Edge of Extinction. Laura MartinЧитать онлайн книгу.
valued about compound life. It could be brutally hard, but everything was done to ensure that the human race survived another day.
For the last two weeks, my work detail had been rock removal. There had been a tunnel collapse in the southern corner of the compound and all of the fallen rock needed to be carried up the tunnels to a removal site. I usually didn’t mind work detail. It gave me time to think, to use my muscles, and I liked the feeling of accomplishment that came from a job well done. But I knew that with General Kennedy overseeing us this particular detail would be anything but enjoyable.
I grabbed one of the wheelbarrows leaning against the wall and made my way over to the mound of rock and rubble blocking the tunnel. Luckily, this one had been empty when it collapsed. Without the ceiling above, I was able to look up through three levels of tunnels. It was an eerie sight. This tunnel had been one of the newest additions to North Compound, built to create a shortcut from the business section to the residential tunnels. Unfortunately, many of the engineering skills for constructing tunnels like this had been lost over the years. Grabbing a rock the size of my fist, I threw it into my wheelbarrow. It rang hollowly against the metal, sending echoes up and down the tunnel. Mine was the first one filled, and I turned it around, careful not to bump into anyone, and began the arduous task of pushing it back up the tunnel.
“Hold it,” General Kennedy said, coming over to inspect the contents of my wheelbarrow. “That’s only half full. Fill it the rest of the way before you head up to the drop site.”
I thought about telling him that if I filled it any more it would be too heavy to push. But I knew a hopeless case when I saw one. So instead, I rolled it back around and headed down to retrieve more rocks. I felt his eyes on me as I worked. General Kennedy had been the one who led the search of our apartment on the night my dad disappeared. I was the daughter of a traitor, and he wasn’t going to let me forget it.
When I returned to my room two hours later, my muscles burned and my hands were covered in blisters. I was about to flop down on my bed when I noticed that it wasn’t made. A prickle of unease raced up my spine as I looked around my room. My school uniform was no longer in a pile by the foot of my bed but rather shoved haphazardly into the corner. My dresser drawers stood open, their contents spilling out. Thankfully my light was still screwed tightly into the ceiling. Sighing in relief, I sank down on to my bed. I’d been searched, again. Just then the lights blinked out and the lock on my door clicked.
“Well,” I grumbled. “That’s just perfect.” I spent the next half hour struggling to put my things back where they belonged. Compound searches were done randomly, but I got the feeling my room was searched more often than most. No one trusted the offspring of a traitor. I finally climbed into bed, too exhausted to even change out of my work overalls, and fell asleep almost instantly.
When I woke up the next morning, I stared at the ceiling of my room, trying to ignore the fact that every movement sent pain radiating down my arms and legs. I stood up and unscrewed my light. I pulled out my journal and plunked back down on my bed. It was time to finish updating my information on Deinonychus.
The journal had been a gift from my dad for my seventh birthday, three days before he had disappeared. I’d woken up that morning to the sound of him singing. He had this big booming voice that always seemed at odds with his tall, slim build. That morning, it had been a rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in French. I’d smiled and rolled over, pretending to be asleep as he switched to singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Russian. My dad collected languages. In a society where we owned nothing and shared everything, knowledge was one of the few things left to collect. He spent all his free time away from the lab, where he worked as a technology expert, studying any language he could get his hands on. He was fluent in ten of them and knew five others well enough to sing ‘Happy Birthday’. A fact he demonstrated as he switched from Russian to Chinese. This was too much, and I giggled.
“Is the birthday girl awake?” he’d asked, and I felt the soft bristle of his beard brush my cheek as he bent to give me a kiss. I giggled, and he flung my covers on to the floor, laughing when I squealed in protest. “She can’t sleep the day away! Up! Up! Or you won’t have time to open your birthday present.” He started another round of ‘Happy Birthday’ in German, and handed me a small package wrapped in one of his grey lab coats.
“What is it?” I asked, sitting up.
“A gigantic spider,” he teased. “I found it wandering around the lab, and thought, I know who’d love this. Sky!”
I rolled my eyes. My dad knew how much I hated bugs. “What is it really?”
“Open it and find out,” he laughed.
I carefully unfolded each of the corners of the lab coat, revealing the soft leather cover of a book.
“But, Dad,” I said, stroking the cover reverently, “we aren’t allowed to own books.”
“Which is why it’s not a book,” he smiled, and lifted the cover to reveal thick ivory pages, each one blank. “It’s a journal.”
“A journal.” I’d repeated the unfamiliar word, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d hoped it was a book. There was nothing better than the feel of a real book. It was so much better than a port screen, but North Compound had strict rules requiring that all books stay in the library for safekeeping. It made sense: just like everything else in the compound, we had no way to replace them, so we had to preserve and protect them.
“You must never show anyone that you have this,” my dad cautioned. “It’s very valuable, and just like the books, individual citizens aren’t allowed to own them.”
“Is it like your compass?” I asked.
“It’s exactly like my compass,” my dad said, pulling it out of its hiding place inside his jacket. “We don’t show anyone or tell anyone that we have it.” I looked down at the journal with newfound appreciation. I’d always been a little jealous of my dad’s compass. It was broken, but it was his. Now I had something that was mine. I liked the feeling.
“How did you get it?” I asked.
“I have my ways.” He winked. “And it’s even more valuable than a book in our library.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because it’s going to contain the great and wonderful thoughts of Sky Mundy,” he smiled.
I studied it for a moment, flipping through its blank pages as though they might shatter if handled too roughly. “Thank you,” I said.
“Anything for you, my dear,” my dad said, hugging my shoulders. “Anything for you.”
Three days later, my dad disappeared. He’d tucked me into bed, and the next thing I knew I was waking up to the marines searching our apartment. One of them had taken my compound-issued backpack and stuffed some of my clothes into it before making me sit outside in the tunnel. I must have been a sorry sight: seven years old, terrified and crying so hard my eyes had practically swollen shut as everything in our apartment was confiscated. No one searched my bag, though. It went unnoticed in the chaos. If they had, they’d have found the journal, cleverly concealed within the lining at the bottom of the bag. My dad had managed to hide it for me in the one place the marines wouldn’t think to look. It had been so well hidden that I hadn’t found it until weeks later when I noticed that my bag was heavier than it should be. I could still remember how excited I’d been.
I’d opened the journal eagerly, expecting a letter from my dad explaining why he’d left the way he had, and when he was going to come back for me. But as I paged through and found it blank, my heart sank. He had left me nothing.
It wasn’t until I reached the back half of the journal that I discovered its secret, and I gasped at what my dad had done to my birthday present. A rough circle had been cut out of the back half-inch of pages, creating the perfect hiding spot for his worn brass compass. I gingerly pulled it out of its paper nest, rubbing my fingers across the worn brass. The lid of the compass had long ago broken off and the small dial inside that was supposed to point north was stuck