She Fancies Herself

January 2044.

Wales Site F, Trawsfynydd, Wales.

Mike slipped out of the room and into the hallway, his utter contempt for himself no longer able to fit in the same room as Gemma, competing for space as it was with her utter contempt for him. So he started walking. The hallway was so brightly lit, all the time it seemed, just like the rooms. Combined with the building being mostly windowless he felt weirdly jet-lagged, isolated, out of position. Like they were on some sort of submarine. Even those had portholes though, surely. He’d never seen one in real life.

Signs on the walls did helpfully direct you around. He appreciated that this place seemed intentionally designed. The walls were a pleasing shade of sea-foam, which he knew from experience was quite a calming colour.

He managed to find his way to the bar, which was full, if not very lively. A low-ceilinged, extremely rectangular space with a smattering of boring tables, a small bar-height table at the back. A bartender stood in front of a few fridges of canned beer, with stacks of crates of more off to one side. A very slapdash affair. He scanned the room and found Bertie, who had already spotted him and was waving excitedly.

Mike stopped off at the bar for a can. It was silver and said PILSNER on the side, with various certification logos and the ABV percentage under it. Huh. Though at least it was a reasonable 15 credits.

“I know, bloody outrageous prices for these. Sip it slowly,” said the person Mike didn’t know. Bertie shook his head.

“It’s actually pretty reasonable,” Bertie asserted. “I appreciate they let us drink at all. This room used to be storage I heard, but one day they converted it into a bar to give us somewhere to relax between shifts. This is Mike, by the way.”

“Cian.”

“Keh… say it again?”

“Key. An. Key-an. Cian.” They were older than Bertie, maybe early 40s, Mike would guess. Dirty blonde hair, thick untrimmed beard, a plush red-and-black plaid overshirt hanging loose over his T-shirt, which was just a little hand-drawn sketch of an old record player.

“Got it.”

“Sláinte.” Cian raised their beer and everyone joined for a sip. Mike immediately felt a bit more relaxed. “Giving Gemma her space? I hear she was pretty rough on you.”

“She likes hazing the new guy,” added Bertie. “That’s you.”

Mike gulped down his PILSNER, rejecting the prior advice. “Turns out she knows me.”

“What? She knows you?”

“From Linkup. We matched apparently.” He took another big swig. “She said my banter was shit.” Bertie looked like he needed a minute to process. Cian lit up immediately.

“That’s fucking great, man. That’s fucking hilarious. What are the chances, man? Can we see? I have to see Gemma flirting. I can’t even imagine it.” Mike stared a hole through them. “No judgement, no judgement, I just wanna see hers, I won’t judge yours.”

Mike just shook his head. “Never happen. I probably deleted it, anyway. A mate of mine convinced me she was a chat bot.”

“Did she tell you what the rings are,” Bertie asked sheepishly, “on her necklace? She just scowls at me if I bring them up.”

“Eh, no. It was text chat.”

“Brilliant, fucking brilliant,” Cian howled. “Seriously, I love Gemma, but she’s hard to parse. She’s got that weird old millennial humour, always making rude jokes. I get it. But she doesn’t get on well with most people here. Doesn’t really fancy anyone, so far as I know. Well, she fancies herself. Sometimes a bit too obviously, if you know what I mean.”

“Jesus! She’s our supervisor, Cian.” Bertie now seemed flustered that they were talking out of school like this. “Don’t give a bad impression.”

“They’re old friends! Plus we’re all in the clink together now.” He threw his arm around Bertie and got in his face. “You, me, Gemma, 500 some odd other lucky fucks. What does it matter?” Cian picked up Mike’s beer and shook it, then seemed to be impressed it was already empty. “Next one’s on me. Keep your mobile handy friend, we’re gonna need to see those old texts.” Cian jumped up and headed toward the bar with their two empties.

Bertie grimaced. “It’s not a prison, you know. We can come and go.”

“I got threatened with arrest on a train because I skipped work,” Mike snapped.

“Oh. Well, no, you can’t skip work. But if you were off work, you know. We’re allowed to leave. It’s not really a prison.”

“Fine.”

“I know it feels like one. Cian hates it here. They don’t say it outright, but you can tell. I think a lot of people do. I don’t mind it, though.” Bertie leaned forward, his bubbliness giving way to a more earnest tone. “I grew up near here, you know. My family didn’t have any money. We didn’t have much of anything. It was really chaotic. So this, getting my meals free, having a place to sleep, friends, doing really important work. I like the stability.”

“He gets like this when he’s scuttered.” Cian sat down with the beers. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Hey, sue me,” Bertie smiled. “I don’t know. Sue me, it’s an easy life. Do what you’re asked, follow the rules, and it’s all good.”

“This from the man who reads generated books, watches generated telly. Listens to that manky fuckin’ procedural music. Nightmare.”

“We can’t all be tragically hip like you, Cian, spending every credit we have on human-crafted artisanal books that aren’t even as good.”

“Oh aye, it’s worth it ya gobshite. Try one, maybe you’d grow a soul if ya read something that fucking resonates with the tragedy of the human condition.”

“I prefer stories without glaring plot holes and spelling mistakes, actually.”

“That’s the feckin’ point ya dope! We’re not perfect, art isn’t perfect!”

Mike watched this unfold and it felt oddly nostalgic, hearkening back to post-work drinks with Jason and the HumanTouch gang. But even then it felt like it was slipping away. The rituals slowly dying. The new normal already creeping in. And now here he was, listening to someone actually lose a debate about whether a human-authored book was even worth reading. Mike felt even older in this moment than he did when he was with Kathryn.

“Well?” Cian barked at him as Bertie stared.

“Well, what?”

“Right, no, answer the question. Hand-crafted or gennies?”

Mike let out a big sigh. “Honestly I used to hate it when people would complain about this stuff, it just sounded so anti-progress. It drove me crazy. But lately. I don’t really know how I feel about it anymore.” Cian waved dismissively, irritated at the non-answer. “My ex-wife was the one who cared about this stuff for the both of us.”

“You were married?” Bertie seemed intrigued.

“Aye, what happened to her? Sent to a different site? Feckin’ government has no problem⁠—”

“—no, we split ages ago now. About a decade ago. Since then she literally wrote the book on this stuff, though.”

“Wrote the book?” Cian was intrigued. “What book?”

The trip back to their bunks was swift, even with the brief stop to get three takeaway beers. They blew into the room with little regard for Gemma, who was fine, as she’d donned her sleep mask and put her headphones on. Cian went straight to their desk, running their fingers across the spines of all the books in a few different piles until they stopped and plucked one out. “Here it is. Rare thing, this. Don’t print it anymore. Fucking christ, man. Your ex-wife is Elizabeth Marsh?”

“It was a long time ago.”

“This book changed my life, man. It changed my life. It reminded me, well, feel stupid saying it, but it reminded me what we lost.”

“I’ve never read it.” Mike was avoiding eye contact, and doubly avoiding looking at the book now in Cian’s hand, which became a lot harder now that Cian was trying to get Mike to take the book.

“You need to read it! It’s a quick read. Bertie refuses.”

“It’s true,” Bertie chirped.

“Nah, I really can’t, it just feels silly⁠—”

Cian slapped the book hard against Mike’s chest and let go, forcing him to grab it. He looked down at it awkwardly. “You’re gonna love it friend,” Cian said with a wry grin as he dashed into the bathroom with a bundle of work clothes. “Start it today. Start it right now.”