World-Mart

by Leigh Lane

  Shelley gave her a sideways glance. “Do you blame me?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “See you around,” she said, and began toward the building’s main door.

  “Hey!” Shelley called across the hall.

  Charlotte stopped and turned. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” Charlotte disappeared into the building, leaving Shelley alone in the quiet hall to contemplate the few options that remained in her life.

  None looked promising.

  Chapter Fifteen

  GEROGE and William didn’t say a word to one another during the entire shuttle commute. They had acknowledged each other’s presence in the garage, each making his boundaries clear, each avoiding eye contact with the other.

  George had finally shaved and showered, doing his best to present himself as clean and pressed as possible for the inevitable meeting he would be having this morning with his manager. He tried to think of what he would do if one of his associates missed two days of work due to drunken and disorderly conduct. Would he start the paperwork for position termination, or would he hear him out and consider the fact that everyone made mistakes? He didn’t know his manager very well, and the man was painfully difficult to read. George had no idea what to expect, and already he sweated profusely. He looked down with deep embarrassment as he realized he had sweated through the underarms of his shirt, and he quickly buttoned up his jacket in attempt to mask the offense.

  The shuttle slowed as it entered the garage. George felt his stomach go sour as the shuttle came to a halt, the passenger doors shooting open, the time to exit no longer simply a dreaded thought in the back of his mind. He watched William leave before him, waited several paces, and then began toward the stairwell that led to his floor. The thought occurred to George to turn around, get back on the shuttle, and see where it led him instead of facing whatever wrath Corporate had approved for him. He knew the penalty for refusing to report for a shift, however, and he wasn’t in the mood to return to jail anytime soon, so he cast aside his dissolute thoughts and began up the stairs.

  He quickly moved through the maze of cubicles, finding his manager in a closet of an office in the back. The room felt uncomfortably cramped, having barely enough room for a desk and filing cabinet. George felt claustrophobic as he stood across the desk from the tall, lanky man.

  “I’m really busy, so let’s try to keep this brief, okay?” the manager asked, foregoing the typical formal greeting and handshake.

  “Sir, I know that I missed two more days last week, and I know I’m going to get written up for it, but I ask that you consider a few things before you decide whether or not to begin the termination process,” George said, wiping the wet, beady film from his brow and upper lip, unable to stop sweating.

  “You’re George, right?” the manager asked, looking perturbed, but also strangely confused.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The manager pulled George’s file from the cabinet, contorting to negotiate the narrow path back around to his side of the desk.

  The room suddenly felt even smaller.

  The manager opened up the file, glancing over George’s history first, and then last week’s offense. “You have had, up until this point, an excellent attendance record. Considering the virus going around right now, the fact that you took a few days off for the flu is not going to get you terminated with your current rating. Just try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Now just as confused as his manager, George tried to figure out how he could get the man to clarify his standing without tipping him off at the potential clerical error. At a loss for words, George was afraid he might somehow put his foot in his mouth should he press the issue any further. He cleared his throat, deciding to play it safe. “Thank you, sir.”

  The manager added a remark to George’s file, a positive note regarding how upset George was over the time he missed, despite the serious fever he sustained throughout his absence. “I’m sure you’ve got work to do,” the manager said, sounding annoyed that George was still there.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, quickly backing out of the stifling room.

  He took a deep breath, feeling infinitely lighter. He loosened up his jacket as he made his way to his cubicle. No one stared at him as he passed by, and no one seemed surprised to see him there. The truth behind his absence had been expunged, although George had no idea who would have gone to such lengths to pay him such a huge favor.

  At least now he knew why his Law-Corp file had been temporarily “lost.” He still had a friend in this world, even if he didn’t know who that friend was.

  George sat down at his desk and turned on his small computer. A file associate came by with a fresh stack of partially completed files for George to get started on. With a renewed feeling of complacency, George thumbed through the stack, chose his first case of the day, and got started. Never before had it felt so good to sit in a cubicle.

  The report George chose charged a deviant with being caught near human Housing after dark, being out of the home without identification, and lying to a police associate. According to the report, the deviant tried to persuade the associate that he was a normal human being and had locked himself out of his home. He had contrived a ridiculously disturbed story in which he escaped from the hospital after the HD-1 virus transformed him, accusing the district hospital of holding him and a dozen others against their will. He even accused the hospital of killing at least half of the patients, and forcing the rest to consent to becoming human-deviant Guinea pigs.

  Knowing that the story had to be contrived, George tried to continue through the report. Every time he tried to analyze another entry, however, his thoughts took him back to Virginia. Had she really died of the virus, or had she died to cover up something that Corporate didn’t want the population to know? How far-fetched was the deviant’s story, really? If it was so far-fetched, why couldn’t he stop thinking about it?

  George sat back for a moment, unable to concentrate. He tried to collect a quick mental list of the little he did know, in hopes that a moment of forced rational thought might help him to clear his head enough to get back work. He closed his eyes and searched his mind: Virginia had been terribly ill; deviants were the result of germ-line therapy, not retrovirus infection; deviants were notorious for lying; George had Virginia’s ashes on a shelf in the bedroom. The agony returned as he considered the possibility that the deviant was not lying, and that Virginia was still alive, trapped somewhere in the district hospital.

  If the deviant was lying, George wanted nothing more than to beat the man to a bloody pulp for belittling his wife’s death in such a careless way. If he was telling the truth, however, George wanted to hear the story straight from its source. He decided to “lose” the deviant’s file for the time being, until he had a chance to visit him in jail. When he would find the time was beyond him, with work and other obligations taking up most of his time, but he knew he needed to meet with the deviant if even just for the catharsis. He wondered how many days the man would end up missing at his job, assuming he had one, because of his arrest. George was determined to make him miss at least two days.

  Ensuring that no one was watching, George took down the deviant’s name and case number on a small piece of paper and stuffed it in his pant pocket. He locked the file in a cabinet drawer and moved on to another random file on his desk. He took a deep, calming breath—he had actually gotten away with breaking one of the Corporate’s strictest confidentiality rules. He had a client’s personal information hidden on him, and no one was the wiser. He wondered if perhaps the practice was not as difficult and impermissible as he had been led to believe.

  George worked diligently through the rest of the day, reading all of the files with extreme care and triple-checking all of his work, feeling the need to work especially hard to make up for his wrongful act against the company. He almost threw away his notes during lunch, but he knew he would only end up taking down the information again b
y the end of the day, so he held fast to his decision.

  He needed to see the deviant for himself, to hear the lie about the HD-1 virus with his own ears. He needed to know for sure. . . .

  He needed it to be a lie.

  Chapter Sixteen

  VIRGINIA had to take a shuttle to the four corners of the quadroplex, and then cross into District 89149 by foot. Wearing a borrowed jacket and a skimpy maid’s uniform, she thought she might freeze to death before she found the next closest shuttle garage. The rain had let up for the time being, but the early morning chill had dropped below freezing, the wind sending it straight to her bones and stinging her hands and feet.

  She approached the beginning of a hallway system, checking her directions to ensure she had found the correct complex. She entered through a thick metal door, and the three different directions she had to choose from all had signs clearly stating where they led. The hallway to Virginia’s right led to Info-Corp’s main office building. The hallway to the left led to the North Shuttle Garage, and the hallway straight ahead led to the Central Shuttle Garage.

  Virginia walked straight, feeling shorter and meeker the closer she got to the garage. It seemed as though she was one of the only deviants in the area, and by the looks of the expensive attire and designer face masks the people around her were displaying, she knew she stood out in the large crowd like a black ant on a clean, white counter top. She could feel the eyes on her as she quietly found her shuttle track and sat down.

  There was a sudden commotion as every person in the vicinity felt the need to voice his or her surprise and outrage. Virginia looked around, eyes wide and sharp, unsure of what was going on.

  A security associate came up to Virginia and pulled her up by the base of her arm. “These benches are for us only, miss.”

  Virginia looked around, her face red with humiliation. “No one else is sitting here!”

  “No one else wants your lice, either,” the associate said, backing from her, readying his nightstick and waiting for her response.

  Virginia did not try to return to her seat, but she did give the associate a piercing glare. “I don’t have lice.”

  “It’s just best we don’t take that chance,” the associate said, holding the nightstick in a manner that suggested he was ready to use it.

  Virginia moved away from the bench, waiting by the tall metal sign that marked the 320 Shuttle stop.

  The security associate followed her. “I’d like to see your papers, while I’ve got you.”

  Virginia dug into her large, almost empty bag, and produced several perfectly forged documents. Ray had arranged for an identification card, work papers, and a health certificate clearing her of the newly dubbed “Deviant Typhoid Mary Syndrome.” All papers had to be on her person at all times, Ray explained to her, especially when traveling through and working in the rich district. Because there had been so many terrifying reports about deviant wrongdoings the past few weeks, Police-Corp was having its associates looking for reasons to get them off the streets. With Info-Corp suddenly pegging deviants as the harbingers of lice and disease, Police-Corp decided that any deviant found without an updated Proof of Health Certificate was to be arrested immediately.

  The security associate thought for a moment, decided that he had nothing on Virginia, and then handed back her documents. “Everything seems to be in order. Just stay off the benches.” The associate returned to his post, turning to glance at her every minute or two.

  When the shuttle arrived, Virginia allowed the few people who came after her to board first, averting whatever conflict might arise from boarding before them. She remained standing, grasping a hand-bar, standing as far as she could from the seated passengers. She avoided eye contact as the shuttle carried her and a handful of people to a garage across the district. To her relief, the shuttle emptied at the garage, and one other deviant boarded. He also stood as the shuttle continued further into the richest part of the quadroplex.

  Virginia kept to herself, hoping that the deviant across the way would remain just as silent. She was in no mood for small talk. Her feet were killing her, the uniform was cold and itchy, and she felt that she had given up almost every last bit of her dignity getting this far. She was about to betray what her heart told her were still her own people, and for a meager roof over her head and a few warm meals. Would she even be able to go through with it? She had always wanted to meet a member of Corporate. She never thought in any of her wildest imaginings, however, that it would finally happen under such unpleasant and unwelcome circumstances.

  Ray had found Virginia a job as a servant for the very prestigious Conrad family. Mr. Conrad was believed to be the top Corporate representative for Info-Corp, and according to Ray’s top sources Mrs. Conrad was a retired mother who now was a full-time member of the National Corporate Logistics Board. Ray told Virginia that both of the Conrads were key players in what he dubbed “the Anti-Deviant Propaganda Campaign,” and a keen ear properly placed in their house could prove invaluable.

  Virginia would stay at the Conrad estate for four-day shifts, on call day and night while she was there, and then go “home” for three days to catch up on sleep and take care of whatever personal business she might have. Ray made it very clear that her job for right now was to get to know both Mr. and Mrs. Conrad as well as she could, and also mingle with the other help to see what further information she could obtain.

  The task sounded simple, and yet it instilled a sense of dread in her that she couldn’t shake. She would have been nervous visiting a Corporate even back when she was a human being. Now the dynamics between them were even more complicated. How would she be able to stand remaining in such a beautiful and luxurious home, knowing that she was now considered such a lowly creature? Even if she was cleaning the place?

  Nothing Virginia had heard about Corporate living could prepare her for the actual estate when she got there. The Conrads had their own private shuttle hub, which gave way to a covered pathway leading to their immense front gate. A speaker box was anchored to one side of the gate, and Virginia pushed a large red button to call an attendant.

  A young woman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “State your business.”

  Virginia pushed the “Speak” button and moved her face close to the box. “My name is Virginia Ir . . . Virginia Seton. I’ve come to fill the servant position.”

  “Just a moment.” There was a buzz at the gate, and then it slowly creaked open.

  Virginia entered the estate, and she jumped with a start as the gate slammed shut behind her. She walked with awe and trepidation as she made her way across the gigantic yard surrounding the house. There was an immense lawn, and all around there were trees, bushes, and vines. An arbor hung overhead the majority of the path, trained with morning glories, moonflowers, and wisteria vines. Even living in the middle class, Virginia was a young child the last time she saw a private yard, but never before had she seen one this large or elaborate.

  Virginia made her way to the main house, climbed up the freshly whitewashed veranda steps, and rang the doorbell.

  A young deviant woman promptly answered the door, leaving the protective chain on for the moment. “Virginia Seton?” the young woman asked.

  Virginia nodded.

  “I’ll need to see your papers before I can allow you in,” the young woman continued.

  Virginia produced her documents from her bag and handed them through the slightly ajar door.

  The young woman looked through the documents, and then handed them back before unchaining the door and opening it completely. “I’ll need your bag, Virginia.”

  Virginia hesitantly handed her the large bag, stuffing her documents in her apron pocket.

  “The last girl the agency sent us was a thief,” she said. “He swore it would never happen again, but I hope you don’t mind if I take extra precautions?”

  Virginia shook her head. “I’m no thief. I promise you won’t have any problems with me, Miss . . . I’
m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “Nadine.”

  “You won’t have any problems with me, Nadine.”

  “Good.” Nadine seemed a little bossy to be a servant, but Virginia remained silent about the matter. Nadine was very pretty, somewhere around thirty, and had long, wavy brown hair that she had tied back with a black ribbon.

  “Where do I start?” Virginia asked, hoping that cleaning someone else’s mansion would somehow be less tedious than cleaning her own humble apartment. The entry hall was large, with bronze statuettes arranged along the tastefully decorated walls. The entry opened up to an enormous foyer, adorned with small tables holding priceless artifacts from different eras of the past. A tall, thin statuette of the Egyptian goddess Bast watched over the entire room, the thin, catlike figure serving as a centerpiece for the rest of the display. An antique vase stood not too far away, and an ancient carving of the Earth Goddess sat on the other end of the large room. On the walls to the sides of the elaborate, winding staircase were famous paintings that had likely been auctioned off in some museum’s desperate attempt to stay in business for a few more months.

  “Let me give you the tour,” Nadine said, and then began toward the kitchen.

  Virginia followed, speechless.

  The kitchen was enormous, with more appliances than any person could ever need. It seemed like the entire room was made of stainless steel, and even the walls shone. There was a huge stove with four burners on it, and an oven large enough to bake a full-sized turkey. Cast iron pans hung overhead a large, granite-top island, and beside them hung ladles, cooking spoons, and spatulas.

  Beyond the kitchen was a storage room, where breads, cheeses, cured meats, and canned goods stood on shelves. Bags of rice and beans were stacked beside a bin of potatoes and an electric refrigerator and freezer stood in the far corner. A dumb waiter stood open in the middle of the wall on their right, with a small hand-held computer sitting in its transport box.