22 April 2012
I meander back to the main control room, the dusty corridors holding no place in my mind, and the friendly orange glows of the sodium lamps that adorn the offices, casting strange silhouettes of desk-wear. their warm, sleepy, comfortable light catches more specks of pollen rushing in from the bulky doorframe, as I gently close and lock the mechanism, edging out head last so as to savour my tree until the next day.
The tiny specks of living dust stitch and peck at the back of my nose, as it drifts into me. Through the thick and misty air it filters, flitting and humming as if with some kind of a purpose. Like snow, I think to myself. Snow... I have seen it, of course. Everyone's seen snow. Back at home, all the films and projections, all the history documents, used to be full of the stuff. No one ever felt it, though. We were given simulations, of course, and the rich ones were given a trip to the outer ring of the pole-line, to feel it, taste it, and savour it for all it was worth. It went, inevitably, the next year, along with the ice, when they struck oil below. There can't have been more than a few metres left, anyway.
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The long winding path leads up the bitterly metallic cold staircase, through a small air-lock, past the nine cooler-tanks, and finally through another air-lock into her communication chamber. I often do this when I'm nervous: map out the route that I'm going down before I get there. It helps it seem quicker. The thought is jerky, like a series of stills, and after thinking through the route, I realise i'm already two stills ahead. It doesn't help this time, though. I pause at the door to the last airlock, forcing back contempt for what lies within, like a surging tide. All gone. I twist the L.
My hatred for her is not a new development. As soon as I found out my situation I blamed her. For her ignorance. For being so exact and precise. For never being a real person.
She doesn't care, of course. Why should she? I'm just her little helper. Her pawn. Her tool.
"good morning, Evans." She bleats, monotonal and childish. A small blip of signal raising on the monitor, signifying speech.
"Go fuck your good mornings. Why do you need me?"
I know I shouldn't be rude to her. She hasn't done anything personally wrong to me. The three laws hold a weak grip in big computers, so I wouldn't be surprised, but she has yet to cause me pain.
Yet.
This next part Is the risky part. Gen-E has two main responses for this. She has: 'I need your assistance,' signifying a mundane and riskless task, and she has 'there is a maintenance error'. The latter signifies one of the more high-profile disruptions, usually involving the donning of a space or radiation hazard suit. I squint my eyes and pray.
'There Is a maintenance error.'
Shit.
The Orchard Part 2 • Opuss № I