Silence.
Nothing but silence.
But that is how it's been on Yore for exactly 1000 years.
Every human that walks, crawls, or soars over its surface, does not speak.
No one ever says a word.
Well, almost never.
Centuries ago, there was such a thing as "speech."
Any human, free of will, was allowed to say whatever they wished, however they wished.
They could even say the same thing twice, or as many times as they wanted.
The same people were even allowed to put their words next to musical notes, creating something called, "music," which was pleasing to the ear and caused people to move in strange ways.
But then the Change came.
The ruling nations of Yore decided that "speech" was dangerous. It caused people to fight and kill over little sounds emitted from their throats. They decided the world was much better without "words" and "language."
Of course, the world wouldn't be without communication, they assured the people. "Speech," would just be excluded from the equation, no longer a variable.
Nobody agreed. But they didn't have to.
Using a unique algorithm, the nations released a sound wave across Yore, which weakened every human's vocal chords so that they couldn't make a sound.
But of course, even non-existent voices cannot be suppressed forever.
One day a year, every human finds enough strength to utter one word.
Just one.
The word can be any length, but must be uttered with a single breath.
And then, you're silent again.
But don't worry.
The people of Yore did not live without hope.
One scientist, known to the world as Nic Sele, created a back door within the 'speech algorithm.'
A way to shut the system down from the inside.
All it would take was a key-word. A word, which if uttered, would reverse the sound wave's damage, releasing every human from their in-voluntary shackles.
After that, there would be no way to re-make the sound wave, for every scientist who worked on the project was executed after the nations found out about the back door.
They did not know it was Nic. They only found out after he was killed.
He didn't even have the strength to say that one word. His year was not yet up.
But he let the masses know there was a way out, bleak though it may be. You cannot kill a man without drawing attention.
The word got out.
And every human on earth was thankful to him, though none could say it out-loud.
Now, you would think with ten-billion people on the planet, the key-word would be uttered in no-time.
There are, of course, only so many words to go around.
But you are not thinking of repetitive phrases, variations, or languages. Even nonsense.
What about selfishness and pride? Why should you choose to utter a word that might not even matter in the broad scheme of things?
Over the years, the people of Yore slowly lost hope.
It has now been 1000 years since.
No longer is anyone is wasting their word.
Except, perhaps for those few believers.
There was one clue.
So childish and yet so clever that it would take a very special human to figure it out.
Perhaps, even a child.
And so, we meet our hero.
Kae P.S. Emtel.
She's added. 'P.S.' to her name, as if there was more to say.
The girl we look at is small, only about 4 feet tall, which to some is quite big. Ten years old, she carries a black-backpack, and walks with a slight limp.
She broke her leg at age eight, and her gait has never been the same since.
Her hair is cut short, in a subtly spikey crop, and she's perceptively skinny. Her cheekbones are high, and her manner resolute.
But these things are irrelevant to two simple facts.
One: She is a child.
Two: She is a genius.
And nobody knows it.
Communication on Yore was much different now.
Everyone has a small electronic implant in their right arm. It is small and black, with a clear touch-sensitive screen enabling you to "xett' with other users.
Xetting is like how you would text on the old-age phones, except a little more personal. There are features such as setting the tone of your message, color-coding it with a mood, creating your own "handwriting," and more.
But all this just wasn't the same as speaking verbally to another person.
Not that anyone alive could remember what it was like.
But perhaps a genius could change that.
It was dangerous to try.
But the thing about being a genius, is that you can pretend that you aren't one.
And you can do it extremely well.
As you already know, a human of Yore could only utter one word every year of their lives. The count starts when a human utters its first cry: the day they are born.
Then it is one year until they may speak again.
Usually it is around age seven or eight that a child realizes their predicament.
Kae realized it at age five.
She started researching it at age six.
She started decoding at age seven.
And she said her first self-proclaimed "real" word at age eight.
Afterwards, Kae broke her leg. On purpose.
It was to get them off the trail.
If they knew what you're trying to do, they would silence you.
Funny.
But Kae was careful and kept to herself.
She was an only child, with distant parents working distant jobs, and a governess to watch her at home.
That's why she was barely ever there.
Today, she walks home from the Education Center. In years gone by, it would've been called a school, but today it is a very different place. There is no bustling around, no life or activity. Everything is painstakingly organized. And painfully quiet.
It's normal.
So she doesn't notice.
Kae focuses instead on trying to walk without hurrying her footsteps.
She's alone.
You have to be careful being alone on Yore.
No one can help you if you're in trouble. No one can hear you scream.
But Kae didn't worry.
She had built a program in her arm-band to detect other Xett users in the area.
Stepping irregularly, she's dressed in dark clothing to blend-in with the shadows, and avoid attention.
As Kae walks, she receives a Xett on her arm-band.
The alert shows it's from her governess. The message is colored in green. Positive. Important.
"OFF_OF_WORK_TODAY--I_WILL_NOT_BE_BACK_UNTIL_2AM--PLEASE_BE_CAREFUL_UNTIL_THEN—YOUR_WORD_IS_AT_MIDNIGHT."
Kae almost Xett's back in yellow. Unsure. A maybe. But she changes it to green at the last second.
"OKAY."
She looks back up from her arm-band and sees she's almost through the building to the other-side.
The clock above the center's door reads 10:55pm.
She smiles.
That was the exact time she was born. Unlike most children on Yore, Kae did not cry out when she entered the world. The doctors were worried she wasn't responding correctly, but their instruments assured them she was healthy and breathing.
Kae was born in silence.
But she knew, she would not die in it.
Our hero is out of the center now, just a block more to her home. Then she'll be safe.
Kae hears slow and steady footsteps behind her.
Someone is following.
She does not pick up her pace, but instead presses a button on the inside of her jacket to track her location.
Just in case.
She keeps walking, looking straight ahead. The gate to her home is near.
A nonchalant look around her assures her she is suddenly alone.
Kae enters the gate's code and heads inside.
There is no deep sigh or breath of relief. No relaxing of her tight muscles.
She knows she's being watched.
For today is her day to speak.
Kae walks slowly up the stairs to her room.
Only an hour. Just one hour. And then she, and the world, would be allowed to cry out.
Entering her room, she goes straight to her bed and takes off her backpack.
The puzzle was complete.
She knew the answer.
So simple yet complicated, just like her.
From her waking moment, Kae was fascinated by word puzzles. She loved anagrams, codes, ancient languages, unreadable script, and old works of forgotten authors.
And it was at age eight, she realized that the answer to unlocking the vocal chords of the world, was in a puzzle.
Her first try was. "No."
It a small chance, and it didn't work. But it felt satisfying to say it.
The ultimate defiance in a small, two lettered word.
That was her first taste of independence.
She'd said other words before. But that word was the first with meaning behind it.
That's when she broke her leg. They had taken notice.
The second word was, "Freedom."
Another defiance. Countries had been built in the past with that word as their foundation.
And now it was hers.
She knew they took notice.
But after she wrote a paper supporting the leader's past actions for the education center, she was left alone.
Mostly.
Now, she sits at the edge of her bed, tapping the bed-post, waiting for midnight to come.
She knows the answer. All that was left to do now, was wait.
<11:20>
<11:30>
Half an hour more.
<11:40>
<11:45>
Then she hears it.
Her arm-band beeps.
"NEW-XETT_SIGNATURE_IN_RANGE"
She checks where the user is located.
"OUTSIDE_GATE"
Not the maid.
"TWO_NEW_XETT_SIGNATURES_IN_RANGE"
Outside the gate too.
Not good. But expected.
<LOCK DOORS>
She hears the house seal itself, and switch to using the survival vents.
Her arm-band beeps again.
"XETT_USERS_NEW_LOCATION"
The signals had moved to inside the gate.
<11:50>
Ten more minutes.
She starts to sweat.
She feels a vibration against the walls as the sound echoes through the house.
"IMPACT-SENSED"
No kidding.
She stays still.
<11:55>
Five more minutes of this cursed silence.
It would all be over soon.
She gets up from her bed, taking the stairs to the attic. It's reinforced with steel, and is the highest point in the house.
Though no one uses speakers anymore, there is a speaker-set hidden within the house walls.
The microphone is set up in the attic, on top of an old wooden box.
<11:58>
All it took to solve the puzzle was unscrambling that scientist's name. The one who created the back-door.
Nic Sele.
The first step was to separate letters. At first she thought the letters for each name was a separate word. But if it really was the key, it couldn't be two words. So she separated them together.
N-I-C-S-E-L-E.
The second step is to rearrange them.
L-I-C-E-N-S-E
Nope.
S-E-L-E-N-I-C
Close.
S-I-L-E-N-C-E.
Bingo.
Now, her mouth is dry and her palms are sweaty,
<11:59>
She takes a swig from a canteen. Nothing will silence her today.
The house shudders.
They are trying to get in.
They know.
She smiles.
Twenty more seconds.
She taps the microphone with one finger, and hears the recall. It works.
Ten more seconds.
She clears her throat and feels her vocal chords loosen.
With every ounce of her being, she takes a deep breath, and then yells with the screech of a harpie:
"SILENCE!!!!"
The air is still.
The house does not quiver.
And for the first time in her life, she hears voices mutter outside.
The words aren't clear. They haven't been used in such a long time.
But they are WORDS. Multiple. Not just one.
Her legs buckle, and before she breaks down in tears, she manages to whisper, "d'Dahjlonica."
And then she knows. She's cracked it.
Why?
Because d'Dahjlonica isn't a word. She made it up.
It does not matter that you couldn't find its definition in any dictionary, or pull up any results on the web.
What matters is that she finally had the power to say it, and whatever else she wished.
To her, d'Dahjlonica wasn't a meaningless word.
To her, it meant triumphant silence.
Just like when she was born.
The world had held its breath for long enough. No longer would she be a "Child of Silence."
She would instead be known as, "The Child of d'Dahjlonica."