by Gates, J.
“He said they were going to take you down, May! You and your dad. I had to give them something; I had no choice.”
The only answer is the rush and tick of the rain. I stare at Randal, trying to set him on fire with my eyes.
“You’ll get to train for the marketing department, May. And I’m gonna be in the tech development tier! I’m gonna be a Blackie,” he continues.“Everything’s working out like it should. And Kali . . . Kali is no good for you anyway.”
“Go to hell, Randal.” I say, and stalk off into the downpour.
I won’t see him again for weeks. He’ll train for the next two years at the tech development school in N-Hub 3 before finally taking up his position at Cranton. I’ll only see him once more before he leaves. After that, he’ll try sending me e-mails for a while, telling me about how much he loves his new school, telling me about his new best friend—some guy training for an HR psychology position. He’ll try to convince me that what we did was for the best. I’ll delete the e-mails without replying. Years later when we happen to get assigned to the budget presentation together, the allure of a familiar face will be strong enough to make me forgive and forget.
Today, though, I wander in the rain. And tonight, I’ll see my Kali for the second to last time.
—Chapter Ø11—
The elevator plummets, and I descend into the bowels of Cranton. On the lowest floor, I hurry past hallways: X hall, Y hall, and finally Z hall. Here, a thick black door that looks as if it’s made of carbon fiber stands closed. I step toward it, hoping to hear the familiar chirp as the door reads my cross and slides open. Instead, Eva consoles me: Sorry, May Fields. Clearance denied.
I grit my teeth in frustration and weigh my options. I could try to get clearance, but that would raise all kinds of red flags. I could bring my father down here—as CEO, he has access to all Company doors. But who knows where he is now? He might be halfway across the world on business for all I know. One thing is certain: I have to get in here, and I have to get in now.
Just then, I hear the voices of two men coming down the hall. I silently slip behind a marble column and listen as the Peakers approach.
“The levels of d-dark matter are negligible,” the first one says.
“It’s still enough to disrupt the experiment if we d-don’t neutralize it.”
They’re close. I hold my breath, waiting to be discovered, but instead the electronic door voice pipes up: Mr. Reyes, Mr. Mason, welcome to Black Brands.
Then comes the whoosh of the door sliding open and the clatter of footsteps as the Peakers pass inside and down the hall. Without a second thought, I dash out from my hiding place and shoot through the doorway.
“I just don’t see how it’s going to work . . . ” one of the Peakers is saying, as I slip behind them and take cover next to another large fake plant.
The door whooshes shut again behind me. The Peakers’ footsteps fade away down the hall. I’m shocked and strangely concerned at how easy all that was. For better or worse, I am now inside Black Brands. I step out from behind my plant and head down the hallway, trying to walk with purpose so as to not appear out of place.
This hall is no different from the others in Cranton: rich-looking red wallpaper and strange paintings adorn the walls. Big fake plants are everywhere. Classical music murmurs from the ceiling. But something is different. I can feel it.
Now, on my right, I approach a heavy-looking paneled door. With one hand on the door-handle, I take a deep breath, then push it open and poke my head in. If the rest of Black Brands were to be judged by the contents of this room, it must be a pretty benign place. There’s a big conference table, a bunch of chairs, and an electronic chalkboard full of mathematical equations.
I proceed to the next door. This room is as strange as the last was boring. It appears to be a medical exam room of some sort. White walls surround a ceramic medical table, on which the body of a middle-aged man rests. I look up and down the hall to be sure no one is coming, then step inside the room. Slowly, I approach the exam table.
The cadaver is wrapped in a white sheet with only his waxy-looking face exposed. The cross that was in his cheek has been pulled partway out. Wires run from the cross and appear to be connected deep inside the dead man’s face. On the wall, an imager screen hangs. Ones and zeros flit across a black background. All is silent here save for the distant whir of the air conditioner. Suddenly, the sound seems to surround me, and I get the disturbing impression that I’m at the center of some giant, humming machine. The dead man’s eyes stare emptily toward the ceiling. I lean closer to him, staring in fascination and disgust at the slit in his cheek.
Suddenly, he blinks.
I gasp and stumble backward until my back is pressed against the door. My hand fumbles for the handle, then in an instant I’m back in the hallway, my heart thumping wildly. But there’s no time to catch my breath. Up the hall, two patrolling squadmen hear me burst into the hallway. I watch in horror as they turn toward me—but already, I’m ducking into another door, slamming it shut behind me.
When I turn to face this new room, I’m shocked to find five people seated at a conference table, blinking at me expectantly. Two of them are the men I followed into Black Brands. The other three are woman. Then all smile at me strangely as I hold my breath, calculating my next move.
I’m even more surprised when one of the men stands and extends a hand.
“You must be Doctor Mullins,” he says. “I’m Walter Reyes. Thank you so m-much for coming all the way from Cranton West to join us. Please, sit.”
This is all too strange, too surreal. Who the hell do they think I am? What am I supposed to do? But I have no time to think, no chance to form a plan. If I go out into the hall, the squadmen will snatch me up for sure. All I can do is muster a smile and take the chair I’m offered.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, casually wiping at the sheen of sweat that’s suddenly appeared on my forehead.
“First, let me just say we’re all big fans of your work,” Reyes says. “We’ve read all your memos.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“So let’s get right down to it,” Reyes says, and they all stare at me expectantly. Several of them have their ICs out, ready to take down notes on whatever it is I’m supposed to say. I shift in my seat, clear my throat.
“Why, uh . . . why don’t you start?” I suggest.
Reyes seems taken aback for a second then nods. “Oh, you mean start with what we know of your work?”
“Exactly.”
Reyes glances at his colleague, Mason, who begins. “Okay, maybe we should start with your nano-poisons. You’ve developed over two thousand different varieties, each of them completely programmable and able to attack a d-different type of cell.”
Flashing before my eyes, I see an image of the little boy on the Africa Division hilltop, his arm extended, finger pointing, as he falls to the dust. I see the dart in his neck. A dart that, I suspect, must have been filled with nano-poison.
“Why?” I ask, my voice quivering.
Reyes and Mason glance at one another, perplexed.
“Excuse me?” Reyes says.
Mason turns to him with disdain. “It’s Socratic questioning, moron,” he says, then turns back to me with a confident grin. “Right, Doctor. I understand. We use the nano-p-poison because it’s more humane than other poisons. And undetectable. And when we get quantities up, it’ll be cheaper than bullets, right?”
Everyone laughs except me.
“Sorry,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice steady. “Humor me while I play devil’s advocate here. What I’m asking is, why are we making these poisons in the first place?”
Reyes looks at me, mystified. “Because,” he says, “it’s our j-job.”
To that, I can make no response. I sit there, frozen, morti
fied, until from behind me I hear the sound of the door opening. I turn to see a silver-haired woman entering.
“Terribly sorry I’m late,” she says, and introduces herself: “Edna M-M-Mullins.”
Instantly, all eyes are on me.
“What—?” Reyes blurts, rising to his feet.
But I’m already halfway to the door.
“Excuse me,” I mumble, shoving my way past Dr. Mullins and out into the hallway. Then, I run.
Hundreds of paneled doors streak past on either side of me, but I lack the courage to open any of them. All I can do is run, faster and faster, until I’ve fled this place and all the horrible meaning it contains. Ahead, the hallway dead-ends at two heavy, metal doors. I blast through them and find myself in a warehouse of unbelievable scale. The walls could be a mile distant. The ceiling seems a thousand feet away. I sprint down aisleway after aisleway and am surrounded at every turn by horrors:
Crate after crate of strange, black guns.
Rows of large, flying drones.
Ranks of fearsome-looking robots.
And racks and racks of small, black, triangular aircraft, the same ones from McCann’s video. The labels on the racks read: Ravers. Next to that, the N-Corp logo.
Even in repose, the aircraft are terrifying to behold. Small, dark disks—probably infrared sensors—seem to watch me as I hurry past. I half expect to see the Ravers rise one by one, hover slowly but inexorably toward me, then fill me with a thousand darts full of nano-poison death.
I run, faster and harder than I’ve ever run before. After sprinting for what seems like hours, I reach the outer perimeter of the warehouse, find a bank of elevators, ride them up to the main level, then pick my way through the maze-like corridors of Cranton. By the time I finally make it out, tears have already risen to my eyes and then dried again. I stumble down the Cranktown steps and linger at the edge of the street, watching the traffic lurch and stop, lurch and stop, staring at the taillights like some lunatic unprofitable.
In this moment, I feel utterly hollow, empty enough that the wind could blow right through me. My hands tremble. My head pounds. Across the street, a huge sign reads: N-Shopping.
I don’t so much walk as drift toward it. I have no sensation of my feet touching the ground. I can hardly hear the cars honking all around me. The slogans blaring from the imagers wash over me as imperceptibly as the faintest breeze. All I feel is my brow, knotted, furrowed, heavy, as the weight of my thoughts presses down on me. I imagine that the weight, the pressure, will either crush my spirit completely or temper it, harden it, turn it into something new—as coal under tremendous pressure becomes a diamond.
~~~
Welcome, May Fields. A fifty-dollar entry fee has been added to your account. Have a blessed day.
The chaos of the shopping plaza mirrors the confusion in my mind. Dazed, milling shoppers choke the great marbled halls. A handsome young man pauses to swallow a handful of pills. Squadmen patrol the area, moving slowly and deliberately through the crowd like sharks through a school of fish. Store windows showcase the new fall line. It’s just the same as last year’s—only twice as expensive. To my left, I notice a woman arguing with a retail manager.
“N-Corp is very sorry, but there are no refunds,” the manager says. “Next in line.”
“The thing was broken when I got it!” the woman protests.
But the manager has already forgotten her. He cranes his neck to see the rest of the waiting customers. “Next in line!”
A moment later, two sweaty tie-men duck out of a storefront labeled N-Surance and hustle toward me.
The taller one shouts: “Hey! Miss! We got the best deal around on health insurance!”
“You can’t pass this up,” the shorter one says. “Just let us show you some numbers.”
I push my way past them, but they hurry along with me.
“Two hundred K a month, full coverage!” one says.
“Today only: free luggage when you sign up.”
I double my pace, suddenly ill, but the taller one grabs my arm, desperate to detain me.
“Come on, just give us five minutes!” he says.“We got a quota to hit!”
I pull away from him and keep walking as his pleading fades into the murmur of the crowd: “Please! Come on, please!”
Ahead, an unspeakably handsome man stands at a kiosk, with his equally adorable little son. Suddenly, a shrill beeping sound emanates from the checkout.
“You have exceeded your credit limit, Mr. Blanford. Prepare to be detained. ”
The man backs away, but before he can run three squadmen have laid hold of him and are dragging him away.
The little boy stands frozen in place, watching as his dad disappears behind a pair of steel doors set into the shopping plaza wall. “Daddy?” he calls.
But the doors are shut. It’s as if his dad never existed at all. The boy’s head swivels as he looks around in confusion, searching for something or someone—his mother, maybe. Instead, his eyes find mine. They’re brimming with tears.
Suddenly, I’m running again. I can’t be responsible, I think over and over again. Not for the little boy. Not for the Company. Not for Kali. Not for any of this. It’s not my problem if these stupid tie-men can’t hit their quota, or if Dagny outspent her productivity and got repossessed. It’s a competitive world. Hard workers win; lazy people fail. That’s the natural way: it’s called justice. So what if a few weak losers end up suffering to pave the way for the rest of us to live in luxury? Why should strong, successful people like me waste five minutes worrying about unprofitables? They aren’t my responsibility.
These are the thoughts I’ve consoled myself with my entire life, but now, for some reason I can’t fathom, they fill me with a nameless horror. Because they’re lies, a voice inside me says. They’ve always been lies, and you know it.
Nauseated, I make my way to the nearest wall and lean there. Sweat covers my forehead. My legs shaking, I slide along the wall to a corner, where a cherry panel meets a marble column, and take out my IC.
Ethan’s words ring through my head: You have to go to your father. Get his help. The Company has to be stopped. . . .
As I pull up my father’s number on my IC, I glance over my shoulder. Is it my imagination or are those tie-men following me? And if they are, who do they work for, the Protectorate—or the Company?
My IC connects.
Dyanne’s voice sounds shrill and strange when she answers.
“Hellooo?”
“Where’s my dad?”
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think? I need to talk to him.”
I glance over at the tie-men who were following me. They’ve disappeared—for now.
“Well,” Dyanne drawls, “your father’s in a board meeting right
now. . . . ”
“Where?”
There’s a slight pause. “It’s a closed meeting, May.”
“That’s perfect,” I say. “Where?”
~~~
N-Corp Cathedral.
The polished steel panels of the walls intertwine. Their shapes evoke a feeling of movement, almost seeming to swoop like soaring angels around the grand, stained-glass windows before ascending to an expansive domed ceiling almost as high as heaven itself. Many skylights stare up at the nightfall. The carpet underfoot is plush, my steps silent. I pass between suede-covered pews—each with its own row of small, square imager screens, all dark. The immensity of this space can only be compared to that of a football stadium or a large combat arena. But there is no crowd here tonight. Only me.
I hurry down one of many aisles, toward the point where they all converge: it is the decadently ornate pulpit familiar to every N-Corp employee, perhaps to every person in the world. The Jimmy Shaw Hour in Christ films h
ere.
Behind the pulpit, a three-story-tall cross rises from the floor, huge and gray. Without warning, it startles me by coming alive with a swirling, beautiful array of light. After a moment, the various shapes and hues finally coalesce into the form of a crucified Christ, complete with bleeding wounds and slowly blinking eyes. The image—that’s all it is, of course; the cross itself is just a huge 3-D imager screen—is startlingly, disturbingly lifelike. The activated cross now bathes the whole darkened sanctuary in eerie light.
I rush forward to a small door near the base of the cross. I have never been behind the scenes of Jimmy’s show, so I don’t know where the hallway leads. All I know is that my father is here somewhere, and I have to find him. The staircase behind the cross is completely dark, its shadows stirred to life only by the flickering of the cross above.
I descend. My footsteps carry me down the staircase for what must be two, three, four stories. At the base of the stairs, one lone squad guard steps out of the shadows. Behind him: one more door.
“Stop,” he says to me. He asks for no explanation, and I offer none. I watch him in the tenuous light, staring down at the screen of his IC. After a moment, it beeps.
I fully expect to be arrested, detained, fined, demoted. Instead, the squad member nods to me. “Welcome, Miss Fields. They’ve been expecting you.”
That’s disconcerting, since I wasn’t expecting to be here myself. . . .
He opens the door for me, and I pass through. The room I enter is large, but still ringed in darkness. At its center, an overhead light shines down on a conference table. There’s Yao, Jimmy Shaw, my father, and several other people whose names escape me. Leaning against the far wall, his arms folded, stands Blackwell.
At first, no one notices my presence.
Yao leans forward and places a data stick in the center of the table.
“This is the list,” she says. “Black Brands division will handle the processing. For both companies combined, the number will be one million thirty-seven thousand.”
The others nod slowly. That’s when Dad notices me.