The Prediction

My knee bounces like a jackhammer. I shift in my chair. The plastic covering squeaks and belches back at me. I wait for the Operator to tell me to relax. I think I’ll scream if she says it. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything. Not since I arrived, when she told me to be still and don’t touch anything. As far as I can tell, this is because giving a damn is not in Matty the Operator’s job description.

Not that I expected frilly cushions and tiny cups. You’re lucky just to find an Operator, if luck is really the right word. I heard the same rumors as every Third City kid. Tunnels beneath the subway. A Netband number that changes every day. Hidden doors in the capital building. You can rely on people to talk about what’s forbidden. It’s quiet. But it’s there. Even the war couldn’t crush our self-destructive human natures.

Matty the Operator evaluates my shoulder-length black hair and reaches for two white gloves. She slips her short fingernails into the latex. I get a whiff of sanitized death. The white fingers dive into a jar of clear goo and smear a fat glob across my head like a finger painting. It’s cold. Like ice water spiders crawling across my scalp. Spots of dry latex tug my strands.

When I heard about this Machine Shop, my gut said this rumor was different. Around a week ago, two grocery shelvers were whispering about some scrapped parts in a dumpster behind a computer repair store, wires like the kind in the fires always on the news. They were lucky it was just me behind the shelf, or they’d be dead.

Next to me, a steel tray is piled high with identical two-foot sections of wire coated in black rubber. Just like the shelver kid said. The tray is teetering on a tall grey— is that a machine? It must be the oldest thing in Third City. Scuffed and boxy. Are those buttons? I bet it doesn’t even have holographic display.

Matty plucks a black wire from the tray and connects an end with a metal horn to the front of the large grey machine. On the other end, she places a black suction the size of the tip of a finger. She sticks this new wire-suction contraption in the wet slime above my right ear. Slime, stick.

Her chest hovers in my face as her elbows jab the air around my head. Her sweater smells strange, like something burnt. It spoils the air between us. She rakes the glove through my hair, jerking my head back. My eyes water. I close them and breathe the stale ash air. Slime, stick, slime, stick. 

Think about something else. Was I careful enough coming here? I could have been followed. Slime, stick, slime, stick. I wasn’t careful enough. They could be here now. Any moment I’ll hear Peace Officer boots on the floor upstairs. Slime, stick, slime, stick. They’ll find me. This place isn’t even hidden. Why would Operators put a Machine Shop in the basement of a computer repair store? They thought no one would put machines and computers together? Slime, stick, slime, stick. I shouldn’t even be here. This isn’t me. Slime, stick, slime, stick. The morning news coverage for tomorrow plays in my mind. Two dead in a fire. A bitter taste forms in my mouth.  Think about something else. Slime, stick, slime, stick.

“Done,” says Matty the Operator.

She strips of the gloves, covered in goo and strands of hair, and steps back. Finally, my view of the room is not just Matty’s chest. I can see her face, green under the fluorescent lighting. Dressed in a black sweater and black pants, she looks like the pilot of an alien spaceship.

Matty moves around my chair, always careful to avoid my eyes. I watch her pass, but can’t turn my head further. The wires pull taught. She disappears behind me.

Alone. Me and the machine. I don’t want to be alone. One weak florescent bulb hangs from the low ceiling. The darkness around my island of light twitches and stirs, playing tricks on me. I feel unguarded, attached to this chair. I clench my eyes hard and try to relax. But it’s no use. The fear bubbles up. It grabs my heart like a fist. What the hell are you doing here? it screams. You’re not stupid. This isn’t you. Get out now. And the fear is right. The pealing gray door leading out of the basement attracts my eyes like an old habit. I imagine it bursting open. The room flooding with Peace Officers, dragging me into their black transport that will swallow me like a black hole. The door stays shut. I’ll say something when Matty comes back like, I changed my mind, I need to leave now. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Her boot taps echo around the small room. A different beast emerges in my mind, yanking fear down by the ankles and clambering to the surface. If you walk out the door, you’re dead. This is your only shot. Be strong. Be steady. This voice is right too. Intoxicating courage seeps into my brain. So, when Matty is at my chair the only thing I have to say is, “Are we starting?”

She brushes something off her sweater.

“No.”

How long have I been sitting here? The blank display of my Netband isn’t helping, turned off at Matty’s request. I feel lost without it’s pulse of digital life.

“Are you waiting for something?” I ask.

“Yes.”

She screws a lid on the goo jar and just stands there, watching the wall.

“What are you waiting for?”

 “Is something bothering you?”

For the first time, she puts her small grey eyes on me. They remind me of ash piles.

“It’s getting late.” I instinctively flick my wrist with the dead Netband.

One blond eyebrow rises up her forehead.

“Having second thoughts?”

“No.” How does she know? What did I say?

She snaps away from our eye contact and collects materials on the steel tray.

“Feeling guilty?”

I frown. I don’t have a response and she doesn’t wait for one, but carries the tray to the back of the room.

Alone again, the fear returns quickly. My eyes fall to the floor. I jump back in my chair. A beetle the size of a child’s fist is a foot away from my feet. It scuttles vigorously along the dusty cement floor, disgusting and beautiful. The six skinny legs move with mechanical speed. The black exoskeleton twinkles with the green tint of the florescent lights. The insect suddenly stops. It recalibrates and turns to face the staircase leading out of the basement. It darts hastily this new direction like a windup toy. A great escape.

Matty returns again from the back of the room. She doesn’t get far before her eyes lock onto the insect. She exhales loudly through her razor straight nose and purses her lips into a neat line. She takes a large step and takes aim.

Crunch.

The bug’s last moments. Summed up in one single grisly note. Matty rocks her boot back and forth. The last crackling sounds say there is nothing left to crush.

A door creaks open. My stomach drops. I’m quickly jarred back, and fear takes over again. Like a galloping horse, my heartbeat strikes up a furious rhythm. My heart is about to explode. This is the end. They’re here to take me away. But when my eyes shoot to the basement door, it’s still closed. There must be another door, somewhere in the darkness. A shiver courses down my neck. I’m exposed. I turn my head to get a look at whatever has just entered the room but the wires tighten. I can’t move any further.

 “Hold still,” Matty snaps.

“Eager to start?” A new voice behind my chair. A man’s voice. Not a Peace Officer. I’d recognize their boots a mile away. Wait, was that a joke? I could die tonight in a raid, melted plastic stuck to my crispy skin, but this Operator wants to tell jokes.

There’s a scar above his lip, too deep to be from shaving. I follow how it curves left like a hook across his brown skin. His eyebrows are tall but sparse like feathers. Next to the scar, under a wave of short black stubble, is a dimple. He holds out his hand.

“Sam.”

I shake his hand. Matty scowls behind him.

“Coria.”

He lets go of my hand and smiles with half his mouth, his cheek lifting so that his eye is almost winking. I sink back into the chair and feel my neck shrinking into my shoulders. For the first time tonight, I wonder how ridiculous I look.

“Ready?” he says, carrying on like my head doesn’t look like an upside-down jellyfish.

I nod, the wires on my head twitching.

Then his eyes meet Matty’s. His face goes slack except for intense eyes that seem to carry all the weight in his being. It means nothing to me. But Matty nods, a half smile creasing the bottom of her bony cheek where, for anyone else, would be called a laugh line. I know I’m on the outside of something. Have I ever given anyone a look like that? What it must be like to talk to someone without saying a word. Matty leaves us without one glance toward me. I’m glad she’s gone.

Sam moves beside me. He’s holding what looks like a black picture frame. He attaches the picture frame to the gray machine with a wire and presses one of the gray buttons. The surface of the picture frame lights up. A keyboard appears on the screen, black pictures of keys with white letters and numbers. The frame slowly fills up with white text, sending energy through my veins.

“So, this is the Machine,” I say, taking my eyes off the screen to ask him.

The same half smile appears as he nods, but like a dying light bulb, it flickers and fades away.

His hands fly across the buttons. The Machine comes to life, his insides purring under Sam’s fingertips. The purr builds into a roar as mechanical thunder echoes off the cement walls. My ribcage vibrates. I eye the door again. Still closed. This seething machine is all I can hear. My insides churn along with it. If the room is too loud… If a transport drives by….

The rumbling stops. I take a deep breath, and my heartbeat begins to slow. The Machine buzzes peacefully beside me.

“I’ll ask you some questions. Be honest. If you lie or skip anything important, the machine won’t give you a readout.”

 “I can do that.”

“Let’s start simple.” His voice is sturdy and calm. “What’s your name?”

“Corriander Sands.”

Sam reads the white text shooting across the screen in his hands.

“Occupation?” he asks, reading from somewhere in the white text.

“Recorder at the Historical Archives.”

Sam nods.

 “We’re coming up clear. Let’s get started.”

For the first time, I think about the Machine. Not the law forbidding its use. Not the Agents hunting for Operators and Users. The Machine itself. A machine that can forecast the future of anything. Or anyone. What do I have to say? What will I have to tell this stranger? I hope it goes quick.

It doesn’t. Sam fires off questions for what feels like hours. They start off light.

Where do I live? In a cold cement apartment. In a disturbingly gray cement apartment building. Between two similarly cold, gray buildings on a cement block of a cement town.

“144 Steele Street. Unit 27. Third City.”

What do I like to do?

“I like my job.”

Don’t lie.

“No, I don’t. I like when I finish my work. I just surf Archive entries for hours. Current events. Older ones. When I go home I watch some television and go to sleep.” Am I really that boring?

Describe a reoccurring nightmare.

Why would it need to know that? Whatever. I want this to work. I close my eyes. Immediately, I see the silver gleam. The orange blast.

“I’m standing in a playground. The equipment is old and broken down. The playground is surrounded by destroyed buildings and dirt. Far away is Third City. A silver shell falls from the clouds. Dozens more start falling toward the city. Somehow, I know that the first one makes contact with the sidewalk outside the Archives, where I’m working. But nothing happens. It makes a crater in the cement but doesn’t explode. All the other rockets do the same thing. Hit the ground but don’t go off. I hear shouting and cheering. Everyone is celebrating. Then a silver transport appears next to me. I didn’t see it arrive. The door slides open. There’s a gun. I don’t hear the bullet because, just then, all the bombs go off. The explosion shakes the ground. The city is a column of orange fire. I’m shot. Then I wake up.”

I look sideways at Sam. He’s watching me. He thinks I’m crazy. What other answers does he get? Nightmares about the war can’t be unusual. What do I care what he thinks? I fidget with the zipper on my jacket.

What was the last thing that made me cry?

These questions are harder. I want to lie. But I grab the sore memory and drag it to my tongue.

“Two weeks ago.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise.

“A man came to my apartment and says he needs me to do something for him. Something terrible. It’s why I’m here.”

The word feels strange in my mouth. This is the first person I’ve told. Anger simmers under my skin.

“What’s his name?”

Saying it makes it too real, and I look at the floor.

“Vauntus.”

He asks more questions. Where was he from. What did he want. I keep my eyes on the floor.

What’s the worst thing you’ve done to another person?

The pit of my stomach aches. Like he’s poked an open sore there.

 “It was during the last week of the war.” I suck in the musty basement air. “I was eleven. We’d been living in the basement for four months. I was so bored. I told my sister, when my parents were sleeping, we should bring our toys from the house.” She loved a plastic horse, yellow with white hair. She’d jerk it up and down in giant horse hops.

“So, we left the basement. The house had been looted and everything, even our toys, was stolen. I was looking for anything left behind under our bed when the plane dropped the first shell on our block. The whole house shook. Sukie just stood there screaming. I tried to grab her ankles. They dropped the second shell onto our neighbor’s house. The window sliced her into pieces. I never told my parents leaving the basement was my idea, but they knew.”

I look at the floor when I answer him, at the dark spot with the bug’s insides spread like strawberry jelly across the floor. I’m telling this stranger more than I ever wanted. I hate it. Time creeps by. Finally, Sam puts a hand on my arm.

“Okay. That’s it.”

I feel the pressure of his hand on my arm through the fabric of my sweater. It doesn’t feel cold like I expected. He pulls his hand away slowly and rounds my chair. His eyes are the color of coffee.

“Did it work?” I ask.

“It takes at least ten minutes. The Machine needs to match your data with the Archives.”

The answers were in the Archives all this time. How ironic.

“I’ll grab the steamer, so we can get these wires off.”

I look at my hands in my lap.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t mention it.”

Then it happens. A screen on the wall turns black. White words appear at the top.

>;>; SCAN [collected data] .... complete

>;>; DATA MACTHED [Archive correlate data] .... complete

>;>; SET [reliable prediction estimates] .... complete

“That shouldn’t happen yet. It hasn’t even been one minute.”

After a few seconds, more text follows. Two or three words appear at a time in rapid succession, rushing forth like water from a hole in a bucket.

>;>; 11.16.2084

>;>; Subject: “Corriander Sands”

>;>; She will sacrifice her life. She will bring about the end.

>;>; 1 year prediction: unavailable.

>;>; 5 years prediction: unavailable.

>;>; 8 years prediction: unavailable.