The Concrete World

THE HIVEMIND:

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. The Watcher was the only person in Milgrid's Faculty of Felony Reform that had access to a real window. Inmates were not allowed windows in their cells. If she closed her eyes and scanned through the thoughts of the many, she could see the glass pane behind corrugated iron bars, and the gentle glimmer of an Alice blue sky in the far distance. It let her know that a world existed beyond the hivemind. Something other than the concrete world of Milgrid. Grimy, gritty and guange. With guards in black livery, armed with jointed truncheons pacing the corridors. A space of minimalistic architecture, and dreary grey walls that reminded her of forgotten, dog-eared photographs. A place for those left behind to dust and ash.

She could never watch for too long. Otherwise, The Watcher would feel her thoughts lingering in his mind and peeking through his eyes. She did not want to draw further attention to herself. Especially not from him.

Seeing his window was perhaps the only perk of being connected to the hivemind. Every convict to step foot in Milgrid was now part of the hive. An intricate network of communication that formed one breathing consciousness. It reminded her of neurons in the brain communicating to one another through electrical signals and pulses. It was strange to share your every thought with so many others. To never truly be alone in your mind. Her head was never quiet but filled with a crescendo: thousands of thoughtless thoughts from every convict in Milgrid. All 3,864 levels. They pelted against her mind like the fluttering of fervent moth wings. Overwhelming and overbearing. Hearing those mental voices—disconnected and scattered—was like listening to every song all at once.

Anelene was only a new inmate of the ward, new to the lacklustre life of the Hive, yet she already knew she would never get used to the feeling of being crowded behind the safe walls of her cerebrum. There was a sort of locked loneliness about it. It felt alienating and cold. As if the thoughts of the many were artificial, scripted even. Conversations had lost something human about them, but she could not explain why. It was without shape or name. Just an absence. A void.

As she lay on her bunk she heard the automated whirring of the telegram printing out her schedule for the day. For a single moment, she sighed inwardly and wished to lay in her bed for a little longer or sink beneath the stale sheets into another realm. Heavy with languor and drunk on sleep her thoughts betrayed her. Just as quickly her eyes snapped open.

Such a thought was foolhardy, selfish and of no benefit to the Hive. It would be spotted at once by The Watcher and flagged as dangerous. Red Herrings was the common lingo used for hive members whose thoughts would stray, softly and slippery from their ordained purpose: The Hive comes first. Above all.

Nothing nebulous passed his scrutiny. She felt clammy in her hands and uneasy in her skin. Shaking her sudden lapse of judgment like gossamer from her mind she reached for her roster and inspected her days routine:

Daily Roster for Hive Member 5698

• 6: 00 AM: Breakfast in Main Hall
• 7: 00 AM: Morning Line-up Outside Mine 11
• 7: 40 AM: Assorted Tasks - Mining on the Tracks
• 12:00 AM: Lunch in Main Hall
• 1:00 PM: Culinary Duties in the Kitchen
• 2:00 PM: Daily Assembly in Refectory
• 2:30 PM: Harvesting in Green House
• 4:30 PM: Dozer Push operator on Mine 7
• 8:00 PM: Dinner in Main Hall
• 9:00 PM: Shower & Hygiene Maintenance
• 9:30 PM: Return to Cell. lights Out!

Authorized by The Society

She groaned inwardly as she noticed today would be another lengthy day on the tracks shoveling coal. Her back still ached from yesterday's grueling labor, her vertebra still shook and her marrow seemed to have turned to lead.

A light tapping at her cell door redirected her attention. A shuffling of paper could be heard as a telegram slid under her door. She unfolded it curiously. The only words read:

Sky for the Many.

There was no signature to indicate it's author. She flipped the page to the other side and froze. Someone had taken the arduous time to draw a window looking out onto a hilly summit. She could almost imagine the puffs of clouds moving lazily and feel the warmth of the sun's romantic affections. She smiled to herself and hung the drawing on her wall.

"Sky for the Many," she whispered.

THE WATCHER:

Up in the East Wing of Milgrid's Faculty of Felony Reform, in a tower that looked down upon the labourers at work, The Watcher did his daily check-up. The east wing contained 7000 units above ground level. Underneath, the lower levels (which comprised a further 7000 units) were dark, dank spaces of rotten dreams and floundering nightmares. There were no windows to glimpse the world outside. It looked like prison isles, with no life, no breath, nor color.

Outside Milgrid, the prison was surrounded by a maze of barbed wire that covered the outskirts. Those that had ever attempted to flee or disconnect from the Hive were hung like ornamental gimcrack. This was to discourage any followers of the radicals. It was a clear warning:

Betray the Hive at the Cost of Your Life.

Milgrid was a forced labour camp that was not truly forced (if you considered the paper work) but willed by the many. That was the genious of its construction. Rather then send convicted felonies to life in jail or death, they had the choice to join the Hive. Thanks to the Society they could be part of the project, part of something greater. The Hive had already exceeded over a million members worldwide. This way the government had an army of labourers that barely dug into their economic pockets. They could be controlled to do any bidding need be.

Most of the bigoted adherents of the Hive would swallow the faculty's slogans like silk-made spirits down their elongated throats. But every now and then a Hive member would fall out of sync with the rest of the Hive. This could easily be corrected if monitored well. Those that strayed could easily be rejoined to the group through The Fixing in room 108. That's why his job was so important. As The Watcher he saw Everything. If he let the tiniest red herring slip through the cracks he would be replaced as the Last Watcher was. He gulped nervously at the thought. His eyes momentarily lingered on the fence of the dead. He did not wish to join them.

The Watcher put on his visual Helmet. This allowed him to monitor every camera across Milgrim. This way he could keep better track of those pesky red flares. He filled out his daily report with monotonous rigor, tracking daily observations of each member:

Hive Member 5698: had an autonomous thought at 5:45 AM.

Nature of Autonomous Thought: The patient did not want to get out of bed for daily labour.

Time Span of Intrusion. 15 seconds. 4 nanoseconds.

Action: A follow-up analysis was issued. Patient received treatment at the correctional facility.

Outcome of Treatment: Technical glitch? Ongoing supervision is required to eliminate suspicion.

He frowned as he noted the number 5698. He brought up a visual tracking of the Hive Member. A girl. Cerulean eyes. A face naturally sanguine and gaunt looking. Large lobotomy eyes and hair of winter white. It was the eyes he recognised. He had felt her shadow his mind in the early hours of the morning as he had stared out his humble window, sipping his stale coffee and puffing on savoured cheap tobacco. It was against protocol for hive members to actively watch the Watcher. Doing so unconsciously was no problem but the intensity of her presence made him think it was deliberate. But why risk something so daring?. For what? A phony view of the outskirts? Surely not.

The Watcher frowned and made a mental note to keep close scrutiny of 5698. They posed a potential risk to his status: Alive.

THE INSPECTION

The correctional facility was a small, sterile room. One chair, and one desk faced an empty white wall. Two cameras hummed in the adjacent corners, whirring and clicking to follow her like eyes as she took her allotted place at the bureau. A sickly, oily smell like Chinese rice-spirits mixed with cyanide filled her nose and she squirmed uncomfortably.

"This Check-up is issued by The Watcher. Anything you say, do or think will be recorded in Milgrid’s database. If you fail the inspection you will be reassigned to room 108 for fixing. Do you concede?” The P.A.’s voice was taciturn, monotonous and seemed to reverberate from inside her skull.

“Grant.”

“Hive member 5678 what do you desire most?”

“That which benefits the hive.”

“Does sleeping in benefit the Hive?”

“No, sir.”

“Would you like to rest right now?”

“No, sir.”

“What would you like to do right now?”

“My daily tasks sir.”

The questioning proceeded in the same mundane manner for a further half an hour. Anelene had been warned of the inspector’s meticulousness and rigor when it came to searching for red herrings. She made sure to keep her mind empty: still like a lake with no ripples, no life of sea creatures churning beneath its surface, no depth to the intricacy of her mind. Her thoughts had to exist without purpose, without thought, without intention. Her life depended on it.

“The check-up of Hive member 5678 has conceded. Preliminary results indicate a technical glitch resulting in an autonomous thought at 5:45 am on the morning of 5/08/3055. Future supervision is warranted and will be issued until all suspicion has been eliminated. Dismissed.”

After exiting the correctional facility, Anelene could not help a small sigh of relief wash like a breaking wave from her lips onto the sandy shores.

THE LUNCH

At 12:00 Anelene returned to the main hall. For lunch her Silver tray contained 1 red apple, 1 boiled egg, 1 buttered toast cut into 2 even triangles. 3 pills: Vitamin C: An Immune booster. Something other. 1 200ml Glass of water.

At the table, she joins her friends Olrak and Mishca. Olrak was an elderly man with milky eyes that could not see. He was stern but gentle. An air of the old ruffianism pultruded from a scrubby, unshaven beard and brows, with an aureole of white hair around his rough, uncomely face.

Mishca was the same age as her, still brimming with youth and purpose. She always had to make a conscious effort to read his emotions, they were primal in a way she could not remember. Almost a ghost of the old life, before the Hive.

The pair were both pouring over the paper, whispering in hushed voices when she approached. They were always tense reading Milgrid’s newspaper. Inmates are not allowed news from the world outside. They have no knowledge of the current political landscape. The only bulletins concern Milgrid and even that is tampered with. Sentences are sternly cleansed of propaganda until they become a dull rhythmic mantra of meaningless hogwash. What they are allowed to know are the weekly list of red herrings. People to monitor and keep an eye on. Her name will now be added to that list. More importantly, it documented Milgrid’s death toll and the newest Meatheads. Meathead is the lingo used for inmates who have been sent to room 108 for Fixing. They never return the same. There is something dopey about them. Their motor skills are slow and poor and their speech is barely better than a mewling infant. Anelene shuddered at the thought of becoming like that: alive but barely existing.

“Any news?” Anelene asks.

She is stunned when Mishca looks up. He has been beaten by guard truncheons and badly. His face on one side is the coloration of a rotten egg: all bruised in forget-me-nott blues, purples and violent violet. She reached into his mind tenderly to see where he had been.

In memory he was cornered by them. Four guards in total. She saw it clearly as though a tableaux vignette of the scene had been perfectly constructed in her head. Bruised skin, a broken rib, struggling to breathe without wincing from the pain. Blood was thick and hot and mattered in his hair. The medic refused to give him an ice pack so he used snowmelt in a bucket to clean the wound. It must have happened during her time in the interrogation. Otherwise, she would have noticed her friend was in pain.

She touches his brow, near the temple, and eyebrows and lids soften. He looks afraid, she thinks.

“They caught me outside before hours.” He muttered.

Anelene knew that wasn’t the whole story. He had been the one to slip her the telegram of the window in the early morning. She had suspected as such. The detail of the picture could have only been crafted by his capable hands. But how much did The Watcher know? Had he seen the words Misha had written underneath? Sky for the Many was something one of the rebels would say. Anything that expressed a desire for liberty, a yearning for the outside hinted ones will wavered from the will of the Hive. Such thoughts were dangerous, even if comforting.

Sometimes his bravery was foolhardy. She was worried one day it would get him killed or worse—her eyes shifted to a meathead lumbering and groaning nearby and she gulped nervously.

Her eyes flickered back to Mishca. Their eyes met. They said a lot without saying anything.

She revealed her morning in interrogation, her gratitude for his picture and warned him to avoid revealing anything unlawful to her as she was still being closely monitored.

I can’t live like that, Mishca thought. I have become a husk, I fear nothing, not even the Watcher. The next rebellion will come, the next fight and when it does—

Her eyes scanned the room, in case anyone was listening in on their thoughts. She turned back. Our memories are our revolution. She responded mentally. Even saying this much in return felt like dropping an assumed personality

For me, that is not enough. We are finate beings in our time here on earth. Living in a concrete world can't change that, we are human and we need to live.

Anelene knew that nothing she could ever say would change him from his conviction. In a way, she admired him for it.

THE MURAL

Something was wrong.

It was the next day. Anelene was heading towards the Great Hall as per schedule when she noticed a crowd blocking off the main entrance. The crowd was spiritless. Heads were turned upward, eyes starred vacantly to a giant mural painted on the East wall. The painting was new. Still fresh with dripping paint that oozed onto the sooty floor.

What appealed to her about it was not just its beauty, but the air it seemed to possess of belonging to a dim, romantical past; an age severely different to the present. It reminded her that they were not just clogs ticking in a machine. They were human. Capable of passion, sorrow and art. Of living.

"A group of rebels painted it last night," whispered an inmate nearby.

"Were they caught?"

"Yes. By now they probably have been hanged or taken to room 108."

Anelene pushed through the crowd, trying to get a better view over the bobs of many heads and jointed shoulders. The painting was of the Watchers window. The rebels had begun using it as an emblem of liberty and freedom. It was identical to the one in her cell except for the size. A dingy pane opening up to the lavish, exhilarating world outside. A world of endless possibility and Alice blue skies that stretched on indefinitely. Underneath the same emblazoned slogan read:

Sky for the Many.

Anelene's blood turned to glass in her veins and her heart turned to water. She searched through the mental chatter of the Hive but could not find Mishca. The biological uselessness of fear betrayed her. The treachery of the human body to freeze inertia at the worst moments of crisis had turned her legs to stone.

Misha where are you? she thought, but there was no reply.

THE MEATHEAD

Olrak and Anelene waited at their usual lunch table. Both had nerves taut like violin strings wounded a little too tight. She felt her body jitter restlessly, tapping her feet against the ground. Olrak's own feet were grounded, firm, like a tree whose roots dug deep into soil but she could see his unease in his sagging posture, clenched jaw, the way he frowned into his soup, stirring the spoon purposely as if it was a clock arm pulling back the time.

TICK. TICK. TICK.

The realization had come in pieces. There was no doubt Mishca's hand was behind the mural. What they did doubt was what had become of him. Neither of the pair dared to think it, to voice it, as if expressing it would give their suspicion grounds to form and shape into reality.

And then she saw him.

From the end of the hall, Mishca came lumbering towards them.

Anelene did not speak for a few moments. She was dazed with a slow, awakening horror. All around inmates chattered among their tables but from Anelenes position, their voices were only sounds. Not words at all. "What did they do to him?" she knew the answer before she had asked the question. Mischa's thoughts were different today. The colour of his mind was all shades of dulled meaning and banality. When he sat across them it was with a mouth that drooled spit like a rabid dog, the bottom lip slightly hanging as if he had lost the motor function to close it.

"Mishca how do you feel?" she asked gently. It was hard to watch him. He lived in a strange state of automated unconsciousness. An Empty minded zealot.

"Mischa is hive." he blubbered.

He had forgotten how to express himself but existed in a lobotomized daze, with eyes wide, wandering and wayward. The old Mischa was no more. From now on he was just an extension of the Hive. A limb to a larger body. If he was even still sentient was debatable.

She watched him eat in complete silence. His mannerisms were clumsy. Sometimes his spoon would miss his mouth but dribble down a cheek or collar. Foolish and gross. Seeing Mishca so helpless and vulnerable, like a small, lost child, chilled her to the marrow.

She didn't show it. She had set her features into the expression of quiet disinterest, something taciturn, which was advisable to wear when facing situations that may elicit a reaction. If she didn't control her thoughts, she too would become a meathead like Mishca. She had to bottle down any wayward instincts that resembled the humanness of her old life.

They ate, stood and departed from their tables in unison. As she walked by Mishca she heard him mumbling to himself "Sky for the many." He had said it with no intent but merely echoed it like a parrot parroting a heard-upon phrase.

"What did you say?" she froze.

But he had already lumbered off.