Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three (excerpt)

There are a million ways to go about it, but I choose the simplest. The cleanest. I pull in a steady breath, like I’m the most confident eighteen-year-old on the planet. Like I’m not actually sixteen-and-a-half. Like I’ve done this a thousand times and not zero times. The air feels stale and smells like the others are sweating just as much as I am. Jory looks on as I get to work. The instructor watches us – hundreds of us – at our identical stations lined up across the cavernous warehouse like an army of soldiers.

Grasping the hilt of the knife, I slice off the stem end first, then the blossom end. I set the huge melon upright and start peeling away the tough outer skin with the sharp blade. The sweet, grassy smell hits me like a punch to the face and my mouth waters. But I can’t let on that I’ve never seen fruit in real life before, let alone a giant watermelon. Fruit doesn’t grow in our neck of the woods, mine and Jory’s. We come from beyond the wall, a landscape of concrete and rust. Where pygmy bots hover through the neighborhoods at night, looking for those out past curfew.

Our being here, in trade school, is a damn miracle. We sneaked over the wall – well, we paid some guy code-named Benefactor to sneak us over the wall. Took us three months to save up enough coin to pull it off. Benefactor also gave us papers saying we were born within the walls of Morian. Here we now stand, in a giant room alongside actual Morian-born, trying to learn skills that will set us up for life. A better life.

There are no prospects where we’re from – the only “career” options are being a mucker or a pygmy bot mechanic, and both those options suck. And for non-boys? Forget about it. Most of us end up begging on the streets, praying a Morian will pluck us off the sidewalk and marry us or employ us for crap wages. No thanks. The second we turned sixteen, Jory and I spent a whole summer mucking – sifting through rubble at the junkyard and hawking whatever decent pieces we could find. Morianians are free to pass through the wall whenever they want. They were our most lucrative customers, and the most gullible.

“Psst.” It’s Jory. He looks at me wide-eyed, no doubt wondering how I’ve already peeled my entire melon, cubed it, and placed it in the crystal bowl at my station. I wonder, too.

“Silence,” barks the instructor, who suddenly appears in hologram form at Jory’s side. The specter is transparent but glows with blues and purples, like most holograms do. The real instructor is at the front of the room. There are way too many students for one teacher to watch, so Mr. Sork sends out his holographic self to scold anyone getting off task. It’s a special skill, just one of many in the impressive arsenal of most Halflings.

Thirty years ago, someone figured out how to graft AI-mediated neuroprosthetics onto human brain stems, and it worked. “Co-habitation” they called it. At first, it was just supposed to boost outputs in industries that had suffered labor shortages – one tech-implanted Halfling could do the work of three humans. Then, it evolved on its own. Now it rules the world.

I side-eye Jory as Mr. Sork’s hologram dissipates. My friend is nervous, but he’s already halfway through the melon. He chose a different method. A messier way. Two minutes later, a high-pitch bell shrieks across the room, signaling lunchtime. A chorus of schwings erupt across the space as we all sheath our knives. Jory has finished his task just in time, his light gray chef’s coat now a pink and red massacre of watermelon juice. He’s having trouble keeping up. It worries me.

Most Morian-born become Halflings in childhood, implanted at the request of their parents. And most of them end up in trade schools like this, while the well-off are programmed for whatever the hell it is rich people do. Those who are fully human, like us, don’t last long. We’re either exiled beyond the wall, or worse. So, Jory and I pretend we’re Halflings (which, by the way, isn’t easy.) We have to match the stamina and output of the others and have no technological magic tricks up our sleeves. Plus, AI needs feeding, and no one has ever seen us interface with a program.

Lunch presents the two usual options: a bowl of lukewarm porridge or a program cleanse and reboot in the update lab. Since we aren’t actually Halflings, the latter is off the table. Jory and I join a handful of other students under the hot-white fluorescents of the dining room and face our gloppy meal. Conversation isn’t encouraged.

“That was tough,” says a quiet voice across the table. I look up. It’s Lily, station number 29. She has bright hazel eyes and short-cropped black hair. I wish my hair could be that neat and tidy, but my rat’s nest of waves and curls will never be tamed.

“Sure was,” Jory says defeatedly.

I elbow him in the side. “You’re doing great,” I lie. He shrugs and eats another spoonful of gloop.

“I hear they’re sweeping the rooms tonight,” Lily whispers.

My stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Lily continues, dipping her head. “Hide any contraband.”

It’s the usual warning that comes ahead of room sweeps. Admin are usually looking for illegal programming – updates that give you an unfair advantage over peers, knowledge sets for careers no one here will ever have, or coding for illegal skills, like flame-throwing. Luckily, we don’t have to worry about that. Though I halfway wish we did.

That night, after dinner, everyone readies for Mr. Sork and the superintendent, Ms. Erix, to scour our rooms and personal belongings. The dorms are set up like the prisons on the other side of the wall – a dozen hallways stacked on top of one another, with tiny rooms the size of jail cells. The halls encircle an open courtyard, at the top of which a domed ceiling sometimes opens to let the stink out. The brig is on Level 2, the massive classroom on Level 1, and the mess hall and update lab sit in the windowless basement.

Jory and I stand outside our room on Level 4, our spines rigid and our hands clasped behind our backs, as is customary. The holographic forms of Mr. Sork and Ms. Erix glide down the dimly lit hallway and pause in front us. I swallow hard, even though we have nothing to hide. The only things they’ll find in our room are sanctioned syrup-sweets and my stack of romantasy novels.

“Good evening,” says Ms. Erix’s hologram. Her voice glitches, as if the signal is weak. She probably has dozens of holograms performing searches simultaneously. Her board-straight hair falls to her shoulders, her expression neutral yet stern. Jory and I both nod once in standard greeting as the two holograms drift into our dorm. We remain in the hallway, sweating.

A minute later, Mr. Sork emerges and turns to face Jory. “What’s this?” the hologram asks.  I keep my head forward but slam my eyes to the side. I can barely make it out in my peripheral vision, but floating in front of Mr. Sork’s hologram is a sheer orb, encapsulating what looks like a microchip. A program. I gulp. What the hell, Jory?

Ms. Erix’s hologram emerges a couple seconds later and also rounds on Jory. “To the brig,” she says coolly. I nearly lurch forward but keep my composure. Acting out will only put Jory in more danger, so I set my jaw to keep from crying. Two pygmy bots are suddenly upon us, their engine fans whirring loudly. I watch, helpless, as Ms. Erix motions for the bots to detain Jory. Two electric-blue tethers unfurl from each bot and snake around him, pinning his hands behind his back. He doesn’t protest. He knows he can’t.

My heart races.

This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.

Then Jory is gone.

…

Copywrite 2025, Shannon Reid Hunt