Reached

wonder. How many simply changed a set of clothes? How deeply and well had the Rising infiltrated Central? Why do I know so little about what is taking place? Is that the Society’s fault, for making me forget, or the Rising’s, for not telling me enough in the first place?
    “When the Plague was first developed,” the Pilot says, “there were those of us who saw what might happen. We were able to give some of you immunity. For the rest, we have a cure.”
    And now the Pilot’s voice takes on more emotion, more persuasion,
more
. It becomes bigger; it plays on our emptiness, fills our hearts. “We will keep all the good things from the Society, all the best parts of our way of life. We won’t lose all the things you’ve worked so hard to build. But we’ll get rid of the sicknesses in the Society.
    “This rebellion,” the Pilot says, “is different than others throughout history. It will begin and end with saving your blood, not spilling it.”
    I start to edge toward the door. I need to run. To try to find Ky. He didn’t come tonight to the lake; perhaps this is why. He couldn’t get away. But he might still be here in Central, somewhere, tonight.
    “Our only regret,” the Pilot says, “is that we were unable to step in before
any
lives were lost. The Society was stronger than we were, until now. Now, we can save
all
of you.”
    On the screen, someone in a black uniform opens a case. It is filled with small red tubes.
    Like the tubes in the cave,
I think again,
only those were lit blue.
    “This is the cure,” the Pilot says. “And now, at last, we have made enough for everyone.”
    The man on the screen reaches inside the case and takes out a tube, pulling off the cap and revealing a needle. With the smooth confidence of a medic, he plunges the needle into the line. I draw in a breath.
    “This illness may look peaceful,” the Pilot says, “but I can assure you that it is still fatal. Without medical care, bodies shut down quickly. Patients dehydrate and die. Infection can set in. We can bring you back if we find you soon enough, but if you try to run, we cannot guarantee a cure.”
    The port goes dark. But not silent.
    There are likely many reasons they chose this Pilot. But one of the reasons has to be his voice.
    Because when the Pilot starts to sing, I stop to hear.
    It’s the Anthem of the Society, a song I have known all my life, one that followed me into the canyons, one that I will never forget.
    The Pilot sings it slow, and sad.
    The Society is dying, is dead.
    Tears stream down my cheeks. In spite of myself, I find that I am crying for the Society, for its end. For the death of what did keep some of us safe for a very long time.

    The Rising told me to wait.
    But I am no longer any good at that.
    I feel my way along the long underground hallway, crumbles of green moss coming off in my hands, and I wonder at how thick and fast things can grow here, below. Somehow, I rarely seem to run into anyone going or coming, though the fear of putting out my hand to touch stone and feeling skin instead is always there.
    I couldn’t find Ky, so I’ve come to ask the Archivists what they know. They might lean one way or the other—Society or Rising—but it seems to me that they are Archivists above all.
    Today, everyone isn’t hidden among their own shelves, tucked away in their own trades. The Archivists and traders have gathered in the larger main room and stand in clusters, talking. Of course, the largest group has gathered around the head Archivist. I might have to wait a long time to speak with her. To my surprise, when she sees me, she separates herself out to come talk with me.
    “Is the Plague real?” I ask.
    “That information is worth quite a bit,” she says, smiling. “I should ask for something in exchange.”
    “All my papers are gone,” I tell her.
    Her face changes, shows genuine regret. “No,” she says. “How?”
    “They were stolen,” I say.
    Her expression softens. She hands me a piece of paper, a curl of white from one of the illegal Archivist ports. As I look around the room, I notice that many of the people hold slips of paper like mine.
    “You’re not the only one who wanted to know if the Plague was real,” she says. “It is.”
    “No,”
I breathe out.
    “We suspected a Plague even before the stillzone barrier went up,” she says. “The Society was able to keep it contained for a long time, but now it’s spreading. Quickly.”
    “Who told you?” I