Greyson

I like it here. It’s been four … five …? No, it’s been four days, and it’s been easy slipping into Undercamp’s rhythms. I like how things are scheduled – work, eat, coma-fy, free time – it’s easy, you know? And the crew is brill. Flynn always has a raunchy story to tell, clever Juni shares her extra helpings from her sister’s veggie stall and Col’s got a real quirky sense of humour. I don’t even care Rayburn’s keeping secrets.

I’m not leaving.

I reckon Bryn suspects. Half the time she’s attached to me like statically charged fluff (never quite touching, as if that’s normal for her) while the rest she’s giving it her all in those fighting sessions. When I’m not with the crew and not with Bryn and not in my father’s lab and not trawling through finds from the scavenger party (cos my knack at figuring out how things tick’s much in demand), I’m with Ma. She’s all I’ve left and I’m not giving her up like my father did for some so-called noble cause.

“Deep thoughts, sweetheart?” Ma asks, her hands signing slow and clear-like, the endearment a sweeping movement over her heart. She’s put down the jacket she’s reworking to talk, the seams held in place by gleaming pins, but another three rest like piercings between her lips. I reach out, carefully, and remove them. Bugs me when she does that. She could breathe them in, and instead of putting stuff together they’d tear her apart.

“My signings aren’t that poor,” she defends, her lips shaping the words and her hands fluttering. She isn’t bad, just slow. She’s faster when she speaks knowing if one of her movements is too sloppy, I can lip read her meaning instead.

“I know, Ma.” I shuffle close to hear the whisper of her voice in my good ear.

“What’s wrong?” Ma presses and her eyes, bright green and concerned, drill holes into my brain. I hesitate and she frowns, cheeks lined deep with heavy sadness.

“Don’t do that,” I sign and press my knees against hers, ducking my head down so we’re on the same level. “I’ve a lot on my mind’s all.”

“Tell me,” she demands, her index finger tapping her lip then pointing at me before touching her own chest. When I don’t move she repeats herself, thumping her finger into my solar plexus with enough force she winces. I grab her hands, holding tight and laugh, “Okay!” I tuck her hands between my knees so she can’t interrupt me and sign, “I want to stay. With you, here, in Undercamp.” I finger sign the longer word. She tries to tug her hands free but I don’t let her. “I belong and I’m needed.”

I yelp as Ma frees herself by pinching the soft flesh of my inner knee.

“What’s that for?”

“Listen to me, Greyson.” She leans to speak into my right ear. All I see is her wavy hair and it smells like clean cotton. “You’re going.”

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I shake my head, try to pull away, but she slips her hand behind my neck and holds me in place with a strength she shouldn’t have.

“You are,” she says. “I want you to stay so much it hurts, sweetheart, but this is so much bigger than us. You’re strong and stubborn and so, so good, just like your father. As much as it pains me, you’ve got to finish what he started.”

“But Ma, I don’t want to go,” I mumble into her neck.

“Oh, darling, you’ve the chance to change things, make things better. How can you not?”

I want her to tell me to stay so I could release myself from this obligation my father’s handed down to me, like a shoddy overcoat that’s way too big. And she’s right. How can I disappoint Ma when she sees me as the Triumph’s hero? Will I be able to live with myself if I don’t go?

“Yeah,” I whisper and wrap my arms about her real tight. “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m so proud of you, Greyson,” and her voice’s wobbly like she’s crying, but, when I check, her smile’s bright.

“I’ve got to see Rayburn,” I sign, the grizz of the market clamouring back in as if our soft moment was encased by a soundproof bubble. “I’m scheduled for dinner at eighteen-hundred. You?”

“I’ll be there,” Ma gestures. She’s got pins wedged between her lips again as she eyes the dismantled outfit.

I get my strength and stubbornness from her, not my father.

I head to the LQ mess where the others should still be at lunch. I only get a bit lost, turning right when I should’ve turn left, but when I finally make it the mob’s still there, arguing about who’s getting the last of what.

“Hey, Greyson,” Bryn calls out, wedged between Juni and Col. There’s a new bruise across her jaw, but she seems cheerful enough. She’s real teeny next to the monster, but he’s offering her a drink refill with a kind smile – probably pleased she isn’t flinching any more. She admitted the other night the man scared her silly. He was like the Snaith, see, in all them stories. As if he got so big from eating little girls.

“Greyson! I thought you were with your mother!” Flynn yells, tossing me a roll with a crust hard enough to dislodge teeth. Twisting it in half, its centre is soft, like eating clouds.

“I was.”

Rayburn’s lounging in a hammock a bit apart from the others, so I stroll over, casual-like, hands deep in my pockets, my right around the wristbands I reckon are going to make the man mighty pleased.

“Can I’ve a word?” I ask. Rayburn’s hands rest behind his head and he opens a lazy eye. His gaze’s sharp for someone who looks as if they’ve been coma-fying. Or maybe not. Not 100% with eyes just yet.

“What’s up, Grey?”

“Here,” I fish out a band and he takes it without thought, threading the rubber through his fingers before he finds the chip, raising a brow all curious-like.

“Going to tell me what this is?”

“An artificial Cyberinth chip,” I say, skin hot cos it’s not often I get to brag. “A risk free link to the Cyberinth.”

“Legit?” Rayburn sits up so fast he almost falls out of the hammock. He’s holding the chip like it’s fragile but I built them tough.

“I’ve two dozen.”

“Where’d you get them?” He’s suspicious, but he wants them. Glitch, he wants them bad.

“I made them.” I wait for him to scoff, to snort, to roll his eyes and say pull the other one, it’s got bells on it, but no, he just watches me speculative-like.

“So,” Rayburn drawls, “we could enter the Above City?”

“Not in the real. Won’t let you move about without a real chip,” I say. “But you can talk to them, the Above people.”

Rayburn examines the chip with a fair intentness.

“We could make this work,” Rayburn says so quiet I almost don’t hear him. “There’re eyes to hire, bods too,” he glances up. “How many you say you’ve got?”

“Twenty-four.” I dig them out, counting them carefully and leaving two safe in my pocket: for me and Bryn for when we get home. Before I hand them over, I pause. “You got to get us back to the Above City.” Bryn’s watching us, even though Flynn’s got the rest of the crew in stitches. “I’m going to finish what my father started.”

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