Page 130 of Coldwire
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
“Everyone moved.” Nik brakes, pulling the car onto the side of the street. To our right stands a nondescript building, decorated only with one neon sign: a high-heeled purple boot kicking back and forth.
He pauses a second, considering the empty road. When Nik gets out of the car, I’m quick to follow, closing my door with a louder slam than his.
The only metropolis on this side of Medaluo larger than Wespic is Threto. If even Wespic can’t hang on to its civilians, then the smaller urban centers have no chance.
Music floats from inside the purple boot building. There’s an archaic sort of atmosphere to Wespic, the sense that the entire city might have been left behind in time. Wood-cut pillars hold up the brick roofs. Gaslit lamps and the faint smell of sulfur permeate the cobblestone streets. There aren’t quite enough people here to justify many bots, and the bots they do bring through tend to break down quickly, tired of the long distances they have to wheel.
It’s not so different from Atahua. Short of Button City, Melnova, and Vermillion Bay in the west, it’s a land of ghosts downcountry. Maybe Pith City in the north still qualifies for a hub if we’re being generous, but that won’t be the case for long.
Nik pushes his glasses up onto the top of his head. He shoulders through the door, holds it open for a beat so I can duck in too.
“Watch your step.”
I’ve already noticed the raised ridge, my foot lifting without my lookingdown. The space is nearly empty inside, just a bartender cleaning a table in the corner and a few sleeping figures slumped in separate booths. It could have been a very popular nightclub once, given the size of the dance floor. Tonight the music is kept soft enough that I can hear the bartender’s glasses clinking across the room. The light-up panels on the dance floor splutter in effort, spinning a few patterns with long pauses in between.
“Come on. Second floor.”
Nik goes up the steps first. After a delay, I stride along too, eyeing the sleeping woman closest to the stairs.
The second floor is a StrangeLoom plug-in lounge. It takes me a moment to recognize the setup, the sleeping forms tucked on the plush couches with their eyes closed and a Claw on their head. Miz is curled at the far end, logged in. Blare stands when they see us coming, opening their arms. Nik goes over and, to my surprise, gives them a proper hug.
“I’m not contagious,” Blare declares. “Miz got me Eveline from the pharmacy yesterday.”
Nik scoffs. “Don’t worry, kid. It’s an antibody party here.”
I walk over slowly, my eyes tracing the unmoving figures. Suddenly the sleeping people downstairs make a lot more sense: they’re catching up on some rest before returning to the second floor. Given that they’re hourly users for StrangeLoom, sleeping upcountry would be a waste of money. I never went to any of these public lounges in Atahua. Plenty of other NileCorp soldiers did—these arrangements are for people without a port and the necessary wiring installed in their homes, and the base didn’t have any on purpose so as not to distract us. Members of my team would ask for nights off to visit a StrangeLoom lounge and go upcountry, see family and friends, attend weddings and special occasions.
I was more untethered than most. During the academy, I had my own Pod on campus to log on monthly, like everyone else. It didn’t seem necessary after I graduated. My job was downcountry.
“How’s it going?” Nik asks Blare. “How long has she been logged in?”
“Almost an hour. She’s on stolen credentials, so she’ll have to convince her contact that she’s who she says she is.”
If she takes any longer, she’s probably going to get kicked off by the original user noticing that she’s up there. Even if she took the credentials of an hourly user who isn’t upcountry all the time, every transaction, every transportation catalog, every message sent is linked to the user’s devices downcountry. It takes a single awry two-dollar bus fee before someone is immediately making a stolen identity report. NileCorp is obligated to restore their credentials as soon as the report is filed.
“Wake her up if she’s not out in the next ten minutes,” Nik says. “We’ve got to go.”
“You do it,” Blare replies. “She’ll say I’m bothering her.”
“She’s not going to say you’re bothering her.”
“Why don’t you do it, then? Bet you’re afraid she’ll think you’re bothering her.”
“Blare…”
I turn while they argue back and forth, fighting the urge to look away from the couches and run out of the lounge entirely. This place elicits a peculiar itch in my subconscious, gives me the creeps if I stare too long at any of these ports. It feels unnatural, somehow.
Blare holds up a sack, summoning my attention again. “Also, I got the Claws. They’re so cheap now.”
“NileCorp mass-produces the ones that plug direct-to-port,” I say, eyeing the nodes stuck over Miz’s temples. “I hear they break the moment you yank it wrong.”
As if she can hear us, Miz’s eyes fly open. It gives the rest of us a shock, and her expression brightens. I catch her correction. There’s a split second when I swear she was about to grin before she wiped it off her face.
“Good. You’re here,” she says, clearing her throat. “We can get going.” She pushes the Claw off and bounces to her feet. As soon as she hands the Claw back to Blare, she’s on the move.
While Nik and Blare gather their bags, I have nothing to do except follow Miz down the stairs to the lower level. I fall into step with her. Miz casts me a sidelong glance. I wait for her to say something to explain the inspection, but she remains quiet. It’s not quite a glare. It’s barely contained excitement, if anything.
