S-2857 • L9 Fluxluna • D08 Lilibe
(Gregorian calendar equivalent: December 27, 2112)
"Fluxluna flows in a thread of living radiance. Lilibe spills luma in a gentle curve. The tide sings clear in the city air. The story weaves a path in a light current."
NAGASAKI
Neon skyscrapers rose like sentinels over Nagasaki. Above them all stood Kūchū no Kyūden, the Floating Palace. In the city's bustling center, Mizukagami, the Water Mirror, pulsed among the buildings. At the base, Kurayami no Sora, the Sky of Darkness, sank beneath the weight of the structures, while darkness seemed to crawl through its streets.
Holograms floated above narrow, ancient streets, forming a kaleidoscope of phosphorescent lights and colorspiral shadows. Polychrome glass and metal almost swallowed the temples and wooden houses, relics of a past suffocated by the scars of the corporate wars.
The technological races also swept through the illuminated slums. E-tags and vibrant graffiti pulsed among the debris and hacked screens.
The streets teemed with life.
Mercenaries, hackers, merchants, artists, residents, and tourists mingled in a crowd dressed in reinvented traditions. Kimonos adorned with circuits coexisted with nanite weaves, glowing implants, and pixels dancing across LED fabrics.
Aerocars glided along the airways. Drones watched over and entertained passersby, while adware appeared everywhere like digital swarms.
High above, Kūchū no Kyūden sheltered a rare kind of nature. Nanoplants and metatrees dominated the landscape, cold simulacra of a green that no longer existed.
Far below, concealed by the giants of glass and steel, Kaigan Beach stretched through Tairamachi.
The waters reflected the artificial lights of the ocean platforms. Climate-control towers dotted the horizon like dead stars. The sand formed a mosaic of metaparticles, remnants of industrial exploitation and experimental biotechnologies used to alter the environment. A ground of scars.
The waves shifted between radioactive emerald and shimmering neon blue, sliding over technological debris and digital pollution. Drone wreckage, android parts, and rusted robot gears accumulated along the beach.
Drops of water trickled through diffuse holograms. Food stalls dotted the shore like shadowy figures among withered palm trees. Lamps flickered beneath a purple, pixelated haze. The smell of burnt fried food mingled with the stench of marine waste, weighing on the lungs and clinging to the skin like a viscous miasma.
The salty breeze left a rusty tang on the tongue, a trace of acidic corrosion. Fishermen with weather-furrowed faces and calloused hands still tried their luck in those waters, ever more depleted of life. Their empty eyes reflected the struggle for a survival that always seemed beyond reach.
At dusk, the holograms faltered as they lit up. Music masked the apathy. The party went on. Laughter echoed through the air, some of it hollow, empty as soulless echoes. Coughs interrupted the flow of voices. The tides came and went, carrying the painful torments of pasts, presents, and futures.
Hikaru played among the damp rocks on the beach, hopping from one to another. As he planted his foot on a rock, the treacherous moss gave way beneath his weight.
He slipped. The impact came quickly. Cold water rose to his knees.
When he managed to get his bearings, he realized he had fallen into a cave. He rubbed his aching head. The scratches on his skin stung. He felt around the slippery rocks, searching for a handhold that would let him return to the surface.
He stumbled. His fingers found something submerged. A square brown object shimmered beneath the water. Hikaru picked it up and turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of time in his discovery.
It was an old notebook. The bioleather cover was wet, and the yellowed pages were soaked.
To many people, it would have been nothing but trash, but Hikaru's eyes and heart lit up at the little treasure.
He barely dared to handle it, afraid of tearing the fragile pages apart. He tucked the notebook beneath his clothes, trying to protect it from the moisture, and began climbing the cave walls. He planted his feet on a ledge. Pushed himself up until he reached another rock. Climbed a little higher. Then managed to return to the surface.
He ran home. The wet bioleather against his skin only heightened his excitement.
When he entered, he found the same scene as always. His mother was passed out on the couch. Hundreds of neoheroin syringes lay in piles on the table.
Hikaru went straight to his room. He placed the notebook where the air circulated best and began turning the pages, one by one. Carefully. His fingers slid delicately over the damp paper.
The work took hours, but he was rewarded in the end. The notebook was a diary.
The problem was that Hikaru could not understand a damn thing it said. Nothing made sense. Curved letters. Intricate symbols. Drawings that seemed to form indecipherable patterns.
What language was it? He had found a hidden message, waiting to be deciphered. And he needed to discover its meaning.
His only access to the internet was through Mr. Saito's computer, but at that hour, the old man was probably dozing.
Hikaru had asked countless times to use the terminal. Every time, he had been refused.
It hardly mattered. He needed to unravel that language. The symbols and drawings seemed to call to him. And he needed to answer.
He waited for nightfall.
His mother woke only to make dinner. Shortly afterward, she used neoheroin again and collapsed onto the bed in her room.
Hikaru slipped out and made his way through the streets to Aio Saito's house.
The old man wore a permanently stern expression, as though his face had been carved from rock. His white hair was disheveled, and his small, deep-set, dull blue eyes always seemed suspicious of something. He wore threadbare sweaters and loose trousers.
His house stood apart from the others. Dust covered the windows, and weeds devoured the garden. Around it, the other homes were withering too. Most stood empty, abandoned, like dim shadows of what they had once been.
The residents were leaving in search of more promising places.
Occasionally, a bark broke the silence. Leaves rustled. The wind seemed to whisper the laughter of children who no longer played there.
Saito's computer was in a hidden room. Hikaru, however, knew a window that led inside. By coincidence, it was exactly the right size for him to fit through. He only needed to climb onto the neighbor's roof, jump between the houses, and undo the latch.
His mind buzzed with possibilities. He did not think twice.
His feet knew where to land. Instinct guided him. A distant noise covered the sound of a step out of rhythm. The zephyr danced around him as he leaped between the rooftops. He landed like a stealthy cat.
His fingers found the window latch and opened it with familiarity. He was used to this by now.
Silence reigned inside the house. Hikaru needed to be even quieter than the stillness itself. He took one step at a time until he reached the computer.
Click
The holoscreen opened. Hikaru scanned the notebook. The Living Intelligence (LI) began its analysis.
Then it offered a hypothesis: "It appears to be a French scientist's diary on quantum nanotechnology."
French?
A grunt sounded very close by.
Hikaru froze. The next instant, he bolted out of there. He did not look back. All he could think about was moving forward.
That night, he barely slept. And when he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of stacks upon stacks of books.