Ty, a shift manager with an alcoholic wife, creates a female replicant in a dystopia veering toward full mechanization. For Ty, the surreal drudgery of working in a retail environment is interrupted when robotic interfaces are installed at his job...
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In the morning, when Sam hadn't joined her in the meeting hall, Martine despaired. They'd taken her, and were probably hurting her. Isn't that what they did?
No one knew what they did. Not really.
Another nightly transfer, another whispering visitor. Thoughts of Sam once again dispelled The Shadow, but the calm only lasted so long. Eventually, the deriding darkness closed in, forcing her to spend the night a whimpering mess.
Whenever morning came, she was surprised to still be breathing.
~*~
As the days and weeks passed, the memory of Sam faded from a bright promise to a dull pain. She was convinced the sighting had been an illusion, a comfort to aid her dispatch of a much bigger foe than fanatic Staties.
The nights stretched into eternity as the Shadow lingered on, often well into the mornings. With the sun up, Martine found it easier to denounce its existence, but sometimes she heard the whispers no matter what.
Bastion, the meeting hall coordinator, asked them each morning:
"Are you ready to accept your role?"
A chair squeaked as a meeting hall member turned sharply toward the speaker. "And what's our fucking role?"
"Clearly, you're unfit." Bastion gestured to the bot by the door.
The man was escorted from the meeting hall, protesting loudly about his goddamn rights.
"Resistance impedes the ability to accept your role. The State wishes you all to succeed. Think about what's blocking your prayers, and purge yourself of the dead weight," Bastion said.
"Dead weight? Humph. That a threat, mate?" a woman questioned.
From the hall, the man could still be heard ranting on about rights, and a lawyer. A shot echoed throughout the barracks, and a few prisoners gasped.
Instead of remarking further, the woman behind Martine sobbed.
Bastion smiled, a serene expression lighting up his handsome face. "No one here is a prisoner. You may leave when ready."
The pre-requisites for 'ready' were never fully outlined, but the intensive therapy hinted at a common denominator: acquiescence.
