Prologue
The year is 2969.
It has been more than six centuries since humanity relinquished control to "the System", marking the end of the Resistance and the beginning of an age of global peace and cooperation. Liberated from the need to compete with each other, humans have transcended the illusion of the separate self and now live a euphoric state of collective consciousness called Integration.
But a problem has arisen—a problem that threatens both the System and the humans that now completely depend on it.
ɸ
"The end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."
—T.S. Eliot
Chapter 1—Mother
Mother says Earth was once a chaotic and dangerous place filled with disease, war and suffering. That was before Integration.
Wanderers like me are kept in isolation, where it's our job to keep the creative spark alive. Mother runs simulations designed to emulate the pre-Integration world and stimulate my creativity. My favourite simulations are the ones with water in them. Especially the rain. One day, I'd love to see the ocean.
Though I'm content with my life, and I know I'm serving the greater good, I often wonder what it would be like to leave the dome and explore the world outside.
But that's just the human in me.
ɸ
Mother says I'm not supposed to feel proud. But as my fingers twist and snap the lightcubes together, so fast I can barely see them move, that's what I feel.
I snap the final one in place and hold it out for her to inspect—an almost lifelike bouquet of pink and white carnations, three pink and four white, interspersed with wispy sprigs of baby's breath. I imagine she'll smile at me like last time.
But instead, when I turn around, she's gone.
The flowers fall from my hand, shattering on the dome floor.
"Mother?" I feel the blood rushing to my head.
"Steady your breath, Lotus," she says, but I can't even tell which direction her voice is coming from.
The lightcubes start to roll across the floor, stacking back into columns and rows as I go to The First Door. My palm trembles against the cold surface as the door vibrates and slides along its recessed tracks.
But the capsule is empty. Of course it's empty. Mother would never rest without me. She doesn't even need to rest. The surprising thing—the terrifying thing—is that where the space for her body should be, the capsule fluid has filled in, leaving only space for my own.
I hurry to The Second Door and hold my breath as I press my palm against its surface, but it's also empty. The table and bench are bare. And now there's nowhere else to look.
"Mother," I whimper as the door closes.
I feel the dome shrinking. The light fading.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Until I remember—
Mother said that Integration takes at least sixteen years, but she also said that my progress has been exceptional—that my code is superior to any Wanderer before me, and that if I maintain this progress, I'll be free before I know it.
I place my palm against the symbol at the centre of The Third Door, feeling the dome brighten and expand. I picture Mother standing outside, waiting for me, surrounded by other Wanderers, all smiling and waving at me proudly.
But the door stays closed. And the shrinking darkness returns.
"This door opens when the mind opens," says Mother's voice. "You know that, Lotus."
And then the darkness closes around me like a cold hard fist, and I fall to the floor, tuck my knees into my chin, and cry for the first time.
ɸ
"Come into The Sphere, Lotus."
As my vision clears, I see the blue light revolving around the wall, and I hear the hum of The Sphere.
I've never slept outside the capsule before—and it's disorienting to wake with the weight in my body and the air in my lungs.
When I remember she's gone, the weight turns to panic.
"Mother, where are you?" I stand and look up toward the portal—the small window at the peak of the dome. It's the same pale blue as every morning.
"Come into The Sphere, Lotus."
And then the panic becomes anger.
"Where are you?" I demand, clenching my fists. "Tell me what's happening."
"Come into The Sphere, Lotus."
And then the anger becomes a fire, spreading through me.
"Be patient, Lotus. Infinite patience is required."
My fingernails dig into my palms as I swallow a scream. And then take a calming breath. The only person to fight here is myself.
"Why can't I see you, Mother?" I ask.
"Trust the process, Lotus. Come into The Sphere."
I glare at The Sphere, the one-metre diameter pool of light at the centre of the dome, wishing I could incinerate it with my eyes. But the mere sight of it somehow makes the fire dwindle.
My fingers unfurl as I cross the floor and step into the diaphanous pool of white. The weight pours out through the soles of my feet as the light seeps up through my legs, buoying me.
"You have been alive for five years today," Mother says as I cross my legs and rest my elbows on my knees. "What does that mean to you?"
"It means I've been here for one thousand eight hundred and twenty-six days," I say. "And I have four thousand, one hundred and eighteen left till full growth."
"You must stop counting the days. Now, close your eyes."
I obey. "Is this one a game?" I ask.
"No, the games are over. Today, you take a great step toward Integration."
"Will you be there?" I ask.
"No," she whispers, her voice fading along with the light. "You will not see me again until the process is complete."
ɸ
It's been 217 days since I saw rain, the day Mother and I splashed and laughed in the puddles in front of The House. But that rain was different. That rain was soft and warm. This rain is sharp and cold, like needles pricking me all over as the wind slams into my chest, like it's trying to push me over.
Ghostly forms emerge from the darkness. An eight-spoked wheel. A balustered railing. A towering mast with two torn sails, flailing wildly.
I've never been on a boat before, but I know that's what this is.
My feet slip as the boat pitches sharply, and I fall to my knees to keep my balance. As I look up, a wall of water crashes over the deck, sending me sliding into the railing.
As I stand and regain my balance, my eyes focus on the eight-spoked steering wheel, spinning erratically. And suddenly I know what I have to do.
But as I dive for the wheel, the sky splinters into a web of horrific purple, and a great boom rattles my ears as I look up to see the mast falling.
There's no time to get out of the way.
The mast strikes my head with a sound like a closing door, followed by a sustained ring. I've never tasted blood before but that's what this is. As the ocean wraps its icy arms around me, the darkness darkens and the roar of waves fades.
Through the fading roar, there's a voice. A beautiful but terrifying voice. Wordless and desolate, summoning me to oblivion.
ɸ
"What was that?" I gasp, gripping the edge of The Sphere, opening my eyes.
"It is called The Storm," Mother says. "It is designed to give Wanderers the opportunity to confront their fears."
"I don't like it," I say. "Why did you do that to me?"
"There are many experiences you are not supposed to like, Lotus. At this stage of the process, fear will be one of your greatest teachers."
The fire flares, and I swallow a silent scream.
"Look on the table," Mother says. "There is a gift for you."
I hear The Second Door opening but I don't look. I won't look. I'm not going to play along anymore. I need to say something to make her realize how wrong this is—something to make her come back.
But I never know what to say.
As I turn toward The Second Door, I see a silver box on the table and, despite myself, I rise and go to it.
It's heavy for such a small thing—almost a kilogram, yet it barely covers half my palm.
There's a latch on the side, and a symbol on top like the one on The Third Door—the white lotus in a black circle.
I lift the latch and the box opens, revealing a silver pendant on a coiled silver chain, sparkling as I lift it into the blue light.
"You may wear this to remind you that I am here even when you cannot see me," Mother says.
As I watch the pendant sparkle and spin, the fire fades.