Greyson
“What’s taking them so long?” I rub my palms over my face and into my hair, clutching handfuls before digging my fingers into the tight muscles of my neck.
“Take a deep breath, Grey,” Flynn says, leaning a shoulder against the lab wall, arms crossed in an oh-so-casual pose halfway between boredom and unconsciousness. “When have administrations ever not taken their own sweet time?”
“It’s been a whole week. People will notice we’re missing,” Bryn says from a stool she’s dragged into an empty corner, her wooden sword resting across her lap. She never went anywhere without it.
She’s half right about our absence being noticed. People will be missing her, not me. Well, maybe one will. Bones’ll sure know by now his wristbands weren’t left where I said they’d be.
“Glitch, Bones’ going to be so pissed!” I moan and scratch my cheek, my nail rasping against stubble.
“Hmm?” Flynn hums in a tone implying he doesn’t care as much as he’s keen for a change in conversation. I feel bad for the bloke. When he isn’t snatching junk or Evicted folk, or getting the stuffing kicked out of him by Bryn, Flynn’s been tot-sitting us (Rayburn said he’s a guide, but you’d have to be blind not to see he’s wanting an eye on us). While Flynn’s got a good head for numbers and can hold his own when I paw through my father’s old schematics, he keeps sneaking off to talk to his team in shadowy corners, as if we don’t notice.
“He gave me monkey work and I didn’t deliver.” I focus on my father’s notes for nothing better to do. They’re all written by hand and most are illegible, like Grounder heel marks on L8. One set of schematics catches my eye. The smooth‑sleek edges and sweeping planes of the device are real aesthetically pleasing and there’s equations for propulsion and movability in a near zero-gravity space. They remind me of blueprints in my father’s Above City lab.
“Those jobs aren’t for the likes of you,” Flynn states, quiet-like. “It’s a waiting job. A job you do while waiting for the rest of your destiny to catch up.”
“Destiny?” Bryn asks, the word hangs like a crystal ball, full of potential.
“I knew a girl called Destiny once,” Flynn segues with a cheeky grin. Unsurprisingly, there’s been quite a few conversation starters by Flynn that leave my cheeks hot and Bryn plugging her ears and singing off key to drown him out. “Had the most beautiful set of,” Flynn cups the air in front of his chest, “and skin like softened butter. Have I told you how I had to defenestrate myself when I entered her mother’s bedroom at two in the morning by mistake?” He takes a deep breath to continue but I interrupt quick-like.
“Defenestrate?” It sounds fair painful and I shift a bit on the spot.
“To toss someone or something out the window,” Bryn pipes up and I look at her startled-like. “What? It’s a good word! Everyone should know it.”
“I, too, took a perverse pleasure in learning all kinds of ostentatious words,” Flynn says, “for my songs. There was one…” He’s interrupted again, but this time by a solid rap-tap on the door. With a put upon sigh, Flynn drags it open and drawls, “Yes?”
It’s that girl (Billy? Bunny? Bonnie? The girl with wiggy hair) bouncing on the spot with a smile borderline manic.
“The Admin wants to see you,” she chirps and Bryn and I almost crash heads in our rush to leave.
The waiting area out front of the Admin’s windows is chock-full, overflowing with what’s got to be most of Undercamp. Flynn drags us through the crowd to where Rayburn stands near the front, arms crossed like a sentinel. Bryn’s got her hands over her ears and makes a face at me. I sign real slow, “You okay?” She takes a moment and then uses one hand to sign, “Loud. Annoying. Over yet?”
Ma and I’ve been teaching her basic-sign since she swore a few days ago she was going to go wiggy not being able to hear anybody. She knows the alphabet so can finger sign almost anything, if you’re prepared to wait an age, and a few words she’s picked up surprise-fast, especially since she’s got no modes to aid recall.
“Can you see my ma?” I sign and she frowns with concentration, then shakes her head.
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“Your attention please,” the Duty Clerk bellows. His voice’s too deep to get any notice so the long-faced Accalia purses her lips and whistles, long and piercing, and even my deaf ear’s left ringing.
“Right, well. Thank you, my dear,” the Duty Clerk says. He flicks the collar of his yellow suit so it’s aligned over his rail-thin chest and scans the crowd until he finds us. It’s like he’s pointing a sign our way cos sudden-like we’ve got far too many eyes on us. Bryn shrinks by my side. I know it’s best not to tug her close like I want to but I stand tall as if that’ll hide her from them.
“Over the past few days,” the Duty Clerk stops, clears his throat like he’s unplugging a water pipe, and begins again, his voice projecting over the crowd and the steady thump-thrumming of the space station. He doesn’t sign, but I see a few folks bit further back signing for him so his words travel. “Over the past few days we’ve deliberated on the rare opportunity bestowed upon us. As some of you know, our newest arrivals have come here of their own free will and they’re still very much Active!”
The crowd bursts into grizziness, boots stamping and voices whispering, muttering, booming.
“Mute it!” Rayburn yells. Folk here don’t stand for much formality. There’s rippling movement and his team fans out around him like an honour guard.
“Thank you,” the Duty Clerk says, but Rayburn isn’t finished. The poor bloke’s about to get steamrolled.
“The Admin’s ensured our safety,” Rayburn continues. Peering from two windows down, Roni the Chronicler looks amused, while Accalia scowls disapprovingly though seems mostly resigned. “They’ve led us well, and I’ve nothing but gratitude for their guidance. But now isn’t the time for chit-chat. It’s the time to act!” Rayburn states, signing so big and erratic I drag Bryn back a step or two to avoid us being decked. “We’ve been training for this,” he gestures to his team. I can see other groups, other squads, disguised under grease and dusty overalls. How had I not noticed before? These teams are soldiers. And soldiers fight wars.
“We’ve lost our homes, our families, our friends, tossed like junk, forgotten.” Rayburn pauses, makes eye contact with the Admin, with each of his team, with everyone in the whole hall, and no one blinks or looks away.
“No one even knows we’re here, not even the Guardian or the Mediators.” He pauses theatrically. “And it isn’t just about us! Our mothers, our fathers, our friends, daughters and sons. Every single one of them’s one wrong move away from being Deactivated. And is that right?”
The answering roar is more sensation than sound.
“We may no longer be citizens of the Triumph, but we’re still people of this station. It’s our duty to overthrow this glitching system and save our trapped brothers and sisters!”
Why’s it feel like we’ve been all sudden-like shoved into an oil barrel and tossed down the side of a mountain?
“Oi, I’m not done yet!” Rayburn bellows and the crowd quietens. “The plan’s simple. To kill a snake, you got to cut off its head.” He signs a striking snake, fingers clenched together and arm bent sharp. “The Guardian’s been on his silicon throne far too glitching long, but we’re only few, so I bet you’re all wondering what we’re going to do about it.” He doesn’t allow a pause for anyone to speak up, but everyone’s nodding. I’m reminded of the Activation Ball, months back now, when all the folk wearing modes nodded along to things that weren’t there.
“First, thanks to our friend Greyson, we’ve got these.” He holds up one of the wristbands I’d given him. “Infiltration. These get us in the Cyberinth for real. With these, we can hire physical bods. We can return to the Above City, learn all we need to know about the Guardian in his silver tower and we will … Take. Back. Our. Station!”
You can imagine the grizz after that. It’s a while before Rayburn speaks again.
“Second, Professor Ward built a device,” Rayburn announces. “He said it would change our world as we know it, but before he could act something happened, and both he and the invention were lost. But, the good professor made another and his son,” he grabs my arm to hold it up high and I try not to scowl under the attention, “has access to it.”
“What kind of invention?” A man in an unsightly purple suit asks, staged I reckon.
“We suspect it’s a weapon of sorts,” Rayburn says and my head snaps on my neck as I look at him, tugging my arm free from his grasp. A weapon? He notices my gaze and he raises one brow. “Grey? He’s your pa. You got any thoughts?”
In my mind, I rattle through what I’ve seen in the schematics and what Ma’s told me about my father. He wouldn’t’ve built a weapon, surely? And then I remember the Mediator jammer, how I instigated that prank without much thought, resulting in a neighbourhood wide crash.
“Station-wide Blocker maybe?” I hazard. “A restart button? Sets everyone’s rank back to zero.” I’m hasty to add, “Can’t be sure until I’ve looked it over proper-like.”
Before everyone gets too excited, Rayburn waves his hands about for silence, but this time it isn’t him who speaks.
“Bryn, Greyson,” the Chronicler says, his gaze on us. “I know you’ve more to lose. The return trip won’t be easy, and you’ve carved a space here for yourselves.” I think of Ma and the scavenger crew that took me in. “We’ll not begrudge you choosing to stay, yet you both can do something no one else can.” It’s impossible not to feel the electric charge in the air. “You’ve a chance to make things better.” His pause is heavy and lasts too long, crackling. “Will you help us?”
I can’t see Ma but there’s no way in sky I’ll ever let her down.
Bryn looks to me and I give her a smile and a nodding-shrug.
“Alright,” she yells as I sign. “We’ll do what we can.” The room swells, people moving in, wanting to shake our hands, ask us questions, be close, as if we’re real heroes. And maybe we will be.
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