The Transcriber Part 7
The Transcriber Part 7
Number Six was the last to arrive. As soon as he took his seat and set his briefcase upon the glass table that served as the marvelous centerpiece of the conference room they were in, the chairman stood up, his presence channeling sufficient authority to silence the other members in the meeting. In his right hand was a remote, and using it, he activated a projector that shone upon a large screen in front of them. The screen was displaying a real-time video feed. They were watching someone in one a room, a room with green walls. He was sitting at a table and writing. As one of Number Six’s associates, Number Four, poured himself some tea into an antique Japanese terracotta cup, the man they were watching abruptly put down his pen. At this point all the men in the room became visibly more interested. They didn’t speak a word as they watched the man on screen take the boxes they had left for him from his table and to his bed. They had seen this scene many times before. It was always the same, which was why when what happened wasn’t, the slightest indications of surprise could be detected in the room. For the man they were observing had not opened the boxes, like all those before him had. Instead, he had crushed them under his foot.
The vibrating stopped.
Josef Karringer was finally at peace. He stared at the five crushed boxes In front of him. That initial burst of adrenaline he got when he felt whatever was inside the boxes get destroyed with a riveting crunch made him feel more alive than he ever had before in his mundane existence. The surge of sheer power coursed through his system, and it took him about ten minutes before he returned to the table, picked up a pen, and continued to write. It felt much easier again, without that paralytic numbing resonance irritating him on his peripheries. Writing effectively once more, the ink began to flow freely from his pen.
…Lux didn’t believe in fate, until he created it himself. The vibrating box was to be an icon of his legacy, the mark he would have on human societal practices. To be perfectly honest, Lux was still not entirely sure how he devised the prototype of the box. It came to him, like all good ideas do, but he knew this one would change his life forever. It took him four months to construct the sample model for the consortium to inspect. He still remembered the events of the meeting clearly. He opened the box, revealing to his investors the contents of the box, briefly explaining to them how each component functioned. Although they didn’t visibly show it, Lux could tell they were impressed. He expected nothing else from his masterpiece. When the meeting concluded, Lux asked them how many more boxes they wanted him to create, looking to make a lucrative and profitable deal that would cushion a comfortable lifestyle for the rest of his years. He was assured that his payment was in an adjacent room and would be brought to him immediately. Half now, half when the job was completed, which seemed to be the protocol for almost all shady corporate dealings in his line of work. Nevertheless, it was a handsome sum, more than enough for him to spend the rest of his life living in luxury, such was the power of innovation. And to think that he’d done it all by himself, all through his own brilliance. His internal arrogant self-appraisal concerning his intellectual capacity was cut short when the businessmen returned wheeling two trolleys into the room. There was an object on each one, one small and one much larger, but exactly what they were was uncertain, courtesy of a red silk blanket that covered them.
“Your payment, Mr. Harding. Just pick the trolley you want, and it’s all yours.”
Lux didn’t hesitate. He pointed to the bigger trolley, and the other was immediately wheeled away.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Harding.”
Two men came up behind him and seized him, and another struck a hypodermic syringe in his neck and injected its contents into his bloodstream. Lux was so surprised that he didn’t put a fight. As he felt control slip away from his limbs, the red blanket was removed, unveiling a large, gleaming…
Josef turned the page. He was nearly through the entire book. Only six pages left. He wished he could understand what he was writing. But he didn’t. He only hoped that once the book was completed, he would be released from that room with the green walls and finally be somebody.