Weary Traveler

All seven members of the executive board swarmed through Rotech Headquarters like a mob of predators on the prowl. They were finishing up their annual, autumn walkthrough of the facilities, gathering intel and forming a plan of action for the upcoming Corpo Convention.

Mitch absorbed the power of hundreds of eyes watching his every move, studying his every step as the group traversed through the various floors, buildings, labs, and compounds of Rotech. His tailored, black suit, and vibrant, blue-green shirt were like a beacon of energy radiating waves outwards like ripples in the vast fabric of infinite space. The feeling was intoxicating, like booze and bonzos had been injected into his bloodstream. Too much power to wield for any one man or group.

A strange sensation crawled across his skin and seeped into his blood as if his body struggled to adapt to the mask and skin of a corpo wrapped around the heart and mind of a bum. He kept his eyes aimed forward, staring at the back of the heads of his new, powerful colleagues, letting Vincent take the lead at the front with Dr. Deckard guiding them through the facilities.

“Right this way, gentlemen,” Dr. Deckard said. He scurried down a wide hallway illuminated by blue-white lights hanging from ornate fixtures along the ceiling.

They closed in on a slab of reinforced steel like a bank vault door. Dr. Deckard hustled up to a panel on the wall on the right and placed his palm against the screen.

“Approved. Welcome, Dr. Deckard.”

Hidden gears spun as the door’s beams slid into their sockets and opened the portal just enough for the group to enter two at a time. Mitch stepped through last, stopped at the back of the group. He gazed around the vast warehouse of Rotech’s Research and Development, frantic with scientists and engineers.

“Dr. Deckard, has there been much progress on the Crawler tech we have acquired?” Mr. Jackson asked, pulling at the collar of his suit, a few sizes too small, squeezing his limbs and wrapping tight around his bulging chest.

“Oh, yes, yes, very much progress,” Dr. Deckard said. “Our scientists and engineers have been operating twenty-four hours a day reverse-engineering the tech. We are currently in the testing and refining stage of the process.”

“Will it be ready for the convention?” Mr. Russo asked from somewhere at the center of the pack.

“It will be available to be on display,” Dr. Deckard said. “We just need to make a few more tweaks to avoid suspicion from CorpoMax. We do not need those freaks snooping around thinking we stole their tech.”

“Show us what you have accomplished so far, Dr. Deckard,” Vincent said.

“Certainly. Follow me.”

Mitch’s legs shuffled forward in the group’s wake. His mind wandered, eyes drifted, observing the scientists and technicians testing Rotech’s newest tech and advanced weaponry. A bum in the midst of the most powerful men in Rosenfell. Wearing the mask, donning the veil of a corpo elite. Hiding in plain sight at the top of the most powerful corporation in the scorched world. An artificial raccoon covered in the synth-skin of a wolf.

“The Crawlers called this one here… a GravGun,” Dr. Deckard said, motioning to the weapon sitting on the pedestal. “We are calling it, Energy Cannon, on account of that it looks like a miniature cannon and fires off immense energy.”

“How does it work?” Dr. Matsumoto asked, adjusting his augmented eyeglasses with rectangular black frames. He was a tall gentleman with smooth skin and piercing black eyes like two pebbles of volcanic rock.

“The weapon fires off a pocket of energy that warps space and time around its target,” Dr. Deckard said. “We still don’t know the long term implications of being trapped in its gravitational pull, but we think it may distort the victim’s reality and may even twist their mind into a separate dimension of time that runs concurrent to this one. I believe that-”

“May I fire?” Mr. Volkov asked.

Dr. Deckard glanced at Mr. Volkov and then turned towards Vincent, who gave a stern nod.

“Step right up, Mr. Volkov,” Dr. Deckard said. “But please, don’t shoot anything animate.”

“What does this mean, animate?” Mr. Volkov asked.

“He means don’t shoot one of us,” Mr. Davis said.

“How about one of the scientists, then?” Mr. Volkov asked. “Bring one over, I will only fire one round.”

“No shooting people, Mr. Volkov,” Vincent said. “Dr. Deckard, do you have any synth-animals on this floor?”

“One moment,” Dr. Deckard said. He raised his wrist to his mouth, pressed a spot on his skin. “It’s Deckard. Any synth-animals on the floor…? Bring it over to the Energy Cannon station right now. Executive Board wants a demonstration.”

Dr. Deckard lowered his wrist, stared at the group.

“We have a synth-sheep coming.”

“This is good,” Mr. Volkov said. He strode up to the pedestal, grabbed the weapon with both hands, heaved and tucked it in the nook of his right arm.

Mitch’s eyes drifted to the left, followed a technician in a light gray, Rotech jumpsuit dragging a synthetic sheep on a leash towards the end of the firing range next to the Energy Cannon station. He tied the end of the leash to a hook on the ground and scampered away from the line of fire.

“Alright, Mr. Volkov,” Dr. Deckard said, stepping beside him, “This is what you-”

“Nyet,” Mr. Volkov said, swatting Deckard away. “I know what to do.”

His trembling arms steadied the bulky weapon… focused eye looked down the sights… breath grunting through gritted teeth.

“Boom!” he shouted, pulling the trigger.

Mitch’s ears popped as the sonic blast launched from the cannon, smacked into the sheep, erasing it from existence.

He shook his head frantically from side to side, clamped his eyelids shut, opened them as if that would make the animal reappear.

“Holy fuck,” Mitch whispered to himself at the back of the group.

“Where did it go?” Mr. Russo asked.

“We haven’t quite figured that out yet,” Dr. Deckard said. “It could be dead. Maybe an alternate timeline. Or possibly sucked through a wormhole into some type of quantum reality.”

Mitch’s heartbeat skipped into his throat, pounded against his Adam’s apple, constricted his airway so that he choked on the thin stream of air that reached his fiery lungs. He coughed, pounded against his chest.

“Everything okay, Mr. Henderson?” Mr. Jackson asked.

Mitch faced the other executives glaring at him. He stared back at them through watery eyes and gave a thumbs up.

“Something caught in my throat,” he said in a hoarse tone.

Thoughts of his collision with the creepy Crawler in their Paradise raced across his mind. The feeling of suffocating in the GravGun’s energy field. Body shot through abstract dimensions of space and eternal time. Possibilities of being trapped in alternate realities. Neither existing nor not existing in a superposition of quantum states. He gave his chest a few more smacks.

“All good.”

“What else do you have to show us, Dr. Deckard?” Vincent asked. “What of the Ghost Cloak?”

“Ah, yes, a magnificent piece of technology. Right this way,” Dr. Deckard said, marching over to the next station on the left.

Mitch followed Rotech’s mighty executives. A small synthetic fish surrounded by a horde of bloodthirsty mech-sharks. His wide awake eyes focused on the void at the end of the firing range where the sheep had been.

Where did it go?

He gazed at his hands, pinched the soft flesh on his left palm. It looked and felt real. The warehouse’s chattering voices and metallic clangs and clashes sounded normal. The world swirled around him like he was the central axis point of the Universe. Within this dimension and all the rest. A single beacon of life surrounded by time, matter, and energy… that mandalic vortex swirling his eternal soul, his universal consciousness.

The top of Mitch’s head collided with a firm object, both soft and hard. He looked up just as Mr. Jackson turned around, elevated his eyebrows so that his forehead wrinkled, stretched towards his sweaty, bald head. He stared at Mitch with his brown eyes like he had traveled into the darkness and clawed his way back out to tell about it.

“Keep your head up, Mr. Henderson,” Mr. Jackson said, patting Mitch on the shoulder. “Can’t have the newest member of the board stepping on toes, can we?”

“Apologies, Mr. Jackson. Just thinking about that synth-sheep.”

“Crazy tech, huh? It will be interesting when they figure out what happened to it.”

There was a quiet stillness that flowed through the back of the group. Mitch sifted through his mind for a question to distract himself from the memory of falling into the GravGun’s energy field.

“How long have you been on the board?” Mitch asked.

“About five years, roughly. Days all melt together when you work as much as we do. We are glad you filled-in the missing position so quickly. Vincent was lucky finding you out there on the street.”

Mitch’s attention refocused as his eyes homed in like a radar upon Mr. Jackson’s face.

“He said I was on the streets?”

“Isn’t that where you were?” Mr. Jackson asked, leering down his nose at Mitch.

“I was a mercenary,” Mitch said. “I worked a bad job that almost killed me.”

“Vincent told us how you managed to steal all of this tech from CorpoMax. That’s some wild shit.”

“Sure was. But I had my own apartment downtown. I wasn’t living on the streets or anything like that.”

“Of course not. No need to get defensive, just curious about your past. Besides, you already know that Rotech is no place for bums,” Mr. Jackson said, beaming a smile that burned through Mitch’s eyeballs and branded his brain like a scalding cattle prod. He winked and turned away.

Mitch found his position at the back of the group, remained silent. His gaping eyes stared at the back of the heads of the wealthy corpos that had claimed him as one of their own. Mistaking his true identity as a bum for a miserable player trapped in the sick game of the elite.

He despised them, but was also inspired by them. For over the course of the past few months, he had become one of them. Through one action that led to the next, he had become the thing he had sworn to destroy. His own archenemies. The forces of light and dark pushing and pulling, caught in a battle for his body, a war for his mind. A piece of hay in a stack of needles, threatening to tear him to shreds should they uncover the truth of his past. The plight of his early life living on the streets, scrounging for food in the garbage, booze in the gutters, bonzos from dealers to soothe the pain and sorrow that wrecked his existence and kicked him through his life as a useless bum.

He ground his teeth behind his close lips, balled his hands into tight fists until they shook, peeked between the executives’ shoulders at Dr. Deckard standing next to the Ghost Cloak display sitting on top of a stone pedestal. He opened his ears to capture the conversation that had been going on without him.

“That’s right, Mr. Volkov,” Dr. Deckard said, “it turns whoever wears it invisible.”

“How is this possible?” Mr. Volkov asked.

“From our research, it appears that the Ghost Cloak bends light, so it is like the wearer is not even there. Only a faint glimmer appears around the body like a forcefield.”

“I must try this,” Mr. Volkov said, stepping forward.

“Now, now, hold on, Mr. Volkov,” Dr. Deckard said, holding out his hand. “You got to fire the Energy Cannon. Let’s give someone else a try.”

Dr. Deckard hitched up on his toes and glanced into the pack of executives.

“How about you, Dr. Matsumoto?” Dr. Deckard asked, pointing to the lean, Japanese man.

“Hai,” Dr. Matsumoto said with a stoic bow. He stepped forward and settled into place beside Dr. Deckard.

“Let your arms hang at your sides,” Dr. Deckard said, grabbing the disk from the stone. “You may feel a slight tug on your breath while I place this on your chest…”

Dr. Matsumoto inhaled a long, slow breath through his nostrils, blew a thin stream between his lips, and closed his eyes.

“Here we go, in three… two… one,” Dr. Deckard said, allowing the disk to connect to Dr. Matsumoto’s chest.

Mitch blinked, opened his eyes. Dr. Matsumoto’s entire body vanished in an instant like a trick of magic had been conducted.

“Is he with sheep?” Mr. Volkov asked.

“No, Mr. Volkov,” Dr. Deckard said. “Dr. Matsumoto still exists in this realm. He’s right in front of you. Go check for yourself.”

Mr. Volkov puffed his chest, lifted his chin, and stepped forward like he had something to prove. Like he would be the one to show that Dr. Matsumoto was not standing before them, but had actually vanished with sheep into the astral realm beyond the furthest reaches of the physical universe. He leaned in around the space where Dr. Matsumoto had been, tiptoed clockwise around the area with narrow eyes and furrowed brows.

Mitch focused on the glimmer as it shifted, moved towards Mr. Volkov’s face, and then smacked his nose, sent him into a backpedal into the arms of the other executives.

A faint snicker burst from the ether.

“Nyet!” Mr. Volkov yelled. He stepped forward and pushed the empty space in front of him, sent Dr. Matsumoto’s invisible body into the pedestal.

“Easy, gentlemen,” Vincent said, “take it easy.”

Mr. Volkov rubbed his nose and glared at Dr. Matsumoto as he removed the disk, popped back into visible existence. He set it back on its pedestal and fell back into the group standing in front of Dr. Deckard.

“To the lightsaber, then?” Dr. Deckard asked.

Vincent checked the band of blue crystal wrapped around his wrist.

“We will have to test the lightsaber at another time,” Vincent said. “Let’s see the Chrono-Suit.”

“Mmm, yes, our most prized tech. Follow me,” Dr. Deckard said, pushing through the middle of the group. He hustled towards the center of the facility, scurried towards a glass box similar to the cylinder the Crawlers held their tech in, but much bigger. The box was a few stories tall, stretched nearly halfway towards the high ceiling.

The high-ranking doctors and technicians watched the executives march across the RID just as the low-level corpos’ eyes had followed the board’s every movement through the facilities over the course of the day. The sensation of power flowed through Mitch. He recoiled from the intoxicating effects that ignited within his blood, but craved the attention like a bonzo addiction.

Dr. Deckard shuffled up to the glass chamber and placed his palm over the scanner to the right of the door.

“Access granted,” said a woman in a soothing voice. “Good afternoon, Dr. Deckard.”

A gust of air spewed from the door’s hydraulic locks as the slab of glass slid open.

“After you, gentlemen,” Dr. Deckard said. He placed his left hand over his navel, swung his right arm open, and dipped into a slight bow.

Mitch followed the first six members of the board, stepped into the half-circle they formed around the Chrono-Suit.

He clasped his hands behind his back and gazed up at the suit, snug around a metallic mannequin’s body. A jolt of neurons zipped through his brain like a beam of electricity shot through his eyeballs. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled out of his mouth. Flashes of colorful light burst across his vision. Memories climbed up from his subconscious, filled his awareness with that suffocating feeling of being sucked through a hole in the fabric of space, shot through time, swallowed his body within a bubble that warped the matter and energy of reality.

“I presume that Vincent has filled each of you in on this piece of tech,” Dr. Deckard said. “The Chrono-Suit is supposed to allow whoever is wearing it to traverse through time. Now, before you ask, Mr. Volkov, I should say that we have not figured out how the suit functions. It appears to be broken.”

“What does this mean, broken?” Mr. Volkov asked.

“It does not function,” Dr. Deckard said.

“Nyet,” Mr. Volkov said, shaking his head. “Why is broke?”

“Well… it seems that the suit is its own energy source. But the power was already used up before it came into our possession.”

Every muscle fiber in Mitch’s body tightened, beads of sweat bubbled on his forehead beneath the synthetic hairline of his slick, corpo fade. He coughed, tugged on his button-down shirt a few times to cool his steaming chest.

“What effect does it have on the person who wears it?” Mitch asked. The words squeaked from his constricted airway like a pair of invisible hands wrapped around his throat.

“It’s all theoretical at this point, Mr. Henderson,” Dr. Deckard said.

“Theoretically, then…” Mitch said, a twitch of anxious hesitation in his voice like it was not his own, “what would happen to the person who wears a functioning Chrono-Suit?”

“That person would branch off into another timeline that runs concurrent to this one,” Dr. Deckard said, “Think of it like two tracks of a HyperRail running side-by-side. Typically, the two paths will follow their own course. But they may pass through one another from time-to-time, so long as they do so while the other train is not there.”

“And if other train is there at same time?” Mr. Volkov asked.

Dr. Deckard touched the tips of his fingers together, puffed his cheeks, and then pulled his hands apart from each other, filled the chamber with a cacophonous explosion.

Mitch pinched his shirt a second time and fanned his sweaty chest.

“And what about someone that is shot by the GravGun while wearing the Chrono-Suit?” he asked.

Dr. Deckard chuckled.

“I can assure you, Mr. Henderson, that the probability of that happening is astronomical.”

“I understand,” Mitch said. “But from your research, what would happen?”

“Well…” Dr. Deckard said, eyes rolling to the top of his head, scanning the air, “I fear that quantum realities would occur. Wormholes leading to alternate universes. Time dilation of the wearer, or victim I should say. Their body may be torn to shreds. Maybe even sucked into its own black hole. Unwound like a single string of synthetic spaghetti.”

Mitch swallowed the lump trapped in his throat, drummed his fingers against his slacks, damp from the sweat streaming down his legs.

“Any drinking water in here, Dr. Deckard?” Mitch asked.

“Drinking water? No, my apologies.”

“It is time for us to be going, anyway. We have a reservation at Blue Sky,” Vincent said. “Dr. Deckard, will you be so kind as to walk us back to the entrance?”

“Certainly, Mr. Walker. It was a pleasure showing you gentlemen around the various facilities here at Rotech Headquarters. Rest assured that the scientists and technicians at the RID will work round the clock to improve upon the Crawler tech and make it our own.”

“Maybe you bring synthetic sheep back to complete magic trick like real magician,” Mr. Volkov said.

Dr. Deckard grabbed his belly, let out a nervous chuckle.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Volkov. When we figure out the physics and quantum gravity you will be the first to know where the sheep vanished to. Any other comments or questions, gentlemen?” Dr. Deckard asked.

The executives shook their heads, stared back at the doctor in silence. The chamber filled with the distant sound of clashing metal and tiny explosions from across the vast compound, thumping through the thin, glass walls of the Chrono-Suit display.

“Very well, follow me,” Dr. Deckard said, scurrying back out of the sliding glass into the main facility.

Mitch trailed behind the others, licking his flaky lips, trying to gather enough spit to moisten his scratchy throat. Strange ideas dropped into his head, shot off before he could grasp hold of one and examine them. Past memories and future thoughts melded together in some sort of sub-reality that was out of sight, but just within the reach of his awareness. Like his unconscious struggled with the external stimuli flowing through the five senses of his conscious mind.

Quantum realities clashed and exploded within his brain, squirmed through his veins and filled his blood with an electric wave of particles that dragged his wrecked and ragged body across dimensions. Pushed and pulled through the mystical space-time continuum.

“Look who we have here!” Dr. Deckard said from the front of the pack. His voice rang hollow between Mitch’s ears like he was trapped at the center of a tunnel with construction being conducted on both ends. Chipping away at the surface of his skull, seeking to reach the center of his mind to demolish the progress he had made.

Mitch glanced towards the voice, but the heads and shoulders of the other board members blocked his vision. His quivering sight obscured by the black haze closing in on the corners of his eyeballs. He pushed through the back of the group, bumping shoulders with his fellow executives, hesitant to halt his forward momentum for fear of falling into the black hole that closed in around him.

Mitch stopped beside Vincent. Inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils, expelled a heavy gust out of his mouth, steadied his nerves. When his eyes locked into the glare of the man standing beside Dr. Deckard, his weak legs began to wobble, knees smacked against each other.

“Gentlemen, I would like you to meet one of our finest, young salesmen,” Dr. Deckard said, holding out his arms as if he was unveiling a prize. “The great and powerful… Zoxillian the Third! Zoxillian, I would like you to meet your bosses on the executive board. They are the ones who pay our bills and allow us to live such lavish lifestyles.”

“Is that so?” Zox asked in a high-pitched voice. His leering eyes transfixed on Mitch as if the other executives weren’t even there.

“Sure is,” Dr. Deckard said. “Let me introduce you…”

“Mitch Henderson, is it?” Zox asked, stepping forward into Mitch’s space. It was like he had popped out of the ether, appeared out of the nothingness of the fabric of existence. Dropped from a different dimension, a separate reality altogether.

Mitch focused every bit of his conscious awareness on his vocal cords.

“Sorry, sir, I don’t believe I’ve met you before,” Mitch said. His voice squeaked, spread ripples of energy radiating from his mouth like the words were physical objects in a sea of infinite time.

“Mitch here is the newest member of the board,” Dr. Deckard said.

“Is that so?” Zox asked a second time, louder and more obnoxious than the first. “My, my, must be real special to make it all the way onto the Rotech Executive Board all by yourself,” Zoxillian said in a sarcastic tone, placing his hands on his hips.

“If you say so,” Mitch muttered, receding further into himself like he was falling out of the bottom of reality.

“Now, I know that I know you from somewhere…” Zox said, stroking his pointy chin and wagging his index finger at Mitch. “I just can’t seem to picture it.”

“Zoxillian,” Dr. Deckard said, “why don’t you fill the board in on your Memory Mod? Give them some details on how it works, what it does, and the like.”

“Certainly, Dr. Deckard. Nothing would please me more than letting these fine executives- who are responsible for my success, as you say- in on the secrets of our most prized prototype before it goes into production.”

“What is his fucking problem?” Mr. Volkov muttered to someone at the back of the group.

“The Memory Mod…” Zoxillian said, gazing into each of the men’s eyes, “is a virtual reality visualization tool that allows the user to visit any memory that they can recall. Think of it like watching a movie of your past. But not only watching with your eyes, rather, experiencing it with all of your senses.”

“Bloody brilliant,” Mr. Davis said, stroking his beard.

“How long until it reaches the market?” Mr. Jackson asked.

“Oh, I’d say a few more months sounds about right. Hopefully by the time the Corpo Convention rolls around,” Zoxillian said.

“What’s wrong with it now?” Mr. Davis asked.

“Still got a few more kinks to work out. Can’t let this piece of advanced tech get into the hands of someone that wishes to subvert the natural socioeconomic order and class hierarchy of life here at Rotech. Isn’t that right, Mr. Walker?” Zoxillian said, eyes still focused on Mitch like a bum-seeking missile.

“Correct,” Vincent said. He seemed distant, absentminded, like he didn’t give a shit about the words spewing from the sleazy salesman’s mouth.

“I must try,” Mr. Volkov said.

“I think we should bestow that honor upon the newest member of the executive board,” Zoxillian said, stepping towards Mitch until their faces were a few inches apart. “What do you say, Weary Traveler?” he whispered into Mitch’s ear.

Mitch’s body rocked from heel to toe, heel to toe. The quiet words slithered from Zoxillian’s mouth and burst like a dozen bombs exploded within his bum brain. He raised a shaky hand to protest, blinked rapidly. His weak breath dropped several octaves like he was trapped in a lonely limbo beyond dream sleep.

“Water…” Mitch mumbled. “Dr. Deckard, do you have that glass of water?” he asked, just before his body smacked against the pavement.