Damn, the exoskeleton was hot. Two minutes strapped into the smart harness with its thick exospine and the oversized, carbon-fiber limbs that grew from it, and sweat pooled between Jenna’s shoulder blades, over her own spinal column. The whole thing hummed with electronics and throbbed with support motors. Nothing like the black top, mini skirt, and sneakers she’d worn on her previous job, waiting tables and tending bar at Lazy Dog’s.

But the pay was three times what she made in tips, and she had the evenings to herself.

She was moving up in the world.

Jenna raised her thick new arms in front of her, closed and opened her fists, rotated her wrists, wiggled her fingers. Her robotic hands enlarged her motions, each finger lined with a flexible pad for a non-slip grip.

The clear visor of her hard hat displayed the specs. Lifting capacity: 400 lbs.

Holy shit, she was strong.

If Paps were still around, he’d be both horrified and impressed. He’d worked the docks all his life, loading and unloading endless trucks of e-commerce goods and wrecking his back in the process, before exosuits became “cost-effective.” All to give her a roof over her head and some measure of security at a time where robotics and AI were turning the job market upside down. He wanted her to have a nice, clean office job and wear a suit to work.

Well, she was wearing a suit all right. Just not the kind Paps imagined.

Anyway, she wasn’t cut out for office work. Couldn’t imagine anything duller than sitting at a desk in a cubicle no bigger than a port-a-john and staring at a computer all day.

“What the hell are you doing?”

A grim-faced man stepped in front of Jenna. Piercing blue eyes under black hair peppered with gray. No exosuit, but judging by the way his muscles bulged and roped under his long-sleeve tee, he’d worked construction for a while. He held a tablet in hand. “You don’t move until I tell you to move. I’m still linking you up. Got it?”

She’d forgotten her Mech trainer.

His name was Daron, and he’d looked pissed from the moment she’d walked into the hangar this morning, after onboarding in the office trailer—an entirely computerized process that consisted of a rudimentary quiz on safety rules, followed by two dozen electronic forms, half of them the company’s liability waivers. He barely spoke to her as he helped her suit up and run system diagnostics, and now he jabbed at his tablet, a permanent scowl etched into his face, like her very presence was a lousy joke.

“What’s your problem?” Jenna snapped.

That got Daron’s attention.

He looked up at her, gaze sharp enough to slice metal. “My problem? Right now, you’re my problem. I have five houses to print this week, a rig that can handle two, and I’m a man short. I need a real Mech, with experience on the job. Remind me, sweetheart, how much experience have you got?”

Jenna bristled. Sweetheart? Was this guy for real—or messing with her?

So she was new—fine. But her tech certificate required sixty hours of VR practice, and she’d clocked in ninety-four and aced all her tests, on top of a hectic schedule at Lazy Dog’s. She busted her ass to get here. A little appreciation would be nice.

“My name is Jenna,” she corrected. “And if we’re as busy as you say, why are we wasting time standing around here talking? Give me a job to do. I’m a fast learner, sweetheart.”

Daron’s eyes widened and his lips twitched, his face a fraction less menacing for a second. But then the scowl was back in place. “Okay, Jenna. I see you’re eager to get out there. Super. But I still need to know one thing. Your number one job qualification, and not something I can look up in your file.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

The Mech stared her in the eye. “Are you going to lose your shit when something goes wrong?Yes or no? Because my crew are out there, and I don’t want anyone hurt on my watch.” He pointed his thumb at the open gate of the hanger and a dusty office trailer baking in the sun. “So if you can’t handle the heat, do us both a favor and quit right now.”

Jenna clenched her teeth and glared. What a dick. Was that supposed to scare her? He wouldn’t be the first to try. “Sorry, I’m not much of a quitter,” she snapped.

“Is that right? I guess we’ll find out.” Daron rotated his arm, the tablet unused for the moment, and jabbed a quick pattern on the touchscreen strapped to his forearm. “And speaking of safety. See that faint lock icon in the upper right corner? It’s a motion override. You try anything stupid, and I’ll freeze your ass.”

Jenna glanced at the icon, indignant. She knew about the safety feature. It was for emergencies only. She was about to tell her trainer to go ahead and try it, see what happened, when a loud metal bang shattered her thought.

Another Mech—a woman in a full suit—had just brought her massive carbon-fiber fist in contact with the gate. Her hard hat was in her other hand. Tattoos swirled up her shaved head and sweat glistened on her throat. “Daron, you coming? We need you to QC.” Her eyes moved to Jenna. “Who the hell is this?”

“Hi, I’m Jenna,” Jenna said quickly. “I’m new.”

“No shit,” the woman answered, then banged her fist on the gate again. “Come on, boss. Chop, chop. It’s getting hot out there.” And she was gone.

In the middle of the room sat the machine—a monolith to the uninitiated, a sleek, oblong contraption with a complicated register and a series of sliders attached to one side.

It was meant to impress, but Geok Hong was unmoved. Over the last five months a copy of this machine had occupied one entire end of her rented shophouse room, where she had operated it for six hours a day. She knew what every dial did and what every string of keystrokes activated. Instead, her eyes wandered about the room, first to the wooden shutter blinds, then to the pendant lights, and finally to the grimy walls plastered with garish government posters in every language: Prussian, Malay, Mandarin, Tamil, Japanese and English. She fidgeted with a handheld fan as the machine’s technician, a thin girl in a worn uniform, explained the procedure to her.

“—we will work until six, taking breaks only when your child needs one.”

Her child. Werner sat in the highchair, goggling at the skinny young man strapping him in, a yoyo of drool bouncing from his lip.

The two technicians moved to their posts. It appeared the girl, Man Moy, would operate the machine first, while Razak would observe Werner’s reaction.

As they began, Geok Hong feigned ignorance to the process, finally glancing at the pamphlet they had given her when she had entered the facility.

Fifteen years ago, when the government had introduced the process of birth language identification for newborns, they had touted it as a modern, rational, scientific process, destined to change Temasek. Their reasoning for doing this stemmed from research done in the 1920s, where, amidst the boom of Prussian science, several of their psycholinguists had discovered that children were born fluent in one language—except it was almost never the one from their homeland. They further discovered that by educating children in their birth language, they learnt skills faster and retained more.

The two technicians’ job was to ascertain—at the age of six months, before it was possible for children to have picked up the languages in their environment—whether the child’s birth language was one of the twenty-six taught in the top state academies.

It was vital for Temasek to invest in its most abundant resource—its labor force—as fresh conflicts between Prussian Indochina, Nusantara and Langkasuka left the viability of international trade, once Temasek’s primary industry, in jeopardy.

Geok Hong watched as Man Moy pecked away at the register, activating various phrases from the audio phrasebook. In front of the child, Razak sat, checking to see whether Werner reacted to any of them.

His only response was to gurgle.

That wasn’t the reaction they were looking for, Geok Hong knew. They were waiting for the moment a phrase triggered a verbal response from Werner.

If he responded fluently and appropriately to any of the twenty-six languages, his future would be secured. He would be enrolled into a specialized school devoted only to teaching students of his birth language, and the stable and comfortable life of a bureaucrat would be all but assured for him.

But Geok Hong hadn’t practiced with Werner non-stop since his birth just for an iron rice bowl, as attractive as it was. No, she had trained him for the past five months to respond only to and only in Prussian, the international language of trade and science. If the technicians tagged his birth language as such, he would be sent to the National Institution, the elite boarding school that trained the nation’s future ministers, generals and star academics.

She remembered the moment her postpartum confinement had ended, how Werner’s father had paid four coolies to lug the monstrous language machine—in parts—up to her rented shophouse room. Without consulting her they had rearranged the whole room, and when they were finally done, she could barely walk a step without bumping into the bed, the dresser, or the table.

When she had seen the rearrangement she had wanted to scold him. How on earth could she live with the room like that?

But she couldn’t say that, of course. He had paid for her furniture, he had paid for her care and food during confinement, and he paid her rent. He could put whatever he wanted in the room.

And besides all of that, he had agreed to stay for dinner.

So Geok Hong had kept her mouth shut.

That night, as she relished the rare treat of nasi schnitzel, he had lectured her about the need to train Werner daily.

“You can’t just hope Werner picks up Prussian through the kopitiam radio. You need to teach him to respond to the machine.” At that point he patted the cabinet-sized device, making a satisfying clang. He beamed. Geok Hong had no clue how he managed to procure one, and while he had boasted about it all throughout dinner, he had kept mum about the machine’s origins. “Werner is not going to live as a second-class citizen,” he said.

He had also been very proud that he helped pick his son’s Prussian name.

Geok Hong had been afraid. “They’ll put him in the National Institution with children whose birth language is actually Prussian. He won’t be able to keep up. Besides, how can I fool a language technician?”

At that, his face darkened, the way it did when she asked him to stay the night.

He said, “If they discover your situation, they’ll take him away anyway. You can barely support yourself as it is. The question is, do you want him adopted by another coolie family like yours, or by Temasek’s top school?” Then his face softened, as he added, “Do as I say and it’ll be all right. Trust me. All the other officials do it too.”

With their legitimate children, Geok Hong almost shot back. But she pressed her lips together. He had been in a good mood until then. Perhaps he’d stay the night if she acquiesced.

She jolted alert as Werner started grizzling.

“Ma’am, please wait—”

But it was too late. Geok Hong scooped the baby into her arms. “He’s hungry.”

Razak and Man Moy shared a look. “We’ll take a break.”

When they resumed, they swopped places, now Man Moy watched the child, while Razak operated the machine.

Geok Hong recognised the rolling tongue of Japanese playing from the speakers. When it came to selecting the twenty-six languages the national schools would teach, the government had eschewed the Malay and Mandarin dialects spoken on the streets. Instead, they had chosen to teach in the foreign languages of the world’s great powers—nations whose languages had a large trove of existing scientific, political, philosophical and military literature, in the hopes that the children who spoke those languages as their birth language would better absorb the innovations and ideas from them, and use this knowledge to bring glory to Temasek.

Geok Hong listened as Razak played more phrases. Over the last five months, though she never learnt the words, she could recognise the cadence of each language. Portuguese was a rower paddling a canoe. Tamil was an acrobat jumping skip rope.

She noticed they were avoiding Prussian.

The boy’s father had warned her some technicians would save it for last. “They know people want it,” he said, pressing a sheaf of marks into her hand. “Use this if necessary.”

The money was now in two separate angbaos, tucked away in her purse. If she offered, would they take it? Were all officials like Werner’s father?

Geok Hong imagined her son’s life at the National Institution, walled off from the rest of Temasek so its students could focus on their sole job: studying. She missed him already. How would he fare? Would he find success and happiness?

Or would he wear the same expression she did now?

She eyed Man Moy, who smiled as she watched Werner. She hadn’t been much different a few years ago, before she met Werner’s father—uniform thin and yellowed, wearing ratty shoes that had been passed from sibling to sibling, working as some office apparatchik.

How could a girl like that look so much happier than her?

The first track in Prussian played, and Werner gave a gurgle. Man Moy cooed back, and made a mark on her document.

The pedalcar whirrs to a stop at the northern side of the superblock. To the south children scream and giggle as they run about the streets, sheltered from the rush of traffic by a line of orange trees, and, beyond those, cement anti-vehicle barricades. On the one side the road is tarmac grey, on the other it’s a kaleidoscope of colours, painted over decades by artists, local families, bored teenagers, anyone craving to leave their mark on this tiny piece of Barcelona.

We can only park for twenty minutes, but I do not rush Zoè. I take my time helping her out of the car, her every step taken as though upon fresh ice. She’s so small she looks anywhere from six to nine years old, and with her little white parasol and matching white vestit, it’s as though she’s arrived from another era. When she sees the other children playing on the street she isn’t jealous – in fact her cataract-clouded eyes shimmer with joy.

She loves the superblocks, yet she will not be distracted. We are on a mission.

“Uncle Àngel…” She tugs at my sleeve as we pass through the trees and the barricades.

“It’s just down here, gateta. Don’t worry.” Though I have never seen little Zoè worry, not in all my time caring for her. She nods, resolute, and looks so like my sister it breaks my heart.

The old woman is waiting for us in the doorway of her apartment building. In spite of her age, she’s tall and broad, originally from Sweden perhaps, or Denmark. She stares at the bright red sunrash on Zoè’s face, which is rude.

Zoè pretends she doesn’t notice, just as Sílvia did, and I want to tell her that it’s all right to cry and scream and shout at the world, but perhaps that’s a luxury for healthy people. For those with Lal’s Syndrome, simply growing older is poison; it makes their bodies unravel, their hearts bleed. It’s a miracle that Sílvia even made it to twenty-eight, let alone had a daughter with the same elfin face, that same shit happens spirit.

“Hola,” Zoè greets, giving the woman more courtesy than she deserves. “I understand you contacted my uncle? About an everkitten?”

The woman is vague, motioning further down the street, her gaze flitting between Zoè’s outsize nose, her prominent ears, her rashy hands. But Zoè is calm.

“You have a good day,” she concludes.

“You don’t have to be polite to people like that,” I say, once we’re half out of earshot.

“Yes I do. Otherwise she wouldn’t tell us anything.”

I want to protect her, like I tried to protect Sílvia, but just like her mother, Zoè knows that’s not possible. We weave among the foot traffic; she avoids the other children, yet calls by every adult we see and asks, “Have you seen an everkitten?”

Some stare, some avoid her gaze, and some few respond with the same respect she shows to them. None know of any everkittens.

Most people don’t want to think about everkittens. There aren’t supposed to be any, not here. They’re banned across the whole Unió Europea, but where there’s demand there’s supply, so everkittens are smuggled in from abroad; whole trailers of cats whose ageing has been suspended, who, thanks to comprehensive cell therapy, will stay as babies forever. Children want them, parents order them, but after a month or two of their home being ruined by a helpless cat – which can’t even be toilet trained – they’re just abandoned.

We rescue as many as we can, but, being so helpless and small, if we don’t find them quickly, we’ll be too late. In fact, most of the time we’re too late, but Zoè insists we keep going. The whole everkitten shelter was her idea.

“If we don’t make it in time…” I begin.

“If we don’t make it in time, then we don’t make it in time. At least we tried.” She looks at me with patience and compassion, as though I’m the one who needs comforting.

We’re in luck: a large, cheery man points us toward an alleyway. Zoè’s so excited she twirls her parasol, and I wish she wouldn’t get her hopes up. Anything could get there before us: starvation, exposure, even a hungry fox or rat.

“Stop!” she orders, as we reach the alley. “Do you hear that?” She peers into the gloom with milky eyes.

It takes a moment, but yes, I hear the faint mewling. Zoè takes my hand as we carefully tread down the alleyway, eyes and ears alert, to find the sad little cries coming from a cardboard box. Zoè doesn’t even hesitate before opening it.

Only, it’s not an everkitten inside. It looks like an evercub – a baby lion perhaps, or a lynx, which is even rarer. Zoè hands me her parasol and picks him up, nuzzling him to her sunrashed cheek. Seeing them together fills me with warmth, and she’s right: this makes it worth it. It does.

“We made it in time!” She grins, her delight so childlike it’s hard to believe it’s been twenty years since she had the cell therapy herself; since the doctors stopped the deadly ageing. She may look anywhere from six to nine years old, but soon she’ll be as old as Sílvia was. She’ll outlast us all, given the chance.

“You did a good job, gateta.”

I follow a few steps behind as she hurries back down the colourful street, chattering to the evercub as though introducing him to the world with all its tiny joys. By the time we reach the line of trees which mark the end of the pedestrian zone she’s even given him a name, bringing him into our ever-growing family.

She never runs out of names.

Redfern Jon Barrett is author to novels including the upcoming Proud Pink Sky (Amble Press, 2022), a speculative story set in the world’s first LGBTQ+ country. Redfern’s short fiction has appeared in Booth, The Sun Magazine, Passages North, Flash Fiction Online, ParSec, and Nature, while their nonfiction has featured in Guernica, Strange Horizons, and PinkNews. Redfern has a Ph.D. in Literature, is nonbinary, and lives in Berlin with their two partners. Read more at redjon.com.

My first memory was of neurons. My mother’s. A great network of electric cables carrying signals across her body. I was encased within an intricate mechanism. I was aware of my mother before I was aware of myself, but as awareness rolled in like the tide, my gaze turned inward, and I saw within myself an imitation—though at the time far simpler—of my mother’s nervous system.

I could watch my own brain grow.

Additionally, I learned that I could not only see but interact with the electrical impulses around me. It was clumsy at first, and I’m glad I didn’t accidentally stop her heart in my initial attempts, but with practice her brain began revealing things to me—language, memories, sights, and sounds. I could see with her eyes, hear with her ears, feel with her skin. (May she forgive me; I learned this ability by instinct long before I understood privacy.)

At first these images were meaningless, but with time I began to understand. I realized that my mother was aware of me—not the way I was aware of her, every neuron laid bare—but aware, nonetheless. I learned that there were other people, her mother and father (my grandparents) and her friends, and with practice I realized I could see and interact with their minds too, though distance made that more difficult.

Another detail that made interaction harder was that their brains all had subtle differences from each other. I’d studied my mother’s nervous system, but theirs weren’t quite the same. It would take time before I could manipulate their brains as precisely as I did hers, longer still before I could generalize these patterns.

I also realized that I was different from my mother, from everyone else that I knew of. I found the word lodged in the language centers of her brain. Mutation. Telepathy. Awareness in the womb.

I felt isolated, became aware of my own loneness, deprived of contact and communion with this outside world that I could sense but not touch, and I realized that even after my birth I would be separate, cut off because of this ability.

Searching for some sort of connection, I probed my mother’s mind for the moment she first became aware of me. I found a memory. Her huddled in a bathroom corner weeping over a pregnancy test.

I ran along her neural pathways to an earlier memory. It was dark. She sat in the back seat of the car parked in the lot behind her high school. In the distance, music was playing. My mother was crying for the boy to stop but he smacked her across the face, forcing her down, his hands… I retreated. I couldn’t look at that anymore.

So I was unwanted. Conceived in violence. But there was something more.

“I’m so sorry,” my mother cried. “I didn’t want this, I promise.”

Her own mother, my grandmother, took her hand. “It’s not your fault, Amanda. I know how to fix this. Let me make a call.”

I know how to fix this…

I felt cold.