Wetware: the sister of superintelligence

Copyright 2015 Caitria O'Neill

Smashwords Edition

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For Thomas

They constantly try to escape

From the darkness outside and within

By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.

\- T.S. ELIOT. Choruses from the Rock

WETWARE

CHAPTER ONE

OBJECTS IN MOTION

CHAPTER TWO

THE VIEW FROM THE TOWER

CHAPTER THREE

BOOSTER

CHAPTER FOUR

SOFT INHERITANCE

CHAPTER FIVE

THE FREQUENCY OF OLIVINE

CHAPTER ONE

# OBJECTS IN MOTION

I watch stars shoot across the infinite dark behind my eyelids, and when I can't wait one second longer, I draw the hissing gas into my lungs.

"That's a good girl," Nurse Bing says nearby. "Just a few more breaths and we'll begin."

The arm behind me clicks and I can practically feel it extending. I hate this part.

"Would you like some music, Sloane?"

Nurse Bing's gloves fill my sight, unhooking the clammy nosepiece. The sharp scent of the gas fades.

"Yes."

Get it, I'm not one of the basket cases that needs full sedation, but I don't particularly enjoy upgrade days.

"Now try to relax. The Caretaker will access the old implant."

There's a beep and I feel rough vibrations radiate out from the numbed back of my skull. My eyes water, but wrist restraints stop me from wiping them so I make fists instead.

"Oops, you're tearing up." Nurse Bing crouches, sheer-stockinged knees coming into my static field of vision, "You nervous, honey?"

I may just be drugged, but it seems counterproductive to me to put a real nurse in a Caretaker unit. Having my brain operated upon by a robotic arm doesn't take any particular effort from me, or the robot.

At least, less effort than small talk during auto surgery.

"First upgrade for you in a while I see." the nurse says, "Not on a yearly upkeep plan?"

"...just...poor." I get out, as the arm groans and takes on a new pattern of jerking.

The in-thought search I issue next is reflexive. Like checking the time.

I search for 'autosurgery' and 'fatalities'. Ninety-four percent of the time (I'm proud of that statistic), my little cochlear piece lisps off the results in my ear.

This time however, there is silence — downtime.

I shiver, should've remembered. The old wetware's halfway out of my head and this isn't my first upgrade day.

But you can't just stop thinking.

"Keep still, honey."

I got my first electroencephalogram when I was seven and Olivine was five. It was a fourth generation hand-me-down in the Block, but the dingy membrane still clung tight enough over my little head to sense brain activity.

I thought I was a superhero. I still do sometimes when I slow down and think about what I'm doing.

Focus hard, little kid, and you can open the doors with your thoughts. Practice, and you can make Chinese food appear in the transport bay — though you have to figure out how to pay for it as well, and that's harder.

I had fun with Olivine, even if she didn't like those first couple of years as much. She was afraid of the toilet because I could flush it from a room away. And afraid of the shower because I could turn it cold. They're the kind of tricks I feel bad about, but also a little clever for thinking of.

When Olivine turned seven, all the pranks stopped. Mom put me in charge of babysitting and had a talk with me about 'being responsible' and 'not tormenting'.

Bad sister, even then.

I used my powers for good though, after that. My beat-to-hell electroencephalogram opened up the City, by way of the service elevator. We spent hours on the roof of D5, watching the shining alloy bellies of rush hour skim close beside and overhead.

The Swarm gets thick enough to block out the sun in the lower levels, twice a day at least. The rooftop is the only place I know where you can find light, even in the deepest traffic.

Nurse Bing clicks her tongue a few times, calling me back into the room with her and the whining robotic arm.

"The Complete, huh? You smart little thing." she says, "The waiting line on these is a few years already."

I'm silent. Hamel, my bearded and perfumed recruiter, only sent back four words. I accepted the message sitting in the dark in our little apartment — my little apartment.

ACCEPTED. BENEFACTION. PROJECT EUDAIMONIA.

"Come on," Nurse Bing says, "a tip for the moms in the audience?"

Benefactions are good for everybody. Every new round of wetware is just the beginning. at LuxeCorp. They still have to build all of the expensive, useful things they sell on top of it. I get The Complete before it's even through trials, and the company gets whatever they've hired me to build.

It's a bargain.

The Caretaker whirs behind me and my stomach pitches. I don't know what they saw in me that they wanted, and I'm less sure I can give it to them.

I've been taking contracts that I am not qualified for my whole life, but this is by far the biggest. It doesn't matter. I get the wetware that Hamel calls 'aggressive' in an awed voice. And I get credit — with this, I can pay back Franko and get back to living.

Nurse Bing tries again. "You're eighteen, right?"

"Yes."

She's silent for a while, and I can't tell if she's looking something up, or if this is the part in small talk where she wants me to respond. I'm as high as the rent, and she's going to have to have this conversation by herself.

I'm thinking of Olivine again, and the ships over Market Channel.

Once Mom ducked out guiltily to 'run errands' with her dealer, I'd wrap my sister in her jacket and a disposable poncho and we'd go see the permaships floating in The Swarm.

Olivine gripped my hand like a sticky clamp, down the dark stairwell of Block D5, into the rain and trash.

The City can be beautiful in certain lights. Debris from a hundred stories above comes pelting out of the sky and wetly drapes itself over every bump and knob of the buildings. Between rush hours when the sun filters in, the walls reflect in a colorful mottle of art made by generations of discarded packaging.

Block D5 is only one street from the Channel. About two hundred steps, depending on the trash. Tucked under corro-cases and stuffed between abandoned transport hulls, the less lucky people watched us pass, voices kept low enough to deny — 'Hello? Please?' Every time I hurried us by the flickering lights. We couldn't feed another mouth.

In Market Channel we'd find a good place to stand, always in the trash but mostly out of the rain, and we'd watch. The big ships drift low in The Swarm, gently reshaping clouds of smaller vehicles.

I watched the ships and I watched Olivine, who kept her hands pulled up into her sleeves and her head tilted all the way back to see. She pointed out The Beluga, The USS Trump and the rest of them so many times that I can still recognize them by their dumpy gondolas. She was even jealous of the night mechanics. She wanted to fly that much.

When we got home, I wiped off the smears she got on her cheeks from looking up into traffic.

She was my responsibility.

"Honey, still with us?" Nurse Bing says, "I asked what you do."

"I lost...my sister."

The words come out stupidly. I didn't mean to say that.

"Sorry, Sloane dear, what was that? Couldn't quite make you out."

I might be high on gas and offline, but my emotional responses are working perfectly. Tears that have nothing to do with autosurgery sting my eyes.

"I...I'm an engineer."

"Oh, that's nice," Nurse Bing says mildly, "What kind?"

"Cognitive macros." Usually this is where people stop asking questions.

"I hope you like it at LuxeCorp, dear. My own daughter's just starting this fall, gaming division."

"Daughter." I echo dully.

Great small talk, Sloane.

"Bing." the nurse says, apparently pleased by my interest. "Well, Bing Bing. I thought it would help with recruitment to have an unusual name."

There's a small puff of air against my cheeks in the pause, and I imagine Nurse Bing gesturing energetically. I can't picture her face though. I can't remember if I've seen it.

"It's no benefaction, of course. But, ah, then again, I don't think I'd let her take this big of a...step."

"Not that it isn't a very brave thing you're doing, sweetie, and — oops, looks like we're all ready to extract the old appliance." Nurse Bing puts a warm hand on my restrained one. "There will be a tiny..."

There's a sickening tug somewhere inside of my skull, and just like that, my implant is gone.

"Very well done, dear. There's the reflector in — let's get you patched up."

"But..."

I feel a muted wash of panic across my shoulders, though my scalp remains thankfully numb.

"But what, honey?"

"Upgrade?"

"Yes, they've got to patch your old access."

"No upgrade? What...wrong? I..."

"You don't know." Nurse Bing says, her voice suddenly flat.

My head is strapped in, I can't look at her face for clues.

"Know what?"

"Recruitment should have...look, this really isn't a nurse responsibility."

"Know. What." I clench my fists, fingernails cutting into my damp palms. I can hear my breathing in the splatter shield — a nervous, rapid pant, like an animal.

"No, no dear. I'm sorry, I've spiked your heart rate." the nurse is concerned. "Nothing is wrong at all, the upgrade is just a different kind of wetware."

"...different. "

"Yes, it's a protein-based interface, and, uh. We'll actually inject it."

The Caretaker hums and delivers several jolting taps to the back of my head, I'm guessing the bone staples. More tears leak from my eyes and I'm gasping for breath now. My body is panicking, even if my mind stays fogged.

"This isn't part of my job." Nurse Bing's voice is low, almost under her breath.

"When...?"

"Here, dear." she's back in front of me again, with the sharp smelling nosepiece dangling in her slick, lavender-gloved hands.

"Just a few more deep breaths to bring your heart rate back down."

I can't move as Nurse Bing snugs thick straps behind my ears and settles the clammy silicon over my nose and mouth. I hold my breath spitefully for a little while.

Then, because there is nothing else I can do, I shut my eyes and breathe deeply, drawing the sharpness in. Behind my eyes, the cosmos reappear in tiny pinpricks of residual light.

Those are Olivine's stars, I think as I swim into darkness. Ones I couldn't give her.

*

I can smell flowers with my eyes closed and I smile.

It's the smell of the garden bed we built on the roof of D5 — the green, sweet kind of smell that comes from life and death working together, balancing each other in the same box.

My bed is warm and delicious; I stretch like a sleepy child and crack open my eyes. And frown. The ceiling is wrong, this is not our apartment. My eyes drift down to the backlit, friendly face hovering centimeters above my own.

Hello, face.

"Ah, you're up." the face says, broadening into smile.

"You did great, Sloane...how do you feel?"

Light. Content. Disoriented.

The voice is familiar but I can't place her. My gaze drifts from the wide, friendly teeth to the spindly flowers on the table beside me. The white and purple heads pull each stem into a tired arc, and I let my own head rest against the pillow in sympathy. My eyes are drifting closed again and I really don't have a say in the matter.

"Happy upgrade day, honey. Those are irises, do you like them? They're blooming everywhere right now."

She must do well with the unaugmented. Some people have that knack — casual information, shared at just the right time.

Something hovers at the edge of my consciousness, calling for my attention as I wake up. I can't grasp it, but I feel its weight like the shadow of something falling.

The woman has continued to chatter.

"...lab just down the path from this little facility. You'll like The Spencer, while you're offline. It's a great suite too — you can see the Golden Gate from the door."

She gestures at a half-retracted door at the end of the room. Through it I see a fog but there's nothing but sky and that's wrong, too. I query for my location.

Downtime. Nothing is returned.

I remember where I am.

I remember the autosurgery.

Nurse Bing's white sneakers.

Olivine.

I reach my hand up to touch a hard, smooth wound seal hidden in my hair. The surgical access is pretty small. Under different circumstances, I'd probably be impressed with the wetwork.

Instead my breath catches in the papery folds of my throat.

My implant is gone and they haven't replaced it.

"The upgrade...?"

"Yes, the upgrade. That's why I'm still here." Nurse Bing smooths a patch on the bed and seats herself, mouth compacting into a serious line.

"I realized that recruitment didn't tell you...all that much about this wetware. I know you already signed off, honey, but I wanted to go over the risks again to make sure you understand."

I nod, and issue a few search commands to sort that out myself.

Downtime. I feel an acid knot forming in the pit of my stomach.

"This interface is protein-based." Nurse Bing says, "It isn't an implant — we just inject a little bit of it, to teach your body to make the protein. Your brain 'wires' itself."

"Why haven't you given me the injection? Is something wrong?"

"As I was saying, there are risks involved."

"I signed a contract, they're expecting me."

"Sloane, the virus that delivers the protein..."

"It means I won't scar out." It clicks into place suddenly. "Hamel said this one will last, that's what he meant. This one can stay in."

Nurse Bing watches my face closely, dark eyebrows peaked in the center of her forehead. "This is very, very new wetware, Sloane."

"And I signed the papers. I'll work hard — I know I can pay it back." I think of Franko, standing outside my door on the dark fifth floor.

"I can do this."

The nurse considers her next sentence for a long moment.

"There have been some, ah... problems in the early trials."

"Problems?" Hair prickles on the backs of my arms and neck.

"The survival rate is still not, ah, one hundred percent, due to the delivery virus." she speaks carefully.

"Then what is it?"

The nurse picks invisible particulate from her short skirt, avoiding my eyes. "Look, it's not my job to tell you any of this. The recruiter really should have said something."

"Tell me the rate." my voice is rough.

"It's above my classification to share at this point." Nurse Bing says unhappily "But, ah, yes."

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Well, no," she seems taken aback. "It isn't official till the end of trials."

I open my mouth, and shut it again.

"You're joking." I say, finally.

"I've got kids of my own." Nurse Bing's tone hardens. "Classified stays classified at LuxeCorp."

"But you're telling me some people don't make it?"

She glances at the door and moves a little closer on the bed, voice soft. "It's getting better, but...a few more than some."

I query my recall-bank to review the contract I signed.

Downtime.

"What am I supposed to do then? Stick the old one back in my head?"

My voice is rising. I want to shake, or strike the little woman — she's right here with answers and she won't tell me anything.

"They're one-time use, Sloane. You know that."

"So what? I go home? Unaugmented?"

"Plenty of people are unaugmented." Nurse Sun says, "They do just fine."

"I'm an engineer." I say. "Do you know what happens to my credit if I walk?"

"The recruiter really should have gone over this, I'm not..."

"No implant? No credit — poof!" I open my balled fist. "I can't buy new wetware without credit."

How am I supposed to pay back Franko if I can't work?"

I'm shouting now. "LuxeCorp's going to buy me a free implant, right?"

The nurse winces.

"I want to talk to Hamel." I say. "Get me my recruiter."

"Look," Nurse Bing's voice is low but as urgent as mine, "you can't go to the the company about me saying anything. I'm not supposed to know."

"This isn't — I won't..."

"You can't!" the nurse whispers. "I'm helping you. You can leave, but if you tell anyone I said something..."

The pale woman trails off and her eyes dart from the door at the front of the room, to the half open door in the back.

I remember she's trying to help me. It's like pricking the side of a balloon, all the rage rushes out of me leaving only heaviness behind.

"Please, just tell me to odds."

"It's high-risk procedure for an otherwise healthy candidate." Nurse Bing won't meet my eyes.

I form long, complicated search strings in my mind, reaching out for information to help me decide what to do. If there is a right path out of this.

Downtime.

"Why can't you just tell me...please?" I'm begging, and ashamed. "I'm offline, I can't..."

My voice breaks and Nurse Bing looks up. Something softens in her pretty, frightened face. She leans forward on the bed until her face is beside mine, and I feel her dark hair brush my cheekbone. Her mouth is directly beside my ear, but I still barely hear her as she whispers.

"Twenty-five percent."

I crane my neck away to look at her.

"Twenty-five percent don't make it?" I'm whispering too, her unease is contagious.

I'm also forming a dozen queries. There must be some mistake. Articles about 'The Complete's imminent release' have been circulating the feeds for months.

Downtime. I'm alone in this.

Nurse Bing is shaking her head, no, though. She puts her face beside mine again, her dark hair mixing with my own, and breathes,

"Twenty-five percent...survive."

She pulls back, and there's silence for a few long moments between us. Fog-white light filters through the open door, illuminating my hands on the bedspread and giving Nurse Bing a glowing nimbus.

Maybe it's a tail effect of the sedative gas, but I don't feel the terror I know I should. I don't even feel guilt anymore.

Just numb.

I searched my sisters data and her carefully organized bedroom more times than I can remember. After a month I had to admit I wasn't just looking for a goodbye note, I was looking for a pattern. I wanted to know why.

I think I selfishly wanted it to be something at school, or an online romance that went bad. I spent weeks trying to somehow pin Olivine to the Cohen boy's suicide in the news.

Instead of evidence I found bookmarked notes to the boys she'd dated and rejection letters from job after job. I found a printed picture of the crew of Belt Colony 4 — the one where they all kind of space-suit-mooned the camera. Olivine liked it because they were having fun on a chunk of cold iron hurtling through space. It showed you could have fun anywhere, she said.

Planted at the top of her data I found her last rejection, from Belt Colony 18.

"We regret to inform you that, due to intense competition this year for a limited number of placements..."

The searching took months. I didn't tell anyone I stopped working. Most of my contracts walked quietly away but a few turned into spitting monsters, demanding repayment. I can't go back unaugmented — only Franko is waiting for me back at D5. The way he used to wait for Mom to pay back her debts.

This contract was supposed to fix everything I ruined. Everything that can still be fixed, at least.

"Sloane, just think it through, that's all I'm saying. I'll help you leave."

I stare at my hands on the bedspread.

"Give me the wetware." I say, quietly. "I'll eat the risk."

Nurse Bing sighs and stands. The mattress rebounds but the crushed material of the cover does not.

"Very well." her voice is cool, "Just let me prepare the dose."

I watch her rummage in a bag by the bed. I can't see what she's working on, just her back and the drooping blooms on the table. Her face is guarded as she returns to stand over me, wafting the perfume of the flowers.

I push my sleeve up my left arm and turn my wrist over for the nurse, who gently takes it. She passes the sterilizing wand above the length of my forearm. I can see my faint, blue veins running below it.

"It's just..." She stops, and the syringe bobs centimeters above my skin. I touch her wrist with my free hand, and the little woman jumps.

"Please — ," My voice breaks and I'm ashamed.

I pull down until the dull nub of her syringe touches my arm.

"Please."

Nurse Bing sighs and thumbs the injection release. There's a hiss and a tiny pinch, and I can feel the cool contents enter my bloodstream, just below the elbow.

"You remind me of Bing Bing, is all." she says, and I close my eyes.
CHAPTER TWO

# THE VIEW FROM THE TOWER

Above San Francisco, early-morning traffic wheels like a flock of metal birds. Transports stuffed with workers and families putter through the skyline, scattering clouds of drones as they go. You can't see the big 'ships from across the bay, but I know they're moving like careful whales in the dim lower levels.

I was born over there, in a humid chamber of the City's heart.

Tknow, that right now thousands of bays are shunting open across the housing blocks, and commuters in their shining transports are falling into the The Swarm. They stream between buildings, looking in the windows of many more thousands of workers logging in at home. In their tiny rooms, kids in the City are learning about sex online and offline. The autokitchens are churning in every block, and the entire machine ticks towards nine o'clock.

The only thing out of place in this scene is me. I'm watching it from LuxeCorp's campus, across the bay.

Halfway between the lumpy white facility and the relay tower that rises from the edge of the lawn, I stop to catch my breath and squint at the thickening Swarm. Sometimes in the early morning when traffic is thin, I still catch glimpses of the wonder that Olivine pestered me out into the trash to see.

From the Luxe, though, it looks more often like a knot of flies.

I slept for two days and spent another three raving. When I surfaced with heat cracked lips and no grip left in my hands, I was here, the Spencer-on-the-Bay. There have been definite upsides to staying in a facility for the unaugmented. Like manual releases on the doors — they can't see me when I'm offline. I've been invisible now for two weeks as I cough the delivery virus out of my lungs.

Seabirds screech and a shiver runs up my spine.

It's all new, everything is foreign. The silent, ancient residents of the Spencer parked in the wide hallways or on the lawn. The nurses that circulate like white ships. They pass too quickly to do more than tell you to drink enough water, or that wearing the complimentary bathrobe every day is unhygienic. I'm mostly invisible to them too.

A clean breeze touches my hot face, and I close my eyes, taking stock. I focus on my hands, my fingers stretching inside my bathrobe pockets, they feel strong today. My legs hold me steady and I dig my toes into the plush green. I tilt my chin up to the graduated blue above me — breathe.

Nothing in Luxe is stranger than the open atmosphere. There's no traffic here, choking out the sun.

Something has driven me outside to walk every morning since I woke up me again. The same thing keeps me up at night, flicking through commands to stay sharp for tomorrow's calibration.

This is bigger than just paying back Franko and going home to the City.

I want to stay here, in the light.

"Oy!"

I turn to see a boy jogging towards me, feet leaving crushed, wet prints on the lawn. His flapping, black bathrobe matches mine with a stiff Spencer-on-the-Bay logo stamped in white over the heart, but I don't think he's one of the residents.

He looks about my age, and I don't think anybody else at the Spencer can run.

"Hello." he says, slowing to a walk. A few paces from me, he bends over his knees, breathing raggedly.

"Benefaction?" I say.

He nods, and taking a few fitful pulls of air. "That bad?"

My own lungs tighten a little in sympathy.

The virus is on him too, buffing his skin into the shine of cheap soap. He's colorless except for the a fat, jagging scar beneath his right eyelid — the scar is flushed pink. I can't tell his exact age from his face or his shock of dirt colored hair.

"You?" he asks, recovering his breath.

"Sloane Farris." I extend my hand, business-style. I practiced for this.

"Volkov." the boy says. "Mechanic."

He grabs my hand, and I squeeze his in what I hope is a commanding grip. There's no sign on him of who he is. I query his public data reflexively.

Downtime, of course.

Waiting for results, I've been clenching his hand too long. I drop it hastily and say,

"I'm an engineer."

"I can tell." he says.

I frown and a finger of heat creeps up the back of my neck.

Volkov holds up both hands. "I'm sorry, that was a joke — I'm..." he trails off. "Wrong foot. Starting over."

He does a wheeling, full-circle pivot and faces me again, smiling.

"Hi, I'm Volkov. Gonna be working on drones." he makes a jerky, hovering motion with his hand. "What's your thing?"

"Project Eudaimonia." I say.

"What now?"

"It's, uh..." I strain fuzzily for the conversations Hamel and I had at the recruiting center. My recall-bank of course does not respond.

The boy gestures for me to continue.

"I can't tell you anything else." I say.

Volkov whistles softly through his teeth, "Look, we're gonna be working together — I'm sorry about the engineer joke. I have bad timing, it's genetic."

"No." I say, "That's what I know about it so far. The acceptance message was...brief."

He raises one flat eyebrow. "You don't know what you're building?"

The boy's question hits the nerve I've been worrying all week. I haven't heard a word from the company since I woke up. I don't even know if they're still expecting me.

"So you're ready?" I say, raising my chin. The spiteful part of me hopes that if I'm behind tomorrow, that he'll do worse.

It's an ugly little hope, and I put it away.

Volkov shrugs. "I've been practicing." he says. "But who knows what it will be like till they try pinging us."

I look at him blankly.

"You don't know how The Complete works, do you?"

He's watching my face.

"Yes I do." I say, and query for information.

Downtime.

"You're offline." he says, amused. "It's okay if you don't. There's not much public information about it anyway."

"Then where did you hear any of this?"

"My nurse likes to talk." Volkov glances back at the facility. "You should try yours — it's the best way to stay informed around here."

I think of Nurse Bing's secret. My questions roll like water off the stone-faced nurse that replaced Bing. She's not going to be sharing company gossip with me anytime soon.

"I'll bite." I say, reluctantly. "What do you know about The Complete?"

"The short version is full input, full output." Volkov says.

"Skip output part." I say, impatiently. "I think something, my brain lights up."

"Yeah," Volkov says, "You skip typing or saying the term. The Complete's s'posed to do the same thing for input. If they ping our brains right, we can get the data without reading or listening to it."

"They're beaming us thoughts?"

"More like they're flipping switches where the thought lives. We'll still have to learn how interpret the signals."

"That sounds impossible to practice for."

Volkov points across the lawn. "There's something I came out here to get. I think it might help."

"What?"

"Perspective." he says, and I can see his canines when he smiles. "You're gonna want to see this."

*

There have been exactly thirty four and one half benefactions in LuxeCorp's history. I looked it up. The half cycle was the year that Balthus Ramachandran left the program before completing the contract, famously saying, "What are you going to do, take it out again?"

Protests over LuxeCorp's literal handling of the incident shortened the benefaction that year.

There have only been five other benefactees from the City, I checked. The rest, one hundred and forty candidates, came from the Luxe. None from the Periphery. The divisions are informal of course, but that doesn't make them weak.

Maybe this kid is accustomed to landing on his feet when he screws up. I know where I'll land, it's enough to keep that ledge at a fair distance.

"You're kidding." I say. Nothing, human or machine, is on the lawn, but I keep checking.

"Perspective, get it?" Volkov points up. He's on the first step of the relay tower at the edge of the lawn.

"I've seen you do laps out to this thing" Volkov hops up a second step. "Admit you've been eying the stairs."

The gray-glinting structure seems taller, much taller, than it did on my other walks. A tasteful, 'DANGER' sign hangs at a crazy angle over the first step, but the stairs are open — climbable. Many twists above I can see a platform that runs the perimeter of the top, perhaps three meters wide.

I bet you can see the entire campus from up there.

"We're offline." Volkov says, "we won't set anything off."

"How do you know?"

"I used to work on these things. This is just a victory lap."

"I'm sure the company understands victory laps." I say.

I tap the shiny brass L and C welded to the base of the structure. Beneath this, in crudely printed aluminum, it reads 'Property of the United States of America, Federal Debt Lease Program, Asset No. 215635' with a garish bald eagle etched in below.

"Standing in front of this thing talking about it isn't exactly decreasing our chances of being seen." Volkov says, taking another step. "Best view in the Luxe, up there. Don't you want to celebrate living?"

"You left out the free ticket to the Periphery." I say.

Something moves in Volkov's face. It could be a trick in the light though because he's smiling again a moment later.

"Two people makes it sightseeing." he says, "Come on."

I scan the lawn a final time. "Fine, but if we get pinched for this..."

"...it was my idea." Volkov finishes. He gives me a loose-jointed salute as he turns. "Text-book bad influence." he says, "Gotcha."

The stairs are narrow but quite steep. By the fifth flight I'm sweating in my heavy bathrobe, body unused to this kind of exertion. Twice, I stop to cough, and it's while leaning over the edge of the headlands, hacking, I see the Golden Gate below us is deserted.

"The herd's not out." I call to Volkov.

"Herd?"

"The joggers?" I try. "Tight suits? Skin-bathers?" Not one tan, fit warrior is tearing around the pleasure gardens that stretch across the bay.

"They're sleeping in." Volkov half turns. "People take launch parties seriously around here."

"They're all coming tonight?" There are normally hundreds of them.

"What do you think all that jogging was for?"

"Not our party."

"Should've studied up." Volkov says. "We'll be offline, so stick to jokes you know the punchline to."

"Jokes, right." I say.

"Where are you from?" Volkov says, over his shoulder.

The morning I came to the Luxe, I left the dark and quiet little room on the fifth floor of D5 without looking back. I left all of my and Olivine's things. I left Franko popping boosters in the hallway, saying 'this better work little chick.'

The transport came for me during the dim of rush hour, and I don't remember the trip through The Swarm, but was a moment when the boxy aircraft punched through the wall of traffic and swam into the sunny airspace over the bay, when I thought — I'm never going back.

"I'm from the City — Tenderloin. Doesn't matter." I flap a hand. "You'll be online tomorrow. Look it up."

Said out loud, it's bad enough to apologize for. "Sorry, I worked from home, growing up."

"Just a tip," Volkov stops. "Come up with a good pitch for the party tonight. They're going to ask."

"'Sloane, engineer' usually works." I say.

"Gripping." he says, beginning to climb again. "Are you sure this is your first benefaction?"

I don't respond.

"We're almost up," he says a few flights later. "Just, be a little careful at the top. There's a part we're gonna have to climb around."

Across the water, traffic is thickening around the City. Vehicles pump endlessly out of speed-wells and into the cloud. Channels form as The Swarm's algorithms condense traffic far beyond the limits of human navigation, and in the lower levels the sun is just disappearing from view.

Volkov reaches the bottom of the platform first. The steps continue through to the topside but a silver hatch bars the way, latched from above.

"Here we go." he says, tightening his robe.

At this height the wind moves in sharp bursts and I grip the railing on both sides of the narrow stairway harder than necessary. Perhaps it's just a trick of the height but I can feel the tower give, bending slightly in the stiff wind.

"Good view, anyway." I call. "Let's get down before someone sees us."

"They won't be able to see us on the platform."

"It's latched."

"I know my way around these things, remember?" he says.

Volkov bunches himself up on the next to last step, folding into a crouch under the hatch. Nearly a meter behind him overhead, the lip of the deck juts out.

He glances back at it as if he's...measuring the distance. "One."

"Hey," I say, as what he is about to try dawns on me. "That's not a good idea."

"Two." he coils.

Below him I move unconsciously, bracing my damp feet against the sides of the stairwell. My hands come up to catch him or protect my face, I don't know.

"Three."

The last word is spoken as an inhalation. Volkov stands, arching himself backwards under the platform, tipping, tipping.

At the last second, when I'm sure he's going to come tumbling back onto me, his hands open. He grabs the lip of the deck above, legs swinging wildly out. I duck down several steps to dodge them.

Volkov hangs there clutching the edge of the platform for a moment, adjusting his grip. He's breathing heavily, and when he speaks his voice has the rough edge of a cough to it.

"And now I..."

The legs jerk and Volkov lifts himself. One of his arms slaps the top of the platform, and now he's hanging at a slight diagonal, straining.

"Do you need..."

"No!" he puffs, and kicks his legs like a frog, trying to hump his chest forward onto the platform. After a few more equally ineffective tries he starts to cough and goes still, gripping the platform. His arms shake slightly.

"Sraka." It sounds like a swear from the way he hisses it.

Watching him hang, I have an idea.

"Do you think you can get down from above?" I call.

"I wouldn't have tried...what are you doing?" He cranes to see me below him.

I move up the steps and, bracing myself against the rails, get one shoulder under his dangling foot.

"Helping." I misjudge and push too hard. Volkov's knees hit the platform and he swears again, but then he's up and over.

I can see him clamber upright through the grating.

"The view Sloane." he says after a pause.

"You're welcome."

"Right." Volkov moves to the center of the platform, and there's a bit of rattling.

With one final — bang, the silver hatch at the top of the stairs falls open. Volkov's sweat streaked face pokes through.

"Thanks for the boost." he says.

Three more steps take me to the top of the world. LuxeCorp's massive complex sprawls across the headlands beneath us, photovoltaic membrane glinting like fish scale. Campus buildings shoulder out of the ground in small groupings, linked by an endless network of shining white paths.

The wind whips the tie of my bathrobe and pushes my damp hair back off my face. I study the headlands, my ankles hanging over the edge of the platform. Volkov is leaning back on his elbows, legs dangling in space, silent.

Downtime is a desperate kind of loneliness. When you wake up, no one's there. No one is listening. It strips away the familiar screen names, the distant voices on relay chat, and even the memories I've stored. When I woke up alone, and the fever was already burning, I wasn't sure I existed at all.

When Nurse Bing didn't come back, the grim new nurse fed me, washed me, and patiently restrained me. But she didn't speak. Her presence was pathetically comforting, but even she looks right through me.

After so many days alone in my head and invisible to sensors, just sitting next to another person makes this whole thing seem more real.

Volkov catches my eye and points. A nurse pushes a bobbing lev chair out onto the lawn of the Spencer below. She kicks out the props, fusses with the chair's occupant for a moment and heads back for the facility, making a crisp line across the green.

In the chair, a cramped old woman watches the bay, unmoving and as brittle as an eggshell. She doesn't seem to notice us, perched high above her.

"Lucky." I say it softly, but Volkov hears, and pounces on it.

"You want to be a rich dinosaur?"

"Be nice," I say, "You might scar out someday."

"Not anymore." Volkov taps his temple. "Protein, remember? We've got this for life."

I frown slightly. "Keep forgetting."

"It's gonna change everything." Volkov says, "Think about what it means for the people who reject. Periphery's full of people who can't use implants anymore. "

"I don't think LuxeCorp's going to be giving this stuff away anytime time soon." I say, thinking of the virus.

"They should." Volkov swivels to face me, crossing his legs. "Credit is broken, and they know it."

He doesn't seem to mind sitting with his back to the edge of the platform.

"I'm not political." I say. "Can we go back to engineer jokes?"

"It isn't politics, it's people's lives, Sloane. D'you have any idea how many treatments need wetware to work?"

I search for the number.

Downtime, and a ripple of annoyance.

"The way I end up here getting treatments when I'm her age," I point at the cramped woman below us. "is by keeping my head down."

"Like a sheep." Volkov says dismissively.

I don't try to keep the judgment out of my voice. "Like somebody who can't afford to play with the company. Maybe you're used to climbing towers, and your opinion mattering around here, but where I'm..."

"You think I'm a Luxie?" he says, breaking in.

I shrug.

Volkov points at the pulsing cloud over the City, a smile forming on his hollow face.

"Home for me is about thirty kilometers, through that flying crap."

"Periphery?" I say, "You don't look...I mean..."

He raises the flat eyebrow again.

"...poor." I finish.

This is getting worse.

"It's the sick, pale look." he smiles, "I get mistaken for foreign royalty all the time."

"Sorry. I just heard that kids...start late there."

"I was fifteen."

I can feel my eyebrows rise. "Then how did you get a benefaction?"

"Don't be an ass." Volkov says cheerfully. "I'm a night mechanic." He touches the jagged line beneath his right eye. "You learn to think fast."

When I was younger, and we lived briefly on the thirty-second floor, Olivine and I would watch for them at night through a gap in the buildings over Market Channel. Their safety lights bob against the dark hulls of the big ships.

I've never met a night mechanic. In my imagination they certainly never looked like the wiry boy in front of me. From the window they were always beings of pure light.

The Swarm can't fix its own leviathans. Instead men and women service the permaships, piloting themselves through the oblivious swarm when it's thinnest — after dark.

I knew it was deadly even as a kid. 'User error' is the official report in the police feed,every time a night mechanic eats it on a repair run. It doesn't stop you from dreaming about it, though. Everybody dreams about flying on their own.

"Thanks for keeping the big guys up there." I say.

"That," Volkov says, "was a demonstration."

"What?"

"Free advice for sticking around here, if that's really what you want. Pick a few details that aren't too close to your heart. Practice a little, it'll warm you up some for first impressions."

"My work's public." I say, "We can talk about that."

Volkov shakes his head. "Nope. The people with credit want real blood — real stories. Until you build something you're selling yourself, so pick something marketable."

"I'm not marketable." I say, sourly.

He ignores me. "You're a young engineer from the City who somehow landed a benefaction. People love an underdog. Get into the persona."

"And what's yours?"

"My persona?"

"Yes."

"I'm a scrappy tinker from the Periphery, who just needs a chance." Volkov extends one hand mechanically for a handshake. He's smiling but there's some spark in him I don't like. Something almost angry in his eyes.

I notice now that his hand is covered in scars, scars, scars. Big roping ones, little white nicks, and shining patches baked pink by the heat of some engine. He keeps it open, extended for me.

"Convincing." I say, but I don't take the hand.

"I'm not in character yet," He withdraws it, curling his fingers like I've stung him.

The conversation drifts tersely into weather, then silence. Volkov goes around the back of the relay-tower, 'to change up the view' he says. I stay where I am, looking out over the bay. A shroud of white is creeping over the west side of the peninsula, already obscuring the ranks of the Periphery from view.

There's an order to things in this area, and it seems to correlate highly with the fog.

In the Luxe you find the owners, the thinkers, the space, and the sunshine. The City is stuffed full of the young workers and their younger children. It glows like an engine, occasionally engulfed in mist. The Periphery is always as is it is now, hazed out by a bank of fog and darkened into a patchwork by energy rationing.

At least LuxeCorp still feeds its underclass. Some cities still rely on government services. Those are the cities where people starve.

I wonder what Olivine would think of this. Me, on top of the Luxe with the wind singing in my ears.

There's a clatter on the other side of the platform.

"Volkov?" I pull myself up.

He doesn't respond, so I pad to the back carefully on bare feet, keeping one hand on the center of the tower. The wind whips my robe around my legs and pushes my hair in front of my eyes. I have to stop for a second and claw it out of the way.

When my vision clears, I see Volkov kneeling in front of a small maintenance box he's pried open. Both of his hands are stuffed inside and he is working feverishly on something deep within it.

"What are you doing?"

My voice makes him jump. He jerks his hands out.

"I..." He grabs the top panel and tries to jam it into place, slamming his finger painfully in the process. It takes several tries.

"Nothing." he says shortly, finally securing the panel. "I was...you know, I worked on these things. Just seeing if they've changed at all."

When I don't reply, he says, "Nostalgia...right?"

"Yeah." I say, "I'm going back down now."

He won't meet my eyes. "Great, let's go."

The lawnkeepers are out as we walk back, pummeling the lawn with their many, shining legs. We're almost at the facility by the time he speaks again.

"Sloane, what you saw me doing..."

He pauses, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"You got me involved." I say.

He looks surprised. "I didn't..."

"Two's sightseeing? So one's suspicious?"

He's young. He's somebody's brother, or son or friend.

"I needed..." he begins.

One person shouldn't be allowed to hurt everyone around them, just like that, just because they get fed up with the way life works. Or because things get a little hard and you don't know who to take it out on.

I cut him off. "You used me."

"You weren't s'posed to come around the back." His jaw works. "I'm sorry."

"Leave me out of it." I turn to leave.

"Sloane, what you saw me doing..."

I look back. "I didn't."

Relief floods his face. "Gotcha."
CHAPTER THREE

# BOOSTER

I wake up flailing, unsure where I am. A dimly glowing Qorb bobs in the corner, painting the room the same, incandescent half-light I know from the lower levels.

Then I see the blue imprint on the wall above the bed, for people who can't look up the time themselves.

It reads 1734h, my chest tightens. Another day gone, swallowed by unstructured thinking and sleep.

I dress quickly, keeping my shoulders bowed against the cool air prickling my skin. The loose material smells like stale coffee and citrus soap, and when my shirt slides over my eyes I can convince myself I'm still at home in D5.

The thought unnerves me.

I fumble on my boots and punch the door's manual release, stepping into the warm, orange light of late afternoon. The tightness in my chest eases. I'm here.

Thin clouds and a few transports scud across the sky outside. Propelled by a tongue of breeze, a square of thick, creamy paper flutters out. It tilts up against my boot and the door slides politely closed behind me.

I must have stepped over it. Printed in blue ink under LuxeCorp's fractal diamond, is an invitation.

We request the pleasure of your attendance at:

LuxeCorp's 35th Benefaction Launch

20:00, ALCATRAZ

Underneath, scribbled by a hand unfamiliar with a pen, reads:

Transport outside Spencer 19:45. Find Neel.

I run my thumbs over the blue ink ridges, leaving smudges on the paper. This is the first sign I've had in weeks that someone at the company is expecting me. It's one of those little fears that lurks in the spaces between other thoughts — that something else has gone wrong and after all of it, I'm not supposed to be here.

I study the invitation as if it can answer more of my questions. When nothing is revealed I crease it roughly, pushing it into my pocket.

The Spencer-on-the-Bay huddles at the edge of the headlands but the white paths of campus run over the hill, connecting the facility to the rest of the Luxe. Marching over the rise I pass the small lab where I'll calibrate tomorrow. My breath is rough in my chest but I feel clearer than I have since the injection.

I'm nearly alone on the rolling path. A few figures hurry along bisecting routes ahead, always a bit too far away to make out clearly. I walk quickly, relishing the striking impact of my heel with the ground and the rush of air in my lungs. The hills are golden-dry and every building's membrane is beginning to burn, reflecting the colors of the sinking sun.

The path widens as I approach a large ring of buildings. The narrow balconies and the white pavilion are empty, and I cut straight across the deserted stone to the massive statue in the center.

Two young men are caught mid-stride in the sandy red stone. Their arms are flung casually around each other's shoulders, as if observed in a moment of celebration. The taller boy with the arched nose dominates the scene, one arm pointing forward, handsome face serene. However, it's the sly, questioning look carved into the face of the smaller figure that holds my eye.

Clement Jennings and Benjamin Samuelson

co-founders of LuxeCorp, 2048

"The only true wrong is never to have tried."

Despite the emptiness of the space, or perhaps only noticeable because I'm alone, soft music plays.

A cough forms in the middle of my chest and I let it shake me, holding my ribs.

"Are you okay?"

I feel a small hand on my shoulder and I straighten, wiping my palms hurriedly on the sides of my pants. The girl also pulls back, tucking a handful of cheerful red hair behind an ear and studying me

"I didn't think anyone was here." I try to control my ragged breathing. "Who are you?"

The girl's round face become's suddenly concerned. "You're offline." she says, looking me over again more critically. "What happened to you?"

"It's just till tomorrow." I say. "I'm Sloane."

"Rosemary." she smiles at me. "Rosemary Perceval."

"Where is everyone?"

"They're all going to the launch tonight. Or they're staying home to keep up with the feeds." Rosemary shrugs. "It's just a party, right?"

"Are you going?"

"Me?" The other girl laughs and tugs on her loose, red dress. "I'm fresh off a skimmer from Napa, not exactly on the shortlist for LuxeCorp events. Mind you, this is a big step up in my family. Mom and Dad work for Bacchus International — chemists, both of them."

She shakes her head in exaggerated disapproval.

"People're more my area. So I thought, recruitment! Right? But Bacchus doesn't have a training program for it, so here I am."

She looks happy about it.

"You don't strike me as a recruiter type." I say, remembering Hamel's smooth, cool handling and the precise lines of his eyebrows.

The recruiters at the center gave off a uniform aura of control that put me more on edge. In contrast, this girl's face and body telegraph what she's feeling in real time. And she feels...comfortable.

"Yeah," Rosemary agrees. "I'm trying to come up with a look — that's what the red is for." she plucks at her dress again. "Red hair, red stuff. Maybe it's my thing."

Music tinkles overhead and the sun dips a little lower.

"So why are you offline?" she asks again.

"I got an upgrade." I say, "But this is by far the longest downtime I've had since I was underage."

"Congratulations!" Rosemary beams. "What model?"

"The Complete."

The girl's blue eyes widen. "You're a benefactee?" she says, "How did you do it?"

"I don't know." I say, honestly.

I saw my scores at the recruiting center. Hamel shared them all with me as he recorded them. Middle, middle, middle.

Volkov was right. I am going to have to come up with a story.

"Well what are you doing on your team?" she asks.

I shrug. "I'll find out tonight." I slip my hand into my pocket, fingers brushing the folded invitation.

"It'll be something you're 'specially good at." Rosemary studies me, "Something they need for a particular project. What's yours called?"

"Project Eudaimonia." I say.

"Could you send that...oh." she makes a face. "Forgot you're offline."

Her search is quick, registering only in the slight wrinkling of her nose. "Eudaimonia." she says, finishing, "Human flourishing, right action. Doesn't tell you that much, huh?"

"Nobody tells me much." I say.

"You got The Complete." Rosemary's eyes still flicking over my face as if she'll catch a sign of whatever the senior recruiters saw. "Hope I'm as lucky."

The air is cooling rapidly now that the sun has collapsed below the hill. I cross my arms over my chest, disguising a heavy shudder as something works itself out in my mind.

There was a seventy-five percent chance Project Eudaimonia would need to replace me, if I didn't survive the virus.

This benefaction isn't about being talented, or lucky. It's about being expendable.

"I'm fast." I say. "That's probably it."

"You know, maybe I will tell people I went tonight." Rosemary says, a quiet, sly look stealing onto her otherwise wholesome face. "I did meet you, after all."

"Sure." I say, uncomfortable. "Look, I've got to go back before they clear away dinner."

"Right! Right. Don't let me keep you..."

Rosemary trails off as a odd, bent man approaches the statue. He's only a dozen years older than the two of us, but he drags his left leg heavily, giving each movement separate, careful thought.

"He's offline too." Rosemary whispers.

"Scarred out?"

Even if you take anti-rejection boosters, over time irritation from the implant in your skull causes scarring in most people. Sometimes the decline is treatable, but for a good number of the unlucky the wetware must be removed entirely. Everybody's story is different — it depends on the wetware, what it was touching, and a lot of other things.

"My dad's sick." the red-haired girl says quietly, watching the man's retreating back.

I reach out this time,and put a hand on her shoulder. Rosemary blinks.

"I'm sorry." she says, tone over bright. "I should go back and study. You get to the launch."

"Good luck." I say, and squeeze her shoulder before letting go. Her smile wobbles, then reforms.

"You too, Sloane." she says.

*

Twilight has fallen by the time I stride in from the lawn. My room is thick with the brown smells of gravy and onion, but there's no sign of a tray. Hours are strict at this facility, dinner must have been delivered and collected by some indifferent piece of machinery while I was out.

My stomach grumbles and I scowl. Olivine used to make fun of me for getting this way, but only after I'd eaten.

When I was fourteen and she was twelve, she brought me a handful of peanuts and made me eat every single one before she told me she busted a transport's hatch. It had been a rough day and the peanuts struck me as so funny that I laughed until I cried. Olivine hovered just out of reach, wondering if her plan had worked or if I was so angry I'd gone insane.

I catch myself thinking about her, I know I shouldn't. But the bad thoughts come less and less frequently, and the good thoughts can't count — can they? I can't cut her out completely.

The blue imprint on the wall now reads 18:52h. I have nearly an hour before my transport arrives and a plan is forming in my head. A stupid, hungry plan.

The last time I snuck into our Block's autokitchen, I was eleven and things were so thin it didn't feel like stealing. It's dangerous getting the food out — enough so that I always felt like we deserved what I brought back.

I let myself into the internal hall, making a beeline for the service entrance of the Spencer's autokitchen.

I'm offline again, for the first time since I got augmented. The 'kitchen won't be able to see me. I can sneak in, hopefully without activating any security protocols or bringing worried nurses at a gallop.

As night falls the corridors grow slowly darker. My other senses sharpen, heartbeat ringing quick and percussive in my ears. I'm alone in the network of halls, save the occasional piece of shimmering, incorporeal art.

At the service door, just a shoulder-width slit in the wall, I stop and look either way. No one's watching but still I hesitate.

The autokitchen should be dormant at this hour — the blades still and the ovens just hot, not incinerating. The 'kitchens in D5 clean in the middle of the night, I'll be out of here in minutes. To be safe, though, I query the service schedule.

Downtime.

My stomach rumbles, I'm going in.

I press the manual release, holding my breath. The door hisses and to my relief slides open.

As I hoped, the shining chrome machinery is motionless. Faint light from high-efficiency bulbs high above reflects off the mirror-bright blades and curves of the food processors. It's in much better condition than the stuff in D5 —petrified flecks of food and congealed fat a few centimeters thick do not reflect.

The room is sticky-warm and I can almost taste bleach and bread in the air. And something brown and savory — the gravy.

I grab the yellow railing and swing myself under, onto the mechanic's walkway. The layout of the 'kitchen looks familiar, from here at least. The tall, thankfully motionless columns of the cook team tower in the center. The cool-boxes will be in the back, beyond the lights.

Autokitchens aren't set up for people.

As I move deeper in, the light grows dimmer and the air grows hotter with each step. At the end of the walkway I grope blindly with my hands to find the catwalk. Clambering onto it, I stand slightly bent against the unknown dark above me, and move forward.

I'm nearly at the cool-boxes when my right foot strikes something heavy and soft. I sprawl, hands outstretched in the dark before me.

"Ah," says the thing I tripped on.

Panic wells in my chest as I go down. I land on my forearms, trying to make a bridge with my body over the soft form. It makes another noise and I scramble away, firing off commands to my computer to call for help.

Downtime. No help is coming.

It takes me a long minute to control my breathing and the shake in my hands. It takes even longer to convince myself to reach out in the hot dark, and touch the form that tripped me.

With tentative fingers I find a thin shoulder in terrycloth. A smooth head. It's got to be one of the residents. I find a shallow pulse — I've got no idea how long he's been in here but he's still alive.

I've got to find a nurse, or pull an alarm or something. I start down the dark catwalk, rubbing my aching forearms.

"Ah," the body says again, stopping me.

It's too hot — the air is baking. I can't leave him here where he can't see.

Crouching, I feel around in the dark until I grab like fistfuls of bathrobe. He's not heavy, but I'm as weak as a baby. My first heave only moves him a half-meter along the catwalk.

The man groans and I feel a cough surging up through my chest. I try to lie him back on the grating as gently as possible, then double over holding my sore ribs. The cough shakes through me in waves, and when I gasp for air in the hot 'kitchen it feels like a fist around each lung.

I'm weak, I leave the man.

I'm halfway to the door when I hear the first movement above.

It takes me a few seconds to locate the source. Shining in the high efficiency light near the ceiling, the sanitizer descends, rotating slightly with shrrrrrk noise.

As I watch, the sanitizer begins to test each of the dozens of nozzles that snake from its thick neck. A short jet of superheated water emerges from each, then vanishes in a trail steam. The smell of bleach is overpowering.

Autoclean. I misjudged the time like a hungry idiot, and it's going to get me killed.

I take three running steps towards the door and safety before I remember the old man on the catwalk. He can't have an implant, not if the cycle is starting.

The 'kitchen can't see him either.

It takes me too long to get back to him. Everything is taking too long. The air is so hot and thick with moisture now that it feels like I'm drinking it, but with every wet breath I heave the man a precious half meter closer to the door using fistfuls of his bathrobe. He groans.

"Look, sir. If you can help out at all..." I begin to cough again, gagging on the taste of bleach in the thick steam.

We're almost out when it begins. Above us the sanitizer shrieks and the nozzles extend on slender necks, twisting into position. I've got my arms looped across the old man's chest now, staggering backwards and pulling him with me.

I keep my eyes behind me on the door, it's so close, but each heave is weaker than the last.

With a roar of compressed rage, the spray begins.

The closest jet connects with the walkway about three meters before us. I feel a thousand pinpricks across my face and the the backs of my hands.

"Mister!" I scream.

Two meters to the door. I can still make it if I...let go.

The jet of water jerks and drifts in our direction, pushing a ripple of hot water down the walkway to wash over the old man's feet.

The boiling liquid has an effect that my shouting and pulling have not. He arches his back, feet scrabbling instinctively away from the spitting monster front of us. His sudden movement drives him into my chest, and we both stumble backwards into the door.

I slam a desperate elbow against the manual release. The door hisses open and we tumble, steaming, onto the plush carpet of the hall.

The door hisses shut, and there's silence.

When I can move I pull my legs out from under the body and scoot back against the facing wall to sit. My whole body trembles, from the exertion or the adrenaline I don't know.

The old man's face is turned towards me. Eyes closed, it reminds me of the pear you forget until it browns and begins to pull back into itself.

"Hey." I say, hoarsely. "Are you dead, sir?"

The man gasps and curls onto his side coughing fitfully. I can see the tops of his bare feet — the skin is blistered and violent looking. When the coughing stops he lays his head back against the carpet, eyes closed, and says,

"Unaugmented?" His voice is thin and papery.

"You're safe." I get up on shaky legs and stand above him. "Can I help you sit up?"

The old mans eyes snap open. They're sharp, the same color as the edge of a broken mirror.

"Do you have an implant?" he says, clearly.

"I...not right now." I say. "You're lucky I was in there."

"Are you recording this in any way?"

"No."

"Good." the little man says. "Give me a hand up, girl."

"Sloane." I grab both of his bent hands, hauling him upright.

He leans, breathing heavily, against the wall by the service door.

"I'll go get someone." I say.

"No!" Alarm flashes across his face, but he controls himself quickly. "Could you just give me one minute, young lady?"

"You should have someone look at those feet." I say.

The skin is darkening angrily. The man glances at them, annoyed.

"Yes." he says. "Of course. Will you help me to my room please?"

"I have to go soon, can't I call...?"

"I used to make turkey sandwiches when I worked late." the old man says, cutting me off.

He lifts his puckered chin and looks me in the eye. "Could you do me the courtesy of helping me to my room? They'll lock the 'kitchen if you tell them I was in there."

"I'm sorry..." I hold out my arm and the man grabs it with bony fingers.

"Booster's the name." he says.

"What, like the drug?"

He digs his fingers into my arm. "Ow!"

"Yes," he says, "like the drug."

The carpet is soft but Booster is hissing between his teeth with nearly every step.

"How long have you been at the Spencer?" I ask to distract from his pain more than because I'd like to know.

"I was parked in this hellhole four years ago." Booster says. "And if I'm lucky I'll die in my sleep tonight "

I can't suppress a ripple of irritation. "I could put you back in the 'kitchen if you prefer."

Booster is quiet as we reach an intersection of dark halls.

"Which way?"

He nods right. "What were you doing in there?" he says accusingly. "How did you find me?"

"Trying to get something to eat — I'm offline, remember?"

"Why?" Booster stops and I'm force to stop with him, or drag his injured feet along. I pull my arm from his grasp and face him.

"None of your business." I say, "but I'm in the benefaction."

"Another one?" Something is working behind the old man's pale eyes, clicking away. It's not approval, or admiration. "What's the upgrade called?"

"The Complete." There's no recognition on his face. "You really haven't heard of it yet?"

"Offline, remember?" he says, sourly. "Most of days are still sharp, I just...think they'd prefer if the fuzzy ones weren't so public."

"What are you doing out of bed, Mr. B!" A strident voice raises the small hairs on the back of my neck. Booster starts, and quickly takes another step away from me.

A nurse is striding down the hall towards us, bright lips turned down in comic disapproval.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I was just walking and we..."

"Who are you?" the woman says, arching a blonde eyebrow at me as she sails by and seizes the old man.

"Bedtime for good boys!" she sings. In an exaggerated aside to me she says, "Hope he didn't get weird at all. Guy's as senile as a brick."

"Senile." I repeat.

Booster's got a happy, placid look on his face. The nurse fusses over him, straightening his robe. When she's fixing his collar, he meets my eyes over her shoulder with his sharp blue ones.

And winks.

I notice as the nurse leads Booster away that he walks straight, with only the barest hint of a limp.

Maybe it's the clever ones that get to stick around.

*

I jog back to my room, foul tempered and hungry. I shouldn't have tried the autokitchen, I know that.

Another part of me thinks, what if I hadn't? Booster wasn't walking himself out of there.

I hit the manual release and enter, struggling out of my jacket. The bleach spray spotted both sleeves with white, I curse.

Preoccupied, I don't see the man sitting in the center of my room until he rises.

"Sloane Farris?"

"Whoa." I take a step back, holding the jacket held between us.

He's the kind of tall that stoops a little bit throughout life, but his teeth gleam confidently in his darkly tanned face. He's dressed in the same, simple style that the staff confine themselves to, but a bright little patch of yellow waves gayly from his jacket pocket.

"My apologies for any inconvenience, Miss Farris. I'm Dr. Alpert, a psychologist with the brand enforcement office. Please, sit down."

The doctor removes a slim, black case from the chair beside him and motions for me to be seated. I ignore it, and sit instead on the edge of the bed on the far side of the room.

My choice seems to amuse him.

"Don't worry, young lady, I don't bite." he says. "I must notify you, however, at the beginning of this interview that I do use a bioinfo filter to speak with patients."

He taps the thin band and half-lenses perched on the bridge of his long nose.

"What is that?"

"Just some extra information about our conversation. It lets me see your heartbeat jump, or your temperature spike. That way I can slow our conversation down, to keep from upsetting you." The doctor smiles, eyes gentle behind the lenses.

I don't need to be online to interpret what that really means. If he's monitoring my heartbeat and temperature, he can tell when I'm lying. There are plenty of ways to extract data from a conversation but he's chosen one of the most invasive.

Think slow.

"What is this about?" I say.

"Just a quick check-in, to see how you're doing." Dr. Alpert says in a soothing voice "Tomorrow's the first day, how do you feel about that?"

"Fine."

He waits, but I'm really just feeling fine.

"Do you know why else I'm here?"

"To wish me luck?" I say.

"Of course." Dr. Alpert's teeth flash again, reassuringly. "But there were also some...irregularities in your intake that the company has been made aware of. I'd like to discuss those with you, if that's alright."

My stomach clenches involuntarily. No more bad news.

"What irregularities?"

"Oh, no, no. Nothing related to the new interface. Everything looks normal there."

I blow out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"But it has come to our attention that your attending nurse shared some unsanctioned information with you during the upgrade. Do you remember receiving this information?"

"Yes..." No use lying, not with his lenses.

"How did it make you feel?"

Are we really doing this?

"Sloane?"

"Surprised. I felt surprised."

He motions for me to go on.

"And I wondered why you hadn't told us." I say honestly, looking for his reaction.

He nods, face unreadable. "What an experience that must have been."

"I haven't told anyone."

"Oh, we're not worried about that, Miss Farris."

"You're not?" I remember the fear in Nurse Bing's face.

"I am afraid you've been the victim of some campus gossip."

"What?"

"Yes, the number Nurse Bing shared with you is fortunately just a rumor among some of the, ah, lower level health staff."

"What's the real mortality rate then?" I say.

Dr. Alpert's eyebrows contract.

"That's above my classification to share, Sloane. But rest assured it is not anywhere near your impression. On behalf of LuxeCorp, I sincerely apologize for our staff's behavior in this."

My pulse is still high and I know he can see it. Despite Dr. Alpert's assurances, I can't shake the feeling that something's gone wrong and I'm in trouble already.

"Where is Nurse Bing?"

"She is taking a voluntary leave of absence while we address this matter."

"She won't be punished, will she?" I say. "I made her tell me — she was just trying to help me out."

"This is a simple security routine, Sloane. Once we've done our due diligence and spoken to everyone involved, things can go right back to normal."

I relax slightly.

"Good." he says. "Now as we just established, you were under the impression that you had a one in four chance of survival."

"And you said that was gossip."

"Yes." The Dr. Alpert tents his fingers together beneath his chin and studies me. "We just need to know why you accepted those odds."

Oh.

When I don't say anything for a few seconds, he continues. "The program you'll be training is very...impressionable. We need to be careful with our choices for the position."

Dr. Alpert has his chin tilted up so he can see me through the lenses, watching me inside and out. "Could you tell me what was going through your mind when you chose to have the injection?"

I choose my words carefully. "My old implant was out before Nurse Bing said anything about risk."

"Why didn't you ask for an appeal?"

"I didn't...she..." I gather myself. "I thought I wouldn't be able to get another implant before I hit the Periphery."

"I see." Dr. Alpert says, eyeing me. "So to you, this upgrade was worth dying for?"

"I didn't say that."

"I'm just trying to understand your motivations for going through with the injection...under your false impression."

"I wanted this." I point at my head.

"To do what with?"

Is this how I lose the benefaction? Small talk?

"I don't know, I...my situation changed recently."

The doctor focuses his eyes on the carpet between us for a moment, concentrating as if something were visible there.

"Yes." he says. "Your sister, Olivine."

There's no question in there.

"Do you miss your sister, Sloane?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Due to your...risk acceptance, I think we need to explore the subject. "

"Of course I miss her."

"Your sister's suicide was on the same day as another, ah, more high profile event."

When I don't comment, he changes poses, refolding his long limbs. "You understand our concern, Sloane. The suicides were very similar."

"Yeah they were similar — two kids killed themselves."

But there was more to it, and I know that. They both failed out; bad luck and bad wetware. They both took their lives in public places. It's the sick kind of hopelessness that still stands out in the feeds.

I've been assaulted by Burwell Cohen's somber image in every feed and forum for the past ten months. When he jumped, the Tides of Unanimity were there, blaming us all for pushing him. They latched onto the boy's death and they've been stoking fire with it ever since.

"Sloane, I'm sorry to make you speak about this, I've got two little girls of my own at home. I'm just trying to make sure everybody stays safe."

Things are turnings nasty and voices are getting louder, on both sides of the bay. The feeds have been jammed for weeks with fragments of data that tie Burwell's suicide back to the Tides. That's a new face for bogeyman in the City — a message that rings in the ears of our hard-out kids, walking them off the edges of things whispering:

'It's wrong you never got a chance.'

I searched. I searched for weeks for anything linking Olivine to Burwell or the Tides. I searched until Franko started showing up in the evenings and hammering on the door of my apartment, talking about interest on my loans.

"There was nothing in Olivine's data that put her anywhere near the Tides."

"No notes or other physical artifacts we should know about?"

"She didn't leave a note."

"Excellent." Dr. Alpert says, half-lenses winking.

There's a subtle humor at least to this: a psychologist telling you he's pleased that your sister didn't leave a word behind.

The doctor catches it too. "I'm sorry again for these questions. Project Eudaimonia is, ah, strategically essential — we've got to be thorough."

I nod.

"Last question. What is your relationship with Vassily Volkov?"

A chill runs up my spine. "Volkov? I just met him."

"Please be specific, Ms. Farris." Dr. Alpert adjusts the thin band on his nose. "What is your relationship?"

"I met him this morning."

"And I understand you two climbed a relay-tower today."

"Yes." How much does he know?

"Why did you climb that tower?"

"I —just wanted the view." I say. "I've never been to the Luxe."

That's all true, at least.

"You're sure you have not met or had contact with him apart from this morning?"

"Yes."

"But you climbed a tower with him."

"Of course," I say, "why?"

"It implies familiarity." he gives me a long look. "We're keeping an eye on Mr. Volkov, just until things check out."

I can feel myself stiffen.

"Interesting." Dr. Alpert says, and focuses on the carpet again, probably making a note.

"Miss Farris, I need to know, did anything strange happen on to tower today?"

My palms are slick, my tongue is a dry, and I can feel my pulse rattle in my wrists and chest. He's got to be getting all kinds of readings from me — the kind that mean I'm about to lie.

The doctor leans forward slightly in his chair.

"Anything you noticed, Sloane?"

He knows. He knows.

"Yes." I say.

"Really?" Dr. Alpert looks surprised. I guess I am too.

"Yes," my mind is racing. "Volkov — "

I picture the relief in Volkov's face.

"Yes?" prompts Dr. Alpert.

"He kissed me." I blurt, and I feel the blush spread across my face — a brilliant, mortified heat.

Dr. Alpert frowns.

"That boy's pervert." I say baldly, and motion at my face. "I'm very upset."

"I see that." the doctor says. "May I ask how you responded?"

It's a relief to wander back into the truth again. "I said I'm not getting involved."

"And you're not involved now?"

"I think he's an idiot." I offer. "And no."

"I'll have a word with him about behavior in the workplace." Dr. Alpert says, "But in any case, it would be strategic to avoid Mr. Volkov both romantically and platonically, until we've checked him out."

"No arguments from me." I say.

The doctor studies me through his lenses for another few seconds and stands, sighing.

"As you can tell," he says, "we take brand loyalty very seriously around campus."

"Of course." I say.

The door opens at his unspoken command. Turning to go, the doctor stoops and grabs the black case leaning against his chair.

"Before I forget — I'm supposed to drop this off with you."

He hands me the case, looking down at me over the bioinfo filter.

"Good luck to you, young lady."

"Thank you, Dr. Alpert."

The door slides shut.

Tossing the case on the bed, I thumb the latches and the top hisses back. Another scrap of printed paper is pinned to the top of the folded suit within.

"Sloane,

Welcome to campus. I will be overseeing the benefaction, and, in particular, Eudaimonia's development. Tonight's event has many high-importance attendees. Please dress appropriately.

Asmi Gupta, VP Human Machine Systems, LuxeCorp"

The material is LuxeCorp blue, thick and resilient. I look down at my loose pants and the bleach spots on my dark jacket. The note doesn't tell me to wear the suit, exactly. It just points out the unsuitability of the things I own.

Everything in the place seems to happen to me, like I'm somebody's avatar, without control over even what I wear.

There's sudden burst of wind against the door to the lawn. The wall reads 19:46 — the transport. I hesitate for a moment, holding the suit, but I'm out of time. I toss it on the bed and run for the door.

The Swarm's algorithms reward promptness, I can't risk playing with clothing. If tonight's a busy one I've only got about thirty seconds before the transport abandons me for another passenger. I stumble outside as the boxy gray transport settles into a hover over the grass, and jog to the widening rectangle of light.

It is a busy night for The Swarm. Just as I've clambered inside, the hatch begins to seal.

"Oy!"

Volkov is pounding across the lawn.

"Hold the transport!"

I don't move, and he shouts. "HEY!"

He's not going to make it. I hold my wrist out in front of the closing panel.

There's a furious whistle but the hatch retracts. The transport scolds me.

"<<Please stay clear of the hatch. By obstructing the hatch you are causing potentially life-threatening delays for other...>>"

Volkov jumps in. He opens his mouth to say something, but he has no wind to say it so puts up a finger instead. Hold on.

"<<...including but not limited to a fine not to exceed 0.04 credit points, and/or...>>"

Volkov is still leaning against the window, narrow chest heaving.

"I didn't think...you were going...to hold it."

"No." I say.

The boy claws at the segmented neck panels of his blue suit, trying to unclip the top buckle to breathe. He looks up again, and I think of the story I just told Dr. Alpert. Hot blood creeps up my neck and into my cheeks.

Turning, I press my forehead to the cool plastic of the window.

We're skimming east over the black water in our own small pocket of light. Across the bay, The Swarm glows with traffic. Each light is a transport, like ours, winking in and out of sight behind unlit clouds of drones.

I pull the invitation out of my pocket. It's starting. I'm in. The thought registers with a pang of vertigo, or self doubt.

We spiral in on a bright patch in the water, alongside other transports in the dark. Then with subtle readjustments felt only by my inner ear, we're swinging in and stabilizing in a landing hover on the beach. The hatch slides open and Volkov jumps out, but I hesitate for a few seconds, fussing with the paper.

Find Neel, it says. How?

When the door whistles and begins to close, I pull myself out of the transport and move towards the blazing light above us on the beach.
CHAPTER FOUR

# SOFT INHERITANCE

Dozens of brightly lit Qorbs float in the vitrine arches above, creating the soft patterns of light that painted the beach outside. The brightly colored men and women of the Luxe stand or sit arranged throughout the maze of white couches and poufs in the hall. Everyone is speaking, and everyone is smiling.

I stop just inside the doors of Alcatraz, forcing the stream of guests to divert around me.

It is going to be impossible to find a Neel in here.

"Happy networking." Volkov's voice in my ear makes me jump. He salutes and walks into the edge of the crowd.

I scrub my palms on the front of my jacket and follow.

The knots of guests closest to the door have their backs turned to me, but I can make out bits of conversation as I pass.

"Randall," a voice, "Randall, it's been aaaaaages."

"...that boy who..." someone whispers, "Burwell".

"...and having determined that a solution could be found, he goes back to sleep!"

Laughter.

The crowd is young, many even younger than me. They speak loudly and wave their arms in colorful semaphore. Despite the number of kids almost ever group is formed around an elder of the tribe.

A handsome, coral-swathed woman presides from winged chair close to the door. The handful of kids arranged on footstools and poufs in front of her all have the same flinty, hungry look. The coral swathed woman speaks, dispensing wisdom or credit, and they listen.

A hand catches my elbow, startling me.

"Miss."

I whip around. My expression must surprise the man because he takes one step back, eyes round and fleshy lips slightly apart. The posture gives him the look of a naughty child, though he's well past childhood and his suit strains to contain a heavy belly. He looks me over as well, taking his time.

I cross my arms over my chest. "Yes?"

"I couldn't help but notice that you're...offline."

"It's temporary."

"Of course it is." he says encouragingly.

"I'm sorry." I say, "But I'm working tonight. I've got to find someone."

"I'm working too." The man taps a small American flag pin on his chest and leans forward conspiratorially. "Federal liaison's office, gotta keep it discrete."

"I'm an engineer." I say.

"Sure, honey." the fed wipes his face. "Would you like to get to know each other or not?"

"Isn't that what we're doing?" I say, losing patience

"Great," he says, "I'll call us a transport."

Wait.

"That's disgusting." My voice is loud. The women on a pouf nearby look up curiously.

Confusion clouds the man's face.

"You are," he gestures at my street clothing, "offline, right?"

"What?" I hiss. "What is your name, you sick.."

I feel a grip, Volkov is wrapping an arm around my shoulders and stepping in beside me.

"Hey handsome." he says to the fed. From the peak in the man's eyebrows this is not going the way he intended.

He pans between the two of us, and licks his thick lips.

"Hey, buddy, I was speaking to the young lady."

"Oh, Sloane?" Volkov says. "Yeah, sorry I got here a bit late."

Now I say, "What?"

Volkov squeezes the flesh of my arm again, hard. "We're a two for one."

"Sorry, boy, I'm on a budget." The fed looks again at the women on the sofa, who have stopped pretending not to listen.

"No solo performances." Volkov says. "Sorry mister."

Volkov drops his arm from my shoulder and turns to go.

A warm, damp hand closes around my wrist, stopping me. The thumb presses painfully into the bruises I collected in the 'kitchen — I suck air through my teeth with a hiss.

"Ditch the boyfriend, honey."

Before I can react, Volkov's arm shoots by me and his big, scarred hand clamps like a vice around the man's forearm. The damp fingers holding my wrist release, clawing as Volkov increases pressure.

The boy and man straighten and face each other, the fed's face deepening to blotchy crimson. He opens his mouth to yell or swear.

"Not interested," Volkov says, finally releasing, "sorry, Uncle Sam."

Volkov grabs my hand on his way by, pulling me into the crowd. We put a few groups of young LuxeCorp employees between us and the fed before slowing.

"There."

Volkov points at one of the few empty alcoves lining the hall. I duck in, skirting the head of a staircase. A sign fixed to the back of the space reads, 'A HISTORY OF THE ROCK', with an arrow pointing down the spiral steps.

A smaller card below this reads, "Handicapped Accessible" and shows a brain icon with an 'X' through it.

"What was that?" I spit, when Volkov joins me.

"You all right?"

"That low, sick..."

"You're welcome, by the way." Volkov says, "And keep your voice down!"

"Why did he think I was a prostitute?" I whisper, angry.

"You're offline." Volkov taps his temple. "You've got no other visible mods. There's a market for young unaugmented."

"Why?"

"Confidentiality." Volkov says grimly. "It's more common than you think, around here at least."

"It's horrible." I say.

"It's life, City girl."

I bristle. "Next time, stay out of it. I can handle myself."

"That guy is big stuff in the liaison office." Volkov rubs the back of his neck. "I don't think you have trouble standing up for yourself, all right? I just didn't think it'd be good if Derd McDaniels got a shot of what I did this morning."

I scowl at him. "So instead you told him we're a double act?"

"Oh, that." Volkov grins. "I just thought that'd be funny. It's a slow punchline, right? Someone's gonna to point you out to him as a benefactee later — he'll be..."

He can't afford these kinds of jokes if the company is watching him. And neither can I.

"Everything alright?" he says, looking at me curiously.

"I should tell you something."

His smile collapses into a line. "Downstairs?"

Volkov disappears around the first twist and I follow, clutching the handrail. There's a heavy, damp smell to the air below and the air cools perceptibly as I descend.

Two caged opening are closed in the narrow hall but the last door hangs open. I head for it. A spindly bunk bed looms in the corner of the cell, diagonal from a tiny metal sink and toilet.

"Alcatraz means 'pelican' in Spanish." Volkov says, reading from a small printed display on the cell wall.

He snorts and taps the board. "Handicap accessible my ass, who would have searched for this stuff?"

"This is serious." I say.

"There's an entire layer of information on top of this place that you and I can't access right now." he leans against the wall. "How's that for serious? Another whole world that people lose access to."

I wave him off. "I got a visit today. Before coming here."

He just looks at me.

"A brand psychologist came to see me."

"Working on your conversation skills?"

"He said something about you."

"What?" My words sink in. Volkov straightens and his eyes dart to the caged opening behind me.

"He said they're checking you out, and he told me to avoid you."

"You didn't..."

"He had bioinfo filters on."

Understanding tightens his jaw. "What did you say?"

"I..." truthfully, I hadn't thought about telling Volkov when I came up with this plan. I can feel blood rising in my cheeks.

"I told him you tried to kiss me."

"You...?"

"And that you're an idiot." I'm starting to smile now. "That part I can say truthfully. You might be getting a visit."

"What the hell?"

"I had to explain this." I wave at my hot face.

"Sloane," Volkov says, grudgingly. "That was brilliant."

"We're not doing this again." I say.

"What's this?"

"Trying to help each other out. It clearly isn't good for either of us."

"I'm sorry for getting you into any of it." he says. "I just wanted..."

"No more details." I say. "Safer that way."

Volkov scowls this time, but he's silent.

*

I wanted my first implant with the all-consuming fever that every 11 year old has.

I kept a list of starter models and upgrade plans. I kept pestering Mom to figure out how much we could spend on it. She brushed it off, said we'd look at our credit horizon closer to my birthday and figure it out then.

Waiting has always been harder for me than sneaking around, so I learned how to pull up our credit info on Mom's pocket projector.

I spent hours sitting in the halflight on the thirty-eighth floor, holding the beat-up projector oval and watching the numbers tick above it. It was a game, a puzzle. I wanted to understand why the numbers kept creeping lower, and come to Mom with a miraculous solution.

That's when I saw my first pattern.

Sometimes when Mom went out there was a tiny uptick in our horizon.

The decline after was always twice as large. It looked like this:

When I still hadn't found the cause after a few cycles of this, I brought my smudgy page of notes to Mom and asked for help. The pattern only showed up during some of her errands, and I wanted to know why.

She was so angry at me when she left, I wondered if it was for good. But she did come back, late that night after several up and downticks in credit.

"Boosters." she whispered loud and ugly into my bedroom, "You goddamn judgmental snoop." I could hear her bumping the walls on the way to her own bed.

Boosters are wetware's miracle drug — a happy little cocktail of anti-rejection, plasticity enhancement, with a mood-boosting kicker to help it go down. You even get a tiny credit boost, like a pat on the shoulder for improving yourself.

Like most good stuff, they're even better in quantity. Take a handful, you and your credit will get higher than high for a few hours. The low afterwards is enough to stop most people from popping them but some people develop a taste for boosters, despite the cost.

I tried it when I was older, to see where Mom spent her days. And get it, I think. I just prefer credit because it keeps you high longer.

Things started to get really bad after that. We dropped from floor thirty-eight, to thirty-six, to twenty-five, then five. All in six months. It was like we were falling through the building, resting in each smaller, darker apartment for less time than the last.

That was the second pattern I saw. It looked like this:

We'd be out in the trash soon, I already knew that.

The shape of our fall was more interesting to me. It was picking up speed.

Once I saw that curve I began to see it everywhere. It was Mom. The signs were there in her dry skin and the growing holes in her memory. "Boosters, goddamn judgmental..." As she got less likely to repay her debt was losing value.

She was the only one with an implant — Olivine and I were falling with her.

I made our decision without asking anyone, because I thought I had figured it all out. I put every last scrap of our credit into a working-grade implant for myself, and I had it installed the day I turned twelve.

My gamble paid off, for a while. The bump in our horizon after the implant covered food and the apartment for a month. It gave us enough time for me to find my first contract. It changed our lives and taught me I could fix anything.

It took me until last September to realize that my changes don't just destroy patterns. They create new ones.

*

"Excuse me," A slim young man looks at Volkov and I curiously from the cell-door. "What are you doing down here?"

"Nothing." I say quickly.

"You're Sloane, right?"

"Yes." I shake the cool hand he offers me.

His suit is good quality but the shoulder caps are askew. He's got a thin, new looking proboVIZ settled on his nose, but you can tell he's already bent it out of shape and back again. A lick of black hair sticks up at the back of his head and his skin is the warm color of chai.

"Neel — lead engineer on Eudaimonia. Nice to finally meet you. Though, you were supposed to find me."

"I..."

"I was nervous." Volkov cuts me off.

Neel looks skeptically at him. "You're offline. Volkov, right?"

"I asked if she'd come listen to me try my pitch, one more time." Volkov makes a hovering motion with his hand again, and from the way it shakes I can believe he's nervous. "Drones?"

Neel looks back at me, "Are you ready?"

"I have questions for you." I say, "I don't know anything about the project, I've been trying to prepare, but..."

Neel breaks in gently. "I'm sorry to interrupt again but VP Gupta will be making some comments to the guests in a few minutes. She'd like to introduce the benefactees."

He looks at my loose clothing and I straighten my bleach-spotted jacket self-consciously.

"We've got the stage ready for you."

*

I find patterns, when I look for them. And I found the one that got my sister.

Olivine and I were close in age — too close. I put everything into my implant, and she started late because of it. Worse, I did it every time. I had steady business and my upgrades lifted our credit the most.

I couldn't have seen this far ahead, I tell myself. I shouldn't blame myself, the shrink-chat advises. I was just trying to help.

As we wind our way towards the stage through the smiling, laughing crowd at Alcatraz, I keep Neel between Volkov and myself. We're even now. And patterns can be deadly.

*

"Hold still!" the stage coordinator's orange hair gets in my mouth.

The wings are in chaos as we approach what Monet keeps calling 'go time'. I can feel people moving all around me, but the girl's got one sharp little hand under my chin, forcing it back.

"I'm going to stab you if you keep moving."

"Sorry."

"Hsst!" the completes the pencil's painful revolution around my eye and stands back to review her work. She sighs.

"Here, happy?" Monet holds her other palm close in front of my face, cupping her fingers forward like she's holding a ball.

There are a few false starts, then the rings snugged onto her thumb and pinky establish a thin line of light. The line branches up to a third ring on her middle finger and a bright screen snaps into place between the points, obscuring the dot camera in the center of her palm.

My image squints back at me through watery, black rimmed eyes. Monet has drawn thick lines past the natural corners on both sides. With my virus drawn face, I look feral.

"Appropriate?" I ask.

"You work with what you get." Monet pats the side of her shaggy orange pompadour. "Stand-by for the vice-president's cue 'this is takeoff'."

"What does that mean?" I say.

She shrugs and moves on to Volkov.

"Chin back, stud."

The man beside me taps my shoulder with his real arm. I have to look up to see all of him.

His white dreadlocks are pulled back with cord, but they trail over his shoulders and down the plated black front of his suit. The upper set of arms is obviously artificial — retro blue light-stripping glows through clear panels in his sleeves.

"Jack Jackson", he says, "motor neuroprosthetics." He winks with one golden eye. I can see its tiny lens refocus in the diffused light backstage.

He offers me his real hand, the left one, and I grasp it awkwardly in my right. We shake. Why he didn't replace his right arm when he had the upper two installed?

"Sloane." I whisper. "Engineer."

"Welcome to the benefaction missy." Jack Jackson whispers back. "You should meet Mabilene."

When he points past me with his real arm, the artificial set jerks violently. He notices too, and stiffens.

"Hey Mab — this is our fourth." he calls.

The blonde turns away from the stage and bares her teeth, carefully pulling her bright red lips up into a smile. There's something hidden and feline in her face, visible even under the exaggerated makeup.

"Mab."

"Sloane."

"You're Eudaimonia?" her eyes linger on my sleeves. She's stuffed into an exaggerated blue suit like Jackson and Volkov behind me.

"Yes," I can't tell if her hostility is intentional. "what's your project?"

The light onstage intensifies suddenly and she turns away without responding.

"And now, Ladies and Gentlemen."

A deep voice rolls through the room, repeated by the scattered, glowing Qorbs.

"To announce the launch of LuxeCorp's 35th Benefaction Program...Please welcome the Senior Vice President of LuxeCorp's Human Machine Systems Division..."

A cheer from the bold kids in the back.

"Asmi Gupta!"

A small woman clicks onto the stage from the wings across from us and the crowd explodes. I push my head around the curtain and squint against the lights to see my new employer.

Her suit is lilac and the high collar frames her copper skin like the petals of some exotic flower. You can see from the wings though that she carries herself with the precision of a machine. Reaching the front of the stage, VP Gupta stops and looks out over the mass of expectant company boys and girls. The kids wave and make noise, hoping she'll look at them.

And the vice-president waits.

Most people are already paying attention. Those who are not speak embarrassingly in the otherwise rapt silence. Slowly those conversations become more and more self-conscious, then cease.

The pause becomes fat and heavy — once even the tribe elders resort to relay-chat, VP Gupta speaks at last.

"Darwin," she says, "was impatient."

"We assumed for centuries that humans would evolve at the rate of animals, forever at the whim of nature. At LuxeCorp, we say — why wait for nature to improve upon us, when we can improve upon ourselves?"

Muffled agreement from the crowd. I can't see the vice-president's face, but her voice is hypnotic, almost musical.

"At LuxeCorp we don't just augment bodies, we augment minds. Over the decades, those changes begin to accumulate. Every discovery drives a new generation of wetware."

"Tonight," VP Gupta's voice rises, building with the energy of the crowd. "marks the beginning of the benefaction that is going to change the way we think."

A boy in the back shouts, "Give it to us!"

"Ladies and gentlemen," she says, "this is takeoff."

"Go, go, go!"

Suddenly Monet's sharp little hands are jabbing at my back. She the four benefactees out of wings and onto the stage. I blink, eyes watering in the harsh light.

VP Gupta has not turned around,

"Behind me stand the first four members of a new era. These are our top candidates, and they are building the road that we all will walk on from here out."

She pauses.

"They are...The Complete. "

The room erupts again. Kids are jostling each other to get a better look at the four of us. The lucky ones.

They're probably all querying our data right now, but until tomorrow I'm just a lump of meat. A lone Qorb bobs in front of my face, probably collecting footage for the news feeds, but I can't help myself. I start laughing.

"Hsst!" Mab glares down at me.

VP Gupta is speaking again.

"We are modest enough to admit that we do not yet fully understand the extent of this technology's potential. But I can say this."

She turns towards us with a sweeping gesture. "Things look super."

Mab, Jackson, Volkov and I stand shoulder to shoulder, all but me in LuxeCorp blue.

Gupta's eyes linger on my bleach-dotted jacket and my smile fades. If Volkov was right, until there's a product they really are selling us. And I've already dented my value.

The rest of the presentation is short. Soon VP Gupta is waving to the applauding crowd and clicking towards me across the stage, lilac petals waving.

"Sloane." she says without breaking step. "Time to work, follow me."

As I'm passing Mab, the shapely blonde narrows her eyes at me. This time the dislike is unambiguous.

VP Gupta cuts through the crowd like a corporate craft through airspace. Less important people move and reform around her and I'm caught in the wake.

"Excuse me," I say to a boy I collide with. "Very sorry."

We're nearly to the front of hall when Gupta banks a hard right into an alcove.

The small knot of people holding long-stemmed glasses stop speaking as we enter. I recognize Neel my teammate, beside an elderly, female couple.

The last person in the group, a portly man, has his back turned but pivots as we arrive.

I stop dead and the fed's face contorts.

"What's she doing here?" he sputters, pointing his glass at me.

"This is Sloane Farris." VP Gupta says casually, accepting Neel's drink. "Weren't you watching the presentation?"

"I was —" the man reddens. "I had a meeting."

"Sloane is joining Project Eudaimonia."

"But she's..." the fed begins.

"She's an engineer." I say, and I wink at him. The slow punchline — I don't think Volkov guessed he was setting me up to deliver it.

The fed opens and shuts his mouth a few times, but no accusations come out.

"You've met already Derd then?" Neel nods at the elderly pair beside him. "Meet Dr. Chiu and Willow. They're benefactors this round, sponsoring Jack Jackson's project."

The little woman, Dr. Chiu, has a fat, white bun of hair fastened on either side of her head. She says nothing, but looks me up and down with pursed, purple lips, puffing on a thin vaporette. When I meet her eyes she frowns and looks away, hissing out a long stream of lavender.

I shuffle, uncomfortably aware of my limbs.

Willow, the taller of the two women, smiles at me and lifts her cup. Faded tattoos of trees wrap her upper arms in pale green, but her movements have a funny, halting quality to them.

"Sloane, was it? Are you offline?" Willow's creases further in concentration. "You aren't returning anything."

"I calibrate tomorrow." I dart a look at Derd. His color has returned to normal, but he's looking at me with his brow furrowed.

He's searching...they all are, I can see it.

Dr. Chiu meets my eyes finally, purple razor smile forming.

"Curious." Dr. Chiu says to Gupta, "I knew Eudaimonia was having trouble filling the spot, Asmi. But did you have to dip into the Tides to find someone?"

"No!" I say. Bile rises in my throat.

"The Tides!" Derd's meaty face blanches.

"Your sister, dear. Another one of those sick suicides." Dr. Chiu takes another puff on her vaporette.

Finishing her own search, Willow frowns and pokes her companion hard in the arm. "Sweetheart..."

Olivine's death wasn't anonymous. There was even a small amount of outcry, just enough to make the feeds. A few student articles and public statement from the Belt Colony program. The desperate taste of my sister's death strikes a chord with a lot of people in the City these days.

Everyone is looking at me.

"She wasn't political." I say. "And neither am I."

"This is too good," Dr. Chiu ignores me, "I've got to tell Jennings."

She must have included everyone in her message because Neel winces and VP Gupta sighs.

"Chiu." Gupta says. "Unless you would like to take responsibility for more of the decisions around here, please stop questioning mine."

"But she..."

"I picked her." Gupta's tone is firm and final.

Dr. Chiu's eyes narrow into slits but she puffs quietly in her lavender cloud, stoppered for now.

"Sloane?" VP Gupta says, "It's too loud in here. Why don't you and I take a walk, get to know each other?"

*

"Where are we going?" I ask. The voices from the hall are muffled but still audible, I'm following the vice president's lilac suit and clicking heels. She cuts behind a stack of empty corro-cases at the end of the service-way.

"Here." she says.

"The service elevator?"

The vice-president smiles. "I had more nerve than money growing up." she says. "The roof will be quiet."

Light punches through the vitrine of the deserted roof, throwing VP Gupta's eyes into shadow. We lean against the chest-height lip at the edge, watching the last shred of the moon disappear across the bay. Fog is rolling in from the west.

Vehicles still cue over the beach below us — so many that The Swarm has begun depositing passengers across the shoreline. When the transports lift, groups of partygoers look like creatures emerging from the bay. They crawl jerkily towards the hall and the blazing lights above them.

"Your sister, Sloane." the older woman says finally.

"I searched." I say. "There was nothing. That woman didn't find anything but rumors."

"Amelia Chiu hates everyone but her wife." VP Gupta says, "And she has so much credit saved up that she hasn't had to be civil to a single person for nearly fifty years."

The older woman studies my face. "She's also uncanny at picking out the weaknesses in others."

"Olivine wasn't weak."

"I'm not interested in your sister." VP Gupta says, "I am investing in you. It is evident that her death still affects you, and I need to know how my moving parts work."

"I'm fine." I say, "It was a long time ago."

"Ten months, I looked at your recruitment notes." she says, "You were providing for her. Both of them, for a while."

"I had the good implant." I say.

"You didn't do anything wrong." VP Gupta gestures dismissively, "What hurt your sister was her own lack of drive."

"Don't you ever —" I choke off my words when Gupta narrows her eyes. A controlled kind of anger settles over her face and I shrink back from her a step.

She holds up an open hand and the impression vanishes. "No need to apologize, young woman." she says, "But perhaps some restraint, in the future? You are about to be involved in a very important project."

"Why me?" I say. "Why did you pick me for this?"

"You remind me a lot of myself." a faint smile plays at Gupta's lip. "Self-centered."

"I'm not — "

"You want to know why I like you before you ask what you're building. And then you're angry when I call you self-centered?"

I flush, and say nothing.

"I'm frank," Gupta says again, perhaps apologizing. "And I need to get back, so this will be short."

"Cancer is inevitability, of any complex system." she nods at the blinking Swarm. "You're from the City, you've heard of the bashers?"

I nod — I saw one make a kill once, through the orange-tinted window of a transport.

A DronieMeal shot by my window at tremendous speed, pitching erratically and thrashing at the other aircraft around it like a mad animal. As I watched, the little craft slammed into another transport. The pedestrian vehicle looked largely undamaged, but the little 'Meal rebounded lopsided. Its new trajectory brought it back towards my window, dipping precariously in flight.

I saw the basher drop in from above the 'Meal at a steep dive, stained hook extended. I remember it in slow motion, even though it was before I started my recall-bank. The hook speared the drone, piercing it squarely through its center in a spray of fries and many-colored sauce.

"The bashers hunt rogue ships and remove them before they cause damage. They're like white blood cells defending the body."

"LuxeCorp has kept this area alive for fifty years now. Our systems have grown complex, and we need a way to maintain them."

"Who's the cancer in your scenario?" I say.

"Our whole system is rotting." Gupta says, impatiently. "We're building tools."

"What am I making?"

"You don't need to know." VP Gupta pushes off from the wall and dusts her hands. "Neel will explain the training after you've calibrated."

"I do cognitive macros." I explain to her retreating back. "Little things, like tagging thoughts, and shortcuts. That's it."

"Do you really need me to tell you why you're wonderful?" she stops.

"I just want to get it right." My voice is thick. "I'm not looking for praise."

The service-elevator's door opens at Gupta's unspoken command, and she steps into it.

"You'll do well enough." she says.

The door slides closed. It doesn't occur to me for several long moments that I'm stuck on the roof.
CHAPTER FIVE

# THE FREQUENCY OF OLIVINE

Slung low, the sun is still as mellow as an egg yolk and doesn't provide much warmth. I shrug my shoulders up towards my ears against the chill and march over the rise. I'm not alone this morning; I join a tributary, then the stream of the hundreds of men and women already on the white paths.

Our small lab knuckles into the hillside, its walls slick with moisture harvested from the air overnight. A beat-up janitor bot is spray-patching membrane over 'THE TIDE IS RIS...' painted in fat red strokes across the wall.

Whatever rot is forming in the City seems to be arriving here as well. The dew and paint have mixed and bleed down the wall as I approach.

Outside the lab, a propeller arm buzzes by me clutching the loop of a colorful knapsack — someone forgot their things today. I check my pockets, compulsively. It takes a few moments of panicked hunting to remember I don't need a cochlear anymore.

"Sloane?"

I turn. "Rosemary —"

She jogs up, grinning. "You're online now!"

Words form in my mind, dancing at the tip of my tongue. Their touch is familiar, but foreign. They're my thoughts but it's the pinky-length computer hung around my neck that's pinging them to me.

Rosemary Perceval, 16. Bacchus International - foster trainee - recruitment, LuxeCorp.

I blink, relieved. "I think I'm finally done with calibration."

I've spent nearly every hour in the lab since the party. The weeks of downtime weakened my focus, and it's taken nearly ten days to build back my vocabulary of signals. The in-mind search results are still difficult to interpret.

Every day ends with a headache and a big glass of water in my room at The Spencer. I'm moving slowly, but it's progress at least. I won't give them an excuse to send me home.

"Do you work here?" Rosemary says, looking at the lab. The janitor bot patiently finishes patching the building's membrane and moves off.

"All of the benefaction teams do."

"Right." Rosemary says, "I saw you at the party on the feeds. You looked so glamorous."

"Don't get the wrong impression. You didn't see me getting locked on the roof." I scowl, remembering it. "That about sums up the night."

After two hours or so, when I had narrowed down my escape options to sliding down the steep east face of the building, or sprouting wings, the service elevator's doors slid open and two kids stumbled out wrapped in a passionate embrace. They separated, jumping back jas I sprinted by them for the closing doors.

"Oh," Rosemary says, "Your night ties with mine then. I spent it with the feeds."

"I've been avoiding them."

"That's probably a good thing. The last green parrot in the City died last night." the girl bites her lip. "Poor thing."

"Lolo?"

I've hardly thought of searching when information begins to form in my mind.

Lolo - cherry-headed conure. Drone - impact - dead on scene, City mourns. Funeral -

The stream of information ceases instantly when I drop focus.

"Poor thing." Rosemary shakes her head sadly. "The activists are in deep mourning. It took them years to get the airspace over Telegraph Hill cleared."

"Are you on your way to training?"

I ask to take her mind off the bird, but Rosemary's face darkens further. She tucks a bunch of hair behind her ear.

"It's not going very well."

"Your hands," I say, noticing her rust-red, nearly hooked nails. "What happened to them?"

"Oh, these?" she holds out the claws, "It's part of the look I'm trying out, 'red and sharp.' What d'you think?"

This obviously cheers her up a bit.

"I'm not..." I say awkwardly.

"I like them." Rosemary smiles, "that's what matters."

I can't help but smile back at her. "I've got to get in there." I say, jerking my head at the lab behind me. "But it was nice to see you."

"See you later, then." Rosemary heads towards campus. "Welcome back online!"

*

Light shines through the vitrine cap of the building, soft and calm.

Apart from a handful of enclosed work areas around the perimeter, the room is bare. Mab and Jack are both already huddled with their teams in the far end of the lab. I don't see Volkov or the old man who works with him this morning.

"Sloane, excellent."

Neel approaches, tugging down the sleeves of his rumpled work suit. "Feeling sharp?"

I think of Rosemary's evolving sense of style. "Depends on what you mean by sharp."

"We're moving on to Phase II of Eudaimonia today." Neel says, waving me towards our work station. "I mean whatever kind of sharp gets you to focus."

I avoid the large, reclining chair that I've been calibrating in for the past week, and sit instead on the stool beside it.

"I missed Phase I somehow then."

"No you didn't." I don't see any trace of the command on Neel's face but a cloud of bright pixels springs into the center of our workspace.

"A part of you has been here, at least." he says.

The shifting blue symbols force my eyes to flick across again and again. Words, numbers, short patterns of activity with tags attached. They're in a shorthand I understand because I wrote everything on the display.

This is my recall-bank — the cloud flicks in constant succession through very note, search and recorded memory from the past six years. There's even a streak of visual data from when I tried out lenses when I was sixteen.

I wonder how they got it, and the answer starts to form in my mind.

...all rights pertaining to the copy and use of the benefactee's recall-bank...

My contract.

I was almost in the trash again before I came here. The contracts I tanked after Olivine's death had to be paid back somehow and Franko was the guy I knew for it. He liked me, he said, but I was out of time.

When Hamel's message came through, and my little cochlear whispered "benefaction..." it was like seeing the sun again after months with my head wrapped in the dark.

I signed the contract almost without reading it.

My thoughts keep on ticking in the cloud before Neel and I.

"What have I been teaching it?" I ask.

"Eudaimonia core is a seed intelligence. It is 'smart' but it has trouble with some of the decisions you make easily."

Neel sits on the edge of the reclining seat. "Humans use symbols as shortcuts to think." he says, "When you're thinking about a city, what are you thinking about?"

"Trash." I say. "And traffic."

"But also people, yes?"

"Plenty of them."

"You know that the city contains buildings, and buildings contain rooms, and rooms contain people?" Neel's leaned forward very intently over his knees, watching me for recognition.

"Where are you going with this?"

"When I ask you if we should drop a bomb in a city, what would you say?"

"No." I say. "And that's a sick example."

"Why did you say no?" Neel asks.

"Because you'd kill..." I stop. "I get it — a city is lifeless but it's full of people?"

"Right." he says. "If you teach a machine only one part of the symbol it won't understand how to use it. Your recall-bank has been helping our program learn basic associations."

Neel looks at the cloud display, eyes far away. "It's really quite incredible the amount you stored."

I shoot out of my seat, a new fear occurring to me.

"You can't read this, can you?"

"Don't worry Sloane," he says, "we're not interested in the content, just the way the symbols reference each other. We can't decode your thoughts."

"What's Phase II? And if you've got this," I look at the display, "why do you need me at all?"

"That's the beauty of The Complete." Neel rubs his hands together, "It takes this program far beyond where I thought it could go. You aren't just the content, you're..."

He stops, frowning as the lab's doors hiss open and two figures hurry in.

The man in the lead storms towards our work station brandishing a pocket projector. His shoulders are broad and just beginning to stoop, though his skin shines with the liver patina of age. When he speaks, his reedy voice is pitched high in agitation.

"If you won't address my concerns Asmi, I'll have to address them myself!"

VP Gupta clicks after the man, unruffled. "Relax, Clem. Our due diligence turned up nothing — ."

I taste bile. He wants to yell at me about Olivine. How many times am I going to have this conversation?

The old man returns data when I query.

Dr. Clement Jennings - noted philanthropist - former -

"This is her?" he says loudly, jabbing a finger at me.

I lose focus and the information stops.

"If her is Sloane, then yes." I don't try to warm up my tone.

"An imprint?" the man shakes his pocket projector at Gupta, voice rising further in pitch. "You want to make an imprint of that?"

"Imprint?" I say.

Neel avoids my eyes.

"Asmi, you promised me that this would get him back." He rounds on me, face distorted with anger. "The last thing this girl trained committed suicide."

I shoot out of my seat. "Who the hell are you?"

Neel hisses, "Sloane!"

It feels good to shout. To take a step towards the and watch him unconsciously step back. But his words have already crept inside. Olivine was my responsibility, and I failed at that.

The man glares at me beneath voluminous white eyebrows. "See, Asmi? See?"

"I can do the job." I grit. "Leave my dead sister out of it."

The old man draws himself up to his full height, and solemnly points the pocket projector at me this time. "Do you know who I am, young woman?"

There's something familiar about his stance — one arm on the counter, the other outstretched. And I know the pronounced arch of his nose from somewhere.

Even before the search results form, recognition snaps into place like an overlay in my mind. It's the tall boy from the sandstone statue in the center of campus.

It's Clement Jennings, co-founder of LuxeCorp.

I feel the last of the moisture in my mouth evaporate, leaving it tight and dry. Unable to answer back.

"Right." Dr. Jennings says, seeing my reaction. He turns back to Gupta.

"Chiu, Asmi? I had to find this out from Chiu?"

"She never could keep secrets." Gupta says, thoughtfully.

Dr. Jennings waves the projector, exasperated. "How do you expect to get anything useful out of this girl? And where did you find her? I saw her scores from recruitment."

I ball my hands into fists — so did I, every single one they marked down.

"What we need right now is exceptional. And add in the questionable relations and her frankly shocking pedigree. I don't see why we can't just wait for the next round."

"It's her recall-bank." Neel says, interrupting Dr. Jenning's tirade. "Sorry, sir."

"Speak up, boy."

Neel glances at me and clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable.

"We had to speed up the machine's learning. None of the other candidates had anywhere near this much data."

"None of your other candidates s..."

Asmi cuts Dr. Jennings of sharply.

"I have complete confidence in Neel's judgment." she says, "The program is learning quickly."

Neel blushes.

"Learning what?" Dr. Jennings says, darkly.

VP Gupta looks at me. "She's just the first."

"There will be more candidates soon." Neel adds. "We've got a call out to recruiting, top priority."

"I'm certainly paying for top priority." Dr. Jennings's tone is acid. "We're running out of time."

"Then can we stop arguing and begin working?" the vice-president turns to Neel.

"You're starting Phase Two today, yes?"

"Yes, but..."

"So start." she says crisply. "Get me any information you can on the Tides."

Neel's ears darken, "Yes, Asmi."

Dr. Jennings is still looking at me, I make myself meet his eyes.

*

A few minutes later I'm tipped back, looking through the vitrine cap of the building. Just sky and open atmosphere above me. Dr. Jennings and VP Gupta continue the argument on the far side of the room, and Neel and I prepare for the first test.

Neel's face appears over me, mouth moving, but I can't hear what he is saying. I pull out an earplug with a soft pop.

"Oh," he says, "We're going to begin."

"Can you tell me what I'm going to do then?"

"If I'm right, not much at all." Neel says. "The program will do most of the work. It just needs to check back with you every once in a while when its understanding is inconsistent, or if there were conflicts in your data."

"So I correct it?"

"In a way," Neel turns back to the cloud display. "You're more like a filter. The program does the thinking, really. If it gets caught in a decision it will ping you with the information and record your impression. It shouldn't take much of your focus at all.."

VP Gupta and Dr. Jennings have concluded their argument and head back in our direction.

"There's one last thing." Neel lowers his voice and bends in over my seat.

"The seed is...smart. It will suggest a way to improve itself at the end of every training run. Don't touch it right now, okay?"

"Can you disable it?" I ask. "I'm still making accidental queries."

"No."

"Let me see the code." I say. "If it's..."

"I don't know how to do it, all right?" Neel snaps, visibly upset.

"Didn't Gupta say this was your software?"

"It is." his voice is brusque. "Just run a simple search on the Tides. Put your earplugs back in."

I lie back stuffing the warm plugs into my ears, and the world goes silent.

I wait, and it takes a while. When it comes, the brush of the program with my mind is startling but not unpleasant.

Hello.

It's not a voice, or word really. It's a point of focus.

'Hello', I think.

Command?

I glance at VP Gupta, and think 'information' and 'Tides of Unanimity'.

Searching...

The back of my mind floods.

I'm inundated with impressions, things half-remembered. The trash outside D5, the smell of salt on the beach of Alcatraz. More and more scraps of memory and information flash through my mind. There's no sense to it.

An impish face appears and I grab for it. The impression expands into a memory.

Olivine. I can't see her — but I feel her, near.

All I can see is the sky through the vitrine, but I know in this memory we were on the roof of the building, and that the tops of the new broccoli in our garden fluttered under the bellies of The Swarm. I know I was laying out how we'd fix Olivine's latest problem, with plans, spreadsheets and hard work. I spoke, she listened.

How do I remember these things?

Like Olivine's face, as old as I remember it, crooked lipped and smiling. This was the last time I saw her.

'Everything's going to be brighter soon.' she said, when I stopped lecturing. 'Everything comes and goes.'

Whatever the program is digging for in me it finds, and I know with sudden, crystal certainty that something's broken. Something's wrong.

'Hide this.' I think, desperately.

The response is instant.

Secure communications?

I'm drenched in the memory. She's nearby, and if I turn my head I'll see her.

I think, 'yes.'

Neel jumps in front of me, waving his arms furiously, mouth moving.

I pull out the earplugs. "I'm sorry."

"What did you do?" he shouts. "What happened?"

The quicksilver words form in my head.

Upgrade complete - communications secure.

"I don't know." I say, "I just lost focus."

"Everything just cut off." Neel holds his temples, running checks, "I can't get anything back! "

"Neel." VP Gupta is standing now. "Look."

She points at the display. Data is flying across the cloud so quickly that only shreds are recognizable and the eye flicks to keep up. I see building schematics, faces, the diagram of a Qorb.

Then the display clears and a series of short commands form, stacking one on top of another.

Dr. Jennings hoots. "Asmi, you've done it!"

Neel stares at the display, face working. "What did you ask the program to search for, Sloane?"

"Information." I say. "On the Tides."

"This is a surveillance plan." he says.

*

Everybody in the lab celebrates, though VP Gupta insists that no one mention the specific nature Project Eudaimonia's achievement. The project doesn't go beyond management, Neel, and now me.

Dr. Jennings became unexpectedly jovial and thought-out for fizzy drinks and insubstantial sandwiches. Volkov has arrived and now stands by the tray, eating handfuls of them. He's got tired blue circles under his eyes.

"I still can't get a response." Neel collapses into the reclining seat with a sigh. "You're still getting through, right?"

I nod. "Maybe I can try to get it back?"

"No!" Neel looks alarmed.

"I know I broke it," I say, "but I'm also an engineer. If you show me the code..."

Neel's tone is apologetic. "I'm sorry, I trust your ability but information like the results we got today is the most important thing right now. If we're still getting a response through you and The Complete, we'll keep working through it."

I look at the group in the center of the lab. I know I should tell Neel exactly what happened so we can fix it. But if I can fix it myself, no one needs to know.

"You did well today." Neel rises. "You know what? Go ahead and name the program."

"I thought it was Eudaimonia."

Neel grimaces. "Dr. Jennings picked that." he says, glancing at our benefactor. "If the project gets a name, why can't the program have its own?"

I sit in our empty workspace for a while after Neel joins the little celebration. The memory of Olivine's face is still fresh. Still so close.

'Hello?' I think.

The program's query forms in my mind, sending a shiver down my back.

Command?

I hesitate. 'Your name is O.'

Read Wetware Episode II \- late summer 2015.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Caitria O'Neill is a writer and product designer in Silicon Valley. She is the author of the 'Wetware' series, as well as "Nikki", and "Volk & The Swarm".

She's a graduate of Harvard University, former fellow and adjunct faculty member at Stanford's d.school, and has been featured by TED.com, FastCompany, and honored as a White House Champion of Change for work in disaster recovery.

When she's not writing, she's out hiking with fiancé Thomas and tiny, insane dog, Madame Curie.

Email her at writerconeill(at)gmail.com.
  1. CHAPTER ONE 
    1. OBJECTS IN MOTION
  2. CHAPTER TWO 
    1. THE VIEW FROM THE TOWER
  3. CHAPTER THREE
    1. BOOSTER
  4. CHAPTER FOUR
    1. SOFT INHERITANCE
  5. CHAPTER FIVE
    1. THE FREQUENCY OF OLIVINE

