ETHAN (3 YEARS AGO)
When he’d first stumbled upon the door, he’d had no clue what it was he’d found. Always exploring the lands within the Barriers, Ethan was prone to wandering, sometimes disappearing for two or three days, leaving his friends worried. This time, though, he’d wandered into a stand of trees he’d never been to before, and quite literally tripped over a metal bulkhead under some overgrowth. It was an old, rusted contraption with a cement base, obviously overlooked and neglected for ages. He searched the area surrounding it, looking for clues to where it led, but he found nothing…just more trees and underbrush. Returning to the bulkhead, he pulled on one of its handles, but it wouldn’t budge. Despite the rust, the thing was obviously sturdy and secure.
Then he saw it. The key slot. His hand went to the cord at his throat; he hesitated for a moment, then pulled it out from under his clothing, sliding his fingers down to the key hanging from the cord. He gazed at the key for a few moments. It was one of the only things he’d inherited from his father, the only thing left in the box he’d been given by Finn’s parents after his father’s death. The box had contained several old sketches and drawings, his parents’ wedding bands, a few books, and among several other trinkets, this key on a leather cord.
He let the key drop to dangle from its cord and moved some of the brush away from the bulkhead, then used one gloved hand to brush dust and debris from the key slot. Grabbing the key again, he pushed it into the slot. It fit, but would not go into the hole completely. He pulled out his pocket knife, another of the trinkets from his dad’s box, and opened the smallest tool it contained, which he pushed into the slot, jiggling it around to loosen the dirt and debris that had accumulated in the lock over the years. He blew heartily into it afterward, then tried the key again. This time, the key went in all the way, if a bit tight; he could feel the grit still inside the hole, but when he turned the key, it worked. He heard a loud click as the door unlocked. Pulling the key out of the lock, he tucked it back under his clothes and gripped the door handle, twisted and pulled. It had obviously been sealed and rusted shut, but it finally came open, at least partially, with a groan.
The door open, Ethan saw a flight of stairs leading down into darkness. He twisted his arms behind him, dropping the pack off his back to the ground beside him, and began rummaging through it for a lantern. Striking a match, he lit the oil wick. He also found his dagger and sheath and secured the sheath to his belt. He slung the pack over one shoulder and squeezed himself into the half open bulkhead door, pulling it shut behind him and turning up the lamp. After 20 steps, the stairs ended at a small landing, a door before him. He pulled out the key and slipped it into the lock; this time, it went in easily. Twisting the knob, he pulled the door open with a loud creak and entered what appeared to be a corridor which led off to his right. Light flickered several times, as if a fire was sputtering to life, and then he found himself blinded by the brightest light he’d seen other than the sun. He threw a hand up to shield his eyes, squinting until they adjusted to the light.
Looking up, he saw–well, it wasn’t a wick; it looked like a globe–hanging from the ceiling by a chain, surrounded by a bracket of some kind. Looking down the corridor, he saw several more of the same small globes, two more of them magically lighting the way, as if the power of the sun had been harnessed and was hung from the ceiling; small suns beckoning him to follow. He took a few steps hesitantly, then began walking down the corridor, pausing when he saw more of the globes flickering to life as he approached. What magic was this? He again stopped and looked back down the corridor in the direction from which he’d come to see that the ones behind him had flickered off after he’d passed. His eyes now well-adjusted to the unnatural brightness of the globes, he looked at the one above him and saw – cables? ropes? – connecting it to the others.
“Weird,” he murmured, then chuckled nervously, startled by his own voice in the empty corridor.
He continued down the corridor, his lantern held down by his side, essentially useless, but he didn’t trust the ceiling globes to stay illuminated. His other hand loosely rested on the hilt of his dagger. He saw a door about 20 feet from him, marking the end of the corridor. Again using the key, he pulled this door open as well and was met with the same flickering and glowing orbs along the ceiling. Turning back towards the door, he saw a sign posted on the wall beside it:
RESTRICTED! MAINTENANCE ACCESS ONLY!
This corridor led to both the right and left. He opted to go to the left, again startled as the globes above flickered to life as he approached. From somewhere – all around him? – he heard a slight rumble and humming, as if some creature was stirring to life. He hesitated, looking back down the corridor behind him, wondering if he should turn back, maybe go find Finn and Iris and bring them here so he wouldn’t be alone. Instead, he dropped his pack to the floor, flinching slightly at the echo the sound of its dropping made in the mostly dark corridor, then slid down to the floor beside it, his back against the wall, pulling a pouch of tobacco and some rolling papers from a pocket on the front. After sealing the paper, he lit a match and touched it to the cigarette, taking a long drag from it and letting his head rest back against the wall.
When he finished his cigarette, he stamped it out on the floor of the corridor and got to his feet, hefting his pack onto his back and dousing the lantern. He resumed his trek down the corridor and saw a door ahead on his right. To the right of the door was what appeared to be a box with a panel hanging from it by some plastic cords, some of the plastic having deteriorated over the decades to expose metal rope strands beneath. It’s obvious that the panel had been like this for ages. He tested the door handle and found the door unlocked. Entering the room, he stopped in the doorway as the ceiling globes flickered and sputtered and finally came to life. The humming he’d heard in the hallway was slightly louder here. Before him were several tables with panels on them, all of them having small glowing buttons on them.
He dropped his pack by the door and wandered toward one of the panels, reaching out to touch a large button. A window on the wall in front of him suddenly began to glow and a man appeared in it. Ethan quickly dropped behind the table.
“Access code please,” the man said. He didn’t sound threatening or angry, so Ethan stole a glance over the top of the panel. The man in the window appeared to be staring past him. He turned but there was nobody else in the room.
“Access code please,” the man repeated.
“Access code,” mumbled Ethan. “I don’t know any access code.” He gazed around the room, then saw lettering scratched onto the wall to the left of the window.
ACCESS CODE 7GBX359YZL37
He read the letters and numbers aloud. “Thank you,” said the man in the window.
“You’re welcome,” Ethan replied softly out of habit, waving his hand in front of the window. It was obvious that the man was unable to see him. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am the Curator,” the man replied cheerfully. “I am an artificial intelligence that was created for databases and recordkeeping.”
“I don’t know what most of that means,” said Ethan. “Recordkeeping, though. What sorts of records do you keep?”
“I keep historical records, informational records—”
“Historical records.”
“Would you like more information about historical records?” asked the Curator.
“Yes.”
“For what year would you like the records?”
Ethan pondered a moment, even though he knew what he’d choose. The most horrible thing that had ever happened to him was the death of his father 13 years previous. Would the Curator have such records?
“Thirteen years ago,” he said.
“Thirteen years ago,” the Curator repeated. “That would be the 250th year of Wormwood. What information would you like to know about the year 250?”
“Do you know anything about Jonas Cooke?” Ethan asked, the trepidation palpable in his voice.
“Jonas Luther Cooke, born in the 224th year of Wormwood, son of Aleister Cooke of the line of Gabriel Cooke, was executed on charges of treason on the 57th day of the year. The execution was carried out–”
Ethan felt the color drain from his face. “Wait, wait,” he said. “He was executed? For treason?”
“Yes,” replied the Curator. “Would you like more information on his charges?”
“Yes please.”
“On the 30th day of the year, Jonas Cooke was appointed to the Guardians of Knowledge by the Council of Elders. He entered Orientation on the 32nd day of the year. Upon learning the contents of the Vault, Jonas Cooke believed that keeping such knowledge from the citizens of the Barrierlands was in error and that much of the knowledge contained in the Vault should be shared for the betterment of all mankind. The matter was heard before the Council of Elders, and a consensus agreed that it would be an egregious travesty of justice for mankind to have access to the knowledge in the Vault as the original purveyors of such knowledge had eventually used it for nefarious and dangerous purposes.”
“Wait,” said Ethan. “What is the Vault?”
“The Vault of Knowledge.”
“Where is the Vault of Knowledge?”
“The Vault of Knowledge is here.”
“I don’t understand,” said Ethan.
“I am happy to provide clarification,” the Curator said. “The Vault of Knowledge is a large database contained within this facility. I am the curator of this database.”
“What is this facility?”
“This facility is an abandoned military bunker, built sometime in the 3rd century prior to Wormwood Year 1; in old parlance, this time was known as the 21st century. After Wormwood, as settlers began to arrive to this area of the lands, they brought with them extensive technical, scientific, and medical knowledge and entered this information into the Vault of Knowledge. In the 53rd year of Wormwood, the Council of Elders determined that the knowledge contained here should be assessed and the majority of it kept from the inhabitants due to the nature of much of its use in past ages. Do you wish me to continue?”
“No.” Ethan’s thoughts wandered back to his father. “So my fath— So Jonas Cooke was executed for believing that the knowledge kept here should be shared?”
“Yes,” replied the Curator.
“Can you tell me some of the knowledge that’s here?” asked Ethan.
“Which data are you interested in?”
“What type is there?”
“While there is some overlap among the various fields of study, the main fields are engineering, science, medicine, agriculture, milita—”
“Medicine,” said Ethan.
“I have a wealth of information on the field of medicine – from life-saving techniques such as cardiopulmonary resuscitation to vaccine development to—”
“Stop.” Ethan’s mind raced, and for the next hour, he asked the Curator various questions and listened to the answers, most of which were beyond Ethan’s comprehension. Finally, he asked to go back to information about Jonas Cooke.
“What information would you like to know?” the Curator asked.
“I was taught,” Ethan replied, “that Jonas Cooke was a hero, that he was a high-ranking member of the Council of Elders and died an honorable and heroic death. Is this not true?”
“This is the story that is told in the recorded history of the Barrierlands,” replied the Curator. “Jonas Cooke’s treason and subsequent execution are only known to those with access to the Vault of Knowledge.”
“Do you have any other information about his execution?”
“I have a video of the execution,” the Curator replied.
“I don’t understand. What is a video?”
“I can show you the execution,” the Curator said. “Would you like me to play the video record?”
“Yes.”
The Curator faded from the window, and in his place appeared a room, viewed from slightly above and behind a group of men, all of whose backs were to the window. Ethan saw his father standing against a wall, facing the men. He recognized a few of the men as younger versions of some of the current Council of Elders, all wearing cloaks, their hoods down.
“Jonas Luther Cooke,” recited one man – Ethan recognized him as his father’s trusted friend Quinn Riley, Finn’s father, “You…” He stopped and looked to one of the men to his left. “I can’t do this,” he said. He passed the scroll in his hand to another man, whom Ethan knew as Giles ___. “I can’t be a part of this,” continued Quinn, and he left the view of the window.
“Jonas Luther Cooke,” Giles read from the scroll, “on this 57th day of the 250th Year of Wormwood, you have been found guilty of treason and sentenced to execution. Do you have any last words you would like to share?”
“I—” Ethan leaned closer to the screen, his eyes focused on his father, trying to burn every feature of this man he hadn’t seen in 13 years into his brain, “I—” his father stammered again, then his shoulders shook and he lowered his head. “Please. Just tell my son—tell Ethan I love him.”
Ethan watched as Giles raised his right arm out toward his father. His father looked directly at Giles and raised his head, squaring his shoulders to stand taller against the wall. “You know this is wrong, Giles,” Jonas Cooke said, then let his eyes wander to each man. “You all know this is wrong.” A loud blast echoed from the window, the sleeve of Giles’s robe rippled. Ethan leaped backwards at the sound, his eyes wide as he watched a large hole erupt in the center of his father’s chest in the window. Jonas Cooke slid to the ground, his blood pooling beneath him.
One of the men moved forward and reached a hand down to Jonas’s throat, feeling for a pulse. “It is done,” he said quietly. The men began to leave the window frame, and the Curator returned. “That is the end of the video. Would you like me to replay it?” the Curator asked.
Ethan stood before the window, his eyes no longer focused on it. He ran a hand through his hair as he realized that everything he’d been told about his father his entire life had been a lie.
After a few moments, the Curator repeated his question.
“W—what?” asked Ethan.
“Would you like me to replay the video?” repeated the Curator.
“No. No.” Ethan went to his pack near the door and rolled another cigarette, lighting it and sucking in several drags, squeezing the bridge of his nose and trying to stop the scene he’d just seen in the window from replaying over and over in his head, to no avail. After several minutes, he heard a noise that seemed to come from somewhere outside the room he was in, and he gathered his pack and headed back the way he’d come.
IRIS AND FINN (3 YEARS AGO)
“Have you seen E?” Finn asked, reaching out to squeeze Iris’s shoulder as he came up behind her. He stood slightly behind her, gazing at the canvas she was painting. “Nice work, by the way. I love how you captured the light right there on the horizon…” He pointed at a swatch of pale violet.
“I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” Iris said, reaching for another pot of paint to add to her palette. She turned to look at Finn, a concerned expression on her face. “…though he did have his pack with him, so I got the impression he was exploring again…I hate when he does that. I worry about him sometimes.”
“He’s Ethan,” laughed Finn. “You know better than to worry about him. He’s too curious for his own good sometimes, but he always comes back.” He dropped to the ground beside her, resting his arms on his knees. “Just kinda pissed he didn’t say when he’d be back. He was supposed to help me in the south field today.”
Iris squinted into the distance. “That’s weird,” she mumbled.
“Hm?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She returned to her canvas. “Thought I saw something.”
Finn busied himself picking up pebbles and tossing them down the hill, occasionally looking up to watch Iris paint. Every few minutes, he’d notice her stop and stare off into the distance, sometimes shielding her eyes with her hand.
After a time, she put her brushes down and walked around in front of her easel. “No, that’s just weird,” she said. “Finn.”
He got up and stood beside her, and she grabbed his arm and leaned her head in towards his shoulder, raising her other arm to point at a stand of trees on a hill in the distance. “There,” she said. “Did you see that?”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than they saw a dark figure emerge from the trees, half running, half stumbling. The figure stopped and turned to look back at the woods, then started running again, across a small field, tripping once and stumbling back up to continue running. The figure was halfway across the field when several men erupted from the woods in chase.
Iris squeezed Finn’s arm hard. “That’s Ethan!” she exclaimed. The figure was close enough that she recognized his long dark hair streaming out behind him. She looked to Finn, but he was squinting at the far woods, at the other figures chasing his friend.
“Those are Guardians,” he said. “What the hell has he done now?” They watched as Ethan stopped again, this time dropping to his knees and kneeling down as if searching for something in the grass. He looked over his shoulder at the Guardians behind him, then stood, kicking at something on the ground before continuing his trek.
“Shit,” Finn muttered. “Pack your stuff up—we need to get down there.” Iris moved back to her easel, reaching up to touch the canvas, then looking off into the field where they’d last seen Ethan.
“Forget these things,” she said. “I can come get them later. What would the Guardians want with Ethan?” She looked back down the hill in time to see Ethan tackled by several Guardians. She grabbed Finn’s hand and they headed down toward the village.
ETHAN (3 YEARS AGO)
Ethan emerged from the trees and considered his options. He looked behind him and didn’t see them yet, but he could hear that they weren’t far behind. He surveyed the landscape, then saw a figure at the top of the hill to the southwest. He shoved his hand into his pack, pulled out his journal and started running again, across the field to the south, whispering a mantra as he went, “Please be Iris, please be Iris, please be Iris…” He knew her well, he knew that was one of her favorite spots to paint, and he hoped that that was her up there on the hill. The purpose of everything he did in the next few minutes would be for nothing if it wasn’t her up there.
At the opposite end of the field, just at the edge of the woods there, he dropped to his knees, his journal in his lap, opened to a blank page and used the pencil shoved under the back cover to scribble furiously. He looked over his shoulder to see that the Guardians had emerged from the trees and were headed his way. He started pulling at the grass and dirt, shoving the journal into the ground, then ripped the cord from around his neck and tossed it on top of the journal.
Getting to his feet, he kicked dirt and grass over the spot and hoped it was enough. “Please be Iris, please be Iris,” he thought as he veered off toward the road. It was inevitable that the Guardians were going to catch up to him; he just wanted to get them as far from the journal and key as he could.
Just before he got to the road, he was tackled from behind and thrown to the ground, roughly, a knee in his back. He put his hands out to his side, showing them he wasn’t going to fight them off. One of the Guardians yanked the pack off his back; the one that was holding him down grabbed the back of his jacket and pulled him to his feet roughly and started shoving him down the road toward the village.
