The treadmill was old and rickety, its cracked belt threatening to snap under her feet and send any unbalanced runner tumbling onto the steel rollers. Athra kept pounding it anyway. The risk amped her up, spiking her adrenaline on top of the runner's high. Her ankles hummed; her side stung. She glanced at the display underfoot, then back to the gray, lifeless wall.

  Athra smirked. If the belt gave way and she got hurt, the gym owner would foot the bill—and punitive damages. Even if it bankrupted him. Fair? Partly. Cold-blooded? Absolutely.

  The fourth mile ticked over. Her tank top was soaked, her face burning. She knew they were watching, knew what they wanted. Ignoring it felt more natural than embarrassment or pride. It passed for arrogance—thank God.

  A year in the psychocorrection capsule hadn't given her the easy joy normal people felt. Just more masks. She owed it to her family that she was out at all—especially Matias.

  Athra stepped off, head spinning. A year ago, emerging from the capsule, she could barely stand. Her family had expected joy. They got irritation. None knew how bad it had been—except maybe Markus.

  "Ath, what're you doing out there?" Matias's voice in her ear.

  "Picking up parts, Mat." They never said hello or goodbye. It kept the illusion they were always connected.

  "Your annual social check-in's due. Alpha says you passed?"

  "Unlike you, Alpha just needs to see I'm under control. In detail."

  "Don't tell me you cut a deal with Alpha."

  "Okay, I won't."

  She smirked as she entered the locker room, peeling off sweat-soaked clothes. Shower, then back to her rented room on the next sector. Not the best spot—she could afford better—but what did it matter? Bed, shower, coffee maker, desk. Even if mice scurried behind the panels.

  "Ath!" Markus waited by her door, a childhood friend, one of her two closest. He pushed off the wall but froze when she did.

  "What're you doing here? How'd you find the room?" She closed the gap, tapping the scanner.

  "Your parents sent me. I'm supposed to bring you home."

  "Yeah." She smirked, blocking his hug. "Volunteered, I bet?"

  "Alpha, you gave him the room number?"

  "Correct, Athra. Post-isolation adaptation suspends some civil liberties."

  "Splendid." She stepped inside. "Where's your faithful little dog?”

  “Pete? Don't call him that."

  "Why'd you leave? Running from me?"

  "What if I was?"

  "I'd never buy that. You don't run from anyone."

  "Then why ask?" Athra shrugged. "Coffee?"

  "It's almost midnight, Ath. Coffee?"

  "Nothing else."

  Mark didn't need anything. He grabbed her wrists, kissed her hard. She could bite—he knew it—but didn't pull away. Until she shoved his chest.

  "Enough, Mark."

  She waited until his dazed gaze focused on her face.

  "Why?"

  "I already told you. I don't want to lose a friend."

  "It should be the other way around!"

  "You don't understand…"

  "Well, explain then! Not the dumbest in the universe, I'd think."

  "Statistics say…"

  "No stats. Without all that… explain like a human! We've been together since childhood. We were fine before we slept together and will be after! Why don't you want to just, like all normal people, move to the next stage, calmly accept me in an… additional role in your life? Damn... I can't imagine my life without you, and you obviously can't either. Why can't we just be together, since it happened and, well, it turned out okay?"

  "It was an accident. Pure adrenaline."

  "The first time maybe. And then? The second, third?"

  "Experience, physical desire, a sense of closeness."

  "And what about all that doesn't suit you? Let it be a fucking experience of shared life with someone who matters to you. What's the problem?"

  "Statistics say…" Athra shrugged as he slapped his forehead and heavily dropped onto a kitchen stool. "Alright… I don't want to fight with you."

  "You can't fight with me, Ath. Or with yourself. Proven by experience."

  "Anything can happen. You could fall in love. For real, not with the girl you've known since diapers. I could too… or maybe not, but it's not impossible. Something could pull us apart; the chance of that is high. And then I'd be left not only without a lover in you but also without a friend. You're not into open relationships."

  "Ath, I love you, I want you, and we could very well be a couple. Don't fill your head with that nonsense and be my girl. I know you well enough to be skeptical about you suddenly meeting the love of your life. Just give us a chance—we've already done half the journey and we're good together. Both before we started sleeping together and after."

  "And you…" Athra's look showed mocking surprise, "you've gotten talkative, I see. I didn't notice in the capsule that you were… maturing and getting smarter."

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  "I've had plenty of time to sort out my priorities. Especially since you got locked in a capsule for a whole year because of me."

  "So, our connection wasn't an accident? You planned it?"

  Markus realized he was caught and shrugged—a gesture characteristic of her.

  "I don't feel for you what I'd want to feel for my boyfriend."

  He hesitated, frozen, unable to find words. Then he waved a hand at her and stood up.

  "Go to hell, Ath. Got your experience, satisfied your physical desire, sense of closeness? Enjoy, 'friend'. Don't choke on it."

  "Mark! Damn…" She made a guilty face, but her friend's look told her he didn't believe in its sincerity. "You're eighteen! Who else are you supposed to love and want if, following your father's example, you instinctively pick the best?"

  Markus laughed out loud. Athra had no masks for such occasions and no experience in such dialogues either. So that didn't work. What other options?

  "Your ego alone would knock out any opponent in the ring without technique or Anachron. That's just a knockout!" Markus admitted, laughing.

  "What about in a year, in five years? Maybe you're fine with everything now, but what if I want to leave? Would you let me, staying a friend? Admit it to yourself! There wouldn't even be a discussion! You know that. At best, I'd manage to just leave without destroying you physically or mentally."

  Markus stopped smiling, admitting she was right. Even staying friends who occasionally woke up in the same bed was unlikely. For her, yes; but not for him. Unlike Athra, he was a normal person—feeling, loving, attaching, with a clearly defined sense of ownership and her untouchability by others.

  "Honestly, I don't want to be your friend, Ath. Childhood's over. There's nothing appealing in that anymore. I want more. Even if, as you put it, you lose a friend. Are you ready to trade me here and now for these distant prospects of yours?"

  "No."

  "What's already happened can't be undone. We're already more than just friends. Whether you admit it or not, it's a fact. You either accept it or go to hell. I can't do otherwise. I don't want it any other way. The way it was before is simply not enough for me now."

  Athra sighed and turned to the old coffee maker, an alien bulk in the middle of the narrow kitchen countertop. The monotonous buzzing dispelled the silence, softened the domestic simplicity of the living space, ennobling it with action, purpose, and the promise of achieving it within a couple of minutes.

  The coffee maker's buzz resonated with the work of her own gears, grinding the mush in her head. If only something would prick in her chest. If only some sign that this guy was more important than planning and risk protection. Staking a claim on a person as a friend, especially if you've known them since infancy—that was just social tactics. But there must be something deeper, even animalistic, something at gut level… a sensation signaling value. Not an argument of reason, but an emotion. Not calculation, but feeling.

  "It's hard for me, Mark," she admitted.

  The coffee maker sputtered and fell silent.

  "Because of your planning," Markus said quietly, "we could lose each other. Or we could just... be together. I know fear doesn't stop you. But you can't calculate a relationship like a factory floor. And you know you don't need to defend yourself with me. Could anyone ever understand you better than I do?"

  The look on Athra's face eloquently expressed suspicion that what he'd said was a monologue thought over and repeated to himself many times. Obviously, Markus had run through all her possible excuses in his head more than once and was habitually preparing for battle.

  "Mark, I don't want a serious relationship with you, and I don't want to lose you."

  "That's the kind of 'I don't want' that wants too much. It won't work."

  "Let's consider other options and find a compromise."

  "You sound like you're in a board meeting, Ath. Well, let's consider."

  "Everything stays as before. Like before I left home turf the day before yesterday."

  "That's your compromise?"

  "Yes."

  "And I get no chance at anything more?"

  "You know I'm unlikely capable of more. Accept what is, since you brag about that ability."

  Markus gave a joyless smile and bowed his head. He looked like his father—a man known as devastatingly handsome. But no one had called Markus that in years. The scars had seen to that. With his head down, hair falling over his face, he looked like a wounded beast—the kind you didn't pity, the kind gathering itself for one last leap.

  "Alright," he agreed, and something flickered in his eyes. Hope.

  Athra accepted this hope with her inherent coldness, handing over the reins to the process she'd set in motion. If something broke, she could fix it. But if this friendship, now standing on shaky ground, collapsed on their heads and buried the last chance for restoration, there would be no one to blame. She had tried to eliminate the risks. Now she had to not let the risks eliminate them. Or… solve the issue a bit differently.

  The bed was hard and uncomfortable for two. At night, mice scratched again, making Markus rise on his elbows, turn on the light, and listen intently to the rustling, peering at the ceiling.

  Markus hated three things: space travel, mice, and dogs. The last for obvious reasons—the scars on his face.

  Markus had known Athra since childhood. He was one of the few who understood her—really understood. The rest were just chess pieces.

  "Matias will be here soon. Planning to get up?"

  Athra had already showered, dressed, and made coffee. Startled, Markus opened his eyes and stared at his friend.

  "Why?"

  "To find out what I'm doing here and how Alpha let me out of home turf, apparently."

  "By the way, I wouldn't mind knowing either."

  Markus woke up instantly—fully conscious, ready to fight. It was irritating. A person had a right to grogginess. If her brother weren't coming, Athra would still be in bed, curled against him, breathing softly, her hair loose—a rare sight. She woke up almost normal then—tender, sleepy, affectionate. Then the real Athra switched on.

  The nights they'd spent together could be counted on one hand, but every morning he'd jump up and launch into frenetic activity, irritating with his cheerfulness. Today, for the first time, she'd gotten up first and even managed to get herself in order. Apparently, the sleepless night had taken its toll on him.

  "Ask her who's stopping you?"

  Markus was already on his feet, looking for his clothes. After indication where everything was, he glanced at his friend and, deciding a kiss would be too much for her current mood.

  "Did you do everything you wanted here?" he called out soon from the shower.

  "Assuming the version that I ran away from you?"

  "Yes!"

  She didn't answer, sipping the first of several daily cups of coffee with a smirk. Not getting a reply, Markus didn't ask again. He came out, drying off hurriedly. Water dripped from his hair, running down his dark skin. Athra studied him—like a device she'd built herself. Powerful. Graceful. If she were designing clones, she'd use this body as a model. Achieving such balance was non-trivial.

  "Am I that funny?" Markus reacted to her smile. This answer literally meant that

  "If you die, will the cloning vat reproduce your scars?"

  "I might not even pass synch, so I'm in no hurry to die. Eighty-six percent is significantly less than required for peace of mind about your own life."

  "Immortality, you mean."

  "Why are you asking? I think being an R-synch is worse than being an N-synch—at least they have no illusions. I'm not planning to take risks like my father or Matias. In any case, I don't remember any mentions of scars in the contract. My parents know for sure; I didn't look into it. I think there's nothing like that there. So what's funny?"

  "And muscle mass? I mean, assuming you're a synch? This ideal balance of strength and endurance, these honed instincts—will they transfer to the clone?"

  "Of course, I'll have to sweat to fully recover, but the physical mass, with a difference of up to five percent, will be what the data was recorded from during the procedure."

  "And Alpha won't confuse the mass of piss and shit in you with muscle mass?"

  Matias would have growled now, splaying his fingers; Una would have laughed heartily; her mother would have frowned disapprovingly; her father would have scowled. Markus just shrugged, raising his eyebrows as if he hadn't considered such a question, and answered sincerely:

  "I hope not."

  Athra burst out laughing. He didn't join her, just smiled. "You think clones have the same life support as people in capsules? Think it'll be bad?"

  "I'm not thinking anything. Forget it."

  She waved him off. Markus's seriousness was annoying. You couldn't joke with him.

  "So, are you done here? The only transport leaves at three, and I don't want to miss it."

  "Of course, you can't miss training," Athra nodded with feigned seriousness.

  "I'm already missing today's training, Ath, and letting Rob down too. So, are you flying?"

  "I'm flying."

  "And Mat? Is he flying home or just passing by?"

  "Don't know. If home, we could go with him. I have cargo in the warehouse; we could save."