Rifle Dave's American, Local, Patriotic, Homestyle, Coffee Express

It had been a lonely summer for Byron.

First civilian rocket to the moon colony, and Henrietta was gone. Byron didn’t even know she’d been able to get a ticket. Her parents were rich, yes, but not ticket rich. She chose not to explain herself, leaving without so much as tagging him in a breakup meme, but all Byron could imagine, the only possibility, was that Henrietta had found herself as a Plus One. Ticket-rich people didn’t give out their Plus Ones without good reason, and certainly not to platonic strangers, so it was all Byron could do to reign in his imagination, convincing himself (unsuccessfully, evidence considered) that she hadn’t gone poly behind his back, for who knows how long, with who knows how many secondary, gamma, e-motional, and one-night partners.

Byron had to log on to his mother’s account to find out about his breakup, because Henrietta had broken Byron’s link when she left Earth. Henrietta had done a final terra post (the moon colonies had their own exclusive socials, and didn’t allow for dilution) which was a boomerang of her taking a shot of champagne from one of the flight DJs, giving the finger to the camera. The picture had no filter, yet was very clearly cropped, and there was just the hint of an elbow next to hers. Henrietta might have hidden her new partner for Byron’s benefit, to spare his feelings, but more likely it was to protect her reputation and questions of overlap if she ever came back down to Earth.

Theirs was a two week relationship, the longest of anyone they’d known outside their parents, which doesn’t abruptly end without at least one heart breaking. Untrue. Byron’s heart didn’t break, it shattered. He’d downloaded every therapy app on the market, often having ten sessions a day with different heart influencers, healing advisors, and confidence coaches, trying to balm his impossibly painful wound. After listening to all of their quick-comfort advice (which was often contradictory and untenably expensive) Byron had to finally surrender to the indignity of forced app deletion, cursing the Meaningless Void over his fate. He couldn’t afford the in-app purchases, often required to unlock the most secret “Get Over Her Quick” advice. A week after Henrietta’s departure he was on his own, for, to borrow the creed of the moon colony: “Without money comes suffering.”

So he spent the summer alone and terribly cold inside. He cried every night, and made sure to post a picture of each individual crying session to his socials, in order to make sure everyone understood how excruciating was his pain. The visual proof of grief wouldn’t reach Henrietta on the moon, but maybe her parents would see the devastation she’d left in her wake, and maybe they’d feel bad about raising such a callous monster.

Today was the first day of fall, and Bryon had finally decided to leave the house. More accurately, his parents made him leave the house. He couldn’t hold a profit-hobby under the stress of his grief, even as a digital grief model, and so he’d been forced to move back into his parents’ studio apartment. They were very supportive at the beginning, but at this point wanted him to get back out there, and open up the world romantically, maybe even do some light, anonymous hookups. Byron finally, begrudgingly, agreed to at least go to Rifle Dave’s American, Local, Patriotic, Homestyle Coffee Express. Rifle Dave’s offered their fall flavors this time of year, and it at least gave Byron a close destination.

The air was crisp, and he thumbed open the app to find out about the air quality. His phone said that the PPM concentration of benzene and dioxin were low, and so he allowed himself to breathe deep. He walked with his collision app open to direct him and let him know if he was going to stumble into anyone or anything, but all the cars on the street were state-drive mandatory at this hour, and the sidewalk was completely empty of other pedestrians, as was normal. It was early, and most people just got Rifle Dave’s delivered via coffee drone.

Byron kept the collision app open in the corner of his phone, and had the tri-screen occupied mostly with ‘Strike First: Asteroid Belt,’ visually shooting a clan of Meteorite Supremacists, when all of a sudden his screen went black.

Byron’s whole body went stiff. He shook the phone and pressed the emergency feed on the back, but nothing worked. The no-power icon was plastered across his screen, and he realized he had forgotten to plug it in after spending all that time photo-grading his tears last night. He let out a long breath and put his phone in his pocket, staring at the street and wondering if anyone might charitably override the state-drive system and stop their car so he might get a pity charge. Of course that was illegal at this time of day, so his chances were slim. After a moment he pulled his phone back out and tried again, but nothing had changed. His phone was dead. He felt just as drained. He started to cry, but then stopped, realizing that there was no one close enough to witness his dismay, and there was no point shedding non-revenue-generating tears.

Byron knew Rifle Dave’s American, Local, Patriotic, Homestyle Coffee Express was only three blocks away, but there was a turn in the mix, and he wasn’t sure if it was a right or a left. He tried to look into the car windows to see who looked tired, like they might be getting a morning coffee, but all their window privacy shields went up when the glass registered a stranger’s eyes peeping.

Byron took out his phone to check the collision app for directions, but his phone was still dead. His stomach clenched with a sour wave of anxiety, and he knew he’d have to make a fool of himself by not knowing the directions. If the neighborhood watch cams caught him turning left and then turning right instead, with a pathetic look of confusion, he’d probably trend locally all day. Such a video could even make its way on the Moon Colonies’ Total Earth Fail Untouchables Caste Subreddit, and Henrietta would get the satisfaction of knowing she dodged a bullet.

“You by chance going to Rifle Dave’s?” a voice behind Byron asked.

Byron’s body tensed up, patting his pockets and realizing he’d forgotten his government standard pepper spray or any of his guns. It was illegal to be outside without some sort of protection, and Byron furiously checked his pockets, at last pretending he found something dangerous in his jeans, in case the person behind him was one of the Order Officers.

“Yes,” Byron said cautiously.

“I really appreciate the fall flavors they offer this time of year.”

Byron turned, and his anxieties doubled. It wasn’t an Order Officer. It wasn’t a mugger. It wasn’t even a dreaded foreigner.

It was something far worse.

A young woman, incredibly attractive, who looked vaguely like Henrietta. She had a similar face, with wide-set eyes and a pouty lower lip. Her hair was longer, and she had more freckles on her neck than Henrietta—freckles Byron had been obsessed with counting before falling asleep. Some nights he’d gotten forty-one freckles, some he got forty. The nightstand usually corrected him gently and told him there were forty-three freckles on Henrietta’s neck, but Byron didn’t care. It was only act of counting that had mattered.

“Me as well,” Byron said cautiously. “Especially pumpkin. Since pumpkins…”

“Extinct,” the young woman said with a smile.

Thank the Meaningless Void that her smile was different than Henrietta’s, Byron thought. If she’d had a similar coy half-smile, Byron wouldn’t have been able to talk with her at all.

“Exactly,” Byron said.

She stuck out her hand. “Mary.”

Byron stuck out his hand, careful to leave the customary three inches between their fingertips.

“Byron,” he said.

“Want to walk together, Byron?” Mary asked. “Maybe you can tell me what other flavors of extinct things that you’ve tried.”

He swallowed hard. If his phone was listening it would have alerted him with some emotional firewalls from his safe space apps. As it was, he had to ask himself how he felt about this interaction. Was he ready for something as intense and potentially mind-shattering as an analog conversation with a beautiful woman? Out in the open? Without his phone to assist with connection prompts and hyper-responsive mood music to fill any conversation gaps?

“It’s okay,” Byron said. “I think—”

“Nonsense,” Mary interrupted, pretending to sweep her arm through his, in a very intimate gesture, leading him down the sidewalk. “I assume you’ve tried chocolate?”

“One of my favorites,” he said carefully. “I can’t imagine how good the real thing tasted.”

“I can’t imagine at all,” she said.

By the time they got to the Rifle Dave’s American, Local, Patriotic, Homestyle Coffee Express pod, Byron was nearly breathless. Not from the three block walk (although that normally would have winded anyone), but from how smitten he was already. Mary was so engaging, and actually seemed interested in what he had to say, which wasn’t much like Henrietta, who never asked him a question outside of SMS. Mary wanted to know about Byron’s genetically issued favorite color (grey), about his favorite apps (whatever was trending), and what he was looking for in a potential partner (Henrietta). Mary was so easy to talk to, and Byron felt himself growing warm. The kind of warmth he hadn’t felt since his first few days with Henrietta. The raw excitement was a shield against all the agony he’d been feeling since he got dumped. It was like he could breathe freely. Like he didn’t have to worry about trace amounts of cyclosarin and VS nerve gas in the air from Russian, Israeli, Chinese, South African, Lunar, and Canadian terrorist attacks. He was so smitten and eager he wanted to take Mary home and have the nightstand tally her freckles, but he knew that would be a premature e-calculation.

Mary and Byron both ordered pumpkin-flavored lattes, and walked to the park. It was a four block haul from Rifle Dave’s to the park, but Byron barely wheezed during the sojourn, since he felt so full of life. They sat and drank their lattes and had easy conversation about radical politics, the logical fallacy of religion, and hardcore sexual fantasies. They watched the neo-squirrels scamper through the park, genetically modified to resist the toxicity of the all-pervasive litter. Byron sat back and enjoyed the filtered sunlight caressing his face, while running his bare feet across the bright green AstroTurf.

Mary was incredible. Everything Byron hoped for. They had similar interests, similar worldviews, and similar apps. He’d found his soulmate.

Mary checked her phone and showed Byron the time.

“It’s getting late,” she said, biting her bottom lip. She pretended to sweep her arm through his and led him to his feet, and back to the sidewalk. They started walking, and an awkward silence sat between them, heavy with tension.

Byron just decided to go for it. He felt like he might know her answer already, considering how well they got along, and from all the signs she’d been giving him.

“Do you,” he said softly. “Do you want to come over?”

She stopped walking and then gave a slow seductive nod. She looked around and started unbuttoning the front of her shirt.

“Woah,” Byron said. “That’s—"

He stopped himself.

She’d gotten to the third button, and she lifted open the silicon plate in her chest, revealing the credit card slot and her circuitry.

“I take Visa and Bitcoin, but prefer American Express,” she said.

“Oh,” Byron said, everything in him sinking. “You’re…”

She shut the plate, her face going red. “What, are you anti-bot or something? I’m not imported, if that’s what concerns you. I was manufactured right here in New California.”

“No, it’s not that,” Byron said, groaning. “I just thought you were real.”

“Who are you to get to decide what’s real?” Mary Scoffed. “Besides, wouldn’t you do anything in the world to feel better?”

It all clicked. She said ‘anything in the world’ in a recording of Byron’s exact voice. In his despair, he’d probably forgotten to click one of privacy boxes on one of his therapist apps. He remembered saying that phrase to at least four of his therapists, so he’d never know which one had sold his personal information on the open market. “Mary” was only easy to get along with because her current software was already hot and heavy with Byron’s accumulated personality simulacra.

Byron sniffed, heat coming to the corner of his eyes. “I guess I didn’t mean anything. Sorry.”

She buttoned up her shirt and shrugged. “I think you might be the bot here.”

She stormed off, and took his salvation with him.

Byron, feeling like he’d just gotten his own chest ripped open, hurried his phone out of his pocket to get emergency help from all of his therapists and to offset the cost by monetizing his big, fat, stinging tears. But his phone battery was still dead, and he still didn’t have access to any of the therapy apps.

He checked his pockets again, once again finding no guns on him. So he jumped into traffic to try and kill himself that way, but all the cars had the collision app running while in state-drive. Their wheels calmly and with exact precision swerved around Byron and continued carrying their passengers safely to their destinations. All the privacy shields were fully raised, and immediately frosted over double as they registered a stranger in crises.

Byron laid down on his back, hoping to get run over, while staring up at moon.