1.

I’ve made up my mind—this is my time, my century,

Cut me, eat me, tie me up if you must—

I’m Goger-Moger, a free man, you see,

And you guys, you’ve gotta back me up, trust!

We don’t need growth, we need a decline:

Overpopulation’s a weight on our backs,

All this mess comes from that ginseng vine—

A potent root, I know from my own tracks.

Vladimir Vysotsky,

“Song of Goger-Moger,” written for the play "Turandot, or the Congress of Whitewashers."

Once again, a white day shines outside my window,

The day calls me out to fight,

I can feel it, even with my eyes closed—

The whole world is coming at me, ready to strike.

If there’s a herd, there’s gotta be a shepherd,

If there’s a body, there’s gotta be a soul,

If there’s a step, there’s gotta be a footprint,

If there’s darkness, there’s gotta be light to behold.

Do you want to change this world around?

Can you accept it just as it stands?

Stand up and step out of line, break the mold,

Sit on an electric chair—or a throne of gold?

Viktor Tsoi,

“Song Without Words.”

1.

“Can you even see the daylight out there?” Michel asked.

Yan was used to his coworker and shift replacement treating him with a strange kind of pity. Why? Because he preferred working the night shift? Even now, with dawn just breaking, he’d finished his work and could head home. In Yan’s opinion, that was better than spending the whole day here. Or maybe Michel meant something else? Either way, Yan shrugged and replied:

“I see enough. Besides, I’m living up to the name of our fine city! Do I look that pale to you?”

“You’re practically glowing!” Michel paused for a moment. “So, how was it? No incidents?”

“Easy shift. Almost nothing to report… Take a look.” With a flick of his finger, Yan pulled up the intervention log on the screen. Today, it showed two minor software glitches—he’d handled those himself—and one hydraulic system malfunction, which one of his team members had taken care of. Yan’s official title was Senior Safety Engineer for Production, though in reality, he was the head of the repair crew at this multi-level greenhouse, where plants grew not in soil but in nutrient solutions fed directly to their roots. Interestingly, his job title was almost identical to that of the person who had designed the entire system. His team was wrapping up their shift and handing over the facility to the next crew, who would keep things running for the following eight hours. The process was continuous. “Hope it’s the same for you guys.”

“That’d be nice,” Michel said, shaking his head skeptically. This was the most complex operation around, practically a skyscraper with glass walls, packed with cutting-edge tech to boost crop yields. There was no other way to feed the city’s population. And the more complicated the equipment, the more often it broke down—that was a fact known to anyone with even a passing familiarity with machinery. Then Michel circled back to Yan’s daily routine. “You heading to bed now?”

“To rest,” Yan replied, neither confirming nor denying, and leaving it unclear exactly how he planned to do that.

“By the time you get home on that bike of yours…”

“It’s not that far. See ya.” Both of them had already checked in—Yan as the one ending his shift, Michel as the one taking over. Now all that was left for Yan was to leave the break room where the crew gathered when they weren’t busy with repairs, and where the equipment monitoring the entire complex’s systems was located. Since Yan wasn’t just a safety engineer but the senior one, he didn’t have to get his hands dirty with tools. That also meant he didn’t need to change into work gear. Unlike his subordinates, he could wear his own clothes during the shift, so he didn’t stop by the locker room. Instead, he headed straight to the elevator, held up the wide ring on his finger to the scanner, and the doors opened, letting him out onto the street.

The moment he stepped outside, he felt the stark difference from the air-conditioned environment inside. It was still dark, but already noticeably hotter than in the complex. What’s it gonna be like by midday? Yan wondered as he took a few steps to the side. He approached his bike, parked in a designated slot near the entrance, and held his ring up to unlock it. He freed the bike from the clamp, turned it in the right direction, switched on the headlight—since it wasn’t light out yet, he’d need it—and hopped on.

Two and a half miles to home. This mode of transportation also puzzled Michel, and not just him; even Yan’s own team had often told him it’d be way easier to cover that distance in the comfort of a tram, the city’s main form of transport. Less effort, they’d say. But Yan had a different take.

Even if you got home tired, even if you needed extra rest after the ride, it was still better than being packed in with a crowd. Plus… Yan didn’t like that tram rides could be tracked second by second, letting anyone know exactly where he was. A bike gave him much more freedom—or at least the illusion of it. Though, in reality, there wasn’t much difference; the time it took to get home was about the same either way.

Since the shift had been light with no major issues, Yan didn’t feel worn out. So, after riding a short distance from work, he turned onto a bike path through the park. It was one of the two shortest routes to his place. But he didn’t choose it just for the shorter distance; at this hour, no one should be around. He reached for the gear shifter—today, he felt like riding with the wind in his face, and an empty path was the perfect spot for that. Yan figured no one would get in his way here.

A few minutes later, he realized he’d been wrong to assume that. He knew it the moment he heard a short, sharp blast of a siren behind him. He hit the brakes, stopped, lifted his right foot off the pedal, and rested it on the path’s surface. The source of the sound appeared right behind him.

An electric scooter in yellow police livery. No one but the cops had these. The three-wheeled vehicle could navigate bike paths, pedestrian zones, tram tracks, and even dirt, as long as it wasn’t sloppy mud or big rocks. It had handlebars like a bike, and behind the officer’s seat was a cage for transporting detainees to the station. The scooter pulled up and stopped. They wanted him.

He wasn’t thrilled about dealing with a cop, but when the driver dismounted, Yan saw it was a young woman. Naturally, she wore the dark blue uniform of a patrol officer, with a taser holstered on her belt. For now, though, she wasn’t holding a weapon—just a smartphone.

“Good morning, sir,” the officer said. “May I identify you?”

“Of course, Officer.” Yan read her name tag: Martinez. He took his hand off the bike’s handlebar and extended it so the ring on his finger was clearly visible. The officer aimed the camera and sensor on her smartphone at the ring and smiled.

“I see you’re a bit old-school, sir!”

“Oh, Officer, you mean because I wear my ID on my finger instead of having it implanted under my skin? It’s just a health thing.” Yan was stretching the truth a little. The officer glanced at her screen.

“Ah, I see, Mr. Henrikson. Blood clotting issues and a medication allergy. Doctor’s recommendation: surgical procedures only in cases of extreme medical necessity.”

“You can see my medical info, Officer Martinez?” Yan asked, surprised. He hadn’t expected a regular patrol officer to have access to that. But she answered:

“Of course, sir. All personal data. It’s necessary, for instance, in case we need to provide assistance.” Yan thought to himself that if it came to that, there’d hardly be time or reason to scan the chip in his ring—or even if it were implanted in his body. But who knows how they train cops these days? “By the way, aren’t you… worried about riding a bike? If you fall…”

“I know. I always carry a clotting agent with me.” He gestured to a small pouch on his belt.

“And I see this bike is your own.” That was rare. Trams were the main mode of transport in the city, but for those who wanted an alternative, shared public bikes were available for a small fee—you could ride one to your destination and leave it there. Owning a personal bike was allowed, but few people did. It wasn’t encouraged, and many didn’t see the point.

“I work. And I ride a lot,” Yan explained. He caught himself sounding almost defensive. The officer smiled again.

“Got it. And I can even see where. Heading home after your shift, I assume?”

“That’s right.”

“Probably tired?” she asked with a hint of sympathy. Yan wondered why she’d assume that and replied:

“Not really. Though sometimes I wonder why I bother with all this. In this city, whether you work or not, it hardly changes anything for you…”

“I’d be careful about saying stuff like that if I were you, sir,” Martinez said. “Especially since everyone’s got their own reasons for doing what they do.” She started walking back to her scooter. “Safe travels, sir.”

The rhythm of his ride was, of course, thrown off. Yan shifted gears on his bike to conserve energy at a slower pace. As he pedaled toward home, he kept wondering: Why had this officer followed him in the first place? Why stop him? What did she even want…?

Leaving the park, he entered a residential area packed with high-rises. These were thirty- to forty-story buildings made of gray concrete. When needed, they went up fast—walls were constructed using 3D printing, first the rebar framework, then the concrete layered around it. Automated systems installed window frames and everything else, following a standard city-wide design with minor variations. For instance, some ground floors had spaces for small shops or cafes, while others had blank walls. By unspoken agreement with the authorities, these blank walls were often covered in graffiti by local artists. The reasoning was that it added some variety, with the condition that the paint used wasn’t waterproof. The first rain would wash it away, which suited the artists just fine—they got a fresh canvas for new creations. Naturally, no one paid them for this, and no one knew who painted what. These artists formed a unique subculture, leaving messages for each other and the city’s residents. Yan had no idea how many there were in the city, or even just in this neighborhood. Did they only paint where they lived, or elsewhere too?

Every street was split into a pedestrian walkway paved with tiles and a bike path with a surface like those used on stadium tracks. They were separated by a narrow strip of earth with small trees planted along it—where Yan was riding now, they were palm trees. Near every block ran a tram line. No other vehicles existed in the city; it had been designed that way from the start.

The morning sun was hidden behind the buildings, but the sky was already bright. Yan switched off his bike’s headlight—it wasn’t needed anymore. He turned a corner, where the street met a blank gray wall often used by artists for their work. Yan didn’t always take this route—one perk of riding a bike was the freedom to choose a different path each time. But when he did pass by here, he liked to check out what was new. It felt like a game, not just for him but for the artists too.

This time, though, he saw something that didn’t just catch his eye—it stopped him in his tracks. He braked hard, leaned his bike against the nearest palm tree, stepped over the strip of earth, and crossed to the pedestrian side of the street. He stood there, lost in thought, then pulled his smartphone from his pocket. He had to save this, he decided. Otherwise, when the rain washed it away, or if something else happened to it… no one else would see it and think about what it meant.

On the wall were images of things every city resident knew about, or knew how they once looked, but had never seen in person: the Eiffel Tower in Paris, Big Ben in London, a section of the Great Wall of China, the passenger liner *United States* cutting through ocean waves. The side of the building facing the street had enough space to depict it all. But how much work had gone into this? And beneath the images, in large gothic letters painted in blue, were the words: AND WHAT WILL REMAIN AFTER US?

The question hit him hard. But there was no point in standing there staring at it. So Yan returned to his bike, got back on, and rode off.

The rest of the ride passed on autopilot. The building where Yan lived was, of course, another forty-story tower. There was no graffiti here, though—the street-facing wall was taken up by a storefront window, though hardly anyone ever went inside. He rode around to the back, held his ring up to a small panel, and the sliding doors opened to let him in. Yan wheeled his bike into the lobby and then into the elevator. It was spacious enough to easily fit the bike, and with several elevators in the high-rise (since so many people lived there), he never had to wait long. Still, some neighbors grumbled about him bringing his bike into the elevator—those without bikes, naturally. The most common complaint was that the wheels dirtied the floor, though in reality, their own shoes dragged in just as much, if not more, dirt from the same streets. Bike paths were generally cleaner than pedestrian walkways. Today, thankfully, he didn’t run into any of the complainers. That was another perk of working the night shift. By the time you got home, those who worked were already gone, and those who didn’t were likely still asleep and not out and about. Most of them rarely went anywhere at all. Why would they?

What will remain after them? Yan thought as he held his ring with the ID chip up to his apartment door, finally stepping into a space where no one could bother him. Well, in theory.

One downside of working the night shift was that his eating schedule was out of sync with everyone else’s. He’d just gotten home—time-wise, it was like what normal people would call breakfast, maybe a bit later. But when you’re coming off a shift, it usually feels more like dinner… if you’re coming from anywhere at all. Hmm… whatever. Corn pancakes with cherry sauce? Why not? Though Yan had long felt that regular food didn’t quite replenish the energy he spent on work and the commute. Still, that was more after tough shifts—today was the opposite. So he could skip any supplements for now.

He didn’t want to think about work at home. And honestly, there wasn’t much to think about; nothing interesting ever happened there. So what else was on his mind?

Not the computer game someone had suggested he try (he just wasn’t in the mood). As for events… there were two. The mural he’d noticed on the way home. And the encounter with Officer Martinez.

The mural wasn’t going anywhere… at least not from his phone’s memory. Whoever the artist was, they clearly wanted to make viewers think. And with Yan, they’d succeeded. But that didn’t require any action. As for the officer…

Yan wasn’t a big fan of the police, but… he wouldn’t mind getting to know this particular representative a little better, and not in an official capacity. The way she’d warned him about certain topics… that definitely went beyond standard protocol. Maybe she was hinting that she preferred other subjects?

What also struck him was how a regular patrol officer had access to all his info—not just his name, address, and workplace, but even his health status. Was there anything, damn it, that a random stranger didn’t know about you? Sure, a police officer wasn’t exactly a random stranger, but still…

Well, let’s see if I can return the favor, Yan thought. He loaded his dishes into the cleaning unit (just rinsing them under a stream of water was a waste of resources; this way, using a combo of ultrasound, steam, and high-pressure micro-jets, water usage was minimal) and sat down at the table where his computer was set up.

Many people who used computers for gaming, personal messaging, or browsing news relied on voice control with dictation or eye-tracking features. But Yan, who dealt with software for work, preferred a keyboard and screen. Both were virtual. The keys were projected onto the table’s surface by a projector, and a camera tracked his fingers as they typed—the accuracy was impressive. Another projector displayed the image on the wall behind; a second camera analyzed the wall’s color, adjusting the projection so the user’s eyes perceived natural hues. All of this was packed into a surprisingly small device. The tech wasn’t simple, and the unit wasn’t cheap, but it eliminated the need for extra materials, especially non-biodegradable plastics, for keyboard and monitor casings. An elegant solution.

Right now, he logged into the city server, navigating to the section where you could look up data on any resident. The challenge was that he knew nothing about Officer Martinez except her last name. No first name, no exact workplace (though she likely worked out of the 18th precinct near the park), no precise age (though definitely under thirty), and no address… Still, Martinez wasn’t a super common name. That gave him a starting point.

Out of the city’s million residents, fifty-four had the last name Martinez. (Not many.) Thirty of them were men, so he could rule those out. Of the women aged twenty to thirty, there were only six. That was manageable. He could check each profile, starting with their place of employment.

Murphy’s Law never fails, so of course, the profile he was looking for was the last one he checked. Place of work: Police, 18th Precinct, Patrol Division (Yan thought: guessed right). Address: near the precinct. And her name was Laura.

So, Laura Martinez. What could you learn about a person from their publicly accessible profile in the city database? Until now, Yan had never really thought about it. But as he dug in, he couldn’t help but be amazed, even though medical information wasn’t included (likely reserved for those with specific access, like police officers).

All transactions above a certain amount—he scrolled through the last six months; for Laura, it was just her police salary and rent payments. But the fact that anyone could track income and expenses like this… If that was the case for a cop, what about regular citizens? Sports activities and achievements (Martinez, unsurprisingly for a police officer, was into wrestling). Yan’s heart skipped a beat as he clicked into the next section. He was nervous for two reasons.

Most of the city’s population wasn’t exactly known for prudish behavior. To avoid accusations of coercion or assault, a solution had long been in place. When entering a relationship, two people (regardless of gender) marked their status in a special app on their smartphones. The “for pleasure” level indicated consensual agreement with contraception required. If contraception wasn’t used, it was equivalent to a legal marriage with all the ensuing consequences. Of course, both types of relationships could be ended at any time by either partner—whether after one night or many years.

Yan had never considered whether this information was visible to others. Turns out, it was (meaning anyone could find out about affairs, if you could even call them that—since doing so without marking it in the app risked serious charges, and the system placed no limits on the number of simultaneous relationships a person could have). And not just current status, but the entire history, so to speak.

How naive I’ve been, Yan thought. He’d assumed that whatever happened in his apartment, with whomever and for whatever reason, was his private business. Turns out, privacy was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

That was the bad news. The good news? Laura Martinez’s profile showed past relationships, but none were active at the moment. And there was no record of any children.

Now, he could start thinking about making a move.