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Trex World, part 21

kelson.philo's picture

Part 21
Link to part 1

Those whores, those autocratic little whores that were the fibrous stroma of the all seeing eye of Panopticon Productions Ltd, from the tubes they spewed, the executive and the cred-worthy, bursting forth on the lower floors to upper, upper and ever upper, straight up to their offices to manage the flow of product to customers throughout the Expanse and beyond to the various and sundry dwellings within the Capillaries. Silly questions were never asked, silly answers never given, all was movement and a stoppage would be registered as a clot and dealt with via omnitrexing scalpel. Scalpels of society, scalpels of financial status. And all the surgeons were locked up tight in offices Paul would never see, could never hope to see this late in his game. But like the pressure of bowels seeking release, he knew they were there, waiting for him to make one more critical mistake.

There is a suction to this large, round entryway. It is ever so slight and would not be noticeable to someone simply going to work, grooving to the grind of life. But Paul was not in a normal mood and so was moving towards the great cylindrical compound at a speed that made others curse at him. Only ingress through the entryway and only egress through the exit on the buildings other side. Perfect homogenous flow.

Whore was derogatory, of course. Prostitute is much nicer, but Paul wasn’t feeling nice, and here, standing in front of him, in a cylinder a thousand meters high and three hundred meters wide entered and exited thousands upon thousands of citizenry, never stopping. Most of them made their way to the Core of the building, a lesser happy few jaunted to it’s periphery to enjoy the sight of the other buildings that crowded the great PanPro’s vast perimeter whose color forever changed throughout the day, and still a trifling few more inhabited the offices of the upper level with its great domed roof. PanPro’s height was enough to have a view over the rooftops of two-thirds of the outer periphery expanse buildings, though few businesses maintained the girth that Panopticon Productions Limited did. There was a time when, fresh from certifying for his MLA that Paul had wild hopes of ascending to that legendary domed paradise. Still other dreams of venturing deeper into the business district than PanPro’s mighty shaft squatted. Without a financially motivated reason, those dreams were now relics less substantial than feed static, when in a fit of idiocy he head butted a junior partner in a fit of apoplexy.

And now Geoff held his position. Thanks in a large part to his past performance and a psyc eval that suggested leftover issues from the death of his mother, and an extremely expensive barrage of lawyers (which in retrospect was the beginning of his serious financial woes, bringing on the second and third mortgages), his job was downgraded but not eliminated. He had blown it, created a vacuum that Geoff was happy to fill. He was once again on the code-slinging line, adding tags and an assortment of other meta-data that was the read-between-the-lines of millions of subscribing trex accounts. A job where speed, efficiency and accuracy were more important than anything else. It was, on the whole, a job for the young, for the pliable, for the fresh. The young were supposed to move into other, more senior, positions out and in from the Core and, theoretically, up. He was probably on permanent entry-grade status from here on out and he had come to accept this as part of life. He’d balance out his magnificent mortgages and as long as he got logged in every day, he’d be assured of keeping his head afloat, his bank line a quantum length above the zero mark.

And now Paul was slowly moving towards the entrance, and for the first time in his many years here, he could feel the suction of the access tube, a great crimson and purple orifice five meters wide and went several tens of meters into the cylinder, its nearly living surface scanning everything that passed through it, parts of the velveteen throat talking to each employee’s trex, making sure that database fetishes were satiated and still other parts ramming biometric data this way and that to double-check with even more spreadsheet masturbations and all of it, the entire system was all for not, for the building never climaxed and the yearning, drum headed tension was forever palpable.

He had waited long enough. Paul fell into the suction and joined the rushing hum of cursing humanity once more.

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An unhappy world.

I am hooked on your world, but it is so unhappy. Through the brilliance of your writing, with its brain blasting imagery, you create a world of impossible conundrums. There are so few answers that there are hardly any questions. But I love it all. However, for rest and relaxation I go back to my own much simpler world of Steefax. There I am on safer, if more prosaic, ground. But there is excitement to come there, also. I hope!

kelson.philo's picture

OH, completely, Cougary.

OH, completely, Cougary. I'm trying to bring about a sense of quiet desperation with no apparent solution. An environment were people don't need to think of a solution because as long as they tow the line and get credits to use with their trex, all is provided for.

Trex World is like a hyper New York/Hong Kong kind of affair, except it is exeptionally clean. No need to worry about litter as detrious (of all types) is absorbed back into the City in some fashion.

I like the recent developements in Steefax, though, and will post on that asap. It's a pleasant place, one that could easily fall into Tourist Trap Paradise, had not the draxy run out...