Short Story Number 1 Part 10

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The Transcriber Part 10

Josef had been recorded this entire time, courtesy of the blinking red dot. There had always been someone on the other end, inspecting his progress, monitoring that everything was as it should be. When Number One received a call from his partners at 2:14am in the morning, he knew that it had to be something important. Instead he got something monumental. They had finally found who they were looking for. Josef had finally passed the test.

“Get everything ready, I need him transferred to the black room immediately”.

*

The next time Josef woke, it was in complete darkness. Well he thought it was complete darkness, but it was really just the colour of the walls that had led him to this erroneous conclusion. That’s the problem with perception. Stick a guy on a top bunk with his nose almost touching a black roof, and his eyes will convince him that his whole world is black. If Josef had known about their existence, now probably would have been an opportune moment for him to join the ranks of the anti-realists. Unfortunately that was not an option, so exploration of his new environment would have to suffice. He slid himself off the bed and landed on the cold hard floor. The layout was almost exactly the same as the room with the green walls except his bed was now a bunk and the room was slightly larger. Josef made his way toward the table. There was nothing on the table except a pad of paper and a pen. At first Josef dreaded that he would have to transcribe another text, but he saw that no book had been left for him. With the subsiding of the initial onset of relief, confusion began to dominate his cognitive processes. Whoever was keeping him here obviously wanted him to write something, but he had no idea what. It seemed this was just another obstacle in his road to freedom. The difference was, now there wasn’t a path for him to walk on.

As Josef sat contemplating his plight, his right hand, which had previously been twirling the pen, gripped it as any writer would. He began to doodle meaninglessly on the page, as if recreating the process of writing would somehow illuminate his condition. It did not, but that was only because Josef could not read.

*

For Number One, this was nothing short of a glorious day. His plan had almost reached fruition, and soon he would have all the answers to the questions that he had spent twenty years researching, and devising a mechanism to address. He looked with admiration and wonder, but also satisfaction at the clear screen in the conference room. It was zoomed in specifically at the page that Josef was doodling on. Except they weren’t doodles. They were words. Josef was writing of his own accord.

Number Five asked the question that everyone wanted to, but were too amazed to ask.

“How is this possible?”

Number One’s lips curled upward slightly to form the slightest semblance of a smile.
“Josef Karringer is writing of his own free will, because Josef has something to tell us. We have conditioned him, we have tested him, but most importantly we have prepared him for this very moment. He has completed his rite of passage and will now be an invaluable resource to us. Josef Karringer is not simply a transcriber. That is merely what we have introduced to as a means of developing his potential and for him to harness his true ability. Gentlemen, we have finally found the one we have been searching for all these years.“

*

Number Eight approached the closed door. It was almost the end of another shift. Although initially he thought that he was the luckiest of all of them because he got to see firsthand on a day-to-day basis the fruits of their labour, years of routine had long sapped that enthusiastic vitality from him. In his aged wisdom, he’d realised it was him who had drawn the short straw. Door 30. On the door was a plastic rectangle that had been glued on. It bore the letters:

GANDERTON.

Before opening the door, Number Eight checked the dosage of the nightly cocktail of nutrients, liquid and anesthetic was correct. Then he unlocked the door and entered the cell. Ganderton was sleeping, as usual. Stepping quietly toward the motionless body, he took out the syringe and knelt down to administer the contents. Just as he was about to insert the needle into his arm, Ganderton’s eyes opened. A quick punch to the head and Ganderton was able to place Number Eight in a chokehold. A few seconds later, he was unconscious.

As Ganderton stood over him, he reveled in the element of surprise. It gave him the upper hand in this instance, but he knew that soon they would know he had escaped. Soon the entire oppressive entity that had imprisoned him here all his life would be out searching for him. Syro Ganderton had been at a crossroads, but now he had made his choice. He had gone past the point of no return, and the only thing he could hope for now is that whoever the Transcriber was, he would be able to save him.

Syro took Number Eight’s keys and weapon, and placed him in his bed. He covered him with the bed sheets to give some illusion to those people watching (because he knew he was being watched – Syro, being the genius that he was, did notice the red dot – the colour of the dot always matched the walls for camouflage purposes – and did deduce that it was something used to monitor him) that everything was fine.

Then he stepped for the first time outside his cell, into the world, into the unknown, and onto the road that for the first time, he had picked for himself.

To be continued...

Hope you have enjoyed The Transcriber so far. After a short hiatus, the story shall be completed.

Till next time may you agglomerate all your unpremeditated contemplations.