Journey Into the Flame (7 page)

“Mother, what’s wrong? Why does Simon want another copy of the books?”

“Lucius!” Andrea replied in a stern tone. “I have a headache and need to rest. Just sit down over there.” She gestured to another section of seats. “We are about to take off.”

“But this doesn’t make sense,” Lucius insisted. “We’re supposed to be doing the work of Era. Instead, we’re flying all over the world collecting these books we’re all supposed to hate. And then some guy we’ve never seen before comes and takes the books that I risked my life to steal! We need to get clear on who we work for.”

“Lucius, just go sit down!” Andrea ordered. She was annoyed with her son, not because his questions were not valid but because they
were
. Why
did
Simon want those books? And more important, why wasn’t he concerned about Camden, Fendral’s most hated rival? Andrea fastened her seatbelt as the engines of the plane revved. She could not deny that it appeared Simon was keeping significant information from her.

A member of the flight crew poured Andrea a glass of wine. Lucius had made himself comfortable across the aisle and had fallen asleep. Andrea took a sip of her drink and leaned back in her seat, closing her eyes.

Forty-two years ago, Andrea had been living in the spotlight of a very successful modeling and fashion design career when she met the international playboy Alfred Benson at one of the many high-society balls Fendral Hitchlords hosted at Château Dugan. Reports had it that Alfred instantly fell under her spell but that Andrea played hard-to-get. She was twenty-six, gaining renown as a women’s rights advocate, and presumably wanted more out of life than to be the escort of a powerful, wealthy man. So, in order to secure Andrea’s long-term affections, Alfred did the only thing a man in his position could do: he purchased a world-famous fashion house and turned the reins over to her. Three months later, Andrea and Alfred were married.

Andrea now had a platform from which she could further her ambitions for both her fashion career and her advocacy for women’s rights
around the world. “Women need to be heard,” she would say to Alfred. “Why should we sit back and allow so many short-sighted men to run our countries and corporations?” Alfred would smile and listen with only one ear as he planned his next safari in Kenya or scuba-diving adventure in Bali.

Andrea, meanwhile, continued to build her empire. To promote her women’s advocacy group, Women of the Veil, she created a popular line of fashion accessories, scarves and hoods, which quickly came to signify that a woman was more than a pretty face or smile. As she traveled around the world, speaking to ever-growing enthusiastic groups of women, attracting the attention of the media and political leaders, she got a taste of power. And she wanted more.

But in 2027, the world came to a halt, and so did Andrea’s dreams and ambitions. Within moments, her beauty, glamour, and, indeed, her movement, which had captivated a generation, suddenly became irrelevant.

The years that followed the Great Disruption were difficult for all the survivors. The value of paper money and stock certificates was defined by how long they could fuel a fire. The value of a house was judged by how good the locks were. What good were fancy cars if their electronics had been destroyed by the solar flare? What good were diamonds, precious gems, and gold when most people didn’t have food to eat?

The Bensons, most of whose wealth had been wiped out by the financial convulsions that preceded the Great Disruption, retreated to farmland that Alfred had inherited in Switzerland. The land was replete with lakes and streams, food and water, and they would spend the next five years there until their close friend, Fendral Hitchlords, asked them to join him on a trip to Washington, D.C. While Alfred chose to keep his focus on the recovery of his family’s fortune and prominence, Andrea went with Fendral and his young son, Simon, on the adventure. It was then that Andrea reemerged on the world stage, this time as a founding member of the Council of Satraya.

Andrea pulled her thoughts back to the present, opened her eyes, and adjusted her crimson hood. She was still worried about Simon’s nonchalant attitude regarding Camden and the emergence of the Forest Set. But confronting Simon was not advisable. She’d been reminded of that when she’d seen the black rose he’d laid at the place her late husband used to occupy at the meeting table at Château Dugan. She looked through the window and out at the darkness, wondering if yet another man was going to disappoint her.

It was almost time for the auction.

6

Every step taken and not taken, every choice made and not made, unfolds your life. Just be sincere in all you do or do not do.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 8:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

6 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

New Chicago had suffered greatly at the hands of the Great Disruption. More than half of the buildings along Michigan Avenue, once known as the Magnificent Mile, had crumbled into heaps of concrete and steel, taking all of their inhabitants with them. As a major population area, New Chicago had since received a great deal of government support. Rebuilding occurred rapidly, and the city thrived during the Rising. Survivors in the surrounding suburbs and exurbs made their way to the city to start new lives, and soon it became a model for how reconstruction efforts should be carried out around the world. The world-renowned Mason One Auction House was located on the corner of Michigan Avenue and East Huron Street, one of the busiest intersections in the city. It was where the abandoned Allerton Hotel had been, until John Mason bought and converted it in 2055.

In the car on the way there, Logan heard an unruly crowd chanting, “Burn the books! Burn the books!” It gave him chills.

Soon the car pulled up in front of the arched entrance of the
renovated building. The auction house had not only provided Logan’s transportation for the evening, but it had also provided his attire. He adjusted the uncomfortable tie and brushed his long brown hair out of his eyes. The driver opened the door for him, and a team of policemen ensured that the protesters didn’t harass any of Mason One’s patrons.

A woman in a pink tweed suit walked out from the main entrance toward Logan. “Good evening, dear,” she greeted him. “Let’s go inside, away from the madness out here. Why these Coterie people are so determined to disrupt things is beyond me.” She shot an unfriendly look at one of the protesters as she grabbed Logan by the arm and escorted him inside.

Ms. Crawley, the auction house coordinator, was in her late sixties but looked much younger. She always had a set of reading glasses around her neck, and she was as sharp as a tack. No one really understood the relationship between her and John Mason, but it was evident that Ms. Crawley usually got what she wanted. She reminded Logan of a mother hen.

“You’ll be happy to know that some very prominent people have arrived at the last minute. It’s not every day that we get to auction off an original set of
The Chronicles of Satraya.
”

“Doesn’t look like the people out there are too happy about it,” said Logan. “I apologize for causing such a stir and waiting till the last minute to decide whether to sell the books. They meant a great deal to my parents, and I wasn’t sure if I could part with them. But it turns out I need to.”

“Everything is working out,” Ms. Crawley reassured him. Whispering in Logan’s ear, she added, “These collectors enjoy a bit of unexpected drama in their lives, and it makes the auction more high-spirited.”

Logan nodded. “Thanks for keeping my identity quiet,” he said. “I don’t want any attention.”

“I understand, dear,” Ms. Crawley said, as she escorted Logan into the great auction hall.

Logan had inherited an original copy of
The Chronicles of Satraya
that was
known as the Forest Set when his mother and father died two years ago. He remembered watching them page through the books as they sat together discussing its many short stories and philosophies. Some nights they went on for hours debating the meaning of what they had just read. Logan would fall asleep in a chair, waking up the next morning alone in the study with a blanket over him.

He still didn’t fully understand how his parents had come to possess the books. Whenever he’d asked, he’d received only vague answers:

“A very good friend of ours gave them to us for safekeeping,” his father had told him when he was around ten years old. “Your mother and I knew him when we lived in Washington, D.C., before you were born. He had to go on an extended trip on behalf of the Council and didn’t want to take them along.”

“You mean Camden Ford?” Logan asked. “My teacher, Mr. D, says the Rising would not have happened without Camden and the Council of Satraya. He says that without them, we might not be here, at least not like we are today.”

“I suppose that is true in some ways.” His father smiled. “But I think the books deserve most of the credit. The books are what really inspired people.”

“Mr. D said that Camden disappeared after the first Council of Satraya broke up, and nobody knows why he left or where he went.”

“Yes, that is true. It’s one of the great mysteries of the post–Great Disruption period. But before he left, he gave your mother and me these books. Camden wanted us to keep them safe and never tell anyone we had them. He said he would return one day and reclaim them.”

“You mean he wanted you to keep them a secret? Why?”

“He didn’t say; he just made us promise. And you have to promise, too.”

“I promise.”

As the years passed, Logan lost interest in the hows and whys of the books. He remembered seeing the books all over the house, sometimes on his father’s desk or on the bookshelf, sometimes in his parents’ bedroom
or on the kitchen table. But whenever guests came over, the books were put away and out of sight. Logan witnessed his father’s diligence about keeping his word to Camden. As time went on, Logan saw the books less frequently. By the time Logan entered his adult years, he hardly saw the books at all, and soon forgot about them entirely. That is, until his parents’ death two years ago.

Logan had inherited all of his parents’ worldly goods, along with a Destiny Box, a high-tech lockbox that was invented after the Great Disruption, when looting and identity theft had been rampant. A Destiny Box could be programmed to open at a certain time but only if the proper piece of DNA was placed on a sensory pad connected to the lock. When Logan’s box had opened last year, it contained the forgotten books. They were the only things of value he possessed. That was why he had no choice but to do what he was about to do. He needed the money. Surely his parents would have understood that.

“All right, first things first.” Ms. Crawley broke into Logan’s thoughts. “Let’s get you something to drink.” She led Logan over to the bar. Glasses of wine and champagne stood ready on the counter, and waiters were circulating through the crowd serving hors d’oeuvres.

“You’re right, there are a lot of people here,” Logan observed.

“Yes, it’s a very good turnout.” Ms. Crawley seemed to know everyone, acknowledging people with a wave or a wink as they walked by. “What would you like to drink? Champagne? Or maybe some of our very own wine from one of John’s wineries?”

“No, thank you,” Logan said. “I don’t really drink.” Ms. Crawley handed him a glass of champagne anyway. “Are all these people here to bid on the
Chronicles
?” Logan asked, surveying the crowd.

“Heavens, no, dear,” Ms. Crawley said. “The
Chronicles
are certainly the jewel of tonight’s auction, but we have many other interesting items for sale this evening. Speaking of which . . .” She put on her reading glasses, took out her PCD, and displayed an image of the night’s auction program. “See, the
Chronicles
are sixteenth on the list, the final item of the evening.”

Logan pointed to the display. “What’s that number next to it?”

“That is the starting bid, dear.” Ms. Crawley looked at Logan and squeezed his arm. “We have had a few preauction bids from people who are unable to attend.”

Logan could only raise his eyebrows in disbelief. Just that starting bid would solve all of his financial problems.

Ms. Crawley smiled. “This is the art world. All logic is thrown out the window.”

Logan remained speechless as Ms. Crawley turned off the display and put her PCD away. “The auction is going to start in about fifteen minutes. When you hear the bell, that will be your signal to take a seat to watch the night’s events unfold.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” Logan responded, still thinking about the large number he had seen.

Ms. Crawley gave him a pinch on the cheek and walked into the growing crowd, greeting the attendees.

Logan was glad he didn’t know anyone there. Being an anonymous seller seemed to ease his guilt.
Just a few more hours, and everything will be better
, he thought, as he took his champagne flute and walked over to the large windows overlooking the busy streets of New Chicago. It was twilight. He could see the protesters marching up and down the sidewalk in front of the auction house and the police working to contain the crowd. Away from the ruckus, people were out walking, some with their pets, some with their children, and yet others by themselves. An open-air tour bus drove down Michigan Avenue, showing visitors the landmarks of New Chicago. In the distance, Logan saw the old Willis Tower, now nicknamed Stump Tower. During the Great Disruption, the top thirty-three floors had toppled over and crushed a whole city block. The top of the building hadn’t been rebuilt. It had just been capped with a platform that was used as a broadcasting facility.

“Everyone has someplace to go, something to see, and something to do, don’t they?” a familiar voice commented. “Most, though, look
straight ahead as they walk, missing the chance to greet all the interesting people walking by.”

Logan turned around. It was Sebastian Quinn, the gentleman he had met earlier that day at the museum. “Mr. Quinn,” Logan began, then caught himself. “I mean, Sebastian.” He reached out and heartily shook his hand. “I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew tonight. Are you here to buy more artwork?”