See here’s what you gotta understand about Nuki and me. I’m the big cousin by three days, so he’s like my son. He doesn’t see it that way, but I do. Grandmama didn’t come to Nuki and ask him to look out for her second-favorite grandson. It was the other way around. And I’m still watching him, just like she’s still watching us. Both of us have her face tattooed on our arms, dark ink on our black skin, black skin same shade as her cheeks when she smiled.

Right now, I’m watching him watching me carry these two big, mostly full drums of prewar fuel, shaking my dusty locs out of my eyes. Thankfully the dirt is getting dirtier, which means Scutwater—and our money—ain’t far. We’re both trying and failing not to glance at the hazy tower filling the sky out above the trees, and the gourd-shaped bulb on top of it glowing reddish-orange over the swamp. If we climb one of the trees, we’d see more towers, more bulbs up the river and down. Each tower is home to a Losaran colony claiming to be bringing light back to the world after generations of disaster. Each tower is supposedly full of people with electricity and food and a safe place to lay their heads. But when I look at the towers, all I feel is a hundred thousand eyes on my back.

“Soon as we make it to Scutwater we gotta hit Trader up,” Nuki sniffs. “This gonna be a sweet lick. We might even be able to get some gourmet eats. Not damn coonbone stew. Maybe beans, and hamhocks. Mmmm, and skilletbread.”

I can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. “You get you a hamhock. I don’t deal in that pigmeat, Black.”

He swaggers through the bulb light dappling the path in front of us. Neither of us have seen a real sun in our 20-odd years. Apparently back before the wars made the world cry, you could even see the moon and stars. Now all we got is this too-warm, too-close, endless sunset.

“… How hard you think Trader gonna try and screw us?” Nuki asks.

It’s a good question. Nothing is straight in Scutwater. Swamp is happy to eat you and your bones. I consider the barrels. “This is good fuel. It can run her old truck or maybe even a generator. So she’s probably gonna try and screw us good.”

The truth quiets us. We press on, Nuki’s bald brown head glistening with sweat. He nods at the ever-present tower.

“What you think they eat up in there?”

“Damned if I know.”

“I bet it’s like hot bread with butter, or baked potatoes, or, fish, or like, those jiggly things with the fruit in them.” He closes his eyes, tasting the food in the tower. “Something like that.”

“Look, we here.”

Scutwater is a pitiful gaggle of 20 or so buildings on raised studs just at the edge of the swamp, in the crotch of two creeks. The pathetic light from our sometimey electric lamps is a pale comparison to Losara’s glow. At least the sour-egg swamp stench is less strong. Here, it’s just regular people-stench. We got a small worship temple, Evell’s Joint, where a bunch of poor miserable souls toss their last few nickels, and a whole lot of moss, mosquitoes, and creeping vine. And one brick building in the whole town: the Cross Corner trading post. Normally we’d stop, get brew and stew at Evell’s. Not today, though. What’s in these barrels would make even your best friend’s hand itch.

“Looks like she’s open,” I say, pointing at the trading post. Trader, the owner, opened it most days, and had the brick scrubbed clean of moss weekly. “Commerce don’t stop,” she liked to say.

Trader been around since we was kids. Back then, she looked like a warrior with her hard jaw and long dark hair. Swamp and endless heat boiled out all her power, leaving a short, jowly woman with skin the color of road dirt. But her mind still cuts quick. She waves a crooked hand when we come in. Her dumbass grandsons, rusty-haired twins, one chubby, one skinny, guard the door, knuckles white from holding onto their raggedy antique handguns too tight. The barrels are starting to hurt my shoulders, but I can feel the heavy sack of presidential nickels in my palm already.

“My boys!” Trader’s breath smells like chewing leaf. She sits up high behind chicken wire so you can understand how it is between you and her. “I love when y’all come see me, ’cuz you always bring sum’n good. Whatcha got today?”

I drop the barrels one at a time on a nearby scale.

“This here stank,” Trader studies the barrels. “Prewar fuel?”

“Yup,” Nuki watches the scale numbers climb. “Might even be worth a double eagle, ain’t it?”

The scale finishes counting. According to it, she owe us two double eagles. Trader leans back and folds her hands over her stomach. Beady eyes full of greed.

“Prewar fuel hard to move,” she says like everybody in the room is one of her commerce buddies. “War’s all done—but the army, what’s left of it, still want all they stuff. And they don’t pay. They pull up, blow ya ass off, and take it. So, what I’m saying is I’ll need a couple days, maybe a week to move it safely and get your scratch.”

“Black can’t wait no couple days,” Nuki says, darkly. “Plans I got need money quick.”

Trader’s grandsons tighten their grips on their pistols.

“Chill,” I hiss at Nuki. Flip my locs back over my head so Trader can see my puppy face. “Trader, it took us two days to bring this back. Our bellies can’t wait another week. If you can’t compensate, we’ll have to take it over to Molen town.”

“No buyers in Molen, it’s burnt up,” Trader mumbles. “Better off pouring it in the swamp.”

“It’s traders in Moundtop or Blue Harbor then. Maybe even all the way to Hot Springs.” I make sure she can see me. “We’ll move this bounty one way or another, believe that.”

“Come on now!” Trader laughs, spreading her jowly arms. “Nuki, Phyn, you know me. Y’all are my boys! Your old grammama, spirits keep her, would kill me if I let something happen to y’all. Problem is, we just ain’t got two double eagles on hand! Investments keep going left, you know how it is. But I got another lick that will get you double what you earned for this fuel.” She coughs something up, chews it. “No one else know ’bout this but my grandbabies.”

We stay quiet, feeling Trader tighten the screws. Neither of us can afford a four-day trip to Hot Springs while carrying barrels of fuel. My stomach growls, and Nuki’s responds, taking away the few options we think we have. He shrugs at me, and I turn to Trader.

“Okay. What you got for us?”

Trader leans forward, sour breath all in our face. “Some trees fell and brought me a secret. A day south, I hear there’s a prewar virtual intelligence assault unit just laying around. Full-time war machine, depowered for 50 years, sitting up full of goodies. Y’all just gotta go pick it up, bring it back to me. By the time y’all make it back, I’ll have already traded it, meaning I’ll have your scratch on hand.”

Nuki leans in. “We do this, all our eagles gotta be in a row when we come back.”

Trader raises a gray hand. “On your grandmama’s soul.”

Out here in the swamp, some plants are medicine, and some are poison. You only learn by tasting, and each taste can kill you. But you swallow it down anyway.

“We’ll do it,” I say.

“Y’all hit this lick, we’ll all be eating good,” Trader says, grin hungry as we feel. “Leave this stinking gas here, go down to Evell’s joint and get some stew and skilletbread on me. My grandbaby here will come find you real soon.”

We leave the gas with Trader and walk down to Evell’s. To us young’uns, the joint is merely a relic slinging hot coonbone stew and home-brew liquor. But the elders like to go there and remember. Evell’s is a single room outfitted with raggedy plastic chairs, tables, and a counter. Behind it, Evell himself, with his nappy white beard and skin the color of red clay, stirs a bubbling pot over a blistering stove.

“This on Trader,” he says, sliding us pitted bowls filled with brown stew.

“Where the skilletbread?” Nuki asks. Evell glares in response. I shake my head and we go sit. The sound of a thumb piano tinkles throughout the room. The Walking Talking Man’s path has finally brought him to Scutwater, clothed in his rainbow outfit, his cowrie shell-lined crown, and his leather boots caked with swamp mud. In Grandmama’s time, Walking Talking Men were important guests. One visited her cabin when we were kids. He played a drum and sang us to sleep while he and Grandmama whispered gossip over tea. I still remember the mint candy he left me. These days, they lived hard lives walking town to town armed only with their instruments, singing news and messages.

“Big ol’ Black Star Train comin’ through,” he sings, yellow eyes leaping from person to person. “Runnin’ south to the water. Moundtop where they be, get wit’ it if ya wanna. Speakin’ of Moundtop, Green fire left Molen town nothing but ashes. Ghosts in the swamp, ghosts in the water. My friend, not every nickel is a good barter. Somebody spare a brother a bowl of coonbone, I’ll be obliged.”

I signal Evell to pass a bowl to the Walking Talking Man. The elder catches it, and after he slurps down half the bowl, starts playing a little tune to calm the crowd. Before he can get started good the joint gets quiet. It’s too busy of a night for a Losaran to show up. But there one is.

She’s unnaturally tall, her skin midnight dark under robes too white for a swamp, too bright against the Walking Talking Man’s rainbow patches. The Losaran’s expression is blank as she considers all the poor souls in Evell’s. Her thick, dark hair is one long braid spiraled into a crown on her head. Symbols carved in her dark skin have healed into raised scars. Either I’m dreaming or her eyes are glowing soft orange, same color as the bulb.

“I am Olon-II,” she says it like ‘uh-lahn-ee.’ “I represent the Losaran Human Capital Process. I come seeking new hearts and minds for the tower. We have food, electricity, and safe space for any who are willing to join our Grand Design. I promise you full bellies, and your families will be cared for in exchange for your service.”

She smells … clean, unlike everything else in this room, but she only gets hard looks in response.

“Like hell,” a lone, brave voice mutters. “Nobody trying to be no slave.”

Olon-II turns her gaze to Nuki and I. “The Design can always use young eyes. You two should consider my offer.”

“My eyes ain’t free,” Nuki says. “But I’m down to negotiate. What kind of food y’all got over there?”

“Boy, didn’t you just eat?” Trader’s skinny grandson slaps his hand down on my shoulder. He must have come in through the back. I shrug off his clammy touch. He thumbs the handle of the revolver slung from his belt. “Gluttony is a sin, you know. Come on, let’s go see a swamp lady about some money.”

His beady eyes, same as Trader’s, threaten the Losaran. Her glowing gaze moves over him, then us. The moment stretches until I shrug and slurp down the rest of my stew. Nuki is already up, and we are out of Evell’s before any more words are exchanged. I know the Losaran is watching us leave because I can feel her warm orange gaze on my back.

Thanks to the bulbs, we don’t have real night in Scutwater. Same orangeish swamp light for the entire time we’re traveling with Trader’s grandsons. The walk ain’t so bad. It’s an uncommonly cool evening. Part of the swamp is falling asleep, the other part waking up. Cicadas whine, lightning bugs flash, hidden creatures splash and crunch in the bulbgloom. We stop once for rest, then push on, watchful of the swamp, and doubly so of our traveling buddies. Once our boots start sinking in the mud we notice a nice-sized little pool spread out before us, surrounded by shifted earth and fallen trees.

The water is dark and oily, and you can see across it to the other side. It’s got so quiet out here the only sound you can hear is the creek water trickling. Out in the dark water, a metal-colored lump sits half-submerged, multi-arms pointing to the sky, green-brown moss just barely obscuring a Federal Army insignia. If my arm was three times as long, I could reach it. Something glorps underwater. A few faint bubbles foam to the surface. Nuki nods to me and I step back. Most people in Scutwater don’t spend a lot of time in the swamp. Too much out there that’ll eat you.

“There it is boys,” Skinny Grandson says, nudging Nuki. “Our golden ticket. You ready to swim?”

Nuki raises his eyebrows, then studies the metal lump protruding from the water. “I ain’t getting in there. I can jump that.”

“Shit, if you can, I can.” Skinny hands his brother his gun. He backs up to where Nuki is standing, pretends to stretch.

“Watch this.”

When Skinny hits the edge of the water, he launches himself into the air. And for a moment, he flies. But only for a moment. The next moment, a wedge-shaped, swamp-brown head explodes out of the murky water. I see forearm-sized ridges on a bony shell as thick as a boulder. Long, nightmarish neck. One dark yellow eye freezes me in place even as the hollow snap of its beak crunches on flesh, sending thick red mist raining over the disturbed water and mud. Skinny’s pained shout is drowned out as he’s pulled under the murk by the massive snapper.

I’m smart, but Nuki’s clever. And fearless. That’s why I love the boy. Before I can react, he’s in motion. A gust of wind, a perfect launch and my little cousin does indeed fly three arm’s lengths into the middle of the pond. The antique war unit squeaks and shudders as he lands hard, slipping and struggling to stay clear of the water. One of the multi-arms snaps off, splashes in.

Chubby Grandson’s eyes damn near burst with tears. They can probably hear the boy crying in Losara. Gripping iron in both hands, Chubby unloads bullet after bullet into the water where his brother’s life breath bubbles.

Nuki’s abandoned trying to grab a weapon arm. He’s elbow deep inside a panel, eyes wild.

“Can you move it?” My voice comes out in a squeak.

“It’s one piece here that’s still glowing,” he grunts. “I might can … let me …”

Metal squeals and he wrenches something away from the unit. “I got your ass!” he yells, pumping a fist to the sky.

Chubby, eyes red, turns his gun on Nuki, but before he can fire, Nuki jumps—is gone. I run along the edge of the water, keeping low. Chubby yells behind me, figuring he’ll take me instead. Lead zips past me, smacking into the ground, raising goosebumps on my flesh. But I’m in the trees now. We was raised in the swamp, Nuki and me. We know where to go.

The swamp ate our kinfolk for daring to leave and find some different kind of life. But it didn’t stop with them. It ate their houses too. Over the years, the trees and wet turned wood to mush, reducing homes to memory. When our kinfolk left, seeking a place with a real sun instead of bulblight, Grandmama warned them: The swamp always takes. Danger lurks beneath every surface. Behind every turn. But opportunities exist for the watchful.

It takes us the better part of a day to get home. Both Nuki and I were born in a cabin, three days apart, delivered by our Grandmama. It looks like everything else around here on the outside, mossy and slick. But inside, we’ve adapted. I check the dark room before going in. Flip the breaker, knowing we’ll only have a few hours of electricity at best. Nuki’s cot is on the north side, mine on the south, like it’s always been. One little rusty stove, same one Grandmama used. Our breaker hums as our rigged system pulls power from a couple different spots around us, including Trader’s. Stealing electricity from Losara would be a dream.  

“That’s all we got outta that whole situation,” Nuki murmurs, tossing the treasure he’d scored on my cot. He’s slumped, skin ashen, like all the energy and light has leached out of him. He drops on his own cot with a thump, throws a limp arm over his face. “We don’t even know what that is. And Trader’s grandbaby is … gone. We not seeing a single nickel at this point. Might as well hang it up, Black.”

“I don’t know …” I let the rebuttal trail off as I examine the tech we scavenged. The part Nuki ripped from the unit is a cube the size of a large egg. If it were a weapons system, even screwed up, it would still be worth a few nickels. But this rounded cube-shaped piece with a single ocular opening—no, a million nano-optical sensors—and conical, stalk-like receptors sprouting from each of its corners didn’t seem like a weapons system. It seemed more like part of an animal.

“Damn fool,” I laugh. “This is a control unit—basically its brain!”

Nuki answers me with soft snores. But sleep isn’t coming for me. I think about that moon Grandmama used to tell us about. How you could find your way between towns in the night by starlight. Power’s draining. I reach under my bed, grab a lockbox, open it, and pull out a small fliptop terminal. Grandmama also told me to always keep the good stuff for myself.

I get the terminal to power on, blue screen glowing. After some cursing and pleading, I repair the frayed wiring and connect the controller unit to the terminal. Nuki was right, it’s still operational somehow after 50 years. Reliable prewar tech.

Code flashes on the terminal, then it powers down with a beep. I check the breaker—we still have enough electricity. The control unit whines softly as its nano-optics focus on me. A red glow blooms, and as I watch, the red glow solidifies into a holographic replica of my face projected by the intelligence unit.

“What in the world …?”

“Logistics transfer complete. Critical functions restored. Auxiliary power at 12 percent. Pilot, operational status report?”

“Status?”

The hologram of my face thinks for a moment. “Date? Time?”

“You mean what day is it? It’s, uh, two days before worship day.”

“I would like to view the sky,” it says. Going outside after dark is never a good idea, especially after what happened yesterday. But everyone always says I’m too curious, so I oblige the unit, dimming the lights to let my eyes adjust, then carry it to the door. Peep out, confirm it’s empty. Standing in the frame, I hold the face up to the orange sky like a father baptizing his new child. It scans and scans, then frowns. When it speaks, it says one word:

“Losara.”

As kids, Nuki and I often asked why the world was like it was. We were repeatedly taught that, for multiple lifetimes, our planet lived and breathed war. Most of the fighting was over things that could have been shared. Our endless war, in a way, made our planet declare war on us. All our imagination had been used for subjugating and killing. And here, before me, was the ultimate product of a war-loving imagination, realized.

“I am Ventral,” it says. “I am a localized adaptive strategic control, defense, and reasoning unit. My primary function is to assist human Federal Army pilots in operating Walking Assault Vehicles. It seems I have been separated from my main unit. Is my pilot still alive?”

“I’d be surprised if he even has bones left, Black.”

“Please repeat.”

“It’s been 50-some years since the wars ended. The bombing, the pollution, all the spilled blood set half the world on fire, the other drowned. Your pilot may have been one of the drowned. Army’s still around, but they probably not what you remember.”

“This explains why I cannot patch an encrypted comm through.”

“Likely they don’t have nothing for you to call ’em on.” I poke it and it uses its little sensors to scuttle right-side up. “What do you know about Losara?”

“Our mission objective was—is—to render them permanently destroyed, then classify and contain any remnants of their culture.” The face stills, considering. Then, “I am empowered to make independent decisions upon incapacitation of my pilot. This seems to be a situation requiring independent action. So, I will share classified information with you.”

The face becomes a red screen and Ventral projects high-definition archival video footage across it: scarlet-tinted images of Fed Army troops’ forward operations into a corporate office, guns drawn and sweeping.

“2107: the Federal Army of the United States and some of our international allies were forced to launch a peacekeeping operation to contain the critical threat represented by the Losara Chemical and Pharmaceutical Research Corporation. Losara had been a longtime research contractor to the Federal Army, but political differences led the two entities to split.”

Dramatic slow scene of a glassy, glittering tower like the one glowing past the trees. This tower didn’t have a glowing bulb, but a bulb-shaped sign instead. Images of massive lines of people shuttling into mines, being locked inside of incubator tanks. Flesh and organ experimentation, blood and bile and implantation.

“Using its political connections, the Losara Corporation gained legal right to be a living entity, with all summary protections. Its Administrative Board announced a new mission: to restore light to the world using cultural programming and cutting-edge technology. The corporation was accused of the worst human rights violations: chemical experimentation, psychological reprogramming, human trafficking, and ethnic cleansing. When they attacked a Federal Army detention camp and abducted our detainees, we knew that we had to strike back.”

“Y’all strike, they strike.” I say, thinking about pushing the cube off the table, but knowing it might right itself and crawl away. “And we got left with all the bruises.”

“Losara is an enemy of human survival. The corporation seems to be flourishing. I must inform the remnants of the Federal Army.”

“That won’t do no good. Everybody knows the Fed Army is just a bunch of bandits now. And y’all lost! Losara is still here. Nobody around here, or anywhere else, needs another five decades of war.”

Nuki sits up in the bed and yawns.

“Who the hell are you in here talking to?” He’s irritated. Through sleepy eyes, he notices Ventral’s glowing red face considering him. “You turned the damn thing on? Black, you’re out of your mind.”

“It’s good you’re up.” I take a deep breath.  “I’ll power it down, then we can pack up and try to get with Trader.”

“Much as I hate to admit it,” Nuki says, rubbing his bald head, “we probably gonna have to take this down the river. Trader’s in mourning, remember?”

Her grandson’s death gurgle replays in my ear. “Oh shit.”

“Walking Talking Man said Molen burnt up in green fire. Probably gonna have to go to Moundtop to move this now. That’s a four-day trip, Black. Broke on top of it.”

“Well, we better get moving before it gets light out,” I sighed. “We’ll move easier under the cover of darkness.”

Ventral’s red face flashes then, and it buzzes, “Contact.” The face fades, and the control unit stops moving. Our front door crashes off the locks as Chubby muscles his way inside.

“Found you bastards.” He’s loud. Onion and sour muscadine wine on his breath, wearing the old swampy clothes from yesterday.

Nuki’s knife is already in his hand. I stuff Ventral down my pants. My skin crawls as I feel it scuttling between my thighs. Chubby ain’t alone. Strong Losaran hands grab my cousin, bring him down yelling. They’re pulling me down too, in spite of my thrashing. They cover Nuki’s face with their hands. A face I recognize as Olon-II approaches me, hands raised, palms glowing soft orange. Her cool fingertips touch my face, and then I’m lost in a river of tingling static.

I come out of the static river tasting clean air. No swamp funk, moss, or rot. Next, I hear Nuki shouting, negotiating. Let’s talk about this.

Sight finally clears. We’re in a room. Our hands are free. Several Losarans surround us. They look like regular, clean people. One of them steps forward. Middle-aged, dark-skinned, dressed in Losaran white with glowing eyes, curly gray hair, and raised scars. We’ve been searched and our things taken. I remember the control unit, Ventral, and feel it skittering around between my legs. I bite my tongue so I won’t shout and give it away. Right now, a war machine might just be our ticket out.

“I am Aspir. Chief Administrator of this instance of the Losaran Grand Development.” He nods at us like we’re expected guests. “Olon-II, our Human Capital Manager, has informed us about you.”

“Me and my cousin aren’t trying to be your slaves,” I say.

“Horrible Federal Army propaganda,” Aspir hisses. “We provide opportunity. Each instance of Losaran development brings light to the world. In exchange for devotion to the Grand Development, we offer food and shelter. A bright guiding light out of the primordial world you seem to thrive in.”

“We don’t take slaves. We build community,” Olon-II says, frowning. “Administrator, perhaps we should show them the scale of our instance. Put the Grand Development into perspective.”

“Your mind is pure,” Administrator nods. “We will behold the pinnacle of our light. Bring them.”

White robes flank us, leading us through geometrically constructed hallways humming with bright electric light. All sorts of tubes and wires run along the walls. This part of the tower isn’t immune to the swamp. Moss creeps between the wiring, clumps in corners. We approach a larger tube at the end of the hallway. The inside of the tube is large enough to fit both of us, Olon-II, the Administrator, and two or three extra white-robed Losarans. We enter, it hisses, and with a shudder starts lifting us up past stone and metal into the heart of the tower itself.

Other Losarans, wearing plain shirts and denim pants instead of white robes, carry supplies, do maintenance, and care for children. Aside from the same circular scars and softly glowing eyes, all of them look healthy, even the kids. Their warm gazes watch us rise.

“Every tower is the same height: 108 identical levels from base to bulb,” Olon-II explains in her one-note voice. “Everyone you see here, all of our work is maintaining our solar bulb, which is integral to our mission and operations. The bulb provides makeshift solar power, modulates weather patterns, and radiates soothing red-shift light that helps stabilize emotions. The bulb powers every tool inside of our tower, provides light and security, and assists with our farming operations. Each level alternates in function. This is a residential level. We have agricultural levels as well. And the level we are entering is an operations level.”

We swoop through breathtaking darkness for a few seconds, then Nuki and I both have to squint at the bright orange glow filling the tube. Once our eyes adjust, my jaw falls open. The room is full of glowing incubation chambers, racked and mounted on the walls, stacked up in rows, and hanging from the ceilings. Each chamber has tangles of glowing wires flowing from it, crawling up higher into the tower. The glow comes from what looks like translucent gel sealed inside the chambers. Studying the gel close, I see it’s full of brains, guts, organs, and veins, all glowing brightly.

“You must understand, it takes a complex mix of elements to create light,” Olon-II continues. “It is, not unlike the sun, a nonstop chemical reaction. Generating such massive amounts of heat, light, and power requires constant management at scale. Those chosen you see here are our valued operators. Each one has volunteered to provide eyes, ears, and mind to our solar bulb, tower-engineering operations, and long-range communal sensors. In collaboration, they are the true living brain and nerve center of our tower. We keep their bodies alive in perpetuity, and their collective contribution helps us remain in alignment with the Grand Development.”

I’ve been searching for words the whole time we’ve been on this level. A few finally form: “How is this not slavery?”

Aspir looks at me like I’m a bug crawling over his boot. “We must all choose a future to pursue. Our operators are steadfast in their commitment to the Design, and they are rewarded for their service. We brought you here, revealed the Design so that you understand our mission. There is light inside of all of us. By contributing their light to the world, our operators never know hunger, and neither do their families. They are safe from the terrors of the outside world, and their bloodline will persist for as long as Losara does.”

“And all they have to do is let you turn them into light goo,” Nuki says. “A life for a life sound like a bad trade for the person sacrificing.”

“Imagine knowing that your flesh will light the world, help us eliminate senseless chaos, and secure your family’s future,” Olon-II explains. “It is the pinnacle of service to humankind. I extend you now the same offer I extended you in Scutwater: Join us and be our eyes, our heart, our mind. Only one of you needs to join the operator ranks. The other will live a life of care and comfort. We will give you the opportunity to choose, but I am not above choosing for you.”

Nuki puffs up at the threat, but I hold a hand out to steady him. “This is a lot,” I interject before his temper gets us liquefied. “But I’m grateful you showed it to us. Maybe people outside are wrong about you. I have to admit, I’ve always been interested in how the bulb works. So, the operators provide the chemical reaction and inputs. But how does the bulb make light over the swamp?”

“He has an agile mind,” Aspir says, nodding with approval. “Let us continue, Olon-II. Perhaps seeing the light at the source will help them solidify their choice.”

We swoop to a residential level. A family is eating. They all have food. Electricity. Safety.

An unnatural electric burn twinges in the hollow of my crotch, making me jump. Ventral. The control unit crawls up my back as the tube slows to a stop. We step out of the tube, walk down a short hallway, and emerge beneath an opaque wall built from dark glass that mutes most of the bulblight, casting us in a soft glow. The massive solar bulb curls out into the gloom above us, red-orange light flowing around it like syrup. I hear Ventral’s voice in my ear as it scuttles up my back beneath my clothes.

“We approach their nerve center. I am providing you and your family member with electromagnetic shielding around your critical sensors,” Ventral transmits. “Losara is a threat to human survival. I will end this instance here.”

“A sight few get to see,” Aspir marvels. Olon-II beams beside him. “Our solar bulb, the pinnacle of our engineering. The realization of a century of development projects and philosophy. We know of your resourcefulness and guile, young man. Your family member has clearly been a burden to you this entire time. Allow him to join the operator ranks and live the rest of your life in comfort. With his help, we can power a new bulb in this region. That means a new tower, more resources for us all.”

“Whatever you’re going to do,” I growl, confusing the Losarans, “this is the time.”

Ventral’s heat suddenly becomes unbearable. I snatch the burning piece of machinery out of my armpit. As soon as Ventral is exposed, its red mask glows. Aspir and Olon-II’s eyes bug out. Their friends reach, but I’m already tossing the overheated control unit, and it sparks and flashes nearly as bright as the solar bulb. A rush of hot energy sizzles across my face. My ears burn with a feedback shriek.

Aspir, Olon-II, and the rest of the gathered Losarans collapse limp to the ground. The tower groans and rumbles. The everlasting red-orange light flickers, goes out.

“Look,” Nuki points as our sight and hearing return. Two Losaran tower solar bulbs up the river flicker out. “It did all that, Black. We gotta get no less than five double eagles for it.”

Ventral flickers back to life, offering a report. “The effects of my magnetic interference will not last indefinitely. Using the EM pulse took most of my remaining auxiliary power, and I will soon transition to rest mode. I am using this tower’s extrasensory operator network to communicate with other instances nearby. Their Administrators are investigating. Once I recover, we will have the opportunity to destroy more instances, which is in line with mission parameters. Pilot, consider yourself conscripted under Federal Army Articles of War Volume I, Section 14, Clause Number 3.”

With the disappearance of the reddish orange bulb glow, the patch of sky above us goes from gloomy green to deep, velvety blue before my eyes. Warm gray steam clouds evaporate and reveal a brilliant glowing globe hanging heavy above. There’s something wrong with my arms, my stomach. All I want to do is drink up all the moon’s silver. Ventral repeats its conscription command. “Losara is a threat to human survival,” it adds before powering down with a series of beeps while its red face—my red face—flickers out.

I take a moment to breathe, holding the cooling control unit in my palm. Nuki, done rifling through Aspir’s robes, decides to join me in getting a good long sip of the moon. My cousin, the last remnant of my family, turns to me. “You know who would want to see this shit?”

Magnetic interference is wearing off, and the gloom slowly rolls back in. I watch the moon disappear behind the clouds. The bulb remains dark.

“The Walking Talking Man,” he smiles at me like he does when he tells a good joke.

“Yeah,” I hold up my bare arm. Grandmama’s face smiles at us against the night. Together, standing at the top of the tower, we search for the dark outline of our cabin in the faint moonlight, watch small flickering lights streaming from the nearby towers toward Scutwater. Toward us. “Let’s go find him.”

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