Libera Sneak-Peek

A hundred years is a long time to live.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. Models may technically be free, but the society in which they live - well, they haven’t quite caught on yet. But Ordell’s not sure how much he’s willing to invest in the “real world” anymore…

Chapter 1 (the real chapter 1) The Free City

Saturday, June 19, 2258

Lyra Craevis, Deseret - Mijloc

Ordell Bentley descended wide, thick-carpeted stairs in his modest townhome that marked the center of Lyra Craevis. All of the years of software updates had smoothed the edges of his avatar, blending his angles into smooth arcs. Similarly, years of existence in the virtual prison known as Inferiere had smoothed his personality so much that any connection to what earthlings called the “real world” had long since dwindled to nothing in his heart. All he needed was here anyway, and the smell of virtual bacon sizzling on the level below as he descended the stairs told him that he wasn’t mistaken. His world was complete, though it was hardly a world at all. Pick a direction and walk a few “miles” and the city and surrounding foliage diminished into empty white space, as far as could be seen.

But not here. He rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, hands secured in the pockets of his overly-formal robe - about which Monica perpetually teased him. But after a hundred and eighteen years of existence, he felt entitled to a few comforts. Besides, she wouldn’t be chastising him this morning, since she still wore her long sweater from the evening before and so made a better target. 

Monica Caldwell tried her best at the ancient art of cooking on a stove, and had it not been for the limitations set in their virtual home, she would have failed miserably. Ordell could tell that the bacon had already been on too long. When that happened, the flavor and texture defaulted to in-world ‘cooked bacon’ flavor, losing all nuance of her involvement in the process. She twisted her head to look as he stepped heavily onto the hardwood.

“You’re up,” she told him, smiling. “Finally.”

“I love sleep,” he commented to her without apology. “If you’d been in …”

“Inferiere for years unable to actually sleep at all, I would love it too. Yeah, they fixed that before you even left. Sit over there.”

She motioned to one of four stools flanking the counter - a counter which hadn’t existed the day before.

“More changes?”

Monica nodded.

“What do you think? The old open dining area was grating  on me.”

Ordell nodded and grunted as though he approved, but he’d become used to the old dining area. He made his way across the empty floor to her, and when he was close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, he picked up his pace and closed quickly, ending the stride with his arms around her lifting her from her place. 

She grinned as he did, looking down into his face. They’d almost gotten her right, except they’d missed a mole that should have been on her left ear. Her bright red hair shot up around her head in something that resembled a frizzy halo, and he loved the way it looked on her. She leaned forward to kiss him as he spun her around and then deposited her back where she’d stood.

“In a good mood?”

“Safe. I have you here. What else would I need?”

“You do have me here.” The words might have echoed his joy, but he knew the heaviness they held. Her smile faded first from her lips and then from her eyes as he began to regret having brought attention to the fact that she was here, in Mijloc, instead of out there working with HCC. Her countenance quivered. The way it still got to her after forty years brought a lump to his throat. He’d missed the worst of it, having been securely dead in the real world and a ghost in Inferiere for most of the bloodshed.

“I’m sorry.” It was the same thing every time, and as usual, his apology seemed insufficient compared to what Monica had lost. She swiveled her head from side to side, and the familiar pattern played itself out to the same logical end.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You didn’t firebomb HCC headquarters. You didn’t level the Village in New York. You didn’t kill nearly a thousand models.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She tried to lift the pan holding the bacon, but instead pulled it to a different burner, and then put her hands on the counter by the stove with her back to him.

“I didn’t mean to bring up …” He tried to extend the apology. Ordell should have known better after so many attempts at doing the same thing, but since he lacked the strength to stand idle while she suffered before him, he took up his part of the dance with a pinch of self-loathing.

“It’s so frustrating, Ordell.” She turned to him and her eyes had gone gray. “So frustrating. How many years of our lives went to pursuing freedom? We finally get it and nothing changes. Polli still hate us, police still kill us for less than looking at them. Politicians even run on re-instating the Madison Rule. It’s almost like nothing changed at all.”

“Something did,” he assured her. “We have Lyra Craevis.” She seemed to relax then, and he held up his wrist before her. “See? Nothing. And I’m only twice the size of a normal person in here.”

Monica laughed at that comment, as true as it was. To call Ordell smaller didn’t mean much, as a small truck was also smaller. He at least didn’t have to turn to go through doors anymore.

“You’re right,” she said. “And we have Kelleigh.” 

He stepped back from her and checked the belt on his robe.

“We do. Still sleeping somewhere, I guess.”

“She learned to love sleeping from you.”

On cue, he heard the drowsy shuffling of the girl who lived with them descending the stairs he’d just departed. He moved to the side to grant access to one of the counter chairs. Rubbing the collected grains from her eyes through a stifling yawn, another woman entered the kitchen and sat at the counter beside him without acknowledging he existed. He smiled at her anyway, and watched her settle into her seat. Only instead of a woman nearing thirty, the upper limit on any avatar in Mijloc, he saw the little girl he’d first met almost fifty years before, tears streaming down her face and motherless except for the woefully unequipped Monica, fighter and revolutionary, community organizer, and victim of model-directed violence that ended with her and several hundred other models dead or dying in the so-called “real world” and ported into Mijloc prematurely.