Bryn

I shift awkwardly as Greyson and his mum reunite right there in the middle of the market. There’s a lot of hugging involved. Greyson can’t stop touching his mum. An arm around her shoulders, a kiss on a cheek, a hand smoothing down the woman’s frizzy hair – as if he’s frightened she’ll disappear like a whisper on Level Eight. My mothers are never like that. They probably won’t even notice I’m gone.

“Hmm, usually these reunions are one way,” Rayburn yells into my ear and I flinch. While I want to edge further away, I instead lean closer to shout, “What do you mean, one way?”

“Well, if you arrive after someone, you sure likely been forced to forget, you know, before you go. We caught Hannah, that’s his ma by the by, about two months ago. Plenty of time for the Guardian to sink his sharp little hooks into someone’s brain and swizzle-stir round the old grey jelly.”

I look at him in horror as he smiles, completely unperturbed, arms crossed and standing firm in the crowd like a mountain.

“I’m looking for someone, too,” I say.

“What?” Rayburn asks, bending lower and gesturing to his ear. I blush and repeat it louder.

“Oh, yeah? Who’d that be, then?”

“My brother.” I try to access my database for his name, but there’s nothing. It’s second nature to reach out, forgetting I’m now dormant and cut off. It’s as if I’ve had a lobotomy, a wall separating my mind in two. Shaking off the growing horror making my stomach churn, I remember my brother’s name in a flash. Is there a connection still remaining, like a phantom limb? “Jonas Morgan,” I say. “He went missing two days ago.”

Rayburn studies me. I can’t handle his steady gaze above that mouth, still smiling, but now it’s more of an amused smirk, so instead I glance at Greyson. Great, he’s hugging his mother again.

“I reckon things are about to get real interesting around here, lass,” Rayburn chortles. “The name isn’t familiar but Roni the Chronicler’ll help you out there. He records all arrivals and departures.”

“Departures? People leave?” Greyson asks. He and his mother have joined us, both still fused with Greyson’s arm around her waist.

“Not often,” Rayburn says, hands twisting and slashing the air in strange patterns as he turns his attention to Greyson’s mum. “Hannah, I’m true pleased for you!” She’s a pretty woman, especially with all that hair, but not particularly striking. More of a button than a broach, though the happiness radiating from her is almost hot to touch.

“Ma, this is Bryn,” Greyson introduces. The woman smiles kindly at me, nodding her head in a typical mid-leveler greeting. She’s nothing like Greyson. Greyson’s the kind of guy who reminds me of touching a metal door after walking on carpet – painful, uncomfortable sparks that leave you wary about opening any other door. His mum is the opposite. Quiet, contained, she offers a calming respite amidst all … this.

“Come, my friends! We’ll check you in!” Rayburn bows cheekily to Greyson’s mother and she laughs, flapping her hand at him, and tugs Greyson’s hair gently to reach his ear to pull his head down closer. I can’t hear what she says in all this noise but Greyson looks reluctant before giving her another tight hug. Greyson’s mum reaches out once to touch his cheek, then shoos him off before she returns to her booth. As Rayburn shepherds us out of the market chaos, I glance back at her. The dress she’s mending is pressed to her lips, her eyes bright, as if she can hardly contain her joy.

The corridors are full of people dressed in a hodgepodge of recycled, repaired hand-me-downs. They pass with an assisted hand on my shoulder or one on my back, buffering me gently, yet unnervingly, as we travel. It’s as natural as breathing for these people.

“How many are you?” Greyson asks Rayburn, voice raised, though he’s also signed in that secret language of theirs. Where did they learn it? It wasn’t taught in school. Did only the Bottom Dwellers use it? Is it because it’s too noisy to talk, or is it to pass secret messages beneath the noses of Mediators? Talking out loud is clearly for my benefit and I itch to reach out and message like I’ve been doing all my life.

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“Almost a thousand. We’re growing, though,” he points out a young woman with a package strapped to her back, pudgy arms waving and its head topped with fine wispy hair. “That’s Laura and her bitty tot, Briony Eighty-Six.”

“Eighty-Six?” I ask, craning my head to see the woman as we hustle pass. The baby is cute, eyes as dark as her mother’s, her biological mother.

“She’s the eighty-sixth child to be born here. Traditionally, if you know what I mean.” Rayburn wriggles his eyebrows strangely but his mouth is clearly leering. Fourth grade Physical Education flashes through my mind and I shudder. I don’t need more reasons to know how backwards this place is.

“This existed long?” Greyson squeaks, in an attempt to change the subject, his face flushed. Rayburn chuckles.

“For some time now. We’re as wide as L8. Not as big though. We developed this pocket from what’s technically L9 for living and there’s no need to expand yet. Easier to heat and manage fresh water and air, see, and we don’t mind sharing. We keep the levels below us mostly sealed off. They’re far too big for our use, so it’s more efficient-like.”

“Levels below?” Greyson asks.

“Yup, another seven and there’s the recycling plant right at the bottom. Not confirmed yet, but we suspect it mirrors the upper station. It even has a Core, and those levels are full of equipment and supplies. Lot of useless stuff, too: machines with tyres bigger than a grown man and boats with steel keels and canvas sails. We repurpose the canvas so at least that hasn’t gone to waste. If you’re lucky, you might be assigned work on one of the scavenger parties. Good fun, them.”

Other levels? Strange machines? What nonsense! Though wouldn’t it be something!

“Right, here we are,” Rayburn says, tugging us into a wide passageway, floor marked out like a maze in white paint that Rayburn strides across without giving it any mind. It’s quieter here if you dismiss the droning engines.

“Usually this place’s glitching packed, but this time of day most folks have got assigned work. I hate queues.” At the end of the painted maze is a wall lined with three windows, sealed tight with scuffed roller doors, set just above head height. Rayburn raps sharply on each with a knuckle and the doors roll up to reveal a face peering at us from each window.

“My friends, the Admin,” Rayburn bellows cheerfully. “Duty Clerk Fielder. He assigns the work rosters.” The man on the left waves. He’s wearing a custard yellow suit two sizes too large. “The lovely Accalia, who keeps us fed, bed and wed.” The centre window frames a woman long of limb and long of face. She sniffs distastefully at Rayburn, even though her eyes are bright with mirth. “And the man on the end is Roni the Chronicler. Without access to the Cyberinth, we’ve had to make do with this old man’s brain.”

The Chronicler snorts, ruining his dignified wizard-like appearance.

“These are our latest. Bryn Morgan and Greyson Ward,” Rayburn introduces.

“Relation at all to Hannah?” the woman asks, in a slow drawl, and Greyson nods shortly. “My ma.”

“She’s been a wonderful addition to our little tribe,” the duty clerk beams, as if Greyson’s mum is a collectable.

“Welcome Bryn, Greyson. We are the Admin,” Accalia says. “We ensure the smooth running of Undercamp.”

“Bryn, would you like to tell us about yourself?” the Chronicler asks kindly and it’s like I’m back at school.

“Umm …”

“It’s fair fine,” Rayburn says, bumping my shoulder gently. I almost fly into the wall. “Roni’ll have a chit-chat with you later about specifics. Get you sorted with duties, rosters, all that lot. Just tell them what got you here.”

Greyson tenses beside me.

“Well, I’m looking for my brother?” I offer, hoping that’s what Greyson wants me to say. The way my voice warbles uncertainly makes the Admin hum sympathetically.

“You seek others that have come before you,” says Duty Clerk Fielder with a shy smile, as if it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

“Umm, yeah? My brother, Jonas. Jonas Morgan. He would’ve arrived within the last day or so?”

“Roni?” Rayburn asks. Roni’s fingers quiver across the ledge, searching a database only he could see.

“Your chip works?” I ask.

“Oh, no, dear, I remember it the old fashioned way. The physical cues aid my eidetic memory. I keep it all in here.” He taps his temple. “Afraid there’s no one registered by that name,” Roni’s voice is soft. “Nor any new arrivals besides yourselves in the last week.”

“Oh, okay.” Is the churning in my stomach caused by the concern for the brother I can’t remember or just delayed motion sickness?

“Sometimes people lay low in the station before taking the plunge, so to speak,” Rayburn suggests. “Maybe in a few days your bro will show?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He offers me a one-armed hug and he’s so big my head is wedged under his armpit. I squirm away in discomfort.

“Well, what about Greyson’s dad?”

“Your pa?” Rayburn asks, eyes intense. “You don’t mean Professor Thaddeus Ward? Of course you glitching do.”

“You know him? He’s here?” Greyson straightens, until he’s almost eye-to-eye with the three in their windows. The Admin leans back, murmuring to each other and ignoring him entirely.

“He was,” Rayburn says, and we swivel to look at him.

“He was?” we chime together.

“Is he dead?” Greyson asks in a small voice.

“No. Well, I don’t think so. A dozen or so years ago, ages before I arrived, see, the Professor came to Undercamp and stayed for awhile,” Rayburn says.

“Then he left,” Roni interrupts. “About three years ago he vanished.”

“What do you mean, ‘vanished’?” Greyson demands.

“I’m sorry,” Roni says, with a shake of his head. “One morning he was just gone.

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