4: NeoBean, the average citizen and a true patriot

 Tom's alarm sounds.  He fumbles for his phone.  0700, alarm due in 1 hour.  As he's dragged unkindly back into consciousness, he realises that the noise isn't an alarm, it's GBulletin, and it's LOUD.  A few of the older citizens can still remember the last time GastroTech issued a priority 1 instruction.  There'd been a fire in one of the residential districts, a big one, and evacuation orders had been distributed to all citizens within 5 miles.  The fire brigade had brought it under control, no major loss of life, but everyone remembered that sound.  It was drilled into the collective psyche of anyone living in the city, like the air raid sirens of old.  Tom paled, unlocked his phone, checked his notifications.

"From the Desk of Joe Winchester.  You're in, Tom."

He blinked.  Well at least the noise had stopped but he wasn't getting back to sleep after a scare like that.  It certainly didn't LOOK important.  He pottered around for a while, washed, ate, watched the news.  A full week after the riots and the top story was still covering little Jeremy Mills, the 7 year old (he must have been big for his age) cult leader who'd come to public attention during that folding chair business.  His cult, the True Believers of Dog Farts had changed their name again, as they did on a daily basis.  Jeremy appeared to have an attention span problem.  They'd arranged a march in the city centre, demanding legal acknowledgement as a charity and a religion.  They were also demanding pictures of "awesome sports cars with flames shooting out the back", but they tended to demand that at any given opportunity as per the desires of their fickle leader.  Tom had been following all this with considerable interest.  It wasn't that the kid had any good ideas, he seemed to have all the normal interests of an average 7 year old, he was just very, very charismatic and unusually loud.  If the cult thing fell through, he'd be set for life as a social media influencer.

He checked the notification that had woken him.  Joe Winchester, though.  Sure, everyone knew Joe.  He was one of the richest people in the world, a notable recluse, very rarely officially seen and never outside of his office.  You saw his FACE all the time, of course.  He included a photo of himself with every Christmas bulletin, sat at his desk as usual but decorated with tinsel and lights, and his face was all over their official media.  Websites, books, newsletters, that kind of thing.  GastroTech didn't pump out propaganda, they didn't need to, but as part of their corporate and social responsibility commitments, they liked to offer the population the means to keep themselves informed about company goings on.  The shareholders appreciated it, if nothing else.  But still, it wasn't every day you got a message from a person worth the GDP of a reasonably developed country.  Joe was so rich, you'd have to redefine the word.

"Hi Tom,

I am writing to you personally to thank you for your interest in project Neobean, a recent GastroTech innovation.  You will hopefully recall your participation in our customer survey last week and I am overjoyed to inform you that you have been selected as one of our most statistically ideal candidates, an elite group of 5 individuals with exactly the right physical, mental and social requirements to participate in a very special closed product testing session.  We interviewed over 300,000 people, Tom, so you can consider yourself, objectively, to be an very special person.

Your ident has now been authorised access to GTech Plaza's Innovation Centre and we would like to invite you to a day long product testing session this Friday.  A calendar entry is enclosed for your convenience.  Bring nightwear and anything else you would require for an overnight stay in a hotel, all other needs will be catered to.  And we would advise that you bring a healthy appetite.  We cannot divulge the nature of the testing yet.

I have noted your profession, as a personal aside.  I do not need to tell an individual such as yourself how big an opportunity this could be.  I have taken the liberty of further updating your ident; you will find you're able to purchase GTCH shares at a discounted employee rate for the next 72 hours.  Just a small token of my appreciation for your involvement.

Thanks,

Joe"

Hmm.  So insider trading and... what, bribery?  No sense in reporting any of it, what would it achieve?  The man was known to spend a million dollars before breakfast and even sometimes ON breakfast.  Fines meant nothing.  But Tom wasn't stupid, he wouldn't be taking advantage of such "offers".  Don't get on the hook, don't give yourself a reason to owe them.  Some might have called that paranoia, Tom called it caution.  Joe was a notable hardass and rarely generous, especially not where the common man was concerned, not unless there was a PR opportunity in it, and Tom was no charity.  Too fishy.  Still, the test sounded legitimate and if he truly WAS one of five, they were paying attention to him now.  It could be a real VIP experience.

-

Friday was bright and clear.  It tended to be.  While the ocean was yet to be fully colonised, it was well known that there were hundreds of facilities on static platforms built well away from the land that facilitated such things.  Weather control was its own industry and its practitioners rather well paid for their efforts.  It wasn't a widely understood science, a very niche discipline, but most people understood it to involve strategically seeding and dehydrating of the ambient atmosphere or... similar.  Everyone had a different idea.  Sattelites usually figured vaguely into most explanations.  All that mattered to the common man, though, was that rain tended to do what it was told, these days.  It was concentrated over the ocean where it couldn't cause irritation, though was strategically deployed over cities for times of special festivals and could be rented by the day for television and cinema productions by special arrangement.

Tom took the Metro.  Every city had one now, a mass transit network of automated electric vehicles, free for all to use, paid for by taxes.  They'd actually done wonders to reduce harmful waste gasses.  You had to deal with the occasional oddball, but it was hardly any worse than driving had been in the old times.  As he took his seat, he looked idly down the length of the carriage.  Not many people on board today.  One person at the end was surrounded by a fairly large array of cameras, lights and microphones.  They were... known to the city.  They were trying to become some kind of niche celebrity, a common enough pursuit for centuries.  Their angle was that they intended to effectively "live" on the Metro for as long as practically possible.  The carriages were equipped with toilet facilities so provided they could convince a supporter to occasionally bring them food and water, it was theoretically doable.  In fact, they'd been livestreaming their efforts for fully 3 years now, all over Metro wifi.  They'd actually gained support from the transit operators recently, been given a small sponsorship deal, featured in a few ads enthusiastically declaring the comfort and convenience of the facilities.  Tom didn't look directly at them.  They were currently wearing a unicorn onesie and he wasn't in the mood to be pulled into a hyperactive interview.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected when he exited the carriage.  Balloons and banners, maybe?  It all looked pretty normal.  Suited workers moving between buildings, muttering into earpieces.  The usual stuff.

"Tom?"

A rep of indeterminate age, gender or ethnicity waved him over.  They were remarkable.  It was as if a person had been created by considering every physical characteristic that you might use to distinguish them from their peers and said "average.  Right down the middle, please".  A cheese pizza of a human with nothing on it.  Not notably tall or short, fat nor thin, smartly but not severely dressed.  Had you asked Tom to describe them within 5 minutes of meeting them, he wouldn't have been able to.  It wouldn't have been possible.  You could have used them as a perfect template to rebuild humanity from the ground up.

Tom blinked.  He thought himself to be unremarkable but he knew he was in the presence of a master of the craft.

"... yeah, yeah that's me.  Hi?"

"Sam.  It's a pleasure to meet you, we've been looking forward to welcoming you."

Sam took them across the plaza, explaining the history of the company, pointing out interesting little anecdotes about the buildings, mildly amusing little pieces of trivia about the company.  It was the safest conversation Tom had ever experienced and it was becoming apparent that Sam had no personality of their own.  Tom actually caught himself checking the back of their neck for ports.  GastroTech WAS known to have the odd bit of experimental tech that hadn't been revealed to the public yet, they had a pretty well funded R&D division, so God knows, they could have been working on androids.  But no, as far as he could tell Sam seemed human, at least physically.

"... and since then, our recipe has been a closely guarded secret known only to 3 of our top executives and one single patent lawyer.  So Tom, here we are, if you'll keep this lanyard on at all times while you're on site, please, you'll find an elevator inside on your left.  Don't worry about signing in, the front desk are expecting you.  Yours is floor 11, room 23c, but there are directions and a map on the back of the lanyard if you get lost.  Have a great day!"

"Thanks?" replied Tom, aware that he hadn't actually contributed to the entire 10 minute conversation.  He felt a little tired, he didn't think Sam had at any point even stopped to breathe.  He acknowledged the greetings of the front desk staff and made his way to the lift, but couldn't get Sam out of his head.  He tried to imagine their hobbies.  Nothing.  What it would be like to live with them.  He imagined they wouldn't sleep in a conventional bed, they'd simply store themselves in a convenient receptacle until morning.  He shivered slightly.

The lift opened to corporate limbo.  He was in deep here.  No flashy lighting, no posters.  Gray carpeting was the order of the day, here, with off-white walls and strip lighting overhead, set into a ceiling of white foam tiles.  A tall potted plant of no specific species occurred every 10 metres or so.  He walked the long corridor looking for 23c, wondering to himself if this kind of decor was somehow baked into the human psyche.  Did it unite us across all cultures?  Every human ultimately needs food, shelter, companionship but once those needs are met, do we all, deep down, long for this... monochrome liminal expanse?  Yeah, this was where someone like Sam would live.  A vanilla space for a vanilla person.

He arrived at 23c.  The door was ajar and 5 other participants were already seated inside.  One was obviously another customer relations rep, an older lady with graying blonde hair who was making animated, polite small talk with the others but obviously keeping a close eye on the reactions of the large gentleman seated nearest her.  She smiled broadly as he entered.

"Tom?  Super, you're right on time.  5 minutes early, in fact.  Thanks so much for joining us today, if we're all ready, I think we can get started."

She shut the door and produced some sheets of paper from her ring binder.  GastroTech really liked a ring binder, apparently.

"Just for starters, if you could all read and sign one of these, please.  Signature at the bottom, in your own time.  There's a clipboard and pen provided under your chairs.  Just a standard NDA and liability waiver.  The products you're going to be interacting with are considered experimental but that's just a term we use when we haven't formally promoted them to market, yet.  We've gone through several months of testing, so they're as safe as we can informally declare them.  This last consumer test will be the final round before we're able to change that "safe" from an informal declaration to a legal one."

Tom noticed one of the people, a small and nervous looking man, wince at that.  He didn't know why.  The man obviously had no poker face.  He was also wearing an employee lanyard, not a visitor one.

"Are we done?  Great, thanks very much.  Okay, I'll have those filed later on but for now, how about an ice breaker?"

5 pairs of eyes looked back at her with either indifference or quiet horror.

"So how about... okay, if we each introduce ourselves, shall we?  Tell us about yourselves and one fun fact.  So I'm Abigail but you can call me Abby, I'm a Senior Satisfaction Associate and I'm been working here for over 35 years.  I've got 2 kids, 3 cats and I'm married to Keith who works the front desk of head office.  My fun fact is that on weekends I run a pilates in the park at 9 o'clock in the recreation area just outside of the plaza.  Come along and say hi!"

3 cats.  You heard of those people but you didn't meet many.  Domestic pets were a thing of the past, they only occupied specially designed habitats these days.  No home, except those of the wealthy elite, was large enough to contain any form of non-human life and Abby didn't look rich.  Well off, maybe, but not rich.  When people about "cats" or "dogs", they more often than not were referring to either virtual pet apps or Buddybots.  Buddybot was a popular brand and the pet replicas they made were pretty sophisticated.  You could customise them to your own preferences, choosing how faithful they'd be, how affectionate, even how naughty.  They filled a little emotional gap for a lot of people, but owning more than one of them carried a bit of a social stigma.  It was typically associated with empty nesters.  Harmless behaviour but a little sad.

The person to Abby's left stood up, right hand on her hip, left on her chest.  She couldn't have been a day older than 25 and was an obvious follower of a fairly recent trend, the post-Beatnik movement.  In a society constantly fighting for new ways to express itself in a vast ocean of generic homes, generic interests and massive overpopulation, the arts had come to save the day.  All fashion is, indeed, cyclical and post-beatnik was a resurgence of the old world 1950s counterculture movement, generally dressing itself in much the same way.  Black, figure hugging outfits, berets, pince-nez sunglasses and zero-nicotine cigarettes rolled almost monomolecular-thin were almost their uniform, a kind of conformist non-conformity, an irony that they largely claimed was "the point".  Tom knew that she'd have a book of self-written poetry about her person.  She looked around the room for just long enough to ensure she had its full attention and began her declaration in a lazy, breathy drawl.

"My name is Tara but I present myself to the world as Clear Belle.  Mine is the tone that wakes up the philistine masses from their stupor, mine are the words that inspire, mine are ideas that nourish a starving world."

This clearly wasn't having the desired effect.  She sniffed.

"And a fun fact about me" she said in a sharper voice, rolling her eyes, "is that I'm a clone."

That was becoming common nowadays.  A couple of people slightly nodded in a barely-veiled gesture of "yeah, that makes sense".  Live birth was still by far the most popular way to have a child, but for infertile or same sex couples, tailor made clones were a safe option.  Many tended to be a little resentful as they aged, finding it harder than most to find their own identities when they knew they were a literal copy of their parents rather than just a product, and their teen years tended towards rebellion.

She sat.  Abby nodded appreciatively and looked to Tom.  He stood.

"Hi, I'm Tom.  I'm 31... I don't really know what else to tell you, I'm afraid.  I work with financial stuff.  It's not really that interesting."  He noticed Abby and the large man next to her exchange a slight glance at that point.  "A fun fact about me is... oh, I can hold my breath for 2 full minutes, I guess that's something."

A couple of polite coughs.  He sat down.  The nervous looking man to his left stood.  He looked in his 60s, but everything about his stance, his face, his eyes suggested a man who'd lived for so long under constant stress, he'd mentally normalised it.  He'd clearly been balding for a long time, hair receding to a birds' nest protecting an ostrich egg of a head wearing a pair of black-framed glasses thick enough that their weight must have been leaving imprints in the man's nose.  He was wearing a button up white shirt and black trousers, with a company lanyard around his neck.  He was sweating.  The room wasn't warm.

"Um... Isaac.  I'm a member of the product development team.  A f-fun fact about me is that I was... um... was involved in NeoBean."

Abby laughed.  "Dr. Heinemann is too modest.  He's the Lead Product Development Scientist behind the project and perfected the formula that you're all about to enjoy!"

Isaac visibly twitched at that.  "N-no!  No, I headed up the team but I didn't directly contribute to the formula, that credit isn't mine, if anything-"

The large man next to Abby cleared his throat.  It was quiet.  Polite.  Barely audible.  Isaac, somehow, paled even further and sat down so quickly, it was like he'd been shot, pulled to the seat by invisible hands.  He looked like he was holding back tears.

Next to him, a creature of some sort stood.  A blonde haired man, like a statue of a gorilla carved from ham.  Tom wasn't an expert, but he'd have bet his entire portfolio that this guy was a steroid abuser.  Muscles randomly twitched along his entire body, apparently completely beyond his control.  Veins popped in his forehead and neck.  His fists clenched and unclenched constantly.  He was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a worn orange tshirt with a logo on it so cracked and peeled that it wasn't possible to read any more, but it was clear that clothing for this man was just a nod to social convention.  No garment would fit him; if you threw his immense bulk into a potato sack, it'd still look like he was one flex from bursting it.  Even looking at him, his sloping brow shading tiny, dark, piggy eyes, made you feel like a fight was about to break out.  Watching him stand was akin to witnessing the launch of a ship.

"Billy.  Activist.  Ain't got no fun facts."

Oh God.  Tom had been wondering why the guy had tattoos of Bridlington's old world city crest.  Billy must have been one of those patriot types.  They'd mellowed over the years and were very much more accepting of all manner of cultures and lifestyles nowadays but only if you were one of "them", and "them" could mean anything with guys like this.  A country, a city, a town, even a street.  Of course, if you were a card-carrying member of whatever cause they supported, they'd fight to the death to defend you, however you looked or acted, but it paid to be careful around them until you'd worked out what hill they'd decided to die on.

There was a pause while the group decided if that was going to be Billy's only contribution.  He sat, the chair audibly groaned under him.  The large man next to him looked skyward briefly and straightened his tie.  He didn't stand.  He spoke softly, but it was clear that if he did speak, he was accustomed to being heard.  It wasn't an air of entitlement, this guy was pure, uncut authority personified.

"Joe.  I trust you are all familiar with my work."

Tom took a moment to process this.  It... could be him in the right light, yeah, but judging by the look on Clear's face (Billy didn't react.  He hadn't reacted to anything since they arrived), she was surprised, too.  The Joe they'd seen smiling on posters and the like, he looked 20 years and about 50lbs fewer than the man sat with them.  They hadn't expected the ruddy complexion, the audible breathing, the complete absence of neck.  You couldn't call him overweight.  He just looked... well, ill.  Flabby but not heavy.  Big in the jowl department.  He seemed to sense the silence.

"Not who you expected, I see.  Or what you expected, perhaps?  Do not be concerned.  I am simply the product of 40 years of hard and dedicated service to a company I wholeheartedly believe in and rarely find time to dedicate to what you may consider pleasurable pursuits.  But I have made an exception for this, a project so important to the future of GastroTech that I'm willing to physically endorse it to the fullest by directly participating in this trial."

Tom could see Issac's breathing quicken.

Abby turned to Joe with a well practiced smile, but her eyes were pure apprehension, a woman staring down into the depths of Hell.  How much of a piece of work WAS this guy?

"Do you have a fun fact, Joe?"

He looked at her.  That's all.  Just a look.  Tom could tell her internal pressure gauge was creaking dangerously.

"Fun?  Hmm.  I have a legal copyright over my own genetic profile.  My successor has already been cloned and is currently being privately tutored in the family business."

Well, that was one way to prolong your legacy.  The room was tense, the only sound being Billy's breathing, a sound like an industrial pump affixed to a piping bag.  Tom wondered what would happen to a man with lungs that powerful if he sneezed.  Surely the splash zone could be measured in metres.  The door opened and a crocodile of reps came in, each pushing a small cart covered with a white cloth bearing the GastroTech company logo.  There was an unfamiliar, bitter smell in the air but Tom could see a look on Isaac and Joe's faces, the oldest of the group.  They recognised it and they most certainly wanted it.

"Great!" said Abby, just a little too enthusiastically.  "So now I'll fill you in on what we need from you today.  It's pretty simple.  You'll each eat your fill from the carts, just as much as you like, then we'll ask you to spend the night in one of our guest suites.  They're fully equipped with the latest modern conveniences for your comfort, with full washing facilities.  I'm legally obliged to inform you that they're fitted with cameras.  We'll be observing you remotely through the evening as well as fitting you with sensors to monitor your heart rate, blood glucose level, adrenal response and brain activity.  We want to make absolutely sure that you're in perfect health before, during and after the test, so in a moment we'll ask you all to accompany our colleagues here to be suited up, so to speak, but before that, let's give you a preview of the product."

And the cloths were removed.  Underneath were things Tom had only seen in books.  Iced cakes, bread, buns, biscuits and large containers of a steaming hot liquid.  All of it a dark brown colour.  The bitter smell intensified.  It smelled edible, to a degree.  A little burned, maybe.  It didn't appeal to Tom.  Joe and Isaac looked like they may have to be restrained.  Clear was interested but endeavouring not to show it.  Billy continued to aggressively filter the local atmosphere.

"This is project NeoBean.  A modern alternative to the bean formerly known as "coffee".  It's a chemical compound that naturally exists as a coarse powder.  It dissolves in hot water but also has a similar texture and behaviour to "flour" which has enabled us to bake it into the form of a variety of old world pastries.  It can even be included as an additive to our popular "log" range and should the trial be successful, we're already lined up to release "Log Mocha", "Log Latte" and "Log Espresso Deluxe".  It's zero calorie, vitamin enriched and, so I'm told, indistinguishable from the real thing.  Now, if you'll please proceed to our privacy suites, we'll get started."

Tom did as instructed.  Entered a small room with nothing but a chair in it.  Removed his shirt, allowed himself to be smeared with a medicinal-smelling gel and fitted with all manner of sensors.  They were small and uninvasive.  Wireless, he supposed.  They must have been fairly expensive.  The excess gel was washed off, he dried and dressed and returned to the room.  They were very discrete, it wasn't possible to tell that anyone else was wearing them, except Billy who's clothing was so tight, you could have seen a sticking plaster through it.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, bon apetit."

Joe didn't waste any time.  He immediately filled an oversized mug and near-quaffed it.  It was scalding hot, that was plain to see, but the look of ecstacy that crossed his face was... well, concerning.  The rest of them followed, tentatively at first but eventually with gusto.  Except Isaac.  He waited a few minutes seemingly taking mental note of everyone's reactions.  Tom understood from the moment he ate the first slice of dry toasted coffee loaf why they were so keen.  He'd been living on Log his entire life, it was all he'd known.  The sheer joy of variety was almost overwhelming.  It all tasted the same, but to experience a different flavour in a range of textures, it was almost complete sensory overload, like having a lost sense restored.  Did it taste good?  No, he thought it was terrible, when he looked back a few days later.  It tasted like burnt soil.  He'd loved it.

This went on for a while.  The more they ate, the more they were encouraged to continue and with every depleted trolley, another quickly arrived.  Nobody really tracked the time.  Eventually Isaac opened up a little, started chatting about the project, though was clearly being careful and watching Joe's response to everything he said.  It was a mild simulant, apparently, and Tom did notice he was feeling a little more alert, but it lacked the appetite suppresant and diuretic qualities of old world coffee.  The mood in the room had improved considerably, even Billy was at least acknowledging the others in the room, though Joe remained fairly hard to relate to.  After his initial introduction, his answers were rarely longer than 3 words.  He was cagey, he avoided questions, refused to give opinions.  He seemed distracted.  Of course, this was a man who famously worked 15 hour days come Hell or high water.  Time was, in such a literal sense, money to him.  Indeed, after 2 hours of hedonistic gluttony, he stood slowly, with apparent effort and excused himself.

"But Mr. Winchester" protested Abby, "we need you to remain for observations."

Isaac looked impressed.  They all did.  This was about as close as anybody came to speaking up against old one-strike.  And stranger still, the old tyrant actually smiled.  That was UNHEARD of.

"You are quite right, Ms. Campbell, and I commend your commitment to protocol.  I will be on site for the duration of your test, I assure you, and you shall have a perfectly reasonable view of my comings and goings through my office's security camera.  Please do not allow yourself to become concerned.  I shall, of course, not remove your sensors."

And that was that.  He walked stiffly, like someone unaccustomed to legs.  In that moment, Tom realised just how poor the man's work-life balance was.  He could barely move and, according to his publically available records, he was barely into his 60s.  There was an element of pity there, he thought, as he ate yet another bun whole.

Time passed.  The hour grew late, they were all becoming quite unbearably tired and somewhat nauseous.  It was the first time they'd truly had the opportunity to eat to ludicrous excess and they'd all overindulged.  One by one, they said their goodbyes and were escorted to their observation suites.  Tom was ushered to his own.  It was decorated like a modest but still comfortable mid-range hotel.  They hadn't lied, it really did have every convenience you could expect from such an establishment, even a small fitted trouser press.  He settled into bed, pulled up the covers and fell immediately into a deep and satisfied sleep.

Briefly.

The nightmares were upon him almost immediately.  He dreamed of financiers and scientists dancing hand in hand around a bonfire, stacked high with bundles of cash, deeds, precious gems and metals.  They cavorted outside of an old red brick institution.  He dreamed of a lecture theatre, stacked high with identical copies of the same blank-faced men and women, looking expectantly at him, expecting him to deliver a lecture on a topic he'd never even heard of.  They began to laugh.  They laughed until the point of crying, strange, viscous dark tears that began to fill the room.  He dreamed of sinking into an endless, festering sea of rotten foodstuffs, sinking, sinking, sinking until he thrashed wildly just to keep his head above it all.  He felt it wash over him, dragging him down, burying him in a sludgy mass of mould and sickly food paste.  He could feel his body coming apart, being dissolved, pressed into the shape of a familiar cylinder.  He was processed into Log.  He was served to a family of 4, smiles wide, too wide, as they prepared to slice into his immobile flesh.  He couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he couldn't scream.

He woke.  He was surrounded by concerned scientists, drenched with sweat.

"Tom" one of them said with some urgency, "we've been trying to wake you for more than 30 minutes now, how are you feeling?  Don't sit up."

He tried to speak.  His mouth was dry, his throat felt tight, his skin was hot and felt sensitive.  He croaked.

"Okay, that's fine, don't strain yourself.  We need you to listen carefully, okay?  You've had an allergic reaction to the compound and the quantity you've consumed has lead to some severe side effects.  You're running a severe fever.  We've administered a heavy dose of antihistamine and you're likely going to feel quite drowsy for a while, so we're going to hold you for at least 24 more hours until some of the swelling has gone down and we're confident that you've recovered.  Just try to get some rest and don't get up without help, you're on fluids at the moment and we need you to avoid sudden movements.  Please raise your eyebrows if you've understood."

He did.  And as he did, he felt the room gently spin around him before lapsing back into yet more vivid. rapidly shifting, confusing dreams.