“Of course not.” Lessa notably looks anywhere but at their manupartner.
K8 spots their half-lie, knowing the twenty percent of them still clinging to it will fade away in a few days’ time.
“I only want you to be happy.” Yansy stares dreamily down at Lessa.
“Yes, I’m quite aware of that,” they say.
K8 doesn’t speak, letting the soon-to-be not-couple have their moment. The airlock elevator they entered comes to a halt. Inside, green light bands running the circumference of the space at regular intervals from floor to ceiling alert them that the area is safe to enter. The pressure shifts, hissing, as the doors slide open. K8’s ears pop as the carefully managed air depressurizes. As she steps into the SAT garage, the air between the four rough concrete walls feels perfectly still, like her favorite antigravity-antiaging chamber.
The next available Sealed Air Transport rests on a low platform in the center of the room. Like all SATs, its body is constructed from an acid-resistant black fluorocarbon. A thick band of purified aluminum makes a loop around the middle. Two matching stripes run the length of the underside. Environmental exposure etches the smooth metal, creating little pits which must be filed down at regular intervals. Eventually, the entire magnetic strip becomes so thin it will no longer respond to the MagTrack lines. Then the old metal is stripped off to be reprocessed, and new ones are put in their place. Fortunately, this one appears to be in good shape. The older ones always make her nervous.
Above the aluminum band, safety lights encased in glass flash in the Ready-Welcome sequence. Yansy rushes around opening their doors before sliding into the back. K8 places her palm on the panel to activate the machine. It springs to life. The magnets produce a faint buthigh-pitched humming as it lifts off the ground. Whirling lights click on.
The system, in a perfectly human sounding voice, confirms, “Passenger C-K8lyn-MSP-00023468. Please register all passengers.” Little screens with handprint outlines light up in front of Lessa and Yansy’s seats. They comply, placing their palms on the scanners. A moment later, their NHOS identification numbers flash on the screen. K8 taps the screen to verify the information is correct.
“Input your destination,” the system instructs.
K8 gives Lessa a sidelong glance before saying, “GROW Recycle Station. Tower MM10.”
Lessa reaches over, squeezing K8’s hand. Probably more for her benefit than Lessa’s. After the SAT’s display confirms its air seal has activated, the two metal doors of the garage wheeze, sliding open. Red lights illuminate the room as the sooty outside atmosphere whooshes into the chamber. Heavy brown particles mix with the purified breathable air. K8 studies the difference in consistency as the lighter wisps of clean air escape. Looks to be a bad air quality day. Worse than she predicted a week ago in her official ledger. That usually means two things. Fewer people will be out and about, and there will be more atmosphere-assisted suicides this week.
The SAT travels along a MagTrack line out of her tower, entering the flow of SATs zipping along carefully planned routes. They move up and down interchange paths to pick up different connections. Half an hour later, they’ve made it into the M Quadrant of Minneapolis–Saint Paul, or MSP. At the recycle station receiving garage, there are a dozen SATs in line.
Another half an hour passes before they make it to the front of the line. The garage doors open. The SAT inside zips out, turning in the opposite direction they came from. Through the thick glass, K8 sees a woman chatting animatedly with her passenger. Like always, theentire process strikes her as unfeeling, callous even. Unsettling to see someone moving on so flippantly from whatever this is.Disposable.As the word flashes through her mind, her chest tightens.
The attendant, wearing a full-environmental protection suit, stands inside the doors, waving a blinking wand to usher them inside. Once the SAT parks on the platform, the garage doors slide shut, sealing with a loud clack. The attendant steps into a smaller chamber as the air inside the garage rattles the SAT. After a few minutes, the red lights switch to green. The attendant exits the smaller room, approaching the SAT. Lessa steps out, already pulling their device from their bag.
K8 watches from beside the SAT as the attendant says, “Documentation,” as a matter of greeting, holding out a tablet.
Lessa taps the screen a few times and both of the devices ping. The attendant reads over the information, then looks to the backseat of the SAT. With a hand, he waves Yansy out. Looking unfazed, Yansy strides around to stand beside Lessa.
“Hand, please.” As the manupartner lifts its hand, the man pulls out a little cylindrical silver device from his pocket and presses it into Yansy’s pointer finger. Then he lowers it over his pad, depressing the button on the top. A few drops of blood fall into the receptacle. Neon colored lights illuminate the tablet.
The attendant nods, approving of whatever the tablet shows. “Please sign here to confirm the identity of GROW Unit 2460-MSP-Yansy-00023287.”
Without hesitation, Lessa presses their thumb into the pad, then uses their own stylus to scratch their NHOS identification number around it in a circle. “You understand this ends your contract on GROW Unit 2460-MSP-Yansy-00023287?”
K8 tunes out as Lessa completes the uncomfortable process. If she activates the kit in her room, this will be her in three months’ time when her lease expires. Unless she can afford an extension, whichis doubtful. No point in even thinking about it. The best plan is to return it. Even if they don’t give her unicoin back, at least she won’t be responsible for dropping one off for recycling.
Finally, Lessa turns without looking at Yansy and approaches the SAT. “Ready?”
K8 watches as the attendant leads Yansy through the airlock doors to the interior of the building. It never looks back. Neither does Lessa as they enter the SAT.
As they pull out of the garage, Lessa carries on about what a relief it is. A weight off their shoulders. Feels so much lighter. Etcetera.
“Want to get lunch? I know this great little place near here. And since we’re in this area, we could hit a Regen Room. With the weather, I doubt we’d have to wait long. Did you hear they’re putting in a juice bar in your tower?”
K8 makes eye contact with the passenger of the SAT waiting next in line outside the garage as they pass. She can’t tear her gaze away, her neck twisting as she holds the woman’s stare. Not ten minutes prior, she was in that woman’s position, watching a pair exit the garage, chatting mindlessly as if nothing strange was occurring. What does the woman think of her now? Are her thoughts similar to K8’s? And why is she reacting like this? It’s not like this is the first time she’s been in this very garage doing the very same thing with one of her FRIENDS.
What is it about this time that strikes her so differently? Because she’s tired of being alone? Normally, that would be her determination. This time, however, her mind drifts to the temporary solution back in her unit waiting for her to GROW, then activate it.
“K8,” Lessa says, getting her attention.
She shakes the swimming thoughts from her mind. “Sure, lunch. I need to pick up a few extra task orders after that, though.”
Lessa huffs, slumping back into their seat. “Fine. I’m going to the Regen Room after.” They flip their tablet into mirror mode, inspectingthe nonexistent lines around their eyes. “I think I need a full refresh. Look at this . . . right here.”
K8 leans over, trying to see whatever they’re pointing to. “Lessa, I see nothing. Wait, I think that’s a speck of dust.” K8 brushes it away. “There. All better. You don’t look a day over one hundred.”
