Cold Boot — Part 1: Morning

My job is in hell.

Well, not Hell, per se. At least, not the capital-letter Hell of old; if you wanted that experience, you had to travel to a different server. But every workday, I'd plug myself into the computer and transport my consciousness to a different reality.

Still hot, though. Always skin-pricklingly hot. Haven't seen snow since I was seven.

There, life moved at a different pace. Virtual work hubs overclocked your brain, because capitalism couldn't leave well enough alone with eight hours of labor a day. I sat in a greige cubicle, staring at a greige monitor, on a floor full of folks who woke up every day only to step into a fantasy world of overwhelm and, well, despair.

"Jamie, are you doomscrolling again?"

It was Anabelle, my coworker for this RIF cycle. They never let people build relationships here. Relationships led to unions, and nobody in the management suite wanted that. Better to shuffle people around every few weeks, fire a few, hire a few more, just to keep people scared.

Why not? They owned us, lock, stock, and barrel, and we'd had a chance to stop it, but we failed—

"Jamie?"

"Sorry." I shook off the thought and leaned back in my chair. The "sun"—as much as there could be sun in a virtual environment—cast a little warmth on my face. Still didn't feel real. Everyone said it did, but let me tell you: I grow plants. Like, real-world plants. So I know a thing or two about how sun should feel.

Anabelle cocked her head to one side. She was a pretty thing, with straight blonde hair and blue eyes that sparkled with starlight.

"Something on your mind?"

"Just tired." I waved my hand at the window. "Tired of all... this. It's soul-sucking. Everyone wants your money. Nobody just, like..."

"Like the world is a little too flat?"

"Or boring, I guess. Overwhelming, but boring."

Anabelle gave a wicked smile. She slid me a card with a virtual address. Private server. And the ID number was low—very low. Whatever this place was, it had history.

I turned the card over. No name. No pop-up holo-ad for the VIP experience at some virtual bar. Just a scrawled ID: zoo://001.server/knockthree.

"Let's take an early lunch," Anabelle said. "I'm about to change your life."

I blinked. "This isn't one of those NSFW LARPs, is it? I swear to god if I walk in and someone's yiffing a dragon—"

Anabelle rolled her eyes. "It's not like that. Or—okay—if that's your thing, they'd let you. But no. It's quiet. Safe. Weird. I dunno." She shrugged. "It just helped when I needed it."

That made me pause. I'd never heard her talk like that—soft-edged, vulnerable. She was usually the sarcastic one in the break room, the only person who made me laugh during All-Hands.

"Just knock three times," Anabelle said. "And don't bring your work avatar."

Then she stood, stretched like a cat, and winked out of existence. Her smile, Cheshire-like and broad, persisted long enough to tease me with some parting words:

"C'mon, Jamie. Let's go somewhere with real sunlight."

I came home from a virtual cubicle farm to a greige apartment whose walls I couldn't paint and whose furnishings I couldn't customize, unless I was willing to pay for a customization license. Above, an all-seeing eye monitored my blood pressure and pulse in real time so the data could feed a model deciding what meds I was entitled to take.

I called him Stinky Pete.

"Evening! Dinner today is Hormel Spinach and Hot Dog hash."

"Yum," I said, rolling my eyes.

The machine droned on: "Your iron is down again, and your salary doesn't cover organic foods. We could invest in more food if you—"

"—if I took the promotion, I know, I know." I scoffed. "Can we not talk about work, please?"

"Your health is important to your employer," Stinky said. "But I will respect your choices. Dinner and Holovids tonight, I'm guessing?"

I tapped the card against the table, a soft click.

"Not tonight, Stinky. Got an invite to a private server."

"I need to warn you that private servers can harbor malware that could negatively affect your mental health—"

I took off my bra and slung it over Stinky's eye. (I could play it off as a mistake if anyone ever audited the film later.) Then I stretched out on my twin bed and wheeled out my rig.

It was a small studio. Most people had studios these days. I lived in a wet-bulb state, so going outside was a death sentence for most months of the summer. Why pay to cool 1200 square feet when most folks spend their time in full-dive?

I pulled a jack from the rig and, searching with my fingers, plugged it into a port behind my ear. Then Stinky, my shitty dinner, and the world fell away into something new.

Anabelle better be right about this place.