Lumia

Time ticked away on the device’s screen. It should have been a prompt to Lumia that she needed to get off her butt and do something, but too many disparate words clouded her mind, arresting as they fought through the corridors of her mind, seeking for a home in which they could fit. Morgan, however, had already done her gaping and rushed over the device, the light cast from her meus jouncing away with her.

Her eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the device’s monitor, Lumia strode over to Morgan’s side. She paused briefly when she met a pair of cold blue eyes, framed in a thin and frail face. Her own eyes. Someone had placed a mirror next to the desk, or perhaps the mirror had always been there and it was they who intruded on its dust-collecting slumber. Lumia knew it ought not to matter, but it did. These insignificant things always impressed upon her, cocooning themselves deep within her thoughts and metamorphosing into words, rhythm, and torrents of emotion. Soon she’d have to let it fly, let it be free, but not now.

Ripping her eyes away, Lumia joined Morgan. The frazzled girl had pulled out her device and was staring at the dock. She turned to Lumia for reassurance, to which Lumia gave a smile and a nod.

Morgan took a deep breath. She switched off the torchlight, leaving them in the sickly glow of the monitor, then slipped her device into the dock. They held their breath as they waited for the protective cover to close, but it never did. Instead, the terminal’s screen went blank and was replaced with a texting display, similar to the one Lumia had seen on her personal device. Then a message appeared.

Terminal: What did Schrödinger place in a box?

Morgan’s head spun to face Lumia with confusion written all over her. The answer to such an elementary question was obvious; what Morgan’s eyes asked, and what Lumia wished to know as well, was why the question was being asked. Lumia shrugged. Frowning, Morgan typed her answer.

Morgan: Cat.

A few seconds passed, then another question arrived.

Terminal: What does a cat look like?

This time Morgan betrayed a look of genuine confusion. It took Lumia a moment to realise what that meant.

“Have you never seen a cat before? As in, a picture,” she added.

Morgan shook her head.

Lumia bit her lip, barely able to contain her excitement. “Maybe I can…”

She waved her hands and Morgan abdicated the seat. Taking her place at the desk, Lumia typed out her response one painstaking letter at a time. She was still getting used to these fancy physical keyboards. Typing on these was an act of half muscle memory and half intuition.

Lumia: Furry

Terminal: What else?

Lumia: Cute

She flashed a grin to Morgan, who was staring at the screen in complete puzzlement.

Terminal: Who are you?

Lumia: I am Lumia

Before she could tap the enter key, Morgan caught her hand and pointed at her own personal device, still resting in the dock. Lumia stared at it for a long while, then gave Morgan a regretful look.

“If they’re asking, they probably already know.”

Furrowing her brows, Morgan nodded and released her hand. Lumia took a deep breath, then hit enter.

Terminal: You are using Morgan’s personal device. Are you cheating?

Morgan buried her head in her hands and let out a groan, but Lumia only grinned. What a fun game!

Lumia: Absurd! There are no rules preventing the sharing of devices.

She was particularly proud of that response but wasn’t at all surprised by the device’s reply.

Terminal: But rules can be implied. Isn’t it natural to think that completing another student’s test for them is cheating?

Lumia: Absurd! The test cannot be passed without answering other students’ questions.

Terminal: Say there was a rule preventing the answering of other students’ questions. Then doing so would be cheating, wouldn’t it?

Lumia: Obviously.

Terminal: And say that such a rule existed but had not been explicitly divulged to you. Should you break that rule, would that be cheating?

It’s an obvious trap, Lumia realised. This device—no, whoever is speaking to me—is trying to convince me to atone for sins I have not committed. But why? What are they working towards? I’ll have to keep them talking and discover their intentions.

Lumia: And under what circumstances would it be acceptable not to explicitly divulge such vital information?

The reply was instant.

Terminal: When a social contract exists.

Well, she walked right into that one. A social contract, an implied set of rules between a society’s rulers and subjects. If the Educators expected them not to do use another student’s device, then the students were obliged to follow regardless of whether that rule had been ratified. In return, so long as students would not break that rule, perhaps, the Educators would allow them to use their devices as they saw fit. It would have been simple enough issue to address, so long as one understood the contents of the social contract. Being new to Plato, Lumia did not. She turned to Morgan wondering if she had any insight, but Morgan only stared hard at the screen.

The best I can do is redirect this line of reasoning. If I keep my feet on this ground, then it could fall out beneath me.

Lumia: Naturally, but since a social contract can be fabricated by a leader, it’s necessary to question it.

Terminal: How so?

Lumia: The leader can force others to follow a set of ideals. Those ideals form the foundation of the social contract.

Terminal: Then it’s a contract that only one person believes in. How would they enforce it?

Lumia: By using propaganda and fear to convince others to follow it.

Terminal: In that case, the people would agree with the leader. It doesn’t matter why; they agree with the leader’s ideals, an agreement will be struck, and therefore a social contract will be employed.

Terminal: How would this be any different from a leader that enacts the people’s will without compromise?

Ah, an easy one! Lumia delighted. Finally, I’m on the attack.

Lumia: Because it was fabricated. That makes it unrealistic and impractical.

Terminal: Aren’t all beliefs filled with assumptions that are later proven false?

Lumia: Yes, but think of what would occur to Plato if a leader’s poor ideals were enforced. Even I know that there are sensitive systems which if not carefully maintained can cause the city to—

Before she could finish typing, the text log ticked up and the device gave its response.

Terminal: We are not talking about Plato, we are talking about you.

Terminal: Would you break the rules if you believed they were built upon lies?

She exchanged a baffled look with Morgan. This more or less confirmed they were being monitored and that communicating through the device was a pretence. By cutting her off, whoever Lumia was speaking to had asserted their authority, dictated the pace and direction of their debate. She needed a way out. She held down the backspace key and let the text disappear, buying her precious seconds to think.

Maybe if I argue that my desires align with Plato’s—no, that’s an obvious lie. I’ve been here for a month. Maybe morality? I recall an ethical theory regarding adherence to authority as part of my education materials. No, wait, it argued in favour of obeying authority for the purpose of furthering a goal. No, that’s it! The goal—there is none.

Lumia: I’m referring to the overall goals of the leader. They may be immoral, and if a leader is unwilling to listen to their subjects then—

Terminal: But wouldn’t strong leadership be necessary for bringing about the change necessary to fix immoral behaviour?

She flinched as she was cut off again. It wasn’t her fault that she typed so slowly! She only received her first device a few years ago, delivered from Plato itself to help with her studies. Either way, Lumia held the backspace key and thought carefully about her next response.

Vaguely, she realised they were veering away from the place they had begun. However, it was too late to go back. She only hoped it would lead to a positive outcome, because at this rate they would argue forever about everything and nothing!

Lumia: Yes, strong leadership is necessary, but it may not be best for the people.

Terminal: It’s very common for people to claim their political adversaries are not acting in the interests of their people. Do you mean to say that it’s not best for YOUR people?

Lumia’s hands froze over the keyboard. So many traps! So many conundrums. Lumia was used to arguing with people, but this? There were too many things happening at once. Too many words, ideas, and fragile connections between them. Her head thumped. She needed to slow down. She needed to focus—

“That’s not fair!” Morgan shouted.

Lumia rounded on her. “No, don’t!”

“No. These rules are not fair,” Morgan pressed on. Her hands were balled into fists by her side and she looked like she could burst into tears at any moment. “How can anyone pass the test like this? The only way we can pass is to break the rules.”

Terminal: If a rule is unfair then should you be allowed to break it?

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

They both froze and stared at the screen.

So they were listening, Lumia resigned. Wonderful. Now I need to see if I can salvage this thing.

Morgan’s confusion faded and was replaced with a newfound fervour. Heat rose in her cheeks and she scowled at the screen. “Of course! The rules of this test are supposed to be broken.”

Terminal: And there should be no consequences just because YOU claim it is unfair?

“I don’t claim it—they are unfair.”

Terminal: Do you agree with this line of reasoning, Lumia?

Lumia faced her classmate, her kindred spirit, and felt only sorrow. This was exactly her line of reasoning. The only reason she hadn’t said it up until now was because she knew this is where it would end up. “Fair” was as foreign a concept to Lumia as the blooming of flowers was in her desolate home. Yet she had seen flowers on her short trip to King’s College.

Flowers. She had words for those, which she wished so badly to write down. Flowers with names she did not know. Flowers with colours she could not name. Colours she’d witnessed by the backlight of a screen. Images brought to life, more vivid than what mere names could conjure. She wanted to fall into them, to drift away on their fragrance. She wanted—

Ah, stay focused! She shook her head to clear it then gave her answer.

“Yes, this test is intentionally unfair. The questions are too difficult, and the rules are designed to drag down the successful students. At this rate, every student is equally doomed to fail, regardless of their effort.”

The device—their adversary—did not respond for a while, and for the briefest moment Lumia thought her answer may have been a good one. But of course, hope was the crutch of the weak.

Terminal: There appears to be a misconception. Morgan and Lumia, you have both assumed that we want students to pass the test. But where was this stated?

“What?” Morgan breathed.

Lumia’s head drooped. I should have known.

Terminal: If humanity fails to save this world, then aren’t we all doomed, regardless of the efforts of the greater few?

“But that is,” Morgan started. “But if we don’t allow the greatest amongst us to shine, then we stand no chance of fixing this world.”

Terminal: Except, the brightest cannot achieve that goal without their society’s support. Therefore, if you refuse to listen to their whims, you’ll fail.

That was… completely ridiculous. Since when did those above care about the whims of those beneath? Though frustrated, Lumia didn’t get a chance to respond to this hypocrisy as Morgan barged towards the device and pressed her face to the screen, almost knocking Lumia out of her chair.

“What do you want?” she cried, her voice breaking. “What are we supposed to do?”

Terminal: I want you to answer my questions.

“But we did! We answered all your questions and you keep asking more. When do they end?”

Terminal: You haven’t answered them adequately, so I had to ask more.

“What question? What are you saying?”

Terminal: What does a cat look like?

Now Morgan was fuming, her features set into a snarl. She spoke slow and low. “We do not know what cats look like because humanity wiped them out over three hundred years ago.”

What? That’s not… Lumia thoughts were arriving sluggishly. This is all so wrong. I know it is, but the reason, it’s so—

Terminal: Since you can’t answer it, I’ll give you an easier question. What do YOU want?

This conversation was overwhelming. Too many thoughts, too many ideas poking into Lumia’s mind. “Morgan, please. Stop,” Lumia groaned.

But the wild-haired girl wasn’t listening. By the light of the screen, Lumia saw a faint shimmer of tears on Morgan’s cheeks. She needed to help Morgan, but this argument, all the philosophical concepts thrown about like bullets in a war, it was too much. She just wanted to curl up in bed and write it all out.

“I want to pass this test. I want to be accepted into King’s College. I want to be in Class Euripides. I’ve dreamed of attending this school ever since I was young.”

Lumia put her head in her hands and groaned. She tried not to think, tried to block out the words, tried not to let them tug at her memories. She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want them to see.

Terminal: And you believe you shouldn’t fail because you deserve not to?

“Yes!” Morgan wailed. “I’ve done everything that has been asked of me. I study every day, even the extra materials. I achieve top scores on every test. I never break any rules and encourage every student to do the same. I join every society that I can make time for.”

Words. They were familiar. Lumia had heard them somewhere, had banked them in a place far upstream where she kept all those memories she wished to never recall again. She thought of the flowers. She thought of Morgan’s tears. Those distractions didn’t work. The words pressed against the walls, threatening to spill over.

“Why is none of this good enough for you?” Morgan went on. Her breath was acrid, corroding Lumia’s grip on the present. “Please, tell me. What did I do wrong?”

The flood gate opened; the river roared. Lumia gasped as she was swept away by the torrent.

“What did I do wrong? Mama, please forgive me.”

Lumia could only watch as a man’s life was sucked from his body, lash by lash. Despite this, she was relieved—relieved that this was the one day that she was not expected to smile. She wouldn’t have been able to if she tried.

She sat atop a viewing platform erected to elevate the Crick above the crowd. Anyone would have thought it an honour, but the welts on her back reminded her that the Crick had no more respect for her than the man whose torso was being flayed. The welts, and the trembling girl that clung to her leg. Lumia wasn’t sure if the girl—her little sister—trembled from her sobbing or if she was cold from the rain.

Another lash struck, the man cried in agony, and Lumia winced just as she had with every blow. Gripping her sister’s hand, she leaned towards the Crick.

“Is it really necessary to lash him so many times?” she whispered. “He’s already going to die; why not end it?”

The corner of the Crick’s mouth twitched upwards. Rivulets of grey water ran down his bald and scabby scalp and were caught in the rolls of his overstuffed cheeks. His bloated gut was bejewelled with shinies: aluminium scraps, old memory disks, and any other reflective trinkets from the old world that could be hung on a chain around his neck. Today was one of the few days that had been blessed with rain. The Crick had decided to proceed with the execution anyway, so the people, given no choice but to witness the spatter of the poor man’s blood, stood by with buckets on their head, collecting what meagre rations they could. Most of the buckets were already filled to the brim. In a way, this was more a torture for them than the man sentenced to death.

“Why? You trying ta get away?” the Crick croaked.

Lumia fixed her gaze in the direction of the wailing man—there would be consequences if she turned away. She let her eyes remain unfocused so the execution was but a blur of browns and crimsons. “Of course not. I just think the people would be happy if it were over with. It is raining, after all.”

“He killed a soldier,” the Crick spat. “The rain can wait.”

There was another pause in the beatings. Though she was doing her best not to see the man’s suffering, there was little she could do to drown out his babbling.

“Please, forgive me. I don’t know what I did. Forgive me, Mama.”

Lumia leaned in closer. “But what if he really didn’t do it?”

The Crick scoffed. He shot Lumia a cold sneer and her insides turned under the pressure of his gaze. “He had beef with the victim, and three people claim they saw him. He did it.”

Even with the rain beating down on her, even with the man’s screams, Lumia could clearly hear something pop. As one, the crowd let out a horrified yelp, and her sister’s wails climbed as high as the tortured man’s. It took every bit of willpower Lumia had not to retch.

“If they wanna get outta here faster,” the Crick growled, scowling at the bloody mess, “then they should tell that piece of shit ta confess.”

Swallowing, Lumia gave her respects. “Of course, sir.”

“And tell her,” the Crick hissed, jutting his fat chin at Lumia’s sister, “that that if she doesn’t shut up I’ll be putting her down there.”

At once it passed, leaving a distant queasiness and a burning desire to tear the world to shreds. Beside her, Morgan was still shouting, and the device had given a number of new responses since Lumia had zoned out.

No more.

Lumia’s hand struck out and covered Morgan’s mouth. Immediately the dark-eyed girl paused, flinched, reeled back to escape, and Lumia’s hand chased her so that Morgan’s wails remained sealed. With her free hand, Lumia typed the absurd truth, one painful letter at a time.

Lumia: Clementine

There was a pause. Morgan stared quizzically at the screen. Lumia’s heart pounded and her breath came short and shallow.

Oh, dearest sister, please forgive me for using you like this. Though I know you never will.

Terminal: I don’t understand.

“That’s the answer. To every question you asked me.”

Another pause.

Terminal: Explain.

Lumia took a deep, shuddering breath. “You asked when I would break the rules. The answer is, for Clementine. You wanted to know when a social contract was wrong. The answer is, when it threatens Clementine. Why am I here? Clementine. What do I want? To protect Clementine. That’s all that I am, and that’s all that matters to me.”

The room fell silent. Lumia’s breath rattled, loud enough to drown out the riot above them. Her heart raced as she waited patiently for the end of her.

Terminal: Would you abandon Plato for your sister’s sake?

“Yes.”

Terminal: Would you end your own life to save her?

“Yes.”

Terminal: Would you destroy this world if she asked you to?

“Yes. Yes. A thousand times, yes!” Her eyes stung, her throat burned—emotions breaking the barrier between mind and body, carrying her away in a deluge of rising heat and falling tears. “If I had to choose between my sister and the world, then I’d take a torch and with these hands I’d set the world ablaze!”

She was standing, she realised, thrusting towards the screen, using one hand to prop herself up on the desk. She was snarling, and her nails dug into whatever surface they could find. She was ready for the challenge, ready for whatever assault her enemy threw her way.

Terminal: One last question.

Terminal: Suppose that, right now, we are about to execute Clementine. We offer you a chance to save her. All you must do is kill the student standing next to you. Would you do it?

The question struck her like a gale, clearing the fog surrounding her mind. Her body iced over and she was aware. Her neck was stiff, her heart was pounding in her chest, something warm brushed against her hand—Morgan!

Her hand was still on Morgan’s mouth, and in her stupor she had dug her nails in deep. Blood trickled down Morgan’s chin and dripped onto the floor. However, Morgan made no effort to remove it. She observed Lumia with an expression akin to bewilderment, or perhaps it was terror. Tentatively, Lumia removed her hand, then clasped it tightly with her other, trying to hide the blood.

“Morgan, I—” she began, but Lumia was not sure what she could have said that would make this better. She hung her head and fixated on her hands.

Then green light washed over them. Their heads swivelled around to the monitor. The text log had been replaced with a blank background, and two emerald words filled most of it.

> Access granted.

The two girls could not speak, perhaps out of shock, perhaps from relief. They stared for the longest time, listening to the shouting and crying and laughter above. Then as though a valve had been released, the words she had been holding in since that first question, the answer she had refused to give, came tumbling out of Lumia’s mouth.

“Clementine has a cat,” she whispered.

The reality of her situation all came crashing down on Lumia. Her hands sprung to her mouth, hot tears welled in her eyes, and she took a single, sharp, shuddering breath. Slowly she sank back into her chair and let waves of cold regret wash over her.

I—no, that wasn’t supposed to be. All those feelings, all pouring out as though I were a sieve. What caused it? What brought it to fruition? The flowers? The miserable faces? All this stimulation? Or was it all to help this broken mess, my fragile friend, pass a stupid test? Oh, my sister, my devil so sweet, please find it in your heart to forgive me.

Morgan, however, was undeterred. She barged forward and took over the terminal, practically resting on top of Lumia. Through sobs, Lumia tried to apologise. “Morgan, I would never—I didn’t mean—”

“Stop that,” Morgan snapped. When she faced Lumia there was renewed determination in her eyes. She had wiped the blood off her chin leaving a red smear. “It does not matter anymore. Let me take care of things here; you get the students back in their chairs so we can pass this test.” She looked up at Lumia, frowning. “And if possible, can you convince that free radical to turn the lights back on?”

Lumia wiped her face with her sleeve. “Let me help. I—I can still,” she cut off to wipe her nose on her sleeve.

“No, you have done enough and you need to be away from here. I do not have the time to be dealing with your problems.”

“I’m fine. Just let me make up for what I said—”

“Enough!” Morgan bellowed. Standing upright, she grabbed Lumia’s wrist and yanked her out of the chair, almost tearing her arm off with the force. She spun Lumia around and glared up at her, baring teeth. “I was elected to lead this class, so I will take responsibility. Now go!”

Despite Morgan being a head shorter than Lumia, she felt large, intimidating, as though she were a feral beast snarling down at Lumia. Oh, how she had misjudged this stuffy and temperamental girl. Oh, how sharp her fangs were.

Sniffling up her tears, Lumia straightened her back, raised her chin, and put on a weak smile. “I’ll do my best.”

She gave Morgan one last look up and down, and realised once more that Morgan’s hair clip was still dangling there. Wanting to at least do one good thing for Morgan before departing, she reached for the useless clip, palms up to appear unintimidating. But when she caught sight of Morgan’s sneer, she drew her hands back a touch.

“May I?” she asked gently.

Morgan frowned at her a moment, then sighed and turned her head sideways. Slowly, conscious of the time, but more conscious of her connection to this tender girl, Lumia brushed down the wilder strands of Morgan’s straight black hair and fastened the clip. Then she spun Morgan so that they both faced the mirror. By the dull light of the monitor, Lumia admired the contradictory thing before her: a mess, wild and unruly, but today, oddly constrained.

Morgan stared at her reflection with pursed lips. She motioned as though she wished to say something, but after a moment of silence she turned and leaned over the device again.

Though she was disheartened by such a cold response, Lumia figured it was best to leave Morgan be. She took a deep breath, exhaled, then strode toward flashing lights coming from the manhole.

“One second,” Morgan called.

Lumia paused at the ladder. By the light of the screen, she could make out a faint smile on Morgan’s lips.

“Thank you.” Then Morgan’s face hardened and she returned her full attention to the monitor.

For the first time since this test began, as far as Lumia recalled, her smile was genuine.

But though your fangs may be sharp, they are still the brittle teeth of a cub.