Now Moving Organics
by Alexander Leonard
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Don is sitting in the lobby of the Cronocorp building, waiting for someone to acknowledge him. He sits on a small couch in the middle of the expansive hall. He was invited here by the company but knew better than to expect a warm welcome. The concierge, a stocky man in a suit, greeted Don with the kind of enthusiasm some people reserve for door-to-door Mormon holograms.
He has been waiting for twenty minutes. He wants to get up and start making his way towards the door, but he has a weird sensation that that’s exactly what they want. The moment he gives up out of frustration, some emissary will appear and welcome him as if nothing was the matter. So he waits.
The couch is not particularly comfortable; its minimalist design doesn’t really allow for comfort. On the opposite side of where Don sits is an identical couch facing his. It’s been vacant this whole time. Suddenly, Don hears the ding of an elevator bell. He sits up at attention. From the enclave housing the lifts, a man emerges, disheveled and fighting back tears. He sits on the couch opposite Don’s and begins furiously loosening his tie. A security guard saunters out of the enclave next and approaches the man.
‘Just a minute, for God’s sake!’ the man implores. But the security guard stares him down, unimpressed. ‘Fine.’ He relents and gets up to go but not before he notices Don and gives him a puzzled look.
Don turns his head to follow the man out the front door. It’s a surprisingly long walk. When he turns back around, he is shocked by the appearance of a boyish man in a nicer outfit than the concierge or security guard.
‘Hello, Don! My name’s Shawn and I’m from Cronocorp. Welcome.’
Don gets up to shake Shawn’s hand and is surprised by how tight his grip is.
‘How great is this? Don and Shawn. It’s like this was meant to be. Kismet.’
Don is thrown off by the friendliness. He doesn’t like him. But he is surprised by how affable he’s being and finds it hard to lash out with the invective he had been hoping to muster.
The boy-man escorts Don to the lift. He presses no buttons at any point, yet somehow, once they step inside, the elevator begins moving as if it knows where to go. Don scoffs at the display of technology for technology’s sake. As they ride, he has the strange realization that he’s not sure which way they’re moving. He can definitely tell they’re moving, he thinks, he just can’t tell if they’re going up or down. Or even backwards. But a light hum of machinery adds to his conclusion that they are in fact moving. He gulps as he imagines a world in which elevators are replaced by telepods. Perhaps a couple more software updates until then?
At any rate, when the doors slide open, he is in a new hallway that emanates right from the elevator. They begin walking. On either wall hang many portraits of official-looking people shaking hands with other officials. Large cheques being handed to charities, ribbons being cut.
‘This is our Hall of Accomplishment,’ explains Shawn. ‘Here we celebrate the big achievements in Cronocorp’s history. You’ll notice that we haven’t framed cutouts from science or business magazines, discussing our financial or technological achievements. Rather, we choose to spotlight our humanitarian and philanthropic successes. While we’ve no doubt changed the landscape of the physical world with our advancements, we believe that bettering the individual lives of humans in need trumps any monetary gains or scientific notoriety.
‘I know to you, Don, we must seem like the devil. But our technologies have literally saved lives in hard to reach places. There are parts of the world that aren’t as lucky as North America. We’re very resource-rich. And with our technology, we’ve been able to share those resources with struggling nations. We’re responsible for the construction of schools, hospitals and countless amenities. Heck, we’ve helped build whole towns. And now with the teleportation of bio-matter, we’re so close to ending world hunger.’
‘With poisoned food!’ Don blurts out.
Shawn’s face sinks a bit and he stops in his tracks. They’re about halfway down this hallway. Don almost feels guilty to have said it, but he can’t think like that; this is the enemy.
‘How is your wife?’ Shawn asks.
‘She’s still sick.’
‘You know, Don, we have access to state of the art medical facilities and can front any bill. We could help.’
‘No.’
‘Why won’t you let us see her?’
‘She’s too weak to move.’
Shawn cracks a corner smile. ‘Don, we both know that’s not a problem.’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Why won’t you let anyone see her?’ A moment of silence. ‘I know many professionals who would like to learn about this disease so that they can start looking into causes, cures, classification. But no one’s been granted access to patient zero.’
‘There are the Medicare records.’
‘Yes. We all know how thorough those can be. I wonder, how sick is she really?’
‘What are you trying to suggest?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Shall we keep moving?’ They resume their walk and Shawn resumes his speech. Cronocorp’s altruistic memorabilia is beginning to wear Don down. He’s growing impatient with the lecture and doesn’t see the point. Thankfully, they reach the end of the hallway. There is a single door at the end of it. It’s square and metal, more like a warehouse door. Shawn pulls it open and they step inside.
Don is surprised by how sparsely the room is furnished. There are no windows. Only a table, with two opposing chairs , decorates the space. The floor seems metallic and industrial under Don’s feet. It reminds him of interrogation rooms from police procedurals, but the furniture is admittedly more modern and trendy.
Shawn invites Don to sit, and he takes the far chair. It’s about as comfortable as the couch in the waiting room.
Shawn takes the other seat and rests his intertwined hands on the table. ‘So, enough about us. Tell me, what do you want? The complete dismantling of the teleportation system? Because we both know that’s not going to happen.’
It’s been a while since Don has been able to get one word in edgewise. With the ball now in his court, he takes a moment to think about how he wants to proceed. ‘I want you people to take responsibility for the countless others you’ve put out of work. You talk so highly of your humanitarian work abroad and in the hard to reach places. What about here? What about the places that are close to home? Or the people like me on the other side of the world?’
‘We contribute to global relief funds.’
‘But I’m not talking about Third-World victims born into a low caste who never had anything in the first place. I’m talking about hardworking people who had jobs, who were skilled laborers that you’ve made obsolete. You’ve robbed these people of their existence. You need to do right by them.’
‘If we could hire them all on as engineers, we would, but it just doesn’t work like that.’
‘Then I won’t stop. We won’t stop. We’ll keep knocking on your door.’
This seems to disappoint Shawn. He takes a device in hand and begins typing into it. A number is projected from his device onto the table. It’s so large that it takes up much of the width.
‘What’s this?’ Don asks.
‘This is what we’re willing to offer you for your troubles. We just need a bit of time without negative press, and I promise you we will look into reparations.’
‘This is why you wanted to broker this meeting as privately as possible?’
‘We’re not evil geniuses. Technology has been advancing too fast to regulate properly. We’ve got growing pains, if you will. All we’re asking for is some quiet time to iron out all the wrinkles.’ Shawn smiles.
Don stares at the number for a minute. If he had children, their children would never have to work. He swallows and reestablishes eye contact.
‘I’m sorry, but no.’ Immediately Shawn brushes it off and seems unbothered. The projection flickers out.
‘Not a problem, Don. This, of course, never happened. How rude, I haven’t even offered you a coffee or anything. Could I grab you one before we part ways?’
‘Sure.’
‘Perfect. Give me one second and I’ll be right back.’ Shawn briskly gets up and walks out the door, closing it with a heavy thud. Don exhales. Adrenaline is coursing through him, the rush of turning down such a large amount. He realizes that he wields power and thinks he does so responsibly.
The metallic sound of a latch locking into place is heard. It throws Don off. He notices how industrial-looking the door really is. Suddenly he hears a whirring and again feels the odd sensation of motion. There’s a rumbling under his feet, like machinery in motion. His guts rise a bit in his stomach as if he were falling. There’s a blinding light. He moves his hands to shield his eyes from it. All of a sudden, he feels hot and sticky and as if he’s being baked. The air is warmer. The whirring stops, but the light remains.
Don looks around him while averting his eyes. The chairs and table still seem to be there but dilapidated walls have replaced the cold bare ones. One wall is lying flat in front of him, and he realizes that the bright interrogating light is the sun. He stands up, and his feet make a crunching sound as he walks. He’s walking on sand. But there’s something hard and metallic underneath it: the floor from the room. The rumbling of the machinery underneath him dies down.
He steps out of the broken shed and finds a desert in place of the city he was in a minute ago. No drones in the sky, but he thinks he spies a scavenger bird. Dunes have replaced the bustling metropolis. He’s driven all the desert highways on the south continent and none of this looks familiar at all.
The sun is relentless, and he can feel his skin frying instantly. Much like his surroundings, the sense of pride he had been feeling quickly morphs into panic. He decides to hide behind one of the walls in the shade and wait until the sun is not as cruel. It is then that Don Wallace will begin walking.
Copyright © 2019 by Alexander Leonard
