“STOP DOING THAT.”

The Robust woman is staring at me.

“Doing what?” The spoon squeals on the old metal plate as I hungrily scoop up the last of whatever it was she just fed me. Most Graciles wouldn’t have considered touching anything, let alone eating anything, down here—but given the circumstances, it’s all a bit late.

“Talking to yourself. It’s distracting, and I’m trying to think.”

The bolus of food jams between my cheek and teeth. The crowd of people in the crumbling hole-in-the-wall eatery halt their conversations. Every pair of eyes bores into the back of my head. Is it obvious? Can she see when I’m doing it? Can she hear my thoughts? Can everyone?

Of course not, stupid kozel. She’s not telepathic.

Maybe she can read lips?

“There you go again.” She scowls, her eyes searching for an answer.

“You can hear me?”

She sits back and rests against the wall, one foot up on the chair, her knee supporting her elbow. “Yeah, and it’s odd.” She shrugs. “A lot of people talk to themselves—down here, probably more than most. But you’re different. You look like you’re having an actual conversation.”

Her small dark Robust eyes are judging me. Change the subject. “What’s this?” I ask, lifting my bowl.

“Churri churri. Zopat’s famous for it.”

“Hmmm ... ah, we should be okay here for a while—I think.”

Her gaze flicks to the people churning through the night market behind me. “Why’re you sure we’ll be safe here? Frequent the Zopat market much?”

“Safe? I didn’t say safe.”

“You know what I mean.”

“The Creed might still find us, but it’ll take them time. There are too many genetic signatures around here. They’ll have a much harder time isolating us. It is only a matter of time, though. They will come.”

She leans toward me. “Are you going to be able to read what’s on this package or not?”

“I guess. I don’t actually know. Most of the time I’m not plugged into the neuralweb. I’m not plugged into anything at all. I don’t like it—but you probably wouldn’t understand.”

“Understand what, Gracile?” She sits back and pulls out a short blade, touching the sharp edge.

“I told you, my name is Demitri. You could try using it.”

She smirks. “I knew a Demitri once. We used to call him Mity—”

“Just Demitri, thank you.”

She shrugs and lowers her voice. “Well, whatever you’re called, you’re a Gracile. Just a name slapped onto another soulless clone husk. You’re no better than the Creed. One Gracile is just like the next. Living in luxury, in your fortress in the sky. While we ... well, take a look around you.”

Outside, the open marketplace is bustling at this late hour. Bathed in neon light, some people huddle next to burning garbage barrels while hundreds of others jostle and push through the cold, making their way among the stalls peddled by squawking black-market vendors, prostitutes, and all other manner of shady characters. All of it is disgusting. Except her. Her face is bruised and split, and her eyes are full of distrust—yet they hold a glimmer of something else.

“What happened to you? Your face, I mean.”

She touches her split lip, a momentary glimpse of pain in her expression—but then it’s gone, replaced with resolve and defiance.

“Are you saying something is wrong with my face?”

“No, it’s just ...”

Her posture relaxes, and she touches her lip gingerly again. “One day I’ll learn to mind my own business. This is what I get for sticking my neck out for someone else.”

“A friend of yours?”

“Not really.” She sniffs and continues to play with the blade in her hand. “It was stupid for me to get involved.”

“This person, was he or she grateful?”

The question seems to take her by surprise, and for a moment she doesn’t answer. “Yes, he was,” she says finally.

“That’s good. It would be nice to think if I needed help back home, someone would come, but ... I doubt it.”

Mila gives me a quizzical stare.

“Where I’m from, empathy is somewhat lacking. Everything is orchestrated, planned. All for the good of the population. But we don’t really get involved with each other’s lives. Most of us don’t venture between lillipads. We know those we work with, or grew up with in the educational clutch. Nikolaj, he used to ... well, he used to care. I think I ruined that.”

Oh, grow some yaichki. Your wailing annoys me. Kill her and move on. This one is nothing but trouble—trouble you can’t afford.

“Who’s Nikolaj?” She leans forward, studying me.

“My brother. Well, at least my neo-brother. We’re from the same genetic batch. The closest thing to what you might call a family.” Why am I telling her this? “You? Brothers, sisters?”

“Everyone’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you really? Because it’s your kind’s fault I lost my brother. It’s your fault he went down into the mines to begin with. Greedily hoarding all the resources so your people can fuel your crystal palace in the sky.”

“I’m sorry—but I told you, we don’t use fossil fuels. We have solar panels. Very efficient ones. And even if we didn’t, Nikolaj has a fusion reactor; he could power us all on his own.”

“Do you know how many of my people have gone into the mines and never come out? If they’re not digging for fuel, then what are they digging for? Why would you send them down there?”

“I-I don’t know. I didn’t even know we were asking your people to go into the mines. Nikolaj always said our trade was what kept the Robust people alive. That you were happy to get what you could.”

Her already intense gaze flares, and her knuckles turn white as she clamps down on the grip of the combat knife in her hand. But then, almost as quickly as it comes, her anger subsides, and she slumps back to the wall, concealing the blade again in a hidden sheath beneath her clothing.

“Are you planning to kill me?”

As if I’d let that happen, Vedmak says.

She looks up at me, frustrated and weary. “Kill you? Will that bring back Zevry? Will that free my people from hatred and oppression? No, it won’t. Killing you wouldn’t change a thing for us down here. I can only try to change things for the better according to the will of Yeos.”

There it is. Of course a Robust would be clinging to some sort of religion. “You’re talking about an omnipotent god?”

“Yes. The Creator. The Lightbringer. His Writ teaches that without His light, we are lost—ˮ

“Yes, I understand it.”

Her look hardens, and she focuses back on the package. “I need you to read this. Can you do that or not?” She extends her arm, the data package clasped in her hand.

“I’ll try, but your little EMP stunt may have fried it. In any case, I’m new to this. I told you I don’t plug in normally.”

“Okay, back up and explain this to me so my simple Robust brain can understand.” Her eyes are scrunched together, and she’s rubbing her temples, one hand still clutching the package. “The first Gracile I ever meet, a genetically perfected superior being—and he’s more afraid than an alley cat, talks to himself, and is the only one in history not jacked into the net. Have I missed anything?”

“Yes, you did miss something.”

Tell her. Tell her, and then squeeze the life from her. You don’t need her. I’ll protect you.

“I don’t talk to myself. I’m talking to Vedmak.”

She sighs in exasperation. “Who’s Vedmak? You just said you’re not jacked in.”

“I’m not. Vedmak is a voice in my head. I’m schizophrenic. Or have dissociative identity disorder, or something.” There, I said it. Out loud to someone. To a Robust, but to someone. It feels strangely good.

The woman contemplates this.

“You have a voice, in your head, and it speaks to you?” she says. “And what does this voice say?”

That was not the reaction I was expecting. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”

“Trust me when I say I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want to know.”

And so it pours out—all of it. I don’t know why. Vedmak, what he says, how he acts. Gracile life and the need for perfection. How I’ll be Ax’d if the Leader finds out. How it’s getting worse, and that I need DBS to keep Vedmak quiet—how I need to stop him from acting through me. And even about Evgeniy and how he wanted me to find the package. It’s cathartic. But as soon as I’m done, I instantly regret my weakness. The woman stares at me, her face giving away nothing—sympathy, disgust, or otherwise.

Finally, she speaks. “Is he talking to you now?”

I’ll do more than talk to this interfering little dog. What are we still doing here?

“Yes.”

“And?”

Kill her. And get moving.

“He doesn’t like you very much.” Not a total lie.

“Sounds like I wouldn’t like him, either.”

“That makes two of us. I hate that he’s a part of me, fighting me at every turn. The darkest side of me. Perhaps I deserve to be Ax’d.”

“What if he isn’t you? Have you ever considered that?”

“What?”

Scooping up her satchel and holding it to her chest, she studies my eyes. “Have you ever actually listened to the teachings of Yeos?”

“I know of them, yes. But that’s just for the wea—” I stop myself. There’s no point arguing theology with a woman who has probably clung to her religion as a way of survival.

“Yeos teaches us that our bodies are vessels for the souls we carry. Against the timelessness of the heavens, it’s just a brief journey before being released to glory—or damnation. Throughout history, some people have been known to host an eidolon, a shadow. Perhaps you play host to a demon that persecutes you. Or maybe it’s a soul bound for damnation that has clung to you.”

“You realize eidolon is actually just another word for a delusion or the shadowed mind of a mad person.”

She shrugs.

“You think Vedmak is an actual demon? Or I’m haunted by the ghost of an evil person? And this is what’s making me feel crazy?”

Her eyebrows rise. “Why not? You told me yourself of the vile things this Vedmak says and does, but you don’t appear violent yourself. To be honest, you seem afraid of your own shadow most of the time.”

“I’m sorry, but we gave up the false comforts of religion long ago. We’re practically gods ourselves. We design, create, and take life at will. Perfected life. Isn’t that what gods do? Actually, we improved on what your Yeos created in the first place—”

“And yet somehow, you are still broken.” She lets that sink in, staring into me for what feels like an age. “For what it’s worth, we all are.” She returns her gaze to the table, flicking a stale crumb away. “Those of us who believe, we clearly aren’t perfect. Not in the way you’re perfect. But we choose to let Yeos make us stronger at the broken places. It is through the Lightbringer, by our faith alone, any of us are shown the way—a path that is almost always hard for those who choose it. But I guess that’s the point.” The look on her face suggests the depth of her own words are resonating with her for the first time.

“Well, that’s all very nice, and I do hate to disappoint you, but this is a regular medical condition. I know this to be fact, as I can control it with the DBS. Not that it matters. I’ll be Ax’d for sure.”

“You don’t know that. The Creed may not have transmitted anything to the Leader. It’s possible—ˮ

“We both know they did. Hell, I’m probably the reason they found that place. Maybe I’m bugged.”

“You’d better hope not.” Her eyes narrow, then she pushes the data package at me once more. “Please, help me read it. And I promise you, I’ll help you get some Easy or krokodil, or whatever you need to make Vedmak go away.”

Why don’t I look inside? Even Evgeniy told me I needed to see it—that I may be more important to this world than I know.

“Okay.”

Brave little dog now, are we?

“What do I have to lose?”

Mila grunts. “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

I focus on the package, turning it between my thumb and forefinger. When was the last time I even did this? Ten years ago? Twenty? Have I been hiding that long? What if I’m not ready? What if it kills me? What if it does something to Vedmak?

Nothing can harm me.

Not harm. Enhance. Do something I can’t predict.

“You’re muttering again,” Mila says.

“Oh. Um, I was just saying it’s old tech. I don’t have the port for this—mine’s too new.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t have the correct connection for this. I’m going to need a bit of help.” My palms are sweating. “Do you have a length of wire, stiff wire, in that satchel of yours?”

“Maybe.” She plonks it on the table and begins pulling out the contents, most of it junk—except for one item, a book. Or at least paper pages, written in a shorthand scrawl and tied together with brown string. It can’t be more than twenty pages long. Before I can ask about it, she’s gathered everything up and stuffed it back into the satchel. “Here, will this do? It’s part of the cable I use for my ziplines.”

“Ziplines?”

“Forget it.”

She hands me a thick piece of metallic wire, twenty centimeters long. It’s twisted together with dozens of smaller, thinner wires. I grab both ends and begin turning in two different directions, unraveling the steel twine.

“That’s pretty impressive,” she says.

“Being genetically enhanced has its advantages.” I smile genuinely, then roll up the sleeve of my shirt past the elbow.

“Interesting scar. It looks pretty fresh.”

“It is.” Though I haven’t cut myself today. “I’m used to the next part. I need you to cut me right here. Half-inch deep, one inch across.” I point to the inside of my forearm, near the elbow crease. “We all have an emergency port here. I’ve used so much derma-heal gel that my skin grew over it. The port is slightly too large for your data package. I’ll need to wedge it in with the wire to complete the connection.”

Mila grabs the blade and hovers over my arm. “This is gonna hurt.”

“I know.”

She sucks in a breath and pushes the knife in.

The searing pain and hot blood flow are familiar. But they offer no release this time, no moment of clarity from the fog of my schizophrenia. Now, it just hurts.

That doesn’t feel good, my sad little Gracile?

“Not now, Vedmak.”

“Okay, now what?” she asks.

“The port is just under the surface. You can probably push the data package straight in, but it’ll be loose. Put the wire in beside it.”

“Okay.” Mila nods.

“No, wait a second. I have to switch on the connection.”

“What?”

“I have to allow myself to be connected, I won’t be able to process the package on my own. I need help from the neuralweb. I was never good at this; I end up opening up to any wireless information web, too. It’s another reason I don’t do this often. It’s just ... scary.”

“You’re an interesting bird, Demitri the Gracile.”

A faint fog creeps over my consciousness as I allow the connection. The signal is weak down here in Lower Etyom, but it’s there. My stomach knots.

“Ready?”

“Okay, now.”

She pushes in the data stick, followed by the wire, wedged down alongside it.

Nothing. Did it work? I think it’s plugged in prop—aargh.

“Demitri. Demitri.”

Her voice is muffled and far away. But I can’t answer. My lips won’t move. The stabbing pain in my mind is overwhelming. Stab. Stab. Stab. It’s the agony of sheer volumes of information imprinting into the soft tissues of my brain.

“I can’t see.” I flail blindly, my hands and feet scraping against the floor and walls.

A hand grabs my wrist and holds it tight. Through my own wails, her voice pushes through. Calm and soothing. “It’s okay, Demitri. It’s okay. Breathe. Concentrate. Stay with me. You can do it.”

My heart slows. The white light fades, and my visual cortex is stimulated with new images, my memory center with new data and knowledge—my synapses crackling and connecting, forming new pathways. But this doesn’t make sense.

Kill her. Vedmak’s voice shatters my connection with the data package.

“Aargh.” I collapse to the floor and yank the package from my arm. A stream of blood jets freely from my left nostril.

“Hey, weirdo. No jacking in my restaurant.”

“No, it’s fine. We’re fine.” Mila says to the shop owner.

He glares at us. “No more funny business.”

“You got it,” Mila says, and turns back to me, helping me back to my seat. “What was it? What did you see?” Her voice strains as she shakes me by the arms. “Demitri.”

“I ... I’m not sure. It didn’t make a lot of sense. There was an interfering signal. Something close by ... I connected briefly but it managed to break the link. I think maybe, it leak—”

“What was on the stick?”

“Um, the Leader, the Leader is developing something. Some kind of superdevice that will preserve Gracile life the way it is. He wants to be recorded in a state of perfection, forever. But the data suggests total destruction. Tens of thousands will die. All of them Robust ... It’s a blur, I can’t—”

“Concentrate, Demitri. How? How will the Leader do this?”

I close my eyes and search the newly embedded information, fragmented and incoherent in my brain. “Genocide.” My eyes snap open. “He’ll wipe you out first, then initiate the device. But it’s a flawed theory; his calculations don’t make sense. This has to be a lie. Why would he do this? He doesn’t want war with the Robusts, he just wants peace.”

“Are you sure peace is what he wants? I’ve seen your Leader with my own eyes, down here, manipulating and controlling some real nasty people. Paying them to keep our resistance busy. And this.” She motions with the data package. “Sending his Creed to retrieve this package—at the cost of my life. Your life. Think about it.”

“I can’t believe that. I won’t believe that. You’re mistaken. You don’t know him like I do.”

Vedmak’s evil chuckle fills my head. Won’t you believe it, little puppet?

Mila grabs my arm. “You better believe it—because we have to stop him.”

“We? Stop what?” I cry, leaping to my feet. “Even if it’s true, and he has planned this, the calculations are all wrong. He wants to create a black hole, a region of space-time with such strong gravitational effects that nothing—not even light—can escape it. Time dilation increases almost infinitely.”

“It’s a collapsed star. I know what a black hole is,” Mila snaps back. “But how would that preserve the Graciles?”

“Look.” I drop back down and frantically draw a circle in the dust on the table. “A black hole is bound by a well-defined edge known as the event horizon, within which nothing can be seen and nothing can escape. The necessary velocity to get out would equal or exceed the speed of light—which is impossible. Think of it like the point of no return a boat experiences when approaching a whirlpool and it reaches the location where it can no longer sail against the flow.”

“Okay, so?”

“It’s generally accepted that information can never be destroyed. What makes you and me, well, you and me—is information. Anything that falls into a black hole would not be destroyed but stored just outside on the event horizon. As information. Forever. Or at least as long as the black hole existed.”

She rubs her face. “All right. You’re saying the Leader wants to code you? Onto a black hole?”

“That’s what I think the package says. But even if it were possible, the standard model of physics states that spontaneous creation of a black hole is unbelievably difficult. You need enough mass to collapse in on itself. A star, just like you said.”

“The Earth isn’t enough?”

“No, no, no. There are other theories, exotic physics that suggests small black holes could be created and exist long enough to grow, but that requires multiple dimensions—and no one has ever proved they exist. At any rate, the data suggests he only wants Graciles coded. That would mean scattering the info of anything else.”

“Scatter the info? You mean murder.”

“He wouldn’t do that. This is all sard.”

“I don’t care what you think it is, he’s going to try to do it.” Mila is suddenly frantic. “I have to get this to the resistance, and you have to come with me. I need you to explain all of this stuff.”

Her voice is white noise melting into the background. There’s something else—a sound nagging at me, and it’s not Vedmak.

“Shush, quiet.” I grab her arm and pull her to the ground. My heart accelerates.

“Don’t you shush me. You don’t know me like that—”

“No, listen.”

Screams in the marketplace. Screams and the sound of panicked people running.

Mila scrambles along the ground to the wall and peers through the window.

“What is it?”

Don’t lose your nerve now, kozel. You were doing so well.

Mila beckons me closer and points to a group of six or seven Robust men with dark skin and strange headgear like wrapped bandages. They charge through the crowd, screaming and furiously attacking anyone in range—hacking at limbs and necks with knives and machetes.

She looks at the men. “This is how your Leader will destroy us. He doesn’t have enough Creed to do it. But there are enough Musuls. And once they’ve done it, he’ll take them out himself. He’s playing us all.”

A little boy stumbles into the middle of the crowd, sobbing loudly. His chest heaves with each sobbing breath. He can be no more than five.

“Someone has to get him,” I say.

Mila grabs my arm. “No, run,” she screams. “Run!”

She crosses half of the room at a dead sprint before a thunderous boom and a blaze of light send the brickwork in front of me flying in all directions. The high-pitched whistle in my ears is deafening, melding together with the screams of the dying. Smoke and debris burn my lungs as I force myself from the ground. As fast as my metal-laden legs will carry me, I run.

Through the clamor of gunfire and yelling and the smoke, I have no idea which direction I’m supposed to go. People push past and shove me out of the way. Another explosion disintegrates the wall to my right, and I instinctively dive in the opposite direction. Something clangs against my shins, and I tumble headfirst to the ground.

Lying on the ground next to me is the cause of my fall—a little girl, curled up in a ball, sobbing uncontrollably. The world slows. The screams of panicked people echoing in my ears, a spray of brickwork streaking lazily across my path. Instinctively, I grab the girl and hoist her into my arms. My mind catches up—the sounds of war clear again—and I take off through the crumbling streets full of broken bodies and wailing people.

Past the neon lights and deserted stores, I tramp and clang toward the enclave entrance, through the gate and into the freezing wasteland. With the small child clinging to my chest, I run away from the din, away from the screams of war, and away from Mila.