Last Descendants by Matthew J. Kirby

Author:Matthew J. Kirby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2016-09-24T04:00:00+00:00

Abraham would never admit it out loud to anyone else, least of all Eliza, but he was glad for the wagon ride back to Mr. Tweed’s house. David was relieved, too. His old bones seemed to come together like the brittle ends of dried-out sticks, which was a very weird and uncomfortable experience for him. But Abraham couldn’t stop to listen to his joints complain, or else he might start complaining, too, and that was something he’d sworn never again to do.

“Going to be a mighty conflagration tomorrow,” Skinny Joe said over his shoulder. “Mighty conflagration, indeed.”

“So I hear,” Abraham said.

Okay, Monroe said in David’s ear, you’ve entered another extrapolated part of the simulation. For the next little while, this blank spot has been filled in with historical data and the memories of other people, combined with the portion of your younger life that got passed on with your genes. Just sit tight, try to do what Abraham would do. Remember, you’ve got some wiggle room, but if you act too out of character, you can still desynchronize.

“You’re lucky the Boss looks out for you,” Skinny Joe said, a subtle threat lurking underneath the surface of his words.

“And why is that?” Abraham asked.

“It’ll go hard for Negroes tomorrow.”

David wasn’t sure how to read that statement. Mr. Tweed had given him the same warning earlier, and even though he wasn’t sure if Abraham would say it, David asked, “Does that seem right to you?”

Skinny Joe scowled, and the simulation glitched.

Whoa, came Monroe’s voice. What did I just say? You need to stay in character. You’ve still got junctions you need to be at with the others, and you can’t do that if you piss this guy off enough to do something to you.

“Seem right?” Skinny Joe said. “You questioning me, boy?”

“I’m just asking if you think it’s our fault.”

“I don’t know if the Negroes themselves are responsible, but, by God, there’s a war about them, ain’t there? Poor men getting drafted to fight and die to free the very Negroes who’ll take their jobs.” His voice had risen in pitch with agitation. “Them Negroes is the innocent cause of all these troubles, and come tomorrow, by God, we’ll pound ’em.”

David knew Abraham would say nothing to that and hold very still, not feeling at all that safe in the wagon in spite of Cudgel’s orders. But David felt an intense anger at this idiot’s racism, an anger that had been building ever since he entered this simulation, and he couldn’t stop himself from speaking.

“Maybe you’ll get a pounding of your own—”

The simulation squealed and buckled, and David felt as if he were imploding, collapsing on himself into a singularity of non-existence. The intense pressure bent and twisted his mind, and he screamed but nothing came out. Then everything was black, no simulation, no anything, and he wondered if he’d died—

“Relax,” Monroe said. “That did it. You desynchronized.”

David’s helmet pulled away and he was back in the warehouse, the light overhead burning the backs of his eyes.

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