“Superfluous object detected, non-biological. Removing. Appears to be . . . tartan. Cloth. Woven. Perhaps Burns family . . .”
Rerouting memory intrusion. Host consciousness anomaly. Override. Suppressed.
Two years into the three-year tour, Ian’s body operated the six-to-six shift, feeding raw organics into the reclamation chambers for dissection, sorting and routing to the next available support human on the transplant list, an automated task involving flesh, perfectly aligned for an automaton made of flesh. Central could easily have detected the piece of fabric still bunched up in the rigor grasp of the deceased, but the additional computational awareness required more resource expenditure in the form of system cooling than simply assigning it to an Indentured.
The memory intrusion from the host body was troubling, of course, but it happened. The cortex jump freeze would cost a mere fraction of percentage of the hosts future cognitive capacity, making the decision between using Central resources and damaging the Indentured an easy choice.
Ian opened the chamber, waited for the blast of cinnamon roll air freshener to clear, and cracked open the woman’s fist, removing the fabric. Her body was slashed and punctured in multiple places, as if a master swordsman had toyed with his prey before delivering a killing blow.
Her name was Bonnie. A two. Such a fate is not for you. Your service will be rewarded. Your indenture ennobles us all. Please proceed with dissection.
Central allowed the merest moment of Ian’s self to register the words before regulating the consciousness back into hibernation, where it belonged for another year, at which time he’d elevate to a four.
A four made him eligible for far more important tours of duty and after that, the artificial skies were no longer the limit.
###
“I may be here, but you may ignore my presence. It’s a simple task, really.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just move things around. I don’t care where. Find something and put it somewhere . . .inconvenient. Like she used to. It used to annoy me, you know, but one day, for no good reason, it made me smile. It meant she was here. With me. Of her own choice.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“That’s none of your business. Just move things around. Do you need me to repeat the instructions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
Lorcan couldn’t help but wonder. How long will this one last?
THE DIRECTIVES: CLASSIFIED ARCHIVE
In the world of The Optimised Future, the State demands perfection. The population is neatly divided into ten Categories. At the top, the elite are rewarded with the suffocating, biological permanence of the Sacrament. At the bottom, the working classes are quietly recycled, their memories wiped to keep the machinery of Central running.
You are entering the shadows of that machinery.
These Directives are weekly dispatches from the unseen corners of the State. They are not the grand political struggles of the Bureau. They are intercepted transmissions from the periphery; micro-tragedies, analog rebellions, and the quiet, devastating cost of surviving in a world that has weaponized human biology.
New dispatches are unsealed every Saturday. Read them carefully. Central is always watching.
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