Greyson
Pa’s lab’s cram-packed full of recording devices, half-finished inventions, and completed ones gathering sticky dust like fur coats. Mostly I’ve no clue what in sky they do. Blueprints are pinned to the walls. Some look like earlier prototypes of Zipper while others Pa never could have possibly built due to their size. Single person vehicles with wings stretching twice the size of the storage space and heavy-duty workdroids built like flesh-heifers. Under the desk’s my sleeping bag and across the ceiling hangs a line sagging under the weight of my wet spare shirt and mismatched socks. It isn’t home. Never be home. It’s just someplace that’s mine.
I’ve scavenged parts from what Pa’s left behind to fulfill Bones’ orders, but the man’s giving me a fair amount of leeway both in time and assignments so that’s something. I’m just near finishing my current project: two baker’s dozens of wristbands with a clever chip embedded into the pressed metal giving the wearer all the benefits of a Cyberinth one sans Big Brother. They’re like mini Zippers. Brain guardians. Protectors of our minds. There isn’t a nobler thing to make in Ma’s memory. Bones gets that, you know?
I spend most of my time here, when my boss doesn’t need me, inventorying all Pa left behind. Got to admit there’s something comforting about his old space, as if he’s still here. After lights out, I spend hours on hours lying on the lab floor staring at the blink-winking monitors. I can almost imagine his voice.
It’s telling me something isn’t adding up.
Pa was killed when I was about four. A lab accident – he was working late, wrong chemicals were mixed, and the explosion took out three labs. The thing is, Pa worked with animatronics and AIs – things like Zipper. Nuts, bolts and programming. No chemicals at all. It’s all I think about now, cos there’s nothing else.
Until I get her message.
Can we meet?
I don’t answer. I don’t want anything to do with any one. Zipper, the traitor, answers for me and Ma says … Ma said rudeness is up there with, like, skinning kittens or pissing in the share showers (not quite her words but you get my meaning).
So that's how I end up on L7. Bryn’s words are imprinted across my brain as I straighten my hood and dust off my trouser knees in the vain hope I look presentable.
L7’s less noisy than L8. The engines are a steady moan-drone rather than a thump-beating pulse. Blackout kicked in almost half an hour ago and most people are home, where they’re meant to be.
You’re making it worse, Zipper says.
“What?”
Your hair. You look like a porcupine. Stop playing with it.
I look at myself critically in front of a dust-dingy shop window. Zipper’s no help, as usual, sending me an image of a mutant creature with black-beady eyes and a back full of spikes. I flatten my hair hasty-like.
“I’ll unscrew your legs and leave you for the cleanbots. See who’s laughing then,” I grumble.
This part of L7’s odd, patches of light and sound sit in pools of quiet darkness. I keep to the brighter parts much as possible. That’s where the people are at and I stick out less that way.
The scrap store’s up ahead and it’s closed for the day. Across from it is a standing-room only carb-noodle bar, its waist-long curtains revealing the legs of patrons. The bar sheds enough light to reveal a curvy figure pacing back and forth, back and forth. Looks like there’s dozens of twinkling LEDs in her hair but it’s just the light reflecting off her braid ornaments from the round, red lanterns hanging across the street, like fat glowing goldfish.
“Bryn,” I say, and almost regret it when she jump-jerks, hands clasped across her chest as if she’s been struck.
Real smooth, Greyson, Zipper says, hidden in my hood.
Mute it, Zip.
Bryn says, ‘Is that you, Ward?’
It’s weird hearing Bryn’s words in Zipper’s voice as she translates.
“It’s me, Greyson.” I step closer, enough to be heard, my hands touching then twisting together once and separating down smooth-like and to my sides as I auto-sign for her to be calm. Dunno if Bryn understands any Grounder signing, but she relaxes anyway.
“Greyson,” she repeats. Her voice’s too soft to hear, her lips bare moving as if speaking’s just a side-effect of messaging.
If I’ve got to, Zipper talks for me, acting like a firewall so only what I want gets in and out of my brain. Means there’s a bit of lag on my side making me kind of slow sounding.
“You wanted to meet?” I ask. She gives me an odd look, her lips slight-twisting as she must wonder why I’m talking out loud. Or maybe she’s chatting with someone else. This a prank? It glitching would be, wouldn’t it? Haven’t I got enough crud to deal with?
Why don’t you ramp down your paranoia a notch? Zipper suggests, dryly, so I offer Bryn a smile, all teeth, so she sees I’ve nothing to hide.
“Yeah. I did. I do,” she says, voice louder.
“Want noodles?” I gesture towards the bar. “It’s private,” and her head jerks in a nod. Swiping my wrist, I check my credit balance and see my last job’s been paid. I don’t need Zipper’s prompting to know that’s what a guy does on a date.
I sign our meal order at the carb-cook, swiping my wrist beneath the scanner and a man with a pair of brown-standard modes holds up two digits. I nod and he takes us to the end of the counter, the curtain shut behind us.
“So…” I say, unable to look at her direct. We both face the bar with an awful awkwardness. I keep my eyes on the overworked carb-cook in a grey apron, his blonde-greasy hair held back by a faded red bandana and his modes mist-fogging up in the steam. The man’s constant diatribe gives us a sense of privacy silence could never promise.
“My brother’s disappeared,” Bryn states and I sneak a peek at her. She’s fiddling with a pair of short plastic chopsticks, click-clacking the ends together in an odd, irregular rhythm.
Search Bryn Morgan’s brother, I tell Zipper and after a sec she responds with a mental half-shrug.
There’s nothing on record. Bryn’s an only child. That’s fair strange. It a nickname for someone else?
“He asked me to meet him and he never showed. I’ve tried contacting him, but he won’t answer and then he just disappeared before my eyes!” Her chopsticks tap-tap together, faster and faster, tap-tap-a-tap-tap. “Everything he’s ever published, every message, every photo and live view has vanished! It’s like those stories, the rumours of being …” her voice becomes a hush-whisper, “Evicted.”
A shiver runs through me. Without Zip and my dormant chip, I’d’ve forgotten Ma too.
The noodles arrive, hot, grey-stringy and steamy in an oily broth. I add chilli and garlic without thinking cos, really, any flavour’s good flavour. Bryn swirl-stirs hers with her chopsticks while her other hand tugs on a braid. I look at the cook, at my noodles, at the floor.
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“You sure?” I finally ask, not real certain what else to say. She drops her chopsticks with a splash and spins away from the bar to face me. I grab my noodle bowl when I turn towards her, holding it before me like some glitching shield.
“When I got home he wasn’t in any of the photos, or any of our personal hard drives, but he exists! I know he does! He showed me Old Earth on Activation Night! He said … he told me …” she bit her lip, her shoulders hunching. “I can’t remember! The memories are there! They are!”
Ma’s starched stiff uniform. Her rough work hands. Her silk-soft, warm voice. I can’t forget.
“There’s something thick coating them, like they’re trapped in taffy,” Bryn catches herself before she’s hollering and flushes. “But his room is still there and that’s why I need you.”
I’ve gotten over Bryn. I have. I used to sneak looks at her in class, hoping she’d look back, but right terrified in case she did. I tell myself my heart’s pounding cos of Ma. What happened to her wasn’t fair, and I’ll help. I’d hate for anyone else to have the same happen to them. Would Bryn mind if I held her hand? I’m still holding the bowl. I could put it down and take both her hands.
“What do you need?” I manage, and she smiles bright.
“His room’s locked. I need you to open it.”
I can’t say no.
Half an hour later I’m in Coleridge Place, L5, standing in front of an impossible door doing what I do best, crashing systems.
“Have you unlocked it yet?” Bryn asks all impatiently and I notice she’s got freckles. You hardly notice them, darker spots across her dark skin, and I want to count them.
“Just about.”
The lock’s fair simple. A few deft turn-twists, a knuckle rap-tap, the casing’s open and it’s just a matter of fiddling with the wires and overriding the digital code. There! It beeps, hisses, unlocks.
“You did it,” Bryn murmurs and nudges me aside to press a hand against the door and push. The lights flicker on in an empty room.
“No!” Bryn takes a few steps, spinning to check all four corners. “He was here! His bed was against that wall, and here …” she hurries to a corner, gesturing, “was his desk!” She runs her hands against the pale, blue walls and a generic message appears. HELLO WORLD. “He was real.” Her cheeks glisten beneath her modes and I shuffle awkward-like on the spot.
What now?
Use your words, Greyson, Zipper encourages.
“I believe you,” I figure’s a fine start. Cos I do. If Zipper or Bones hadn’t been there, I’d thought I’d crack-snapped when Ma … and I do believe Bryn. It doesn’t make any sense for an empty room to be all locked up and unused. I mean, the room’s twice the size of Pa’s lab, and the empty space gives me an edgy nervousness.
“Where’d he go?” Bryn whispers. The wall pulses beneath her hands, words appearing in standard text and fragments of images as her thoughts project out of control. It’s a fascination. Like a glimpse inside her mind.
There’s something on the ceiling, Zipper comments from my shoulders and she claws into my neck as she climbs my head. Hold still.
Wait, what’re you doing? She’ll see you!
It’s about time you got a real friend. She clambers up and perches on my head like a heavy-arsed bird.
I grab her hind legs to steady her and glance at Bryn. Her mouth’s open, the wall beneath her hand’s blank, and then she’s close, toe-to-toe with me as she tries to get a look at Zipper.
“I didn’t know you had a robot.” Zipper digs her claws into my scalp as I take a step back.
Keep still! Zipper insists and I freeze.
“Name’s Zipper,” I say.
“How can you afford it?”
“She,” I stress, “was my pa’s. Before he died.”
Zipper shifts her balance, standing upright in a way only a machine can, extending herself until her ears brush the roof.
Look!
I close my eyes and switch to hers, seeing the slight crease in the otherwise smooth ceiling as a grey-dark line.
“Secret compartment,” I say for Bryn’s benefit. “You got a chair?”
Bryn drags a chair in from the kitchen and Zipper watches with amusement from the ground as I take my turn balancing, feeling like a top-heavy nursebot as I sway. Bryn hovers next to me, and I’m tempted to wobble on purpose to see if she’ll steady me. I press my hands against the spot in the ceiling and, sure enough, it hiss‑spits open on internal hinges.
“What do you see?”
I can’t see anything, but I reach about for a bit before my fingers collide with a sharp-edge, making me yelp.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” My face’s hot. I get a fair grip on the thing and slide it out. It’s a black metal box, about two hands wide and three centimetres deep, and there’s something scribbled on the front.
Bryn grabs it from me and I jump off the chair, trying to get a better look as she sits cross-legged on the floor and pries her nails under the lid. Zipper sniffs it and I get a whiff of pheromones made by anxiety and fear. I sit in front of Bryn, admiring how she flip-flicks her braids over one shoulder and out of the way.
“I can’t open it,” Bryn growls when her nail catches and rips.
“What’s this?” I ask. The note’s handwritten and impossible to read.
“It’s my name. My brother tried to teach me how to read and write handwriting but all I managed was my name before I gave up. What’s the point? It’s not like anyone handwrites anymore.” She sounds real sad as she traces the letters with the tip of a finger. Zipper slinks into my lap for a close look.
It needs a key, Zipper says.
What kind of key? She sends me an archived image of it, blunt teeth and a pointy end. It’s familiar.
“Bryn, your hair.” I say, gesturing her forward.
She frowns, confuzzled, her arms crossed even though her hands are fisted and she’s positively shouting wariness. I select the key hanging heavy from a braid slowly, so she doesn’t freak.
“He gave me that one,” she says, hunching down as I tug gently and insert the key into the lock. With a twist, the box pops open and Bryn sits back, gripping the key right tight in one hand. Inside’s a notebook. The pages are full of cleanbot scratchings — handwriting and diagrams that are complete nonsense.
“This is useless! I can’t read it!” Bryn looks about ready to toss it. I save it, handling it carefully. Paper’s proper fragile, easy to tear and once wrecked, that’s it, no do overs, no backups and no copies.
“Someone could,” I say.
The box isn’t empty, Zipper hints and I pass the message on. Bryn brushes her fingers inside and finds a chip the size of a rice grain wedged in a corner.
“Pass it,” I say and she drops it into my palm where Zipper prompt licks it up, tongue raspy dry and I bet she took off the top layer of skin too, the beastie.
“Hey!” Bryn protests as Zipper jumps from my lap to insert her tail into a wall port.
“Just wait,” I say and the lights auto-dim. A man’s face fills up the entire wall. He isn’t wearing modes, his eyes green. It’s an intense stare of heat edged in ice, a fierceness that scorches, but beneath’s a fear sharper than a 120 volt shock. I focus on his chin.
“Jonas,” Bryn murmurs and her cheeks are wet again.
“My name is Jonas Morgan. Year 344. Son of Bethanie and Rhia Morgan, brother to Bryn Morgan. Rank …” the man repeats his name and personal details on a loop in a voice emotionless-flat except it’s clear he’s real hurting from the tiny twitches, the clenching jaw, and the pressed lips. Hum-crooning beneath the video’s another program. I tell Bryn what Zipper tells me.
“It’s his life blog. Almost complete record of his memories.”
“Until when?” Bryn asks, back straight-stiffening.
“Midday today.”
“Then we can see what happened to him! He must’ve left a message for me!” Her brother’s face flick-freezes for a moment, repeating Bryn’s name over as the video bugs out.
“Zip?”
These hard drives aren’t designed for this much storage. He’s deleted all the tags to fit more memories and an error’s muddled their sequence.
“They aren’t in any order, no tags, no nothing,” I tell her.
We try for a while. There’s no sense in her brother’s memories and the wall malfunctions more frequently.
“This notebook’s got to have answers. If we can figure out what it says,” Bryn says after another memory of some party pops up. You know, her brother sure knew how to charm the pants off people if the vids are anything to go on.
I flick through the book, aimless. Wait. I flip back, scanning the page and, glitch, I can’t breathe!
“Zip,” I whisper. She unplugs herself and’s in my lap in a heart beat, the party memory replaced by a painful blank wall.
In clear, careful-shaped letters, just like standard text, is Pa’s name. Professor Thaddeus Ward.
“What is it?” Bryn asks, leaning in close and one of her braid-bobs swings into my cheek.
“Your brother knew my pa.” I turn page after page and Pa’s name reappears again and again. “He died when I was a tot.” I force my fingers to unclench around the pages before they tear them. Bryn’s soft sigh of sympathy is warm on my neck.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.
“Your brother could know stuff about it.”
“Brynnie?” A voice sing-songs down the hall and we jolt-jerk apart.
“Yeah, be there in a sec!” Bryn yells.
I cram the notebook into the box and shove the whole lot into Bryn’s arms. Zipper coughs up an aluminum wire fur-ball encasing the minuscule hard drive and Bryn gathers it with a wince, wiping the excess oil on her jacket.
“Bryn?” We glance up to see her mother walk past the doorway, not even glancing in.
“She can’t see it,” Bryn murmurs. We sneak to the door, my boots soft-scuff the carpeted floor, and look out just as her mother enters another room. “Come on, I don’t want her to see you.”
She jerks her head for me to follow down the hallway and I lag long enough for Zip to run up my leg and onto my shoulder.
“You free tomorrow?” I try not to sound too desperate. I cast my mind out for a neutral place we could meet, somewhere she’ll feel safe, where I know we can find privacy. “Say two? Your old school on Level 5?”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you there.” She turns as her mother shouts her name again before stopping. “Thanks, Ward.”
“Greyson.”
“Thanks, Greyson. See you tomorrow.” And she closes the door in my face.
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