Gone Concept Diving

in

"It'll work!" Naomi said.

"I don't care if it'll work, it's a stupid idea!" Aria threw up her hands. Naomi sat at a terminal connected to the bank of supercooled processors.

"Look, all the simulations say the conceptspace exists where I can reach it."

"I don't care if you can simulate Heaven, it's—"

"It's not a simulation, don't you get that? It's a constructed conceptspace, but still real."

"Like another dimension." Aria's affect was flat.

Naomi rolled her eyes. "Sure, if you want to drastically oversimplify."

Aria took a deep breath. "It's untested. Let's run more simulations, test it on animals. I can maybe get a hold of some sign language-trained chimps."

"No. This is my chance to enter a world I've loved since I was five." Naomi hit three keys and slipped a helmet over her head. The world shifted and slipped away.

Everything resolved into shades a big room, all grey and white, with a big window looking out onto open space. She saw it all through some kind of helmet. Naomi was about to take it off when a radio crackled in her ear. "TK-421, report to hangar bay C-37 for cargo inspection."

Oh, Naomi thought. Uh-oh.

Pitter-Pat

in

Ksenia lay in bed, not wanting to get up. She could indulge that feeling for five minutes, at least. Maybe as many as seven. Burying her face in her pillow, a position she never fell asleep in, she enjoyed the warm cocoon of her bed.

She became aware of her heartbeat. She'd tucked her arm under her body for maximal coziness, and she felt the blood flowing through the veins of her elbow pit as it beat against her ribs, ba-dum, ba-dum. It soothed her. Tension seeped from her shoulders, and she smiled.

Other places where her pulse neared the surface made themselves known. She felt the beat of her wrist against her hip, and the pianissimo rhythm of her other hand's thumb tucked against her shoulder, bi-dip, bi-dip.

As she relaxed, she opened to ever more sensations, becoming increasingly attuned. She felt it in her knee pit against the blanket so warm, and in her one ankle crossed over the other, and where her neck pulsed strong, deep in her pillow, thrrrrum, thrrrrum.

Where she felt a different rhythm, rapid and shallow: bidibidibidibidibidibidibidibidi. She surged up onto her elbows and stared down, relaxation forgotten.

"Oh, shit," said the pillow.

Not Going to Hit Him

in

"Hit him," Armand said.

"I'm not going to hit him." Cathy rolled her eyes and looked back at her drink.

"C'mon, he deserves it!" The man who'd offered her a drink backed off, silently disappearing into the late-night/early-morning crowd.

"You always want me to hit them. It scares them off. I mean, I didn't want to keep him around, but it's not normal."

"Normal is as normal does."

"That doesn't even make sense."

"You never let me have any fun," Armand said. As he spoke, one of their neighbors at the bar looked down at Cathy's arm, flesh-toned but obviously a replacement, and speaking through a grille where the deltoid would be. "We're at a bar, and you won't even let me run my intox app."

"Are you surprised I don't want my arm flailing about like a drunk?"

The arm signed. "Do you regret getting a prosthesis?"

Cathy shrugged, which meant Armand shrugged, too. "I regret needing one, sure. Would life be less complicated if we could train good prostheses without that deep neural stuff that results in conscious AI? Sure. How about you?"

"Me what?"

"Do you ever regret choosing a stupid-ass joke name?" Cathy smirked.

"Never."

Universal Demarchy

in

"I hate doing this," Sam muttered. She and Chris took another step with the long line toward the curtained booths ahead of them.

Chris rolled her eyes. "You've said that a hundred times. Maybe you won't in a few minutes."

Sam snorted. "Minutes? My ass. We'll be lucky to be through in a few hours."

"Ugh." Chris slouched. "Hopefully you'll be a little more positive. All that negativity can't be good for you."

"God, why do I even talk to you?"

"God only knows."

They passed the next forty-five minutes in silence. At the front of the line Sam paused. In a small voice, she said, "Let's just turn around. Let's go. We don't have to... to do this."

"Oh, sweetie." Chris put a hand on her cheek. "Everybody deserves a chance to be anybody. President, CEO, homeless. Lover. They'll keep us together, we did the paperwork."

"Just... will it really be us?"

"All the times we've done this, and... who knows?" The technician ushered them past their respective curtains. "See you on the other side."

"Sure."

On the other side, one turned to the other. "Boungiorno. I'm Valentina." She held out a hand.

The other took it. "Xiu Ying."

A Moment of Frustration

in

Gabriela had a five-year-old, which meant she had a problem making her brush her teeth. When asked, in a moment of frustration, why in all the faiths on Earth did Zahra fight so hard, she said,

Because when I brush my teeth the toothbrush cleans down and down until it's brushing inside out and it'll suck me in if I don't stop in time.

Well, that was too impossible to be true and too detailed to be a lie. Next time Zahra brushed her teeth, Gabi was there to watch. She watched as the toothbrush slipped deeper and deeper into Zarha's mouth and almost panicked, fearing choking, but stopped when

She saw a different angle in the mirror This one showed her the toothbrush disappearing in a spiral that grew small with distance, surrounded by a yawning void so absent of all quality it could not even be called black.

Gabi pulled Zahra's hand away from her mouth. Dimensionality returned to rightness, and she blinked away an afterimage that held as much as the void had held nothing

"Those are all baby teeth, anyway." She led her daughter out of the bathroom. "Now about why you don't flush the toilet..."

Prove Me Wrong

in

My breath misted in the yellow lights over the stairs up from the subway. Another puff of mist caught my eye at the top of the stairs, but my second glance proved me wrong. Someone was smoking, a woman thoroughly bundled against the cold, looking straight ahead as she started her descent for a three am train. I slowed as she approached and leaned on the handrail.

"Y'know what's gross?" I said. "Strangers who stop you on the street to criticize you for smoking." I grinned.

"Y'know what else?" She didn't look at me or slow as she spoke. "Men who stop women on the street without consideration for the potential safety implications."

I stopped and watched her disappear into the tunnels. I wanted to tell her I wasn't like those guys, that wasn't me. But that'd only prove me wrong.