A Tale Of Doings

by Philip Quense

  “That is stocking strange. What is she—it—saying?” David could not see the use in talking so consistently to oneself. The assistant handed him the earbuds; he tried to listen in on the hidden speakers, but her voice was too soft to understand, the speech a meditative garble to his ears. Handing the buds back to Jim, he moved his attention to the next subject.

  Subject Gimp was a young man with a jolly freckled complexion, pale skin, and orange hair that seemed to be on fire. This man fascinated David because of the way he hummed to himself, softly singing tunes that David had never heard before. The tunes seemed to give the man encouragement. The subject tried to hop a dance step to a song he hummed but stumbled, nearly toppling into the mirrored wall. “The Gimp. How disgusting.” David wondered why the man was allowed to live with such a severe physical deformity. He’d be an impediment to society.

  Flicking up an incomplete profile on his tablet, David shifted attention to the next product, Mop, a towering black man with a thick crop of tangled frizzy hair knotted and beaded like a bush. This man banged his hands on the door every ten minutes, yelling at his captors. After a moment, the captive stormed away from the door and bounced on his heels repeatedly. “Some ritual to calm and center himself?” David asked the wall. Mop ceased bouncing and charged over to the door again to bang and yell creative expletives and fierce demands.

  David stepped onto a balcony so he could watch all three subjects at once. David’s contemporaries, at least in age, paced their homes and performed their odd rituals as if preparing for battle or an encounter that would tax their utmost being.

  Manda came up softly behind David, slippers muffling her steps. “They’re fascinating, aren’t they?”

  “What are they doing?” David wondered. She handed him a coffee shot. The dark liquid warmed him.

  “Thought you might need another one. The other managers will be here soon.”

  “Thanks, Manda. Adrenaline is the only thing that’ll keep us all teaming. Grandpa Greg will be the end of me.”

  Her laughter was polite. He was happy for her support. She pointed at the cells. “Gimp and Arc have defiant but calm auras emanating from them.” Scientists bustled like bees searching for honey among the metallic computers and fields of recording instruments near the homes. Brand names were inscribed into everything in the lab, including the scientists.

  “The Mop one has more of a sarcastic mockery in his attitude.” David pointed at the yelling man with frizzy hair, round gut, and wide shoulders.

  She put a hand on his shoulder to draw him back to the lab. “Time for work to begin.” Manda motioned back toward the command center. “The other managers are biting at the bit—they want to begin their testing.”

  “Time to decide on a strategy for integrating these products into the society of Xchange.” He mentally reviewed the program file, which he had reread late into the evenings. He thought through his strategy. He fidgeted, tapping his fingers against his arms, as he followed Manda to the command center, hoping that he would sound intelligent before the imposing and naysaying managers.

  The lab hummed with productive background conversation, mostly deliberation and delegation of assignments and experiments. Thirty Lave Labs employees lived in this section of the massive Nnect campus; they had storage units in the building. Their work was too important to waste time in commuting, and these sequestered employees rarely left the premises. The Lave Labs building was a monolithic cylinder with floors layered one on top of the other. The lowest floors were for supplies and subject testing. The middle floors were utilized for housing the test subjects, observation decks, conjecture simulation rooms, science offices, and conference rooms for corporate presentations. The highest floors contained housing for the Nnect employees, both permanent and temporary, who lived in the building during projects.

  David and his team of managers were treated as first-class employees and were given large plush suites upstairs. These containment suites had private cleaning facilities, a luscious green brainstorming garden, access to a communal nourishment bar and a deck that wedged out from the side of the building, and a magnificent view of the Board Building of the CGB.

  As David walked into the office, the voice of Crystal Ice cut through his calm demeanor. “Pet, what will it be?”

  He stammered; she cut him off.

  “Can I begin testing my subjects already?” Her hands squeezed together in a wringing motion with the word “testing.” He sat at his assigned station, gulping from the raised dais. He noticed that only Manda and Crystal were present from the core team. It did not surprise him that the slovenly Grandpa Greg was late. Usually Slayer was the first to arrive.

  Crystal Ice strutted over to David, her expressive hips swaying, and petted his hair, making a soothing sound. Cold sweat trickled like melting ice down his spine. He shivered. David could feel her numbing, heartless stare penetrate his core. He jolted and turned rigidly to face the invasive woman. Crystal Ice, with her sleek, shimmering black dress and extravagant blue brand, sneered condescendingly. “Pet.” Her words lingered, and so did the cold, wet, icy sensation. His shirt felt damp.

  He realized that the chilled sensation was evaporating ice that she’d dropped down his back. He jumped up and shook out the rest of the icy chemical. The wet sensation disappeared, but he had a dark permanent stain on the back of his shirt.

  “How dare—” he began to say, but she cut him off with a wave.

  “Pet, don’t beg. Its uncouth in a person your age.” She laughed and put away her chemical ice purse.

  “Enough games.” He would let the affront drop, not that he had a choice. There were bigger battles ahead.

  David’s time working with these more experienced managers had not proceeded satisfactorily. Over the last two days, David had observed that the stiff chain of command and respect for one’s superiors, learned as part of Nnect-branded employees’ corporate training, only loosely stuck among his elite project team. Respect was elusive. Conversational respect, a core tenet of Nnect team building, was completely disregarded as the disenfranchised managers piled ridicule on David. Crystal Ice coined the phrase “Saul’s little pet” for David, and her bitter disdain came out in her tone when she spoke the belittling nickname. The other two management experts also spoke down to David whenever they could, but at the end of the day, CEO Saul had bestowed the leadership role on David. The others begrudgingly followed his directives as per protocol. At least for now. He could not screw anything up, or they would leap on him like hungry new hires. Interns and new hires could be heartless in their eagerness to secure a workplace.

  The heckling from his disgruntled management team was something he would just have to get used to. No management sermon or Mindmonk seminar ever promised an easy career path to freedom. David tapped his projection control pen against his desk and spun around to face the group as the other two managers meandered in a moment later. They had all done research, and now it was time to act.

  “OK, let’s get started. Please send…”

  “Stock take my balls. Please. Who says ‘please’?” Grandpa Greg corrected him.

  David tried again, voice quivering on the edge of anger. “Send to my workstation your compiled summary points with your top ten suggestions for proceeding. Then we’ll decide on our approach.”

  “Been there, done that,” Grandpa Greg huffed to the newcomer. “Already sent our list of demands—I mean suggestions—to you.” Grandpa Greg walked to David and leaned over him. Humid breath that smelled of stale eggs filled his nostrils. The sweaty palm of the man held David’s hand in a vice grip, moving his pointer to a tab on the screen. “Look under the team approach tabs…Saver.” The closeness and musk of the man overpowered David’s senses. He waited for the man to return to his seat, attempting to keep his composure calm. He did not want to give these people the satisfaction of seeing him have a panic attack.

  Twirling away from the three to face his workstation, David pushed his blond hair out of h
is eyes and flicked his control pen, and a screen popped up into the air. The three lists of suggestions cataloged themselves sequentially. David was good with data. Humming to himself, he sorted through them efficiently, trying to comprehend and organize the list. David compiled all three suggestion lists into one directory so that he could see them concurrently. The nature of several of the submissions gave David a broader understanding of his three managers. He looked at Grandpa Greg explicitly; it was easy to see which propositions came from the old Orns addict, because they were sexually driven and seemed harmful to the subjects. Flicking further through the ideas, he found that some utilized torture and deprivation, while still others recommended bribery or types of training. Several ideas were the same from all three managers. The top three on the compiled list were as follows:

  1. Sell to Orns to use in Storyworld.

  2. Film breaking the slaves. Make Nnect appear powerful. Market, market, market. Retain exclusive rights to profits on advertising that Nnect has captured the first human beings ever. Retell history.

  3. Invasive torture. Break the slaves and send them to the Tri-Coalition as spies.

  David chose to ignore these suggestions and many others. He continued to cycle through the display. He heard a miffed retort when he crossed several out by waving a streak through the screen with his hand. Two suggestions at the very bottom of the list made the most sense to David; they seemed like good starting points.

  “First observe the subjects; then discuss ideas before any extreme invasive tests take place,” David read out loud. He was decided. “We do this for each project on my team prior to actual work. Let’s implement these two ideas.”

  “I wrote the manual that your ordinary team uses, pet.” Crystal said.

  That made David more stubborn; he said. “Two days of observation in various common human interaction scenarios, and two days of brainstorming after we compile all the data. We must glean as much unfiltered data from these strangers as possible. Recreate their world here for our use.” He paused and smiled, stoked by his practical application of the scientific method. “These human beings will be treated carefully as we get started. This means no physical or extreme mental abuse until we determine how we’ll profit.” He looked directly and intentionally at Grandpa Greg, holding the stare for a second to emphasize his point. The man’s brown taunting eyes made him shudder and look away. “No battering Nnectonian property. Who knows how fragile these human beings are?” David tried to mimic the tone and mannerisms of CEO Saul when he had said the same thing earlier.

  “Are you suggesting we actually go through the inconvenience of communicating with the slaves? That’s as bad as humanizing them!” Sweat beaded on the man’s chubby face. “Stock take you. Which one of you put ‘observe’ in your ignorant list?”

  Slayer laughed, totally unbothered by the tantrum. “Ignorant is not stupid. Biding is not waiting. False is not untruth.” Slayer sang a plebeian tune just to infuriate Grandpa Greg even more.

  “Patience is not a virtue,” Grandpa Greg accused the others. Slayer and Crystal seemed immune to verbal assaults. Turning back to David, he demanded, “These slaves need to be objectified and broken quickly or…” He waved a sweaty hand at the slaves below.

  A sensual and sweeter voice chimed in. “As much as I hate to agree with anything Greggy lets slip from his jottled mush of a brain, if we don’t break or sell them quickly, we will lose our market advantage,” Crystal Ice added to the sudden silence.

  Slayer, the marketing master, added, “David”—oddly enough, he did not use a degrading nickname—“be aware that the Majors will learn in a day or so that Nnect has made a successful incursion into Tri-Coalition territory to capture real live human beings who are not defective self-proclaimed missionaries.”

  “Patriots are the downfall of any utopia.” Crystal quoted a well-known lesson from history.

  Slayer warned, “Be assured that the Majors will double their efforts to capture their own subjects to bring them to market. Crystal has a point.” He nodded to Crystal.

  David wondered if the two of them had ever done it. Dated. He shook that idea from his mind. How would they have had time in such successful careers?

  Manda tentatively added, “Time is of the essence, and valuable objects lose market share the longer we take to come up with a profitable plan of action.”

  Although David appreciated Steven’s conversational tone, appearing weak in front of these three felt deadly. He would not be lulled into compliance. It was beginning to bother his ego that they interjected opinions and opposed all his ideas.

  CEO Saul trusted me, David remembered. I will do it my way, and screw these three if they don’t listen. David’s mind-set stiffened. He stared out over the containment homes, giving himself a moment to slow his racing heart rate before responding to the others in the room. Just at that moment, Gimp, with his flaming hair and slanted posture due to the defect, and Arc, with her moonlike halo of white hair framing carved bronze features, happened to be simultaneously staring outward from their prison homes, directly toward the managers’ workstations. Uncanny. Their defiant and truly human glares demanding escape disturbed David deeply. Something deep inside himself fought to make him feel guilt. How similar the expression was to Gayle’s. He shivered at the uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu. Something about the slaves’ postures reminded him of Gayle during their confrontation at the clock tower. Something emanated from their spirits that challenged David’s very understanding of the world. He did not know what it was.

  Closing his eyes, he reminded himself of the CEO’s blessing. He signed himself with the X, pressing the weakness of sympathy away before it tainted him. He stood rigidly to face the managers and the internal struggles. David would not be pushed around by these three. He would not give in to Gayle’s heretical ideas or sympathize with the slaves.

  Story. He recalled the CEO telling of the power of stories. David knew for some reason that the right thing to do was to get to know these slaves and discover some advantage for Nnect. To learn their story. Observe their ways. There was power in a story.

  He turned and claimed the truth aloud: “There is power in a story.” It was a common slogan from Orns; Real World and Medieval Storyworld always bragged about the power of stories in their advertising videos. Maybe it was selfish and maybe it was genius, but David would stick with his management approach. Xchange needed to learn what was similar and what was different about these Tri-Coalition humans. Maybe Nnect could discover some key to making better humans or find a way into Tri-Coalition territory. The options were unimaginable.

  David took a step forward, less intimidated now. “‘Don’t rush the creativity of new initiatives,’ a Thrive Upbringing trainer once told me.” He caught his breath. “Learn twice and work once. That’s our lesson. We shall not shatter these valuable subjects without wringing everything possible from them.”

  “I agree,” Manda said. She looked around, surprised at her own boldness. David was glad she spoke up. As punishment for her initiative, Grandpa Greg stared her up and down until she shifted uncomfortably.

  “There is power in a story.” David declared it quietly and then repeated it louder: “There is power in a story.”

  “That’s the slogan from the ad for season three of Storyworld.” Crystal laughed at David. The moment of power was partially broken by her tone. “I think Steven wrote that campaign.”

  “Real World uses the same phrase,” Grandpa Greg said. “I did much of the programming for the 3D simulator. It’s so real.” The bragging tone filled his voice.

  David silenced the banter with a vicious chop of his hand. His eyes took on a deadly glint. “Who cares if I stole the line from someone else? It applies.” His tone stopped Crystal before she assaulted him with another verbal onslaught.

  “If the saying is not against you, then it is for you,” Slayer said. He seemed pleased that his slogan was broadly known.

  Time for the punchline. David
pulled up a couple of electronic reports that he’d selected earlier as ammunition against the managers. They were from several of the previous missionary test projects conducted at Lave Labs. “You want to see uselessness.” It came out as a growl.

  He coughed and continued in an educational voice. “Looking at these reports, which you’ll remember clearly because they’re the results from Lave projects that you each managed”—the group frowned—”I learned something interesting. Each of you failed miserably to gain insight or significant profit from the thirty-some missionaries that you’ve tested. Tried to break. In the end, each of you sold the missionaries to Orns. Yes, you made some money on the sale because of the novelty of the trinket. But you didn’t generate much more profit than Nnect would have made for selling a basic degenerate Productzen.”

  The group was silenced. David was learning to play their verbal battles. He let his voice take on a taunting pampering nature, “In my mind that’s failure, and if you compare the initial investment with the minuscule revenue, we see that you were all in the negative freedom margin.” He let his point simmer in the volatile atmosphere.

  The air in the room simmered with tension. He shook his head, a teacher insulting a class. By the stock they are actually shutting up. He could not believe it. Insulting people in front of others was very effective. He tried to appear more confident than he felt.

  His feet took him around the lab as he let the truth sink in. His gaze fell upon the containment cells below him. The staunch feline gaze of Arc caught his eye. She was staring unswervingly at the command office, as if she surmised that the reason for her people’s repression was hiding behind her mirrored walls in that direction. He froze midstep, held captive by her gaze. You know she can’t see you, he chided himself, ashamed. But it felt like she was staring into his deepest innermost DNA makeup, violating his mind with intimacy. Then a person broke his view of her. It was Grandpa Greg, his concave shoulders sagging and rolling belly fat jiggling as he smirked his way cheekily toward a command table overlooking the slave homes.