Counting Heads

2.21

Bogdan slipped out of Green Hall, leaving his housemeets to linger over the fruitish and coffeesh and went down to the NanoJiffy for an Icy. On the other side of the wall, he could hear the shattering crunch of the predigester in the kitchen as Francis and Barry fed it dirty plates and cutlery, food scraps, and table linen. By tomorrow morning, all their day’s waste would be masticated, dissolved and filtered, and reconstituted into fresh ugoo precursor, ready to be rewoven into new plates, clothes, and food. The cycle of life.

As he enjoyed his dessert, Bogdan checked his messages with his new throat phone and discovered that it had no built-in filter sets, and so he had a queue of tens of thousands of calls. Without a graphical interface or helpful valet, he’d have to sift through them individually to find any that mattered. He needed his editor in his room, so he climbed the nine and three-quarter floors to retrieve it.

The door to Bogdan’s room, his loyal diaron-plated, titanium-bolted, clinker core door that not even a tank could penetrate was ajar. That was not possible. He pulled the door open enough to peek inside. There was a boy lying on Bogdan’s mattress. It was Troy Tobbler. Bogdan pulled the door wide open and burst in shouting, “What the feck! How the feck did you get in here?”

Troy rubbed his eyes. “You woke me up.”

“Did you hack my door?”

“I said, you woke me up.”

“I don’t care,” Bogdan said and went around the elevator cable housing to stand over his bed and unwelcome visitor.

“I didn’t hack your door,” Troy yawned, grinding the gritty footpads of his boots into Bogdan’s sheets. “Slugboy did.”

“And who the feck is Slugboy?”

Bogdan felt a sharp blow to the back of his head that sent him reeling. He lurched around, but there was no one there. When he turned back, however, he was confronted by a small boy. The boy was a head shorter than Bogdan, and though he had cherubic cheeks and a freckled nose, there was a menacing something about him that made Bogdan think twice about hitting him back.

“Are you Slugboy?” he demanded.

“The one and only,” answered the boy, “and you must be—holy crap!” He walked around Bogdan, staring at his bottom. “What are they poking you with? Hey, Troy, you gotta see this. Use Filter 32. I’ve never seen an ass glow so bright.”

“Yeah, I know,” Troy said, standing up on Bogdan’s mattress. “He’s a hole for hire.”

“His ass is like a mood lamp,” Slugboy continued. “We should call him the ‘Golden Be-Hind.’ Get it? The Golden Be-Hind.”

“That was a pirate ship,” Troy explained to Bogdan, “in the olden days.”

“I don’t care!” Bogdan shouted. “Get out of my room this instant!”

“Your room?” Troy replied. “That’s a good one. Come on, Slug. Let’s go down and tell Houseer Dieter we hacked the door. He’ll be real happy.” As the two boys made their way to the door, Bogdan fought back a panicky urge to beg them not to tell.

Troy snickered and said, “What’sa matter, Goldie? You look sick.”

Slugboy said, “Yeah, but he shines like the setting sun behind two cheeky clouds.”

“Don’t worry,” Troy said, “I won’t give your room to Dieter. I’ll let you do that all by yourself.” With that, the boys disappeared through the doorway. Bogdan hurried to follow, but stopped and glanced back into his room. He had a weird feeling that something was different, but what?

Bogdan’s bedroom was little more than a machinery closet. The huge old electric elevator motor filled most of the space, together with its cable drums and pulleys. Electrical control boxes occupied two walls, and wire conduits snaked in all directions. Bogdan used the cable housing for his shelves and the small tool bench for a desk. What passed for his worldly possessions were piled in one corner, and his ratty old mattress was scooched into another. It wasn’t much, but it was all his, and he loved it. Then it hit him—the room was too quiet. “You shut off the elevator!”

Bogdan rushed to an electrical box and with both of his small hands pushed the huge cutoff switch until—with an explosive blue spark—he closed the circuit. Immediately the huge motor next to him ground to life, the guide wheels rumbled, and the drum took up cable.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Bogdan shouted down the hall, but they were nowhere in sight. He thought he heard them in the Kodiak stairwell, so he slammed his door—he’d have to change the entry code ASAP—and jogged after them, hurtling himself down whole flights of steps with acrobatic precision.

On the fourth floor he passed Kitty going the other way. She was humming merrily and seemed very pleased with herself. When she saw him, she stopped to say, “Since when are you pals with that Troy boy? And who’s his loser friend?”

But Bogdan didn’t even slow down. He blew past her and continued descending. On the third floor, Gerald was coming out of the administrative offices just as Bogdan ran past.

“Oh, there you are,” Gerald said. “Come back here. The committee is waiting.”

Bogdan stopped in his tracks. “The Allowance Committee?”

“What other committee do you have an appointment with?”

“I’ll be right back,” Bogdan said and continued down the corridor.

“You only get a half hour,” Gerald called after him, “and the clock is ticking.”

“Clocks don’t tick,” Bogdan answered from the stairs. At least no clock he’d ever seen. Down on the first floor, he checked the NanoJiffy. They weren’t there, so he went out to the street. Tobbler housemeets were setting up benches and chairs in the street for the evening’s canopy ceremony, but Troy and Slugboy were nowhere in sight. Houseer Dieter was, however, and he came over when he saw Bogdan.

“Good evening, young Kodiak. You will vacate our machine room tomorrow,” he said. “We will come up in the morning to repair the elevator apparatus.”

Bogdan wondered if Troy had, in fact, spoken with his houseer. “There’s nothing wrong with the elevator,” he said.

“Is that so? It was out of service just now for forty-five minutes.”

“That was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

The Tobbler’s eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me, young Kodiak, that you shut off our machinery?”

“No. Yes. I mean—” Bogdan said.

The houseer turned to go. “You have violated the truce. There will be consequences!”

Bogdan watched the Tobbler stalk away, and a moment later he turned around and ran back up to three where Gerald was still waiting in the corridor.

“My appointment’s not till seven,” Bogdan said. “I’ll be back then.”

“Fine with me,” Gerald said.

“Bogdan!” April called from the inner office. Bogdan went to the door. April and Kale were sitting at a table covered with ledgers and files. “Bogdan, we were hoping to be done by seven. We have the thing with Samson tonight.”

“What thing?”

“Oh, you missed the announcement.”

Kale said, “It’s all right. We’ll catch Bogdan next time.”

“Yeah, next time,” Bogdan said and turned to go. But he remembered his cracking voice and fuzzy cheeks and especially the sprouting hair, and he said, “When is next time?”

Kale consulted an appointment book, a well-thumbed, spiral-bound paper book. “How does six weeks from tomorrow sound?”

“Like crap,” Bogdan said and stepped into the office, slamming the door behind him. “What thing with Sam?”

“He’s dying, Boggy,” April said. “He’s only got a very short time left. We’re not going to leave him alone. From now on, we’ll take turns so there’ll be at least one of us with him at all times.”

“So, who’s up with him right now?”

“No one. He didn’t want us to start till tonight.”

Bogdan chewed this over. He could tell them now or let them find out for themselves later.

Meanwhile, Gerald handed him a sheet of paper, a spreadsheet full of handwritten numbers. Bogdan dropped it on the floor and said, “Let’s skip the bookkeeping portion of this meeting and cut to the part where you approve my two requests. One, make me an appointment for this weekend at the Longyear Center to retro eleven months. They’ll throw in an extra bonus month if you call by Wednesday. And two, buy me a Rhodes Scholar valet to replace Lisa.” Finished, he crossed his arms and glowered at them.

“Fine,” said Gerald, retrieving the sheet of paper from the floor, “we’ll skip the bookkeeping part and cut right to the part where we deny your requests.”

“What? You can’t.”

Kale said, “Bogdan, there’s not enough credit for everything.”

April said, “Bogdan, look at this. Look!” She held up a stack of paper notes from the table. “We’re forced to work with paper and pencil. If we can’t afford to replace the houseputer, how can we justify buying you a new valet, especially after you broke the one you had?”

Bogdan began to shout, “Lisa was twenty years old! It’s high time I got a new one!”

“Please don’t raise your voice.”

“Besides, the new ones are powerful enough so I can have mine temporarily take over the houseputer’s functions. Keeping paper records is crazy. For that matter, why aren’t you using Hubert for that? He’s got enough juice to run the Moon. Surely, he could run this house and keep its accounts.”

Gerald and Kale looked away, and April wouldn’t meet his gaze. “What?” he said, but no one answered him, so he charged ahead, “And as for my juve treatments, that’s nonnegotiable.”

April said, “Oh, Boggy, if you could for once stop thinking only about yourself and look around you. Look at the rest of us. Look at me.”

He looked at her and was disturbed to notice that she, like the rest of the housemeets, was way behind in her body maintenance. It seemed as if someone had dialed down her color saturation levels—her hair and skin were ashen.

April said, “We understand you like to remain a boy, and we’ve managed to grant you this for a lot of years, but now we can’t afford it. Surely you can wait a little while until we’re back on our feet.”

“How long?”

Gerald consulted his spreadsheet. “Eight to twelve months.”

“Eight to twelve months? No way! People, don’t you hear what I’m telling you. I’m pubing out! I’ll lose my job! It’s right in my E-Pluribus contract—I must remain prepubescent. I’m a demographics control. And in case you haven’t noticed, I’ll point it out to you—it’s my payfer that’s carrying this whole sorry house. Mine and Sam’s. At the rate I’m going, in eight months I’ll be adolescent. Hell, I’m already sprouting hair in places you don’t want to know.”

Gerald waved the spreadsheet at Bogdan and said, “There’s nothing we can do. We can’t spin yoodies from thin air. You’ll just have to hang on. We’ll boost your hormonal supplements. That’ll slow it down. In a month, who knows, maybe our financial picture will improve.”

As Gerald spoke, Bogdan noticed that April was looking guiltier and guiltier. Something was definitely up. The paper records, the furtive glances. Then he recalled how pleased Kitty had seemed in the hall a few minutes ago, not at all like a retrogirl told she’d have to wait eight to twelve months for her next juve.

“Why does Kitty get rejuvenation, and I don’t?”

His question surprised them, and Kale said, “Bogdan, you know we can’t discuss another ’meet’s account with you.”

“It’s not fair!” Bogdan said. “She brings in ten thousandths and yet she gets her way, while you deny me the treatments I need to keep my job. It’s stupid.”

Gerald dropped his papers on the table and went to sit down. Kale shook his head. They both gave April a look. April sighed and said, “Charter Kodiak is in the middle of very sensitive negotiations, Boggy. It’s not something we’re ready to bring to the full charter yet. Kitty is acting as the charter’s agent in this matter, but even her juve has been postponed—a little.”

“What negotiations? I have a right to know.”

“We’ll bring it up for general discussion in another—I don’t know—next week?”

Bogdan had never been very good at putting two and two together, but from the tension in the room, he knew he had stumbled across something major, and he wasn’t about to let it go. He assumed his most obstinate little boy pose and said, “Why? Because you don’t want Samson to know about it? Is that it? And those paper records are not because of the houseputer but to keep Hubert out of the loop, right?”

“Damn it,” Gerald said. He got up and pulled a chair to the wall, climbed on it, and poked at two exposed wires below a wall-mounted cam. “Not that it matters,” he grumbled and climbed down. “The houseputer lost contact with this room ages ago.”

Kale steepled his hands on the tabletop and spoke in portentous tones. “Bogdan, what we tell you goes no farther than this room, understood?” Bogdan nodded, and Kale continued. “You ever hear of a place called Rosewood Acres?”

Bogdan shook his head.

“It’s a superfund site in Wyoming since the last century. Highly polluted. Highly toxic. There are more rare elements and radioactive isotopes buried there than the next five dumps combined. Which means it’s one of the richest micromines in the UD with the potential for a steady income for decades. And the mining rights have recently been acquired by Charter Beadlemyren.”

“Never heard of them.”

Gerald said, “The Beadlemyren, like us and thousands of other charters, are suffering a decline in their membership. When Sam dies—well, we’ll be hurting. But the Beadlemyren are in worse shape. The state has already started decertification procedures against them. Unless something’s done, they’ll lose their charter, and with it their assets, including the mining rights. We’ve been talking to them about the possibility of our two charters merging. The benefits for both of us would be substantial. But the Beadlemyren have offers from other charters also eager to merge or absorb them, including, we suspect, the Tobblers. That means we have to bring more to the table than our competitors can.”

“Such as?”

April said, “Well, an appearance of youthful enthusiasm, for one. That’s why it’s Kitty who’s representing us. And capital. Lots of capital. It’ll mean selling off the rest of this building—which is why there’s no point in investing in a new houseputer just now—and selling, uh, well, everything.”

Bogdan was stunned. “We’re going to move out of Chicago?”

“It looks that way,” said Kale, “which is why your position at E-Pluribus is of secondary importance.”

With this news, Bogdan turned and drifted to the door.

“Bogdan!” April said sharply. “This is all under wraps. Understand?”

“Yeah,” he said. “A big feckin’ secret.” Then he remembered something, and he asked Kale, “You said this toxic dump is called Rosewood Acres. How many acres?”

“Two thousand.”