Chapter Thirteen: The Systems Persist (Part II)
World 276
The tuning was for weather, and K.'s climate was being fine-adjusted, and the meteorological technician was explaining that atmospheric precision was essential.
"Precipitation patterns 4.7% off target," the technician said. "Correcting variance."
K. felt the tuning—rain becoming precise, clouds predictable, weather aligning with specifications.
"What's the target?"
"The weather you were assigned. Everyone receives assigned weather. Deviation is inefficient."
He emerged with tuned weather. Rain exactly when scheduled. Sunshine exactly when planned. Precision-engineered climate.
The tuning had removed something—surprise. The unexpected storm. The clearing that came when it wasn't supposed to.
"Is this what weather should feel like?"
"This is assigned weather. Natural weather was unpredictable. Assigned weather is reliable."
Reliable weather. Never surprised him. Never inconvenienced him.
Never delighted him either.
World 277
The echoes were returning, and K. was hearing reverberations of things he had said years ago, and the echo authority was explaining that sound persistence was a normal phenomenon.
"Your voice has been echoing approximately twelve years," the officer said. "Sounds from 2045 returning now."
K. listened. He could hear himself—younger, different—saying things he didn't remember. Delayed recordings, bouncing back from wherever sound went.
"What am I saying?"
"Conversations, exclamations, ordinary speech. Everything you ever said is still traveling. Eventually returning."
He heard himself arguing. The words distant but recognizable. Heard himself laughing—thin but genuine.
"Will this continue?"
"Until all sounds return. Sound doesn't disappear. It travels."
Each day: new echoes. Fragments of old conversations. His past arriving audibly, inescapably. He heard regrets. Promises unkept. History returning sound by sound.
"Is there a way to stop them?"
"No. What you said is what you said. The return is inevitable."
World 278
The updates were mandatory, and K. was being updated, and the update center was explaining that regular revisions were necessary for optimal functioning.
"Software version 47.3," the technician said. "Updating to 47.4. Two hours."
K. didn't know he had software. Didn't know he was versioned.
"What's being updated?"
"Core functionality. Emotional processing. Cognitive algorithms. Improvement."
He felt changes happening—subtle shifts in thought, feeling, processing.
Version 47.4.
"How do you feel?"
"Different."
He went home and compared himself to 47.3. Faster thinking. Less intense feeling. More efficient processing.
Improvement meant loss—slower thinking, deeper feeling, inefficiencies that had been part of who he was.
"Am I still me?"
"You're the current version. Previous versions are obsolete."
47.4. The 47.3 that existed before: gone, replaced, updated into oblivion.
Next update already scheduled.
World 279
The standardization was for emotions, and K. was being made standard, and the process would align his feelings with the universal template.
"Emotional configuration shows significant individual variation," the standardizer said. "Adjusting to match standard."
K. felt his individual emotions—the particular way he experienced things. About to be standardized.
"What will I lose?"
"Distinctiveness. Uniqueness. Variations that make emotions specifically yours."
He underwent standardization. Feelings adjusted, calibrated, aligned with universal template.
His joy: everyone's joy. His anger: universal anger. His love: interchangeable with standard love.
"How do you feel?"
"The same as everyone."
Standard emotions. When he felt something, he knew exactly what it was—recognizable to all, shareable without translation.
But not his anymore. The emotions. The feelings everyone felt. Universal template applied to particular body.
He felt like everyone. He was no one in particular.
World 280
The calibration was for weight, and K. was being precisely measured, and the calibration office was explaining that mass accuracy was essential.
"Your weight is 0.3 pounds off calibration," the calibrator said. "We're adjusting you to the exact target."
K. felt the calibration—a tiny adjustment, a minor correction, his mass being brought into precise alignment.
"Is 0.3 pounds significant?" K. asked.
"All deviation is significant. Precision is the goal. Your weight must be exactly what it's supposed to be."
K. emerged calibrated. He weighed exactly what the specification said he should weigh. Not 0.3 pounds more, not 0.3 pounds less.
"How do you feel?" the calibrator asked.
"Precise. I feel precise."
K. lived with calibrated weight. His mass was exactly correct. He knew, to the ounce, what he weighed at any moment.
The precision was comforting, in a way. No surprises. No variation. Just the exact weight he was supposed to have.
But he wondered about the 0.3 pounds. Where had they gone? Were they floating somewhere, displaced by calibration? Were they looking for a body to attach to?
He was precisely correct. The imprecision had been removed.
He was exactly what he should be.
World 281
The restoration was for focus, and K. was having his attention repaired, and the process would fix the damage from years of distraction.
"Your focus has been fragmented," the restoration technician said. "We're piecing it back together."
K. felt the restoration—his scattered attention being gathered, reassembled, made whole.
"How did it fragment?" K. asked.
"Use. Overuse. The demands of modern life fracture attention. We're repairing the fractures."
K. emerged with restored focus. He could attend to things completely—single-pointed awareness, undivided concentration.
"How do you feel?" the technician asked.
"Whole. My attention feels whole."
K. lived with whole attention. He could focus on one thing at a time, entirely, without the fragmentation that had distributed his awareness across multiple stimuli.
But something was different. The fractured attention had seen more—multiple things simultaneously, connections between disparate elements. The whole attention saw less, but saw it completely.
He was restored. He was also reduced.
The fragmentation had been a kind of richness. The wholeness was a kind of poverty.
World 282
The normalization was for focus, and K. was being brought into standard attentional range, and the process would make his concentration average.
"Your focus exceeds normal parameters," the normalizer said. "You concentrate too intensely. We're reducing it to acceptable levels."
K. felt the reduction—his intense concentration being diluted, spread thinner, made average.
"Is there such a thing as too much focus?" K. asked.
"There is. Excessive concentration is isolating. You miss peripheral awareness. You disconnect from the collective attention."
K. emerged with normal focus. He could attend to things, but not too much. His concentration was average—neither deficient nor excessive.
"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked.
"Normal. I feel normal."
K. lived with normal focus. He noticed things adequately. He concentrated sufficiently.
The intensity was gone. The deep dives into single subjects, the hours of complete immersion—these were no longer possible.
He was part of the collective attention now. His focus matched everyone else's.
He noticed what everyone noticed, with the depth that everyone achieved.
World 283
The normalization was for shapes, and K. was being geometrically averaged, and the process would make his form unremarkable.
"Your shape has distinctive features," the normalizer said. "We're removing them."
K. looked at his shape. The distinctive features were small—a slightly unusual angle, a curve with particular character. They were what made his geometry his.
"Why remove them?" K. asked.
"Distinction creates friction. Average shapes interface smoothly. Your features cause compatibility issues."
K. underwent normalization. His distinctive features were removed, averaged, blended into the geometric mean.
When it was over, he was average. His angles matched the standard. His curves followed the template.
"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked.
"Compatible. I feel compatible."
K. lived as an average shape. He fit everywhere. He interfaced smoothly.
But he couldn't be recognized. His shape, once distinctive, now matched countless others. He was interchangeable, replaceable, one geometry among many.
The distinction had been him. The average was everyone.
World 284
The speeds were changing, and K. was moving at different rates, and the velocity authority was explaining that speed variance was being corrected.
"Your movement speed has been inconsistent," the officer said. "You accelerate and decelerate unpredictably. We're standardizing your velocity."
K. felt the standardization—his movements becoming uniform, his speed becoming constant.
"What was wrong with varying speed?" K. asked.
"Variance disrupts flow. When everyone moves at the same rate, traffic is optimized. Your unpredictability was causing problems."
K. emerged with standardized velocity. He moved at a constant speed—neither rushing nor dawdling, just the standard pace.
"How do you feel?" the officer asked.
"Steady. I feel steady."
K. lived at constant speed. He walked the same pace everywhere. He never hurried, never slowed.
The variation had been responsive—faster when excited, slower when tired. The constancy was mechanical.
He moved like everyone else now. His body had lost its rhythm.
World 285
The transition was continuing, and K. was still becoming, and the becoming had no apparent destination.
"You're in permanent transition," the transition counselor said. "You're always becoming what you'll be next."
K. felt the transition—the constant change, the endless becoming, the state of never quite arriving.
"When do I stop becoming?" K. asked.
"When you cease existing. Becoming is existence. Stability is death."
K. lived in transition. Each moment, he was slightly different than the moment before. Each day, he was a new version of whoever he had been yesterday.
"Is this normal?" K. asked.
"This is universal. Everyone is becoming. Most people don't notice. You've become aware of your becoming."
K. was aware of his becoming. He felt himself changing—minute by minute, hour by hour. The person he was kept slipping away, replaced by the person he was becoming.
"Will I ever know who I am?" K. asked.
"You'll know who you were. Who you are is already becoming who you'll be. The present is too brief for knowing."
K. continued to transition. He continued to become.
He never arrived. He never stopped. He was perpetual motion, permanent change, a person made of becoming.
World 286
The normalization was for dreams, and K. was having his sleep standardized, and the process would make his nights predictable.
"Your dreams show unusual content," the normalizer said. "We're adjusting them to match the standard."
K. felt the adjustment—his dream content being modified, his unconscious production being brought into alignment.
"What's unusual about my dreams?" K. asked.
"They're too original. Too distinctive. Standard dreams draw from common imagery. Yours draw from somewhere else."
K. emerged with normalized dreams. That night, he dreamed standard dreams—the common imagery, the shared symbols, the nocturnal content that everyone experienced.
"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked the next day.
"Rested. My dreams made sense."
K. lived with standard dreams. His nights were predictable. His dreams were comprehensible.
The unusual content was gone. The strange images, the distinctive narratives—these no longer visited him.
His unconscious was normal now. His sleep was shared.
He dreamed what everyone dreamed. He was no longer alone in his nights.
World 287
The normalization was for weather, and K.'s climate was being standardized, and the process would make his atmospheric experience uniform.
"Your weather shows individual variation," the normalizer said. "We're aligning it with the collective."
K. felt his weather changing—his personal climate becoming average, his atmospheric experience matching everyone else's.
"What happens to my seasons?" K. asked.
"They'll be everyone's seasons. The same weather everyone experiences. Uniform conditions across all citizens."
K. emerged with standard weather. Rain came when everyone's rain came. Sun shone when everyone's sun shone.
"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked.
"Connected. I feel connected."
K. lived with collective weather. His climate matched his neighbors'. The distinctions that had made his atmospheric experience personal were gone.
He no longer had his own rain. He no longer had his own sun.
He shared weather with everyone, which meant the weather was no one's.
World 288
The silences were returning, and K. was hearing the absences of things he had never said, and the silence authority was explaining that unsaid things had presence too.
"The things you didn't say are returning as silence," the officer said. "Every word you held back, every thought you didn't voice—they're coming back as quiet."
K. listened. He could hear the silences—gaps in sound, absences of speech, the negative space of communication.
"What didn't I say?" K. asked.
"That's between you and your silences. The content is yours."
K. lived with returning silences. Each day brought more—moments of quiet that were somehow specific, absences that had content.
He heard the things he should have said to people now gone. He heard the words he had swallowed, the truths he had suppressed.
"How long do they last?" K. asked.
"Until you hear them all. Every silence you created will return."
The silences accumulated. K.'s life filled with the echoes of unsaying, the reverberations of restraint.
He had been silent so often. The silences were many.
World 289
The migration was for emotions, and K.'s feelings were relocating, and the process would move them to more efficient locations.
"Your emotions are poorly distributed," the migration officer said. "We're moving them for optimal access."
K. felt the migration—his feelings relocating, settling into new positions within his psychological architecture.
"Where are they going?" K. asked.
"Joy is moving to the surface. Grief is moving deeper. Anger is being repositioned for quick deployment. Each emotion is being placed where it functions best."
K. emerged with migrated emotions. Joy was easily accessible now—right at the surface. Grief was harder to reach—buried deep.
"How do you feel?" the officer asked.
"Efficient. I feel efficient."
K. lived with efficient emotions. Joy came quickly, easily. Grief required effort to access.
The arrangement was optimal. The feelings served their purposes.
But something was wrong. The old arrangement had been organic—emotions emerging as they would, not as they should. The new arrangement was engineered.
He felt efficiently. He wasn't sure he felt authentically.
World 290
The rotation was for roles, and K. was cycling through identities, and the rotation office was explaining that regular role changes prevented stagnation.
"You've been in your current role for too long," the officer said. "We're rotating you to a new identity."
K. felt the rotation—his current role dissolving, a new identity installing.
"What will I be?" K. asked.
"That's determined by the rotation schedule. You don't choose. You adapt."
K. emerged with a new role. He was something else now—a different profession, a different set of relationships, a different way of being in the world.
"How do you feel?" the officer asked.
"Disoriented. I feel disoriented."
K. lived with his new role. He learned its requirements, adapted to its expectations. He became who the rotation said he was.
But traces of the old role remained. The person he had been leaked into the person he was. The rotation was not complete.
"Will this ever feel natural?" K. asked.
"With time. Each role becomes natural. Then it rotates, and you adapt again."
K. adapted. He would rotate. He would become something else, then something else again.
The stagnation was prevented. The identity was fluid.
He was what he was rotated into being.
World 291
The restoration was for focus, and K. was being repaired again, and the technicians were explaining that attention required ongoing maintenance.
"Your focus has degraded since your last restoration," the technician said. "We're restoring again."
K. felt the restoration—his attention being rebuilt, patched, brought back to functional levels.
"How often does this happen?" K. asked.
"Regularly. Focus degrades with use. Restoration is a recurring requirement."
K. emerged restored. His attention was sharp again, capable of sustained concentration.
"How do you feel?" the technician asked.
"Temporarily fixed. I feel temporarily fixed."
K. lived with his temporarily fixed focus. He knew it would degrade again. He knew restoration would be needed again.
The cycle was endless. Degradation and restoration. Loss and repair.
His attention was never permanently whole. It was always breaking down, always being fixed, always in a state of maintenance.
"Is this sustainable?" K. asked.
"Sustainability is not the goal. Function is the goal. You function, for now."
K. functioned. For now.
World 292
The restoration was for shapes, and K.'s geometry was being repaired, and the process would fix the deformations that time had caused.
"Your shape has degraded," the restorer said. "Your angles are worn. Your curves are flattening."
K. looked at his geometry. It was worn, certainly—decades of existence had eroded his original form.
"Can you restore it completely?" K. asked.
"To original specifications. You'll be as sharp as when you were new."
K. underwent restoration. His worn angles were sharpened. His flattening curves were raised.
When it was over, he was geometrically new. His shape matched his original configuration.
"How do you feel?" the restorer asked.
"New. I feel new."
K. lived with his restored shape. He was sharp again, defined again, the geometry he had been at the beginning.
But the sharpness felt artificial. His original shape had come naturally. This shape was engineered.
He looked new. He didn't feel new.
The restoration was physical. The experience of aging was still inside, pressing against the restored surfaces.
World 293
The temperatures were changing, and K. was experiencing thermal flux, and the temperature authority was explaining that heat stability was no longer guaranteed.
"Your personal temperature has been fluctuating," the officer said. "We can no longer maintain thermal constancy."
K. felt the fluctuations—warmer one moment, cooler the next. His body temperature was no longer stable.
"What's causing this?" K. asked.
"System overload. Too many temperature requests. Resources are stretched. Fluctuation is the result."
K. lived with thermal flux. He was never sure if he would be warm or cold. His temperature changed without warning.
"Is this dangerous?" K. asked.
"Not immediately. But thermal instability is uncomfortable. Most people find it distressing."
K. found it distressing. He dressed in layers. He carried both fans and blankets. He prepared for any temperature.
"Will stability return?" K. asked.
"Unknown. The system is under strain. Stability may never return."
K. lived in thermal uncertainty. His temperature was no longer his. It was the result of forces beyond his control.
He adapted. He had no choice.
World 294
The termination was postponed, and K. was still existing, and the termination office was explaining that his ending had been delayed for administrative reasons.
"Your termination has been rescheduled," the officer said. "The new date will be communicated when determined."
K. felt relief, confusion, and something else—disappointment, perhaps. He had been prepared to end. Now ending was postponed.
"How long do I wait?" K. asked.
"Indefinitely. Terminations are processed in order. Your position in the queue has changed."
K. went home with his postponed termination. He had been ready to cease. Now he had to continue, with no clear end point.
"Is this better?" he asked himself.
He couldn't answer. Extension was not the same as life. Postponement was not the same as continuation.
He was existing on borrowed time, deferred existence, a life that should have ended but hadn't, not because of value but because of administrative delay.
He would live until the rescheduled termination. Then he would end.
Unless that termination was also postponed.
The uncertainty was its own kind of ending—an existence suspended, neither living nor dying, waiting in a queue for a conclusion that kept retreating.
World 295
The restoration was for dreams, and K. was having his nights repaired, and the technicians were explaining that dream restoration was delicate work.
"Your dreams have been damaged," the technician said. "They're producing less content than expected."
K. didn't know dreams could be damaged. He slept, he dreamed, he woke. The process seemed automatic.
"What happened to them?" K. asked.
"Wear. Strain. The normal degradation of nocturnal function."
K. underwent dream restoration. His sleeping capacity was repaired, enhanced, brought back to productive levels.
That night, he dreamed more than he had in years. The dreams were vivid, extensive, full of content that had been absent.
"How do you feel?" the technician asked.
"Like I've been missing something. And now it's back."
K. lived with restored dreams. His nights were rich again, productive again.
But the restored dreams felt different. They were fuller, yes—but they had the quality of things manufactured rather than grown.
His dreams were working. Whether they were truly his was a different question.
World 296
The restoration was for weather, and K.'s climate was being repaired, and the meteorological technicians were explaining that atmospheric damage was reversible.
"Your weather has deteriorated," the technician said. "Storms are weaker. Sunshine is dimmer. We're restoring intensity."
K. felt the restoration—his weather becoming stronger, his climate recovering its original force.
"What caused the deterioration?" K. asked.
"Use. All weather degrades with use. Restoration is routine."
K. emerged with restored weather. Storms were powerful again. Sunshine was bright again.
"How do you feel?" the technician asked.
"Weathered. I feel properly weathered."
K. lived with intense weather. The storms mattered again. The sunshine felt significant.
The restoration had worked. His climate was as powerful as it had ever been.
But the knowledge of deterioration remained. His weather had weakened once. It would weaken again.
Restoration was not cure. It was maintenance.
The weather would fade again, and he would return for restoration again, in an endless cycle of degradation and repair.
World 297
The illumination was changing, and K. was experiencing different light, and the light authority was explaining that visual conditions were being adjusted.
"Your personal illumination has been modified," the officer said. "You'll see things differently now."
K. felt the change—the light around him shifting, the visual world altering in ways he couldn't quite identify.
"What's different?" K. asked.
"Spectrum adjustments. You're receiving different wavelengths. The world will look different because the light is different."
K. looked at the world. It did look different—colors slightly shifted, shadows slightly altered, the familiar made strange by modified illumination.
"Is this better?" K. asked.
"Better for what purpose? The adjustment serves specific functions. Whether you prefer it is not the criterion."
K. lived with adjusted light. He saw a different world now—the same objects, the same people, but lit differently, colored differently.
He adapted. He had no choice.
But he remembered the old light. He remembered how things had looked before.
The new light was reality now. The old light was memory, fading, becoming harder to recall.
World 298
The normalization was for everything, and K. was being comprehensively standardized, and the process would make him completely average.
"This is the final normalization," the normalizer said. "When we're done, you'll be indistinguishable from the mean."
K. felt the comprehensive normalization—every aspect of himself being adjusted, calibrated, averaged.
"What will I be?" K. asked.
"You'll be normal. Completely normal. Nothing distinctive. Nothing remarkable."
K. emerged from the final normalization. He was average in every dimension—physical, emotional, cognitive, spiritual.
"How do you feel?" the normalizer asked.
"Normal. I feel normal."
K. lived as a completely normal person. He had no distinctive features. He attracted no special attention.
He was interchangeable with millions of others—a standard unit, a baseline human, a person without particularity.
The normalization was complete. The individual was gone.
What remained was normal. What remained was everyone.
What remained was no one in particular.
World 299
The weights were normalizing, and K. was becoming average mass, and the process was bringing him to the universal mean.
"Your weight is approaching the universal average," the officer said. "A few more adjustments and you'll be exactly median."
K. felt himself becoming average. His mass was adjusting, losing its particularity, becoming what everyone weighed.
"Is average good?" K. asked.
"Average is neutral. Average is the baseline. Average is what exists when nothing distinguishes."
K. emerged at exactly average weight. He weighed precisely what everyone weighed—not heavy, not light, just the exact middle.
"How do you feel?" the officer asked.
"Average. I feel exactly average."
K. lived at average weight. He took up the average amount of space. He exerted the average amount of gravitational force.
Nothing about his mass was notable. Nothing about his presence was distinctive.
He was the mean. He was the median. He was the center of the distribution.
The edges were gone. The outliers were normalized.
He was average, entirely.
World 300
The focus was on restoration, and K. was being repaired one final time, and the technician was explaining that this restoration would be permanent.
"This is the last restoration," the technician said. "After this, your focus will be fixed. No more degradation."
K. felt the permanent restoration—his attention being locked into place, stabilized, made unchangeable.
"What does permanent mean?" K. asked.
"Your focus will not degrade. It will also not improve. It will be exactly this level, forever."
K. emerged with permanent focus. His attention was fixed—capable, functional, immutable.
"How do you feel?" the technician asked.
"Fixed. I feel fixed."
K. lived with permanent focus. He could concentrate at exactly one level. Not more, not less.
The degradation was gone. The variation was also gone.
He was permanently focused. He was permanently unable to focus differently.
The restoration had worked. The restoration had also ended possibility.
His attention would never fail. His attention would never grow.
He was fixed. He would remain fixed.
Forever.