Janice was fully awake now. “Are you about to pull some kind of Callum on me?”
Dan shook his head. “I don’t think it’s even a conspiracy, let alone a plan that the computers dreamed up all by themselves. But Thriftocracy didn’t need anyone conspiring in order to start managing people. They just offered a service that met other companies’ needs. If enough tech firms believe they can benefit from novel ways of limiting the blow-back as they hollow out the middle class, achieving that will become an industry in its own right.”
“So... they organize law suits against themselves?”
“Why not? Especially when they’ll never go to court.” Dan glanced admiringly at the agreement the bots had crafted. There might have been tens of thousands of people in the class action, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if the language of this particular document had been tailored for his eyes alone. “They can’t quite achieve what they really aspire to, but they’re smart enough to understand that the only way to get close is to feed us some version of our own fantasies. They had me pegged, near enough: I would have been happy to win a legal battle against the fuckers who took my job away. But they’re more than willing to customize their approach, and if Chalice’s mother wants to think she’s a fashion icon whose every doodle on her tablet starts clothing factories humming in China, or Graham needs to believe he has a patron hanging out for every word that pops into his head about naughty teenagers, if it gets the job done, so be it. I suppose they must have judged Callum to be too paranoid to accept their hand-outs without becoming suspicious, so they tried to turn that into an advantage and at least give him a sense of purpose and a bit of support from a like-minded community. Then I came blundering in and spoiled it with the horrible, horrible truth.”
Janice rubbed her eyes, still not really sold on his own paranoid vision, but not quite certain, either, that he was wrong.
She said, “So what do you want to do?”
Dan laughed. “Want? We have no choice. If we don’t take this money, your mother will have stabbed me through the arm with a carving knife before the end of the school term.”
10
ONCE THE SETTLEMENT was finalized and the first tranche was in Dan’s bank account, the ads soon followed. They followed him to every web site, however many times he purged cookies, or rebooted his modem to get a fresh IP address.
“This watch will get your fitness back on track!” an avatar who looked a lot like the old, filtered version of Dan promised. “Come on, you’re not over the hill yet!” alter-Dan goaded him, running up and down steeply sloping streets until his manly stubble glistened and his resting heart rate plummeted.
“Three simultaneous channels of premium streaming entertainment, including Just For Kids, plus unlimited interactive gaming!” This from a woman who resembled Janice, to reassure him that there really was no need to consult her; like her doppelgänger, she was certain to approve.
Dan almost felt ungrateful, each time he declined to click through to a purchase. After all, wasn’t a tithe for his not-so-secret benefactors the new definition of giving something back?
Janice found a volunteer position with a homelessness charity, tending to people who’d had surgery but whose post-operative recovery was adversely affected by a lack of food, showers and beds. Dan offered his own services to the same group, but since he had no relevant skills and their rosters were full, they declined. He looked into an organization that did odd jobs and gardening for pensioners, but then realized they were just undercutting the paid market.
The money, while it lasted, would keep his family out of poverty, but it wasn’t enough to pay for any kind of formal retraining. Dan scoured the web, looking at free online courses, trying to decide if any of them would actually render him employable. Apparently, he could learn to be proficient in all the latest programming languages and data mining methods in as little as twelve months, but everyone else from Bangalore to Zambia had already jumped on that bandwagon. And how many software engineers did it take to skill-clone a million software engineers? No more than it took to clone just one.
ON HIS WAY to pick up Carlie, Dan saw the windshield-wiping Dalmatian waving its squeegee from the side of the road.
He slowed the car, reluctantly, knowing he’d feel bad whatever he did. He still hadn’t restarted his donations to Médecins Sans Frontières; on any sane analysis, the family’s new budget just didn’t stretch that far, however worthy the cause. But the bedraggled mutt pushed some button in him that even footage of a malarial child couldn’t reach.
He waited for the dog to finish its slapdash routine, more a ritual than a service. The stitching was coming apart on the costume, leaving one of the eyes dangling, and there were burrs all over the parts of the material where it hadn’t worn too thin to hold on to them.
Dan fished a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. As the exchange took place, he reached out with his other hand and squeezed the dog’s forearm in what he’d meant as a gesture of solidarity. His fingers came together as they pushed against the dirty fabric, until they encircled a hard, slender rod.
He let go of the bill, and the dog waited, silent and motionless, for Dan to release his grip. Dan peered into the dark maw of its mouth, from which he’d always imagined the occupant was peering out, but as his eyes adapted he could see all the way to the back of the vacant head.
What was inside the costume, below, out of sight? A metal armature, a few motors, a battery, and an old smart phone running it all?
Dan let go of the dog’s arm. “Good for you,” he said, wondering if the thing’s ingenious creator would ever hear his words, but maybe the software extracted a few highlights to replay at the end of each day. He didn’t feel cheated; whoever would be getting his money probably needed it just as much as if they’d been here to collect it in person.
At the school gate, Dan still had trouble looking Graham in the eye. When Carlie ran up the path, he smiled and gave her his full attention, blocking out everything else.
“So how was school today?” he asked, as they walked toward the car.
“All right.”
“Just all right?”
“Ms. Snowball’s really boring,” she complained.
“Boring?” Dan gazed down at his daughter, mock-aghast. “You don’t want to hurt her feelings, do you?”
Carlie glared back at him, unamused. “I want Ms. Jameson to come back.”
“That’s not going to happen.” The trial was over, but the budgetary savings were locked in. A teaching assistant could watch over three classes at once, for far less than the cost of a human teacher for each.
On the drive home, Dan tried to picture the life Carlie would face. For the last few weeks, all he’d been able to envision was a choice between the family joining a commune in Nimbin to weave their own underwear out of hemp, or resigning themselves to their role laundering money for Silicon Valley.
They approached the Dalmatian, which waved cheerfully.
“Daddy, can we—?”
“Sorry, I already did.” Dan gestured at the streaked suds still drying on the windshield.
Then he said, “How’d you like to learn to make Ms. Snowball’s head come off?”
“You’re silly.”
“No, I’m serious! How’d you like to learn to make her do whatever you want?” Either they moved out into the countryside and became subsistence farmers, or they stayed and fought to regain some kind of agency, using the only weapons that worked now. The idea that every person in the world ought to learn to code had always struck Dan as an infuriating piece of proselytizing, as bizarre as being told that everyone just had to shut up and become Rastafarian. But in the zombie apocalypse, no one ever complained that they needed to learn to sharpen sticks and drive them into rotting brains. It wasn’t a matter of cultural homogeneity. It was a question of knowing how to fuck with your enemy.
“Do you really know how to do that?” Carlie asked.
“Not yet,” Dan confessed. “Bu
t I think that if we work hard, we’ll be able to figure it out together.”
THE LAMENTATION OF THEIR WOMEN
Kai Ashante Wilson
Kai Ashante Wilson is the author of “The Devil in America”, which was nominated for the Nebula, World Fantasy, and Shirley Jackson Awards. His short fiction has been published by Tor.com and in the anthology Stories for Chip. His most recent works are short fantasy novels The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps and A Taste of Honey, which are available from all fine booksellers. He lives in New York City.
pre.
“HELLO,” ANSWERED SOME whiteman. “Good morning! Could I speak with—?” He mispronounced her last name and didn’t abbreviate her first, as nobody who knew her would do.
“Who dis?” she repeated. “And what you calling about?”
“Young lady,” he said. “Can you please tell me whether Miss Jean-Louis is there or not. Will you just do that for me?” His tone all floured with whitepeople siddity, pan-fried in condescension.
But she could sit here and act dumb too. “Mmm... it’s hard to say. She be in and out, you know? Tell me who calling and what for and I’ll go check.”
Apparently, the man was Mr Blah D. Blah from the city agency that cleaned out Section 8 apartments when the leaseholder dropped dead. Guess whose evil Aunt Esther had died of a heart attack last Thursday on the B15 bus? And guess who was the last living Jean-Louis anywhere?
“But how you calling me—it’s almost noon—to say I got ’til five, before your dudes come throw all her stuff in the dumpster?”
“Oh good,” exclaimed Blah D. “I was worried we weren’t communicating clearly.”
“She live out by Jamaica Bay! It’d take me two hours just to get there.”
“Miss Jean-Louis,” he said. (Public servants nearing retirement, who never got promoted high enough not to deal with poor people anymore, black people anymore, have this tone of voice, you ever notice? A certain tone.) “There’s no requirement for you to go. This is merely a courtesy our office extends to the next of kin. The keys will be available to you until five.” Blah hung up.
“Fuck you!” She was dressed for the house, a tank top and leggings, and so went to her room for some sneakers and a hoodie.
Mama was scared of Esther, said she was a witch. Both times they had went out there, Mama left her downstairs, waiting in the streets, rather than bring her baby up to that apartment. Now, she didn’t believe in that black magic bullshit, of course, but she also wasn’t trying to go way the hell out there by herself. Mama, though, wouldn’t want no parts of Esther, dead sister of the dead man who’d walked out on her some fifteen years ago. Naw, better leave Mama alone at work and call her later.
She’d get Anhell to go. They were suppose to had been broke up with each other at least till this weekend coming, but whatever. She could switch him back to ‘man’ from ‘ex’ a couple days early. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m a be over there in twenty, she texted.
She put a scarf on her head and leff out.
1
how can I word this?
you ain’t been perfect
DAMNIT. FORGOT THE keys to his place back in her other purse! She texted again from the street, and then hit the buzzer downstairs for his apartment. That nigga was definitely up there parked on the couch, blazed out and playing videogames. She knew it, and leaned on the button, steady.
“Yo! What?! Who is this?”
“I leff Mama’s without the keys. Lemme up.”
“’Nisha?”
“Yeah! Ain’t you get my texts? Buzz me in, nigga.”
“I was, uh... I been busy. Could you, like, uh, wait down there real fast for me, baby? Just one minute.”
With her thoughts on buried treasure in the far east of Brooklyn, not on boyfriends who step out the minute you turn your back, she wasn’t ready for the panicked fluttering that seized her heart and bowels, the icy flashes that turned sweaty hot—the anger, pure and simple.
Chick or dude. What would it be this time?
Dude. Not too long, and Anhell’s piece got off the elevator and crossed the vestibule toward the outer doors. Dude looked regular black, but was obviously Dominican from the loafers and tourniquet-tight clothes. He lived, you could tell, at the gym. Titties bigger than hers, a nasty V-neck putting his whole tattooed chest out on front street. Mas Líbranos Del Mal. Heading out, he politely held the door so she could go in. No words, they kept it moving.
The problem was, if you liked pretty boys, and she did like pretty boys, then Anhell was it. You couldn’t do no better. She looked okay—damn good, when she got all dressed up, her hair and makeup tight. But Anhell was pure Spanish butterscotch. Lightskin, gray eyes, cornrow hangtime to the middle of his back. He answered the door in a towel, naked and wet from a quick shower. Hickies on him she ain’t put there.
There’s rules to whooping your man’s ass. He tries to catch and hold your fists, dodge your knees and elbows and kicks, but accepts in his heart that every lick you land he deserves. You don’t go grabbing a knife, or yanking at his hair, either, as the electric fear or pain those inspire will make him lash out with blind total force, turning this rough game real in a way nobody wants. Stay in bounds, babygirl, and you can whale on him till you’re so tired you ain’t mad no more, and his cheating bitch ass is all bruised up and crying. But fuckit. She wasn’t really feeling it today. After getting in a few solid hits, she let Anhell catch her wrists. They were on the floor by then and he hugged her in close and tight, starting up with them same old tears and kisses, same old promises and lies.
“’Nisha, what can I do? Whatever you need, just tell me what I can do. I’ll do it.”
Stop laying with them hoes! With them faggots! But this was just the little sin, the one convenient to throw back in his face. She might not even give a shit anymore, if she ever bothered to check. What couldn’t be fixed was his big sin. The one they’d cried about, fucked and fought about all the time with fists and screams, but not once ever just said the words out loud, plain and clear. Now that a couple years had slipped by it was obvious they were never going to say the words at all.
You know what you did, she said. You know what you did. And Anhell did know, and so for once shut up with all the bullshit. They lay for a while just breathing, just embraced, their exhausted resignation like a mysterious disease presenting the exact same way as tenderness. “My aunt died and left me all her shit.”
“¿La bruja?”
“Yeah. I need you to come out to Brooklyn with me, see if there’s anything worth something.”
“My case worker coming by tomorrow.” Anhell felt good, smelled good, left arm holding her, right hand stroking her shoulder, back and ass in a loop that made everywhere he touched gain value, feel loved. “You know I gotta be here.”
“We just going out there,” she said, “look around, and then come straight back. It ain’t no all night kinda thing.”
“Well, lemme get dressed and we’ll head out.” He let her go and sat up.
“Wait,” she said. “Hol’ up.” She hooked her thumbs under her panties and leggings. “Eat me out a little fowego?” She rolled em to her knees.
It’s gotta be hard, right, when they keep asking for what you can’t give, but so good, when they want exactly the thing you do best? Anhell grinned. “I got you, mami.” He pulled her leggings down further, rolled her knees out wide. “Lemme get in there right...”
Somebody suicide-jumped at Grand Central, so the 5 train was all fucked up. They were more than three hours getting out there.
Block after block of projects like brick canyons, a little city in the City, home to thousands and thousands and not one whiteface, except for cops from Long Island or Staten Island doubled up in cruisers or walking in posses. It was warm as late summer, the October rain falling hard enough to where you’d open your umbrella, but so soft you felt silly doing it. Anhell walked just behind, holding it over her, the four-dollar wingspan too paltry to share. Drop by drop his
tight braids roughened.
Aunt Esther’s building was over a few blocks from the subway. Not one of the citysized ones, but big enough. The kind, you know, with the liquor store-style security booth at the entrance, somebody watching who comes and goes.
“Excuse me,” called the man behind the plastic. “Hey, yo, Braids—and you, Miss? Visitors gotta sign in.” Behind the partition, he held up the clipboard.
They went over to the window and scribbled their names. Though basketball-player-tall, up close you could see he wasn’t grown. Just some teenage dropout on his hood brand cell, Youtubing bootleg rappers.
She tapped the plastic. “It should be some keys in there, waiting for me,” she said. “So I can get into my aunt’s apartment.”
“Nobody tole me nuffen about that.”
“What’s that right there?” she said, pointing to the desk beside the boy’s elbow, where an envelope lay with her name written across it.
He gave this revelation several blinks and turned back. “Well, you gotta show some ID, then.”
She got out her EBT and pressed it to the partition. Squinting, the boy leaned forward and mouthed the name off the card, Tanisha Marie Jean-Louis, and then, slower than your slow cousin, compared this to what was written on the envelope, Tanisha M. Jean-Louis.
Although allowing, at last, that these two variations fell within tolerance, the boy still shook his head. “Naw, though... I on’t think I can give you this. You suppose to show a driver’s license.”
His stupidity flung her forward bodily against the partition. She smacked her palms on the plastic to lend the necessary words their due emphasis. “Nigga, this New York. Ain’t nobody out here got no fucking driver’s license. You better hand me thatenvelope!”
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year, Volume 12 Page 46
