THE SUMMONS
A science fiction short of when human collections data goes wrong
On a cold command, the door slid open, then shut. No echo followed. Nor was there sound.
The Conduct Coordinator, official monicker X9836-97, sat in plain sight behind a circular desk in the middle of its office. It looked like a lump donned in the company uniform; a lab-grown sexless neo-civilian of middle management more akin to a walking thumb than anything remotely hominid.
The Coordinator pretended to look busy, glibly perching its lips while moving holo-screens around for viewing convenience. Out of the streams of data flowing through the civilian database, one particular individual stood out: the employee who had just walked in.
“Come closer, C2513-08,” the Coordinator trilled. Its abruptness in tone belied the strident pitch in its voice.
The underling obeyed.
The Coordinator didn’t bother to look up, its beady eyes fixed on the screen.
The employee, a behavioral analyst who went by C2513-08, looked radically different; more human in appearance, posture, and the subtle emotion flushed across his face. He was a hardworking man of forty-eight; reserved, low self-esteem, and as quiet as an abandoned house. The Coordinator found those attributes off-putting, especially in how he took each step as if it was his last.
“Hold it right there.”
The analyst froze, his arms left dangling.
The Coordinator, finishing the task at hand, faced forward. “Thank you.”
The delivery was stark; as barebones in professional decorum as the rules applied.
The analyst remained standing.
“Well, it looks like I have some good news, C2513-08.” The Coordinator’s tone lightened.
The analyst internally sighed with relief.
“We received your assessment of the psycho-social profiles,” The Coordinator continued, perching its lips between each break in dialogue.
“However,” the tone suddenly shifted without a change in expression, and the analyst’s heart skipped a beat, “you were short on a parcel of data somewhere within a civilian’s prefrontal cortex.”
A simulacrum phased into view between them of the itemized section of the brain. The analyst felt a lump growing in his throat.
“As a result, you allowed a subconscious thought to slip from inspection. You understand the potential for trouble, especially concerning a civilian marked with a questionable social coefficient?”
“X9836-97, how do you even know––” the analyst tried to rebut.
“Be quiet!”
The analyst immediately froze at the snappy gesture.
The Coordinator composed itself and resumed. “You missed a spot on the deep scan, an omission that calls your faculties into question. Even one civilian is enough. Anyone can be a potential criminal, C2513-08. Anyone!” The post-human balled its fists, glowering straight into the eyes of its employee. “The smallest mental infraction can resurface at any point in time, raising the potential for transgression. Given your long-standing position in this reputed institution, you should have already known that!”
The analyst’s chest tightened.
“Think of it as a virus that may…or may not result in an outbreak,” the Coordinator continued. “Would it be worth the risk to leave untreated something so unpredictable, regardless of the odds favoring its benignity? Or would it be to our benefit that we root out that sub-percentile you missed, thus preserving the safety and protocol for all civilians?”
It sounded like Schrodinger’s neuron.
The mind of the analyst churned, backtracking through each step. He swore to his template providing accurate schematics on memories, inclinations, and presumed future intents. He had done it that way for years, mapping out every civilian’s brain pattern to a tee, studying their habits, calculating how often they conducted such habits, determining their motives, and predicting when they likely acted upon those motives. Afterwards, potential social risks were marked and weeded out.
Where had he gone wrong? Was he losing his touch?
He recalled the company shibboleth: Every bit of information is more precious than gold. There was no substitute!
The Coordinator resumed its debrief. “After curating all background data, we’ve determined the accuracy in your assessment to be 99.9998% certain—a margin of error .0002%. That is not enough, C2513-08. No potential infraction is too small. All assessments must be 100%; nothing less! Am I correct?”
The analyst pensively nodded.
“Any potential for deviancy threatens the greater society, whether it physically manifests or not. That is why every corporeal mind has to be thoroughly examined and mapped. No community can function when analysts bungle their jobs, especially when it concerns data as sensitive as this.” He splayed his hands toward the central simulacrum. “And you failed to meet those standards, C2513-08!”
The analyst twitched his shoulders, staring at the central image. It was all he could do for the moment.
“Although,” The Coordinator continued, “there is a bit of silver lining to an otherwise irreconcilable offense.”
A slight reprieve. The analyst breathed a little easier.
“Because of our need to exercise quality control over every nuance of data, we were able to pick up the few precursors of criminality that you overlooked!”
His endorphins came to a screeching halt; every synapse puttered out.
“In other words, we had to cover for your flaws!” It daintily jabbed its stubby finger at the analyst. “From the intracranial scans, we found a case of excess communication between neurons in the amygdala sometime in the civilian’s recent past.” The Coordinator paused as it locked eye contact again. “It appears that this civilian was short on gratitude. That can only be interpreted one way; we could not satisfy its needs.”
After a moment of silence, the Coordinator slammed the desk, startling the analyst. “Such a sentiment is unheard of! A heresy against the collective! It puts us in doubt; negates our purpose. Should we let everything fall into chaos? Evidently, the civilian in question was preoccupied with ideas and desires external to the provisions of the collective. You know what kind of threat that poses to each and every one of us?”
The analyst simply stared. His eyes glassed over.
“Subversion!” The Coordinator shouted for the first time. “Under those circumstances, the civilian becomes potentially dangerous. It cannot be left to its own conduct; thus, it loses the right to corporeality. You realize, of course, the punishment for hosting subversive thoughts or any discontent is liquidation!”
The analyst swallowed, retaining his undivided gaze. His heart raced. Questions were futile at this point.
“That is why we account for every potential. Criminality lurks in the corners of the unseen mind, no matter how quantifiably small, even prior to its manifestation.
“However, C2513-08, we do have a bit of good news.”
The pulse of the analyst dropped once again.
“It has come to our attention the last recruit you trained turned out to be a fitting success! It will be starting Monday, all thanks to your direction in maintaining the integrity of our workflow. Behavioral analysts play an integral role in keeping collective mental and social stability.”
The analyst felt a weight lift from his chest. He even smiled. “Thank you, X9836-97. Would she need further—”
“It!”
“Uh, I mean is there anything else you need in furthering accommodations for the new recruit?”
“No, not at all, C2513-08. Your competence at training exceeded our expectations. Now, that the recruit has all the necessary training to begin immediately, all your duties shall be deferred and carried out by your substitute from this moment forward.”
“All of my duties? Um…X9836-97…what about––?” He sheepishly gestured toward himself.
“Oh, that. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”
The analyst fell into a slump.
“Due to your performance on the last assignment—an oversight that can’t be discounted in light of the potential threat against the greater society—your title has been forfeited and handed over to your replacement.”
“What?!” Every nerve in his body snapped. “Do you know how many louts here fail at their—?”
“Worse,” the Coordinator intoned, cutting off the other by thrusting out its hands, “the identity of that civilian in question you missed became quite obvious to us.”
The analyst puzzled, trying to gather his wits. He felt as though he had gotten punched upside the jaw. He had no answer, except his current posture to give himself away.
“Do you see what I mean, C2513-08? Your decorum alone is confession you’ve lost your faculties. It was you!” Its eyes flared.
“Me?” Another punch. He practically saw stars.
“Why do you think we summoned you here? In case you were unaware, we ran a full diagnostic of your brain and determined that you are in fact dissatisfied with the collective. We picked it up in your body language during the course of your employment, including up to this very point, so there is no sense in pursuing the case any further. You are the civilian in question, and you have failed on every level, C2513-08; therefore, you are unfit to remain corporeal.”
“What? I’ve slaved away here for twenty years without a blemish on my record, just to be spat out without warning?”
“C2513-08,” the Coordinator cut in, “the only one who failed here is you! You don’t even remember those thoughts running through your conscience; what you hoped for, the change you desired…the idea of freedom! A relic of a dead and forgotten age! You’re useless; disposable! The very product of a civilian stuck on obsolete gender models. You have failed your position, you have failed yourself, and regretfully, you have failed us in fulfilling your obligations and honoring our codes. Such shame is unatonable!”
C2513-08 stood with his jaw hanging.
The Coordinator lifted its hand before one of the holos. “Upon my witness, and that of the Ministry of Conduct and Behavioral Management, you are hereby sentenced to immediate liquidation!”
“What? You can’t do this, you wicked––”
The analyst lunged forward, but he was too late. A beam of light showered from the ceiling and burrowed deep into his pate, atomizing him on the spot.
Special thanks to Ian Nols for editing.
Additional Stories by Robert Garron:
Good total dystopia :| I would've loved a few more bits of hope though.
I kept thinking the man who was called in was the problem. It's cool that I was right.
That would probably be me in that society. 20 years and one thought gets me atomized.