An Adventure to Utopia

Chapter 3

N 1

Today's a new day! A new day for work. This time it is my other job, the one as a manager in a Robotics Company.

Here we create machines that can do things that human beings can also do. How sentient are these machines? How far advanced are they? I am not a scientist, so I don't know much. But I do know that these are not really conscious. Our society values human life; human life ought to be revered with sanctity and not competed with.

We do things a little differently. Rather than delegating the subsistence and manufacturing sectors to machines and having an encouraged service sector for human beings, we do the opposite. The production of stuff has to be done by man and service can be done by robots. The air-cars are made by men in factories, but they are driven by humanoid robots.

This way, we can appreciate our own role in producing the society for ourselves and our dear friends and attach to ourselves the primacy while leaving the additional help to these robots.

While the society can clearly take care of the needs of people, if machines do the work, and the people do not particularly need employment, the social ethic of humans working for others rings too strong.

Here I had no immediate boss. I was the regional overseer. I said I do not know much about machines and it is true; I do not know the exact dynamics behind their functioning. My job in fact is more of a designer. Even a fashion designer you can say. Because I assemble and stylise these robots.

I enter the building. I personally designed my working room here. My apprentice – that's the term we have for people who report to us – his name was 8586 Tol (clearly he shared my preferences for numbered names) - looks up at me, and says,

"7891! Ah, how glorious you are here."

"Yes, 8586, it is a glorious day indeed."

"One of the most glorious we've ever had," he replies

"Aren't all our days glorious?" I ask, absentmindedly – lately, I've been overanalysing things, I think. "Then there is nothing superlative about today…"

"Ah, you are right, of course," he smiles widely.

"Many people have not come to work, today, 7891. They've gone for the dance at public gallery. It's the Ballet. That's what those classical dance styles from antiquity were called…."

"Oh, no matter," I say. "I can do their work now."

"I will help you, friend!" he says very eagerly.

And we get down to designing… "This Robot Series, the I89123848501, I think, we should paint them white," I say.

"Oh, how come?" he asks a little curious. "In celebration of the dances today, of course!" I reply.

"Oh, indeed!"

"The commune representative for this sector will be there too," he says after some time.

"And the Finale will take place in seven days, time."

I will definitely attend the finale, I think! I just do have some work now, and that party in two days will be my leisure. But of course, nothing different can be expected from the finale. It's all the same! All good. Nothing is different.

N 2

I again wake. The past few days I have remained in silence, in numbness for an eternity. All that time I did nothing, could think nothing, but today things seem to have changed – why today? Why is today there?

My perception of things have become clearer – more normal. So I now internalise what has happened. What did happen? My wife, my son and my daughter died. I saw them dead. And now I am alone. They were my life.

But life is still persisting, and as I had decided earlier I am not entitled to any special privilege that I should escape the despair of now, if others are not doing so.

I have greater knowledge of who I am. I know my own name.

There must be some people operating this hospital. Of course, I had to have been brought here by someone. But I haven't seen any so far. But I haven't been awake much either. No one around me talks at all.

They are in a place that keeps them alive but they seem hardly alive.

"Is everyone all right?" say I.

I hear only grunts and moans.

The man in the bed besides me says, "Where are you from?"

"Eridia." I reply. "You?"

"I do not remember."

He merely wishes not to.

"I think you do. You just wish to bury it. I tried that."

"I want to die," he says. "But I do not have the strength to do it. Or the will. I do not understand myself anymore."

"Neither do I." But I repeat that I had decided to live. Perhaps he should too. "We cannot cut ourselves from our past. I know. We may never win. We will never be happy. The world around is burning. But we can give back. We have to."

"How will we do that? We are but inmates of a hospital."

"We are thankful our bodies aren't dismembered"; I look around to the other beds where lie bodies in incomplete pieces, but no one seems to care or react. They are numb. Most of them.

"I don't want to…

"I can't do anything.

"There is nothing!" he violently exclaims, looking thoroughly demented.

"There is. We will always be in pain, but we may yet numb our misery."

My new – he certainly cannot be considered a friend, or an acquaintance – undergoes different bodily responses – emotions swell from rage, to terror and finally, some form of clarity.

"What should we do?" he now asks.

I myself have to think and ponder. It would make sense to gather others from our compartment. Will I have to persuade them to? Am I lifting them from a nothingness which they are at peace with and thrusting them back into the dire surroundings? But. They cannot be at peace in the nothingness. There is no peace in nothing, as there is nothing else in nothing. They are not alive and a world alive must exist.

I first decide to find perhaps some operatives of the hospital or the facility I presently owe my survival to. I ask my companion if he has seen any.

"One, but she did not look like much. Certainly not a nurse. She was physically scarred too."

I leave the room and think to myself if I will find others. Instead I find a long, very dark corridor. There is no light there and I cannot see any. I am still able to traverse, though, somehow. And I walk in a straight direction. The walls suddenly broaden and I sense someone sitting on the ground. I find that very startling and I do not know how to approach her. I think carefully on what to do and I finally initiate a means of communication.

N 3

Romeo was satisfied with the meeting. It was all he could get. He got the go ahead. And now he would begin his research.

The first location to garner information would be the archives. He had gone through them before, but now would have access to the Commune's Completed Archives. These occupied four interconnected buildings, from the first floors to the right below their terraces.

Romeo's contemporary society had trust for another. Yet formal permission was still required – mostly for record purposes. And these records did indeed help visitors.

Romeo was no visitor. Or a mere reader. He was an academic scholar. One, who as mentioned before, were few.

He once again entered the dark library – it was night-time, and while it was possible to light up the building, the Commune preferred to preserve resources.

At the far end of the hall – the entrance hall – on the 67th floor – another passage lead to a sky-tower. There sat, the Chief Archivist. He was a bald, bespectacled man. Tall and short at the same time – broad and frail at the same time. It is not feasible to explain this. But he was a pleasant fellow. Most of Romeo's contemporaries were.

"Kaivan Jordan Tar. It is a delight to meet you," extended Romeo as he walked towards the man.

"Ah, friend. How can I help you?"

"My dear friend and sir, I have the endorsement of the Academic Association for my project. Here it is."

Romeo handed over the papers Jos'ph had filed him these a few hours after their conference.

Ever smiling, the Archivist examined the papers.

He explained to Romeo the same concerns. That there cannot be much purpose in such a research. He also informed Romeo that there was not much data on that period.

"Of course, I can scarcely pretend to have read all the material," he added.

Romeo politely pressed on, and Kaivan Jordan Tar gave a huge set of keys to the different doors of the archive. Romeo bowed his thanks, and left the office, quite elated. He was going to examine what he came for. Now he had to visit the common section to make an outline of his research and a list of the particular sections he was required to visit. He sat at his usual desk, with his wax candles, and began his blueprint. 'From now on, things are going to get far more serious and intense,' thought Romeo.