Kent tumbled onto the dock with a soft clatter, a technological Adonis, and stretched out his arms. “This night is fermenting in the veins of God.”
Sonata looked up the quote and saw it was part of a poem that had been cited on the first page of a sonata written by a woman named Rebecca Clarke. Only then did she consider she could activate the song coursing over her body. She did, and her new friends gathered around to listen to her soul’s sound. It was grounded in the modern but reached back across the centuries, hinting at classical keys even as it played with new tonalities.
Two days later, Sonata entered the coffee shop on Ellis again, shutting the glass door quickly against the wind, conscious of patrons who would feel the bracing chill. She felt a pang of guilt as she spotted Dante slouching over his computer in the back booth. It was as if he’d never left it. He was even wearing the same black athletic suit, although this time a Chicago Bears scarf hung loosely around his neck.
The barista cleared her throat loudly. Sonata remembered the rules and complied, scanning her palm and watching as five dollars were deducted from her sky account. There was no longer a need to eat or drink, but an NB took up space. It was only fair to pay.
“Dante,” she said when she was seven feet away and approaching the boundary of his personal space. He was wearing his earbuds, though, so she slid unnoticed into the seat opposite him. Now that she was completely integrated, the appendages of technology on breathers looked clunky and sad. It was strange to be living in the future, amidst the past.
He nearly catapulted from the booth. The earbuds jerked from their lodgings and fell to the tabletop. Sonata could hear tinny strains of old R&B weaving inside a hip-hop mix.
“What the…” He stopped and stared at her white tattoos of musical notes floating against their midnight backdrop. He caught his breath. “Sonata, that better be you.”
“It is.” Surprising him made her pleased.
“You. Are. Awesome. Not kidding.” He reached out and touched one of the notes on her arm, but of course it maintained its uninterrupted glide toward her wrist.
“Like it?” She basked in his admiration.
He huffed out a breath, and she could see a tear glistening at the corner of one eye. “I am so glad to see you, you have no idea. Now look at you. I didn’t think you’d go this radical. I love it, don’t get me wrong. It’s perfect. Tell me.”
“What do you want to know?” She considered. “Not sleeping is great.”
He nodded. “I’d wondered about that. There’s this old science-fiction book about some people not needing to sleep. They have all that extra time to do things.”
“Not just the time,” she said. “It’s the integration. I’m continuously in touch with myself, consciously.”
His expression went momentarily blank, uncomprehending. He went back to admiring her form. That quickly, they’d come to the divide. Kent had explained it simply to her before she’d come here. We occupy the same space, but we live in different worlds. No relationships can last across that gulf.
She didn’t know what to say, so she stared at Dante’s computer. It was like looking into an archeological find. Dante suddenly seemed fragile, like a fragment of a child’s collarbone from Homo naledi. He would’ve drowned in Lake Michigan that first night of her new life. Even if he could swim, he wouldn’t have had the stamina, nor could he have remained underwater with her without special equipment.
“I’ll admit I’m jealous,” he was saying. “And sure, I’m sad, too. I thought we’d be closer in age when we went into our next iterations. But hey, we’re still here.”
He was hoping against hope for friendship. A deep sadness suddenly seized her, but her body remained unaffected, so the emotion faded quickly. “Still here,” she agreed.
Dante reached out and touched her hand. It felt different from when her NB friends touched her. It felt flat, like nothing. She didn’t know what it felt like to him, but he withdrew and placed his hand on his computer. He frowned. “It must be painful for you, having your life cut off so suddenly.”
She could have laughed, but didn’t. “Oh, I’m really not sorry I had the accident. It’s like my real life is just beginning. I’d understand it if someone wanted to commit suicide to become an NB sooner.”
He blinked. “You think I’d commit suicide? To be with you?”
“What? No!” Why was he jumping to such a wild interpretation? Her NB friends knew how to just listen. “Never mind. I guess I was trying to be philosophical.”
Dante’s eyes narrowed as he appraised her, his gaze following her gliding musical notations. She could tell he’d already forgotten what she’d said. “I didn’t take you for someone who’d design their newbody this far ahead of time.”
She deflected the comment so she wouldn’t have to explain particulars. “If Mother had had her way, I’d be in some screwed-up form that looked like me in life.”
Dante laughed. “Instead you’re cutting-edge.”
She smiled. “I went so young, I got top dollar for my body parts. Nine million. They gave me all the latest enhancements, and I only used a fraction of my worth.”
His hand traced a pattern across the top of his computer in a way that made her wonder what she’d felt like to him. “Are you still set on this limited-edition idea for yourself?”
She could hear the longing in his voice, and the unspoken question: Would she still be in an iteration by the time he uploaded, decades from now? She held out an arm for him to see. “It’s written in my skin. This is my second movement.” Seeing his face fall, she quickly added, “It’s a luxury model, though. Modular design and completely updateable. Kent says it’ll last more than a hundred years, easy.”
There was an awkward silence at the mention of another man’s name. They tried to recover an amicable conversation, but Sonata became so utterly exhausted with the effort, she made a polite excuse and left.
As she made her way to the door, she saw she commanded the gazes of the breathers in the coffee shop. Some expressions were admiring, but several frowned, and as she passed a young man with a goatee standing at the counter, he turned and sneered.
Sonata had also come to the great divide with her mother. The house itself, although its tall windows let in ample light, felt confining to her now. She marveled at how she used to be able to find things to do inside houses for hours at a time. Yet what did she need a house for now? A bedroom? She never slept. A kitchen? She didn’t cook or eat. A bathroom? Useless to her now. She didn’t own clothes that she had to store in a closet. All the technology she required was built-in. None of her new friends lived in homes. They didn’t live with breathers. What had Miller said to her that last day of her own breathing life, in the coffee shop? That man is something to be overcome?
She sat straight and unmoving in the chair opposite her mother, watching the soft, aging woman sip coffee before rushing off to her job in the urban development office. Sonata had used to like the smell of coffee. Instead she was mentally removed from the scene, running the most likely scenario in a background routine. She would make the announcement that it was time for her to leave and go live with her kind. Her mother would look up, her face registering relief, fleetingly. Then she would stage a drama of surprise and hurt feelings, which would transition into sadness and tears. Her mother would then get up from the table and Sonata would rise as well. They would embrace. Her mother would say she would worry about Sonata every day.
Sonata halted the scenario and made her announcement. Her mother looked up, her face registering relief so briefly that Sonata might have missed it if she hadn’t run the simulation first. Everything played out similarly, in real time, ending with them hugging in the sunlit dining room.