Chapter Three

 

Even though I know Rik’s mind almost as well as my own, it doesn’t mean I’ll recognize him in the flesh.

When Partners in Crime ended and we decided to stay in contact with one another, I insisted we refrain from sharing too many personal details. No names, places, specifics. All of it verboten between us as a way to protect us from each other. Now, I wish I hadn’t been so adamant about the rules that shielded me from the full force of his identity. Clues litter our game discussion logs here and there like bugs in old code.

But I know nothing about him. Not really. Not nearly enough to make this work.

I don’t even know what he looks like. Each person who passes by me in the living room is considered in my mental calculations. Too old, too feminine, too attached to someone else. As I keep trying to fit the partygoers into my conception of Rik, I worry the edge of my evening gloves.

At that perilous moment where I debate refilling my glass again to keep my nerves at bay, Rik pings my implant. <<I’m here. Where are you? There’re way too many signals to disambig.<<

He’s right. My proximity map blazes with the concentration of implant signals in the apartment complex, making finding one akin to a needle in a haystack that’s been set on fire. >>Marco…>>

<<Have you been drinking?<<

>>Doesn’t matter. Marco…>>

He sighs. <<Polo. Where–<<

>>Meet me at the garden overlook.>> And then I cut the connection again.

I battle my way outside, my eardrums grateful for the reprieve. The cool night air’s a shock after the cramped interior. The garden overlook’s a few doors down. Brita lives in one of the most exclusive housing complexes in the Upper Canopy, topped only by the Echelon, which the real elite of New Worth calls home. Each unit has a private balcony off the second floor with railings curved like bleached, bisected ribcages, making it feel like you’re standing in the belly of some long-extinct creature.

I lean against the overlook’s railing, staring into the cluster of trees spangled with spotlights. I can do this. Even though I jump every time the door opens as more partygoers come and go. The door to Brita’s quarters opens again, and it takes everything I have to not whirl around and see who it is.

Approaching footsteps, then a heartbeat of silence. No turning back now.

“Hello, Liv.”

My ribs ache from holding my breath as I let the sound roll over me. My implant did a surprisingly good job of mimicking his real voice. Not too deep, with appealing mellowness.

Reluctantly, I let go of the railing and face Rik. He’s a couple of years older, tall like his avatar in Partners in Crime, with the same black hair and brown eyes. But otherwise the real-life expression of the same elements is completely different. Who knew so much personality could be captured in eyebrows and cheekbones? Or a glance unmediated by the arcade? I’m eternally grateful I’ve kept our connection minimized so he can’t know what I’m thinking right now as anxiety settles in my already nauseous stomach.

“Uh, hi. Glad you made it.” My brain crashes. I have no idea what to say. I force myself to smile. “You are Rik, right?”

He nods. “My full name is Randall Iverson-Kemp. RIK for short. It also sounds less pretentious that way,” he says with a wry smile.

“I’m Emery Driscoll. You know, in the flesh?” Could I sound any more ridiculous? We’ve been friends for years, and yet I’ve suddenly turned into a blithering mess.

He cocks his head. “So why did you choose Liv as your handle?”

“My middle name’s Olivia.” And when I created my profile for Partners in Crime all those years ago, I wanted to be anyone but me. I thought I was so clever, creating an alter ego to hide behind. And now that the big reveal is here, all I want to do is run away.

“Emery.” The way he says my name – as though trying it on for size and finding it a perfect fit – raises goose bumps on my arms. “Do you live here?”

“Ah, no. My friend Brita does.”

“I remember you mentioning her once or twice.”

For a moment, we simply stare at one another. “Second thoughts?” I ask, to break the tension.

Randall’s dark brown eyes widen in alarm. “No.” He says it quickly, then frowns. “But your implant…”

“Oh. Right.”

With an eyecast command, I restore our connection. Randall inhales sharply beside me. When he first appeared, I acknowledged to myself he was attractive in an abstract way – a data point to be filed away for later – but now I feel it, as every conversation we’ve had via our implants is irrevocably mapped to his face, the cadence of his voice, the look in his eyes as he watches me process, well, everything.

Feedback from our connection converges with the overwhelming sense of recklessness that has defined the evening. No constraints. The possibilities make me flush, something I’ve tried so hard not to indulge until tonight. But the dark look on Randall’s face brings me back to reality.

“Why are you frowning?”

He forces his gaze away from me. “This isn’t how I wanted to do this.”

“What’s so wrong? You’re here, with me, and…”

“And you’re drunk.”

“It’s a party, Rik. You know about those.” I tap my temple. >>I know you do.>> An awful thought occurs to me. “Or maybe it’s me.”

“Liv–”

My nightmare come to life. “Now that you’ve seen my face, our connection doesn’t mean anything to you anymore?”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

I throw up my hands. “Then what’s the problem?”

“All I know is you were dead set against meeting before tonight. What changed?”

“A little liquid courage.”

“Bullshit. Something’s been off with you all day. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to fight, but…”

Breck. Subconsciously he must’ve picked up on my preoccupation. And now, the threat of tomorrow…

“There. What were you thinking just then?”

I don’t dare answer. Instead, I hold out my hand. There’s no way to misunderstand my intention. Calibration of our data receptors lurking underneath the fabric of our gloves. He stares down at my hand, frozen. Shock and anticipation rumble between us at the magnitude of the next step.

>>OK… let’s start with something simpler.>>

Instead of holding my hand palm out, customary for calibration, I rotate my wrist so now I reach for his hand, palm up. He takes it automatically, something we simulated hundreds of times in Partners in Crime at each save point. A tremor leaps through him and is absorbed by me, but he doesn’t pull away.

While our gloves prevent calibration, they don’t protect me from the weight of his hand or the heat of his fingers. In the game, his firm grip told me he always had my back, no matter what we faced. Now, it’s telling me the same thing, despite the doubts reflected across his face.

“Liv–”

“Shh. I’m making a memory.”

He groans and tugs his hand out of my grip. “This isn’t the time or place,” he says with a glance at the rest of the apartment complex. For the moment, we’re still alone.

“We’re finally talking to each other, not synch chatting. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means more to me than to you, apparently.”

“What?”

“I thought I meant more to you than a drunken hook-up.”

“You do. Calibration will prove it. That’s what you wanted.” Clumsily, I feel across our connection, searching for snippets of emotion before the limitations kick in. “What you still want.”

Longing swamps the connection before he bottles it back up. “This was a mistake, coming here tonight.” He turns away.

I lurch after him. “No. You don’t understand. If we don’t do this now…” We might not get another opportunity. What if the police learn of my involvement with Breck, and, instead of a routine inquiry, I end up on the other side of a jail cell? No, worse. What if Rik finds out what I did and wants nothing more to do with me?

“What? What happens?” He faces me once more, gripping my arms. “Tell me what has you so scared.”

I rear back. “I’m not–”

The distinct chime of the lift heralds more party guests, and I leap away as though burned. Seconds later, a new wave of people files down the concourse. If the bash isn’t at capacity yet, it will be soon. A particularly… energetic thrash metal song starts up, rattling the walkway.

Randall scrubs his face with his palm. “Look, you wanna get out of here?”

I give him a hesitant nod, but… “I don’t want to fight any more tonight.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s tomorrow.”

 

Rik refuses to synch with me, and Randall refuses to speak, as we make our way to a twenty-four-hour caffeine bar. Nighttime in this part of the Canopy has a reverent quality. Most residents have already retired for the evening. A furtive few keep to themselves as they pass by, the lush vegetation absorbing their transient sounds. As a result, our steps seem obscenely loud as we walk, the soles of our shoes slapping against the tile.

I’m not sure why I’ve even agreed to come. But the connection’s still alive between us, a complicated, snarling tether threaded with equal parts affection and annoyance. The cool, clean Canopy air clears away my lingering drunken fog, leaving behind recriminations and an appalling self-awareness of just how foolish I’ve been.

Randall leads me to a table by the window so we can look out, instead of at each other. Thoughtful of him, since at this point all I want to do is vanish.

“Let’s start over. What do you say?” Randall asks with forced calm.

“I’d like that.”

We stare at each other in silence until I finally look away. Beyond the window, a lavish courtyard full of tropical flowers. Before we left the party, I pinged Brita. Her Do Not Disturb auto-response assured me she’d be all right. One less thing for me to worry about as I try to salvage this evening with Rik, Randall, whoever he is.

A waiter comes and goes, leaving behind a foamy latte for me and a traditional macchiato for Randall. I stare down at my drink in surprise. He must’ve ordered remotely for us. “How did you know?”

“I seem to recall a conversation about dairy to caffeine ratios, and your misguided belief that the bigger the better.”

“That was years ago.”

He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, all nonchalance.

“What else do you think you know about me?”

“Only what you told me. What I could figure out on my own.”

“Like?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Like… you probably attend the College of New Worth. Some of the partygoers were proudly chanting the school motto when I arrived.”

“Graduating next week, actually.”

“Congrats. I graduated from there three years ago.”

I grimace. “Tonight must’ve seemed so… immature to you.”

He hides his grin behind the rim of his cup. “You make me sound like an old man.”

“I just meant…”

His amusement skips across the line. “No one said this would be easy.”

“I just didn’t expect it to be so awkward now that I know who you really are.”

“You’ve always known who I am on the inside. Think of it like this: it’s the same signal, but now there’s even better resolution.” And the fidelity can only improve once we calibrate. At some point between now and when we met earlier, his reserve has melted away. He stares at me with such openness I’m afraid to look into his eyes, to see what I’ll find there.

“New subject?” he asks. I nod gratefully. “All right, let’s see. I grew up in the Understory. What about you?”

“The Terrestrial District.” I hold my breath, waiting for the recoil, the disgust that most people have for the lower levels, but it doesn’t come.

“That must have been hard.” At my disbelieving stare, he ducks his head. “I know, because I live down there now.” A College of New Worth graduate, now with dirt underneath his feet? “I work for Vector Agronomy,” he adds.

That explains it. Some companies like Vector, no matter how prestigious, need to set up shop down there because of economies of scale or the access to certain resources the lower levels provide. “You’re the ones rehabilitating the land beyond the dome?”

“That’s right. We’re responsible for monitoring the soil and the plants,” Randall says.

“Have you, you know, been outside?” I ask, genuinely curious. After all, he’s helping us work towards Emergence. When the glass dome finally comes down, and we can return to the land we left behind.

Randall chuckles. Probably gets that question all the time. “Yep. In fact, I just got back from a planting trip.”

My eyes widen. “What’s it like?” Everything in the Canopy’s meant to evoke the outdoors, the nature we took for granted for so long. But compared to the real thing?

“Different, but in a good way. You can see so much…” He shrugs. “And the air is sweeter than the Canopy’s.”

“Is it true what they say? That Emergence is finally here?”

When humanity first took refuge in the domed cities spread throughout North America and the rest of the world, no one was certain when we’d be able to return to the land. Scientific models disagreed on how long it would take for the harm done to the climate by global warming, warfare, and pollution to settle out. While we wait, each city has the responsibility of cleaning up the surrounding region. But there’s no denying the green beyond the dome that’s grown in intensity each year.

“Well, technically I’m not allowed to say one way or the other.”

I nearly laugh at his shift into formality, so at odds with our usual irreverent banter. “Oh, come on. I heard there’s supposed to be an announcement in a few days.”

Every couple of months, the city uploads a new vid to the network documenting the rehabilitation of the land. Disconnects do most of the work, but scientists and engineers like Randall guide their efforts. You can always tell when a new video hits the network because performance slows down dramatically as everyone scrambles to take a look.

But network chatter says this announcement will be different. To think my generation could be the one to step beyond the glass… I’ve always dreamed of being outside.

He gives the bar an uncomfortable glance, then leans in, like he’s about to impart a secret. “All I can tell you is the land wants balance as much as we do. The rest’s politics.”

“I’ve toyed with the idea of doing something like that. You know, doing my part to reclaim our future outside,” I say, echoing the narrative that’s been drilled into us since birth. “But…”

“But?”

“Data curation seemed more sensible. There’ll always be demand for people who can make sense of the explosion of digital information created every second.”

Competition for jobs across New Worth is fierce since there are so many of us trapped under glass, even with limits on how much automation each industry can have. One way to succeed in a city full of constraints – spatial, social, and economic – is to get a degree in an in-demand field like data curation. It takes a precise set of skills to determine what’s important and what’s not, measuring current usage against future needs.

“Tell me about it. At Vector we have metadata for our metadata. But…” He trails off with a shake of his head.

“What?”

He hesitates, then says, “It’s just not what I would’ve expected. Curation, I mean.”

“Why not?”

“The job feels a bit stifling compared to who you are up here,” he says, tapping his temple. “That’s all.”

I shrug. “It’s not exciting, but the steady work means I’ll be able to help my parents move out of the Terrestrial District one day.” That’s all that matters.

Three AM flashes in the periphery of my vision. I can’t quite stifle my groan. Or the rebounding of my anxiety which thankfully stayed out of the way during our conversation.

“Time to go?” Randall asks.

“I’m afraid so, if I’m going to have any hope of accomplishing anything tomorrow. Today. You know what I’m trying to say.”

I walk him to the train station in a strangely companionable silence. A maglev bound for the Terrestrial District hovers over the guideway as Randall files through the security gate. Our connection’s placid for the moment, but I know we’re both disappointed in our own ways by the evening. “I didn’t mean to mess things up between us,” I call after him from the other side.

“You didn’t.”

“But…”

His mouth quirks. “Baby steps. Next time will be easier.”

Next time. >>I’ll hold you to that.>> I’m rewarded with a smile, our connection humming between us. Despite making a fool of myself earlier, I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

“Rik–”

The maglev doors flash and chime. All aboard. Startled, Randall steps back just before they slide shut. <<What is it?<<

>>Nothing that can’t wait.>> I hope.

I watch his face through the window, looking for that instant when my thought reaches him. He smiles, and a bit of that resulting warmth filters through. A tangle of emotions, too scattered to settle on any one for more than a second, haunts our connection as the train goes gliding off into the night.