Chapter 1
“We are the last of a dying timeline. The fields are burning, humbly ending our story to create your own because as fate would have it, we are all one here and have been forever.”
Her hands shook.
Her chest was tight with panic, the type strictly reserved for twilight nightmares and the brief moments that precede death.
Pale sunlight filtered through the slatted shutters while the ceiling fan above clicked to the rhythm of her pounding rib cage. Her stare widened to accept the stillness of the room.
Glancing down at her hands, raised veins ran over knuckles to fingers which had always been hers, but somehow felt foreign; like such little thought had ever been given to their detailed craftsmanship.
She couldn’t swallow as her temples rang taut from inside her head. Fire sirens howled in the distance to break the horrific silence, but there was no smoke billowing nor desperate cries for help.
There was only blood.
Her hands shook, fingers still reeling in R.E.M. as her consciousness emerged out of the darkness. She had never experienced a dream before.
“Grace!” her mother’s voice echoed down the hall––not stern, but concerned. “Grace!” Her mother’s tone rang out again because she knew the devotion that Centr8 required. “Wake up!”
A foam pillow cradled Grace's head as gleaming green sensors in her irises charged ready to absorb necessary information for her next 16hours cognizant. She swyped the holographic prism from a silicone SnapByt secured around her left wrist. 4D holograms scrolled past her vision after displaying her call sign: 26D
Her hands shook.
Her chest was tight with panic, the type strictly reserved for twilight nightmares and the brief moments that precede death.
Pale sunlight filtered through the slatted shutters while the ceiling fan above clicked to the rhythm of her pounding rib cage. Her stare widened to accept the stillness of the room.
Glancing down at her hands, raised veins ran over knuckles to fingers which had always been hers, but somehow felt foreign; like such little thought had ever been given to their detailed craftsmanship.
She couldn’t swallow as her temples rang taut from inside her head. Fire sirens howled in the distance to break the horrific silence, but there was no smoke billowing nor desperate cries for help.
There was only blood.
Her hands shook, fingers still reeling in R.E.M. as her consciousness emerged out of the darkness. She had never experienced a dream before.
“Grace!” her mother’s voice echoed down the hall––not stern, but concerned. “Grace!” Her mother’s tone rang out again because she knew the devotion that Centr8 required. “Wake up!”
A foam pillow cradled Grace's head as gleaming green sensors in her irises charged ready to absorb necessary information for her next 16hours cognizant. She swyped the holographic prism from a silicone SnapByt secured around her left wrist. 4D holograms scrolled past her vision after displaying her call sign: 26D
*R.E.M. Tracker /--\____/-----\______/---\______/----\
*7UV Index
*Maintenance schedule; 66,666full
*4Female, 6Male; vibrational matches within close proximity.
*7UV Index
*Maintenance schedule; 66,666full
*4Female, 6Male; vibrational matches within close proximity.
‘On my way!’ Grace swyped the message to her mother silently, while her Byt projected a live feed of Crowley, 14N; the man she thought was the most handsome. He stood in his kitchen drinking tea, obviously aware that anyone could be watching. A Senator4 with aquamarine eyes and shiny white hair, his square jaw was unmistakably striking. Grace found herself hopelessly devoted to his content while racing through his positive attributes–experiencing their past interactions in fast playback. Oxytocin surged as she re-experienced their sixteen informal, face-to-face exchanges based on four polite words: Thank you and Excuse me. Crowley’s blonde haired, blue eyed, real-life Sectr4 female companion was quickly swyped past with forced indifference.
Oneness brings us together in a way that no one else can understand.
“GRACE!” Her mother bellowed.
“I'm here!” Grace blinked as Crowley’s illuminations fell dim. Her stomach fluttered. The Guardians needn’t physical quantification for sub-desires. Faithful interconnectivity was all that was required in exchange for eternal contentment.
“Get UP!” Her mother’s tone rang out a fourth time followed by a short indistinguishable rant. Her parents were prone to shout. No one else’s parents shouted at each other because it was viewed as low class to speak out loud at all. Most families would communicate solely through their personal devices.
Grace sat up and stared steadily into the Byt at her inner wrist, glowing green eyes in the 4D reflection. After repeating the mantra, “Each action is meant for this continuation of moments. There is a greater purpose to our origin.” Dopamine fired as a pre-recorded slogan flashed through her mind’s eye:
THE HEART BEATS 100,000 TIMES A ROTATION.
EACH OF YOURS WILL BE SPENT WITH INTENT.
Oneness brings us together in a way that no one else can understand.
“GRACE!” Her mother bellowed.
“I'm here!” Grace blinked as Crowley’s illuminations fell dim. Her stomach fluttered. The Guardians needn’t physical quantification for sub-desires. Faithful interconnectivity was all that was required in exchange for eternal contentment.
“Get UP!” Her mother’s tone rang out a fourth time followed by a short indistinguishable rant. Her parents were prone to shout. No one else’s parents shouted at each other because it was viewed as low class to speak out loud at all. Most families would communicate solely through their personal devices.
Grace sat up and stared steadily into the Byt at her inner wrist, glowing green eyes in the 4D reflection. After repeating the mantra, “Each action is meant for this continuation of moments. There is a greater purpose to our origin.” Dopamine fired as a pre-recorded slogan flashed through her mind’s eye:
THE HEART BEATS 100,000 TIMES A ROTATION.
EACH OF YOURS WILL BE SPENT WITH INTENT.
Inside the Centr8 dome, a waking cycle of scheduled service had begun. By performing each action in the same pattern, her body created a pre-dictated rhythm for her productive lifestyle. Each heartbeat had been accounted for until her scheduled upload into the Cloud; a planned termination, place and time only available to Centr8 Guardians through 4D. 4D was the FourthDimensional plane, where all data-controlled trajectories were projected out. The most efficient routes were shared simultaneously with the human collective. Mistakes were accounted for but rare, due to lessons from past instances of unchecked free-will’s unintended consequences. Projections of the most positive, collective future events provided a material goal, with only minor exceptions to the rule.
7UV rays streamed in through her dome’s plexi-panels, heating an old dresser cluttered with obedience plaques and metal unicorn figurines. As a persistent reminder of expected conformity, the plaques boasted mostly good achievements. Serotonin surged through her frontal lobes while Grace threw off her microfiber blanket and laid her feet stiff on the rock-slab floor. She stood wearing a cream colored bamboo nightshirt. The hem swept across her knees as she stretched her torso, bent forward at the waist then back. At the open closet, she reached for grey coveralls and white ankle socks before stumbling into the bathroom. Her Byt vibrated at her wrist, indicating her mineral count–LOW.
Abdomen scars were visible as she stood on the cold bathroom tiles and slid her nightshirt over her head, wearing only black undergarments underneath. She took her unders off then squatted over the metal toilet, bowel extractions sucked away with a swish of air. After wiping her entire body with pre-soaked towelettes, she rolled the cupboard open for her Vitaspray. The inhaler boosted cell-mediated immunity and aided in quicker split division. After pressing the spout into her nose, synthetic herbal compounds shot straight through her sinuses. The back of her tongue stung with the essence of ginger and lemongrass.
Long ago, after waters receded, their vast Centr8 plain was left covered in salt and toxic chemicals. Without plant-life to hold the ground particulates in place, wind spread the noxious mix of pesticides into the atmosphere. Before the dome was constructed, breathing in sulfuric lead particulates was the main cause of ending one’s life; by respiratory infection or suicide. Luckily, her genes had been modified to withstand foreign pollutants, and carbon filtration inside Centr8 kept their oxygen pure.
Grace opened her mouth as oscillating, gummy bristles swiveled past her lips. Spicy foam shot straight into her molars as she stared into her 360reflection. Magnified from every angle, green Intel flecks in her almond eyes registered each bump, blemish, and freckled pigmentation all around her face. She carried two basic identifying phenotypes––dark skin and hair based on varied gene mutations (her DNA signaled R2B, the rarest form of melanin). Three airbrushes swung down to spray her face with highlights and UVblock for probable lit scenarios based on 16hours of scheduled labor. Dewy clay hardened around her eyes as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She raised her arms to gather tangles on top of her head. While staring into her own face, she used her fingernail to scratch the inside of her nose.
7UV rays streamed in through her dome’s plexi-panels, heating an old dresser cluttered with obedience plaques and metal unicorn figurines. As a persistent reminder of expected conformity, the plaques boasted mostly good achievements. Serotonin surged through her frontal lobes while Grace threw off her microfiber blanket and laid her feet stiff on the rock-slab floor. She stood wearing a cream colored bamboo nightshirt. The hem swept across her knees as she stretched her torso, bent forward at the waist then back. At the open closet, she reached for grey coveralls and white ankle socks before stumbling into the bathroom. Her Byt vibrated at her wrist, indicating her mineral count–LOW.
Abdomen scars were visible as she stood on the cold bathroom tiles and slid her nightshirt over her head, wearing only black undergarments underneath. She took her unders off then squatted over the metal toilet, bowel extractions sucked away with a swish of air. After wiping her entire body with pre-soaked towelettes, she rolled the cupboard open for her Vitaspray. The inhaler boosted cell-mediated immunity and aided in quicker split division. After pressing the spout into her nose, synthetic herbal compounds shot straight through her sinuses. The back of her tongue stung with the essence of ginger and lemongrass.
Long ago, after waters receded, their vast Centr8 plain was left covered in salt and toxic chemicals. Without plant-life to hold the ground particulates in place, wind spread the noxious mix of pesticides into the atmosphere. Before the dome was constructed, breathing in sulfuric lead particulates was the main cause of ending one’s life; by respiratory infection or suicide. Luckily, her genes had been modified to withstand foreign pollutants, and carbon filtration inside Centr8 kept their oxygen pure.
Grace opened her mouth as oscillating, gummy bristles swiveled past her lips. Spicy foam shot straight into her molars as she stared into her 360reflection. Magnified from every angle, green Intel flecks in her almond eyes registered each bump, blemish, and freckled pigmentation all around her face. She carried two basic identifying phenotypes––dark skin and hair based on varied gene mutations (her DNA signaled R2B, the rarest form of melanin). Three airbrushes swung down to spray her face with highlights and UVblock for probable lit scenarios based on 16hours of scheduled labor. Dewy clay hardened around her eyes as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She raised her arms to gather tangles on top of her head. While staring into her own face, she used her fingernail to scratch the inside of her nose.
BARBARIC MANNERS
Her SnapByt scolded with a volt of electricity at her wrist. Iris Intel recorded the feedback loop in a timely and predictable fashion––because 4D recorded everything. Grace scanned her body fat, basal metabolic rate, skeletal and muscle mass, along with H2O and lipid absorption. Each of her stats remained stable, more than could be said for most of the Sectr1s.
The mouthbrush removed itself as she spit cinnamon paste into the sink, sucked away with a swish of air. Her personalized copper cup filled with ionized H2O as her SnapByt registered both toxicity and ounces she consumed. 9ounces down her throat, and she felt satisfied. While staring out past the crosshatch window, beyond a row of neighboring domes, Centr8’s enormous geodesic barrier was barely visible against the powder blue sky.
Grace licked the last few drops on the rim because deliberate water wasting was a punishable offense, served with hard graft labor. A system of pumps across the Centr recycled urine and condensation runoff into crystal clean drinking water, strictly allotted by Sectr rank. H20 consumption was a mindful practice. Grace resided at the lowest Sectr1, 8gallons per week, barely enough for a steam shower. Ground reserves were periodically pumped when radiation was low, but Earth’s moisture still registered heavily polluted.
After stepping into her grey coveralls and white ankle socks, she sprayed a last layer of UVblock across her hands and blinked. Her eyelids were still heavy from sleep as the gel sputtered. On her command, Order, with iris Intel, 4D registered both action and intent, affirming with a vibration at her wrist. The UVblock shipment had arrived earlier that morning at her doorstep, after being sucked through an airlock nearly 3kilometers away. Vacuum-sealed shipments arrived on seemingly endless trams, each stocked high with necessities rumbling past her dome with frequencies so low that it often shook the foundation. Logistics of robotics far beyond the Fence were a mystery, but she felt grateful for the convenience none-the-less. Dopamine warmed her face.
No one could go outside without UVblock. Ultimate solar protection was insured only indoors. A second affirmation pinged at her wrist to confirm the delivery of the UV sun-cream. Once more, euphoria blossomed in her plexus as she stepped out onto the carpet, down the hall and into the living area. Sunlight filtered through the slatted shutters as she reached for her earbuds off a waist-high charging dock near the front door and then fit them smoothly into her ear canals with a steady hand.
THE GUARDIANS PROVIDE
Her earbuds projected brightly colored signage in her periphery. The 4D world never slept. Another popular slogan followed to her left:
DO YOU NEED HELP TO UNDERSTAND YOUR SECTR DHARMA?
The messages were accompanied by a visual representation of a youthful, happy couple in her mind’s eye. Panoramas of family units were advertised to give civilians a benchmark for successful procreation. She’d been labeled Invalid early, so all logical pathways to pro-creation remained unavailable to her. The reality of her situation brought both weighted and wonderful options. Her social stigma was invisible, yet had disproportionately affected the structure of her path. She didn’t feel different, but was forced to accept a lower opinion of herself, unfairly, and without appeal. A warmth blossomed in her solar plexus and spread throughout her lymph nodes, all around her temples.
Her mother, Sophia, stood behind the bar-top with auburn waves exquisitely angled into rolling shapes around her face. Her lips curled back to reveal pearl white teeth as an invisible network of 4D holograms shuttered past her reflective lenses. At birth, each Centr civilian was implanted with emerald green Intel flecks which utilized cones and brainwaves to establish cognitive layers for optimized efficiency and individuality. Three basic necessities––silicone earbuds, SnapByts around their wrists, and Intel in their irises–all provided access to the 4D world any time. Personal devices merged collective insight with intent to command each projection, evolving them all forward. Humans had grown to be masters of social efficiency.
Sophia gently waved her ghostly holograms away to accentuate a veiled, aqua-eyed luster. “Eat your protein. There sits a long day of rewiring dirty panels and old men’s tired minds,” her tone sounded devilish and irrational at the same time. Grace snickered as she sat on top of the barstool and stared down at a paper plate of strawberries, whey toast, and soy form. Her stomach rumbled while she shoved a plump berry in. Her intel projected the exact vitamin and mineral content while calculating her daily percentage. Her tongue sloshed against her teeth, searching for sweet or sour flavor––nothing.
All of their food came from beyond the sphere, printed in vast fields of hydroponic houses stacked high with fruits, vegetables, and fibers for textiles. Inside the dome, manufactured varietals lined surrounding neighborhoods in waist high rock beds; trees that appeared to be the last remnants of natural foliage, but were made from purely synthetic materials. The last carcasses of a few organic tree trunks along the outskirts of the dome were twisted and petrified, never fully bloomed because the soil was barely fertile. Yellow patches of deformed reeds supposedly survived inside the Birthing Control Campus (B.C.C.). Rumored that if watered with meticulous care, mutant petals occasionally bloomed in justified proof that the half-life of Earth supported their efforts to replenish the balance. That rumor was never officially confirmed however.
“Fischerd?” Her mother called out, “Fischerd?”
“Yes?” Her father’s voice echoed down the hall.
“I don’t want to do the research. Where’s the automate?”
“What?”
“Receptive... copy?”
“I don’t know?”
Sophia took a breath, “I’m sending 5playbacks from the last two weeks, you said you would file.”
Her father, Fischerd, 91D, was in the bedroom, no doubt receiving five linear playbacks of himself stating that which he claimed not to know.
Sophia continued, “It’s important… if we don’t want them in our subs.”
Her parents often communicated out loud. Inside Centr8, silence was preferred. Genuine paranoia was unnecessary because secrets were illusionary. The Guardians rejected any need for privacy because all rudimentary, base concerns were addressed. A collective truth was fully embraced as a birthright. Each civilian was entitled to the genuine wonder of transparency. Most correspondence was recorded and accessible through 4D. All mental pathways were formed over time, by the same structure from birth––each entrusted with the sanctioned details of communal consciousness for the sole purpose of evolutionary advancement. Their human genome had found safety within its own version of ground-state manifestation. Crowley’s vitals pinged in her hippocampus again, curiously nagging at her to check on him.
‘The UVblock arrived.’ She sent the message to her parents.
“Just refilled it,” her father, Fischerd, said out loud as he sauntered into the kitchen, slender around the countertop dressed in his olive-colored bamboo worksuit with a purple handkerchief haphazardly stuffed in the lapel.
‘Thank you,’ Grace sent silently as she watched him kiss the top of his wife’s head while reaching for his paper plate. His pants were wrinkled and his mood was already tedious with anxious anticipation. As a rounds technician, his job required sedentary body posture. Hours of career captivity had caused a loss of flexibility in his slumped spine. His stats registered expendable, but his demeanor was calm with a crooked nose and short black hair.
Sophia’s eyes glowed emerald as she rose onto her toes to kiss the sides of her husband’s cheeks until Fischerd pulled back into the dining room and her mother watched him go. Upon closer examination, lipstick faded in the corners of her mouth and mascara smudged around her tired eyes, indicating that she’d stayed awake to ensure more students passed their Guard exams.
Grace’s mother and father were bred Labor2 before they’d birthed an invalid child and lost status. Each civilian of Sectr1 held no memories of a timeline before assignment. 4D playbacks of prior memories were erased, mostly because it would influence ulterior gratitude. The healthiest patrons at the highest Sectrs received the first responses, superior resources, and prime commodities; the closest adage anyone could get to the long outdated concept of love.
By design, once a civilian’s vitals declined, memories gradually faded from their subconscious, followed by the memories of all relatives living until each subconscious mind in far surrounding lineages were cleared. 3days after a person passed into the Cloud, each memory of them was erased from the main servers, wiping their existence from everyone’s brain. Only a static rendering of the deceased were still available through 4D, attached with a basic acknowledgement of their total mRNA contribution. Neighbors and friends were content within this context of praise while striving to be consistent pillars within their caste existence. By contrast, her parents felt somewhat uncomfortable. They hid their emotions whenever possible. Her mother’s eyes darted left and right, her mouth resting in a deep frown of negative tells.
“Sequinne, 96T is set to have a bouncing baby boy,” Fischerd smiled, green eyes glowing across the dining table as he chewed his whey toast. His temples wrinkled while he turned his head sideways, “Maintenance1 scanner…” Crumbs skied down the corner of his grin, “Sterile.”
Grace smiled. The news was not necessarily humorous, nor did it entirely provoke her pride, but Sequinne was a Medic5 with a penchant for arrogance. “Life can be deceptive, eternal, and all-knowing.” Fischerd often stressed, likely trying to convince his daughter that their Sectr1 status was not her fault. Grace’s illness would return if carcinogens settled, they’d all been warned. A scare during infancy had sent her to the B.C.C. to undergo five automated surgeries when her uterus collapsed. Her lineage was classified at the lowest Sectr1 thereafter. Bold scars on her abdomen proved the infertility. She wiped the concept from her mind’s eye.
“We should invite them over for dinner. You’re always happy to honor new life,” Sophia spoke lightly over their heads. “We’ll mark the tradition. No one is above the balance.”
THE GUARDIANS PROVIDE
A glowing hologram flashed through Grace’s periphery as she chewed a strawberry. The advertisement reminded her of the life that she wanted and the person she should be. “I’m ready for this drought to be over,” Grace interjected while scanning low moisture patterns past her irises, berry mash still in her mouth.
BARBARIC MANNERS
Her SnapByt warned with a volt of electricity against her wrist, punishment for speaking with food on her tongue.
Fischerd responded with soy form in his teeth the same, “The drought is important. You need to work more.”
Grace disagreed because she hadn’t been granted a steam shower in over 6days. Her parents said nothing more, both immersed in their own business, as she sat expressionless staring at the rock countertop. Oxytocin fired while she scanned probable Crowley interactions. The truth was, they were lucky to exist inside the last of eight Centr domes left scattered across the west. The 4D matrix safe-guarded all risk by identifying each possible interaction with corresponding responses, both emotional and physical triggers to better serve the user. 4D allowed communion with maximum efficiency by determining and rerouting all positive outcomes. Equations were structured around an ancient technology once brought from the stars and still at the helm of all ordered chaos.
While reaching for her fork, without effort, her brain calculated initial conditions for each plausible grasp and lift, thus determining linear trajectories for usage and intent. Her subs chose the most efficient outcomes––to stab a berry and slide it in-between her teeth. She listened to her inner 4D voice always. The Guardians had taught that Earth was a 3D puzzle; by connecting everything on the 4D plane, all pieces clicked together to complete the present, thus allowing optimal experience. Riding the wave between chaos and order, between Centr8 duty and 4D connectivity was a lifelong goal to master. The best navigators resided at the highest Sectr, Tech6. Her heartbeat quickened, realizing that she hadn’t read his Tech6 star alignment for that morning. She quickly drew a strong parallel between Sectr1 and Sectr6. Both lacked the ability to procreate, both were exposed to sacrifice. Her heart raced with catastrophe longing at the realization.
FOR THE GOOD OF ALL
“Grace?” Her mother took a long pause. “Your labor statement says you need sixteen credits this week?” Her tone sounded agitated.
Grace knew the hours that were not accounted for. “That’s not right.”
“On your way home, manually enter.” Her mom took a long breath as she rubbed her face and shot a knowing glance across the counter towards Richard, who was entranced in his own invisible glow.
“The last client is Sectr4. Hopefully we can finish early,” Grace sighed.
“... We can’t always trust the machines.” Sophia smiled casually while settling back into her visuals.
After blowing her sinuses clear into a paper napkin, Grace gripped her water bottle. ‘It’s time.’ She silently sent the message to her parents before walking through the living room to slide her canvas treads onto her socked feet. She stepped towards her bedroom for her sling bag and rubbed her father’s shoulder while she passed to the door. Grace’s chest tightened. She was not usually comfortable showing affection, a trait she’d mirrored from him.
Fischerd glanced up through his projections for a confused moment before waving, “Goodbye.”
‘Bye, Dad.’ The front door slid shut behind her as she sent the correspondence, and didn’t look back.
Grace’s workday was almost over, but her shoulders were still tense in anticipation of the last client confrontation. She let out a long sigh before leaning into the seat of her two-seater Toggle hovering over the open track. Within the safety of Centr8, GuardLaw assured that each civilian was equipped with portable Taurus and solar energy charging ports for all technological devices. Individual Toggle travel pods were fitted as well, which provided automated travel on a gleaming network of sound-wave tracks. Toggle emergency repair stations were positioned in other neighborhoods, but sat empty because malfunctions were rare. Toggles were usually serviced before errors occurred.
COMMUNION = SURVIVAL
She took a deep breath as small amounts of oxytocin fired. The advertisement reminded her of the life that she wanted and the person she should be. Those 4D projections showed so frequently, she did not consciously register them, but her mind’s eye comprehended as she took a drink from her bottle and the water tasted clear. She hiccuped as her Toggle halted just shy of her last client’s dome. Water dripped down her chin while the Byt vibrated. She wiped her mouth and her bag’s strap fell from her shoulder as her elbow hit the buckle, sending a jolt of electricity up into her fingers. The bottle didn’t drop immediately, but spilled most of her water on the seat watching it drip over the corrugated metal flooring. Her Byt vibrated incessantly, scolding with voltage while Grace shook her arm.
Searching neighboring lawns, she wondered if Crowley was nearby with his female companion, and made a mental note to check his proximity. After searching through her mind’s eye, she saw his dome, sun reflecting off the panels. She took a moment to virtually navigate inside his home. The entryway was spotless, white tiles shining and grey, bare walls encased in silence. While panning around the kitchen island and dark cabinets, she didn’t see him at first. As if by magic, he walked into the room, his appealing stature in her mind’s eye. His height was gigantic, an asset to any companion with whom to make offspring. Being tall afforded him brain advances and more esteem. Unfortunately, he’d suffered from cell abnormalities and early mortality; a contributing factor to his early appointment as a senator. The government position suited his shortened timeline by allowing him empathy over heartbeats.
Grace clicked her tool belt around her waist and slid her earbuds in, activated immediately, ready to assist as she strode up the cobbled walk. Catching sight of her reflection in the shiny dome, she saw a short, young woman with broad shoulders and heavy thighs. Her glowing green eyes stared from behind freckles and dark patches of uneven skin tones hidden beneath clay pigments of highlight and contour, all under a thick layer of UVblock. She rolled her spine, grounded hips as she clicked her tool belt one notch tighter. Her hands felt weak. A thick ponytail of dark tangles shadowed her collarbone tag; 26D.
The Guardians were watching. She could feel their expressions shielding a small amount of shame. There’d been no status climbing available because her womb had been removed. It was the only source of power that 4D honored. Crowley was a fantasy. Her true romantic desires would never reach full eligibility––not with her damaged biology and localized skill set.
She covered her mouth and yawned as she shook her head. Her Byt vibrated to indicate her mineral count––LOW. As she reached for her Vitaspray, the front panel of the dome slid back. One pump of tincture into her nose with no water, exacerbated the dryness on her tongue. An elderly man stepped forward through the doorway, wrinkled skin under the shadow of a purple visor. He wore a green bamboo shirt and blue half pants pulled up high.
One more job.
‘Mr. Trevor, 64T,’ Grace sent him the greeting electronically by pinging his profile, favorably reviewing his appearance for maximum validation.
Mr. Trevor was instantly notified in his buds, ‘26D.’ He could have swyped through her stats–if so inclined, yet he responded silently, ‘Here. Back here...’ then led the way as usual, possibly assessing his ability to diminish her authority.
Grace shuffled over the sand to his back porch, modestly outfitted with blue wicker furniture and faded rose print pillows, as she sent, ‘What’s the problem, sir?’
He grunted. ‘You need to fix the problem the first time.’
If she’d slept more soundly, more empathy could have been possible. In truth, there were no reasons to be angry with the man. His brain chemistry was such that he knew no other way to be.
Mr. Trevor pointed to the Taurus voltage panel. ‘You know where…’
Grace knelt to snap the plastic cover aside, injecting electrodes into the circuitry underneath. She tapped her earbuds as an immediate pentagon of holograms washed her vision, scanning for shortages. A flashing orange triangle vibrated past a rotted corner where microscopic vapor particles had seeped through the corroded contact. It was not a hard fix. She leaned back to shuffle through her bag for a coil of gold filament before sliding a pair of bionic pliers from her belt. Her hands shook while attempting to fit the nodes onto the tips of her fingers. Ignoring Mr. Trevor’s stare, her lips puckered and her eyes narrowed with focus. Mirror neurons mimicked instruction as she thought of her parents. They’d always encouraged her career as a Utility Engineer––mostly because she had a tendency towards chaotic order, wandering daydreams, and unapologetic solitude.
COMMUNION = SURVIVAL
The glowing advertisement flashed in her periphery, reminding her of the life that she wanted and the person she should be. She waved the message away with her iris Intel. Mr. Trevor’s tone was slow to start from behind, “... 4D records every thought, action, and feeling, vital insurance that each intention is pure, and each need is properly met.”
The sound of his voice startled her as she turned to face him.
“In old times, devices carried no calibration. Patrons were switching recklessly... technology between themselves... no accountability.” He extended the dialogue with his hands demonstrating a back-and-forth gesture.
She swiveled into the board again while trying to imagine such unfathomable freedom of thought and movement. In her mind’s eye, she only visualized the tall border Fence at the edge of the dome being beat hard by desert winds.
THE FENCE PROTECTS
“Their capacity to unleash our genome altered the perception of what it really meant to be human,” Mr. Trevor’s tone rose with slight indignation.
She understood what he meant–rudimentary commands of their ancestors’ implanted devices had benefited greatly from borrowed advancements brought by the Guardians. Higher states of brainwave function had become merely sub-instinctual practice inside the dome. 4D connectivity had grown out of a calm period after the ice melt when nature’s extremities forced human surrender. The thinning of the species led to communal productivity reborn from a simulated awareness experience. From the ashes of the cortisol epidemic, biofeedback blossomed neural pathways into a transformative psyche-matrix which offered serene acceptance. Transparency and compatibility were myths that became true. The cornerstones of their existence offered essentially a proverbial oneness compared to the laborious, unstable existence of her predecessors.
Mr. Trevor spoke up, “Lucky for you to have that syllabus. There were times when teams of people had to link up to each other to perform each task by memory. You didn’t see it. You never knew. They were connected by wires that strung this world over. The theory of strings they called it–connected technology. We all benefited from their mass production.... Your parents don’t remember because their lineage passed into the Cloud. They had no contribution to record. I remember the abandoned conversion houses. My fifth father was a mindspy… A telepath during the Rise.”
Her mouth was dry. “Umhmm... Back when satellites fell from the sky?” She was trying to be polite.
“You know the Corp was the last mode of social organization? They outlasted all empires that proceeded. Corp collectives dominated economic clusters. Standards became too malnourished, territory without industry lost too much. Temperatures rose when everyone was susceptible …to the cult of greed and disease. Central governance couldn't handle the scope, so the Corps had no choice but to leave survival to the people. My fourth grandmother starved in the winter... Before they moved to the Amazon and seeded the clouds.”
“Uh huh…” Mr. Trevor was recanting information of interest, but with the ability to access each fact on her own if ever truly curious, at the current moment, she was only trying to focus on the task at hand.
He continued, “Centuries ago, when mankind was on its knees, the brink of natural destruction, a Precession of polar motion had the strength to decimate all planet Earth,” he paused with a satirical glow emanating faintly from his periphery. “Geographical distress interfered with their 4D entitlement. We were just entertainment to them back then ... all anyone wanted, pecuniary emulation.” Mr. Trevor glanced up to see tethered birds jangling through scattered tree limbs, caged by enormous geodesic panels hovering far above. “They helped us get into the Fourth, a lucid state in our sleep. Can you imagine? It was so easy for them to escape, until... the Corp bred out our dreams. They didn’t want us to have access to the crystals in our brains. That’s why the forces came for us, from the stars. Our beliefs meant nothing to them because they knew not how to save our societies, but how to save our immortality.”
Grace sniffled, “The Guardians.” The name spoken aloud was awkward, and in hindsight, it shouldn't have been said at all.
He nodded. “A collective manifestation rescued the remaining survivors. Called itself the Guard back then, a single inter-dimensional entity that could not be seen, but presented at a higher frequency above our natural world. They wanted us to see them, but not with our two eyes.” He pointed to the space between the center of his forehead.
She’d read the mainstream tales as he continued to explain, “Technological advances that my seventh grandfather developed, allowed our ancestors to integrate with Guardian forces inside a heavenly realm of digital stock and ability. Their ingenious contribution reigned in a new era of peaceful prosperity, allowing the forefathers to commune their minds with an efficiency and speed unrivaled by any species before or since.” His tone depleted, “Expansion of human perception… Like running images of a kaleidoscope, humans grow old too quickly...”
“... Why?” Her question startled them both.
“We are all creatures of habit, pattern seekers. If given the choice, we make too many timelines… Wired evolution... Women went first because extreme heat took a majority of the young weakened by pollen assassinations. Freedom came at a high price...” His voice flattened into slight prose, “... Fading away of the five sounds... Freedom...” Mr. Trevor looked to the ground without missing a beat, “Reckless realm jumping was the only way that they could make it out, but it scrambled their DNA, the Lost generation, unable to pass much on…. your soulmates.” Mr. Trevor was referring to her Sectr1 class–inferior trauma victimization written into her genes. She tongued the top of her mouth plate while pressing her lips together. He nodded, seeming to imply that she agreed with him. “There weren’t enough modes of transparency back then anyway. The Wy generation tried to jump the restricted portals to escape rising waters, but their negotiations ended the entitlement sanctions.”
She nodded slightly.
“By foregoing instant access, there was a gap, a great dissolution of space between the hivemind and everyone else,” Mr. Trevor paused. “Not everyone is willing to sacrifice… Not everyone follows rules. But consciousness will always fight to be realized. After they switched on, the truth was revealed all at once. All the thoughts that everyone was thinking were unleashed. Ego perceptions turned ugly. To reduce contempt, no one carried any more secrets. But I remember when Senate4 still communed privately with members of the cabinet...” Mr. Trevor gasped as if to punctuate his own story,“… Before the Tech6.”
Grace lost her breath for a moment as she thought of the boy who had once lived next door; he had become a member of the Tech6, trained to handle stimuli of both organic and visualized realms simultaneously. Tech6’s were of the highest order, a bureau of mysterious men acting as translators to the Guard cabinet. Once initiated, their timelines were hidden from the general populus.
Mr. Trevor raised his chin to the horizon, consumed still in his retelling. “Back when we all had purpose, we were... we clung to the hope that they’d let us back in...” he swallowed. “We grew taller for them, by eight inches. Well, not your DNA. Though I do wonder why the Guard intelligence bothered in our affairs with no ongoing basis in unity?”
She focused into the old man’s squinty, green eyes. She’d never heard him speak so much. “Do you think they’ll ever come back for us? For our sequences?” Overwhelmed by curiosity, she too found herself essentially awestruck and grateful while yearning for benevolence by bestowing faith in the interconnected oneness.
Mr. Trevor’s eyes clouded a little as he pursed his lips and stared into the dust. “You don't talk about what comes first. Cause or effect? Did the deep spark of action prove more important than the spark of reason? You only know of peace because we don’t make enemies to rebel against. You don’t know hunger––engineered food is always in vast supply. The Guardians’ methods are honest and provide us with a sustainable lifestyle that no one person could create alone.” He raised his eyebrows while staring deep into her eyes, “Not from here… Not without fear...”
Grace nodded. “Fear of what? What do you fear?”
“Time...”
She waited, but he said nothing more, so she awkwardly turned to fuse the last connection and closed the circuit. The next message, she sent silently, ‘Alright, it looks like you are all set.’
Mr. Trevor backed off and watched her restart the battery while Grace stood up and straightened her spine, sweat pooling around her torso; there was always heat to adjust to. While slipping the gloves off her fingers, she slid them back onto the tool belt as the holographic cloud dispersed from around her head. Brushing dust from her knees back and forth, her hands shook. Her irises dimmed and her vision zoomed out to survey his beautifully manicured rock lawn.
After switching back to electronic communication as well, he sent, ‘Are you sure that’s it? Because last time it was not.’
She stared into his empty kitchen through the sliding, clear panels reflecting a sinking sun and reprised shade. ‘I’m pretty certain of it, sir. Why don’t you go in and try the coolant?’ She brushed the side of her arm against her cheekbone and into her hairline.
The man wobbled up the back porch while the two doors slid open and shut behind him. Shuffling over the tiles, he forcefully swyped at air blowing into his face as his frigid conditioner engaged. A few thin hairs fluttered over his visor while he stood staring into the billowing projections for maybe a moment too long.
Secretly hoping for a quick computing malfunction?
Her cynicism was fleeting as she controlled her smile and constrained a yawn. While dropping her head, she sent, ‘For the good of all.’
Grace’s shoulders slouched while she took long strides across his rock lawn towards her Toggle. She thought of Crowley as she looked up and down the row. Not a human was present. Her sustenance count was low. Her mother likely had corn casserole or stewed vegetables waiting at home. She was too lazy to check. Avocado rolls were her favorite, dipped in hot mustard and liquid aminos. Cushioning into the seat of her egg-shaped Toggle, Grace was eager to leave. The dashboard illuminated as 4D synced with her glowing Intel and her Toggle buzzed to life. Her canvas bag slid over the wet seat, liquid pooling everywhere from the earlier incident. She sighed, knowing that labor hours would be added for the wasted H2O.
After unclasping her belt, Grace closed her eyes and sunk in. Her heavy saddlebags clattered to the floor with a splash as she reached up to tap the Byt at her inner wrist, commanding projections with her thumb and forefingers. Her head fell back, interrupted by a glowing hologram of her mother’s face. Grace’s irises charged ready to accept, but she swiveled her sore neck to stare out at Mr. Trevor’s dome instead.
Talk at home.
A broad sigh escaped her lips as her green eyes glowed and her mother’s image faded. The Toggle jerked forward. Other Sectr occupants, all vaguely recognizable, whirled past with their vitals scrolling through Grace’s peripheral; chemical stats of Centr men, women, and children riding innocently inside their vehicles with their schedules on display. Dander wafted through the open windows while her Intel calculated CO2 levels of the different neighborhoods, their lawns sprayed with perfectly green pebbles. Her final destination, Home, was Sectr1, CapeCove to the north, where modular units were smaller than Mr. Trevor’s Senate4 dome.
Canyon cliffs lined the purple horizon, beyond which laid vast processing factories. No human could survive outside the dome without a lifesuit, so all industry was fully automated. To venture north beyond the Fence was against GuardLaw.
THE FENCE PROTECTS
Pre-registered brainwaves triggered calming instrumentals against her eardrums, but she pulled her buds out and set them on the seat, enjoying silence while staring into the sunset. The Birthing Control Campus (B.C.C.) glided past. She knew it only as the building where her father worked. B.C.C. details were not shared with the collective. The logo was familiar––convergent hands intertwined around all sides of a three-story fortress. A pyramid construct that protected GuardLaw based on slow and systematic processes which hadn’t changed, as long as anyone could remember. She rarely saw people out on the lawn, and was curious to know the pacing of their daily tasks indoors. The B.C.C. and Tech6 Hill were the only places where secrecy existed.
“The most important power is knowledge,” her father frequently told her with mournful eyes. “Create art that speaks to many. Each has their own interpretation.” Grace assumed Fischerd was trying to soften her reality, but she was not to be disillusioned. Her genetic strengths, long fingers, and obsessive tendencies, proved worthy of specialization in digital wiring––mostly for heating and cooling units. The mathematical maze of busy work proved satisfying. She took pride in serving the balance. Later in the Cloud, she’d be rewarded, validated with a guaranteed partner designation in a higher Sectr, possibly a Tech6. Grace took a deep breath while the B.C.C.’s grandeur eventually sunk from view.
The pink sky enveloped a thin outline of the moon as her Toggle swiveled into a parking space outside the Maintenance1 port. She stared up at three giant boulders towering over the lawn, and pushed the screeching Toggle door open. Her co-worker, Tobin, sat in the distance on a picnic table, eating what appeared to be a rice bowl. She zoomed in then waved casually as he waved back. Everyone had left for the day. While approaching the thick door, a white scanner flashed in her iris Intel and the metal slab slid to the side.
Inside the Maintenance port, her treads echoed from the tiles up to the high concrete ceiling. Silent black consoles lined the walls. No human heartbeats were anywhere. The utility port was typically pretty empty because no one entered credits manually anymore. Grace preferred calculation through personal devices, but her mom had instructed to physically enter for maximum benefit. She stepped up to the last scanner. ‘26D’ to confirm her identity with a quick vibration at her wrist. Playback of her last 16hours, 66,666heartbeats, pinged with each moment devoted to Sectr1 advancement. Her eyes barely focused on the lifeless scanners lining the walls with black lenses––still and spooky.
White font projected in the corner:
DON’T COMPLICATE.
KEEP YOUR INTENTIONS PURE.
Her subconscious playback proceeded behind her as she turned to read another projection:
IF LINEAR TIME FAILED, WE WOULD SEE THE EVOLUTION OF OURSELVES SIMULTANEOUSLY.
The playback recorder was taking forever as her memories addled together. An engineered female voice finally sounded, “For the good of all. For the good of all. For the…”
15labor hours added.
Grace nodded sarcastically, “For the good of all.” She stepped down the hall and couldn't shake the feeling that human eyes were watching. She stared into the SnapByt at her inner wrist to see her 360degree projection; showed nothing amiss in her features nor behind her.
THE GUARDIANS PROVIDE
A subtle frequency caused her to pause as she turned to see the amber pebble she carried in her back pocket floating suspended in midair in front of her face, for only a second before it bounced to the tile with a ping. While holding her breath, Grace rationalizes the instance was just a magnetic disturbance. The gem had been a gift from someone she could not remember, but the gem had never floated in mid-air before. She didn’t have time to solve the equation as she reached to finger the stone’s cool, polished edges back into her palm and down into her pocket.
The entranceway heaved shut while Grace stepped out onto the crunching gravel. Warmth circled around her as Tobin emerged tall from behind a towering boulder in blue pants and a white collared shirt, tight on his slender body. Wavy strands fell heavy over his ears as he grinned wide and silently sent, ‘Hey.’
‘Hi.’
‘They taxed up your credits again.’ His feet shuffled with nervousness layered over excitement.
She nodded past him as her Toggle door screeched open and sat inside. Unfortunately, Sectr1 males did nothing to arouse her interests.
“Choice overload,” was what her mother called it. The memory play-back ran through Grace’s mind. Her mother had been sitting at a table with a tall drink nearby, “Mandated choices make us question our decisions and set unreasonably high expectations. We end up blaming ourselves for mistakes we never intend to make. Regrets are not static. We are always evolving. If there is nothing to regret then we are eternal. We cannot be created or destroyed.”
‘You are going home now.’
‘My parents are waiting to have dinner.’ Grace pulled the door closed with a squeak.
Tobin leaned in through the open window. ‘You’re still wasting your free hours on 14N.’
Average 9,672heartbeats a rotation.
She shrugged.
‘Did you learn about Sydney?’
She shook her head, barely knew Sydney, another Maintenance1 operator. They were not a proximity match. ‘What happened?’ She slid in to swype up.
We’ve been pinged to Tech Hill.’ Tobin lowered his stare. ‘We’re going up there now.’
Grace was eager to leave. ‘A heater issue.’ Visits to Tech6 Hill were rare because a full security clearance required all service playback to be erased.
Tobin raised his stare to the purple horizon. ‘Someone didn’t make it back again last night.’
She shuddered. ‘Be careful.’ Unapologetically, her iris Intel activated the window closed.
The plexiglass lowered as Tobin leaned back. ‘You keep those buds in. I’ve been following your proximity. I was bound to run into you. I’ll tell you how things go tomorrow.’ The window sealed shut while she gave him a guarded grin and switched the communication off.
Tobin’s memory of Tech6 Hill would be wiped. He wouldn’t tell her anything. Their interaction would be erased from her memory as well. She didn’t mind losing memories. The emotional implication of processing too many experiences close at hand was detrimental to forward advancement.
His voice echoed outside as her Toggle pulled away, “Time… tonight… ” She couldn't make out his last words as his torso faded in the rearview.
Grace passed under a giant stone archway from ancient times. Carved into the stone:
TRUST EVOLUTION
NATURAL SELECTION BROUGHT YOU HERE.
Evolution kept her under the care of her mother and father, and the Guardians. She breathed in and out with no real intent to petition for a base dome of her own. She would continue to grow old in CapeCove until her scheduled upload. The safety of that routine brought contentment and praise as she strove to be a consistent pillar within her caste existence.
Grace snapped awake while sitting erect in her Toggle parked outside her dome. The air felt different. The temperature was drastically lowered as if all moisture had been sucked out of the atmosphere. She turned up to see distant clouds hanging on a gray skyline, indicating shifting moisture patterns. After redistributing her weight in confusion, she stretched her cold fingers into her hairline; earbuds exactly on the seat where she’d left them. Her SnapByt dimmed around her wrist as she swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Disoriented from sleep, Grace gathered her belongings and shuffled across the rocks to the rear entrance of her modular dome.
Eat.
Holding the screen door open, she swyped her irises across the security pad until the metal door swung to the side, revealing her dim-lit kitchen. A yellow lamp shone through the living area as she dropped her bag on the countertop. No food had been prepared. Her Byt remained silent as she stepped through the archway and removed the amber stone from her back pocket. She slid her buds out from her ear canals and set them on the charging dock.
“Mom?” Grace glanced down the hall and noticed that her parents’ door was slightly ajar. “Dad?” Her parents had been arguing lately. She couldn’t appreciate which agonizing topics had turned them against one another with such negative agitation, and had not done the research to find out. She tiptoed over the carpet to knock at their door once then twice. Pressing her face into the cool laminate, she heard faint oscillating on the other side as she pushed in.
Her hands shook.
There was only blood on the walls, floor, and bed. Lying on her back in the stained sheets, her mother, Sophia, wore a rose-colored nightgown, her torso cut from collarbone to waist exposing deep purple tissues and glittering internal organs. Her features looked drained under a few matted strands that stuck to her bloodshot pupils staring to the ceiling with a fixed gaze of absolute horror.
On the crumpled comforter soaked in crimson was a clean-cut severed arm. The ring on the finger belonged to her father, Fischerd, who laid flat down on the stone tiles, suffocated in a syrupy maroon pool.
The sirens grew increasingly louder until they felt like they were inside her head, ready to burst her temporal lobes apart. Grace wished more than anything that the darkness behind her eyelids would cover and take her vision too. She wanted to collapse down next to them. Her forearms hung limp as warmth raged up her cheeks with a metallic sting in her throat. She whimpered as desperation halted to panic. Red was the only color that she could see. A fireman frantically rushed inside and hugged his hairy arm around her waist. She recoiled from his empathetic grip while pawing at the doorway. But ultimately, she let the tall man carry her out past her dome’s glazed interior. Still and silent, he ushered her down to the lawn before running back inside.
No sobs came at first as she dropped down hard on her knees in the lawn, scraping through the pebbles. Vomit raged in her throat as she retched, acid bubbles under her tonsils. Her breath shortened while snot formed inside her nostrils. Her fingers clenched the uniform fabric just over her chest while the other hand clawed at sharp gravel bouncing from her fist. She shut her eyes and attempted to remove herself, imagining the reality in which her body truly existed; a bed of clean linens and pillows. The rustle changed slowly, faded into a mass of stained sheets and gore.
Her eyes opened to see more frantic firemen stomping past. A white globe was just warming, suspended in the sky as she realized that it was morning. Neighbors stumbled outside with looks of concern etched on their faces. Tears washed their cheeks, their bathrobes and nightshirts wrinkled while they reeled their young ones in tighter.
Perceptions are caving in all around us.
“Oh Guard, Grace! Grace, 26D!” Her elderly neighbor, Miss Claire, 69F, ran hysterically fast across the front lawn.
Glancing up from the heap she’d become, her call sign sounded differently in her own ears somehow, 26D, as if it was the first time that she’d ever heard it spoken aloud.
Miss Claire wrapped her frail arms around her shoulders. “Are you alright? Where are your parents? How did the fire start?”
Grace gagged. There were no actual words to tell her. Tears didn’t start to fall immediately as she collapsed down hard onto the old woman’s lap. While Grace rested her cheekbone on Miss Claire’s blue pants and boney kneecap, her mind swam through the darkness with a pitiful smile and overwhelming sense of melancholy. Cowering panic radiated through her chest and exploded into the last corners of her being.
Slack jawed, Grace brought her face up, pupils absorbing the heavens far above their dome. Deep inside, her psyche would never actually recover from the incident. Yet, she still gasped upward, repeatedly pulling in for at least one, Guardian given, lasting breath of relief.
