Neverending

26

These wristband things are quite good.

I'd headed out of the duplex, when it tapped me immediately. A question mark glowed white so, instinctively, I tapped it.

          What do you need?

Where do I start? I thought, with more than a little ruefulness. But the wristband didn't know how stressful the last 24 hours had been (or did it? I'm pretty sure it was monitoring my vitals, so it probably had a pretty good idea of how much cortisol was still washing around my system). Either way, I give the wristband the benefit of the doubt.

'I'd like to find my friends,' I say. 'And I wouldn't mind some coffee, if it's not too much trouble.'

The screen morphs into a map, showing me a little dotted line route to the Breakfast Barn.

It changes again, and asks:

          What are your friends' names?

The screens move gently from one to the other, giving me time to choose which of my requests I want to pursue first.

I don't hesitate.

'Sebastian Laurier; Donna Huxley; Jimmy, ehhh..., Jimmy Birchall,' I stop, surprised it took me this long. 'And Juliette. Juliette Hayes.'

The wristband pulses green twice, then says:

I'll look for them.

'Thanks,' I say.  As always, I'm unsure of how polite to be to AL. The wristband blushes pink which I assume to be a sort of display of gratitude, or happiness, or something. Artificial or not, it somehow makes me feel a bit better. I decide that I'd like to give this a bit more thought, but first: breakfast.

The wristband rests on the other screen, showing the map to breakfast. I look around, seeing nothing I recognise, then tap the map.  I set off towards the main pathway. I think I'm beginning to get a handle on how the landscaping systems works. It reminds me of a holiday village I saw on TV once, when I was pretty young. There are dozens of duplexes quite close together here, but cleverly separated by very elegant clusters of silver birch that give the illusion of privacy. The holiday village used much the same technique. It's only now I realise just how desperately I'd have loved to have gone to that village. And I also know that it was more than the tropical lagoon and tree-strung zip-wires that made it so enticing. It was the families. Smiling, healthy, together. Something I guess I missed more than I cared to admit, growing up mostly in a dorm with too many other boys.

Once I'm on the main pathway, Hyperfriction kicks in and my pace picks up. It looks like it'll take about twenty minutes to get to the Breakfast Barn. I can't help but imagine rows of breakfast-wielding cowboys, line-dancing their way around the kitchen. I hope it's as fun as it sounds.

I glance at my wristband periodically en route, noticing how attached I've become to it already, Artificial Lifeforms being as stickily addictive as they are. It's the ones that integrate almost imperceptibly into your life that can be the most insidious. I mean, I'm no conspiracy theorist, but us humans have always been suckers for unhealthy things that feel good. I think again about the wristband blushing pink. I know Donna thinks I'm 'way too soft' (a Gen B term that I understand is vaguely insulting but that is no longer socially acceptable). Do I ascribe more emotional attachment to AL than most people? Probably. I hear people talk to their tech like they're pieces of garbage. I suspect this speaks more about the user than anything else.

So, yep. Like almost everyone, I mesh very quickly with AL. I run my fingers along the outside of my wristband. If someone tried to take it from me now, I'd be at least a little more than resistant. I'm essentially that revolting dude in Lord of the Rings: having the wristband clamped around my arm makes me vulnerable to its powers.

I decide, as I have done before, that this is slightly sickening. I also know that, as before, any attempt to distance myself from AL will likely be futile. Still, I think I'm in the sort of place that might make it easier to try. After I've found my friends, obviously.

'Have you found anything out about my friends?' I instinctively bring my wristband closer to my face as I speak but lower it when I realise it's not 2078.

          'I'm still looking. But I will tell you when I find anything.'

I look around as I pass a cluster of larger buildings. One has Bibliotheca carved into its facade. Another has Balneis. I'm pretty sure the first one is a library, but I'm not sure about the other. Juliette would know: her Latin was next level. I feel a pang for her and her intimate knowledge of the long-dead language.  I make a note that she was, indeed, completely right that it would come in handy one day.  'When we go back in time to the Roman empire?' I asked, a joke I never got tired of.  And here I am, adding under-educated and a bit inadequate to feeling perpetually lovesick.

Intrigued about what a library in Terrafirme might look like, I decide to come back here later. The inside of buildings isn't made public to those outside of the settlement and, not for the first time, I get this feeling that I've somehow managed to snag a business class upgrade. It's not totally unpleasant, which makes me feel a bit worse about it in the first place.

Just as I see the Breakfast Barn come into view, haptics tap my wrist.

I look down.

          I've found Sebastian. Do you want to go and see him?'