A Reason to Stay Pt. 03

"I've been thinking, Jez," he finally says. My eyes bore into his, as if to say, go on. "There's something...unusual about the latest mission the Council has charged Aed and the other Mentors with overseeing."

This is definitely news to me. I sit up straighter and lean forward. "Unusual how?"

Sebs unclasps his hands and turns his palms upward, as if sorting through his own thoughts. I recognize by the expression on his face that he has entered what I've dubbed "professor mode."

"Well, for starters, they didn't bring any combat or medical bots with them," he explains. "No robotic support also means no recorded surveillance or remote assistance. It's not unheard of, but it suggests the need for covertness. They'll be in the dark as much as the Council is, and the Council would never give up that much control or risk losing their finest...unless they are desperate."

I chew on this while he speaks, mind churning. He's right, unusual indeed.

"Secondly, there has been no public explanation for their sudden departure. The Academy rarely passes up an opportunity to shower more laureates on its Mentors. The fact that it hasn't yet--"

"Is more bad news," I finish for him, "because it means they've been told to keep quiet. And if it's not something they can use to hype up their precious Mentors, then their mission may very well involve things the public wouldn't approve of."

Sebs nods, the gleam in his eyes indicating I'm on the right track. "And what is the only thing Neonians are ever truly afraid of?"

My eyes widen, the answer obvious.

"Outsiders."

*********************

We're sitting in a hover car, making painfully stilted conversation. I conjure up every bland, pointless, neurotypical piece of small talk I can think of. Sebs is more elegant on his end, having had significantly more practice, and shares innocuous bits of research as well as his latest recipe for peach pie. Between us sit several, unassuming pieces of luggage. Sebs had taken one look at the row of supplies I packed and said, "We're not carrying all of that."

Seated beside me is also one, very out of place custodial robot. Fred is still in sleep mode to conserve power, but it sports a new addition on its back, cleverly installed by Sebs: an amber yellow glass grid that somehow converts energy from Neon's double moons. Even after all this time, there are still facets of Neonian technology that manage to surprise me.

The reason for our conversational ruse, of course, is because Big Brother can see and hear everything. Cameras are everywhere in Neon, especially in hover cars, and we must be careful not to give away our plan.

My mind is still struggling to grasp that Sebastien, of all people, is choosing to help me. I know realistically he's probably just helping himself; more Outsiders means potentially more information on his mother's whereabouts. But after all of his earlier objections, this sudden change of tune has given me whiplash. I would be warier of his intentions if he wasn't so notoriously devoted to his research. Despite being the sole heir to the Lyon legacy and one of the Academy's finest researchers, Sebs has always stayed true to his goal. I've never seen him falter, not even once. The intensity of his dedication is borderline terrifying.

We make a couple of pit stops along the way, the first to pick up his supplies and install Fred's lunar charger, and the second to load up on Neonian coffee. Between the two of us, we're operating on maybe three hours of sleep, having stayed up till dawn plotting the best possible approach to finding Aed. Now, we're taking turns yawning as we near our final destination, eyes red and watery.

It turns out Sebastien's considerable Academy privileges, combined with bits and pieces I picked up while giving Aed hell, paints us a blurry picture at best of where the Mentors might have gone. But a blurry lead is still better than no lead. I'm willing to run with what we've got, and so is Sebs.

Lulled by the steady hum of the hover car, my mind wanders back to last night, turning pieces of our conversation round and round like polished stones. I recall Sebs admitting to feeling guilty after I left his office, which prompted him to investigate Aed's whereabouts as a peace offering. Remembering this triggers a rush of reassurance. It's nice to know Sebs is capable of remorse, especially since our morning interaction had me considering otherwise.

He went on to explain how, through some of his peers, he learned one of the Mentors had requested a map of some strange, backwater town outside of Neon's borders. The map was a copy of a copy, made by an eccentric scholar who once traveled there on a whim. "That's when things really started not adding up," Sebs had noted over a steaming cup of barley tea. We were huddled side by side on my couch, analyzing the copy of a copy of a copy he had brought with him. "Why send your best Mentors to some nameless shantytown? What could possibly be drawing them there?"

In return, I offered a sliver of detail gleaned from one of my many fights with Aed. It was something he had said in the heat of the moment. I was going off one night about how nothing about his mission made sense and that a terrible feeling was gnawing at my gut. Desperate to stop me from spiraling, he let slip that he probably wouldn't even need to fight. When I questioned how he could possibly know that, it was too late for him to backpedal. He just mumbled something about sticking to the plan and catching their target by surprise. I tried to get more out of him, but he refused, claiming he had already said too much.

I hadn't believed him at the time. I thought he was just being his usual, over-confident self.

Once I relayed this memory to Sebs, however, we agreed he was probably telling the truth. Which meant the Mentors were not after something, but someone. This confirmed our suspicions about Outsider involvement. Perhaps it even had something to do with the bogeyman myths of rebel Outsiders, I had joked.

My poor attempt at levity fizzled and died when I saw the look on Sebastien's face. Apparently, rebel Outsiders might not be a myth after all.

I'm taking careful sips of coffee from my thermos when the hover car comes to a gentle stop. We've arrived at Neon's southernmost exit without a single hitch. A pleasant sound chimes as the metal doors slide open, indicating it is safe to exit. Sebs and I gather our modest amount of belongings--just a travelpack for each and two small duffels of "research equipment"--and step out of the car with Fred in tow.

There are two guards on duty, both wearing black fatigues and carrying stun guns. As we approach, they take in our clothes and belongings with professional neutrality, searching for any signs of threats or unusualness. We've intentionally dressed like a pair of harmless librarians for this very purpose. Sebs had his work cut out for him, but it took me a bit of effort to find a boring enough ensemble to cover my underarmour. I ended up choosing a chunky, lilac sweater and khaki slacks. Combined with my freshly shaved undercut, I look like a proper yuppy lesbian about to shop for a dining set at Ikea. All I'm missing is a pair of cuffed jeans.

While I'm ruminating, the two guards stare at Fred questioningly, but a quick scan of Sebastien's ID sends them parting to either side in deference.

"Mister Lyon, we are honored by your visit and wish you and your companions safe travels," they recite in unison. It's a little creepy, but for once I am grateful for the formalities. Sebastien's status makes it so that even the Council would think twice about getting in his way.

Nevertheless, it doesn't mean he's immune to scrutiny. So we suffer through all the motions of making nice, nodding and smiling as we mention at least a dozen times how quick and utterly boring our survey of Neon's borders will be. Sebs even glosses over how we've brought a cleaning bot to collect and sanitize samples. The guards nod politely, seeming even more eager than we are for the interaction to be over. I suppose from their perspective, the less time they spend in the presence of someone with power, the less likely they are to make a wrong move.

As soon as we squeeze past them with our bags and droid and step out onto the other side of Neon's walls, I feel a thrill of excitement flutter through me. We did it. We're out, and now we're one step closer to finding Aed.

I try my best not to think about how if our theory is wrong, then we're about to go on one hell of a wild goose chase.

Instead, I decide to take in the fresh scenery. I don't know why, but it surprises me that Neon is surrounded by trees. Not the tall, coniferous kind I'm familiar with back home, but the wayward and gnarled sort, covered with moss and lichen and leaves that shimmer when the wind blows. I've never been outside of Neon's walls before. The treetops sound almost like a chorus of rustling sighs in the wake of a cool, morning breeze that dances past us. I shiver at how supernatural it all feels. I half expect us to stumble across a fairy ring or hear the mischievous tittering of pixies.

Fortunately, we experience neither of those phenomena. If anything, it just feels like a pleasant stroll through the woods for the first hour or so, the ground flat and easy to traverse. There are even clear, man-made pathways for this first stretch, and I start to question why both Aed and Sebs insisted it was too dangerous.

Then the pathway fades into obscurity, and I start to question them less.

For whatever reason, the woods seem to grow darker here, even though the overcast sky above is still relatively bright for it being midday. The branches gradually appear less full and green, the sounds of wildlife fading into nothing.

"What on earth happened here?" I whisper, despite it being just the three of us. Somewhere to my side, Fred rolls along steadfastly, awaiting further command. I would be lying if I said my cleaning bot is the only one severely out of their element. We all are, with our city clothes and mindsets. The forest feels as sentient as it had before, only now there's an uneasy sense of hostility paired with the disease and neglect.

"Nothing happened here," Sebs replies as he pulls out the map for the first time since our departure. "Which is precisely the problem." He carefully unfolds it to study the route we had planned. It would have been easier to scan it into a hologram, but digitizing anything leaves an easy trail. Using a paper copy at least ensures that no one can tap into our files remotely. For this very reason, we also leave our physical ID's behind in the hollow of a tree about fifty paces back, in case anyone tries to track us. It means we're truly on our own out here, just like Aed and his crew. No access to emergency assistance. No Council to scoop us up if we get in trouble. But in a pinch, we could still provide Sebastien's personal code, assuming we find ourselves desperate enough to blow our covers.

I give him a sidelong glance. "Elaborate please, professor," I cheekily imitate his students.

Sebs tilts his head at me and offers a rare, wry smile. Maybe it's because the conspiratorial nature of our adventure is adding an extra pep to my step, but he looks particularly pretty today, the soft, afternoon light illuminating his aristocratic profile, turning his brown curls into wisps of translucent gold. The trees around us may look like they could come to life at any moment and drag us down into hell, but at least I still get to indulge in a bit of eye candy. Frankly, Sebs has always been good for that.

I only half-heartedly admonish myself for being shallow. The knife of Aed's absence keeps twisting in my heart, but there's enough pettiness in me to relish the jealousy I imagine will ripple across his face when he realizes I've spent all this time alone with Sebs. Right before I beat him to a pulp for lying to me. I still don't quite understand what the deal is between them, but anyone with eyes can see that their regard for one another is prickly at best.

"As you know, the sun is weak here," Sebs obliges, pulling back my focus, "which is why we rely on artificial lighting as much as we do."

It's never not funny to me how an entire city has been named after a noble gas on our periodic table. "Good ol' neon keeping us all alive," I muse. "Back home, we just used it for stupid things like bar signs and wall decor. Who would've thought?"

Sebs chuckles at this familiar piece of Outsider lore. "Indeed, though as I understand it, your dimension only ever managed to mass produce neon in its inert form, or red neon as we call it. Varied as your colors can be, they serve no function beyond the aesthetic. Here, it's blue neon that allows plants to grow."

"And yellow to keep things running," I add. "But the other colors--"

"Will not be discussed until you're ready," Sebs finishes for me, still diligently scanning the map. "You know the drill."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Where to next, then, Captain Know-It-All?"

His eyes light up as he turns to me, their color flashing more silver than grey. "That's a new one. Is it a common saying, or did you just make it up to spite me again?"

"Sort of both," I shrug.

Sighing, he folds the map back up, slipping it into his backpack before moving onward. I follow suit with Fred trailing behind, the two of us captive audience to yet another one of Sebastien's mini lectures. "As I was saying, because of our reliance on artificial light, our influence can only stretch so far. Without Neon's technology promoting cellular growth, the flora here becomes...well, like this."

He gestures at the scenery like some kind of friendly, local tour guide. "Our horticultural department is still trying to figure out what exactly is causing the plants to look so distressed."

"Right," I interject, "because low light itself can't cause leaves to brown this way." I peer closer at one of the sickly trees, inspecting but not touching, noting black rings of decay around each brown spot. "It almost looks like chemical burn...maybe something in the soil is toxic? Salt alone will do a nasty number in high enough doses."

Bemused, Sebs pauses to stare at me for a second before continuing on.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing, I just forget sometimes that you had a whole other life back in your dimension." He adjusts the straps on his backpack, and I wonder briefly if he has ever carried anything heavier than a stack of books for this long. Not that he seems in the least bit winded. "A nursery, you called it?"

I shake my head, the sting of nostalgia old and dull. "I would've liked to work at a nursery, but no, it was just a flower shop." Squinting at the memory of minimum wage and retail hell, I add, "though they did hire me because I was good with plants."

Sebs grins at this. "So it seems. But I've never understood...why nasturtiums? You could have your pick, even ask some of the botanists to create new hybrids for you."

"Because," I answer with wistful longing, "they're the only damn plant out here that tastes remotely spicy, and for whatever reason you all refuse to figure out a way to grow proper chili peppers." My mouth waters at the thought of salsa on tacos, chili oil in ramen, hot cheetos...oh, how I'd kill for a bag of hot cheetos right now.

The other reason--the one I decide not to share--is that I had managed to sprout those nasturtiums all on my own. I like that they are wholly mine and not another gift dropped into my lap. I worked for them, fought to keep the seedlings alive until maturity. Being spoiled by Sebs was starting to screw with my head and I wanted to earn something for a change (other than aches and bruises, that is.)

But of course, I withhold this bit of truth, so as not to hurt his feelings. I think it makes him happy, spending money on my random, unconventional whimsies. It's apparent that Sebs doesn't have very many close friends; most people orbit around him for his money or influence, or both. He seems to find some kind of strange, almost malicious satisfaction in funding my hobbies. One of my "fuck off" sculptures sits proudly on his desk, a constant reminder to every colleague or politician swinging by for afternoon tea that he'd rather spend his money on ugly little Outsider obscenities than invest a single credit in their self-serving agendas. The custom kiln alone that he commissioned for me had cost enough to make my eyes bug out.

I have to say, I admire Sebastien's integrity.

We're trodding along, chatting about pedantic things like soil properties and chlorophyll, when the plant life around us comes to an abrupt stop. It's as if an invisible knife has slammed down and scraped the rest of the vegetation off of the face of this Earth. Memories come flooding back of the first day I met Sebastien. It was in a barren landscape much like this one. Just grey nothingness for miles and miles all around.

"What the holy hell is this?" I mutter. "How does everything just...stop growing in a perfect line?"

Sebs looks mildly troubled, though his voice remains calm. "I don't know, but at least this means the map is accurate. It shows the exact distance we've traveled, and after that it's mostly blank."

I remember us pondering this peculiarity last night. There are still various markers dotting the space beyond Neon's borders on the map, but it is otherwise empty. At first, we thought maybe the mapmaker just ran out of time and never finished illustrating the landmarks. Now, we can see that there really was no point in bothering.

From here, it's supposed to be a straight shot to this mysterious shantytown. The map has it marked only with an X and no other symbols or letters, so we decided to call it Xtown. Ingenious, I know. Between Xtown and the abrupt end of vegetation, there is a single discporter about a quarter of the way in. Our only challenge will be maintaining a constant direction. With nothing to use as a reference point--not even a simple compass, since whatever is messing with the plant life apparently also disrupts magnetic fields--it will be very much like sailing blind on an ocean. Even a few degrees off will leave us straying drastically from our mark.

"Fred," I call out, "it's your time to shine."

The custodial droid comes rolling up to me. "Yes, Miss Jezia. What can I do for you today?"

"Fred, please enter street mode."

One thing service bots excel at is making very, very straight lines. This is because as soon as they are outdated or no longer wanted, they are donated back to the city as street cleaners. Anticipating this, manufacturers build all of their custodial droids with basic, street maintenance abilities. So things like sweeping, paving, and touching up crosswalks are all within their wheelhouse.

Sebs, being Sebs, happened to know the exact bypass code to access this hidden programming. "What?" he had asked when he caught me staring at him dubiously. "I'm on good terms with the family who supplies most of these service models. Their eldest and I used to tinker with bots for fun when we were children."

Of course, that's how one rich kid would play with a second, even richer kid.

A series of beeps later, Fred confirms that he is now in street mode. Meanwhile, Sebs has the map again, measuring out the exact angle to orient Fred. Once he's satisfied and gives me a thumbs up, I recite the command I've committed to memory.

"Fred, please create a new pedestrian guideline. Distance is indefinite until further notice."

My heart soars as Fred automates an affirmation and begins rolling forward. It worked, it actually worked! I make a mental note to reward Fred somehow when all of this is over. Maybe a nice expansion pack or two for his joke module.

We've intentionally left the bot without a paint tank and overrode all paint-related warnings. There's no sense in carrying extra weight while leaving a giant trail for others to follow, so Fred just chugs on merrily, ejecting puffs of air into the grey dirt. Sharing a look of triumph with one another, Sebs and I follow behind, keeping an eye out for anything that could obstruct his path.