Page 22

Trent nods, immediately standing. "On my way, Supervisor."

"Not you," Kaplan clarifies, looking at me. "Her. Chemical balance fluctuations in purification chamber twelve."

Interesting. Purification chamber twelve isn't part of my assigned section. Is this a legitimate work issue, or something else?

"I'll handle it," I say, gathering my half-eaten ration. "See you after shift," I add to Trent, touching his arm in the casual way bonded couples do.

His eyes convey a clear message—be careful—before he nods. "I'll finish your ration for you."

Kaplan leads me through the maintenance corridors, away from the busier sections toward the purification chambers. His silence feels loaded, and I maintain vigilant awareness of our route and surroundings.

"You settling in alright?" he finally asks, an abrupt attempt at conversation that immediately raises my suspicions. Kaplan hasn't shown the slightest interest in our welfare since our arrival.

"Well enough," I answer neutrally. "Quarters are smaller than we're used to, but the work is similar."

He grunts. "Your partner, he always so by-the-book?"

The question feels like a test. "Elias likes things done properly. Gets nervous when protocols aren't followed."

"And you?"

I give him what I hope is a conspiratorial smile. "I'm more flexible. You don't survive in maintenance without knowing which rules matter and which ones don't."

Something in Kaplan's posture relaxes slightly. "Good. Flexibility's important down here. Upper levels don't always understand what it takes to keep things running."

We arrive at purification chamber twelve, but Kaplan doesn't immediately enter the access code. Instead, he glances up and down the corridor, then lowers his voice.

"You ever wonder why we work so hard maintaining systems for people who'll never know our names?" he asks.

This is it, the recruitment test. I consider my response carefully, need to seem receptive without appearing too eager.

"Every day," I say with convincing weariness. "Eastern was the same. We fix the air they breathe, the water they drink, and still get treated like we're disposable."

Kaplan studies me for a long moment, then nods as if coming to a decision. "Chamber twelve doesn't actually need maintenance. But there's something you should see."

He enters a complex access code—significantly longer than standard Unity protocols—and the chamber door slides open. Instead of the expected purification equipment, the large space has been converted into what appears to be a temporary medical facility. Portable screening units, supply cabinets, and several makeshift beds line the walls.

And on one of those beds sits a child.

My breath catches. She's young—perhaps seven or eight—with the thin frame common to Lower Arcology children who never receive the optimal nutrition provided to Upper and Mid levels. But what immediately draws my attention are her eyes—a startling amber color with a reflective quality that catches the light when she turns her head.

Reflective retinas. A Splinter adaptation.

"Found her three days ago," Kaplan explains, his gruff voice softening. "Hidden in a supply crate from outside. Must have been smuggled in."

The child watches us with wary alertness, her unnaturally colored eyes tracking our movements. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she sits perfectly still, evaluating us with an intelligence that seems beyond her years.

"She needs medical treatment," Kaplan continues. "But we can't take her to Unity Medical. They'd?—"

"Process her," I finish for him, understanding immediately. Unity protocol for Splinter identification is cruel, at best. Captured Splinters are subjected to painful "processing" procedures that extract information and attempt to study/reverse their modifications, then those who survive are deported, not to the inhabitable parts of the wastelands which they came from but instead deposited in lethal zones they're unlikely to survive, even with adaptations.

I move toward the girl slowly, careful not to appear threatening. Her eyes—those impossible amber eyes—fix on mine with an intensity that feels almost physical.

"Hello," I say softly. "My name's Mira. What's yours?"

The child doesn't respond, continuing to study me with that unsettling focus. Up close, I can see other subtle modifications. Her fingernails have an unusual thickness and slight curve, and there's a barely perceptible pattern to her skin, visible only when the light hits it at certain angles.

These aren't random mutations. They're deliberate adaptations, likely designed for survival in specific wasteland conditions. The reflective retinas would provide superior night vision, the reinforced nails and textured skin suggesting adaptation to harsh terrain or climbing.