Let’s say you find yourself at an event. Is it a party? Not exactly, though it has some of the hallmarks. A crowd of people, talking in small groups. Trays of food getting passed around. Tables and seating. But it doesn’t have the feel of a celebration. Something in the way people are holding themselves, in they way they are speaking—there is a tightness to both.
As you look around, trying to get your bearings, you realize you’re in a multi-storey structure: some kind of atrium. Each floor forms a loop around a vertical column of empty space. A quick count tells you that you’re on the third of six levels. You peer upward and see what appears to be more of the same—an extension of whatever this event is—though it seems to have thinned out on the two floors directly above. And you can’t make out anyone at all on the very top floor.
You look downward and notice immediately that the two floors below you are much more crowded. The ground floor, in fact, is absolutely packed with people. You look more closely, trying to see the reason for this. Maybe there is some entertainment down there, or more dining options? But it’s too dark to make out details. Maybe the lights are lower because there’s a performance happening? You take a step closer to the low interior wall, trying to understand what you’re seeing, when you feel a hand on your arm.
“No, don’t.”
You turn to see a woman about your age. You open your mouth to ask her what this place is, but before you can say anything, she points above your head, behind you.
You look around and see, mounted on the low guard wall of the floor above, a large digital display. It’s not a clock. Is it some kind of counter? Yes, you think it must be. Red, 7-segment digital numbers, two of them, side by side. 4 on the left, and 64 on the right.
You realize there are displays like this on every floor, including the one you’re one. Each displays a single digit besides some larger number. The third floor—your floor—says 3 and 112. You have to tilt your head back to see the fifth floor: 5 and 16. It’s almost impossible to make out the numbers on the sixth floor display; you have to squint to read 6 and 0. Bringing your gaze back down to the second floor, you read 2 and 179. The final display, on the ground level, is functional but faint and flickering, obviously broken. You can see the 1 clearly enough, but the other number doesn’t display fully: one thousand—something—and thirteen.
“Don’t go down,” the woman beside you says. You realize you’re standing near the stairs which lead to the level below. “You won’t be able to come back up, if you do. Well you might, but it’s highly unlikely.” Her face is grave.
“I was just trying to see what—wait, what do you mean?” But the woman has moved off, suddenly occupied with her smartwatch. Just then you feel a vibration on your own wrist. You pull up your sleeve to reveal a similar smartwatch you have no memory of putting on, much less purchasing.
Hold on, though. It’s not a smartwatch. It’s some kind of basic digital display. There are no buttons or dials that you can see. And the face only shows one piece of information: the number 6245. You have no idea what this means. You have no idea where you are. This must be a nightmare, but then why do you feel hungry?
Hunger. It’s come on quickly, and intensely. When did you last eat? You look around for some kind of buffet or service counter, but there are only waitstaff circulating trays of hors d’oeuvres. You wave to a uniformed young woman, who walks over briskly. She gives you a bright smile and lowers the tray for your inspection. Typical party fare. You take a cracker topped with prosciutto and some kind of cheese, then after a moment’s thought, grab some kind of puff pastry, with asparagus and tomato. These will have to hold you over for now.
The server walks away, and as you’re looking around for someplace to sit down and eat you feel another vibration—this time, two short buzzes. You pop one of the hors d’oeuvres in your mouth so you can twist your wrist and read: 6195. You blink. You can’t be certain, because you don’t remember what is said before, but you’re fairly sure the number has just gone down.
You need to sit for a minute and figure this out. On the way to one of the sofas, you grab a bottle of water from a side table where they’re lined up in neat rows. As you do so, another buzz on your wrist. And when you sit down, another. You eat the second of your hors d’oeuvres and look at your device, which reads 6075. It’s sinking in now that the food, the water, and even use of the sofa have debited what must be some kind of event account. You’ve been to functions with payment systems like this, though they tend to use tokens, or vouchers. And paying for a seat seems extreme, but whatever.
The good news is, the two small bites of food seem to have filled you up, improbable as that seems. You lean back to take in the scene, but there’s no cushion on the sofa, so you grab a small throw pillow from a nearby chair. Buzz. 6065.
All around, people are standing in groups, talking. Some groups are more animated, with bursts of laughter and lots of gesturing. Others are more tightly huddled and closed off. Everyone is wearing a digital counter. Very few people are disengaged. Those that are have positioned themselves around the perimeter, or sit alone, like you. You see a young man standing off to the side glance at his device, frown, and then try to join a conversation. But he’s ignored by the group, which consists of three men and two women of mixed ages. The young man moves to another cluster and you watch as he awkwardly hovers nearby, waiting for a chance to break in. After he finally speaks a few sentences (though you can’t hear what about), he seems to relax, easing back out of the group a little bit. He studies his device again, and sighs with visible relief.
Suddenly there’s a commotion near the stairs. A middle-aged couple are trying to gain admittance to the third floor, but the bouncers—which you realize look more like guards—are denying them entrance. The man shouts, pointing at his wrist device, then waving broadly to the third floor crowd. As agitated as he is, the woman beside him appears rigid and emotionless. She holds the railing tightly, as if terrified of tumbling backwards down the steps she’s just climbed. After an exchange, the two are allowed to pass through the phalanx of guards, and they quickly disappear into the third floor crowd. You notice that most conversation has paused, and nearly everyone is looking expectantly at the second-floor counter. You follow their gaze and watch as 179 drops to 177. The din of conversation resumes. A realization hits, and you quickly rise and walk towards the interior, so you can see the third floor counter. It now reads 114.
You turn to a group besides you. “So it’s a count of each floor?” Your blunt interruption draws vacant stares. “The counters,” you say impatiently. “It’s the number of people on each floor. Right?”
“What did you say you do again?” A soigne man in his thirties gives you an icy, appraising look. “We were just discussing The Enterprise.” There’s no warmth in his smile. “What branch are you in?”
You have no idea what he’s talking about. “I don’t—I’m not—” You falter, unsure how to explain that you don’t know what’s going on. That you don’t belong here. That you just want an explanation. The man’s face is featureless, plastic. It strikes you that he might not even be human. Either way, your instincts tell you he’ll be no help. Neither will anyone else in the small group, none of whom seem at all interested in talking to you.
“Never mind,” you mutter, turning away. As you do, you feel a buzz on your wrist. This time the balance has gone up by ten—points? Dollars? You don’t know what the currency is. Whatever it is, you need to spend some of it, because you’re hungry again. And strangely exhausted. The brief interaction with the plastic man has utterly depleted you somehow. Weak and mildly shaky, you return to the seating area, this time grabbing a juice on the way. You could use the sugar. Buzz. You collapse on the sofa. Buzz. But hold on. You were just here a moment ago, you’re sure of it, but the sofa is different. It’s the same model as the one you were sitting on before, but this one is clearly much older. It’s heavily worn out and ragged from use. The bottom cushions are lopsided. The arms are threadbare, even torn in a few spots.
The same server from earlier is passing by, so you flag her down. Another bright smile, but this time when she offers you the tray, the selection has changed. Gone are the puff pastry and charcuterie. Now there is only some kind of greyish, unidentifiable cube of meat on a wilted leaf of lettuce. You’re desperately hungry, but it’s too unappetizing. You shake your head and hold up a hand. No thanks.
“Are you sure?” the girl asks, cheerfully. “There won’t be anything else.” You open and then shut your mouth, unsure how to respond. There is nothing in the girl’s demeanor that acknowledges the strangeness of any of this. Not the disgusting food, or the fact that the menu has changed so dramatically. Not that dilapidated loveseat or the bizarreness of the whole event. But even in just the minute that’s passed since you sat down, you’ve become even more famished. You have no choice. You have to eat something. You scoop two soggy leaves (buzz-buzz) onto a styrofoam plate (noticing as you do that the porcelain cocktail dishes from before are also gone) and nod.
You gulp down the food. Again, it is strangely filling for how insubstantial it is. Somewhat fortified, you take a deep breath and decide you’re going to figure out the rules of this game, right now. The prices must be posted somewhere. Perhaps the device has a home screen that you just haven’t seen yet? But when you bring up your wrist to investigate, you’re shocked to see the number has dropped to 1157. Impossible, you think. It’s glitching out. You glance around, hoping to see some kind of staff member you can talk to, but there’s only the same crowd as before—or are there fewer people now? It does seem quieter.
You shake your wrist. Is it kinetic? The number stays the same. As an experiment, you reach over to the throw pillow which you used before, and which has been replaced on a now ratty-looking chair. As you do so, you keep your eyes on the counter. The second your fingers touch the pillow: buzz. The number drops by 500. The price of using the pillow has gone up nearly 5000%. You look around again, hoping to compare notes with someone, anyone, but the dozen different groups that existed before have now dwindled down to four or five. You scope them out, scanning for a friendly-looking face. That’s when you notice the young man you’d watched before standing off to the side. But no, that’s not him. This man is at least a decade older. Strikingly similar, though.
You decide to approach him. As you do, he looks up and nods an acknowledgment and a quiet hello. Polite but guarded.
You’re not sure where to start, and before you can, he does. “Great event, huh? So good to put faces to names. Looking forward to leveraging this synergy. So grateful to move the needle and bucket this alignment. The Enterprise. Thought leadership. Let’s pivot.” As he spits out phrases of increasing incoherence, the man’s face contorts painfully, as if he can’t stop himself. “Put a pin it it. Drill down. Put a pin in it. Drill down.” He blinks wildly and slaps his hands against his legs, as if trying to signal to his runaway brain that the monologue is over. You take a step backwards. Doing so seems to break the spell and the man snaps to, calm again. He looks down quickly at his device, as if suddenly remembering something.
“Thank you,” he says with relief, nodding. “Thank you so much.” Before you can reply, he dashes off, chasing down one of the waitstaff.
You look around. Someone surely must have witnessed this encounter. But there are even fewer people than before. In fact it’s cleared out so much that you can better see the architecture and design of the space. If it were well maintained it would be considered minimalist. As it is, the walls are bare, with chipped paint and gouged holes where art must have once been hung. You spin around slowly, looking for more clues—and that’s when you catch sight of yourself in one of the mirrored columns. You freeze, unable to breathe, just staring at your reflection. You take a step closer. Your hair is grey. That’s not possible. And your eyes—your whole face. It’s sunken with age, your skin mottled and deeply lined. No.
It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. Just play along until you wake up. Don’t make it worse. Relax and play along.
You stagger back to the seating area, shaken and desperate to sit down. But out of nowhere the server from before appears, blocking your path. “I’m sorry ma,am, but I don’t believe you have enough.” Her smile is unwavering as she delivers this.
You try to brush her off. “It’s fine, charge me later, whatever. I have cash if I can just find my bag…” You are going to collapse if you don’t rest, and you consider pushing past her.
“Unfortunately we can’t do that. But if you can no longer afford Floor Three, you are welcome to relocate to Floor Two.” As she pronounces these last two words, her tone changes from upbeat to unnaturally loud and severe. She glances meaningfully towards the stairs, and the unseen guards positioned there.
Just then, another commotion, this time from above. Laughter and raucous shouting. The scattered individuals that remain on the third level rush to the interior rail, craning their necks to peer up.
“There you are!” The woman from earlier (my god, it seems like days ago), the one who warned you against going downstairs, has appeared at your side. She puts her arm through yours as if an old friend, and quickly walks you away from the dead-eyed server.
Once out of earshot of the girl, the woman lowers her voice. She doesn’t let go of your arm, though. Slowly the two of you walk towards the stairs. “We’ll get you rest on two,” she says quietly. “And food. Though god knows what slop they have down there. What’s your balance? Doesn’t matter, we need to go now. None of the conversations on three are paying anymore. They’re starting to come down from four—hell, even five is emptying out. And I don’t have level four or five conversation, do you?” The woman looks at you searchingly, but you’re too exhausted to even speak, not that you’d know how to reply if you could. None of what she’s saying makes any sense.
Thankfully, the woman—whom you didn’t notice until just now looks remarkably similar to you—doesn’t let go of you. “I’m Moira by the way.” She gives your arm a squeeze. “We’ll do this together, okay? We’ll do this together. How much worse could it be?”
At the landing, she holds up her device so one of the guards can read it. You do the same, though your arm seems to weigh about a hundred pounds. The men move aside to let you both pass. The steps are mercifully shallow and wide, but you can still barely manage the effort. Moira is now completely supporting your weight. As you descend, more uproar from upstairs. “What…” you mumble.
She stops on the stairs and turns to face you. “You don’t know? You really don’t know?” You shake your head.
“First Level Sixer,” she says drily, as you continue down. “Any minute now. They’re counting down. We might be the tipping point, actually. We’ll displace at least three or four from Level Two. And when Level One gets to—” She breaks off. “Listen,” she says suddenly, glancing at the huge digital counter just above you. “It’s going to be chaos down here, so stay close. Don’t worry, there aren’t actually that many people. It’s representative. Percentages. Ratios. Margins. Christ I sound like one of The Enterprise robots…”
Moira keeps talking, but you can barely hear her now over the noise. There are no guards at the Floor Two landing, and the two of you pause for only a moment before stepping across an invisible threshold, into an identical-sized space as the floor above, though unrecognizable for the dingy, dim atmosphere. All you have time to notice is that everyone already looks familiar.
