Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina, nestles amidst surrounding mountains. On clear days, the sky unfurls a translucent pale blue, enveloping the entire city and occasionally bestowing a fleeting lightness upon its inhabitants—though this joy proves exceedingly transient, almost like a gift glimpsed in passing.
This is where the headquarters of the Bosnian Agricultural Complex resides, having risen from the humanitarian crisis triggered by the Great Balkan War of the millennium. Countless high-rises sprang up during that era, seizing the opportunity to grow abruptly. Their facades, clad in expansive glass panels, shimmer silver in the abundant sunlight, as if proudly projecting their presence downward. This radiance falls upon the stubbornly enduring, brutalist concrete structures still standing, their walls emblazoned with the complex's motto: 'Society's needs are the complex's objectives.' Standing in the city centre and gazing skyward, one could scarcely doubt Sarajevo was in the midst of a golden age of stability and prosperity.
Through the haze and neon lights visible from Amina's dorm window just days prior, she suddenly recalled that book by Asimov read 'a very long time ago'—referring to this oval-shaped city as Trantor.
Its future is others' present, and its past is others' future.
Yet today, the twenty-ninth of June, feels utterly different. The sky hangs heavy with grey, its low-slung pall perfectly mirroring the academic building where Amina studies. The grand concrete core structure showed signs of decay even on the ground floor: walls that should have been uniformly white were stained in varying shades of dark grey from burst pipes and persistent leaks. An unshakeable dampness hung in the air, and stepping inside brought an immediate sense of ruinous, forbidding chill.
This morning, Amina and Mira had hopped off the tram, its doors always jamming slightly, carefully navigating the hollows where paving slabs had vanished from the platform, as if each step demanded careful consideration of where to place their feet. The station's sole splash of colour came from the advertising screens reflected in puddles. As the girls leapt over the water, creating ripples, the image of a white stocking fluttering in the wind appeared beside the evening gown on the R&M billboard.
The streets were nearly deserted, save for the rumble of trams and the occasional car belonging to management specialists. With class time fast approaching, the surveillance camera at the main gate silently tracked their running figures as it swivelled to follow them. Amina held her inner wrist towards the camera and gave it a slight shake, praying that the slightly outdated detection equipment wouldn't fail her at this moment. A faint warmth beneath her skin dispelled her worries.
As they dashed through the high-arched entrance, over thirty cameras suspended beneath the dome and the mechanical eyes of the taciturn security guards locked onto the fleeing pair. The vast hall echoed only with their heavy panting and the clatter of trainers against marble slabs. while the giant electronic notice board scrolled through lists of outstanding collectives and exemplary employees cultivated for the enterprise – (formal staff only, excluding contract and temporary workers).
Amina gasped for breath, her gaze drifting downward. The sight of the flag of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina and the banner of the Twelfth Secondary School, side by side at the highest point of the dome, was projected onto the smooth, pale yellow-veined floor. Bosnia's blue, deliberately approximating the European Community's hue, feebly mimicked the artificial sky. The school flag—a patchwork of logos from the collective enterprises that jointly funded the institution—resembled either a chaotic vomit or an illegitimate mongrel, yet it perched so unabashedly above the masses.
The flag of the Federal People's Republic of Yugoslavia—or, as Slovenian and Croatian delegates insisted at the Yugoslav Socialist Alliance Congress, the Community of Sovereign States of Yugoslavia—had long ceased to command genuine attention, even within Bosnia and Herzegovina, that tri-ethnic 'prosperity'. A nation long dead since the 1970s, its corpse hung like this flag in an inconspicuous corner. Only upon approaching could one detect the slow, putrid stench it emitted—a scent shared with the millennia-old building, yet somehow more potent.
After twelve frantic presses of the button, the lift doors finally creaked open. Massive as a freight elevator, designed to haul large numbers of people, it now laboriously carried just two students stamping their feet inside the cabin as it climbed, floor by floor, upward.
Amina knew impatience served no purpose, yet it did little to ease her anxiety. Only the terminal outside the classroom could complete the attendance check. Beyond that, she was still battling the lingering remnants of last night – ever since she had transitioned from a Generation Z to a "post-15s" seventeen years prior, a profoundly terrifying image had once again invaded her dreams, leaving behind a hazy yet horrifying imprint.
Fortunately, they had managed to enter the classroom before the lesson began, each settling before their assigned terminal. Had it not been a Peotric class today, they likely wouldn't have made it on time. The teacher shot them an undisguised look of disgust and contempt, but Amina and Mira merely snorted in defiance.
The terminal's camera served merely as a token verification tool. Having logged into the academic system the moment they entered the building, they were here solely to clock in.
'Students, please begin silently reciting Lucian's "The Oak" and "The Earth". Those equipped with virtual reality augmentation devices may activate the courseware for immersion.' A classroom steeped in near-slumbering stillness fell silent. The literature teacher, who frowned whenever multimedia was raised, cleared his throat softly. 'In ten minutes, we shall dissect how this Romanian poet's verses reveal the significance of our company and our land to you, future employees of the Bosnian Grain Farmers Consortium. What insights might you glean?'
Her chin rested on her hands propped on the desk, eyes drifting towards the colossal cooling tower a kilometre away—visible only from the twentieth floor in its entirety, while the tenth floor offered merely a dust-like speck at the centre of her vision. Beside Amina's tilted head, neatly parted auburn bangs framed the faintly visible blue-glowing breathing light. Fingers tapped the slightly loose buttons on the side. The virtual augmentation device—or, as its American inventors termed it, the Hyperdream—loaded with a dazzling white light that spread from a pinprick across her entire retina. Her stiff neck relaxed, settling into the soft indigo-blue padded backrest.
For her generation, nearing their twenties—or, from another perspective, Generation Z—whose constant complaints about entering the system now seemed to turn their stomachs, the Hyperdream had become as integral to their lives as drinking water, as effortless and natural as breathing.
Mira Zhivinecheva—that exceptionally energetic soul—bounced towards Amina, waving. Her pocket-like uniform, in green and white, oddly harmonised with the poor-quality pastoral landscape and the horizon's demarcation. More classmates materialised out of thin air or began moving about. When Amina finally managed to plunge headfirst from this infinitely smooth field into the bouncing chest of a friend, the count froze at twenty-two—less than half the class's total.
The pre-made lesson material appeared as a smear of green behind the enormous, glazed-over penguin logo of MINIX. The middle-aged Chinese teacher opened his mouth, his voice immediately evoking that of a clumsy muezzin. It rumbled like rolling thunder across the coarse, textured plains, rice paddies, and distant villages with their wisps of cooking smoke, hammering away at the supposed poetic atmosphere until it was utterly destroyed.
'We lay face-up in the grass: you and I.' He began reciting the opening line with utterly flat intonation, offering no further context... It sounded as though he'd activated an AI proxy to handle this meaningless task. He knew it was meaningless.
Amina immediately murmured in response: 'You and I shall die.'
"A sky melted like wax by the scorching sun... What! ?' Indeed an AI proxy—a voice of fury erupted mid-verse, its shockwave reverberating in Amina's eardrums. The abruptly severed line restored the tranquil stillness to this land, whose perceptual tracks seemed misaligned, now graced by a gentle breeze. Mira, mid-game of 'Red Light, Green Light," stood comically balanced on one foot, dared not lower it, and watched Amina with concern.
Amina raised both hands in surrender, shifting her toes slightly to finally meet the teacher's gaze through the blue checkered shirt. Drawing a deep breath, she inhaled the premium, sweet fragrance—sourced from some unknown resource shop—then closed her eyes and defended herself with a touch of cheekiness: " According to the profound recollections of Mikhail Sergeyevich, the first President of the New Soviet Union, the workers' self-management they emulated in our nation, the Federal People's Republic of Yugoslavia, was precisely about dedicating one's finite life to an immortal collective. "You and I shall die," but our collective shall endure."
The standoff between teacher and pupil, repeated countless times since the spring term began, stretched on with the soul-crushing monotony of an ICU ward. Until the teacher, unable to bear it any longer, sought to end this futile exchange. He had hoped this vexing pupil—her face still dotted with freckles—might read the room, but her parents, sacrificed for the collective, had evidently failed to impart that knowledge.
'How can you justify this to your parents? This French corruption—ERP and such... Ah, never mind. It's pointless to say more.' The teacher turned and vanished, his hand still waving dismissively at his mouth as if swatting a fly, his voice still unadjusted. To project over the entire hall, he continued bellowing from a metre away from Amina.
Amina Hadžić, orphan of the Muslim community. Thanks to her parents—both field operatives who fought to the last breath defending communal property against those damned non-citizens during the previous refugee crisis—she now holds provisional membership in the Sarajevo City Commune and provisional employment status within the Bosnian Agricultural Complex. As an unfortunate time-traveler, she barely restrained her face from collapsing into an expression the academic system might deem inappropriate, lifting her head.
Amina summoned the menu interface directly through pupil dilation and blinks, swiftly using a plugin to mute the teacher's lecture. She exited the virtual classroom, leaving behind a model whose figure appeared to sway gently—as if obediently performing the 'immersive experience' poetry recitation movements commanded by the teacher.
Even in Sarajevo's virtual classrooms, its security was little more than a red string tied around a broken door compared to other communes or even the more backward republics' virtual classrooms. Slumping into the bought-and-paid-for beanbag sofa in this small space, she waited for Mira, muttering sarcastically, 'What utter drivel.'
'Now, now, Miss Amina! "Are the learned equal to the ignorant? Only the rational can attain enlightenment."' Mira, seemingly defending the language teacher, sat unapologetically on Amina's lap and began groping between her legs, taunting her with ambiguous phrases.
'Hey, hey, hey!' Amina slapped her friend's wandering hand away, huffing indignantly. 'But he's not exactly what you'd call knowledgeable, is he? You little Serb, gossiping behind people's backs with your so-called classics!'
Grabbing Mira by the shoulders and flinging her to the floor, Amina prepared to deliver a hefty punch to the balls of her insolent friend—the very one who'd attacked the dim-witted Chinese teacher—when the model's alarm sounded: the lesson was nearly over.
'Causing trouble again, wasting our time.'
'It's alright, it's alright. We've still got music this afternoon.' Both of them returned to that patch of rippling green textures amidst a slight dizziness.
'Please continue listening to the text, students.' That AI-like tone again, the teacher's head didn't even turn.
"...At that moment, I heard your heart
Beating wildly upon the ground.
The earth was answering."
"If one cannot comprehend our land, understand that an equal and gentle devotion to Mother Earth is the most vital component of the complex's corporate culture, then we cannot allow the complex to uphold the fine tradition of worker autonomy. This is essential for our three tribes' shared, eternal homeland—the Bosnian Agricultural Complex—to continue thriving through effective investment and enhanced labour productivity, maintaining a peaceful existence. This is the bedrock of land sovereignty, cultural sovereignty, future sovereignty, cyber sovereignty, and more.' The teacher concluded with drawn-out intonation, gazing meaningfully at the yawning Amina. 'Right, class dismissed!"
Awaking from her reverie, Amina and Mira simultaneously raised their hands to high-five in mid-air. as the lunch bell chimed on each student's multimedia display. Children of lower-tier employees or civil servants no longer waited flustered for those with hyperdreams to exit; they had already paired up and were preparing to dash to the canteen.
Those who hadn't slipped away promptly sat down respectfully or hurried to press themselves against the wall, yielding passage to these future representatives who would one day hold a single vote in the enterprise staff congress. The Chinese teacher, head bowed, clutched the multimedia screen and the hyperdream under his arm, leading the charge out at a trot.
'Lunch?'
'Lunch!'
The twin cries, echoing their hunger, once more became a scornful rebuke to this classroom. Both rose immediately and hurried towards the door.
The corridor, breathing like the old building itself, was already swarming with students. Young bodies twisted and slid along the smooth, curved iron handrails, occasionally causing the huddled figures pressed against the opposite wall to shrink into smaller clusters. Every few metres, uninterrupted circular surveillance cameras, concealed beneath dark domes, cast their gaze unimpeded through the throng. Countless red lights glowed faintly and persistently, largely unnoticed by those within the lenses' view.
Today's air carried a mingled odour—a faintly acrid sting of pollution, the musty stench of half-dead decorative plants outside the stairwell, the peculiar damp, stifling vapour heralding impending rain, and the faint, fishy tang of old building walls.