Bryn
“You’re wearing that, Bee?” Jonas asks.
“What’s wrong with it?” I smooth the fronts of my shiny black trousers and tug the hem of my jacket so it’s square. It’s snug around my shoulders from working out, and I can’t lift my arms above my head, but it’s my favourite. I rub a cheek against the collar and feel the rough edge of a badge I made from an old bottle top and decorated with blown diodes in the shape of a flower. “I look fine. My modes will smooth out any creases.”
I wasn’t surprised when my mothers told me, with little regret, they’d been invited to an Activation party without me. But it’s not like their only daughter is Activated every day. When Jonas was Activated, they pulled out all the stops, but all I’d gotten was a chocolate-cherry cake-pod that tasted like burnt caramel toast. Not even a new outfit to welcome in adulthood.
Why had they even bothered applying for me?
Jonas lounges across my bed as I spin, trying to see myself in the mirror of the far wall. The wall malfunctions and my bum’s magnified by a hundred until Jonas snorts and gives it a swift knock. Now my attention has been drawn to it, the trousers are thinning in the rear.
“Well, what should I wear?”
I eye my brother’s one-piece black suit, the material covering him from shoulder to heel and to the tips of his fingers. He’s tapping an irregular beat against my bedspread out of habit, rather than intent, as his modes have been tossed onto my desk.
“Something nice, Bee. It’s not every day you Activate! Don’t you own something nice?” At my blank look he sighs and lurches to his feet. Without his modes projecting his usual image, Jonas looks thin and his face is gaunt, the shadows beneath his eyes dark and hollow. I don’t ask when he’s eaten last.
He presses one palm against my closet and commands, “Dress, black or grey.” He glances at me with a smirk. “A girl from iGen says they’re the next new colours.”
“Pfft, that’s stupid.” I wiggle out of my favourite jacket. “Black’s not even a colour.”
The closet slides open and two dresses offer themselves up for inspection. The black formal dress I’d worn for some party of Mum’s when I was nine and flat as a board, and another that had belonged to Mom, a lavender grey dress far too short for my liking. Jonas pulls out the grey one.
“Uh,” he tuts before I open my mouth. “Just try it on with the trousers. At least you’ll look sort of like a girl.”
Grumbling, I turn my back to him, pull off my top and tug the dress over my head. Clothes have never held much interest for me. The material is scratchy and catches on my nose, but once on it does emphasise the little I have. It automatically cinches at my waist, pushing the air from my lungs, but, when I recover, I have to agree over the pants it doesn’t look too bad. I spin in a circle and toss Jonas a mocking salute.
“To your standards, sir?”
“You’ll do.” Jonas shoves his modes on and they immediately darken until I can’t see his eyes. Strangely, I feel lost even though I can now see his link in my headset like a pulsing heart.
We run into our mothers in the kitchen, enjoying a glass of something alcoholic if the brightness in their laughter is anything to go by. Mum’s wearing a dark green pant suit, silver sequins swirling across the fabric like vines, her short dark bob tucked beneath a set of mirror-polished modes, horns like tree branches arching from behind the lenses. Mom looks sharp in comparison, her black dress jagged as if made of broken glass and her modes blocky and opaque.
“I thought you were going out,” I say. Maybe they changed their mind? They could’ve planned me a surprise party! Jonas hesitates by the front door, shoulders tense.
“Oh, we are.” Mum knocks back the last of her drink and stands, her holo-glamour ripples ever so slightly as she makes last minute adjustments. “And we’re going to be late if we don’t hurry, Rhia.”
“I know, dear,” Mom replies and she must catch the flash of disappointment in the curve of my mouth. “Now come on, Bryn. We’ve been over this.” Her voice is dry and edged with impatience. “Tonight is very important for mingling.”
“Be seen by the right people,” Mum adds and at least she sounds sympathetic, though she won’t look my way.
“Tonight’s important for me,” I say, hating myself for even hoping they’d show one iota of consideration.
“We don’t have time for this, Beth,” Mom directs to Mum and finishes off her drink, setting it down hard on the bench, colourful fish darting away in alarm. She offers Mum her arm, and they leave in a swirl of sweet perfume and glittery sequins.
“I don’t know why I expected anything different,” I admit when Jonas nudges my shoulder gently. “Look.” I gesture to dry cheeks even though my holo-glamour would prevent him from seeing any tears if they were there. “I’m all cried out.”
“I’m sorry, Bee. I wish things were different, but it’s nothing you’ve done, I promise.”
I’m not so sure that’s true.
“Now cheer up.” He pulls on a braid and I slap him away, rolling eyes he can’t see. “We’ve only got twenty minutes.”
“But Activation’s not until midnight.” I follow him out, tightening a ribbon in my hair and tugging on a bolt to make sure it’s secure. Excitement chases away my disappointment. As long as I have Jonas, everything will be okay. The front door closes and locks obediently behind us.
“It’s a surprise, Bee.”
Greyson
My eyes are shut tight and for good measure I cover them too. My fingers reek of fumes and soap cos Zipper needed an oiling, and that’s always a recipe for mess. Zipper’s draped over my shoulders, her eyebulbs shuttered closed, in case I try to peek through hers. Ma shuffles behind me, humming under her breath a tune that sounds suspicious-like the Old Earth happy commissionday song.
Every year, two thousand bubs are commissioned, harvested and dispensed to families who’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting to get picked. My folks were trying three years before they won the baby lottery.
“You’re not peeking, are you?” Ma asks, soft-like. She’s never raised her voice, even after all the wiggy stuff I’ve pulled. When the kitchen caught fire, or when I knocked Mr Drew over the railing cos I’d been late for school … again. It’s her job to be all quiet, to tread lightly, to be invisible.
“Course not,” I grin and breathe deep. What’s that? Ginger? I smell smoke, too. Is something on fire? I engage Zipper’s nose and the chip in my head translates her signals into code. Toluene and benzene, but only in bitty proportions. Guess that rules out the unit being alight.
It’s alright, Zipper reassures, slinking into my lap and pricking her claws into my thigh. I force my right leg to stop bouncing and tap-rattling the table.
“You can look now, sweetheart.”
I open my eyes and laugh, wrapping an arm around Ma’s waist to give her a half hug. She’s still in her cleaning uniform from her earlier shift, starch-stiff and rough to touch, and I hug her tighter. She smells like cotton and bleach.
“Oh Ma, it’s brill!”
The gingerbread biscuit is cat shaped — over-sized ears and a jagged tail like a lightning bolt. Ma’s used two yellow buttons for eyes and from its centre’s an honest to sky candle, with real wax and everything.
“Quick, blow it out and make a wish,” Ma says, and with a huff-puff the flame winks out, smoke curling up like a twisted finger. She must’ve turned off the fire sensor. Not impossible, and I’ve done it a handful of times, but Ma can bare work her own modes.
She requested assistance, Zip informs and bump-nudges the candle with her nose. Go on, make a wish.
I don’t say the wish in the real – I bare think it. It’s too fragile even for that. No words, just feelings of longing and hope and determination and, like a pressure release, it builds up in my chest until I imagine shoving my shapeless wish out-out-out. Then I’ve an emptiness, but it’s kind of a nice feeling, like the one you’d get after a lazy wank, leaving you happily gutted.
Did all that thinking hurt? Zip teases and I humph, tossing the wretched beastie off my lap.
“How’d you sort this, Ma?” I say, as Zip tucks her legs in neatly on the table, her metal-plated skin ruffling into order as if she’s got real fur. I remove the candle and Ma carefully folds a threadbare hanky around it to be squared away for another special day, those few and far between.
“I offered to do Kari’s chores for a while,” Ma says with a half-shrug. I fight back the frown cos I know that isn’t it at all. She won’t meet my eyes, her modes hanging from a ribbon around her neck and she’s twisting at her collar. She only does that when she isn’t being truthful.
“Here Ma, let’s eat it together.”
We snap it in two with little laughs as crumbs fly glitching everywhere. For a hysterical few secs we dot up every single one with the pads of our fingers. Licking them clean, I taste soap and oil. The hint of ginger means I gobble up every last one, and I even suck on the button, making sure it’s licked clean and shiny.
She clink-chinks her piece against mine, not wasting a crumb, and we eat our halves — chomp, chomp. It’s hardly a mouthful at all. Still, the flavour’s sharp and zesty. I’ve had gingerbread once, ages gone, but the memory’s long faded and it happened before I learnt to live record. I’m not one to relive memories though, and I don’t have any experiences worth selling, so I rare review what I’ve stored. I’m more a right-here-right-now kinda guy anyways.
My tongue runs across my teeth making sure I get every last bit. Done, I sigh with sad satisfaction. Who knows when I’ll have something so fine again.
Lenora
Never have I worn a dress so sublime. Pings float around me as the journos and fashionistas lingering outside the Conservatorium Theatre admire the uneven drapes of tiny patches of red, gold and amber faux-silk. My mother said an old friend was kind enough to make it and it echoes the whimsical styles from when I was born. One shoulder is bare, while on the other the cloth is gathered and pinned in place by a real rose. I take extra care in recording every soft petal and its heady perfume, posting to my yearmates so they can share it with me. It’s a gift from MsDanikaStarburst, arriving with the escort who’d driven us to the Activation Ball, squished in the back of a motor-carriage.
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Satisfied the rose has been recorded for prosperity, my attention drifts to the building that’ll shape my future. The Conservatorium Theatre – the Con – soars above the street, one massive structure, unaltered by any holographic or virtual trick, a visual certainty in a station designed to change and evolve.
Tonight it’s lit up like a commissionday cake.
I tuck my hair behind my ears and Mother tuts.
“You’re going to ruin it, sweetheart.” She offers me a compact mirror even as the queue for the theatre shuffles forward a few steps. Father’s wisely staying a few feet ahead of us, though he does throw me a sympathetic look. “Oh, I’d love to know who gave you that red hair,” Mother murmurs, her modes a rippling pool of silver that matches the short skintight dress and high heels she wears unsteadily.
“Your mother has her suspicions about your parentage,” Hugo pipes up from my other side. His shoulder should’ve been brushing mine. To celebrate my Activation he’s swapped his cowboy outfit for a three-piece suit, the green vest a shade darker than his hair, and the rest a dark pinstriped brown. His hat still sits at a jaunty angle on his head.
Oh really? Who? I ask, raising a brow in his direction and he smirks.
“That would be telling.” He’s teasing. The gene pool is a melting pot, and no one knows what comes from whom.
“I wish you’d do something with your modes,” Mother presses, as we finally climb up the dozen polished steps leading into the Triumph’s theatre. The grand doors are wide open and welcoming, greeting each and every guest as it checks them in. “They’re so…plain.”
“They’re elegantly understated,” I explain again, though I wonder briefly if I should’ve been more extravagant. A gaggle of women dance up the steps behind us to join the queue, their modes displaying reptilian spikes and an array of colourful feathers. It’s as if some sort of creature has collided with their heads mid-flight. Hugo’s doing his best to make me laugh with his outrageous impersonations of them. Perhaps my dainty headset, with its burnished copper lenses, is a little plain for such a crowd.
And such a crowd it is.
Bryn
“I hate surprises,” I mumble, but secretly I’m thrilled. My modes automatically adjust so I can see in the dim light, and Jonas glows like the Core as his smart suit sends signals every handful of milli-seconds. We trek through concrete tunnels, ignoring the cracks and the buildup of moisture staining it black and pass tiny cages, home to the clean-bots. Those little bots have always given me the creeps, since I woke up to one trying to flush my nostrils when I was five.
A message from Harper pops up asking what I’m doing. I open a direct link so not only can Harper, Teo and Chevette see the maintenance tunnel I’m shuffling through, but they can feel, sense and even taste it: the heavy drapes of cobwebs tickling against my cheeks, the sour taste of dust, and the tang of burnt oil hanging heavily in the air. It’s hot and the pipes, some as thin as my braids and others thicker than Jonas’ waist, are stretched across our path so often we have to scramble and climb. It’s like I’m on a virtual quest and my real body is just as fit as my avatar. Still, we’ve been walking for ages.
Geez, Jonas. We there yet?
Almost.
We stop at a blank wall and I look at Jonas just as blankly. He nods his head towards a narrow crack running along the metal grating floor and the wall.
It’s a secret door? I ask.
Jonas takes out a thin, square piece of plastic the size of my palm, with a metallic chip embedded at one end, its corners worn smooth. He waves it over the wall space and the door sinks in an inch and slides open. Jonas steps back, gesturing for me to enter first.
Where are we? The crew chatters away in my head and I mute them, leaving their texts to race across the bottom of my modes.
“Welcome, Bee, to the best kept secret in all of Triumph,” Jonas says out loud. At second glance the room is still just a room. Narrow, long and empty. Featureless. The only door is the one we’ve come through, and even it is spectacularly average. More a hatch really.
I see. No wonder then, I say. My friends are going to rag me out for this something bad.
“Hey, why don’t you take those off for a minute?” Jonas is already removing his. His eyes are too sharp, and I focus instead on his suit collar.
I dunno.
He raises a brow. He hadn’t heard me. I desperately want to make him happy so I message my friends quickly, ignore their protests, and push my modes up so hard they almost fly off my head.
“Easy there, Bee,” Jonas teases and waves me forward until we’re facing the opposite wall. It’s blank. I’m still recording to my Cyberinth chip, but I suspect this memory is going to be a bit of a letdown.
“Where are we?” I ask again, my voice echoing. Instead of replying, Jonas presses his highly digitised palm against a scuffed touchpad and the entire wall splits straight down the middle like a cracked egg. It’s a massive panel, hissing open to reveal a shiny, black screen stretching from wall to wall. It switches on between blinks and light fills the tiny room. It’s a window to another realm.
“Welcome, Bee, to the edge of the world.”
Jonas doesn’t take his eyes off me as Old Earth spreads out below us like a curved floor. My breath catches, goose-bumps race along my skin, and I swallow the cry lodged in my throat.
“It’s okay,” Jonas says as I drag my eyes away to look at him. He smiles encouragingly and so, instead of fleeing, I take one step forward and another, until my palms are pressed against the cold glass of the viewing window. Jonas stands close beside me, his shoulder almost brushing against mine, grounding me, and I heave in a shuddering breath.
Old Earth is huge, flickering as the space station’s blades revolve around the station like a rotating door. The horizon is a frown stretching beyond the window, light refracting off the stratosphere making it glow a soft wispy blue. A burning orb of brilliant orange balances on its edge. My mouth waters as my identity chip connects the sight with the bittersweet taste of citrus. It isn’t still like a picture. The sun’s sinking until it’s a half then only a quarter of an orange.
“We forget we’re not alone out here,” Jonas murmurs. “We’re floating above it all, but we’re still a part of it.”
The sun casts soft ripples of colours across the planet, catching on pillars of clouds and reflecting off vast tracks of gleaming water: apricot yellow, dark reds and deeper purples, then the orb is gone. Lavender grey, like my dress, swiftly changes to grey-greens and blue-browns, then a blue so deep, so dark, it’s like I’m being swallowed whole. The fractured moon hangs like two boats in the black, their sails jagged and torn. It’s terrifying.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Jonas says. He doesn’t look nearly so tired now. Then he frowns, a small turning of his mouth. He glances towards the sunset and then to his feet, but when he notices me watching him he smiles, shrugging though I can see it in his eyes. Something’s bothering him.
I turn back to the view.
Lenora
The Ball is a riot of colours and light: vermillion, aquamarine, mulberry and cream, shiny, sparkly, glitzy and dazzling. And the sound! A wave of voices and music and the chimes of messages and pings. Hugo steps closer, and the virtual noise settles to a background hum. I smile at him, and double-check I’m recording every moment. Later I’ll edit and post it, all six hours, guaranteeing a good boost in my ranking, no matter the outcome of this evening.
The theatre has been transformed for this night of nights. Balconies and private booths are suspended from the ceiling like blunt teeth, decorated in bright crimson and dark purple bunting. Each section is labeled with a name, mostly magazines or channels, and I note the important ones: Zone, iGen and FutureScope. Front and centre is the Guardian’s chair. Every year it’s been empty, but maybe he’ll grace us with his physical presence tonight.
“It’s gorgeous!” Mother gushes. Father swells with pride, as if he’s personally responsible. As Assistant Chief Mediator, he’d normally be on duty. Because of me, he’s a guest, dressed in a civilian grey formal suit that’s a little tight around the middle. His modes are a matching colour, and he appears nervous because they’re set to inactive. He keeps fiddling with a metal band around his wrist, which I’m sure is sending him live updates, despite the Con’s Blockers being in place.
Where’s MsDanikaStarburst? I ask, and Hugo is already pointing her out, surrounded by half a dozen sombrely dressed individuals.
Before I can even message MsDanikaStarburst, the woman has followed a string of pings that has passed her by and whirled around me with a trill like a school of flashing fish. Hugo snorts and brushes the clingy pieces of information away as she gestures for me to join her.
MsDanikaStarburst is someone you go to, rather than she to you.
I glance at my parents. While I was distracted, Mother has taken advantage of the seeking pings and gathered herself a following discussing my dress. Father is already deep in conversation with a man thirty feet away from him, his lips forming unspoken words and hands twitching in the standard body settings. I’ve tried getting him to update though, once they hit a certain age, people are less inclined to pick up new system languages.
Hugo cuts a path through the crowd in a way only a being made of information can, acting as my personal Blocker as people try their best to intercept me.
“That was prompt,” MsDanikaStarburst greets, her smile white, her brows cut sharp above her modes. I struggle to keep my mind off them as they wiggle while the woman talks. Her rank has risen to 28 since I saw her last. The journalist is dressed like an elegant chess board, all black and white, her hair coifed immaculately. Hugo mimes knocking on it, as if it’s made of wood.
“Thank you again for my invitation.” I blush, with just the right shade of pink, giving a polite bow. The woman flutters her hand imperiously, though her lips curve in satisfaction.
“Think nothing of it, my heart. It’s my honour to present you.” She gestures towards her companions standing around a raised plinth. Stemless wine glasses hover half-drunk above it as the group gossips.
“Dearests,” interrupts MsDanikaStarburst and the group obediently falls silent. I feel as though I’m about to be devoured alive. Hugo snorts and I make a note to edit that thought from tonight’s proceedings. “This, sweetlings, is Miss Lenora Rey.” My name spins out across the room and, for a moment, it’s the centre of a giant social web, with MsDanikaStarburst the sparkling fat spider strumming the fine threads hungrily.
Greyson
“I’ve one more surprise,” Ma says. She wraps her fingers around mine, tugging towards the door. She’s excited, like I haven’t seen her been since … glitch, it’s been longer than it’s got any right to be.
“You didn’t need to, Ma.” I look at Zipper while slipping on my jacket and the bot shrugs.
She hasn’t mentioned anything, Zipper says, jumping into my hood without so much as a by your leave, the cocky bag of bolts.
I help Ma tie on her modes, the ribbon knit-knotting under her bun, and I take extra care to make sure her curly honey-coloured hair isn’t caught.
“Where’re we off to?” I pull my modes on and get the door with the usual jiggle-wiggle, a shove-in and a lift-shift, letting Ma go first, then checking it’s locked. It’s bang on nineteen-hundred-hours so we both stop and wait. The lights in our zone flicker-flutter then shut down with a dull electronic sigh and for one moment it’s so glitching dark I get this drifting feeling. Just me and the steady humph of the engines, the clunk of the generators, and the ever chit-chattering life support that hiccups every third beat, as if it’s got a cold. The quiet isn’t entirely unpleasant.
Officially, the black-out on L8 and L7’s meant to deter loitering, illegal trade, people causing fuss, see. Instead, a new world uncoma-fies. In our zone, battery-powered lights spill out around edges of bolted tight windows, and the gold paper lanterns switch-sway on in front of Wong and Smith’s. Strings of bulbs light up across lanes, and self-installed lamps of all heights and brightnesses begin to hum-glow. As people move about, modes light bopping paths through the gloom and shadows flicker and jump, stretching tall against buildings before shrinking to nothing at all. The grime and dirt fades and there’s a quietness without the whining stark lights of day, the engines a steady, comforting grumble-rumble of a purring creature.
“Lead on,” I hand sign, linking my arm through Ma’s to keep her near and close. Her modes cover most of her face, but her smile’s fair wistful as we head along our balcony, down nine floors, and into the Beneath — the level’s guts. Mainly storage and passageways for moving larger goods between zones. I’ve heard rumours flesh-heifers once stampeded from the Paddocks all the way to Downside Docks through these tunnels.
She takes us along a passageway that’s at least five hand spans wide and lined with hundreds of roller doors. I duck to avoid the twist-snaking roof pipes, rat-tattling like marbles in a washing machine. Each door’s got a large number and a basic keypad entry, and it’s ten minutes before we reach number 387. The 3’s backwards.
“We’ve a storage unit?” I sign one-handed. “How can you afford to rent this and home?”
“I manage. This is important.”
Ma types in a ten-digit code and I tug the door up. It’s clear been shut for years and it takes a sec for the lights to auto flick‑flicker on.
Ma hand signs, slow and careful-like, her movements contained and close to her body, shy, as if she’s whispering — proof she’s fallen from up high, and every sign hard learned. “It was your father’s. Now it’s yours.”
It’s a lab. Crammed together and a lot’s damaged, but it’s a lab. Pa’s lab.
I gape a bit. At the equipment, the paper stacks (actual paper!) and the computers huddled together like faded old men in a corner. Break it down to scrap and it’s worth a fine fortune, but together! Together, they’ll tell me who my father was.