Emilio knew it was the googuys the second he saw them through the peephole in his apartment door. Despite their being warped around the fish-eye, he could see they were in their "casual but not casual" clothes; designer jeans, top drawer button-up shirts. The blond one wore the most high-end Google glasses. And something metallic hovered, just out of sight, barely glimpsed in the background.
Google Guys for sure.
"Yeah
he's there," said the guy with the glasses.
"I'm
picking it up," said the other one.
Implant
scanners, Emilio figured.
"Mr.
Sanchez," the one without the obvious glasses called. "Hi! We're here
from the Housing Interface!"
The
drone being there told Emilio he had no choice. He knew it'd summon Hard-forcement
if he refused to open the door.
He unlocked
and opened the door and there they were, the googuys, their armed drone
hovering over between them. It was a whirly little thing like a silvery frisbee,
and on the stationary metal post in its center it had a tiny nozzle. It could
shoot little blood-soluble glassy injectors with that nozzle.
And that
was just the drone he could see. Emilio knew they often came with the little
stealth drones, smaller and harder to see than a housefly.
He
looked them over. No surprise. They were sparklingly groomed, and though the
glasses guy, Chode, had long butter-colored hair, every inch of it was
exquisitely coifed. The little silvery card clipped to his collar read, Romeo
Chode, Google Housing Interface.
The other
one looked mixed race, maybe Latino Asian Black Caucasian. His collar card read,
William Nim, Google Housing Interface.
"Emilio,
hi," said Nim. "I'm Bill Nim. Can we come in?"
"You
going to text me a warrant?"
"We've
done that," Chode said, smiling apologetically. He was looking past them
at the small Mission apartment, an early 20th century construction
passed down through the family, one of the last rent-controlled places in this
shrunken San Francisco barrio.
"Then
come the fuck in," Emilio said, sighing, wondering if this was a check-on
visit—or was it the Worst Possible.
Their
frisbee-sized drone followed them in like a trained bird. Chode scanned the
apartment, turning his head with the slow-sweep efficiency of a security camera
so his glasses got a panning shot of the room; taking in the Immaculate Heart
of Mary statuette in its shrine; the framed family photos, the worn sofa and cluttered
coffee table; the slightly slanted floor, the old wood-framed archways painted
in bright Mexican colors.
"Looks
like the building's settling," Chode said, glancing at the floor. "Has
it been safety-checked in the past six months?"
Emilio ignored
the question. But he knew what it implied. "What are you guys planning to put
in its place after you tear it down?"
Nim blinked
at him. "We are not real estate investors or demolition persons or…"
"Whatever,
man—my family is not leaving here," Emilio said.
"There's
no definite decision on that," Chode said, looking Emilio up and down,
pausing to scan Emilio's maimed hand. Two fingers had been removed from Emilio's
left hand as a contractual requirement when he'd signed on to work for OctoCorp.
Part of their Full Commitment hiring policy.
"The
housing authority has already granted us this building," Chode went on,
"as per the Corporate Financing Incentives Act of 2034. But as to the
schedule, the short version is, if you apply for a Hispanic Heritage deferral,
you can get an extra sixty days here. But--if you give us access to a cerebral
usage unit, you can stay for an additional fourteen months!"
Emilio
wished Carmen was here. She'd have torn these guys a new one. She was stronger
than he was. He felt defeated already. But he stalled for time. "A Hispanic
Heritage referral? How do I get that? I'm a Sanchez, for Chrissakes. What do
you want me to do, reel off some Español?"
Chode
sniffed. "You look a little light-skinned. Our records show your grandfather
was from Germany. I have your DNA read-out."
"Everyone
else in my family is from Mexico and this place has been in our family for
generations. My uncle lives here—he'll tell you. He's out playing dominoes now
but when he gets back—"
"Daddy?"
It was Julio, in the archway of the hall, rubbing his eyes. He had slept in, his
first day of school vacation. He wore the Kwazy Kwacker pajamas he'd long since
outgrown.
"Julio
Sanchez, eight years old," Nim muttered, gazing raptly at the boy. "Fully
vaccinated, enrolled in Wal-Mart Elementary. Shows upper-level cerebral responsiveness
in class."
That
made Emilio grate his teeth. Maybe he should call Carmen at work…
"Hi,
Julio!" Chode said brightly, waving at the boy. "You know, you'd be
ideal for our new Cerebral Youth program, and we've been tasked to find out—"
"No!"
Emilio shouted. "Out, Chode! Both of you—out!"
"Dad!"
Julio ran to his father and clung to him. "Who are they?"
"Doesn't
matter, they're leaving." Emilio pointed at Chode. "You heard me—I said
get out now or I swear I'll—" He was unable to finish he sentence. He
broke off at the piercing sting on his neck.
He heard
Chode say, "As you threatened us, we do have authorization to—"
Then Emilio
was gone, instant-tranked by the drone.
When he came
to, he was lying on the floor, his head on a pillow. He straightened up,
feeling queasy, the room rotating slowly. The vertigo passed and he saw Chode
and Nim straightening up from Julio who was stretched out on the sofa.
There was a
little foam at the corners of Julio's mouth and a metal stud in his forehead.
Emilio's
hands fisted. "What have you pricks done!"
They
turned to Emilio as he got swaying to his feet. Nim smiled. "In the event
of malicious resistance, we have All Access to the cerebral resources of
tenants, as of the new law—it took effect January first."
Chode
nodded. "The boy is fine! He's having a typical initiatory response
reaction. Nothing to worry about."
Stomach churning,
Emilio looked around the room for a weapon. There were knives in the kitchen….
Then Julio
sat up, smiling, wiping foam from his mouth.
He looked
cheerfully at his father—but there was an infinite remoteness in his eyes.
"It's okay, dad, I feel better! Can I go with Bill and Romeo, after I get
dressed? I want to see what it's like to be a cerebral helper! I really want
to!"
And Julio's
smile widened—as a little blood trickled down from the stud in his forehead.
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