The boy tilted his head back, feeling the cold aluminum press against his skull. They sat in silence for a long while. The excitement in his chest gradually faded, and as he watched the endless rows of glider models pass by without focusing on any of them, he stopped feeling like the platform was descending into the depths. Instead, it seemed as though the entire tower around them was magically rising into the sky.

  “You remind me of him,” CR said suddenly.

  When the boy lowered his head and looked at the technician, he noticed a gold-glimmering capsule held between CR’s thumb and forefinger.

  “Of who?” the boy asked.

  “There are photos of him in the Infonet. He had the same damn eyes as you. That same look of misery.” CR shook his head, as if grappling with some wild realization. “Two people can look completely different, but they can still share the same gaze. Let me tell you what I think: It’s not the eyes that are the window to the soul, like they always say. It’s the way someone looks at the world. That gaze tells you what they’ve been through, where they come from, and maybe even gives you a hint of where they’re headed.”

  A strange silence followed, one the boy didn’t feel like breaking. He couldn’t shake the sense that CR had more to say. And he was right.

  “The fate of the workers was sealed the day Cal Rook was born in Keldaraan. But he never felt like he fit in. He didn’t want to be a revolutionary. Didn’t want to be a hero. He never believed he could change the world. All he wanted was the love of one girl. Starting to see the similarities?”

  CR slipped the capsule between his molars, bit down hard, and barely flinched. His eyebrows twitched slightly as he closed his eyes and sucked on the gelatin shell for a moment. Then he swallowed and spat the empty casing into the abyss below. “What did you think it was named after?” he asked, pulling another capsule from the case on his belt and offering it to the boy.

  The boy waved it away. “I honestly never thought about it.”

  “Believe it or not, the world a hundred years ago wasn’t much different from how it is now. Back then, the biggest food manufacturer was BeMo-Company. Today, it’s Snackbite Incorporated. One evil disappears, and another takes its place. That seems to be the law of this world. But every now and then, someone comes along who dares to defy the order of things. His fate was sealed the day he was almost crushed to death by an advertising drone.”

  “What…?”

  “Yeah. Some say it was no coincidence that a drone went rogue on the same day Cal—”

  “No,” the boy interrupted. “I mean, what... are you even talking about? I don’t want to hear some stupid story right now. We’re about to die, in case you forgot. Any second now, we’ll hit the vacuum tunnel, and we’re going to suffocate.”

  “There’s a reason why—”

  “Seriously. I don’t want to hear it. Just spare me, okay? Forget it.”

  CR turned his gaze away. “Forget it,” he said softly. "That’s the magic word."

  “On a dark blue pasture bathed in the sunlight of Tau Ceti, a happy cow named Bj?rn grazed peacefully. Chewing lazily, it lifted its broad head, and its big, round eyes glanced sideways at the mountain-encircled landscape. In the distance stood a steel laboratory complex (the largest biotech facility in the world) with a grand golden-lettered sign atop it: LeverGen.

  A dark-haired farmer appeared in the frame, clean-shaven and youthful. He gave the cloned cow a pat on its flank with one hand while holding a plate slightly tilted downward in the other. On the plate was a slice of roast beef, paired with synthesized chestnut vegetables. The roast boasted a juicy, dark crust and a light-red marbled center. No slaughter waste, no hair, no bones... just clean, lab-cultivated meat produced in the facility behind him.

  He explained cellular agriculture as the only viable way to uphold humanity’s promise and rattled off some stats:

  ‘90 percent fewer greenhouse gas emissions, 95 percent less farmland use, 99 percent less freshwater consumption, 85 percent less energy usage. BeMo-Company and LeverGen are the leading manufacturers in food tech and the only alternative to traditional meat production. No killing cows, no killing chicks, no killing anything. Keeping humanity’s promise isn’t just a mandate of the World Union—it’s our duty. A moral obligation straight from the heart. A responsibility we all share. And with BeMo, we live by that promise. We live in a worry-free world without animal suffering, with love for the environment, and a deep love for humanity. With over two million happy employees, we’re the largest food producer of the New World. And with every customer, our family grows.’

  The young farmer set the plate down on a wooden table near the cow. He carefully chewed a piece of roast beef and nodded in satisfaction. Hooking a thumb under the strap of his overalls, he took a sip of milk and sighed with pleasure. ‘Milk from cell cultures,’ he said, raising the still mostly full glass as if to make a toast. ‘Milk that’s never been taken from a cow’s udder without consent. BeMo means Better Morality—better ethics for a better world. And that’s what everyone who buys BeMo products stands for. Buy our products. Because we’re one big family.’

  The farmer snapped the strap of his overalls back against his chest, pointed his thumb toward the camera, and smiled with unwavering confidence.

  The infomercial was abruptly interrupted by another ad, three seconds before some young man crossed the digital billboard. It was Dorsey Holbach, thirty years old, of Europid descent, and an enrolled student at Thandros University in Ataris since the winter of 2550. His ex-partner, Neomi Kinnear, had broken up with him exactly 32 minutes and 46 seconds ago after a relationship that had lasted precisely three weeks. Her reasons? His lack of spontaneity, his fear of cybernetic implants, his fear of tattoos, his fear of using muscle-enhancing substances, his overall aversion to change, his inability to make her laugh, his lack of personal opinions, his latent tendency toward civic engagement, and, last but not least, his unimaginative approach to sex. Neomi Kinnear had, until now, been the love of his life. And the only woman he had ever slept with.

  On the billboard, a commercial for the Human Enhancement Technology Corporation (HETC) was now playing, promoting new personality-altering technology—guaranteed permanent, guaranteed side-effect free.

  Dorsey Holbach now had the chance to erase certain traits, add new ones, or adopt a completely new personality. One that Neomi Kinnear might actually love.

  In the ad, the protagonist, visually marked as a loser through various stereotypical traits, had just lost his girlfriend to a rival. He decided to go for the 'all-in package.' When he exited the augmentation chamber as a newly successful man, women were literally falling at his feet. Among them, his ex-partner, who now knelt alongside the others on the street pavement. Grinning triumphantly, the reborn winner looked straight into the camera.

  Dorsey Holbach barely paid attention to the ad. At least, not the first time.

  The next billboard, just ten meters ahead, was also running the same looping commercial. So was the one on the building wall next to him, the electronic column he was passing, and even the airship drifting between skyscrapers displayed the advertisement on its wide flank.

  The speakers embedded in the street posts urged passersby to embrace change, while flashing arrows appeared on the sidewalk, directing Dorsey toward his dream. He followed them without resistance. All his desires were now only 130 meters away.

  YOU DECIDE WHO YOU ARE.

  In Buyers Street—the largest shopping boulevard in the Ataris district, stretching 43.4 miles—the personality alteration complex sat nestled between the Thandros Information Center and CyberWorld, a cyberspace access point managed by the same corporation.

  The way Dorsey Holbach stopped, staring up at the glowing company slogan, the way his eyes sparkled amidst the city’s chaos, and the way he whispered to himself, bathed in the slogan’s rosy light, made it clear that he was very likely going to step inside.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  The gentle movement of his lips formed thoughts no one could hear but which the surrounding analysis systems could process and interpret.

  The thought, reconstructed through lip-reading, went as follows: ‘With a new personality, I’ll finally have the courage to make my body compatible for cyberspace access.’

  Suddenly, the slogan before him changed:

  YOU DECIDE WHO YOU ARE

  for just 472 credits.

  It was exactly the amount Dorsey Holbach had left in his account for the month. He probably took it as a sign.

  All over the building facade, holographic percent signs began flashing: -30%, -40%, -45%, -60%… Discount. Discount. Discount. Discount!

  Overwhelmed by the barrage of signs, he stared up with his mouth agape.

  With a recalculated probability of 99.9%, Dorsey Holbach would step into the building.

  And a moment later, he did.”

  “Amidst the crowd illuminated by advertisements, street steam rose from manhole covers as if the asphalt beneath the people's feet was smoldering, and empty boxes piled up in front of the shops. It was December... holiday season. Flashing signs in store windows read Commercemas. The citizens found the word amusing, and the industry laughed along with them. Buying... that was the only tradition people still knew. No other month brought corporations as much profit as December. The companies’ message was loud and clear: the measure of love for someone could only be determined by the number of gifts purchased for them. And so, people bought and bought to prove their love to one another.

  Street-cleaning robots swept tirelessly around the clock, pushing debris into the adjacent, shadowy alleys. The alleys were overflowing with trash, waste, and the dregs of society, while the citizens of Vega Prime strolled past, hands full of BeMo snacks, producing more garbage, more misery. The citizens, in their glowing SmartWear, were themselves a part of the neon city.

  As one ascended the urban canyons above Buyers Street, climbing higher and higher, the glittering holiday advertisements below blurred and fell away into the depths. The street itself became a glowing river, the crowd drowning in advertisements.

  The upper floors of the Cyberworld Complex, from the 100th to the 110th floor, were accessible only to the upper class of Vega Prime. Between them and the cyberjunkies below stood a five-story server room. According to a recent survey, 62% of the upper-class Cyberworld users felt that the distance from the middle class was insufficient. Plans were being discussed to increase the gap.

  Floors 111 and 112 were reserved for the wealthiest citizens of the New World. In a single day, these elites spent more credits in Cyberworld than the combined total of floors 1 to 110 in an entire year. Fewer than two dozen men and women frequented these floors, and it was here that the boards of the world-dominating corporations met.

  One of them was Sir Jeffrey Alvise, chairman of BeMo Foods Company.

  His private luxury glider levitated in a rented parking space at dizzying heights, surrounded by gently swaying palm trees and warm ground lights. Sir Alvise stepped into the cold. The glass floor crunched faintly under his white crocodile-patterned shoes. The wind was sharp, scattering fine grains of sand across the ground from the planters where the palms grew. Where were the cleaning robots?

  At the annual honors ceremonies, Sir Alvise had been knighted by World Union envoys in the tradition of old, for establishing multiple orphanages. Three were located in Ataris, and two others were on his private island, where children grew up amidst palms, sea, and sand. Sir Alvise was one of the few people in the New World who wasn’t called Sir merely out of courtesy... he had genuinely earned the title. Truly. Seriously.

  Sir Alvise wore his knighthood badge proudly on the lapel of his bespoke gold lamé suit. He put on his nickel-framed glasses with poison-green lenses, activated the HUD, and stood straight as he surveyed the landscape around him. The moon Chiron loomed large and glowing behind the silhouettes of the skyscrapers. A few scattered stars punctuated the sky. Not a single natural cloud.

  Far away, small and insignificant, a gray, rumbling, lightning-wreathed dome hovered over the northern industrial district known as Keldaraan.

  He pulled out a lighter and held the flame upright against the cut end of a cigar, which was shaped and sized like a stick of dynamite. He exhaled the smoke into the biting night air.

  While the streets below were boxed in by skyscrapers and warmed by the crowds, radiation, steam, and hot water pipelines, here on the penthouse level, winter was tangible. The New Year was approaching, and at an altitude of 666 meters above sea level, temperatures had dropped to 19 degrees Fahrenheit.

  In the cold, still gazing over the city, Sir Alvise answered a call. The voice, identified through decryption analysis as belonging to Celvin Hewett (a BeMo board member and company spokesperson) said, ‘It’s happened, just as we feared.’

  Sir Alvise listened.

  ‘There’s been an escapee from the cocoa plantations in Morgoh. He slipped away from us a week ago. And now, the slave has made it to V-Prime.’

  ‘Hardly on foot, I’d imagine.’

  ‘We don’t know how or who might’ve helped him escape.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘In two hours, a secret meeting will take place. The slave is going to meet with the Voices of the Underground. You’ve probably heard of them, Sir. A group of whistleblowers dedicated to exposing the—’

  ‘Of course, I know about those idiotic wannabe anarchists.’

  ‘Understood, Sir. Anyway, the slave is going to tell them everything. The Voices of the Underground plan to reveal the truth about the conditions on the BeMo cocoa plantations.’

  ‘The truth is our greatest enemy.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. And the threat is serious. The reporters are working with the Juncker Collective... the same hackers who shut down the power grid in two major streets of Ataris during the Thandros Festival a few weeks ago. The collective claims they’re capable of breaching the First News servers to publish their reports on the cocoa plantations there…’

  The CEO of the BeMo Company reacted first with laughter. But the pause that followed suggested, quite clearly, that his true feelings were different.

  ‘If they could do that, they’d have done it already. Do we know the exact location of the meeting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. There’s just one thing that bothers me: information isn’t usually free.’

  ‘Our informant... a mole within the whistleblower group... demanded half a million credits to save us from a major PR disaster.’

  ‘And you idiots paid it immediately?’

  ‘Sir, we gave him one hundred thousand. No more.’

  ‘No Christmas bonus for you this year, Hewett.’

  A brief pause.

  ‘What’s our next move?’

  ‘Carefully,’ said Sir Alvise, taking a relaxed draw on his cigar. He rolled the thick smoke around in his mouth, exhaled it slowly, and added, ‘Bring the slave to the factory. I want to interrogate him myself. I want to know how he escaped the plantation and who helped him.’

  ‘Understood, Sir.’

  ‘And liquidate the entire team of secret-conspiracy chatterboxes. Hacking is, and always will be, illegal.Iit does our New World no good. Taking out the reporters and the collective is a service to humanity.’

  ‘Got it, Sir.’

  ‘Sometimes, Hewett, I think we’re too good for this world.’

  Once again, Sir Alvise puffed on his cigar. He examined the thin gray ash column, then dropped the cigar, crushed it beneath the toe of his boot, and exhaled the smoke through his nose.

  ‘Oh, and Hewett?’

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘As a gesture of thanks, why don’t you arrange a boat tour for our informant? Far out into the ocean, hmm? The sea is delightfully brisk this time of year. But make sure you get the money back from him first.’

  Sir Alvise ended the call with a press of his PDA. He strolled across the glass floor toward his glider, his broad hand brushing the balustrade as he went. He had a pronounced jaw and powerful shoulders.

  The integrated body analyzer synced the following data with the Infonet: Height: 176 cm; Weight: 198 kg; Body Fat: 6.9%; LBM: 126 kg; Number of augmentations and their percentage of total body weight: 89; 31.56%.

  His cardiovascular implant, multiple regulators, and synthetic heart controlled his circulatory system. The full scan also revealed an array of neuro-implants, adrenaline and reflex boosters, an AR chip under his right temple, and a Cybernet interface on the other side of his skull. He had antitoxin implants, subcutaneous nano-armor in his torso, bionic organ prosthetics, cybernetic exo-prosthetic legs, and numerous sensory implants in his loins—more than were practically necessary.

  Keeping his augmented body operational cost 12% more credits annually than the amount needed to end world hunger.

  The head of the BeMo empire checked his diamond-studded PDA for the agenda of the upcoming meeting. Today’s topics: profit maximization, cover-ups, deceiving consumers, and further wage cuts.

  The glider’s wing door swung open automatically as Sir Alvise approached within three meters, the embedded chip beneath his skin triggering the mechanism. He stepped inside.

  But before the door could close, a hologram of two young girls appeared from a projector beneath the glass floor, imaginary twins, six years old. They first materialized in front of him, then suddenly reappeared behind the glider. Sir Alvise leaned out of the lounge seat to look for them, but they had vanished, leaving behind the sound of faint giggling.

  ‘One, two, three, four, corners hiding, nothing more,’

  the twins chanted in unison through the speakers. They appeared on the other side of the glider, tapping on the tinted rear window—or at least, a sound like tapping played from the surrounding speakers.

  The girls were projections, products of the Cyberspace, and thus, products of his own imagination. Yet they couldn’t have been conjured without real-life inspirations. Sir Alvise had first encountered the real twins three days ago during a visit to one of the four orphanages he managed as a benefactor. He had handed them over to the care of their new foster father, a significant business partner of his. But there was a twinge of regret lingering within him.

  The imaginary twins pouted and begged him to stay for another round in the Cyberworld.

  Sir Alvise retrieved a new cigar (nearly the length of his forearm) from the compartment in the armrest. He studied the slim-built forms of the twins for a moment, their bodies flat and devoid of any feminine features. Slowly, he exhaled a stream of smoke and pressed a button on the doorframe. The wing door clicked and slid shut.

  As the luxury glider levitated higher, with no further opportunity for the Cyberworld empire to extract credits from the BeMo billionaire, the projector immediately shut off. A gust of snow swept across the empty penthouse terrace, swirling and dancing in the glow of the warm ground lights.”