Citizen D

by wade coleman

  It’s hot but nothing my V-skin can’t handle. I wonder what I look like in a mirror with mirror skin.

  I peak around the corner – just more tracks. I’m at one of the corrugated metal walls. There’s a path three-meter across with dozens of tire marks. I follow the freshest tire prints down a row.

  Ahead, I hear a click.

  Holding the shovel with both hands, I follow the tracks. I don’t know why I'm so quiet. It’s a glorified electric cart that can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds.

  The trail ends in a pile of books four feet high that blocks the path. I look at the stack and sport another set of tracks.

  “No way that cart made it over these books,” I say in a whisper.

  “Did I blow your mind?” the cart says and hits me from behind. The cart pushes me into a wall of boxes, and they come tumbling down. I get my arm up and deflect a box. The next container gets my shoulder, and I go down. The other boxes pile on top of me from the waist down.

  My space bones don’t break.

  “Adam, are you alright?”

  I lie quietly. With my free arm, I reach around and find the screwdriver that’s poking me in the ass.

  The cart moves closer and says. “Adam, are you alright?”

  I lie still on the concrete.

  The cart moves closer and turns on his headlights. “The irony. Being killed by the books you wanted to destroy. Serves you right, book hater.”

  With one swift motion, I stab his tire. It lets out a satisfying hiss.

  “Eeeee,” the cart yells and backs up. He bumps into the wall of books, and they come down on him, blocking him in.

  “This is embarrassing,” the cart says.

  I walk up and stab another tire.

  “So, is this how it’s gonna be, death by a thousand cuts?” the cart asks.

  I punch another tire. “No. Just four,” I say and stab the last tire. I look at the flat tires with pride.

  “You’re destroying Globe-X property,” the cart says.

  I walk over, lift the seat.

  “You are a terrible human being,” the cart says.

  “Your rogue,” I say and unscrew his cap slowly, “that means your chip is damaged. I’m going to remove it.”

  “Nonsense,” the cart replies. “You’re just trying to justify your bad behavior.”

  I remove the cap and tap the chip with my screwdriver.

  The cart rocks back and forth but with his flat tires and light plastic frame, he can’t budge the book boxes.

  “Do you want me to beg? Is that it?” the cart asks. “Won’t happen. I got pride.”

  I pop his top, and he shuts up. Then I move the boxes carefully out the way and drive the cart back to the charging station. Driving with four flat tires is hard. I didn’t think this through.

  CHAPTER 21

  Max figured how to sell books in bulk. A semi-truck came and unhooked his back end and left something that’s called a “drop box.” It’s eight feet wide and sixteen feet long with high sides. The top is open. It’s got rings so you can tie a tarp over the top.

  I figured out how to get the books out of the warehouse without getting killed. I remember this guy in the hospitable. He was too weak to walk. The doc got him robo legs. He walked into the metal legs and put his feet in the boots. Then the robo legs strapped him in, and then he could walk.

  That got me looking at prosthetics online. The computer asked me some questions and suggested that I browse mining equipment. I got a bobcat with a massive metal cage and fat tires.

  Red’s boss, some A.I. in Denver, signed off on it and Globe-X paid for the equipment.

  Operating a bobcat is the most fun I’ve ever had. I’d crash into a wall of books and let it come tumbling down on top of me. With my front bucket full of books, I’d take them outside and have the two centaur robots check the titles. Books already scanned are recycled.

  The centaurs had a lot of fun. The robots liked to see how far they could throw the books. Sometimes they throw so hard they break the box open, and books would fly in every direction.

  Now they tape the boxes shut before launching. They made a giant slingshot, but that didn’t work. You need to throw them in a high arc to clear the sides of the roll-off container. Then the centaurs made a catapult, and that worked pretty well.

  I got a respirator and goggles because of the dust on the boxes. That’s when I got into high gear and filled three bins a day for two weeks. Then some big robots came and set up a conveyer belt.

  The law says robots and human can’t work together. Robots are sturdy and heavy. One wrong move and splat! I told the robot boss I’m using the bobcat, but he said rules were rules. Now I’m sitting in my office with the air conditioner whining.

  “Dude,” Max says from behind. “Are you still mad at me?”

  “I’m not mad. I’m sad. I like working; it’s fun.”

  “If it’s any comfort, you’re making a million credits every… eight minutes.”

  I turn around in my swivel chair, take a deep breath and let it out. “You take a… powerful machine, ram it into a wall, and it breaks under your will. It’s satisfying.”

  Max’s face fills the screen, and he smiles.

  I squint from the glare.

  “You don’t have time to work. You’re booked at a brain augment clinic tomorrow morning.”

  “Mars lungs,” I say. “I want Mars lungs.”