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Other works by J. R Knight:

My Eternal Daydream Crowds

The Christmas Misfits After Ever After

Discover more at:

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The Cure A Novella

GOOD READS SAMPLE COPY

J. R Knight

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or

by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher,

unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended

First extracted and compiled in Metravā City, Metravā

First published in Melbourne in 2016

The Knight Life Publications, Melbourne, VIC, Australia

Text Copyright © J. R Knight 2016

Cover Illustration by Paul Ikin copyright © 2016

Insert Illustrations by Paul Ikin copyright © 2016

J. R Knight Logos and Typography by TRAMIK copyright © 2016

ISBN 978 0 646 95364 9

First Edition Copy

The Knight Life Publications

ABN 31 436 426 689

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For Kushal

Thank you for accepting my flaws, my imperfections and, at

times, my inhumanity.

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FOREWORD

Hello! I’m sitting in a café in the den of Melbourne city. I’m days away from putting the final touches on this book and I’ve tried at least ten times to start this foreword. Odd, a writer lost for words. It’s not very often that this happens to me. Music and chatter fills the room whilst I sip this sweet strawberry fruit thing and, as I’m looking around, I actually feel nervous. This entire project has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life and it’s finally about to be released into the world. I guess the nerves are warranted. This novella is the first piece of published work that I will ever put out there, printed and bound and able to be purchased. It’s a real book, with a cover and a barcode and everything! I decided to write The Cure just over a year and a half ago. At the time, I had just found an editor for my major manuscript and had also been given some advice about publishing something small first before getting an agent/traditional publisher for my ‘big manuscript.’ I had been sitting on the idea for The Cure and, as time went on, I decided, ‘Hey! I’ll just write it and see how it goes.’

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Now it’s here. Months and months later. This novella is essentially my mix tape before my album. I’m still working on my major manuscript Hearts, but The Cure was a project that I wanted to do all myself, start to finish, inception to completion. I hope you enjoy my debut novella. Idealistically, I would love this to be picked up by a traditional publisher. Whilst independently publishing has its benefits, my ultimate goal is to make a living off my writing and be signed to a traditional publishing house. You have already contributed to my dream by purchasing this book. I can’t thank you enough for that! If you’d like to support me further, it would mean a lot if you could use the hash tag: Feel free to use it on Instagram, Facebook, you name it! Thank you again, and I can’t wait for you to go on this journey with me, you’ve made my dreams come true! With so much love and thanks,

     

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|00.1|

WELCOME TO METRAVĀ!

| DOCŪMENT: WELCOME PACKAGE

FOR HUMAN PERSONNEL / DECODED / TRANSLATED / COLLATED / PRINTED |

Welcome, human! The following material is a brief overview of our way of life in Metravā in the year 3433. This welcome package is intended to introduce and explain concepts that you may find alien. It is vital that you are aware of how our kind exists and how different we are from you. We hope you find this enlightening.

- The planet of Metravā is approximately 54.6 million kilometres away from your current planet. Covered entirely by Synthetī insulation that provides generated heat, air and a fully

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operational ecosystem, everything within Metravā, from vegetation to nature, is artificial and scientifically generated. Metravā is governed by Peār, its headquarters located within Metravā City, the central hub of the planet. It is divided into subs, which layer outwards from the city in a circular formation. Metravā is populated by the U-man, an advanced version of the human. U-mans commence at the Begin Station, have a life cycle of 151 years and cease at the End Station. They live in their allocated sub in their home lot. They attend pre-edūcation, edūcation, higher edūcation and are then allocated a life partner, as well as a mandatory, at the age of 25. For the duration of their lifespan, U-mans live in the pattern of their mandatory and their reflect period. U-mans complete their mandatory or edūcation for 15 hours, with reflect period filling the remaining nine. Once coupled, U-mans are allowed one child. U-mans are fused with their U-chip at birth. The U-chip is a multi-faceted complex piece of engineered technology. The U-chip is fused to a U-man’s inner left wrist. It restores and repairs cells, boosts the immune system and energises the body, thus eliminating the need for sleep. The U-chip constantly syncs to Peār’s headquarters, neutralising emotion, removing waste and refreshing cognitive function through wireless transmission. The U-chip has a major update annually and minor updates periodically, with new and advanced functions added to improve the quality of life and to introduce trends into society. Once pressed, much like a button, the U-chip projects pliable, physical pixels into the air. Visible to the public, but able to be switched to private mode, the U-chip’s screen can be manipulated to be as small as a palm or as wide as three metres in length.

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Amongst many other things, the U-chip is the hub of all communication, from a U-mans’ records, to their currencī, to their U-Media platforms. Parents monitor their child’s U-chip until the age of 14 when, come their 14th annual update, Receivers are installed into a teenage U-man’s ears. Receivers remotely connect audio to the U-chip. U-chips ping when there is an alert and can connect to Edū Tabs, Edū Screens, Home Receivers and to Public Receivers. U-mans replenish their bodies with Nutrī, a mass-produced blend of essential Vitī (protein and nutrients provided by Peār) in varied Peār Approved flavours. U-mans swipe their U-chips under a Nutrī Dispenser to receive their allocated and pre-calculated meal, decided upon by Peār and based on a multitude of factors such as age and gender. There are three meals: early meal; mid meal and late meal, as well as one snack allowance during the daāy. U-mans travel in their Navīgator, a compact vehicle that self-navigates to the encoded destination. The commute to Metravā City is usually taken in Communal Navīgators. U-mans’ speech and communication have advanced beyond that of humans, so much so that the common word is no longer necessary. The following docūments have been translated for the current reader’s benefit. Some words have not been translated with complete accuracy, thus leaving accents and spelling that will not be of your norm. The Metraviān interpreter has completed this translation to the best of its abilities, taking into account the difference in our language, grammar and spelling, but there will still be inconsistencies.

Please refer to attached translation/pronunciation guide at the back as a reference.

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|00.2|

INTERLUDE

| INTERNAL THOUGHTS EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.8.3433 / 07:52āam |

Dear Reader, You must understand this: if anyone were to discover what I am about to do I would die, automatically, with a Nitrobullet to my head. It is of the utmost importance that this confession is kept in the strictest confidence and never falls into the wrong hands. That said, before you read our story, let meē introduce myself. My name is Dr. Såvje Singkū. I was born on the 13th of Uarjaān 3379. I migrated from 27Sub to 81Sub when I began my pledge as a doctor of Metravā. Now, let that sink in. It may be a lot for you to take in at once. For meē, my entire life changed as I knew it when I became a doctor, and maybe not in the way that you may think. You see, reader, the following is a compilation of docūments that have (hopefully) been sent and translated to you in order to prevent our existence from

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becoming what it is. To prevent you from becoming us. What you are about to read are internal thoughts that have been extracted, compiled and decoded into your language for you to understand and to hopefully take wisdom from. I urge you to keep this information safe, hold it in your hands like a precious beacon of hope, and remember that you can make a change with what you know. The cure will not become you. Do not join the cure. Join the right cure by ensuring that you never need to be ‘healed.’ This may not all make sense to you yet, dear reader, but it will in due time. Please keep everything about you that is whole and unique and different sacred. Wear every ounce of dissimilarity like a badge of honour. Never conform and never give in. I will now allow you access into the thoughts of those involved in the ‘Knijä Project.’ The following is a collation of memorīes from those who hoped that their rebellion would one daāy save your life and your individuality. Trust in that as much as I am trusting in you now. As we say: farefarewell. [Closing line], [Signature tag]. - Dr. Såvje Singkū

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|01|

THE FUSING

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 07:52āam |

Todaāy is not like any other daāy. Todaāy it all begins. I walk down a corridor of 81Sub Memorial just as the sky is lighting up in preparation for the saān to burst through and reset the daāy for the citizens of Metravā. I huff quietly to myself, knowing that the saān is rising earlier than scheduled, mindful to keep this huff so soft that not even the walls with eyes and ears can hear. Peār is increasing the amount of generated daāylight to force its people to work harder, faster and for longer. What was once a uniform starting daāy at 09:00āam is now

 

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08:00āam and will eventually become 07:00āam. They will do this by gradually changing the pre-encoded time for saānrise, ensuring no one reacts. Yet some of us will. The Begin Station of 81Sub. My daāy begins and ends in this place. Each sub has a memorial, comprising of many stations, the Begin and End Station being the most prominent. The main operating room within the Begin Station, the Begin Room, is the only locked space in any sub. In fact, the only operation of any real significance happens in the Begin Room and is only ever performed on a female U-man. Most other procedures are mundane, like faulty U-chip repairs or expensive cosmetic enhancement for the elite (rarely done in an outer sub like 81Sub, however). The following procedure that I am about to perform is the most sacred, protected and secretive of procedures. Nurse Eight is waiting for meē outside the Preptorial Room, a room just to the side of the Begin Room. Nurse Eight is exactly the same as Nurse Two or Nurse Ten, or any nurse really. Or any other female in Metravā. She stands at exactly six feet, projecting Peār’s ideal vision of what a woman should be. She embodies the sky, with skin as white as the clouds; healthy, even, plump and smooth. Her hair is lustrous, thick and the colour of a shining afternoon saān; blonde and golden, smooth and shiny. Her eyes are the purest blū; clear, vibrant and illuminated by the constant supply of fresh oxigeēn that pumps U-man blood through her. Nurse Eight’s only difference to any other woman in Metravā is that she is dressed in a white skirt and shirt, wears a white surgical mask around her face and has an ‘eight’ printed in the smallest black typesetting on the front of her shirt. “Goodgoodmorning, Dr. Singkū.” Nurse Eight addresses meē politely. I have worked with her for the last eight years and I have never asked, nor felt the need, to ask

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for her name. “Your first patient for the daāy, Neēreē Tāu, is inside the Preptorial Room, already sedated.” “Thankthankyou, Nurse Eight,” I reply promptly. I nod at her and Nurse Eight turns and walks off down the corridor. I open the door and, as if to remīnd meē that they are always watching, the saān rises at that precise moment. The sky is now neither pink nor orange, nor any colour other than blū. I remember how, as a child, Peār removed seasonal Synthetī changes, believing that it affected the working conditions of the people of Metravā. If there is no artificial rain to block you from your morning commute, there is no excuse not to come to your mandatory. Rain. Hmmm, I briefly remember that. Synthetī snow falling down to the ground, the crinkly sound of amber leaves. That is all gone now, like a deleted U-file. Snow now disappears from the sky before it can be touched. Autumn leaves remain un-fallen and un-crinkled on preened Synthetī trees. Neēreē Tāu is lying down on the surgical table as rays of sāanlight stream through the large clear windows and illuminate her unconscious body. Again, she looks exactly like any other woman in Metravā with the exception of her stomach. She is much like Nurse Eight – lean, long-limbed and supple, with even skin. She has long strands of blonde hair that have been styled into a ponytail for the procedure, and if her eyes were open I am sure I would be staring into bold blū irises. Her differences to other female U-mans are minimal, much like her thoughts. Peār wishes for every U-man to believe that they are a part of something bigger than themselves. It coaxes them and soothes them into believing that their similarities are necessary and vital to our way of life. Yet not all of us can be persuaded and not all of us are the same.

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“Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” I say to her, despite knowing she cannot answer due to her sedation. “You have already had a peculiar daāy, but it is about to get a lot more interesting.” Todaāy has already been filled with many firsts for Neēreē Tāu. This is the only time in her whole life where Neēreē can take a scheduled daāy off (aside from the annual daāy off in Winter). This is also the first and last time that Neēreē will be unconscious. She will wake up and feel the oddest sensation, having rested. It is something that as doctors we were trained for. Before our time, during ‘The RevolUtion’, there was a thing called sleep. I take Neēreē’s limp left hand and feel her U-chip, the little metallic piece of technology that was fused into her inner wrist when she was born. I press it and billions of tiny pixels burst into the air before arranging themselves into a thin pixelated screen above meē. I begin swiping and moving things away until I get to her Medīc records. Instantly, a notīfy pops up: 08:00āam: Birth of [female] child. Name pending. I look down at her bulging pregnant stomach and nod, “It is time.”

-

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 08:17āam |

I wheel Neēreē and the surgical table that she lies on into the next room, the Begin Room. I swipe my wrist over the control pad beside the door and, as the metal recognises my

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U-chip, it snaps open. The room is completely covered from floor to ceiling in darkness, a stark contrast from the light in the other room. I wheel Neēreē into the centre as a backdrop of dark blū lights hum to life and colour the room. “You must understand, Mrs. Tāu, that this was all done by … random allocation.”

I walk over to the Well behind meē and put my hands out. As Waterlite washes over meē, my U-chip pulses, and an advert interrupts the calm on the side of my wrist in a neat, square pixelated box, “Try Waterlite Blū Plus todaāy! Waterlite’s new formula now comes in a—” “U-chip: Work Mode,” I instruct, having forgotten to silence advertī and other unimportant notifys whilst I work. As my U-chip pulses twice to signify that it is now in Work Mode, I let the Waterlite soak into my hands.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Tāu. Where was I? Ah yes, random allocation.” I place my hands under a spout beside the Well and a clear line of anti-bacterial gel is evenly distributed onto my palms. I allow the gel to dissolve before putting my gloves on.

“We could not think of any other way to do this but by random allocation.” I walk over and stand above Neēreē. “I volunteered to complete the procedure and your name was drawn out. There is no bias.” I sit in front of her and begin the task at hand. The incision is simple and quick. Expertly trained and having finished at the top of my class, I slice open my patient and extract the tiny little thing that has being living inside her for eight months and three weeks without any complication or uneasiness. I place the tiny little thing down and marvel at her a moment. Within my surgical case is the tiniest little box imaginable. I place my U-chip on top of the box and it clicks

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open. “Inside here is the first of its kind.” I take out my surgical pliers with one hand, the other holding the tiny little thing’s wrist, and use the pliers to pluck out the new U-chip that’s inside the box.

“This is the most special U-chip of all,” I say to her and her new child, even though neither of them can hear meē. “This is the beginning of the real ‘begin,’ Mrs. Tāu.” I hold my breath, my eyes dilate, and adrenaline sparks through meē as I proficiently fuse the tiny little chip on the baby’s inner wrist.

“This is the first faulty U-chip of its kind.” I then hold up the newborn’s arm to the light and it shines like a second saānrise. The procedure is complete.

“This is the start of the rebellion.”

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|02|

THE UNUSUAL SOUND

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:04āam |

I t is the most bizarre feeling, to have been unconscious. My eyes have never been closed for so long and my body has never felt the feeling of lying on a flat surface. As reminded by Peār, syncing and annual updates prevent my body from needing ‘rest.’ It is a word that is unusual and foreign to meē and I feel unsettled whenever I utter it. Yet, I have just rested and it is all so odd. I remember when my doctor scheduled my birthing procedure and the U-file that synced into my U-chip the next daāy. It explained the Begin Station as well as the birthing

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procedure and how it is the most extraordinary of operations that can ever be performed. The document then explained that in order to keep the process of life and the true nature of who we are sacred I, the maāther, must be ‘asleep.’ It is as if I was weightless and swimming in a black abyss. I could not feel anything. And suddenly, all my senses began to slowly reform. Memorīes, thoughts and feelings began to brighten in my mīnd like a recharged Lite Plant and I could finally open my eyes again. Sleep. It feels wrong and has left meē feeling uneasy. I was not able to answer my U-mail, check my U-accounts or scroll for any updates whilst I was ‘asleep’. I am glad that I was not ‘resting’ for long. “Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” a cool female voice says over meē. “Your operation was a success. You are now the owner of a healthy baby girl.” My eyes adjust and I look up at the nurse who has a neat little eight printed on her shirt. “Thankthankyou, Nurse Eight,” I say, my voice a little weaker than I would like. “Do not worry, Mrs. Tāu. We will inject you with Recoverī Fluid and you will instantly feel better,” she says as if she can read my mind. “Dr. Singkū will be with you shortly. Please feel free to turn on your U-chip and respond to any pressing matters until that time.” I nod at Nurse Eight and she promptly leaves the room. I sit up and begin to examine the changes that have occurred to meē. Firstly, the most notable difference is the removal of the small child that was inside my stomach. I now feel detached from my child and this knowledge spreads sorrow like unwanted serum throughout my body and braāin. In response, I wait in expectation for an advert for AntiNeg-Thought Medīcation, however my U-chip remains silent. I bring my inner wrist up and press my U-chip. Odd, they must have

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turned it off during my procedure. I have silenced my U-chip during mandatory period or reflect periods, but my U-chip has never been off. Upon my touch, I feel my U-chip pulse and I welcome the warm feeling of its presence. It saturates my body and instantly changes my entire being. “Mrs. Tāu.” Dr. Singkū walks into the room with a vial of crystal blū liquid. “How do you feel?” “Odd, if I am honest,” I reveal, trying to sit up. “Is this to be expected?” “Very much so.” She sits beside meē. “However, this dose of Recoverī Fluid will revitalise you to full health. Birthing can wear on a female U-man and deplete her of her charge. But with one generous dose of this,” she taps the vial, “you will instantly feel as if no procedure has occurred at all.” “Very well,” I nod. “We turned your U-chip off for the procedure. Like falling unconscious, the deactivation of your U-chip is among the many firsts that you would have experienced todaāy.” “Yes, yes it is all quite odd,” I admit again as I click open my U-chip. As information syncs, several notifys ping in the left-hand corner of my screen and spread out in front of the doctor and meē. I already feel anxious about all the information that I have missed. “Do you have any questions, queries or concerns?” Dr. Singkū asks whilst the Recoverī Fluid is poured into a clear tube that connects to my bloodstream. As the liquid enters my body, I feel as if I am being cleansed with the purest Waterlite. It radiates throughout my body, erases any form of doubt, insecurity or negativity. It heals all of the discomfort and wipes the exhaustion away. I now feel unproductive lying on a flat surface. Any prior feelings of sadness are evaporated by the elation I now experience about the birth of my new daughter. I smile

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appreciatively at Dr. Singkū and shake my head. “Not at all, Doctor. I feel much better. Thankthankyou.” “Of course, my pleasure.” “When can I collect my daughter?” I ask, excitement rising though meē like a golden beam of warm light that has bloomed inside my heaārt. “Your healthy baby daughter is just getting cleaned, scanned and processed. You will be able to receive her in the Receiving Room momentarily with your spouse. Congratulations once again.” I nod at the doctor happily and notice that she stares into my eyes a multīsecond longer than normal before excusing herself from the room politely.

-

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:31āam |

It is a beautiful daāy when I step out of the Begin Room and into the commercial space of 81Sub Memorial. I briefly recall my last visit to 81Sub Memorial. It was when my faāther was scheduled to cease and had entered the End Station. My maāther’s time was just weeks before him. Ceasing is as natural as birthing, but the End Station is not as celebrated. It is a daāy of memorial and a daāy of saying farefarewell. I remember waving to my faāther as he disappeared on the conveyor belt, and in one multīsecond he was gone.

My mood dims. This thought pattern is not one I usually want to feel and, like a ping of new updates that have been downloaded into my braāin, happiness and serenity for this moment quickly replace it. “Neēreē!”

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My spouse, Noeāl, stands smiling under the Medī-Screens that depict the rooms, patients and current occurring operations. In the many years that we have been together it is as if he has not aged. He is the perfect man, according to everything I learned during my edūcation. Trimmed blonde hair slightly parted at the side, strong broad shoulders, a sharp jaw line that frames a close shave and an even, healthy skin tone. Striking blū eyes, thick lips, curved eyelashes and a straight, even nose. I quickly walk over and wrap my arms around him. “How are you? How is our little daughter?” he asks passionately, knowing, from the regular assessments taken prior to the birth, the sex of our child. “Waiting for us,” I say with pleasure. “Are you okay? How did it feel to be asleep?” “Unusual. It was odd not being in control,” I remark, but then I smile enthusiastically at him. “Let us go the Receiving Room and wait, shall we?”

-

| EXTRACTED FROM NEĒREĒ TĀU / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 14.08.3433 / 10:35āam |

The Receiving Room is heavily armed by Peār Protocols, something that we were forewarned about but that still takes meē off guard. They walk up and down, glancing at anyone and everyone suspiciously. Nurse Eight guides Noeāl and meē to the conveyor belt where we both press our U-chips into two indents of metal. Barely a moment later, there she is. Our little baby daughter with her U-Chip already fused onto her tiny little wrist. We touch her U-chip with both our left index fingers and it lights up for the first time.

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Name: We settled on her name the daāy before and we type it in to complete her birth certificate file. Knijä. I scoop her up and into my arms and Noeāl wraps his arms around meē. She smells light and clean, like soft Fabrī and Baby Cleanse. Her tiny little glossy eyes look up at meē. My body is pinging inside and a warmness trickles deliciously throughout my body. “She is perfect.” I put a finger out to stroke her cheek, and she takes it and holds onto it tightly. I gasp at this movement and a light chuckle leaves my lips. After receiving her welcome package via U-file to both of our U-mails, we say our final farefarewell to Dr. Singkū and Nurse Eight before transporting ourselves home via our private Navīgator. As the Navīgator independently speeds along a minor transit lane, several advertī suggest appropriate products to buy. “Congratulations on your new U-man! Open your U-shop to begin blending your child in todaāy!” “There are so many things to purchase,” Noeāl comments enthusiastically as home and commercial lots fly past us. He opens up his U-shop on his U-chip and advertī pop up recommending infant products for us to buy and informing us of what colours are in fashion in our sub. Hours later, after settling back into our home lot, Noeāl orders and processes all of the essential items we have not yet bought for Knijä. He marks them for delivery, whilst I settle Knijä into her new crib. Having been given the temporary approval for switching his daāy mandatory for nīght mandatory due to Knijä’s birth, Noeāl and I decide to consume a late meal together after our U-chips ping with a remīnder for us to eat.

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I scan my U-chip under the Nutrī Dispenser and a smaller portion box of Nutrī than I am used to drops from the consume box and falls into the delivery tray. “Well, it appears as if I am back to my normal late meal,” I say to Noeāl, having had significantly larger portions of different tasting Nutrī whilst I was gestating. We peel back the clear film off our late meal boxes and lift the thick pale orange liquid to our lips. It tastes of citrī, orangī’s and leīmon. After a few moments of soft conversation, the most unusual sound interrupts us. At first I think it is a bizarre new advert that has spluttered to life but, after a moment of adjusting, both Noeāl and I realise that it is coming from Knijä’s room. Racing to her, and to her cot, we see her mouth is wide open and her tiny little hands are curled into fists. “What on Metravā is coming from her mouth?” Noeāl asks with a gasp. I try to find the words as our little girl continues to emit the sound. “I am not sure. But, maybe—” I look to him and my eyes widen. “I think,” I stutter, pausing in reluctance, “I think she is alarming?”

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|03|

BEHIND THE CURTAIN

| EXTRACTED FROM NOEĀL TĀU /

COMMERCIAL LOT 215 OF 81SUB / 29.8.3433/ 1:08ppm |

| KNIJÄ: TWO WEEKS, ONE DAĀY OLD |

I am afraid to admit this to myself, however I feel as if I have no other choice. The past two weeks have been the most challenging weeks of my life for reasons that I cannot even comprehend. It began with that strange sound. My spouse and I were having the first late meal after the birth of our wonderful new daughter, Knijä. Since Neēreē and I discovered we were expecting, our heaārts have been filled

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with more life and colour than the sky on the eve of Newnew year. As we began sipping our Nutrī, we heard it – it was an eerie sound, like an alarm or siren. It was not something we had ever heard before, but it is something that we have come to know well in the last two weeks. That first nīght when we entered Knijä’s room, we came upon our new little girl wide eyed, her face turning a shade of red in distress. We instantly drew the curtains closed, turned the audio Receivers in the home lot off and crouched down beside our child. “We must call emergencī!” Neēreē insisted, petrified. “It will go down on our U-record, spouse, and hers! We must think of something else. We must be smarter!” I sit now, recalling the memorī as I scroll through the details as if I am scrolling through my U-feed. My body swells with nervousness. Peār, the global company that dominates all of Metravā and its individual subs, is not subtle in its message: there is no U in conformity. “Maybe pick her up,” I suggested. “Perhaps she is restless.” “Why would she be? Her U-chip should be pacifying her.” Neēreē pressed Knijä’s U-chip and tiny little pixels blasted into the air. “Did they program it accurately?” “They must have,” I assured her. “Here, look through her U-bar.” We quickly swiped through Knijä’s U-bar which outlines everything including her medī details, her stored and recorded data, her certificates, her personal currencī, official docūments and her U-media accounts, which will eventually be for her own use when she comes of age. “Everything looks in order.” I swiped again, before pushing it away, the pixels dissolving in the air. “We cannot call the emergencī or Peār Protocols.” “They will report it to Peār,” Neēreē murmured, and,

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after realising the gravity of the situation, she picked up our new little daughter, the sounds escaping her dissipating moments later. We stayed silent as we tried to make the connection between her being picked up and her no longer crying. “She just wants to be held,” I said in almost a whisper. I recall all of this on this bright daāy. It is Mon1daāy, the first daāy of the week. In front of meē, Knijä sleeps in her Portable Pod as the saān shines down on us. The occasional park-goer either strolls or runs past us with a warm and faithful “hihi”, some even stopping to admire or congratulate meē on my new child. However, I keep a thick blanket covering my daughter, anxiety flooding through meē whenever anyone asks to see her. I get up and we begin making our way back to our home lot, the faint backdrop of Metravā City in the far distance remīnding meē of its authority. It has been very difficult for Neēreē and meē, neither of us really knowing what to do, taking best guesses as we go. Many people have asked to come over, to see Knijä and to celebrate our happy and healthy new baby daughter. Knijä is all of these things though, I think to myself as I open the entrance to 2807, but she is different too. I wheel my daughter’s Portable Pod into her room and shut the curtains, the removal of the saānlight making the room disconcertingly cold and unnerving. “Do not worry, my wonderful little daughter,” I say to her as I remove the blanket that conceals the truth. “We will somehow manage to get through this.” I lift Knijä up to my chest and inspect her differences. My daughter has grown very quickly in the past two weeks. She is unlike anything I have ever seen. At first she had blū eyes and a bare head, just like any other newborn. Yet now,

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she has dark curling hair that spirals from her scalp, dark, almost wood-like eyes and the most unusual patterns that cover her palms and the tips of her fingers. “I still love you,” I say to her as she looks up at meē with a mischievous smile. “I love you even though I know deep down that you are not U-man.”

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|04|

MASK

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 30.08.3433 / 7:12āam |

It has not taken long for the Tāus to undercover the truth: that I incorrectly fused their daughter’s U-chip. I sit in front of my first patient for the daāy. I have just extracted her baby from her stomach. The little boy is beside meē in a temporary Medī Cot, complete with dangling ornaments to naturally pacify him from crying, as I receive the notīfy that I have a call from Mrs. Tāu. “Goodgoodmorning, Mrs. Tāu,” I answer, tapping the ‘accept’ button. “I apologise sincerely for this unplanned call,” Mrs. Tāu

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whispers into my Receiver. “May we speak privately for a moment?” “Nothing is private,” I warn her. The pressure in my voice suggests I know that she wants to tell meē something, but that it should not be discussed through this transmission. “Perhaps there was an issue with the U-file that I sent you.” It takes Mrs. Tāu a small moment of reflection to understand.

“Yes, Doctor, the U-file,” her voice inflects, going so hoarse that I struggle to grasp what she tells meē. “The U-file, Doctor, is not like the other U-files that others have been given.” I consider what could be happening to the Tāus, my braāin growing eager in thought. The curiosity gets the better of meē and I cannot help but ask, “What does your U-file look like, Mrs. Tāu?” “What does it look like?” Her mīnd clicks like predictable padlocks. “Doctor, this U-file looks different to the other U-files out there.” “Different how?” I press. She thinks again before answering, “The font is similar to the other U-files, but there are distinct differences.” “I see,” I say clearly as I press my wrist to a tiny little metal box. The latch snaps open. “Well then, I best come over just this once to ensure that your U-file is in order.” “Yes, please hurry, Doctor,” Mrs. Tāu urges. “You are the only one who we both trust.” “I understand perfectly,” I affirm. “I will just perform this fusing and then I will be there.” “Of course, Dr. Singkū,” Mrs. Tāu politely replies. I imagine her nodding her head on the other end. “U-mail meē your address. I will see you shortly.” The transmission ends and I instantly command my U-

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chip to make another call. “U-chip: contact base camp.” Not a multīsecond later, a voice speaks into my Receiver. “Såvje?” they ask meē. “I have secured this transmission. Peār cannot hear us.” “They have finally made contact,” I inform my colleague. “They wish for my advice and for meē to go to them.” “Wonderful,” the voice softens from unsettled ambivalence to sincere warmth as I reach for the surgical pliers with my gloved hands. “Then, as instructed, we must arrange for the touchable packages to be sent. We can only have you visit them once, otherwise Peār will become suspicious.” “Yes, of course.” My mīnd drifts as I use the pliers to pick up the U-chip that will now be fused into the small baby beside meē. The baby in question is of dark skin, with a small tuft of black hair on his scalp and an indisputably sour grimace wrinkling his face. I allow the little thing to emit a tiny cry as my mīnd flashes back to the tragedy that led meē to the organisation that I am now a part of. It flashes throughout my braāin like an emergencī advert.

-

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / HOME LOT 4402 OF 27SUB / 12.3.3422 / 10:37ppm |

I stand over them, their U-chips removed. I see them for who they truly are for the briefest moment. The very moment I uncover the truth, the walls around us explode. I fall from the impact and Nitrobullets fire, my ears bleeding from the sheer sound of the noise. Blood and anguish splatter all

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over meē. They are dead. Dead at the hands of Peār.

-

| EXTRACTED FROM DR. SÅVJE SINGKŪ / 81SUB MEMORIAL / 30.8.3433 / 7:16āam |

If I were not U-man, the emotion brought on by the flashback would have meē crying. Yet, in order to truly overthrow the corruption in Metravā, I must somewhat blend in. “Knijä,” I say to myself like an affirmation as I take the U-chip and hover it over the little wrist of the baby in front of meē, who looks as if he is seconds from erupting in a fit of Waterlite. As the little child opens his lungs to belt out a fit of protests, the U-chip attaches to his skin and any noises he was about to make are masked. “The Synthetī nūrons are now attaching to every particle of who you were meant to be,” I explain to the baby, as I do to every baby that I have fused, bar Knijä. “You may be masked for now, little one,” I watch as his skin turns from the darkest shade of brown to the lightest shade of cream in front of meē, “but you will not be masked for long.”