Page 96 of Coldwire
“Sure,” Rayna answers.
LIA: very nice, very well done
LIA: so casual
LIA: so suave
RAYNA: SHHHHHH
The bus comes to a stop at the far side of the museum’s parking lot, joining the other tourist vehicles. When Twelve pulls the hand brake, its body turns slightly, keeping us within view of its front cameras. Then it slumps, quiet.
“We can meet back here at the end of the day if we want to keep traveling together,” Kieren decides, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. “Ready, Ward?”
I wave a hand in front of Twelve’s face. It doesn’t respond.
“What happened to our driver?”
Kieren shakes his head, waving me out through the doors. “We can worry about it if it still hasn’t woken by the time we’re leaving. Maybe it overheated.”
We wander the art museum for a while, nodding and reading the descriptive plaques where appropriate. Upcountry museums are the only places to see art now. Downcountry they lock up real pieces in storage for safekeeping, afraid that the elements will damage them with new floods, afraid that someone is going to break in and steal the paintings right off the walls. The practice would probably be a lot more controversial if NileCorp hadn’t come to an agreement with art curators and owners to let them duplicate their pieces up here for free, as though the art were a part of the infrastructure that the system is obligated to remake.
Mostly, NileCorp allowed that regulation because rich people didn’t want to repurchase their expensive assets in virtual.
Kieren pauses in front of a clay statue, so I take his cue and stop too.We placed a call to Kam when we entered the museum, but as soon as she picked up, she said she had a fire to put out and would call us back within the hour. Now we’re lingering, waiting. Despite the size of this exhibit—one low, small room off the very end of the wing—there are many others milling around with us. The museum is almost at capacity. Threto is indeed busy today.
“Have you been looking at the feed?” Kieren asks quietly.
“No,” I answer. “Kids these days, looking at the feed when there’s art in front of you.”
Kieren doesn’t laugh. His gaze is blank, unfocused for a video. “It’s your dad.”
My heart stutters. “What?”
I open my display at once. I don’t need to go scrolling the feed to find it. As soon as I hover over Dad in my contacts, the auto-search does the work for me, pulling the press articles and accompanying viral videos.SENATOR SULLIVAN UNDER FIRE FOR BILL“TOO SOFT”ON MEDALUO.
I go to the first video. It’s clearly been cut for the most important parts, because there’s no prelude. Dad’s on the Senate floor, saying,“… expands the authority to put through emergency cases. The current processing time for Medans seeking asylum is thirteen months—and within this period, there is no promise of safety for their actions, meaning there’s no real motivation for them to defect at all. If this war is about ideals, as we have heard from our own president time and time again, why do we offer no safe passage for those wanting to believe in Atahuan freedom?”
“Oh dear,” I breathe.
Unsurprisingly, the comments on the video are largely made up of people debating Dad’s ethnic makeup. He’s too Medan for the Atahuans, mad at the thought that we should be offering Medans asylum. He’s too Atahuan for the Medans, unhappy with the insinuation that their citizens even need asylum. And any Medan we see on Atahuan apps is already sympathetic to Atahua in some capacity, either speaking the language or havingfamilial ties across the ocean. If this video got downloaded and made the rounds on different Medan apps, onto their version of the feed, the reaction would be much worse.
“Not a fan of the bill?” Kieren asks.
“The death threats had only just started slowing down,” I say unhappily.
My display suddenly fills with an incoming call, wiping away the next video trying to auto-play. Kieren and I exchange a glance. We can’t speak to Kam here, in the open.
“I think I saw a cleaning supply closet,” Kieren suggests.
We hurry out of the exhibit. There’s a momentary rush of people, some school field trip bringing a cluster of eight-year-olds into this part of the wing. Kieren grimaces, halting every so often to avoid running over a child. At a certain point, I have no choice but to maneuver him along, children be damned. They’re young. They’ll bounce back if they’re whacked.
I swing open the door into the supply closet, answering the call before we’ve fully situated ourselves inside. It’s a tiny, cramped space. We barely fit because of the bulky cleaning cart, a half bucket of dirty water sloshing at its front.
“Ugh,” Kieren groans, closing the door after himself with a thud. “It smells like feet.”
“Status?” Kam asks, her voice upbeat.
I hope she’s forgotten about Kieren’s little fit.
