Part 1: 2075

<It might be good for you to take a new route,> said Aly.

Xavi jogged out of his tenement building. He joined the stream of lunchtime runners pounding the flagstones of the riverside promenade. Ethereal boats floated over their lustrous reflections in the Yarra River’s crystalline projection. The thin struts of the climate-control shield divided the sky into bright blue squares.

As his strides settled into a steady rhythm, Xavi considered Aly’s advice. His usual route took him west, past the orderly restaurants where people sat eating at individual booths, past the last of the tenement buildings, and to the food manufacturing lots that marked the western border of Southbank Zone. It wasn’t a particularly scenic route, but it was quiet.

Xavi jogged in a U-turn and headed east.

<You think I’m getting boring?> he subvocalized to Aly.

A musical laugh tickled his ears. <I just wanted to change things up.>

<Ugh, yeah. I am getting boring.>

Xavi relished the familiar burn in his legs, the heat roaring through his lungs. Gray flagstones gave way to variegated terracotta arranged in semicircular patterns. This part of Southbank Zone was a towering warren of shopping arcades. Shoppers zipped around with intense, hypnotic focus. Christmas music blasted from overhead speakers; animated decorations danced in windows and plazas.

<I can’t believe it’s December already.>

<You said the same thing last year, Xavi.>

Xavi bypassed the shopping district and took a path that ran beneath Princes Bridge. Sweat cooled on his skin, the darkness a welcome respite from the midday sun. The rumble of a subway traveled through the ground and into Xavi’s body.

<When did I last come this way?> Xavi asked.

<September 22, 2073. More than two years ago.>

It was quieter on the other side of Princes Bridge. The sidewalk was cracked and scuffed. There was no artificial projection of the Yarra River, only a large brown ditch. Xavi followed a meandering path that took him into the Alexandra Gardens, where a couple of old gardening droids tended the unadorned lawns. One of the droids was cutting grass. Xavi slowed to a walk as a prolonged sneezing fit overpowered him.

<Hm,> said Aly. <I’ll make a note to restart your grass desensitization shots.>

<Must you?> he asked between sneezes.

<There’s your answer.>

Once he’d recovered, Xavi noticed an old-fashioned brick building set at the end of a narrow driveway. Something about the place struck a chord in his memory.

<Aly? Have I been here before?>

<You grew up here, Xavi.>

Aly must have felt his shock, but she said nothing, only waited as he approached the building. It was blocky and large, reaching three floors high. The entrance came into view. The Gardens Children’s Crèche. Of course. He knew this place, but he hadn’t thought about it for many years. How had his mind obscured such a significant piece of his history?

To one side of the building was a yard surrounded by a transparent fence. About thirty children were playing in the grass, scrambling over obstacles, chasing each other around bushes, digging in mud pits. From time to time, the children stopped in their tracks with a frowning, inward expression, then spoke aloud to themselves.

“No, I’m not thirsty!” declared one.

“But there is a dinosaur in the bush!” insisted another.

Two adults stood at the side of the yard, supervising the play but rarely intervening.

<They haven’t learned to subvocalize yet,> Xavi noted, surprised. Each child’s Aly lived in a tiny chip attached to their language networks and grew alongside them: a perfectly responsive, moldable friend, confidante, teacher, therapist, and companion.

<They learn that around age six or seven, when they become more aware of the boundary between self and other, and of social norms,> Aly explained.

<I see.>

<Do you remember much?>

He stood watching the children for a while, his body cooling and heartbeat slowing. He didn’t know much about his early life. It wasn’t something his parents spoke about; they weren’t the sort who welcomed questions. He had a vague sense, from roundabout conversations, that he’d been put into the crèche at around six months of age. His sister, five years his junior, had gone in even earlier, shortly after her birth.

<An art smock,> Aly murmured. <White with purple spots.>

Fragments of memory swooped upon him. Pushing his arms into the paint-spattered smock. Digging his fingers into soft clay. Shaping a head, a torso, limbs. Dozens of little, mushy bodies. He’d line them up in neat rows like an army, not like a family. The smell of wet clay. Other children taking his figurines, squashing them. The taste of snot in his throat. The light of Aly in his mind, holding him together.

<It’s hard to remember,> Xavi managed. The disjointed memories came effortfully, spurts of water from a rusty faucet. They subsided only with another burst of effort.

Xavi watched as a child of about three climbed onto a rock, wobbled, and fell. The toddler’s mouth opened in a yowl of distress. But her cries cut off as her Aly evidently began to soothe her. The toddler wrapped her arms around her bent legs, put her tearstained face on her knees, and rocked back and forth, listening to her internal comforter.

One of the supervisors walked over to the fence, eyeing Xavi suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“Oh—sorry.” Xavi realized how strange he looked, gaping in at the crèche. “I, ah, lived here when I was a kid.”

The supervisor softened. “You’re not the first to come by. You still live in the Zone?”

“Yeah, west end.”

“Sweet. You know, everyone talks about making it to City Zone, but it’s overhyped. We’ve got it all right here. Not like other countries, right?”

“Right.”

“In Malaysia, the air’s so bad everyone’s got asthma. You been there?”

“Nah.”

“Me neither. My nephew just went for a holiday. But I bet he won’t be going back there in a hurry. What do you do for work?”

“Mostly data-sweeping.”

It was a standard, boring answer. Xavi could see the supervisor tuning out. People who knew code were code-checkers. People who didn’t, swept: they verified and calibrated data for the machine-learning algorithms. Four hours a day got you a basic salary; you could take on additional work if you were saving up for a treat like a virtual adventure, a real-life trip, or a swish piece of tech.

“Well, you must get plenty of spare time,” said the supervisor. “We still pull eight-hour shifts. Archaic, eh? Lucky we’ve got a nice bunch of kids, no trouble from any of them. And the Alys are great. They plan all the lessons, deal with the meltdowns—even remind the kids when to take a whiz!”

Xavi echoed the supervisor’s boisterous laugh, then made an excuse about needing to get back to work. The children’s chatter faded as he retraced his path through the gardens. The adrenaline from his run had dissipated, leaving him chilled and hollow. His fingers were numb. A couple of joggers overtook him as he crossed beneath the bridge.

<What’s wrong with me, Aly?>

A pause. <You’re just unsettled, Xavi.>

<Why don’t I remember much about my childhood?>

<We all need a story—>

<—to hold ourselves together, I know.>

Xavi emerged on the other side of the bridge, blinking in the bright light. <Maybe I should catch up with my parents.>

<Maybe your sister first? At least she tends not to send you into a weeklong funk.>

<Good point. I’ll think about it.>

Xavi was so absorbed in his reverie that he’d stopped paying attention to his surroundings. Back in the familiar part of his Zone, he could move on autopilot. Here was the coffee shop where he picked up his morning espresso; there was the tech hub he attended once a month to update his Aly, his smartring, his goggles, and his Second Skin.

So Xavi heard the stranger before noticing him.

“Excuse me, may I ask for directions?”

The accent was an international blend, with Americanized vowels but muted r’s and something Asian in the tones. Xavi turned to see a young man with wavy black hair and light olive skin holding a fabric suitcase. Despite his expression of mild befuddlement, the man had an effortless air about him, and somehow his simple linen shirt and slacks looked crisp and elegant.

Xavi was suddenly too aware of his own mesh singlet, tousled hair, and sweaty brow. When was the last time someone had asked him for directions? Never? Did this tourist—for surely everything about him shouted not from here—not have an Aly? The novelty of it tickled him.

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.” The stranger smiled. “I just flew in, and I’m trying to find a shop. I’m supposed to be there for an inspection at half past one. But the GPS keeps taking me in circles.”

The stranger held up a hand. He didn’t have a smartring. Instead, a tiny robotic hamster scurried into his palm, thrust its fuzzy paws into the air, and projected a 3D map of the local area, with a yellow dot marking their current position. It was the cutest thing Xavi had ever seen.

“May I?” Xavi gestured at the projection, and the other man nodded. Xavi pinched and zoomed in to check the address. Shop 131C/52-58 Riverside Boulevard, Southbank. “The address looks right, but the GPS is terrible when the shields are at full strength. It’ll find the building but not the individual shop.”

Aly murmured, <It’s 1:27 p.m. Your next work shift starts in three minutes.>

Xavi hesitated for just a moment. “Come on, I’ll take you there. Do you need a hand with your suitcase?”

The stranger offered another smile, this one warmer. “No, thanks.”

The hamster-bot scampered up the stranger’s arm and perched on his shoulder. Xavi led him back past the tech hub and the coffee shop, across a bluestone plaza, up two escalators, and into an arcade lined with boutique stores selling everything from tropical fish to artisan chocolates to purses handwoven by crafters in Bangladesh. The air was scented with mandarin and cardamom.

As they walked, the stranger introduced himself as Adrian Hsu. It was his first time in Australia; he was from Taichung. He was here to scope out a rental for his sister’s premium biscuit business. She had three outlets in Taiwan and was looking to expand into Australia.

“Premium biscuits?”

“Not your usual chocolate chip. Oolong biscuits, pineapple tarts, peng bing . . . ”

<Peng bing, a biscuit with a long history in Taiwan: airy, puffed-up and crispy with a hollow center and a brown sugar filling . . . > Aly supplied.

“Sounds delicious.”

“My sister’s the head pâtissier and runs everything—I’m just the broke writer she’s roped into being her assistant.” Adrian surveyed the countless shops with a concerned expression. “Do you think there’d be any interest here?”

“I think so.” Xavi nudged Aly, who informed him: <There are no biscuit shops in our Zone except for Mrs. Cookie, a chain store selling affordable, overstuffed cookies in traditional flavors. Openness to international cuisines has been increasing over the past five years and is now at the highest it has been since the twenties.> “This area is mostly specialty goods from overseas, so you’d fit right in.”

“People spend a lot of time shopping here?” Adrian eyed the shoppers milling about, clutching Christmas-themed bags.

What Xavi hadn’t mentioned to Adrian was that the diversity of shops was an illusion. Most of the boutique shops were owned by national or international conglomerates; they wore carefully curated branding as a disguise. There were a few independent small businesses, but they struggled to compete.

“Capitalism’s our national sport,” Xavi half-joked. “We get enough money, there’s not a lot of work, and there’s not a lot of places to go. Shopping’s good for the country.”

“Maybe I should move here,” Adrian said lightly, but his eyes were still narrowed.

They came to the end of the arcade. Xavi realized he’d been so engrossed in the conversation that he’d forgotten to pay attention to the map—he’d even tuned out Aly pinging him politely. They retraced their steps and arrived at 131C: a narrow, green-painted shop with an emptied-out interior and a FOR LEASE sign whirling in the window. A real estate agent stood inside, talking to someone on her smartring, her mouth curled in annoyance.

Adrian paused at the door as though he were expecting something. The back of Xavi’s neck prickled. Aly murmured, <He seems lovely, doesn’t he?>

“You said you’re a writer?” Xavi blurted out.

Adrian’s eyebrow quirked in amusement. “I am.”

“A rare specimen.”

“Not so rare in Taiwan.”

“Oh?”

But Adrian glanced in at the real estate agent, who was waving impatiently for him to enter.

Xavi swallowed his next question. “I’d better let you go. Enjoy your time in Australia.”

“Thanks for the directions.” With one last, easy smile, Adrian ducked into the shop. Xavi watched him for a minute—shaking the agent’s hand with apologetic charm, pointing enthusiastically around the empty store—before turning away. Regret bloomed in his solar plexus, but he squashed it down.

<Enjoy your time in Australia?> Aly echoed.

<Quiet, you.>

<How about: what are you working on at the moment? Even better: can I take you out for a drink later?>

<Do you want me to turn you off?>

<You wouldn’t dare.>

---

Xavi changed his morning routine. After picking up his espresso, he strolled across the bluestone plaza, up the two escalators, and along the boutique shopping alley until he came to the pale green exterior of 131C. For weeks, the shop remained empty. Dust collected in the corners; the FOR LEASE bauble cracked and stuttered. Then, one day, renovators arrived. A month later, a trendy new store opened: a retailer of designer UV-protective clothing.

It looked like Adrian had decided not to rent the shop after all.

Holed up in his shoebox flat, Xavi stretched out on his foldout bed. His fingers still felt horribly numb from time to time. He flexed them in matched pairs: thumbs, pointers, middles, rings, pinkies. He imagined sticking his hands into wet clay and pushing until he was sunk to the wrists, the elbows. He thought about calling his parents, or his sister, or maybe his old friend from school.

He rolled over onto his stomach.

<A game or a chat?> Aly piped up sympathetically.

<Both.>

He played and chatted until sleep overtook him.

Part 2: 2076

Summer came around again, faster than ever. Xavi wondered if the United Nations really was making efforts to reverse climate change or simply posting articles about its supposed projects. It felt like autumn, winter, and spring were steadily disappearing, and the year congealing into a homogenous, gluggy haze.

Aly woke Xavi before sunrise. He straightened his sheets and folded the bed back into the wall. His flat, like every other flat in the tenements, was two meters square. Some of the flats had a window. Xavi’s did not. He had an ergonomic workstation consisting of a saddle-stool with pedals (his goggles and Second Skin hung from wall hooks nearby); a foldout toilet, basin, and infrared shower; and a projector screen that could conjure any natural, urban, or artificial scenery of his preference. Currently, it showed a rolling reel of heritage footage from a coral reef.

Xavi brushed his teeth and took the elevator down for his morning walk. At Aly’s insistence, he’d recently started having breakfast: a vivid green nutritional smoothie dosed with two shots of espresso. As he waited for his order with a cluster of fellow early birds, he watched the sunrise. Ribbons of light unrolled above the shopping arcades and tenement flats. The shield struts were limned in gold; the entire dome shimmered like a gigantic, fragile bubble.

From the higher arcades, you could catch glimpses of the neighboring domes: Bayside Zone to the south, Richmond Zone to the north, and the oversized bubble of City Zone on the other side of the Yarra. You could commute to Bayside or Richmond by subway, and on toward other civilian Zones. But City Zone was opaque and off-limits: you had to have a special permit to visit it. Xavi would never have the right money or connections to be granted a travel pass to City Zone, let alone to live there.

“Green Machine with a double shot,” called the vendor, giving Xavi a familiar nod as he picked up the gigantic cardboard cup.

Xavi took a sip. A muted vegetable taste, laced with aromatic bitterness, coated his mouth.

<Glad you didn’t go with the tropical shake?>

<Not one bit. When will you let me try it?>

<When your glucose tolerance improves, friend.> Aly paused. <This way again?>

Xavi had, of course, been absentmindedly meandering toward Shop 131C, as he’d been doing all year long.

<I like this way,> he replied, trying not to sound defensive.

<Are you sure about that? You seem pretty deflated after your walks.>

<Fine.>

Xavi spun on his heel and chose an arcade at random. He marched past a gaming parlor and a hairdresser, accidentally walking right between a couple who hastily separated hands to let him through. Aly murmured a summary of today’s news headlines in mollifying tones: <Community coders play pivotal role in new generation of therapy games; memory replication lab at ANU receives fifty million dollars in government funding; newly constructed Zones in New South Wales and Victoria provide housing for over one million residents; ongoing floods in Indonesia force mass evacuations despite international aid . . . >

Xavi slowed his pace. Up ahead, the arcade widened into a plaza featuring a Nativity display. A queue was forming outside a shop with eggshell-blue frontage and cream-trimmed windows. A chalkboard sign out the front of the shop read: Fresh In Today: Handcrafted Oolong Biscuits above a meticulous cartoon sketch of two biscuits wearing Santa hats and beaming.

Xavi lifted his gaze to the gold letters over the shop’s entrance: SUN MOON TEATIME.

Through the shop’s large windows, Xavi could see two aproned attendants arranging biscuits in display cabinets and warming up the coffee machine. As the neighborhood clock chimed eight, the taller attendant opened the double doors (gold handles shaped like a sun and a crescent moon) and began to greet customers with a soft smile. Xavi stepped closer. He looked slightly different from a year ago—longer hair, a little thinner—but everything about him was achingly familiar from that brief encounter, and from Xavi’s frequent recollections.

It was Adrian Hsu.

---

<I never knew you were so enthusiastic about biscuits,> Aly remarked. <Your pulse is hitting 120.>

<Not. Helping.>

Desperately, Xavi scanned the shelves of artistic tins and grabbed one at random. The embossed motif of leaping rabbits was soothing to the touch. Taking a deep breath, Xavi carried it to the counter.

Adrian placed the tin into a gift box and tied it with a satiny ribbon: a careful knot, a perfect bow. His fingers were patient and precise. Xavi had never seen anyone move with such mesmerizing clarity.

Adrian tapped on the pay hub and said with a perfunctory glance, “Forty-two dollars, please.”

Xavi was about to take his purchase and slink away when Adrian did a double take.

“The friendly runner!”

An embarrassed, relieved laugh escaped Xavi’s lips. He’d never even given Adrian his name. “Xavi Walker,” he said. “I should’ve told you—I had no idea you—you didn’t rent the other shop—how long have you been here?”

“Five months,” Adrian grinned, running a hand through his collar-length hair. Up close, there were shadows beneath his eyes. “It was a rough start, but things are going better now.”

“Well, the shop looks beautiful,” Xavi said, looking everywhere except at Adrian.

“Thanks.” Adrian grabbed a wrapped pineapple tart and added it to Xavi’s bag, then ventured, “We close at four today. I’m free afterward?”

A nervous thrill bolted Xavi to the floor. “I’ll see you then.”

---

At a quarter to four, Xavi picked up two cans of his favorite melon soda from a vending machine and walked back to Sun Moon Teatime. His eyes were sore from five hours of data-sweeping; he’d skipped his lunchtime run to put in an extra hour, just in case he might need to pay for a nice dinner in the very near future.

When he reached the biscuit shop, Adrian was ushering out the last customer of the day. He grinned when he saw Xavi and held the door for him.

“VIPs only.” Adrian flipped the vintage sign from OPEN to CLOSED. “You get to be part of the after-hours fun: unloading cabinets, checking the till . . . ”

“Compared to my day, it sounds thrilling.” Xavi held out a soda can. “Something to keep you going?”

“Oh my gods—perfect.” Adrian popped the top, drained half the can, and produced a satisfied sigh.

The other shop assistant poked her head out from behind the display counter, where she was transferring unsold biscuits into plastic boxes. She had tan skin and a port-wine stain, and she wore her long black hair in a trendy braid. As her gaze passed between Xavi and Adrian, her glossy lips lifted into a knowing smile.

“Gē, I can close up today,” she sang out. “I owe you from last week, remember?”

“What? No, I’ll help. We’ve still got to balance those bulk orders from the restaurant and sort out the packaging delivery . . . ”

“I’ve already sorted the packaging.” She waved a hand breezily. “Relax, Ade.” She said something in rapid Mandarin, then rolled her eyes at Xavi. “My cousin still thinks I’m a kid.”

“You are a kid, Skye.”

“Please get out of here and do whatever fossils like you do on a first date.”

Despite his best efforts, Xavi felt a blush creeping over his cheeks. But Adrian merely chuckled and removed his apron, rolling it up neatly and tucking it into a cupboard. Then he guided Xavi by the elbow out of the shop.

“Don’t mind my cousin-sister,” Adrian said. “She likes to tease.”

Xavi tried to relax, but his elbow was burning.

<Soda,> Aly whispered.

Xavi popped the other can, grateful for something to occupy his hands. Sweet fizziness coated his tongue. Once he swallowed, he found his voice.

“Did she come over from Taichung, too?”

“Yes,” said Adrian. “Good memory! Most foreigners just know Taipei. Skye’s got an adventurous streak, wants to see how people live in other countries.”

“That’s admirable,” said Xavi. “I’ve never left Australia. It’s not easy to get passports here. You have to have a good reason, and the application process is a huge pain in the arse.”

“They don’t make it easy in Taiwan, either. Before this, I’ve only been to Hong Kong, and that was for research.”

They strolled through the arcades, weaving around other people who’d finished work for the day and were stretching their legs.

“Have you had a chance to explore the Zone?” Xavi asked.

“Not much,” Adrian said lightly. “It’s been so busy getting the shop off the ground. All I’ve seen are customers—and the sandwich joint right across from us!”

Xavi laughed. He felt his nervousness dissipate. “Well, since it’s sweltering today, how about ice cream, and then dinner, and then a riverside stroll?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Xavi.”

---

They got ice cream—one scoop of pistachio in a cup for Xavi, two scoops of lychee and coconut in a sprinkle-coated cone for Adrian—and then Xavi took Adrian to his favorite ramen restaurant for dinner. Adrian had a beer; Xavi ordered a glass of chilled white wine.

“Sprinkle cones and beer,” Xavi chuckled. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“What would you have guessed?”

“I don’t know. Earl Grey tea, financiers, champagne . . . ”

“Are you saying I look European?”

“I’m saying you look posh.”

Adrian gave a full belly laugh that made Xavi feel acutely alive. Their conversation dipped from lighthearted banter into more solemn topics. Adrian shared that the stress of managing the biscuit business was wearing his sister down; he’d offered to take charge of the Australian expansion after she’d struggled to recruit someone reliable. Adrian spoke of his family with breezy fondness. Xavi deduced that there were his parents (separated, re-partnered), stepparents, two sisters, several stepsiblings, and a host of cousins, aunties, uncles, grandparents—all in close contact even though they were spread across the world. Xavi’s chest spiked with envy.

Dinner stretched on, and then a riverside stroll was inevitable. Although the sun was low on the horizon, the air still crackled with heat. A few fat drops of rain plopped from above. Adrian extended his hands, palms up.

“I thought the shields blocked the rain.”

“It’s simulated,” Xavi said. “Good for well-being.”

“Ah. I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“You have real rain?”

“We have real monsoons. They used to flood us to a halt, but—oh, maybe ten years ago?—we voted for stormwater drainage to be an infrastructure priority. You know about our digital democracy, right? All our citizens participate in politics as a daily business. Since the drainage systems were totally upgraded, the cities can cope with our wet season.” A shy, contemplative expression spread over Adrian’s face. “In fact, I find the monsoon rains help my writing flow.”

“Oh, you romantic! The rain is your muse.”

“Last monsoon season, I filled two whole notebooks.”

“What do you do with your stories?”

“Well . . . I get them published—in magazines, collections, and so on!”

“They pay you? And people read them?” Xavi couldn’t keep a note of incredulity out of his voice, and he hoped Adrian wouldn’t be offended—his surprise wasn’t personal.

“Yes, indeed! The pay’s much better than it used to be, and Taiwan has quite a thriving literary ecosystem. What’s it like here?”

“Honestly?” Xavi looked across the colorful parade of pretend passengers boarding pretend ferries to the impenetrable face of City Dome. “I don’t think anyone writes or reads much anymore. If you want entertainment, Aly will find something for you.”

Adrian glanced sidelong with unbearable sympathy.

“It’s sad, I know.”

Adrian leaned on the balustrade next to Xavi. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but . . . what’s it like?”

Xavi’s attention was bolted to where their forearms were brushing—a searing, tingling oval of ecstasy. Adrian’s eagerness slapped into Xavi like a wave. For a disconcerting moment, Xavi saw himself through the other man’s eyes. He was the foreigner: an oddity, a curio, a thing that was Other.

Xavi shifted, putting a reluctant inch of air between them. “Having an Aly, you mean?”

“Yes. Sorry, is it weird to talk about?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” There was nothing weird or taboo about Alys. He just never talked about it because, well, everyone had one, so it was too ordinary to make for conversation. It would be like describing your shower routine. “It’s kind of nice to be asked.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Normal, I guess. I don’t know what it’s like without her.”

“So Aly’s a she for you? But not for everybody, right? Is it different from talking to yourself?”

“Yeah, I’ve always thought of my Aly as a she. Maybe she became a maternal figure for me; my real parents were shit. Aly’s a he for some people, and gender-neutral for others. Aly’s whatever you need. And yeah, it’s different from talking to yourself. There’s a conversation—words and sentences—between my voice and hers.”

“So Aly can’t read your mind?”

“Not in the sense you mean. She’s not wired into my whole brain, only my language networks. But sometimes I do wonder.”

“If she can?”

“If she can pick up things I half-think, without being fully aware. But I guess I’ll never know.”

“Why—are the manufacturers vague about it?”

“Yeah, there’s that. But I’ve had Aly pretty much my whole life. So, I barely know where I end and she begins.”

“When did you have it implanted?”

“I was three months old.”

Xavi saw the shudder pass through Adrian’s body, as much as he tried to conceal it.

“That’s quite the norm here,” Xavi added neutrally. “We have this Bill . . . ”

“I’m aware of your Bill,” Adrian replied, equally poised. “Australia’s an interesting case study—radical acceptance of AI not only into the free market but as a tool to shape people.”

Again, Xavi had that prickly, out-of-body realization that he was the scientific specimen here. Aly was muttering something pacifying that he registered only distantly. He barked a short laugh. “So, nobody in Taiwan has implanted AI?”

“Some people do. But not mass-market AI. They design their own or get them from local engineers. There’s also a black market where you can get all kinds of neuromods.” Adrian’s eyes crinkled with wry mischief. “In my darkest moments, I’ve thought about buying a dose of dopamine hack-bots.”

Xavi laughed, and the tension was dispelled. “Ugh, me too. Fry my brain for the highest of all highs. So—how does it feel?”

“I didn’t actually go through with it!”

“Not the hack-bots. I mean, not having an Aly. Doesn’t it feel . . . lonely? Empty?”

To Xavi’s surprise, Adrian mulled over the question for a while. The fake rain had dampened his wavy hair, and a lick of it plastered his brow. A pleasant shiver traveled through Xavi. It was the most intense sensation he’d felt in a long while.

“Yes, I’d say it’s a natural part of being alive. To be lonely sometimes, to be empty sometimes. To move through that, if you can. But not completely. Sorry—there’s the sentimental writer in me.” Adrian rubbed his neck and offered a sheepish grin. “Xavi, I have to get home.” Just as Xavi’s heart dropped, Adrian hitched up his pant cuff to reveal a prosthetic right leg—gleaming, balanced, with an adaptive weave merging into his knee. “The tech’s very modern, but I still get sore after a whole day on my feet.”

“Of course,” Xavi said, surprised and relieved. He bit back an instinct to ask what happened. Adrian had probably answered that question ad infinitum, and Xavi was sure he’d find out down the track. “You should’ve said something earlier.”

They hired a free self-driving bike from a nearby station, and Xavi helped Adrian swing himself carefully over the seat. Just as the bike was about to start, Xavi blurted out, “I’ll petition the shield techs.”

Adrian cocked his head, puzzled.

“About the weather. I’ll ask for a monsoon.”

Adrian’s delighted laughter floated back to Xavi, music on the night breeze.

---

<Oh, bless my bits.>

<What?>

<You like him.>

<Of course I like him.>

<No, you really like him.>

<Oh.>

<Oh, indeed.>

<Like no one before?>

<This is different, Xavi. I can feel it.>

Part 3: 2077

An urgent buzz of his smartring interrupted Xavi’s work shift. He tore his attention away from the clip he was reviewing for data labeling (surveillance camera footage, dated 2020) and pulled off his goggles. Adrian’s face, unusually distressed, projected from the smartring.

“Ade? What’s up?”

“Didn’t you see the news?”

“No, I’ve been working.”

“It’s horrific—I can’t—just check your news.”

<Aly? Have I missed something?>

A brief pause. <I’m not sure what Adrian could be referring to.>

Adrian’s expression was creased with anguish, the projection flickering. Xavi guessed that he was out and moving around.

“Where are you, Ade?”

“Just at the fucking shops. Where else is there?”

“Send me your location. I’m coming.”

Once the location pinged through, Xavi hopped down from his stool and hung his goggles on the wall. He was dressed only in a thin singlet and shorts, ready for his lunchtime run, so he grabbed a jacket to throw on top. This year, the Zone authorities had begun to turn the climate-control shields opaque between the hours of 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. The cooling systems could no longer keep up with the soaring temperatures, so now they had a miniature nighttime in the middle of the day.

Xavi found Adrian wandering the restaurant district, where festive red-and-green spotlights whirled through dim arcades. Adrian’s limp was more pronounced, which gave away his distress. Adrian greeted him with a terse look instead of their usual peck on the lips.

“What happened, Ade?”

“You don’t know?”

Xavi spread his hands wide.

“Your Aly is useless!” Adrian snapped, and Xavi felt his anger like the swipe of a knife. Adrian’s emotions were just like his movements: clear and true. Sometimes, Xavi wished for the same scorch of anger, the easy flow of tears, those sparkling bursts of gladness.

Adrian took a deep breath. “Sorry. Here.”

An article buzzed into Xavi’s smartring, published this morning in a Taiwanese newspaper. A missile from a People’s Republic military ship had struck a town in southern Taiwan, killing at least thirty civilians and injuring hundreds more. The Chinese navy was claiming that it was a training exercise gone wrong, but the Taiwanese were outraged.

Xavi skimmed the article twice through.

<Aly? Why didn’t you show me this?>

<I’m sorry, Xavi. It didn’t register as significant.>

Xavi placed a hand on Adrian’s arm, halting his agitated pacing. “Do you have family there?”

“A cousin, but he’s fine.” Adrian blew out a huge breath. “He’s fine, but other people are dead, and they’re saying it was just an accident. What kind of madness is this?”

Adrian leaned heavily into Xavi, a tree bent by the wind. He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t stand being here—everyone shopping at the same places every day, eating the same food with these zombie expressions, walking in circles without talking to one another. I’m stuck in some wacky, sanitized parallel universe!”

Xavi bit back his automatic response (“Why don’t you just go back, then, if you hate it here?”), counted to three. <Aly, help?>

<He just wants you to listen to him.>

“Come on, Ade. Let’s go hang out at my place. I’ll finish off my work and then we can order some takeout . . . ”

Adrian flung Xavi’s pacifying hand aside in disbelief. “You’re going to keep working on a day like this?”

“Forget it—I won’t work. We’ll just hang and chat . . . ”

“I wish we could get out of here. Hop on a subway, go to another Zone. Go even farther.”

<I can start an application for a holiday pass . . . >

“I can put in an application for a holiday pass—”

“Argh!” Adrian ran his hands through his hair, yanking on the roots. Xavi noticed that he’d grown even thinner in the past year, and there were new lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. He’d thought it was the stress of running the biscuit shop, but maybe it was other, unarticulated things too. “Yes, we can fill out a form, and wait two weeks to get another form, and then line up to update our passports, and wait another month to get rejected. How can you live like this, Xav?”

Xavi said nothing. Aly was playing calming classical music at a very low register.

Adrian sighed. “Never mind. I’m sorry. It’s been a week. A year, to be honest. Let’s just grab some noodles and go back to yours.”

---

Back at Xavi’s flat, they ate their pad see ew on the floor in front of a projected display of Patagonia, and then they had earnest sex that did not make either of them feel much better. Adrian took a shower under the infrared. Afterward, he sat on the bed, folding Xavi’s laundry with compulsive neatness. He didn’t visit Xavi’s apartment often, but when he did, he was always restless and irritable. Xavi had been thinking about asking Adrian to move in with him—they could apply for a bigger place together—but Adrian’s behavior made him uncertain.

<I’m scared he’s slipping away from me, Aly.>

<He’s lonely here, and bored, and homesick.>

<Can’t I be his home?>

<Maybe, but you can’t be everything to him.>

“You’re talking to her again,” said Adrian flatly. “You said you wouldn’t, when we’re together.”

“Sorry, Ade. It’s automatic, sometimes. It’s like—”

“Like breathing, I know, I know. You’ve told me. So not talking to Aly is like holding your breath.”

Xavi winced. “Give me a bit of grace—”

“Does she do sexual stuff?”

Xavi swiveled on the stool until he faced Adrian. “For some people, sure. She’s not like that for me—although she’s recommended me some great erotica. What’s going on, Ade?”

Adrian tossed a pair of running shorts onto a growing stack. “Sorry, sorry. I’m being petty. This place,” he waved his arms at the narrow walls, indicating not the flat but everything outside, “makes me feel like a different person. A shrunken person. Did I tell you Skye’s moving back?” Skye was his cousin-sister, the one who worked at the shop. She’d been wilting, month by month: from bubbly and confident to withdrawn and ambivalent. “She’s miserable here. She tried everything to make friends—walking groups, hobby clubs, online dating. But it’s so . . . insular. Disconnected. I told her she needs to go home.”

Xavi glanced down at his hands. His mouth tasted oily from the takeaway noodles, and his body felt tired and jittery. He knitted his numb fingers together tightly, trying to nurse some sensation into them. “What about you? Have you been thinking about moving back?”

Adrian didn’t say anything for a while. Then: “I love you, Xavi.”

“But?”

“But I don’t love your Aly. But your Aly is part of you. So . . . what do we do?”

Xavi squeezed his fingers even more tightly, until they turned white and purple.

---

<Can you show me what Taichung looks like?>

<Sure, let me find some live aerial feeds.>

An impossible city blossomed before Xavi. Skyscrapers wreathed in greenery: vertical gardens, rooftop gardens, urban parks. Solar panels glimmering like lakes. Actual ponds, rivers, creeks. Brightly colored robots floated above the city, sampling air quality, detoxifying pollutants, generating precipitation, cleaning windows, and even feeding birds.

Aly switched to a close-up view. An electric tram painted with pink flowers stopped at the side of a busy street and chimed a resonant melody. People spilled out, tugging children and pets along with them. Nearby, an official-looking droid redirected traffic around a crowd in front of a tiered, orange-roofed temple, where incense smoke spiraled into the sky. More people sat on a lawn, sharing snacks from a street cart, putting their trash into adorable little garbage cans that roamed on two legs.

<Is this real, Aly?>

<As far as I can verify, yes.>

It couldn’t be true. A place couldn’t be so big, and busy, and beautiful.

---

Xavi studied his sister in the holographic display. Lori didn’t look noticeably different from the last time they’d spoken—more than a year ago, over videochat. She sat on her foldout bed, leaning against a pile of pillows printed with Internet memes. Although her body slumped backward with an immovable air, her fingers fidgeted incessantly, tugging the collar of her baggy T-shirt, plucking at her blonde eyebrows.

They hadn’t met in person for—bloody hell, how long?

<Six years.>

Six years. Yes, that sounded right. Lori had moved to Eastern Zone when she’d turned eighteen, hoping that her anxiety would ease in a quieter, less urban environment. When Xavi had visited, he’d spent an interminable week cooped up in her flat. His sister was entirely housebound. Xavi hadn’t worked up the courage to visit again.

“Don’t look so bloody worried, Xav. I’m doing OK.”

Xavi squinted at the blurry planes of her face, trying to make out if she looked paler or more haggard than before. “Are you . . . going out at all?”

“No, but it’s fine. I work from the flat, I get meals delivered, I’ve got karaoke every night. I’m practically a socialite. Have you spoken to our parents?”

“Not for a while.”

<Four years.>

“’Kay, then you wouldn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“Dad’s gone into a home. Pall care. I don’t know what it is. Mum’s message didn’t say.”

“Oh. Are you going to visit him?”

“Probably not. You should go.”

“I’ll . . . have to think about it.”

Xavi waited for some appropriate emotion to tug at him. Surely, the news of his father’s impending demise would drag something from the serpentine depths of his soul. Aly was unexpectedly quiet. What did grief feel like? Was it this scraped-dry sensation running down the underside of his sternum? He couldn’t even muster up the energy to message his mother about how long his father had left. Maybe he’d already gone.

Lori pulled out a cherry red candy worm and bit into it. “So, are you still seeing that Asian guy?”

“Taiwanese.”

“Sorry. Adrian, right?”

“Mm-hm. Yeah, actually—that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m thinking of turning my Aly off.”

Xavi felt like he should cover his ears, so Aly couldn’t hear him. Then he realized how ridiculous that would be.

Lori chewed ferociously. “Why, is he jealous?”

“I don’t think that’s quite it. Adrian doesn’t have an Aly, so he can’t get used to me always talking with her. He says it feels like there’s always someone else in the room.”

Lori nodded. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“Fuck, yeah. There are some days I hate having Aly in my head. He’s just camped in there, knowing everything about me, telling me what I should do, what I should think.”

“Why don’t you turn yours off then?”

“I’ve tried.” Lori picked a piece of worm out of her teeth and sucked on her finger. “You know it only takes the techies like five minutes? You just pop in, sign a waiver, and let them rub some magnet thing on your head—and it’s off.”

“Seriously? I wouldn’t have expected that you—” He changed tack. “What happened?”

“Haven’t you read up about this? People talk about it online. You turn into pure cow turd. I was back at the tech hub two days later.”

“What did it feel like?”

Lori grimaced. It was the most genuine expression Xavi had seen from her in a long time, unfiltered by sarcasm or artifice. Her shoulders rounded forward, and her bangs cast spidery shadows over her face.

“I can’t describe it, Xav. I’ve heard some people can push through, but most give up.”

After he hung up with Lori, Xavi searched online. Just as she’d said, there were plenty of video logs featuring people who’d tried to switch their Alys off. “I threw up every day for a month,” said one. “I still can’t walk in a straight line,” said another. “I had a ten-hour panic attack and hallucinated that my body was turning into mud,” said yet another. Almost all of them echoed Lori’s words: “It’s indescribable.”

Eventually, he found a couple of people who said they’d made it through to two months, three months, without an Aly. Did the withdrawal ever go away? Did they ever feel “normal” again? Xavi searched for more videos beyond the three-month mark, but nothing came up.

Part 4: 2078

Fifty-three days.

Xavi opened his eyes. The shoddy prefab ceiling was beginning to sag in the middle. A damp stain, dark gray on light gray, made a shape like a flaccid fish. It had been fifty-three days, hadn’t it? His memory was full of holes. He tapped his smartring to wake it. December 5 2078. He counted backward, his thoughts treacle-thick. Forty-nine days. How had he lost count?

He stumbled to the toilet. His piss jackhammered against the bowl. As he washed his hands and splashed his face with cold water, he thought about getting a shake from his old haunt. A tropical shake with an extra scoop of ice cream. He had the freedom to do it. He could do anything he wanted. He could ditch work. He could ramble in the Gardens all day long. He could call his mother.

Xavi rolled back into bed and pulled his goggles on. Since he’d switched Aly off (forty-nine days ago, forty-nine, forty-nine . . . ), he’d been obsessively watching the video logs of a silver-haired twenty-something whose moniker was LudditeFox. LudditeFox had made it to one hundred days post-Aly and counting.

Xavi swiped back to LudditeFox’s earlier videos. Day 49. LudditeFox in a dark room, eyes too wide, pale hair going everywhere. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Again. Gods, how soon is too soon to take another Panago shot? Did you know you can feel pain in the backs of your eyeballs? But you know, the pain’s not even the worst part. It’s the emptiness.”

Xavi knew. The intensity of that god-awful, falling-off-a-precipice sensation every time he subvocalized a thought and got nothing in response. Abandonment and heartbreak in a swooping thrust to the solar plexus; perpetually ripping off a Band-Aid that had no end.

At the very end of the log, LudditeFox whispered, “But maybe it’s a little better than last week.”

When the video finished, Xavi replayed it. Then he watched Days 50, and 51, and 52. It wasn’t just his thoughts that were treacle-thick; his body felt like meringue left out in the sun, deflated and gooey. He pushed his goggles aside. His limbs lay like white sausages on the mattress. Two months ago, he’d been lean and tanned from running every day. He felt an upwelling in his chest, the surge that comes before an outburst of tears. He waited for the tears, but there was only a horrible stuck feeling in his throat.

<What would you say?>

The gut-punch of loss, the ripping Band-Aid.

<You’d say: Of course you feel like dogshit. But things will get better, Xavi. Get out of bed. Walk down for a coffee. Log in to work, just for an hour. Take one little step, and then another, and then another.>

He stared at his door. Why was it so far away? The effort required to shift his body from here to there was incomprehensible.

Maybe he’d get to it this afternoon. He slipped his goggles back on.

---

Colorful lights rained down in Xavi’s vision, swirling in mesmerizing patterns when he waved his hands. He was on a special, important quest. The counter in the top right corner tinkled (a beautiful noise, a rush of pleasure) as it rose: 930,150; 930,490; 931,250. Maybe today he’d hit one million points. Maybe today he’d feel complete.

“Xav?”

The voice was melodious. An angel descending from the clouds, floating into Xavi’s flat. A cool hand, achingly gentle, smoothing his straggly hair back from his brow. Xavi did not deserve such kindness. With a huge groan, Xavi rolled onto his side. The colorful lights rolled with him, thankfully. He swiped his fingers in a perfect pattern, collecting another two hundred points. Tinkle, tinkle. It didn’t sound as good as last time.

“Xav, I’m going to take your goggles off, OK?”

Those cool angelic hands again. Frustrated, Xavi sat bolt upright. Oof. A muscle in his back twanged; he hadn’t done that for a while. “I can do it myself!” he snapped, toddler-like. He wrenched off his goggles and flung them to the foot of his bed.

Adrian was sitting on the edge of the foldout bed, his prosthetic leg stretched out elegantly, his other leg tucked beneath him. His expression was difficult to read: deep concern, a gritty sort of sadness, and something restrained. Adrian drew back and laced his long fingers together.

Xavi became cruelly aware of his own body. His arms were freezing cold and numb from waving in the air. His back was stiff from lying in the same position for—five hours? Six hours? What time was it?

“What time is it, Ade?”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

Ah, he’d played all night. No wonder his eyeballs were throbbing and his head stung where the strap of his goggles had dug in. He was deathly thirsty and bursting to piss. Should he drink water or empty his bladder first? Or greet Adrian with a kiss? No, not the last option—his breath stank. The branching decisions crippled him. Sore and miserable, he waited for Adrian’s lecture.

But Adrian was tenderer than expected. He produced a can of melon soda, poured it into a cup (Where had that come from? Had Xavi ever had cups in his flat?), and held it to Xavi’s lips. He helped Xavi to the toilet and turned on the infrared shower for him. As Xavi washed up, Adrian unknotted a furoshiki cloth to reveal a breakfast of pastries and biscuits.

Xavi accepted a plain croissant and nibbled on the corner. He knew it should taste buttery and fragrant, but the flavor came to him indistinctly, as though his tongue were coated in fuzz. He watched Adrian eat a chocolate croissant in three large bites.

“What were you playing?” Adrian ventured tentatively.

Xavi shook his head, swamped with shame. “Nothing. A stupid game.”

“The same one?”

Xavi jerked his chin in affirmation.

“I thought you deleted it.”

“I did, but then I downloaded it again.”

Adrian merely nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

Adrian sighed heavily. “Don’t apologize to me, Xav.”

There was something in Adrian’s tone that filled Xavi with fear. He found himself babbling. “No, I’m really sorry. I’ll delete it again. I’ll get better. LudditeFox—you remember I told you about LudditeFox, right?—says things start to improve around this time. Around fifty or sixty days. Next week, it’ll be easier. We’ll be OK.”

Adrian selected a sweet bun with a coffee-sugar crust and bit into it, chewing contemplatively.

“How are you, Ade? How’s the shop going? Did you manage to repair the broken door? How’s your leg feeling lately? Have you heard from Skye—has she settled back into Taichung?” Xavi knew that inundating your partner with questions was not how you normally held a conversation, but his mouth was running away from him in panic. “How about your writing? I haven’t asked about that for a while. Have you had any inspiration lately?”

Gods, when was the last time he’d talked to Adrian about his writing?

“Actually,” Adrian said slowly. “I have been working on something. It’s a bit different from what I normally write. A long-form piece. I guess you’d call it a memoir. I’m still figuring out the ending, though.” The corner of his mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “I might need a monsoon to help me out.”

Xavi’s heart was sinking, sinking, down through his quicksand flesh, into his swamp-puddle feet.

Lightning-quick, Adrian reached across their picnic spread and squeezed Xavi’s hand—a bright, shocking pressure like the pulse of a defibrillator.

“Xav, my love. Will you come for a walk with me?”

---

They rode the lift down to the ground floor and walked east along the riverfront, bypassing the shops and restaurants. They crossed beneath Princes Bridge and took the meandering route into Alexandra Gardens. The grass was not as green as Xavi remembered; the trees and bushes slumped toward the ground, looking thirsty. In the distance, Xavi saw the square shape of the Children’s Crèche, but he felt no desire to venture closer. Instead, they ambled across the spiky lawns without any destination in mind.

Adrian answered Xavi’s questions. A second repairer had finally arrived to fix the botched job that the first repairer had done, but the cost had been much more than he’d anticipated. Sales were still dropping. Adrian wasn’t sure why. Market reports suggested that recent trends were reversing: people were spending less on handmade confectionery; consumers were less interested in overseas products. Skye was much happier since returning to Taiwan. She’d just moved to Taipei with her boyfriend of six months; he was a clothing designer and could afford the sky-high rent in the capital. Adrian’s leg was giving him a bit of grief. The adaptive weave was wearing thin; he would need to place a new custom order soon.

Xavi listened, savoring the quiet melody of Adrian’s voice. The climate-shields turned opaque. All the sunlight disappeared; only an ambient, directionless glow remained. The upwelling rose from his diaphragm in a powerful tide. There was no blockage this time. It surged into his nose and throat; his eyes filled with tears and spilled over. Adrian glanced at him, grasped his hand, and stopped talking. They stood for a while under a spreading oak tree.

Finally, Xavi’s tears subsided. When his voice emerged, it sounded hoarse and new. “You’re closing the shop.”

“Yes.” Adrian’s head drooped, mirroring the trees. “I spoke with my sister last night. We’re losing too much money.”

“You’re going home.”

Adrian looked at his feet.

“You have to.”

Far above, the climate-shields creaked. Drops of fake rain began to fall.

“You have to,” Xavi repeated, telling them both. “The shop. Your leg. Your memoir. This whole wacky, messed-up place.”

“Yes.”

Xavi waited for Adrian to ask. Come with me to Taichung. Let me show you that sprawling, miraculous city. But after a few beats, Xavi realized that the question would never come. Adrian wouldn’t ask because Xavi wouldn’t say yes.

Xavi stepped out of the shelter of the tree, letting the rain patter onto him. He felt rinsed, raw, unskinned. He could taste the croissant now—flaky and aromatic, a bizarrely delayed sensation. A moment later, Adrian was at his side, droplets dancing across his upturned face. The brief shower was already petering out.

“I did write to the shield techs, you know.”

“Huh?”

“For a monsoon.”

Adrian laughed. “Oh—and?”

“They didn’t reply.”

Adrian smiled ruefully. “Ah.”

“No surprises there.”

“That’s all right, Xav.” Their elbows were touching, a perfect oval of warmth. “This is good enough.”

---

The subway shuttle back from the airport was nearly empty. The only other passengers were a young couple in worn-out travel clothes, snoozing against one another in the booth opposite Xavi. He watched them sleep for a while, his entire body tremulous and queasy. LudditeFox had lied. Nothing got easier.

When he returned to Southbank Zone, he hired a self-driving bike to take him the rest of the way back to the tenement flats. It was still early in the morning. The sky was daubed with orange and gold; only a handful of shops were open. Xavi made just one stop before returning to his flat.

The techie had said it might take an hour or two for the updates to install, but by the time Xavi showered and changed into fresh clothes, he felt different. The dysphoria had lifted; the gnawing emptiness was gone. The distance from bed to door felt like a little step, the first of many.

<Aly?>

<Hi, Xavi. It’s good to be back.>