The Kubic Kat

by Liam L. Carton

  When he finally arrived at his cubicle he gave a sigh of relief. He had not realised it, but he had been holding in his breath, hoping that he would not run into his boss. But he had been fortunate, and the boss had not materialised.

  He took his coat off and sat down in front of his Crapple virtuDesk. Its headset, shiny through long use, looked cheap and tacky. He placed the headset over his head hit the start button and closed his eyes, waiting for the device to lock on to the interface chip embedded in his skull.

  When it had locked on he felt a massive lurch as the neurons in his head were routed through the interface and to some remote ‘zombie’.

  As an enforcement officer it was his job to take over the operation of these bodies and run them remotely. His section was responsible for those who society had judged to be insolvent, the debt burden having risen so high, and their repayments so in arrears, that the court system had judged them to be effectively incapable of ever discharging their debts.

  As such, they were made wards of state, and their interface implant was reprogrammed to allow them to be remotely controlled. Officers from the enforcement department were then tasked to take over their working duties and run them like automata. The irony of that fact was not lost on Mr Smith.

  There were allowed a seven hour down time, in which to eat, bathe and sleep, and then they were back on the clock. Of course, only such individuals as were physically capable of such arduous duties and had sufficiently little excess debt would be placed on such a programme. If the debt were higher, then immediate enslavement papers would be issued against the delinquent party, and they would cease to be considered citizens. Those who were too infirm to do either duty would be sanitized by the state, their internal organs sold at action to any interested parties.

  Mr Smith had always considered this to be eminently fair. Those too poor to pay for their existence needed to pay off their debt to society in one way or another. And if the only way was to be converted into spare parts, well then that was the price that had to be paid.

  A different department dealt with criminal zombies. These were the individuals who had broken morality statutes, or violated IP rights, or dabbled in anti-social behaviour.

  But here in his cubicle, for some reason, the interface seemed to be a little out of synch today. He tried to summon the local administrative assistant: “Local, please re-calibrate the interface.”

  “That will not be necessary. We have adjusted the interface so that you can more fully appreciate the nature of your work.” signed the blocks.

  Local, meanwhile, remained silent.

  “You will notice that in the interface the viewport now spans your entire field of vision. This shows that your connection to the remote is now fully immersive. This means that all filters are now bypassed. We will still be able to communicate with you using an overlay. Note also that full communication is now possible. Please talk to the remote.”

  “The remote?” What the hell did that mean?

  A young child’s voice entered his mind: “Please, please, please, no more.”

  “Hello?”

  The voice stopped for a moment, and then came back with renewed focus: “Hello, who is that?”

  Mr Smith did not quite know what to do or say. The blocks came to his assistance: “Do not give your name. She might report it, and that would be bad for all of us.”

  “Hello… I’m Tony. Who are you?”

  “I'm Lucy. How come you can talk to me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then you are one of the monsters who ride us?”

  “Ride you? What do you mean?”

  “You take over our bodies, and make us do things that we don’t want to do.”

  “Oh, no! It’s not like that. You must have been found to be carrying too much un-secured debt. You know, if you owe money, you must pay it back. That’s why the court ruled for your temporary servitude. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know! Once your debt is fully discharged you can go back to your normal life.”

  “What is un-secured debt?”

  “Um, how old are you?”

  “I’m twelve. My brother was only eight. He died yesterday. They said it was ‘cuase he was too weak. But I know it was from the water.”

  “How on Earth did you end up being judged guilty of an insurmountable debt when you are only twelve?”

  The blocks interrupted. “Those who are found remiss to the point of sanitisation have their debt transferred to their descendants. No debt may go un-paid. As the children no longer have parental guardians they automatically become wards of state and must perform the same duties as adults in that category. Those children below the age of six are simply liquidated along with their parents.

  "Additionally, any child that is judged to be too weak or sickly to perform such duties is liquidated. Each such child is then assessed to determine the best use of their labour. Smaller children are generally unable to do hard labour, but are especially good at the fine work need for cleaning the reactors. Those between the ages of eleven and seventeen are considered fairly resilient to radiation damage, and as such their loss of longevity is offset by the fact that the work that they do is of such vital importance. Many are therefore assigned to cleaning the live reactors.

  “Oh my God! I didn’t know that!”

  “There are many things that you do not know. Most of these things you chose not to know. We did tell you that you needed to see it for yourself. We cannot make it real to you if you do not experience it, if you do not feel it, if you do not live it.”

  “What did she mean about the water?”

  “Her brother, due to his small size was required to clean out the water filters of the reactor. The water is used to cool the reactor core and thus is highly radioactive, thus he died of radiation poisoning. As a result the full debt burden of this child’s family has now been assigned to Lucy, and as a consequence she will be assigned the highest risk work for the rest of her rather short life.”

  “But they are just children. How can they do that?”

  “They do not do that. You do that.”

  “Me?” It came out as a strangled, guttural cry of terror.

  “You.” The blocks would not let him off the hook. “Today Lucy is required to clean out the stacks, or heat exchangers at the reactor. She will work for sixteen hours straight, or as long as she can still stand. Consequently, she will probably not survive the day. You will, no doubt, be the last person with whom she will speak. And, through your unfiltered connection, you will feel all that she feels. We will terminate the connection if either her heart or respiration fails. But in all other cases it will be as if you are she.”

  “I can’t do this.”

  “You must. If you fail to perform your duty someone else will do it. She will die regardless of your intransigence.”

  “Still, better them than me. I won’t be party to this.”

  “But you have been party to it. Every single day that you have worked here you have been party to this. That is your job.” The blocks paused for emphasis, “Do you not recall those times? Taking zombies to the smoke stacks to clean out the dust and detritus from the heat exchangers?”

  “You mean, each time I took someone on a cleaning duty they died?”

  “Not all, but most of them. Some survive for as long as three days on cleaning duties. Do you not recall how hard it became as the day wore on? How difficult it was to make the limbs move as you desired?”

  “Yes, we were always told it was because they became exhausted, working double shifts.”

  “No it was because cellular breakdown was already significantly affecting the viability of the organism. You made them work through their own death.”

  “Oh, God no! No! I can’t do this anymore.”

  “You must. However, we can promise you that this is the last time that you will need to work the strings of one of these remotes.”

  “I told you I will not do that. I refuse!”

&n
bsp; There was a pause, and then the blocks came back, “As you wish.” Then the blocks fell silent.

  For a moment nothing happened, and then he could hear the faint crying of the girl. He was still connected to her.

  Suddenly a message appeared in front of him.

  ‘Observation mode active.’

  And then they were off. Somewhere, quite possibly in a cubicle right next to his own, an enforcement officer had taken control of this remote, and was now in charge of their motion.

  The girl gave out a wail of despair. “Please not the power plant, please.”

  “Shush, it will be okay.” said Mr Smith, but he knew it would not be.