kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"TheFirster.0"

words

THE FIRSTER 2006-02-15, 7pmish http://www.rustybarnes.com/phpBB2/viewtopic.php?t=734

1XJ-39-66QRV shivered with discomfort, eyeing the blueing skies above. He'd never been locked out of his own home before--didn't know such things happened to real citizens. Just stories, he groaned. Just stories.

This was probably her doing, her doing, but what could he do? He imagined his mother, and a flag went off in his skull, resonating uncomfortably with the chill of the air.

Two messages, one unread; had he read the first? He acknowledged it.

"Hello, Citizen 1XJ-39-66QRV. You are receiving this psimail because you have requested a biolock reset for your domicile."

Her doing. Always happened with firsts, except, well, she was special, wasn't she. Wasn't she just.

"If you did not request this psimail then please ignore it. If you keep receiving it, please contact your township adminstrator."

So what, he was locked out. Obviously something more had happened. Had she read it? Had she hacked his head? That was a flight of fancy, but he was allowed those occasionally. Had to, to train the firsts.

"To reset your biolock you must verify your identity. To do this, travel the following code: bear, purple, quartz, tomato, lion, mountain."

He mumbled the words to key them in for later.

"If successful, you will be able to apply a new biosignature to your domicile. If you have any difficulties, please contact your township administrator."

Difficulties. He could tell them about difficulties. Oh boy, could he.

"Blessed Minding."

He startled at the voice that came from outside his head, as the door in front of him snicked open.

"Buh-blessed Minding." The link to his psimail dropped. "You did this?"

"Just to make a point." He glanced down, half expecting a knife in her spindly hands. "Speech-figure, 1XJ-39-66QRV. Speech-figure. Come in to the warmth." He stepped through, and the door snacked behind him; candLEDs burned softly, the enviro turned to Mood. "Latemeal will be done soon."

He allowed his sleazesuit to melt off, and wondered his eyes through the fullment. A full transformation since his last assign--she'd even reset his wallpaper to a lilac field. It moved smoothly enough that he almost imagined a breeze, the outside trickling in.

"What--"

"You'll see, now relax. And no, I won't answer 'How', either."

He stood their dumbly, unsure of what to do. He was the adjuster, the experienced one. How was she doing this? Surely she couldn't have leveraged those gray little secrets this strongly--though he wouldn't think past them, couldn't think past them, couldn't report her--not yet, not just yet. Maybe it was all harmless; harmless enough. Maybe he could just play her game, and she would ground, and it would be done.

"Weather's been ninety-five spot on," he hazarded.

"Should be when they make it, neh?"

"Well, there's chaos in every little thing. All you can do is nudge the bigger picture and watch for errant spikes."

"Is that what you do?"

"I'm no climatologist."

"Do you not know what I mean?"

"Maybe I don't."

"You're a firster."

"I did admit that to you. You seemed to need it, after."

"Are all firsts that naiive?"

"Are you that naiive?"

"Point. You do not have the faculties to ascertain--but you assume that they are; the system assumes. Assumptions make a mule out of both parties."

"A mule?"

"A sterile quadraped, a misbreed. Something worthless."

That hit rather close to his domicile. Why did she make those implicit connections? "Assumptions have to be made, or we would be lost in insignificances."

"And when an assumption hides a spike?"

"Then we learn."

"If you survive."

"Survival is a base assumption. It has to be assumed."

"And you take us firsts, and nudge us according to the system's assumptions."

"Those are fair assumptions, tested, measured, averaged."

"You trust your survival on that?"

"I see no reason not to." He did not like the smile that lifted her face as she turned to the sustmaker. Three simmering platters rolled carefully through the sustmaker lock. The smell nearly turned his stomach, sweet and rich. "What is that?"

"Just a little something I whipped, earlier. Nothing special, I assure."

He covered his mouth and nose with his hand, trying to protect himself from the smell. "Is it meat? It smells like meat. Where would you get meat?"

"I have my ways. Will you share it with me?"

"Laws, no! What sort of psycho--"

"Just something your assumptions overlooked. I like to consider myself a balancing factor in the system."

"What is that meat?"

"If you must know, it's the first you thought I was. A little nothing, like I said. Are you sure you wouldn't like to share?"

Panic set in and he did nothing to cancel the signal.

"I've shielded the walls, silly. Of course, you're not thinking, now. I know that. But it does get lonely, after a while. You hope--you hope, finally, one of the firsters will see, will understand the possibilities." She giggled. "Oh well, more for me."

The system worked. The system had to work. The system always worked. Please, please, please he begged, silently, almost catatonically. Laws help me. More, though--if there were more, why hadn't he heard? The system had to work.

"But for you, first--first, we'll turn off that nasty signal." She came at him, then, with the cutter she'd shown him when he took her. When he thought he'd taken her first. A relic, she'd said. Swift strokes laid him on the floor, physically immobilized. Each was a spark of pain and fear and sweat, stinging, raging through his skull. The system. The system had to work.

He heard her scream, then; then, with the fuzz of nothing buzzing in his eyes, clouding out his psi, still her scream could penetrate. Mumbles, and a breeze--the door had opened. His flesh was cold, cold from loss of blood, but more, the door had opened. The system worked. The system had to work.

His mind wandered into the lilac fields; he stood and danced in them, and they whispered across his skin. Inside, he could see the guard; they were dressed in crimson, and they looked so serious. They pointed to him, to her, to the walls, and up into a little corner of his fullment. That corner where the crack had always fouled reception, that he'd never quite managed to patch. They dragged in bags, thick crimson bags, with zippers. The zippers opened and he heard it from two places at once, twisting his eyes. He saw himself shoved, felt himself shoved, and darkness descended.