Circa Tempore: the Artificial Organic
Copyright© 2026 by E. B. Redfield
Chapter 1
June 19th, 2027
Kayla snorted awake as her fourth alarm for the morning blared. She always set two decoy alarms to snooze through, but she had blown through them and the official alarm after. This was the, “Emergency! Red alert! Hope you were counting,” alarm. She rolled over and propped herself up, auburn hair dangling back down to the bed, obscuring her face. Her arms gave out and she flopped back into the pillow, eyes barely open. Groaning, she rolled to her side and sat up. She had been up late gaming and was paying the price now. As usual, she had no one to blame but herself.
Rubbing her eyes, she picked up her phone. It took her ten whole seconds to process the time: a quarter after seven. She gasped, jumped out of bed, and started pulling on a pair of black tights as she stumbled into the kitchen. Snapping the elastic waist into place, she grabbed the coffee pot and ran it under the sink. While it filled, she grabbed a bowl and poured herself a helping of boring adult cereal chock full of raisins and sadness. It was better for her, which of course meant it was depressing. She was closing in on thirty and beginning to understand what her grandfather had always meant when he complained about how aging sucked the joy out of life.
Once the coffeepot was sputtering, she went back to her room and finished dressing. A button up blouse and knee length skirt was what counted as bold and adventurous as she dared get for a day at the office. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and began applying a very modest amount of makeup. Smacking her lips to spread the gloss, she headed back to the kitchen. While she ate, she opened her socials and kept one eye trained on the clock in the corner of the screen while she doomscrolled.
A video with a headline about the growing tensions between the US and Canada over the boundary waters caught her eye and made her stomach do an anxious flip. She tapped it.
“So, remember how the president said he wouldn’t escalate the border dispute that has Canada ready to declare war? Well, in a twist that shocks absolutely no one, it turns out he lied,” the video’s narrator explained as a grainy shot of a military convoy on the move next to a road sign reading, “Ottawa: 300 miles.” “When asked about the deployment of the National Guard to the northern border, the president had this to say...”
Kayla swiped the video away, the cold feeling in her stomach escalating, and she suddenly didn’t feel up to finishing her cereal. A calendar alert chimed, diverting her attention. “Visit Mom.” Her grimace deepened as she looked at it. She would have to drive out tonight after karaoke with her friends, as her mom wanted to get breakfast in the morning. Her shoulders sagged as she considered the two-hour drive after what was sure to be a long night at the bar.
She went back to the bathroom, quickly brushed her teeth and grabbed her spironolactone pills. Downing them with a glass of water, she checked the clock on her phone again. It was ten to eight. She could make it on time, but only if she left immediately. Grabbing her purse, she headed for the door and glanced at her phone to check the weather, only to instead see a new email from her health insurance. She held her breath and a shaking finger over the notification for a moment, gritted her teeth, and tapped the email.
She scanned it eagerly, her expression and hope following her eyes downward as she saw yet another rejection with the instruction to get another opinion from yet another specialist. Angry tears filled her eyes and she fought the urge to throw her phone across the room. She stood for a few moments clenching her fists and fuming before remembering the time. Promising herself she would scream into her pillow later, she took a deep breath and walked out the door.
After a thankfully eventless commute, she arrived at her office. Using her lanyard, she opened the employee entrance on the side of the building for Golden City Financial. She rolled her eyes like she did every time she saw it. It was so arrogant to call your business, “Golden City.” It especially bothered her considering they lived in the twin cities. Maybe St. Paul Financial was already taken. If it did exist, maybe she should apply there and work for a company whose name made sense. She wanted to believe a company with a sensible name would offer health insurance that actually covered her needs.
Poking her head around the corners of the offices and cube farm for any sign of her boss, she made for her cubicle as inconspicuously as possible. For anyone else, being a few minutes late was a shrug of the shoulders, but not for her. It was a perfect excuse for the bossman to get on her case. She wanted to believe it was for any reason other than the obvious, but she knew better. He’d been blatantly, outwardly uncomfortable with her transition since she had started, and never failed to be cold with her over the most trivial of slights on her part.
Reaching her cube, she smoothed out her skirt and sat down. She booted up and began cycling through her to-do list for the day, which was when the morning caught up with her and she fought to stifle a yawn. She grabbed her coffee cup. It was going to be a long day.
“Looks like you having a fun morning already,” a voice she recognized said from the door of her cubicle. Silently willing the butterflies in her stomach to settle, she greeted her best friend, Craig Bello. He was leaning casually against the opening of her cubicle wearing his nice blue suit, though it was heavily wrinkled and his shirt was untucked on one side. His fade on the sides of his head had been growing back out and was a bit messy thanks to untended bed head. His deep brown eyes were bloodshot and there were dark bags under them. Like Kayla, he was also carrying an empty mug.
“Look who’s talking,” she retorted, “Where’d you party last night?”
“Thirty-Eight, like usual,” he replied. It was a bar/dance club close to his apartment. His voice was a little hoarse and he stifled a yawn.
“I could have guessed. Out late?” she teased, “Are you going to be able to stay awake tonight?”
“Meh, I’m good. You know me, I’ll get a good nap in at my desk,” he winked as they reached the coffee pot, “Honestly, it was a pretty normal Thursday. Drank more than I should have, though. Kinda hoped you’d be there,” This last part betrayed a hint of annoyance that Kayla didn’t miss. She’d canceled on him in favor of her gaming group ... who she was trying to make up for after cancelling on a few nights earlier.
“I’m sorry, I’ll be there tonight though, I promise,” she assured him, “Also, I have aspirin at my desk if you need,” she offered as she filled her cup.
“Nah,” Craig laughed, “I got some at my desk. Ay, speaking of tonight; you really driving all the way to your mom’s after closing the bar with us?”
“Yeah, though, I’m sure I’ll regret it,” Kalya groaned. They continued chatting until they reached Kayla’s cubicle, but stopped when they saw their boss standing just outside it, waiting for them with folded arms. He wore a crisp suit and a dour expression. Some people in the office swore he had a lovely smile and a pleasant personality, but the two of them rarely saw either.
“Marcus, are your clients better assisted at Ms. Grant’s desk, or your own?” the man’s voice was curt and deep. Craig flinched at it.
“Jesus, dad,” Craig said, “I was just saying good morning.”
“And now you have,” Mr. Bello replied to his son, “And for the last time, at this office you will refer to me as Mr. Bello, do you understand?”
“Sure, just as soon as you stop calling me Marcus,” Craig retorted, glaring at his father. He then turned back to Kayla, “See you, Kayla.”
“See you tonight!” she replied. Mr. Bello shot her the withering glare that always seemed reserved just for her, and she shrunk under it. She’d expected that it was too much to hope he wasn’t going to call out her tardiness, and sure enough Mr. Bello stepped in front of her, blocking passage. She flinched and jumped back.
“You were late again,” he admonished her. “This is the fourth time this month.”
“It was only a few minutes,” she retorted defensively, “I can’t control the traffic.”
“Four times is a pattern,” he dismissed her excuse. “You need to be at the office by eight thirty. I don’t want to have to tell you again.” She felt her face grow warm as echoes of her dad asking, “How many times do I need to tell you this,” haunted her memory.
“I’ll work on it,” she gritted her teeth, struggling to keep her tone level.