Walter Mosley - Futureland - Nine Stories of an Imminent World

The hazards were many, but one was worse than all the others. He could see that maybe he would never get caught, or that he would only get caught after some years of working with Oura, Athria, and Blue Nile — but unprotected sex with a woman who was obviously well versed in intercourse of all kinds was like playing Russian roulette with five loaded chambers in the gun.

Still Neil could not deny Nina. He wasn’t attracted to her but he was lost in the face of her sexual hunger. Her passion for his body and hers made him submissive to the point that he would allow her to hurt him rather than pull away. Her orgasms and lewd suggestions stayed in his mind all the time. He dreamed about her and found himself waiting for her to arrive every night.

One night she didn’t come and he didn’t sleep at all. The next day he shunned her when she came to talk to him; he walked away from her when she tried to join him for lunch. That night she rang his buzzer and he didn’t answer for five minutes.

“Why you actin’ like that?” she asked when he finally let her in.

“I thought you were through with me,” he said.

“Just ’cause I didn’t come one night? What did you think I was doin’?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah you do. You know what you think.”

“I thought you were with another guy.”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I was with two men...”

Neil fell back a step when she said this. His right eyelid began twitching.

“... they was at the Conga Club. Two friends in town on business. They came up to me while I was havin’ a drink and said if I wanted to go to their room. Said they was from Florida City, that they wanted to do one girl. It’s okay, though, I made ’em wear rubbers, double rubbers.”

“Why don’t you let... have me wear a rubber?”

“ ’Cause I know you’re safe, baby. I read your meds ’fore I took you to bed.”

“What about me? I haven’t read your records.”

Nina cupped Neil’s face between her hands. She leaned in close and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I wouldn’t put you in danger, honey. I wouldn’t hurt you at all. An’ them two men didn’t mean nuthin’ to me. They back down south now, braggin’ about what’s yours.”

Neil sat down on the bed and pressed his palms against his eyes. The darkness was laced with red veins.

“You sick, honey?” Nina asked.

“No.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

Neil felt her hands on his shoulders, her weight leaning against his back.

“Talk to me, Neil.”

He tried to answer but he couldn’t. Nina began to rock him gently forward and back. Her fingers massaged his scalp.

“You got curly hairs,” Nina said. “Somebody in your family Irish or Greek?”

“I used to get in trouble,” Neil said. “In school.”

“What kinda trouble?”

“I wouldn’t do anything. I wouldn’t listen or answer questions or do homework.”

“How come you didn’t?”

“I don’t know. One of my teachers, Miss... I mean M Lassiter, said to my mother that she thought I had ideas of my own. She wanted me to go to the Ben Franklin Academy. But that cost too much and Mom was mad, so she put me in proded ’cause I didn’t obey.”

“Your mother did that?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that why you sad?”

“I’m not sad, I’m just quiet,” he said. And then, “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you, Nina?”

“No. I said I wouldn’t.”

“And I believe you.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

“I never believed anybody before. Nobody. Not my mother, not my friends.”

Nina hugged Neil and pressed her head against the back of his neck.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“In my head it is,” Neil whispered. “But in my heart I’m more scared than if you buried me alive.”

At six that same morning Neil approached the Middle First Avenue entrance of General Specifix. He rode the glass elevator, using his thick identity card on the GEE-PRO-9 door.

“Hi, Neil,” Marva called from the upper tier. She was the only one there, smoking her illegal tobacco and coughing.

Neil caught a whiff of the smoke in the air but he didn’t care. He went directly to the UC room and logged onto the red controller screen. He entered his name and the forty-seven-digit number Blue Nile had given him, offered up his handprint, and initiated the search. Only when the record appeared before him did he stall. He didn’t know if there was some kind of special code that one might need to alter the EPR, employee permanent record. He worried armed security guards would come out from some secret doorway and drag him away to a private prison without even a trial.

“M Hawthorne,” he imagined some corporate official saying to his mother. “Your son contracted the new strain of Ebola C virus. In accordance with the emergency laws enacted by the mayor we had no choice but to immediately cremate his remains.” He would hand Neil’s mother an urn with ashes gathered from a Midwestern dog pound and she would cry and ask who was the beneficiary of his insurance policy.

Then the red sun began to emerge from the Brooklyn skyline.

With light came the feeling of space. Neil looked out over the city and then erased the D-marks for fainting and lack of concentration. Nothing happened. When he deleted the contents of the diagnosis box the recommended dismissal automatically disappeared and the Penalty Screen was replaced by an aqua Merit Screen. Here Neil wrote that he had shown great skill and had been promoted to the seventh tier. He worked well with his chain mates, he took initiative in his tasks without causing trouble on the line. This automatically evoked recommendations for a raise and promotion. Then he switched over to the Policy Screens and changed the beneficiary from his mother to Nina Bossett.

“M Hawthorne,” a voice said from the doorway behind him.

The young prod leapt to his feet and spun around. He decided to fight the security guards, to die rather than go to prison.

“What’s wrong, Neil?” Marva Monel asked. “I just wanted to know if you were ordering lunch.”

“No,” Neil said, trying to unclench his fists. “I’m just working in here.”

“Did my smoke bother you?”

“No. No. I guess I just like being alone awhile in the morning.”

The older woman smiled. “Me too. That’s why I come in here so early. I love looking down on the big table while I’m entering protocols. It makes the work seem better somehow.”

“Yeah,” Neil said. “Yeah, exactly.”

After Marva left Neil entered his updated EPR into the General Specifix permanent database. A feeling of great calm came over him. He celebrated by opening a blank chip template. He had decided that he would create a new chip for the transmission and reception of data between an as yet nonexistent device and the brain. He had never created a processing chip before. He was taught in prod-ed that only a prod with five years of post-prod-ed had the ability to encode the millions, sometimes billions, of binary instructions necessary to achieve an independent function.

But Neil had learned from Un Fitt that the major logic designers had developed a giant subroutine database that had hundreds of millions of entries categorized by function, size, speed, and compatibility with other subroutines. All Neil had to do was to think of a function and then ask the system to search according to his parameters.

This system, Un Fitt had said in an early communication, was originally developed for general use by HI, Hackers International, but had been co-opted by MacroCode Corporation in a hostile event toward the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century. This database, a closely guarded secret, was updated hourly with logics created in-house, bought from external sources, or stolen.