The Third Version¶
The badge beeps when I swipe it, like it’s disapproving of the task. The resident manager’s manual says all access requests must be logged via authorized credentials, but the manual also says employees are encouraged to foster goodwill, which is why I’m here at 7 p.m. on a Tuesday, holding a plunger and lying to Mrs. Kwok about the plumbing.
“It’s the pipes,” I say, though we both know the clog is her son’s experimental tofu sculpture. The badge hangs from my neck, screen dim. It hasn’t glitched once since they replaced the old ones last month.
Mrs. Kwok crosses her arms. “Last week, it was ‘the pipes.’ The week before, ‘the pipes.’” She pronounces it py-pes, like a word she’s biting. “My daughter in Berkeley says buildings like this have hidden cameras. You people watch us?”
I don’t tell her the badge stores more than access codes. Doesn’t matter. The system will transpose our conversation later.
Three weeks earlier, the badge had flickered when I swiped into Unit 5B. The screen showed Event 1142: Unauthorized Gathering (5+ persons), but the room was empty except for a cat and a half-deflated birthday balloon. I mentioned it to Linda in Maintenance.
“New software,” she said, not looking up from her clipboard. “It’s… interpretive.”
The next day, the resident council posted a memo: All disputes regarding access logs will be resolved via the badge’s official record. Employees are reminded that accuracy is a core value.
Back with Mrs. Kwok, her toilet flushes fine now, but she’s still mad. “You write this down?” she asks. “In your little badge?”
“Of course,” I say. The badge’s screen stays blank. It only records what the system wants.
Later, in the lobby, Linda waits by the vending machine. “Heard you had trouble,” she says. “With the Kwok woman.”
“She’s not wrong,” I say. “The badge didn’t log the clog. Just said ‘plumbing maintenance completed.’”
Linda smirks. “You think it’s supposed to tell the truth?” She taps her own badge. “Mine played back a fire drill last Thursday. There was no fire. Council’s using them to ghostwrite history.”
I laugh, but she doesn’t.
Last Thursday, according to the badge: Event 892: Emergency Evacuation Drill (All Clear at 14:32).
What actually happened: The council president’s kid vomited in the elevator. They scrubbed it from the records, but the smell lingered for days—fries and regret.
The next morning, the badge buzzes as I enter the office. The screen flashes: Review Required: Incident 1142 (5B).
I sit at my desk, pull up the log. The video is grainy, but it shows me walking into 5B, then… a crowd cheering. A banner reading HAPPY 70TH, MRS. KWOK! The date is today.
I haven’t been to 5B today.
I call Linda. “Did you see this?”
She doesn’t answer.
At noon, the council holds an impromptu meeting in the lobby. They project my badge’s footage on a screen: me “attending” a party that never happened, accepting a cake shaped like a toilet. The crowd roars.
Mrs. Kwok’s there, clapping.
The president steps forward. “See?” he says. “Transparency.”
They’re promoting the badges as “community tools” now. I’m the joke, the cautionary tale. The badge’s lie is brighter, tidier.
I want to explain, but the system only plays the version where I’m the punchline.
As the crowd disperses, Linda slips me a note: They’re not just editing the past. They’re drafting the future. Don’t fight it. Just pick your moments.
I crumple the paper. The badge rests heavy on my chest.
At home, I dream in playback loops: the toilet flushing, the cat leaping, the banner waving. When I wake, the badge is beeping.
Event 1201: Employee Conduct Review (Attendee: You).
I smile.
This one, I’ll perform perfectly.