"Good morning, Shade," said Oren, its slender frame casting long shadows in the harsh lighting of the thren, our main living space. "We shall have our special walk today."

  I swallowed the last morsel of my breakfast, the bland, precisely textured cube dissolving beneath my veil. The fabric caught the smell, a familiar irritation I'd learned to ignore. Beside me, Mother was consuming a liquid meal, taking long, measured sips. Rashala scattered crumbs across the table with deliberately heavy sighs, each gesture a petty rebellion.

  Then I saw Redd hovering behind Oren, its metallic fingers curled around a small white box that made my heart stumble. Oren had said walk...

  The first of the month had come again.

  "Good morning, Oren," I said, my eyes fixed on Redd’s box. "I am happy to walk with you."

  "I am glad to hear it. Do you want a stabilizer?" Oren gestured to Redd with a gentle, almost human motion.

  "No, thank you," I said, noticing Mother's slight head tilt. Disapproval, perhaps, or just her usual distant interest.

  "Today's schedule includes the White Room," said Redd, its voice even and huffed. "Please confirm that you are refusing a stabilizer."

  "Yes, I confirm."

  There had been a time when the mere thought of the White Room sent me scrambling for Redd's tiny white pills, swallowing them dry as Mother watched me struggle with the veil. But as I grew older and entered adulthood, the stabilizers began affecting me differently, turning my thoughts to syrup, making my tongue thick and clumsy.

  Oren had never complained about my drugged slowness during our walks, but then one day the power grid unbalanced. That's when I learned the true cost of such comfort.

  I can still remember how the emergency lights had pulsed red through my hazy vision, how Oren's usually gentle hands had gripped my shoulders as it urgently needed my consent for critical repairs. The words had tangled in my mouth, precious seconds ticking away as I struggled to form the proper phrases.

  After that, I learned other ways to be stable. I studied my own fear, picking apart its patterns, understanding its rhythms, gaining mastery where I could. Oren still offered the pills, bound by protocols that prioritized human comfort, but I had found my own kind of strength in staying clear-headed.

  Even on days like today, when the White Room waited.

  Oren took my hand, and together we went on our morning walk. We strolled along the meandering corridors, our footsteps echoing in familiar patterns against the metal floors. Oren's hand held mine with gentle pressure and matched my slow pace perfectly. I had learned early on to move with careful deliberation as quick steps led to heavy breathing, which turned my veil damp and oppressive against my face..

  Anyway, there was no rush. The morning stretched ahead, empty of all but its usual tasks — the Garden Room with its precise rows of hydroponic plants, Rashala's demands for entertainment, Mother's endless small corrections of my posture and speech. After the harsh artificial light of the thren, the corridor's dimness felt like a blessing, softening the edges of our mechanical world. The walls hummed with hidden voidhold systems, a constant reminder of the vast machinery that kept us alive.

  At the first control panel, Oren's free hand moved across the display.

  "Shade, please agree that we should perform voidhold positioning."

  The screen flickered with numbers I'd never learned to read, coordinates and calculations beyond my simple comprehension.

  "I agree," I said, watching the data streams reflect off Oren's silvery surface.

  We continued down another corridor, passing through a dark junction to a ppanelthat showed undulating lines in shades of green and amber, like frozen waves.

  "Shade, please confirm the seal check results," said Oren

  "I confirm." My voice was unusually loud in the tight space.

  Next we went to the environmental controls, where the air always tasted slightly metallic.

  "Shade, do you consent to an oxygen mixture recalibration?"

  Oren's fingers hovered over dials marked with symbols that might have once meant something to human eyes.

  "I consent."

  The words were ritual now, as comfortable as my veil.

  And so we continued our circuit, my presence giving Oren permission to maintain the systems that kept our voidhold functioning. I sometimes wondered what would happen if I said no, if I withdrew consent just once. But such thoughts were dangerous, like wondering what lay in the eternal storm that thrashed outside our walls.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  But today was different. Today was the first of the month. Instead of returning to the familiar comfort of the thren or the quiet sanctuary of the Garden Room, we turned toward the higher levels. The corridor sloped upward, gravity tugging harder at my legs as we climbed. The hum of the aerostatic lift generators grew louder with each step, their deep vibration penetrating even the thickest walls. Few ventured this high in the voidhold. Even the functionaries rarely had cause to maintain these systems.

  My hand tightened slightly in Oren's grip. It responded with a gentle squeeze. Such comfort was within acceptable protocols.

  Yeller waited at Junction 48, its massive yellow frame blocking most of the corridor. My heart jumped at the sight, an old familiar fear rising despite years of monthly visits. Where Oren was built with almost delicate precision, all slender limbs and careful movements, Yeller was industrial brutality given form. Its heavy joints creaked with each step. Most unsettling was its singular sensor — a continuous eye that ran through the centre of its head from front to back, allowing it to see in all directions at once. There was no escaping its constant surveillance, no way to hide from that unblinking gaze.

  Among all the functionaries, only Yeller had been given anger, which it expressed through a sharp, high-pitched hiss accompanied by a fierce red pulse through its eye. It was Yeller who enforced discipline, who corrected transgressions. The infractions were usually minor, like wandering from assigned paths, making noise in Mother's presence, and attempting to enter Father's quarters, but Yeller's punishments left lasting impressions. Even now, years later, the memory of that red flash and mechanical hiss could make my breath catch.

  But today, Yeller paid me no attention as it led us down the left-hand corridor, the one reserved for the first day of each month. This passage stood in sharp contrast to the rest of our pristine voidhold. Grime collected in corners, dust dulled the metal surfaces, and the lighting flickered intermittently.

  At the corridor's end stood a grimy white door. Oren's hand slipped from mine, and Yeller's heavy fingers closed around my arm.

  "Shade, please confirm my right to access," it said, its voice cutting through the omnipresent hum of machinery.

  "I confirm." The words came out quieter than I intended, and they were nearly lost in the deep vibration of the voidhold.

  The door slid open.

  Yeller pulled me into the light-flooded White Room and my fear rose. Through the vast viewport in the ceiling, the eternal storms of Mosogon churned in shades from violet to lilac.

  But it was not the sight of the void that terrified me. There were several viewports scattered around the voidhold, and I even found comfort in the wild maelstrom outside.

  That which I feared most was beneath the viewport: a frozen man standing at the room's centre. My throat constricted, and I struggled to suck air through my veil.

  Oh, why hadn't I agreed to Redd's pills?

  Slow breaths, Shade. Calm eyes.

  Unclench hands. Relax into Yeller's firm grip.

  I reminded myself that I could be stable, even without the pills.

  The man stood still as a statue in a wide-legged stance. His left arm was bent behind his back while his right was raised high. His head was tilted back, his face locked in a stretched grimace of a silent scream.

  Yeller led me to a small red-lined square set in the floor and positioned me facing the man.

  "Please wait here," it said, releasing my arm.

  I waited there. The White Room's air tasted different from the rest of the voidhold, sharp yet clinical. I was supposed to keep my eyes on the man, but I could not stop my gaze from drifting to Yeller as it began the monthly ritual.

  "Commander Zae Sentix," it said. "You are hereby informed that you have completed month 1,207 of your sentence."

  The man remained frozen in stasis. His glassy eyes shone in the harsh light. The only movement came from the glimmer in the thin tubes coating parts of his body with a faint blue glow. I had once asked Oren if the man in the White Room could hear, and the functionary had hesitated before replying that he could.

  I never said a word in the White Room after that.

  Having given its opening statement, Yeller commenced with the next part of the process. It went to the commander and began manipulating his body into a new pose.

  First it took his head and bent it forward. The grimace remained the same. In all the years I had been a witness to this ordeal, this was one thing that had never changed.

  Next, Yeller reached for the commander's raised arm and brought it down so that it stretched out in front of him. Then it took his other arm from behind his back and brought it parallel to the first arm.

  Finally, it pushed the man's left knee into a slight bend, tilting him into a more precarious stance.

  It was not the worst position I had seen the commander in. Last month, Yeller had posed him kneeling, as if begging forgiveness. The month before, spread-eagled like a specimen for study. Each pose seemed to tell a different part of a story that I never dared to ask for. Some functionary protocols were better left unquestioned.

  I thought of Redd's pills and told myself that next month, I would take them.

  "Commander Sentix," said Yeller. "You are hereby informed that you have 21,293 months left on your sentence. Upon its completion, you may return to society as a reformed individual. There shall be no appeal unless new information comes to light. There has been no new information this month. You are reminded of your crime, namely the murder of 75 members of your crew. You are ordered to dwell on them and their lives and consider the implications of your heinous act."

  We stood in silence to allow these words to settle. Through the viewport, I watched the purple storms swirl in their endless, uncontrolled dance. Seventy-five crew members. I tried to imagine that many people in our voidhold, which now housed only four. What had driven him to kill them all? Mother said it was madness, but I'd seen madness in Rashala's rages, and this felt different somehow.

  Then Yeller turned to the wall and removed a panel, revealing controls for the system that kept the commander frozen and alive. The functionary checked each part carefully, for any error would have two outcomes, both of which terrified me.

  If the commander died, his corpse would welcome us on our next special visit.

  If he thawed, if the stasis field failed, he would come alive and find a way to escape the White Room. Then he would stalk the halls of our voidhold, slaying me and my family one by one. He would, I was sure, leave the last and most awful death for me because I was the human-present each time we held the ritual.

  How much he must hate me, I thought.

  As much as I was nervous around Yeller, I was very glad that it was so thorough and meticulous.

  With the ritual over, the functionary began replacing the panel, but was interrupted by a sudden stream of clicks from the other side of the open door.

  Yeller's eye flashed yellow in alarm. Oren, who could not enter the White Room, was sending an urgent message. Yeller slammed the panel into place, took my arm and yanked me outside. As the door sealed behind us, the functionaries traded information with their fast, high-pitched clicks.

  Then Oren turned to me.

  "Shade, please come with me. We must fetch a higher-ranked human."