Weary Traveler

Rotech’s ballroom radiated like a brilliant beacon of light within the dreary darkness of the district. A behemoth of polished stone. A wonder of ancient Roman architecture, constructed using enormous, white marble slabs, and tall, braided, silver pillars that upheld a golden roof. The tiles sparkled beneath the oscillating floodlights shining down from the top of the dome, giving the appearance that the gold melted like dripping lava.

A carbon-black limousine, traced with lustrous, white light, and shifting geometric shapes and patterns powered down its humming, electric engine. Its automatic back door swung open and Mitch stepped out, onto the red carpet that stretched up an endless staircase leading to the entrance.

He looked left, right, straightened his obsidian tie over his electrified, charcoal gray shirt. Then adjusted his luminous, royal violet tuxedo jacket swirling like melting white gold across his torso as if a mystical aura radiated from his body, glimmering with each movement.

He reached into the cabin and guided Nova onto the carpet. They had to take several steps away from the limousine in order for the tail of her baby blue gown to completely escape from the vehicle’s interior. With each of her soft breaths, a rainbow of neon stardust exploded across her gown, bursting like stars in a stellar nebula. A mystical twirl of color like she had captured a scattered spectrum of light particles.

Mitch offered his hooked arm and Nova slid hers through, locking onto each other’s bodies.

“Here we go,” Mitch said.

“A bum and a nomad.”

“Until the very end, Nova Zion,” Mitch said, kissing her on the cheek.

They glided up the steps of the crimson path towards the pleasant sound of classical-electro flowing from the warm, yellow light of the ballroom. Mitch’s heart pounded against his chest as his lungs struggled for a breath of recycled oxygen. A cold shiver crawled across his skin and dug into his bones. And then, the ballroom disappeared.

His eyes widened and his mind flashed with the bonzo flashback of the dark alley. He gazed upon his rippling reflection in the puddle of mud. An acrid aroma of booze and vomit wafted through the air. The sour stench of urine clung to the walls, spread across the ground, seeped into Mitch’s present awareness by way of the senses, calling it forth to devour his brain.

He clipped the edge of the next step, stumbled upwards, but Nova tensed and prevented him from falling onto the carpet.

“Thank you,” Mitch whispered, blinking the alley away from his mind’s eye. He looked forward, but he could feel the intensity shooting out of Nova’s eyes aimed at the side of his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, coughed to expel the wretched smell from his mind. Then inhaled a deep breath, filled his lungs with the floral scent that wafted out of the ballroom. “I’m fine. Too many stairs.”

They shuffled up the remaining steps and stopped outside the entrance. A second staircase- half the size of the first- descended towards a gold-polished, mahogany dance floor filled with luxurious corpos. They drifted across the golden wood with ease, as if they floated, blown like synthetic flower petals in a soft breeze. Wandering to and fro, flowing with the soft rhythm of the classical music. The women’s alluring gowns flowed with their agile movements, complimenting the men’s slick, tech-tuxedos, each one designed with a unique element like they were plucked straight out of the periodic table and stitched into the fabric.

Beyond the dance floor, along the right wall, corpos conversed upon white, suede booths and at glass tables that surrounded a crystallized bar traced with golden flakes. Oscillating yellow light shined up from the floor, reflected through the facets of the bar and tables, giving them the illusion of kaleidoscopic movement.

The peoples’ chatter filled the air with an incessant buzz, combined with the beats coming from the classical-electro band on the left side of the dance floor. Sounds rising and falling as the band members tapped, strummed, blew on the classical, tech-instruments built into their bodies, growing from their bones.

Mitch and Nova eased themselves down the staircase, curious eyes scanning the extravagant ballroom. With each step, a new pair of eyes drifted towards them from below, watching with great focus as Rotech’s saviors approached. Followed them all the way until they reached the ground level and looked out across the crowd, into the eyes of the corpo elite.

The music slowly quieted and then stopped altogether. The entire ballroom paused their conversations, halted their dance, and raised their champagne glasses towards the couple. It was like a snapshot had captured a moment in time, froze it for all eternity to witness.

Mitch nodded his appreciation, smiled at his Rotech colleagues whom he did not know, nor care to know.

“That is very kind, thank you,” Mitch said, scanning the faces of the room from left to right. “Please…” he said, searching his mind for the right words, “party on.” He twirled his hand out from his chest as he dipped into a slight bow, conducting the ballroom’s fate. It sprung back to life like a needle had been dropped onto the vinyl on an antique record player at maximum volume.

Mitch and Nova walked down the final step and scooted towards the left, then she turned towards Mitch.

“Party on?” she whispered.

“What’s that?” Mitch asked, tilting his head, leaning closer.

Nova chuckled.

“What kind of corpo says ‘party on’?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Mitch said, smirking. “I hate speeches. And these people give me the creeps. They’re barely above the Crawlers on the scale of weirdos on this planet.”

“And they place you at the bottom of every social and economic hierarchy that exists.”

“And at the top of the criminal one.”

“We gotta be careful here, Cowboy,” Nova said, pulling Mitch towards her so that their chests were flush against one other. “The convention center was one thing. But we are in their district now.”

“We are, but I’ve got the beautiful, Queen Nova Zion, here to keep me safe,” Mitch said, kissing her on the lips. He pulled away and looked into her lime green eyes. “And a queen at her ball is blessed with magnificent power and mystical beauty. One more night and then we leave it all behind. And then we will find our cottage in Laurelhurst so we can grow old and-”

“There he is,” a voice said from behind Nova, “the main attraction.”

Mitch leaned past her shoulder.

“Vincent,” Mitch said, shaking the CEO’s strong hand.

“Nova, darling, you look stunning,” Vincent said, pulling Nova close and kissing her softly on each cheek.

“Thank you, Mr. Walker,” Nova said, stepping away from him. “I appreciate you giving Mitch the opportunity to prove himself at Rotech. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in such a lavish place in such a gorgeous gown.”

“The beauty always has, and always will, exist within you, Miss Zion.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Pardon me,” Vincent said, turning towards a pack of four people that stood in stoic silence behind him. He waved them forward, stepped aside so that they formed a shallow arch. They were covered in so much tech that the line between human flesh and machine had blurred together, erased any resemblance and connection to either form. They oozed a palpable cloud of regal superiority, like they were a minefield of negative energy sucking up anything authentic that they encountered.

“I’d like to introduce everyone to Mitch Henderson, the greatest CTO in the history of Rotech,” Vincent said, slapping Mitch on the back. “And his lovely heroine, Nova Zion, of course. Mitch, I’d like you to meet the High Table of Rosenfell. Rulers of this magnificent tech-city we all love so much. When Rotech needs a dispute settled, these four, fine people arbitrate.”

The stubby one with stump legs was the first to scurry forward. He had a pair of red goggles built right into his scalp that made his eyeballs look like a swarm of synthetic fire ants attacked them with scalding poison. His stiff, chrome tuxedo glimmered in the golden light of the ballroom, reflected beams like a disco ball.

“Ahem, ahem… Mr. Henderson,” the man said in a nasally voice, “err, what a great pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Phineas Peck. Err, tell me, what were they like?”

Mitch glanced at Nova, Vincent, before turning back to Phineas.

“What was who like?”

“The Crawlers, dammit. Down in CorpoMax. What were they like up close? What did they smell like? Do they sleep? Would you ever go back into their compound?”

“Alright, Phineas, alright, give Mitch a break,” Vincent said, shooing Mr. Peck away. “He’s gone through enough already. You can ask him questions another time. Maybe even in another life, huh?”

The woman standing to Phineas’s right towered above every single person in the ballroom, just shy of the height of a one story building. She wore a short, transparent dress that unveiled every inch of her body. Her flesh arms and legs had been replaced by bionic limbs fashioned from titanium alloy and carbon and coated with some kind of translucent silicon skin. Her bald head sparkled; eyebrows had been lasered off. Her leering, emotionless, silver eyes stared down at Mitch.

Mitch gulped, pulled the collar on his shirt to air out the steam on his chest.

“Mr. Henderson,” she said in a sonorous voice that sent enormous echoes of sound through the ballroom, “you may call me Virgo.”

Mitch nodded, looked away from the tall creature and into the narrow-eyed slits of the next man. He was half the size of Virgo, but four times wider. His shoulders consumed his neck, giving his enormous, muscular head a strong base to rest upon.

“Mr. King,” Virgo said.

The horizontal giant’s eyes burst open to reveal black pits to match his black trench coat.

“Mr. King, glad to have you with us,” Vincent said.

“I was… somewhere else.”

“We’ve got Mitch Henderson, Rotech CTO in front of you,” Vincent said.

“I see him,” Mr. King growled. He looked through Mitch as if thoughts of pity and disdain filled the shadows of his mind. “Tell me, Mitch Henderson, have you suffered much in this life?”

“Suffered?” Mitch asked. He glanced around the semicircle. “Of course. We all suffer, don’t we?”

“Some of us more than most, it seems…” Mr. King said, narrowing the slits that surrounded his lightless eyes.

Mitch looked away from the man’s searching glare. The darkness in Mr. King’s bleak eyes consumed positive energy and distorted minds. It was like his soul drowned in despair that stretched outwards, wrapped its sharp fingers around Mitch’s neck, trying to drag him into the depths of lonely emptiness.

“And the one on the end down there,” Vincent said, “is the old and wise, Winifred.”

Mitch’s heart jumped into his throat, pounded. His eyelids expanded, enlarged pupils pulsed. He turned his entire body and stared into the familiar, perceptive eyes of his newest friend, wearing an electric-violet gown with a ruby sweater wrapped around her slender shoulders. Her hair was puffed up, styled with so much hairspray that it didn’t move as she turned her head.

Mitch’s head tilted slightly towards the right.

“Winifred?” he mouthed.

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Henderson,” Winifred said, shaking Mitch’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s not often an old woman like me gets the opportunity to meet a hero and his charming lady. What is your name, Miss?”

“Nova Zion,” she said, stepping beside Mitch.

“As in the Promised Land?” Winifred asked.

“I’m sorry?” Nova asked, leaning closer.

“Your last name, Zion. It is known as Heaven on Earth. A place where love, unity, peace, and freedom join together in a world of joy and harmony.”

“I’ve never heard that,” Nova said, squeezing Mitch tighter around his waist. “But it sounds like a beautiful place to me.”

“It’s true. A wonderful name and a joyous place,” Winifred said. She looked Mitch and Nova up and down. “My, my, don’t you two stand out as a God and Goddess amongst this synthetic sea of corpo clones.”

“Easy, Winifred,” Vincent said, wagging his finger, a wry smirk spread across his face.

“So, Mitch Henderson, are you ready to save the world?” Winifred asked.

Mitch leaned away like a soft gust of wind snuck up on him. He scratched his head as his eyes looped around their sockets.

“Umm… I think I did save the world,” Mitch said, chuckling nervously.

“You saved a way of life. A life not your own,” Winifred said, pausing to allow the ballroom’s chatter to subside. “We are defined by the decisions that we make. Our past choices lead to future outcomes in an everlasting cycle that spins round and round. Step out and confront the thing you most fear, Mitch. Only then will you discover the truth of human existence.”

“Oh, come on, Winifred, leave the poor man alone with this philosophical nonsense,” Vincent said.

Vincent turned towards Mitch and Nova.

“You two enjoy yourselves. We need to finish making the rounds before Rotech’s big unveil. It will be quite the spectacle, I guarantee it,” Vincent said, marching off with the High Table in tow.

Mitch and Nova stood in silence, watched Vincent and the others disappear into the mass of corpos at the bar on the other side of the dance floor.

“What do we do?” Nova asked.

“About what?”

“Winifred!” Nova said in a loud whisper. “Can we trust her?”

“Of course we can,” Mitch said, looking around the ballroom to see if anyone was watching their conversation. “The High Table is probably just a front. I’m sure her knowledge of Rosenfell could be of use to Rotech.”

“Probably?” Nova asked, taking a short step backwards. “What was she talking about, then? Saving the world? A life not your own?”

“I don’t know…” Mitch said, blank face gazing across the ballroom, “I don’t know. It’s strange to think about, but I think it has something to do with the vision that I’ve been having. Like what happened when we kissed on the balcony at Blue Sky.”

“You think you are seeing the future?”

“But that’s the thing!” Mitch said. He scanned the room again, stepped closer to Nova and wrapped his arms around her back so that he could speak into her ear. They rocked side to side and shuffled their way over to the dance floor. “What if it has already happened?” Mitch asked. “What if the future has already happened?”

“How is that possible?” Nova said into Mitch’s chest.

“What if time is just an illusion and we exist in an eternal, present moment? That would mean that all events occur at the same exact moment in not only this unified dimension of space- which is what most scientists, corpos, nomads, and even bums think- but also a single dimension of time.”

“I would say that sounds crazy.”

“Past, present, and future, all happening at once. With each event, each thought, each idea, memory, action, behavior, influencing all others in a timeless cycle. A constant feedback loop in a self-creating system.”

“For what purpose?” Nova asked.

“Human evolution. The expansion and ascension of the mind to a higher dimension of consciousness. One that recognizes the truth that everything and everyone is connected. All is one,” Mitch said, pausing, allowing the classical-electro band’s rich melody to flow through his ears, wash over his brain. “Have you ever seen a simulated image of the Universe? With every star and galaxy and every nebula of star dust?”

“Yes.”

“Think about it…” Mitch said. “We are somewhere within that Universe, along with all three dimensions of time. Past, present, future. Most people think that we are separate from that Universe, when the truth is we are the Universe. And the Universe is in each one of us.”

“If that’s true, why can’t people see it?”

“It’s our egos that deceive us,” Mitch said. “Our wicked, devilish minds. They trick us into believing that we are tiny specks, straddling the small peak of the present moment and never in contact with the past or future. The Universe is the present moment. Always and forever. That is what the human experience of life is. Infinite. Eternal. Not some temporary moment with a single beginning and permanent end. Life is always beginning and always ending. They are equal parts of the same whole.”

“Then what about death? Is that just some kind of illusion, too?”

“The energy that is human consciousness will shift into another dimension of space or time. It will travel from one aspect of the present moment to another. Recycled like a digital imprint from a hyper-advanced piece of tech.”

Nova was silent for a long moment.

“I want to believe you, Cowboy, but this is all hard to understand,” she said. “It goes against everything human beings know.”

“It goes against everything we think we know.”

Nova rested her chin on Mitch’s shoulder and looked out across the ballroom.

“Can you prove it?” she asked. “Enough to convince people that it is the truth.”

“I mean… I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve experienced it first hand. It’s not something that I’ll be able to prove to people with mere words. Especially not to egotistical corpos so in love with instant gratification in their hedonistic lives.”

“Then, how?” Nova asked, staring deep into Mitch’s brown eyes.

“It’s something that people must experience for themselves. They must walk into the light from their own free will. Their own desire for purpose. Otherwise, what I’m saying will sound like the incoherent, mad ramblings of someone who has lost their mind. They’d throw me out on the streets. Just another fucking bum.”

“They would throw you on the streets, where you belong, Mitch Henderson. This life, this corpo life, is not for people like us. Good people. Moral people. These sick people in here know nothing of love and human connection. To them, life is one big game of power and control over the mindless masses through this same tech that has taken control over you.”

“I’m in control,” Mitch said with confidence.

“Are you? If your colleagues on the board find out who you are… If Vincent finds out who you are.”

“That road leads to nothing but emptiness and torment for him.”

Nova scoffed, rolled her eyes.

“Tell that to that psychopath. I’m sure he will be reasonable after you saved his company for the second time. Come,” she said, grabbing Mitch’s hand, “I need to sit down.”

They made their way across the dance floor, shuffling and sliding past the drunken corpos. With each step closer to the lounge chairs on the left side of the room, the band’s classical melody quieted until it stopped altogether.

The corpos’ jabbering voices continued for a moment before descending into a motionless silence, like a veil of suspended animation swallowed the entire ballroom, lingered for a long moment. And then, a tink, tink, tink of fine silverware on a champagne glass energized the soundless void.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Vincent shouted, storming out of the horde and into the golden light shining off of the wood. “Please, gather around the dance floor for an important ceremony.”

A collective moan oozed from the crowd.

“Now, now, don’t pout, this won’t take long,” Vincent said. “You can get back to your booze and bonzos in just a moment.”

Hundreds of corpo boys and girls shuffled into a large circle, surrounded Vincent at the center of the dance floor. He waited for all of the incessant chatter to fade away and for every inch of the human barrier to be filled before speaking.

“First,” Vincent said, “I would like to thank each and every one of you for another successful year here at Rotech. Corpos make this metropolis thrive so long as we keep it from falling into the hands of the creeps beneath us, and the lazy, booze-and-bonzo-addicted bums that threaten to upend the socioeconomic hierarchy. The Crawlers exist for a specific purpose, the bums live to be spat on and ridiculed, while we, the corpo elite, ensure that power and control remains in our hands.”

The crowd clapped, whistled, and hollered at Vincent’s words, energized and intoxicated by the eerie sound of his austere voice. Their glossy eyeballs rolled around their sockets like googly eyes in a stuffed, tech-doll.

“If everyone could raise their glass or grab one off of the trays making their way through the crowd,” Vincent said, pausing until each of the corpos had a glass of champagne or some other liquor in their hand and raised into the air.

“I would like to propose a toast…” Vincent said, “to Mitch Henderson, Rotech’s prized possession and hero of Rosenfell. Mitch, where are you? Step forward and bring your woman, Miss Nova Zion!”

Mitch and Nova squeezed through the parting crowd from the left side of the ballroom. They stepped out onto the dance floor and walked over to Vincent.

A soft, slow clap hummed from the crowd as corpos drummed their fingers against their glasses or tapped them against their palms in a regal gesture of mock celebration, like their dainty hands could not be bothered with another round of applause.

“Mitch,” Vincent said, “why don’t you go ahead and raise a glass as well.”

Nova glanced at Mitch, squeezed tighter around his arm.

Mitch cleared his throat, tried to swallow the lump that blocked his airway.

“It’s no problem, Vincent. I’ll just go without one.”

“Why, this toast is for you! I would say that you especially need a glass in your hand. Doesn’t everyone agree?”

Hundreds of heads nodded, sipped their own glasses, and raised them higher as if to show Mitch the proper way to act amongst a people that marched to the same beat, obeyed the same orders. A single, corporate organism. One amorphous entity that consumed uniqueness and originality, destroyed the natural, conscious, self, and replaced it with a corpo copy that was just like every other narcissistic, power-hungry elitist.

“Do you have something against raising a glass to honor thyself?” Vincent asked, prodding Mitch.

“I think I’ve had enough honor and humility for one day, Vincent,” Mitch said in a crisp voice that tightened with each word.

“Then raise one to show your appreciation to these corpos you know so well and love so much. They have given you everything that you have dreamed for, yes?”

A faint murmur climbed into the air, hovered over the crowd like the spirit of a Rotech ghost haunted the ballroom.

“Mitch,” Nova whispered, tugging on his jacket.

Mitch looked at her from the corner of his eyes. Her lime green irises glowed, pupils were three times larger than normal, like black pits gathering the golden light from the room. She motioned with her head, pointed with her eyes towards a waiter holding a tray of champagne on the edge of the crowd in front of them. Calling out to him, beckoning him to fall back into its gnarled grasp at the price of his soul.

He looked away, stared deep into Vincent’s black, black eyes.

“No,” Mitch said. “I don’t drink booze anymore.”

The crowd belted a gut-rumbling laugh, filled the air with a thick breath of digested booze.

Vincent’s narrow eyes leered through Mitch.

“That would make you the one person in this ballroom, hell, probably the only person in all of Rotech, that doesn’t drink-”

“Exactly,” Mitch said.

“Tell me… why is that?” Vincent asked, voice traced with an air of pretentious condescension.

“I’m sober.”

“Hmm…” Vincent hummed, “sober is it? No booze and no bonzos, either? How does one make it through life as a corpo without the most important tools to dull the mind and cull its radical beliefs?”

“Because I don’t need them, Vincent.”

The crowd chuckled again, less of them this time. The smiles had wiped off of the faces from the rest. Their tense eyes beamed through Mitch’s body, undressed his vulnerable soul. He wiped a cold bead of sweat that squeezed from his synthetic hairline, rolled down his temple.

“That is a shame,” Vincent said, tightening his lips and shaking his head. “What is it, then? Too much pain and trauma from your past? Too much suffering that you wish to escape?”

“I should ask you that same question,” Mitch said, pointing. The sound of his voice elevated with each spoken word as if turned up by some unseen dial. “You’re going to stand there and pretend you have nothing to hide?”

“Come now,” Vincent said, “tell your adoring fans the truth.”

“That’s none of your fucking business, Vincent.”

“Suit yourself,” Vincent said, shrugging. “Ladies and gentlemen! I would like to introduce you to one of Rotech’s most magnificent salesmen. A slick, noble, and hard-working young chap who has toiled tirelessly over the past several years to bring to market one of the most important pieces of tech in the history of humanity.”

He paused and allowed the corpos’ dopamine addiction to elevate their levels of excitement. Preying upon their desire for instant gratification by dangling anticipation in front of their face like a handful of bonzos.

“By taking control of our customers’ pasts,” Vincent said, “Rotech will control their futures and, therefore, control the future of this planet for millennia to come! Thanks to our good friend, Mitch Henderson, for willingly sacrificing his mind and his memories, we now have the power to manipulate any human being on the planet into revealing their true nature. This is an important, logical, and necessary step in order to execute total control over the hearts and minds of our addicted and enslaved consumers.”

The mob grew restless, shoved against one another to get a better view of Vincent. A primal energy coursed through the air as their rabid minds swirled into a frenzy of wild thoughts, like the seconds before feeding time in the predator pit at a synthetic zoo.

Mitch gulped down the pain stuck in his fiery throat, clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms. His torso wavered as his lungs heaved in, out, searching for a breath of oxygen to calm his racing pulse and still his beating heart.

“If Mitch here wishes to conceal his past from you, fine men and women of Rotech, then I believe that the man who knows and understands him best- in many ways better than Mitch knows himself-” Vincent muttered through his hand cupped around his mouth, “should stand before you tonight and bring that truth to light. Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome to the stage, the creator and perfecter of Rotech’s Memory Mod, the great and powerful, Zoxillian the Third!”