Fractured Reality

PART I

The Missing Week

Power is in inflicting pain and humiliation. Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing. Do you begin to see, then, what kind of a world we are creating?

– George Orwell (1984)

Brooklyn Navy Yard, NYC

December 20, 2050, 5:01 PM

Oracles, visions, fortune tellers. Billy Jones didn’t believe in that kind of hocus-pocus; he only trusted logical conclusions: The unusually nice December weather, the early end to his workday and the upcoming theater night at the Elysian on Broadway, where his wife Vivian was starring in the lead role, all promised an excellent evening—if he ignored the stomach ache that had been bothering him all day, which he chalked up to nerves. After all, he was about to do something very stupid, something that would surely ruin the perfect night ahead.

But why fight a decision already made?

He stopped, turned around and entered the solar panel factory for the first time without thinking about his next paycheck. Instead, he was about to risk his entire savings—everything he had earned over the years as a factory worker. And husband.

How could a man be so foolish?

The company’s mighty logo, the impossible cube, adorned the lobby's dark gray terrazzo floor, and behind the reception desk, where a dutiful company drone tapped at the dark teakwood surface (the keyboard was projected directly onto the desk), hung oversized portraits of the company’s past three CEOs. They loved to flaunt their image as saviors of the world, both in the media and in their own eyes. Billy didn’t recognize any of the faces, except for the young Zara Thandros, whose portrait also hung here. The beast gunning for her father’s empire, though for now, she only ruled over the solar panel factory in the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

The top floor is always full of predators. That’s just the way the world works.

Whether it was Thandros or some other boss, past or future—they were all slave drivers, lining their pockets while the rest of the world starved. Thandros Corp. had risen to become the world’s largest company in the early 2030s and had solidified its monopoly across the pharmaceutical industry, tech sector and food market. And now they had taken total control over the energy industry, too. If you want to control the world, you have to control its resources.

The megacorporation soon became the leading producer of all technologies related to renewable energy, now branded as "R-Energy," a name that spread through the lies of the TV networks. Thandros Corp., Billy’s employer, gained more financial and political power every day, privatizing the police force in Manhattan and now even seizing control of New York's water supply.

No matter how much the company was praised in the media, Billy could never get on good terms with his employer. The pay was pitiful, the overtime was massive, the work exhausting and the atmosphere inside the supposedly "emission-free" solar panel factory was completely toxic. It felt like being on a slave ship—if that wasn’t putting it lightly.

Billy shook his head and wondered, more intensely than ever, why he didn’t just walk out and enjoy the rest of his day. His mind screamed at him, warning him not to make the wrong choice. Yet, there was this feeling inside him, a feeling he couldn’t quite pin down, that urged him to resist the grip of his dull, predictable life. He just knew one thing: that urge was stronger than him. Stronger than common sense.

You have Vivian! You’re committed!

But after so many years of emotional emptiness, something was finally beginning to stir inside him. It bubbled up, making him feel free and... young again. And when you feel free and young, you're prone to making stupid decisions.

The locker room was oppressively silent. It was divided by two sit-over benches, numbered and cold. In the solar panel factory, employees didn’t have names, they had numbers. This was supposed to create distance between them. Distance that supposedly boosted productivity and reinforced the rule that talking in the clean rooms was strictly forbidden.

Billy grabbed his protective suit from a gray steel locker, the one marked with his number, and pulled it on like a straitjacket. The "X" on his tag was hardly worth mentioning. Every worker had one sewn into their suits and printed on their ID cards. Just a variable, another way to remind them how replaceable and insignificant each worker was in the Thandros Empire.

He grabbed a hairnet from a shelf and stretched it over his bald head, which gleamed like a bowling ball under the harsh fluorescent lights. He thought he looked ridiculous with the net on, but still better than without it. Standing in front of the mirror, he adjusted the elastic and looked himself over. Not exactly attractive. In fact, downright repulsive, he thought. He had been born with a genetic mutation that left him completely hairless, except for his long, curled eyelashes that looked almost feminine. But his hairlessness made him the perfect clean room worker.

Billy Jones slipped on a pair of shoe covers and shuffled through the personnel airlock toward Sector D, driven by the thought of a better future.

Beyond the airlock, a copper plaque was mounted on the wall, reminding everyone of the basic rules that governed the clean room. Due to the influx of refugees who, like Billy, toiled through their fifteen-hour shifts in the factory, the three commandments were displayed in English and many other languages:

Results first

Safety second

Your outside personal life third

But today, Billy couldn’t stick to that order. The reason he returned to this sterile glass prison had everything to do with his personal life. It was the same reason that sometimes made him act like a kid. Or feel invincible. His motivation was a young, stunning solar technician with the designation X-3-19. Coincidence or fate?

She was the new girl here, yet there was something uncannily familiar about her. Every time he saw her, it felt like coming home after a lifetime at sea. Life was toying with him, he thought, because every workday in the solar factory seemed endless, except when X-3-19 came into Sector D. When she was there, fifteen hours of labor felt like they vanished in the blink of an eye (and at least he had eyelashes).

Did she have any interest in him? When he looked at himself in the mirror, the narrow, delicate nose, pencil-thin lips, pale scarred skin and those strange, nearly colorless eyes, he couldn’t help but dismiss the idea. But then again, Vivian had found something in him, so why not the young solar technician, too?

She was checking one of the three massive diffusion furnaces in the factory. There weren’t many women here, and even fewer who were attractive. And yet, she had been assigned to the same area where he worked. Again: coincidence or fate? Her hair was tucked under her cap, though a few loose black strands fell against the back of her neck, shimmering silver in the harsh overhead lights. Her perfectly shaped lips made Billy want to bite down on them, but what captivated him most were her eyes. X-3-19 was probably the only woman in the factory who dared to wear makeup despite strict rules. And she never wore a mask. Neither the supervisors nor the other workers seemed to care at all.

Bold eyeshadow around her cobalt-blue eyes made her look like the perfect model for a smoky-eye ad. Whenever her gaze casually swept across the sector and happened to land on Billy, his heart would instantly race, and he’d get lost in the depth of her stare, where strange voices whispered romantic tales from a life that never seemed certain. Tales he longed for himself, as his own life had taken on the tragic fate of anyone who had abandoned their last hope for a wild, untamed existence, trading it for the weight of a wedding ring.

Hesitantly, he took a step toward the young solar technician. His index finger hovered just above her shoulder, as if unsure, before he finally mustered the courage to tap her.

"Excuse me?"

She turned around, looking at him seriously. "Shh!" she snapped, then turned back to the furnace. In the cleanroom, an artificial breeze circulated, keeping the work environment cool and measurable. The bone-dry air burned in Billy’s throat. He cleared it, trying again:

"I actually wanted to ask if we could–" Suddenly, a deafening crash, like the sound of shattering porcelain, echoed through the room, making everyone flinch.

Billy almost jumped out of his skin. Reflexively, he spun around.

The culprits of the noise were sprawled on the spotless floor, next to a plastic box filled with broken silicon wafers. Two factory workers were wrestling on the ground.

"You think we’re trying to mate or something?" shouted the dark-skinned refugee pinned under a massive belly. "Get this gorilla off me! He’s crazy! Crazy!"

That none of the other workers stepped in but instead went back to their tasks didn’t surprise Billy, not with the unemployment rate and competition in New York. Standing out in a negative way here meant being replaced by someone else. No hesitation.

"Damn it, this guy’s got a screw loose! He’s trying to kill me! Do something, but get this psycho off me! I’ll kiss anyone’s ass to make it happen, I swear!"

For the second time that afternoon, Billy knew he was about to act against all logic, and once again, he was fully aware it was the wrong choice. Playing the hero wasn’t really his style, but it seemed like the only way to impress X-3-19.

"Hold on, I’ll take care of this and be right back," he promised heroically, but the solar technician was already back to work, leaving him speaking only to her back.

The situation of the African worker was pitiful: like he’d been buried by an avalanche, he lay trapped beneath the white giant with the number X-157. Only his feet and head stuck out from under the massive body. X-157 was nearly bursting out of his white protective suit, looking like the living embodiment of a crazed snowman. His large, shovel-like hands were wrapped around his opponent’s scrawny neck, squeezing so hard that veins bulged on the man’s forehead, and his eyes were practically popping out of their sockets.

"How dare you insult my delicate wife like that?!"

"It wasn’t even meant as an insult! I swear, man, I really thought she was a sea cow! I really did! I figured with climate change and all, those things were washing up along the Hudson, too.”

"Stop it! Get off him!" Billy shouted.

"I’m not letting some piece of crap like you make a fool out of me!" X-157 bellowed, panting heavily.

"I said, get off him!" Billy barked more commands, but his lack of authority meant X-157 didn’t budge. If he messed this up, Billy thought, he wouldn’t just be another number to X-3-19—he’d be the laughingstock of the entire factory.

He wished he hadn’t gotten involved.

A bead of sweat rolled down, tickling his cheek. Sweat was pouring down his back. He took a deep breath and said, "Look bro, I don’t care if you wanna teach that loudmouth under you a lesson, but do yourself a favor and do it after your shift."

X-157 finally looked up at him. "Who asked you, dipshit?"

Well, he protested against the suggestion, but at least he was responding now.

Billy glanced at X-3-19 out of the corner of his eye. She remained completely focused on her work, unfazed by the chaos. Very professional. He sighed.

"Look, we’re all on edge," Billy said finally. "Every day, it’s the same crappy job for all of us. But we need the money to feed our families. And if you keep going after that idiot under you, you’ll end up just like the Stranded in the Lincoln Tunnel."

That hit home.

Everyone in the factory knew about the homeless people who now crowded the Lincoln Tunnel, or the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, which had become a common route for factory workers after the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges collapsed in terrorist attacks. Economic refugees, war refugees, the homeless and society’s outcasts now occupied those vital access routes to the harbor district. They had crossed the ocean driven by hope, only to have it crash against the harsh shores of reality. That’s why they were called the Stranded.

X-157 loosened his grip on his rival’s throat, who gasped for air and wheezed like crazy. It seemed X-157 had realized it was better to save his anger for later if he didn’t want to become one of them any time soon.

"After the shift, you’re mine." He jabbed his finger into the chest of his victim multiple times to emphasize the threat. Only when he stood up did the fear seem to fall away from the dark-skinned man, who theatrically dusted off his shoulders and rubbed his neck, now marked with red welts. Through the baggy coveralls, Billy could make out the outline of a wiry body, which made him surprised that he’d been overpowered so easily. He wore the number X-143.

"Man, that was awesome!" X-143 said. "You nailed it, baby!"

All around them, a chorus of "Shh" echoed.

Billy nodded at X-143, giving him a thin smile, inwardly convinced that he was dealing with a complete idiot.

"Thanks, man!"

"No problem," Billy hissed.

"Bro, I was this close to giving that fat lump the worst beatdown of his life. But you stopped me. You saved him. You’re a hero, man!"

"And you’re a total loudmouth," Billy whispered, sneaking a glance at X-3-19. Had she even noticed his little rescue operation?

"That’s how it’s done!" X-143 said. "Make your enemy think he’s got the upper hand. Then, when he underestimates you, bam—you strike!" As he spoke, he slammed his fist into his open palm with a loud smack.

"Shh," came the warning once again.

Billy Jones decided it was time for a tactical retreat. The memory of him as the hero of the day just needed a little time to settle in X-3-19’s mind. The number of his dreams. His good deed should be the spark that set her feelings spinning.

Billy was almost back at the airlock when the loudest employee of the year called after him, "Hey, hey, hey, wait! I owe you one, man! Tell you what…" He squinted his already narrow almond-shaped eyes even further and tried to read Billy’s ID number on his coveralls. Tried, but where the number should have been, there was only a strip of Velcro left. Billy had just torn the patch off, in case he ran into the supervisor. After all, he was here off shift and had just been caught up in the biggest brawl since the solar panel factory opened.

"Damn, where’s your number, bro? Or do you not need one? You something special?"

"I’m Billy," he said. "No number, and nothing special. Just Billy. Billy Jones."

X-143 burst into loud laughter, clutching his stomach and shaking. "Alright, Billyboy," he said. "How about we check out Coney Island after work? A little amusement park fun? It's on me. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Clean as a whistle, just like everything in this crappy factory!" X-143 slapped Billy enthusiastically on the shoulder, then shaking him like a vending machine refusing to give up the candy bar someone had paid for. In this case, Billy was holding back his agreement.

"Yeah, sure," Billy said sarcastically. "Coney Island’s a real fun oasis."

"Well, damn, you’re a freedom lover, huh? And yeah, Coney Island down by the Brooklyn shore is controlled by those Thandros bastards. I get it, man, corporations are a plague. They’re the cancer that comes with progress. And just like every other industrial giant, Thandros has plenty of skeletons in the closet. The government’s just doing its best to blind us to the truth. World saviors? What a joke! Fine, then let’s go to Dumbo. Best place to let loose."

"Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass? No thanks. I’d actually like to survive the night."

"Central Park, then."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I’m serious," X-143 said. "I’ve seen beyond the Paradise Walls, and I’m telling you, that’s where the real life is! Top-notch girls and endless parties."

"Yeah, right," Billy scoffed. "If you’d really been there, you’d know that corporate headquarters declared Central Park a sacred zone, and nobody gets in without permission. And if you had, you wouldn’t be working in this factory. You’d own the factory."

"Alright, alright," X-143 admitted. "I’ve never been there, I’ll give you that. But who cares? We’ll just go somewhere else. Let’s hit Times Square! I know the top guys there. People like King Omar. We’d have a blast."

Billy hesitated. "Omar Branett? The king of the underworld?"

"Hell yeah, that’s the guy! We’ll get into any club, no questions asked. I swear. So, what do you say?"

Billy shook his head. "I don’t want anything to do with guys like him. And to be honest, I don’t want anything to do with you either. So, have a nice day."

"You know, some people have to be forced into happiness. I don’t want to force you, bro, but…"

Billy absentmindedly gnawed on his lower lip as he glanced at the digital clock on the opposite wall: 5:24 PM. In about an hour, Vivian’s Broadway performance would begin.

"Even if I wanted to, I don’t have time today. A velvet armchair in the VIP lounge of the prestigious Elysian theater is waiting for me," he said, realizing suddenly: He was a liar, a bragger. There was no VIP lounge and no velvet armchairs at the Elysian. Just old, tattered seats with stuffing spilling out and rusty springs that jabbed you in the ... backside.

"Damn. Corporate slave by day, fancy gentleman by night, huh? And who even goes to the theater anymore?" X-143 burst into laughter again. "You pretentious fool," he said, wiping a tear of amusement from the corner of his eye. "Well, if you ever pull that stick out of your ass, hit me up."

X-143 handed Billy his number on a laminated business card.

Isaac

(917) 555-6789

Billy glanced up from the plastic card. "Just Isaac?"

"Yep, that’s how I came here as a refugee from Africa. Burned my passport before I left."

"Why do you even have a business card?"

"It’s for the ladies, bro! Waterproof, just in case things get, you know, wet down there."

"Uh-huh," Billy muttered. His desire to talk to X-3-19 had vanished, hand in hand with the little time he had left to get out of here. What stuck with him, though, was the same thing doctors say causes heart attacks: stress and a bad mood. He left this fool Isaac behind and headed for the personnel airlock. He was almost there when a voice stopped him—one he’d run from at any time of day.

Conrad Blake.

Supervisor in Sector D of the Zero Emissions Factory.

And the kind of man who didn’t hesitate to take out his bad moods on the workers.

With his iron baseball bat.