They say algae makes noise - Part 2
Emiko's backstory
If you just joined us head back to Part 1 to catch up.
Part 2
Twenty minutes later, freshly scrubbed with my normal uniform of a hoodie, cargo pants and boots on, I sit down and study the stick. I’m certain it isn’t a stick, but I have yet to figure out what it actually is. So far, all I know for sure is that it’s organic, and organic things are rare and have value—stumbling upon something of value could go a long way towards fixing a few problems in my life.
I strap the stick vertically to my backpack. Although the tip sticks up over my head, it shouldn’t get in the way. After swinging my backpack onto my back, I venture out into the end-of-shift crowds. The flow of humanity pulls me along to the tram station. As usual, the first tram is overcrowded. I peel out of the press of bodies into an eddy of calm next to the wall and don’t even bother to try to get on.
The crowd thins after the first tram pulls away. I lean my shoulder against the wall to wait for the next one. The smells from the nearby food kiosks makes my stomach rumble—but, I don’t have enough credits to buy anything. I have to eat when I get home.
Pulling out my scroll, I check the messages on my feed. Seven are in the queue. The first three are rejection letters for various gardening posts I’d applied for, each citing my lack of membership to the Grower’s Guild as the reason. I gritted my teeth at the catch-22 that kept me hunting for garbage at the bottom of tanks.
Next, there are two from Long Enterprises, each stating the money I’d borrowed is past due. I bite my lip as a knot forms in my gut. I thought I had more time! Squeezing my eyes shut, I let my head tip back and contact the wall. I don’t have near enough credits in my account to pay back what I owe. Nothing I ever did changed my circumstances.
The clatter of a man pushing his taco cart brought me back to the station. Now is not the time for a pity party. I glance back down at my scroll. With shaking hands, I delete the messages without reading the fine print.
The next message is from the Grower’s Guild Head Office about my application to their apprenticeship program. I held my breath as a tiny bud of optimism forms inside me. I open the message. As I scan the words, I deflate. The response is the same as the last time I’d applied—all the apprentice slots have been filled by family members of current guild members. Family lines always got first dibs to guild slots and I had no idea what line I came from. Hell, I don’t even have a last name.
My lack of a proper last name isn’t my fault. The station harbours a plague that rears its head from time-to-time. The last time it appeared, the day I was born, the epicentre was the habitat module where my family lived. Our module was isolated, quarantine protocols applied. Three days later the only survivors were the 89 babies in the maternity ward because one of the nurses had the presence of mind to seal it off. In the kerfuffle of rescuing us, references to our family lines were lost. As a short-term measure, we were all assigned numbers. Despite multiple promises by the station government to reunite us with our families, they quickly lost interest in getting us our real names. Nineteen years later, I’m still officially Emiko 3751.
Last cycle, using money I didn’t have, I hired a private investigator to find my lineage. If I could prove what my name was, I’d have a shot at getting into a guild. The last message is from him. Holding my breath, I open it. Fumigation damaged the records, he said. Dead end, he said—but he took my money anyway.
With a sigh, I stepped on the tram.
There is an ongoing protest outside my apartment block—yet another one against the station’s current government and the guild system. I don’t disagree with the protesters, but crowds make me feel claustrophobic. The chants are loud and punctuated by a number of people banging metal pans together. It won’t be long until the local AI calls for police presence and that never ends well.
As I enter the crowd, I pull my hood over my head and push my way through. I get dozens of invitations to join in and only a few rude remarks when I don’t. On the other side of the crowd, I break free and step into my apartment block’s lobby. The space smelled mildly of urine—so, better than usual. And, for once, the lift works. I got in and hit the seven button, grateful to finally be alone. The doors clang shut and, with a groan, the lift begins its ascent.
Once in my apartment, I left the probably-not-a-stick on my table while I re-hydrate noodles for dinner. The diminutive size of my apartment means that standing at the single burner in my optimistically labelled kitchen, I can easily stare at the object. In fact, I could just reach out and touch it while stirring.
It’s a good thing I’m not tall—above my kitchen, with just short of enough room to sit upright, is my single bunk. Its ladder prevents me from putting a second chair at my table. I guess, people on the bottom rung of subsidized housing aren’t expected to have guests.
The only good thing about my apartment is the window—it fills the wall on the other side of my table and faces the artificial lights outside. I’m high enough up (7th floor) that my apartment has enough illumination for growing. The window boxes are my pride and joy. Salvaged containers filled with a homemade mixture of compost and dried algae that worked as soil. In each I planted seeds. Lettuce, kale, basil, strawberries and even a miniature tomato plant. The harvests are small, but a welcome contrast to the dehydrated, flavourless crap I can afford at the market.
After transferring my noodles to a bowl, I sit facing the stick. Focusing my scroll at the artifact, I asked the public search AIs what the object is. While the AIs search the archive, I slurp up noodles. Moments later I have my answer. 90% of the AIs queried identify my stick as an elephant tusk. I look up what an elephant is and am rewarded with a video.
The wide open, planet-based space is recognizable as a savanna from lost Earth. What would it feel like to stand out in the open like that? Blue sky extends to the horizon and lush grass covers the ground. Striped animals mill about in the distance and great white birds fly over head. A moment later a herd of animals with oversized ears and noses saunter into the view. I close my eyes and imagine myself walking out into the scene.
A clang in the hall signals the lift’s disjointed doors had opened returning my attention to the present. A moment later, pounding on my door sounds. I switch my scroll to display the hall cam.
Outside stands a Long Enterprises debt collector. Through the video feed, I study their representative standing at my door. Low-end synth-skin and perfectly symmetrical features landed the android squarely in the uncanny valley. It’s a common model—hundreds of them work on this station alone. What set this android apart is the ‘scar’ (if that’s the appropriate word for the poorly repaired damage to its face) running from hairline, down the right cheek to the chin. The sub-par repair probably compromised the android’s waterproofness—hardly a problem on a space station.
“Crap!” I’d thought they’d give me a bit more time to pay up. I guess I shouldn’t have deleted those messages.
I roll up my scroll and shove it, along with all the clothing in reach, into my backpack. Now packed, I swing it onto my back. Then I go over to the door and activate the intercom.
“Tell your employer, I’ll get the money to them in an hour or so.” I turn and eye the elephant tusk, hoping it’s worth enough.
“Emiko 3751, you have missed your final payment deadline. Long Enterprises has activated the non-payment clause. I’m here to escort you in,” says the neutral voice of the android.
“Crap!” I curse without activating the comms. As I didn’t have anything worth using as collateral, I had used my own organ—my right kidney to be exact.
“Tell them I have their money,” I say.
“I’m not authorized to negotiate,” says the android.
In a rising panic, I glance around my tiny apartment. There’s nowhere to hide. Grabbing the tusk as I go, I run for the one panel of my window that opens. Outside is the panopticon of the subsidized housing units—watched by an older model AI. A cacophony of sound came from the bottom level—the protest has amped up, the AI would be engaged.
One floor down is Ms. Banner’s balcony—who would be at work this time of the cycle. I throw my backpack and tusk down onto the astro-turf covered surface. Just as I start to climb through, my door burst open.
I turn to see the android enter, then I jump, feet first through the window, knocking the wind out of myself on landing. Laying flat on my back, I watch as the android looks out the window above—its shoulders are too wide to fit through. It will have to go down one level and break into Ms. Banner’s apartment to get me. Hopefully, my head start is enough to turn into an escape.
The only place I can think of to hawk the tusk without having to explain where I got it is the thrift shop tucked in with the food stalls back near my work. Summer’s End Thrift Shop, if I remember correctly.
Ignoring my aching hip, I grab my backpack and the tusk before running through the apartment. I step out into the hall, just as the lift door at the end opens. Turning the opposite way, I sprint for the emergency exit. Behind me, the heavy sounds of the Debt Collector’s footfalls follow close behind.
Once through the door, I sprint up one flight of stairs. Then I tuck myself into a corner willing my breathing to be silent.
The thud of the door opening below announces the Debt Collector’s entry into the stairwell. Its algorithms would tell it I went down—or so I hoped. There’s a long pause, I barely breathe.
A lopsided ventilation fan far above rubs against its casing. Then footfalls ring out against the metal stairs. I squeeze myself tighter against the wall until it became clear the footfalls are descending. My body relaxes as I let out a long, silent exhale.
Grateful for my rubber soled shoes, I stand. The Debt Collector must be down a story or two by now. I wait a bit longer, to give myself more of a head start. Staying tight against the wall, I descend back to the sixth floor. Slamming the door as hard as I can behind myself, I sprint down the hallway to the lift—it’s still there.
As I push the button to descend, the stairwell door slams a second time—the Debt Collector fell for my rouse.
The lift descends, depositing me on the ground level with a decent head start. I run out and join the crowd in the square. The agitated crowd jostles me as I move, slowing down my momentum towards the tram station—for once in my life I’m grateful I’m short. The Debt Collector likely won’t be able to pick me out of the crowd.
to be continued…