The Archivist

The water is glassy, the smell of salt and the cackle of laughing gulls drift on the sea breeze. Where do I go when I’m not here? Why go anywhere?

I didn’t ask to be the archivist. Some people fish, some grow corn, others tend babies and I tend books.

Throughout time, cultures have found beauty in body modification, an aesthetic, an ideal. We found that, and utility in ours. Those that could afford it, those that did specialized work for the government, and those that volunteered to improve medicine ushered in the changes. Genetic and cybernetic enhancements for the good of us all. And when the waves came crashing in, the sun scorching the earth, and violence and hunger prevailed, we looked to the Mods for their resilience, strength and intelligence.

Walking the trail to the shore is a meditation. Each step I feel the earth beneath me, my heal making first contact and then my foot rolling to into a step. As I get nearer to the beach, I feel the sand slipping slightly under me with a gentle hissing as it settles.

The archives go back generations. Our hamlet was here before the water rose. It had a name, but it’s meaningless now. We’re just another sector of the collective. The Mods keep us safe and power our homes from their cities and we keep them fed. They have their place and we have ours.

Waves rise and fall like gentle breaths measuring out each moment, a reminder that no matter how still I feel, we’re always in motion. Coming or going taken to its largest perspective is irrelevant. We live on a ball. If I walk far enough and I’ll be back where I started.

I first saw her among the stacks in the library. She somehow slipped in, unnoticed. She was tall, elegant, wearing maroon and yellow monks’ robes. Half her skull was an iridescent ceramic, colors shifting from hues of blue to violets, the other was jet black straight hair to her waist. Her skin was tan in color and eyes were a piercing crystal green. One hand traced across the book bindings on the shelves as the other held a heart shaped gold locket that hung from her neck.

On the shore I watch as the sky transitions from pinks and reds to an early morning orange light. As I sit down and cross my legs I notice small a crab scurry into a hole in the sand. As a child, I used to catch small crabs and sand fleas for bait. I used to do it with my father and in turn had spent hours on the beach doing it with my son. The bait was important, but it was the time we had that made it worthwhile.

She moved so quietly through the room, she seemed to float. “Where’s the archivist?” Her voice almost sang the words.

“What does a Mod want with the archivist?,” I asked.

“You’re the archivist?”

“Again, you have everything you need in your city, what do you want with the archivist?”

“Where is your locket?”

“My locket?”

“Yes, the one that looks like this one.” She moved in front of me and held up her heart, “I know it’s here, but it doesn’t seem to be on you.” She has a slightly earthy but floral scent, something like a patchouli and she gently touched my cheek.

“It’s…safe. I don’t want to lose it.”

“Of course,” she said, “it’s been in the family for generations.”

“Generations.” I repeated.

“Look closely,” she said as she held the locket in front of me, “it matches this one, doesn’t it?”

“It might.”

“It does. Mine was passed down to me as well.”

“Mods and the Human beings don’t mix, that’s the law.”

“That’s the law,” she repeated and smiled. She placed her hands on my shoulders and kissed my forehead.

“It’s you, you’re the archivist.”

Her touch and lips felt loving and warm. “I have a family madam. Mods and Human beings…”

“Don’t mix. That’s the law,” she said. “I’m the reader. The archivist isn’t supposed to have a family. The archivist is always an orphan”

“I was adopted.”

“Of course you were. That’s why you value the locket. It pains me to hear you have a family.”

The receding tide is slow. Most creatures that aren’t sea grass don’t get stranded on the beach. I can hear the water lap up against the side of the boats hull as it comes into view around the peninsula. The electric engine runs quietly and the rigging hangs loose on the main mast. I count my breaths, feel the cool damp sand below me and the warmth of the rising sun on my body.

“Mods aren’t supposed to mix with Human beings, that’s the law. I’m the reader, you’re the archivist, I’m your wife.”

“I’m not a mod.”

“You’re the archivist. Your DNA holds 1.62e+23 bits of data. You are the backup and I am the reader. We need to sort out a corruption in this generation.”

“I’m a Mod?”

“You can’t be an archivist and not a Mod. Your dna encodes generations of data.”

“But my son…”

“And your wife, unfortunate. Mods can’t mix with Human beings. I’ll give you some time to say goodbye. Your son is a corruption. He will have to be removed from the stream to maintain balance.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“As I said, it is unfortunate, but you are needed for us all, Mods and Human beings. We can’t maintain the balance without correcting the data. We are meant to be together. Collect the locket. I’ll be back,” and with that she kissed my cheek and walked out the door.

There is a faint floral smell in the air as I begin my swim. My wife, Isabela and son, Zander begin to hoist the rigging and urge me to swim faster, as they bring the boat dangerously close to the shallows. Zander has been fishing these waters for years now and Isabela’s family has sailed for as long as anyone can remember. I swim harder as they begin to gesture toward the beach and I can sense she’s there. I’ve never been a strong swimmer but I can’t lose them. They are everything I know and the only joy I have ever held. I swim till my lungs burn, my arms and legs ache and my heart pounds.

Zander throws me a line as Isabela turns the boat into the wind. On the shore, I see the reader. On the deck, I loop the locket on Zander’s neck. “It’s been in the family as long as anyone remembers, “I tell him, “and if ever anyone asks, tell them, you are the archivist.”