I crack open my eyes and peer at the clock. It reads 5:43. I try to remember why I'm awake. A machine gun fires a short burst nearby. The Popo is at it again. They're shooting people in the streets. Well, not actually streets. The apartment complex I live in is one of the more luxurious--I use the term loosely, for I have not yet moved out of the proletariat blocks--complete with a large, sealed atrium at its center. There's a bit of greenery in there, mainly for aesthetic value--the recyclotoruims do the majority of the cleaning-- and that's probably where the Popo is, shooting at troublemakers. Curfew ends at 7:00. No other reason to be up before that ungodly hour, unless you're working with the Popo or one of the big corporations or simply looking for a dumdum round in the forehead. I close my eyes and pull my pillow over my head. They fire a few more shots, also nearby, before I hear the reassuring whir of the cop car leaving. The atrium can be accessed from the lower parking garages, and that's how the Popo gets in there. Popo officers don't like to journey on foot; they'd disappear in a second in some of the rougher prole housing projects. The gangs are getting quite ferocious out at the edge of town, in the old projects. Several dozen brave Popo officers have been killed over the last month; the turf wars are increasing, and it's all the Popo can do to keep them out of the better parts of the city. At least, that's what the media says. And everyone knows who's side they're on. I pull the cheap synthetic pillow off my face and look around. 5:45. I'll have to get up in fifteen minutes, anyway. I look across my small apartment. My television, radio, and lapcomputer are still there. The television is an old one, with the grainy two-dimensional pictures in dull color. Sensovision runs all the stations, and even though one's in Japanese and one's in Spanish and three are in Chinese, they all carry the same stuff. Advertisements and old motion-pictures and soap operas and all the other stuff the government wants you to waste your time with. Old plots, plagiarized from older plagiarisms. Shiny pictures of things you can't live without. Just mind-numbing trash to keep the proletariat under control. The radio is not much better. It's a shortwave, and a new one at that, so I can listen to the happenings in the old cities, the ones still standing. But the government controls those stations, too, and all they simply confirm the fact that everything, everywhere, is getting better by the moment. That's what they've been hashing out for the last hundred years. But if they say it enough times. . . It's a rare occasion that someone does manage to construct a ham radio station; they're usually on the air for thirty minutes before the Popo triangulates them. The lapcomputer is much different. I got it as a graduation present from my parents before they sent me off to here, this great northern metropolis, to receive a post-secondary education in chemical engineering. It's a fine computer, and occasionally, I use it for something other than playing computer games. No, I stopped playing those long ago. Just more mind control, training the proles to be better workers and soldiers. I use my computer to find out what's really happening. It's kind of sad, really, that this toy of the big corporations wound up being used the way it is. Inside their massive supercomputers, derived expressly to calculate payrolls and bank balances, someone, somewhere, got the idea to disseminate information of a different color. It's where I find out what latest atrocity the Popo has committed and how the Jewish Defence League and SELF and Amnesty International will finally nail 'em and how the cases always get thrown out of court on lack of evidence, evidence that was destroyed by the Popo. That was the Internet. But the Internet is long gone. . . now we have the Intranet, because now we're all part of one big corporation. I put my feet on the cold tile floor, missing my sandals. I find them. I put on my uniform pants. Tight, and tailored to the exact specifications of my calves, thighs, and buttocks, I would much rather be wearing my civilian clothes. I look with longing at the loose, worn material of my greenish dungarees. But today I go to work, and I cannot wear them. Real coffee is in short supply, reserved expressly for those who have money. I do not have money, but after today, I will. I drink purified water, not that from the tap. The water from my apartment's tap is clear and even lacks the outright salty tang of the worst prole apartments, but I still do not trust it. Twenty people died of it last month. I have read that the government doses all the water, and if the proles should rise up against it, that the government would stop the supply, making everybody sick before withdrawal kills us. There are many lies on the Intranet. I hope that this is one. So I keep my own supply of bottled water. I buy it on the concourse below, so I am sure that if the government is dosing the tap it is surely dosing my supply too. But that does not bother me much. There are other things to worry about. My apartment really is a mess, for example. One long side of it is a cheaply hewn desk with only two legs; it is nailed to the wall. I keep my television, radio, and computer there. I also eat off it, when the Popo comes during the day and questions those who don't have work passes. There is a small refrigerator underneath it in the corner, and a small hotplate above. The tap is in the bathroom, along with a toilet and a shower. The bathroom through a small door to the side of the apartment entrance. On that desk's knotted, splintered surface--I think it is made of plywood--I also have great heaps of papers, papers from my schooling days and from my new job. There are disks there, too, in specially sealed lead packets, but I still get papers. I have a small satchel for them and my computer and my lunch. I cannot afford to eat out at the corporations' cafeterias, but if I make a favorable impression today, I will receive a meal card, just like the one from my university days. The other side of the room is my cot. I sleep on a huge, queen-size futon jacked off the floor by low, even crates I scavenged from the trash heap in the subbasement. I also have two old chairs; not much good for sitting on, but excellent clothes hangars in a pinch. My apartment lacks windows of any kind, and for that I am grateful. The Popo may be the most elite of any corporations' security forces, but they still can't shoot very straight. Many unfortunate people have been hit by their bullets while living in apartments overlooking the atrium. And the apartments that look out into the city have been hit by things much worse than seven millimeter rounds. 6:05. I dally too much. I take off my uniform pants and my boxers and take a short shower. The water is a touch too cold. I don't mind; better that way than a touch too warm. I hear more shots, but further away. Even after I'm done with my shower, the racket continues. The Popo must've found a drug lab. They keep on shooting well into my second bowl of cereal; small hard bits of soy material. I shave and dress up. My watch goes around my left wrist. I stuff my card case into my back pocket, a few dollar tokens into my right front pocket, and my room keycard into my breast pocket. Last is my work pass. A standard-sized card, it is black and has my name, title, and residency information on it. Karl Williams, Managerial Assistant, Petrograd Block, it reads. The letters are raised and behind them is a large red O with a small arrow shooting out of it at the four-thirty position. Marsec. The hallway is very deserted today; the Popo must have everybody scared stiff. I too would be cowering in my apartment, eating off my desk and cringing at every footfall outside my door, but I have a work pass, however temporary. If I show myself to be more than competent at my duties today, perhaps they shall hire me for a permanent position. I don't want to be late for my first day, so I step out the door at 6:30, easily an hour and a half before I am required at my post. I descend the stairs to the concourse--I prefer them to the grav lift. Sure enough, the Popo is at work down there, hacking apart a storefront with machetes and hatesticks. I prefer to call them hatesticks--thick aluminum rods, tipped with electrical contacts, perfect for stunning or brutalizing. I frown. The Popo is demolishing Francisco Ramirez's general store. Shattered glass lies everywhere, from the store, across the concourse, to the garden. Pastries and sugar sweets are dumped nearer to the former location of his big display windows. They are a shambles, with crushed woodwork--real wood--and gold-colored metal and more glass everywhere, soy delicacies smeared within. Ramirez is pressed up against a nearby concrete wall. He is half Hispanic, but he is so pale that he looks like a sick Caucasian. His nose is as crushed as his display shelves. Deep red, ugly smears of blood run from his broken nose and fat lip and black eye down his dirty undershirt. He is pressed up against the wall, and the Popo sergeant who guards him is eating a donut. He is eating a donut, fat peg-like fingers ramming the last bits of its greasy, sugared flesh into his mouth, his cheeks puffed out, stuffed with pastry. He finishes the donut, and Ramirez is still pressed up against the wall, hands out, face to the wall, legs spread, shirt soaked with blood. I look away. I do not like to see Ramirez like this. "Hey you," goes the Popo sergeant. He rubs his fingers, brushing off the remaining sugar. The grease is still on his fingers. "Hey you," he says again, crumbs falling off his stuffed, fat face. "Don't you know what curfew means?" he asks. His greasy hand touches the hatestick lounging by his side. Two of his men hear him, and come wading out of the gutted store. One is short and fat like his sergeant, the other is lean and of medium height, skin soft and white. Both have machetes, long sharp cleavers to hack open walls and flesh. They wear black uniforms, not the soft black velvet of a starless night, but the hard black asphalt tones of the Popo. Black, trimmed with the lightest baby blue along their cuffs and sleeves and trouser hem lines. They wear gold badges and slim lawpistols. "My watch says it's six thirty five," says the sergeant. He has the hatestick in hand already. I raise my hands slightly, keeping them well away from my body. My left hand reaches into my breast pocket and fishes out my work pass. That stops the Popo. The sergeant looks me over again, the rusty gears in his meathead grinding. He sees the grey trousers, ironed recently, the neat, unwrinkled jacket, the white collar and the black tie. He was having fun. He doesn't need to run me down to the station; he doesn't need to deal with this. He picks up the hatestick, takes a step towards me, and does a ninety degree turn into the store. "Kell, check this joker out," he mutters, "Grocke, guard the prisoner. I have a hunch where the subversive's stash is." The short fat cop marches up to me and plucks away my work pass. I raise my hands over my head, just as I have done countless times before. Ramirez strains to see who it is. The other cop saunters over to him and he quickly resumes his dejected staring at the wall. The fat cop runs my work pass through his card reader. He squints at the writing on the pass, and at the readout on his computer. The other cop stares at me. I realize that the hair jutting out from underneath his black brimmed leather hat is far too long. . . and his eyes are a very kindly green. "All good?" Grocke asks. Grocke is a female Popo. I am surprised, my prior prejudice being that Megapol only hired fat neuters for its ground crews. I manage a quick smile while the other cop examines the minute documentation on the back of my work pass. She smiles back. Ramirez tries another look; he's probably never seen a woman cop either. Grocke spots the movement out of the corner of her green eye. She twists around, smacking the storekeeper with the flat of her machete across his thigh. He winces in extreme pain, but holds his lip and doesn't move any more. "Mmm," is the delayed answer of the short fat cop. He doesn't even look up at the sound. He runs the card through the scanner again. I am beginning to get worried, this shouldn't take so long. "God damn!" yells the sergeant from inside the store. Ramirez shudders. "Your pass doesn't activate until 7:00, sir," mumbles the fat cop. "But I don't see why we can't let you get on down to Marsec. . ." That word weighs heavily in the air, and I am glad that I picked Marsec of out of all my choices. Marsec has very high standards of all its employees, and I am not at all sure that I will land this job. But, as the recruiter said, "Nobody messes with Marsec." I am very pleased with my decision now. The fat cop hands me my card back, and I take it with trembling, grateful hands. He closes up his reader and returns it to his belt. The sergeant steps out of the debris of Ramirez's shop. He holds a big transparent plastic sack; a large barreled shotgun is inside. "Unlicensed firearm," he proclaims, waving the weapon before Ramirez. "I don't suppose you've got an explanation?" Ramirez doesn't even look away from the wall when he answers. "You know how dangerous it is in here! I gotta keep shoplifters and gangs outta my store!" he pleads in a small voice. The fat cop waves me off. Something violent is going to happen, and the Popo doesn't like an audience. I stagger off, wondering where I'm going to buy my bottled water from now on. Grocke catches me by the arm. "Don't bring your pass next time so I can frisk ya," she half whispers, half spits into my ear. I shake loose of her, she is smiling at me devilishly, watching me go. I am at once disgusted and aroused. I step into the people tubes, headed downtown. There are not many people in the tubes today. I am pretty much alone, the only other traveler an old woman several hundred meters ahead of me. The tube sweeps me along, like a vacuum cleaner, like falling, except that I am standing, feet pretty much straight down. The gravitational field is only near the floor; technology taken by the victorious soldiers in the First and Second Alien Wars. I sit down--I have a long ways to go--but as there are no chairs, I sit crosslegged on the grav field myself. Sometimes there are chairs in the tubes, chairs and baggage and litter, but the sanitation workers are back to work, and there isn't nearly as much garbage in the stream as there used to be. I realize why nobody is on the tubes; curfew is still in effect. I wouldn't be travelling either, if I hadn't received this pass. The Popo was rather nice to me--I shouldn't be travelling. My pass has yet to activate, which is dangerous but not overly so. Marsec will get this straightened out. Marsec is located downtown, deep in the heart of MegaPrime. There are at least a dozen half kilometer high arcologies in this innermost realm of the city and all but one are owned by the big corporations. The sole exception is the Senate, where MegaPrime's leaders work. Marsec owns the tallest of these massive structures, a seven hundred meter giant built like a stout obsidian obelisk, tremendously huge at its base and rising abruptly to a cluster of radio and television antennae atop its roof. Ten thousand employees live and work within, and another twenty thousand go home at night to apartments elsewhere. The corporation's gardens are the largest of any; six entire floors at the heart of the giant are filled with thick acres of bamboo and palms and date plantations. I have never seen this paradise, which supposedly even has a small river--a current of water cutting its natural course through the land--flowing through it, with animals saved from the old biosphere living everywhere. Perhaps I will today. The tube slows down slightly as it approaches another platform. A squad of Popo men get on ahead of me. I glance at my watch. 7:05. There is no danger. The Popo people sit and chat, obviously headed home from their duties. I think back to Officer Grocke. I shake my head, consciously. Any woman who will flirt in one moment and then bring a machete down on an unarmed man in the next . . . is not my type. There will be other possibilities; the corporations encourage marriage between their employees. "Makes for a better team," they say. The tube travels above ground here. Thick clear polymer walls dim the early morning sunlight and block out the radiation. I can glimpse the corporate sector rising in the distance, massive grim ramparts, some squat like the Marsec building, and some thin and spindly, like the Sensovision towers. The sun is a particularly bloody shade of red this morning, the lingering pollutants in the atmosphere giving it that constant hue. It rises from behind a long row of aerospace factories in the east. The tube dips underground again. More people join the stream. Corporate types all, wearing the typically conservative dress standard, only a few Sensovision types mixed in. They wear gaudy silk jerseys and wide, baggy jeans in a degenerate impression of the fashions of the university. "An alternative lifestyle for those who can't stand the monotony of the companies," they claim. I know better--they simply hype the masses into following the latest dress trends, the latest music revivals. They are far worse than the average corporation suit, who at least doesn't spend every waking hour striving to convert you to his or her religion. I have spit at them before, but today I check myself. The Marsec building comes up. I touch my work pass for good luck and hop off the tube's grav field. I stagger for only a few steps as my inner ear returns to normal. Some of the older suits nearly fall down; but we are in Marsec territory, and there are brawny receptionists to keep them on their feet. Not all the suits are the same. There are black and brown suits and every shade of blue and grey. Marsec is one of the more progressive heavy industry companies; results, not appearance, are favored. A few grungy types in too-long jeans and untucked dress shirts step off the tubes. The suits keep a respectful distance; the receptionists glance at the faces behind the uncombed hair. They do not call for security. They turn back to helping the older suits. I am puzzled, but I take this as a good omen. Most corporations would have adolescents like that manhandled back onto the tube. Curious, I follow them. A heavy alloy gate is opened far back from the edge of the platform, and two squads of building security, complete with machine guns, grenades and body armor, flank the doorway. I follow the flow between them. A single short man with a wide pair of light dimming lenses on sits on a high bar stool in the entrance. People run their workpasses through the automatic card readers and nobody pays attention to him. He is bald and profoundly pale behind his sunglasses. Suddenly, he stares intently at a suit ahead of me who has already gone through the card gate. The man flinches and raises his hands. Beefy security men muscle their way through the crowd, clutch him by the thighs and biceps and haul him away like a sack of potatoes. The man shudders involuntarily, but does not scream or struggle. The small man pulls an intercom from his belt. "Trespasser identified and apprehended," he speaks, in staccato, precise syllables. He replaces the comlink and resumes eyeing the crowd. I feed my card into the machine, feeling the man's eyes on the side of my neck. It flashes green and spits my card out. I pluck it up and continue through. The shoddy looking kids are nowhere to be seen. I'm the main lobby of the building; a massive, three story high space lit by discreetly placed lighting. The walls are a light stucco white, and here and there, small plants are draped over ledges. What catches my eye, though, is the tremendous gold symbol of Ares, the god of war, on the far wall. Brilliant, massive, it reflects light piped in from the outside. Over its width, in grandiose capitals reads MARSEC. I pause to take it all in. There are rows of receptionists, all behind mahogany desks, all attractive, available young females. Each has a small green lampshade, a laptop, and dozens of papers scattered about. One stands and walks off with a lead pouch of diskettes. Her skirt is short and her legs long, shapely. I smile. I have been told that Marsec is actually a Japanese company, considering its strange obsession with all things of that ancient, venerable nation. The bamboo, the secretaries' dresses, the prevalence of offices done over in tatami--straw mat floors and rice paper windows. High level executives dress in the fashion of old Edo for ceremonial occasions, and ranking security officers often carry a samurai's katana. But it is difficult to believe that Marsec was originally Japanese. The original Japanese are extinct. Of course, some did survive the Second Alien War. The founding father of MegaPrime was a politician who watched nearly all of his family die in the bombardment, but he was an exception. The hundred thousand survivors were mainly pooled from communities in the old United States. "Can I help you, young man?" It's an old woman, her face wrinkled, soft folds of flesh drooping from her jaw, crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, whitish hair on her head. She is dressed much less liberally as the secretaries, but in the same tone: white long-sleeved blouse, long navy skirt, a paisley scarf around her neck and a big brass belt buckle. Her name card reads "J. Thorpe, Chief Receptionist." "Yes, I'm trying out for a job here," I respond. She is obviously the mother superior of this convent; I spot her desk, it is by far the largest. It is on a platform, giving it a fair vantage point over her flock. "Around to the left, dear. There are signs; just follow the right one." I thank her with a polite grunt and wander off in the direction she had pointed. I spot other puzzled faces, probably just how I look at the moment, and a large banner announcing RECRUITING ENTER HERE over the entrance to a large conference rooms. The ceiling is lower here, but the lighting and the plants are the same. I feel stupid and out of place amongst the milling ranks of other potential recruits. I see work passes clipped to shirts, worn proudly--Aerospace Design Engineer, Assistant Accountant, Security Specialist--the last on a huge wall of a man, a semi-famous gravballer from the university. There are many, many engineers here, from specialists in Materials Science to specialists in Thermodynamics but I see not a single person titled Managerial Assistant. There is nobody from my classes in Journalism or History, the two fields I majored in. I begin to worry. There are drinks and pastries on a long, low table. There are donuts. I feel sick in my stomach. The PA system of the room comes to life. "Have a chair and find a seat, please," announces a homosexual-sounding man. I find the chair furthest from the front of the conference room, from the stage where two men stand. The MC repeats his request. "Please sit down," he says before seeing that everyone has. There must be three hundred people in the room. Now that we're all seated, I can see shrubberies and recessed lighting and stucco in here, too. The stage is backed by a deep blue curtain. "From everybody here at Marsec," continues the MC, "I'd like to offer you profound," and he stresses the word, "thanks for seeking employment with the biggest and the best!" The announcer pauses for the light applause; his companion off to stage left grins wryly and waits--impatient. "But we're only the best because--and this is a trade secret, folks--we only hire the best!" He pauses for a few scattered cheers. "That's you, people, and today we're going to see just where you fit in our big, happy family. But I'm not one for long speeches, so let's hear it for Vice President of Personnel Ken Kaleta--who happens to specialize in the topic." Ending with more a sneer than a smile, the MC trots off to stage right during the applause for Kaleta. He walks with a lazy, arrogantly assured stride, the plastic smile on his face that of a Senator. He steps up to the old-fashioned microphone and clears his throat. "Well, I'm sure you've all heard the recruiters' pitch, so I'll skip most of it. Yes, as my friend Mr. Efaw put it, we are a big, happy family here at Marsec. We've got old hands from the Big One, guys who were with us from the very start--some of them helped build this place with their hands. Veterans, who won't hesitate to tell you how this company--Marsec--made them what they are." I lean back in my chair. Kaleta has all the tricks of the master radio DJ; the crisp enunciation, the volume control, the very personal, head nodding narrative. This guy is good. "These guys are our parents, the elders of our tribe--which of course makes you our newest batch of babies and my friend Mr. Efaw the crazy uncle." There's a slight lag before everybody gets it and laughs. I can't help but chuckle slightly. "You're going to grow up with Marsec. I believe that the majority of you are just out of the winter term at Lifetree, and for an equal majority, this is the first recruitment session you've ever been to- " Kaleta grabs the mike, leans towards us and smiles, his ivory teeth sparkling. He has the look of a large predator readying for the kill. "-and let's keep it that way. Today, the best and brightest of each department are going to show you the ropes. If they like what they see, hang on, folks, because you're in for the ride of your life! "A healthy day's wage for a hard day's labor is the least of our benefits. Yes, it's true, Marsec does pay the best, but we've got so much more to offer. Safe, affordable apartments, meal passes, the best health care programs--all of this can be yours by the end of the day. And we don't hire anybody--not even the mail room folks--to dead-end jobs. We have advancement options for the hardest workers, the brightest thinkers." "But," and Kaleta smiles ominously, "you can't say Marsec without saying Mars. If you're looking for the greatest adventure of your life, our Martian and Ort Cloud mining operations are always in need of the best." The lights brighten up--they have dimmed continuously since I sat--and representatives from the various departments of the company stand just behind me. They hold up signs: RECEPTION, SECURITY, AEROSPACE ENGINEERING and the like. "So remember this: Marsec rewards excellence Make sure you show yours today." I finish up another stack of work passes. Glancing at the remaining dozen in a large box at my feet, I sigh. There are at least a hundred passes in each stack, and the printed names on half of them do not match up with the names in their magnetic strips, and I have been assigned the tepid task of correcting such mistakes. I pick up the next stack and pull the twin rubber bands off it. I run the first one on the pile--an engineer's pass--through the card reader. SHIRLEY KRAUS doesn't match NORM BUCHMAN. I roll my eyes. Kaleta--the forked-tongue bastard himself--assigned me to this. "Hello, Mr. Williams," the snake politician said, "I'm glad you could make it to our little internship meeting. I hope you didn't have any trouble with Megapol on the way over." The asshole. Flatters me with his mere presence and then not-so-subtly hints at the extent of Marsec's intelligence network. Fucking Popo. Probably reported me at the station, wondering if they should make a little after-hours visit to my apartment; clean up a possible leak about their manhandling of Ramirez. He is an asshole. Personally greets me and then drops me into this filthy little closet, into this filthy little data-processing job. This is a closet; I glare at the sleeping maintenance robot next to me. Just like a robot, my new job--a machine could do this. Probably better. I botch a name, delete it, and retype. I have two Personal Data Assistants daisy-chained to the card reader; one displays the card's mag strip info and the other displays the main personnel database's entries on the mag strip name. I must type in the card's printed name and retrieve information on it also. I have decided to not like Kaleta. He possesses that undisguised condescension of so many persons in high society towards their inherently stupid and feeble subordinates. Seeing as how I am to serve directly under him, I begin to question my place here at Marsec. There are other jobs. Lifetree, for one, displayed interest in possibly acquiring me as a primary school supervisor--far cry from anything Marsec. Little or none of the respect, and even less the way of wages. But I suspect that the work environment--one which I am well versed in, having just spent some sixteen years of my life as a student--may have those qualities I find lacking as a 'Managerial Assistant.' I glance at the door; it is slightly ajar, but neither Kaleta or anyone else has even bothered to peek in for the last three hours. It will be lunch soon, and if I don't receive any new instructions, I will search out the nearest cafeteria and spend some of my hard-earned credits on food. Just as if on cue, Kaleta's hand pushes open the door. I instantly suspect him of psionic eavesdropping. "Look, I'll be honest," says Kaleta. He pecks away at a fresh salad-- rich man's food. "The last thing Marsec needs right now is another Managerial Assistant." We are eating not in the general cafeteria, where anybody who has a workpass can get the standard Nutrivend prepared meal, but in the executive lounge. At the nearest exit lurk two short men with engorged cerebrums, light filters, and a clammy, pale grayish skin. High-level psis, they are, more alien than human. Grey bloods. These bastard children of the First Alien War were the unexpected side effect of the aliens' genetic tinkerings. Originally the half-breeds and quarter-breeds looked more human than grey, but a couple generations down the line, a lot of families started having babies which retained many of the aliens' facial features. A suit walks up to the pair of bloods. They give him a quick once over; he winces slightly as they do the same to his mind. I assume that they don't find anything errant about him; I assume that they didn't find anything errant about myself. The bloods are born psis. No neural net needed to augment their latent abilities; they possess rudimentary telepathy even before birth. Damned powerful, all bloods register at least a five point five on the Navarro scale, meaning that their minds are fifty thousand times more powerful than the average human . . . "But you're an exception to the rule, Karl. Most recruits would quit out of sheer boredom--card sorting isn't quite as much fun as a bug hunt. I like that diligence. Plus, you've got other admirable traits." Kaleta is lying. Every statement which he so precisely spits out is a bald-faced lie. Still, I am flattered. Prior to the First Alien War, one thousandth of one percent of the human population possessed any latent psionic ability greater than a Navarro two. I still find it hard to believe that humans, sans bloods, took on an entire garrison of greys at Cydonia . . . and won. True, there were some psis, but they relied upon clumsy neural nets to effectively broadcast their mental blows and parries. Under laboratory--perfect--conditions, they could momentarily overwhelm an alien's mind. But an entire base of greys? I feel a shadow rush over my mind and I glance at the bloods quickly. I catch the corner of one of their big, black eyes. I frown. They are not to use their psionics on anyone in this room. "So, let's say we give it a try, eh? Next step up from Managerial Assistant is Assistant Manager." Kaleta is still speaking to me. He doesn't pay any heed to the greys at the door. I put down my fork; my curry is good, but the beef is too obviously a synthetic product. "Will everything be as my contract states?" I ask. "Of course," answers the Vice President. Better go over the fine print several times, I think. Liar. I hear far away laughter and sneak a glance at the bloods. Their faces are as emotionless as ever. "Well," I reply, "once I get that in writing, I'll sign up." Kaleta flashes me a quick grin, his predator's teeth quite prominent. He figured me as a dupe; he senses a hint of resistance in my statement . . . but he brushes it off. "Excellent," he smiles, "We'll run the secondary security sweep of your systems tonight; tomorrow morning we'll get that signed and get you working on some hopefully more entertaining tasks." Secondary security sweep? I wonder. The primary was done while I was in my final semester at Lifetree--a simple measure of my PDA's fidelity. Disk errors, viruses, and the such were examined by Marsec far in advance of this interview under the auspice of "the state of a man's computer reflects the state of a man's mind." Lies. Marsec just wanted an excuse to ransack my laptop in search of any dirt that might prevent me from becoming a model employee. I wasn't prone to pornography, and I did not dabble in viruses, so I survived that rape. Disgusting, really. But a second security sweep? Kaleta scoots back the edge of his chair a millimeter; it's my cue to stand and apologize for occupying him so long. "Sorry about occupying you so long," I say, standing up and reaching for his hand. We shake; his skin is coated with a thin layer of slime. "Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock," he responds, smiling again. He straightens his suit; I wander out the lounge's entrance. Scumbag, I think, cleaning off my hand on my trouser thigh. In the back of my mind, someone laughs again. My workpass is updated: I still exist. I receive a day's wages and a hefty signing bonus; the latter a possible mistake of Kaleta's--or a feigning of a mistake? He is a ruthless politician, I harbor no doubts about that. Whether he is lying to me or not is not the point of debate. To what extent the Vice President of Personnel is lying is the question that mildly concerns me. For the moment, though, I do not care. I have in my possession four thousand four hundred dollars, more money than I have ever had at one time. The signing bonus will go into my long- term account, but the rest I intend to drink off tonight. Self-intoxication is a rare habit of mine, but for such occasions, I have had the foresight to locate the particular establishments specializing in that trade. The sales of container liquor requires such an expensive license that only a few rare conglomerates- -mainly Nutrivend--actually sell the material. As for liquor consumed within the establishment . . . the cost of bribes alone would drive even an illicit tavern under. But such businesses exist, if only for tradition's sake. Personally, I am distinctly opposed to drinking alone; such is addiction, and moreover, why act obscenely foolish without an audience? Public houses are these amateur theaters . . . and temples. Drinking is my religion, and though I may not attend every Sabbath, I demand proper ritual on those rare times that I do. The Purple Lotus is a pub. It is neither the grandest nor the meanest tavern I have set foot in. It is a medium sized shop, set between an automobile dealership and an electronics boutique, and the Lotus can easily be mistaken for a corporate data storage unit--just inside the nondescript entry is a an equally small room filled with old magnetic data files. Outside, the sign says as much: LOTUS SYSTEMS. But around those tall metal cabinets is a third door, just like the alloy exterior door, just like the door leading to the file room, is a riveted metal entry; thicker than the distance between a man's outstretched thumb and little fingers, light as if on rollers. In the low light of the file room, this door might as well be black; I know otherwise. It is a deep, royal shade of purple, with an intricate golden lotus-sun etched into its center. Underneath reads THE PURPLE LOTUS. Inside is the neatest little pub I have ever seen. It is completely anonymous amongst a thousand other medium-to-small public houses, and for that reason, among others, I favor it. Standing in the entryway this night, I see the usual crowd of patrons: suits, uncharacteristically emotional, at the long bar running down the right side of the room; and university types, drunk and amorous, huddled in the plush, refurbished vinyl and velvet booths down the left side of the room. The Lotus is only lit dimly by a single row of dull florescent tubes over the back of the bar; they display the numerous types of alcohol available by the glass or by the bottle. Normally, there would also be light from the performance area at the far end of the bar--a hundred square meter tiled area, strung over by colored lights and spot lights and disco balls--but tonight is Tuesday night, early in the week. Gaudin is barely finished cleaning up from last weekend, and he's not about to have the place trashed so soon. There is a mild smoky haze in the Lotus, a warm, familiar atmosphere that everything and everyone here exudes. There is no thick smog of tobacco and cannabis fumes down to the floor; everything, save that delicious air, rises high. I have been in the Lotus during the late hours of the afternoon, when the pale yellow sun, already on its way down, casts a single ray down the thermal venting shaft of the Juventus Building . . . and through the sole skylight of the Purple Lotus. The ceiling is very, very high for a pub, and for the few moments when that ray strikes downward, the entire Lotus is revealed: soot-stained upper story, dusty circular booths, the always polished bar surface--carved from a single slab of marble, bought for a king's ransom or stolen . . . You can actually breathe in here. And that reason, among others, is why I return to the Lotus time and time again. The Juventus Building is located at what one could call a point of harmonic convergence. On the outskirts of the corporate sector of MegaPrime, it houses the offices of Synthmesh and Nanotech, two of the smaller corporations. Synthmesh is a decidedly conservative organization, as most of the heavy industries are, Marsec excluded. Nanotech is the other side of the corporate spectrum--as liberal as suits go. They have been known to hire unlicensed bloods for duties other than psionics. Also at home in the Juventus Building is the ancient--yet somewhat venerable--American Civil Liberties Union. Defenders of the now-defunct Bill of Rights of the United States of America, the ACLU fought for two decades against the UN Martial Law Act of 2044. But the people tubes bring many visitors to the Juventus Building: the Senate and the International University--my alma mater--are both within a five minute ride. And so, while the Purple Lotus is always a hive of students, from monastic social activists to fraternity pukes, there is always the odd chance that a Senator, most trusted bodyguards in tow, will sit his bloated behind down on a barstool. His face, hidden in the soft neon darkness of the tavern, will be strained, his jowls wrinkled and sagging, his eyes red and bloodshot. Petersen, Henk, Ademino; this is where the Senators come the night before their impeachment hearings commence. They never return. And for the hope that another will take his place at the counter, among other reasons, I return without fail to the Lotus. Gaudin himself mans the tap tonight; he is French. Light honey to deep amber ale flows from the spouts located at this near end of the marble, the levers worked by ancient, knurled hands. His parents immigrated to the old United States right before France went fascist and seceded from the old European Union; they made themselves a boy-child, who, by degrees, became a fascist himself. Gaudin served in the United States Navy; and then, in their most elite corps of soldiers--the SEALs. That is why he wears an easy, melancholic smile on face. That is why his old, arthritic hands--veins and tendons and joints and bones under transparent skin--are marked by old scars. That is why a blue trident is burned into the back of his right hand. Gaudin has that smile, the smile of a veteran, who offered up, knowingly or not, his best years in service of a nation; who wound up sacrificing them all for an entire planet. Gaudin, in his old bald head with its short, greasy white whiskers, has seen more death than anyone here; but he smiles, and he listens, and he doesn't talk. I know he doesn't talk--we all know he doesn't talk. He is XCOM; XCOM doesn't talk. And so the suits tell him their troubles. Bankruptcies, marital disputes, maniacal bosses and incompetent subordinates. Gaudin soaks it all up; his weary hands take another broken life and throw it atop the tremendous burden of regrets he already carries. What are tears to an entire ocean? And then he smiles, sympathizes, and pours the man another drink. My confessor is not a priest. And for that reason, among a myriad of others, some quite trivial, I return again to the Lotus. I head for a seat at the far end of the bar, near the underutilized dance floor and under the dark skylight. I am wearing my civilian duds-- oversize green dungarees that haven't been washed in a fortnight and a white t-shirt, stained under the arms and down the front. A small, brimless hat covers my head; I remove it and shove it into one of the innumerable pockets in my pants. My workpass and my other cards reside in a homemade compartment inside the front left of my jeans; I carry a few bills in another wallet in my back pocket, a few coins somewhere else. When I patronize the Purple Lotus, I don't like easily traced bank cards. I find a stool and sit down. The suit to my right sleeps in a puddle of spilt liquor; to my left are several tables and the back wall, but no more barstools. I am at the extreme left of the counter; I am the farthest from the entrance. Here, the marble is replaced by formica; it wraps around into the wall behind it; a pair of doors--one behind the bar--lead into the aft sections of the establishment. A college kid glares at me from one of the near tables. I turn to him and smile a smile worthy of Mr. Vice President of Personnel Ken Kaleta. I pat the drunk on his back. The college kid raises an eyebrow and grins back, uneasily. I am just another joker. Students and suits don't drink together. That is the only major rule of The Purple Lotus. The kids want to get drunk. Their dads want to get drunk. Everybody keeps their distance, smokes their poison, and gets too trashed to remember why. I am committing a minor taboo, but it looks like I'm jerking around, so it's OK. Gaudin works his way down the bar, refilling shotglasses and mugs as necessary. He nods and mumbles a few words to a suit. The man stops crying long enough to down another. It is his third vodka in the time I have been here. The barkeep eventually finds his way to me. He reaches under the counter and hands me a bottle of wine; real wine, as in, from grapes. It is red--good enough for me. I pay him. "A young man and his girl were in here. They were looking for you." I look up. This is not as it should be; at the Lotus, the drunks do the talking. Not Gaudin. He doesn't start the conversation. You get a few in your system, you do the talking. He keeps you going; keeps you drinking. "What?" I most gracelessly ask. "Blond as peroxide, both of them. They left fifteen minutes ago." I stare at him incomprehendingly, fumbling with my wine. "Ask Ron. They were talking with him." And Gaudin wanders off, pouring brandy and absorbing misery. I stare after him. His back offers me no clues. I turn around, in search of 'Ron.' The college smartass stares at me, this time in a less disapproving mood. "Who was it?" I demand. He shrugs. "Fuck if I know." I turn away from him and work at the wine bottle's cap. The school prick continues, though. "Kept on saying 'The wolf's on the prowl, where's his man peace?' or something, though. Real fuckhead, y'know? Wanked out on kay or something." I stop at my fumblings. "WOLF?" I ask. "PEACE?" I repeat. "Yeah, completely wasted . . ." But I'm already on my way out of the Lotus, leaving Ronnie boy at his table wondering why he has to live with so many fuckheads. I've got my bottle with me, but I toss it off to some frat punks at the door; no use meeting the Popo twice in one day. I bust outside, into the third subbasement of the Juventus Building, look both ways down fairly deserted corridors, and swear profusely. The Wolf has escaped me again. I wander home, through fairly deserted tubes, and stumble up my five flights of stairs to my apartment. The Popo are out in the atrium again. I could care less. A bullet in my brainstem would be soothing. On my ramshackle desk, my computer hums away as Marsec Security rifles its way through the last four years of my life. My room is a mess. I lie down in my bed, and don't bother taking off my soiled clothes. 12/4/97
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