Agency

30 Tottenham Court Road

Walking home, from Hanway Street to Alfred Mews, Netherton imagined himself boldly wheeling, broad-shouldered and headless.

The various surfaces of pavement would allow it, he judged. He’d never been fond of either athletics or virtual games, but to Ash’s surprise had attempted a number of the drone’s varied modes of locomotion. He’d wound up keeping her at it longer than he’d felt she wanted, and that had been satisfying in itself.

There was little traffic now. Ahead, the smooth, white, inhumanly slender figure of a Michikoid gracefully strode through a crossing. Were they still a stylishly retro choice for party help? He felt a certain satisfaction in no longer knowing…

Rainey’s sigil pulsed. “Could you bring milk?” she asked. “We’re out.”

“A liter?”

“Two. Where are you?”

“Tottenham Court Road,” he said, “on my way home.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Learning to skate.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“In a sim. With Ash.”

“Still less so,” she said.

“She was finding it rather tedious, the extent to which I enjoyed it.”

“Don’t forget the milk.”

As her sigil dimmed, a sliding shadow eclipsed the road. Looking up, he saw the segmented ventral surfaces of a particularly large moby, quite low, a flock of gulls wheeling behind it. He stopped, to stand beneath it as it passed, wishing Thomas were here, who might make a sound perhaps, reaching out to touch it, not understanding how high it was.

The city so quiet, in that moment, that he could hear the gulls.

Then a car passed, an antique Rolls, unoccupied, its driver a dash-top homunculus, in what he took to be a tiny chauffeur’s uniform.

He walked on, intent on milk, his dreams of skating forgotten.