There’s a place way out in the wild, far from any town, where the trees grow taller and stronger than anywhere else. Life thrives under their boughs: caterpillars and ants, rabbits and badgers, hawthorn and honeysuckle. They say nature has taken back what is hers. They say no-one has gone there in decades.
But if you were to go there, hacking through the underbrush,if you dug a little here and there, deep below the canopy and the ferns and the grass, you’d find concrete and steel jutting out from the earth. Dig a little deeper and you’d find the remains of walls and lampposts. Further still and roads, tunnels and underground car parks would rise up from beneath your feet.
There was a city here, once. It was large for its time, and was like any other city of the century it was built in. Highways and subways criss-crossed like veins around streets. Huge throngs would walk these each day, vying for space so they could shave precious minutes from their commute. Buildings littered the ground – they reached up to touch the sky, some glassy and sleek, others of marble or brick or stone.
One building, just on the outskirts of town, stood out from the rest. It was not tall: It sprawled out across several miles, a complex of interconnected sections. It had few windows, and its walls, which gleamed white in the sun, had no seams.
And in one of these buildings there was a floor. And on this floor there was an office. And tucked away in the corner, in an undecorated cubicle, sat a man.
In front of him was a screen, and his eyes were fixed firmly upon it. They did not move to the keyboard his hands danced upon, weaving their staccato foxtrot of click and clack. They did not look out beyond his cubicle for incoming visitors to his deserted floor section – he had his ears for that.
It’s no wonder his gaze couldn’t leave the screen. On the monitor digits flung themselves across a plane of interlapping grids, jumping from cell to cell as his hands worked his will through the keys below. With a few taps he could wizz around the maze of symbols, change their color, change their size. It was a wonder he could understand what he saw with such speed. It was a wonder anyone could understand it at all.
He paused suddenly, let the spectacle of zipping digits flicker without his input. He cocked his head, listening, and in an instant it was all gone. The computer now showed a normal looking document, no motion, no movement.
“John.”
John had heard the unmistakably peppy footsteps of his manager well before he’d reached him. He turned to be greeted with a grin he could see his reflection in.
His manager was practically born for his role. Tall, sharply dressed, always smiling, a whole manner that screamed ‘personable’, preferably on a CV. It wasn’t that he was incapable of saying anything negative. He lacked the capacity to communicate without injecting enthusiasm between every syllable. And like every manager in the company, no name-badge. He was simply John’s manager.
“Well”, his manager said, “how’s my favourite brainbox getting on with his new assignment?”
John produced a smile of his own and gestured to the screen.
“Good, very good. I knew you’d be up to it. Not too tricky, the way they keep things… good. Human Supply run a tight ship with their data, so I’ve been told.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad when you get used to it. It’s clever really, they keep duplicates of each record scattered inside others, and they point to each other in a big ring. Quite tamper-proof.”
“Yes, of course. Genius isn’t it”, his manager said, eyes widening. He always did that when he didn’t have a clue what someone had said. “Well what with the, ah, staff shortages our departments been hit with lately, having someone with the guts to take on something like this is superb. And speaking of, any chance of an ETA on this whole ka-ching thing?”
“Caching?”
“Yes exactly. When will you be done?”
“Oh, four days easily. Maybe even three at this rate.”
“Incredible stuff. Truly spectacular. I knew – oh, hold on”. His manager looked at his, which now had a light pulsing near the wrist, just beneath the skin.
The grin remained fixed in place as his manager touched a finger to his earlobe and stared into space. His eyes narrowed.
“Ah”, he said, “they’re earlier than expected… last batch mustn’t have been up to scratch then. Tell them I’ll see them in ten, I have to… I see. Right then. Yes certainly. Make them some coffee, I’ll be just a moment.”
“… batch of what?”
“Oh just the output from another team I oversee, they’ve been falling behind of late. Anyway I’ve got a, ah, quite important meeting now, so must dash. Keep up the good work!” He patted John on the back and strode off, then whirled around again. “Oh, and that chat we had the other day? I’d appreciate it if you kept that on the down-low, just between us, that alright? Great. You’re a star, John, a marvel, a real dynamo…”
The list of praises continued steadily even as he rounded the corner to the next floor-section.
John waited a moment more, listened for the footsteps of any more last minute comments. And then the flurry of data resumed. And again he worked, sending the figures this way and that. All through the afternoon he worked uninterrupted, until the intercom announced in dulcet tones that it was time to go home. Not that there were many more to hear it – his floor had been getting quieter and quieter of late. It was almost empty now.