There is only one Nissan in the vicinity of Keith’s building—an Altima. I start to walk to the driver’s side when I see that the neighboring car is parked over the line. In fact, it is so ridiculously close there was no way I can open my door wide enough to shimmy inside. The driver had either been drunk or a woman.
The only option is to enter the passenger side and climb over to the driver’s seat. This day is just getting better and better. The anger from earlier starts to rise again, and I put a tight lid on it. I’ve already proven to myself how unproductive that can be. I open the trunk and toss in the briefcase. Then I walk around to the passenger door. Once in the seat, I crouch and stretch my host’s leg toward the driver’s side. It is clear Burnsey hasn’t kept up with his yoga. The muscles in his thigh object to the action, but I work through the pain. That done, I shift until I am sitting on the middle console. I slide Keith’s ample posterior into the driver’s seat, but my right leg’s still stuck on the passenger side. I try to move it toward me, but it is wedged on the dash between the radio and the glove box. I have to grab the leg behind the knee and heft it over, banging it on the steering wheel in the process. “Drak it to Neth,” I grunt through clenched teeth as a wave of pain explodes from the spot. Finally in the correct place, I sit for a moment, catch my breath, and temper my frustration. “Burnsey,” I say, “you have got to lose some weight.”
Physical fitness is as important to grifting as knowledge. I’m not talking about being some muscle-bound gym rat whose idea of a tense run is when he uses the mountain terrain setting on his treadmill. I’m talking about being able to run a mile as if your life depended on it, because frankly, in the con game, sometimes it does.
There was this one time when I was on Theta Outpost, a customs-slash-fueling station without much else except half a dozen bars. The only people there are sailors, shipping execs, and beings of questionable character who are drawn to that kind of environment. Usually the shipping execs are smart enough to stick to their vessels, but not that night. There was this pair of young pasty-faced fools standing at the bar as if they belonged. Their suits probably cost more than the building, and they were flashing cash like everybody carried around that much loot. I think they actually believed the two females draped on their arms were interested in them. One of the ladies was a Jenshurian, which are famous for their “special” skills. I wouldn’t know. Call me a speciesist, but I prefer my women with two arms and no tail.
I have rules. I don’t grift anyone doesn’t deserve it or who can’t afford it. These guys fit both criteria. I couldn’t resist. They were begging for it. Besides, someone was going to get their money, better it be me than someone who’d do more than steal. These suckers would be light on cash, but at least they’d have all their organs when I was done with them. Normally, I don’t rush into a grift without some reconnaissance, but, as I said, I couldn’t resist. It was supposed to be a walk.
I pulled a wooden top out of my pocket and invited them to a friendly game of “put and take.” The game is simple. You spin the top and if it lands on the “p,” you put in money. When it lands on the “t,” you take out money. Of course, it’s fixed—spin the top clockwise and it lands on “p;” spin counterclockwise and it lands on the “t.” The game is a centuries old con, but it still works in the twenty-fourth. People in my time, especially educated people, are so attuned to electronics that they are fascinated by low-tech items. They find things like tops and dice quaint, even primitive, and thus innocent. The thought of tampering never enters the mark’s mind.
I played these guys like a violin. First, I let them win to build their confidence. Then I slowly bilked them out of almost every, well, the closest translation is dollar. It was sweet. However, it turned out they weren’t as stupid as I had assessed. They didn’t figure out the con, but they’d had the forethought to hire bodyguards. If I’d done some reconnaissance, I’d have known that fact. The rent-a-muscle watched the guys lose with some amusement until it dawned on the hires that their pay was disappearing with each twirl.
Next thing I know, I’m being sucker punched. Meathead number one’s fist had landed squarely on my jaw. I was dazed for a second, but still had the presence of mind to grab the cash. As meathead number two was connecting with my stomach, I dropped to the floor and rolled under a table. I made a mad crawl to the front door while the meatheads were throwing tables left and right, trying to get their hands on me. All the while the pasty-faced shipping execs were hollering things like “Hey,” and “What’s going on?” What fools, all that ruckus and they still didn’t have a clue.
Once at the door, I found my feet and blazed out of there. The meatheads followed and almost caught me in the first few yards, but that was all it took for me to gain the lead. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs yelled for relief. Then I climbed up a transmitting tower and counted my haul. In the morning, I bought myself passage on the same boat the shipping execs called home. What’s better than a free ride? One bought with ill-gotten gain. But I digress.
I doubt I’ll have need for that kind of tactic at the high school. I turn the ignition and sputter off toward my new job. I mentally replay the conversation with Burnsey and me, er, Benigno the day before. Based on that and Keith’s place, I know he is a concerned teacher who attempts to engage his students. The guy reads and remembers what they write daily. Of course, that means I am going to have to appear interested in those self-centered, self-indulgent brats. When I was a teen, I didn’t have the privilege of agonizing over whether Jenny “liked” liked me or whether Mommy and Daddy were going to get me the latest gaming console. I was too busy fighting off pervs and worrying about where my next meal was coming from. You know, it’s adolescents who would benefit from Life Mod. Let them spend a day as Smullian the teen and see how they “learn the value of an honest day’s labor.” The anger dances around my brain, but I manage to suppress it.
II
At the school, I have déjà vu again, but less startling than at the cop shop. Being in the same environment throws me less than yesterday. Right away I notice two kids playing keep away with a third one’s smart phone. The third is fruitlessly jumping up and down, reaching for the device. Panic radiates from his eyes as he says, “Please, I just bought that. It took me two months to save up.” The other two just laugh.
Wish I had a taser. Burnsey wouldn’t use a taser, even if he had one, but I am certain he would intervene. I stride over to the group and hold out my hand. “Give it to me.”
“What?” One of the boys asks, feigning innocence. I hope law-breaking is not his intended career path because he won’t make it far with that act. I choose not to speak, but instead level my gaze at the offenders and wait. After a tense moment, I raise my eyebrow.
“We were just playin’ around,” the boy says as he places the device in my hand.
“Mm-hmm,” I respond, still staring. The two drop their eyes to the ground and shift their feet. “Get to class before I write you up.” They belong in detention, but I am also certain that Burnsey is a second and third chances kind of guy.
“Yes sir, Mr. Burns,” the boys answer in unison as they speed toward the building.
I hand the phone back to its owner. “Do you have somewhere safe to keep that?”
“Yes,” he mumbles. “Thanks, Mr. Burns.”
Keith would probably deflect the whole gratitude thing; I wave it away with my hand. “Remember, you’re not supposed to have that out in class,” I say in my most teachery voice—a little paternal concern mixed with rebuke.
“Ye…yes sir,” he stammers, shoving the device deep into his backpack. I wait until he walks away to smile. Maybe some parts of the job aren’t going to be that bad. I like bossing people around.
While teaching is mentioned in The Exhaustive Lexicon of Twentieth and Twenty-First Century Labor Practices, process and procedure vary from country to country. In the States, it varies from school district to school district. There’s no way the Lexicon’s resear
chers could gather all that data, much less place it on the chip in my brain. I only possess some vague information about educational theory. The front office seems like a good place to start.
The fussbudget from yesterday is behind the counter again. Papers are spread out before her, and her collating ability rivals most automated systems. She wields a stapler with skill and precision while smiling and nodding at every teacher that enters. She is the ruler of this world, which explains her behavior toward Benny Boy and Cheshire Charlie yesterday—anything that enters her realm has to be put firmly under thumb. I chuckle quietly as I remember Charlie’s not-so-gentle rebuff to her. “Ma’am, when you call the police, do you expect a timely response…or is that something only you deserve?” Good times.
My mirth dwindles and disappears into the anger that had been simmering all morning. In this century, Charlie and I could have been buds—same sense of humor, same outlook on life. Instead, it had been a one-day show. Why tease me with the concept of friendship and snatch it away? I need to get on top of this situation before the Father ruins me for good. I am already experiencing uncomfortable emotions. What’s next—remorse, love? Something must be done.
“Morning, Mr. Burns,” Fussbudget says, interrupting my reverie. She doesn’t even look up when I enter the room. Her evil, teacher-detecting radar functions on a wide bandwidth. “The field trip forms are in your mailbox.”
I want to ignore her, just pull the forms out of the cubby and leave. The last thing I need to give her is affirmation. That is, after all, what fuels her power-hungry empire. You may say, “What power? She’s only the secretary.” That’s a misnomer which has served women well for generations. A man has to be recognized; he has to have the flashy title. Women are content to be in the background, pulling the strings, resting in the knowledge that they’re really in control. “Behind every good man, blah, blah blah.” She may have a lowly position, but I’ll bet the principal doesn’t make any decisions without running them by her first.
Keith would be completely unaware of these undercurrents. He is probably grateful to have someone so organized and efficient in the office. I am Keith. I am forced to do what he would do, not what I would do. I give her a lopsided grin and say, “You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” I can see her power meter hit full tilt.
Her voice says, “You’re too kind, Mr. Burns.”
Her eyes say, “Don’t you forget it.”
I grab the stuff out of my box and glance around the room for a sign-in sheet or a punch clock. I don’t see anything. Pretending to look through my papers, I wait for another teacher to enter. Only a couple of minutes pass before one does. It is one of the teachers Benny interviewed the day before. Warner? Waters? Watson. Her hair is in a bun this time, but she is dressed in the same type of chic, professional digs. The clothes are quality, which means someone in her life is comfortably employed.
“Morning, Keith,” she says.
“Morning,” I answer, watching her every move. She empties her box and drops a note in someone else’s. Were I in the mood, I’d swipe it. There is something about the way it is folded that inspires questions about its content. All I can muster, though, is a fleeting curiosity.
“What happened to your hand?” she asks.
I’d forgotten about it. Pain relievers and a clean dressing from the pharmacy, which was less than a block from Burnsey’s place, effectively pushed the matter from my mind. I actually look at my hand before answering the question. I roll my eyes and chuckle self-effacingly. “I was moving the TV, and it slipped. Rapped my knuckles good.”
“Ouch,” she says. “Sorry.”
I shrug. “Things happen. Right?”
“Right. No serious damage.”
“Nah, just scratched up a little.”
“Oh. Field trip?” She points to the forms in my hand. Just sign-in or whatever so I can do it and get out of here.
“Yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment,” I respond.
“Where are you going?” It feels like she is trying to think up things to talk about. Why doesn’t she just get out and get on with her day, so I can get on with mine? I immediately run through all the field trip possibilities. They are studying Merchant—shipping, loan sharking, courts, the theater. While a visit with a loan shark could be quite educational, a stage production seems most likely. Jax is a port town, though. They could be doing something related to that. I am about to wing it with the theater bit when I am interrupted.
“Good morning, Mr. King,” Fussbudget says. The man she speaks to is rugged, buff, and dressed in an athletic suit. Gym teacher. Has to be. Watson and he lock eyes briefly. Their intense gaze makes me want a cold shower.
“Keith. Mrs. Watson.” He addresses both of us but keeps his eyes on her.
“Good morning, Mr. King,” she adds, a light blush climbing up her neck. The forced civility, the formal address all say one thing—Mrs. Watson is getting a little personal training. I figure the suspect note is for him, but I don’t bother watching to see if he goes to that box. Adultery never amuses me. The exchange does explain why Watson was hanging out in the office instead of leaving. I give up trying to discern the sign-in procedure and walk out. I know Fussbudget will stop me if I do something improperly. She doesn’t.
I slip off toward my classroom. This day can’t end fast enough. More by reflex than interest, I scan the halls and students as I go past. There are the requisite couples fused together, the loners plugged into musical devices or books or both, there are the clusters of kids huddled like jackals on the prowl, and the smaller groups that don’t fit any category.
The girls are as expected—young and scantily clad. I’m not a perv. I am just “enjoying the scenery” as Charlie would say. By the time I reach my classroom, though, I am bored with the display. They all look the same. The same dyed-blonde hair, the same clothes. I picture them going en masse, like stampeding elephants, to whatever store is cool this week. I am attracted, of course. All that flesh and makeup are going to draw the eye, but when I look at their faces, really look, they aren’t all pretty. Some are stunners, great bone structure, porcelain skin, but they just blend in with the rest. Whatever distinctive beauty they possess is lost amid the sea of similar faces.
I’ve never really thought about it, but in the twentieth-fourth century, everyone is different. Having traveled all over the known universe and been exposed to all kinds of females, I have come to appreciate the variety. The same is true in Life Mod. I’m in a new country every day, current circumstances excluded. I’m exposed to the dark, husky Polynesians and the pale Brits. This store clerk in Thailand had the darkest, lushest hair I’ve ever seen. But I digress.
The point is—someone has worked a massive con on the American teen. While I am mildly disgusted, I am also impressed. A con seamlessly executed on that kind of scale deserves admiration. Lydia’s visage jumps unbidden into my head. She stands out. I allow myself a moment to mentally linger over her features before I force the image away. I’ve got to get out of Jacksonville. This city is ruining me.
No students occupy my classroom, which is good. On the way to school, I developed a plan, a nutty plan, but a plan, nonetheless. I close the door and sit at Burnsey’s desk. Clearing my throat, I say, “Okay, how about a deal?”
I am talking out loud to no one, again. It seems like the only solution, logical or not. I know that The Powers-That-Be can’t read my mind, but they do monitor day-to-day activities. I assume The-Annoying-Ego-Tripping-Interloper does the same thing. Hopefully, he can hear what I utter aloud. I wait a moment, giving him a chance to respond. I’m not sure what I expect, but nothing happens.
I go on. “For some reason, you want me to help with David. I’m not sure what you think a grifter, bouncing from body to body, can do, but I’m willing to cede that point. How about this? I’ll help today. I’ll do whatever is in my power as Keith Burns to aid in the David situation. But to be clear, I’m not going to violate the terms of
Life Mod. I’m not risking a longer sentence for you, David Hawthorne, or anyone else.”
I wait again. Nothing. “In exchange, I want to be returned to my proper programming tomorrow. No more Jacksonville, no more risky jobs. If you can swing it, I’d like to be pool cleaner at a Caribbean resort. I think that’s only fair, considering what you’ve put me through.” I look around the room as if addressing a table of CEO’s. “Do we have a bargain?”
My last word was still hanging on the air when the classroom door opens. In walks Maddie Fairburn. I’ll take that as a yes.
“Do you have a minute?” she asks.
Of course, I do. I’m a team player. “Sure. What’s up?” I answer.
She settles herself into a desk in front of mine. I appreciate again the grace with which she moves. Plain, though she is, she exudes femininity. David, an artist, notices the beauty in a spider’s web. After my realization in the hallway, it becomes even clearer what he sees in her. She is unique among a sea of clones.
“I hung out with Lydia, David’s sister, last night.”
“I bet that was good for her. I’m sure she’s been going crazy with worry,” I say without thinking. It sounds like a Keith thing, but really it is all me. I am relieved Lydia didn’t spend another night alone and worried. What is going on with me? Since when am I concerned about a chick’s feelings?
“Yeah, we’re both worried. She says the cops think he ran away.”
“That is the consensus.”
Maddie looks away, fighting tears. Then she looks back at me. “My parents are kind of old school. They want to get to know a guy before they let me go out with him. Mom met him here at school and said he could come over. He was supposed to come over tomorrow and hang out for the first time. Why would he…”
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