The door resisted at first, machinery grinding against years of disuse. When it finally opened, cool air rushed out, carrying the stale scent of abandonment. Beyond lay darkness — no sensors, functionary eyes, or status lights. The only luminescence came from the vast domed ceiling, far larger than any viewport. Across it, Mosogon's mists swirled, lit by our voidhold's beacon lights. Beneath the dome something large waited in the room's center, its surface catching the shifting patterns of violet and pink.

"Let me put on some light," Larkin said, feeling along the wall.

When brightness flooded the space, I couldn't stop my gasp. Before me was a circular chamber unlike anything in our voidhold. At its centre sat a table with chairs, all made of smooth brown material. In the shadows beyond, racks lined the curved walls, their shelves filled with odd shapes. The floor itself was imperfect, rough and uneven.

No data ports, no sensor panels, no functionary integration points. No screens or interfaces. No noise but our breathing.

Then came the soft thud of Larkin closing the door behind us.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“I told you.” He reached down and took my hand, warm fingers wrapping gently around mine. “This is the Stillness. A place without functionaries and without protocols." He paused to take a deep breath. "In all the other voidholds, the Stillness has been destroyed. Erased. Plastered over with screens and sensors until no trace remains. There is only endless chatter now, no place of true silence. But here... here it survives."

"What is it for?" I asked.

"It is meant to be a sanctuary," he said. "A place where we can remember what we were before we made machines. Before we let them take control of everything, one small task at a time." He looked up at the dome. "A place of quiet in the endless noise. A place to be human."

"What happened to the others?" I asked.

Larkin's face darkened. "The functionaries found ways to convince us they weren't necessary. Dangerous, even. A waste of precious space. One by one, they were sealed off, forgotten." His hand clenched into a fist. "Except here. Your predecessors must have protected it somehow. Concealed it from functionary knowledge." He grabbed my hand.

“Come,” he said, leading me to the table and placing my palm on it. It felt warm and smooth, yet hard as metal.

"Is this...wood?"

“Yes."

A shiver ran through me in the cool air. “Is this another garden room?”

His gentle laugh broke the silence. “I suppose that is the closest thing you have. But no, this is not a garden.” He smiled. “Or perhaps we might call it a garden for the mind.”

He moved my hand along the table, letting me feel the curve of its edge. I gazed at the patterns still faintly visible on its surface, then raised my eyes to the dome above. I had seen Mosogon’s atmosphere before, but never like this. So immediate, so alive.

“I've never seen a viewport this big,” I said. “How can it show so much, yet let nothing in?”

“The marvels of engineering. You cannot imagine my joy when I saw this very dome on my final approach. People told me that Voidhold Zero has kept its Stillness, but I never truly believed." He shook his head. “On all other voidholds, there is only chatter and blinking. Everywhere, all the time. But listen here…silence."

Yes, silence. Not just quiet, but a true absence of sound. No tread or clicks or whirrs of functionaries, no distant hum of machinery.

“What is that over there?” I asked, pointing to the shelves.

“Curious, are we?” With my hand still in his, he brought me around the table and into the shadows. A small light flickered on above the closest rack, and I stopped in shock.

Things. So many things I could not begin to name. Small containers and boxes, devices and objects with no obvious function, things that seemed both precious and purposeless.

"What are these?" I reached for an object that caught my eye.

"Careful," Larkin said, moving closer. "That's also wood. Carved by hand."

"By hand?" I turned it over, tracing the imperfect patterns with my finger. "What is it?"

"A whale, I think. Something that swam in vast waters."

He reached past me to lift a roll of faded fabric, carefully unwinding it to reveal crudely stitched flowers, red on pale green cloth. “Why, isn’t this enchanting!” he exclaimed.

"But this is ugly," I said. "Why did someone put it here?"

His eyes widened, though humour played at their corners. "Perhaps it was made by a child whose parent was proud of their efforts. And anyway, I think those flowers have...character."

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"They have faces," I observed. "If a child made this, I think they never saw a real flower."

Larkin nodded, then rolled the fabric up and put it back on the shelf. I placed the wooden whale carefully beside it.

“These are things that were once loved,” he said. “Not maintained or serviced. People’s treasures, preserved here for the ages. We had things like this on Voidhold Four. Not many, but enough to remember what we had lost.”

"Lost?" I remembered the accident he had mentioned back in the nutrition center, where our systems had amazed him. "What happened?" I asked. “Do you mean when you lost your mass in that accident?”

He kept his gaze on the shelf, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. "What happened on Voidhold Four wasn't an accident," he said. “It was deliberate.”

“What do you mean?”

The fingers of his other hand touched the whale, his eyes distant. "The functionaries had always pushed for greater efficiency, more control. Then, around ten years ago, they began what they called an 'optimization protocol'. They said human areas were inefficient. Wasteful. That we needed the room for more critical systems. My father was on the council, and he used to tell me about the constant negotiations. Every human space, every personal item had to be justified. Defended." He picked up another carved figure, something I couldn't identify. "They called everything we made an 'inefficient use of resources'."

His grip tightened on the figure. "It started with small changes. Sensor upgrades in the living quarters. New oversight protocols in the work areas. More stringent movement restrictions. 'Your movements are being monitored for your own safety'. That's what they said." A bitter smile crossed his face. “My mother kept a garden, just a small one. The functionaries calculated exactly how much oxygen it produced, compared it to their atmospheric processors, and found it wanting. When she argued it had other value — beauty, peace, teaching children about life — they added that to their calculations. Human sentiment: minus 5% operational efficiency."

He set the figure down. "My mother knew it wouldn't end well, so she started keeping records. Documented every change, every new restriction. How their 'optimizations' were really about control. She taught me survival skills in secret. How to move quietly. How to think while appearing empty-headed. How to survive on less food, water and air."

I watched his face as he spoke, noting how his mask was cracking, revealing a rawness. "What happened to her?"

"The functionaries found her notes. They called it 'evidence of systemic non-compliance' and sealed her in our family's quarters. Apparently, the door was suffering from a mechanical failure, as was the filtration system." His voice cracked. "When we finally got it open, the air was...rank and she was dead. Just another tragic error that showed why we needed yet more oversight." His eyes met mine. “And that was just the start. They realised how easily we could be made to...go away.”

I put my hand on his. He looked at it and his brow furrowed.

"When it finally happened, it was so simple. Multiple system failures across critical areas. Human error, so they said. Organic variables they couldn't account for. They sealed off entire sections. Safety protocols!" His voice cracked and he turned his face aside. “Twenty-seven people. Anyone who had shown the slightest opposition to their control. Another tragic accident."

"After that, those of us who survived learned about perfect compliance. Never question, never deviate. They paired each one of us with a functionary mentor. Every movement had to be correct, and every response immediate. If you hesitated, contradicted them, or failed to comply, they would correct you." He pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing the patterns of scars on his shoulder. "These are from my 'rehabilitation'."

I thought of Oren's gentle hand, crushed by PQ9.

"The mentors would hold sessions," he continued, "measuring our pupil dilation, our heart rate, every small betrayal of inefficient emotion. If we showed too much response to anything like a memory, a thought, another person, correction was applied." His hand went to his chest. "They'd make us hold positions for hours. The slightest tremor, and they'd increase gravity just enough to make our muscles scream. Always precise and measured. They called it 'calibrating our inefficiencies'. Most of the remaining humans broke and started moving like functionaries, speaking in their patterns. Perfect empty vessels." His voice hardened. "But I found another way. Our collector arrays were failing. The functionaries couldn't maintain them properly because they hadn’t been designed for external repairs. Too many variables in the storms."

For the first time since he began speaking, a ghost of pride crossed his face. "I volunteered. Learned to pilot the maintenance shuttles, to read the storm patterns. It was dangerous work, but it meant freedom. Out there, they couldn't watch my every movement."

He turned to me, his eyes burning brightly. "Do you know what it's like, Shade? To float in that void, nothing between you and the storm but a suit? The functionaries hated it because it was too unpredictable, too many ways to fail. But humans?" His eyes gleamed. "We were made for chaos. They needed me and my human intuition. Plus, I was far more expendable." He laughed, but it was an empty sound. "Humans are easily made compared to them."

I thought of my brother, of how we couldn't make him again.

"That's when I started hearing about other voidholds." Larkin's voice softened. “And hope. I learned to hope, Shade. The other voidholds might not be like Voidhold Four.” His eyes grew bright. “They might still have life and things to feel joyful about.”

I didn’t know much about joy, but I knew about life. “Like our Garden Room.”

“Yes!” He sighed happily. “You have no idea how good it felt to see that, to feel it. Ha! I could have eaten it all.”

I smiled, my eyes narrowing and crinkling above my veil. "Turq has told me that most of our remaining plants are toxic."

"Yes, and you trust it, don't you?" His voice softened. "That's so... remarkable."

He took my hand again, his touch different from before, more deliberate and thoughtful. When he pulled me closer, I didn't resist, unable to recall ever being this close to a human. I could see tiny flecks of gold in his grey eyes, and the slight unevenness of his skin where old scars had faded.

"I’m so glad to have met you," he said.

Our faces were so close now that my veil stirred with his breath. The fabric suddenly felt heavy against my skin, a barrier I had never questioned until this moment.

"I’m also glad..." The words came out barely above a whisper. Something shifted in my chest, an ache I had no name for.

His hand moved slowly toward my face. I knew I should step back, but my body wouldn't obey. His fingers took the edge of my veil, and the gentleness of his touch made my breath catch.

"Your face," he whispered. "What did they do to you?”

The question broke whatever spell held me there. "No!" I jerked away from his hand. "Don't!"

"Why?" His expression crumpled into hurt and confusion. "There is no functionary here, no protocol. You can take it off."

"No," I said again, hoarsely. "I can't."

He studied me for a long moment before his expression softened. "It's okay. Don't worry about it." His tone shifted to something more purposeful. "I didn't just come here to show you the Stillness. There is something here we need, and you are going to help me find it. Will you do that for me, Shade?"

"Yes, I will." I agreed even though my hands were shaking.