In the future, hope will still be important. But so will efficiency.

Each time Hatch awakens for another double shift as a highly trained diode in a pan-galactic Centipede arcade cabinet, he feels a bit more of his individual identity slipping away. His only consolation is that he was a fairly nasty person to begin with.

Fasban seized my cloak. “Why didn’t you stuff the bottle in your pocket, Hatch? Or at least some of the food? Do you have any idea how hungry I am?”

“It would have cost us time,” I said. “You know the machine doesn’t like it when we pocket food. And we need to hurry.”

Fasban shook me. “You dirty lout! I love wine.”

I knocked his hand away. Years before, he might have bashed me in the face for this. But like Gariana and I, he had been worn down, and now Fasban simply shook his head, sighed, and walked away. I felt a twinge of pity for him—and for the reflection of myself that I saw in him.

When three children find themselves inexplicably trapped inside their house, “Try the door” seems to be a likely escape plan. But two other strategies may be even more effective.

And then Robin went off. She’d throw back her head and suck in a huge breath and start talking very loud and very fast, with her arms going up and down, as if she were physically pumping the words out. She’d tell the stranger our names, our ages, our favorite colors, our least favorite vegetables, and our address. This only took a few seconds, and then she’d start over from the top. Usually she got through her recitation four or five times before the person backed away. Nobody could understand what she said, but Damer and I couldn’t get that fact into Robin’s head.

I trusted in the voices on the other side of the wall. At least those were real.