It's 7:20 AM.

  Saul has just come from his office in San Francisco, a 15 minute trip. It's still before dawn in California, and despite the dead hour the city is gleaming with electric light from all directions, even from the infinite Pacific, and Saul is wide awake.

  He doesn't sleep on a regular schedule anymore. His job is global, multinational, and his circadian rhythm is at the whims of his delicately managed schedule. For him, midnight could be breakfast, lunch, or dinnertime, depending on where he's needed.

  But here on the other coast, the sun is already low in the sky, and when he steps out of the O-station he is greeted with a bitter yellow light hitting him square in the face. Also hitting him in the face is a surprise gust of wind. He shields himself from both with his satchel as he re-orients himself on the gray sidewalk.

  A voice in his ear chirps, your ride will arrive in one minute.

  A glance at his phone, palmed in his left hand. White Point Station, the screen says. On it, a flat graphic of a Huang moving slowly along a stretch of road, two blocks away on the map.

  He chuckles to himself. Always the punctual one, that Calvin. When I'm an early departure, he's stubbornly on time at arrivals.

  He looks around. He is on the adjacent corner to a dingy main street, an old town of gray concrete, red brick, and black asphalt. An old town, like so many around here. Despite America gaily moving into the future, so much of it looks stickily rooted in the past. Even here, there are still some comm lines floating high above the ground, still roads wide enough for parking on both sides, still an old gray signal computer box attempting to direct what little human car traffic is left.

  Saul is in middle age, and he's seen the times change before his eyes. He's baffled why people bother with traffic lights in this day and age. They were antiquated even back when he could barely walk. But there are still some stubborn holdouts, along with plenty of places you can't get to just by porting, off in some distant nowhere. Cars still reigned supreme over America.

  Saul can't remember the last time he's actually driven one.

  A small white boxcar casually blows a red light and comes zipping down the street, deftly maneuvering to a stop ten feet in front of Saul, pulling right up to the edge of the curb. Black and blocky letters spell out HUANG on a door that folds swiftly up and out.

  Your ride is here.

  Saul carefully steps into the Huang, which is just large enough for him to sit comfortably and stretch his legs. To his astonishment, it's a brand-new, top-of-the-line model, somehow here in this nondescript suburb of the Eastern seaboard. He smirks. Probably a decision on Calvin's part to bring him this one. Only the very best for agents of Ocular.

  He taps his phone against the dash, and the door silently closes. The Huang nimbly peels itself from the curb and darts off, honking gently as it begins to maneuver along the road. The sounds of a blustery and busy downtown morning fade away, the piped-in white noise covering up the light whining of the electric motor is all that Saul can really hear.

  Saul plops his phone in a little impression on the dash to connect it with the vehicle. An interface appears in his lap, a high-resolution hologram. He moves his fingers to pull up the casefile that he'd been skimming that morning.

  The head and shoulders of a dark-haired woman appear in his field of vision. A 3-dimensional image, but still just an unmoving picture. And yet there is a brightness in her face, a certain aliveness in her smiling eyes.

  Katerina.

  He's done a lot of Restore cases in his time at Ocular, but this one feels personal. Sometimes these cases are fellow Ocular employees, blessed by generous benefits for those dedicated to the corporation's well-being and continued dominance in the tech sector. But Ocular is a still an enormous company, and he'd often meet people from small or localized departments he'd never even heard of.

  Katerina, though, he knows very well. He met her at a conference in Zurich a couple years ago, and they'd hit it off. They were curious about each other's roles in the company. She was a hub for connecting people in Ocular's new and ambitious space transport project, and him a rising star in the delicate line of work that was Restoration. They were both people people, not engineers — which could be a breath of fresh air in this line of work.

  And boy, could Katerina talk. She gave out stories and musings and details about her life whenever the questions were asked. And Saul loved to ask questions, her strange energy was captivating and powerful and made him more and more curious. And with this they conversed all night, almost through the night. She had so much to say, she seemed to know so many people and make friends so effortlessly. In a universe of shining stars, she was the sun.

  And now, thought Saul, she is dead.

  His stomach lurches a bit as the vehicle glides through another intersection, its windshield automatically dimming as it makes a left turn into the rising sun.

  But not for long.

  The ride is shorter than he expects, only about seven minutes. The dense downtown changes into an upscale residential area, with winding roads and large lawns. But he is not taken very far into the suburban maze.

  The Athertons' large front lawn boasts a smattering of dwarf lilac trees screaming with pink. Behind it sits the house, looking deceptively modest from this distance. But as the Huang turns and rolls up the driveway, the depth of the actual house becomes clear, hidden by hedges that reach up to kiss the eaves. The house stretches back down the hill it is perched on, at the bottom of which sits a small pool, protected from a forest by a long wooden fence.

  The Huang pulls up close to the walkway. The door swings open and Saul carefully steps out, adjusts his jacket and tie, and admires the landscaping and the spring color. He is amused to see that behind him in the driveway, parked next to the Huang, sits a mid-sized sedan.

  He ambles his way to the front steps and rings the doorbell. A man greets him.

  Short black and grey hair, an unshaven face, rimless glasses perched on his nose. His head seems sunken into his chest, an absent-minded demeanor. He's wearing a t-shirt and what seem to be pajama bottoms. A small white cup half-filled with espresso, which he is clasping with his entire fist.

  "Hello, Mr. Atherton." Saul reaches out a pudgy hand. "John Atherton? Saul Balavi, from Ocular Restoration. We spoke last night on the phone."

  "Oh..." Atherton's voice comes out a hoarse whisper. He clears his throat, thumps his chest, and shakes his visitor's hand.

  "Hi, Saul," he says in a clearer voice. "Thanks for coming. Call me John, please, come on in. Take your shoes off. Did you find the place okay?"

  "Yes, of course," says Saul politely, stepping across the threshold. "I took a Huang here from downtown."

  "Ahhh, rightrightrightrightright," says John, waving his hand about distractedly. Saul wonders if that is not his first espresso, nor his second.

  "Beautiful place you have here," says Saul as he slips his shoes off. And it is. He's stepped into a large, open living room, furnished in a turn-of-the-century pomo style, adorned with thin lamps and reading chairs piled with pillows. Skylights stream golden light from the angled ceiling. John is making his way briskly to the kitchen in the back corner.

  "Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" He turns to Saul. "Booze?"

  "I see you have espresso, do you mind?" asks Saul, as he begins moseying about the living room.

  "No, of course, not at all," says John. His affect is still flat, his eyes seem to dart every which way, anywhere but in Saul's direction. This might be a tough man to talk to.

  "Thanks," says Saul. "I just ported in from San Francisco."

  There's an awkward pause. "Ah," says John, nodding quickly.

  Maybe don't talk about porting right now, Saul thinks to himself, as he glances at the books on the coffee table, anything to make other small talk with. They are nondescript, a recipe book, a couple outdoors magazines, and something political. He makes his way towards the fireplace, which boasts a mantelpiece stuffed with little picture frames, a collection of family photos. There's an awkward silence where Saul thinks of another topic to ask, but John's too distracted packing grounds into a filter with the precision of a scientist.

  Saul himself has become distracted by a piece of art overlooking those pictures. An array of tiny mirrors shines above a mantelpiece, reflecting parts of the skylight several dozen times. Circles of various sizes arranged in a tight cluster, with wooden spokes erupting from the cluster. It looks like a multi-faceted sun.

  Reminds me of the logo, he thinks. The Ocular logo which, like so much else, was Calvin's idea: a multiocular O. An old Cyrillic character that only appears in one 15th century manuscript, a little visual pun representing the many eyes of seraphim, the "biblically accurate angels". Omniscient, omnipresent, multi-dimensional, a little frightening but ultimately benevolent. Just like Calvin.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  BE NOT AFRAID, he thinks to himself, and chuckles.

  There is a picture in the center of the mantel of the young Atherton couple in their wedding garb. John looks almost the same (minus the graying), but Katerina is absolutely stunning. There are other pictures of friends and family crowding behind it, and one of a young John sitting under a tree with a grade-school-aged girl in his lap.

  Saul picks this photo off the mantel. "This is a nice picture of you and your daughter," he says.

  "Thanks," says John. "They're nonbinary, now."

  "Ah, I see," says Saul, and puts the photo in its tastefully gilded frame back among the others.

  "Ollie is actually from my first wife," says John. "We separated when Ollie was three." He is bracing the portafilter against a gleaming silver espresso machine, which stands up and out of place on the open kitchen island. The dark murky liquid streams out of the filter into a white teacup.

  "How old are they now?" asks Saul.

  "Twenty," intones John, as the final drips fall. "Off in college in Washington now. I don't see them that much. They don't like to... ah... port a lot."

  "Hm," says Saul. "Usually it's the younger ones that are more cool with teleportation, generally. It's the old folks like you and I who are... less comfortable with the whole idea."

  That's it, Saul, he thought. Prove to him that we're on the same page.

  He walks over to the kitchen and throws his satchel over one of the high chairs at the kitchen island. He slides himself into the seat, his hands pushing against the dark granite countertop.

  "Yes, well," says John, placing the espresso gingerly in front of his guest. "Ollie is a bit different. Something about... about having their body intact and in their control at all times. Long distance travel makes them pretty queasy."

  "Yes," Saul nods. "Honestly, I can relate to that. I can still remember when I was a kid and they opened up the first line, from one side of the Bay to the other." He traces a line in the air from right to left, marking the path from Oakland to the peninsula, as the crow flies. "Even though thousands of people had already used it, there were still protests day in and day out for what felt like months."

  John nods. His leaning against the countertop, and he appears to have settled on a spot with the espresso machine between him and his guest.

  "I remember those protests," says John. "It's kind of remarkable that it ended up catching on as quickly as it did." He sighs. "It's everywhere now."

  "Well," Saul chuckles. "In my experience, you can never underestimate how much people want to connect with others."

  He takes a modest sip of the espresso. It's still fairly hot, but perfectly pulled. He sets it back down on the counter. "Incredible. Really good, thank you, John."

  John smiles. It's the first hint of a smile Saul's seen from the man since he arrived. Behind those glasses he can see how tired John's eyes are. He hasn't been crying. He's just tired.

  More confusion than grief. That's good. Time to resolve that confusion.

  "I'd like to get to the reason I'm here," says Saul. "I just want to discourage any speculation or putting this off anymore, and I know you're probably still in shock."

  He pauses, waiting a second for John to respond. John nods nervously.

  "I'm sorry about what happened to Katerina," he says, in the gentlest voice possible. "I've met her personally and I know that she really likes mountain climbing. And I'm sure she took every precaution for her trip. What happened to her is a tragedy."

  John stares down at him, stone-faced Saul reaches back into his satchel and pulls out a tablet, tapping it twice to open up some documents.

  "But—" he begins. He spins his tablet around and slides it smoothly across the countertop to John, who leans over to have a look.

  "Katerina's insurance policy — which you are a part of — allows for an extremely low-cost restoration process. Because your wife is such a valued member of Ocular, and has been for nearly eight years, I've negotiated the deductible on the claim for this incident down as far as I possibly can — all the way to zero."

  John looked up at Saul, eyes wide. He must not have expected that.

  Saul latched onto the man's surprise. "You won't have to pay a dime, you won't even have to be there if you don't want to — though I'm sure you'll want to, and I'm sure your wife will want you to as well. Since you're the spouse, it's only right to inform you of the whole process and ask explicitly for your participation. We endeavor to perform the Restoration from backup as soon as tomorrow afternoon."

  John twitches visibly, and Saul's breath catches in his lungs. Shit. I shouldn't have said "from backup".

  "I'm just..." says John. He is fidgety from all the caffeine, he is agitated from this friendly stranger in his kitchen. "I'm just still a little uncomfortable with the whole thing."

  Saul exhales. "Look, John. I know this is strange. But this is a perfectly normal procedure that happens all the time. Hell, it's my job to oversee these, and I'm just one man in a team of hundreds that do the same thing."

  He reaches for his tablet and swipes down to some infographics, which — ironically — also took a team of hundreds to create.

  "Your wife's meta-matter matrix is stored every time she ports," he says, pointing at some diagrams on the tablet. "And she ported directly to Lucerne from your local station. So what we're going to do is claim Katerina, and we can Restore the pre-vacation version of her. She'll have missed out on the beginning of her trip, but she can go back and finish it if she chooses. All the song and dance that we're doing is just to help her re-adjust to the lost couple of days."

  John still had a pained look on his face. "Her body is... stored in, what, just some servers?"

  Saul holds up a hand. "Well, think of it this way. To her it'll be like she's spent a few days in stasis. She'll wake up, maybe a little disoriented — but you can help with that." He brings the espresso to his lips, but stops short. "If you don't mind my asking, how long have you two been together?"

  John stares into space. "Fifteen years."

  "Fifteen years. And to stay together for that long — if I can put it plainly — sometimes you have to go through challenges, and face some unusual experiences together. But you're always there for each other, right? You'll be there for Katerina."

  He pulls the tablet back from John's aimless gaze. John mumbles something.

  "What was that, sorry?"

  John looks up at Saul, meeting him square in the eye for the first time.

  "What if I don't want her Restored?"

  The hairs on the back of Saul's neck suddenly stand at attention. John continues to stare at him in such a way that Saul initially can't tell whether he's serious.

  A million thoughts race through his head. Most of them start with you selfish little—

  He takes another deep breath and straightens himself up in his chair.

  "Mr. Atherton, look. You have every right to be concerned and — weirded out by this whole process, I assure you. But I've worked in Restore for four years, and I can tell you, scout's honor, there has never been an issue with Restoring a person under my watch. And I want you to remember that Katerina is more than just your wife, more than just a —" he gestures "—a collection of data in 'some server'. She is a human being. She has family and friends. She's very dear to us at Ocular. She's an esteemed member of the Ocular family. She's doing important work for the company... and indeed, for the world. We can't afford to just lose her to a little mountaineering accident. We value her almost as much as you do."

  He's started gesticulating more, knifing the air with his hand and enunciating every word. He's trying to control his temper, and frankly he's doing a darn good job of it so far.

  "And I should also point out that she agreed to all this explicitly when she joined us. Restoration is written into the contract she signed when she was hired by Ocular. It was her wishes that, if such a situation as this were to occur, she would be Restored post-haste. It's her insurance, her wishes. And hers alone. Do you understand? The process is already underway; this is just a formal visit to inform you personally and wrap up some logistics."

  John stares blankly at Saul, and then nods. He appears to, if not accept, at least understand.

  Saul begins to rise from his chair. "This is just a little hiccup in Katerina's life. And in your life. It's imperative that you get that. And again, you don't have to be there for Restoration, but we recommend it. I've already put in the request to the network to set aside time for this."

  Saul gathers up his tablet, dropping it back in his satchel. "Is tomorrow afternoon a good time? Say, between 2 and 4 pm local?"

  John nods again. "Yes, that works. I'm free."

  Saul lets the lightheartedness return to his own face. "Great. I'll put in a request to the network for that window of time. I'll give you an exact time as soon as possible. We're going to perform the restoration at Farley, since it's a larger station with more facilities. I hope that's not an inconvenience to you. We can, of course, arrange transportation for you and Katerina."

  "No, that'll work for me," sighs John, grasping his own cup again, which is now empty. Little black flakes sit at the bottom. "I'll take care of transportation."

  "Excellent," says Saul, making his way to the front door. "We can certainly reimburse you, though. You should hear from me by the end of the day. Thank you for the espresso, it was stellar and I genuinely mean it. I'd love to stay longer, but I'm on a tight schedule these days, unfortunately."

  "That's fine," says John, in a tired voice. He's probably happy to see me leave.

  Saul steps onto the front step, John trailing behind. "Give my regards to Ollie, good luck on their studies. I'll hopefully see you again tomorrow in Farley."

  "Yeah, of course," says John. "Thanks for dropping by."

  "Of course, of course. It was my pleasure. Thanks for seeing me."

  Saul hears John close the door behind him as he makes his way back to the Huang, which has been waiting for him, silent as a stone. It comes back to life as he approaches, the motor switching on and the door swinging open.

  "Okay Huang, return trip to White Point Station," he intones to the onboard computer as he enters the vehicle. "Schedule Porto departure from there. Arrive at Monta Loma."

  The computer chimes, the holo pops up to confirm his trip details, and he approves it with a gesture. He leans back in the seat and stares at the ceiling as the Huang reverses niftly down the driveway.

  What the fuck was that? he thinks. He's encountered resistance before, but he hadn't expected that, hadn't expected it at all. For a courtesy visit to feel that on edge...

  He thinks about all the things that he didn't tell John, that he'd left out. That he always left out during these visits. Things that John probably already knew.

  He hadn't told John that the cost, the deductible, for Katerina's Restoration was already zero. Her expertise and connections were just that valuable.

  But John probably knew that.

  He hadn't told John that Katerina's body, destroyed by a 40-meter fall off a cliff face, would not actually be physically transported across the Atlantic.

  John definitely knew that.

  He hadn't told John that it was unclear if the body would even be reclaimed as raw material by the other station. There may very well still be two physical Katerinas in the world tomorrow — one living, one dead.

  John probably knew that too. The man couldn't ignore all of those things. And he'd probably bristled at the idea of some stranger, some bureaucrat from his wife's work, coming into his home and not reminding him of these hard truths, things that had been running through his anxious, overcaffeinated mind. But what really should have mattered to John was that, in less than 36 hours, he would have Katerina back. Even if it wasn't the same physical version of Katerina whom he fell in loved with, whom he married, whom he curled up next to in bed every night.

  Or the same version of Katerina that Saul knew, that night in Zurich.

  But aren't we all that way? he thinks. New versions of ourselves? Every time we...

  Saul shakes his head. An outdated way of thinking. He can't help it. He's an older man, he'd grown up in a different world. A world of bodies, and souls attached to bodies.

  It's not true anymore. It can't be.

  If only he could truly accept it, deep down. But like everyone else, he had that nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach.

  His mind wanders back to the art piece above the Athertons' fireplace, the multitude of circular mirrors.

  BE NOT AFRAID.