21. Lucy
LUCY
The valley learns to count aloud.
The emergency hearing clock is already running.
Thirty-seven households still unsigned.
Four covenant fragments copied and stored in separate archives.
One child’s medical authorization with twenty-one hours left before another review could steal it back.
I write each number on the meeting hall wall because hidden fear grows teeth. Spoken fear becomes work.
By midmorning, the hall no longer belongs only to Solaris Valley.
Relay screens fill one side of the room, each one holding a different settlement face: Stonebend from the northern terraces, Lark Hollow from the river flats, Tamsin Ford from the old freight road, and three smaller farm clusters that once sent seed, tools, or hands during hard harvests.
They have all heard rumors.
Now I give them evidence.
I stand beneath the main display with the covenant marks projected behind me: water, burial, harvest. My side aches each time I lift my arm, so I stop lifting it. Pain does not need emphasis.
“This is not a request for charity,” I say. “Solaris Valley is asking for witness.”
A woman from Stonebend leans toward her screen. “Witness to what exactly?”
“To the fact that our families have lived here openly for generations. To shared harvest contracts. Water exchanges. Burial attendance. School rotations. Anything that proves Helix lied when it called us temporary occupants.”
An older man from Lark Hollow frowns. “If we enter testimony, Helix will know our names.”
“Yes.”
The answer lands harder than any reassurance would have.
I hold my voice steady. “They already know more than we want them to know. The difference is whether they get to frighten us separately.”
Behind the relay screens, people whisper and argue with someone outside frame. I can’t blame them. I would have wanted to hide too, if hiding had ever saved anyone from Helix.
Rethan stands near the side wall, not leading. Director Kaun’s restrictions have clipped his authority, and he honors them with visible restraint. Every uploaded document routes through her office. Every scan carries witness signatures. Every movement has a record.
Still, when I glance at him, the bond answers with quiet certainty.
Not rescue.
Partnership.
Torren enters with a slate under one arm. “Drone count is up to nine.”
The room reacts at once.
“Over the hall?” I ask.
“Hall, clinic, north cistern, burial rise, schoolhouse, and the west road. One parked above Samuel’s orchard like it pays taxes.”
That wins a few strained laughs.
A red notification flashes on the central display.
Jessa reads it and goes pale. “Message from Helix compliance.”
I already know what it will be.
The text opens across the wall.
Any external party who knowingly submits false, inflammatory, or unverified statements in a protected relocation matter may be subject to civil penalty, transport restriction, and contract review.
Stonebend’s screen goes quiet.
Lark Hollow’s older man looks down.
Tamsin Ford’s representative, a broad-shouldered woman named Ivera, mutters something I can’t hear.
Helix has fired without entering the room.
I step closer to the display. “That is a threat.”
Rethan says, “It is worded as guidance.”
“Even worse.”
A few people smile. This time, it reaches their eyes.
I face the screens again. “You do not have to lie for us. Do not exaggerate. Do not make speeches you cannot defend. Tell the truth you personally know. If your father traded seed with my father, say that. If your aunt attended a funeral on our burial rise, say that. If your children studied with ours during flood season, say that. Helix cannot punish truth without revealing what it fears.”
The old man from Lark Hollow rubs a hand over his face. “My sister is buried on your rise.”
I have to steady my voice. “Then she is part of this record.”
He looks up. “Her name was Brela Om. She married into Solaris. Died in the cold-fever year. I was there when they placed her stone.”
Rethan moves for the recorder, then stops and looks to Kaun’s remote oversight seal blinking at the corner of the display.
I understand. “Jessa, open a witness form.”
Jessa’s hands fly over the console. “Open.”
“State your name,” I say.
The old man straightens. “Darin Om of Lark Hollow.”
One name becomes two.
Then five.
Then twelve.
By afternoon, the meeting hall has become a testimony house. Children carry water between tables. Celia organizes witness queues with bread baskets and sharp looks. Torren tracks drones until the count reaches fourteen, then stops announcing new ones because everyone can hear them outside.
Helix messages arrive every hour.
Contract review.
Transport audits.
Agricultural compliance checks.
Security advisories.
Each one dressed as procedure. Each one aimed at a person who has just agreed to speak.
I begin reading them aloud the moment they arrive.
At first, people flinch.
Then they listen.
Then they laugh bitterly when Helix threatens to inspect a water pump that has been broken for six years.
Fear sounds different when everyone hears it together.
Near sunset, Ivera from Tamsin Ford requests full relay priority. Her image fills the main screen. “We have twenty-three families willing to submit harvest and transport records. We also have a message for Helix.”
I wait.
Ivera lifts a document where everyone can see it. “If they review one of our contracts for telling the truth, they review all of them. We stand as a group.”
The hall erupts—not cheering exactly, but sound enough to shake dust from the rafters.
I press one hand to the table, suddenly unsteady.
Rethan is beside me before anyone else notices. He does not touch me in public. He only stands close enough that I can borrow the fact of him.
“You are becoming difficult to isolate,” he says.
“Good.”
“Yes.” His gaze travels to the screens, the witnesses, the wall of numbers. “Very.”
Then the outer doors open.
A young runner from the south watch stumbles in, breathing hard, face gray beneath windburn.
“Lucy,” he says. “Helix security just landed at Celia’s bakery.”
Celia’s face goes empty before the fear reaches it.
The bread basket slips from her hands.
My gaze runs over the wall of numbers, the witness screens, the names still waiting to be spoken.
Then I face the door.
“Keep recording,” I say.