CHAPTER 4 RECAP: In Chapter 4 we find out that Panacea likes Beatty’s idea for a Upthink jammer and wants to talk to him right away, in person. Beatty is apprehensive and feels uncomfortable having to go to the Elites’ side of the wall. His boss, Rayford, gives him no choice. Beatty buys himself proper clothes for the meeting with the help of Mar Vel. The night before the meeting he decides to go out painting to relieve stress. Two men corner him while he is out and give him a black eye.
Alora tried her best to cover up Beatty’s slightly swollen black eye with makeup the following morning. She used a pale sickly-green goop on the red places and a pale peachy goop on the bruised places. It helped a bit—definitely made him easier to look at—but there was no hiding the fact that he’d been roughed up.
Observing himself in the mirror as he buttoned his new shirt, he decided his eye was a perfect edition, made the whole monkey suit on the lower half of his body look a hundred times better. He smirked at his reflection, using some of the clear goop Mar Vel had handed him to smooth out his hair. They decided his black boots would be fine for this occasion, so he sat on the edge of his mattress and laced himself in. Checking his tab, he figured he’d have just enough time to shove some food in his mouth before he needed to leave.
Ideally he would have hired a cheap ride downtown, but after shopping for clothes there wasn’t enough left in his budget to cover it. He refused to spend more of his hard earned credits than he needed to on this whole ordeal. That left him either taking the bus or walking, since their branch of the badly neglected subway was finally shut down last year. His tab claimed the route would take 2 hours on foot or 45 minutes by bus, so it wasn’t a hard choice. Reaching the bus stop took about a ten minute walk in the direction of the river. The meeting was scheduled for 10:30.
It was already 9:30 when his feet hit pavement, so he jogged some of the way trying to make up for lost time. He had no idea what he would do if the bus didn’t show up, but a small part of him hoped it wouldn’t.
The bus shelter was packed with bodies, all trying to escape the scorchingly bright sun. Beatty could already feel pools of sweat forming in every crevice of his body so he joined two other heat refugees under a somewhat adjacent tree.
About five minutes later the bus pulled up, lurching to a halt with a ear-splitting screech. It was mostly empty and Beatty was one of the last in line to get a seat. One of the other folks who was standing under the tree with him—a woman, older, probably in her early to mid-thirties—took the seat next to him.
He felt her gaze flit awkwardly between the side of his face and the view straight ahead. Before he could think, he turned to look at her. She was wearing denim overalls and holding a red baseball cap emblazoned with the Fresh Best logo—a farm themed fast-food chain whose buildings were shaped like tiny red barns. She gave him a weak smile.
“I thought we weren’t gonna get a spot,” she said in a meek, unsure voice.
Beatty gave her a polite smile. “Yeah, it was close.”
She paused a moment as if trying to decide whether to keep talking. “Where are you headed?”
He wasn’t really in the mood to talk. Despite the fact that he had resolved to not give a shit about this meeting he still felt off, his stomach a bundle of nerves. She seemed nice though and he couldn’t figure out a way to brush her off without feeling like an asshole.
“I have a meeting...across the river. It’s a work thing.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Wow. Your job must be fancy.”
Beatty huffed with amusement. “Not really. I’m not sure why they even called me in, to be honest.”
“So, what do you do?”
“Uh...I think my official title is “Research and Development Contractor”?”
She huffed as if he’d made a joke. “Ok. I have no idea what that is. Still sounds fancier than selling burgers.”
He chuckled briefly in agreement. He’d never thought of his job at Humaneyes as fancy but, compared to working at Fresh Best he supposed it was.
“Basically, I spend a lot of time online, hunting for ideas, problems people complain about. Then, the company we contract for uses those ideas to make stuff that they sell to people to fix those problems.”
“Sounds pretty important.”
Beatty wobbled his head in dissent. “Eh...not really. The stuff they make is mostly unnecessary, the problems aren’t really problems. It’s complicated.”
The woman’s brow furrowed. “So it’s about the money?”
She was pretty quick for someone who worked at a notoriously shitty chain shop. He noted the way she was tapping her fingers on the brim of her hat, creating a pattern with her left hand then repeating it with her right. The pattern was different for each round but she’d get it right every time, even while she was talking and seemingly not paying attention.
“More or less,” he said, in reply to her astute assessment of Solution’s motives.
“Do you feel guilty?”
Her tapping stopped abruptly and she looked directly into his eyes.
“About what?”
“About what you do? Helping a company lie to people?”
He’d never had a stranger confront him so directly before. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure how he wanted to answer.
“Not really. I guess I’ve always figured that people can make up their own minds, you know? They don’t have to buy the stuff. It’s up to them to be clever enough to do the research, see through the marketing. They mostly sell stuff to Elites anyway. At least taking their money gives me and my friends a roof over our heads.”
Despite having repeated a version of this diatribe doaens of times before, it was starting to sound lame, like a cop out, as if he was reading off a script Panacea had handed him.
The woman’s gaze hung on him a moment longer, then she looked away. “I guess. Still seems kinda wrong.”
Beatty really didn’t need a lecture on ethics right now. Luckily, the woman seemed to lose interest in him anyway. Her fingers began tapping again, quicker now, repeating left then right. Had he upset her? Why did she care what some random guy on the bus did for work? He could clap back with a whole ream of horrors about the less than virtuous antics of companies like Fresh Best; but he knew it wasn’t about that for either of them. They were both just looking out for themselves in a world that was doing them no favors. Why did they have to feel like the bad guys?
“What happened to your face?”
“Huh?” He hadn’t even noticed she was looking at him again, staring at his swollen eye.
“Oh. Some guys cornered me last night,” he muttered. “Wanted my bag.”
“That’s awful,” she replied solemnly. “Did they get it?”
Beatty nodded. “I gave it to them. Not much in it.”
“Next stop, Prospect Hill,” a deep male voice announced over the intercom.
Bus routes were bare bones nowadays, long and roving with frequent stops. He was technically going in the opposite direction from his destination, at least for awhile. Eventually they’d cross the river after making a wide loop around the walled area that ringed the nearest Ivy League University in it’s hermetic shell of privilege. Having to snake their way around all the restricted enclaves peppered around the city made getting around arduous for everyone, but at least it made the Elites feel safer so...
They arrived at the Potter Square stop next and Beatty’s seatmate began to stand.
“This is me,” she announced with a sigh. “Good luck with your meeting. I hope your face heals quickly.”
“Thanks.” He tried his hardest to smile wide and insert genuine feeling into his voice. She was nice—had caught him on a bad day. “I hope customers don’t give you too much shit today.”
She turned back to him as she walked away and rolled her eyes. “Inevitable, but thanks anyway.”
He watched her as she disappeared into the throng of shoppers crowding the square. Potter looked a bit different than last time he’d been there, more run down than he remembered. Stalls were set up on the open common around the old subway station entrance, with vendors selling goods off of blankets and out of hastily constructed rolling carts. He didn’t even know there was a Fresh Best in Potter Square, but he figured she wouldn’t choose to wear those hideous overalls otherwise. Shops came and went in places like these and he rarely made it further out than Civic. He was at Humaneyes six days a week and Sunday was always packed with tedious chores.
A few more stops and they were finally at the gates. An endless ten-foot high wall ran along the bank of the river, keeping the view of the water hidden from their side. As Beatty disembarked from the bus he realized he’d forgotten about leaving extra time for checking his permit at the gate. He pulled his tab from his pocket. It was already 10:05.
In the end, his face was the thing that ended up causing him the most grief. As soon as his swollen eye was noted, the Guard agent who was processing him brought him into a small room and launched into a rapid series of invasive questions designed to trip him up. Precious minutes ticked by as the agent finally disappeared behind a door without a word, making Beatty even more agitated that he already was. He checked his tab over and over, sighing each time. He would definitely be late now.
After what felt like ages, the Guard agent returned. He attached a black, band-like monitor made of metal around Beatty’s wrist then grabbed his arm to usher him wordlessly down a long featureless beige hallway and out into the daylight. Apparently he had passed the test.
The agent gestured toward a Transporter that was idling at the far end of the arch-shaped driveway skirting the side of the building. “That’s your ride. Better hurry.”
Beatty took off quickly, pausing momentarily in front of the vehicle’s doors while he waited for them to open. The vehicle was autonomous, with a second set of doors separating the front vestibule from the passenger area. As soon as his foot hit the inner platform a sultry female voice spoke to him.
“Please present your band for identification.”
Band? It took him a moment before he remembered the one they had put on him just moments ago. A red square pulsed on the wall to his right. He held his wrist in it’s vicinity.
“Thank you. One moment,” the voice said.
After a pause, a series of ascending tones sounded and the inner doors slid open.
“Please enter and take Seat 12A.”
The inside was almost empty, save two other passengers spaced far apart with their eyes downcast. There were at least two dozen seats open, but Beatty figured he’d do what he was told for once and find 12A. No need to make this process more painful than it was already turning out to be.
Stationed in the far back corner by a window, he had a complete view of his surroundings. He noted the small bulges in the ceiling above each seat with a dark dot in the center.
Cameras. They were all being closely monitored, logged, and studied by Observer. He wouldn’t be able to make a move here without them knowing.
Outside the vehicle’s large windows the view was all concrete. A long, tall, retaining wall lined the other side of the road—it’s matte grey surface bending around a curve and up an incline. More roadways snaked above their heads, casting the entire area in thick striped shadows. Giant support pillars intruded into the space all around, reminding Beatty ancient ruins.
“Departure time in two minutes. Please keep your bodies in an upright position with arms at your sides. Our automated safety restraint system will activate in one minute.”
It was different from the last time he was here. Everything was unnervingly modern and controlled. His previous visit inside the wall was almost eight years ago, when things were still in chaos from a devastating CAT 5 hurricane and the fallout from the first wave of Provox deaths. The wall was still not fully built, and he was a recently orphaned teen. He’d been rounded up on his side of the wall by a so-called “community action group” who went by the name Shepherds of Light. They coerced him into a ragged old passenger van with a bunch of other kids and drove them over the river to an adoption center where they would be sold off to Elite Traditionalist families.
All the people who were interested in adopting 14-year-old Beatty gave him the creeps—talking endlessly about “salvation” and how he would be asked to “work hard” for the family to repay the fee for his adoption. They never neglected to remind him how blessed he should feel to have people willing to sacrifice for his welfare, although from his perspective it sounded like he would be much better off on his own.
Thankfully, he managed to act just weird enough to put off all of the Elites who showed interest without garnering too much attention from the staff at the center. He’d seen other kids act out more blatantly and disappear. To this day, he wondered how much the Shepherds thought he was worth.
The upside of his brief stint with the Shepherds of Light was meeting Mar Vel, who had been picked up a few days earlier. The two of them became allies from the moment they met and managed to escape the following evening thanks to Mar’s cunning eye for security lapses.
Back out on the streets, they met a homeless guy who led them to an unattended opening in the unfinished wall. Once they were back in familiar territory, both Beatty and Mar Vel spread the word amongst all the street kids about Shepherds of Light. A campaign was quickly mounted to harass them as much as possible and within a few months their kid snatching vans were just a memory.
“Safety restraint system is about to deploy. Please remain still. Keep your arms at your sides.”
The vehicle delivered the news calmly, but Beatty panicked. What does it mean “arms at your sides”? Like, touching my body, or out a bit? Am I gonna lose an arm if I get it wrong?
Moments later his question was answered. A whizzing sound, like a small motor, activated somewhere behind his head. Then, a flash of movement hit his peripheral vision as a U-shaped restraint lifted straight up from behind the seat then quickly descended from above and down over his shoulders with the bottom of the U landing just above his waist.
“Ahhh!” he yelped as it stopped abruptly, mere inches from his crotch. It was so tight he could barely move. The others in the vehicle remained silent, didn’t seem to care. Maybe they had done this before?
The transporter’s engine changed gears and a moment later they began to roll forward, swinging around the curve and up a hill. Beatty craned his neck to check out the view that was about to appear over the crest of the road, but he only got a peek of tall glass towers on the horizon before the windows frosted over.
“What the...?” he whispered to himself. They weren’t allowed to even look?
Rage began to simmer somewhere deep inside him. This is why I didn’t want to come here.
Beatty sighed in defeat and leaned his head back on the seat. He tried to reach into his back pocket for his tab, but because of the restraint he couldn’t lift his pelvis high enough to slip his hand under and grab it.
“Errgh,” he groaned. He had no idea what time it was and how late he was going to be once he arrived at Panacea.
Colorful sunlit blobs passed by outside, teasing him, giving only hints at what they might be. Eventually the light dimmed and the windows turned mostly grey.
“Seat 12A your destination is approaching. Please prepare to disembark.”
“How am I supposed to prepare if I can’t move?” he muttered to no one. The next closest passenger—a man four rows up on his side of the vehicle—heard him and turned their head slightly in his direction.
“It’ll lift in a moment,” he instructed in monotone.
Beatty startled at the sound of a real voice. Had he imagined it? He’d forgotten the others were even here.
The transporter slowed to a halt.
“Seat 12A, please remain still while your safety restraint disengages.”
“I’ll try and control myself,” he replied sarcastically.
The u-shaped bar lifted and Beatty felt the tension he’d been holding in his body release. His hip joint ached from sitting awkwardly on his tab the whole ride. He pulled it out and checked the time. It was 10:40.
“Seat 12A, proceed to the front of the vehicle.”
He stood and made his way forward, glancing at the man as he passed, hoping to thank him. But the man kept his eyes down and refused to return his acknowledgment. Beatty took the hint and kept silent.
The inner set of doors slid open and Beatty took a step down into the vestibule.
“Present your band to exit the vehicle.”
Beatty raised his wristband to the blinking red square.
“One moment,” the automated voice crooned. The ascending tones came quicker this time.
“The lobby for Panacea HQ is straight ahead. Please head directly into the building and check in at the front desk.”
The outer door slid open, inviting in a warm gust of air. In front of him was an endless tower of glass perched on a series of wide marble staircases. At the top of the stairs, was a bump-out entry with a row of sliding doors. Above them a sign read: PANACEA. Each letter in the name was a separate object, seemingly floating, but at the same time they were also morphing before his eyes, moving through a series of different fonts. He had no idea how it was happening, what substance they could be made out of that would do that. To his Rank eyes, the effect was slightly demonic—like what people imagined would happen if you brought a person from two hundred years ago into now and showed them our technology.
He was afraid to walk under it until he saw another man mount the steps and head inside without a second glance—like it was something he saw every day.
The door glided open as he approached. The air inside the entrance smelled unnaturally clean, so lacking in scent it was slightly unnerving. The second set of doors followed the closing of the first and the lobby opened up into a mostly empty, cathedral-like space.
The first thing he noted once inside the lobby was the temperature, comfortable compared to the swampy fall air he’d left in his wake. He thought he felt a light breeze. There was a scent now too, one that was warm and sweet; he couldn’t quite place it. It caused a visceral reaction, lulling the queasiness that had been plaguing him the entire trip over.
A tidy-looking woman with sleek blonde hair and pale skin hovered behind a monolithic birchwood reception desk. Above her head was a hovering cloud-like tangle of golden wire dotted with tiny white lights.
As he approached she looked up at him and flashed a cautious smile.
“Beatty Clark?” she asked, as if she already knew he’d say yes.
“Uh, yeah,” he replied awkwardly. Even after all these years he still wasn’t used to hearing his fake full name. “How did you know?’
“A device scans your wristband as soon as you walk in the door. Your name and photo popped up on my screen.”
“Oh, ok. I’m kinda late.”
She glanced at her screen and her brow furrowed slightly. “Right. Let me look at his schedule.”
She began typing as Beatty stood there awkwardly.
“Hmm...he’s pretty busy. Can I reschedule you for tomorrow?”
Beatty’s stomach sank. There was no way he was going through this all again. Frustrated, he ran a hand through his hair.
“I had to come a really long way. I’m missing work. I got held up at the gate because of this.” He pointed to his eye. “It would be a huge hassle to have to come back.”
The woman pursed her lips as if she was trying to crush her irritation between them. She began typing again, eyes scanning the screen in front of her. “Let me check with him.”
She stood up and walked toward the wall. Raising a hand, she triggered an invisible door to pop open. It swung inward to let her pass then closed behind her.
He was alone now in this cavernous lobby of glass and marble. Looking around, he realized there was no seating or objects of any kind besides the desk—a huge cavern of wasted space.
Beatty could only guess what would be in store for him if he refused to come back. Maybe Ray would be forced to fire him? Or someone from Panacea would come and bring him here against his will? He still hadn’t gauged how much this meeting mattered to whoever “he” was. It felt like a lot of bother for everyone involved.
His mind was spinning in circles, trying to decide how to respond to a “no”, when the woman returned.
“He’s agreed to see you.”
Beatty breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted to get this over with.
“Elevators are to the right. It will scan your wristband and take you to the right floor. Directionals on the wall will guide you to his office.”
“Who am I meeting with again?”
“Mr. M.”
Beatty huffed once in amusement. “What does the “M” stand for?”
She tilted her head in confusion. “Nothing. It’s just M.”
Beatty raised his eyebrows in disbelief, then shook it off and headed for the elevators.
A series of metal doors with no call buttons were tucked away in an alcove. With no one around to ask what to do, he stood there a moment, perplexed and wary. Then, he stepped closer to the nearest set of doors.
His vicinity must have triggered something because they slid open. He climbed aboard and the doors shut behind him with a muffled thunk. A red square pulsed on the wall, similar to the one in the transporter, so he waved his wristband at it and the elevator shot upward at an uncomfortably fast speed.
When the doors opened there was a blank wall straight ahead—no indication what floor he was on or where to go next. He stepped out into the wide grey hallway and looked in both directions. The walls were doorless and exactly the same, with floor to ceiling windows at each end. Everything was silent.
Maybe if I start walking and just yell “Mr. M?!” over and over like a child he’ll eventually holler back?
Beatty spun around a few times trying to decide on a direction. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: a light glowing through the wall panel sightly above waist high. It was an arrow, pointing him in the direction of the hallway to the left.
“There we go,” he muttered and took off down the hall.
New arrows popped up as he reached each juncture in the labyrinth. Then, finally, a small plaque on the wall materialized at a dead end. It glowed in a similar manner as the arrows.
Office of Fitzpatrick Em, it read.
Now the last name made more sense.
As he approached the wall it popped open, just like one did for the woman downstairs. The space beyond was large, minimal, expensive, much like the rest of the building. There was a bank of floor to ceiling windows on the left, in front of which sat a small seating area with sleek grey furniture. The desk was further down the room to his right, positioned along the back wall. It was similar in wood tone and weight to the reception desk downstairs. Behind it sat a man staring at a laptop screen.
The man, who he presumed was Mr. Em, was dressed in a bland grey suit. His body beneath appeared soft and ample, above which hovered a stout, ruddy face crowned by a thin sweep of dark, greying hair that landed just above his temples. He looked to be around the age Beatty’s parents would have been were they still alive and, unlike most of the Elites he’d encountered over the years, didn’t seem interested in taking advantage of the huge advances in cosmetic modification he would have access to. Although, once you had as much power and money as someone like Mr. Em, surgically altering yourself to fit some idealized vision of a human male might not be worth the effort.
Beatty entered the room slowly. The dense plush rug did such a good job muffling the sound of his footsteps he wasn’t sure Mr. Em had heard him.
As he passed the seating area, he saw Mr. Em’s head twitch just slightly before he spoke.
“Beatty Clark. Welcome,” he offered in a slightly weary monotone. His voice was thick and phlegmy.
He said this while still not making eye contact, fingers pecking at his keyboard. There were no chairs in front of his desk for Beatty to sit in so he lingered there awkwardly as he waited for Mr. Em to begin the meeting.
“You’re late.”
“I got held up at the gate,” he explained. This finally earned Beatty a glance.
“Held up?” It took a beat and then he noticed Beatty’s eye. “Your face. Did that happen…”
He briefly considered lying then shook his head. “No, it happened yesterday.”
The man stopped what he was doing and leaned in. “What did you do to get that?”
Beatty shrugged. He wasn’t telling this guy the whole truth. “I got mugged.”
“Hmm…” he replied, his lip quirking up slightly. He leaned back and returned his attention to his screen. “Guess that’s par for the course where you’re from. Some really bad blood mixed up in there. No offense.”
Beatty held in a burst of laughter. How was he not supposed to be offended by that?
“I’m sorry to hear the Guard gave you a hassle,” he continued. “I’m sure most of you are fine people, but we need to keep our families safe. In an ideal world we wouldn’t have walls, but we can’t take any chances these days.”
He kept his expression stoic as the man waited for him to respond. This guy must be testing him, to see how far Beatty would let him go.
“Why am I here exactly?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation toward less volatile topics.
Mr. Em raised his eyebrows. “You work for Rayford over at Humaneyes, right?”
Beatty nodded.
“And he didn’t explain the purpose of this meeting to you?”
“A bit. He was told you wanted to talk to me face-to-face about my most recent proposal...and some other ideas you have in the works?”
“Sort of,” he said, nodding his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “We were all really impressed with your concept, Mr. Clark. It’s bigger than what we normally get from Humaneyes...a type of higher-level thinking that usually comes from our in-house staff.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.
Mr. Em leaned back, knitting his fingers then resting them in his lap. “It’s very unusual to have someone of your...status...to come up with such an advanced idea. We are intrigued to know a bit more about you.”
Again, Beatty wasn’t sure what to say. He started rambling nervously, divulging things he would come to later regret. “Uh, ok. I grew up in the Metro area. My parents died during the first Provox outbreak when I was 14. I didn’t have any other family so I moved around a lot, lived basically on my own. I taught myself most of what I know about computers, scoping trends and patterns, viral marketing on social media...all that stuff. It’s not that complicated, really. It’s just something I have a knack for I guess.”
Mr. Em nodded lightly. “So you didn’t finish high school then?”
“There wasn’t one to go to,” he explained. “I didn’t have money for tuition and there were not enough teachers left to fill the upper grades at my public school.”
A lot of these guys, rich Elites, lived a completely different reality during Provox than the one the Ranks had experienced. They were able to seal themselves off from the infection and ensuing chaos, hire live-in tutors for their children, take meetings and exclusive vacations and go to nightclubs all through their high-end VR rigs. They were able to purchase food and supplies at whatever cost and have them delivered via SADs (sanitary autonomous delivery vehicles). They’d had a lot of experience—from plague after plague—to adopt the technology to make sure they made it through both physically and spiritually unharmed. The Ranks had no such luxuries. If they managed to get lucky and arrive on the other side of it, like Beatty did, the psychological scars of how little their lives meant to people who claimed to value life above all other things would run deep; enough to eventually cleave society in two.
“Right. The teacher thing,” Mr. Em replied. “Well, you can thank The Resistance for that.”
The Resistance had nothing to do with any of it. A third of all teachers died of the virus. The profession was ridiculously underpaid. Beatty stifled the urge to argue. He knew it wasn’t worth the steaming pile of shit he’d step in for launching into it. Instead he focused on a hideous abstract painting hovering behind Mr. Em and tried to calm himself. He needed to find a way to steer this guy toward the point.
“Well, despite being robbed of my education,” he began, making no effort to hide his sarcasm, “Working at Humaneyes seems to be something that comes easily to me.”
Feeling slightly more relaxed, he dared to look back at Mr. Em. He found him wearing an expression akin to a a calculating smirk. It made Beatty uneasy.
“Of course! It’s clear you have a natural talent, Mr. Clark. You’re idea is exactly the kind of new venture we’ve been looking for. With a few adaptations, your idea might even make us our next fortune.”
“Adaptations?” Beatty repeated, forgetting everything else the man said.
Em nodded. “We’re using your pitch as kind of a...launch pad. Our team has identified ways we can tweak the technology for further commodification.”
“Commodification. Ok,” Beatty said skeptically. “How?”
Mr. Em paused for a moment, as if he was trying to decide how much information he should divulge.
“Ads,” he replied enthusiastically with a flourish of fingers.
“Ads?” Beatty repeated, nonplussed.
“Our engineering team has figured out a way to use the principles behind these jammers you’ve alerted us to to break into people’s links and serve site-specific ads. PrivaTec has been trying to make that happen for years. Problem was, they’ve been focused on a code or image that triggers an ad to play and unfortunately the tech just isn’t there yet. But your concept...is a game changer. Well, I suppose it’s not really your concept at this point, but you know...you planted the seed.”
Beatty was both horrified and amused. He didn’t know how to covey to this man in a non-insulting way how much people were going to hate being assaulted by ads out of nowhere. Had Fitzpatrick Em grown up in the same world he had? Had he never studied the history of technology? Or did he and all the other higher ups simply have their head so far up their own asses that they couldn’t take a step back and consider the implications of this idea?
“So, I don’t know if you’ve heard,” he continued. “...but PrivaTec is looking to add Panacea to their portfolio.”
“Yeah. Rayford mentioned it,” Beatty said, unenthusiastically.
“Well, oddly enough, PrivaTec also happens to be the owner of Bios.”
Bios was the company responsible for the implants Beatty hoped his proposal would get under control. He didn’t know PrivaTec had bought them out, although he wasn’t all that surprised either. PrivaTec had their hands in everything: Unigoods megastores, the government’s Observer system, a new kind of tab they were launching called a Bliss. They were even marketing a new Elite’s-only neighborhood fitted with all their latest tech.
Mr. Em sat there, seemingly waiting for Beatty to complete the puzzle. He wasn’t sure his conclusion was right, but he took a shot at it in order to break the uncomfortable silence.
“So, you’re thinking that developing tech to enhance one of their products will make the Panacea buyout command a higher price?”
“Mmm, yes. That’s part of it. Initially we showed your idea to PrivaTec as-is, but then they mentioned the bit about ads and our team ran with it. Trials are going on as we speak.”
“Wait. You’ve already talked about it with PrivaTec? Trials? It’s been less than three days.”
“Yep. We’ve already collected the developers you sent us leads for too.”
Beatty’s brows pinched in confusion. “Wait. They agreed to work for PrivaTec? And are they cool with changing the initial concept?”
Mr. Em had a gleam in his eye. “They didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, to be honest. Our offer was one they found hard to refuse.”
Goosebumps danced the length of Beatty’s arms. He felt so stupid. He should have known better. What started out as the greatest good he would ever do in his life might be slowly morphing into the biggest screw up of all time. These people were cold-blooded cashholes. Sometimes he still forgot that everything in their world had ulterior motives.
“Don’t worry,” Em added in an appeasing tone. “We’ll also be offering the jamming tech you initially proposed. Even without all the altruistic savior crap you tacked on, you’re right; it makes financial sense for PrivaTec to rehabilitate it’s image in the eyes of the public. The developers were able to demo their original devices on a few dreamlinked patients being studied in Bios’ labs and the results were good enough that we should be able to get those prototyped and ready for market by next month. The Guard is already interested in how they might implement them during their patrols. They could end up being our biggest customer.”
The Guard? That was not something he’d considered at all. He wasn’t sure how exactly the Guard would use them against people, but he knew it would be awful.
“Part of the push for this ad technology has been to bring down the cost of Upthink for everyone, even Ranks, without cutting in on PrivaTec’s profit margin. Soon it won’t matter what a person’s status is. They can have access to the latest technology as long as they agree to having ads served to them throughout their day.”
“How benevolent of them,” Beatty interjected in a sarcastic monotone. His mind was still on the Guard getting a hold of these things—the Ranks being tricked into getting implants. Not so easy to change your mind about something once it’s stuck in your brain.
Mr. Em’s lip quirked in amusement. “Nothing gets by you does it, Mr. Clark?
“I’m still not sure why you had me come all the way here.”
“Yes,” he replied, dragging out the word. “About that. We’ve decided we’d like to bring you on as a junior developer for this project...as a test of sorts, to see if you might be a good addition to our in-house team.”
The proposition caught Beatty like a slap in the face. His heart began to hammer. On the verge of panicking, he tried to think of a way to say “no” without losing his job.
“I appreciate the offer but I’ve got people I take care of back on the other side of the wall. They rely on me being around. I really can’t leave.”
Mr. Em squinted his eyes. “Who? Alora? Mar Vel?”
Hearing those names made Beatty’s gut wrench. How did he get the names of his friends?
“Among others,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice. “How?...”
“They don’t need you. They are perfectly capable of handling their own lives.”
“But maybe I need them? They’re my family. I have a life already.”
“They’re not your family, Mr. Clark. Your family is dead,” he announced bluntly. “You’d seriously give up a chance at safety, luxury, and prestige to live in a filthy, diseased hellhole where people mug you on the streets?”
“Well, yeah,” he replied curtly, trying desperately to hold in the rant that was building inside him.
Mr. Em paused a moment, as if thinking. “What if your friends weren’t part of the equation anymore?”
Beatty’s whole body flooded with rage. That question sounded like a threat.
“Wouldn’t matter. I’d never fit in here. Bad breeding and all,” he sniped, allowing himself the subtle dig. This only amused the man more. “What if I hurt somebody?”
Em smiled wide. “So what happens when the Guard finds out about LUCID? Property damage is a felony that could have you locked up for years.”
They knew about LUCID too? How? Had they been tracking him?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he lied. “Are you threatening to sic the Guard on me if I say “no” to your job offer?”
“Mr. Clark...Beatty...no one is threatening anyone. We’re just talking. Pros and cons. Trying to figure out what’s best for you. That’s all we really want.”
“Why me though? Don’t you have Elites who would jump at the chance to take a job like this? Why bring a filthy Rank in who might go feral on you at any moment?”
This made him laugh. He leaned forward on his desk and beckoned Beatty a bit closer. Beatty stood his ground. “Listen. I’ll be straight with you. Just because someone is born on this side of the wall doesn’t always mean they’re right for this kind of work. We need people right now, desperately, and you have exhibited just the right balance of intelligence, creativity, and moral flexibility we’re looking for.”
It was delivered like a compliment, but Beatty had never felt more insulted. He no longer knew what to say, his mind stumbling over possibilities and coming up empty.
“But this ad thing wasn’t even my idea at all,” he countered angrily, daring to prop his hands on the desk and lean in. Mr. Em shifted backward, a brief flash a discomfort crossing his face.
“Think about it for awhile,” he offered calmly. “We don’t need you until next month.”
“Do I have a choice though?” he spat. “What...happens...if…I say...no?”
Mr. Em remained silent, studying Beatty’s face. He almost thought he’d get no answer when finally Em relented.
“Why would anything happen? You stay at Humaneyes. We all move on.”
Something in his tone felt off. Beatty didn’t believe him for a second.
There was a long, gaping silence. He wasn’t sure if Mr. Em was waiting for him to say something, but he had nothing left.
“Anyway, thanks for coming in today, Mr. Clark. Let us know your decision by the 25th so we can take whatever action is necessary. I assume you are able to show yourself out?”
He gestured toward the exit with his head and it swung open soundlessly. Beatty looked to the door then back to Mr. Em, who’s attention was focused again on his computer. The meeting had ended. The conversation was done. Beatty left the office in a daze.
The receptionist had left the desk unattended. There was not a soul to be found anywhere as he made his way back out into the stifling mid-day sun. The sidewalk out front was empty too—just an endless string of cars passing by on the road beyond. The transporter was waiting for him at the curb and he climbed aboard. He was the only passenger this time.
As the safety restraint lowered and enclosed him in it threatening embrace, his body became wracked with exhaustion. His mind was still not fully comprehending the weight of what had just happened. All that he knew in that moment was that he shouldn’t have come here. He knew it would be bad. Nothing good ever came out of making the Elites aware of your existence. He should have kept his ego in check, dumbed his work down and found contentment in mediocrity. Then none of this would be happening. He wished more than anything that he could take it all back.
