Weary Traveler

Rotech Headquarters stretched across the sinister horizon. A gray-black, tech-cathedral like an army of giant obelisks constructed on an alien world trapped in eternal darkness. Enormous skyscrapers forged from wrought iron and stainless steel sprouted from the ground, punctured the transparent dome that enveloped the entire inner sector of the district. A forcefield protecting the holy corpos from the toxic fumes and infected breath of Rosenfell. The holographic film was undetectable except for the faint glimmer that oscillated across the sky.

An incessant hum buzzed through the dome from the recycled oxygen flowing through purifiers hidden along the ground. It gave the air a sterile, metallic taste that swelled Mitch’s tongue and tightened his throat.

He approached the reinforced door at the base of the main office megastructure. It looked like a vault that protected corpo wealth at one of Rotech’s credit banks. He waved his holo-card in front of a clear panel levitating to the right of the door. A straight-faced, augmented image of himself appeared above the glass, flickered green, and recited his name for safe passage into headquarters.

The heavy door hissed as bolts slid from their sockets, nudged open. He stepped through and emerged into an enormous lobby illuminated in a dark blue hue that bounced off of smooth, concrete floors. Hundreds of corpos in their identical suits and dresses with their identical, emotionless faces hurried towards the elevators. An army of well-paid, indentured servants striving to reach the peak of the endless corpo ladder.

Mitch followed the rest of the clones, scurried onto a packed elevator, silent except for their faint breaths. He closed his eyes and cycled through his morning routine while the elevator climbed and spewed corpos onto their respective floors. He inhaled a long, deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled back out of his mouth; cracked his neck; interlocked his fingers and popped his knuckles; adjusted his sunny, yellow tie; and smoothed out the creases in his fitted, charcoal gray suit.

“Fifty-fifth floor,” a voice announced, pulling Mitch back into conscious awareness. He opened his eyes, half of the corpos had already disembarked while he had withdrawn into his meditative state.

The elevator doors slid open and out he marched onto the fifty-fifth floor. A vast, single room illuminated by bright, artificial, white light that reflected off of white, tile floors. His polished dress shoes clicked and clacked with each step, joining the chorus of others walking with him and towards him, fighting the currents and the ebb and flow of the office, combining with the chattering voices of the hundreds of corpos seated in their cubicles.

The corners of Mitch’s mouth were fixed into a fake smile, lips moved as his voice exchanged the same, mundane, morning pleasantries with people he spent the entire day with, but knew nothing more about than their favorite booze and piece of tech. Vapid creatures that sucked a piece of his soul everyday and exchanged it for a pocketful of credit transferred to his wallet.

His index finger traced a circle around the disk’s indent protruding from his right pant pocket. A daily reminder of Eleanor’s kindness existing in the world, away from the artificial humanoids and phony, tech-salesmen that occupied his new, waking reality.

Mitch reached his cubicle, a slate gray box, identical to the hundreds of others crammed onto the expansive floor. The only signifier that the desk was his was the holographic name placard floating above the front edge.

He plopped onto the cushioned chair and gazed out of the augmented windows. They displayed an artificial cityscape of downtown Rosenfell adorned with a pale blue sky like the one he experienced during his first Helo flight a few months before. An optical illusion to block the true, bleak reality from entering the minds of corpos elevated in tall skyscrapers swallowed by dense clouds. A pleasant delusion to trick and confuse their minds. A means to ignore the truth of their imprisonment and enslavement as pawns wielded at the hands of one of the last corporate behemoths upon the earth.

Mitch turned his attention back to his desk and grabbed the fiberoptic cable sprouting straight from the stainless steel like some kind of synthetic, technological, tree branch. He plugged the cable into the tech in his head, leaned back, and watched as the office and corpos melted away into nothingness.

A shot of adrenaline injected into his brain, followed by a rapid download of Rotech’s updated software and programs to conduct his daily procedures auditing the company’s finances. Mindlessly sifting through folders and scrolling through endless sheets of numbers. Filing reports and categorizing the company’s assets for review by higher-ups on the corpo hierarchy. The modern equivalent of pushing a boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down. Up and down… again and again… for eternity…

A shrill ringtone rang through Mitch’s head, bounced around his skull. His eyes zipped towards the top right corner of his vision and clicked the square image of his supervisor’s face that had appeared, vibrating with each ding.

“Mitch Henderson.”

Chester Murphy’s face now filled the entire screen.

“What the fuck did you do?” he demanded. A fierce scowl plastered across his face.

“What?” Mitch asked.

“I swear, if you fucked something up you’re done.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mitch said, stoically, losing patience with the floating head of the douchebag, corpo clone.

Chester was silent, motionless, staring at Mitch for a long moment. He shook his head slowly as a mask of pity descended from the top of his forehead all the way down to his pursed lips.

“I just received a call from the CEO’s office,” Chester said. “They want to see you. Immediately.”

The line went dead and Mitch’s auditing software consumed the virtual screen once again. He closed the program and unplugged the cable from his scalp, entered back into the reality of Rotech and its corpos. He gulped, pulled at his collar. Clammy beads of sweat squeezed from his synthetic, corpo hairline slicked to the side, glistening with a fresh coat of mousse. The recycled air spewing from the vents blew across the room like stale breath, collided with his skin sizzling beneath his corpo costume.

He peeled himself off of the chair and trudged towards the elevator. His irises glazed over, blocking the artificial light of the room. Avoiding eye contact with the horde of corpos bumping into him like he wasn’t even there. A ghost. A spirit that stumbled onto a one way road. Sounds became muffled, muted, like he ventured into a vacuous portal that trailed off into a black hole oblivion.

The ding from the elevator door interrupted the mind haze that had washed over him. His legs kicked forward into the cube without conscious thought like he was a machine on autopilot. He turned, pressed the button for the top floor, 177, and watched the doors clamp, trapping him inside the steel cage.

The cables and pulleys yanked Mitch into the air with a smooth glide as if the elevator levitated on a pocket of hot air shot from below. It climbed over one-hundred floors in less than five-seconds.

The doors slid open into a room of warm, yellow light. Pale blue skies, spotted with puffy, white clouds, shined outside the crystal windows.

Mitch steadied his nerves and marched into the office. The unsmiling CEO’s strict eyes squinted as he approached. Analyzed his movement for any weakness.

“My apologies, Mr. Henderson,” Vincent Walker said. “I thought that you were a friend of an old friend of mine.”

“Mr. Walker, sir, it’s a pleasure,” Mitch said, reaching the desk. “Are you referring to Eleanor?”

Vincent’s eyes widened, sparkled at the sound of the name.

“Indeed I am,” Vincent said. He stood up, posted his knuckles on his desk, and leaned forward. “But, surely, you cannot be the same Mitch Henderson that I met all those months ago.”

Mitch looked away from Vincent’s piercing, coal-black eyes, gathered an extra jolt of courage, and turned to stare back into the pits.

“Yes, sir,” Mitch said, straightening his back and puffing his chest, chin held high, “that was me.”

“My God…” Vincent said, scanning Mitch, “who ever said a man can’t turn his life around?” He reached his right hand across the desk.

Mitch stepped forward and shook Vincent’s strong grip.

“Please, take a seat,” Vincent said.

Mitch lowered himself into the chair. The stiff material crackled, cold against his suit. He squeezed the chair’s arms, rubbed his palms up and down.

“You ever felt real leather?” Vincent asked.

“I don’t think I have even seen it before.”

“Not much left on this scorched planet. There isn’t much authenticity left anywhere, is there, Mitch Henderson?” Vincent asked, a sly grin crept across his hard lips, defined the deep wrinkles chiseled across his stiff face. “I called you up here because I received an interesting audit report that you filed.”

Mitch nodded, lips clamped tight. A single bead of sweat squeezed from his artificial hairline.

Vincent opened the long desk drawer in front of his stomach, plucked some kind of circular chip about the size of a thumbnail, and tossed it towards the center of the titanium desk. The chip clamped onto the metal like a magnet with a homing beacon. A holographic image of Mitch’s auditing report shot up from the tiny chip, illuminated the space in front of them with an oscillating, white light as energy pulsed through the device.

“I recognized your name on the report and, well… how about we forget about the inconsistencies that you found in Rotech’s profit and spending, shall we? Another problem for another day,” Vincent said. He pinched the chip and dropped it back into the drawer. “How is my old friend, Eleanor, doing these days? You taking good care of her?”

Mitch cleared his throat and adjusted his posture in an effort to lengthen his stature above Vincent’s fierce eyes.

“She’s good, healthy,” he said. “Working hard in her food cart.”

“Good, good,” Vincent said. “How do you two know each other?”

Mitch felt a shift in Vincent’s tone like the energy in the room had been sucked towards him. The CEO’s eyes twisted into a glare, lips turned downwards into a sharp scowl.

The former bum sifted through the thoughts that raced around his head, selected his next words with precise caution. It was like awakening from a bonzo bender and finding himself in the middle of a tightrope between two skyscrapers with nothing but the swirling smog and smoke and the decrepit streets of downtown Rosenfell to break his fall.

“I used to be a mercenary,” Mitch said, gulping the glob stuck in his choked throat like he had swallowed an entire jawbreaker. “Eleanor fixed me up after a botched job.”

“Who was the job for?”

“This Mexican gangster named Jefe.”

Vincent’s pupils expanded, retracted as if they gulped a breath. And then, a sparkle glimmered across his face like a light bulb had sparked within his head. He pursed his lips and nodded his head slowly, leaned closer and leered at Mitch with a questioning side glance as if he were studying his face, picking apart his words, examining the suit wrapped around his body. Trying to find a kink in Mitch’s corpo armor that would reveal his true nature.

“Jefe, you say? Sounds like a dangerous man. Tell me about him,” Vincent said. His face was expressionless. His voice, serious, like he was trained to interrogate and extract information from criminals. As if a detective had infiltrated the highest corpo office on the planet.

The lump returned, lodged itself at the back of Mitch’s throat. He looked away, massaged his Adam’s apple with his thumb, tried to swallow, but the ache cracked the back of his airway and doused his chest in flames like he had guzzled a bowl of fire.

“Well, ahh…” Mitch said, trying but failing to look Vincent in the eyes, “to be honest, Mr. Walker, I barely even know the guy. I haven’t even seen him since then. I don’t mess around with criminals or commit crimes or anything like that. I left that mercenary life long ago when-”

“Stop,” Vincent said, calmly raising his right hand like he was swearing a testimony over a Bible. “I did not ask if you are still in contact with this man, Jefe. I told you to tell me about him. So, I’ll say it one more time. Tell me how you came across this Mexican gangster.”

Mitch adjusted his body, sent a fresh collection of cracks through the stiff, black leather down through the chair’s titanium legs.

“Jefe caught me trying to boost his railgun…”

Mitch waited for a response, but Vincent just glared back at him.

“And as punishment, he sent me to a CorpoMax warehouse out in the badlands up north a bit, just outside the-”

“I know where it is.”

“Right. Well, Jefe sent me out there to steal a truckload of bonzos.”

“Were you successful?” Vincent asked.

“Yes… no… not at that time, at least. A cop pulled me over on the way to the warehouse. He was going to bring me in if I didn’t give him Jefe’s tommy gun as collateral. So I did and he let me go,” Mitch said, pausing to catch his breath and steady his racing heart.

“Go on.”

“I got back with the truckload of bonzos, but Jefe was pissed about the tommy gun so he sent me on another mission into the CorpoMax Compound. Paradise, is what the Crawlers call it.”

Vincent shook his head.

“Impossible,” he said. “Nothing leaves CorpoMax unless it’s dead or dying.”

Mitch chuckled, scratched the back of his neck.

“You’re right.”

“How did you get down there?”

“As a janitor.”

Vincent released an almost silent gasp, leaned back, eyelids opened wide like he was in a state of shock.

“Genius,” he mumbled beneath his breath.

“What’s that?”

Vincent shook the daze from his face like he had awoken from a daydream.

“Nothing. Tell me about CorpoMax and the Crawlers.”

“The Crawlers are some freaks. Jefe sent me down there to steal something called a Chrono-Suit from them. It allows whoever is wearing it to control time.”

“Where is the suit now?”

“It’s with Jefe along with the rest of the tech I stole.”

“There is more Crawler tech?”

Mitch adjusted his posture to one of authority.

“I stole something called a GravGun, Spy Eye, Lightsaber, and Ghost Cloak.”

“This man, Jefe, took this tech from you?”

“He sent his two goons after me. They nearly beat me to death and then took all of the tech from me and left me stranded. That’s when I stumbled upon Eleanor. She patched me up and gave me some food and clothes.”

“Where do you think this tech could be now?”

“I haven’t seen Jefe or the two buffoons since then. They destroyed my… old apartment. So I left and bought a bigger, better one with all of the credits from my mercenary missions.”

“I’m sure you did, Mitch,” Vincent said, looking down the length of his nose, studying him. “You’re a new player at Rotech. Have you had a chance to check out the RID?”

“The RID?”

“Rotech Research and Development. We call it the RID.”

“I wasn’t aware that I’m allowed.”

“Would you like to see it?” Vincent asked, rising from his seat. He swung his right arm out as if to usher Mitch back to the elevator. “You can analyze what we are working on and tell me how it compares to the Crawler tech that is now in the possession of this Mexican gangster, Jefe.”

“I don’t want to take up too much of your time, Mr. Walker. I should get back to work.”

“In a hurry to get back to financial auditing?” Vincent asked. “I will notify Chester of the reason for your absence and excuse your work for- you know what? I have a better idea. You work for me now. Leave the financial auditing to the Chesters of this world. How does that sound?”

The whites of Mitch’s eyeballs expanded to consume their brown irises. He seemed to shrink in his chair beneath the strong voice and physical power of Vincent looming over him.

“Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Walker, it would be an honor.”

“Excellent,” he said. “From now on you will call me Vincent.”

“Yes, certainly, Vincent.”

“Very good. Now, I’ll say it one last time, on your damn feet,” he demanded, snapping his fingers like a thunderclap echoed through the office.

Mitch rose to his feet without any conscious effort, like his legs had been programmed to move on command.

“Lead the way,” Vincent said.

Mitch marched to the elevator and pressed the button. A ding burst from the wall panel as the doors slid open. He stepped on, watched Vincent wave the band of light on his left wrist in front of a scanner on the wall panel displayed with the lower floors. A secret slot slid open, revealing five hidden buttons without any markings. Vincent pressed the lowest of the five and stepped backwards so that his right shoulder brushed against Mitch’s left. A slight shift in gravity was the only evidence of the elevator’s descent.

Mitch tapped his fingers against his left leg, tracked the seconds in his head.

“So, how long have you known Eleanor?” Mitch asked, interrupting the silence.

“Oh… I’d say about fifty years.”

“Long time,” Mitch said. “Sweet lady.”

“Sure is,” Vincent said, “but she’s got her moments of… wrath, like we all do.”

The elevator slowed to a smooth stop and the steel doors slid open. A cacophony of grinding gears and metallic grates rumbled like a robot orchestra. The noise dispersed out across a vast warehouse imprisoned by concrete walls and blazing light that shined up from panels planted in the ground.

Hundreds of laborers in hardhats and jumpsuits worked on massive machines at stations sectioned off about every fifty feet from one another. Scientists in white lab coats typed on holographic tablets and evaluated tech using virtual reality headsets and augmented glasses. Nomads tested out the latest implants plugged directly into enormous power banks, testing the limits of their bodies and nervous systems.

“Welcome to the RID. Please,” Vincent said, urging Mitch forward, “after you.”

Mitch shuffled forward, head rotating left and right as his mind tried to process the cutting-edge tech spread across the enormous gallery.

“Right this way,” Vincent said, marching past Mitch towards a quantum computer bank in the front-right corner of the compound. “Dr. Deckard, what have you got for me today?”

A glistening, bald head popped up from behind one of the holo-monitors.

“My, my, my, look who it is… Mr. Walker,” the doctor said in a nasally voice. He adjusted the enormous glasses that made his eyes pop from his face, and then scampered around the collection of computers. “It’s been a long time, Vincent,” he said, shaking the CEO’s hand. “What brings you all the way down to the RID?”

“Just showing one of Rotech’s newest employees our state-of-the-art research department. Mitch Henderson,” Vincent said, waving Mitch forward, “this is Dr. Seymour Deckard. He is the head scientist here. The greatest theoretical physicist in all of Rosenfell.”

“It’s great to meet you, doctor,” Mitch said, gripping the man’s, frail, wrinkled hand.

“Likewise, Mitch Henderson,” Deckard said. He looked Mitch up and down with a pair of googly eyes, scanned the thin corpo shell of the disguised bum.

“Mitch just told me an interesting story,” Vincent said. “One that I think could be of the greatest importance to the future of Rotech and humanity, should the information get into the right hands.”

“Hmm… let us take this conversation to my office,” Dr. Deckard said. He placed his palm over his heart and then swung his arm out towards a winding staircase near the center of the warehouse floor.

Mitch followed Vincent, head swiveling to take in the mysterious tech being operated on by the laborers and scientists. Buzz saws ripped a metallic cacophony, sprayed sparks from impact with metal. Torches spewed blue beams of fire, melted pieces of metal together. A robotic recital of words and technological sound flowed through the room from scientists programming androids and artificial intelligence systems with language.

They mounted the staircase and stepped into the glass cube.

“Please, sit down,” Dr. Deckard said upon entering. “Coffee, gentlemen?”

“None for me,” Vincent said, waving the request away.

“Yes, please,” Mitch said, planting his bottom on the cushioned, black, sofa chair on the right.

Vincent lowered himself onto the seat on Mitch’s left, leaned back, and hitched his right ankle up over his left knee, bobbed it with a rhythmic consistency.

“Thank you,” Mitch said, receiving the steaming, black, ceramic mug from the doctor. Rotech was scribbled in cursive, luminescent, white handwriting on the mug, shining from its own light source.

The doctor settled into his own chair on the other side of the desk, sipped his coffee.

“Mmm, yes, yes,” Dr. Deckard said, smacking his lips, “that’s tasty stuff.”

Mitch sipped the black liquid, igniting a burst of dopamine that radiated from the center of his mind, flashed across his eyes. He stared at the mug for a moment, then sipped, let the potent concoction drip down his throat. A strange sensation shot through his body, crawled into his heart and jumpstarted it like it had been zapped with lightning.

“That’s authentic, Ethiopian coffee,” Vincent said. “They throw it onto our cargo ships as a form of payment for all of the tech and weapons we send them.”

“It’s exquisite,” Mitch said, testing the limits of his vocabulary.

“So…” Deckard said, placing the mug on his desk and interlocking his fingers, “what kind of story do you have for me, Mitch Henderson?”

Mitch peeked at Vincent.

“It’s alright, Mitch,” Vincent said. “You can trust him.”

Mitch described his ordeal with Jefe and his mercenary mission at CorpoMax.

“Fascinating,” Dr. Deckard said, glossy eyed. “Where is the tech now? I must study it to conduct a full analysis.”

“It’s gone. Jefe sent his security after me. Nearly beat me to death and took it all.”

“Fool,” Deckard whispered, looking away for a moment before turning back to glare at Mitch. “How could you just let all of that priceless tech just slip away? It would be invaluable for my- Rotech’s- scientific research.”

“Dr. Deckard, I would’t say priceless,” Mitch said. “I paid with my life.”

“Not to worry, Seymour,” Vincent said. “Mitch and I will be picking it up when we leave here.”

Mitch turned his head slowly from Dr. Deckard to Vincent.

“Mr. Wa- I mean, Vincent, sir, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? You stole the tech from the Crawlers. I believe under the black market laws of Rosenfell that you are the rightful owner.”

“That may be so, but Jefe’s bad. One of the most dangerous gangsters in the city.”

“I’m sure this, Jefe, gentleman can be reasonable. We will ask nicely.”

Mitch was silent. Face, expressionless. His empty eyes stared off into the dark nothingness that crept around his peripheral vision.

“Dr. Deckard,” Vincent said, rising from the chair. He adjusted his jacket and cracked a kink in his neck. “It was great seeing you. Mitch and I will be back with the tech so you can get to work on figuring out how it all functions.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Deckard said. He grabbed Mitch’s limp hand and shook it with a few firm tugs.

The doctor’s office seemed to fade away, replaced by Mitch’s memory of himself crawling through the landfill above CorpoMax. His half-naked body, bloody and bruised.

The rotten smell of death returned, plunging through his nostrils, strangling his brain.