The Temp Agency
Selma watched the city already coming to life in the morning, from the narrow couch she called her bed. The light filtered through the single glass window of her apartment. She rose and began her morning routine like an automaton. Her reflection in the polished chrome of the nutrient dispenser was a familiar stranger — a face with features she recognized as her own, yet felt no deep connection to. Today, like many days, it was just a face.
She sipped her morning nutrient paste, calibrated for baseline human function without considering flavor, she considered her internal well-being. Who was Selma? The question echoed through her minimalist home, which held few personal belongings, nothing to anchor her to a particular taste, passion, or history. She was little more than a blank slate. That seemed to be why the Kepler Temp Contracting Services was a recurring line item in her efficient, if uninspired, life.
Kepler. The name itself promised something more, however small. The pay wasn't a fortune, not like specialized long-term gigs some aspired to, but it was enough. More than the credits, it was about the experience of _being other_. Of inhabiting a different form, thinking with a subtly altered mind, feeling the world through a different set of senses. Each assignment was a temporary answer to the persistent, silent question of her identity.
She put on fresh clothes: a simple, unadorned tunic and trousers that were common for everyone who didn't have a specific professional persona.
The sterile lobby of Kepler always smelled faintly of ozone and something vaguely organic, like the sound of earth after rain. This was a marketplace for human capability, a place of high commerce, and Selma found herself returning regularly for the promise of becoming someone else, even if only for the length of a contract.
"Selma, welcome back. Punctual as always," Dr. Finch greeted her, his voice as smooth as the recycled glass of his desktop.
He gestured to the client chair.
"I have a Tier Two agricultural contract. It's short-term, with high physical demand. Green Acres Farm, proprietor is a Mister Doyle. Traditional methods supplemented by renewable energy infrastructure."
Selma settled into the chair and placed her hands on the sensors along the chair's arms. They started to read her baseline vitals.
"Agricultural? That would be new for me."
She'd done numerous jobs before: data sorting with enhanced cognition, couriering with enhanced reflexes, even a silent "atmosphere model" for a corporate gala with enhanced beauty features.
Dr. Finch typed on his keyboard. Schematics and graphs appeared on-screen that Selma only vaguely understood.
"Mr. Doyle requires assistance with pre-harvest preparation and some animal husbandry. Given the nature of the tasks, a specific phenotype is recommended for peak efficiency."
He spun around, looking Selma in the eyes with a serious expression.
"For optimal output in tasks requiring sustained physical exertion, such as traditional harvesting and animal husbandry, we recommend a masculine phenotype. It's simply the most robust configuration."
Selma felt something, but she didn't know what? Curiosity? Trepidation? There was something about being male, not just androgynous as some roles required.
"Masculine," she repeated, the word feeling foreign.
"The contract is for seventy-two standard hours, renewable upon mutual agreement. The pay is standard for Tier Two physicals. Kepler covers all adaptation and reversion costs, as usual. It's a straightforward assignment. You'll be taking a new name for this role too: "Selim".
Selim? The name sounded solid, grounded, the opposite of Selma. It enticed her. She consented to change her body to meet the needs of the client. A free contract, freely entered.
"Alright, Dr. Finch. I'll take it. Call me Selim from now on."
"Excellent," he typed a note on his keyboard. "Please proceed to Adaptation Chamber Four. The kinetic gene Sculpting will commence shortly. Then you should be transported to Green Acres and arrive by 0800 tomorrow."
She arrived at the chamber, which felt like stepping into a soft marshmallow. Selma lay back on the soft white fabric and a gentle hum filled the air. Tiny, almost invisible mechanisms descended from the ceiling. They had multi-colored lights attached to their tips. She felt a prickle at her temples, the base of her neck, and her wrists. It wasn't painful.
The first sensation was a warmth that spread through her limbs. It was followed by a peculiar liquidity, as if her bones were turning into mush. She closed her eyes, trying not to panic. The hormonal tides changed as estrogen levels plummeted and testosterone surged. Her muscle fibers underwent rapid protein synthesis. Every part of her was affected.
The experience was profoundly strange, a disorienting tide of becoming. Selma felt a fleeting sense of her familiar self dissolving. She wasn't dying, but being carefully, meticulously overlaid with something new. The scent of ozone grew strong, mixed with a faint copper taste lingering on her tongue. She felt her shoulders broaden, a subtle pressure across her chest reconfiguring. Her breath stopped, then grew deeper, as her lungs expanded to a new capacity.
Selim was here.
The automated transport pod came to a stop in front of a gravel driveway. Its doors opened with a futuristic hiss to reveal an environment that was a sharp contrast to the sterile interior of Kepler. In front of Selim was a weathered, two-story farmhouse. Its paint was faded but structurally looked well-kept. A long porch was shaded by old, gnarled trees, their leaves just beginning to blossom with spring greenery.
The air was alive with the scent of manure and a sweet aroma he couldn't identify. Dominating the skyline beyond the house were two colossal wind turbines, their blades turning with a slow, majestic grace. Further out, neat rows of solar arrays shimmered under the morning sun. This was Green Acres Farm.
As Selim stepped out, as his rented boots crunched on the gravel, he felt the differences in his body. The added height was noticeable. The world looked so different even from inches higher. His shoulders, broader now, carried a weight that felt substantial and full of purpose. He took a deep breath, which felt deeper and more profound now.
The farmhouse door creaked open and an old man emerged with a wooden cane in his hand. Mr. Doyle was older than Selim had pictured. He moved with a slow, deliberate shuffle.
"You're Selim, I presume? From Kepler?" Mr. Doyle asked in a raspy voice.
"Yes, sir. I'm Selim. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Doyle," Selim replied, surprised by the deep baritone of his new voice. He extended a hand, then remembered Mr. Doyle’s frailty and let it drop.
"Good. Transport was on time, I trust? Those newfangled things usually are."
He gestured vaguely towards the fields.
"The farm's not as young as it used to be, and neither am I. I gotta list of chores that need doing. Fencing down by the south pasture, some tilling needed in the west plot before new nutrient lines go in for the new crop. They're a drought-resistant strain of quinoa, bioengineered for this climate, but they still need a good start.
Selim listened but also took in the changes to his own perception. The testosterone was having undeniable effects on his mind, appreciating the directness and work to be done. The ground beneath his feet felt solid. When he lifted his duffel bag, the weight was trivial. He was keenly aware of his body's new dimensions and the larger space he occupied.
While Selma might've observed details: the direction of the wind, the bleating of a goat, Selim felt them in a way she hadn't experienced before. It was more than a physical change, all of his senses were different.
His masculine phenotype, designed for manual labor, seemed to filter the world through action and capability. He wondered if this was how all males experienced the world, or if it was a side-effect of his procedure to optimize for his work.
The first two days fell into a rhythm. He woke up early, even before dawn, when the air was crisp and cool. Selim learned to mend fences with tools which felt like extensions of his new strength. He stretched the wire out tightly with his powerful grip. He tilled the soil using an old but sturdy electric cultivator powered by the farm's solar grid. The work was demanding and his muscles burned with an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, ache by day's end.
Mr. Doyle, despite his blindness, directed him like a wise leader based on a lifetime of walking these fields.
"Feel the soil, Selim. It's too compacted here," he would say, not as a critic but as a kindred spirit. "The earth tells you what it needs, if you listen."
Selim, to his surprise, found he could actually listen in this way. He could run his hands through this soil, feeling its texture and moisture. His new form seemed to come with certain genetic aptitudes, or perhaps it was simply the freedom from Selma’s usual uncertainty that allowed him to engage so directly.
He'd always had the choice to engage, the liberty to seek out these experiences through Kepler. His body was his to contract out, to modify for purpose. But to live it, to feel the distinct advantages of this current configuration, was different. It wasn't just Selma in a male suit. For these seventy-two hours, he was Selim. He was the capable farmhand. The easy with which he performed the tasks, the quiet strength of his current body, offered a strange kind of peace.
At the end of the final day, he watched as the sun began its slow descent. It painted the undersides of clouds in apricot and violet. You didn't see that kind of thing in the city. Selim was busy securing the gate to the small pasture where Mr. Doyle kept his two remaining draft horses. They were sturdy animals mostly used for light hauling of organic fertilizers.
Suddenly, a high-pitched whine disrupted the evening calm and grew rapidly louder. Selim looked up and shielded his eyes. A small, unmarked delivery drone seemed to be far off from its commercial flight path. It wobbled erratically in the sky with smoke trailing from one of its rotors. The drone was out of control. Before Selim could even shout a warning, it spiraled downwards and crashed into the side of the old wooden stables with a shower of sparks.
The impact caused the horses to immediately panic. One, a mare named bess, screamed with a raw terror. She burst through the stable door, causing splinters of wood to fly out in all directions. Her eyes went wide and her nostrils fear. She was a creature consumed by a primal fear. She thundered towards the open fields, a runaway mass of terrified muscle.
"Selim! What was that?" Mr. Doyle yelled from his porch with alarm. "Is that Bess?"
"Done crash, sir! Bess is loose, heading for the west plot!" Selim yelled back.
His mind was starting to race. The west plot was newly tilled and bordered by a deep irrigation ditch. If she got tangled there, or hit the electric fence beyond it at full speed...
There wasn't time for deliberation. His reflexes surged to the forefront. Selim broke into a run, moving with a speed Selma could've only dreamed of. This was what he was built for.
Bess was fast, but Selim had been designed with formidable stamina. He cut across the yard, aiming to intercept her before she reached the more dangerous terrain. He called out to her, trying to project calm even as his own adrenaline spiked.
"Easy Bess! Whoa girl! Easy!"
The mare veered slightly as he approached, but she didn't slow. Selim knew a direct confrontation with a panicked thousand-pound animal was foolish, even with his strength. He needed to guide her, to turn her fear into a manageable movement. He started running parallel to her, slowly catching up, using his body to gradually push her away from the open fields and towards the larger, more secure round pen near the barn.
His lungs burned. His muscles strained. But he kept pushing this body to its limits. Finally, with one last burst of speed, he managed to get ahead of her. He waved his arms and made himself appear larger, causing her to turn back.
She skittered and snorted, but her momentum was finally broken. Gradually, he maneuvered the still-trembling mare into the round pen and secured the gate.
He leaned against the fence, feeling his chest move in and out. His felt an ache in his legs. Sweat stung his eyes. Mr. Doyle was now making his way towards him, slowly, with his cane tapping the ground anxiously.
"Selim, is she alright? Is Bess safe?" the old man called out.
"She's safe, sir," Selim gasped out, his lungs demanding air. "Shaken, but unharmed. The drone, well it's a wreck by the stables."
The relief on his face was clear.
"Good lad. Good lad. That was quick thinking. And quick moving. I heard you. You handled her very well. Much better than I could have these days," he said with a genuine warmth, a respect that transcended their contractual arrangement.
The local drone authority would have to be called about the crash, but the immediate crisis was over. As dusk fully settled, Selim felt the deep, satisfying ache of exertion. The seventy-two hours of his contract were nearly up.
After ensuring Bess was truly settled and helping Mr. Doyle assess the minor damage to the stable, Selim used his comm-link to contact Kepler.
"Selim, your assignment at Green Acres is concluding," Dr. Finch said, as crisp and professional as usual. "Mr. Doyle was already submitted a satisfactory performance review. We can schedule your reversion process for 0700 tomorrow. Or, if you prefer, you can initiate now at the nearest Kepler Express Hub."
Selim looked out at the darkening fields of the farm. The stars were beginning to twinkle in the night sky, brilliant in the absence of city glow. He felt the cool evening air on his hairy arms. He felt the thrumming of his powerful heartbeat. He took in the lingering odor of horse and hay. He thought of Selma, waiting in the wings to come back.
But for tonight...
"Tomorrow, Dr. Finch," Selim affirmed. "Schedule it for 0700. I'll stay the night here."
"As you wish," Dr. Finch replied without further interest. "Kepler thanks you for your service."
Selim walked into the fields alone. This was his time, at least for a few more hours. The power he showed that day was an experience Selma could analyze but never truly understand. The brief sojourn as Selim hadn't solved the riddle of Selma’s identity. Rather, it added another fascinating, complex layer.
But as he stood under the vast, silent sky, a sense of quiet agency settled over him. The freedom to choose who he could be, even for a little while, felt like the most profound freedom of all. Tomorrow, Selma would return, still searching and still conflicted. Tonight, as he looked up at the stars, and for now that was enough.