We step into the rail car together, at least I think it’s a railcar. The door whispers shut behind us. It’s quiet inside—unnaturally so. There’s no grinding of metal; no jolt of wheels, and it’s quite conspicuouslynotattached to any tracks. Yet it pushes through the night without them. The half city disappears behind us.
I feel it before I see it—the shift in the air, the impossible vastness yawning ahead.
My stomach drops. I have, of course, read about this. Oceans are 90 percent of the world.
But we’re not going to…possibly… God, it hurtles toward us at a pretty alarming speed. Black, placid, stretching into the horizon, so still that it looks like the end of the world.
“Ben.” I grip the seat. “Ben. We’re headed straight for?—”
The water.
We plunge. The rail cart lifts off solid ground and into the abyss. It should be cold. It should be shocking, a brutal crash against my skin. Instead, the cart groans. A clear film domes over us, sealing in the air, enclosing us in a delicate shimmering bubble. We’re bobbing in the dark, drifting forward.
After an hour of floating in that glorified hamster ball, vomiting twice, and making a failed attempt to claw my way out, through the mist, I see something appear. An island.
We finally step onto something resembling solid ground, though the sand is firm but unreliable, like a promise from a shifty uncle.
Ben is calm as ever, looking out toward the horizon, where the sun is rising in slow motion, painting the sky in shades of pink and violet.
Finally, he turns to me. “This, Fawl,” he says, voice low, “is my lab.”
My throat tightens.Thelab. The mythologized, cloistered place that even his closest allies, including Lily and his own family, have never laid eyes on. Some say it’s a state-of-the-art research facility; others whisper of more sinister, Controlled Burn implications.
“This is everything I am,” he continues. “I know what people say about me. I know you’ve had to defend me, defend this place, without even knowing what you were fighting for. I wanted you to see it—all of it. Me.”
I’m trying not to choke on the conflicting emotions—seasickness from the journey and a tiny, treacherous bloom of compassion for the man.
Ben leads me down a sand path illuminated with fairy lights to a large building. He punches in a code without even glancing at the panel. Once inside, he puts his finger to his lips. I can hear snoring, soft and rhythmic, mixed with the faint tinkling of lullaby music.
“I’m working on the effects of skin-to-skin contact on cognitive function. Fawl, I think we’ve lost the beauty in humanity.” He holds both my hands. “For however long we have on this planet, the Burn has taught us nothing is guaranteed. Why not refocus on ancient human practices?”
I don’t fully understand all he says, but I understand his earnestness, and I understand what he’s allowing me into: his beating heart.
“This facility is one of the few places where new birthgivers get to stay with their nursing children for extended periods,” he whispers. His eyes gleam. “Mothers typically get—what? Three weeks of birth leave in the mines?”
It’s even less than that. No one wants to go that long without work credits. But Fawl doesn’t correct him
“Our theory is that the extra time creates well-adjusted children.”
I blink at him. “Sounds…wild,” I mumble. What do I know? He’s the scientist here. Did my own mother nurse me for more than a week? How would I know?
Am I fucked up?
But those nights when he was shaking with fever, when it looked like he might not make it, didn’t I cradle Ben to my chest? Didn’t his body seem to stabilize against all odds?
“Are these mothers…sleepingwith their children?” I try to hide my discomfort. It feels oddly intimate, too intimate.
“Yes,” Ben replies simply, his tone devoid of judgment or hesitation. “We call it co-sleeping.” He pauses, then seems to consider me carefully. “Can I show you something?”
I follow him into a dimly lit room, its walls humming with the quiet authority of advanced technology. The monitors flicker softly, each labeled with an unassuming number. He presses a button markedroom 207. “Listen,” he says, and I do. I hear two heartbeats: one slow, deep, and steady; the other faster. But, somehow, they merge, syncopated in a way that makes them sound like one.
“In every case,” Ben whispers, his voice thick with awe, “the heartbeats sync up.” He is so pleased with himself, he may burst if I say anything too encouraging.
A tear wells in the corner of my eye. Exhaustion, confusion, or the surprising warmth of this strange, beautiful lab—it’s impossible to pin down.
“It’s…nice,” I say. The words feel inadequate.
But it’s enough. Ben beams, and for a moment, he seems like…a man. Just a man desperate to be understood.
