The Warehouse

by Rob Hart

The lobby was slightly less crowded than usual. People probably taking the day to stay inside, since they’d have to be there soon anyway. He did a few circuits, found some good vantage points he hadn’t thought of, then made his way to Admin, where he was due to meet with Vikram for final checks.

  Same conference room. Same lack of space, though the atmosphere was lighter without Dobbs in the room. Vikram stood at the front and waited as people filtered in, and when the room was finally at capacity, he stared at people, waiting for them to end their conversations. As if they should have known better than to speak when it was his turn.

  “Good,” he said when the room finally fell quiet. “So today’s the big day. I cannot make this more clear to you. If you fuck up, it’s my ass. Which means I’ll make sure it’s your ass, too. I’ve got all your personal cell phones on a text blast. I’ll be sending out updates as they happen. Everyone will get them, just ignore the ones that don’t pertain to you. Someone is out of containment—”

  Someone snickered in the back, at the way he leaned on the word containment, like they were in a science fiction film, acid-spitting aliens banging on the other side of the door, and Vikram paused.

  “If anyone is out of containment, you report and detain. I’ll be around to answer questions for the next few minutes.”

  He clapped his hands to signify the end of the meeting. Someone pushed the door open to get air in the room. People filed out. Paxton nodded at Vikram, trying to convey I’m a team player without having to actually talk to him. Vikram just scowled.

  Halfway to Oak his CloudBand buzzed.

  One hour until software update. Unless instructed otherwise, please report to your room.

  ZINNIA

  One hour until software update. Unless instructed otherwise, please report to your room.

  Then:

  Please make your final delivery.

  The shelf in front of Zinnia slid to a halt. At the top of it, her task, was a puzzle box. She climbed up, not bothering to engage her safety harness. She wondered what the trade-off would be here, whether she would be penalized.

  Not that it mattered as much as landing right.

  At the top of the shelf she found the bin with the puzzles, took one out, let it register with the CloudBand.

  Then she held her breath, turned, and launched herself into the air.

  Her stomach lurched. She tucked her chin to her chest and put her arm out. One, to brace the fall, and two, to make sure her shoulder popped out of the socket. It’d been loose ever since that job in Guadalajara.

  The second she landed, she felt it shift and pop. She exhaled, hard, pushing the air out of her lungs, like that might move out some of the pain. It didn’t. She rolled onto her back, her left arm like a dead piece of meat tied to her torso. Pain blared through her body like an out-of-tune orchestra.

  She breathed in. Breathed out. Got in the middle of the pain, the cacophony of it. Let it fill her up. That was the thing about pain. People tore themselves up fighting against it. The secret was to accept it as a temporary reality and focus on something else. Like standing.

  A few people had stopped. Not many. Too many people making final deliveries. Zinnia picked up the puzzle box with her good arm and shuffled to the conveyor belt, which was, mercifully, nearby, then raised her CloudBand but found she couldn’t press the crown with her free arm flopped at her side, so she pushed it against her chin until it registered, and said, “Emergency. Manager.”

  She got a set of walking directions and followed them, quickly coming across a blond soccer mom in a white polo who took one look at Zinnia, arm flopping against her side, and said, “You need help or something?”

  “That’d be nice, yeah,” she said. “I fell.”

  “Were you using your safety harness?”

  “No.”

  The woman pursed her lips, held up her tablet. Came near Zinnia and held it by her wrist until it paired with her CloudBand. Tapped at the glass surface and turned it to face Zinnia. “I need a quick signature asserting that you weren’t wearing your safety harness.”

  Zinnia exhaled. A new thing to focus on. Asshole bureaucracy. She took her good hand—not her dominant hand—and made a few whirls in the empty space. The woman nodded and typed for what seemed like a very long time while working with someone who had an injury.

  “I think I might have a concussion,” Zinnia said, hoping to speed things along. “I hit my head, too.”

  “I guess you’ll be wanting to go to Care?”

  “That’s what it’s there for.”

  The woman gave her a harsh look. Like, Now is not the time for jokes.

  Yeah, no shit, Zinnia thought. But, flies with honey, or whatever the fuck.

  “Please,” Zinnia said.

  “Can you walk, or do you need to be escorted?” the woman asked.

  Zinnia rolled her eyes. “I can walk.”

  “Good.” She tapped at the tablet. Walking directions popped up on her CloudBand. “Follow that to the emergency shuttle.”

  Zinnia didn’t think the woman deserved it, but anyway, she said thanks. It didn’t take long to get to the shuttle bay, nestled into a port next to a break room and some bathrooms. It was about the size of a tram car, but outfitted with beds and medical equipment, on a dedicated track to the hospital facility. Zinnia climbed on to find a young man, rugged and handsome with that just-enough stubble, playing on his phone. He saw Zinnia and shoved the phone in his pocket, nearly leaping a bed to meet her at the mouth of the car.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Fell,” she said. “Shoulder popped out.”

  The man tried to ease Zinnia onto a bed. She resisted. Not easy with the shoulder. But it defeated the purpose of doing it in the first place if he fixed it now.

  “You have to let me set this,” he said. “The muscle will spasm. Longer it stays out, harder it is to get back in.”

  “No, I’d really rather—” But as she spoke he dug his fingers in, and while she hadn’t even thought it would be that easy, he gave her shoulder a good squeeze and twist, and click, it was back. Just like that. The pain changed, growing oddly pleasant for a moment, then quieting down until it was a din in the background. Zinnia leaned against the bed, raised her arm perpendicular, turned her forearm in and out.

  “That was good,” she said, impressed.

  “We deal with these a lot,” he said. “Let me guess, you weren’t wearing your safety harness.”

  Zinnia laughed. “Of course not.”

  “Go home, take some ibuprofen, ice it. You’ll be fine.” He looked around. “Or, if you’re looking for something a little more…comforting…”

  Zinnia was open to trying anything twice, but now was not the time. “I hit my head.”

  He took a pen from his breast pocket, and when he clicked it, a light erupted from the end. He waved it back and forth across Zinnia’s eyes, the brightness of it making her cringe. He shook his head. “I don’t think you have a concussion.”

  “I think it’s safer if I go to the hospital,” she said. “Just in case.”

  He looked around. Like he was making sure they were alone. “You sure about that? ’Cause, look, I’m not trying to mess around on something serious. But this is the kind of thing you’re better off trying to walk off.” He leaned forward, dropped his voice. “I’m trying to help you here.”

  “I get it,” she said. “But my head is killing me, and I want to be careful.”

  He nodded. Sighed. Like he got it but felt bad she wasn’t taking his advice. He patted the bed. “Climb on. Strap in.”

  Zinnia did as told, and the man disappeared to the front of the tram, to an enclosed compartment. She found a seat belt hanging down from the bed. Climbed on, looped it over herself, did the clasp. The tram took off, the rid
e so smooth it was like they were barely moving.

  PAXTON

  The lines for the elevator were long, the final wave of workers ready to tuck in for however long the update would take. It was like a rainbow had been smashed up and pushed into a pile. Paxton looped the lobby area again, making sure all the blues were in position.

  He found Masamba, whom Paxton had made his unofficial second-in-command, on account of the fact that he seemed to give a shit about doing a good job. People were constantly asking Masamba to repeat himself, given his accent, but Paxton understood him just fine. He nodded to the tall, heavy man and asked, “You good?”

  Masamba saluted. “Yes sir, captain sir.”

  Paxton laughed. “Please don’t do that.”

  He went to salute again, to indicate he understood, but then stopped himself. “Okay.”

  Paxton’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Vikram.

  Testing the mass text. Please ignore.

  He didn’t like Vikram having his personal cell. But fine, whatever, at least Paxton was a team leader, not one of the plebs just randomly assigned to stand in a spot, or worse, sent to their room.

  The crowd wound down, only two elevator trips left, tops, before the lobby was cleared. Another text went out.

  One ambulance tram en route to hospital. Otherwise, all trams stopped and accounted for. Blues, please make final sweep.

  After a few moments another message popped up.

  That chick headed to the hospital is fuckin’ hot, man. I should go check on her. Give her a little of my tender love and care.

  Then:

  Another text, with an employee-profile picture of Zinnia.

  Paxton blinked. That couldn’t be right. Why the hell was Vikram sharing Zinnia’s picture?

  Then:

  The systm has been haced. Hacked. ignore ignore ignore last message. That was not Vikram repeat that was NOT VIKRAM WHO SENT THAT.

  Paxton glanced around the lobby, like someone there might be able to answer his questions: Zinnia was in an ambulance? Was she hurt? How bad? He looked at his CloudBand, thinking he could radio into Admin or Care to check, but wasn’t sure who to call.

  The last elevators were going up. The lobby was empty, save for the blues. Paxton’s leg shook. His body wanted to move and it was manifesting through involuntary twitching.

  The tram was down. But the emergency trams were still manned and running. He went to Masamba. “You’re in charge. You know the drill?”

  Masamba shook his head. “I don’t know—”

  “My friend just got transported to the hospital. I need to know she’s okay.”

  He saluted, stopped himself, then shrugged, committed to it. “I got you. Go do what you have to do.”

  “Thanks,” Paxton said, slapping him on the arm and taking off in the direction of the closest emergency shuttle bay.

  A MESSAGE FROM CLAIRE WELLS

  A woman sits at a desk. Brilliant red hair, like flame. The desk is big, heavy, shiny. A statement desk. The desk is free of items. Behind the desk is a window looking onto a wooded setting. The trees are bare.

  The woman has her hands folded on the desk. She smiles the smile of someone who doesn’t understand the way a smile can be interpreted. She speaks as if speaking to children, carefully enunciating her words, in a downward trajectory.

  Hello. My name is Claire Wells. And I want to start off by apologizing that you can’t turn this off. I know you were all looking forward to a couple of minutes of free time during the software update, but frankly, I can’t meet you all, and I thought this was the quickest and most efficient way to introduce myself. I promise, I won’t be long.

  You all know my dad, and what a great man he is. And you all know this is an incredibly tough time for my family. But my dad raised me to push on, even when things got hard, so I’m just here to tell you that even though my father will be passing along the torch, I plan to run Cloud just the way he did.

  Like a family.

  Just like my dad liked to visit MotherCloud facilities, I hope to do the same in the coming months. In fact, I’ll be joining him for some of his farewell tour. So if you see me, feel free to say hello!

  Claire raises her hand and gives an exaggerated and awkward wave.

  Thank you for your time. Again, sorry for the interruption.

  ZINNIA

  The tram came to a stop at a small station and as Zinnia climbed off she asked, “You said something about comfort?”

  Oblivion could be helpful. As a bargaining tool, or as a way to ingratiate herself with the dealers, or just a way to check out for the night. Didn’t hurt to have on hand.

  The tram driver looked around, made sure they were alone. Reached into his pocket and pressed something small and square into her palm. “My name is Jonathan. Look for me on Tuesdays around Live-Play.”

  “How much?” Zinnia asked, sticking her hand in her pocket.

  “First one is free.”

  She wanted to ask him about the CloudBand exploit, but, time and place. She could always follow up. “Thanks.”

  Jonathan gave a little smile. “Follow the red line.”

  On the polished concrete floor was a red strip. Zinnia followed it down a long corridor, to a large room with a maze of roped stanchions and a series of teller windows. Only one of them was manned, and just a few people were waiting on line. Zinnia made her way along the circuitous path until she reached the end of it.

  There were three people ahead of her. One, an older man, was bleeding from a head wound, holding a soaked-through wad of paper towels to his forehead. The second, a girl, was holding her stomach and doubled over in pain. At the window, speaking to the teller, was a man who looked like a detox case, a jumble of sweats and twitching.

  A cave troll of a man sat behind the window and worked through everyone quickly. He got to Zinnia, at which point he sighed and rolled his eyes, shocked and appalled that he had another person to deal with.

  “Malady?” he asked.

  “Dislocated shoulder,” Zinnia said. “Hit my head. Maybe a concussion.”

  Zinnia raised her arm to the scanner disc but saw her watch screen had gone blank. A gray line appeared, slowly crawling a path from left to right.

  The man shook his head. “Guess we’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way. Employee ID?”

  Zinnia recited it and watched as he typed it into the computer. The hospital computers were still online, like she suspected. Score.

  The man behind the glass shook his head. “You weren’t wearing the harness.”

  “I know,” she said. “Can I go in now? My head hurts.”

  He went back to typing, his hands flying across the keyboard. After a few moments he said, “Please proceed to room six, bed seventeen, and someone will be by to see you shortly.”

  The way he said shortly made it pretty clear the wait would be anything but. Zinnia walked through the swinging doors at the end of the row of windows and proceeded down a long hallway that smelled of spilled cleaning supplies. The floor was so shiny her sneakers squeaked. There was a series of gray doors with large blue numbers painted on them.

  Door six opened into a long room of beds and curtains, most of the curtains pulled back, most of the beds empty. The room turned to the right at the end. There were two other people: the doubled-over girl, who seemed a little better now that she was on her side, and a young guy, feet crossed, playing on his phone.

  Zinnia made for bed seventeen and climbed aboard. It was narrow and felt like a stone slab covered by a piece of thin foam padding. She looked around, saw a computer embedded into the wall across from her, with a little station underneath—roller desk and keyboard. Not bad, but also right across from her assigned bed, which was too close for her to be comfortable.

  The man playing on
his phone had his head shaved, the stubble dyed bright green, splotches of forest green on his scalp. She called over to him. “Hey.”

  He didn’t look up from his phone.

  “Hey!”

  He didn’t turn, didn’t stop playing on his phone, but he did raise an eyebrow in response.

  “How long since a nurse has been through here?” she asked.

  “Hour at least,” he said. “I doubt we’ll be seen until the update is over and the full staff is back.”

  “Good,” Zinnia said. “Going to take a nap if I have to wait, then.”

  The guy shrugged a little. Like, Do whatever.

  Zinnia pulled the curtains around the bed and dropped to the floor, military-crawled underneath the beds and deeper down the corridor, taking it extra slow as she passed under the bed of the girl with the stomach issue. The longer she crawled the more her shoulder rasped in the joint, but she ignored it.

  She stopped at the corner, looked down the hallway. No feet. She couldn’t tell if any of the beds were occupied from down on the floor, and she didn’t really like that, so she pushed herself up against the wall where it turned.

  There was one nurse, tapping at a tablet computer. One bed, occupied, the person on it in the fetal position, curled up in a blanket, looking away.

  Zinnia jerked back. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath, then turned the corner and strode down the hallway. The nurse, a Latina with brown frizzy hair, looked up and said, “Sorry honey. I’ll be over in a second.”

  “Actually, I’m headed in there,” Zinnia said, pointing at the women’s room. “But you ought to know, girl around the corner is in a lot of pain.”

  The nurse nodded, put down the tablet. “Sure. You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “But maybe you can check on her?”

  The nurse took off, feet squeaking on the floor. Zinnia watched her disappear and reached into her pocket, took out the gopher. Hustled down the hallway until she found a circular desk full of computers. All of them still on. She selected the one closest to her, put the gopher into a free USB slot on the back.