The Administrator (Sci-fi)

He looked out over the city, this waste-spewing monster containing almost a billion souls, all trying to get by, get rich, to find their cash cow and milk it to death before anyone else discovered it and waded in to steal it away. Those who made their cash moved away from the beast of a conurbation, this enormous mole on the landscape that lit up at night and stank on warm days, infected with virulent strains of human running around inside, spreading distaste and sickness to each other, and their surroundings.

The moneyed people moved as far away as they could get from this place, flitting from one holiday planet to another, talking to other people who’d made their money, working out how to make even more money. Everyone who had stayed at home was merely an administrator, a keyboard-warrior, doing the paperwork for all those bright stars out there finding new sources of this, that or the other, new sources of money.
He mulled over the insistent thought that he’d never make a name for himself back here. This was a Government job, he’d never make money. He wasn’t one in a million; he was one of a million. The colonies were the places that big money could be made, the new-technologists and the scientists, the thieves and the corporate thieves, the bandits, the explorers, the horticulturists, he could go on all day. Basically anyone with money, who wanted more money.

He sipped at his drink and took a bite from the energy bar. It wasn’t exactly gastronomy, but they were free, and it was quite possible to survive just on the free food available at work. People needed money to test their taste buds on something a little more adventurous. Many never knew the delights on offer. Lack of money, you see.

The console blinked with unanswered messages from friends, each with their own code, inviting him to illicit parties with upper’s, downer’s, even alcohol. The gatherings were coded as work orders, the barely interested mail checkers would always just pass them through, and that was assuming the programs registered them in the first place. It was just another room full of administrators, administrating, while the real money moved further away, at the fringes of society.

His eight minute break was over. Eight minutes, every hour, his free time fractured into units so small you couldn’t even have a proper conversation. It stopped the overuse headaches from the screens, but at the cost of human conversation. “A happy balance” was how it was described at the time, and everyone WAS happy with it when it was first announced. The management had listened and had responded swiftly.

Productivity went up almost 3.85% and the administrator’s were smiling. It was a good situation for everyone. But as time went on, the workers slowly realised how little they would see of each other, how little chance they would get to talk. The 8 minute breaks were just enough time to refresh, recuperate, use the bathroom, and then it was back to the console. After a few months, no-one spoke to anyone. Everyone developed their own ways of passing their eight minutes, and the management liked to move the breaks around, so even if you did venture out of your area during your eight minutes, and even if you did meet someone else out there, you rarely knew who they were or, more importantly, if they were trustworthy.

He looked through his console messages. Two of them he declined as he didn’t know what code he was supposed to be reading, and so refused the “work orders” in a way that asked “what’s going on?” The others he considered, wondering if anyone from a ship would be there, if there was anyone he could give money to, so he could get off this rock and go make some real money. He knew there was a café near the docking stations that would have plenty of guys who’d take his money, but they weren’t to be trusted. Too many people had been put into storage cases and never been heard from again.

Whilst working, he sorted out his social appointments for the next couple of nights, and then sent a few messages on to others, continuing the spread of coded messages about a brittle social scene that the city both denied and supported in equal measure. Denied by the officials in their robes, supported by the administrators in their comfortable uniforms.

Over the next few hours, he worked efficiently and quietly, ensuring no errors and no reason to be suspected of anything, taking his eight minute breaks as and when indicated by the console. Occasionally he opened up a small program to check the time, smiling as he watched the antiquated second hand tick round the circle on the console, giving him delight in both its inherent beauty and its illegality.

He rode the escalator back to his apartment, stood with his eyes closed, enjoying the air moving across his face. He cleaned and changed, then put a long coat over the top, and looked in the mirror to ensure nothing was visible from the outside. He scurried across town on foot, blending with the crowd , always getting closer to the party, closer to the ship away from here, closer to the money.