Atlantia (5 page)

I don't like Nevio, but he's right. I never had the faith that Bay and my mother did. A life alone in the temple was never what I imagined for myself. I thought I would go Above, and then when I promised Bay that I would stay, I thought I would be living and working in the temple
with
her.

“Where would you like to go?” Nevio asks.

I want to go Above so much that I think, for one short moment, about telling him. But even if Nevio could bend the rules, even if he could get the Council to agree, I don't trust him.

A flicker of annoyance and impatience crosses Nevio's face. I'm taking too much of his time. “Let's try another question,” he says. “What do you like to do?”

“I like to fix things,” I say, in a voice as stupid as he expects.

“Yes,” he says. “Justus tells me that you are the one who has kept the temple trees in such good repair.”

I open my mouth to thank him, because I assume that's what he wants, but before I can say anything he speaks again.

“Still, I'm sure we can teach another acolyte to perform your tasks here,” Nevio says. “And I know they're always in need of good workers down in the mining bays where they repair the drones. That seems like a perfect fit for you.”

The mining bays are down in the deepest reaches of the city, as far away from the temple as possible. It's the lowest you can physically go in Atlantia, as close as you can get to the seafloor, where the drones mine for magnesium and copper, cobalt and gold.

Is Nevio doing this on purpose? Has he sensed, in some way, how much I want to be Above so he's sinking me deeper?

It's clear that he wants me gone.

“When my mother died,” I say, “I was assured that the temple would always be my home.”

“Of course,” Nevio says. “It will always be your
spiritual
home. And for now you can keep the room you shared with your sister. The machinists' quarters are full, I'm told.”

At least I won't have to move out of the room where Bay and I lived. But I still can't believe Nevio is making me leave the temple. Can he do this? I suppose he can, since he's the Minister, but it feels wrong. Should I talk to some of the priests? Then I remember Justus's expression when he told me Nevio needed to see me. Justus knows, and even he isn't going to help me.

“I saved one of the pages your mother wrote,” Nevio says. “I thought you would like to see it.” He holds out the paper and I snatch it away. I can't help myself. He shouldn't have the things she's touched.

Rio is not intended for a life as a priest,
my mother wrote, and I stop, a sudden sharp ache pinpointing the center of my chest, as if I've experienced a physical injury. My mother didn't write that. She couldn't have. But there it is, right in front of me, her handwriting as neat and measured as always.
Rio doesn't often think of the collective good, which comes innately to Bay. I'm not sure that's something that can be taught. I don't think that Rio is cold or strange—few people can care about the group as a whole the way a Minister or a priest must. But sometimes I reproach myself. I worry that it is my fault, that I've stunted her growth. But I cannot see her suffer, and in that I am a hypocrite. For that feeling has nothing to do with the collective good, and everything to do with one specific child. My child.

“This must hurt you to read,” Nevio says.

Yes. It does.

“You've gone through her journal?” I ask.

“Every page,” he says smoothly.

“These were her
personal
papers,” I say. “They should have been given to me and my sister, not kept here.”

“We have the right to any of Oceana's papers that relate to her work as the Minister,” Nevio says. “As you can see, the rest of the page consists of notes for a sermon she delivered, so this belongs to the temple's archives.”

I turn over the paper. The other side is filled with notes, the kind of jottings-down she made as she planned out what she would say. I'd seen her do it hundreds of times, in this very office. There were so many occasions that required her to address the citizens of Atlantia—sermons for the congregation on Sundays, and speeches for the monthly Wednesday broadcasts, when she spoke about matters the Council wanted her to address.

One of our greatest fears is to be gone,
she wrote.

We hope to observe, not inhabit, the moment of our own deaths.

The song of the sirens used to help us forget. And now we cannot remember.

And then the last two words on the page.

Ask Maire.

She wrote her sister's name.

That's as far as I get before Nevio takes the paper from me. “The notes on that side of the paper aren't relevant to your situation,” he says. “The other side, the part that is specifically about
you
, is what matters. Having read it, you must understand why we can't keep you as an acolyte in the temple. Even your own mother would have advised against it, were she strong enough to recommend the truth instead of trying to keep you with her.”

Nevio stands up and walks to the door. He opens it. Our interview is over. “Don't worry, Rio,” he says. “I don't think it will take very long for you to see that this is a better fit for you.”

I might not have believed as fiercely as Bay and my mother, but the temple has been my home for years. I know the smell of the candles late at night and the sound of the bats' wings coming home in the early morning. I sat in pools of colored light coming in through this office window and watched my mother write in the journal that Nevio has taken for his own. I used to belong here.

After losing my mother and my sister, I didn't think I had anything left to lose, but I do. You always have something left to lose. Until, of course, you die.

I
always thought the temple robes were heavy, but they're much lighter than the protective suits that machinists wear. One similarity between my old uniform and my new one is that the visor reminds me of the one I wore to fix the leaves and the gods in the temple trees. I resist the urge to pull it down and hide my face. The room is filled with workers; many of them sneak glances at me.

The supervisor, a middle-aged man named Josiah, shows me around the large room where the machinists work. It's very easy to hear Atlantia breathe down here. Bay would love that. And to my surprise, the workroom is extremely beautiful. The workstations are well-lit and the smell of oil and salt water is strong and pleasant. The low ceilings have been hung with little chips and bits of metal, probably scraps left over from repairs, and they catch the light in a way that reminds me of Atlantia's trees. “We call this the sky room because of the stars on the ceiling,” Josiah says, pointing to the scraps as they glint above us.

“It's a beautiful workplace,” I say.

“We all take pride in what we do,” Josiah says. “Justus told me you have impressive skills, and he showed me a sample of your work. It was excellent. But everyone begins in here.”

I nod. Because I'm new, my job will be the easiest task of all—quick fixes and polishes for mining drones that have suffered less substantial damage. The drones are steel-strong and complicated, and they often need repair thanks to the difficult nature of their task of extracting ore. I can't help but feel a little bit of interest in the drones.

“Word spreads quickly,” Josiah says in a low voice. “Everyone here knows that you're Oceana the Minister's daughter, but I've asked them not to talk to you about her.”

Of course. It's as Nevio insinuated yesterday in his office. My mother is no longer a leader. He wants everyone to let her go.

Josiah pauses near another room full of well-lit workstations. I see a heavy, round portal door at the opposite end. “We call that the ocean room,” he says. “It's where we do the more difficult repairs. That door is where the drones come inside.” That's why everything smells like salt. This is one of the few places where Atlantia opens up, and we are very, very close to the ocean.

I have to hide a smile. Maybe this is a way to get to the Above.

I've never been so deep, or so close to the sea.

“I can tell you're itching to work in the ocean room,” Josiah says, laughing, and I realize that I've forgotten myself and I'm staring at the portal. “Don't worry. You'll move in there quickly if you're as talented as you seem to be.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Josiah's expression grows serious. “The most important part of the tour happens right now,” he says. “I need to tell you about the mines.”

I wonder why. We don't actually work in the mines or see any of the metals harvested there. That's what the drones are for. They're programmed to take their payloads somewhere else, some other part of Atlantia. They only report to this bay if they're in need of repair.

My face must register my confusion, because Josiah begins to speak more slowly to me. Already he's forgotten how good I supposedly am at metalwork. This always happens after people have heard me speak.

“There are two kinds of mines out there,” he says. “There are the mines where the drones get the ore, and then there are the
other
mines—the floating bombs—between the walls of Atlantia and the ocean floor where the drones work. That's how the drones get so beat-up.”

“I assumed it was from working,” I say.

“That's what most people think,” he says. “But if you're down here, you need to know the truth. In fact,
all
of the water around Atlantia is mined, not just the water down here.”

“But why would we do that?” I ask. “Why would we put mines out there if it results in damage to our drones?”

“The drones can be fixed,” Josiah says. “People can't. The mines are here to make sure that no one tries to leave.”

When Justus told Josiah what a good worker I am, did he also say something about Bay? Did he tell Josiah that I tried to follow my sister the day she left?

“I tell this to every new machinist,” Josiah says, watching me intently, “because now and then we get someone who thinks this is a way to get Above. They want to find someone who chose to leave, or sometimes they want to go themselves because they feel like they can't live down here any longer. They buy some of that illegal canned air in the deepmarket and strap it on and go up. But we're down so deep your lungs could explode the second you get out there. The mines exist to keep anyone from trying a route that would lead to death.”

“I would never have thought of trying to leave,” I say, and my voice is so plain and bland that I am quite sure Josiah will believe me. But, in spite of everything he's said, I still see a way out. I'll have to learn more to decide if it's at all viable, but I'm not ready to give up yet.

“Well,” Josiah says. “That's everything. Let's get you started.” He pulls down his visor and I follow his lead, glad for the layer of smoky-colored plastic that hides my face.

I work all day next to a girl named Bien, who is efficient and caustic, and a woman named Elinor, who is quiet and kind. We smooth out metal that has been scraped or bumped and put a protective sealant over the repairs. There is a brief moment of unpleasantness when one of the other workers begins humming to herself in an off-key tone and Bien makes a snide remark about the tune being as painful as a siren's song.

“The sirens are miracles,” Elinor says, a gentle warning in her voice. “We should be careful how we speak of them.”

“They're no more special than the bats,” Bien says.

But the bats
are
special,
I think. Even though I had to clean up after them, it was worth it for those rare glimpses when they soared past the window in the temple, completely out of place and yet perfectly at home in our world.

When we finish our shift, Elinor falls into step with me as I leave the building. “You did well today,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, and I slide up the visor because it would be strange not to, since we've finished and are walking to the gondola stop together. I pull my helmet all the way off and feel the breeze against my hair, sweaty and still-braided.

Elinor stares at me. “Oh my,” she says. “You look like her. Oceana the Minister.” Then she puts her hand over her mouth as if remembering that she's not supposed to discuss this with me.

But I
want
to talk about my mother. “No,” I say. “She was small. I'm tall. Our coloring is completely different.”

“No, really,” Elinor says. “Something about your eyes. How you're seeing everything. That's how she looked at people.” Then she leans closer, glancing around to make sure no one can hear. “I know we're not to bother you about it,” she says. “But I have to tell you how much she meant to me. I loved her sermons. I looked forward to them all week. And, once, I brought my sick child to the temple and your mother came past and touched my son's hand and he was better the very next day.”

“She never claimed to perform miracles,” I say, but I'm thrilled at what Elinor thinks of my mother, how she remembers her. “It's blasphemy to say that she could.”

Elinor reaches into her pocket and pulls out something. At first I can't tell what it is—I think it might be a piece of stone—and then she brings it into the light and I see that it's a metal figurine, one of the tiger gods, the kind of token they sell in the deepmarket stalls for cheap. This Efram has the same snarling mouth and curved tiny claws as on the totems I've seen before, but in one of his paws he holds a trident, which is a symbol of the sea.

Another thrill goes through me. The gods of Above and Below are not supposed to mix. We have tiger and lion gods with fur and claws, the Above has sharp-toothed sharks and bulbous-eyed fish. We have scepters and swords; they have tridents and nets. This little amalgam is another blasphemy.

“I want you to have this,” Elinor says.

“Why?” I ask. “I'm not my mother.” I didn't preach the sermons that Elinor loved. I didn't help her sick child.

“Because you're what's left of her,” she says.

After I ride the gondola back up into the city proper, I walk right through the door of the temple itself instead of going to my sleeping quarters. I want to light a candle again tonight and sit for a while under the stone gods and stained glass. I feel as though I need to show Nevio I'm not afraid to come back, that I am what is left of my mother and that she will always have a place here.

With one hand, I pick up the candle, a circle of ivory wax that looks like the round cakes of soap we use to clean the gods. That makes me smile for a moment, remembering a time when, dreaming of the Above, I picked up a candle from the storage room instead of soap. I smeared one of the gods' faces with wax before I realized my mistake. Bay laughed so hard she cried.

The pain comes so soon after the memory that it hurts to breathe. It hurts even to
be
. But there is nothing else to do. Not if I want to see her again. I have to keep going.

I keep my other hand in my pocket, closed around the figure of Efram that Elinor gave me. The three prongs of the trident poke into my palm and I think,
Three ways to get to the Above: The Council transports. Maire. Through the mining bay.

Right now the last one appeals to me the most, in spite of what Josiah said. Maybe it's because I can picture how it might feel. The dark water. The floating mines. Me, swimming around them, fast and strong.

Someone comes up next to me at the altar.

She wears a head covering and nondescript clothes, to keep the priests from recognizing her immediately. But I know who she is. I don't even have to hear her speak.

“Sirens are not supposed to be in the temple,” I say.

That makes Maire laugh softly. Her hands are steady as she lights a candle, and they are smooth and fine, the hands of someone who doesn't have to do hard work. “Oh,” she says, “the way you can say that, with a complete lack of irony in your voice. You're something, Rio. You really are.”

“I'll tell everyone you're here,” I say. “I'll make a scene.”

“Don't do that,” Maire says. “I'm not going to stay long. But I need to give you something. Under the middle of the third pew back, on the side of the temple nearest the priests' door, you'll find what your sister left for you. And if you ever decide you want to speak with me after all, go and sit under Efram's tree in the temple plaza. I will find you. I am always here if you need me.”

“I won't need you,” I say.

She nods her head in either mock reverence or assent and slips away. I'm surprised at how easily I'm rid of her, and I wonder how many times sirens have stolen into the temple. I come here daily, of course, and the Council doesn't seem to have as much control over Maire as they should.

I'm not sure whether the thought thrills or frightens me.

I tell myself that after the candle burns out, I'll go right back up the nave and leave the temple, but of course I don't. I make my way to the third pew and sit down. I bow my head as if in prayer and reach a hand underneath the seat. At first I feel nothing, and then there it is, a thick cloth bag taped to the bottom of the pew. It's heavy. I think I know what's inside by the feel of it. Lots of small, solid pieces.

Money.

Bay left me money?

Is there a note inside, too?

I stand up holding the bag—it's a simple one, the kind that many of us in Atlantia have for shopping or carrying books—and walk out of the temple. I hope no one notices that I'm leaving with more than I had when I came in, but I don't think anyone has really paid attention to me this entire time. I have the uncanny feeling that Maire may have told them all not to see me, that she whispered some incantation when I first came inside. That would, of course, be illegal, as is the little god of Efram that sits inside my pocket.