Backwards Chairs

The chairs were backwards.

Jackson sneered, frustrated with the seating coordinators. Chairs were supposed to be positioned towards the stage, at least as far as he understood. Maybe cyborgs had eyes on the back of their heads, or maybe they modified their necks to turn around 180 degrees with ease. He had no idea. Regardless, anthropes like himself needed to sit in the direction they're looking, unless they wanted major neck pain.

He casually turned each chair around, one by one, accidentally clanking them against each other at times and readjusting rows when all their chairs had been corrected. Working slowly prevented him from getting too anxious, as it freed his mind to consider other things. If only straightening out this thoughts was as easy as turning chairs.

The door screeched open. Jackson shot his head around to look. Derek and Drake quickly entered, his cyborg friends. They were grinning widely, presenting their golden teeth to the world. They were both young, not much older than Jackson himself, but they had a completely different background. While Jackson lived with the anthropes, avoiding any self-modification, the cyborgs would modify themselves freely, often at a whim. Derek was tall and fuzzy, with fur covering everything but his green face. Drake was missing all of his hair, including on the tail extruding from his posterior.

These were the seating coordinators, and no, as far as Jackson knew, they didn't have eyes on the back of their heads.

"How goes it?" Drake asked, grinning with his pointy teeth.

Jackson laughed. Drake often talked strangely. He thought he was being amusing. "It's going fine, Drake. Thanks. You don't really need to talk like that."

Drake howled and pointed at Jackson. "But talking 'like that' is what I like." He plucked a hair from Derek's back, "What thinks you?"

Derek flinched. "Talk. I don't care how. Just keep your fingers off my back. I just got my fur remangled."

The stage lights flashed on. The lighting engineer must have arrived. Jackson turned back to his work. He had to finish turning around the chairs by the time the performance started. He looked at his watch. Fifteen more minutes. Just like yesterday. Just like all days.

Drake interrupted, "Hey, what plans do you have after screwing around with the chairs?"

*Sigh*. Jackson would have to deal with them for a little longer. He set turned back and replied, "I'm going to hang out at home with some friends."

"Ooh. Nice," said Drake. "Who wants to hang out with a modless push like you?"

Jackson chuckled. "Just because someone hasn't colored their skin or inverted their eyelashes or whatever doesn't mean they're not interesting."

Drake scratched the end of his tail. The tuft of fur at the end had a bronze-like glint from the shifting stage lights. "Fair enough. But you still haven't answered my question. *Who* is coming over tonight?"

"Someone important," Jackson offered. The chairs in his peripheral vision were still misaligned.

Drake looked at Derek, whose silent golden smile held steadily. "You try."

Derek broke his smile and pursed his lips. "Jackson," he started. "Who's the girl?"

Jackson froze. Should he play the fool? No, that would irritate them more. They already knew too much.

"What do you want?" Jackson asked firmly.

Derek threw up his hands. "Nothing, nothing!" he insisted. "It was Drake's idea."

Drake took over. "We saw you with a girl yesterday after your shift. Pretty cozy. We were just curious how a button pusher 'gets the girl' as they say."

*No one actually says that anymore*, Jackson thought. That was beside the point. Drake and Derek weren't supposed to see him with Miranda. He had been so careful.

"Who an anthrope finds attractive isn't necessarily who a cyborg finds attractive," Jackson offered, prying for the closest exit in the conversation. "We aren't modded, but we find each other attractive regardless."

Drake continued, "You don't understand. We find her plenty attractive." He showed more golden teeth.

Jackson's heart picked up its pace. Nausea brewed in the pit of his stomach. He could feel their intentions. They were bad. Very, very bad. He glanced towards the exit. Right now she would be at the food center, cleaning up after the closing meal. He reached for the closest chair and turned it around, then for the next, and the next. Working slowly would only increase his anxiety now.

"What's the rush?" Drake asked, trying to interrupt. Jackson continued turning chairs. "I said, why are you rushing?"

Jackson glanced at his wrist. "I have to finish. The doors open to the audience in eight minutes."

He didn't look up from his work for several minutes. Derek and Drake said nothing he could hear. He counted as he turned: one row, two rows, three rows, rushing to finish as soon as he could. When he finished he checked his watch again. Two minutes.

His cyborg friends were gone. He felt a tinge of relief. Normally around this time they'd debate the ethics of self-modification. He was usually happy to engage, but this time he wanted to maximize his time with Miranda before blackout. Hopefully she wasn't too tired from her shift. Too tired for conversation. Too tired for him.

He exited the theatre and strolled down the halls. Reaching the main passage, he wished he could quicken his pace. Hundreds of cyborgs raced by him on floating pads. The cyborgic transportation system. Some anthropes called it CTS for short, reminiscent of their skepticism of CPS a century ago. They weren't allowed to use it. Moreover, the walking speed limit was 1.5 meters per second in all passageways. Slowing anthropes on their daily commutes gave them time to consider how much they missed.

Twenty minutes later he arrived in "pusherville", as the cyborgs called it. The button on the entrance had a note stuck to it: "I'm an idiot!" He pushed the button. The door dilated and he passed through.

He picked up his pace. There was no speed limit on anthrope pathways, and no floating pads to avoid. The paths were almost empty. Everyone prepared for blackout at this time.

Miranda would be preparing to leave about now. He couldn't wait to see her. Last time they discussed possible futures for their lives, though tactfully avoiding discussion about their relationship. He knew the emotional opacity was his fault. The anthropes weren't like cyborgs: men were expected to lead. Maybe this time they could clear up their feelings and converse honestly. That was Jackson's hope, at least.

The food center's main lights were still on. That was unusual. Normally Miranda would have turned them off by now, leaving only the emergency lighting. There was a woman sitting on the wall bench. She ran fingers through her otherwise messy hair. No one else was there. He didn't recognize the woman, but she seemed familiar somehow, and Jackson knew every anthrope on the *Voluptas*.

Jackson approached her. "What's going on?"

The woman had been looking at the floor. She looked up to Jackson. Her eyes were tired, and she looked dazed, like she had just woken from a bad dream. "An attack," she replied.

An attack? At the food center?

"What do you mean?" Jackson pressed. "What kind of attack?"

The woman looked confused, thinking for a moment. Then she replied with furious realization. "Those damned androids. The gas. Those damned androids!"

Jackson hastened to quiet the woman. No swearing was allowed in the food center. "Shh. Calm down. What did they do?"

She trembled. "There was a gas. We all fell asleep. They're all gone."

"Who? Everyone? Was Miranda here?"

"Of course. She was---taken away too," the woman shifted his gaze and appeared to stare blankly at the wall.

Miranda was taken? A swell of panic rose again.

"What happened to her?"

"I--" she started.

"You did what?"

"I grabbed a chair and threw it at him. I'm not strong but it distracted him," the woman's eyes darted around the room, as if reliving the trauma. "He released his grip and the girl ran off as surely as she could. She passed out out the door"

"Where is she now?"

She shrugged, jaw loose. "I don't know. Maybe the clinic."

"The clinic?" Jackson was trembling now. This couldn't be happening. She had to be alright. He had to know what happened to her. The woman didn't seem to know any more.

Jackson turned and shot through the door, barely pressing the button in time to pass. He abandoned respect the few remaining anthropes in the halls. They would understand later. He needed to reach the clinic before blackout, otherwise he couldn't see Miranda until after light returned. He couldn't wait that long. She couldn't wait that long with that kind of trauma.

He reached the clinic with about 10 minutes until blackout. The button refused to open the door. He pressed for the intercom.

"Who is it?" a female voice asked through the speaker.

Jackson took a deep breath to try and hide the shakiness in his voice. "It's Jackson. Is Miranda there?"

"Just a minute."

The voice was silent for several minutes. Jackson didn't understand why. They surely knew whether Miranda was in there or not. The clinic was tiny and everyone knew everyone else. He was even pretty sure the obscured voice was Miranda's mother, who worked at the clinic.

The voice returned, "No one named Miranda would like to speak to anyone named Jackson is here at the moment."

Jackson couldn't breathe. Why didn't she want to talk? He couldn't remember doing anything that would cause her to push him off in a time of need. Then again, she didn't really need him. Her mother was there; probably her father as well. He would only be an obstacle to her successful recovery.

She didn't want to at least talk to him? Say hello or confirm she was alright?

He hustled back to his chamber. Blackout was approaching and he didn't want to be trapped in the halls during it. He clenched his jaw and forced his eyes open. If he didn't close them the tears might not escape his eyes.

He reached his chamber just before blackout. There was nothing else for him to do now but wait. His door locked. Another cycle.

---

Jackson entered the theatre. His watch told him he was ten minutes late. *Hurry up*, he told himself, but he knew it wouldn't help. He was barely able to get up and ready for work earlier. There was no way he could expect himself to be efficient today, especially if he was interrupted again.

He opened the closet by the stage and grabbed the cleaning machine. It was like a vacuum cleaner, but could suck up objects in air and space, toggled by a switch. Jackson didn't know how it worked, nor did he care to learn. The theatre needed cleaning, and it wasn't set up to clean itself.

He jumped onto the stage. It was filthy, with fruit and animal remnants strewn across the platform. It was almost as though the actors threw food at each other during the performance. Jackson shook his head. Waste wasn't allowed for anyone on board, but the cyborgs had leniency in their rations. How could they be so frivolous? The cyborgs had to feel some respect for others; if so, they were good at hiding it.

*At least they have us anthropes to clean up after them*, he thought as the cleaner took care of banana peels and blood stains.

Jackson stepped off the stage and onto the auditorium floor. The chairs were not set up yet.

"Thank God," Jackson whispered. He had more time to prepare for Derek and Drake.

Jackson shuddered. Derek and Drake. Jackson didn't know why they did it, but they had to be responsible. No one else could have been so horrendous. He shoved back the thought. He needed to avoid a confrontation; he enjoyed working in the theatre.

He took the cleaner to the floor, removing the gum and grime left by the audience.

No. He couldn't forget about it. They were monsters. His parents told him the truth. The Preacher's warnings were not exaggerations: these people were horrible. Every single one of those androids. They traumatized everyone in the food center, and for what? To pick on Jackson? Teasing him here was manageable; poisoning his friends was not, and they knew he was helpless to demand justice.

The poisoning was his fault. His android friends were just acting as cyborgs do: as rotten souls incapable of charity. Jackson had understood that, but he still hung out with them. He walked with them along the halls, considering their thoughts on life. He stood in their rooms---this very theatre. He sat in these damned chairs with them.

Miranda knew this: it was why she avoided him. She thought he was immature and couldn't trust him anymore. He never told her about his escapades with the cyborgs, but she must have learned somehow. She was injured because of it, and he had been too emotionally distant for any chance of reconciliation. It was over.

Jackson's eyes watered. This was his fault.

He ducked into the closet to avoid being spotted when Derek and Drake arrived. With darkness being his only company, he wept. He wept for himself, for being so needlessly foolish. He wept for his parents, who had wasted so much time warning him about the danger. He wept for Miranda, who was punished for his actions. He even wept for Derek and Drake. If only they could be free from their carnality.

With twenty minutes until opening, Jackson crept out of the closet. The seating coordinators would have already come and gone. He looked into the auditorium.

The chairs were backwards.

Published 5 September 2022

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