I am worker 7604. I live in a perfect world--or so the politicians say. We have the vote, as long as we vote for them. We have freedom--free to do what they want us to do. I was hardwired since I was two years old to serve the system. And I try. I really do. I am not a glitch. I promise.
Glitches ask questions. Glitches question the system. Glitches get caught.
"Shift one is over. Shift one is over," a soothing feminine voice repeated from the intercoms at seven o'clock every evening.
I stopped what I was doing and set down the folded papers I was collecting from the folding machine, silently counting the excess. As usual, I placed them into the extras tray for the worker taking over for night shift. Janitorial swept through as I collected my wallet-purse and my water container from the designated cubby, and I marched to the lifting doorway. All the workers from the Inserts/Outserts department stepped through, almost with a thrumming march. Each with regulation trimmed-short hair, body hugging uniforms, protective eyewear, and thick-toed boots. Regulation was a sign of perfection. With the program. Together, we paused at the forklift intersection, looked left, then right. Together we proceeded forward, turned right, then left, and lined up straight at the time clock. Each one of us swiped a hand over the scanner. It accounted for us one by one with a singular beep. At the opposite time clock, the incoming workers clocked in. A brief tango.
Marching with the others to the outside bus, I, worker 7604, paid my fare with a touch of my finger. It matched my print to the digital file. Then I took my regular seat. Prim. Attentive. Showing no sign of fatigue. Showing no sign of dissatisfaction. As soon as we were all down, the driver pulled artfully into traffic. Smooth roads. No haste. Well behaved drivers. Exactly to the program.
My mind wanders when we travel. A bad habit, I'm afraid.
I think.
They don't like us thinking. People who think question. People who question eventually ask. And they mostly ask why. But sometimes they ask why not.
I find myself thinking about the day. About things I've seen in my day. Or heard. Mostly heard. If I moved my head in any direction to see, they would notice I was listening. Listening--real listening--leads to thinking.
Today, I thought about the field trip I witnessed in my peripheral vision. A class of boys and girls in neat school uniforms. Eleven or perhaps ten years of age. You could hardly tell the boys from the girls. They had been made same with bowl cuts and pantsuits. But I could tell. Children take a bit of training before they finally get with the program and lose their distinct identities. The girls giggle more. Gossip and backstabbing. The boys shove each other and make dares. Physical bullying. These children were not workers-to-be though. These looked like management-to-be. Their uniforms were nicer than the one I had to wear when I was sorted at school. These had navy blue suits. Thicker. Warmer looking. Mine had been neutral taupe, thin, the same as my work uniform. My number had already been given to me. These children had names printed on their front right pockets in white.
One boy was letting out a loud wail, complaining about something. It echoed over the factory. Some heads turned to look. But I didn't. You do not look. Not if you don't want to be reprogrammed.
I hate reprogramming. It happened to me once when I was a child.
All the teachers had surrounded me then. I had been taken aside and asked me if I was glitching. Then they hooked me up to machines to make sure my integrated circuits were working.
Some break, you see. Not all wiring and circuitry integrates well for everyone. Installed when we are two years old, given booster upgrades every year up to puberty, each citizen of our country is enabled with high tech ware. It is supposed to be for the advancement of the race. For the common good. I learned then that if you start to glitch, you don't let them know about it. Some bodies just don't take to upgrades.
My classmate 7603 had glitched. They told her to 'get with the program'. They told her to 'log on'. But she was finally recycled.
I wish I didn't know what that meant.
And that boy's screams at the field trip that day pierced the inner part of my ear. It took all that I had to continue working without flinching. Those integrated into the program, those without glitches can tune out all background noise. It is in the program. They can numb their feelings so that they only feel what the management wants them to feel. They can work until late without having even the tiniest bit of fatigue.
One man looked up.
Bad move.
"Worker 6456! Get with the program!"
He immediately focused on his work again. He was sweating.
He was still sweating on the bus. I did not let him know I was watching. I kept my eyes forward, just like everyone else 'with the program'.
But he was worried. I could tell. I had seen it hundreds of times before.
Finally the bus arrived at its stop. The doors automatically opened, and all of us rose from our seats, exiting the bus in an orderly fashion. We all lived in the same building. After all, we all belonged to the same company. But as we walked to our individual apartments, programming shifted. Some workers glanced to others, smiled and initiated small talk.
Not all, though.
The worried worker who had looked up during the field trip commotion had stepped out ahead of me. He took steps to the building, entirely tense. Everyone around him walked on without a care. Not me. I watched him through unfocused eyes. And I counted. If he made it to the door, he would be ok.
One. Two. Three. Four. Fi--
Two black vehicles pulled to the curb.
Worker 6456 broke into a run.
I did not stop walking. I did not stop to watch. I would have been able to see what was going on with my eyes closed. I had seen it before countless times.
"Please! Why are you doing this?" He screamed. "I just need a repair! I don't need to be recycled! Honest!"
"Come with us and do not resist."
"I only looked up. What's wrong with that?"
He was definitely a glitch. Only glitches asked questions.
Questions like 'what happens to a person who gets recycled?' Or 'why do I have to do this menial task, making this useless thing?' Or, 'Can I try something new?'
I am not a glitch. I don't ask those questions. I keep silent.
He's a glitch.
I walked on to my apartment without paying the scene attention, pressed my door key with my index finger and waited for the door to open. It did with a sighing hiss. Everyone else passed by, some only stopping briefly at their ten-by-ten living cubicles for a clothes change before going off to socialize. Afterhours we belonged to ourselves--or so They say. We had put in our time. We were free citizens, after all. Living in a free country.
Hm. Free.
As I stroked the computer panels along the apartment wall to boot them, I wondered about that. Within a chorus of beeps, waking chimes, and ringtones, each one sang to life. My music switched on. My TV switched automatically to my 'favorite' program, Punch and Judy. It had to be my favorite. It was required, as it was 'popular'. Punch was this masculine elephant puppet that carried a big stick in its trunk. Judy was this feminine donkey puppet in a bright pink dress and big boobs. Judy usually gibbered, carrying about a 'baby' that was in an old three-cornered hat. Most of the time, Punch beat up Judy, and Judy got back at Punch. As kids we were supposed to think it was funny.
Then an ad popped on. They generally did after ten minutes of show.
"Need advice?" a curvaceous blonde busting out of her pink bodice asked the TV audience. "Too much stress? Lay your stress on us. The Micromanager. We'll think it out for you."
You never saw real women like that. Her waist looked thinner than her neck. Computer enhanced. I hardly looked at the TV, preparing a 'nutritious' snack that may or may not give me stomach cramps later. There was so little to choose from. Food production was, after all, owned by the FDA.
"If you do what we advise, you will always be right," an androgynous representative of the Micromanager Program advertisement said. They always wanted us to download new tech. More programs. More buying. I was getting tired of the extreme amount of data I had to store in my system. I had also noticed that a few systems in others glitched from overheating. "The hard choices are too much for the average person. The program makes it easy. It releases you from the stress and worry and gives you a clear plan. A perfect plan for your happiness."
Happiness. What was that really?
I went back to getting food. On hand in my box refrigerator I had vitamin-fortified veggie bars, gluten-free soy loaf with authentic beef flavor, velvet beet-and-cacao brownies, and a packet of potato chips. I had to go shopping.
A catchy jingle sang in the background. "You must buy Jolly Jingle Sweet Wheat! It's a treat wheat! Happy, scrumptious, and delicious and oh so nutritious!"
"Must I?" I muttered before I could stop myself.
I stiffened, hoping no one had heard me. Then I went on as usual. I pulled off my shoes and set them where they belonged at the end of my bed. I had to. If anyone saw I was self-conscious, that also meant I was glitching. After that, I pulled off my work uniform, dropped it in the laundry chute and then dressed into the loose-fitting top and pants I had in stock. The front of the shirt said sexy. I didn't know if I was. We donated our eggs and sperm as soon as our bodies matured. Most underwent systematic sterilization after that. No one had what people used to call families. At least, not the working class. Children belonged to the state. They were born and then raised by professionals. Incredibly few women had careers as Surrogate Mothers--and they didn't live long. Giving birth was a dangerous and oppressive feat, I've been told. I don't know. I'll never know. I'll never have a child of my own, even if I wanted to.
"Feel free to enjoy the program," a gender ambiguous announcer then declared.
It was back to Punch and Judy.
"Dismal, isn't it."
I stiffened then turned. Standing in my small living space was a man. He practically blended into the digital walls. His kaleidoscopic clothes flickered with on-screen data, almost matching the scenery behind him. He lowered his rippling hat with a smile then winked at me.
Saucy. His face had a reddish tinge to it, like Punch when he had been 'drinking'. I knew puppets didn't drink, but they had a 'drunk' Punch for the really raucous scenes. The man's hair was also kind of red, but dyed, I believe. He smiled. His teeth were not neat. Not clean at least. Yellowish and thick in the cracks. And as I drew in a breath, I realized that he smelled. I couldn't identify the smell, but it wasn't pleasant.
"I'm Hack'a," he said.
I stared.
"Got a name?" he asked in the most peculiar accent. It was English he was speaking. I was sure of it. But he didn't speak like most people I knew. Slurred, almost.
I did not answer. Hack'a was, after all, an aberration. Law dictated that I report him. I glanced at the wall rest where my cell phone was charging.
The rakish fellow smirked at me. "Not one fer small talk, I see. Maybe ya aren't the glitch I'm looking fer."
"I'm not a glitch," I said.
He smiled, leaning in. "Are ya now?
"You should not be here," I said.
Snorting, he plopped himself on my bed and snatched up one of my soy loafs from the counter. "Really? Well, I 'appen to fink I do belong 'ere. 'Specially since you 'aven't reported me yet."
I tried not to react, but my face felt hot.
"And she blushes." He chuckled. "I am in the right place." But he said that last word like ice--with a pl. Long I.
I tried not to respond. What could I do? Call it in? Report him? Then what? What would I say? If I recognized that he was unusual, those in charge would also ask me questions to see if I was glitching. After all, noticing differences was the first sign of prejudice. It was in the program. One of the rules. The managers would test me. Guilty because he came. Because of association. I had seen that hundreds of times. Lots of people get taken because someone next to them was glitching and they noticed. I could not have that. I had get rid of him.
"What an orderly littl' cage," he said. "You are so busy watching life, but not experiencin' it."
I went back to getting dinner.
The door behind me opened. I heard footfalls. Was it the Social Service? Were they finally there to take me away?
I risked a peek.
"Ah! So she does look!" A completely different man stood in my doorway. Dark, tall, tightly suited in gray, with a regulation-neat trimmed haircut. My heart lurched to a halt. For a moment I thought he was a social service officer.
He shut the door without further ado, smiling his alabaster teeth at me. They shone bright against his earthy skin. At least he was clean. Then he turned toward Hacka'. "See? I tol' you she was the one. The right glitch for the job."
Hacka' smirked. "Sure. Sure. We'll see."
"You're not...?" I stared at this newcomer with trepidation. He could, after all, still be an SS man.
The new man shook his head. "No. But I look it, don' I?"
He also spoke funny. Not regulation. A different kind of lazy though.
I glanced to the door, trying to hide my nerves. Two strangers in my apartment? The SS were always watching. They were sure to have noticed these two. I was so in trouble.
"Where is Bit? He should have been here hours ago?" the newcomer said.
Hacka' shook his head and shrugged, finishing off my soy loaf. Then he looked at me. "Got another one?"
"Not for you," I said.
"Ah!" he smirked. "Signs of life. I was beginning to worry there was nobody in that brain of yours."
I took a step back. "What do you want?"
Hacka' shrugged again. "You."
I averted my eyes to the floor. Was this an illegal seizure? Would I be sold on the human market? I had heard of such things. Was there a way to escape?
"Don' scare her, Hacker," the other one said. "You know those Gov dogs go around propagating lies, y'all."
Hacka' (or perhaps it was in fact Hacker as the other guy had said) gave him a droll look. "Please, Mate. Can't I have a little fun with the glitch before Bit gets 'ere?"
"No." The other one shook his head and stepped between us. He said to me, "Hacker is full of it, yo. Ignore 'im."
"Why are you here?" I asked.
He said, "For you."
I pulled back with alarm.
"But it's not what you think." He then stepped aside so I could see Hacker again, who was in fact making faces behind the stranger's back. "Stop it, yo. Explain it to the lady."
This time Hacker rose. He nodded to the guy in gray and said, "What 'e means is ya are exactly what we need. A glitch like you."
I opened my mouth to protest that I wasn't a glitch again, but he stopped me.
"Ya don't just out and ask questions. Ya think ahead. Ya think before speakin'. Smart. We need someone like ya."
"Why?" I asked again, glancing to the other one.
Smirking, Hacker skipped towards the door and looked out the small window. Every door had one, just in case an SS wanted to look in on you. With a hop back, Hacker said, "We want ta create a virus--one that can take down the whole system."
I stared this time.
"Are ya in?" Hacker asked.
"In what?" I replied.
"In with us?" And he smiled. His unbrushed teeth were awful. The fellow's next to him was better. More civilized at least.
Turning, I faced the TV set. Punch had just beaten Judy so that she lay down against the puppet booth, near dead. The donkey woman wailed that she was being maltreated by the oppressive elephant. Patriarchy or something. It was the same old shtick. But I stared at the wrist that stuck out from Punch, matching the other wrist under Judy. One puppeteer always ran the show.
"You like that show?" the stranger in gray asked, leaning near my shoulder to watch.
"No," I whispered. "But if I don't watch it..."
"They'll know," he said, nodding.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
He bowed. "Sorry. I'm Filibuster. Dudes call me Buster. Chicks call me Phil. The rest of 'em don' matter." And he laughed as if he had told a joke.
I didn't get it.
Fil-buster pointed to the TV. "Crazy, huh? You know...that show used to be with human men and women. An' it was banned in some areas for being too violent."
I said nothing. He seemed to be just making small talk, biding time for when this fellow named Bit would come.
"Ironic, that," Hacker replied, keeping up the conversation. "They turned it inta' the political show we see ev'ry election. They pick the victor though. I mean, it's all for show. They both have money. They both have power. They just trade off a few couple years to pretend that there is some 'ope for us in the world. A little 'ope is useful to them. Makes us easy to manipulate. Easy to snow."
Manipulate. In the database inside my head, the word was defined for me. Handle or control (tool, mechanism, etc.), typically in a skillful manner. But something in my brain tagged on it was a dishonest coercion as I was neither a mechanism nor a tool.
Hacker nodded, the corner of his mouth curling upward. "Ya get it. I see it in your eyes. Ya understand."
I trembled. Yes, I understood, which is why I was afraid. They noticed that as well. And thankfully, both remained silent on that subject.
"I'm here," a young voice said down near my left. I hadn't even heard the door open.
Both men smiled, looking down on a boy in a dirty worker's uniform. Dust coated most of his front, as if he had been sliding around on his belly in a rarely touched place.
"Ah, Bit!" Filibuster slapped the boy on the shoulder then rubbed his head from the dust. "Glad you are here. She is the one, isn't she?"
I stiffened, now staring at the child's face. I had seen him before.
It was a month back. Company tour for a class of workers-to-be. This child had been among them. I had seen him marching with the rest of the crowd, obediently following their supervisor up until a child in the group had started glitching. A girl. Her program had shorted, causing her to convulse. And she vomited all over a tray of folded papers. While everyone was attending to the mess she had made, scolding her with a promise of 'corrective action', he got her a drink of water and helped her wipe off her uniform. I had seen neither child since, though the class had passed through weekly for work training from that time on. I had assumed both had been recycled.
He smiled at me. "She's the one."
Then he stuck out his hand.
I hesitated. I had seen managers shake hands. People of other classes. But workers were programmed with fist-bumps and nods. It was against the program, but slowly I took his hand in mine, gently closing my fingers around his.
Hacker shared a look with Filibuster, lifting his chin in satisfaction.
"You should not be here," I said.
Bit merely shrugged. "I should not be anywhere, according to Them."
But I looked to the older men, trying to explain further. "You don't understand. The SS will check on me. They always do."
To that, both men exchanged a more cautious look. Hacker stepped to the door, peering out the window again. This time I could tell he was keeping watch. Filibuster gently nudged Bit towards me and said, "So the SS may also suspect you are a glitch?"
Sighing, I did not know if I should answer that. Admitting to glitching was a bad deal.
"I see," Filibuster said.
"Alright then," Hacker said. "We'll be brief and be on our way. We can't do it all in one run anyway."
He then turned to me while Bit held my hand. It was oddly comforting, his hand in mine. Like when he got that girl a drink of water. Helping. Calming.
Hacker said, "We've got a lot to go over. But first, ya need ta meet us at the club called The Crack. There it's loud and noisy. No one will be able ta over'ear us, and glitching ain't so obvious."
"But I don't go to clubs," I said.
He turned his eyes ceiling-ward with a huff. "Make it an 'abit then. Lots of yer folk go clubbing."
"A change in behavior is a sure indication--"
"Oh, for pity's sake!" Hacker snapped, tossing up his hands. "Do ya want to live yer life as a machine or not! Ya've gotta brain. Or at least I think ya do. Use it!"
I pulled a fraction back. How could I answer a question like that?
"Now," Hacker continued as if that argument was settled, "When ya get to The Crack, order a vodka martini. That's how we'll know yer' there."
"I don't drink," I said.
He cast me an incredibly dark look. "Ya do now."
I turned my eyes away. That filthy man telling me what to do? My hands were sweating from the indignity of it, my heart thundering.
"Heads up!" Filibuster called, hopping from the door.
I blinked. Already marching feet thundered towards my apartment. I was so dead. I looked down to Bit, sorry for him. They would catch him and recycle him for certain.
"Oi! Look here," Hacker said.
And I did, just in time to get a fist in my face.
I fell backward, hitting the floor hard. Staring skyward, my head throbbed from the front to the base of the scalp.
"Jerk," Bit snapped. From my supine view, I saw the back of his heels as the boy crawled back into a dark space in the wall where the vent was. He dragged the grill over the space and slipped off.
Everything around me had muted. Ringing ears. Fuzzy overhead lights. The room itself echoed painfully. I could hear the doors open. I could hear the SS operatives come in as Filibuster's accent flipped straight into the perfect SS order, commanding Hacker to put his hands in the air. I could hardly see them. Only their fuzzy outlines. I could barely hear them. Only some faint muttering from Filibuster and protests from Hacker. But I did comprehend one thing as the SS operative stood over me, examining the swelling bruise on my face and the blackening underneath my eye, asking me to track his finger as he held it out in front of me--that Filibuster was taking Hacker out to his waiting vehicle.
I could not hear what explanations Filibuster gave the Social Services. I only knew Filibuster and Hacker were gone, and I was soon alone with the SS.