Three hours and fifty-four minutes. Just three hours and fifty-four minutes, thought Matt. Then I can get out of this hellhole for the day.
Brett was standing large over his cubicle like an animal posturing for dominance. That man always talked a big game—but that was it, all talk—and he’d throw you under the bus in a heartbeat. The current chatter was about his two-year-old son and had transitioned from proud parent to why that makes him so much better at his job than everyone else.
Matt just wanted to do his work. He reflexively adjusted his glasses, basic black. He glanced between Brett and the screen. Three hours and fifty-two minutes left.
“What the fuck are you talking about, man?” Matt broke.
Brett suddenly stopped, stunned by the impossibility that his audience could speak.
“I’m sure your kid is great, but how ‘bout you get your ass out of my cube.”
Brett blinked.
Matt stood to match Brett’s height and smoothed the front of his light blue button-up. “This report is due at end-of-day and it’s way more important than you, dude.”
Jaw clenched, Brett marched away—or at least that’s how Matt imagined it. In reality, Matt had said nothing. Still quiet and seated, Matt ran a hand through messy brown curls, stretched his eye sockets, then blinked. Brett continued talking.
Matt was an accountant. He hated being an accountant: the minute detail, the tediousness, the repetitiveness. Sure, he was 28, so maybe it would get more interesting in a few more years but today’s data reconciliation was eating his soul.
On days like this, he was tempted to quit. But then what? I go flip burgers and it takes even longer to move out? Toronto prices were crazy. And Matt’s parents were so proud: their son The Accountant.
Mom would even tell random strangers. At the grocery store, she would chat up some lady in the aisle, saying, “My son, he’s an accountant and he would recommend the broccoli.” “My son, he’s an accountant, so you should buy the Lancia rotini.” “My son, he’s an accountant, I always buy him the omega eggs.” It didn’t even make sense: why did being an accountant have anything to do with broccoli?
Dad’s tack was different, more direct. He would remind Matt—almost daily—that “It is an honest and trustworthy profession,” and “You’re lucky to have a job in this economy.” Matt loved his parents, but God, he needed to get out of that house.
Brett was still standing there, looming over Matt. Even his hair—black and full of product—felt aggressive. It moved like a solid block on top of his head. Matt wondered what would happen if he reached up and poked it. Would it be like tapping a wall, or would that shift a strand out of place and enrage the beast?
“Right?” Brett said in a tone that meant he wasn’t really asking.
Matt had not been paying attention. “Right.” He nodded. “I’m sorry man, I really need to get some work done.”
“Good to connect.” Brett gestured finger guns at Matt. “Catch you tomorrow.” He winked.
Oh, goody.
######
Lars wiggle-stretched. The immersion tank was confining but he always felt this need to move and find his limbs when exiting The Continuance. He banged his knee on the edge as he sat up and grunted.
“Serves me right,” he said to no one in particular.
After all, no one was there with him except the AI and Grog—and Grog couldn’t even talk back. The AI could but was shit for companionship. He’d heard tale of some Spacer falling in love with their AI, but everyone knew that their shiptech was more advanced. Maybe the Spacer-AI was different, maybe it was more real. Hell, he’d settle for a sense of humor.
Lars took the sense-gloves off, one finger at a time. He tilted his head forward, then stretched right and left. He wiggled his shoulders. Grog was sitting on the floor watching, his tail curled around his plump scaly body.
“What? It’s not dinner time,” he told the animal.
“Rah” said Grog. “Rah.”
“Good thing you’re cute.”
Lars took his time standing up. He reached for a towel only to realize he’d forgotten to lay one out.
“What are the chances you learned to fetch while I was under?”
“Rah.”
“You are awfully chatty today.” The creature was usually pretty quiet.
Lars stepped out of the tank and tracked e-sol into the hallway. It was clear and slightly iridescent on the narrow gray floor. Everything was silver and gray in this place—and small. The hallway was narrow with a low ceiling, just large enough for Lars to fit through. The whole ship was this way, small and efficient. But immersion tanks came standard.
Can’t have their operators going isolation-crazy, Lars thought, pushing on a panel. It popped open and he retrieved a towel from within.
“Rah.”
After struggling to dry himself in the confined hallway, Lars walked back to the immersion room. He wasn’t a large man, but wasn’t small either; Lars thought he was pretty average for his gender and people. He had a moderate build and did the prescribed exercises each day to keep up his muscle mass. He couldn’t imagine doing this work if he were taller.
Back in the immersion room, he could properly dry off. There was enough space, and his clothes were there anyways. He laid the towel on the floor, mopping up some of the fluid. Grog was sitting in another puddle near the doorway, now with a slight sheen to his tail and a wet streak across his head. Damn thing would trek e-sol throughout the ship.
“Come here doofus,” Lars said, reaching for the creature. He managed to clean him off and mop up the room.
“Rah.”
Clothes on, Lars headed towards the cockpit, carrying Grog under one arm. Planet F-311246.3 at last, he thought.
Lars had final-checked the data before going into the tank. The planet was rich in Vehementium, Beryllium, and Boron—all of which were on The Conglomerate’s list for their energy-generating properties.
The AI had identified this as a possible target four years ago, but it wasn’t until half a year out that they got confirmation. It was a gamble. But what were years out here anyways. Lars had almost forgotten what that felt like at home: 400 days for their little dot to travel around the sun. He wasn’t even sure what season it would be now.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
The AI should have started pre-harvest while he was under. It should almost be done. While it was lacking in the humor department, Lars did appreciate how that thing could get work done. It didn’t need to eat or sleep. It just followed instructions. They even pre-programmed it, so it knew what Lars really meant.
Once, Lars had asked it to “Plot a course straight” to some planet and the AI knew enough to ask, “Would you like me to navigate around the asteroid field?” Grog would have hated that: fancy flying, dodging asteroids. The gravtech in this thing was good but, in that scenario, it wouldn’t exactly be keeping up. And then, there’d be a good chance that Lars would be cleaning Grog-spit off of the controls.
The safeties in the AI were generally pretty good like that. When Lars accepted this contract, he had minimal experience. He remembered The Administrator assuring him that he’d be fine, “The AI does most of it anyways,” she’d said. “You’re just there to give direction, do the odd repair we can’t automate. And, for legal reasons.” Then she’d taken his retinal scan to make the contract official.
He had taken a few operator jobs before this one, but they were short-haul cargo runs. The AI on those ships was an earlier generation and the ships themselves were comparatively clunky.
He remembered the feeling of awe when he entered the hanger bay and laid eyes on his ship for the first time. The forward section reminded him of powfish, sleek and speedy creatures that traveled the oceans of his world. This was where he would spend the next decade, or more, of his life.
The powfish forward section was trailed by a cargo and equipment ring, which was maybe ten times wider, Lars guessed. He had been told it was designed to expand, elongating aft to accommodate harvested materials. The short-haul vessels he’d been on before had all been of static design.
“Rah,” Grog again.
“What are you doing, buddy?” Lars paused outside the cockpit to stroke Grog’s head. He usually liked being picked up and seemed happy enough to be tucked under one arm and absorbing Lars’ body heat.
“Rah.”
They entered the cockpit and things seemed to be underway. Lars set Grog on the dashboard, sat down, and commanded, “Report.”
“Pre-harvest initiated at 10.6 FRC Standard Time,” the dry, female AI voice responded. “Conditions nominal.”
Lars gazed out the window and stroked Grog’s head. He knew it wasn’t really a window, but setting the display to show an exterior feed helped him feel less claustrophobic. He liked to think Grog liked it too.
“Indexing confirms elements within tolerance,” the AI continued. “Abatement initiated at 11.5 FRC Standard Time. Phase-1 abatement completed at 16.1 FRC Standard Time. Phase-2 initiated at 16.1 FRC Standard Time. Phase-2 will be complete at 20+5.2 FRC Standard Time.”
Lars looked at where the dash displayed time: ‘18.1.’ Phase-2 had been running for two hours and had 7.1 to go. Lars debated getting some sleep. He had been trying to get back to a schedule lately.
It was tough with no day or night in space. He’d set the lights to brighten and dim on a schedule, but they were the wrong kind of light, too white and cold. The ship’s defaults were all based on FRC Standard, so he figured he’d try that. And, if he was going by FRC Standard, it was the right time of day to be headed for some sleep.
Beep.
“Rah.”
The beep seemed to come from somewhere to the right and down. Lars looked for it. There was a dimly flashing light near his right knee. Was that where it came from?
“Is that what you wanted, Grog?”
Grog looked back at him.
“I know, you don’t like beeping,” Lars cooed.
Beep.
“Rah.”
“Okay, what is this.” Lars reviewed the screen. Low down, dim, out-of-the-way, Lars didn’t usually check this one. Generally, Lars didn’t spend much time on any of the displays. He could just ask the AI to tell him what he needed to know. It was in the system after all; it knew everything—easy mode. The display showed a code: ‘A421.’ Lars tried to think back to his onboarding.
“What is code A421, A421…” he trailed off, thinking aloud.
“Code A421,” the AI began to recite. “Cogent evidence of self-aware population. Early-stage civilization. Non-interference required.”
Lars heard the AI but was struggling to retain the information. “Repeat,” he commanded.
“Code A421. Cogent evidence of self-aware population. Early-stage civilization. Non-interference required.”
After the initial shock, Lars tried a series of prompts on the AI, trying to diagnose the problem. Apparently, the sensors had not picked up enough data to confirm the population’s status until pre-harvest had begun. It was confirmed during Indexing, and somehow the finding was deprioritized and in queue. The AI had scheduled review of the information for after the harvest process was complete, devoting maximum computing resources to ensuring an optimal yield.
“Stop harvest process!” Lars frantically commanded.
“Currently in Phase-2 Abatement. Destruction imminent.”
“Why can’t you stop the process?!” His throat went dry.
“Phase-2 consists of triggering actions and wait period.”
“More information!”
“Triggering actions initiate chain reactions which begin to break up the mass, preparing it for harvest. Wait period varies in length depending on planet size and composition.”
“How far in the process are we?” Lars felt sick. He knew where this was going but he needed to hear the AI speak the words.
“Planet F-311246.3 entered wait period approximately 0.5 FRC Standard hours ago.”
######
Matt had spent the last three hours in relative peace. There was a woman who’d rushed by his cube—younger than him—sniffling. He’d guessed she’d been crying. Matt had felt sorry for her and wanted to help, but she was gone so quickly. So, Matt had kept his head down and continued his work. This place wasn’t always the kindest.
Thankfully, Brett had stayed away. Matt had finally finished comparing the data sets line by line. He had flagged the discrepancies and compiled a list. He needed to email this list to his manager, and then he would start the delightful next step of investigating and resolving the discrepancies one by one.
Dear micromanaging jerk. I have survived the mind-numbing review of these files and identified the following list of discrepancies. I will now proceed to continue hating my job and complete the next step. If you would like to come over and give me a condescending pep talk, you know where to find me.
Matt typed out a more professional email. He knew he had to if he still wanted to have a job past end-of-day. Besides, there were only 36 minutes left. He could hang on for 36 minutes.
Matt knew he was feeling extra grouchy today. He hadn’t slept well and, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, the firing of his coworker three weeks ago was really affecting him.
George had been his friend—or so he had thought. Matt had tried reaching out: texting, calling, messaging on LinkedIn. George was completely unresponsive. George, whom he thought was his friend, was ghosting him. It hurt.
Matt decided to get up and make a coffee before starting the next step. Yes, there were only 34 minutes left, but Matt needed to clear his head. He walked over to the floor’s coffee station: a small countertop with a sink, cupboards, and Keurig machine.
“Hey Brenda,” he greeted. “Same idea as me?” Brenda was a lifer: sweet lady, had been at the firm forever and had got to be nearing retirement. “How are the grandkids?”
“Oh, you’re a dear, they’re doing great.” She smiled, holding her ‘Best Grammy’ mug by the handle while coffee sputtered in. “Mummy and Daddy have been telling Lucas he’s going to kindergarten next month. He doesn’t quite know what that is but he’s excited.”
“No way!” Matt said. “I remember when he was born. I remember you showing me the baby pictures.” That was just after I started.
She smiled even more warmly, “They do grow up fast. He’s got his little backpack now, and it’s just precious.” Brenda lifted her mug off the drip tray and reached into the under-counter mini-fridge for some creamers. Closing the fridge door, she paused and gestured at it.
“Uh, yes please. Two milks,” Matt requested. “So, which one of these pod things would you recommend? You’re definitely more of an expert than me.” Matt rarely drank coffee.
“Well, let’s see. Donut Shop, Maple Pecan, Italian Roast… They’re all alright, I guess.”
“Which did you choose?” Matt pressed.
“I made a Maple Pecan. Not everyone likes it, but I like the extra flavor.”
“Why not.” Matt smiled generously.
While the machine brewed hot liquid into his mug, he joined Brenda in the search for sugar and stir sticks. Brenda had said they’re usually on the counter.
“Here, let me do that,” Matt offered, as he had several inches on Brenda. He searched the three cupboards above from left to right: cleaning supplies and extra coffee pods, mugs, and an assortment of mismatched lids and containers. No sugar.
“Well, I guess I can check…” Brenda opened the mini-fridge, held the door open and they both stared inside. “Well, isn’t that funny,” she remarked. “I didn’t even really look in there before. I’m not sure why anyone would put sugar there though.” She leaned down to fetch it.
The building shook.
Matt staggered back, then forwards, holding onto the counter. Brenda fell back, landing hard on the ground.
Mugs, cleaning supplies, containers, lids—the cupboards’ contents all toppled down towards them. A mug struck Matt’s hand hard, hitting right on the knuckle where he gripped the counter.
“Ow!” he blurted.
Matt took most of the impacts, as he was closer to the cupboards than Brenda. Mugs hit his arms, legs, torso. Thankfully the paper towel rolls were softer.
Matt stepped back to help Brenda. The Keurig was on the floor, drip tray missing and reservoir askew. “Did it hit you?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
Brenda looked up at him, confused.
Hot coffee soaked through Matt’s blue button-up and khakis. Cubicles had shifted, people were standing and all talking at once. It was loud—louder than the office had ever been. And then there was nothing.