Taking the Highway (13 page)

Nikhil pulled his t-shirt away from his body, fanning it out. If he weren’t so late, he could have walked the two blocks, enjoying the scant breeze. But his economics class had run over, and then Melissa wanted to talk about tomorrow’s test. He’d missed the commuter’s sweet spot and ended up taking the bus home.

Topher’s driveway seemed longer than the two blocks of sidewalk he’d already run. This yard was easily twice the size of his. Nikhil had thought his own house enormous when his dad bought it five years ago, way too much space for two people. It was part of the reason he’d decided to go to a local college and live at home. He didn’t want his dad bouncing around that huge house all alone.

And here was Topher’s house, bigger yet, for just one person. Sure, he filled it up with bodies when he had meetings or parties, but it seemed awfully wasteful the rest of the time.

Well, it wasn’t Topher’s fault that he inherited property and money. At least he was trying to do good with it. Nikhil hopped onto the porch and knocked the coded knock.

The door cracked open and a mousy girl peered out at him from under heavy bangs. “Name?”

“Nikhil LaCroix.”

The door opened fully and the girl turned without a word and walked toward the back of the house. She barely came to his collarbone and was famine-victim thin.

Nikhil shut the door behind himself and followed the girl. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Wilma Riley.”

“Pretty name.”

“To you, maybe.” She led him to the basement, where the meeting had long-since broken into cells. Topher had furnished his basement with several round tables, making it look like a restaurant or a conference room. Two of the tables were taken. Topher sat across from Sandor Bay, vice president of the Council for Economic Justice. Wilma took a seat next to Sandor, sliding her chair as close as possible.

On the far side of the room, five men and one woman hunched together, talking in whispers. Datapads and other gadgets were spread on the table like treasure maps, and they poured over them, looking for clues. This was the techie branch of their organization, and the few times Nikhil had talked to them, he’d understood less than half the conversation. He thought the only woman in the group might be in one of his classes, but the lecture halls were big, the semester had just started, and he hadn’t had the chance to ask her. He didn’t know the other members of that cell at all, not even their names, which was exactly the point.

He popped into a chair next to Topher. “What did I miss?”

Sandor slid a hardcopy booklet across the table. “Literature.”

Nikhil picked it up and flipped through a few pages. The booklet looked expensive—professionally printed, with a glossy cover and an inside layout full of bullet points and graphs. The cover read
Working in Harmony for the Common Good.
Decent title. Much catchier than the subtitles inside, which said things like, “Principles of Distribution” and “The Failure of the Kelso-Adler Theory.” Nikhil scanned a few more pages. Human potential . . . the economic fault of the income gap . . . universal access to the future ownership of productive wealth. It looked like a single-viewpoint version of his economics textbook. At least the booklet was a short six pages.

“Tangible,” Nikhil said. “How many of these did you make?”

“One thousand,” Topher said. “You and Sandor are going to pass them out on campus.”

A round of subdued laughter from the techie table caught his attention. The girl at the table bumped her fist with one of the guys.

Nikhil pictured himself trying to hand out booklets to students who wouldn’t take them, or worse, take them and throw them away. All this time, he’d been waiting to do something important, and this was the job Topher gave him? “I did what you wanted,” he blurted. “I got my fourthing license.”

“That’s great. You should start handing out pamphlets in the area near the business school.”

“I’ve even fourthed. For real.”

Topher shrugged. “If you want.” He addressed Sandor. “You’ll get a better response in the afternoon, after class, when there’s more time. Only give them to people who seem truly interested.”

Nikhil twisted the booklet in his hands. “Why not put something like this in the e-verse?”

“What are you, faked?” Topher looked like he wanted to snatch the booklet out of Nikhil’s hands. “Everything E gets hacked. You got to keep it real.”

“You could reach more people.”

“Not the right people. The electronic universe is sleazy. Hard copy is
serious
.”

Nikhil flicked a glance at Wilma, who put her arm through Sandor’s. He looked over his shoulder at the techies, who had gone back to their datapads.

“I just thought, you know, if it was out there—I mean, we’re talking about the truth. We’re talking about doing the right thing. This should be a worldwide movement.”

“It’s true. It’s right.” Topher ran his fingers along the table’s edge. “Soon, everyone is going to know who we are.”

Sandor leaned back in his chair and put his arm around Wilma. “We don’t have to print more books. You know why?”

Nikhil ran his hand over the glossy cover. “Because the spinners will carry our message for us.”

“Forget the spinners. We’re going to be on Newsnet.”

“We could be there now,” Nikhil said. “Claim responsibility for the Overdrive bomb and make them listen to—”

“Will you quit calling it a bomb!”

The wireheads across the room looked up sharply. Topher lowered his voice. “That was a test, cleaned up and forgotten within a day. Believe me, when we ruin Overdrive for real, nobody is going to forget it.”

“People have short memories,” Nikhil said. “And most of them believe whatever the official line is.”

“Exactly!” Topher pumped one fist into the air. “I’ve been in touch with the mayor’s office.”

“Again.”

“Yes, again. News about us comes from the mayor or it doesn’t come.” Topher raised his voice. “I catch anyone in this room talking to a filthy spinner—”

“They’ll be exersleeping with the fishes,” Nikhil intoned. There was a brief chuckle from one of the others, quickly stifled.

“Of course not,” Topher said. “I’m sorry I even suggested anyone here would be stupid enough to talk to spinners.”

The techies at the other table stood and gathered their gear, stowing it in pockets and packs. They headed toward the door. “Are you done?” Topher asked them as they passed.

“For now,” one of the group answered. “We’re going to Slappy’s for a drink.”

“I’ll join you.” Topher turned to his tablemates. “Lock up for me, will you? It’s all biolocks. Just set it and close the door behind you.”

Nikhil grabbed Topher’s arm as he stood. “I thought I was in your cell.”

“You are. No offense, Nikhil, but I see you in class, I see you in the neighborhood. We’ve met. I need to get to know those guys.” He shook off Nikhil’s hand. “I’ll see you later.” He bounded up the stairs after the wireheads.

Sandor and Wilma stared at Nikhil. The air conditioner hummed to life, blowing coolness into the empty rooms above. Nikhil picked up the slick booklet. “I’m going home. Let me know when you want to take these to campus.”

“Stay,” Sandor said. “We’re not done yet. Wilma, your tools?”

Wilma retrieved her backpack from the floor and pulled out a plastic envelope. She unfolded wires and slots, then put her datapad on the table. She held out her hand, palm up, and wiggled her fingers toward herself. “Gimme.”

“Give you what?”

“Your license.”

“Why do you want my driver’s license?”

“We don’t. Didn’t Topher tell you anything?”

“Not enough, apparently.”

“I need your fourthing badge.”

Nikhil’s hand strayed to his pocket. He noticed Sandor watching his hands and crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you need it?”

“I’ll give it right back. Hand it over.”

“I forgot to bring it.”

“You live two blocks from here,” Sandor said. “Go get it. We’ll wait.”

Nikhil sighed and took his new fourthing badge out of his pocket. He pulled it away when Sandor reached for it. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing that matters.” Sandor stood and grabbed the badge. He tossed it to Wilma who already had a magnetic niche attached to her datapad. She locked in the badge and began tapping commands into it.

“What are you doing?” Nikhil asked.

“Fixing it.”

“It isn’t broken!” He wanted to snatch it back, but was afraid that pulling his badge out of Wilma’s machine would erase it entirely.

She slid it out of the niche and handed it back. “It is, now.”

“What? I just got that!” Nikhil held his badge by the edge and tried to assess any damage. Nobody would hire a fourth with an altered badge. That’s why it had the holographic seal and embedded coding.

“Relax,” Sandor said. “It still works. You’re just not you anymore.”

“Who am I supposed to be?”

“If a driver scans it, his pad will say Nicholas Krull is in his car.” Wilma pointed at him. “But your picture, your record, your credentials.”

“So it’s that again. You still think people are tracking fourths.” Why would the city bother? They already knew everything about fourths. The screening process was rigorous. Anyone who passed was clean and safe. Why track someone like that? Call them good and let them go where they wanted.

Sandor and Wilma exchanged a look. “We’ve heard things.” Sandor said.

Nikhil looked at his badge. A badge with someone else’s name attached. “Why can’t I just be me? Don’t you trust me? Have you done this to anyone else’s badge?”

“Yours is the first.” Wilma thrust out a proud chin. “Brand new program.”

“So you don’t trust me.”

“It isn’t a matter of trust,” Sandor said. “Some of the others . . .”

“Russell?” Nikhil jumped in. “Have you heard from him?”

Wilma pursed her lips and turned away. Sandor folded his arms and glowered. “No. Neither have you.”

“What about those other guys? Doug something and that quiet guy he hung out with.”

“They went back to Chicago.”

“Okay, fine, but Russell was from here.”

Sandor gripped his head with both hands as if it might explode. “Jesus, Nikhil, will you shut the fuck up? Separate cells means
separate
. Of course we haven’t heard from Russell, or Homer. That’s the point. You don’t do a job and then keep showing up for meetings. You do a job and disappear.”

Nikhil felt more than ever that he was on the outside looking in. Who the hell was Homer? But he didn’t ask. He didn’t know—shouldn’t know—everything that went on behind the scenes. It was safer for him to be slightly in the dark. Sandor was right. Separate cells meant separate.

“In the meantime, Mr. I’m-A-Real-Fourth, your badge still gets you a ride.” Sandor stood and pulled Wilma up after him. “Just keep out of trouble, and you’ll be fine.”

Nikhil looked at the badge in his hand, then shoved it back in his pocket. What the hell. What was done was done, and no matter what, he planned on staying out of trouble.

A
cross the room, Bob
Masterson raised a hand as Andre entered. “Andre LaCroix! Get yourself in here.”

Conversations stopped, heads swiveled, coffee cups paused halfway to mouths, as a room full of fourths stared at Andre. He thought that eight fifty-five would be plenty early for a nine o’clock meeting, but the small conference room was already full. He was mildly surprised by a pattering of applause. Bob must have been talking up yesterday’s near-robbery.

Andre moved to a more comfortable conversational distance and shook Bob’s outstretched hand. “Do you always meet at the bank?”

“Walter Glass is a messenger for Bank of America. His boss likes him, lets him use the conference room.” Bob pointed out a tall black man with huge, soft eyes and cheekbones so sharp he could cut paper with them. “Walter’s our president.”

“What about these other guys? Shouldn’t they be at their day jobs?”

Bob laughed. “This
is
their day job. Most of these guys are full time.”

Andre counted heads. Twenty-four people, all of them full-time fourths? How did they do it? Even if they were all NFA—and he doubted that—they still had living expenses. Fourthing paid, but it didn’t pay well.

Walter Glass called the meeting to order. A dozen people took seats at the center conference table while the overflow stood against the wall. Andre declined the offered chair and stood by the propped-open door.

“Thank you everyone for coming,” Walter said. He spoke quickly, as if wanting to get the meeting over with and get back to work. “I see some old friends and some new faces, so thank you for spreading the word.”

Andre scanned the room, wondering how many of the others were newcomers, and if they’d come for the union’s agenda or their own. But everyone looked the same—young, well-groomed, sharply-dressed, proudly displaying their fourthing badges as if it were the secret handshake for the clubhouse. There were two women, their business suits a little more conservative than the mens’, probably overcompensating for the unfortunate assumptions. A man hired for a thirty-minute ride was one thing, a woman hired in the same way still dealt with the connotations.