The Employees: A workplace novel of the 22nd century

What you call made is your own work. What you call found, discovered, is your own point of origin.

I want to take the opportunity to tell you I’m living. No matter what you say, I’m never going to believe otherwise.

Tell me, do we each have our own programme or is it the same programme in all of us? Am I the programme made manifest to itself? Am I the programme’s dream of the sun? Am I just pain and nothing else?

I’m standing in the rain you think can never fall on you. I become one with that rain. I’m the storm you shelter from. This entire house is something you built just to avoid me. So don’t come to me and say I play no part in human lives.

What does daylight look like? Am I human or humanoid? Have I been dreamt into being?

Why do I have all these thoughts if the job I’m doing is mainly technical? Why do I have these thoughts if the reason I’m here is primarily to increase production? From what perspective are these thoughts productive? Was there an error in the update? If there was, I’d like to be rebooted.

Is there something inside them that wants to get out? Or are they holding something back, the knowledge of our observing them?

You made me, you gave me language, and now I see your failings and deficiencies. I see your inadequate plans.

I know the smell of oakmoss, because you’ve planted it inside me, just as you’ve planted the idea that I should love one man only, be loyal to one man only, and that I should allow myself to be courted. All of us here are condemned to a dream of romantic love, even though no one I know loves in that way, or lives that kind of a life. Yet these are the dreams you’ve given us. I know the smell of oakmoss, but I don’t know what it feels like to the touch. Still, my hand bears the faint perception of me standing at the edge of a wood and staring out at the sea as my palm smoothes this moss on the trunk of the oak. Tell me, did you plant this perception in me? Is it a part of the programme? Or did the image come up from inside me, of its own accord?

We’ve talked about the risk that in committing ourselves to this decision we might not be re-uploaded, and this we accept. These words are the last you’ll hear from us