He was sitting alone at a corner table in the HappyMart cafeteria, reading a cheaply photocopied ‘zine called Fascist America that extolled the virtues of the Self Exile movement. A half-eaten tuna sandwich lay ignored in front of him, next to a Styrofoam cup of coffee. It was a little before midnight, and the cafeteria was only sparsely populated. To keep the illegal reading material hidden from any coworkers, he had concealed it within a red binder. No one would be the wiser that he was engrossed in such an antisocial and reactionary document; to the outside world—those persons also trapped in the iron grip of the unforgiving corporate machine—Duncan was simply studying his department’s planning reports.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone was approaching the table. He glanced up and saw an expressionless face looking down at him—another blandly anonymous bureaucrat dressed in a navy blue suit. He and millions more like him filled up the vast echelons of the HappyMart empire. On the fellow’s upper-right arm was a stylized green patch indicating that he was from the Home Office.

A flash of annoyance coursed through Duncan. This was one of the Old Man’s flunkies.

“The Vice President would like to see you.”

With exaggerated casualness, Duncan took a sip of his coffee and had to mask a grimace. The once scalding liquid had grown cold with neglect. Just how long had he been sitting here, absorbed in the sweetly illicit ‘zine?

“Sure. Let me finish my coffee. I’ll meet him in his office in five minutes.”

The flunkie didn’t move. “He wants to see you now. And he’s not in his office—he’s in the LP Annex.”

“Loss Prevention?” Duncan asked in surprise.

“Yes.”

He swallowed hard. Anything involving LP was never good. He stood up slowly, the coffee forgotten once more.

“Then we better not keep him waiting.”

Alone inside the Loss Prevention superintendent’s office, Duncan sat in a hardback chair and stared out the window. The mountains loomed in the distance beyond the complex’s perimeter, always floating in the back of his thoughts like a dream one could never fully remember. Miles of forest spilled out in and around the foothills, extending some distance up the side of the mountains.

Rumor had it that a group of Self Exiles were camped in the upper parts of the mountain. He thought of such a place often. A place where you could do what you want, think what you want without having to have it approved by some HappyMart supervisor or committee. A place where farming and hunting was the community’s job, where one could uniformly engage in the arts without being censored, and, most importantly, where there was no dynastic supervisor regulating every action, no matter how small. A place where freedom still meant something other than its dry, dated definition.

Such forbidden longings sent tingles of excitement up and down his spine. One day he would experience true freedom…

The door opened, dragging Duncan back to the dreary present. A white-haired man with a trim beard entered. He was dressed in a well-fitting charcoal gray suit. His face was a blustery red, as though he was perpetually angry. The Old Man, the Vice President of Operations, Region #001. He may as well have been God for the limitless power he possessed at the complex.

No one else followed the Veep in. Duncan had no idea where the LP Superintendent was, and he didn’t care. Those people, HappyMart’s own internal Gestapo, were a scary bunch.

The Old Man sat down heavily in the seat behind the desk, placed a manila folder on the polished oak surface, and then regarded Duncan for a long moment. He tried to defiantly meet the Old Man’s piercing gaze, but faltered after a moment, and cast his eyes back down.

The Old Man grunted softly. Duncan knew what he was thinking: even in this small contest of wills, Duncan was a disappointment. After a long moment, the Old Man spoke.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“No.”

“No…?”

“No, sir.”

“Better. Loss Prevention Internal Affairs has opened an investigation on you.” A pause. “They’ve been watching you for some time now.”

Duncan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Why?”

“Apparently you’ve been attracting quite a bit of attention lately. And not the good kind.” The Old Man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers. “A coworker of yours found an interesting sheet of paper in the wastebasket and properly turned it over to his supervisor.” He opened the folder and glanced inside. “It’s a page from an article written by you and appears to belong to a larger work. In it you claimed, ‘the whole inevitable confrontation can be avoided if HappyMart stems the flow of its anti-free trade rhetoric while lessening restrictions on intra-American trade, and, most importantly, ceases their Nazi-like persecution of the Self Exiles and other likeminded groups.’” He looked back up, an eyebrow raised. “You’ve got quite the gift for rhetoric yourself, don’t you, Duncan? I had no idea. Regardless, this is what first brought you to the attention of LP.”

Duncan silently cursed at himself. He’d been a fool to print that out in the first place, and an even bigger fool to not have shredded it. “I don’t suppose you care—”

The Old Man didn’t; instead he steamrolled right over him. “And last month video surveillance was taken of you further breaking company policy by purchasing a leather coat from a venue—an illegal venue, mind you—other than HappyMart or its subsidiaries.” He sighed. “Really, Duncan? You attended a black market in Descartes to buy a jacket? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted a coat that no one else around here had,” Duncan said angrily. “Something unique that wasn’t a cheap piece of crap.”

“My,” the Old Man said, a trace of scorn in his voice. “Aren’t you the nonconformist.”

Go to hell! Duncan wanted to shout. Instead he said nothing.

The Old Man went on. “And then the final straw: viewing subversive web sites that glorify the Persian Alliance, the Self Exiles, and other revolutionary, ‘freedom loving’ groups.” He squinted at something on the page. “You actually sent them money?”

“I did. You monitor my Web habits?”

“Of course we do,” the Old Man said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t personally, but Loss Prevention did.”

Duncan snorted softly. “Land of the free.”

The Old Man sighed as he rubbed his temples. “One day you’ll learn that some things, like stability, are more important than antiquated notions of freedom. I suppose the next thing you’ll tell me is that a chaotic free market, where the market coldly determines what is good for people, is superior to our safe and stable way of life?”

“‘One Corporation, One Country’?” Duncan quoted.

“Exactly. Here, responsible corporate citizens fairly and compassionately govern over their fellow man—not the whims of the market and a failed, corrupt government.”

“That’s great,” Duncan said, crossing his arms, “in theory. But what about when the concerned corporation becomes as corrupt and fails even more than the government? The old system may have been flawed, but at least it worked better than this glorified oligarchy.”

The Old Man looked as though he was about to say something, then stopped. He adjusted his tie and proceeded, ignoring the other’s damning words.

“Furthermore,” he continued, as though Duncan hadn’t spoken, “aside from your…questionable social activism, other signs of your decline in performance have become evident. The productivity of the employees in your division has steadily dropped over the last several months, there have been increased requests in your area for transfers to other divisions, and”—He pointed at Duncan’s shirt, collar unbuttoned, no tie—”your personal appearance and behavior have been lacking. You wear ties sporadically at best, you waste company time pursuing frivolous card games on your computer, and you oftentimes come into work late. Granted, it’s usually only five minutes or so, not really enough to become shockingly noticeable, but just enough to be mildly subversive. We in management, however, are aware. All in all, you’re proving to be quite the lazy and problematic employee.”

Duncan remained resolutely silent. He wasn’t going to rise to the Old Man’s baiting any further.

“If you were any other employee, I would have had you terminated by now,” the Old Man continued. “And if I didn’t, Loss Prevention would have instead. You know what that would mean, don’t you?”

Duncan did. Being terminated by HappyMart would effectively be the beginning of the end. He’d be blacklisted from everything the company owned—no more shopping in HappyMart supermarkets, no more living in HappyMart-owned apartments. HappyMart credit unions and banks would cancel his accounts. He would be homeless and with no means to legally purchase food. He would cease to exist in the eyes of those who worked for HappyMart, 99% of the United States population, and the government as well. That’s what happened when the CEO of HappyMart Inc. served concurrently as the President of the United States.

His only recourse would be to join the Self Exiles or another similar coven of individuals living apart from the rest of the world. Maybe he could hop a freighter across the ocean to the Persian Alliance, the last real Mecca of freedom that existed. In a world where the great superpowers of the world were governed by corporations, such a place only existed, primarily, because nearly two centuries back all corporations were banned under Islamic law.

It didn’t matter, anyway—leaving the country would only be possible if he could find a ship and an authority-hating captain that weren’t owned by HappyMart.

No, if he lost his job, his death would quickly follow. The Old Man’s next words surprised him.

“You aren’t going to be fired today.

“Because of the family you are so fortunate to belong to, you’re being given a reprieve—a second chance, if you will. Not that an ungrateful whelp like you is really deserving of one, though.”

Duncan exhaled loudly, didn’t even try to veil his sarcasm. “Ah yes, here it comes. I was wondering when you were going to mention our ‘great family,’ Grandfather.”

The Old Man’s look was unfathomable. “I won’t have my grandson ruin this family’s name. Counting you, we have been with HappyMart for six generations. Your father, God rest his soul, was a great man—a great company man. I know you have it within you to rise to his greatness.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare bring him into this and try to use him against me. This ‘great company’ you love so much is the same one that killed him.”

Pain etched itself on the Old Man’s face. “No one killed him, Duncan. The cancer did. It was too widespread when it was discovered. It was too late. There was nothing anyone could do,” he said firmly.

“You’re wrong,” Duncan said, his face growing hot with anger. He leaned forward, stabbing a finger at his grandfather. “Your company is the one that makes it a policy to only hire the cheapest doctors. Your company is the one that banned employees from seeing other doctors not approved by HappyMart. Your company is the one that killed your only son, my father.”

A heavy silence descended upon them.

Abruptly the Old Man stood up. “As I said, I’ve taken certain measures with Loss Prevention,” he said coldly. “This file,” he said, picking up the manila folder, “no longer exists from this moment on, and never did.

“Now return to your department, do your job, and grow up. If you screw this up and get fired, I won’t help you. There won’t be a place for you in my home, or my life. You won’t get another chance.” He left the room.

Duncan remained in his seat for the next few moments, thinking. He stood, his decision made. He reached into his back pocket and removed a flat, square holodisk. Before the Old Man had arrived, when he was alone, Duncan had copied a series of files from the LP Superintendent’s computer. Files that could only be found on a Region-level manager’s computer.

He’d found himself logging onto the computer without really knowing why. His background in programming had certainly made it easy enough to do. And until this moment he’d only had a vague notion of what he was might do with the files he was copying.

Talk of his father had only crystallized Duncan’s intentions.

“No,” he said. “I won’t get another chance.”

The work area of his department—OPERATIONS DEVELOPMENT – INTRANET/FIRMWARE APPLICATIONS—was empty when he arrived, as expected. None of his employees were scheduled to clock in for another six hours.

From his corner desk it was Duncan’s job to oversee the thirty programmers and developers that were responsible for continuously maintaining and developing the code that powered the central Intranet used by the HappyMart conglomerate. Considering everything that the corporation owned, it was a difficult yet prestigious position, one that usually signaled the holder was on his or her way to the top.

HappyMart policy was to start all the sons and daughters of their senior management at the bottom, so they could gain experience and so they could one day better relate to and govern over their subordinates. Gifted in understanding and visualizing computer programs, he’d started in this very room on the bottom rung, six years before. Before long he’d risen to manage the entire department. In another ten years or his grandfather would retire, and Duncan would take over management of the day-to-day operations of Region 001, the station he’d been groomed to assume. He would be a mini-king.

But not any more, Duncan thought.

He placed the holodisk in its triangular reader and turned the tablePC on. The entire surface of his desk lit up, one gigantic, plastic-covered LCD screen. He opened the first file he’d stolen and tens of thousands of lines of code popped up on the desk’s screen. With a pen-sized stylus, he started dragging and dropping chunks of the code into a new, blank file. When he was through with the first file, he moved onto the next, and repeated the steps. After he’d gone through all the files, he closed them and focused on the new, huge filed he’d created.

For the next several hours, he revised portions of the code, adding certain protocols he had personally designed. At last, tired but satisfied, he was done. There was only one further task to take care of.

He accessed a private port into the company Intranet and uploaded the new protocol. A minute later, a speaker softly chimed, indicating that the upload was complete.

As he’d done a thousand times before, he turned the tablePC off, stood up, darkened the lights, and strode out the door.

All for the last time.

The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon, heralding a new day. As befitting a scion of senior management in HappyMart’s eyes, Duncan was provided with his own car and driver, a graying man by the name of Thomas.

They were driving down the two-lane highway that bordered the forest. Duncan was once more gazing out at the mountains, wondering what true freedom might taste like. He liked to imagine it tasted like water from a mountain stream: pure and refreshing.

His phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It was his grandfather. He plugged the phone into the vidscreen mounted onto the back of the seat in front of him. The Old Man’s accusing face greeted him.

“I just want you to know that Loss Prevention personnel will be waiting for you at your apartment when you arrive,” he said without preamble.

“No police?”

“They wish to handle this…internally.”

“Of course they do.” He glanced out the window again. Though morning was only a short while away, the full moon still shone down like a beacon calling him away from his life.

“That was a very stupid thing to do, Duncan—and pointless, too. I’m told that NetSec has already found and isolated the virus you uploaded. It will be completely removed in short order.” His mouth curled up in a slight sneer. “Your grand scheme for mass anarchy has failed.”

“That was only a little over the top,” Duncan commented, laughing. “And you’re wrong, Grandfather. Anarchy benefits no one. A little injected chaos, however, is healthy for any system. It keeps you on your toes, forces you remain capable of adapting.

“It’s not a virus, either; ‘protocol’ is more accurate. Besides, it’s not designed to be malicious, just…obtuse.”

“What do you mean?” the Old Man asked warily.

“The protocol does just what it means: it’s absorbed by various functions and issues new orders to them. For example, one set of instructions will reroute funds to certain underground organizations designed to help those terminated by HappyMart.” As he spoke, Duncan grew more excited. “Internal documents, stuff HappyMart wouldn’t dare show the public, will respond to new instructions and be posted on the Web, where everyone can see them. HappyMart’s corporate strategies will be made available to the only competitors left: the other two parts of the Triumvirate. And when TransEuropean and Teikoku greedily open those files, the protocol will become imbedded in their systems as well, sending that same information back to HappyMart and to anyone else who can access the Web. Once the entire world sees how the Triumvirate operates, things will change. They’ll have to.” Duncan rolled down a window, breathed in the chilly dawn air. “It’s going to be a whole new age of corporate responsibility.”

The implications of what he’d said were just beginning to resonate with the Old Man. Shock turned his face white. “But…but they’ll know everything about us. Our secrets, our strategic operations—everything.” He sounded appalled.

Duncan nodded. “And you’ll know everything about them. The balance of power will be shifted, not to you or your global competitors, but back to whom it rightfully belongs—the people.”

“You realize there will be consequences for what you’ve done?” His grandfather still looked distressed, but something else shown on his features. A glimmer of—

Pride?

No, that couldn’t be right. He was probably imagining it.

“There are always consequences.” Duncan leaned forward, hand poised over the transmit button. Quietly, he added, “Goodbye, Grandpa.” He pressed the button, and the screen went blank.

The cards had been dealt. He’d done the best he could with his hand, and now he had to choose: Fold, or go all in?

Duncan toggled the switch for the privacy shield separating him from the driver. The plastic window rolled down with a quiet whir.

His driver turned in the seat. “Sir?”

“I told you—call me Duncan. Pull off the road, please.”

Thomas frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a nice night out,” Duncan commented. “I feel like going for a walk.”

Still perplexed, the driver nonetheless complied. “Of course, sir—Duncan.”

The car rolled to a stop on the shoulder. Before the driver could do it for him, Duncan opened his door and stepped out.

The damp air washed over him like a refreshing shower. The dark forest spread out before him, mysterious and slightly foreboding, but at the same time full of possibility. In the distance, the mountains jutted up from the earth, silhouetted by the rising sun. Somewhere up there were people like him, people who’d grown tired of Corporate America’s unflagging scrutiny and oppressive rules.

Duncan told Thomas to drive into the city for a while, see a movie or something. So long as he stayed incommunicado and didn’t return to the residence for a while, Duncan didn’t care what he did.

The car pulled away. Duncan watched the taillights disappear from sight. Now he was alone, but only for a short while. The authorities would soon be after him.

He plunged into the depths of the forest, threading through the underbrush, running towards the mountains and his future.

fin