Chapter 16: The First Step Forward
The email arrived just past midnight, a thin line of light across Chris's phone screen.
Subject: Interview Confirmation -- Department of IP Oversight, Civic Wing of the House of the Dawn.
He stared at it in the dark, reading it once, twice, three times. His first instinct was disbelief. Scam. Misfire. Mistake. He had never been chosen for anything in this country except cleaning pods and scrubbing floors. But the address was real, the seal was authentic, and the signature belonged to the civic registry itself.
He opened the message again, letting his eyes linger on the final words:
"Please arrive no later than 11:50 AM. You will be allocated to an interviewer upon arrival."
It was bureaucratic language, cold and exact, but to him it sounded like a door cracking open. For weeks he had been invisible, drifting between shifts that left no trace in the Republic's system. This was the first time something official had called his name.
Hope was too fragile a word. But something shifted inside him, and he could not bring himself to sleep again.
By nine in the morning he was already dressed, paperwork checked and rechecked until the paper edges frayed from handling. His shirt was plain grey, ironed badly, creases still folded into the sleeves, but it was the cleanest he owned. He stood before the cracked bathroom mirror, studying the reflection. He was not impressive, not intimidating, not even confident. But he looked presentable. And in this Republic, that alone could mean survival.
The harder part still waited: Jamie.
When Chris stepped outside, the air clung to him like damp cloth. The humidity carried not only the weight of water but the metallic tang of coolant discharge and recycled condensation dripping from the district's outdated heat sinks. It was the smell of a neighbourhood living just beyond the reach of the fusion grid's optimised cooling range, a forgotten strip where machinery wheezed louder than people.
There was no car. No bike. No tram.
Transit was free in the Republic, but only for citizens with registered accounts at one of the nineteen official banks — eighteen operated by the Houses, one by the federal core. To ride the trams was not simply to board; it was to prove that you contributed, that your taxes fed the infrastructure grid, that you were inside the Republic's bloodstream. Without an account, you were an absence.
Chris had none of it. He was an absence. His pay had always been credits slipped across counters in back rooms, invisible wages for invisible labour. The Republic did not recognise him.
So he walked.
He crossed narrow alleys where old women ladled broth for technicians already wearing House uniforms. He passed over bridges that shivered faintly beneath the weight of endless feet, every vibration a reminder of the millions who marched to schedules he had no part in. He skirted wide arterial roads lined with neon clan banners, their slogans promising tax relief and advancement for those who pledged themselves to one emblem or another. The city moved with the precision of an organism, and Chris felt like blood spilled outside its veins.
By the time the battered sign of Wall Pod came into view, his shirt clung wet to his back. He slowed, almost reluctant to see what had become of the only workplace that had tolerated him.
The store still stood, but its pulse was gone. The holographic menus were dark, the pods unplugged, the familiar tang of cleanser and lubricant replaced by still air. Power cables twisted across the floor like veins drained of blood.
Jamie was in the back, sunk into his usual folding chair. The man looked smaller than before, hollowed out, his posture slumped as if the weight of silence itself had broken him. His skin had turned pale, his eyes bloodshot, the energy of the ex-soldier he had once been completely leeched away.
When Chris approached, Jamie lifted his head slowly. His voice was a rasp. "You here to laugh at me?"
There was no anger in it, only exhaustion.
Chris shook his head. "No. I just came to tell you I can't make my shift. I've got a job interview. Department of IP Oversight. House of the Dawn."
Jamie blinked, then let out a short, jagged laugh that cracked in his throat. "Well, shit. Didn't expect that. You? Getting through?" He leaned back, shaking his head. "Better than most locals I know."
Chris rubbed his neck, uncomfortable. "I wasn't trying to ditch you. Thought I could make up the hours later, maybe stay back and clean—"
Jamie waved him off, his hand limp. "Don't bother. Store's finished. Doesn't matter now."
He reached into his jacket, pulling out a scratched black phone and a sealed envelope. He shoved both forward. "Here. Take it."
Chris frowned. "What is this?"
"Phone's unlocked. At least you'll have something tied to a name. Envelope's two thousand Republic Credits. Was rent money. Now it's severance."
Chris shook his head. "I can't—"
"You can," Jamie snapped, his tone suddenly sharp. His voice cracked, but his eyes steadied on Chris. "I watched you eat noodles every bloody day, never asked for more, never complained. You didn't belong here, but you showed up anyway. Back home, in the States, that would've meant something. Here? Doesn't mean a thing unless you've got proof. Bank ID, clan ties, registration. Without those, you're invisible. And I know what invisible looks like. I've been living it too."
His jaw clenched. "But you didn't quit. No shortcuts, no excuses. You kept moving. Take the credits. Let me feel human once before I disappear."
Chris lowered his head, throat tight. He accepted the phone and the envelope. Not as charity or a goodwill gesture, but as a farewell gift.
When he stepped back outside, the sun hit him like fire, bouncing off glass and steel until the whole skyline shimmered. The crimson and ivory banners of the Dawn fluttered high above, their emblems of a rising sun stitched into the fabric.
Wall Pod was gone. Jamie was gone. If this interview failed, even his apartment would go next.
This wasn't a step forward. It was freefall.
By eleven-thirty, Chris stood at the foot of the Department of IP Oversight. The headquarters of the House of the Dawn's civic wing rose like a slab of light against the skyline. Its facade was sheer glass and pale stone, banners of crimson and ivory descending in measured intervals. The emblem of a rising sun crested above every entrance, stark and geometric, a promise of illumination through order. There was no ornamentation. No warmth. Only symmetry and authority — a reminder that Dawn did not conquer through armies or inventions, but through the steadiness of bureaucracy.
Inside, the air was cool and sharp, humming faintly with the regulated rhythm of climate control. Workers moved like cogs in a well-oiled mechanism: lanyards swinging, tablets pressed to their palms, eyes fixed ahead. Nobody lingered. Nobody wasted a word.
Chris approached the front desk. The receptionist did not look up from her console. "Interviewee?"
He nodded.
"Take a seat. Number 143. Wait for the screen."
He sat among rows of chairs, the soundproofed lobby swallowing all noise. Moments later, the board above flashed: 143 -- Room 12
The hallway beyond was narrow and sterile. Room 12 had no nameplate, just a door that hissed open when he touched the panel.
Inside, a man sat at a desk. Hair slicked back. Glasses square. The Dawn's rising sun crest pinned against his chest.
"Sit down," the man said without looking up.
Chris obeyed.
The man scrolled through his tablet, speaking in an even cadence. "Christopher Xiong. Twenty-five years of age. A degree in systems engineering from a third-tier university under the House of the River's oversight. No national ID. No clan registration. No service record. No sponsor. On paper, you are no one. Yet you walk into the Civic Wing of the House of the Dawn and ask for a post in Oversight. Why?"
Chris inhaled. "Because this is the only department where truth carries weight. The only place that stands above House bias."
The man did not look up. His next words were sharper. "You were born in the Southern Commonwealth. That history does not vanish. So tell me—what do you think of democracy? Of communism? Of the Republic itself?"
Chris felt his chest tighten. He had rehearsed this, over and over, but the words rushed out faster than he meant them to. His voice carried too much heat, too much certainty. "Democracy collapses into noise. Communism into silence. The Republic endures because it builds trust through proof, not promises."
The line hung heavy in the air — rehearsed, zealous, overcompensating.
For the first time, the man raised his eyes. His stare was cold, dissecting, unimpressed. He let the silence stretch, measuring not the answer itself, but the desperation bleeding through it.
Chris's pulse hammered. He forced himself to steady, to push back into ground he knew. "My studies were about integrity. About how IP chains connect across biotech, logistics, VR, materials. I've seen how a single break in verification can unravel entire systems — not through malice, but through neglect. That is why this department matters. If verification fails, the Republic collapses."
The man tapped his tablet once, then leaned back. "Very well. Your opinion on Section 8B."
Chris blinked. "...What happened there?"
"The override incident. Wall Pod. Was it the Bear's leasing bureau at fault for structural failure, or the operator for unauthorised exposure?"
Chris exhaled, choosing his words carefully this time. "Neither. Not yet. If oversight assigns guilt without full protocol, then oversight becomes a weapon. Our task is not punishment. It is preservation."
The silence stretched again, but this time the man's gaze softened, faintly approving. He closed the tablet and reached into his desk.
A slim black case clicked open. Inside lay a rectangular identity card. Matte, weighty, its surface engraved with the emblem of a rising sun.
"You carry this from now on. It is your credential. Clinics, trams, food halls, housing. Tier One clearance. Registration will follow after."
Chris stared at it, the card suddenly heavier than it should have been. For the first time, the Republic acknowledged him.
"You start tomorrow. Eight to four. One thousand Republic Credits weekly. Do not be late."
Chris stood, bowed deeply — not as formality, but because this moment was more than survival.
For the first time in his life here, he was not a shadow.
He had weight.