Revolution (15 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “What’s going on, officer?”

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

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

   
What if I try to escape
?
Or more realistically, commit
suicide by jumping from the back of the airborne vehicle
.

    Instead, Rayne held on tightly to the passenger handle as the vehicle lifted off the platform and sped into the depths of the Breechlere Warehouse. The other Trooper followed close by on his air-cycle as Peter gazed down at the hundreds of gray-uniformed workers continuing their struggle to meet the day’s work quota. He had never seen the warehouse from this angle before. The aerodynamic machine raced like a missile through the maze of metal-lined shelves, cardboard boxes, and wooden palates.

Chapter 13

     The sound of chanting employees and the stagnant odor of the warehouse faded as the anti-grav cycle maneuvered to the ground floor and settled down lightly in front of a silver metal door. The passengers dismounted and the Troopers escorted Rayne through the door and down a narrow corridor until they reached an elevator. They stepped onto the elevator and Rayne felt his stomach lurch as the doors closed and the Trooper pressed button
53.

Seconds later, the elevator came to a smooth stop and a computerized voice spoke from a speaker above the door, “FLOOR NUMBER FIFTY-THREE.” The elevator doors slid open and Rayne faced a gold-scripted sign on the opposite wall, which read “Breechlere Executive Office- Level 2.”

    “What are we doing here?” Peter asked his silent, robot-like guards.

    For a response they asked him to step out of the elevator and led him down a long, wood-paneled corridor. They soon reached a beautifully finished mahogany door with gold-scripted letters on the door reading “Executive Personnel Manager.” The door swung open automatically as they approached. 

    They entered a spacious carpeted area surrounded on all sides by an incredible array of tropical plants. The ceiling must have been at least forty feet high, which allowed some of the lush green plants to grow to the size of small trees.

    Rayne could feel heat from powerful artificial sun-lights shining down on them from massive panels in the ceiling. The lights glimmered on the dark blue body armor of his escorts like the sun glistening on a lake.

    The guards led him past assorted couches and coffee tables until they reached a narrow opening in the jungle-like plant growth surrounding the large waiting area.

    “Follow this path to the end,” one of the guards instructed him in his patented monotone voice.

    “Wait, what’s going-” Rayne started to ask before realizing the guards were turning on their heels and marching back across the waiting area.

    The automatic doors swung open as the guards approached and then swung shut again as they left. Rayne turned around and looked down a long, narrow, stone-tiled pathway through the thick tropical garden. Many of the taller plants actually overhung the path, forming a natural tunnel through the verdurous tangle of plants. Peter couldn’t think of anything else to do but follow the path.

    Rayne followed the gray stone tiles until the plants opened up to a spacious office. The center of the office was dominated by a large desk, which matched the entrance door and the other woodwork in the place.

A high-backed leather chair was turned away from the desk; the chair faced an immeasurable picture window covering the entire far wall. Rayne realized the clear glass wall surrounded the spacious office all the way around to the artificial jungle at its edges. It seemed like the entire city could be seen from this height and the view was breathtaking. Skyscrapers towered around them like silent steel sentinels. The morning sun shone brightly through the giant glass wall, casting solid shadows on the gold-carpeted floor.

    Rayne stepped into the open area and walked toward the desk. A steady stream of tobacco smoke drifted up from the high-backed office chair.

    “Is anyone there? This doesn’t seem like the normal policy for issuing DP charges,” he said, walking forward.

   Suddenly, barking laughter emanated from the opposite side of the high-backed leather executive chair as the seat began to shake and quiver. The hovering tobacco smoke dissipated as the chair spun around. Rayne stared at a suited man close to his own age; mid-thirties with dark, slicked-back hair. The man was obviously an Executive and Rayne couldn’t believe he was actually taking an active role in his punishment.

    Rayne stood frozen in place with his eyes opened wide, despite the bright morning sun shining in his face.

    The seated man adjusted his gold, wire-rimmed glasses, casually placed his feet atop the mahogany desk, and crossed his legs. Peter noticed that he had deeply-bronzed features as if he regularly visited an artificial tanning salon. His tan had that fake quality to it that only a tanning booth could produce.

    The Executive tapped his ivory tusk pipe against the edge of the desk to empty the remaining tobacco into a gold ashtray.

    Rayne stood staring at the Executive with a dread fascination. The Executive adjusted his bright red tie, brushed a dust particle from the right side of his dark blue pinstriped suit, and refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco. Peter was pretty sure he had never seen anyone on the Executive level since starting his employment with Breechlere eight years ago.

    “Have a seat,” the Executive said, gesturing to a small unobtrusive chair placed in front of the wide, imposing desk. Peter hadn’t even noticed the chair against the backdrop of the huge desk. He circled around it and sat down.

    “So, you’re Peter Rayne, huh?” the Executive asked, puffing on his pipe.

    “Yes, sir, I am.”

    “Stop looking so scared, Peter. Relax. We’re just going to discuss a few things.”

    Peter wanted to comply with the Executive’s instructions, but he found himself unable to loosen his grip on the armrests.

    “Mr. Rayne, first I would like to introduce myself,” the suited Executive said, blowing smoke across the desk into Peter’s face. “I am Steven Broderick, Executive Personnel Manager for the Breechlere Corporation. I understand you missed work yesterday.”

    “Yes, sir, I did, but there were extenuating circumstances. You see-”

    “Forget it,” Broderick interrupted. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Rayne watched Broderick remove his legs from the desk, take a large puff from his custom made pipe, and glare at him as if he was addressing an imbecile.

    “Listen, Mr. Rayne, I don’t know what’s been going on with you and I don’t want to know,” Broderick said, eyes gleaming. “All I know is that yesterday you were absent from work without an explanation. If it were up to me, I’d simply have you sent to a Work Prison.”

    Rayne smirked upon hearing Broderick’s comment about the Work Prison, but he felt now was not the time to mention the atrocities he had witnessed below the earth.

    “Mr. Rayne, my problem is simple. You deserve to be fired, but I can’t fire you. The Chairman of the Board of Stockholders, Timothy Leland, gave me orders to suspend your case until further notice. In case you didn’t know, Mr. Leland is the owner and CEO of Hovercrafts International, the world’s largest air-car manufacturer. He’s also a senior stockholder in the Breechlere Corporation. Do you recognize the name, Mr. Rayne?”

    Peter knew he had to think quickly. It all made sense now. Campion’s people had intervened in the situation and pulled him out of hot water just in time. All he had to do was go along with it.

    “Sure, I know Mr. Leland from many years ago. I worked on several computer projects for him,” Rayne lied.

    “You worked with Mr. Leland?” Broderick asked, skeptically, harshly accenting the word “you”.

    “Believe it or not, I did. It was several years ago before some personal problems brought me to the unfortunate position I’m in today. I’m surprised he still remembers me.”

    “He remembers you all right. He says you’re one of the best computer programmers who ever worked for him. I was shocked to learn that one of our warehouse grunts once worked for Mr. Leland in a professional capacity. I thought that surely he made a mistake,” Broderick explained, tapping his pipe on his gold ashtray while leaning back in his comfortable chair. “You see, several years ago Mr. Leland bought an unprecedented amount of stock in our company, making him the Breechlere Corporation’s majority stockholder. Recently, he requested more information concerning his assets. He wants to measure the total productivity of our manufacturing and distribution processes. He requested one of our top computer analysts to calculate input-output ratios.”

    Broderick paused to refill his pipe. He re-lit it and squinted at Rayne through a cloud of smoke. “Apparently, Mr. Leland found your name in our personnel database and recognized you from a contracting job you did for him several years ago. Somehow, you managed to make a favorable impression on him. Mr. Leland has requested that you work on his Total Productivity Project.”

    Broderick paused dramatically to take a large puff from his pipe. He blew a cloud of smoke across the desk into Peter’s face again before resuming his speech.

    “I don’t believe you know just how lucky you are, Mr. Rayne. Yesterday, you were absent from work. I spoke with your Floor Supervisor and he recommended your immediate termination. Now, you’re getting a promotion. Let me just stress that it was not my decision. It was Mr. Leland’s decision. Mr. Rayne, you should have been fired for your incompetence and I think you know that.”

    Rayne understood the game now. Campion’s partner, Leland, had taken care of his new promotion. Campion told him yesterday that something big was going to happen today, which would eventually give him access to the capitol city. This was it. Rayne knew he should simply remain quiet or agree with the condescending Executive. But a rebellious side of his personality, which rarely revealed itself, broke suddenly to the surface like an ascending nuclear submarine. Broderick’s condescension finally got to him.

    “Yes, Mr. Broderick, I do know I should be fired. So what’s stopping you?” Rayne quipped, feigning a casual attitude as he leaned back in his uncomfortable chair.

    “What’s stopping me?” Broderick repeated as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

     Broderick’s face turned a light shade of pink as his eyes twitched and bobbed from side to side. He clenched his fists upon the desktop and took a deep breath.

    “What’s stopping me?” Broderick repeated. “I’ll tell you what’s stopping me. If you didn’t have the connections you have, you’d be dead now. I guarantee it.”

    Rayne noticed Broderick’s body trembling slightly as if he were a volcano about to erupt. The Executive looked like he wanted to reach across the desk and strangle him.

    “Dead?” Rayne asked him. “Since when did Human Resource Managers become executioners?”

    Peter was sure the Executive was going to blow his top. His face turned a deep shade of red as his body trembled.

    “Mr. Rayne, you’re pushing your luck. Your connections will only protect you so far. I’m an influential person in this company. I know people who could take care of you permanently.”

    Rayne began to see that he was venturing into dangerous territory. It might be best to restrain his sarcasm so he didn’t endanger his position or his future mission.

    “I apologize, Mr. Broderick. I’m not used to being threatened. It rubbed me the wrong way,” Rayne said, leaning forward in his chair and assuming a contrite expression. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I realize that it was your compassion that has kept me from getting sent to a Work Prison. I really do appreciate it, Mr. Broderick.”

   
I’m really laying it on thick
, Rayne thought, trying to gauge Broderick’s reaction. Broderick’s face had gone from a deep shade of red to a light shade of pink. His body seemed to have stopped trembling. Peter thought these were good signs.

    “Mr. Rayne, you do like living on the edge, don’t you?” Broderick said, forcing a wide, Cheshire-cat smile. He assumed his previous nonchalant demeanor, leaned back in his chair, and refilled his pipe. His heavily tanned face still retained a slight pink shade.

    “As you can see, sir, my mouth sometimes gets me into trouble,” Rayne said.

    “I can see how it would,” Broderick agreed, leaning back and placing his feet on the desk. “I’m beginning to understand how a talented computer programmer could fall so low in life. Insubordination.”

    “You’re right, Mr. Broderick. I’ve had some problems in the past, but I’m willing to improve my attitude if given the chance,” Peter said, trying to sound sincere. No matter how hard he tried, it still sounded like he was delivering rehearsed lines.

    “I hope so, Mr. Rayne. For your sake, I hope so,” Broderick said, blowing a cloud of smoke across the desk into Peter’s face yet again.

    “Now that I’m promoted, will I be making a new salary?” Rayne asked, trying not to sound too excited. 

    “Of course. You’ll be paid the starting yearly salary for a level four Executive,” Broderick said.

    “Which is?”

    “I thought everyone knew it. The standard salary for a starting Executive is two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

    “Per year?” Rayne asked, shocked.

    “Of course. What else would it be? It’s the same salary for all level four Executives starting with any company in the nation. Where have you been? Ten years ago, the federal government standardized the executive pay system by mandating a fixed rate – adjusted annually for inflation – for all executives in the country in the Frump Economic Reform Act of 2048. After a year of employment, you’ll be eligible for a promotion to a level three Executive and the accompanying pay increase.”

    “Two-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars a year?” Rayne repeated.

   He felt his entire body tremble with excitement. He could do a lot with that kind of money! Peter wiped his moist palms on the legs of his gray jumpsuit while his mind whirled with images of hundred dollar bills swirling around in a wind tunnel.