Weary Traveler
Chapter 22

Heavy bass and wicked, electro-beats from Rotech’s Babylon Electric thumped into the recycled, midnight air.

Vincent’s armored limousine rolled to a stop in front of a lengthy strip of velvet, red carpet tucked between two, neon purple strips of holographic rope like a Glider runway.

The line to get into the chaotic club wrapped around the side of the building and disappeared around the corner. It overflowed with ornately dressed corpo boys and girls looking to spend their days’ hard-fought credits on lap dances and fancy moves beneath the smoke and strobe lights... throwing back shots of booze and pops of bonzos to mask their misery.

Mitch peered at the crowd, watched as they scurried up to the front of the line and waited for passage beyond two, burley, boulders of men with giant heads and wide shoulders standing with their arms crossed. Gatekeepers on the crimson trail leading into a world of sin, where raucous sounds and flashing lights called out to all searching for a stupefied fix to soothe their vices and quiet the voices crying out in their thoughtless skulls.

“You go on ahead,” Vincent said. “Just head straight up and tell those guards your name. You will be at the top of the list. No need to pay for anything. Rotech will take care of if.”

“You aren’t coming, Vincent?”

“I’ve got some work to do before all of that Crawler tech arrives. You go and enjoy yourself tonight. Tomorrow, we begin back-engineering everything you stole from CorpoMax. When the Corpo Convention rolls around at the end of the year, Rotech will be untouchable with our advanced weaponry and CorpoMax’s cutting-edge devices... Thanks to you, Mitch Henderson,” Vincent said, reaching out and shaking Mitch’s hand. “Now get going, have some fun. Meet a pretty lady, drink some booze, eat some bonzos.”

“Thank you, Vincent. But I’ve already met one and I stopped do-”

“Good, good, whatever you say,” Vincent said, waving his hand in front of him, shooing Mitch away. He pressed a button on the door panel and opened the automatic door. “Beware of the A.I. strippers. They will suck up all of your credits and stuff you with knock off bonzos that drain your brain and turn your insides into mush.”

Mitch scooted out of the limousine and stepped away from the closing door, watched the vehicle roll away and disappear into the maze of skyscrapers and hangers like metallic monoliths and stone mountains trapping corpos within a synthetic, tech-jungle.

He inhaled a lungful of the cold, processed air and made the trek up the red carpet, avoiding the long line on the right. He could sense the fire from hundreds of pairs of eyes leering at him upon stepping out of the limousine... could feel their tech scanning his mind for information, deciphering his thoughts, checking his vital signs, listening to his heartbeat pound faster, faster, faster.

He gulped, pulled at his shirt collar above his tie wrapping around his throat like a synthetic snake.

The two ogres glared down at Mitch as he slowed to a stop in front of them.

“Back of the line, chump,” the bouncer on the left said. His booming voice elevated several octaves above the bass streaming out of the front doors behind them.

“I’m a friend of the CEO, Vincent Walker,” Mitch yelled, leaning closer and rising higher on his tiptoes with each word to overcome the noise. “I’m on the guest list.”

“Name?” the other asked.

“Mitch Henderson.”

The bouncer looked up and to the right, gazed out with an empty stare. A scarlet glow flashed within his left eye, remained illuminated like his retina had been injected with neon light. Then he grunted, turned his glare back towards Mitch just as the light faded.

“Welcome to Babylon Electric.”

Both bouncers unwound their meaty arms from over their chests and stepped aside like Mitch recited the secret password.

“Thank you, kindly,” Mitch said, smirking at his newfound power.

He strolled ahead, towards the strobe lights and booming bass of electronic dance music. The continuous beat rattled his eardrums, shook his brain, filled it with a woozy haze and a dizzy sense of vertigo like the walls screamed at him, ripped his insides apart and turned them inside out.

Through the double doors, at the end of the crimson carpet path, was a polished, concrete wall, covered with a neon red sign: Babylon Electric.

Two separate, darkened hallways split on the left and right side of the wall, leading further into the darkness of the club. Mitch turned towards the path on the left and followed the looping, downward arch into a circular chamber on the lower level.

A rotating, glass bar spun in a slow circle at the middle of the vast dungeon. It was ignited from within by a spectrum of colorful lights that shifted from one hue to the next like a wave of energy rolled through the transparent matter. Crystal chandeliers hung above the bar, reflecting the oscillating rainbow.

Mitch marched forward and stepped onto the rotating platform, settled onto a glass bar stool illuminated by neon purple. His awkward feet tapped the rung. Anxious hands tucked in his lap twiddling his fidgety fingers. His wandering eyes scanned the hedonistic surroundings like he was a wounded creature surrounded by synthetic wolves on the hunt for human flesh.

Corpo boys in tailored, tech-suits and girls in their fancy, sparkling dresses scattered in chatting groups around the bar, their voices hitched higher to overcome the raucous beats coming from the dance floor in the adjacent room. Others sat atop the rotating bar and sipped colorful cocktails to match the mystical aurora flowing through the crystal.

“For you, player?”

Mitch shook the reverie from his mind, peered at a lanky nomad on the other side of the bar. His entire scalp was covered with metal. Scalding, crimson eyes beamed across the neon-tinged darkness of the fragile barroom.

Mitch pressed his forearms against the damp slab of glass, leaned forward.

“I’ll take a synthetic sizzle soda.”

“What kind of booze?”

“No booze.”

“No booze?” the bartender asked, hairless eyebrows elevated.

“No booze,” Mitch said, plopping back onto the stool.

“Whatever you say, player.”

The bartender swiped a mug from above the bar and set it under a metal contraption with a long spigot, pressed a yellow button and let the bubbly, clear liquid fill the glass. He swiped a cardboard coaster displaying Rotech’s logo- the initials RoT encased within a triangle- tossed it in front of Mitch and placed the mug on top.

“Five-hundred credits,” he said.

Mitch cleared his throat, leaned in.

“Vincent Walker sent me,” he shouted above the noise. “Put me on the guest list.”

“Hold on,” the bartender said. Like the bouncer out front, his left eye flashed like a ball of flame ignited within his skull, then flickered back to its normal, red hue.

“Lucky you, player. Everything’s on the house. You sure you don’t want any booze in there?”

Mitch hesitated, stared off into the deep, dark void with a blank stare like he had seen a drunken ghost. One drink wouldn’t hurt. Just a splash of vodka. Or maybe a shot of whiskey. Surely his vice had been tamed. His addiction, severed. A swig of booze wouldn’t be enough to derail his progress. Just one sip… Nothing but a sliver… of a chance.

“What’re ya drinking?” a woman whispered into Mitch’s ear, running her fingers down his spine.

Mitch shook the haze from his head.

“This is fine for now,” he said to the bartender. “Thank you.”

Mitch spun around on the stool, nearly tipped backwards into the bar at the sight of a tall woman with smooth, bronze skin. Her baby blue eyes sparkled with each shift in neon light flowing through the crystal bar. Straight, platinum-blonde hair. A tight-fitting, ruby dress squeezed her stomach, down her waist, stopping at the middle of her thighs. The thin garment was held up by a single strap that draped from her right shoulder across her torso, barely covering her breasts.

“A soda,” Mitch said, pausing in-between the drum and bass beats, “a synthetic sizzle soda.”

“A sizzle soda, hmm? Sounds... interesting. Mind if I join you?”

Mitch looked around the bar to see if anyone was spying on him that might have put this woman up to talking to him.

“Sure,” Mitch said, motioning to the stool on his right. “My name’s Mitch. Mitch Henderson.”

“Nice to meet you Mitch Henderson. My name is Katherine. My friends call me Kat,” she said, stretching out a slender hand adorned with an elegant, black glove.

“Nice to meet you, Kat,” Mitch said, gripping and shaking her gentle hand.

“What brings you to Babylon?” she asked.

“Celebrating.”

She looked around.

“Alone?”

“My friend dropped me off. Couldn’t stay. He has business to conduct.”

“Is that who was in the armored limousine?”

Mitch’s eyes narrowed, glared at the woman.

“So, that’s why you came to talk to me?”

“Because of a limousine? No,” she said, shaking her head coyly, “but an armored limousine…”

“Fair enough.”

“And because the bartender didn’t charge you for your… synthetic soda,” she said, flicking a glance at the nonalcoholic beverage. “Figured you might be someone worth talking to.”

“For my status or my credits?”

“I’m not sure,” Kat said, stroking Mitch’s shoulder, face sparkling with a coquettish grin. “Maybe both.”

“I’ve got neither. You see, it’s all about looking the part of a corpo. Blending in to get what you want from people you despise.”

“And what role am I playing?”

Mitch was silent, scanned Kat up and down. Then looked deep into the trance cast by her blue eyes.

“The pretty woman who replaces corpo players with credits and status to cling onto.”

A flair flashed across Kat’s face. And then, she grabbed Mitch’s hand and yanked him off of the bar stool. Her heels and his dress shoes tapped against the charcoal, stone floor traced with fiery light like it flowed with lava. They zipped around the corner on the right and ran down a hallway with identical, red doors.

Kat slowed, looked back at Mitch, squeezed his hand and grinned, stepped up to the door with the number 6 painted in gold at the center. She twisted the handle, pushed on the door, and pulled Mitch inside.

An oval table forged from murky, black glass covered the middle of the room. Crimson walls and a black, velvet couch that wrapped around the table. Kat slid across the cushions and patted a spot in the middle, summoning Mitch the whole way until he slid across the velvet from the opposite side and settled next to her. The distant thump, thump, thump of bass rumbled through the walls, tickled his Adam’s apple and vibrated his empty stomach with a hollow echo.

Kat reached into her tiny, black clutch and pulled out a gold container, flicked it open, and peeled two jellies that stuck to the inside.

Mitch watched her movements, wiped the sweat spewing from his palms onto his slacks, tried to calm his beating heart pounding against his chest. She stuck one jelly on her index finger, the other on her middle finger, held them out in front of Mitch’s lips.

He shook his head and clamped his mouth so tight that the pink area disappeared from his lips.

“No booze and no bonzos?”

Mitch shrugged.

“Fine,” Kat said, pushing Mitch onto his back. She climbed on top, straddled his body, and began kissing his neck, his cheeks, his forehead, grinding over his body with ferocious thrusts from her hips.

Mitch turned left, right, guided his lips away from hers, struggled to push her away gently without insulting her lustful desires.

“I’m sorry, Kat. I can’t.”

She slid off of Mitch’s lap and sat on the edge of the couch as Mitch swung his legs around and planted them on the floor.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m Mitch. Mitch Hen-”

“No, not your name,” Kat said, placing a soft hand against his chest. “Who are you? Because you aren’t a corpo player.”

Mitch looked away, stared at a blank spot on the blood-red wall, let silence wash over the room. The distant bass seemed to warp and twist the energy flowing through the heated air.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

Mitch turned towards Kat, tilted his head sideways slightly.

“Her?”

“The woman who has stolen your heart.”

Mitch chuckled, looked away, and rubbed the ache that throbbed behind his right temple.

“Her name is Nova… Nova Zion.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Not yet. But I promised I would replace her once I put the pieces of my life back together.”

“She wasn’t the one in the limousine?”

“No. That was an… acquaintance. A powerful acquaintance. I guess you could call him a business partner.”

“What’s his name?”

“Vincent,” Mitch said, looking away. “Vincent Walker.”

Kat leaned away from Mitch, cut through him with her sharp eyes.

“Vincent Walker?” she asked. “As in the CEO of Rotech?”

“You know him?”

“Of course I know him. He kills people like you.”

Mitch adjusted his position on the couch, turned his legs towards Kat.

“What do you mean?”

“People that think for themselves. Corpo players don’t come to Babylon and say no to the three B’s.”

“What’s that?”

“Booze, bonzos, and babes,” Kat rattled off. “Extortion and blackmail. It’s how the rich corpos maintain their power.” She stared at Mitch, studied him. “How long have you worked at Rotech?”

“A couple of months.”

“Were you a corpo before that?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“I was a mercenary,” Mitch said without hesitation.

“No, you weren’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because mercenaries don’t have souls just like corpos don’t have souls. So… what were you before Rotech?”

Mitch’s expressionless face stared out into the void, looked back at himself crawling through the mud. He remained silent long enough for the bass beat to loop around.

“I used to be a bum…”

“What does that mean?”

“Like I said, putting my life together. Making changes.”

“Corpos don’t care if you make changes to fix your broken life. To them, a bum will always be a bum. There is no amount of credits or status you can acquire to make them forget that fact. Bums are test subjects and whipping posts for the corpo elite. To them, you exist to be put down and made an example of.”

“I know…”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Saving the world.”

“Saving the world?” Kat asked, eyebrows elevated. “In Babylon Electric?”

“Well… not here, not yet,” Mitch said. “But when I’m called, I will be ready.”

“Who’s going to call?”

“God.”

Something that resembled stunned recognition blazed across Kat’s face, disappeared. A faint grin crept from the corners of her lips.

“You are one strange human being, Mitch Henderson,” Kat said, giving him a soft squeeze on his right shoulder. “Authentic, but strange. That’s what separates you from these corpo clones, but that’s what makes you a threat to their power. Don’t lose your heart in this cold world.”

“Won’t be cold for much longer,” Mitch said. “Waves of time are shifting.”

“Just be careful. The social hierarchy exists for a reason. Corpo players know this, especially the Rotech Executive Board.”

“I guess I’ll just have to infiltrate their ranks, too.”

Kat tilted her head back and released a booming laugh.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say. How about a dance, then?”

“A dance?”

“Oh, c’mon,” Kat said, pulling Mitch onto his feet. “If you aren’t going to do any booze or bonzos in Babylon Electric, the least you can do is dance with me. I’m sure your Nova won’t mind if I borrow you for the night.”

She tugged him out of the door. The cool rush of recycled air pushed against his face as Kat scurried up the red hallway, turned right and followed the winding pathway down onto the dance floor.

The deafening base thumped. Neon lasers beamed bright streaks through the smoke sprawling up from the floor, clashing with the strobe lights flashing like lightning strikes razed through the club, illuminating the sweaty faces of bonzo freaks and boozed-up corpos dancing their faces off to forget about their lives trapped beneath a monolithic, malevolent, corpo cabal.

Kat and Mitch found a spot on the edge of the chaotic horde. They twisted their hips, jived with the beat, flowed with the gyrating rhythm of the corpos, jumping and grooving their way to the middle. Ebbing with the push and pull of the raucous crowd, letting the pulse of the beat crawl up their feet, shake through their bones, pump their hearts, take over their minds, seize their souls, and take them away. Filling the empty void of their corpo bodies and minds with a veil of booze and bonzos to fool their senses, trick their consciousness into believing the lies of the temporal sensory pleasure that Rotech filled them with.

Mitch wiped the sweat rolling down his forehead. He licked his dehydrated lips and gulped a glob of sticky spit down his parched throat. The hair-curling stench of booze wafted up from spilt glasses and mugs that gathered in puddles on the dance floor. Such a waste… all of that booze. A harmless vice if consumed in moderation…

The aroma carried Mitch into the depths of his mind, swirling with memories of his former life without plans and priorities. A life filled with fun and debauchery.

A pint of beer, or maybe even a shot of whiskey surely wouldn’t be enough to derail the progress he had made…

He closed his eyes, pictured the taste of booze rolling down the back of his throat, washing his suffering away, drowning his mind with careless indifference, imagining the intoxicating liquor swaddle his tired body and wrap around his aching soul.

Maybe one sip… just a tiny sip…

“No!” Mitch yelled, voice overtaken by the incessant bass and corpo cheers.

He closed his eyes and shook his head so hard that white lights danced across his vision like twinkling stars.

He peeled his right eye open, then left. His conscious awareness homed in on a couple a few feet in front of him snorting a crushed up jawbreaker off of the woman’s long, neon yellow, pinky nail.

“No!” Mitch screamed, grabbing Kat around the waist and pulling her into his chest.

They twirled in a half-circle, switched places. The lasers seemed to be in on the conspiracy. They aimed at and illuminated a male corpo in a white suit wriggling through the crowd, a handful of jellies stuck to the palm of his hand raised into the air like he had scooped a synthetic rainbow. Every few seconds a corpo would shimmy up, suck a jelly from off of his hand, and disappear back into the amorphous mass.

The jelly-man dragged the consciousness of the hedonistic crowd into the depths of vice and pleasure. Tempting Mitch. Calling out to him.

Relapse. Relapse. Relapse.

That colorful glob of goo, so sweet and innocent. A substance to melt his mind and remove him from that terrifying corpo reality for a few hours.

So harmless…

Mitch clenched his jaw, gnashed his false teeth. His feral eyes locked in with the man in the white suit, traced the length of his arm, and zoned-in on his colorful hand. He licked his lips ferociously, wriggled his fingers like he cast some kind of bonzo spell, summoning the jelly-man.

One jelly wouldn’t hurt. It couldn’t possibly be enough to send him back into the dark depths of addiction. Of confusion, misery, and pain.

Surely not…

“No!” Mitch yelled, voice echoing through his skull like he shouted through the mouth of a lonely cave. He clamped his eyes shut, but the only thing he could see were the jellies floating at the center of his vision. Elevated by the darkness. Beckoning him… reaching out to him with a calm, welcoming hand. “No!”

Mitch pulled Kat close so that their ears touched, chins resting on each other’s shoulders.

“I have to go,” Mitch said above the noise. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Stay safe, Mitch Henderson,” Kat said, kissing Mitch on his cheek.

He turned and darted through the crowd. Squirming left and right, shuffling sideways, bumping shoulders of high and drunken corpos unaware of his passing. Their minds trapped in the lower realms of consciousness, threatening to pull him into the darkness where a bum like him belongs. Never to escape. Forever to surrender to addictions and vices. Always giving in to the mindless herd robbing his authenticity, his individual consciousness, his unique soul… his free will…

The crowd parted enough at the edge of the dance floor for Mitch to rush up the arched ramp hallway. He sprinted through the crystal barroom, raced past the bouncers standing at the entrance, and burst into a full sprint away from Babylon Electric, blazing a wake of temptation trailing behind his feet pounding against the pavement.

His eyes zipped left, right, scanned his surroundings. Rotech towers, hangers, and office buildings engulfed him, trapped him within a vortex of cold stone and sharp metal. Pillars of smoke escaped through vents in the protective dome, floated across the river, and hovered over downtown.

Stale, recycled oxygen flowed in, out of Mitch’s heaving lungs as his fast feet sprinted away from the domed, inner sector, eyes searching for a place to rest and gather his thoughts.

A patch of single story office buildings appeared in the distance. Mitch turned towards them. His pounding steps against the pavement transferred onto a field of synthetic grass that crunched beneath his feet with each long stride. His arms grew heavy, vision swirled in a haze from a mind on the brink of implosion. Eardrums still thumping from the beats of Babylon, sending shockwaves like an electric serotonin rush through his brain.

He zoned-in on the office for Room 101. It shined like a bright light at the end of a dark path. He slowed his pace to a brisk jog, powered down into a quick walk. Lungs on fire, ready to burst through his chest cavity; heart pounded in his head, fought a civil war against his brain. His forward momentum tipped his heavy body forward into a collision with the metal door.

“Zox!” Mitch yelled, fists pounding against the vault. “Zox!”

No answer.

His shrill voice dwindled, receded into his voice box as if frightened by its own sound.

Each pounding fist against the door decreased in strength until his weakened body slid down the smooth metal, slouched into a shivering shell on the cold ground. His corpo reality closed in on him, devoured by the sinful oblivion.