4:20 pm, Monday the 6th of April, 2045

The Boys of Summer blared in Riley's imagination as he walked down Wynyard Lane, a haunting timbre latched to his brain. As he wove through the late afternoon crowds beneath the city's looming buildings, he resisted an impulse to whistle. No matter how mangled his rendition, the Drone at his shoulder would recognise it instantly.

To this inaudible soundtrack he pictured the night ahead, a cold fist clenching his stomach as he pictured her green eyes. He remembered the day when he had first seen those eyes glinting at him above a nervous smile. He wasn't sure Abby even remembered the date, but he had treasured every number around her for three years to the day.

Now, finally, he could ask her. Finally, she would decide. For better or worse.

He recited his planned words over and over, his mind playing through her every possible reaction. A hundred variables churned in his head, the tone of his voice, the arch of his eyebrows, the quality of dinner.

He intended to do his best to make the latter irrelevant, but only with the right ingredients: spaghetti bolognese, made with beef and parmesan which, if you traced their histories back far enough, actually originated within real cows. Fresh onion, fresh carrot (almost free of preservatives) and a pre-Annex vintage red wine. The stuff you could only buy from the exclusive section of the McDonald's Supermarket. After saving for weeks, he had just enough money. Every cent had to count.

But I can see you, your bare skin shining in the...

He paused.

"Shit."

The ever-present Royalty Drone issued a click, so faint it was almost inaudible.

Before him, past the rows of jostling people, was the arched bulk of a brand-new RoyaltyBooth. An aesthetic construction of steel, glass and white plastic, there was little doubt it was a recently-installed Applesoft product. He tried to recall who owned the particular material afflicting him, but the patents changed hands almost daily.

Creatively labelled "iBooth", the complex, white-encased machinery occupied much of the pavement and a portion of the adjacent block. For the briefest of moments he considered stepping around the arch as his point in the queue drew closer. The sight of a grey-clad Collector guarding the booth, shock baton at hand, discouraged him. For the first time he wondered why the song had entered his mind after ten years without having heard it. In his head he traced his path back along the sidewalk... sons of bitches, he cursed within, as he recalled passing a Gloria Jeans café. Owned by Applesoft, its speakers were constantly throbbing with tunes able to addict even the least musical of people. Not for the first time, he swore at himself for leaving his earplugs at home.

The queue drove him forward. He brushed against people leaving in the opposite direction, hurrying on from the double archway. Still the song reverberated in his skull.

A disclaimer printed in capitals informed him that "the Royalty Scanning Process™ will not cause any physical or mental discomfort". Despite this assertion he could have testified to an abstract tingle on his scalp as he stepped into the arch's shadow. Focusing on thoughts of empty silence, through which a drumbeat echoed persistently, he passed into the booth. After a pause, the screen jingled cheerfully and displayed a list of his mind's contents and their associated dollar values. Crowning the list at a combined $60.32, above a recipe for pasta sauce, were two items: Literary work: The Boys of Summer and Musical work: The Boys ofSummer.

When the abrasively cheerful female voice announced his total ("Seventy-seven dollars and eighty-six cents!"), it felt like a hand gripped his entrails. A glib beep from his Royalty Drone as it communicated with the Booth signalled that the payment had already been made. Almost eighty bucks. He growled a wordless curse.

At the Collector's behest, he moved along, eyes to the ground. Made room for the next citizen and her Drone. How could he afford dinner now?

It wasn't just the food. As perfect as he wanted the meal to be, something else would do. It was the words, the words he needed to ask her. He would not be cautious on such an important occasion, just to avoid being charged. Abby deserved the best his vocabulary had to offer, which presented an expensive dictionary. He needed the Drone to be able to click as much as it wanted, he needed to be able to express. But with a bank account now eighty dollars emptier that was no longer an option.

He dragged a hand through his hair as he retrieved a phone from his pocket. Leaning forehead to forearm to wall, he rang her.

Two tones.

"Hello?"

"Hey." Riley's heart beat a fleshy fist against his ribcage. His voice sounded flat.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just, um... dinner. We might have to re ..."

He eyed the machine hovering above his shoulder.

"One second."

He rummaged even deeper into his pocket and located a sheaf of off-white papers, folded multiple times. He straightened them until their passenger characters were legible, to speak with a fragmented cocktail of forgotten language. Some people had a knack for speaking in the cheapest words, it became habitual, but he and she were both born in the days before the Drones. They had another way.

"Um ... vedu ðearf ... novus ... hora [1]." We need to reschedule.

He could hear her opening her own copy.

"Ok ... hwænne? [2]"

He would be paid on Wednesday.

"Thursday?"

Another click. He had that one coming. Mitsubishi-Shell had owned the weekdays for years.

"Goðr [3]. Certus ye ...waila [4]?" Are you sure you're alright?

"Goðr. Ekan ðearf gehen [5] ... but I'll see you soon, ok?"

"Ok. þancian [6]."

He hung up.

With a clenched fist he pushed away from the wall and began his walk home. The shadows of the skyscrapers were growing longer as the sun sank, casting the people below into darkness.

[1] In Cryptish, literally "We need new time."

[2] Cryptish for "when".

[3] "alright"

[4] literally "Sure you well?"

[5] "yes"

[6] literally "I need go."

[7] "thank you"