Page 132 of Coldwire
“Tamera?” I whisper in the hallway. There’s no response. Tamera is usually waiting by my Pod with a cup of tea to warm me up when I emerge for a reset day. But she didn’t get any advance notice this time. When our call was cut off, she couldn’t have known I’d come offline. She must still be upcountry.
I hurry down the hall.
“Tamera,” I say louder, opening her door. If I shake her enough, the StrangeLoom system will register the disturbance and warn her she may like to log out.
I can’t see anything in her room at first. The curtains are drawn tightly, the light kept out save for a telltale glow seeping through the bottom of the fabric. A cold sweat breaks along my neck, down my spine.
The room is empty. I don’t need light to tell—it’s void of noise, void of warmth and any indication that someone sleeps or sighs within the blankets. I march over to the curtains, pushing them open with my breath held. The moon casts the scene bright outside. The fallen tree branch in the yard is gone. It’s perfectly tidy by the picket fence, not a leaf out of place. The room drowns in silver too, and when I turn around, I confirm that I was right. Tamera is not here. The bed is made. It hasn’t been slept in. Her usual Claw sits unused on her chair.
Where could shebe?
“Tamera?”
My voice bounces through the house. There is no response. If she’s still upcountry, maybe she decided to use a port in another room. I pad back into the hallway, opening every door I pass: the closets, the bathrooms. No Tamera, no activity. The overhead chandelier trembles when I hurry down the stairs, its blue dewdrop crystals shivering in sync to my motions. My steps echo on the wooden boards of the ground floor. I walk by the empty living room, the cold marble atrium, and come to the wide front door.
I pull the handle hard.
It doesn’t open.
“Warning,” the home security system intones, giving me a fright. I swivel fast to trace the voice. It’s coming from the panel at the side of the door. The screen shows an external temperature of thirty degrees Fahrenheit. “Please step back from the door. The elements are not suitable for you.”
“Open the door,” I say. If there’s no one here, I’m going right to Melnova. I’ll find Dad myself, shake him out of his Pod and demand an explanation to this mess. “Override lock.”
“Warning,” the system repeats. “Dangerous air levels. It is not recommended to exit.”
I’ve run out of patience.
“Override lock, forced command,” I snap. The home system cannot defy that. There’s a moment of pause. Then a click sounds in the jamb. I pull the door open.
I’m met with a huge black slab, blocking the entirety of the doorway.
My jaw drops. I can only stare at the object for what feels like a full minute, flabbergasted by its presence. There’s not a slit of space I can pry into, the slab perfectly fused to the doorway. When I do snap out of my horror and attempt to push it out of the way, the slab only warps around my hands. Color emerges where I press, like it’s a television screen—one of those old models with texture on the surface, making noise if I scratch my nails over it.
I whirl around, marching for the kitchen. My balance has turned entirely awry. I skid on the tiles, almost teetering until I grip the countertop to halt my momentum. There’s a knife block nearby; I hurry to yank out the cutlery inside. I lay each knife straight on the counter, lined one after the other like sleeping children tucking into bed. Then I heft the heavy, emptied knife block into my arms. I take it over to the sink, rise onto the tips of my toes to get a good look out the window and into the backyard. Glistening moon, bone-white picket fence.
I fling the knife block at the glass.
And instead of it breaking the window and exploding into the yard, the entire window goes black, just like the front door. With a pitiful clunk, the knife block clatters into the sink.
I think I’m losing my mind.
I don’t understand. I can’t comprehend what’s happening. First I assume something has wrapped around the house. Some government-controlled blockade, restricting my movement. That doesn’t explain the view of the backyard disappearing. There one second, blinked away the next.
I have to get out. I have to find Dad.
“Hello?” I return to the front door, prompting the security system. “Please open! Forced command! Override everything!”
“Door is open,” the security system reports plainly.
“No, it’s not!”
I kick the slab in front of the door. It doesn’t move. Again, a discolored mark flashes each time my foot makes contact with the black object. I’m out of options. There’s got to be a way to knock it over, shove it off to the side. I take a few steps back for a running start.
“Action is not recommended,” the security system says.
I sprint at the black block with my full force. There’s such a loud thud upon collision that my ears seize in protest, but the block does not shift an inch. I’m the one who bounces hard, collapsing on the cold floor tiles with my head spinning, my vision going dark entirely.
I take a deep breath in. A deep breath out. Moments later, when I’ve recovered with my entire body throbbing, something immediately doesn’t look right, and I turn fast to catch a flicker of light in my periphery. It dances away from me. I turn again, only to focus and realize I’m seeing the translucent drop-down arrow ofmy display.
