Warlord of New York City

by Leo Champion

  “80” said the floor indicator as the doors closed. A moment later a display lit up on them and an advertisement for Richard Lacking Sporting Goods began. An enthusiastic voice loudly informed the elevator’s captive audience that the venerable chain had no less than three locations in the Madison Building, one right on the sixty-first floor concourse they were heading to. Special discounts for the provably virtuous!

  She closed her eyes to a slit and zoned out for a little bit, until the advertising spiel sharply cut off mid-word.

  “What song is that you were humming?” the battleaxe of a Senior Second demanded angrily, having turned ninety degrees to face – and look more than half a meter down onto the top of the head of – a slender woman in a long black skirt and a hooded poncho that enclosed her arms. Three diagonal hashes were on each of the woman’s shoulders.

  “Um, Lady Senior Intendant?” the hooded woman asked, bowing her head. The others in the elevator, including Diana Angela, kept their eyes averted. You didn’t want to get into the middle of this kind of thing, and the two-wreather might well have chosen to make this scene in an express elevator purely to inflict it on the other passengers. Some upper Intendancy came down to the lower levels to slum or buy drugs; others were known to do it to throw their weight around.

  “I ran a tonal analysis on my implant, Associate First. Probability ninety-eight percent that you were humming ‘La Cucaracha.’ Do you know what cultural appropriation is?”

  “Yes, Lady Senior,” the young woman stammered. “I – I know what cultural appropriation is, Lady Senior.”

  The big-bosomed two-wreather turned to Diana Angela. Oh no.

  “Under First. Did you hear her humming?”

  Diana Angela turned, addressed her eyes slightly below the Senior Second, and carefully said “No, Lady Senior. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I recorded it to my implant. Stand by to receive transfer for verification.”

  Diana shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Lady Senior, but I’ve been having some kind of technical issues with mine. It’s off until my diagnostic appointment tomorrow.” Because she did not want to turn it on and assist in the casual destruction of this woman for some mindless humming.

  “You, Manager First,” the Senior Second addressed the next highest-ranking person in the elevator, a small balding white man with four squares. He looked to have been absorbed in his own implant, probably reading or watching video. Diana Angela glanced up at the screen that showed where they were, in time to see ‘72’ replaced smoothly by ‘71’. Not even halfway down yet, damnit.

  “Ye-yes, Lady Senior Second?” the elderly man stammered.

  “You have an active implant. Stand by to receive audio recording and metadata for review. Young lady, this will go easier on you if you record a confession to your sin without it being dragged out of you.”

  The young Associate First was looking around the elevator, her face shrouded by her hood, but somehow Diana Angela met her eyes anyway, for a moment.

  “May I – ask the Associate First a question, Senior Second?” she spoke up, against her better judgment. DA, you are an idiot. You stay out of these things!

  The Senior Second seemed to ponder her request for a moment and then graciously said, “Proceed.”

  “What – what do you want to ask me?” the young woman said, something in her accent or intonation confirming the suspicion that might have formed a moment earlier in Diana Angela’s mind.

  “What’s your EDIG?” Externally Determined Identity Group, the set of factors that determined your innate virtue levels.

  “Um… cis, hetero…” the woman stammered.

  “Race, please,” Diana Angela clarified.

  “Castilian Hispanic, Lady Under First.”

  A grin almost crossed Diana Angela’s face; as she’d suspected from that slight trace of an accent!

  “Castilian Hispanic,” Diana Angela repeated to the Senior Second, the bitch who’d almost dragooned this poor young US-5 into making a confession anyway. “Sounds like she was humming an old family tune, Senior Second.”

  Someone in the elevator stifled a snort. The US-5 looked up at Diana Angela with gratitude. The US-16 looked down at her with barely restrained fury; she could see that huge bosom heaving as she tried to control her breath.

  ‘64’ on the floor indicator became ‘63’, and the elevator began to slow. The bigger woman – Diana Angela was not petite herself, but even in her heels the US-16 had a good ten centimetres of height on her, and possibly twice the body mass – let out a low, throaty growl as her eyes moved up and down Diana Angela’s body. She could feel the woman’s implant scanning every inch of her; it was acutely uncomfortable and unsettling.

  ‘61’ came the floor indicator with a ding, and the doors slid open. With relief the young US-5 slipped out, followed by the older four-square. Diana Angela was starting to turn away from the big woman and toward the doors herself when there came a throaty harrumph.

  “Under First,” the woman said ponderously.

  For an insane moment it occurred to Diana Angela to just slip the fuck out of the elevator and bolt; the ponderous other woman would never pursue more than a few steps. But that woman’s implant was recording, it would catch her face, identify her and… it would be embarrassing at best, potentially very dangerous from a visibility perspective if the US-16 had access, or knew someone with access, to really deep-dive into her social records.

  Bitch, you have two wreaths? Dad has three, and his big brother has two motherfucking stars.

  No, that was stupid and unhelpful thinking; she didn’t know what this woman had up her sleeve, although she was pretty sure it included a case of terminal insecurity whatever her friends’ ranks were.

  “Lady Senior Second,” Diana Angela responded with a slight bow of her head.

  “You like to show off, don’t you, Under First.”

  Of all the things she’d been expecting the woman to say, that hadn’t been on the list.

  “I’m – not quite sure what you mean, ma’am,” Diana Angela said to the woman’s neck, avoiding eye contact that might be seen as challenging.

  The last of the other passengers were out; several people were waiting outside the elevator to come in and ride it back up to the eightieth. One of them edged slightly toward the door, hinting. The big US-16 turned ponderously and aimed her glare at that woman, who stepped back.

  “Wait or take the next one. This is Intendancy business.”

  “You’re not quite sure what I mean,” the US-16 repeated. This time Diana Angela followed her eyes down past her buttoned jacket – not a thread out of line, thank God – to the hem of her skirt, which ended not far above her knees. She frowned.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, thought Diana Angela. She’d ordered this outfit autotailored from fucking Saks 175th, and if this woman had a problem with the hem length of an approved businesswear skirt, she could take it up with the designers and the product certification boards. And if the length of a skirt that had been tailored to fit specified Intendancy dress codes was the worst dirt she could find on her, then… why was her time being wasted like this?

  “Where do you work, Under First?”

  “Eastern Interlock, Lady Senior.”

  The woman was silent for a few moments, but Diana Angela could tell she wasn’t googling the name on her implant. She was just making her wait, drawing the encounter out.

  “What d’they do?”

  “Regional supply chain management, primary and early-stage secondary materials processing. Ma’am.” I’m one of the people who keeps society running by making sure the fabricators have the elements and complex molecules they need. You fat fucking choad, that hot dog wrapper was sourced through EI. You’re welcome.

  “Harrumph. You sure it’s not fashion? Or media?”

  “I’m certain, Lady Senior.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Do you know who I am?”

 
Really? Really? Only US-21s and higher get to say that, and even they sound stupid when they do!

  “No, Lady Senior.”

  “My name,” the big woman said, very slowly, “is Pelonomi Khumotseli-Taylor.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lady Senior Khumotseli-Taylor,” said Diana Angela after a moment.

  “Perhaps you should work in fashion or media,” said the US-16. “Are you aspiring, young lady, to a transfer from boring industrial management to those more glamorous fields?”

  More visible fields, with wannabe Speakers dogging your every move and social-media post, looking for something they could feed up to the accredited ones in the hope of brownie points toward a nomination? Making shit up, outright deepfaking video sometimes, and passing off lurid speculation to be accepted as truth by whoever picked it up? She’d hate both of the seconds she’d last in that environment.

  “Not at all, Lady Senior Khumotseli-Taylor.”

  “But you like to show off. What makes you think the length of that skirt is acceptable or virtuous for a woman of your categories?”

  “Lady Senior, I’m not quite sure I understand,” said Diana Angela. Oh, she understood – this woman was trying to bait her into saying something unwise. This was a fishing expedition, but she knew the score.

  “Inside the written rules,” Lady Senior Khumotseli-Taylor said with that agonizing, deliberate slowness, “there is room for individual discretion and judgment. Those are areas, Under First, that you appear to be in clear contempt of. Flaunting sin, Under First, is a serious moral offense.”

  Flaunting, Diana Angela realized. That was what this woman was aiming for. It was a dangerous area to be accused of, because flaunting depended on motive that only the aggrieved party could discern. A US-16 would not ordinarily be considered aggrievable by a US-13, but identity factors played a role and there was always some bootlicking flunky willing to take offense if those didn’t stick.

  “Flaunting what form of sin, Lady Senior?” Diana Angela asked stiffly, although she already knew the answer.

  “Ableism. You spend – a lot of time in the gymnasium, I am sure.”

  That was a verifiable fact, from publicly-accessible social media records that this woman had probably dug up minutes ago. There were plenty of photos of her with the gym people, although the dojos she frequented did discourage non-consented video on their premises.

  “Absolutely I do,” said Diana Angela evenly. “I apologize, Lady Senior, if you find that to be flaunting ableism, but physical fitness is a perfectly legal hobby.”

  “Legal doesn’t make it virtuous,” the US-16 grunted. “You like to show off those oh-so-slim-and-toned legs.”

  As a matter of fact, she actually did like to. She’d earned her fitness in a way she never had, and never would, her social rank. Right now she wasn’t.

  “No, Lady Senior,” said Diana Angela, but now she knew the direction of attack she could respond accordingly. Senior Second Khumotseli-Taylor wasn’t the biggest fish – well, except maybe in terms of physical mass, she was definitely a contender in that department – to fuck with her this way. “I would consider it cultural appropriation to wear a burqa or a chador, Lady Senior. And therefore illegal.”

  “Exceptions and dispensations are readily granted, Under First. Your application would be strongly considered if you phrased it as being on grounds of respect for the physically less privileged.”

  “It would be sinful to claim physical privilege,” Diana Angela responded carefully. And false, because what she had was motivational privilege if anything else. She’d been lucky in her genes, but anyone with the focus and discipline to put in her twenty-plus hours a week on the parkours, the weights and the fighting mats would get into good shape soon enough. People did, regularly; it was one of the most satisfying things in her world to watch and encourage.

  “You would not claim it, and yet,” the big woman paused for effect, “you shamelessly flaunt it. Sinfully if not illegally, Under First.”

  Diana Angela smiled slightly. The bitch had gone broken-record, which implied that was the only arrow in her quiver. And she had a shield for that one. “Lady Senior, I would like to express my admiration for Lead Executive Intendant High Speaker Alison Komposki. I imagine you would be familiar with her truly inspiring thoughts?”

  Lead Executive was US-22, four stars, the very top of the food chain. There were only a few dozen alive right now, top executives of the United Nations, its departments, and global Fortune 50 companies. The President of the United States was US-21, and even the most telegenic Speakers for the People, the ones with hundreds of millions of followers and billions of daily Likes, were not supposed to equal the Secretary-General. A rare consensus exception had been made – Diana Angela had heard from the direction of Uncle Hugo’s friends that the reality had involved brutal threats and massive blackmail – to get Speaker Komposki her fourth star, back around the 2140s.

  That elevation itself had been a decade before her own birth, but Speaker Komposki had been in her prime during her childhood, ubiquitous on the media feeds and especially the captives and mandatories.

  “I am of course familiar with the great Speaker Komposki,” said the US-16. She gave a broad smile. “We have lunch together from time to time. On the three hundred and fiftieth level of the Ocasio-Cortez Building. In the United Nations South cluster,” the big woman added ponderously, as though buildings of that height existed outside the two massive UN clusters on the Lower East Side.

  For a moment Diana Angela wished her implant was operating, because she had voice and motion analysis software that could have verified the truth of that statement. Yeah, and it wasn’t out of the question that the statement had been made in order to get Diana Angela to boot up her implant, thus invalidating her claim that it was offline. Nice try.

  “Then she must have expressed to you her views on civic duty,” Diana Angela said smoothly. “‘It is the duty,’” she quoted, “‘of every citizen, resident and visitor to maintain their body and mind in good condition, so as best to contribute to the great society that protects and serves us all. Since we are an interdependent society, failure to demonstrate respect for one’s health is social treason.’”

  Speaker Komposki had actually considered quite a lot of things to be social treason, and the Social Advocates had always been swamped with reports and denunciations after her appearances. She hadn’t called out sinners by name – she’d let lower-ranking Speakers handle that business, while she used her unprecedented social influence to declare and redefine new forms of sin. Dressing noticeably above your pay grade had been somewhat frowned-upon before she’d turned her attention to the matter; now it was illegal in most countries and defined as social treason by the Intendancy.

  “I was not,” Diana Angela smiled very sweetly, “raised to be socially iconoclastic, let alone treasonous. Lady Senior Second, I respectfully ask of you: is Speaker Komposki wrong? Has that judgment later been deemed sinful?”

  The big woman turned pale. Yeah, with reason. Whether she knew the woman or not – it was unlikely, people who actually circulated at that level really did have better things to do than go to the lower-levels looking to bully juniors – Speaker Komposki was well known to have a vindictive streak… and three billion followers to enforce it against any smack-talkers.

  “Lady Senior,” Diana Angela pushed, “I respectfully request you clarify what you meant by your earlier line of enquiry. As I understand it, you were urging me to conceal respect for my health on the grounds that such respect constitutes the exhibition of sin. Just to clarify, Lady Senior: is it your opinion that Speaker Komposki’s wisdom to us all is that we exhibit sin?”

  Because while I don’t have my implant running, Diana Angela thought, at least a couple of those people waiting for us to get out of the fucking elevator will have theirs recording all of this. If this bullying bitch made the verbal misstep of accusing Speaker Komposki of urging sin…

  Senior Second Pelonomi
Khumotseli-Taylor was silent for several more seconds, but this time it didn’t seem like she was simply power-tripping; she was trying to come up with a defence. Diana Angela was tempted to poke, goad her into saying something irrational, but… no, she just wanted to get this the hell over with.

  “It’s my opinion that young white ladies need to learn a little more respect for virtue,” she eventually snarled.

  “Absolutely noted, Lady Senior,” said Diana Angela, trying to keep the snark out of her tone. “Thank you for your wise insights.”

  “You’re most welcome,” the other woman grunted. “Young Under Firsts also need to learn not to presume upon their seniors for life advice. It is not my job to educate you.”

  A dismissal if there ever was one. Diana Angela bowed her head respectfully at the big woman and finally, finally turned to get out of the elevator.

  Chapter Three

  She was on the lower level of the concourse mezzanine, the sixtieth floor waiting for the elevator that’d take her down to the forty-first, when there was a quiet cough behind her. She turned to see the young US-5 from the elevator, looking at her shoes.

  “Lady Under First,” she said to Diana Angela’s feet. “I just… wanted to thank you.”

  “It was perfectly legal speech for you,” she replied. Humming, anyway. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You stuck up for me and she went after you instead,” said the young woman. “I’m sorry.”

  That bitch was one slip of the tongue away from getting her ass purged in front of six hundred million people tomorrow night, Diana Angela thought viciously. But that would have been a bad thing – she, Diana Angela, as the other participant in that conversation would have been shown in front of six hundred million people too. Uncomfortable questions might have followed.

  “I can take care of myself,” Diana Angela said with a smile as the elevator door opened. Nobody else was waiting for this one, although the local elevator banks were busy. She tapped the silver circles on her shoulders. “Got these. Bit harder to mess with circles than hashes.”