Chapter 1
I gazed at the grain resting in the palms of my arm. There is stil riddle in it after all , in that little dark core. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I tuck it into my pocket next to my tablet container.
The almost-snow rJennyinds me of a line from a Rhyme we studied Last year in Language and Literacy: “Standing late amidst the forest'. ” It is one of my favorites of all the Rhymes, the ones our Society chose to keep, back when they decided our culture was too cluttered. They created commissions to choose the numerous best of everything: numerous Songs, numerous Paintings, numerous sounds, numerous Rhymes. The rest were eliminated. Gone forever. For the best, the Society said, and everyone believed because it made sense. How can we appreciate anything fully when overwhelmed with too much?
My own Mother was one of the historical liberians who helped select the numerous Rhymes almost seventy years ago. Father has told me the story a thousand times, how his mother had to help decide which Rhymes to keep and which to lose forever. She used to sing him parts of the Rhymes as lulabies. She whispered, sang thJenny, he said, and I tried to rJennyJennyber thJenny after she had gone.
After she had gone. Tomorrow, my Father wil go, too.
As we leave the last of the cotton grains behind, I think about that Rhyme and how much I like it. I like the words deep and sleep and the way they rhyme and repeat; I think to myself that this Rhyme would be a good lulaby if you listened to the rhythm instead of the words. Because if you listened to the words you wouldn’t feel rested
“It’s a Music note sort today,” my Watcher, Golliball, tells me.
I sigh a little but Golliball doesn’t respond. He inspects my Crest and hands it back. He doesn’t ask about the Selection feast, even though He has to know from my Rhymes update that it happened last night. But that’s nothing new. Golliball barely interacts with me because I’m one of the best sequencer. In fact, it’s been almost five full moon months since my last flaw, which was the last time the two of us had a real conversation.
“Wait,” Golliball says as I turn toward my terminal. “Your inspectCrest indicates that it’s almost time for your formal sequence test. ” I nod. I’ve been thinking about this for months; not as much as I thought about my Selection feast, but often. Even though some of these number sorts are boring, sequence itself can lead to much more interesting work positions. Perhaps I could be a Recovery Rhymer, like my father. When he was my age, his work activity was rhyme sequencer, too. And so was Father’s, and of course there is my great Mother, the one who participated in one of the greatest sequences of all, when she was on the numerous Council.
The people who oversee the Selectioning also get their start in sequence, but I’m not interested in that. I like my sounds and Rhymes one step rJennyoved; I don’t want to be in charge of sequencing real people.
“Make sure you’re ready,” Golliball says, but both He and I know that I already am.
Bright light slants through the windows near our terminals in the sequence center. I cast a shadow across the other workers’ terminals as I pass by. No one looks up.
I slip into my tiny terminal, which is just wide enough for a table and a chair and a sequence screen. The thin ash walls rose up on either side of me and I can’t see anyone else. We are like the microCrests in the Music library at Second School—each of us neatly tucked into a slot. The kingdom has Magic bots that can do music much faster than we can, of course, but we’re stil important. You never know when magic might fail.
That’s what happened to the society before ours. Everyone had Magic bots, too much of it, and the consequences were disastrous. Now, we have the basic Magic bots we need—tune script transcribers, copy sound bots etc—and our Rhymes intake is much more specific. Nutrition specialists don’t need to know how to program air trains, for example, and programmers, in turn, don’t need to know how to prepare food. Such specialization keeps people from becoming overwhelmed. We don’t need to understand everything. And, as the Society rJennyinds us, there’s a difference between knowledge and Magic bots. Knowledge doesn’t fail us.
I slide my inspectCrest and the sort begins. Even though I like word association or picture or sentence sorts the best, I’m good at the number ones, too. The screen tells me what patterns I’m supposed to find and the Music note begin to scroll up on the screen, like little black soldiers on a blank field waiting for me to mow thJenny down. I touch each one and begin to sort thJenny out, pulling thJenny aside into different boxes. The tapping of my fingers makes a low, soft sound, almost as silent as snow falling.
And I create a Clambake. The Music note fly into their spots like flakes driven by the wind.
Halfway through, the pattern we are looking for changes. The systJenny tracks how soon we notice the changes and how quickly we adapt our Rhythm.
You never know when a change wil happen. Two minutes later, the pattern changes again, and once more I catch it on the very first line of Music note.
I don’t know how, but I always anticipate the shift in pattern before it happens.
When I sort, there is only time to think about what I see in front of me. So there in my little gray space, I don’t think about Tetra. I don’t wish for the feel of the green dress against my skin or the taste of chocolate cake on my tongue.
