Piece Simul ✔

Chapter 10-Tiptree-Obsolete

--B.T.L.: Before the Launch

--Dura-Chamber Archive Scan * 071543

"The Culling is God's Will!"

Tiptree Pak shook her head and crossed the street. She wished to avoid the protesters, who she placed one notch below the Green-Eyed on the fanatical scale. They all looked ragged, and could have the Storm.

No, thanks.

She had made it to thirty-three. A milestone by post-Storm standards. Rubbing her hands with hand sanitizer, she hurried to her apartment.

Leaflets littered the street, the bold "Caldwell Ministries" logo in yellow stamped across them. Street-detail couldn't be fun, and she was glad for her staid position. Then, she noticed lucite hands collecting the rubbish. A half-dozen bots clomped along the sidewalk, their slick encasements glittering in the afterglow of the sunset

Humans were obsolete. She wondered if people like her would be needed a year, five years from now.

No one much cared for religion anymore these days.

One semester, she had taught a high school class, noting the screens at each desk. A full-time teacher had informed her that some of the math and science lessons were digitally relayed to the students, no teacher necessary.

"It's touchscreen, and cheaper," the man had shrugged.

So far, no digital courses had replaced Tiptree's theological lectures. Yet.

As she stepped into the quiet of her loft apartment, Tiptree appreciated the view of the city beyond the bay windows. Her girlfriend, Kass, had insisted on them. She set her work interface by the door, and called out,

"Kass! Bring me that sweet ass!"

Her girlfriend had encouraged Tiptree to relax, be silly. In slow increments, she was working on just that. Her ridiculous welcome echoed throughout the empty space. Kass was still at work.

Tiptree's gaze was drawn to a white square on the ground. Among the rough hewn concrete, the white stood out. Tiptree bent to retrieve the square, surprised to feel the crispness of paper. Paper had been unavailable the last five years.

She turned the heavy cardstock over to read the printed words:

THE INSTITUTE INVITES YOU ON A MISSION.

THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO CURE THE STORM.

7890-786

The Institute. Sounded stupid, and most certainly fake. Still, there was nothing to lose by ringing the number via the contact network.

Tiptree flicked her wrist, eliciting a blue light to filter from her bracelet, splaying along her arm. Using the virtual interface, she input the number 7890-786 on the refracted surface.

Ring. Ring.

When the other end answered her call, it was as though they'd been waiting on her, down to the minute and second.