Both Jonah and I being sorted into the Historian Academy had been a surprise since our parents displayed scientific aptitude—my mother a botanist, Dad a respected genome researcher—but my brother and I shared a love of good-natured discussion on the ever-popular topic of whether humanities’ choices or our genetics had a greater impact on our downfall. Voices had filled our house with laughter and constant debate. It had always been fun, and I’d joined in even before my training began, but now the hallways and bedrooms and kitchen felt deserted. The way things used to be had evaporated, devoured by the shadow of Jonah’s ghost, and as hard as we faked it, we just weren’t the same family without him.
My brother had been gone three years now, running and hiding in the vastness of space. Surviving by committing unthinkable acts of piracy. It seemed like less time had passed since this place had gone from feeling jovial and warm to holding its breath. Waiting. It reeked of forced happiness.
“I’m starving,” I told my mom, grasping for normal.
The kitchen looked the same, with its cheery yellow curtains edging the sink and windows and dings in the metal cabinets here and there. Mom’s meatloaf smelled familiar—though not as good as real beef. Sometimes the hardest piece of the past to leave untouched was the food. No animals had been relocated to Genesis for several reasons, so our nutrition was synthetic. Though I knew nothing different, after a few observations it became clear that even the scents in our new worlds paled in comparison.
We gathered at the table and ate, my mother bowing her head and murmuring a quiet prayer while my father and I dug in. My mother had been raised on Persepolis, a tiny, arid planet where most of the religious traditionalists lived. My father was born on Sanchi and hadn’t been raised with any sort of inclination toward faith. Religion wasn’t popular in Genesis, but also wasn’t prohibited or sanctioned. Those who believed in a higher power followed the same primary, overarching law as the rest of us—no hatred or segregation of any kind.
The Originals had agreed and instituted a zero-tolerance policy for any kind of violence. It was the only true law in our society, and the only infraction punishable by exposure—by death.
Day to day we operated on expectations rather than laws. The System ran more like a corporation than a government, with all of the citizens acting as employees—cogs in the machine. We were rewarded for good performance, demoted and reprimanded for poor, and had a Sanction Guide that amounted to a basic corporate conduct policy. It had worked for us.
“Where are you traveling next week?” Dad swallowed a mouthful of peas and met my gaze.
Our dark eyes matched—chocolate brown threaded with gold—though he didn’t wear glasses. I didn’t need them outside of recording memories, either, but they were like a familiar friend by now. Most Historians wore them all the time.
“Our next trip is to New York City, 1911.”
I smiled and waited. This was a game Jonah had begun years ago, telling Dad a year and a place and seeing if he could recall the event. Instead of the competitive glint that typically shone in my father’s eyes, a trembling fear skittered past.
Then it disappeared, gone too quickly for me to ferret out its source. He swallowed another bite of vegetables, tapping his fork against his chin. “Plenty going on in that time and place, but given that you’re still training, I’d have to guess the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.”
“Right.” I stuffed more food in my mouth and chewed.
His knowledge didn’t surprise me, but the fear in his eyes lodged a trickle of trepidation at the base of my neck.
The Triangle Fire remained a fixture on the apprentice training schedule, but was kind of a mixed bag. The Historians considered it an important stop because it reminded humanity what could happen when desperate circumstances remained hidden behind walls erected by rich, socially irresponsible men, but the event also birthed labor unions in the United States, which had, after intense reflection, been deemed a detriment to society as a whole.
“When is your first certification exam?” Mom asked, her light gaze holding on to mine.
“We’ve still got a few months, but Analeigh’s already got a study group going. We’ve got a session tonight after I get back.”
“What’s on the first round?”
“Genesis foundation, the Originals, function and location of planets. First and second year stuff. No problem.”
“Well, Analeigh is right. It still can’t hurt to go over it and make sure.”
I managed to avoid rolling my eyes, but it was a struggle. My mother thought Analeigh was the best thing since hover transports. She was my complete opposite in almost every way, and I suspected my mother thought my best friend’s natural caution kept me in line.
After dinner, I helped her clear the dishes from the table and pile them into the sanitizer. It was seven-thirty—time to head back to the Academy. I excused myself to use the toilet, even though I didn’t have to go.
My parents probably knew that I snuck into Jonah’s room every time I came home, which wasn’t all that often—every three months or so—but they never asked why or bothered me about it. Papers covered my brother’s walls, leaving no hint of the sturdy metal behind them, and reflected the glow of the blue moon that hung close to Sanchi. They were pages from actual books, mostly religious and historical texts, that had all been transcribed into the digital library in the Archives. I wasn’t here to read them; I could do that on the comps any time. It was the smell that drew me back—stale sweat, lingering male cleansing powder, and a citrusy scent that reminded me of Jonah more than anything else, the result of my brother’s strange obsession with oranges. When he had apprenticed as a Historian, he’d lifted them from every site where they existed, no matter how many times the overseers sanctioned him.