Counting Heads

2.15

Before leaving the roof, Bogdan tore a sleeve from his jumpsuit and used it to blow his nose. He dropped it in Samson’s bowl of congealed fruitish and carried the tray down the stairs. When he passed his room, his door greeted him with a cheery good evening. Boy, he liked that door. The charter had installed it as part of a strategic plan to check Tobbler expansion above the seventh floor by hijacking control of their elevator. Bogdan’s occupation of the room was a happy afterthought. He’d been campaigning for his own room for years. The charter gave the door codes to him, and now nothing, not even a tank could get through it without his permission. Since losing Lisa, that door and that room were the only cool things he could lay claim to.

The nearest Kodiak bathroom was on the sixth floor. Bogdan stopped there to clean up and change his clothes. He removed the lunchtime cookies from his pockets, grasped the rip tab under his collar, and neatly tore his jumpsuit from throat to ankle. His clothes fell to his feet. He bundled them up and dropped them, along with Samson’s leftover food, utensils, and tray, down the digester chute.

With the bathroom lights all the way up, Bogdan inspected himself in the mirror. His cracking voice in the Oship simulation was an early warning of impending pubescence. He examined himself with a practiced eye. Was he a little taller? Leaner? He zoomed in and brushed his fingertips across his upper lip. No mustache, but maybe a little peach fuzz? He pulled a shave cloth from the dispenser and scrubbed his chin and cheeks with it until his skin was baby smooth. There were smudges of downy brown stubble left on the cloth. He took a quick glance at his crotch. Everything looked satisfactorily prepubescent down there. He raised both arms—and froze. Was that pit hair? He looked again at his crotch, really looked, and God yes, curly hair was sprouting down there too! This was no small disaster. This was an emergency of the first order. He needed an endocrinological adjustment, and he needed a juve treatment, and he needed them yesterday. Good thing the Allowance meeting was tonight.

Kale spoke to him through the houseputer, “Bogdan, what’s taking you so long up there?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bogdan replied.

A moment later, Kale said, “Boggy, can you hear me? Hello?”

“I can hear you.”

“Bogdan, answer if you can hear me. We’re all hungry down here, and we’re waiting on you.”

“Amazing,” Bogdan said. “Everything is so feckin’ amazing.”

WEARING FRESH HOUSE togs, Bogdan picked his way down the cluttered stairwell to Green Hall on the fourth floor. The walls of Green Hall were burdened with shelves, eight tiers of them from floor to ceiling, and every shelf was heavy with household appliances, archives, and junk. With the shelving and the giant leaves of the lungplant, there was only enough free space left in Green Hall for the three tables where the charter took its meals.

Kale was sitting at the head table between Gerald and April. April had her portable assayer in front of her, and Gerald the ritual “soup pot.” The soup pot was just that, an aluminum stock pot with a pay badge affixed to its side. It had been in the charter since its founding.

“Okay, here he is,” Kale said. “We can begin.”

“Not yet,” Gerald said. “We haven’t decided on the Tobbler thing yet.”

“Yes, we have,” April said. “There’s no reason why a few of them can’t join us for a little while. We have a perfect view of the Skytel.”

Gerald crossed his arms. “So you say. But I say we don’t owe them any favors. Let them watch from the street. They’re so fond of the street, let them watch from there. Besides, I thought we were going to start the thing with Sam tonight.”

“We are,” April declared, “and I intend to invite the Tobblers to that too. They’re our neighbors, for crying out loud.” She crossed her arms in parody of him.

“Neighbors?” Gerald said. “You call them neighbors?”

“Now, now,” said Kale, who sat between them, “let’s not get started down that road.”

Bogdan slipped between the tables. He saw two empty chairs, one next to Kitty at one table, and one next to Rusty at the other. He pretended to choose the chair next to Kitty, just to aggravate her, then hopped into the other chair. He turned to Rusty and said, “Is this about the bricks?”

“No, the bricks are a different headache.”

BJ leaned across the table and said, “The Tobbs want to come up and watch the canopy show with us on our roof tonight. They asked April if they could, and we’re discussing it.”

From the other table, Megan spoke up, “Houseer Kale, couldn’t we sort this out later? I vote we do the soup pot and get on with dinner.”

A dozen voices chanted, “Soup pot. Soup pot.”

Megan went on, “All in favor of eating say, ‘Aye.’”

“Aye!” boomed the chartists.

Megan gaveled her water glass with her knife and said, “The motion carries. Let the eating begin.”

Kale sighed and stood up. April and Gerald, cross-armed and angry, bracketed him. “Beloved housemeets,” he intoned, “draw nigh and hear my blessing.” He picked up the soup pot and held it over his head with both hands like a trophy. “Behold this shiny vessel of our subsistence. ’Tis a mighty boat upon a careless sea. ’Tis the cradle of our life and hope. Approach, dear housemeets, and fill it to the brim with the fruits of your labor.” He put the soup pot on the table and sat back down.

Sarah went first. As this year’s cook and housekeeper, the house credited her with a daily payfer of 0.0035 UDC, what amounted to minimum wage in the outside world. She approached the head table and pantomimed dropping something into the soup pot, then turned to her housemeets and made a quick, perfunctory bow. There was a patter of polite applause. She mumbled her thanks and hurried out to the kitchen to attend the extruder.

Barry and Francis had waiter duty that evening, so they went next. They jogged past the pot, brushing its rim with their fingers, not dropping anything in, and were out the door before anyone had a chance to applaud, assuming anyone would.

Gerald, this year’s controller and all-around handyperson, went next, followed by Kale, their houseer. Without bothering to stand up, both reached over to “drop” their minimum wage chit into the pot, and each received polite applause. April, on the other hand, made an actual swipe, which the pay badge registered as 0.1720 credits, that day’s net take from her NanoJiffy franchise. The housemeets clapped heartily; hers was usually the first hard credit in the communal pot each night.

Next came June and Paula, whose online day labor with an insurance adjuster had yielded 0.0095 yoodies between them. They took turns swiping the pot and blushing at the applause.

After them, Louis came up to drop a handful of tokens and taxi caps into the pot (by now the housemeets had ceased trying to discourage his public begging and only asked him to remove his charter colors when he did so)—0.0025. Solid, if restrained applause.

Megan donated a bagful of used biopsy wafers. She bypassed the soup pot and poured them directly into the assayer in front of April.

April read aloud the results from the device’s panel, “Gallium, silicon, carbon, iron, and a trace of germanium.” Estimated value, once the pure elements were separated out—0.0021. Megan bowed, and people clapped, though everyone wished she’d stop scavenging behind medical facilities. April donned gloves before transferring the wafers to a hazmat container on the floor next to her chair.

Rusty came forward next. “Y’all know I used to write ballads once upon a time,” he said. “Well, today, some nice folks in Bahrain used one of them in some sort of commercial performance, and this here’s my royalty.” He made a grand swipe at the pot—0.0001 credits. People clapped way out of proportion to the amount, or so Bogdan thought. Rusty bobbed his head in appreciation and returned to his chair.

“I’ll tell you what,” he whispered to Bogdan after the room’s attention had passed from him, “it feels great to do your little part for the common good. I’ll bet you feel that way every day.”

Bogdan shrugged.

The housemeets continued to approach the head table in turn and either rubbed, “dropped,” or swiped an offering. Finally, there were only Kitty, Denny, and Bogdan left. Denny never had anything to donate, and no one held it against him. He got up, but Kitty pulled him back down. She glared at Bogdan who pretended not to notice. He figured she should know by now that he always went last.

At the head table, April ran out of patience with the both of them. “Hubert, are you listening in?” she said.

“When the houseputer is functioning, yes,” Hubert replied.

“How’s Sam?”

Everyone listened to the mentar’s response.

“Resting comfortably.”

“Anything for the soup pot tonight?”

“Yes, in fact, there is. Sam is pleased to contribute the day’s interest and distributions from his investments, a total of 10.3671 UDC.”

The housemeets clapped enthusiastically.

“Thank you, Hubert,” April said, “and be sure to thank Sam for us when he wakes up. Remind him that we’ll come up later to sit with him.”

“All right, then,” Kale said, looking from Kitty to Bogdan. “Is that it? Are we done?” But it was a standoff, and neither retrochild budged.

“Oh, all right!” Kitty said at last. She got up and skipped to the head table. She had changed out of her sailor costume into plain house togs, and her hair was bound up in a towel. She did a little tap flourish in front of the soup pot and curtsied to the room, as she did every night. And to Bogdan’s nightly ire, his housemeets cheered her performance.

Kitty stood first on one skinny leg and then the other, and reached into her bulging pockets. She dropped the day’s treasures into the soup pot: a piece of smart string she’d found, bits of broken plastic and glass, a handful of soil, a Dinner-on-a-Stick stick, three daisies with roots and all, a ball bearing, and eight pieces of crushed marble gravel. Bogdan ground his teeth and couldn’t watch anymore. A scrap of eposter, scraps of various kinds of foil, and the pièce de résistance—the left lens and temple of a smashed pair of spex.

When Kitty’s pockets were empty, April transferred her day’s gleanings from the soup pot to the assayer, and after a moment the assayer estimated their recycling value, uprooted flowers and all, to be 0.0005. Kitty curtsied again, and the ’meets applauded.

“And here’s what I made from busking,” she said and swiped the pay badge on the side of the pot. Another 0.0025. She bowed to warm applause and skipped back to her seat. All in all, it amounted to minimum wage, not a bad day for Kitty Kodiak.

“Finished?” Bogdan said. He stood up, marched to the head table, and held his closed fist over the pot. He liked to come up last each night to make a point. By his rough calculation, the house’s combined earnings for this day (excluding Sam’s contribution) came to an unimpressive sum of about 0.8500 United Democracies credits. This included the net proceeds of a NanoJiffy store in a high-foot-traffic location. And yet, as they all knew, the daily operating expense of their house, not including legal, medical, or rejuvenation costs, of which there were many, and not including entertainment, vacation, or luxury costs, of which there were none, came to about 1.0000 UDC, or 0.1500 more than all of them combined had earned. Bogdan didn’t have to say this out loud. They had all attended the last annual budget meeting.

Still holding his fist over the soup pot, Bogdan gazed down the pot’s burnished aluminum throat and wondered just how this stupid custom ever got started in the first place. Other charterhouses had “soup pot” ceremonies, it was true, but he’d never heard of one that involved an actual pot. It was supposed to be a metaphor. Couldn’t they even get that right?

Finally, when the ’meets started fidgeting, Bogdan opened his hand and swiped the pay badge, depositing his full day’s payfer into the house account. That is, he transferred 1.3333 UDC. Clearly, he and Sam were carrying the house; that was his point, one he felt obliged to make six nights a week. And as usual, the applause was lukewarm, but he didn’t care.

Before Bogdan could make it back to his seat, the doors to the corridor flew open, and Francis and Barry pushed in the steaming food carts.

Kale began to recite the closing blessing, but Kitty piped up and said, “Wait! Denny’s got something.” Everyone looked at Denny, whose whole body seemed to blush. “Now,” Kitty urged him. Denny shuffled to the head table and, coached by Kitty, made a bow. He had something in his hand; he’d probably been clutching it the whole time. He held his hand over the soup pot and let it go, and a small brown object landed with a thud at the bottom.

April peered into the pot and blanched. She looked around Denny to shake her head at Kitty. “Public flora is bad enough, but stealing public fauna is a misdemeanor.”

“It was already dead,” Denny said. “We didn’t steal it.”

“It’s not your fault,” April told him, “but Kitty should know better.” April tipped the pot toward Kale and said, “Maybe if you toss it in the garden, it’ll look like it died there?”

“Don’t make such a big deal out of it,” Kitty said, lapsing into her adult voice. “I field-stripped it, OK? It’s safe.”

Kale reached in and removed the robin. He stood up and said, “Give me the flowers and dirt too.” Before leaving the head table, he finished the blessing, “Through the work of many hands, we fill our needs. With common cause, we create our days. Amen.”

“Amen!” the ’meets chorused and set upon their dinner.

GREENSOUP AND RICE, followed by fried chickenish and a side of peeze—tonight’s recipes were all public domain, as they were most nights. But it was wholesome food, and it eased the clawing tension in the hall and replaced it with lively table talk. When Kale returned from the roof, Bogdan watched closely to see if he’d caught Sam out, but the houseer returned to his place at the head table as though everything was fine.

Bogdan watched his ’meets. How would they take it, Sam going off somewhere by himself to die? Kitty would throw a fit. April would be hurt. He watched his ’meets making faces at the evening visola, trying to cover its bitterness with their dessert—a cup of fruitish. Rusty wiped his mouth with a napkin, then ate the napkin. It was, after all, extruded from the same ugoo as the food. Rusty had grown morbidly thin of late, and though he always finished everything on his plate, and sometimes the plate itself, he seemed to grow thinner by the day. Already his skull was beginning to show beneath his sallow skin. For that matter, Louis was developing jowls, and there were more than a few double chins present at the table, not to mention sagging guts and generalized somatic spoilage.

It made Bogdan wonder if anyone, besides Kitty and himself, was keeping up with their body maintenance. And if not, why not? Didn’t the charter still have juve insurance for keeping everyone on the sunny side of forty?

Free unlimited juve treatments, Bogdan recalled, would be a standard plankholder right aboard the Oships. The weird reverend had made that clear, and Lieutenant Perez had further emphasized it during their tour of the hab drums.

The lieutenant had taken him to Hab Mead, a drum that contained a freshwater lake. They strolled down a country lane that, because of the curvature of the drum, seemed to go uphill. The horizon was so steep, in fact, that the town in front of them was tilted nearly vertical, like a wall map, and Perez easily pointed out local attractions. “There’s the stadium over there,” he said, “and the complex below it has a theater, concert hall, and exhibition space. Library and health spa over there. Clubs and theaters. And way up there the marina.” Bogdan had to crane his neck to see the lake. Its blue water was oddly curved and it extended the full length of the drum. The lake was bordered on one side by a forest and golf course and on the other by cultivated fields.

There was no vehicular traffic on the lane, and the few pedestrians they met stopped to gossip and wish them a wonderful day. Everyone was young, attractive, and friendly. Everyone seemed to know Bogdan’s name, especially the girls who beamed him high-energy smiles.

“It’s no mystery,” Lieutenant Perez said with a grin. “It’s the uniform. Don’t ask me why, but the girls seem to especially like you jump pilots.” Hearing this, Bogdan puffed out his chest a little.

“Here we are,” Perez said, stopping in front of a trim, two-story residence that sat in the middle of its own spacious, landscaped yard. They opened a wooden gate and walked up flagstone steps. “It’s intentionally small so you can also have a place in one of the cities.” The tan-colored house didn’t seem small to Bogdan. The whole charter would easily fit into it. “The next drum over,” Perez went on, “will be the designated party hab after the General Awakening, when everybody’s up. Having a quiet country place right next door isn’t such a bad idea.”

The front door opened without hesitation, and they walked right in. They passed through a large foyer into a tiled courtyard at the center of the building. The courtyard was open to the blue sky, which Bogdan realized was actually the lake.

“A fully auto kitchen over there,” Perez said, pointing out the rooms surrounding the courtyard. “Media room, three full baths, small gym with sauna and hot tub, full arbeitor staff, houseputer. Oh, and check it out.” He waved his hand, and the courtyard tiles beneath his feet turned into windows to space. Bogdan was suspended between a watery ceiling and starry floor.

“It’s fantastic!” Bogdan said. “So much room. How many people live here?”

“Just you, Cadet Kodiak, and anyone you want to live with you.”