Uroboros Saga Book 2

by Arthur Walker

  © 2014 Arthur Walker

  Cover artwork “Tullia and Matthias” by Arthur Walker

  as arranged by Red Couch Creative, inc.

  Chapter 1

  Helsinki, Finland

  10:03 AM, December 31st, 2199

  Phelps stared mournfully at outlines of the digital images and inactive objects that populated his virtual workspace. The virtual keyboard flickered slightly in the dim light of his cubical, but his hands were clasped tightly between his knees. He couldn’t remember the last time there had been a system outage, let alone on a day like today. Reports were due institution wide and he’d called in sick the day before to play a new video game.

  “Phelps, got those reports done yet?” Walter bellowed.

  Phelps turned to gaze angrily at Walter, waving to dismiss his desktop. Walter had an annoying habit of just appearing in other people’s cubicles like this. It was never funny, not even the first time.

  “There’s an outage. Do you know what that means?” Phelps said holding his face in his hands.

  “Coffee break, that’s what it means,” Walter said in his perpetually cheerful tone.

  Phelps pulled himself up out of his chair and assumed a right hand stance beside Walter as they walked to the break room. This had become their quiet ritual in the past few weeks since Walter’s previous office space friend was transferred to Thailand. In spite of Walter’s quirks, Phelps was glad for the company as he’d been able to make few friends since he moved to Finland from Los Angeles office.

  They rounded the corner into the quiet space of the office reserved for vending machines and the microwaving of whatever one brought from home. Phelps looked up at the automatic espresso machine and scowled, wondering if this would be his last coffee with the firm.

  “Don’t be like that. It will all turn out. Look at it this way, at least you have an excuse when they come to collect the reports and they aren’t finished.”

  “Walter, there is something wrong in accounting and they can’t fix it until I’ve done my own analysis of our various cash flows. Every time the analytics department walks by my cubical they shoot me daggers.”

  “With their eyes?”

  “No, with their ass,” Phelps snapped. “Of course with their eyes. I’m dead, truly and inescapably dead, if I don’t get these reports to them by three o’clock today.”

  “You won’t lose your job. Phelps, seriously, what would you do if not this job? We’ve got all kinds of financial investment points, paid housing, and the mediocre health coverage that’s still better than ninety percent of the rest of the world. Would you rather live down than up?”

  “I’m thinking about taking night classes in genealogy,” Phelps announced, placing his finger provisionally on the caramel and white chocolate button of the coffee machine.

  “What? How is that better than what we do? Debt collection is a noble profession,” Walter replied in earnest.

  “The government agency that regulates us is getting legislation funded that will allow us to collect from people’s relatives if they can’t pay. I think we’ll be able to defund up to second cousins for people who owe money,” Phelps stated plainly, rummaging in his pocket for his mobile.

  Phelps waved his mobile in front of the automated espresso machine and made his selection. Seconds later, his drink dropped down in a sealed container, steam issuing forth from several pinholes in the top. He waited for a moment for the steam to clear so he wouldn’t get burned, then retrieved his beverage.

  Walter took his place and quickly made a selection. He then waved his own mobile in front of the automated espresso machine, then checked the display. Forty euros were quickly deducted from his account, the balance displaying momentarily on his mobile. The wall mounted machine was a little slower to push out the second drink, or maybe it just seemed that way after they’d stood here and waited for the same drinks, day after day.

  “Dang, forgot to select a flavor. Oh well, plain will have to do. Say, will there be a debtor-deceased clause with this new legislation?” Walter asked while fishing in the bucket for artificial sweetener.

  “That’s the good news. Companies like ours will be able to resurrect old debts going back to the Global Union Act and defund their living relations,” Phelps replied proudly.

  “Okay, so why genealogy? That’s how this whole conversation got started I think.”

  “Walter, someone will have to do all the research and at least dummy up the documents to make debt collection claims defensible in court. Genealogists will be in high demand in less than nine months. I figure I could probably get through the first round of night courses in six months and half way through the next by the time the job postings went live,” Phelps said blowing on his coffee.

  “You think that maybe there are a million other schmucks that thought of the same thing?”

  “Hey, you didn’t think of it.”

  “I’m content where I’m at. My debt to income ratio is within alpha taxation parameters, and my kids will end up owing only a couple million to global financing when I retire. I’d call that a win.” Walter sipped his coffee and then grimaced as unflavored coffee assaulted his taste buds.

  “Seriously? With the face? A little unflavored coffee can’t be all that bad.”

  “Remember when I got sent with extraction division to South America for that big defunding two years ago?”

  “You’ll never let me forget,” Phelps replied, suddenly sorry he’d said anything at all.

  “Yeah, well, it was awesome. Anyway, while I was there I had the chance to taste real coffee. When we moved on the cartel’s compound they expected me to be there to count ammo used, equipment damaged, and so forth. One of the extraction division guys gave me a sip of some of what he had,” Walter related, fond nostalgia overcoming him for a moment.

  “Wow, I took the exam, but my eyes weren’t good enough to do extraction.”

  “Phelps, we all took that exam. Who wouldn’t want to drop into outlying areas with a gun and take a shot at rogue debtors trying to break the grid?”

  “They gave you a gun?” Phelps asked between sips.

  “Well no, but I was in a transport with a bunch of guys who had guns.”

  “You’re always adding to the story. So, what did this real coffee taste like?” Phelps said taking the lid off of his own beverage.

  “Oh, it was divine. It tasted like a smoky bean, fresh, and roasted, and as if it had been ground up, and distilled in filtered water. Not this synthetic, substandard swill we’re used to. I have to have flavoring in it now for it to even be potable,” Walter lamented.

  “I hate you so much right now,” Phelps said with a smile.

  Walter was only able to drink half of what he ordered, cursing a little as he poured what remained down the break room sink. Phelps chuckled, his own culinary palette untainted by the good stuff, and able to enjoy the bad. They walked back to the cubical block in silence as cries of exasperation rose up around them.

  The office was in disarray as people lamented the loss of productivity and wondered how it would impact their next employee evaluation. Walter and Phelps steered clear of the office busybodies and made their way back to their own division with all haste. The water cooler was completely obscured by worried office workers. Middle management folks leaning in their office doors somewhat frustrated at the outage watched quietly as they contemplated how they would account for the lost productivity.

  “Looks like the outage is still plaguing the office,” Walter said smiling.

  “Oh, do shut up, Walter,” Phelps r
eplied shooting him a withering gaze.

  Phelps entered his cubical with Walter in tow and stared at his virtual workspace once more. The rendering was flashing now at a slow interval between red and black. Walter scratched his head and looked about for someone from IT.

  “They must be on a more important floor trying to fix this,” Walter mumbled.

  “Odd. Is this not what happens when you’ve acquired something on credit, such as an appliance, and you allow payment to lapse?” Phelps said tapping the escape key of his virtual keyboard.

  “I think so...”

  Walter was unable to finish his thought as an automated voice from the building management server intoned a short message over the intercom. “This facility is being defunded. Please exit the building in an orderly fashion. Your compliance is mandatory,” the female digitized vocal pattern warned.

  “This some kind of drill?” Walter asked as he gathered up his light coat.

  “It has to be, or another prank by IT,” Phelps grumbled. “They would pull something like this when I have reports due and on the coldest day of the year. Bastards.”

  There was nothing they could do but head for the exits with the rest of the office drones. Security would be sweeping the building to clear people out within minutes. Walter and Phelps shuffled into the elevator while pulling their coats and scarves tight around their necks. The idea of standing in the Finnish winter for even a half hour while this got sorted only served to darken Phelps’ mood.

  “I wish I hadn’t dumped out my coffee,” Walter whispered. “It would have at least served to warm my hands for a bit.” His face sagging with sadness.

  “Shut up, Walter,” Phelps said. The other occupants of the elevator grumbling in unison.

  The Helsinki streets were strangely crowded for the time of day. There were a great many people gathered around the entrances to most of the buildings on the block. Phelps paid it no attention as he tried desperately to access his reports using his mobile.

  “It looks like the entire financial district just exited their offices,” Walter said pointing.

  Marjorie, the analytics manager, wandered up to where Phelps and Walter stood and smiled weakly. She was dressed somewhat more warmly than they were, sporting a long coat with a hood and fur fringe. Phelps hid his face with his hand in a gesture of avoidance, he already knew what she was going to ask.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be getting those reports done by three?” she asked.

  Walter laughed for a moment until Phelps shot him a deadly glance.

  “Marjorie, I will try and get to my employee account with my mobile and finish them out here in the cold if that’s what it takes,” Phelps replied.

  “Good man. Truman from accounting keeps using it as an excuse to come into the executive workspace and flirt with me,” Marjorie said scowling.

  “That’s the guy with the mole, and the Slavic accent?” Walter asked as he rubbed his hands together in the cold.

  “Uh, yeah. He did give me this really nice coat, though. Unrequited office crushes are not without perks I suppose,” Marjorie said, continuing to maintain her scowl.

  “He’s from Bulgaria from what I understand. His mother and father are quite wealthy, owning a great many yak farms and turnip plantations. The only reason he maintains employment is to look for a wife with wide hips and a work ethic,” Phelps said as deadpan as possible.

  “Liar. If only that were true,” Marjorie said pinching Phelps on the arm as savagely as she could.

  “There’s only one way to find out if I’m right,” Phelps joked rubbing his now bruised arm.

  “Even if it were the end of the world, Truman would still get the brush off from me. His ears are hair factories,” Marjorie whispered.

  “What was that, Marjorie?” Walter asked.

  “Nothing.”

  They shivered in the snow for several minutes, waiting for someone to tell them they could go back inside. The cold was unrelenting, and people began to congregate around the huge industrial exhaust systems in the alleys between buildings. Snow continued to fall slowly in the windless air as the street filled with the sounds of confused business people wondering what was going on.

  “Walter, how’s your kid doing in soccer?” Phelps said finally, trying to ignore the cold.

  “Oh, not well. His notice of qualification came late. We wanted him to be able to play so we decided to go forward with the gene therapy before getting the blood tests back.” His voice wavered as he shivered in the cold.

  “Growths?” Marjorie ventured.

  “Yeah, even had one on the face. The doctors tell you there’s only a one percent chance of mutation, so we figured the blood tests were a formality,”

  “Your kid has the worst luck,” Phelps said, chuckling.

  “It’s true, but how could we know he was a member of the one percent? They removed the growths, and were able to use nanoid machine rebuilders to evoke a higher degree of healing to limit scarring. Still, I think we’ll skip school pictures this year,” Walter said checking his mobile.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Marjorie said, feeling a little bad for asking.

  “It’s okay. The doctors let little Roger keep one of the growths in a jar of fluid. It wriggles about in there, even weeks later. Totally freaks out my wife, but Roger has been working extra hard on his biology homework. Says he wants to be a scientist when he grows up,” Walter replied halfheartedly.

  “Scientist? The pay decent?” Phelps murmured, his face already numb from the cold.

  “Yeah, if you get to work with Metasapients. Y’know, tailored humanoids for hazardous duty? They had a Metasapient that worked on the lunar colony come into his school, an Ichthyic variety that had to wear a bowl on its head. It was a human-fish genetic hybrid designed to work in the fluid exchange systems on the colony,” Walter explained, holding up his mobile in a vain attempt to get a better signal.

  “Problems with your mobile, Walter?” Phelps asked, still wrestling with his own.

  “Yeah, it dropped me from the corporate private network to the old auxiliary public.”

  Marjorie pulled hers out and gazed at the small screen while Phelps tentatively tapped at his own.

  “Mine’s the same.”

  “Mine, too.”

  “Looks like everyone is having the same problem,” Walter observed, looking out at the dozens of faces in the street illuminated by the glow of their mobiles.

  “So much for using my mobile to download the reports and finish them. It’ll take hours on the old auxiliary public,” Phelps whined.

  There was an ominous boom in the distance. It sounded like a loud drum being struck from the top of one of the hills along the skyline beyond the city. Everyone on the street turned their heads and looked for a moment, before returning their attention to their mobiles. A second later, the windows of the buildings around them rattled softly.

  “What is going on? Are they going to let us back in?” Marjorie complained.

  Security was out in the street, having cleared the building, their yellow parkas glistening as snow melted across their shoulders. A moment later, the sound of a crash issued forth from the parking garage, as if there’d been a fender bender. The noise from the crowd picked up as the digital monitor over the building entrance gave off a single tone, the type that usually preceded an announcement by the building maintenance server.

  Walter and Phelps looked back at the entrance just as the blast doors on the reinforced building slid shut, then the activity light above the door turned from green to red. A similar sound could be heard up and down the street as office buildings, shopping centers, and espresso cart windows closed. It was not an unfamiliar sight after the terrorist attack drill earlier last year. The global financial division shut the entire city down for an hour as par
t of a preparedness initiative, but that was in the summer.

  “Phelps, is it possible that debt collections has been defunded?” Walter asked looking back at the entrance.

  “There are supposed to be safeguards, and we’re regulated and fall under several legislative umbrellas. I struggle to contemplate how we could be defunded,” Phelps said, his voice tainted by his irritation.

  Angry cries and moans of exasperation rose up from the crowd. As the mob of frustrated employees surged for the door, several people got upended. Somewhere, a coffee cup clattered to the ground. The air seemed to grow colder and the snow fell a little more persistently.

  The crowd parted to allow a small vehicle and a passenger to get through. A Canine Metasapient ‘law dog’ rolled up on an ATV fully armed, an unusual sight in Helsinki. She was taller than your average human and covered in white fur that got considerably longer as it grew from the top of her head. She had keen, crystal blue eyes that scanned the crowd tirelessly. A lump rose in Phelps’ throat at the sight of her.

  The Metasapient gave a loud bark in response to several men and women in business casual banging on the door of an office building across the street. A few people complied, but most displayed the usual disdain for tailored life forms. She barked again. Those close enough to her clutched at their ears and grimaced in pain.

  “Rioting and property damage is forbidden. Your compliance with civic edicts is mandatory,” she growled loudly enough to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

  Phelps harbored no love for Metasapients, but the canine-human hybrid might have a clue as to what was going on. He wondered where all the human police officers were as he walked up to talk to the law dog. Walter, almost compelled by habit, followed along behind.

  “Where are we going?” Walter asked.

  “I’m going to ask the law dog if it... she, whatever, knows what’s going on,” Phelps snapped, growing more irritated with the situation.

  The law dog stepped off her ATV and barked again at several people trying in vain to get into their personal vehicles in the parking lot. She turned to meet Phelps’ gaze, panting slightly in the cold air. The coloration of her fur and blue eyes betrayed her as one of the members of the Nordic Patrol that usually patrolled outlying areas. Most of the canine Metasapients employed by the Metropolitan Police were black or brown in their coloration, and didn’t carry as many weapons.