A matrix of glossy black cubes spans a grassy expanse of Everria Centre Park. It’s a memorial to the victims of Otherworlds’s virtuality outage: The Blinkout; Ninety-Nine; The Great Sleep; or whatever you call it in your place and time. I don’t call it anything. Twenty million instantaneous deaths and many thousands of chronic neural injuries… how can anyone sum up such a tragedy with a simple nickname?

The designers of this place must have had similar concerns. Despite its dominance of such a valuable chunk of real estate, the memorial resists being a spectacle. It’s situated on the eastern side of the park, far away and out of sight of the old Otherworlds headquarters in the west. There’s an address, 000 Centre E, but no official name. Plain, city-standard signage simply indicates the way toward a “museum”. And the victims’ names—most too high up on the twenty-foot cubes to read—shuffle randomly at every hour. If you ever manage to find your lost loved one here, there’s no point in leaving flowers.

Still, I read all the names I can see as I walk the aisles. I enjoy the feeling of the syllables dancing silently on my lips. One more chance at legacy for these strangers, if only in my short-term memory.

…DANA KORMAN, MANUEL ZACARI, CAMILLA BUCHANON…

I think I’ve seen that last one already.

From higher up on the slope, on my way out, I watch the visitors zip and wander through the rows. We all look so insignificant here, overshadowed and outshone by the dead. 

I wonder… How many trees did they have to shred to make room this hideous fucking labyrinth? 

I have learned to discern Issho even before the black veils drop over their eyes. They walk with an unusually steady gait; even the drunk ones stumble in harmony. Their social groupings are endlessly fluid; a lone person will suddenly be flanked by apparent strangers, share a quick conversation and a hug, then drift off into the crowd again, later mingling with some others. They talk in almost imperceptibly low voices, but are very expressive with touch - always hands interlocked or arms around torsos, shifting and feeling.

No slow blinks or yawning: I awaken with a sudden awareness of the morning. The sunlight comes screaming through the uncurtained window and bounces off the pristine white walls and countertops, washing out my vision. As a reflex, the veil falls over my eyes. That’s new.

For a while I watch J’Oro’s blue-toned silhouette sprawled facedown on the sofa. I keep warning him it's bad for his neck to sleep that way, but he insists. In my periphery I see LaLu’s grey figure sitting cross-legged by the wall, unmoving. When I’m sure that my eyes have adjusted to the light, I retract the veil. LaLu stands before me.

I startle backwards and swear.

LaLau grunts. “Did you think there would be no after effects?” She waves her hand in front of my face, wiggling her fingers like she’s trying to entertain an infant.

“Stop that.” I say, once I’ve caught my breath. “Why are you doing that?”

“I’m checking for time lag,” she says. “You seem fine now, but you’re about five minutes delayed with the eyes active.”

I glance over at the couch. J’Oro is no longer sleeping there. Worse, he’s not in the room at all.

“He just went for a walk,” LaLu says. “Didn’t say where he was going or when he’d be back. Zira, he looked rough… depressed, like. If he wasn’t so religious I’d think he was going off to kill himself.”

My reply: a severe stare. She shrugs it off.

“I don’t mean to tell you what to do,” she says. “But—”

“You’re always telling me what to do.”

“Yes, but I don’t mean to. I’d rather you take care of yourself, but you’re always on the verge of making a fatal mistake.”

Condescending bi—. No, Zira—be calm.

“So, what’s your life-saving advice, this time?” I say.

“You should give the Eyes a rest for a while. Someone will take advantage of you if you go catatonic like that at the wrong time and place.”

I’m more worried what she did during my five minutes of unawareness.

LaLu seems to register my suspicion because she raises her eyebrows pointedly, then turns and walks past me. I hear the zipping of a coat and the buckling of boots; then the door opens and slams shut. I’m alone.

For a moment I do consider LaLu’s advice, but I drop the veils anyway. I’m chilled to see LaLu’s silhouette standing where she stood, arms crossed, silently echoing her turns in our recent dialogue. Of course she was right; I still don’t care. I close my eyes and lean into the static.

J’Oro, where are you?

I know this route. The Zephyr. Denver to Salt Lake to Sacramento, then home. It’s the most common entry route for midcontinental immigrants. If things go as they usually do, we’ll pass through two customs checkpoints—state border and city limits—then we’ll be autotaxied to Santa Luz Medical Center for processing… Shit!

They’ll take the Eyes.

I don’t want to be Issho, but I refuse to be mutilated. I must not give myself away. I’ve remained unveiled, and there are no Issho on board who could detect me unveiled. Maybe no one knows. But even if I get through customs unbothered, I won’t evade detection at Santa Luz, which prides itself on being the last stop for foreign bionics. I’ll be scanned and prodded, and then bound, doped, and cut until I’m deemed pure.

Yes, I’m returning home, but I feel like contraband.