He left no trace of having slept here. Did he? Everything about this place feels temporary.
I move to the wall console, where the sleek lines of data screens hover in midair, waiting for a command. They open for me like a flower. Interesting analogy, really. The only ones I’ve ever seen in real life are the scraggly little things that manage to grow in the deep tunnels—pale, sickly-looking blooms. They aren’t supposed to be there, and we crush them underfoot without a second thought. At least I have access. That’s the thing about being a Diamond: the information system just opens. Systems assume you belong. I don’t have to hack my way in, don’t even have to think too hard about it. The console folds open without a passcode, firewall, or security clearance check. Iamthe IS.
The first few pages are laughably mundane. Grocery lists. Meeting reminders for Ben. Automated responses to dinner invites he clearly has no intention of accepting.So this is what the machines worry about.
But I’m not looking for something on the surface. I push deeper.
At first, nothing. Just lines and lines of HR data, scheduling reports, and performance reviews.
And then—beneath a buried tax document—I find something.
Iku Food—Experimental Nutritional Protocol. The words blink softly in the air as I open the file; the data shifts and flickers as I move.
I flip through the documents, swiping my fingers across the screen as page after page unravels: enhanced protein biosynthesis, nutrient extraction from nontraditional sources, and human trials on something calledSKYN.
Nothing about a controlled burn. Nothing to share.
Just as I’m about to swipe back to that terrifying line—human trials—the door hisses open. I jolt, swiping the files shut with a little too much force, setting them spinning too rapidly. Ben’s mannies glide in with military precision, each holding a different set of clothes. They lay them on their arms, and Hank is last, hanging the piece from his neck instead. Ben has got to check on Hank.
Can bots sense guilt? Maybe they’re programmed to detect it. It wouldn’t surprise me—up here, everything is polished to a high sheen, and everything feels observed.
The bots hold out three outfits, each one growing in length and complexity.
I wave a hand, half-dismissive, half panicked. “Uh, thanks. I’ll just…figure it out.”
The first outfit wins by a landslide—soft cotton, light and breezy, the kind of material that looks like it might evaporate if you breathe on it too hard. I’ve worn heavy, rough fabrics all my life—clothes that could survive a knife fight or at least a bit of dirt. What will it feel like to be so light?
My bare feet sink into the plush carpet like they are being swallowed whole. I slip into the outfit laid out for me, and—God help me—I twirl. Just once, like a fool, but it happens. The fabric lifts and falls around me, weightless, so airy that I half expect to float off the floor. It barely touches me, whispering against my skin like I’m precious, something delicate. I’ve never worn anything this nice in my life, not even close. It’s blindingly white and impossibly clean, so clean, I’m almost afraid I’ll ruin it just by existing.
One of the bots swoops in. Its mechanical fingers are surprisingly deft as it gathers my fluffy hair into a high bun. Another bot oils me down again, every inch of my skin gleaming so much, I can see my own reflection in my stomach. The mannies don’t talk. They communicate through the shared language of unsettling eye contact and ominous competence. It would almost be nice if it didn’t feel like living inside a three-act horror radiocast titledThe Woman Who Was Helped Too Much.
Then they start pressing the other outfits toward me.
I roll my eyes. “Oh, so now you have fashion opinions?”
They hesitate for half a second, like they’re actually considering how to respond.
“No, thank you,” I say firmly.
They back off, but just barely. I swear one of them lingers as if personally offended by my choice.
Dressed in this light cotton fantasy, I slip on my black boots—one of the few things from my old life I still love, solid and real. Then, following the scent of food, I step out of the room. Surely, they must have all sorts of natural foods downstairs, things I can’t even pronounce, let alone identify. Maybe they don’t come in a ration cube or taste like damp metal.
My boots leave a trail of dust and small pebbles on the polished marble floors, and one of Ben’s bots, the nervous, spidery one, zooms after me, looking as frantic as any machine could manage. The bots only feel what Ben is feeling. Is my husband anxious for his crude mine wife to meet his illustrious family?
He should be.
Because everything I know about the grace and manners of aboveground folks comes from radio dramas. The stairs I descend are opulent, with intricate carvings and gold inlays, and the banister is a continuous slab of cool, unblemished marble.
And the light—God, the light here. It pours through enormous windows, turning everything crisp and clean. It makes me think I might be dead and don’t know it yet.
The bots lead me toward the dining room, and as I approach the table, the clinking of silverware goes still. I expect warmth—maybe not kindness, but at least courtesy. I expect the quiet hum of conversation, the casual elegance of people so rich, they don’t need to prove it. I expect indifference, maybe even mild curiosity.
But the silence surprises me.
The air down here feels colder, and the gleaming white walls are so sterile, they almost buzz.
The “people” at this table are stock-still.
