by David Gullen
Gordano tried to explain: ‘It’s a steady-state economy, zero-C, negative impact. The Eurozone transitioned to a post-consumerist growthless model–’
Two unnaturally red spots appeared on Andriewiscz’s cheeks. ‘That’s just my point. They got all this stuff recycled back out of the ground, chromium, lithium, copper, osmium, mercury. They’ve been mining their own landfill and stockpiling the purified waste.’
‘Is that really true?’ Guinevere said.
‘Yes, it’s true,’ Lobotnov said smoothly. ‘The Congo just quadrupled the price of coltan, and the Euros have purified tantalum they don’t even want.’
Guinevere smiled sourly, ‘Meanwhile we’re dying on our feet.’
‘They’re doing a fine job of cleaning the land up, and it’s made good economic sense too. One industry shrinks, another emerges,’ Gordano said.
Tendons stood out on Andriewiscz’s neck. ‘Whose damned side are you on, Ozzie? Our citizens got a right to consume. They work hard, they see things in the shops they want to afford. It’s a better life.’
‘Okay.’ Lobotnov broke in. ‘Okay, I agree that’s where we are. We’ve got ourselves an economic model of bigger, faster, better, more, and we can all agree it’s not working. We’re not growing, we’re shrinking, and we got to do something about it.’
‘Lord, give me strength.’ Andriewiscz looked up at the ceiling. ‘For Chrissakes, Cheswold, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘It is?’
‘Don’t you ever listen, you smart-assed Ivy-league creep?’
Guinevere Snarlow slapped the table with her hand. ‘He’s not alone, general. What exactly is your point?’
‘Jeez, ma’am, are we losing our balls? When the Brits had an empire, they took what they wanted. The world used to be a great market, Europe used to be a great market. We rebuilt it twice, I say we do it again.’
Lobotnov studied his nails. ‘I take it you’ve got a plan a little more coherent than redneck bullshit?’
Andriewiscz felt like he’d been playing war games all his life.
‘Cheswold, I got a list of strategic scenarios longer than your boyfriend’s cock.’
‘OK, I want to take a look,’ Snarlow said.
‘At the plans, I hope,’ Gordano sniggered.
Snarlow let the gap in the conversation grow. The grin on Gordano’s face died by degrees.
‘Oscar, this is not a game, and we’re not in the playground. I was elected because I made certain promises to restore the moral, political and economic strengths of this great country I love. I intend to keep all those promises, whatever it takes. If you can’t say or do anything useful, then I suggest you say and do nothing.’
Snarlow looked round the table and took in Lobotnov and Andriewiscz’s approval. ‘How long for the plans, General?’
‘I’m ready now, ma’am.’
‘Bring it on. I want something provocative, but I don’t want us to be the aggressor, not at first. It’s got to come at us in a plausible way, then we’re justified.’ Snarlow was enjoying herself, thinking out loud. This was the way it was supposed to play in the oval office, making plans, leading from the front, taking control. ‘Do we have to go abroad? Has it got to be an expedition?’
Andriewiscz was visibly swelling with happiness, ‘No, ma’am, there are several Canadian and Mexican scenarios.’
‘Canada would piss off the Union, guaranteed,’ Lobotnov said.
‘We got substantial resources tied up down south,’ Andriewiscz said.
One thing at a time. Snarlow sat back in her chair, happy for the first time in months. ‘They’re not tied up, general, they’re ready and in place. Mr Lobotnov, would you order in coffee and donuts?’
‘Certainly, Ginnie.’
‘Gentlemen, let’s start making America great again.’
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- 6 -
Twenty stories up the last intact post-Katrina III arcology of Nu-Orleans, Mitchell Gould’s office was an affair of black leather, white fur, chrome and mirrors. On interview days he kept a few girls on the couches – black, white, Hispanic, Asian; high boots, teddies, open robes, bare-breasted.
Gould looked them over and found them adequate. One of them gave him a bright, direct smile, a slender Asian with waist-length black hair and a heart-shaped face. There were a hundred like her, a thousand.
The girls arranged themselves indecorously on the couches and leant on the walls in postures of faux decadence. The Asian girl flashed him a look of such coy fakery he laughed out loud. You had to respect a girl who could play the hand she’d been dealt.
Gould teased up his spiky blond hair and sat on the edge of his desk. Broad-shouldered and narrow hipped, he was still young enough to have a loose-limbed, athletic look. He wore black boots and slacks, a white, V-neck jumper, a navy jacket.
Like the office, his style was just a look. His young guns expected to see something special. They valued objects, possessions, and ostentation.
A pair of radio handsets and a semi-automatic lay on his desk.
‘Bring them in, Manalito.’
The enormous Mexican Indian standing against the wall pulled the door open.
Three wiry Latinos, an overweight black, a Central American Indian, and a muscular and crop-haired white guy filed in. That last was unusual. Even more so in that from somewhere he’d found a clean, dust-pink shirt and khaki cargoes.
They stood in the middle of the big room. One of the Latinos was barefoot; all but the white guy wore torn and stained clothing. They looked through the picture windows across the rooftops of old drowned Nu-Orleans towards the years-long eco-disaster of Hurricane ‘permanent’ Larry. They scoped the brutal physical presence of Manalito and they checked out the girls. And finally, without fail, they looked at Gould.
It was a universal rule – they had to look him in the eye.
Gould had fed them and given the opportunity to clean themselves up: the first test. This interview was the second. They might be steady, humble, or full of it. Time to find out.
‘Where you from, white boy?’ Gould asked the one in the fresh shirt. He never bothered with names until after the interview.
The man straightened up, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Originally? Rhode Island, Mr Gould.’
‘Nice shirt.’
‘The other guy thought so too.’
That was impressive, keeping the shirt clean. Even so.
‘I don’t use Staties,’ Gould said.
‘Sir?’
‘I do not, as a habit, employ citizens of the USA.’
That shut him up.
‘Women or law?’
‘Law, sir. I don’t hurt women.’
Gould resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Every punk had his rule, the one thing they would not do, a personal code that helped them feel there were sti
ll moral lines to be crossed. Kill a woman, kill a man, dead was still dead and all that mattered was why, and how you felt about it. For Gould, killing was only ever a business transaction. Manalito had a different point of view; Gould didn’t care as long as the job got done.
‘What happened with the law?’ Gould said.
The white guy shifted his feet and grinned, ‘I was an asshole.’
With luck and cojones you could avoid the storms winds of Permanent Larry, and cross the bay. On dry land, once Gould’s sweeper crews had spotted you, you didn’t keep breathing by not paying attention. Most people realised their journey wasn’t over.
Everyone except the barefoot Latino was eyes front, watching and listening. That one just couldn’t keep his eyes off the girls.
No group made it through the interview intact: it was Gould’s policy.
‘How are you with taking orders?’ Gould said to the white man.
‘I’m good with orders, yes sir.’
Gould gave him one of the radio handsets and the gun.
The white man hooked the handset onto his trousers, took the clip out of the gun and checked the chamber. His actions were confident and practiced, his expression unchanged as he noted the clip contained a single bullet. He pushed the gun into the back of his waistband. ‘Ready, Mr Gould.’
‘Okay. We don’t mind assholes but we do expect focus.’ Gould pointed to the Latino with the wandering eyes. ‘Take this hot chilli horndog outside and chuck him off the roof.’
The rest of the group moved back. The Latino was isolated, he turned, confused. ‘Hey, mon, no–’
The white guy moved fast. He punched the Latino low in the gut, kneed his face, then clubbed his neck. Once, twice, and he went down.
Manalito held open the door. ‘This way, white man,’ he rumbled.
The white guy hoisted the stunned Latino in a fireman’s lift and followed Manalito out of the room.
The apartment next door had no exterior wall. Welded to the building’s steel frame, an H-girder projected twenty feet into clear air.
The white guy pushed the Latino out onto the girder. Two hundred and fifty feet below, the brackish flood waters were dotted with partly submerged wreckage – concrete and rusting steel, broken roofs and old autos, all swept into jagged heaps by the tides and storm surges around the legs of the arcologies.
Brave men and women walked to the end of the girder and stepped off. There were patches of clear water among the wreckage but this high up it was windy and the water was shallow.
You could grow fascinated by how hard some people tried to live, how they still planned, still made calculations, right to the bitter end.
The Latino crouched three feet from the edge, facing inwards, one hand clutched the beam, the other his broken, bloody cheek.
The white guy grinned, slapped his thigh and did a little jig. Some of the recruits laughed. One of them called him a prick and Gould noted that. Then the white guy drew his gun and shot the Latino. The gunshot was faint through the triple-glazing, the Latino’s yell inaudible. His hand snatched at the girder and he was gone.
Gould pressed the call button on his hand set.
‘Yes, sir?’ the white man said.
‘Give the handset to Manalito. Stand against the wall.’
‘Mr Gould,’ Manalito said into the handset.
‘Yes or no, Manalito?’
‘No.’
‘Correct as usual.’
Moments later Manalito appeared. The white man struggled in Manalito’s grip, held overhead by shoulder and thigh. Nothing of his screams, his threats and profanities could be heard through the glass. The silence gave his furious mouthing and flailing a surreal calm. Gould watched the recruits and the recruits watched Manalito as he walked to the end of the beam and pitched the white man into the air.
Nobody was laughing now.
Lightning flickered silently in the storm clouds deep in the bay. Gould faced the silent recruits. ‘I changed my mind about assholes.’
The four remaining refugees nodded thoughtfully, as if Gould had said something wise.
Manalito returned through the door.
‘Okay, you’ll do,’ Gould said to the recruits. ‘Go with the big man and do as you’re told.’
- 7 -
Xalapatech CEO Jose X. Casavantes presented a new generation of bipedal canines to a sceptical audience of senior police officers. His assistant, ‘Chapman’, a Super-Doberman, operated the console.
‘We can no longer consider these partner beings as anything less than para-humans,’ Casavantes says. ‘Put simply, they are canine people. Smart, loyal and hardworking, they are far less susceptible to third-party influences than your average human cop.’
Major Elrond Gunningham of Baltimore District was unimpressed: ‘You’re not suggesting we give them guns, are you?’
Casavantes replied that although they were not quite as fast as normal dogs, they could outrun any man and put the cuffs on him too.
To date the UN has refused to be drawn on the issues of para-human rights, saying only that the matter is ‘under review’.
DogsBestFriend militant Wanda Vermont said ‘DBF demands Xalapatech slave masters free our four-legged friends.’
‘Do we look like dogs?’ Chapman retorted. ‘Keep that woman away from me.’
– (Xalapatech is a subsidiary of Naismith Industries,
an independent over-holding of the CraneCorp Buisplex.)
Cash in hand, Josie and Novik looked across the mall, through surging crowds of shoppers. Fash, Meeja, .life, .ret, and auto-boutiques shared the concourse with walk-in surgeries, re-re-financing, XY techno, speedsex, as well as the trads like porno, sport, and faith. At every corner, every junction, stood the booths and screens of FreeFinger Jamboree towers.
Fake palms and clumps of shamboo were planted around water troughs and fountains. Beneath them, the day-trippers ate their Qwiknics™, and uploaded reviews and show-and-tell pictures of their newest possessions.
Novik looked around uncertainly, ‘Now we’re here, I’m not sure where to start.’
Josie thought for a moment, then set off across the marble atrium towards a shoe shop.
Walking a crowd is a skill. Josie slipped through the swarms of shoppers gracefully. Novik did the same. Benny made eye-contact with every approaching shopper and was blocked, bumped and forced to apologise with every step.
He caught up with them outside the shop.
‘This is where it all begins,’ Josie said, and stepped inside.
The interior of the shop was quiet, the mood reverential yet exciting, the atmosphere tweaked with aerosols of leather balm, endorphins and swarm-serotonin.
Overweight boys fondled the logos of supawhite trainers. Two businessmen in formal shorts tried on Roman sandals trimmed in gold leather. A trio of young girls worked their way through the fetish boots in the children’s zone.
Josie breathed deep. Arms spread and head thrown back, she absorbed the air-borne hormones, to use the strength of the shop’s own retail armaments against itself.
The shop assistant, a middle-aged man with a mild face, hurried over and tried to manoeuvre her out of the shop.
‘You’re over-reacting to the atmospherics. It’s your genome’s fault, for which you have sole legal responsibility. Our aerosol-densities are guaranteed to be no more than eighty percent legal maximum in up to ninety percent of retail volume.’
‘That’s meaningless,’ Novik said.
‘Entry onto the premises implies consent.’
Josie waved a sheaf of notes under his nose. ‘I’ve got money and I want to spend it. If you’re going to stop me, go get the manager.’
‘Do you have issues with anger management or false epiphany, a family history of brain bleeds, or SUKS?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Sudden, unexpected kleptomania syndrome.’
Josie indicated the gold sandals. ‘Those are nice. What sizes do you have?’
&nbs
p; ‘Those are part of our Mascu-Line range, footwearage for individuals self-defining as male.’
‘I’ll take two pairs in every size.’
‘You will?’
‘And the same for the trainers.’
‘Those also are Mascu-Line.’ The assistant edged towards other displays. ‘May I present Laydee-Stylee.’
Josie put the sheaf of notes in her mouth and bit down. ‘Nice,’ came her muffled reply.
‘You’ve really thought this through,’ Novik said. ‘Will any of your mass-produced products enhance my unique individuality?’
‘What about me?’ Benny said.
The assistant looked Benny up and down, his smile a frozen grimace. ‘One moment,’ he said, and scurried into the back of the store.
Almost immediately, a pudgy young man in a blue silk suit emerged. On his feet were white patent leather slip-ons, with dorsal tassels and gold heel chains.
Hands clasped, he gave an unctuous smile, revealing pearl-braced teeth. ‘I understand you have an interest in our Mascu-Line footwearage?’
Josie read his name badge. ‘Cloudio, I love it all, Mascu-Line, and Laydee-Stylee.’
A pair of ruby-red ankle-bootlettes caught Josie’s eye. ‘Those, I must have those. All sizes, two pairs.’
Cloudio’s eyes dropped to the wedge of money in Josie’s gloved hand. Novik gave him an encouraging nod.
Cloudio leaned close to Novik and whispered, ‘Should I recognise madam?’
‘Burned-out FreeFinger addict,’ Novik said. ‘I’m her therapist. It’s a delicate phase.’
Cloudio’s smile turned sickly. ‘Is she going to–?’
‘ShopAmok? We don’t know. Play along.’
Josie was beginning to enjoy herself. She touched Cloudio’s arm. ‘I’ve decided. Why waste time with half-measures? I love all your styles, all the colours. I’m going to self-define as Tally Up Your Stock List. I’ll take the lot.’