by Ali Cross
Kevin is the only one here, the only one in the West, who knows my true identity. I fled my Empire because of my unwillingness to become a tyrant like my father. And I realize—as long as I stand here, as long as I allow myself to mistreat the people I work with, the people I fight with, I am just like him.
Simeon wrestles with Sher beside the transport, while a cigarette—so rare and expensive, the Elite surely paid him off with it—lies smoldering on the steel floor at his feet. Tam is inside the transport, screaming hysterically for Sher to come on. The pulsing lights around the shaft are red, and a voice reminds us that one must stand away from the transport edge before it can engage. But the guard has Sher by her hair and even though she’s mostly inside the transport now, he has her bent over, her neck over the divider. He wrenches her to him and Sher screams—but she surprises him and me both by lunging forward and kicking him in the shin. He only laughs, feeling nothing from her flash of bravery.
“Let her go.” I’ve passed Minn, running toward Simeon with a singular focus. He knew what those monsters were going to do to us—to Minn and Tam and Sher and me. He knew and he sold them, sold us, for a cigarette.
He twists toward me and for a moment he leers like he always does, but then his expression changes. He lets go of Sher and steps back, bumping into his chair, his hands in the air. A distant part of my mind reminds me that if an Elite commanded him to bring four girls, even Gart would bring four girls. To defy the Mind is death—the stories say sometimes even a fate worse than death.
But in this moment, with the ship humming its new and strange messages that I can’t decode, with the Elite leader walking toward us from the ballroom, and a guard standing in front of me, the source of all my pain these past years, all my fury funnels into this one moment. A whirling frenzy of fire and light ignite inside me with one objective—end the oppression.
I raise my fist, its course set in my mind. It will land directly on the top of Simeon's head as he cowers before me. It will send a shockwave through his brain and shut his nervous system down within seconds. He deserves to die painfully—this is far too good a death for him.
Just as my hand begins its decent, just as I see my image, wild, fierce, reflected in his eyes, a hand clasps my wrist, straining against my force. “Stop.”
Minn moves in front of me, barring me from plowing into the man.
“Move, Minn!”
“No.” She pushes gently, not enough to stop me, but the soft touch fractures my focus more than the guards' jabs of electricity ever did. “Come on.” She pulls me into the transport where Tam and Sher are huddled in the center of the shaft. Simeon watches us, his mouth hanging open, but just as the walls of the transport coalesce the Elite leader steps up to the guard who flinches away. But the Elite isn’t watching him. He’s watching me.
I hear his thoughts as if they wisp through the ship, I hear them hum in the walls, through the floor, sinking into my veins and repeating, repeating, repeating.
Interesting.
“What are we gonna do?” Tam’s voice is a high-pitched squeal, like the cleansing air as it pours through the hose at my sink. She trembles so fiercely that Sher has to wrap her arms around her, trying to calm her.
Sher looks up at me. “We can’t hide from them—they’re gonna find us.”
“They’re gonna kill us!” Tam shakes her head, back and forth, back and forth. Sher presses Tam’s head against her shoulder as Tam gives in to her sobs.
Minn stands beside me, her head down, her arms wrapped around her stomach. “No,” she says, and I know she’s right.
I don’t just know it in my heart, I can hear it—the orders are flying through the ship and suddenly the ship is speaking my language again, almost as if the Elite wants me to hear it, wants me to know what is coming.
“They aren’t going to kill us.” I’ve had my attention turned inward, making sense of the craziness. Now I look up and meet Minn’s gaze. “They aren’t going to be that kind.”
The transport arrives on the support level and the kitchen staff are immediately upon us, asking a million questions about the Elite—what are they like? How are they dressed?
“Did they like my food?” This from Cook.
I wonder how they can’t see that something’s wrong, that two of the girls are crying and Tam can barely walk without Sher’s support. I think I’m going to have to step forward, to explain what happened. I’m used to their hate, to their blame. I can certainly take this upon myself. But Minn beats me to it.
“We left.”
Cook lowers her chin, leveling a piercing gaze at Minn and me that feels as sharp as one of her large knives. “You left. Are you stupid?” Now she pushes Minn to the side and it is only me who carries the burden of her wrath. “It’s not enough that you throw yourself in the way of trouble, you have to bring it to my girls?”
Her girls. Never mind that I’ve been with them since I was ten, that all of them fed me and clothed me, taught me and watched me grow. Cook herself was the one to pick me up that first night when I cried for my mother and father and felt so, so alone.
She lifts her ever-present spoon and points it between my eyes. “I want you to turn yourself in. Maybe if’n you do, they’ll forget the other girls were even there.” She steps so close to me I can feel her body heat. “I've protected you all this time. I took you in. But I can't do it anymore. It's you they want.” Cook pulls Minn to her side, even though Minn is stiff, like being in Cook’s embrace is the last place she wants to be. “Do this. Before anyone of my people get hurt.”
“Cook, no. You’ve got it wrong—Sera helped us.” Minn tries to push Cook’s spoon down, to draw the woman’s attention, but Cook ignores her and shakes her spoon at me again.
I step backward. Before I even realize I’ve retreated into the transport, the green circlet of light pulses upward and I’m whisked away. I don’t give the port a destination, but it goes and goes without stopping. Maybe I’m shooting right back to the Elite and the guard. One or the other of them will still be there, waiting for me.
This is what Cook wants. She wants me away. They all want me away. It’s what they’ve always wanted. In silence I rocket upward. The ship doesn’t speak. The Mind don't speak. I hear . . . absolutely nothing. Nothing but the whir of the transport and the barely perceptible whoop that accompanies the pulses of light.
When the transport stops, I look out into the hallway before stepping off. It’s the same floor as before—the guard's chair lies on its side just beyond the port. But there is no one around. I step out, unsure what to do. I can’t go below, but can I really be here? I try to listen to the ship, try to discern if the Mind are still onboard or if they have left. I learn nothing.
Without knowing what else to do, I move into the hall, my feet taking me back to the ballroom. I pass through the grand gilded door and look inside. At first glance the room appears empty. It feels empty, as though nothing has stirred the air for years. Chairs are pushed out from the table, several lie on their sides. Food is scattered about and my stomach growls. I’m not sure when I last ate. I can’t remember why I didn’t eat breakfast this morning, though it’s been many hours since then anyway.
I walk toward the table, drawn by the delicious smells and beautiful food that’s going to waste here—truth is, it was wasted to begin with. The Mind don’t have to eat, they only choose to. I’ve heard it is because they like to pretend they are evolved humans, they like to eat and drink and pretend to be grand men and women of some long ago royal court.
My gaze falls upon a delicate cup with a long slender stem, golden liquid bubbling inside. Suddenly I’m thirsty beyond thirst and I reach out for the glass. My leg brushes against something soft and floppy. When I look down, I see an Elite sprawled on a chair. He is mostly under the table, just his upper body draped across the seat—it’s his hand I’ve bumped into. I jump back, but the android doesn’t move.
His eyes are open and staring. I wave my hand in front of his f
ace, but there’s no reaction. He’s . . . dead. Or something. Can androids die? I wonder. I’m certain that in a way they can, but this is an Elite, and they are supposed to last forever—that’s partly how they are purported to be superior to humans and andies alike.
“Why have they left you here?” I don’t know why I’ve spoken aloud, but it doesn’t matter. No one is listening. I bend down to peer at the Elite’s ice-blue pupils. There are no metallic glints, no hint of life within him. Before I’ve even told it to move, my hand is rising, my finger reaching out, and I touch him right between the eyes.
I discover two things immediately: One, his skin is surprisingly soft and squishy like a human’s, and two, there is no power, no life, in him. He is as empty as a cup drained of its liquid.
“I suppose it seems strange to you.” I jump at the sound of a man’s voice—the leader’s voice. He has stepped through some hidden door close to the table and now stands very near me, near enough that if I were to try to run the way I came in he would likely be able to grab me—especially if he’s as fast as the Elites are rumored to be. His gaze follows my line of sight and the smile on his face tweaks higher.
“You can try.” He smiles like a mother does when their little one is about to do something she knows will hurt him, but that he won’t learn without experiencing for himself. I won’t give this andie the satisfaction.
He strolls toward me, his hands clasped behind his back. He is tall, but not overly so—the perfect height, I suppose. As he is the perfect weight, the perfect build, with perfect teeth and perfect skin. He wears his dark brown hair unpowdered and cut short, with just the right amount of shine. He is handsome, in a stern and inhuman way. He is dressed more simply than the others were, also. The only adornments to his red suit the shining orbs at his waist and finger.
“Do you know how long I have searched for you?” He watches me and I sense that he is playing a game, one I don’t yet understand. I don’t respond. He chuckles and ducks his head in what would be an endearing, humble gesture on anyone else. “I thought you dead. Lost in the war all those years ago.”
Inside, my mind is screaming. What happened in the war? He thought I was dead? Who does he think I am? Does he know who I am? And that thought is my undoing.
“Oh.” His eyes, fixed on mine, light up as knowledge and awareness fills them. “You don’t know, do you?” He circles toward me, his gaze roving over me, though I’m certain he’s not ogling my near-nakedness. No, he’s seeing something else, looking at me as if I were a new outfit or new pet.
“How did the others not guess? Your fine appearance, your enhanced skill—ah, but they are stupid humans, after all.” His eyes flick upward, meeting mine. “I suppose they hate you? Are afraid of you?” He touches the white ridge of scar across my cheek. “This must have been nasty. When did this occur? Yesterday morning? The day before?” He pauses a beat, but of course I don’t answer. “No matter, by tomorrow it will be gone. How did you explain it? Surely you should have been disfigured—likely the wound would become infected and you would languish on your palette for days until the infection took your life.” He dips his chin, so he has to wrinkle his forehead to keep my gaze.
“And yet you risked your life for them. Why?” Again he waits. Again I say nothing.
“And here you are—they rejected you, didn’t they my darling? Sent you away from them.”
My heart pounds. How does he know me? How can he guess at the truth of my life?
“If only they knew. If only they realized the treasure they had in you.” He raises his hand, pointing one long, elegant finger at my face. “All their sad and futile lives might have meant something if they’d only known . . .” he presses his finger between my eyes, “who you are.”
The Elite finally looks away and I gasp, as though his gaze alone had squeezed the air out of me. I resist the urge to clutch at my throat. A hushing, rushing sound crashes in my ears, in my brain. I feel as if my legs are on fire, my arms, my stomach—something burns through my veins. The Elite’s left eyebrow rises and he quirks his lips upward. “My nanos, of course. They’re not explicitly designed to meld with human DNA as your Servant’s were, but they will provide me with interesting information, nonetheless.”
He strolls over to his companion, draped over the chair, his sightless eyes focused on nothing but eternity. He clasps his hands behind his back and toes the android’s lifeless foot. “Of course, we would have killed you the moment we learned of your existence. You understand that, don’t you? But this is better. Much, much better.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but his nanos claw against my mind, as if they are burrowing into me, ripping open my thoughts, my awareness.
The Elite turns and sweeps his gaze over my body. “We weren’t ready then, you understand. Your death held little impact after the loss of your parents. But now—now you will be found. Now hope can be restored.”
A sudden smile lights his face and he claps his hands together, bringing his fingertips to his lips. “And once hope has been restored—ah. It will be the perfect climax to a decade of tireless work to eliminate the human race.”
I am desperate to rid myself of his tech, to get away—even though there will be no running from his presence, now that it is a part of me. I stumble backward and press my hands against the wall. Relief washes over me as the ship responds to my touch. I will it to cleanse me of the Elite’s nanos and like cool water over tired hands, I feel them swept up and slowly, too slowly, washed out of my mind, my bloodstream.
“—expectations. Of course, it will be like you really had died all those years ago, after all.” I realize I haven’t heard what the Elite has said, but when my body is free of the last of his spies, his eyes spark with silver light, and I know I have to run.
He makes no move to stop me as I dash past him.
“This is a ship, darling. Surely you know there is no escape for you.”
I don’t care. I run to the transport and practically shout “Support!” before I realize that I’m not wanted there. But I am descending downward and the support level, even populated with people who don’t want me, is the safest place I know.
The transport opens and the first thing I see is Minn at our sink, her back to me. Tam and Sher are at their sink, and Cook is shouting orders at the top of her lungs so she can be heard over the roar of the cleansing air.
I don’t even try to hear what Cook is saying, choosing instead to dash to Minn. I touch her arm and when she lifts her head I can see a pink welt in the shape of Cook’s spoon on her cheek. There’s a moment, a breath, and then Minn’s arms are around my neck.
“I thought you were lost, gone for good,” she says. I am stiff in her embrace, unsure what to do. Just as I am about to return her hug, she drops her arms and steps back.
This has been the strangest twenty-four hours of my life. I need time alone to think, to make sense of what it all means. And now Minn has hugged me. She worried for me. My arms hang suspended in the air for a breath too long, disappointed that I didn’t get a chance to hug her back.
“What happened to you? How did you escape?”
Minn expects the worst, fears that I was pushed right into the guard's arms, or to the Elite.
“I didn’t see anyone. They were all gone.” A small lie doesn’t matter if it puts Minn’s worries to rest.
Minn’s mouth drops open in a small “o” and her hand flutters at her neck. “Thank the stars.”
“Girl!” Cook shouts. “Get to work!” I’m sure she’s speaking to me, so I turn to the sink and Minn and I begin our normal routine of cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. And this time I watch my pace so that I go just a hair slower than Minn—not enough that I fall behind, but not so fast that I call attention to myself. But then the unthinkable happens.
There are no more dishes or pots to be cleaned. Not even fake ones.
Minn and I look at one another, then Minn turns her air off and so do I.
Tam and Sher
have finished before us. They lean against their sink, hands clasped in front of them, looking around with eyes big and round with fear. I notice then that they are wearing their gray shifts, I’m the only one still in the ridiculous slip of cloth. I may as well be standing there naked and for the first time I feel self-conscious.
All around us, the other kitchen staff finish their tasks only to discover there is nothing more for them to do. Soon all of us are standing, unsure of ourselves. Unsure of what this means. We don’t speak, but we make eye contact. Another first for me.
We hear the steady hum and thrum of the ship as if it’s a living, breathing thing—which to me, it has always been. But things have changed and it’s that change that frightens me.
After a great deal of waiting, we are still doing nothing and the guards have not appeared to usher us back to our rooms. Finally Cook throws her spoon down onto the counter with a loud thwack and stomps into the kitchen’s small office. After a moment the rest of us file out of the kitchen and head to our rooms.
The guards don’t come to shut us in or turn out the lights. Frightened, we don’t talk, though a few whispers move the air, barely more than breath. Eventually we sleep.
I dream of Father. He touches me between the eyes, just as I did to the fallen Elite in the dining hall. His touch sends a wave of energy coursing through me, like liquid heat that pours into me from his finger and travels to every part of my body. With the warmth comes knowledge: The ship’s language; an understanding of the molecules that make up the solid things around me. I feel the warmth build strength in my arms, making me strong and capable. I start to laugh, but then the warmth turns to icy cold and when I look again it isn’t Father who touches me, but the Elite leader.
“You are being decommissioned,” he says with a grim smile. “You are no longer needed. Humans could never be greater—not even with our lifeblood feeding your existence. You are nothing to us. You are cattle. You are the grit beneath our feet. You are dead.”
