Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,105

were too frightened.”

“It's changed too fast,” I say. “We had no idea how quickly they were going to devour the world.”

“You had no idea because you weren't paying attention. Because you were letting them gut your memories. And they did it so poorly. What could be gained by letting you remember that you've been purged?”

“So that we would think it was our choice,” I say. “It was our own decisions to let go of the past, to relieve ourselves of the burden of who we were.”

“Why?”

“I don't know, Phoebe,” I tell her. “I've been doing it for a long time.”

She laughs. “And does it make you feel any better to know how long you've been lied to? How long you've been lying to yourself?”

“No,” I say. “Of course it doesn't.” I grimace. “How much of what I feel and what I remember has been selectively placed in my head?”

“All of it,” Phoebe says matter-of-factly.

“Who is Silas then?” I wonder. “I can't be the same man I was when I became an Arcadian.”

Phoebe shakes her head. “Who Silas was doesn't matter,” she says. “You are Silas. Who Silas will be tomorrow or the next day or the day after that is up to you.”

“Is that why you never went back?” I ask.

“Partly,” Phoebe says after a moment of silence. She doesn't add anything more, and I figure that's all I'm going to get.

“Was it difficult?” I ask. “Fighting the urge to return to Mother?”

“I was an orphan once before,” Phoebe says, “I knew how to survive.”

Maybe that was the difference. I had been part of a family. Part of a military unit. I had craved the company of others. Needed it, in fact. Becoming an Arcadian had been an easy choice for me, in the end. I hadn't given much thought to the ramifications of my decision. I was a soldier; I was supposed to follow orders. I was supposed to be part of a group.

Had Mother taken advantage of my weaknesses?

Of course she had. If I looked back on my history from Escobar's point of view, I was a dumb grunt. Manipulated over and over again by my superiors. Told what I needed to know for any given mission. Patted on the head when I returned, bloody and triumphant. Good dog. Here's a cookie. Now go rest for a few decades. I wagged my tail, overjoyed to be part of a family, happy to please Mother.

“It's just another survival mechanism,” I murmur.

“What is?”

“Following orders. Being happy to please,” I say.

Phoebe shrugs, a twitch of her shoulders in which I'm starting to see a variety of nuances. Isn't that the reason we do anything? is what I read in her reaction.

“Change happens over time. Changes happen because a system reacts to stimuli. Those species that can react quickly survive. The rest die. That's the order of the world—has been for thousands of years—and we've been at the top of that pyramid for a long time. But we're afraid now. We're looking over our shoulders, wondering what it is that is coming up behind us. The fundamental problem we face is change—how are we supposed to change when we were at the top of the food chain?”

“We get knocked off,” Phoebe says. “We relearn what it is to fear.”

“Is that what Escobar wants? To make Arcadia remember fear?”

“Why would he bother? He's done with Arcadia; he's working on his own evolutionary path. He doesn't want us crowding him.”

“Right. He's growing his own flesh, his own tissue. Evolution takes a long time, especially when your body is already nearly perfect. So, he's taking a shortcut. He's crafting his own.”

Phoebe makes a face. “Genetic modification,” she says. “Splicing. Grafting.”

“Frankenstein,” I reply.

“Chimera,” she fires back.

An involuntary shiver runs up my spine. Chimera. She's right. Body of a lion, head of a goat, tail of snake. The commingling of disparate species into one monstrous creation that could not exist without interference from the Gods.

A chimera would not be something that Mother would birth; it was a monster that man would build.

I recall the tree farm on Rapa Nui. There had been citrons in the grove, and I hadn't looked at them closely. Were they simply citrons or had they been Bizzaria—the chimera of the Florentine citron and the sour orange? Had I walked past them without realizing what they were?

* * *

Mere and Pedro return to the car, and Phoebe switches to the front seat to drive. We're going to drive through the afternoon and night,