by Edward Zajac
There was only one problem: the procedure would cost 432,985 credits. Sadly, Zagarat only had 40,000 credits left to his name. Dr. Je-oh then recommended the Dysone Foundation, which often helped families in dire situations such as theirs, but the foundation deemed Margarat unsuitable for assistance. Unsuitable, of course, meaning too old in this case.
That left Zag with only one option as far as he was concerned. He had to get the money from the one group that wouldn’t miss it. The Deus Syndicate. The mega-corporation was so enormous that credits often fell through the proverbial cracks of the accounting department, often because of simple accounting errors.
Now, they would disappear because of a deliberate accounting error by Zagarat.
He’d pay it back, of course. With interest. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when. But he knew he would, so long as they didn’t find out and kill him before he could.
Zagarat squeezed his mother’s hand. “I’m gonna make sure you get better. After everything you’ve done for me, it’s the least I can…”
Just then, there was a stentorian rumble followed by three raspy gasps and a high-pitched whistle. Zag looked up only to find Margarat sleeping soundly, her nose acting as the wind section, her throat the percussion, and her backside rounding out the horn section of this full body orchestra.
Zagarat chuckled, pushing himself upright. “Come on, you old crone,” he said, slipping his hands gingerly beneath her recumbent body. Ever so gently, he lifted her into the air and carried her to her bedroom, his eyes glistening with newfound tears.
agarat was having the most wonderful dream. His sixth grade teacher Ms. Calu-Calu was scolding him for having forgotten his homework. Zag, however, didn’t mind because she was wearing a black leather corset, matching high-heel shoes, and those black plasticene glasses that drove him mad at that age. His mind had ameliorated the rest to his liking, which meant that she was now a D cup, had a leather strop in her right hand, and milky white skin just begging to be kissed. She was leaning forward, framing her sweeping décolletage perfectly before him and threatening to give him an oral exam, when an alarm bell blared somewhere off in the distance.
The images slowly faded into the morass of his mind. He whimpered softly as grudging consciousness crept over him.
The first thing he saw when he blearily opened his eyes was his poster for UUUU; a Starlight-class Preylon Eviscerator hovering between two wave gates. Beside that was his closet, where he stored most of his gaming and tech supplies. Most of his clean clothes were scattered across whatever flat surfaces were available in the room, while his dirty, stinky, and slightly bedraggled clothes littered the floor beneath his feet. The only clear flat surface was his console because he needed that room for gaming.
After all, you had to have your priorities in check.
Only then did Zag recognize the noise. It was the ringtone for his Home Monitoring System, which he had installed a few weeks ago after a rash of robberies on the fortieth floor.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then slipped on his PCD and opened the prog. The words FRONT DOOR appeared in large, orange letters in the middle of the screen. After blinking the world into focus, he brought up the feeds to the front door security cameras.
The view from the interior camera wasn’t at all interesting, but the view from the external camera certainly was. It was not only interesting; it nearly acted as an all-natural laxative.
There were two men standing outside his front door, dressed in matching black suits, black shoes, and black sunglasses. Even their earpieces were black. But what immediately stood out were their badges: three opaque plasticene ringlets linked in a triangle formation.
The logo of the Deus Syndicate.
Zag’s eyes grew wide. The jig was up. Or down. Or however it was you danced a jig.
Just then, Zagarat noticed some movement. “Ma!” he exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. He ran to the top of the staircase, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms. “Whatever you do…”
Margarat and the two men in black looked up at him, their expressions expressionless.
“…don’t open the door,” he said softly.
“Zagarat,” said Margarat. “These men from work would like to speak to you.”
“But I don’t want to speak with them.”
“Sir,” said the man on the right, stepping forward. As he moved, a Magi AR-4700 made a cameo appearance beneath his coat. “If you would come with us.”
“But I don’t want to come with you,” said Zagarat in a near whimper.
The other man stepped forward. He evidently preferred the Magi AR-250; a plasma pistol that he kept holstered along his left ribcage. “Please come with us, sir.”
Zagarat dropped his head, the devil on his shoulder playing a funereal dirge as he marched down the stairs.
“Uh, sir,” said the man on the left, gesturing up and down Zag’s body. “You might want to put on some clothes.”
Zagarat looked down at himself. “Oh, yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”
“Might I suggest something business chic.”
“You want me to wear a suit?” said Zagarat. It wasn’t enough that they were going to kill him. First, they were going to inflict woolen torture on him?
“It’s not too often you get to meet the regional president. We’ll wait here with your mother until you’re done.” The man’s crooked smile sent a shiver down Zagarat’s spine.
It took Zagarat nearly fifteen minutes to change his clothes, his hands were trembling so. When he finally finished, he marched back downstairs, the devil reprising his dirge.
Margarat pulled him in close. “You never could tie a tie,” she said, adjusting the knot.
“Thanks,” said Zagarat, with a sad grin. He studied his mother’s face, trying to implant the image on his mental hard drive. He then hugged her tight. “I love you, mommen.”
“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too. Now, go before you piss off the regional president.”
Zagarat chuckled morosely. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to do that.”
The guard on the left stepped aside, making a clear path for Zagarat. Zag dropped his head and walked outside, the other two falling in step behind him.
o, this was the way it was going to end. Not with a bang but a whimper.
Zagarat sure wished it would have been with a bang. To be honest, he couldn’t even remember the last time he had banged. Sure, whenever anyone asked him Zag would claim he banged as much as any other Lerandan male. But in reality, it had been so long ago that for all intents and purposes it might as well have never happened.
And now it was just going to end with him whimpering in the regional president’s office.
Zagarat had never met Sed Gellad before. But if his office was any reflection of the man, then Gellad was going to be stark, white, and an absolute waste of space, as well as a pain to look at.
The room was twenty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, with walls so white they were practically effulgent. A white sofa rested against a nearby wall, the Bylarian fern beside it seeming all the more lush and verdant in this stark white landscape. There was little else in the room besides an opaque plasticene desk with nothing on it and two uncomfortable-looking chairs longing for company.
Zag looked nervously around the room. According to the diploma on the far wall, Sed was an alumnus of Starward—one of the august universities on the planet Academia.
Academia was the Mecca of intellectual enlightenment. A place where the universe’s greatest cognoscenti can ponder all of life’s mysteries without menial distractions.
As long as they could afford it.
According to their last audit, there were over five thousand islands on the planet, each dedicated to a particular field of study. There were literary islands, physics islands, the philosophers’ islands where the greatest minds spend years contemplating their place in the universe, though most thought it was just an excuse to loaf around and do nothing.
And each of
those islands had its own subcultures. For example, the literary island had over one thousand sundry groups whose studies ranged from the most transcendent poetry to those writers who were nothing more than droplets of dew in the literary ocean. And there were new groups forming all the time, the newest of which was Non Vampira where if they had to read another book about vampires they were going to blow their own freaking brains out.
Just when Zagarat thought he might have an aneurysm from the stress, the doors opened and a stocky Lerandan male with shaggy brown hair and an oblong pink face entered. “Well, you’ve really done it this time, Mr. Cole.”
Zagarat jumped to his feet. “Sir, I can explain.”
“Sit, sit,” said Sed, waving his hand absently. He sat down on the corner of his desk and pulled out a digital ledger. “Do you know what this is, Mr. Cole?”
“A datapad?” said Zagarat in the midway between a question and a statement.
“Yes, of course it’s a datapad,” said Sed churlishly. “I mean, do you know what I have on my datapad?”
“Data?” Zagarat ventured.
Sed let out an exasperated sigh. “This is a letter from Mr. Bryce. You do know who Mr. Bryce is, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” Carlen Bryce was the CEO of the Deus Syndicate. Everyone knew that.
“Now, I usually don’t get memos directly from the CEO so you could imagine my surprise when I logged in this morning. And you know what surprised me even more? The letter was all about you. Would you like to know what he wrote?”
“Of course, sir,” said Zagarat, his voice cracking slightly.
“It was very interesting,” said Sed, scrolling through the document. “He wrote… Oh, I nearly forgot. Would you like some coffee? Tea? I hear you’re a big fan of Dorian Cocoa.”
“I…um… no, sir. I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Very well,” said Sed, returning to his datapad. “It says here… Are you sure you don’t want anything? We have some wonderful muffins from the bakery down the street.”
“Um… No, thank you, sir.” I’ll be less likely to throw up on an empty stomach, he added to himself.
Sed shrugged. “Suit yourself. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It says here that Mr. Bryce has chosen you…”
To die, thought Zagarat, closing his eyes and bracing for the inevitable.
“For a special outsourcing assignment.”
The words rappelled the firewall of Zag’s mind. He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry. What now?”
“Evidently, an associate of his needs a personal tech for a week or so and Mr. Bryce has chosen you for that distinguished honor.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Sed. “Mr. Bryce would consider it a personal favor if you said yes.”
“Oh,” said Zagarat. “That’s a very nice offer. I’ll be happy to do it when I return.”
“Return?” said Sed, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yes, I’m going on vacation for the next few weeks.”
“But Mr. Bryce needs you now. You leave in the morning.”
“Oh,” said Zagarat. “In that case, I can’t do it. Thank you for the offer though.”
Sed’s face tightened as if Zagarat had just told him that capitalism was evil. “I’m sorry? What did you just say?”
“I can’t do it,” he repeated. “I can recommend a few of my colleagues if you’d like.”
Sed chuckled. “I’m sorry. You must have mistaken that for a request. When the CEO of the tenth largest mega-corporation asks you to do something, you do it. Do you understand?”
“I do, sir. It’s just that my mother really has her heart set on this vacation and I…”
Sed’s incredulous stare cowed Zag into silence.
“Zagarat,” said Sed, leaning forward as if about to impart some great universal truth. “I know you’re only a tech and thus oblivious to the machinations of the corporate world. All that matters to you are the binary numbers zero and one. Which reminds me, why not add the number two? Just imagine how much more you could accomplish if you had one more number than everyone else. Just think about that. Now, where was I?”
“Corporate machinations?” Zagarat offered.
“Ah, yes. You see, there is a socio-political hierarchy in the corporate world. At the top is the CEO, followed by COO, CTO, CIO, CSO, C-YA-GO.” Sed chuckled. “That’s a corporate joke.” Zagarat smiled politely. “Never mind. Then there are your presidents, vice presidents, junior vice presidents, and so on. And each of those executives will only deign to speak with someone within two corporate levels of themselves. The CEO will never speak to anyone below vice president. A VP will never speak to anyone below Senior Management…”
As Sed continued his hierarchal speech, Zag began to ponder various forms of suicide. There was no poison nearby, so that was out. He might be able to break the frame around the diploma and use one of the resulting shards of plastiglass to slit his own throat. Or stab himself in the eye. That could work, especially if the shard was long enough to pierce his brain. Of course, he’d see the shard coming so he’d probably have to mount it onto the desk and then throw himself bodily onto the shard of plastiglass. While it wasn’t ideal, it still seemed better than listening to Sed’s Public Service Announcement on the Corporate Ecosystem and You.
“And a section manager will only deign to speak with a sectional regional manager,” Sed continued, oblivious to Zagarat’s mental suicide attempts. “You, for example, are a tech and thus at the bottom of the corporate barrel. The dregs, so to speak. You’re lucky to even be talking to someone like me. Do you understand what I’m trying to say here, Zagarat?”
Not a sunning clue, thought Zag, but chose not to utter those words aloud. “Well, I…”
“Zag,” said Sed, leaning back and folding his arms against his chest. “Let me put it this way. Do you want Mr. Bryce to be your friend or do you want him to be your enemy?”
“Ah,” said Zagarat. “I guess friend would be better.”
“Good choice,” said Sed, with a wink. “Now, I’m going to bring in our client so you two can meet.” Sed flipped open his PCD. “Cara, would you send him in please?”
Zagarat turned around just as the doors slid open. He nearly did a double take. “You.”
“You two know each other?” asked Sed.
“We met the other day,” said the stranger. “But not formally.” He held out his hand. “My name is Fletcher Griffin. Entrepreneur, ladies’ man, and all around great guy.”
Zagarat found himself lost in the splendor of the man’s effulgent blue eyes. It was like looking into the depths of a deep blue sea and the longer you stared, the deeper you sank into the abyss. It wasn’t until Sed cleared his throat soundly that Zag awoke from this mesmeric trance.
“Hello,” said Zag, shaking the proffered hand. “My name is, um…. Zagarat. Zagarat Cole. But my friends call me Zag.”
“Then I hope you won’t mind if I call you Zag. So, when would you like to leave?”
“No time like the present,” Sed interjected cheerfully.
“Actually,” said Zagarat, standing. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”
Sed’s face tightened. “Zagarat…”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Gellad,” said Zagarat. “You have no idea how sorry, but I can’t do this.” He swallowed hard, blinking away tears. “I’m sure Mr. Gellad will find you someone much more qualified.” He slowly edged his way towards the door, squinting as if in pain. “Thank you for this opportunity and I wish you the best in all your teching endeavors.” The door opened. “Goodbye.”
When the door closed, Sed stood and said, looking appropriately embarrassed, “I apologize for my employee, Mr. Griffin. While Zagarat has many sterling attributes, his mental OS lacks any coding for proper social behavior, if you understand my meaning.” Fletcher said nothing. He merely stared at the closed door, smiling. “Perhaps you’d like to interview a few of our other talented techs?” Sed ventured, hopefully. “The Lerandan branch is rife with s
upreme talent.”
“No need,” said Fletcher, still smiling. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Gellad.”
Then without another word, Fletcher left, all the while smiling to himself.
ell, I’m screwed, thought Zagarat as he made his way through the office.
Of course this opportunity would present itself right about now. It only seemed to confirm Zagarat’s lifelong belief that whoever was writing his story in the Great Cosmic Diary just plain didn’t like Zag. It explained why Luna Fenerova had dumped him on the night of the Senior Social, why Torson Gimlet had stomped on his favorite toy in the third grade, and why the CEO of the Deus Syndicate had just made him an offer he had to refuse.
All because the fates didn’t like him.
Zagarat gated directly for the maglift, hoping to escape before the inevitable squad of well-armed guards arrived. That was the problem with reading so many Ginley Aust novels. They were so much more interesting than real life.
In S IS FOR S, Errin Zee–a pithy detective with a heart of gold and a deusteel-plated will–had to evade the authorities (and her feelings for Delin Ots) as she struggled to rescue a damsel in distress and possibly rescue herself from the prison of her own wicked ways. In reality, Zagarat Cole–a neurotic tech who wasn’t a hero in anyone’s story but his own, and rarely then–had to avoid Deus scrutiny as he tried to save his own damsel in distress.
Admittedly, that damsel was his elderly mother while, according to the Universal Universal Dictionary, it should have been a young noblewoman or a malfunctioning cellular phone of some kind.
“What are you doing here?” asked Meris as Zag passed his desk. “You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
Zagarat’s first instinct was to say, “Kissing my ass goodbye,” but knew better than to say that aloud.
Meris smiled knowingly. “You came back for your mug, didn’t you?”