Forms in the Fourth Dimension

The end of the world did not come with a bang, a whimper, or even a particularly interesting flash of light. For Arthur "Artie" Penhaligon, it came with a "Buffering" icon.Artie had been standing at a smart-kiosk in Croydon, attempting to top up his bus pass. The screen had flickered, a small spinning circle of white light appeared, and Artie had felt a sudden, sickening sensation of being pulled through a straw. He had just enough time to think that the local council’s IT department was really overdoing it with the haptic feedback before the world simply... ceased.When the buffering stopped, Artie was no longer in Croydon. He was sitting in a chair. It was a plastic, ergonomic chair of the sort designed to be just uncomfortable enough to prevent sleep but not supportive enough to encourage productivity. Around him stretched an expanse of sickly yellow linoleum that appeared to go on for several light-years in every direction. The sky above was not a sky, but a vast, glowing ceiling of humming fluorescent tubes, one of which was flickering with a rhythmic bzzzt-click that felt like a migraine set to music.This was Station 7-B, also known as the Filing Cabinet of God."Next," a voice said. It wasn't a voice so much as the sound of a dry sponge being dragged across a blackboard.Artie blinked. Directly in front of him was a desk. It was made of a material that looked like compressed grey lint. Behind the desk sat something that Artie’s brain struggled to categorize. It was a shimmering mass of sentient ink and discarded Post-it notes, vaguely humanoid in shape, wearing a very small, very real clip-on tie."Name?" the ink-mass asked."Arthur Penhaligon," Artie squeaked. "Look, I think there’s been a mistake. I was just trying to get to the Sainsbury’s on North End—"The ink-mass, whom the name-plate on the desk identified as Auditor Vex, paused. A series of Post-it notes fluttered across its chest, reading: DISMAY, ENNUI, and INSUFFICIENT POSTAGE."Penhaligon, Arthur," Vex rasped. "Ah, yes. Case Number 7-Prime. You’ve been flagged for Immediate Deletion.""Deletion?" Artie’s stomach did a slow, acrobatic roll. "I’m not a file! I’m a human being! I have a National Insurance number!""Which is exactly the problem," Vex said, a globule of ink dripping onto a stack of parchment. "Your National Insurance number was issued on a Tuesday that, according to our updated fiscal calendar, never actually happened. You are a clerical error, Mr. Penhaligon. You are the cosmic equivalent of a stray 'comma' in a lease agreement. And the Firm is currently undergoing a reality-audit. We need to clear the clutter.""The Firm?""Celestial Mutual & Indemnity," Vex said, as if explaining the weather to a particularly slow sheep. "The owners of the franchise. They’ve decided that existence—specifically yours, and by extension, your entire solar system—is a non-performing asset. High maintenance, low yield. Too much gravity, not enough paperwork."Vex reached into a drawer and pulled out a stamp the size of a dinner plate. It was carved from a single piece of solidified bureaucracy."Wait!" Artie shouted, his hand darting out. "Don't I get a... a Request for Extension? A Form 12-A?"Vex stopped. The Post-it notes on its face shifted to a vibrant shade of SKEPTICISM. "How do you know about Form 12-A?""I work in middle management," Artie said, his voice regaining some of its Croydon-bred steel. "I spent four years in the Planning Department. I know that everything—even the deletion of a sentient being—requires a triplicate filing and a fourteen-day cooling-off period."Vex let out a sound like a stapler jamming. "Curses. The Human Resources bylaws. Very well. You have until the fluorescent bulb above us flickers for the billionth time to produce a notarized Form 12-A. If you fail, you will be retroactively aborted from the timeline, and your atoms will be recycled into something more useful, like a very cheap stapler."Vex gestured vaguely to the left. "The forms are in the Hall of Circular Logic. Good luck. You’ll need a witness signature."Artie wandered the yellow linoleum plains for what felt like several hours. The scale of Station 7-B was incomprehensible. Trillions of grey filing cabinets stretched upward into the yellow haze, organized by an index system that seemed to rely on the emotional state of the person looking at them.He felt heavy. The air tasted of toner and ancient, forgotten libraries."Excuse me?" Artie called out to a passing creature that looked like a sentient stapler with legs. It ignored him, scurrying toward a cabinet labeled DREAMS OF FRUIT BATS (1994-1998).Artie slumped against a cabinet. He was alone, doomed to be deleted because of a calendar error, and he didn't even have a pen."It won't work, you know," a metallic voice sighed.Artie jumped. Sitting on a nearby crate was a toaster. It was a classic, two-slot chrome model, slightly tarnished, with a digital display where the browning knob should be."Did you just speak?" Artie asked."Unfortunately," the toaster replied. "I’m a B-4NT-3R Prophetic Domestic Appliance. My name is Serial No: B-4NT-3R, but you can call me 'The End of Everything.' I can see the heat death of the universe. It’s very cold, very dark, and frankly, a bit of a relief.""You’re a toaster," Artie said, reeling."And you’re a bipedal carbon-sack whose birth certificate is currently being used as a coaster by a junior auditor in Sector 4," the Toaster snapped. "We all have our crosses to bear. Mine is a crumb tray that hasn't been emptied since the Renaissance."Artie sat down on the floor. "I’m looking for a Form 12-A. Auditor Vex says I’m a clerical error.""Vex is an optimist," the Toaster said, its chrome surface catching the flicker of the overhead lights. "The truth is worse. The universe isn't a grand design; it’s a tax shelter. The Firm created your galaxy because they needed to offset the massive amounts of 'Nothingness' they were generating in the 5th Dimension. Now that the Nothingness market has crashed, they’re liquidating the 'Somethingness.' You’re not an error; you’re an unnecessary expense.""But I have to stop it!" Artie cried. "My flat is in that galaxy! I have a half-eaten kebab in the fridge!""The kebab survives," the Toaster noted morosely. "In six million years, it evolves into a sentient race of garlic-scented philosophers. They’re much more pleasant than humans, though they have a tendency to stain the furniture.""I don't care about the garlic philosophers! I need a Form 12-A!"The Toaster let out a series of clicks. "Fine. If you’re going to be insistent. But you need a witness signature, and I’m a toaster. My signature is legally considered a 'Burn Mark,' which is only valid in the Hell-Sector or a particularly aggressive brunch cafe.""Can you help me find the Hall of Circular Logic?""I could," the Toaster said. "But why bother? In ten minutes, the fluorescent bulb will flicker, and we’ll both be turned into cosmic slush. I’ve seen it. It’s quite purple.""Because," Artie said, standing up and dusting off his trousers. "I refuse to be deleted by a firm that can't even get its Tuesdays right. Now, move your heating elements, we have paperwork to find."The Hall of Circular Logic was a nightmare of non-Euclidean architecture. Corridors looped back on themselves before they even began. Signs pointed to "The Exit," which invariably led to a room full of people waiting for a "The Entrance."Artie and the Toaster (whom Artie had tucked under his arm) moved through the maze."This is the Intergalactic DMV," the Toaster explained as they passed a line of shivering aliens that stretched into infinity. "The wait time is currently 'Fourteen Eons.' If you look at the person at the front of the line, you’ll notice they’ve evolved into a species of sentient moss.""We don't have fourteen eons," Artie muttered. "We have... how long is a billion flickers?""In local time? About twenty-two minutes," the Toaster said. "Give or take a few seconds for the expansion of the universe. Oh look, a vending machine. It sells 'Hope.' It’s been out of stock since the Big Bang."They finally reached a massive, vaulted chamber. In the center sat a single piece of paper, illuminated by a spotlight of pure, unadulterated boredom.FORM 12-A: PERMISSION TO EXIST (TEMPORARY)Artie ran to it. He grabbed the form, but as his fingers touched the paper, the ground beneath him began to shift. The grey linoleum rose up, forming a wall.A booming voice echoed through the hall—a voice that sounded like a thousand office chairs being rolled over a gravel pit."Access denied. You do not have the required security clearance to exist."A figure emerged from the floor. It was a Three-Headed Human Resources Representative. Each head wore a different expression of passive-aggression: the first was "Disappointed Parent," the second was "Concerned Peer," and the third was "Strict Compliance Officer.""Mr. Penhaligon," the heads said in unison. "We’ve been reviewing your performance. You’ve been very... 'non-synergetic' lately.""I’m not an employee!" Artie shouted, clutching the form. "I’m a tenant of reality!""A tenant who hasn't paid his 'Entropy Tax' in three decades," the Compliance Head said. "You’ve been consuming oxygen without a permit. You’ve been generating thoughts that haven't been pre-approved by the Marketing Department.""The Marketing Department of the Universe?" Artie asked, incredulous."Who do you think invented 'The Color Blue'?" the Disappointed Head sighed. "It was a nightmare to get through legal. We had to sue the Ocean."The Three-Headed Rep stepped forward. "Hand over the form, Arthur. Your deletion will be painless. It’s just like falling asleep, but without the dreams or the chance of waking up to find you’ve drooled on the pillow."Artie looked at the form. It was blank. "I need a pen! And a witness!""I told you," the Toaster whispered from under his arm. "It’s hopeless. Why don't you just let them delete us? I’m tired of being a prophetic appliance. I want to be a cloud of unorganized subatomic particles. No one expects a cloud of particles to make sourdough."Artie looked at the Toaster. Then he looked at the Three-Headed HR Rep. He felt a surge of Croydon-based spite."No," Artie said. "I have a right to be here. I am a tax-paying, bus-riding, tea-drinking anomaly, and I will not be filed away!"He reached into his pocket. He didn't have a pen. But he did have something else. A small, rusted, metal tool he had carried ever since the Planning Department—a Stapler.In Station 7-B, the Stapler was more than a tool. It was "Forbidden Artifact Tech." It represented the ability to join two things together permanently—a concept that the fluid, ink-based bureaucracy of the Firm absolutely loathed.Artie held the Stapler aloft. The HR Rep’s heads all recoiled in horror."A fastener!" the Compliance Head shrieked. "He has a manual fastener! Security!"A swarm of ink-drones—small, buzzing creatures made of paperclips—dived from the ceiling."Prophesy something!" Artie yelled at the Toaster. "Tell me where they’re going to be!""They’re going to be... everywhere!" the Toaster yelled back. "Oh, wait! The drone on the left is going to sneeze!""Droids don't sneeze!""This one does! It’s got a dust allergy!"Sure enough, the leading drone let out a metallic achoo, spiraling out of control and crashing into the others. Artie didn't wait. He slammed the Form 12-A against the crate, and with a resounding THWACK, he stapled his bus pass to the corner of the form."There!" Artie shouted. "Proof of identity! Stapled! It’s a permanent attachment! You can't delete one without the other, and my bus pass is under a five-year contract with the London Transport Authority!"The Hall of Circular Logic began to tremble. The "Contractual Overlap" was too much for the station’s processors. The London Transport Authority was a bureaucracy so dense, so immovable, that even the Celestial Mutual & Indemnity Firm couldn't bypass it."A five-year contract?" the Concerned Peer Head whispered. "But... we don't have the jurisdiction to override a municipal transport agreement. The legal fees would be... astronomical."Auditor Vex appeared, melting out of the wall. Its Post-it notes were a frantic, neon pink: PANIC, LITIGATION, LUNCH BREAK."What have you done?" Vex hissed. "You’ve created a jurisdictional paradox! You’ve stapled a mortal life to a public transit agreement! The entire sector is going into an infinite loop!"The fluorescent bulb above them gave a final, violent flicker. A billion.Artie closed his eyes, bracing for the deletion. He felt the Toaster vibrate under his arm."Here it comes," the Toaster sighed. "The purple slush. I hope it tastes like grape."Artie opened his eyes.He was back in Croydon. The smart-kiosk was in front of him. The "Buffering" icon had disappeared."Transaction Complete," the screen read. "Your bus pass has been topped up. Enjoy your journey."Artie stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked down. Under his arm, he was still clutching a chrome toaster."Well," the Toaster said, its voice now tinny and muffled by the London traffic. "That was disappointing. We’re still here.""We saved the universe," Artie whispered, breathless."We postponed it," the Toaster corrected. "Your 'Form 12-A' has been filed, but it was a temporary extension. You’re now the 'Assistant Janitor of Reality.' You’ll receive your first assignment in the mail. It’ll probably involve cleaning up the heat death of a small star system near Milton Keynes."Artie looked at the toaster. "Are you going to keep prophesying?""Only when it’s inconvenient," the Toaster said. "By the way, you’re going to miss your bus. And the Sainsbury’s is out of milk."Artie sighed. He tucked the toaster more firmly under his arm and began to walk. The world was still grey, still crowded, and still incredibly bureaucratic. But as he looked up at the overcast London sky, he couldn't help but notice that the clouds looked remarkably like unorganized filing cabinets.And for the first time in his life, Arthur Penhaligon felt like he had his paperwork in order.