Lenora

Betrayal is a dreadful thing. It’s like breathing in broken glass, tearing open your throat and ripping apart your lungs. I touch my chest, almost believing, and even wishing, I’m bleeding, so at least there’s proof I’m hurt.

What did he mean, final assignment? I send. Hugo crouches before me, his hat clenched in his fingers and he looks pale, washed out, as though he feels remorse. I know this is ridiculous because he’s an artificially created intelligence, programmed for a higher purpose, and that’s clearly not to feel at all guilty over breaking hearts.

“Nora, don’t be upset.”

Upset? You lied to me. Anger swallows the pain in my chest until it’s white hot and I could spit fire.

“No, never.” He’s so righteous, so sincere.

He said your name; he knew about you, I say. How?

“He’s my father.”

You mean programmer.

“Well, yes, but then, aren’t your parents programmers, too?”

They don’t control me.

“And the Professor doesn’t control me, either. Yes, I was created for a purpose – aren’t we all? – but I’ve always been your friend, Lenora. That’s not been a lie.”

I want to believe him. He’s the most important person in my life. I could never see myself without him and if I reject him, turn my back and walk away, I’ll be alone. Truly, truly alone, and that terrifies me more than loving him ever could.

Greyson

It takes a sec to blink away the sound of Pa’s voice echoing in my skull. Only weeks ago, Pa had been everything I wanted to be, and I was desperate to fill the space he left, for Ma’s sake, and my own. When I learnt he left us, abandoned us for some half-baked plan he expected me to carry out like one of his many inventions, I hated him.

Zipper’s memory of him is a reminder he’s as human as me — tired, frustrated, and making mistakes, too, but doing the best he could anyhow.

It was how the Professor planned it, Greyson, Zipper says, purring against my chest and her tail thumps heavy along my leg. He said my memories of Ashville had to be forgotten, to protect you and your mother from being Evicted.

I know. It’s fine, Zip. I’d never blame you. I rub a soothing hand down her spine and she mewls in relief.

I look at Bryn, picking up her pain across the link.

“Bryn?” I murmur, reaching out to touch her knee. She doesn’t flinch from it, bare even notices as her fingers press to her lips, her cheeks streaked with tears.

Where does Bryn live again? Zipper asks, and it hits me firm in the chest. “Bryn.” I can only repeat, no idea what to say or do to make it right.

“I’ll be okay, just give me a sec,” she whispers, wiping away tears.

Lenora’s as wrecked. I give her a smile, hoping it’ll cheer her up some. We’ve all every reason to be upset.

“Hugo says your father created him,” Lenora says soft-like. “He was unaware of his purpose until two weeks ago, just before we all first met in the real.” It’s hard to tell if she believes her Imaginary Friend or not, her voice steady and emotionless, as if she’s reciting an ad for washing powder. “It’s best he shows you.”

Zip allows me to see the threads of the entity known as Hugo as he adjusts Bryn’s and my system so we’ve access to an article.

“My brother wrote this,” Bryn gasps and I read the title, The Grounding of the Triumph.

“Hugo says we were never meant to stay in orbit forever,” Lenora says, and sections of the article grow bold to highlight the important guff. “We’re meant to land.”

Bryn

When the Guardian took his station into the sky, his people missed Old Earth, so the Guardian promised that their children’s children, and their grandchildren’s children, would one day be liberated from the steel walls confining their ancestors and feel the heat of the sun and the bite of the wind against their skin. The future generations would seed a new empire and walk upon the earth once more.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Jonas had been chasing rumours of returning to Old Earth, teasing out clues that the Triumph was indeed meant to land after the world was restored. But he discovered the Guardian decided it was safer to keep the space station aloft indefinitely. To solve issues of energy consumption, the Guardian introduced the black-out curfew on the lower levels. To deal with overpopulation, the one child initiative was enforced. To build more housing, they cleared out whole neighbourhoods so the Airheads could have more space for their ridiculous hats.

Had Jonas ever planned on telling me? I tremble, goose-bumps rising up across the back of my neck. Maybe he had, and I’d forgotten?

“Your brother knows more than anyone,” Greyson says, flipping his hand lazily as he skims through the article. “We’ve got to find him.”

“But where do we even start? I’ve spent all morning wandering Level Eight and all I’ve gotten for my efforts is his name on a piece of paper. It’s a dead end.” I wave the notebook in emphasis, Jonas’ name tucked safely between its pages. “How could he have just disappeared?”

“I dunno.” Greyson rubs the bridge of his nose, but freezes mid-rub, turning towards Lenora. “Wait, what did my pa mean about Hugo’s assignment?

Lenora

“Tell them, Nora, the Professor’s plan was to take control of the space station,” Hugo says and I repeat it, doing my best to keep my voice steady. “And land it at a predetermined site.”

“So Pa’s device is a glitching autopilot!” Greyson says. “Least it isn’t a bomb, yeah?”

Why did you keep this from me? I accuse Hugo.

“I wasn’t allowed to tell you. Please believe me, Nora, I wanted to. I really did.”

This is a lot to take in.

Hugo looks frustrated and I spitefully think, good, let him experience how I feel.

“Tell them the unfinished device he left here is designed to take control of the space station.” Hugo brings up a 3D representation of the Triumph but it doesn’t look like it can land. The space station has two pointed ends and curved sides giving us little indication how it could set down without being crushed like a can.

“Where’d you get a map?” Greyson asks.

“If you dig deep enough, you can find anything,” Hugo says. “I’ve forwarded it to Zipper. The device your father built in the undercity is a beacon.”

“A beacon for the landing site,” Bryn says. “Your father had to leave to find us a new home.” It sounds romantic and heroic, even though the shared memory from the robot had shown a tired, desperate man.

“But how’d Hugo know my father left Undercamp?” Greyson asks.

“I’ve been aware of the Professor’s movements up until he left the space station. Since then I’ve been waiting for his signal,” Hugo says and I relay his words, bitterness swirling like some twisted thing in my stomach. Greyson’s glower is aimed at the floor, unable to bear down on Hugo like he clearly wishes too.

“And this signal?” Greyson bites out.

“It began broadcasting the night Jonas Morgan was Evicted,” Hugo says, and adds for me alone, “when we were in your father’s office trying to find those censored articles.”

I recall how Hugo had zoned out for a while, and I’d foolishly thought he was daydreaming. As though an AI could.

“And how do we know it’s safe to land?” Bryn asks.

Instead of answering her question, Greyson replies to the scrap cat in his lap, “They won’t mind,” and that’s the only warning we have before a sharp, high-pitched ping makes my left ear ring.

Sorry, a voice like warm honey speaks, but this is much easier than having Greyson relay these words. There’s a hidden dig at Hugo, yet even if he could be heard and seen by them, I’d have forbidden him doing so. I’m desperate to keep something of him to myself.

The robot, no longer a blank slate, slinks out of Greyson’s lap and stretches, her steel claws gouging deep into the floor, before she leaps up to sit beside Bryn. There’s more you should know.

Greyson

Zipper’s tail arches behind Bryn’s back and innocent-like, but hardly by accident, taps her modes. Bryn’s lips part in a bitty “ohh” of surprise. Before I ask what the glitch Zip’s doing, she’s speaking again, smug as usual. What in sky’s going through that metal brain of hers?

During Activation Night, Greyson, she nods her head at me, requested an investigation into the polluted pockets of air in the stairways between levels and the search parameters were expanded to account for any odd occurrences with the help of the cleanbots. From the dark edges of the room, red LEDs blinked at us, lured in by the presence of the AI cat. They get into everything, you know. They investigated in the background, unnoticed and invisible. She hesitates a sec, winking one orange eye and then one green. And the results aren’t good.

“Spit it, Zip,” I growl, crossing my arms and doing my best to look firm.

You’re not going to like it, she warns. Certain areas on Level Eight have been experiencing thin or polluted air pockets. Doors have been closed, locked, or refuse to shut properly. There’re lights blown all over the place and the Triumph’s altered its course in relation to the sun.

“Well, that’s proof enough the space station was never meant to be in orbit this long,” Bryn says.

That’s not all … Zipper adds, when a pounding starts up outside. It’s steady and repetitive and I finally figure it’s hundreds of running feet, students going on their break. I’m on edge, worrying someone’s going to check the room, but eventually it goes quiet again.

“So, what now?” Bryn says, tugging on a braid over and over and over until a bead comes loose. She rolls it between her fingers, back and forth, back and forth.

“Lenora,” I say, and the girl straightens to attention like I’m Rayburn and she’s a soldier of his makeshift army. I’ve a nagging suspicion the man’s got plans on plans and I doubt they’re dependent on our actions in the least. “We got to make sure you aren’t going to get hacked.” There’s nothing in my pockets that’ll do the trick, no spare wristband, and nothing I can cobble together on the spot without causing permanent damage to her brain.

“Hugo can manage something,” she says, features like stone. If her imaginary friend was real, I reckon he’s in for a world of hurt.

I’ll help, Zip offers and there’s the weirdest sensation of her comm-ing with someone who isn’t me, a tickle on the back of the neck as I catch the odd word and piece of code in a deep, husky voice.

“Right. I’m going to finish Pa’s invention,” I say.

“I’m going to talk to my father,” Lenora declares with a tilt of her chin screaming stubborn resolve.

“I’ll head home,” Bryn decides with a clap of her hands. “There’s something I need to check.”

I still feel plenty in the dark, but at least I’m not alone.