Page 52 of Coldwire
“That doesn’t stop people from manipulating footage,” I mutter.
Nik frowns. The next alley spits us out onto a wide road.
“We’re here.”
Up ahead, four residential high-rises appear, our target being the one on the farthermost left, half-tucked behind a copse of browning trees. These are some of the tallest buildings I’ve seen yet in Upsie. A pair of rats scamper through the abandoned computer pieces at the mouth of the alley, unafraid of our presence while they weave in and out.
Security will be tight. The buildings are well kept, which means there are definitely upcountry users sleeping inside. In every major city, the wealth of the neighborhood is discernible by looking at what time of day its residents are walking around. There are some blocks where residents are downcountry all the time, scraping together day passes to go upcountry only for a nice dinner. Those parts are frequented at every hour. Other areas outside the heart of the city are never frequented, the houses entirely motionless, the driveways full of dried leaves dragging across the concrete with a gardener coming occasionally to rake them. That’s where the proper upper class live, those who work upcountry and only come down for reset days. It’s easier to immediately distinguish the difference in Medaluo, because the government is fast to snap up unhoused wanderers and break down their encampments. Send them somewhere rural. Atahua just leaves them to lie around when they enter the nicer areas, knowing it will drive sales for more security alarms when the residents panic.
Here, I’d bet there is movement once at the start of the day, another rush at the end of the day, and hollow in the middling hours. That’s for the working population who live in between, stepping out for a well-payingdowncountry job and coming home to live their after-hours upcountry—meet their friends, see their family. They can afford these apartments because even when most of the world moves to virtual, some jobs never go away. It’s similar to being a corporate soldier, I suppose. The pay is good enough to incentivize the risk of coming down. We might get stabbed in a random robbery, but nothing equivalent upcountry is hiring the same.
“Confirm the address, please,” Nik says.
“Confirming,” Miz replies. “Seventh floor.”
“Scalable.”
“You need harnesses and ropes if you’re going to scale a building,” I counter.
“We’ve got them.” Nik waves forward. “Miz and Blare, take a window approach. Quick, quick.”
They follow his instructions without protest. I suppose those heavy bags on their backs and shoulders must be good for something, though I wouldn’t have expected them to be lugging around harnesses.
“Just them two?” I ask.
“Yes. You’re staying with me. Someone’s got to open the window.”
Nik’s scanning the ground, eyeing the abandoned materials left around us. Half a bookshelf. A six-pack of energy drinks that have been emptied out but slotted back into their paper casing. A box that might have once stored a gift delivery. He makes a thoughtful noise, then scoops up the box.
“Does this look like trash?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “It is, in the very literal sense, trash.”
“I know, but does itlooklike trash?”
I stare at him. Nik Grant, infamous anarchist. Nik Grant, enemy number one to an all-seeing entity like NileCorp. Asking me if he’s holding trash.
“If you hide the oily smear there”—I point at the corner—“I could be convinced that it’s new.”
“Great. Come on, soldier.”
I can’t quite smooth down the confused notch that hits my brow. It’sstill there by the time we’re approaching Xixi’s building, the glass exterior reflecting back the suspicion I’m wearing in the curl of my lip. Nik pulls open the front door, one arm balancing the box.
I pass through the entrance.
The doorman looks up immediately at our entrance, rising behind the front desk. The dissonance in downcountry design is a sight to behold: smooth marble surface, beautiful and costly and long-lasting, only the desk sits on wooden floorboards that creak and shift, one unhappy resident’s temper tantrum away from putting a foot right through the thin paneling. Tall, impenetrable plexiglass to keep the doorman safe from intruders, a small display screen even built into the bottom so he can scroll the feed, though the raw wires sticking out of the fried bulb overhead are more likely to take him out.
“Hello,” Nik greets him. “We’re here for Xixi in 7C. It’s her birthday.”
The doorman taps the screen embedded in the plexiglass. “I don’t have any expected visitors logged.”
“Because it’s a surprise.” Nik raises the box he dug from the street trash. His Medan is so easy. He has an accent, the sort of tonal clutter that anyone with Atahuan as a primary tongue brings through, but he still speaks as though he should be listened to, as though the imperfections shouldn’t matter. “We brought cake. You won’t ruin the surprise, will you?”
The doorman frowns. “It’s against building policy to let visitors up without informing residents. I’ll call up.”
“At the very least,” Nik implores, “can you say it’s a mystery delivery from her company? She’s been having such a difficult time. I really think she would appreciate the surprise.”
Though the doorman looks annoyed, he thinks on it for a moment and then nods. I clearly haven’t given Nik enough credit for his improvisation.Thisis what NileCorp should have been adding to my mixed-reality training rooms.
