“Sorry about that.”
“No worries.”
“So what happened?”
“He wasn’t there.”
“I thought you said you went on intuition; that if you’re both there, then you’re both there together.”
“After the other night, I thought it’d be different.”
“Because of the tongue?”
“And because of the patrol. Thought he wouldn’t want me to worry. And the inverse.”
“Maybe he got picked up on the way home?”
"That’s the worry: if he didn’t make it back the other night. If they got him, I might never see him again. They could sentence him to life as a transit.”
“They wouldn’t do that the first time. Sentencing guidelines. Can’t you check? Don’t you know where he lives?”
“A tailor shop somewhere on the other side of the meet. Could be anywhere. I don’t have access to directions, and what would I do once I got there?”
“What about your parents? Adults have access to map apps. Addresses. Shops. They found the shop in the first place. You could pretend you were looking for another dress.”
“My parents would figure out what I’ve been doing. They’re too logical. Once they figured me out, I’d be done. They’d probably send me away.”
“Where?”
“You know, the places we hear about. The in-person colleges for students who struggle with the rationale.”
“Wouldn’t want that. What about his sign?”
“I searched everywhere. Without him, I could only travel so far. Just getting to the lot each night is terrifying. That’s why he picked the spot closest to me. First time he led me there from outside my parents’ tower. Said we were lucky that the patrol was too busy monitoring transits to suspect college students would start wandering out from their parents’ flats. The Mod assumed restricting the range on minis to within our buildings would keep us indoors using social apps. Marco planned our first meet the day at the dress shop. He knows the territory. Everywhere mapped in his mind. He found my parents’ tower, the first night, where I was waiting outside. Unless the patrol got him, he would have found me last night.”
“Maybe he found another girl.”
“Don’t say that.”
“That.”
“Seriously, Vidalia. I’ve got feelings.”
“Maybe he did find another girl. Maybe he just wanted to get his tongue in your mouth. Now he’s had his full.”
“The kiss felt like a beginning, not an end.”
“Then where is he?”
“He could have been stopped in either direction.”
“You’re right: too many variables. Try again tomorrow.”
“You’re getting some responses to your post, Vidalia.”
“Finally.”
“They must have just finished their nightlies.”
“I hate nightlies.”
“They used to call it homework.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just something Marco said.”
“Enough about Marco.”
“Go ahead. Enjoy the responses to your post.”
“Thank you. And %%-“
“I’m going to need it.”
Chapter 4
“Well, did he show this time?”
“=^_^=”
“That good?”
“He brought me roses!”
“Brought you what?”
“You’ve never heard about roses?”
“I’ve heard the stories. How’d he find them, or did he bring plastic kitsch?”
“The real thing.”
“I thought they were extinct?”
“Grew them on his roof. From bulbs or something.”
“Seeds. Roses grow from seeds.”
“How do you know that? Thought you weren’t into extraneous physicality of the pre-digital age?”
"Give me some credit. I’m the one in my third year, while you’ve only been in college since the start of summer. You’re certainly not supposed to be courting with a drop. You’re prohibited from courting until your third year.”
“We’re two years apart. What’s the difference?”
“The difference is why you’re supposed to wait. You’ll see when you’re my age.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Sounds like circuit logic.”
“Circuit or circular, it’s the rationale.”
“Don’t go fronting me with the rationale, Vidalia. You’re a comp-sci major. What do you know about it?”
“Where do you think the rationale comes from? All reversed engineered from comp-sci discoveries, reason over emotionalism.”
“Now you’re tossing college jargon.”
“See. You don’t understand.”
“I see you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“He brought me roses.”
“What not.”
“They smelt like dawn.”
“What not.”
“Do you even know what dawn smells like, Vidalia?”
“I said, ‘what not.’”
“Act like you don’t care, but you knew about the roses.”
“What does that prove?”
“Proves you’ve thought about it, too.”
“Thought about what?”
“The boy in the fairy tale, the one our mothers passed down. The one they used to tell before trace was legalized.”
“Trace is a City myth.”
“Marco doesn’t think so.”
“A modern myth. So are roses”
“I think it’s true love.”
“How would you know?”
“I feel it.”
“Feeling without supportive evidence is treason.”
“Stop with Mod jargon. I have my evidence.”
“The roses?”
“That. And much more.”
“You’re too young to judge. That’s why courtship is banned before junior year. You could hurt yourself.”
“What do you know about it? We’re two years apart, Vidalia. You were taking the same classes as me two years ago.”
“That difference is everything.”
"Then why’d they start holding our annual dances together?”
“A mistake of short term efficiency.”
“You’re talking in riddles again.”
“That’s because you’re too young to understand.”
“I’m in love.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Marco loves me.”
“How would he know?”
“Now Marco is too young to know?”
“He’s a drop. How can he develop the reason to love without finishing college? He’s preying on you with overt physicality. Untrained, undeveloped, and misdirected.”
“He’s self-taught.”
“That’s jib. Can’t teach yourself anything worth knowing.”
“He taught himself how to grow the roses on his roof, how to collect rain water before the dry season. He taught himself how to sew me a new dress.”
“I’m sure his parents taught him.”
“So? He didn’t need college.”
“Fine, so he can cut cloth, sew a dress, maybe place a few buttons. What does that prove?”
“It’s a wedding dress. We’re going to marry.”
“Marry? Are you insane? Licenses aren’t issued until senior year.”
“Marco found a loophole and a justice willing to marry us. You’re not the only one who can teach herself the finer points of the rationale.”
“How can you do this to yourself? What if you’re wrong? What if it’s not real love? They’ll send you away, cut your parents’ ship. Your parents will be off.”
“If you would let me tell it, you’ll believe.”
“Tell me what?”
“About last night.”
“What about?”
“Our feelings, the facts. I’ll tell you everything. Then you be the judge. I want your
approval, Vidalia. You’re my best. I want you to say it’s ok.”
“Fine. I’ll weigh evenly. Just get to the telling.”
Chapter 5
“So there we were.”
“There you were?”
“I thought I could tell it?”
“Like that?”
“Like what, Vidalia?”
“Like you’re doing your nightlies, classic writing jib.”
“It’s not jib. It’s how I feel.”
“Then tell me straight: the bits and bytes. Leave out the connective tissue.”
“That’s not how I felt it.”
“And that’s why you’re not supposed to be courting yet.”
“Then why aren’t you courting?”
“Comp-sci requires much and often. You wouldn’t understand. It’s the genesis of all studies.”
“Sounds like the genesis of an empty room.”
“An empty room is prelude to socializing.”
“You’re talking about online socializing.”
“Reason over emotion, tech over body. It’s the noblest form of socializing.”
“Not in my experience.”
“Your experience is start-up. I’m talking about tradition.”
“Today’s start-up is tomorrow’s tradition.”
“You’re talking revolution.”
“I’m talking innovation.”
“You’re not ready for that.”
“If you’d drop your nightlies for a minute, you’ll learn that I am ready.”
“How’d you know I was working on my nightlies?”
“We aren’t video chatting, so you must be multi-tasking.”
“It’s only efficient.”
“If you’d focus for a minute, you’ll understand.”
“Then tell it.”
“Every time I try, you cut me.”
“Then why not tell someone else?”
“You’re the only one who listens. Everyone else drops a rave or a not-rave or they post a supporting or counter link. They hash a few clever bits. They draw it out or paste a pic. Only you and Marco respond in a way that means you listen: even if most of the time that amounts to you junking what I share.”
“I have listened. You are my best, and I’m your senior, a sound study, and I’m telling you to drop this transit before you’re spam. There are rules, orders of operation, and you’re too young for this. Marriage? To a transit or pseudo-transit or whatever he is? Inverting evidence and emotion when you’re supposed to start with facts?”
“You haven’t even let me tell it.”
“That’s because you told me all I need to know. In two years you’ll understand. What, you’d prefer to end offline without modern employment? You want to start married life without an actuator and nightly ships? You want to forage and live off tired product? Do you know how long it took to perfect actuating food and inanimate goods? The kind of sleepless nights that went into the tech so we could have product nightly without transport cost and environmental hazard? You should learn how to contribute to the system, engage in efficient courting, and find a suitable partner before marrying. Or you’ll both drag on the Mod and City. Motivated citizens will pay for your antiquated notion of love. Or worse, you’ll end up transit, living within the tall grass, catch the bug and break your parents’ hearts when you hit the digital obituaries.”
“There are other ways. His parents run a grandfathered shop. Where I bought my dress last year. They make a contribution. They actuate final product in exchange for what they need. Marco’s learning to sew; he made me my wedding dress. If you’d let me tell it, you’d see our love is based on facts: that we can contribute efficiently without dragging the system or going transit. That yesterday’s traditions can become tomorrow’s innovation.”
“Retro? That’s the best you can do?”
“It’s not that simple. Let me explain in an email.”
“Now we’ve got to move like snails?”
“Chat and video chat aren’t the only ways to communicate between two people.”
“No, but everything else is for nightlies or work.”
“Then there’s logic behind emails if they are reserved for nightlies and private employment, some benefit to having all the facts uninterrupted. A prerequisite to even analysis.”
“I’ll score you that.”
“Then?”
“Fine, send your email, but don’t expect one in return. I compose enough emails explaining the rationale behind my nightly coding. You’ll learn how complex these assignments get. Once you start adding logical proofs to your nightly coding assignments, the love letter will lose its draw. After sophomore year, assignments integrate both pillars of knowledge, tech and reason. Only gets worse once you find employment.”
“Then maybe Marco is on to something, a better way. Grounded in less digital.”
“You call that grounded? Might work for a few parasites, but the rest of us must code to keep the machines running the factories and farms that supply all the actuated shipments.”
“Marco and I won’t be making anything that relies on factory-produced product. Just vintage fabric from the collector’s flat or recycled cloth his parents collect in exchange for new dresses when people can’t afford to pay in a share of their allotment. Marco’s parents sew enough cloth to earn food and product because they’re so efficient at making the most beautiful dresses in City. Niche attire for special occasions, like the annual dance. His parents aren’t off or parasitic. They’ve done fine, receive, ship and sleep well. How else do you think Marco makes sneaks out for our meets?”
“Then his parents found their niche among marginal returning efficiencies. Won’t support you or your eventual child. Can’t Marco calculate?”
“That’s why he wants us to go the next step: non-transit life with minimal use of the actuator. If you’ll let me compose an email, I’ll explain everything. After that I promise to consider your applied logic. First you have to read the facts.”
“What you’re talking about sounds like a crime against reason, a form of treason. The Mod will be all over us, me for just chatting with you.”
“You know all tech communications are privacy protected.”
“Who is to say you or Marco won’t waive the privilege after you go physical with your plans? Creating a new mortar business, phasing out the actuator? You know his parents must be grandfathered, and even they participate in the rationale by using an actuator. How will you justify what you’d be doing?”
“There are always loopholes.”
“And you’re too young to understand them.”
“Then let me explain. After that, you weigh evenly.”
“Fine. Compose your email. I’ve got some posts to catch. You’re not my only friend, and I’m falling behind.”
“Just drop some raves, and everyone will love you.”
“Compose your email and don’t worry about me.”
Chapter 6
We met at our usual location. Only Marco wasn’t where I expected him. Most nights Marco would wait for me behind an abandoned automobile at the edge of the street and the weeds. Recent vintage, the automobile must have been used for medical house calls or secured chauffeur before falling to rust and ruin. I’d find Marco inside the automobile on nights when he was feeling brave. We’d get up our courage and spend part of the night in the back seat, our hearts beating hard in response to being so close to each other and out in the open. Should the patrol have spotted its lights on our pounding hearts, we might not have noticed.
That’s where we kissed the first time, where we pressed bodies, and where I tasted his tongue. Nothing in a nightly ship tastes or smells like Marco. He made his own “cologne” from roses he’d grown on his parents’ rooftop and preservative from the collector’s flat. He used just enough so I could smell him, but not enough for his parents to catch wind of what he was doing. His parents are less traditional than most, but like most parents, they hadn’t hugged their son
(or gotten close enough to smell him) since he grew old enough to bathe himself.
Actuator Page 2
