by Jason Gurley
He touches the glass with all five fingers, then rotates his hand slightly to his right. A faint contrail appears beneath his fingers. Above it is a readout: 90/100. As he turns his hand, the number climbs, and the window darkens measurably. He turns his hand to the left. The number falls to 74/100, and Micah has to close his eyes against the fierce brightness that the weaker shade has revealed.
He rotates his hand to the right blindly until his eyelids are no longer shot through with angry red darts. For a while after he opens them again, his vision is imprinted with slashes of red that turn white and disappear after a few seconds.
He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, then flexes his fingers as wide as they will go. He holds this stretching position until his hands tremble, then exhales slowly, relaxing the muscles in his hands just as slowly. When he has relaxed completely, his hands are like soggy hunks of bread, invisible in the tactile spectrum of nerves that make up his identity.
The apartment would please anybody. Three thousand square feet, richly furnished, with a floor that absorbs his weight and is so soft that he could sleep on it if he chose. The bed is positioned in such a way that he will wake to a view of Argus City each morning, with its spires and towering spacescrapers and humming air traffic. The walls are designed in moveable sets, so that Micah can adjust the apartment's layout to suit his needs.
He has no interest in the floor plan.
Micah rotates his hand on the window until it becomes opaque. The window vanishes, its interior surface now the same color as the apartment's walls.
If desired, I can apply some digital art to these walls, a voice says.
I don't desire, Micah says.
He crosses the room to the bed.
Shall I adjust the climate to complement your resting body temperature?
Do whatever you want, Micah says.
He stretches out in the bed, grips one of the spare pillows as if it is another warm body, and tries to sleep.
The escort in the gray suit had had plenty to say about Micah's new environment. After their stomach-turning ride through the giant transport tubes, during which Micah had watched a dozen decks full of new arrivals zoom by, the escort had given Micah a brief tour.
Don't you have other visitors to meet? Micah had asked, annoyed.
Oh, no, the escort replied. Each Onyx resident has a dedicated escort for their first week. After that week, the escorts are less vital, and more of a convenience. There are usually four of us for each petal floor.
How many residents are on each floor?
Approximately two hundred, the escort answered.
And how many floors?
Each petal has five hundred floors. There are ten petals altogether, he added.
Micah was surprised. The station seems like it could support more than just a million people, he said. That's only a tenth of the population of most of the big cities in America.
The escort nodded. This way, he said.
Micah followed the escort across a grand lobby. At the nearest end, the lobby looked into the heart of Argus City. He stopped and stared for a moment, his eyes following one canyon between the tall buildings as far as he could, until the city faded into a blue haze and lost all definition.
How far across is the city? he asked.
Two hundred forty miles, sir.
Two hundred forty miles of city for just one million people? That seems... wasteful.
The escort shook his head. Oh, no, sir. One million is the number of Onyx residents, but Onyx-class residents are just a small percentage of Argus's total occupancy.
I don't understand, Micah said.
On the arrival deck, the escort said. All of the other new arrivals? Your fellow passengers on the shuttle?
Micah remembered.
Well, sir, they comprise the Machine-class residents.
Machine-class?
Machine-class, the escort repeated. As in, they are the machine that keeps Station Argus going.
I don't understand, Micah said again.
Don't worry, the escort said, striking off toward another series of lift tubes. Everything will be explained.
Where were you this afternoon?
Out.
Mae, can we stop being so hostile?
I'm not being hostile. That's where I was. Out.
This is so exhausting.
I don't know what's so exhausting about it.
This.
This what?
This whole argument. It's... it's seeping into who we are.
I don't know what you mean.
Yes, you do. Look, I know you want to go to space. Okay? I know. I'm sorry that I don't.
It's not that simple. And I don't want to talk about it.
We have to talk about it. We have to get past this.
No, Micah. No, we don't. We can't.
Can't?
You really don't understand this, do you.
Understand what? We both have things that we wish we could do that we won't ever get to do.
Well, thanks for deciding for me.
Come on, Mae.
Don't patronize me.
It feels like this isn't going to get better.
You just want me to put this back in the box I took it out of. I know what you want, Micah. You want what you always get. You want your way.
That's not what I want.
It is! And it's what you always get, too. It's the idea of my having dreams that you like. You think it makes me adorable and interesting. But it's the reality of my having dreams that you hate, because it might upend your happy routine.
Jesus. Mae, is that what you think?
I don't have to think it, Micah. It's obvious.
I don't hate the idea of you having dreams.
You missed the point. That's not what I said. You hate the reality of my having dreams.
I don't, either.
Then I want to go to space. And I want you to come with me, Micah. As my husband, the man who I want to build a future with. Come with me! We'll raise our family there, and our children will grow up at the changing, exciting edge of history. They'll tell their children one day, and their grandchildren, that they were raised in space, one of the first couple of generations to do it. They'll be like the pioneers who set out for California, or the first immigrants to America. Let's go, Micah. Let's go to space and look down at the Earth and up at the stars. They'll be closer than ever, almost close enough to touch. Let's be there when we get tired of living in orbit, and we decide it's time to go wherever is next. We'll be old then, but we can say, Wow, look at humanity go! Look at how far we've --
Mae, I don't want to live in space. I want to live right here, in this house on this shore with this view and this rain and this creaky old pier and these trees. I want our kids to plant their own trees in this yard and watch them grow to a hundred feet tall. I want them to carve little notches in the door frames each year to see how much they've grown. I want to fill this house with a lifetime of our things so that one day there's this pleasant clutter that we'll always find some memory buried in. I want a happy and long life right here, Mae. And I want you with me.
I know all of that, Micah. And don't worry. You'll win. You'll get to have all of that.
Mae, come on --
No. No, that's what you want. I know. You want me to sulk for a couple of days, then get over it, and we'll get old and wrinkly and pretend that there was never a time when we fought about this. You might actually forget about it for real. In fact, I know you will. That's what you do. You've got one big-ass rug in your brain, Micah, and you're really good at sweeping shit under it that you never want to see again.
Mae, please --
No! No, that's what's going to happen. You'll be this oblivious, cheerful old man, and all of our grandchildren will love you because you're so happy, because you're living the perfect life you've always dreamed of, and every day is just a vacation for you. And they'll have less of a connection with me, because they'll know, somehow
, somewhere deep inside, that something isn't quite right about Grandma. They won't know what it is, but they'll be able to tell, because when a person has a dream that they've dreamed of their whole life, and they don't get a single chance to accomplish it in the single life that belongs to them, they just sort of wither inside, Micah, they dry up and rot on the inside, and the nice thing is that nobody can see it on the outside, not really well, so everybody else can pretend that everything is okay. But not me, Micah. I'll get the great pleasure of dying a little inside every single day that you get to have the life you want, and I have to put my own dreams in a fucking box and fucking burn it.
You're on the eighty-fifth floor, the escort had said. I hope you're not afraid of heights. And if you are, just imagine two things. First, remember that there are four hundred fifteen floors that are even higher than yours.
And second? Micah asked.
Oh, just that you're already thirty thousand miles above the place where you were born, the escort said cheerfully.
That's reassuring, Micah said. Is it really thirty thousand miles?
Thirty-two thousand miles, six hundred feet. Or something like that.
Huh, Micah said. Hey, before -- before you said that everything would be explained. You know that my Onyx card isn't actually mine, right?
You inherited it, the escort said. Right. Don't worry about that. We have quite a few inheritors. It's not unusual to inherit an Onyx card without having taken the classes.
There are classes?
Oh, yes. Every Onyx-class candidate takes a twelve-week course on Earth after they're identified.
What sort of classes? Micah had asked.
Oh, everything from what to expect from an artificial-grav environment to how to interact effectively with an A.I. to a history series about the stations, the escort said. Pretty basic orientation stuff, really.
So what do, um, inheritors do to learn this stuff?
I'll introduce you to your A.I., the escort said. Let's zip up to your floor, then.
My A.I.? Micah had asked.
Sure. It'll be great, don't worry.
Do I have to have an A.I.? What if I just want to be alone?
Oh, that's the best part, the escort said. You just tell the A.I. to go away. Just say, Bob, I'd like to be alone. And there you go.
Bob?
Well, you can name yours whatever you want. I'm sure somebody chose Bob for theirs.
But not you?
Oh, I don't have an A.I., Mr. Sparrow.
You don't? Micah asked. Why not? That seems unfair.
I'm Machine-class, sir, the escort said.
Machine-class.
It's grand, sir, the escort said cheerfully. Your A.I. will teach you all about it. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.
Machine-class, Micah repeated.
Yes, sir. Let's take the lift now, shall we?
And up they went.
I don't think you should go.
It's not up to you.
Maybe. I guess. But I wish you wouldn't.
This is kind of serious, Micah. It's a good opportunity for me at work. If I do well, it might change the way they perceive me. Who knows, it could turn into a promotion, even.
I don't like you going away when we're in the middle of a fight.
I don't like fighting with you, Micah.
I don't like fighting with you, either. We should just call a cease-fire. Truce.
That only works when it's not an important fight. It won't work for this.
What if you don't come back?
Is that what you're afraid of?
I'm afraid you won't come back.
I'll come back. Even if it's just to get my stuff.
That's not funny.
I know.
Are you serious?
I think a little break will put things in perspective, Micah. But it's not going to change my point.
Then why take a break? We'll be in the same place then that we are now.
Because I'm tired of sleeping badly because we're both all worked-up over this. It'll be good for us. You need the break, too.
I don't. I don't want it.
Micah, it's just two weeks. I'm going to be working. You'll be working. We'll hardly notice it.
I'll notice it.
Micah.
I will. I'll come home to this place, empty. You'll go home to a fancy hotel, probably nice dinners with your boss, who knows what.
Don't imply anything. That's not going to help.
I'm sorry. I can't help it. I'm a wreck thinking about you leaving.
You'll have this place to yourself again. You love it here. It'll be good for you.
I don't want it to myself.
Micah. Make the most of the two weeks. Think about something else. Work on a project.
I could build the crib. The one we talked about.
Don't do that.
What? Why not?
Micah, don't do that. You know what you're doing. Don't do that. Build a bookcase or something.
Shit. You aren't coming back, are you. You're really not coming back, and you already know it. You're just dragging this out. Well, if that's what you're going to do, then do it. Rip it off, Mae. Do it.
Micah, it's a work trip. I'm coming back.
You don't want me to build the crib.
You're just being awful to yourself if you build it, Micah. We aren't ready for kids and won't be any time soon. We have real things to figure out here.
I can't believe that moving to space is the thing we have to figure out. I can't believe moving to space is the thing that might ruin us.
Well, that's a problem. You even treat the idea of this problem like a joke.
Oh, I didn't mean it like that, Mae. I --
I think you did. Look, I'm going to pack. We can talk a bit more tonight, and in the morning I have to fly out. My flight is at six, so I'll be gone early.
Where's the trip to?
Tokyo.
Where are you staying?
I don't know. I have the itinerary somewhere. You can have a copy, okay? But Micah, I want to treat this like a time-out. I don't want to talk to you every night. I don't want to hear about your day. I want time to think about our future without you putting your foot in your mouth.
I can't even call?
Look. I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will, no matter what. But Micah, you think that my biggest, most life-long dream is a farce, and you're standing in the way of me ever even having a chance to accomplish it. So yes, we have things to figure out, and no, I don't want to talk to you for a little while.
I don't think it's a farce.
Micah --
Say whatever you want, Mae. I don't think it's a farce. It just... scares me.
Alright, we're done.
Hey --
No. Every time we fight, if there's a real problem we can't work out, you play-act this emotional psychobabble moment of discovery, like you've just come to terms with something about yourself. But it's a goddamn trick, Micah. I'm supposed to see how vulnerable you are, and come running to you and comfort you. But it's just a diversion. I don't even think you know you're doing it. But I'm going upstairs to pack, and we can talk about this in two weeks when I come home and we've both had time to really think about what we want to do next.
I don't do that. Mae? I don't do that. Mae, come on.
Micah starts awake to a blinding light. He turns over in bed, throws his arm over his eyes.
The window is transparent again.
He says, What the hell?
The A.I. speaks up. You were in your optimum sleep state for waking, Micah. Gradual light is a positive way to emerge from a restful state.
Gradual, hell. Close the window.
As you wish, Micah.
The window becomes opaque again.
Hours later Micah awakes on his own. The apartment is completely dark. He rolls over and swings his feet over the edge of the bed.
You are awake
, the A.I. says. May I provide anything for you?
Don't talk to me when I wake up, Micah says. You can start with that.
Very well.
Micah pads into the kitchen, barefoot. The floor is almost spongy beneath his feet. As much as he misses the water-logged planks of the pier back home, he must admit that this is nice.
He touches the door of the pantry. It hisses open like an airlock. Micah frowns. He misses the old tacky sound of his refrigerator opening. Everything in the apartment sounds like a television show's idea of the future. He looks around for a toaster but doesn't see one. If there was one, it would probably sound like a ray gun.
The pantry is empty. Micah goes around the kitchen, opening panels one by one. There's nothing inside. The cooling closet is empty as well.
A.I., he says, finally.
Yes, Micah.
I think I need to buy food. I don't know how to do that.
Micah, if you'll join me in the dining space, I'll be pleased to explain how to acquire food, the A.I. says.
Your speech is weird, Micah says as he walks into the dining room.
Define weird, the A.I. replies.
The voice seems to emerge from the air. There are no visible speakers in the apartment, and the A.I. has no visible avatar or physical body of any kind. It's simply... there.
Weird, Micah repeats. You know, oddly formal but sometimes not formal at all. It's like a blend of two completely different cultures.
Let's select a voice pattern that you'll identify with, the A.I. suggests. Please sit. Do you prefer a male voice, a female voice, or an androgynous voice?
Micah thinks about this. Female, he says, finally.
He hears three faint tones.
How's this? the A.I. says.
The almost sterile travel-guide voice of the A.I. has been replaced with that of a female.
Say something else, Micah says. Tell me about the weather.
Unfortunately, there is no natural weather in space, the A.I. says. I can tell you about the simulated weather events and the schedule by which they occur.
