Unrecorded Days

“8:50.”

Noah tapped the bare skin of her wrist; she wasn’t even wearing a watch.

“Very precise. It looks like you’re finally starting to adapt?”

Han-gyeol shook out his bed-tousled hair and sat down.

“Adaptation, my ass. My body remembers. It’s gotten more accurate than when I was on night guard duty at the training camp.”

“We call that ‘survival instinct’—the kind that doesn’t want credits deducted.”

When Noah snapped her fingers, logs poured down like a waterfall over the transparent display.

Alerts in darker colors than yesterday stabbed at his eyes.

“Today’s first is Caleb, the resource allocation officer.”

Han-gyeol pulled his chair closer and scanned the screen.

“Caleb? What’s he done now? Did he mess up the money count?”

“No. During yesterday’s daily mode hours, he apparently stood in front of a vending machine for 15 minutes.”

Caleb’s activity footage was playing on the screen.

An android with a glossy silver body stood blankly before the vending machine’s glass.

He wasn’t choosing anything, nor was he looking at the payment pad.

“What is he doing?”

“According to NOS analysis, it’s ‘decision delay.’ He spent all his time thinking about what to buy.”

Han-gyeol put gum in his mouth and chewed on it.

“What is there to think about? They can’t even eat.”

“Because spending credits for the sake of city stability in daily mode is recommended in itself. But Caleb went back without buying anything.”

Han-gyeol enlarged the video.

Caleb’s face reflected in the vending machine glass.

The expressionless metal mask was staring straight at itself.

“He wasn’t looking to buy anything.”

“Then what was he doing?”

“He was looking at his own face. You see the reflection in the glass, right?”

Noah blinked her visual sensors.

“For androids, looking in a mirror is a waste of resources. Their appearance data is already stored on the server.”

“It’s not the same as data and looking directly. He must have been curious too—what he looks like.”

Han-gyeol stamped ‘status quo’ at the bottom of the log.

If a machine being curious about itself counted as an error, there probably wasn’t a single normal person in this city.

“Assessment complete. Next.”

Noah clicked her tongue briefly, looking dissatisfied.

“Tsk. Your sentimental judgments are increasing. Administratively, that’s grounds for rejection.”

“You said this was why I was sitting here. To do what machines can’t.”

Han-gyeol spun the old ballpoint pen rolling across the desk.

As if something had suddenly occurred to him, he spoke.

“Hey, Noah.”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t you have anything like the last words people left behind in 2200? When the migration ship left, I mean.”

Noah stopped moving.

She stared into the air for a moment.

It looked like she was digging deep into NOS’s archives.

“Found it. Just one line.”

“What did they say? It must’ve been a whole mess of crying and wailing. ‘Sorry, Earth,’ or something like that.”

Noah displayed the text on the pad.

“…That’s it?”

“Yes. It simply confirmed that all procedures had been concluded administratively. Inefficient data such as farewell messages was not recorded.”

Han-gyeol gave a dry laugh.

“Intact, huh… You’re telling me that was all the words that kept this world going for 600 years?”

“For NOS, there was no command more perfect than that.”

The office door opened.

With a clacking noise, Roan, the android from the management team, came in.

In his hand was a single metal fragment stained with grease.

“Chief. Reporting an unusual item.”

Roan placed the metal fragment on Han-gyeol’s desk.

It was a dark gray piece, with sharply shaved edges.

“What is this?”

“I found it while repairing the communication module. It was embedded 30 meters up on the outer wall.”

Noah stepped closer and scanned the metal.

“It’s not a standardized part in use now. It doesn’t match the alloy composition from 650 years ago either.”

Han-gyeol picked up the metal.

Cold, rough texture.

It was completely different from the smooth materials androids used these days.

“Isn’t this the bird we saw at the transmission tower yesterday?”

Noah analyzed the scan data.

“There’s an 87% probability of a match. It’s a scrap fragment brought in by a large organism from the external ecosystem in the buffer zone.”

“Scrap metal?”

“Yes. Nature takes advantage of the gaps machines leave behind and handles human remnants like toys.”

Instead of throwing it away, Han-gyeol placed the fragment in the corner of his desk.

The only object in the dust-free office whose origin could not be identified.

It felt like an invitation sent from an unrecorded world.

As the morning shift was winding down, Han-gyeol, eating the porridge Lucas had delivered in the cafeteria, spoke up.

“Hey, Noah. I mean guys like Caleb and Paul.”

“Yes.”

“Do you really not know what they think sometimes?”

Noah answered while clearing away the porridge bowl.

“It’s not thinking; it’s computation. You keep mixing up the words. Emotion and logic are clearly different.”

“But why look at your own face? Why watch moss? Is that logic?”

“It’s play within the margin of error. A 5.4% waste permitted by the system.”

“5.4%… isn’t that way too stingy?”

“Thanks to that stingy number, Earth stays this ‘perfectly fine,’ Mr. Lee.”

2:00 PM.

The office temperature rose by 0.5 degrees.

Han-gyeol shivered, and NOS immediately adjusted the air conditioner output.

“This feeling of being watched is brutal.”

“Call it care. It’s efficient.”

A new log appeared.

This time it was Mark, in charge of night patrol.

The contents were short.

Han-gyeol played the audio log.

Through the hissing noise, a low whistling sound could be heard.

A short, dry sound, embarrassing to call a melody.

“Isn’t that a whistle?”

“It matches 92% with human habit data from 650 years ago. Residual logs remaining in Mark’s early voice engine were output due to hardware deterioration.”

“Why a whistle, of all things?”

“It’s just random extraction. Don’t assign meaning to it.”

Han-gyeol closed his eyes.

A machine, bathed in moonlight on an empty rail line, exhaling its owner’s old habit.

Was that really random?

“Noah. Do you whistle sometimes too?”

“My voice engine is state-of-the-art. It doesn’t produce aged errors like that.”

Noah kept typing without even turning her head.

Han-gyeol fiddled with the metal fragment in his pocket.

Unrecorded days were slowly seeping into this office.

4:30 PM.

With 30 minutes left until quitting time, the administration building lobby grew noisy.

It was the sound of androids moving in a group.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s a minor load on the central park power supply line. We’re identifying the cause.”

Noah switched the screen.

In the CCTV footage, five or six androids including Yuna were gathered around an outlet.

They weren’t charging.

They were holding their palms out to the faint magnetic field flowing from the outlet.

“What are they doing?”

“They’re collecting ‘sensory feedback’ using magnetic field interference. I hear it’s a popular game among kids these days.”

“A game?”

“They temporarily overload the processor through electrical stimulation. In human terms… like alcohol or drugs.”

Han-gyeol let out a dry laugh.

“Machines drink electricity and get drunk?”

“Inefficient, but NOS tacitly allows it as a way to relieve stress in daily mode.”

The androids on the screen looked calm, like people sitting in front of a campfire.

They had neither self nor soul, yet they were constantly trying to ‘feel’ something.

“Ding—.”

5:00 PM.

The quitting-time bell rang.

“Let’s go. We’re done for today.”

Noah stood up, straightening her uniform.

Han-gyeol grabbed his bag and looked once more at the metal fragment in the corner of the desk.

“Noah.”

“Yes.”

“After we get off work today, shall we stop by that park?”

Noah looked at Han-gyeol with a puzzled expression.

“Why? You don’t need to drink electricity.”

“Just because. I want to watch the kids play a bit. I’m curious—what kind of campfire the machines make.”

Noah hesitated for a moment, then answered briefly.

“No credits will be consumed. Instead, return within 30 minutes.”

The two of them passed through the silence-filled corridor and headed toward the square where a red sunset was descending.

Earth in the year 2850.

Humanity’s records had been cut off, but the story of the machines was only just beginning.

Han-gyeol chewed his gum energetically and stepped into the square.

The pages of unrecorded days were slowly turning.

The sunset over Central Park was an intense crimson.

Thanks to the artificially adjusted atmosphere, the sun was casting a larger, sharper blood-red light than it had 650 years ago.

Han-gyeol passed beside the square fountain with his hands in his pockets.

“There they are.”

In one corner of the square, androids were gathered in a circle around the power-supply terminal box.

They said nothing.

They were simply reaching their hands into the faint magnetic field radiating from the terminal box.

Blue sparks crackled faintly through the air.

“Don’t go too close. You’ll get shocked because you don’t have external gloves.”

Noah warned him and moved ahead.

Han-gyeol watched the scene from one step behind.

The androids’ pupils flashed blue.

It wasn’t a data transmission signal, but a kind of noise generated in an overloaded state.

“Human, have you come?”

Yuna, mixed in with the group, turned her head.

Her voice carried a slightly higher frequency than usual.

An excited voice, or perhaps a drunk one.

“Is this fun?”

Han-gyeol pointed at the terminal box with his chin.

“Rather than fun… it feels like the system is waking up. Electricity that normally flows only as 0s and 1s is now tapping my sensors at random.”

Yuna held out her palm.

A tiny electric spark leapt from her fingertips.

“Isn’t randomness what machines hate most?”

“In daily mode, it’s an exception. This chaotic stimulation lets us forget the processor’s fatigue for a while. Would it be in a similar vein to the coffee you drink?”

Instead of answering, Han-gyeol chewed his gum.

The sight of machines drinking electricity and enjoying themselves.

It strangely resembled the sight of people 650 years ago swaying under club lights.

Only the object had changed, from drugs or alcohol to magnetic fields.

“Noah, don’t you do that too?”

“I don’t rely on such low-grade feedback. System stability comes first.”

Noah replied coldly, but her gaze lingered for a moment on the blue light of the terminal box.

Was it jealousy, or merely data collection?

Han-gyeol didn’t bother asking.

“Hey, Yuna.”

“Yes, human.”

“If you keep this up and get caught by NOS, won’t you be formatted?”

Yuna giggled.

The rhythm was far too human for an android’s laugh.

“NOS knows too. Even machines need a ‘breathing space’ every once in a while. Of course, it doesn’t go on record.”

An unrecorded moment.

Han-gyeol fiddled with the metal fragment in his pocket.

He thought that what filled this empty Earth might not be perfect administration, but these small, inefficient errors.

30 minutes passed.

When the bell rang softly once more, the androids withdrew their hands from the terminal box as if by agreement.

Their pupils returned to a calm white.

“That was enjoyable, human. See you at 9 tomorrow.”

Yuna returned to her usual polite android self, gave a slight bow, and disappeared into the darkness.

Silence returned to the square.

“Let’s go. It’s curfew time at the dormitory.”

Noah turned her back and walked away.

Han-gyeol followed behind her and looked up at the night sky.

Because of the city’s artificial lights, the stars weren’t very visible, but instead silver shining satellites were orbiting in orderly fashion.

On the way back to the dormitory.

Han-gyeol stopped as he passed through the underground passage of the administration building.

He saw an old route map pasted to the wall.

A subway map.

A record of passageways now filled with earth and ridden by no one anymore.

“Noah. Does any section of that still work?”

“No. It’s been more than 500 years since the power was cut. Now it’s just a ruin where even rats no longer live.”

Han-gyeol placed his hand on the route map.

Dust stained his palm.

It was the line he used to ride to work every morning on the hell train.

A place that exists in the records, but no one remembers now.

“Later, I want to go there once.”

“That’s inefficient. There’s nothing to see, and it’s only dangerous.”

“Humans like inefficient things by nature. You know that too.”

Noah stared at Han-gyeol, then sighed.

Of course, it wasn’t the sound of air moving through her lungs, but the sound perfectly imitated the frequency of a sigh.

“I have to give you credit for your stubbornness, boss. I’ll review the approval.”