Fishy Questions

A quick glance at the notes first may be helpful. And I probably should mention there are no actual Sardines in the story :)







Fishy Questions, Part 1

The automated lock had finally clicked, locking me in. Looks like number eleven was going to make it … lucky 11. I hadn’t expected to get past two.

It’s a shame. Eleven was the prettiest so far. Much more to look at than the other ten. That’s why I picked her. I might have even started to enjoy it? Doubtful. There was never any enjoyment. Did a kitty-killer-droid enjoy sending plasma-acid down one of the ‘off limit’ alleys? More than doubtful. But did the synth-plant workers prefer ionised-feral-cat to synthetic meat? Definitely. I used to love the odd slice of kitty during my fifteen year stint on the synth lines. And why not, when feral cat was Sardine City’s most natural, abundant food source, which was to say the worlds. Sardine City? Funny name that. And what the hell was a Sardine anyway? Just another question for the rehabilitation-unit when it gets here. 

The old second-termer (the only man I’d ever known that chose another stint on the lines over death.) That over-ripe 26 year old said the unit would enter my tin-box-retirement-home from the side closest the building’s outer edge. I had an idea about that. In this six-by-twelve foot domicile the outside edge had to be the six-foot width opposite the door. I knew the door led into the labyrinth:  The passage ways and about the apparent rest and retirement of the city ... Hardly! They had lied for fifteen years. The other two, dull-tin walls were once my neighbours. I could touch them both simultaneously with my fingertips. Fifteen years I worked for this retirement, and this year of life without work. I was only a month in and already looking forward to my date with the matter-recyclers at the end of the year. Oblivion was better than this. But at twenty one I just couldn’t help think that maybe the human body had a bit more life in it.

I took a steadying breath and dropped my arms, letting my fingertips brush my former neighbours’ walls ... them, my first victims, the numbers one and two.  Their killings were a mercy.

My light started to flash red. That was new. I tried the door just in case. No luck! Maybe I should’ve tried to jam it with something before lights out?

An alarm now, deafening off the tin walls. It came from the speaker next to the light on the tin ceiling. The light and the speaker the only two pieces of tech in here. The automated bed had already folded into the floor, and I could only stand facing the wall. The wall where I thought the rehab-unit was going to appear. I hoped the old second-termer was right, ‘There is no punishment in Sardine City, Son, only rehabilitation.’

I would soon find out.

The alarm stopped. The flashing red continued round and round.  A voice from the speaker. That familiar, metallic pitch that had ordered my existence on the lines for fifteen years. “Retired worker of rest section nine thousand and six six six, floor eighteen thousand, building echo four, north corner, Sardine City.”

They're singing my tune.

“Stand with your back to the domicile door and await your rehabilitation.”

I think I’ll pass.

“Failure to comply will result in early-end-retirement or the recycling of your matter.”

Back to the door it is.

I knew I was right about that wall as soon as I heard the metallic clink behind it. Then there there came a swooshing sound. The wall vanished, revealing a narrow, dark tunnel. What was I expecting? An outside world like on one of the plant's fake windows … Ridiculous!

Although, I could feel something coming from that tunnel. It was a cold waft of something. But I didn’t know what. There was no smell. It was like there was nothing down there, an empty space. Impossible! There were no empty spaces; even the five year olds fresh from the hatchers knew that.

A light now at the end of that tunnel … funny how that thought sounds familiar. Don’t know why when I have never seen a tunnel before. But then how did I know what that long, narrow, four walled passage was called? Such things must be included in the worker’s education, in the lobe-loads.

The light was suddenly very bright, like it had travelled the length of that tunnel in an instant. Then it faded. I was blinded for a minute. Blotches dancing in my vision.

They slowly subsided and my vision cleared. The tunnel was blocked by a round, dull grey machine that hovered and hummed in the space from wall to wall. It looked like one of the plant-security-units, but more slim lined and agile. It was completely smooth, without a trace of a seam or rivet, nut or bolt. The light came from a small, eye-shaped section dead centre. That light started to fade from white to red.

I attempted to get a closer look. A metallic arm came from the orb before I had taken a pace. The arm seemed to materialize from the underside.  It grabbed me firmly around the throat and pressed me against the door. It held me tight but caused no pain.

“Retired worker, Nine six six six, remain still for tissue recognition and guilt confirmation.” The voice was still coming from the speaker. But I knew the rehab-unit was doing the talking. “Processing tissue,” said that tin voice echoing off the tin walls.

If only it had a heart.

A sharp pain and another burst of light. “Recognition confirmed … Processing guilt … Guilt confirmed. You are guilty of violence towards other retirees. Violence resulting in death and early matter recycles. All victims had chosen recycle over a second term on the lines. Your actions resulted in no production loss. All cases were a day away from having their matter recycled.”

It was a mercy. Recycling isn’t as quick as me.

“That was not your choice, Nine six six six.”

The fancy orb has mind reading tech.

“You have three choices. Choice one: Take early recycle and go to the matter reassemble?”

I’ll pass.

“Choice two: Return to the lines?”

Makes reassemble look good.

“Retired worker, Nine six six six, you have only rehabilitation left. Make your choice? In five … four… three…”

Thanks for the time to think.

“Two…

“I choose rehabilitation,” my human voice sounded feeble.

“You have chosen rehabilitation…”

“I have questions.”

“Searching for precedent…”

“I said I have questions, Orb: For starters, what’s a sardine?”

Another bright burst of light and pain.

I tried to protest but no words escaped my mouth. It was like the unit had switched off my power of speech.

Mind reading tech. What’s a sardine? What’s a sardine? What’s a sardine?

“Precedent found … Last case in cycle 2282 … The guilty forced to accommodate the victim’s consciousness. One day for each victim.” 

Answer me! What’s a sardine? What’s a sardine?

“Your first victim’s consciousness to be implanted into your sub-conscious immediately.  Searching for first victim … Number Eight five five five … Consciousness found in storage … Downloading.” 

What’s a sardine? God damn it … And while I’m at it, what’s a God?

“Download complete … Preparing to install into the guilty sub-conscious of Nine six six six.”

What’s a God? What’s a God?

Another bright light and another more prolonged pain, but this time only in my head. The pain! Questions forgotten.

“Installation complete.”

The light vanished back along the tunnel and the wall with a swoosh, snapped shut.

I was left alone.  And I still don’t know what a sardine is.

I’ve always thought that, said a voice in my head, a voice that was definitely not mine, a feminine voice.

I looked into the dirty mirror on the tin wall.

Hey, you’re my neighbour ... Treb-six, right? The last time I saw you. You looked like you were going to…

The voice suddenly stopped. I knew the voice was shocked to see her killer looking back from the mirror. I could feel her shock. Could she feel mine?

It looks like I wasn’t completely alone after all. And I thought my tin-can-room was crowded enough as it is, with me. My head was another matter.