Three days into my new job. I arrived at the construction site gate at 4 AM. I stood in front of a biometric terminal, pulled out an old‑school smartphone and scanned a QR code. The other workers walked right past me; apparently their embedded chips authenticated them automatically. The terminal glowed green and the gate opened. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and went inside.
The massive skeleton of an under‑construction data center emerged from the mist. White concrete and silver scaffolding stood out against the dark red glow of aviation obstruction lights. Three naked workers passed by. Their skin was exposed to the cold morning air, yet none of them looked cold at all.
When I reached the ground‑level platform, one of my coworkers called my name.
“Today we’re doing upper‑level wiring work. They say there’s a rack expansion.” He was naked, wearing only a tool belt around his waist. Black sterilized rubber covered his genitals and fingertips. I averted my gaze and nodded. I checked my smartphone for the task instructions. It said:
CR7 Zone C - server rack expansion support
Warning: Brain‑interface not connected. Some navigation features are limited.Heavy machinery roared nearby, and regular thuds of pile drivers echoed through the air. I loosened the collar of my gray work shirt a little as the temperature rose. The fabric clung to my skin, already damp with salty sweat. Another worker walked by, muttering “Yesterday’s PUE was over the limit again. Is the cooling system okay?” Her body‑temperature regulation module indicator lit up a little. On her naked body there wasn’t even a trace of sweat.
At the edge of the platform, two stairs were leading upward. I began to climb.
The metal steps echoed with each footfall. A group of workers passing at a landing glanced briefly at my sagging gray work shirt.
They said nothing and headed back down. The handrail was cold, but I kept my hand on it as I ascended. When I reached the second level, the view opened up: entire destroyed village lay below—roofless houses, destroyed roads. Beyond that, the cooling towers of a nuclear plant were visible. I lifted my face and continued climb higher; the cotton lining inside my shirt soaked up sweat, adding more and more weight.
At the third‑level rest area, I finally stopped. A vending machine was there, two naked workers bought drinks. The machine’s metallic TTS said: “Biometric authentication complete. Thank you for your hard work.”
I pulled out my smartphone and scanned a QR code; a cold bottle of water appeared in front of me. One worker said something, but I didn’t understand. I cannot use millimeter‑wave communication because I don’t have a brain‑interface implanted. The other looked at me with a curious expression, but I knew that fully‑augmented workers had their jaw nerves removed, so I decided to not speak to them.
I took a sip and slipped the bottle into my waist pocket. On the wall of the rest area, a poster was there:
A transparent workplace is a safe workplace.
Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare.
By the time I got to the highest floor I was already out of breath. Sweat dripped from my fringe into my eyes. I leaned against the guardrail on the side, trying not to be in anyone’s way, and rested for a moment.
At the end of a three‑turn corridor stood a white door, marked with an IPS panel that read “CR7 Zone C.” My smartphone vibrated; a notification arrived. “access granted”.
I stepped inside.
Pale white floors and walls stretched endlessly. Countless sensors mounted on the ceiling. Server racks lined up neatly, blue and green LEDs blinking. A faint hum filled the air. I carried a box of wiring supplies to the designated rack. The floor was cold; the chill traveled through my shoes. I stood in front of the rack and set the box down.
The rack was stone‑cold with a faint vibration. I clicked the release button on the side of the rack and tried to pull the server out.
The moment I touched the server, the ceiling sensors flashed red; A flat, intimidating voice filled the room.
“Non‑standard personal equipment detected. Under Article 58‑2 of the Industrial Safety and Health Act, you must immediately replace it with approved gear.”
Three workers around me looked at me. No emotions were written on their faces. The door clicked shut. Another voice continued: “Please undress immediately. Your clothing will be returned later.”
I stood still. My hands were shaking, and it wasn’t the cold. An IR camera was looking down on me.
I grasped the button of my work shirt. My fingers felt clumsy. One by one, I unbuttoned from the top down. The other workers had already resumed their tasks; the clatter of wiring tools, the tapping of keyboards. No one looked at me. With a sob rising in my throat, I pulled off my jacket, then my shirt, then my bra, then my pants. My clothes formed a small pile on the white floor; cold air brushed against my skin.
While keeping my hands over my body, a patrolling robot rolled past, grabbed all my clothes and threw them into an anti‑contamination container.
The voice returned. “No hazardous material detected. You may continue working.”
I pulled a pair of sterilized rubber gloves from the box of wiring supplies and bowed my head before the rack, connecting power cables from the PDU.
A coworker nearby said, “I already used half of the token limit this month”
“Guess I won’t make it to the next week.”
I didn’t reply.