The Keep

Contributed by Bridgeen Gillespie on 12/02/09

The lookout was situated on the most northerly promontory. A small rounded building, unobtrusive, almost like it was gently carved out of the rock face itself, only the smooth lines of the structure betrayed its manmade nature. To some it looked like an old fashioned gaol, to others a monastery, others again mistook it for a kind of lighthouse. Perhaps in some way it was all of these? But Unit Six-one-nine would not have thought so; he was not programmed to think such things. Only to report, if they returned.

Every day he polished the flare capsules, lined up against the wall in their launching mechanisms like muskets lined up at their embrasures. Every day he’d walk the endless steps to the tunnel entrances, clearing them of debris, disturbing the nesting birds, maintaining the unused exits, keeping them functional and unobscured. Every other day he’d walk the tunnel routes, but the endurance bulbs had long since blown and he didn’t like the dark. It was too quiet here now. Once there had been an animal, small and white that used to accompany him. It had lived with him for a spell while Unit Six-one-nine could feed it. This is until the food ran out. But that had been a long time ago. And it seemed no mammals remained. He no longer found droppings or saw footprints.

How long had it been? His memory receptors were fading now. One day so very similar to the next, save for the weather, that one might easily blur them all together. Thank goodness for his auto-chip that rebooted him every morning. At least he could still perform his duties regardless of what day it was.

In the evenings he would sit in the watchtower, with his visual receptors to the sky scanner. But no lights ever came, and the voices had long since stopped on the audio- wave device. He knew though. He knew they’d call him if they needed him.

On the very light nights he’d let his mind wander, he’d never mean to, but he saw pictures in his head. There were no materials here, no electro paper- rationing hadn’t allowed for that, and it was not considered necessary for a lookout unit. So he’d re-imagine over and again his favourite images, the small white animal often featured, as did intricately linked lines of colour curling and weaving into puzzles. Perhaps his main core processor had been an art droid’s in a previous life? He’d often thought so. Six-one-nine couldn’t account for the words though. They echoed around in his neural array, lulling him to shutdown.

“So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.”