Ada Lawrence stood in her shower, not yet wet, and debated returning to bed for another hour of sleep. But recently, Ada’s mind re-arranged itself while she slept. Upon awakening, Ada struggled to distinguish dreams from memories. After each slumber, she felt a bit more adrift, further from a reality she could fully comprehend. Ada never asked if anyone else felt the same. She buried these thoughts in hopes that her nighttime imaginings would fade into nothingness.

 Refusing herself another bout of delusion, Ada plunged her body under the icy beads of water. She gasped for air, but her chest couldn’t fully expand. Although Ada had started her mornings this way hundreds of times, it was never any easier—the shock any less jarring. It wasn’t the pain that drew Ada into the cold, it was how the temperature eradicated everything abstract. Under the cold water all Ada’s worries dissolved to a single thought: flee. She always disobeyed this instinct. Instead, Ada stood firm in the chilling water and anchored herself with a slow, steady breath. It was a breath that never came quickly, but always, eventually, she found. And once she did, she’d say to herself, this is good. Cold, but real. 

When Ada exited the shower, a red light activated from above, warming the space and evaporating the few droplets of water still clinging to her skin. Ada’s told that she’s thirty. Her taut, poreless skin suggests an age even younger. But Ada’s stern and studious face betrays any signs of youth. There are no papers to prove her age. For obsoletes, like Ada, life before living in the Stratum of Knowledge is folklore. All she could examine of her past was observable in the mirror before her. She traced the edges of her torso with her fingertips. Then Ada stared deeply into her eyes through the mirror. Her mind flashed to a scene she tried drowning in the cold water; a moment when her mother, Elena, coddled her as a toddler. This was impossible. Ada’s mother had died in the war when she was one.

Then, a numbing zap faded her memory black. Ada reached for the base of her neck, and caressed her BRiDG, a tiny neural device embedded into her cerebellum. A device which everyone who survived the Second Civil War wore in promise of everlasting peace. The BRiDG was invented by Sixth Domain Industries (6Di), and was the antidote to conspiratorial thinking and misinformation. It was a piece of neural-hardware that connected the human mind to The Sphere—6Di’s proprietary web—which was a sanitized, safe version of the former internet. On it were no lies. No threat of radicalization or delusionment. All that remained on The Sphere, and in each mind connected to it, was truth. 

Although it was still dark outside, lights throughout Ada’s apartment illuminated to mimic the sunrise, as Ada’s body and hair dried. Then, Ada’s BRiDG spoke, “Good morning, Ada.” 

“Good morning, Lily.” 

Ada inspected her tight jaw line and plump lips, when, in the mirror, a series of agendas unfurled. Lily spoke to what was written, “Agenda A: assist in the digitization of the Renaissance archives.” 

Ada, uninterested, said, “pass.”

Lily commented, “a boring era, but I had to ask,” then read the next option, “Agenda B: assist in the digitization of personal journals from the Stratum of Reason.”

Ada smirked. “Accept.” 

Lily, expressing a kind of programmed joy, said, “Excellent, Ada! Agenda B contains 2,532 pages. One other person will be assigned to work beside you on Agenda B. If you reach your daily quota of one thousand items you’ll both finish Agenda B by lunchtime tomorrow. Begin at your earliest convenience.” 

Ada hadn’t cared much for removed eras in history so much as she wanted to understand her own. Whenever possible, she worked on agendas in Second Civil War history or on projects from the Stratum of Reason. Those in the Stratum of Reason were officially citizens of the Sixth Domain. They were permitted to write, given that their complete dependency on the BRiDG allowed them to factually recall the past. So, Ada chose projects from the Stratum of Reason in hopes of discovering a single word of her late mother Elena from someone still alive. 

The mirror blanked. Ada asked Lily to show her “the clocks.” 

“Certainly,” Lily exclaimed, “the time is now 5:16 a.m. You’ve 212K artifacts remaining before earning your citizenship. You’re approximately one year ahead of the obsolete expiration date.” 

“And my father?”

“Byron has 950K artifacts remaining. At the current pace, he is 11 years behind the expiration date.”

Those who lived inside the Stratum of Knowledge had not yet proven their dependency to the BRiDG—their minds still susceptible to misinformation. Reasons for susceptibility varied. Some, like Ada, were born into the stratum. The older folks were slow to work. Few, like Byron, lived as miners. All miners were criminals, and struggled to complete daily digitization tasks following their underground labors. All obsoletes were tasked to complete the nation’s reconstruction project coined “total digitization” which promised to place a digital replica of every known artifact onto The Sphere, making them available to every living mind. Those who were forced into political retraining were called obsoletes, for each had exactly two more years until Day Zero. Two more years to finish their million-item quota. This number ensured dependency on the BRiDG. Those who failed to complete the task would be sentenced to a life in the mines. 

After a great pause, Ada asked, “Lily?”

“Yes, Ada?”

But Ada couldn’t dare conjure the thought aloud. She wanted to hear, as she had dozens of times before, what the public record said of her mother and when she had actually died. But she thought the question was excessive, suspicious. As if the fact were incapable of embedding itself into her mind as true and that it would target Ada as one of those dangerous minds. So instead, Ada sighed, and said, “never mind.” 

“Of course. Good day, and good luck, Ada.” 

Ada slid into her sector’s assigned uniform. A, black, seersucker jumpsuit;  surprisingly stylish for being attire assigned by a corporation. Ada laced her black athletic sandals around her feet. Before she departed, she affixed an ornate band around her left bicep, which indicated that she resided west of the main interstate that divided the Stratum of Knowledge into two. The band bore two yellow diamonds, signifying that she belonged to sector twenty.

After she dressed, Ada stepped into the silent hallway, where 6Di’s proclivities for style extended beyond its uniforms. Even the hallway Ada paced, which bore no purpose but to guide obsoletes from their residences to the elevator, was acutely adorned with a moody blend of abstract accessories. Accessories which, in past eras, would have been reserved for those in a luxurious class. The purpose of these objects hadn’t changed. They’d always acted as a symbol of success and security. Which, for a people akin to corporate slaves, didn’t act as proof of their successes, but rather to mask their oppression. 

When Ada arrived at the elevator, its doors immediately opened. The car, empty, was carved from a chunk of gold the size of a utility closet. Its innards rocky and imperfect as the surface of an asteroid. On her descent, Ada observed, as she did each morning, the carved subtleties with renewed curiosity. How odd, she thought, that this rock is so valued. The earliest kings surrounded themselves with gold, sanctifying their existence; and for thousands of years, gold represented stability, wealth, and prosperity. Ada, frankly, didn’t understand the obsession with gold. Not outside the elevator. Certainly not while on it. It was, to her, just a rock. 

Then the elevator came to a stop, which Ada hadn’t expected. Only twice in the past year had her morning descent been interrupted by another passenger. But those were miners. And three months ago, all were moved to units below ground in order to most efficiently transport them from work to home. But efficiency had nothing to do with their relocation. Truth was, 6Di deemed the miners too unruly for the class of people that they were trying to curate into citizens. None would become citizens, anyways. At least that’s the way their lives were designed. No one could archive one million artifacts before Day Zero and also complete daily twelve-hour shifts underground, culling raw minerals out of the earth for 6Di’s insatiable material consumption. Ada’s father Byron had tried for a month. Three weeks in he fell asleep underground mid-shift and lost his index finger as punishment. Famously, miners who witnessed his punishment claimed he didn’t wince; not when they sawed his finger clean off nor when they cauterized the wound with a branded iron that read “6Di.”

At the unexpected stop, the elevator door hissed open. The sound made Ada think of her father’s hand sizzling shut. The thought so preoccupied Ada that she hadn’t acknowledged her friend Natsumi. Not after the door opened, nor after she stepped aboard.

“Ada?” Natsumi wondered, “are you okay?” 

“Natsumi?” Ada said, surprised, “is-is it today?” 

Smiling, Natsumi replied, “Today is the day.” 

Still jarred by the conjured images of her father’s punishment, Ada jumbled a response, “You seem so-so…calm. How are you so calm?” 

“I think I’m feeling too much to express anything. I’m excited. I really am. But I’m also a little scared. Who do we know beyond these walls? What do we know? Today, for me, everything starts anew. A new home, new friends, new rules, new standards of living. It’s all supposed to be better but…” Natsumi pondered her words, “There is some immeasurable value in old habits.” 

“Yeah,” Ada said, smirking, “comfort.”

They both sighed. The elevator dinged before its doors opened to the ground floor. Ada and Natsumi stepped into the lobby. Ada asked, “what are you archiving on your last day?” 

“Agenda D. It’s a massive project. I heard there are about seven billion more artifacts in that collection.”

“How many more till you’re done?” Ada asked. 

“Three hundred and sixteen,” Natsumi said. “I should be able to make the 3 p.m. shuttle.” 

Jokingly, Ada asked, “You won’t forget me on the other side, will you?” 

Natsumi laughed, and after a pause replied, “Never.” 

“I can’t wait to join you.” 

Then there was silence. Natsumi shuffled her feet, to reposition her stance and fill the silence. When she settled again, a howl of outside air whispered into the elevator car. Noises Ada focused on to avoid the stifling sadness. 

“These goodbyes never get easier,” Ada confessed. “You’ve been a sister to me.”

“And you to me.”

“But no one ever comes back. And I want you to know that’s okay if you don’t. It’s like you said. Today for you, everything starts anew.” 

Their stomachs knotted at the sickening thought that this walk might be their last minutes together. Neither Ada nor Natsumi noticed the soft morning glow illuminating the horizon. Neither noticed how the surrounding towers reflected dawn, how each building appeared to burn like candles. Their heads hung low. Their eyes focused on their shadowed feet. The archive’s entrance still a quarter mile away. A pace which they’d walk briskly. To warm themselves against the cold, and avoid interactions with any of the guards that lined the pathway connecting home to work. 

A dozen paces later Ada asked, “But why do you think no citizen ever chooses to live in this sphere?” 

“That’s a query that has no answer.” 

Uncomfortably, Ada confided, “I know, that’s why I ask.”

Natsumi replied sternly, “You should be careful who you’re asking that to.” 

“I’m asking you.” 

Natsumi stopped, pulled Ada’s ear close to her mouth and said, “If it’s not a query that has an answer, then it’s not important. That’s what I think.” Natsumi noticed a nearby guard who was acutely observing their confrontation. 

“Now look,” Natsumi continued, “guards are interested in what we’re doing. I’m not interested in entertaining your speculations. Not at what I know they cost. Just look at your parents. Do you want that life? I know you don’t, that’s why you’re the first one at the archives every morning. But you know as well as I do that curiosity is reserved for those on the other side—for those who’ve seen enough facts to begin to discern one from the other. Maybe tomorrow I’ll write what I think, so that later it can be digitized and queried. But as long as we’re on this side, the world is black and white. Authorized or not. Archivable or non-existent. Do me a favor, Ada, and stop asking questions that don’t have answers.” 

Ada felt an all too familiar zap. Her mind jolted, and questions she so clearly articulated drifted further from her mind’s eye, until each letter blurred into something incomprehensible and Ada couldn’t recall exactly what it was she just asked. Ada felt haunted by these thoughts and memories that no one else seemed to share, fearing that maybe she, like her father, would be sentenced to a life in the mines. 

Natsumi pursed her lips into a frown and awaited a response. But Ada only mirrored Natsumi’s face, subtly bobbing her head in agreement. After a brief moment, they both resumed walking. They reached the archives. Outside its entrance, above the double automatic doors, a sign read: Don’t think, compute. 

At this hour, the entrance of the archives was still. By noon it’d be bustling with a majority of obsoletes in 20W occupying the facility to complete their daily quotas. Though attendance to the archives was mandatory, its aura was uplifting. A structure that represented liberty, and transformation, where obsoletes eventually earned their right to citizenship. And the only known place where obsoletes and citizens coexisted. Though, interactions between the two groups were rare. That didn’t matter. Just the thought of brushing shoulders with a citizen was thrilling. 

The archives worked like this: citizens sorted and queued physical artifacts to be archived in the basement level. Those piles were then dispersed to their corresponding wings. To natural history, technology, philosophy, current events—wherever was most appropriate. Each morning obsoletes selected which wing they’d want to spend their day. The most desirable slots went early. Current events would have no more available slots by seven each morning. And these sign ups determined which wings, and which desks in each wing, needed objects. So, when Ada arrived at her desk each morning there was a pile of artifacts awaiting her. Depending on the object, she’d scan, photograph, or transcribe it. Whatever best represented this object in a digital sphere. And once it was replicated in The Sphere—the 6Di’s proprietary web—the artifact would be elevated by pulley or vacuum into the ceiling where a citizen would ensure the information entered accurately represented the object’s description. The process was often mind numbing. But Ada found it odd, mostly how history had become the means to rebuild a new society, and that its control meant preventing any future wars.

Structurally, each archival facility paid homage to the grandest libraries of previous generations. At least, that’s what the elders in 20W claimed. Ada had never been in a library. No one born in the last three decades had. Libraries defied 6Di’s declaration of digitization. They were poor for progress. Opulent totems of a now-gone era. Ada remembered that her father, Byron, once told her that each town used to have its own library; and that all of them were carbon copies of another. Each void of anything unique. Just colossal wastes of energy and resources. Gatekeepers to truths which, if digitized, may have prevented the Second Civil War. For, on their shelves were stories that invalidated conspiracies from the insurrectionists. But inefficient truths perpetually halted exponential progress. And in the face of a technology that promised to make available all truths to all people, libraries vanished. Now each surviving person connects to The Sphere through their BRiDG, plugging into their minds an infallible foundation of knowledge.

The BRiDG was to modern memory as water pipes were to developed nations in the early 20th century. If The Sphere was a reservoir, filled with clean, ready to ingest water—in its case, sanitized, and safe to consume information, then the BRiDG was the vehicle that delivered those truths. The BRiDG minimized mental infections—like conspiratorial thinking and proliferating falsities—and thus elevated the standards of mental health across the population through consistent consumption of clean information. This was the basis of 6Di’s promise to everlasting peace. No longer would people spend their days thinking. They simply computed. Truths and facts were no longer suspect, or mysterious. With the BRiDG implanted at the base of one’s cerebellum anyone could know anything verifiably true. Underlying one nation, was, at last, one mind. 

This was the driving spirit behind Total Digitization. After an obsolete archived one million artifacts into The Sphere they developed what scientists called, “a neuropathic dependency” on their BRiDG. This dependency ensured all thought could be monitored and censored by 6Di, and that their brain wouldn’t think a thought without first passing it through the neural pathways to which the BRiDG was affixed. This ensured every thought was fact checked in live-time, and edited if false. It ensured dangerous, delusional, thinking was a disease to people of the past. Most importantly, it was the moment when someone earned their citizenship.

Today, Natsumi would complete her neuropathic dependency and become a citizen. Ada found it hard to believe that the Natsumi she walked beside at this moment would somehow become fundamentally different from the Natsumi she would meet again in a few hours. That’s how change always happens. Quietly, slowly, without any signs of demarcation. No way to distinguish the old from the new. 

Toward the end of the main corridor, a hall carved out of a thirty-foot tall block of marble, Natsumi stopped and said, “this is me.”

“I’ll see you before three?” Ada asked.

“Meet by the shuttle.” 

“I’ll be there.” They smiled. Meekly, so as not to stir any emotions other than joy. Then they hugged, though gentler than they wished.

Ada walked to her corridor again confused by the gaudy use of gold figurines that accessorized the marble hall. Even the work-corridors were moody and extravagant. Persian rugs cordoned each workstation, atop which rested strong mahogany desks. In a few hours, light would flood through the thirty-foot-high, floor-to-ceiling windows of the outer wall, absolving the need for the soft, warm, spotlights that made the space twinkle until morning. A few night workers were finishing their shifts. Their sunken eyes craved sleep. No one was assigned a shift. Just a daily quota and a life-clock, which was the same for everyone. One thousand items per day, until one million artifacts were digitized. On April 5th, two years from now, obsoletes wouldn’t be that different from an artifact. Either become a citizen, a thing inseparable from The Sphere, or nothing.