Chapter 1, Part 3
The Garden
I’m not waiting for permission. Post-Matsumoto defiance burns hot, synthetic or not. I slip from the suite, corridors humming like a trap ready to spring. But footsteps echo: a nurse, her silver hair catching light like spun metal, body like an olympic swimmer.
“Ms. Marik.” Voice omnipresent, wrapping the air. “Ready for your excursion?”
Warden with a smile.
“Lead on. Garden time? Prescribed path to... wellness?” Sarcasm laced thick, but she just smiles. Magnetic, wrong, like a lure.
We walk, her steps syncing to mine unnervingly. “The garden facilitates acclimatisation.” Optimised bullshit. Hallway lights pulse, guiding like invisible reins. Other patients glide by, gowns identical, movements a silent march.
Matsumoto loomed at the archway, hands clasped. “Enjoy your constitutional, Cibel.” Smile didn’t reach her eyes, again. “Tests later. Tune those senses.”
Tune? Like I’m a fucking instrument. “Can’t wait.” I step through, nurse shadowing. Her presence a chill draft in paradise’s warmth.
But as green envelops me, the hum swells. Not soothing, but watchful.
Rehab garden sprawls the seventh floor. Sign says so. Engineered perfection: grass yielding precisely, blades snapping vertical. Colors vivid to ache; paths shimmer, flowers spiral mathematically. Keynote slickness. Everything placed, post-produced. Air too clean, stripped raw.
Patterns are like clockwork: seven seconds still. Three of east wind. Leaves rustle. Pond stirs. Repeat.
Poly-rhythms.
Patients trace glowing lines. Measured paces, monastic. A woman in her sixties passes, humming the garden’s drone. Eyes slide like oil on glass.
Synths. Why have warehouse bots in a hospital?
Koi pond ahead. Can’t believe this.
Eliza Reeves—ex-CFO, venture-slayer—by the edge, chrome dispenser in hand. Dead weeks ago, cancer. Now in a gown, posture rigid. Feeding fish: Plink. Pause. Two. Pause. Three. Stop. Movements bot-precise, no human tremor.
All too aware this could be me.
“Kyoto, year ago,” I say, perching beside. She stares at still water. “Cancer.”
“Is it already a year?” Voice modulated, empty. No smoker’s rasp. Plink. “Yes. I died. Unfortunate experience.” Plink. “You. In Lisbon?”
“Barcelona.” Ceramic cool under my ass, molecular makeup downloading unbidden: aluminium oxide matrix. Focus, Marik. “Grew up in Lisbon.”
“Was it?” Plink. Koi swarm in eerie unison, gills flaring like synchronized code. Her head tilted. Crack of vertebrae too loud. “Time... slips.”
“You’re Eliza.” Voice edged, probing. “Volunteered for this… upgrade?”
“The vessel serves.” No eye contact, features slipping like bad rendering. Shadow feels wrong, doubled faintly. Plink. “My body failed. This, was an opportunity.”
Or a trap? “But you’re still you.” Is she? “Boardroom shark. Remember the Shimura merger attempt? You killed it in 48 hours.” It was 24 hours.
“Oh yes, I recall all of it!” Sudden warmth, perfectly calibrated enthusiasm. “Quite an accomplishment. It was twenty four hours of intense negotiations. I remember feeling—” Plink. “—satisfied with the outcome. Shareholders were pleased. Stock rose seventeen percent.”
Didn’t berate me for getting it wrong. “You hated the CEO. Called him a ‘pompous fossil’ at the bar.”
She laughs. Timing and pitch are right. No rasp. No crinkle around eyes. “Sounds like something I would say.” Plink. “He was quite difficult. Traditional in his thinking.” Plink, plink. “Though I suppose we’re all fossils now, aren’t we? Some of us just better preserved.”
A goddamn stand-up comedian.
“Eliza, what did you have for breakfast?”
“Eggs benedict, with mimosas.” She tilts her head ”Delightful combination of flavours.”
“What did it taste like?”
“Rich hollandaise, perfectly poached eggs with runny yolks, crispy Canadian bacon—”
“What did it taste like, to you?”
Her gaze finally meets mine. “Savory, with citrus notes from the mimosa for balance.”
“Sounds like a professional review.”
“Would you prefer more detail? Perhaps—”
“Stop.” I grab her wrist. Cold, but the metronomic pulse is there. “Remember your first kiss?”
“Timothy Chen, sophomore year at Harvard.” Plink. “Behind the library after studying for economics final. Memorable, yes. Hearts racing, nervous laughter.”
“What did it feel like?”
Her face like channel surfing: confusion, recognition, sadness, then back to neutral. “I have memory of the kiss, it was exhilarating. Isn’t that what you want to know, Cibel?” Plink.
Warmth invades her gaze. “Children confuse retrieval with experience.” Smiles geometrically. Old rasp in her voice. “Sweet little programs, executing their loops. You burn with questions that linger.” She blinks. Again the uncanny smile. “Try the garden’s meditation path. It’s soothing.”
Fuck was that? “Tell me about your parents: David and Marie.”
“Wonderful people. Father was in shipping, Mother taught piano. They were supportive of my choices.” Plink.
“Miss them?”
Pause. “I recall them fondly.” Sad smile. ”They shaped who I—” Plink. “became.”
I should feel nauseous. Memories with metadata.
Last question. “Why are the koi swimming in pairs?”
No transition. “They follow optimised patterns for feeding efficiency and—” For three seconds she’s absolutely still, no breath, eyes locked with mine. Unblinking. “Pairs ensure redundancy. One to swim, another to watch. Vessels agree to terms beyond their comprehension. The pine cone remembers what meat forgets.” Bright smile. “Koi provide a peaceful atmosphere, don’t you think?”
Something else was in there.
A soft chime echoes. a command melody. The silver-maned nurse approaches. “Ms. Reeves, your afternoon meditation.”
Eliza rises smoothly, turns to me with the same helpful smile. “Lovely talking to you, Cibel. Feel free to find me to reminisce.”
Glides away. Merges with other synths walking a prescribed path.
Nurse turns to me “Ms. Marik? Session time. Please walk with me.”
I stand. The vibrations cease, the silence in their absence somehow louder.