Free The Lost Code by Kevin Emerson Page A

forever and stuff.”
    I thought about back at Hub, where everybody got cremated when they died. People either had their ashes donated to the struggling gardens, or scattered off the caldera rim by full moon.
    I’d heard that in the Edens, and up north in the Habitable Zone, life expectancy was still in the nineties, if you were born there. Out at Hub, it was down near fifty-five, and that was higher than the worldwide average, which was closer to forty-five. Those numbers were partly because nobody could get advanced treatment for cancers, partly because of infant deaths due to malnourishment or the toxic plumes that hit the water supply now and then, but also because every ten years or so, one of the new resistant plagues would sweep through and shave off the old and young and weak. There were no Existential Services when the plagues came.
    We sped past a series of hanging cranes moving a new triangular dome panel into place. “As you can see,” Paul continued, his voice flattening out to a nearly sleep-inducing disinterest, “we are constantly upgrading the OzoneSim panels in response to atmospheric radiation levels.”
    I vaguely remembered my view from the lake bottom, of the roof panels having burn marks. All the panels around us up here looked spotless and white, free of damage. I wondered if what I’d seen had been some trick that the water had played on me. Or maybe they worked harder to keep this part of the dome looking good for visitors like us.
    “My parents are worried about the dome integrity,” said Sonja quietly.
    “They make her wear one of those deflector helmets around town,” added Paige, half laughing.
    Sonja’s face got red.
    Paul shook his head, his tone like a weary teacher’s. “All your parents need to do is follow our standard protocol based on the DI Index. There’s no reason to worry.”
    The tram kept speeding forward, then finally slowed down.
    Ahead was the round Eagle Eye observatory. It hung down below the dome roof like the bottom half of a ball. Two rings of windows looked out over the whole of EdenWest. An enormous spiky antenna array extended down from beneath, its end brushing the tops of the SimClouds.
    The doors whooshed open and we all filed out into a short hallway. “This,” said Paul, “is where we monitor every aspect of the Eden experience.”
    Another set of doors opened to a wide, round room. There were three ringed levels, getting smaller and stepping down toward the center. Each level had banks of computer screens. Workers busied from one monitor to the next. It made me think of how I pictured the technicians inside me. Like EdenWest was a giant organism itself.
    Paul looked over the bustling room. One of the workers stopped in front of us. She stood up straight and smiled big. “Oh, hello, Mr. Jacobsen, it’s nice to—”
    Paul talked over her like he hadn’t even heard what she was saying. “Aaron Cane.”
    “Oh, sure, right. Um . . .” The worker turned and began scanning the room, hopping up on her toes.
    “Here!” Aaron was standing among a group of workers, surveying a set of monitor screens. “Now, does everyone understand that this is the readout for the humidity controls and this is the meter for vapor control, not the other way around? I’d appreciate it if we had a long and happy life of me not having to remind you of that and you not screwing it up anymore. Got it?”
    The workers around him mumbled in agreement.
    “Good,” Aaron said with a dramatic sigh. “Thank you.” He stepped away from them and walked up the steps to us.
    “Aaron, I told you the guests would be here now,” said Paul. His tone was still ultra-calm, and yet there was maybe an annoyed edge to it.
    “Right.” Aaron looked at us, fixing his glasses and rubbing his hands through his short black hair before shoving them into his pockets. “How could I forget the lovely children? It’s not as if I spend every waking minute of my day ensuring the operation of