by Korn, Tracy
"Why didn't they just send another efficient arrow droid?" Vox smirks, apparently intent on making yet more friends. "And since when is anyone here interested in answering our questions?"
Etta smiles at her again and tilts her head sympathetically.
"Sorry about all that. Matriculation is always a little chaotic, but the administration has found that a little disorientation makes students pay more attention. When highly intelligent people are stressed, they want to talk and solve, focus on figuring things out, you know? Anyway, things tend to go more smoothly in the long run for everyone like this," she adds. "We should get going so we don't overlap with the other groups. This way, please," Etta says, gesturing for us to follow her.
We insert our trays into the receptacle as we walk to the edge of the cafeteria, the Skyboard students apparently coming with us. I shuffle past Vox and Ellis as we pass the rest of them waiting for their guide with Liddick at his table. I expect all their judgmental eyes to fall on us, but to my surprise, none of them do. I reach for Jax's arm to get his attention.
"Don't they have to go with their own group?" I whisper at his shoulder.
"They're in blue just like us," he says, tilting the side of his head to me, but not looking in my direction.
"What's with those teeth?" I say after looking over my shoulder to make sure the triplets aren't within earshot, and now Jax looks at me like I've asked him to help me remember my own name.
"Gene hybridizing, didn't you hear Dez?" he asks, his eyebrows arching."You know, parents can select the gen-"
"I know what it is," I say, biting off the words, "I just didn't think they'd pick something so obviously not normal to mutate. What's supposed to be the benefit of a solid wedge of teeth like that?"
"Pitt told me they can't get cavities or any other problems because of the lack of grooves and spaces," he says, shrugging his shoulders and returning his eyes forward, "something like that." I make a noise in my throat at this, still not entirely convinced that the wedge isn't just another cloudy aesthetic like those overly saturated eye colors. Jax laughs at my reaction, and I jerk my head toward him, surprised.
"What?"
"Come on, Jazz; if they gave you a bioprint with all the nose shapes and eye colors and every other genetic option in our family, do you really think you wouldn't pick the best of them if you could? I mean, why would you want to inherit those caterpillar eyebrows if you didn't have to?" He braces for the punch he knows is coming.
"You have the same eyebrows I do, mollusk."
"Yeah, but I don't have a tiny little head like you do."
He dodges the punch to his arm and laughs, and I notice the corridor we're now in is suddenly much narrower than most of the other hallways. Where are we going?
"That's different besides," I say. "No one in any of their families can possibly have naturally occurring wedged teeth like that with no grooves and no spaces anywhere. It's outer ring."
"Outer ring?" Jax laughs. "Where did you hear that? Anyway, who cares what's in their mouths?"
"It's just the principle of it," I say, and it's Jax's turn to roll his eyes as he shakes his head. "Vox is rubbing off on you," he says, bracing for another punch, but Etta stops our group just in time. I look around, wondering where in the building we must be. We didn't climb or go down, so we must be somewhere on the same level as the galley, med-bay, and my room. How big is this place?
The room we're in is round and nearly as big as the galley with student stations every few meters apart. Everything is smooth and the equipment looks too delicate to touch. Helmets hover over cylindrical stools with high, narrow backs and head rests in front of each flat metal work station, which sits just below plain gray panels on the wall. Jax and I exchange glances.
"And this is the Boundaries room," Etta says. "It holds 30 people comfortably, one at each station. The circles under each chair will light when you activate the unit, and this will produce a soundproof barrier. The same technology is in the Records room, which we'll also visit. You'll come here to the Boundaries room to link in for port-calls—which you'll actually get to sample today in visiting your advisors—and any work you're assigned to do remotely."
"Remotely?" Avis questions with raised eyebrows. "As in, not physically there?"
"Exactly, but you won't have remote assignments until you are upperclassmen."
"What kind of remote assignments?" Fraya says in a small voice.
"Some career paths require an immersion sequence before you're physically transported to the site. Cultural acclimation. Those of you who tested into State careers will have at least one remote assignment. If you're slotted for technical or biodiverse fields, you probably won't have to worry about it unless you're in Navigation."
"So, wait. How does any of this work? How do we know what we're supposed to be studying here?" Avis asks.
"You'll find out right now, in fact," Etta says, nodding to one of the stations. "You will all link into one of the units here and be transferred to the administration building at the State via port-call to meet virtually with your advisors. You must schedule any appointments with them through your bracelet cuffs, by swiping anywhere on it from left to right to call up your dashboard. Go ahead and try it out," she finishes, and I feel my heart race for a second at the prospect of being able to make a port-call after all, even though I wish it were to home.
I swipe my bracelet and a small 3-D screen projects in front of me with tabs that list calendars, classes, and contacts. Whoa.
"If you touch the calendar tab, you will be able to see your daily schedule, and the first name in each of your contacts now under my name is your advisor. Go ahead and pull that name up," Etta says, pausing to give us all a chance to do what she says. I pull up the list, and see Etta's 3-D picture beside her name as well as CARIS PLUME —ADVISOR, alongside another 3-D picture of the same blonde woman from my interview. "Go ahead and touch the name," Etta says, and I do.
When would you like to schedule an appointment with Ms. Plume, Miss Ripley? I hear the neural link voice say in my head, and instinctively look up at the others, who also suddenly look up and around the room.
"You should have heard the neural link ask you when you'd like to schedule an appointment. Your advisors and their proxies are expecting you, so you can answer by saying, 'in five minutes,' or you can just think it." Some of the others say the words out loud, but I just say them in my head.
Ms. Plume will be pleased to meet with you in five minutes, says the voice in my head, and the screen closes.
"All that's left to do now is choose a seat and place your palm on the work desk. This will activate the headpiece, and the neural link will prompt you from there. Your advising session will last about 30 minutes. You can ask your advisor any other questions about your classes, and if you need to reach me, just go into your contacts. Welcome to Gaia, everybody," she says as we all choose a station.
CHAPTER 20
Ms. Plume
The vibration in my head is the first thing I notice when I place my palm on the desktop, even though the thin helmet hasn't touched me yet. When it does, the confinement isn't as terrible as I imagined it might be.
Please close your eyes, says the neural link voice over a dull buzzing sound. I do, but instead of seeing the dark insides of my eyelids, I see a white film that dissipates until I see Ms. Plume sitting at a thin, glass desk in front of a picture window with palm trees and the ocean outside. She's typing onto a keyboard that isn't there, and then seems to see me.
"Jazz!" she says with a laugh in her voice. "It's nice to see you again. Welcome. Please sit down," she continues, her wide, white smile beaming. "I took the liberty of pulling up a shore view for our meeting today, but if you prefer to look out on a forest or something else, just say the word," she says, gesturing to the picture window behind her.
"Oh, no, that's fine. Thank you," I say, taking a few steps forward, at least, it seems that I do. I reach out to touch the back of the chair in front of th
e glass desk, and am surprised to feel it's actually there—solid. It's smooth and cool, all brushed metal finish and seamless.
"Whoa…" I whisper.
"First virtual transfer?" Ms. Plume asks, her lips pulled wide in a smile that puts crinkles around her blue eyes. "Feels real, doesn't it?"
"This is actually cold. I thought you could only make out structures, maybe textures—solid, soft, liquid…" my voice trails off as I touch the underside of the desk. The pads of my fingers don't press in when I do, but I feel the pressure all the same. "And I'm still sitting in the Boundaries room, right? This is all in my head?" I ask. Ms. Plume's thin eyebrows shoot up as she nods.
"Technically, yes, but port-calls are a little different from virtuo-cines in that your physical makeup is simulated into a hologram, which then pulls Biotech's atoms in the port-cloud field of the atmosphere to match your hologram projection in 4-D—this is why others who are physically at your destination can actually feel your presence in say, a handshake or a hug. Then, like a virtuo-cine, your neural input is routed. What is the extent of your virtuo-cine experience, Jazz?" she asks, angling her head and interlacing her fingers on her desk as she leans forward in her chair.
"Well, just the school earth science versions. I've only seen the preview advertisements for the blockbuster virtuo-cines, and I'm familiar with Biotech's port-cloud field. It's the reason everything smells like sulfur back home," I answer, realizing my last comment was probably unnecessary when Ms. Plume's eyebrows twitch, but then I wonder if it also might sound more hostile than I mean it to because my voice feels loud over the sound of the buzzing still in my ears. "Is it still supposed to buzz like that?" I ask.
"Buzz? Not really, perhaps it's something in the Boundaries room that's coming through. I wouldn't worry about it," she winks and nods, pushing a bowl of rose colored candy toward me that I hadn't noticed before, then swiveling to her right to type, though I still don't see a keyboard. I reach for a piece of the candy and study the intricately carved letter G on it. "All right, let's get you sent as far away from here as possible," she says, and I look up suddenly, sure that I've misheard.
"Sorry, what did you say?" I ask, the small, round candy still between my fingers.
"Let's get you set up as soon as possible," she says, looking over at me and smiling as a 3-D picture of my face appears next to a block of text I can't make out, and the buzzing in my ears grows louder as the image pixelates, then dissolves into an image of my father's face—his wide brown eyes just like Nann's, his dark, curly hair like Jax's. I gasp and grip the arm of the chair before I nearly fall into it, the little round candy tinkling in small bounces to the floor.
"I never saw it coming when I refused the stipend—" Ms. Plume says, only it's my father's deep voice I hear as she continues to type. I almost don't recognize it until I feel the sudden sinkhole open up in my chest, causing everything inside to fall through.
"Dad?" I say with the last of the breath I have, then struggle to summon another.
"I'm sorry?" Ms. Plume says, now with her own voice again as the 3-D picture suddenly changes back into mine.
"N-nothing…" I say, shaking my head to clear it.
"All right, well it looks like we have you slotted for a diplomatic career, Jazz. That will be exciting for you!" she says, lifting her index finger to the text next to my picture, then making small sounds of approval in her throat as she reads. The buzzing in my ears subsides briefly once my picture and Plume's own voice return, but dials up the second she speaks again. "Have you tried the candy yet? You can choose your flavor. What kind of can—candy do you wa—want it to be?" she asks without looking away from the screen, her image suddenly freezing, then jolting to a start again like a lagging flat-cine as her long, blonde curls slowly shrink upward into short, sun-bleached waves with dark brown roots. "If you're already there, pretend to be what they want you to be," Plume says in her own voice as she turns to me, but her delicate brows fade into thicker, darker versions with a thin, white scar through the left one.
"Liam?" I whisper, a ball of lead falling into my stomach.
I push back from the desk and stagger out of the chair, nearly falling as I back away. "Jazz?" Ms. Plume's face returns, and she folds her hands on the desk. "Are you all right? Please sit down again and just try to breathe—first transfers can be a little unsettling."
My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard I feel like it might break through, but when I press my hand to my chest to steady myself, I feel nothing.
"I don't have a heartbeat—where's my heartbeat?!" I say, hearing the hysteria in my voice.
"Just calm down, Jazz. Remember, this is a virtual transport. You can only feel what we've programmed, even though emotionally it may seem like a physical reaction. Here…" Ms. Plume punches something into her invisible keyboard, and suddenly, I feel my heart pounding underneath the palm of my hand, but not nearly quickly enough. "You should feel it now," she says, trying to smile.
I sit back in the chair, a layer away from everything. I've just seen my father, heard my father's voice, and now Liam, but Plume doesn't seem to know? How can she not see what's happening? It has to be another message from Liam, like the marlin. But then, what about my father? I need to buy some time.
"I feel it now," I say, trying to steady my voice as the buzzing sound recedes again and my hands begin to shake—though, I don't see them shaking. I look around the room for another inconsistency like Liddick mentioned seeing in his virtuo-cines that can help me understand what Liam and my father were trying to tell me, but all I see now are Ms. Plume's blue eyes narrowing with concern as she smiles gently and nods. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to focus.
"It can be an adjustment," she says, and then turns back to her screen. "Are you feeling well enough to learn your probable career field?" I study her face for a second before answering, wondering if she's going to glitch out again, but nothing happens. "Jazz, are you all right?"
I nod quickly at her. "I'm fine, sorry. Yes, I'm ready," I say, steeling myself, and she refreshes my 3-D image.
"All right then," she says with another wide smile as she references her screen, "it looks like you're on track to be a Diplomatic Liaison. The data compiled so far in your profile suggests that you are a very good judge of character…empathic tendencies…" she reads, "…both of which are critical traits for this position. Of course, we won't have anything official until tomorrow afternoon when the rest of your profile finishes generating, but for now, it looks like you'll be part of a crew as one of three empathic advisors who will also serve as first contact when the crew interacts with homesteaders or other civilians. Let's see about some classes for that," she says, and the low frequency buzzing increases in my ears.
She picks up a bracelet cuff from the window side of her desk and begins tapping something into the side of it with a slim, silver rod that ends in a fine point, but her hands and the bracelet cuff flicker in and out like the feed is breaking up as the buzz suddenly grows louder again.
"What's that?" I ask abruptly, watching the pixilation fade and re-solidify. I move to the edge of my seat and brace my hands on the arms of the chair.
"I've just authorized your class schedule and your first training assignment. In approximately six months, you'll be port-calling with an advisor to Arcadia Nine, a settlement much like Seaboard North not too far inland on the Zealand coast to negotiate the terms of three scholarship seats to Gaia, effective the following matriculation cycle. You'll have recently completed your own cycle, so the requirements will be fresh in your mind."
"I'm…but I don't—" my mind suddenly stops hard as the bracelet vanishes completely, then reappears. I wait for something to happen again, a vision of Liam or my father, but nothing does.
"I know it sounds intimidating, but there is plenty of time to learn the field. Just consider this assignment an opportunity to escape," she says, pulling up another screen as the buzzing gets stronger.
"Wh—wha
t did you say just now?"
"Just consider this assignment an opportunity to acclimate," she says, turning to flash a sincere smile as she puts the bracelet back on her desk. "There's no rush to know how to do it all," she continues, smiling to one side, and I steady myself for whatever is coming next. "You're more than capable, Jazwyn. Here, let me show you," she says, motioning to the projection area where my face was, but has now been replaced by a fuzzy image of Arco, Jax and I sitting together with me talking to them both about something.
"What's happening?" I ask.
"That's your subconscious already beginning to work backward to align the steps you'll need to take to be successful on this mission to Arcadia Nine," Plume says, gesturing to the screen in front of her where code is generating next to the images. She points to the first few lines of it. "Here your mind has identified and outlined fears, the first one being speaking in front of others…there it is," she says, freezing the scrolling text and pointing to a specific line, which projects another 3-D image of Arco, Jax and me in mid sentence. "And there are the countermeasures for failure that you're producing threading into place…you see, right here…that's your data chain," she says, pointing to another line, then touching the thumb and index finger of each hand to the center of the screen and flicking them outward. The screen is larger now so I can see the whole exchange more clearly. "You're practicing. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Wait—" I manage to say over the buzz in my ears that now gives way to a distant, high-pitched squeal. "You can see me thinking?" I feel myself blinking repeatedly in disbelief. "But I'm not even thinking or planning any of that," I say, gritting my teeth against the noise that is starting to drill through the roof of my mouth.
"Indeed you are; you just don't realize it. Most of our thoughts are subconscious. It's a very small percentage that are conscious." She presses the pad of her thumb to her lips and shakes her head as she looks back at the screen.
