Page 56 of Coldwire
So I’ve never seen the sea until now.
“You don’t go anywhere on the weekends, do you?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“No time,” Kieren says shortly.
He has me to blame for that. I’ve sacrificed weekends I could be at home to lock myself in my dorm instead, memorizing my essay answers for Atahuan Literature midterms. I’ve made use of extended breaks to stay on campus and get a head start on the following week’s quizzes. I know how often I see Kieren wandering the common areas too when the winter snow is falling outside, when other cadets go downcountry to train or use their Pods to relax at a ski lodge. I know why I stay, know that he’s always right on my ass, snaking up to me with that 0.05 difference in our GPA, and I have to imagine the task of catching up to me also consumes every minute Kieren might spend elsewhere. We’re each other’s puppets held up by the tension of the strings between us, and if one of us steps away, the other would only be left confused and feeble.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Temple Island,” I say.
There are two categories that StrangeLoom won’t translate upcountry. Cemeteries, and religious places of worship. It’s a contentious topic—endless back-and-forth about whether this respects religion as something bound to the true plane of reality or if neglecting religion for virtual intentionally persecutes groups who are now dying off, who have a worse quality of life downcountry. At some point in the last few decades, there came a man-made island in the middle of the northern oceans, created by multi-Sect Atahuans and given independence as a nation-state in a bid for some sense of equity. Temple Island is no larger than five thousand square miles, more an archipelago of temples than one true landmass. It is the only country that has been entirely left off the maps upcountry, because its entirety is a place of worship.
“I didn’t realize you were religious.”
It’s a jab. Kieren knows my day-to-day habits better than I know them myself. My rejecting default atheism would definitely not have gone without notice.
“What can I say? I’m fascinated by multi-Sect culture.”
Kieren rolls his shoulders to stretch them. “Are you sure it’s not the challenge of scanning the island to code for virtual? I remember your presentation.”
I keep my eyes straight on the water to hide my shock. I cast my memory back frantically: ninth grade, a starter presentation in world history… IfI’mremembering right, Kieren wasn’t even there that day. He and Hailey had been pulled out of class for family bereavement.
“I watched the class recording on my own time,” he says before I can ask. “I think that’s when I first realized you were going to be trouble.”
I snort. “Because my proposal to do a clandestine scan of an island was so well prepared? What impressed you the most—the utter lack of respect for its residents or the loopholes I presented to insist it wasn’t illegal?”
“The earnestness.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You wanted to see it. You wanted an upcountry equivalent so that you didn’t need to wait until you’d graduated and been assigned downcountry, until you had racked up the vacation days needed to travel over in the real. So you came up with a proposal and argued it to every possible point. I’ve come to expect that of you.”
I’m almost amused. Somehow, Kieren is giving me too much credit while insulting me for being an annoyance.
“It was ninth grade,” I counter. “Most of us hadn’t lost that twinkle in our eye yet. What about Gena’s presentation?”
He doesn’t say anything. I turn to Kieren slowly. I wait a beat.
“Kieren…,” I say. “Youonlywatched mine, didn’t you?”
No reply. That’s confirmation.
I jab him in the ribs. He flinches, but I go in for another jab. “That’s when I first realized—you big liar. You knew the moment I got the same score as you in the entrance exam.”
“Okay, okay,” Kieren relents. “I can’tbelievethey kept our scores the same! My dad is theheadmaster—”
On my third jab attempt, Kieren catches my finger entirely, wrapping his palm around it. I try to tug my finger back. He refuses to let go. In a smooth maneuver, he turns us both away from the water, toward the road and resuming our route to the data center. Though I let my feet follow suit, I feel a pang of loss to be leaving the sight.
“Now that we don’t have the taxi and half the city listening in anymore,” he says. “I suppose you should know something.”
“Kieren”—I give my finger another yank, to no avail—“do you mind?”
“I don’t, actually, thank you for asking.” He continues walking without a bother in the world. “If you didn’t have the strength to extract your finger, maybe you shouldn’t have stuck it at me.”
“I see we’re victim-blaming now.”
“Victim-blaming? I’mperpetrator-blaming.”
“I wonder if the academy board is going to agree with you when they review this footage for our performances.”
With a relenting huff, Kieren lets go of my finger. Chances are that when the board looks at the recorded footage of our posting, the system will automatically snip out the irrelevant parts, like me bothering Kieren by sticking my fingers into his ribs. Still, the threat of being perceived as irresponsible is enough to shake Kieren back into order.
“As I was saying…” He checks our surroundings over his shoulder. The east of Upsie is made of chain-link fences and abandoned lots, factories blowing plumes into the air and mills processing raw material. The road echoes our footsteps with hollow reverb. We’d hear it if someone so much as turned the corner a hundred paces away.
