Page 30 of Coldwire
“Fine.”
“Fine—”
“All right!” the engineer declares happily. “Cadet Lia, close your eyes.”
That’s unexpected.
“Good luck!” Hailey sings from the desk.
“Wait,” I say. “Why do I have to close—”
My entire world shorts out. The pixels strain; the colors bleed. I spin, trying to grasp some sense of directionality and instead give myself severe vertigo in a void of nothingness. Extreme absence stretches as far as it’ll go, pervading 360 degrees around my physical form.
I need to breathe. I need to remember I have no physical form here. I am an avatar, and if something were to go wrong, someone only needs to yank the Claw off my head downcountry for me to exist again.
The affirmations don’t do much to ease my panic. It doesn’t change the way my world has warped. Nor does it curb the feeling of being cast adrift.
I squeeze my eyes shut. That makes it worse. Suddenly I am entirely in free fall, and when my arms flail and my legs kick out, there’s nothing to catch me.
Please,I beg the system.Please don’t lose me.
My feet suddenly meet solid ground. The abrupt presence underneath me is jarring enough that a shock runs through my body and up my spine, electric upon contact.
My eyes fly open.
Beautiful abyss.
I’m staring out into the night sea, the waves sparkling with neon light. Upsie’s waterfront embankment. I’m here. I’m in the server. The colors glisten off the endless black, and I whirl around with a start, searching for the city.
I smack directly into someone else newly entering on the landing pad. The woman gives me a strange look.
“What are you doing?” she asks in Medan.
It takes me a moment to register the language switch. A moment to fully parse the words, to let years and years of classes and practice come togetherin an instant, to remember,Today’s unit is on conversational openers! The very first thing we’re covering is the infamous “What are you doing?” which, yes, is colloquial and may be a question of concern to ask if you are all right—
“Nothing, nothing,” I reply, rolling my shoulders. The clothes on my back came with me. My suitcase… did not. I must have let go of it before I was moved out of Atahua’s server. “I’m fine.”
The woman quirks her brow.
“Better be careful,” she says, prodding me off the platform. “Don’t linger too long. You don’t want to cause a collision. You’re sure you don’t need help?”
“I—” I look over my shoulder, startled. Several more people have materialized on the landing pad during our short exchange, dressed in an eclectic assortment of nightclub casual and streetwear. They hurry off the steps as soon as they appear. In a somewhat orderly line, they proceed toward the city center, where the lights are bright enough to keep the entire strip of the embankment lit vividly.
The waves crash against the concrete embankment. I blink open my display, checking the time:8:52 p.m.
“I’m okay,” I answer, finally getting the words out of my throat.
My practice scores in Medan class were shaky during my first few weeks at the academy. I knew full well how to pronounce certain words, but I faked incompetence. I thought it made me more Atahuan.
Once I saw what my predicted test scores were going to be, I snapped out of it pretty quickly.
The woman doesn’t look too convinced by my answer, but she nods and walks off. People in Upsie are busy. Loading times are lightning fast, and storefronts are always open. I stagger properly onto the embankment, toward the city that beckons.
She most definitely thought I was on drugs. Medans are accustomed to the experience of logging in and out since they have a far higher daily user distribution than Atahua, and though I’m particularly used to stayingvirtual for a month at a time with the academy, lots of ordinary Atahuans have a monthly subscription too. In Medaluo, most users don’t prepay as we do: they log on when they need to—either during the daytime with their employers compensating the fee or after work for nightlife—and are charged accordingly.
I blink, maintaining caution while activating system features. When my display overlays my vision, it shows me a profile that looks identical to the one I see in Atahua, except for the short serial number of a fake visa accompanying my photo. Data trackers upcountry will register my presence as an Atahuan tourist. Other avatars looking at my face will assume I’m an ordinary Medan going about her daily business.
The smallINBOXicon in the corner of my display is unblinking initially, all my messages read. Then, before my very eyes, I see the notifications stack up from a modest1to5to a concerning12within a few seconds. I’m certain it must be an error, until I click in and realize they’re only ads. The first is some AI tour bus that leaves from Upsie every day to embark on a cross-country adventure. The next is a casino. Then, a restaurant’s Buy One, Get One Free notice.
