Cake

They stood together at the end of a row in the center of the greenhouse. The red tinged sunlight gleamed malevolently through the windows heating the exterior up into the triple digits. The greenhouse stayed cool however, even though they could barely tell through the suits they wore. They worked in silence for a while, gathering, pruning, logging. An unending toil that paid off in weeks and months. Hours passed before he turned and spoke.

“How many quads are left?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you care enough to keep track of it. "

“Other people care.”

“Not enough to keep track of it.”

She frowned, unable to argue the point.

“15,” she mumbled, and he looked up from his mound in surprise.

“I thought you said there were 16 last week.”

“I did.”

The silence after this statement lasted long enough that they both felt the weight. A Quad going dark seemed inevitable. They didn’t know that it was gone, they just knew it no longer responded. At least they didn’t pretend anymore. Time was, they insisted you pretend you didn’t know how many Quads there were and that some were missing from the list. That was the thing about the world now. We’d stopped pretending. No more of the polite social lies and cognitive dissonance that ran rampant during the spiral to the end. It’s the new age. We look at what is and what will be and put the rest aside. It kept things simple. It kept folks sane. Wind whistled through the room, the automatic recirculation of the air that simulated a genuine summer breeze. It blew against their helmets and created a cocoon of sound that echoed in their ears like when you picked up a shell on the beach and held it up to listen to the ocean. She wished she could take off her helmet and feel it instead of just hear it pass her. But she wouldn’t be the one to contaminate their food, no one was foolish enough for that. Everyone knew what mattered. You worked together, you followed the rules.

“We’re still here,” she said, reaching out to pat his hand before rising to move to the next plant. Humans learn. We do. Slowly. We adapt. She told herself, looking out over the rows of seedlings stems stretching up towards the filtered sunlight coming through the greenhouse’s glass roof.

“You can’t make a cake without breaking a few eggs,” she whispered, trying not to think of how long they had here. Hope felt pointless, the work felt pointless, but it wasn’t. She knew that. It just got hard to remember sometimes.

“What’s that?” he asked, and she shook her head, not willing to sink the mood any lower than it was.

“Think I might make a cake tonight. You want some if I do?” she said, and he smiled.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I dunno, Tuesday?” she said, and he laughed, picking up his basket and walking over to put it on the conveyer.

“Those are my favorite types of occasions. The everyday ones,” he said, and she smiled back at him, placing her own basket on the belt.

“Are you going to check the grid tonight?” he asked, and she nodded, the smile sliding from her face.

“After. Cake first. Then a little stream time and if I am not too tired, I will get to it,” she said, and he nodded.

“Don’t forget,” he said, and she smirked.

“Cause you care,” she replied, and he grinned.

“Sure do. Just not enough to keep track.”