Chapter 23 – Seven

Even at full speed, my mind races faster than my proths. The man is down, the boy forced to his knees, and something about the way the traders handle him seems wrong. Three mounted men with rope and blunderbusses, all this effort for what – a child and his father? No. There’s more here.

I don’t slow down. Every instinct Papa programmed into my proths screams for maximum momentum as I launch myself at the man holding the blunderbuss. My kick catches him square in the chest, and the sound he makes reminds me of the bellows in Papa’s workshop when all the air rushes out at once.

My eyes drink in the scene before me, each detail cutting sharp against the desert light. Something snares my attention – a gleam of metal, a movement that whispers of precision too perfect for our broken world. The truth washes over me like the first rain of storm season: there, kneeling in the burning sand, is an android. Not trapped in Papa’s faded photographs or living only in his twilight stories, but here, as real as the wind that sculpts our dunes.

Papa’s voice echoes in my memory, all those nights he spoke of machines that could dream, that could think, that held humanity’s hopes in hands of brass and steel. Now those bedtime tales have taken breath, and I understand the hunger burning in the traders’ eyes. They’ve caught something precious, something I’ve only thought of as legend until this very moment.

The other two spring back, drawing weapons. One notices my legs, then grabs his companion’s arm.

“That’s her. The girl we heard about,” he hisses. “The one who took down a baldagaar in Arcmire’s arena. Look at her legs.”

His companion’s eyes widen. “Bobblegash! She’s didn’t…”

“Did you see how fast she ran up?” the first man cuts him off. “It’s her, I’m telling you.”

I shift my weight, letting my proths catch the fading sunlight. Sometimes reputation can fight better than fists. “Would you like to find out?”

The first man swallows hard. “That android belongs to us. It’s worth a fortune.”

“So are the horses,” I say. “But you’ll be leaving them behind as well. Now, walk away!”

They glance at their fallen friend, who’s still gasping in the sand. After a moment’s hesitation, they help him up. All three begin trudging away across the dunes, not daring to look back at their abandoned mounts.

I turn to the man and boy and truly see them now, the chaos of the moment settling like dust after a storm. The young man can’t be any older than me – late teens, early twenties at most. His age painted in the gentle angles of his face, in movements that speak of youth not yet tempered by too much hardship. His sandy blond hair catches the light like rippling grain, and there’s something untouched about him, as if he’s walked through our harsh world but somehow kept a piece of himself sacred and whole. His frame is lean but healthy, carrying strength that seems born of purpose rather than desperation.

But it’s the android that makes my breath catch. He’s small, barely the size of a seven-year-old child, helping his companion with movements that carry impossible gentleness. Such delicate machinery contained in such a tiny frame – like those music boxes Papa once showed me in his workshop, but infinitely more complex, infinitely more alive. The sunlight plays across his brass features, and for a moment, I see him as both miracle and mystery: a being of metal and memory, small enough to be a child but carrying wisdom that feels as vast as the desert itself.

“Are you injured, Asher?” the android asks, and his voice carries more warmth than anything made of metal should possess.

“I’m fine, Seven,” Asher responds, brushing sand from his clothes. His eyes meet mine with a gratitude that makes me uncomfortable. “Thank you. We’ve been running for a while now.”

“You don’t have to run anymore. You’re safe now,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Neeka, by the way. Neeka Blackthorn.”

The others catch up, and I watch their reactions play out like a performance in Arcmire’s arena. Papa’s eyes light up at the sight of Seven’s joints and servos – the same look he gets when he’s about to create something magnificent. Amari steps forward, drawn to Seven like a moth to flame, perhaps recognizing another healer’s spirit. Isaiah secures the horses while scanning the horizon, ever the protector. And Braam… Braam looks like he’s trying to decide whether to fight or befriend this mechanical marvel.

“An android,” Papa breathes, circling Seven with the reverence he usually reserves for his finest work. “The articulation in those joints… the precision of the metalwork… This is pre-Shift technology at its finest.”

“I am designated Seven,” the android says, standing perfectly still under Papa’s scrutiny. “Formerly of the Children’s Medical Ward at Central Hospital. This is my friend, Asher.”

“A medical ward?” Amari’s voice carries a note I’ve never heard before – hope, maybe. “You were a healer?”

“In my way,” Seven responds. “Through medical care and storytelling. Stories can help children understand their pain, their fears. Sometimes that understanding is the first step toward healing.”

I watch Amari’s hands flutter to her niqab, a gesture I’ve learned means she’s deeply moved. “I’ve always believed healing is more than just mending bodies,” she says softly.

“Those traders will be back with others,” Isaiah interrupts, practical as always. “We need to get moving.”

“We just escaped from there,” Asher explains. “Seven was helping an injured child in the market and…” He trails off, but I understand.

Papa’s already deep in thought, his fingers twitching the way they do when he’s solving a mechanical puzzle. “Seven,” he says softly, his voice carrying the weight of years spent protecting the vulnerable, “your movements… they’re too perfect. Too precise. In this world, that perfection is what makes you visible to those who would harm you.”

Amari reaches into her pack, the one she’d taken from the Fat Man’s chambers in Arcmire. Her movements are deliberate, almost reverent, as she withdraws a length of indigo fabric that seems to capture the very essence of twilight.

The fabric unfurls in her hands like a cascade of darkness, its subtle embroidery catching the fading light like constellations being born. “Here,” she says, stepping forward. “Sometimes the best protection isn’t in changing who we are, but in choosing when to reveal ourselves.”

As the cloth settles around Seven’s shoulders, its deep blue depths seem to absorb the desert’s harshness, transforming his metallic precision into something more mysterious, more human. The hood casts shadows across his brass features, turning utility into poetry, function into fable.

“There’s something else,” Isaiah adds, his voice gentle but firm. “Out here, kindness can be as dangerous as a blade if wielded without caution. You’ll need to be selective about when you offer help. Always ask permission first. Watch. Listen. Choose your moments.”

Seven’s head tilts slightly, processing. “Like Sarah taught me,” he says. “She would say, ‘Sometimes healing isn’t in doing everything we can, but in doing what others are ready to receive.'”

Asher’s shoulders relax. “We’re not asking you to stop helping,” he explains. “Just help safely. To protect yourself so you can keep helping others.”

“I understand,” Seven says, adjusting the cloak with movements that already seem more measured, more conscious. “It is like the stories I told in the ward. Some children needed grand adventures to help them heal, others needed whispers and gentle truths.”

“Exactly,” Asher says.

They divide themselves among the horses – Papa and Amari on one mount, Braam and Isaiah sharing another, while Asher helps Seven, now wrapped in shadows and strategy, onto the third. I run alongside them, my proths easily matching their pace, watching as Seven disappears beneath the folds of his new armor – not of metal, but of wisdom and restraint.

I jog along side them, easily matching their pace. I steal glances at the mechanical marvel and wonder what it must have been like when these helper androids were abundant.

Seven’s head tilts at an odd, mechanical angle as he studies the horse carrying Braam and Isaiah. “That horse appears to be experiencing discomfort in its left rear quadrant. The musculature shows signs of strain, likely due to excessive weight distribution.”

Braam’s face reddens. “Did he just call us fat?”

“I am merely stating medical facts,” Seven continues, oblivious to Braam’s reaction. “I could implement therapeutic measures to alleviate the horse’s distress. My database includes extensive equine treatment protocols-”

“The horse is fine,” Isaiah cuts in, though I notice him shifting his weight forward.

“The concerning noises it makes with each step would suggest otherwise,” Seven persists. “In my experience treating children, such sounds often indicate-”

“We are not children,” Braam growls.

“No,” Seven agrees seriously. “You are considerably larger, which further supports my concern for the horse’s wellbeing.”

I catch Asher trying to hide a smile as Braam and Isaiah exchange exasperated looks. Even Amari’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

As we travel, Seven continues his stories, occasionally pausing to comment on the horse’s “concerning gait patterns” and offering increasingly detailed suggestions for treatment. Each time Braam’s weight shifts, Seven provides helpful observations about proper weight distribution.

The sun is still high behind us as Graven Pointe’s walls emerge ahead, windows flickering like earthbound stars. Even from here, I can tell it’s different from Eden or Arcmire – there’s something almost organic about the way it sits in the landscape, as if it grew from the desert rather than being forced upon it.

“There’s a gate on the east side,” Isaiah says. “Less traffic, fewer questions. I know the guard.”

Looking at our strange group that has formed – a girl with mechanical legs, a healer girl behind a niqab, a former arena fighter, an android that tells stories, and all the rest – I realize sometimes hope and impossibility can grow in the harshest of places.