. During marches, neither Father nor I are worthy of the name.

  “Nobody. I’ve watched and watched and stopped no one.”

  Walery’s face turns grim. “But you did stop me.”

  “I did. Now go into the shanty, turn left, and you’ll see a small door leading into a storage room. Father never goes in there, and he will be preoccupied tonight. Grab some food and water from the kitchen on your way. I’ll come get you when Father is gone.”

  He stares at me, unsure. “If I’m caught, I’ll be undone for certain.”

  I guide him toward the house. “You already were.”

  “Luca!”

  “Go now!” I hiss, and shove him toward the door. I wait until he disappears inside and then turn. “Yes, Father Massa?”

  He massages his forehead and continues his vacant stare out to sea. “Who am I?”

  I approach him slowly and call from the beach, “You’re my father.”

  “Why are so few memories with me? What did I do?”

  I’ve heard the story from Lendi’s father. Of the day the Amongus sealed off the entire wharf district of New Pert, so monumental was the occasion, so terrible the task. The day the Deliverer was debriefed. What Father had done, of course, Lendi’s father did not know. Surely nothing so forbidden as hiding an undone.

  “You’ve never shared your crime, but you’re my hero, and a great man. And tomorrow, you’ll be great again.” It is the reply I’ve learned to give, the one that quiets him.

  Not tonight.

  “Yes, but son, have I loved you well?”

  My father stands and faces me. Nowhere else in the territory will I hear the word love. It was Father who taught it to me, taught me to guard it, taught me not to fear it.

  This word is our word. Mine for you. Yours for me, should you choose it.

  I was only five, and newly returned to him after being raised by the Developers for my first years of life. My memory doesn’t reach those earliest years; I don’t even remember the people who cared for me. But all that matters now is one recollection: Father said he loved me, and at five, I knew the word’s meaning, I felt its warmth.

  I pad toward the dock, and my father joins me on the shore. He is forty, but already his strength is spent, and the hand he places on my shoulder keeps him aright. Though his face is dark and weathered, his eyes are soft. Gentle eyes peering from beneath dreadlocks, thick and unruly, the distinctive hairstyle of all New Pertians. Yet his face holds no apprehension. There is still a wildness and a freedom his debriefing could not tame. It sets him apart from all others in the territory, including me.

  Could the Developers have made an error? Their record keeping is impeccable; it has to be in order to return one hundred thousand babies to the proper parental set five years after those children are born. But there is little of Father in my face.

  I am short and weak. The shortest of all my agemates. Father is tall and courageous, even now.

  Yes. Short and weak and pale and thin, nothing like him. Perhaps my blond hair and gray eyes came from Mother Alaya, although I will never know. Her name is the only piece of her I will ever own, and she is the one topic Father does not allow me to broach.

  I peek at
the wall that separates us from our neighbors. Eight feet tall and topped with broken bottles and shards of glass. I strain into the breeze, listening for footsteps outside the gate. No Amongus sensed the emotion in Father’s question. We were fortunate. Displays of feeling cause wrinkles, and wrinkles rarely go undetected.

  “Yes, Father Massa, you have done very well.” I lower my voice and gesture toward the shanty. “But now you need to eat. What would you like?”

  He reaches his arm around my shoulder and draws me close, my body a whisper compared to his frame. His eyes are focused and clear. “What is your first memory?”

  I pause to think. The question feels safe and neutral. “Darkness.”

  “Mine too.”

  “I dream of darkness, Father Massa. But I’m never afraid. I … I …”

  “Finish, son.”

  “It feels like safety. I wake peaceful. Is that normal?”

  He draws a deep breath. “No, it is not normal. But it is good.”

  We walk toward the shanty and reach the back porch.

  “Turtle soup.” Father nods, his voice clear and strong. “I want turtle soup tonight.”

  I step back. “That will take some time to catch and boil. There are other options.”

  Father furrows his brow. “Yes, Luca, but is it the sixth of the seventh? It feels like the sixth. I will be reciting all night. Bring it to my cot.”

  I watch my father disappear through the door. Inside, no orbs are lit — a comfort with darkness is the one trait both Father and I share. Walery will be safe, but Father’s request means I will not see Walery for hours. He will certainly be afraid when I do, though he likely will not know how to show it.

  I slump toward the boat.

  Why did he have to ask for turtles?

  Only one turtle remains in the Shallows: Old Rub. I paddle out to the area I have come to call the Graveyard, where eight giant rocks poke above the waterline. In the moonlight and from a distance, they resemble a cemetery.

  I drop anchor near the largest stone. I have spent entire days watching Old Rub paddle happily around the markers. She alone knows my secrets. Wrinkles are harder for the Amongus’s dials to detect offshore, and surrounded by the Shallows, Old Rub has received my angriest tears. We’ve sat together and bathed in the sun on this rock.

  Tonight, I will chop her head off on it.

  I unfurl the hoop net and set to work on the poles, driving them into the sandy bottom, but there is no need. Old Rub knows I’m here and surfaces to greet me. Does she forgive me for slaughtering her children? How could I explain?

  I need meat for Father. He has few pleasures left. When I make him turtle stew, he relaxes, and it warms me. I feel I have my father back. Sometimes he speaks of shimmering stone and laughter, of places I don’t know. He speaks my name, and for a while we are father and son. All from a taste that resurrects a faded memory.

  Old Rub seems to understand how I need my father, a feeling none of my agemates could comprehend. She seems willing to give up her own for me, though she dives before the knife falls. But between her and me, the relationship is different. There is trust.

  Strange. Love I learned from my tormented father; trust I learned from a turtle.

  “Hello, Rub,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. “It is the sixth of the seventh, and Father asked for turtle soup. Do you know what this means?”

  Old Rub treads water. The great boney shell of the Guinea turtle spikes above the waterline, like a small, mountainous island.

  “It’s late. I can’t buy meat from the wharf.” I gaze from the stone to the washing cask. I will plunge Old Rub’s head and body beneath the waterline until the bleeding stops. I will scrub her shell and flesh with the catch brush, then paddle her to shore, where I’ll boil her until her feet and head turn white.

  I will kill my friend for my father.

  Old Rub floats motionless, near enough to grab, and I lean over the edge and pause. “No. How can I save a stranger and undo a friend in the same day?” One tear falls into the Shallows. “I’ll say I couldn’t catch you. That there are no more turtles. Father doesn’t know. He’ll understand, and I’ll make him lobster. Under the weight of tomorrow’s importance, he’ll forget.” I peek over my shoulder. “Now swim. Far from here.”

  Old Rub doesn’t move, and I push at her side with my oar. “You can’t live here. There will be more requests for stew, you stupid turtle!”

  I strike her shell and she submerges.

  And I weep. I weep for my loss. I weep from relief and joy. I weep because I’m not allowed to weep, and of all my agemates, I alone seem to feel the need.

  I weep because I’m all alone.

  Old Rub resurfaces and slowly climbs onto the rock. She lays down in the indentation on the rock’s surface and slowly stretches out her neck.

  Old Rub is a turtle with a pea-sized brain, yet she knows more about sacrifice than I do. She is willing to give my father what I was not, and I feel shame.

  I sniff and draw the boat close to my friend. I remove the knife from its sheath.

  “You will not feel it. I promise. Thanks for being my friend.” I raise the knife — and then hear a shout from the shanty.

  Father!

  The blade splashes into the water, and I look toward the wall. Ten men crouch on the top, their feet unaffected by the shattered glass that would deter the most persistent thief.

  The Amongus are here.

  “Father Massa!” I paddle furiously toward the dock.

  “Luca!” Dad’s voice pushes strong through the darkness. “Fill my five casks with water. Prepare the boat for my descent. I’ll return tomorrow. Remember that I love you. And your package … it’s safe. I removed it from the storage room. I’m very proud of you.”

  Why do you share your feelings in front of them? Why make it so easy for them to condemn you?

  “Father!”

  The Amongus jump backward off the wall, leaving a dreadful silence. Was it my tears? My words to Old Rub? Did I cause the wrinkle that drew them? Or was it Walery? Did they come for him? I leap to the deck and run inside. There is no sign of resistance, but Walery sits shaking at the table and Father is gone.

  CHAPTER

  3

  It is the seventh of the seventh, and my agemates are jittery. Each home has prepared for the Feast of Exchange; every parent has given final instructions: Avoid Luca in school today. He must remain calm. His father descends this afternoon.

  And they obey. Even Lendi and Javo, Fifteens like myself.

  School is about to begin, and students move silently through the streets. Though we shuffle side by side, nobody will speak and risk a wrinkle.

  My mind wanders to the colors of New Pert. So much gray. I’m told there once were plazas of green, when the rains fell often and grass grew lush. Freshwater trees sprung toward the skies that nurtured them. Father tells me the world was beautiful.

  But sprinkles are now so rare, they do little more than extract squeals from the young. The plazas have browned and cracked, yielding shrubs both brittle and yellow. It is not so on the outer islands, where saline-tolerant plants and trees give the illusion of a healthy world. Yet all know the truth: the earth itself cries out to drink, and won’t bring forth life until satisfied.

  Together, we all file into the building of concrete and stone. Our school, Pert #3, is a circular tower, as are all the other schools. Identical on the outside, and I assume on the inside, and all built in the same year, the year of the New Education. Our teachers tell us that was the beginning of our golden age. Father once said it was the year freedom died.

  Freedom is a word I don’t truly understand.

  School will dismiss early; when Father returns tomorrow morning and crosses his arms over his chest in the symbol of agreement with the Rats, the annual Holiday of Jool — Water Day — will begin. It will last three days. Father will be cheered throughout the festival. The water rations will be temporarily removed.

  And
then Father returns to his private hell.

  That is the pattern, the expected. But there is no certainty this year. Not with Father taken and Walery in his place.

  It turns out they had quite a long talk while I spoke to Old Rub. I wanted to ask Walery to tell me everything Father said, but my anger wouldn’t allow it. How could Father share words with an Eleven and silence with me?

  I long to tell someone about last night, about the visit from the Amongus, but my position does not allow many close friendships. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  I could tell Lendi about Old Rub, how she seemed to understand. Lendi loves animals, and would appreciate that part of the story. It’s unfortunate his father makes coats. Lendi doesn’t have the heart to be a tanner.

  But there will be no chance to share with him this day.

  A wide space opens before me. Students, uniformed in red and gray, part as I climb the spiral ramp that leads to my classroom. Fives quickly disappear through their doors. I walk behind Lendi, circling upward until I reach the second-highest floor. I glance up. It is not long until schooling is complete.

  Lendi and I turn into room 1510 and sit as all students do, in a wide circle that faces outward. My chair is comfortable, as is my view: a screen, changing images every ten minutes. Presently, an eagle soars through a blue sky. And in the center of the scene — the eye of the eagle — is a dial, the same one carried by the Amongus to monitor the emotional climate of New Pert, placed to sense my wrinkles.

  We are often reminded how peaceful our world has become, a world without a police force or prison, where crimes and uprisings have nearly disappeared. But we’ve paid a price. The emotional root of all conflict — fear, anger, love, especially love — is prohibited. The goal of our schooling is to master a life of total self-control. A life without wrinkles, without feeling, without soul. The exercises in school are endless.

  But in truth, for most, they’re no longer needed. Generations of life in an emotion-neutral world have bred these dangerous urges right out of people.

  Why do I still feel them so strongly?

  Anger. Loneliness. Hope. They burn in me. Only me.