‘Mr Feldman.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gerry sat alone at the far end of a long boardroom table.
Across from him, Mr Morgan Morgans stared down into a flat-screen console. The red mist of an Fog hologram filled the air between them. A short, mouse-like man wearing the grey overalls of an Undie whispered into Morgans’s ear. The Undie’s nervous eyes blinked as he spoke unheard words, and the blue shock-collar embedded in his neck glowed in the room’s dim light.
‘You work on the Paradigm Shift,’ Mr Morgans said, and the Idea Factory CEO’s deep voice rumbled through the room. The corners of his mouth turned down. ’As a… consultant.’
‘I was a regular, sir, until the recent reorganisation,’ Gerry said. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s a pleasurable to see you again, Mr Morgans. We met once, maybe you remember… a few months ago at a company drink…’
Morgans stirred the air with his fingers, his eyes locked on the screen.
Executives wearing elegant glass robes lined both sides of the table. They were the usual big-time high-life A-listers, Gerry could tell – corporate killers with game-show host grins. He had rarely glimpsed them before. This was the first time he had ever been in the Board Room. Heck, this was the first time he’d been above the 2nd floor of the Tower. But it wasn’t every second that your old childhood friend, and the factory’s No. 1 earner, threw himself unprotected into a Tube to be whisked away towards wherever people had once imagined heaven to be.
‘Mr Feldman?’ Morgans called. ‘Are you all right?’
‘What?’
‘You appear to be crying.’
Gerry felt his face with his hands – he was crying. Strange, he didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel much of anything, but maybe some unexplored part of him understood the depth of Simon’s loss, even if his mind did not. ‘Oh, right.’ He used the heavy red cuffs of his cardinal’s robe to dry his face. ‘Sorry. It’s just – well, I had known him for a long time.’
Morgans’ voice softened. ‘My condolences. At least you have the comfort of your complementary beverage.’ The CEO gestured to the orange tin on the table in front of Gerry.
‘Oh, right! Thanks!’ Gerry had nearly forgotten about his complementary beverage, and its fizzy, mouth-watering contents were exactly what he needed. He grabbed it and took a long swig. The tricarbonated drink’s sparkling lemon flavour filled his body, making his fingers and toes tingle with pleasure as he leaned back into his chair with a happy sigh. Then his head felt like cotton candy and he could not think. Was he when? Eh? What?
‘May we proceed, Mr Feldman?’
‘Whew! Huh? Uh…oh, yeah.’ Gerry belched.
‘It is my understanding that you were a close associate of Mr Siegel,’ Morgans continued. ‘Perhaps his closest associate.’
‘Who?’
‘Simon Siegel.’
Gerry decided that he really liked Mr Morgans, especially his dark brown skin and his gi-normous multicoloured hairstyle that looked like a beachball exploding in slow motion. ‘Yeah, he was my best mate, sir, my best-iest mate. Except for you, sir. You’re my bestie-est mate now. My bestie-est-est… ’
‘Mr Feldman, are you listening to me?’
‘Assolutely, sir!’
‘This is a liquidity issue,’ Morgans said.
‘Indeed, sir.’ Gerry imagined Simon’s blood spewing through the stratosphere.
‘Mr Siegel’s death occurred in front of millions of Fog viewers. Many are now suing Reality Inc for damages related to emotional distress.’
‘Wha?’ A ringing mental alarm penetrated the fuzziness in his head.
‘You were the only person in a position to recognise his mental instability,’ Morgans asserted. ‘If you are found to have been negligent then you would be liable for damages, and then…’ He shrugged and opened a hand, palm up.
Morgans didn’t need to say the rest. If Gerry was liable, he could only pay up by selling Reality the rights to broadcast his own deportation to the Bronze Zone. Goldie deportations were G-ratings gold. A few Undies would drag him away to the Tube while millions gawked and probably laughed. After a short and merry voyage sucked through intercontinental Tubes at supersonic speeds, he’d be tossed a kilometer above a stinking, swarming Bronze Zone crap-opolis with a pre-pay parachute that needed ancient metal coins to deploy, and he didn’t have change. Assuming he survived the drop – or The Fun-tastic Ride Towards Your Exciting New Inter-Zonal Opportunity, as Reality called it – all he’d have would be the clothes on his back and a complementary copy of the Monumental Classic of Self-Discovery and Travel, Eat, Pray, Love© by Elizabeth Gilbert, with the emphasis on the pray. It was said the book was comforting reading as maurading gangs of mohawked tribesmen closed in, their serrated axes raised and ready to harvest your pristine Goldie kidneys for quick sale at a healthy margin.
‘So, Mr Feldman,’ Morgans said, holding Gerry’s eyes with his own. ‘Did it ever strike you that Mr Siegel was a bit… odd?’
It seemed like an innocent question from a wholly innocent CEO pursuing a wholly innocent inquiry into Nothing But the Truth, So Help Me, Our Lord Peppermint Fudge Swirl Jesus. Why not be honest, Gerry thought? A man with a hairstyle like that could only mean well. The walls brightened into a shimmering green as millions of shareholders tuned in. How many were watching? A hundred big Gs? A thousand? All were Reality’s ratings, to be sure — he’d never see a millisecond of that huge time — but if he played his cards right, team-player-style, maybe he could chip off a piece of it.
Gerry swallowed, furrowed his brows, and spoke. ‘Well, to tell you the truth…’
A snigger from his left. His eyes darted towards the sniggerer. An exec’s entire face had turned into a sneer. He looked around – they were all sneering, every single one of them. His eyes fell onto the complementary beverage, still buzzing in his brain. Its tangy delicious favour started a serotonin party in your frontal lobe, but it also made its grateful partakers highly susceptible to suggestion. Had it been drugged? Oh my God®…
Then he understood.
Mr Morgan wasn’t his bestie-est-est mate. Oh, no.
Many viewers are suing Reality Inc for emotional distress.
Someone, or rather many millions of someones, had suffered the indignity of having their delicate feelings imbalanced and their fragile inner children spanked, and they had rights — thanks be to the Revirgined Mary — they had standing, they had LawyerBots, they had video evidence, and those sensitive souls were suing Reality’s socks off, so other sensitive but less-fortunate someones-elses were going to have to pay through the arse, and those-elses sure as hell weren’t going to be the Idea Factory, or Mr Morgans, or Reality Inc, praise the Holy Cookie. Reality needed a scapegoat, and Gerry had just grown horns.
Say the obvious! No, Mr Morgans, I never once had the impression that Mr Siegel was depressed, suicidal, genocidal, or even a vegetarian. ‘Mr Morgans, please, I never once – ’
‘Knew that Simon was unstable, and had designs to defraud Reality Inc?’ Morgans interrupted.
Gerry was mystified. ‘No!’
‘Let’s have a look at the vid.’
A NanoBot video bloomed inside the Fog. It was Gerry standing outside the Idea Factory only an hour before, leading the Stoner tour group. Simon’s big hands were clamped around his shoulder. ‘But you know, don’t you?’ Simon asked.
‘I do?’ he had replied.
‘Yes,’ Simon said. ‘Deep down. You know why.’
The video melted away.
Shit!
‘You had ample clues about Simon’s instability,’ Morgans said, leaning forward. ‘Had you reported Simon’s suspicious behaviour as your employee contract demands, much discomfort to Fog viewers could have been avoided. So I’m afraid…’
Two more Undies walked into the room, blue shock-collars aglow, they hands clinched. Their faces were long and sad, but determined. One of them held a book, presumably intended for him. He could read writing on the spine. EAY PRAY LOVE…
He froze in terror. It was hopeless!
But his spine firmed, his cheeks flushed, and his head grew hot. Gerry wasn’t born yestersecond. If they wanted a fight…
‘Wait a second,’ Gerry said.
Morgans’ dyed-blond eyebrows rose like golden arches. The CEO stared at him, his face a wall, but for just a moment, behind those eyes Gerry thought he had caught a hint of fear. He knew what was expected of him — plead insanity; bow, tremble and grovel; rake his fingernails across the table as he begged for their forgiveness, and maybe they’d raise his credit limit to pay for that time. But he was already 50,000 years in debt, only a few thousand below the ceiling for deportation. He shook his head, trying to rid his brain of the last bits of the complementary beverage’s tangy flavor. ‘Excuse me, Mr Morgans, but you’re the one who allowed Simon to take that business trip to the Stone Zone. We all remember, that was when his suspicious activity began. That was your call. And you know what they say. Your call, your ball.’
‘Nobody says that,’ one exec snorted.
‘I do,’ said another.
‘Who are you?’ the first exec countered.
Gerry pushed on. ‘When he came back… that’s when he started saying that death is the new life. You cut that out of the video. Told everybody, sure, not just me — ’
Quick voices broke in from around the table.
‘ – copyright infringement – ‘
‘ – we could seek compensation from his employee life insurance package – ‘
‘ – he was a contractor, stupid, he didn’t have benefits – ‘
‘ – yeah, your mother was a contractor – ‘
‘Didn’t you have a responsibility to act, Mr Morgans?’ Gerry said, interrupting the voices. ‘I mean, you had me and Simon on video for what… fifteen minutes anyway, an eternity in factory time, and what did you do? Nothing? In fact…’ he trailed off. The execs stared at him. A tiny light had turned on somewhere inside the fog in his head – another memory. Gerry struggled to say something, aware that his corporate life and his life would depend on whether he could grasp that little light. He reach for it, and something brushed his hands. ‘Didn’t Simon say… there was a link between the Stone Zone and the Time Assistance Repayment Plan?’
The room went dark. Only the ghostly red light of the Fog illuminated their faces across the table.
Gerry looked around. The walls were grey and quiet. Someone had switched them off. He regarded this with awe. He had never seen the walls switched off before. Everything looked so small, and lonely — all of them, some fifteen fools around a simple plastic table, gaping at the silent emptiness. Then a brittle masculine voice drifted down into the room. The voice didn’t enter their ears. It went straight into the brain.
… Mr Morgans, said the voice. Let us have a word.
‘Of course, Mr Locks,’ Morgans said.
Mr Locks?
As in, Winston Locks, the Founder, Chairman and CEO of Reality Inc?
Morgans focused on the ceiling as he listened to Locks’ voice in his head. At times his brows furrowed, as if he were thinking out replies. Soon he lowered his gaze. The walls flashed back to life, showing the happy smiling faces of Goldies consuming Reality products. The green walls turned into an excited red as viewership approached 200 million. Possible deportation always attracted huge ratings. Goldies loved watching their fellow high-timers get dragged away screaming to small-time, low-life oblivion.
Morgans no longer smiled. He grimaced. Gerry began to hope. A murderer smiled before decorating the walls with your guts, but a grimace meant a deal.
‘Mr Feldman,’ Mr Morgans began. ‘Perhaps we have been hasty.’
Cha-ching!
‘Do you have any idea what the audience rating was for Simon’s public suicide?’ Morgans asked.
Gerry shook his head.
‘Eight-point-nine hundred big Gs.’
Eight-point-nine! That was nearly 900 million Goldies, each with guaranteed credit.
‘Fortunately, these Gs remain unleveraged – they are potential customers, and nothing more. See you, they expected something from Simon’s unfortunate demise. We have reviewed some of Simon’s recent id-verts, and it appears, however unlikely or preposterous that it may seem, that Simon was designing a new Goldie religion that was intended to compete with Catholicism Inc in the Goldie belief market.’
Gerry’s mouthed dropped open. Even some of the execs looked at each other. Simon made little boutique religions for high-end Goldies and Platties all the same. Very Important Parishioners, they were called. Those boutique religions were always compliments to Catholicism, Inc. But the idea of competing with, or even replacing Catholicism Inc, well… that was like trying to replace Reality Inc itself, and that was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
‘So our dilemma remains, Mr Feldman. Our hurt viewers demand to be made whole. What do you purpose?’
Morgans stared at him, the execs stared at him, and the orange walls told him that over 300 million Goldiers were staring at him, too.
What to do?
The key was this religion Simon was dreaming up. ‘Death was the new life,’ Simon had said. Catchy jingle, he had to admit, but he knew nothing else. Gerry had to capture this new religion, somehow. Market it. Sell it.
That’s it!
‘Suppose I went to the Stone Zone,’ Gerry said softly. ‘Followed in Simon’s footsteps. Recovered the schematics for this new religion he was dreaming up. Found a way to make big time off it. What then?’
The Fog picked up his words and an automatic algorithm played the viral footage of the last time a group of Goldie tourists had ventured to the Stone Zone on their own. Blood flowed as the swarthy Stoners, dressed in rags and baring their dirty teeth, used their short knives to hack the clueless, screaming Goldies to pieces.
Morgan’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure you want to do that, Mr Feldman?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
The terrible smile returned. ‘Not really.’ He placed his hands palms-down on the table in front of him. ‘All together, it’s an excellent proposal. You will go on mission to the Stone Zone. You will depart tomorrow morning from the Factory, after you’ve had adequate time to examine Simon’s office for any possible clues, and prepare yourself for the voyage. You’ll find Simon’s religion, bring it back, package it, sell it, and the proceeds can be used to pay our emotionally damaged shareholders.’
‘Can I convert?’
Morgans’ face crinkled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’m a Cardinal Deacon — ’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘So can I convert Stoners to Catholicism, and get a percentage?’
Morgans shrugged. ‘No Stoner has converted for at least a decade, but it’s your own neck. It would demonstrate remarkable employee initiative.’
The Fog between them flashed blue, indicating the upgrade to Gerry’s status. He suppressed his excitement. Getting a few Stoners to go Catholic would make him a legend — provided he survived the ask. Stoners had a nasty habit of wearing around the shorn-off skin of Goldies who tried to covert them. ‘And what happens if I don’t find anything?’
Again the walls darkened. A blubbery, angry voice came down from the ceiling.
… you will lose your Golden Zone residence privileges and face immediate Bronze Zone deportation.
Gerry gulped as smiling faces exploded through the Fog. All this time, he had tried to avoid getting sent to the lower Zones. But now — by his own suggestion — he was on his way to the lowest and most dangerous one. Would security come with him? He didn’t know, and it was too late to ask. Come to think of it, Tubes didn’t go straight to the Stone Zone. How would he navigate the trip? He didn’t know that, either. What he an idiot? No doubt about that…
‘Mr Feldman,’ Morgans continued. ‘You should be excited to get on your way. A religious paradigm that could motivate a big-time high-lifer to sacrifice his own life must be incredibly attractive. What if this religion could be captured, homogenised, manufactured and mass-marketed? As Mr Siegel’s friend and colleague, as a worker on the Paradigm Shift and as a Cardinal Deacon in the Catholic Church, you are uniquely qualified to draw up the specs of this religious paradigm and to exploit its tremendous commercial possibilities. We must discover how to leverage Simon’s new religion, Mr Feldman, and the only link we have to it is you.’
