The alarm screams. The lights flicker on, triggered by movement. We’re grateful for the fluorescent lighting, the man on the television screen says its rays encourage the most productive workers. I’m told it is nothing like sunlight, apparently that can burn your eyes if you look into it.
I rise, remove my feeding tube, and receive four white capsule pills and a coffee cup. Next to me, my co-workers receive the same. There are 31 of us here. We rarely receive new numbers, only when a number is lost and needs to be replaced. I have known most of these women and these four metal walls since I was very young. So young, that I cannot recall a time when they did not surround me.
Some of the older women remember a time before, but much of what they recall is confusing to me. They speak of trees, tall, brown and green, that grow from the ground. There were only a few of them left when the migration happened. They barely remember them, but talk about them in wonder. Although they don’t speak about them as much as they did, not since the overseers took away 924.
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The beds retract into the ground, and our worktables rise. I fill my coffee cup from the dispenser on the wall. An overseer stands by, ensuring no one takes more than their ration. I feel a tingling in my fingers and around my jaw as I sip; my thoughts about trees begin to thicken. I focus on the work before me, this lessens the fog.
The grey filament trays rise on the right side of my table, and my hands begin the repetitive movements they will make until second alarm. I take the sickly green filaments one at a time, they are thin and slippery, breaking easily, but my practised hands weave them into a mat. I occasionally turn the lights positioned over the work and spray water to keep the filaments moist. I watch the water drip, pooling briefly before draining away through narrow slits beneath the table. I make it into a game, counting steadily to 100 in my head; each piece of filament represents a life. If I drop or break one, I have to start counting again. I finish the mat, placing it on a tray on the left side of my desk. If I finish enough mats by second alarm, I will get two cups of coffee.
My hands are cramping by second alarm. When I was younger, I thought my hands would grow stronger and stronger the more I worked them. The man on the television screen says growth is exponential, but I cannot reconcile this with my hands. Each day they seem to get slower and slower. I was told that growth begets growth, so, why do my hands slow?
961 was removed by the overseers when her daily mat count dropped below the advised amount. She was the oldest woman I had known. She screamed as they took her away. She said we had to fight, to help her, to remember the trees. I think 924 was removed shortly after that. Two very young women took their places, they don’t talk much. Even less than the rest of us.
I sit down for break with two cups of coffee. I may have slowing hands, but I am still one of the fastest producers in my unit. A small screen flickers on. We look up, each woman enjoying her earned time. Short television breaks are awarded after both second and third alarm. As long as you hit your targets.
The man who appears on the screen taught me how to count and how to make mats. A large number fills the screen, a countdown to announce the sector that made the most mats since yesterday’s second alarm. Each day, for a heedless second, I let myself hope it might be us. It never is. Not even when my hands were at their fastest.
