Reef Night

From our New Australian Dreaming collection, a near-future science speculative story about a main character’s selected path into adulthood.

Badly prompted AI (Banana) image of an example linear arcology — April 2026

Raucous barking of laughter erupts, drawing attention to Phylla and her group of recently matriculated school mates, from others in the tram. They’re rocking back and forth, howling, with hands covering mouths, slapping legs or clapping in delight. A ‘slightly’ ribald jape had been aimed by its utterer to break Phylla out of her current frame of mind. As usual for her bestie, the utterer of the jape, it was overpowered for the situation and had therefore reduced the whole group to a delirious, wet-faced and exhausted giggling bundle of nearly ex-children, and pursed lip restraint, if not some amusement, shown by nearby passengers.

Secondary school had finished some weeks before and today was a get-together with her mates. Some had come with their older sisters who were in the rows behind them, chatting. Her bestie sits beside her, still cackling at her own cleverness. Phylla loves her mob, they’re all so funny, so helpful, and so supportive. They know that her quest tonight is to pick an outfit for her upcoming Reef Night, their most public ‘coming of age’ event.

While she’s elected to attend and participate, having passed her social responsibilities, psychological assessment and performance training, she had still felt a bit nervous about it. The group had come together, dragging some experienced older sisters along with promises of high tea, as follows in their tradition. They’d come to talk about actual experiences, the risks and rewards, and to discuss strategies around partner selection and negotiation, but as often happens, these deteriorated into reminiscences about their own Reef Nights; be it the food, drink, dancing or the risqué subjects. They’d come to help alleviate anxieties, just as older sisters had come before to spill tea with them. And a lot of tea had been spilled, secrets and strategies earnestly gifted, laughter and sorrows shared, dance steps and other moves messily mimicked, binding these groups together, so that like those before them, they would keenly refresh those ties each year. Successful Australian matrons were said to live to go to tea, being somewhat cosily placed in the middle of that cycle, between the young women joining and the grand dames departing.

Their ancestors had started it. Well, more accurately a parliament of politicians had finally chosen to listen to the remaining scientists, and presented narratives, then created incentives, that the populace chose to accept. A severe population decline had been occurring for decades as the disenfranchised either went elsewhere or chose to only have fur babies, diminishing the fruits of their loins needed by a future Australia. Then came the Eastern War, and after the war, there was greater need for new people to build the modular, extensible, scalable cities that were to replace the rubble. That battered blue rag bearing the southern cross and federation star represented the values and identity of a recovering nation, sufficiently defensive to promote a preference for a native-born population to carry their stories rather than have those stories and values lost, in their mind, unheeded by a mass of faceless newcomers.

Hence the government focused on that outcome, using housing, continental employment quotas, social engineering and financial incentives, allowing young families to form dependable deep roots, as deep as the Reef’s foundations. The Reef being the largest and oldest of the linear arcologies, its contours and natural surrounds travelling roughly north and south.

Badly prompted AI (VEO) image #2 — March 2026

Over time, the social encouragement for tying young knots, no matter which format, had bled into some rather bacchanalian aspects of Reef Night celebrations. For some it was an expression of their commitment to their society; to enjoy the company of their first official partner should they choose; to be seen affirming their participation in society’s approved renewal spectacle. Plus, it was also good to enjoy a bit of a snog.

“I don’t know how you make such joke! So much disraspeck!” says Mei directs at Phylla’s bestie, feigning her own family’s heritage Malay Chinese accent, the one she used to signal ‘Auntie talking!’.

“Ha! You know Jesus was a Tradie! If he returned now, he‘d be flying a shitty Ranga hexafan just like the rest of the chippies! Accidently drop unsecured nailers and dogs on bogans and nimbys too.” bestie responding also in terse ‘mock Auntie’ voice, eliciting more giggles from amongst her mates; in part from the ‘mock Auntie’ and in part for the brave reshaping of the divine narrative. Most of her mob had a sizeable chunk of Anglo in their heritage, so they knew too that those old Anglo folks wouldn’t stop a slander if there was a bigger laugh in it, though, of course, each generation carefully curated their slander to reflect current sensitivities and inclusions.

What can I say? My prompting of AI needs work — April 2026

“You can’t say that! That’s Error-say!” Behati, Mei’s bestie, shoots back, eliciting shared laughter for this remembered group shorthand from religion classes, the classes that had quickly derailed into fraught secular topics. With nowhere safe to continue, another kindly changes the topic and normal discussion returns, their voices resuming their default Strine intonations, the old accent group of national identity.

Her bestie is coming with her tonight, to lend support, to chide her of safe choices, and to fend off any Wannabes. More importantly for bestie, it’s also about being allowed into Auntie’s almost legendary boutique, a place known for its rather strict access rules, a place which appears every year in net streams and vidcasts.

As the tram rolls along its cellulose reinforced plastech rails on the Tenth Upper expressway, travelling north to south inside their arcology, Phylla keeps a close eye on the oncoming ridge-side scenery, watching for vaguely remembered landmarks, shops, halls, arcades, parks, because sometimes her apps fight and fail to alert her. Her group is seated on the eastern side of the tram, because some of their group, even though Reef born and raised, are still a little nervous of the vertiginous drop off into the central Grand Gallery on the tramway’s western edge. A vibrating alert at her wrist and she scans for landmarks that trigger recognition that they’re in the right area, spots one and selects the ‘stop’ button. The tram’s ‘Stopping now at…’ message unintentionally kills all conversations in her group. Their quiet smiles and evaluating looks, their meeting eyes as she surveys each of them silently, and their nods communicating their best wishes for her, she takes it all in, their love and support.

Standing up and heading to the carriage door with bestie chasing, she’s suddenly glommed in a group hug, eliciting a startled ‘oof’, drawing more laughs and another embarrassing run of happy tears. Reaching the door, Phylla shoots a look down the back, just in case, but is expectedly disappointed. She knows that it was unlikely since school ended weeks ago but she was sort of hoping that he was there. Bestie brings her back from the revery, gently pushing her out the door, calling from behind “jump you tramp!”. Well, ‘tramp’ is the closest, safest, audio correction, Anglo being replete with its own invective, having absorbed swears from various heritages. Stepping down from the tram they jump out of the way of the last boarding passengers, finding a place to pause and get bearings.

Looking around, scanning over the waiting passengers, orientating on shop fronts, signs and structures, she’s certain of these landmarks now, and she relaxes, confident now that this is the best starting point to get to Aunties shop. She whispers into her watch and it lights up, presenting a nice broad arrow for direction of travel for them to follow, with line of sight she spots the street corner that leads the way up there, to the Top Terrace.

Phylla slows her stride, then stops, triggered by sudden memory, of her mother’s reminder to not be a ‘poor bestial uncultured niece’, “My sister has something special for you to wear. She won’t show me. Probably thinks her elder sister is such an accountant. Or worse, a prude! So, she says that you must collect it from her in person, at her boutique. But I hope you remember that if you visit a relative, especially one with gifts for you, it is polite to arrive there with your own gifts. Have you got money?”. She has a look around at the string of shops, spotting Auntie’s favourite tea shop. “Come on. I’ve gotta buy Auntie some tea and bikkies first”.

Unintended prompt response from AI (Banana), Useful here. April 2026

After purchases of a fresh tin of traditionally fermented Pu Er tea and a couple of packets of ‘Double Milk Choc Teh Tarik’ Tim Tams, they resume the walk uphill to Aunties. As for the third pack, they might just allow a couple of Banoffee Tim Tams survive to reach Mama’s desk later.

Auntie wasn’t exactly the black sheep of the family. She was considered more the ‘artist at large’, allowed to probe forward in her own creative way. Always idiosyncratic in her thinking and her dreaming, but not really what you’d call ‘avant garde’; still she was not going to be a clone of her sister, the accountant, nor their brother, the engineer. She travelled and survived and thrived, finding that she had key entrepreneurial skills, falling into business leadership roles progressing through hospitality, event management, drone supply and biotech. She’d birthed and buried a few of her own companies earning the blisters necessary before working for corporates, in which she adapted and was successful in achieving VP roles. Having realised that she’d hit the ceiling, she engineered her own redundancy package and came home, then had ‘colonised some bloke’ — her joke — and had a family with him. Aside from her creative leanings, the family took her seriously, unable to argue with financial results. When she opened the boutique, there was concern that it would become a money sink, an unplanned tax deduction, however she stayed ahead of the fashion tech curve just enough to become well known and even emulated. She helped grow and mature the technology, made the boutique’s name, and then also spent time building a collaborative community of up and comers. To this day, after trading hours every Wednesday, key industry figures and their familiars still meet to eat, drink and share dreams at her boutique.

Top Terrace, though named such, isn’t really the top of their Reef. There’s energy, light and air quality services hosted in service tiers above, crowning the ridgeline, however, those tiers remain inaccessible to pedestrians. Up here on the Top Terrace are the pricey bars, restaurants and shops, the ridgeline running trail and on clear nights, the stars and sequestered love nests, the bowers, from which to view them.

Auntie’s boutique is top notch, and needs to be, to be up here on Top Terrace, requiring top creds to pay for its square meterage. Her clients are amongst the fancy and mega-credited and Phylla always feels a little out of place. Even though many-credited, her family espouses ‘middle path’ ways. Maybe one day she’ll have to spend service time here for Auntie, but that is to be expected, Phylla having been instilled from birth about ‘investing in family’. Service done, she knows that family then expects her to go journey out into the world, to grow and learn new ways, to try and fail, to retry and succeed, to grow strong and certain, and then return with the booty, just like the hero. She knows from social studies classes that otherwise families will grow stale, rigid and entitled, defensive and too conservative, unable to adapt, to pivot, to grow new nests, and that a family is but a small slice of her society, and that the Reef needs continual renewal. She reflects on her own coming path as they make a final push up the last rise of stairs and arrive.

“Rags of Light” flickers the crisp new laser projection, burning across the shopfront like bright scarlet lipstick smeared on a pig, the store itself devalued by its faux Punk Rock stylings, plywood hoardings sprayed black and mistreated, the only colours provided by torn bill posters and sample wares glued to those hoardings. It’s just missing the stench of urine and fermenting garbage. To swing open its doors is to run through the gauntlet wall of intense pleromic light, an older security feature who’s blinding light deters the unwelcome, but which relents to normal daylight levels upon recognising valid customers.

Not what I imagined but I’ll go with what the AI produced — April 2026

It’s all a mess of cries of welcome and upheld arms rushing together for the next minute or so, and even her bestie gets pulled into this scrum of relatives. Auntie receives her gifts with relish and thanks and places an order for hot Billy tea with her eldest boy, resuming her comfortable stool behind the counter, which soon becomes the battleground of tea pots, cups and saucers, sugar sticks, milk drops and ‘Double Milk Choc Teh Tarik’ Tim Tams.

Almost, but the AI inferred parts unspecified. So Close — April 2026

With the expected protocols of greeting and unhelpful observations out of the way, in which she’s quietly noted her niece’s unusual reticence, Auntie allows enough silence to form before she begins casting that old form word spell performance, the ‘spiel’, something that she has a knack for, the earnest telling of the important story, enthralling the girls from the very start -

“Before the Reef was here, there was Old Western Sydney below and it only held flat towns back then. A fully 2D world then. And our families were here then. My grandma, mother of your grandma, she told me that when she was young, the bones of the Reef were only just slowly growing into the sky, above all the flat housing and the containers of the relocated, the Shoved as they called them, back when her family arrived. She grew up, went to school and then Uni. Earned degrees in Marine Biology and Biochemical Engineering. Improved the industrial vats and automated processes used to prepare the nutrients that fed the phytoplankton that fed the zooplankton that fed the polyps that grew the coral walls that define the shells of the Reef.” Auntie sips her tea before continuing.

“Your Great Grandpa too, he was also here. Also helping to build the reef, by working as a Brobie driver. Such a funny word ‘Brobie’ is, I think. It’s short for “Brobdingagian”, another big-credit Anglo word taken from an old text spieler meaning something very big. They were the biggest mechanical climbers that they’d ever made back then. Like giant spiders, but big enough to carry the arcology construction engines, materials and prebuilds. People named the civilian models after spiders with similar characteristics, so there were speedy “Huntsmen” and small ‘Redbacks’ and structure-welding ‘Funnelwebs’ and whatever ‘Whitetails’ and so on. My Grandpa told me of his Huntsman and the work they did together, and also of his last Brobie, an early model ‘Trapdoor’, for when they started inserting the housing modules.” Auntie pauses to ensure complete capture of her audience, relieved to see the signs, she continues, performer that she is. “Another of your great grandfathers was an engineer involved in building the hosting and support infrastructure, and so you, you are of the Reef, your heritage is here and goes all that way back, great granddaughter of a Brobie wielder!”.

At least this AI generated image is closer to what I prompted — April 2026

Auntie’s teacup slips back into its saucer’s well as she stands tall, sets her eyes on Phylla’s and asks directly “Now, tell me why Phylla, you who’re named after my mother’s mother, she the daughter of a hero of the Eastern War, why you are not your normally astounding self today?”. A long pause ensues.

“Okay, when you are ready, sometime tonight, you will tell me please.” asks Auntie, continuing “But first, let’s talk about why you are here tonight, on the cusp of your first Reef Night. I heartily support my favourite niece’s decision to choose the leadership path. Participating in Reef Night will give you the contacts, a new mob, perhaps even partners, roles and love. You have chosen to publicly affirm your belief in our society’s renewal narratives, while our state and national leadership, with their apparatchik, will be taking note.”

“So, my gift to you is your choice of Reef Night wear from my boutique. That’s the full spread, including dresses, cloaks, shoes, adornments, accessories and accoutrement, power systems, displays and warez. Anything to help you stand out on the drone feeds. Also, I have the sexiest little evening bag containing essentials such as this year’s flimsiest gossamer bioelectric boudoir wear. Something sexy that’d make your mama blush!” Auntie’s eyes are alight telling her niece this. Her obvious pleasure raises questions about how she considers her sister.

“Of course. my business will thrive from your participation, my wares being seen in the best light, pun intended.” Her bestie is grinning, full Cheshire cat-like and Phylla herself is slow nodding, broadly smiling, eyes flickering with ideas.

Auntie continues, looking like the cat who’d eaten the cream “Now a gift from your family. Yes, there’s more.” Another pause. “So, for your premier Reef Night, the family has purchased for you a terrace membership package for the evening… Drum roll please!… Up here on Top Terrace!” announces Auntie, playing up the drama of it. Phylla and bestie are slack-jawed, shocked, both considering the amount of credfluence needed to secure such accesses.

“Our bid was accepted, in part, because our family has earned a name here, and that name belongs to a good family, plus you are also already known to the children of the right people. So not just the money, but because some already know who you are.”

“This Reef Night package will provide you access to not only the best facilities and accommodation on the best terrace but also access to the company of other young leaders of tomorrow.”

“Your package includes a fully serviced private bower, serviced by secured partials. No one thought you a shared bower girl, however, you let me know if you want to go groupie instead.” Auntie cheekily taunts her niece.

“Anyway, you and your cohort will meet in the Terrace’s private pavilion down on our Main Oval, where you will have access to fine foods, drinks, games and something called a ‘retro rave cave’, whatever that is. Anyway, it’s in their blabwares. I‘ll give you the linkdot for their chatty, so you can negotiate profile accesses and ingest their infobots, keys and sims.”

Auntie lets that sink in, taking a walk from behind the counter to the customer lounge, teacup and saucer in hand, and sits there, pulling their gaze, changing the scene, preparing to illustrate the subtler arts of commercial information extraction.

“So, is there any reason that you can’t fully libertine yourself for the evening?” asks Auntie

“No. Er. Well not really.” demurs Phylla, confronted, her face changing colour.

“Auntie, there’s a young man that she’s actually paid attention to. Their ward apps even allowed them to get close enough to chat together on the tram!” interjects bestie, wagging a ‘Don’t interrupt. This is for your own good’ finger at Phylla.

“Ah, and who is he?” inquires Auntie, getting closer now to the root of that off feeling.

Phylla relents and tells her “Ah. He’s just a senior from the one of the other private schools that we’d usually see on the tram. We’ve seen each other from ends of the trams since we both started Secondary. We’d usually just wave or nod to each other because it’s usually jam-packed in school peak hour. We finally got to talk just last week. He seemed nice but I had just learned his first name, ‘James’, when we had to jump off the tram. My apps are still fighting with the decrypt and Papa can’t sort them out, so I can’t replay or patch the recording into WhoDis. I’m not likely to see them again before Reef Night now.”

“Ah. What did you like about him? Was he strong or sweet?” Auntie asks, feigning a slow relaxed sip of tea.

“Sweet. Sometimes he has this clueless goofy look. He just looks helpless and adorable. Ach, just as they dragged me off at our stop.” She falls silent, then diverts with “Anyway, there are many fish in the sea” as bravely as she can feign, but Auntie knows.

“Aiya, this is how they get you! In this you can ask you mother! She liked a goofy boy too! And you like him goofy? Must be genetic this attraction!” jibes Auntie.

She considers in silence for a moment, the says, “Okay, if any fish will do for you, so be it. Matter closed. Now allow me to let you know a few of my other considered thoughts that I had prepared for tonight. Yes? Okay, here goes.” continues Auntie.

“I won’t waste time telling you about the risks with substances and psychologies, nor pin the trajectory of your future on this one night. You are not the person to need such warnings. I see that you are slightly anxious, yes? A bit pensive, yes? So, I tell you these true things so that you know that you are worthy of being with fine people. You have begun the best work, the work of the self. You are the echo of our family. You are our best and latest Masala Aussie. In you are the genes of ancient Indian, Malay, Greek and Anglo heritage.” Then leaning in closely, theatrically behind back of hand, hissed soto voce — ”Yes, perhaps even some Bogan!”. They laugh.

Auntie has always used that slight connection to excuse some of her own behaviour, and her tease about their possible bogonicity has been part of a long-shared joke between herself and her niece. It’s as if she was proposing that they were related to that great iconoclast, Yowie Kelly. Though also, it has been her understated permission for her niece to grow, become self-empowered, and assert her own qualities. Oh, of course their family espouses the hero path but like so many comfortable folks, were quite accepting if you chose not to pursue it, especially anywhere near them.

Auntie continues “For the strong and bright little girl who is becoming a woman, I do not fear any of your inevitable stumbling’s. For such a woman as you, even should you stumble, you would rise in such a fashion as to make Bollywood directors swoon.” They laugh. “And I want the rights to the T-shirts!” doubling the laughter. “Now most would offer a blessing to you my niece, but I honestly don’t know what I can offer you except perhaps freedom from expectation. You have already blessed this family by not being a burden, by growing well and true, and by returning the love given unstintingly. Also learning a few of the family recipes has kept you in good stead.” Phylla observes, not for the first time, that it’s the Australian way to encapsulate all tough and emotional discussions with disarming humour.

“Now go and find an outfit. I’m your Fairy God Auntie and I’m telling you that you are going to Reef Night and making much merry! Anything damn sexy in this shop is yours! Go look!” Auntie announces.

Phylla’s still too close by Auntie and bestie, so with a comment she chides her niece on the apparent restraint in her current choice, sending her back to look at more distant racks. Successfully distracted, Auntie simply looks bestie in the eye and makes ancient girl-talk hand signs,

“Can you find me his name?”

“What sort of bestie would I be if I hadn’t got it already.”

“and…?”

“Your family likes shooting high.” Her eyes widen. That certainly is interesting.

“Does she know that?”.

“Nope. Barely spoken to him but once.”.

“And you haven’t told her? Why?”

“I knew that we were coming here. Better to keep her distracted until I could discuss it with you. Besides, I thought that it might mean some summer work for me if you thought you could work it.”

“…and you say that their wards allowed their proximity?” considering the ramifications.

“Just like us, face to face. However, no tea or bikkies. Also, our tea appears to have run dry.”

“Time soon for real food. Oh, Eldest Son!” calls Auntie.

“Ha. Dad’s already on it. Ready in twenty.” replies her eldest boy.

She likes a challenge. She wonders ‘Just how high exactly? Damn!’ Now she has an extra good reason to finish her latest prototypes! Addressing bestie, Auntie switches into business voice and directs her with “Please forward all details to my comm account. Also, please make yourself available for some errands. I will pay you standard junior clerical rates. Is that acceptable?” not really stopping for the response, assuming the answer like all good Aunties do.

‘Sounds like some contacting and trading is suddenly on the cards. The old skills. Who do I know?’ she thinks. Grinning, she then strides out from behind the counter to intercept her niece and stop her from making another safe choice.

Phylla takes a last long slow parasympathetic breathe, ensures that her cloak is configured in wrap mode and looking like an Art Deco heroine she exits the Main Oval’s funicular station and walks down to her assigned entry gate, behind which, over the tops of security fencings, she can vaguely make out sections of the oval, arraigned with shiny plastic fantasy marquees echoing with dance music; a large corral of food fliers pumping out frying noises, smoke, steam and gorgeous perfumes; and distributed around those are the silhouettes of her future mob cast by the festival field lighting. The gate scans her face as well as the linkdot on her upheld fingertip. Green lights signal acceptance of her identity, the gateway irises open and as she walks through a short tunnel, robotic arms hand her show bags, full of products for the night and products for after. Shielding her eyes from glaring security lights, she exits the tunnel and walks gingerly down the path, avoiding tripping with her fancy footwear.

Not quite but the AI did its best with my prompting — April 2026

Passing the last of the security lights and fencing she stops at the edge of the Oval and takes a gander at the whole malarkey. Geo positioning and service networks established, she focusses on the nearer structures, taking in the nearest stalls of games and foods, the dance pads and bars, each with their info icons hovering over them in her projected vision, her gaze coming to a dead stop upon someone’s unexpected face, someone who’s watching her right back. Shielding their eyes from the gateway lights, it’s still a face that she recognises, happily. Her breathe catches. She thinks ‘how the hell?’ and stares directly at him, rushing through disbelief, understanding and then acceptance. They’re both beginning to fight goofy smiles. After a moment of racing hearts, she considers that tonight will be better than she had once thought, and her last thought of the outside world that night as they walk up to each other is ‘…Bloody Auntie!’.

—

At the appointed early hour all lights are extinguished across the Reef, other adjacent arcologies, the fields in between and in fact, most of the region. The blessing of a cloudless night allows the glory of the Milky Way to slowly reveal herself, astonishing the waiting spectators filling the darkened public terraces. With electronically choreographed precision each of the cohorts’ costumes suffuses with increasingly radiant light, signaling them that now is the hour to ascend from the ovals, to ride the funiculars up the side of the Reef, to their appointed bars and bowers, where later, in unison, their bright costumes will take their leave, stripping them naked and floating away like balls of light into the sky. All in mimicry of a reef spawning, its myriad gamete bundles rising towards their moment of promise.

These AI are getting awesome. This was Gemini fronting for Banana — April 2026

— -

I like some of the ideas of arcology but some I dislike. I have no joy for tall topless towers, but swales, linear cities and lines seem safer in fire and earthquake, and their open surrounds appear more human to me. More in line with that bundle of Australian values that I’ve been expected to carry since youth; the ones causing issues with NIMBYism et al. I can generally see both sides, the uncommunicated requirements and fears around financial certainty, loss of cultural features and identities, and end up trying to imagine a third, fourth or fifth way that allows for those conditions to be met or re-engineered.

This story took a while to find the shape of and to grow and prune. In all, over a month on this one. I would like to have a monthly cadence on these longer shorts but we’ll see. I will also keep chipping away at defining the canvas’ constraints and will at some point invite others to come paint with me.