Watch With Glittering Eyes
WILLIAM FAICHNEY
Content Warning: Depression, drug use and overdosing
⋆｡ﾟ*⊹｡⋆｡* ﾟ✴︎ ﾟ*｡⋆
It was a tired, callous dusk, and the tiny office bloomed a second grey. Harsh beams of light split the slatted window and flitted across the desktop screen, merely illuminating its stony colour. Such was its angle; this room regularly captured the sun as it shot the gap between Earth and the city.
I frowned at some swirling, backlit particles. It had always annoyed me, the Similarity Mandate; one would think intentionally allowing this dust would be a health hazard, not a perpetually musty ‘biological comfort’.
As the screen dimmed to accommodate the almost unnatural brightness, it drew me out of my distraction. I needed to finish this piece by tomorrow, or I would fall behind schedule. There was no other option; I was already cutting it fine on the Visual Art quota, and skimping on the Written sector’s quality may call my Motivators into question.
That, under any circumstance, could never happen. Failing your quota had you failing your past self; a soul failing to remain useful.
I snatched a powder white bottle off the desk’s far corner, pressing a trembling thumb into the side of the lid. The lid slid free after an authoritative blip of noise, revealing a dozen off-pink obloids sitting inside. They had been the only things that seemed to help me focus.
There was no doubt Sascha knew of the drug market – realistically, it was a necessary part of their goal; perfect emulation of society employing the infinite wealth of humanity’s knowledge.
A knock to my right, and Duarte’s familiar figure peeked open the door. I swiped the pills into my lap and sighed at time’s haste. Adjusting the cuneal nameplate sitting angled on my desk, I tapped my pocket to assure myself of my clear-pad’s presence. I stood, and my body complained at the rapid headache and fuzzy vision.
The hallway outside my office was a single step from the desk, which itself occupied half the available floorspace. Spatial efficiency at its finest: a silent capsule sheltered from the roar of Nova Porto.
Duarte and I walked parallel down the hall, tuning out the ever-present smell of metallic sterility.
‘Manage to do much today?’
The elevator doors opened, and I shook my head. ‘Not as much as I would have liked to.’
Duarte returned a nod, picking at his jacket’s stretched neckline. The elevator closed soundlessly, before ascending with a faint hum.
‘I almost finished that Visual piece I've been working,’ he said. ‘Glad I asked for the physical materials man, it helps so much.’
‘That's good to hear. They never really seemed to fit my hands unfortunately.’
‘It’s optional for a reason!’ Duarte chuckled. ‘Anyway, you coming to Casa das Estrelas?’
‘Not today, D. Not feeling it.’
Duarte rolled his eyes. ‘Ah come on Tiago, that's what you've said the last dozen times! Maybe spending a bit of time out of this shell,’ he tapped lightly on my forehead ‘, is what you need. When was the last time you saw Fernan or Lianor?’
I didn't remember.
‘That's what I thought, amigão.’
With a sudden flash of painful white dimmed by the adjusting windows, the elevator’s north window breached the complex’s wall. Nova Porto stretched forth, buildings stacked high, testing the regulations by almost reaching the glass ceiling. Night lights winked on amidst the final remains of sunlight, tripping over the imposing upwards curve of Goldilocks-1 barely visible in the hazy distance.
Goldilocks 1: the knight to Earth’s queen, one of three global circlet-satellites housing the guard of humanity’s birthing ground. And so directly above: the murky browns, greens and blues of Earth. History told of the awe this view had inspired in Goldilocks 1’s first residents; but my own spark of childhood wonder? Lost – like the land cities above me.
‘Ah…’ Duarte looked over at me, shifting and glancing down. ‘Are you alright, T?’
I shrugged, blinking away a bit of blurry vision.
‘Perhaps you should switch Motivator? Something... listen-y?’
I sighed. ‘Surely you remember that idea. Even I didn't understand what I was doing.’
Duarte gave a short laughed. ‘Sim, sim, only joking.’ Practically, painting always seemed the sole option. No other Motivator had ever stood out to me, but now my choice appeared to have stemmed from naivety. Branching into writing had only prolonged it.
‘I'm just heading home again, D.’
‘Fine, fine. But look at me.’ Duarte spun me by the shoulders as the elevator drew to a stop on the 45th floor. ‘I feel like the Tiago I knew as a child has fallen asleep and woken up a changed man. Find someone you can… talk to. Or even just sit silently with. And don't think I can't be that person. Or Fernan. Or Lianor. Or even your mother. We both know how much she cares.’
I nodded as he dusted off my shoulders. ‘Claro, claro.’
‘You say that, but I don't think you listen. I just hope that soon enough something will help your realise.’ His eyes softened a moment further, and he patted me on the shoulder. ‘Remember too – Lianor suggested that trip up-surface. Maybe you need a little grass under your shoes.’
‘We already have grass down here.’
‘Ahhh.’ He waved his hand in front of a scrunched face. ‘You know what I mean. You need to find that magic again!’
I displayed a smile, gesturing out the waiting door. ‘Até breve, amigão.’
‘Até breve.’ Duarte left the elevator, reloading his arms to prop his stretched jacket back onto his shoulders. He was bafflingly optimistic. Indeed, that was the intention behind the Motivators. Yet distressingly, I hadn’t found it.
I sat in the topmost monotube ignoring a vista which usually cleared my head. High above the rapidly blurring colours of Nova Porto, the short trip home to Clareira na Floresta propelled me at speeds practically impossible with conventional friction. The craft's faint hum masked my sigh; it had been a long time since I last left the city. Youthful memories of the North Pole Interchange and Nova Lisbon were too faded to recall, instead replaced by a burgeoning hollow.
⋆｡ﾟ*⊹｡⋆｡* ﾟ✴︎ ﾟ*｡⋆
Vacation up-surface. Perhaps Lianor was right; I had wandered enough mental catacombs to justify a day-trip. Additionally, Sascha gave plenty of Downtime provisions – and those within the cruise Motivator needed some kind of sustainable stimulus model.
‘Ei Flor,’ I said, swallowing another pill as a teal blob in the corner of my office screen pulsed.
‘Sim, Tiago?’ Flor said.
‘Find some up-surface cruises... filter by soonest possible.’
‘Claro. Shall I lodge the request with Sascha?’
‘No, no. Confine it to Nova Porto.’
‘Com certeza, senhor.’
Flor began wobbling on the screen, the teal fading to a deeper blue while they searched. Sascha would likely find results quicker, but its lack of compassion filters was a presently irritating thought. AI compartmentalisation was deliberate: Sascha controlled the minutia – that which needed precision to the hundred-thousandth decimal; and Flor – or similar statewide systems – acted as the system's envoy.
‘Here, I found some potentials.’ Flor broke into a trio of lazily spinning teal dots. ‘However I discovered a few problems.’
I phased uncomfortably back into reality, frowning.
‘Voo de Berçário are the largest cruise operators in this city, but they are currently undergoing commercial examination. Unfortunately, the next option of Cruzeiros da Inês has full bookings for two and a half months.’
‘Really?’
‘That is the cruise industry, I’m afraid. Finally, there is A. L. Viajar, but it requires registration with Alto Luz, and I recall your restraint there. I have no knowledge of any further operations within Nova Porto.’
It smelled of comedic coincidence but tasted of sour intervention. My solution must be within the reach of humanity’s affordances. We truly could solve anything, and I couldn’t cower from my quota under that small comfort.
I dismissed Flor with a flick of the wrist, and grabbed the pill bottle with another inaccurate snappy movement. I counted one pill for each cruise company – struggling to steady my hand – and swallowed dry. The grey room somehow seemed too cold and yellow, making me squeeze my eyes shut for only a moment before jumping open at a deafening ringtone.
I felt a cold rush as I read the caller's name: Fernan.
‘Ei Flor.’
‘Sim, Tiago?’
‘I don't want them to call me. Stop them.’
‘Are you certain, senhor?’
Something about Flor sounded radically different, deeper and faster at the same time. And I didn’t remember the blob changing colour, although it could owe to the overly bright room.
I waved my hand haphazardly, denying the call. ‘I don't care!’
‘Com certeza.’
The screen lurched, and I resumed typing. But the keys I pressed weren't as they were marked, like I had selected some peculiar typeface that swapped ‘t’ with ‘l’.
In a minor panic I returned to the one thing unchanged in the room: the bottle. But in my haste, the last three pills scattered across the floor, ringing like some hollow steel drum. Strange, I could have sworn I saw more yesterday.
Bending to grab them, my nose assumed the weight of my body, and I folded, smashing unceremoniously into the floor.
⋆｡ﾟ*⊹｡⋆｡* ﾟ✴︎ ﾟ*｡⋆
The darkness was like a thick fog, viscous and clingy. It took an age to pry my eyelids open, but as soon as the light zipped through the crack, the haze retreated like a scorned dog. As the light focussed into clean white walls, instinct informed me I was no longer in my office.
On the opposite wall, a gold Norman-window-shaped crest bore the text 'Vicente Ruiz de Bravo Hospital', and a large floor-to-ceiling window offered an expansive city view.
I recognised one of Nova Porto's squares, a statue of the hospital’s honoured namesake stretching so high it seemed to touch the murky globe above.
‘Senhor Casanova.’ Sascha's plain voice echoed through the room. ‘Adequate medical service has been administered, and a summary can be found on your clear-pad beside you. Do you have questions?’
‘What happened?’ My voice croaked, the thick mist crowding my memory.
‘Brain trauma caused by an impure methamphetamine overdose and impact trauma.’
I frowned, trying to shake my head clear. ‘I... can I speak to a doctor?’
‘There are none on shift, Senhor Casanova.’
I closed my eyes, the bright light reflecting off Earth's cloud-cover pushing pins through my pupils. As if it were entirely numb, my arm swept at the clear-pad. The operation's price was going to be difficult to cover, grimly enticing me into another moment hidden behind the cool night of my eyelids.
However upon reading, Sascha had determined a payment exemption for 'extenuating circumstances.' The standard jargon followed, but scrolling led to the doctor's written note: 'Miracle operation. Damage led to borderline LOS, rectified by emergency stasis containment.'
Everyone knew what LOS meant; it was the only realistic way to die. Loss Of Soul. I could be shot through the heart now and be perfectly functional within the hour, but enough chemical damage to the brain... If a soul departed, there was no hope. That was the real reason Goldilocks 1 embraced Earth; there was no other place in existence that offered an origin for souls.
Nowhere else. Notably, even in the face of the Sol Dyson and all the technological awakenings it had brought, humans had failed that one goal. No matter how caring or detailed Sascha and Flor seemed, they were just a set of looping, base functions. All humans did – created, experienced – was in service of that one miracle.
The magic of the soul continued to elude capture.
I stared out at the city. People below painted the pavement in a wave of tinted pinpricks. Unique souls, experiencing moments that could never be synthesised anywhere else. A glittering bead trickled down my cheek, and fearful reality lit my veins.
A call from Lianor popped up on the clear-pad. I instinctually went to deny the call, but something stopped me. A sense within my chest, some indescribable burning. A spark.
This time, I answered.
William Faichney is a passionate writer from Australia's Central Coast, who jumps between sci-fi and fantasy in the interest of life-questioning characters and deep worldbuilding. He is currently writing a fantasy quartet under the name Opus Avaritia, set in a world of unique species, societies, cultures, magic, physics and more.