Part 4 (2/2)

Men and their d.i.c.ks. It's mostly your own tissue.

Used to be inseparable. Karen had been male until she turned eighteen, and was able to file with National Health for a swap. She took a few tests and they agreed she'd be better off outside-in.

The first one's free. If she wanted to go back to being a male, she'd have to pay. Two of the jills that Ralph liked were ex-males trying to earn enough to buy their d.i.c.ks back. What a wonderful world.

PEOPLE OUTSIDE OF NATIONAL Service did have legitimate ways to earn money, though not many of them were paid as much as prost.i.tutes. Academics made small stipends, larger ones for people who did hands-on teaching, only a token for people who just did research. Marty was the head of his department and was a world-renowned authority on brain-machine and brain-brain interfacing-but he made less money than a teaching a.s.sistant like Julian. He made less money than the greaseball kids who served drinks at the Sat.u.r.day Night Special. And like most people in his position, Marty took a perverse pride in being broke all the time-he was too busy to make money. And he rarely needed the things you could buy with it, anyhow.

You could buy objects with money, like handcrafts and original art, or services; ma.s.seur, butler, prost.i.tute. But most people spent money on rationed things-things the government allowed you to have, but didn't allow you enough of.

Everyone had three entertainment credits a day, for instance. One credit would get you a movie, a roller-coaster ride, one hour of hands-on driving on a sports car track, or entry into a place like the Sat.u.r.day Night Special.

Once inside, you could sit all night for free, unless you wanted something to eat or drink. Restaurant meals ranged from one to thirty credits, mostly depending on how much labor went into them, but the menu also had dollar amounts, in case you had used up all your entertainment and had money.

Plain money wouldn't buy alcohol, though, unless you were in uniform. You were rationed one ounce of alcohol per day, and it made no difference to the government whether you parceled it out to yourself as two small gla.s.ses of wine each night or as a once-a-month binge with two bottles of vodka.

It made abstainers and people in uniform sought-after companions in some wobbly circles-and, perhaps predictably, did nothing to reduce the number of alcoholics. People who had to have it would either find it or make it.

Illegal services were available for money, and in fact were the most active part of the dollar economy. Penny-ante activities like home-brewing or freelance prost.i.tution were either ignored or taken care of with small regular bribes. But there were big operators who moved a lot of cash for hard drugs and services like murder.

Some medical services, like jack installation, cosmetic surgery, and s.e.x-change operations, were theoretically available through National Health, but not many people qualified. Before the war, Nicaragua and Costa Rica had been the places to go to buy black medicine. Now it was Mexico, though a lot of the doctors had Nicaraguan or Costa Rican accents.

BLACK MEDICINE CAME UP at the next Friday night gathering. Ray was on a little vacation in Mexico. It was no secret he'd gone there to have a few dozen pounds of fat removed.

I suppose the medical advantages outweigh the risk, Marty said.

You had to approve the leave? Julian asked.

Pro forma, Marty said. Pity he couldn't put it against sick leave. I don't think he's ever used a day of it.

Well, it's vanity, Belda said in a quavering voice. Male vanity. I liked him fine, fat.

He didn't want to get in bed with you, darling, Marty said.

His loss. The old woman patted her hair.

The waiter was a surly handsome young man who looked as if he'd stepped out of a movie poster. Last call.

It's only eleven, Marty said.

So maybe you get one more.

Same all around? Julian said. Everyone said yes except Belda, who checked her watch and bustled out.

It was getting toward the end of the month, so they put all the drinks on Julian's tab, to conserve ration points, and paid him under the table. He offered to let them do it all the time, but it was technically against the law, so most of the people usually demurred. Except Reza, who had never spent a dime in the club except in payoffs to Julian.

I wonder how fat you have to be to go to National Health, Reza said.

You have to need a forklift to get around, Julian said. Your ma.s.s has to alter the orbits of nearby planets.

He did apply, Marty said. He didn't have high enough blood pressure or cholesterol.

You're worried about him, Amelia said.

Of course I am, Blaze. Personal feelings aside, if something happened to him I'd be stopped dead on three different projects. The new one especially, the empathy failures. He's pretty much taken that over.

How's that coming along? Julian asked. Marty raised a palm and shook his head. Sorry. Didn't mean to- Oh, well, you might as well know one thing-we've been studying one of your people. You'll know all about it next time you jack with her.

Reza got up to go to the bathroom, so it was just the three of them: Julian, Amelia, and Marty.

I'm very happy for you both, Marty said, in a distant tone, as if he were talking about the weather.

Amelia just stared. You ... you have access to my string, Julian said.

Not directly, and not for the purpose of invading your privacy. We've been studying one of your people. So naturally I know a lot about you, secondhand, and so does Ray. Of course we will keep your secret for as long as you wish it to remain a secret.

Nice of you to tell us, Amelia said.

I don't mean to embarra.s.s you. But of course Julian would know the next time he jacks with her. I was glad to finally get you alone.

Who was it?

Private Defollette.

Candi. Well, that makes sense.

She's the one who was so hurt about the death last month? Amelia said.

Julian nodded. You expect her to crack?

We don't expect anything. We're simply interviewing one person per platoon.

Chosen at random, Julian said.

Marty laughed and raised an eyebrow. We were talking about liposuction?

I DIDN'T EXPECT A lot of action the next week, since we'd have to break in a new set of soldierboys and start with a new mechanic as well. Almost two new ones, since Rose, Arly's replacement, had no experience other than last month's disaster.

The new mechanic was not a neo. For some reason they broke up India platoon to use as replacements. So we all sort of knew the new man, Park, because of the diffuse platoon-level link through Ralph, and Richard before him.

I didn't much like Park. India had been a hunter-killer platoon. He'd killed more people than all the rest of us put together, and unabashedly enjoyed it. He collected crystals of his kills and replayed them off duty.

We trained in the new soldierboys three hours on, one off, destroying the fake town Pedropolis, built for that purpose on the Portobello base.

When I had time, I linked up to Carolyn, the company coordinator, and asked what was going on-why did I wind up with a man like Park? He'd never really fit in.

Carolyn's reply was sour and hot with confusion and anger. The order to decompose India platoon had come from somewhere above the brigade level, and it was causing organizational problems everywhere. The India mechanics were a bunch of mavericks. They hadn't gotten along all that well even with each other.

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