Jennifer Government: A Novel

by Max Barry

  “We have funding.” She couldn’t stop jiggling her leg.

  “And don’t smile like that,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? You’re freaking me out.”

  “Let’s go pick up Hack,” she said.

  19 Billy

  Someone was shaking him. “Nnn,” Billy said. “Quit it.”

  “Get up,” the someone said. “We’re leaving.”

  He sat up. It was an NRA clone. Black T-shirt, camouflage pants, buzzcut haircut, too much time in the gym: Billy was having trouble telling them apart. “Leaving where?”

  “There’s a briefing in the mess. Get dressed and assemble there in fifteen.”

  “Yes, sir!” Billy said. He had discovered that everyone was much more relaxed if you called them sir.

  He showered, standing under the water for too long. When he was done, he went back to his bunk and dressed in the crisp pants and T-shirt laid out for him. The T-shirt was black with a big NRA logo on the chest: an AK-47 crossed with a burly arm. Underneath, it said: FREEDOM IS AN ASSAULT RIFLE. That was kind of catchy, Billy thought. The NRA was getting hip.

  There was a kid standing guard outside the barracks, and he snapped to attention. Billy attempted a salute, squinting in the sun.

  “Good morning, sir!” the kid said. His head was shaved so brutally it looked like someone had gouged his skull. “I am informed that you may wish to visit briefing tent 4A, sir!”

  “Sure, okay.”

  “If you will accompany me, sir!”

  Billy followed. The compound was like a mutant Boy Scout camp: all green tents and vehicles and barrels, smack in the middle of nowhere. He saw a troop of soldiers drilling in a field. They reminded him of high school football players with guns. Then a tank rolled past.

  “Shit! What’s that?”

  “That is an Abrams M1A battle tank, sir!”

  Billy looked around with new respect. Now he understood why the NRA membership fees were so high.

  The kid led him to a tent at the front of the camp, set back from a dusty road. He held open the flap for Billy. Inside, a dozen men looked up.

  “Close the fucking door,” the man at the front said. He was the older man Billy had met in the bush: his name was Yallam. “Mosquitoes like birds in this place.”

  “Yes, sir!” Billy said. He squeezed onto the end of a bench.

  “Now we’re all here,” Yallam said. “We depart camp in exactly six minutes. Our destination is Melbourne, our target is an employee of the Police, one Senior Sergeant Pearson. We will eliminate the target quickly and quietly, and return to base. Questions?”

  A man at the front raised his hand. “Weapons?”

  “Issued in-flight. Anyone else?”

  In-flight? Billy thought.

  “Yeah,” a soldier said. “What’s with the FNG?”

  “Bill’s a good man,” Yallam said. “He’s been reassigned here after completing some classified action.”

  “All right,” the guy said, nodding at Billy. Billy raised his eyebrows in return.

  “Other questions?”

  Billy became aware of a drone outside the tent. He looked around.

  “All right. Good luck, God speed, straight shooting.”

  The men began filing outside. Billy wondered if now was a good time to cut and run. The past few days he’d kept a low profile, but now it was sounding as if the NRA expected him to fight, and he definitely wasn’t—

  A hand fell on his shoulder. “You’re probably wondering why you’re being sent back into action so soon,” Yallam said. “The truth is, we were only assigned this action this morning. Command feels that moving you again might arouse suspicion.” He held Billy’s gaze. “Maybe it’s for the best. Get back on the horse.”

  The drone had turned into a roar. “Uh, I see.”

  “It’s important that you integrate into the team like any other NRA soldier, Bill. Our enemies are looking for you. Now go join your squad.”

  “Yes, sir!” Billy said. He pushed his way out through the tent flap, thinking: I am surrounded by maniacs. Then he stopped.

  There was a green military transport aircraft straddling the road. Fat NRA logos adorned its sides. The noise from its engines was tremendous. The NRA squad was marching up a ramp into its belly.

  “Bill!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Come on, move your ass!”

  This is not skiing, Billy thought. He jogged toward the transport.

  20 Hack

  Hack woke to Violet moving about the bedroom, gathering clothes. He sat up, rubbing his face. “What…”

  “I have to do my software demo.” She was pulling on a short black skirt; already wearing a cream shirt. “You knew this, Hack.”

  Hack did know that. “But…aren’t we going to the Police? Or the Government?”

  She blew air through her teeth. “You packed me one pair of underpants. And—” She shook her head. “I don’t have time to go to the Government. You go.”

  He bit his lip. “You sure you don’t want to come? Since, I mean, you killed that guy…”

  “You want me to defend myself against a murder charge with two hundred dollars?”

  “But it was self-defense. It doesn’t matter how much money—”

  “Don’t be naïve,” Violet said. “Look, if my demo goes well, I’ll have money. Then I can talk to the Government.”

  “I guess,” Hack said. “Okay.”

  She hefted her laptop. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck. And—be careful, okay?”

  “I will,” she said. “Don’t wake my sister.”

  Hack padded out to the kitchen in his dressing gown and made a bowl of cereal. He couldn’t find the sugar, so added some strange, unbranded honey. He sat at the dining table and tried to eat quietly.

  Violet’s sister had a lot of books. They filled three bookcases, with bizarre titles like An Equal Society and Socialist Thought. Hack wondered what they were about.

  At ten o’clock he caught a cab downtown to the Government office, which was a couple of floors in a dingy building that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned since 1980. The lobby was huge, though, and crawling with people in scruffy-looking suits who Hack could only assume were Government agents. He felt them looking at him as he walked up to reception, and started sweating. This wasn’t like the Police, with magazines and nice-looking women dressed in cop uniforms.

  The agent behind the desk was doing something to his computer. Hack waited patiently. After a while, he cleared his throat.

  “Just a second,” the agent said.

  “Sorry.” He waited.

  “All right.” The agent looked him up and down. “Who are you here to see?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I’m here because I—I mean my girlfriend—might have killed someone.”

  “You don’t have an appointment?”

  “No,” Hack said. “See, there’s this body in my kitchen—”

  “You’re meant to call first,” the agent said. “To set up an appointment. We can’t drop everything just because you walk in.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  The agent poked at his computer a bit more. Hack wondered if he should clear his throat again. The agent said, “You sure this guy’s dead?”

  “My girlfriend said she thought he was.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  “Yep. She wasn’t sure but—”

  “Why didn’t she make an appointment?”

  “Uh,” Hack said, “I don’t know. I just wanted to report—” “Yeah, okay, look,” the agent said. “Take a seat. I’ll try to find someone to talk to you about your alleged dead body.”

  “Maybe I should come back later,” Hack said.

  “Just sit down,” the agent said.

  He sat on a hard wooden bench for fifty minutes. Then an agent came out and spoke to the desk guy. The desk guy gestured at Hack, and the other agent came over, scratching his stubble. “Hack Nike?”

  “Yes.”

  “You fo
und a dead body somewhere?”

  “Um, not exactly,” Hack said. “What happened was—”

  “Yeah, okay. Come with me.” The agent led Hack down a lot of corridors and into a room that had a table and two chairs and that was it. The walls were glass, and Hack could see agents in other offices moving around, glancing in at him. “You want a coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Well, I need one. Hold tight.” He left. Hack jiggled his leg, nervous. There were two agents in an office across the corridor, and one of them had a weird smudge underneath her left eye, like a rectangular bruise. No: a tattoo, a barcode tattoo. That was strange, Hack thought. The Government was meant to be against all that consumer stuff.

  “Okay,” the agent said, entering. “So about this body.” He yawned.

  “Well, he attacked my girlfriend,” Hack said. “I was out and he…he tried to assault my girlfriend. She defended herself and hit him with a crumpet toaster. She thinks she killed him.”

  “A crumpet toaster?”

  “Yep.”

  “What is that?”

  “It’s…you know, like an electric toaster. You cook crumpets in it. It’s better than broiling them.”

  “Huh,” the agent said. “Can you do bagels in that?”

  “Um, no,” Hack said. “Bagels don’t fit in the slots. But you can get bagel toasters, I think.”

  “How about that,” the agent said. “I had no idea.”

  “So, anyway,” Hack said. The barcode agent and her partner were in the corridor, now, speaking to someone. The woman looked up and met Hack’s eyes. He looked away quickly. “It was self-defense and everything, but I thought I should report it… just in case.”

  The agent rubbed his face. “Hack, this is something your girlfriend will have to sort out with the deceased’s lawyers. Contact them, negotiate some sort of compensation. It’s not a Government matter unless you can’t come to an agreement.”

  “Oh,” Hack said, relieved. “Okay, sure, I can do that.”

  The door opened. The woman with the barcode tattoo and her partner were in the doorway. “Hack Nike?” the woman said.

  He started. “Yes.”

  “What’s up, Jen?” the agent said.

  “Out,” she said. “Now.” Her eyes were fixed on Hack. Hack realized: it had happened. He had made another big mistake.

  The first agent left and then nobody spoke. The woman sat across the table from him and her partner stood against the wall, his arms folded. Finally, Hack said, “I just came in to report—”

  “Hack Nike, I’m Jennifer Government, Field Agent. This is Calvin Government, Field Agent. We have information that you’re responsible for the illegal initiation of deadly force against up to fourteen persons at various Nike Town stores. Do you understand?”

  “Ag,” Hack said. He felt his throat closing. “No, no—”

  “Yes, yes,” Jennifer said. “You arranged for the NRA to shoot a bunch of kids who’d bought Nike Mercurys. Some kind of promotion, right? Get out with your shoes alive and win a trip for two?”

  He felt faint. “Wait, I … I want to call my girlfriend.”

  “She a lawyer, Hack?” Calvin said.

  “No, she’s…” He couldn’t make himself say unemployed. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “Sorry,” Calvin said. “No girlfriends.”

  “Oh, and we’re recording you,” Jennifer said. “The first guy told you that, right?”

  “Let me save you some time,” Calvin said. “We know you’re a Merchandising Officer. We know you’re eager for promotion.”

  “It sounded like a great idea at the time, right?” Jennifer said. “Kill a few kids, make a few bucks, back slaps all round at the office.”

  “And a bonus in your next paycheck—maybe tied to sales growth? Ten thousand, fifty thousand dollars? More?”

  “Plus a promotion, of course. You get out of Merc work, into the creative stuff. White-collar gutter jobs are so repetitive, aren’t they, Hack? After a while you go nuts—”

  “Stop! It wasn’t my idea! I just did what they told me!”

  “Who?” she said, leaning forward. “Who, Hack?”

  “There were two of them—they made me—”

  “Who?”

  He swallowed. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

  Jennifer leaned back. She looked at Calvin.

  “They could kill me,” Hack whispered. “If I tell you.”

  “Aw, we’ll take care of you,” Calvin said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “You’re going to have to tell us who they are, Hack,” Jennifer said.

  “I can’t! They—they made me sign a contract without reading it.”

  “Made you? They used force?”

  Hack was silent.

  “No,” she said. “No force. So you voluntarily signed a contract without reading it.”

  “I know that was a mistake—”

  “A mistake,” Jennifer said, disgusted. “You dumb shit, why do you think anybody wants you to sign a contract without reading it? Because it’s bad, Hack, it’s a bad contract.”

  “We’re going to need a copy of that,” Calvin said.

  Hack dropped his eyes. “I don’t have one.”

  Silence. When he looked up, they were staring at him.

  “You don’t understand. They offered me a job, a job in Marketing.” He stopped, choked up.

  “Hack,” Jennifer said, leaning forward. “It’s time for you to make a decision. You can either help us go after the people responsible for the Nike slayings—”

  “Which will expose you to whatever penalties are in that contract,” Calvin said. “And I’m guessing they’re not that you have to bring the cups to the next company picnic, if you know what I mean.”

  “Or you can keep your mouth shut,” Jennifer said. “Which will expose you to us.”

  “I’d hate to land fourteen counts of deadly force against someone who didn’t deserve it, I really would. That’s—” He looked at Jennifer. “Pretty much life, right?”

  “For sure. And the financial penalties—well, maybe you can negotiate to pay them off at ten cents on the dollar, something like that. Plenty of crims do that. If you work hard, you can clear your debt in twenty, thirty years.”

  “I don’t know, Jen,” Calvin said. “Prison housing prices have really jumped lately. Some of these places, you do fifteen years’ labor and come out owing them for food and board.”

  “I guess in your case it would be academic anyway,” Jennifer said to Hack. “Since you wouldn’t ever get out.” She leaned forward. “Think about it, Hack. A guy like you, reasonable skills, employable—suddenly you’re laying tar in Utah for the rest of your life. And you know the safety record of prison workers. Only last month, those eight guys in—where was it?”

  “Wichita Falls,” Calvin said. “Texas. Although I think one of them made it. I mean, obviously he’s all messed up from the scalding, but I think he’s still alive.”

  “You can take freedom for granted, Hack,” Jennifer said, “until you’re living in a cell and you have to ask permission every time you want to take a shit. Don’t you think?”

  “Marketing guys,” Hack whispered. “It was John and John, from Guerrilla Marketing.”

  Jennifer leaned forward. “John Nike? Vice-President?”

  He nodded dumbly.

  “Brown eyes, brown hair, flat face, John Nike?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good boy, Hack,” Calvin said. “You won’t regret this.”

  Jennifer dragged her chair closer to him. “Let’s start from the beginning.” She smiled. It was the first time Hack had seen her do that. She looked almost tender. “Tell me everything.”

  21 Violet

  When Violet arrived at the ExxonMobil building, they gave her a CONTRACTOR badge, which she pinned to her jacket lapel. Her escort was a kid in a white short-sleeved shirt and pants so cheap his knees reflected. Violet was disappointed. Geeks didn’t d
ress that way anymore, or rather, successful geeks didn’t. Even Violet knew it was worth investing in impressive threads.

  “I heard about what you’re doing,” the kid said in the elevator. “It sounds pretty cool. But it won’t work. Eight months ago, maybe. We had a whole bunch of attacks, denial of service, e-bombs, phreaking, the works. Then management gave us a ton of money to upgrade everything.” He led her down a corridor and opened a door.

  Violet went in. There were computers and wires and crap everywhere. Four men sat around the boardroom-sized table, all in front of keyboards except one, who was therefore in charge. He was very large and didn’t smile.

  “Violet.” He extended his hand. “I’m Rendell ExxonMobil. This is my team: James, Peter, Saqlain, Hunter.” She nodded at them. “If you don’t mind, let’s get started. We have fifteen minutes before our next applicant.”

  She took a seat at the thick table and snapped open her laptop case. The geeks slid their chairs inward, preparing to do battle. She powered on her laptop, snapped in an RJ45 connector. “Do you want to give me a login, or should I do it the hard way?”

  Rendell looked at Hunter, who was so thin it was like Rendell had been stealing his food. “An ordinary employee password?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll spot you that.”

  “I can crack it if you want me to.”

  “It’s trivial.”

  “That’s why I’m asking.”

  Hunter managed to sound gracious. “I’ll ghost your machine. User is ‘applicant8,’ pass is the same.”

  Applications began streaming into Violet’s laptop, transforming it into a standardized, centrally managed ExxonMobil PC. While she waited, she glanced at the beige box humming behind her. It had the dimensions and aesthetics of a refrigerator: a Hewlett-Packard Unix machine. “This is your server here?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And we’re isolated from the company network?”

  “We’re safe enough.”

  “I strongly suggest you physically isolate this room from the rest of the network.”

  They locked eyes for a while. She had to resist a sigh. Violet wasn’t interested in comparing dick size with skinny geeks.