Chapter 3: Process
817 Words
Where death is transformed into forms, signatures, and votes.
The procedure was proposed on the thirteenth day after the incident.
Not immediately.
People need time to grieve before they begin to seek ways to avoid grief next time.
The document is fourteen pages long.
The title on the first page is in bold, emotionless font:
EMERGENCY RESOURCE ALLOCATION PROCEDURE – VERSION 0.9
Below is a list of the drafters. Seven names. My name is not on it.
I read each line slowly.
Pages 1–3: definition of emergency.
Pages 4–6: survival priority scale.
Pages 7–9: conditions for triggering area cuts.
Pages 10–12: voting mechanism.
Page 13: legal liability.
Page 14: confirmation signature.
Nowhere was the word "dead."
They used other words.
"Stop biological support."
"Loss of sustainment."
"Subject no longer within the protected zone."
"What do you think?" the chief engineer asked.
We were sitting in the strategy room. The room was the same: three metal desks, white lighting, no windows. But the atmosphere was different. Everyone spoke more calmly. No one avoided words.
"I think," I said, "that next time I won't have to touch the control panel alone."
The medical representative nodded. "That's the goal."
"And what if that decision kills?" I asked.
Logistics answered for me. "Then it's a collective decision."
No one objected.
The procedure stipulated that in a level three or higher emergency, the allocation of electricity, oxygen, and heat would be decided by the Provisional Council—five people present at the time. One vote each. Simple majority.
In case of a tie, the final decision rested with… the commander.
I turned to page thirteen.
Legal responsibility was divided equally.
No one bore the full consequences.
“Good,” I said. And realized my voice wasn’t trembling.
The meeting ended after forty minutes. No one stayed behind for private conversation. Everyone left as if they had just finished a shift.
I was the last one remaining.
The document remained open on the table.
Fourteen pages to ensure that next time, when someone didn’t survive, we could say that everything had been done according to procedure.
That afternoon, the procedure was disseminated throughout the base.
Not by loudspeaker.
By bulletin board.
A one-page summary was posted in the main living area. The bullet points were clear and easy to understand. At the end was a line in italics:
This procedure is designed to protect the lives of the majority.
No one tore it down.
Some read it carefully.
Some glanced at it and walked away.
Some stared longer than necessary.
In Section D, the woman carrying the child from the previous day turned to me as I walked past and asked:
“So next time… there will be a vote?”
“Yes.”
“And what if the majority doesn’t choose us?” she asked.
I didn’t answer immediately.
“Then that’s a valid decision,” I said finally.
She nodded. Not angry. Not crying.
“At least,” she said, “this time I’ll know I lost because of the number of votes.”
That evening, I received the first report applying Procedure 0.9.
It wasn't a major crisis.
Just a localized power outage in the cold storage area.
Three options were presented. Two affected people. One affected data.
The council voted.
3–2.
The data warehouse was shut down.
No one died.
I signed the confirmation.
For the first time since the incident, I felt a little lighter.
And that's what scared me.
The following days went more smoothly.
No more big arguments. No more accusatory stares. When there was a problem, people said: “Let's put it into process.”
The process became something to rely on.
A buffer between people and consequences.
By the twenty-first day, I realized something small but important:
No one asked me what to do anymore.
They asked me what the process said.
That night, I reopened the central dispatch panel.
The two old lines were still there. One morning. One evening.
I accessed the system logs.
The last entry, relating to the eastern line, had a new note, added later:
Incident has been classified and processed.
No An name.
No twelve names.
Only a status line: Processed.
I turned off the screen.
For the first time, I understood a truth I had previously only vaguely sensed:
Procedures weren't created to prevent death.
They were created to keep us working…
after we had become accustomed to the absence of people.
Out there, the base was operating more smoothly than ever.
The machines ran smoothly.
The lights didn't flicker.
People slept better.
And at the heart of all that stability lies a system that has learned to decide who is no longer needed.
I wonder:
When things have become this smooth…
will anyone remember that there was a time when these decisions made people's hands tremble?
- Writer
