Revolution

by Shawn Davis

When he had finished the meal, Rayne moved the tray aside and leaned back in the recliner.

  “That was great. Thanks, Campion.”

  “No problem. It is my pleasure after everything we put you through. Would you like a cigarette?” Campion gestured to a pack resting on the desk by her feet.

  “No thanks. Those things will kill ya,” Rayne said, smiling.

  “Yeah, right,” Campion said, raising an eyebrow as she took her feet off the desk and swung around on her reclining swivel chair so she could reach the pack of cigarettes. She took one out and lit up.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Jane said, resuming her reclining position in her chair and placing her feet back on the desk. “I do my best thinking this way,” she added, leaning the chair back as far as it would go until she was almost lying flat on her back. She took a deep drag from the cigarette and blew out an almost-perfect smoke ring, which traveled upwards toward the ceiling before slowly dissipating into whirling gray smoke.

  “I’m sure you do,” Rayne said.

  “Now that we’re on friendlier terms, Mr. Rayne, I think it’s time to discuss your employment options with our organization.”

  Chapter 12

  Punishment

  Campion stared out the window of her fiftieth floor office at the Hovercrafts International downtown building, looking down on the traffic below. She watched the people scurrying about on the sidewalks like ants and the vehicles moving slowly on the road like tiny toy cars.

  She liked the downtown office because it gave her a change of scenery. Being trapped in the confines of the underground base below the warehouse could be stifling at times. Her legitimate position as a Marketing Executive in the company gave her the cover she needed to move about the city freely without raising any suspicions. It also gave her access to a larger communications network, which allowed her to contact agents, who had infiltrated a number of large corporations all over the country.

  Campion returned to her desk and sat in the plush leather office chair. She placed her feet on the gleaming mahogany desktop, leaned back in the chair, and closed her eyes.

  What a strange week. We’ve been searching for the right operative for months and then from out of nowhere comes this raggedy homeless-looking guy, Peter Rayne. What a tremendous stroke of luck. The guy’s an ace with a computer and he’s as tough as nails. Well, for a computer nerd anyway. Still, I think he’s going to work out just fine.

  Rayne aced the test we gave him on the computer. He hacked into a government system faster than any of our guys could. Maybe only a handful of computer experts in the country could do what he did. He shouldn’t have any trouble with the automatic defense systems in the capitol city.

  Rayne also did well on the physical fitness test. Two of our best guys attacked him and the wiry little computer nerd actually held his own. Boxing in college, he says. Boxing. Well, who cares why as long as he can defend himself?

  We give him a quick handgun test on the shooting range and he almost shoots a perfect score. Video games, he says. Video games. Unbelievable. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. His shooting score was only 2 points below mine, and I’m one of the top ten shooters in this organization. Amazing. Yeah, this guy definitely has what it takes. Computer expertise and natural covert operations ability.

  I just hope he doesn’t crack under pressure. It seems unlikely, considering what he’s been through in the past few days. He certainly hasn’t cracked under pressure yet.

  I can’t worry about every contingency. We have someone for the mission and that’s what’s important. Now, it looks like our organization is moving forward, even if it really isn’t. The important thing is that people think we’re making progress. That way, they won’t quit or give up.

  But what about today? Will Rayne be able to handle what happens to him? I talked to Mr. Leland about it last night. Leland seemed confident that Rayne would be able to get through his first day back at work without any problems. Who am I to argue with the president of Hovercrafts International?

  Jane leaned further back in her chair and thought about the president of Hovercrafts International Corporation, Timothy Leland. He was an unusual man. He was one of the richest entrepreneurs in the world, and yet he was part of an underground organization with the goal of toppling the government. He wanted to overthrow the very system that had enabled him to become rich. This contradiction was often hard for Campion to understand.

  On the surface, it didn’t make any sense. But when one delved deeper into the man’s mind, it became obvious who he truly was. Quite simply, Leland was a fanatic like Campion. An obsessive sense of higher justice plagued both and made them unable to enjoy the prosperity they had, while they thought others were suffering. Leland met up with Campion in 2050 and the rest was history. They began building their extensive organization from the ground up. Leland provided the financing and Campion provided the destructive expertise.

  This new guy, Rayne, is quite a character. It seems like a miracle he survived the obstacles he faced in the past few days and still brought Prince’s disc to me intact. It’s almost too perfect.

  But Campion saw a stubborn tenacity in Rayne that she hadn’t seen since she had met her partner, Tim Leland.

  Rayne’s hungry, survival-oriented personality and his computer expertise might make him the ultimate spy and saboteur. It’s too bad I have to send him on a suicide mission.

  Campion paused her rumination to stub out her cigarette on the desk ashtray. Then, she narrowed her eyes

  There is one more concern. Tomorrow is going to be a big day for him. Not big in the sense of being dangerous or challenging. It’s going to be a big day for his ego. I’ve already talked to Tim to make sure everything goes as planned.

  I hope Rayne can handle it. I should have prepared him better. He should have had a lot more training. But he has to return to work tomorrow. If he doesn’t, it will look suspicious. So far, he’s only missed one day. Rayne said he called in sick, albeit nine hours late. Normally, it’s a breach in the rules resulting in termination. Still, Mr. Leland will handle that for him. I just hope Rayne can handle what’s going to happen to him today without losing his composure.

  ********

  “SEVEN FIFTY-EIGHT AM, FEBRUARY 13, 2058, PETER RAYNE, ON TIME,” the computer stated in its pseudo-female voice.

  Rayne had made it to another working day at the great Breechlere Corporation, and although he thought this with a hint of sarcasm, he actually did appreciate being there on that particular day. Peter was determined to get his life into some order after experiencing the harrowing events of the past two days.

  Rayne walked past the suited security guard, who was scowling at him from behind the bulletproof window of his temperature-controlled security station.

  Peter convinced himself that he must have called in sick legitimately yesterday because everything was going the same as before his two-day ordeal. If he had actually been absent from work without a legitimate call-in, the computer would have indicated that fact and he would have been detained and questioned. Instead, he walked unhindered on the heels of hundreds of other employees as they made their way down the short concrete hallway to the main warehouse.

  Twenty enormous steel shipping doors were just beginning to ease open on their mechanical tracks as he passed along the bright yellow walkway lines on his way to the freight elevator. The hum of electric forklifts was familiar and oddly comforting.

  Rayne paused to gaze at the frenetic work activities in the Breechlere Warehouse. It seemed that every area in the place was occupied from the upper tiers of the massive six-story warehouse aisles to the ground floor. The place was packed with frantic human beings scurrying like rats toward their workstations.

  The freight elevator to Level Six, Section One of the Breechlere Warehouse was filled to capacity as usual. As the chicken wire door slid open, he saw the familiar faces of at least twenty of his male and female colleagues. On this day, he actually had som
e energy to recognize the attractiveness of some of the shapely female forms, even in their drab gray jumpsuits.

  Rayne pushed his way through the silent crowd to reach his traditional spot at the rear of the lift, when he inhaled a familiar odor. Glancing left, he realized the stench originated from the lit cigarette hanging from the lower lip of his friend, Billy Ryder.

  Billy stood in what he claimed was his “reserved” spot in the rear. It allowed him to throw used butts out of the circular spaces in the chicken wire during the ascent. Peter wanted to grab his friend and hug him. His excitement upon seeing that his friend had survived could not be suppressed. Peter slid through the crowd toward Billy as Billy stared at him with squinted eyes through a cloud of smoke.

  “Billy! Where you been, buddy?” Rayne exclaimed.

  He reached to give Ryder a friendly pat on the shoulder, but Ryder shrugged off his gesture and turned his back to him.

  “Ryder, what’s wrong with you?” Peter asked. “It’s me. What’s wrong?”

  The elevator screeched to a halt on the sixth level and they had to grab hold of the wire wall to keep their balance on the swaying contraption. Twenty or so employees began to exit as Ryder remained in his spot with his back turned toward him.

  “Billy, what’s wrong with you, man?” Rayne asked, jabbing his finger into his friend’s left shoulder blade.

  He was caught off guard when Ryder turned suddenly toward him, grasped his shoulders, and glared at his face with wide, terrified eyes.

  “You must be some kind of ghost because the Peter Rayne I knew is dead!” Billy whispered to him in a raspy voice. “Everybody knows it! Where have you been, Rayne? You didn’t show up for work yesterday! Why did they let you in here?”

  Peter flinched as he felt Billy’s fingernails digging into his shoulders. He hardly recognized his friend as Ryder glared at him with wild, unfocused eyes.

  “Get off, grunts!” the Floor Supervisor’s voice shouted from across the platform.

  Billy released Peter’s shoulders and sprinted through the cage door, leaving a stream of gray tobacco smoke floating in the air.

  “Billy, will you wait up!” Peter yelled as he sprinted after the only familiar face he had seen in days. “Billy, I saw it all! They killed Henry Johnson! They tried to kill me!”

  He ran up to Ryder and grabbed his right arm as he stepped onto his forklift, Porky.

  “Ryder, you were there! You were with us! Henry is dead! They killed him!”

  “No, Rayne!” Billy shouted, smashing Peter’s hand away. “They told me Henry Johnson is on vacation! Now stay away from me! You can’t be here! They told me you were dead!”

  There was no reason he could think of why Ryder would behave so irrationally. Henry had been executed on national television and he had witnessed it, but Ryder did not seem to accept the reality of the situation. Rayne watched his friend jam the control lever of his machine forward and race away. Wisps of smoke from the lit cigarette hanging in Ryder’s mouth trailed in the air behind him.

  Rayne stood with his hands on his hips and shook his head as he watched his friend speed out of sight behind a stack of cardboard boxes. He heard a familiar voice, slightly amplified, originating from his right. Turning, he saw the familiar wooden podium perched in front of a backdrop of brown numbered boxes piled from floor to ceiling on steel-framed shelves.

  Rayne walked to the rear of the orderly line of employees that was forming in front of the towering, muscular black man behind the podium. Twenty or so employees, dressed in the standard light gray jumpsuits, stood in front of Sinbad in line. They waited in silence as the Herculean scowling man at the head of the group brusquely handed out the perforated computer pages indicating the day’s work.

  Sinbad didn’t look like he was in a good mood. His sweating, muscular body and gleaming bare skull indicated to Peter that he must have started work a couple hours before the bell rang for everyone else. Overtime could be tough. The extra money was nice, but the damage it inflicted on a person’s mood was sometimes irreparable.

  The long line of employees diminished and Rayne finally stood face-to-face with the colossal man. Although he had just partied with him several weeks before at the Nexis Club, Sinbad seemed to stare past him as if he were examining something interesting on the far side of the warehouse.

  Sinbad shoved the perforated computer sheet into his hands and pushed him onward with a heavy shove from his right arm. Peter stumbled backwards from the podium, almost losing his balance. He quickly regained his equilibrium and glared at another one of his so-called “friends.”

  Sweat trickled down the bridge of Sinbad’s nose, accumulating on his upper lip and chin, before finally dripping to the concrete below. The eye that wasn’t covered by the thick black patch gleamed maniacally as the giant tore loose threads from his sleeveless jumpsuit and handed out work assignments. Rayne didn’t move from the spot as he glared at his Floor Supervisor.

  First, Ryder. And now, this guy, he thought. A close friend of ours dies and they won’t even acknowledge my presence.

  Each time Sinbad handed out a computer sheet to an employee, he glimpsed briefly over to see if the ghost of his former acquaintance was still standing there.

  If this had been only a few days ago, Sinbad would have chewed me a new asshole for standing idle. Now, he’s actually trying to ignore me.

  “Sinbad, what’s wrong with you? What’s with Ryder?” Rayne asked. “Our friend was killed on national television and all you can do is-”

  Sinbad’s left hand darted to Rayne’s throat like a striking cobra and clamped onto his neck in a deadly chokehold. Peter felt his eyes protruding from their sockets. He could scarcely breathe as his supervisor’s iron grip closed around his windpipe.

  “Rayne, I don’t know how you got in here today,” Sinbad growled softly like a cornered animal. “And to be honest with you, I don’t care. You were absent from work yesterday and now you stroll by security and go to work as if you never skipped a day. First, everyone tells me you were killed in the Inner City riot. Then, I get a phone call from you calling in sick nine hours late. And now here you are. I don’t know how you did it, but I don’t want you around. You’re trouble. I’m gonna be watching you. I’m gonna be looking over your shoulder when you least expect it and then I’ll laugh when you’re taken away for your tenth Decreased Productivity Charge. Now get out of my face!”

  Rayne gasped for breath as he was thrown through the air and realized the giant had tossed him away like a rag doll. He tried to estimate where the nearby railing was located as he hurtled backwards, terrified that he would soon be flying over it to become a bloody mess six stories below.

  However, instead of plummeting over the railing to his doom, Rayne pummeled into a crowd of ten spectators, who broke his fall with their bodies. His coworkers grasped his body to support him as he fell. Just as swiftly, they dropped him to the floor after receiving a disciplinary stare from the Floor Supervisor.

  Although his absence of the day before had not resulted in formal Store Charges being brought against him, the virtual ostracism by his co-workers seemed to be punishment enough. Rayne thought he understood their confusion. He had disobeyed one of the most stringently enforced rules of the Breechlere Manual: UNAUTHORIZED ABSENCE FROM WORK IS FORBIDDEN.

  Somehow, he had become an exception to the rule. The employees avoided him as if he had a deadly disease.

  Rayne concentrated on his work and went through the motions as he would on any normal day. His co-workers wouldn’t speak to him, but at least he hadn’t received a DP charge for being absent from work yesterday.

  He thought he would make it through the day without getting into trouble when he felt a chill go up his spine. Two gleaming blue air-cycles piloted by a pair of Federal Police Officers pulled into Section 6. He stopped his forklift as he realized they were heading straight for him. Dismounting, he watched the air-cycles glide toward him.

  Here it comes. I should have kno
wn I wouldn’t get away with missing a day of work.

  Within seconds, the cycles were hovering above Rayne’s head. Peter turned briefly toward the wooden podium where the giant grunt supervisor, Sinbad, stood with his monstrous arms folded across his chest. A sarcastic smile was painted on his sweating face and there was a gleam in his single dark pupil.

  The armored officers set their vehicles down upon the concrete surface and stepped from their crafts. The golden Symbol of Prosperity stenciled into the American flag on the Troopers’ headgear reflected the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. Rayne stepped back as one of the Troopers reached inside a small pouch attached to his belt.

  “Give him some Decreased Productivity Charges and fire his sorry ass!” Sinbad shouted. Then, the crowd of workers in Section 6 took up the chant, “DP! DP! DP! DP! DP! DP! DP!”

  The workers repeated this phrase over and over like chanting cult-members. The Federal Police Officer or “Shock Trooper” extracted a small sheet of paper from the leather pouch at his side. Rayne couldn’t see the face of the Trooper through his black reflective faceplate. He could only gaze into his own worried, ragged reflection as he awaited the assignment of his punishment.

  “Grunt number 57418, Peter Rayne. That is you. Is it not?” the officer’s voice spoke mechanically through the filtered vent in his helmet.

  Rayne was too stunned to say a word. Why should he cooperate with the thugs who were responsible for dealing out his punishment? He would probably be sent to the non-existent Work Prisons. In other words, the sewers. But as the Trooper leaned closer to him and the chanting of the surrounding workmen grew louder, he finally spoke.

  “What’s going on, officer?”

  “Please come with us, sir,” one of the armored Troopers said, referring to the document in his hands. “Please step aboard.”

  The air-cycle patrol bikes were no larger than the old Jet-Ski vehicles Rayne remembered racing through the water when he was a kid on vacation. He stepped aboard and grasped onto the armor of the pilot to keep his balance. He didn’t understand why they didn’t put handcuffs on him.