Making a Secret by Caitlin Bartnik

Polling revealed the majority of viewers liked her red dress better than her black; the statistics came with today’s outfit. She took a shot of whiskey and hoped the Watchers had seen enough stranger’s underwear that the voyeuristic appeal wore off. A drone delivered her new outfit every morning, but the world lacked a clothing material that wouldn’t slide up her thighs. Priorities people, she thought. She started an editorial rant about the patriarchy, but her boss deleted the story before she completed three sentences. A message popped up on the screen over her right eye. Her ride had arrived.

She shimmied the dress down, grabbed the waiting mug of caffeinated liquor, and scooted into the back of the autonomous taxi. Her assignment was at the city’s museum. The fashion director for City 4 News sent Serenity a reminder to wear eyeliner and her editor sent a copy of the human resources policy on off-site behavior standards. Serenity ignored the scrolling policy text while digging through her purse. The fashion director enjoyed waging war against Serenity’s face for looking too tired. She attempted cooperation to avoid compulsory public surgery. After video guidance from Susan, she was able to semi-match her makeup on both eyes before arriving at the museum.

She followed a moving green line to the museum’s newest exhibit. A presentation was just ending, so Serenity sat down at an interactive table. After scanning the crowd, Serenity sat behind a mother and child. They’d make charming video footage. People were making lines on a thin sheet with an unfamiliar device. Serenity picked up a black utensil and, copying their motions, stabbed into her own sheet. Nothing happened. She pressed harder. Still no black lines. The mother and child were on their third rectangle. She tried to delete the indents with a thought. Neither the rectangle nor the tool responded to her mental commands.

“Rude,” she mumbled.

She grabbed her mug and took a generous pull. How could she make an entertaining video? Serenity’s assignment was to review the opening of an interactive exhibit about life in the 21st century. The City 4 museum advertised on her station. She needed to portray a favorable review of the exhibit. She summoned coverage of last month’s new exhibit, The History of the Earth War. It was a thousand words and two videos. Easy. She could rework the museum’s own summary for most of it.

“Ma’am,” said a young man who her screen identified as a museum employee, age 22, named Tom. “Please be careful with the artifact. We only have a few. Pens are rare. The button on top activates it.”

Serenity felt a flush climb up her neck and settle across her cheeks as she tried the button.

“Oops, what next?” she asked while clicking the button repeatedly.

Tom started to reach towards the pen, then dropped his hands to his side and resumed the explanation.

“Traditionally pens were used for an archaic form of creating,” he said. “It disperses ink to create lines. Try drawing your name. Project a holograph then trace it.”

Her fingers were reddening from strangling the pen. She shook out her hand and then projected her name onto the paper. Light blue letters shone from her right eye.

Tracing worked well, but the constant stream of news that ran on the bottom of her screen was also projecting onto the table. She rubbed at her right eye and mentally adjusted her neurocom’s settings. The movement temporarily interrupted her holographic projection.

The rectangle had no more room. Tom handed her a new sheet. She switched the projection to the City 4 News logo so producers could use her drawing in a demonstration video. Then she shut off the projector and returned her neurocom news feed to normal size.

Neurocoms were installed on people’s 16th birthday and she’d been adjusting to hers for 10 years now. Whispered rumors hinted the frequent headaches many users experienced never went away. Neurocom installation required a thin screen implanted over the right eye and connected to the brain. It viewed and projected images.

Serenity looked down and noticed black smudges on her hand. She screeched and threw out her palm to show Tom. Artifacts tumbled onto the floor. She bent down and gathered them up quickly while reciting a litany of apologies.

“Ma’am, don’t trouble yourself,” Todd said as he looked into her nuerocom in her right eye. “The ink washes off. Thanks be to the Benevolent Monarch that we no longer need such outdated technology. Twenty-first centurions used to need ink all the time and frequently wrote on these paper screens made from trees.” He pointed to the rectangles. “Modern technology is far superior. We have a detailed model of a tree I’d love to show you.”

He pointed her towards the tree model and finished cleaning up the mess she made.

“Thank you, of course,” she said. “We’ll use your information in a video segment. We’ll share it to all your social media channels for you”

He showed her the rest of the exhibit including a tree perfumed based on descriptions by 21st-century poets. Then she took her leave, got into the waiting car, and started writing the story using directed thoughts with her nuerocom. Viewers craved dramatic prose. Serenity provided it. She grabbed her mug, but it was empty.

In the olden days of the 21st century, people slaughtered tree creatures to create flimsy one-use sheets where they wrote words and drew pictures with a messy, black substance. Today, subjects may view and use these foreign tools at a new exhibit in the City 4 Museum. Appropriate for the whole family, the exhibit will renew appreciation for the technology brought to us by the grace of the Benevolent Monarch.

She requested a researcher add data about comparable words per minute between this pen device and nuerocoms before writing the rest of her story. In light of her recent overstep at the news station, she added in extra “glory be’s” and political pandering.

Once the story was finished, Serenity mentally searched for a hair station. She selected an appointment after work the next day. Polling data was required before any changes to her personal appearance. She messaged the fashion designer a request for data on bangs. Without looking in her purse, Serenity rummaged around for a tinted lip balm. The impossibility of knowing what video content the station would use meant constant smiling. At least, she no longer bit her lip when nervous. It took a week of 24/7 Watcher conditioning to break that particular bad habit. Gross images flashed on her screen every time she bit her lip. Habit ended.

The next day at the hair station, Serenity’s thoughts drifted to last week’s incident. She’d already adjusted the image on the styling machine to her preferences and was endeavoring to sit as still as possible while a machine fashioned her hair. Last week, a house on the edge of the city was being turned into a nuerocom repair center. She was assigned a short video introducing the new building.

When Serenity arrived, an old man was sitting on the curb. He had a black crocheted hat slanted across his head. The man’s hand kept pulling at the right side of his hat. It dissected his face. His visible left eye was half-closed. The veins on his hand stood out, angry blue rivers protruding out of his tan skin. When she looked at him, the word VOID appeared on her screen in bold, fire-hydrant red letters. The law stated that Voided were technically dead. They were to be ignored by people and technology. Their nuerocom no longer functioned. Accessing information or services was impossible. Serenity looked away as soon as the angry warning appeared on her screen and entered the building. When she exited, she stared straight into the shining sun. Her right hand dropped a sandwich.

A boy playing across the street saw her and waved.

That evening, a video appeared on her of soldiers in black surrounding the old man. It replayed for eight hours straight. The final frame was a freeze shot of a right hook to a left cheek. The video lasted one minute. The replays took three bottles of wine. Serenity watched it 480 times.

Her haircut was finished. She went home.

She shut the blinds throughout her apartment. Her eyes scanned the room and well-manicured hands fussed at her new bangs. Straightened out, the ash brown hair blanketed her right eye. Serenity took a pen out of her purse and tore the sheet off her bed. Using the tool that couldn’t be edited, she began a story about an old man with angry veins.