As if the city is a zoo, and they themselves are free.
When are you coming home?
I don't know, Micah. It's nice here, and I like it.
What are you doing with yourself?
I tour the city. I eat good food.
Are you happy?
I'm enjoying myself. But I don't know if I'm happy.
I'm not happy.
You linger over all of the things I do here. I keep wondering about us. It's turning into a scab that I can't stop scratching at.
Now I'm a scab?
You know what I mean. It's like an itch I can't scratch. Until we figure things out, it's going to be a distraction.
A distraction.
You know what I mean. Stop that.
What's that sound? Are you at a party?
I'm on a train, actually. People talk on trains.
Why are you on a train? I heard that trains in Japan are dangerous.
Not for a long time, Micah. But thank you for worrying about me. It's nice to know that you still think I can't take care of myself.
That's not what I meant, Mae.
I'm on the train back to Tokyo. I went to Kyoto for the day.
Kyoto is Tokyo rearranged.
Yeah, I hadn't thought of that before. That's nice.
You went for the day?
Yeah.
Isn't it far?
It's only an hour.
Fast train.
Yeah. Micah, I want to enjoy the view, okay. Can we talk later?
Are you coming home?
Not for a little while. There's something here I'm doing.
What are you doing?
It's nothing. I'll tell you about it another time.
I don't like this. I miss you.
We'll talk later.
Mae? I miss you.
I believe you, Micah. I'm sure you mean it.
I do.
Okay. I believe you. I'm going to go now.
Do you miss me?
Goodbye, Micah.
MAE
His last words to her made him feel ashamed. Desperate.
Do you miss me?
He didn't like the person he was then. For seven years after, he buried himself in his grief. When he was tempted to examine himself, he resisted. He learned to pretend that he wasn't really there. What he did with himself didn't matter. He gained weight, and didn't care. He went to work and home again in a haze, and didn't care. He slept often, woke up, and slept more.
One night he saw an infomercial for a neural product called the Dreambake. He didn't like the name, in fact had visions of the product actually overheating his skull until his brain became a fluffy pastry. He had never purchased anything that he had seen in an informercial before, but this time he considered it. The Dreambake was supposed to allow you to influence your dreams. It came with a manual input, allowing you to specify with startling precision the details of the dream you wanted to have, but it also had a learning feature. It would extrapolate from brain activity the deepest passions that lay dormant within your psyche, and then activate them once you slept.
He worked his shit job with Todd, a sallow-faced young man who probably only left his house to work. Todd saved his money for six months, and bought the Dreambake. With his disposable income he stocked up on sleep aids.
I literally sleep from the moment I get home from work until the moment I have to get ready for my next shift, he said to Micah one day.
Why? Micah had asked.
Because that way I can dream more, Todd confessed. It's overwhelming and it's awesome.
What do you dream about?
Different things. Sometimes I go all-in for the big spy-movie fantasies, you know. I'm running around with great clothes and hair, and I have to take out an informant before he sells his secrets to the other guy.
Todd leaned closer.
Micah leaned away.
Mostly, though, Todd had said, I dream about Erika.
Who is Erika? Micah asked.
Erika! Todd said, smacking Micah on the shoulder. Come on, man. You haven't noticed? She runs the checkout up front? Kind of girl who should be some rich asshole's trophy, not selling groceries. Erika. You know?
Micah vaguely knew who Todd was talking about. Erika, he had said.
Right. Erika! And man, let me tell you, Todd said. Let me tell you. She wouldn't talk to me at all. Said good morning to her once, and when she noticed it was me she just kept walking. It's alright, I don't blame her. I mean, look at me, Mikey.
Micah, Micah said.
Look at me. See? You get it. I get it. Hell, everybody gets it. But man, when I go home? I uploaded a photo of her into my Dreambake, see. And now she does whatever I want in my dreams.
Micah had perked up. Yeah?
See, I knew you'd come around. Best eighteen thousand dollars I ever spent. Yeah, man. Anything I want.
What if —
Naw, man. Ask. Go on. It's awesome. I don't mind telling.
What if you just wanted her to be herself? Micah had asked.
Be herself? Todd roared. Man, herself shuts me down like I'm nobody to her. Which, you know. I am. So fuck that, man. In my dream, she thinks I'm the shit. Besides, it ain't like the Dreambake knows anything about her. It just recreates her from the photo I gave it.
Could it, though? I mean, if you could tell the —
The Dreambake.
— the Dreambake about her, could it make her actually behave like her real self?
Todd shrugs. I don't know, man. It's not like this is future tech. It is what it is. I think you pretty much have to tell it everything you want it to do, and then it does it.
Huh, Micah had said.
Man, let me tell you what she did last night, Todd went on.
Micah waved him off. No, that's alright. Please don't.
You sure?
Sure, Micah had said.
That night he had replayed the infomercial twenty times. He studied the product carefully, but nowhere among the many conversations about it online could he find the answer to his question. He posted on a forum and explained his problem, and he was swamped by messages of sympathy from strangers. But nobody could answer his question.
It wasn't a difficult question.
Will the Dreambake help me talk to my wife one last time?
He wasn't stupid. He knew it wouldn't count for anything — that Mae was gone, and no matter what he might say to a tech toy, that would never change.
But he thought that it might make him feel a little better.
Shake him out of this nearly decade-long depression he was courting.
Eighteen thousand dollars wasn't a problem. He spent almost none of his income. He worked to forget her. His wages fell into his bank account without fanfare, day after day. He had nearly three hundred thousand dollars there, saved from years of unpacking boxes and stocking shelves.
Eighteen thousand dollars was nothing.
Hell, it cost less than eighteen thousand dollars to go to space these days.
Micah had sat up in bed at the thought.
In the morning, he resigned his position at the market.
The next afternoon, he was holding Mae's Onyx card.
I guess I can't really stop you from calling, can I.
Well, you don't have to answer.
Yes, but when it says Micah, I sort of feel like I should. I feel like it's chastising me when I don't.
Jesus, Mae. How did we end up here so fast?
I don't know. It was pretty fast, wasn't it.
I just want you to come home.
I —
Or I'll come to you. Let me come to you.
Micah, I don't know. Something doesn't feel right anymore.
Is it really just the space thing, Mae? Is there more to it?
If you're asking me that, then I think you've missed the real point, Micah.
Come home, Mae. We can work it out. I miss you.
I — Micah, I miss you, too.
<
br /> Really? Oh, this is like music. I can book a flight.
But I'm not coming home.
Mae...
I said before, I have something to do here.
What is it? Tell me what it is. I won't be upset.
Micah, I can't.
I promise. I won't be.
Okay. Promise?
I swear.
There's someone else, Micah.
He hated those dreams.
They always carried a promise of hope, sang it to him as he slept. In his dreams, Mae was hesitant, still gun-shy, but crumbling. He was gallant, willing to set aside all of his flaws, willing to consider almost anything if it meant they could be happy again.
And then the dreams took awful, terrible turns.
In them, Mae was having affairs. Sometimes just one, but in the heightened horror of Micah's dream-state, often many, simultaneously. Sometimes they were one-night stands, a quick fuck in some stranger's apartment, or worse, on the Tokyo train. Micah had heard of these things. His dreams capitalized on his fears.
But none of these things were real, and Mae didn't feel an obligation in the real world to answer his calls anymore. They went unanswered, his pleading messages unreturned.
Perhaps she was preparing him for the end, he wonders now.
If she was, she did a piss-poor job of it.
He had just come back from town.
The beach house was hazy in the fog, mostly hidden from view. He could hear the water, but couldn't see it. It was calm, almost still.
He closed the door of his Jeep, crunched across the pebbled driveway to the front door.
Mae wasn't home, of course. He missed coming home to a house that was drenched in shadow, except for the single light beside her reading chair. She wouldn't turn on more lights than she was actively using, even though the climate crisis was decades behind them and the damage long since done.
The house was empty.
He'd left the lights on.
His wrist hummed, and he looked down at the display to see a missed call. He must not have felt the tickle of an incoming call. Maybe it came while he was turning into the bumpy driveway.
He tapped the display, and in his ear, the worst message of his life unspooled, spoken by an eerily calm Japanese voice, and cross-translated by his ear tab. The message was brief — was he the husband of Mae Atherton-Sparrow, the American space station trainee? If so, would he please return this call?
And he knew.
In the dark of his grandfather's beach house, the one he had hoped to raise children in, the one he hoped to grow very old in, the one he had so proudly introduced Mae too, the one that he had constructed his dreams around since he was a child, he knew.
Micah wakes before the first sunrise of the morning, which is scheduled to happen at 4:32 a.m. It occurs to him that, 33,000 miles above his home, his sense of time has vanished. He wonders if Station Argus is high enough above the Earth to have affected the way time works. Yes, he imagines. But he decides that nobody has rewritten the number of minutes in the day for purely nostalgic reasons.
Knowing that twenty-four/seven hasn't changed is one of the most basic comforts, he imagines, for those who have chosen to step off of the spinning ball they were raised on.
Bob says, Good morning, sir.
Micah doesn't respond. He's only sleeping in his apartment, in this bed, because he doesn't know how to access his finances. He feels strangely like a traitor, though he cannot decide whom he has betrayed. He settles on Bernard, and Mae. By accepting this privileged existence, by leaning on it, he feels as if he is being disrespectful to that kind old man and his granddaughter, and as if he is thumbing his nose at the memory of his deceased wife, who was the sweetest of souls.
If he knew how to get to his money, he'd have stayed in a hotel in Argus City last night.
He'd have looked for a place of his own.
May I recommend a breakfast selection, sir? Perhaps a coffee?
No, thank you, Micah says. Let's continue with the education selection of your programming. Tell me where I can find my bank account. And how do I shop for food?
Sir, your assets were neutralized upon entry into the Onyx system, Bob says.
Micah wishes that Bob had a face so that he could stare dumbfounded at it. I worked for most of my life to save that money, he says, finally. And it was — neutralized?
Onyx-class citizens enjoy unfettered access to all station systems, sir, Bob says. You will have no need for funds. To order food, simply speak your list of items, and it will be delivered to your apartment in as timely a manner as you wish. All other services are similarly free of charge.
Free, Micah repeats. I get everything for free.
Yes, sir, Bob says.
Such as?
Bob says, There are no charges or fees for your apartment or its support systems. Food is free of charge. Entertainment of all types, including physical, is free of charge. Clothing and any items you wish to purchase, including customizations for your apartment, are free of charge. Body modifications and enhancements, including neural adjustments, are free of charge.
Physical entertainment?
Physical entertainment is a polite way to describe intimate companionship, Bob explains.
Whores, then.
That is a less-polite way to describe it, sir, but you are correct.
Who chooses to be a prostitute in space? Micah wonders aloud.
Physical companionship is one of the four thousand seven hundred sixteen employment channels that Machine-class citizens are preselected for, Bob says.
Preselected, Micah repeats. You mean, the government taps new arrivals and says, You're a ship mechanic, you're a bartender, you're a gardener, you're a... piece of meat?
Machine-class citizens are invited to submit their qualifications for their preferred positions, Bob says. Physical companions often select that line of employment for themselves. I believe the consensus is that it is less physically-taxing than other Machine-class employment positions, and therefore, in some segments of the population, a desired position. Like other more interesting employment positions, physical companionship is one option with a waiting list.
Micah shakes his head. Okay, I can't think about that anymore.
As you wish, sir.
So the things that are free to me, Micah says. Are those only things I can get in the tower here?
No, sir, Bob says. Services that are free to you can be found all over Station Argus, both in the towers and in Argus City.
So I could go to the city today and buy a sandwich.
Of course, sir. At no cost to you.
I could buy a new wardrobe.
Yes, sir. At no cost.
I could visit the holopark.
Yes, sir, Bob repeats. At no cost.
I could... stay in a hotel?
In theory, sir. I would be remiss not to instruct you that sleeping out-of-quarters will raise an alert that you did not return to your apartment.
An alert. You mean someone tracks me.
I track you, sir, Bob says.
Stop tracking me, Bob.
I'm not at liberty to do so, sir. Personal tracking is less invasive than you may think. I simply observe your activities in order to better serve you.
So if I didn't come home —
In that case, sir, I am required to submit an alert to station government.
You have to tell the government if I don't come home at night? Jesus.
I am required to inform the station government, sir, and when you return to your apartment, you would be contacted by an administrator. The administrator would be charged with ascertaining why you did not return to your quarters at night.
Jesus fuck, Micah says. Why is that anybody's business but my own?
Absence from your apartment can be an indicator of several scenarios that the government must monitor, sir, Bob says. For example, it may indicate that you have begun a physical relationship with a Machine-class citizen.
Which is the government's business why?
Such a relationship may lead to complexities regarding that Machine-class citizen's status. If that citizen were impregnated, for example, without administration approval —
Holy shit, Micah says. I don't want to hear this.
— then protocol regarding said pregnancy would go into effect.
You're talking about abortion. You're talking about forced government-sponsored abortion. Population control.
No, sir. Not strictly population control. Unauthorized class expansion is taken quite seriously. As I mentioned before, Onyx-class citizens are welcomed and even encouraged to reproduce among themselves as frequently as they like.
This is one goddamn horrible experiment you're running on this station, Bob.
I am simply your apartment's artificial intelligence, sir.
We'll see about that, Micah said.
He pulled on his clothes, threw open the door, and stomped into the hallway, still pulling on his coat.
Bob closed the door behind him.
What did you think when you first saw me?
We've talked about this before, haven't we?
Tell me again.
Well, I thought there was no one more beautiful in the whole world.
And you wanted to marry me right then and there.
I wanted to marry you a thousand times in one day.
And you wanted lots of babies.
All of the babies.
Did you think, wow, check out that bod.
I didn't.
Not even a little bit? I'm sad.
I really didn't. I was captivated just watching you smile and laugh.
You didn't even notice my butt? I have a very nice butt.
You were standing behind that food cart. I couldn't see your butt.
Ah, so you tried.
I didn't. But I'm sure if I had seen your butt, I really would have liked it.
You're a pervert.
I remember thinking, I bet she looks this amazing in any light. Because it was a very lovely morning, and the sun was shining through your hair and doing that thing where it makes you almost glow. And I thought, you probably glow at night, in the dark.
Deep Breath Hold Tight: Stories About the End of Everything Page 15