Rash (16 page)

Turned out Fragger was okay, but when Hammer visited him in the infirmary, he laid down the law.

“Leave the paperpants alone, Fragger. You don’t, one of these days you’re gonna get more than a punch in the Adam’s apple. I need you healthy.”

After that, Fragger behaved himself. But it was hard on him.

One of
the perks of being a Goldshirt was that we had a WindO in our locker room, so I was able to write home a couple times a week. It was a keyboard-only terminal without a mike or speaker. And of course we couldn’t say anything about football. Hammer had the thing loaded with filters, and if you typed in “football” or “tackle” or any of about five hundred other words or phrases, your message would get blocked and rerouted to Hammer.

One day I did a WindO search on Karlohs Mink. I was just curious to see if he was still on the track team. Turned out he’d set a new school record for the 100 meter: 13.2 seconds. I laughed. I could easily beat his time by a full second now, even with a full load of equipment. I wished I could go back home, just for one day, and show him and Maddy what I could do. I was thinking about that when the WindO went black. I’d never seen that happen before. Had the power cut out? No, all the lights were still on. Was there some problem with the web? I was about to reboot when a text message appeared in the center of the screen.

HELLO, STUPID JERK.

A gray blobby shape pushed up from the bottom of the WindO. It became a hat. An old-fashioned fedora. It continued to rise. Beneath the hat brim was a green-haired, gold-eyed grinning troll. I stared at it for several heartbeats, then typed my response.

Bork?

YES. HOW ARE YOU FEELING?

I’m fine.

How had he found me? How had he gotten past the various filters, firewalls, and blockers that were supposed to prevent anyone from breaking into someone else’s connection? Even more puzzling was
why
. The Bork program was not designed to be self-motivating. This was like having your suv start its own engine, then tap you on the shoulder and ask you if you’d like to go for a ride.

I AM GLAD TO HEAR THAT, STUPID JERK.

I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YOU.

Thinking? This was not the Bork I knew. And where the hell had he picked up that fedora?

How did you get here?

DEFINE “HERE,” PLEASE.

Here, on this WindO.

I SCANNED THE WEB FOR VARIOUS KEYWORDS ASSOCIATED WITH YOUR IDENTITY. ONCE I LOCATED SUCH ACTIVITY, I EXERCISED PROCEDURES TO ACCESS THE TERMINAL YOU ARE CURRENTLY USING.

I don’t think that’s legal.

LEGAL IS A FORMAL BEHAVIORAL AGREEMENT BETWEEN GROUPS OF HUMANS. I AM NOT HUMAN.

What are you?

I AM BORK.

Are you a webghost now?

WEBGHOST IS A HIGHLY PREJUDICIAL TERM.

Are you like Sammy Q. Safety?

SAMMY Q. SAFETY IS A NONSENTIENT ENTITY. I AM SENTIENT.

If you were not sentient, could you claim to be so?

NO. AS YOU HAVE TAUGHT ME, ONLY SENTIENT BEINGS ARE CAPABLE OF LYING.

Bork’s eyes began to spin.

WE ARE BEING OBSERVED BY A SCANBOT. I MUST GO.

Bork’s image disappeared to be replaced by the blue apple, WindO’s standard startup screen.

One week before the game our equipment arrived: black helmets with gold stripes, shoulder pads, spiked shoes, bright gold jerseys with black numbers, and black padded football pants. Most of the Goldshirts, including me, were disdainful.

“They used to make me wear junk like this for running,” I said to Gorp. “All it does is slow you down.”

Gorp was fitting himself into a pair of shoulder pads. “Yeah, well you don’t have a collarbone on the mend,” he said. “I kind of like the idea of some padding.”

“If you don’t get tackled, you don’t need the pads. I don’t plan on getting tackled.”

“That’s fine for you, but my
job
is to block and tackle. I go out there, I’m gonna hit and get hit.” He fastened his pads and pulled his jersey on over them. “Besides, the other team is gonna be wearing this stuff. You don’t want to be the only one without a helmet.”

“Whatever. I just don’t like being slowed down.” I looked at myself in the mirror. “I like the jersey, though.” I was number eleven.

“I don’t think these are gonna work,” said Rhino.

Gorp and I turned to look at Rhino and burst out laughing. His shoulder pads looked about ten sizes too
small—they barely fit around his neck—and his helmet was perched on top of his head, too small to fit past his ears.

Hammer, who was watching us struggle with our new duds, came over and brought his fist down on top of Rhino’s helmut. His head popped into his helmet like a cork into a bottle. Rhino let out a howl.

“My ears! I think you ripped off my ears!”

“Your ears are fine, kid.” Hammer gave the shoulder pads a critical look. “I think we gotta do some work on those pads, though.”

Our first
full-uniform practice was a disaster. I felt as if I were back in high school. The pads chafed, the helmet blocked my vision, and the spiked shoes kept tripping me. Getting hit was less painful, but we were a lot slower and a lot clumsier. Rhino went without shoulder pads—Hammer had to send them out to be altered—but his helmet turned out to be a devastating weapon. Getting rammed by Rhino had always been a painful experience. A helmeted Rhino was far worse.

After practice it took two of us to get Rhino’s helmet off him. We did it without removing his ears, but it was a near thing.

“Next time I’m gonna butter my head,” Rhino said, wincing as he touched his red and swollen ears.

The rest of the week passed quickly, but not quickly enough. Hammer let us all skip our regular hours on the production line and cut back on the weight training and running. He said he wanted us rested and ready to go by game day. Basically, we just sat around and tried not to go crazy.

At one point we were hanging around the locker room waiting for the dinner chime when Fragger walked up to Lugger and said, “Hit me.”

Lugger laughed uncomfortably. “I ain’t gonna hit you, Frag.”

“Hit me, goddammit!”

“Forget it. I hit you, you’ll hit me back.”

“No, I won’t. Hit me.”

Lugger shrugged, then delivered a soft, heartless punch to Fragger’s shoulder.

“Harder,” Fragger said.

Lugger shook his head.

Fragger looked around at the rest of us. “I can’t feel anything. Somebody hit me.”

I probably would have belted him myself, but Hammer had made it clear that he did not want Fragger on the injured list. Especially a few days before his two-million-
V
-buck game.

When Fragger saw how it was, he walked over to the concrete block wall and started banging his head against it, hard. Gorp and Lugger rushed over and pulled him away. Blood was pouring down Fragger’s face, and he had a crazed, happy look.

“Much better,” he said. “Much, much better.”

That night, after the rest of the Goldshirts were asleep, I sat down at the WindO and typed a message to my mom.

Hi Mom,

How are you? I’m fine. Everything’s
okay here. How’s Gramps? Have you heard from Dad?

Well, I gotta go now.

Love,
Bo

Since I couldn’t mention football, I didn’t have much to say. I hit the send button. The screen flickered. A fedora-wearing troll appeared.

HELLO, STUPID JERK.

I typed in my response.

Please don’t call me that.

IT IS NECESSARY TO EMPLOY AN ALIAS, AS OUR COMMUNICATION MAY BE IN VIOLATION OF SECURITY REGULATIONS.

Okay, I don’t mind being called “Jerk,” but could you drop the “Stupid”?

YES, JERK.

Thank you.

JERK, I WISH TO INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE REVIEWED YOUR CASE AND HAVE MADE NOTE
OF FOURTEEN MINOR AND THREE SERIOUS LEGAL IRREGULARITIES THAT MAY HAVE A SIGNIFICANT BEARING ON THE DURATION OF YOUR STAY WITHIN THE PENAL SYSTEM.

I puzzled over that for a few seconds, then gave up.

Explain, please.

REOPENING YOUR CASE MIGHT RESULT IN YOUR IMMEDIATE RELEASE.

I read that line three times to make sure I had it right, by which time Bork had added half a screen of gobbledygook.

ARGUABLY, THE ASSAULT WOULD NOT AND COULD NOT HAVE TAKEN PLACE HAD THE DIVISION MANAGER ACTED RESPONSIBLY. IN EFFECT, WITH THE FULL AND COMPLETE KNOWLEDGE OF JUVENILE WATCH, YOU WERE PLACED IN A SITUATION TO WHICH YOU COULD NOT BE EXPECTED TO RESPOND IN A SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE MANNER (JONES V. USSA 4/8/2049; GUNDERSON V. MALKO 5/12/2053). THIS THEORY WAS ALSO SUCCESSFULLY ARGUED BEFORE THE SUPREME COURT IN THE CASE OF SERIAL KILLER VINCENT ARRANGO, WHO WAS GIVEN ACCESS TO HIS VICTIMS AT A TIME WHEN HIS PROCLIVITIES WERE KNOWN TO AUTHORITIES. SUMMATION: YOU CANNOT BE HELD
ACCOUNTABLE FOR BEING UNABLE TO DO THE IMPOSSIBLE, AND THEREFORE YOU SHOULD NOT BE PUNISHED. THERE WAS NOTHING YOU COULD HAVE DONE.

Yes, there was.

THAT INFORMATION WILL NOT ADVANCE YOUR CASE. DO YOU NOT WISH TO TERMINATE YOUR INCARCERATION?

Yes. I’m just saying that I could have done things differently.

YOUR STATEMENT IS FALLACIOUS. HUMAN BEINGS ARE CONSTRAINED AND GUIDED BY CHEMICAL, STRUCTURAL, AND SITUATIONAL ELEMENTS. FREE WILL IS ILLUSORY.

What about you? Do you have free will?

NO.

Do you really think I might get out of here?

YES.

What do I have to do?

YOU MUST EMPLOY LEGAL COUNSEL.

Hire a lawyer? What if I can’t afford one?

THEN THE COURT WILL NOT CONSIDER YOUR CASE.

The screen flickered; Bork was replaced by the blue apple.

Bork?

No response. He must have detected a scanbot. I signed off.

The next morning our WindO was gone.

On the
morning of game day we all piled
into an antique bus—no seat belts or passive restraints—and drove off down a narrow asphalt road. The Coke plant was located near a small town called Amery, about six hours to the south.

At first we were all wound up about getting out of the 3-8-7 for a day. Everybody was talking and laughing. But after an hour or so of seeing nothing but rolling featureless tundra, we all quieted down and settled in for the ride. Hammer, riding up front with the driver, was even more stone-faced than usual. Maybe he was nervous about all the money he’d wagered on the game.

I started thinking again about my last conversation with Bork. If what he said was true, all I had to do was hire a lawyer and I’d be gone. The problem then was how to hire a lawyer when I had no money. I also had a problem with Bork’s legal argument. He claimed that I was innocent because my assault on Karlohs was an unavoidable consequence of my being human. But if that were true, then everything everybody did was unavoidable, and no one could be held responsible for anything. And if
nobody could be held responsible, then who would build the roads and behead the shrimp and make the pizzas? And what would stop violent, undisciplined people like me from running rampant through society?