‘We create it all?’ I ask.
‘We create Arras,’ she says. ‘But we only create a mantle – a cover, if you will. Matter and time exist on another planet, and we merely harness them. The looms allow us to weave and create Arras. Our reality is layered upon another world: Earth.’
‘Earth?’ The word sounds strange and foreign, but it plucks at some long-buried memory.
‘Underneath Arras are the remains of the former world – a world that is no longer inhabited,’ she tells me. ‘Few are left who remember the name Earth, and it’s dangerous for us to speak of it outside the safety of my studio. What you saw was the raw material that flows between our old home and Arras.’ She stares at the wall where the rift had been.
‘So that’s it?’ I ask. ‘We’ve created our world on top of another world, but no one knows it.’
Loricel smiles. ‘Oh no, there are some who know, Adelice, but they aren’t sharing the secret. The truth has a way of changing to suit the purpose of those in charge. They would deny what I’m telling you. The Guild has worked hard to make sure we forget about Earth. Only the highest officials know, and even those working the mines are lied to about exactly what they’re doing. I must be very careful what I say during my trips to visit them each year.’
‘Why keep it a secret?’
‘You would be surprised at the amount of discontent here. The number of plots the Guild quells each year. Arras is not as peaceful as they make the citizens believe. Some would want to leave Arras, and the Guild would never allow it.’
I think back to my parents, who clearly loathed the Guild and tried to protect me from it. I’d thought they were a bit paranoid until I came here, but now I wonder how much they knew. And Jost’s brother-in-law, who had mixed with rebels. Yes, there were people who knew, but I already understood why they kept it quiet.
‘But you have access to someone who knows the truth,’ Loricel continues.
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘Then what are they? Arras? Earth?’ I have a hundred more questions, but I shut my mouth to keep them from tumbling out all at once.
‘My predecessor was the second Creweler and though she knew the story better than I, much of it was lost in the passing from her own teacher. Some of it makes little sense to us now because we have lost this knowledge and with it the words and reality they describe,’ she explains.
‘On Earth, a war was fought to end all wars. Many of the regions, once called countries, became involved in the battle. One created a weapon so fearsome that it threatened to destroy everyone. They called this science, but it was merely the creation of men aimed at controlling the world. However, while one country readied to use this weapon, another scientist stepped forward with an alternative idea. Although he had worked on this bomb himself, he was more interested in time and the very matter that made up the world. He called the building blocks of this matter “elements”.’
‘Elements? Like the raw materials we use to work the weave?’
She nods. ‘He found a way to isolate the cellular makeup of his world – grass, trees, air, even animals – and to view it in relationship to the time that threaded through the space it was in. He knew if he could build a machine that showed how elements and time knit together, people could manipulate the world in unnatural ways. You’ve seen the drills that mine the raw materials, I assume.’
I nod, trying to call the images to mind, but my memory of them is vague. They were monstrous and powerful beasts that smoked and ground, but into what? The training images didn’t show that.
‘They mine elements from Earth that we manipulate into the weave. The four coventries rest over four mining sites, and Arras streams from the compounds. There is a raw weave under Arras; it keeps our time and environment separate. Because we exist on the periphery of the weave, we can view it on the machines in far greater detail and manipulate it without risk to the weave. The scientist who created the machines called it Crewel work. Spinsters came after the initial mantle and protective field were created. We helped initiate people into the weave much like the Department of Origins brings babies into Arras now.’
‘But how could they build Arras without Spinsters? Only women can work the looms.’ I shake my head, trying to force my thoughts into a rational explanation.
‘They groomed women for this duty, but I believe some men might be able to do the work,’ she says, cocking her eyebrow suggestively.
‘But why give such an important job to us?’ I ask, my annoyance showing in the sarcastic tone of my voice. ‘Why leave it to women?’
‘The Guild can control women better.’ Loricel sees me start to protest and holds her hand up to stop me. ‘Whether you like it or not, they do a damn good job of controlling us.’
Resentment toward the officials and Cormac and Maela and everyone who plays a part in this charade burns through me. ‘Who was this scientist from Earth?’
‘His name and the names of all those of Earth have passed from our collective memory. His real contribution was allowing for a peaceful resolution to the war.’
‘You’re telling me Arras doesn’t want to celebrate the genius of the man who created it?’ I ask, remembering the number of holidays reserved in honour of officials who have made much smaller contributions.
Loricel sighs, and gives me a frown. ‘Don’t be stupid, Adelice. You know they clean and alter. If they think information is too risky to Arras’s stability, they remove it. The Guild doesn’t want the citizenry to question the looms, and they especially don’t want people to know about Earth. My grandmother confided to me that a long time ago she took an oath of loyalty to Arras to keep our family safe. I didn’t realise until I came here and began apprenticing to the Creweler that it was really an oath of secrecy. It was the only way to survive the war they left behind – to promise to keep Arras’s secret. But that wasn’t enough for the Guild. I assisted in the cleaning of the information from the collective memory.’
‘Why?’ I demand. ‘If they can’t do these things without you, why do you do them?’
‘Because no one else will. I can’t alter all of Arras alone. Like it or not, and believe me, I do not, the relationship of Crewelers and the Guild is symbiotic. We cannot do our work without the bureaucracy and aid of the Guild. I won’t risk a war, not after the lengths we took to end the last one. Arras is too fragile to withstand it, and for every man like Cormac in our world, there are a hundred innocent women and children.’ To her credit, there’s not a trace of anger or defensiveness in her voice.
‘I feel stupid,’ I say, ‘but how did creating Arras end the war? Didn’t we just drag our problems here?’ Now that I understand how Arras came to be, I’m not sure I buy the careful regulations-only-ensure-safety story any more.
‘Arras was created, and its leaders came together to form the Guild of Twelve Nations. The population has been carefully monitored and the coventries established to maintain peace and prosperity. The Guild, while inefficient and often cruel, coordinates these efforts.’
‘And all these men at war on Earth? They just made peace?’
Approval glints in Loricel’s eyes. ‘Of course not. Arras consists of the twelve nations from Earth that believed they could control and maintain the mantle while keeping the peace.’
‘But there were others?’
‘They were left on Earth with their bombs. They annihilated one another years ago.’
‘Have you seen it then? Earth?’ I ask, wondering how far Loricel’s power stretches and what she sees on these trips to the mines each year.
‘No!’ There’s the ring of amusement in her voice, but she doesn’t laugh at me. ‘I doubt there’s anything to see.’
‘But how do you know that?’ I ask softly.
A tiny flash of doubt shows in her eyes, but she pushes it away, and they grow distant again. ‘I guess I believed my mentor. What purpose would lying serve?’
I shrug and turn back to stare at the blank night sky. If th
ere’s one thing the Coventry has taught me, it’s that lying always serves someone’s purpose.
16
No cosmetics. No stockings. No elaborate hair. And no clothes. I feel naked in more ways than one. The thin cotton shift they’ve given me to wear for the initial mapping has poppers up the back, leaving even less to the imagination than some of the dresses I’ve worn recently. The room’s blank white walls reflect off the polished silver instruments laid carefully on a table next to the edge of the large metal slab I’ve been sitting on for thirty minutes. My bum is chilled numb, but the time spent waiting is only winding up my mind.
A woman clad in a white coat and a hairnet bustles into the room and adjusts the slab so that it folds up on one end. She helps me lean back onto it and applies a digital medcuff to my arm. I thought I’d feel relief when it started, but there’s only dread. If the goal of this project is to make me lose my mind, then it’s been quite successful already.
‘This will monitor your heart rate and blood pressure,’ the nurse tells me, eyes on the numbers.
‘Is this dangerous?’ I ask, looking at the table of very sharp medical tools next to me.
‘Rarely. If you start to have a reaction to the procedure we’ll administer Valpron to calm you down,’ she says, with a pat on my arm.
A particularly long blade mesmerises me. I can see myself in it. ‘Will it hurt?’
‘Would you prefer Valpron now?’ she offers, but I shake my head no.
‘Dr Ellysen will be right in,’ she says, brandishing a tiny needle. ‘This will only sting for a minute.’
As the needle pricks my forearm I inhale sharply and blink against watery eyes.
‘Good girl,’ she says absently, while she places a bag of amber liquid on a rack next to me. It oozes slowly down a tube into my arm.
A very young doctor enters the room, eyes glued to his digifile. It’s a bit unnerving that he looks no older than I do, but then, with the patches available here, he may be much older than he looks.
‘Adelice, how are you feeling?’ he asks.
The doctors in Romen who did our annual health assessments were always old and grumpy. Male placements are given based on skill, and bedside manner isn’t one of the necessary qualifications. The youth of my new doctor doesn’t make him any less intimidating.
‘Fine,’ I lie. The IV in my arm unnerves me.
‘The procedure will last about two hours,’ he says, not looking up from his pad. ‘During that time you will lie still. You can sleep if you would like, or I can have Nurse Renni administer some Valpron.’
‘The patient declined,’ she whispers to him.
‘Very well,’ he says, sliding the small pad into his pocket. ‘I will be placing the mapping device over your head. It will scan various parts of your brain. During the process I will ask you questions, and it will map how your brain creates an answer.’
‘I thought you said I could sleep,’ I squeak.
‘You can,’ he assures me. ‘You’re being given a mental stimulant right now. It allows you to process information even in an unconscious state.’
I want to rip the needle out of my arm. There is no way I’m sleeping through a questioning.
‘I will be sitting in the next room observing. You will hear me through this comcuff,’ he says, hooking a small black device around my right ear. ‘Nurse Renni, can we fit the mapper?’
She nods and enters a code on the companel. Above me, the ceiling splits wide, and out of the gaping hole, two spotlights burst on. Blinking against their brightness, I watch the mapper descend. It’s a large dome, but as it comes closer I realise it’s not solid; it’s a series of connected wheels and gears so intricately bound together they appear to glide against one another. My eyes shift to the doctor ducking through the observatory door, and then to the nurse, who is checking my medcuff. As the device lowers over my head, I try to determine how it functions but a beam of green light breaks across my vision and I’m blinded.
‘It’s normal,’ the nurse murmurs next to me, fiddling with my medcuff. ‘You’ll be able to see again after the procedure is over.’
I arch up from the table and try to shove the device off my head.
‘Deep breaths, Adelice, or I’ll have to get the Valpron,’ she warns me.
This forces me to settle back into the darkness. My arms and legs tingle with the chill in the sterile room. Without my sight I feel trapped and immobile, like a fly in a spider’s web.
‘Adelice.’ The doctor’s voice sounds in my ear. ‘We’re beginning the test.’
I take a strangled breath and let it out slowly.
‘Adelice, where were you born?’
‘Romen, in the Western Sector.’
‘Good. Answer specifically like that,’ he says. ‘What were your parents’ names?’
I take another breath and answer, ‘Benn and Meria Lewys.’
‘Your father’s occupation?’
‘He was a mechanic. He worked on the Guild’s motofleet in Romen.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She was a secretary.’
‘What is your sister’s name?’
‘Amie,’ I whisper. Each time I say her name, I see the wispy curls behind her ears.
‘Please repeat.’
‘Amie,’ I say more authoritatively, pressure building in my chest.
‘Are your parents living?’
I suck in a breath and exhale my answer. ‘No,’ I lie.
‘Adelice, did you maintain purity standards before your testing?’
‘What kind of question is that?’ I demand, my hands clenching into fists.
‘Please answer the question.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I maintained purity standards.’
As if I had a choice. Girl neighbourhoods sit on the opposite side of the metro from the boy neighbourhoods, and trips into the metro are carefully chaperoned by parents during approved movement hours. It wasn’t always like that though. My grandmother whispered stories about how things had changed since she was a girl. On my fourteenth birthday, a month before her removal, I asked her about the marriage profiles in the Bulletin. Girls at academy brought them to hide under their desks, taking turns passing them to one another and giggling at the pictures of the boys.
‘Why are there marriage profiles in the Bulletin?’ I asked her. ‘Can’t girls and boys meet in person in the metro after they turn sixteen?’
My grandmother had deep brown eyes and she turned the full force of them on me, studying me before she answered. ‘It’s not as easy these days for girls and boys to meet. Parents don’t like the chance of it, and most young people get tongue-tied when they meet the first time. ’Course –’ she chuckled a bit – ‘that’s not so different from before segregation.’
‘I never realised there was a before and after to segregation,’ I said, feeling very small under her wise gaze.
‘There’s always a before and after to everything since before humanity began,’ she said with a twist of her mouth, ‘and there’ll be an after to humans someday, too. But yes, when I was a girl. We lived together then – boys and girls. No separate neighbourhoods.’
‘Did you know grandfather then, before . . .’ My hushed voice trailed into a question. Even talking about boys seemed strange.
‘He grew up next door to me,’ she told me, widening her eyes in mock shock at the confession. ‘I think it was easier to meet the marriage requirements then. Girls didn’t marry complete strangers.’
‘But purity standards . . .’ I couldn’t finish the thought. It was too embarrassing.
‘Oh, yes, those,’ she said with a wink. ‘They were harder to keep.’
I didn’t ask her if she kept them; it seemed too personal a question, even for grandmother, and because I was really embarrassed by her wink. ‘My mom and dad were profiled though, right?’
‘Yes, our children were the first segregated generation,’ she said, and there was a trace of regret in her words.
‘But they loved each other when they got married,’ I reassured her, not understanding the sadness in her voice. ‘So it’s okay.’
‘Yes, they love each other,’ she said in a soft voice, and I felt peace settle into my chest. I didn’t ask any more questions that day. Only now do I regret the answers I lost.
‘What was your academy ranking?’ The doctor’s voice filters in over the memory, and I realise I’ve been answering the mapping questions without listening. Stupid mental stimulant.
‘I was ranked in the top quarter.’
‘Were you disciplined often?’ he asks.
‘You guys have my file, you know this,’ I say, fighting the urge to shove at the mapper again.
‘We’re studying how your brain processes each question and answer,’ he reminds me.
By the time the doctor asks me about my fifth-year teacher, I’m bored and uncomfortable. My back muscles spasm from the unnatural angle I’m lying at and my eyes water against the laser. I answer quickly, trying to stay awake. I’m sure they’re saving the juiciest questions for when I fall asleep.
‘Adelice,’ the doctor continues, ‘when did you discover you could weave?’
‘At the testing, when I wove on the loom.’
He pauses, and I bite my lip. How much can this thing tell them?
‘You never showed talent before then?’
‘I didn’t have access to a loom.’
‘Hmmm.’ He murmurs something I can’t make out.
‘And your sister, Amie, did she ever show talent?’
I grip the edge of the metal slab. ‘No.’
‘Okay,’ the doctor says, ‘we’re going to transition to talking about your time at the Coventry. What is your favourite dish from the food generators?’
I sigh and relax my fingers, returning to automatic-answer mode. He asks about my wardrobe, where I work, what my duties are and which ones challenge me. He doesn’t mention Maela, so I’m able to keep my blood pressure normal.
‘Thank you, Adelice. Nurse Renni will be in to remove the mapper and IV,’ he says in my ear.
Nurse Renni’s hand adjusts the medcuff on my arm and then she withdraws the needle from my arm. I wait a few moments, but the helmet doesn’t lift off my head. I refrain from screaming at her to take it off.