The Plague

The city is near desolate, newspapers blow idly along the roads caught for a moment gliding playfully on the swirl of a breeze and taken past empty shopfronts, past deserted cafes, untended public gardens, bins ripe with litter, shutters pulled down on pop-up food stalls, concierge desks staffed only by a vacant swivel chair.
     All those that are left have quarantined themselves inside, sometimes they stare out at the silent streets below, wondering what happened, where they all went.
     He turns from the window, back towards his desk, he's expecting a call from the Hong Kong office. On the computer screen the green orb blinks into action, the chirruping tones letting him know that Ivan is calling.
    "Morning, how are you?" he smiles, laying it on thick for the webcam.
    "Good good," Ivan leans back from his laptop, allowing skyscrapers to peek cheekily behind him as if they were the most extravagant embelishments on military shoulders.
    A woman steps into shot, places a coffee down next to Ivan before edging hurriedly away.
    His eyebrow is raised, he can't help it, "Your assistant?"
    "My wife," Ivan nods, dolefully, taking a first tentative sip.
    He sighs, an exhalation that confirms hopes dashed, fleeting silly hopes of a time not too far gone, a time when there were staff members who set coffees down for them both, of personal assistants who'd pop in to take lunch orders and book cabs, of cab drivers, tube drivers, baristas, dry-cleaners, all these things that now only exist as spectres in a memory that one doubts was ever real, and perhaps that was all but a dream and this morning they woke up to the truth.
    There was a cleaner who usually worked on his tube train in the mornings - this was a long time ago now, before he drove in - the cleaner's voice sang an alarmingly pleasant good morning to everybody as he took the discarded free papers, coffee cups and napkins from around the seating.
     Now that train didn't run, he'd heard they were still stood there, at the platform, like dogs waiting for master to return, and, before they all vanished, people used to sleep in them and walk the tracks to work.
    His car was parked on the street outside the office building, which sometimes he marvelled at, considering this was Cheapside just around the corner from St. Paul's Cathedral. The ease at which he could commute in now, sat at the wheel of his BMW, lacked a feeling of luxury, as he scoured the radio wondering if anyone would be there.
    He promised to send the growth reports to Ivan by close of business, the call had been useful, but formulaic, just the two of them going through the motions. He often wondered what it all meant, his work, just gathering things up like a stubborn child wanting to clearly demarcate their toys, whilst gradually fudging the definition of what they were entitled to, until finally they sit, cross-legged in sad wonder as the other children run off to play make believe, leaving them buried in a mountain of stuff.
    So it was. He'd drive in, make some calls, drive out, for some reason he'd do this five days a week, continuing the pantomime of what his life once was, and his colleagues did the same, they kept pretending that who they were, what they did, actually mattered.
    Had it always been this way? he often wondered, and had he been too preoccupied to see it, had the need to consult his own existence been shrouded in the distraction of little people attending to his every desire, of someone to look down on, as opposed to those empty streets five floors below. What did any of it matter now that he was free, and left to realise the vacuity of that which was both outside and in, of those around him, shoulder to shoulder, each hollow when they thought they'd been so full of power and importance, but that was all relative to an illusion they'd created and nurtured and, once their plague had been wrought, they were the stragglers of desolation, immune to its reckoning, and they had to walk the barren Earth, aware of all that they had done, looking for an echo in a vacuum.

Private Lives

She's such a perfect baby, a perfect weight, a perfect little face, radiant eyes - when you can glimpse them from under her blush pink eyelids, the world is still so bright and new to her.  Her mother would be so proud, but it's not worth her mother knowing, and her mother doesn't really mind, she's received her money, it's the first thing she checked after the delivery.  The baby is off to be incubated.
    The mother is happy because there was a broker in the hospital who happened to work for Paragon Inc, and when she saw the stats on her baby, well, she put in an offer straight away.
    'Who was the father?' the broker asked, ID-pad in hand.
    The mother tapped his name in to the registered parents database, his photograph, medical history and a brief biography appeared on the screen.
    The broker nodded her approval and presented the mother with her offer, the mother warmly accepted.

Returning to the waiting room the broker couldn't help but let a smile slip, she was congratulated by brokers from rival organisations, clapped on the back for such a successful acquisition.
    'You might as well go home early!' one joked.
    But she had the fire under her now, that purchase had given her a passion for the day, but like a gambler in Vegas she knew this hospital was dry, so best to move on to another location in the hopes of finding a similarly promising candidate.

It was a good purchase, the baby grew into a healthy toddler and began its education with a focus on core skills such as languages, mathematics and communication, ultimately pushing towards marketing, account management and retention, and sales.
    By the age of 14 the baby, named Jo, was answering online queries, dealing with customers on a non-confrontational basis, but she showed such promise that she was moved into the call centre before her sixteenth birthday.

Jo had always been curious, it was a hard balance for any corporation to address, you want to inspire company loyalty but there is an inherent desire in human animals to question things, and despite years of research, and despite success in general, there are still newborns who grow up to want to know what else there is.
    'Why do you ask?' the manager of floor 93 said to Jo one afternoon.  'Are you unhappy?'
    'No, I enjoy my work,' but there was a shift in Jo's eyes, a response that suggested lingering doubt, the computer alerted the line manager to this.
    'But...?' he lead.
    'What's in it for me?'
    'Good service is its own reward,' the line manager smiled, remembering hearing that in his training.  'Imagine, you've progressed in this company faster than anyone I've known, just think where you will be in five years.'
    'Where will you be in five years?' Jo asked, as close to mischievious as would be tolerated.
    'I will have left the business, I'm a lot older than you Jo.' Though he did not look his age, his skin had been stretched and de-aged in accordance with research that suggested people prefer to buy from younger, healthier faces, it gives them a sense of aspiration.  'I have saved enough for a buy out, and I will move to the town.'
    'Congratulations,' Jo said, flatly, it was a nod of approval pre-programmed into conversation, most meant it, Jo didn't.  'It's a risk though.'
    The line manager was dumbfounded, so was the computer, 'A risk?'
    'Mmm,' she nodded, 'James, do you remember him?  James was on this floor, he worked next to me, he worked as many hours as he could, saving as much as was possible and he bought himself back, remember, remember how young he was, it was uncommon for someone so young to be able to afford a buy out.
    'I shook his hand, he smiled and left, off to live his own life, a public person.
    'It was only five months until he returned, do you remember?'
    'Yes, he asked for his position back.'
    'But he didn't get it.'
    'His company loyalty was compromised, it's policy.'
    'The company wanted nothing to do with him, not without guarantees.'
    'Of course.'
    'So he sold himself back to the company.'
    'Yes.'
    'How much do you get for a secondhand man?'
    The line manager smiled, endeared to the terminology, he made a mental note to use it in a future presentation to the board.
    'Your price goes down, but your cost goes up,' Jo continued.
    'But his quality of life...' the line manager cut in.
    'Back in company accomodation, though he's in Block 4 now, works down in the Sub-Levels.'
    'You've seen him?'
    'I was told.'
    'Who?'
    Jo hesistated, without confession she'd be docked, but the computer read the pattern, the memory trigger.
    'Adam,' the line manager nodded, Jo's expression was all the confirmation required.  'You have so much potential Jo, I am advised to recommend that you discontinue this line of inquiry, there are no benefits.'
    She nodded, 'Understood.'
    'Review is in one month, I think you have promise.'
    'Thank you.'
    'Just...' he placed his hands out in front of him, as if to clap, but instead slowly drew them towards one another, palm to palm, creating a narrow.
    'I follow,' Jo nodded again.

A sea of voices, their intonations make waves of various pitches, each at different parts of a sale.  Jo, travelling amongst them, found her station, took her seat, replaced the head-set and returned to work.

She had taken leave before and seen the consequences of buying yourself back.  She'd taken a trip to the hills, but had snuck into a town one evening.
    Buildings were lit up with activity, the sound of conversation, bawdy howling laughter, a sudden quiet when a glass smashed, there were people talking in small circles, each circle jostling for space with other circles, Jo imagined that from above it might resemble a bowl of oat loop cereal.  They all wore suits of varying shades, or smart dresses, their hair seemed to be held in place by some invisible force, and their skin was clean and clear, but not taut and anxious like her line manager's.  These were the people who bought and consumed that which Jo, and her colleagues, sold.
    Elsewhere, in the doorways of closed shops she found people wrapped in blankets, trying to get to sleep.  As she approached, one - tucked into their shiny bedsack like a cocoon, turned over to face her, their eyes were open, quickly examining Jo, trying to understand her intention.  From the branding that peppered her clothes they knew she was not from the town, they knew she was privately owned.
    'Hello,' she smiled.
    'Evening,' the woman in the sleeping bag responded, cautiously, but sitting up and shuffling her back against the wall, welcoming Jo into a conversation.
    'Are you...?' Jo stepped forward, crouching gingerly before perching on the edge of the step.  'Are you, um, your own person?'
    The woman smiled, mulling the words over in her head, 'Yes, I guess you could put it like that.'
    'How long have you owned yourself?'
    'Oh, two years, something like that,' she retrieved a thermos flask from inside the sleeping bag, unscrewed the cup and poured out some weak smelling tea, offering the cup to Jo who obligingly accepted.  'Were you thinking of saving up?'
    'I was, yes.'
    'Hope I'm not too off-putting!' the woman grinned, revealling a few lost and chipped teeth.
    'Are all those people,' Jo shifted her head in the direction of the gaggle outside a nearby restaurant and bar, 'are they their own people as well?'
    'Hmm,' the woman pondered, 'in a way.  Not like me though, they've always been their own people.'
    'Really?' Jo gasped, not least of all because the tea was surprisingly acrid.
    'Why would you want to go and do a thing like leave the company?  Paragon, right?'
    Jo followed the woman's gaze to one of the larger company logos emblazoned on the jumper she was wearing that evening, and then further down to the same logo vertically on each trouser leg, and then smaller idents on each shoe.
    'How did you guess?' Jo laughed, somewhat embarrassed.
    'I used to work for AllTech myself, saved up 700,000 credits and bought myself from the company, but I wasn't smart, you see, it's not just about having enough to buy yourself back, no, you need to make sure you can survive on your own.  See, no company wants you to work for them, there's no call for free agents, they've got more than enough staff of their own.  See, I can make things, simple things, preserves, jams and chutneys, things like that, but people didn't want them, they went to the company - KitchenGroup, DinDin - felt like they could trust their products.  I sought distribution deals, thought I could use the company, but they played me, asked to have some samples for consideration, sent me a rejection a few weeks later and then, a month on from that, they launched their own line of preserves.
    'I couldn't prove it, and I had no chance of fighting it, but I know they analysed my recipes, stole them somehow.  I didn't want to sell myself back to them, I couldn't afford my rent, my bills, all things the company covers when you work for them, they make life so comfortable and easy, but at what cost?  I didn't want to work in an office, I didn't want to live in a tower block, don't I deserve to be in control of my own life?
    'If this is it,' she surveyed her doorway, 'then I'm fine with this.'

That's what Jo would repeat to herself on those difficult days, sat listlessly at her station, standing in the elevator, queuing for her meals, letting the mild shower water run over her, or lying awake in bed in the middle of the night; 'If this is it, then I'm fine with this.'
    Sometimes, if she could get away with it, she would procrastinate at work and try to formulate a spreadsheet of her income, how much she could save, how long it would take to earn enough to buy herself back from the company, but, heeding that woman's words, how much to save enough to survive on the outside, to afford her own rent, her own bills, food, clothes, travel, entertainment.
    Of course, most buildings were company owned, most shops were company owned, ultimately she'd buy herself out of the company only to pay into the company for the rest of her life, and at a marked up price at that.
    At least if you were with the company you got a discount, besides, she could stay with the company and apply for reduced hours, a property upgrade, her line manager did think she had prospects.
    But Jo knew she would never be like those people she had seen in the town, the ones drinking and laughing, there was something about their manner that she could not associate with, and she was able to move amongst like a ghost, as if they could not see her at all.  It was not envy she felt though, because she did not want to become them, she did not want to be accepted into their fold, but she wanted their freedom and she did not want to squander it - as she perceived them to be doing so.
    Yet despite her training, her aptitude with numbers and accounting, she could not find a way to afford herself, not without the risk of either finding herself sleeping on the streets or selling herself back to the company, and, no matter what your abilities, they always treated re-sales with contempt and distrust.
    It made sense for Jo to stay, so she closed the spreadsheet, clicking No when it prompted her to save, she put her headset on and took the next call.