The Outcast Ones Read Online Free PDF Page A

farewell for the 200s, when they reach their sixtieth year. That is the year when we say goodbye to the safety zone and to the Earth.
    Today, the Atrium shows a shower of rain over the wild North Sea. The wind whips against the tearing waves, spraying foam. It is an impressive performance, it sucks me in for several seconds. The sea resists the wind, does not let itself be pressed back, but proves its strength. Quickly I shake my head. Something’s wrong with me. Always these thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking, these thoughts that are wrong. Resistance is never right. Maybe it’s a good thing I was assigned to nutrition distribution—hopefully I won’t have to think much there.
    Across the grey hall I approach the big dining hall for communal meals. Those are rare, we only have them on special occasions like farewelling a generation, promotions, or the mating phase. Today is nothing like that.
    An older man waits for me at the door, D523 standing beside him. Her lips are strangely drawn, almost like a smile, but it doesn’t look friendly. Her right eyebrow quirks upwards as I introduce myself.
    “D518 reporting for duty.”
    “D375 welcomes D518,” he answers formally. Then his tight shoulders loosen a bit and he continues in a friendlier tone. “Good to have you here. Come with me and I’ll explain your tasks.”
    We move through the big hall towards a double door made of dark grey metal. It slides open by itself. Even from this you can see that our task isn’t exactly one of the important ones. Areas of higher value are locked with security codes. But apparently anyone can walk into nutrition distribution.
    Behind the door is a room full of tables and computers, not at all like I imagined it. I expected machines producing cereal cubes—instead I’m standing in front of at least twenty computer desks. Two in the second-last row are still empty, this is where D375 leads us.
    “Sit down,” he says, with a wave of his hand. My gaze rests on his eyes a moment longer, they are the same pale blue as everyone’s, but something is different: I look more closely and discover a small green spot in his left iris.
    “Is something wrong?” he asks me, but I shake my head quickly. D523 looks at me curiously. Did she notice my reaction?
    We sit in our assigned seats and log in to the computer using our fingerprints. As confirmation, we hear the familiar “Access permitted”, and the computers start up. A program opens up with many small windows, each with a description.
    “Each of us receives twenty designations per day, whose nutrition we must supply. The designations change every day, so we have to familiarise ourselves from scratch every day. The program gives an optimum supply level, but it’s our job to check that it’s correct.” D375 pauses.
    Checking a program for correctness? How is that possible? I thought the system didn’t make any mistakes.
    “Errors do not come from the program, but from users. When it’s time to distribute food, photographs of the personnel will appear where you see their designations. Your task is to check whether it’s really their own arm they are holding under the scanner.”
    My brow furrows. Why should anyone hold someone else’s arm under the scanner?
    “You look surprised, but it has really happened before. People get the strangest ideas to sneak more food. Especially before a fight they often want more protein capsules, to improve their performance.”
    D523 blows air out and speaks quietly, more to herself, but with a glance in my direction. “Sounds familiar to me.” There is contempt in her voice—she’s still angry with me, and rightfully so. I bite my lip and try to listen to what D375 is saying.
    “If you tap on one of the designations, you’ll see a sort of profile for that person.”
    He shows us on my computer. The profile for C482 opens up. Beside his designation is his assigned work area, in this case access control, which means he is deployed inside the