Chapter III

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Fiction

It's just another Friday evening celebration at headquarters, the excuse this time being the acquisition of a mid-sized software development firm in Mumbai.

It's really a trivial business transaction, just another remote sweatshop under AIC's penumbra, soon to be churning out buggy patches and holding week-long fire drills, but Wilson Frederick always likes to have an official excuse to kick off his weekend bacchanal. Around six he circulates the executive suite, glad-handing whomever he sees, and finishes by poking his head inside the door of Sarab's walnut-paneled office. "Joining the party, bro?" he booms.
    "Of course," Sarab says, barely moving his eyes away from his workstation. "I'll meet you at the elevators in five minutes." Sarab is not required to attend anything, but it's an important gesture to socialize with the rest of the leadership. Team-building and all that. Plus he's not in a hurry to go home and sit around his empty mansion, with the rest of his clan in Delhi for Divali, and Friday nights the only work possibilities are solitary ones, since the offices empty out completely. Especially when CEO Frederick is leading by example. And Sarab must be honest with himself; he does get some enjoyment out of these outings, in a voyeuristic sort of way.
    So he sighs, shuts down his tools, locks the workstation and the desk, stands, stretches, walks slowly across the vast, intricately detailed Persian carpet, gazes contemplatively at the sun setting behind the Manhattan skyline. The view through the expansive wall of glass that comprises the southern and western walls of his corner office is always spectacular. He opens the large wardrobe built in to the inner office wall and takes his fine dark Irish wool trenchcoat from the hangar. Putting on the coat, he slips his node into an inner pocket. As he leaves the office he pushes the NIGHT button on the control console next to the door, dimming the lights and arming the security system.
    He makes his way across the floor to the elevators. The senior executive offices with their accoutrements of dark walnut and brass are arranged around the outside walls to monopolize the windows. The central spaces of the floor are occupied by the cubicles of executive staff, analysts, assistants, consultants, and other court attendants, and are furnished with slightly less sumptuous and more modern aluminum, light pine and frosted glass. The cubes are mostly empty of life now except for a few workaholics. He hears a burst of hearty laughter ahead.
    As he approaches the elevators, his eyes resolve a small dark-clad group of people into the standard formation, Wilson surrounded by his chorus of sycophants: Lafonte the CFO, Billings the COO, Nyman the CIO, and several other impeccably groomed parties whose titles start with "C". Around them is a secondary ring of Senior VPs, Directors, and executives of affiliate companies. Amusingly, Sarab notes, there is a notable correlation of height to rank, so the herd has a conical shape, with Wilson's 2-meter-plus figure at the summit.
    He reaches the perimeter of the scrum just as the elevator emits its subtle symphonic chime. "Sarab! Now the gang's all here!" Wilson's voice cuts through the hubbub, and the outer ring opens up for him deferentially. As the CTO, he belongs in the inner circle, and his actual rank is even higher than his title suggests. Mentally accepting the need to play his role in the status game, he steps to Wilson's side, feeling himself enveloped in a subtle cloud of hair conditioner, cologne, testosterone. Side by side, they step into the elevator's gleaming interior, followed by a few of the other C-levels. The rest of the group waits for another elevator.
    The gold-plated doors slide shut and the elevator drops smoothly. The glass-sided car rides along the outside of the tower, and as they descend towards street level from 120 stories up, it's like they are gods coming down from the heavens. Sarab is not a small man, but standing amidst Wilson and his clique of alphas, he is a dwarf among olympians, badly postured and paunchy.
    "Another key takeover in the bag, eh Bobby?" Wilson rumbles, not toning down his penetrating basso voice at all despite the confined space.
    "That's right, Will," the COO asserts crisply. "Mumbai SDE is a great addition to our stable. A lot of talent. Highly motivated. We'll have them contributing in no time."
    "The numbers are outstanding," the CFO foghorns. "Excellent price to value on this deal. Bob and I talked them down forty percent from the initial proposal. Didn't even have to twist their arms. Much."
    "Always good to save a buck. A billion here, a billion there, pretty soon it adds up to real money." Wilson chuckles like a munificent uncle passing out cigars at a wedding.
    Sarab gazes outside. The flanking lesser towers of the AIC complex rise around them like the spires of a cathedral. The sun is gone and the lights of the city are emerging, outlining a fantastic artificial topology of ideal geometric forms. Above, the lights of myriad aircraft move in all directions, at all elevations, flowing in complexities too baroque for the eye to grasp. Below, pedestrians flow, and below them, dense streams of ground traffic. The city is a constellation of atoms in continuous motion, and all of it is choreographed by the road, AIC's road, a ubiquitous, invisible web of protocols and controls. The world is run by their machine, their creation is the world, and this is why they are rewarded with infinite power and wealth. Truly, they are gods.
    The elevator arrives in the main lobby and they emerge into its cavernous space of marble and metal, giant electronic displays on the walls, the public front room of AIC. A pair of attendants greets them, one male and one female, and unnecessarily precedes them towards the exit, muttering nervously into their headsets. The venues for these social events vary, but the default location is a private club, the Zone, conveniently located adjacent to their main tower. A dozen large security staffers in heavy blue jackets form a phalanx around them as they leave the building. Overhead, as always, is the subliminal whir of hovering bots, cams and snipers to detect and destroy any threat. Their procession walks 2 blocks down the street and is ushered into Zone's onyx-clad private entrance without coming within 10 meters of a member of the general public. The encounter with the outside world is brief and efficient.
    "Ah, home!" Wilson proclaims, as they are hit with a wave of waitresses in maroon bodysuits bearing cocktails on perfectly balanced trays. Some well-executing functionary has called ahead their refreshment requirements. Sarab hangs back slightly from the social nexus. His presence in the room qualifies as adequate socializing. There is no need to actively participate in the loud verbal declarations, athletic back-slapping, and status displays which now will commence. One waitress zeroes in on him, presenting a light beer in a crystal glass. "Your preference, sir?" she says charmingly. Sarab nods and takes it. Perhaps he will even imbibe some.
    There is a commotion at the entrance behind them, a blare of color and sound which irresistibly draws the eye. Sarab directs his attention towards it. Celebrities? Politicians? Rock stars? A chattering vanguard of agents and personal attendants heralds the arrival of a pair of glittering 2-meter-tall, 11-inch-wide supermodels, illuminated by painfully intense media spotlights. Ah, the wives. Sarab now understands that this will be an evening of relative restraint and good behavior, rather than a frenzied maelstrom of drinking and carousing inevitably involving the arrival of a coterie of engagingly available young starlets. He is glad, since such free-for-alls always involve him making awkward motions to leave, being cajoled by his highly overenthusiastic colleagues, and finally painfully extricating himself from their collective grasp as they become engrossed in unseemly spectacles of adultery. The initial pair enters the Zone with a synchronized runway strut, followed by several ranks of lesser prima donnas, an alluring display of physical and sartorial perfection. The leaders, a redhead in a trailing black gown displaying endless cleavage, and a brunette in scintillating red silk leaving her flawless shoulders and arms bare, are respectively Wilson's wife and Billings' mistress. As they greet their men with air kisses and smouldering looks, Sarab observes that their initial appearance of incredible height was an illusion, and in fact both are wearing heels of just the right elevation to make them aesthetically half a head shorter than their partners. Once the two royal couples have merged, the lesser nobility also greet their better halves. Only one stunning blonde in orange chenille and white fur is left unescorted, visibly stamping her spike heels in outrage. Sarab feels a slight twinge of sympathy. What calls and coordinations she must have made, what detailed plans and ambitions, now resulting in crashing social humiliation. Some junior exec's ears will be burning with abuse within minutes, and unless he appears in the next 10, perhaps he will have to find a new gilded ornament.
    Sarab permits himself to sip his beer. It is a vice, but a minor one. Tonight he is content. These preening simians are the type of persons required to run a major corporation, to interface with and hopefully to dominate the similar monkeys who sit at the top of other corporations and governments. He is certainly not their type, but they accept and defer to him out of necessity. Though the other C-levels all possess large amounts of equity in the enterprise; shares, options, and stakes aplenty; ample motivation to drive the company to succeed, Sarab himself is the single largest shareholder, last remaining founder, and dominant member of the board. Yes, Wilson is the figurehead, the CEO and chairman, and runs the company on a daily basis, but Sarab is the true leader behind the scenes. Everyone in the inner circle fully understands this reality, or they would not be present. Even outside the firm, presidents, executives, leaders who are in the know petition Sarab for meetings about their concerns, not Wilson. He has joined the highest levels of council and dictated terms to nations. Other leaders are beholden to shareholders, or voters, or congresses, but Sarab's position is unique and unassailable. He holds control of the most powerful organization under the sun, and nothing can remove him. Sarab sits at the innermost circle of the rings of power in the world, the true power structure that is invisible and unspoken, unlike Wilson's suited club, and of his peers in that inner ring, he is the most secure. So, let the suits play their games. They know who is boss.
    Wilson appears at his shoulder, his wife floating alongside. She holds the stem of her martini glass perfectly still between thumb and forefinger. "Having a good time, Sarab?" he intones.
    "Of course, after such a successful conclusion to the SDE deal." Sarab says. "Good evening, Rebecca."
    "So good to see you again, Sarab," she says, nodding. Her accent is slightly exotic, Eastern European perhaps?
    "Thank you for taking the team out," Sarab says. "And for inviting the wives. It's good that we can mingle and enjoy."
    "Of course, I live for this," Wilson smiles, sweeping his forearm to indicate their orbiting subordinates. "I've always said it's best to work with friends." Rebecca smiles in perfect unison with him.