Page 14 of Coldwire
Nik Grant doesn’t say anything. The girl—Miz—thins her lips and busies herself with a handheld screen. She possesses a discomfort that Nik doesn’t. He stares at me outright, perfectly comfortable to let the uneasy moment draw long.
“I asked a question,” I prompt. “The least you owe me is an answer.”
“I thought the answer was obvious.” Nik raises an eyebrow, as though he really is skeptical that I would need to ask. “We broke you out because we put you in there. We framed you.”
I stare at him.Iknew I didn’t kill Chip Graham.Iknew there was a link between our operation for Nik Grant and this assassination. Butwhy—
“I need your cooperation for our mission, and this was the only way to get you,” Nik goes on. “Come to Medaluo with us, and I’ll give you back the real footage that clears your name.”
It takes me a moment to process his words. A moment to comprehend that this wasn’t only a setup to make me look guilty. It was a setup so that I would be motivated to keep myself out of prison.
Nik waits patiently. I suppose he wants my easy agreement. My gratitude for breaking me out of Atahua’s interrogation rooms.
I lunge at him with my hands outstretched.
4LIA
Headmaster Murray’s office is located at the center of campus, in the A Block building beside the great sycamore, and I’m disgustingly nervous the moment the doors close after me.
I make my way down A Block slowly, worrying about every possibility that could unfold with this posting. If there’s one thing I know how to do well, it’s worry. There are moments where I’m paranoid that I could start overthinking and then get stuck in a loop forever, cycling through the various outcomes of an upcoming scenario so many times that I keep creating new realities inside my head. When NileCorp named their engine StrangeLoom, it was supposed to reference the idea of a “strange loop,” where the creation reaches back to influence the original, erasing any sense of a beginning or end. Whether the chicken or the egg came first is the most classic strange loop. Whether or not my world is kept on a tight leash because I catastrophize through my every move and end up exactly where I started had I not thought at all, is another.
Unsurprisingly, Wakeman Syndrome often goes hand in hand with an anxiety disorder. I shouldn’t self-diagnose. Sometimes it feels dangerous to eventhinkabout what might be wrong with me in case NileCorp overhears it. If anything is logged on my record, NileCorp won’t want to take me after I graduate.
A Block is empty when I proceed through the winding corridors. Other cadets are in class. While I’m dragging my feet, I open my display and scan down my contacts list. I’ve already been excused from next period, so there’s no harm in taking my time. Dad has activated Do Not Disturb mode on his profile, but I call anyway.
The line doesn’t have the chance to ring. Immediately, a pop-up appears to tell me I’m being transferred to his assistant.
“Lia,” Freya greets. “How’s it hanging?”
Freya has been Dad’s assistant in the Capitol Building since she graduated ten years ago—I still remember when she first started, because she was the one who kept me company while Dad was running around for meetings.
“It’s good,” I say. “Is Dad there?”
“One second.” There’s shuffling on her end of the line. Ambient noise makes upcountry phone calls feel more realistic, even though we’re being connected avatar to avatar and the system has the capacity to isolate only the speaker’s voice from the mic. Freya’s desk is right outside Dad’s office: she’ll be peering through the window to see if Dad’s free or on the phone. “Yeah, I’ll transfer you in. Your dad’s been sending calls to me lately because he’s getting a lot of international spam.”
I frown. “Spam? Withhissecurity?”
“I know. Probably an information leak. I’m going to resume trawling through the dark web to see if I can find anything as soon as I pass you over.”
Freya’s funny. Though I don’t think she’s kidding.
“Thank you. Good luck on the dark web.”
“I appreciate it. See you, Lia.”
A click echoes through the line. Two seconds later, I hear Dad clearing his throat when he picks up.
“Lia? This isn’t our usual call time.”
Our usual call time is in the late evening, when I’m in my dorm room and Dad is back at the apartment. During the day, there’s always some breaking emergency that’ll drag him away two minutes into a chat. Dadhates messaging, so we rarely do that. It’s largely a security measure, given the bot accounts that have popped up in the past pretending to be him. He has it worse as a public figure, with so many voice clips and written statements available online. The rest of us aren’t as worried, but on Dad’s advice, I’ve established an identity check with Rayna before we open a new conversation with each other. He thinks the two of us never stop texting. Which is true. It makes us good targets for scammers.
“I’m calling with special news,” I say. Phone lines are possible to fake too, technically, but NileCorp is really working hard on countering that within upcountry. They’ve got to give peoplesomesense of safety. “Final postings are out.”
A long beat passes. That sort of silence is unusual for Dad, who could probably talk the ear off any of his constituents and their grandmothers.
“It’s early,” he finally says. “Where were you sent?”
“Medaluo, of course.” I peer behind my shoulder. Still no activity in A Block—not even a creak of the building settling. It’s too modern for that. The system wouldn’t code it in. “I’m about to see Headmaster Murray. Apparently mine is a special posting.”
