A hand shoots up.
“Yes?”
“I’m hungry. When’s lunch?”
“We’re almost done. Okay?”
The image surrounding them turns into a wasteland of broken buildings, collapsed bridges, and upturned roads. Columns of smoke rise from the rubble. Orange flames flutter out of the broken windows of cars, making them look as if they had sprouted wings of fire. The children sit up straight, straining their necks to take in the entire landscape.
“Fast forward years later, after a prolonged drought that devastated the world’s crops, tornadoes and storms ravaged the lands. Famine led people to turn against each other. Governments became cruel and controlling. Neighboring countries fought each other for resources. Conflicts escalated and grew until the Last War. Half of California was destroyed in it. It wiped out most of the planet’s population. Major cities and the people in them perished.”
Aris looks around at the little faces stricken by fear.
“What happened?” a girl with skin the color of milk chocolate asks. Her eyebrows scrunch together in worry.
“There are historical records of people who reported seeing the sky light up and feeling tremors under their feet. And the world burned,” Aris says.
The image around them changes to a panorama of gleaming skyscrapers and lush green vistas.
“But there was a man. We call him the Planner. Before the Last War, he had created four cities in the desert, far away from civilization. These self-sustaining cities harnessed the energy of the sun and represented his ideal of what model cities should be. They’re connected to the coast and to each other by tunnels with high-speed trains. In his time, he was ridiculed. But they are what survived. One such city, Callisto, is where we stand today. Without him, the survivors of the Last War would have died from starvation. And without them, whose genetics were randomly mixed to create us, we would not exist.”
“How did the Planner escape the war?” a small voice asks. Its owner has hair that reminds Aris of cotton candy.
“History states he was in a space station,” Aris says. “And it was a good thing for us that he survived, because he was a peace-loving man. After seeing the horrific results of the war, he dreamed of a civilization where the same atrocities would never repeat, where people could learn to live alongside each other in peace. From that dream, he created Tabula Rasa. Can anybody tell me what that means?”
“It’s Latin and means ‘blank slate,’” a boy says in a proud voice.
“Very good. It’s also a philosophical idea. At birth, the human mind is a blank slate, without rules for processing data. Data is added and rules are formed solely by one’s sensory experiences. It is in these experiences that we’re exposed to prejudices that breed hatred, which leads to fighting, resulting in wars.”
She looks around. She has all their attention now.
“The event we call Tabula Rasa is like pushing the reset button. A rebirth. Every four years, we are born again into another life. We shed our prejudices and simply share the world.”
“When’s the next cycle?” a boy with a round face asks.
“About half a year from now. March twentieth. The first day of Spring. A new cycle always starts on that date.”
“How many cycles have we had?”
Aris shakes her head. “I don’t know. That information is not shared. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“How come we don’t change our lives?” a child in pigtails asks. Aris can almost count the number of freckles on her pink nose.
“Well, children must grow up first. Once you’re eighteen, you’ll graduate into a life outside the Center. Then on to higher education. After that, depending on where you are in the cycle, you’ll get your first Tabula Rasa.”
“Will we forget everything?” a girl asks. Her hand reaches that of her friend’s and holds it.
“Only the things the Planner believed would affect our ability to keep peace. So, learned knowledge, languages, and other innate abilities stay.”
A hand shoots up.
“Yes?”
“Are there others outside the Four Cities?” a girl with a solemn face asks.
“The Planner brought as many survivors as he could to the Four Cities. It’s a destroyed world outside our borders. I don’t imagine there are others. At least not close by. The Planner would have found them. Or they would have found us.”
The girl’s face falls.
“I’m sure everyone who could be saved was. We’re fortunate to be here. The Planner has given us all the gift of life,” Aris tells the class.
“If we want to, can we leave the Four Cities?” a boy with a mischievous smile asks.
“Nothing is stopping you. But why would you do that?” asks Aris.
The boy shrugs.
“We’re in an oasis in the middle of a vast desert,” Aris says. “Here, you have everything. Out there, you have nothing. As long as we live here, we’ll never go hungry. Speaking of which, you may now go have lunch.”
The children rush to form one line and walk toward the cafeteria.
At least they’re obedient.
Her job would be astronomically more difficult if she had to wrangle them into order. The Matres are doing a fine job raising them.
“Oh, remember, children, in each life, we all have the freedom to author our own souls,” she yells at their backs.
Aris makes her way up the circular stairs to another part of the museum. It’s a dark and quiet section where there are rarely visitors. It is her hiding place, a sanctuary after every docent duty.
She never gets used to the children. They do not venture outside the Center of Discovery and Learning except for occasional field trips. They ask too many questions, sometimes the most random ones. They always stare at her like they expect her to give them something or say something or do something for them. On their faces is always a mysterious smudge. And they are so . . . little.
But the worst thing about being with them is having to show them the most horrific part of the past. Especially to the littlest ones. The
