James Knapp - State of Decay

Leaning back, I routed around my emergency systems and manually popped the last stim. A few seconds later, the aftershock backed off, but it threatened to come back, the worse for waiting.

Ice and grit crunched under the tires as I pulled out and aimed for the home office, which was the next best thing to home.

“…where it seems some number of revivors were impounded by the FBI,” the guy on the TV said. I was squatting on the floor of the jail cell with my head back on the bricks and leaned against the bars that penned the boys from the girls. My face and head throbbed like hell.

I opened my eyes and looked up through the bars at the TV on the wall, which showed the front of some building. Blues flashed, and a crowd pushed at a line of cops to try to get pictures.

“No official statement has been made,” the voice continued. “Witnesses, however, recorded the removal of several revivors…. No word on how many total were recovered, or what they were for, but this was clearly an organized raid on a major operation. Lead investigator Nicolai Wachalowski was not available for comment.”

“On the subject of revivors,” another guy said, “a bill that would allow corporations to utilize revivors to fill a portion of their manufacturing jobs, the so-called five-percent bill, was voted down yesterday by a fairly wide margin.”

I shut my eyes again, wishing at least the hangover would let up. The last thing I remembered from the bar was that I’d shot some pool with the guys. A bunch of college snots showed up at some point, rich-bitch fight groupies and pretty-boy wannabes. One thing led to another, I guess, and here I was, waking up in the slammer.

“How about that shit?” a voice said near my ear. I rolled my head against the bars that one of the college boys had sat down on the other side of. Pretty boy had a dark shiner under one eye, but besides that he had skin like a baby. His hair and clothes said he wasn’t from here and didn’t belong here.

“How about what shit?” I asked. He pointed at the TV, where some old guy with white hair pissed on about something.

“This is a requirement moving forward in order to remain competitive in the global market,” he said. “End of story. The bottom line is, the representatives are afraid of this bill because revivors don’t earn wages, so they don’t pay taxes, but what we are talking about here is a very small percentage of the overall workforce, even when compared to the percentage of overseas positions.”

“Big-business interests,” the news guy said, “including such corporate powerhouses as TeraSine and CyberTech, vow to continue pushing for what they are terming labor reform.”

“It’s bullshit,” pretty boy said.

“What the hell do you care?”

He shrugged. “Could affect you.”

“If those assholes give all the shit work to dead guys, I’ll be screwed—that it?”

“Well, it didn’t pass,” he said.

“Score one for tier three.”

I was hoping he’d beat it, but he didn’t. Out of one eye, I could see him looking at me.

“You’re Calliope Flax,” he said.

“It’s Cal, asshole.”

“Right, Cal.”

“What do you want, an autograph?”

“I’ve seen you fight.”

“You watch the chick fights?”

“I’ve watched you fight.”

“Most guys only tune in to silicone.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with how you look,” he said, and just like that, I’d had it with his smooth skin and his good looks. I clubbed the bars in front of his face and made him jump as everyone looked over.

“Settle down in there!” one of the guards yelled. The kid held up his hands.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up,” I said. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it.”

My head hurt and I was in no mood. He seemed to get it and stopped talking, but he stayed put. I thought I would hit the bunk, but I was too whipped to want to get up. He took something out of his sock. A phone, I thought. He kept it near his crotch and punched in numbers with his thumbs.

“They’ll take that,” I said.

“I know.”

He kept at it for a minute, then snapped it shut and stowed it back in his shoe.

“Call your mom?”

“Posted bail.”

“Yeah, right.”

“The code contacts a remote ’bot,” he said. “I send the GPS coordinates so it knows who to contact, then it contacts their server, looks me up, queries how much the fine is, and posts it over the wire. It’s instantaneous.”

I put my head back on the cement.

“You royalty?”

“Second tier.”

The way he talked, I had him pegged for tier one. Tier two meant he sold his ass to the man. His folks hadn’t bought him up yet. There was no way his pretty face would ever see a real fistfight, never mind a firefight.

“Good for you.”

“Luis Valle?” a guard called.

Still looking me in the eye, the college prick smiled. “That’s me,” he called back.

“You just got posted,” the guard said. “Let’s go.”

He winked at me. God, I felt like hitting him.

“Your people will get you out of here, right?” he asked.

“I don’t have people; I have Eddie,” I said. “If I’m still in here when the next fight comes, he’ll get me then, but I’ll get docked.”

“Valle, let’s go!”

He got up and went with the guard. Marko shot him a look when he went by, and like a little bitch, he smiled and gave him a wave. Dipshit didn’t even know where he was. He was a cat in the dog pound and so were his dumb friends, but at least they knew to sit still and shut up.

The cell door banged shut and it got quiet again, except for the TV. They were still going on about revivors; should they work, should they fight, and all that. It was the same shit as always. Who cared? At least so far, they couldn’t take you without your signing up, so why bitch? Those bastards took your money and got to say how much you counted and what you could do. They took down all there was about you, from your ID to your DNA, and they never asked once and no one ever said shit. Now people cared? Stick me up the ass all you want while I’m here, just don’t screw with me when I’m dead—what kind of sense did that make?

You didn’t have to sign up. The way I saw, if it bugs you, don’t sign. I hadn’t.

The guys in the other cell were off in a bunch by then, laughing and talking shit like how hard and in what way they’d bang the newswoman who had come on if they had the chance, which they never would. It was stupid, but the bars made me mad, like even though we were all in jail I had to be in the girl cell. They were all in there, and I was stuck on my side with two high- class bitches who cried the whole time. The guys didn’t want to look soft, so the only one who came over at all was the pretty boy who I didn’t even know. Perfect.

My eyes drifted back to the TV. A reporter stood near a black car parked on a side street. The camera cut and showed some rich Asian woman dead behind the wheel, covered in blood. “The suspected serial killer has struck yet again,” a voice on the TV was saying.

“Flax,” a guard called, and I looked up through the bars. He was a big guy, on his way to fat.

“That’s me.”

“Let’s go,” he said. I looked at the guys in the next cell, but no one was calling them out and they looked as clueless as me.

“What for?” I asked.

“Today.”

Things I might have done went through my mind as I got up and went to the guard, who slid open the door. No way would Eddie come for me and not them. It must have been something I did, which was a lot of things.