فصل 12

12

A Scale of One to Ten

Greyson’s alarm went off before sunrise. He had not set it to do so. Since coming home, he had no reason to wake up early. There was nothing pressing to be done, and when he was awake he tended to crawl back under the covers until he could no longer justify it.

He had not yet even begun to search for employment. Work was, after all, optional. He would be provided for even if he made no discernible contribution to the world—and right now he had no desire to contribute anything to the world but his bodily waste.

He slapped the alarm off. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you waking me up?” It took a few moments of silence to realize that the Thunderhead was not going to respond to that question as long as he was unsavory. So he sat up and looked at his bedside screen to see a message turning the room red with its angry glare.

“APPOINTMENT WITH PROBATION OFFICER AT 8:00 A.M.

FAILURE TO APPEAR WILL RESULT IN FIVE DEMERITS.”

Greyson had a vague idea what demerits were, but had no clue how to value them. Did five demerits add five days onto his unsavory status? Five hours? Five months? He had no idea. Perhaps he should take a class in unsavorism.

What does one wear to meet with a probation officer? he wondered. Should he dress up or down? As bitter as he was about all of this, he realized that impressing his probation officer couldn’t hurt, so he found a clean shirt and slacks, then put on the same tie he’d worn to his appointment at the Authority Interface back in Fulcrum City, when he’d thought he still had a life. He flagged down a publicar (which again warned him about the consequences of vandalism and abusive language), then left for the local AI office. He was determined to be early and make a positive enough impression to maybe knock a day or two off of his status downgrade.

• • •

The Higher Nashville AI office building was much smaller than the one in Fulcrum City. It was only four stories, and of red brick instead of gray granite. On the inside, however, it appeared much the same. He was not ushered to a comfortable audience room this time. Instead, he was directed to the Office of Unsavory Affairs, where he was instructed to take a number and wait in a room with dozens of other unsavories who clearly didn’t want to be there.

Finally, after the better part of an hour, Greyson’s number came up and he went to the window, where a low-level Nimbus agent checked his ID and told him things, most of which he already knew.

“Greyson Tolliver; permanently expelled from the Nimbus Academy and denigrated to unsavory status for a minimum of four months, due to an extreme violation of the scythe-state separation.” “That’s me,” said Greyson. At least now he knew how long his status downgrade would last.

She looked up from her tablet, and offered him a smile that was as mirthless as that of a bot. For a moment he wondered if she might actually be one, but then remembered that the Thunderhead did not have robots in its offices. The AI was supposed to be the human interface to the Thunderhead, after all.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked.

“Fine, I guess,” he said, and smiled back at her. He wondered if his smile looked as insincere as hers. “I mean, annoyed at having been woken up so early, but an appointment is an appointment, right?” She marked something down in her tablet. “Please rate your level of annoyance on a scale of one to ten.” “Are you serious?”

“We can’t proceed with intake until you answer the question.”

“Uh . . . five,” he said, “No—six; the question made it worse.”

“Have you experienced any unfair treatment since being marked unsavory? Anyone refusing you service, or in any way infringing upon your rights as a citizen?” The rote way in which she asked the question made him want to smack that tablet out of her hand. At least she could have pretended to care about his answer the way she had pretended to smile.

“People look at me like I’ve just killed their cat.”

She looked at him as if he’d just told her he actually had killed a few cats. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the way people look at you. But if your rights are ever infringed upon, it’s important that you let your probation officer know.” “Wait—you’re not my probation officer?”

She sighed. “I’m your intake officer. You’ll meet your probation officer after we’re done with intake.” “Will I have to take a number again?”

“Yes.”

“Then please change my annoyance level to nine.”

She threw him a glance, and made the entry on her tablet. Then took a moment to process whatever information on him she had. “Your nanites are reporting a decrease in your endorphin levels over the past few days. This may indicate an early stage of depression. Do you wish to have a mood adjustment now, or wait until you’ve reached the threshold?” “I’ll wait.”

“It may require a trip to your local wellness center.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Very well.” She swiped the screen, closed his file, and told him to follow the blue line on the floor, which led him out to the hallway and to another large room, where, as promised, he was told to take a number.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, his number came up, and he was sent to an audience room that was nothing like the comfortable one he had been in last time. This was, after all, an unsavory audience room. The walls were institutional beige, the floor ugly green tile, and the table—which had nothing on it—was slate gray, with two hard wooden chairs on either side. The only decoration in the room was a soulless sailboat picture on the wall, which was perfectly appropriate for a room like this.

He waited another fifteen minutes, then finally his probation officer entered.

“Good morning, Greyson,” said Agent Traxler.

He was the last person Greyson expected to see today. “You? What are you doing here? Haven’t you ruined my life enough?” “I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”

Of course he’d say that. Plausible deniability. He hadn’t asked Greyson do to anything. In fact, he had expressly told him what not to do.

“I apologize for the wait,” Traxler said. “If it makes you feel any better, the Thunderhead makes us agents wait before meeting with you as well.” “Why?”

Traxler shrugged. “It’s a mystery.”

He sat down across from Greyson, glanced at the soulless sailboat with the same disgust that Greyson had, then explained his presence here.

“I have been transferred here from Fulcrum City, and I’ve been demoted from being a senior agent to being a probation officer at this regional facility. So you’re not the only one who’s had a downgrade in status over this matter.” Greyson folded his arms, not feeling an ounce of sympathy for the man.

“I trust you’re beginning to adjust to your new life.”

“Not at all,” Greyson said flatly. “Why did the Thunderhead mark me unsavory?” “I thought you’d be smart enough to figure that out.”

“Guess not.”

Traxler raised his eyebrows, and released a slow breath to stress his disappointment at Greyson’s lack of insight. “As an unsavory, you are required to attend probationary meetings on a regular basis. These meetings will provide a way for you and me to communicate without raising the suspicion of anyone who might be watching you. Of course, for that to work, I’d have to be transferred here and made your probation officer.” Ah! So there was a reason why Greyson was denigrated to unsavory! It was part of some larger plan. He thought he’d feel better once he knew why, but he didn’t.

“I do feel sorry for you,” Traxler said. “Unsavorism is a difficult yoke for those who don’t desire it.” “Can you rate your pity on a scale of one to ten?” Greyson asked.

Agent Traxler chuckled. “A sense of humor, no matter how dark, is always a good thing.” Then he got down to business. “I understand that you’ve been spending most of your days and nights at home. As your friend and advisor, might I suggest that you begin frequenting places where you can meet other unsavories, and perhaps generate new friendships that could ease this time for you.” “I don’t want to.”

“Perhaps you do want to,” Agent Traxler said gently. Almost subversively. “Perhaps you want to fit in so much that you begin to behave like an unsavory, and dress like an unsavory, and get yourself some sort of unsavory body modification to show how fully you embrace your new status.” Greyson said nothing at first. Traxler waited for Greyson to fully wrap his mind around the suggestion.

“And . . . if I were to embrace my status?” asked Greyson.

“Then I’m sure you’d learn things,” said Traxler. “Perhaps things that not even the Thunderhead knows. It does have blind spots, you know. Small ones, certainly, but they do exist.” “You’re asking me to be an undercover Nimbus agent?”

“Of course not,” Traxler said with a grin. “Nimbus agents are required to attend four years at the academy, and do an additional year of mind-numbing field work before getting an actual assignment. But you’re just an unsavory. . . .” He patted Greyson on the shoulder. “An unsavory who happens to be very well-connected.” Then Traxler stood. “I’ll see you in a week, Greyson.” And he left without as much as a backward glance.

Greyson felt dizzy. He was angry. He was excited. He felt used, he felt put to use. This was not what he wanted . . . or was it? “You, Greyson, are more special than you know,” the Thunderhead had told him. Was this the Thunderhead’s plan for him all along? He still had a choice in the matter. He could stay out of trouble, as he had done his whole life, and in a few months his normal status would be restored. He could go back to living his life, such as it was.

. . . Or he could spiral down this new path. A path that was the opposite of everything he knew himself to be.

The door opened and some nameless Nimbus agent said, “Excuse me, but now that your meeting is over, you’ll have to vacate the room immediately.” Greyson’s instincts told him to apologize and leave. But he knew what path he now needed to take. So he leaned back in his chair, smiled at the agent, and said: “Go screw yourself.”

The agent gave him a demerit, and returned with a security guard to eject him from the room.

While the Office of Unsavory Affairs might appear inefficient, there is method behind the madness that it generates.

Simply put, unsavories have a need to despise the system.

To facilitate that, I had to create a system worthy of loathing. In reality, there is no actual need for people to take a number, or to wait for long periods of time. There isn’t even a need for an intake agent. It’s all designed to make unsavories feel as if the system is wasting their time. The illusion of inefficiency serves the specific purpose of creating annoyance around which unsavories can bond.

—The Thunderhead