by Nirina Stone
The people keep me in a room—fifteen feet by fifteen feet—bigger than any other prison I’ve ever lived in. I should keep a journal about all my incarceration. This one’s the cleanest, for sure.
Even the ceiling is out of reach—a good six feet above my head. It surprises me, given how short the people are. Why do they need so much space between the floor and ceiling?
The room is empty but for a metal toilet and the thick mattress I lie on. It smells like earth and mud and musk—a smell I associate with my old home in Citizen City.
There’s nothing else in the room, and there’s no door that I can see. Just a large thick-paned glass wall that faces another room, a bigger room with four chairs in it.
Sometimes, people come in to sit in those chairs and watch me. Sometimes, they speak into a small device and watch me. Sometimes they stand at the glass and watch me.
I’m an art feature and this place is my frame.
I never hear them when they speak to one another—not even a muffled sound. Just the silence in the small room.
I’ve knocked on the glass to get their attention, slammed my fists against it. I’ve run into it three or four times, only to succeed in bruising my shoulders.
Still—they just watch me. I wonder how they put the food in my room or take out the empty tray. I’m always passed out when this part happens. I assume they release a scentless knockout gas into the room and then go about their business while I’m asleep.
More bizarre than the room are the people—they resemble no one I’ve ever seen before, other than the girl I chased. Or woman, I guess—or, whatever they are.
Because these people are the same height as the girl—all four foot nothing. They could all be kids for all I know—I can’t be sure. I’m a giant amongst them, with my five-foot-eight frame.
Other than their height, though, they have little in common—there is as much a variety in their appearance as we have in Apex.
One sits in the chair in front of my glass wall now, her big brown eyes staring into mine. I’m used to this part—where they sit and stare. I’ve decided to stare back.
Because when I get out of here some day—if I get out of here—I intend to remember everything about these bizarre little people. She stares at me some more.
I stand to use the toilet, knowing that waiting won’t do me any favours. The moment I pull my pants down though, she stands and turns away from me.
That’s a first—they usually watch me during this part too. I guess this girl—or woman is a bit different.
When I’m done, I head towards the mattress again, and sit on it. She sits back down in her chair, and we watch each other for several minutes.
When she stands, I glance at the door behind her, expecting her to walk through and leave me alone to my thoughts for the rest of the day.
To my surprise, she stands to the side of the glass, closer than I’ve ever seen them come. I watch her for a moment, wondering if this is something new.
Then she presses something out of my eyesight.
I’m suddenly groggy and know that only means one thing—the knockout gas. It’s not time for another meal yet, so I look up at her, questioning. She doesn’t move. I pass out.
When my eyes flutter open again, I know instantly that something’s changed.
Eyeing my surroundings warily, it’s clear there’s no food. My bed’s still the same and I haven’t been moved elsewhere.
The girl on the other side of the glass is back on the spot in her chair again, her eyes on me. She points my way, slightly to my right and down.
When I turn my head, I see the new thing—a thin, frosted piece of glass placed on the mattress beside me.
I look up at the girl again, and she clutches a matching one in her hands. She points at me, and points at the glass again. So I pick it up and peer through it at my lap. It fits in the curve of my palm and is lighter than I expect.
Something on its surface flickers, and I see that she is speaking into her glass.
When I look down at the frosted glass, small grey words float to its surface.
Who are you?
So—they know my language, at least. I look up at her, and she brings her glass to her mouth as she nods at me. So I pick up my glass and speak into it.
“My name is Romy Mason.” I see my words in type on the surface of the glass before they disappear.
We don’t have technology this advanced in Apex—I wonder where the mechanics are, or where they would have a chip. Or maybe it works on some sort of fibreglass high-res technology.
I turn the glass around in my hand—it’s but a smooth surface, reminding me of bits of glass strewn all over the beach, smoothed over the years by waves and rocks.
I wonder if it’s frosted as a decoration or if the chips are camouflaged because of it.
Words surface on my glass again.
And who are your people, Romy Mason?
I look up at her and she nods at me again. Would they know who we are, based on our name? What does she mean?
I speak into the glass again. “We are from Apex,” I say. She reads her glass then back at me for a few minutes.
Why are you here from Apex?
“We needed a new home.”
Why is Apex not home?
I won’t be telling her our issues on Apex, but I have no idea what else to say other than, “We outgrew it.”
I wonder if she’d answer any questions of mine. They’ve been kind to me so far, they’ve fed me, they’ve watched me. I decide I have nothing to lose.
“Who are you?” I say into the glass.
Her head pops up at the question and she watches me for over a minute. By the time I’m convinced she won’t answer me, she pulls the glass up to her mouth.
We are your assassin.
Two days later, the questions keep coming but I’m more careful with my answers. If I am fated to die at their hands, I won’t feed them any more information that might have the rest of Haven in danger.
New families will have moved into their homes by now. I’m not about to give these assassins any information that would help them target the Havenites.
I examine the glass communicator closely, to see if I can figure out a way to communicate outside these walls, but it’s a smooth stone surface, no matter how I try to prod it or poke it. This is not a technology I’ve ever had access to.
When they realize my answers are no longer forthcoming, they gas me again and take the glass away.
I haven’t heard the strange crackling or Father’s voice in my head, either. I suppose I still could have been hallucinating, and now that’s gone to me, too.
Then she comes into the room outside my cell—the girl that I chased. She’s alone, still naked from the waist up, unlike the other people. She marches straight up to my glass wall and glares at me. What is she doing here? Is it time to kill me? Will she be the one to do it, then?
Maybe her people think that’s fair—I attacked her, I hurt her, so it’s her turn to hurt me back. She presses something beside the glass and steps away.
I jump back when I realize that the entire glass wall is shifting. It descends and disappears into the floor. I stay put, eyeing the door behind her, but I don’t budge.
“You are Romy Mason,” she says. I nod. She says my full name in one go without a space. “Romymason.” Her voice is light, but the words come out stilted, as though she’s not accustomed to speaking. “Why did you try to catch me, Romymason?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” I reply honestly. “I wanted to know who you were, but you didn’t give me a chance to ask.”
“Your people have one of our people, Romymason.”
I nod again. I thought it was her, but I guess it’s someone else.
“What are they doing to him Romymason?”
That, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t even know it was a him. I could garner a guess on what they’re doing, but I keep my mouth shut and shake my head. “I don’t know.”
&
nbsp; “Will they kill him, Romymason?”
I don’t think so. I can’t imagine why they’d kill him, but I repeat, “I don’t know.”
What does it matter, anyway? These people are planning to kill me, aren’t they? Otherwise, they wouldn’t be my “assassin.”
What’s taking so long with that, and why haven’t they done it already?
I keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the door behind her. If I manage to get past her and through that door, who knows how far I can run before they will take me down. If this girl’s speed is any indication, they are a fast people.
She catches my glance and gives me a smirk, challenging me to try to run past her and through the door.
“I don’t know why they have him or what they’ll do to him,” I say. I keep my eyes on her. “But if you plan to kill me anyway, do it.”
That’s when the first blast hits.
The entire world around me shakes like I’m a bubble in a bottle. We both fall to the ground. My teeth chatter, not because it’s cold but because the shaking doesn’t stop.
The girl makes a shrill, unearthly sound, runs to the wall to hit a button again, I assume, and runs out the outer doors.
I get up to dart through the glass before it shuts completely.
Another blast makes me fall on top of the glass as it starts to rise to the ceiling. I scramble to slide myself off it, but it’s a thick slab, and it rises fast—far too fast for me—I’ll be cut in half.
But then yet another blast hits, I bounce until I’m dropped from the top of the moving wall. I land on my side, losing my breath in one go. That’ll hurt. At least I’m out of my glass enclosure.
My teeth continue to chatter. The vibration doesn’t seem like it will let up any time soon. Another blast, and another smaller one further away, and then silence.
Rubbing my shoulder, I run towards the outer door where the girl slipped through earlier. She left it open, lucky me. I peep through and see a long silver hallway, going for miles in either direction. The floor is flat, but the walls curve up to the rounded ceiling, wrapped at the top, forming a tube. There is a bright light all around, but I don’t see the source.
I run down the hallway, looking for a door, something, anything, but I keep running and running, and it simply doesn’t end. Glancing behind me, I see that the door is no longer visible. Has it disappeared?
I keep running and finally stop when I realize I’m in a long silver tube that goes nowhere. Where in hell am I? At least the blasts have stopped.
I turn to the silver wall and run a hand along it. Maybe there’s a hidden lip or something on the wall that will open a section for me, but it doesn’t budge. The wall’s silky smooth—no button, no handle, not even a nail. I keep walking ahead, my hands caressing the wall. What is this place?
Then, just a second later, she’s there. The girl. She stands twenty feet away from me. That is until she drops to her knees with a long sigh and falls in a slump on the floor. I run up to her. Is she dead? I press the tip of a finger to her neck and a light fluttering pulse tickles my skin. So, she’s not dead, but definitely injured. Her entire left side is burnt to a crisp, as if she walked through fire. Her breaths stutter, but otherwise, she’s still.
I yell out for help, and my yell is absorbed in the strange silver walls. Can anyone hear me in here?
I put the girl on her back as gently as I can. Then I tilt her head up, make sure her tongue is out of the way, and breathe into her mouth. It’s something Father taught me when I was a little girl. He said I’d probably never need to do it, but he wanted me prepared.
If she has nanobots like I do, she should be able to breathe on her own soon enough. I try to fight the thought that the damage to her body is severe and the bots can only do so much. I keep puffing into her mouth until I’m pulled, gently, away from her body. Where did they come from?
Three of her people, dressed in dark red full-body suits pull me away. I ask if she’s okay, I ask if she has nanobots, but they don’t reply.
Instead, they pull me away, while I keep my eyes on her. She hasn’t moved an inch since she fell, but I’m certain I detected a slight pulse.
As they drag me away, I wonder if more of their people or bots will come to take the girl away to help her heal.
Instead, the silver ground under her body shifts, like it’s melting. She slumps into a tiny ball, the floor molds to her shape, then she disappears underneath it as a line of silver is drawn, replacing the silver that melted.
I don’t make a sound, but my chin drops. These people have a bizarre new technology I’ve never heard of. Who are they? What are they?
I expect them to take me back to my cell, or something similar. Instead, they pull me into a silver veda, though I must have blinked when it suddenly showed up in this tube.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
They just watch me patiently, not bothering to respond. I don’t know why I should care if she’s okay, but I ask again. They ignore me.
The veda takes us up, up, up for a long time. I wonder exactly how much longer we’ll be in here.
Then the doors open and we’re outside the tube. At least, I think it’s outside because the air is different.
I grew up underground—I know the air out here should be fresher, crisper, lighter. It probably would be, if not for the dust and burnt metal smells around us.
We are in a clearing surrounded by rubble and burning things. It’s a war zone. I hold back, meaning to get back in the veda, but the people pull me forward with an unnatural strength, and I’m hopeless.
The dust and dirt swirls and twists hard all around me, I can’t see a thing. Dust flies into my eyes, stinging them shut, and pushing tears to the surface. But I can feel when the small people’s hands loosen and other hands take over. Then I’m pulled gently onto a seat.
I haven’t paid too close attention to what’s going on because the dust and grit has had me coughing and choking the entire time.
When I finally look up and squint, after wiping dirt and tears from my eyes, I’m looking into sharp blue eyes and a big wide grin.
“Figures,” I cough out. “Figures it’s you.”
Commander Blair laughs out and says, “You are very welcome.” Then he turns to sit up front with the pilot.
Within seconds, the copta we are in lifts up into the sky and we’re making our way from the site.
I look down and see nothing but dust, still swirling and crashing everywhere like a stormy ocean. I wonder what happened here. I wonder what happened to the girl. I wonder if she’s alright.
Just my luck though—the one person who thinks I’m useless is the one to come and ‘save’ me from my captors.
5
All Is As It Seems
After I’m washed and clean again, I head into the livingroom where Mother and Commander Blair wait for me.
I’m still exhausted—I barely slept in my glass cell and getting knocked out with the gas didn’t help me much either.
However, Mother insists that I give them a thorough debrief before I go to bed. “While it’s still fresh,” she says.
I walk into the room silently and stop when I realize they’re muttering in hushed tones.
Mother’s eyes are large, bright, her brow furrowed. She angrily mutters something to Blair. Then Blair gives me a side eye and clamps his mouth shut to stop whatever he’s about to say. They instruct me to sit.
“Who are they?” I say.
They shoot a look at one another, then Mother says, “We call them Northies. They’re of this land.”
Northies. Because they live in the north? “How very original,” I mutter.
Then Blair probes me for answers about the people, the room, the tube and the strange liquid metal floor, about their technology.
“Tell me more about this glass communicator,” he says.
“It was smooth,” I say, closing my hand as if I’m holding one. “There were no buttons or dials or anything. I think it ran on a type
of fibre glass radio signalling.” Then I remember the silver hallway. “In fact, I think they use something similar throughout. Everything was smooth. Seamless.”
They ask me to summarize the sorts of questions that the people asked me but there’s nothing really all that compelling. I can tell when Blair announces he’s off. There’s not much more information I could give them that would help in any way.
I’m rendered useless, once again.
When Blair leaves, Mother asks if I’d like to go for a walk. That’s unusual—not something Mother’s ever asked me before. I’m exhausted, but I’m also curious. So I agree to a short turn around the block.
“They are a different species of people,” she tells me. “We are trying to understand them, but so far—”
“Do we have one of them?” I ask, remembering the girl’s questions.
“Yes. We attempted to negotiate with them. Exchange their prisoner for ours, but they declined. So we went in to get you. Guess they opted to surrender you before we destroyed more of their site.”
“But—why?” I ask. “Why did you bomb them?” I’m certainly grateful they ‘saved’ me. I’m alive, I’m in one piece, and I’m home.
So why am I questioning their methods? Does it matter how they went about it as long as I’m alive?
“You’re my daughter,” Mother says, answering in a tone I fully expect. “And you’re a Legacy. We can’t have them take our people like that and not expect retaliation.”
They could have sent people in to grab me. They didn’t need to use bombs, but I have no knowledge really about military things, so I don’t interrupt her.
“Besides,” she says. “We offered an exchange of prisoners. They declined.”
What? Right, they have one of the ‘Northies.’ The girl said as much.
