The Tax Man sat across from Donys at the back of the ambulance. The man’s enormous knees jutted outward, knocking Donys’s painfully as the ambulance rounded corners at speed. The Tax Man wore his reflective glasses, even inside. Donys cringed. He wanted to ask what business the Tax Bureau had on his runs. In his ambulance. But even Donys knew better than to speak out of turn to a tax man. So they sat in silence, Donys stealing glances at the impenetrable reflective glasses, and The Tax Man placing and replacing the knuckledusters on his lengthy fingers.
The ambulance screeched to a halt, and The Tax Man’s iron knees jangled against Donys’s one last time. Donys disentangled himself, and was outside in a half-a-moment, his primary kit in hand.
“I have the head,” he shouted to Florence.
“Routine,” Florence said to The Tax Man. “A pedi.”
“Pedestrian hit by a motorbike,” Donys explained. “At least three in four of our calls are pedis.”
The Tax Man said nothing.
It took not five minutes, and they had his neck stabilized, and the writhing man had calmed under the painkillers.
“You’ll be fine,” Donys said as he and Florence lifted the gurney into the back of the ambulance.
They were on their way, Florence weaving through the sparse traffic. The man smiled weakly, teeth missing in places. Another job well done, Donys thought to himself. His hedometer beeped twice.
“How long?” The Tax Man asked, breaking his silence for the first time since they’d left the hospital.
Donys shuddered at the deep, susurrating voice.
“How long before what?”
“Until he’s back at work.”
“Broken tibia, clavicle, wrist, and probably a few ribs,” Donys replied, impressed at his own easy knowledge of the patient’s injuries. “Quite a list, man. What work do you do?” Donys, smiling good-naturedly, asked the middle-aged man lying on the gurney.
“Construction,” the man rasped.
“Hard luck,” Donys said, “could take a good three to six months before you’re back on the job.”
It happened before Donys could react. In one movement, The Tax Man unholstered his weapon, muzzled it on the patient’s chest, and fired. The explosion was deafening in the interior of the ambulance.
“What –” Donys began, but he could hardly hear himself. His ears were ringing.
The Tax Man paid him no heed. He turned the body on its side, and removed a cable from his back pocket. He plugged it into the man’s hedometer, and connected the other end to the controller on his wrist.
“He was stable,” Donys’s muffled voice said.
“New Tax Law 8.9,” The Tax Man replied. “Injuries preventing work for more than three months reduce overall utility. Repossession recommended.”
“But, but he was stable. I stabilized him.”
For the first time since Donys had met him, The Tax Man removed his reflective glasses. The enormous man leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed. A long, bony hand stroked the cable connected to his wrist. Donys swung his gaze from the body – its back gaping from the bullet’s exit wound – to The Tax Man. Donys couldn’t credit the sight. It was hard to believe, but the look that descended over the man’s angular face as he sighed was … blissful.
A grin stretched across the sharp cheeks of The Tax Man as he drove toward the Cartoon Bureau. Although he knew it was overcast, as it was every day in Shangri, the world seemed brighter. Crisper.
He’d had no idea repossessions could be so satisfying. Sure, he’d done some before. Every Tax Man had – those with irrevocably low hedometers couldn’t be allowed to live. Every minute they breathed, every interaction they had with another citizen of Shangri, threatened to reduce the hedons of society as a whole.
He wound down a window. Let the cool, spring air fill the Merc. It tickled his ear-lobes, sang through his moustache. The leather smelt just right today. Musky and established. The smell reminded him of everything that was good in Shangri. Rules and principles that kept everyone happy and comfortable. Well, almost everyone.
As per regulation, he’d always deleted the memories of the repossessed as soon as he’d filtered them for illegal content. The regulation was clear. Euthanize the offender, run a sweep of his memories, then delete them. What he hadn’t noticed before was that the sweep program left out all the interesting memories. The program looked for any infractions the offender might have committed – Breeding, post-curfew parties, hedometer hacking, pro-heterosexuality propaganda, and a range of other infringements. But what the regulation memory sweep didn’t include was beauty. The program didn’t play him memories of lovers watching the dusty Shangri sunset, or listening to Bach, or laughing through dinner with friends. Nor the pain. The sweep program ignored the loss of a lover, sleepless nights worrying about altruism credits, or the yen for a mother on the other side of the Wall.
Who would remember these brittle memories now that their owners had been euthanized? He knew he was supposed to delete them after the sweep, but he hung onto the memories a little longer. He wouldn’t keep them forever, he told himself. Just long enough … to appreciate them.
He dropped his speed as he entered the central business district. Even the holo-ads cascading down the sides of the buildings looked pleasant today. The Tax Man’s monochrome world had suddenly been colored in.
He’d requested that his workload be reassigned.
“I think I’m good with them, the repossessions,” The Tax Man had told his supervisor. “And I could use the experience.”
“Fine by me if you want ‘em. Take as many as you like,” his supervisor had replied. The other tax men weren’t all that keen on repossessions. Everybody understood the need for them. But nobody really liked to do them. Repossessions were messy.
“The hospital is the place to be,” The Tax Man had said.
“Sure, sure.” His supervisor had waved him away with a hairy hand.
What better place, The Tax Man reasoned, to pick up cases as they arose, than by riding with the paramedics? They had access to the broken, the crippled, the dying. Really, he was doing the injured a service by putting them down. Spending months in hospital, generating no hedons or altruism credits, was no way to live. And with overpopulation a ubiquitous problem, why waste resources on a non-contributing member of society?
But before he could move over entirely to repossessions, he had to clear his current caseload. It’d been five days since his visit to Gemini Rustikov, the lottery winner. By now he would have found his wife. It was time to take a trip to the jittery cartoonist. Close this case quickly, so he could get back to the hospital. And he was almost at the Cartoon Bureau, just a few blocks away, but his mind repeatedly wandered to the medical work he’d been doing.
Who knew, he thought, that his calling was to do repossessions? As Master Dzogo said, “Doing good unto others is doing good unto yourself.” And he felt it. Since he’d started working with the paramedics, his spirits had lifted. He was doing the Lord Buddha’s work.
He’d noticed, though, that the paramedics were itchy about his using a gun to euthanize the offenders. That little shit, Donys was his name, moaned about the noise from the muzzle. And, he had to admit, it was a tad loud in the confines of the ambulance. So he relented to shooting them up with morphine instead. He didn’t mind, really, because it gave him another memory. The mix of terror and ecstasy in the offenders’ eyes as they realized what was happening. Golden memories, those.
He parked outside the Cartoon Bureau, as he had five days ago. The secretary’s stenciled eyebrows shot up when she recognised him. Told him that Gemini was absent. He liked the way her lip quivered, despite his smile. He liked the weight of the knuckledusters on his belt as he asked her, “How long?”
“Four days, Venerable Sir.”
“He’s been gone four days, and you haven’t reported it?”
“Uh, sir, we, uh, report to the police after five days absence.”
This was going
to be a nuisance. Now he’d have to track down Gemini. And the wife. They’d probably run off together. Shit. This could take some time. He’d have to put in a request to triangulate their hedometers. Would take a few days to sort out the paperwork and wade through the red tape. Meanwhile, the case was open, and his supervisor would be crawling down his back.
Well. Shit.
It was the reflective glasses that got to him.
He’d been a paramedic for just over a year. Donys loved his job, so he’d always had plenty hedons on his hedometer. He loved helping people, so altruism credits had never been a problem. But when that … that creature with the reflective glasses had stepped into his ambulance, everything had changed.
As far as Donys was concerned, the sole purpose of The Tax Man was to make him miserable. He euthanized every second patient, and most had been perfectly stable by the time Donys was done with them. What really got to him was the way The Tax Man would wait. Wait until Donys had poured his energy into the patient. And then, before Donys could blink, there’d be a bullet in the chest, or a needle in the arm, morphine rolling the patients’ eyes back in their heads.
So, with each call, Donys didn’t know whether his efforts were wasted. His frustration grew. His hedons reduced. He was helping fewer patients, so his altruism credits dropped. Donys wasn’t happy, but what could he do?
The bathhouse.
It was the only place nowadays where he got any hedons. And whereas before he had no qualms about giving as much as he received, these days he didn’t have the energy to spare. These days, it was just easier to use the servicemen to give him a boost after a long day riding with The Tax Man. He had no desire to please any of the other patrons.
The deficit had happened sooner than he’d thought. He couldn’t see his hedon-level or altruism credit score. He’d once tried staring into the bathroom mirror, and then placed a shaving mirror behind his head to catch a glimpse at the hedometer. Master Dzogo had told him never to try that, but he wanted to see. So he held the mirror just there, and the LED lettering swung in the shaky glass until he read … but something happened. Some circuit switched. Some feedback loop snapped on, and his brain sizzled and turned and popped as though it had been dropped into a blender.
So the only way to know his hedometer reading was to ask others. And he’d long ago ceased asking people what his hedons or altruism score was, since he hated to brag. But things were changing.
“Ya’ should keep an eye on that,” Florence said one morning before their shift started.
“Hmmm?” grunted Donys.
“Your deficit. It’s growing. Low altruism creds. Gotta watch ‘em.”
Donys’s heart missed a beat. The servicemen’s bodies filled his mind’s eye. Flat stomachs and long, curved cocks. “What’re my levels?” He swallowed.
“Hedons over two thousand. Altruism creds sitting at about four hundred.”
“Four hundred! Don’t fuck with me. Not funny.”
“I don’t fuck,” said Florence, steel in her eyes.
“Avalokiteśvara!” he grunted. He thought about The Tax Man. The brute didn’t bat an eye at euthanizing the poor. What would he do to Donys? Donys was becoming a Pleasure Monster.
It didn’t take long to find out. The Tax Man arrived minutes later for their daily shift. He placed a heavy, manicured hand on Donys’s shoulder. “Struggling with your altruism credits?”
“Uh, yes sir. I will rectify the problem, sir.”
“You have a week,” The Tax Man said, fetching a gold-leafed notepad from his breast pocket, “or we’ll have to start imposing penalties. And we wouldn’t want that.”
“Ah, Venerable Sir, no sir.”
The Tax Man smiled wide enough to raise the glasses on his nose. Donys watched his reflection shrink into the metallic depths of The Tax Man’s gaze.
Chapter 5
If you can dream it, you can achieve it.
– Zig Ziglar
It had been five days. She hadn’t come home. She wasn’t at the market. She wasn’t at the cocaine bar they liked to visit on Friday nights (what a pleasure to have the curfew lifted on weekends).
Gemini couldn’t find Cyan anywhere.
He had two more days to find her, and then? And then The Tax Man would come for him.
Gemini drifted aimlessly through the city. Down alleys and into music stores. Through supermarkets and under bridges. Cyan was palpably nowhere. And his job? He’d been absent all this time. He could be arrested for truancy. But that seemed less immediate, less pressing, than finding Cyan. Without her, he would be sent back to the ghetto, or worse. He’d won the lottery, but how could he Breed without Cyan? He could find another woman? Maybe The Tax Man wouldn’t notice if he replaced Cyan with another? But stealing a heterosexual woman wasn’t easy. He’d have to take one from another Breeder pair.
Lost in his thoughts, lost in Shangri, Gemini found himself walking past a naked metal door. A sign flickered above it:
THE CLUB
And below the sign, in small, faded print, it read:
Giving you pleasure you’ll never have.
Gemini slunk to the door, and scanned about him. Nobody else was in the alleyway. He rapped his knuckles on the cold steel. Waited. Knocked louder.
Then he saw the buzzer. The door opened almost immediately, and swung shut behind him with a deep clanggg.
“What’ll it be?” A man caked with mascara and base asked from behind a counter.
Gemini didn’t know what to say. “Uh, what have you got?”
Mascara pulled out a brochure. Gemini accepted the glossy paper thrust into his hand.
“You’ll see we have a special on our nostalgia Experiences,” Mascara said, pointing to the topmost items. “50% off college frat parties and Independence Day celebrations.”
Gemini didn’t know what was happening.
“A tough sell, I see,” Mascara said. “Maybe you’d prefer this week’s orgy Experience. We even have one with,” Mascara dropped to a whisper, “women, for men of your persuasion.” Mascara winked.
Gemini stared.
“Hmmm, a challenge. Yes, a man of your refined tastes probably wouldn’t want a preconfigured Experience anyway. For clients like you we have the DIY option. Tell us what you want, and we’ll make it up for you. No Experience the Machine can’t give you.”
“Have you seen my wife?” Gemini asked.
“A marriage fetish! Ha! I’m sure we could cook something up for you. You’re a naughty boy, aren’t you?”
Gemini decided it was best not to listen to Mascara. Nothing emanating from his lips made any sense at all. “Her name is Cyan,” Gemini persisted. “Black hair, pale skin.” He removed a holo-image from his pocket.
“You want the Machine to give you an Experience of her? Make you believe she’s your wife?” Mascara asked, delighted. “Of course!” Mascara slapped him across the back. “Follow me, please.”
Mascara led him down a dim passage, opening up into a room with black walls and ultraviolet fluorescents bathing its inhabitants. They passed a wall of cubicles, each occupied by a man wearing a skullcap of electrodes and sensors. Most had their eyes rolled back in their heads, drool running down their chins.
“How long?” Mascara asked, gesturing for Gemini to sit in the empty chair.
“Uh, my wife. Have you seen her?” Gemini asked, staring at the empty booth. “Where is she?”
“Persistent guy, aren’t you.” Mascara nudged Gemini to sit in the chair. “We’ll start you off on the hour-package. You look like you need a good dose.”
Mascara grabbed the holo-image from Gemini’s hand, and fed it into a scanner on the side of the booth. “Where d’ya want to see her?”
“You know where she is?” Gemini almost sprung to his feet, but was pushed down.
“Relax, man. You’ll be with her in a moment.” Gemini scanned the cubicle, lost, as Mascara fiddled with the dials on The Machine. The last thing Gemini heard was Mascara mumble somethin
g about the Swiss Alps.
*
At first, Gemini didn’t know where he was. He didn’t notice the snow-peaked mountains, the frigid air against his cheeks. He didn’t realize he was standing at the bottom of a virgin-white slope, with skiers tearing past him.
“Cyan!” he yelled. He spread his arms wide. Ran to embrace her.
“My Gemini.” Cyan smiled that smile. The smile he hadn’t seen for so long, since they’d left the ghetto. The smile that made his cheeks burn.
A skier barreled down the hill, narrowly missing the couple. Gemini held her close to his windbreaker. “I looked everywhere for you.”
Snowflakes dotted her exposed raven-black hair.
“Oh, silly. I’m always with you.” She winked. “Don’t look so grim. This is our holiday. Let’s go up again.”
Gemini followed her gaze to the top of the slope.
*
An hour passed in the Machine, but it wasn’t enough.
Mascara removed the skullcap, suction cups pulling pleasantly at Gemini’s forehead. “How was that?” he asked.
“She was there.”
“Yup, we create any Experience you like. You should try our orgy specials.” Mascara lowered his voice. “I could include her if you like.”
“More,” Gemini said. “Need to see her again.” He stood, lifting himself from the recliner. His legs shook something awful. Like the shakes in his hand.
Mascara regarded him tenderly, as if he were a lost puppy. “You really miss her, don’t you?”
Tears welled up in Gemini’s eyes.
“I know just what you need,” Mascara said, adjusting dials, jabbing at buttons. He thrust the skullcap back onto Gemini’s head. Pulled the shaking man back into the chair. “This should do it.”
About a day later, Gemini fell out of the Machine. He crawled from the cubicle. Stumbled past rows of Experience Machines, full of people, but empty of persons. Their mouths hung slack, eyes staring into some lovely dream. Their emaciated bodies barely filled their chairs.
Hedon Page 5
