Page 44 of Coldwire
Without any further pomp, Kam hangs up. The screen disappears from the wall, the audio waveform collapsing.
“That was anticlimactic,” Kieren says. “I’d assumed there would be more information.”
“Your dad did say it was a NileCorp outpost contact, not a source,” I return. Register with the precinct. Proceed to the Upper Sea National Data Center, where Chung was seen exiting. “Does tomorrow’s plan sound right to you?”
“Yeah,” Kieren replies. “It sounds right. You?”
I nod. With that exchange, I’m made certain about our next steps. Our mutual approval does more for me than the call from NileCorp, than any briefing written out for us. I worry often that I don’t form enough of my own opinions, that I’m only adopting what I’ve heard from others. When I contribute to any discussion, I enter a mode of performance, speaking for the sake of it, disagreeing only to impress. We may be on a posting now where our recordings are actually judged at the end, but even when I’m attending classes at the academy, there’s always an invisible committee nodding to my words, and I’m never quite saying what I think: I’m saying what would be best for me to believe.
I neverfullytrust myself until I obtain positive reception. But I do trust Kieren. His confidence doesn’t waver, and it’s nice to be on the right side of it.
The pause between us lulls long. I run a quick search in my display.
“The precinct opens tomorrow at nine o’clock,” I announce. “I suppose I’m going to sleep.”
Kieren tilts his head. I wait a beat.
“Are you,” I try, “going to offer to take the floor?”
“Absolutely not.”
That synergetic moment was nice while it lasted. My back teeth grit together. “Can you at least straighten up, then, so I can have half the bed properly?”
With the comic book still clutched in his hand, Kieren slowly shifts his long legs, adjusting onto one side of the bed. Then he resumes reading.
“You’re unbearable.”
“Thank you.”
“You should brush your teeth.”
“Okay, Mom.”
I grab the edge of the blanket and toss it over his head.
“Hey!”
With a click of my fingers, I turn the lights off, getting comfortable on the mattress. “Good night.” I’m a flurry of activity on purpose, jostling him left and right when I shove a pillow between us. The bed is large enough that I doubt we’d touch in the night anyway, but it’s more for the sentiment than actual necessity. “Don’t disturb me when you get up for the bathroom.”
11EIRALE
I don’t sleep.
Morning comes, and Miz stirs, stretching her arms over her head. She rolls upright groggily. Her first move is to glance at me. My unblinking eyes must give her a fright, because she makes a noise, flinching.
“Okay, sure,” she mutters when she recovers. “Too good to get under the blankets?”
I’m not often tired. A consequence of my time upcountry during the academy. I didn’t sleep much then, either, convinced it wouldn’t have a detrimental impact, and the habit has stuck.
“I overheat easily.”
After Nik deposited me back in the room, I spent the night thinking instead. NileCorp wants me to stay with Nik. Nik wants to get to Kunlun. If I’m going to push him into NileCorp’s hands, then I do exactly what Nik Grant wants. I’ll draw him a path into Kunlun.
Miz clambers up, ambling to the curtains. I pulled them closed after I returned, not wanting to draw anyone’s eye to the location of my little excursion. With the new morning, Miz pushes the fabric to either side of the balcony. The dilapidated room brightens. Its stains in the corner form discernible shapes. The peeling wallpaper behind the televisionreveals a ring of mold that almost resembles the insignia of Atahua.
Though light glows through the glass, it has a lifeless quality to it, polluted by the perpetual layer of smog haunting Medaluo at its stratosphere. The skies are expectantly gray, spotted with darker clouds that I see only when I stand and walk to the balcony glass, craning my neck for the strip visible past the tall buildings. Three floors down, on the ground level, the lady with the food cart has disappeared.
It’s quiet in Upsie. Mornings usually are downcountry. The city has been cratered from its financial epicenter out to its factories. The former has transferred its personnel upcountry—they’ll be logging in from the safety of their homes right about now—and the latter has switched to automation. If there is early movement on the street below, a lone bicycle or a tattered car, it is someone off to keep watch over an empty building, ensuring it isn’t vandalized while operations stay virtual. Someone going out to a manor and nannying the infants until they turn five years old and are mature enough to be scanned into the StrangeLoom system.
