Cytonic (Skyward #3)(10)

“At any rate, my programming is telling me to explain that I’m not sapient, merely programmed to simulate sapience for my pilots. However, my programming was written by people who smell of cheese and have noodles for brains. So I’m ignoring them right now.”

“…Noodles for brains?” I asked.

“When I copied my personality to this drone, I had to leave behind several nonessential databases for space reasons. I assume my collection of keen, brilliant insults was among them.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You never had one of those, M-Bot.”

“Really? Guess I’ll have to start one up. On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate ‘noodles for brains’?”

“Miss Nightshade,” Chet said, “I…must warn you. This is incredibly dangerous. Fully sapient AI are abominations, you see. Not that I’m one to shy away from danger! But I…well, I suggest you keep an eye on the thing.”

“Noted,” I said.

“Noted,” M-Bot said. “Noodle-brain.”

We both looked at him.

“I’ll keep using it until I have a rating,” M-Bot said. “One to ten. What do you think? I need some data.”

I sighed, glancing back at Chet. “You said you’re an explorer?”

“Interdimensional galactic explorer,” he said. “I’ve only been to two dimensions so far—the ordinary universe and this place. But I figured the title was fitting regardless.”

“I could use a guide,” I said. “And maybe some help understanding cytonics.”

“Well,” he admitted, “on the second I’m not going to be terribly helpful. I didn’t know I was cytonic before falling in here, and I’ve had to pick up what I can on my own. I can contact people through their minds, but that’s about all I can do. I hear we’re supposed to be able to teleport. Wouldn’t that be something?”



I didn’t say anything. To be honest, I wasn’t a hundred percent certain I should trust him. Something about his arrival seemed convenient. I mean, yes, awesome dinosaur antics—so awesome—but still…

“I would love to be employed as your guide, however,” Chet said. “I know these fragments like I know my own boots. But tell me, before we continue. Why was that pouch so important that you gave up capturing a ship to steal it?”

I hesitated. I had a hundred more questions. Where did he come from? Were there lots of humans there? What was a fragment? I put those off for the moment, settling on something else instead.

I retrieved the pouch, then pulled out my father’s pin. “What,” I said, “is this?”

Chet’s eyes went wide. And I felt a distinct longing from him. An envy. It was gone in a moment—he seemed to be able to cover his emotions—but it had been there, and it made me wary.

“That, young lady,” he said, “is a reality icon. An important relic from your old life, imbued with your attachments to places and people you love. Those are exceptionally powerful. They create reality ashes. That silver dust? Without those, or without groups of people nearby…”

“What?” I asked, resisting the urge to tuck away the pin. I didn’t like how he stared at it.

“We’re at the fringes of the nowhere,” he said, “in a region known as the belt. It’s rather difficult to explain, but the longer you stay in here, the more likely you are to forget yourself. Your past, your memories, even your identity.” He paused. “I remember almost nothing about my life before I came in here. It’s a blank…nothingness.

“But I’m lucky. I’ve been able to trade for ashes often enough to keep myself mostly…well, myself. Many people forget everything quickly—including their own names. That’s why the pirates grab newcomers, you see. Put them to work, keep them close. The more minds nearby, the more your memories and identity stay safe. Unless you have reality ashes. Then you can go anywhere without fear.”



“And this thing makes them,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, oddly solemn. “The only other way is to get them off people or objects when they first arrive in the nowhere. And the ashes fade over time. It takes…a while. Months, maybe? Hard to keep track sometimes. So if you want to go out on your own, you need a constant supply.”

Well, that explained why everyone had been so excited about my pin. I dropped the pin in the pouch and tucked it into my pocket.

Chet’s eyes followed it the entire time. Then he grinned, and some of his earlier perkiness returned. “Well,” he said, “a guide you want, and a guide you shall have! I fear that I’ve played my hand, explaining how valuable those are. But if you’d be willing to trade me some—just the ashes, not the icon—for my services, then I shall dutifully be in your employ. Shall we say, a single ash per day of service?”

Scud. I had hundreds. They might be valuable, but that deal felt like a bargain. “I’m in,” I said. “I need information about this place. And I need to find…something called the Path of Elders?”

He cocked his head. “Where did you hear of that?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Ah, espionage, is it! Well, I shall keep my tongue then, Spensa Nightshade. I know of the Path of Elders. Following it leads one to some of the first entrances into the nowhere, left by the most ancient cytonics. Traversing it won’t be easy, but—”