Lawrence had to think fast. If he insisted that he had not said “men,” then he would be contradicting what the higher-ranked student had said. But if he apologized for saying it, he would have to face whatever punishment they chose to dish out. Still, it was safer.
“I’m sorry, Upperclassman. I meant no offense. I thought that your group had addressed our group—”
“So, you decided we’re a group, huh? Listen, Firstyear, you don’t decide shit about us, understand? You don’t think. You do what you’re told.”
“Yes, Upperclassman. I understand.”
The Upperclassman pushed Lawrence’s face backwards. Lawrence’s eyes flicked toward the waitress. She was watching. His face flushed hot. The Upperclassman leaned in close again. “You don’t understand anything, ’cause you’re stupid,” the Upperclassman said. “Get it? You’re stupid. Say it!”
“I’m stupid, Upperclassman.”
“All Firstyears are stupid.”
“All Firstyears are stupid, Upperclassman.” This one’s uniform had the same rank pins Ricker’s did, but none of the other adornments except an embroidered butterfly. It meant he, like Ricker, was from Pleasant Meadows, the most prestigious suburb in the entire area.
“We want this table. Get out.”
“Yes, Upperclassman.” All three boys scrambled to gather their things, scurrying away from the table. A blond waitress—not Lawrence’s blond waitress, but another one—hesitantly approached.
“Can I take your order?”
“Yeah,” the third one said. His shirt had a Cyprus tree for the Cyprus Garden suburb, second only to Pleasant Meadows. “I order you to give me a good time.” He laughed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her until she was seated on his lap.
“Hey, you kids!” An old man emerged from the back of the restaurant. “Leave my staff alone. Don’t make me call corporate security.”
They ignored him. The waitress squirmed on the junior’s lap as he ran his hand along her thigh.
The old man stood a minute, watching. “C’mon, guys,” he said quietly, with a touch of whine in his voice. “Can’t you just be nice to her? She’s been working hard …”
It was impossible to tell whether they had even heard him.
Ricker locked his gaze on a skinny, drunken bum sitting by himself at a nearby table. “Whoa, gentlemen,” he said. “Look what we’ve got over here.”
Entry from Eric Basali’s Precious Journal
I’m sick of hiding and sniveling, of leaping out of the way and flattening my back against the Corporate Green hallway wall so those who outrank me can stroll down the very center without so much as acknowledging I exist.
If I could escape this hell, I’d push them up against a wall, but this is the only way to stay alive. The world’s running out of everything. We’ve come full circle back to feudalism, subjecting ourselves to the will of our new royals for the privilege of cowering and groveling within their castle walls.
I reached Kessler’s office within five minutes of the notice. His prissy secretary—an annoying little dough-faced man called Issac—ignored my presence for probably 15 minutes, just to prove he could make me wait. Then the first thing Kessler said to me was that my tardiness showed I had a lax attitude. Of course, every camera in the reception area had recorded me standing in front of his secretary’s desk all that time, but he started talking about other things so I couldn’t bring it up.
That secretary should be the first one up against the wall. There’s nothing sicker than one who abuses someone else’s power.
“Eric, I called you in today because of your appearance,” he said. “Your clothes are too baggy lately.” I don’t know how he would have noticed because he never actually looks at me—one of my coworkers must have turned me in, sabotaging me to make himself look better.
“Now, I know your mother and grandparents do an excellent job with your unit in company housing,” he said. “Housing Security has never filled out a single disorder citation or wastings report. But you yourself go around looking like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes. We can’t have that here, Mr. Basali. Neater workers are better workers, and you’ve got to clean up your act.”
As he was talking, I noticed his desk was Grown Wood, as were the chairs in front of it that I’ve never been allowed to touch, let alone sit in. He kept lecturing about these trivial things but I tuned him out, imagining some lackey scientist twisting tree DNA in some basement lab, forcing it to grow into that asshole’s desk. I think the reason natural plants are illegal has more to do with control than with the lingering danger of those infectious early genotypic mods. Life is only legal when it furthers a company objective.
Someday they’ll have Grown workers, too, so all of us can work for the good of the company without the need for reconditioning, or job variation, or challenge, or even reward. Workers will all be perfect multi-trillion-celled components of giant corporate organisms, thoughtlessly serving just like their single-celled cousins. All over the world there are bacteria and fungi producing everything: plastics, fibers, foods, drugs—millions of organisms programmed to do what they were never meant to do. Why should humans be any different?
Somebody needs to step on us. Crack open these beetle buildings and let the guts out so we can all die in the sun. But who can do that? We’re all constantly watched. I am nothing but an insignificant drudge here, and there are probably four different cameras on me right now—I can’t steal or destroy anything. I’m reprimanded for taking too many breaks outside, no matter how much work I’ve completed. Nothing I do will ever change the situation, but at least I can see the workings of this system for what they really are: soul-snuffing mind control.
I can deprive this company of only one thing. And I’ll do it someday.
I still take the suspension the machines have me on—it’s supposed to make me concentrate at work more, drowning out extraneous thoughts so I can focus on my mundane life. Every time I take it, I want to vomit it back up. Humans are supposed to experience frustration and boredom, because that’s what shows us what we have to fix in our lives. Swallowing that stuff is admitting to myself that there’s no hope of fixing anything.
But I keep stopping at the synthesizer every day to get my dose, and then I drink exactly half of it. The machine reads my blood level, of course, but I take just enough that it’s recorded as poor absorption. Eventually, I’ll build up the courage to do it. I wonder sometimes whether it’s the influence of their programming rather than my own fear that keeps me from doing it now. Even without reconditioning, we all seem to automatically act in the best interest of Amelix Integrations.
Soon, though. Soon I’ll be ready, and I’ll take the super-concentrated dose I’ve saved and dried, and I’ll deprive them of one soul as I disappear into nothing.
Somewhere in the Zone
Another step, and another step. It was daylight now, and Brian was walking, going … somewhere. Maybe home, he thought. Not Dok’s place. He had already been there. Hadn’t he?
The strange voice had not left him, and words echoed inside his head with increasing frequency and force. Brian stumbled, losing control, his vision of the dirty gravel street half-shrouded in the mist from his mind. He stopped, noticing he had somehow strayed several blocks off course. Shaking his head enough to clear it, he veered back toward his intended destination. The Zone was only his external reality. Inside he was rolling in mist, fighting to crawl, to stand, guarding something sacred against a hidden adversary that wrestled to claim it. Bums stared up from the sidewalks and hoods elbowed each other as he passed with jerky motions, making strange grunts and “ahs” whenever the prattle bubbled up.
The bar he was passing had most of its windows boarded up. Zone hoods leaned against the wall outside. Brian ducked in through the greasy curtains hanging limply across the doorway. The air inside was more oppressive than outside: stagnant and hot, with the wet-dirt smell of too many unwashed patrons.
“Whatchu want?” th
e bartender asked. Part of his face was caved in, healed wrong after a nasty blow.
Brian gripped the edge of the turd-colored bar—undoubtedly a kitchen countertop from a home a hundred years ago. His knuckles whitened on its smooth, curved edge, his thumbnail digging into the crumbling particleboard underneath. “Please bring me—” he swallowed dryly “—a glass of warm water.” A typical request in a place like this, as many patrons could afford little else. The bartender stared. Brian fished in his pocket, flipping a low-value casino chip toward the dent in the man’s head. He caught it in a closed fist, checked the markings, and turned to fetch the water.
“Can not waste time. Life Force is in danger. Must prepare for battle!”
Brian blinked hard. The bartender set down a smeared glass of lukewarm, cloudy water. Brian dumped in one of Dok’s tea packets and took a long drink.
MediPirates Bulletin Board
Posted by Coach V #fW531a:
Dok, I’ve corresponded with you for many years and I have great respect for your practice, but in this case you’re probably reaching too far. The human brain is too fragile for today’s street drugs, and once it goes, there’s nothing you can do. Even the gentlest patient can become dangerous—often in ways you can’t imagine.
I had a guy in here yesterday insisting he was Jesus Christ. He was so sure of the fact that he got my other patients believing him. I’d had a rough night addressing some different medical issues and wasn’t thinking clearly. Even I almost bought into his shtick, because when someone believes anything as completely as this guy did, they can be quite convincing. To ensure my standard of care and avoid distraction, I left the room and took a 10mg/equiv bactro-methylphenidate compresso to keep the guy locked out of my head.
It came out soon after that “Jesus” was heavy into bactrospeedballs. It was his “other” (non-Jesus) personality that revealed this to me, of course. Once I’d broken his admittedly powerful spell, I was able to see him for what he was: another junkie asking me for a free hit. (Of course “Jesus” didn’t have any money … )
I wished him good luck and showed him the door. You should do the same with your guy.
Coach V
MediPirates Bulletin Board
Posted by Dark Dok #cB449d:
Thanks, Coach V. Patient is now out “the door,” as you say, but I’m telling you this is a really unusual case. Like you, I’ve seen plenty who have popped their brains on god-knows-what from the street, but I’ve never had this feeling before.
I don’t believe there’s much I can do for this guy in the way of treatment but I still can’t get him out of my head. I sense something really odd, almost otherworldly about him. Something has happened to the man that I can’t quite explain.
Patient finally woke up, acting like himself but experiencing aural hallucination—voices. I tried to keep him for observation but he refused and vanished out into the Zone.
I know that many of you will tell me that this is just a case of undifferentiated schizophrenia but I have a strong impression that this might be something new. Maybe I’m mistaken, but it sure seems like this was all brought on overnight by a single dose of a street drug.
Please let me know if any of you come across a case like this.
Dok
(?)
Sato pushed up from the mist where he had been in meditation, taking charge of the body and looking around this strange place. It was obviously an entertainment area for particularly low-class patrons; nobody from the samurai ruling class would come to such a filthy shop. The tea in front of him was cold. He scowled at the honorless merchant behind the counter. All merchants made their way in life like parasites, using up resources, forever bartering and trading to better their positions instead of accepting their fates.
Despicable.
Still, tea might do him good. He took a sip.
His mouth puckered. It was the worst tasting tea he had ever—No. This was not tea at all. Herbal medicine … a drug for inducing sleep. He spat the mouthful of it out onto the bar.
“Do you try to drug me, merchant?” Sato shouted.
The man approached. “What the hell you think you’re doin’ asshole?”
Sato reached for his sword but it was not there.
The merchant dared to stare back! Sato reached toward the man’s throat.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Sato spun, searching for whoever had shouted. Nobody was behind him. Some of the patrons spoke now to each other, saying things like “crazy” and “roll him for his chips.” The language sounded crude and hostile. Sweat ran down Sato’s forehead and into his eyes, but his conditioning demanded that he ignore it. A samurai must keep his vision clear and his hands ready for any pending attack.
There were between fifteen and twenty of them. None appeared to be samurai so he could likely kill them with relative ease, but his death in Japan had taught him that the mission was more important than winning every battle. Sato backed toward the door.
It was a strange experience, inhabiting this body. Sato could control it and move it the way he wanted it to go, but he had only light sensation with it. Even the feel of his feet pressing down on the floor was dulled. The sensations in his head were fine—sight, sound, taste, smell—but away from his head, there was just enough to allow proper movement. Perhaps it would change as he settled in more fully.
Six men followed him as he backed through the door. He quickly scanned his surroundings to detect any possible ambush. Three of the ruffians outside approached now, coming dangerously close to Sato, making threatening motions and trying to distract him. He strode backward and sideways, keeping them all in front.
They approached with cautious swings and maneuvers to test his reactions. A large one charged at him. Sato shifted his weight to avoid being tackled, striking the man hard to the head with his fist as he passed.
Hands began to punch and grab from every direction. Sato blocked, struck, kicked. Headbutted. Kneed. Elbowed. His limbs felt nearly nothing and they never got tired. He took hit after hit in the stomach, groin and back, but felt only the rare head blows. He shattered opponents’ teeth, broke noses, and crumpled man after man to the ground.
They were all around him now, though only a few remained standing. His body lurched forward, a dull thud sounded in his ears. Something—a fist, he thought—had slammed into the back of his head. It struck again and again, and Sato’s control of the body faltered.
He was back in the mist again.
McGuillian Diner
Mr. Stuckey’s hand steadied Eadie. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he whispered.
Eadie realized she had taken a step toward the rich bullies with her hands clenched in fists. She straightened, swallowed. “You’re right,” she whispered back. “There’s something about that guy, the Prophet … It’s been really strange since he started coming in here.” She shook her head. “You know, when he says that weird stuff, I actually feel like a general, like I’m fated to do something, to fight.” She rubbed her eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Stuckey.”
The Prophet’s body swayed back and forth as he regarded his tormentors with seeming indifference. One of them slapped him across the face. One of the others grabbed him by the lapels of his dirty brown jacket and hauled him out of his seat.
“Whoo,” the one holding the Prophet said, disgusted. “This boy stinks of sodje.”
The blonde bully punched the Prophet in the stomach, doubling him over. The Prophet gasped and sputtered. The boy sniffed and laughed. “Yeah, that’s sodje all right. Smells like somebody’s melting plastic.” He clucked his tongue. “You come here, around productive upper class citizens, blitzed out of your mind on the cheapest synthetic booze you can find? Didn’t anybody ever teach you manners?” The boy pushed his friend’s hands out of the way, snatched the Prophet’s jacket and delivered a swift uppercut to the pitiful man’s jaw. The impact spun the Prophet so he ended up facing away from them, falling to one knee.
Eadie was a
cross the room, helping the Prophet to stand, before she realized what she was doing. The blond one leaned into her face.
“Oh, you want some of this, baby?” He grabbed the hair at the back of her head and jerked, forcing her face to point upward. His other hand squeezed her breast so hard her vision clouded with the pain. She kicked at him but missed. He got behind her so that the arm holding her hair was now across her neck. His buddies laughed as his free hand ran up her thigh and under her skirt. She twisted and swung her elbows, freeing herself enough to turn and kick again, her shin finding his crotch. His hand released her hair as he bent over, moaning.
The other two came at her, grabbing her uniform. A seam ripped. She swung at them blindly and they hit back mercilessly. She stepped back, pain radiating from her gut and slowing her movement. Her nose throbbed, dripping blood onto her lip.
Blondie pushed through them, panting. “This little bitch is mine,” he said. He stared at Eadie. “You got a lucky shot, but now you’ll learn not to mess with your superiors, waitress whore.” His friends laughed.
He lunged, grabbing her by the throat with both hands. Her vessels squeezed shut, her vision darkened. She palmed him in the face, breaking his hold. He slugged her in the eye and knocked her to the floor. His kicks to her head were increasingly muted drumbeats.
The rich boy stood on her wrist, placing his other foot across her throat. She struggled but he shifted his weight to that foot, holding her still.
The pressure let up. Blondie stepped back. She gasped for breath, sitting up. The Firstyear student the three had bullied earlier now had an arm around Blondie’s neck.
The older boy ducked out of the headlock but the Firstyear managed to keep hold of one of his ears. The blond one punched him in the stomach a few times, freeing his ear, and then hit him hard in the face. Her would-be hero collapsed to the floor.
The Book of Eadie, Volume One of the Seventeen Trilogy Page 6
