To maintain the optimum ecological balance, each human life is to be extinguished at age 100. Gaia Declaration 22/44.56 Link 65 of the year 2159.
Sophia, like all 15 billion citizens of Gaia, knew all the Declarations by heart, all of Gaian history, and all the 12 approved languages. Literally, by heart. At least they had a sense of wit, she mused, implanting the Memory Chip in our hearts instead of our brains, or maybe they secretly hoped it was a way for us to stay more human.
He shifted in the rocking chair, but Sophia didn't think he wanted to converse. What was there to speak of, everything that had to be said had been said. That's just the way it is when you know exactly when you are going to die.
She was sitting on the steps of the wooden (faux, composite) porch, her knees drawn to her chin, her jeans rolled halfway up her calves. Beside her was a dish of cookies and a glass of lemonade. At least on this day, they allowed non-synthesized food to complete the illusion.
She gazed across the wild grass and dandelions, at the purplish mountains blending into the coming night. Heartland was anachronistic, but again everyone knew that, and actually looked forward to it. For one day you were made to believe it was like the good old days (goodness, they even tried to make you believe that the old days were good!) A citizen visited here before he was to be extinguished. .59 of the Declarations. Of course 'here' was really a misnomer. Different Heartland locations were scattered all over the surface ecosystems undergoing regeneration; 'here' depended on which one you selected for the day-before. One person was required to share the experience, and to pass on the myth of Heartland.
He had selected 'Norman Rockwell: Summer' because it had stirred an image, a memory. It was this image he was trying to bring back as Sophia finally turned to look at her father. His eyes were shut, which allowed her to study the face of the man she had never really known. He looked as old as everyone else who was turning a hundred, which is to say he looked like everyone else when they turned 35. When you're 70 and you look 35, and your father hasn't looked a day older than you for the last few decades, it can be difficult to place your grief. Or even think of him as your father. Sophia was here, because someone had to be and she was all he had.
He stirred.
"Sophia," he said. "I can see it."
"See what, Paul?"
"I was five. Your grandma told me to be careful, it was valuable. Old, very old. She had several of them wrapped in linen, in a locked chest, at the foot of her bed."
He took a very deep breath, as if trying to retrieve a scent. "When she opened the box, it was different Sophia, ancient, like earth after a drizzle, or tired roses. They rustled, like fallen leaves."
Sophia stiffened, uneasy at the intimacy of memories, uneasy to once again hear of her grandmother's nostalgia, and she looked away again.
He opened his eyes suddenly. "That's where I saw it. There were a lot of pictures. One on each, on each.."
"Page, Paul. One on each page."
"Page." he whispered. "A little boy, he had a funny hat that wasn't on right, and he was carrying a silver bucket and a long brown stick and in the corner it said 'Norman Rockwell.'
"It must have been a collection of his drawings. That sounds like a little boy about to go fishing."
It wasn't that books were banned, they just weren't efficient anymore. All residence rooms had Integrated Archival Access, and a quick DNA scan allowed access to data-prints of everything ever written. Whether or not you accessed the IAA was really up to you. Nothing was kept from a citizen, nothing censored. But no one owned books anymore. Books required regular viral decontamination and preservation that was just too costly for private citizens to maintain. There were regular checks on privately held editions, and if they were not maintained, they were confiscated. So, eventually, even the last few collectors surrendered their books for their Purchase Exchange Value. During that time of what was later known as the Last Retrieval, it was rumored that some 20th century first editions could earn a PEV to cover a two week holiday for two to the Sea of Tranquillity.
Sophia knew all these rumors, and all the corresponding truths, because it was her job to know.
"Sophia, you never talk to me about what you do at the Library."
"Paul, I never talk to you."
"True, true," he sighed.
He lowered his eyes. "Daughter, tell me, please. About the books."
Sophia shivered.
"Please."
Silence, except for his deep sigh.
"Well, there are thousands of thousands of them, labyrinths of them. All that could be retrieved, in rooms made out for the books to feel at home. You enter The Room of the Feather of Maat, Paul, the walls are of thick stone, you hear the crunch of Sahara sand, and catch traces of cinnabar and minium."
"In the Vellum Room, where we work at preserving the gilding and the leather bindings, there are cubicles of dark wood. Yes, Paul, real hardwood. There are quills, and inkpots, and no light at all except what filters through the mock colored glass windows. You can hear, very faintly, the chanting of Matins."
"Take me there."
"Casa Neruda, Paul. It has a lemon tree in a huge terracotta pot! You cannot imagine what it takes to keep the viral shield around it! The room is fragrant with garlic in warmed olive oil. In La Aldea Macondo, you hear the kettledrums and the flapping of enormous wings, you sense the whirling of storms and the flight of demons. When you open the books, Papa, they smell of bitter almonds and magnolias."
"Take me there, Sophia."
"You smell the sandalwood mixed with cumin, and hear the tinkling of anklets. The silk and cotton curtains are stirred by winds that carry the scent of an oncoming monsoon, and you hear the light shuffling of slippers as Memsahib is welcomed into the Palace of Chitra."
"Do you touch them, Sophia?"
"We have to examine them, Paul. Each one is checked for deterioration."
"Do you read them?"
"No, Paul, we cannot read them. Anyway, everything in them is in the IAA." That in itself was not a lie.
"Are you not tempted?"
How can I tell him, she thought. How can I tell him that I break the rules? That each time I check a page for deterioration, I actually scan the words and run my fingers over the page, imagining I can feel the trace of ink on paper. I could never explain the fascination, and I was always afraid of getting caught, but had I been, I would have explained it as a thorough check of the chemical decomposition.
"You do not answer, Sophia. You are lying. You love them too. You are just like your grandmother did."
"Paul, it is almost time." Twilight had come upon them, and the first stars were already visible. She knew that as the last hour of the last day arrived, the 35-year-old face would whither into the real face of a 100-year-old and in a few hours he would be too old to even get out of his chair. This was the way it was, as efficient confirmation that indeed one's time was up. She turned to him, and saw The Final Hours had already begun. He only had 6 more hours.
"Sophia, please?"
She looked into his dying eyes, then at her fingertips, as if checking her DNA identification. Taking an unauthorized citizen into the Library could jeopardize decontamination and would mean her execution. She thought she felt an uncharacteristic buzz in her Memory Chip, a stirring in her heart. She knew the chip reading her feelings and alerting Headquarters. But they knew it was her father's Last Day and it was normal for chips of those visiting Heartland to behave abnormally.
The, very gently she took his hand, something she had not done since she was a child.
"Come, Papa. Let us go to the books."