Perfect Ruin

3

Up until someone I loved approached the edge, I had no reason to question the hand of any god, much less my own god's hand. But to see that no amount of love or will on my part could make that little girl open her eyes as she lay unconscious in a sterile room—How could I not question this god that watches over us? Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't the fear of our mortality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.

—"Intangible Gods," Daphne Leander, Year Ten

WE EAT DINNER IN SILENCE, MY MOTHER and I. My father is out investigating the incident and going door-to-door making sure everyone is home and accounted for.

The word keeps replaying in my head: "murder." It's a dusty, cobwebbed word; there hasn't been cause to use it on Internment in my lifetime. It's something I've only read about in novels. It's something that happens on the ground, where there are so many people and most of them are strangers to one another, where there are many places to stray and conspire, where people so often go bad. At least that's what I imagine it's like; nobody knows for sure what the ground is like. Not even King Furlow.

We have engineers who study the ground from afar and educate themselves on ways to further our own technology. Internment has evolved drastically in the last several hundred years; we've learned to set underground wires and indoor plumbing for our sinks and water rooms. The city's electricity is generated by the glasslands, which is a series of panels and globes that gather the sun's energy and store it so that it can be converted into electricity. But there are ground technologies we don't use because the king believes they would complicate our world, make it too dangerous. The king says that the ground makes people greedy and wasteful, while the people of Internment are resourceful and humble.

I think about the murdered girl. I wonder about her final moments. I'm horrible and selfish—I must be—because all my thoughts lead to the idea that she could have been me instead.

My mother's dinner sits untouched on her plate. She's weaving the fork between her fingers and staring out the window across the apartment. The sun has gone away and the train speeds past, rattling our walls for the second time since we've heard the news. The girl's body has been cleaned from the track and the train is back in service. Things must go on. There would be more cause to worry if they didn't.

"It's good that Basil walked you all the way home," she says. "Maybe he should from now on."

"Will there be academy tomorrow?" I ask.

"I'm sure there will," she says, not moving her eyes from the window. The view is exactly the same as it has always been—other apartments and windows full of light. But something has changed; there's something dangerous out there, and to look now, we'd never be able to find it.

There was a murder when my parents were young. Two men had been fighting, and somehow they'd reached the swallows, and one pushed the other in. The fence surrounding the swallows has since been rebuilt to ensure such a thing can never happen again.

Hundreds of years ago, the swallows were a farmland, but something changed. There have been theories about atmospheric pressure, or else the god in the sky becoming angry. The dirt began shifting, and over the decades, it began to churn into itself, swallowing the animals and the crops and anything else that touched it. I've seen slide images of it—a whirling darkness always in motion.

The murderer had been driven mad by a tainted elixir that should have been discarded by the pharmacists. He was feverish and deranged when they found him, and the king had no choice but to have him dispatched.

I clear the dishes, scraping the uneaten food into the compost tube, where it's immediately sucked away to the processing chamber in the basement. I try to keep my mind busy with homework, and my mother doesn't offer to double-check my answers. She's curled in the armchair, touching the fringe of Lex's blanket that's wrapped around her thin shoulders. I hate when she gets this way, so uncertain.