Page 8 of Coldwire
Tamera nods, then reaches in to touch my face briefly. “Have a good time at school. And good luck if I don’t see you before your posting.”
She closes the cover. The Pod goes pitch-black. In darkness I sigh with relief, waiting for the screen above me to buffer before the launch message appears. It recognizes my face after a few seconds, the text at the top displaying,WELCOME BACK, LIA. No need to enter my log-in credentials again—it’ll only prompt me for my password the next time I’ve renewed my user ID. A map of Atahua and its territories shimmers to life, offering at my disposal every upcountry landing station where I could go. True to its purpose, the map of upcountry is identical to a map of downcountry, each street and building facade replicated by NileCorp’s satellites. I zoom in on Button State, then flick the map slightly above Button City, sixty miles north in a town surrounded by bright red trees with a river to the east and a castle floating on the edge of the water. I’ve performed this process hundreds of times. At this point, it’s as familiar to me as breathing.
I tap my destination. Press confirm. The mist inside the Pod begins to blow: a cooling, numbing sensation sinking to the bone. The Claw gives me a small electric zap to tell me it’s about to kick in.
A STRANGE LOOP…
My shoulders relax. My breathing eases. The map dissolves for the engine’s greeting words, the same three-line phrase since StrangeLoom first hit the market.
ON A STRANGELOOM…
Letter by letter, each of the words appears, then fades. By the time the final part comes, I’m under in an instant.
THE FUTURE HAS LOADED.
The academy has a landing station outside campus for arrivals into upcountry, but it’s deserted when my avatar pops in. Early-morning landing stations for public schools in the city would be abuzz with activity while daily users make their entry, but all cadets at Nile Military Academy must board as monthly users. Yesterday everyone logged off half an hour earlier than me while I was finishing up some homework, which means they came in earlier too. I’m alone when I walk the short path up to the gate.
NILE MILITARY ACADEMY, the sign out front declares.EVER READY.
I grab the sign as I pass, squeezing cold metal. The cut on my palm obviously didn’t copy over to virtual, but I feel the sting on my avatar, nonetheless. When I let go of the sign and continue walking, I receive a small pop-up in the corner of my vision.
Please refrain from any action that may damage academy property.
“Sorry!” I call out, swiping the pop-up away. No one’s actually listening. The alerts are automated, warnings triggered by the rules NileCorp sets inside its property. If I accidentally damage the sign, it’ll stay like that. StrangeLoom promises to scan the real world to create upcountry, but it’s not continuously updating afterward. They’d have to bring in engineers to restore its image, or just get a new sign in virtual. Both of which take effort and money.
I blink once, opening my display to see the time. I really should hurry. It’s a big campus, and there are certain areas that I have to navigate carefully, perpetually slippery because of the wet mud. I open my messages and find Rayna. She probably wouldn’t have gone back to sleep after logging in with only forty-five minutes until first period, but in typical Rayna fashion, she’ll still roll into her class right before the bell on purpose. I sendHELLOOOOO RISE AND SHINE!!!to her inbox.
The wind blows at my eyes as I trudge onto the gravel path toward the school. Our shared calendar tells me Rayna’s first period is math while I go to PE.
“Cadet Lia,” the gate guard, Mr. Nell, bellows when he spots me. “You’re going to miss your entire first class at this leisurely rate!”
I pick up my pace. “Sorry, sorry,” I grumble. “Do I have time to change—”
“No, cadet! Report to the gymnasium, cadet!”
Most cadets on campus call him Mr. Yell behind his back. “Yes, sir. Have a great morning, sir.”
My avatar reloaded with yesterday’s fatigues: the clothes I was wearing before logging out. I’m glad I’d changed first and hadn’t just pulled myself downcountry in my pajamas. There’s nothing I can do about my loose hair, but at least it’s shorter in virtual. More manageable than the length it’s grown to downcountry.
In Atahua, we get very little adjustment on how we look upcountry. Our first scan happens at the NileCorp registration center, when we turn five years old and qualify for StrangeLoom credentials. They’ll put us under the cameras, issue a user ID, then make the quick incision to implant the chip that interacts with the Claw. We renew our StrangeLoom credentials every year—those without Pods go back into the NileCorp centers, and those with Pods only have to press a button. The scans are completed in seconds, and our avatars are updated to appear exactly as we do downcountry when we log in again.
We’re not without options, technically. We could buy hair extensions or get haircuts up here. There’s even a thriving plastic surgery industry that has learned how to make avatar adjustments using legal code alterations.
The plastic surgery industry, meanwhile, is entirely dead in upcountry Medaluo. Over there, users have a cosmetic adjustment page in their very display, letting them change the shape of their avatars’ chins and the brightnessof their teeth within reason. The feed debates all the time whether avatar customization should be allowed, arguing about how harmful it is to our perception of beauty when people can change how they look on a whim.
I don’t mind that Atahua mandates cosmetic adjustments to be blanked out. One less thing to worry about so I can focus on studying instead.
My classmates appear in the distance, streaming out from the gymnasium in two rows. I’m late. They’ve started their first jog around the campus perimeter. Another pop-up shimmers into the corner of my display.
You are three minutes late to first period!
I break into a jog to catch up. The last thing I need is my participation grades slipping, especially when physical education is a bogus class upcountry. It’s more about building habits and relaxing the mind. We must learn to push through discomfort. Spar with one another on the mats to quicken our mental reflexes and then do it again in the real during reset days.
I’ve argued with Dad about what I might be missing out on if I don’t practice what I learn. I haven’t stepped foot on the physical campus—it’s too far to travel to when my Pod is in Haven State. I can work out endlessly at home, but for all I know, I could end up as one of those cadets who graduate and suddenly can’t figure out how to throw a real punch when I’m a contractor posted downcountry.
It’s happened before. The Pods are built to preserve our real bodies for optimal function, but that doesn’t mean everyone puts the nodes on correctly; nor does it mean that we can build actual muscle while upcountry. I’ve obsessed over testimonials from former cadets who sue NileCorp for firing them when they’re weaker than expected. I’ve lain awake at night wondering if that could happen to me even if I do make it into their private military. Those cases never win. If people aren’t as competent downcountry as they were upcountry when they were offered a job, that’s their own fault.
My hair streams behind me as I gain speed, the strands lifting with the wind. On my reset days, I can count to a hundred doing push-ups. The treadmill at home was intentionally placed in Tamera’s room so we can hang out if I’m running for hours and she’s knitting something. I’ve performed perfectly fine every month, with no indication that I won’t be able to transfer my skills.
