Counting Heads (15 page)

The mentar turned its attention to Fred. “You understand what I mean by loyalty, don’t you, Myr Londenstane?” Addressed directly by the mentar, Fred froze. “It’s good to see you again,” the mentar went on.

Costa gave Fred a dubious look. “Enough chatter already,” she said. “Scouts, sever the tap,” and Cabinet vanished.

IT TOOK THE scouts some time to finish extracting the pouch from the stone wall. While they waited, Costa sent three of the reloaded carts to wait next to the lifts. Fred made one last circuit of the vault perimeter, making sure that the pressure barriers were once again in place at the entrances to the tunnels. He was standing outside the Indy tunnel when the scouts ferried out the pouch of paste. It was much larger than the others, and it looked intact. He followed the scouts back to the waiting cart and Costa.

“Nice,” Costa said as she hefted the pouch from the pallet of scouts. “Seven liters of General Genius’s finest, I would say.” She shook the pouch with glee. There was no sloshing sound; the paste was viable. “I told you it couldn’t kill itself.”

Before she could bag her prize, however, a loud snap sounded from deep within the pouch, and the pouch inflated as its contents heated up. Fred could hear it sizzle and bubble inside like a self-heating packet of soup, and he grabbed it from Costa and dropped it to the floor before she burned herself. Costa seemed stunned. She watched the pouch in wonder. In half a minute it was all over. When the pouch had cooled enough, Fred helped her bag and load it into the cart.

When Costa had recovered somewhat, she said, “We’ll go in my car.”

“Go?” said Fred. “Go where?”

“To the next backup.”

“I thought you said this was the last one.”

She shook her head. “That was before it killed itself. It killed itself; therefore, it can’t be the last one.”

They escorted the carts to a waiting tender. When they finished loading them, they went to sit in Costa’s JD GOV. Costa sat up front in the cab, silently communicating with Libby. Fred sat in the aft compartment and put his blacksuit into R & R mode to take a nap. He awoke when the fan motors revved up.

Costa called back to him, “We have it.”

“Where?”

“At the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

The Orange Team bee, with its wasp escort, flew a meandering route that hugged the contours of the countryside. Ten kilometers from the Bloomington canopy, it was challenged for its ID and writ of passage by a flying scupper that popped up from a covert security blind. The scupper was a meter in length and modeled after a HomCom assault car, with a mirrored body and six miniature fans for lift and propulsion. A capture scoop was mounted on its bow beneath a pair of fully charged laser cannon.

The Orange Team hovered in place, while its bee squirted false documentation to the scupper that identified it as a process server for the UDDI, engaged in official business. It provided a forged writ of passage and verification codes. At the same time, the bee assessed its team’s location and assets and raced through its extensive bank of tactical fight, feint, or flight scenarios for appropriate action plans.

The HomCom scupper ordered the Orange Team to turn around, descend to the ground, and power down. As the team complied, the bee analyzed the scupper’s transponder signal and wing markings and found them legitimate. However, it detected subtle design anomalies in the scupper’s construction that did not match HomCom specs stored in its library. There was a possibility, it concluded, that the scupper was an impostor. But whether impostor or the genuine article, the bee could not risk capture.

The bee squirted an action plan to its escort. On a signal, the wasps peeled away in opposite directions, looped around, and raked the scupper with laser fire from both sides. At the same instant, the bee power-dived under the scupper, out of range of its cannon, and dropped to ground level. The wasps’ fire reflected harmlessly off the scupper’s mirrored skin, and the scupper went on the offensive. It extended its bow scoop and tried unsuccessfully to shoot down or swallow the defiant mechs. The bee used the diversion to flee the scene behind a row of agriplex buildings.

A lucky shot by an Orange Team wasp revealed a hairline crack at the base of the scupper’s stabilizer vane armor, and the wasps concentrated their fire on it, forcing the scupper to disengage and retreat.

The wasps flew off in opposite directions. After a series of evasive misdirections, they joined their bee, somewhat depleted but no worse for wear. The Orange Team continued on its way to Starke Enterprises headquarters.

THE GRAY TEAM beetle, with its wasp escort, located its prime destination, a series of fish farms between Lake Decatur and the city of Tendonville. Hovering a meter over the water, the beetle opened its carapace, allowing the breeze to scatter a pinch of green flakes across the surface of the pond. As the flakes swelled and sank, fish gathered to snap them up. Gray Team flew from pond to pond dispensing its load.

After twenty minutes of caroming through the unlit tunnels of the Chicago Public Transit, Bogdan Kodiak arrived at Elmhurst MacArthur Place Station. After decarring, he paused on the platform to remove his charter patch from his shoulder. A transit bee buzzed him, ordering him to move along, move along. He made his way through foot traffic to the stiles and swiped his way out. Before leaving the station, he put on a pair of mirrorshades and buried his hands in his pockets to keep anyone from reading him.

The Bachner Building, where the E-Pluribus office was located today, was an oblong tower grafted onto a multi-block trunk foundation. Before entering, Bogdan stepped in front of a kiosk board, curious as to the state of his anonymity. The kiosk board stalled a moment, trying to ID him, and failing to do so, launched a generic kiddie advert about portable pets. Bogdan snickered and left, confident that as far as the world was concerned, he was still a thirteen-year-old boy.

Inside the Bachner Building lobby, the directory requested that he remove his shades, but he refused. He asked the directory where the E-Pluribus elevators were. E-Pluribus always leased three entire floors wherever they camped, as well as two private elevator cars and three dixon lifts. A bee followed him as he walked to the bank of elevators. When he invoked his right to privacy, the bee informed him that it was a house bee, and that since he’d refused to be ID’d, the bee was authorized to surveil him.

One of the dixon lift cars was coming down, and Bogdan joined the crush of people waiting at its door. He knew how E-Pluribus spaced the cars and that if he missed this one, there wouldn’t be another for fifteen minutes. He was already late, so he took advantage of his small size for the second time that morning and threaded his way through the crowd. He didn’t recognize any of these people, which meant they were daily hires. When the car arrived, Bogdan almost made it aboard, but instead got stepped on.

“
Owww!
” he cried.

“Sorry, little guy,” said a man in front of Bogdan, “but you’ll just have to wait your turn like everyone else.”

“Oh, yeah?” said a man behind Bogdan. “Then how did
you
get in front of
me
, pal?”

“What are you saying, myr?” said the first man.

“I’m saying I don’t care if you trample the kid, myr, but don’t you fecking shove
me!
”

“Myren, myren,” Bogdan said, afraid of becoming trapped between them, “there’s no need to fight.”

“Not unless you’re the one cut out of a day’s payfer,” said the man at the front, who was trying to jam himself into the overcrowded elevator car, which made several unsuccessful attempts to close its doors.

“Relax,” Bogdan told the men. “If E-Pluribus issued you an invitation for today, we will honor it. Irregardless whether we use you or not, we will credit you a full day’s payfer.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?” said the man.

“I work for E-Pluribus,” Bogdan announced breezily.

Everyone looked at him, and a woman inside the car said, “Like on a permanent basis?”

“Yeah,” Bogdan said. “I have an employment contract. I am a senior demographics specialist, grade three.”

“
People!
” the woman commanded. “
Inhale!
”

A sliver of space opened inside the car. The woman grabbed Bogdan by the lapel of his jumpsuit and pulled him in, the doors closed, and the car began to ascend. When everyone exhaled again, Bogdan found himself for the second time that morning pressed against a wall. Not by a couch, this time, but by an ample bosom. He closed his eyes and drank in its damp, honeysuckle fragrance. Numerous hands took little rubs at his head, but at the moment he didn’t mind. As the elevator rose, people asked Bogdan how much E-Pluribus paid its employees, whether there were benefits, what kind of qualifications and genetic tests were necessary, and especially—were there any current openings. Snuggling in his tender pillow, Bogdan answered all questions as vaguely as possible.

“I’ve heard,” said the woman, “that they’ll make us insert these—ah—
devices
to register our—ah—
responses
.”

“That—ah—is true,” Bogdan said.

“What are they like?” she said nervously.

Bogdan smirked. “Not to worry, my dear. They’re small and harmless. They’re called visceral expression probes, which sounds a lot scarier than they really are.” Actually, he and the other regular employees called them potty plugs. And they called these people day holes. “After a couple minutes,” he continued, “you won’t even know it’s there.”

The elevator halted at the 103rd floor and opened its door to the E-Pluribus lobby. And what a lobby! The regulars called it the Temple, and it was the same basic arrangement E-Pluribus used wherever it rented space. The effect was one of vastness, and the intent was induced awe. For Bogdan, this space had long ago lost its novelty, but he still enjoyed seeing the effect it had on newcomers. He backed out of the lift and watched his fellow passengers step onto the limpid blue lobby floor. The floor seemed to extend for kilometers in all directions. Far on the horizon, it was bordered by giant stone columns, some broken and crumbled, some still joined by stone lintels. Beyond these lay a restive green sea.

“Oooo,” said his female companion.

The cool air was spritzed with salty sea smells. Lightning crackled in the distance, and thunder rolled beneath their feet. Subliminal music swelled.

Of course it wasn’t as though people had never visited a sensorium before. These days it took more than smoke and laser to make an impression, and if anyone knew how to impress humans, it was E-Pluribus. At the sound of a trumpet blast behind them, the daily hires turned to behold, not their elevator car, but a mountainous, stone ziggurat rising high into the yellow sky. At its truncated peak, nearly as high as the pink clouds, stood a gigantic corporate logo, the E-Pluribus Everyperson.

The Everyperson was one of the most familiar logos in the United Democracies, and this was its full-on version. It morphed rapidly and continuously, changing its sex, age, ethnicity, facial features, hair, and clothing into every conceivable combination. It was hypnotic to behold. People said that if you gazed at it long enough, you’d eventually see all fifteen billion inhabitants of Earth. Everyone but yourself.

People said that if you gazed at it long enough, you’d see ghostly images of your beloved dead, your departed parents, children, and spouses, your lost lovers, rivals, and friends, and everyone you cared for who predeceased you.

People said that if you gazed at it long enough, you’d see all the people you might have become if only you had made the right decisions or had better timing, connections, or luck.

For a corporate logo, it was a doozie.

On the stone steps beneath the Everyperson stood a pantheon of vid idols: thousands of the most celebrated hollyholo simstars of all time. This was the famous E-Pluribus Academy, the largest, most extensive stable of limited editions in existence. Bogdan’s elevator companions gushed with delight. At the bottommost tier, Annette Beijing stood alone and waited for their attention. She wore the loose-fitting house togs she popularized in the long-running novella
Common Claiborne
.

“Welcome!” she said at last and with fervor. “Welcome
all
to the House of E-Pluribus!” She held her graceful arms aloft and bowed her pretty head. Her audience applauded rowdily. “Dear guests,” she continued, “you have been chosen to join us today in the very important and quite exhilarating task of preference polling. As you know, society can serve its citizens only to the extent that it knows them. Thus, society turns to
you
for guidance. Each of you possesses a voice that
must
be heard, and a heart that
must
be plumbed.”

She raised her hand to the ever-morphing statue high above them. “
You
, all of
you
, are the true E-Pluribus Everyperson. When Everyperson speaks in the halls of Congress or Parliament, in corporate boardrooms, jury rooms, and voting booths, it speaks with
your
voice.”

She paused a beat and added, “Now I’m aware that some of you may find our methods a little overwhelming, especially if this is your first visit with us. Therefore, we have arranged for a few of
my friends
to stop by.”

The host of simstars behind her chorused a resounding, “
HELLO!
” and the daily hires cheered.

“We invite each of you,” Beijing continued, “to select your most favorite celebrity in the whole world, from any time period, to be your personal guide throughout the day. Feel free to choose your biggest heart throb. She or he is bound to be here. And please, we’re all friends at E-Pluribus, so don’t be bashful. Choose whomever you want. Even me!

“Now then, we have a full day of taste-testing, opinion-polling, and yes—
soul-searching
—planned for you, but before we begin, please review the terms and conditions of hire, and if you approve, authorize them. Then call out the name of your
heart’s desire
, and he or she will come down to be at your side.”

Few of the daily hires bothered to read the contracts that appeared in the air before them. They swiped them impatiently and called out the name of Beverly Bettleson or Cary Grant, Anguishello del Sur, Humphrey Bogart, Yurek Rutz, Marilyn Monroe, or Ronald Reagan, or one of thousands more. Every name called brought a hearty “
PRESENT!
” from the Academy. To trumpeted fanfare, the chosen demigods descended the grand staircase of the pyramid to join their gaga guests.

Bogdan took the opportunity to slip behind an invisible blind where he knew one of the service elevators waited to take him down to the employee fitting rooms. He passed Annette Beijing on the way.

“Hello, Boggo,” she said, using her private name for him. “Got a smile for me?”

For her he had all the smiles in the world. She just so happened to be his own heart’s desire. Though she was an adult, and though she was only a holographic sim, he loved everything about her.

“Sure, Nettie,” he said, using his own private name for her, “though I am—ah—running a little late this morning.”

She smirked and said, “We noticed. I won’t keep you except to pass along a request from HR.”

“HR?” Bogdan said, his voice cracking on the R. He tried again in a deeper octave. “HR? What do they want?”

“They’d like you to come in to see them on Wednesday afternoon at three-fifteen.”

“What for?” Bogdan said. “Is it because I’m late? It was an accident. I couldn’t help it. I’ll never be late again.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” she laughed. “You’re a very punctual young man, so maybe that’s not it. Checking the calendar, I see that Wednesday is your first anniversary with us.”

Bogdan did a quick mental calculation. “You’re right, my first anniversary. I’d forgotten.”

Annette winked and said, “Well, perhaps E-Pluribus hasn’t forgotten. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Boggo, I have some stragglers to move along.”

Behind her, Bogdan saw that two stalwarts were still trying to decipher their employment agreement. The others were already embarked on the long stroll across the vast marble plain with their chosen hollyholo companions. Their destination was a pavilion, barely visible, on the far horizon. The distance was only half illusionary; the actual distance was from the tower’s southernmost bank of elevators to its northernmost stairwell, a distance of half a klick. It would seem even farther, however, with Harrison Ford, Count Uwaga, Audrey Hepburn, or Jim Morrison hanging on their every word. And by the time they arrived at the pavilion and were fitted with their potty plugs, E-Pluribus would have uploaded their personal upref files, established occipital neurolingual calibration, recorded an evoked response baseline, and tailored a morning’s worth of test scenarios for them and them alone.

Bogdan shook his head in smug satisfaction as he entered the service lift. He had to admit he was getting to be an old hand at the upreffing biz. Maybe E-Pluribus had noticed the excellent quality of his work. Maybe Human Resources was going to extend his contract. Or give him a bonus or maybe a raise.

THE VISCERAL RESPONSE Probes—the so-called potty plugs—were the same for the regular E-Pluribus employees as for the daily hires. A probe consisted of a fasciculus of motile electrode filaments, tipped with synaptic couplers, in a hydrogenated glycol casing that melted at body temperature. It was fourteen centimeters long and conical in shape. It looked like a greasy, spindly, miniature Christmas tree. It smelled like bath powder. Application was simple. Bogdan had done it so many times he hardly thought about it, though it amused him to think of the first encounters with it that the daily holes must have. He entered a “fitting” booth, closed the door, opened the crotch of his jumpsuit, and sat on a toilet seat. The seat slowly lowered him onto the probe. A bull’s-eye every time. There was a fleeting discomfort, a sense of fullness, as the casing dissolved and was absorbed into the submucosal lining of his transverse colon. There was a mild peristaltic spasm or two as the electrode filaments maneuvered to interface with his vagus nerve. By the time he refastened his clothes and exited the booth, he was a walking, talking, assay-kicking machine.

Bogdan hurried to his third assignment for the day; he’d already missed the first two. In a small auditorium, he joined a dozen daily hires seated around a holospace. They were still keyed up by the novelty of it all. Two of them were iterants—steves—who had already abandoned their hollyholo chaperones in favor of their own company. A few more holes—chartists—sat together in companionable silence. Bogdan gave the latter group a charter wave, which caused some doubtful looks—he wasn’t wearing his Kodiak colors.

The auditorium lights went down. Theme music, like that of a comedy show, came up. Emitters transformed the auditorium into the lounge of a Chicago body clinic where a triad of attractive people—two women and a man—awaited the results of tests they had just undergone. These three had decided to surgically graft themselves into one individual, but were still debating about what configuration to use.