CHAPTER 1. DUTY
(POV: Indicator 4-B-21)
The morning started not with a dawn, but with a vibration.
At 06:00 sharp, the walls of the living cell emitted a low-frequency hum. It didn't grate on the ears, it didn’t frighten, and it didn’t interrupt dreams—no one here had dreams. It was merely a physical wave that penetrated the thin mattress, sank beneath the skin, and unerringly targeted the nervous system, forcing the body to an upright position.
She opened her eyes.
The room had no windows. The three-by-three-meter space was bounded by smooth, light-gray concrete that offered nothing for the eyes to latch onto. The exact second the walls shuddered, a square fluorescent panel flared to life on the ceiling without a sound, flooding the cell with a dull, bloodless light.
She stood up from the narrow metal cot. The routine of getting ready required no decisions, no thoughts, not even self-awareness. The body operated on a hardwired algorithm, honed to absolute automation by thousands of identical awakenings. A gray uniform jacket with a stiff collar, gray trousers made of dense, wrinkle-resistant synthetic fabric, heavy boots with molded rubber soles. The fabric provided no warmth, but it let no cold through either; it was engineered to minimize any physical sensation.
In the food block built into the wall, a dispenser clicked dryly. A standard brick of the morning ration slid out onto a metal tray. She took it and ate methodically, biting off equal portions, tasting nothing—there was no taste to begin with. The nutritional mass, gray and dense as clay, was intended solely to maintain the precise glucose level and muscle tone required to meet the daily work quota. Eighteen chewing movements, a swallow of synthesized water from the wall tap.
At 06:30, the door of her cell slid silently into the wall recess. She stepped across the threshold.
The corridor of the living block stretched into infinity, merging into a perfect geometric perspective. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all washed in the same matte light. From hundreds of identical doors, second for second, hundreds of people in the exact same gray uniforms emerged simultaneously.
No one said hello. No one slowed down to let a neighbor pass. No one looked around. They simply spilled out of their cells and smoothly merged into the general flow, like drops of water forming a monolithic, silent river.
The commute to the sorting center took exactly twenty-two minutes. The city outside the living block greeted them with a ruthless, oppressive monumentality. The concrete slabs underfoot were perfectly level, without a single crack or seam. Curiously, the asphalt was always damp, coated with a thin, oily film of water, though it never rained in this world. The moisture precipitated as condensation from colossal underground utilities, falling onto the streets like a cold, sticky dew.
