Imponign Ch. 02

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CHAPTER 02

The World I Slept Through

#

I stare at myself in a long mirror, trying to come to terms with the shape and features of this body I find myself inhabiting. With every minute that passes, I become more convinced that this is not what I’m supposed to look like.

I stand in a small room with two bunks recessed into the left wall. On the right is a frosted glass door leading to a tiny bathing chamber. After taking me here, Taabia informed me that this would be my room for the duration of my “acclimation period.” Before she left, she instructed me to shower, and that when she returned, she’d take me on a small tour of the floor and finally answer some of my questions.

I press my hands against the curved glass of the cylindrical shower. Automatically, jets of hot water shoot down from above and up from below, painfully sheering off the fine layer of grime I accumulated during my slumber. I am pleased to discover that there is no need for a towel — after the jets stop, a large fan under a grate beneath my feet blows a torrent of air through the capsule. My brown hair flutters above my ears as if I were falling. When the air stops, it falls back to my shoulders in a frizzy cloud.

I step out of the chamber and notice something neatly folded on the bottom bunk. I unfold it and hold it at arm’s length. It is a pale yellow jumpsuit with a zip reaching from the crotch to the throat. I squeeze into it. While I’m glad to no longer be blatantly exposed, the tight-fitting and thin material does little to obscure the bulge at my crotch — even as small as the cause of that bulge is.

I also find a pair of what appears to be a cross between slippers and boots. The material of the footwear is a semi-elastic fabric that reaches nearly to the knees. The tread is no more than a thin layer of textured rubber. I get the impression that these aren’t rated for terrain more extreme than a frequently polished floor. Nevertheless, I put them on too.

The door to my room slides open. Taabia smiles at me. It takes me a moment to notice it. She has changed out of her white, high-collared coat and now wears a pair of tightly fitting black leggings and a long-sleeved Maroon top with a turtle neck that hugs tight to her delicate neck, up to her ears. Her sleeve half covers some tattoo on the underside of her wrist, resembling something similar to the symbol of Venus. But my attention is focused on her leggings — just like in my jumpsuit, they feature a small yet apparent bulge. And hers is a little bigger than mine.

She notices my perplexed look and says, “You thought I was a Ferti, didn’t you?” With her index finger, she lightly taps her bulge through the fabric.

“A… ‘Ferti?'” I ask, mouth half agape.

“A Fertilign — a birth-capable caste.”

“I… Um… Yes, I suppose I did. Is that what you call females?” I ask.

“Sort of, but you must not use that word to describe an individual. Ferties are a female caste, but so are Amoriligns, and Sabies, and—” She pauses when she sees my expression. “Don’t worry, you’ll learn about the castes soon enough. Now — how about that tour?” She gestures for the door.

#

“We are currently within the Imponign processing block — level 448 of Deutercaste Transpositions. Deutercaste Transpositions span all the way from levels 400 to 450,” Taabia tells me as we walk down a long white hallway.

“450 levels!? How big is this tower?” Up to this point, all I’ve known are dark rooms and boring hallways like the one we walk down now.

“Oh, it’s far taller than 450 — see for yourself…” she says, just as we reach a large parting door. Pressing her palm against its panel, a light flashes green and the door splits down the middle with a smooth hiss, revealing the most incredible sight I’ve seen in… well… since as long as I can remember.

It opens out onto a high, glass-floored catwalk that runs over a vast lower floor where I see distant crowds going about their business — doing whatever it is they do in this place. But even that is eclipsed by the awesomeness of the colossal window that peers outside, over the Earth. I see, from my elevated view, a sprawling city of silver and white spires. The level we’re on is so high that we can see right over them to the mountain horizon far beyond, hazy in the distant atmosphere. The evening sun shines at a magical angle through the massive window, casting shafts of vivid light and crisp shadows as the beams filter through levels of catwalks, abstract hanging ornaments, and what appear to be autonomous flying drones of a spherical glass design. They resemble black marbles, about the size of basketballs.

“Where… are we?” I ask distantly.

“This is the Sacramento Archive Tower.”

“Sacramento…” That word sounds vaguely familiar. “Who am I?” I finally ask. “And why can’t I remember anything?”

Taabia turns and gives me a thoughtful look. “We’ll… need to start from a little further back to answer those questions properly.” She gestures for Cihangir travesti me to continue walking.

“How far back?”

“About 161 years,” she says casually. “At least, that is when The Redux began.”

“And what is ‘The Redux?'” I ask as I look down, beyond my feet and through the glass, at the vast lower floor. It has to be at least a half-mile drop.

“The planet was dying,” Taabia begins. “Wars, pollution, resource crises. By the twenty-forties, it was concluded an objective reality that Earth would no longer be able to sustain human life by the end of the century. All nations came to know this, yet still, short-sighted and segmented politics ruled the world.” We reach a split in the catwalk and take the left path which leads to a high platform through which clear elevator tubes carry people up and down to the great floor below, and every rib-like sublevel in between. “That was until the United Nations commissioned the creation of The Arbiter,” Taabia continues. She points out of the massive window, over the city, to what looks like a colossal onyx needle rising miles into the sky.

“That’s ‘The Arbiter?'” I ask. The object pierces through the cloud layer, vanishing at a sharp point in the upper atmosphere.

“Part of it,” Taabia answers. “That’s what we call the Californian Axon. There are other axons across the continent — the world. Our one is responsible for watching over most of the West Coast.”

“So, it’s like a headquarters? Wait… what even is The Arbiter?”

“No, it’s not a building, at least not one that humans can use. The Arbiter is… well… the arbiter of our world. As I was saying — it was built to propose solutions for the crises humanity faced.”

“An AI!” I exclaim as we reach the elevator platform. “You could’ve just said so.”

“We’ve since dropped the ‘artificial’ part, but yes, The Arbiter was indeed created as an intelligence to advise humanity and come up with a solution to save everyone. And that it did.”

Looking out at the deep blue sky, clear air, and expressive architecture, I could’ve guessed as much. The vista I see now far exceeds my expectations of what Earth is supposed to look like. I would’ve expected something bleaker, yet I just can’t recall why I held that expectation.

“And what year is it now?”

We step into one of the tubes and Taabia selects Central Level 400 on a tall screen. “It’s 2229, July. Over one hundred years beyond humanity’s prognosed demise. All thanks to The Redux of Man — what we called The Arbiter’s solution. The Arbiter knew that no matter how many wars were won or treaties negotiated, corruption would always find its way back into power. That is why it concluded that the problem with humans was our freedom to choose. Think about the great tyrants of history — who would Caesar have been if he was never allowed to break the traditions and norms of Roman society? Who would Hitler have been if the state insisted he keep to his studies?”

The names are vaguely familiar to me. “So… you’re saying every person needs to have their… place?” I clarify.

“According to The Arbiter, yes. Society cannot be civilized and prosperous when every would-be tyrant needs only an inkling of their potential to turn the whole system on its head. The Arbiter knew that no structure of government was sufficient, at least on its own, to ensure this. Humanity needed to be changed, fundamentally — at the biological level. So The Arbiter devised the castes. At first, there were only five — Logolign, Virilign, Fertilign, Labornign, and Agronign — each altered from the base human being in intelligence, temperament, and physique to specialize in a range of unique tasks. Eventually, as the world rebuilt and became prosperous, The Arbiter began to introduce new castes.

“And you and I are… Imponign?” I ask.

“Correct.” She gives me a smile.

All this information is too much to take in, every answer I get seems to demand three more questions. “I don’t understand. Why can’t I remember anything? Why am I here? Who am I, already!?”

Taabia looks up at the ceiling of our elevator as we swiftly descend, thinking of the best way to answer a question that sure seems far more complicated than it should be. “The Arbiter addressed what it deemed another major flaw of humanity. Did you know that out of the nearly nine million species on this planet, the pre-redux human is one of the most vulnerable in the infantile state? To form a brain capable of contributing to society, old humans require upward of two decades of care and assistance. We’ve had the technology to map human brains since the 1970s. So, why raise up new minds when we could save already-developed psyches from death?”

It takes me a moment to realize what she’s getting at, then I shudder. “Wait!? Are you saying that… I wasn’t born in this body? That I was… put in it?”

“It’s called Transposition. We take a corpus, birthed usually by a Fertilign, expedite the rest of its physical development within an incubator, and when it’s ready, Cihangir travestileri we use controlled electromagnetic fields to impose a preexisting archive from the Archive of Humanity on the corpus’s vacant brain matter.”

The elevator finally reaches the great expanse of level 400. The doors open and I see the Archive Tower’s inhabitants up close. They range incredibly in size and shape. Their fashion, too, ranges drastically depending on their size and sex. But I’m not as taken aback as I should be. Instead, I just feel a little sick as Taabia’s words sink into my brain.

“From start to finish,” she continues, “the process only takes a couple of years, depending on the caste. In the end, we’re left with a citizen ready to start contributing to society within their caste-determined field of expertise.”

“So… I was… like… hibernating as a copy of my brain…? Who was I before? And how long was I an… archive for?”

“Only The Arbiter and perhaps a few Logoligns up high would have access to that information, but given your word choice and mannerisms, I’d probably guess you were from the first quarter of the twenty-first century. A male, I think. But, I suggest you don’t get too caught up about all that, there are rules against associations with your archive’s origin — you’ll learn all about it in your Imponign Etiquette classes.”

As we walk the floor, I’m subjected to advertisements on huge screens that line the far walls and hang from the undersides of sublevels. Some are rectangular, some circular, some three-dimensional, and projected upside down from floating devices. All are colorful, bombastic, and eye-catching. Everything from legal services to movie trailers to actual flying cars. In such an environment, it’s difficult to keep up with Taabia’s explanations.

It seems this new word has no reservations about sex, and even less so for nudity. Many adverts, especially those concerned with selling clothes, accessories, and perfumes utilize scantily dressed or downright naked models. I’m exposed to the great variation in naked form humanity now possesses. One screen in particular that catches my eye shows a new model of flying car. Along its sleek and silver hood, an equally as sleek, long-limbed woman of exceptional beauty stretches out totally naked. Aeroauto — your caste is not your limit, reads the tagline below.

“So… as Imponigns, what is our range of expertise?” I ask.

Taabia sucks her lip as she thinks for a moment. “I… think that, too, might be a question better left to your classes.” I’m about to ask for more information about these classes before Taabia points out a large circular building ahead of us. It’s perimetered by round glass dining tables and swivel stools. People appear to be selecting and retrieving food from the many display screens mounted to the outer wall before seating themselves at one of the tables.

“Ready to eat?” she asks. My mood lifts. I hadn’t even realized how hungry I was. I decide my questions can wait a little longer.

As we walk up to the kiosk, I see people eating noodle bowls with oddly colored sauce, intricately shaped pastries — savory and sweet — and drinking transparent mugs of what I hope is coffee. As strange as all the food items are, they certainly look delicious.

I walk up to one of the screens and am presented with a display of all sorts of delicacies and beverages. I don’t let the range of choice delay me — I tap on what looks like a tall burger but with a donut-like hole through the buns and patties. Just before I can confirm my selection, Taabia swats my hand away and selects cancel. “I forgot to tell you…” she says, tapping backward through my order. “Not every caste shares the same diet.” She opens a panel displaying the same strange symbol she has tattooed on her wrist. The screen is then populated with about a dozen iridescent jello blocks, each faintly saturated with a different gradient hue. “We Imponign are… limited in our choice of food. Do you like boysenberry? That’s my favorite flavor.” She taps the screen twice to add two blocks to our order.

“The total for your order comes to 296 podies, please,” says a disembodied and unnaturally pleasant voice from the screen. Taabia holds her hand to a flashing icon of a palm print in the middle of the screen.

Ba-ding!

“Enjoy your meal!”

Below the display panel, a tray rolls out of the kiosk’s wall. On it, two pale purple bricks warble slightly. I imagine this is what jello made out of engine oil and gasoline would look like. Taabia picks up hers and takes a bite, her teeth squeaking against its artificial rubberiness. I stare at her as she chews, a little confused, a little repulsed. Out of everything on that menu, we’re eating jello blocks?

“We can’t have… something like, I don’t know, a sandwich?” I ask.

“Not unless you want to conclude our tour with a visit to the Emergency Reception,” she explains without a hint of snideness. “Imponigns were designed to be only able to digest the most Travesti cihangir basic macronutrients — these protoblocks offer these in perfect ratio for optimal Imponign body function. And the only waste produced after digestion is the clear structural substrate. Go on, try it!”

I pick up my block and stare at it. To my right, a huge woman who looks as if she’s half ox is enjoying what looks to me like a bowl of pasta and fries under a layer of orange curry. Hesitantly, I nip off the corner of my block. The protoblock tastes like chemical-infused water after you’ve left a bottle in a hot car for a couple of days. Faintly, very faintly, I detect the sweet tang of artificial berry flavoring. “I can hardly taste the boysenberries,” I comment miserably.

“Don’t worry, all those brain structures copied over from your archive that remember what food tastes like will atrophy soon enough. These will taste much better then.” She takes another bite and contorts her face into an unconvincingly pleased expression in an attempt to delude me into thinking these things may not be as bad as they most definitely are.

We sit at a twin-stooled table, finishing our protoblocks to the torture of people enjoying actual food. “What’s my name?” I eventually ask as I idly prod the remaining third of my block with a drinking straw.

“The Arbiter’s deciding as we speak,” Taabia answers with a mouth full of rubber.

“It needs to think about it?” I ask. “That seems a little… indecisive for a supercomputer.”

“It needs to observe you first. Every word you say, every subtle facial expression, it considers when deciding your name.”

“It’s watching me now!?” I say with some surprise, looking around the floor at the bustling crowds.”

“It’s watching everybody, all the time.” She points up at one of the black spherical drones that patrol the air. “The Arbiter has eyes and ears everywhere. The lenses on that Observer can identify a face from three miles away. And its microphones can process clear speech through nine inches of concrete. And if that’s not enough, The Arbiter has surveillance satellites in orbit, and processes every data transfer across the Internet.”

“How is someone supposed to commit a crime around here,” I half joke.

“Quite easily,” she says seriously, to my surprise. “The Arbiter never intervenes when it observes misbehavior, but it remembers it. Everyone knows this, and that keeps law and order for the most part.”

“So what? If we were… like… plotting to kill that Dr. Noonus right now, no one would stop us?”

Taabia looks shocked but also as if she’s suppressing a hint of amusement at the hypothetical. “The Arbiter is a sovereign entity to the Archive of Humanity, so it wouldn’t stop us. But…” She then points something else out in the air. Another drone, with softly humming rotors — far less sophisticated-looking than the levitating ball of black crystal she called an Observer. “The AoH has its own surveillance system.”

“So…”

“Dr. Noonus could be watching,” she confirms.

I feel a pang of fear. I meant no disrespect to the lady, if anything I was trying to alleviate the weight of my situation with a little morbid humor. But I don’t know Noonus — she might be the prideful, vindictive, sort.

“So, after these classes, where will I be going?” I ask, pushing the worry that I’ve offended Noonus to the back of my mind.

“You’ll be listed for acquisition on the Deutercaste Exchange Database. Hopefully, you’ll catch the eye of a proprietor and be acquired before the end of your acclimation period.”

“I’m going to be a slave!?”

“No! Of course not!” Taabia hisses as she frantically looks from side to side. “You’ll be a contributing member of society. Just like me. Just like everyone else here… And don’t use that word!”

I roll my eyes, not caring for Taabia’s pedantic nature. Penis, slave, female — how many more words aren’t I allowed to use? And what’s more likely — that the world has actually banned the use of perfectly descriptive and practical words, or that Taabia might just be overly involved in some new-world political correctness?

“And just what is a proprietor?” I ask dully.

“Either an individual or an organization. They’ll sign your subordination contract and be responsible for taking care of you. In return, you provide them with appropriate Imponign services.”

“Do I get paid?”

“With podies? No. But your proprietor may provide you with an allowance.”

“Is ‘podies’ your word for money?” I press.

“Yes — the podi overtook the US dollar in 2052 and became globally mandatory at the start of The Redux in 2061.”

With my arms crossed, there is a moment of uncomfortable silence between us. “So… I’m gonna be a slave?”

Taabia gives me a glare of nervous frustration. She opens her mouth to scold me, but something changes her mind. Her eyes go wide. Then, something clamps hard around my upper arm. I am pulled up, off of my chair and spun around to face a large bald man. He’s not as large as the men in my physical test, but he is more than capable of holding me captive with ease. Dressed in a dark gray uniform, he wears an expression of righteous superiority, looking at me as if I were a violent child. I feel my legs go weak, like before, as primal fear paralyzes my body. I can’t even speak.

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