Megabyte

His office was like royalty. Within his own personal domain he is king and his employees were subordinate underlings, slaves. He wasn't a powerful man nor was he influential in things like politics, but his name was printed on every box he shipped. His software was used by every agency around the globe. His face was the imprinted interpretation of God, William Baxter, the digital king.

His cherry oak desk must weigh a ton, the unnecessary gold and silver inlays were just a reminder that the desk could be sold to feed the homeless in some third world country. Some nobody region back alley slum that weren't stock holders. The thought never does cross his mind as he signs an endless pile of documents on the left side of his desk. His approvals and disapprovals for next year's fiscal budget would bring Star Industry to the pentacle of big business. His enterprise would lead the way for the next generation of Baxters, his overwhelming empire of software packages and installation files would span to every corner of the world.

A rapping comes from the large gold imbued doors. The metal was kept polished so that it could be used as a mirror as well. The powerful man sits at his throne, far too egotistical to open the locked office. He presses a button to the right of his majesty's desk and asks for identification.

A small intercom announces that the visitor was the vice president of distribution. His intentions were of concern to the fiscal year and it was urgent for him to speak to his lord. Mr. Baxter was a busy man and he didn't feel the strain that his lower underlings felt. The president sighs quietly and puts down his pen. He unlocks the door with a single button and the gates to the palace open wide.

"Mr. Baxter, we have a serious problem with the software packages in the latest software," Gerald Franks, the head department of his section had to go through three stories of approvals and grants in order to be walking inside the headquarters office. This was his first time meeting with Mr. Baxter and his palms were sweating. He had heard stories of the ruthless dictator across from the massive wooden desk.

William Baxter stands up and beams a hundred thousand dollar grin at his slave. He waves his hand over to a single chair across from him; his strong thick hands demand respect. His fingers demand loyalty. His pen demands absolute brainwashing.

"I have read your reports Mr. Franks and I don't believe your concerns are well founded," Baxter said in a thick Italian accent. He leans back in his black leather throne and props his shoes on the edge of his desk. The guest can't help but think about those shoes. They were probably worth the same as his annual salary.

"Sir, but if my estimates are correct, we will need to release forty thousand employees as well as drop the healthcare provisions in your clause." Mr. speaks of the problems with the employees. He stresses concerns for the morale of the subordinates. He describes the working environment and the inability to get things done because of red tape. The reality of the matter is that the infrastructure of the dynasty was falling apart from the inside. He speaks the truth and the god wishes to hear none of it. "I don't believe this is a wise move." He finishes his statement on a chord of worry.

The god of Star Industry opens a box of cigars and lights up. The silver rings of smoke rise to an infinitely high ceiling with more shining gold tiles and mirrored reflections. He looks over at the concerned slave and shakes his head with distaste before leaning over to draw open a filing drawer on his left.

He looks down and begins thumbing through file after file of confidential material before drawing a red folder to the surface. He drops it on his desk and opens it with the back of his fingers. He flicks the thick ashes of the cigar in a bronze platter.

"Yes, I understand the dilemmas you must be facing downstairs Mr. Franks. I have reviewed the surveys from the last two years," Mr. Baxter picks up a yellow sheet of paper, high gloss visual graphics of his superiority. Charts that prove he is the god of his empire. "I have seen the plans for next year's priorities and have come to a decision."

Gerald Franks fiddles with his fingers, damn his sweating hands. Damn this position, damn this creature of darkness, lounging with a cigar before him. He could not help but look into the eyes of the beast and realize that his lord has already made a decision without consulting him. This could not be good.

"I have decided to make some changes and have also decided that your office is no longer required here." He tosses the yellow sheet on the desk. It spins around to face the man on the other side. The man who once had a job here, fired, collect your pink slip. "As you can see from the charts, your department has failed for the past two years in appraising appropriate budget restraints and have failed on two multi-million dollar contracts with the U.S. Government. I can't allow this any longer."

Baxter turns his attention from the yellow sheet and to his former department head, "I am sorry Gerald, but my decision is already made." He looks sympathetic. What a lie. "I have prepared a resignation letter on your behalf and have given you high marks for your departure to other business avenues."

As if he should be thanked! Gerald does not seem at all amused. What can he do besides smile and look gracious of it all?

"I understand Mr. Baxter. I will be packing my things now." He slides the chair away and gets up slowly. The president tells him not to worry and that the resignation paperwork is being sent, as they speak, to his office for final signature and approval. "Will that be all then, sir?"

William Baxter nods his head and again he speaks a condoling apology. He waves the gentleman away and flicks his cigar into the bronze plate. He watches as Gerald Franks walks out of the office and the golden gates closing behind him. The familiar sliding bolt mechanism to assure it is locked. One can not be too careful.

He presses a button and then the intercom key. He waits for a voice to acknowledge him, "Yes Mr. Baxter?" She says through the speaker.

"Sherry, give a call down to R&D. Tell him I am want to see the progress on our newest project. He'll know what I'm talking about!" He said with a gentle tone. It seems apparent that he doesn't care that he had just signed away forty thousand jobs. Forty thousand families now left without a pay check. Thousands more will be have no health coverage. Many of them may be sick for work soon. They had better show if they value their positions. This was the law of the land.

***

"How did it go, Jerry?" A young man asked. He couldn't have been more liberal. His hair was tossed around and unkempt, but washed. His face had a five o'clock shadow and his glasses could use cleaning. He spins in his rickety grey chair, the whining sound of the swivel reminds him to put in a request for a new one.

"DAMMIT!" Gerald Franks yells out, he punches the door and a few books on a shelf tumble over to the ground. He marches passed the young man and into his office. The door slams shut and more books tumble down.

"Damn, I just cleaned this!" The man gets up and scratches his chin. He looks over at his co-worker. "Hey Bob, what the hell do you think happened with the big boss?"

Bob was fat. He was entirely too obese for his own good. He was unhealthy, a walking cardiac victim. His chair wasn't broke though, a blessing. Bob leans back and takes a huge chunk out of a sweating drippy slice of pizza. With his mouth full he shrugs an answer, "He probably got fired, Mike. That's what I'd do if I got fired!" small bits of pepporoni try and escape the jaws of death.

Mike shakes his head and throws a book at the lard of fat at the other side of the cluttered little office. Bob, for his size, was adept at dodging these attacks and quickly scoots his chair behind the blue partisan wall. He snickers.

"That's not at all funny, you're stupid!" Mike responds. He wasn't the best with words, but he was great with number crunching, that was his life, his existence. He knew no other way. He gets up and buttons the top button of his white collared shirt before knocking on the door, "Hey, Mr. Franks?"

"Go away!" He hears from the other side of the door.

"Does that mean I can go home then?" Mike chuckles lightly. He hoped the answer would be yes. It was a slow day in the office and he had plans, big plans.


"Yes. And you don't have to come in tomorrow… or the day next… or the day after that!" Gerald Franks said in a bitter acidic voice.
"Am I fired or what?" Mike knocks on the door louder. "C'mon Jerry, let me in! I need to know what the hell is going on!"

The door opens and Jerry has his pin striped jacket off. His hair looks like a mess and he really doesn't look like a department head anymore. A stout drink of what appears to be whiskey is in his right hand, "Yeah, come in Mike. I'll tell you about it."

***

The elevator is sanitized like a hospital and there wasn't anything fancy about it. It is much like how Baxter's office wasn't. The small space was simple and unwelcoming. If it wasn't for the black suit, red long sleeved silk shirt and black tie, the elevator would lack any form of color. Mr. Baxter waits for the elevator to stop moving. His arms are crossed and he looks at the red numbers blinking down far passed the basement level.

The door finally slides open into a single dark corridor with blue lights. To either side there are silver walls. If he didn't know better, it would seem that he would be walking into an air duct. A metallic door ends the corridor in an abrupt intruding manner.

Mr. Baxter walks to the door and leans to the right side of the massive wall. A small machine pulls out of the silver duct surface and a red light scans his pupil. A mechanized voice speaks out from another small speaker, "Good afternoon Mr. Baxter."

The president of Star Industry speaks back to the speaker, "Good Morning."
A tiny monitor shows a sound wave and below it there is a similar wave in a different color. A small line crosses from the left to the right of the monitor and the robotic voice replies back, "Voice print confirmed."

The monitor switches screens to a digital number pad and Baxter presses a seven digit code inside of it. The voice acknowledges the password and the screen shifts to a box. Mr. Baxter places his left thumb on the digital box and another line scans from left to right.
A blue light flashes above the metal wall and then it turns green. The mechanized voice speaks as a heavy bolt slides from within the thick door. The sound of a gear rotating the interior locks of a vault stir about in the corridor as the doors begins to slowly open. The mechanical voice speaks in approval, "Identification confirmed."

The doors open and standing before Mr. Baxter is a man in a lab coat. His hair is long and grey. He has a beard which covers his face and he holds a clipboard on his arm, propped up with the edge against his chest. He is writing something as the president god walks in. The doctor doesn't appear to have much emotion. He looks up and greets him, "Good afternoon Mr. Baxter, we've been waiting for you." He waves his arm into the humble darkness of blue lights. "Right this way, Sir."

William Baxter grabs the insides of his coat and tightens the fit around his body before entering. He steps inside the room and the thick metal door begins to close behind him. He walks on metal grates and the sound echoes lightly in the room. "What is the progress? Will it be operational by the end of the month, Dr. Shinoski?"

Dr. Hubert Shinoski has several doctorate degrees in robots and artificial intelligence engineering. He spent his entire life’s working with cybernetic technology and was hired by Star Industry for a specific purpose. The logic was simple. Robots never complain or argue. They need no sleep nor do they require time off. They simply do as they were told. Something Mr. Baxter felt was necessary from his human counter parts. Something that Mr. Baxter was never truly satisfied with. Something that Dr. Shinoski must fix.

"Sir, the first prototypes are ready and we're waiting for another shipment from the United States. We should have a functioning unit that will meet and surpass your expectations as proposed in your report." The doctor seemed over confident. He was far too intelligent for his own good.

Mr. Baxter looks to the doctor and raises a brow and chuckles, "You always surprise me Doctor." He looks down the dark blue room, something cold subtle. A quiet endless room of computer pillars, gently humming giant ceiling fans, and the faint sounds of computer beeps and whistles.

Doctor Shinoski returns a smile and proceeds down the catwalk of iron grates. Each step he takes rattles horrible noises in the room. The echo of the two individuals is heard by a legion of scientists moving back and forth like an organized bee hive under them. They work in almost complete darkness except for the dim blue lights of their artificial night.

The doctor opens a glass door on the far side of the room and takes the president into a museum of robotic appendages and cast away extras. He takes the president to a small corner of the room and turns on a red light. He then turns a switch and the wall begins to slide open.

This sliding door leads to an empty black nothing until the doctor slips inside and switches a lever down. Giant yellow bulbs begin to flash on and burst light down the hall. To either side of them are open pockets of space, separated by half built walls, as if this were another line of cubicles. The bald scalp of a person is seen in a cubicle labeled, "Prototype Model C: John Smith"

Mr. Baxter walks over to the cubicle and looks down at it. The doctor steps into the cubicle and takes the hand of the person inside. He quickly reads the pulse and makes notes on his clipboard, "As you can plainly see, Sir, they are ready for activation."

Prototype Model C: John Smith slouches on his chair. He wears only white boxers and a serial number marked with a barcode is tattooed on the back of his bald scalp. Wires run from his arms and legs. A thick black tube connects to his belly where his belly button is supposed to be located. Several smaller black tubes connect to his skull and line either side of his spine. Other than the fact that he was connected to a machine, it would seem John Smith was just slouching on the job.

"Excellent…." Mr. Baxter said as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "When are the next subjects due in?"

Doctor Shinoski flips a few pages on his clipboard and looks back up, "We're expecting to receive thirty more convicts from the United States next week. They are promised to be in perfect health.

"Be sure of that, Doctor. We don't need anymore useless products shipped to us. This new shipment is promised to survive the procedure I suspect?" Mr. Baxter looks to the doctor and he doesn't seem optimistic.

"Sir, I was promised they would survive the procedure. If they don't, I'm sure you know how to obtain more subjects that won't be missed out on the open market." The doctor said in an almost joking manner.