Paris wakes me up very early. She doesn't want to waste a minute of her time, now that she is convinced to move forward with her projects. While we have breakfast, I watch her because she is back to make up. She looks beautiful in that long tight skirt, white shirt and a multitude of necklaces. Her hair is wavy, as I have never seen it before. She's changed. She's forced me to wear something totally new, too: tight black pants and a horizontally striped shirt. I look funny in the mirror.

Normally, Paris walks from her house to the University, but today she has decided that we have to go by airmobile and I'm not the one who's going to complain. I'm thrilled to be able to ride in one of those things again.

—It's only a twenty-minute walk that helps you think—she says—but we don't need it today. We have to act.

I wait in the driveway for an airmobile to emerge from the garage with black, blue and purple design lines.

—I didn't know you were driving—I tell him as the door opens upwards and I get in.

She swaggers over to me with a look and we both laugh. When Greg Gordon allowed me to travel to New America, a vehicle like this picked me up. I rode in the back seat and could only admire the black night sky and the lights of the airways. But at this instant I am dazzled by the buttons and screens of the aircar. Paris controls the steering wheel, the pedals and the gearshift. Soon the vehicle lifts off. I deduce that she doesn't have much driving experience.

—You'd better buckle up.

At full speed we move forward and merge onto the airway that crosses the entire city. It looks so small from here. I feel dizzy. I notice the taste of bile in my mouth and I feel dizzy. I try to distract myself and look at the five imposing buildings of the Provinces, the heart of the country. I also distinguish the eight large avenues that lead to the center of the city. That's where we're headed, because Paris slows down and descends. Behind the huge buildings is a uniformed five-story block of gray cement. It has no strange shapes or colors on the facade, like the others. It looks old.

—It is all that remains of the Universities of Arts, Letters, Societies and Culture of the United Provinces. Soon there will be nothing left. Fewer lines of social research, more for technoscience. —Paris explains to me.

We park the airmobile in the basement of the building, a dark and gloomy place that smells closed. Paris, with her backpack over her shoulder, leads me to the elevator. It dials the fourth floor. I realize I haven't opened my mouth. I want to concentrate on everything my senses take in, as every little detail is new and strange to me. I am like a small child who, hand in hand with his mother, is exploring a new world. The elevator opens and we start walking down a wide corridor with a grayish marble floor. Our footsteps echo because there are hardly any people.

—Good morning, Mrs. Martinez—Paris greets the concierge, who is behind a counter.

—Good morning, Paris, everything all right?

—All fine, thank you. What's up, Mr. Pombert? —She turns to the cleaner who is carrying a bucket full of water in one of his hands and who is coming out of the toilets. He smiles at him.

—He's a slave! —I say when I see his bracelet, just like mine.

—Sure, Eric. Jobs that free people don't want have to be done by slaves. Many of them belong to Companies or to the Provinces themselves.

I sigh resignedly and follow Paris, who is walking very fast. We turn right, into a narrower corridor. We go up some stairs. We turn left and enter a room with multiple offices on one side and the other.

—They used to belong to university professors dedicated to art, culture, letters and societies. Barely four or five are open anymore, and the people are already old.

—This is doomed to disaster—. I can see that. That's why Paris was so anxious to finish her research.

Paris knocks on a door with the glass broken in a thousand different places. She gets the signal and we enter a small room. It has shelves overflowing with books on all four walls, a floor full of cardboard boxes, a window at the back and a desk full of papers with a computer on which a man is typing away. He stands up to greet Paris with an effusive hug. He is bald and the little white hair he has left is combed back. His face is the reflection of a tired and weather-beaten man, as he has two large dark circles under his eyes that do not hide his glasses. Despite his age, over sixty at least, his clothes give him a youthful look.

—This is Eric—Paris introduces me.

—Nice to meet you, Eric—He holds out his hand and I shake it—. I'm Professor Elliot Meyer. Sit down, sit down. Forgive the cramped space, but I'm taking inventory and gathering what little I have in this life. My long-awaited retirement is approaching.

Sitting across from him, scrutinizing him closely, there's something in his eyes that doesn't quite convince me. I try to remember the admiration with which Paris spoke of his teacher.

—So, how's that collapse study coming along? We're running out of effective time...

—As never before, Professor Meyer! I've made...we've made—rectifies a passionate Paris—some discoveries that have become the main thrust of my work. But...I am afraid I've had to make many modifications to the initial project...

—Sounds interesting. It looks like you've become a real historian! Tell me what it's all about—. I'd bet my freedom and that of the children I won't have that Paris is much more professional than her teacher.

—It's... a history of the United Provinces from their origin. In the first part I would talk about the Collapse, what little we know, and some of my theories....

—You know that won't satisfy the University. If you don't get right into the Collapse it won't be rigorous research that will allow you to stay here....

—Now comes the best part, Professor Meyer—Paris's eyes sparkle—as the origin of the Provinces, the Collapse, as the common thread of the whole history of this country...the religion of the Goddess and the Priestess. Then, everything will make sense. The slavery, the rebellions, the socio-economic system....

—Are you crazy, Paris? He's driven you absolutely insane! It's pure suicide! Religion is forbidden and punishable! What sources are you going to use? How are you going to support all that? It's simply impossible! You can't prove... You can't do it! —I think the same as Professor Meyer.

—It's a unique opportunity, professor. Think about it. The Provinces will definitely have to turn their eyes towards letters and societies. Towards us. They will realize how important it is...History.

—That paper won't be published, and they won't give you a teaching position at the University, either.

—I know, and I accept the risk and all that such research entails. That's why I became a historian, remember? You taught me to love history and its nooks and crannies!

—Yes, but...

—The question, Professor Meyer, is whether you are willing to help me. To correct me and to endorse me when I finally decide to deposit my project?

He is not going to do it. I can see it in his eyes. I've seen it in his eyes since he shook my hand. He is a guy who has swum against the tide during his entire professional life, dedicating himself to something as degraded as History. He is going to his golden retirement, as a free and middle-class person. He will have time for everything he wants. No problems. He's not going to give that up for a dream of a girl who's just starting out.

—I will, Paris—he says after taking a few seconds—but...until then...we have to be...discreet.

—Don't worry about that, we're experts—. Paris grins from ear to ear.

—We're going to get in a lot of trouble—.Professor Meyer takes off his glasses and rubs his face.

—Professor, you're an expert at that—.They both laugh.

—What else have you got? You didn't bring...Eric for anything, did you?

—I need to review some documents.

—Documents?

—Yes. From the United Provinces State Electronic Archive.

—Paris, I seem to recall you went through that file once before and found nothing of value—. I have no idea what are talking about.

—I had no idea what I was looking for. I do now—I've never seen Paris so positive—. Secret documents section.

—That is forbidden to the University...I cannot access....

—Professor Meyer, I know you know how to do it. You've looked there before. We need to get in there to clear up one last unknown of my research...You said you were going to support me and give me a hand, didn't you?

Paris is very intense. Her words are full of vitality, cadence and meaning. Professor Elliot Meyer's walls have vanished. He doesn't want to admit that he knows how to penetrate the Provinces' computer networks.

—Come here—we stand behind him, with a good view of his computer screen—. We only have five minutes before they can trace our e-mail address.

He goes to the website of the Electronic Documentary Archive of the State of the United Provinces of New America. According to Paris, this can only be accessed by staff and the University, although permissions are very restricted. Professor Meyer enters his username and password and accesses the portal.

—Search for “United States of America” —Paris orders.

—How did you... find that name? —The professor, surprised, looks sideways at Paris.

—I'm a historian—He laughs and winks at me.

There are only two documents referenced and many of their paragraphs are blacked out. It looks like valuable information.

—Can you send them to my email? —Professor Meyer downloads and sends them, to Paris's satisfaction. She seems to have found what she intended—.Please, another brief search: “Lunetta Moon”—. A strong heartbeat rumbles in my chest—. I'm missing some historical characters to complete my History of the Provinces—she explains.

The screen shows a black and white photograph of Lunetta Moon's face. She wears her hair short and has wounds on her mouth and nose, as well as bruises across her cheeks, judging by the darkness of some parts of her face. She is dirty and ragged. I read the caption accompanying the snapshot: Lunetta Moon? (born April 21, 149 A.C.). Disappeared. August, 173 A.C. Missing? Hadn't she been condemned to death and executed?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

—It looks like an unsolved murder—Elliot Meyer points out. I don't like him.

—Can you take the picture through that thing? —I point to the printer and avoid entering into his value judgment. I can't come down here and now.

The professor's slowness makes Paris nervous, and she picks up the computer controls, hits print, and does another search: Simon Moon. My father. She hits print while skim-reading.

—It's a police record of the crimes committed by Simon Moon during the slave rebellion in 168 A.C.: police assault, recording of agents, obstruction of the investigation...Fugitive from justice...Sentenced in 173 A.C. to twenty years in prison. Case dismissed in 180 A.C., when he agrees to serve as a domestic slave for the rest of his life.

—I don't know how I agreed to this, Paris—Professor Meyer quickly closes the computer. He is sweating—. If they've tracked us...it's the end. For you and for me. This must stay here, between the three of us.

—Don't worry. Think that the officials will be more focused these days on the Presidential Elections and the New Year's Football Cup.

Paris calms him down. My suspicions come true. Old professor and historian Elliot Meyer only cares about his future. I think he thinks he has fought hard enough to change the situation of history and society and has not succeeded. As he has only a few years left to live, he doesn't want to lose what little he has. He cares less about injustices if they are not committed against him.

We say goodbye and I still see Paris beaming. I don't know why this change of attitude, but you can even see it in her face. She has convinced his sexagenarian professor to commit an illegal act that could cost him dearly.

—Meyer won't give you that help you asked for, you should know that. He won't sign off on your final project.

—I don't need it anymore, Eric.

—You don't want to be a college professor anymore? You'd rather history school be over for good? —Really, I'm puzzled by this new Paris who seems to be five steps ahead of me.

—That's not the point. Change your perspective and you'll understand.

—You forget I don't have your brain.

—If I get that seat, I don't alter the system. If we alter the system, we transform the provinces—she lowers her voice—. What do you want? To move one piece or to break the whole board?

I don't have time to think about what that means. With my mother's photo and my father's mugshot on my fingers, Paris pulls me and leads me to the huge University Library, which is stocked with books every day. I am impressed by the silence and solitude of a whole temple of knowledge and the amount of books that pile up. It looks like a dead knowledge. Paris is walking in a dizzying way through the alleys of the library, looking for a copy. I don't have the legs to follow in his wake. Paris seems to know something I don't, because she has her mind made up every step of the way.

—Paris! Paris! Wait!

—Shh! Keep it down, we're in a library.

—But there's no one here—she looks around—. What's going on? You used a professor you know will probably never help you again to get two papers and this—I point to the two papers in my hands—You don't give a damn about the University, your future... History too?

—Eric, don't say that. History is what matters the most to me and you know it! It's just that...the Goddess...my mother...they've opened my eyes. They are guiding me. I feel her strength, her light. Their courage, their bravery. They have marked my path. I have a purpose.

—Paris, that I believe in it because I am a slave...but you? Come on, you're not going to tell me that...

—My mother, the Priestess, the Goddess...they have a plan. For you, for me. For everyone.

—What? To wipe out the Provinces? Expand the religion? You know how dangerous it is and that it's doomed to fail.

—What's wrong with you, Eric? —she stares at me— . What's happened to you! I thought you wanted the slave revolution. Freedom. This is the only way...

What's wrong with me? Maybe Paris is right, why am I trying to avoid what I want most for myself and for all slaves? I am afraid, Paris, but I cannot confess it to you. I am afraid, more afraid than I was when I swam in the ocean. We are entering uncharted territory. If Paris goes down...I go down with her. We're in this together, now more than ever.

—I've always trusted you, Eric. And I thank you for everything you've done for me, for better and for worse, because you've taught me so many lessons I wouldn't have known without you. It's about time I pay you back. So shut up already and give me those papers from your parents.

I am speechless at how incisive Paris has become. I do as she commands. As she glances at the printed letters again, I look at the photograph of my mother, almost in tears.

—It doesn't... it doesn't look familiar like that—I tell her, calmer.

—Maybe she was camouflaging herself. Trying to go unnoticed. If she was convicted for the slave rebellion of 168 A.C. and that photo is from 173 A.C., she had to be hiding somewhere.

—I was born in 170, Paris. On Greg Gordon's cotton plantation. —we're silent—. Do you think she could have been murdered? —I ask in a whisper.

—I don't know, it looks like she took quite a beating.

—If it says here that she's missing for the Provinces, that she controls everything... does that mean she's still alive? —I feel very small compared to Paris. I need her support.

—That's what I'm trying to find out here, Eric. I want you to trust me. We promised to help each other. Professor Meyer's bullet is spent, but we got this information about your parents. There's only one way to find out what really happened to your mother, Eric. This one has all the answers—she points to Simon Moon's name.

—How do we find him?

—The United Provinces has an exhaustive record of every slave. Behaviors, references, places of work etc. The computer record is considered high security and can only be accessed by senior officials. This is more difficult and complicated than entering the Electronic Archive, because the University has no permission—I lower my head and get discouraged—. However, until a few years ago there were always physical records that were piling up in offices and have ended up in the largest library in New America, which no one visits, unfortunately. If we look at old inventories, maybe we'll get lucky.

I have a sliver of hope of reaching my father, Simon Moon, and understanding the crazy puzzle that my life has become. Maybe then, by knowing my past, I can help Paris with the future. After an hour of dusting through books, notebooks, financial records, phone books, yellow pages of addresses and other dirty orange papers, we find two possible houses where Simon Moon might be serving as a house slave. Why is Paris doing this? Is it really his mother, Julie Bell, and the Goddess who has asked her? Is it because of me? I don't understand, but I accept it. I need this and I don't know how to thank her.

We flew in the airmobile to the outskirts of New America, in the opposite direction from the sea and Paris' house. We arrived at a large development of four and five-story mansions, with extravagant shapes and large windows. We ring the doorbell of number twenty-four and a teenage girl, dressed in the uniform of a domestic slave with a bow on her head, welcomes us.

—This is the residence of the Backer family, what can I do for you?

—I am Paris...Paris Bell and this is my slave. I'm a staff writer for the New America Today newspaper. We're looking for Simon Moon for an interview. We understand he's a house slave here.

—One moment, please.

She bows before leaving. She is barely a child and already serving as a slave. I am so indignant that I overlook the way Paris has introduced me and that she has cleverly used her mother's name. After a few seconds, a young man of color, with a three-day beard and dressed in a suit and tie, gives us a broad smile.

—Isaac Backer—he holds out a hand to Paris—can I help you?

—I'm Paris...Bell. I'm a journalist and I was interested in interviewing Simon Moon, your slave.

—Simon. Of course, please come in. Be careful with the questions Miss Bell, sometimes Simon has some pretty nasty fits.

I look at Paris, nervous and excited. We've found him. The Backer mansion has everything: garden, terrace, swimming pool, tennis and soccer courts and I'm sure more rooms than I could ever dream of. This is the way of life of the elite. Isaak Bakcer takes us to a small garden, away from the house, where there are some barracks where I guess the domestic slaves in their service live. There is a small table with white plastic chairs.

—Take a seat—the host tells us—. Simon will be here soon.

My heart is about to explode and Paris knows it, so she squeezes my hand. I feel her touch, her warmth and her strength. I am closer to my mother. After the fourth call from Isaak Backer, Simon Moon appears. He looks ungainly in that house slave uniform, his hair dark and tousled.

—Simon—Isaak says with both hands in his pockets, a businessman's pose—Paris is a journalist and she wants to ask you some questions....

—Me? Why? —He looks at me for a second. I don't know if I look like him physically, if his voice resembles mine or not, if I have his gestures and mannerisms.

—You participated in the last slave rebellion and were condemned for it. If your owner will allow me, I would like to ask you some questions for a special dossier of the newspaper about that intense decade.

Simon Moon looks at his owner, who with a gesture allows him to sit down and answer.

—You see—he begins with a smile, because he is remembering—back then I was twenty-three years old. Very young, very young. I belonged to a dying old man who had thousands and thousands of olive trees in the Province of Georsiana, in the north. There I picked olives like no other. I was the exemplary slave for two years in a row, because I had increased my productivity. My master sent me to study for a few months in New America. He believed I could increase oil production even more with the right knowledge—My hair stood on end. That's what Greg Gordon did with me—. But when I got to the city and saw...everything...I changed my perception of life. I decided to run away, to try to be free.

—What did you see in New America? How did you try to be free? —Paris asks, writing in one of her little notebooks. She looks like a real reporter.

—The atmosphere... the city... the desire for equality, for freedom... ....

—Are you talking about the Goddess? —Paris! What are you doing?

—Miss Bell, I'm sorry, but in Simon's condition... I won't allow you to ask him such questions. He's weak and these fantastic stories don't suit him.

—My sincere apologies, Mr. Backer. If you allow me to ask you a few more questions, we'll be on our way... —Isaak Backer comes up to us and stands behind us. He puts his head close to Paris' ears and says something softly. Paris nods shyly—. Did you know this woman? —Paris shows him the snapshot of my mother.

—Oh, yes, I did. My beloved Lunetta. I loved her with all my heart, but she... well, she loved me too, once in a while... but no... her heart belonged to someone else—. My veins are bursting, I can't control the urge to ask him if he's my father.

—Lunetta Moon was convicted of participating in the slave rebellion of 168, but she is listed as missing by the Provinces. Do you know what happened to her? —Simon raises his hand before answering and begins to shake.

—Miss Bell... though Lunetta took my last name... it was never hers. Never! I was in love with her, yes. I am guilty of loving her. But she left me. She betrayed me...and she doesn't deserve to carry my name. I won't stand for it.

—But is she alive?

—I don't know.

—Do you know that Lunetta had a child? —Paris is getting closer, and at the same time an inner fire is burning inside me—. Eric Moon is his name. And it's this boy next to me.

Simon Moon tilts his head towards me with a serious gesture. His hands are shaking more and more. His sunken eyes seem to pop out of their sockets to look at me more closely.

—You say this boy is Lunetta's son and that he has my last name?

—That's right, I'm Eric Moon—. I managed to say.

—Miss Bell, unless my senses are failing me, this boy is a slave, isn't he?

—Indeed, he is.

—What nerve! Take that name off at once! —He stands up and shouts at me—. I did not have a child with Lunetta! And if I had... he wouldn't have been a slave. Lunetta wasn't a slave! She was free and rich!

Simon gets angry. He shouts, spits spittle as he utters his curses, and threatens me with his finger. I can no longer hear him. Everything around me has gone dark and silent. My mother was not a slave. She had freedom and a fortune. How is that possible? She lived and worked as a slave on Greg Gordon's plantation! She was a follower of the Goddess! Isaak tries to calm Simon Moon, who is still yelling at Paris and me.

—Simon is sick. He gets scared sometimes and needs strong medicine. I think you've upset him enough. So, if you would be so kind, Miss Bell, get off my property. And don't forget, we have a deal—Isaak Backer just looks at Paris.

A deal? What is he talking about? Paris rips a page out of her notebook and writes down her email.

—Send it to me when you have it and I'll see what I can do—she says determinedly.

The teenage girl on duty escorts us out.

—She's dead! Lunetta is dead! —Simon Moon keeps shouting—He killed her! He killed her!

—Shut up, you good-for-nothing! I'll sell you if you don't shut up! —Isaac Backer looks at us again, from a distance.

—Don't listen to him, Eric. He's crazy.

We get in the airmobile and get the hell out of there.

—A deal, Paris? What deal? What the hell was that?

—What was I supposed to do? I had to pretend and keep asking.

—What will he send you?

—An article. He wants to publish it in the newspaper.

—In Nueva America Today? The most prestigious newspaper in the provinces? Couldn't you think of a humbler name?

—That is why he opened the doors of his house wide to us. That's why he allowed the interrogation, Eric.

—What do we do now? He's got money... look at the house he's got! He's elite and he can find us. You talked about the Goddess!

—Fuck, Eric, I fucked up—. I never heard a bad word out of Paris' mouth.