Aletheia (The Seventh River, Book 1)

Chapter 2

My mind wanders as 1633 and I are swept along by the crowd of people heading towards the large stairwell. Maybe swept isn't the right word—it's more like being dragged along by a debris-filled river. The mess hall is on the seventh floor, which is also the lowest floor since the building is entirely underground. The Hall of Repentance is on the sixth floor.

Once up the stairs, everyone begins to funnel into the cavernous room, which is second in size only to the training room on the fourth floor. I glance down at my cuff as we walk through the sensor-framed doorway. The timer freezes, and then fades away, leaving the words in Overseer custody.

Walking into the Hall of Repentance is like entering a whole other world. The ceiling is so high that it could almost trick us into forgetting that we're six stories underground. The cool concrete of the rest of the compound is gone, replaced instead by a sea of shattered reflections. Pieces of mirror behind bullet-proof glass fit between lattices of steel beams, like dew on a spider web. Behind sporadically placed domes are synthetic lights made to duplicate the sun's wavelengths. The light's rays dance across the mirrors and the white tiled floor, which is slowly being obstructed by hundreds of pairs of shoes.

At the far end of the room stands a dark marble wall beneath a balcony of contrasting white. Light reflects at odd angles off the thousands of words of sacred writing that cover the stone. These are the words of Vocem, the god who spoke into the Prophet's ear and foretold of the coming of the disease which ate away at the foundations of the old society until everything crumbled to the ground. This was the god who guided the Prophet's hands as he created a cure that would have taken scientists decades to develop even without the apocalypse slowing them down. This is the god who protects Iris and all the pampered Citizens that live within its walls. And as per the sacred writing, it's this god that protects the inhabitants of the compound far below the sparkling city of Iris. I've never really felt protected though. Least of all by Vocem.

Right in front of the wall, below the balcony, is a statue clad in a flowing dress of stone. Where a face should be, there is only smooth emptiness except for a single triangular mark on the woman's cheek and a decorative band that sits on her head. On her chest, right above her heart, is a small painting of the sacred purple flower that fills every garden in the city. All the female Citizens in the city of Iris wear the headband, and every Citizen bears a tattoo that matches the painting. The statue holds its hands in front of it, palms up, its arms and body forming a triangle. On one palm sits a small growing plant, its roots weaving tightly around the stone hand, growing into the crevices of a root system made to cradle it. On the other palm, a small group of concrete people eternally lift a bucket, which, ever so slightly tipped, drips nutrient rich water onto the plant. A plaque below the statue reads Lady Iris.

As everyone finishes filing in, nervous silence soon becomes a murmur. Then a buzz. Somewhere in the confusion, I lose sight of 1633. I stand on the tips of my toes, attempting to spot him in the crowd as if having him nearby could somehow shield him from the bad news that's guaranteed to come from this sudden meeting.

He's probably already on edge. 1633 hates this room and everything it represents. Vocem is the one topic that 1633 can rant about. He never really believed in Vocem, and with each passing year, his hate of the entire concept has grown. He was always so full of questions, so suspicious of withheld answers. The Overseers only made things worse by punishing him for his curiosity, which just made him question everything more. The very first time I met him, he was getting hauled off for asking an Overseer too many questions. It was that brave curiosity that made me first speak to him, and I'm glad I did. I can't imagine not being friends with him now. I wish I could claim it was just his personality that pushed me to forge a bond between us, but there was another factor too. He reminds me of the small boy that frequents my dreams so often. The one that reaches out to me from memories that were torn to shreds by the disease nearly a decade ago. When I spend time with 1633 there's a strange feeling of nostalgia, an echo of normalcy, a spark of broken neural connections that might have once represented a home.