Against The Tide
#2badpagesaday (15)
The water fountains sit side-by-side, an opulent nod to the history of the building.
Close enough to make an excuse for proximity; far enough apart to deflect suspicion.
The fragrance locks the two spaces together. Wreathed around them; a sweet-scented cloak of invisibility. A heady, evocative path into the past. Her voice draws him sharply into the present.
“Time is short. We have been watching for you, seeking you out. You have much to offer our Community; we hope we have much to offer you too.”
Tide held his breath, allowing her words to linger in his consciousness.
“ You must return to the Atrium. This evening, on the Autotube, travel in Coach A … take Seat 27. Trust us. There is more to learn; so much more. It is our Nature.”
He turns away, knowing she has shared all she can share. Drawing his breath in deeply, one last time. Inhaling the sweet fragrance of times past. Walking back to the small gathering of Citizens. Taking his place on the fringes … on the edge … on the outside. Hears the {click, click, click} …
Hears the Bell. Following the others out of the Atrium, back into the workplace. Back to the piles of index cards. Back to the present. His mind on the future.
“ … It’s in our Nature …”
The Archivist stands in front of the marble-topped desk. The desk is raised, two steps higher than the polished concrete floor he waits nervously on. The Overseer is holding the one-page report at arm’s length, occasionally glancing over the top of the (ridiculously, though the Archivist would never say so out loud) spectacles perched on the end of his (rather large, though the Archivist would be at pains not to draw attention to that) nose.
The occasionally ‘ah’ or ‘hmm’ punctuates the unsettling silence.
The Archivist holds his own position of authority thanks to the Overseer’s patronage, plucked from a large cast of Citizen Administrators one surprising day back in Year 4. Luck? But luck can change. What goes up can also descend rapidly. Nervous; always on edge.
The pause lengthens.
Silence broken only by the dull click of the hand moving past the hour mark on the clock built into the wall behind the huge marble-topped desk.
The Overseer removes the (strangely colourful) spectacles, folds them deliberately, tapping them on the single sheet of vellum. “Nothing?”.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“I don’t like it. At all. The patterns look … unusual. Remove Citizens 1 to 10. Visibly. Zone 3 … perhaps some soil under their fingernails will reveal their dirty secrets. Clear them out. Offer half of them to the Head of Media; I shall look forward to watching how they get on. Expose them.”
The Archivist nods.
A little short of a bow. But sufficiently deferential. Acknowledging his place in the grand order of things. Thankful that the Overseer has found a target for his ire. Targets for his paranoia.
Drawing his ever-watchful eye away. Removing the powerful spotlight from his own desk; away from the manner in which he is running his part of the societal machinery. Thankful. Some breathing space.
Time for their plans to come to fruition. Like planting a persimmon tree; patiently waiting for the years to pass; for the tree to bear fruit. It is in their Nature.
