Cariane returned to her tiny apartment and tried to find something to do for the rest of the day. The computer terminal was filled with quite a few text files, but these all turned out to be dense technical manuals describing every aspect of the city's machines, the robots and walking tanks and other various paraphernalia of life in City One. At another time she might have found these interesting, but right now she was just too exhausted. There were video files too, but all of these seemed to be some kind of overproduced propaganda; films detailing how a model citizen of City One behaved in various situations, films encouraging the reporting of suspicious behaviour to the ISC Enforcers, films demonizing the strange Muties that she had been involved in fighting in the desert outside the dome and some group of supposed terrorists called the 'Realists'. After watching several such videos at random, Cariane despaired of finding something worthwhile as entertainment, turned the console off and threw herself into bed. For awhile she played with Shanks, cooing and laughing at the animal's joyful antics, but after some time even that paled and she felt herself drawn back to the console, the only link to the world outside her apartment. Maybe a systematic approach would lead to learning something worth knowing about the strange situation she found herself in.
When she returned to it, the console was already glowing with lines of greenish text. Her eyes widened as she read it.
<< Hello, Cariane. How are you finding life in City One? >>
A prompt appeared below this string of phosphorescent words. Slowly, in confusion, Cariane picked out a response on the keyboard.
<< Who are you? How do you know my name? >>
After a few moments, a return string appeared.
<< You can call me Deckard. And it's surprising how much about people is stored in these systems. I know your height, your weight, your favourite flavour of meal ration pack. It's all here. >>
Cariane's hands clenched. She didn't like Decker's tone; smugness and superiority practically oozed from the glowing text on the screen. Nevertheless, he was someone willing to talk to her, and seemingly someone willing to flout the strictly enforced rules of this regimented society. But the next words that were transmitted to the screen made her blood run cold.
<< Have you found the secret yet? >>
Cariane's eyes widened even more. In a rush of emotion, she typed her response quickly.
<< What secret? Do you know something about how I got here, what I'm doing here? Tell me, please! >>
<< Let's just say you're not alone in your predicament. There are others like you here in City One, broken, trying desperately to find their way. Look for the mark on the hand, the wheel like a gear and the number. But don't bother asking around about them; the rest of the drones can't even see it. >>
Cariane grimaced as she sent her reply.
<< How is that possible? Why can only I see these tattoos? You're not really explaining anything, just giving me more questions! >>
She sighed in frustration as the answer came in.
<< If you knew the secret, you would understand a lot, perhaps even understand it all. But I don't know whether I can trust you yet. After all, you came in on one of those gun-toting fascism machines, fresh from a nice run of killing Muties and stealing their resources. At least one of our partners in crime is blood loyal to the ISC, and for all I know you will be too. >>
Her jaw clenching, she rattled off a response.
<< I'm just lost, Deckard. I don't know what's happening and I'm scared. I'll do whatever you want, just please, help me figure out who I am. >>
There was a long pause, then a response appeared.
<< You can help us, but if you do it will end up bringing trouble down on your head. And frankly, Cariane, I think you're weak. If the Enforcers get their claws into you, you won't be able to hold back our secrets. If I can figure out a way to guarantee that you won't spill the beans, I'll bring you on board, and I might even tell you the secret after I know I can trust you. Until then, you'll just have to hold tight. Be a good little drone, and keep your eye out for that mark. I'll let you know more later. >>
<< Wait, >> she typed desperately into the console. << Don't go away! >> But of course there was no response.
Her mouth firmed in resolve. This was a computer system, and on some level she intuitively understood how it functioned. There would be a record somewhere of their conversation, a trace which would lead her to Deckard. She called up a technical manual on the terminal system, studied it for about an hour, then tried to trace the fleeting connection back to its source, but to no avail. The records of the terminal address from which she had been contacted had already been expunged; it was too late.
The next morning, the terminal's horrible alarm went off again, waking Cariane from a deep sleep and informing her that she was scheduled for a day of Class 2 Repair Tasks. Still tired and frightened, but with a new resolve to get to the bottom of these mysteries and to somehow show Deckard that she could be trusted, she prepared for the day and set about her job, journeying around the city to various locations where the machines had fouled up and getting them back in order. The work was surprisingly absorbing -- another series of odd puzzles that needed to be solved, and she found herself enjoying it more than she had anticipated.
At about midday, she was working to unjam a stuck door. Her attention focused on the task, she barely noticed the several people who passed by her in the corridor, and nor did they seem to notice her; just a technician doing her job, part of the furniture of life in City One. She looked up slightly as a hulking robot passed her, not as large as the battlefield models that had backed up the army in the field, but large enough to loom over her even as it slipped nimbly by on articulated legs. It was not until the robot had long gone past and was just turning out of sight around a bend in the corridor that she noticed, on the front of its left foreleg, a painted circle, toothed like a gear, with the letters XIII inside.