[ WP ] Mankind has succesfully deleted every trace of the year 2016 . You , a historian in the year 2416 begin to wonder why there are no records of the year 2016 ever happening . When you begin to investigate , what you uncover , sends chills down your spine .

`` Fatah?'' chirps Claybill. He rises slowly from his learning creche, pale, blond brow curled in reproach. `` There's a year missing.'' 
 
 I smile, sliding off my black and chrome symbiote-handler's gauntlets. `` Whatever do you mean, child?'' 
 
 Claybill pulls the dashwires out of his chest and slips out of the creche. `` Year 34, Pre Zero Event. 2016, under the old demarcation. There is no catalogue of any event during that orbital year.'' 
 
 He is a curious, strong-willed boy, so I know he will not be easily placated. `` And what is 34 PZE to you, my son?'' 
 
 `` There was an Olympics that year,'' says Claybill, gliding across the static plating of the Hub Room. `` The precursor to the Oh-126 games. I was working to tally national victories over the centuries.'' 
 
 `` For what purpose?'' I muse. 
 
 `` To know,'' says Claybill flatly. That is always the answer. I know it is the answer, but I revel in hearing him say it. 
 
 `` Hold,'' I say, pulling up a fresh relay and dipping my port-finger. I loop through centuries of black, crusted data, dank with decay and lacking adequate architecture. I loop around and around, swooping through aged piles of unsorted waste and find nothing. There is 33 PZE, there is 35 PZE... 
 
 `` You are correct,'' I say, wiggling loose my port-finger and clapping down the relay node. `` How strange.'' 
 
 `` What does it mean?'' asks Claybill. I long ago promised the boy that *I do not know* would never be seen as an adequate response, so I have set my own trap. 
 
 `` We will find out,'' I say, reaching for my wave-coat. 
 
 The boy dresses and follows me out the door. We take the light tube to Washington, where the Historical Collective huddles in dark, stale buildings, worshiping the wrinkled pages of smudged, senseless ledgers. I sign in at the door and we take jump-plates down to the fifth sublevel. In stall -525 we find a man named Carbunkle pinned to a linejunkie's saddle, head and arms submerged in a tactile data display, dangling legs prodded with electric needles to keep the muscles active and engaged. 
 
 `` PZE 34,'' I say, pressing my thumb to the payment metric. `` The former 2016. What happened to all records associated with this year?'' 
 
 Carbunkle swivels in his saddle, the white flesh of his arms swinging downward, hanging like wobbly stalactites. I can just see the backside of his data display, all white and blue and blurry. 
 
 `` No records,'' croaks Carbunkle. 
 
 `` We *know*,'' says Claybill, scowling at the dangling man. `` *Why*?'' 
 
 The saddle whips around, rotating, corkscrewing throughout the little stall. Suddenly the whole contraption sighs, settling back to the floor. Carbunkle pulls his head free from the tactile display. 
 
 `` Nothing,'' he says, almost sadly, if these history wonks are capable of such feelings. `` I do n't see it.'' 
 
 `` Before and after,'' presses Claybill, unwilling to accept *nothing* as a payment for his curiosity. `` 33 and 35. What changes?'' 
 
 `` Much,'' says Carbunkle, sliding his head back into the display. `` Oh. Oooh. *Oh. *'' The saddle rocks gently, like an infant's cradle. 
 
 `` What?'' says Claybill, impatient. A conversation we will need to have. Not everyone is of the same speed. 
 
 `` That is the line,'' says Carbunkle. `` The before and after.'' 
 
 `` Yes?'' urges Claybill. 
 
 `` Full organic,'' says Carbunkle. `` 35 PZE. All flesh. No metal. Before we were wired. By 33 we had begun... but still, that does not answer the question, does it?'' 
 
 Claybill strokes his forehead. There is still a faint indentation from where his head was recently resting against the lip of his learning creche. `` In the old year 2015 we were full organic. By 2017 we were not. And somewhere, at some time, we struck all records of 2016.'' 
 
 `` The year we changed?'' I suggest. 
 
 `` The reason *why* we changed,'' counters Claybill. I smile. I never expected to be bettered so quickly. It is difficult sometimes to hide my pride. 
 
 `` It was a great leap,'' says Carbunkle, as if to prove his own value. `` The world of 35 PZE is strikingly quaint compared to 33 PZE.'' 
 
 Claybill nods, the answer formulating cleanly in his mind. `` The year we realized we could no longer trust ourselves.'' 
 
 `` We looked to computers to save ourselves,'' I add, like Carbunkle, trying to show some merit of my own. 
 
 `` And removed all traces to hide our shame,'' says Claybill, smiling himself. `` What horrors must we have unleashed? To take such drastic measures?'' 
 
 `` I do not suppose it matters,'' I say, leading the boy back towards the jump-plates. `` We survived. If it took forgetting to do so, so be it.'' 
 
 `` What other events have we *forgotten*?'' wonders Claybill as the plates lift soundlessly towards the ground floor. `` And how long have we buried our shame in this manner?'' 
 
 I shake my head. `` I do not know,'' I sigh. `` And that, one supposes, is entirely the point.''
