The Machinehood’s deadline loomed in five days. She had a flight to San Francisco in the morning. In the meantime, she couldn’t do much other than heal and peruse the feeds for the same information everyone else wanted. To calm the restlessness and tension that crawled through her gut, she went to the kitchen. Static cabinets yielded ancient iron and stainless-steel pans. She extracted a pile of vegetables from the fridge and dumped them on a wood cutting board. The surface had the rich patina of decades of oil. She sliced a tomato using her grandmother’s knife. Papa’s one concession to modern technology was a chopper-bot, but Welga wanted to feel the weight of a blade in her hand.

WELGA

7. We have now reached the breaking point of the Biotechnology Age. Humanity is engineering itself to where the definition of “human” may not go forward as it has been.

—The Machinehood Manifesto, March 20, 2095

“I owe you a birthday surprise,” Connor said.

They sat side by side on a static couch whose design was as old as their relationship. Connor had replaced most of their furniture with smart-materials, but Welga couldn’t let go of the sentimental value from their first joint purchase. She turned over the ultrafast candy thermometer in her hands.

“I thought this was it,” she said, teasing.

She’d arrived in San Francisco that morning via a standard airplane flight, then spent the afternoon cooking a dinner of lamb tagine on a bed of lemon-saffron rice. The luxury of time was the best gift, but the thermometer came a close second.

“Not that kind of surprise,” Connor said.

He ran a finger down her bare shoulder. Her new skin tingled with the same intensity as the first time he’d touched her. Warmth cascaded from her chest down, between her legs. He leaned closer, his breath marvelous with the spices of their meal. His lips crushed hers. She wrapped her arms around his back and tugged at the hem of his shirt. He slipped it off and then pressed her into the sofa’s embrace with an undeniable urgency.

We didn’t launch a swarm.

Neither had they applied makeup or dressed for foreplay.

Few people had time to sit around watching others have sex, and most weren’t particularly good at it, but those with some skill—or luck in the looks department—could make decent coin with a little effort.

They wouldn’t gain many tips from today, though, not with stray cams providing the only feeds. She swiped her visual display clear of everything. Seeing their disheveled state annoyed and distracted her, and she intended to enjoy her birthday surprise with her full attention.