“Modern scientists denote three sorts of beings. Humans, evolved on the savanna, seizing both fruit and tools. Then there are those made, not born. Type One, which describes holograms, these fae of light and intelligence. Type Two are the greater minds, the AC’s, the artificial consciousnesses which steer the arcologies and the camps. Some, have suggested Deputies, and later Proxies, should be a Type Three.” - extract Iron Legion II, by Jean Dubowsky, 2095, Federated Press

The surfer rode the waves; a hawk cried out, and the smell of barbecue hung in the air. Martin put a finger on the tablet and paused his reading. They were all around him. They were swimming, playing in the surf and he even saw someone make a little castle. He looked to the east, spotting the faint curve of the crescent beach. He drove one hand through the ivory sand. He placed a single grain of it in his mouth. Coarse.

Martin glanced up at a sky painted in striations, the better to mimic the real deal.

A faint susurration of wind streamed across his skin.

He grabbed his tablet to make a comparison.

“Small wonder they look down us.”

Outside, in the real world, the temperature was several degrees lower and there were definitely less moisture in the air. A fistful of sand he let loose, watching as it drifted.There was no beach with sand this color anywhere in Sweden.

He chanced a look at the water, attempting to see if he could make out a crack, some sort of flaw in the vista before him. But the longer he stared, the more he came to realise that the makers of the Vänern Arcology had created a small habitat. A world within in a world, dozens of them in this arcology.

And supposedly Vänern Arcology was the smallest one in Sweden.

Like he had said. No wonder they despised the people outside. Martin’s knuckles were turning white, bereft of blood. How petty Camp Sala must look to someone from Stockholm Arcology, with its metal-modules and its formulators that were twice as old as he was. With its skeleton of ceramacrete, how could anything made of mundane metal and stone compare? The mud and its squalor, the filt of…

They had all this, and they wouldn’t share? His knuckles began to ache. How could they?

“You are exhibiting a higher pulse than baseline. Would you like some help?”

“No,” Martin answered, blood returning. The hologram paused, albeit reluctantly.

“Can I be of any service?”

“You could answer a simple question.”

“Very well.”

“Why is that this-“ Martin made a wave, as if to somehow encompass the artificial beach, the sky that was not and the happy people-“isn’t available to all?”

The hologram paused. A week ago, as he’d found himself without a bathroom and desperately needing one, the hologram had manifested. Each of the apartments had one, really. It could light up his apartment, give him advice and on occasion remind him that he had a standing appointment to go to.

A hand as dark as his one scratched a beardless chin. When asked what appearance to take, Martin had told him to take the form of his father. In retrospect, it was either a genius move or a complete disaster.

“The answer to your question is difficult to parse. Would you like the long answer or the short one?”

Martin stared at the hologram, the ghost of his father.

“The short one.” Suddenly, he couldn’t bear to see this artificial consciousness with his father’s face and a stranger’s voice. A Type II artificial creature mimicking a life.

“The devices known as formulators would enable anyone to create discrete substances such as the water of this ‘lake’ or the ‘sand’ you are sitting on.”

The hologram paused. Scratched his bald head. So lifelike.

“As for the skeletal infrastructure which holds up the arcology… that is a resource that remains scarce, in part due to the nature of its accquisition.”

The hologram nodded, gaining traction as it spoke.

“To further compound the issue, while the ability to improve the conditions of the various camps in Sweden exist, there is a lack of will.”

Martin sipped from his beer. Though formulated, just as the beer back in the camp, there was something off about it. No gunk to clog the formulators, perhaps?

“Of course there is no will to improve the lot of the poor,” Martin said, anger colouring his tone. Why would the citizens of the arcology improve the mud of the Camp? There would always be a need for citizens with Access 1 or provisional lanyards. A desperate crowd, willing to work for crumbs.

Martin shook his head. There would always be such people. Back before the Devastation, the greater cities of Europe had slums, now the arcologies had camps. Even so, something about the notion galled him.

How easy it was, Martin thought. To divide into them and us. The rich and the poor. He pulled out the piece of paper - the symbolism of an actual physical material not lost on him - even though he had memorised the contents.

A number, and below it, a message.

Whenever you are ready.

He stared up at the fake sky and wondered whether he was ready.