Old Poison by Joan Francis Page A

in on you.”
    We pulled chairs up to my desk; I turned on
the computer and put in the new CD. I typed in my password,
“rdskblu,” and the screen filled with words. Above the diary text
was a note.

    “You will soon have news of Evelyn. You need
to read this. B”
    15665-6-3 MY LAST DAY (47th language
translation–English 20th century)
    Syntax adjusted
    Copy 2,783 (Caretaker–Nosha)

    I do not know if the dreams we Nomads have
lived and died for have any hope of ever coming true. But hopeful
or hopeless, I have lived for those dreams for twenty-two years.
Now, I am ready to die for them.
    The day the nomads rescued me was the real
beginning of life. That day is still vivid in my memory. I sat on
the plastibag after the Red 19 dissipated and cried with relief,
then crawled to the rim of the Great Drain. Looking around at the
vast expanse of sand and sky, I was overwhelmed by the immensity of
the world. Born and raised in a subterranean burrocity, I had never
seen a ceiling of more than one man-height nor a habitat space
larger than one cordat. This much sky and this much space was
terrifying. How could I hope to find the Nomads or even
survive.
    Like a frightened nimwat who curls into a
ball and becomes as still as death, I curled up, pulled my windrobe
over my head, and gave up hope.
    I awoke to rough hands picking me up and
wrapping me tightly in great coils of cloth. I did not even care to
resist for I had already accepted death. Then a man with kind blue
eyes and a huge red-blond beard took my face in his hands. He made
me look into his face and said, “My friend, you are in need of
water and you have the open land sickness. I cover your eyes so you
will not fear. Go to sleep now. We will take you to safety.” Then
he gave me water to drink and bound cloth around my eyes.
    I was tied to some hard surface that moved
roughly across the land, but I could not guess what propelled it.
There was no sound or smell of motors, only the wind overhead and
the thumps against the uneven sand.
    I slept fitfully and awoke to chilling cold.
We had stopped and I was on the ground again. Quiet voices murmured
around me, soft footsteps patted about, and occasionally there was
a muted tinkle of pots and dishes. Someone touched my shoulder
gently and I heard the voice of the Red Beard say, “Here, Antia,
let me unbind you. It is night now and the world will not look so
fearsome.”
    I was surprised to hear my name and see the
welcome roof of a low rock cave. An open fire blazed a few feet
away, powered by small black lumps of fuel. I had never seen such a
thing. Only Red 19 stoves were allowed in the burrocity.
    Red Beard bade me move closer and warm
myself and gave me a large cup of hot drink. It was a strange drink
with many flavors vying for my tongue’s attention, first bitter,
then herbal, then sweet and satisfying.
    Four men and two women moved about the cave
in quiet efficient movements, revealing long familiarity with their
routine. Soon a camp was set, a meal cooked, and security zones
established. As we all ate our meal, Red Beard introduced himself
as Ober, leader of this group sent to search for me.
    Seven people risking their lives to rescue
me seemed such an obvious fabrication that it insulted my
intelligence and I said so. The group responded in anger that I
should call their Ober a liar, but he calmed them, telling them
that I was burrocity raised and knew no better.
    “Antia, there are two things you must know.
First you must open your mind to a totally different society. We
Nomads care about one another and often give our lives to save
others. Prepare yourself for a new world which you must learn about
very quickly.”
    I knew what he said was true no matter how
incredible it might sound.
    “The other thing you must know is that you
are a very valuable person to our movement.”
    “But my only skill is numbers.”
    “Numbers are one of the skills you bring us,
but you also can make stories.”
    Again, I thought