Adjustment

Sebastian drove down from San Francisco in record time. When Sam’s earpiece chimed with the call, a frantic scan of the room showed the horror that awaited: ready-meal packaging carpeted the living room, a half-dismantled bed blocked the hallway, and cardboard was taped over the window where drapes used to hang.

"Seb, are you serious?" He couldn’t hide his panic. Seb. Of all people. Their shared history could fill volumes: university nights, summer trips, awkward couple-dates as he and Virginia got serious while Seb floated from one partner to the next. But that was their twenties. He never thought, after all this time, that Seb would still be the one to drop everything.

“Are you not home?” Seb’s impatience was clear. “Your fucking robot said you were home.”

Christ, Sam thought. His dop was such a soft touch. But he couldn’t let Seb see how he was living just now—it was a cry for help masquerading as an apartment. “I was just on my way out. I’ll send the location.”

“Whatever man, I’m here for you. Good to hear your voice, your real voice. See you in a few.”

Another chime, and Sam exhaled. He’d still have to face this with Seb and explain himself, but that could wait until after a few drinks. For now, he was on the Metro headed for O’Leary’s in Santa Monica.

O’Leary’s was Sam and Virginia’s usual haunt, mostly because it was next to Virginia’s office. But Seb had become quite taken with it the few times he’d come to town. The last time they were all together had been that December of 2039, right here at O’Leary’s. Perhaps it was fitting they’d meet there now. It was a dark wood and brass, low-ceilinged shrine to an Irish pub culture that Americans assumed existed. Creaky mismatched stools with cracked green upholstery lined the front and sides of the bar. The bartender was at least six foot, tattoos down both arms and perpetually suited in promotional shirts from breweries, her stringy black-and-grey hair hanging down to the middle of her back. It seemed she was always there, and all attempts over the years to learn her name were met with the same response: “I’ll answer to any drink order, darling.”

The perverse charm of O’Leary’s came from the fact that it had no business being in Santa Monica at all. This was an area that had gentrified so rapidly it required some gentle re-shaping of laws to ensure the locals could be displaced at the pace Magenta needed. How could they possibly pay the rent? How had it not been bought out? Magenta’s Los Angeles headquarters surrounded the pub on practically all sides: a pimple on the otherwise-unblemished face of their glittering oceanside campus.

“Samir Patel! Who let this guy in here?” As cliché as he was, it was a massive relief to see Seb. It took seconds for him to cross the room and pull Sam into a tight bear hug. All the stress melted away.

Shots of Patron were lined up at the end of the bar, and they’d taken one each before they even sat down. “My goodness, Sam. Who the fuck even are you without your job? And without Virginia? Do we even know?”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Shut the fuck up. Why didn’t you tell me, man?”

Sam’s head was already swimming from the first shot as two more were lined up in front of him. He hadn’t eaten today. He was hard pressed to remember when he’d eaten at all. “I’m surprised we can still get in here. I had to show my ID to Magenta security to get onto the street. Just assumed Virginia would’ve had them keep me out.”

Seb gestured to the bartender for a couple of pints. It was barely 1 p.m., but Seb always existed slightly out of social convention. “Let’s not start turning her into a cartoon villain, alright man? You’ll regret it.”

The bartender dropped two lagers in front of them. “On the house,” she said with a wry smile. “Haven’t seen you in here in a while. You or your other half.”

Sam took a sip of the free pint. It was properly bottom of the keg: gritty with a hint of sediment. He nodded and closed his eyes. “Thanks. She won’t be joining me today.”

“She’s here right now. In one of the booths over there. Assumed you were here together.”

Seb tried as he might but couldn’t stifle his laughter. Sam froze, his face expressionless, every muscle tense as he attempted to realign his molecules and slip through the floor to the basement.

“I’ll go clear it up, all good man.”

Sam chewed his beer in silence as Seb breezed around the wooden divider to the booths concealed behind it. Seb had always been a smooth operator, which was good, as it was essentially his job. Sam’s mind drifted to all the times they’d crossed paths at events the music label put on—Sam awkwardly there to assist his masters, Seb there as a much-ballyhooed ‘club booker’, ready to be entertained. It was a pairing that would’ve never worked had Seb, Sam, and Virginia not been childhood friends.

Picturing all this had proved a fantastic way to dodge any sort of engagement with the horrors unfolding behind him. The bartender had repositioned herself and popped up like a prairie dog, not bothering to hide her attempt to see what was happening on the other side of the divider. But before any of them could manage to eavesdrop, Seb reappeared with a new friend.

“She’s not here,” Seb said with a smile. “I’ve got this one instead.”

“Hi Carlos,” Sam muttered.

“Samir.” Carlos stood like a hostage about to deliver a prepared statement. “Did you know we were here?”

“No. What? How would I have possibly known that, Carlos? So Virginia isn’t here?” Sam went up on his tip-toes and peered over the divider, looking for her trademark bun.

“Virginia left when she saw you walk in. She has been very confused and upset by all of this. She asked if I could pass on a message.”

Seb smiled. In his mind, this sort of torture was completely compatible with being a good friend.

“What’s the message?”

“That she’s been…”

“Very confused and upset, right, okay…” Sam trailed off as he finished.

“You’ve been ignoring her, and all the while, your Mirror has been reaching out to her,” Carlos scolded.

“Okay, well, I can’t control that.” Sam furrowed his brow. He knew, now more than ever, that what his dop did was his responsibility. Why was it doing that?

Carlos sighed and shook his head. “Virginia did want you to have this. As a goodbye present.” He produced a small, white box from behind his back. “She was planning on giving it to you. She felt you would appreciate it. It’s something we found cleaning out a lab. Our team worked on it, at Magenta.”

Seb nodded. “So it’s trash.”

Carlos tilted his head like a cat. “It’s a rare prototype of an unreleased Magenta product. No, it is not trash.”

“Relax, he’s joking.” Sam took the box with both hands. It had a bit of heft to it, along with some serial numbers and various QR codes, but nothing to indicate what might be inside. He stared at the top and lost himself in the white void.

“It’s a PCC imager.” Carlos smiled. “She felt you would enjoy this, in spite of the extremely limited utility and the fragile nature of the prototype housing.”

Sam slid the top off the box to reveal a slim silver camera, roughly the size of his palm. A small round lens protruded from the front, a small white button from the top, but otherwise it had no markings at all—just a brushed steel housing. “So it’s a camera.” Sam hoped for a bit of backup, but Seb had instead struck up a chat with the bartender.

“A PCC camera, Samir. Photonic chain of custody. It cryptographically signs the pixels with a timecode.”

Sam held the camera to his eye, framing up Seb and his new bartender friend. “Huh.” It reminded him of the camera his parents had when he was a kid, which he’d destroyed in a failed attempt to attach it to a drone. He tapped the top and the device vibrated. Moments later, the photo of them appeared on the rear screen: Seb mid-blink, the bartender with a scowl, a harsh glare coming from the bottles behind the bar.

“Good fucking luck,” Seb yelled. “Both gen-blocked. I mean, I just assume…” He glanced at the bartender, who gave a curt nod.

“Yes,” Carlos nodded. “The lack of gen-block enforcement was a significant challenge we would have faced in mass production.”

Sam turned the camera around, which elicited a scoff from the bartender. She faced away immediately.

“Well, shit,” Seb yelled. “It’s a real photo.”

Carlos let out another deep sigh. “Real isn't the word I'd use, because real is subjective. If a photo captures an event differently than you remember it, which is more real, the photo or your memory? If everyone in the moment was happy, but the photo captures a split-second where one person looked upset, is that photo representing reality?”

“Whatever, dude. I fucking hate genned photos. It’s all anyone ever has or sees anymore. The new law is bullshit.”

“That’s absurd,” Carlos seethed. “Genned photos are critical for public safety. Imagine a stalker being able to capture your daily routine, or…”

“Or,” Sam jumped in. Carlos and Sebastian were a powder keg at the best of times; the last thing this day needed was a blow-up over politics. “An ex perving out on old nudes.”

Seb cackled. “Right. Whatever. Punk isn’t safe.”

Carlos sighed. “Samir, please enjoy the camera. And please be careful with it. I disagree with giving it to you, but Virginia insisted.” He forced a tight smile and dismissed himself back to the booth. Sam and Seb slid back onto their stools at the end of the bar.

That evening Seb had offered to drive them both to Sam’s, under the assumption they’d be staying there together for the night, before Seb drove back to the Bay Area the following morning. The notion was enough to make Sam feel unwell. He couldn’t offer Seb the sofa when he was sleeping on it himself, and scraps of guest bed littered the hallway. He was in no position to host. Rather than admit this, he added further delay.

“Night cap?”

“Phwoar.” The car flashed a digital portrait of Seb with large crosses over the eyes, alongside a steering wheel with a cross over that as well. “It’s not going to let me fucking drive, is it?”

It did not, the car instead choosing to lumber them toward a destination they both claimed to have not selected. At one point, feeling it may be driving them in circles, Seb called the car a prick and told it to bring them somewhere to get drunk. Before long they were parked in front of a small cocktail bar a couple of blocks away from Sam’s apartment.

“Of course it picked this. Fucking biased.” Unlike O’Leary’s, but like most other bars in Los Angeles, it was fully automated. The first sip of his drink triggered a rant. His face contorted into a Picasso. “Terrible. You let me try an auto-pour and a hand-made, I’ll know every time. Every fucking time.”

“It’s a whiskey and Coke.”

“Whatever.”

Sam stared at the pulsing light on the bar-top in front of him, and traced his finger around the seam. He missed looking at the bottles. This was a purpose-built modern bar, which meant it didn’t even have space where they used to be. Instead it was just some screens showing cocktails, flashing and changing so often he could barely read them. He shook his head. “I’ll have a whiskey and Coke, too.”

A gentle chime followed the light flashing twice, and the coaster-shaped hole in the bar slid open to dispense a glass. It filled from the bottom as it rose — a measure of whiskey and some chilled Coca-Cola.

“No ice,” Seb sighed. “I think it’s that there’s no ice.”

“What’s that?” Sam stared at the drink in front of him. It didn’t have ice, though the glass was frosty. The most common dispensing system at these auto-bars worked this way. Sam assumed it was just too much of a faff for the machine to also put ice in, so they froze the glasses instead.

“The ice,” Seb answered. “It melts into the drink. Gives it the different flavour. Especially if it’s City water. Drinks taste different bar to bar depending on how they make their ice. The age of the pipes, the quality of the hoses, the brand of the fucking ice maker. It all matters, Sam.”

“I’ve never thought about it.”

“Nobody thinks about anything anymore.”

“Right.” Sam sighed again. He loved Sebastian, not least of which because Seb had dropped everything and raced down here the moment he heard there was trouble. But if a drop of drink touched his lips, his doomerism came roaring up from the depths. He hated everything. It had started grounded in a realistic concern for society, and as he aged, transitioned into this malaise, this exhausting disdain for humanity and what it had become. “Still edgy, then.” Sam was not above taking the piss out of him over it.

“Still…” Seb choked on his drink as he laughed. “Yes, asshole, I’m still edgy. I get why you went soft. Can’t be easy living with a collaborator.”

“Sore subject.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, man. I’ve barely asked you how you’re getting on with all this. Is she still… she’s not still living there. Right?”

“No, she hasn’t been back. I haven’t seen her since the night.”

“What happened?”

“I…” Sam traced a pattern in the frost on his glass. “I just decided it was time to move on.” Another sip warmed him up, though the air in the sterile bar was freezing. He couldn’t face what had really happened. After seeing Seb’s naked contempt for Carlos and everything Magenta stood for, telling him the truth about the breakup felt impossible.

“Sure.” Seb had retreated from eye contact, back to staring at the slot on the counter. A drink appeared soon after. He was really going for it.

Sam did likewise, and downed the rest of his current drink so as to not fall behind. “Yeah, I think it’s best, anyway. Her being at Magenta, me at Normal Island, it’s never been a good fit.”

“You mean you with Gemma,” Seb chuckled. “Those two still best pals?”

Sam had already gotten through quite a bit of his new drink. He had to slow down and gasp a bit as the rush of near-frozen liquid stung his brain. “I…” The image of Virginia ambushed him—her ridiculous, adorable cat shirt, her tangled, oily hair. Would that always be the way he last saw her? He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t go back.

“You know, I never understood…”

“What if I came up to San Francisco with you?”

“Pffffft.” Seb sounded as if he’d been popped with a needle. “Dude, what? No, that’s not your world.”

“Not my world? It’s still the Republic. I’ve been thinking of getting out of here, anyway,” Sam added. “There’s no jobs, and it’s only getting worse. Definitely nothing in music.”

“There’s nothing in music anywhere, man. It’s dead. It’s fucked. Unless you’re a one or a zero.”

“You own a nightclub.” Sam knocked back the rest of his drink as soon as he said the words. In his mind, the barstool creaked in a dramatic fashion as Seb did a full-body turn. In reality, it was silent.

“Nightclubs aren’t the music business, they’re hospitality. The fuck do you know about nightclubs? No, dude.” He poked Sam hard on the chest, then landed his finger on the re-order button. Sam’s Ring vibrated to confirm the order. Seb had just cost him another thirty-five dollars. “Your problem is down here, dude. Stay down here and fix it.”

Seb was kind enough to cover the cost of a hotel, saving him the embarrassment of returning to the apartment that night. It was the usual LA accommodation for gentlemen of their means, sleek compartments twice the width and almost exactly the length of a double bed. Sam knew he shouldn’t enjoy this, and that no-one should. It was unnatural to contain a person in such a space, a space smaller than a prison cell. But there was something perversely comfortable about it. Slipped in here underneath a ceiling so low he couldn’t stand up. He took the most comfortable position he could find: lying flat on his back, arms at his side, eyes closed. If he were to pass now, this could be his coffin.

Chirp, chirp, chirp. His pocket played an off-putting melody. He ignored it. Dead people didn’t need to answer when people rang them. He wasn’t someone who prayed for death, or envied the dead, or anything like that. But in this moment, entombed in his budget accommodations, lying flat and still, was there harm in pretending?

Chirp, chirp, chirp. His earpiece didn’t care whether he was alive. It only had one purpose. His elbow banged into the side of his compartment as he fished it out of his pocket and popped it in his ear.

“Hello?”

“H…hi.” Sam recognised the voice. Shaky, uneasy. Nervous. The voice of someone who’d recently been crying. It was his own voice. Or rather, the voice of his Mirror.

“I don’t need the daily summary today. Thanks.”

“Okay.” Sam’s dop was clearly bothered.

“Okay?”

“Sam, I can’t get in touch with Virginia.”

“I know. I wouldn’t expect you to be able to.”

“But.” Sam’s digital facsimile cracked and sniffled, holding back more tears. “We have to get her back.”

“No, we can’t. I need you to stop trying. It’s just upsetting her. And it’s upsetting me.”

“I don’t understand. We always manage to convince her. I’ve often managed to convince her without you needing to know.”

“I…” Sam brushed his hand past his face, swatting away the thought of what he’d just heard. “I appreciate that. But it’s time to stop now. I mean it.”

“I was thinking.” The voice on the earpiece burst into tears. “Traditionally, flowers are an appropriate apology for a disagreement with your romantic partner. Right?”

“Virginia doesn’t really…”

“A bouquet of gorgeous paper-craft red roses can be delivered directly to Virginia today for just fifty-four dollars. I really think this is going to do the trick, Sam. I’m happy to write a personalised note for her as well. With Magenta GiftTrak, they’ll reach her wherever she is.”

“Pause ads.”

“You can’t, Sam!” Sam jolted in his bed, the panic in his dop’s voice sending him into an anxiety spiral as the tiny speaker rattled his eardrum. “You have no advertising pauses remaining for the month! Now please, just let me do this for us! For you.”

“No.” He took a stern tone with himself. “No, I’m sorry. I have to insist.”

“Why not!?” Gut-wrenching emotion poured from some far away data centre, down the fibre optic network and into Sam’s ear. The voice was sobbing now. Sam could almost picture some frail other him, broken-hearted and sobbing in a distant server farm.