Rebecca Dawn didn’t have enough time. She usually adhered to a tight schedule, but this morning, the tram’s timetable was ringing in her ears louder than her own heartbeat. The plaza was almost deserted, and every sound of her boots on the ground reminded her that she was late. She pushed through the plaza, her shoulders hunched, each move deliberate and precise.
The coffee vending machine buzzed to life. Numbers flickered slowly. She tapped her wristband three times, more than she needed to, as if she could will it to move faster. “Come on,” she muttered. She was almost sure she could make it respond faster if she tried hard enough. The cup clattered into the slot. She grabbed it before it could settle, her hands trembling with adrenaline. Hot coffee spilled over the rim, dark smudges spreading across her blouse.
She paused, eyes narrowing at the stain. Symmetry shattered. “Great,” she grumbled, rubbing at the stain in steady, impatient lines. Now I have to clean this mess, another step in the process. For a moment, she considered turning back and heading home to change, but the tram wouldn’t wait. And she couldn’t be late for Forever Young. Not today, not ever. She had a spare shirt in her office, neatly folded in the bottom drawer of her desk. She always had a backup.
New Hope stretched around her, only half-awake. Copper-brown lamps cast long shadows across the cobblestones. The air was too pure, too clean and filtered to carry much scent. Congo humidity pressed lightly against her skin, a reminder that no filtration system could erase the fact that the city had been built on jungle soil.
The moon was out this morning, half-lit and pale, hanging low above the line of towers. But the sky behind it was... blank. Not black but gray. No stars. Not even a shimmer. She had never seen one in her life. They were taken. The veil of dark matter, drifting high above the atmosphere, warps time in ways no one understands. The Sun and Moon forced their way through sheer mass. But the stars were too small. Too faint.
The transit station was just three blocks away, and Rebecca enjoyed the walk. The tram that would take her up the hill wasn’t there yet. She enjoyed this time of day. She appreciated the stillness. The pause before the noise of the day flooded back in.
The tram wouldn’t arrive for another seven minutes. Rebecca sipped her coffee and leaned against the metal railing near the plaza platform. The city still felt like it was half-asleep, with the usual hum of traffic and activity just beginning to emerge. In the distance, the Civic Tower’s lights blinked on one floor at a time, each one a silent heartbeat marking the start of a new day.
And then she saw him. At first, she didn’t recognize who it was. Just another early shape slipping out from between buildings. He walked with calm purpose, long coat unbuttoned, collar turned slightly against the wind. His head was down, his direction steady. Two aides trailed a few paces behind him, quiet and watchful.
It wasn’t until he stepped under one of the low plaza lights that she could see the shape of his face. Richard Conners. She had seen his face a hundred times in policy briefings, archival lectures, and carefully edited council recordings. He was one of the architects of New Hope’s early infrastructure, was eventually appointed to the Civic Council, and is now the leader of the New Independence Movement.
She had once marched under his name in college, part of a swelling wave of protest in the Civic Plaza. She had never met him then, never seen him close up, but his speeches had been everywhere. For a moment, she believed the movement might have been right. She later told herself it was only youthful idealism, but the memory of that day now returned with unexpected weight.
He was staring at her. Rebecca didn’t move. She hadn’t expected to meet eyes or for his pace to falter. His gaze swept across the wide platform, past the half-dozen steps and the gust of cold morning air between them.
It wasn’t the look of a stranger; it was an acknowledgment. Her stomach sank. It wasn’t: is this someone I know? It was: there you are. His expression stayed the same, but something behind it shifted. A change in posture, a flicker in his eyes, a subtle, unreadable smile. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture filled with meaning. Then he turned and kept walking, his aides trailing a few steps behind without a single look back.
The tram arrived, its doors hissing open pneumatically. Rebecca stepped inside without hesitation, found a window seat, and sat down with the paper cup carefully held between her palms. The city fell away behind her. The ridge ahead grew larger. All she could see was his face, calm and composed, but watching her like someone who had finally solved a riddle that had been waiting years to be answered. She didn’t know him. He couldn’t know her. And yet… he had.
The tram continued to move as it always did, quietly and effortlessly gliding through a corridor of carved rock and glass walls, then out into the open air. Below, the city transformed into a pattern of geometric shapes. Above, the black shard of Forever Young pierced the ridge as if it had torn right through the sky itself.
Rebecca barely registered any of it. She sat motionless, her hands wrapped around the now cool paper cup, her reflection hovering in the window beside the ghost of the rising sun.
The tram slowed. The final bend revealed the main facility grounds. Neat walkways, bio-glass panels, and perimeter drones lazily buzzing above a forest of satellite towers. The landing platform hissed as the doors opened.
Her ID badge clicked against her chest with each step, like a quiet metronome in the silence. Security didn’t even glance at her. The system recognized her. She moved through the entry gate and along the glass corridor that stretched the length of the observation tier. The city stretched out below, layered and distant, glowing gold in the early sun.
She arrived at the elevator, entered her code, and took the elevator up to Research Level 14. The break room was empty; she was early, which suited her fine. She opened the fridge, pulled out a forgotten container of wilted greens, and sniffed it in disgust.
A flick of her wrist sent it sliding into the TimeWave oven. The machine hummed, light bent oddly around the glass as the air rippled backward. In less than ten seconds, the lettuce un-wilted, the dressing un-separated, and the salad returned to the freshness it had when made. Rebecca grabbed it, still fresh, and carried it with her down the quiet hallway to her lab.
Lights flickered overhead, illuminating Wes, who was already seated at his station. Feet propped up on one of the side consoles, a coffee in one hand, a bag of trail mix in the other. A hazy, older film played on his screen, the unmistakable DeLorean punching through a mall parking lot.
He sensed her, sat upright quickly, and nervously tapped the feedback to diagnostics. “Morning, boss,” he babbled, hastily offering a grin in atonement.
Rebecca dropped her bag and arched a brow. She wasn’t pleased with him; he was better than wasting lab time. She didn’t comment. Wes was quick and reliable in a crunch, and she needed him alert far more than she needed him red-faced. As she logged in at her station, the drone of the facility crackled in her ears, louder than usual, like a subfloor had buckled an inch closer to the surface. She shot him a sideways glance. “That's your entire breakfast?”
“Hey, you’re the one who said I needed protein,” he replied with a light Southern accent, winking.
She smirked. “I said eat real food, not squirrel bait.”
He laughed and stayed for a moment. “Ops flagged something weird on one of the rejuvenation pods downtown. You see the alert yet?”
Rebecca frowned. “No. Which unit?”
“Station 4, Civic West. Local maintenance flagged a harmonic issue; time’s arrow is all over the place.” He shrugged. “No one wants to get older.”
Rebecca leaned forward in her chair. “Send me the logs. I’ll take a look once this batch is done.” Wes nodded and gave the doorframe a double tap as he walked away. He enjoyed working with her. Not because of a title, she didn’t have a name that mattered outside this building, because she made things work. When she said something, people listened.
She shook her head and opened the coil diagnostics screen. Lines of data scrolled by in their usual confusing way: input voltages, gradient changes, calibration drift. Everything looked the same.
Her finger hovered over the touchpad, waiting for her brain to catch up with her body. She replayed the moment again: the way his eyes had met hers. Not passing interest, not recognition from a press photo. Something more. He had seen her like someone sees a memory they didn’t realize they still had.
She massaged her temples. “Get it together,” she said to herself. She refocused on the screen. She loved numbers and readouts. Solving problems was the rhythm of her life. She pulled up the logs that Wes had sent her. Another problem she knew she could solve.
But something was different, not in the data.
In her.