The Mole
I am no recluse. I have a routine, and that routine just so happens to involve looking.
From the window of my capsule, this magnificent city is contained in its entirety. I can see from the murky water’s edge, beach-dotted in flotsam and grifters, to the highest of steel skyscrapers, with peaks looming like mountains in smog.
The skyscraper directly opposite is identical to my own. People carry out entire lives, each within their little frames: waking up, making breakfast, making dinner, making babies, going to sleep. Repeat. I often look at it and wonder if they look back, wonder if they wonder the same. For some reason, I doubt it.
Myself, I wake up when the gray sky lightens, make my cup of tea, and go sit in front of the window. I have done this every day for as long as I can remember. I watch the world like some may watch an ant farm, or a television. This world is always on.
Years ago, I began keeping a log of each unit’s occupants. I record and update information such as their daily routine, age, sex, identifying features, occupation, parents, and children. The Building stores all of this data. It is probably more accurate than my observations, but we can only access our own data.
I watch everyone through the window. Though, I hate to admit, I do have my favorites. Some people just lead more interesting lives than others. For example, I am almost certain that the man in the top left corner unit is a government assassin—or a serial killer. State-sanctioned or not, the man is a murderer. Any new visitor who enters his capsule never leaves.
The young, single mother below him has no idea the trouble she and her little boy are in. The mother is well meaning enough. The two share a capsule meant for one. She takes odd jobs around the Building to make ends meet—cleaning, stenotyping, facegrifting, babysitting, and whatnot—so she can take the boy along with her. Every now and then she gets the odd job that requires leaving the boy at home, alone. I’ve often thought about warning her, but I never interfere.
Then there’s the Mole. I call him this because his unit is on one of the darker levels, nearly concealed by the ground smog. I figure he must be some sort of welder or photographer because, if his capsule isn’t dark, it is shrouded in a deep red light. The red glow reflects off the surrounding smog just outside his window and shifts with his silhouette. If anyone is looking back, it’s the Mole.
***
The Building’s Mailman (top floor, center unit) will begin his rounds right about now. The Mailman doesn’t really deliver the mail. These days there is none to be delivered with everything instantaneously available in your capsule. Instead, like our Mailman, he knocks on each of our doors to bid us good morning. In fact, here’s my own Mailman now.
“Just a minute!” These old bones don’t move as fast as they used to.
The oblong door hums as it recedes and reveals the Mailman’s same chipper, smiling face and same stiff uniform. The man doesn’t age.
“Good morning, Ava! How are you today?” For reasons I can’t explain, Jim’s accent is British. The day’s weather report and news ticker across his Smart Uniform. His chest flashes between icons for a steaming cup of coffee, glass milk bottles, an orange juice carton, and a red cross. He raises his bushy eyebrows and grins wider, expectant. Ever the morning person, this one.
“Fine as usual, Jim. Say—”
“Glad to hear it. How about a warm cup of coffee? The latest Med study proves it extends life for up to forty years in 95 percent of women born—”
“No thank you, Jim. You know I drink tea. Say, have you heard any news from Joe lately? Who’s the new occupant?”
Joe is the other Building’s Mailman.
Jim blinks as if he didn’t hear me.
“Come on, I’ve got more copper!”
Nothing. The weather icon shifts from partly cloudy to cloudy.
“Holographic implant?”
His smile falters. “I’ve already got one of those.”
“Really, from who?”
Nothing.
Sigh. I’d been saving it for an extra juicy bit of information, but I guess that time has come.
“Metaverse uplink.”
The smart uniform powers down, and the orange juice goes dark. Jim’s face transforms from chipper to conspiratorial. He lets himself in.
“Where would you get one of those? You’re old.”
I ignore this remark and cross my arms. “I have my ways. I have information on everyone. Information some would not like shared.”
“Show it to me.”
There aren’t many places to hide things in a capsule as small as mine, but I manage.
“Turn around,” I say. Jim turns to face the window and appears to be watching the Building. I retrieve the small black box from its hiding place and join him by the window. Contrary to the weather report, it has begun to rain.
“See? I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Jim looks at me and then takes the small obsidian box into the palm of his hand. He holds it up to the light and runs his finger along the side to reveal the circuitry panel.
“It has your data?”
“No, I never used it.”
“Shame.” Jim hands the box back. “I can’t take this. It’s too dangerous. And clearly stolen. You should get rid of it too.”
I gasp. “But Jim! You and Joe always wanted—”
“I have to get back to my rounds.” He is already at the door. “The new occupant is a lonely old woman, quite like yourself, actually. She should be moving in just now.”
Jim grins and his uniform lights up again. The door hums behind him.
***
Whenever there is a new occupant, there is always a stir. What are the other Buildings like? Why did they move you? Did they serve orange juice or apple juice?
The old woman’s unit is directly across from mine, so I had a clear view of her house calls all morning. Joe let her in and showed her around (a simple wave of the arm sufficed), then took her on the usual welcome tour. Curious (nosy) neighbors have been knocking on her door ever since she got back. The single mother’s boy is completely enamored with her. Even the murderer paid a visit. Finally, when all the visitors had come and gone, I observed her solitary habits over my evening cup of tea.
The old woman went over to the synthesizer and, instead of making a cup of tea or warm milk, produced a pen and paper. Who could she possibly have to write real letters to? How could she possibly afford it?
She spent what seemed like hours writing, smiling to herself as she put pen to paper. For some reason this depressed me, and I had to go to bed.
***
When I wake up my back is sore, and the sky is a little whiter than it should be. I realize I’ve slept in.
I check the information panel. 9:05 a.m.. Jim is over an hour late. Where could he possibly be?
I think back to all of the mornings I remember Jim greeting me and realize it is all of them. At this, I start to worry. My cold bones ache in sympathy.
My thoughts immediately go to the Metaverse uplink. I feel for it in the crevice between the wall and the synthesizer. It isn’t there. I check again, craning my neck to peer behind the synthesizer myself. The box is gone. But I was always so careful!
I have to get a message to Joe. I will never forgive myself if something happens to Jim. Joe will never forgive me. They had plans together.
I pull up the information panel again to open my Mailbox. There is nothing there. No letters, no weather, no news. A window looking onto nothing. A touch screen with nothing to touch. Just a blank screen with the time. Something must be wrong.
For the first time in years, I am preparing to leave. I pull on my shoes and take out my dusty jacket. I take a deep breath and press the sensor. The door hums but doesn’t move. Instead, it glows red.