The Nature of Change

Atom Beats Brain (Terry 07)

I slip into the blue-accented uniform that marks me as a command officer of the bunker.

The responsibility for overseeing what may become the last of the human species seems to alight gracefully on my shoulder, its weight stiffening my stance in inexplicable ways. I pull the collar smartly around my neck and brush out a small crease, give my short brown hair a small tousle, and drop my hands to my sides.

A practice salute in the mirror. A deep breath.

"Calling all command personnel to the CIC for initial orientation. Repeat, calling all command personnel to the CIC for initial orientation. Follow the blue line on the wall."

I step purposefully out the door to the bathroom of the bunk and hook a smooth right, my long strides carrying me swiftly out the entryway to the bunk itself. I halt momentarily, spotting a stretch of blue long enough to notice the direction of the simple lighted dot pattern on it - it flows down the hall to my left. I pump my legs, propelling myself briskly down the hallway past the groups of people bustling on the other side of the hallway. Some are carrying boxes, others are discussing logistics and coordination, still others are inspecting wiring or plumbing. One section of wall has its internals entirely exposed, with a group of gunk-crusted electricians and plumbers adjusting things within. As I watch, a welder - evident because of the flipped-up welding mask atop her head - strides up, dropping her welding machine with a loud clang. One of the plumbers turns to her and starts explaining something.

I peek down one of the corners as I pass, witnessing a scene of rapid construction. Four workers carry a section of pipe into position as sparks fly in towards the center of the hallway from saws and welding torches alike. One electrician threads wires through PVC tubes and then places them on the wall, screwing clamps for them into the structural beams just barely visible behind all the work.

The blue line's emphasis dots flow towards the right, and I turn to follow them.

Before me lies a door with a blue cross emblazoned over it, slightly ajar but still fully concealing the room. I take a cursory look around and see a few other people in blue-highlighted uniforms walking down the hall. I wait a few seconds, then, looking towards them, grasp the door's handle and push it open. I back up to the wall, eyes still on them, and put my foot in the path of the door, holding it firmly against the wall. The other officers speed up a little, slipping past me with brief "thank you"s as I nod in return. One last check. No more blueshirts.

I survey the room.

Several four-person tables are arrayed around a central pedestal and stage, where a few other people in more flagrant blue attire huddle in a circle, discussing something. A few of them hold papers. One flails her papers around in a gesture of frustration, or possibly just technical passion. I look at the structure of the stage, and something seems... off. Well, it's holding them well enough.

Each table has a bunch of chairs with small, long cards on them. I pick one up, and it has what appears to be a name on it. Valerie Sundberg. I glance around, looking for my name. Now that I know it must be here, I spot a card four tables down that looks probable.

I stride over quietly, picking up the card.

Nope.

That one over there?

Nope.

Hmmm... how about... that one?

Third time is indeed the charm. "Terence Alfred Lawrence," reads the card. What a clumsy name my parents picked. Wouldn't give them for anything, even considering how young I was when they died, but that one thing bugs me a lot.