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“I suppose,” he murmurs. “It would certainly be a reminder of their cleverness.”
“But they didn’t want anyone to know about Earth,” I say.
“Not subsequent generations, but the original population of Arras was quite proud of their achievement.”
“A film is like a vid?” I ask, pointing to the screen.
“Yes.” Dante excuses himself, obviously eager to get away from me. I’m not sorry to see him go. The awkwardness between us is getting harder to hide, and I still haven’t told the others about Dante’s claim.
We take seats and wait for the film to start. Kincaid enters but he doesn’t sit with us; instead he chooses a small sofa placed to the side of the room. Only Valery sits with him. He nods to me, and I turn away, embarrassed to be caught staring at him.
Blurring light streams past me and life bursts onto the screen. The images are in black-and-white and they crackle although there’s no sound. Dante returns and sits next to me. I focus on the screen, feeling Jost’s arm drape around my shoulders.
Tanks roll through cities. Soldiers march in proud lines. Women wave from windows. A man with a smudge of a mustache screams from a podium. Planes drop bombs overhead. Then a man with a shock of white hair appears, speaking directly to the camera. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he looks congenial and important.
“Who is that?” I ask Dante.
“The scientist who discovered the strands,” he whispers.
I suddenly realize that the great scientist Loricel first told me about—the one whose name was long since forgotten by Arras—is the same man Kincaid told me bore the name of the mark on my wrist: Kairos. He moves across the screen, and the camera follows to zoom in on a small machine comprised of whirring gears.
“A loom,” I breathe.
The scientist demonstrates the loom for a group of men. I glance in the direction of Kincaid, who was once an official in Arras, then jerk my eyes back to the screen. Kincaid is watching us as we watch the film, and now I feel his eyes on me.
The film shifts to footage of girls waiting in line to be weighed, to have their eyes checked, and their hands measured. Many smile and wave to the camera. One curls her arm up and stares out fiercely before dissolving into laughter.
“Are those…” Jost’s voice is full of surprise.
“The original Eligibles,” Dante finishes. I forget the tension between us, too wrapped up in the film. “We have to assume from the film that they are. I truly wish we had the sound so we could hear what they’re telling us. Most of the other records have been destroyed. The Guild has worked very hard at ensuring confidentiality regarding the Cypress Project.”
But it’s obvious to me what’s going on, especially as the screen flashes lists of items approved for transport followed by written guidelines for safe addition and eligible participants.
“Wait,” I say as something slowly dawns on me. “Those eligibility requirements weren’t for Spinsters.”
“No, families and individuals had to prove their health and value to earn a spot in Arras’s weave.”
“And those that didn’t?” I ask.
“You’ve seen the evidence,” Dante responds. “Not everyone on Earth migrated to Arras, but they didn’t die out either as the Guild had hoped. Those who were left behind adapted to the changing surface conditions. The war ended quickly. Hitler, the man who started it, had no one to fight, and there were bigger problems to grapple with here.”
“They picked who got to come along.” The unfairness of it grates against my sense of justice.
“They assumed the war would destroy the rest. The few records that have stood the test of time indicate that the war lasted for several more years, stretching out almost an entire decade. The Icebox was less affected as most of the fighting continued in what was known as Europe,” he says.
“Was known as Europe?”
“We have enough information to conclude that most of it is gone now. A large portion of Arras’s population came from Europe, as many of the Allied troops hailed from there. The rest imploded after they left. And of course, many died during squelched riots. The survivors were driven into the Icebox.” Dante keeps his eyes on the screen while he tells me this. He relates it like a newsman on the Stream.
We watch the few remaining images flit across the screen. The program ends with a happy family—two parents, a daughter, and a son—beaming out at the audience. I wonder who they were. And whether they thought this would consign them to immortality, and how they would feel to see the theater sitting in a ruined world. An empty, forgotten Earth.
As the last image vanishes, the lights in the theater come up. I blink against the brightness. Kincaid stands and politely claps.
“I hope you found that informative.” There’s something weary in his voice, a heaviness that doesn’t suit, and I realize the film has moved Kincaid to tears. He’s touched by something that happened hundreds of years ago.
“I think it raises more questions than it answers,” I say. I bow my head a bit in an attempt t
o hide the surprise I can’t quite wipe from my face.
