Chapter 6 The First Classification
There was a repeated clang, clank… clank… clank.
Red slowly drifted back to consciousness. Her mouth tasted like metal, her throat painfully dry. With a sluggish exhale, she raised a trembling hand and groped for the wire plugged into her left eye.
She yanked it out with a wet snap. Blood splattered across her cheek and dripped down her chin. The wire hung limp in her hand.
Jeremiah and Ingo’s creation was cruel to her.
Every time Red fused with Ursula, she suffered. Ursula needed far more refinement before she could be called a “perfect” robot.
The clang came again, louder.
Red blinked, trying to steady her vision. Someone was banging from outside.
“Red! Come on, Red!” Call shouted, voice shaking. “Say something! You’re okay, right?!”
Red muttered something under her breath—nothing coherent—then sucked in a deeper breath, grounding herself. Her heartbeat steadied, slow but present.
“Red! Answer me!” Call yelled again, impatience cracking his voice. “Geez, Red—!!”
“Ursula… get me out of here,” Red whispered.
The robot obeyed immediately. Its chest opened with a mechanical shudder, and Red squinted at the sudden light. Ursula rarely responded this fast.
She slid out and nearly collapsed, but Call caught her under the arms. Once her feet touched the floor, Red scanned the hall. Bodies were everywhere—some unconscious, some lifeless, others stumbling toward the first gate they had entered through.
The Troy units were gone. Viz’s hologram was gone. Only the survivors remained.
Tiny droids hovered like fireflies, repairing the massive hole that Ursula’s plasma bolt had punched through the wall.
Call lowered her gently, letting her rest against Ursula’s stiff arm. He cupped Red's cheek, wiping off the smear of blood trailing from her eye.
“Are you okay? Your eye is literally bleeding,” Call whispered, panic softening his voice.
“I’m fine, Call.” Red gave a weak nod.
“What you did was insane. I didn’t know your robot could do that. You gotta be careful, people will want your robot.”
“If they want to try,” Red muttered, her tone dangerously low.
“I’m serious. I think she’s loyal to you.” Call gestured at Ursula. “Look, she’s still holding your backpack.”
Red let out a strained laugh. “I didn’t even realize my bag was still there.”
“Can you walk? We need to get out of this place.”
“Where are we going?”
“They told us to follow the trail light. Come on, I don’t want one of those gates to suddenly open again and suck us into space like the others.” His voice trembled.
With her arm slung over Call’s shoulder, they started walking, following the glowing signs deeper into the ship.
Red caught sight of Ingos transporting the severely injured. Each person was laid onto floating metal plates that hovered inches above the floor.
“What are they going to do with the wounded?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I think our priority should be survival.”
“But—”
“Red, only about three thousand people survived. And honestly? I think that’s more than that twisted AI expected.” His voice broke slightly. “She’s going to keep killing humans. We’re just pawns in her game.”
“Her name is Viz. And she can’t be mentally ill, Call,” Red replied sharply. “She’s an AI, remember?”
Call’s brows drew together. “How do you even know her name? Was that hologram AI really called Viz?”
“Everyone knows she’s Viz, Call.”
That was what Jeremiah and Ingo had told her. Viz was the supreme command AI. Above all others. How could Call not know?
“No.” Call stopped walking. “How did you get that information?”
“My father told me. A long time ago.”
“What was your father’s name?”
“Jeremiah Harts.” Red hesitated. Something about saying her surname felt dangerous.
Call shook his head. “Never heard of him. Anyway, your name now is Lein Last. My eighteen-year-old sister. Got it?”
Red stared at him. Confused. But a cold weight formed in her stomach. Could her father’s name really be a problem?
She didn’t know what he had truly done for a living. Ingo always said he was just a mechanic who repaired and tested robots. But if he and Ingo could hide Ursula—build something this lethal—then Jeremiah Harts was no ordinary mechanic.
“I’m just worried about you,” Call murmured, giving her a small, earnest smile. “As long as I’m breathing, I’ll look after you.”
Red nodded, her heart tightening. She hadn’t spoken to someone this much in ages. And Call… Call was kind. Empathetic. Maybe they could’ve become friends under normal circumstances.
They continued through the corridor until it opened into another massive hall. Six rows of thresholds stood before them, doors with glowing symbols and colored lights indicating classifications.
People whispered, some waving timidly at Red, others bowing their heads in gratitude. No one dared speak loudly. The horror of what had happened still hung in the air.
“What’s this supposed to mean?” Call muttered, squinting up at the doors.
People were entering one by one, but sure doors rejected them. A holographic net flared, bouncing some backward until they tried another entry. Two classifications were restricted; not everyone could enter. The other four seemed open.
There were six categories in total:
First door: brown fluorescent lights and a shield symbol.
Second door: fire-red lights and a sword emblem.
Third: yellow lights and a gun symbol.
Fourth: purple-and-green lights with a hammer and cross.
Fifth: alternating white-blue lights with a glowing staff emblem.
Sixth: pitch-black, no insignia—the lights are dead like a doorway into nothing.
“I don’t want that last one,” Call whispered, pointing. “Walk through that, and we’ll probably drop dead immediately.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic! We almost died five minutes ago, remember?”
“Fair point.”
When it was their turn, they stepped closer. AIs no taller than children ran around with tablets, guiding people to the appropriate doors.
“See you on the other side,” Call said, giving her a quick nod.
He walked through the third doorway.
“Callum Last. Twenty-four years old. Classification… Gunner.”
Red took a step back, unsure. She listened to the echoing voices:
“Poi Nok. Thirty. Classification… Swordsman.”
“Ihmed. Fifteen. Classification… Support Weapon.”
“Lika. Forty. Classification… Support Medic.”
Then—
“Aamon… twenty-two. Classification… Assassin.”
Red’s breath hitched. It was him! The humanoid young man.
For a split second, she wanted to follow him. Thank him. Something. But she had no idea which door she belonged to.
She tried Support first, thinking she wasn’t a fighter. Rejected. The net shoved her back so hard she fell.
“What the hell?!” she hissed.
She tried Gunner. Rejected.
Swordsman. Rejected.
Was the AI teasing her for blasting the wall earlier?
Red’s pulse spiked. She didn’t want to die over a stupid classification. She needed to live.
She wiped her face, steadied her breath, and walked firmly toward the first door. Ursula followed silently behind her.
“Lein Last. Eighteen years old. Classification… Tank.”