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  With the most sincere respect & esteem,

  Zadock Thomas

  12/6/43

  Zadock,

  I am quite familiar with your character, and duly appreciative of the services you have provided me during your years at the Museum of Flying. However, your lack of propriety in this request is disconcerting. To speak of my daughter in such language chafes my ear. I hesitate, in good conscience, to give you Elswyth’s hand in marriage for the following reasons.

  To start, I am not entirely convinced that her courtesy toward you constitutes an exceptional affection. I know you have come calling many times, but my daughter is more woman than girl, with emotions more complicated than even she may understand. As you are well aware, she has other suitors. Some possess the lineage to make an impression on society and improve her standing in Chicago.

  However, she has long been introduced to society and her twenty-six years are overripe when it comes to marriage. But she is a particular sort, as am I. Both my daughters are given to fantasies, I fear, Louisa with her dollhouses, which she will not give up. But Elswyth as well, buried deep in the worlds of her books. It has been difficult for my eldest to match in reality the notions such novels have given her.

  This concern aside, your financial and professional situation remain. You are correct in guessing it is insufficient to marry into the Gray family. I know of the Zoological Garden, and I find it dubious at best. Flora simply cannot capture the imagination of the public like the animals, chief among them those who rule the air. Without an audience any such society or museum, or even a well-prepared publication, is doomed to failure.

  Fortuitously I have a pressing task that requires an employee willing to travel. Far beyond your normal duties here, this is a matter of great urgency. I not only would be able to increase your salary for the duration but would also, albeit with some reservation, consent to your marriage to my daughter. It is that important.

  Elswyth’s consent to marriage is a further condition, and an undertaking I leave to you. A nursemaid does not a husband make.

  The task I require of you is to act as courier by delivering a letter to a colleague, General Edwin ‘Speed’ Irion. He is the commander of a rogue troop in the nascent country of Texas. The letter is of great import. It cannot be delivered in the normal way. He is an intelligent man in a sensitive position, but his time in the wilderness has made him a bit mad. He has broken from the new republic and hopes for annexation to the United States. This has only aggravated Texas’s war with Mexico, who will not recognize her status as a sovereign nation.

  It is a dangerous land. I would provide for your transportation with an army unit under the command of Major McMarrow, an equal man to the general, who should serve as adequate protection.

  One thing is paramount. The letter must be delivered directly into the hands of General Irion. Whatever happens, you must not open this letter yourself nor allow anyone else to do so. It is of a sensitive political nature. The government’s postal service will not do. I need someone whom I can trust. One who will deliver the letter at any cost.

  Time is of the essence. I would travel myself, but for my age and my family here. I would send Mr. Buell were he not instrumental in the running of the museum. I trust you would attend to the errand with haste and solemn duty.

  The Republic of Texas, where General Irion is encamped, is 900 miles from Chicago. My daughter does not know I have set this task as a condition of her marriage, and I think it would serve your interests not to make a point of it. Simply state that you are under my employ for a special task. If you agree, please make your preparations. I require my courier to depart with the letter this week.

  Sincerely,

  Joseph Gray

  ∧∧ At city-center, Zeke ran to catch the tram out of Texas. The main watchpost read 07:02, OCTOBER 4. Zeke bought a ticket to Chicago-Land. It was hard to leave Eliza behind. Since her father had left her, she didn’t like to be parted from anyone. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He rode the rotovator up the tether in the center of the city-state. It docked with the tram, which floated in near-earth orbit to the dock above Chicago-Land. He wished he had more laudanum. His palms began to sweat the moment he boarded. He could only think of the worst. The statite car might drift into space. The steam thrusters might misfire. The car was attached to nothing. Zeke imagined it falling. ∧∧ ∧∧ He looked nervously at the landscape painted below. It felt strange to be outside the protective wall of the barrier. The other passengers didn’t seem to mind. In their minds, they had not left the bounds of civilization. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Outside the barrier there were few trees, few lakes, and no buildings. Lots of rot: brown, barren, burning. The storm country was huge. Each trip, Zeke would scan for signs of life. The car was too far from the ground to see anything. Ghost rivers of smoke drifted along the earth’s floor. Some said the land was burning. That there were folks outside, in the rot, setting fires. But nothing could be seen. Not even the flocks of birds Zeke had read about in old books. It was as dead and flat as a page of text. ∧∧ At the house he found his grandmother cutting the lawn, despite her bony hands, nearly crippled with arthritis. He watched her for a long moment, her back bowed under the weight of a long life. Sensing his presence, she looked up and gasped, clutching her hands to her breast like two bony wings. ∧∧ “Gram, it’s Zeke.” This unfroze her. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “You gave me a start. I thought I was looking at the ghost of your grandfather.” She exhaled. “You look smart. I’m glad you’re here.” Zeke nodded. “There will be many folks here tomorrow. We must prepare.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Senator Zacharyh Thomas had had a long and eventful life. But he was old. He’d had a bad knee, trouble breathing, and a touch of dementia. He’d been tired. The winter before he’d looked Zeke in the eye and said, “You don’t want to get as old as this.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The funeral was well attended. It was a national day of mourning. Chicago-Land was the seat of the government and where the oldest generation lived. Everyone wore fineries: uniforms, dress boots, and brimhats. His grandmother sat with the wives of the other Senators, all in black robes. Womenfolk cried behind their fans. The mood was deeply mournful, even though he’d had a long, full life. ∧∧ Zeke sat in the front row with Bic, his cousin. Bic wore too much wax in his hair. He was usually smug about his military training but cried unabashedly during the funeral. Zeke was surprised to find himself feeling sorry for someone he often tried to avoid. The feeling dissipated after the funeral, when Bic started talking about the Senate seat and his own ideas for it. ∧∧ ∧∧ At the end of the day another Senator presented Zeke with his grandfather’s inheritance bundle and a special armband for his uniform. Newspaper clippings of successes, photos of ancestors—it contained many documents pertaining to the long history of the Thomas family bloodline. But most important, it meant he’d been chosen as Khrysalis. He could feel Bic’s green eyes from across the room. ∧∧ ∧∧ Having a seat in the Senate was a difficult job, with many problems. His grandfather had done much in his time. Only a fraction of the population was left alive after the Collapse. Folks banded together in a few remaining cities. They put up the barriers, for protection. A few folks remained outside, to their peril. His grandfather was a leader in the Senate, instituting many of the systems that ensured the culture’s survival. ∧∧ Zeke tried to imagine life before the Collapse. Open cities, no restriction on travel, no barrier to the outside world. Civilization and chaos commingled. What was won, was earned. Now jobs were assigned by the government, based on heredity. Like his new job. ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke stayed with his grandmother for almost a week. Age hadn’t slowed her down, though she was often confused. Wisps of white hair escaped her bobby pins. He had to tell her where he lived now, how old he was. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ They talked as she prepared a tea service with nourishing fount-water. Never having been taught, Eliza had struggled to learn its intricacies from Zeke’s grandmother, who could perform the ritual without thinking. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “I don’t th
ink I want to join the Senate.” Zeke spoke openly with his grandmother. “I just want my private life. With Eliza. I don’t have that kind of energy.” ∧∧ “You can claim a period of mourning before you take the seat. Your grandfather always said you were the brightest of the bloodline. We’ve both looked forward to what fate would deliver you.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “So far, my fate has been pretty forgettable.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “There are some of your grandfather’s shirts and hand-kerchiefs that I thought you might want. I put them in the downstairs closet.” She took his cup into the kitchen. “Only if you want them. You look plenty handsome already.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Zeke walked through the large empty house. Everything was made of polished wood and glass. The fixtures were porcelain, adorned with silver. He walked down the staircase. It coughed dust clouds with each step. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ The house felt strange without his grandfather’s presence. His grandmother had not changed anything. It was all meticulously organized. The cupboards opened to food and glasses in neat little rows, labels facing out. Photographs of past generations lined the walls. The few books left were categorized, dusted. It was a museum of their life and their great love affair. Without his grandfather the possessions meant nothing. Zeke thought, ∧∧ The truth of nothingness, that is despair. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ His grandfather’s shirts were arranged by color in the storage closet. The fabrics created a rainbow of pattern. He thumbed through the shirts. One was misplaced, a white shirt in the middle of the greens. He held it up to his front. Lifting the sleeve out to match his arm, he dropped the shirt. As he picked it up, a letter fell from the front pocket. It was old, still sealed. “DO NOT OPEN” was handwritten on the front. He wanted to open it. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ Instead, Zeke brought the shirt and the letter into the breakfast room. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “What’s this, Gram?” ∧∧ She glanced at it. “Looks like an old letter of your grandfather’s.” ∧∧ “It’s sealed. It’s never been carbon’d.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Your grandfather would have had it carbon copied when they did all that. He took all the paper and books to the tents set up downtown, just like regular folks. He was so proud of the new Vault. I remember—” ∧∧ “But this one can’t have been carbon’d if it wasn’t opened. The point was to have a copy of everything in the Vault of Records. Gram, we need to turn this in. We’ll explain it was always sealed so we don’t get in trouble.” ∧∧ “Well”—she turned it over in her hand—“it’s probably one of those silly love letters your grandfather used to write me. Before the phonotubes and all that.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “He wrote you love letters?” ∧∧ “There used to be a mail service.” ∧∧ “Hh, well, I’m going to take it to the Vault in Texas.” He slid the letter into his inheritance bundle, with the other family documents. ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “We could open it if you like, dear. I’m too old to be embarrassed anymore.” ∧∧ ∧∧ “The minute we open it we’ve got an uncarbon’d document on our hands. Possessing papers the government doesn’t have copies of…Besides jail, it could cost this family the Senate seat.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Whatever you like, dear. Did you want a tea service?” ∧∧ ∧∧ “Gram, you just made me one.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ “Hh, I did, didn’t I. Well, I put some of your grandfather’s shirts in the downstairs closet for you to try on.” ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ ∧∧ He held up the white one for her. It was too big. His grandmother tilted her head and gave him a strange look, as though she were seeing through him, far into the past. He agreed to take the shirt home. ∧

  Eliza, it is my fault that you can’t know our own family’s history. These letters will be in your inheritance bundle. When I die, you will finally know everything. Your bloodline, and Zeke’s as well.

  At Joseph Gray’s request, Zadock Thomas indeed made his journey west. A member of his progeny would return that way to take his seat in the Senate generations later. Your Zeke is next. This migration is part of history’s pattern.

  After the Collapse, the country, the whole world, was in chaos. Civilization was decimated. The records have described those horrors and there is little point in repeating them here. Suffice to say, hanging on to some semblance of order was not easy. The folks in the remaining seven cities were scared. Walls were built to keep marauders out and to protect scarce natural resources. Seven Senators were chosen to preside over the nation. Each would pass their seat to a blood relative. In this way blood became political currency. Senator Thomas was a man possessed of a particular vision. He knew that knowledge was power. He knew that passing it along to the next generation was the thread that held a civilization together.

  I was tasked with helping to set up a permanent Vault of Records, so that the history we had left might be preserved. It was a momentous assignment. It also served to distract me from thoughts of you. I had a new purpose. I devised a system for the classification and categorization of records and documents. We inherited few, most had been destroyed in the Collapse. To aid future Historians, it was decided more ought to be recorded. The Senate assigned men to document the daily life, speech, and movements of influential people. At the time I did not imagine how this idea might become corrupted. We were naïve.

  Outside the barriers, the world continued to burn. It is a barren wasteland. They say that the folks who were shut out of the city-states are all dead now. That animals can’t even survive in the rot. This, I feel, discounts the resilience of life.

  At first frost, the wanderer butterfly (Danaus plexippus, of the family Nymphalidae) used to make the great journey from northern climes southward to Mexico. However, no individual made the entire journey. The migration spanned three to four generations of butterflies. The great-grandchildren of the overwinter generation returned to the exact same conifer their ancestors departed from a year prior.

  They had no guide back. Their history was within them.

  I have found more from Zadock Thomas. In the year of his letters, 1843, America was caught up in the task of fulfilling its Manifest Destiny. Nothing could stand in the way of the westward expansion. It was, in a way, the opposite of the Collapse. A fever dream had taken the nation. Train tracks were laid, buffalo were cleared. Smallpox claimed the lives of great numbers of American Indians in the plains. Before their minds could assimilate the white man coming over the hills firing “shouting sticks,” their bodies were defeated by his diseases.

  The Great Migration of 1843 saw settlers flood the Oregon Trail. Even prior to the gold rush, the overland trails were busy highways, fueled by the promise of paradise in the west. Telegraph systems were built, the typewriter invented.

  John Tyler became the U.S. president by succession and grappled with issues of expansion. He called for the annexation of the vast Texan territory (which included New Mexico and much of Colorado), a land grab rivaled only by the Louisiana Purchase and accompanied by a good deal more bloodshed.

  At the invitation of Mexico, Stephen Austin’s “Old Three Hundred” families had settled Texas seven years earlier, the first white men to do so. Refusing to give up a cannon at Gonzales, they organized a determined new nation, and the Texas Revolution began. After massacres at Goliad and the Alamo, Sam Houston forced Mexican General Santa Anna’s surrender at San Jacinto. Their treaty was never recognized and Texas continued to battle a disorganized Mexico.

  The great wagon trains rumbled westward looking for Eden on earth. A terrestrial land of milk and honey had been promised by Lewis and Clark and all who returned to tell tall tales of the west. But the promises of romantic nationalism were false. There was no earthly paradise. America was a failed utopia. Resources dried up. Wars ensued. The Collapse was perhaps inevitable, written into the story from the beginning.

  While reading this, you must remain aware that Zadock Thomas and his contemporaries had no idea what would befall their offspring. Despite his failures, he is a more fascinating character than many men who accomplished much more.

  Zadock Thomas was the son of Zebediah Thomas, a druggist and the owner of an apothecary.
Zadock was introduced to the natural world through a sympathetic aunt who noticed he had begun to collect beetles, butterflies, and other winged insects in the back of the shop where he worked with his father. Joseph Gray, of the then-nascent Museum of Flying, accepted him as an apprentice when the apothecary went bankrupt.

  He worked outdoors, collecting specimens from the Mid-western fields. There he learned surveying techniques and methods of astronomical positioning. However, his health proved too fragile to continue outdoors. He suffered from nearsightedness, shortness of breath, and heart palpitations. These symptoms, given that he was unusually tall and slender, with stooped shoulders, flat feet, and an uneven mustache, have led me to suspect Marfan syndrome, an inherited disease.

  Owing to Thomas’s poor health and unemployment, Joseph Gray offered him residence and a small stipend from the Museum of Flying to continue working there as a plate setter. He slept in the same room as the insect collection, on a cot underneath a ceiling hung with the skeleton specimens of many bird species. Gray wrote in his letters that

  …the boy was birdlike in and of himself, being disposed to eat in small quantities, and no more than milk and bread, and the occasional egg. He might subsist on 24 cents a day.

  Gray established a journal that mirrored his museum in being a compendium solely for animals that could fly, like insects and birds. The publication of The American Journal of Flight was uninterrupted for many decades. Gray acquired a typowriting machine to produce the editions himself. Originally Zadock’s job was to set type, but he was a poor typist, and the task was given instead to Bartholomew Buell, his fellow employee. Zadock was relegated to drawing and preparing the specimen plates. His illustrations were passable for the time.

  I include some in this thread, as well as Zadock’s letters to Elswyth. He was eager to begin a questionable journey. He didn’t compose much beyond these starry-eyed musings, written during his southwest expedition on Mr. Gray’s errand. I have discovered one letter missing from the Vault, which is highly unusual. Namestamps show that the Thomas family had checked it out many times, but its file folder is empty. I have reported it as a missing document to the authorities. Does anyone except me care what these old drawers contain?