Eira looked ridiculous, and I told her as much. A horde of nanocarbon armorbots conformed to her body to create a matte black suit covering her from top to bottom. A visor protruded from her black earmuffs that could expand to form a full helmet if need be, fitted with carbon dioxide recycling for a permanent clean air solution should we ever find ourselves floating in an airless roadster once again. A useful tool in select circumstances, but as a fashion statement on the streets of Coda, it was not a good look.
Not that I’m a fashion expert. Far from it. I tend to pick a style and stay with it, though I try to choose items that align with local standards and expectations. Outfits that allow me to blend in. Eira did not blend in.
“You look like you’re wearing a five-hundred-year-old suit of armor,” I tried to explain to her.
“Then why was it for sale?”
“It’s a cheap option for isolate tourists.”
“So I look like a cheap, retro tourist. Perfect. That’s what I am.”
“You also look naked. That thing hugs every curve.”
“Do you like that?” she asked me with a coy wink.
“No.”
She shrugged. “Then quick, let’s buy some clothes.”
At some point between our arrival and the acquisition of her carbon suit, Eira came to understand that money didn’t work the same on Coda as it did back on her planet. Or maybe she just thought I was loaded. Both were true. Either way, her interest in shopping rose tenfold.
My mind became a split entity. One portion of motes linked to her medbots, constantly monitoring her vitals. Another section was hard at work setting up accounts, processing her information, and submitting petitions on her planet’s behalf for induction into the Quorum. It was unorthodox for a planet to unknowingly join the galactic community, but I knew the system well enough to be sure that if I filled out the forms properly, it would pass through without issue.
Yet another part of myself was forced to make conversation. Eira would disappear into a dressing stall, then emerge in a white, breezy dress. Then a white set of overalls. Then, a white sweater and shorts.
“You know, there are colors on Coda,” I said. “Are your eyes incapable of seeing them due to the dim light of Caligo’s distant sun?”
“I can see colors just fine,” she said. “I just don’t like them. They’re garish.”
“Like your carbon suit?”
“I like everything I’ve tried on,” she said, handing me a pile of clothes. “How exactly do we buy these again?”
“We don’t technically need to,” I said. “You can take them, and the transfer is logged. Since you’re new to Coda with no record, your account is on trial. Everything you do is logged to the Consortium’s memory. If you prove useful, then you will never technically need money. If not, you will eventually find such options blocked.”
“Huh,” she said. “Cool. So, where to next?”
We toured another dozen clothing stores while I scanned for a suitable home. This region housed a fair number of high-profile names in the hills. With my credentials, I could set Eira up in any vacant lot. I found one across the street from Nellie Platin, the queen of Platin Metals—a good contact for Eira to have.
“So, what do you do for fun in future sci-fi land, anyway?” Eira asked once we stopped for lunch at an outdoor cafe. She was acclimatizing fast. At first, every twelve-legged rock creature that passed by had her dumbstruck and stumbling. Now she was waving at them and making small talk. Whenever she spoke, the suit replicated her voice in perfect Quoric, though her lips were off. I had to look away each time she opened her mouth.
“We’re not in the future,” I corrected her, examining the passersby. Each of them contained a story I was missing out on. Facts and figures that spoke to the possibility of unique occurrences. I tried to remind myself that Eira herself was still unique and unconventional, though once we laid out her path to citizenship, the variables would narrow and point toward inevitable outcomes. I knew I would get bored.
“Technically, we are in the future,” her suit said in Quoric. The visor hung over the whole of her face, canceling out the sound of her own language. “I mean, we’re always in the future from where we were before.”
“I just want to be certain you understand that there was no time-travel involved in your relocation.”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said, and proceeded to consume a dessert that was one-tenth cyanide. The medbots were doing their job, but my motes still swept through her digestive tract like a maintenance crew on steroids. Eventually, I would have to educate her on the potential dangers of alien food, but now was not the time.
“In regard to your original question,” I said. “I calculate variables and make predictions on anomalies.”
“You do that for fun?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Why? A curious question. “I suppose it’s because I have a record of nearly every eventuality and have no interest in watching another situation play out as it has a million times before. The greater the unknowns, the greater the interest. It’s a simple equation.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
“What about you, Miss Carrera? What would you like to do ‘for fun?’ Whatever it is, Coda almost certainly has it.”
“I want…” she said, trailing off as she stared out into the streets. I could see a shift in her expression. Something that hadn’t quite been there since Caligo. I momentarily wished my motes were better suited to reading organic neurons, but only one of us was attuned to that. After the pause, she said, “I want what you want. Something different. Something extraordinary. Something dangerous.”
“You’re already in the middle of that.”
“No, I’m not,” she said with a heavy sigh. She leaned back in her seat and picked at her white blouse. “We’re shopping and eating and on our way to the bank or whatever Coda’s version of a bank is. That’s not interesting. It’s exactly what I’d already be doing back home. Getting a new wardrobe. Probably filing for bankruptcy, which is different, but also kind of the same.”
“You just consumed ten grams of cyanide if that helps excite you.”
“Holy shit, Hugo, it does.”
I was flummoxed. This was certainly unorthodox.
“Eira,” I said. “I must admit, I’m confused. You claim you want something different. Something dangerous. You profess excitement at the unwitting consumption of a lethal dose of poison. And yet you balked at the eardrum surgery. I do not follow the logic.”
“The logic, Hugo, is that I don’t want to become a carbon copy digital clone of everyone else. I want to be me. I want to continue being me. I want to die, me.”
“I see.” She was a curious case. The variables continued to fluctuate, and her future remained unknown. “I am not going to actively put you in danger. But there is one thing I can do.”
“Quote facts and figures at me?” she asked, putting another spoonful of cyanide in her mouth.
“After a fashion, yes. Much of what you find cumbersome lies in the slow process of integration, compounded by a natural degree of ignorance. Waiting and not knowing. I could give you access to my database in the form of a visual interface on your visor.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that, in the future, you’d know when you were about to consume a lethal dose of toxins. You’d know if the banker you’re speaking to has a history of violence and a registered firearm. You’d have access to all manner of useful data, like how many species can kill you in a nanosecond with their beaks, claws, or hands. Then you’d see how everything you do on an alien world, be it opening accounts or purchasing real estate, is, in actuality, quite a thrilling affair.”
Eira slowly pulled the spoon from her mouth, eyes wide, and nodded with fervor. “Yes, please.”