Ximena can only imagine Ank down there waving her hands at Bob, or whispering at it, or whatever dreamtech engineers do to manipulate dream sensorials.
The scene shifts abruptly as the camera moves through the walls, causing Ximena to squint at the sudden brightness of the rising sun. She hears the excited chatter of dozens of voices before her as her eyes adapt to the light.
Gathered on a red-bricked esplanade around the building, there must be a hundred people, maybe more, most in their teen years. They wear long, thick tunics; some plain, some colorful, some wildly patterned. A few dozen bicycles have been left carelessly lying nearby. A horse pulling a cart, loaded with sacks and crates brimming with potatoes, trots across the background, the driver staring at the crowd with blatant curiosity. There is a lone guard by the wooden door to the cells, laughing and chatting animatedly with some of the crowd, probably grateful for the interruption of his usual tedium.
“Popular,” Miyagi says. “You people get the idea. Back to the cell, please, Ank. And forward to Willem’s visit.”
The scene shifts back to Edda in her cell, as the door opens to a thin man in his mid-twenties. He gasps as his brown eyes behind thin glasses lock on her. He dashes forward and inspects her anxiously.
“Hey, Dad,” Edda says with a monotonous voice, and turns her head to the wall, like she doesn’t care. But she does. Oh Goah, you bet she does! Ximena almost gasps as she feels the surge of love splatter like an explosion in her guts, filling her with a warmth that she’s not sure she’s ever felt for any member of her own cozy family. “So you’ve heard, yeah?” Edda asks, glacially.
“I have,” he says with a grave tone as he pushes his thin glasses up his nose. He nods at the guard behind him, who softly shuts the door and leaves them alone.
They could not be more physically different. To Edda’s sharp African beauty, Willem’s pale Northern softness. To Edda’s black, short curls, Willem’s brown, long hair. To Edda’s natural elegance, Willem’s intellectual shabbiness. But Ximena knows that they are not so different after all. At least not inside, where it counts.
Willem holds his daughter’s gaze for a long while.
In silence.
Until she finally sinks her head. “I had a good reason.”
“As usual,” he sighs. “And as usual, the family reputation takes a hit.”
Edda scoffs. “There are more important things than our reputation. Your life, for example.”
“Here we go again.” Willem folds his arms.
She turns towards him, eyes pleading. “Don’t let them kill you, Dad. It’s all a farce!”
Willem sighs again. He looks like a man that has been doing lots of sighing lately. “Listen. Marjolein will be here any moment. She’s dispersing that little fan club of yours outside.”
“What fan club?”
“Doesn’t matter. I promised her your deepest regret and your best behavior, so play your part. I don’t want her to hear any of this nonsense, you hear me? Or you will be in serious, serious trouble.”
“But she’s with them, Dad. She’s aws Head through and through.”
“She’s much more than that, and I’m sorry you cannot see that. Just…” He draws a deep breath. “Edda, please. If you can’t respect my guidance as your Elder, could you at least respect my wishes as your father?”
“But you know I’m right!” Edda stands and steps closer to Willem. “Dem is not real. You know it too!”
Willem presses his lips, walks to Edda, and places a kiss on her cheek. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, girl.” His voice has softened. “The show must go on. You, Bram, and especially little Hans, you are the show now, and all this…” he waves an exasperated hand at the cell walls, “… is only making things harder for you when I… leave.”
“So you still want to uphold your Joyousday, yeah?”
“I must, girl.” He smiles at her, a pinch of sadness in his eyes. “What else can I do? And you will as well, when you reach my age. For Hans’s sake, and for your future grandchildren’s.”
She meets his stern look silently. “Please, Dad… I know I haven’t always been the easiest daughter. But…” She has to stop to keep tears from surfacing.
A muted noise behind the door—approaching steps?—resonates up her spine, making her sharply aware of the urgency. The bitch will be here any second now! The surge of adrenaline dispels her emotions and leaves only purpose. The only thing that matters. The reason Goah put her in this world. Her lifework. And her father is key.
Edda throws herself forward and puts the vial into her father’s hand. “I found this in the Joyousday House, next to the body of Elder Meerman. He was still alive, Dad! But empty—soulless.”
Willem’s eyes widen. “Dem?”
“Same as you now, he didn’t have a trace of Dem before his Joyousday. Whatever that was, it wasn’t Dem. The answer is in that flask.”
Willem frowns and inspects the vial. “How did you hide this? Didn’t they search you?”
Edda blinks. “I asked for the toilet, you need more details?”
She turns her head towards the door. Steps are clearly approaching now. They are right outside. She stands on tiptoe, and whispers in Willem’s ear with the most compelling urgency she can muster, “Dad, hide it! Analyze it in secret—somebody you trust.”
The door opens, and a woman steps in. Ximena recognizes her immediately.
Marjolein Mathus.
A few years younger than her usual historical image, when she was still the colonial Quaestor of Lunteren. Ximena tries to repress the sudden pinch of revulsion, and it’s not only from Edda’s psych-link. It’s been a hundred
