Flood Zone
1.2.0
The rains came, as generations predicted. Everyone was shocked.
Puddles formed and stayed, never draining, always swelling, joining, swallowing ground. Little rivulets in trash-strewn culverts turned to constant gurgling streams. Creeks expanded to slow rivers that conquered banks and never retreated. The ground grew marshy where waters welled in fields, meadows, lawns, parking lots, playgrounds. All sank, churned, moldered, festered.
Drowned.
The logic of the roads was broken by currents and eddies. Streets staggered into fetid pools and raging torrents. Houses listed and rotted, sucked into rivers. No dam or levy, no pump or swale, held.
All was changed.
All was change. The skies roiled. The land that remained was never still. All faced a choice:
Stay in an unrecognizable home or leave.
Most left. Inundated, they dried up and blew away like thistle seed. They landed in a city to make the best of bad luck.
Many died, unable to leave, equally unable to make a life bound by water.
Far away, tears were shed for their lonely graves. For the lives snatched by the unending flood. For the loss of the idea of this land: Once fertile, a veritable breadbasket, a hub of activity, the region was useless. In two shameful angry generations, it was laid waste.
It paid the terrible toll of the age.
Because it was so changed, the land needed a new name. Those who hear us gave it one: Riverine.
Riverine seethes. It teems. It holds no quarter. It annihilates.
Oh, Riverine! Riverine! Let us sing that name again,
our song runs sweet for a spell.
For here’s the thing: Riverine is also paradise.
In Riverine, clear waters filtered by ancient stone spring from underground, an ever-renewed gift to foxes, wolves, coyotes, deer, possums, weasels, wild cats, small bears, armadillos, lizards, snakes, and new nameless things. Murky pools nurse life layered on life, burbling with fish, frogs, worms, larvae. Scrubby woodlands tangle with vines, young trees, and wild plants that bear new fruits and bloom at new times. A cacophony of birds darkens the sky, a raucous roar of wings,
an eternal echo through the trees.
The horror that made Riverine left a gap for all others. They filled it, changing at a rate unseen.
We coaxed them.
Humans also made a new home in Riverine. They drifted in from Amish farms, from near-ghost towns. They sifted in from faraway cities, a mix of all colors and creeds, exhausted and bewildered. Some came from even farther away. They claimed what had been stolen long ago.
All set to work. Things were learned urgently.
The broken and mud choked was repurposed, the land understood, the harvests brought in. Faiths kindled, each community salvaging what it could.
The people of Riverine now know what boats work best. They know the ways of the pools and streams and their inhabitants, watching closely for a next meal or a wonderous mystery. They know what livestock thrives, what crops endure the constant damp and alternating waves of mad heat and chilling cold.
Far away, towers stand. They flash in the night. Closer, buildings filled with machines blink and hiss in the dark.
Still, still, the spell that is Riverine is unbroken.
1.2.1
Something is wrong at Relay 34510. Something’s always going wrong with the new relays and towers that dot the edges of the Flood Zone. But this time it’s different.
It’s worse.
Relay 34510 struggled to pass along data at first. After twelve hours of sluggish response to the reset signal, its core machines shut down and shunted everything to the auxiliaries. A few more attempts to restart things—basic protocols, followed by a few clever hacks to coax resistant machines back to life—and the backup, too, went quiet. The remote sequences failed.
34510 is essential. Without it, there’s no communication across the Flood Zone. We need that link badly, due to circumstances all are aware of.
For that reason, I was pulled into the struggle to get 34510 to speak to us. I designed some of its newest components. They are not supposed to fail this way. But they have never been fully tested in Flood Zone conditions, the frustrated tech reminds me.
So I leap into the fray, and Alt, my integrated intelligence, casts a set of plots on the wall. We suspect it’s a software, not a hardware issue we’re dealing with at 34510. I use the central machine to give us enough data to parse, my fingers dancing at my temples near the arrays that house Alt and connect it with my mind. Even an unintegrated person could see I’m engaging in heated battle. This is personal and my pride is at stake.
My pride and my cursing are irrelevant. 34510 drifts deeper into sleep. Our commands, pleas, questions go unanswered.
***
How lucky that you’re nearby! We need your assistance, says the message that reaches me not long after our last attempt at reviving 34510 fails.
It comes from a place called Bloomington, the nearest technical center to our ailing relay, from someone named Aiden Zikes, the center’s director. Zikes is correct; I am indeed nearby. When 34510 went down, I was on an extended off-site, conducting training on the updated equipment across the region. Visiting our babies, I often joke.
To Zikes’ message, I send my default response: Sadly, I am engaged in other tasks.
The sender is not dissuaded. We haven’t been trained on the new setup yet. Alt checks for me. This is true. We need this relay back up.
I sigh and respond: What are you proposing?
We would like to invite you down to our center. You could help us learn the new configuration. Then we could make the repair. It would only take 2-3 days. The sender adds a few files, images of what looks like a genuinely charming place, a sea of green shade among pale stone buildings. The sample itinerary Aiden Zikes included is efficient, even if the last leg is on one of those comfortless amphibious water convoys. The flooding is worse than usual this autumn.
“I’m not a repair tech,” I grumble aloud, though I can execute most repairs without Alt, in my sleep. I’m better trained than a technician. I’m a senior specialist. Yet this is my first major design project. The solution my updated equipment employs is so beautiful, I long to share it. And I have a reputation to cultivate.
On top of these considerations, I am also required to log a certain number of field hours a year to maintain my permits and licenses. But I hate field work. This invitation reeks of it. We are almost in Q4 of this year, Alt reasons when I ask it to lay out the pros and cons of accepting this invitation. Pro: You need those hours.
“Yes, but this is not what I want to be doing right now. Where is this place…”
Alt chimes. Aiden Zikes must have known. He’s sent more data hot on the heels of that first little drop. The new images show a perfectly maintained small town, such a rarity at the edge of the Flood Zone. In the images, people stroll past busy sidewalk cafes, transmitting a general feeling all is right and life is good in this Bloomington. Pro: They are promising free days after the training.
I sigh again. “It’s a beautiful place, at least in those images.” I flick through a few more.
Pro: The director-level request makes this an offer difficult to refuse.
“I got that, but…”
This most recent failure may indicate a need for further updates or other adjustments, Alt remarks. Pro: More data would allow us to conduct a complete analysis.
I sigh, for what feels like the millionth time. I’ve sighed a lot lately. “We do need more data on our babies.” I ask Alt to stop our deliberations. My decision is made. I confirm the itinerary, receive the requisition docs, and head to Bloomington the next morning.
***
Once I arrive, I report to the office of the center director, that same Aiden Zikes.
I’ve shown up before the specified time. The crew is friendly and welcoming, nonetheless. They make small talk and settle me in a room vaulted with dark beams, some remnant of the local university’s once ornate and sprawling campus. The tech who guides me there ducks out, apologizing extensively that I have to wait.
I don’t mind. From a small dispenser, I get a tea and a local sweet that tastes remarkably good after the trip. I look out the window and watch the grey clouds sail by, as Alt and I fiddle together with a melody via internal audio to pass the time.
I’ve just polished off my snack and tweaked a twist in my little tune when a lanky man pops out of a paneled door opposite me. Like most unintegrated adults, he’s taller than me. Instead of the grim quasi-uniform people of his position prefer, he’s wearing an old-fashioned pair of khaki shorts and a purple paisley shirt. He beams when he spots me, another strange variation on the usual director theme.
“Ah, Xenia? Did I get that right?” he asks. I nod. “Welcome to Bloomington Center! I’m Aiden Zikes, the director. Come in, come into my office. Sorry about the wait…”
“No worries, Director,” I reply, replacing my cup in the dispenser. “It’s good to have a moment to catch my breath.”
“I take it your trip was acceptable? Those water convoys can be pretty packed this time of year…”
“I’ve had more comfortable rides, but it was fine.”
“Good, good… well then, I am truly sorry I don’t have much time this afternoon to take you around and such, but let’s talk for a few minutes about your stay.” He leads me into his office, another high-ceilinged room lined with centuries-old wood. A set of tall windows overlooks a crenelated roof of energy capture panels. The walks below bustle with animated people in brightly colored clothing. Some bots scurry here and there, tending the flower beds still blooming in the autumn heat. A thick grove of trees stirs beyond. I can almost forget I’m at the edge of the Flood Zone.
“You have a pleasant view,” I comment.
Zikes grins. “I know, we’re very lucky here.” He gestures toward a worn upholstered chair next to the window.
I perch on the edge of the chair’s seat. His jovial manner is atypical in a director, and I am unsure what to make of it. “I’m here because of your invitation but the only reason I accepted it was because I’m very concerned about the status of one of the relays under this center’s jurisdiction.”
Zikes blinks a moment at my blunt statement but takes my directness in stride. “Of course,” he says sympathetically, “and we’re glad we’ve got a specialist here who can guide us as we fix Zion Station.”
“I didn’t catch that.” I knit my brow. “What?”
“Oh no, I’m sorry. It’s been a crazy day today. I’m not thinking straight!” he laughs. “That’s the name we use casually for that particular relay… Named for the old road that ran through that area.” He gives me a soft smile. “We give our own, local names to the relay stations and other objects we tend. Makes it easier to remember.” He glances at a device on his desk and gestures near it. “Yeah, that’s Relay 34510 in more standard parlance… The one at coordinates 39.038809, -86.636576…” With a smile, he rattles off the numbers with a speed and precision that hints at extensive past work with integrated people. “Does that match your data?”
I like Aiden Zikes. His casual demeanor contrasts with his obvious competence, another unusual characteristic for a director in the Flood Zone. I smile back. Alt confirms that these coordinates indeed match the ones we have. “You got it. That’s the one.” Another moment with Alt, as my fingers flicker by my temple. “I have all sorts of plans and diagrams and data plots for you and your team… Where would you like them?”
“I’ll grab them directly. I assume the files are pretty heavy,” he says, picking up a device from his desk. I step closer and he places it next to one of my ports, the correct one, I note with satisfaction. Zikes knows his stuff. When the device bongs like a strange bell, Zikes glances at it. “Looks good. I’ll get it into the right place in our system.”
“I’m happy to start training your team whenever they’re ready…”
“As luck would have it,” he states, “we have a training period already scheduled for tomorrow morning. Some students may want to attend if you feel that’s appropriate.”
“That’s fine,” I begin to calculate how much time I can spend in focus this evening considering our problem relay without exhausting myself too much for a morning training.
As Alt and I weigh scenarios, Zikes continues speaking with me. “I’ve arranged a room for you. We have a very comfortable guesthouse, just,” he waves behind his desk area, “over that way. I’ll have a tech take you there to get settled.”
“Thank you,” I reply a few seconds later, pausing our calculations. “That’s very kind.”
Zikes ushers me out to the waiting room. A tech is already standing by the dispenser, helping herself to a drink, ready to show me to the guest house. She leads me on a short stroll there, pointing out a few curious buildings and amenities along the way and supplementing the basics Alt pulled up.
I like the center and Bloomington, I decide. I make a note of my kind treatment and the center’s efficient performance in my evening report.
***
Alt and I estimate we can manage 56 minutes of focus before bedtime without winding up so drained that we won’t function well the next day. My guesthouse room has a small area ideal for the process. I turn on Alt’s camera and map out a space on the floor. Then I set a timer, slide on my casting rings, dim the room lights, and initiate focus.
The focus state can be off-putting for the unintegrated, yet it’s a source of joy for us. I let my body pace the floor, following the shape I’ve mapped, and cast a dozen visualizations on the wall. Lost in them, I pull and push, sending Alt to fetch more data about specific parts, examining test results from components, then checking code. We review the last two months of performance records, asking a somewhat parsimonious local machine for more data. We leap through its hoops to access drone reports, closed local banks, algorithmic models specific to Relay 34510. I’m sure the maelstrom of permission requests must have driven Zikes or one of his staff crazy.
Yet after all that, Alt and I still can’t put our finger on the malfunction. It slips past us, always one more plot, one more drop ahead. The timer pulls me out of focus into a surprising flood of feeling. I’m deeply discouraged. I decide to set the problem aside and go for a run.
Alt directs me around Bloomington and plays the music I like to guide my movement. The shaded paths now glow with gentle lights tucked unobtrusively into the trees’ foliage. A steady flow of thoughts comes as my feet strike pavement. I think about the relay, not as it is in data and diagram, but as it must be in its physical environment. As I do, my thoughts turn even more depressing.
34510 is a link in a chain that can maintain connection to the coasts, even amid cyberwar. When a region or city cuts itself off from the net in defense, this supplementary network prevents complete isolation and radio silence. And that, at least so far, has prevented local infrastructural collapse or physical incursion from known adversaries who might use isolation to their advantage.
In our region, this chain traverses the edge of Flood Zone. Though I dedicate my days to building things to withstand its conditions, I don’t usually think much about the Flood Zone itself. 34510 sits at the edge of nowhere, of nothing, a squat stack of blocks on the northern fringe of hundreds of square kilometers of thinly inhabited wilderness. Of swamp, stream, bony and tangled forest. The Flood Zone was set aside as a limited reserve as part of the Accords, to buffer the rest of the continent from the endless strains of past human behavior. Now, nothing remains out there but the mess wrought by wind, warmth, and water. There’s no one left but a few odd stragglers with peculiar ways.
There are new hopes, of course. Water might be tamed, moved to the desperately thirsty places that need it. Development could extend, bringing new life to the wastes. Sustainable balance could be achieved, thanks to lessons learned. Some insist this is an imperative, that there is value to be gained in the Flood Zone. Other push back and point to past tragedy. The Zone is reserved for good reason.
I am openly skeptical of both sides, even as I help lay the cornerstones for the hopeful. My mentor, the older integrated person who guided me in the early days of my integration, once told me in a candid moment, “Some places just weren’t worth saving.” There are others, of course: dried-up plains swirling with bitter dust, salt marshes bristling with the debris of gilded palaces, deserts hot and dead as ovens. The polite line is to mourn the people and ways of life that perished there. To never forget their painful loss. But once gut-wrenching grief became banal poetry. Now it’s just empty gesture.
My mentor hit closer to the truth: There’s nothing left to grieve in the Flood Zone. We should admit this and proceed. But that begs a brutal question, at least in my mind: Had there ever been anything of value there at all?
***
The training the next morning goes well. There’s a funny moment when I come walking into our assigned space and one of the younger techs asks me sheepishly if I know where the senior specialist is. He looks flustered when I explain that I am her. He notes that my physical appearance confused him.
He is not the first to make that error. I am integrated but I am on the taller side and, unlike many of my fellow integrated, only slightly shorter than the average unintegrated woman. Due to the artificial hormonal environment required for integration, I have no clear sex characteristics, but I prefer roomy clothing, hiding this fact at first glance. I also have long hair. Most of us integrated people wear our hair short and practical to keep it out of the way of our ports. I have always been proud of my hair, however, and keep it long, my one little quirk. I usually pull it back to mimic a shorter style while working. But when I return to my room at night, I let my hair down, brushing it until it shines, letting it fall in dark waves over my glimmering arrays.
That momentary awkwardness aside, the students are engaged and giddy, filled with the enthusiastic breath of youth that inspires involuntary optimism. The center’s technical staff are earnest and methodical, as well as unfailingly friendly and polite.
Yet I’m frustrated. I had harbored a secret hope that while teaching about my baby, I would see what had failed at 34510, finally grasping the missed thread that would unravel my problem. But no. The session concludes. A few of training participants take me to a local spot for lunch, where dessert is particularly delicious. No epiphanies occur.
The day wears away. Evening comes, and I arrive at an unappealing conclusion: Alt and I have to get to that relay in person and examine it. There are diagnostics we’ve designed that can only be conducted on site, the last missing pieces in the puzzle. Back in my guesthouse room, I craft a proposed plan and send it to Aiden Zikes with little explanation.
Little explanation is needed, after all.
***
As I expected, Zikes calls me into his office the next morning. “Thank you for your proposal…” he begins, smiling in his usual pattern.
“Thank you for reviewing it on such short notice. I need to examine relay 34510 in person,” I jump in. “It seems to be fairly close to here. I’d like to do it today.”
The director’s smile vanishes. “That’s not the best plan, I’m afraid.”
I try to hide my annoyance. I dislike when unintegrated people, even highly competent ones, contradict me. “Oh. I thought I’d just drop in, do the repairs, and fly back.”
My obvious scowl doesn’t deter Zikes. He sticks to his well-worn habit of friendliness and says, “We’re under no-fly for the moment, sadly, in part due to current weather patterns. In part for… other reasons.”
“Other reasons?” I ask coolly.
“I can get you the reports…” His expression is serious.
“Please do. What about a vehicle, then?” I cast a map on the wall using the room’s public system and trace a projected route with a finger. “There’s a road that heads in that direction…”
“That would also not be an advisable approach, at least not this late in the day.”
Frustration overwhelms me. “But it’s only 10:17!” Zikes’ eyes meet mine. Alt kicks in, correcting my mood as I correct my demeanor, asking, “What’s your counterproposal? You are the expert when it comes to the terrain here…”
He chuckles sadly. “Well, that’s kind of you but no, no one’s an expert. That’s the thing: Things are always changing way too rapidly to keep on top of… of all that’s going on. As the drone flies, yes, it’s close, but when you’re trying to get there in a road vehicle… not so much. The roads are unpredictable. I would advise you to start out very early tomorrow morning. Slip in quietly by road, do the job, and return as swiftly as possible. The less fuss, the better.” A glance at his device. “The weather should cooperate.”
“Thank you,” I say, acknowledging that Zikes knows what I don’t. “I’ll report back here…”
“Report to the staging office at 5:30. That would be ideal.” Alt pulls up a map of the center next to the one of the vicinity already cast on the wall. It highlights the staging office.
“Then 5:30 it is…” I gesture to cast down and the maps disappear.
“I know how important this relay repair is. So, I’m going to have to insist a contractor accompany you,” he adds, watching my expression carefully. “I’ve got the guy lined up. He’s top grade.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say, suddenly upset by the thought. “Do you really think that’s necessary?”
“I’m afraid so,” he insists. “Unfortunately, we’ve had some… activity in the area that suggests more security would be appropriate at this time.” Before I ask, he adds, “It’s in the reports.”
“Is no one from the center able to accompany me?”
“No, unfortunately I don’t have anyone with the right expertise who’s free tomorrow,” he explains. “I know you’re anxious to get the relay repaired and get back home. I hope you understand…”
“Got it. I’ll take those reports you offered. I would like to familiarize myself with any potential challenges that I… I mean, that we might encounter.”
“Your contractor will be fully briefed and ready to roll, but if you’d like to bank them, go ahead!” He puts on glasses, touches his device, makes a quick series of gestures. A second later, I hear a tone internally. A movement of my fingers, and Alt has the files.
“I appreciate your support in this, at what must be a very busy time.”
Zikes chuckles again. “It’s no problem!” he assures me. He seems sincere. “It’s even fun.”
I smile. Zikes’ over-caution is forgivable. “If you think this is fun, wait until you get my full report as soon as I’m back. I’ll get it to you first.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Zikes chirps. We say our goodbyes and I head back to the guesthouse.
***
I flick through the past incidents Zikes dropped me without really processing them. Instead, I have Alt organize them as I pace. Despite my roomy, spotless guesthouse suite, a better room than what’s usually issued a senior specialist, I feel myself growing agitated in that way peculiar to integrated people. The feeling swells in you like a high-frequency resonance, feeding back with increasing intensity until it drowns out everything else. Alt catches the shift in mind state and starts working hard to reinstate homeostasis, deploying the subroutines that we have learned over the years lead to calm and clarity. Yet despite it all, I vibrate with unwanted energy.
To address this, I change into something comfortable, fingers trembling, and dash out the door, asking Alt to select a different route from the night before and to set a steady pace. It takes an hour of jogging the walks of the town until I realize what brought on the agitation: I am less than pleased about being assigned a contractor, as opposed to a security specialist from the center itself.
I have my reasons. Contractors from the Flood Zone approach the integrated with deeply ingrained suspicion. Recruited from local militia communities, highly militaristic and rigid in their religious doctrine, they keep to themselves when not on a mission, out in small villages deep in the “swamp,” the inaccurate slang term for the Flood Zone. While on missions, they uphold a strict regime of “purity” that applies to both personal habits and to relationships with outsiders.
Their priorities are brutally simple. I have often encountered contractors with the nastiest teeth ever seen but with the fanciest new weapon available. They eagerly snatch up any new gadget or enhancement that improves their tactical capabilities but are disinterested in any technology that doesn’t serve their narrow ends. These ends, for the men at least, the only ones allowed employment outside the community, consist entirely of working as weapons for hire until they amass enough means to marry some unschooled woman from among their own ranks, according to their customs.
That’s their business, of course, not mine. Their procedures are irrelevant. Contractors do their job, nothing more. In the field, such coldness can prove a liability, so it’s balanced by incentives to return their charge safely and swiftly. There are sizable bonuses for that.
An integrated person can expect little friendship from a swamp contractor. Integrated people, with our distinctive physical attributes and technical prowess, do not fit well into their worldview. They might save an integrated life, but all they see is the currency that waits. I’ve had one of them tell me as much to my face, referring to me as “neuro,” an unpleasant slur some use to refer to us.
A message scatters my irritated thoughts. Where are you? Followed by a familiar tone I know expresses mild exasperation.
I stop in my tracks and gesture by my array to reply. “I’m out on a run, Gyo.” I smile to myself. I glance around the now twilit paths. I have stopped next to several buildings that Alt states contain classrooms. “Let me find a quiet corner and I’ll cast.”
Acceptable
I duck into the nearest entrance and find a small nook with unadorned walls disguising enhanced compute, designed for casting. I pull the screen closed behind me. Alt and I spend a moment connecting and then Gyo’s 3D image stands before us. The figure is life sized, as tall as I am. He’s wearing a loose shirt and shorts streaked with a trace of dark dirt. He’s been up in the garden.
“How’s our wayward Xenia?” Gyo asks with a giggle. He makes a circle out of his bronzed arms, a hugging gesture. I mirror it.
“Oh, fine. Still stuck in the hinterlands.”
“Where are you again?” Gyo’s intelligence pulls up the info. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Bloom-ing-ton,” he jokes, breaking down the syllables the way some machines do. Gyo’s eyes track something only he can see. “How are things going? They going to let you leave the swamp soon?”
“Oh, Gyo, it’s…” I heave a sigh. “It’s very acceptable here. Comfortable. Friendly. But the relay is driving me crazy. I can’t get the stupid thing to restart.”
“Don’t spend too much time in focus. It’s bad for you.”
“Thanks,” I smirk. “I miss you reminding me of that annoying fact.”
“We miss you,” Gyo replies “I have so many images I want to send you… do you mind? Things are really beautiful these past few weeks up on the roof.” I grant permission with a flick of the finger. Gyo pushes a drop through. I open it, casting the images next to Gyo’s form. Vines heavy with pods curl and twist over our much-loved arbor. Behind it, the lake glimmers. A neat line of blooming plants in containers. The smiling faces of my chosen family, the group of integrated people I live with back home.
“Tara looks good,” I comment.
“Yes, she’s recovering. She’s back at work. The improvement is very encouraging.” Tara is the eldest among us, the cornerstone of our family group. She has suffered some neurological damage as she and her integration age.
“I’m heading out into the field tomorrow,” I note. “We’re going to try and diagnose the relay problem in person.”
Though my tone is measured, Gyo catches the nuance. “You’re not happy about this.”
“No, not really.”
“I would have thought you’d be thrilled to get to visit one of your babies,” he laughs.
I join him in laughter. “Usually, yes. But there’s some security issue. They’ve assigned me a contractor.”
“Ooooh,” Gyo grimaces. “Yikes. One of those, right?” He glances into the air for a second. “What was it you called them? ‘Clean and mean’?”
“That sums it up. I pushed for someone from the center here, but they are understaffed.” Gyo nods. “The security issue seems significant.”
“Down there? What? They have a case of aggressive squirrels? Kudzu invasion?” Gyo giggles.
“I grabbed their reports but honestly, I haven’t processed them fully.” Gyo nods again. “There’s a no-fly on, so something’s up. They are making us go overland.”
“What’s next? You have to grab your shotgun and buckskin and go by canoe?” Gyo wonders. “We forget how different the conditions are down there. Sounds crazy…”
“Speaking of conditions, is everything calm up there?”
Gyo looks earnestly into my eyes. Even remotely, I feel the tension. “So far, though I wouldn’t go so far as to call things ‘good.’ ‘Stable’ is a better way to put it. For now. There was talk for a few days about prepping to cut the tether,” the drawbridge our city draws up to fend off cyberattack, “but the threat passed and we’re still connected as you can see.” Something off to the side distracts him, something I can’t hear. He puts up a hand to indicate he’s in conversation. “Tara and Nic say hi,” Gyo smiles, and his amber eyes fill with familiar warmth. “Come back safe. Let us know the second you’re back in Bloomington.” He flashes me a devious grin. “And watch out for killer squirrels.”
I shake my head. “It should be tomorrow night, if the squirrels don’t get me.”
“Alright, I’ll let you get back to your run… What?” Gyo moves his fingers by his temple. Alt, we have data to exchange! It’s a message from Gyo’s intelligence. Alt pings it back. We will have to wait. Maybe later?
“Okay,” Gyo interrupts their chatter, “enough, companions! We’re talking here.” His eyes return to mine. “Rest up for tomorrow.” He grins again. “No focus!”
“Alright, alright! I love you, Gyo,” I say. Alt kicks in, initiating subroutines to balance my mood as a wave of emotion strikes me.
Gyo notices, bemused. “Love you, too,” he replies serenely. We end the cast.
