“…surely you wouldn’t suggest that there is an unspoken agreement to keep the ‘provincials’ in the camps?” - extract from personal emails sent between senior personnel at the Bureau of Administration.

The databanks hummed. How much information was there here? How many words rendered into texts, pixels into images and real-life essences distilled into virtual realities…

Martin strolled passed the square, bureau-shaped machines, thinking. He had Access 3, but even a Proxy couldn’t grant him such a thing without conditions. Like all things in this world, there had to be a price. Lunch, as the saying went, was never free.

Arcologies came with luxuries, but everyone was expected to contribute. Even a provincial- no, a former provincial knew that. It wasn’t weighted on some invisible tally either. To the war against the Host, the upkeep of the arcology, to science.

He went up to one of the databanks and a chair grew out of the synthmatter before his legs had reached the ninetieth degree. “Query: occupation.”

“Occupation: Access 3. Please state your name.”

“Solieri. Martin.” He read the number on his lanyard. Green light, soft and soothing, radiated outwards, if albeit for a moment. The light dimmed, and he could see his reflection.

“Please execute the following tests…”

Martin began answering the usual questions about his work-history, interest and the talent-trees that would algorithmically derive his potential. Of course, if he felt that the aptitude tests were not to his liking, he’d have the option to speak to a human counsellor. One, who’d give him the same spiel, albeit in a more diplomatic manner.

Some of the questions were similar to the ones he had answered in Sala Camp, whereas others were phrased in such a way as to confuse him.

“Have you had any experience with physical altercations? If so, please describe what kind in the box below.”

Huh. That was a new one. Anyone over the age of 5 had probably had some kind of fight in the camps.

“What do you see in these images?”

A series of shadows, three-dimensional, extended beyond the screen. Teeth, looping into a half-moon shape; a grinning skull. A tendril, turning into a teardrop, extending into a river. A rock, cracking; now there stood a man in police gear…

So on the tests continued. Eventually, on having answered a series of questions about his feelings towards the Host (not a fan) a red button showed up on the screen.

“Would like to know your aptitudes?”

Martin punched it, unsure whether he actually wanted an answer or not. The one back at Sala had shown a result that was less than pleasing.

“Aptitude: Martial.

You have scored in the upper quartile when it comes to combative pursuits. Professions such as police-officer, guard, ranger and additional professions would be a good fit for you, Mr Soleri.

Would you like to know more?”

Martin simply stared at the message. Back when he did the test in Sala, it hadn’t showed him this aptitude. Rather, it had suggested that he join the itinerant force, that one that moved from camp, digging trenches for the latrines.

Sure, that had been more than five years ago… but he hadn’t changed that much. “Hologram.”

A man manifested next to Martin. Both with same dark skin tone, but whereas Martin’s dreads were long and styled, this man had no hair and no beard.

Another difference was their eyes; this man had darker eyes, whereas Martin’s mother had set her stamp on her son. Because of the fires that had followed the destruction of Camp Redsjö, his eyes were one of the few things of, or from her that remained.

“What can I do for you?”

“Please cross-reference this aptitude test and the one I did in 2090 at Camp Sala. In that span of time, what’s changed?”

The hologram that had the appearance of Siran Solieri inclined his head. That was something his father never would have done. He had been a frantic man, even up to his death.

“There are three notations in your file all of which were not here five years ago.”

Martin grabbed his pad and searched his public profile. There was a photo of him, his socials, his residency (that of Camp Sala, which he hadn’t changed) and no mention of a notation.

“These notations… are they public or not?”

“They are not public, but conditional. Would you, as the person they pertain, like to know more?”

Martin paused. Did he…yes, he decided, he did.

“Please.”

“The first notation is about a health-exam, written and detailed on 5th of May, 2090.”

Five years ago.

“The second notation was created 6th of August, 2092. It suggests that the findings of the health-exam performed two years back should be sent to Bureau of Administration.”

Curious. “What is the original notation about then?”

The hologram turned, lips forming an embarrassed smile. “The notation itself is confidential. At Access 3, only the subject would be able to tell that there is one. The required Access for this particular form of notation…” the hologram’s eyes moved beneath closed lid,”is granted to Proxies or senor officials at Bureau of Administration.”

“And the third notation?”

“The third notation…has been marked by a senior Proxy. By that fiat, the Access of one ‘Martin Solieri’ is to be upgraded to 3, and he should brought to the Vänern Arcology.”