The Secret
The sun in the Free Zone didn’t just shine; it weighed.
Kael walked through the Market Sector with his head down, clutching a plastic jug against his chest. The jug was empty.
Around him, the “Market” was a cacophony of arguments. There were no price tags. Every transaction was a debate.
“Three batteries?” a vendor screamed at a woman holding a can of beans. “Yesterday it was two! You’re gouging me!”
“The batteries are dead!” the woman screamed back. “You’re scamming me!”
They weren’t trading; they were fighting for dominance. A crowd was gathering, not to stop it, but to watch, taking bets on who would win the argument.
Kael skirted the edge, stepping over a pile of rotting trash that no one had moved because the “Sanitation Council” was still debating whose turn it was to drive the truck.
He reached the Water Point.
It was a rusted tanker truck parked on blocks in the center of the square. A line of two hundred people snaked around it, shuffling in the dust.
At the front of the line stood Rane.
Rane looked clean. That was the first thing you noticed. In a world of dust, his hair was washed. He sat on a crate, holding a clipboard that meant nothing, overseeing the spigot.
A skinny man stepped up, holding a bucket.
“Name?” Rane asked, smiling like a favorite uncle.
“Tory,” the man said. “I missed the drop yesterday. My kid is sick.”
Rane checked his clipboard. There was nothing written on it. He just tapped the paper with a pen.
“Tory,” Rane sighed. “I heard you didn’t come to the Assembly last night. We were talking about the perimeter defense.”
“I was patching my roof,” Tory stammered.
Rane looked at the crowd. “He was patching his roof. While we planned how to keep him safe.”
The crowd muttered. They were thirsty, and Rane was the bottleneck, so they directed their anger at Tory.
“Selfish,” a woman whispered.
Rane turned the spigot. A brown, sludge-like trickle spit into Tory’s bucket. Rane turned it off after three seconds. The bucket was barely a quarter full.
“Next,” Rane said.
“But — “ Tory started.
“Next,” Rane said, his voice dropping an octave. Two men behind Rane — the Enforcers — shifted their weight. Tory grabbed his bucket and scurried away.
Kael didn’t get in line. He kept walking, past the despair, toward the edge of the Zone where the shacks were made of corrugated tin and sheer willpower.
He slipped between two sheets of metal and knocked a specific rhythm on a wooden door.
Thump-thump… thump.
The door cracked open. Jace pulled him inside and slammed the bolt home.
The shack was dark, huddled against the heat, but the air inside felt different. Cooler. Damp.
“Did anyone see you?” Jace asked. His hands were wrapped in bloody rags.
“Just the usual,” Kael said. “Rane is shorting people at the tanker again. He’s building pressure.”
Jace grinned. It was a wide, reckless grin. He limped over to the corner of the room where the floorboards had been pried up.
Beneath the floor, deep in the dark earth, was a pipe. Not a rusted lead pipe like the Zone used, but a piece of scavenged Imperial PVC, white and pristine.
Jace picked up a glass jar. He dipped it into the hole.
He pulled it up.
The water was crystal clear. It caught the sliver of sunlight coming through the roof and scattered it like a diamond. No brown sludge. No silt.
“I hit the aquifer,” Jace whispered. “Forty feet down. I dug for three weeks, Kael. My hands are raw meat. But look at it.”
Kael stared at the jar. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was life.
“Drink,” Jace said, handing it to him.
Kael drank. It was cold. It tasted like rocks and silence. It didn’t taste like the chemical tang of the tanker.
“We’re rich,” Jace said, his eyes feverish. “I did the math. The flow rate is five gallons an hour. I can fill jugs. I can trade them for batteries, for medicine. Real medicine, Kael. Not the expired stuff Rane hands out.”
Kael lowered the jar. The cold water turned to ice in his stomach.
“You can’t trade this,” Kael said softly.
“Why not?” Jace frowned. “It’s my labor. My hole. My floor.”
“It’s water,” Kael said. “In the Zone, nobody owns water. Rane owns the distribution. If you start selling this, you undermine him.”
“Rane is selling poison!” Jace snapped. “I’m offering a choice! That’s liberty, isn’t it? The right to offer a better product?”
“That’s trade,” Kael said, grabbing Jace’s shoulder. “We don’t have trade here. We have the Community. If they find out you have this, they won’t buy it from you. They’ll take it. And they’ll hate you for having it.”
“I trusted Mara,” Jace said.
Kael froze. “What?”
“Mara. The baker,” Jace said, looking defensive. “She gave me bread when I was too tired to dig. I gave her a liter this morning. Just to say thanks. She cried, Kael. She said it was the first clear water she’s seen in a year.”
Kael backed away from the hole. The silence in the shack suddenly felt very loud.
“You gave it to her?” Kael whispered.
“She’s a friend,” Jace said. “She won’t tell.”
From outside, down the dusty street, the sound of the Market changed. The arguing stopped. The low murmur of the crowd shifted into something unified. Something moving.
Kael went to the crack in the tin wall and looked out.
Dust was rising. A mob was coming down the street. Not running, but walking with purpose.
Rane was in the front. Mara was walking next to him, her head down, Rane’s hand resting heavily, possessively, on her shoulder.
“She told,” Kael said.
“No,” Jace said, coming to the window. “No, she wouldn’t. It’s hers too. I told her I’d give her a discount.”
“You don’t get it,” Kael said, backing toward the rear exit — a loose flap of metal. “She doesn’t want a discount. She wants to be safe from him.”
Kael looked at his brother. “Run.”
“I’m not leaving my well!” Jace grabbed a shovel. “It’s mine! I built it!”
“They don’t care!”
The pounding started on the door. It wasn’t a secret knock. It was the heavy, rhythmic thud of twenty boots kicking the wood at the same time.
“JACE!” Rane’s voice came through the thin walls. “Mara tells us you’re holding out on the Family.”
Jace looked at the shovel in his hands, then at the door buckling off its hinges. He looked like a man trying to solve a math problem while the building was on fire. He still thought logic applied.
“Go,” Jace said to Kael. “I’ll talk to them. They’ll understand.”
Kael slipped through the back flap just as the front door splintered.
He heard the wood snap. He heard the shovel clatter to the ground. And then he heard Rane’s voice, smooth and terrifying.
“Look at this, brothers and sisters. Look what he was hiding from you.”
Kael ran.
The Pit
The Bowl smelled of wet concrete and unwashed bodies. Five thousand people pressed against the sloping walls, a wall of noise that vibrated in Kael’s teeth.
Down on the dirt floor, Jace was on his knees.
His wrists were crossed behind his back, bound by a yellow plastic zip-tie — the cheap kind from a hardware store, daisy-chained to a second one because neither was long enough to go around his wrists alone. The plastic bit into his skin, turning his hands purple.
Rane paced around him. He held a microphone taped together with silver duct tape. It shrieked with feedback every time he turned too fast.
“Look at him,” Rane’s voice boomed, bouncing off the curved walls.
Jace didn’t look up. He was staring at a beetle crawling over the toe of his boot.
“I found the water,” Jace whispered. It was barely a sound.
Rane didn’t answer. He just pointed the microphone at the crowd. He didn’t ask a question. He just waited.
“THIEF!” a woman in the front row screamed. She was holding a toddler with cracked lips.
“HOARDER!” a man yelled from the upper tier. He threw an empty soda can. It clattered off Jace’s shoulder. Jace flinched. The beetle scurried away.
Kael lunged against the arms holding him. Two men — dock workers he played cards with on Tuesdays — wrenched his shoulders back.
“He dug the well!” Kael shouted, spitting blood from a split lip. “He spent three weeks digging it! Check his hands! Look at the calluses!”
Rane stopped pacing. He turned to the “Jury” — twelve people standing in a loose semi-circle, jostled by the crowd behind them. There was no railing separating them. No bailiff. Just the press of bodies against their backs.
Mara stood in the center. She was wiping flour from her hands onto her jeans. She wouldn’t look at Kael. She was staring fixedly at Rane’s boots.
Rane walked up to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened.
“Mara,” Rane said. The speakers hissed. “Your oven has been cold for two days.”
Mara nodded, a jerky, mechanical motion. “No water,” she mumbled.
“Speak up,” Rane smiled. He shoved the mic into her face.
“No water for the dough,” she said, her voice cracking over the PA system.
“Jace had water,” Rane said softly. “Gallons of it. In a tank under his floorboards.”
“It was for trade!” Jace cried out, head snapping up. “I was going to sell it! That’s fair!”
The word sell hit the crowd like a physical blow. A low growl started at the top of the Bowl and rolled down like a mudslide.
Rane didn’t say anything. He just reached into his belt and pulled out a length of lead pipe. It was pitted with rust, wrapped in friction tape at one end.
He held it out to Mara.
“We don’t sell here,” Rane said.
Mara looked at the pipe. Then she looked behind her. The crowd was leaning in. A thousand eyes fixed on her neck. The man behind her — a butcher with forearms like tree trunks — crossed his arms. He wasn’t smiling.
If she didn’t take the pipe, she knew who would be kneeling next.
Her hand reached out. It was trembling so hard her wedding ring clicked against the metal. She took it. The weight of it pulled her shoulder down.
“Vote,” Rane said to the other eleven.
He didn’t hand out ballots. He just looked at them.
One hand went up. Then three. Then all of them.
Kael stopped struggling. The dock workers let go of his arms, stepping away from him as if he were contagious.
“Mara, please,” Kael whispered.
Mara closed her eyes. She raised the pipe. She swung it like she was kneading dough — hard, fast, desperate to get it over with.
CRACK.
The crowd roared. It was a happy sound.
Kael turned and ran. He didn’t look back at the body. He looked at the faces of the people cheering. He saw the butcher laughing. He saw the woman with the toddler clapping the baby’s hands together.
He scrambled up the concrete slope, his boots slipping on the trash, running toward the silent gray wall on the horizon.
The Run
Kael slammed his shoulder against the driver’s side door of the rover. It didn’t have a lock — locks implied ownership, and ownership was debated in the Zone. He jammed a screwdriver into the ignition cylinder and twisted.
The engine coughed, then roared, spitting black smoke from a cracked exhaust manifold.
Behind him, the roar of the Bowl had changed. It wasn’t a cheer anymore. It was the sharp, chaotic frequency of a hunt.
“RUNNER!” someone screamed.
Kael stomped the pedal. The rover — a stripped-down hauler with mismatched tires — fishtailed in the gravel, spraying dirt over a tent family cooking beans. They didn’t yell at him; they just covered their bowls.
He hit the main drag, a rutted dirt track lined with stalls.
A gunshot cracked.
The windshield didn’t shatter. Instead, a plastic water jug hanging from a vendor’s stall ten feet away exploded. The vendor screamed, watching precious liters of clean water soak uselessly into the dust.
Kael looked in the rearview mirror. Three vehicles were tearing out of the Bowl’s parking lot.
The lead car was a technical — a rust-bucket pickup with a heavy machine gun welded to the bed. The welder had done a bad job; the gun wobbled as the truck bounced. The man manning it wasn’t wearing a uniform. He was wearing ski goggles and no shirt. He was laughing.
He racked the bolt and held the trigger down.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
The rounds went everywhere but Kael.
One round tore through a solar panel on a clinic roof. Sparks showered down. Another punched a hole in the side of the comms tower. The third hit a stray dog that was barking at the wheels.
Kael swerved to avoid a pothole the size of a crater. The technical didn’t swerve. It plowed straight through a roadside vegetable stand. Cabbages — food that had taken three months to grow — flew into the air, crushed instantly under the tires.
The gunner didn’t stop firing. He didn’t care about the clinic. He didn’t care about the food. He had a gun, and he was using it. That was his liberty.
Kael redlined the engine. The temperature gauge spiked. He was pushing 80 mph on a road built for 30.
Ahead, the horizon stopped looking like a shantytown and started looking like a cliff.
The Wall.
It was three hundred feet of seamless, white plasteel. It didn’t reflect the sun; it absorbed it. There were no graffiti tags on it. No vines growing on it. Just a perfect, silent void cutting the desert in half.
“Turn back, traitor!” the gunner’s voice blasted over a loudspeaker, distorted by wind. “You want to die a slave?”
Kael saw the Red Line painted on the sand — the demarcation zone. Five hundred yards of flat, scorched earth before the Gate.
If he crossed it, the Empire’s automated defense grid would activate. If he stayed, the mob would catch him.
He looked at the mirror. A second truck had joined the chase. A guy hanging out the window threw a Molotov cocktail. It fell short, smashing into a pile of tires. Thick, toxic black smoke billowed up instantly, choking the road behind them.
They were burning their own air just to stop him.
Kael gripped the wheel until his knuckles turned white. He aimed the rover at the massive, closed blast doors of Sector 4.
He punched the gas.
The rover hit the Red Line.
Immediately, a siren didn’t sound. No lights flashed. The Empire didn’t do drama.
Instead, the dashboard of his rover went dead. The radio cut out. The engine died instantly.
EMP Field.
The rover’s momentum carried it forward, skidding silently across the hard-packed sand, sliding sideways, churning up dust, until it slammed broadside into the base of the Gate.
CRUNCH.
Kael’s head hit the steering wheel.
Silence.
No engine noise. No wind.
Then, he heard the skidding of tires behind him. The Rebel trucks had stopped right at the Red Line, brakes squealing, engines revving, the gunner screaming insults into the dead air.
They wouldn’t cross the line. They knew the rules of the physics engine.
Kael kicked the door open and fell out onto the sand. He scrambled up, back against the cold white metal of the gate, staring out at the dust cloud he had just made.
The Mob was waiting. They were jeering, waving pipes and rifles, daring him to come back out.
Then, he felt a vibration in the metal against his spine. A deep, resonant hum.
The Gate was opening.
The massive doors didn’t slide; they split. A fissure of pure, clinical white light cut through the center of the metal, widening until it spilled out onto the scorched sand, blinding Kael.
He scrambled backward, crab-walking away from the light, shielding his eyes.
Heavy, rhythmic thuds shook the ground. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Three figures emerged from the brightness.
They were eight feet tall, encased in matte-white ceramite plating. They didn’t look like men; they looked like walking tanks. Their helmets were faceless smooth domes with a single, vertical blue strip that pulsed slowly.
They didn’t run. They didn’t take cover. They walked in a perfect triangle formation, stepping over the wreckage of Kael’s rover without looking down.
The Rebel mob went silent for a heartbeat. The sight of the Sentinels — mythological monsters to the people of the Zone — froze the air in their lungs.
Then, the gunner on the technical recovered his bravado. He racked the bolt of his machine gun again.
“This is Free Soil!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “You have no authority past the Red Line! We have rights! We have — “
The lead Sentinel stopped. It didn’t raise a weapon. It simply turned its helmet toward the truck.
“DECIBEL LIMIT EXCEEDED,” a voice boomed from the armor. It wasn’t a human voice. It was synthesized, flat, and terrifyingly calm. “DISPERSE.”
“I’m talking to you!” the gunner yelled, spit flying. He swung the barrel toward the Sentinels. “He’s our prisoner! He violated the Community Compact! Hand him over or I — “
The gunner pulled the trigger.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
Heavy caliber rounds sparked off the lead Sentinel’s chest plate. They didn’t dent it. They simply disintegrated against the shielding, flashing like welding sparks.
The Sentinel didn’t flinch. It didn’t stumble.
“KINETIC AGGRESSION DETECTED,” the voice said. No anger. Just a status update.
The three Sentinels moved as one organism. Their right arms raised in perfect unison. Panels on their forearms slid back, revealing sleek, black emitters.
There was no countdown. No warning shot.
THWUMP.
A single, synchronized pulse of concussive energy fired from all three arms.
It hit the technical.
The truck didn’t explode in a ball of fire — that would be inefficient. Instead, the front axle simply sheared off. The engine block crumpled inward like a crushed soda can. The glass shattered into dust. The gunner was thrown backward, landing hard in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him.
The gun lay twisted and useless in the wreckage.
The Rebels behind the truck screamed. They dropped their pipes. They threw their rifles into the sand. They scrambled over each other, reversing their trucks, burning rubber to get away from the white giants.
In ten seconds, the Red Line was empty, save for the smoking ruin of the technical and the groaning gunner.
The Sentinels lowered their arms. The panels slid shut with a soft hiss.
Kael was pressed against the gate, shaking. He couldn’t breathe. He waited for the execute command. He watched the boots of the lead Sentinel turn toward him. The blue light on the helmet scanned him from head to toe.
Vvvvvt.
Kael squeezed his eyes shut.
“CITIZEN,” the voice said.
Kael opened one eye. The Sentinel was kneeling. A massive, armored hand reached into a compartment on its thigh and pulled out a small, translucent pouch.
“HEART RATE 180 BPM. CORTISOL CRITICAL. DEHYDRATION DETECTED.”
The Sentinel held out the pouch.
“CONSUME.”
Kael stared at the hand. It could have crushed his skull like a grape. Instead, it was offering him an electrolyte gel.
He reached out, his hand trembling so hard he almost dropped it. He tore the top off with his teeth and squeezed the gel into his mouth. It tasted like cold lime and medicine.
“Am I…” Kael choked on the gel. “Am I under arrest?”
The Sentinel stood up.
“ARREST IMPLIES CRIMINALITY,” the voice said. “YOU ARE A REFUGEE. YOU ARE A LOGISTICAL BURDEN. COME.”
The Sentinels turned and walked back toward the light.
Kael stood up. He looked back at the desert — at the smoke, the chaos, the freedom to scream and starve. Then he looked at the open gate.
He limped after the machines.
The Quiet Room
The airlock cycled with a soft hiss.
Kael stood in the decontamination chamber. A mist of cold, odorless gas sprayed from the walls, settling on his skin, killing the bacteria of the Free Zone. The grit, the sweat, the dust of the Pit — it all sloughed off into a drain in the floor.
The Sentinels didn’t wait. They marched through a secondary service door, vanishing into the infrastructure. They had delivered the package. Their task was complete.
The inner door slid open.
Kael stepped through, his hands raised, his muscles coiled, expecting a processing center. He expected guards with batons, a cage, a man with a clipboard screaming about visas.
There was no one.
He was standing on a walkway made of white composite material. It was perfectly smooth. No cracks. No gum. No trash.
Above him, the City stretched up — towering, brutalist structures of glass and steel draped in vertical gardens. Vines cascaded down fifty stories of white concrete. It didn’t smell like a city. It smelled like rain and ozone.
But the first thing that hit him was the Silence.
In the Zone, silence meant an ambush. Silence meant the predators were hunting. Here, the silence was physical.
There were people — hundreds of them walking on the levels below — but they didn’t shout. There were no hawkers screaming prices. No engines revving. No music blasting from broken speakers.
Just the soft whoosh of mag-lev trains gliding overhead and the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of footsteps.
Kael walked forward, hugging the wall. He kept his head on a swivel, checking his six. Old habits.
He passed a row of benches. On one of them, a black messenger bag sat unattended.
Kael froze.
He looked around. The owner was nowhere nearby. In the Zone, an unattended bag was a loot box. It would be gone in four seconds, or it would be the cause of a knife fight in ten.
He watched it. Ten seconds passed. A woman in a gray tunic walked right past it. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t speed up to snatch it. She didn’t even break her stride.
Kael’s stomach twisted. It’s a trap, he thought. Bait.
He hurried past, his heart hammering, waiting for the shout.
“You’re elevating,” a voice said.
Kael spun around, dropping into a crouch, fists up.
An old man was sitting on the next bench. He wore a simple, unbranded slate-gray jacket. He wasn’t armed. He held a digital tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. He was sketching the architecture of the spire opposite them.
The old man didn’t look up from his drawing.
“Elevating?” Kael rasped, scanning the area for Enforcers.
“Your cortisol,” the old man said calmly, tapping the stylus against the screen. “I can hear your breathing from here. It’s inefficient.”
Kael lowered his hands slightly, but kept his back to the wall. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Trouble is a variable we removed,” the old man said. He finally looked up. His eyes were clear, unburdened. He looked at Kael’s tattered, dust-stained clothes, then at the fresh decontamination stamp on his hand. “Refugee. Sector 4 intake?”
“I crossed the line,” Kael said defensively.
“Obviously,” the old man said. He pointed to a recessed alcove in the wall behind Kael. “You have a caloric deficit. Fix it.”
Kael looked at the alcove. It was a sleek metal panel with a single glass door. Inside, rows of nutrient blocks and hydration pouches sat in neat lines.
There was no coin slot. No card reader. No keypad.
Kael stared at it. “How much?”
The old man frowned, a genuine look of confusion wrinkling his forehead. “How much what?”
“What do I have to trade?” Kael snapped. “I don’t have batteries. I don’t have labor credits. I left everything at the gate.”
The old man put his tablet down. He looked at Kael with a strange expression — not pity, but the way a mechanic looks at an engine that is misfiring.
“You require 2,500 calories to function today,” the old man said slowly. “The City produces a surplus of 4,000 per citizen. Withholding the food would create a medical liability. The system does not support liabilities.”
He picked up his stylus. “Take it. It’s logistics, not commerce.”
Kael approached the machine. He reached out, flinching, expecting a shock. He pulled the handle.
The door opened.
He grabbed a foil-wrapped block and a water pouch. He shoved them into his pockets, glancing over his shoulder at the street.
“You’re going to eat that too fast,” the old man warned, returning to his sketch. “Your gut biome isn’t ready for nutrient density. Small bites.”
Kael ripped the foil open. It wasn’t gray sludge. It was a dense, honey-colored bar. He took a bite. It tasted like oats and pure energy.
He ate standing up, back to the wall, watching the black bag on the bench.
“Why did you leave the bag?” Kael asked, pointing to it.
“It’s not my bag,” the old man said.
“Someone will steal it.”
“Why?” The old man paused his sketching again. “What is in the bag that they cannot get from the dispenser?”
Kael opened his mouth, then closed it. He thought about Rane shorting the water line. He thought about the fighting in the Market. The screaming over batteries. The blood on the dirt.
“If they want a bag,” the old man continued, “they go to distribution and get a bag. Stealing it requires effort. It requires risk. It is… illogical.”
A soft chime sounded from the bag. A young man in a technician’s uniform jogged out of a nearby building. He didn’t look panicked. He walked over, picked up the bag, and slung it over his shoulder.
He nodded to the old man. The old man nodded back.
No “Thank god it’s still here.” No suspicion. Just flow.
Kael slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground. The adrenaline was crashing. The silence was seeping into his bones.
“What do you do?” Kael asked. “For the Empire? Do you dig?”
“I was a structural engineer for forty years,” the old man said. “I maintained the transit grid.”
“And now?”
“Now my hands aren’t steady enough for the calibration work.” The old man held up his hand; it trembled slightly. “So, the System reassigned me.”
“To what?” Kael asked. “Trash duty? The mines?”
The old man smiled. It was a small, private smile.
“To this,” he said, turning the tablet so Kael could see.
It was a drawing of the city skyline, but it was beautiful. The lines were perfect. The shading captured the way the light hit the glass. It wasn’t technical; it was art.
“The System determined my psychological profile required creative output to remain stable,” the old man said. “So, I draw. I upload the designs. Sometimes they use them for textures. Sometimes they don’t. It doesn’t matter.”
“They pay you to draw?”
“They sustain me,” the old man corrected. “Because a sustained citizen is a compliant citizen. And a compliant citizen is efficient.”
He looked at Kael. “You are tired, Refugee. The intake dormitory is three blocks down. Room 404. Go sleep.”
“I don’t have a key,” Kael said.
“It will know you are there,” the old man said, turning back to his work. “Just walk in.”
Kael stood up. He looked at the food wrapper in his hand. He looked at the bag that hadn’t been stolen. He looked at the old man drawing simply because he was allowed to.
He thought of Jace screaming in the dirt. He thought of the freedom to starve.
Kael walked toward the dormitory. For the first time in his life, he didn’t check behind him.
The Assignment
Room 404 didn’t have a lock. Kael stood in the hallway, staring at the smooth gray panel, waiting for the trick.
He stepped closer. The panel hummed. A green light scanned his retina.
Click.
The door slid open.
Kael walked in, muscles tight, ready to fight for the bottom bunk. But there were no bunks. There were no roommates.
It was a single room. Small, efficient, and terrifyingly clean.
There was a bed with white sheets. A desk built into the wall. A narrow window looking out over the city lights. And silence.
Kael checked the corners. He checked under the bed. He checked the vent in the ceiling. He was looking for the cameras. He knew they were there — they had to be — but he couldn’t find the lens.
“Privacy is a psychological necessity,” a voice said.
Kael spun around.
The voice wasn’t coming from a speaker. It seemed to come from the walls themselves. It was the same voice as the Sentinel — flat, synthesized, genderless.
“You are scanning for surveillance,” the Voice said. “The room is monitored for bio-signs and structural integrity. Visual feeds are disabled while the occupant is compliant.”
Kael slumped against the desk. “Compliant,” he repeated. “That’s the word of the day.”
“Compliance is the path to optimization,” the Voice replied.
Kael looked at the bed. He hadn’t slept in a bed in four years. He slept on pallets, on dirt, on the floor of a rover. He sat on the edge of the mattress. It was firm. It held him.
“So what now?” Kael asked the room. “I eat your food. I sleep in your bed. And tomorrow? Do I go to the mines? Do I clean the toilets?”
“Inefficient,” the Voice said.
A screen on the wall flickered to life. It wasn’t a TV channel. It was a data stream.
Fast-scrolling text, charts, and biometrics. Kael saw his own face — a grainy image taken from the Sentinel’s HUD at the gate.
“Analysis complete,” the Voice said. “Subject: Kael. Origin: Sector 4 Free Zone. Threat Assessment: Low.”
“You don’t know me,” Kael muttered.
“Incorrect,” the Voice said. “We observed your evasion of the hostile convoy. You successfully hot-wired a combustion engine using a flathead screwdriver in under eight seconds. You navigated a Class-4 terrain hazard at eighty miles per hour without suspension. You identified the structural weakness in the Free Zone’s water distribution logic.”
The screen changed. It showed a schematic of a drone.
“You possess high mechanical aptitude,” the Voice continued. “You possess situational awareness. You possess a high tolerance for high-stress environments.”
Kael stared at the screen. In the Zone, Rane had called him a traitor. The mob called him a thief.
“The Mining Sector is fully automated,” the Voice said. “We do not waste human cognition on digging holes. That is for machines.”
A uniform materialized from a dispenser in the wall. It wasn’t the gray tunic of the Artist. It was a deep, midnight blue jumpsuit made of heavy, durable canvas. On the shoulder was a small, white insignia: a wrench crossed with a lightning bolt.
“Assignment: Grid Maintenance, Level 1,” the Voice said. “You will repair the perimeter drones. You will maintain the flow.”
Kael stood up and touched the fabric. It was new. It was strong.
“You’re giving me a job?” Kael asked. “I just got here.”
“You are a resource,” the Voice said. “A resource must be utilized. You have a skill set. We have a need. The equation is balanced.”
Kael picked up the uniform. He held it up. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at a master who wanted to beat him, or a mob that wanted to kill him. He was looking at a System that just wanted him to work.
“And if I refuse?” Kael asked. “If I want to just sit here?”
“Then you are a liability,” the Voice said. “Liabilities are removed. The Gate opens both ways, Citizen.”
Kael looked out the window. Far below, past the white walls, he could see the dark smear of the desert. He could almost hear the phantom echo of Rane screaming into his microphone. He remembered the sound of the pipe hitting Mara’s hand.
He looked at the clean bed. He looked at the blue uniform.
He realized he didn’t want to be free. Freedom was just the noise of people arguing over who got to die last.
He wanted to be useful.
Kael stripped off his dirty, bloodstained shirt and dropped it on the floor. He pulled on the blue jumpsuit. It fit perfectly. He zipped it up to his chin.
He looked at his reflection in the dark window. He didn’t look like a refugee anymore. He looked like part of the machine.
“Grid Maintenance,” Kael said softly. “Where do I start?”
“Sleep, Citizen,” the Voice said, and the lights dimmed to a warm, amber glow. “Shift starts at 0600.”
Kael lay down. He pulled the white sheet up. It smelled like lavender and order.
For the first time in his life, Kael closed his eyes, and the silence didn’t scare him.
The silence was home.