Human Resources: A Novel

DISCLAIMER TEXT: Welcome to my novel, Human Resources. The below work was written in 2004, published in 2005, and is copyright by Scott Walldren. I invite you to read it in its entirety for free. However, should you wish to contribute to my writing career, a positive review on Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and/or goodreads would be most welcome.

Hard copies may be purchased through my publisher, iUniverse or the any reputable bookseller. If you so choose, you will also be treated to an additional chapter at the beginning — as well as any spelling and grammatical changes I may have made between this draft and the one I sent to the publisher!  

Please note: this is a work of fiction!

Part I awaits you below.  More to come soon.

 

PART I

Business has only two functions — marketing and innovation.”

- Peter Drucker

Cheek resting on his upright fist, Joe stared despondently at the bank of video monitors. His parched eyes blinked painfully reminiscent of last night’s ambitious bar hopping that culminated in his passing out on the couch at 8 am. He had no recollection of how he got safely home, but with the double shift presently staring him in the face he felt spiteful. The dull but constant headache told him one thing: he needed, if not the hair, the whole of the dog that bit him.

It was against VirCorp company policy to drink while on duty–unless, of course you were upper management. Alcohol in this scenario was considered both a social lubricant to help close deals as well as a reasonable (and legal) excuse for any poor decision-making. But down among the rabble, Sector C Security Chief Joe Noone was expected to set the example for all of his subordinates. The fact that non-developmental research personnel budget cuts had left Joe only one subordinate (Sector C’s crocus plant, affectionately named Dennis) held no bearing on the matter.

But Joe, like any employee who actually does “work” (a concept lost on most marketing executives), found ways around the system: concealment. Inspired by reading Secrets of Ninja Mooching, Joe was able to sneak away from the office Christmas party with a case of Frothing Scotsman whiskey while disguised as a handle-bar-mustached caterer. Secreting 3 bottles of the powerful scotch in a hollowed out monitor, Joe felt the spirit of the season come over him.

He decided to split the loot among his fellow Security Chiefs from Sectors D and E who were equally convinced that company policy was more of a suggestion than a rule. Unfortunately, his compatriots were supposed to be on duty at the time. That night, a lone bandit managed to sneak off with two electron microscopes and five super computers. The next day, an alleged catering employee was found dozing in a corner with the two passed out security chiefs from Sectors D and E who were summarily dismissed. Joe resumed work as usual, sending sympathy cards to his former coworkers, none of whom appreciated his compassion.

The pain of the hangover sharpening cut short Joe’s reminiscence and he removed the front panel of the video monitor. Taking a cursory look at the monitors active in his sector (and the obligatory glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching), Joe reached into the blackness until his large fingers found their purchase. Before leaving its hollow enclosure, Joe uncapped the bottle (clandestinely relabeled “Monitor Polish, 150 proof”) and savored the pungent aroma within. He tilted the bottle back and took a big swig, “Ah, that’s better.”

Reclining in his cheap office chair, he took another drink. Then another. Then another, and another, and another, and another, until he finished the bottle and passed out, falling flat on his face, slobbering all over the floor. As face met floor, a wicked shadow among the monitor glow banged its knee on the desk, cursed, then moved clumsily in on its prey.

 

* * *

 

The wicked shadow struggled with its immense human parcel as it lumbered through the remote corridors of Sector C to a laboratory secretly masquerading as a broom closet. After punching in the door code, 2017 (the year of the Glorious Janitors’ Revolt), the stooping shadow stepped inside the doorway into decontamination. Pressurized jets of disinfectant urged him expediently onward into the main laboratory.

Fluorescent lighting dominated the sterile environment containing stainless-steel cabinets, surfaces and a two-way mirror that allowed anonymity from the observation room on the other side.

“Ah, Lawrence!” A jolly voice, tinged with a slight German accent, beckoned over the PA. “So glad you could make it. Please, place our distinguished Mister Noone on the examination table. We shall be with you shortly.”

Obsequiously, the burdened man called Lawrence obeyed, laying the burly security guard out on the cold metallic surface with a grunt. Stepping back, he examined his evening’s catch before staring at his shoes as the door from the observation room opened with a sterile creak. Two men in lab coats emerged, circling the table like mismatched vultures. The shorter of the two, a distinguished looking rotund gentleman with a snow-white beard was the first to speak.

“So,” he remarked with the same warm German accent Lawrence heard but a moment ago, “you got him.”

“Actually, he was dead drunk, sir.” Lawrence replied, not raising his eyes from the floor. It was considered rude in corporate culture to make eye contact with a superior these days. The last coworker Lawrence knew to violate this code of conduct found himself in the precarious position of becoming an executive’s unwilling new golf partner. Lawrence wasn’t going to go out like that.

“Excellent, excellent. So no damage has come to our dear Mister Noone?”

“Well, he bonked his head on the floor where he hit, but other than that he seems to be OK. Still breathing at least.”

The taller doctor, neatly shaved and looking particularly angular today, regarded Lawrence’s comment with disdain.

“Bonked?” he inquired sarcastically. “I have not heard of this term. Have you, Doktor Klaus? This is the technical term you have for concussed, Lawrence? It is no wonder you clean floors instead of create the future.”

“Forgive Doktor Klingel, Lawrence my boy. He has just come from checking his lottery numbers. He won but, alas, forgot to play last night.”

Lawrence nodded respectfully, chin now resting on his chest as he admired the sheen of the floor in more detail, privately thinking how it could use a good coating of Doktor Klingel’s blood. Bringing his anger under control, he slowly glanced up to see the two doctors working busily stripping their subject.

“Nurse! A syringe if you please!” Out of nowhere, a nurse appeared and gave him the needle. “Danke, Fraulein. This should help keep him under while we work.” Efficiently, the rotund Klaus injected Joe with the needle. Lawrence, attempting to interject as non-disruptively as possible, cautiously cleared his throat.

“Oh, Lawrence. I forgot you were still here. You may go.”

“I don’t wish to bother you, sir, but what about our agreement?”

Klaus muttered caustically in a mix of German and English under his breath. “You’re a persistent blue-collar, aren’t you, my dear Simon?” Then added, “Yes, yes, you will find the credits already deposited into your account. Kindly accept our thanks for your services.”

Adequately comforted, Lawrence nodded back into his chest. “Thank you, sir. It has been a pleasant deviation from cleaning the toilets.”

“Well, run along now. It’s high time you get back to it.”

“Yes sir!” Lawrence gave him a mock salute and turned to walk out. As he was just reaching the door, the tall doctor deftly crept up behind him and withdrew a cudgel from his coat. With a lightning strike, he smote their unsuspecting lackey over the head with the bludgeon. Lawrence collapsed on the floor with a look of utter astonishment on his face.

Glancing away from the slumbering security guard on the table, Klaus remarked, “My, doesn’t he look surprised.”

“Indeed,” said Klingel putting away the club. “He believed you when you told him you agreed to his conditions. One so foolish should not be trusted with our secrets. He could snitch on us.”

“Correct as always, Doctor Klingel. Shall we dispose of the body, or merely give him something that will make this whole affair seem like a dream?”

“I disdain the latter. Tell you what–we’ll flip for it.” The gaunt doctor picked up the unconscious body and hefted it. “Ventral we brainwash, dorsal we dispose.”

“Agreed. Flip!”

Klingel hefted the body once more with amazing strength and, with the aid of Doctor Klaus, hurled the limp rag doll of Lawrence into the air. The tumbling body had as much grace as a wild pig bungee jumping. Crashing into the ground with extreme force, the body landed face up. Doctor Klingel groaned in disappointment.

“Ventral. You win.” He lamented and bared his sharp teeth at Doctor Klaus. “You prepare the brainwash. I’m going to the corner to sulk.”

Klaus, ever the jolly fiend, began rummaging through the stainless steel cabinets in the laboratory. A few moments passed before he threw his arms out in disbelief. “I told her we were running low and to order more! I cannot believe this!”

A sardonic grin touched Klingel’s lips. “What seems to be the problem? Out of brain wipes?” Venting frustration, Klaus threw a package of latex examination gloves at him.

“Immortal Ode to Joy, we get to dump him! Peachy-keen!” Klingel rubbed his hands together in glee. “The ball is in Klingel’s court at last.”

The lanky German trolled over to the unconscious Lawrence, now sprawled in an undignified position on the floor, and slung the limp body over his shoulder. Not the least bit burdened by the extra weight, Klingel walked over to a closed hatch marked “TO DUMPSTER”, written in large inviting letters. He then opened an adjacent cabinet and extracted an enormous black trash bag, which he tossed to Klaus. Klaus held the bag wide open as Klingel thrust Lawrence down into its hungry darkness.

The body made a dull thud against the floor as Klingel pressed the button to open the hatch. The hatch hummed and slid gracefully open with a hiss of foul air. Reaching into his pockets, the gaunt doctor pulled out rainbow colored twist-ties, which he used to close the bag. Carefully aligning the body bag in the chute, he nodded to Klaus and let go. Gravity working as good as it always does, the bag screamed down the chute with increasing velocity until it hit the dumpster with a loud “BWONG!”

Dusting off his hands, Klaus and Klingel shared a maniacal grin together.

“Absolutely brutal!” they chimed together, nodding to the nurse who quickly laid out all the tools they would need for the examination of the unconscious security guard.

“I shall handle the invasive samples,” said Klaus. “You will take samples of the skin, hair and all the rest.”

“As long as I’m not on toe jam detail, I am happy, Doktor.”

“That will not be required this time, my comrade.” Klaus begin the patient vampiric task of phlebotomy. Sucking air over his teeth, he began impatiently making tick-tock noises as the sample slowly gurgled into the reservoir.

After a moment, Klingel broke the monotony. “So, any plans for tonight?”

“Oh, the usual. Redress this poor ignoramus, have Tanzer or one of his goons put him back at his station, extrapolate the data then begin cultivation.”

“That accounts for the next twenty minutes. Shall we reclaim Lawrence from the dumpster and have another flip for old times’ sake?”

“No, we have our work to do. Precious man hours are involved, not your ‘twenty minutes’.” Klaus sighed at his compatriot.

“Agreed.” Resigned to the task at hand, the two experts got fully underway for their task at hand. Drawing small samples of blood, fluids and tissues from different locations of the body, Doctor Klingel and Doctor Klaus arrived at the source for their pet project–raw data. They input this through the lab’s terminal into a super computer the size of a small office complex, buried deep in the belly of the facility. When the terminal reported back that the project was in motion, Klaus looked up, bleary-eyed from the screen, and grinned another jolly grin menacingly at Klingel.

“James Dewey Watson, eat your heart out!” Klingel bellowed in satisfaction. Giving Klaus a hand up, he leaned in and gave him their fraternity handshake which consisted of grabbing each other’s noses while tap dancing and singing ‘Have You Ever Heard the German Band’. The terminal whirred as the code on its four screens scrolled faster and faster towards completion.

“We’ve done it! It’s working! For the first time!” Klaus began to waddle a little German jig. Klingel, caught up in efficient excitement, high-fived his comrade and bounded around the laboratory like an athlete having scored the game-winning goal. Wiping joyous tears from his sparkling blue eyes, Klaus let out a satisfied sigh and watched his companion with a prideful gleam in his eyes.

“Did I ever tell you about the lab before you signed on?”

“Just bits and pieces, we’ve been so damned busy since.”

“Indulge me once more,” Klaus said, sitting back down. “This is a new milestone for us. Since 1999 we were all working for the Frenchies, government work mostly. They were on their quest to achieve what the US was unwilling to undertake. A prideful bunch of Bonapartists, I’m sure you will agree…even though you were still in secondary school. Still, we had reached an agreement with the most brilliant minds of the day to preserve a part of them that could later be cloned so that future generations, as well as our own, might benefit from their life’s work. Great scientists, thinkers, authors, artisans, diplomats, problem-solvers and the like.”

“Oh yes! I remember reading about your work in the journals when I was at university. That was you?”

“Indeed,” Klaus cleared his throat, twisting the hair of his beard around one finger. “Michael Crichton and Dale Chiluly were among our more ‘secular’ choices,” he used the word as if it offended him. “Of most interest to me personally was our work with Stephen Hawking, Martin Rees and Richard Greene. Such potential! Can you imagine the rate at which our knowledge of the universe would expand if such men were allowed to labor onward and upward into infinity?”

“Quite.”

“Well, with limited resources and funding, we were working with technology that was fast becoming outdated. Still, we went with the top twenty choices the government had passed down to us and began cultivation.” Klaus sighed disappointedly, glancing away into the monitor. “A total disaster. Set back the acceptance of human cloning by twenty years.”

“All we heard was that the program had been shut down and a gag order had been placed on the press. What happened?”

“As I said, outdated technology. We were using a secondhand system bought off the black market in Thailand. The ‘Gene-O-Matic’ replicated nineteen exact copies of Jerry Lewis, Rip Taylor and Richard Simmons! One week of incubation and care and they were running on the loose. It was horrifying. Eventually the military got involved and we were all put on permanent leave. Naturally the French kept the Monsieurs Lewis, but not until long after all the clones had trashed the laboratories and set fire to the complex.”

Klingel scoffed, not believing a word of his old mentor. “Let me guess, the Lewis clones began running around shrieking ‘Oh lady! Oh lady! Nice lady!’ while the copies of Richard Simmons couldn’t stop screaming with Rip Taylors running around throwing confetti all over the petri dishes!”

“You laugh now.” Klaus glowered at him, tapping the monitor screen knowingly. “Worst of all was Clone #20, as he later became known. Our beloved Doctor Stephen Hawking was transformed into the Keebler Elf. For a second it seemed as if he going to solve the intricacies of worm holes when we learned that all along he just wanted to make cookies.” Klaus held Klingel in his stern gaze. Klingel was surprised and overcome by the intense seriousness the otherwise eccentrically jolly German displayed in his reminiscence and blushed. Klaus smiled insanely then slapped Klingel on the thigh before howling with laughter. Klingel, nervously at first, joined in and high-fived Klaus once more.

“I knew you were having me on,” he chuckled.

Wiping a tear from his eye, Klaus beamed. “Not exactly, Arnie, but laughter can make any memory fond in retrospect. Those were the days when limited resources pushed the very envelope of good science and bad entertainment.”

“What has changed?”

“Not a whooping thing!” Klaus glanced at the time thoughtfully. “Tonight is cause for celebration. We have nearly fifteen hours until the debriefing. What say we duck out and let our minions below finish the rest the procedure? Drinks and a movie perhaps?”

“Outstanding. What’s playing at the Apollo Holographic?”

Multi-tasking as well as he genetically engineered, Klaus opened the VirCorp Internet browser, patiently waiting as the icon of a little dictator dancing on burning peasant villages went through its animations until at last the listings displayed. “Let us see. The only thing that looks remotely interesting to me is Batman: Again? What do you think?”

Klingel leaned in like a crane plucking a fine catch from the water and read the monitor. “It is playing in…ten minutes! Let’s go!” Tearing off their lab coats like secret agents divesting after parachuting in before the big party, the two doctors sprinted out the door tittering like excited baboons. The terminal ticked along in its progress. Meanwhile, a battered Simon Lawrence awoke to find himself in a less than ideal situation.

* * *

Deaf noise clogged his ears, leaving the bewildered Simon to hear only his heartbeat. Searing pain was performing a whistle stop tour through all regions of his head as he reached out and felt nothing but fabric and claustrophobia. He was living Jonah. His frantic fingers stroked the bag. Arachnofiber. One of the most impervious materials invented by man. The statistics flew through his brain. Any object placed within such a bag was guaranteed to withstand bullets, bomb blasts and even corrosive acids. The inventors, however, had never considered Simon’s precarious situation–one that could be resolved by a cool head and sharp objects.

Knowing full well that he had but a few breaths of air left, Simon clutched his chest, then patted down his janitorial vestments for the right pocket. He felt the bulge and yelped for joy–a yelp that only increased his sense of panic as he sucked in a mouthful of body bag. Curling his fingers around his purchase, he quickly withdrew his trusty pocketknife. He carefully pointed the blade away from himself, remembering an accident he once had in a bar brawl with a biker named Bloodthirsty Brutus. Taking one last deep breath, he thrust out against his captor with the knife, managing to puncture it.

Before Simon was able to widen the puncture, his world was turned upside down. A great engine roared as he was lifted and then dropped from what felt like a tremendous height. The impact was soft and, from the smell, he could deduce only one thing: he was in a garbage truck. It had come to collect its cargo. If he did not free himself and jump the gate before it closed he would be incinerated!

His voice failed and he fought to widen the puncture he had made with all his being. He paused, petrified, soaked in a fine cold sweat. He envisioned his fiery grave. Would he scream? Hell yes, he would! Running out of options, he began stabbing and hacking randomly. He cried like a little boy getting his first immunization. Cried for Mommy, God, Salvation, until at last he was out of the bag and working his way into the used medical supplies. He paused only when he struck the metal side of the truck, scraping his hand against the weld points. He opened his eyes and glanced up, seeing the hatch begin to close. Attempting a move he once saw in a Jackie Chan film, he vaulted off the side of the truck and out into the alley, landing awkwardly on his ankle. He howled in pain, then victory as he fell backwards landing on his back. The truck was roaring away in the distance when his vision at last cleared through the departing smoke.

He pumped his fist in the air and whooped with all the joy in his heart. “That’s right! No Simon flambé for you!” He collapsed in hysterics, rubbing his ankle until the pain began to subside. He shook the images of fire from his head and wiped the sweat off his furrowed brow.

Betrayed. That’s how he felt. They dangle a little corporate advancement in front of you, you take the bait and then they try to murder you. How sweet it is, he sighed. He huffed as he got to his feet and tested the soreness. A little tinge of pain here and there, but he would be OK. If he had his way, certain German doctors would soon not be.

Using the alley wall for support, Simon proceeded carefully into the open air. The complex lighting cast sharp grasping shadows over the road ahead. What if they found out they hadn’t finished the job–that he was still alive? Every random ambient noise struck fear in his quivering heart. Still running on survival fumes, he locked the blade of his pocketknife in place and held it out like a fencing master.

A twig snapped. Simon let out a high-pitched shriek, closed his eyes and struck out randomly in all directions with the knife. From a distance, he looked like he was swashbuckling a swarm of bees. When he opened his eyes and saw he was alone, Simon took a gulp of air and fled for his life towards the research compound.

* * *

Joe Noone woke to painful ringing in his ears. His eyes stung and were crazy-glued shut. It felt like a team of surly Swedish furniture makers who lacked both the manual and universal handy tool were slowly rebuilding his mind. They erected shelves at gross angles that eventually came toppling down with a crash. His stomach lurched.

Joe groaned and reached out in anguish to find something to hang on to. His hand brushed over the console of his security station.

“Oh, God.” Suddenly he realized where he was. Work. Drunk. Again. Slowly he cracked his eyes open. The glow of the terminal screen was yet another unwelcome intrusion into his world of pain, but he managed to glance at the time. Either he had passed out for an hour or had been gone a whole day. He gently maneuvered the mouse and brought up the shift calendar. An entire day had come and gone. Where had he been?

Using his trembling legs, he pushed off, nervously, over to the bank of monitors on his chair. His stash was still in place, short one bottle. Something glinted in the corner of his eye. He turned and saw the empty bottle accusing him from under his station. It must have rolled out of his hand when he lost consciousness.

Four years on the job (three of them spent drinking) were staring him in the face with that shiny bottle. And what had he got from it? Oblivion, he thought. Granted, he was a Sector Chief, but in a compound the size of a city with as many Sectors as metropolises have suburbs, he was middle management. What had become of his promising young life after university? Dead ends, few good times and oblivion. He scratched his day-growth of beard, lost mutually in deep thought and hangover, before stretching his aching limbs.

Steadily, he knelt down and crawled over to it. It was dry as could be as he plucked it from its hiding place. He brought it close and sniffed it, feeling half-ashamed, half-filled with desire. Sighing, he shrugged and at last deep-sixed it over his shoulder into the waste receptacle. Today I turn over a new leaf, he thought. Grunting as he got to his feet, Joe leaned on the keyboard of the console, which suddenly began to play strange music that only a software marketer would find catchy. He had logged himself out.

Joe cursed and wheeled his chair back to the console before sitting down. He rubbed his stinging eyes, cracked his knuckles, typed in the password and glanced up.

Access Denied: Invalid Account.

He raised an eyebrow and tried again. The same blinking system message taunted him. Fear and suspicion seeped into his head. He had been drunk on the job, apparently passed out for a day and woke up in the last place he remembered being–still logged into the system. No one woke him or chucked him in the corporate brig (if he had been found out that’s surely where he’d be now). There was no evidence to hint that he was in any trouble. A simple sector-to-sector call should remedy the problem. Granted, he would have to apply for a new access profile and go through an extensive inquiry. If he didn’t respond to every question correctly, they would hit him with pain sticks until he told them exactly what they wanted to hear. This was all made clear in the Employee Handbook of the New Despotism at VirCorp: Iron Fist Edition. Joe, among countless employees, loathed this. But if Dante was correct, the bozo who concocted these regulations would have one bugger of a time below.

Because VirCorp was a multinational conglomerate dealing in a multitude of products and services (each allocated to its own zone of the US corporate headquarters) it was forced to adopt a meticulous organizational structure. If a problem occurred in Sector A, for example, then the Sector A Chief would call for backup from the nearest proximate sector, being Sector ZZ-9. Sector B’s backup would come from QJ-3, Sector C’s backup was RR-5, and so on. It was common knowledge that the Sector naming logic was accounted for by the all night kegger the company’s executive officers threw for the building managers the night before the headquarters officially began operations.

Joe worked himself up into making the call. As he sweated, sobriety was slowly creeping back in and he found himself at the communications board. Punching in the emergency code, he buzzed Sector RR-5 and looked up expectantly at the vidcom screen. After several long seconds, a man with a hawkish nose and beady eyes hidden behind coke bottle glasses appeared and spoke.

“VirCorp Research Compound Sector RR-5, Sector Chief Lemuel Z. Kabar speaking. State your business!”

Oh, great, he thought. Another chief who enjoys protocol and procedures. This guy’s just like Tanzer. Tanzer had a sixth month seniority over Joe. Because of this he had been promoted to Captain in the Corporate Police Division instead of Joe after last year’s review. Of course, he rubbed Joe’s nose in it when he left the ranks. Joe had known a few other ambitious men like this in his day, always after promotion (often off the backs of fired coworkers), but none so vile as Moritz Tanzer. Rumor had it that he really got the promotion by signing over his first-born to the company for research. Men like Tanzer knew how to talk down to any one, because they didn’t care for anyone but themselves and their power. Clearly the man on the other line was well on his similar journey to the dark side. Bleary eyed, Joe stared into the monitor and found his professional voice.

“Sector Chief Kabar, this is Sector Chief Joseph Noone at Sector C requesting renewed access. My security login is no longer valid.”

“Where have you been, Sector Chief Noone?” Kabar looked frustrated. “We had a breach of security into the complex, or didn’t you know? Everyone’s access is reduced or revoked until we get this situation sorted.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, “What was the nature of the breach? Fire? One of the lab techs blow themselves up? Another terrorist attack?”

“Incorrect. Several hours ago we had a knife-wielding intruder break into the labs in your sector without authorization. Surely the internal system alerted you!”

Joe was taken aback, he had been unconscious at the time and someone had sneaked in on his watch. His watch. The pooh was really going to impact the rotary cooling device this time. His mind racing, he tried his best to come up with an explanation.

“Well,” he rubbed his head tenderly, “I believe the assailant subdued me while I was watching the monitors. I woke up just a few minutes ago with one hell of a migraine.”

“This is not going to be good at all for your next employee review, Sector Chief Noone. However, you will be pleased to know that the assailant was eventually captured, after he attempted to stab one of my officers. Thankfully, he did not succeed and they managed to subdue him. He is now in the Sector RR-5 brig.”

“If the situation is contained, when will access be restored?”

Kabar paused and glanced around his station on the other end of the link. He punched a few keys and then sneered. “It appears access has just been restored. Try it now.”

“Great! Will do.” Joe turned to face the terminal and keyed in his login information. It began to flash red angry letters. The whole station began to whir, click and make horrible grinding noises. “This can’t be good,” Joe muttered to himself. Finally the whole station made the sound of a light bulb exploding and went black.

“Sector Chief Noone?” A voice called from the blackness. Joe peered around him in the dark looking for the source.

“Yes? Who’s there?”

“It’s Sector Chief Kabar. I lost video from your end. We still have audio. This is most perplexing.”

“You’re telling me!” Joe sighed in the darkness, leaning over the comm.

“You are Joseph Orson Noone correct?”

“Yeah. Why are you asking, you know that’s me! We’ve been talking for the last five minutes.”

“Well, if you are he, then I regret to inform you that you are fired as of now for incompetence due to drunkenness of a non-executive employee while on the job.”

“What in the name of all that is holy are you talking about?”

“You’re fired! As in ‘clear out your desk’. As in ‘get lost’! I’m sorry!”

“Wait! What the–” the expletive was cut short as Kabar terminated the link. How could they do that? How could they know he was drunk? He had control over his entire sector. Then again, where was he for the 24 hours in between passing out and waking up to the nightmare? There were so many pieces of the puzzle missing for any of this to make sense–and it was all hitting him at once. Tears of rage and confusion ran rivers down his cheeks. He felt guilty for being a drunk, but he knew that there was more going on than what they let on.

There was only one thing he knew he could do. He was going to give his superiors a piece of his mind. He was going to the business district and let it all out. Even though he had been a drunk, he had never missed a shift. Joe was even an effective employee when called upon. He had stopped three major riots in the course of his employment. The first got him his promotion to Chief. The other two were well known among his fellow officers. And he was serious about sobriety now. Just as he made the decision, it seemed that life was slapping him down again. Well, this time he wasn’t going to back down! This was his first gainful employment, even if he had grown cold to it. It kept him fed, clothed and sheltered and left enough money over to enjoy life a little more. He was not losing this job. This was not happening. He punched the console in anger, shattering the dash. Gathering his strength, he stood up and stormed off into the darkness towards the exit.

Meanwhile, Simon Lawrence found himself in an even less than ideal situation.

* * *

Simon lay hog-tied with cord on the floor of a cold dark room. He trembled as he rocked back and forth, back and forth trying to calm down and make sense of all that had happened during the last 24 hours. He whimpered to himself (he had been gagged to stop the screaming), small tears evaporating on his hot cheeks.

He had been knocked out, beaten (judging by the dull ache pain of his bruised body) then thrown down the garbage chute to be incinerated. He had barely escaped using quick thinking and a primitive tool.

He remembered charging into the labs brandishing his knife only be astonished that no one was there. Before he knew it, he was being tackled by eight SWAT commandos and kicked until he stopped moving and blacked out. Now he was in some sort of detention area. Judging by the soft mood lighting (each area of the VirCorp HQ had its own motif), he was on the other side of the compound.

How was he going to get out of this? All logic and sense told him there was no way. The compound was the size of a city and he had nowhere to escape to. But his survival instinct told him otherwise. Fight or flight? At heart, Simon was more of a lover than a fighter, but due to the lack of attractive and sympathetic young females around him, he felt he would have to make his stand at the next available opportunity. They had taken his pocketknife, so all he was left with were his wits. Thank you, God, he thought spitefully. He closed his eyes and contemplated his situation.

By international corporate law, prisoners in custody had to be fed. It saved a lot of wrongful death lawsuits coming from the few remaining fringe element lobbyists. At some point they would have to feed him. If he could just get loose from his bonds he could then make a break for it. He ran through various scenarios of this in his mind, most of them ending up with his Swiss cheese-resembling bullet-riddled body hitting the pavement with a gooey wet noise.

But, provided it could work, what would he do then? He thought it over as he continued to rock back and forth, struggling against his restraints. He wanted revenge. His life had been forfeit thanks to two sniveling German doctors. If he were able, he would use their own instruments to make sauerbraten out of their miserable corpses. But what could he do? There was no way past the security. Then it hit him.

He should tell the security guard, the one he had captured. He was stronger than Simon, no doubt. He might still have access or, barring that, know certain loopholes around the system that could get him in. He would need this man’s help.

Shaking his head ruefully and rocking violently against the floor, a wave of guilt swept over Simon. What if his actions had led to the man’s death? Surely he would have to find out, find him! A sense of altruistic duty rose from the cockles of his heart (or perhaps it was just bile and self-loathing at what he had done); he felt responsible for that man’s life.

Simon had been raised right by his working class parents. If you saved a man’s life then you became responsible for it (responsibility being one of the key reasons people from all walks had become so indifferent when it came to actually helping each other out). Since Simon had put a man’s life in jeopardy, he now felt doubly responsible for it. Either way, he would need to pass unnoticed through the business district to get back to the labs to fulfil his duty. He would do this, but he reminded himself, only if he could escape from this situation with as little new orifices made in his body as possible. This would be hard enough.

He squirmed around in his comfortless position, trying to find way to slip out of the cord. Each twist of his body seemed to tighten its tenacity. Maybe, he thought, by applying pressure on his body, he could loosen it just enough to get a hand free. Even a few fingers would add some leverage. He closed his mind and visualized a butterfly breaking free of its cocoon. He shifted his weight to the left and wriggled with movements as subtle as a pickpocket’s. When he opened his eyes, he saw his bleeding right hand had been freed. Now with four fingers and an opposable digit on his side he would be freed in no time! He chanted traditional quiet words of encouragement to himself (Go Simon, it’s your birthday, go Simon, it’s your birthday!) and rocked into a better position to remove his fetters.

His left hand was free! He stretched out his arms and felt the blood flow back into them with singing painful delight. His breath quickened, his heart leaped in his chest. He bit down on the gag to calm himself. He thrust his hands towards the cord binding his legs when, suddenly, he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. One of his captors!

He quickly tried to re-hog-tie himself and failed. He knew he’d be shot if they caught him trying to escape. Diligently, he brought his knees to his chest and grabbed his ankles hoping the guard would be fooled. The door hissed open and a surly security guard with the face of a parked-car chasing dog emerged carrying a tray. He wheezed as he spoke.

“Oi, Lawrence! Boss says you gotta’ eat.” He held out the tray as an offering, not looking at his prisoner, completely oblivious to Lawrence’s incapacity to eat through a gag.

Lawrence grunted through the gag and gestured with his head at the guard. Simon studied the man’s wide stance and considered the angle.

“Oi! I ain’t spoon-feeding you! Lemme’ remove that and you can eat like the scum-sucking animal you are.” He set the tray down before leaning over and pulling off the gag. As the officer rose and began to turn away, Lawrence mumbled something.

“What’d you say?” The enraged guard took a step closer and cocked an ear at his prisoner.

“I said thank you, Officer Dork!” Simon unclasped his legs, wheeled around on his bottom and dealt the man a Herculean kick to the genitals. The bewildered guard, eyes rolling up into his head, staggered back through the doorway and collapsed squealing in agony. The guards down the corridor must have heard this as Simon could feel the rush of feet through the floor.

Simon vaulted to his feet, wobbling like a top and braced himself in the doorway. He peered right around the door and, in terror, saw three guards running down the corridor, only 100 meters away. He glanced left and saw the floor ramped downwards fifty meters to a security door with bars. Beyond that, just a few more meters, was a fire exit. Freedom!

In a split-second, Simon lurched over to the debilitated guard and snatched the ID card from around his neck and began hopping towards the security door. The guards were nearly on top of him now. They brandished their stun batons menacingly as they bellowed at him.

Simon began to hop down the slope like a jackrabbit. He wasn’t fast enough–they were gaining! His only recourse was to let gravity accelerate his decent. Crossing his arms over his chest, he twisted in mid-air and fell sideways down the ramp. He was on a roll now! Faster and faster, he was getting ahead of the wolf pack. He gained speed with every turn until he finally met the bars with a clang.

Sputtering, he vaulted to his feet and inserted the key card. The door clunked and Simon wriggled through the opening, shutting it tight just as the guards began to un-holster their guns. Simon sprung forward, making it in five mighty leaps towards the exit. He punched the door open and dove through just as the guards began to fire.

The door sprang closed and Simon hopped for his very life.

* * *

Joe’s anger bristled with every step he took on his trek towards the business district. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette as he strode on, purpose springing in each pace. He had already passed through the defense-contracting district, paying no attention to the explosive test shelling. Nothing could compare with the hell he would unleash once he found the right ear. Oh, he would be professional about it at first (and at the worst he would beg), but instinct told him that something more was afoot. Fire him? For what felt like a set up? He demanded answers. Things weren’t like this when he had first joined the company.

One year out of Metropolitan Business College, Joe Noone sat in the VirCorp Recruitment Testing Center, finishing up his skill assessments after taking an arduous physical. It had been nearly an eleven-month wait just to make it to this screening process. He then waited for another seven hours in the lobby patiently awaiting his decision, making friends with other bright-eyed wet back candidates. Like him, all had done reasonably quite well in school and were looking forward to landing that stepping stone job that would lead to promotion. He was elated when his caseworker called him into his private office and told him he had a job.

“Great! Did I get the manager-in-training position?” he asked, barely containing his excitement.

The caseworker took a long deep breath and peered over a computer printout at Joe. The look was paralyzing, like a disappointed mother catching her only son with his hand in the cookie jar. He spoke:

“You must understand, Mister Noone, that times are tough in the economy and, while your qualifications are splendid, we just weren’t able to place you into your desired position of personnel management.”

Joe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unbuttoned his collar. Chuckling, he tried to make light of the matter. “I understand that, Mister Starling. I’m not trying to replace you, you know!” The joke was lost in his intensely fixed stare. “What exactly are you offering me?”

“We currently have two vacancies that should suit you splendidly. Now understand you will have ample room for promotion and should any vacancies occur in human resources your name will be on the list. We all start at the bottom, remember that.” The caseworker nodded and slid a page of printout across to Joe. “Tell me what you think.”

Joe took the paper and reclined back in his seat. He read it slowly, digesting all the information from corporate header to last punctuation mark. What disturbed him most were the two job descriptions smack dab in the middle. He read them over and over, attempting to control his anger.

Janitorial Assistant Grade E: Day Shift Kitchen Associate. Assist in daily maintenance of the business district canteen including (but not limited to) dish washing, installation and maintenance of appliances, full servicing of the canteen washrooms including the really hairy and gross bits.

Security Assistant Grade D: Day Shift Security Associate. Assist in the checking of identifications, patrolling and monitoring of corporate assets, greeting incoming and outgoing employees with a cheerful smile and diffusion of terrorist situations. Hazard pay available.

Joe shifted in his seat, turned the paper over and over again looking for the “gotcha!” amidst the legalese. $100,000 dollars and 5 years to get his diploma yielded him the opportunity to become either a mop-jockey or a corporate legionnaire. His middle-class roots withered in fear. Desperately, he held the paper up to the window to see if there was any secret writing visible only by moonlight. The gentle throat clearing of his caseworker brought his attention back to earth. “Well?”

Joe placed the paper on the desk gently and drummed his fingers on his left armrest. Employment was employment. His older brother Gerry had been on the dole for three years before the government shut the program down in favor of privatization. Something had snapped inside his brother. Joe remembered looking at Gerry through the glass pane of his padded room after he had had to sign the formal commitment papers. Employment was too vital in today’s day and age to just scoff at it. Joe began the long dark process of swallowing his pride.

“Look, I know it’s not what you hoped for, but like I said it gets your foot in the door…” consoled the caseworker. “Besides, we need young bright strapping lads like you. You’re bright. You’ll advance quickly. Before you know it this will all be but a funny anecdote you tell the team you’re managing. What do you say?”

“Young bright strapping lads to do the dishes?” It came out before he had even intended to say it. “I’m sorry,” Joe nodded in apology. “Mister Starling, I believe I am most interested in the Security position. I just have one question, about terrorists. Does that sort of thing happen…often?”

Mister Starling smiled amiably and reached across the desk to pat Joe on the shoulder. “Oh, not as often as you’d think. Here at least. At some of our international bases of operations we take a lot of flak from various extremist groups, often backed by various foreign governments who are, ah, unsympathetic to global industry. Because of the sensitive nature of our diverse operations at VirCorp we tend to attract strong negative sentiments. I won’t lie to you, since the Golden Gate Incident a few years back, we need to be extra cautious. I don’t think you’ll have to worry about this right now. Things are calm.”

Joe remembered signing some papers, requisitioning his uniform and gear from the compound’s quartermaster the drive home to his Sandra’s arms that night. Only that night they forever closed to him.

“A security guard!” she shrieked. “I’m not marrying a security guard! Baby, you have a future!” He explained that it was just a temporary thing, that promotion was practically guaranteed. She needed a man with actualities, not potentials. That night she walked out on him. That night he discovered the joys of drinking alone.

He began work two days later, sad but sober and ready. He was working in the pharmaceutical department, manning the entry metal detectors and checking IDs. He also met his mentor, a gregarious middle-aged man named Commander Al Jablonski. After his first shift, he asked Joe to take a walk with him outside.

“Smoke?” he offered Joe a cigarette.

“There’s no better time to start,” he replied. ” Thanks, sir.”

“Roll ‘em myself, saves me about fifty dollars a carton. And call me Al, none of this ‘sir’ bullshit down in the ranks.” He lit up his cigarette, handing the lighter to Joe. Joe lit up and passed it back. They ambled down the landscaped parkway. “You’ve done well for your first day, kid.”

“Thanks, Al.”

“But…”

“But?”

“It looks like you’ve got more on your mind than unwinding after your shift.”

Joe smiled wanly. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Al nodded reassuringly. “It’s OK to speak your mind among your fellow man, provided your conversation partner is a fellow man,” he jerked his head towards the business district. “We’re gonna’ be working together for a while, son, so why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Somehow, Al seemed like one of those people you felt you could trust. Open up to. Bond with, without feeling weird about it. He was genuinely concerned about his team.

“Well Al, this isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing right out of college.” He went on and told him about college, his job interview with Mister Starling and how he felt reading the job assignments. Sandra running out on him. Drinking to forget.

“When you’re young and in love–or what you think is love–you expect the best right away. You feel that because of what you’ve had to do to get where you are, to be who you are, that the world owes you something. We’ve all felt that way, since we crawled out of the slime. But let me tell you something, son. We don’t’ know jack.” He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette before looking at Joe. “A man named Oscar Wilde once wrote something very profound that I try to keep in mind. He said, ‘Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.’ And you know what? Drinking isn’t gonna fix it. You’re one of my boys now. I need you sober to do your best. Hell, I requested you for our group because I know you can do the job and think with a clear head. Your record proves that.” Joe stared down at the ground, ashamed for complaining.

He tapped Joe on the arm and pointed to the business district. “Now, some of the people working up there really do know what they’re doing. They aren’t avaricious, vain or stupid. But the majority of them got there based on who they know, not what they know. Up there they invest in product development, prospects, assets, corporate bonds and foreign currency. Wherever they go, they’re always focused on things like money, which doesn’t exist outside of everyone believing it carries tangible value. It haunts them. They’re responsible to stockholders and bosses in even higher towers that nip at their heels every second. No time for much else. Sure, they have trophy wives and other expensive things they pretend to enjoy, but ‘business’ dominates their life.

“And yes, we help protect them in the bigger picture. But down here, we invest in people, not dollars and cents. In our work, do we have to occasionally chase down and kick the living snot out of someone? You bet. We have to exercise discipline. I won’t lie to you–we have corporate brown-nosers in our ranks too, hungry for promotion. There’s one of them for every ten decent guards, so watch your back. But look at it this way: who’s the first person to greet you at the door when you come into work in the morning? Why, it’s Security Associate Joe Noone that’s who! Who will people trust in an emergency? One of those glib despot CEOs? No, Security Associate Joe Noone! Here you can still make a difference in a person’s daily life.” He patted Joe on the shoulder.

“Look, I know it isn’t what you wanted, but down here you can still manage people–in your own way. And you don’t report to any sweating executive who’s gonna lash out at you. You report to me. Down here we’re family. Got it?” He offered his hand to seal the deal on his speech. Joe shook it firmly and grinned.

“That’s the best damned speech I’ve ever heard. You’ve got my vote.”

Al laughed and waved it off. Down in the ranks, he had become everyone’s favorite uncle for a reason. He took time out each week to have a sit down chat with every one of his subordinates. He was more than a boss; he was a friend and brought a real sense of fellowship to the profession.

Over the next three years, Joe followed in his mentor’s footsteps. Treating everyone as compassionately and fairly as possible–while remaining firm, respectable and trustworthy. It was with these attributes that Joe had risen from the ranks to Security Chief of Sector C. A tremendous blow to morale came when the company decided to let Al Jablonski go, in what became known as the first round of The Purges. Men with outstanding records, men with families–good men–all thrown to the wolves when the company found it could save more money by outsourcing half of its security detail to RoboGuard Security Systems International. Efficiency consultants were called in, meetings were held, careers ended with a sycophantic nod of the head.

Joe’s fellow officers commiserated together as one by one they had to say goodbye. Their fraternity was abandoned as computerized systems and cheap labor began to replace everything. And Joe, among with his few remaining buddies, grew bitter. Smoked too much. Began to drink too much. Grew to hate the company when he had to take a severe pay cut to keep his job. Crawling into the bottle became the only area of his life where he felt right to rebel. It had become his only escape from a world turned upside down. But that world had suddenly been turned round once again.

Joe exhaled, smoke climbing away in the evening air, tossed his cigarette into the darkness. He stopped and looked around, gathering his thoughts in a silence only broken by occasional detonations.

He recalled blacking out, world spinning, too drunk. He remembered feeling the cold of the floor on his face as he lost consciousness. Yet he had woken up in his chair. Someone must have seen him, sat him upright. Someone who knew more about what was going on than he did.

He cursed under his breath and took a few steps forward. An enormous porcelain fountain shaped like a toilet bowl loomed in distance. He suddenly knew exactly where he was. Behind the fountain was a building shaped like a gigantic plunger, home to VirCorp Janitorial Services Headquarters. He stared at it, lost in reverie, thinking about how his life might have turned out had he elected to take the other position offered him.

During the course of his employment, Joe had come to know quite a few janitors. After all, he had to approve their access to his sector when they performed their often-unmentionable tasks. They were a strange lot, janitors. Mostly good folks, but rumor had it that the fumes they breathed did something to their brains. Something that that made them gravitate towards reclining in boiler rooms reading avant-garde pornographic magazines. They were real connoisseurs. Joe shuddered to think of how his tastes in the female form might have otherwise been shaped.

The best janitor Joe ever met was an ambitious, but disorganized, man. It was his lifelong ambition to be promoted from Clog Specialist (Janitorial Services Assistant Grade K) to Mopmaster (Grade A). When The Purges were over, his wish was granted. He wore the Twin Mops of Honor badge around his neck with pride each and every day. He indulged himself in this fashion until one fateful poorly lit shift when he grabbed Liquid Plumber by mistake instead of Coca-Cola. The best janitor Joe ever met.

Joe chuckled slightly to himself as he approached the fountain. He saw the bits of copper and silver catch the light in the bowl. So many wishes just flushed down the drain. And why not me? he thought to himself. Digging in his trousers, he withdrew a quarter. In good superstitious fashion, he turned his back to the fountain and flicked the coin over his shoulder. Joe closed his eyes and made a complicated wish. It arced high in the air, refracting the light as it spun until it hit a breaching Simon Lawrence square between the eyes.

“Oww!” Something heavy crashed through the water.

Joe stopped in mid-wish, eyes abruptly reopened. “Wait just a minute. Coins aren’t supposed to go ‘oww’!” He spun and saw a dripping shadow emerge from the center of the fountain. He grabbed hold of his nightstick and dropped into a defensive stance. “This is Sector Chief Joe Noone! Who goes there?”

The shadow began to laugh in panicked ecstasy as it trudged through slimy fountain water towards him, calling his name. “Joe Noone? It is you, Joe Noone! That’s your name! I knew it had a time of day ring to it. Joe Noone! Ha ha!” The figure splashed around, half stumbling as it strode closer and closer to Joe. Joe gulped. Who the hell was this person that knew his name? He took several steps back, shielding his eyes to see better with one hand, nightstick at the ready in the other.

* * *

Simon had hopped his way out of trouble and unbound his ankles. He had shaken off security by diving into the mucky fountain outside the Janitorial Services building and hiding in the U-bend. Having been a janitor for all his professional life, Simon was an expert at holding his breath for prolonged periods of time. He had hidden there for twenty minutes, coming up for air every 70 seconds. As he breached the awful water one last time, something metal and painful struck him between the eyes. He cried out and splashed back down into the water.

When he cleared the slime from his eyes, he noticed the startled guard. The guard identified himself. Suddenly it all clicked. His quarry was staring him in the face. Overcome with serendipity, he cried out his name again and again like an epiphany as strode gaily forward, shedding muck with every step till he reached the rim of the fountain. Simon vaulted over the rim and ran towards Joe.

“Stay back! Put your hands where I can see them!” Joe shook his baton menacingly. But it was too late. Simon dove for him, arms outstretched, catching him off balance. As Joe countered with his weight, he came up with a left hook, which sent the other man doing back flips till he crumpled to the ground. Joe cursed, adrenaline pumping the rest of the hangover out of his system. He ran over to the assailant, gripped him by the shoulders and held him to the ground.

Simon moaned. “Idiot. Stupid idiot!”

“You’re the idiot, man. You came running at an armed guard!”

“I know,” he groaned, blinking back the pain, “I’m talking to myself!” The world around him was swimming. His stomach leaped to greet his throat.

“How do you know my name? Wait, a minute, you’re one of the janitors!” Joe shook him violently. “Who are you?”

Simon turned his head and unleashed his lunch on the pavement. Joe let go and took a step back, giving the subdued man some air. “Let it go. Relax. Deep breath.” Joe knelt down and busied himself by studying this strange man. He was a few inches shorter than Joe, and wiry where Joe was burly. He was obviously strong and his body had taken a lot of punishment. Battered, bewildered, but not broken.

Simon squirmed on the pavement, rubbing his sore face. He nodded, trying to reassemble the universe and his position in it. Joe asked him again.

“Joe Noone, I know you but you don’t know me.” He laughed, completely delirious. Joe paced back and forth. “I’m the…I’m the janitor, yeah. My name is Simon. Simon Lawrence. Would you please adjust the tracking on the VCR? You look all wobbly.”

“Tell me how you know my name, mop-jockey!” Joe took a step forward, bristling. Simon laughed resignedly through the growing shiner under his eye.

“Forgive me–if I lose my breakfast too. I don’t feel so good.” Simon turned over and rocked back and forth on his knees until the heaves left him alone. He crawled over to the rim of the fountain and leaned against it for support. “Like I said, my name is Simon Lawrence. What you don’t know is that you’re the victim of a covert plan. Two weeks ago, while scrubbing one of the men’s rooms, I was approached by a German, Doctor Klaus from your sector and asked to study your habits. When you came in, when you left, whether you fell asleep on the job, etc. Two nights ago, I was asked to bring you in.”

“Bring me in?”

“To the doctor. He said he wanted to perform some required tests on you. That you were unwilling so long as you were conscious and why don’t I just go and bring you in so the company could confirm a few things. He promised me a desk at the HQ, pay raise and everything. It was just too good an opportunity for me to turn down. Having seen what I’ve seen on the job, I just couldn’t keep doing it.”

“You sold me? Sold me! I’m not a damn commodity here, Simon Lawrence.” Joe paced around Lawrence, gesturing violently. “A fellow human being, but what’s that for a few more credits, eh?” He nearly struck him in anger, but seeing Simon’s condition, recoiled his hand. “Well, to hell with you.” Joe lit another cigarette, exhaling bitterly. He pointed with his cigarette angrily at Simon. “First thing we’re going to do, you and I, is go to the business district and sort this thing out. Don’t think you’re getting away with this!”

Simon gazed up at him through hazy eyes; he was losing consciousness. “Joe,” he reached and grabbed onto a boot. The words came out slowly. “We’re both victims here. I’m sorry…sorry for what I did to you. But they tried to kill me after I hauled you in. Something more is going on. I went back to settle the score, security beat me up and threw me in jail. I just broke out, to find you. To tell you. No doubt they’ll now be looking for both of us. God, I’m so sorry.” Nodding his head, he passed out.

Joe crouched down and watched Simon. Tears streamed down the unconscious man’s face. He was still breathing. Angry as he was, Joe couldn’t help but pity him. He was pathetic in every sense of the word. This man had sold him out, but had felt enough guilt to try to make up for it. He had acted with (now, what was the word that had been deleted from the employee handbook?) honor. Al would have been proud. He was the missing link he needed and had come clean. And Joe had nearly killed him before he found this out.

Things were far more complicated now than expected. He felt violated. I’ve been probe-u-lated, shuddered Joe. It was more than a hangover; they had done things to his body. What was worse was that the company–or a part of the company–was now involved.

Joe growled and gnashed his teeth. Standing up, the frustration boiling inside, he bellowed a roar that would have struck terror into Simon (had he been conscious). He paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to calm down.

He would do what he set out to do, find the right ear. Now that ear would have to be an internal investigator in human resources once he reached the business district. But what to do with this Simon Lawrence? He needed him as proof, and he certainly wasn’t just going to sit back and let the wolves get him. Maybe together they could blow the whistle and set things right.

Joe cursed and crouched over the unconscious man. “It looks like the night is still young and we’ve got people to see. Come along then.” He scooped the dead weight up and slung him over his shoulder. It was another five city blocks to the district.

* * *

“Forgive me if I do not share your enthusiasm, Doctor Klaus,” the steel eyes mocked beneath the executive’s darkened brow.

Klaus fidgeted in the darkened office. “I do not understand what the problem seems to be, Mister Falcon. I–”

“Screwed up. There’s no reason to beat around the bush, Doctor. Human resources should have handled disposal of corporate assets, including the janitor. Neither by yourself nor by your compatriot Doctor Klingel. Things are now getting out of hand. The Sector Chief left his station before we could escort him out. We don’t know where he is. And you, you went to the movies!” The suit named Falcon jerked himself upright from the leather upholstered chair and loomed over the fat scientist on the other side of the desk.

“This project is supposed to be our test run for the big pitch next quarter. Now we may have to account for two deaths, not just one. Who knows whom they’ve been in contact with now! I cannot fathom how you managed to be so careless. If I didn’t need you, I’d fire you right now. What do you have to say for yourself? I left you in charge of the operation, gave you the complete cooperation of my department! What will I tell the boss if word gets out?”

“Word will not get out, Mister Falcon.” Klaus leaned back, sighed and began polishing his spectacles on his tie. “No one has left the compound since Lawrence has escaped the brig. Captain Tanzer, whom you have been so kind to put at my disposal, has informed me that all entrances and exits are being monitored. All of our security assets are on alert. They’ll turn up soon and that will be that.”

“I am well aware of that, thank you. Heads will roll, do you know that, Doctor? Heads will roll!” He pounded the desk and sighed into a prolonged uncomfortable silence. “Keep me informed. And if, by chance, you do find them, I want them alive. I have other uses for them. Now, get out of my sight!” Falcon waved his finely manicured hand in dismissal, turning away to make a call. Klaus struggled against the armrests of the chair, his girth clamped firmly in place. Finally one of the struts snapped and he extricated himself, armrest firmly in hand. He laid the broken wood on the chair and quietly made his exit.

Doctor Klingel was waiting for him by the elevator, winding his antique Mickey Mouse watch. He looked up just as Klingel bustled past and hit the down button. The lanky doctor inquired:

“I assume things did not go well, Herr Doktor?”

“On the contrary, Arnie. We shall stick to the plan as originally envisioned. What an utter waste of time that movie was, huh?” Klaus deflected attention away from the question.

“Yes, yes. It made the Clooney version seem definitive.” Klingel paused, then ventured, “What about Lawrence? Noone?”

Klaus smiled serenely. Somewhere inside he was subduing his rage, counting to ten to cool it down, or holding it under cold water while repeatedly pummeling it in the kidneys. “Oh, Captain Tanzer has assured me that his team will find and ‘dismiss’ them outright. You need not worry about this.” The elevator dinged and the doors whooshed open. Klaus stepped in. “What is the time?”

Klingel consulted his watch, stepping into the elevator. “The first training session begins in half an hour. We still have time for a quick schnapps and a hot chocolate.”

“Splendid!” Klaus tilted his neck and cracked one of his vertebrae. “That will do nicely. Set course for the canteen!”

The doors whisked shut and the elevator began its descent.

* * *

Simon was in his happy place. It was summer back home. He’d just come in, sore and sweaty from playing ball with the neighbor kids. Mama was in the kitchen making beignes–the smell was intoxicating. Daddy had just got home from work. It was hotter than Hades, but here they were, all together again. Daddy picked Simon up and hugged him tight.

“How’s my boy?”

“Great Daddy! We won 14-7!”

“Aww, son. That’s terrific! Pretty soon you’ll be playing center for the Saints!” He gently dropped Simon down to the ground and they walked together into the kitchen.

“Well, hello boys!” She turned her head and gave them one of her heart-warming smiles. “Welcome home. I’ve got a special treat coming up in just a second.”

She busied herself over the stove while he and Daddy took a seat at the kitchen table. They were truly blessed.

Then Mama turned around, only she wasn’t Mama any more. She was a rotund German with a snow-white beard in a lab coat wearing half-moon spectacles.

“Simon, my dear boy! What’s the matter? Aren’t you hungry?”

He turned to Daddy, who was now much more brazenly angular, winding his antique Mickey Mouse watch and grimacing.

Simon screamed.

* * *

Captain Moritz Tanzer was not happy. Sweat dripped from his black do’-rag, streaking down his silver aviator sunglasses. He had been given the task of cleanup for a special personnel commission, promotion to Commander guaranteed upon successful completion. Already four of his incompetent subordinates had screwed up containing the situation. He was beginning to lose face–and in the world of corporate politics, face was everything.

“And what about Cobra Squad? Why aren’t they out there looking for them right now?” He glowered, pacing in front of his third story office window in the Personnel Building.

“Captain,” Tanzer’s right hand man Sergeant Shawn Harvey, standing at rigor-mortis attention, nervously cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that Cobra Squad is completely disabled due to yesterday’s lunch special, sir.”

Tanzer took three paces towards his toady and slapped him hard across the face. “Intolerable! From now on, Cobra Squad eats nothing but dry bread and water! Got it? For the rest of the fiscal year!” He sighed and sat down in his super villain-styled office chair. “Whom can you call upon to patrol?”

The subordinate blinked, finding a spot on the wall to focus his attention. His voice quivered, seeking serenity. “We’ve currently got a skeleton crew as it stands, sir. With Cobra Squad on sick leave, we have no special operations. I can’t get a patrol without leaving several sectors vacant. We could outsource this one to RG.”

“This simply will not do, Sergeant. We’re way over budget as it is.” A recent water-cooler rumor held that Tanzer had pocketed his command’s expense budget to begin funding his own private army somewhere in Laos. Sergeant Harvey, well aware of his commanding officer’s corruption, rolled his eyes before snapping back to attention. “There is only one solution then. Withdraw all security personnel from Sectors A through I. Teams of two, you delegate remotely, to fan out in the cardinal directions. Leave no stone unturned!” He gestured violently out the window. “And I want them alive! Now, do you think you can handle that, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir!” Harvey saluted stiffly.

“You will report back to me within the hour. Dismissed!” Harvey vanished out the door.

Tanzer kicked his boots up on his desk and leaned back, fingers tented in pensive thought. He had worked so hard, constantly, to get where he was. Divorced his wife after their child was born (and he had an official legal claim). Signed contracts most intelligent people would find unconscionable. Blocked out everything else in his life to further his career, perfect his image. Skills were good to have for any job, but in reality it all came down to appearances–in Tanzer’s case, the appearance of authority.

While privately training for his promotion, he studied Aikido under Sensei Ichiro Tanaka, the fool. His teacher simply didn’t understand that a quick promotion through the ranks to the highest black belt would command respect from his subordinates. Impatient as he was, Tanzer was often defeated. No amount of determination could help him defeat his master. Lying on his back looking up at the ceiling lights, he growled.

“Tanaka-san, I need to know. When will I master this art?”

Tanaka studied his pupil and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “For you, I would think fifteen years, maybe.”

“What if I practiced night and day? Focused on nothing but my form?”

Tanaka leaned over and studied his eyes. Tanzer hated that. Eye contact meant you thought you were equal to somebody. Tanaka smiled. “Forty years, then.” Tanzer would have punched him, if he knew he wouldn’t end up on his back again.

It was his last Aikido lesson. Tanzer then began weaving an intricate story about how Tanaka-san was so impressed with his abilities that it was he, Tanaka, who should be studying under Tanzer. He begged him not to start his own dojo. The guys in marketing and personnel ate it up, asking Tanzer to instruct them after hours.

He politely declined, kissing as much ass as possible and began working more on his outward appearance. He took hormones to add girth and build muscle and, like any good villain-in-training, designed his own wardrobe. His do’-rag and shades were practically legendary now. So many tried to copy him, but they lacked the machismo to pull it off. He was a brand now. He learned that, while his superiors admired his savvy (superiors rarely recalling what it’s like to be in a lesser position of power), most of his subordinates thought he was a joke (except for the wetbacks), so he ruled them by fear. That fear grew the brand.

In truth, he was the sad king of a small hill. Had he utilized his expense budget, he would have the extra personnel on hand to conduct a proper search. But he had studied existing management practices and learned his lessons well. It was not manpower, but appearances, that made you a success. By pocketing that money and projecting his image, he had guaranteed himself power (albeit in a foreign country) if he ever had to leave the company.

Now a janitor and a former coworker were now threatening his brand. Two men unworthy of having an image to protect. What gave them the right? They had no ambition! Then again, neither did any of his incompetent subordinates. Tanzer cursed and slid his boots off the desk. He pressed a button and the top of his desk opened at a right angle, revealing a bank of flat-screen monitors. A keyboard slid into view from under the desk. If it came down to it, he would simply have to catch them himself.

But what did he know about getting the job done? Sure, he nailed the use of jargon, but he had spent so long working on the façade that the interior remained unfurnished. He didn’t know what it all meant. Using Sergeant Harvey’s login and password (to cover his tracks), Tanzer opened the VirCorp Internet browser and typed in his query: how to conduct a search and destroy mission.

After scrolling through twenty pages of search results containing nothing but “Triple-X-Rated Commando Sluts”, Tanzer found what he was looking for–J.P. Grimes’ (formerly of West Point and Delta Force) In-Depth Military Tutorial Online Classroom. Unfortunately, it was a subscription-based site and cost $200 ‘tuition’ for membership. He would need his banking card. But why pay for things yourself when you have perfectly good marks for coworkers to steal from? It’s not like they were ambitious enough to really need that money.

He unlocked his filing cabinet and withdrew a slip of folded paper. On it was written various banking card numbers of his coworkers he had nicked from them when they were changing in the locker room. He ran through the list until he found Sergeant Harvey’s. If anyone traced the transaction, it would show that it was Harvey who was logged in at the time of purchase. Tanzer typed in the account number and joined. In a few seconds he was in.

Thank you for joining the number one supplemental military education website! Why not take a moment to view our sponsor’s website? A pop-up window launched displaying a semi-nude bikini-clad girl toting an M4 carbine rifle: “Triple-X-Rated Commando Sluts”. Tanzer closed the advertisement and began to study.

After fifteen minutes into the course he realized that what he had told Sergeant Harvey to do in the first place was pretty much all he could do with limited resources and no real abilities of his own to call upon.

“Captain,” a voice crackled over the radio, “Miller, here. We’ve found one of them. Requesting your orders, sir.” Ha! Any doubts he’d had about his own abilities to lead were left by the wayside.

“Excellent! What’s your twenty?” There was a long pause.

“About two clicks northwest from Janitorial Services HQ.”

“Right. Hold position. I’ll be there in ten.”

He locked the slip of paper back in his filing cabinet and closed down his station. He went over to the gun cabinet and punched in the code, withdrawing twin platinum Desert Eagles (another Tanzer trademark) which he slid into their tactical holsters. He opened his office door, looked out the window one last time and closed it.

At least Harvey’s cash wasn’t spent totally in vain. Validation, he thought. When subordinates won’t kiss your ass, do it yourself and make sure the right people are watching. It was time to start the Tanzer show. Humility was for chumps.

* * *

Joe had huffed and puffed for almost two blocks carrying Simon before he needed a rest. The past year of inactivity and boozing had really taken its toll on his endurance. He found a spot off the beaten path under a tree and leaned Simon against it. He sat down nearby, stretching his legs and rubbing his sore arms in the cool evening air.

Simon looked like he was going to be all right. The man could take a serious beating that was for sure. His breathing was regular and he looked relaxed against the tree. Hopefully he would come to by the time they reached personnel.

Joe was about to light up a cigarette when he heard voices in the distance. Shrinking into the shadows, he crouched and listened.

“I mean, just what does he expect us to find out here? It’s not like specific perps grow on trees and we can just shake some down.”

“And what does he want with one of us guards and a janitor, anyway?”

Two security personnel, one tall and one short appeared under the light about 100 meters away. Joe didn’t recognize either of them; they were wearing different uniforms. They must be from different sectors, he thought. And they’re searching for us.

He turned to look at Simon. He was awake now and staring at Joe, jaw hanging open, eyes wide with terror. Joe put a finger to his lips for silence and made his way over to behind the tree. The men were getting closer.

“Welcome back, Simon.” Joe put a hand on his shoulder. “I have an idea. First, I’ll need a boost.” He nodded up into the branches. Simon nodded, got into a catcher’s crouch and offered his hands as a launch pad. Joe hopped up and crouched in between the boughs. He whispered softly down to the bewildered janitor. “Now, when they get near I want you to get their attention. Lure them back to where you’re standing now. Got it?”

Simon nodded, trembling and kept an eye on the road. The guards were almost twenty meters away now.

“Go! Go! Go!” Simon hesitated, looked up at Joe and whimpered.

“Go! Now!” Simon nearly tripped over his own feet, but took off jogging towards the road.

“Hey! You! Security! Over here!” The guards stopped and glanced around. Simon emerged from the shadows, hopping from one foot to the other and waving both arms. “Um…Hoodie hoo! Over here!”

“Isn’t that–” the short one’s jaw dropped.

“Yep,” the tall one cut in. “Simon Lawrence! This is Sector Chief Richard Miller!”

“And Constable Jorge X. Variables! You are under arrest! Stay where you are!” Both men unholstered their tranquilizer guns. Simon flipped them the bird and ran back into the shadows. The irate guards gave chase.

Darts whistled past Simon’s ears as he dashed through the foliage. When he reached the tree he stopped and raised his hands.

“Don’t shoot!” he huffed exasperatedly. “I give up, just don’t shoot!” He waved his arms to show he was unarmed and walked a few paces behind the trunk. The short guard flicked on his flashlight and shone it directly into Simon’s eyes. He stumbled back and landed on his butt. The two guards grinned at each other.

“It’s Miller time,” Variables winked up at his coworker. “Cuff this joker!”

A whistle broke their confidence.

“Coming through!” The guards looked up just in time to see Joe dropping down from above.

“Shit!” they cried in unison. Joe’s feet connected with their heads as he stretched into a butterfly kick. They both went down for count and rolled. Joe landed with a thud on his behind and swore.

“This looked far less painful in the movies,” he groaned. Joe got to his feet and went over to the prone guards and took their handcuffs, methodically linking their hands together behind their backs. Joe prodded the bodies. They weren’t going anywhere soon. He looked up at Simon who was trembling.

“Thanks for the assist, man. You all right, Simon?”

“What did we just do?”

Joe sighed and collected the guards’ guns from the ground. He tossed one to Simon who caught it with shaking hands. “We just disabled two men who were going to arrest us. You were out when I heard them coming. We had to improvise.”

“I was having the worst dream,” Simon shivered.

“Save it for later. We’ve got to get to HR as soon as possible. File something on record. They’ll at least hear us out. You don’t know any journalists by any chance, do you? It’s always good to have a backup.”

Simon shook his head. “No. How are we going to get there? Surely they’ve got swarms of guards looking for us!”

Joe laughed a rich hearty laugh. “You’ve got to be joking me, right? Don’t you know how things are done here?” Simon shook his head again. “Budget cuts, my friend. If they had the manpower, they’d have gotten us already. Our only problems right now are,” Joe ripped the ID badge off the tall guard, “access. And then there’s the commanding officer.” Joe studied the badge. Miller was from was from Sector H. That put him under Tanzer’s watch. Joe sighed, and continued distantly.

“Captain Tanzer dispatched these guys. We’ll have to find some way to distract him. Keep him busy.” Joe eyed the unconscious guards. He could probably get away with wearing the tall one’s uniform without a problem, but the small guy was a good head shorter than Simon. Joe’s own uniform would be a dead give away. Joe scratched his stubble thoughtfully.

Somewhere in the distance a night bird sang. The wind shook the leaves from the trees. Simon sat and rubbed his aching neck. After a few minutes, the thought hit Joe. “Simon, how do you feel about being my prisoner?”

* * *

“Captain,” Joe muffled his voice over the radio. “Miller, here. We’ve found one of them. Requesting your orders, sir.”

“Excellent!” the exalted voice of Captain Tanzer cut through the static. “What’s your twenty?”

Joe looked around and tried to gage his location. He gave him false directions that would take him around the other side of business district. “About two clicks northwest from Janitorial Services HQ.”

“Right. Hold position. I’ll be there in ten.”

That should keep the bastard busy just enough for them to slip under the radar. Joe smiled at Simon. Simon cocked an eyebrow and shrugged pleadingly.

“Security jargon, Simon. You’ll learn. I just told him we are more than a mile away from where we are. We’ll be long gone before he realizes it.”

* * *

It was five minutes later when they emerged on the walkway. Joe led Simon in shackles from behind with the tranquilizer gun in the small of his back.

“Do you really have to have the gun pointed at me?” Simon turned his head back.

“Not really, but we have to keep up appearances don’t we? Besides, I’m still mad for what you did to me.” Joe grinned evilly and gave Simon a playful jab with the barrel. “Just kidding. Keep your head forward. Remember, you’re the scum of the universe and we’re only a block away now.”

The sheer vastness of the business district that opened up before them was overwhelming. The corporate honchos had added some really impressive finishing touches since Joe joined the company. Then again, it had been three years since he had to make the trek to the district when he had a payroll problem.

To the outside observer, it looked like just a bunch of sheer gray walls shaped almost together to form an octagon. Once past the exterior, within these walls was a vast array of architectural façades and sculptures. Multi-cultural designs from different ages surrounded an area as large as Trafalgar Square. In the center was situated a helicopter-landing pad that was painted with the VirCorp logo of an iron gauntlet clutching a giant umbrella. Just to the east of this crouched Pablo Picasso’s “unnamed” vulture-like sculpture, recently purchased from the Mayor of Chicago. Behind it stretched the Parliament Building, executive suites loosely modeled on the Middlesex Guildhall if it were fifty stories high, crawling with imposing armed figures carved into the edifice.

Joe stopped Simon to marvel in the wonder at the ostensible opulence of the place.

“Ever been here before?” Joe asked.

Simon nodded, gaping. “When I was hired two years ago. They didn’t have all these sculptures then.”

“I reckon a dozen salaries for each one, at least.” Joe shook his head. They probably even laid-off a few VPs to get the Picasso.” He sighed, and then nudged Simon forward. “Enough gawking. Keep your head down.”

They passed by what looked like a museum with great Corinthian columns. A giant flowing banner dangled from the top that read “Accounts Receivable”. They must need hell of an accounting staff. The Personnel Building loomed ahead, a cold pale blue simple façade.

As they approached it, Joe saw six armed guards moping about on the sidewalk in front of it. They were having what looked like a cigarette break. As they got closer, Joe kept his vision locked on the main doors, nervously jabbing Simon in the back with the barrel.

“Hey, quit it will you?”

“Shut up! We’ve got to get past these guys–”

“Hey!” Joe looked away from the doors and saw one of the guards waving him over. He was wearing a do-rag and sunglasses. Could it be Tanzer? “Come over here!”

Joe hesitated, his heart rising in his throat.

“Yes, you. Come here, right now!”

Joe nodded and pushed Simon forward. As he came into range, he noticed the man was too scrawny to be Tanzer. Not exactly weak, but not chemically buffed out. He was one of the newer crew, a wannabe. Joe smiled to himself, sighing in relief, as he ordered Simon to halt three meters away from the gathered security detail.

“Who do you think you are, son?” Joe smirked. This kid was twenty years old, maybe, and calling him son.

“Sector Chief Richard Miller,” Joe couldn’t help but grin before he added, “sir.” The scrawny wannabe-in-shades looked him up and down as his boys looked on, clucking like teenage girls.

“And just where do you think you’re going with that?” He stepped in close and pawed Joe’s stolen security badge, looking it over.

“Special delivery for Captain Tanzer.” Joe cleared his throat nervously. “Found this one on the run near Janitorial Services. Tried to give me the slip.” Joe prodded Simon with the barrel. Simon groaned.

“That’s funny,” the wannabe looked up at Joe. “We’ve been out searching for this guy for the last hour. What’s even funnier is you don’t look a thing like Rich Miller. I think you better drop the gun and come with me.”

“Right.” Joe huffed, then raised Simon’s arm shoving the gun under the wannabe’s throat. It all happened so fast. The wannabe’s crew took out their nightsticks and advanced. Joe pegged the wannabe in between the eyes; he swayed, fell to knees and slid gently on his back.

Joe wheeled around, gun at the ready using Simon as a human shield. The first guard took a swing, just grazing Joe’s ear. Joe shifted his weight, using Simon for leverage and kicked out and dropped him, shooting the guard in the back of the neck with the dart gun. He danced around, jerking Simon this way and that. There were just too many for him to take at once, they were closing in.

In a fit of panic, he shoved Simon hard, launching him into them like a rogue human bowling ball. They staggered backwards and in that precious moment of opportunity Joe fired rapidly, emptying the clip. Three went down in a heap on top of Simon, who cried out like a librarian whose shelves were falling in on top of her.

One remained. He was the wrong man to miss. His ID badge read HUGO in large hostile letters. He was nearly seven feet tall and 400 pounds of teeming destruction. Tribal tattoos covered his face and an unholy fire burned deeply in his eyes. Hugo threw down his nightstick, shattering it on the pavement. He began to charge, screaming an inhuman battle cry.

“YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!”

Joe cursed, remembering the spare gun was tucked in the back of Simon’s pants. He deftly dove to the side, letting the behemoth charge past him. I am going to die, he thought. So this is how a bullfighter feels. He scrambled over to the dog pile and frantically searched for the gun among the bodies. Simon moaned, gasping for air. Joe followed the noise and pulled Simon out by his collar. Hugo was panting a few meters away, gearing up for another charge. Joe yanked the gun out of Simon’s pants and took aim at Hugo. Hugo paused and stared.

“What are you going to do with that?” Hugo smirked evilly.

“If all goes wrong, I’m going to have to shoot you. It’s up to you.”

“Go ahead,” he tilted his head back and laughed heartily. “D’you think you can really stop me with that toy?”

“We’ll see about that!” Joe depressed the trigger once. The dart took flight. Without even blinking, Hugo spun around and caught it in midair. Joe’s jaw dropped. He fired again, rapidly emptying the clip at Hugo, and Hugo consecutively caught each one in a blur of snatching. He grinned at Joe and flexed his mighty arms.

“Bio-modified. You can’t stop me!”

Joe fell to his knees before the body pile, snaking a hand around one of the fallen guards’ nightsticks. “Oh, God! Please don’t kill me!”

“You’ll be lucky if that’s all I do! First I think I’ll rip out your voice box and have it serenade you!”

“You’ve had a lot of time to think about that, haven’t you?” Joe tugged the nightstick free, turning his torso to keep his arm tucked out of sight. “Fine. Come on and get what’s coming to you!” He flipped Hugo the bird.

“You asked for it!” Huge pawed the ground with his enormous boot and charged. “YEAAAAAAAARGH!” Hugo was a blur of speed, but Joe rolled to the side and thrust upwards with the nightstick, eyes closed in concentrated prayer to any one who might be listening. He felt tender flesh give way, heard the sound of ribs cracking. He opened his eyes to see Hugo drop to the ground, spinning, clutching his side. Joe smirked.

“Bio-modified or not, brains beats brawn. Remember that.” He looked up to the stars and mouthed thank you.

Hugo growled; he was already getting to his knees. Joe’s eyes went wide and he nearly dropped the nightstick. “I’m going to fuck you up six ways from Sunday.” He tried to stand, but fell back to his knees trembling with the pain. Joe got up and moved in on the giant.

“I’m sorry about this, you give me no choice.”

“What…choice?” Hugo bared his teeth at Joe. Joe raised the nightstick high and whacked Hugo over the head with a loud CRACK.

“Good night!” The gargantuan quickly fell silent. He was still alive, massive chest heaving with every breath. Joe didn’t want to be anywhere near this creature when he woke up.

Joe quickly clambered back to where Simon lay and unlocked his cuffs. Simon rubbed his wrists.

“Sorry about that,” he looked up at the building, holstering the empty pistol. Faces were watching them from the windows. “This isn’t working. We’ve got to get inside, fast!” Joe took off up the steps. Simon watched Joe reach the entrance, then looked at the fallen wannabe. He crouched over him, removing his sunglasses. He put them on, covering his swollen black eye, then snatched his ID badge. This man was a Deputy Sergeant. That kind of access might come in handy. Simon took the do-rag off the unconscious man and slipped it on.

* * *

Joe stepped into the lobby of the Personnel Building. It was gigantic, like an old hotel lobby from the 1930s decked out in art-deco style. A giant chandelier dominated the lobby. Joe looked up in awe. Simon caught up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Remember why we’re here.” Joe shook himself out his trance and looked for the concierge. A neurotic man with a monocle stared at him from behind the welcoming desk. He had a phone in hand.

Joe strode over to the desk and slammed the phone down. “Hi,” he flashed the most charming smile he could muster. It made him look maniacally desperate. “I need to speak to an investigator.”

“Sir, I’m afraid no one is available. We have a situation on our hands at present. Hey!”

Joe reached across the counter and lifted the clerk off the ground by his collar. “I know. I am the situation.” To come so far with no hope in sight, his adrenaline was now pumping out of control. “I need to speak to somebody. Anybody with authority. Now!”

The clerk trembled, cringing away. “I’m sorry, sir. Everyone’s busy. They’re all in an important briefing upstairs.”

Joe lifted him higher and shook him violently. “Where?”

“Eighteenth floor! Room 18-7! Now, please let me go!” Joe released his grip, dropping the man in his chair. Joe ripped the phone out of the wall, snapping the cables.

“Thank you very much. You have a nice day.” Joe began walking towards the lift, then, thinking better of it, headed towards the stairs. Nothing was going to stop him from getting this whole ordeal sorted out. Simon ran to catch up.

“Why aren’t we taking the elevator?”

Joe glanced back and saw Simon’s appearance. “Hey, nice shades. The headgear doesn’t suit you, though.” Joe held open the door to the stairs for Simon and nodded at him to go first.

“Thanks,” Simon huffed as he trudged up the stairs. He glanced back at Joe expectantly. “So tell me, why we aren’t taking the elevator?”

“Ah. Because if they’re hell-bent on catching us, all they need to do is turn off the power to the elevator and we’d be stuck. This way is much more inconspicuous. Think you can handle the journey?”

Simon nodded and up they climbed.

Wandering through the scenarios in his mind was like climbing a jungle gym that had been designed by a surrealist. He was losing his mind, this was all a bad dream, or this was another inter-office political coup. Maybe it was all three. Frustration bubbled inside him as he practically throttled the handrail with every ascending grasp. His hatred built up inside like a great obelisk, on which he imagined skewering the indomitable corporates behind this.

Every two floors he told himself to calm down. Personnel really weren’t bad people. After all, he originally wanted to be one of them. They could be reasoned with. He would explain his situation very delicately and they would resolve the problem together. He didn’t mean to hurt those guards, but something strange was going on. They would understand. They had to. He would just have to keep a cool head throughout and hope for the best.

When they hit Floor 18, Joe thought he heard a stairwell door slam shut. He looked down, staying perfectly still. His heart trembled, breaths coming in gasps as he tried to listen. There was nothing. Simon looked at him concernedly.

“Thought I heard something.” Joe squared his shoulders and shook it off. He was becoming paranoid. “OK. Open the door.”

They emerged onto the Eighteenth Floor shaking from the long and tedious climb. Simon leaned against the wall and sank down, catching his breath.

Joe looked down the hall and saw two menacing guards toting MI-16 machine guns standing in front of a door marked 18-7. They wore combat helmets with black visors and strapped to each of their leg bands were twenty-two inch serrated carbon machetes. These were not homegrown company boys. Joe shuddered at the thought of engaging them. Force was not the preferred option here. He’d have to find some way of talking his way past them.

Joe straightened up into a commanding posture and walked directly towards the guards. They immediately turned to face him, rifles aimed at his chest. Joe paused, then took one step closer.

“I demand you let me through! I am on time-sensitive business here. I absolutely must speak with the men in charge here!”

Silence.

“Sir,” the ugliest of them inquired in a gruff voice, “may I see your access card, please?”

Joe sighed and with shaking hands extended Miller’s ID badge. The ugliest one nodded, took it and inserted it into a slot below his ear. It made grinding noises and spat the card back out. It was chewed to pieces.

“Is there a problem?” Joe asked, talking to the rifle barrels.

“You’re not allowed to be here, sir. We are authorized to shoot any persons without access.”

“Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you.” Joe closed his eyes and prayed not to be massacred.

“Commencing execution of hostile in five seconds! Five…four…three…”

“None of that soldier! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? This man is with me!” Joe opened one eye. It was Simon. He stood rigidly erect as he stormed toward the guards. He pressed something into the hand of the ugly one. He took it and inserted it into the slot. After a few seconds, it whirred like a fan and the guard’s visor went from black to glowing green.

“Thank you, Deputy Sergeant Wigglesworth. You and your subordinate are now cleared for entry. RoboGuard Security Systems International thanks you for your patience and apologizes for any inconvenience.” The guard stepped aside and held the door for them, inviting them into darkness within. His glowing visor clicked back to black.

“Um, thanks,” said Joe nervously. “You have a good day now.” Simon put a hand on Joe’s shoulder and led him into the black.

* * *

The conference room was pitch black when they entered. The door closed. There were murmuring voices in the darkness. Joe looked around but could only feel the presence of other people in the room.

Suddenly, orchestral music built to a crescendo. The sound of a projector clicked on and the VirCorp logo flashed in glorious luminescence on the wall screen. A narrator spoke in a lifeless monotone.

“VirCorp proudly presents: Your Indoctrination into the Family! Voiced by Sherman Oates Version Four-Point-Oh.” It was an educational film narrated by an AI. The projector clicked over revealing both an image of a security guard and a pie chart of budget expenses. Joe found two empty seats at the back and motioned for Simon to sit down. The other people in the room were transfixed, facing the screen. Joe couldn’t make out any of their faces.

“Expense budgets are tight this year at VirCorp, but don’t let that deter you from doing your best on the job! As the world’s second largest multinational conglomerate, VirCorp welcomes you with open arms. Growth opportunities abound at our US Corporate Headquarters!” The projector clicked, the next image flashed on the screen. Captain Tanzer smiling for the camera, insignia glowing brightly on his lapels.

“Leadership! On the job you will need to take the initiative to prevent hostile intruders from stealing our corporate assets and secrets. Perseverance! Yes the hours are long and they pay may not be so great, but you must keep at it. Sobriety! Distractions abound on the job, but don’t give in. At VirCorp, you’re our first and last line of defense!

“Leadership, perseverance and a sober head. These are qualities we expect from each and every employee. Enact these each and every day and someday you too could be leading a team of your own!” The next slide showed a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes crossed out behind a sign. Joe felt cold wash all over him. He trembled, both in anticipation and in self-disgust. He reached for a cigarette and nearly lit up before Simon slapped his hand down.

“But what if I give in to temptation and let slip a few corporate assets, you may very well ask? Well, take a look at this fellow.” Suddenly the image of Joe flashed on the screen. It was video. He was tilting back a bottle of Frothing Scotsman.

“My God!” Joe couldn’t help but exclaim. His jaw dropped and he pointed at the screen. Heads turned, but he couldn’t make them out in dark. He cleared his throat, “Sorry.” Heads turned back, resuming watching the screen. How did the company get footage of that? After all, he controlled all the cameras in his sector. His head swam. The narrator interrupted the derailment of his train of thought.

“This is your predecessor, Joseph Orson Noone. He was caught drinking on the job many times. Let’s see what happened to him, shall we?”

The next footage showed a defeated Joe on his knees begging for mercy as a brother security guard kicked him into a pit of hungry lions. Joe watched in horror as he heard his own voice pleading, “No! Agh! Not my stomach! I need that to live! Nooooooo!”

The narrator’s monotone droned over the carnage. “Joseph failed to do his job correctly, so he was summarily punished for it. I’m not lion, either. Ha! Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!”

Great! Another wisecracking computer. AI has gone too far. Joe thought to himself, barely controlling his shaking. The cigarette was already in his mouth. His hands fumbled with the lighter, looking for stability. He was losing his mind. Or he was sane and the world had gone batty. He took a deep breath as the show played on. A white screen flashed with black bolded words:

DISOBEDIENCE = DEATH

It was all a rouse–it had to be. Some multimedia tech digitally altered stock footage of a mauling and placed Joe in the scene to convince this new batch of recruits to do their job sober. Still, it was all too convincing to Joe. He bent over, cradling his head in his hands. Simon put a comforting hand on his shoulder and continued to watch in utter astonishment. Joe lit the cigarette, took a few puffs then stubbed it out on the office carpeting. Just as he looked up the VirCorp logo flared up on the screen again, this time with the italicized Latin slogan:

DELEGATE ET IMPERA

Beneath it, the translation in bold:

DELEGATE AND CONQUER

“Now you know what must be done! And so ends the first of our technical training videos. I’m glad we could have this little chat. Now go out and make VirCorp proud in your continued training!” The narrator concluded, the overhead lights came on and Joe was left gaping in shock.

Twenty-five copies of himself stared back at him. He felt light-headed. The room swam. The faces kept staring. He slowly got a grip on himself and got to his feet, steadying himself on Simon. He glanced straight ahead where two men in lab coats stood abreast of where a gray-haired man in a pin-stripe suit with a fedora sat at the head of the conference table. The suit was smoking a huge Cuban cigar. One of the doctors, a rather rotund-looking gentleman with a snow-white beard spoke first:

“I see you found out about our dirty little secret, Joseph,” he smiled. Simon’s eyes grew wide in recognition.

“What do you mean…doctor?” Joe didn’t know what to say or think. His brain was fried.

“We’ve cloned you twenty-five times,” interrupted the lanky doctor, “engineered your death for the big screen, and authorized your capture by Corporate Police to keep it under wraps. What part of ‘dirty little secret’ do you not comprehend?”

“That’s enough, Arnie.” The rotund doctor waved his hand dismissively. “But you see what we mean, do you not, Joseph?”

“Why did you do this? Yes, I’ve had a bad year, but I’ve always been a good employee! I buckled down during the Purges, took one for the team! I’ll change. I’m cleaning up. What more do you expect?”

“Tsk, tsk, Mister Noone.” The suit exhaled a giant cloud of smoke and stubbed out the cigar. “In this ever increasingly-competitive market you’ve got to give it your all. I think you’re taking this whole thing way too personally! Why don’t you have a drink and relax?” He pressed a button and a Collins glass filled with whiskey rose up from the table before Joe. Simon eyed Joe worriedly. He was shaking with repressed rage.

Joe shuddered. Was he going mad? He reached out for the glass. It was the perfect temperature. He brought it under his nose and inhaled. It smelled marvelous. It would certainly take the edge off. Just a taste. Just one taste. No! What was he thinking! This was negative reinforcement; they were trying to break him. He smashed the glass on the floor. The clones raised their eyebrows in astonishment. Simon clapped him on the back.

“What seems to be the problem, Mister Noone?” The suit snickered. You prefer stronger spirits?”

“I demand to speak to the head of personnel! What you’re doing is not only against company policy, it’s illegal!”

“Oh, I’m afraid I am the head of personnel, Mister Noone. I am Mister Falcon, vice president of human resources. And what we are doing is perfectly legal. You signed away your rights to exclusive ownership of your DNA when you borrowed your student loans from one of our subsidiaries. As they say, the big print giveth, the small print taketh away.” Falcon sneered and waggled his eyebrows.

Joe collapsed in his seat. It was too much. His life signed away for an education he was never able to put to use. It couldn’t be true, could it? He knew if he could just escape, he could probably find one of the remaining left-wing lawyers to plead his case. It would blow the top off this whole ugliness. But escape was impossible. He was in the lion’s den, too far behind enemy lines. He screwed up his eyes, blinking back welling tears.

“Why?” he croaked.

“Why not?” replied Falcon. “Like I said, it’s an increasingly-competitive economy. Labor isn’t cheap. Then the idea hit me. An epiphany. Clone existing personnel and brainwash them into slavery. The government, thank God, has yet to pass the bill classifying whether or not clones are individuals with rights. The market is ripe for this kind of breakthrough.

“Like you said, you were a good employee. Truly one of the best at your job until you crawled into a bottle. You were selected, along with Sector Chief Lemuel Z. Kabar and Constable Jorge X. Variables for the program. All three of you went to Metropolitan Business College; all three of you took out loans. It’s most convenient, really. A ripe crop ready to have their minds and hearts molded to be the true patriots of VirCorp, just as you once were. Once the copies are completed, we hope to alter and trademark their appearances just enough to diversify the product line to our prospective clients. The United States Military for one. Maybe you’ve heard of them?

“These clones are the perfect foot soldiers, and wonderful fodder for the front lines. No more pensions for war-widows, no bereaved families. All for one-tenth the cost! It’ll be a great cash cow. Why, if this works out I have been promised that the government will completely subcontract the military to VirCorp! These are exciting times, Mister Noone. Do you not share in our optimism?” He cleared his throat and shuffled some papers, before looking squarely at Joe with his cold steel eyes.

“Of course, no one had to know about this until you and your half-witted comrade slipped through the cracks. Now, the three of us have agreed, are going to offer you an option that will change your life for the better. We debated about killing you, you know. It would be all too easy. You should feel honored.”

“Well I don’t!” Joe stood up, bristling with rage and whipped out the tranquilizer gun. “I’ve had it up to here with all this talk of the bottom line! You fire hard-working people, play a little god and you expect me to cop to some sort of third-rate agreement with you?”

“You’re a useless drunk, you imbecile!” Doctor Klingel interrupted before Klaus could silence him. “This is your only way out! Listen carefully now, because you are playing with your very life!”

“My life isn’t threatened, Doctor. Who’s got the gun?” Just as he finished his rhetoric, the two bio-modified security guards burst through the door and jabbed their guns in Joe’s back. He dropped the pistol and raised his hands. “I understand.”

“We are willing to offer you and your companion new identities and new jobs with one of our satellite offices. You will have to sign a non-disclosure-on-pain-of-death agreement, of course. But the key to resolving this dispute involves your leaving the country. You are to never speak of this again. Don’t think you can ever hide from us. Now, what do you have to say?

“Otherwise,” Klingel butted in, “you’ll leave us an ugly mess on the carpet that will certainly give Lawrence’s coworkers a challenge.” He grinned.

“Where will we go?” Simon asked, dejectedly.

“Australia, my dear Simon. We recently struck a rather lucrative contract with their government and are building a second international headquarters.” Klaus smiled and nodded to Falcon who picked up the pitch.

“You and Simon will be given manager-in-training positions in your respective fields.” Falcon pressed another button and a monitor raised up from the desk in front of them. On the screen flashed images of the new location and salary details. Beneath it were two open boxes for their signatures. Simon leaned over and, seeing the numbers nearly fainted. “Once you have trained the new Australian staff, you will essentially be running the show. Living quarters, excellent pay. All in all this is the best settlement we have ever offered anyone.”

“What do you boys think?” Klaus smiled. “Do we have a deal?”

Klingel punched Klaus hard in the arm. “I told you in the canteen that I wanted to say that!”

“Forgive me, Arnie, but you are not here for your verbal acuity.”

“Fine! Just be that way! Hog the limelight. What do you say, Joseph? Simon?” He smirked evilly at Simon who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. Klaus slapped the smirk off Klingel’s face and into the nearby wastepaper basket.

“Decorum, my dear colleague.” Klingel rubbed his jaw and the three men watched them hungrily.

Joe looked to Simon then back at the three men and sighed. “I guess so. There’s…there’s nothing for us here. We don’t have much choice. I’ll sign.” Joe took a stylus from the side of the monitor and scribbled, passing it over to Simon. Simon almost felt giddy and sloppily signed the screen. Joe looked up into the cold gaze of Mister Falcon.

“I just wish I could swing by my apartment one last time to get a few things. You know, essentials.”

“They have already been taken care of. Ah,” Falcon smiled widely as he looked up past Joe and Simon to the door. “As apparently have you. Just in time, Captain!”

“Goodnight, assholes!”

Joe and Simon turned around just in time to be slammed in the face by the handles of two Desert Eagles. They slumped in their chairs, unconscious. Tanzer twirled then holstered his guns, all the while shining a bright smile to Falcon. The two bio-modified security guards turned and left. Situation normal.

“Bravo, Captain. Bravo indeed.” Falcon and his boys were applauding. The clones watched on in a semi-catatonic trance.

“Just doing my duty, sirs. Do you want me to do them out back where there’ll be no witnesses?”

“No,” Falcon stood up and reclaimed his cigar butt from the ashtray. He re-lit it, taking long thoughtful puffs as he paced closer to where the two captured men lay slumped against each other. “This truly is most convenient. I think we’ve found our first volunteers for The Cycle. Doctors, would you be so kind as to continue with the training while Captain Tanzer and I have a little heart to heart?”