A lopsided grid of twinkling lights stretches out before me as I look out my office window. It feels as if every window is an eye, every person a parasite. I feel an eerie sense of claustrophobia, looking out across the city I call home. I lean back into my chair, stretch my neck, and glance up at the red and gold Ashton Systems flag hanging from the wall. Such a simple logo means so many things to so many people, though I’ve grown to feel nothing about it in my time at the company. I begin looking through the confirmation forms I’ve been sent. Proposal review is probably the least interesting aspect of my work but I still skim over the forms, looking at the research, production and marketing costs of each proposed weapon, along with the estimated money the company may or may not have to pay in lawsuits. Dangerously lucid guilt creeps into thought out of the recesses of my mind, but I shove it back.
I approve everything except for the newest plasma bomb prototypes — the estimated lawsuit costs simply aren’t worth it. While revenue is up, this year's product lineup has been somewhat controversial, or so I’ve heard; I’d prefer to keep public opinion from getting even worse. I finish up and upload everything to the company’s private datacloud.
A symphony of sound rushes into my ears as I exit the burnt-steel skyscraper that I work in. The streets full of cars of all shapes and sizes, the countless buildings and everything else clinging onto the framework around me resides on the city level known as Middletower. Everything below Middletower is the rough, damp, neon-lit place known as Lowtower and the True Street, and everything above is the grand plazas, domes and spires of Hightower.
I jog across the road, walk a few blocks past corporate offices and hulking brutalist apartment grids, admire a few fancy gadgets I’ll never buy in shop windows, and eventually decide to eat at a noodle shop with no name. After I find my way to and through the maze-like mall-complex it’s in, I eventually find the little window in the wall that is the noodle shop. The old woman who works at the window smiles when she sees me.
“The usual?” she says. I nod, and tap my mobile on the payment reader. A few minutes later, a hot bowl of crimson soup with thin, chewy noodles is handed to me. I wave goodbye to the old woman and make my way to a level-transfer elevator nearby. I step inside and let the elevator take me to Hightower. The elevator doors open, revealing a small room that smells of flowers. There are several doors requiring security clearance, and I happen to have just enough. Working for major corporations gives you almost all the same benefits as working for the government in this city.
I push open the door to my right, which opens onto a plaza. The ground here is made of cobblestone, a very rare sight in this day and age, and on the eastern side of the plaza there sits an old-world church; one of the only ones I’ve ever found. The church has a tall spire with a cross at the top, intricate stonework lining the sides, and gargoyles perched above the entrance.
I walk past the church and sit on a bench on the other side of the plaza. At this height, there is very little rhyme or reason to the city. All I see is a blur of lights and colors, a choppy painting with a million different hues. As I’m about to start eating my noodles, someone sits next to me on the bench. I hadn’t heard them coming at all, but they are here, nonetheless. They are quiet for a minute, and then the person, who is wearing some kind of veil to hide their face, speaks softly to me.
“You work for Ashton Systems, correct?”
The gravity of this question hangs in the air. Am I about to die at the hands of some kind of anti-corpo nutjob? Some kind of spy? More importantly, do I deserve it? I think carefully before answering, “What’s it worth to you?”
The person seems to sigh before they say, “Don’t worry. You aren’t in any danger. Or at least, not from me or any of my associates.”
“Okay . . . okay. Thank you.” I’m silent for a second before asking, “Wait, so who am I in danger from? What’s the, uh, situation here?”
“That remains to be seen. You aren’t currently in danger, but you, and many other people, may be in the near future. Me, and the organization I represent, seek to either prevent or control future events that we believe will happen in this very city.”
“Alright. It would be great if you would explain what that actually means, but before that: What do I, and my position at Ashton, have to do with all of this?”
The person leans in uncomfortably close to me and says, “You and your position fit my organization's interests, and we believe the tasks we have in mind for you fit your interests too. You don’t have to slave away in that job until you die if you don’t want to. You can be so, so much more.”
I approve everything except for the newest plasma bomb prototypes — the estimated lawsuit costs simply aren’t worth it. While revenue is up, this year's product lineup has been somewhat controversial, or so I’ve heard; I’d prefer to keep public opinion from getting even worse. I finish up and upload everything to the company’s private datacloud.
A symphony of sound rushes into my ears as I exit the burnt-steel skyscraper that I work in. The streets full of cars of all shapes and sizes, the countless buildings and everything else clinging onto the framework around me resides on the city level known as Middletower. Everything below Middletower is the rough, damp, neon-lit place known as Lowtower and the True Street, and everything above is the grand plazas, domes and spires of Hightower.
I jog across the road, walk a few blocks past corporate offices and hulking brutalist apartment grids, admire a few fancy gadgets I’ll never buy in shop windows, and eventually decide to eat at a noodle shop with no name. After I find my way to and through the maze-like mall-complex it’s in, I eventually find the little window in the wall that is the noodle shop. The old woman who works at the window smiles when she sees me.
“The usual?” she says. I nod, and tap my mobile on the payment reader. A few minutes later, a hot bowl of crimson soup with thin, chewy noodles is handed to me. I wave goodbye to the old woman and make my way to a level-transfer elevator nearby. I step inside and let the elevator take me to Hightower. The elevator doors open, revealing a small room that smells of flowers. There are several doors requiring security clearance, and I happen to have just enough. Working for major corporations gives you almost all the same benefits as working for the government in this city.
I push open the door to my right, which opens onto a plaza. The ground here is made of cobblestone, a very rare sight in this day and age, and on the eastern side of the plaza there sits an old-world church; one of the only ones I’ve ever found. The church has a tall spire with a cross at the top, intricate stonework lining the sides, and gargoyles perched above the entrance.
I walk past the church and sit on a bench on the other side of the plaza. At this height, there is very little rhyme or reason to the city. All I see is a blur of lights and colors, a choppy painting with a million different hues. As I’m about to start eating my noodles, someone sits next to me on the bench. I hadn’t heard them coming at all, but they are here, nonetheless. They are quiet for a minute, and then the person, who is wearing some kind of veil to hide their face, speaks softly to me.
“You work for Ashton Systems, correct?”
The gravity of this question hangs in the air. Am I about to die at the hands of some kind of anti-corpo nutjob? Some kind of spy? More importantly, do I deserve it? I think carefully before answering, “What’s it worth to you?”
The person seems to sigh before they say, “Don’t worry. You aren’t in any danger. Or at least, not from me or any of my associates.”
“Okay . . . okay. Thank you.” I’m silent for a second before asking, “Wait, so who am I in danger from? What’s the, uh, situation here?”
“That remains to be seen. You aren’t currently in danger, but you, and many other people, may be in the near future. Me, and the organization I represent, seek to either prevent or control future events that we believe will happen in this very city.”
“Alright. It would be great if you would explain what that actually means, but before that: What do I, and my position at Ashton, have to do with all of this?”
The person leans in uncomfortably close to me and says, “You and your position fit my organization's interests, and we believe the tasks we have in mind for you fit your interests too. You don’t have to slave away in that job until you die if you don’t want to. You can be so, so much more.”