After a months-long drug-fueled party across Europe, I found myself homeless in the town of Portishead, abandoned by my so-called friends and estranged from my family. Some bad luck, but mostly my own fault. I thought back to my days as a Harvard student, studying to become a journalist. Only a few years ago, but a lifetime away.

But now I had a job, a chance to claw myself out of my self-dug hole.

What was once a park overlooking the Bristol Channel now served as a delivery staging area at the mouth of the tunnel. Compact trucks and vans had ruined the once-green sward. Harsh halogens and an illegal bonfire lit up the evening. The mood was industrious, with workers unloading goods from vehicles into carts and wagons, scanning barcodes to verify deliveries.

A large, luminous structure emerged from the water, climbing the embankment like an enormous nautilus invading the land. I peered into the mouth of the giant tunnel; its inner walls made of shell-like mother of pearl. The entrance, an oval perhaps six meters wide, glowed a bioluminescent blue green. My employer, Laurence, had spoken of ‘giant builder slugs’ but, to my relief, I saw no creature matching that description.

I heard Laurence’s rough voice behind me. “There you are, Nicky.” He had a boxer’s build and the knuckles of his right hand were scabbed over.

“My name is Nick.”

 “Sure it is, Nicky.” He handed me a black plastic bag, stuffed full. “Your deliveries. Just a dozen or so. The addresses are a bit vague, so you’ll have to ask around, find people by name. Don’t miss any now, it’s my name on the line. Everything is paid for—this isn’t a collections job. Just find the right people and give them their package. And no need to take pictures or get signatures. Better that you don’t. If you say you’ve delivered it, that’s good enough for me. Unless I get complaints, then I’ll know you haven’t done your job.” He grinned and drew his finger across his neck.

The bag was lighter than it looked. It was filled with small packages, mostly padded mailers, and a few small boxes. Far more than a dozen.

 “Medications,” Laurence explained. “Crucial ones. Can’t be late. Any questions?”

 “What do I do if they’re not home?”

 “Try again later, or the next day. Evenings will be your best bet—catch more people at home.”

 “Meet you back here, afterwards?” I asked.

 “Fuck that, I’m not waiting here in the cold. McDonald’s, eight in the morning. I’ll buy you an egg sandwich.”

And pay me, I thought, hoping he was good on his word.

Laurence turned and left, hunching his broad shoulders against the cold. For a few minutes, I stood like a fool, holding the bag, looking around for someone to ask permission. But there was no formal structure here, just workers getting things done.

I nervously approached the mouth of the glowing tunnel. No one stopped me. The passage descended, curving slightly to the left. I could see no more than fifty meters ahead. The material’s natural bioluminescence was eerie, but also somehow festive, as if I were on my way to an underground outlaw rave. But there were no revelers here, only people with carts, or carrying supplies in bulging backpacks. Those coming up the opposite way were mostly delivery people who’d discharged their packages. A good sign—they all appeared sane and unharmed.

After ten minutes of walking, the tunnel leveled off and straightened out, eventually intersecting a wider, taller passage curving to the left and right. There was more activity in the larger passage, people—perhaps the residents of this place—walking in both directions. They looked normal, as far as I could tell, of all ages and a variety of ethnicities, in regular clothes, having regular conversations.

But how was I supposed to deliver these packages? I grabbed a padded envelope from the bag; it was addressed to Starchild, Inner Circle NNE. Vague, just as Laurence had promised.

“Excuse me,” I said to a woman and child passing by. “Sorry,” I quickly corrected myself—one can only get the attention of the British by apologizing—”can you please tell me where this is?”

“That way,” the woman said after glancing at the address, pointing. “Though it’s a bit of a walk, almost to the Cardiff tunnel.”

 “How many tunnels are there?”

She gave me a pitying look. “Four, darling. This is East, and there’s North to Goldcliff, West to Cardiff, South to Weston.”

 “Thank you very much.” I had so many more questions, but I didn’t want to bother the nice lady. How was it that a giant network of tunnels existed in the Bristol Channel, that people somehow lived down here? I hadn’t read the news in months. I still had a phone, but no service plan. I resolved to get to a library, or at least a public wi-fi, to do some research.

I found a bench-like protrusion made of the same glowing mother-of-pearl material. I sat and carefully emptied the bag. I counted the packages—twenty-two in all—and sorted them by address. Each address consisted of a name (sometimes only a first name or a nickname), a compass direction, and either ‘Inner Circle’ or ‘Outer Circle’. Fortunately, all the compass directions had ‘E’ in them. Evidently someone else was handling deliveries on the west side.

There were four packages marked E, cardinal east. One on the inner circle, three on the outer. They were addressed to the following people: Atmos Klein, Harry Jr., Eugene Kim, and Fatima Patel. I chose Atmos Klein, E Outer Circle as my first delivery.

I headed in the direction the woman had pointed. The dim bioluminescent lighting shifted spectrum as I moved further away from the tunnel mouth, first becoming more green, then purplish. The air was cool and breezy, though there were no perceptible vents; the rounded surfaces of the passage were smooth and unbroken. I stayed on the left side of the passage, as the Brits do, while those moving in the opposite direction stayed on the right. Most were on foot, but a few rode bicycles, motorized skateboards, or gyro-wheels. The passage had the feel of people going about their daily business, akin to a subway station or airport.

This illusion of normalcy was shattered when I saw the first slug.

It clung to the ceiling, upside-down, at least three meters long and a meter wide, blueish black in color, its glistening flesh slowly pulsing. No one else gave it a second look, though I noted those walking in front of me veered so as not to pass directly beneath it. I did the same, craning my neck as I passed below, my heart racing. The giant slug ignored me or did not even notice my gawking. Seconds later the creature was behind me, a dark fever dream.

I noticed a side passage to the right, glowing reddish orange. The main passage had been slowly curving to the left, so it made sense that any outer circle would be to the right. Dodging a woman wearing a headscarf and pushing a motorized double-stroller, I beelined toward the opening. After ten meters or so, the side passage intersected a larger tunnel, wider but with a lower ceiling, that I guessed was the Outer Circle referred to on the package labels. The air was warmer here, the light shifted further toward red.

People lived here. There were large oval portals that resembled doorways, some with doormats and even houseplants placed outside. A sleek, new-looking bicycle was leaned up against the wall near one of the portals, unlocked as far as I could tell. Was there no crime down here?

The nearest oval portal had a ‘Welcome’ mat out front, with a pair of muddy boots—woman or child sized—neatly placed to the side. The portal was covered by a pair of leathery membranes divided by a vertical seam. As I approached, wondering if and how to knock, the membranes pulled back, wrinkling and contracting, a live biological valve. A young woman emerged, fashionably dressed as if on her way to a party. She looked surprised and a little worried to see me there, standing slack-jawed in front of her door.

 “Sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for someone named Atmos Klein. For a delivery.” I held up the package as proof. “Do you know if they live nearby?”

The young woman looked a little like Adi, a woman I’d met in Bristol. There’d been a spark, I’d thought, but she’d left the pub before I’d gotten a chance to know her better. The recollection filled me with shame. Not because I’d done anything wrong, but because at the time I’d been on the same social level as Adi. Now I was a homeless, disheveled delivery man talking to an attractive young woman. The best I could hope for was pity.

The woman’s posture relaxed. She pointed to her left. “That way,” she said. “Three doors down, same side. Large mother-in-law’s tongue right outside, you can’t miss it.”

 “Thank you,” I said, retreating.

I had no idea what a mother-in-law’s tongue was, but I could count, and three doors down I found a large potted plant with long spiky leaves. I knocked on the leathery membrane covering the portal, hesitantly at first, then more vigorously when nothing terrible happened to my hand.

The valve opened to reveal a short man with long, uncombed salt-and-pepper hair and wild, unslept eyes. He held—or perhaps wielded—an unopened bottle of red wine in his left hand. “Can I help you?” he asked, squinting.

 “Are you Atmos Klein?”

 “Who’s asking?”

 “I have a package for you,” I said, extending it.

The size or shape of the padded envelope triggered a glint of recognition, and the man whom I hoped was named Atmos Klein took it with a curt nod. He immediately retreated into his home, the membranes shutting in front of him with a definitive smack.

“So you are a delivery person.” I turned to see the-woman-who-looked-like-Adi watching me. “Just wanted to make sure Atmos wasn’t in some kind of trouble.”

“No trouble that I know of,” I said awkwardly.

“Walk with me. If you’re headed north, that is. Who’s your next delivery for?”

“I’ve got two more addressed Outer Circle East: Eugene Kim and Fatima Patel.”

“Well that’s easy. I’m Fatima Patel. Wasn’t expecting a package though. Eugene lives close by—I’ll show you.”

“That’s kind of you,” I said, handing over the small box addressed to Fatima. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Depends on the questions,” she said guardedly.

“I’m just wondering…what is this place? I’ve never been in the tunnels before. And I haven’t read or heard news in a very long time. I’ve been…offline.”

Fatima’s expression quickly ran a gamut of surprise, skepticism, and finally the dreaded pity. “You’ve never heard of the Channel Arcology?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” I confessed. But the word arcology triggered a memory: a great glistening egg perched on spiraling pillars, high above a bay or inlet, somewhere in India. I’d seen pictures, read news stories, years ago. There were other arcologies too, in different parts of the world, mostly near large slums. There was one in the Lagos Lagoon, another in Lake Pontchartrain near what remained of New Orleans, another in the San Francisco Bay. But those were all above the water.

“Well, you’re in it. What did you want to know?”

“Who built this place? And why?”

“The builder slugs built it. Or architect eels, as some say. They’re genetically engineered mollusks programmed with various construction algorithms. Their secretions harden to create the shell-like material you see all around. Nacre, it’s called, like mother-of-pearl.”

“But who created the slugs?”

“The Order of Free Gardeners, originally. Funded by the Vatican. Pope Adebayo’s pet project, it’s rumored. You’re not pulling my leg, are you? You’ve really never heard any of this?”

Some of what she was saying did ring a bell. I’d heard of the arcologies and seen pictures and videos—I knew they existed. And I’d known of the rumored connection to the Vatican as well as to a coalition of radical scientists—the Order of Free Gardeners—that many governments classified as ecoterrorists. I’d written off this lore as loony conspiracy, in the same vein as UFOs, lizard people controlling financial markets, and cannibalism within the royal family. But Fatima was suggesting it was all true. “I’m not pulling your leg, I swear. I’ve just been…out of the loop.”

“As to the why…well, to provide housing for the poor. Or for anyone who doesn’t want to pay rent, really. Me personally, I’ve got a job, I could probably afford a flat in Cardiff. But I’d rather live here and save money for travel and nice clothes.” She swiveled her hips for emphasis, flaring the fabric of her sparkly red party dress.

“Anyone can live her for free?” I thought of the frigid nights when there’d been no pod available.

“As long as they accept Jordan’s conditions.”

“Who’s Jordan?”

“Here’s Eugene’s place,” she said, pointing to a nearby portal. “Nice to talk to you, but I don’t want to be late. Maybe I’ll run into you again sometime. You know my name, but what’s yours?”

“I’m Nick.”

“Talk to Jordan of Bristol, Nick. He’ll explain everything.”

“And how do I do that?”

“At any shrine. Bye—good luck with your deliveries!”

Fatima continued to wherever she was going, checking her phone and not once looking back. So there was phone service down here, somehow. That answered one of my several dozen immediate questions. How did the rest of the infrastructure operate? How was there heat, power, and plumbing? Were the genetically engineered mollusks involved in the day-to-day operation of this place? And who oversaw the mollusks—this mysterious Jordan character?

But I had a job to do. I wanted to get paid and ideally get a few hours of sleep before dawn. Not that I would know when dawn arrived, down here. How did these underwater residents tolerate the lack of a day-night cycle?

It took many hours, many awkward conversations, and many kilometers of walking through curving bioluminescent passages to complete my deliveries. I got lost several times, having to rely on the kindness of strangers to find my way. But the strangers I met were, for the most part, kind. Some, like Atmos Klein, were eccentric, but most were normal people living in a very strange place. All but Fatima expected a delivery, some with eager anticipation. Whatever I was delivering was important.

In the course of my deliveries, I noticed several open portals, valves pulled fully back, revealing empty, uninhabited apartments. I didn’t dare venture inside; I was terrified of the valves trapping me, the giant slugs devouring me—what did they eat, after all? But maybe Fatima had told the truth, that anyone could just move in, rent free.

I didn’t notice any rooms that resembled shrines, nor did I ask. I wasn’t ready to speak to this Jordan of Bristol, whoever that was. I didn’t even know if Laurence would pay me as agreed, or if I would ever come back to this place.

I finally emerged from the mouth of the Portishead tunnel. It was still dark, and all the delivery trucks had left the muddy field. I wandered back to town, found an empty pod, and set the built-in alarm to wake me in time to meet Laurence at McDonald’s.

He was there, drinking a coffee in the corner booth, looking well-slept. “There you are!” he said cheerfully, handing me my own steaming cup. “Well, Nicky, how did it go?”

“It took me all night.” An exaggeration, but I was feeling resentful.

Laurence leaned back. “It’ll get faster.”

I felt small and exhausted, but also irritable, in no mood to be placated. “That place is huge. And there were twenty-two packages, not a dozen.”

Laurence smiled in a way that might have scared me had I not been tired to the point of not caring. “Angling for a pay raise already?”

“If you want me to keep working for you, the rate is ten pounds per package. I think that’s reasonable.”

The smile evaporated. Laurence deliberately reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took out a single note. “One hundred, as agreed. Meet me at the tunnel tonight at eight—I’ll have another bag for you.”

I took the hundred-pound note, doing my best to hide my relief. Laurence was a man of his word. But I wasn’t done negotiating. “You accept my new rate?”

Laurence gave the slightest of nods. “Fine. As long as I don’t get any complaints.”

I wanted to ask him what was in the packages. Medication, he’d said. I kept my mouth shut.

I exited the McDonald’s into the bright winter morning, feeling cheerful despite my lack of sleep. I had a job and money in my pocket.

Not much money though, probably not even enough for a single night in a cheap hotel. Though there was a youth hostel I’d seen, beds in a shared room for thirty-nine pounds a night. More than I wanted to spend, but I’d only slept a few hours in the pod—I needed more rest to function.

And a real bed with clean sheets sounded nice.

Only a few people were staying at the hostel, so I ended up getting a private room for the same price as the shared. I plugged in my phone (which had been dead for weeks), took a long hot shower, and slept a solid ten hours. I treated myself to a full English breakfast at a restaurant near the hostel before meeting Laurence again at the tunnel mouth.

Over the following weeks, I developed a routine: delivering packages at night and sleeping at the hostel during the day. As Laurence promised, the deliveries sped up once I became familiar with the layout of the arcology. My hourly wage fluctuated between forty and sixty pounds, most of which I was able to save. A local bank accepted my cash deposits and transferred them to my US account, and though the fees were highway robbery, it was preferable to carrying my net worth in cash. Slowly, I saved for whatever the next phase of my life might be.

I learned about the Channel Arcology in bits and spurts, some via my phone at public access points, but mostly from short conversations with the arcology residents. The whole place was indeed operated and maintained by various types of genetically engineered mollusks and annelids, each with specialized functions: secreting nacre for construction, filtering water, operating valves, and so forth. The nacre-like material conducted both heat and electrical energy. The arcology was geothermally powered by deep spikes burrowed in to the subsurface of the channel. Fresh air was pulled into circulation from hundreds of nacre tubes that pierced the surface of the water, arcing many meters above the highest storm surge.

I gleaned more information about what I was delivering from one resident, a talkative old woman by the name of Frances Pitkin. After the unexpected and premature death of her husband, Frances had lived in an inexpensive Bristol flat for twenty years until the venerable and kindly landlord had passed away, leaving the building to his good-for-nothing son who’d jacked up the rent. Budgetarily, Frances had been forced to move into the arcology, though now she quite liked it, and spoke every day with Jordan of Bristol, who offered her both comfort and companionship. (Who was this Jordan? I had yet to visit a shrine.)

Frances had a good life. She was friends with her neighbors, she had her mobility and was in good health except for the breast cancer, though that was in remission thanks to a drug that she took every day, with no side effects beyond mild dizziness if she stood up too quickly. NHS, unfortunately, did not supply the drug; it was not yet approved for human use in the United Kingdom. But the EU had approved it, and a local fabricator was happy to produce it. A young man named Laurence had helped her open the cryptocurrency account via which she could pay for it (at a reasonable price, a mere fraction of what the pharmaceutical company normally charged).

So Laurence had told me the truth, at least in part. I was delivering crucial medication to those who needed it. The fact that most of Laurence’s customers were most likely purchasing recreational drugs was beside the point.

Many mysteries remained. Mainly, who was Jordan of Bristol? An internet search described him as a pre-Reformation saint, a companion of Augustine of Canterbury, though there was disagreement among historians as to his actual identity and in which century he’d lived. But all that seemed irrelevant; whoever that Jordan had been, he was long dead and gone. The arcology residents insisted their Jordan was someone they talked to on the regular.

One night, after my deliveries, I gathered the gumption to visit a shrine. Frances had told me where one was, quite close to her apartment. The entrance was unmarked and unblocked by any valve or covering. After passing through a narrow, twisting passage (perhaps designed to enhance privacy or deaden sound), I entered the main chamber. It was small, no more than ten paces across, roughly spherical, lit in bioluminescent oranges, pinks, and reds. The color scheme reminded me of a Hindu temple, but a large cross-like pattern sculpted into the ceiling—and the fact that I was visiting a shrine to a saint—indicated that I was in a Catholic place of worship.

I could hear none of the hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfare, but nor was it completely quiet. Creatures moved behind the walls, squelching along, most likely the genetically engineered mollusks that maintained the infrastructure of this place.

“Hello? Is anyone there? I’d like to speak to Jordan.”

“And who are you?” The response was immediate, the voice low and somewhat muffled.

“I’m Nick. I make deliveries here. Is this Jordan of Bristol?”

“It is. How may I be of service?” His accent was odd, anachronistic. English as it might have once been spoken in Wessex, I guessed.

“Um…what are you, exactly?”

“I am a conscious-aware entity, created from an engineered connectome. I was modeled after the historical Jordan of Bristol. Though the historical record is sparse regarding my character and deeds, so much creative license was taken with my personality.”

“Are you a computer? An AI?”

“My brain is distributed among hundreds of mind mollusks. Each organism contributes neuronal ganglia, bundles of millions of neurons connected by intramuscular nerve cords. My own brain is a metaorgan, completely biological. But if the computer analogy is helpful to you, you could imagine my connectome as software running on the hardware of mollusk ganglia.”

“How exactly are you talking to me?”

“The short answer is that the mind mollusks control the speech worms, which are equipped with a tongue-like organ, a valve that functions like lips, and a hard bony palate.”

“And you run this place? The Channel Arcology?”

“Run would be too strong of a word. I facilitate. The tube worms and architect eels take care of the plumbing and repairs, respectively. I assist with conflict resolution, monitoring, and most importantly, counseling and guidance. My job description, if you think of it that way, is primarily that of a spiritual advisor.”

Cult leader? I thought to myself, but I didn’t feel there was anything cultish going on. No one had tried to recruit me; no devotee has messianically praised the arcological way of life. Rather, this place had the feel of a well-run apartment complex.

“I was told there were conditions. For living here, that is.”

“Of course. The golden rule, more or less. It’s not complicated—there’s no handbook. Simply to treat your neighbors with kindness and consideration, as you yourself would prefer to be treated.”

“And what happens to those who don’t?” I still felt suspicious, imagining a dark room where the rule breakers were devoured alive by carnivorous slugs.

“They are reminded of their obligation. And asked to leave, if necessary.”

Part of me wanted to push further. What ultimately happened, if coercion was necessary? How did Jordan of Bristol apply force? But I felt self-conscious, that to press would be impolite.

“I don’t mind answering your questions,” Jordan said. “Are you considering moving in? There’s plenty of space.”

I was, in fact, considering it. I’d peeked into empty apartments, valve doors wide open. “I don’t have any furniture,” I blurted, thinking of my warm bed in the hostel, an actual mattress with fitted sheets and blankets.

“We have a vast repository of unused items with paid staff who manage the influx and outflow. I’m certain Allister can get you sorted, at least with a starter futon and a sleeping bag. And it never gets too cold. The mollusks produce a tremendous amount of metabolic waste heat, which they circulate throughout the structure.”

I still wondered (and worried) what the mollusks ate. But my mind was already overburdened with the information I had just received. “Thank you for the offer. It was nice to meet you. I’ll show myself out.”

A few nights later, I was pleased to see I had another package for Fatima Patel. She answered her valve-door looking disheveled, wearing sweatpants, with no makeup. But when she smiled, remembering me, my heart gave a flutter.

“Nick, how have you been? You look well, if you don’t mind me saying so. Have you moved in yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, wondering how she’d guessed.

“You’ve got something for me?”

I handed her the package, a small box just as before. She examined it briefly, then handed it back. “Return to sender, please. Which would be your boy Laurence. Tell him I’m not interested. He’s done enough already. More than enough.”

“Alright,” I said, biting my tongue.

“It’s okay, I can see that you’re curious. Laurence is friends with my older sister, from school. They’re drinking buddies—she doesn’t date men. But Laurence always fancied himself our family protector. You see, our dad died when we were young. Not that it should matter—Mum was perfectly capable of taking care of us—but it mattered in Laurence’s mind.”

I tried to follow along, imagining a short-haired Indian woman with a nose ring putting back pints at the pub, arm in arm with Laurence, rooting for Bristol City.

Fatima continued. “I was dating this Indian bloke, looked good on paper. A doctor in Bristol, from a reputable family. But he had a nasty old-fashioned side, thought women should listen and obey. Didn’t fancy me stating my opinion, especially when he disagreed. Unfortunately for the both of us, he hit me. Didn’t leave a mark, but I told sis and she told Laurence.”

I could see where this was going.

“So Laurence drives to Bristol and waits at the hospital for Dev to get off work. Finds him in the parking lot. Punches him in the face a few times, does leave a mark. Then gives him a proper lecture. I didn’t ask him to do anything, mind. Laurence has spun this role from whole cloth. My savior and protector, white knight crap. Dev deserved something, but not that.”

“But what was in the package—the first one I delivered?”

“One of Dev’s bloody teeth, gift-wrapped in a jewelry box.”

 “That’s disgusting.”

“That’s Laurence’s style. Like a housecat gifting a dead bird. But less endearing.”

I glanced down at the package she’d handed back to me.

Fatima followed my gaze. “I know, right? I’m worried for Dev. I haven’t even officially broken up with him yet, though I suppose at this point it’s understood. Be a dear and tell Laurence to drop it, would you?”

“Sure, no problem,” I said. Though I had no intention of returning the package to Laurence or bringing up the topic at all.

I decided to move into the Channel Arcology (partly to save money, partly because of my crush on Fatima). I found an empty apartment on the east side, about a five-minute walk from Fatima’s place. Following Jordan’s suggestion, I visited the repository, a vast chamber filled with household items free for the taking. A young man called Allister helped me find what I needed.

“Are you a volunteer, Allister?” I asked. “Or does Jordan pay you?”

“Pays me. Quite well, actually. Do you want a single or double futon? Or a king? The platforms all fit king, but most people opt for smaller. But you can have whatever you like.”

“A single is fine. How does he pay you?”

“I’ve no idea. The money just shows up in my account.”

“Does he use a payroll system? Is it official, with taxes deducted?”

“Of course! Jordan’s no scofflaw. Now what about lighting? There’s no plugs, you know, so everything that uses electricity charges near-field. Here’s a nice lamp, if you like chickens.”

Back at my chosen apartment, I arranged my futon, chicken lamp, and other possessions in a matter of minutes. The chamber interior was a marvel of biological engineering. The architect eels had sculpted numerous functional shapes out of the shiny shell-like material: a bed platform, seats, shelving, a sink, tub, and toilet all with running water. The operation of the faucets, curving tubes that emitted both hot and cold water with the wave of a hand, was particularly fascinating. The water was perfectly clear with only a mild minerally taste, though the thought that it had been filtered through the bodies of genetically engineered tube worms was perturbing.

I felt nervous, leaving my backpack behind for the first time in months. But the leathery membranes closed behind me securely. Jordan, or at least the mollusks, knew that I had moved in.

As the valve door sealed, I felt a surge of hope co-mingled with a deep undercurrent of fear. Slowly, I was building a life for myself. And once again, I had something to lose. There were two forces warring within me, one associated with the chaos and poor choices that had led me to poverty and homelessness, the other with rebuilding my life. There was more to it than that, but I couldn’t yet put a name to either feeling.

That evening, I met with Laurence at McDonald’s. His usual jovial manner was absent, replaced by a scowl and furrowed brow. I worried that his expression might have something to do with Fatima’s box, which sat on a shelf in my arcology apartment, unopened. But he had something else on his mind.

“Nicky my boy, I’ve got a nasty task for you. I’d do it myself, but you know how I feel about the tunnels.” He’d mentioned his claustrophobia.

I checked my tea to see if it had cooled enough to sip. It hadn’t.

“I know I told you there’d be no collections, but I’ve made the mistake of providing goods ahead of payment. Just once, to a regular customer, but it was a large delivery, and now everything’s gone to shite. A bloke named Starchild, maybe you remember?”

I nodded. A hulk of a man, covered in tattoos, with a large bushy beard and a slimy combover. He’d taken my delivery without a word.

“Now I don’t expect you to intimidate him,”—here Laurence chuckled—”just a quick visit to let him know I haven’t forgotten and that you’ll be round the next day to collect payment. Cash only—no barter.”

“How much does he owe?”

“He knows bloody well how much. But I suppose you should count it, so you need to know, don’t you? Three thousand quid.”

A quick fantasy flashed through my mind—taking payment from Starchild and heading straight to Heathrow. But I hadn’t even renewed my passport yet.

Laurence squinted at me. “And I know you’ll return every penny.”

“Of course.”

“Sorry—I do trust you, Nicky. You should know that. You’re as dependable as the tides. But we usually don’t deal in cash.”

“You pay me in cash.”

“And so I do. Well, enough said. You remember where he lives?”

“Inner Circle, NNE.”

“Right then. Don’t do anything foolish. Just deliver the message to Starchild and report back. Perhaps he’s just forgotten.”

Laurence gave me that evening’s packages, which I delivered with an increasing sense of apprehension. I ended my rounds at Starchild’s door. I knocked on the leathery membrane but received no answer. “Starchild!” I called out, but the valve remained closed. I knocked again, more insistently, but the membrane hardened beneath my knuckles. I drew back my fist in pain and stood there awkwardly for a few more minutes before giving up.

I returned to my arcology apartment and slept there for the first time. The bioluminescence of the nacre walls dimmed as soon as I lay down. There were dark holes in the ceiling. I guessed the mollusks were surveilling me constantly, providing a sort of biofeedback to the biological materials and microorganisms that comprised the structure. It was creepy, but I accepted it. I’d met many residents and none had expressed any fear of the architect eels, mind mollusks, or other unseen creatures that functioned as a living network supporting the arcology’s infrastructure. Nor did I fear the many tons of frigid, muddy water above me, though maybe I should have. It occurred to me that a single breach could flood the entire structure, drowning us all. It would be a gruesome, terrifying death, with no chance of escape.

Despite these thoughts, I slept soundly and awoke refreshed in the afternoon. I marched to Starchild’s residence and knocked on the valve-door with resolute force. “Starchild, please open up—I’m here to deliver a message from Laurence!”

The valve opened to reveal a hairy, shirtless man, even larger than I’d remembered him. “Was that you making a racket last night? Come in then, if Laurence has sent you.” He grinned.

Reluctantly I stepped through the door valve, which smacked closed behind me. Starchild’s apartment reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor. The place was crammed with couches and tables, haphazardly arranged, every surface covered by junk: empty liquor bottles, boxes of cigarettes, dirty plates and glasses, old pizza boxes. Some of the tables appeared to be workspaces, slightly more orderly, covered in disassembled electronics, drug paraphernalia, 3D printers, an assortment of knives, and various items I could not identify.

“Spit it out then, if you’ve something to say.” His lips barely moved when he spoke, and his eyes remained fixed on me, unblinking.

“Just stopping by to remind you of payment due,” I said politely, sounding almost like a Londoner. I was losing my American accent against my will. But instead of sounding Bristolian, with their long, forward-mouth vowels, I’d landed in an awkward in-between place, half Californian and half Queen’s English. “Laurence thought that perhaps you’d forgotten.”

“He did? Did he tell you to say that? Are you his trained monkey?”

“He wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“He’s gotten it wrong, giving me that benefit. I’ve no intention of paying him. His product is shite. He should pay me. Isn’t that right, Harold?”

What I’d thought had been a lumpy gray blanket on a nearby couch moved, startling me. Harold, a thin, ashen-skinned man, sat up and looked at me reproachfully. “That’s right,” Harold said in raspy voice. “Laurence owes us, he does. For forcing us to consume his substandard medication.” He imbued the last word with a sarcastic sneer.

“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll relay the message to Laurence, that you’re unsatisfied with the product and that you don’t intend to pay.” I considered adding in some sort of veiled threat but immediately quashed the idea. Laurence had made it crystal clear that he did not expect me to intimidate anyone, nor consider me capable of doing so. I moved toward the door valve.

“Not so fast, monkey boy,” Starchild said.

“You haven’t been excuuused, ‘ave you?” Harold added.

Starchild closed the distance between us with a single long stride. “We don’t know you, do we? So how can we trust you to properly relay a message? You might put words in our mouths.”

“Misrepresent us,” Harold said.

Starchild’s lips peeled back. “We need to send a message directly, methinks.”

“Oh yes,” Harold agreed with a terrifying note of excitement.

The beating they gave me was measured, focused on my face. They didn’t break any bones nor chip my teeth, but left me with two black eyes, a bloody nose, and grotesquely swollen lips. It hurt, but I knew it would hurt more later. The main injury was to my psyche, the sense of helplessness as they violated me.

Where was Jordan? I wondered, as Harold gave me a gratuitous smack in the mouth. I was already tasting blood and Harold was weak-limbed, so I had time to think. Were the mind mollusks watching, witnessing my pain? How did this fit in with the Golden Rule Jordan of Bristol had boasted of, the moral standard to which he held his residents?

And so, when Starchild and Harold finally spat me out of their filthy lair, I stumbled to directly to the shrine. “Did you see what happened?” I demanded, addressing the smooth, curved nacre walls. It hurt my mouth to speak, but I had more to say. “Does this violate your conditions? Not exactly the picture of kindness and consideration, what they did to me, was it?”

“I’m very sorry for what happened to you,” Jordan replied immediately in his slightly muffled tenor. “Starchild and Harold are troubled souls, in deep need of healing and guidance. I will speak with them. Eventually they will realize the error of their ways and apologize to you.”

“I don’t want a fucking apology,” I blurted. “I want them to be punished.” Blood dripped from my mouth onto the cool, shell-like floor.

“I am so sorry for your pain,” Jordan said. Even though I was enraged, I believed him. His words comforted me.

“So you’re not going to do anything except talk to them?” I asked, more calmly. “Isn’t there any law and order in this place?”

“Of course there is—the arcology is under the jurisdiction of the Avon and Somerset Police. But South Wales will respond to calls as well.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t realized that.

“But I should caution you, if you report a crime, I will not be valuable as a witness. I saw what happened to you, as I see nearly everything. I have thousands of eyes, all connected to the metaorgan that functions as my brain. And if the police sought me out, I would tell them the truth. But in previous incidents they have not. Not everyone considers me a person. And legally, within the courts, I don’t think I would count as one.”

“How many incidents have there been?”

“Very few. Anyone is welcome to live here, so long as there is space, but I’m selective about who I aid.”

I thought of the nice old lady Frances Pitkin, who’d specifically mentioned Jordan’s helpfulness. “What about Starchild?”

“He was in need, and I misjudged his character.”

“So why don’t you make him leave? Can you evict him?”

“There is no contract, no grounds for eviction. He had the same legal status as a man in a boat touring the Channel. But I will speak with him and withhold certain privileges, if necessary. He’ll come around, I promise.”

I wiped my nose, leaving a smear of blood on the back of my hand. Jordan couldn’t or wouldn’t help, and his promise meant nothing to me.

I returned to my apartment. Groaning in pain, I muttered “I could use a hot bath,” to no one in particular. Seconds later, I heard running water from the bathroom chamber, and found the nacre tub full and steaming. I stripped and gingerly lowered my body into the bath, where I found myself buoyant. The water was salty. And sterile, I hoped. At least it was clear. I could only hope that the biological infrastructure that generated these miracles was sound. My encounter with Starchild had shaken my faith in how this strange place was run. But the hot minerally water felt good, so long as I kept it away from the abrasions on my face. As my eyes adjusted to the dim blue-green bioluminescence of the bath chamber, I was able to relax.

That evening, I met Laurence at the tunnel entrance as we’d previously arranged. He was not pleased when he saw me. “Starchild’s work, is it? What a bloody idiot. I didn’t think he’d dare.”

So it had been a possibility in Laurence’s mind that Starchild would react violently. He’d thrown me to the wolves. I answered with the barest of nods.

“He’ll regret it, I swear. Didn’t want to go down into that foul place, but now it’s necessary, innit? Draw me a map, will you?”

I had no confidence that any good would come from such a confrontation. But I thirsted for revenge. I described where Starchild lived and pinned the location on Laurence’s phone (the entire arcology was geo-mapped, I had learned, even though I still had no phone service myself).

Laurence gave me my packages, not even asking if I was well enough to work. But he also gave me an extra hundred-pound note. A bonus for my troubles. I took the money, but any shred of respect I’d held for Laurence dissolved. I was beaten, concussed, and traumatized, but to him my injuries were trivial, inconsequential, addressed with a little cash and equal violence promised.

In the next days, I healed quickly. I was eating better, buying groceries for the first time in months. Allister, the young man from the repository, set me up with a small refrigerator, a hot plate, and a tea kettle. All the appliances were powered by near-field charging and worked as long as they were within a meter or so of any wall. Jordan explained that the tube worms had been augmented with billions of synchronized electrogenic cells (a genetic feat borrowed from Electrophorus electricus—the electric eel). The worms were the conduit by which the geothermal energy was harvested and distributed. Much of the electricity was used to desalinize the Channel water for drinking, but the excess power was circulated through the electroconductive nacre to power appliances and devices.

Somehow, news of my beating spread despite me saying nothing. Friends and neighbors visited, checking up on me and bearing gifts. Atmos Klein delivered a bottle of French wine, insisting it was a good vintage. Our conversation was short and awkward, but it was clear he cared about my wellbeing. Frances Pitkin and Fatima Patel visited together, bringing tea and sandwiches. As we sat together and told stories about our lives and laughed, I found myself close to tears, overwhelmed by simple human friendship and a sense of near normalcy.

Frances left first, leaving Fatima and myself alone together. I thought about offering to open the bottle of wine, but I had no bottle opener, no wine glasses, and a recent streak of sobriety to consider. Fatima poured us both more tea.

“Your face is looking so much better,” she said. “They say the water here has healing properties. All the minerals.”

“It does have a distinctive taste.”

“So what’s next for you, Nick? Will you be staying here? Or is the arcology just another stop on your world tour?”

I’d told Fatima and Frances something of my journey, the seemingly endless, globe-trotting party. And how it had ended after all, quite unpleasantly. Both had offered sympathy. But they’d also been entertained by some of my wilder stories, which had pleased me.

“It’s nice having a place to live. And I’m saving money—I opened a bank account. I guess I was thinking about flying back to California eventually. But I’m not sure what I’d do there. I don’t want to be homeless again.”

“California is expensive from what I hear,” Fatima said.

She asked about my family. I told her about my parents and siblings, how I’d disappointed them all, how angry and frustrated they were with me, that I couldn’t deal with facing any of them.

“But they must be worried sick. Do they even know you’re alive?”

I admitted I had no idea. The thought filled me with shame. Fatima sensed my discomfort and changed the subject.

“Look, Nick, there’s something I need to say.” She reached over and touched my hand. The touch was chaste, a simple comfort offered, but my entire awareness was consumed by her soft, warm fingers. “You need to tell Laurence to drop it,” she said. “I know he thinks he’s a tough guy—and surely he is—but Starchild is capable of far worse than he did to you. Laurence will want revenge, but it’s too risky. I don’t want my sister’s friend full of knife holes.”

I wanted revenge, but I didn’t admit that that Fatima. “What do you know about Starchild?”

“Just rumors, but that he murdered three men in Cardiff and got off on a technicality. His henchman Harold used to run a dogfighting ring. And they’re both drug dealers—they cut what they get from Laurence and sell it to idiots at ‘bargain prices.'”

“I’ll talk to Laurence,” I lied. In my mind, both Laurence and Starchild were ruthless and dangerous, but Laurence was clearly more formidable. He was smart and organized, a successful businessman. And I desperately wanted Starchild to get his comeuppance. Jordan seemed unwilling to act decisively, but Laurence had promised to do so.

“And Nick, maybe you should talk to someone. I’ve been hit too, you know. Your face heals, but those aren’t the only injuries. I had nightmares for weeks. I was jumpy, and I didn’t want anyone to touch me at all for the longest time. I’m in therapy, and it helps—”

I stood up. “Thank you for visiting. It means a lot that you and Frances stopped by.”

“Oh,” Fatima said, but quickly recovered and stood up herself. “Let me know if you need anything. You know where to find me.” She opened her purse and took out a card. “And when you get your phone working, here’s my number.”

I felt bad for ending our visit so abruptly, but I didn’t want Fatima’s pity. I valued her friendship, but I wanted more—her affection and desire. But I was far from my prime and felt undeserving. Until days ago, I’d been homeless. My employment was tenuous, my wealth nonexistent. Physically, I was thin, pale, malnourished. And my face was still a mess.

I continued with my deliveries. Fatima’s comment about my family gnawed at my mind. A few days later, I connected to arcology’s public wi-fi and composed a three-line text to my mother: Sorry I haven’t been in touch. Am fine, living in England. Have a job, am clean and sober, feeling good. Hope to visit soon. I sent the text and received a new text notification within the minute.

That’s great news.

This was followed by seven more texts, a combination of questions and family news. My sister was pregnant. My father had to have an operation on his foot. I could feel the tension build in my shoulders as my mother sucked me back into the familial network. Old, familiar stresses. But there was no malevolence there, only my own reactivity. I had constructed a new life with the illusion of complete independence. But all people are joined to others, enmeshed in living networks whether we like it or not. I tried to let the feelings wash over me without taking hold. Reentering my family didn’t mean I had to be the same person.

Walking home from the library—I did think of my apartment in the underwater arcology as home—I realized that the text exchange with my mother had triggered an emotional earthquake, shifting the landscape of my imagined future. Maybe I would visit my parents in Santa Barbara and then return to England to resume my life here. I would have to get my papers in order, renewing my passport and applying for some sort of official visa. Could I, in time, even become naturalized? Jordan appeared to be familiar with UK legalities—I would ask him.

On some level, I knew that part of this fantasy—living in England—had to do with Fatima. She’d done nothing to indicate any interest in me other than being a good neighbor or possibly a friend. But still, there was a nonzero chance of something more, the hint of a spark. And that fragment of hope was all my imagination needed.

My thoughts turned to Laurence. If my boss intended to avenge my injuries, he was being slow about it. As usual, I met him each day to receive packages and take payment for my work. He said nothing more about Starchild and I didn’t dare ask. Not because I feared Laurence—I didn’t anymore—but because of what Fatima had said. Maybe it was best if Laurence dropped the matter. Starchild was a dangerous maniac, and I didn’t want my employer to die.

I liked Laurence, even if I no longer respected him. His gruff, working-class mannerisms and Bristolian accent charmed me, and as an employer he was honest, reliable, and fair. My bank account continued to grow; I now had enough for a plane ticket home. Within weeks I would be able to afford first month’s rent and security deposit on an inexpensive apartment, should I ever want to move out of the arcology.

One Saturday afternoon, I was reorganizing my few possessions and deciding what else I might need from the repository. I heard a muffled knock on the leathery membrane that functioned as my front door. “Nick! Come quickly!” Fatima’s voice—I jumped to respond.

She wore a maroon tracksuit and no makeup, her hair was unbrushed and wild. None of that detracted from her beauty, but her face was tight with worry. “Frances took a fall. She’s hurt. Badly, I think. Can you help me get her to the clinic?”

We rushed to Frances’s apartment where we found her flat on her back, dangerously pale, her skin cool and clammy. “It’s my hip, dear,” Frances said in a strained voice. “I’m afraid it might be broken.”

“Should we call…” I started to say ambulance but trailed off realizing the absurdity of the idea. Still, if both the Welsh and English police responded to calls from the arcology, surely the NHS must somehow provide services.

But Jordan had already summoned help. A man and a woman bearing a stretcher arrived within minutes. They carefully strapped Frances in and transferred the stretcher to a motorized cart. We followed them, Fatima holding the old woman’s hand. After a short walk, we entered a large, well-lit chamber equipped with medical equipment and nacre bed platforms. There were several patients, some asleep and some awake, all looking comfortable and well cared for. But to my horror, all were attached to smaller varieties of the slug creatures I had seen hanging from ceilings and walls within the arcology. The black slugs clung to the patients’ flesh like giant leeches.

Fatima misinterpreted my shocked expression. “There are clinics throughout the arcology,” she explained. “For surgeries and the like, most people will go to an infirmary in Bristol or Cardiff. But they can do quite a lot here.”

By they, I wasn’t sure if Fatima meant the doctor—a bearded man of African descent—and his two younger helpers, or the black slugs that I was very much worried would soon be attached to Frances Pitkin.

“Oh, right,” Fatima said. “You’ve not seen the medical eels in action, have you? A bit disconcerting at first. Each one is like a miniature biological factory. They’re engineered to synthesize drugs, vitamins, whatever chemical is needed. Insulin, antibiotics, practically anything. There’s never a shortage, and it’s all free.”

“It looks medieval,” I said.

Frances appeared to be sleeping peacefully. The doctor approached us. “Hello Fatima.” He looked me up and down. “I’m Dr. Noyo,” he said, extending his hand. “Next of kin?”

“Just a friend.”

“Well, Frances is in good hands. I think it’s just a bruise, but if it’s more serious we’ll get her to the BRI.”

“Bristol Royal Infirmary,” Fatima explained.

“You’re not from here?” Dr. Noyo asked.

“I’m from the U.S.—California. But I live here now, in the arcology.”

“Then perhaps our situations are not so different. I’m Nigerian, originally from Enugu. My degree is from Oyo State, the best medical school in Nigeria. But not good enough for the National Health Service. Before Jordan hired me, I was working as an accountant in Bristol. Not a bad job, but not my calling. Do you work for Jordan as well?”

I wondered how many people Jordan employed, and how he obtained the funds to pay them all. “No. I’m a deliveryman. I work for a man in Portishead.”

Fatima smiled. “Dr. Noyo knows Laurence.”

“Ah, Laurence! Yes, a very helpful man. The medical eels can’t make everything, and entrepreneurs like Laurence help fill in the gaps. Frances is a customer, isn’t she?”

I felt a surge of pride at Dr. Noyo’s indirect acknowledgement; my job was doing some good.

I left the clinic still feeling uneasy about the medical eels, but confident that Dr. Noyo would take care of Frances. As we walked along the broad, curving side passage that connected the clinic chamber to the main loop, I sensed Fatima stiffen in fear. I followed her gaze to a tall, burly man on the opposite side of the passage on his way to the clinic. A long, ugly gash crossed the man’s left inner forearm. His flesh gaped, his hand was red with blood and dripping a trail of large droplets. But his face registered no pain, only dead-eyed disinterest. He hadn’t yet noticed us. “Starchild,” Fatima whispered.

But not quietly enough. “Monkey boy, is it?” Starchild bellowed, instantly recognizing me. “Your face is almost looking pretty again. Might have to touch it up.”

Useless chemicals flooded my body, ratcheting up my heart rate and quickening my breath. But I wasn’t going to fight Starchild. I was only going to be humiliated again, this time in front of Fatima.

The dead-eyed expression was gone, replaced with predatory glee. “Who’s this pretty thing?” Starchild asked me, leering at Fatima. “A bit above your station, I’d say, much too fit for a smelly monkey boy. Do you always wear the same clothes, those tattered old jeans and that stupid blue shirt? You’re a little dosser, aren’t ye? A skinny twat on the dole.”

Some of his words stung, some were mystifying, some ridiculous. I guessed that he was on the dole himself, and though my wardrobe was extremely limited, I’d cleaned my clothes in the sink. And I was no longer homeless. Instead of crushing me, his words bolstered my pride, reminding me of my blessings. I still feared that he would beat me again, but the fact remained that Fatima was walking next to me, had chosen me, even if only as a friend.

“Better get that arm looked at,” Fatima said, not breaking her stride.

“Arm’s fine, you stupid bitch. Just a scratch. Mind your own fucking business.”

I said nothing, which was probably for the best but left me feeling cowardly. “Sorry about that,” I said lamely when there was a safe distance between us and Starchild.

“Not your fault at all. I’m glad he didn’t try anything.”

She didn’t need to add because you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, but still I heard those words. I felt angry: at myself for saying nothing in response to Starchild’s abuse, at Jordan of Bristol for tolerating Starchild’s bad behavior, at Laurence for taking his sweet time exacting revenge. Though I still had faith in Laurence. My boss wasn’t the type to let things go.

“I wonder what happened to his arm,” Fatima said. “That was a nasty cut. Knife wound, looked like.”

I’d been so absorbed with my internal drama that an obvious idea had escaped me, that Laurence might have already inflicted his revenge.

Though knifework wasn’t his style; Laurence was a bareknuckle bloke. An argument with Harold seemed the more likely source of Starchild’s injury. Still, it might have been Laurence—I would ask him at the first opportunity.

And then an ugly thought crept in. What if Laurence had lost a fight with Starchild?

“Fatima, there’s something I need to do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t do anything stupid, Nick.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, I’ll be alright. We’ll check on Frances tomorrow, okay?”

Already running, I didn’t wait for her answer. I sprinted along the main corridor, hugging the left wall along with the motorized vehicles and other faster traffic. Winded and with a stitch in my side, I reached Starchild’s apartment within minutes. Smeared bloody droplets decorated the porch area. “Open the doors, Jordan,” I said between gulping breaths. Some element of the mollusk mind complied.

Laurence lay on his side between two cluttered tables, curled up in fetal position. Seeing me, he grinned weakly. “Nickly ol’ boy, ‘ave you come to rescue me?”

His face was pale, with an unhealthy sheen. Blood darkened his grey sweatshirt from chest to waist. He clutched his abdomen with both hands.

I knelt next to him. “You’re hurt. I can get you to the clinic. I was just there—I know where it is.” Would Jordan send help for Laurence, as he had for Frances? Laurence wasn’t a resident, but I had no idea if that mattered.

“The slugs came after me,” Laurence said. “I’ve no idea from where, but I screamed at ’em to get away. Seemed to work. But check behind the couch there.”

“Where’s Harold?” I asked. I hadn’t spotted Starchild’s henchman. Was he hiding somewhere, waiting to stab us?

“Ran like a rabbit when Starchild’s knife came out. Didn’t want to land in the clink again, I reckon.” Laurence closed his eyes and winced, his breath quickening.

“Stop talking—just try to relax. I’ll get help.” I tried to quell my panic and self-hatred. Why had I been so set on revenge? Why hadn’t I tried to dissuade Laurence? His instincts to avoid the arcology had been right. I was sure the three thousand quid owed by Starchild meant nothing to Laurence in the long run—he could have taken the loss and moved on. His reputation as a tough guy might have suffered, but so what? I’d met his other clients personally; almost all were genial, happy to pay up front, grateful for his services. Good, easy customers. And now Laurence was bleeding out in the apartment of the one bad apple he’d refused to spit out.

I checked behind the couch—no slugs. And what were the slugs going to do, anyway? Administer pain relief? Laurence wouldn’t survive without a doctor. He needed emergency transport to a real hospital, and probably surgery.

I didn’t even have a working phone.

“Jordan,” I pleaded, moving close to the nearest wall, “please help him. I know he doesn’t live here, but he was injured by one of your residents. It’s your responsibility to send help.”

Jordan—apparently always happy to converse—answered in his muffled tenor. “Your friend was the aggressor. I saw it all. Starchild acted in self-defense.”

“Starchild stabbed him. Laurence is going to die unless you get help.”

I half expected Jordan to say something trite, live by the sword, die by the sword, or some other pap. But he answered with a question that struck me as sincere. “Your friend deserves to live?”

Did Laurence’s good deeds outweigh his evil ones? I had no idea how many vile acts lurked in Laurence’s past. There was the unopened box in my apartment, the one delivered to Fatima. Did it contain some essential piece of Dev, her abusive ex-boyfriend?

“I think so,” I answered. “He’s been a fair employer. He delivers medications to many people in the arcology. And Dr. Noyo seems to like him.” It was as much of a recommendation as I could muster.

Jordan went uncharacteristically silent. I returned my attention to Laurence. His face was knit with pain, and when he briefly opened his eyes, they looked unfocussed, distraught with suffering. “Hang in there,” I said, trying to match Laurence’s usual chipper tone. “Help is on the way.” I gingerly placed my hand on his shoulder.

Despite the crisis (or maybe because of it), I felt calm and focused. In that quiet moment, I felt a sense of appreciation for the arcology itself, mixed with amazement. It was a miracle that such a place existed at all. I’d seen grainy videos of the full-sized ‘behemoth’ architects—great black shapes drifting in the deep silty waters of the Channel—that had built the arcology from seawater minerals, calcium carbonate and silica, arranged in crystallized patterns over a biopolymer matrix to create the arcology’s curved walls, tubes, and tunnels.

Equally miraculous was the existence of Jordan of Bristol: a constructed mind, a digital connectome, yet realized as living, changing biological entity, a distributed meta-brain consisting of millions of networked mollusk neurons.

But the arcology was no utopia. It was a strange, slimy, partial solution to poverty and the excesses of capitalism. People that fell through the cracks—people like me—ended up here, a sunless labyrinth filled with giant carnivorous slugs. Still, the place provided shelter, relative safety, clean water, and electricity at no cost.

Dr. Noyo’s assistants, the same man and woman who’d come to fetch Frances, finally arrived. The man’s face fell after a quick examination of Laurence. “I’m sorry,” he said to me, “there’s nothing we can do at this point.”

“Take him to Dr. Noyo,” I insisted, refusing to look closely at Laurence. I’d felt his chest rise and fall only minutes ago—there had to still be life in him.

With some difficulty, they transferred Laurence’s weight onto a stretcher, then onto the motorized cart in the main passage. For several minutes I followed, but the gap between us increased until they were out of sight. I didn’t have the gumption to run after them.

Without Laurence, there was no work. I slept more than I needed to. Each morning, I woke with the intention of visiting Laurence in the clinic, and each night I went to bed with the regret of not doing so. I understood I was depressed, yet had no willpower to seek medication, friendship, fresh air and exercise, or anything else that might improve my mental state. It was a dangerous downward spiral leading to horrific depths I had no desire to revisit.

A surprise visit halted my decline, at least temporarily. The valve doors of my apartment opened to reveal Atmos Klein, my very first delivery customer, holding his signature bottle of red wine and a plastic bag of groceries. “No one’s seen you,” he said after an awkward pause.

I sat with Atmos, eating sandwiches, sipping sour red wine to be polite. I had little to say. Perhaps to fill the silence, he told me his life story.

Atmos had worked the greater part of his career at the Bristol offices of a multinational investment firm specializing in derivatives arbitrage. His team developed algorithms that traded massive volumes at extremely high speeds to exploit small prices differentials, thereby harvesting profits from less sophisticated market participants. His work added no real value to society, and Atmos had been ashamed that his labor worsened wealth inequality and generally made the world shittier. But his salary and bonuses kept him in designer suits from Bond Street. He wore a Vacheron Constantin on his wrist and collected exorbitantly expensive wines which he stored in a custom cellar kept at precisely thirteen degrees Celsius. For three years he dated a Ukrainian fashion model with a chess ELO of 2250. As well as several other women, none of them aware of the others.

Life was good, if morally compromised.

But all good things come to an end. In the case of the multinational investment firm, a new player of unknown origin developed a better trading strategy, outplaying the algos developed by Atmos and his team. Management noticed. Earnings fell, the firm’s stock price plummeted. Three months later, Atmos found himself in Castle Park holding a cardboard box of personal items.

Out of curiosity and spite, Atmos launched a research project: who was the unknown player who’d trounced them so thoroughly? After weeks of financial forensics, Atmos traced some of the competing trades to a small, private investment company registered in Mumbai. The company had a neutral, boring name, a dearth of public-facing information, and offices located in Dharavi, a low-wealth neighborhood that some might call a slum.

Notably, only weeks after Atmos discovered the existence of this minor investment firm, it wound down operations entirely. Which just happened to coincide with several massive donations to several charities serving Dharavi’s most impoverished residents.

“So I had an idea, a wild one,” Atmos said, brushing a strand of oily hair away from his face. “What if the trading firm was created by Teresa? What if she used her giant biological brain—the vast network of mind mollusks—to design or even evolve new classes of trading algorithms? We all knew of her feats of genetic engineering—what if she’d turned those intellectual powers to financial markets? I couldn’t think of anyone else who would use that power but not exploit it. Someone who would only earn what they thought they needed, instead of pursuing endless wealth and power.”

“Wait—who is Teresa?”

Atmos gave me a look that I was now familiar with, had I been living under a rock? “Teresa? The Mumbai arcology mind? The great shiny egg-shaped structure perched on hollow spiraling pillars that grew out of Mahim Bay ten years ago like a giant octopus, shocking the world?”

“Right,” I said, remembering only that an arcology had shown up in India, and nothing more. But I wanted him to hurry up and continue his story.

“Look, there are three types of AIs in this world. The first type includes specialized tools that translate languages, exploit financial markets, emulate conversational speech, generate images, that sort of thing. Useful, and intelligent in the narrowest sense. Some feign consciousness and fool unsophisticated humans, but there’s no there there. Nothing happening upstairs, not really. No conscious-awareness. Those AIs aren’t people.

“Then there are the ego-mad, ultra-wealthy men who scan their brains and create vast neural nets to emulate their own neurological architecture in a quixotic quest for immortality. There’s no transfer of consciousness, of course. The old fools die rich and dissolve into the timeless void just like anyone else. But the digital copy wakes up thinking it’s the same person. And depending on its personality and what kind of resources it has access to, wreaks all kind of havoc. You’ve heard of Wardenclyffe, haven’t you? And Pygmalion.”

“Of course,” I lied, not wanting another under-a-rock look.

Atmos shuddered. “Total chaos. Wardenclyffe would have destroyed Mumbai had they not been able to revert the power grid to the old system.”

“The third type of AI—that would be the arcologies?” I guessed.

“Yes. Also flawed, but at least the arcology minds are based on the emulation of moral people. Nobody’s perfect, of course, and some of Teresa’s choices have been questionable. But when I heard there was a new mind in town—”

“Jordan.”

“Exactly. I was one of the first to speak with him extensively. I asked hundreds of questions, exploring his ethical framework. Ultimately, I decided I would dedicate the rest of my life to humanitarian service, letting Jordan of Bristol lead the way. I gave away most of my money and moved in.”

“Are you Catholic? Or did you convert to Catholicism?”

“No on both counts. Jordan imposed no such requirement. He just asked for my help installing signal-amplifying routers in the air tubes. The arcology needed wi-fi.”

“I was wondering about that. Can Jordan connect to the internet directly?”

“Yes. He explained the mechanism in detail, something with giant, rhodopsin-containing retinal cells in the eyes of the mind mollusks. He can see wi-fi signals and demodulate them with the appropriate algorithms. For output, he uses variation of cuttlefish skin, layers of synchronized chromatocyte cells containing reflectin molecules, to precisely modulate and redirect ambient wi-fi signals. A trick borrowed from Teresa, apparently.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“The arcology minds have access to vast libraries, all the world’s knowledge digitized in synthetic DNA. Any biological process from any of the millions of species on the planet—animals, plants, fungi, and everything in-between—if there’s a record of it, the arcology minds can adapt it, build on it, use it for their own purposes. If they weren’t benevolent, we’d all be dead already from an engineered plague. They’re that powerful.”

I got goosebumps. Unlimited wealth, unlimited biological engineering capability—I had underestimated Jordan. I’d considered him weak because he was unwilling to punish Starchild. But it was good that he was merciful.

“Are you alright?” Atmos asked.

“I’m fine. Just trying to absorb everything you’re telling me.”

“Maybe you should pay a visit to Dr. Noyo. You’ve been through a lot recently. You don’t need to be deathly ill to visit the clinic—just go talk to him.”

“Probably a good idea,” I conceded. I’d learned from hard-won experience that when more than one friend recommends professional help, it’s unwise to ignore such advice.

The next morning, I went straight to the clinic. After a short wait, Dr. Noyo saw me. I explained that while my physical injuries were healing well, my mental state was poor.

“The medical eels can synthesize some vitamins and psychiatric medications that will help. You’re in good hands, Nick. You’ll be feeling well again soon.”

Dr. Noyo also recommended a full-spectrum sun lamp in my apartment to regulate my circadian rhythm. Many residents found them essential, and the repository kept a supply on hand.

“How is Frances doing?” I asked. I’d been worried about my elderly neighbor.

“Quite well. Discharged her a few days ago. Hip’s on the mend.”

“What about her medication? Without Laurence…”

“Not to worry. Jordan is growing a medical eel as we speak that will be able to synthesize the compound. He’s also working on a personalized vaccine. If all goes well, Frances will be in remission soon and won’t need the meds.”

I was feeling calmer already, probably due to Dr. Noyo’s kindness and reassuring manner. But my equanimity was disrupted by the sight of a large man in the back of the medical chamber, flat on his back, with multiple fleshy-white octopoid-like creatures covering his entire head, including his mouth and nose. These weren’t the regular medical eels; this was some other process entirely. “Is that…Laurence?” I asked.

“It is,” Dr. Noyo answered calmly.

“He’s still alive?”

“His heart is no longer beating. All his internal organs have shut down. But the mind mollusks are keeping his brain alive.”

“Why?”

“I promise you he’s not experiencing any pain. His brain is flooded with opiates. He’s quite comfortable.”

“But why?” I repeated, hiding my agitation poorly.

“Jordan is slowly building his connectome. It will be incomplete—Laurence’s brain was severely damaged from lack of oxygen. But fragments of his personality and memory will be retained.”

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. I was horrified by this revelation, these invasive liberties that Jordan was taking with Laurence’s body, with his corpse. But Dr. Noyo was merely the messenger. “Why would Jordan do such a thing? What does he hope to accomplish?”

“Frances was not Laurence’s only customer in the arcology who was critically dependent on medication. As much as Jordan sees and hears, he’s not omniscient.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me? I was the one making deliveries.”

“Do you have access to Laurence’s written records? To all his customers, their medications and dosing regiments?”

“Most of his customers didn’t order medically necessary drugs.”

“I’m well aware. But for those that did, we need to extract that knowledge. Many lives are at stake.”

I considered Dr. Noyo’s argument. A more reasonable first step would have been to search Laurence’s house, his computer. But I had no idea where he lived nor access to his files. “But what will happen to Laurence? You implied he was still conscious—is there any way to save him? Or to save his consciousness? You can’t just pluck what you want from his brain and let him die.”

“I agree with you. But that decision isn’t mine to make. I advise that you speak to Jordan directly.”

I thanked Dr. Noyo but did not take his advice. I didn’t visit the shrine, nor initiate any conversations with Jordan of Bristol by talking to the walls. I had no desire to confront Jordan, who was not only my landlord, but had the power to kill me and everyone else in the world. Jordan of Bristol was a good, compassionate person, Atmos had promised me.

But I feared him.

I tried to keep busy, shopping for groceries in town and delivering them to Frances, but with Laurence gone, I had little else to do. The sense of being constantly watched gnawed at me, threatening to grow into full-blown paranoia. I reported to the clinic to receive the medications Dr. Noyo had recommended, delivered via medical eel. The clammy creature’s touch was unpleasant, but the drugs helped.

Eventually I mustered the courage to visit the shrine. If I was going to live in the arcology, I couldn’t live in fear. It would be better to go back to sleeping in the pods or in the rough. Or to use up my savings to return to California to take my chances there. I didn’t want to move in with my parents—I wasn’t even sure they would take me—but I was doubtful I had enough saved to make it on my own until I could find another job. Nor did I want another job. I wanted to stay here, rent free and near Fatima. But only if I could trust Jordan. And seeing Laurence in the medical chamber, his head enveloped in mind mollusks digging around in his brain to extract memories—had shaken my trust.

“Jordan—we need to talk,” I said to the walls of the colorful shrine.

“Hey Nicky. What about?”

Something about his voice caught me off guard. It always surprised me how quickly Jordan responded to any query, as if he were always listening, just waiting for someone to strike up a conversation. But there was something different in his tone that I couldn’t put my finger on.

“About Laurence. About what you did to him.”

Jordan—or rather one of the modified tube worms that generated his vocalizations—made a weird noise. Was it a laugh? A chuckle-snort? “Saved his life. Is that what you mean?”

“Saved his life? How? Dr. Noyo said his brain was severely damaged. You extracted his memories. It was for a good cause—I understand that. But you didn’t have his permission. You performed brain surgery without his consent.”

“He was dead, Nicky boy.”

This was different. No longer was I conversing with a friendly, reassuring saint.

“Did you have an actual question?” Jordan asked. “Or did you just want to bother me with vague accusations?”

“What happened to Laurence? Were you able to save him somehow?”

“Oh yes.”

“How, exactly?”

“I’ll tell you once you’ve calmed down a bit. Keep taking your meds, Nicky. Come back in a week.”

“Excuse me?” I was offended, angry. How dare he speak to me that way? Was I even talking to the same person? I stormed out of the shrine before Jordan had a chance to answer, hearing a muffled snigger in my wake.

It wasn’t until I’d returned to my apartment that I remembered he’d called me Nicky. There was only one person who addressed me that way. And it occurred to me what had been different about his voice. The accent had changed: forward-mouth, rounder vowels, and hard terminal R’s. From medieval Wessex to modern-day Bristolian.

I placed my hand on the smooth nacre wall. “Laurence, is that you?”

“Figured it out, ‘ave you?”

“What happened to Jordan? Did you kill him?”

A full-throated, gurgly laugh. “Of course not. He’s here same as always. But it’s me talking to you now, so listen up. I’ve got a job for you. Better get a pen and write this down.”

Grinning stupidly, I fumbled for a writing implement and paper. Laurence was alive! It was worrisome, of course, Laurence having access to the powers of an arcology mind. But Jordan was still there, hopefully still in control.

“What do you need me to do, boss?”

The first order of business was attending to Laurence’s calico cat, Pebbles. The key to Laurence’s house on Pier Road was under the mat, as promised. Pebbles complained loudly upon entry, shutting up only when her bowl was full of food. I gave her fresh water, cleaned the litterbox, and watered the plants. The refrigerator was nearly empty—Laurence had gotten most of his sustenance from McDonald’s—but I threw away some brown apples and a few half-full takeout containers.

Laurence’s laptop was on the kitchen table. The password he’d given me worked, and I easily located the relevant files. In the basement, I found the compounding room, shelves full of chemicals and a table of compact machines that looked vaguely medical in nature. The compounders looked intimidating, but Laurence had promised their operation was simple and straightforward. The formulation recipes had already been programmed in.

Consulting my notes, I began to work, compiling questions in my notebook as I proceeded. After a few trips back and forth from the arcology to clarify instructions and check my results, my first batch of drugs was ready to go. In Laurence’s dedicated packing room, I filled baggies with the formulated pills, carefully counting the quantities and comparing them to the open orders list on Laurence’s laptop. I put the baggies in padded envelopes and wrote on the addresses with a black marker, just as Laurence had.

In the back of my mind, I wondered if I’d get paid for my work. But that concern was secondary; I was getting medicine to those who needed it. As well as delivering recreational drugs to the customers who’d already paid for them. Laurence had a reputation to maintain.

There were some complaints, but most of Laurence’s customers were simply relieved to finally receive what they’d ordered. I apologized for the delays but didn’t try to explain. Word would spread soon enough. Laurence might make himself known directly. It was his story to tell, not mine.

Fortunately, no one had died from a lack of medication. Several had visited the clinic and received care from Dr. Noyo. I wondered if it had really been necessary to bring Laurence back. What to call it—a resuscitation? A resurrection? But he was back.

While delivering my second batch of packages, I passed by Starchild’s Inner Circle apartment. The open valve door was flanked by two large, pungent piles of detritus. The smaller, more fragrant pile consisted of compostables: old pizza boxes and food scraps. The larger heap, piled atop a tattered, stained mattress, looked destined for the Portishead Recycling Center.

“Oi—Nick! Back on the job?” Allister, the youth from the repository, emerged from Starchild’s apartment carrying a plastic bucket filled with empty liquor bottles and old shoes.

“I am,” I said, wondering how much he knew. “What happened here?”

“Starchild and Harold moved out. Good riddance!”

“Why did they leave?”

“Neighbors heard them complaining about the water. No hot water, at first, and then none at all. I guess Jordan had it with them. Dried ’em out proper.”

“Where did they go?”

“Who knows? Cardiff, probably. Don’t worry about it, Nick. Just be glad to have them gone.” He held my gaze for a moment longer, signifying that he knew about the beating.

“I am glad,” I insisted. Which was true. But I doubted Jordan had anything to do with it.

That evening I noticed something was missing from my apartment. The box addressed to Fatima—the one she’d rejected for fear of its contents—was no longer on the shelf where I’d left it. I confronted Laurence immediately.

“What was in it?” I asked.

“You had your chance. Should have looked if you were so curious.” It was still strange, hearing Laurence through the walls instead of Jordan. But I was getting used to it.

“What about Starchild? Was it you who turned off the water?”

“Would have done worse. Jordan persuaded me to take the compassionate route.”

“So what’s it like, then?”

“What’s what like?”

“Being an arcology mind. Are you still you? Do you remember everything from your life?”

“Past is a bit fuzzy, honestly. But I remember enough. How’s Pebbles?”

“She’s fine. Misses you. Had a lot to say about it.”

“You can move in if you like. House is paid off and obviously I’m not using it. Might as well keep the cat company. You’ll need to pay the utility bills, keep up the yard, that sort of thing. Pain in the ass, really, owning a house.”

He hadn’t answered my question, but I decided not to press it. Maybe Laurence was still discovering his new identity, still formulating it. I gave him the update on his business, his customers. I could run things well enough on my own, but I decided that keeping him apprised might help bridge the gap between the old Laurence and the new.

“You can have a raise, if you like,” Laurence said. “I’m trying to convince Jordan to give everyone ‘ere a stipend, but he doesn’t want people just moving in for the money. But there’s enough of it, believe me. Jordan is bloody rich.”

“The old rate is fine. I don’t have much to spend on these days.”

“Aren’t you still saving up? Move back to California—wasn’t that the plan?”

“Plans change.”

I moved into Laurence’s house, though I continued to receive medical care from Dr. Noyo. Gradually, my mood and mental stability improved. Was it the drugs? Living in daylight again? My improved circumstances? Probably a bit of everything, but I didn’t really care why.

I no longer felt ashamed when I spent time with Fatima. Belatedly, I realized that she’d never looked down on me.

For the first time, I was able to put words to the feelings I’d experienced when moving into the arcology, trading in the chaos and disastrous decisions of my past life for some sense of control and stability. I was gaining power. Not power over others, but power as the opposite of powerlessness. I had some control again, and real options.

I shared these feelings with Jordan at the shrine. Though I was happy that Laurence—or at least some fragment of his mind—was still alive, it was a relief to speak to Jordan again. His voice was reassuring, even if I was unsure if I should trust that feeling. I still felt ambivalent about what he’d done to Laurence.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Nick. Will you stay in Portishead?”

“I’m applying for a work visa.”

“As a pharmaceuticals salesman?” Jordan asked without irony.

“I left that part out. Domestic worker seemed the closest fit. I put the Channel Arcology as my employer.”

“That feeling you described, of having power and choices…”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I want everyone to feel. Those who are outside of communities feel the most powerless and desperate.”

“I’m not sure that’s true, Jordan. You tried to bring Starchild in, but he just took advantage of you.” He’s just an evil person, I thought, though I was sure Jordan would disagree.

“He lived here, but I was never able to bring him into the community. That was my failure.”

“You can’t fix everyone.”

“But I can provide for those in need.”

That much was true. The arcology minds, whatever their weird origins, offered a small respite from the rat race.

“Between you and Laurence, who’s in charge?” I asked.

“That’s not how it works, Nick. Laurence is not distinct from me—he’s another facet of my personality now. Our minds are merging—an ongoing process.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“I was not prepared to let your friend die.”

It was a trick of the mind, I realized, that I’d been thinking about Jordan as a person. An arcology mind was something different. Not only more powerful, but more flexible and malleable in ways I could not intuitively understand.

“I do have one last question for you, Jordan.”

“Yes?”

“The architects—the giant black slug-eel things. What do they eat?”

Jordan paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. I still couldn’t tell if he had a sense of humor or not. Was he just messing with me, or did his hesitation indicate that my worst fears were true, that the giant slugs devoured people in some dark, wet chamber.

“They’re omnivorous. But mostly they eat invasive jellyfish. Which have been a problem in the Atlantic waters with the warming trends. Very high in protein.”

I stopped by my apartment to gather the last of my possessions. When I left, the valve doors stayed open.

___

Copyright 2026 J.D. Moyer