200 years later
‘Can anyone here read?’ Gerry Feldman said. He knew these small-time, low-life Stoners, and he doubted if any of them could.
The twelve Stoners cast each other nervous glances. Gerry pitied them. They wore brown fabric rags held together with straps and buttons. Ugly, compared to his bright red Cardinal’s robe. ‘Anybody?’
A middle-aged bald man, his once black, now-greying eyebrows thick and bushy, stepped out of the pack. The leader, Gerry presumed. His dark brown eyes watched Gerry intently. ‘I can… read.’
‘Ah, good. What does that say?’ Gerry pointed at the phrases stacked above the entrance to the Idea Factory.
THE MARKETS NEED TO WORK
PEOPLE SHOULD BE HAPPY
SOMETIMES MAYBE IGNORANCE IS BLISS
The man said the words.
‘Do you know who said them first?’ Gerry asked.
‘L-Lisa Conway,’ the man stuttered.
‘Yes! That’s right! The wise and everlasting Lisa Conway. That’s very good.’ He beamed over the group. They shuffled their feet, but they couldn’t shuffle far, given that their ankles were bound with pink, furry FunCuff® manacles. ‘Those words are the founding principles of the Global Administrative System, in which we all live so happily today.’ The Stoners grimaced. ‘This is Idea Factory #342. We’re a subsidiary of Catholicism Inc, which is subsidiary of Reality Inc, the largest corporation the planet, Winston Locks, global CEO, chairman and founder. Mr Morgan Morgans is the local CEO. Morgan is Mr Locks’ right-hand man. Important guy, but a nice guy, when you get to know him.’ Gerry rubbed his hands together. He loved preaching to an audience, even a captive one. ‘So. What else do you know about Lisa Conway?’
‘D-d-dead,’ the man said.
‘No! I mean, yes. I mean, sort of. She was killed, you mean. At least, everyone thought so. That’s great. You’re doing very, very well.’
‘M-myth,’ the man stammered.
‘Myth? What do you mean?’
‘Myth,’ he said, this time clearly. ‘Conway. Just… story. High-timers use. Keep us down.’
They stared at each other. The words bounced around the inside of Gerry head, and he couldn’t quite grasp them. Story? Keep us down? What? ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Gerry said finally. The man glanced back at the others. A tiny smirk twisted the corner of his mouth.
‘Well.’ Now it was Gerry who shuffled his feet. ‘Let me say up front that I don’t usually do these tours. It’s Simon who does them. Do you know him? The televangelist?’
Their faces brightened. Oh yes, of course, everybody knew Simon Siegel, the great faith-based entrepreneur. Nobody knew poor little Gerry Feldman. His cheeks burned.
‘We see… him?’ the man asked, his face shining with eagerness.
‘No,’ Gerry said. ‘You see, I’m filling in.’
‘Filling in,’ the man repeated.
‘Yes. Simon’s working on the Religion Shift right now. Some secret project or another, won’t tell me what, above my pay grade, apparently. He asked me to fill in. So you won’t be seeing him… I’m afraid.’
They all looked down at their dirty sandals, disappointed. It was well-known that Savior Simon Siegel, out of his own fat pocket, would sometimes upgrade a tour group member from the Stone Zone to full Golden Zone status — ‘bless’ was the word — with cheers and laser-lights and music and dancing Sexics and Peppermint Fudge Swirl Jesus Holy Cookies, the whole big show. The FunCuff manacles would pop off and the guy would jump around like a maniac, screaming and shouting, his frenzied joy carried live by BotCam across the Golden Zone. He’d get his NanoBot quota, and the tiny flying robots would all group together to carry him off to an InstaMansion someplace in the Burps where he’d immediately blow his Goldie signing bonus on the blondest, biggest-boobed Sexic he could afford. Sometimes, a Stoner couldn’t handle it. After frolicking with the Sexic for a while, he’d have an attack of the Fundies and start screaming about God. His NanoBots would hear him, and send off the incriminating evidence to the PoliBots. He’d be automatically downgraded, loosing his Goldie status. Winged MiliBots shaped like steel eagles would descend from the sky and pack him off, screaming and cursing, back to the Stone Zone. NanoBots would film it all, and Goldies would watch by the millions, laughing and clapping. The ratings were killer.
Gerry wondered if any of these low-lifes would have an attack of the Fundies. These Stoners likely used their entire, pitiful, 2-hour-a-day life savings for this tour, just on the off chance that the Savior might come wandering by to ‘bless’ them and deliver them to paradise. They knew where his mother came from, so they expected a certain sympathy. But with Gerry Feldman leading the tour? No bless, no paradise, maybe a little sympathy but that was all, and they knew that. Gerry felt his throat tighten. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have Simon’s time to blow, or his off-the-charts commercial prowess. ‘So you’re stuck with me!’ His cheerful voice fell hard against the stone under his feet. They feigned desultory smiles. Someone in the back groaned.
‘Wait,’ the man said. He pointed at Gerry’s red and white robes. ‘You are religious man?’
He felt a flush of pride. ‘Yes, actually,’ he said. ‘I’m a Cardinal Deacon in the Catholic Church.’
‘You can convert us?’
Shit. They wanted a conversion. Gerry saw the whole scenario. If they could get converted to Catholicism Inc, they’d probably get enough points to upgrade to Iron Zone status — not the nicest place in the world, a fairly nasty miserable place in fact where the life expectancy was that of your average tapeworm, but far preferably to the Stoner shit-pit they were all buried in now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t convert you.’
‘Why not?’ The man’s voice was firmer now. Stronger. He seemed to be taller.
‘I’m only a temporary Cardinal Deacon,’ Gerry said. ‘For a year.’
‘So… it is not true.’
‘It is true, I’m just not permanent. It’s like, I’m a consultant. Actually, I am a consultant. Usually I work on the Paradigm Shift. I make paradigms, axioms, did-ya-knows, mottos, memes, B2B productivity boosters, you name it. I’ll give you five reasons to get out of bed in the morning, all for a reasonable price.’ He smiled his best Shift smile. The Stoners stared, their mouths open. ‘But there was, like, this game show, and I happened to be a guest on it, and I won, very proud, thank you thank you, and my grand prize was a Showcase Surprise, and the curtains parted, and it turned out that the big Showcase was… being a Cardinal. For a year.’
The man tilted his head, watching Gerry like a dog. ‘Showcase surprise?’
‘Yes. I was actually quite thrilled, but — ’
‘GERRY!’
That voice — deep, melodious, soothing…
He turned. Simon stood in front of the Idea Factory’s huge double-door entrance.
‘Hey Simon,’ Gerry replied.
The Stoners oohed and aahed. A few collapsed to their knees, including the older bald man in front.
The Religion Shifter took big strides towards Gerry, his long black hair blowing in the light wind. ‘I have great news. Today is a special day.’
‘Tuesday?’ Gerry said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Besides that.’
‘Wednesday?’
‘No, Gerry, it’s just Tuesday. A very special Tuesday.’
‘What’s so special it? Is the coffee half-price, or — ’
‘You shall see, Gerry. You shall see. This is the day when God’s plan will begin to unfold! Ah, ha!’ He threw back his head and raised his arms to the sky.
Gerry snickered. Simon was his overbearing self, as usual, his brown eyes earnest and intense. He was always putting on a show, even for twelve pathetic Stoners who couldn’t begin to afford the home-made, bespoke religion that Simon crafted for the superrich — high-end Goldies mostly, and even Platinum Zoners, floating in their sky-palaces above the clouds.
But behind the dogs and the ponies, Gerry detected something… sincere. With a start, he saw Simon’s hands shaking and his lips quivering as the Religion Shifter studied the clouds above, as if he was talking to himself. Come to think of it, Simon has been a little… what was the word… jittery, ever since he came back from that business trip to the Stone Zone. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Gerry asked. He gestured to the Stoners. ‘Drop the act. They can’t pay you.’
‘It’s not an act, my dear friend,’ Simon said, meeting his gaze, although his eyes were distant.
‘Yeah, right. What are you after?’
Simon seized him by the shoulders. ‘I want your soul.’
‘How much for it?’ Gerry said.
‘An eternity, my friend.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Gerry said. ‘Until then, a cool million upfront. No credit. No payment plan.’
He gave Gerry a sly look before turning to the Stoners. ‘My friends! My faithful! My saviours!’
‘Hey!’ Gerry protested. ‘My offer’s good!’
Simon raised his hands, the palms facing outwards. He loomed over the Stoners like a giant shield, wearing his light green Religion Shift robe with the gold trim of an Reality Inc rainmaker. The Stoners stared up at him, their faces glowing.
‘Bless us,’ the bald man said. ‘Please.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘You bless me.’ Simon lowered himself to his knees.
Gerry’s mouth dropped open. This was unheard-off. He glanced around, hoping that no one from any of the Shifts was looking. A stunt like this could get you demoted, or — far worse — deported, even if Simon was Reality Inc’s No. 1 draw in the Goldie belief market.
‘No,’ the bald man said. ‘You bless us.’
‘You bless me,’ Simon insisted.
‘You bless us. Raise us. Become like you. The Golden Zone. Eternal life. Big homes. Sweet food. Beautiful women. Holy Cookies — ’
‘No.’ The stern tone of Simon’s voice startled Gerry, and frightened the Stoners. ‘You bless me. Do it.’
With a shaking hand, the bald man muttered something under his breath that Gerry couldn’t quite hear, and touched Simon’s forehead.
‘Thank you,’ he said, standing up. ‘You honor me.’
‘Bless us,’ one of the Stoners whined.
‘We shall all be blessed,’ Simon said. ‘Sooner than you know. Just wait. Be patient. Respect your parents. Honor your women. Be merciful to your enemies. Say your prayers. For I will return to take you to paradise.’
The Stoners watched him in awe.
Gerry snorted. ‘What is this, discount day?’
Simon turned and grabbed Gerry again by his shoulders. ‘I need you to do the InstaMass today.’
‘What?’ Gerry said, shocked and squirming. ‘When?’
‘At noon, after the tour group leaves.’
‘But I don’t know how to do it.’
‘It’s automated. Just read the damn checklist. It’ll appear on the altar.’
‘But how — I’m not authorised — ’
‘You’re a Cardinal. You have all the authorization you need. C’mon! Don’t you think you should perform one stinking InstaMass, even if it’s only a few minutes long?’
The words stunned Gerry. ‘Well, I… um. Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.’ Performing the InstaMass was a prestigious job in the Idea Factory, he thought. Viewers numbered in the thousands. It would certainly earn a few hours of time, and that was just from the ratings. It might even get him noticed, perhaps by that Isabel, an orange-robed Triller on the third floor. Several times a day, he stared up through the glass at her big hot bottom, and groaned. ‘Sure… thanks. Thanks very much. But… why?’
‘Don’t ask.’ Simon’s brown eyes held his. The pupils dilated, as if feverish. ‘But you know, don’t you?’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. Deep down. You know why.’
‘What?’
‘Death is the new life,’ he breathed.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He pressed an index finger against Gerry’s chest. ‘There’s nothing inside you,’ he said.
‘Ow! Stop that!’
‘There’s nothing inside you, Gerry.’
‘There’s guts,’ Gerry said.
Simon sighed. ‘Yes… no. Look. I’m saying, there’s a empty spot inside you that’s crying out to be filled.’
‘With what?’ Gerry asked. ‘Pizza?’
Simon scowled and walked past him.
‘You haven’t been the same since you got back from the Stone Zone,’ Gerry said.
‘That’s the truest thing you’ve ever said,’ Simon commented without turning around. He disappeared into the Factory.
Gerry watched him go. What had gotten into Simon? Maybe that Stone Zone trip really had affected him somehow. He was acting like he believed his own shtick. That was a bad sign. When people started believing their shtick, they sometimes lost their minds and went Stoner. Every once in a while, they killed themselves. And every once in a very long while, they killed a few other people and then killed themselves. Sort of a package deal. Off two people, off yourself for free. What a bargain. Still, he could never believe that Simon would go Stoner. That was crazy. Anti-commercial, even.
He turned to the Stoners. Their faces were pale, star-struck, amazed. Some were quietly weeping, their heads in their hands – all except for the middle-aged bald guy with the lined face, bushy eyebrows and the intense stare. His lips were pursed and his jaw tight as he looked at the ground. He’s getting ready to do something, Gerry thought. With a shiver, he turned. ‘Please follow me.’ He walked into the Factory and the Stoners followed, their pink furry manacles scraping against stone.
Inside was Big Red, a giant maroon hologram that filled the space between the marble floor and the vaulted arches high above. A dusting of virtual snowflakes fell, each intricate, crystalline, divine — all part of Reality’s Christmas run-up. Around him, massive stone columns rose like the legs of giant petrified beasts. An ancient Johnny Mathis tune played in the background. ‘There’s a birthday party at the home of Farmer Grey, it’ll be the perfect ending to a perfect day…’
Through Big Red, at the end of the — what was it called, he always forgot — nave, the white MegaVision stood like a huge elongated egg balanced on one end. Above the console rose a stack of nine glass-and-aluminum floors.
‘You see that?’ he said, stopping and pointing up at the glass building. ‘We call that the Tower. It holds eight of our Shifts, the biggest earners near the top. Each floor is a different shift. Each shift, different colour robes, based on a different emotion. The violet robes there? The Grim Shift, sadness and grief. Not our best shift. But there’s always an audience, believe it or not, people sitting at home crying all the time. A consistent revenue stream, if not the biggest earner. The Comedy Shift, blue, amazement and surprise. Clowns. Misdirection, it’s how you make ‘em laugh. The Hate Shift. Red. Anger, rage. Panders to people’s animosities, makes tons of time. A great shift, nice people, they treat their guys well. We call them Hatters. The Thrill Shift, orange robes. Trillers. They push thrills, anticipation, waiting for the big ride. Throwing themselves out of airplanes, stuff like that. Not my cup of coffee, but hey. Yellow, the Sex Shift. Joy, ecstasy. Everybody joins that shift once in a while, eh? Pimps, we call them. They don’t do it themselves, you understand. They just match consumers up with what they want. Light green, the Religion Shift. Trust, admiration. Simon’s Shift. You see?’ He pointed to a large, glass corner office on the sixth floor. It was dark and vacant. ‘That’s where he works. Nice view, huh? Must be pretty nice, up there. Sometime he looks down, and our eyes meet, and he waves. I wave back. Hey, Simon! Ha, ha. You wouldn’t believe the shit he sells. People will buy anything, trust me.
‘Then, dark green — you can see it, on that upper floor there — the Fear Shift. Freaks, we say. They scare the high holy time out of people. Near the top, just under the pink saucer against the ceiling. That’ actually that’s the room where the Governing Board meets on the 9th floor. Our local CEO, Mr Morgan Morgans, works in there. Anyway, all the brown robes underneath, on the 8th floor? See them? Disgust and loathing. The Prejudice Shift. Juddies, we say. They spend all their time convincing groups of people that everybody else is a beast or a bitch, or maybe just a good ol’ subhuman terror-monkey. That shift’s our best earner.
‘Now, I work a specialty shift, the Paradigm Shift, as a consultant. A boutique shift, you might say. Making businesses see things from a new perspective. They use it to shake up their profit models.’ He gestured across the nave. ‘That’s my desk, over there. Ground floor. I like to think, nowhere to go but up, you know?’ He smiled at the Stoners, but no one laughed. ‘Anyway. We have a few specialty shifts. There’s the Profanity Shift, the Story Shift, the Poetry Shift. We all make id-verts, a few hundred a day. The Factory supervisor, Mr Foreworth, approves them and send them out to over two billion subscribers. With automation, we can work up to ten thousand id-verts every — ’
The bald man jumped out of line. ‘I wan politic asylum!’ he yelled.
‘Here we go,’ Gerry said, throwing up his hands. He had seen it outside — the way the man had clenched his jaw, trying to work up the nerve. But asylum? That was a new one…
‘I wan politic — ’
‘I heard you,’ Gerry said, turning around to face the man. The other Stoners watched their leader, their eyes darting back and between and him Gerry. They were probably weighing their chances, wondering if they should try the same thing. ‘Everybody heard you. You have to wait for the supervisor.’
The white tower of the MegaVision console cracked and split apart. A tall, thin man with bushy-brown hair stepped down. He wore the black robe of a supervisor, and he rushed across the nave towards the group.
‘Mr Foreworth,’ Gerry said. ‘Uh… we have a…’
‘Sir,’ Foreworth said, walking past Gerry. He stopped in front of the man, big hands on skinny hips. ’You have already been screened. You have a single-entry, 30-minute visitor visa, and you cannot declare asylum here.’
‘Yes he can.’
The voice came from everywhere, a gentle female voice like a mother’s hand placed softly and warmly on the shoulder. Two Bots drifted from an alcove towards the group. Gerry marveled at them. He had never seen Bots like this before. ‘What the — ’
‘Back away,’ Foreworth whispered, pulling Gerry a few steps down the nave.
The first was a column of sparkling blue light that floated in front of the quivering Stoner. Inside the light, a series of interlocking transparent rectangles were stacked upon each other like a spiral staircase. Gerry recognized it. It was the symbol of the Stairway to Justice®, a legal philosophy that held that every single person deserved the amount of justice he or she could buy. The biggest-time Platties were at the top of the Stairway so they received the highest-quality justice. It was the sweetest, smoothest, juiciest justice in the world, and it could slip you out of any twist like grease from heaven. Stoner justice wouldn’t get you a free hug at Sexaholics Anonymous. The rectangles spun and tumbled in the column of light before freezing into place. One rectangle removed from the bottom turned a solid grey. The applicant was a small-time, low-life, slightly-less-dirty-than-mud Stoner, and this was the justice that he could afford.
The second Bot had eight long, thin, black insect legs. In the place of a body, a roll of black plastic was connected to a central hoop attached to the legs. It reminded Gerry of the rolls of paper that employees sometimes used to wrap Christmas presents. Floating in the space above the hoop was a large yellow Smiley face whose grin was frozen in cartoonish ecstasy.
‘What is this?’ Gerry whispered to Foreworth.
’The blue light is a JudiBot,’ Foreworth whispered back. ‘The other is a MiliBot, I think.’
Gerry gaped at the walking hoop. He had never seen a MiliBot before — not in the metal, anyway. Only through the Fog.
The Stoner stared at the column of sparkling blue light. ‘Help,’ he said, his eyes watering. ‘Help.’
The soft female voice drifted again into their ears. ‘Global Administrative System regulation 9.43, specifically mandated by the Wise and Everlasting Lisa Conway, states that any application for political asylum must be considered by the appropriate authorities.’
‘Ah wan politic – ‘
‘Beginning application. Part One. Particle Physics. What theory explains beta decay of a neutron by direct coupling of a neutron with an electron, an antineutrino, and a proton?’
The man just stared, his mouth open.
‘The question will be repeated once.’ The JudiBot spoke the question again. This time, the words got through.
‘Fermi,’ the man answered. ‘Fermi… interaction!’
‘Correct.’ A pleasant three-tone chime played while little orange and green fireworks erupted in the JudiBot’s blue light. ‘The Fermi theory of beta decay.’
Gerry raised his eyebrows, impressed. He had no idea what a Fermi theory was.
‘Part Two. Politics. Who is the President of the Golden Zone Parliamentary Assembly?’
‘Is… is… honor Fred Slark!’
‘The Honorable Frederick Slark. Correct.’ More chimes and fireworks erupted, louder and brighter than before.
Hot shame poured down Gerry’s spine. He would not have known the answer to that question, either. He and Foreworth exchanged glances.
‘Part Three. Personal Statement. Please state why you wish to be considered for asylum in the Golden Zone. You have 90 seconds.’
A red 90 appeared in the JudiBot’s blue light, and then the figures began counting down. 89… 88…
Between gasps and stutters, out poured a sob story — parents killed in conflict, orphanage, a doctor by trade, political revolutionary, imprisoned by a typically goonish Stoner warlord, torture, broke arm five times in the same place, wife and daughter raped in front of eyes, again and again, forced confessions, internment camp, please could you get his poor sick wife and his daughter’s body out too and yada yada yada.
… 2… 1… 0.
‘Thank you.’ The machine cut off the Stoner in mid-blabber. ‘Part Four. Extra credit. Probability roll. Please move your right hand as if to roll the dice.’ The image of two large die appeared in the blue light.
The bald man’s confused eyes met the supervisor’s. Foreworth sighed and threw his right hand out in front of him. ‘Do it!’
Bewildered, the Stoner mimicked Foreworth’s gesture with his own right hand. Within the JudiBot, the virtual die bounced around inside the shaft of dim blue light. In a moment they had come to a rest. Two fives, for ten. Now the JudiBot exploded in celebratory chimes, fireworks and cheers. ‘A double!’ The JudiBot exclaimed. ‘Bonus roll!’
Foreworth and The Predicament glanced at each other again. ‘What just happened?’ Gerry asked.
The supervisor shrugged. ‘It’s meant to introduce luck into the application process, to simulate real life. Like the accident of birth.’
‘You mean, this might work for him?’
Foreworth raised his eyebrows.
The Stoner grinned, taken in by the sounds and the flashes and the fun. He thrust his right hand outwards again. A four… and a one, together with a descending four-note cord and the moans of a human chorus.
‘Whoa,’ Gerry said.
‘Part V. Background Check. Please wait.’
The machine hummed for a moment.
‘This ends the application process. Thanks for playing!’
The blue light turned yellow. The rectangles collapsed into the ground, where they disappeared. The Smiley atop the MiliBot turned red and frowned.
‘Application denied. Prepare for immediate Stone Zone deportation. Thank you.’
The man’s FunCuffs popped off and fell to the floor. The MiliBot reached forward with its insect’s legs, grabbed the Stoner, and threw him through the black plastic hoop, forming a bag. The Stoner squirmed around inside. Both Bots moved floated down the nave towards the Tube Departure Room before disappearing around a column. Gerry heard the familiar flush of air as the yellows doors of the Chamber airlock opened and closed. ‘Merry Christmas, pal,’ he muttered.
The remaining tour group members turned to stare in silence at the space once inhabited by their leader. Foreworth grinned with a smile full of saccharine. ‘Would anyone else wish to be considered for political asylum?’
No one said a word.
‘Good.’
He nodded to Gerry.
‘I was going to take them up to the Profanity Shift, give them a few freebies, but now they only have a couple of minutes,’ Gerry said. ‘What do I do with them?’
‘Show them the video. You know, the history thing.’
‘Really? But — ’
‘Just take care of it, for Lisa’s sake.’ He started back towards the MegaVision.
Gerry sighed and turned to the Stoners. Their faces were long, tired, and miserable. ‘What a happy group,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘What do you say we watch a video, eh? You have videos in the Stone Zone, right? NanoBots, could we have some chairs, please?’
In the red light of Big Red, a translucent stool formed behind each Stoner. They jumped, and turned around to look. ’There’re not really chairs,’ Gerry said. ‘They’re NanoBots. They make a chair with their small bodies. Go ahead, sit down. It’s fine. They carry me home every day.’
With some trepidation, the Stoners sat, and the NanoBots caught them in the air. ‘Always say thank you,’ Gerry said. ‘NanoBots can get a bit angry if you don’t.’
‘Thank you,’ a few said.
Millions of tiny voices made a single faint reply.
… you’re welcome.
‘Big Red,’ Gerry said. ‘Play World War Episode 4, all the way up to the GAS bit.’
A rectangular screen appeared before the Stoners. Big Red’s smooth masculine voice provided narration over the ruins of cities filled with bones blasted black from radiation. ‘The year 2105. Nuclear annihilation. Disastrous floods. Space wars. Bad customer service. It seemed as if the world was ending…’
Gerry left the Stones staring at the vid, and walked back to his desk. Guillermo, a Story Shift employee, was at his desk, leaning forward towards his console and muttering to himself, his head hidden by grey cubicle walls. The Story Shifter often joked that he liked writing about people because he hated them so much. Gerry decided not to disturb him.
‘So where you been, you lazy little bitch?’ a sweet female voice said from his console. This was Marilyn, his console’s personality. Some Reality Inc exec had got the idea that harassing console personalities would boost productivity. Marilyn’s trash-talking had been the result. Gerry thought it almost charming. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.
‘Getcha punk ass moving, motherfucker.’
He sighed and looked over his desk at the Stoners. They’d barely entered the 2120s. ‘A new chapter in humankind’s sad history of intelligent savagery, the 2118-19 ‘Hyper-War’ pitted Imperial China against the United States of Real America. Both sides used tidal waves and urban flooding as environmental weapons…’
‘Marilyn,’ he said. ‘Let’s work.’
‘About time, pussy. They aren’t paying you to jerk off all over yourself.’
The light green diamond of the Paradigm Shift appeared above his console. It spun slowly in the air. ‘Open last paradigm,’ he said.
‘Old school, or being there, pussy?’
‘Old school.’
The diamond dissolved, replaced by two-dimensional words he could scroll through with a flick of his hand.
A single egg contains the secrets of the universe. An infinite darkness extends beyond the earth, but the essence of billions of years of history lies within the smallness of an egg. Look at one sometime. Feel its smoothness and study the perfection of its shape. No Bot crafted its design in some giant Amalgamator. An egg embodies the universal urge to creation. Things do not fall apart; they come together in love. The universe evolves towards ever more united forms of consciousness. That’s why dynamic and flexible business-to-business collaboration and consultation use synergies and ecosystems to boost revenue streams and harvest ahead-of-the-curve disruptive technologies using horizontal and transferable know-how coefficients, all while meeting and exceeding quarterly growth targets. An egg is the proof.
‘Mmmm, shit that good makes me wet,’ Marilyn purred.
He stared at the words, wondering what else he could add.
‘Hey, man,’ a gravelly voice said behind him. ‘You outta try writing stories sometime.’
‘Eh?’ Gerry turned. Guillermo was leaning back in his chair, staring at him, dark brown curls dangling.
‘Stories, man. You could write good shit. I know it.’
Gerry smiled. ‘You’re just saying that because if you bring me over to your Shift, you get a big fat bonus.’
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. Course I wanna fuckin bonus, man. But it’s still true.’ He leaned forward and whispered. ‘Hey, you want a story, man? Cause the stories I got, it’s good shit, I’m telling you. You read my shit, you be trippin, yo.’
‘Don’t push your dirty stories on me.’
Guillermo raised his hands, palm out. ‘Hey, sorry man. Brother’s gotta make a livin, you know? But I’m serious about movin over to Story. It’s easy work.’
‘Yeah? How is that?’ He glanced over to the Stoners. They stared at the video and Big Read droned on. ‘… what we now call the ‘Year of the Great Dying.’ Following the presumed demise of Lisa Conway, a super-intelligent, self-aware programme shuts down all sources of power generation. Large parts of the planet become lawless. Anarchy reigns. Billions starve…’
‘There’s only, like, eight fuckin stories, man. You just fill in the blanks. Story archetypes, people call em. There’s like, a monster story, or a quest, or a trag-gedy, or some kinda rebirth story, like, where somebody dies and is reborn or some shit. But here’s the thing. It’s really about character. You could have a great fuckin story, but no characters? Your story sucks, man. Nobody gonna buy that shit. Nobody want that shit. But if you got great characters? Sheeeeeeet. You don’t need no plot, no story, nothin, man. Cause people want to read about people, you know what I’m sayin?’
‘Interesting.’ The truth was that Gerry had always been curious about the Story Shift, with its potential to be more creative. On the Dime, he often felt like he was just churning out sausage. ‘So… how do you make these characters, or whatever they are?’
‘Tha’s easy man. Like stories. Filling in the fuckin blanks. There’s only, like, eight of em. There’s a trickster, a mentor, an ally, a herald — ’
‘What’s a herald?’
‘It’s like, somebody that tells the hero, ‘Hey asshole, you gotta change, or you gotta do something. Get off yo stupid butt. That kinda thing.’
‘Like Marilyn, here?’
‘No, man.’
‘You’re still a pussy,’ Marilyn said.
Gerry looked past his paradigm to check back in with the Stoners. ‘… Decades of recovery. The Bots discover the secret to human resurrection, and begin re-animating old humans to help re-populate the planet. Known as the Undead, or, more popularly, as ‘Undies’, they — ’
‘You listenin to me, man?’ Guillermo asked.
‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry. Go on.’
‘So there’s always a villain, and a hero.’
‘I’d like to be a hero,’ Gerry said.
‘Yeah? Well here’s the thing. The hero? He’s always tempted.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘It means that the bad guy says, ‘Hey buddy, join up with me and I’ll give you all kinds of cool shit.’
‘That sounds like a good deal,’ Gerry said.
‘Yeah, yeah. But the hero don’t take it, see. The hero resists the temptation.’
‘Why?’
‘You don’t sound like no fuckin hero to me,’ Guillermo said.
‘And you’ll always be a pussy,’ Marilyn said.
‘Sorry,’ Gerry said to Guillermo.
‘It’s nothing, nothing. Point is, yo yo, by resisting temptation, the hero proves that he’s worthy of being the hero. He’s, like, above cool shit, or Cookies, or time, or his own Plattie Palace that he can drive to fuckin Mars and back. He’s after somethin else, somethin higher. Not like, higher than Mars, I mean… meta-four-if-i-cally. You get that? You feelin me, bro?’
‘Yeah,’ Gerry said. ‘I think I do. So the hero resists… temptation, and gets what?’
Guillermo pursed his lips. ‘Sometimes nothin. Sometimes everythin. Sometimes he ends up dead. But he wins anyway, in the end, because he’s a worthy example for others. The fight lives on, see? And he usually ends up bangin a few smokin-hot Sexics, no matter what. Rubbin his face in big boobies, all that shit. So it’s a good deal, overall.’
‘I see,’ Gerry said, although he didn’t.
Guillermo leaned in further, and Gerry could feel the Story Shifter’s hot breath on his cheek. ‘Don’t you think that’s a good story? Eh? The hero who resists temptation?’
‘Yeah,’ Gerry said with a shrug. ‘I suppose it is.’
His console turned dark green, with a sale.
‘Baaah!’ Guillermo crowed, pointing a stubby finger at him. ‘You like my story! That’s five hours to me!’
‘Ah, fuck you,’ Gerry said, standing up.
‘Yeah, you like it. You be comin back to me for more stories, beetch. You see.’
Gerry walked back to the Stoners.
‘… with the final ratification of the Daytona Beach Accords in 2302, humanity adopted the six Zones of the Global Administrative System, and lived happily ever after.’ A few celebratory chimes, and the video poofed out of sight.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He started down the nave. A few of the Stoners did nothing, leaning back on their virtual NanoBot recliners with their eyes half-closed.
‘Sorry,’ Gerry said. ‘No more chairs.’
The NanoBots flew away. The Stoners fell on their butts, and howled. With angry red faces, they got to their feet and followed Gerry down the nave.
The group walked around a huge stone column into Tube Departure. The pews were filled with Shifters waiting for the ceremony to begin — about forty of them, a nice turnout. His throat tightened, and his spine tingled. This was a chance to make a profitable impression indeed — Gerry Feldman, formerly a professional nobody, now an Reality up-and-comer, leading an honest-to-God® InstaMass with premium viewership. He thanked Simon under his breath. Tiny blue dots embedded in the stone walls told him that people were already tuning in. As he watched, the blues morphed into yellows, signaling that the Fog-line audience had grown into the millions. He glanced at the digital figures floating across his sleeve: 11:58. It was time.
‘Come on.’ He jogged through the pews and up the small, white staircase to the altar. The Stoners shuffled along as best they could behind him. He would have to deport the Stoners right away, and receive the Holy Cookie right after.
‘InstaMass,’ he whispered as he reached the altar.
The lights dimmed, and the silver gates opened wide. A separate set of thick, metal yellow doors remained. These too parted with a rush of pressurized air, revealing the Transport Chamber inside the Tube. Inside the Chamber, a few brown couches. A table with a bowel of peanuts. A vending machine offering colas. It was bare bones travel for low-life, small-timers. Gerry winced, sorry for the Stoners. It was piss-poor and shitty. He wouldn’t wish it on his dog, which was odd, because he didn’t have a dog. Beside a couch, the black garbage bag lay with the asylum-seeking Stoner inside. Gerry watched the Stoner’s hand paw against the bag. It was all a rotten business, but he had work to do, and bills to pay. ‘Thanks for your visit to the Golden Zone,’ he said, gesturing into the Chamber. ‘Have a great day. Buh-bye, now.’
They shambled inside, a few stealing last glances of the Golden Zone behind them.
‘And deport.’
Dials turned. With a flush of air, the Chamber detached itself from the yellow doors, and then it was receding away down the Tube at incredible speeds. In an instant, the Chamber was a dot in his sight, and then it was gone.
He stared down the empty Tube. Its white, oval interior walls gleamed from within. It was perfectly straight to the nanometer for another five hundred kilometers west before it began a long curve up into the stratosphere. At some point, the Chamber left the Tube and became a spacecraft shooting through the sky. The walls of the Chamber were transparent so the Stoners would get a nice show, at least. The thought gave Gerry a little comfort. He turned back to the crowd.
‘Are you ready for the Holy Cookie?’ he yelled.
‘Yes!’ they cried back.
He stepped forward to the altar, and the New, Improved, Upgraded and Optimized Bible that lay on it. ‘I said, are you ready for the Holy Cookie?’ he cried, louder this time, raising his hands above his head with the palms out.
‘Yes, yes!’ they shouted. All sorts of Shifters gazed up at him. Some — particularly those from the more lucrative Shifts — wouldn’t have given him a crumb of respect on the Factory floor, but now he was the Cookie’s keeper, and they feared and respected him. All Goldies craved even a few of its morsels, and this week’s Peppermint Fudge Swirl Jesus flavour was divinely inspired.
‘Then let’s have the Cookie!’ he said.
‘Yes, yes!’ his flock cried.
The silver gates behind him vanished, replaced by a giant hand emerging from pure white clouds. The crowd saw the hologram change and groaned with anticipation.
A checklist appeared on the altar’s surface beside the Bible. The first word said, MUSIC.
‘Music,’ Gerry whispered.
The ancient organ above the pews blared an ancient tune, and the people in the pews sang along.
C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me
C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me
C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me
Oh!
Cookie cookie good enough for me
‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Cookie,’ Gerry said.
‘A-munch,’ the audience replied.
‘Gimme cookie now!’ a thick, small man shouted in the back.
‘Shut up,’ another man scolded him. ‘Can’t you wait two fucking minutes?’
The next word on the checklist said, ‘GO’. Sure enough, a red button marked GO appeared on the console. Gerry pressed it. Behind him, the hologram shifted through a series of images. He turned to look. There was some robed, crying woman looking down, her hands clasped in front of her, a bleeding heart grotesquely protruding from her chest; some guy with wings holding a sword above his head; some other guy — ugh, what a poor, sad, ugly git — hanging from a large wooden cross, his hands and feet nailed into the wood. Gerry had no idea what it all meant, which was good, because he didn’t care. It was just a bunch of fuddy-duddy Religion Shift nut-job quack-quack, not like the Hard, Serious Business he did on the Dime. ‘The proclamation of the Word of God,’ he said, reading the console checklist.
‘Word up,’ the audience replied.
‘Forgive us our sins,’ Gerry said.
‘Sorry,’ the audience said.
‘Blessed be the Lord our Father,’ he said.
‘The world’s best Daddy-O,’ the audience replied.
‘Thank you, dear Lord, for the gift of your son,’ Gerry said.
‘A Son of a gun,’ the audience said.
‘Blessed be the Holy Ghost,’ he said.
‘Woooo-ooooo, Holy Ghost,’ the audience said.
Now he was supposed to read a passage from the New and Improved Bible. He looked down, and saw thick gobs of text — the first under ‘Acts,’ the second under ‘Snacks’. But he wouldn’t fool with any of that. ’Yada yada yada,’ he said, using a finger to flip past the requirement.
‘Yada yada yada,’ the audience repeated.
‘Grace!’ Gerry said, throwing his hands to the ceiling.
‘Grace!’ the audience replied, mimicking his gesture.
Gerry sighed in relief, grateful that all the ‘liturgical’ business was over. Now they could get to the fun part — the awarding of eternal life. He read through a few lines of the checklist before turning again to stand before the giant hand reaching down from the clouds. The light behind the hand brightened until Gerry had to squint. Another rush of pressurized air told him that the yellow doors to the Tube had opened again, although he couldn’t see them. He reached into the brightness, feeling for what was supposed to be there. Sure enough, he seized what felt like a metallic pipe, and a pistol grip with curved corners. Leaning out of the light, he found a golden trophy in his left hand, and a purple SacraCannon in his right — imported right on time, straight from the Great Amalgamator that darkened the plains of the Western Golden Zone across the sea.
People in the crowd jumped and shouted. Any moment, they might rush up the steps. He placed the trophy and the Cannon on the altar. Taking the ornate golden lid off the trophy — the kee-bor-um, Simon had called it once, or some weird word like that —Gerry reached inside and took out the special Cookie meant for the presiding priest. It was brown, crumbly, and deliciously soft in his fingers. His mouth watered. He used both hands to raise it above his head. ‘The Holy Cookie,’ he said, his eyes wide as he looked over the pews.
The crowd oohed.
Then he stuffed and stuffed and stuffed that Cookie into his mouth, as an indignant din arose from the parishioners. The Cookie was so good, so pure, so sweet, so wonderful, like chewing on a goddess’s tit. People said that the key ingredient of the Secret Recipe was some alien compound that the Bots mined on one of Jupiter’s moons. Whatever it came from, it was certainly out of this world. Peppermint Fudge Swirl Jesus tingled from the top of his head to the ends of his fingers and toes, energizing him. Tomorrow morning, he would wake up and be a week younger. In a week, he would be six months younger. He swallowed the last bits, washed it down with a tai-carbonated soda from under the altar, and his belch echoed like a psalm through the hall.
‘You eat cookie!’ the thick, small man in the back shouted. ‘I want cookie!’
‘Ask, and you shall receive,’ Gerry said, grabbing the SacraCannon. Its long purple ammo magazine was stuffed full of Cookies — thinner and smaller than his, of course. They were tougher, too, a useful characteristic given that he was about to use them as bullets. The parishioners jumped upon the pews, pointing to their mouths. ‘Me, me!’ they shouted.
He fired methodically, aiming for their noses, moving right along the first row, then left along the second. It was taking longer than he thought, so he flipped a switch on the SacraCannon to fully automatic, and the gun responded with a satisfying high-pitched whine. He sprayed Cookies willy-nilly over the crowd. At least three dozen popped out of the black barrel, puh puh puh puh puh.
The parishioners fought and pushed and clawed one another, scrambling for their Cookies. They grabbed the Cookies and smashed them into their mouths. As the eternal spirit of Peppermint Fudge Swirl Jesus tickled their tongues, they collapsed upon the pews, moaning and quivering in delight.
Gerry lowered the SacraCannon, and was surprised to see Simon standing at the bottom of the steps. The Religion Shifter’s eyes blazed, and his face was drawn and tight.
‘What are you doing here?’ Gerry asked.
‘You will be witness,’ Simon said, with the same creepy look.
‘What?’
Simon jumped to the top of the stairs. He embraced Gerry with a crushing grip.
‘Ouch!’ Gerry said.
‘Goodbye, my friend,’ Simon said, drawing back. His eyes locked into Gerry’s. ’We will meet again.’
‘Are you — ’
But before he could finish, Simon threw himself into the light.
‘End, end!’ Gerry cried. ‘End programme!’
The holograms of the light and the giant hand and the silver gates all disappeared. Only the metal yellow doors remained. They were open. Beyond was the frigid vacuum of the Tube, leading straight to the upper atmosphere. In the distance, for just a moment, Gerry saw Simon’s body floating quickly away.
‘Holy shit,’ he said.
