Acts of Conscience (8 page)

A sudden, intense alarm. Why the hell wasn’t I facing a company law clerk, that ridiculous Mr. What’s-his-name? Something not right here.

She said, “Line one of the router instruction tells me to offer you, in exchange for a parity quitclaim on your B-VEI stock options, the sum of one million livres and advancement to Wage Grade Eleven step Zero.”

I could feel my mouth suddenly hang open.

I stammered. Tried to get some words out. Failed. Stammered again.

She said, “You have to make the decision right now, Mr. du Cheyne.”

“I... can’t...”

She looked back down, looking deep into the desks imagery. “Line two of the router instruction requires me to tell you that this is the company’s final offer.”

I shrugged, suddenly found my voice. “They must know I’ve had a counter-offer. Berens-Vataro will be...”

She spread her hands. “This has nothing to do with me. All they want to hear is, Yes or no?”

Something. Something she’s not telling me. I can see it in her eyes.

I said, “No. I’m sorry, I...”

She said, “Now that you’ve made your decision, line three of the router instruction requires me to tell you that your employment contract with the Eighth Ray Scientific-Industrial Enterprise is terminated.”

Long moment of silence.

Almost stupidly: “
What
?”

She let out a long sigh, sounding somehow relieved, and said, “Sorry.”

I found myself standing, mouth open, eyes wide.
Fired
? I said, “You can’t fucking get away with this. The machinist’s union... the steward... I...”

She motioned at something in her desk display and the office door whispered open, two beefy security guys standing out in the hall. Then she said, “Mr. du Cheyne is no longer employed here. Please escort him from the company premises.”

Security guys stepping in, hands raised, as if reaching for me.

I said, “Now wait just a
second
here...”

She folded her arms across her chest and said, “Look, I’m sorry Mr. du Cheyne. There’s nothing
I
can do. I’ll have the shop steward gather your personal tools and bring them to your apartment.” A glance downward. “I guess the equilibrimotor belongs to us. You can leave it here”

No more words left inside.

All I could do was nod.

Nod and be led away.

o0o

Somehow, I got back to my apartment and sat down in my favorite chair, facing the vidnet wall, still wrapped in my spacesuit, spacesuit curious, for it’d never been to my apartment before. What the hell am I going to do with my tool packs when they get here? They’re not going to be happy, just lying around. Orange pulsing now. Apartment AI clamoring for my attention. Mr. du Cheyne!
Please
Mr. du Cheyne, you’ve got to...

Shut the fuck up.

AI quite puzzled.

But Mr. du Cheyne...

Shut up, damn you.

I heard the drink mixer rattle forlornly, off in the kitchen, icecubes clinking softly, glasses shifting back and forth, waiting for me to want them.

Just sitting here. Staring. Waiting. Empty. I keep thinking there’s something I ought to be able to
do
about this.

The apartment said, Mr. du Cheyne,
please
...

Communicating a great sense of anxiety to me, as if I didn’t have enough trouble. Jesus. Maybe I can call them up in the morning, call that nice Miz Yoshida and tell her I changed my mind. Call that fucking lawyeroid asshole and...

Something chattering away in the background. My suit. Talking very fast, not to me. Talking to the apartment. Suit’s a lot damn smarter than the household appliances AI, even without its ERSIE-5 processor link. I...

God damn, I
want
my job.

I
liked
going there every day.

My friends.

The ships.

The machinery.

The...
doing
. I...

The suit said, Mr. du Cheyne? I’m sorry, sir, but I’m forced to override your last order to the apartment.

Boggling.
Override
? Like this was some kind of hardware rule sieve emergency? I...

The vidnet wall lit up with a flash, and there was the Board of Trade Regents meeting hall, down in good, old Kiev, down on the black earth plains of the world we left behind. Ringed tiers of men and women, sitting quietly at their stations, as if...

One man, furious somehow, standing up, shouting, shaking his fist at the rest of them, storming away up the long flight of red-carpeted stairs and out the heavy black teak door, door inlaid with bright silver and some kind of clear crystal. People up in the spectator gallery, yelling, cheering, hugging each other, and I could hear the excited voice of the announcer, “...bringing you this historic event,
live
from the floor of the Trade Regency in Kiev...”

Historic event?

But, God damn it, I’ve just been
fired
, you see, and...

Voiceover: “...secret ballot of the assembled Regents voting to break up an industrial monopoly that has endured for more than five hundred years...”

Those two men hugging each other, teetering on the gallery’s edge, in danger of toppling over the guard rail and falling down on the Speaker’s daïs. Those would be Doctors Roald Berens and Ntanë Vataro then, wouldn’t they? Cold, dispassionate voice starting to speak inside of me just then. They’ve taken the vote then, have they? Well, then...

The stock trading AI popped up over the vidnet display, excited, waving fistfuls of displays, including the automatic renewal date stamp on my power of attorney. A great feeling of triumph, the joyous surge of a job well done. The happiness of a tool employed.

Trading in stock options for Berens-Vataro Interstellar has been resumed. Option values currently held by trading license #0A61C-84, in the name of solar citizen Gaetan du Cheyne, occupation none, resident at L1(SE) workerhostel #67, room 472: £3,207,968.

Three million, two-hundred-seven thousand, nine-hundred and sixty-eight livres. The calculator chattered inanely: just about what I’d see in my ERSIE pay voucher over the next... oh, call it the next twenty five hundred years or so. I...

My heart, just then, seemed to come to a complete stop.

Four: I awoke the next morning, still sitting

I awoke the next morning, still sitting in my chair, still dressed in my spacesuit, feeling fine, in the bland, gray light of my empty apartment. OK, du Cheyne. Time to groan and yawn. Time to get up. Time to go to work.

Long moment of nothing at all.

Fragments of memories.

Memories of sitting here, listening to the drink mixer rattle and hum, of sitting here, watching the vidnet, having one each of all my favorites, drinking far into the night. Staring at the news. Watching my stock ticker. Useless.

I’d let it scan and found myself watching bits of old movies. I think I was watching a twenty-fourth century 3vee recreation of a prehistoric drama called
The Philadelphia Story
when Rossignol showed up with my toolbox and ancillary belt hardware. Rossignol and the shop steward, I think.

Rossignol bending over me, recoiling from my breath. Jesus Christ, Gaetan, are you all right?

I think I said something about wishing there were pornode viddies starring Katherine Hepburn, but maybe it was before her time, Rossignol looking over his shoulder at the display, bewildered.

The shop steward said, I don’t know. I guess you could program the system to...

Rossignol: Shut the fuck up, Jessie.

Jessie the Steward rolling his eyes.

Some time later, I realized the spacesuit must have picked up on what I’d said, giving instructions to the house AI, blending the recreation of Philadelphia with something called
Bringing Up Baby
, where dear old Kate gets it on with Cary Grant after all, I can’t give you anything but love, Mr. Bone...

And now I was awake, clear headed, empty headed, sitting alone in my apartment, wondering what to do. Inside my toolbox something stirred, restless.

Finally, I took off the suit and hung it in the closet, feeling it go to sleep as I undid the seams, a twinge of regret from the apartment. Went and got cleaned up, standing for a long time under the shower head, hot recycler water running down my body, splashing around my feet, swirling down the drain, through the filter, back up the pipe and down on my shoulders again. Got dressed. Went out. Don’t know where the hell I intended to go. Sometimes you just have to get the fuck out.

Down in the lobby I was headed for the entrance to the common tunnel to which all these buildings were docked, hostels and shopping malls and whatnot, when someone came out of the business office, a young woman, maybe someone I’ve noticed from time to time, name unknown: “Mr. du Cheyne?”

I stopped, turned, not even wondering, and waited for her to come over.

She said, “Mr. du Cheyne, we’ve been informed that you are presently... unemployed.” Her gray-green eyes rather bleak under neatly trimmed reddish-brown bangs.

I said, “So?”

“Well...” fidgeting a bit. “Mr. du Cheyne, this is a
worker
hostel, you understand?”

“So what?”

“Well. We cater to a
worker
clientele, employees of L1(SE) industrial concerns, mostly ERSIE. Not unemployed transients. You understand?”

I stared at her. “No. I don’t think I do.”

Exasperation in her eyes then.
Why are you making this so difficult, Mr. du Cheyne
? She said, “I’m sorry. We’ll have to terminate your lease at the end of this month. Six days.”

I think by then my mouth was hanging open. “But I can pay my rent.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. du Cheyne. Management regulations. You understand.”

A sizzle of anger starting up. “How about if I pay my rent for a full year in advance?” A full year? Hell, that’s only a hundred-twenty fucking livres.

A startled look in her eyes. “I... I don’t think so, but... I’ll check for you.” She said, “Look, if you’re
retired
... there’s a
very
nice retirement hostel just down the tube. Mostly people who’ve retired from ERSIE, I think. I could have your things transferred this afternoon and...”

Eyes nonplused. “I’m sorry, Mr. du Cheyne. Look, if you have a new job by next Tuesday, let us know. Otherwise...”

Great. Fucking great. I turned away and headed out, heading down the tube, blending in with a light crowd of industrious walkers, folks with places to go, people to see, and found myself, eventually, at the bus terminal.

No places to go. No people to see. Nothing to do. That’s me.

o0o

Back in my apartment with four days to go, spacesuit hanging silently in the closet, tools stirring softly in their box. House AI flashing things on the wall, stock ticker clamoring for my attention, let’s do this, let’s do that.

When I move, the house AI stays here, part of the appliance operating system, an extension of the hostel’s net segment. Will you miss me, apartment mine? Nothing. Silence. Can’t answer that. Don’t know how. But I know it’ll miss the stock ticker software, which belongs to me and will have to be moved off the local node. And, of course, it’ll miss its new friend the spacesuit.

Drink mixer rattled forlornly from the kitchen. Ah, yes. What if the new occupant is some kind of tea totaler? What then? I told it to mix me... what? What do I feel like? The drink mixer whined and, when I got the drink, it was a Manhattan, rather on the sweet side.

Funny to think of someone else coming and living here after all these years. Sitting in my chair, drinking from my spigot, eating from my stove and refrigerator, fucking in my bed or even just sleeping there... I never gave a thought to all the people who lived here before me. This hostel is two, maybe three hundred years old. I never thought to ask.

Sitting there, as always, sipping my drink, watching the vidnet wall, logged onto a pornode, offered a menu of choices, as if the house AI couldn’t quite figure out what I wanted. My standard selections? Why do I always like to watch women masturbating, all by themselves? I hardly ever call up things with two women together, much less long, luxurious scenes of heterosexual couples doing the old Adam delved/Eve span thing.

A slight sense of something like impatience from the house. As if to say,
What the fuck do you want
? Sorry. Sorry I’m such an asshole, dear old house. The pornode menu was displaced by classified listings, by phonebook pages. Live shows, at theaters in the habitat parts of L1(SE). Sure, that’d be cool. I haven’t done that in a long time. Private shows in booths. All right. That too.

Flip the page.

Long, long listings of whorehouses, all kinds of whorehouses, fancy ones and cheap ones, houses for general trade and specialty spots. We can suck it for you here, whatever it is, for a price...

Call girls, much more expensive, available by the hour for such and such a price, grouped by the districts they worked. Girls from houses who’d come to you wherever, at a somewhat higher price. And then, of course, the private contractors.

I had the menu re-sort itself by price and looked at the top of the list. Camilla Seldane. Whole nights only. £500 — discounts for longer engagements. No groups... What the hell could a woman possibly do for me, in a single night, that might be worth five hundred livres? A couple of days ago, I’d’ve called that just shy of five months pay.

Before I knew what was happening, I found that I’d loaded my credit code and address and made myself a date. Then I sat back in my chair and held tight to my drink and felt an attack of the willies come on. My God.

When the house AI whispered, You have a visitor, Mr. du Cheyne, I felt my asshole clench. Tell her to go back... tell her to go away... tell her... I was on my feet, walking across the room, empty glass still clutched tight in my hand, when the door slid open, admitting harsh, institutional light from the hall.

A man and a woman. Woman slim, pale-haired, with dark blue, fathomless eyes, standing closer, closer than the man, man somehow lost in shadow. She turned to him and said, “All right, John. You can pick me up in the morning, at the usual time.”