Read by Magnus Rook (second story in podcast, at 17 min 45, here)
The alarm was bleeping. Glenn stretched out a hand to silence it, his sleep-fogged brain registering too late the confines of his space. And so, once again, his day began with him inadvertently punching the wall next to his bed. Sometimes he really did wonder what the Save The World Programme’s recruitment team had seen in him.
The sun was pushing through the blind onto his cheek, its warmth strong but not yet unpleasant. Lying in its glow, his chest bare above the thin sheet, he felt a rare flicker of anticipation. Then his mind caught up: it was his birthday. Or more accurately, his Programme Birthday: the anniversary of his arrival at this tiny five-by-five-metre pod in the desert.
Glenn slid out of bed, took the two steps to his shower corner, flicked on the water. During his allotted thirty-second blast, he allowed himself to picture what his birthday gift package might entail. He hated himself for it, but he was sick to death of the sterility of this place. The white walls, the cheap chrome shower-head; the black gamer chair and console where he logged observations of the soil he sifted each day in the giant glasshouses, and where he worked his way through old 2020s box-sets each evening.
The pod was nothing like the one in the pack sent by the job centre, all sleek Scandi furniture and strategically placed throws. It was only on the plane over – a special charter, his first ever flight – that he’d found out the accommodation was basically a shell, the interior design upgraded through virtual reality for those who did well at their work on the Programme. The stewards had been unable to tell him why people who cared about the climate crisis would install a power-hungry VR system in the middle of the desert; the helpdesk query he’d submitted in his first week was still awaiting a response.
Initially, he’d resolved to have nothing to do with the upgrades — surely there was no greater motivation than the job itself; no need for gimmicks when you’re literally working to save humanity, especially not gimmicks that were, on the face of it, exacerbating the world’s problems. But now here he was, a year on, yearning for a set-up with just a flavour of his supervisor’s. A plush sofa, green maybe; mood lighting; some nice art for the walls. He must have pushed enough of the same soil through his tiny sieve, logged enough miniscule clumps as ‘small’, ‘very small’ or ‘minute’, to justify a painting or two. A virtual Picasso, that’d be good. It wouldn’t add much to the energy use.
He stepped back into the living space, pulled on his shorts and t-shirt and slid into his chair. He put his headset on, pressed power.
As the daily welcome message scrolled past his view, he watched the download symbol flashing in the corner. His fingers drummed the arms of his chair. He wanted his new surroundings to install quickly enough that he’d have time to properly take them in before his group came online for the morning check-in. He was the first in the team to celebrate a Programme Birthday; there would be a hell of a lot of interest in his upgraded accommodation environment. Hopefully from Alex in particular. Alex was the closest thing he had to a friend here and — though he would probably never be able to admit it given the ‘personal relationships protocol’ he’d signed — someone on whom he was developing a bit of a crush. Alex seemed like a guy who’d appreciate art.
The download symbol switched to an install bar.
15 per cent, 20…
He understood why the supervisors got the upgrades from the start, of course. The rest of them, working out in the glasshouses, at least got a change of scene, even if the endless sifting, counting, categorising, sifting made their eyes glaze over. The supervisors had to stay put the whole time, monitoring, analysing results.
40 per cent, 50…
But even so, the pods were everyone’s only respite from the work and the heat, and a bit more comfort for them all would surely be good for productivity.
60 per cent, 70…
He didn’t know when the first seedlings would be planted — the scientists were yet to arrive at the site — but presumably everyone wanted the soil to be ready sooner rather than later.
80 per cent, 90…
And seeing his new backdrop would give the rest of the team something to aim for. It’d help get the job done and get them all out of here faster.
100 per cent.
The install bar flashed green, everything in his vision went black. A split second later his room was restored. It looked—
Exactly the same. He swivelled in his chair, taking in the full 360. Same blank white walls, same white bed and tiny Formica table, same basic shower. He banged the headset. Still nothing. No sofa, no uplighter lamps, no art. Maybe the upgrade hadn’t—
There was a kettle. A small, grey, plastic-looking kettle, on a round tray, had appeared on the table by his bed. He scanned the room again, but there was no other change. 365 days of sifting, entering clump data into spreadsheets, surviving on awful prototype synthetic food rations and recording the impact on his bowel movements — and all he got by way of reward was a kettle that didn’t even come with virtual tea? This had bloody well better be a mistake.
He jerked his head, bringing up the screen view in front of him. He started typing furiously, but a ping to his left interrupted him. His breakfast delivery. Maybe the kettle was just an opening gesture, a trailer for some kind of culinary upgrade? He lifted his headset, reached down, lifted the flap to the delivery chute. He pulled out the tray. On it was a single grey protein slab, a water refill and a flask of coffee, the same as every day. He pushed the headset down again, blinked the VR back on. The protein slab became a withered-looking bacon sandwich. Same as every day.
‘Glenn! Happy birthday! You’ve passed your probation!’ His supervisor’s nasal voice pulled him back upright in his chair. He switched to screen view. They were all there, looking at him. Or more accurately, looking around him — looking at that same spartan room, those same white, bare walls. He felt his face flush. A private message flashed to his right.
Alex: Where’s the makeover? Are you ok?
‘Well, Glenn, how do you like your new kettle?’ The supervisor was grinning, his head bobbing about in front of his lovely sofa and gallery-worthy pictures. Glenn didn’t trust himself to respond.
‘Ok, it seems Glenn has frozen, but I’m sure he’ll be back with us soon. For those who haven’t seen it there on the table behind him, take a good look at Glenn’s new kettle. All part of our policy to reward our valued employees with the virtual enhancements that will make you feel at home. Happy birthday again, Glenn!’
As applause icons flashed in front of the bemused faces on his screen, Glenn’s eyes remained fixed on his supervisor’s backdrop. The sofa had cushions, the lights had dimmers, there was even a plant on the shelf. And outside the window, something he’d never noticed before – flecks of virtual rain, pinging against the glass. The last rain Glenn had seen was on the tarmac at Heathrow, streaking his mum’s cheeks as it swelled the tears she’d been trying to hide. But his supervisor could flick a switch and not just block out, but replace the desert whenever he liked?
Now he really was furious.
*
The baked air in the glasshouse felt especially stale and oppressive. Sweat soaked Glenn’s back as he knelt with his sieve, sifting, counting, noting; sifting, counting, noting. He inched his way down his long stretch of soil, keeping his eyes lowered, avoiding any pitying glances from his teammates. As the orange grains hissed through the wire holes, all he could hear was the energy-sapping sound of virtual rain. The blood inside him was fizzing.
The recruiter at the job centre had made a lame joke about the glasshouses at his interview: ‘Out there you’ll definitely feel like part of a team, she’d said, ‘because people in glass houses never throw stones.’
He’d laughed, keen to prove he was ‘temperamentally suited’ to the opportunity he’d been selected for. At that stage, he hadn’t realised quite how much work there was on The Programme for people without scientific qualifications. If he’d known how many unemployed arts grads like him were being offered these roles, with their secure contracts and relocation bonuses, he wouldn’t have felt so much pressure to impress.
By the time the siren sounded for the end of the day’s shift, there was a steady pounding behind Glenn’s eyes. He straightened slowly, keeping his distance from the others as he trudged towards the exit. He tugged on the prickly protective suit for the short walk back to his pod. Outside, the still-burning air swiped at his face through the mesh of the suit’s mask.
Ahead, the pods stretched out in long, seemingly endless rows. As one of the first to arrive, he’d been allocated a place in Row A, as had all of his team. The supervisors, he knew from their on-screen employee numbers, were all Row Z.
When he reached his accommodation he raised his thinly-gloved hand to punch the entry code, but didn’t touch the keypad. Instead, he waited till his teammates had all either disappeared inside their own pods or passed out of view. Then he turned back down the row and left, towards the next line of pods.
With each row he reached he felt more and more light-headed. By Row J, it seemed as though the blood inside him was evaporating. By Row P, his fingers and toes were prickling so badly he was struggling to lift his feet. He started flexing his hands as he walked, the static of the suit’s gloves crackling like fire. He needed to keep enough feeling to be able to prise open the power box that stood on the end of the last row, to get to the wire behind the left-hand switch.
He wouldn’t touch the main power — he wasn’t a monster. But the Row Z Virtual Reality network had to go.
He was so focused on his hands that it took him a moment to realise he’d reached the final row of pods. He shuffled to the power box, bent down — and stopped. The box was stamped with the letter Y.
Disorientated, he stood up, peering into the evening haze for the sign that marked the location. Then he found it: a small, white Y, glaring up at him from the sand.
He spun back round. Behind him was X, W, V — he turned forward again. Row Y — that was it. No more pods, no Row Z. Just endless orange dust, stretching away to nothing.
He sank to his knees, mind racing. If Row Z wasn’t there, where were the supervisors? He saw again that rain, how naturally it streaked against the glass. Haphazard and distorting, just like actual rain, the rain back home. His throat tightened, his head was pounding. Far above him, the stars started to fill the sky like gleaming, grinning teeth.
(c) Sarah Richardson, 2024
Sarah Richardson grew up in Essex & now lives in south-east London, where she works as a journalist & editor. She has taken short fiction classes at City University & Faber Academy, and is part of a London-based writing group. This is her fourth story for Liars’ League.
Magnus Rook is an actor & voice actor from Freiburg, Germany. He trained at the Royal Conservatoire of Scotland & mostly works in audiobooks these days, narrating everything from spicy romantasy to hard-boiled Swedish detective novels.
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