Ada is thin, with muscular shoulders and arms, but her defining feature is her thick eyebrows, which arch gracefully across her forehead, framing her sharp, penetrative eyes. Ada doesn’t fuss; she’s a direct talker. She also knows about fashion. Her belts match her shoes, she owns many pairs of shoes and matching belts, and she can tie a scarf fifteen different ways. Quinn finds these skills mysterious and appealing. Ada is fifteen years younger than Lise, the same age as Mori, and there is an alarming symmetry to this coincidence that Quinn has decided to ignore.
“Darling, this is Tig. He’s staying with me for a few weeks.” Lise introduces a strange figure standing in shadow.
Oh good lordt, she’s brought another plus one.
Tig leaves the shelter of the shade and ambles quickly toward Quinn. With each advancing stride of his, she takes a small step backward. He wears thick bionic glasses that bypass his visual system. As he scans the environment, the glasses feed information directly to his brain neurons. This is Old Tech; he sees maybe 500 million pixels, about half of what she sees. His body is a mix of human and artificial parts and his Tifoam skeleton is exposed along his right side, at the elbow and ankle joints. The skeleton is polyurethane impregnated with a titanium powder that mimics bone structure, allowing human cells to meld with it.
Cyborg. He must be over the line, and if not, then he’s close. Tig’s ratio of Tech to Hominoid parts is precariously high. The Authentic Human Alliance (AHA) has been petitioning fiercely for stricter classifications on what constitutes a human. The movement is small but gaining momentum with a core group of active lobbyists, all blessed with strong genetic codes and robust DNA. They say fusion with machine negates biology, giving an unfair evolutionary advantage to the individual. Their motto is, “We draw the line.” And they draw that line at 50 percent. Over the line, with more than 50 percent Tech, and you cannot call yourself “human.” They are machines, cyborgs, and should be excluded from some professions, not given a vote, and required to vacate a seat or a place in a queue for organisms with a higher ratio of organic parts. Transhumans and opponents of AHA say it’s new racism.
Tig doesn’t appear to have any obvious advantage, and she wonders why in the world he’s here with Lise. He’s too old to be an intern. Perhaps he’s a science project, and she’s funding some new Tech? He certainly needs it. Tig half nods, half smiles at her, comically awkward.
She smiles back then turns to her mother. “He could be renovated. A good Technician, some Coin, and you’d never know.”
“Know what?” But Lise knows exactly what her daughter means.
“Luggage, luggage. We have gifts.” Ada, artfully diverting their attention. A rolling luggagebot arrives at Quinn’s feet and falls open, exposing generous contents: coffee, mandarins, and wine. Rare commodities in a heat-soaked world.
Coffee plantations perished in the 2030s. The plants need gentle rainfall and mild temperatures, between 18 and 22 degrees Celsius, to thrive. A seesaw climate took its toll; the bushes stressed and the flowers fell before they turned to fruit. The sturdier plantations were finished off by mealy bugs and coffee berry borers, which love the heat. The prices went up and up, and the world turned to tea. Today, thousands of combinations and infusions keep the human population running. There are teas that wake, teas that sleep-induce, relax, and de-stress. Teas that inspire, hydrate, motivate, and invigorate. Teas that aid memory, promote weight loss, soothe mental health, and cure colds and sprained muscles. Served ice-cold or hot, mild or strong, the ritual of preparing and serving was usurped from Japanese culture and the infused brew is now a global obsession.
Climate also defeated the wine industry; extreme temperatures and a lack of reliable salt-free irrigation brought global production to a trickle in the early 2040s. There are still cases, extensive collections, and small boutique vineyards producing limited quantities, but the cost is prohibitive—special occasions only.
Lise tosses Quinn a mandarin from the luggagebot. Quinn catches it and breathes in the fruit and citrus scent.
“You juggled these when you were little,” Lise says. “Remember?”
Yes, she remembers, anything round, anything within in reach, mandarins, lemons, limes. She practiced all the time and never improved; ball skills are not in her skill set.
Mori leaves the main complex building, and Quinn watches as he strides across the grass towards them. She knows his gait. This is not his usual stride; he’s had a vitamin top-up—a nutrition IV infusion, a brain cleanse to help him focus. It sort of kick-starts his day, leaving him with a little morning buzz.
Lise tosses Quinn another mandarin, and then another. Quinn fumbles both and loses all three.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” Lise asks.
“I’m not sure,” Quinn replies.
“About?”
Quinn turns toward Mori, and Lise follows her gaze.
“Oh, I see,” Lise says.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mori says. “Primary printer’s not working, and the secondary printer’s printing parts to fix the primary. Been thinking outside the circle all week.” He’s a bit hypo, high on his infusion. “Lise, it’s good to finally meet you. I’m a huge admirer—read all your work.”
Lise takes his hand. “It’s ‘doctor,’ Dr. Buyers. You’ve read all my work! Really? All of it?”
“Well, some—”
“Which books?”
Mori hesitates, a half laugh, “I guess, the one about nothing . . . ness.”
“On a Theory of Nothingness. And what did you think? What did you like about it?”
Mori flounders and stares at the ground. Quinn feels for him, knowing he never actually read it—and knowing why, too. Logically, it is impossible to avoid a theory of nothingness, but it does people’s heads in. It’s unnerving to be told that the world might not be real, that it cannot be defined without active participation, that things only become tangible when you see them, and touch them, and taste them. People hate the idea of nothingness, herself included.
“He didn’t say he liked it; he just said he’s read it,” Ada interrupts. “Please, call me Ada.”
Lise exhales, raises an arched eyebrow. Quinn rubs the crease in her forehead. This is where they’re at.
Quinn scans the group, thinking what a ridiculous little gathering of humans they are, assembled on the grass on an isolated archipelago. And now they’re going to sit around and partake in awkward getting-to-know-each-other introductions and make pointless conversation because they think there’s going to be a wedding this afternoon. What the fuck have I done?
Mori pulls in extra chairs, and they sit in the low, flat shadows of the complex buildings. The white tips of Mount Ross hang in the sky behind them, but their focus is south, toward the teal-colored Indian Ocean lapping gently into the bays and inlets around the Island. The tide makes soft, gasping sounds, as if it is inhaling and exhaling, in and out, while creeping forward, getting a little higher every year.
No one speaks, not a word, and right now Quinn sees how easy it is to believe in nothingness. All this beauty, the sparkling reflections on the water, the exquisite green-blue color, the hypnotic murmur of the waves, the warm breeze on her skin—these are just constructs inside her head. The landscape is too wonderful, too scenic and charming, to be real. Before her the horizon blurs into nothingness, leading on and on, all the way to the wet and wild world of Antarctica.