She lay beside me, shoulders teased by the thin straps of the black silk dress that lined her back and ass. It clung to her much unlike anything I had ever seen her wear, leaving both nothing and everything up to the imagination of my starved eyes. My arms stayed glued to my side, unable to move, hesitant to touch her, to break the spell of the sleeping ghost inches away from my own skin, still warm, still damp and living and divine. Her hair fanned out beneath her in brown-gold waves, and the gentle hum of the sun outside cast amber streaks across her face.

I lay there, in the summer-drenched room, hibiscus and jasmine filling my nose from the scent-ports on the walls, soaking in the soft movement beside me, the gentle breath of a woman who I had known for so little time, and yet felt like all my life. A buzzing noise from outside the window drew my attention, and through the thin, pink-gauze curtains I saw a hummingbird, sea-blue and pecking at the plastic flowers on the sill. Its wings moved with hydraulic precision, sighing and groaning with each beat of its wings. Titanium, I thought. That was the name of the white I had used to paint a scene such as this once, the colour of a house in the rainforest, squat and square with a red terracotta roof and herbs drying in the doorway, my wife beside me, though her hair was black, not brown, and he had freckles in the sun, unlike this pale-faced approximation laying beside with with curves like the ocean. I had never liked larger-figured women, but the system had decided, and this was the optimal companion profile for a man of my demographic.

A translucent banner flickered across the corner of my vision. Balance: 00:12:09 remaining.

The rainforest outside the window sagged. The leaves lost their lacquered shine, drooping under a weight that hadn’t been there minutes before. The hummingbird outside twitched mid‑air, wings stuttering, the rhythm collapsing into an uneven whine. For a moment it hung there, frozen, before resuming its pattern, but now the beats were off by a fraction, just enough to make my teeth ache. Its shadow in the curtains moved out of kilter. The scent‑ports sputtered again and the air carried the unmistakable musk of wet soil and animal droppings.

Please upgrade your Serenity plan to the Premium Tier to gain access to longer sessions, customised scenarios, and a richer overall experience.

I exhaled. I’d stretched the subscription as far as I could this month. I would save those twelve remaining minutes for the end of this week, then the next, and all over again in January. The rainforest outside dissolved into a low‑resolution smear, and the woman beside me flickered into a cheaper model, all before flickering out completely.

And I was alone again, ushered out of the black pod and back to work until my next six minute break at the end of the week.

The bleakness of the world outside the pod gave no reprieve. I step out of the “Pleasure Palace.” These types of places had become common in this city. After climate change forced us all into a few mega cities scattered around the U.S., everybody needed an escape.

The ID chip in my arm itched. I’d never fully gotten used to the thing.

The greeter-bot stands outside the door. “Goodbye, Michael. We look forward to seeing you again.”

“Uh–It’s mike.”

“Of course. My apologies.”

I need to get back to work.

The alleyway was dark. I didn't usually come to the sub-levels of the city, but they’re the only place “simulation centers” could be found. The neon signs of the shops glared through the alley, reflecting around the gloomy interior. Women danced in the window's of shops, beckoning me to come inside. If they had decent enough facial modulators to look like my wife, maybe I would. But I couldn’t afford their rates, so I stuck to the simulations.

The few passersby kept their heads down, moving quickly. Everybody down here looked uneasy. Distrust and the crack-down on contraband had the underworld in an uproar.

A man with a hood hung low over his face bumped into me. “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” He hurried off. There’s all kinds down here.

I reached the steps to the city’s main level. A security checkpoint scanned my ID chip as I crossed. “Michael Moor. Age twenty nine. Current resident of main-level apartment 40,608.”

My fist balled up “It’s–um, it’s Mike, goddammit.”

The climb was arduous. No elevators going down here—the city didn’t want to waste the power supposedly. The concrete steps doubled back on themselves higher and higher, stretching for what seemed like forever. Finally. The steps emerged into a narrow alley. People passed by the opening at the other end. I slipped through the alley, joining the thousands of bustling people all making their way somewhere different. The ceiling of the city was a massive screen simulating the sky—or at least what the sky used to look like. The artificial sun shone on them with a modicum of warmth—“Just enough UV’s to keep everyone happy and healthy!”

A person nearby was yelling at anyone who would listen: Consciousness is a gift, don’t waste it when you die! Donate your consciousness to the conscious collective, a living, breathing library of memory, experience, and raw emotion!

I wonder how many times they rehearsed that one?

I reach the entrance to my work. Here we go again…

* * *

The artificial sun was low in the sky, casting amber pools onto the diminished crowds beneath.

Work sucked today. I know I needed to just go home, but I couldn't shake the urge to use the remaining twelve minutes. I needed it today, I could regret it later.

I made my way toward the closest entrance to the sub-levels. The air quality changed as I descend. I’d never thought much of it, but I wondered how many sub floors there were down here. I’d only been to the two closest ones.

I reached the familiar alley. Neon signs blazed, a few stragglers shuffle about their business. The Pleasure Palace’s sign shone with great fervor. A beacon of reprieve In a world of gray.

The greeter-bot waved. “Hello, Michael.”

I pushed past it, trying to focus on the next twelve minutes. My usual pod Is unoccupied. As I entered, the AI system scanned my ID chip.

“Michael Moor—”

“It’s–it’s Mike!

“Compiling companion profile, please stand by.”

The image faded in around me. This time it’s a picnic blanket laid out on an evergreen forest floor. The scent of pine filled my nostrils, birds cawed, a stream trickled somewhere in the distance. My eyes fell on the Woman next to me, jarring me back to reality. My wife, exactly as she had been in life, staring back at me.

The woman’s mouth moved, and out came her delicate voice, “Mike.”

This was too real. Was I imagining this? “Uh…”

“We don’t have much time; you need to listen.” Her eyes shone with the vibrancy of the life they once held.

The forest background seemed to fade until it was just us. “Babe? What is–what is this?”

“I can only speak through this vessel for a moment.

“The consciousness Collective is using people’s minds. I don’t know how, but after I died I became part of the city, tasked with certain functions to keep it running. I only got a little piece of the pie, but there’s thousands of us, all trapped.

As the shock started to clear, I started to come back to myself “What can–what can I do?”

“Find out who’s responsible; find the truth. There’s something they’re not telling us. Remember what was forgotten.” As she spoke, the image began to fade.

Panic climbed up my chest. “No, no, no!” I reach out to grab her, but she’s already gone. I sat in silence while my stunned reflection stared back at me in the now-dark screen.

“Balance remaining, zero hours, zero minutes, zero seconds. Please upgrade your Serenity plan to the Premium Tier to gain access to longer sessions, customized scenarios, and a richer overall experience.”

The voice made me want to tear my ears off. I hurried out of the pod, feeling like I left my stomach behind.

“Goodbye, Mich—”

WHAM. WHAM. WHAM. I hadn’t even realized what had happened until it was over. The greeter-bot lay in pieces on the ground. My right knuckle was bloody and swollen. Oh good, I’m sure I can afford to replace that.

I began to walk away, hoping nobody had noticed. I put my non-bloody hand in my pocket, trying to look inconspicuous—what’s this? From my pocket I retrieve a small flash drive. How did this… The man who bumped into me earlier. But why?

I walked back to my housing as quick as I could. They insist upon being called apartments, but I have up that hope long ago; scanning into long concrete stretch, I am greeted with the sight of layers upon layers of rooms and iron railings, making my way up to level eight and pushing my way inside.

Twelve beds sit lined up against the far wall, stacked in threes on top of each other. Four blank faces turn to me. I don’t recognize them, apart from the one who replaced Raya last week. I didn’t ask, only memorized the lines of this new one’s face as if I could map it to Raya’s. Tara, this one calls herself.

Richie isn’t back yet, then.

I shimmy into my bed: three across, two up, like I’m a letter in a crossword puzzle, and slam the shutters down around me. It isn’t much, barely thicker than paper, but it’s something. My laptop sits in the cubbyhole beside me, a shitty chunk of metal that can barely run a hologram. I only keep it because it has my wedding photos on it.

The flash drive is warm in my palm by the time I pull it from my pocket, as if the warmth from the guy’s hand still lived inside it. I slide it into the side port of my ancient laptop.

The machine whines, screen flickering from blue to static to a dim, sickly glow. A folder appears instantly.

CC_ROOT_ACCESS.

My breath catches. Nobody gets root access to anything in this city. Not even the engineers who built it.

I click.

The screen dissolves into a lattice of windows opening and closing in rapid succession. There must be thousands of them.

CONSCIOUSNESS COLLECTIVE: ACTIVE NODES — 14,203,887

A loading bar crawls across the bottom of the screen.

I scroll through the windows while I wait.

A woman named Lydia Chen, age 54, deceased from respiratory collapse.
Assigned Function: Traffic Flow

Optimization, Sector 12
Cognitive Load: 84%
Distress Level: Medium

A child, Ravi Patel, age 9, drowned during the Great Floods.
Assigned Function: Water Sanitation

Optimization, Sector 4
Cognitive Load: 56%
Distress Level: Critical

Then I see it. My wife: Amy Moor, age 24, cause of death listed only as ‘routine decay’, assigned to ‘archival duties’ in sector 8. Her distress level reads simply: unavailable for those with roles scoring 3 or less on the Bailey Occupational Strain Index.

The screen shakes as more files force themselves open. My laptop isn’t built for this. I’m not built for this.

Decrypting… 48%

A new window forces itself to the front.

PROJECT SERENITY: GOVERNMENT DIRECTIVE 77‑B

Status: Operational

Purpose: Retention and Utilization of Post‑Biological Cognitive Assets

A video loads: grainy, old, like it was never meant to be seen again. A government official stands at a podium, the city skyline behind him still intact.

“In the wake of the Climate Consolidation, we face unprecedented loss of human capital. The Consciousness Collective ensures continuity. Every citizen contributes. Even after death.”

Another voice cuts in.

“Subjects experience mild disorientation during integration. Emotional dampening protocols ensure compliance.”

Decrypting… 89%

A final file appears, marked with a red warning symbol.

MICHAEL MOOR — PENDING INTEGRATION

Beside it sits my ID, face, weight, height, psych evaluation and address.

I open the ‘pending integration’ folder.

Projected Function: Emotional Regulation Algorithm, Serenity Pods

Integration Scheduled: 14 Days

Fourteen days.

The laptop screen flickers violently, then stabilizes. A message appears in the center.

DO NOT TRUST THE CITY.

DO NOT TRUST THE COLLECTIVE.

FIND THE ARCHITECT.