by Morgan Bliss
Morgan Bliss spends the first part of her day as an assistant professor, the second part of her day as a doctoral student, and the late evening trying to piece together story fragments with whatever brain power she has left. She calls herself the “Industrious Hygienist” (no, it has nothing to do with teeth) and spent ten years as an industrial hygienist and safety professional. She maintains a blog at industrious-hygienist.blogspot.com with technical articles, manga, and sock puppet videos about occupational health and safety.
According to the Company, I died 22 days ago. They even sent my parents a {{ping}} to notify them. The message said: {{PING: Eunji Nexi expired 0221 Earth Standard Time [EST]. We regret the loss of your daughter. Acknowledge receipt of message.}} My father forwarded the {{ping}} to me, asking what kind of malarkey I was up to and warning me not to mess with my implant.
I can't help but grin at the memory for two reasons. First, I should not be able to remember anything—the implant controls and enhances my memory, recording everything I see. Second, I didn’t do anything to the stupid implant. It failed. None of this is my fault.
After weaving through crowds of people and robots between work shifts, I arrive at Medical. I stand in front of the locked sliding door, fidgeting and waiting to be noticed. I am supposed to check in with Medical every shift to show them I’m not dead and let them check my biolinks. Since my biolinks are keyed to my identification card, and my ident card has been deactivated, I can’t get access to any secured locations.
“Are you dense, Nexi? Scan your card!” A grouchy medical technician brushes past me, flashing her card at the reader. I try to sneak in behind her before the door closes, clutching the edge of the door with my fingers, but I am unsuccessful. It slams shut, and I barely move my fingers in time. I wave both arms above my head at the camera, hoping to catch the attention of a security guard.
Finally, one of the guards notices me, and the door whisks open. Magboots clanking over the threshold, I jog into Medical and report to the guard, who has a peculiar expression on her face. Normally, I would call up her records through my implant and see her name and Company status. I give her a cautious smile.
“You’re the broken Nexi?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Affirmative. I am Eunji Nexi, Building Epsilon.”
“I’ll walk you back to the exam room.” She gets up from behind the desk and holds the door open for me.
I follow her past the detector units and through wide hallways that all look the same. With a completely maxed-out implant, I can’t access maps or files. I shouldn’t be able to access my memories. We arrive at an exam room, and the door whooshes open to reveal the same medical technician I’ve seen multiple times per day for the last fifteen days. I don’t know his name.
“Eunji, you successfully navigated the transition from Epsilon to Luna Central.” The medical technician speaks in an eerily monotone voice, which lets me know he is recording this session with his own implant. “Your teachers say you are handling the assignments well. And your supervisor is amazed at your productivity despite the, um, handicap you have experienced.”
Reflexively, I reach for my robotic left arm and try not to get angry. I hate it when they talk of handicaps and productivity. I’m just as capable as anyone else. I’d be more productive if I could afford a better prosthetic. This one twitches and spazzes out at the worst times. Gritting my teeth, I take a deep breath and clench my fists at my sides.
“I apologize,” he says quietly. “I meant, the, um, inconvenience of your implant failure. Not your arm.” Opening the assessment chamber, he gestures to it. “If you please?”
At his request, I step inside the assessment chamber, shivering under my coveralls. Lights flash, weird buzzing noises surround my head, and icy cold mist sweeps over any exposed skin. I feel pressure building inside my skull as the Company tries to access my implant remotely to reactivate it—every access attempt feels like a…well, I don’t have words to describe it. Sort of like they are scooping out the area behind my eyeballs. It’s weird.
Assessment complete, I step back out of the chamber and hug myself with my arms, trying to get warm again. The medical technician reviews the results on his vidscreen, making quiet noises to himself. Everything looks green, except the flashing red “FAILURE” next to my implant’s status.
“It’s the most curious thing,” the technician begins saying, brushing his short hair back with his hands.
“Am I free to go, sir?” I ask, trying to interrupt him. I don’t have time for another of his ridiculous theoretical discussions—the one last shift was bad enough.
He turns from the screen to look at me with newly curious eyes. “What? Oh, yes, you’re free to go. It’s just…I almost wish we had more time to study you. There’s no point in wishing now.” He points to the bottom right-hand section of the screen, where a brand-new update is flashing.
I read it on the screen at the same time the {{ping}} arrives in the corner of my vision. {{PING: Implant repair for Eunji Nexi scheduled for 1830 EST tomorrow, pending arrival of Dr. Yasilvous on Luna. Absence from work and academic requirements is approved.}} Feeling a thrill of terror course through me, I can’t hide the fear in my eyes.
“Don’t worry, Eunji,” the technician says, clearing the screen. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, once the biolinks are reestablished and you have access again. It will be just like it was before.” Gently pushing my shoulder, he moves me toward the open exam room door, where the same security guard is waiting for me. “It will be just like it was before,” he repeats hollowly.
I let the guard lead me through the hallways and back to the Medical entrance, lost in my thoughts. I don’t want it to be like it was before. I’m just a Nexi. They didn’t need to rush this repair—it’s only been twenty-two days. There’s nothing important about my memories.
Without paying attention, I somehow make it back to Building Epsilon, to my dorm where all the other kids in my age group are getting ready for bed. Pounding on the door for them to let me in, my legs feel wobbly, and my hands, even the robotic left one, are shaking. I am choking back tears, feeling them burn at the corner of my eyes.
Everyone else is already dressed in their nightwear, milling around. I get ready for bed as fast as I can, hoping to crawl under the thin, scratchy blanket and be left alone. But my best friend Riko calls out to me as I emerge from the communal bathroom. “It’s your turn tonight, Eunji! Your turn to tell a story.” Taking turns telling stories is a favorite in our dorm room before heading to bed. My stories have been very popular of late.
All nine of my dorm mates are already lined up on floor pillows, faces expectant. Last week I told them a story about a space dragon and his pet astronaut. This time, since it is my last night of mental freedom, I’ll have to make it an especially good story.
“I want you to close your eyes and imagine a mouse.” My dorm mates are confused. I pantomime the action, using my fingers to close my eyelids. I know at first, when you close your eyes, there is only blackness. It’s pleasant, underrated even.
“Don’t search for images. Don’t force a memory recall. Imagine a mouse.” I open my eyes and peruse their faces.
Some of the kids from Earth are here—their parents are probably at a shareholders’ meeting or some required training for the Company. I see their eyes moving frantically even when closed. This should be a simple exercise, really, but I’m sure it is the first time in a long time that anyone has asked them to imagine anything. They probably had to dictionary the word.
“Can you see it? Can you see the mouse in your mind?” I query, walking around the room. Several heads nod. “Open your eyes,” I command with a quiet voice.
One of the kids from Earth, voice quavering, asks me, "Eunji, what color is the mouse?"
“What color do you want it to be? Brown?” I suggest, walking over to where he sits on a floor cushion. I crouch down next to him. He is startled for a moment when he sees my robotic arm, then blushes and looks away. I’m used to the stares—when I lost my arm, it was weird for me at first, too.
“Um, a gray mouse? Mice are gray, right?” He won’t look at me now. Riko {{pings}} me a quick personnel file—she knows I can’t look them up. His name is Nasim, and his parents are both on a training regimen for a few weeks. It’s his first time off-planet visiting Luna.
“It could be a magenta mouse, if you want, Nasim,” I tease. With a quick smile, I stand back up and start pacing in front of the room. “Now close your eyes again, and I’ll tell you the story of the singing mice.” All nine of my roommates shut their eyes.
I begin, “There was once a scientist on Earth who was in the middle of some very interesting research on long-range communications, but she was transferred to Luna for an important project for the Company because of her brilliance. Once she finished the Company project, she longed to replicate and continue her research on Luna. She asked permission from the Company to bring her special mice to Luna, and they said yes, under certain conditions. The mice would never be allowed out of their cages, and they would be recorded at all times. The scientist said she would be happy to comply, and she and the special mice were soon given lab space in Building Omicron.”
“How much lab space?” This question comes from a brown-haired boy named Nathan, whose parents, per the file Riko {{pings}} me, work in research and development. Lab space is a touchy topic for research kids.
“Just one room. Barely larger than a storage closet,” I answer. He seems satisfied by this answer.
Since I still have their attention, I continue. “You may be wondering what was special about these mice. They were cloned from extinct mice that used to live in the cloud forests of the Amazon. These mice were modified so their songs could not be heard by humans. The scientist’s singing mice were supposed to be used for long-range communications research.”
“Supposed to?” Nathan asks. Deviating from established lab procedures is also a disruptive topic for research kids. “Why didn’t she follow the approved protocols?”
I smile even though they can’t see it. “This scientist realized, when she brought the mice to Luna, she had accidentally separated some mating pairs. She tried to get the mice to participate in her experiments, but they were too sad, just lying around, eyes closed, singing songs. Although the scientist could not hear the songs with her ears, the songs set any nearby instruments into a frenzy of activity."
“Why didn’t she just cancel the experiment and order new mice?” Nasim asks.
“She didn't want her special mice to be killed just because they weren’t working for her experiment, so she devised a new experiment. When she contacted her old lab on Earth, some of the sad, separated mice immediately cheered up. In the background of the vidscreen, she could see the other mice, their mates on Earth, clawing at their cages, and it looked like they were singing, too. Watching her mice, she noticed their bright, open eyes and joyous behavior. It seemed like the mice knew their family’s songs even though they were worlds away.”
{{PING: Dream Sequence Initializing.}} We all feel the dream {{ping}} from the Company. It is almost impossible to ignore. All nine of my dorm mates open their eyes at the exact same time. They rise from the floor cushions at the same time, go to their bunks at the same time, and slide under Company-issued blankets at the same time. Only I remain standing, fighting the urge to follow orders. The Company {{pings}} me again, this time with a cautionary warning that disobedience is not part of my contract.
I sigh in resignation. I didn't finish the story, and the end is the most important part!
Tomorrow, when the Company fixes my implant, I may not be able to recall the rest of the story. I haven’t recorded it anywhere. I don't want to record it. I want to remember it, word for word, image for image, feeling for feeling. For twenty-two days, I have been free. For twenty-two days, I have just been a person, not a Nexi.
Crawling into the narrow bunk, I wrap the light blanket around my body and ignore the dream {{ping}} one more time. The Company wants us to dream about engineering specifications for a new geologist robot, but I decline the request again. If I have to go back to being a Nexi tomorrow, I am going to dream my own pleasantly chaotic and unpredictable dreams.
{{PING: Stop Rest Period.}} Soon after being {{pinged}} awake, the Company notifies all Nexi children to report for work detail at the Production Room during first shift. We are scheduled to attend school the following shift, which is the reverse of how our day usually goes. Nasim and Nathan and any other Earth kids are exempt from work requirements since their parents are shareholders in the Company.
After our pre-shift meal, I learn that one of the surveying crews has returned early with a huge haul of minerals from the Trojan asteroids. I also receive a {{ping}} from the Company that the returning survey crew needs to complete overdue safety training before they can receive payment. With no adult safety coordinator immediately available, and the urgency of the surveying crew's pay schedule in doubt, the Company deems me the most qualified of all available Nexi. The Company {{pings}} me to step in at Production Line 4 and serve as safety coordinator for the day. Pulling on my green coveralls, I verify all the needed training requirements on a handheld tablet and shove cold feet into a pair of magboots. The surveying team won’t be expecting a 14-year-old girl, and they certainly won’t be expecting an amputee with the cheapest robotic arm available.
Production Line 4 is just down the hall from the communal Nexi living quarters in Building Epsilon. I hate Production Line 4. It’s a stupidly designed room, with careless adult workers and bad memories. The Company knows I hate Production Line 4.
The exhausted group of surveyors laughs when they see me. “What’s this? Are they all out of grown-up safety people up here in the sticks?” the survey team supervisor jokes, holding out his ident badge for me to scan.
“You’re back early, and I’m certified to document your training.” I scan the other badges and retrieve their training records from the tablet. “Supervisor, you’re due for twelve modules of training. Take your place at Station 1A. Engineer, you’re due for eight modules of training, please sit at Station 1B. Senior Miner, you’re due for seven modules of training and a qualification exam. You can be at Station 1C. Robotics Technician, you have eight modules of overdue training. Please go to Station 1D.”
The four workers groan and shuffle toward the labeled screens and, I know from experience, chairs no one would believe could be so uncomfortable. Once they are seated and facing me, I begin to speak again. “I am Eunji Nexi, and this session is being recorded. Survey Team 452V, you may begin your required training.”
Swirling around to face the workstations, all the workers place their hands on the screen, speak their names, and then groan again at all the training modules that pop up. The robotics technician, a tall, blonde woman named DeWitt, grins at me and gestures toward the empty chair in Station 1E. “Do you have to stay standing to record us, or can you join me?” she asks, swiping through the first module.
Interestingly, Station 1E is not actually a separate cubicle like the other stations, but a screen and ugly chair combination shoved into a corner of the oversized Station 1D cubicle. The Company installed it in case it was needed for peak training times but then refused to allow anyone to use it since it is partially obscured from the Production Line 4 cameras.
“I can join you,” I answer and sit down next to her, attempting to get comfortable in the awful chair.
“These modules are super easy,” DeWitt confides, continuing to swipe through the screens at a fast pace.
“You are required to complete all eight modules of this training within the allotted time frame,” I remind her, hiding my own smile in case she is recording our interaction.
“Oh. Well, that’s stupid. I don’t need eight modules to learn about hazardous gases and equipment safeguarding. I handle all that stuff every day, and there’s a bunch of ways to work around the procedure—I mean, to…ugh. I forgot you were recording.” Her voice trails off.
I meet her eyes with a hesitant smile and whisper, "Are you? Recording, that is?"
“Colliding comets, no! I have rules and regs on closelink recall. No need to document this.” DeWitt points to the screen, showing her perfect score so far on the pre-tests and post-tests for each module.
“Can you keep a secret?” A ridiculous question, I know. Nexi have no secrets. I don't even know why I ask her this.
“Sure. It’s been a long time since anyone asked me to keep a secret. But I’ll keep my eyes on the screen just in case.” Turning her head, she gives the screen her entire visual focus. In that moment, even for a few seconds, I feel like a real person.
“I’m not recording, either.” I keep my voice quiet so the other members of her team can’t hear. “I can’t record. Haven’t been able to for twenty-three days.”
“But you're a Nexi!” Her face remains composed, but her voice holds surprise as she stammers, “How do they—how are you—how have they let it go for so long? What happened?”
I chuckle a little. It is so dumb. “You know how the Company only started implanting kids fifteen years ago?” She nods, so I continue. “My generation—Nex59F—was one of the first to get the implants. They’re supposed to last until we’re old enough to go on projects. The Company was sure they’d calculated the storage capacity correctly for eighteen to twenty years of memories.”
Our implants, for now anyway, record only images. Every time the Company’s tried to expand it to include audio, it’s been disastrous. People would have balance issues or noisy, painful interference and quickly overloaded memory cores. If audio were feasible, I’d have probably maxed out my implant when I was a child.
“How old are you?”
“I’m fourteen. And I filled up the storage twenty-three days ago. I haven't been able to record anything since then, and my biolinks stopped transmitting when the storage maxed out.” I laugh, this time loudly enough to receive curious stares from her team members. “Eyes on the screen, please,” I call out in my best stern tone. My attention back on DeWitt, I confide, “They thought I was dead for about a week.”
“Really? I’m surprised they haven’t fixed it yet.”
Just then, what flashes through my mind is the general strangeness of this situation. The Company is fully aware that Survey Team 452V’s training session is not being recorded, so I have no idea why they assigned me to this group. There are other safety coordinators available among the Nexi. Part of me thinks that this is some sort of test, or a punishment for ignoring the dream {{pings}} for the last few weeks. I play with the frayed corner of my coveralls sleeve.
“It’s happening today,” I whisper. “And I don’t want it.”
“What’s it like? Being Nexi?” She glances at me for a second and then focuses on the screen in front of her.
I chew on my lower lip and slouch in the uncomfortable chair. “I didn't mind it before. I didn't know any better. But now?” Pulling my feet up onto the seat, I wrap my arms around my legs and trace the seams of my magboots. “We know everyone hates us. We know everyone hates being recorded all the time. We’re used to not having any privacy. We’re used to the Company analyzing every tera of data for anything they can use or sell.”
“When did you get the implant?” DeWitt answers some of the questions on the screen with quick jabs of her fingers.
“I’ve had it since just after I was born. My entire life has been recorded. The Company has every piece of data about me since my parents first found out they were having me: biolinks, memories, you name it.”
DeWitt spins in her chair to look at me, examining me from head to toe, from my closely cut black hair to my too-big magboots. “You really can’t turn it off? The implant is always on?”
I nod and sit up straight, throwing my shoulders back. Suddenly remembering there are still cameras in Production Line 4, I realize I am too close to DeWitt. I should attempt to keep up appearances. “Every memory. Everything I see. Every excitement and every fear. They keep and analyze everything.”
Standing, I look toward my Nexi dorm mates in the production room working at the production lines. Two of them sort crates of minerals while one ferries the crates to quality control. The remaining four wear complex, oversized goggles next to the micronizer to identify the type of minerals and contaminants. Children are no longer allowed to work with the micronizers. A memory, not a file recall, flashes into my head, and I feel a cold sweat break across my forehead.
“Are you okay?” DeWitt pauses from her training to examine me again.
Taking a deep breath, I sit back down, using my right hand to feel the cheap synthskin applied to my robotic left hand and forearm. “I’m the last Nexi child to work on a micronizer. Five months ago, something went wrong with the lasers inside the machine, so I called my supervisor over. Instead of following procedure, he just paused the machine and opened the sheath. A technician up at Base 2 noticed that the machine was paused, so he turned the micronizer back on.”
Clenching my robot fist, I continue, “My supervisor was sucked in and, well, micronized. I tried to grab him, but the conveyor was too strong. My arm was sucked in, too.”
DeWitt shudders. “Micronized. Yuck, that’s a horrible way to go.”
“Yeah. Nothing left to reconstruct. And since I’m still growing, they won’t fit me with a proper prosthetic. Just this ancient relic.” Rolling up my sleeve, I show her the crude attachment mechanism and the rough surface underneath the synthskin.
She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “I haven't seen work this shoddy since my days at university. This thing is at least thirty years old,” DeWitt comments as she moves the stiff joints of my robotic wrist and fingers. Her fingernails are painted a bright blue and green, with chips at the edge of the nails.
I point her back to the screen, where a question on a timer is awaiting her response. “The worst part about all of it is the dreams,” I respond, tracking the progress of her teammates on their training.
“Do you have nightmares about it?”
“Nightmares? No. We don’t, I mean, we can’t…we don't really dream. The Company pushes us, well, {{pings}} us what they say are dreams, but they’re just problems they want us to work out. Sometimes it’s just other people’s memories that they sort of mash up together to make it seem like we are dreaming. I saw myself in one a couple months ago.”
This apparently gets her attention. DeWitt jerks her hands back from the screen and holds them to her stomach for a moment, breathing deeply, glaring at the screen. “You can’t dream?”
I spin around in the chair to gather my thoughts, swinging my legs in the air. “I can. I have, for twenty-two nights. At first I thought I was going crazy. I’d try to find the images I saw in my mind or search the details of the dream to see what the Company was trying to tell me. I even started making up stories to tell my dorm mates before bed. Fairy tales, I guess you’d call them.”
She seems intrigued, so I continue, “I started one about these singing mice, you see. They sing songs we can’t hear because the frequency is too high for our ears, but you can play the songs back at a lower frequency to understand them. They close their eyes, sing to their distant families and remember them.”
DeWitt grins. “Singing mice? That’s adorable. What happens to them?”
{{PING: Report to Medical.}} I suddenly feel sick. Woozy, with my heart pounding in my chest. It’s too early. The implant repair isn't supposed to happen until next shift. Gulping in air, I feel the fingers of my right hand trembling against my leg.
“I’m sorry, I have to leave,” I say, trying to stand and hold my shuddering body upright.
“But what about the mice? I want to hear the end of the story,” DeWitt jokes, but she quickly realizes that something is wrong. “Eunji, what’s happening to you?”
I just shake my head, too quickly, and feel even more dizzy. “It’s time. They just called me to Medical. I’m not…I don’t…I don't know the end of the story. I haven’t made it up yet. But now, now I’ll never know it.” The Company {{pings}} me again with the fastest route to Medical. “They’ll be sending another safety coordinator to supervise in a few minutes. It was nice to meet you, DeWitt.” I give her the bravest smile I can and walk out of Production Line 4.
Once in the corridor, I wander, ignoring the {{pings}} from the Company with every wrong turn and detour. My path weaves around fellow Nexi, shareholders, robot partners, crates of minerals, and security guards. I keep my gaze at the floor and walk as quickly as I dare, running when no one can see me. When I reach the edge of my approved sector, I feel a growing tension at the base of my skull. The implant begins to pulse, sending cascading waves of pain down my spine. Ignoring the pulses, I wait until a group of scientists opens the gate between sectors and follow them through.
No one questions me. It is unheard of for a Nexi to disobey orders. Once out of the public areas, I try to use my ident card to gain access to the sections of the base that only Nexi travel, but it doesn’t work. Wedging my robotic fingers into a service door frame, I pull with all my might and shove the door open. Taking the service tunnels, I jog to the farthest point of the base that I can get to: Building Omicron. Why did I pick this building as my story’s focus? Why did I pick singing mice? What is the end of the story?
Once inside Omicron, I force open the service tunnel access and emerge into the main corridor. The floors are dull with moondust, and I can only see faint robot tracks. This building is mostly used for storage now, so there shouldn’t be anyone to record me.
Turning a corner inside Omicron, I smack into a security robot. Before it can scan me, I shove it aside, smashing it into the wall, and run down a nearby hallway, magboots clanking against the floor. I hear the robot squawking as it tries to put itself upright. They already know I am here. They always know where I am. Breathless, I duck into an open doorframe and run down another short hallway. Through the windows in each door, I can see weird, colorful items stacked haphazardly, gathering moondust.
I soon hear voices and loud footsteps echoing from the main corridor. Human security guards, most likely. I try every door panel in the hallway, but all flash a red lock screen. Trapped. I could cower. I could beg. But in the end, I just stand there, arms folded across my chest, my face set in defiance.
“Eunji Nexi, you are out of your sector,” the female security guard speaks calmly, one hand on her weapon and another outstretched toward me.
“Disobedience is not part of your contract, Nexi.” The male security guard grabs my right arm and wrenches it behind my back, placing a demobilizer on my robotic left arm so that it hangs limply at my side. “You were called to Medical. You will go to Medical,” he says in the same emotionless, prescriptive voice.
I don’t fight. I don’t cry. I want to beg, and plead, and fight, to scream at them and run away. But it won’t help anything. They are just doing their jobs, and I am not doing mine. Instead, I just look them both in the eyes, sure they are recording or live streaming this, and repeat, “I was trying to find the singing mice. I was trying to find singing mice.” Let them think I am malfunctioning. Let the Company try to figure out what I mean. I’m not even sure what I mean.
The guards march me to the main corridor, where a rover waits, blowing accumulated moondust up the walls. Shoving me onto the rover, the male security guard clips my immobilized left arm to the handrail while the female guard navigates us through a labyrinth of tunnels. It seems no more than moments until we arrive at Medical.
When they sit me down at the exam table, I start to shake uncontrollably, and I hate it. For twenty-three days, there has been no record of me except what the Company can compile from others’ recordings. For twenty-three days, I have lived my own dreams and felt my own feelings. I remember what I want to and forget the rest. All the Company records will show is that I malfunctioned, I disobeyed, and I fear them.
“We know this has been a difficult time for you, Eunji,” my usual medical technician says with a false smile. “We’ll be updating your memory cores to prevent this from happening again. You may lose a few recalls during this process.” He places a sleep patch on my neck, and I watch him fiddle with his equipment until I fall unconscious.
“Will you tell us the mouse story?” Nasim begs me with a curious smile.
Yuko’s eyes are bright with excitement as she urges, “Yes, will you finish it?”
I pause from reviewing my school work and gaze around the dorm room. My other dorm mates are watching our interaction with hopeful glances. Nathan {{pings}} me a funny picture of a mouse wearing an opera costume, while Takuya and Yuko post an animated magenta-colored mouse that snacks on sheet music. I forgot how easy it is to connect, how it feels to have everything available with a thought, what it’s like to recall perfectly curated memories.
“What mouse story?” I tease them. “I don't remember any mouse story.” But I do remember the mouse story. I thought about it as I fell asleep during the update, and I told it to myself while my memory files expanded and rearranged. I know the ending now.
“Eunji, you don’t remember? The singing mice and the love songs?” Riko seems so saddened by this idea that I can’t help but laugh.
I set down the tablet I’ve been working from and gesture to the floor pillows. They seat themselves quickly and give me their focused attention. Stretching my arms out, as if to expand my thoughts and mind beyond the confines of my own body and its new memory cores, I wait until they are all expectantly listening. “I want you to close your eyes and imagine a mouse,” I begin.
“This mouse has whiskers and ears and a wonderfully long tail, like any proper mouse should. This mouse sings songs we can’t hear with our ears, and it sings to its love, worlds away. Now, you remember that this mouse was taken from its family and kept in a small cage with a bunch of other special mice. They were supposed to be used in an experiment. But the mouse and its friends missed their families so much that they couldn’t do the tasks the scientist wanted them to do.”
“We know that part!” Takuya exclaims with closed eyes. “Tell us the rest!”
I grin to myself. The Company is going to hate this if they find out. “This mouse, we’ll call her Miyako, could hear the songs of her love. She knew he was not there because she could not see him or smell him or feel him. But she sang to him anyway, and she knew he could hear her, too. The scientist, when she replayed the recordings and lowered the frequency, knew that she was witnessing something wonderful. When the scientist heard Miyako’s song and the response of Miyako’s love, she was heartbroken.”
“Why?” Yuko wonders, clutching her hands to her chest.
“Because mice don't live forever, and the scientist didn’t think the Company would let her bring up more mice for her experiment. The scientist realized that her experiment was cruel, and that, in just recording but not really listening to the mouse songs, she was doing more harm than good. Even with only that one live stream from the Earth lab, Miyako and her fellow mice seemed happy.”
Nasim opens his eyes for a second. “Happy?” His voice is disbelieving. “How?”
I consider my answer and the rest of the story. How can I explain it to them? How can I explain what it means to be Nexi, what it felt like to dream and imagine, and to feel like it was taken away? Most of them are younger than me, except Riko, and they don’t yet understand what our role is in the Company. They don’t realize how our lives are manipulated and recorded to protect the shareholders.
“Yes, happy. They played and worked and did the experiment that the scientist had lost interest in. But afterwards, when the work was done, the mice sang the sweetest songs to their families, cuddled together with their eyes closed. They remembered. And it was enough.”
Nathan and Yuko’s eyes snap open, viewing me with confusion. “And then what?” Nathan asks, squirming on his cushion. “Did they see their families? Did they find their love?”
I sit down in front of the floor cushions, cradling my robot arm, which still aches from the immobilizer. “Some people say that, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the singing mice in Building Omicron. But you must listen, and remember, and close your eyes. No recall. No recording. As long as it is just you and your imagination, they will come out and play.”
{{PING: Dream Sequence Initializing.}} We all stand up, go to our beds, and tuck ourselves in. We send each other pictures of mice of all colors and sizes, singing, eating cheese pellets, running in exercise wheels. I imagine, just for a moment, that my friends understand, before the Company’s dream sequence of mathematical models for mineral deposits pushes itself into my thoughts. I imagine a little mouse standing atop a hill, and it is enough to lull me to sleep.