The Book of Eadie, Volume One of the Seventeen Trilogy Read online

  The naked waitress continued to serve her customers behind smoky text, which was rearranging itself into the requested format. The music continued playing in his mind. Lawrence found his place:

  FAMILY RESTORATION INITIATIVE

  Section 4. Maintenance of Parents Act (MPA)

  Mandates care for elderly household members.

  History

  Collapse of private insurance and public welfare systems.

  Advances in mass production of human maintenance equipment made maintenance practical for common people.

  Rewards (Tax Benefits) for families/corporations in compliance

  Large Corporations: Connected to corporate brain trust; more limited tax advantage to corporate host.

  Small Corporations and Individual families: Connected to Public Brain Trust, data for official use, higher tax advantages.

  Enforcement

  Household Inspection by Federal regulators conducted on random basis to ensure compliance.

  Punishments for those families failing to provide adequate care.

  Fines and—

  Though the music was supposedly composed and arranged so as not to be distracting to workers, Lawrence found himself following the steady intonation more than the outline.

  Just look at this hairline

  see how my teeth shine

  Thanks to GenPrecision

  I’m gonna be fine

  I’m gonna get mine

  Best of ten di-vi-sions …

  He sensed two buzzes in rapid succession, as if the air between his face and the text was spontaneously producing its own turbulence. It was the illusion the EI created for him, to let him know it was working in intercom mode. “Sir?” Betty said. “Your mother.”

  “Proceed, Betty.”

  “Sett?” his mother’s voice called. It was his nickname, meaning “seven” in some dead language.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Dinner time. Come downstairs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lawrence mentally reached toward the EI again. “Mark page, stop projection, shut down.”

  “Shutting down, sir.” The outline and waitress’ image blinked out and the music stopped.

  “Oh, no. Wait, Betty. Close each file and then shut down.”

  The EI had already disconnected. His parents were waiting. He ran downstairs, where he was apparently the last of his family to make an evening stop at the synthesizer. Along with the antihistamines, focus and retention compounds, mood stabilizers, anti-fatigue medications and acid-control drugs everyone took at this time of day, Lawrence’s dose currently included an anti-spasm medication for his stomach, a migraine preventative and a muscle relaxant. The exact formulation would be automatically adjusted with each alteration to the official standard of care, so no thought or intervention was required. The synthesizer knew best.

  In the kitchen, the maid had set out a casserole of synth fish and noodles and the family was already lined up: his father first, mother second, older sister Ani third. Lawrence took a plate in his turn, filled it and followed the others into the dining room. Though it was the societal standard for all upper-class families to have dinner together, in practice nearly everyone met virtually via EI because corporate schedules were so demanding, for workers and students alike. As one of the last families in the world to own its own business, Lawrence’s family was able to live more traditionally than any other he knew.

  Lawrence’s father had left his plate on the table and was standing near the door, staring at the empty space at the center of the living room, obviously watching some program.

  That his father was a consummate corporate leader was immediately apparent to anyone who saw him ever since he’d authorized his own Statusing, the process that induced a permanent state of full-body hairlessness through ingestion of a special chemical compound. Considered the highest possible honor in every organization, Statusing was only allowed when each superior in the corporate hierarchy signed off on it, for four levels up. As Chairman of the Board, his father had no superiors, so he had nominated himself to be Statused about five years ago. Once Lawrence’s Esteemed Uncle Darius, the corporate Medical Doctor, had authorized it, the synthesizer had produced a cup of bright red liquid. The whole family had watched him consume it, and by the next morning, he’d been completely and conspicuously hairless. Now all the world could appreciate how valuable and important Chairman Lawrence Williams Six was to his organization.

  The family all stood behind their chairs, waiting for him to return. Lawrence straightened his uniform but it still wasn’t as perfect as Ani’s, whose pleated blue skirt and white blouse were always crisp and immaculate. She smiled like their parents, too, showing as many teeth as possible. This affectation was to be expected with actual Accepted, but Ani hadn’t even been reconditioned, yet.

  His father suddenly turned and looked pointedly at Lawrence, gesturing with two fingers at his own wide, smiling eyes. Apparently his father wanted Lawrence to sync his EI with his own so they would be viewing the same site. The implant could establish this link instantaneously, identifying his father’s EI through an iris scan, but Lawrence’s EI was shut off. Did his father want him to watch this right now?

  “Projection off,” Williams Six said. He came in to sit at the table, shaking his head. Their mother sat next, then Ani, then Lawrence.

  “I was watching the news,” their father explained. “Another rogue scientist quit Amelix Integrations, just like Roger Terry did a few years ago. Walt Zytem’s getting harassed by the press again.”

  Lawrence didn’t need to open the file. He had studied the case last semester in his corporate goodwill seminar: Roger Terry, a scientist whose career had stalled because his research had led nowhere, had turned on his company, making outrageous claims in hopes of becoming famous and thereby striking out on his own. Walt Zytem was the high-profile CEO who had led Amelix Integrations to industry dominance through innovation and toughness. He had fought back hard against Terry and quickly dispensed with the scientist and his accusations.

  The elder Williams scowled. “People like Terry can’t contribute anything meaningful to the world so they just go screwing things up,” he said. “They’re nothing but parasites. Remember how he went on the news, saying the company had engineered some type of virus … he gave it a name where it was supposed to scare everybody …”

  “‘Slatewiper,’ sir.”

  Terry had actually called it by a different name, referring to families or mothers or something similarly benign and unmemorable. Some sensationalistic news people had invented the more dramatic name of Slatewiper, taken from the days when people had written on slate boards with gypsum chalk.

  “But it wasn’t a virus, sir, it was a fungus.”

  His father’s smile faded to open-mouthed shock.

  “Are you correcting your father, Sett?” his mother asked. Her face had lost its smile, too. Their stares felt like condemnation, a sentence issued for a horrible crime.

  “No … no, ma’am.” Lawrence looked down at his plate. “I just … I knew that Father would remember …”

  The table fell silent. Lawrence squirmed as the other three members of his family stared at him disapprovingly. “Yes. That’s right,” said the head of the household finally, still squinting at his son. “Of course, no other company would hire Roger Terry, so he went entrepreneur,” he said, grimacing around the word’s terrible taste. “Trying to make money by lecturing about the dangerous fungus and all of that.”

  “Yes, sir. He was an example to us in school of how turning on one’s company results in misery and ostracism. Of course nobody cared what he had to say, and he is presumed to have ended up among the Departed.”

  The dining room felt slightly colder, as if mentioning the Departed had stirred a frigid draft. It was the constant threat that hung over all those who God had blessed with power, resources, and success: That at any moment it might all disappear, forcing the family out into the horde of failed suburbanites and
corporate refuse, fighting for survival in the Zone. The elder Williams cleared his throat.

  “So now there’s a new guy doing the same thing, but I didn’t catch his name. He’s going around saying that Amelix has invented this series of injections for children … he called it the “Intelligence Cocktail,” I think, and claimed it would make everyone a genius.” He rolled his eyes.

  Lawrence copied his father’s eye roll. “Why would someone come up with a story like that, sir? If he’s looking for attention, why not concoct something that sounds more dangerous, like Roger Terry did?”

  His father shrugged. “I suppose he thinks this will be more believable. But who’s going to be upset about an intelligence cocktail? If they do make it, everyone will be brilliant and all our problems will be solved.” He glanced around the table and laced his fingers together over his plate. “Lord, I pray to you in my capacity as Chairman of the Board of Williams Gypsum Corporation and de facto head of this household. Thank you for selecting me to lead this successful company and family. We praise your wisdom and judgment in selecting all the leaders of our society. Thank you for allowing our company to provide us with this home, this food, this way of life. Amen.”

  Lawrence’s muttered “amen” was nearly drowned out by Ani’s, which she seemed to sing rather than say. Ani was always the favorite. She and their mother had the same slick, pastel yellow, shoulder-length hair and perfectly smooth, pinkish-gold, genetically tweaked skin, making them look like they had been carved from identical blocks of plastic. When their parents were incapacitated, Ani would inherit the house and the care of the elders, along with the associated tax breaks. Tonight Lawrence would find out about his own inheritance.

  Their father scooped up a forkful of food, chewing a quick bite. Their mother took one next. Ani remained frozen another moment, staring at the ceiling as if God himself were kissing her forehead. Finally her eyes rolled down enough to take in Lawrence, who stared at her from across the table. She nodded serenely, like a queen recognizing one of her subjects, and picked up her fork. Lawrence watched her chew, and finally swallow. Now everyone at the table could dine at leisure. Lawrence started eating.

  “Sett,” his father said, lowering his voice. “You know I went to McGuillian headquarters today.” The tiny gold halo of his father’s Accepted collar pin gleamed at Lawrence as he shifted in his chair.

  Lawrence’s breath quickened a little. An almost electric excitement bubbled up from inside him, straightening his spine and opening his eyes a little wider. “Yes, sir.”

  “Our company was always going to go to you, Sett, you know that.”

  Lawrence swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Three grades, Sett. I got you three whole job grades, right after your graduation and internship! And I’ll still run the company until the Lord calls me to another purpose.”

  Lawrence set down his fork. He tried to blink back the tears that were welling in his eyes, but his face felt numb. “Only three grades, sir? For our whole company?”

  His father set down his own fork, his eyes narrowing and his jaw tightening visibly. “You’re not pleased with what I’ve negotiated for you?”

  Kanazawa, Japan, 1490

  “It is time, sempai,” Sato Motomichi said to Akihiro, his cousin and mentor.

  Akihiro, who had been watching the assembled crowd, nodded and turned toward him. “You and your swords will be missed, Motomichi. Never has one shown such early promise as a student or served the daimyo with greater skill as a full samurai.”

  Sato’s gaze met his mentor’s. “My swords will stay behind,” he said. He looked out at the stage where he would soon commit seppuku, the ritual suicide reserved for members of his class. “It is as it should be.”

  “You performed as any samurai would have, young or old,” Akihiro said. He stared at the mass of observers again, narrowing his eyes. “Although few would have survived a solo attack on five warriors. It is a waste that we will lose you at this young age.”

  Sato hefted his wakizashi, the short sword with which he would soon end his life, now wrapped in ceremonial paper. “I regret only that my nineteen years must end with the dishonor of failure.”

  “Not failure. Political complications.”

  Sato glanced at the crowd. The front rows were filled with his daimyo’s most hated enemies. “I was there to deliver a message,” he said. “My duty was to make myself deaf to their insults.” He turned to face Akihiro for the last time.

  Akihiro’s smile was so slight that only another samurai would recognize it. “Instead you muted all five. A severed head cannot make insults.” He let the silence between them grow and then scowled at the restless audience. “Still, we lose in the end. Your life for those five is not a fair trade for our side.”

  Sato stepped with Akihiro onto the stage. “You taught me that a samurai is not to question his superiors. This is the daimyo’s order.” Akihiro held back as Sato seated himself before the writing desk and took up the brush. He focused on the brush, holding it lightly in his fingertips and deftly writing as the crowd looked on.

  disobedience

  let shame pass as life passes

  into nothingness

  Not a beautiful death poem, but fitting.

  He set the brush back in its place. Attendants carried away the desk. Sato lifted the wakizashi, the same weapon he had used to decapitate those five samurai. Now Akihiro would do the same for Sato with his katana, the long sword. A severed head cannot shamefully grimace in pain.

  Sato opened his kimono, aiming the tip of the wakizashi at the left side of his abdomen. He raised his chin. His face remained cold and hard.

  He thrust the blade into himself, its chisel point penetrating his taut abdomen as easily as if plunged into a still pool. He dragged it to the right across his body, releasing the life energy inside, fighting to keep his wrists straight as the tip of the blade met resistance. His insides came out, staining the robe and the area around him. His abdominal muscles twisted and cramped, his flesh tore and burned, oozing wet heat. A scream welled up from somewhere deep but he fought it down again. His face was steel, and he made no outward sound.

  Akihiro’s katana swished behind him, and Sato passed into nothingness.

  McGuillian Diner, Chevron Boulevard, two blocks out of the Zone

  “See, Eadie?” Mr. Stuckey said, watching the customers as they hung their coats and umbrellas. “You’re still my good luck charm. Every shift you work, the place gets packed. Look at that guy.” He nodded his white-fringed, balding head at a thin, bearded, drunk man in raggedy clothes whose wild graying hair hung down from a stocking cap, obscuring his eyes and a good portion of his face. “He’s obviously not working for the company, not a student in one of the company colleges. You bring in the general public, right off the street. Corporate loves that, taking in real money instead of just credits from inside the umbrella. Every bit helps.”

  Eadie tied on her frayed white apron, smiling at him. Thunder rumbled outside. “You’ve told me that so many times, Mr. Stuckey, sometimes I believe it’s true. Now you’ve got me thinking about it in other places, too. I’ll be standing in line someplace, and all of a sudden it’ll seem really crowded.” She shook her head, laughing a little. “But with seventeen billion people on the planet, that’s not so surprising … the world is a crowded place.”

  He winked. “Believe it. It’s true. I’ve seen enough to know you’re special. If the world was still the way it used to be, I’m sure you could’ve done great things.” He leaned back, looking at her. “There’s something about you that just draws people. All sorts of people, not just the young men in this place.”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Maybe all sorts of people love short skirts, sir.” The hem on her corporate-mandated uniform was so far above her knees that it tended to flash her corporate-mandated white synth-cotton panties several times a shift. “Anyway, I’m sure they could overcome it with a little willpower.”

  The old man’s e
yes looked into hers. “Will?” he asked. “There’s no such thing as free will anymore. Don’t know that there ever was.” His smile disappeared. “Would any of us do what we do if it were truly up to us?”

  She stared back, surprised by his sudden and uncharacteristic grimness.

  He shrugged off his serious expression and gestured toward the puddles on the floor. “Oh, that rain. People don’t know. If a person gets wet in the rain, the acid’s not so bad. Maybe you get a little rash, it goes away in a day or two. But my floor gets soaked over and over, damaged a bit more every time. Corporate folks never understand that when they come in here—I’m always getting downgraded because they don’t appreciate wear and tear.”

  Eadie nodded. “How could they know, sir? They work in those beetle buildings in the Central Business District. With the wind rolling over the round tops and each building lifting itself up to keep out of the floods, people in there probably don’t even know it still rains outside sometimes.”

  Mr. Stuckey grimaced and rolled his eyes toward one of the cameras above their heads. He mouthed the word, “Careful.”

  Eadie shrugged, raising her eyebrows and grimacing back, mouthing, “Sorry!”

  “You know, Eadie,” he said, faster and louder than before, as if he could cover up Eadie’s earlier comment with his words. “When I was a boy, back in the time of the dinosaurs, we used to have seasons—real seasons, where it’d be mostly hot for a couple months, then cooler for a few, then cold … like that. You used to be able to know what kind of clothes to wear, not just for a day, but for weeks and weeks together.”

  “I can’t imagine being able to predict the weather like that, sir. Maybe for an hour or two, but for weeks?” She paused, noting all the spots where pools of rainwater had etched the floor tiles.

  “What are you, about eighteen?”

  “I was eighteen sir, that’s right. I was eighteen last year.”

  “Ah, nineteen, then. I was about that age when I realized there weren’t ever going to be seasons anymore. That was after the crop plants failed but before the toxics gave it up … nearly ninety years ago …” He shook his head. “No going back to that, I suppose. Now, you’d better take care of some of these customers you’ve brought into our diner tonight.” He nodded at the drunken, bearded man. “Why don’t you start with your non-corporate friend, there?”