PROLOGUE
THE POLICE STATION loomed before me at the base of the vertical farming complex, and I was gingerly making my way towards it.
The Boulevard was the only real street we had, a wide pedestrian thoroughfare that crossed from the eastern to western inlets, crossing between the four gleaming vertical farm towers that center–pinned the island of Atopia.
Glamorous palms lined both sides of the street, bordering the tourist shops, restaurants, and bars whose terraces spilled out into the kaleidoscopic melee between them. Even with the storms threatening and the evacuations announced, the atmosphere was still carefree and festive.
It had been ages since I’d been above, and I hadn’t been to these parts since I was a tween. I blinked in the sunshine and confusion around me and tried to think my way through what was happening.
I felt so alone and exposed. Here I was, stuck in the middle of something clearly illegal, but what else could I do? I looked up at the towers and imagined myself as one of the psombies inside. Out of options, I just shrugged and opened the police station doors.
Cool, administrative air swept over me and the clerk at the desk, an attractive young woman, smiled at me synthetically.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, as sweet as a police officer could be.
“Yes, I’d like to file a missing person report,” I replied, walking towards her as calmly as I could.
Her face registered just the proper amount of seriousness before she queried, “And who is the missing person, sir?”
I paused for a moment.
“Me,” I answered.
1
A BRILLIANT CARPET of stars hung above us on the moonless night, somewhere in the Adirondacks of upper New York State. Our campsite was nestled between tall, majestic firs at the side of a quiet lake. We’d barely finished the canoeing and portage to get here before nightfall, and we were all spent. A deep silence settled upon the hissing and popping of the campfire. It was nice to hang out with friends and not feel the need to say anything. I almost felt completely relaxed for once—almost.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” I said, leaning forward to pick up a stick and poke the embers of the dying fire. I could feel a breeze blowing across my backside, but I let it go for now.
“You got that right, Willy,” replied Bob, slumped comfortably in his folding camp chair and balancing a beer on his knee.
“Yes sir,” added Wally, my proxxi.
“Willy, do you want another beer?” he asked, seeing me toss my empty can into the fire.
Wally was sitting to my right, Bob and Martin to my left, and Sid and Vicious opposite me on the other side of the fire.
“Naw. I’m good, Wally. Thanks.”
Poking the embers I watched their hot orange and red sparks dance around like tiny demons escaping from the charred wood. I extended my hands toward the coals to warm them and rubbed them together. It was going to be a cold night. A loon called out from the blackness above the lake with a haunting wail. It was time to go soon, but not yet.
“This is amazing,” drawled Bob.
We all sat entranced around the fire.
“This is so relaxing,” he continued. “Hey Willy, did you catch the slingshot tests this morning?”
I watched him smiling and taking another swig from his beer, grinning at me. He was usually smiling, the lucky bum. Then again, he didn’t have it that easy.
“I saw them, it was kind of impossible to miss,” I replied. “Were you with your family?”
He laughed. “Naw, Sid and I were out in Humungous Fungus watching the mash-up version.”
I grinned back. “I bet that was a lot of fun.”
“It was, but my dad gave me a lot of trouble.”
Wally pinged me with an alert. Oh shoot, I’d forgotten.
“Oh, ah, Martin,” I blurted out awkwardly, “happy birthday, by the way.”
Martin smiled, looking up at me from the fire.
“Thanks Willy,” he laughed, and then looked at Bob, “and dad wasn’t really mad, you know, he’s under a lot of pressure.”
“I know,” replied Bob. “I’m sorry I was late. Thanks for covering for me.”
“That’s what brothers are for,” chuckled Martin, shaking his head. “Right?”
“Yeah,” sighed Bob heavily, “that’s what brothers are for.”
An uncomfortable silence descended and everyone stared down at the ground, everyone, that was, except Martin. He looked around at us all with wide eyes.
“What, did somebody die or something?” he laughed out.
Bob snorted, shaking his head. “Naw, just forget it.”
“Forget what?”
“Just forget it,” snapped Bob. “You will no matter what anyway.”
Martin stared at Bob and shrugged, but Bob looked away.
More uncomfortable silence.
“I can’t believe more people don’t come out into nature to experience this,” said Bob after a while, changing the topic. “It’s just amazing. You know, doing things with your own two hands, getting back to the basics.”
Now everyone nodded, except Martin who’d returned to staring blankly into the fire.
“Yeah,” I agreed, but Bob could always tell my moods.
“Are you still worrying?” he asked me.
“Naw.”
“Yes you are. I can tell. Just forget about it, okay? Everything will be fine. It always is,” he declared, smiling sadly, “even if it isn’t.”
He tossed his beer can into the fire. Vicious, Sid’s proxxi, started coughing as the wind moved his way and pushed the smoke into him.
“Mates, it’s been a real pleasure,” coughed out Vicious, “but I I’ve ‘ad about enough. This nature shite is not for me.”
“Come on,” laughed Sid, “we’re having a nice time here! Tough it out a little, old boy!”
The spell was broken, though, and the suspension of disbelief cracked, revealing the grainy quality of the fire and the hollow texture of the night. It all suddenly felt very fake.
“Yeah, anyway, I think I’m going to get going too.” A heavy weight fell back across my shoulders.
“Surfing tomorrow, right, buddy?” asked Bob.
“Sure thing, Bob, wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I lied.
I gave a perfunctory wave to the gang, and without another word the campsite faded away and was replaced by the white, featureless confines of my apartment.
Wally was still sitting beside me, though now on the convertible couch of my tiny living space. My digs could, at best, be described as minimalist. Real space on Atopia came at a premium price, and one I couldn’t afford.
“Don’t worry so much, Willy,” said Wally.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t live in this pill box.”
