Shuteye for the Timebroker (26 page)

Dreaming and whatever function it fulfilled were pushed way down below liminal awareness. Scientists were not quite sure if such drugs as Eternalert, ZeroBlink, Carpenoct, and Sunshine Superman even permitted dreaming at any stratum of the minds operation. But in any case, no one seemed to suffer from the banishment of these ancient nightly hallucinations.

The issue of physical tiredness, the cyclical buildup of somatic fatigue poisons, was remedied by dietary nutraceuticals, intervals of sedentary activities, and bouts of physical therapy.

In a few short years after the introduction of these drugs, enormous changes in global society were already institutionalized.

Developed countries who could afford the pricey proprietary drugs now operated on 24/7 time. (The poorer nations remained zones of sleep infiltrated by rich elites of the perpetually wakeful.) The vast majority of the citizens of the United States, for instance, made no distinction among any of the hours in any given twenty-four-hour period. Work and play, study and travel, might occur at any time of the day. The old Navy system of watches and bells, suited for perpetual alertness, was commonly adopted. All the old distinctions between the hours when the sun was up and the hours when it was down disappeared. Before too long, hyper-flextime reigned, with duties and pleasures dynamically apportioned among the available hours.

Strange synergies of R&D began to accumulate, as single-minded researchers were able to doggedly follow paths of experimentation without downtime, and could coordinate their efforts globally without the impediments of operating in incompatible time zones. New products flooded forth at unprecedented rates.

But most importantly, time became fungible, a commodity to be traded.

And whenever there was something to be traded, brokers arose.

A timebroker mediated between individuals and institutions, citizens and the government. Individuals registered their shifting schedules hour by hour with a timebroker of their choice. During such and such hours, they would be willing to work; during other hours, they were interested in attending a concert, a ballgame, a university class, a gym. Institutions also registered their needs. The symphony wants a thousand listeners at 4 a.m. on Sunday. Can you provide them?

Institutions paid the timebrokers large fees for delivering guaranteed numbers of people—be they customers or workers or jury pools. Citizens received discounts on the face value of tickets, or on tuition, or bonuses from employers, or tax breaks from the state and federal governments for being willing to commit blocks of time via their time- broker. Timebrokers lured institutional customers away from their competitors by exhibiting superior reliability and offering sliding-scale fees. Individual citizens jumped from broker to broker based on whoever offered better incentives. Brokers could refuse to service individuals based on a record of noncompliance with promises.

Timebrokers operated globally, facilitating trade among all the hyperactive countries no longer in thrall to sleep.

In the United States, fifteen years after the release of fourth-generation a-som drugs and on the verge of seventh-generation versions, unemployment had effectively disappeared as the economy expanded by a third. Everyone who wanted a job had one. Timebrokers were especially in demand.

Except those unlucky enough to fall afoul of their own bad habits.

Like Cedric Swann.

* * *

Bobo Spampinato and his goons came for Cedric during the dogwatch after the game. Cedric would have preferred, of course, to deal with the bookie at his home, a luxurious condo in the Presidio with killer views of the Golden Gate Bridge. In the privacy of his quarters, Cedric could have kept his indiscretions quiet, begged for mercy without shame, and generally made a pitiful spectacle of himself, thus possibly earning leniency. But perhaps knowing this, and being a man of no mercy, Bobo accosted Cedric at work.

“Mr. Swann, there are some, uh, people here to see you. They claim its about a debt of yours.” The voice of Cedric’s executive assistant, Delma Spicer, normally firm and assured, emerged from Cedric’s Palimpsest in quavering tones. Her pixie face, maculated with active tribal tags, gleamed with a sudden exudation of flop sweat.

Cedric looked frantically about his office for a miraculous exit he knew wasn’t there. Behind the framed Todd Schorr print? No such luck. At last he caved in. What else could he do? Time to take his medicine. How bad, after all, could it be?

“Send them in, Delma.”

Rising to his feet, Cedric managed to come around to the front of his work surface just as Bobo and friends entered.

Bobo Spampinato was a scrawny, short Laotian man of boyish appearance. He had been adopted as an infant by a childless Italian couple. Bobo’s new father chanced to be responsible for half of the illegal gambling in California. Upon the old man’s death, Bobo had taken over the family business. He was normally quite busy directing matters at a high level, and a field call such as today’s was something of a perverse honor.

As usual, Bobo wore Ergo Active sandals, a pair of linen dress shorts, and a tie-dyed T-shirt whose living swirls reconfigured themselves stochastically based on a continuous feed of the Vegas line. His bowl-cut black hair fringed a pair of hard dark eyes. His unsmiling lips betokened the seriousness of the occasion. Despite the stylishness of his own fashionable suit, Cedric felt like a child next to Bobo’s informal, grim cool.

Bobo was flanked by his muscle: two enormous humans wearing only leather chest-harnesses and thongs, whose genome, judging by the brow lines, hirsuteness, and musculature on display, plainly included gorilla snippets.

Cedric gulped. “Urn, hello, Bobo. Good to see you. I was just going to call—”

“You owe me close to two hundred grand now, Swann. What are you going to do about it?”

“Well—pay it back, of course. Little by little—”

The larger of the gorilla-men grunted discontentedly, and Cedric wondered if they could even speak.

“Not good enough, Swann. I’m not a bank that makes loans. I need that money now. All of it.”

“But, Bobo, please, that’s impossible. I don’t have that kind of liquidity. My condo’s mortgaged to the hilt. Even if I sold everything I own, I couldn’t raise two hundred g’s.”

“That’s not quite true. I understand that your loving parents were quite generous when you graduated from college a few years ago. You have a forty-year a-som rider on your health insurance, all paid up.”

When fourth-generation anti-somnolence pills hit the marketplace, most health insurers refused to cover them, deeming them lifestyle drugs, choices, not necessary to combat any disease. But as the drugs became ubiquitous and essential for any full-fledged citizen to serve as a fully functioning member of society, the insurers relented to the extent of writing riders to their policies that would allow people to buy the drugs at a discount. A discount that still ensured immense profits for the pharmaceutical firms. Such clauses made the difference between being able to afford a-som and devoting half of one’s income just to maintaining wakefulness parity with the Joneses.

Cedric was almost unable to comprehend what Bobo was demanding. In hock already to his employer, there was no way Cedric could afford a-som payments out of his weekly salary without his insurance policy.

And without a-som, one might as well not exist.

Stuttering, Cedric said, “It—you—that’s unthinkable.”

“But obviously I am thinking about it, Swann. And you have about ten seconds to do the same.”

The smaller of the gorilla-men snorted through gaping nostrils while the other cracked knuckles the size of walnuts. Cedric blanched.

“Time’s up. What’ll it be, Swann?”

With shaking hands, Cedric used his Palimpsest to transfer his prepaid a-som coverage to Bobo.

Rolling up his own flatscreen with a satisfied grin, Bobo said, “That squares us, Swann. You know how to reach me for your next bet. But I’ll have to get any money up front from now on.”

Bobo and company departed. Cedric collapsed against his work surface. But he was not permitted any time to collect his wits or assess his future.

Tom Fintzy, head of FB&B, offered a stern patrician mien to the world at the best of times. White-haired yet virile—his hair color a disarming cosmetic shuck, his virility the result of regular telomere maintenance and resveratrol patches—the chief timebroker had held many lucrative, high-status jobs prior to the a-som era: CEO of this and president of that. Cedric had heard all the boring tales endlessly. But upon coming out of early retirement, Fintzy had truly carved his niche in the timebroking field, showing a superior talent for collating huge masses of individuals with the needs of corporations, NGOs, and government agencies. Now, standing in Cedric’s office, Fintzy looked even more unforgiving and decisive than ever.

“Please pay attention, Cedric. I believe you know that according to your employment contract, our firm’s freethinker is allowed to monitor your office space and all media traffic in and out of same.”

Cedric’s Palimpsest, still unrolled, now displayed the facial of FB&B’s freethinker, an image of a smiling, grandmotherly matron.

“Hello, Mr. Swann,” said the freethinker. “I’m afraid you’ve been a bit naughty.”

“During the time you were entertaining your latest guests,” Fintzy continued, “our freethinker deduced the illegal nature of your past activities, assembled proof of all your illicit transactions, including the records of the loans from FB&B you obtained under false pretenses, wrote a report on your case, synopsized it, outlined the range of recommended disciplinary actions and subsequent cost-benefit analysis, and submitted the whole to me. I have tried to act in a similar timely fashion. Mr. Swann, you will not be turned over to any law-enforcement agency by us, due to the embarrassing nature of your crimes and the way it would reflect poorly on the character of FB&B. However, your contract with us is hereby terminated and any future salary you might earn will be garnisheed by us until your loans are repaid. Moreover, you will have a black flag attached to your Universal CV. You have ten minutes to clear the building before security arrives.”

Cedric, of course, could make no palliating reply to such a comprehensive and clearly stated case of malfeasance. Nor could he find it in himself to rage or bluster or revile. So he simply gathered the personal contents of his office—everything fit in a small trash basket—and left.

* * *

Dressed in the living jelly slippers known as Gooey Gumshoes, her denim “daisydukes” revealing generous crescents of butt cheek, and a bandeau top straining across her ample chest, the attractive black woman carried what appeared to be a small shallow suitcase. She stepped into the living room of Cedric’s condo and said, “Just a minute, honey, and I’ll make you feel all better.” She set the suitcase down in the middle of the open floor space, stepped back, and sent a command via her Palimpsest.

Cedric watched grimly from his seat on the couch. He doubted that anything could make him feel better.

Unfolding its cleverly hinged sections, extruding carbon-fiber struts, cantilevering, snicking together in Lego-block fashion, tapping compressed air cylinders and flexing plastic muscles, the suitcase bloomed like a newborn foal struggling to its legs. In under thirty seconds, a padded massage table—fairylike, but capable of supporting the heaviest client—stood waist-high where the suitcase had rested.

“Oh, no, Caresse, I’m not in any mood for a massage—”

Caresse Gadbois advanced toward the professional stage where she relieved the daily somatic tensions of her eternally on-the-go clientele—in a resolutely nonsexual manner. Licensed and bonded, Caresse had attended school for two years and apprenticed for an equal period before establishing her own practice. She was one of tens of thousands of traveling masseuses who helped the a-som society function.

“The hell with that shit, boyfriend! That’s your toxins talking. I don’t know what’s bothering you, but whatever it is, it won’t seem quite so bad after a massage. Strip, pal, and get on the table. What’s the point of having a masseuse for a girlfriend if you can’t get a nice backrub for free anytime you need one?”

Caresses mildly accented voice—her family hailed from Haiti, having legally emigrated to America during Caresses youth, when their island nation became a U.S. protectorate—worked its usual voodoo magic on Cedric. He undressed down to his boxers as Caresse removed various lotions and balms from her large professional satchel.

On the table, Cedric relaxed under Caresse’s expert touch. His consciousness descended a notch, into that slightly hypnagogic microsleep which scientists theorized helped to permit continuous awareness. Still able to maintain an undemanding conversation, Cedric listened to an account of Caresses day and the various people she had helped, interjecting suitable affirmative comments at regular intervals.

Admittedly, Caresse’s ministrations did help to relieve some of the tension in Cedric’s frame. When she had finished, he rose from the table feeling that perhaps he was not totally doomed after all. While he dressed and Caresse convinced her massage table to resume its suitcase disguise, he said, “Caresse, honey, I have something to tell you. Unfortunately, it’s pretty bad news.”

Caresses typically cheerful attitude dissolved in a sober frown. “What is it, Cedric? You’re not sick, are you?”