Fantastic Metropolis

“In retrospect,” Epimetheus began, thoughtfully steepling his fingers, his face bleached by the monitor’s antiseptic glow, before he was interrupted.

“Would you be so kind as to just shut up, O Brother?”

Epimetheus resumed his vigorous clacking on the keyboard. It sounded like a Fred Astaire tap number, providing Fred Astaire were cooked up on crystal meth at the time. Prometheus meanwhile hunted and pecked for his keys like, well, like an eagle after a Titan’s liver, of course.

“Prometheus, don’t be cross.”

Prometheus squeezed his temples and rubbed at his eyes. Eventually, he knew, he wouldn’t be able to stand it anymore, and he’d gouge them from their sockets or he’d smush them back against his skull, and the vitreous humor would ooze down his fingers. Out, vile jelly! However it would finally happen, it would finally happen. It would be the same as always. It would be very Greek.

“I’m sorry. In retrospect what, O Brother?”

Epimetheus spun in his multi-adjustable, ergonomic swivel chair so he could directly face his cubicle-mate.

“I was just going to say that, you know, in retrospect maybe it was somewhat foolish to put all our eggs in the client-server basket. When it comes to keeping the world running, all that brute batch processing and all, there’s really no substitute for the Big Iron. You really do need the mainframes. It probably would’ve been a good idea all along to go ahead and remediate them. You know, just in case we didn’t get capable client-server technologies in place in time.” He hesitated. “Like we didn’t.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

A winged sandal icon briefly flashed on each of their screens, and millisecond-staggered beeps emanated from their terminals sounding like the bleating of a sheep. Prometheus blanched.

“I wonder who that could be,” mused Epimetheus.

“Brother, it’s nearing midnight Olympus Standard Time, New Year’s Eve—the eve of the millennium—and the mainframes that run our reality have yet to be certified compliant. Whom do you suppose it might be?”

Epimetheus opened up the email and read aloud:

Forever shall the intolerable present grind you down.—Z

Prometheus slammed his fist down suddenly on his keyboard. “Would it be too much? Is it too much to ask for those imbeciles up top to exercise a little vision and get some fucking utilities around here? Some change management tools, or FILEAID at least!”

Epimetheus nodded sympathetically as he typed. Prometheus tithed an ironic smile in response and knuckled his tear ducts. Throughout his brother’s many millennia of inching ever so slowly but inevitably towards the nook of corporate middle management, the sympathetic nod had served him best. That and the ability to recognize vision after the fact.

“So, are we going to make it? Will we meet the deadline? We have to meet the deadline, Prometheus. You remember the ire of the Olympians, don’t you?”

Prometheus shackled Epimetheus with his gaze.

“No, O Brother, we are not going to meet the deadline. And yes: I, perhaps better than all others, remember the ire of the Olympians.”

“But… the readiness disclosure to the mortals. The pantheon certified that we don’t have any non-compliant code running in the production environment. We’re not going to run it out of test, are we? I don’t think that’ll go over very well.”

Prometheus pushed at his eyes with the palms of his hands.

“Epimetheus, O Brother, you nimrod… There’s only one environment! These machines make reality. They run everything. The only option is—and this is the only option there has been all along—to fully remediate. So no, there’s no chance, not in all Hades’ dark kingdom, that we’ll be ready by midnight. Once the system clock rolls over, any and all of existence is suspect.”

Epimetheus stopped typing. “So, what are we going to do?”

“Do? We’re going to shut down.”

“Shut down. As in the end of the show, close the curtain, last one out unplug the coffee maker and turn off the lights. That kind of shut down?”

Prometheus nodded. His brother looked suddenly dazed.

“So the mortal soothsayers were right. This is it. It really is the end of the world.”

Silence scolded them while Epimetheus considered his own alarming revelation. Then his brow furrowed. “But Prometheus, those systems run me, too. And the gods. And, well, everything.”