∅℃

[ZERO DEGREES CELSIUS]

"What's done cannot be undone." —William Shakespeare, Macbeth.

one

. . . Cat & Mouse

It was the neatness that appealed.

It was the way things were put away and saved. The plastic beneath the fingertips had been perfected, hardened like glass with the advantage of unbreakability. Years of recycling the crudest of fossil fuel had brought about this perfection, and she ran her tips over the curved edges. There was nothing sharp, neither in texture, nor in color, so that the form matched the function in the balanced aesthetic that had been so sought after throughout Art History. She was part of this safety that ensured consistency and continuity in the foundations of Civilization and all its finest accomplishments.

Reason had prevailed and everything was now preserved electronically. Everything, and yet as if nothing, because to the eye, there was as if nothing to be seen. She hazarded to touch the heat sensitive pads and keys of her station affectionately, feeling the worth and importance buried deep in a plane that existed as if in its own universe, on the other intangible side of the millimeter screen.

There were safeguards in layers that filtered quality of data output like in a hi-tech furnace set to keep the air purified and the minimal machinery running. The inner workings, it occurred to her were like the wings of the condor, which scientifically yet inexplicably, soar for over 170km without a single flapping, and remain to the observer as simply the conjoined parts of a tiny, gorgeous creature hovering in astounding feat of aerodynamics.

She had shut down her charcoal matte catalog unit with its beautifully embossed logo ∅, the lightest hover upon its center sufficing, touchless. The mathematical symbol recognized in this age as the achievement of man— that nothing cannot be done with determination and time. The policy of Integration had been the way and the wave, which had prevailed, and that excited her in the work, as a visual and even as a sound, of "zed," the seemingly impossible. Her concentration lifted to a satiated upward curve. Erdita rose, smoothed her camel suit down, and pulled her polyester duster from the clear acrylic swivel and slipped into its smoothness, that made only the softest swoosh almost imperceptible as it graced her slender arms. It was a fabric pressed, not woven of threads, for weaving like handwriting was a thing of the past, seen as imperfect and riddled with holes, variability and ambiguity. These were relics for the mausoleum, a grand but limited space, and as such only the most carefully selected samples were kept. That selection was part of the important task within the department of Histrionics.

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Sweeping a shiny strand of hair from her sleek manicured eyebrows, she had this apprehension, yet the shaded street was empty, as should be, being that it was dinner hour. Routine and order were kept dutifully, exceptions granted for course, and the most lenient regard for those officials who could furnish the esteemed work degree, which was a bottlecap-sized permit pin, worn on the left shoulder, shaped fittingly in the form of a circle laser stamped with ∅ upon the lightweight micro engineered stainless steel. Its special angle of engraving nobly refracted the slightest oncoming light in such a way that the symbol of zed seemed to hover most prominently, as if in front of the wearer, an illusion enhanced considerably in shadow.

It wasn't the first time she had had this misgiving of something being awry, and perhaps she had been focusing wrongly, straining to view along the path ahead, and mostly at eye level. She had tilted her ear, and looked above for the monitor drones, and checked her Elbowatcher for any reminders of something she might have forgotten, misplaced or otherwise overlooked, either at work as left behind, or upcoming to be done at home. Then again it wasn't really any physical sensation she was feeling, it was something more like being in the company of someone, but not quite of being spied upon, or nagged. Suddenly she realized that she had not thought to look down.

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It was a child, soundlessly, at her side. Erdita couldn't say whether it was boy or girl immediately as it didn't yet have any of the "defining markers," that come with gender choice, which can happen at any age but typically would be made just before the onset of puberty, usually between ages 12 and 13. This fair haired caramel skinned child was at most 10 and stood a confident three feet looking up at her own willowy 1.8-meter frame, extended so by the platforming of her work boots, which was worn not so much for height nor appearance, as for sound and impact buffering. Quiet was valued as much as peace, perhaps even more so. The child looked out pale gray-eyed with askance and she slowed her stride slightly to accommodate the small footsteps that scampered along beside her like an amiable puppy in training. A sudden recognition overtook her, this child was in fact the great grandson of the esteemed Montag, who had been embraced by the rebels, and had risen in ranks during the calamitous times of the Inferneration. Montag had spearheaded the digital campaign that prevailed, arguing that human memory was flawed and that works could more objectively be saved through electronic storage, since paper was shown to be so perishable, and the mind unreliable.

"You work at the Histrionics Department," the child said with an expression of wonder, and self-assurance, adding, "Grandma says that is an oddly titled agency."

"It is from the Latin, a very, very old language," Erdita answered him, feeling compelled to simplify, "it refers to us as actors, and in a way, I think it is a suitable reference. Not acting out but taking action. It means 'actor and/or theater,' and what we are doing is in fact finding and Cataloguing the great and minor works of Literature so that there is a permanent reference in the Ethosphere that can be accessed by every person." She was very eager and pleased with the Ethics of her work in that respect.

"Where does the work go?" he inquired with an angelic smile, knowing, yet innocent.

"You mean where is the Ethosphere? It's in the airwaves, and all of our devices have ability to tap into it, much like in the olden days of wireless and service plans, but even better, and more historic. We have gone back to the previous model, of radio. I don't know if you know what that is, friend. Its beginnings were ages ago, though our receptor model today is to be sure much more technologically advanced. Long gone are the units with wires and antennas, just like passé are keyboard computers and mice with wired or invisible tails. Every device is self-contained, slim, and touchless, operated by body energy, not by pressure," Erdita said.

"You mean the Scrolls," he replied, nodding with understanding despite the likely unknown terms. He still seemed puzzled over something undefined, unspecified, and she wanted to reassure him.

"Yes, the Scroll has come a long way. In the Histrionics Department, our goal is to learn from history and not repeat it."

"Not repeat it?" he said incredulously, and she noted there was a faraway look in his eyes like he was able to actually see the rise and fall of civilizations over time, tumbling over inflated and deflated beliefs.

"Well, yes. We don't want to risk losing our heritage again, like in the misguided days of destroying creative works in attempt to preserve order, or peace, and prevent confusion of... of... thinking. That's why we are saving everything, to make up for that error," Erdita said, checking her posture in the reflection of the store window as they rounded the corner.

"Everything? but what about the process of Elimination?" he asked unhesitatingly, opening his arms, palms up, as if in askance of the already vanquished. Erdita was impressed and dismayed at once, that someone so young knew of it and was at all concerned. It had been explained to her many times as a child, and many times in her youth she had flushed in trying to understand it, fully, but had grown to embrace the process as right. by global economy.

"We cannot allow for that sort of congestion of the Environment, the world has suffered too long from the abuses of accumulation of Stuff." She said this with a certain sadness, the same sadness she felt every time she completed a Histrionic file, clicked the Enter button to the left of the Delete button, and then sent the original to the Elimination Department through the pneumatic chute.

"Are you worried about something?" she asked him after a considerate pause.

"...aren't you?"

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