Chapter 11: Mechanical Hearts - Part 3
POV: Alec Morgan
The radio crackled to life with a voice that transformed our ramshackle camp back into what we'd never stopped being—children answering to adult authority we'd briefly escaped.
"Clarke? Clarke, please respond. This is your mother."
The words hit Clarke like a physical blow. She gripped the radio transmitter with white knuckles, her medical composure cracking to reveal the daughter who'd been cut off from family for weeks of uncertainty and survival.
"Mom?" Her voice cracked on the single syllable. "Mom, we're here. We're alive."
I lingered at the edge of our communication circle, my stomach churning with knowledge I couldn't share. Above us, the Ark was dying—oxygen systems failing, population calculations driving desperate decisions, political factions preparing for civil war that would rain bodies from the sky.
"Oh thank God," Abby's voice carried relief and tears through the static. "Are you hurt? How many survivors? What's the situation down there?"
While Clarke provided medical updates, I caught sight of Bellamy's expression—tight with worry about consequences for the radio destruction he'd orchestrated. His sister's freedom hung in the balance of these communications, and he was calculating whether our contact would help or condemn them both.
"The environmental situation?" That was Kane's voice now, cutting through family reunions with political necessity. "Radiation levels, water sources, sustainable food supplies?"
This was my opening. The chance to plant information that might save lives without revealing how I knew what they needed to hear.
"We've found sustainable resources," I said loudly enough for the radio to pick up, stepping closer to Clarke. "Clean water sources, edible plant varieties, game animals for protein. The ecosystem's more robust than the surface readings suggested."
Clarke shot me a look that mixed gratitude with suspicion—I was giving exactly the answers Ark leadership needed to hear, delivered with convenient timing and surprising specificity.
"Who was that?" Kane demanded.
"Alec Morgan, Farm Station," I replied before Clarke could answer. "We've been conducting resource surveys. Earth's more viable than expected. Could support a larger population than initial projections indicated."
It was all true, just delivered with strategic timing. The Ark needed hope to commit to full evacuation rather than selective culling. My knowledge of their oxygen crisis meant I knew exactly what information would push them toward the decisions that might save everyone.
"Resource surveys," Kane repeated. "What qualifications—"
"Agricultural background," Clarke interrupted, covering for me with impressive smoothness. "He's been invaluable for identifying food sources and safe water."
"The radiation?" Abby asked. "Long-term exposure effects?"
"Manageable," I said, thinking of my own adaptive resistance and hoping it wasn't just wishful thinking for the others. "We've been here over a week with no major health complications. Whatever the initial radiation levels were, they've decreased significantly."
More strategic truth. I could sense the adults making calculations, weighing our reports against their desperate circumstances. Every word I spoke was carefully chosen to nudge them toward evacuation rather than abandonment.
"We'll need detailed reports," Kane decided. "Resource locations, population sustainability estimates, threat assessments."
"We can provide those," Clarke said, looking at me with an expression that suggested we'd be having a very long conversation about how exactly I planned to deliver such comprehensive information.
POV: Raven
After the initial excitement died down and the adults had retreated to their own planning sessions, Raven cornered Alec near the radio equipment. She'd been watching him during the entire communication session, noting the precise way he'd delivered exactly the information Ark leadership needed to hear.
"That was interesting," she said, settling beside him as he performed unnecessary adjustments to the antenna array.
"What was?"
"The way you knew exactly what to say to convince them Earth was viable. Resource surveys, population sustainability, radiation assessments—you sounded like you'd prepared talking points for Ark leadership."
His hands stilled on the equipment, and she could see him calculating responses. The defensive deflection was coming, probably involving more stories about his fictional mother's comprehensive education.
"I just tried to be helpful," he said carefully. "Figured they needed good news."
"You figured they needed specific kinds of good news delivered in specific ways that addressed specific concerns they hadn't even voiced yet," she corrected. "That's not being helpful. That's understanding their decision-making process better than you should."
She watched him struggle with how much truth to reveal, wanting to give him space to choose honesty but unwilling to accept another deflection that insulted her intelligence.
"Alec." Her voice was gentle but insistent. "Whatever you are, wherever you learned all this—the technical knowledge, the tactical awareness, the political understanding—I don't actually care. I trust you."
The confession hung between them like a bridge neither had expected to cross. More intimate than physical contact, more vulnerable than the careful distance they'd been maintaining. She saw him nearly break under the weight of it, saw him wanting desperately to trust her with truths he couldn't safely share.
"You shouldn't," he said quietly, his voice thick with something between warning and longing.
"Why?"
"Because if you knew what I really was, you'd run screaming. Or turn me in to people who'd want to study me like a lab specimen. Or worse."
The admission was raw, honest in a way that cut through weeks of careful deflection. She could see the fear behind his jokes, the isolation behind his helpful competence, the desperate need for acceptance warring with terror of exposure.
"Try me," she said simply.
For a moment, she thought he might. Thought he'd finally drop the protective walls and trust her with whatever truth made him so afraid of genuine connection. But then his defensive habits reasserted themselves, and he looked away.
"Thank you," he said instead. "That means more than you know."
It wasn't the truth she wanted, but it was progress. An acknowledgment that her acceptance mattered to him, that the growing connection between them was more than convenient proximity and shared technical interests.
"When you're ready," she said, letting him know the offer remained open. "I'll be here."
POV: Alec Morgan
That night, I found myself staring up at the Ark's distant lights, a bright star that held the people I couldn't save without destroying everything I'd worked to build. The weight of foreknowledge pressed against my chest like a physical burden, knowledge of disasters I couldn't prevent and deaths I couldn't stop.
"Check the Exodus ship," I whispered to the uncaring stars. "Watch Diana Sydney. The oxygen system can be fixed without the culling. Please, just listen to someone smarter than me."
But the distance was too vast, my voice too small, my warnings trapped by the necessity of maintaining secrets that kept me functional and protected. I knew Diana Sydney was already planning her coup, knew the Exodus ship had structural flaws that would turn evacuation into mass murder, knew Chancellor Jaha would make desperate decisions based on incomplete information.
And I could do nothing about any of it without revealing knowledge that would mark me as something beyond human understanding.
"How many people will die because I can't explain how I know what's coming? How many lives is my secret worth? What's the math on that calculation, and why does it feel like I'm failing everyone who matters?"
"Mind if I join you?"
Raven's voice startled me from the spiral of guilt and helplessness. She settled beside me on the log I'd claimed as a stargazing perch, not asking questions, not demanding explanations. Just offering presence in the face of isolation I couldn't explain.
"Can't sleep?" I asked.
"Radio static's still buzzing in my ears," she said, which was probably true but felt like excuse-making for checking on me. "What about you? You look like you're trying to solve the universe's problems through sheer force of will."
"Something like that."
We sat in comfortable silence, her warmth a counterpoint to the cool night air and my internal chill of foreknowledge. For the first time since arriving on Earth, I didn't feel completely alone with my secrets and fears.
"You know," she said eventually, "whatever's keeping you awake, it might feel less overwhelming if you shared it with someone."
"Can't," I replied automatically, then softened my tone. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"Okay." She didn't push, didn't demand explanations, just accepted my limitations with the kind of grace I didn't deserve. "But you don't have to carry everything alone. Even if you can't explain it."
The offer was everything I wanted and couldn't safely accept. Trust without full honesty. Companionship without complete transparency. The possibility of connection despite the fundamental deceptions that defined my existence here.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it more deeply than she could understand.
"For what?"
"For not needing me to be normal to matter to you."
She was quiet for a moment, processing the confession I hadn't meant to make. When she spoke, her voice was soft but certain.
"Normal is overrated," she said. "Interesting is better. Honest is better. Someone who fights for people they care about is better."
"And if I can't be completely honest?"
"Then be as honest as you can be, when you can be." She leaned against my shoulder, casual contact that felt like coming home. "I'm not going anywhere, Farm Boy. Whatever you're hiding, we'll figure it out together."
The promise was more than I had any right to ask for and everything I needed to hear. Above us, the Ark continued its slow death spiral toward decisions that would change everything, but for this moment, sitting in darkness with someone who saw through my lies and chose to stay anyway, the future felt slightly less impossible.
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