Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! (43 page)

Best not to describe the bus-ride to the recruitment center in too much detail. They packed us like cattle, and some of the more dosed trustafarians freaked out, and at least one tried to pick my pocket. I held Sissy tight to my chest, her hat and jacket squashed between us, and murmured soothing noises at her. She had fallen silent, shaking into my chest.

A hundred years later, the bus rolled to a stop, and a hundred years after that, the doors hissed open and the trustafarians tumbled out. I waited until the rush was over, then led Sissy off the bus.

“What's going on, Lee?” she said, finally. She had a look that I recognized—it was the cogitation face I got when I started chewing on a work-problem.

“Looks like the frères have decided to draft some new recruits. Don't worry. I'll get it sorted out. We'll be out of here before you know it.”

A group of frères was herding the crowd through two doors: the women on one side, then men on the other. One of them moved to separate Sissy from me.

“Friend, please” I said. “She's scared. She's my mother's niece. I have to take care of her. Please. I'd like to see the CO. Commandant Ledoit is a friend of mine, he'll sort it out.”

Pierre made like he didn't hear. I didn't bother offering him a bribe; a grunt like this would like-as-not take all your money and then pretend like he'd never seen your face. The ones in the power-armor were the elite, with some shred of decency. These guys were retarded sadists.

He simply pulled Sissy by the arm until we were separated, then shoved her into the women's line. I sighed and comforted myself with the fact that at least he hadn't kicked me in the nuts for mouthing off. The women were marched around the corner—to what? They had their own entrance? Sissy vanished.

It took an effort of will to keep from smoking while I queued, but I had a sense that maybe I'd be here a long time, and should hold onto them. A shuffling eternity later, I was facing a sergeant in a crisp uniform, his jaw shaved blue, his manner professionally alert.
“Bon soir,”
he said.

On impulse, I decided to pretend that I didn't speak French. I needed any leverage I could get. You learn that in my line of work.

“Uh, hi.”

“Your name, m'ser?” He had a wireless clipboard whose logo-marks told me it had been liberated from the Wal-Mart on the Champs Ellipses.

“Lee Rosen.”

He scrawled quickly on the board. “Nationality?”

“Canadian.”

“Residence?”

“30 Rue Texas, No. 33.”

The sergeant smiled. “The Trustafarian Quarter.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“And you, are you a trustafarian?”

I was wearing a white linen suit, my hair was short and neat, and I was in my early thirties. No point in insulting his intelligence. “No, sir.”

“Ah,” he said, as though I had made a particularly intelligent riposte.

The hint of a smile played over his lips. I decided that maybe I liked this guy. He had style.

“I'm a researcher. A freelance researcher.”

“Jean-Marc, bring a chair,” he said in French. I pretended to be surprised when the goon at the door dropped a beautiful chrome-inlaid oak chair beside me. The Sergeant gestured and I sat. “A researcher? What sort of research do you do, M'ser Rosen?”

“Corporate research.”

“Ah,” he said again. He smiled beneficently at me and picked up a pack of Marlboros from his desk, offered one to me.

I took it and puffed it alight, and pretended to be calm. “I haven't seen an American cigarette my whole time in Paris.”

“There are certain … advantages to serving in the Pro-Tem Authority.” He took a deep drag. He smiled again at me. Fatherly. Man, he was good.

“Tell me, what is it that you are called upon to research, in your duties as a freelance corporate researcher?”

What the hell. It was bound to come out eventually. “I work in competitive intelligence.”

“Ah,” he said. “I see. Espionage.”

“Not really.”

He raised an eyebrow dubiously.

“I mean it. I don't crouch in bushes with a camera or tap phones. I analyze patterns.”

“Yes? Patterns? Please, go on.”

I'd polished this speech on a million uncomprehending relatives, so I switched to autopilot. “Say I manufacture soap. Say you're my competition. Your head office is in Koniz, and your manufacturing is outsourced to a subcontractor in Azerbaijan. I want to stay on top of what you do, so I spend a certain amount of time every week looking at new listings in Koniz and its suburbs. I also check every change of address to Koniz. These names go into a pool that I cross-reference to the alumni registries of the top-hundred chemical engineering programs and the index of articles in chemical engineering trade-journals. By keeping track of who you're hiring, and what their specialty is, I can keep an eye on what your upcoming projects are. When I see a load of new hires, I start paying very close attention, and then I branch out.

“Since you and I are in the same business, it wouldn't be extraordinary for me to call up your manufacturing subcontractor and ask them if they'd be interested in bidding on certain large jobs. I set these jobs up such that I can test the availability of each type of apparatus they use: dish detergent, hand-soap, lotion, and so on. Likewise, I can invite your packaging suppliers and teamsters to bid on jobs.

“Once I determine that you are, for example, launching a line of laundry detergent in the next month or so, I am forearmed. I can go to the major retail outlets, offer them my competing laundry detergent below cost, on the condition that they sign a six-month exclusivity deal. A few weeks later, you roll out your new line but none of the retailers can put it on their shelves.”

“Ah,” the sergeant said. He stared pensively over my shoulder, out the door, where a queue of trustafarians waited in exhausted silence. “Ah,” he said again. He turned to his clipboard and I waited while his stylus scritched over its surface for several minutes. “You can take him now. Be gentle to him,” he said in French. “Thank you, M'ser Rosen. This has been educational.”

They dumped me in a makeshift barracks, a locked office with four zonked-out trustafarians already sleeping on the industrial gray carpet. I rolled my jacket into a pillow, stuck my shoes underneath it, and eventually slept.

I was wakened by sleepy footfalls in the hallway, punctuated with the thudding steps of power-armor. I was waiting by the door when a frère in power-armor unlocked it and opened it.

He hit the spotlights on his shoulder and flooded the room with harsh light. I forced myself to keep my eyes open, and stood still until my pupils adjusted. My roommates rolled over and groaned.

“Get up,” Power-armor said.

“Upyershithole,” one of the trustafarians moaned. He pulled his jacket over his head. Power-armor moved to him with mechanical swiftness, grabbed him by one shoulder, and hauled him upright. The trustafarian howled. “Motherfucker! I'll kick your ass! I'll
sue
your ass! Put me down!”

Power-armor dropped him, then surveyed the others. They'd all struggled to their feet. The one with the potty-mouth was rubbing his shoulder and glaring furiously.

“Vit'march,” Power-armor suggested, and followed us out into the corridor.

He wasn't kidding about the “vit” part, either. He moved us at brisk trot up the stairs, easily pacing us. When I came to Paree, this office-building had been a see-through, completely empty. A few years later, a developer had reclaimed it, renovated it, and gone bankrupt. Now it was finally tenanted. We finally emerged onto a roof easily six stories high, ringed with barbed wire, with a view of one of the cathedral domes and lots of crumbly little row-houses. Other conscriptees were already on the roof, men and women, but I couldn't find Sissy.

Burly frères were in position around the roof, wearing side-arms. Some stood on cherry-pickers raised several meters off the roof, with rifles on tripods. They swept the rooftop, then the street below, then the rooftop again. I wondered how they got the cherry-pickers onto the roof in the first place, then spotted a cluster of power-armored frères, and figured it out. These boys would just each take a corner and
jump.
Beat the hell out of block-and-tackle.

“You will queue up to receive temporary uniforms,” one of the power-armors broadcaster. I was right at the front of the line. A frère sized me up and pulled the zips open on several duffels, then tossed me a shirt and a pair of pants.

I hurried down the queue to a table laden with heavy, worn combat boots. They stank of their previous owners, and evoked a little shudder from me.

“Jesus-shit, are we supposed to fucking
wear
these?” The voice had a familiar Yankee twang. I didn't need to turn around to see that it was my roommate, Potty-Mouth. He was carrying his uniform under one arm, and holding the other one at his side, painfully.

The smile vanished from the frère's face. He picked up the smelliest, most worn pair, and passed it to him. “Put these on, friend. Now.” His voice was low and dangerous, and his accent made the words almost unintelligible.

“I am
not
gonna 'poot zees ahn,' you fucking frog shit. Put 'em on yourself” Potty-Mouth looked to be about twenty, maybe a year older than Sissy, and he had a bull's neck and thick, muscular arms, and gave off a road-rage vibe that I associate with steroidal athletes. He dropped the uniform and picked up one of the boots, and pitched it straight into the frère's face, with a whistling snap that sliced the air.

The frère plucked it from the sky with chemically-enhanced reflexes and shot it right back at Potty-Mouth. It nailed him square in the forehead.

Potty's head snapped back hard, and I winced in sympathy as he crumpled to the ground. I stepped away, hoping to melt back into the crowd. The Sergeant from the night before blocked my way, along with the frère who'd thrown the boot. “Get him out of the way, M'ser Rosen,” the Sergeant said.

“We can't move him,” I extemporized. “He might have a spinal injury. Please.”

The Sergeant's smile stayed fixed, but it grew hard, and a little cruel. “M'ser Rosen, you are a new recruit. New recruits don't question orders.” The frère who'd thrown the boot cracked his knuckles.

I grabbed Potty-Mouth under his dripping armpits and hauled him over the gravel, trying to support his head and biting back the urge to retch as his sweat poured over my hands. At this rate, I'd be out of steri-wipes in a very short time.

I wiped my hands off on his shirt and crouched next to him. The trustafarians were reluctantly removing their clothes and putting them into rip-stop shopping bags with Exxon logos, shivering in the cold. Women frères did the girls—still no sign of Sissy—and men did the boys, all nice and above-board. A frère came over to us, dropped two bags, and said, “Strip.” I started to protest, but caught the eye of the Sergeant, standing by one of the cherry-pickers.

Resignedly, I stripped off my clothes and bagged them, then bagged my uniform along with them, and sealed it shut.

“This one, too,” the frère said, kicking Potty-Mouth in the ribs.

Potty-Mouth jerked and grunted. His jaw lolled open. I began to mechanically strip Potty-Mouth of his stinking neoprene and spandex muscle-wear. I was beyond caring about microbes at this point.

The frère watched me, grinning all the while. I wondered how I ended up babysitting this spoiled roid-head, and stared at my feet.

Four frères in power-armor sailed onto the roof from the road below, carrying an ambulance bus at the corners. They set it down, popped the doors, and a cadre of white-coated medics poured out. The one who impersonally groped my balls for hernias and stuck me with several none-too-sterile needles needed a shower, and his white coat could've used a cleaning, too. When he bent over to check out Potty-Mouth, his pocket bulged open and I saw a collection of miniature bottles of Johnnie Walker Red. He popped me in the shoulder with some kind of mutant staplegun that stung like filth. “What's wrong with this one?” he asked me, speaking for the first time.

“Maybe a concussion, maybe a spinal. I think his shoulder's dislocated.”

The medic disappeared into the bus for a moment, then reemerged in a leaded apron, and lugging a bulky apparatus. I realized with a start that it was a portable x-ray, and scrambled to get behind him. “No spinal, no concussion,” he pronounced, after a long moment's staring into the apparatus's eyepiece.

“Okay,” the medic said to himself, and made a tick on a wireless clipboard.

The medics bugged out the way they'd come in, and the frères withdrew with rapid, military precision, up the cherry-pickers.

I had a pretty good idea of what was coming next, but it still shocked a curse from my lips. The frères in the cherry-pickers all harnessed up giant blowers and turned loose a stinging mist of sinus-burning disinfectant down on us. Trustafarians, male and female, screamed and ran for the barbed wire, then turned and ran back into the center. Above me, I heard the frères laughing. I stood my ground and let myself get soaked once, twice, a third time. I was about to make sure that Potty-Mouth was lying on his side when he groaned again and sat up. “Fuck!” he shouted.