Hall of Records
An AdministrATUM SHORT STORY BY MARK bOUTET
Bren hunched over the data lecturn and watched the information they requested scroll from the bottom to the top of the flickering screen. The off-yellow light of the text against the ever present dark green background explaining at length the trade tariffs and import taxes for Hive Ordinus, central hub of commerce of the Pandraxx sub-system.
Deft fingers, calloused from years of repetitive tasks, clicked away at various activation runes on the panel, highlighting important sections of the reports and sending them via archaic technology to a nearby auto-scrivener. The parchment unrolled from the auto-scrivener's output tray and into a bin where it would be collected for review later. Its dozen quills on delicate metal arms scribbling the data in dark ink that shone in the collective glow of hundreds of identical stations that surrounded their station. A dark red light shone over the letters from the complex scanning machinery in the skull of the servitor that was once the clerk who occupied the station. Bren named it Olivus after an uncle that would talk for hours non-stop about something inane when the family gathered for Emperor's Day feast.
'Fitting for a device only suited to regurgitating information fed to it from elsewhere', Bren thought wryly.
The sounds of keys tapping and thousands of quills writing on parchment had become the background hum of Bren's life in The Stacks, the Low Gothic slang for the Administratum Pillar, Data Entry and Reconciliation floors (section 874 to be precise). The monotony of their daily tasks only interrupted by mandated meal breaks and the occasional distraction of a colleague wishing to discuss an odd data artifact or intriguing query they had been assigned.
Bren was working on one of those interesting tasks themselves at the moment: a request had come down from someone with upper-stack clearance to collate the trade tariff data of goods in and out of the hive to be used in some form of advertisement. Rarely did clerks of Bren's level ever get informed of how the data they would collect will be used, so Bren took this as a sign that their talents were being recognized and that the knowledge would be useful in gathering the most relevant information. They risked a brief smile, the high collar of their uniform hiding the expression from any who deigned to look in case they assumed Bren was viewing salacious materials without proper approval. Today was going to be a good day.
<data collection query unable to execute - datastack code: PERDITA>
The error code flashed abruptly across Bren's cogitator screen, causing them to recoil suddenly as if struck lightly on the forehead.
Bren peered at the screen, leaning closer until their nose almost brushed the surface, as if inspecting the error would help them understand it better. A wet, sputtering sound from Olivus startled them out of their confusion, and with a shriek they fell backwards out onto the narrow grated walkway between stations. Olivus was shuddering, its quill-limbs twitching back and forth over the parchment, the scanning lens flaring bright, and the internal machinery grinding loudly as it attempted to process whatever had been sent to it when the error occurred.
"What in the name of the Spires is going on here?!" The high pitched and imperious tone of Section Master Ahlget pierced through the noise of the malfunctioning servitor. "You! Functionary! What is your designation!?"
Bren tore their gaze away from Olivus and stared up at Ahlget, the droning of the grav plates on his observation throne giving the air beneath a sort of wobbly feeling that was starting to turn Bren's stomach. "M-m-muh...My l-lord... there was an e-error on th-"
"DESIGNATION!" Shrieked Ahlget. Bren reacted instinctively by lowering their gaze and reciting the designation what had been granted them years ago, "F-functionary 64737-L, Section 874, my lord."
From beneath the voluminous robes draped over Ahlget's frail form, a lithe mechadendrite produced a dataslate that he glanced at momentarily before returning his glare to Bren. "Functionary 64737-L, what have you done to your auto-scrivener?"
As if punctuating the sentence, Olivus issued forth a gout of ink and made a sound like a chunk of meat hitting a wall at speed. Ahlget's gaze never left Bren.
"T-the... ahem...my cogitator encountered an error while retrieving tariff information for my repor-"
Ahlget cut them off with a sharp gesture and his grav platform pivoted to grant him a better view of Bren's screen; Bren had to duck to avoid getting struck by the throne and was missed by mere inches.
Ahlget muttered under his breath as he read through the query results on the screen. When he got to the error, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Ahlget scrolled through the information on his dataslate for a few more moments, then let out a deep sigh. "Functionary 64737-L, you are to return to your station and resume work immediately. A new auto-scrivener will be provided shortly, and you shall adjust your report to account for the discrepancy in the data."
Those last words echoed in Bren's mind; did Ahlget really just say that? Was Bren just told to....omit information? From an official report?
"My lord?" squeaked Bren through suddenly parched lips "I may not have...I mean... Am I to understand that you wish for me to...f-fal...f-falsify the details on the report?"
Ahlget looked down his aquiline nose at Bren, still on their knees in the walkway, "Your work shall continue with the information available to you. You are not to repeat the query that resulted in this.... malfunction." Ahlget once again glanced at his dataslate. "And you shall make up for the time wasted during this incident by working 6th shift as well; that should put you back on track for completing your task." Without waiting for a response or acknowledgment, Ahlget directed his grav platform to continue its appointed rounds of the stacks leaving Bren dumbfounded and shaken, the hem of their robes soaking up the ink pooling beneath the still twitching Olivus.
Deft fingers, calloused from years of repetitive tasks, clicked away at various activation runes on the panel, highlighting important sections of the reports and sending them via archaic technology to a nearby auto-scrivener. The parchment unrolled from the auto-scrivener's output tray and into a bin where it would be collected for review later. Its dozen quills on delicate metal arms scribbling the data in dark ink that shone in the collective glow of hundreds of identical stations that surrounded their station. A dark red light shone over the letters from the complex scanning machinery in the skull of the servitor that was once the clerk who occupied the station. Bren named it Olivus after an uncle that would talk for hours non-stop about something inane when the family gathered for Emperor's Day feast.
'Fitting for a device only suited to regurgitating information fed to it from elsewhere', Bren thought wryly.
The sounds of keys tapping and thousands of quills writing on parchment had become the background hum of Bren's life in The Stacks, the Low Gothic slang for the Administratum Pillar, Data Entry and Reconciliation floors (section 874 to be precise). The monotony of their daily tasks only interrupted by mandated meal breaks and the occasional distraction of a colleague wishing to discuss an odd data artifact or intriguing query they had been assigned.
Bren was working on one of those interesting tasks themselves at the moment: a request had come down from someone with upper-stack clearance to collate the trade tariff data of goods in and out of the hive to be used in some form of advertisement. Rarely did clerks of Bren's level ever get informed of how the data they would collect will be used, so Bren took this as a sign that their talents were being recognized and that the knowledge would be useful in gathering the most relevant information. They risked a brief smile, the high collar of their uniform hiding the expression from any who deigned to look in case they assumed Bren was viewing salacious materials without proper approval. Today was going to be a good day.
<data collection query unable to execute - datastack code: PERDITA>
The error code flashed abruptly across Bren's cogitator screen, causing them to recoil suddenly as if struck lightly on the forehead.
Bren peered at the screen, leaning closer until their nose almost brushed the surface, as if inspecting the error would help them understand it better. A wet, sputtering sound from Olivus startled them out of their confusion, and with a shriek they fell backwards out onto the narrow grated walkway between stations. Olivus was shuddering, its quill-limbs twitching back and forth over the parchment, the scanning lens flaring bright, and the internal machinery grinding loudly as it attempted to process whatever had been sent to it when the error occurred.
"What in the name of the Spires is going on here?!" The high pitched and imperious tone of Section Master Ahlget pierced through the noise of the malfunctioning servitor. "You! Functionary! What is your designation!?"
Bren tore their gaze away from Olivus and stared up at Ahlget, the droning of the grav plates on his observation throne giving the air beneath a sort of wobbly feeling that was starting to turn Bren's stomach. "M-m-muh...My l-lord... there was an e-error on th-"
"DESIGNATION!" Shrieked Ahlget. Bren reacted instinctively by lowering their gaze and reciting the designation what had been granted them years ago, "F-functionary 64737-L, Section 874, my lord."
From beneath the voluminous robes draped over Ahlget's frail form, a lithe mechadendrite produced a dataslate that he glanced at momentarily before returning his glare to Bren. "Functionary 64737-L, what have you done to your auto-scrivener?"
As if punctuating the sentence, Olivus issued forth a gout of ink and made a sound like a chunk of meat hitting a wall at speed. Ahlget's gaze never left Bren.
"T-the... ahem...my cogitator encountered an error while retrieving tariff information for my repor-"
Ahlget cut them off with a sharp gesture and his grav platform pivoted to grant him a better view of Bren's screen; Bren had to duck to avoid getting struck by the throne and was missed by mere inches.
Ahlget muttered under his breath as he read through the query results on the screen. When he got to the error, his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. Ahlget scrolled through the information on his dataslate for a few more moments, then let out a deep sigh. "Functionary 64737-L, you are to return to your station and resume work immediately. A new auto-scrivener will be provided shortly, and you shall adjust your report to account for the discrepancy in the data."
Those last words echoed in Bren's mind; did Ahlget really just say that? Was Bren just told to....omit information? From an official report?
"My lord?" squeaked Bren through suddenly parched lips "I may not have...I mean... Am I to understand that you wish for me to...f-fal...f-falsify the details on the report?"
Ahlget looked down his aquiline nose at Bren, still on their knees in the walkway, "Your work shall continue with the information available to you. You are not to repeat the query that resulted in this.... malfunction." Ahlget once again glanced at his dataslate. "And you shall make up for the time wasted during this incident by working 6th shift as well; that should put you back on track for completing your task." Without waiting for a response or acknowledgment, Ahlget directed his grav platform to continue its appointed rounds of the stacks leaving Bren dumbfounded and shaken, the hem of their robes soaking up the ink pooling beneath the still twitching Olivus.
The mag-train rumbled and shuddered as it wove its way through the lower reaches of the Stacks towards the hab blocks that gathered around the base of the massive structures like rubble from a crumbling ruin. The nearly 45 billion citizens of Hive Ordinus that lived and worked in the city resided in residential sectors that clung to the inner side of the enormous outer defensive walls that spread in a series of broken circles around the central spires. As a Functionary of the Administratum Pillar, Bren was granted a small apartment closer to the base of the Spire where they could more readily attend to their duties.
This particular mag-train was one that Bren had ridden hundreds, if not thousands of times, on their commute. The interior lighting was limited to a few flickering fixtures that ran along the ceiling and the rare flash of natural light that reached this far into the hive through the high, thin windows near the roof. Bren huddled into a corner of the passenger car and leaned against the cool plasteel wall; it was a welcome relief from the normally stifling heat of the Hive interior. All seats had been removed from the passenger cars decades ago to accommodate for the needs of an expanding population, so Bren had become accustomed to squeezing into a spot that allowed them to keep contact with the other passengers to a minimum.
When the speaker on the wall announced in a crackling voice the arrival at Bren’s station, they pulled their robes closely around themself and pushed through the crowd with muttered apologies and a pained expression until they stepped out onto the platform. This close to the central spires the air was a relatively comfortable mix of warm exhaust fumes and cold winds blowing in through the outer walls of the Hive. Bren was acutely aware of how lucky they were to be living in a more habitable sector after spending most of their young life living with their family in the hab blocks of Ring 3’s crumbling wall, and mumbled a prayer to the Golden Throne in thanks.
The mag-train left to continue its journey into the lower levels as Bren walked the familiar streets back to their home, stopping for a moment to purchase a meat skewer from an enterprising young woman using a thermal vent to roast the day’s catch. Bren never asked where the meat came from, but it was always a welcome treat after the provided meals in the Stacks that consisted of nutrient paste and vitamin supplements. Still troubled by the events of the day, and exhausted from the additional shift they were forced to endure, Bren punched in the code to unlock their door and nearly stumbled into the cramped interior.
It was a single square room, no more than 5 meters wide, and furnished with a desk, an alcove with bedding, a small closet for their biological needs, and a shrine in the corner where one could perform their daily rites. An off-yellow glow lit the room at all times from a long, thin panel about a quarter of the way down the wall from the ceiling. Records indicated that the emergency lighting systems in this sector of Hive Ordinus were turned on nearly a hundred years ago when the Hive had been attacked in the years before the Indomitus Crusade arrived, and by the time the danger had passed the tech adepts that knew the proper rights for putting the machine spirits to rest had either died or been conscripted to join the Crusade as it continued on. The light was bright enough to allow Bren to go about their business in the room, but dim enough that sleep wasn’t impossible, so they had long-since adjusted to it. On the desk was an aging cogitator, complete with a small holo-projector for communication, that was mainly used to respond to questions from Bren’s superiors when they needed clarification on something that was submitted.
There was a blinking light on the controls that indicated a message was waiting to be played, so after removing their outer robe and boots, Bren pressed the activation rune and sat on the edge of their bed to listen.
The unmistakable sound of Section Master Alghet’s nasally voice cut through the static of the aging machine spirit as his flickering green image appeared over the projector. “Functionary 64737-L, our records indicate that you are due for a mandatory evaluation of your physical and mental acuity. After the incident with your auto-scrivener today I have decided that you are to be placed on an administrative suspension until such time as you are cleared for duty. Instructions for where your appointment will take place will be forwarded to your messages shortly. Failure to comply will result in your immediate expulsion from your position and your housing and travel privileges revoked. See to it - I expect to see you at your station after you have resolved this interruption."
The projection stopped and the message ended with another crackle of static, leaving Bren to consider the new orders. 'Another eval? Okay, that's not too bad. Feels like every time something strange happens they just send us to get checked out, but no one ever tells us what they're looking for.'
Bren sighed deeply and laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling trying to make sense of the day. 'The file I was trying to find couldn't have included any sensitive data, could it? It was just a set of shipping manifests for incoming trade goods from off-world…but the archived order forms….' Bren blinked, 'If the order forms were correct….and the manifest is locked down so no one can verify it…then…what? It doesn't make any sense!' Bren groaned in frustration and pulled themselves entirely onto the bed and settling under the covers.
"That's a tomorrow-me problem" Bren muttered sleepily. They turned their back to the room and drifted off to sleep.
Hours later, the cogitator's message indicator blinked as the evaluation appointment details were received and displayed on the screen.
FUNCTIONARY 64737-L TO REPORT TO EVALUATION FACILITY 45-C, ECCLES…IARCHY S..PI.R..E LE.V..E..L…
The cogitator screen went blank, the lights on the control panel blinked rapidly for a brief moment and the flickering after-image of Alghet twitched above the projector before the system seemed to correct itself and the message began anew.
FUNCTIONARY 64737-L TO REPORT TO EVALUATION FACILITY 17-H, BUSINESS/RESIDENTIAL SECTOR 5, MID HIVE. ARRIVAL BY OR BEFORE 09:00 OHT REQUIRED OR DERELICTION OF DUTY ASSUMED.