By the time Thane comes out of his thoughts, Aris is gone. She left to be with Benja. Everything she said points to the writer having taken the drug that makes dreams more vivid, that makes people think they can remember the past—the drug the Interpreter Center seeks to destroy.
Add him to the list.
The thought gives Thane satisfaction. The first time he met the writer at the park, he did not like him. Or rather, he did not like how close he was with Aris. Seeing them together stirred a feeling in him that was foreign yet instinctive. Jealousy.
Thane has always been attracted to Aris. Her mind. Her humor. The dimples on the sides of her mouth. The way she absentmindedly plays with her hair in moments of deep thought.
She stirs him physically. She is all sun and warmth with honey skin and brown hair. At the park, she wore a summer dress that revealed her toned legs and cleavage. One of the straps dangled loosely on her shoulder, and she did not give it any mind. He remembers the desire to pull the other strap off and ravish her on the lawn.
She is the kind of woman he could see himself spending the rest of this cycle with. If only she wanted a romantic relationship. For as long as he has known her, commitment is the last thing she desires. But she is changing. Benja is influencing her. And he is dangerous.
Thane looks up. His eyes meet a piece of artwork on the wall. It is a painting of a circus. Inside a corral, a man in a black tuxedo stands with a whip in his hand. Near him is a female rider sitting sideways on a horse. Thane has never seen a horse in real life. They no longer exist.
He gets up and walks to the telephone. The only reason they have this obsolete item is for historical study. No one uses it, and he knows of only one other. It is the only method the system cannot trace.
He stares at the black object for a long while, playing out the consequences. What he does is vital to the peace of the city, but he still cannot help feeling conflicted. He would be betraying Aris’s confidence.
He looks at the horse in the painting. He picks up the receiver. His index finger jabs into a small hole in the round disc. He rotates the dial. One number. Then another. Each one makes his breath catch in his throat.
After he selects the last number, he hears a tone. A familiar voice speaks.
“Hi, Professor Jacob. This is Thane,” he says.
“How are you?” the professor’s voice asks.
“Very well, thank you. You know the drug the Interpreter Center wants to destroy? I may have a lead.”
Europa is a city of neighborhoods. Made up of high rises, brownstones, and boxy brick buildings—some with businesses on the ground floor. Restaurants, bookstores, and coffee shops are on every block. At the Corner of Destiny and Fate, Aris finds Benja sitting alone, facing the window. He does not notice her. His eyes are fixed on a coffee shop across the street.
“Hey,” she says.
He looks up. His eyes are glazed, as if he has just woken up. A smile touches his lips.
“Which one is he?” she asks and sits down.
Benja points to a man with salt-and-pepper hair sipping from a white cup by the window of the coffee shop.
“That’s him. His hair is grayer now. But that’s the face I saw in my dream.”
“What’s he doing in there in the middle of a Thursday?” she asks.
“I think he’s writing.”
“He’s a writer too?”
“Yeah—it’s crazy.”
“Says the person who’s been spying on a stranger from across the street for hours.”
“He’s not a stranger. I keep telling you that I know him. I’ve probably always known him—my entire lifespan.”
“I doubt you two met at the CDL. You don’t look like you’ve been around as long as he has,” she says.
“I just have good genes.”
“Honestly, is this what you’ve been doing all day?” she asks.
He nods.
“The Matres would be so disappointed if they knew you were squandering your day like this,” she says.
According to the Manual of the Four Cities, the Matres raise and educate all children from birth to age eighteen at the Center of Discovery and Learning. They dedicate their entire lifetime to the ideology of the Planner. To maintain a world where all humans live alongside each other in peace, they work tirelessly to encourage the children to be the best version of themselves. Aris doesn’t remember the Matres she grew up with. No one does.
“You know, for a friend you nag a lot,” he says.
“This is what you get, calling me here.”
Benja places his hand on hers. “Thank you. It means a lot to me that you’re here. Even if you’re not a believer.”
She smiles. “Who else is going to talk some sense into you and get you out of trouble?”
“Trouble is a good place to be in,” he says and winks, reminding Aris of the first time they met. Has it only been a few months? She feels as if she has known him for much longer.
He goes back to staring at the profile of the man across the street with his wistful eyes. The air is thick with the humidity of his melancholy, making it hard to breathe. Being in love is torturous, Aris thinks. A foolish endeavor.
“Do you think they’re like us? The Matres?” asks Benja.
“What do you mean, ‘like us’?”
“Humans. With memories no longer than four years.”
“I don’t think they’re exactly like us. Can’t be. The children don’t get Tabula Rasa until after they’re eighteen. I don’t think they’d react well having to remind the people raising them who they are every four years,” Aris says.
“They’re droids, you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Droids don’t have the emotional complexity needed to raise children. Judging
