The Book of Wanda, Volume Two of the Seventeen Trilogy

by Mark D. Diehl

  Kym didn’t know how good she had it, running the refinery for him and thus allowing him to hold onto the corporate benefits package, including limited access to a synthesizer and at least some freedom to move around the city. These girls had to work much harder than Kym did, and their corrections had to be crueler, too.

  Addi, here, was a good example, in her purple mini dress that stopped a hand’s width above her stocking tops and hair that looked and felt like old-fashioned pink fiberglass insulation as he tightened his fist in it. Keeping her eyes pointed up at him was a necessary part of her training. He spat into her face to punctuate his pep talk.

  “I hope you’re this late because you had a customer. Gimme the money.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Addi whimpered. “I worked harder on my makeup to get more business tonight.”

  He gave her a light slap, not hard enough to bruise, and then wiped the snotty spit off his hand with the part of her dress hidden under her mess of hair. “CBD shifts get out between one hundred and two hundred GMT,” he said. “Those hardworking corporate men and women bring those credits straight to 46th so whores like you can service them. You get ‘em off, they go home. If you’re not here, someone else’s whore gets ‘em off, and I’m standing out here for nothing.”

  She opened her mouth to say something. He yanked her hair, turning whatever word it was going to be into a pained groan. He spat again, this time landing most of it in her mouth.

  “Last night you brought in fuck-all nothin’ and the night before that, too. Now tonight you’re late. Three nights of fucking up!” He pushed down at the back of her neck, bringing her thudding to her knees. She misjudged and kissed his shoes. He pushed her the rest of the way to the gravel and put his shin across her back, flipping up one of her feet and knocking away the shoe. There was no need for fanfare or further explanation, no need to remove the stocking. He pulled the shears from his back pocket and grunted slightly with effort, lopping off her smallest toe. Her shocked and desperate gasp turned into sobs, a typical response when he had to do this with one of his whores.

  He stood, avoiding the blood that gushed down her calf to pool behind her knee. “Get cleaned up. You got one hour to find a customer and bring me the chips. Don’t make it in an hour, we do this again. Two hours, we do it twice more.” He kicked her lightly in the ribs, careful to keep it soft enough that she didn’t bruise. “Keep your shoes on when you fuck so you get better tips.”

  Amelix Executive Quarters

  Dr. Zabeth Chelsea had already synthesized herself a second glass of wine by the time her husband Alin came home. He was her first husband and she knew she should be taking advantage of her youth to marry up in the organization, but she enjoyed the fact the Lord had made her the ranking executive at home. Alin was Accepted, but hadn’t yet been given much chance to prove himself at Amelix.

  Upon seeing her, Alin carefully set down his bag and placed his hands open on his thighs, facing downward as she had taught him to do. “Good evening, ma’am. I hope your day was productive and pleasant.”

  “It was a stressful one, actually,” she said. “A talented tech Departed today. She will be difficult to replace.” She took another sip of her wine. “God’s will. I’m going to need to punish you tonight, or else I’ll never get to sleep. It won’t be anything too terribly hard on you, I shouldn’t think. A few bruises, maybe, but that will show others in the company what kind of service you give, won’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alin said. “I am always proud to serve you, ma’am.”

  “If I work out enough tension I might like to let you serve me in other ways tonight, as well.” She nodded and he dropped to his knees. “You’re going to be brave and good so that we can have that happen, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s get warmed up, then.”

  She opened her robe and spread her knees to make room for him.

  The Place B’s Memories Called the Zone

  His escape had been so easy! Furius supposed it made sense that he should have help from the gods; they had brought him here, after all. Now his mission was to get Pink Shit into as many of these people as possible and begin training the resultant legions.

  But how to distribute the stuff?

  It was a drug. Drugs had been Mr. B’s business. Furius just needed to find others in that trade and engage in a few transactions, and unknowing end users would dose themselves for him. He would have to collect them all and train the newly hatched Romans later.

  One contact came to the forefront of his mind: the Garbageman. Mr. B had moved more product through him than anyone, and that he had been overdue for a meeting with the man. At this time of night the Garbageman would be pimping his girls over on 46th Street, not terribly far from where Furius was now.

  His palm still held the handful of pink shit as he turned onto one street and then another, following Mr. B’s understanding of the city as if he had lived here himself.

  A Zone Back Street

  Len was too weak for real tears, but his tiny, ruined body shook with sobs. He was lying sideways near a building, but on a side street this time. Nobody would bother to force him away from this spot. There was no business being done here, and the few people that passed clearly had nothing to give him, even if he begged.

  A pimp had just disciplined one of his girls, cutting off a toe. It was pretty typical behavior for that guy, the one everyone knew as the Garbageman. Len had thought maybe she would hobble off somewhere or cry for help, or perhaps tend to her injury. Instead she just sat there, silently staring at the toe lying on the gravel, and apparently still bleeding, since she’d done nothing to stop it.

  He told himself it was her pain that made him cry, that he felt sad and sorry for her shitty situation, but hers was actually less hopeless than his own. The girl and her severed toe were probably going to be the last images he ever saw.

  “What’s this, then, little man?” a voice said. Len would never have let someone get so close before he’d gone to the slab, but now his reflexes were shot to hell with the rest of him. A man stood over him, a silhouette with a straight, military posture, not looking particularly friendly but not actively hitting or kicking Len, either.

  “Tell you what, son,” the man said. “I’ll give you this, if you promise to share it.” He placed a vinyl bag in Len’s hand and watched as Len opened it and discovered it was an injection rig. There was a little brown glass jar for dope, and it appeared to have a bit of powder in it. He unscrewed the cap and peered inside.

  “Here you go,” the man said, pushing his closed fist over the jar’s opening and releasing powder that spilled all over everywhere, but also filled the jar to overflowing. “It’ll make a man out of you.” He laughed once, sounding as crazy as he now seemed. “Well, that, some legionary training, and the swearing of an oath. Be ready to report for duty the next time I see you.”

  With that, the man wiped his powdery hand on his clothes and walked off toward 46th Street, passing the bleeding hooker without a glance.

  Fisher University Study Center Lobby

  Edward Schiff, IV, known to family and friends as Li’l Ed, sat quietly on a bench, consuming his biosynthetic liquid meal. His friend Jack was still holding their table inside, but all members of the upper class were obliged to have dinner with their families and this was the Schiff family dinnertime. Like nearly every other family he knew, Li’l Ed’s family met this requirement virtually, communicating in conference intercom mode through their Efficiency Implants. In fact, though in-person family dinners were supposedly the norm, Li’l Ed had only known one person who actually sat down with his family every day: his friend Sett, whose family owned its own corporation and could arrange its schedule however it wished. For those responsible to a higher purpose than the interests of their own families, there were schedules and dinners via EI.

  Ed’s current stepmother, Nolene, had muted her EI, as she was concurrently meeting with a few subordinates
. She had been present to lead the evening prayer, so officially the dinner had now occurred. While Sett’s family was rare for owning its own business entity, Li’l Ed’s was rather typical among the upper class for having all its members and former members working within a single large organization: McGuillian Corporation, the same entity that owned and operated Fisher University.

  “I know you’re concerned, son,” his father said. “You should be. Those who don’t worry about the fifteen percent will find themselves part of it. But you have an advantage; you’ve grown up in a household with some of the most dedicated Accepted parents anywhere. You’ve seen the kind of devotion to the organization that’s necessary, and you have what it takes to provide that.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Li’l Ed replied. “I do work very hard. But then so does everyone I know, sir.”

  “Now don’t get snippy,” his father said. “I said you’ll be fine, so that’s good enough. Start second-guessing your superiors and you really will be pushed out. I’ve told you before: The company doesn’t care about what you know. That fifteen percent who are kicked out of the university every year aren’t necessarily the ones who learned the least. Some of them are quite gifted, academically. It’s all about how you cooperate and how you obey. The complacent survive, the uppity Depart.”

  Li’l Ed shivered. How could anyone survive the horror of Departing and losing all corporate status? What point would there be in existing after your own organization had determined you were an unworthy parasite? “Yes, sir. Compliance with directives is what separates Golden workers from monkeys.” Li’l Ed realized his fingertip was tracing the company emblem embroidered on his blue school uniform. Suburban students had their towns’ logos, and those who lived in company housing, whether McGuillian or any other, had the corporate logo.

  Real monkeys had been extinct for some time.

  His mind was wandering again. He took another drink of his Synapsate, the McGuillian energy drink he consumed constantly to help him focus. When protein and nutrient levels were adjusted properly, Synapsate was a meal in itself. People always said Li’l Ed’s platinum hair and half-closed eyes made him look sleepy, but thanks to this stuff he didn’t ever actually feel tired. “Thank you for your guidance, sir.”

  “You’ll be fine. I just hope your group is up to the task,” his father said.

  “Actually, sir, I do have some concern along those lines,” Li’l Ed said. “It’s Sett, sir. The eldest among us, if you remember me saying.”

  “The one whose parents work for Andro-Heathcliffe?” his father said.

  “That’s right, sir, I do have a friend whose parents are with Andro-Heathcliffe, sir. His name is Jack.”

  “And which one is Sett, then?”

  “The chalk company, sir. Williams Gypsum.”

  “Oh, of course. Well, I can understand your concern. Those families who still own a business tend to be a little out there.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m worried. There’s a waitress at the McGuillian Diner …”

  “Ah!” his father said. “I remember that place from my time at Fisher.” He laughed to himself. “And the waitresses.”

  “Sett stares at her, sir. He watches her, and he even seems to get nervous around her. It’s disturbing to see someone of our class behaving that way, even to our own. To see how he is about this waitress… I worry that he might not be entirely sane, sir.”

  His father’s laugh was warm, if a bit condescending. “Don’t worry, son. It’s perfectly natural. Men get that way around women. Some like to go straight for marriage material and others like to play around with inferiors for a while first. Why wouldn’t he want a few practice rounds before he starts playing for real?”

  The Place B’s Memories Called the Zone

  “The fuck you been?” the Garbageman asked. Someone had tried to open his head, leaving a wide scab across his forehead. “I been outta shit for more than a week. That’s bad business, and bad business gets people killed.” His eyes made it clear this was a threat, but Furius didn’t care. The Garbageman’s ill will was nothing compared to what the former Roman slaves had spewed, and they’d outnumbered him in most confrontations. In conflict after conflict, Furius and his professional, better-organized Roman military operation had wiped out more primitive fighting forces. Soon the legions would return, and the likes of the Garbageman would be brought to heel.

  “I’m here now,” Furius said. He followed the Garbageman into an alley, removing the kilo from his coat pocket. The man used a pair of shears to poke a hole in the plastic, tapping the kilo to knock some powder out onto the back of his hand to snort.

  “Same price?” the Garbageman asked.

  “Yeah,” Furius said as the Garbageman snuffed it up. He felt impatient, but Mr. B.’s memories told him waiting for the snort to work was part of this business.

  The Garbageman’s eyes widened and his jaw set in anger as he realized the new drug was not what he’d been expecting. Furius dodged the shears flying past his head, but didn’t anticipate how fast the Garbageman would draw the gun. Furius knocked the barrel aside with a forearm as if it were a thrusting spear, and the bullet blasted past him.

  Furius snatched one of his own guns and yanked the trigger three times as he ran away. The Garbageman fired two more shots over his shoulder, missing both times. Furius dove to the ground, rolling against a building. Unsure when he could stand and chase again without being shot, he waited too long. By the time he got back to his feet, the Garbageman was gone.

  Somewhere in the Zone

  The dilapidated Partner Hotel smelled like old shoes and industrial solvents, but it was the first Wanda had seen, and she knew she wouldn’t last long on the street at night. Her hands shook, rattling the little plastic bag of casino chips. Was there a protocol for this kind of transaction? Many of her colleagues had bought prostitutes and rented rooms in places like this, but she never had. Was she supposed to haggle about the price of a room? How dangerous would it be if she tried to do so and tipped her hand that she didn’t know what she was doing?

  The man on the other side of the counter was barely tall enough to look over it. He had facial stubble and frizzy brown hair down past his hips, whitewashed in the smeary gray dust that seemed to coat everything here in the Zone. “Wha’chu want, Golden lady?” he asked, peering over dark glasses with octagonal yellow frames.

  A startling headache had formed at the base of Wanda’s skull, as if a scalpel were splitting her brain stem. Her nausea and sweating indicated she’d probably vomit soon. It was withdrawal from all the synthesized medications she’d been on. There was no time to haggle. No matter how foolish she might seem for it, paying full price was better than collapsing and being totally helpless out in the open.

  “Room,” she said, placing a hand on the counter to steady herself. The wave of nausea passed and she was feeling better again, though she probably didn’t have long before the withdrawal symptoms fully kicked in.

  She counted casino chips onto the counter until they added to the room fee and key deposit. It was more than a third of what Davi had given her. The man slid them into his palm and dropped them into his pocket, placing an old-fashioned metal key on the counter.

  “What …” Wanda’s voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “What time is checkout?”

  “If the sun’s up, get the fuck out,” he said. “But be sure to turn in the key here at the desk. You get your key deposit back and also we don’t fuckin’ kill you.”

  Out at sunrise. She had thought she’d be able to hide until late morning, especially at this price. She bit her lip, keeping her head down as she took the key and turned away toward the crumbling linoleum staircase.

  “The freer you are, the harder you’ve got to fight, hon,” her grandmother used to say. She had taken great pains in teaching Wanda how to stay independent. Her last attempt, bringing home the rats, had apparently gotten her Departed. Had she once stumbled into this same hotel? How hard had she fought, here? How
long had she survived?

  Zone dwellers were drawn to weakness; letting them see her cry would invite no end of trouble.

  Wanda, herself, was now a Zone dweller.

  “6th and G,” the desk clerk said.

  She stopped, but couldn’t make herself turn back to face him. “What?”

  “That’s where you’re going,” he said. “6th and G. The Horde of the Departed. Don’t try to stay over in the morning. We have people for that and there’s no reason to start out with serious injuries.”

  It was obvious. She was obvious. The nausea came flooding back, but she forced it down again, disgusted that she’d revealed enough to put herself in serious danger when she’d been trying to be so careful. “It’s the uniform,” she muttered, looking down. The Amelix logo, stylized DNA in shimmering black that glinted green, gleamed smugly up at her.

  “It’s everything,” he said. “Uniform or no uniform, you’d stand out. But it don’t help.”

  She nodded. A tear fell to the dusty floorboards.

  “I’ll sell you my jacket for another night’s room charge,” he said. He held up a threadbare brown sports coat with lapels, obviously from countless decades ago. She looked at him blankly. “You won’t live long here in Corporate Green, sweetie.”

  She sighed. “I won’t live long without money, either.”

  “I’ll let you fuck for it,” he said.

  She froze. Was this really happening? Already?

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “But none of this bullshit where you say halfway through that you didn’t agree to something. I want it all, everything. Nothing’s off limits.”

  She stared blankly. Without her corporation, what was she? She had been raised inside Amelix, and she had no valuable attributes beyond the small corporate niche for which she’d been trained. Amelix was the whole world, and she had been expelled. Exiled. Banished. She was…