“All clear, go!” yelled Klara from beyond the plastic confines of the ball, and I came tumbling. Water sloshed against my feet, and adrenaline rushed from my stomach up my throat as I was pitched down the hill. I slipped and slid as we rolled away, like a collective hedgehog or pangolin, me and my plastic contraption. I don’t know what it was about zorbing that kept me coming. Perhaps it’s the fact that I zorbed with my dad when he was alive, in tandem. Laughing with limbs abutting one another. Bonding through unadulterated thrill. Being stuck in a rotund cage with him, being pitched down a hill. What other better way to bring generations together?

Zorbing is always bittersweet. I wish Dad were around to do this stuff with me.

“Dad, this is for you,” I said, ladling out the water from the ball onto the grass. He’s buried somewhere under the soil now. Not down the hill from where I was zorbing, but underfoot on an abstract level. Maybe the soil will drink up the water, all the amusement and delight embedded within its viscosity, and bring it to him. I hope it conveyed the adventure and enjoyment we had together. We were a pair, a dynamic duo. It was as if the age gap disappeared when we put our heads together. It was how we collaborated together, tinkering and creating, bringing to life so many wacky ideas. It was from these formative experiences of zorbing, kitesurfing, and hot-air ballooning that we developed the bubble tech, the force field that presides over life here.

After my experience sliding about in a clear orb, I climbed out, exhilarated and exhausted at once. I wrung out my hair with my hands, and water fell in dripping plops, then formed into puddles from the collective wetness of all the participants. Mom attributes my love for zorbing to the one-quarter Siraya genes from my dad’s side, saying I just loved the mountains. I told her that the genes wouldn’t be loving the mountains because the part of the tribe of Taiwanese aborigines he’s from was pushed up the Central Mountain Range from the seventeenth century and on. They had spent more of their history on the plains than on mountainside land. “Well, your dad did,” she then retorted. “Loved all the slope sports. He loved climbing, bouldering, luge sledding, anything that had mountain written all over it.” The unshed tears in her eyes stopped the rebuttal on my tongue. The memory receded as the concierge bot handed me a towel and a jar of one of these new-fangled ointments marketed to women. I toweled off and took a sniff of the ointment. Dr. Chen’s Molly flower rub. Jasmine with a touch of rosemary. I grinned grimly at the pun. The name was a play on words, the word for jasmine being moli, so it sounds like Molly. It was packaged in one of those applicators that you just dab at your wrist, and it spreads all up your arm. I left off the ointment. I did my best thinking in the bubble, just like old times, and thoughts still cavorted about my head. A ding brought me out of my meditative state as I put on dry clothes. Bituin let me know that she was with Jamaal and to meet her at the crepe and boba cafe. Bubble tea after bubble spree? Sure.

Besides, I had a proposition, some idea that had been twisting about in my head for weeks. I couldn’t wait to spring ideas off Bituin.

---

“I never thought that thanks to you, we’d have the gadgets we watched on Star Trek appear in our lives,” said Bituin, sipping up a clear popping boba. Light danced on her face as the interactive drone curtains created designs with sunlight streaming into the cafe. They were more distracting than mesmerizing in my opinion.

A lychee-flavored boba snapped in my mouth, reminding me of the squishy, liquidy ball I was in moments before. “Thanks to me and Dad,” I said. “RIP Dad. And it’s just one gadget.”

“A lack of imagination to think that force fields in the Star Trek universe were used so sparingly,” said Jamaal.

“It’s not really a force field,” I said.

Jamaal wasn’t so into bubble tea and was instead downing an ube ulu açaí smoothie bowl. He balanced way too many strawberry slices on a hearty purple paste and gestured with it at the different tables with one person, p-domes about them.

“Whatever you say,” he said, spooning purple porridge into his mouth.

The p-domes were personal climate-controlled bubbles that drowned out the rest of the world. We didn’t have them on. We enjoyed the din of the cafe. As Jamaal pointed with his utensil, one strawberry slice slithered off the spoon and landed with a splat on the table, spraying bits of granola and ulu. His brown eyes were so absorbed in assessing the customers around him that he didn’t even notice it. “Look at this. Engagement and disengagement all at once.”

Bituin frowned, her deep marionette lines masking her relatively young age. “Well, with you showering your food everywhere, no wonder people want to be in bubbles,” she said, wiping up the mess with a napkin, including her own fruit-speckled hand. She wasn’t that upset; I could see a grin creeping onto her face. Jamaal shoveled more spoonfuls of the filling meal into his mouth. He had ordered three of the same bowls.

“I mean they’re great for when you’re sick or not wanting to get sick . . . ” said Jamaal.

“Especially during the PERS pandemic,” I interjected.

“Right, the PERS. But there’s a lot to be said about being out in the open with people, being in the midst of a hive of activity and one with the crowd. Like enjoying this morning rush,” he said as a server ran into his chair.

Our table suddenly went to a hush as clear vesicles ballooned over our meals, an impenetrable film that projected an ad over each cup and straw and bowl. Jamaal grumbled as his spoon hit the bouncy exterior.

My lips bounced off the rounded film over my straw as my eyes took in the commercial. A group of four enthusiasts wore red helmets and hung onto rope as they kicked rocks. Their crimson helmets shone neon against the iridescent glaze of the screen surface.

“Gosh, I hate ads,” said Bituin.

“Mine was for a group spelunking trip. The algorithms think that just because I zorb, I’d like to go into a claustrophobic cave and suffocate,” I said.

Jamaal laughed. “At least they didn’t try to sell you weight-loss meds again. I swear that list of nasty reactions is going to make me hurl. Don’t they have any decency?” He changed his pitch high and started listing, “Common side effects include redness, swelling, constipation, fatigue, diarrhea, vomiting, nausea . . . ” as the vesicle surface deflated and disappeared.

He changed his pitch back as his voice registered indignation. “C’mon, I’m eating here.”

“It was bad enough paying for streaming, and then ads pop up,” said Bituin, brushing off the remnants of phantom vesicle strands that stuck to her wide straw. The vesicles weren’t physical objects, but did leave an after-feel, a fizzle that lingered until it dissipated. Bituin pursed her lips and sucked up a tapioca ball, chewing on it thoughtfully. “Those media streaming ads targeted my eyes, held them captive. These restaurant ads target my tongue and taste buds, alongside my eyes! Blocking my meals with an ad is a new low.”

“The new normal,” I said. “If I knew they would do this . . . ”

A protest went up from a nearby table as their personal ad vesicles slipped over their dishes. Bituin and Jamaal rested their eyes on me.

“Not my fault,” I said, hands up. “Don’t blame the maker. Blame the system.”

Jamaal just laughed and shook his head.

“Don’t say that if you knew, you never would’ve crafted it, because you would’ve . . . ” said Bituin.

“Yes, you’re right. My dad and I would’ve made it anyway,” I said. “There are just so many uses. Any tool can be used for good or harm.”

“Good, huh?” said Bituin. She signaled to the waitstaff and pointed at the spill that Jamaal had made. A drone came by and dropped a napkin.

“Yeah, good, like the sport bubbleball,” said Jamaal, mimicking a swipe with his hand.

“Okay, bubbleball is one of those gimmicky non-sport activities that swept the nation before dying down and finding a niche in attractions and adventure parks, like mini golf and axe-throwing. I wouldn’t call it a sport,” I said.

“You mean, pulling down a shield to let the pitched ball bounce off of it isn’t a sport?” asked Jamaal. “Like some sad baseball game? I guess you don’t get the pleasure of seeing the umpire get hit in the groin, so there’s that.”

Bituin groaned.

“It’s a fad,” I said.

“Says the woman who rolls down a hill in a ball,” said Bituin.

“Touché,” I said, mimicking an arrow shot to my chest, and we all laughed.

I lowered my voice and straightened my face. I was serious. “Listen, though, I do have this one wish. You know how my mom has been supportive through it all, through my dad passing and my transition? I mean, it’s been a lot for me, but at least I have her.”

“I just think about Casey and Meilin,” said Bituin. “They had it hard.”

“Agreed,” said Jamaal.

“And you, too,” said Bituin, turning to me. “I know it’s been tough.”

“Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t easy for me, not by any means. But Mom was there for me, and her birthday is coming up. So I want to take her out to her favorite restaurant, to celebrate her.”

“What’s her favorite restaurant?” asked Jamaal.

“Bao Bun Bao,” I said.

“I ate there months ago. So good,” he said, his eyes closed in mid-bowl bite, reminiscing.

“One of the holdovers that doesn’t use cosmetic overlays to enhance visual presentation.”

“Oh yeah, didn’t they just implement the ad vesicles?” asked Bituin. “Ugh.”

“Yeah,” I said, “It’s a . . . ”

I didn’t get to complete my thought, as another vesicle session intruded on our discussion. At least I didn’t have my lips closing in on my straw this time. I got an ad about hormone spray patches. I tried to hover my palm over it, so I didn’t have to watch, but the ad just appeared on the back of my hand. They were really distracting.

“Like I was saying, it’s a travesty. They’re rolling them out everywhere. Bao Bun Bao got hit. So I was thinking, I want to give my mom the perfect day, the perfect meal. My mom hates ads. I mean, you think you hate it? My mom has stopped watching all films and television, all media, because of ads. She and my dad used to love going to the theater together, but now nothing. No streamers, nothing. And she stopped eating at restaurants that have them. She’s old, and her health isn’t great. She should be enjoying life, however long she has of it. And I want to take her out to her favorite bao joint. This means I have to trick her into going to Bao Bun Bao. And then I’ll disrupt the ads.”

Bituin spat out a boba. She looked sheepish and wiped it off the table. “Do what?”

“Disrupt the ads. Did you think Dad and I would make something we could do, but not undo? Of course we could disrupt them.”

“I thought they were proprietary,” said Jamaal. “Like yeah, you could turn them off, but you needed to have access.”

That was my cue. I got excited. I’d been thinking about this throughout weeks of sessions in zorbing, getting all the details straight.

“There are two ways to de-trigger the shield. The first is cryptonomical. Break into the software. The second is jerry-rigging or engineering. Break into the hardware. This is not my first rodeo cracking the globe. Jared’s the one who’s good at the prior, hacking. I’m okay, not great at it. And Jared doesn’t want in anymore. We brushed too close when I did it before.”

“You did it before?”

“Yeah, well, during the whole hormone patch political recall mess. Y’know, they said it was for safety, but everyone knew why. I got into the stash in the dumpster. Don’t look at me like that. It was out of necessity.”

“You said you got a special prescription,” said Bituin.

“I did. And I couldn’t fill it. So, we had to go rogue,” I said.

“You had Jared with you then?” asked Jamaal.

“Right-o. He did his fiddling with his magic and made it work. And Jared’s not here. Got spooked by how close he got to getting caught. So, my forte is the latter. Build things up, smash stuff down. Engineering. I’ll grab the physical object. My dad and I once made this interrupter. It phases out the bubble, any vesicle of our choice, really. We agreed to hold onto it, but he sold it to Tellsmart Corp before he passed.”

“Tellsmart? The ones who make those meditation booths?”

“Yeah, they’re experimenting with floating meditation booths that are crystal clear, mixing drone and bubble tech. They don’t want the vesicles to dissolve on their own like they do with these ads, so they were looking for a way to better time the sessions. These interrupters give them that luxury.”

Jamaal whistled. “That’s one helluva tech.”

“Dad should’ve never sold it. He didn’t consult me. We kind of had a falling out at the end. But I didn’t realize it was because he was dying and needed the money for the health bills that were racking our family. I found that out later, from Mom. Anyway, I gotta get the interrupter.”

“Sorry about your dad. But I do have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“I mean, you guys made the thing. Can’t you make another?”

I lowered my voice. “Are you kidding? We need so much capital, time, and resources. Not enough of any part of the trifecta to make a new one, not under the constraints I’m in. If I had more of one angle, maybe just time, I could figure out a way to get the capital and resources. But I don’t have time. We sold the IP. Technically, we’re not allowed to, even if I did have time. So, I’m grabbing it.”

“Wait, you’re upholding IP law, but you’re willing to, what, break into the tech company and grab it?”

“Technically, it’s not breaking and entering if I’m an employee.”

“And are you . . . ?”

“I’ll be parading as one.”

“That’s not . . . that doesn’t change anything. It’s still stealing.”

“Borrowing,” I said. “Borrowing. It’s different.”

---

Growing up, my mom loved making her own gua bao, steamed pork belly buns. A delicious, red-cooked pork belly wrapped in the delicate fold of the soft and aromatic lotus leaf bread. The lotus leaf bread was not actually made of lotus, just prepared to look like one of the magnificent blooms on the pond. She would stack her steamer with the buns, and then we would put them together. We would pack them into metal tins and sit at the bench at the botanical gardens, staring at the tranquil lake. Even then, I wasn’t content to just sit and eat, though. After a few bites, I often paced the sides and kicked rocks, using the time to convince her to go rafting with me. She put up a good fight, describing why river rafting was too dangerous or rough on her. I think she liked to argue with me.

When we transplanted out of her home country and got old enough that she didn’t feel like cooking as much, we were lucky that she found a restaurant that reproduced the warm, savory bite. Bao Bun Bao didn’t hold back on crunchy peanuts and cilantro, so it was a win for her.

“Their mixture of seasonings is just right,” she would say. “Chili peppers of the correct variety, cinnamon sticks, and star anise. You can taste the braise, how they use high-quality ingredients. And they didn’t skimp on the wine, either. Shaoxing wine, the provenance is in the balance of bitter and sour, and the deep taste of fermentation dances on the palate. Your dad would like this. He loved pickled deer entrails with millet wine. A traditional Siraya meal. This savory taste is reminiscent of his favorite dish. Full of meats and spirit. Kudos to the chef.”

She was equally praising when it came to me making it. I knew I didn’t produce it quite up to par. I was usually too busy to flip the pork while braising and kept the braising shorter than ideal. At the time, I was worried about my roommates and making such fragrant foods at my place. Though they were pretty supportive of me making foods they could put their sticky fingers in and taste. In any case, I knew they were imperfect, but she ate them with gusto, like she never had such delicious gua bao before, like an empress entreated to a feast in a foreign locale. Or maybe it’s because she could taste the sweat and tears, the labor of my cooking.

Despite liking to argue, she showered me with praise and championed my values when it counted, so unlike others who had a difficult time with their parents, I actually felt like she was a pillar of support for me. And honestly, I did love cooking. It was all about transformation—frying, browning, simmering—turning something doughy and limp into something glazed and glimmering and altogether tasty. I guess it was emblematic of my own change, from someone who felt gangly and off in their own body to someone who gleamed and glistened in a body that felt right. Nestled into a pillowy steamed bun and full of fragrant pork . . . I guess I finally found that the bag of skin I called my own, my human flesh and muscles, became something that complemented what was within rather than just hung from me like an alien accoutrement. Even though I was not more than a novice cook, I loved the completion through the change. I liked how the compilation of ingredients was more than just a stacking. It was an entire chemical metamorphosis that brought the meal to life. It seemed fitting.

She had nothing but kind words and adulation for Bao Bun Bao. While full of praise for my cooking, she was not that effusive about the selections at other restaurants. I wanted to give her an ad-free, tasty meal journey, with no interruption of her gastronomic experience. I didn’t want her to come out of her euphoric reverie for a drone insurance ad or a plea to join the co-op of self-driver rentals, whatever it may be. She had kids late; she was turning the lucky sixty-eight, and her hair, once a luscious black down to her waist, was turning white from the stress the medications were putting on her. She had cut it short so that she didn’t have to put effort into self-grooming (and she wouldn’t let a groomer bot touch her locks). Her eyes had clouded with cataracts she refused surgery for, and I wasn’t sure how long she had left. She was still my mom, still full of her values and support, but her vivacity was fading, and it was hard as her child to watch it happen.

I wanted to give her something to remember. A flawless encounter with her favorite food at her favorite restaurant. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, for the corporate douches out there who will kill your joy of eating for a chance at making a buck, the answer is yes.

Well, forget that. I would take back the experience. Give it to my mom. Give back that uninterrupted peace to savor.

I had to break in and grab the interrupter.

---

I had a dream that my mom and dad were with me in a giant ball, rolling. Instead of just a small percentage of water, like how zorbing should be, meals started appearing. All kinds of meals. All soaked and soppy from the liquid sloshing about from rendered fats and sauces. And they grew more and more intense. Smells of steamed fish, garlic, pandan, mint, cilantro assaulted us, one after another in succession, until the aromas blended into a horrendous, overpowering stench. And we started clawing at the sides of the ball, but to no avail. An ad came on that was projected within every square inch of the domed surface, telling us about pet snacks, and another on workplace office supplies. Another replaced it, trying to convince us that their gaming equipment was the most cutting edge, with haptic brain loops, whatever that meant. We couldn’t escape as the meals drenched in their juices reached our calves, our waists, as we kept up our jog downhill. The ads’ voices got more and more annoying, more and more pressing. Nasal and high pitched. Maybe we would make it to the bottom. Maybe we would just roll on forever. My heart sank as I couldn’t see past the ads, my lungs feeling tight. Was there enough air for all of us? The meals reached our chest. I held out my hands to my parents. My mom’s hand found mine and clasped it. With her free hand, she took out a fork that she pulled from the mass of food sludge and tried stabbing the bubble. An ad for hair loss medication came on. Then insecticide. Then a restaurant, no less. She cursed. No luck. Her face was contorted in a mix of desperation and terror, her eyebrows drawn. I saw a butter knife wedged between the remnants of lasagna and a bowl of almond jelly near my mom’s cheek as the meals reached our necks. All around me was slippery and wet. I couldn’t get my arm out of the goop. Was this what quicksand was like? I heaved and finally pulled my hand out with a pop. I reached for the knife. I couldn’t get a good grip on the knife. My dad looked alarmed, and he mouthed, “I love you.” His eyes bulged wide, and I tried to block out the ringing sounds in the ad for holophones that created a halo around him. My pulse raced faster than the beeping. I got the butter knife firm in both my hands, and I stabbed the walls that bound us. The knife kept bouncing off the concave sides. It was only when the sludge was in my mouth that I gave it a last go. To my surprise, it popped. I gagged as tainted repasts as thick as congee reached my throat. We poured out of the plastic prison, like kids out of a waterslide, but much more dire, not enthralled and entirely panicked. My mom and dad were unconscious, and I was still holding the knife, covered in food slime.

I woke up with throbbing, stiff fingers. One hand cupped around the other that was gripped tight, as if holding an imaginary butter knife.

I could see the afterimages of my parents’ faces, their mouths opened, locked in a mid-scream, or mid-swallow, not sure what. Their eyes shut in shock as the dream faded.

I couldn’t live trapped in a world like this, where meals, a place of solace, nourishment, and gathering became scarred as canvases for nuisance and disturbance.

I was going to find that butter knife. The one that could break the mealtime intrusion. It will be sharp enough. And I will take it in my hands. And deploy it.

---

The thing about zorbing is that it’s not subtle. You’re in a giant orb. You go down a hill. There’s water sloshing about. It’s an entire spectacle. Nothing delicate about it at all.

The thing about breaking and entering, it’s all about subtlety. No spectacle, no giggles. Get in and get out.

Hacking, I could giggle all I want. No one would see me. I’m behind a mask, behind a filter, a wall. Only a persona of me gets through. It’s about deft and skill for sure, but it’s all from behind the scenes, from a dark room. I wasn’t great at it, but I did some. Besides, if someone caught me hacking, they could tackle me from within and take over their systems again. My victory would be short-lived, and the ads could come on again, perhaps before the meal was even over.

With the interrupter, I could physically hijack the system so the bubble wouldn’t come on. It would hard jam the signal for the vesicle. And my mom could eat in repose and comfort, while I’d be happy knowing that we could complete our meal securely.

“It’s worth it,” I told myself in a whisper, with my pack ready to go.

“It is,” said Bituin on the line. “You got this.”

“Yeah,” cut in Jamaal. “Think of the look your mother will have, eating that delicious pork. Go go!”

While Jared wasn’t with us, Jamaal and Bituin were there to help with easier hacks that had less security. At least, less security than those ads on vesicles. They were the company moneymaker, so they were hard as steel to get through. You couldn’t just throw up an ad blocker like you could back in the day. The Tellsmart Corp took their cred buildup seriously and didn’t want any bad actors messing with their software.

Well, I’m not a bad actor. I’m a good actor. And so I was going to get myself in the building and retrieve what I came looking for.

Bituin did my makeup for my streaming holos that were a hit, especially during the PERS pandemic. She didn’t do my makeup every time, but for some of the major events. So, she was equipped to help me look like “Everest Yu,” overlaying the 4-D printed skin, painting on shadows and foundation to better integrate it with my tone. The skin adhered to my own epidermis, shrunk and clung to it like an all-encompassing toothless leech. Just kind of sucked onto me when she brushed on the polymer.

“Are you sure I look like them? I feel like I stick out like the eponymous mountain,” I said into my mic.

“You’ll be fine. You’ll conquer them, conquer the Everest,” said Jamaal.

“Conquer the Everest. That seems foreboding. So many people have died trying, and there are political issues surrounding contemporary climb technology enabling tourists to rush summiting, clashing with the traditions of Sherpas,” I said, grumbling. I tend to babble when nervous. “In fact, I would say . . . ”

“Okay, okay,” interrupted Jamaal. “Well, maybe use it as a mantra, and not really get into the weeds of the whole Everest thing.”

“Or let’s just focus on the grab and not the mountain,” said Bituin.

“Fine,” I said. I kind of wish they were going instead of me, but I already used up all my goodwill with them by roping them into getting me through via the back end. It was my idea, and my mom, after all. This was my project. And the interrupter, that was Dad’s and mine, years ago. So, I had to go. It had to be me. I just felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb. I don’t know if I did. It’s just this residual feeling after so many years of feeling out of my ilk in my own body, let alone in a complete stranger’s body. Despite my own reservations, we were certainly equipped. We had gleaned precious intel and camera footage. I’d studied this person’s gait and behaviors as they entered the building, who they talked to, etc., so I had a good sense of how to act. It’s just that the execution was a whole different beast than practice.

“Okay, Everest Yu,” I said. “It’s now or never, Mx. Ever.”

The first step was the eye scanner. I could feel a bead of sweat roll down my back as it scanned. I cursed. Due to the properties of the polymer, the extra salty water could cause the skin to adhere even more to my face and warp with cracks. I really didn’t want my cheeks to sweat. Please don’t sweat, I begged them. But I was already feeling hot. It wasn’t even that hot outside or indoors for spring, but my palms felt clammy regardless. This skin didn’t breathe, and I couldn’t calm my nerves. No amount of telling myself to relax helped.

This should be easy. I had the contacts on. Their eyes should project over my own like the ads on the vesicles. Better than the ads, more convincing, more “real” tech.

I breathed out as the scan started. A dazzling influx of neon green hit my face.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

My heart skipped a beat. I tried to look impassive.

“Sorry, Mx. Yu. Scanner’s acting up again. Try it again,” said the guard. He was talking as he chewed on a youtiao breakfast cruller. Bits of brown, flecked spittle flew and landed on the floor next to him. He smelled of youtiao, and of something else, something familiar, a flowery scent.

Jamaal’s voice came through the comm. “Shoot, I forgot to dilate the pupils when the light hit. So it’s not recognizing them as the same. Rookie error. It won’t happen again.”

I had half a mind to growl “Jamaaaaal” aloud, and I was using all my willpower to keep my cool as I held my face steady again, my chin cupped in the right position. My vision turned to nothing but a verdant veil. As my eyes cleared, a digital replica of the sound of a cascading waterfall tinkled out of the machine.

“Clear,” said the guard, still chewing on dough as he was talking to another staff member. “They design these things to break periodically so you pay for service folk to come out. Or to get you to buy a warranty. It’s the way of things. Nothing lasts. The palm reader was much more reliable before they upsold us this piece of . . . ” The other staff, who wore a name tag of Yasmin, just kept nodding. I didn’t hear the rest of the rant since I was ushered to the next trial.

There was one more gadget test before I got in, which was the gait ramp. The retinal scan led to a platform that staff walked down to get to the main elevators. Throughout the slight decline, sensors followed my figure and assessed my weight, pace, physique, and gait. It was so intrusive. I’d hate to work for a creepy corp like this that watched your every spec like a hawk. They used all this information on file to promote or fire you, put into your records, weighing you like you were a dead fish at a market.

I couldn’t afford another error. The guard seemed pretty chill, but he was still a guard, and how many false positives could he entertain? I looked over at him, and he was chatting with Yasmin, but both glanced over at me. I turned back to the ramp.

I breathed out. I could do this. I quelled the nervous palpitations I was feeling. I had to. My fingers ached to twitch and fidget. “You can do this,” I whispered aloud, conjuring my own self-coach.

All that sashaying, going down homebuilt ramps, bobbing my head as I walked in my practices was paying off. I thought I was doing well. I thought . . .

I tripped at the bottom of the ramp. It generated a beep.

“Oh, these new pumps,” I said, helping myself up to a sitting position.

The guard lifted a brow as he walked over. Time to improvise.

I took off my shoe and took a moment to try breaking off the heel behind my back. Wow, this was a really well-constructed shoe. The heel was on pretty firmly. I used my weight to rock on it as I pretended to have trouble getting up. I heard a crack, and it finally broke as the guard reached me. He looked down on me, looming over me with all his corporate bouncer power. The smiling animated face of the Tellsmart logo on his polo looked like it was simpering at me. Like it knew something. I gulped. I’d better act well.

I held out the broken shoe. “Designed obsolescence and cheap fashion, am I right?” I said, recalling and mimicking Yu’s drawling voice. “Even the designer brands aren’t unaffected. You think some tape would work?”

“You all right, Mx.?” asked the guard. He held out a hand.

I took it, pretending to wobble. He passed me some extra-strength tape. “My ankle feels a bit shaky,” I said.

“You took quite a tumble. You might want to get that checked. Though, I’m sorry, you’ll have to go through it ag . . . ”

“Oh,” I cried, clutching my ankle. I faked a shiver going through my body. “Ow, the aftershock.”

“Do you want me to call a medic drone?”

“No, no,” I said, recalling the files that indicated Mx. refused treatment from drones in the past. “I’d rather handle this on my own. I have my own osteopath. I’ll just have to get to my desk. Rub in some soothing balms.”

“Sure, sure,” said the guard. “Let me help you up,” he said, trying to take my arm.

I didn’t mind him giving me a hand, but if he clutched my elbow and got in close, he might see the seams of the makeover work. He got close enough that I sniffed again that familiar floral scent. Jasmine and a touch of rosemary. The zorbing . . . that muscle balm was one of the latest hypes. What was the name? Ah, right. It came to me then. I knew it would come. The awful cross-lingual pun. Dr. Chen’s Molly flower rub.

“No, no, thank you. It feels better now. Just needs some massaging,” I said. “If you could just get some ointments sent up. Specifically, Dr. Chen’s Molly flower rub.”

It was faint, but as he leaned in, I got a good whiff of it. With adroit hands, I taped up the heel as best I could. The adhesive was a proprietary paste that worked all too well. You’d need a proprietary solvent (that, of course, they sold) to cut through it. Or a heavy-duty ultrasonic saw.

“Oh, you use Dr. Molly’s, too? My mom swears by it for her migraines . . . ” he said, jotting it down on a holopad. It wasn’t his mom that uses it. It was him. Well, maybe his mom, too. But definitely, he was reeking of it. I wasn’t going to tell him that. It was clear he didn’t want to admit to it. “I’m reaching out to the assistant on call. We’ll get these treatments to your office. Very effective. I’m sure it will do wonders.”

I smiled and mouthed a thank you and executed a panged look.

“Are you sure you won’t need help getting to your office?”

“No, the elevator gets me most of the way. Thank you. It’s just been a day. I can’t wait to sit down for a moment.”

“Sure, I understand,” he said. He looked relieved. “Let me get these ordered.”

He rushed away, maybe because he didn’t want to get found out. No embarrassment in using fashionable creams, but, well, he certainly didn’t want to draw the connection to himself. The ploy seemed to get him out of my hair. That’s good.

Everest Yu was one of the innovators for the Tellsmart Corp and worked on the adoption of technologies for their restaurant brands. They were on vacation. The files I hacked into showed that true to their name, they were at the very moment, in fact, on a trip climbing and skiing, not Mt. Everest, but local Yushan, which is one of the few places in the region where glaciers made their way through and carved out paths. I’ve been there myself and marveled at how geological entities of history sculpted, how they marked the land that we now occupy. I felt a pang of desire to go down the mountain in a ball, zorb my way along, like the glaciers did, and be one with the ancient, majestic icy crawlers. I could understand the splendor of the alignment of the ice age to our own bodies as an escape from our current Anthropocene. Maybe that was the way Mx. Yu felt climbing the mountain. It was helpful to get into their head so I could embody their head better. Get insight on how they saw things, so I could fit into their skin with greater precision. That’s what I told myself. Sad thing is, a lot of us felt similar things. We wanted to escape our present lives locked up in cubicles, concrete jungles, printed cages, and feel a thrill, see the awe of nature, and connect ourselves with something grander than our meager lives. It was sensorially a rush, too, and so was eating. Going through their files, I sensed that defiance, that wish to stick it to the man. They did it through climbing mountains; I was going to do it by taking down the ad barriers that blocked our visceral enjoyment of the world. I was going to take down the vesicles, at least for one moment, for the simple pleasure of a meal for my mom. That would be my triumph.

And here, another rush. My heart palpitated as I entered the elevator. It wasn’t empty. Just my luck. Someone without a name tag made small talk with me. I waited for Jamaal to feed me info, but the comm just gave a low buzz and went dead. I withheld a groan. We planned for this scenario, but it wasn’t like I wanted it. I went through a list of people at the office whose faces I’d memorized. Any one of them? Nope. I didn’t know if I knew this person. Maybe my files were out of date.

“Sure, sure,” my fellow rider said, nodding. They had a wide mouth and a thin, long face and kept playing with their hands. “It was nice to get new appliances, but the new office fridge didn’t have enough avatars for everyone at the office, so it couldn’t record the dates of what everyone put in accurately. It kept reassigning her osmanthus yogurt to Alizu . . . ” I kept nodding as a trickle of sweat slid down my back from the nerves, like the glacier tickling the contours of my spine. How is it that a little bit of sweat can be so unnerving when I find all that sloshing water in zorbing exhilarating? But there it was, that one bead of sweat. Maybe it was leaving a trail of wrinkled skin overlay in its wake. That would be bad. I felt a stutter escape my mouth. “Eh, ohhh, oh, that’s terrible,” I said in commiseration. And perhaps in overcompensation to downplay my stutter: “That must’ve left you hungry.” And “Maybe it can be reprogrammed?” I decided to shut my trap and not offer too much commentary, so that my ol’ trap didn’t, well, set up a trap for myself.

“Did you get that memo?” they said, looking at me, interested. I looked downward, trying to hide my eyes. These eyes could fool a scanner. Could they fool a person? The eyes are windows to the soul, and my soul is a fabrication. “You know, Mx. Yu,” they continued, “you really did something to your complexion. Did you try the new cosmetic line I was suggesting? You know GranWiz skin from Tokyo? With the placentas? The camel placenta line is supposed to work wonders. Gets rid of those skin . . . humps.” They laughed and covered their mouth. “Truly, though, your skin looks like it’s glistening.”

I made some “mm hmm” sounds from my mouth and nodded, wondering if the elevator was going extra slow just to mess with me. I dropped an item from one of my pockets. Yes, pants with pockets. I silently thanked Bituin for that.

“Oh, let me help you,” said the person that I should know. They bent over to catch the item from the ground for me, and somehow, when I bent with them, the comfort of the crouch, perhaps the change in elevation, made me remember their files. They were a her, Ms. Claire Wu.

“Oh, Claire.” I recall from the files and messages that Claire worked in HR, and they were on a first-name basis. Or at least Everest Yu was with her, even if Claire kept calling them Mx. Yu. “Thank you,” I said, as she handed me the lipstick. A wave of relief came as the elevator pinged the sixteenth floor, my floor.

“Oh, Mx. Yu,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “Jade brand lipstick? I didn’t think their punkish vibe was your vibe. Pink rose, huh? A popular choice. To be fair, I get the ube violet sheen delivered to my door on package-free auto-subscription. Love the look. But something must be wrong with the drone’s bubble tech because they all come scratched. Your tube is so pristine; what delivery service do you use?”

I quickly left before she could prattle on. “But wait, Mx. Yu, you dropped your . . . ?” I didn’t hear what it was I dropped as the doors closed and the elevator moved on. I think she said something like “I’ll put it on your desk,” but I wasn’t sure. Phew. I wiped my forehead.

I wasn’t cut out for this kind of work. My hands were shaking, and I felt for that tube of lipstick. Why did I have to pull that one out? Of all the things to pull out of my pocket . . . why did I have to pull out the one that had the holo key hidden in a compartment? I could have pulled out the gum-strengthening gum that Mx. Yu liked. That awful brand that was supposed to chew like boba and keep being chewy at that strange bouncy level. How did they like this stuff? Or the print magnifier finger pads that people used to deal with fingerprint tech malfunctions? Some people wore those like post-pandemic face masks after the great imprint hack. I kept patting through my pockets and my purse as I walked and smiled and said hi to unfamiliar familiar faces.

Ohhhh my spamming lords, I thought. It’s not there. I thought I had taken the lipstick back from Claire. Of course I would’ve. Of course I did. An image of her handing it to me moments ago as the elevator doors closed flashed through my head. But then, why wasn’t it here?

I stopped in my tracks, realization dawning on me. The fretting and nervousness, trying to remember everyone’s names as they passed and said hi, had been making me less effective at cognitively processing everything. The realization put me in a far worse state of mind than anxiety. It compounded in multifold. I groaned. I left the lipstick with Claire.

What had she said? She’d put it on my desk. And where was my desk? Two floors up. Why they didn’t put my desk and my lab on the same floor was a wonder. But I read that Mx. Yu liked good views—and from the holomap I studied, there was an exceptional view from the eighteenth floor.

“You okay?” asked a concerned voice, furrowed brows, someone in a suit. I tried to place a name. I knew they worked on material sciences.

“Yeah, not a problem. Just forgot something at my desk. I’ll be back,” I said, heading toward the stairs. I didn’t want to face the elevator and any chatty person again. Plus, I was short on time enough to not want to wait an unknown number of minutes for the elevator. Two floors of stairs, not a problem, even in those terribly unpleasant heels. Why anyone would choose to wear heels is beyond me. We have tech to create shoes that feel like your feet are in clouds, and yet the kinds of primeval torturous stuff people do to their feet for the sake of fashion are just entirely incomprehensible.

“Stairs, huh? I’ve never seen you take them. On a new fitness regime?” he asked.

“No, just trying to break in these new shoes,” I said. He looked surprised at my bitter tone. I elevated my pitch and smiled. “Not fitness exactly, but close. I’m playing that heart rate challenge with Vanessa,” I said, remembering the name of one of the colleagues who shared Everest’s open office.

“Ah, well, good luck.” He looked dubious.

I could see why. The stairs were clean, but given that no one often uses the stairwell, it’s been dusty and in disrepair. Or maybe people don’t use it precisely because of the lopsided cement steps that never made it through renovation. It smelled musty, like old socks. The click-clacks of my stilettos reverberated in loud echoes throughout the space. It made the blood pound in my ears, as if announcing to the world, to all the coworkers familiar with Mx. Yu, “Here I am, a fake, an imposter, who’s already messed up one portion of the plan.” I didn’t dare touch the handrail. It was an old staircase, so the chances of them implementing fingerprint strips into the handrail were low. Yet, I didn’t want to chance it since we didn’t scan through the stairwell construction files. It wasn’t part of the plan. Ambling up these stairs in rickety fashion stilts was not part of our plan.

“Ow,” I called out as I twisted my ankle. I didn’t get the heel of the stiletto glued on quite right, so it was jutting out in a strange way. I grabbed the wall instead of the handrail, really pressed my palm to it to avoid falling back. My back wobbled and then straightened. I was okay. I was okay. Phew. I massaged my ankle, thinking about how it was connected by reflexology to lymph glands. Did I injure my lymph glands by pressure-system proxy? Honestly, I felt like I was getting sick. My throat had a strange tickle. All this stress was affecting me. Not to mention the dust and whatever else grew in this stairwell. They needed a custodial drone to come in here and do a major mopping. It wouldn’t even cost that much, since most of the polishing drones hobbled down stairs okay. I shook my head. I needed to get my head back in the game. Our plan. At least I was already halfway there. Just one more floor.

I walked up the rest of the flight, slower than before, feeling the pressure of time. I gestured, and the military clock time, in bright yellow hours and minutes, came up in a glittering holo, lighting up the dust that cavorted about the stairwell. I had ten minutes until Jamaal implemented the lock release on the lab door; then I’d stick my lipstick tube in, get my retinas, palm, and fingers scanned, and it would take ten seconds to clear. I would have to do a number of idiotic riddles to prove I’m not a bot and, in fact, Mx. Yu. Another ten seconds of verifications. And then I’d grab and go. I had to make it back to the exit in record time, since the overlay on my eyes would change back, turning my hazel eyes back to my natural cappuccino brown. I hurried faster, my ankle giving me a pang at each step. I wish I had nanohealing cream to ease soreness, but nope. I clenched my teeth. Just keep ascending. Quicker steps. If Everest can tackle Everest, I can tackle these steps.

I finally made it up to the top and shoved the heavy door open. Not even auto-sliding doors for this covert part of the building, this ancient behemoth that lay behind a modern façade.

It was too bad that Mx. Yu loved to hear themself walk. I could use some stealth, but it would be uncharacteristic of them.

I waved a few hellos, kept my most open smile, flashing teeth, and swiped the lipstick key off my desk. I briefly checked the holo within my palm. It glowed a bright blue. Perfect.

“What you doing?” asked a coworker.

I startled, closing the hidden key compartment. I hated open offices. Why can’t anyone get any privacy in here?

“You checking the game? I heard the bounce off the skin was amazing,” they said. It was someone who sat in the corner, I recalled, running through the map of desks and faces I’d created earlier. Ah, Jeremy.

Skin? Bounce? I zipped through their files in my head. Oh, bubbleball. They sometimes called the bubble “skin.” I forgot that Mx. Yu was a fan. I searched for the most generic response.

“Oh, Jeremy, what a game, isn’t it?” I said.

“Sure, sure. It’s three to one, and I can’t believe they walked Kaybaybaw.”

“Wow, Kaybaybaw? Hold that thought. I’ll chat when I get back. Just going to redo my lipstick and step out,” I said.

He was too busy staring at the spot of holo on his wrist to respond more than a “mm.”

I clacked my way over to the stairs again and hurried down. Key in hand, check.

The hallway to the lab was eerily quiet. And same when I pulled open the sliding door. Empty even. Lab mates were out for lunch or back at their desks as we had hoped. It was a gamble. Either there would be too many people out in the hallways, or it would be dead silent. I smiled. The gamble paid off. I was so enthralled that fortune was favoring our plan. I could hear my heels echoing in this sanitized chamber.

I had only a few minutes left to get the goods and head out of the lab. My eye color would soon change back, and I still had to do the retina scan for the fabricated key. I holoed a mirror, still hazel. Closed it. At least there’s that.

There it was. In the corner of the lab, next to prototypes of 7-D printers and delicate drones. Cutting-edge stuff. I was impressed. No time to stick my fingers in those goods, though. There was only one place for my sticky fingers, and that was the safe, disguised as a tray for a Marlieu 7-D printer.

A flash of pink hit my eyes as I pushed the key in. Done. I put on skin-printed gloves for the finger and palm scan. Check.

My hands were sweating through the gloves. I can do this.

Three security riddles. I groaned. They were strange questions—and I thought, what would daredevil Mx. Yu say?

Text shone on my arm:

“What sounds like blood but is a life force of a Taiwanese mountain?”

I thought. The riddle was clearly a Mandarin word. Mountains high up. Climbing, skiing, snowboarding. The answer: “Snow.” Xue as in blood, xue as in snow.

Green light.

Clear.

“For skiing, voting, and directions, get your compass out!”

What? That wasn’t even a question.

Skiing? Wax? What did that have to do with a compass and voting? Gloves? They do make guiding gloves in areas of bad reception for rangers in the forests. But that can’t be it.

Oh, wait, compass. Compass and its magnets. Poles. Okay.

“Poles,” I said.

Green light.

Clear.

“The best snap for a Taiwanese mountaineer. Fastens you right up.”

Snap? My mind went to potato chips and wax apples. Why is wax filling my head?

What did a mountaineer need? First aid kits. Helmets. Axes. Crampons.

Crampons snap on!

“Cr . . . ” I started to say. I saw the light waver to orange . . . no, that wasn’t right. Do they even snap on? I wished Bituin were on the call. She knows all sorts of strange facts. Great at trivia.

But no Bituin. No Jamaal. Just me here. And I was going to figure this out.

Mandarin. In Mandarin. They said Taiwanese mountaineer in the riddle.

“Kou. Dengshan kou.” 登山扣. Carabiner. The word 扣 kou was a button, a snap.

I waited.

The orange flickered to green.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was I not a bot, not only was I not just any ol’ human. I was a Mx. Yu human. Right on.

The top flipped open. I gasped quietly.

My expectations were so high, I imagined a hiss and mist.

No, they just lay there. There was an ozone scent of new gadgetry. The objects certainly weren’t new new, but they hadn’t been used frequently. They had that new electronics smell.

And, yes, objects. Plural.

There were two compartments in the tray, tucked into crimson velvet fabric. They were not flavored ink blocks, as the printer device that hid them would make you think. One was the interrupter. Nothing special, onyx and flat. A touch-ignited remote smooth to the touch, that felt like a river-polished stone in your hand. Deceptively sleek and simple.

Yes.

The other, a new design for an orb? It was a cube, like the package the other orbs are tucked in, translucent and iridescent. Also the size of my palm, like a child’s alphabet block. Less wooden and more silicone in texture. I poked it. The cube wall bounced back.

Okay, this second prize was not expected, not part of our intel that we bought from a recently laid off lab mate. But this was nice. I waffled, my hands itching to activate it.

We were trying to stay a low profile. I let it go.

I pocketed the interrupter, replaced it with a replica, and was about to close the case when I heard a scraping and footsteps. Someone was coming my way.

The comm came on, and an urgent voice was in my ear.

“Hello, Jamaal,” I whispered as quietly as I could.

A voice cut through the static, “Hurry, you triggered . . . you don’t have much time. The silent alarm . . . three minutes . . . get out of there.”

Did he say three minutes? Or was there a word before three? Like hopefully another numeral? Twenty-three?

I quickly grabbed the cube, shut the case, and put the 7-D printer back to how it was.

Ten seconds. I waited for the footsteps to pass.

How was I going to make it down the hall and back down the stairs in two point five minutes?

I took off my heels. If I ran into anyone, I would have to explain why I was holding my heels, but there have been stranger things. At that point, I’d be screwed anyway, since I would be out of time. I ran out in silent stockings, slipping. The unidentified person had rounded the corner; no one was there.

The devices felt heavy in my pocket.

I felt for the squishy edges of the cube, pulled it out, and pulled open the heavy door of the stairwell. It groaned. Another thirty seconds. Two minutes left.

I whipped the cube out and gave a voice command; it bloomed open.

A ball, great for zorbing, perfectly sized for one. I climbed in the pocket, pressed the slit clean until it sealed, and went down. No time to put on the shoes.

It was fast. My feet slipped. I’d never zorbed in stockings. I’d never zorbed down a stairwell. On a hill, I’d often lay down, but here, I’d wanted to generate momentum through running. It was slick, well controlled, fast—the best zorb ever. My heart leaped, feeling the harmony of my feet and the universe. Adrenaline rippled down my spine. That thrill of going down. You honestly couldn’t even feel the bump of the stairs. If I weren’t too busy counting down seconds, I’d be enjoying it, honestly. I was enthralled. Could I keep this thing?

“Jamaal, you there?”

I reached the ground floor, stepped out of the ball, gasping, my hair completely disheveled, hanging over my eyes. I ran a hand through it as the cube sucked up the deflated orb skin.

“Hey, you have less than three seconds to speed your way out of that building.”

“I’m almost out,” I said. I tucked the cube, hot from use, back into my pocket and jammed the signal for the emergency door alarm. Jamaal had mentioned a silent alarm, but I thought I’d play it safe, and it was part of the plan to create a back door. May as well implement it. It took half a second to execute. I was out with a second to spare.

But I wasn’t in the clear.

I put on my shoes discreetly. I had to keep my cool. Once the Mx. Yu outfit was back together, I took out an arecoline vape and gave it a few sucks and walked briskly to a self-driver.

I fed the auto an address some blocks from where I wanted to be, got off, and clicked my comms to deliver the payload to a secure spot. The zorb cube still felt warm in my pocket.

---

The restaurant was dark and dim, lit by electric candlelight.

“Ganbei,” we said, clinking Blue Hawaiis, the ice circling in the cerulean drink.

Mom’s eyes glistened as she held the gua bao in her hands. It smelled astoundingly good: savory, roasty, fatty, with notes of soy and toasted caramel. The polished stone was in my hand under the table, and I flicked across it with a thumb in practiced gestures. She was about to bite and—

—nothing. No shuttering of the food, no lips bouncing off food, no sudden interruption to the meal.

Around her, people’s chopsticks rebounded off food prophylactics, forcing them to watch a tailored holo selling them some subscription or other. Their responses varied from boredom, annoyance, or distraction, with varied levels of impatience for the ad to be over. Some jabbed at the bubble with the sharp end of their chopstick to no effect.

Mom’s face? Complete bliss as her teeth met pillowy soft buns and roasted meat. Her eyes flashed with rapture, followed by her eyelids closing, settling into a calm serenity as she chewed.

That’s the look I wanted to capture for my birthday, so I waved a hand for my wearable to grab a cinemashot of us, sans any auto edits or enhancements. I wanted a memento of this pure, undiluted moment of happiness that her face emanated. I kept the digital memento safeguarded, tucked away from any prying eye.

She handed the gua bao over to me. “I know you took that photo. Send it over to me, yeah?” The cinemashot had made no sound, but she was my mom, after all.

“Will do.”

“Try it,” she said, releasing her grip on the bao, almost reluctantly. She didn’t seem to notice that the vesicle ads skipped her meal. “So good. The reheatables taste nothing like this.”

“Yeah, Mom. This is the real deal.”

I took a bite. Bursts of juicy braised meats, pickled mustard, and cilantro filled my mouth. I washed it down with the pineapple juice cocktail. Amazing. I must have had sauce all over my face. I wiped it off with a napkin.

“No better joy. I missed this. Your dad would’ve loved this.”

“I bet he would,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said. “For everything. For being you.”

I felt a tear well in my eyes. “Ma,” I said. “You’re gonna make me cry in public.”

She laughed, and I did, too.

Military time in brilliant lemon flashed across my wrist when I checked the holo. I know I didn’t have much time. Pretty soon, the waitstaff would notice. The management would be notified. We’d be questioned.

“And here’s your cake,” I said, making my voice even. I was starting to sweat, cold palms, my head imagining the retribution that would follow, but I put the thought aside.

She jabbed her fork in and shoveled it into her mouth. About her again came another round of ads, bubbles appearing around food. But she chewed, swallowed, and sighed.

“Taro fruit sponge cake. Mm,” she said. She grabbed another bite.

A service staff bot swung in our direction.

“Let’s head to mini golf. Like we planned?” I said as I grabbed her elbow.

“How about the bubbleball games? Just to watch. A small league, close by, not overcrowded, and it will be good fun.”

“Sure, sure.” Since when did she like bubbleball? I didn’t tell her I thought it was a silly game. I just wanted to get out of there.

---

Well, of course we got caught. Sort of. Not the specific, identifiable “we.” But an abstract “we.” We were noticed. There were people who posted about the table that didn’t have to watch ads, thinking the restaurant implemented a hierarchy of customer service. Waitstaff had picked up on something awry but didn’t want to make a scene. Better to lose a couple of customers than cause a sensation. Corporate management and shareholders were contacted about strange activity at the tables or malfunctioning equipment, Bituin told me, from insider information she was able to procure. I was worried but also relieved. We had paid with untraceable coins. Without footage, no one could ID us. After the bodycam scandals, no restaurant wanted to implement cameras. It was still in the pocket of time where the reaction was fresh, and people were still appalled, so retail and service industries still kept up their guard and stayed away from implementing surveillance. I bet soon enough the cameras would come back. I hoped not but wouldn’t put it past corporate culture. Also, we knew that personal ads for Bao Bun Bao were based on orders in that same meal, not scans of individuals. So, they didn’t know it was us. We were anonymous faces, or at least pseudo-anonymous. From our scours, no one had taken a cinemashot of us, well, except myself. I had a backup plan if people could ID us, but luckily, I didn’t have to use it.

So, in that respect, we were safe. I didn’t want to implicate Mom. I had already returned the goods to the Tellsmart building, going in as Mx. Yu again. Only this time, much more savvy on the entry and exit. I learned that the silent alarm that had gone off in my previous break-in was for a colleague vaping in the bathroom without paying for the per-minute air suction. They tried to tamper with the detection system, and it went off. It wasn’t for our coordinated theft. Or borrowing, I mean. It wasn’t about my grabbing, so I was in the clear. Mx. Everest Yu and their social life was the one factor I had to worry about. We had a scheme ready to cover it up, but we were lucky. We didn’t have to implement it. Mx. Yu got elevation sickness and had been recovering, so they still weren’t back in the office yet. We had grabbed the interrupter just as they left for vacation, and I used the back door that I implemented when I was there the first time to return the loot. We were in the clear.

It was a plus that we got the tech back in its place, but I missed that feeling of the smooth stone in my hands, the interrupter that Dad and I worked on. That moment in the restaurant, holding the remote, it felt like he was there with me, witnessing Mom’s elation. And the zorbing, that was enthralling. I’d miss that ball. I wish Dad and I could’ve gotten in there together for a zip. I didn’t get to use it on the way down again, but maybe that was for the best. I did have a ball, so to speak, playing around with it in my apartment before I gave it back. Was it weird that I put a holo of Dad in it, pretending he was with me? Maybe so. Especially since his holo didn’t age. I didn’t like those fabs of the developing dead. They’re creepy. People who passed aren’t supposed to age. They stay in your memories, solidified in their respective youth. That was how it should be, and that is how Dad is etched in my memory.

---

The restaurants didn’t let it go. They didn’t go out for a witch hunt. Instead, they pivoted.

“Ad release pay?” Jamaal said, staring at the giant holo label. It had popped up across the vesicle that shielded his cosmetic-overlay sandwich. The cosmetic overlay made the lettuce look fresher and the tomato brighter.

“Not just ad release,” said Bituin. “Vesicle release pay, too. They’re two separate amounts.”

“So, you have to pay to get rid of the ad, and pay to get rid of the bubble,” I said. “When we designed this stuff, we really didn’t think it would be used for this.”

“Force fields for the rich to guard their houses?” asked Jamaal. “That’s not what you were designing?”

“No, well, at first—but it was democratized. Everyone can live in their literal bubble,” I said. “Even cheapskates.”

“And now everyone can be blocked from eating,” said Jamaal. “Especially cheapskates. And suffer ads while their mouths water.”

“Unless they pay the fee,” I said. I dropped in a couple of untraceables, and the vesicle opened up. The ad continued to play on my food, lighting up my dumplings in neon voxels.

“Yuck, that looks inedible. It’s like cosmetics gone wrong,” said Bituin.

Another tinkle and more coins floated away from my digipurse. The dancing voxels letting me know about super sudsy sport cleaning foam disappeared from my plate, and I grabbed a dumpling with the chopsticks.

“Not sure if this is better than just watching the ad,” I said.

“Don’t worry, soon enough, you can pay for subscriptions to remove both ads and vesicles. But, soon after that, there will be another kind of ad you can’t skip, and then a payment to scrub that, which will turn into a subscription . . . ” he said, pausing to take a bite and chewing on his salad boat sub.

“Well, at least Mom had her moment of bliss,” I said.

“Yes, at least there’s that.”

“And I owe you guys. So many meals.”

“We look forward to it, mate,” said Jamaal.

We ate in silence until a holo projected a cake on our table. Beautifully domed, with a cherry poised above impeccably arranged fruit. Hints of smellovision citron wafted to us.

“What’s this? We getting a cake?”

“No, another invention,” said Bituin. “It’s all over the hlogs. The newest restaurant ploy. They’re taunting us by showing virtual desserts, hoping that we will replace the holo with real food.”

“It does look pretty good,” said Jamaal. I had to admit, my mouth was watering, too.

“What’s another forty cred?” asked Bituin. She blinked at me.

I shrugged and held my hands up to the glow. “Why not?”

We fell for it. What can we say? We’re human.

“Tableside cake,” the staff called. A gimmick. Pop music played.

The staff rolled in the cakinator, which filled out the holo with nozzles in all directions. They used real fruit, which Jamaal told me skeptically would be substituted with fruit-like structures one life cycle away. “You just wait and see . . . the depreciation of everything . . . ”

The only thing I could think about now was the spectacle before us. Sprays, nozzles, little arms winding about each other, poking in and out. Like the snakes on Medusa’s hair on steroids, hissing at it all. They could’ve made the process more streamlined and predictable, but we were there for the show, and they knew it.

The replaced cake looked just like it. Domed, layered, whipped cream, topped with real pineapple arches and a maraschino cherry on top. The redolence of real citrus, not the fake kind, met our nostrils.

“Mm, citron,” said Bituin, inhaling. She delivered a playful flutter of her eyelids in exaggerated triumph. “Smells delightful.”

“‘Carpe dangao’ that’s how the saying goes, right?” asked Jamaal.

“I think you’re mixing languages,” I said.

“Carpe gateau? Carpe dessert? What’s the Latin word for cake?”

“Carpe delicious,” said Bituin.

“Carpe do your duty and stab your fork in,” said Jamaal. His look sharpened, and his eyes narrowed, fierce, like a wolf who spotted its prey, mouth half open, teeth gleaming. His lips curled into a smile.

Bituin laughed. I joined her until we were all laughing.

But we didn’t immediately stab into the cream or spear the fruits. We were mesmerized as this piece de resistance spun. I had paid the creds . . . no ads, no confection condoms. It stood spinning before us in all its sweet glory.

Jamaal had his fork poised, still taking it all in.

The liqueur-lacquered cherry on top gleamed as the auto-lazy Susan spun, looking so much like the zorbing ball I was working on in my lab at home. Enhanced and better than the one I had illicitly sampled down a stairwell. I was planning to ask Mom to come join me down for a roll. Since getting her out for the meal, she had become more adventurous. I don’t know; maybe it had to do with the innovative interrupter contact lens I made for her. She was living the life. Eating out more and trying new things. She even tried bubbleball and loved it. (I can’t say I felt the same about the sport.) From there, I thought she’d be game for her first zorb. If she said yes and enjoyed it, I’d ask if she’d want to try a bigger hill, and then possibly Yushan, at least the lower part. Maybe even the lower part of Everest. I had a taste of victory, and it was hard not to get addicted to the thrill. I wanted to share it with people I loved.

I pushed the cherry with a fork, and it rolled down the side of the cake before we dug in.