But he looked at Ras, leaning back so chill in his chair. He looked at the receptionist, bowing his head to both of them like he was there for no other reason than to make their lives easy. He looked at the fancy drink, the fancy room. He looked at the polished people milling around, leaving in twos or occasional threes, holding hands or other things as they headed down mysterious hallways. Kip set his jaw. Okay. He could do this. He could be Kip Madaki, age 20, drinker of tropical twelves and expert at sex. He could have sex. He was going to have sex. Yeah. Yeah. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to knock it into something . . . good. ‘Do I look okay?’ he asked.

Ras gave him a thumbs-up and a nod. ‘You look real cool.’

‘You sure?’

‘One hundred percent.’

They drank their drinks, ate a bowl of spicy fried peas, got more drinks, and . . . they waited. They waited and waited and waited.

‘Should we go ask what’s up?’ Kip asked.

‘Relax,’ Ras said. ‘He said they were busy.’

More time passed. More drinks were consumed, and more snacks, too. The novelty of the place wore off, and Kip’s worries gave way to boredom. Even Ras looked unimpressed after a while. Two women approached their table. Kip and Ras straightened up. The women passed them by for the next table over, and the boys slumped back down, returning to their drinks. A man headed toward them. They straightened up. He went elsewhere. They slumped. The pattern repeated, again and again. Straighten, slump, sip a drink. Straighten, slump, sip a drink.

The lift at the far end of the room opened, and Kip saw the woman in the farm coveralls walk out. Her hair was different. She was alone. She was smiling.

‘How much longer, do you think?’ Kip asked.

Ras shrugged. Kip could tell he was trying to look casual about it.

Kip swirled his glass. The ice had melted into the last sips, and the cool layers had fallen into each other and gone kinda pale. It didn’t even really taste good anymore. ‘Do you feel drunk?’ he asked. He didn’t feel drunk at all.

Ras shrugged again. ‘I’ve got a high tolerance.’

‘Do you think they forgot about us?’

‘They’ve been bringing us drinks.’

‘Yeah, but like—’

Kip felt a hand drop hard on his shoulder. He saw the same happen to Ras. They turned, and— oh no. Oh no.

‘Fuck,’ Ras groaned.

‘So!’ boomed Ras’ dad, loud enough that half the lounge turned to look. ‘You boys lookin’ to get laid, huh?’

It wasn’t just Ras’ dad. It was his mom, and Kip’s mom, and the swift, cataclysmic end of Kip’s entire life.

Isabel

‘Buzz buzz,’ Tamsin said, sticking her head through the open doorframe.

Isabel looked up over the cacophony of pixel displays and data tables wallpapering the air above her desk. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘What are you doing here?’ Tamsin ambled in, cane in one hand, cloth bag in the other. ‘Did you forget about your other home?’

What time was it? Isabel tapped the control bar on the side of her hud, bringing a clock up. She blinked. How was it twenty-half? She shut her eyes and shook her head. ‘I’m so sorry, I—’ She gestured wordlessly at the desk.

‘I figured,’ Tamsin said. She plunked the bag on the table and herself in a chair. ‘That’s why I brought dinner.’

Isabel peeked into the bag. A couple small storage boxes and a fork lay waiting. ‘You sweetheart,’ she said.

‘Crispy fish, bean salad, and a slice of melon for after. It’s not the best.’ Tamsin leaned back and folded her arms over her belly. ‘It was the Thompsons’ night to cook. You know how Dek is about spices.’

‘You mean, he forgets them?’

Tamsin winked. ‘But, y’know. Food.’ She eyed the pixels. ‘I thought your minions were taking care of things while you’re busy with M Tentacles.’

‘Don’t call her that.’

‘Why? Is she here?’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘You’re ignoring my question.’

Isabel sighed. ‘Everybody else has been taking care of things, but there’s a question of recategorising that’s come up.’

‘Oh, stars,’ Tamsin said knowingly. ‘Uh oh.’

If you were to ask someone of another profession what archivists spent the most time fretting about, the assumption might’ve been restoring old corrupted files, or maintaining backup systems. But no. No, there was nothing nearer and dearer to the average archivist’s heart than categorising, and it seemed like every standard an argument broke out over some file that belonged to too many categories, or too few, or some visitor who hadn’t found what they were looking for because the tags weren’t responsive or efficient or thorough enough, and nobody could get anything done until the matter of everything being in the right place was settled. Isabel opened her mouth, about to detail the issue – this one had to do with Earthen historical eras, which was always a thorny thing to delineate – but she took one look at Tamsin and changed her mind. Her wife’s face was one of look interested at all costs, and she appeared to be bracing herself for an onslaught of archival minutiae. ‘I’ll spare you the details,’ Isabel said.