Rebel Seoul

by Axie Oh

  For a moment, the girl looks stricken, her breath coming in short gasps, but then she swallows. A calmness seems to take hold of her, her whole body going still. She looks past the Director and into the sky. “You’re wrong,” she whispers. “You could never be more wrong. My death is my own. The light of the sky reaches me. It passes through my soul, and I am made of light.”

  “Be at peace, daughter,” the Director says, his finger on the trigger.

  She closes her eyes. “Even in heaven,” she says, her voice clear, triumphant. “Even in heaven will I love my country.”

  I look away and quickly move out of the circle.

  The sound of a gunshot always gives me a headache.

  * * *

  ■ ■ ■

  I head up to the infirmary to rest. This morning I had to wake up early for my part-time job making deliveries. A lot of the Old Seoul veterans of the war refuse to leave their homes due to physical or psychological trauma. They hire me to bring them their groceries. It doesn’t pay much, but I don’t need a lot, and it’s a reminder of what happens when you’re an Old Seoul foot soldier. No compensation for your efforts, no honor in your sacrifices. My ambitions aren’t grand, but they do include not ending up like these veterans.

  The infirmary is empty when I arrive.

  I manage to get in fifteen minutes of sleep before my phone chirps in my pocket. The screen lights up green. It takes me a bleary-eyed moment to read the message.

  Report to Room T4 at 1600 for your simTech test; instructions upon arrival.

  Alex must have signed me up for his team for the senior tests despite my nonanswer.

  “Arrogant bastard,” I mutter. My voice sounds loud in the quiet sleeping cell of the infirmary.

  “Well, it’s nice to know what you think of me.” Alex stands silhouetted in the doorway. He walks over and kicks the legs of the cot. “Get up. Simulations are like sleeping. Ours starts in fifteen.”

  Cursing under my breath, I get to my feet. Alex heads back to the door, looks out to check the hallway, then closes it. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out the Enhancer. He rolls it in his hand before holding it up to the scant light filtering in from the cell’s lone window.

  “Here goes nothing,” he says.

  “Geonbae,” I say in dry celebration.

  He sticks the nozzle of the Enhancer into his mouth and presses the round gray button, ejecting the gas as he inhales. Fumes of it slip from between his lips, and I wave my hand in the air, dispersing the drug. He holds his forearm against his mouth. “It tastes awful.” He coughs. “How long does it last?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He slumps against the wall, his fingers digging against the steel. After a moment, he rights himself, shaking his head to dispel the nausea. “Let’s go.”

  We head out of the infirmary, taking the lift to the fourth floor, where an oval of eight simulation rooms sit at the top of the school. Seniors mingle in the center waiting area, trading tips and placing bets on whose teams will come out with top placements.

  No one is talking about the botched assassination attempt. Either the school sent out a warning, or people just don’t care.

  Alex takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it while walking. I raise a brow at his blatant disregard of the rules. We pass several teachers, but none of them spare him a second glance.

  We arrive at our testing room, and Alex keys in the code to open the door.

  I follow him inside, immediately recognizing two of his recruits, No Seungri and No Seungpyo. Twin brothers — thin, fast-talking guys. Their father owns simTech companies in Neo Seoul and Neo Beijing, specializing in programming simulations.

  They’ll be strong allies in the test.

  Jessica Lim, a tall Korean American girl, is the other person in the room. She was a late transfer last year, her parents having moved to Neo Seoul from the American Neo States, but she’s already made a name for herself as the academy’s top sharpshooter. And Alex’s current girlfriend. She stands when she sees him and runs across the short distance, then throws her arms around his neck and draws him to her for a long kiss.

  When she releases him, licking her lips, I can tell she’s speculating if he’s smoked more than a cigarette. I wonder if she can taste the Enhancer on him.

  At this moment, the Enhancer should be telling Alex what the probabilities are of him getting caught — 50 percent without the cigarette, 48.976 percent with the cigarette dulling the smell of it.

  “What happened to your face?” Jessica asks, turning from Alex to look at me.

  “Jobi happened to his face,” Alex answers, lightly wiping his mouth with his fingers.

  “Ay,” Seungri says. “I don’t know if I want to entrust my future to a kid who got his ass handed to him by Jobi and the boys.”

  “Boys,” Seungpyo says, laughing. “Jobi and the Boys. Sounds like a rap group.”

  “Jaewon is the best Runner in the school,” Alex says — not defending me, just stating rank. He collapses into one of the chairs at the regulators’ square table, set up in the middle of the room. The metal table has monitors on its surface, screens from which the regulators will watch our every action during the simulation test.

  Six simTech pods ring the table against the walls — two at the back of the room and two to the right and left. Our team will hibernate in these pods during the simulation.

  Six pods, but only five of us in the room. We’re missing a person.

  The doors behind me slide open, letting in a loud racket — yelling from the common space. C’est La Vie’s Sela glides in. She’s changed out of her stage outfit and into a cream-colored suit.

  I guess the brain scan went well. After all, she’s alive.

  She blushes a little at the silence that follows her entrance, her gaze darting from me, closest to the door, to the brothers leaning against the wall to the right.

  Seungri elbows Seungpyo, but neither of them comments.

  Her eerie gray-blue eyes settle on me. “Hello,” she says, clearing her throat. She places her hands on her lower stomach and bows.

  Immediately I bow in response.

  “My name is Sela. What is your name?”

  I blink, surprised she’s introducing herself with her stage name. Does she even have a real name? “Lee Jaewon.”

  “It is nice to meet you, Jaewon-ssi. Please take care of me in our upcoming test.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  “Our test?” I ask.

  Seungpyo and Seungri snicker, amused.

  “I forgot to mention,” Alex says, still seated in the regulator’s chair, “Sela is the sixth member of our team.”

  Sela bites her lip, nodding. “It’s a requirement of the state that all citizens participate in two to four years of mandatory military service.” She’s parroting Conscription Law, the laws of the state. “I was born in Neo Seoul. I am a citizen of the Neo State of Korea.”

  “Even though she’s not a student at the academy,” Alex explains, “she still has to take a test in order to receive a placement in the military. To fulfill her service requirements.”

  Everyone looks at me, waiting for my reaction.

  I frown. “She shouldn’t be on our team.”

  “Ya!” Jessica hits me in the arm. “What is wrong with you?”

  “No,” I say, scratching the back of my head. “I mean, why doesn’t she join a different team? The test we’re taking is at the highest level of difficulty. Since she’s not trained in combat simulations, she won’t be prepared for what we’ll face inside the test.”

  It seems logical to my mind. Without a justifiable reason, it’s foolish to burden ourselves with a disadvantage in an already difficult simulation. Not to mention Sela could get a satisfactory placement without taking a gamble on a more challenging test.

  “I
asked her to join us,” Alex says, getting out of the regulator’s chair to stand beside me. “I found out she needed to take a test for her service requirement, so I invited her onto our team. We don’t need a sixth member to win, but it’s a requirement for the test. More importantly, we’ll get a lot of publicity with Sela on our team. If we win, the positive exposure will bring in more offers of high-level positions. For us, it could mean getting a placement as an officer at the war front. For Sela, it could mean getting a safe yet prestigious placement in one of the war offices.”

  Seungri nods, serious for once. “For Seungpyo and me, it could mean getting positions with all the rewards and none of the risks. Sorry, Sela, you’re a burden, but we can carry you through it. Alex is right. If we win — which we will — then we’ll be famous and recognized for our skill. We’ll be the team that defeated a high-level test with an international pop star.”

  Seungpyo pumps his fist in the air — his form of agreeing.

  Alex and Sela are already famous, but I don’t point that out. I guess it makes sense — the more high-profile the test and its players, the more opportunities for outstanding placements.

  Behind me, the doors to T4 open again.

  General Tsuko steps through, trailed by three regulators. I catch a glimpse of flashing cameras before the doors shut behind him. The information about Sela’s participation in the test must have gotten out.

  I thought General Tsuko had left with the Director, but he still wears his black uniform from the assembly.

  Without preamble, he waves the regulators forward. “Test them for Enhancers.”

  This is standard procedure before the commencement of any high-level test, but my heart still misses a beat. I don’t look at Alex, focusing on the gray-haired regulator jabbing a needle into my arm. The syringe fills with blood, and he deposits several drops onto a tray that turns green. “All clear,” he says, pressing a bandage to my wrist.

  Seungri and Seungpyo also come up green.

  Sela, surprisingly, comes up blue. She smiles at the frowning regulator.

  “General . . . ,” the regulator says hesitantly.

  Tsuko looks over briefly before turning away. “Blue is not an illegal Enhancer.”

  Which means blue is a legal Enhancer. I wonder what kind of drugs Sela’s been taking. There are a variety of legal ones on the market. As a pop star, it’s likely she’s taken mild Enhancers for sleep deprivation, softening of the vocal chords, even cosmetic Enhancers. Maybe her gray-blue eyes are only gray-blue for the day, at least until the Enhancer wears off. Now that I think about it, Alex could have taken a legal Enhancer to trick the test, as long as he had more of the blue in his system than the green. It would be a risk, but it could work.

  Jessica’s tray of blood comes up green, and then it’s Alex’s turn.

  Tsuko personally sees to Alex, pressing the needle through the skin into his vein. The blood drops on the tray swirl red, then orange, before changing to green. He’s clear.

  Tsuko drops Alex’s wrist and turns away. “Line up beside the pods you’ll be hibernating in during the test.”

  The brothers move to the pods located on the left, and Alex and Jessica take the pods at the back of the room. I move to the pods on the right, Sela following to stand before the pod beside mine.

  The regulators begin to fiddle with the monitors at the table. One sticks a port drive into the system, uploading the test.

  The doors open once more. This time a camera crew enters. They bow to Tsuko before setting up, releasing highTech cameras to hover mode. I look over at Alex and the others, but none of them seem surprised. Either that, or they don’t care, used to their lives being documented for millions of viewers. For Alex and Sela, the Director’s son and the NSK’s most famous pop star, it’s not surprising. And Jessica has been on the news lately as Alex’s girlfriend. Even the twins are famous gamers.

  I shift in place when one of the highTech floating cameras zooms in on me. With a scratched cheek and bruised lip, the audience will think I look more like a gangster than a celebrity.

  It now makes sense why the Director sent General Tsuko to oversee this test. Give the people what they want. Their hero-general. Their stars. Their war games. And reap their sponsorship and loyalty. It’s the oldest strategy in the book — create a distraction so that people forget the harsh realities of war, and thank you for it.

  One of the camerawomen gives Tsuko a signal. The broadcast must have gone live. Tsuko bows. “Good afternoon, citizens of the NSK. My name is General Tsuko. As you might know, the war effort has gained ground lately in a string of decisive victories in South China, but that won’t be enough. We need more soldiers. More leaders. Today I’m here at Neo Seoul’s Apgujeong Military Academy to oversee a simulation test, the results of which we will use to place some of the academy’s brightest and most exemplary students into positions that will benefit the NSK.”

  A hover camera closes in, panning over each of our faces. Beside me, Sela flashes a wide smile and holds up two fingers in a peace sign.

  Tsuko walks the perimeter of the room. “Simulation tests run the gamut in terms of thematic relevance — some are battles between two teams from different schools; some are levels designed by programmers with goals to complete. Simulations are the highTech training ground of soldiers, where Tech mimics reality. If it’s snowing in your simulation setting, you will feel the wet coldness of every snowflake. You will smell the tangy copper of blood spilled. You will slip on it if you step in it. SimTech battles allow soldiers to build experiences, yet death in an artificial reality cannot take that soldier away from their ability to serve their state. The Tech’s artificial reality trains you for the reality of living as a citizen of the NSK.”

  Tsuko now stands by the doorway. “A change has been made to your test,” he says, for the first time directly addressing the six of us instead of the cameras, “with the Director’s approval. It had been made known to your team leader beforehand, so this shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

  Five heads swerve toward Alex. It is a surprise, it seems. To all of us.

  “As I said, simulations mimic reality, but they aren’t real, because you cannot perish in a computerized setting. In my personal opinion, I prefer this form of testing; a soldier’s life should not be wasted. However, the Director thinks it necessary to mimic reality as closely as possible . . .”

  Tsuko scans the room, noting our confused looks with a raised eyebrow. I guess he expected us to be more informed before we agreed to take this test, or at the least, not lied to. My heart kicks up in speed, and I don’t know whether it’s from fear or adrenaline.

  “Hence the new stipulation: if you die in the simulation test conducted here in this room” — he looks down at the metallic watch circling his wrist — “beginning, now, February fourth, 2199 AF at 1600 on the hour, you will forfeit your life in reality.”

  Jessica gasps. “What the hell?”

  Seungpyo and Seungri shoot murderous looks at Alex.

  I think about withdrawing, then realize we can’t. We’re being watched not just by Tsuko, but also by the whole city. The Director would never let us walk out. Bad publicity. It would carry the stench of dishonor. Morover, Tsuko had already begun the test when he’d announced the rule change. There’s a possibility that forfeiting could lead to our immediate deaths.

  Sela, surprisingly, remains calm. I expect tears, but all she does is frown, watching as Jessica berates Alex with harsh whispers. Does Sela think she’s above the new rule? That they wouldn’t televise her death? One of the cameramen fiddles with the regulators’ controls — whatever happens in the simulation will be broadcasted to the city. Or does she have confidence in our team’s abilities? We’ll try our hardest to keep her alive, but there are countless things that could go wrong — detonations hidden beneath piles of debris or a stray missile getting past our line of defense. />
  I take a deep breath. Calmness settles over me. I recognize the feeling. I always get this way before a battle, whether it’s a simulation or an Old Seoul street fight. It’s the only time I ever feel safe. I know that only I can save myself. No one else can be blamed for how much effort I put into it.

  Plus, Alex took an Enhancer. I might have absolutely no faith in him as a leader, considering he’s sold us out, but it’s in his best interest to see his team through to the end. Casualties would lose him points on the test.

  “But there’s no kill-switch on these pods,” Jessica says, still trying to figure out a way to nullify the rule.

  “We’ve programmed your pods to release a sleeping gas, should the need arise.”

  Tsuko says this in a flat voice, as if the manner of our deaths is of little consequence. He then shifts his attention back to Alex. “Name your team.”

  Alex nods and turns to face Jessica. “Jessica Lim. Defense Tactician and Markswoman.”

  Jessica, fuming, gets into her pod, its glass shield closing her in.

  Next are the twins. “No Seungpyo, Melee Combat and Left Guard. No Seungri, Melee Combat and Right Guard.” The brothers clasp hands briefly before falling backward into their respective pods.

  Finally it’s Sela’s and my turn. “Sela,” Alex says. “Rear Guard.”

  Sela has trouble getting into her pod, so I hold out my hand, and she takes it, balancing herself.

  Once she’s seated, I move back in front of my own pod.

  “Lee Jaewon. Melee Combat and Mid Guard.”

  I don’t wait for Alex to state his positions — Team Leader and Front Guard — before stepping into my pod. The roles are just for the record, anyway, for the regulators to get a sense of what we should be doing, where we should be positioned on the field of battle. Other than that, the titles don’t matter. During a simulation, a player needs to be able to fulfill all positions in order to survive.

  Half-lying, half-sitting on the white cushioned seat of the pod, I watch the familiar glass of the shields come down around me.