Operator

Operator
Hello?]

I tell her: "I am an operator." I actually told her&;#8230;
It's true though; I am an operator. And she is my wife, so of course
she ought to know what it is that I do. What it is that I am.
She thinks I work for the phone company.
It's true though.
But what a phone company&;#8230;

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Log file begun : 10:46:81. Operator : Robbins, H10373.
Internal operator thought is logged in italic text. Dialogue between
operator and handler is rendered as script - handler as part 'System'.
Error codes, and other messages/notes generated when the file was
processed, compiled, checked and logged are indicated (in accordance
with style-guide rule #34) with one square bracket, in a reduced size,
as so : 013 xxxx] If you don't understand, please refer to the help
files (see end of document).
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"Remember the glassbox. If ever you have a question, remember gasping,
drowning, grasping in the glassbox. Quietly."

Robbins walked under the concrete overhang, trying to keep out of the
5pm rain. He could hear it pinging slightly against the tight material
of his coat-sleeves. He could see the street-lamps, buzzing orange and
nervous on the warm-up cycle. He could smell the fat from the clutch of
yellow neon takeaways huddled at the street corner.
QUALITY FASTFOOD PIZZAS KEBABS BURGERS FIRES.
Suddenly, the taste, half hot-salivated stench of fried food; burning;
a suggestion, rooted and worming in his mind, coming from the wrong
word on the sign. FIRES.
Only the headphone pads felt; warm and fuzzy as they were clipped
against his ears. The thin black wire ran down his neck and into his
coat, coldly creeping a little against his skin. A couple of beeps as
he powered up; the display ran through its usual initialisation
process. After a few seconds of seemingly random garbage

005 : See appendix 34 for system hardware manuals]

the translucent graphics of the heads-up display appeared, overlaid on
top of his normal vision: grey-green, and hovering like ghosts,
waiting, ready for him. Volume level (increasing slightly), clock,
level of zoom, ambient temperature, systems status. At the moment, just
humming along in the background; glorified digital watch.

His eyes moved;
left to right
up and down
then centred.
The peaks and troughs on the readout showed he could feel the slight
mechanical undulations as the cold machine perfect grey orbs went
through their calibration process. The macro-mechanic clicks and grinds
were silenced and eased a little by the fluid the eyes swam in. But the
socket tissue is unfortunately still real, and his skull nerves
twittered and gibbered as the tiny cogs ran over them.

Here we go, another day at work. My eyes are red-raw; aching
again.

An old lady, moving slowly towards the bus station, her tight skin,
pulled against her wind-frozen bones, already drawn and quartered by
time (it is waiting patiently for the rest). Looking up at him, her
mouth moved slowly, chattering between each word.
"Are you ok, young man? Is there nothing wrong with you?"
"Yes. I mean no - nothing is wrong. Go about your business&;#8230;
sorry, I'm fine. "
She turned away, nodding again and again, clutching her timetable,
trying to align foreign blue numbers running in columns and row after
row and column with warmth and home.

Robbins:\> Why did she ask that? System&;#8230;?
System:\> Diagnostics indicate both optic sensors are suffering from
a slight malfunction, causing them to leak fluid when performing
advanced functions. It is nothing serious. No cause for alarm.

I don't remember my real eyes. They were never very good anyway;
(chronic myopia, according to my medial records). Some time ago I was
involved in an automobile incident and my eyes were injured, so the
surgeons replaced them with enhanced synthetic implants, enabling me to
see everything properly. Everything is clear to me now.

Robbins:\> Oh. Brain must still be cold! (Laughs a little.) Early
starts, hey?
System:\> Yeah, tell me about it.
Robbins:\> I feel a bit fuzzy. Fogged up, or something.
System:\> Don't be nervous. You are right. Take a boost.

Robbins slotted coins into a drinks machine; Holding ice-cold can;
Ripping open a small package; Shaking two green pills into dark liquid;
Waiting a few seconds; First gulp, fizzing in his mouth; Frothing
slightly; Swallowing the rest; Discarding the container.

The drugs kick in almost immediately; mix the green pills with Fanta
and you get Frosties. The drink (apparently - I never see it out of the
can) still retains its orange colour, and it gives you a huge
sugar-rush-buzz; it ices your nerves, sets them
stalactite-tite-tite-tite; sharp on a glittering sugar ice edge.

020 Error]
&;#8230;But I can still feel *it* - something is different today. In
my teeth, beneath the drugs; ignoring the usual flow of chemical
controls. My nerves are - not buzzing, because they buzz normally.
(It's the ramped-up electricity that pumps through them. My blood is
polymer; long and stretchy, thin tendrils of blue sparks, not
comfortable gooey fluid). No, it's something else today that's making
me feel so wired. Like a headache, barb-wired, wrapping around my
brain&;#8230;

System:\> Are you ready? It is time to go to work.

One of the grey-green wraiths in front of him flashed, retching forth,
saline and sick like nauseous smoke. Robbins started a little; for a
moment, it seemed to come out of the bank - the overlaid graphic
coincided with someone actually leaving the real building.

Got to be more alert than that. Getting caught out be a virtual
spook&;#8230; I really am rusty. The music's starting again.
System's right. It's time for working now, and I've got to concentrate.
I've got to be accurate; truth is all important in my line of work.
[=Truth to the ideal, fidelity to the standard and loyalty to the
target.]

The volume level of the music playing in his head clicked up to 12. OH
IT'S LIKE LOVE / LOVE, LOVE, LOVE, LOVE / LOVE IS , SENT FROM ABOVE /
MAYBE BABY / WE CAN MAKE IT TOGETHER / STILL LOVE YOU FOREVER / FOREVER
TOGETHER LOVE FROM ABOVE / The sweet vocals slipped over silly little
sugar melody. Everything in the world is OK. The happy pop song played
through Robbins's headphones, wispy candy-floss sounds melting slowly
away.

Nothing new on the radio then. It all seems the same to me these days
anyway. Maybe it's because I'm getting old. Maybe it's because I'm
getting cold&;#8230; too many mechanical bits inside me or
something.

Robbins walked out from under the overhang, crossing the concrete
expanse of the bus station forecourt. Cars swept past; the world came
to him through cotton wool; shrink-wrapped in music; the strange
texture of ongoing beats and voices forming a membrane of ice tight
heat sealed plastic. The world is far away. The muffled rumble of
traffic in the background, the general murmur of the people in the
streets. The volume level of the music playing in his head clicked up
to 13 at the sweet synthesiser sugar-rush of the chorus.

A woman in a beige raincoat was pressed up against the glass of the
phone-box, fumbling in her pocket for the phone-card. THEY'RE
EVERYWHERE ALL AROUND YOU. Dialling, her delicate fingers cold on the
clunky metal buttons, she waited nervously for the number at the other
end to pick up. NO SHE'S NOT. She was probably calling home to say
she's going to be late. SHE IS NOT CALLING ANYONE. Or calling for a
lift. Or to check if everything is ok. NO SHE IS WATCHING YOU. As
Robbins walked past, head buried in scarf, he suddenly looked back,
watching her, trying to see if she was watching him back. Quickly
turning the corner, he waited to cross the road. A businessman stood
next to him. A little nervously, Robbins watched him press the button
at the crossing, his finger cold on the clunky metal button. IT COULD
BE WIRED TO A BOMB. At the loud beep of the junction, people rushed
across the road, desperate to get to the other side. Someone walked
into Robbins, pushing him back as they swept past, the rough tear of
their briefcase and umbrella spinning him round. Sorry, mumbled the
other man, picking up his file from the floor, moving off quickly into
the crowd. KISS OF JUDAS. Don't worry about it, murmured Robbins to
him, re-clipping his headphones, adjusting his jacket. Love from above
went the chorus, blissfully rushing back into his needy ears. THESE
PEOPLE ARE FIGHTING A GODLESS JIHAD, went the...?

Robbins:\> Damn it System, is that you? Own up to it if it's you, I
know it is, look just&;#8230;
System:\> Sorry Robbins. Ha Ha Ha. I bet it feels like the in-laws
are round. Ha Ha. We'll turn the volume down. But you did mention you
felt a bit rusty. And you know how important it is to
be&;#8230;
Robbins:\> Razor sharp? Yeah, I know.
System:\> Yes. Sorry. Won't happen again. But I can see the old
Robbins is back.
Robbins:\> Oh, I've never been away.
System:\> That's the spirit.

But I haven't. That's the thing. I haven't, I haven't ever, ever been
away. I have done this for years.

Robbins passed by some shops; the light seemed to spill from their huge
glass windows like paint, splashing fuzzy, indistinct shapes on the
grot-grey pavement.
His eyes streamed a little; nose red and cold in the winter wind.
Everything seemed a little ill; the light fading from a washed out
winter sky. The blindman's holiday (they used to say); too light for
lamps, too dark for eyes. Walpurgisnacht things waking; the street
lamps coming on, burning bright holes in the evening's bleeding inky
blueness.

034 Operator begins combat warm-up cycle]
Suddenly, I can see, all the shadows are moving in pairs. This is when
things happen; shadows aren't cast by light; they hide and conspire,
whisper and scratch in the corners, follow you down alleyways, flare up
and confront you. When shadows move in pairs, the world has its knives
out. And it's out to get you.

The bass buzzes in the music; it is getting louder; Robbins's teeth
jitter, his body now flooded with the shit-kicker drink. Everything's
playing, everything's right. The world is ill and angry, the music
confused and high speed, and Robbins ready.
COMING APART AT THE SEAMS / I'VE LOST MY WAY.

Lost my way? I know where I am though, System. Maybe it means that my
way has lost - lost the battle? We haven't lost have we, System?
System? Is there something you aren't telling me? Have things changed
while I have been away? What about the TV station, it's not on fire is
it? And Parliament? Are the people fucking in the streets? I thought
they always burned TV stations and things when there was a revolution?
But there was nothing on TV about it. I watched the news only last
night. System?

We kill them because they kill us. They kill us. They killed your
parents. Burnt your house. They will kill you wife. THEY WILL KILL YOU.
We will kill them. It is the only way to deal with them. They do not
accept our democracy, they are working to bring down our system,
scurrying around trying to destroy communist front organisation
terrorist powers shake and make violent and&;#8230;

018 Error]
Ow! I wish they'd&;#8230; I wish, I wish they'd shut up! There, I've
said it. I wish that the stupid jabbering in my head would be
quiet!

YOU CAN FEEL THEIR WITCHY FINGERS NIGHT SCRATCHING AT YOUR FACE WITH
THEIR SHADOW NAILS HOWLING DOWN TO DEMON BONE

Now it starts.

The music getting louder, the bass throb synchronised with the heart
beat, the heads-up display flickering into action. And there it is; the
target. Rain dripping from his face, Robbins can see him across the
street coming out of the coffee bar. No-one stops him; there, just
walking down the street, past the bus stop. Bag in his left hand,
looking around as he crosses the road.

He is a terrorist.

Robbins walks across the street after him, foot carelessly splashing
into the dirty pool of water by the kerb. At the noise, the target
looks back, just quickly, and begins to move more briskly. Threading
through the crowds, back towards the city centre, blending in too
quickly. Robbins walks quicker, his bag bagging against his left side
as he pushes someone out of the way, eyes desperate for the target,
noise in his head even more so.

I AM SHOUTING, but no-one in the street turns to look. Stop that man!
Somebody, stop him. Everyone is bunched up in their coat collars,
afraid of the rain. It's like I'm not here, why won't anyone listen?
I'm running now, feet pounding the streets in desperate pursuit,
throwing the water from puddles aside. Stop! You must stop!
Why can't they hear me? Why won't they listen? He is a terrorist, I am
sure of it.

The man walks through the alleyway quickly, his pace nervous. He dodges
underneath the glass shelters of the bus station.

Running, running, I cannot keep up, he is too fast.

Got to keep up, got to catch him. Robbins cuts down an alley-way, and
slams into the stair well of the multi-storey car park; the rancid
yellow light from the steel caged bulb flickering, stale smell sticking
like chewing gum in his throat and nostrils. Pounding up the stairs,
one hand grasping the cold metal banister.

Robbins :\> System, patch me into surveillance, and tell me where he
is.
System :\> Helicopter 54 says he's still maintaining cover; walking
towards the bus station. He must be going for the drop-off. Don't let
him get there.
Robbins :\> I know, I know.

Inside Robbins' head, a timer goes off. Professional training; it
always kicks in at times like this. You just do things on autopilot;
because that's what it takes, that's what dedication it requires. To
get the job done.

It takes 36 seconds to get to the top of the stairs; then 25 to get
across the top level to the roof access ladder. Another 15 second
sprint to the edge, then 5 to acquire the target. Conversely, the
target has a 2 minute walk to the Bus bay (we know from military
intelligence he'll go for&;#8230;&;#8230;which? I knew, they told
me&;#8230; X44&;#8230;
044 System randomly generated integer numbers]
That leaves in 4:50&;#8230; that'll give me a small window of about
30 seconds in which to drop him. Go, go, go! Everything screams as I
run up the stairs.

4:20
Top of the stairs.

3:50
At the ladder.

2:20
Across the roof.

1:00
At the edge, get the gun out.

:45
At the top, aiming the sniper rifle.
There. In the sights, dead centre. He is making the drop. I'm taking
him out - if that package is delivered, it could be all over. Can't let
that happen, I won't&;#8230;

021 Error]
Wait. Who's speaking here? What did I say? Who's saying those words?
There are two - no, three voices - I am one, who are the others?
Bang. Robbins's finger squeezes the trigger of the sniper rifle. The
event seems disconnected; the only sound is totally unrelated; the ugly
chudder of a bus engine choking on its own diesel as it starts up or
dies. On the concrete expanse of the bus-station fore-court an old man
falls weakly, bag falling from his hand. Across the other side, a
window breaks as the blood covered bullet ends its journey in an office
building. And Robbins's body, seconds and seconds later, finally
recoils from the shot. The gun, smiling silently, finally concedes and
makes a noise; finished whisper of job done. I'm not here. This isn't
happening. Who did that? I didn't flinch, I didn't move a muscle. Who
did that?

026 Error]
Shadows move in pairs. Walking home on a cold dark night, the
streetlights and security spots cast darkness everywhere. Swirl of
Styrofoam burger packets, kick of dirty puddles. Ghostly iterations and
echoes; blurred movements not quite made and paths not understood. The
lonely ache of the low-rise malls that spool past the Motorway.
Possibilities chasing. Nerves chattering like street-lamps on the
warm-up cycle. But the shot rang out clearly. And suddenly, it was
dawn, darkness draining. Only, 'why?'

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EOF : unexpected end of file. Log file terminated]
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"Hi honey, how was work?" She presses her face to his; the absence of
warmth in his pale skin, as she holds him in the slatted sunlight
coming through the window. Cheek pressed to cheek. "You walked home,
didn't you? It's still cold, you could've gotten the bus y'know."
"I needed the air. I had to think. You get very&;#8230;" He stops.
"This my coffee? Thanks. No - It's just sometimes I don't think I like
my job. Don't think I like it at all."
In the background, the breakfast news is playing on the TV.
"And just in&;#8230; police have released the name of the man who
was shot dead at the bus station earlier this morning. Seventy-six year
old Nicholas Merle, a retired teacher, was found at about 7AM this
morning with what police call an 'assassination style wound' to his
head. A press conference is scheduled for later this morning. Stay
tuned for more updates on this and other top stories. The time is now
eight fifty-nine."
"You mean you need some space? Need the room to think. Yes, I know. I
know, honey."
Robbins is sitting on the edge of the bed. She moves to the window,
pulling the curtains closed as she takes off her dressing gown.
"But think of the good job you do for the company. They like you. They
pay you well, we have a nice house, nice car&;#8230;" She holds him
as he sits watching the stream rise over the lip of the cup. But biting
her lip, she darkens.
"But if it is claustrophobia, or something. Go and see the doctor.
Maybe get some pills."
Her face is dipped in the still early morning darkness of the bedroom.
Across the room, the shadows are moving in pairs.
End]