Project Serenexi
It was a cold clear morning on Proxima Centauri, when the shift change siren blew twice for the call to work. Hanek Jones, his face hidden in a hood of green fur, walked lazily through the air-lock of the Utopian Ministry, savouring his last breath of un-processed air. The foyer smelt of industrial pine and stale farts. At the far end a brown mural, peeling from age, stood above the stairs to the labs. It depicted a rural scene, seven metres wide: the happy farmers, with sickles, joyfully gathering the harvest. Hanek went up the stairs. He took them at a pace. The heating only worked properly when the data processors were running at max capacity, during a code white threat to utopian stability, the current threat status was code pink, it had been for months. They were due for a code white, Hanek could sense it. The Compliance lab where he worked was three flights up, and Hanek, who was twenty and had more...
