I think this is how it always starts. Vague dreamscapes retract into a cold oblivion, and I am left. I have no reason to think that it has not always been this way.
I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. Right temple pounds from the sense-memory of what must have been a sharp blow, loud noise, or bright flash, but I cannot quite remember. No matter.
Part of the room's plywood wall looks like it has been painted over with gray. The thickness and pasty color-depth of the paint indicate multiple coats. A paper is taped to it, and on it my tasks are enumerated.
1. clean latrine
2. leave room
3. report to Sym
I am not sure what Sym is, but the name registers as having some importance.
The "latrine" sits in the corner of the room. Its despairingly full bowl perches atop a pair of cinderblocks. Closing my eyes in distaste, I dump its contents down the floor drain and clean it with the soap and water provided.
I leave the room as instructed.
Mounted sodium lamps infuse the hallway with the atemporal orange of maybe-night. I enter the only door at the end of the plywood corridor, and it opens into a spacious workshop. I look around for something that could be Sym, but the only thing that registers is the man-sized metallic egg fastened to the workshop floor. Power tools are arranged around it, but their owner is nowhere to be found.
I examine the egg more closely. Its shell is fused plates of sheet metal. One of the plates lies on the floor next to the tools, leaving a considerable tangle of circuitry exposed where it would otherwise fit among the other plates.
I kneel for a better vantage point, and regard the intricacy with which the circuits and wires have been arranged. The wires' surfaces contain tiny protrusions- the telltale resistors, inductors, and switches of circuit boards etched onto the wire itself. Closer examination reveals still more circuits within those circuits, spiraling down into such unfathomable depths of intricacy of design as to make any other man quake in awe and, perhaps, fear.
I stand up before I am lost in the infinite microverse in front of me, and snap back to normal spatial awareness in time to hear a door closing. A voice addresses me.
"Good to see you this morning, Doctor. I am Sym."
I turn. The voice belongs to a man of average, I think, height and build. His face registers recognition of me, per his eyebrows. His hair is light blue, which is, I think, unusual. I respond.
"Thanks. I am to report to you."
"Affirmative. You see before you the fruits of your efforts so far." Sym indicates the metallic egg. "You will likely complete your task within the next four turns, if you concentrate."
"Then I will get to work." I turn back around, kneel again, and gauge the circuitscape from a manageably macroscopic distance.
Sym approaches, does something to the back of my head. His hands are colder than I think they should be.
Clarity of purpose dawns immediately. I grasp a nearby spanner and continue my delicate work.
"You know, it is funny, Sym," I remark offhandedly. "If I did not have you, I would have absolutely no way to finish this capsule. The resets always seem to make me forget everything it is that I am supposed to be doing, but your reminders seem to bring absolutely everything into focus." He remains silent. I scratch around the antimicrobolene port in the back of my head. I can not get used to the notion of the implant, it seems, though I have the distinct impression that it has been there for quite some time.
Hours pass, and the wires blur before me. My hands lose their deftness. Ears buzz with the anxious puttering of low-efficiency lighting, and I am tired.
Work draws to a stopping point. The microcircuitry is taut and precise, but more manipulation is required before the final plate can be safely affixed.
I stand up on wobbly legs, and the sudden haziness of the room seems a fit to the unexplained nausea I feel deep down. I lean over to retch, but cold arms intercept me before my knees splinter to the rough wood paneling.
Pain and the putter putter of lighting the color of rusting pipes is all I can vaguely make out as I feel myself dragged from the work area and over the rough hallway floor to the room I woke up in.
Involuntary coughs rack my weakening frame, and a gray substance spatters each time. I am alarmed at the sudden absence of pain. I struggle to turn my head, and I see Sym standing at the wall, accessing a panel I had not noticed earlier. Part of the wall opens, and I see an egg of a machine much like the one I have been working on, backlit and flickering. This one seems old and used.
The putter putter of lights punishes my reeling head. Sym withdraws a paper from somewhere, pens three vague lines on it.
I do not understand. What is the purpose of this? The understanding and certainty I felt earlier at Sym's touch has shifted to the inescapable realization that I have been tricked somehow, used maybe, but by whom?
My breaths grow shallow. My eyesight fades rapidly. The egg buzzes, the lights that once puttered now flash. A panel opens to reveal the blur of a familiar body. The body collapses and Sym lays it on the nearby bed and begins to dress it in loose-fitting clothes identical to mine.
I remember the capsule and I think I understand.
"Not when I've come this close! It is almost complete," I manage, crawling to Sym.
Sym turns to me. He remains silent, grabs me by the back of my shirt and lifts me with surprising force.
"No, no, none of this is right..." I gasp. "This is not the function you were made for..."
From my new vantage point I look over at the unconscious figure lying on the bed and my fears are confirmed. I frantically grab for the paper Sym is holding with his other hand before he sends my body crashing against the wall. More gray stuff comes out, in thick splotches this time.
"Your increased level of struggle is an aberration that threatens the continuation of the cycle. You must desist." Sym's speech synthesizers deliver the words with a weight that outmatches my futile pleas.
I crumple down against the wall, blind now, and deaf. I use a little of the strength I have left to raise my hands in a sign of submission. I feel him draw close and levy a metal object against my temple.
In one last appeal by my fading musculature, I manage to seize the paper and rip off a piece. Something different... anything different to break this sterile infinity.
Sym does something to the back of my head. His hands are colder than I think they should be.
And all is well with the world as I feel a push and then dissolve.
---
I think this is how it always starts. Vague dreamscapes retract into a cold oblivion, and I am left. I have no reason to think that it has not always been this way.
I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. Right temple pounds from the sense-memory of what must have been a sharp blow, loud noise, or bright flash, but I cannot quite remember. No matter.
Part of the room's plywood wall looks like it has been painted over rather sloppily with gray. The thickness and crustiness of the paint indicate repeated coats. A paper is taped to it, and on it my tasks are enumerated.
1. clean latr
2. leave room
3. report to Sym
I am not sure what Sym is, but the name registers as having some importance. I take stock of the room for cleaning supplies, as it is evident from the first enumerated task that I will have to use them later in the day. Presumably, this Sym would direct me further.
At the corner of the room, above the soap and water, sits a bowl perched atop a pair of cinderblocks. I am not sure what it is for, but it is quite full. I peer deeply into the unknown container, and see gray shreds of something along with what appear to be teeth.
I nearly forget to exhale.
I approach the closed door carefully, and hear the puttering of sodium lights outside.
Something is wrong.
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