Brian got to his knees and leaned against the wall. Slowly, he pushed his way up and staggered a few steps, eventually locking his knees and leaning forward with both hands on the table to hold himself upright. Spreading his feet a little wider apart, he managed to keep his balance as he picked up the gun and one of the coins. He nodded at the other coin. “For you. I gotta get going, Dok. Thanks.” He fished a few bullets from his pocket, clicking open the revolver and spilling the empty shells onto the table.
“A gold coin’s worth a hundred times more than what I did for you, but I won’t argue,” said Dok. “It’ll help buy supplies for people who can’t give anything. Thanks.”
Brian put the empty shells into his pocket.
“Brian,” Dok said, “If you’re hearing voices, you’re hallucinating. You need to rest. I can’t let you leave here when you can barely stand up.”
Brian swung the cylinder closed with a solid click and tucked the gun behind his back.
Central Business District
Nathanial W. Roan walked alone on a path leading away from his office building. The early morning sun beat down on his silver-gray fiberglass and alloy-thread umbrella as he made his way through the little park and sought out a bench in a well-shaded area. There he could lower his umbrella and take off the hat and dark sunglasses he wore for additional protection from damaging ultra-violet rays. His wife’s late night had kept him up, too, supplying her with low-antidepressant Pulsarin and providing whatever comforts and pleasures she felt were necessary as she worked. Now he needed a few moments to clear his head before heading up to his office. He raised a knuckle to one eye, rubbing and willing himself more awake.
Some young and tough-looking manual laborers, obviously from the Zone, were working not far from where he sat, sweat-soaked and straining as they installed giant squares of concrete they’d dug up in some other area. Another beautification project; the CBD never lacked funds to buy these kinds of things from other zones and install them here. The kids stopped for a break, sitting on the ground in their tattered clothes, laughing loudly and picking up handfuls of the Corporate Green polymer groundcover pellets to idly toss around.
The youngest and oddest one strolled up to the shade shelter and sat on the bench right next to Mr. Roan, though he sat up on its back with his feet on the seat. He might have been as old as sixteen, and he was a white fellow, not Golden, so of course the sun had burned him to a deep crimson. On the inside of each forearm he had the metallic tattoos favored by the most intimidating Zone ruffians: bizarre, twisted and angular patterns that reflected the bright sun like shrapnel and sparkled in hues of bronze, silver, copper, and gold. The shoes on the seat next to Mr. Roan were an old athletic type, with jagged pieces of broken glass sticking out at odd angles from where they had been melted into the rubber soles. The kid was at least a head shorter than all the other workers and wore his tangled brown hair pushed up into a tube that was probably an old pant leg on top of his head. The tube was so tall that he could probably only reach the end of it with the tips of his fingers. His hair might have fallen to his waist without it, but bundled as it was, the part spilling out the top looked like a giant mushroom. The knees of his too-large pants sagged with the weight of thick patches made from old car tires.
Mr. Roan sat quietly as his new neighbor looked him over.
“Hey!” the kid yelled suddenly, standing up on the bench and pointing at two of his coworkers. “That shit’s mine!” He jumped down and ran to them, the glass in his shoes crunching against the concrete.
Both of the other laborers towered over him, even with his strange column of hair. The bigger one grabbed for his face, trying to push him backward, but the kid grabbed the assaulting hand and twisted until his attacker’s pinky finger pointed awkwardly at the sky.
Still not releasing the hand, Mushroom Boy spun one direction and there was a gruesome tearing sound as his opponent’s shoulder pulled out of its socket. He dropped to a knee, turning, and the larger thug flipped over him, his face slamming down onto the concrete slab they’d just laid. Then the other worker lunged forward. He, too, was soon crying out in pain as the kid violently wrenched an elbow. The first one was up again, bloody and staggering, and together they swung and spun and fell. It wasn’t long before the two bigger laborers were writhing on the ground at the shorter one’s feet. He kicked them both a few more times and then picked up whatever they had dropped in the attack.
Returning to the bench where Mr. Roan sat, he took up his earlier position with his feet on the seat, muttering to himself. “Fuckers,” he said, showing Mr. Roan his bloody palm. “Lookit this.” He pinched at the palm with his other hand, collecting two or three tiny bits of something. He held them up, studying the small white chips on his red-stained fingers. “Teeth,” he said, flicking them away and wiping his hands on his pants. “Fuckers.” He shook his head.
Mr. Roan nodded slowly. “That was impressive. I’ve never seen anything like it.” The kid shrugged. They sat silently for a little while.
Workers began pouring down the escalators of one of the rounded buildings, still raised up several stories above the ground, in flood mode from the earlier rain warnings. A shift was ending. Salarymen hustled for trains and trams. One stopped nearby, talking to the air in front of him.
“ … No. I need those figures now. I can’t wait until I get home and I don’t want to be boarding the train when you call back. Besides, if I’m sitting here waiting, it might motivate you to get off your lazy ass and get this done. Do it. Now. I’ll be waiting right here.”
An elbow jabbed Mr. Roan. “Hey, man, you know dat guy?”
Mr. Roan glanced from side to side, then pointed to his own chest with a few splayed fingers.
“Yeah, you. Whatsa matter wit’ you, man? I assed you do you know dat guy.”
Mr. Roan shook his head.
The kid grimaced. “You got one a those things? Those brain-talking things where the computer beams it right inta your skull?”
Mr. Roan hesitated for a moment. Of course he had an EI. Everyone did. He grimaced, preparing to explain, but the kid apparently took it as disgust.
The mushroom hair tube nodded. “Creepy, ain’t they? Makin’ your brain think it’s hearin’ sounds but really it’s just little pulses in your head. Yuck, right?”
Mr. Roan nodded.
“You wanna see something funny? Watch this. Gonna be all impressive again.” He turned to Mr. Roan with a comical, imbecilic grin on his face that curled his lips outward, exposing his front teeth. He then pivoted, pointing the grin at the Statused businessman on the other bench, who was manipulating unseen data with his fingers and muttering to his EI. The kid took huge, goofy steps that made his head bob up and down, crossing the distance quickly with his hand up as if he was waving hello. Then he suddenly brought the hand down with a loud schlapp! onto the man’s smooth forehead, just where his hairline had once been.
“Hey, man! Howya doin!” The young one said. He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Roan, the ridiculous grin still on his face.
The man’s eyes opened wide. “What is the meaning of this?”
The hand came up quickly and then down again, schlapp! against the man’s forehead. The hair mushroom tilted to one side. “Yer always so funny, man! So howya been?”
The businessman glanced around nervously, scandalized. “I do not know you,” he said loudly. “Please leave me alone.”
The kid laughed again. “Still—” schlapp! “—fuckin’ around!” He leaned close to the man but kept his voice loud. “So, listen. You got any val?”
Mr. Roan laughed out loud. Val was an herbal extract—illegal, like all plant-based drugs, though it was now produced by bacteria like nearly every other substance on the planet. Val’s limited appeal had kept it out of the spotlight, but everyone knew about it. The drug left users dazed, dull, and secreting a putrid, vomit-like odor through their pores for hours.
The man gaped. “I most certainly do not!” He lo
oked around again. Mr. Roan tried to smile pleasantly as the man’s eyes settled on him for a moment. “You have me confused with someone else.” The man stood, gathering his things.
“Fine, man. Be that way, an’ alla dat,” the young one shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth as the man moved away. “But next time you wanna borrow some val from me, you c’n fergit about it! An’ you still owe me a bottle of sodje from the time we were gettin’ stupid sittin’ on that bridge that one day!”
The kid came crunching back to the bench again, taking up his earlier position.
“That was certainly interesting,” Mr. Roan said.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I thought you’d like dat.”
Mr. Roan stared for a moment, thinking.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you know I’d like that? Why’d you get him and not me? Why let me in on it?”
“Oh. Well, you’re not like dat dude. He’s all—” The younger man’s chest came out and his chin came down as he rocked from side to side. “‘Git the fuck outta my way, cuz I’m so important.’ You know?”
“Okay, but how did you know that about me? I’m dressed in a Corporate Green uniform, out here on a bench in the CBD … I’m a mix of the old races, Golden, like everyone else in the CBD, I’m even older than that fellow, there …”
“Dunno, man. You’re just different, is all.” He looked away from Mr. Roan, then turned back, gesturing. “Like, when I came an’ sat down here, right? Why didn’ you get some security pig to come haul me away?”
Mr. Roan tried to laugh but it came out too flat. “It didn’t matter to me. What could you do? Hurt me? Humiliate me? That’s nothing my wife hasn’t already done to me a thousand times over this past year.”
“Well, so dat’s what makes you different. See?”
“Maybe. But aren’t you afraid that that guy you harassed will call security now?”
“I ain’t afraid of shit, all right? Anyways, dat dude thinks I think he’s a doper. He comes back wit’ security, I’m gonna act the same way. He’s afraid somebody will believe it. See? Dude thinks he’s got power, but he’s afraid. Nobody’s afraid if they got real power, and dat dude sees it now. I fucked up his whole world.”
“Oh. So … you work here in the CBD?”
“Today, yeah. Probably get fired ’cause a them assholes.” He nodded in the direction of the two men he had beaten up, who were just now rising from the ground. “Shit job, anyway. How ’bout you?”
“Well, I work for a finance company called Celarwil-Dain.” Mr. Roan pointed to the pin on his uniform. “I’m the manager of the Office Furnishings division there, but I’m having—oh, just a few personal problems today. I thought maybe a little air would do me some good, but I’m actually quite late for work, now.”
“Mmm. You know, that’s fascinatin’ man. Really. So … you got a key for one of these buildings, huh? You can get me inside?”
McGuillian Diner
“You okay, Sett?” Lawrence’s friend, Li’l Ed, asked. “Gommelman wasn’t so hard on you today, you know. We’ve seen worse.”
“That’s not it,” Jack said. “He’s staring at his girlfriend again!”
Lawrence tore his eyes away from the waitress, locking them on Jack’s face, with its sandy hair and dirt-colored eyes. “I was not! I was just wishing it wasn’t so totally obvious that we’re freshmen, with these plain uniforms.” He gestured to his own dark blue shirt, adorned only with the single embroidered pine tree that showed he lived in Pine Valley. All three boys were damp with perspiration; the diner’s fans made the heat and humidity just bearable, but the desert grit that constantly filled the air always stuck to a sweat sheen. “It’d be nice to have at least one pin. I bet we’d even get better service here.”
His friends’ laughter killed any hope of changing the subject. “You could have her, you know,” Jack said. “Most of the serving class prays to be taken as an executive’s pet.” Reading Lawrence’s irritated expression, he added, “Or you could even marry her!”
Li’l Ed snorted. “Good one!”
“Hey,” Jack said, pointing his index finger at Li’l Ed in a mock scold. “Technically she is a McGuillian employee. She even looks Golden.”
“Nah, she’s not Golden,” Li’l Ed said. “That’s makeup. The same cheap pink and yellow crap all the unspliced girls wear, trying to be like us. But she’s almost passable. So there you go, Sett; almost a Golden girl for ya. Not exactly God’s favorite, but what can you do? I’m sure her extensive knowledge of the diner’s daily lunch specials would really help you advance.”
Jack and Li’l Ed laughed. Outside the windows hundreds of people hustled past, anonymous in their hats and sunglasses, shielded by their alloy umbrellas.
“Shut up,” Lawrence grumbled. The waitress turned toward the kitchen, leaning over the counter to talk to some old man. They all watched as the pink skirt rode up, exposing her little white panties.
Li’l Ed stirred more synth proteins into his Synapsate. He always looked like he was ready to doze off, even though he lived on synthesized stimulant beverages. His eyes never seemed fully open, and his short platinum hair gave him a washed-out look. “It’d sure help her, though, if you got her, Sett,” Li’l Ed said. “If she married an executive, even one who was throwing it all away to be with her, at least she’d get to live in company housing. But you’d be stuck in the basement for your whole life. Prince Charming can’t marry the peasant girl and still grow up to be king.”
Lawrence took a sip of his own Synapsate, shifting his eyes to try and look at the waitress again without getting caught.
Li’l Ed yawned without moving his hands from the cup. Jack stuck his finger in Li’l Ed’s gaping mouth. “Ugh!” Li’l Ed said, dry-spitting toward the floor in disgust. “You cretin! I’m two months older than you! Show some respect. Geez.”
Jack shook his head in pretense of disapproval. “Didn’t your parents teach you that yawning like that is rude? We’re responsible to members of our own class, to correct each other’s rude behavior. So you’re welcome.”
Li’l Ed looked into his Synapsate. “Still two months older,” he muttered.
Jack’s right, Lawrence thought. She is a McGuillian employee, so maybe … But what Li’l Ed had said was also true: Choosing to be with someone like her would be career suicide for a young man on the executive track, and all Fisher students were on the executive track.
“We’re gonna get killed next week,” Li’l Ed said. “Finals are going to be awful.”
“Ed, we’ve been networked together every night. We’ve drilled each other on all the material in every course, over and over,” Lawrence said. “We’re a good team, and we’re going to be ready.”
“Do you really think we’ll all make it?” Jack said.
“Fifteen percent won’t,” Li’l Ed answered. “I just hope you guys’ve been honest about what you think will be covered. I’d be gone for sure if you sabotaged me and left out important stuff on purpose.”
“Nah,” Jack said. “Working together is the biggest part of it. A test is like a work assignment: The company is the source of the information, and we show how well we can use it. They care more about our teamwork than they do about our knowledge, anyway—it’s supposed to be really good if we all get the same answers right and wrong. They’ll download all the knowledge into our heads at graduation after we’ve earned it, you know, so the key is that we work well as a group.”
Lawrence nodded. “We’re a team, and that means we can’t let each other flunk out and end up as janitors.”
“Hey, Sett!” Jack said. “That’s it. You can flunk out, be reconditioned as a janitor, and marry your girlfriend there. That way there’d be one less person above me at graduation, assuming I pass somehow. I’d be three grades above you and you could clean my office.”
Lawrence punched him in the arm. He was the oldest of the three, so there was no discussion or whining about i
t.
“It’s not funny,” Li’l Ed said. “That fifteen percent is real. Every test score, every evaluation from higher ranks—even students—it all counts. Maybe one slip won’t do it, but mess up once too often and—” He snapped his fingers. “You’re one of the Departed.” Li’l Ed’s sleepy face looked almost corpse-like with his eyes shifting from Lawrence to Jack. “People say the new Departed don’t last long. The others in the horde call them ‘fresh meat.’ They’re all starving, anyway—I bet they really do eat the new ones.”
“The new Departed are called ‘fresh meat’ because everyone in the horde knows they just arrived fresh from our world,” Lawrence said. “They know that they’re probably carrying a few prized possessions with them, and they’re easy targets because they haven’t been fighting to survive yet. They don’t last long because the gangs get them, or even the Fiends. I’m sure they turn on each other too, but eating? That’s a little much.”
The diner’s glass door opened, admitting three juniors from their school. Matt Ricker was the first one through: the famous curly-haired, blond boy king who would be CEO of his own subsidiary. All three freshmen sat up straighter in their seats. The juniors headed straight for Lawrence’s table.
“Hello, Firstyears,” Ricker said, sneering. Lawrence lowered his eyes deferentially but kept his face toward the juniors to show attentiveness. Ricker’s uniform had three rank pins on the collar and three pins on the chest Lawrence did not recognize.
“Hello, Upperclassmen,” the three boys said in unison.
One of the other juniors leaned down, putting his face only centimeters from Lawrence’s. His eyebrows were brown and coarse, like his hair. Dark strands protruded from his nose, as well. “Upperclassmen? Did you say ‘Upperclassmen?’ I don’t think either of us said anything to you, but you decided to address us all, without even being spoken to?”
The Book of Eadie, Volume One of the Seventeen Trilogy Page 5
