Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  Machiavelli was right. Boy, was he right.

  It was the easiest thing in the world to figure out. Elitism was not only logical, it was for the few. Duh! So, was one going to be a guardian of it or not? The trick, according to Puerile & Co., was to have someone else do the guardian role. The knack was to enjoy the fruits, to build up the pillow collection.

  Well, he felt as if he had a bulletproof backing mechanism. The IDHII/Merrette plc Board was so irrefutably behind him that he thought, ‘What need I to clip my toenails or flush my loo, when I can have the Board do it? They love me. Unconditionally.’

  Well, it was true. They had seen to all his luxury-tax needs, and they’d kept him in Szczecin caviar and chicory chips from Paul’s in Paris. But what about the future? Could he actually keep his status and station after the pre-agreed time span? Would they give him a good gig? A better one?

  That Deukalion Smith and Loby Cruncheon! Why! He was at least as smart as them. Put together! He could do their job at least as well as they could. After all, they just greeted people and made general statements, and did stuff. Why couldn’t he? A possible strategy might involve squeezing them out. They’d been in long enough, anyway. Time for the New People, heh!

  He consumed a cube of Orange-Like Bob juice, perfect for getting his endorphins honed for tactical exercises. Time to turn on the Octophonic Ur-Steereo System 995. The Crushers were next, after the last movement of Popov’s Symphony #6 finished. It was a heady cocktail, especially at this time in the morn. He emerged from this severe sonic session crawling on his belly, from his settee to his Thrill Throne massage chaise. Hadn’t some of his films been scored just as powerfully? And by the same guy? Hmm. He used to know all these details, in crystal clarity.

  Well, no matter. Time to get on with The Crushers.

  But just as he was about to release the Pause button, he heard a tremendous pop/burst sound coming from the Dining Concourse. As part of his private estate down here, this breakfast/lunch/dinner/supper area, the size of a bowling alley, stretched in linear fashion along the periphery of the building, with especially soothing and scenic panoramas lining the ‘window’ coverage on the wall.

  The Concourse even had an edgy ‘Verandah’ section, where the diner could gaze upward and instead of a starry sky, the profound openness of a ‘Thrill Shaft’, over a thousand feet high, revealed itself, with a zipper-line of dim lights, stretching to a vanishing point. Isaac had intended it as a bungee-jumpy romper room, but the anchor brackets failed in the testing, and three daredevils perished. So it languished as a dead zone, an access to a dismal infinite. Most unsettling was the feeling that it would somehow suck the viewer up into a sort of empty limbo horrorshow. No one would even know of its existence unless they happened to be guests of the COO, dining on the Verandah, and looking straight up, in search of where the bat guano was coming from. Instantly anxiety-inducing for some, a reversal of vertigo for others, and, for the very few, just an upchucked lunch. Is was one of Isaac’s favorite spots to freak out enemies and grill potential adversaries.

  As the upper terrace of the Concourse was subtly lighted, and the ‘windows’ had all their key lights and visual effects turned on, the spectacle was clear enough to Butterbugs as to what was actually transpiring.

  The noise seemed to be coming from behind the windows, behind the display apparatus, because he could see the projection screens in a center section ripple and shake. The larger sensation reverberated up and down the forbidding Thrill Shaft.

  Oh, well, that was easy to explain. The Crushers were rolling at top volume and the speakers were behind the screen.

  ‘I’ll just turn ’er down a tad.’ And he did.

  Same thing persisted.

  ‘Oh, OK. I’ll just turn ’er off, I guess. Speaker must’ve blown clear out. I’ll just bill the band.’

  There were indeed Vox of the Thiertre stacks installed in the living rock, but they were about as blow-out-proof as the rocks that make up the Hindu Kush. With volume reduced and then retracted, the rippling still occurred behind the projection screen.

  Butterbugs then went down into the sunken expanse and observed the phenomenon close up. There seemed to be a problem with the wall behind, the very stone that made up the base of the well he occupied. Like a timid worshiper before a mega-god statue, he warily glanced up the Thrill Shaft. The zipper-line of lights was all but obscured by disturbed dust and airborne heavy metal filings. Mechanical-sounding clangs and echoes occurred way up there somewhere.

  ‘That thing scares me,’ he mumbled dully.

  A bit of flux from some vein of mineral in conflict with its surroundings? A little soil creep? Vermin tunneling in the wrong direction? The Mole People approaching? Isaac Davis busting out of hell on a vengeance mission?

  He gave a little outburst laugh that promised comic relief.

  Oh, it was probably a malfunction with the fakey ‘window washing’ mechanism, complete with audio-animatronic dummies, that Isaac proudly installed to give occupants that genuine high-rise experience. The ‘workers’ were even programmed to ‘fall’ when fake windstorms were staged via a rinkydink computer program. Like the bungee jumping, he’d planned to offer thrill rides on the mechanism, but things needed fine tuning. Banned from Vegas, Davis had always wanted to launch a theme park. These were his only attempts, cruddy little accents to his precious crustscraper.

  An executive must be expeditious in decision-making and problem solving. Why speculate, when an expert can be called?

  Because the situation seemed to be confined to the earthen material outside of the main frame of the building’s sunken superstructure, an architect, engineer, or amusement park ride mechanic need not be tapped. Better to seek the opinion of one who practiced one of the Dry Sciences. In this case, Geology.

  At the nearest telephone kiosk (they were placed every twenty feet), Butterbugs scanned the Yellow Pages for a geologist. There were quite a few conveniently listed. After several answering service dead ends, he got a human being at the other end.

  Meanwhile, the rumblement segued into an uneasy stillness.

  It is illustrative of the fact that Butterbugs had bought so fully into the COO role that he did not think of calling Security or some other specifically local authority after witnessing this somewhat disturbing development. For it is peculiar to the executive race, that when confronted with some situation or even a crisis of an objective nature, the default is to view it as a possibility rather than a reality. So, to keep one’s personal agenda in mind, the idea of bringing in a consultant to advise is the most prudent and legally-safe route to be pursued, before coherent action is taken. That way, if the situation goes south, any consultant or third party can be held up for blame – er – responsibility, for the failure. That is, provided that canny – if not wily – consideration on the executive’s part is applied. Because, rather than making rash decisions, he instead pursues a wise course based on input from experts, so that a careful and timely decision can be made. For the benefit of all, naturally. Any subsequent litigation would prove this to be the only and obvious choice.

  Covering one’s ass is what it’s all about, baby. That’s what he had learned being a COO. Competence had nothing to do with it.

  Within a half hour the lift doors opened and there appeared he who had announced over the phone that indeed, he was on call this Saturday morning, for whatever geologic needs one required. With test kit knapsack in hand, almost like a country doctor, but without the string tie and little black bag, house calls were certainly in order, and this geologist, College Plerrie, PhD, was ready to serve.

  He displayed some degree of nervousness, but, as a scientist in a geologically active and fascinating region, his mission was clear and his duty remained to be seen.

  ‘Geologist, welcome! I run this place. Uh, pray… A thing, over here.’ Butterbugs beckoned, then pointed. ‘Over there. What is it, anyway?’

  Most geologists are particularly wary when someone who is not a co
lleague attempts to talk shop with them, so when Butterbugs emitted this line of drivel, Dr. Plerrie knew that having such a twit for a client was going to be an easy job, so he was prepared to pontificate at first opportunity.

  ‘I’m College Plerrie. You said you heard a sound. A possible invasive dike alteration?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t want to confuse you. Just show me the problem zone, and we’ll see if it’s actually subduction or not.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or, in this tectonically-influenced super-region, the –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just show me the way.’

  ‘Come on through!’

  They proceeded to the sunken dining zone and its bumpy wall. There was an entirely different atmosphere in there now. It was as if the molecules of the air were being compressed, and with this pressure came a sort of purply haze. Butterbugs attempted to turn up the rheostat for the lighting, but it was already at maximum setting.

  ‘There must be something wrong,’ he mumbled, continuing to fiddle with the control. ‘The mechanism’s jammed!’

  ‘I’m afraid we’ve got bigger problems than a little dimmer switch, you dud!’

  ‘That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, College.’

  ‘Great sakes!’ exclaimed Dr. Plerrie, ‘I think we have an occurrence of pre-predictive stack creak, with potential for eziometric compaction! You didn’t say anything about this! We might have an emergency! We shouldn’t even be down here!’

  Butterbugs immediately thought of his Pan-Kevin Thierry alpaca tracksuit, still in its new box in the bedroom. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to wear it in the gym yet!

  ‘But…’

  ‘You’re no help! Listen, I need to make some calculations fast. My meter reading is that we are 1378 feet below the surface of the planet. Is this the bottom, or are there basements and sub-basements?’

  ‘There are many, College.’

  ‘Where’s your escape route?’

  ‘My… what?’

  ‘How the hell do we get out of here?!’

  ‘Oh. You just came down the only way I know.’

  ‘Don’t you know a lift is high-risk in seismic contexts?’

  ‘Seismic?’

  ‘Earthquake, dimbulb! We’re obviously within a pre-fault adjustment transaction matrix! We haven’t much time.’

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘We’re in danger.’

  College attempted to use his mobile, but the signal had been destroyed by the scattered ion compression surrounding their immediate environment.

  ‘I’ve got a lot to do.’

  The geologist produced beads of sweat on his brow.

  ‘Where does one activate the General Tocsin Gong?’

  Butterbugs, the dumbed-down COO, struggled with an answer. There was a possibility that being this far below sea level might have crumpled his thinking cap a bit.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come off it! There should be several in each room! That’s code!’

  ‘I don’t know, College. I just don’t know.’

  ‘A building like this, there’s gotta be systems…’

  ‘I’ve never seen one. Because, uh… dxt…’

  College drew in closer to Butterbugs and looked him straight in the face.

  ‘Who are you, anyway? What the hell’s with you?’ He paused. ‘Say, aren’t you in pictures?’

  ‘I may have been.’

  ‘Holy clinkers, you’re that Butterbugs fellow! What are you doing here? Is this a rehearsal for a scene or something? I thought you were smart –’

  College’s words were cut short by a terrific noise indicating sliding gravel. It quickly increased, as if small chips were instantly giving way to – boulders. All of a sudden the serene-scene windows all along the sunken dining area trembled and then popped out, as if commanded by SFX teams at digital control boards, to do so.

  ‘Hey, that looks just like the Tumbling of the Volcano sequence in my picture, ‘The Sinking of Port Royal’ (Buena Vista). Wow!! John Fulton did the special effects, ya know…’

  Shattered glass shot all the way out to the higher terrace, just missing Butterbugs’ slipper-clad feet, while certain bits were embedded in College’s stomper boots. This was followed by blasts of massed gravel and earth that poured through the new opening, along with the previously occult stacks of the Voxes of the Thiertres, which somersaulted into the growing rubble.

  ‘My sound system!’ Butterbugs hooted, pointing at the ruination, as if College would make it all better somehow. ‘Whatever am I going to tell the Board??’

  Pressure was building in the non-vented Thrill Shaft. Indeterminate items started to fall from its vague heights.

  Forced to retire to one of the bedroom suites, College slammed the door, placed a recliner chair in front of it and did a reccy for escape purposes, while Butterbugs made sure his tracksuit box was OK.

  ‘Time to evacuate! NOW!’ College yelled above the din.

  He glanced over at Butterbugs, and his jaw dropped. For the first time, he looked not just at the COO’s face. His body was clad only in minimal scarlet underwear and chrome slippers (now somewhat damaged).

  ‘You can’t leave like that! Put something on!!’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Butterbugs made to move toward the suite of floor-to-ceiling walk-in wardrobes. What, oh what to wear?

  ‘Hey! You can’t go over in that direction! It’s threatened! Here, don this!’ College grabbed at the tracksuit box, ripped it open and flung the fine weave ensemble at him.

  ‘Hey! I wanted to save the wrapping!’

  If the geologist had had a gun, he would have shot the bounder. One melting look was sufficient to serve as cattle prod, jolting Butterbugs into getting with the programme. He thought that perhaps the great actor had suffered some sort of retardation, perhaps substance abuse, or maybe a head injury, and that he was being kept from the public, perhaps as a virtual prisoner down here. Thereafter he adopted a more humanitarian attitude. What had started as a professional investigation would have to proceed as a rescue operation. In any event, had he known that Butterbugs’ retardation was in fact due to his embracing the corporate mentality, where ripeness turns to rotness, he might not have been so altruistic.

  Butterbugs, now dressed for a fashionable escape, followed College toward the Lift Block. Power was starting to cut out. Illumination grew erratic. A consummate House of Usher mood now descended onto (and around) the pent-up-house.

  I-beams and serious structural components were starting to drop from the very top of the Thrill Shaft. The resulting cacophony sounded like a day of judgement – TODAY.

  College began raving about how on earth a structure like this could have possibly gotten built, and how basic code requirements like fire signal systems and escape routes could have been sidestepped. But he couldn’t have known, nor could more than just a handful of others at any time, that that was the thing about Isaac Davis: he’d had the power to build, the power to sidestep, and the power to punish, even from the grave.

  ‘This is outrageous!’ he shouted, ‘Outrageous!!’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think…’

  ‘You what??’

  College’s patience was being trumped by not only fear, but with stupefaction at the object of his geologic and rescue-oriented services.

  ‘Do you know what the construction of this mess has done? We’re down very far in a high-risk zone. The intrusion of this place has had a severe effect on its surrounding mass. It’s like a ‘thumper’! It attracts an earthquake! It’s like a spike driven into the chest of a pre-op cardioid patient! It has mocked the Earth! Why can’t you see that, you flimp!? You are one… sick…!’

  Butterbugs put no brake on his dimness.

  ‘I’m not questioning that…’

  Near the Lift Block, things grew calmer and quieter. Though all thirty-seven of the lift button lights were active, College counseled against getting
into such a vehicle. Besides, in each available car, the little grow-lights above the planter troughs had failed, and the hogvines were already wilting. A very bad sign indeed.

  ‘Death trap, isn’t it?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Is it? It is?’ Butterbugs was confounded.

  ‘Stay!’

  If the power was on and the doors opened, why not make a go for it? Thus was a COO’s logic.

  ‘Our chariot awaits!’

  ‘Sometimes in this world, when the coast appears most clear, the warning is at its most acute,’ the academician said solemnly.

  ‘What’re you, crazy? This here’s the Exprezzo-Go 801 line! We could be topside in about three jiffies! Lickety-schplit!’

  ‘You wanna get stuck in there forever, with only twenty feet to go? Well?? Do you???’ College’s voice rose into the highest pitches of indignation.

  ‘You don’t have to act so… klunky, ya know,’ answered the silly old COO.

  The problem-solving resumed. The tumult abated.

  ‘Guess she’s over,’ Butterbugs cheerily piped, his joy echoing in the lofty subterranean halls.

  ‘A suspicious sign, man. Most likely just an intermission. Now come on.’

  They went ever onward in search of outs. There were no directional signs whatsoever. ‘They’d ruin the scenery,’ Isaac had said.

  ‘Well I’ll be daahned,’ marveled College, turning a corner. ‘An exit stairway. Going up!’

  ‘That will take many a moment, College.’

  ‘Then let’s get cracking.’

  ‘Well, if you insist.’

  College bit his tongue and pushed his charge forward.

  ‘Hey, easy pal. This is a fine weave! Pricey, too!’

  They went up five flights before they discovered these stairs only went to a junction room for the power grid, which was still in play here. College grew stiff at the failure, yet he rose to the occasion. With Butterbugs silently following him like a lobotomized dog, the geologist found he could enact a professional mode that had particularly come in handy when observing the live lava streaks on Krakatoa, just before the Big One hit (the biggest since Wagner’s death-year of 1883). In comparison, the present scene was like a stroll through Burkmart: painful, but predictable.