Bottle Born Blues

by Conor H Carton

  Standing at the rear of the hall, watching the UPCR volunteers finish the set up, I wondered how badly everything would go. My street syndicate had had the entire basket cleared; the actual lottery odds were so large, they weren’t quoted. When probability was flat out against you, caving in to the inevitable was the way to go. The syndicate shark asked if I wanted to double down, and I did. I bought another cleared number. It was expensive and stupid, and leaning toward self-destructive.

  I was ready for anything and completely surprised when a soft persistent cough sounded near my ear. I whirled. Lincoln smiled amiably. She was wearing a stunning set of elegant robes with a sundry of vivid sparkling colours. Interestingly enough, she had noticeably more prominent breasts than I remembered.

  She started talking as if we’d only seen another a few hours previously and had parted on the best of terms. “Hi Screw-Top. Just heard the Knob has been moved, upward no less, for outstanding performance. You thinking of throwing a spear at the target?”

  I couldn’t have been more thrown off balance if Lincoln had shoved me, which may have been the plan, given the sly smile. A teeny hint of embarrassment could be viewed in the amused expression. With a playful slap to the back, she continued. “You should get yourself out of the shit pots for a while, before they discover you’re sane and put you back down. You get to the keep the money; they change grade but not salary if you’re not on the scheme.”

  She regarded me intently and I could read the challenge. I’d found my med card slipped into my locker two days before and seen the statements before that. Someone received special and expensive treatment, and I’d approved everything. There had been a discharge notice with the last statement, but didn’t indicate if it was a warm or cold version (and I’d not dared check). Seeing Lincoln, I decided that it had been a warm one; her mother had recovered and this was Lincoln wanting to see if any non-medical complications had occurred.

  I shook my head and took Lincoln’s cue. “No, not really interested if it’s true. Being a manager is asking for more trouble and grief, and I’ve more than enough of that, thanks,” I advised with a rueful smile.

  Lincoln smiled in return. “I can understand that.” She looked at me as if seeing me in the hall for the first time. “Why are you here? You staffing with the UPCR?” Her tone had changed. This was a genuine question.

  I decided ducking the issue was a better plan of action. “Yeah, leveraged action. Someone I know is involved and they asked me to come along … show of strength really. How about you?”

  “I’m providing the security for tonight, a late entry I should say. The regular team had a problem down at the docks when they decided to go headfirst with a set of Hartigans over a case of unclaimed deliveries at a storage pick-and-buy. The Hartigans put them in a liquid nitrogen tube and gave them a moonshot. Anyway, it created a vacancy and I was the only one available at such short notice. So here I am. Should be easy money—political rally in a major election with a breakout group ramping in the polls. There’ll be more PR agents here than voters. My team only needs to be visible and meet public assembly requirements.” She grabbed my arm and pushed me against the wall. She’d read my face with complete accuracy; my shock and concern could have been viewed from across a field. “What? Are you going to fuck my night again? Is this a fucking cover for some stupid stunt you’ve in mind?”

  Shaking me, not roughly, but enough to stir me from my stunned state, I thought about what was about to happen. “No stunt by me, but yes, there’s going to be trouble and you should take your team and leave now. I can’t share details, but there’s a major riot scheduled, and I assume the security team has been fully briefed. If you haven’t, then you could have a serious problem. Leave before it boils over.”

  “Okay, that explains the lack of bidders. I knew there was something wriggly going on, and so we’ve been booked to be the punching bags. Security failure will be on us. We’re not connected, so no one need worry, and there’s probably someone lining up to strip our base after the show. I think there’s going to be an unscheduled change to tonight’s program.” Lincoln lifted a hand to her mouth and spoke code into it, waiting for a reply before speaking again. “Now, Screw-Top, tell me what you know.”

  I nearly laughed. That was exactly what I wasn’t going to do, but I needed her to know enough to not get killed, so I gave an edited version. “I was told yesterday that an HR group was planning to make a scene here tonight and that the UPCR would use it to give themselves a lift. I’ve been marshalled into fronting the response and am going to be a star on the lines, so I’ve been told. Should do wonders for my career.”

  “Marshalled how? No, don’t tell me. You’re the most impressive trouble magnet I’ve ever encountered and I really don’t want to know more. These skinbags have tried to net me and I’m very unhappy, and intend to deal with it. Go home. It’ll get more than a bit raucous here shortly and I don’t want to have to worry about you getting under my fins.”

  “I can’t leave. I’m being tagged and if I go, there’ll be more trouble. Anyway, what about you? This isn’t a bar brawl; this will be a serious breakout and there could be weapons”

  Lincoln’s laugh was genuine and amused. She finally took her hand off my arm, stepped back, and looked at me. I realized that she looked different, and not just because of the robes. There was a different attitude. I suddenly realized that I’d not bet on anyone who crossed her. She held an edge, like a long shiny knife that caught light in a murky alley.

  “Thanks for the thought, Screw-Top. Like the robes? They will turn a Broccian filleting knife and absorb the full charge from a nerve-stick. Not my own, unfortunately; hence, the stuffing up top. You need more chest thrust to get them to hang properly. This is going to be a bad night for some people and a really good night for others. Find a bolt-hole and stay there till the froth is gone. “

  She walked across the hall, talking into her wrist while I decided whether this was good or bad. Reyan, the Natural I’d met on my first visit to the UPCR office, an assistant to Dr Sand, came over. “Shakbout, we need someone to test the audio levels. Would you mind doing the readings on the stage, please?”

  I nodded and followed her across the hall to the stage where equipment for the speakers had been set up. Dutifully, I read prepared scripts in various locations as levels were tested for various degrees of crowd density. This took over 90 minutes, as there was an intense and inscrutable struggle between Reyan and the audio manager over dead spots that required repeated readings. Finally, Reyan emerged triumphant and some equipment was re-configured to her satisfaction. I was free to wander off, but didn’t get very far before I encountered Dr Sand, who pointed to a spot on the floor. It had a faint X on it—the spot I was to stand until I leapt into action.

  The hall started to fill with lifeforms I recognized from the campaign office. More Naturals started to arrive that I didn’t recognize. Evidently, this would prove an important rally for the UPCR, an all-out pitch to swing Natural votes, specifically those active enough and curious enough to be willing to take a closer look at candidates and supporters. The willingness of an HR group to make a move also made more sense. This was exactly the sort of mixed event that their core support required action against. Everybody was going to get a slice of the pie … except me.

  The rally went off without a hitch, which was the problem. Various speakers spoke convincingly and passionately about whatever they’d been scheduled to speak convincingly and passionately about. The crowd seemed engaged and there was a buzz of excitement, and delicious risk-taking about being there and making a deliberate political decision. There was no impact on the rally from the “spontaneous” race riot that took place outside on the streets.

  The general agreement was that it was in fact “spontaneous” and a race riot, with the majority favouring a confrontation between an (unknown) Natural and an (unknown) Ornamental. Apparently, the Natural referred to the Ornamental as a “stinking blue fish-head”, an entire
ly plausible reason for a fight between the two. How exactly this confrontation became an all-out riot was unclear, however.

  What was beyond dispute was that, over the course of 30 minutes, there were 18 different fights between individuals and groups. No fatalities occurred and property damage, while extensive, was limited to public furniture and paving. Benches and litterbins were torn from bolts and used to beat people. Under the circumstances, the lack of fatalities was very mysterious unless everyone involved had, coincidently, been wearing high-grade protective wear … which would undermine the “spontaneous” aspect the Standing Committee had been so anxious to assert.

  Not that I was in any hurry to dispute the conclusion. I’d dodged a nerve-stick and wasn’t going to pick up one. Dr Sand appeared unruffled by the turn of events. He simply stared at me when speakers had finished and nodded curtly to signal I was free to go, which I rapidly did. When I left the hall, I saw Lincoln still in those dazzling robes, talking to a tall and fat bald lifeform, who must have noticed my attention because he looked over. He spoke to Lincoln, who turned and also looked, without malice or emotion, though she did offer a slight smile of recognition before they returned to their conversation.

  Any hopes I’d had re extending my streak of luck were removed the next morning when I got a promotion that I really, really didn’t want, and couldn’t escape. The Knob had indeed been moved somewhere where he could do more substantial damage to a greater number of people. Rosby caught me as I clocked on and advised I was wanted in the office.

  I walked into the Knob’s old office and saw a natural male sitting behind the desk. He was about two metres tall with a slender build; his pot belly looked out of place. A set of plain, mid-priced robes indicated that he was from the lower reaches of upper management. Who had he offended, to be dumped down to this spot? He waved me to the chair before the desk, equal level with his. He seemed to have his own hair and skin, and those charcoal-grey eyes looked unadjusted. A beacon of quiet self-confidence and assurance, I hated him from the start.

  “Mr. Mansard, may I call you Shakbout? Let me be the first to congratulate you on your new position. I’m sure you’ll be every bit as good as you’ve been described.” He then smiled and appeared to be waiting for me to say something.

  I smiled and said thank you, hoping what I strongly suspected was happening was actually not happening. No such luck.

  “I’ll tell you that I was seriously considering taking you for my new group, managing resource allocations for targeted sub-sectors that need performance support. However, with the vacancy right now, it was deemed better to slot you in right away. Particularly given the strong support for the move from your predecessor.”

  The look that accompanied this gave a strong impression that the gentleman greatly admired my oral sex prowess, and had been looking forward to experiencing it firsthand, only to have the chance snatched away. Fair enough. No one advanced up the greasy pole without laying it on for the rung above. What I didn’t understand was why I was there; as far as I knew, I got borderline acceptable reports, enough to stay in place, not close enough to sufficient to put me on the promotion line. This was either a set-up or a fuck-up, and I’d have to wait to see which. The lifeform stood and extended a business card, which I took.

  It showed that Allson Gala was Assistant Deputy Director of Resource Allocation. This made it much more likely to be a fuck-up, which was a relief. Sooner, rather than later, wheels would grind and I’d be returned to my rightful place, and my time in the chair would never be spoken of again.

  With a smile to remind me that he had his eye on me as a future acquisition, Allson left the office, and Rosby entered and closed the door behind.

  Leaning against the door she said, “It’s not a fuck-up. You’re here because I worked to have you here, and you need to understand what’s going on. With the election coming up, everything is under scrutiny. Nothing makes the top layer feel safer than offering up the sacrifice of some low-performing section to their new masters, as proof that they’re awake and earning bonuses. With the Knob in charge, we were heading the list for clerical staff in the Red Halls. There’s a limit as to how far I can distort numbers without actual assistance from someone in this office. I created an obligation to have him pulled up, and create a vacancy. I submitted your reviews and recommendations to ensure that you’d be put in place when that vacancy arose.”

  “I’m not grateful,” I told her, holding back the real words I wanted to shout.

  Rosby stepped across the room and stood directly in front of me. Looking up, I could see she was burning angry. Her tone was as heated as her expression. “Fuck gratitude. This is about survival and I’ll do what I have to, to ensure that I and the 350 live staff and 600 IPS sacks here survive. At the moment, you’re the best chance we have of doing so, and you need to know that if we go down, we’ll be leaning on you as we fall. We have little time to drive up productivity over the average for the sector. In fact, we need to be in the top five to be sure we’re in the clear.

  “You’re here because you’re the sole reason we have any productivity at all. Since you aren’t on the scheme, you’re not having the will-to-live sucked out of you every day. Now, I need you to figure out how we’re going to achieve 75% of the annual targets before the next audit in four weeks.”

  Rosby turned on her heels and left, closing the door with enough force to make a point without actually slamming it. When you were in a blood lake and a predator was coming for you, it was much better to swim than to stay and argue, so I set about swimming as fast as I could. I decided to avoid being clever and to concentrate on the obvious, and left the office. No sign of Rosby at her usual spot, thankfully.

  I headed for the IPS hot box. The IPS process altered the IPS body so it was considerably more durable and injury-resistant than a living body. They were destined for rough work and needed to be capable of tremendous wear and tear. The work did take a toll and the IPSs gradually started to buckle under the strain. To extend their useful productivity period, they were refurbished in hot boxes. It was like going to a vehicle wash. An IPS was picked up on a hook and moved through a steam-filled tunnel, and then dropped the other end, looking slightly less work-stained.

  We had a hot box that had puzzled me from the first time I’d herded a crew through it. It was wide enough to accommodate 10 bodies in a row—a batch—and took three hours to process. This created a constant backlog of bodies waiting to be steamed. The work we did was rough on them. What was puzzling was a sign on the box that gave instructions for a continuous feed rather than the batch process used. I felt compelled to check why.

  News of my new position had spread. When I asked at Procurement about the box, they provided relevant information. Delivered by error, it was too big for the requirements of the section. Signed for, it was stuck here and set up to run with minimum power, without anyone giving any more thought to it.

  I took a bolts-and-sparks tech with me and went to look more closely at the box. She checked the power feed and connected it to the major junction, and I dialed in a set-up code. The box extended to five times its previous length and a platform extended beneath it that raised up two metres off the ground; ramps slid out at each end. The length of the hot box steadily changed colour from off-grey to navy-blue, with crimson-red horizontal bands running the length.

  The tech looked on with surprise and then turned to me. “Lanken’s Tears, that’s a Metro Double G-Weight. What’s it doing here?”

  I just nodded. It was indeed the top-of-the-range hot box, made by the best manufacturer contracted solely to the military, and this unit was designed to return near-death fighters to good health in the shortest possible period. A living human could tolerate three trips through the box, but a fourth had unpredictable side effects, a subject that sparked considerable rumours and official silence. For an IPS, this was the nearest they’d come to having a living body again.

  I was very relieved that I was right. I’d read the
sign bolted to the box and been curious about is several months ago, and now hoped it wasn’t a joke. The box was the key to my plan for the section. The tech correctly interpreted my silence as a command for the same from her. She grinned and ran up a report that covered her time as maintenance on a misfiring spritz pump. I signed it and she walked away while I admired the box. The lights stopped abruptly and the stripes lit up together. This meant the system was operational and it was time to get customers for my new wash-and-go service.

  I returned to my office. Rosby was back at her desk and didn’t look up when I sauntered past. I closed the door (two people could play the ignoring game) and spent the next 20 minutes enmeshed in the bureaucracy of the largest catering company in Thiegler. I was impressed by the sheer persistence of indifference and poor service, I had to force my way past. I’d been positive that Public Service had a near monopoly on such hostility aimed at external callers. Based on this, Profit Service provided serious competition. Finally, I managed to connect to the person I wanted to talk to, by accident. It was clear that I wasn’t whom they’d been expecting. Still, to his credit, he did provide an opening that I readily stepped through.

  “Hello, my name is Shakbout Mansard and I’ve a fully operational Metro Double G-Weight with a great deal of excess capacity. I was wondering if you’d be interested in using it?”

  “When can I see it?” was the quick response.

  “Right away, if you have the time. I’ll meet you at the main entrance of the Sector 67 drainage section.”

  “Be there in 15 minutes.” The call was over.

  I sat back in my chair and breathed a huge sigh of relief. I hadn’t thought it would be this straightforward; clearly, there was a bigger gap in the market than I’d thought or the report on the lines had suggested.