The God Complex: The Book Of Alan, Destroyer Of Worlds

Chapter Four

YAMA pharmaceuticals: in its day, the world's largest supplier of legal drugs in the civilised world. If you ever popped a pill for necessity or fun then chances are it was designed, tested, created, marketed, patented and delivered to your local retailer from these guys.

The building was a vast mirrored box that straddled the river Thames. Gabe could see the Director's offices from the carpark as he walked in, they looked open, spacious, and beige. At the back of the building was the research and development plant where they tested, manufactured and dumped god knows what out into the water. It would be wrong to blame all the world's ills on these guys, but Gabe doubted they'd made the situation any better.

With his pass found, he manoeuvred past the armed guard on security and through to the cafeteria. Gabe had a full day of soul-sapping, life-negating, mind-nummery ahead of him and he wasn't prepared to tackle that on an empty stomach. The world's resources were rapidly dwindling but there always seemed to be more than enough bacon to go around. If only they could harness the raw power of pork snacks, perhaps that could hold the solution to all of humanity's worries. He made a mental note to talk to the Chief Science Officer, if he could ever be bothered to find out which bit of the building he worked in, or who he was.

The walk from the cafeteria to his desk took him past the marketing department. Every square inch of the hallway was plastered with in-house advertising. The bright eyes and perfect smiles of the adverts that glared back at him always left Gabe feeling confused and aroused. It didn't matter what the ailment was, YAMA's product put you on a golden white beach with an attractive girl and a puppy. He continued past four other departments in the soft silence of the carpet and strolled into the company library. Mr Obed was already at his desk when Gabe put his bacon sandwich and coffee down.

Mr Obed was a jovial old man with a face like boiled meat. He had a million stories of his rugby playing days that he'd force upon you when he'd had a drink, which, from the look and smell of him, was becoming more frequent. As far as Gabe could tell he was somewhere between his late forties or early fifties, lived in south-west London, at least that's where all his stories were based, and he spoke with an eloquent confidence and respect that seems to come from a lifetime of rugby. He must have been coming up to ten years' service at YAMA pharmaceuticals; ten years of cultivating a library of medical journals and research papers to aid Research and Development in formulating that next, hot girl and puppy pill. Then, six years ago, someone decided that it might be better to transfer it all onto a digital system ready for space travel and thus Gabe was hired. Each morning for six years Gabe came in, grabbed a stack of journals and half-heartedly entered the basic details onto the new system. Killing time as time slowly killed him.

Title. Click. Date. Click. Issue. Click. Brief synopsis. Click, click.

He never planned to work for YAMA of course, when Gabe walked away from EDEN he walked away with no master plan or even a back up plan. To be perfectly honest, he had no plan at all. He just walked away and never returned. For a few years after that he did very little until eventually Tiffany moved him up to London to get him out of his funk. She was the one who got him an interview at YAMA and there he stayed.

'Morning m'boy. How are you enjoying this heat? Reminds me of a tour of South Africa back in the day, I was playing fly half at the time and they were the dirtiest bunch of rotters you have ever seen, let me tell you, and these were the days when raking was still allowed. We came away 14-21 winners with two broken legs and a dislocated eye socket. But you shake hands afterwards and have a bloody good drink in the club house. Those were real men m'boy, and good times, what I wouldn't give to go back.'

It was far too early for him to be looking this forlorn.

'Morning Mr Obed,' replied Gabe. Mr Obed liked the formality and respect of being called 'Mr,' and Gabe liked him, so it worked.