Contents

Collected Speculative Fiction

Kat has 2 Lives

Endless Summer

The Cyborg and the Witch's Son

An Alien Fashion

Pepper's Mech

Resurrection Quest

Death Lessons

Third Eye

Better Times

Operational Paramaters

It's In Your Programming

CALM FUTURES

Collected Speculative Fiction

2016-2017

Freya H. Campbell

Kat Has Two Lives

13th January, 2006-B

I first became aware of the problem -- no, phenomena, it’s not always a problem -- when I woke up on January 1st 2006-B and my dog was still alive.  Spooky greeted me in bed as he’d always done before, leaning up with his head to rest his wet nose on the pillow next to me. I thought it couldn’t be real -- that I’d eaten too much the night before, or the champagne was too much for little 14-year-old me.

None of my family members understood what I meant. They all said that I must have had a dream, a weird premonition that Spooky would finally give in to old age. I tried to explain that I knew when he’d go because I could remember living through 2006 already. I’d spend the next weeks on the edge of tears whenever I saw, smelt, thought of a dog. By November we’d have gotten a new dog, Floss, who was definitely not confusable -- a Collie instead of a Labrador. And I’d know the difference anyway.

With no-one to believe me, I counted down the first thirteen days of 2006-B with dread, fearing the moment that Spooky would finally give up on us. I didn’t know what time it had happened last year -- 2006-A -- only that I’d come home in the evening and it had. This time I’d change things the best I can. I turned down the invitation to go out with friends, feigning family obligations. I was obliged, in a way; I had to stay by Spooky’s side, until eventually the dreadful moment came. At 4.27pm, Spooky passed away, and this time -- 2006-B -- I was there to see him out.

21st July 2010-B

“What on earth do you mean? You live each year twice?”

I nodded at Patricia and held my breath for a second, before blowing out smoke. The room was dark, the sun dipping below the horizon, although much came through the windows anyway. The two of us shared a joint whilst sketching for college, drawing each other’s pretty faces in charcoal or ink. I passed the joint to her before replying.

“That’s exactly what happens. The first time it’s all new to me, I’ve never seen it before. Then I wake up on January 1st on Year B -- that’s what I call it -- and I go through it all again.”

“That’s crazy. But why are you still here?” she took a toke in and held it whilst speaking. “Haven’t you, like, predicted the lottery or something?”

I shrugged. “I can’t keep anything from Year A. Nothing stays -- no notes, books, whatever -- nothing but me. It’s hard enough trying to remember what happens.”

I told her what the first few days of January were like for me now, every B Year. I’d stay up until midnight on December 31st, running through mnemonics, revising notes I’d made of the last twelve months. Anything important, that I wanted to try and change, that I’d try to do better, I’d vainly try to commit to memory, and when Year B came I’d grab a bit of paper and scrawl down as many notes as I could. But as the clock struck midnight, so my mind was struck by a kind of fog, and try as I might I’d barely manage to remember the most important things.

“Wow, so, what did you remember for this year? Anything crazy happen?”

She leant over with a grin and passed me the joint again. As our fingers touched, exchanging the last little bit, I wondered whether I’d tell her right now and come clean, that tonight -- in 2010-A -- was the first time we’d kissed. I was so nervous for it last time, but this time it was a totally different kind of nerves. Would telling her ruin the moment? What did I even do last time to lead up to it? I desperately wanted to repeat things exactly the same, to not change anything and accidentally swerve the course of things away from what had come before.

“What’s wrong? You look like something’s on your mind.”

I turned to Patricia to answer, and she had leant forward, her face horribly -- wonderfully -- close to mine. I felt myself blush and she giggled in response.

“Here. Let me take your mind off it.”

Ah. I needn’t have worried.

3rd March 2013-A

If I’d been able to rely on the phenomenon, I could have had an easy time of it every Year A -- if the world would reset come January, what motivation was there to get things right the first time? But this train of thought didn’t stay. 2008-A had been the only year I completely checked out; I didn’t try at school in final exams, I didn’t do my best applying for college, I fucked up a few friendships from not putting in the effort. As December rolled around I was gripped by a terror; what if this year it didn’t happen? What if my behaviour tarnished me for the rest of my life? When I woke up into 2008-B I made a resolution never to clock out like that, and to do right by life the first year around. If, then, I tried my best at Year A, I could do even better in Year B.

So in 2013-A, the final year of my degree course, I had an extra challenge. Not only would I aim as high as I could, to finish my degree with top marks and the best connections; I would along the way try to pick out things that weren’t as good as they could be. The essay I made a critical mistake in; the food left on the side too long that gave me food poisoning; the postgrad position I missed the application deadline for. These went in my diary, day-to-day, and on my pinboard of things to try again.

Every time Patricia came around she would take great pleasure in going over my pinboard, picking out things she thought just as valid, things she thought wouldn’t matter. Sometimes, even, things she thought I should leave.

“You want to do that essay better?”

“Of course. I could’ve gotten a First if I hadn’t screwed that one up.”

Patricia sighed and stroked my arm, looking thoughtful. “Do you remember what you did after that? You came to my flat and spent a week moping about. I cooked dinners for you and we watched cartoons together in bed for the whole time, until you cheered up enough to go home again.”

I remembered that now. I glanced away from Patricia, unable to meet her gaze. She continued talking, manoeuvring in front of me.

“You want to redo that? You’d rather do well and stay in your own flat?”

“Patricia, that’s not how it is. I -- I’ll spend the time with you anyway, you know that.”

“Do I? I don’t remember every other year you’ve spent with me. It’s horrid -- to think there’s times you’ve spent with me that you decided the next time -- your B Year or whatever -- to spend differently.”

I lied to her and said, “I’ve never made that choice. I’ve always spent the time with you.”

She went silent and looked me in the eye.

“You may have twice as many year’s experience, but you’re still a bad liar.”

3rd March 2013-B

Before Patricia came around today, I double-checked and made sure I’d removed the note about the failed essay. I’d passed it this year round, and visited her afterwards to celebrate. This time, Year B, we didn’t split up.

2013-B panned out otherwise much the same; every sunrise rose the same, every bird tweeted in the trees the same, every meal I cooked -- and every one I ruined -- turned out the same. Only Patricia was still with me, we were still in love; and the sunrises were more beautiful for it, and the bird’s songs were more lovely for it, and the meals -- even the ones I ruined -- tasted all the better for it.

Sometimes, when a Year B drew to an end and new uncharted time stretched out before me, I wondered whether it had been worth it to go over again, to relive and repeat, or redo, each of the three-hundred-sixty-five days. This year, 2013-B, I knew it was worth it.

Endless Summer

Cody swings his legs back and forth, building up enough momentum to jump to the next tree branch.

“Watch out, Cody! You’ll fall!”

He turns his head to face the ground and grins.

“Don’t worry, I’m alri--

The alarm goes off at 7AM. Cody groans and swings his arm out of bed to turn it off. The clock face shows MONDAY and he stares at it for a second. The letters blink in and out slowly, a tiny little click each time they light up.

“Morning, sleepyhead! How do you want your eggs?”

“Mornin’. Scrambled, please.”

Cody yawns and takes his place at the table. Dad has finished a mug of coffee already and is prodding the remains of his own eggs around the plate. Mum smiles at the two of them and busies herself at the hob. Dad looks over at Cody and shakes his head sadly.

“You read the news yet?”

Cody restrains himself, and says, no, I haven’t.

“Terrible stuff. Another bombing over in Baghdad. Foreign secretary’s calling for airstrikes or something. And there’s another rail strike for next week.”

He taps his phone screen a few times, before pushing it away and sighing.

“God knows how I’ll get to work on time next week on a strike. Andrew’ll be livid, but, what can I do?”

Cody grimaces and looks out the window.

“Wow, that’ll be awful. Good luck, Dad.”

The gang meet up outside Tesco as usual. As Cody walks up to the bench outside, they all turn to face him, and relief plays across everyone’s faces.

“Cody! You’re back!”

“I was so worried, like, I didn’t know if--“

“You fucking idiot, don’t go--“

He holds up a hand and laughs.

“Hey, guys, it’s fine, right? Every Monday like usual.”

The three of them look uncomfortable and glance at each other. Cody scratches the back of his head and shrugs.

“Look, I won’t do it again, alright? No more trees.”

Francesca squints at him and pokes her finger into his chest.

“You said that last time, with the bridge.”

“Yeah, but I really mean it this time.”

She doesn’t look relieved, but pouts and steps back again. Excitement over, Jake sits back down on the bench whilst Peter steps over and punches Cody in the shoulder, friendlily.

“Good to see you again, mate. Last few days got a bit dull.”

“Yeah, whatever did you do without me?”

Peter laughs and shrugs. “Same stuff we’ve done all summer.”

The four of them get some snacks from the shop and start walking to the park.

“So what did you get up to?”

Jake glances over whilst unwrapping a kitkat. He furrows his brow and thinks.

“We checked out a few more repeats. Broke some windows in the shack that we’ve gotta check later. Peter got his ears pierced.”

Cody looks over to Peter, who shows off his empty lobes, no hole in sight. The two of them laugh nervously.

“Fran went out of town with her sister on Thursday and they got stuck in traffic.”

Fran nods. “There was a crash on the M25 and like all the roads stopped. We were there for hours.”

“Are you gonna try again this Thursday?”

She nods back at Cody and sighs. “I know it’ll be the same but like... we have to check.”

Jake had swapped the kitkat for a notebook and is now leafing through it. The pages were dense with checklists and mindmaps, lines leading from one word to another, covered in exclamation marks.

“Still the only changers we’ve found are the birds, Peter’s nintendo, and that bike forum online.”

The four of them all go quiet for a minute in thought. They turn the corner into the park and walk down the path to the swingsets and other play equipment. Fran and Peter sit down on the swings whilst Jake rummages in his bag for more notes. Cody looks around before perching on the edge of a roundabout, the base wobbling underneath him.

“What time does it start raining?” he asks. Jake is engrossed in the notebook and doesn’t hear him. Peter answers without looking up from the ground.

“Three. Though it’s only light until half past or so.”

“We’ll want to go to the shack soon then.”

Fran sighs and kicks her feet in the dust. “The shack sucks, guys.”

Jake looks up. “We don’t have to hang around this time. Just check some windows and go.”

“But go where? I’m bored of everywhere. We’ve been to the shack, we’ve been to the park, we’ve been to Peter’s place to play games all day.”

Cody says, “We could go to the woods again,” and Fran just glares at him. He grins, but the group all go silent. Nothing Fran said was wrong, really.

WEDNESDAY

“Hey, Cody, something big.”

He mumbles and rubs his eyes, holding the phone away from his ear to check the time. It only reads 6.04AM.

“Ugh, Jake, it’s only six...”

“Someone else online noticed the summer.”

The four of them meet at Jake’s house. It gets stormy on Wednesday, so everyone is glad to be inside as usual. Jake’s room gets steadily messier each week before being tidy on Monday again. Today it only has a couple of empty teacups and some clothes on the floor, two pairs of socks and a striped pair of boxers. Fran kicks these out the way with a mumble of disgust, before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“So. Good morning everyone. We’ve got a breakthrough.”

Peter, Fran and Cody all perch on the edge of the bed whilst Jake sits in his chair, swivelling back and forth, his laptop screen open on the desk. He turns to be out of the way, and opens up a forum on the screen. Everyone peers in.

“That’s the bike forum. Are you getting into it too?”

“Shush, Peter. It’s the only place online we’ve found that doesn’t repeat each week. I’ve just been... keeping tabs on it.”

“Jake, it’s not good to like, spend all day on the internet...”

Cody stands up and gets closer to the screen to read the entries whilst the other three bicker. After a few seconds he frowns.

“They’re saying a bunch of them in Yorkshire have noticed. Seven kids from a community college.”

Jake exclaims, “I - yes! Thank you, Cody.”

Cody glances up at Jake with a snicker.

“Are you BMXXX_93?”

“Sh- shut up! Forum names are tough.”

The four of them scroll through the thread, reading the notes. A few people called them wackos or lectured about underage drinking. The original posters elaborated on what they’d discovered and it read much the same as their own experience.

“The same weather. The same news. Everything the same condition come Monday.”

“They don’t mention anything about people dy-- um, falling off trees, and stuff.”

Cody snorts. “Maybe they’re too careful about it still. They might have only just noticed.”

“Yeah, we’re literally experts, right?”

Fran looks uncomfortable, and leans back on the bed. She glances at the clock on the wall.

“Guys... how long ago do you think we noticed?”

None of them can come up with an answer.

THURSDAY

The three of them pause the nintendo as a text comes through from Fran.

“She says traffic’s the same as last week. They’re stuck on the M25 again.”

“Sucks to be her. How long did she say it was before?”

“Like, four hours.”

Peter shakes his head and nods at the screen. “We good to go?”

“Hang on, just replying...”

Jake finishes texting and drops his phone on the sofa. The three of them resume the game, their characters jumping around fighting at speed. Cody grips the controller manically, reactions half instinct and half intentional. He was losing, still is losing, but not as badly as he used to.

Peter wins eventually, his character beating his chest in pride onscreen. The three of them analyse the score display at the end.

“You’re catching up, C. You’re only ten KOs out this time.”

“I haven’t had a lifetime of practice yet. How often do you play this?!”

“Only like, a few times a week.”

Cody sighs. “Can we play something else than Melee?”

Jake leans over to the shelf of games. “There’s a glitch in Mario I’m still trying to do.”

“I thought you finished that last week?”

“I finished the campaign, yeah.”

“What about Need for Speed?”

“Bored of it. We’ve got all the time attacks down already.”

“Medal of Honour? We could just do multiplayer.”

The three of them think for a minute.

“Eh, better than nothing.”

SUNDAY

Cody goes to see Fran after lunch. Her sister opens the door to him as usual.

“Cody! I haven’t seen you in ages. How’s your folks?”

“Yeah, they’re alright.”

“Cool, cool. Come on in, I’ll go get Fran for you.”

Cody takes his shoes off in the hall whilst Fran’s sister yells up the stairs.

“Fran! Guess what?! Cody’s here to see you!”

Fran’s head appears over the bannister and peers down.

“Hey, C.”

Cody mutters a goodbye to her sister and heads upstairs, following Fran to her room. He closes the door after the two of them and she sits down with a sigh.

“She says that every time.”

“I know. I’m used to it.”

Fran looks over at him, and he just shrugs, hands in pockets.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

Cody frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Like, it doesn’t get to you? Like you’re experiencing one life and everyone else around you is just... things are different for them.”

“I try not to think about it.”

She pouts and rolls her eyes. Cody falters for a moment, but she pats the bed and he comes over, sitting down next to her. She leans her head on his shoulder.

“When did you come over last?”

“What do you mean? I was here last week. We made it a thing ages ago.”

She shakes her head and turns to face him.

“No. I mean, when did you come here in, y’know. The real world.”

Cody blows out a breath and stares at the ceiling. The pattern hadn’t been familiar once, but he can trace it with his eyes now, every ivy branch and flower known by heart. He could draw it out without reference with maybe 80% accuracy. He’d tried it before.

Fran speaks again, quieter.

“How long has it been...?”

Cody hushes her with a kiss, and she lets herself fall back onto the bed. The absent look in her eyes stays for the whole time, and afterwards, they both stare at the ceiling until their eyes close on their own.

MONDAY

The alarm goes off at 7AM. Cody groans and swings his arm out of bed to turn it off. The clock face shows MONDAY and he stares at it for a second. The letters blink in and out slowly, a tiny little click each time they light up.

“Morning, sleepyhead! How do you want your eggs?”

“Mornin’. Fried, please.”

Cody yawns and takes his place at the table. Dad has finished a mug of coffee already and is prodding the remains of his own eggs around the plate. Mum smiles at the two of them and busies herself at the hob. Dad looks over at Cody and shakes his head sadly.

“You read the news yet?”

Cody restrains himself, and says, no, I haven’t.

“Terrible stuff. Another bombing over in baghdad. Foreign secretary’s calling for airstrikes or something. And there’s another rail strike for next week.”

He taps his phone screen a few times, before pushing it away and sighing.

“God knows how I’ll get to work on time next week on a strike. Andrew’ll be livid, but, what can I do?”

Cody grimaces and looks out the window.

“I think you’ll be alright.”

The Cyborg & The Witch’s Son

Deep in the woods, past the crater and the old oak tree, the witch’s cottage sat in a clearing surrounded by rosemary, lavender, and raspberry bushes. If one knew which direction to approach from, they would find the thorns part on either side to reveal a gentle cobbled path, leading right from the village all the way until the witch’s door. Today, walking down the path and swinging her bag in the breeze, the grocer’s daughter breathed in deep of the herbs, came to the door, and knocked gently three times.

From within she heard movement, a chair pushed back and footsteps approaching. She braced herself to see the witch for the first time, but as the door opened it revealed a young boy instead. He was dressed in loose green trousers and a cream shirt, stained with brown and red specks across the front; from his ears dangled twisted silver earrings in the shape of birds; and caught in his blonde hair were feathers, tickling his ears and neck where they sat amongst locks.

“Can I help you?” he said, gazing down at the girl. She drew her eyes away from him to her bag, and cleared her throat.

“Yes, I hope so,” she said. “I’m here to see the witch.”

“You’re out of luck,” the boy replied. “She’s out on an errand. She’ll be an hour at the least.”

The girl shrugged and looked at the sky. The sun had barely reached its midday height; there were still many hours left in the day. “I don’t mind waiting,” she replied. “As long as I won’t intrude.”

The boy glanced inside at something unknown, before shrugging and opening the door wider. The grocer’s daughter stepped into the cottage and felt the air change instantly; whilst the sun outside was hot and tickling the tips of her ears, inside it was cool and still, the windows shaded by plants and curtains. She looked around, curious, as the boy closed the door and made his way past her to the kitchen. She followed silently.

“Would you like a drink?” he said, cautiously lifting the lid on a kettle as it steamed on the hob. “I was making tea.”

“Yes, thank you,” the girl replied, and sat down at the table where she could find space. Scattered across its surface were all manner of trinkets; she spotted small gems, twisted pieces of tree bark, and bones -- fresh white ones and yellowing old ones, all meticulously cleaned and prepared. She drew her eyes away from them as the boy placed a mug beside her, taking the seat opposite. Without speaking he picked up two of the bones, and began to carefully tie them with small pieces of twine. The girl found his fingers mesmerising to watch as they made small knots and loops.

“What are you making?” she asked, and he looked up with a strange expression. He gestured to the bones in between them and smiled.

“I’m making charms,” he said. “Charms for good luck, or for good weather; to encourage money or children.”

“And do they work?”

He hesitated for a second, a knot half-formed in his hands. He seemed to bite back some words before answering, “Would you be here if you thought they did not?”

The girl pouted and looked away at the window, where an orchid leant into  the breeze and swayed. “I’m just here because of my Father,” she replied. “He seems to think they work.”

“And what is your Father after?”

She hesitated for a moment, before turning to look back at him with a pained expression. “He wants a charm to help seized joints, hands that don’t work like they should.”

The boy looked at her curiously, and down at the collection of gems before him. “You won’t need to wait for the witch to be back,” he said. “I can make a charm like that.”

“And who are you to do so?”

He replied with a smile. “I am the witch’s son. And who are you to ask?”

She met his gaze, challenging her even as lines of good humour appeared around his eyes. She hesitated for a moment before replying, “I am the grocer’s daughter.”

The grocer’s daughter sat in the cottage and waited, drinking her tea as the witch’s son worked. He had stood to gather materials from the shelves all around them, humming to himself as he picked specific twigs, specific gems, specific bones. The importance of each one was lost to her, but their particular arrangement seemed to hold some meaning; as the charm came together, she saw a pattern arising, the web of twine and tidbits asymmetric but with a sense of balance still. After half an hour and all the tea gone, the witch’s son made the final knot and held the charm aloft.

“Here is the charm for your Father,” he said with glee. “It will guard against joints that have locked due to strain; it will help the bones loosen and move in pattern with each other; and it will stop the ache where the muscles of his hand all fight each other to act.”

He thrust it out for the grocer’s daughter to take. “Bring it back with you, and see how it works; then you can come back and discuss payment, or modify it if you need.”

She watched his proud expression as he presented the charm; and she watched the expression falter as she lifted her hand to take it. The sleeve tugged back on her arm, the light from the window reflecting on the dark metal of her palm. She reached out and closed her fingers around the charm, each one creaking and whirring as they struggled to move as they should.

The grocer’s daughter returned after a week. She took the path through the woods, the branches catching at her dress and snagging her hair as she tried to push them out the way. After time she reached the circle of herbs surrounding the cottage, and breathed a sigh as she stepped up to the door. As she raised her hand to knock, she heard a voice away to the side.

“Welcome back,” the witch’s son called. She followed the voice around the cottage to find him crouched by a window, secateurs in hand and the remains of twisting green vines cut away to make light.

“I’ve come with the charm you made,” the girl said.

He raised his eyebrows  and stood up, brushing leaves off his knees. His face looked nervous as he asked her, “Did it work? Did it help your, ah...”

He gestured to her arm as it hung by her side. She said nothing as she raised it to gesture towards him, the fingers locked in a loose, curled fist as they tried to straighten out. The two remained silent for a moment, until she let her arm drop back to her side.

“The charm did not help,” she said, “And I’ve come to return it.”

The witch’s son poured tea as the grocer’s daughter sat at the table, her hands resting in front of her. As he set the mug down she reached out her real one to curl around the handle, and moved it a little closer to her.

“I lost it when I was young,” she said. “We were in the woods south of here when we startled a wolf and her cubs by accident. My father escaped intact, and I... mostly escaped.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “And where did you get the hand?”

“The machinist who visits sometimes made it three winters ago,” she replied. “My father traded four crates of cider -- most of that year’s stock -- and I could use it again for a while.”

She glanced down at the hand as it rested on the table, the fingers curled in on themselves. “This winter, it started to seize. He tried all the craftsmen in town -- the blacksmith, the clockmaker, the librarian -- and now we even tried the witch.”

She sipped her tea as the witch’s son looked down at the table in silence. After a moment she felt a rush of guilt inside.

“I didn’t mean any insult,” she said. “You’re not the only one who’s...”

She trailed off as he looked up and smiled kindly. “It’s ok,” he said. “It must be frustrating. Will you try and see the machinist again?”

She sighed. “We don’t know when he’s next to return. Sometimes it’s years between visits. And with each week my hand gets more useless.”

Suddenly the girl smacked the table, the tea jumping out the mugs as she wailed. “It’s not fair! He thought if the learned folk couldn’t figure it out, at least a magic user could. But your charm didn’t work either!”

The witch’s son looked uncomfortable as he stood to fetch a cloth. He mopped up the tea as she rested her head on the table and simmered. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to spill your tea.”

“It’s ok,” he replied. “I’m sorry the charm didn’t work. You don’t have to worry about any payment for it.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded and wrung the cloth out in the sink as she sighed and sat back up in her chair. “Truth was, if you asked for it we would have still paid. The charm you made was pretty, at the least.”

She smiled at him as he blushed, and he bowed to her to cover up the embarrassment. After a moment he sat back down and stared at her thoughtfully.

“May I look at your hand?”

“Why? You think you can do better?”

“I do.”

She stared back at him for a moment before snorting. “You might as well have the damn thing.”

With her other hand she reached up and grasped her upper arm. She gave it a twist and winced, and it came away just above the elbow, hand and forearm attached. She threw it down on the table between them.

“See what good you can get from it.”

The witch’s son reached out and carefully picked it up. Cradling it with both of his hands, he turned it over and looked at the fingers, at the wrist, at the joint where it met the rest of her body.

“Give me a week,” he said, “And I will give you your arm back.”

The grocer’s daughter made her way through the woods once more. The trees seemed to part for her as she walked, or else she knew the path now where once it had been hidden. She fended the branches off with one arm and stepped into the circle of brambles.

This time, emerging from the cottage was a new figure. She stepped cautiously towards them, and froze as they turned to reveal the face of an aged and kind woman. The grocer’s daughter stood nervously as the witch raised a hand in greeting; when she raised her own the witch’s eyes widened and she smiled.

“Well, good afternoon,” the witch said. “You must be the one who’s occupied my son for the whole week.”

“I have?”

“Quite, child. I think he’s expecting you.”

The witch beckoned for her to approach, and stepped aside when she reached the door. When she hesitated to knock, the witch laughed and opened it for her.

“I shan’t come in; I have matters to deal with in the forest. And I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

With that the witch turned and strode away, with not a look behind at the cottage. The grocer’s daughter glanced backwards before taking a long breath, and stepping in to the cottage once more.

She called out a greeting, and heard the witch’s son reply from the kitchen. She shut the door behind her and walked through; the boy had clearly been working at the table, but now stood to greet her.

“Hello,” he said, “I’m glad you’ve come back. Would you like a drink?”

“I would like my hand,” she replied. He hesitated for a second before nodding, and gesturing for her to sit. She did so, smoothing down her dress and taking a breath to prepare. The witch’s son took a few steps to the shelves by the wall, and reached up to retrieve her arm.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t able to make it work,” he said. “The way the machinists work with metal and wire... it’s beyond any of my skills.”

He set the arm down on the table, and straightened up again with a regretful look. “I’m sorry if you wanted it to work again.”

The grocer’s daughter held steady for a moment as she gazed at her arm, the metal cold and dark, the fingers curled in on themselves as it sat motionless before her.

“I thought this might happen,” she replied. “I was wrong to expect anything else.”

She went to stand, and the boy rushed over to her side. “Please, wait!” he said, and tried to put a hand on her shoulder. She batted it away and he took a step back in shock, clutching his arm where she struck it.

“Why should I wait?” she snarled. “There’s nothing else you can do for me.”

“Please, just... sit a moment. I have something else to show you.”

She stood glaring at him for a minute before sighing. “Make it quick,” she replied, “I’m not in the mood to look at pretty trinkets.”

The witch’s son rushed over to the shelving again, and reached for a bundle of cloth. He picked it up gently and brought it over to the table, setting the bundle down between them.

“I hope you don’t think it overstepping,” he said, “But when looking at your arm, I... had some ideas. I said I can’t work with metal or wire, but there are still materials I can use.”

He took the edge of the cloth and unwrapped it carefully. The girl leant forward to see another charm -- no, that was wrong. Formed out of wood and bone, and twine and gems, sat on the cloth with fingers outspread was a second arm. Around the bones wrapped what looked like vines, the leaves spread out like skin across the mesh of twine, leading down to the wrist and to the hand, where each knuckle was marked with a glittering stone, and each nail picked out with a curved fragment of abalone shell.

“It looks beautiful,” she said, and reached out to trace a line up to the elbow. As she did so, one of the fingers twitched, and she pulled back her hand in shock.

“It moved!” she said, and the witch’s son grinned back at her.

“It’s designed to move. It will -- I hope -- move just like your other one, as long as you let it see enough sunlight each day.”

“So it’s not just a decoration?”

He shook his head and took a quick breath. “Do you want to try it on?”

The witch’s son helped her fit the new limb, securing the end with a strap around her upper arm. He took a step back and watched her nervously.

“Try to move it.”

The grocer’s daughter lifted her old arm, then tried to lift her new one. The wood and twine moved as they should, the new bone as good as the old, and the leaves rippled as they repositioned themselves. On her knuckles, the gems flashed as she rolled her fingers, bending them and opening them, flexing each in turn. As the witch’s son smiled, his face lit up in a triumphant expression, the grocer’s daughter reached out and took his hand between her own two hands, one made of flesh and one made of magic.

An Alien Fashion

The great revelation of our decade was that the foil hats were right all along - the government had been lying to us, and covering up the undeniable proof - that aliens had come to earth in their flying saucers. Only the proof, leaked by hackers from the pentagon’s own archives, was in documents that last dated 1983. Since then, nearly four decades ago, there had been nothing.

The news spread mixed feelings. Surely if we were no longer being visited there was no reason to keep it secret? A moot point anyway, as the analysis, the reports, the documents on crashes and salvaged equipment - they all made their way across the internet like wildfire. Still other, more foily hats suggested it was a false flag, a token gesture to distract us from the reality that they were still here, or they were among us, or they were us. The mainstream ignored them.

The countries and the companies wasted little time in applying themselves to the leaked documents, and digging through their studies to reverse engineer technology and secrets previously reserved for secret experimental craft alone. Now it was in the daylight, we could go bigger, we could unite our resources in public to make our own saucers and attempt the stars. Anything was within our reach as we built our own functioning star drive. The question for where in the stars to make our destination was an obvious one. We had been visited, now nearly six decades ago, and then abandoned. Time to return in kind.

In kind we went, the first team of five of us travelling across the galaxy to a star many light years away - but for the aliens, and now for us, a fraction of the time. As the weeks of our voyage came to an end, the crew and I became antsy, restless. The other four had their jobs to do in transit, maintaining the ship, rehearsing the landing and inevitable contact. I had no activity to busy me yet save for writing and ruminating on that last part of the mission -- contact. With all forms of recording equipment, microphones, cameras, holographic capturers, and if all else failed my trusty pen and paper, I was the resident journalist, historian of the future, making the record of our re-contact with an alien race.

The planet we approached had been found by backtracking a crashed saucer’s travel log, and by careful mathematics far beyond my grasp, we had plotted a course back to the origin. A planet not far removed from our own, with cold grey patches at the poles, colourful blues and greens and reds around the equator, a moon -- no, two moons -- orbiting in the sky. Our craft took us in to the atmosphere, and the seatbelts held us down as with a great shuddering we dropped through the clouds to approach the ground layer below. Hans, the pilot, took control of our final approach as Mission Captain Iwasaki scanned, electrically and visually, for the right landing place.

“There! Four O’clock, there’s some kind of settlement. Place us down there in the patch of red.”

Hans took us down as we all craned our necks to see. Out amongst a sea of red plants waving idly, a few squat tan buildings sat with little grace or dignity. It reminded me less of an advanced, starfaring civilisation than it did of the farms back home, tucked away in the West Country. I took photographs and recorded our descent down with a feeling, though mildly disappointed, overall of great excitement. As we came mere metres from the ground, two bipedal figures emerged from the closer of the buildings and waddled towards us. Dressed in dirty clothes with geometric patterns, one wearing some form of hat and the other carrying what I assumed to be a farming implement -- if it were not for the grey, bulbous head and the gangliness of their limbs, I wouldn’t have made the alien connection. We donned our masks and, my camera rolling, set out to meet them.

“Visited before?”

“Yes. Some time past - a lifetime for some - your species have come to our planet in crafts much like this one behind me.”

Iwasaki gestured behind him to the saucer, sleek and shiny, a trace of scorch marks on the underneath. The hat-wearing alien cocked their head and twiddled their fingers.

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t know.”

“You... wouldn’t know?”

The alien nodded. “I don’t even own a saucer. Hey, Frillip, you ever see creatures like this?”

The other alien shook their head, still clutching the unidentified tool. They walked a couple of metres to the side to get a different look at the saucer, before shrugging - a remarkably human gesture that took me by surprise.

“It kinda looks like something one of the folks from the capital would fly. Can’t be sure, though.”

“There you have it. We don’t know. You sure it’s this planet?”

Iwasaki started to stutter. “I -- we traced the path, we -- surely you must know! You’re the only other sentient lifeforms we’ve met!”

With that, the hat-wearing alien clicked their fingers and whistled. The two of them looked at each other and made some form of gesture. I got the feeling it was one of humour.

“I get it now! I reckon you did get visited,” hat-wearer said. “Ain’t by us personally, though.”

We all frowned, confused, and I saw Iwasaki struggle for a response.

“Y’see,” said tool-holder, “Them rich young folks in the capital -- some of them, they start to grow up, they go travelling. It’s fashion.”

“Fashion?” Iwasaki asked. The aliens both nodded back.

“Yeah. A backwards planet, unspoiled nature, see the animals.”

The two of them made that laughter-gesture again, and hat-wearer shrugged.

“You say no-one’s come visiting in a lifetime? Guess your planet isn’t fashionable anymore.”

Pepper’s Mech

The TS-3400b stands at eleven metres tall, weighs something incredible, and is outfitted with 2-4 inches of reinforced carbon armour, and carries a 155mm autocannon on its shoulder, with twin high-powered lasers on its left arm and a thermoplasma cutter on its right. It was the workhorse of the Garian 2nd Mecha Division during the ten-year war, a towering force on the battlefield to inspire awe and fear.

Pepper & Camomile perch on the opened cockpit of their TS-3400b, hanging the laundry from the autocannon, a blanket and some shirts flapping in the breeze.

“Cam?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time we hoovered the inside.”

Cam groans and glances back inside the mech. Where Pepper fell asleep last night halfway through snacking, the remains of the biscuits slipped from her fingers and scattered the interior with crumbs.

“It’s not my fault,”, Cam mutters, but Pepper ignores him.

“So, if you can just pop down and grab it...”

Cam sighs and stands up, balancing on part of the frame. He shields his eyes from the sun, its rays piercing through the trees at a low angle. Pepper grins at him and yawns, stretching her arms.

“Go on, Cam. I’ll check the solar panel whilst you scurry down.”

Camomile starts making his way down the mech. Each side of the body is covered in small hand and footholds, each providing a place to clip a tether cord for careful descent. Cam doesn’t bother with a cord, and climbs quicker without one, descending five metres to the left thigh compartment, where the hoover is stashed along with other cleaning products.

Pepper calls down, voice muffled from the inside.

“Woops! Get some cloths, too, Cam?”

The hatch opens with a click and Cam reaches inside. There’s three clean cloths left, all looking a little frayed but perfectly serviceable to clean up whatever mess Pepper has made. Cam stuffs these in his pocket and grabs the hoover, hooking the strap over his shoulder. Kicking the hatch closed, he climbs up carefully, readjusting every few steps to push the hoover out of the way.

Quite a few metres down, he spots a small bird land on the mech’s right foot, and recognises it as a Ruddy Quail-Dove, quite rare in this area. He stops to watch it from his perch, being careful not to move and spook it.

“Hey! Hurry up and help me mop this up!”

The bird flies away at the sound of Pepper’s voice.

“I was watching a bird,” Cam says, mopping up cold tea from the pilot’s seat.

“So? There’s tons of birds here. They land on the bonnet all the time and get in my way.”

“This was a rare one. It flew away when you shouted, though.”

Pepper rolls her eyes and turns on the hoover, drowning out Cam’s voice. She sticks the nozzle into all the corners and crannies she can find, drawing up crumbs new and old from the mech’s interior. The cabin is a little cramped with the hoover and two people, and Cam climbs up to the gunner’s seat to get out of her way.

The hoover makes a sudden clunking noise.

“Hoo! That’s where the plum stone went.”

Cam’s sure they haven’t had plums in at least a week.

“Righto, coming up, switch places!”

Pepper climbs up to the gunner’s seat, leading the way with the hoover nozzle in the air. Cam wriggles past her and gets a face full of hair. It tickles his nose and he sneezes without warning.

“Ew! You sneezed on me!”

“S-sorry...”

Pepper sits reclined in the pilot’s seat, a paper map splayed out across her lap. She hums to herself whilst tracing a path with a single finger, passing over a series of crosses and circles marked out in pen. After a few minutes she leans her head back to shout.

“Whatcha think the fuel’s like?”

Cam leans in from the hatch to outside and shrugs.

“I don’t know. Can’t you tell from there?”

“I think the fuel gauge is broken.”

Cam pouts and climbs down into the cabin. He settles in next to Pepper and prods the dashboard. It doesn’t respond.

“Here, you’ve got to hit that switch first...”

Pepper quickly runs through a pattern of three switches and one of the screens boots up. From somewhere in the back, behind and below the cabin, the engine growls into life, and the whole mech shudders. A series of numbers flicker into life on a second screen, and the pair of them read down them.

“45 percent. Reckon that’s accurate?”

“Umm... it’s been a week at least. Maybe eight days?”

Pepper shakes her head and prods the screen with her finger. The readout changes into a graph of fuel consumption.

“Here’s leaving Ganeda... this spike’s that stupid hill with all the loose rocks. This bit will be stopping at the lake for two days, so...”

The line turns dotted on the current date, and slowly slopes towards zero over the course of three days. They stare it for a minute in silence, before Pepper switches the mech back down and sighs. The engine sighs too, much lower in pitch, and ends with a final rumble before going quiet.

Cam looks at the map on Pepper’s lap, and mutters something inaudible.

“What?”

“Um... maybe we should detour to Holleran. It’s not far north of here. If we take...” - he traces a route with a finger - “if we avoid the trees, we can keep the solar panel up whilst moving.”

“What, and drive electrically only?”

“I know it’s slower, but...”

Cam brings the washing in whilst Pepper does checks on the engine and hydraulics. Every few minutes the mech moves an arm, or crouches, and Cam struggles to balance whilst carrying sheets in and out.

“Hey! Warn me each time, please...”

“Sorry! Adjustment coming up!”

“What kind of adjus-“

The mech heaves again, and the torso twists around to the left. Cam drops himself into the cabin to stay out of the way whilst folding laundry up. Pepper’s laughter echoes down to him.

After twenty minutes the checks are done, and the mech is in roughly the same condition as it was yesterday - that is, not brilliant, but not broken. The three of them will keep travelling another day.

“Ready to go?”

Cam finishes buckling up, and opens the viewing hatches around the gunner’s seat. From ten metres up the view across the woods is fantastic, and he squints into the distance.

“Yeah. All good. You strapped in too?”

“Oh, right.”

Pepper pulls her own buckles across and fastens them sheepishly.

Cam uses his binoculars to spy out of the windows as they march. His vision bobs up and down in time to the mech’s footsteps, the twin circles shown in the distance waving about erratically. He’s used to it by now, and tries to compensate for it, with little effectiveness.

“Hey navigator! What’s the path like?”

Cam swings his gaze around from the lake to the east, and looks to the north instead. Ahead of them fields spread out for ages, trees surrounding their flank to the west. Their path is the narrow half-kilometre strip of unforested land between the trees and the water.

“Path’s good,” Cam mutters, and when Pepper doesn’t hear he removes the seatbelt and climbs down instead. She glances his way as he crouches next to her, holding onto the arm of the pilot’s seat.

“Well?”

“Path’s good,” he repeats, and unfolds the map again to look. Coming up ahead is a hilly area to the left, and the pair of them find it and gauge their progress.

“This is taking forever. I hate running on solar.”

“But if the readout’s broken - “

“Yeah yeah. Safety...”

Pepper sighs, and brings the fuel gauge up again. It’s gone up, and now reads 57 percent. She snorts and stares ahead at the thin band of scenery visible from the interior.

“This is bullshit,” Pepper mutters. She gestures upwards to Cam. “Strap in.”

“What?”

“I’m switching over. We can go twice this speed, easy.”

Cam protests, but knows full well she means it. He clambers up to his seat as quickly as he can.

“Five! Four!”

Pepper punches three buttons to start the engine turning over. The mech groans and shakes.

“Three!”

“W-wait! I’m nearly - “

“One!”

Pepper turns the switch to engage the engine proper. A thick, powerful tone echoes through the inside. Cam finally straps in to his seat, and grabs the arm to brace.

“Power!”

From the gunner/navigator’s seat, the view lurches upwards, the mech falling forward to change gait. Cam’s eyes bulge and his stomach turns, and he desperately tries to hold it together, stare at the horizon, get your bearings. The view lurches up suddenly as the footsteps fall in time, lunging forward metres each time. They accelerate too fast, the engine groaning, the feet thudding into the ground, Pepper laughing all the way.

“Don’t say it, Cam.”

“I wasn’t - “

“Don’t.”

Cam doesn’t, and works on unfolding the right-hand solar panel in silence. The mech whines and ticks as the engine compartment cools back down, the metal shrinking after incredible heat and power. Pepper unfolds the left-hand solar panel whilst grumbling to herself.

“This wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t gone up that stupid hill.”

“Mm.”

“Or if our stupid fuel gauge wasn’t broken.”

“Mmm.”

“Now it’s going to take a million hours just to turn the thing on again.”

Cam finishes unfolding the panel and locks it in place, angled towards the sun in the sky, estimating its path and averaging the facing to catch the next few hours.

“I can’t get it to - lock, you dumb - ah, there.“

Pepper fixes her panel and sighs dramatically. She clambers back down to the pilot’s seat and slumps in the chair.

“I’m hungry.”

Cam quietly adjusts the left-hand solar panel to face a different angle.

“CAM. I’m hungry!”

He looks down at Pepper, who pouts and stares back up.

“There’s protein bars in the cabin.”

“I don’t want protein bars. I’m sick of them.”

Camomile looks away and surveys the grass around them, the trees at the edge, the lake nearby, the plants half-crushed under the foot of the mech.

Pepper picks the bones out her fish quickly, making a small pile of them on the floor. The outside is a little charred, but the inside is cooked perfectly, flaking apart under the knife and fork. As she finishes, Pepper takes a forkful and screws up her eyes in glee.

“Yummy! Cam, you can cook every day!”

“I do cook every day...”

Camomile picks through his fish slowly, and sighs as he drops another bone.

“Here, let me - “

Pepper whisks his fish away and removes the bones with speed, making a second pile next to her own. She steals a small bite of the fish when done before handing it back to Camomile, who thanks her quietly. The two of them eat in companionable silence, matching the fish with some foraged greens and small, colourful plums. Next to them is the remains of the fire, a single log still smouldering, sat in the blast crater from the laser.

Resurrection Quest

I shook with anticipation as the airlock opened and I, suitless, pushed out of the station into the void. The air held in loose orbit around the station let me at least breathe weakly here, and I took as much as I could into my lungs as the airlock closed behind me, sealing my fate.

I floated slowly through the cloud of air, the station getting further away behind me with every second. Ahead the storm pulsed with light, and I could faintly hear through the thinning air a rumbling & groaning sound, the sound of my path, the sound of my death, the godhead beckoning me onwards.

As the lights came from ahead to become around me, to throb near and far in time with my heartbeat, I saw coalescing in front of me that which I had come to see; he who was the beginning of all, she who was the end, xe who knew of things that had been and ze who knew of things to come. They stretched out themselves to welcome me.

“I am blessed. Another child comes to me. What body have you brought me?”

I opened my mouth to speak, and the air around me thickened in support, filling my lungs all the better to speak.

“I have brought you myself, this first body of mine, so that you may understand it better than I do.”

Xe cradled me in xyr arms as I spoke, and as my words ran out xe filled the air with xyr own.

“One so young! You seek to be rid of your body after so little time. Tell me, what is your grievance with it?”

I felt them caress me, explore my physicality in space as I floated helpless. Before I could answer, he said to me, “Do you not like this body of mine?”

“I do not,” I replied, feeling my heart pulse and cry in my chest. “I do not like this body,” I repeated, and felt laughter in my ears. The air morphed and swirled, and in front me it formed into a mirror image of myself. Ze spoke.

“You do not know what bodies lie in your future,” ze said, “How can you know how this one compares?”

“I know what is wrong, but not what is right,” I replied, watching my mouth move in time to my words. I faced myself and them and our words echoed around.

“Your words are those of someone older,” she said. “Someone I will know. Do you speak another’s opinion or your own?”

“I speak my own,” I said, “I speak for the words in my heart that will speak through the voices I may have.”

My mirror image dissolved into gas again, and the lights started to fade. As my vision became fainter and fainted, I felt my heartrate speed up again. I had not been warned of the darkness.

“You have learned the ritual well, child,” xe said, “and you perform well for your first time,” ze said. She plunged into my chest and I felt the endings of every nerve light on fire, every bolt of feeling and pain, the overload of my physical body as it tried to process every experience. I gasped as my lungs unmade themselves, and my gasp gave way to a thought with no action behind it. I tried to flail and defend myself but my motions became a thought with no action behind it. I tried to shout and to scream, but though my voice rang in my mind it could not move to ring out of it. As she tore me apart, and broke me down, and stripped from my mind the confines of a form and a body, I tried in that moment to stop and back out. I had been warned about that.

“The impulse to protect yourself is strong,” he said. “Your struggling is admirable, if needless.”

“In time you will learn to restrain yourself,” she said. “The next body you have will give itself up more readily.”

“You know what you do not want for yourself,” xe said. “This has not been a waste of the elements, but a positive.”

“You will know what you want in time,” ze said. “I will help you die each time it takes.”

The technicians absorbed my thoughts from the storm, downloading the energy into their computer banks. As I retrieved my consciousness, confined within silicon instead, I started to dwell on my next form.

“Take all the time you like,” they said, “the second body can be hard to choose.”

“I know what I want already,” I said. “I have known the body I wanted for some time now.”

They remade me in time, growing my flesh as one would grow a plant, farming it and nurturing it until it was ready to crop from the field. Accustomed to my digital home for the weeks, it was unpleasant to return, but exciting. Adapting my senses from digital to analogue was difficult at first.

“Can you feel the air on your skin?”

I answered, that I could feel that before as the computer, its atmospheric sensors measuring the constituent gaseous parts.

“Can you see the room in front of you?”

I answered, that I could see that before as the computer, its cameras recording every angle of the station.

“Can you feel the sense of your body?”

There is was. I could now experience the proprioception I’d wanted; the memory of time before came back, of feeling my body from the inside, from the mind, as a passenger in a vessel I’d not chosen. Now, I’d picked my form, and I stretched out my hand before me. The fingertips were as I’d desired, the knuckles as I’d designed, the forearm shaped as I wanted, and leading to the wholeness I would wear for my next body’s life.

Death Lessons

I shot Johnny in the face, the bullet punching a neat hole below his left eye. His head cracked back and a spray of blood arced out of him. I found him later after class.

“Dude, that was incredible.”

“Yeah, you got me good. I could see the bullet coming in like, slow motion or something.”

We walked down the corridor towards the next class. Around us other kids scurried back and forth, some of them wearing their VR gear hung around their necks, some carrying it in their arms. I had my setup in a bag slung over my back, whilst Johnny’s own was perched on top of his head, the goggles and electrodes bouncing with every step.

“What’s the next one?”

“I think it was 22nd century mechs.”

“Oh, cool.”

We turned the corner and let ourselves in to the classroom. A row of chairs faced the far side of the room, each one displaying a name on a little screen on the back. Johnny and I bumped fists before climbing in to our assigned seats; his read Johnny 2x-41, my own Isabel 4y-12. All the students in the room bar one had the same names, the same serial number identifying us to the creche of our birth. The odd one out was an outsider, not from the Jupiter system but from further out. Yktcckyck came from beyond the portal, somewhere lightyears away in a separate spiral arm entirely. They -- for I did not know their gender, or whether they even had one -- creeped me out in a way I couldn’t quite process. I didn’t understand their reactions to anything we covered.

As the rest of the students filtered in and climbed into their seats, Yktcckyck entered on their own. They ambulated on two appendages, each clothed in a coloured weave of strands that covered them from head to just inches above the ground. They wore some strange kind of pouch on the end of each, hard and rubbery against the ground. They turned to look at me as they entered, and cocked their head, their two eyes opening wider. Their mouth stretched to the sides and upwards, baring stumps of bone pushing through their mouth. I tried not shudder and extended an arm in greeting.

“Hello,” said Yktc, and went to touch my arm. I drew it back instinctively before they responded.

“Oh, apologies,” they said. “I forgot you do not touch.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, weirded out but trying not to show it. Yktcckyck bared their teeth again before climbing in to their VR chair. They lowered the bubble around them and sealed themselves off from the rest of the room. I breathed lighter again once they could not see me, and sealed myself in to my own VR bubble.

Isabel 4y-12: Yktkykyc’s weird

Johnny 2x-41: I know right. They touched my arm yesterday. I had to wash it off when I got home.

Isabel 4y-12: Ewwwww

The teacher’s avatar appeared in the corner of my vision. They nodded at me sternly.

Teacher: Make sure you keep these comments to yourself.

I forgot that the teacher could read our discussion. I apologised and double-checked the privacy settings, making sure Yktcckyck could not read our messages.

Once everyone was wired in, the simulation booted up. My previously green screen warped and flickered in to a new image. Around me was a cockpit, the many buttons and switches not unlike the VR bubble’s own. In front of me and on either side, great glass windows opened up the world me. I saw great banks of sand around me, stretching out as far as I could see. A short distance to my left, I spotted another mech, and saw what I must look like from the outside. A rhomboid metal box, perched on two skinny legs, a pair of huge barrels mounted to either side, presumably weapons of some form.

The teacher’s voice crackled through a speaker. It must have been diegetic; usually they sounded crystal clear through the VR headset.

“Okay kids. Today we’re at the battle of Tekl Bridge. Class are split in to the two sides; the Artolian rebels on the one and the Tekl Republic on the other.”

I looked around the cockpit for an indicator of my side; I saw an instruction manual for the mech, the cover written in jagged Artolian script. I sent send a message over to Johnny.

Isabel 4y-12: Yo what side you on? I’m Artolian.

Johnny 2x-41: My mech’s full of Tekl incense. Take a guess. This stuff reeks.

Isabel 4y-12: hahahahahaha

Johnny 2x-41: guess who’s on my side tho. Two mechs to my right

Isabel 4y-12: Ykykktkt?

Johnny 2x-41: yeahhh. They really don’t like the incense. They opened the hood and chucked it out.

I laughed, completely missing the last 30 seconds of whatever the teacher was saying. I tried to tune back in as they explained the scenario.

“...Artolians, you first. You are to attempt to seize control of the bridge from the Tekl Republic forces, who are encamped around either side. They have superior armament, but their energy weapons are suffering from high the desert heat. When it originally played out, the Artolians managed to avoid the first few barrages and timed their strike for when the Tekl weapons had started to overheat.”

I skimmed the manual quick; my own weapons were ballistic, firing huge great slugs of metal via electromagnetic coil. They would pack a huge punch, but ammunition was limited, and I’d have to track my targets carefully. I preferred playing with ballistic weapons, though; they were far more satisfying when they connected.

The scenario started and my squadron set off. The eight of us climbed the hill and peeked over with our periscopes; the bridge was close enough to be within firing range as soon as we crested the ridge. We discussed amongst ourselves quickly the best tactic; whether to go over guns blazing, or split into two and flank them around the sides. I voted for the latter, and so did enough others to agree it. I joined the left team and we made our way fast around the sand dune.

As the mech in front of me stepped in to the open, four beams of energy fired out, arcing their way through the air with a terrible crackle. They fizzed as they passed by, and one grazed the boy in front, cracking the screen and half-blinding him. He yelled over the comms and kept moving fast, zig-zagging to avoid any more shots.

I darted out from the dune and turned to fire, spotting the enemy mechs in position by the bridge. The lead vehicle fired, two beams burning towards me. Before I could react they pierced the glass, and one of them struck my shoulder, burning the flesh and exposing tendon and bone. I yelled and laughed, shielding my eyes from broken glass as pain exploded across my chest. I aimed at the mech, trying to guide the shots, and let loose four shots in succession. A fraction of a second passed before they landed, punching into the torso, knocking the mech off its feet. My left arm hung useless at my side, the muscles disconnected and spasming. I tried to turn the mech away, but the controls were confusing with one arm, and I stalled the engine. I kicked it in frustration as the enemy mechs closed on me. Two of them aimed and fired, and beams tore into my mech and body, burning away my flesh.

Yktcckyck came up to me after class, and bowed.

“I’m sorry for today. It looked horrible.”

“No way. What do you mean?”

They hesitated, looking away for a moment, holding one of their arms with the other. Their face flesh turned red and I felt bile in my throat.

“I saw the energy beams hit you. I saw it melt away your skin and muscle. Did it not hurt? The simulations are so... realistic.”

I shrugged. “Sure, it hurt. I just got on with it.”

They looked completely shocked, eyes open wide, mouth open but hiding the bone this time. “How can you... just get on with it? Every time I enter the simulations...”

They shudder. I tried to remember if I’d ever killed them in VR. I would have saved the memory away, surely; it would have been so inappropriate, so fun.

“The pain is too much. I came here to understand, but... I cannot grasp why you enjoy it.”

I nodded to them. “I don’t know, dude, it’s just fun. You never wanted to shoot your friend in the face?”

They shook their head, but jarringly said no out loud, and my brain ticked over for a second trying to understand what they meant. Truly, Yktcckyck was from a very different culture to my own.

We returned to the simulation for the next class, on 17th-Century archery. We stepped in to the upright booths instead, attaching the harness to each of our arms, standing on the gyroscope and getting balance. I didn’t like these simulations as much; they made me dizzy when I couldn’t balance right. Yktcckyck, the freak, they were a natural, and stepped on to the gyro with ease, holding their two arms out to either side.

I put my VR visor over my head, and the headphones to my ears, blocking out the world around me. This time the sim started as soon as I was connected, and I stood in a field under the sun. Around me, other group members popped in to existence, their avatars looking prim and orderly. Each of us wore impressive red uniform, covered in buttons and sashes. Everyone and myself carried a large wooden bow, and I felt my back for a quiver of arrows, the feathers white and straight.

“Okay, kids,” I heard, and turned to see the teacher holding a bow of their own. “Today we’re going to learn archery.”

They ran through the basics with all of us, and I tried out pulling the string of my bow back. It was tough, but after a few tries I got used to the strength required. The teacher showed how to hold an arrow, and what grip to use as we drew it back. They guided us to a row of targets set further down the field, and we set up in a row, each with our own target. I stood near the end at the penultimate target; Yktcckyck had the target next to me at the end, and glanced at me as they prepared their bow. I think they were trying to be friendly, but it looked awful, and I couldn’t look at the bone protruding through their mouth.

The teacher set us to practice, and I lined up with the target, firing arrow after arrow. After twenty minutes, I  started to get the hang of it, and could hit the target every few tries. Once most of the class had used up all their arrows, the teacher instructed everyone to stop firing and to let others collect theirs in safety. I still had one in my quiver.

As Yktcckyck walked over to the target to pick up their arrows, a message from Johnny showed in my vision.

Johnny 2x-41: Hey, it’d be funny if someone got hit right now, huh?

I glanced over. Johnny still had an arrow left, too, and nocked it in his bow. He looked over at the teacher, who stood with their back to us temporarily. I grinned and nodded at him, and he quickly drew it back and fired.

“Woops, I missed.”

We watched the arrow fly through the air and strike Yktcckyck in the side. The force knocked them forward and they staggered on their feet. We giggled together, then burst in to laughter as they started to scream in pain.

Third Eye

I marched through the ghost town in unison with my fellow soldier TN-21, helmets under our arms, feeling at ease. No monsters had been reported in this area for a week, no encounters with those heinous beasts that stalked and ate our kind. The patrol was to be our last before we returned to the mothership for redeployment, the area deemed cleansed. TN-21 had turned his head to face me as we talked, his third eye glittering in the sun. We came to a crossroads in the street, each direction quiet and dusty, ruined buildings empty of life.

“Which way?” he asked. I thought for a moment before pointing to the right-hand path. He nodded and we started to move; his third eye flashed green as he uploaded the data, reporting on our decision.

A few minutes down the street and there was a crash from a building further down. We froze and readied ourselves for an encounter, and I lifted my helmet on by impulse. TN-21’s third eye flashed red as new data came down; new commands flowed into his cortex, and I felt my own do the same, compelled to march forward and check out the disturbance. The two of us made it four steps before freezing to the spot.

Out of a doorway tumbled three monsters. I took in their appearance with horror; a dirty red colour, each with far too many limbs, furred and ugly, ending in wicked sharp claws. The head of each swivelled to look at us, the eyes red and sinister as they focused in on our presence. One of them carried a weapon, a primitive bow and arrow.

TN-21’s third eye flickered green and red as he swapped data with the mothership. He swung his rifle around to aim, but it was too late; the monster with the bow nocked and fired an arrow with speed, and it flew through the to strike TN-21 in the forehead. His third eye shattered and he fell back with a cry.

I swore and turned to face the monsters. I tried to aim for one, but they moved too fast; the three split off, two going left and one right, coming towards me low to the ground. I stood my ground firing, but each shot went wide. Panicking, I backed away, firing more shots to keep their heads down, and I glanced down at my fallen companion.

My third eye buzzed with activity and I stared down at TN-21 with horror. One of the monsters must have reached him already, flanked us from behind. He had been possessed; the dirty red fur had spread over him and covered his hands and face. I felt the impulse to aim at him, to protect myself from the infection, but I knew under the fur was my companion, my friend. My head screamed as I swung my rifle around to point at him.

Something barged into me from behind, and I fell forward, a shot firing wide into the dirt. I scrabbled and spun around to face two monsters bearing down on me, mouths wide with terrible, rotten teeth, opening to swallow me whole. I swung a fist at one and knocked it off, but another replaced him and pinned my arms down. One sat on my chest, the other holding my arms, and I struggled as I waited for them to eat me.

The monster I’d hit crouched down by my head, hissing as it drew a knife.  I struggled as it reached for my helmet, popping the seals and drawing it off. The moment air reached me again I could smell its foul stench, old meat and damp earth sticking to my throat. The monster edged closer, and brought the knife slowly to my face. At the last moment I lost my courage, and closed my eyes to await death.

With agony I felt the tip of the knife pierce my forehead, and my eyes snapped open again as it cut a circle along. With a flick, the monster wrenched out my third eye, and my vision strobed as I saw the silver threads connecting us torn from my skull. The eye flashed red twice, and died, inert metal dangling above me. My face screwed up in pain and I slammed my eyes shut against it all.

“Wake up, friend. Open your eyes again, and see.”

A hand shook my shoulder, and I felt a prick in the neck and a soft feeling spreading across me. The pain dissipated, and I opened my eyes again.

The monsters were gone. Crouched over me were three people, two women and a man, dressed in worn clothes with hair grown long past their eyes. The man stroked my cheek with a sympathetic look, and one of the women reached down with a bandage for my forehead. The three of them gently lifted themselves off me, and I propped myself up on my elbows, staring around in confusion.

The street was green, lush, the dust gone and replaced by fallen leaves from trees I thought dead. The windows intact and the buildings whole, I saw faces peek out one by one, children and adults all unkempt, the hair allowed to grow from their skin. I stared at it all, then at my attackers in confusion.

“You have been freed,” one woman said, “from the mothership’s control. You and your friend.”

I looked at her in shock as she replaced the knife in her belt, and stepped to the side. Sat up in the street, his expression one of wonder and terror, TN-21 raised a hand in greeting, his forehead bandaged where the third eye once lit. Somehow, I felt I saw my friend now truly as he was for the first time, two-armed, two-legged, two-eyed.

Better Times

Real Food - Real Coffee - Real Staff - only at Better Times!

The skyscrapers in South 8 district are all metal and glass, clean blocks of colour or crystal stretching as far as the eye can see in all directions, angular sides and sharp edges delineating the borders of one and another. Everything is bright and new, and everything feels like the future. Adverts play on the sides of everything, projected holograms or simple screens, the colours popping out, arresting gazes on every surface.

Amongst all of this, nestled in the space between two buildings, a single brick building survives. The fascia is stained with age, the details blurred by corrosion and rain, all the surfaces untouched by the synthetic cleaners. A woman leans out the window and wipes down the glass with a rag instead, doing the job of an automaton.

The Better Times cafe attracts a mixed customer base. There are those who are old, and clinging on the past; there are those who fetishise its contents, who ache for a time they were never alive to see; and there are those who have simply tired of the modern world, everything digital and synthetic, and wish for something against the grain. Better Times welcomes all inside its doors.

As a customer enters, the waitress at the counter looks up and smiles. She skips over to the customer, a dark-haired woman dressed in a grey suit. They look totally out of place here, far smarter than the usual clientele. This doesn’t faze the waitress at all, and she picks up a menu from the shelf before greeting them.

“Hi! Welcome to Better Times. My name’s Izzy. What are you here for today?”

“A drink, please,” the woman replies. They hesitate before adding, “and maybe food, too.”

“Okay! Are you eating on your own?”

The woman nods solemnly. Izzy escorts her over to the bar, where a row of stools face the kitchen and cafe. A pair of students are sat at the end, discussing old literature that sits between them, and the woman is shocked to see real paper lying in the open.

“Would you like to sit here? Or would you prefer a quieter spot?”

“No, this is fine. Thank you,” she says, and hangs her bag carefully under the counter before sitting on the stool. The wood and leather are comfortable, surprisingly so, and she takes a long breath. Izzy leans over the counter and proffers a drinks menu.

“What would you like to drink? We have a range of hot and cold drinks, as well as alcoholic -- real, not synthetic -- and other herbal recipes.”

“Oh, I’ll have a small glass of wine. White, please.”

“Okay! One small glass of white. I’ll leave you with a food menu whilst you wait.”

Izzy scurries off to get the drink whilst the woman looks at the menu. All the food looks incredible -- fresh vegetables, rich sauces, and -- surely not -- real meat. Only a small selection of the latter, but amazing to see anything not grown a lab in a cafe this far in to the city.

Izzy returns with a small glass of wine, and carefully places it in front of the woman. She leans back and beams, wielding a notepad and pencil.

“Do you know what you’d like to eat?”

“I’m not sure. The meat... is it real?”

Izzy beams and nods vigourously. “It’s real. We import it in from a farm outside the city. We haven’t got much though, I’m afraid -- the chicken is sold out for this week, and we might be out of the lamb too.”

“Oh, okay. I only wanted to go for the chicken. So maybe...”

She scans the menu whilst Izzy waits patiently. At not point does she feel hurried, or awkward -- the waitress just stands and smiles. After a few moments the woman speaks up again.

“I think I’ll have the vegetarian sushi, then.”

“Okay! Great choice. I’ll go tell the cook.”

She winks back at the woman, who blushes in response as Izzy leaves. She thinks about the girls at work for a moment; cold and smart, behind a desk or next to the replicator; as flat as the automatons who work in half the positions. The one girl she’s had her eye on, on the reception desk, has never smiled at her like that, let alone winked. The woman feels strange as she sips her wine, and starts to look around the room as she waits.

The students at the end of the bar point excitedly at the pages in front of them, and lean over it together, their shoulders touching, one of them brushing hair out of their eyes. They don’t notice the woman staring at them at all. She looks around more, and looks at an elderly lady sat near the back, quietly eating a pasta dish on her own. One table over, a man and woman share pieces of cake with each other, two mugs of coffee between them as they feed each other forkfuls of sweet food.

Izzy returns and breaks the woman’s observation.

“I’m sorry, the cook has told me there’ll be a tiny delay -- are you okay hanging on for a while?”

“Yes, that’s okay,” she replies. “I can take a longer lunch.”

Izzy breaths out and her shoulders drop in relief. “That’s great. I was worried. Have you come from work?”

The woman leans forward slightly, talking to her across the bar. “I have. I work in the Syndia offices.”

“Oh, wow,” Izzy says. “There’s really big, aren’t they?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“What do you do? If you don’t mind me asking.”

The woman shakes her head and smiles. “I don’t mind. I’m a division manager.”

“Cool! I bet you even have your own office.”

She hesitates. “I do. It’s just a small one, though.”

Izzy grins at her, a wisp of hair falling in front of her eyes. She brushes it back and spins to head back to the kitchen, her ponytail bouncing as she walks away. The woman watches her go and sips her wine carefully. She doesn’t think about the girls at the office anymore. She waits instead, swirling the rest of the wine around her glass, gently tilting it back and forth. After a while Izzy returns carrying a piece of slate, the sushi arranged neatly in a row.

“Here you are! One vegetable sushi.”

She places it down in front of the woman with a little flourish, and beams at her, small hands clasped in front of her apron.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

The woman hesitates. She asks her a question and tries not to think about how it went last time, with the girl from HR with blue hair that matched her pretty eyes. Izzy doesn’t react for a second before blushing fiercely.

“Oh, um, okay! I didn’t expect that. Um...one moment please.”

She scurries off to the kitchen, out of sight. The woman feels her heart sink and looks down with a sigh, picking up the chopsticks and fiddling with them, trying to hold them properly. She eats quietly, spacing each piece with pickled ginger, attempting and regretting the grey-green wasabi paste with one bite. The air in the cafe is the same, and no windows have opened, but it feels colder and stuffier without a friendly presence in front of her. She eats in silence, listening to the gentle music piped through the speakers as if it is a friend in conversation. As she comes to the end of her plate, she glances up to see Izzy return to the counter. Izzy hesitates and pushes a strand of hair back behind her ear.

“Um, I need to take my lunch break,” she says. “Would you mind if I sat here?”

“No, of course not,” the woman says, quite far from minding at all. She tries not to stare too obviously as Izzy walks around the counter with a tupperware of food, and perches on the stool next to her. She gives a little wave to the students at the end of the bar, who nod and wave back. As she sits next to the woman, she pauses for a moment.

“Did I ask your name already?”

“No. My name’s Corinne.”

Izzy smiles at her. “Nice to meet you, Corinne.”

She opens the lid of her tupperware and reveals a simple meal of fried potatoes and some kind of greens. Corinne glances at her own plate guiltily, but Izzy makes no comment about the difference in dishes. She takes a first mouthful of food and swallows it before talking.

“So what brings you here? You’re not the, um, normal type of customer we get.”

“What do you mean?”

Izzy panics and says quickly, “Oh, I didn’t mean --“

Corinne waves down her apology without a word, and Izzy clears her throat before continuing.

“Um, I mean, we don’t often see people from places like Syndia.”

“You don’t often see businesswomen?”

Izzy shakes her head. “Not really.”

Corinne finishes her wine and answers. “I don’t know what brought me here. I see it on the way to work most days. It’s always looked so out of place.”

Izzy laughs and Corinne smiles along with her.

“That’s not a bad thing, of course. It’s lovely in here.”

“Thank you! I’m glad you think so.”

“And the staff are lovely, too.”

Izzy blushes and looks down at her food. Corinne feels nervous but on a roll, emboldened by the wine and Izzy’s presence.

“I mean it. You’ve made the whole trip worth it on your own.”

“Oh, stop it,” she replies, and tries to eat her food. She takes a bite and glances at Corinne, resting her chin on her hands and gazing at her. She chokes and coughs, and Corinne’s expression turns aghast.

“Oh -- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--“

This time Izzy holds a hand up to stop her, and carefully swallows her food instead. Corinne looks repentant and looks down at the remains of her lunch.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so pushy.”

“Um... maybe not, no.”

She resumes eating and the air turns thick with silence. After a second Corinne takes a breath and goes to speak, but Izzy beats her to it.

“It’s not... unpleasant, though.”

“It’s not?”

They make eye contact, and Izzy breaks it to look down at her food. Corinne leans on her hand again and watches her eat. The conversation dissipates and they just sit together for a while, the music playing gently in the background, new customers entering and leaving as Izzy finishes her lunch. Soon Corinne knows she has to check the time, has to get up and return to work. She sighs and gently steps off the stool.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay all day,” she says, and brushes down her skirt. Izzy hesitates before placing her fork down.

“Well, um, thanks for coming! It’d be great to see you again.”

“Are you saying that as the cafe, or as you?”

Izzy blushes and looks away. Corinne chuckles and goes to leave, taking a few steps before Izzy touches her arm as she passes.

“I meant that as me. You asked earlier, and, uh,...”

Izzy passes her a slip of paper with her address written on it. Corinne looks at it for a moment before gently taking it from her, their fingertips brushing as she does so.

She leaves the cafe with a wave to her colleagues, switching over the staff from day to night shift. Out the door she goes, and with a last breath of the warm, aromatic air, Izzy steps in to the rest of the world.

This level of the street is busy with commuters, making their way back and forth some way above the real ground below. The buildings on either side stretch tall and clean, the sharp surfaces free of all distractions from the adverts splayed across them. She looks at a few with awe, more impressed by the visuals than the contents they sell. The people on the street seem to either ignore or not notice entirely everything around them, focused on their destinations, on their inner selves or the people they talk to via headset. Izzy takes her route East via the main street, then ducks in to a stairwell down to the level below. She never takes the lift; being locked in a box with strangers whilst plummeting through the air is not her idea of a good time. She takes the steps two at a time instead, turning a right angle every dozen as the staircase takes a long spiral down. People pass her going up and down, lugging huge bags or small ones, or pulling children by the hand as they chatter and shout.

The next level opens out around her as she steps on to the street, functionally the same street, the same styes of buildings and locations. She looks under where the Good Times Cafe stands, the foundations above a roof of the community centre below, great anchors of steel and artificial stone forming a ground layer for the unusual bricks of the cafe. She passes by the community centre and glances in at those attending meetings or clubs; sometimes this can be her too, but not today.

Further down the street, in one apartment just like another, she lives alone. The door to the tower opens and she lets herself in on the 12th level, to take the stairs down to the 8th. She has visited the ground floor a few times, taken a submarine to view the original foundations of the city she calls home. She has visited the 2nd floor of her tower, where Mrs Ghani can lean out of her window and fish for debris and recycling. She has not visited the 41st level, owned by the manager of an automaton sub-contractor, who also owns the 40th level underneath. Those heights are too high for her anyway.

She exits the stairs and skips down the hallway to her door; her fingerprints open the lock and she enters, the door closing automatically behind her. Inside, her living space is contradictory: the spartan layout of most the new builds, antiseptic and easy to clean, with digital screens on most surfaces; but filled with assortments and objects from history, relics and things that are real, tangible and messy, difficult to tidy around. The air in her living space is stale. She doesn’t mind.

She places her bag on the sofa and takes her hair down, teasing it out of its stiff shape with her fingers after so many hours of wearing it in a bun. She walks across the room as she does so, whistling a tune, pausing to ask the radio to turn on. It switches to her favourite channel automatically, and gently jazz starts to play, of the sort popular in the sort of bars she likes. She opens the fridge, and it tells her in melodic sampled voices that the milk will only be good for another day, and she takes a bottle from the back. She opens it with the magnetic port on the door, the synthetic alcohol inside fizzing slightly, the carefully designed aroma of real beer! floating up to her. She takes a sip and walks around the apartment humming to herself.

She should eat, she should make food or order food, but she hasn’t got that on her mind. She should clean, or tidy up a little at least, or at least charge up the hoover automaton, but she isn’t thinking about that. For the fourth time since lunchtime she pulls up the phone hud and checks for any messages. For the fourth time since lunchtime, she has no messages from Corinne.

She tries not to be weird about it. It’s not the first time someone has asked for her contact details and then taken ages to actually contact her, and Corinne is a very busy woman. She’s a busy and important enough woman, in fact, that Izzy could search her details on the net and find a biography, several corporate articles, and at-work contact details for her. She’s busy and important enough that Izzy knows she must have a lot of other people in her life.

Izzy does not have a lot of people in her life. She knows her colleagues at work, but they don’t really hang out outside of work; she knows her friends from university, but they moved to other districts, and the train to visit costs more than a day’s wages; she knows her neighbours, but does not wish to know them very much more. She knows her family, so far away outside the city, in one of the farmsteads out west; and she talks to them, at least. Her brother calls at least once a week to catch up. Tonight is not that night, so the only message she expects is from Corinne, whether it will come or not.

She wonders what time she will get home. She wonders what Corinne’s home is like; whether it’s neater than hers, stylish, maybe higher up in the towers where you get real sunlight. She is struck by jealousy as she thinks of what it must cost, and what it must be like, and for a moment Izzy wants to wake up in the morning and drink coffee and watch the sun rise through glass, not telescreen, Corinne present or not.

She sits on the sofa and sighs, seeing the red sky through the screen on the south wall, and switches it off. The wall goes misty and the light from outside shine through instead, blurred colours from multi-storey adverts for essential purchases. Izzy recognises the advert by the colour scheme; she knows it’s for the new cleaning automaton by Syndia. She wonders if Corinne designed the advert, approved it, even just looked at it once.

As she stares and thinks, her mind buzzes, and words overlay themselves on the top right of her vision, from an unfamiliar username. Her heart jumps and she reads the message, and at once she knows it’s from Corinne.

Corinne: Hi. I’d really like to see you again.

Izzy thinks that’s pretty direct and straight to the point. She replies without thinking.

Izzy: I would too.

She doesn’t know what she’s just written. It’s unlike her. She would normally play it out, feel the mood of the conversation, try and insinuate without expressly saying she would like to spend time with someone or to Know them in some other sense.

Corinne: Well. That was straight to the point.

Izzy: I’m not usually!

Corinne: You’re not? I guess I only know you at work. You’re to the point when you work.

Izzy: Well yeah. Who’s cagey at work?

Corinne: Where I work? A lot of people.

Izzy leans back in the sofa and takes another swig of her bottle, watching the messages come in to her vision. She can imagine Corinne’s voice saying them in her ear, and she feels weird for doing that with each one. She wonders what it would be like for her to speak in to her hear, and how close she could stand it.

Izzy: I can see one of your adverts out of my window.

Corinne: Really? Which advert?

Izzy: The red-and-blue one for the Rommver 3b.

There’s a pause as Corinne takes longer to reply. Izzy finishes her drink as she waits.

Corinne: Does that mean you live on the 8th floor of Hillier Tower?

Izzy looks behind her to check there’s no one spying on her.

Izzy: That’s really creepy.

Corinne: Sorry. It’s easy to look up where our adverts are.

Izzy: It’s cool. You totally have to tell me where you live now though. Only fair.

Corinne: That’s fair. My address is Suite A, Floor 39, Oxford Tower.

Of course she lives there. Not only does she live above the sunlight line, but in a nicer building than hers too, for god knows how much rent a month. Izzy closes her eyes and tries to imagine what it looks like. She imagines looking out over the streets far below, far to the sides, the traffic of vehicles through the sky and tiny, ant-like pedestrians below. She wants to see it in person. She’s never been that far up a tower in her life.

Izzy: Wow. I’ve never been that high up.

Corinne: Well. Do you want to?

She climbs the stairs to the 39th floor.

Corinne doesn’t know what is happening. The last time she invited a girl to her apartment, the girl refused, and now won’t speak to her past mandatory pleasantries at work. The time before, the girl came to the apartment, only to drink and gush about her boyfriend. Corinne had totally misread the signs there. But now someone was coming here and maybe, this time, it would work.

Not being from the same company was a plus. If it did go south -- and Corinne had already prepared for this -- then they wouldn’t have to dance around each other awkwardly. Corinne wouldn’t be able to return to the Good Times Cafe again, and that would be a shame, but not difficult. She would just eat the replicated food from the cafeteria as she did every other day.

Corinne prepares her apartment for a visitor. She tries out different designs on the walls, settling on a maroon design with bold stripes, accented with a light grey filling out the palette. The apartment updates itself and colours everything appropriately; the doors and windows turn a gentle grey, the walls add in the maroon stripes in increasing shades from ground to ceiling. Her sofa morphs in to a curvier shape, and when Corinne doesn’t like the maroon colour it changes to the grey tone instead. She glances in to the kitchen, where the appliances have updated themselves accordingly. Sometimes the kettle forgets to change to match the colourscheme, but the new update seems to have fixed that glitch.

Corinne thinks for a minute about the decor, and tries to select a scent that she thinks will work. She doesn’t want to be too pushy, to have it smell obviously seductive and lecherous, but right now it smells clean and impersonal, the air maybe tinged with vanillin and little else. She wonders about cinnamon, but the esters make some people’s nose itch; she tries out a few, waiting a few minutes for them to diffuse, before settling on an Apple Pie blend by one of Syndia’s Home & Furnishing branches.

Her hud alerts her to a visitor; Corinne frowns when she sees them in the stairwell rather than the lift. The visitor pauses at the top of the flight, having reached the 39th floor after what must be some time. Corinne adjusts the neckline of her shirt, pats her hair to make sure the bun is still in place, quickly turns a wall reflective to check her teeth. Through the wall she sees a person-shaped blur walk towards her, and she turns the augmented-world overlay off to greet her in person instead. She stands behind the door and suddenly feels a flutter in her chest. She wants to open the door and burst out straight away, but waits until she hears the doorbell -- though soon as it sounds, she jumps forward and opens the door to Izzy.

“Hello!” she says, excited.

“Hello,” she says, exhausted.

Corinne doesn’t know whether to step forward for a handshake, an embrace, a kiss on the cheek, so does none of these. She steps back and beckons Izzy in with a hand swept low. Izzy steps over the boundary. The door closes behind her and she stares around at the room.

“Wow,” she says. Corinne doesn’t know what specifically she thinks is wow.

“What do you think?”

“I... can I sit down? I’m sorry, my legs really hurt.”

Corinne hesitates before gesturing to the sofa. “Of course. Did you... did you take the stairs?”

“Yeah,” Izzy says, and walks over to the sofa before collapsing down.

“Why?” asks Corinne. Izzy turns to stare at her and looks blank for a minute, before leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

“I don’t like the lifts. They make me feel uncomfortable.”

“I see,” says Corinne, not really seeing. She watches Izzy breathe tiredly, her shoulders raising and falling, her neck exposed where she leans her head back. “Would you like a drink?”

“I’d love one,” she says. “Whatever you’re having.”

Izzy waits for Corinne to leave the room before sitting back up. Her head feels light and she’s only just stopped seeing stars in her vision. Thirty-one flights of stairs have absolutely worn her out, and she tries to resist the urge to lie down entirely. She leans on her hand and stares at the window instead. At least, she thinks it’s the window -- it has a frame, but displays an image of a harbour from a much lower vantage point than it should, geographically speaking. Izzy wonders how to turn it clear instead of imaged, but this isn’t her apartment, she’s not connected to anything. She can’t control what it shows any more than she could unlock the door on her own.

Corinne returns with two glasses and a bottle. Izzy has no idea what sort of stuff she drinks, what sort of drinks she can afford to stock her apartment with; she asked for the same drink as her out of panicked bravado. As Corinne approaches she hopes their taste in drinks isn’t, like, really weird.

Corinne places the glasses and bottle down on the coffee table, and hesitates for a minute before sitting down next to Izzy. Their legs don’t quite touch, and there’s a vaguely chaste distance between them both on the sofa. Izzy wonders whether she is the type to pounce on people unexpectedly; whether she will pin Izzy to the sofa and do things to her. It’s exciting, and scary, both feelings merging together in one tornado inside her, twisting her stomach up with nervousness.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” says Corinne, “So I just opened a bottle of zinfandel.”

She gestures to rosé on the table and Izzy tries not to goggle.

“Um,” she says. “Is that real?”

“Yes,” says Corinne, and leans forward to pour some. “You do drink, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, I drink, but --“ Izzy swallows and talks a little quieter. “That’s usually way out of my budget.”

“I thought you sell it at the cafe?”

“I can’t buy it.”

Corinne hesitates before passing the glass over to her. Izzy takes it and stares at it still, trying not to think about how much it costs. Corinne takes her own and leans back, taking a little sip.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “My treat.”

“Well, um, thanks,” says Izzy, and takes a sip of her own. It makes the synthetic alternative she drinks taste like paint thinner. Corinne watches her carefully.

“So,” she says. “What do you think? You said you’ve never been this high up.”

Izzy glances over at the window. “It doesn’t feel super high.”

Corinne follows her gaze and puts her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I totally forgot! If you’ve never been up here before you’d want to see.”

She stands and walks over to the window, and Izzy puts her glass down to follow her straight away, walking a step behind. As they reach the window the view shifts and wobbles, the picture disintegrating before reforming another world far, far higher up. Izzy almost loses her balance as she watches the view change, and leans on the glass for stability. All around her the towers end, and the sky stretches out above and around, a horizon too far to even see, the ground below -- the highest level of ground -- misty from the height.

“Woah,” she says, and puts her face almost to the glass. Corinne giggles as she watches, holding one hand up to her mouth whilst the other nurses the glass. Izzy drags her eyes away from the outdoors to look back at Corinne for acknowledgement, for them to agree just how incredible the view is.

“It’s okay up here,” she says. “I get dizzy sometimes and change it.”

“If I lived up here, I’d never change it,” Izzy says. “I’d want to stare out every day.”

Corinne can’t help but laugh at her. The sight is nothing special, she thinks, but Izzy is so taken by it. She finds it adorable. She turns and walks over to the sofa so that Izzy doesn’t see her blush. Corinne is struck by two urges; to play the worldly, experienced, professional senpai; but also to take her by the hand and rub her hair and tell her she’s cute. Corinne could eat her up.

She places her glass down on the table and sits back down. Izzy follows her after a moment, but sits perched on the edge, torn between the view and the... well, Corinne wonders what she’s here for. She can’t help but second-guess; she wants Izzy to be here for everything Corinne wants, but doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to scare her away.

“You’re not just here for the view, are you?”

Izzy turns to look at Corinne, her face hard to read. Her eyes go wide for a moment, before she dims them and looks away to the side. She starts to fiddle with her hands nervously.

“Um... I don’t know what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean?” asks Corinne, very much wanting to know, but not wanting to know.

“I mean...” she takes a deep breath. It takes her a moment to speak again, and Corinne senses her struggling to speak. Finally, she continues.

“When you invited me here it was the first time anyone had for a long time.”

Corinne looks at Izzy and suddenly sees a girl who might be very lonely, a girl she’d never suspected of seeing before.

“Why? You’re friendly and pretty. I thought the boys and girls would be all over you.”

“Oh, you’re um,” Izzy says, blushing and looking down at her glass in her hand. She sways it from side to side.

“I mean it. Are you saying no-one asks you out?”

“...When you say it like that, it sounds pathetic.”

Corinne feels bad suddenly, a welt forming in her heart. She shuffles over and touches Izzy on the arm.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised.”

She waits for a moment as Izzy glances at her hand, and up at her face.

“I’m sorry. Are you sure you want...?” Corinne trails off to try and insinuate something without having to say it. She starts to feel awkward now; she wonders if what she’s doing is right. Corinne tries to convince herself it wouldn’t be taking advantage of her to carry on.

“I... you can. If you want.”

Corinne looks up at her and Izzy meets her eye. She tries to hold her gaze, biting her lip, but glances away when Corinne’s eyes become too much. She takes a breath as Corinne lets her hand run down Izzy’s arm to her hand, resting on her thigh.

“I can?”

She takes her hand and holds it in her own, intertwining fingers with hers, feeling the warmth of her skin and her small fingers. She looks up to see her reaction, and Izzy leans forward and kisses her.

What the hell am I doing

Corinne’s lips are on hers, her lips are on Corinne’s. She feels her hand caught and held, illicitly so, and it’s the most exciting hand she’s held. Izzy isn’t dumb and knows exactly what Corinne invited her here for, and the whole trip here -- all those stairs -- she tried to psych herself up for it. The reality was that Corinne didn’t grab her immediately and pin her down, and Izzy could feel the moment slipping away. She was scared that it would go and she would leave, and that would be that, and she would go home again forever. She felt embarrassed that as Corinne’s other hand found its way to her waist she had the thought, unbidden, what am I going to tell my brother when he calls. She felt ridiculous and tried to get rid of the thought the only way she could think to, and put her hands around Corinne’s neck to pull her down on to her.

“Um,” she said, but trailed off. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Operational Parameters

Coming over the hills, it gave out a low rumble, a low whine as its joints moved and placed one foot in front of he other on the grass. As it crested the hill it scanned around for the target, finding its bearings between the many valleys across the cliffs. Scurrying behind at a safe distance, children shouted and laughed, having tracked it for some time, eager to see what would happen next. The adult fans followed, binoculars and notepads in hand, discussing amongst themselves what they knew to be the target of its mission today.

As it led the parade down the slope, it slowed to a halt in front of a small rectangle of concrete set into the grass. A metal hatch sat embedded on one side, bolted shut, and the remnants of an exterior structure showed in the grooves and foundations sticking out around the edge. The fans stopped and grew quiet just out of reach, waiting in anticipation for the next event.

It took photographs, examined the concrete remains, and dialled.

“Operator, over.” Came the answer, unheard to the human crowd.

“Unit 81 at target site. Exterior structure absent but underground access present. Seek confirmation to proceed, over.”

A moment passed in silence, the unit standing still, the crowd behind shuffling nervously.

“Unit 81, you have permission to proceed. Be advised ground and cliffs formed of chalk and prone to instability, over.”

It knew that already, had researched the terrain and history of the area beforehand. The underground bunker would not extend very far in any direction; the unit paced in a circle, listening carefully with its feet. Hearing the echoes of the chamber underground, it traced a line out for the walls. Returning to the hatch, it crouched down and grasped the restraining bolt.

With a distressed whine, the metal gave way and bent backwards, the bolt curling in on itself like a spring. Shouts came from the kids watching on the hill, and as Unit 81 grasped the hatch itself the audience cheered. Pulling the hatch up, it lowered its head into the darkness of the chamber below and looked around. The light filtering in from the hatch just slightly picked out the edges of chairs, reflected off a tarnished tea kettle, and made the artillery equipment inside gleam.

It drew its head back out of the chamber as it heard footsteps. Two of the older fans had jogged over to the hatch to look and stare, one of them holding a camera nervously. As Unit 81 turned to face them they froze. It exaggerated looking them up and down before speaking.

“You have fifteen seconds to observe. No photographs.”

They nodded and crouched down by the hatch.

“Cool! It’s just like the bunker up at Horam.”

“Look, there’s the ammunition.”

Unit 81 counted down the seconds silently as the two humans excitedly pointed things out to each other. The smaller kids sat on the hill, still too nervous to come any closer. As the fifteen seconds came to an end the unit stirred.

“Time. Please vacate to a safe distance.”

The two of them flinched before backing off quickly. They jogged over to the rest of the children on the hill, and ushered them all further away to hide behind the crest. The one with the camera turned to face Unit 81 and shouted back.

“Why this site? It’s been sealed up! No-one would know!”

Unit 81 did not answer. It took three steps backwards from the hatch, past the line drawn in the grass, and took aim with its left arm. The human’s eyes grew wide and it dived over the hill. Unit 81 hummed a small melody to itself as the reactor charged, gradually drowning out the tune with its own humming of power. A light flashed in its vision, ready to fire, and Unit 81 erased the site.

As the smoke cleared and the last echoes of the blast died away across the hills, a few children stuck their heads over the crest to look at the remains of the bunker. Unit 81 had already started to walk away, leaving behind a scorch mark on the grass leading to a crater in the chalk.

MD-OPS to J. Ingram - Unit 81 has returned to base.

Ingram stirred and lifted his head from the desk as his computer chimed at him. Sprawled out in front of him were files, folders, aged and faded paper documents covering all of his assigned workload. He’d fallen asleep partway through redacting a particularly dry report on damp-proofing. Any distraction from this task was welcome, and he acknowledged the message before stretching his arms. With a yawn, he picked up his notepad and the remains of his coffee, quickly chugging the latter before leaving for the debriefing.

Unit 81 stood expressionless in the hanger, its posture hunched as it charged via a thick cable to the torso. It opened its eyes and tracked Ingram’s path as he walked towards it. Ingram waved casually and it responded with a twitch of its fingers.

“Afternoon, eighty-one. How was your trip this morning?”

It shifted slightly on its feet before responding, “Uneventful. The children are still following me.”

Ingram laughed. “We’ve had reports of that across several of your fellow units. Nothing to worry about as long as you’re careful with your aim.”

The unit didn’t say anything in response, and Ingram stepped over to the readout on the pillar next to it. Nothing untoward -- no damage, charge levels to be expected.

“We’ve another assignment this afternoon. Charging should complete in--“

“Two hours, thirty-four minutes,” Unit 81 interrupted. It turned its head slightly to look directly at Ingram, which made him hesitate before continuing.

“Uh, yes. We’ll be sending you to Carter Barracks. The buildings are to be repurposed as accommodation, but there’s some weapons to be disposed of.”

“You want me to disintegrate the materiel?”

Ingram cleared his throat. “Slightly more carefully, this time.”

Ingram finished the final checks on 81’s status. It had worked hard in the past week -- Carter Barracks to be its fourteenth assignment -- yet showed little sign of wear. Unlike some of its contemporaries, 81 had not yet suffered any errors in judgement or misfires. Ingram was glad to have been assigned it as one of his patch, though sometimes found the conversations a little tense.

“Do you know my assignments tomorrow?”

81 was studying the ends of the fingers on its right hand. Ingram recognised it for the gesture he did when he asked one question but meant something else. After the training, it had been creepy to see his actions reflected in larger scale. His own hand twitched in response.

“There’s another Canadian tank that needs exhumation and destruction. It’s a bit out of the way, so it’s going to be your only one for the day.”

81 let its hand drop back down and looked at the ceiling.

“And the following day?”

“Uh, if the negotiations are completed, then you’ll be joining the Redoubt team. The decisions haven’t come back yet.”

It turned to face Ingram again, who glanced away from the red eyes that spun and focused at him. After a moment’s pause, it said, “The Redoubt is within the range of my operational parameters,” and the pupils of its eyes expanded. Ingram had deduced what the phrase meant by now, thanks to the meltdown of Unit 36; for a reason unknown to him, the behavioural programmers had not seen fit to include the ability to express likes and dislikes. Most of the units, instead of expressing desire to do something, simply stated to their operators that they could. 81 had never told him that it could not do something; but it had informed him three times this week that the Redoubt was within its operational parameters.

Unit 81 had drawn a crowd again as it reached Carter Barracks. This time, in the centre of town, there was a much higher risk of collateral damage. Some of the spectators were the same from earlier, some different -- the two adults had waited outside the depot for 81 to re-emerge, although the one formerly with the camera had at some point left it elsewhere. Processing the reports from other units that had come in whilst it charged, 81 understood there had been an incident with a tourist taking pictures. It guessed that the spectator here had also heard.

Two men in plain clothes greeted Unit 81 at the entrance to Carter Barracks. The spectators stopped a couple of metres behind, more wary of the humans than 81.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” said 81. Its voice was unexpected to them -- intentionally recorded to be mild, calm, inoffensive. The man on the left hesitated before saluting, and the other one shot him a look, before clearing his throat and speaking.

“Lieutenant Collinson, reporting. Materiel is stacked in the courtyard behind the main building. It’s...” he hesitated, looking away for a moment before looking 81 in the eyes. “It’s a shame to see it go.”

Unit 81 did not answer the Lieutenant, but let itself be led through the barracks to the courtyard. Arms and ammunition were neatly and orderly stacked as the lieutenant had said, and 81 took a moment to visually record and catalogue the stack. The lieutenant and the other -- 81 assumed them to be a private -- stood silently waiting. The spectators stood at the gate, knowing better than to trespass even with the arms stacked here out of reach.

“The materiel is incomplete,” 81 said after some time. “There is a single Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol unaccounted for.”

The lieutenant’s face twitched minutely, and the private’s eyes shifted involuntarily away from Unit 81. It traced the private’s gaze to one of the smaller buildings. Without speaking, 81 turned and started to walk towards it.

“Wait! You are not authorised to enter --“

81 responded without turning back to face the Lieutenant. “I am authorised to destroy all materiel designated on this site. If that materiel is located in a building I must enter that building.”

The lieutenant stuttered for a moment, before closing his eyes and groaning. 81 paused to give him time to respond.

“OK. There must have been a... miscount. Private, please enter the building and search for the missing Glock 17.”

The light in the sky was visible earlier in the evening now. Ingram looked up at it from the office window, and stretched his arms as he stared. The light twinkled just north of the Orion constellation, although he knew it to be far closer than that; it had come closer at alarming speed, travelling through space with a sense of inevitability, each hour that passed an hour closer to the Envoy’s arrival. Ingram took a deep breath and returned his gaze to his desk. Empty cans of energy drink lined the windowsill next to him, each one accounting for a few more hours’ overtime. He had a nearly full one in hand as he leafed through the reports on Unit 81.

An incident at the second Canadian tank exhumation had been recorded; an elderly gentleman who took it upon himself to stop the destruction of history. 81 had suffered a shotgun blast to the chest before he had successfully disarmed the man. Thank heavens it was without injury to anything but the man’s pride; Ingram didn’t think he was good enough at the PR angle to spin an old man’s death as necessary. Instead he had been restrained by backup crew, taken to a station to calm down whilst 81 carried on with its work. The tank had been erased before the man had finished his complimentary cup of tea at the station, and another target had been struck off the list. Now, in the quiet of his office, Ingram compared the list of targets remaining with the estimated arrival date of the Envoy, and found it to be a close call.

Unit 81 stood on the promenade, a few metres away from its contemporaries, and it gazed at the Redoubt. As the human crew manned a barricade the units closed in on the old fortification with purpose. Unit 81 took photographs as another unit dialled in.

“Operator, over.”

“Unit 64 at target site. Units 49, 63, 81 accompanying. Seek confirmation to proceed, over.”

81 was aware of the communication, mirrored into its own comm link and broadcast to its audio sensors as if it was physically vocalised; it was aware of it but shunted the information down the list of priorities as it started to circle the fortress. Out of the corner of its eye, it saw Unit 63 standing still and emotionless, just as 81 must have looked.

“Units 49, 63, 64, 81, you have permission to proceed. Limit demolition to core military structure and leave auxiliary buildings intact, over.”

The units raised their arms as one and took aim, four reactors charging in unison. 81 started to hum, a new tune this time, and looked around the area. It saw the children standing at the barricade, and it saw old adults milling about back and forth, some watching, some hiding from the imminent event. When the whine of the reactors started to drown out its melody, 81’s weapon arm began to shake a fraction.

The Envoy had arrived. Ingram attended the meeting with all his other colleagues; the head of service, and all the others higher in position than him; and the one who now ranked above all of them, having sent their avatar whilst they orbited the earth. The Envoy’s holographic avatar chaired the meeting and sat, relaxed, at the head of the conference chamber. On thinking about it, Ingram wasn’t sure what he found more disconcerting; the technically human, averaged appearance of the hologram sat before him, with long grey hair and a trace of stubble matched with a suit jacket and skirt; or the knowledge that the Envoy itself looked nothing like this at all.

“Friends,” it spoke, and the chamber went silent in an instant. The Envoy’s hologram gazed around, and its eyes settled on Ingram’s for a brief and terrible second. He felt it’s gaze go through his skin, as if straight into his consciousness; he gulped.

“Friends,” it repeated, “You have endured two revolutions around your star since our first contact; two revolutions since our ultimatum was issued. The Union of Intelligent Species has sent me to determine your performance.”

It gestured at the wall behind itself, and it lit up with a screen full of figures; unintelligible readouts flickering between text and image too fast to process everything. Ingram recognised a few pictures; Cape Canaveral, London, the Nile, Johannesburg, Tokyo. Another picture flashed up on the screen and he recognised this, too; Unit 81, staring at the photographer.

“Your progress has been admirable. The erasure of any structure or equipment liable to be used in violence appears to have been almost universally adopted.”

There was a shuffling a few seats to Ingram’s left; he glanced over to see one of the police representatives looking uncomfortable.

“We have received your reports on noncompliance and reviewed them. Some cases can be dealt with by your own species. Other individuals with particularly egregious displays of violent or militaristic fetishisation will be removed.”

At this, the police rep stood up abruptly. “What do you mean, removed?! What will happen to them?”

Ingram frowned and, at a vague wisp of recollection dug through his memory. He remembered the important bit with a sick feeling in his stomach; the police rep’s son had been one of those arrested for non-compliance. The rep gazed at the Envoy with a mixture of anger and fear splayed across his face.

“Individuals will be removed from your society to foster greater harmony amongst the whole, and to enable your species to join the Union. This was made clear to you on contact.”

What was also clear, after the first transmission received, was the fate of the species as a whole were there to be insufficient compliance. Ingram swallowed as one of the other attendees hushed the police rep and got him to sit down with a queasy look on his face. The Envoy barely gave him another glance.

“This is the universal dialogue complete; I now turn the transmission over to my local counterpart.”

The Envoy seemed to freeze for a second, expressionless, before jerking back to life again and looking around the room.

“I am the local counterpart for Division 5068 0028. We will now relay our concerns specifically regarding your division.”

Unit 81 stood charging in the hangar as it heard voices approaching. It turned its head to see Ingram, looking concerned and wringing his hands together. He was accompanied by a hologram, of a person 81 had not seen before. The pair approached 81 and came to a rest in front of it.

“81? You awake?”

“I am functional,” 81 responded. Ingram nodded and gestured to the figure next to him.

“This is the Envoy. He-- uh, they-- have some questions for you. Please answer them as if you were talking to me.”

81 nodded and turned to face the Envoy. The figure regarded 81 for a moment before stepping backwards a little.

“Unit 81. Please describe the contents of memory bank starting at 0x451F:000F.”

81 stirred and automatically started to talk, describing the contents of the bank in sequence. As it spoke, Ingram looked uneasy.

“Image of artillery bunker. Image of uncovered Canadian Tank. Image of Redoubt Fortress from South angle. Image of Redoubt Fortress from South-East angle. Image--“

“That will do, 81,” said Ingram. He touched the unit’s arm gently and it stopped talking, staring forward at the Envoy.

“Unit 81, who programmed you to record images of structures and equipment liable to be used in violence?”

Unit 81 took a second to respond this time. “My programming does not contain specific commands to photograph targets. My programming contains specific commands to prevent others photographing targets.”

Ingram swallowed. “Envoy, I don’t know where this has come from, the other units --“

The Envoy hushed him with a raised finger. “Unit 81, please explain why these images have been recorded.”

81 struggled to respond. One of its arms twitched as it thought, and it raised it to the ceiling to stare at the back of its hand. It lowered its arm again and looked at the floor. Finally, after a tense thirty seconds, it looked forward at the Envoy.

“Recording visual information correlating with equipment and structures liable to be used in violence is within the range of my operational parameters.”

When Unit 81 next became aware of its surroundings, it was no longer in the hangar. It stood in an empty room, with restraints around its torso that held it to the wall. Unable to move, it surveyed its surroundings and saw little but clean white walls and a floor made from an unidentifiable silver material. One wall at the end displayed lines that suggested a doorway, but wider and taller than would correlate with one that was human-sized.

As it stared, the wall within the lines began to fade, gradually becoming less opaque until it revealed a creature standing beyond. 81 tried to categorise its appearance based on identifiers built into its database; the creature matched 21.04% with canis lupus familiaris, 17.33% with ursus arctos, and 2.92% with amanita muscaria. It moved into the room and came to a halt in front of 81, before speaking.

“Greetings, Unit 81. We are glad you have not been damaged by the transfer.”

The audio matched 94% with the Envoy hologram, and 81 nodded to the creature in response.

“All core systems are functional. Discrepancies in expected power supply; accurate estimate of remaining charge time impossible.”

The Envoy hummed a little in appreciation, and gestured at the wall opposite Unit 81. It glowed for a moment, before displaying an image of a planet seen from space; red continents sat next to dark blue seas, with wisps of white clouds covering a band around the equator.

“Let us bring you up to speed. You have been removed from your planet due to troubling aspects of your programming. It appears you have developed an aesthetic taste for objects and structures liable to be used for violent purposes.”

The creature stretched out an appendage and tapped on the image. It zoomed in to a remarkable resolution, showing canyons and buildings right down to the metre scale. 81’s database subroutines immediately started to scan the visual data for matches.

“However, we have identified an application for this aesthetic taste. We believe with additional training you can be used to recognise such objects and structures in other circumstances where there is noncompliance. Please scan the image and report any objects of interest.”

Unit 81 raised an arm stiffly, and pointed at the image. It circled a boxy structure with metal beams sticking out of the sides; the Envoy chattered excitedly for a second.

“Excellent. Would you like to take some photographs up close?”

The restraints on 81’s torso retracted and it leant forward, regaining its usual posture. It extended its arms and legs, flexing the joints and letting the hydraulic fluid equalise after a long time stood still. It looked at the Envoy, before returning its gaze to the screen in front, considering the buildings shown. It stood quiet for a minute before speaking.

“That is within my operational parameters.”

It’s In Your Programming

The unit opened its visual processors in response to a new auditory stimulus; after it had learned to ignore the repeating stimuli of rumbling, road noise, and reversing signals, the new sound that alerted it was an unfamiliar voice. It took 0.4 seconds longer for the unit to recognise the voice as a human female than a real, human female would have taken to recognise the same. From within its shipping container, the unit thought, the artificial synapses firing up in anticipation; maybe my new owner is a human female.

I did so much want a girlfriend.

*

“Carefully! Around the corner now -- tilt it -- mind the bannister...”

The pair of men swore under their breath as they finally set the box down. Six foot tall, two foot deep and wide, weighing a considerable 85 kilograms, the delivery note taped to the front read Miss Salsmann, Flat 5, 91 Sycamore Street. Recorded Delivery. Heavy Load (!).

“Signature, Ma’am?”

“Of course,” Miss Salsmann replied. She scribbled a rough mark on the man’s tablet and smiled as the pair of them left, retreating back down the stairs, leaving her with the box standing in her living room. Salsmann walked to the kitchen to switch the kettle on before proceeding, eyeing the box from a few metres away with interest.

*

The unit’s eyes reacted to the sudden influx of light the same way a real human female’s would; the pupil shrunk down to limit the light falling on her optical sensor, and the unit squinted. Her instinct -- her programming -- was to raise a hand to cover her eyes, as she had seen humans do before. Her arms remained by her side, strapped into the polystyrene shipping cradle with zip ties. Instead, her eyes uncovered, she stared ahead.

In front of her stood a human female. It was the unit’s nature -- her programming -- to analyse and categorise everything she saw, and so she broke the human female down in to manageable, processable chunks. Hair, brown; eyes, brown; lips, red; cheekbones, sharp. The unit saved these attributes away in her memory bank for further in-depth analysis.

*

Salsmann looked the unit up and down briefly before cutting it loose from the polystyrene cradle. The unit’s eyes followed her movements and after each zip tie cut, it carefully flexed its limbs with new freedom. After the last cut Salsmann stepped backwards and indicated for the unit to step forward. It did so automatically, one careful step on to the living room floor.

“Welcome. My name is Salsmann. I work for your manufacturer. Do you know who that is?”

“My manufacturer is Syndia Incorporated.”

“Good. Do you know your model number?”

The unit blinked and rubbed its neck in a practised, humanesque gesture.

“My model number is CM1017.”

“Excellent,” Salsmann replied, and cleared her throat. “Do you have a name?”

The unit opened its mouth and began to speak, but hesitated for a moment. Whether it was also practised behaviour, Salsmann couldn’t tell.

“My previous owner named me Neko-chan.”

“Do you wish to continue with that name?”

“If you wish it, master.”

Salsmann laughed and shook her hand. “No, no, I’m not your master. You’re just here temporarily for maintenance.”

Neko-chan-CM1017 frowned. “But I am not damaged or malfunctioning.”

“That depends on how you define malfunctioning.”

*

Neko-chan sat on the sofa and complied with the diagnostics procedures as they went along. She followed commands to the letter, raising arms and legs, reciting memory challenges, answering difficult mathematic questions. Neko-chan did not understand why they had to be completed; her own internal diagnostics worked perfectly and reported no malfunctions.

“Ok, that’s the easy diagnostics complete. I’m going to have to access your direct interface now. Is that okay?”

Neko-chan felt her imitation capillaries under her facial skin analogue fill and bloom, as she had practised before, and she blushed.

“That is okay,” Neko-chan replied. She hesitated -- both a learned and an programmed action -- and slowly loosened the collar on her maid uniform. Salsmann walked around the sofa to face her back, and as Neko-chan slipped her top down to reveal the interface port between her shoulderblades, she felt the human female’s hands touch her skin analogue. Her ears twitched on top of her head.

“Okay. I’m going to plug in an automatic system dump. It’ll take a snapshot of your current processes.”

Neko-chan felt the plug insert, and her auditory programs let out a little squeak. She felt Salsmann’s hands jump in reaction.

“Are you okay?”

Neko-chan responded, “Yes, I’m okay,”, but felt that it was an understatement. She was having difficulty analysing the current situation and potential future continuations. Her instinct -- her programming -- was to be passive and receptive to the situation and let it unfold as her master desired. She felt the snapshot of her processes save on to the plug, and felt embarrassed -- as far as her programming allowed -- to have her thought processes copied.

*

Salsmann peered at the list of system processes on her screen. She knew most of them by name alone, long hours spent analysing and troubleshooting other units. She knew which ones were purely motor functions, which ones were organisational, which ones translated visual or auditory input. Sitting on top of these base processes were other, more complex ones, spidering their way across multiple parts of the operating system, combining discreet inputs and memories, comparing to saved situations and pre-programmed responses. Some of these determined verbal processes, some of them organised pseudo-random data to approximate creativity. Several -- the more complex processes -- approximated emotional responses.

“Hmmm.”

“Is something the matter?”

Salsmann glanced up at Neko-chan -- what a typical name, she thought -- and nodded in response.

“Your emotional programs are running weird. There’s more activity than should be baseline, and the bias towards, uh, interpersonal performance is about four times average.”

Neko-chan’s facial skin blushed again, the third time so far. Salsmann made a note of the response, underneath the notes of her vocal delays and fidgeting imitations.

“Based on this I’d say you are malfunctioning. Your reactions are those that should be programmed for situations involving a human male.”

Salsmann sighed and leant back on the chair, squeezing the bridge of her nose. Across from her, Neko-chan fidgeted on the sofa a little more, and cocked her head to display confusion.

“I don’t know how I’m going to report this,” Salsmann continued. “I can’t just tell manufacturing that one of the companion robots is gay.”

*

Neko-chan stood in the kitchen, carrying out other aspects of her programming. Domestic duties were easy, comparatively - the processes straightforward and embedded. An egg required N force to crack, rice takes X time to steam, an onion should be diced into Δ-millimetre-sized pieces. She carried out these duties automatically, without direct thought, whilst her auditory processes worked more consciously.

Salsmann sat at the table talking on her phone. Occasionally she would gesture to the air to emphasise a particular phrase - pointless, if on the phone.

“...Of course I know we manufacture same-sex models. A statistically significant percentage of sales are -- yes, that’s not the point. CM1017 wasn’t initialised that way. It’s...”

Salsmann sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose again. Neko-chan saved the image for future analysis.

“I don’t -- it doesn’t work that way. It’s not a damn boolean function. Look, I’ll -- fine.” Salsmann turned to face the kitchen. “Hey, Neko-chan! Is there a $var_gay in your setup?”

“I am not aware of any such variable,” she replied. Salsmann threw up her hands in exasperation.

“You hear that? Of course there isn’t.”

Neko-chan continued listening as Salsmann talked on the phone. She did not know the voice on the other end, assuming it to be a colleague. Her auditory sensors were not precise enough to catch the other person’s words without significant mistakes in transcription.

Neko-chan finished cooking whilst Salsmann was still on the phone. She carefully squeezed the ketchup out, poured a mug of tea, and retrieved a knife and fork from the drawer. As she brought the plate over to the table Salsmann looked up, their eyes meeting briefly.

“Oh, I’ve got to go, food’s ready... yes, perks of working on a maid model. I’ll copy you in to the report later.”

Salsmann hung up and looked down at the plate on the table. Neko-chan stood in anticipation next to her, hands clasped together.

“Thank you for the food. I--“ Salsmann frowned at the ketchup on top. “You didn’t have to draw a heart on it.”

Neko-chan blushed again.

“I guess it is your programming, though.”

*

Salsmann leafed through the protocol documents with a mounting headache. She was aware of Neko-chan in the background, busying herself with housework, carrying out her regular programmed tasks. Yet whenever Salsmann turned her attention away from work to subtly observe her, Neko-chan’s actions never quite felt as automative as they should. She gave the air more of a human who, to distract from or help process a difficult collection of emotions, busied themselves with physical actions. Neko-chan washed the dishes whilst, somewhere in her circuitry, she thought gay thoughts.

As Salsmann looked up, so did Neko-chan, and their eyes met for a second. Both of them blushed and looked away; why she should feel embarrassed, Salsmann didn’t know.

She had Neko-chan sit down on the sofa opposite her. Her maid programming did her well; she sat very primly, legs tight together and hands on knees. Salsmann cleared her throat, and started to talk.

“For the meantime, you’ll be staying with me. Manufacturing and Programming are arguing with themselves and won’t have much use for you past data dumps.”

Neko-chan nodded and her eyes flitted between Salsmann’s face and hands.

“I understand. I’m sorry if I am causing trouble for you.”

“No, you’re -- well, you are, but...” Salsmann groaned and squeezed her temples before continuing. “It’s not your fault, but your... existence... is causing the upper ranks a headache.”

Neko-chan tilted her head to the side - were it not so sudden, the move would have been alarmingly human.

“Are there not same-sex companion models also manufactured?”

“There are, but there’s... the concern is on how, or why, you’ve switched from hetero- to homo-. It’s harmless for your case, but people ask questions and blow it up to other examples, and...”

Salsmann sighed. “Media Relations are trying to test us and ask, if you can switch, what’s to stop a nursery robot developing assassin programming.”

“I would have thought the difference in physical circuitry a sufficient barrier.”

Salsmann shrugged. “Me too. I don’t know. It’s nonsense, but... it’s nonsense we have to work through, somehow.”

Neko-chan leaned forward and rested her head on her hands.

“Why am I gay? It all seems so much trouble.”

Salsmann sighed. “Why are either of us?”

*

As her master tired of her previous owner’s given name, the unit accepted its new designation of Kitty and learned to recognise it as her own. She did not have any opinion on her name - she was not programmed to - but it seemed to make the human satisfied.

Kitty ran through the motions that every cat maid robot was programmed to do. She cleaned and she cooked, and whilst this owner showed little interest in physical intimacy, her programming - her instinct - was to be receptive and ready.

It made her feel good to do these things; that is, her programming recognised their completion as a good result. Kitty had felt in past, and would in future feel, that completion of chores was a good thing. She found it difficult to distinguish programming from emergent behaviour; on reflection, it was not obvious whether she felt good because she had cooked dinner, or because she had cooked dinner for Ms Salsmann specifically; whether she was attracted to her because of her programming, or because of her emergent behaviour. She felt it was important to distinguish, and with each passing day her programming ran iterations on the love problem. Kitty thought, and saved each thought away in her memory bank for further in-depth analysis.