As mentioned in an earlier post - stories concocted on a dog walk then transferred to screen/paper when entering the house, as a stream of consciousness rather than something worked on at length. Flash fiction, but longer....
G78.
© Kate A Hardy 2024
I stretch my legs out under the desk, wincing slightly as the metal implants tug at my kneecaps. The pinstripe wool trousers are still rather too long but the medics assured me within a matter of sevdays my legs will attain their extra four cms. Of course, I should store the suit away - wait until the trousers fit correctly but I just need to adapt into my new persona completely.
"Trank!"
I wince again, not from the knee pain but from the fact that Benkins is calling me as he wheels himself in my direction. I fight the rising nausea that always threatens whenever I see his bizarre form. The product of an AWOL artificial creativity mishap some months back, Benkins is now half man-half grotesque vehicle, of sorts. He approaches, his fleshy wheel creating strange sticky noises as it passes over the shiny flooring. The other reason I keep away from him as far as is possible is his incessant use of the latest short-lang. Short-lang goes against everything I hold precious in this life where so little of any substance remains.
"Trank - sums done?"
I avert my eyes from the wheel and focus upon the compubanks stacked behind him.
"You mean, have I the figures for the number of new telephonic apparatus required for the lowest ranks, I assume?"
He sighs causing his robo-surgeon lifted cheeks to inflate as much as they can. "Talk norm, man."
"I am. This is normal - for what I have chosen."
He eyes me suspiciously with his pale irises. "Century?"
"Mid 20th. I like the clothing, the trappings, the words."
"Time-waste. Watch above . . ."
I know he refers to the occasional swooping on the higher ranks who might have assumed a bit too much freedom of choice. But my work is excellent; my control over what could be something explosive, well maintained. I turn and snatch up the figures as requested, handwritten on a sheet of luxurious paper. He takes the sheet and scowls at me.
"I sent mind question. Why not respond?"
I have had this procedure - it's very difficult to refuse it, but I hate the feeling of someone's questions snaking about in one's brain. Also, unless you develop the skill to its maximum you overhear and audibly digest all sorts of drivel that others are thinking or possibly trying not to think. I try an excuse that occurs.
"It gives me plurial headmals - and, recently I started receiving ancient televisual divertissements from the early twenty-first century. The worst being an example named 'who wants to be a millionaire'. The associated music made me want to kill someone."
The second part of the excuse is true and made me feel totally unnerved - enough that I've had the implant disactivated - something not strictly illegal but considered as very odd, veering on untrustworthy.
He grunts a reply and steers back to his work area, glancing back at me with incredulity. He's still peering at me when he's installed himself back in his work bay, those curious opal eyes darting about behind the replicate Ficas Benjamina plant. It wouldn't take much for him to whisper a few suggestions about me into certain ears or minds. I decide it might be a good time to double check those figures as when I had done it previously it had been following a rowdy night involving too many hooch sticks which tend to fog the mind, to say the least.
Sighing, I stand up and take the currently functioning lift to the cleansing area. While the metal box descends, I wonder what Benkins does when encountering a broken lift; stairs and wheel not being a good combination... Maybe he lives in the office - has a suite somewhere in this enormous sterile place. I only ever enter the main door, show my palm to the digistar register and proceed to my desk; anything else is strongly discouraged, apart from a visit to the servo machines at mealtimes.
The lift jolts as it stops at the basement. I cease thinking about Benkins and pass through the security door into the steel corridors of the formicages. Why this name has been employed I don't know - from the French, meaning ants. Maybe antcages doesn’t have such an easy ring to it.
A base worker waves me over.
"Cleanse room free, if you are going in."
I wish I could just say, thanks, but I'm just having a quiet stroll down here to think a few things over, but I'm here to count heads, and check thumbs. He opens the grating door, rusted at the bottom from countless showers. I pass through and go through the routine of undressing, carefully hanging my precious wool suit in the closet and pulling on the grey overall waiting on a hanger. Goloshes added, mask snapped on and rubber bonnet in place I open the door and nod to the worker.
The lecopad and pen are ready in the zipped pocket. My stomach clenches slightly as I anticipate the noise that will ensue as the studded metal door gradually opens. I could just stop, collapse, feign death . .. but then that would be viewed as deeply suspicious, lacking in motivation, ignoring the common good, and possibly be found out to be a lie - if tests were deemed necessary. I sigh as loudly as the northerly gusts that will later flay my darkened apartment building, and nod to the door operator.
They don't notice me for a few moments, even though the sliding door had pierced the air with its screech. I take in the perspective lines of the room; the ugly, green-tinged lighting that highlights the shining baldness of many heads, heads bowed in silent all-absorbing concentration - if it is concentration. I imagine more a sort of flickering visual captivity, eyes seeking every movement of the screens before them.
Then the gathered realisation of the door noise enters their collective minds. Some attempt to stand up on long-forgotten legs. They fall back to the benches, mutter, eyes pulling their attention back to the scrolling images. Others shout, waving their fones, demanding the feverishly anticipated upgrades that are promised every sevdays but rarely arrive within the promised time.
The door-guard fulfills her second job of pressing the sustenance release button, and the troughs begin to fill with the usual beige sludge. A few minions look without interest at the steaming gunge; others, taking one last glance at their fones, place them territorially close to themselves before taking up the alu-spoons. This is the best moment to take the measurements. I pass silently behind each grey-encased back and watch fingers juggling clumsily with spoons. The increasingly large thumbs are causing problems with cutlery, and there is talk of tubes instead - the minions to be fed like baby birds. I pass the lazer counter over each thumb, requesting briefly that they be stretched out if they are still curled around the fone's black casing.
No one has escaped; I doubt if they would have the brain capacity to even imagine such a thing. The thumb lengths are as I had previously logged. I glance once more over the long thin room, press the door release, and go back through the clothing routine, my appetite for a servo machine protein burger even more diminished after viewing the sludge.
The lift is broken. I take the stairs slowly, each metal pin under my kneecaps making its presence known. A distant, bright voice chirps from the area I have just left.
"Great news, partners. The awaited upgrade has been superseded! G78 will now be channeling all your feeds. Praise the Custodian!"
A muffled cheer leaks from the room beyond the showers.
