Chapter One
The mechanical drawl of the flashing computer screen at the front of the white room moved through the speakers at the perfect volume. The children in the desks at the front heard the same exact pitch and volume as those seated in the back. Pictures raced across the screen; images of shining space-ships and glistening cities slid from left to right. Eyes bright and reflective, the thirty teenagers, each one the age of seventeen, let all their attention be drawn into the information provided by the Teacher.
Alexander Hawke blinked, momentarily severing his connection to the classroom. A movement to his left caught his eyes and Alexander turned his head, shutting the rambling Teacher from his mind. Chelsea Whitman, her smooth, dark hair tied back, her eyes dancing with the bright light of the Teacher. She did not move, her whole being held captive by the words and images of the computer. Suddenly, she turned around in her seat, and her passive eyes met his. Alexander froze in embarrassment, but soon realized the entire class had turned their attention from the Teacher and placed it upon him. Alexander felt as though a cold hand had gripped him; he hesitated, eyes dropping to the personal Teacher on his desk, scrolling through the words previously stated. He found the question, but before he could answer it, the Teacher turned off.
In unison, the class stood, grabbed up their personal Teachers, and filed out of the classroom and into the hallway. The main hall led four lines of children of various ages through the school and into the large Transport in the front. The children seated themselves in the Transport and it immediately took off, zipping through the network of Transportways and stopping at the programmed destinations.
Alexander seated himself in his usual seat—third row from the back, second from the left on the right side. Christopher White sat on Alexander’s left.
“—I mean, it doesn’t make sense,” Christopher continued to ramble on. He was an odd kid, always thinking and questioning. Alexander did not know why he was always asking questions about things they had just learned and usually found himself tuning the poor boy out.
“If you ask me—“
“No one asked you,” Alexander cut in.
“The gods had nothing to do with the ‘Great Journey’,” Christopher continued, undaunted. Alexander frowned at Christopher’s bold words. Although Alexander never found himself in the wrath of the gods of their ancestors, he knew people who had fallen from grace and had been punished for it. Christopher paid no heed to Alexander’s awed expression, rambling on in his unfinished sentences.
“Why would They—how could They…” Christopher gathered his thoughts. “They aren’t smart enough or creative enough, to come up with a plan as elaborate as that—but They must have…”
Alexander shook his head.
“What are you talking about?” He turned, frustrated, to Christopher, who shook his head, brows furrowed.
“Them!” he shouted back at Alexander, surprised his friend was not bothered by today’s history lesson. “They sit back, do nothing all day—that could allow for enough time to think up the gods and the ‘Journey’, but how could They make up such a brilliant story?”
Alexander pressed his hand over Christopher’s mouth, halting the stream of blasphemy. He glanced up at the Monitor mounted in the far corner of the Transport, its lens pointed down at the two. It seemed an eternity before the Monitor slowly turned its attention elsewhere.
