Vikram punched his mirror, smashing it and slashing open his hand. As he watched the blood stream down his wrist, he first remarked how odd that of all the things he'd been punching recently - the air first, but then the walls, his desk, the table, his wife - this was the first that really sort of hit back.
He then realized what an absurd thought that was considering what had been going on lately, and a recollection of his life - possibly brought on by the ball of hashish he'd eaten a few hours ago - streamed into view.
His story was, for the most part, a pretty boring one, and one that had been treaded and re-treaded many times. The child of absurd privilege, he had been raised in virtual imprisonment. After all, from the day of his birth, his future was pretty much pre-ordained - he would go to business school and follow his father in running the family business. Businesses. Endurance Industries, one of the largest industrial conglomerates in his world, a company raised from scratch by his great-grandfather when he got the idea of putting up telegraph lines in newly-liberated India. The son of a coolie worker himself, by the end of his life Hirachand Ambani was the wealthiest man in the country, Endurance Industries leading the charge towards industrialization. 50 years later, the company was a patriotic institution and a family treasure. Vikram was just being groomed for his place.
Expensive boarding schools, four years of economics at Maharaja Sayajirao, two more at Cambridge, then business school at the University of Chicago (chosen mainly for the city's high-quality Indian food, he'll confess under pressure), and in all of it he was a prisoner, carried aloft by the whims of his family. Even his marriage was a business agreement, his wife chosen because she was the daughter of a man who his father wanted to reward. It's not that it was a trade he didn't like - there was something ecstatically powerful about seeing the whole mighty river of commerce reduced to a few equations you could play with, about understanding how little tiny motions could have such huge reflections on the lives of other people. But however much he liked it, it wasn't his choice. He was going to be a king, but he wanted to be a saint.
The story of how Rhydin got opened up his Earth, first for government exploration and then for commercialization, is not worth discussing at this time. Nevertheless, commerce streamed through the hole that science opened, and the glorious standard of ever-growing wealth was held aloft, once again, by Endurance Industries. Vikram, 26 years old and already a powerful man in the company, was chosen as their representative there.
His first project, after doing some research and setting up a small venture on the docks, was to cut loose from his duties. A chance encounter - literally nothing more than one man asking another for a match - introduced him to Anastas Iskandorj, the man who would profoundly change his worldview. Like many upper-class college students, Vikram had dabbled in socialism, attending meetings and shouting slogans at nearby pedestrians. It was a hobby, but it was one he believed in - he sincerely believed that with his intellect and connections, he could change the world. There was something inspirational about Anastas, the scruffy old Mongol - what would his father ever think about him talking to one of them' - as somebody who had lived in a 'perfect society,' seen it from the ground level, survived it, and understood what was right and what was wrong. They teamed up.
The partnership, as you all know, ended badly. While noble on the surface, Vikram was unconsciously doing his father's bidding by setting himself up as a power-player, getting a would-be politician in his pocket, and changing the political climate to suit his business's needs. (As an exporter, protectionism would be profoundly useful to him, even if he didn't break the rules altogether.) If Vikram were more mature and Anastas less aloof, their friendship might have been preserved despite the loss - Anastas had become a surrogate father to him, and Vikram a surrogate son. Instead, tempers flew, Vikram called Anastas a slitty-eyed piece of trash, and Anastas broke his nose. Since then, they haven't spoken, and Vikram has been in virtual seclusion inside his house.
Except recently. Seeing his sincere - or at least, theoretically sincere - attempts to help the people of Rhydin laughed at, it was time to go back to Plan A. If these people weren't prepared to try and stop him, then let the exploitation begin. It was time to play the role he'd waited his whole life to play.
He then realized what an absurd thought that was considering what had been going on lately, and a recollection of his life - possibly brought on by the ball of hashish he'd eaten a few hours ago - streamed into view.
His story was, for the most part, a pretty boring one, and one that had been treaded and re-treaded many times. The child of absurd privilege, he had been raised in virtual imprisonment. After all, from the day of his birth, his future was pretty much pre-ordained - he would go to business school and follow his father in running the family business. Businesses. Endurance Industries, one of the largest industrial conglomerates in his world, a company raised from scratch by his great-grandfather when he got the idea of putting up telegraph lines in newly-liberated India. The son of a coolie worker himself, by the end of his life Hirachand Ambani was the wealthiest man in the country, Endurance Industries leading the charge towards industrialization. 50 years later, the company was a patriotic institution and a family treasure. Vikram was just being groomed for his place.
Expensive boarding schools, four years of economics at Maharaja Sayajirao, two more at Cambridge, then business school at the University of Chicago (chosen mainly for the city's high-quality Indian food, he'll confess under pressure), and in all of it he was a prisoner, carried aloft by the whims of his family. Even his marriage was a business agreement, his wife chosen because she was the daughter of a man who his father wanted to reward. It's not that it was a trade he didn't like - there was something ecstatically powerful about seeing the whole mighty river of commerce reduced to a few equations you could play with, about understanding how little tiny motions could have such huge reflections on the lives of other people. But however much he liked it, it wasn't his choice. He was going to be a king, but he wanted to be a saint.
The story of how Rhydin got opened up his Earth, first for government exploration and then for commercialization, is not worth discussing at this time. Nevertheless, commerce streamed through the hole that science opened, and the glorious standard of ever-growing wealth was held aloft, once again, by Endurance Industries. Vikram, 26 years old and already a powerful man in the company, was chosen as their representative there.
His first project, after doing some research and setting up a small venture on the docks, was to cut loose from his duties. A chance encounter - literally nothing more than one man asking another for a match - introduced him to Anastas Iskandorj, the man who would profoundly change his worldview. Like many upper-class college students, Vikram had dabbled in socialism, attending meetings and shouting slogans at nearby pedestrians. It was a hobby, but it was one he believed in - he sincerely believed that with his intellect and connections, he could change the world. There was something inspirational about Anastas, the scruffy old Mongol - what would his father ever think about him talking to one of them' - as somebody who had lived in a 'perfect society,' seen it from the ground level, survived it, and understood what was right and what was wrong. They teamed up.
The partnership, as you all know, ended badly. While noble on the surface, Vikram was unconsciously doing his father's bidding by setting himself up as a power-player, getting a would-be politician in his pocket, and changing the political climate to suit his business's needs. (As an exporter, protectionism would be profoundly useful to him, even if he didn't break the rules altogether.) If Vikram were more mature and Anastas less aloof, their friendship might have been preserved despite the loss - Anastas had become a surrogate father to him, and Vikram a surrogate son. Instead, tempers flew, Vikram called Anastas a slitty-eyed piece of trash, and Anastas broke his nose. Since then, they haven't spoken, and Vikram has been in virtual seclusion inside his house.
Except recently. Seeing his sincere - or at least, theoretically sincere - attempts to help the people of Rhydin laughed at, it was time to go back to Plan A. If these people weren't prepared to try and stop him, then let the exploitation begin. It was time to play the role he'd waited his whole life to play.