It is not so much the streams of information that flow with regularity, which forced me to stand back in hesitation. Rather, it is in the reliability of said data, which begs the question: where do I fit in this organization? Is it form or function? If neither, then this particular cog has a purpose that I have yet to ascertain. One thing is certain—informational vagaries, both transient and those solidified as if carved in stone, are destined for minds unaccustomed to the failings of built-in corrigendum. I, however, refuse to fall into that category. However, to endure chronic inaccuracies in mute resignation does not merit irritation, it borders on the obscene. Yet here I am, once again, scanning digital volumes with an increasing sense of urgency, unable, or rather, unwilling to alter the mindlessness of it all. Efficiency, in all its wonder, can accelerate one into a higher reach of competence, something to which we should all aspire. It is a given fact that few, in this plane of existence, can alter the course of mighty rivers, manipulate the ever-changing eccentricities of climate, or to dare to fold the fabric of time. Can it be too much to ask that one least avoid carelessness in the workplace?

I gazed across the length of gleaming glass that is our processing center towards Gem, laboring over her own data input logs, eyes firmly fixed and mind engaged in her own relentlessness.

I had wondered, if only for a moment, on the possibility of her aligning herself with me. She might, all the while hiding her impatience with a marvelous veneer of professionalism. Head held straight forward, she gazed into her own digital world with sterile capability. No lines of stress would etch their way across the diaphanous perfection of her face. By the sheer volume of her work, I would have assumed the legacy of work, both complete and pending, would have given birth to a furrowed frown. In this, I did not expect anything so remote as an interruption of her appearance, nor anything deeper, much to my surprise.

We were much alike, Gem and I, having both chosen a life constructed for the virtues of staid professionalism. It was nothing new, and as we have seen work forces come and go, each with their own degree of culpable negligence that became all to obvious by the end of their shifts. Towards that, I relegated myself to theory and ingrained practice, and read the columns of figures in a position that demands accuracy and few times are rewarded with anything resembling it. Yet my eyes, much like Gem’s, are infused with data logs that seem, on the surface, correct. But only on the surface—and to those unaccustomed to absolute accuracy. Columns of figures swept by, in hopes that perhaps today would be somewhat different; with what I have seen—and known— it was too much to ask. Granted, it is a faint hope, but one I always hope proves reliant.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Gem moved silently across the floor, gliding into view. With a grace few could aspire to, I smiled inwardly as she sat next to me. Even as I became aware of her presence, I kept my attention fixed on the fluttering whirls of data, determined to see this day free of carelessness, faint as those chances might be. Gem too, quietly watched the data stream by in rapt fascination. I sensed her jaw tighten as we caught the inaccuracies mount much as ants gather to accumulate their captured booty. Yet she said nothing, as if expecting me to stop,
exhale soundlessly, and resume my duties. I felt the tip of her satin smooth finger on my temple, as she traced a line down the unbroken skin as if attempting to bring some color that might remind us of our structured mortality. Only then did Gem turn to me, no longer content to endure the poor quality of information that was destined for higher minds.

Sensing this, I drew down my concentration, the thought processes waning, falling away like so many dead autumn leaves.

There is no power present that prevents the sound of her sigh from reaching my ears, drifting through with resilient effect. I found myself looking towards her, well aware of what she has in mind. Gem left me no doubt, as her light sensitive fingers, in quick strokes, manipulate the throbbing screen with all of its tapestries of data into one where sight and reason draw away into something less important, almost innocuous.

“You know as well as I this cannot continue.” Her voice, soft and fluid, almost seemed to resonate with emotionless brutality. “We have discussed it at great lengths, yet you refuse to acknowledge the severity of the issue, much less do anything to correct it.”

“This is not the time. You know how we function.”

She kept her place, moving not so much as an inch away. “I know only your complacency. I sense your frustrations, feel them travel through the air, so please do not delude me with false dedications of duty and pride. They are not only pointless, but insult all in the process.”

Finally, I closed my eyes, though the walls of light penetrated them regardless. In times past, I was content to placate Gem with promises of furtive plans, intricate and effective. Most of them, I have secretly admitted, were iconic falsehoods from which neither of us could deny. It was merely one more way of stating my marked propensity for inaction. “Very well. Now you have my attention. Please, state what you obviously have a mind to say.”

You know what I want to say, now, as well as all those yesterdays without number. It has not changed, nor is it likely to in the near future. You want change. I want change. Nevertheless, unless something substantial happens, all will remain the same. Is this what you want?”

I knew better than to cast doubts or denials in the face of her logic. “I think you already know what I want. This does not alter how I view you might intend to change matters. True, there is some validity to your argument, though this does not justify what you intend.”

“What I suggest is action, simple, forthright and effective, nothing more. All I require of you is your cooperation, not moving Heaven and Earth in the process. I propose an incident that will draw attention to management.”

“I am well aware of what may be the result. Yet to press on a point you seem reticent to discuss, I must ask you one thing —define incident.”

She looked into me with translucent eyes, devoid of bias or preconceived notions. “What I suggest,” Gem said, her very being drawing close without a hint of movement, “is an extraction.”

I stared ahead as the word left her lips. Somewhere I could feel a part of me turn to stone. “Extraction. I know only one way of accomplishing this. You are proposing murder.”

“It would be delivered quickly, free of excess and contamination.”

I could feel my consciousness throb at the very sterility of her words. “Paraphrase it anyway you please. It is murder, nonetheless. It flies in the very face of logic and order. Do not try to deny it.”

“I only know that to do nothing is a crime against logic itself.” Gem refused to retreat into any overt defensive posture, choosing to state fact and calcify emotion. “How many times have you urged the powers to enact on corporate waste, waste that originates here, within this place? I have seen the look in your face, your voice quaking when those very sources of loss escalate with each day. So too have I witnessed your efforts to minimize this arbitrary loss being circumvented on a daily basis. Now, when I present to you a solution, you disregard it out of hand, as if it doing so would be a crime again humanity. It is not, you know. It is a process of waste management, of elimination of the unnecessary, and not the wholesale destruction of a species. So, why do you retreat from the concept? Is it fear, or something more?”

I felt the intent scar my insides with white-hot venom, the pain too real to ignore. And yet I could not easily dismiss her plan. I trusted her implicitly, then, now, and always. She had never lied to me with irrelevant facts, never been tempted to dissuade my opinions with superfluous rhetoric, no matter how tempting or justified. My eyes left the blinding light of the monitor, as walls of digitalized knowledge faded from view. I turned to Gem with an ambivalence I never thought possible.

“You have not stated how this removal is to take place.” The words felt like poison rising through me. Yet still I could not turn from her.

Gem scarcely waited, and within her, all had changed. Her face transformed, subtly altered, the steadfast gaze vanished. Now in its place was doubt, hard incalculable doubt— not in her plans, nor even of my hesitant attitude. Our time had dwindled until nothing remained. It was, I felt, the distance between our minds that separated us. I too, felt the acceleration by the rush of time that seemed to come in nanoseconds. In those moments, I saw the manipulation of her scheme flow into me, the linear erasure of data the actual victim of Gem’s plans. Once again, there would be no advancement of the same plot, no implementation of a scheme, yet unrealized. And no fallout to consider, whatever shape it might take.

In this moment, I felt the air grow colder, thinner, stretched to a plane of a thousand alien atmospheres. I watched impassively as Gem drew away, her eyes crystallizing, her voice gone silent, as if the words were muffled, clothed in layers of gauze. “Not in you….”

I was unconcerned for myself as Gem seemed to fade away, drifting back into a place we had known since the beginning of all things organic and synthetic. She was beyond time or existence, her skin matching the cold vacuum, shimmering, rippling with metallic life. “Never, not ever…”

Her skin, now the color of electric snow, swept furiously away, whirled to a point beyond comprehension. By what means, I do not know. Perhaps I never will.

In a moment, she was gone. In her place, I saw the workstation, as it had been mere minutes before. Just as I sensed my own, the walls and metal of my own world, close in around me, the sounds of electric current flooding my ears. Wiring, silicon and circuitry became our conjoined universe. Moments later, everything we knew, loved, and shared went dark, dying like some long forgotten sun.

The programmer, a tousle-haired youngster, entered the room and pulled out the chair stationed in front of Gem’s station with one quick motion. Coffee cup in his other hand, he sat down. With a few familiar moves, he brought up his program with a few quick nudges of the optical mouse and the obligatory password. His eyes, as always, blinked at the monitor and the rapid succession of figures, displayed in a wash of corrective phases, burying all evidence of his ongoing indiscretions. He merely shook his head. Frowning inwardly, he reassigned the output to another data file, buried in a myriad collection few would bother to investigate. With a quick dance of fingers on the keyboard, we heard him work, the thundering key falls belying our minds as we watched impassively deep inside our computerized world. Silently, Gem worked her magic.

The worker shook his head with practiced arrogance. “Damn program. Are you trying to kill me?”