Saturday, April 7, 2040 — 12:18 p.m.
The soft ping reached Adi’ra while they were kneeling between two open equipment boxes.
Batteries in various states of charge, memory modules, camera mounts, cables, and components of the mobile weather station were spread across the office floor. On the HoloWideScreen, the packing list for Sweden occupied almost the entire left half of the display, while weather forecasts, traffic information, and a schematic of the Ranger’s cargo bed filled the space beside it.
Monday, by nine a.m. in the morning, everything had to be checked and packed, preferably in an order that would not leave Adi’ra emptying three boxes again on Sunday evening because some essential piece of equipment had ended up buried at the very bottom.
At home, Adi’ra’s inner we usually worked quietly. Thoughts handed tasks from one to another, memories supplemented checklists, the body reported its limits before strain became a problem, and even unexpected ideas could generally find their place without overturning the entire structure of the day.
The office was a controllable environment, and even the journey ahead still consisted of orderly possibilities.
A message appeared along the upper edge of their glasses.
New message from Alexia.
Adi’ra raised their head and gave a brief nod, distinct enough for the iGlases to recognize the movement.
Do you have time to meet today, by any chance? I’d like to see you in Hamburg. Maybe coffee at Europa Passage. There’s something I want to tell you that I’d rather not put in writing.
Adi’ra read the message a second time.
Alexia had not needed to send a personal message. Close contacts could submit appointment requests directly to Adi’ra’s calendar, and the system would determine which periods were available, how much preparation time different kinds of meetings required, and which tasks could safely be moved without disrupting sleep, health, travel preparations, or necessary recovery periods.
Alexia was one of the people for whom the calendar would search even for short-notice openings.
She knew that.
She also knew why the system existed.
For Adi’ra, a spontaneous meeting did not consist solely of the meeting itself. It meant a new route, different clothes, additional sensory input, a disruption to the expected sequence of the day, and a social situation whose content they had no opportunity to prepare for.
That last uncertainty immediately began filling itself with possibilities.
What was it that Alexia did not want to write down?
Was it something connected to her work with the European climate NGO — internal data, political pressure, a conflict within the Hamburg office — or something that had nothing to do with the organization at all?
Perhaps it was personal.
That possibility was no more reassuring than any of the others.
“HESAYA.”
“I’m listening.”
“Check four o’clock today. Two hours.”
The packing list shrank while the calendar opened beside it.
“Four to six p.m. is available. The scheduled review of international news channels would move to this evening. Preparations for departure on Monday at nine a.m. would remain within the planned time window.”
Normally, the hottest hours of the day belonged to news analysis. When physical work outside became unnecessarily exhausting, Adi’ra moved through international channels instead, comparing reports, satellite imagery, climate data, and political reactions from Europe, Russia, North America, the Middle East, and the coastal regions of Africa.
Not everything mattered immediately, but most major developments announced themselves long before anyone finally gave them a headline.
Moving those hours was acceptable.
For Alexia, certainly.
“Reserve the time.”
“What reason should I enter for the appointment?”
Adi’ra looked at the message again.
Alexia had said nothing more, and for the moment there was no reason HESAYA needed to know anything more either.
“Meeting an old friend.”
The new entry appeared.
4:00–6:00 p.m.
Meeting an old friend
Europa Passage, Hamburg
“Would you like me to send confirmation?”
“Write: Works for me. I’ll be there at four.”
The message went out.
Within seconds, the calendar had reorganized the rest of the day. One equipment inspection moved forward, the checks on two cameras shifted into the evening, and the international news block began later.
Organizationally, the matter was settled.
Adi’ra’s mind was less willing to accept that conclusion.
They had known Alexia since 2023. Seventeen years had passed since their first meeting, including four years during which neither had known anything about the other.
Alexia now worked as an independent contractor for the climate NGO.
But that was not all she was.
An old laugh surfaced, along with the edge of a table, a hand wrapped around a coffee cup, and a conversation that had gone on far longer than either of them had intended. Before any of it could become a complete memory, Adi’ra returned their attention to the equipment boxes.
There were just under three hours left before they needed to leave.
The next battery was waiting.
»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«
3:12 p.m.
Inside the Ranger, the world grew quiet again.
The climate system kept the cabin cool enough that Adi’ra’s body no longer objected to every movement, the windows filtered part of the glaring sunlight, and the route to Oststeinbek ran across the display as a clean, uncomplicated line.
The engine, the airflow, the navigation prompts — everything had an identifiable cause, a fixed location, and a volume that could be adjusted.
Their thoughts, too, found room to exist beside one another again. The route occupied the foreground, the schedule sat behind it, and Alexia’s message remained somewhere in between, occasionally rising back to the surface.
Over the past several years, central Hamburg had been closed to private motor traffic step by step. Delivery services, emergency vehicles, residents, and a limited number of approved occupational groups could still enter, but Adi’ra had no permit that would justify driving into the city center for a private meeting at Europa Passage.
By now, the U2 line began at the shopping center in Oststeinbek. A large park-and-ride facility had been built above the station precisely for this transition: drive your own vehicle to the edge of the dense urban zone, then continue through Hamburg on public transit.
Adi’ra found an open space beneath a roof of solar panels in the third row and shut off the engine.
The climate system fell silent.
For a moment, the cooler air remained suspended inside the cabin.
Then Adi’ra opened the door, and the heat pushed into the Ranger as though it had been waiting outside for exactly that opening. The conditioned air spilled away, dry warmth swept across their face, arms, and neck, while a second wave of heat rose from the asphalt below.
It was early April, yet above the parked vehicles the air already shimmered like a July afternoon. The parking lot smelled of warm rubber, dust, heated plastic, and the almost imperceptible electrical hum of the charging stations.
Adi’ra climbed out.
Within a few steps, moisture began gathering beneath their thin shirt. Where gaps opened between the solar roofs, the sun struck the pavement with an almost white intensity, reflecting from windows and pale bodywork and forcing their eyes to adjust again and again.
The IFAK moved against their left hip with every step.
Inside the Ranger, Adi’ra had barely noticed it. Out here, the pouch pressed against the belt, rubbed lightly against skin already warmed by the heat, and shifted a little more weight onto the left side.
It stayed there anyway.
Carrying the IFAK on public transportation had long since become routine, not because Adi’ra expected catastrophe on every journey, but because three minutes could become a very long time when someone was bleeding heavily and everyone nearby carried nothing more useful than supplies for a minor cut.
The pressure against their hip was irritating.
It was also reassuring: familiar weight, familiar position, familiar sequence.
Adi’ra locked the Ranger, checked the confirmation on the glasses display, and headed toward the station entrance.
The distance was only a few hundred yards, barely worth mentioning on a map, but the body kept a different ledger. Direct sunlight, heated pavement, almost no wind, the pouch at their belt, and Alexia’s still-unexplained message had already combined into the first layer of accumulated strain.
As the escalator descended, the light became duller. The sky disappeared behind concrete, and although the air was not genuinely cooler, it was at least no longer being heated directly by the sun.
In exchange, everything else moved closer.
Footsteps, voices, electronic signals, rolling suitcases, and a station announcement whose first half vanished into the reverberation of the space while the second emerged much too loudly from a speaker directly above the escalator.
On the platform, two teenagers were dictating personal messages into their devices. Both spoke as though they were trying to overcome the noise of a construction site, even though their microphones were only inches from their mouths.
“No, I told you I was going to be later—”
“You just have to tell her that—”
Farther down the platform, a group was discussing several subjects at once. Someone laughed while another person began a new story before the previous one had finished.
The display showed the U2 arriving in three minutes.
An advertising wall shifted from a calm blue to an aggressive orange, while an approaching bus line briefly appeared along the upper edge of Adi’ra’s glasses even though it had nothing to do with their route.
Alexia’s sentence returned.
I’d rather not put it in writing.
Two minutes.
Adi’ra noticed that their gaze kept moving between the arrival display, the advertising wall, and the teenagers, even though only one of those things contained information they actually needed.
The train announced itself first as a current of air, then as a metallic rumble from the tunnel, and finally as the U2 swept into the station beneath the shriek of its brakes.
The sound drove itself behind Adi’ra’s eyes.
Their jaw tightened, their shoulders rose, and pain flashed through the sensory overload as metal scraped against metal and the station walls multiplied the sound.
Then the train came to a stop.
The doors opened, releasing warm air and the smell of bodies from inside the car as people simultaneously tried to leave and enter. Several passengers stepped out only to stop immediately in front of the doors while deciding where to go. Others began pushing into the available gaps, changed direction after two steps, and blocked everyone behind them.
Adi’ra waited.
Only after the first uncoordinated knot had loosened did they step aboard.
A seat was free against the side wall, close enough to the door that they would not need to cross the entire car later. Adi’ra sat down and pulled the IFAK slightly forward until it no longer pressed quite so hard between their hip and the edge of the seat.
The doors began to close.
At the last possible moment, an older person entered, stopped in front of the opposite seat, and laboriously turned around with their back facing the direction of travel. One hand reached for the vertical pole, missed it, corrected, and still failed to find a secure grip.
Adi’ra planted both feet more firmly on the floor.
The train started moving.
The jolt came sooner than the person expected. Their upper body pitched forward and one hand reached again for the pole, finding only empty air.
Too close.
Adi’ra raised both arms.
For an instant, it looked as though the person was about to fall directly into their lap. Then their fingers finally caught the pole, their body turned halfway around, and they dropped heavily into the seat.
“Goddamn it.”
The person adjusted their jacket and exhaled audibly.
“You all right?” Adi’ra asked.
“Yeah. Thing takes off like it’s out of its damn mind.”
Adi’ra only nodded.
The train had not accelerated unusually quickly. It simply had not waited for every human being aboard to finish making their decisions.
There had been no fall and there was no obvious injury. The person’s hand moved normally and their gaze remained clear.
Nothing further required attention.
Across the aisle, a teenager opened a video with the sound enabled. Somewhere behind Adi’ra, someone began dictating another message, while a child’s game repeated a sequence of electronic melodies beside two adults whose conversation became louder with every station.
The train crossed a switch with a heavy impact that traveled through the floor, the seat, and the backrest. Faces, displays, strips of light, and movements taking place behind Adi’ra appeared in the windows as reflections and therefore remained inside their field of vision anyway.
The audio filters in the iGlases softened the sharpest frequencies, but Adi’ra did not want to block out the environment completely.
The SavingLife symbol remained active along the top edge of the display.
There was no alert, only readiness.
Adi’ra looked at it anyway.
Please, not today.
Not in this car, not in the middle of a tunnel, and not at some station where the planned journey would suddenly end and an entirely different one would begin.
During the unusually hot weeks, Hamburg’s subway and commuter rail systems had developed an increasingly poor reputation: circulatory problems, failing cooling systems, overcrowded cars, aggression, and people losing control under the combined effects of heat, noise, drugs, anxiety, or private stress.
Not every incident became an emergency.
Some required only a few seconds to become one.
SavingLife did not notify Adi’ra of every confrontation, but in cases involving unconsciousness, serious falls, major bleeding, or certain kinds of violence, their profile could appear very high on the responder list.
Wanting an uninterrupted trip felt both legitimate and shameful at the same time.
Alexia was waiting.
If someone needed help, the meeting would have to wait instead.
Even so, Adi’ra hoped it would not happen today.
The train braked at the next station, and once again the shriek traveled through the car. Several passengers stood before the train had come to a complete stop, reached too late for the poles, and collided with one another.
“Shit, hold on—”
A bag struck the back of a seat.
The doors opened. Some people left, others entered, and within seconds the same train car contained an entirely new collection of voices, smells, and patterns of movement.
A woman pushed a stroller inside while speaking to someone through her display. Directly in front of the child, a small screen flashed rapidly through bright colors while some animated figure jumped across orange surfaces, accompanied by pulses of light that demanded attention even from the edge of Adi’ra’s vision.
The video was not intended for them.
Their brain reached for it anyway.
What was being shown? Why were the cuts so fast? How many stations remained? Alexia. The woman was still talking. Someone behind her wanted to pass. The stroller was partly blocking the doorway.
The U2 display changed.
The doors closed.
As the car grew more crowded, the cooperation between Adi’ra’s thoughts became less orderly. At home, they handed tasks to one another.
Here, they all called out at once.
The next stops, the voice behind them, the display on the stroller, the pressure of the IFAK, the older passenger across the aisle, Alexia’s message, SavingLife — everything arrived, while almost nothing departed completely.
Then the train emerged from the tunnel.
The change in light was so abrupt that Adi’ra had to blink. Sunlight poured directly through the windows, laying bright rectangles across faces, jackets, and displays. For several seconds, the glass stopped reflecting mainly the interior and opened instead onto tracks, bridges, buildings, and an April sun so intense it appeared nearly white.
The sound changed as well.
Inside the tunnel, the clatter had possessed walls. It had been reflected back upon itself, dense and enclosed, as though the train were moving through the body of a resonating instrument.
Outside, the sound opened up. It did not become quieter, only broader. Wind moved along the exterior of the train, the running gear sounded harder against the exposed rails, and beneath a bridge a deep rumble gathered for several seconds before dissolving again.
Sunlight struck Adi’ra’s face and warmed their skin through the window.
Buildings passed.
A construction site.
A bird above the tracks.
Reflections from glass façades.
Alexia, 2023.
A conversation that had continued far beyond the time originally set aside for it. Her way of listening without immediately trying to fill every silence. A late evening, light falling across a table, and a sentence whose precise wording had vanished while its meaning remained.
Then four years.
There had been no clean line of separation, only a stretch of time across which both lives had continued without touching.
Adi’ra tried to hold onto one of those images.
The train entered another tunnel.
The windows became mirrors, the interior of the car settled over the memory, and the screech of the next curve cut straight through it.
»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«
At Jungfernstieg, Adi’ra stepped out with the rest of the flow of passengers.
The journey was not over. It had merely changed form again.
The platform lay deep beneath the city, tiled and artificially lit, filled with the warm currents of air that departing trains pushed through the station. The rumble of the U2 receded into the tunnel, yet for several seconds it remained behind as a vibration in the floor and in Adi’ra’s body.
The crowd moved toward the escalator.
Adi’ra moved with it.
Walking too slowly meant that people behind them closed the distance and came uncomfortably near. Walking too quickly almost inevitably ended in sudden braking because someone ahead stopped, changed direction, or looked at a display while continuing to walk.
On the intermediate level, the directed flow dissolved completely.
People emerged from several corridors at once, crossing paths, stopping, turning around, or moving from one side to the other without giving any visible indication of where they intended to go. To Adi’ra’s perception, they behaved like traffic cones capable of changing position on their own the instant a clear route appeared.
A gap opened on the left.
The person ahead moved left as well.
Then right.
A man stopped in the middle of that path and began operating his display.
More people were approaching from behind.
Adi’ra took two quick steps sideways, slowed, pulled one shoulder back to avoid a shopping bag moving into their path, and accelerated again.
They needed to walk more slowly, except that doing so meant someone would close in from behind.
Pass on the left.
Stroller.
Right.
Too late.
Slow down again.
Adi’ra became aware that they were walking more and more hurriedly even though the hurry itself was making further mistakes more likely.
A display flashed in front of the child in the stroller. Animated figures moved through a scene that made no sense in passing, leaving behind only contrast, color, and rapid motion.
The stroller was long gone before the flicker disappeared from Adi’ra’s mind.
Warm pastry, sugar, and reheated cheese drifted from a bakery shop. A few yards farther on, those smells mixed with beer, old frying oil, and cleaning products from a pub. People streamed past, some having only just escaped the heat outside, others clearly having been traveling for some time, carrying with them damp fabric, sweat, and the smell of unwashed skin.
Around one group, an intense combination of garlic and spices dominated everything else. The smell did not seem to remain in Adi’ra’s nose; it settled onto their tongue.
They held their breath, realized they were doing it, and began breathing more shallowly through their mouth instead.
The density of odors is temporarily elevated, the internal press office announced.
It was an absurdly clinical sentence.
It helped anyway, because at least it gave the sensation a boundary.
A person leaned against the tiled wall with their eyes half closed, head hanging forward and arms barely moving. Several yards away, someone else swayed so slowly that every shift in body weight appeared to require a fresh decision.
Adi’ra avoided looking directly at either of them while still checking.
Was the first person standing securely? Was their chest moving regularly? Did they respond to the people passing close by?
Please, not now.
The thought arrived before any more decent version of it could replace it.
Please don’t collapse right in front of me.
If it happened, Adi’ra would help. There was no question about that. Within seconds, the walk to coffee would become an incident: responsiveness, breathing, exact location, emergency channel, bystanders, IFAK.
Alexia would have to wait.
The person against the wall raised their head, rubbed a hand across their face, and shifted their weight onto both feet.
Good.
Adi’ra continued.
The next escalator led upward toward Europa Passage, and within the first few steps the air began to change. The heat of the station receded below them while cooler air, coffee, baked goods, fruit, perfume, and cleaning products drifted down from above.
The lower level of the shopping center was even more crowded.
Here, people were not merely hurrying between forms of transportation. They carried bags, held children by the hand, pushed strollers, or stopped in front of store displays. Some moved with clear purpose.
Others seemed to begin deciding where they wanted to go only after they had already started walking.
Someone pushed a stroller out of a shop doorway into the passage and did not look up until Adi’ra was already changing course to avoid it. Immediately afterward, a person carrying two heavy bags crossed to the opposite side, while a child slipped free of an adult’s hand and took three steps backward.
Adi’ra changed direction again.
By now, their attention registered movement more readily than faces: feet, shoulders, the turning of a torso, a hand beginning to indicate a direction before the rest of the body followed.
At their left hip, the IFAK pressed against the belt. With every quicker step, its weight recalled earlier SavingLife alerts in and around the shopping center — falls, fainting episodes, cuts, and confrontations that had transformed an ordinary shopping trip into something entirely different within seconds.
Adi’ra reached the next escalator.
The ice cream café was two floors above.
Alexia had not given a more precise meeting point, nor had she needed to. They had met there before; the calendar knew the location, and so did HESAYA.
As the escalator carried Adi’ra upward, the space around them opened. Voices from several levels overlapped, dishes clattered, and music from different stores collided without any shared rhythm. Light from the atrium fractured across glass surfaces and fell in bright bands across the people below.
Adi’ra placed one hand against the strap of the IFAK simply to feel something fixed and predictable.
“Two minutes to the meeting point,” HESAYA said quietly through the audio channel.
“I know.”
Two people stood side by side on the same escalator step ahead of Adi’ra. Behind them, someone had moved so close that they could hear the person breathing.
Adi’ra waited.
At the top, the café came into view.
Tables, chairs, people, glasses of ice cream topped with half-melted whipped cream, and between them an overlapping field of voices, gestures, and faces that first had to be separated from one another.
Memory supplied several versions of Alexia: the face from 2023, the changes accumulated over seventeen years, and the four-year gap during which both their lives had continued without either knowing what was happening in the other’s.
What remained unmistakable was her laugh, the small pause she made before disagreeing with someone, and the unexpectedly deep baritone she sometimes produced when friendliness was no longer sufficient.
Adi’ra’s gaze moved across the tables.
They still could not see her.
Then, at the far end of the café, a woman stood up.
»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«