The Cold-Born Assignment
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“Welcome to all of you!”
The voice sings out from the front of the room with a choral fullness.
“You may feel a little groggy as the sedative wears off, but this is completely normal. This is how we keep your CDU task education fresh in your mind, right up until the moment you begin performing it.”
“CDU?”
I turn. For the first time, I realize there are several others sitting on either side of me. At my back, rows and rows of us start to look around. Similar short haircuts. Similar muscular builds. Each one bears a discreet birthmark in some random spot on their similarly youthful faces. One of them, it seems, has spoken.
“I’m sorry. I always forget that you won’t hear it called that way until after you leave.” The speaker is thin with striking features and wears a crimson pantsuit. But underneath her cheery exterior, I sense something much more severe. “I’m referring to the Childhood Development Units, a PharMed laboratory facility. Though our regional base is now known as SkyCity4, our CDU products still bear the acronym of its former Megacity, COLD.”
“That’s the Cradle of Life and Development,” the same voice speaks up again. This time I identify the speaker, three seats to the right of me in the front row. They nod to the others around them, eager for approval.
“Yes, very good,” the woman replies with a sugary sweetness. I almost expect her to walk over and pat the speaker on the head. “COLD MCity was once the New World’s center for innovative biology, and all of you, the pinnacle of PharMed research. As SkyCity4, COLD-borns have become our everything.
“Under CG PharMed’s leadership, COLD-borns now make up SkyCity4’s entire population. We also ship them to other SkyCities. Have been for decades. We’re not supposed to mention the former grounded MegaCities, but even back then, their overseers were purchasing our product to integrate into their higher performing districts. Since forming SkyCorp and becoming the Corporate Governors, they’ve viewed COLD-borns as a strategic imperative for improving their populations across most of SkyWorld.
“But, not where you’re going.”
“What do you mean?” A new voice speaks up from the crowd. It sounds near-identical to the first and could have come from any of the similar-looking faces.
“Well, your CDU programming should have informed you of our destination: SkyCity3. Even as an MCity, the region has a history of being less welcoming to COLD-borns. I shouldn’t be saying this, but as Beacon Faro, they only ever received one shipment of 100 units. Now, as Three, you are their first order.”
I see several bodies squirm atop their metallic folding chairs, but an all-encompassing rumble seems to muffle the sound. Only the voices are crystal clear. My ears are numb. I lift my hand to touch them and feel devices wrapped around each earlobe. Suddenly, I notice everyone else around me wearing them. The walls vibrate ever so slightly. The round belly encasing us seems to shimmy and wobble.
I remember now: I would be waking up in some kind of plane.
“Green Wrists,” the woman sings, and I notice the tiny microphone headset she speaks into. “That is the only task you should expect to serve in Three: the elite few selected to serve its most important people. Your job will be whatever your superiors demand of you. If you do that well, you’ll rise up in the ranks. If you don’t, well…” the woman pauses, droops her head and sighs. When she looks back up to begin, her lips are lifted in a shy smile.
“You know, I’m going to be honest with you. I’m COLD, just like you, so I get your apprehensions. But SkyCity3 is the regional site of Guardian Securities. By the nature of the industry, trust must be earned. This means we’re depending on you and your finely-tuned genetic makeup to prove that our precision, discipline and discretion are critical to Guardian’s security now that the Corporate Governors are guiding humanity’s future as SkyCorp.
“Can PharMed Industries count on you as their representatives?“
“I will do as I am told,” I feel myself repeating without even questioning it. As the words come out of my mouth, they seem to vibrate around the room, as every other COLD-born simultaneously agrees to their charge.
The transport drops suddenly. The woman at the front stumbles only slightly before turning to pull a seat out from the wall, sit down, and buckle in. A steady beep accompanies our slow, gradual descent.
My hands grip a little tighter at the narrow armrests between me and the other COLD-borns at my side. To my right, I notice one of them looking at my clenched fists. I release my grip, too embarrassed to care about my fear of flying.
“I’m sure it’ll be alright,” they say with a smile, their unique birthmark sitting right above it. Their short hair is near-white and, even without a mirror, I know it’s the same color as mine. Their voice sounds like the others, but I notice a slightly higher pitch. “They wouldn’t ship us in this thing if it wasn’t safe.”
“Thanks,” I say, allowing myself to relax and risking the familiarity of a smile. This is the first person I’ve spoken to, but I know not to get close. You never know where you’ll need to go in a Green Wrist assignment, and my programming tells me it’s better to stay free from attachments.
We finally land with a thud and a violent jostle. The woman in crimson unbuckles and rises to stand, gesturing for us to do the same. The person to my right shrugs and we both rise and move to follow.
A door unseals and my ears pop. The transport’s belly fills with bright light.
“This way,” I hear the crimson woman shout.
Temporarily blinded, still a little queasy, and half-sedated, I do my best to follow the sound. I must veer in the wrong direction, because suddenly I feel the light touch of two fingers at the small of my back.
“Whoa there,” says a similar-sounding voice in a higher-pitched version. “The light can be rough getting used to. As Greenies, we get a VIZ-screen. Try a light blocker.”
Suddenly I remember everything I need to know about how to operate my visual display unit. I activate a light dimmer, and the room comes into clarity. The woman in crimson is ahead, ushering us out the door. Apparently, I was about to walk straight into the cockpit.
“This way for SkyChipping!”
The crimson woman’s voice rings out from somewhere at the head of the group. But all I can think about is the higher-pitched-sounding COLD-born behind me.
“Thanks again,” I say.
“Don’t mention it,” they say back as we walk past the crimson woman to exit the transport.
We line up behind the others for the insertion of our SkyChips. At the thought, I remember why they call us “Green Wrists” — it indicates our authority, access levels, and unrestricted credit limits in our service to SkyCorp. If I receive an assignment as a SkyGuard to work the Sectors, I’ll see that the Skycitizen’s SkyChips are red.
“Well that wasn’t so bad,” the high-pitched COLD-born says as they come out of the booth, examining the green glow of their fresh bio-implant. “Just stick your arm in a tube, and viola! Where do you think they’ll send us next?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, looking around the intake facility. The two of us move with the flow of our fleet of COLD-borns in a single file from point to point. Voices speak in our ears. Flashing arrows in our VIZ-screens guide us. “Seems like most tasks here are automated,” I say. “I wonder what kind of work Guardian Securities leaves for its Green Wrists.”
I look around again, trying to find evidence of another human.
“Come to think of it, where are the original 100?”
“Who?”
“The woman in the transport said SkyCity3 should already have 100 COLD-borns working as Green Wrists,” I say. “I thought maybe they’d come to greet us. You’d think we’d have seen at least one of them by now, right?”
“Maybe,” says the other COLD-born in their slightly higher pitch. It echoes as they move from the large intake chamber to file into a narrow hallway. “Or maybe there are too few of them doing too much. Maybe that’s why ol’ Guardian finally caved and brought us in to help.”
My programming expects me to be agreeable, so I shrug and nod, tell them they make a good point, and discontinue any further discussion on the topic.
At the end of the hall, the space once again opens into a larger room, and we all know to line up in order to receive our assignments. The line of COLD-borns enters an area cordoned with stanchions and velvet ropes. Beyond it, the crimson woman stands beside a dour-looking man in dark robes with his hands at his lower back. The COLD-borns snake their way toward them.
“Ah, what a prestigious position for you,” the crimson woman says as the high-pitched COLD-born steps up to her. “The Corporate Governor’s personal care team. There is no higher honor in service to SkyWorld.”
“I will do as I am told,” they reply. They scan their green wrist over a device in the dour man’s hands and step out of the way.
Now, it’s my turn.
The crimson woman’s eyes flitter across her VIZ-screen then focus back on me: “It seems we have two in a row,” she says. “Another COLD-born assigned to the CG’s personal care. That is a great measure of trust bestowed upon you. I hope you will live up to the call.”
“I will do as I am told.”
As I walk away, I know exactly where to go, and catch up to the high-pitched COLD-born ahead of me.
“What’re the odds,” I ask, “both of us landing in CG personal care?” At the elevator bank that will take us to our task housing, I notice there are 25 of us. “Maybe Guardian himself isn’t as hard up on COLD-borns as his SkyCity makes it seem,” I say.
The elevator arrives with a ding, and we all squeeze in. No one has to punch a button. The system already knows where to take us.
The doors open to a dormitory, with aisles of twin beds and thin, gauzy curtains providing little privacy between them. Everyone knows exactly which bed belongs to them and walks right up to it. I open my assigned locker and find several extra uniforms. Beside it, my WalMrkt dispenser is in sleep mode with adverts. This one is trying to sell a new night cream from the most recent catalog.
“Looks like we’re assigned neighbors,” I hear, and turn to see the high-pitched COLD-born in the bunk below mine. “I guess if we’re going to be living and working together, we might as well introduce ourselves.”
I think about the proposition: I’m not supposed to be looking for friendships, but there’s nothing that directly contradicts it in my programming. “Sure,” I say back. “What could be the harm?”
“I’m Kirben,” says Kirben.
“Meyna,” I say in reply. Our eyes meet, and my face warms. I smile.
A baton thwacks my locker with a bang.
“Okay, okay, enough yapping,” a voice says, not in my head, but behind me. I turn to set my eyes upon the first SkyCity3 human I’ve seen — a man: stout, muscular, and aggressive. Quickly, I get the impression it isn’t one of the original COLD-borns. “You skinsacks can fraternize on your own time. Today is orientation, and we have a full schedule. You’ve seen your beds and opened your lockers. Now, let’s get on with it. This way,” he shouts, turning and gesturing toward two open doors that reveal a long passageway.
I look back at Kirben, who offers a familiar shrug and gets up to follow.
On our way, I see a handful of additional humans that make up some of Three’s Core staff. They don’t seem much like COLD-borns either. I try to ignore their glances, filled with disgust and disdain, as we pass.
The man says we can call him General and he’ll be our supervisor. “But you listen to anyone who speaks to you up here, you got that? Guardian Securities HQ makes up most of SkyCity3’s Core structure. Your dorms are on the floor just below the penthouse of the big man himself. You’ll likely encounter staff with the highest security clearance and authority. Do not engage unless you are spoken to. Do not…”
As we walk, I listen and observe. I don’t need a map to know where I’m standing within Three’s Core. Nor do I need it to show me that Three, like all SkyCities, is made up of six rings around its Core that make up the inhabitable Sectors. Having uploaded the protocol for a CG’s personal care operative, I also know I’ll likely never travel out there.
Finally, we arrive in a room, wide enough for all of us to stand just over arm-width apart. In every direction is some form of camera. Some are attached to the walls. Some move around us, lifting and lowering themselves on an arm attached to the ceiling. I hear the sound of zooms and clicks as the array starts to examine us.
I stand perfectly still for my examination, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice a camera pressing right into Kirben’s face. I risk turning my head to see them struggling to back up out of its way as the lens smushes up against their skin. Something comes over me.
“Hey, there’s something wrong with this camera,” I say aloud. The General has gone and no other humans seem to be around to hear me.
But the camera seems to notice.
It pulls back from Kirben’s face and turns to me. Slowly, it inches forward until its lens presses itself up against my skin. It keeps going, digging into my cheek, trying to pass through my bones. I can almost hear the heavy huffs of breath on the other side of the camera trying to intimidate me.
Then, the camera backs off. The doors to the room open. On the other side, the General tells us to “Shut up and keep moving.”
After a long day of protocol programming and daily maintenance task review, we finally return to our dorms. The General says first thing tomorrow, we start working, but we can have the rest of the evening to get settled. I punch in the code for a ration bar in my WalMrkt dispenser and wait for it to print.
“Well, on the whole, I think the task assignment of ‘CG personal care’ doesn’t seem like it’ll be all that tough.”
I laugh. “What do you mean? I’m exhausted!” I find a fresh sleep uniform in my locker and throw it on before climbing up into my bunk. “And we didn’t get the warmest of welcomes.”
“Sure,” Kirben says, biting into their ration bar and flopping into the bed under mine, “but at least we’re not digging ditches or calculating code. The task is a no-brainer. Seems like a lot of waiting around on standby until someone important needs us. Maybe Three won’t be so bad for COLD-borns after all.”
The next morning, an alarm sounds to wake us. We all know what the sound means. I sit up in bed, throw my legs over the edge, and hop down in front of my locker. I find a fresh uniform inside, dump my sleep garment into the nearest disposal bin, and assume my position at the foot of my bed for inspection. Everyone in the room does the same.
Everyone except one.
Beside me, where Kirben should be standing, the space is empty. As we turn and file out of the dorms, down the hall, and into a conference room, I try to see if maybe they got lost in the crowd. One by one, we swipe our green wrists across the daily assignments board: mine is to handle some security detail for some Guardian bigwig, but I can hardly focus.
Where is Kirben?
After a day of being on-hand in case someone needed me to print them a synth-water, I return to the dorms hopeful. Still, no Kirben. Not until later that night do I see them again.
I wake to the soft urging of fingers on my shoulder. Before I can react, a hand immediately clasps itself over my mouth. I nearly scream, but then I recognize them.
“Oh, my Job! Kirben! What…” I activate a brightening mode in my VIZ-screen and realize that their face is battered. Cheeks sliced and bleeding. Chin and eyes swollen. On one hand, they’re missing a finger. My jaw drops and I try to find the right words.
But Kirben goes first: “There’s no time,” they whisper, looking around to make sure no one else in their beds has heard. “You have to get out of here. The CG is a monster! The other 100? Already gone. They say we’re next. Only who knows how long that sicko intends to drag it out. ‘Get used to it,’ they keep saying. I don’t think that I can. I think they might break me!”
“Sssh, Kirben, wait. What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
But before they can answer, two guards in stealth gear press through the doors and into the room, approaching like a poison dart, silent as death. One pulls out a syringe and injects something into Kirben’s neck. Their body goes limp. A flashlight shines on my face and I adjust my VIZ-screen to block it.
“You,” the holder of the flashlight says into my mind, “did you see anything? What did that COLD-freak say to you?”
For a moment, I hesitate. I think of Kirben’s bloodied face and the implication that this was somehow part of the task we would be expected to perform. I think of their fingers on my lower back. Their smile. Then, my CDU training takes over.
“Nothing. I didn’t see anyone.”
The next morning, Kirben still hasn’t come back. Not the next morning either. Days go by. After three weeks, our original group of 25 is now 14. Among those of us who remain, several have been waking up with bruises and cuts, some they don’t remember. Others go missing for days and come back having undergone reconstructive surgeries. Always, their daily assignment is directly with the Corporate Governor. I haven’t experienced it yet, but I assume it’s just a matter of time before whatever is going on happens to me.
One morning in the conference room, a pair of non-COLD Green Wrists are shooting us daggers with their eyes as we receive our daily assignments. As I get close to them, I start to overhear why.
“ …another shipment, can you believe it?” one is saying. “This time over 1,000!”
“I thought that’s why they called us in,” another replies. “To fill in where the skinbags are falling short. Why are they ordering more? And so quickly? I thought Three was all about being natural.”
“Supposedly,” the first says back. “But you know the skinbags are more disposable. Whatever it is they have ‘em doing, it’s probably too dangerous or disgusting for real people. That’s why we get the cushy jobs. Can’t trust a skinsack to flog out-of-line Skycitizens in the Sectors. Maybe this new shipment’ll be a good thing. If they ship express, we’ll be back on the beat in no time.”
As I walk away, the two continue wondering over why Guardian Securities might need so many COLD-born Green Wrists. It’s not explicitly stated in my programming, but I think by now I know why.
“Meyna,” the General hollers from across the room. “I’m bumping you up on assignment. Today, you’re going to see the CG himself.”
“I will do as I am told,” I say.
I grit my teeth, ready to face the music, whatever it may be.
