I hold her close to me, listening to her breathe as she sleeps. Moisture beads up on the window. Condensation from FreeMarket’s micro-weather system. Not every day is bright and sunny. It’s got to rain sometime. Outside, it’s dark but for the soft blue-white and amber glow of street lighting, the gentle hum of the train as it circles the hub, gliding in near-silence on magical rails of polarized electrons.

Poetry changes when viewed through the prism of time and space. The concept of beauty is altered when seen through the veil of mathematics. In the dim light I study the fractals on the bed sheet, the geometry of her face, the measured rhythm of her heartbeat as she dreams. And what does she dream? I press my hand to her forehead. Her skin is warm, soft. Like me, she was born a few years after the Originals arrived. We both grew up exploring the corridors, the gardens, the refineries. Playing on the world’s largest jungle gym, tethered to unfinished webs of steel and spun carbon, floating through caverns of white, propelled by sticky-fingered gloves and booties. A life better than any kid could ask for, and better than any kid ever knew. Electrons spark between us and the circuit closes. I’m inside.

Our minds touch, a gauzy and indistinct barrier separating our memories. I skim the surface of her thoughts, then unfold the past like I’m unmaking origami butterflies. I see the first day we met. Her father’s funeral, before things changed for the better. The glow on her cheeks the first time we kissed. She stirs in the dream and I curl my fingers around that wisp of nascent ephemera. I draw it out. She’s holding a lovely little girl. Our daughter, I realize, when I see her bright smile and my tightly-curled black hair. Her father’s nose. My mother’s eyes.

My eyes open and I stare at the ceiling. My palm moves down to her belly and I imagine what it would be like to be a father. Especially a father here. No worries, no fears. So why am I worried? Why am I afraid?

She shifts again, moving onto her side. I press myself close to her, giving her one more embrace before getting out of bed. The monorail whispers past, the rain patters against the window. Heliostats in the ceiling unfold like flower petals, turning night into day. In a few minutes, the train’s passengers will see sunlight streaming down from the sky. At the next stop, they’ll be met by the bustling activity of the lunchtime crowd heading back to work.

Life here is perfect. No crime, no death, no sickness. So unlike the rest of the solar system. We didn’t find heaven. We made it. My unborn daughter would grow up surrounded by wonder and delight, able to be whatever she wanted to be. And she’d never grow old and frail like her grandfather. We’d live forever, the perfect family.

I shudder, pour myself a cup of coffee from the printer. Then: her footsteps. A hand on my bare shoulder. She says, “Come back to bed.” I tell her I can’t stop thinking about the future. She says not to worry. It’ll arrive in its own time, whether we like it to or not.

“Just come to bed. Don’t worry. Get some sleep.” And I stop worrying, just like that.

Suddenly, I am very tired. And I don’t remember what was keeping me awake.