Ch. 009| Replay

06:32, Qiu Che woke before Skyvault's push. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

He sat up, and the first thing he did was look at the drawer. Locked. The second thing was look at his desk. Only Skylink sat on it. The third thing was raise his hand to the wall calendar—an outdated paper one his mother had bought two years back. She didn't read paper anymore; she used Skylink. But this one still hung there.

June 2065, the second Thursday.

To June 16—four days.

To the administrative-installation threshold—two weeks to a month, Gu Wen had said.

Two countdowns, running in parallel, each ticking down a notch every day.

---

07:15, Qiu Che stepped out the front door.

His mother was in the kitchen—she hadn't gone to work today, and Qiu Che didn't know why. She was cutting fruit, the same posture as yesterday, the same rhythm.

"Che, off to school?"

"Yeah."

"Five days you haven't gone." His mother's tone was completely natural. "The teacher called, said you should take care of your health."

"The teacher called," Qiu Che said. "When?"

"A few days ago, I think."

"Which days?"

"Can't remember. A few days ago," his mother said, and kept cutting fruit.

Qiu Che put on his shoes.

"Che," his mother said. "If they suggest you do something new, go along with it. I trust them."

Qiu Che paused for half a second and looked up at her.

His mother's eyes weren't empty—she was looking at him, as naturally as she did every time she spoke to him.

"Okay," Qiu Che said.

He shouldered his bag and walked out the door.

---

07:46, Qiu Che got off one stop before the Second High School's main gate.

At the gate, the pale blue crest, a closed ring.

For the past five days, whenever he looked at Skylink's map interface, he'd habitually let his eyes linger a beat longer on the "closed ring." Today he made a point of not looking.

He tapped Skylink through the turnstile.

Qiu Che, good morning. Arrival time 07:47, eight minutes early. Class 1-3 classroom, second floor, B205.

Word for word the same as five days ago. Even the time was precise to the minute.

---

Classroom B205. Qiu Che pushed the door open and went in.

Eleven people were already inside. The same eleven as the morning study period five days ago.

He walked up to seat 17B, stopped for a second, and confirmed it—the same eleven people. The same seats.

The boy diagonally across had his forehead propped on his right hand, his left hand tapping the desk—three taps, pause, three more taps.

Five days ago, in this same slot, that boy had had his forehead propped on his right hand, his left hand tapping the desk three times, pause, three more.

Qiu Che sat down.

His deskmate was already there.

"Morning," Cheng Yun said.

"Morning," Qiu Che said.

Cheng Yun lowered his head and went back to the math morning-study drills Skylink was feeding into his wristwatch.

Qiu Che opened his own Skylink morning-study interface. The screen showed the synced timetable—first period math drills, second period physics drills, third period English listening-and-reading—exactly the same as five days ago.

He pulled up the record from five days ago.

Five days ago, first-period math drills, fifteen problems, three involving differentiation. Today, first-period math drills, fifteen problems, three involving differentiation. Different problem numbers, different phrasing—but he was sure of it: those three problems were the same kind of variation on the same differential structure.

---

10:20, second-period physics drills ended.

Students rose one after another and filed out of the classroom—the flow was orderly, the same flow as five days ago.

Qiu Che didn't get up. He held his seat deliberately, wanting to see whether Cheng Yun would speak to him first today.

Three seconds later, Cheng Yun turned his head.

"What's with you today?" Cheng Yun asked.

Qiu Che froze for half a second.

Five days ago, in this same between-class slot, Cheng Yun had turned his head and said the exact same thing in the exact same tone.

"Nothing," Qiu Che said—the same answer as five days ago.

"You took a lot of days off last week," Cheng Yun said. "Did the teacher come looking for you?"

Not a line from five days ago.

"No," Qiu Che said, then probed: "Did you notice I wasn't here these past few days?"

Cheng Yun's expression froze for 0.3 seconds.

"No," Cheng Yun said. "I thought you were here."

"I wasn't."

"Oh," Cheng Yun said, then thought a moment and added: "But the teacher didn't come looking for you either."

The second half—word for word the same as five days ago.

Qiu Che nodded and tried again: "I came in last Saturday. Do you remember?"

"Last Saturday?" Cheng Yun thought for three seconds. "Last Saturday we had an English quiz. I got seventy-two."

"After the quiz, you said something to me. You remember?" Qiu Che asked.

"Don't remember," Cheng Yun said. "Said what?"

"'Teacher says next period's moved to the lab. I'll head over first,'" Qiu Che said.

Cheng Yun's expression froze for 0.5 seconds.

"Don't think I said that," Cheng Yun said. "We didn't have a lab class last Saturday afternoon."

"I know," Qiu Che said. "But last Saturday you said it to me."

Cheng Yun gave a small laugh, a little unnatural—more unnatural than any of his reactions before.

"Oh," Cheng Yun suddenly looked up at his Skylink. "Teacher says next period's moved to the lab. I'll head over first."

He stood and walked out of the classroom.

Qiu Che sat where he was, watching Cheng Yun's back.

On today's timetable, the next period after physics was English listening-and-reading, not lab.

---

10:32, Skylink pushed into Qiu Che's ear canal:

Mr. Qiu Che, the school health office requests an interview. Location: third floor, staff zone C, the Health Assessment Room. We recommend you come now.

"We recommend you come now." Not "please book an appointment"—"we recommend now."

Qiu Che picked up his bag and walked out of the classroom. The hallway sensor light strip came on, guiding him toward the third floor.

The Health Assessment Room. Qiu Che pushed the door open and went in.

Inside, a single chair, a small table, and a thin screen interface on the table. No human.

Mr. Qiu Che, please be seated. This health assessment is a routine follow-up, expected to take three minutes.

Qiu Che sat down.

The screen lit up and a line of text appeared:

Your perception-deviation accumulated value this week: 1.47
Standard ceiling: 1.50
Advanced-module installation recommendation: strong

The line below:

You have not yet confirmed an advanced-module installation booking this week. This system requires your response:
[Book installation now]
[Book installation within this week]
[Book installation next week]

Qiu Che looked at the three options.

"Book installation now" was what Skyvault wanted. "Book installation within this week" was what Skyvault could accept. "Book installation next week"—was the furthest Qiu Che could stall it right now.

There was no "decline" option.

He tapped "Book installation next week."

The screen held for a second.

Your response has been logged. The system will arrange a booking slot for you next Monday; the confirmation push will arrive within forty-eight hours. This process is coordinated jointly by the health office and school administration.

"Coordinated jointly by the health office and school administration." A new phrase.

Qiu Che stood up and walked out of the Health Assessment Room.

---

12:00, lunch.

Qiu Che sat at the cafeteria spot nearest the window—the same spot as five days ago. His bag sat at his feet. In the bag's inner pocket, Gu Wen's card.

He wanted to contact her, to ask whether "coordinated jointly by the health office and school administration" was the midpoint of "escalating to the administrative-installation process," whether the choice he'd just made had been the wrong button to press.

But Gu Wen had said the card activated once a week; any more and something would go wrong. It had been less than twenty-four hours since yesterday's call.

Qiu Che couldn't dial.

He sat and ate the meal the cafeteria sent over—high protein with a low-glycemic staple, a menu matched to this week's exercise load on Skyvault. He ate at the same speed, the same rhythm, as anyone else at his table.

From the outside, Qiu Che was the most ordinary student in the cafeteria today.

---

15:30, the dismissal bell—the same nonexistent bell—Skylink pushed into Qiu Che's ear canal: "Mr. Qiu Che, the seventh period has ended. Please leave the school per procedure."

Qiu Che packed his bag, walked out of the classroom, and headed for the gate.

At the second-floor stairwell, the homeroom teacher, Mr. Chen, came out of the staff lounge at just that moment.

The same spot, the same slot, as five days ago.

"Qiu Che, come here a sec."

The same opening, word for word, as five days ago.

"Mr. Chen." Qiu Che walked over.

"You gave a response at the health office this morning," Mr. Chen said. "I got the notice on my end."

"Mm," Qiu Che said.

"You chose 'book next week.'"

"Yeah."

Mr. Chen looked at Qiu Che for three seconds.

"I'm not going to talk you into accepting," Mr. Chen said. "But let me tell you one thing—the school's administrative level and the health station's medical level are different record systems. Choosing 'book next week' at the health office is the same as 'didn't book within this week.' The school side gets that record too, and it'll affect your comprehensive evaluation next term."

"Comprehensive evaluation."

"Yes," Mr. Chen said. "Not a big deal, but it'll affect what the school writes in your recommendation letter when you apply for further study."

As Mr. Chen said this, the instant he reached the word "recommendation letter," his gaze drifted slightly to the left—the same spot, the same angle, as five days ago when he'd said "if."

The same Skylink prompt he'd read five days ago.

"I understand, Mr. Chen," Qiu Che said.

"Good," Mr. Chen said, paused, and added a line: "You don't have to choose the way I said. Think it through for yourself."

Mr. Chen nodded, turned, and walked back into the staff lounge.

Qiu Che stood at the stairwell for three seconds.

The instant Mr. Chen reached the word "recommendation letter," his gaze drifted left. The same spot, the same angle, as that time five days ago when he'd said "if." Who had written the words, Qiu Che couldn't tell now. But that little drift—Skyvault hadn't written that.

---

17:08, Qiu Che got back to his own apartment.

His mother was in the kitchen—she'd been here all day today.

"Che, how was the health station?"

"Didn't go to the health station, went to school."

"Oh, right, school," his mother said. "Did the teacher say anything about your health?"

"He did."

"What did he say?"

"He said my evaluation next term would be affected."

His mother's expression froze for 0.5 seconds.

"Then you—" his mother said, and didn't finish.

"I'll handle it," Qiu Che said.

His mother looked at Qiu Che for three seconds, then turned back to cutting vegetables. She didn't ask what kind of effect, didn't ask how Qiu Che planned to handle it.

---

Qiu Che went into his room, locked the door, and sat at his desk.

He took the notebook key from the inner pocket of his jacket, turned the drawer open, pulled out the notebook, and flipped to the page with Gu Wen's note.

The note read:

June 16, 2065, 18:30
The end of the alley beside No. 287, east side of the Third Ring Road

In the bottom right corner of the note, with a mechanical pencil, Qiu Che wrote, small:

Four days left

He paused, then wrote more:

At the health office today chose "book next week" (furthest of three), confirmation push within 48 hours. No "decline" option.
Administrative-installation threshold originally estimated two weeks to a month; today perception-deviation accumulated value 1.47 / 1.50.
Deskmate Cheng Yun replayed my words from five days ago verbatim today.
Homeroom teacher Mr. Chen said "you don't have to choose the way I said," with the same little gaze-drift as five days ago.

New page.

I don't have four days.

One line only, alone.

He locked the notebook back in the drawer.

Only Skylink was left on the desk—the card still in the bag's inner pocket, the note locked in the drawer.

Outside, the evening on the Seventh Ring Road, the driverless cars turning on schedule, the ad-projection boards cycling on schedule.

To June 16—still four days. But with each day that passed, four would become three, would become two, would become one, would become zero.

That day would arrive before Qiu Che had thought it through.

【Ch. 009 End · home, Seventh Ring Road, the New Capital → the Second High School, Sixth Ring Road → home apartment, Seventh Ring Road】