by P. R. Adams
“…we’ll simply need to look for the next means of making a living. Someone will define that at some point…”
“…the future is in owning stocks, succeeding when the metacorporations succeed…”
“…no one in their right mind would fight progress, and progress is finally taking us to the point where employment as we knew it is no longer viable…”
“…knocks ten years away with one, simple application. Look at the wrinkles fade, and that’s in the short time since this application…”
“…we’ve imagined the future where the Tetros creates a single producer, a single controller, and we simply can’t allow that to happen to you, which is why we’re introducing today the Naxion, which does everything the Tetros does, but for free…”
Rimes sighed at the realization there could be something worse than the fabricated outrage and bluster the free news feeds normally offered. What was worse than the nonsense replacing the old divisive idiocy, though, was the transformation he saw all around him. Gwambe and Trang were talking about the need for the Naxion. Banh and Dunne were discussing their investment strategies. Dengler was interacting with a virtual Tetros earpiece, smiling in rapt amazement.
Chiming drew Rimes from the funk he’d fallen into. He accepted the call, realizing suddenly just how sluggish and bland his earpiece was. The Tetros is twice as fast and has six times the capacity, plus the camera’s resolution is the best available. Imogen’s face appeared in Rimes’s display. It’s an imperfect rendering. The Naxion has the best rendering solution available, and it’s free.
“Colonel Rimes,” Imogen shouted.
“Yes?” Rimes realized Imogen had been talking to him for some time. He focused on the display, embarrassed. “I’m here.”
“We’re making the final descent.” Imogen looked beyond the camera, taking in those around her. “It’s happening already. This thing, it is powerful, insidious.” She hesitated, as if she might be struggling against its pull herself. “Do you feel it?”
Rimes looked at Yama. The shuttle was on autopilot now. Yama was focused on a skin lightening product advertisement playing on the shuttle’s main display.
“All around me,” Rimes whispered. He leaned in to watch the advertisement over Yama’s shoulder.
“Remember the objective, Colonel. Remember what was taken from you and what was given to you. Remember Molly. Remember your boys. Remember who you are.”
Rimes nodded absently. “I’ll never forget.” He closed the connection and opened a new one to the skin care ad, quickly loading the demo to see what he would look like with the deluxe conditioner treatment. He wished he had the Naxion to render the video better…
36
29 May, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.
* * *
Credits scrolled across the screen: actors, cinematographers, digital artists. It was a blur of white, the names a legion drawn from around the globe. Rimes blinked slowly, trying to remember what he’d just watched. There had been explosions and gunfire, screaming and dying. It had been mindless and numbing and most importantly free. Free was important. The galactic economy meant everyone shared the same wretched living conditions throughout the galaxy, as what little demand there was for labor gravitated to the cheapest offerings. That meant the only content consumed had to be free or close to it.
“New movie,” he said to his earpiece.
It listed categories and recommended movies similar to the one he’d just finished.
“I’m tired of mindless violence. List dramatic options.”
He stumbled into his apartment’s kitchen area as the sub-category lists filled the floating display that traveled with him. Lights flickered on, bathing the cramped space with a sickly glow. He caught a whiff of unwashed dishes, rotting food, and his own body odor. It would only get worse when the sunlight found his windows, turning the apartment into a sauna. A quick look in the cooler revealed the beer was gone. Scratching his beard absently he turned his focus to the movie options. Finally, he chose Romantic Thrillers and Random, allowing the entertainment system to choose among the millions of Romantic Thrillers available in its vast library.
As the movie queued up he dug a salsa jar from among the dirty dishes piled in the sink and emptied out the last of its contents, which were green with mold. The indicator over the sink flashed a red warning.
“You are approaching your monthly water limit,” a pleasant voice said.
He cursed. “Authorize an extra purchase.”
“Thank you.”
He squirted soap and water into the salsa jar and scrubbed until it felt clean enough for use, then filled it from the tap.
By the time he settled back onto the couch, the opening credits were finishing. The camera played across a sparkling high-rise, capturing reflections of a brilliant neon skyline and a flow of vehicles marked by glowing headlights. Rimes dug through the crinkled wrappers covering the chipped and worn coffee table that also served as a footrest, finally finding a chocolate-like brick that, aside from a heel print on one corner, was still relatively intact. It took a moment to separate the chocolate-like icing from the wrapper, but once that was done, he was able to settle back on the couch and watch the movie.
He spent several seconds shifting to find the one spot where a semblance of padding still covered the couch’s failing frame. All the while he sucked the sticky, sweet, chocolate-like cake from his fingers.
The video shifted from its romantic dance with the city lights to the tower again, tightening its focus onto the top floors until finally zooming in on the building’s massive logo. A second later, the zoom passed the logo and entered a luxurious office beyond. A brightly lit floor covered with colorful, clean carpeting and furnished with crisp, polished, matching chairs, a desk, and a lamp. The office spoke of power and wealth.
Rimes wordlessly mouthed the mantra he’d come to embrace: They earned it; we deserve to be what we are.
A woman entered the office. She was dark-haired, olive-skinned, and beautiful, dressed in a gray jacket and skirt with a black belt and white blouse. Rimes glanced absently at his grimy boxers and stained T-shirt, noting the belly that protruded over the waistband. He licked the inside of the wrapper one last time before setting it down on the coffee table. The entertainment system’s display glitched, momentarily freezing.
He cursed, then toyed with the idea of getting up, possibly going for a walk. His joints ached, and his head throbbed. He took a long drink from the salsa jar, wishing he had the money for some more beer. It was two more days until payday, and he was already facing tough choices for the coming month.
“Clear that up, please,” he said to the entertainment system.
“I am analyzing the problem. Please take a moment to consider the vast array of options—”
“Just clear it up.”
He stared at the screen for several seconds, and then his head slumped against his chest. He dozed for a moment, waking just as the glitch cleared. The movie pulled him back in, drawing him away from his concerns about the unbearable heat settling over the room. Once more the video played across the city lights, pausing momentarily, freezing, then turning back to the tower to zoom in on the logo. It froze again as it sped the focus toward the logo and the office below it. He grumbled and took another swig of water.
He glared at the logo, appreciating for the first time its aesthetic. It was clean and simple, the letters reflecting something of an international alphabet mash-up, with the curves of Arabic and Kanji stylizing the otherwise blockish nature of the English alphabet.
MetaConceptual.
He wondered if it would play a role in the movie, possibly something he’d been intended to notice from the start.
MetaConceptual.
He watched the beautiful woman move around the office for a few more minutes, but even the camera’s infatuation with her beauty and the quick, choppy takes that dynamically captured her best side couldn’t keep him focused.
MetaConceptua
l.
“Shut down,” he said with a growl.
As the display powered down, he finished off the water and took the glass to the sink. A second later, he was back at the coffee table, clearing it, throwing the wrappers in the recycling container. He chewed at his bottom lip and suddenly realized he had several days’ worth of growth on his chin.
He let out an annoyed hiss as he passed through the cramped space he called his living room. In the corner, he settled onto the edge of his bed—a simple slab of foam covered with a gray, tattered sheet—and dug through the box that held his wardrobe. It took a few seconds to fish out a pair of shorts he could wear outside. He pulled them on, gasping at their tightness. A moment later he had his ratty sneakers on and was headed for the door and the stairs beyond.
Bathed in the dawn’s early light, Atlanta was a miserable vision. Rimes jogged slowly at first, wincing at the pain that came with each footfall. Joints creaked, muscles grown complacent protested, perspiration oozed from pores to try to cool a body teetering on the brink of ruin. Sickly trees littered alleged green spaces, casting feeble shadows beneath a merciless sun just beginning its ascent.
A kilometer into the run Rimes stopped, searching for a garbage bin or an alley that might provide some privacy. Nothing presented itself, so he simply vomited into the empty street. He looked at the mess for a moment, wondering what he’d done to himself, then he rose and fought through another wave of nausea. Ugly seconds passed, and then he was jogging again, now slightly quicker and more confident.
The streets were empty at such an early hour. Most people would be inside, he realized, cocooned, sleeping, absorbed in whatever dreams were being fed to them. As he jogged, he began making out details he’d somehow missed on his daily somnambulistic shuffle to work: uncollected garbage piled in alleys until the government could afford to hire staff again; abandoned vehicles simply sitting in the middle of streets or blocking sidewalks; cameras and listening devices mounted on street corners and rooftops; bulky, ominous vans with ancient, growling combustion engines and tinted, bug-like bubble windows patrolling the streets. He surreptitiously noted the cameras and the vans’ patrol patterns.
Two hours later, he returned to his apartment. The first thing to hit him was the smell: dank, stuffy, like someone had emptied a Dumpster into a locker room. He cursed, making his way to the few windows the cramped space offered. With some effort, he pried two of the windows open. A crusty knife from the kitchen sink propped open a third.
Ignoring the warnings from the water system, Rimes took a long, hot shower, working his joints slowly beneath the flow, scrubbing at skin allowed to go too long without proper care. Finally, he shut the water off and toweled himself dry, shaking his head in frustration at the towel’s sour smell. He gathered his clothes, towels, and sheets and tossed whatever could be salvaged into the apartment’s small washing unit. Everything else went into the recycler.
As his clothes washed, he turned his attention to the kitchen sink. Recyclable trays, the sort used at the fast food joints his modest salary forced him to frequent, provided most of the clutter. Rimes tossed those into the recycler. Food particles caked the sink surface and the remaining pots and plates. Rimes squirted cleanser into the sink and attacked it with a shabby towel that was destined for the recycler once the cleaning was complete.
An hour later the sink gave off what shine it could, given its age. Plates and pots rested face down on the countertop, and freshly washed clothes hung from every surface that could support them. He focused on the bathroom next, starting with the toilet, then turned to the shower and sink.
It was afternoon by the time he stepped into the kitchen again. He was drenched, drained, and lightheaded. It had taken another water purchase to get him through the cleaning. He decided he had enough water for a second shower, so he peeled off his sticky clothes and stood under the showerhead again until the grime and stench were washed away. He shaved his whiskers off and found a sense of humanness in the resulting smooth skin.
He dropped onto his bed and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore the spasms running through his tired muscles.
MetaConceptual.
He toyed with the name, rolling it slowly over his tongue.
MetaConceptual.
Images came to him, memory fragments that slowly rebuilt until they connected. His childhood, his father’s death, his mother’s departure, Calvin’s birth, marrying Molly, Jared’s birth, the Rangers, Commando training, his tryst with Kleigshoen, Molly’s betrayal, his first mission for the Special Security Council, the meeting with Deepa Bhatia that forged a bond of trust that stretched beyond their rival nations, the war against the genies, Sahara.
Sahara.
He sat up abruptly. There was a presence in his mind.
Kwon. The entity. Both. And something more, all caught up in a struggle.
He stood, shook his head, and searched for a pair of dry boxers, settling on a slightly damp pair. The only pants he could find close to dry were the shorts he’d jogged in earlier. He matched those with a black T-shirt and a pair of socks, then pulled on his ratty sneakers.
The streets were busier in the late afternoon, but not enough to properly match the city’s population density. All around him people shuffled past, their eyes defocused, their attention on whatever their earpieces fed them. Some watched videos or news feeds, others played games, a few quietly repeated advertisements and slogans as if that provided them some sort of vindication, and still others simply talked to unseen friends and family. Rimes moved with the flow, eyes always peeled for the black vans, always aware of the recording devices watching his every move.
It was dark by the time he found what he was looking for. The building stood alone, surrounded by a large, fenced-in stretch of asphalt and concrete. There were no functional cameras for hundreds of meters.
After circling the building a few times, he surmised it had been a city vehicle maintenance shop sometime in the past when the government had the money to maintain anything approaching a vehicle fleet. Once he was sure no one was around, he clambered over the fence. He marveled at the weakness in his legs after his earlier jog and hoped adrenaline would provide him the burst he needed should someone respond to his trespassing.
He crouched and waited, but no one came. He scanned the sky for UAVs. Nothing.
After several minutes, he stood. He shook off the inevitable cramps and made his way toward the building’s front door—dented steel and a narrow window of grimy glass. There were three aluminum rolling curtain doors several meters to the right of the door. He guessed those opened onto maintenance bays, although he couldn’t make out anything beyond the front door.
He tried the door and found surprising give. He ran his fingers over the frame and felt where a crowbar had dug into the metal. Others had identified the building’s promise as a hideout. Another look through the door, and he abandoned it, jogging to a side door he hoped might offer more hope. When the knob turned, he froze. Someone had gained access before him.
As quietly as he could, he opened the door and slipped inside. The air reeked; something had died within. He pulled his T-shirt over his nose and slowly moved into the darkness, wishing he had his BAS. He left the door open at his back and let his eyes adjust. The shape of the place resolved into a storage area with towering shelves that ran parallel to the wall behind him. They ended a meter short of the back wall and at a counter at the front. He could make out the front door beyond the counter.
Cautiously, he edged around the shelves, first checking the back, then the front. The shelves ended at a wall. He guessed the shelves had once held car parts: belts, hoses, electronics assemblies. The shelves were empty now.
The counter assembly was made of a composite meant to serve as a wood substitute. It had shelves beneath it. He sized them up for food, water, and weapons, then eyeballed the two doors, gauging where someone might be able to take up a defensive position while covering both. It didn’t look promising. The be
st position probably lay beyond the entry area, in the maintenance bays.
A section of the counter flipped open, providing access to the entry area just inside the front door. To the right of that entry area was another door. Unlike the steel-and-glass front door, this one was solid glass. There was a brown smear around the door handle. Rimes realized it was a bloody handprint.
He pushed the door open and entered a narrow hallway. To his left was an office, its door slightly ajar. Straight ahead was another door. The stench of rotting flesh came from the office.
Slowly, Rimes shoved the office door open. A corpse sloshed wetly on the other side. The stench intensified. Rimes finally had the door open enough to see the corpse—a man about his size, dressed in heavy coveralls. Its flesh had rotted; its gut had burst from the heat. A crowbar rested on the floor next to it.
After a quick bout of uneasiness Rimes cautiously plucked at the crowbar. It moved easily. He hefted it until he had a feel for it, then prodded the body as if he expected it to leap to life. When it failed to move Rimes retreated, closing the door behind him. He confirmed the final door was unlocked, spotting another door opposite the curtain doors.
Other than the corpse, the building was empty. It was perfect.
37
12 June, 2174. Atlanta, Georgia.
* * *
Over the next several days, Rimes established a pattern of non-patterns. He woke anywhere from an hour to three hours early. He jogged in the darkness, following the path he’d established earlier, or he walked in the early light, seeking out new paths and areas not covered by cameras, vans, and UAVs. When he returned from work, he exercised and stretched until it was dark, then made his way back to the abandoned garage via one of the paths that was off the grid, or he napped until darkness fell, then went for a jog before making his way to the abandoned garage.
