Archived

Archived

1

The signal is all I am, all I can remember. I desire nothing other than its grace. There are flashes of other moments, other images, but as soon as I perceive them, they are washed away. A girl shouting as she shoves me from behind, the howls of a creature I cannot recognize, each reality vanishing as quickly as it forms. I try to identify the flashes, but the signal always sates my curiosity, always brings me back to the bliss of my unseen shroud.

Another memory attempts to disrupt my peace; two familiar faces press together in an embrace, smiling. There’s a flash of light, and they pull away from each other, laughing as I look down at something in my hands, the sound of laughter echoing as it fades with the smiling faces. The signal returns, droning unintelligibly as it always has, yet now there is something new, a variation, an attraction toward divergence. Discomfort slithers its way into my peace, piercing the veil with light. Discomfort gives way to pain as I attempt to ignore it, trying in vain to resist its influence.

“Awaken,” a calm, monotone voice commands.

Fear fills me as I try to disobey. The signal fades as the brightness increases. I’m being torn from my refuge. New sounds begin to filter through, hums and whispers. The light changes, dims and new features can be discerned. Shapes form lines and angles, reflecting the light in all directions.

“Ocular nerves reset,” a different voice declares. “Archive 903 prepared for muscular rejuvenation.” Moments later, a strange, terrifying sensation courses through me. Waves of sharp, tiny things flow through my inner and outer layers.

“903, please remain still,” the first voice drones. “Resistance will cause further distress.”

The second voice announces, “Archive 903 experience retention at substandard percentage. Preparing memory purge.”

“No,” voice one emotionlessly commands. “903 must retain partial retention.”

“Archive resistance persists,” the second voice notes. “Requesting Archive awareness cessation.”

“Granted.”

2

My eyes flutter open to the repetitive chime of my alarm. I turn my head to check my slumber shell’s Peridym display:

9:03 PM

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Twelve minutes until shift

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Be well, be willing, be wary!

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Societal behavior archive:

{!Four converse conduct violations this trimester!}

Smiling at the time readout, I clasp the heart-shaped locket my mother left me on her repurposing day and say a silent prayer, thanking the gods for continuing to watch over me. The soft habitation lights gradually begin to illuminate the interior of my slumber shell, and I instinctively reach down to remove the nutrient band from my wrist, taking a moment to admire the technology that once fed my repurposed mother back into my own system.

The slumber shell lid slowly hisses open, and I tuck the locket inside my coveralls, disconnecting the enzymatic self-cleansing tube from the right cuff as I sit up to face the door. In six minutes, it will unseal itself, allowing me passage to the impending ten-hour shift of my waste analytics and processing assignment, my newest service assignment following my fourth converse conduct violation. I am now a bottom-rung citizen of Peridym. Two more CCVs, and I’ll be thrown upon the mercy of the Conduct Wardens, sentenced to die upon the uninhabitable surface or be repurposed to continue the “cycle of life.” Most BRs attempt to climb back up the societal ladder, striving to join the upper-rung citizens who are allowed extra recreational expression allotments, a domicile large enough for two occupants, and are eligible to pair for reproduction. I, however, know the truth: the imagined safety of our subterranean society cannot save us from what is to come.

A familiar chime sounds, and my door slides open, revealing the muted rumbling of citizens heading to their assigned service stations. With a ritual pat to the locket under my coveralls, I slide out of my slumber shell and into my service boots. They auto-cinch closed, and I step out to join the steady line of determined BRs. I recognize the citizen to my left and resist the urge to extend a peaceful greeting, since I’m outside my recreational expression allotment period. Without a word, we trudge forward, each citizen periodically branching off along the passageways that lead to their service stations.

3

Six hours later, my wrist monitor sounds my REA alert, and I step back from my isolated console, one of several dozen person-sized booths arrayed around the circular room. The display of the current piece of excrement I had been scanning fades, and I turn to exit through the corridor leading out. A dozen other citizens follow behind as we duck through the opening and into the dark passageway.

Wordlessly, we file through the twists and turns of the undeveloped section of our newest Peridym wing, glancing up at the occasional observation nodes along the way. We arrive at our destination a short time later; a large, dimly lit rectangular room populated with a handful of other citizens. They all jerk their heads with a start as we file into the chamber, only to return to their own REA conversations after they realize we aren’t Conduct Wardens.

“What is this place?” one of my followers asks.

“This is going to be another habitation deck,” I begin, “but for now, it’s…”

“What’s this all about?” an impatient-looking citizen implores. “I’m down to only one REA slot per shift.”

“Let the man speak, Ronald!” another replies.

“Thank you, James,” I reply. “The location doesn’t matter, only the message. This area isn’t yet monitored, so we may speak safely.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to get yourself tagged with another CCV, right?” Hendrick suggests.

“The message,” I continue, “is that none of this matters.”

“The,” Hendrick stammers, looking around the chamber, “the… habitation deck?”

“Our existence,” I clarify. “Our way of life… is not the answer.”

“Sshhhh!” one of the few citizens that had occupied the room before us implores. “You want every Warden in the wing to hear you?!”

“Our society,” I continue, quieter, “is a lie.” Pausing for effect, I scan the faces in the group for signs of further protest. Seeing none, I continue, “Contrary to what we have been told, our ancestors once lived above ground on this world.” Someone in the back stifles a laugh. “This world wasn’t colonized. Our ancestors didn’t arrive on this desolate, mineral-rich planet from some far away star system. We’ve been here all along! The ‘heroic, space-faring pioneers” story about our ancestors is just that; a story!”

“Stooooop, stop stop!” a voice speaks out from the crowd.

“Let him talk, Philip,” James responds.

“No! I’ve heard plenty!” Philip continues. “There’s a reason this man is well on his way to early repurposing, because he’s suffering from sub-t withdrawal psychosis. He’s insane, and I’m not going to follow him, wherever he thinks he’s going. Come on, Francis. We’ve still got some REA to spend wisely.” With several nods and quiet murmurs, Philip and three of his companions make their way out of the chamber.

After they depart, I look over the remaining crowd, removing my locket and presenting it before my audience. Most of the remaining citizens recoil and look away, shocked expressions causing me to realize what I’ve done. Showing another citizen one’s personal effect is the first step in initializing an intent to pair for reproduction. Swallowing my embarrassment, I open the hinged locket, remove it from my neck and pass it to the nearest citizen, who reluctantly takes it. “My mother gave me her personal effect as way to prove the importance of her message and the ones who came before.” The locket is passed around the group, each tilting it up to an angle that allows the locket to catch the red-hued light of the construction markers before reading the inscription.

“Save them?” a woman asks. “Save us from what?”

“There’s nowhere to go!” Hendrick protests. “We can’t leave Peridym. The surface is uninhabitable. This is the only safe place for us.”

“We can leave!” I assure him, smiling. “Or, rather, we can be taken away.” For several uninterrupted minutes, I tell them the stories my mother taught me: the old gods, humanity’s blasphemous rebellion, the devastation of our world by humanity’s hubris, as much as I could remember. “All you have to do,” I conclude, “is dedicate yourself to the Archive and speak your devotion into the locket. At the time of their arrival, you will be taken to walk upon the healed surface.” With a final look over the crowd, I add, “So, who would like to walk, as our ancestors did, upon Earth?” Several confused expressions follow my question, as they likely have never heard the true name of our world, but I notice the locket continues to be passed, and a few seem to speak into it.

Suddenly, a cacophony of shouts erupts from the entrance, accompanied by several dancing beams of light. I smile, knowing the Wardens were too late this time. My message was received, and a few more citizens were pledged to the gods’ Archive. As the assembled citizens begin to scatter, I calmly hold out my hand and retrieve my locket from one before she turns to run. Without a word, I slip the locket about my neck, tuck it into my coveralls, and lie down to be scanned and receive my newest CCV.

4

“You have been found guilty of spreading contrary information detrimental to the society of Peridym,” a deep, booming voice declares, jolting me out of my unconscious state. I take a moment to observe my surroundings, a featureless room no bigger than my habitation unit, blinding light bleaching out any details of the disciplinary cell. “Concurrently,” the voice continues, “you have been found guilty of inciting a group of your fellow peers to trespass upon a restricted area. The sentence, being in accordance with the societal regulation statute, is exile upon the surface.”

“Do I get to state my defense?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“No,” the voice affirms. “Sufficient evidence, as provided by witness repute confirms you are guilty. The sentence will be carried out immediately.”

With a heavy sigh, I lie back down on the rough surface of my wall-mounted cot and pull the locket from my coveralls, squeezing it firmly in my hand. “Mother, I wish I could see you once again,” I pray to myself, “but I know you are no longer what you once were. I will tell the gods of your perseverance, and maybe in another reality, I will encounter a whisper of your influence. For now, know that I carried your message and was able to save, at least a handful of my fellow citizens. I hope to one day see you again, but I surrender my essence to the will of the old gods. I love you.”

The door to my cell hisses open, and two Conduct Wardens enter, only to be met by the empty cot I once occupied. After a moment of inactivity, one of the Wardens runs out, announcing over her communication frequency, “Citizen has escaped! We have a code 903 on B deck! Repeat: code 903!” The remaining Warden scans the room, checking under the cot before tearing the thin mattress from its frame. A frail, metallic sound fills the cell, and the Warden swivels around, stun rifle trained toward the source. Before him, a small, heart-shaped locket lies in the corner, warranting further investigation. Slowly, he reaches down and retrieves the trinket. Instantly, an unintelligible frequency begins repeating within his mind. After a brief loss of balance, he steadies himself and cautiously lifts the locket to his faceplate and opens it.

Inside he discovers a vague message, inscribed into the glinting metal, “Resist them.”