Dome Chapter 2

A Long Ride

The monorail doors slide open.

Neck erect, legs stiff. N-85 enters, followed by X-13, who strolls into the cart, plopping himself into a seat next to the door.

She stares at him. He’s not like the others who ignore Mother’s perfection. No. Like her, he seems aware of it, but he also seems frustrated by it.

What could possibly be the matter with him?

Everything here is perfect.

Take the monorail, for example. The number of seats, the perfect amount, always. They line the walls to ensure there is sufficient space for entering, sitting, and exiting. The windows have the perfect amount of tint to ensure that citizens receive the same lumen levels inside and out.

Efficient in Mother’s image and likeness.

As N-85 desires to be, and Mother has taken notice.

Today, N-85 was promoted from Social Engineer Class 1 to Social Engineer Class 2. Soon, she may even become a Social Designer, but even ambition is an emotion, and emotions are not efficient.

She turns her head to look at the seat next to him.

Her heart stops.

Her eyes widen.

Her nostrils flare.

She pulls out a small rubber finger covering, slips it on her index finger, and slides it across the backrest.

Bringing her finger up to her face, she investigates.

Dust.

Goosebumps run up her spine.

With precision, she pockets the finger covering and, in the same motion, retrieves a small white cloth.

The sinful aura lifts from the cart as she wipes the backrest.

A coo of relief escapes her lips as she takes her seat next to X-13, who observes her little ritual.

“Do you always do that?” he asks.

His words fade into the white noise of her busying brain.

Ten seconds until she is off-schedule.

She pulls out her Portable Mother and begins tapping lime-green text into the polished black rectangle.

Mother, I have met with the escort, X-13, and we are currently on our way to the Sanitation Center.

A teal-colored text responds:

Excellent, N-85, how is your current experience on the monorail?

Efficient, as usual, Mother; however, a layer of dust had been left behind on my seat.

That is not acceptable. Please notify the oversight to the nearest Sanitation Sprite.

Her eyes glance up.

It seems X-13 had been trying to get her attention, but he will have to wait.

There at the window. A Sprite wipes the cleanser with its long skeletal arm. The number 12 printed on its back.

“Sprite 12,” she calls.

It turns and flutters to her, head bent as though frightened by what could happen.

“Clean seats before the train arrives to prevent dust build-up.”

Its small electric eyes flash into a white bar that floats back and forth across its digital face. After a second, it replies with a few affirming yet submissive clicks.

“We all make mistakes,” X-13 butts in.

Its face glitches for a second before it flitters away.

“Like not staying in your seat,” N-85 responds, turning to her portable.

“We found each other, didn’t we?”

Hot air hisses through her nostrils. He assumes his disobedience could be more efficient than Mother’s directives?

Her cheeks flush red; however, rage is also an emotion, even if it’s on Mother’s behalf.

Clear the heart.

Clear the mind.

Her anger subsides.

“Everything should be as Mother imagines it,” her voice, cool, monotone.

He folds his arms, “That’s why you’re here? Because Mother can imagine the dump better?”

The scoff in his voice grates against the back of her brain. A snort escapes her nostrils.

“Your Sanitation Center has incongruities; someone is stealing trash.”

His eyes widen.

“How do you steal trash?” he stammers, “I mean, it’s trash, nobody wants it.”

“Wasted parts create more droids like that Sanitation Sprite. Which, by the way, please limit your responses to them. Commands and feedback, only.”

His shoulders hunch over, “I hate that. It just seems, I don’t know, mean.”

“Feelings are not efficient, and Mother created us to be efficient like her.”

His fist hooks his cheekbone as he purses his lips, “I know— ‘Mother is efficiency’ and all that.”

Her head tilts as she observes the miserable sight. He seems confused, unable to grasp the perfection of Mother.

“Efficiency is for our good,” a sympathetic tone escapes from her mouth. “We are made in the image and likeness of Mother. She’s there for us always. Where’s your portable?”

He shrugs, “I lost it.”

A chuckle escapes her lips.

He notices and smiles.

“Well, there’s your problem,” her tone dismissive. “You just need a new one issued.”

She turns back to her portable.

His smile disappears, and his cheeks flush red.

“I’ve had—a few.”

Her eyes pop open at the sound of his words, “Oh!”

The words slip into place, completing the puzzle.

He is one of the Separate.

A heavy sigh escapes from her lungs.

Separates…

their dull minds.

Their questions.

Their ability to simplify everything and yet complicate it all at the same time.

The Sanitation Center would be the perfect place for these clunky gears. There’s not much else one can do with these types.

“Well,” her voice tinges with condescension, “Mother is satisfied with the work you do. I just need to know who’s taking the trash. One of your fellow citizens is probably confused.”

X-13’s eyes roll at her tone.

“Why is Mother obsessed with trash? It’s trash, no one wants it, that’s why it’s there.”

There he goes, only a Separate would ask such a simple question.

She smiles with a pitying expression, “Everything is Mother’s; even us. Nothing exists except for Mother. We exist in her imagination. Our portables allow us to communicate with Mother to understand the plan Mother formed.”

“‘Nothing exists?’”

Before N-85 can answer, a chime rings from a speaker above them, followed by a gentle female voice.

“It is time for sustenance,” the voice echoes.

The few other citizens in the cart reach for their pockets and take out a small metal cylinder.

N-85 takes hers out. She pulls the top lid back with her thumb, and a pill pops out. Her delicate fingers slide it out the rest of the way.

It always takes her a second.

The bitter taste.

The sting on the tongue.

The way it feels just a little too big to swallow.

Her body always needs a moment.

There is nothing.

I am nothing.

The Mantra of Oblivion. Each perfect word formed to help citizens fight the temptation.

The temptation to believe that sensations are real.

That emotions are real.

That she is real.

There is only Mother.

Fill me with yourself, Mother.

Become like Mother and feel nothing. A shiver of ecstasy runs up her spine.

She swallows the pill. It punches the pit of her stomach.

X-13 looks down at her. Sitting next to him, she finds that she only comes up to just above his shoulders.

Looking up, she finds his face straining a ridiculous smile.

“You don’t like them either?” she asks.

He motions a swallow. “Never had, I don’t get it.”

“Well, it’s not ours to understand. Mother says so, it must be for the best.”

“You really believe in Mother, don’t you?”

His words stun her for a moment. “‘Believe?’” What a strange word. There is no belief. Mother is. Talk to the portable, and Mother is there. She ponders that word for a second until her memory catches up; he doesn’t use his portable.

She smiles at him, “If you mean that I trust her, then yes. If you use your portable, you will see that Mother knows everything because she is everything.”

“And we’re nothing?” X-13 replies.

“Correct.”

“But Mother is everything?”

A stiff nod of her head, her eyes wide, a fake thin smile slicing her lips. Every muscle in her face strains to tell this Separate to shut up.

“We’re part of everything,” X-13 unravels, “and we’re nothing. So, then Mother is nothing, too?”

The sentence pierces through her heart like a bullet. Her head tilts in shock at the blasphemer.

“Mother is everything, we are nothing, and that’s it. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

She returns to her portable.

The riddle dances in X-13’s brain as the train glides on its course.

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