The Sky Above, the Rivers Below, Ch 2: Orientation Day

A mother from Joseon Korea fights to protect her family's soul in a sterile future where tradition is obsolete and her daughter is tempted.

The silence of this new dwelling pressed in on Sook-ja, a void more frightening than Hanyang's most cacophonous market day, for it was the dead air of a crypt, not the vibrant hush of a home awaiting dawn.

She lay stiffly on the strange, yielding pallet that was not a proper mat, listening. Back in their village, morning would have announced itself with the headman’s rooster, the distant lowing of an ox, the shuffle of her husband, Yong-joon, rising to check the sky. Here, there was only a faint, almost imperceptible hum, like a distant cicada trapped behind glass, and the chilling stillness of walls that felt too smooth, too perfect.

Yong-joon stirred beside her, a rustle of unfamiliar fabric. He, too, had slept poorly. Sook-ja saw his silhouette in the dim, grey light that seeped from no discernible window. He sat up, his face etched with the same bewildered weariness she felt. "Wife," he mumbled, his voice raspy, "is it even morning in this… this place?"

"I cannot tell," Sook-ja admitted. She rolled to her side, then onto her knees, and bowed her head to the floor, the proper greeting. "Will you have some tea?"

Yong-joon’s answer was an impatient grunt, a small, sharp sound she knew well.

Sook-ja had not expected more. She rose and padded toward the small alcove the Chronic people called a kitchen. The floor beneath her bare feet was uncannily smooth, offering no familiar texture.

The kitchen was a marvel of gleaming white and cold metal. Though a helper had demonstrated its functions, Sook-ja found it daunting. Her mother had boiled water in a soot-blackened iron pot over a wood fire, a pot Sook-ja had inherited and cherished. This room held no hearth, no coals. She found a flat box containing neatly wrapped portions of tea; a sniff confirmed its quality. Nearby, however, was a round tin. She opened it: loose tea leaves, earthy and rich, with a hint of sweet spice. For Yong-joon, the ritual of loose leaves was proper.

There was a metal teapot, shaped like a bulbous leaf. A slender tube dispensed water. Sook-ja twisted its handle, watching clear water trickle into the pot. It took her a moment to find the button to heat it. She pressed one below the spout; the pot beeped. Uncertain, she tapped another at the top. Steam immediately curled out, and she jerked back. Soon, the beeping stopped. The pot was warm.

She poured the hot water into a small porcelain cup, added two spoonfuls of the loose leaves, and swirled it. She set the cup on a tray with the tin and a small bowl of dried figs.

The sleeping area, she now realized, had its own sliding door. Sook-ja eased it open.

The room was larger than their hanok, but oddly empty. The bed, vast and plush, lacked a quilt. The walls were bare, devoid of even a single scroll. Yong-joon’s snores indicated he’d returned to sleep. The journey had been long, the previous day filled with unsettling preparations. She set the tray down quietly and returned to the main room.

Their meager luggage lay in a corner: plain clothing and a few precious items - Yong-joon’s scholar’s brushes, unused for years, and her own mother’s wedding comb of carved pear wood. She touched a worn silk wrapping cloth, a familiar texture in this sea of alien smoothness.

A soft chime, like a distant temple bell but without its resonant depth, sounded from the door. Sook-ja startled. Yong-joon would still be asleep.

The door slid open. A woman stood there. Not a servant, Sook-ja knew instantly. This woman stood tall, without the customary deference. Her clothes were plain, like other Chronic personnel, but cut in a severe style - trousers like a man’s, a tunic revealing the shape of her arms. Her hair was short. And her gaze… it was direct, meeting Sook-ja’s without shyness or wifely modesty.

Sook-ja’s breath caught. A woman giving orders, with such boldness! "Are men nothing here, then?" the thought flashed, sharp and disorienting. This person carried herself with the confidence of a magistrate.

Instinct took over. Sook-ja dropped into a low bow, forehead nearly touching her knees, eyes on the smooth floor. "Annyeonghaseyo," she murmured.

The woman’s voice, clear and translated by the chip, still sounded foreign. "Kim Sook-ja? Kim Yong-joon? I am Officer Nara. Please prepare yourselves. It is time for your Newcomer Orientation."

Officer Nara. A woman using a title of authority. Perhaps sending one who spoke Korean was meant as kindness, but to see a woman carry herself so, to command so directly… it was more jarring than any foreign man. Sook-ja remained bowed, heart thumping.

A silence stretched. Sook-ja felt the woman’s gaze.

"You may rise," Officer Nara said. Her tone held a hint of efficiency, as if the bow were an unnecessary delay.

Slowly, Sook-ja straightened, eyes respectfully lowered. "My husband… he is still resting."

"He will need to be woken. The orientation is mandatory. We have a schedule." No apology, just an expectation of compliance.

A flush crept up Sook-ja’s neck. To be ordered to wake her own husband by this… woman. "Yes, Officer-nim," she managed, the honorific feeling strange. She turned, movements stiff. The official’s presence filled the apartment with an unsettling energy of command Sook-ja had only ever felt from stern government men in Joseon. This was profoundly wrong.

She found Yong-joon stirring, grumbling. The tea sat untouched.

Min-ji, their twelve-year-old daughter, emerged from a small nook Sook-ja hadn’t realized was separate. She was a quiet child, already attuned to her parents’ anxieties, but as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her gaze was not on them, but on the strange, seamless way the wall met the floor. Seeing her mother’s strained face, she quickly looked down. "There is an… officer… here," Sook-ja said softly. "She says we must go to an… orientation." Yong-joon’s scowl deepened. "Orientation? Are we children to be schooled?" But he rose, pulling his rumpled clothes into some order. Min-ji, always obedient, nodded and smoothed her tunic.

Officer Nara waited by the open door, her face impassive. Yong-joon pointedly ignored her, but Sook-ja saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes at her attire and direct posture. "Follow me," Officer Nara stated, turning without awaiting assent.

They were led through silent, humming corridors. Other doors slid open; other families emerged, faces etched with confusion and weariness. Sook-ja noted, with a pang like shame, that these others were like them - clothes worn, bundles small, expressions of people who had little and expected less. No fine silks, no confident merchants. These were the faces of peasants, of those who had sold their last pig or parcel of land. "So these are our neighbors now," she thought sadly. "All adrift in the same strange vessel."

The corridor opened into a large, bare room, plainer than the grand hall of their arrival, filled with rows of simple benches, already crowded. The air, despite the hum, felt stuffy, thick with the unwashed scent of too many bodies and the murmur of a dozen languages, all rendered intelligible, and thus more intrusive, by the chip.

Men and women sat together, shoulder to shoulder. Some laughed loudly. Sook-ja’s eyes widened. No separation, no respectful distance. Women spoke directly to men not their kin, voices bold, movements free. Some wore trousers like Officer Nara. Others wore clothes shockingly short, arms and lower legs bare. "This is utter shamelessness!" she thought, horrified. The noise was an assault - not just its volume, but its impropriety.

An official, a large man with a booming voice, shouted instructions. "Find a seat! Quickly now, we haven’t got all cycle!"

Sook-ja clutched Min-ji’s hand. Yong-joon, face stiff with disapproval, scanned the room as if seeking escape. He flinched as a woman nearby, hair dyed a shocking blue, called a joke to a man across the aisle.

"Mother," Min-ji whispered, trembling, "why are they all mixed so? And their clothes…"

Sook-ja could only shake her head, a cold dread settling. This was a public display of disorder. People slumped on benches, some eating from noisy wrappers, crumbs unheeded. No dignity, no shame. Officials, male and female, moved with casual authority, voices sharp, manners abrupt. It was a chaotic, vulgar scene. "This," she thought bitterly, "is the Chronic Company’s welcome for people like us. This is their new life."

A couple near them rose, leaving a space. Officer Nara gestured. Yong-joon, with a firm, angry motion, pulled Min-ji behind him and sat stiffly, jaw clenched. Sook-ja eased down beside him, gathering Min-ji close. "Stay close," Sook-ja whispered. "Don’t look. Keep your eyes down."

The official's voice droned on, meaningless. Sook-ja listened with half an ear, trying to block the crowd’s noise, feeling the resentment radiating from her husband. The speech finished. "You may mingle for the next two hours," the official announced, "before returning to your quarters."

Min-ji tugged Sook-ja's sleeve. "Mingle? With all these people?"

"I imagine we will be compelled to," Yong-joon replied harshly. His face was a mask of contempt. "To be herded like livestock and told to mix with… this." He stood abruptly. "I will not simply stand by."

Ignoring Sook-ja’s quiet plea to sit, he strode toward the official who had spoken. Sook-ja watched, her heart clenching, as the official glanced at Yong-joon, listened for a moment with an expression of bored impatience, and then turned away mid-sentence to speak to a uniformed colleague. The dismissal was absolute. Humiliation radiated from Yong-joon as he turned sharply away from the platform, his face dark with fury. In his blind retreat, he nearly jostled a woman standing nearby.

"This is a marketplace of untutored ruffians!" he muttered, the words thick with shame.

It was then Sook-ja recognized the woman he had almost bumped into. The woman from the ship, the one whose silk clothes had marked her, whose son was Imran - Jamila, she recalled the name.

Jamila had heard Yong-joon. She turned. Her dark eyes met Sook-ja’s. "Ah," she said, her translated voice still holding its native musicality. "It is Kim Sook-ja, isn't it?"

Sook-ja flinched, bowing her head slightly. Her gaze fell to Jamila’s plain shoes. "Yes, noble lady," she murmured.

Jamila sighed faintly. "There is no need for such titles here, I think. Here, we are all just… new arrivals." She gestured vaguely. "My name is Jamila Ahmed."

Sook-ja managed a tiny nod. "You have a son, Imran." It felt bold to say, as if admitting to eavesdropping via the chip.

Jamila’s expression softened. "Yes. He is… adjusting." A slight frown. "And you have your daughter? Min-ji, was it?"

Sook-ja’s head came up, surprised Jamila remembered. "Yes. She is with her father." She gestured towards Yong-joon, his unhappiness a palpable force.

"This place…" Jamila began, then paused, looking around with deep discomfort. "It is not what I expected."

"No, lady," Sook-ja agreed quietly. "It is very… loud. And the ways are… strange." She thought of Officer Nara, the women in trousers, the free mingling.

Jamila nodded slowly. "Strange indeed. The lack of… decorum. It is unsettling." Her eyes met Sook-ja’s; a shared understanding of that offense passed between them. "Back home, such conduct would not be tolerated."

"No," Sook-ja whispered. "Never."

A brief silence. Sook-ja found herself looking at Jamila’s hands, twisting a simple metal band. No jewels today.

"Do you… understand what they want from us?" Sook-ja asked, emboldened.

Jamila gave a humorless smile. "They expect obedience. Beyond that… they speak of a new life, a better future. But the threshold to this future is… disturbing." She glanced at Yong-joon. "Your husband looks displeased."

"He finds this… offensive to all order," Sook-ja said. "He is a scholar by nature. This chaos… it is difficult."

"And for you?" Jamila asked gently.

Sook-ja hesitated. To speak her heart to this near-stranger? But here… "I am afraid," she confessed, barely audible. "For my daughter. For what this place will make of us."

"Your fears are sound, I believe," Jamila murmured.

Just then, Officer Nara’s clear voice cut through the noise, amplified by some unseen device. "The mingling period is over. Please form lines by your assigned dwelling block. You will be escorted back to your quarters now."

Relief flickered on Sook-ja’s face. Jamila inclined her head. "We should go," Jamila said softly. "Much to consider."

Back in the corridors, Officer Nara and two others oversaw the return. In the lift, Sook-ja clutched the rail. "Mother, I feel dizzy," Min-ji whispered. "Close your eyes," Sook-ja advised. "It will pass."

When their apartment door slid open, Sook-ja’s shoulders sagged. The clean, empty silence, while still unsettling, was preferable. Yong-joon stalked in without a word, his anger a palpable storm. But through the rigid set of his shoulders, Sook-ja saw past the scowl to the hollowing fear beneath; a scholar in a world with no use for his learning, a husband who could not shield his family from public shame.

Min-ji, however, paused. Sook-ja looked down. Min-ji’s face was pale, but as she surveyed the too-bright, too-plain room, a tiny spark ignited in her eyes. Not terror, nor Sook-ja’s dull acceptance. It was… curiosity. A quick interest in the smooth, glowing panel, the way lights obeyed unseen commands.

This sent a new chill through Sook-ja, sharper than before. Fear was logical. But interest? It felt like a small fissure in the wall of resistance Sook-ja was trying to build. "Is my daughter already being tempted by these strange ways?" The thought was a splinter under her skin.

Min-ji saw her mother watching and quickly lowered her eyes, her expression reverting to anxious obedience. "May I… sit, Mother?"

"Yes, child. Rest," Sook-ja said, her voice distant.

The door chime sounded again. The door slid open to reveal a younger man, his face sharp, eyes observant, cold. He wore the Chronic uniform, but on him it looked stricter. He carried a glowing slate.

"Kim family," he stated, his translated voice flat, devoid of warmth. "Technician Rhee. I am here to finalize your dwelling orientation." He stepped inside, his gaze sweeping past Yong-joon’s anger and Sook-ja’s bow.

Min-ji tensed. Yong-joon straightened. "More instruction? More intrusion?" he demanded. "Is there no peace to be had?"

Technician Rhee glanced at Yong-joon, then his slate. "This is for your efficient integration. Compliance is mandatory." He gestured to a blank wall. "Lights," he commanded.

The room blazed. Sook-ja gasped. Min-ji whimpered.

"Lights, dim fifty percent," Rhee said. The light softened. "Voice activation is standard. Or use the wall panel." He tapped an almost invisible square; the light shifted to a softer yellow.

Sook-ja stared, heart hammering. "Spirits," she whispered, clutching Min-ji. "The walls are ensorcelled!"

Rhee glanced at her, a flicker of impatience. "Voice-receptive wiring, not spirits. Next, sustenance." He moved to the kitchen alcove, gesturing to a metal panel. "Food dispenser. State requirement and preference. Example: 'Dispenser, standard nutrition, Korean profile, meal one.'"

A whirring. A tray slid out with a covered dish. The aroma was… synthetic, not unpleasant, but utterly alien.

"This provides regulated nutrition," Rhee droned. "Selections via the main household interface." He pointed to a larger screen on the wall. "Primary communication and information portal. News, approved edutainment, Chronic services, and instructionals will be delivered here."

The screen lit up with bright, shifting images.

Yong-joon scoffed, though confusion warred with his disdain. "And if we do not desire your 'approved edutainment'?"

"Content is curated for optimal acclimatization," Rhee replied. "Lastly, environmental monitoring. All dwellings have safety and wellness sensors. Air quality, temperature, and vital biometrics are passively monitored for your well-being and emergency response."

A cold fear snaked up Sook-ja’s spine. "Biometrics? You mean… you watch us? Always?" Her voice was a terrified whisper. "The walls have ears and eyes! How can one live with such pervasive magic, such absence of private dignity?"

"For safety," Rhee repeated, his tone implying her fear was irrational. "All data is secure." He tapped his slate. "Further tutorials via the interface. Adherence to protocols is monitored." His gaze lingered on Min-ji, who was staring at the food dispenser with a mixture of fear and that same unnerving curiosity.

With a curt nod, Rhee left.

The apartment was quiet, save the steady hum. Sook-ja sank onto the mat, legs trembling. "Husband," she managed, "did you hear? They listen, they watch. There is no hiding."

Yong-joon stood stiffly. "It is… sorcery," he muttered, his voice less certain. He looked at the blank wall, the food machine. "Trinkets. We will disregard these… contraptions." But fear shadowed his eyes.

Min-ji, however, had moved closer to the food dispenser. "Mother," she whispered, "he said 'Korean profile.' Does that mean… it might taste like home?"

Sook-ja stared. The child’s innocent question, her curiosity amidst such blatant unnaturalness, felt like another blow. "Min-ji, come away! It is not natural."

But Min-ji, with a quick, furtive glance at her father, touched the dish’s cover. "It’s warm." She looked at the panel. "'Dispenser'?" she tried the word.

"Min-ji!" Yong-joon boomed, his anger a shield for his own bewilderment.

The child flinched, but then looked at the main screen. "And the stories… he said there would be stories." That spark of interest was back, brighter.

Sook-ja felt a wave of desolation. Her husband, lost in anger and confusion. Her daughter… drawn to the very magic that terrified Sook-ja. How to protect them in a house where walls spied, food materialized, and voices commanded light?

The day passed in a blur of disorienting screen-lessons and strange meals. Yong-joon paced, a caged animal, sometimes staring blankly at the screen. He refused to address the walls or the dispenser. Sook-ja navigated the alien mechanisms with trembling hands.

As the artificial ceiling light dimmed, mimicking a sunset she couldn’t feel, a profound weariness settled over her. Not the honest ache of labor, but the soul-fatigue of constant fear, confusion, and abject shame. The "magic future" Chronic promised, which had justified the indignity of the lottery, the camps, the terrifying journey, now felt like a cruel jest. This was a cold, intrusive, and deeply improper existence.

Her only solace, the flickering hope, was Min-ji. For Min-ji’s sake, they had endured. Chronic’s smooth-tongued agents had spoken of education, a future where a clever girl could transcend her station. "A chance for Min-ji to learn," she thought, the memory a bittersweet pang. "To read forbidden books, to speak with knowledge, not be tethered to field and hearth."

But now, seeing this shameless world, a different fear gnawed. What learning would Min-ji find? What must she become to survive, let alone thrive, where women commanded men, privacy was a forgotten notion, and machines eclipsed ancestors? She remembered Min-ji’s curious finger, the spark in her eyes. That spark, so alien to Sook-ja's own revulsion, scared her most. "Chronic promises schooling, a future bright with learning," her heart cried silently. "But what will this world make of my daughter? Will they scour her Korean spirit and leave only this… this cold artifice? Will they steal her soul?" The thought of Min-ji becoming like Officer Nara, bold and unashamed, or the women in the hall, loud and common, was a pain sharper than hunger.

Yong-joon had finally fallen into a restless sleep. Min-ji, too, slept in her nook. Sook-ja rose. From their bundle, she unwrapped her mother’s wedding comb. Pear wood, smooth and familiar. She then took out a mended silk pouch containing her needle and thread.

Sitting on the floor, back straight despite her exhaustion, Sook-ja began to mend a tear in Min-ji’s tunic. The steady pull of the needle, the fabric’s feel - anchors in this chaotic sea. Each stitch, a tiny act of defiance, an attempt to impose order, a quiet prayer woven into thread.

The dim light cast long, unfamiliar shadows. The hum of unseen machines, a constant reminder of their watchers. Sook-ja’s heart was heavy. They had won a lottery that cast them onto a terrifying, alien ocean, with no familiar stars to guide them. The promised land was proving a perilous, disquieting shore. And Min-ji, her precious daughter, was a small boat she desperately tried to steer through the storm, terrified she might lose her to the currents of this strange, new world.

***