Charmitage Cyber. Inc. HQ

  -

  Level 11

  Cassien sat at the desk in his office, his hands holding his head as he stared downward. His head throbbed, and his eyes burned.

  He forced himself to straighten his neck and slowly looked at the hologram on the right side of the desk, where news reports streamed nonstop and new updates kept popping up. He turned his head and looked at the HPM on the other side, where a window displayed the logos of every corporation in The Hands of Willington Consortium: Willington Refinery, Donovan Transit Tec, Littlehottom Entertainment, Ashland Conglomerate, and of course, Charmitage Cybernetics Incorporated.

  A white dot blinked beside each one, marking new updates from every division.

  The structure of Willington was brutally complex: the city operated under a philosophy of meritocratic absolutism, which claimed that society must be built on people’s abilities and their work results — and that all decisions must ultimately be made by a single person. The absolute ruler of Willington lived at the top, on level sixteen. Below him were The Seven Minds of Willington — the intellectual elite of the city, the greatest geniuses alive. Individuals the system considered the best in the world, each responsible for a different sector of the city, proposing new ideas that the ruler alone approved or rejected. Below them, Willington branched into its many levels. The higher you lived, the more valuable you were to the city. And woven through all of it were the ever?watchful eyes of Osirion. The City of Dreams.

  Cassien waved his hand, switching the hologram to another window. A page popped up — a voluntary donation request for an organization fighting against raw velvet in Willington. Without thinking, he donated 20 WKS and kept scrolling.

  Then the image on his HPM was interrupted by an icon — Fain wanted to start a call. Cassien stared at it blankly.

  “You have a call, Mr. Ward,” his secretary announced.

  “You think I don’t see that?” he snapped at her, forcing himself to accept the call.

  “There he is — my best man!” Fain’s enthusiastic voice boomed from the other side. “How’s the work going?”

  “Perfectly! No complaints,” Cassien replied, every artificially cheerful word burning on his tongue.

  “That’s what I like to hear!”

  “How’s that airship incident from two weeks ago going?” Fain asked.

  “That’s not our problem anymore. They’re pinning it on the Ashland Family. They’ll bury it under corporate rivalry.” Then he shifted the topic. “But we’ve got another issue. I’m sending you the details.”

  The Restricted Courier Line icon blinked, announcing a new delivery. Cassien opened it and pulled out a manila folder.

  Fain continued, “Someone at the Ministry of Control figured out that Charmitage gave his mistress access to corporate funds — and she’s been burning through them like a fucking wildfire on parties, booze, and all kinds of shit.”

  Cassien opened the folder and began flipping through the documents.

  “It’s all in there: the transfers, the mistress, the mistress’s legal partner… every piece of information we need to wipe off the face of the earth.”

  He found the page with the mistress’s profile — Penelope Harroway. From the photo, he’d have guessed she was just some cheap cigarette girl from the filthy clubs on the lower levels, but apparently Miles Charmitage had noticed her once, dragged her up to his world, and turned her into an over-perfumed beauty queen.

  “A spy uncovered it — probably hired by the Ashlands. We’ve identified him. The guy’s got a family. If we catch him and squeeze him, he’ll start singing.”

  “Uh?huh.”

  “I want you to send someone after him and clean up this scandal before the Ministry turns it into the headline of the year.”

  Cassien nodded.

  “GEORG WITTLINGER, ERNESTIA MORI, ROGER COPP, ISAAC CUNNINGHAM, EMETT WANG, ARIUS ANDREJEV, AND AUDREY CLENDON! THESE ARE THE MEMBERS OF THE WILLINGTON COUNCIL WHO GUIDE OUR CITY WITH A STEADY HAND!”

  Propaganda and announcements echoed through the dark corridors from the intercom. He headed toward the elevator — he wanted to grab something from the vending machine in the social zone.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  He called the elevator, popped another tablet of Wittlinger’s Intellectual BOOM into his mouth, and stepped into the dim cabin.

  The people inside stared blankly at the ads on the walls or at the holograms projected from their foreheads.

  “DO YOU NEED HELP? DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT? WITNESSING VULGAR BEHAVIOR OR CRIMINAL ACTIVITY? REPORT IT TO MADLENE! MADLENE IS ALWAYS HERE FOR YOU TO MAKE WILLINGTON A BETTER PLACE! Modular Autonomous Device for Liaison Enforcement and Neutralization Efforts — MADLENE, YOUR CITY ASSISTANT! FROM COPP’S WORKSHOP.” The propaganda droned through the cabin.

  He stepped out one floor below and crossed a large room full of small groups of employees in identical uniforms. A soft murmur filled the space. No one talked about anything except work.

  He reached the vending machines when his head suddenly spun. The quiet murmur of people around him warped into Fain’s whispering — whispering about everything they had discussed on the call. He grabbed the machine for support, clutching his head.

  He looked up and saw a camera pointed straight at him.

  Forcing himself to move, he stumbled into the restroom. There, he threw up into the sink.

  He took a breath, turned on the water, and looked at himself in the mirror. He stared blankly ahead, and only after a few minutes realized he was looking into his own eyes. For a split second, he imagined what it would be like if another human being were looking back at him from that reflection — into his blue eyes instead of his own empty gaze. He felt an unbearable weight. The weight of those who let themselves be swallowed by the crowd. The weight of being consumed by a mass of people in identical dark clothes, draining every last drop of life out of him.

  He peeled himself away from the mirror. Rinsed his mouth. Swallowed another tablet of Intellectual BOOM. The surge of energy jolted him awake just enough to keep functioning.

  Voices caught his attention — coming from one of the stalls, blue smoke drifting out from underneath.

  He walked over and pushed open the unlocked door.

  Inside were two men and two women with v?cigarettes. One woman knelt by the closed toilet lid, where raw velvet was scattered in a neat line. With a rolled paper tube, she was snorting the red crystals up her nose.

  Everyone froze when Cassien suddenly opened the door.

  “Are you okay?” one of the men asked. “Want a hit?”

  Cassien nodded silently and knelt by the toilet.

  The woman wiped her nose and handed him the paper tube.

  Cassien pressed it to his nostril and, with one sharp inhale, drew in several blood?red crystals.

  In that instant, he was thrown into another world. His brain leapt out of his skull and snapped back in. His organs exploded in a rush of adrenaline and joy. Every bad thing vanished.

  A second later, he was back in his body, crouched over the toilet, the sting of disinfectant burning his nose.

  He wiped his nose, rubbed his eyes, and stood up. He left quietly, leaving the group of coworkers behind. As he stepped out of the stall, he heard someone mutter behind him:

  “Fainboy.”

  When he returned to the social area, he saw Tim and Nelly waving at him from near the vending machines.

  He walked over. Tim was smoking a v?cigarette held in his unusual holder — basically a ring on his finger with a second ring attached, where the v?cigarette sat.

  Nelly — a young woman with a slightly messy Marcel Waves hairstyle and carefully drawn eyebrows — leaned against the vending machine with a cup of coffee in hand. She was his legally assigned partner, chosen for him by the algorithm. They’d been together for about two years, and in their case, Osirion’s algorithm could proudly declare “jackpot,” because the two of them fit together perfectly.

  “So, how’s it going today? Already replaced Schimizu as Employee of the Year?” Tim teased with that mischievous grin he’d never grown out of. “We wanted to tell you — we’re heading to Nelly’s tonight. I managed to get a pack of brand?new silk. Top quality. Cost me almost my whole paycheck.”

  “Ever since old Sokovoj came back to Willington, the drug business has been booming,” Nelly chirped in her sugary voice.

  “And I still have that bottle of Chateau Chromatique from last time.”

  Nelly’s face lit up instantly. “I’ll call Ginger and Noel — we’ll throw a party!”

  “Brilliant idea!” Tim brightened too.

  Cassien cut in, “Guys… it’s Wednesday.” He was still thinking about what he’d experienced in the restroom — that tiny slice of paradise he’d tasted for a second. He rubbed his tired face. “You don’t realize how much we’ve got on our plates. I can’t get smashed in the middle of the week.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a workaholic!” Tim nudged him, and Nelly nodded in agreement. “There’s always time for work. Look at you. This job is going to kill you.”

  “The last time we did this, I wrecked your car on the way home,” Cassien reminded him.

  “That’s ancient history,” Tim waved it off. “Come on! It’ll be fun!”

  Cassien lowered his head, exhausted. He didn’t want to. He shouldn’t. But the craving was stronger. The craving was always stronger. So he nodded, resigned.

  “There you go!” Tim slapped him on the shoulder. “Where would you be without us? Burned?out, dried?up bureaucrat with no life.”

  In a little while, he’d have to return to the office, but for now he allowed himself one more v?cigarette while watching the sunset from the skyscraper terrace.

  He looked out at the city stretching before him — farther than he could see. Buildings rose into the heights, weaving together like one colossal labyrinth. Willington was so vast that sometimes Cassien felt like it had no end. Like there was no border where the city met the sea. Willington reached deep into the earth and high into the clouds. Built vertically, divided into levels.

  He took a drag from the v?cigarette. Neon signs, ads, and billboards flickered across the buildings. In the distance, between the towers, a massive hologram of Madam Daphne shimmered — dressed in provocative red, blowing air?kisses in slow, graceful motions. Closer to him, a green neon sign advertised a casino. Not far away, Henry Hook — the radio clown — winked at him with one eye. They’d dragged him up from somewhere on level five, put him in a fancy suit, slicked his hair back, and turned him into another piece of propaganda, proof that if you were born deep down but had talent, you could climb into the spotlight.

  Cassien had been trying his whole life. And he knew what it cost. Willington gladly gave you opportunities — as long as you were willing to betray yourself, extinguish the last sparks of morality, and kick others down on your way up.

  He was so close now… So close to the dream most people in Willington would never reach. He couldn’t ruin it. He couldn’t give up.

  A zeppelin drifted into view, carrying a billboard with a woman of golden skin and golden hair. Above her, a huge sign read HORNY? while she stuck out her tongue and pushed her breasts forward.

  He closed his eyes and waited for the zeppelin to pass.