CHAPTER TEN
Based on her experience at Wilyam Serman, Devra had expected to spend the entire morning filling out forms for the New Citizen school. All that could be done via her CodeX, of course, from the comfort of Vikki’s room; but she’d thought it would be better to visit the school in person.
And so it was; saved her a lot of time doing paperwork. The Administrator at Boyun Eğme Secondary started shaking his head as soon as she gave her name. “I’m sorry, Citizen, but this school can’t really take the risk of hiring you. We New Citizens have a shaky enough standing in the community as it is.”
So Devra thanked him politely and trudged back to the train stop. She decided to spend the rest of the day sending job applications via her CodeX to other schools in the city. Maybe she’d even try some of the up-river schools established for farm kids and sasena workers. They might be desperate enough to overlook her record.
They weren’t. Working online from Vikki’s apartment, it took Devra less than two hours to get turned down by every school in Harmony City, and only half an hour more to be rejected by the up-river schools she tried. Her head was killing her when she admitted defeat, and the incessant noises just outside the apartment didn’t help. They weren’t loud enough to signal construction; the grating, metallic whirring noise sounded like some machine preparing to break down, or… It was strangely familiar. She had to take a look.
“Scat! How did you get here?”
I have an excellent sense of smell, the cat said. You incompetent bipeds wouldn’t understand.
He thrust his boxy head against Devra’s ankles, made the whirring noise again, and placed one paw on her leg, extending his claws as he did so.
“Ow! All right, all right. Take the pitons out and I’ll find you something to eat, but you can’t come in. I don’t think Vikki wants a pet.”
Scat turned up his nose at a saucer of nanosludge with cheese flavor; just to make the message perfectly clear, he pawed the ersatz cheese off the saucer and into a mound on the walkway, then scraped across it as if he were burying something in a litter box. What else could she give him? Not the eggs; they’d been the prize of Vikki’s shopping the day before. Did cats eat Kwik-meals?
Scat rumbled and whirred with redoubled force when Devra pulled off the top of a Kwik-meal advertising tender beeflike morsels in a rich gravy. It wasn’t exactly false advertising; the soy cubes were sort of like beef. Well, they were organic. And edible. And the gravy had a definite smell to it.
Scat seemed to find the revolting glop perfectly acceptable. Devra set the box at the top of the block stairs, where she could sit comfortably and talk to Scat while she held the box steady enough for him to extract every molecule of food. She told him all about her dispiriting search for a job, and – after the food was gone – the cat stared into her eyes as if he actually understood what she was saying.
You might as well forget about teaching, he said. Isn’t there anything else you can do?
“Of course there is,” Devra said indignantly. “Before I went to university I was apprenticed to Gunter’s – the best bakery and pastry shop in Harmony City. Oh, Scat, you’re brilliant! I’ll apply at Gunter’s tomorrow.” A baker would have no interest in reading the education newsletters; she just might be able to slide in without mentioning the recent unpleasantness.
When Viktorya came home she approved of Devra’s idea, but absent-mindedly, as if she were thinking of something else. She told Devra to go ahead and cook the eggs before they went bad; she was going out to dinner with her friend Raff. “And I may not be back until very, very late,” she said, scooping some grooming supplies into a tote bag. “So don’t wait up for me.”
Devra spent the evening looking for bakery and café job listings on her CodeX, just in case Gunter’s didn’t have a place for her. She didn’t find much. Well, most jobs were filled by assignment from the Bureau for Labor. She didn’t think registering with Labor would do her much good. Maybe places that wanted to pick their own bakers didn’t post the job opening, because they had higher standards than the Bureau? She clung to that hope overnight.
***
The next day Viktorya got home late, tired, and in a bad mood. “The substitute who’s taken over your science classes is an incompetent idiot. Today the students locked him in a supply cupboard and flooded the whole building with some kind of stinky gas.”
“They’re very creative,” Devra murmured. “And energetic.”
“You wouldn’t think it was so funny if you’d had to stand in the rain for two hours while they aired out the schoolrooms! Everything’s gone wrong for me today,” Vikki lamented. “First I was late to school, then my dumb smartcloth soaked up the stench from your students’ little ‘science experiment’ and after all that lost time I didn’t get a break all day to take off my clothes and shake them clean.” She was stripping rapidly as she talked. “Take those outside and initiate self-cleanse while I get into something more comfortable. Oh, and be careful – coming in I nearly tripped over some hideous, flea-bitten stray that tried to get inside with me.”
That explained the thud and howl that Devra had heard just before the door opened. She hoped Scat’s ribs weren’t broken. “Did you get the job at Gunter’s?” Vikki asked over her shoulder while rummaging in her closet. “Go on, get those things clean so we can talk in comfort.”
Devra stood out on the balcony for longer than was strictly necessary, shaking Vikki’s clothes and encouraging the smartcloth to shed any dirt, skin cells, or chemicals it had picked up during the day.
Fabric had been one of nanotechnology’s few successes. Simple smartcloth had been rare in Devra’s childhood, before Harmony decided to buy a license for unlimited reproduction. Since then Earth scientists had developed a wide variety of supplemental nanos that – for a fee – could be added to an existing smartcloth outfit. The fire resistant and armor-protecting upgrades were licensed for government use only. Most other upgrades were, technically speaking, consumer products, except that the high cost of newly licensed upgrades put them out of reach for most consumers. A perpetually self-cleaning smartcloth that didn’t have to be shaken out was a convenience, but one that most people could do without until prices came down. The same was true for the color nanos that transformed grey-green smartcloth into the color of your choice. Vikki had saved for several months to buy the deep, vibrant red that was the perfect setting for her honey-colored skin and masses of curling black hair. Devra looked ruefully at the gray-green sleeve of her own tunic, a factory-supplied color guaranteed to make anyone look washed out. She’d been planning to splurge on a color upgrade for her own outfit….
“Aren’t you done yet?” Vikki called through the door. “Come on in, but watch out for that mangy stray!”
The warning was unnecessary; Scat had, with surprising tact, retreated out of sight.
Vikki had used the time to wrap herself in a flowing robe whose colors continually changed, creating an illusion of a red and orange waterfall flowing from shoulders to floor. Devra’s eyes widened at the sight. “New nanos?”
“The very latest, my dear!” Vikki chuckled. “A gift from Raff. Naturally I wouldn’t wear something like this at work for fear the political officer thought I was spending extravagantly, so wasn’t it clever of Raff to have it styled as a robe? He says I look like a ripe peach in it. Oh, good, you got it clean enough for me to wear tomorrow. I was afraid the cleaning nanos were dying. Well, sit down and tell me all about the job at Gunter’s.”
Vikki’s expression darkened as Devra confessed her failure to get on Gunter’s bakery team and described the newest obstacle Security had put in her way. “I’m listed as a security risk and a non-citizen. How can I get any kind of a job with that on my profile? Honestly, I’m beginning to wonder why they didn’t just go ahead and ship me out for medical rehab. It would almost be easier – no, I don’t mean that! But how am I to live?”
“Oh, you’ll work something out,” Vikki said. “The more i
mmediate question is, where are you to live? Oh, don’t look so shocked. Of course you can stay here as long as you really need to, but I do like to have room for Stela when she feels like getting out of the crêche for a night. And going over to Raff’s all the time isn’t really… well, he took a tiny room assignment for the sake of the view, but it’s not all that comfortable for two people.”
“No,” Devra said through a throat that was suddenly dry, “I can quite see that, and I don’t plan to impose on you indefinitely.”
“You could stay with Tomas,” Vikki suggested, naming a fellow teacher. “I’m quite sure he would be delighted to help you out.”
“So am I,” Devra agreed, remembering her efforts to dodge Tomas’ wandering hands. “But the rent would be much too high.”
“Oh, no, he wouldn’t ask you to contribute any credits, he knows you’re broke.”
“Been discussing the matter with him?”
Vikki looked away. “Well – what if I have? I’m just trying to help.”
“The rent would still be too high.”
“Well, aren’t we la di da! Raff isn’t the one true love of my life, you know, but we have a lot of fun together. Life is a lot easier if you’re flexible enough to get along. Still, if you won’t, you won’t… Don’t you have a married brother in Western Sunrise district?”
“Rikard. With two children,” Devra agreed.
“Well, there you are, that’s the perfect solution! I’m sure your sister-in-law would be happy to make space for you in return for just a little help with the children.”
“Doubtless. But it’s a little late to just show up there tonight.”
“Well darling, don’t act as if I were throwing you out into the snow! Of course you’re more than welcome to stay tonight.”
They went to bed agreed that Devra would move to Rikard’s apartment the next day. At least, Vikki thought that was the agreement, and Devra didn’t disillusion her. It would have seemed like begging if she’d told Vikki that she had already commed Rikard, after being turned down for the bakery job, and had been told by her sister-in-law Valeri to keep her distance. “Do you realize we’re applying for our third child license? It’s bad enough that Rikard has to keep apologizing for his Unlicensed sister, but after this latest disgrace we really can’t afford to be seen with you at all. So if you were thinking you could move in –”
“Don’t worry!” Devra had said. “I have plenty of other options. I’ll let you know when I get settled, shall I?”
“Ye-es,” Valeri had said slowly. “I suppose it would look strange if we didn’t even know where you were. But don’t expect anything more of us!”
There were a lot of ways, Devra reflected as she twitched and tried to sleep, in which the rent could be too high.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Central Committee lies to you and always has. They lie to you even when it doesn’t matter, from force of habit. When they don’t lie directly, they lie by implication. You are told that the sasena farms are 20% behind quota, but they don’t tell you that the quota was raised by 20% last year. You are told to –
The office door slid open and Lars pushed the page he had been writing under a stack of ungraded mid-terms. “I wish you’d use my door chime, Shakros.”
“Why? We’re all doing the same thing – grading midterms. Anyway, Bagwitt never chimes.”
“Bagwitt’s an idiot. And you’re not grading midterms,” Lars pointed out, “you’re avoiding the job by dropping in on me to – do whatever you’re here for.”
“Too right, I’m avoiding it,” Shakros agreed cheerfully, seating himself without waiting for an invitation. “But I’m also rumormongering. Listen to the latest, and you too can avoid grading for a few minutes.”
It would, Lars had to admit, have been a welcome interruption if he’d actually been grading papers. In fact, apart from the risk of discovery, it was an even more welcome interruption now. Trying to write that Discord-be-taken leaflet made him feel as if drops of blood were forming on his forehead.
“I accept your offer,” he said, setting his marker down and ostentatiously stretching, flexing his shoulders. Even that called for no acting – all his muscles tensed when he worked on the leaflet. “By all means, monger the latest rumor and give me a break too.”
“Well,” Shakros began, “did you hear about the Dean and that pretty post-doc in Literature? They were seen….”
Lars wondered why women were accused of being gossips. His colleagues were experts at turning a crumb of fact into a cake of innuendo and retailing it with relish. This seemed typical. Shakros was now telling him that the Dean and this young woman had been alone in a conference room before the rest of the people summoned to the meeting arrived. Probably for all of five minutes, Lars thought. That was more than long enough for rumor to change five minutes to an hour or more, to claim that the Dean had reserved the conference room for one time but had told everybody except this girl that the meeting began an hour later, to decide that the Dean had chosen this risky way of getting together out of fear of his wife, whose hold over him could only be attributed to her having a secret lover in Security…
Still, he was happy enough to listen while Shakros built up and embroidered his scandalous story. Some people, Lars thought enviously, had a way with words; clearly Shakros could have had a career writing dialogue for holodramas, whereas he struggled to get even one paragraph of truth into words.
When Shakros left, Lars slid out the page he’d been working on and stared at it with a jaundiced eye. That paragraph was repetitious. Worse, it was boring. Perhaps he had better start over.
Crossing out his previous sentences, Lars wrote, The first principle of organized human life is NOT harmony, but freedom.” He thought while tapping his marker. What point was he trying to make? “This includes not only freedom to act, but freedom to speak. The Central Committee tries to silence all speech that it finds discordant. But without discord and argument, how are we to choose between competing ---“
This time it was Bagwitt interrupting, with a bulging folder under his arm. Lars was better prepared this time; the top edge of his future leaflet was still under the ungraded exams, so it was easy to shove the new writing out of sight.
“Eklund, I need some help on the midterms. What’s the right answer to Number 14? And 17?” Bagwitt reached for the left-hand stack of papers.
Lars dropped his arm over the papers. “You don’t want these, I haven’t done them yet. Unless you’re offering to take over the job?” he suggested with just a touch of malice. “And the graded ones won’t be much help. I’ve only marked the incorrect answers; I didn’t write in the correct ones.”
“Oh…” Bagwitt shuffled from foot to foot. “Well, in that case.”
“If that’s all…” Lars prompted.
“Why do we have to use this archaic paper system, anyway?” Bagwitt whined. “We should just put the exam on their CodeXes. Then somebody could list the right answers and our CodeXes could do the marking automatically.”
“The theory,” Lars said, “is that someone could hack our CodeXes and find out the exam questions and answers ahead of time. Though I fear none of our students have that much initiative.” He glowered at the stacks of papers on his desk. “Do you know, there was a time when people predicted that the use of computers would result in a paperless office?”
“When is that supposed to happen?”
Lars did some quick subtraction. “Oh… about three hundred and fifty years ago. But paper – well, to be nit-picky, inert flimsy, don’t know why we still call it after an Egyptian plant – really is important for some things. Why do we make students use bound flimsies for their lab notes, and enter everything in ink? So they can’t go back and alter their data if it doesn’t come out right.”
“Another pointless rule,” Bagwitt groused. “As if it mattered, when all they’re doing is demonstrating the known laws of science. It’s not like anybody is doing real experiments. Why can’
t those withered mothballs in Administration move into the 24th century, for Harmony’s sake? They ought to--”
Once started, Bagwitt could go on forever. Lars held out his free hand. “Give me the folder. I’ll mark your students’ exams as well as my own.”
Bagwitt’s face cleared. Lars suspected he’d come in with this aim all along.
“That’s very…. Very comradely and harmonious, Eklund. I’ll do the same for you another time, of course. It’s just that right now it’s not convenient for me…” Bagwitt handed him the folder. “Now you will be careful not to mix my papers with yours, won’t you?”
Peace again. Now if he could just recover his train of thought…
Before he could do more than re-read the opening sentences, his door chime sounded. “Now what?” Lars snapped.
“Relax, Professor,” Julle said as the door slid open. “I come in peace. Also,” she added, “bearing gifts.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t need it and I don’t want it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” said Julle, handing him a folder much slimmer than the bulging file Bagwitt had dumped on him. “Door, close,” she said over her shoulder. “Now just look at what I’ve found for you! It was in the deep archives and I suspect nobody’s looked at it for hundreds of years, that’s why Central hadn’t deleted it.”
Lars flipped the folder open. “Use materials which appear to be innocent. A knife or a nail file can be carried normally on your person…. What’s a nail file?”
I think it was some kind of grooming tool people used before cleanser booths,” Julle said. “This is an antique document, professor. Pre-colonization! It’s some kind of manual on how to sabotage a government.”
“Why would anybody write such a document, let alone save it in our archives?”
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