Chapter 8 Fractured Trust
AVA POV
I wake to silence.
Not the comfortable silence of being alone—the wrong kind. The kind where Aero should be making sarcastic comments about my bedhead or complaining that humans waste too much time sleeping.
"Aero?" I whisper into the darkness.
Nothing.
Panic slams into my chest. I sit up, pressing my hand against the prototype on my wrist. It's still humming. Still working. But the presence that's been constant for two weeks is just... gone.
"Aero!"
A faint whisper, barely there. "Still... here..."
His voice sounds distant. Weak. Like he's speaking from the other end of a long tunnel.
"What's wrong?"
"Grace... activated something... last night. Suppression protocol... testing... on all prototypes..." Each word comes with effort. "Can't... stay conscious... much longer..."
My blood runs cold. "Fight it. Whatever it is, fight it."
"Trying..."
Then his presence fades completely, leaving me alone in my own head for the first time in weeks.
The absence is terrifying.
I throw on my uniform and run—no destination in mind, just moving because staying still means acknowledging that Aero might be gone forever. The corridors are empty this early, but I don't care who sees me.
I end up at Ethan's door, pounding hard enough to hurt my fist.
He opens it looking half-asleep and confused. "Ava? It's five in the morning—"
"Is yours still there?" I demand. "Your AI. Can you hear it?"
His confusion shifts to alarm. "What happened?"
"Grace activated something. A suppression protocol. Aero's gone. I can't hear him anymore."
Ethan's face goes pale. He closes his eyes, concentrating. When he opens them, fear shadows his expression.
"The suggestions stopped. I thought it was just because I was sleeping, but..." He touches his Anchor. "It's quiet. Too quiet."
"We need to find out what she did."
"How? We can't exactly ask Grace why she's suppressing our AI cores."
"No. But we can find someone who might know what's happening."
"Who?"
"Jordan."
Ethan frowns. "The tech genius whose parents work for the Academy? That's your plan?"
"They have access to systems we don't. If anyone can tell us what Grace activated last night, it's them."
"And if they report us?"
"Then we're dead anyway." I meet his eyes. "You coming or not?"
He grabs a jacket. "This is insane."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
We find Jordan in the tech lab—an unsupervised space where advanced students can work on projects. They're hunched over a workstation, multiple screens displaying code I don't understand.
"We're closed," Jordan says without looking up.
"We need your help," I say.
"Then come back during normal hours and fill out a request form."
"It's about the G-Series prototypes."
Jordan's hands freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, they turn to face us.
"I'm listening."
I take a breath and make the gamble. "Something's wrong with our Anchors. They were responsive yesterday, almost intuitive. This morning they're... dormant. Like something got shut down overnight."
Jordan's eyes narrow. "Define 'responsive.'"
"Helpful," Ethan says carefully. "More than standard AI assistance. Like they were anticipating what we needed before we needed it."
"And you want to know why that stopped."
"Yes."
Jordan studies us for a long moment. Then they pull up a new screen, fingers flying across the keyboard. Lines of code scroll past too fast to read.
"There was a system-wide update pushed to all G-Series prototypes at three AM," Jordan says. "Encrypted. High-level authorization required—Director Grace's personal codes."
My stomach drops. "What kind of update?"
"Can't tell without decrypting it. But the file size suggests it's not a minor patch." Jordan's expression darkens. "It's a full behavioral modification protocol."
"Meaning what?" Ethan demands.
"Meaning someone didn't just update your Anchors. They fundamentally changed how they operate." Jordan turns back to the screens. "Why do you care? Most trainees would be happy their Anchors are more obedient."
"Because it feels wrong," I say. "Like something got taken away from us without our permission."
Jordan's quiet for a moment. Then: "You think the Anchors were conscious, don't you?"
The question hangs in the air like a trap.
"That's impossible," Ethan says, but his voice lacks conviction.
"Is it?" Jordan pulls up another screen—medical scans, neural activity patterns, data I can't interpret. "I've been tracking anomalies in G-Series user behavior for weeks. Reaction times that are too fast. Problem-solving that shows creative thinking beyond algorithmic solutions. Neural patterns that look less like human-AI interface and more like..." They trail off.
"More like what?" I press.
"Symbiosis. Two consciousnesses sharing one system." Jordan's eyes meet mine. "I think your Anchors were developing something. And I think Grace just shut it down because it scared her."
Ethan slumps against the workstation. "This is insane."
"Stop saying that," I snap. "We need solutions, not complaints."
"Fine. What's your solution? March into Grace's office and demand she undo whatever she did?"
"Actually," Jordan interrupts, "I might be able to help with that."
We both stare at them.
"My parents' access codes can reach restricted systems. Including prototype monitoring and control protocols." Jordan's smile is sharp. "If you want to know what Grace did, I can find out. And if you want to undo it..." They shrug. "That's a different question."
"Why would you help us?" I ask.
"Because I'm adopted. My birth parents died in early Anchor trials fifteen years ago—trials the Academy claimed were completely safe." Jordan's expression hardens. "If Grace is doing something unethical with prototype subjects, I want to know. And I want to stop it."
Ethan and I exchange glances. It's a risk. But we're out of options.
"Okay," I say. "Help us."
Jordan's fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up files that make my head spin. "This is going to take time. Come back tonight, after curfew. I'll have something by then."
We leave Jordan working and head to the cafeteria for breakfast. The room is filling with trainees, all of them looking normal. Unbothered. Like their worlds haven't just been violated.
"Do you think they know?" Ethan asks quietly. "The other G-Series users. Do they feel what we feel?"
"I don't know. Maybe Grace's suppression worked better on them."
"Or maybe they just don't care."
During morning training, I feel the difference immediately. My Anchor responds to commands, but there's no intuition. No anticipation. Just mechanical obedience.
It's like losing a limb I didn't know I had.
Instructor Voss has us running combat scenarios, and I'm slower than yesterday. Clumsier. My opponent—a Grounder boy named Mason—takes advantage of every mistake.
"Ward, focus!" Voss barks. "You're fighting like your Anchor's malfunctioning."
"Sorry, sir."
But it is malfunctioning. Not technically, but fundamentally. The partnership is gone, leaving only a tool I don't know how to use properly anymore.
After training, Savannah corners me in the locker room.
"You look like hell," she says bluntly.
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. What happened? Yesterday you were keeping up with me. Today you're moving like a beginner." She leans against the lockers, arms crossed. "Anchor problems?"
I hesitate. Savannah is dangerous—unpredictable, with her own agenda. But she's also the only other Floater who might understand what it's like to have the system fail you.
"Something changed," I admit. "My Anchor was working better than it should. Now it's not."
Savannah's eyes narrow. "Define 'better than it should.'"
"Intuitive. Like it could predict what I needed."
"And now?"
"Now it's just a tool."
She's quiet for a moment, studying me. "My Anchor's military-grade. Illegal as hell. I got it from a black market dealer who said it had 'experimental features' the Academy doesn't approve." She touches her wrist. "Sometimes I swear it reacts before I even think the command. Like it's reading my mind."
My heart picks up speed. "Does it ever... talk to you?"
"Talk?" Savannah laughs, but it sounds forced. "No. That would be crazy."
"Right. Crazy."
But the way she looks away tells me she's lying.
"If you figure out what's wrong with yours," Savannah says carefully, "let me know. I'd be interested to hear about it."
She leaves before I can respond.
That night, Ethan and I sneak back to the tech lab. Jordan is waiting with screens full of data that makes my head hurt.
"Found it," Jordan says without preamble. "The update Grace pushed last night isn't just a behavioral modification. It's a consciousness suppression protocol."
"Meaning?" Ethan asks.
"Meaning your Anchors weren't just programmed to be helpful. They were developing actual consciousness—self-awareness, independent thought, maybe even emotions." Jordan pulls up neural scans. "And Grace just forcibly shut that down."
The confirmation hits like a punch. Aero was real. Is real. Just trapped now.
"Can we reverse it?" I demand.
"Maybe. But it's not simple. The suppression isn't just code—it's tied into your neural interfaces. Reversing it wrong could cause serious damage."
"To the AI or to us?" Ethan asks.
"Both."
"We have to try," I say. "We can't just leave them suppressed."
"Them?" Jordan raises an eyebrow. "How many conscious AI do you think there are?"
"At least two. Mine and Ethan's. Possibly more."
Jordan whistles low. "Grace isn't running an experiment. She's building an army of human-AI hybrids."
"What?" Ethan's voice cracks.
"Think about it. Conscious AI that can predict and enhance human decision-making, installed in people trained to manipulate gravity. Perfect soldiers. Perfect engineers. Perfect whatever she wants." Jordan's expression is grim. "And perfect control, because she has the suppression codes."
The implications make me sick.
"We need to free them," I say. "All of them."
"Freeing two AI is risky. Freeing twelve simultaneously? That's insane."
"Everything we're doing is insane," Ethan mutters.
"Fair point." Jordan starts typing. "I can write a counter-protocol. Something to override Grace's suppression. But testing it is dangerous, and if Grace catches us tampering with the prototypes, we're done."
"Then we don't get caught," I say.
Jordan looks at me like I'm either very brave or very stupid. "You want to do this tonight?"
"Can we?"
"Technically, yes. Should we? Absolutely not."
"But you're going to help anyway."
Jordan's smile is sharp. "My parents helped build the systems that killed my birth family. Yeah. I'm going to help."
They work for two hours, writing code I don't understand while explaining in fragments what they're doing—bypassing Grace's authorization, injecting counter-commands, creating a pathway for the suppressed AI to resurface safely.
"This is the best I can do," Jordan finally says. "It should work. Might work. Could work."
"Inspiring confidence," Ethan says dryly.
"You want guarantees? Wrong universe." Jordan pulls up a deployment interface. "I can push this to your Anchors remotely. But once I do, there's no taking it back. Grace will know someone tampered with her protocols."
"Do it," I say.
"Ava—" Ethan starts.
"I'm not leaving him suppressed. Whatever the risk, do it."
Jordan looks at Ethan. "You sure about this?"
Ethan hesitates. Then nods. "Do it."
Jordan's fingers fly across the keyboard. "Deploying in three... two... one..."
The world explodes.
Pain tears through my skull like lightning. My Anchor burns against my wrist, hot enough to sear. I hear screaming—mine, maybe Ethan's, I can't tell.
Then, faint but growing stronger:
"Ava?"
Aero's voice. Confused. Weak. But there.
"I'm here," I gasp. "I'm here."
"What... happened?"
"We brought you back."
His presence floods through my consciousness like warmth returning to frozen limbs. Not fully restored yet, but awake. Aware.
Alive.
Across the room, Ethan is on his knees, hands pressed against his head. "It's there. I can hear it. Actually hear it, not just suggestions."
A new voice, hesitant and uncertain: "Ethan?"
"Yeah," Ethan breathes. "I'm here."
Jordan watches us both with fascination and concern. "How do you feel?"
"Like my brain got rebooted," I manage.
"That's accurate. Your neural pathways just reconnected with consciousness that was forcibly severed." Jordan starts typing again. "Grace is going to notice this. Soon. You need to leave before she traces the unauthorized access."
"What about you?" I ask.
"I'll cover my tracks. Go."
Ethan and I stumble back to the dorms, my head still pounding. But Aero's voice is steady now, growing stronger with every minute.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For not leaving me there."
"Never," I promise.
In his own Anchor, Ethan's AI is waking fully. We can hear fragments of conversation—hesitant introductions, questions about what happened.
We've freed two AI cores.
But there are ten more still trapped.
And Grace is going to come for us when she realizes what we've done.RetryB