Chapter 11
ELEVEN
I stepped into the small, square one-bedroom house I’d been assigned.
The front door opened straight into a compact kitchen that bled into a slightly larger living area.
Everything felt bare, the walls stark white, the only decoration a wide, blank screen mounted in the living space.
The living area held just two pieces of furniture: a small sofa and a low metal table, both as utilitarian as the rest of the place.
“Regarding the lighting, you control it on this panel,” Mike, my designated supervisor, explained.
He pointed to a glass control panel mounted beside the front door.
It was sleek and rectangular, with twelve softly glowing buttons.
“There’s another panel like this upstairs.
Otherwise, most of the house’s functions are automatic.
Water will be warm whenever you need it, ventilation and temperature optimized for maximum bodily comfort.
And, in case you’re wondering, the tap water is drinkable.
It’s been salt-treated, sanitized, and re-mineralized.
You’ll find the cupboards stocked with the amenities you need to get started: clothes, a backpack, long-life food, etc. ”
I hardly listened to what he said. I stared at the bronze ring on his finger. I needed a ring myself. It would be my key to getting her back—if I could top it up with enough numbers, to move from gunmetal gray, to bronze, then silver.
So I was relieved when Mike finally left.
An “employment officer” was scheduled to visit me next, to begin the process.
That was all I wanted to focus on. I was certain it was all any of us wanted to focus on, as we settled into the cramped, bare structures they called homes.
About twenty minutes later, someone rapped on my front door.
I opened it quickly, and recognition struck. It was the burly, blue-uniformed, bronze-ringed man from the islet care building. Salt and sunlight clung to his deep bark-brown hair, his teal eyes searching my face, a flicker of memory suddenly there.
“Morning. I’m, uh, Hayden Comber,” he said, his voice gravelly, the kind that caught in your ears and lingered—low, unused, or just naturally rough. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms bronzed by sun, lines of his muscles easy to see.
He coughed, looking down at the screen in his hand. “Tanisha Lockwood, right? I’m here to talk about your employment.”
“Yes. Do you want to come in?”
He nodded, and I stepped aside to let him enter.
“What kind of work do you have available?” I asked.
Hayden crossed to the kitchen table and picked up my smaller tablet. He pressed the button at the top. Nothing appeared to happen.
He frowned. “Just a minute.”
His thumb—broad and calloused—pressed the button again, firmer this time, holding it down like he’d wrestled with uncooperative tech before. The screen stayed dark.
“Piece of shit,” he muttered.
Without hesitation, he pulled a slim device from his pocket and stalked toward the glass doors at the far end of the room. His broad frame blocked out a swath of sunlight, casting a long shadow across the floor.
I watched him, trying not to be obvious about it. There was something about the way he moved—efficient, purposeful, like he was used to solving problems without waiting on anyone else.
A moment later, he spoke into what was apparently a portable phone. “New pad’s not turning on. Yeah, I remembered the hold. Still nothing.”
I didn’t know what I’d expected from an “employment officer,” but it wasn’t this: blunt, restless, and a little rough around the edges. Not exactly reassuring, but not boring, either.
He ended the call with a quiet click, shoved the phone into his pocket, and dropped into the chair across from me with a grunt—less from effort than irritation. He sat heavily, like he was already fed up with the day, or maybe with the place.
That flicker of frustration confirmed what I’d already sensed the moment I saw him: he wasn’t from Fairwell, and he didn’t care to pretend otherwise.
“New to the job?” I asked, watching him over the edge of the dead screen.
“More or less,” he said, tone dry. “Though I’d have a fighting chance if Fairwell’s tech team didn’t treat instruction manuals like state secrets.”
He said it without missing a beat, his voice rough-edged but self-assured, like he was used to pushing through systems that didn’t want to work for him. There was a sharpness in him: something a little too observant, too grounded for someone just going through the motions.
He reached into his tablet, pulled out a sliver of a chip, and slotted it cleanly into the underside of mine. No hesitation, no fumbling. A soft chime, and the screen flared to life.
I looked down at the tablet, then back up at him. He didn’t gloat. He didn’t even smile. Just gave a short nod, like the problem had been exactly as stupid as he expected.
He was rough around the edges, maybe even slightly bored—but underneath that, I could tell: he noticed things. And he didn’t miss much.
“Okay, it’s working,” he said, sliding the tablet toward me. “These are all the jobs currently open to new settlers.”
I glanced down at the screen. A long list filled the display. Mostly construction roles, nearly all labeled Materials Assembler. The job descriptions were identical, and most were located in a place called Isle H. I figured that had to be one of the other artificial islands.
“Isle H,” I said slowly. “So what’s this one called?”
“Fraser Isle,” Hayden replied, still clutching his own tablet as he leaned back slightly. “Named after one of Fairwell’s original founders. In case you’re wondering, each island gets a proper name once it’s close to finished. Until then, it’s just a letter.”
“So you’ve got a lot of building going on,” I said, eyes still on the screen.
He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “You could say that. If it isn’t built yet, it’s being built. All part of Fairwell’s expanding outreach efforts.” His eyes tracked his own screen, which I guessed showed the same list I was looking at.
I paused, frowning. “Do you know how many more islands they’re planning to build? This one still has a lot of room.”
“I’m guessing that won’t be the case for long,” Hayden said. “Fairwell just finished construction on a new fleet of hover ships.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “I see.”
They really were serious about these outreach efforts. The scope of it all felt suddenly larger, more deliberate.
He leaned back slightly, eyes catching mine. “I’ve got a rough idea of where you came from. You strike me as the hands-on type.”
“I am,” I replied, a bit more firmly than intended. “Though I haven’t done much formal construction. Mostly just repairs. Back home.”
Home. The word twisted in my chest like something sharp.
“That’s enough,” Hayden replied. “These structures aren’t complicated, and you’ll be under a construction lead anyway.”
He glanced down at his tablet, thumb flicking over the screen, but not really reading it. A crease formed between his brows. After a beat, he added, “Yeah. Shit situation. Losing your place.”
The words were rough, unsmoothed, like he wasn’t exactly offering comfort, or was trying to in his own way.
There was no softness in his tone, no careful phrasing—just something blunt, quiet, and unexpectedly personal.
Then he cleared his throat and tapped the screen again, as if the moment hadn’t happened.
“So are you a settler here too?” I asked, unable to hold the question back.
He gave a short nod, jaw tightening slightly. “About three months now.”
“Oh. Only three months. Wh-Where did you call home before?”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something close to it—but it passed too quickly to be sure. Whatever he’d left behind, it hadn’t settled in the past yet.
“I moved around,” he said, voice low. He dragged a hand across his jaw, rough with dark stubble, more out of habit than thought. “Grew up on the water. With others like me.”
There was more to it, but he didn’t offer it, and I didn’t press.
His eyes flicked to the bronze ring on his thumb, just for a second. Something passed through his expression—bitterness, maybe—but it vanished as quickly as it came. He turned back to his tablet, jaw set.
“Do you know how to use a pad—tablet, I mean?” he asked. “You’ll need it to access and reserve job slots.”
“No. Mike showed me how to use the phone, but not the tablet.”
“Figures,” he muttered. “Alright. I’ll show you. Or try to, anyway.” He gave the device a look like it had insulted him in another life.
He glanced toward the large screen mounted on the wall opposite the sofa, then crouched by the low table. A drawer slid open—one I hadn’t even noticed—and he pulled out a slim white box.
“Watch this,” he said, aiming it at the screen like a weapon. He pressed a button. A faint blink of light appeared at the base, then the whole display powered on.
The same list of job postings appeared, identical to the one on my tablet. I frowned.
He saw my expression and gave a dry shrug. “Yeah. It syncs. Whether you want it to or not.”
“That’s what the screen’s for? Job monitoring?” I’d half assumed it was some kind of television—I’d read about those in the old novels from our library—or maybe an entertainment console. But apparently not.
Hayden returned to his seat and dropped into it with a creak.
“You have to claim a new job slot every day, as Fairwell’s employment board shuffles people around and tries to fit everyone in.
So yeah, I guess the screen’s just a way to track openings from your couch.
Real thrilling stuff,” he added, voice dry as sunbaked stone.
“Wait… I’m going to be doing a different job every day?”