SEVERAL HOURS LATER I’m curled up on my bed, my back pressed up against a pile of clothes I need to sort through, looking at the vase I’ve reclaimed from the top of the Masher. It took a while to find the perfect place for it, and even though it’s precariously balanced, it looks right there. I wonder about who made it again. That makes me think about the failing printer, which brings thoughts of Carmen’s words back to me. Why doesn’t she see what she’s doing?
I told Sung-Soo we hadn’t lost anyone yet. That was only a half-truth. We haven’t lost anyone to anaphylactic shock or accidental poisoning, but we have lost someone to something worse.
It started in the same way; that’s why Carmen infuriates me so. How can she not remember the streams filled with speculation about what God would want us to do? Can’t she remember what Liam yelled at everyone the last night we saw him?
“How does Mack know what God expects? He doesn’t even believe in him! What if this is the last test? What if the Pathfinder is waiting for us to join her? I’ve had dreams too! I’ve spoken to her too!”
Liam was losing it and we could all see him unraveling in front of us. He wasn’t eating properly nor attending to his share of the work that needed to be done. His partner had been in one of the pods that failed to land with us. Oh God, I can still hear the sound of his screaming when he was told.
I did that to him.
I access my server and review the colony’s energy consumption data, but the numbers aren’t enough to crowd out the guilt and memories of Liam’s feet swinging back and forth, back and forth.
I close the file and crawl over to the plate of food I’ve been trying to eat all evening. I haven’t had a proper meal all day and the last thing I need is for Kay to get a notification that something is wrong with me. I pick at the meal, but it’s not what I need. The only thing that will satisfy me isn’t food and it isn’t in the colony. It’s in God’s city, and I know I have to go back there tonight.
The party for Sung-Soo has already started and Mack has pinged me twice. I just can’t face it. Not after today. This time a message arrives. Sung-Soo keeps asking where you are. Are you coming, Ren?
Tell him I’m not feeling—
I delete that. If I tell anyone I’m feeling ill, they’ll come over.
I’m shattered, Mack. Tell him I’m sorry but I just can’t—
I’m being crap. I should be there. I delete the half-written message and check the network. Everyone seems to be there; at least there’s a hell of a lot of chat about it on the public stream and everyone with their location markers set to “public” is in the Dome. That’s a skewed sample though; the kind of people who don’t mind everyone else knowing where they are twenty-six hours a day are the kind of people who like parties.
Either way, my absence is being remarked upon and there are several mentions in my personal stream asking when I’ll be there. People are talking about how lovely Sung-Soo is and how much he reminds them of the Pathfinder.
“Fuck!” I say to the ceiling and notice a crack in the coating. It isn’t changing color in response to my carbon dioxide. “Fuck,” I say more quietly at the sight of it.
I can’t find any clean clothes, so I print a new set of trousers and a loose top. I manage to locate a belt and pull it free from the pile of stuff on top of it. A quick brush down and it looks like it’s just been printed. I run a hand over my head. My hair is too short to need any styling, but it will need a wash soon. I pull a couple of tangled curls apart, look at the corkscrew-like hair that comes away and blow it off my finger.
Half an hour later I’m walking down the path to the Dome. The colony is silent except for the sound of insects and other distant creatures calling to one another outside the boundary. God’s city looms over me as I walk, brightly lit with pockets of phosphorescence. They give the illusion of people living inside the pods with lights on in their homes. For the first few days that’s what we thought it meant, but there’s no one living in those lit spaces. No one like us, anyway.
I bring my attention back to the path ahead. It’s better than looking up at the topmost point of the citadel and the space most brightly lit. Now that I’m closer to the Dome I can see people moving on the other side of the plasglass, dancing by the look of it, along the uppermost row of the tiers.
I stop, wondering if I should print myself some MDMA or something else that will take me out of myself. Half of the people dancing are probably off their face on something or other. But then I think of Sung-Soo and how it might freak him out if I’m acting differently. Besides, I don’t want to lose the whole night. I’ll stay for an hour or so, enough to be seen and to support Sung-Soo; then I’ll go home and prep for a run into God’s city. I need to have a clear head for that. One should never break a sacred law when under the influence of psychoactive substances.
The silence endures, even when I’m only meters away from the door. I allow myself a moment of quiet pride in my ability to build structures with that level of soundproofing before letting the door sensor taste me.
I enter the entrance hall, referred to as “the airlock” by most people. Once the door behind me has closed fully, the one in front opens onto the auditorium. The sudden burst of music and laughter and shouting makes me shrink back for a moment. When the people closest to the door see me hesitate, the urge to leave increases, but in moments they’ve come and pulled me in and a drink is put in my hand before the second door has closed behind me.
I sip it, uncertain of what it is. Some kind of cocktail. It’s nice and I’m tempted to knock it all back, but I’ve made up my mind about how I want the rest of the night to go, and I don’t want to be distracted.
I don’t need to look for Sung-Soo and Mack; they’re at the heart of a tight cluster of people in the center of the amphitheater, orbited by others desperate to get closer but unable to. I can see only the tops of their heads, the people are pressing in so tight. Mack looks up at me, presumably after seeing a mention of my arrival in the stream, and beckons me down.
By the time I’ve reached the lowest tier, Sung-Soo has wriggled his way through the cluster and comes toward me, arms outstretched. He’s clean, wearing new clothes, and looks so much better. His hair is sleek and shining in the Dome’s light and he actually looks delighted to see me.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, but the words are swamped by the tsunami of music. He just embraces me and I find myself returning it. His hair against my cheek reminds me of Suh.