Zhao Meiyou wasn’t cut out for fine mechanical work like disassembly. He was a butcher by trade—give him a wrench, and he’d prefer a cleaver any day. The cockpit looked like a slaughterhouse as a result, with mangled limbs scattered in jagged chunks here and there. Following Qian Duoduo’s directions, he extracted a chip from the wrist, the heart, the abdominal cavity, and one calf.
Qian Duoduo was just a head now, propped up on the control console. His lips parted and closed. “Put them back together.”
Zhao Meiyou did as instructed. He found an interface on the console and slotted the chips in. A blue progress bar appeared on the screen, crawling along as it parsed the data.
In the meantime, Zhao Meiyou struggled to reassemble the abdominal cavity, hoping to restore some mobility to the artificial human. Qian Duoduo dragged his half-torso and one left arm over to a toolbox and began piecing himself back together bit by bit.
The cockpit fell silent during the wait for the data to finish loading. After a brief pause, Zhao Meiyou scratched his cheek. “Brother Qian, can’t you just transform back right away?”
“I could.” Qian Duoduo had a screw in his mouth. “But artificial human limbs use high-precision transformation. It drains too much energy, and we might have a tough fight ahead. Conserve stamina first.”
Zhao Meiyou was curious about the “Borrow Smoke” ability, but now wasn’t the time to pry. He glanced out the window. The late 22nd-century vista differed wildly from the scattered records in the Metropolis archives. He’d imagined a smog-choked hellscape drowned in light pollution: streets ruled by thugs, living space crammed into U-shaped tower clusters and sewers, pills dissolving in the rain.
Of course, plus artificial humans and space colonization.
“It’s on autopilot now.” Qian Duoduo pressed a button on the console. “The night view outside is simulated footage. To sightsee, disable the scenic overlay first.”
An indicator light flickered on. Ripples like water spread across the porthole, revealing the real world.
It was a city blanketed in snow.
Snowflakes swirled in the air, but they brought no chill or desolation—only a sense of pristine clarity. Towering buildings pierced the clouds with stark geometric lines, colossal and otherworldly. Some resembled pyramids; plazas like the Acropolis hovered beneath a web of skyways—straight, transparent lanes like crystalline arteries. Streamlined shuttles and sleek airships touched down now and then. The structures gleamed in white marble, flowing mercury, polished alloys, and bronze. It was impossible to picture pollution here. Everything was immaculate and orderly—a utopian paradise in the snow.
Zhao Meiyou: “Oh.”
A distant beam of light pulsed in the far off distance, like a lighthouse sweeping its spotlight. Zhao Meiyou tapped the porthole to lock and zoom in. The glow came from a distinctive building shaped like a gun barrel, its exterior sheathed in copper-tinted glass. But the structure itself didn’t catch his eye. By Metropolis standards, its height was modest. What stunned him were the figures in astronaut-like suits hovering in midair around it—what he took for a fire crew.
If he wasn’t mistaken, the entire building was encased in a massive glass enclosure.
Like a specimen case for displaying artifacts, or a standalone museum cabinet—only scaled up enormously. Zhao Meiyou gauged the proportions: the glass shell outside stood at least four hundred meters tall.
“That’s a ‘display case,'” Qian Duoduo’s voice came from behind him. “Built to preserve historic architecture. That building’s about two hundred years old. Its original name was the Mercury City Building.”
No wonder the surroundings had felt 21st-century when Zhao Meiyou first entered the site.
“That’s where we just escaped from. The airship smashed through the glass dome. The display case maintains constant temperature, humidity, and neutron radiation levels inside. Those are repair crews.” Qian Duoduo gestured at the suited figures Zhao Meiyou had mistaken for firefighters as he tapped the console. “Here’s some info on Ideal City. Take a look.”
“Ideal City?” Zhao Meiyou repeated the name.
Qian Duoduo pulled up a document. “It used to be called Moscow.”
Back in the distant 20th century, during the Soviet era, the city had sprouted modernists and futurist structures by the dozen—hulking masses of concrete, steel, and glass infused with utopian vibes and space-age whimsy. Towering sculptures symbolized the collective might: the Soviet Palace, Yekaterinburg Circus, Robot and Cybernetics Institute… Many landmarks dated from that time.
Amid the monumental heavy industry, airy space dreams fused with modernism’s edge, erecting a poignant, romantic Soviet vision.
Ideal City of the late 22nd century rose from the ruins of that shattered epic, but refined and spotless—like a pure crystal lattice from the atomic age. Clean energy powered it all. The chaos of neon underbellies, fossil fuel smog, and endless war cycles lay sealed beyond the city walls.
It felt just like a Brave New World.
Zhao Meiyou dredged up Huxley’s descriptions. “They don’t use the Bokanovsky Process to screen embryos here, do they?”
“This is Diao Chan’s main stomping grounds for exploration. I don’t come often.” Qian Duoduo had reassembled his upper body, sidestepping the question. “How much do you know about the 22nd century?”
“Not much.” Zhao Meiyou admitted. “My college major wasn’t history.”
Qian Duoduo tossed him a prompt. “The Metropolis bans: first two.”
Zhao Meiyou got it. “Artificial human tech and space colonization peaked at the end of the 22nd century.”
“Right—hand me my thigh, thanks.” Qian Duoduo took the left leg from Zhao Meiyou and rewrapped the exposed fiber-optic veins with insulating tape. “I’ve been here a few days longer than you, and I figured something out. In the 22nd century—at least the version in Site S45.” He adjusted his words. “Artificial human tech actually comes in many varieties.”
This was outside Zhao Meiyou’s wheelhouse. He made a welcoming gesture, all ears.
Qian Duoduo didn’t lecture at length. “The main two: gene-humans and mech-humans.”
A chime sounded from the console—the parse complete. Qian Duoduo skimmed it, extracted an image, and split-screened it in front of Zhao Meiyou: anatomical side views of two human bodies.
“The big difference between gene-humans and mech-humans is whether the brain is original-issue.” Qian Duoduo explained. “Artificial humans in this era swapped meat bodies for bionic frames to extend life. Gene-humans gestate in wombs and keep their native brains. Mech-humans are fully factory-made, with brains running on neural programs.”
Zhao Meiyou: “Reason versus emotion?”
“That’s one distinction.” Qian Duoduo hummed in agreement. “Plenty more. Neural programs can get hacked, for instance. Gene-humans have shorter lifespans overall—native brains only stay fresh for twenty years.”
“What about cloning the brain?” Thanks to Liu Qijue, Zhao Meiyou had picked up some neuroscience. “Clone the original brain and swap at freshness expiry—couldn’t that grant gene-humans immortality too?”
“Cloning copies structure only. Memories and thought patterns form post-birth from environment—can’t clone those.” Qian Duoduo pulled another image. “Classic case: a gene-human swapped for a clone brain. Behavior reverted to infant levels. By the end of the new growth cycle, it wasn’t the same person at all.”
Zhao Meiyou caught Qian Duoduo’s wording. “You called it ‘human’?”
“Yeah, that’s a concept I just pieced together.” Qian Duoduo fitted the left leg and tried standing. Zhao Meiyou hurried to steady him. Qian Duoduo’s left hand gripped his shoulder. “22nd-century ideas of ‘artificial humans’ clash hard with our modern assumptions.”
Thanks to tech regression and Metropolis tech lockdowns, folks today had shallow takes on artificial humans. Zhao Meiyou, for example: lab-made bionics, not born of woman; tougher organs than baseline humans; tied to space colonies. He couldn’t go deeper.
“When I first got here, I figured like you: Brave New World setup, castes by species, artificial humans as the slaves.” Qian Duoduo steadied himself, meeting Zhao Meiyou’s eyes. “But once you grasp gene-humans and mech-humans, it flips. Gene-humans with native brains—aren’t they still human? Mech-humans with sharper, more rational neural programs—aren’t they human evolution perfected?”
“What’s human essence? Womb-forged flesh? Or the brain two hundred thousand years in the making?”
“What defines the soul?”
Zhao Meiyou answered without thinking. “Shouldn’t the brain trump the flesh?”
“Don’t underrate womb-born flesh.” Qian Duoduo said. “When a mother carries a child, she wields godlike power: creating life. DNA sparks it all, and the gene strands coiled in our bodies stretch farther than the solar system. In other words, a womb can birth a universe.”
Spare me—I barely passed college. Zhao Meiyou thought. Is this guy a cultist or an academic?
If some classmate dragged him into this debate back in school, he’d deck them.
Qian Duoduo turned to splice on his final piece, the right leg. “I haven’t fully cracked Ideal City’s class structure yet, but I picked up word: they’re hunting an experimental subject in the city. She’s caused major chaos.”
Zhao Meiyou: “What kind of experimental subject?”
“The files I swiped are incomplete.” Qian Duoduo slid the remaining docs over. An image of a woman.
“This is an artificial human—abdominal mods.” Qian Duoduo pointed to her lower belly. “Can’t tell yet if gene or mech.”
“Since artificial humans can be experimental subjects in Ideal City, we can conclude one thing.” Qian Duoduo added. “At least one group—gene-humans or mech-humans—is enslaved here.”
Qian Duoduo finished the right leg. The cockpit stayed quiet throughout. He turned to Zhao Meiyou. “What?”
Zhao Meiyou had been silent a long time. “I know this woman.”
“In the real world, she’s Diao Chan’s mother.”
Zhao Meiyou and Diao Chan had met on a rainy night at age sixteen.
Back then, Zhao Meiyou hadn’t started working part-time at the Pork Shop yet, but he was already a regular customer. Every month, he’d pay the boss a little something to use the shop’s massive meat grinder. That night, the rain poured down in sheets, drowning out the roar of the refrigeration unit. He was crouched by the sink washing his hands when the plastic roller shutter suddenly flew up with a sharp rattling crack, like knives slicing through thunder.
The boy who burst in wore a black face mask, his eyes fierce and stubborn but not quite feral enough. Zhao Meiyou took one glance and pegged him for a runaway from the Upper District. Even in a rage, the kid had a touch of class. His leather shoes were soaked in mud, but once he took them off and wiped them clean, they’d still fetch a good price on the black market.
Zhao Meiyou looked away from the boy and twisted the faucet tight. He drawled slowly, “Meat’s all sold out. Come back tomorrow if you want to buy some…”
Before he could finish, a gang of people stormed into the shop. The leader charged straight at the boy, trying to pin him to the floor. But the kid suddenly snatched a boning knife from the counter and thrust it forward. The blade came out white and went in red. Both sides erupted into a brawl.
Zhao Meiyou finished washing his hands. He could tell the kid had learned some self-defense at home—his moves were precise and polished, standard young master fare. Unfortunately, two fists were no match for four hands, and even a hero couldn’t fight the numbers. It wasn’t long before the boy started losing ground.
