Parched by Georgia Clark Page A

me; my friends trying to pull me into a concert or a random party, or strangers wanting to chat about all this weird medieval stuff. Everyone’s avatars would be bouncing and spinning around me—Izzy’s was a purring kitten. Mine was a tiny thunderstorm, complete with lightning and rolling black clouds. Being off-cycle feels a little lonely. But it also feels safe.
    Now original texts scroll before me. Black letters squash together unevenly, primitive in their awkward imperfection. The language is foreign to me, but
aevum
is helpfully highlighted with a soft glow. I wave my hand over the pages. The woman flickers for a moment, then starts explaining. “Here you see the first mention of the aevum in a treatise written in the thirteenth century by the saint Albertus Magnus—”
    What? I swish my fingers to start it again. But I didn’t mishear. Albertus
Magnus
.
    â€œTess!” Abel’s voice rings out for the third time, shorter and more annoyed.
    â€œComing!” I call impatiently.
    Aevum is how angels are supposed to experience the world. According to myth, angels are special, powerful, inhuman. All words that could be applied to artilects.
    I hate to admit it but the idea of Aevum as the code name for an artilect is Abel to a tee. Clever, cerebral, based in the classics. Plus the fact it was created by someone called Magnus, that it
came from
Magnus, just as the second attempt would inevitably be born from the first. The connection seems inevitable.
    â€œTess.” He’s right outside my door. Quick as a flash, I scrunch the scratch into a ball. The aevum stream disappears a split second before Abel sticks his head into my room. “Dinner’s ready.”
    Abel smiles at me from across the table, pulling the napkin from its red-bolt ring and shaking it out over his lap. “So, what did you get up to with Izzadore?”
    â€œI, ah, got some clothes,” I say. “And dyed my hair.”
    â€œAh, yes,” he says, squinting at it. “Very fetching.” I am 100 percent sure he cannot make out any noticeable difference.
    â€œWhat about you?” I ask, toying with my fork. “How was your day?” A grimace flares across his face. “Trying.”
    â€œHard day at post-education?”
    â€œYes,” he agrees. “Hard day at post-education.”
    Or a hard day at Simutech. I eye him, trying to work out if he’s telling the truth.
    â€œSpeaking of education,” he says. “We’ll have to reenroll you for your final year. It’s very important you finish education before deciding on a work choice next year—”
    â€œI’m not going back!” Back to education? To classes and homework and fresh-faced Edenites with no concept of how the world actually works? The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. Abel frowns in disapproval. “I mean, not right now,” I backtrack. “I need a few weeks to get . . . reacquainted.”
    My uncle looks as if he’s about to disagree, but fortunately, the moment is interrupted by the arrival of Kimiko.
    â€œDinner is served,” the fembot announces, carefully placing our meals in front of us. “Wild mushroom risotto with tangled salad greens.”
    Before me is an enormous mound of steaming risotto that smells like butter and garlic. Slices of crumbling golden cheese ooze in the soft, sticky rice. Next to the risotto is a clump of dressed arugula salad, dotted with cut cherry tomatoes and paper-thin slices of cucumber.
    â€œI can’t believe you remembered,” I mumble, eyes round and mouth watering. Mushroom risotto is my favorite meal, hands down. And what Kimiko has prepared looks like it could be the best I’ve ever tasted.
    â€œI programmed her myself,” Abel says proudly.
    I pick up my fork, unsure whether to savor every bite in a luxurious slowness or cram as much as I can in my mouth at once.
    â€œI’m