Attack of the Corporate Overlords: Chapter 5

A queer sci-fi story set in near-future Toronto, when corporations have gained control of the people.

Her senses were heightened, cueing in to the rhythmic beat of the workers’ footsteps as they routinely made their ways to their respective workstations. One by one, lines peeled off from the crowd, beelining to each assembly line. She focused on keeping her body oriented forward as her eyes scanned the cavernous room, making note of the Supervisors standing guard on the metal walkways that spanned the perimeter of the room at an imposingly high height. 

From their vantage point, the overseers had a sweeping view of everything that was going on below. Dressed in navy blue coveralls and stationed every 5 meters, they were the model of vigilance, an air of superiority in their wide stance and the set of their jaws. This watchful behaviour stood in stark contrast to the hyperfocused haze of the Assemblers, further highlighting the intentional grip FPC had so carefully engineered over the working class. Violet manipulated her assembly components as her vision locked onto the hand of one Supervisor, resting on a black metal object on his left hip. That looks lethal, she thought, eyes quickly darting back to her work. 

Over the course of her 16-hour shift, Violet had ample opportunity to observe the dynamics of the higher-ups. Where she and her coworkers had minimal access as Assemblers – Level 1 access, in FPC terms – the Supervisors were granted further reach. Their Level 2 permissions conferred them entry to more rooms, ones she had never really paid much attention to before.

Supervisors stood in place, unwavering save for the mechanical sweep of their heads from side to side. A changing of the guards occurred once every four hours, a new batch of Supervisors emerging from a series of doors positioned along the gangway. The retreating shift passed through the same doorway, swiping their hand sensors over familiar access pads to gain entry. Each entryway was emblazoned with a toxic-looking yellow sign that read “LEVEL 2 ACCESS AND ABOVE”. Makes sense, she thought to herself, access is tied to our implant chips. That would make her mission difficult – and that was before considering the latter half of the job was to locate schematics that she had literally no intel on. 

Her hands moved with precision through her tasks as she puzzled it over. Who would have the schematics? Supervisors? Or would it have to go even higher? She made record time of the menial work as she pondered, eyes flitting up to the third level of the assembly complex. She’d seen a handful of people move quietly between the locked rooms up top, dressed in fitted FPC-blue suits that differentiated them from the Supervisors on the walkway below. Though she’d never come face to face with anyone on this level, logic dictated that these people were Managers, Level 3 employees who did who-knows-what behind closed doors. For the most part they stayed locked in these rooms, emerging at irregular intervals for reasons unknown. Would this be where the schematics are kept? 

Knowing what she knew about FPC tech, it was a safe bet that getting into any of the rooms beyond the assembly floor would be next to impossible. Not only did Assemblers have no work-mandated cause to move past the ground level, she didn’t have the necessary chip permissions to get through the doors even if she made it that high. This wouldn’t be something she could figure out in a single shift, sixteen hours or not. 

As the clock edged closer to 11 PM signaling the near-end of another tedious shift, Violet’s thoughts had reached a dizzying pitch. Her Defiance-issued task was a mental puzzle whose solution eluded her, her body finally beginning to slow down as it registered the physical exhaustion of the long day. The tired numbness provided a convenient cloak as she exited the building, her motions matching the standard cadence of her coworkers as they plodded toward the front door. The Supervisors had descended from their lookouts, now flanking the hallways from the assembly floor to the exit. None of the other Assemblers seemed to even register their presence, dead eyes fixed ahead. 

Her walk home was visually uneventful – the same listless robotic crowds, the same red-eyed cameras staring ominously from so many angles, the same tiny shanty-houses she passed by every day. The metallic tang of viscera and death registered more than once, but she resisted the urge to seek out its source, not eager to observe the gruesome metamorphoses she knew would await her. She shuddered inwardly again as she thought about how unbothered everyone else was by these horrors, all swept up in their own version of the insidiously pharmaceutical haze that was the drug du jour.

She reached the front door of her hut, spotting a crumpled wrapper just off to the side of the steps. She nudged it inside casually with her foot as she passed through the door, locking the entry behind her in what she now realized was a futile gesture – after all, if someone wanted to get in to the lean-to, it wouldn’t take much effort. 

She bent down to retrieve the scrap, pressing it into her pocket as she crossed the distance to the living space. Her gaze traveled towards her mother’s usual resting place, jumping back with a slight start. Her mother sat stock-still, her eyes uncharacteristically open. 

“Hi mama,” Violet greeted softly, attempting to hide the sense of unease at seeing her in a semi-alert state. Her mother was unresponsive, her blank stare fixed on some point near the front door. Violet stepped closer, kissing her mom on the forehead and whispering a quiet “sleep well” before retreating, pulling the curtain shut behind her.