1
The sky’s all wrong tonight.Oversaturated blue, it pixelates at the horizon into streaky seawater, and is hole-punched by the sunsinking towards its bloated reflection. The tide beats against theshore.One, two, threeup the sand.One, two, three, four – leaving a sine wave of foam.
Tao-Yi sits with her legs folded beneath her, rotating a nearly emptybeerbottleinherhands.Longshadowsdripfromthesandstone formations around her. In this tucked-away cove, shielded by ruddy cliffs, she can’t see the others, but she can hear them laughing and shouting as they gather driftwood for a bonfire.
She has let Navin drag her here, a little out of obligation, but mostly out of habit. It’s just what happens every New Year’s Eve – Zach throws a party. It would feel wrong to miss it.
The bottle stays ice-cold against her palms, impervious to her body heat. She lifts the rim to her lips. The last gulp slices down her throat. The ocean ruffles like a silk skirt in a breeze, creased and opaque. She waits for the gust to roll into shore, to lift tendrils of hair from her neck, but it never comes – the air in Gaia is as stale as a subway tunnel.
A rustle of sand grass heralds Navin’s approach. He’s almost a stranger – tall and lean in his short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, black fringe falling choppily across his brow, a vulnerable smile. He holds out another bottle of beer.
‘It tastes like shit,’ she says, shaking her head.
‘It’s better than last year’s.’
She manages a smile, thinking of Zach’s experimental brew.
‘Come back,’ he insists, touching his fingers to her hairline. ‘Help us start the fire.’
Tao-Yi lets him pull her to her feet. She follows him out of the cove, skirting a cluster of boulders, and back along the shore. His shirt hangs loose on his frame, catching the bottom corners of his shoulder blades. She wants to touch those out-turned brackets, to assure herself of their realness.
Between the dunes and the sea, the others have filled a shallow pit with driftwood. There are a dozen or so capstone-educated twenty-somethings like herself and Navin, all sharp glances and witty repartee. Gen Virtual. They’re the lucky generation – born into motion, soaked with potential, cresting a wave of change.
Zach moves through the group easily, the others drawn to him like mosquitoes to shallow water. In an orange T-shirt and a knee-length sarong, he looks especially boyish. He leans over the driftwood, a lit match extended like a conductor’s baton between long brown fingers. The others whoop as flames blossom. There are no second attempts, if you follow the formula.
Tao-Yi summons her live interface. In the corner of her vision, a countdown glimmers neon:9:00pm, 31 December 2087. 3 hours to go!A steady scroll of status updates overlays the beach scenery. Mostly snips, four-second video fragments dissolving as soon as she absorbs them into her attention: friends dancing at open-air concerts, go-karting under electronic fireworks, clinking stim shots to a backdrop of pounding beats.
Evelyn is walking over to her. Tao-Yi wills away the countdown and the snips. Tonight, her petite friend looks a little different. Although she’s wearing a pastel dress from her typical wardrobe, her dark brown hair is arranged in braids and her cheeks are decorated with gothic decals. It’s endearing, like a puppy trying to be edgy.
Evelyn bumps her hip against Tao-Yi’s. ‘Are you flash?’
