The Screen Room

C130 stared at the screen in front him. His eyes were to remain glued to the screen for the duration of his workday, as per company policy. But every once in a while, when he woke up for the day with a certain feeling of rebellious guile in his belly, he dared to cast a rapid glance beyond the borders of the screen. In the handful of times that he had done this, his wandering eyes had found nothing. There was only darkness behind the monitor, and it seemed utterly impenetrable. Had there been anything behind the screen, he doubted that he would have been able to see it anyway. It occurred regularly to C130 that the darkness was so thick that, had he stepped into it, he himself would be swallowed up by it. It was this thought that kept him staring at the screen.

On this day, he had managed to keep the unsettling thought from his mind for the most part. The screen rarely required his full attention, at least not until a new file moved the pixels around, so his mind was often wandering this way and that. He sometimes found himself wondering why the company required unwavering attention, given that the work itself was so mind-numbingly simple. A moment to consider, a few clicks, and then there was nothing to do for the proceeding three minutes. C130 supposed that it was a matter of principle rather than practicality—when at the workplace, workers should not engage in anything other than work. Indeed, the company also required that C130 wear the mandatory belt while he sat and stared at the company screen. He had always thought it looked like a seatbelt from one of those antique automobile machines, except that these had a keypad and a big red button in the middle. He remembered that during his introductory training sessions, one of the other workers in his cohort had asked about the purpose of this practice. The attendant had responded briskly: “The belt ensures worker engagement. Should you choose to remove it, the company will begin termination proceedings”. Termination proceedings. The phrase made C130 uneasy, although he couldn’t articulate why.

The pixels on the screen began to move, and the signature ping! alerted C130 to the new file that had appeared. It struck him that he hadn’t blinked in several minutes, and he quickly closed his eyes. The company encouraged those activities that they called Normalcies, and this included things like blinking, swallowing, cracking one’s knuckles, and stretching one’s wrists in a circular motion. Appearances were important to the company, and Normalcies were evidently the most important part of this. After blinking his eyes exactly three times, C130 clicked on the file. The standard table and description popped up, with a series of numbers and vague statements for him to “analyze”. In truth, there was never much for C130 to analyze. The files were straightforward, and it only took a few seconds for him to determine which folder they should go into. The file that was now on his screen was almost exactly like the rest; three marks on the side of the table labeled infraction, and one mark on the side of the table labeled reparation. The description simply read:

Subject committed three infractions, and two reparations. Subject did not meet judicial standards. Recommended categorization: One.

C130 closed the file, and dragged it to the folder labeled One. He dropped it. The monitor made a dull clunk sound, and C130 resumed staring at the screen absentmindedly. He began to consider why exactly it was that the company felt the need to add descriptions to the files anyway. They might as well just have written One or Two on the top of each one, and then let the workers put them into folders. Maybe they did it to provide a sense of autonomy—maybe they figured that having descriptions to read for each file would increase worker engagement. C130 didn’t entirely understand why exactly he was there in the first place, or why the company had any workers to begin with. An automated program, while outside his technical understanding, would have been able to accomplish the same thing, he supposed. Rather than having a building, the company could simply allocate a room for more computer systems in existing company property. If he had to guess, C130 would probably infer that it was an optics thing, to hire as many people as possible in the less important parts of the company. That way, the company wouldn’t suffer any serious inefficiencies in the conducting of its business. He didn’t really have a mind for that sort of thing. The big picture was most often too big for him to wrap his head around. The only thing that C130 was concerned about was sustenance.

By working for the company, C130 received regular sustenance, which the company attendants called portions and were otherwise rather difficult to come by. When he had come to the company, he had been desperate for portions, a feeling that he had almost forgotten since then. At the time, he had thought that he could force himself to stare at a computer screen for twelve hours straight if it meant a regular flow of portions. Otherwise, he would have had to scavenge, or worse yet, sell…

Ping! Another file. After glancing over it, C130 saw that there was only one mark under infraction and a corresponding mark under reparation. 

Subject committed one infraction, and one reparation. Subject met judicial standards. Recommended categorization: Two.

Again, he dropped the file into its respective folder. Clunk. He let his mind continue its wandering. Where was I? he thought. Oh, right. Portions. 

The portions came in small square packets, black and sealed tightly, delivered once weekly. The last time he had tried to open one, he had nearly knocked a hole in the wall of his room. Normally, the contents of the packets were powdery, and upon opening, workers could add water, mix well, and drink like broth. They didn’t particularly taste like anything, rather a kind of mildly salty, grainy type of water. C130 had once read about places far away where salty water stretched out for miles and miles as far as the eye could see, even if you had a vessel on which to traverse the great expanse. He thought that the portions must’ve been something similar to that water far away, though he had never seen or tasted it himself. On occasion, the company would send packets containing a brightly-colored liquid, which C130 absolutely hated. Another method of increasing worker engagement, he supposed, by giving workers rewards every so often. Aside from the fact that these liquids were so sickly sweet that they turned his insides to jelly, the difficulty that he had opening the packets meant that the liquid was always likely to end up on the floor. Instead, C130 threw them in an old cardboard box that he kept in the corner of his room, hoping to find something to do with them at some point in the future.

This morning, like all the rest, he had ripped open a packet and, of course, knocked some of the powder onto the floor. C130 had not bothered to clean it up. He had simply added water, gulped the stuff down, and made his way into the screen room. The screen room was three stories below his quarters, and he walked rather leisurely most of the time. It struck him as odd that he never saw any other workers in the morning—shouldn’t everyone else be going to work as well? And yet, for all the time he had lived in the company building, he hadn’t seen a single soul since the training session when he first became a worker.

When he had reached the level three stories below his room, C130 walked down the long hallway, finally stopping at the door labeled 587 in stark black letters. It had opened before him, and he walked to the seat in which he sat now. The entire room was engulfed in that terrible darkness, save the seat which was illuminated by the light of the big red button on the worker engagement belt. Once tightened across his lap, the screen turned itself on and presented C130’s first file of the day with a little ping!

He didn’t know exactly how long he had been sitting in the screen room. In fact, he never knew exactly what time it was. He only knew when to come to work when the light in his room changed from white to blue. C130 didn’t mind, really, except for the fact that his life in the screen room was so dreadfully boring. He had considered asking for a reassignment several times, but it had occurred to him each time that he didn’t know how to do so. He didn’t know where to find company attendants, he didn’t know where to find other workers, he didn’t even know where the exit of the company building was. It was always at this point that C130 decided that staying was probably better.

Ping! C130 opened the file. He scanned its contents. There were three marks on the side of infraction, three marks on the side of reparation. He looked to the description.

Subject committed three infractions, and three reparations. Subject met judicial standards. Recommended categorization: One.

C130 reread the table, and then the description. And then both again a third time. This did not make sense. If the number of infractions was met with the proper number of reparations, then why was the file designated as a category one? He began running through everything he knew about how the cataloging system worked. Folder two was for files that met judicial standards, and folder one was for files that did not meet judicial standards. Was it a clerical error? Could the company have made a mistake?

Normally, the work was so easy that it required no thought. In fact, C130 had never even thought to question the nature of infractions or reparations, or even what the term “judicial standards” meant. Without any other workers to converse with, he had never considered the content of the files. Until just a moment ago, they had been busywork, theoretical at best, some abstract company practice. Now, he poured over the words on the screen, trying to leach every ounce of meaning out of them.

He looked around into the deep darkness. There was nothing, as always, not a single glance of light or the outline of an object. Alone in front of the screen, C130 was at a loss. Could he simply guess at which folder to put the file in? The words of the attendant at his training session came back to him in a fuzzy recollection: “All files will be considered carefully and categorized correctly. Should you fail to categorize a file correctly, the company reserves the right to begin termination proceedings”. There it was again, that phrase. Termination proceedings. C130 attempted to calm himself. What do I know? He thought. Or rather, what do I not know? He knew that his categorization procedure up until this point had been correct, because he hadn’t yet been subjected to termination proceedings. He knew that both taking off the belt and a mistake in categorization procedure might result in termination proceedings. He did not know how to categorize this file with two contradicting pieces of information, or how to ask questions of the company, or where to find attendants, or even what the term “termination proceedings” meant. There was nowhere to go.

C130 sat there, attempting weighing the options in front of him despite not knowing their weight. He peered into the darkness of the screen room again. How could he be expected to solve a problem without any tools? How could he be expected to sit here, in this damn room, for twelve hours every day, without a single question? What the hell were judicial standards? He could feel that rebellious guile in his belly mixing with the frustration in his chest.

C130 set his jaw. He had made up his mind. Taking his eyes off the screen, he reached for the big red button on the worker engagement belt, the same one he pressed at the end of every day when it was time to return to his room. The belt clicked. He held his breath for several moments.

Nothing happened.

Rising out of the seat, he had just begun to approach the door when all of a sudden, the door opened of its own accord and the screen room was filled with the most blinding white light that C130 had ever experienced. He staggered back.

Worker C130, boomed a loud sharp voice. You have removed the mandatory worker engagement belt. This is a violation of company policy. Effective immediately, the company will commence termination proceedings.

Still blinded, C130 felt strong hands grab onto both of his arms, gripping so tightly that he gave an audible wince. As the hands dragged him out of the screen room, the starkness of the lights faded a little. He was just able to catch a glimpse of reflection across the room from where he had been sitting. Another second of visual adjustment revealed that the reflection was framed with plain white trim, a big rectangle cut out of the wall. A window. Fear washed over him. Would he meet judicial standards, he wondered? Maybe he would discover the contents of folder one firsthand. The phrase repeated itself over and over again in his head: Termination proceedings.