I was hastily shoved back into my cell with the contents of my lunch still left uneaten. As expected, it was cold. While stuffing my hands in my pockets, I found I still had the times sheet there and examined it closer. The numbers were still in Sanskrit. This was fortunate, since it’d give me time to get used to the new figures for next time.
I started carrying copies of times sheets with me around, since I could be snatched away at any moment. It was fine of me to know my old-school numbers, but I started memorizing other numbers on the side. I didn’t want to run the chance of getting my figures mixed up. The only problem was this constant number-learning was cutting into my writing time. As much as I appreciated being useful, I didn’t enjoy the haphazardous schedule. It would’ve been nice to have some kind of warning or consistency in when I’d be needed to work.
“When’ll I be needed again?” I routinely asked the Head of Security.
“You’ll know when I know,” I was routinely told.
The uncertainty of being called up kept me constantly on edge. But this was minuscule compared with the puzzle that was my past life. What could I have possibly done that was deserving of being locked up for so long? Clues seemed to indicate that I’d been involved with some kind of robbery, something involving private information? Perhaps sensitive documents hiding in safety deposit boxes? But would uncovering so many of their contents however private earn the blackmailer’s unbridled wrath? There were simply too many unknown variables to deal with.
I had the feeling that whatever the answer was, it would be woefully inadequate. There was no way it could possibly live up to my expectations.
After several days of restless inactivity, when a bag was finally placed over my head, I was more annoyed than surprised. Why did they always have to sneak up behind me without telling me first?
Upon arrival, I showed the Accountant my notes for the story I was working on. When I wasn’t memorizing numbers, I’d spent my free time thinking up ways to circumvent accessing private information, then imagining how to make accessing said private information more difficult.
“It’s astounding how close to the truth and far off the mark you are. This isn’t even half as oppressive as what really happens! It would be extremely convenient if somebody destroyed all our records of number-keeping. Our debts and accounts would be settled, and everything would be resolved.”
I stared incredulously “Do you mean...?”
“Oh, I’m just spitballing,” he airily mentioned. “There’s rumours of an Anonymous group that wants to foster equality by making the very concept of money redundant. Attacking all accounting records and backups simultaneously. Go back to a simple barter system again. And when the Revolution comes, I shall be among the first to support their numbers!”
“Won’t you get in trouble for saying stuff like that?”
“Part of it stems from our infrastructure problem. Back then, we were ALL expecting a war from invaders, so that when they came strolling in, we’d hamper their progress by blowing our roads and bridges up. (As if they weren’t difficult enough to navigate already. Why make it easy for them?) But they never invaded, and the roads & bridges kept getting used far beyond their intended breaking point. The construction company skimped on the costs and pocketed the rest, since they were SO SURE they would be reduced to rubble very soon, and they’d cover their complicity. Our elevated structures were never intended to last this long.”
The Accountant snorted in disgust. “Pieces of junk - they were ONLY good for a mere 500 years.”
“You think about this kind of stuff a lot, huh?”
“Every single second of my life is devoted to numbers. Keeping track of every second I’m alive, every breath I take. If I don’t think of numbers, I go mad. Numbers are ALL my head can contain! I may summon you anytime I want.”
“I wasn’t expecting to be called up so early.”
“Be fortunate. I won’t ask you to do menial tasks, such as doing my laundry, tying my shoes or buttering my bread. I don’t trust myself around a knife. The last person made me, and I left an awful mess in the kitchen.”
“How could you possibly do so much damage with just a butter knife?”
“Give me one, and I’ll show you!”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Wise move.”
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