Reed has come back from lunch drunk again. It was 15:06 when the doors to the lift slid open with a decompressing hiss and splurging out through the airlock to the never ending black void of reality came Reed accompanied by his favourite cronies Hibdiah and Jenkins. Jenkins is squawking at Hibdiah:
“You’re ‘sposed to be a facking muzza mate, three calvados and two bottles like the five pillars you cahnt…” He dribbles off to one side and becomes elaborately caught at the knees in a redundant waste paper basket/ashtray. He doesn’t fall to the floor but simply becomes embedded in the wall with the oblique ashtray as a cylindrical support.
Hibdiah seems not to have imbibed the amount of alcohol that Jenkins has attributed to him and turns to see his semi prone stance against the wall.
“I’m not a Muslim.” He replies in a cool tone before turning on his heel and losing his balance destroying his well-crafted impression of sobriety.
Reed marches between the two of them making a beeline for my section. We are on drone observation today, which is the most monotonous of tasks since the targets arbitrarily change. The task is to observe the footage in tandem with the damage analysis algorithm running in the background. It is my assertion that this process could be entirely automated but procedure requires human confirmation of collateral and civilian misappropriation, even though this process is shoe horned by the combatants clause, it is necessary to reinterpret certain misfires and equipment malfunction fall outs. Since the data is live and could conceivably be redirected en route I also see the process of reinterpretation as futile although counter claims of doctoring could be levelled at any such siphoned data and the procurer of said data. Our reinterpreting process down in adjustments is as advanced as you will see but these days papering over the cracks is becoming harder and harder as civilian understanding of more advanced data reinterpretation is gleaned.
“What the f**k is this!” Reed literally spits over the line of monitors, although none of the spittle makes it as far down the row as me.
“Observation Sir.” Say’s a grey voice, my eyes locked on my monitor.
“Let me see.” He comes careering round the monitors in the manor of a retrospective. “Excuse my retrospective manor…” he slurs before peering agitatedly at someone’s monitor. My eye’s are locked forward, intently boring into a pixelated topographical desert.
“This is the spread of ten feeds overlaid I take it, apply the reduction across the lot and minimize figurative casualties uniformly.” Reed says eyes narrowing.
My brain loops into a chasm as I hear these words, a colossal force of pressure sweeping across my brow. The urge to unleash a barrage of battering reprimand, an unholy litany of dissent directed in his pale gaunt canvas of a face. I stand up and take two steps towards.
“That contravenes the procedure for today’s targets.” I say staring intently at the bridge of his nose.
“I know that Hugh now please go and sit down.”
“This is my row today how will I account for this anomaly in my report?” I say already knowing the answer as I have done it so many times before.
“Write it up as it happened and then bring it to me.” Reed says without looking up.
I immediately return to my seat. This has not happened before; I am stunned but know better than to reveal this to anyone on the line. Reed is impenetrable to interpretation; alcohol only seems to intensify his steely resolve. None of us would have experienced the kind of training he had, a terrifying thought.
Another map appears on my screen and bunches of pixels fidget out from a clump of white in the top edge of the screen. I encircle a group of six or seven I am not exact. I tap the control and A key and they disappear.
