Team Work

“If you want to get ahead in business, then you need team work,” said Fitzsimons. “That’s why we need Team Building Day — to forge a link and give us that edge.”

I groaned inwardly. Fitzsimons was a great one for this sort of nonsense. Ever since he’d become head of Galaxy Finance, around a year ago, he’d been determined to make his mark. It wasn’t enough that sales were up, or that profits were at an all time high, Fitzsimons wanted us working like clockwork men: greased and ruthless machines that would stop at nothing to achieve their goal.

“Now, we all remember last year’s little debacle,” he said, glancing at Williams. “I don’t want a repeat performance. You’re a team and you should work as one. Remember, you’re only as strong as your weakest link. This isn’t a business for mealy-mouthed wimps — you need to be ruthless!”

Williams looked embarrassed. Last year Fitzsimons had booked us on a survival course. The eight of us spent a week abandoned on Rehbus — a jungle planet in Ambartsumian’s Knot — fighting off razor-bills and lug-cats with nothing more sophisticated than a sharpened spoon. Poor Williams lost a leg and had to spend a month in the infirmary growing another, a situation that Fitzsimons seemed to regard as a lapse of character on Williams’s part.

“Do I make myself clear, team?”

“Yes sir,” we said in unison.

“I can’t hear you. I said do I make myself clear?”

“YES SIR!” we shouted, feeling faintly ridiculous.

“Good. I want you all to be ready tomorrow at eight sharp.”

I almost expected him to shout ‘Dismiss!’ But instead, he waved us away and disappeared back into his office.

We left the conference room dragging our feet like zombies. No-one was looking forward to tomorrow, well, no-one except Wakefield, boss’s pet! A smile creased his chubby face and he actually had a spring in his step.“Come on, fellows,” he said. “Cheer up — it’s a day away from the office!”

Williams, still limping, even after a year, gave him a dark look and mumbled under his breath, “Goddam crank.”

* * *

At eight the next morning the company flier arrived to pick me up. I’d slept in and didn’t have time for breakfast. I swallowed a vitamin pill instead and washed it down with a mouthful of tap water. Probably for the best, I thought. I didn’t know what Fitzsimons had in store and already felt sick with the thought of it. A belly-full of breakfast would probably be a bad idea. All it would take was for me to chuck-up at Team Building Day and I’d be plunged into the gloomy mire that was Fitzsimons’s disapproval.

The others were already on the flier. I sat next to Syed, the company’s Press Officer, and buckled my harness.

“Ready for this?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes and fidgeted in the seat. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for one of Fitzsimons’s little jaunts. Have you heard what he’s got planned yet?”

She shook her head. “He’s keeping it to himself. Roscoe’s been trying to pump the driver for information, but he won’t tell us where we’re going.”

I sat back, resigned to my fate, and looked out the window. We were pulling away from my apartment block into the dark winter morning. Below us were the city streets, cars and trucks wedged nose to tail in one long snaking jam. From above, it looked for all the world like a circuit board — the police flyers whizzing above the traffic like electrical impulses.

Pressing my back deeper into the padded seat, my eyes grew heavy then closed. The steady hum of the flier’s engines was lulling. Gradually, my head sank to my chest.A gently rolling meadow; all around sweet grass and delicate blooms nodded in the warm summer breeze. In the distance I could see a great lake, its dark waters sparkling in the sunlight like an iridescent jewel. Beyond the meadow, and bracketing the lake, were woods, the trees a unique and vibrant shade of green. And beyond this glorious sight were mountains, their graceful sweeping ascent like divine punctuation separating the heavens from the earth.

Moving through the meadow, my footfall released seedpods and disturbed plump insects as they gathered pollen. I reached out my hands and touched the petals of flowers. I felt at peace, as though I’d always been here and always would be — as permanent and unshakable as those mountains in the distance.

Suddenly I was aware of a change. It started with a sound — a far off hooting or bellow like the call of some fearsome beast. I froze in my tracks and looked around. The wind shifted. The warm summer breeze disappeared, replaced by the searing heat of a blast-furnace and the greasy smell of oil.

Something was coming.

The bellow sounded again, this time closer. It moved the grass in a tidal ripple and drove birds from the trees. As I watched, an iron-shod hand parted the branches of a mighty spruce as easily as I’d parted the grass a moment before. A pair of red eyes looked at me from above the tree-line, shining like lamps. They peered into my heart and I felt my soul shrivel and die under their scrutiny.

I opened my mouth and tried to scream, but nothing came — only an inarticulate croak. The figure strode forward and snapped the top off a tree. I looked at its face and saw it grinning, row upon row of chrome teeth, as sharp and savage as scimitars, winking in the sunlight.

The creature opened its mouth fully and I covered my ears, sure it would bellow. But instead it laughed — a grating, screeching sound like twisted steel. And then it spoke.

“Ruthless,” it said in a curiously gentle voice. “You have to be ruthless in this business.”

I was dimly aware that I’d begun to cry. Salt tears soaked my cheeks, ran over my lips.

The creature turned its head and spat fire onto the woods. They burned. The meadow burned. The flowers burned. In the distance, the lake boiled and the mountains erupted. The world was turned to fire and black ash. The creature simply laughed.

I opened my eyes to find Syed looking at me.

“Bad dream?” she asked. “You were groaning — moving about.”

I blinked and sat up straight in my seat. “God, I’m really not looking forward to this. I’m having bloody nightmares now!”

I felt the flier slow as we pulled up to a massive building. It was pyramid shaped, landing lights blinking in the darkness, beckoning us inwards.

I craned my neck as we approached and could see an illuminated sign — ‘Temple Leisure’ it read, and below, ‘Life is what you make it’.

“A leisure centre,” said Syed. “Maybe Fitzsimons’s not so bad after all. A nice game of Grav-ball — good team sport!”

“Let’s hope,” I said, although I didn’t think Grav-ball was the boss’s style — it wasn’t bloody enough for Fitzsimons.

* * *

The receptionist gave us a smile and pushed a button on the desk as we filed in. I didn’t like that smile. There was something unpleasant and predatory about it, as though she was thinking of what was in store for us and relishing it.

“Galaxy Finance, party of eight?” she asked.

We nodded and shuffled uncomfortably.

“Mr Dobson will be with you soon to show you the way.”

We paced the lobby, looking at pictures on the walls. They showed smiling, happy families snorkelling in Temple Leisure’s indoor reef; another showed a sexy blond just about to reach the summit of Temple mountain; a third picture depicted three leather clad motor cyclists racing around the centre’s track.

All good wholesome fun. Then why did I feel as though we’re in for something unpleasant, as though we’re being lured into a false sense of security?

I pulled my eyes away from the pictures to look at my work mates, no smiles there; even Wakefield, who’d been filled with enthusiasm the day before, wore a frown. He was pacing up and down the lobby, arms clasped behind his back, staring at the floor.

A pair of glass doors opened at the end of the lobby and a man stepped through. He was dressed in a matte back suit, his face curiously blank, as though an amalgam of many faces; jumbled up to make a featureless whole. Surgery, I thought. Lots of surgery.

“Good morning,” said the man. “I’m Max Dobson, the manager of Temple Leisure.”

We nodded in acknowledgement, forcing smiles.

“If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you to our briefing room and give you a rundown on what’s in store.”We followed him through the glass doors and down a carpeted hallway. More pictures on the walls, antique inspirational prints — the kind that used to hang in offices to motivate the workers. I gave a low whistle; they had to be worth a fortune. I glanced closer at one as we passed. A photograph of a tiger in mid-leap, underneath I could make out the faded words: ‘Determination. We have the power to succeed’.

Dobson led us into a dim side room. Row upon row of foldaway seating like you’d find in an old theatre. At the end of the room a raised dais with a holo-rig set behind it.

“Take a seat please. Make sure you’re comfortable.” He stepped nimbly onto the dais and took up position centre stage.

He rubbed his hands together like a market trader. “It’s great you could all make it. I’d just like to take a moment to welcome you all to Temple Leisure. Have any of you been before?”

We looked at one another then shook our heads.

Dobson laughed as though it was absurd that this was our first time in his Leisure Centre.

“Let me tell you a bit about ourselves,” he said. “We specialise in tailoring life-affirming experiences for our customers. I know what you’re all thinking — They all say that. They promise the moon and never deliver.”He reached into his suit pocket and produced a small ball about the size of grape. “The difference here is that if we promise you the moon, you get the moon.” He squeezed the ball and the room instantly changed. The dim briefing area was gone, replaced by the scarred and pitted surface of the lunar landscape.

Dobson laughed again. “Don’t worry folks, don’t be alarmed. It’s simply a high grade holo.” He paced up the isle between our seats, kicking puffs of moon dust into the air. “We’ve invested in the latest technology to ensure that our customer has the most... comprehensive experience available. What you see here is good, but it’s just a demonstration. Our executive facilities are state of the art — a million times better than this. In fact...”

He looked around, as though sharing a secret with us and didn’t want to be overheard. “If you can tell the difference between our holo-packages and real life — well, we’ll triple your money!”

He turned around and headed back to where the dais had been. “Anything you desire, folks. Want to take a trek in the Amazon — we can do it! The Amazon may be gone in the real world, but not here! Want to see the lost city of Atlantis — not a problem; we’ll even fix it so you don’t have to worry about bulky diving equipment. Or how about a visit to an alien civilisation — nothing could be easier — in fact that’s one of our most popular packages.”

There was an excited murmur in the room now. Each of us caught up in Dobson’s pitch, considering the possibilities.

I felt Williams punch my shoulder lightly. “What about that then?” he said, a grin on his face. “Anything we desire!”

I had to admit it was a heady thought. I felt a grin appear.

“Yes, folks, Temple Leisure can deliver,” Dobson continued. “We know what our customers want and we make it a reality.”

He squeezed the ball and the landscape bled away, back to the briefing room. I felt suddenly depressed, as though released from a wonderful spell.

Dobson smiled at us — the same predatory smile the receptionist had worn a while ago. “I’ve spoken with your boss — Mr Fitzsimons — and he’s told me what you need. You know, from our perspective, it’s an interesting problem. The technology is quite new and this is the first team package we’ve ever put together.”

My enthusiasm burned away like morning mist in the sunlight. For one wonderful moment I’d thought we were to choose our own holo-package. I should have known better — Fitzsimons was a control freak, there was no way he would leave it to us.

“You need a goal,” said Dobson. “Some specific task that you can work on together in order to achieve. Mr Fitzsimons also stressed to us the importance of a single-minded approach in your business.”

Ruthless. You have to be ruthless in this business. I shuddered at the thought of the quiet, mechanical voice.

“Well, I’m happy to say we’ve come up with something. I’m not going to tell you what it is — you can discover that for yourselves — but rest assured, once you’ve experienced this, all of you will have the necessary qualities to go forward in the cutthroat world of business.”

* * *

The room was uncomfortably warm. Along one side, a glass booth full of complicated looking machinery and technicians in white coats. On the other, ten squat boxes that looked ominously like coffins. Each of them had a U-curtain rail like you see around hospital beds.

“Here we are,” said Dobson, encompassing the room with a flourish of his hand. “Hardly sumptuous, I know, but fully functional.” He motioned to one of the techs behind the glass. A tall, well-proportioned man stepped out of the booth. “Let me introduce you all to Geoff Fryel — he’s our chief tech and will be controlling the simulation.”

“Thanks, Max,” said Fryel. “Everything is prepped ladies and gentlemen, and I don’t propose to hold you back. Please rest assured that there is no physical risk whatsoever in this procedure. I helped pioneer this work in the military and commercial sector and it’s totally safe. There’s absolutely no need to worry.”

Dobson looked annoyed. “Of course it’s safe — and damn good fun too. Right Geoff?”

“Oh. Yes, damn good fun.”

“Great. Let’s get going then.”

We were each led to a box and told to undress. I pulled the curtain around the box and stripped off. The floor felt horrible and gritty under my bare feet. I stood there, feeling vulnerable and slightly ashamed.

There was a pneumatic hiss and I stepped back in alarm as the top of the box eased itself open.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll find a jar of gel in the box. Please apply it to all exposed areas.”

All exposed areas? I’m naked for Christ’s sake.

I cleared my throat and shouted: “Everywhere?”

“Yes, everywhere. The gel helps conduct the electrical impulses that are essential to the simulation.”

Opening the jar, I scooped a handful of the gel onto my palm. It was pink and warm, trembling sinisterly in my hand. I took a deep breath before rubbing the stuff in, starting with my chest, and working my way through until the jar was empty.

I put the jar on the floor next to the box, wondering what came next. I felt funky — my hair dark, and matted to my head like a newborn.

“Please climb into the box,” said Fryel. “Watch your step, that gel’s slippery.”

He wasn’t kidding. I almost broke my neck with my first step. Somehow I managed to remain upright long enough to squelch into the box.

“Okay, great. We ready to go?” I heard Fryel ask. “Relax everyone — the fun’s about to begin.”

The door lowered itself gradually. I felt a wave of panic. For an instant I felt like screaming and leaping out of the box. But an image of Fitzsimons flashed into my mind and I managed to suppress my fear. Back out now and I’d be out of a job.

The door closed with a click. Complete darkness inside — as black as a man’s soul.

* * *

The ground is a twisted sculpture of agony; once a quagmire, but now a churning mass of mud frozen into jagged divots.

My breath billows out in front of me. So cold, I stamp my feet and shoulder my rifle, blowing on my reddened hands.

On my left is a small wooden hut with a single window and a tin chimney trailing a ribbon of smoke. The door of the hut opens and Syed steps down, leading Kaiser — the German Shepherd she’s grown so attached to over the months we’ve been here.

Months? Can that be right? I know it can’t be. The rational part of my mind knows this is a simulation — that we’ve only been here a few hours. But still, subconsciously, it feels like months with my wispy, half-formed memories of our time here.

“There’s another load arriving,” Syed says. “I just got the call. Better get the rest so we can get this done.”

I nod and tramp my way back to the gate. Behind it stands Wakefield, smoking a roll-up.

“Another load coming through, Wakefield. Better open up the gate.”

Wakefield produces a key and fumbles with the padlock. I suddenly realise how bad he looks. His face is pale and pinched, devoid of his usual joviality.

He looks at me through a pall of tobacco smoke and blinks. “I’ll be glad when this is over,” he says. “God. Yesterday was terrible... I- I never thought... I mean... God!”

I see that he’s crying. The cigarette drops from the corner of his mouth and dies on the frost. He raises his hands to cover his face, sobbing hopelessly.

I stand watching him, not knowing what to say. After a moment he seems to compose himself. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve and hiccoughs.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s this place. It’s everything. That bastard Fitzsimons.”

“That bastard Fitzsimons,” I agree. In the near distance I can hear the sound of an approaching train. The next load.

“W-Why? That’s what I want to know,” says Wakefield. “What good will this do? What’s the point?”

I turn and watch the engine ease in, steam puffing like fairy-tale clouds.

“Why?” I say. “I’ll tell you why, Wakefield. Because we have to be ruthless.”

I leave him and walk towards the train with its fully loaded cattle trucks. Behind me the chimneys of Auschwitz belch their evil black smoke.

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