by M. H. Mead
“I’ve even fourthed. For real.”
Topher shrugged. “If you want.” He addressed Sandor. “You’ll get a better response in the afternoon, after class, when there’s more time. Only give them to people who seem truly interested.”
Nikhil twisted the booklet in his hands. “Why not put something like this in the e-verse?”
“What are you, faked?” Topher looked like he wanted to snatch the booklet out of Nikhil’s hands. “Everything E gets hacked. You got to keep it real.”
“You could reach more people.”
“Not the right people. The electronic universe is sleazy. Hard copy is serious.”
Nikhil flicked a glance at Wilma, who put her arm through Sandor’s. He looked over his shoulder at the techies, who had gone back to their datapads.
“I just thought, you know, if it was out there—I mean, we’re talking about the truth. We’re talking about doing the right thing. This should be a worldwide movement.”
“It’s true. It’s right.” Topher ran his fingers along the table’s edge. “Soon, everyone is going to know who we are.”
Sandor leaned back in his chair and put his arm around Wilma. “We don’t have to print more books. You know why?”
Nikhil ran his hand over the glossy cover. “Because the spinners will carry our message for us.”
“Forget the spinners. We’re going to be on Newsnet.”
“We could be there now,” Nikhil said. “Claim responsibility for the Overdrive bomb and make them listen to—”
“Will you quit calling it a bomb!”
The wireheads across the room looked up sharply. Topher lowered his voice. “That was a test, cleaned up and forgotten within a day. Believe me, when we ruin Overdrive for real, nobody is going to forget it.”
“People have short memories,” Nikhil said. “And most of them believe whatever the official line is.”
“Exactly!” Topher pumped one fist into the air. “I’ve been in touch with the mayor’s office.”
“Again.”
“Yes, again. News about us comes from the mayor or it doesn’t come.” Topher raised his voice. “I catch anyone in this room talking to a filthy spinner—”
“They’ll be exersleeping with the fishes,” Nikhil intoned. There was a brief chuckle from one of the others, quickly stifled.
“Of course not,” Topher said. “I’m sorry I even suggested anyone here would be stupid enough to talk to spinners.”
The techies at the other table stood and gathered their gear, stowing it in pockets and packs. They headed toward the door. “Are you done?” Topher asked them as they passed.
“For now,” one of the group answered. “We’re going to Slappy’s for a drink.”
“I’ll join you.” Topher turned to his tablemates. “Lock up for me, will you? It’s all biolocks. Just set it and close the door behind you.”
Nikhil grabbed Topher’s arm as he stood. “I thought I was in your cell.”
“You are. No offense, Nikhil, but I see you in class, I see you in the neighborhood. We’ve met. I need to get to know those guys.” He shook off Nikhil’s hand. “I’ll see you later.” He bounded up the stairs after the wireheads.
Sandor and Wilma stared at Nikhil. The air conditioner hummed to life, blowing coolness into the empty rooms above. Nikhil picked up the slick booklet. “I’m going home. Let me know when you want to take these to campus.”
“Stay,” Sandor said. “We’re not done yet. Wilma, your tools?”
Wilma retrieved her backpack from the floor and pulled out a plastic envelope. She unfolded wires and slots, then put her datapad on the table. She held out her hand, palm up, and wiggled her fingers toward herself. “Gimme.”
“Give you what?”
“Your license.”
“Why do you want my driver’s license?”
“We don’t. Didn’t Topher tell you anything?”
“Not enough, apparently.”
“I need your fourthing badge.”
Nikhil’s hand strayed to his pocket. He noticed Sandor watching his hands and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you need it?”
“I’ll give it right back. Hand it over.”
“I forgot to bring it.”
“You live two blocks from here,” Sandor said. “Go get it. We’ll wait.”
Nikhil sighed and took his new fourthing badge out of his pocket. He pulled it away when Sandor reached for it. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing that matters.” Sandor stood and grabbed the badge. He tossed it to Wilma who already had a magnetic niche attached to her datapad. She locked in the badge and began tapping commands into it.
“What are you doing?” Nikhil asked.
“Fixing it.”
“It isn’t broken!” He wanted to snatch it back, but was afraid that pulling his badge out of Wilma’s machine would erase it entirely.
She slid it out of the niche and handed it back. “It is, now.”
“What? I just got that!” Nikhil held his badge by the edge and tried to assess any damage. Nobody would hire a fourth with an altered badge. That’s why it had the holographic seal and embedded coding.
“Relax,” Sandor said. “It still works. You’re just not you anymore.”
“Who am I supposed to be?”
“If a driver scans it, his pad will say Nicholas Krull is in his car.” Wilma pointed at him. “But your picture, your record, your credentials.”
“So it’s that again. You still think people are tracking fourths.” Why would the city bother? They already knew everything about fourths. The screening process was rigorous. Anyone who passed was clean and safe. Why track someone like that? Call them good and let them go where they wanted.
Sandor and Wilma exchanged a look. “We’ve heard things.” Sandor said.
Nikhil looked at his badge. A badge with someone else’s name attached. “Why can’t I just be me? Don’t you trust me? Have you done this to anyone else’s badge?”
“Yours is the first.” Wilma thrust out a proud chin. “Brand new program.”
“So you don’t trust me.”
“It isn’t a matter of trust,” Sandor said. “Some of the others . . .”
“Russell?” Nikhil jumped in. “Have you heard from him?”
Wilma pursed her lips and turned away. Sandor folded his arms and glowered. “No. Neither have you.”
“What about those other guys? Doug something and that quiet guy he hung out with.”
“They went back to Chicago.”
“Okay, fine, but Russell was from here.”
Sandor gripped his head with both hands as if it might explode. “Jesus, Nikhil, will you shut the fuck up? Separate cells means separate. Of course we haven’t heard from Russell, or Homer. That’s the point. You don’t do a job and then keep showing up for meetings. You do a job and disappear.”
Nikhil felt more than ever that he was on the outside looking in. Who the hell was Homer? But he didn’t ask. He didn’t know—shouldn’t know—everything that went on behind the scenes. It was safer for him to be slightly in the dark. Sandor was right. Separate cells meant separate.
“In the meantime, Mr. I’m-A-Real-Fourth, your badge still gets you a ride.” Sandor stood and pulled Wilma up after him. “Just keep out of trouble, and you’ll be fine.”
Nikhil looked at the badge in his hand, then shoved it back in his pocket. What the hell. What was done was done, and no matter what, he planned on staying out of trouble.
ACROSS THE ROOM, BOB Masterson raised a hand as Andre entered. “Andre LaCroix! Get yourself in here.”
Conversations stopped, heads swiveled, coffee cups paused halfway to mouths, as a room full of fourths stared at Andre. He thought that eight fifty-five would be plenty early for a nine o’clock meeting, but the small conference room was already full. He was mildly surprised by a pattering of applause. Bob must have been talking up yesterday’s near-robbery.
Andre moved to a
more comfortable conversational distance and shook Bob’s outstretched hand. “Do you always meet at the bank?”
“Walter Glass is a messenger for Bank of America. His boss likes him, lets him use the conference room.” Bob pointed out a tall black man with huge, soft eyes and cheekbones so sharp he could cut paper with them. “Walter’s our president.”
“What about these other guys? Shouldn’t they be at their day jobs?”
Bob laughed. “This is their day job. Most of these guys are full time.”
Andre counted heads. Twenty-four people, all of them full-time fourths? How did they do it? Even if they were all NFA—and he doubted that—they still had living expenses. Fourthing paid, but it didn’t pay well.
Walter Glass called the meeting to order. A dozen people took seats at the center conference table while the overflow stood against the wall. Andre declined the offered chair and stood by the propped-open door.
“Thank you everyone for coming,” Walter said. He spoke quickly, as if wanting to get the meeting over with and get back to work. “I see some old friends and some new faces, so thank you for spreading the word.”
Andre scanned the room, wondering how many of the others were newcomers, and if they’d come for the union’s agenda or their own. But everyone looked the same—young, well-groomed, sharply-dressed, proudly displaying their fourthing badges as if it were the secret handshake for the clubhouse. There were two women, their business suits a little more conservative than the mens’, probably overcompensating for the unfortunate assumptions. A man hired for a thirty-minute ride was one thing, a woman hired in the same way still dealt with the connotations.
“A follow-up from last meeting,” Walter continued. “We have those tax regulations that everyone wanted. Is anyone still not clear on the acceptable deductions?”
A man in back raised his hand. “So, we are allowed to deduct the license fee as a business expense?”
“There are income thresholds that have to be met. Basically, the IRS needs to know if you’re doing this as a job or a hobby.”
Laughter burbled around the room. Walter continued in that vein, detailing every single way to comply with the tax code.
Andre shifted his weight to the other foot and leaned against the doorframe. He’d been forced to attend union meetings as a rookie police officer and pretty much ignored his shop steward ever since. Now he remembered why. There was only so much of this a person could take.
The questions around the room made it abundantly clear that these men all paid their taxes in full every year. He’d never seen anything like it. No other cash business on the planet would do that. Certainly only a fraction of his own fourthing income ever got on the books.
He stuck one foot outside the open door, hoping to slip through without being noticed. He had to make a call. Sofia would not be pleased that he’d reached another dead end. But if the mafia was muscling in on fourths, it wasn’t these fourths.
“I’m all for paying my taxes,” said a voice from the corner, “but if I don’t have enough income to tax, then what? Administrative bullshit isn’t going to help me. Action will.”
Andre stopped on the threshold and turned toward the speaker, a man with a pallid face and a southern drawl.
Walter exhaled into the murmur of disapproval from the crowd. “We’ve been through this, Hugh. We’ve been through this numerous times. Until our membership is larger, going on strike will hurt more than it will help.”
Hugh glowered theatrically, “Do you know how many fourths were robbed last year? How many were hit by careless drivers in bad weather?”
“A strike will hurt us,” Bob said. “Nobody else will care.”
Murmurs of “That’s right, man,” and “Shut up, Hugh,” moved through the room.
Walter cleared his throat and looked uncomfortably down at the table. “Now then,” he continued. “On schedule C, you find the self-employment taxes.”
Andre stepped out of the room and kept walking. He’d made it through the bank’s front door and onto the street when he heard Bob’s voice behind him. “Andre, wait up!”
He turned. “Sorry, man. I just don’t think I belong there.”
“We’re kind of pathetic, aren’t we?”
“Who’s that Hugh guy? What’s his story?”
“Hugh Ingersol. His story is that he’s a nutjob.”
Andre reached into his pocket and set his datapad to record. “What kind of nutjob?”
“The guy never shuts up. Talk, talk, talk. But to get him off his ass and actually doing something? Forget it. He won’t even take meeting minutes or post flyers for us.”
“Always about money?”
“Mostly. Last meeting he bitched endlessly about the cost of fourthing badges. Called it an illegal tax on fourths. He talked for twenty-three and a half minutes. I timed him.”
“A lot of fourths think the fee is prohibitive.”
“It’s a thousand bucks a year! If a fourth can’t make that in less than a week, he shouldn’t be fourthing.”
“Any idea where Ingersol lives?”
“The exurbs somewhere, practically the country. I don’t know how many rides he gets.” Bob waved a dismissive hand. “Do we have to talk about that phony? I feel like doing something real. Come on.”
Andre trailed after him. “Where?”
Bob looked up and Andre followed his gaze down Wilson Street, over the silver bell-like sculpture on the edge of the park, back along a series of building profiles rendered golden by the midmorning sun. “My gym is three blocks away. One cycle of Exersleep and you’ll be a new man.”
“Exersleep? What’s wrong with real exercise?” Andre tried to bury his apprehension by keeping his tone light.
Bob rolled his eyes. “I’m much too pretty to sweat in public. So are you.”
Andre stopped walking. “Look, I’m very flattered but—”
Bob kept going, forcing Andre to catch up. He waved a hand. “Please. I don’t flirt with straight men. I owe you one, okay? For rescuing me at the FIT.”
“That was nothing. I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”
“See?” Bob pointed both index fingers at him. “That’s the attitude the union needs.” They passed under the aqueduct-like People Mover, full of children pressed against the windows. Had to be on a field trip, Andre decided. They were on the museum Loop, and the Graphic Lit retrospective at the Institute of Arts was huge with teachers.
“How far is it? I need to move my car.” Perhaps that would be enough to divert Bob and he wouldn’t have to go through with it.
“You drove?”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
Bob gave him a look.
“What?”
“You drove to a meeting of professional hitchhikers. That’s good. Anyway, it’s just ahead.” Bob pointed to the rather imposing facade of the Detroit Athletic Club. He hurried to the entrance. “Welcome to my gym.”
Andre ran his eye over the edifice and whistled. “You can afford to belong here just by fourthing?”
Bob held the door open. “Without a mortgage payment or rent?” He leaned in to say quietly, “Barely. I have to do a few extras here and there, but the facilities are worth it.” He smiled broadly at two women leaving the facility. “Lan! I haven’t seen you in forever, girlfriend!” He bent to kiss her cheek. “Betty! You are very bad. You were supposed to call me yesterday.” He introduced Andre as a fourthing friend, and they exchanged small talk before the women went on their way.
After which, Bob greeted—and was greeted by—five other people between the front door and the main desk, and introduced Andre to all of them.
“Is there anyone you don’t know?” Andre asked.
“I don’t know you,” Bob answered.
“What’s that supposed to mean? Of course you know me.”
“I don’t even know what you do when you’re not fourthing.”
Andre had prepared for this. “Wait tables.”
“Private parties. My friend has a catering company. Julia’s Delectables.”
“Sounds like a sweet gig. How do you like it?”
“Great. I like meeting people.”
“Me too. I like people more than money.”
“I like money too.”
“People are a better investment. Money is just money.” Bob made a show of signing Andre in as a guest. “I’m nearly forty. At the most, I’ll get five more years out of this gig.”
“And then?”
Bob led him to the locker rooms. “Then I settle down, find a place to live, get respectable. For now, I’m free.”
Andre watched Bob’s easy swagger as he followed him to the locker room. He thought of himself as free, but a fourth was just as enslaved as any office drone. Instead of a job, he was tethered to a system. One that involved constant selling of the self.
The locker room smelled of harsh cleaning products. But better to smell antiseptic than to reek of old sweat. Andre waited until there was no one nearby. “So the Detroit Athletic Club doesn’t care that a member has no fixed address?”
Bob grinned. “No need to whisper. It isn’t a secret or anything. I can’t remember exactly, but something like a tenth of the members have the club address itself listed as ‘primary residence.’“ He gestured at his locker, big as a good-sized closet. “I keep a season’s worth of clothes here and have two storage units in case I’m out for the day, one in South Lyon and the other in Livonia.”
“Both kinda close to the zone,” Andre said.
Bob shrugged and carefully hung his dress shirt. “As long as they’re still outside, they’re fine. I take it you’ve never considered living the NFA dream?”
Andre took the proffered wick-suit and thought about living out of lockers. Would it be all that different? He was working so hard to pay for his house that he hardly spent any time in it. But giving up his house would mean giving up his books, his wine cellar, and most importantly, his garage.
He handed over his suit hangers. “I guess I couldn’t get used to the idea of not having my own space.”
Bob gestured expansively. “The whole city is my own space. I’ve been a member here since the DAC franchised Exersleep in, but I have a universal membership with any Somna facility I want to go to.” He led them out and turned his smile on the young woman behind the counter. She was wearing a black skintight that ate light and made her a lovely silhouette with a slightly disembodied head. It was an interesting effect, but a little unnerving. “Hello, Kit.”