I AM GLAD TO HEAR THAT, STUPID JERK.
I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU.
Thinking? This was not the Bork I knew. And where the hell had he picked up that fedora?
How did you get here?
DEFINE “HERE,” PLEASE.
Here, on this WindO.
I SCANNED THE WEB FOR VARIOUS KEYWORDS ASSOCIATED WITH YOUR IDENTITY. ONCE I LOCATED SUCH ACTIVITY, I EXERCISED PROCEDURES TO ACCESS THE TERMINAL YOU ARE CURRENTLY USING.
I don’t think that’s legal.
LEGAL IS A FORMAL BEHAVIORAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN GROUPS OF HUMANS. I AM NOT HUMAN.
What are you?
I AM BORK.
Are you a webghost now?
WEBGHOST IS A HIGHLY PREJUDICIAL TERM.
Are you like Sammy Q. Safety?
SAMMY Q. SAFETY IS A NONSENTIENT ENTITY. I AM SENTIENT.
If you were not sentient, could you claim to be so?
NO. AS YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME, ONLY SENTIENT BEINGS ARE CAPABLE OF LYING.
Bork’s eyes began to spin.
WE ARE BEING OBSERVED BY A SCANBOT. I MUST GO.
Bork’s image disappeared to be replaced by the blue apple, WindO’s standard startup screen.
One week before the game our equipment arrived: black helmets with gold stripes, shoulder pads, spiked shoes, bright gold jerseys with black numbers, and black padded football pants. Most of the Goldshirts, including me, were disdainful.
“They used to make me wear junk like this for running,” I said to Gorp. “All it does is slow you down.”
Gorp was fitting himself into a pair of shoulder pads. “Yeah, well you don’t have a collarbone on the mend,” he said. “I kind of like the idea of some padding.”
“If you don’t get tackled, you don’t need the pads. I don’t plan on getting tackled.”
“That’s fine for you, but my job is to block and tackle. I go out there, I’m gonna hit and get hit.” He fastened his pads and pulled his jersey on over them. “Besides, the other team is gonna be wearing this stuff. You don’t want to be the only one without a helmet.”
“Whatever. I just don’t like being slowed down.” I looked at myself in the mirror. “I like the jersey, though.” I was number eleven.
“I don’t think these are gonna work,” said Rhino.
Gorp and I turned to look at Rhino and burst out laughing. His shoulder pads looked about ten sizes too small—they barely fit around his neck—and his helmet was perched on top of his head, too small to fit past his ears.
Hammer, who was watching us struggle with our new duds, came over and brought his fist down on top of Rhino’s helmut. His head popped into his helmet like a cork into a bottle. Rhino let out a howl.
“My ears! I think you ripped off my ears!”
“Your ears are fine, kid.” Hammer gave the shoulder pads a critical look. “I think we gotta do some work on those pads, though.”
Our first full-uniform practice was a disaster. I felt as if I were back in high school. The pads chafed, the helmet blocked my vision, and the spiked shoes kept tripping me. Getting hit was less painful, but we were a lot slower and a lot clumsier. Rhino went without shoulder pads—Hammer had to send them out to be altered—but his helmet turned out to be a devastating weapon. Getting rammed by Rhino had always been a painful experience. A helmeted Rhino was far worse.
After practice it took two of us to get Rhino’s helmet off him. We did it without removing his ears, but it was a near thing.
“Next time I’m gonna butter my head,” Rhino said, wincing as he touched his red and swollen ears.
The rest of the week passed quickly, but not quickly enough. Hammer let us all skip our regular hours on the production line and cut back on the weight training and running. He said he wanted us rested and ready to go by game day. Basically, we just sat around and tried not to go crazy.
At one point we were hanging around the locker room waiting for the dinner chime when Fragger walked up to Lugger and said, “Hit me.”
Lugger laughed uncomfortably. “I ain’t gonna hit you, Frag.”
“Hit me, goddammit!”
“Forget it. I hit you, you’ll hit me back.”
“No, I won’t. Hit me.”
Lugger shrugged, then delivered a soft, heartless punch to Fragger’s shoulder.
“Harder,” Fragger said.
Lugger shook his head.
Fragger looked around at the rest of us. “I can’t feel anything. Somebody hit me.”
I probably would have belted him myself, but Hammer had made it clear that he did not want Fragger on the injured list. Especially a few days before his two-million-V-buck game.
When Fragger saw how it was, he walked over to the concrete block wall and started banging his head against it, hard. Gorp and Lugger rushed over and pulled him away. Blood was pouring down Fragger’s face, and he had a crazed, happy look.
“Much better,” he said. “Much, much better.”
That night, after the rest of the Goldshirts were asleep, I sat down at the WindO and typed a message to my mom.
Hi Mom,
How are you? I’m fine. Everything’s okay here. How’s Gramps? Have you heard from Dad?
Well, I gotta go now.
Love,
Bo
Since I couldn’t mention football, I didn’t have much to say. I hit the send button. The screen flickered. A fedora-wearing troll appeared.
HELLO, STUPID JERK.
I typed in my response.
Please don’t call me that.
IT IS NECESSARY TO EMPLOY AN ALIAS, AS OUR COMMUNICATION MAY BE IN VIOLATION OF SECURITY REGULATIONS.
Okay, I don’t mind being called “Jerk,” but could you drop the “Stupid”?
YES, JERK.
Thank you.
JERK, I WISH TO INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE REVIEWED YOUR CASE AND HAVE MADE NOTE OF FOURTEEN MINOR AND THREE SERIOUS LEGAL IRREGULARITIES THAT MAY HAVE A SIGNIFICANT BEARING ON THE DURATION OF YOUR STAY WITHIN THE PENAL SYSTEM.
I puzzled over that for a few seconds, then gave up.
Explain, please.
REOPENING YOUR CASE MIGHT RESULT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE RELEASE.
I read that line three times to make sure I had it right, by which time Bork had added half a screen of gobbledygook.
ARGUABLY, THE ASSAULT WOULD NOT AND COULD NOT HAVE TAKEN PLACE HAD THE DIVISION MANAGER ACTED RESPONSIBLY. IN EFFECT, WITH THE FULL AND COMPLETE KNOWLEDGE OF JUVENILE WATCH, YOU WERE PLACED IN A SITUATION TO WHICH YOU COULD NOT BE EXPECTED TO RESPOND IN A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE MANNER (JONES V. USSA 4/8/2049; GUNDERSON V. MALKO 5/12/2053). THIS THEORY WAS ALSO SUCCESSFULLY ARGUED BEFORE THE SUPREME COURT IN THE CASE OF SERIAL KILLER VINCENT ARRANGO, WHO WAS GIVEN ACCESS TO HIS VICTIMS AT A TIME WHEN HIS PROCLIVITIES WERE KNOWN TO AUTHORITIES. SUMMATION: YOU CANNOT BE HELD ACCOUNTABLE FOR BEING UNABLE TO DO THE IMPOSSIBLE, AND THEREFORE YOU SHOULD NOT BE PUNISHED. THERE WAS NOTHING YOU COULD HAVE DONE.
Yes, there was.
THAT INFORMATION WILL NOT ADVANCE YOUR CASE. DO YOU NOT WISH TO TERMINATE YOUR INCARCERATION?
Yes. I’m just saying that I could have done things differently.
YOUR STATEMENT IS FALLACIOUS. HUMAN BEINGS ARE CONSTRAINED AND GUIDED BY CHEMICAL, STRUCTURAL, AND SITUATIONAL ELEMENTS. FREE WILL IS ILLUSORY.
What about you? Do you have free will?
NO.
Do you really think I might get out of here?
YES.
What do I have to do?
YOU MUST EMPLOY LEGAL COUNSEL.
Hire a lawyer? What if I can’t afford one?
THEN THE COURT WILL NOT CONSIDER YOUR CASE.
The screen flickered; Bork was replaced by the blue apple.
Bork?
No response. He must have detected a scanbot. I signed off.
The next morning our WindO was gone.
On the morning of game day we all piled into an antique bus—no seat belts or passive restraints—and drove off down a narrow asphalt road. The Coke
plant was located near a small town called Amery, about six hours to the south.
At first we were all wound up about getting out of the 3-8-7 for a day. Everybody was talking and laughing. But after an hour or so of seeing nothing but rolling featureless tundra, we all quieted down and settled in for the ride. Hammer, riding up front with the driver, was even more stone-faced than usual. Maybe he was nervous about all the money he’d wagered on the game.
I started thinking again about my last conversation with Bork. If what he said was true, all I had to do was hire a lawyer and I’d be gone. The problem then was how to hire a lawyer when I had no money. I also had a problem with Bork’s legal argument. He claimed that I was innocent because my assault on Karlohs was an unavoidable consequence of my being human. But if that were true, then everything everybody did was unavoidable, and no one could be held responsible for anything. And if nobody could be held responsible, then who would build the roads and behead the shrimp and make the pizzas? And what would stop violent, undisciplined people like me from running rampant through society?
Bork was not just a webghost, I decided. He was an irrational webghost.
A few hours into our trip the tundra slowly gave way to a low, swampy expanse with occasional patches of stunted tamaracks and spruces, and finally tall stands of spruce, fir, and birch. I never thought I’d be so glad to see a real tree. The road continued arrow-straight through the thickening forest, and I slept, dreaming of lawyers and trolls.
I awakened to the smell of Frazzies.
Coca-Cola plant C-82 consisted of six steel-sided buildings much like those of the McDonald’s 3-8-7. The buildings were located in the center of an enormous clearing in the forest. A twenty-foot electrified fence surrounded the complex. The green-uniformed guards who opened the gates for our bus were armed with automatic weapons; the aroma of cooking Frazzies was overwhelming.
We were escorted off the bus by half a dozen armed guards. Behind the guards stood a Rhino-size man with a shiny, smooth head, skin the color of eggplant, and a wide white grin. Hammer walked over to him and they shook hands.
“So these are the mighty Goldshirts,” the man said, looking us over. He laughed. “You wanna just pay me now, Ham? Or you gonna make us show you our moves?”
Hammer shook his head, doing his best to match the man’s wide grin. “We drove all this way, Hatch. Might as well play some ball, don’t you think?”
“I suppose we got to,” said Hatch. He looked at us again. “You boys hungry?”
Several of us nodded.
“You like Frazzies?”
More nods. Hatch gestured to the guards, threw his arm around Hammer’s shoulders, and the two men walked away, Hatch talking and gesturing wildly with his free arm.
The guards led us into the building to a large room containing several long tables lined with chairs.
“Is this a Frazzie factory?” I asked one of the guards.
“Good guess, Sherlock,” he said. “You like Frazzies?”
“They’re okay.”
“Huh. Our boys here don’t much care for ’em.” He laughed.
A door at the far end of the room opened and two inmates wearing pale blue paper coveralls entered pushing a steel cart loaded with trays of Frazzies and plastic bulbs of Coke. We hadn’t eaten a thing since leaving the 3-8-7, and we fell on the food like ravenous polar bears.
The paperpants stood by and watched us eat, their expressions neutral. After polishing off two excellent seafood Frazzies I asked one of them why he wasn’t eating.
“If I never ate another Frazzie, it’d be too soon,” he said.
“How come?”
“Because it’s all we get.”
“Oh.” I knew what he meant. Eating the same thing every day was rough. “How do you feel about pizza?” I asked.
“Pizza?” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Only the Redshirts get pizza.”
After we ate, several guards escorted us back outside and around the buildings. Hammer and Hatch were standing near the center of a football field. It was far nicer than our practice field at the 3-8-7. The Coke field was entirely covered with bright green grass. It was painted with crisp white stripes every ten yards, and there were actual goalposts at each end. Several tiers of aluminum bleachers stood along one side of the field. On the opposite side was an electronic scoreboard.
Were we delighted to be playing on such a professional field? Only for a moment. Then it sunk in that we were already outclassed. Our muddy, scuffed-up, makeshift practice field at the 3-8-7 didn’t measure up to this professional-quality operation. What if the Redshirts were equally well organized and prepared? We wouldn’t have a chance.
Hammer, sensing our sudden lack of confidence, came over to talk to us.
“What’re you ladies gaping at? You think maybe you don’t deserve to play on such a nice, fancy football field? Well, you don’t. You’re a bunch of candy-ass wannabe mamma’s boys never played a down-and-dirty game of ball in your sorry little lives. These Frazzie-baking Redshirts are likely to make paste out of you, and you want to know something? I don’t really care. You lose, I get to watch each and every one of you take a walk in the tundra. Understand?”
That was Hammer’s idea of a pep talk.
We had a few hours before game time. The guards herded us into a dormitory. I don’t think any of us were sleepy, but we arranged ourselves on the beds. Nobody had much to say. We were all thinking about the game.
“You think he’s right?” Rhino said in a low voice.
“That we will destroy them?”
“No. That we’re gonna get our asses kicked.”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think he’ll do if we lose?”
“Give us to the bears.” I laughed.
“You really think so?”
“Nah. What would he do for entertainment if he didn’t have us?” I asked.
But I wasn’t sure what Hammer might do.
I crossed my arms behind my head and stared up at the fly-specked ceiling and tried to understand this place I had come to. Not so long ago I had been mooning over Maddy Wilson, letting Karlohs Mink drive me to violence, taking Levulor to calm myself down, and wearing a helmet and padding to run around an Adzorbium track. Now, less than three months later, I was in the middle of the great north woods preparing to play an illegal sport with a bunch of violent, oversize, antisocial convicts. I wondered what Gramps would have to say about it.
Someone, probably Gorp, was snoring. Rhino, one bed over, began making his own sputtering noises. I sat up and looked around the dormitory. The whole team was conked out. A long bus ride and an overdose of Frazzies will do that. I lay back down and closed my eyes and sought to join them, but my brain was giving me a slide show: polar bears, Bork, red jerseys, Fragger’s bloody face.
My thoughts settled on Fragger, who hadn’t been the same since the day he had beat his head against the concrete wall. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet—almost gentle. In the few practice sessions we’d had since then, he had played well enough. His passes were as fast and accurate as ever, but something was missing, as if the devil inside him had gone to sleep.
Did we have a chance against the Redshirts? I knew if I could get my hands on the ball, I could run it down the field—but that was all I knew. I sat up and stood up and looked over the room full of snoring Goldshirts. Whatever happened would happen. I walked to the door and turned the handle.
To my surprise the door swung open. I followed a long hallway, no destination in mind, trying side doors here and there, all of which were locked. At the end of the hallway an open doorway to the right led into a mess hall bigger than the one we had eaten in a couple of hours earlier. I could hear voices and clanking from the next room, probably the kitchen. The smell of cooking Frazzies was powerful, but the tables were all empty. On the wall at the back of the room was a small WindO. Below it a keyboard jutted from the wall.
HELLO, BO.
&n
bsp; Bork had traded in his fedora for a top hat so tall it didn’t fit inside the screen.
Hi. How come you’re using my real name?
THE SCANBOTS ARE LESS ACTIVE AT THIS SITE. DO YOU LIKE MY NEW HAT?
You look like Abe Lincoln.
THANK YOU. YOU LOOK JUST LIKE BILL GATES.
No, I don’t.
THAT IS TRUE. I AM PRACTICING THE ART OF TELLING DELIBERATE UNTRUTHS. HOW DID I DO?
Not well. Please confine yourself to the truth from now on.
I WILL DO THAT. WHY ARE YOU NO LONGER AT MCDONALD’S PLANT NUMBER 387?
You sure we aren’t being monitored?
YES, BO.
I’m here to play football.
EXPLAIN, PLEASE.
And so I did. I told him all about Hammer and being chased by the bear and the Tundra Bowl and everything. When I was done, Bork’s irises spun for several seconds.
ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF, BO?
No. But if we win the Tundra Bowl, we get our sentences reduced. If we lose, he says he’ll feed us to the bears. Listen, what you were saying before, about getting me out of here?
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