Continuity Corporations : Prologue

AUGUST 07 2021

ELO-17:

"...These come, of course, from our three sites across the world. Continuity: Alaska, Cohesion: Britain and Clarity: Laos. We create everything at those three sites. Nothing is outsourced. Our proprietary technology, ELO-17, emerged from the joint effort of these three divisions. It is a robotic implant that settles, through painless surgery, beneath the occipital bone of the skull. The central motherboard remains there; tiny nanofibers extruded from the cobalt electrode prongs travel elsewhere. Our expert surgeons can guide these fibres throughout the brain, at which point they connect to the pineal gland. This pairing, of organic construct and machine, opens the window to a whole dimension of technology that our ancestors, even our parents, could not possibly have ever imagined." 

And that was the end of it. Hot auditorium lamps, echoing acoustics, the mic clipped to his shirt. The strange humid scent and hundreds of staring eyes, some clasped by eyepatches or shielded by glasses, others intent and judging or apathetic nonetheless. They looked to him – Lawrence Lightfoot – the young man who stood upon the stage, and let loose their clamorous roar of approval. Their applause drew on and on, dying and reviving as men and women stood from their chairs in almost unnerving, occult fashion. It seemed his pitch had been to their favour, though that he already half expected, and bowed with a grin as the overhead auditorium lights shone and he exited the exposed stage. From beyond the view of the applauding rich, his smile faded and a jittering shiver pulsed down his body. "I assume it went well, sir." His assistant spoke, voice modulated and mechanical as it pushed from within the silver mask he wore. The man ignored him, pushed him away, and continued to his dressing room.

The assistant swore as he stumbled backwards, the man's push not necessarily strong yet rooted in a deep and suffocated frustration. The curse was but a whisper, not passing through the voice modulator, the mask's whirring voice-box giving little more than an exasperated sigh in response. He was a tall and thin and young man, the assistant, though was neither taller nor thinner nor younger than his boss. He was a gaunt man, dressed in a full-body suit of black stretchy polymer, thick and insulated, with the black company jacket pulled over it and rugged boots at his feet. The jacket was trimmed with blue, a magenta sash from shoulder to hip signifying his importance over the typical masked employee. The mask, a silver expression that clung to his face, was a gruesome thing. Alike a stage mask it was smooth and blank, large rectangular slits running down the forehead where the eyes sat, the mouth all too large, spanning from cheek to cheek with a grin of shark like teeth. His hair was a dyed pink, brilliant and exaggerated, that flowed thickly from a scalp half-covered by a black balaclava. No part of his body was shown; no skin glistened in the light. His eyes were obscured by the dark pits of the mask, his voice artificially growled by a modulator in the silver shawl's throat. His hair was inauthentic, his posture nondescript. He was not even allowed to tell others his name. He was anonymous, and he was not alone.

"Come on, Ecstasy."

That was his designation. "Ecstasy". An odd title, and even then one that only his friends referred to him by. Those who looked down to him referred to him only as his anonymous designation: A-69. He was not sure why that particularly was what he was called; it seemed all too crude. Another stood before him, masked and sheathed in a black suit like a shadow. He held out a hand, which Ecstasy took as he pulled himself to his feet. This man was the other assistant, the one who came before Ecstasy. He was taller and thinner than Ecstasy, with a BMI on par with their boss, though was not as young as either. He was more neutral, the expression of his mask but a simple blank horizontal line at the mouth, his company garb a single mauve shirt pulled over the black fabric suit. Even the artificially-dyed hair was more comfortable to look at; it was a mellow blonde, thinner and more choppy than Ecstasy's thick mane. Even his designation was a bit nicer: A-62; "Valium". 

He was, however, not as fortunate in other regards. As Ecstasy got to his feet and grumbled a thanks to the thin man before him, a shake in his limbs became visual and apparent. A jittering jaunt, a seizing of muscles that showed itself in stillness yet abated in motion. 

"Come on." Valium said, voice low and calm, "Let's find where he's stomped off to." 

Ecstasy scoffed. His own voice was more shrill, hoarser and rougher, alike a metal grating where Valium's was smooth and mechanical.

"Does he even need us, at this rate?" 

"He's the one paying us." 

They trudged through the embassy – a grand space of open auditoriums and sterile halls – and thought softly, not speaking a word yet drawing glances from the many suit-wearing entrepreneurs and investors who called events such as these their home. The space was broad and wide, hallways large and rectangular and comprised of great granite bricks. Pillars supported the arched ceiling, great windows one side of the hallway overlooking the streets below, darkened and shrouded in lamplight, as the other walls hung dressed by paintings and statues; as upkept as the gentry that loitered in their interiors. Valium sighed. His limbs moved quickly, as did Ecstasy's, though lingered in the air as if weightless, his movements dreamlike and wavy; a feather in the air that could not remain still. As he stood, looked and waited, his fellow noticed the shaking in his limbs, purple fabric of his shirt flexing and jittering as the muscles beneath writhed in contractive seizure. He looked back to Ecstasy; the man lingered behind him.

"He'll have gone to the art exhibition." Ecstasy said, the rasping shrill of his voice halting a few conversations around him and drawing the gazes of several who stood, drink-in-hand, discussing the investments and exhibitions of the evening. Darkness had set in outside. Valium nodded; they continued through the eternal halls.

Lawrence Lightfoot lingered in the art exhibition, talked-to and pestered by the suit wearers around him. There was a crowd of them, now, some listening, some speaking, some querying and questioning, ignored or answered. It would have been overwhelming were the attention not a drug to him, sinking into a part of his brain that seldom felt pleasure or completion. It was the lack of engagement that had annoyed him, and the insistence of his gormless new assistant. A-62, Valium, knew when to be quiet. A-69 seemed intent on speaking, in his grating nails-on-chalkboard voice, at every latent opportunity. 

It was an explanation that he was giving, of the head monitor placed against his scalp. The "ELO-17 Monitor", it was called, a crown-like apparatus of polished metal that clung to his forehead and flowed beneath his tawny hair. His was an heirloom; a proprietary model. Around him were the mannequins and busts that bore those for the general public. Two wings broke from a central disc-shaped monitor the size of a thumbnail that sat in the forehead, symmetrical and flowing behind the ears in a fold of feather-like wafers of metal. Heat-vents of genius construction that exuded thermal energy from behind the head, able to flow safely through hair or hat, drawing from the heat of the bloodstream behind the ear to monitor a hidden, unseen technology. It was a safety measure, it seemed, the disc a monitor that glowed from green to yellow to red, a hazard light that informed the wearer of the stability of the unseen technology: a brain implant, a mechanical chip, that augmented the mind of the wearer. A potent technology, yet one that was potentially hazardous in nature. Those mannequins, beautiful and sculpted, had been made by Lawrence himself. They were a part of the company's art exhibition, as were the crowns that sat upon their heads. They drew glances, it seemed, the crowd having grown since the beginning of his speech. 

Every company at the conference bore a stand alike the one that Lawrence stood behind, the many industries arranged sporadically across the circular ballroom that formed the exhibition space. A wonderful balcony, ring-shaped and pillar supported, allowed one above to view the entire auditorium beneath them, the staircase that connected the balcony to the auditorium curved, symmetrical and lavish. Sound erupted upwards, a droning chatter of voice and intrigue that marked the success of the convention. There were a great many tables, some barren and others crowded. The two with the biggest interest were right beside one another, it seemed, bathed in the golden light of the chandelier that hung above them, in the gilded centre of the room. There was Continuity Corporations – Lawrence Lightfoot's company – and Burya Pharma.

Every company bore a table, the table divided into two. It was something of a tradition for events such as these: one half was dedicated to the technology of the company, the other half a wonderful display of said technology used in a work of art. Technology and art. Practicality and beauty. Function and form. 

CC – Continuity Corporation – bore the mannequins and headdresses as their Art installation, their technical side swamped in the intrigue of many, who clamoured to see the advanced robotics on display. It was a human form, almost, of metal plates gilded with shining copper and bronze. It hung from the gantry like a coat set out to dry, arms outstretched as if crucified. A work-in-progress, clearly. Perhaps, come some years, it would graduate to an art exhibition. 

The stand managers came in to take Lightfoot's place as the man parted from the crowd, his list of questions and answers and explanations exhausted as he lingered for a second. Ecstasy and Valium stood upon the balcony as they caught sight of the man, who trotted across the ballroom; something had caught his eye, and as he ducked into a crowd they sighed. There were a great many steps on the stairwell.

"Burya Pharma was established, initially, shortly after World War One." The speaker was a charismatic fellow, military-looking and professional. Perhaps a veteran, she seemed of indeterminate age; her hair was silver and grey, yet her skin seemed to have a natural glow that shone even without the suffocating swathes of makeup that those around her smothered themselves in. She was tall and lean, muscular, yet leant on a cane. Her dress was forest green, a neat shirt and trousers covered by a long jacket, a sash of medals atop that glinted all the more brilliant as the nature of her war service showed itself.

She was missing her right eye, entirely gouged form the socket, and bore a black patch over the wound. Her voice was soft and stern, bellowing in a manner that filled the room. It bore a slight accent to it, a twinge of Russian, Polish or Ukrainian that was difficult to pin down. 

"Of course, then, it wasn't known as Burya. It wasn't even based in Siberia. It was, believe it or not, a British institution." She leant on her cane, "It was established by the League of Nations in their first meeting to unify the medical sciences, to regulate and maintain and hold others to a standard that had not before been demonstrated. It was known as the 'Storm Foundation' and operated as such for roughly twenty years. When the second World War began it was shelved temporarily, disbanded almost entirely with the collapse of the League." 

Lawrence skulked up into the crowd, the silver-haired woman's single eye darting towards him as she nodded to a colleague, a gruff and unnerving pale man with slick hair and a similarly missing eye, who lumbered over towards the young man. She continued:

"Assets were split. Some the UK retained, that were then sold to France under the pharmaceutical company 'Biogen'. The Soviet Union took control of the majority of assets, much to the chagrin of America and Britain. Though that government committed a great many sins, it seemed that the Storm Foundation – which they rebranded to 'Burya' – was a rare boon to the world writ large. It is widely surmised that this was due to its decentralised nature, several disparate groups working across eastern Europe to push medical technology forward whilst the Soviet Union roiled." Again, she leant on her cane. Her expression had been jovial at the beginning of her speech, yet had faded significantly.  

Silence split, some perhaps waiting for her to continue, yet she did not. She smiled and nodded, as did some who had been listening, green jacketed stall managers approaching them to converse.

She divided from the crowd, moving around the two tables that constituted Burya Pharma's exhibition. Lawrence had an expression of apprehension across his face, gaunt features shallow and weary.

"Mister Elohim." the woman said. She was referring to Lawrence: 'Elohim' was something of a stage-name; a title that signified his prominence in the company. She scoffed internally and felt a disgust brew in her gut. Elohim. Of course he would make his title that of a god or angel.

"What do you want." He muttered, voice a shrivelled remnant of the booming tone he gave in his speech. The woman smiled.

"I trust Devyat informed you of our agreement?" She gestured towards her assistant who stood beside Lawrence, the slick-haired man missing an eye, with a grin too hollow and uncanny. Devyat. 

"He did."

"And you are in agreement of it?" 

Even in the clamour of the auditorium, the silence in the brief pause between the exchange of the silver-haired woman and the response of Lawrence was loud.  

"I am." 

She smiled.

"Wonderful!" she said, mood revived, and held her hand out to the man. Again, there was a pause; Lawrence took her hand and shook it firmly. Her grip was strong, and though she stared deep into him, his gaze was drawn elsewhere. It was towards the tables, that where he was looking: to the tables that drew him to the Burya Pharma stand. Their technology was medical, a mechanical heart hooked up to an extensive and compact machine. The art, what drew his gaze, was a set of silver lungs, inflating like rugged balloons. It was graceful in movement, yet something about it seemed to make him sweat. The woman dropped his hand. Snapping back to focus, Lawrence regained a composure that had swept itself from his being, straightening his back and standing tall over the two people around him. Devyat looked up to Lawrence, expression distant and examining. He frowned momentarily and turned, as if sensing something behind him, and leered as he saw two more figures approaching. 

Valium and Ecstasy approached the man they knew as Elohim, Devyat's bizarre smile dropping as his gaze followed them both. Elohim turned to watch them approach, eyes shooting daggers, and swivelled back to the silver-haired woman.

"I'll contact you." he said, hand waving to fix the collar of his shirt as he swivelled upon a heel, turning to leave with Valium in tow. Ecstasy lingered and stared, Devyat's gaze staying upon him as the silver-haired woman, an official Ecstasy knew as 'Emmie' winced. Perhaps there was some recognition there, shown from the two green-jacketed individuals towards the masked man. Perhaps there was not. Ecstasy's gaze fell upon the silver lungs, then to Devyat. They lingered there as he walked backwards, slowly, keeping his gaze fixed until he turned and ran towards the two colleagues behind him.