Inquiry

Eight

Branded to him like the serial inked on his forearm was a morning routine which began promptly at seven. An alarm went off beside his bed, but he typically woke up just a few seconds ahead of it. It was a quick and quiet series of tasks from that point. Eat, shower, brush teeth, and put on the uniform. 

The uniform was the cleanest thing he had, but his process was next on the list. As for the room he lived in, it was obvious that he had not been the first. The blue and brown rug was fraying, the metal walls were scratched and dirty in some corners. The bed frame was rusty in spots. The table wobbled just a little bit. The dishware was chipped. He never paid it much mind. That's how it was when he arrived there five or so years prior. 

The uniform, he had been told, was fitted specifically for him. It even had his name embroidered on it. Insulated beige canvas cargo pants, tight fitting boots with straps up to the shins, and insulated orange canvas button-up like the pants made up the base of what he wore. Atop it all, he had a harness with tools and straps hanging all over it, a black vest with what must have been at least ten pockets, and his safety goggles hanging from his neck. It took some time to get all the gear on, and he finished it up with his fingerless work gloves, shoulder bag, and PDA sleeve. He typically rolled his sleeves up before strapping the portable computer to his forearm. Ready to step out of the room, he signed into the device quickly and opened the door.

The room led to his office, where he leaned over the console. There was no point in sitting since he was going to be leaving the office to start his morning walk. Before that, he signed into the system and asked, "Virma, any level threes?" 

"One level three issue logged at 3:42 a.m. Section 8-A. The filter has reached end-of-life date," a cool and technical female voice replied.

"That's not really a level three, Virma, we both know that," he smiled and shook his head. 

"Please change the filter as soon as possible," she replied.

"I'm walking the A's and B's today, I'll get it. You got one ready for me?" he called out, stepping onto the catwalk outside the office.

Virma responded but he wasn't paying attention. Some mornings he looked at it all and just had to stare. Two-thousand six-hundred sections, each one containing two hundred cells. That was 560,000 people plugged into this massive virtual network. They all lived in a cleaner, freer reality. They didn't have to worry about an old filter or an unexpected short. Safely living in a world of wonder and unlimited possibilities. He could have easily allowed himself to be jealous. But the unaware population was his responsibility. There was a certain pride he felt being the man who took risks and crawled through the dirt to make sure their world stayed intact.

"Eight," she repeated herself, "I requisitioned one when the notification appeared."

"Right," he nodded and walked toward storage. It was just beside the office. Storage, office, living quarters: they were three cells attached to the rest of the facility. They were an anchor of sorts, having a clear sense of confined space and entrances and exits. The rest of the facility seemed to stretch up, down, left, and right in all directions. Giant towers full of sleeping people were connected by narrow catwalks and ladders. Outside the cells, these blocks of stasis units emanated an ambient hum that was enriched by the occasional echo of a distant mechanical bang or whir. 

In the storage room, there were a few tools and cleaning supplies. The room was dirty from years of grease and dust accumulating in its corners and behind its heavier equipment. In the middle, on the back wall, there was a terminal and a large door. When Eight entered, the door opened and revealed the spare filter. Anytime he picked up any kind of replacement part, it came from here.