January 2164
‘I hate this job.’
Marcus followed Carl towards the Maglev station exit after their shift ended.
‘Yeah, the autobots were shits today,’ said Carl. He brushed his hand down his overalls. ‘First that stupid kid threw up on the platform. Then his mother rushed off like it was someone else’s brat who’d done it?’
The autobot supervisor had humiliated them both in front of the passengers waiting to board the train. The passengers had given the mess a wide berth, but the smell made it all too clear the kid had chucked up all over the place. Then the autobot had called Marcus and Carl up to deal with it, in front of the chuckling passengers.
And while he cleaned, all Marcus wanted to do was push the smug, laughing bastards onto the track. Carl had nearly come to blows with the autobot when it had told him to hurry.
They passed through the environmental force field surrounding the station and pressed their gel masks to their faces.
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Carl. People are shits.’
‘If I hear another word about how lucky we are to have this job, I’m gonna kill someone.’
‘I’ll give you the fucking gun, Carl.’
Marcus was sick of being supervised by hunks of metal with programmed AI personalities. Six months ago, he and Carl had sat one of the World Government aptitude tests. Then the machine had the nerve to spit out their most suitable job: cleaner. But Marcus and Carl had grown up in a bad neighbourhood in Hunts Point, New York, and that gave them other options. On the stoop of Marcus’ apartment block, they’d dreamt of bigger things, what their lives would be like when they got older. They’d done everything together since they were eight years old, even took jobs for the gangs running the streets. But the pay was shit and, at twenty-five, Marcus needed a new place to live after the World Government had listed their entire street as condemned. The cleaning job was the first thing Marcus wished Carl had done alone.
‘So when are we gonna pack in this shit?’ said Carl. ‘I’m nobody’s lackey.’
‘Fucked if I know.’
At least the job came with a government-owned apartment, a replicator and clean air guaranteed. Without a job, they would be kicked out onto the streets to live who knew what life.
But that’s what Marcus craved. Predictability kept him under the thumb. The opposite gave him chances he would never come by on the slow, safe route.
They stopped off in a nearby bar. Marcus still had enough credit left over from the week before to afford one real drink. Not replicated shit; the bootleg stuff. He would make it a good one. Carl ordered his own drink and Marcus’ jaw dropped when Carl’s credit flashed up on the payment panel. Ten times more than Marcus had.
Marcus shook his head and ordered a triple-distilled whiskey. They both sat down in a dark-wood booth near the matching bar.
‘Hey, Carl, where the hell did you get that credit from?’
Carl took a sip. ‘This is good stuff. Really takes the edge off that pile of steaming shit we call a job.’ He looked at Marcus’ glass, untouched. ‘You gonna drink that?’
‘I asked you a question.’
Carl took another sip. ‘Around.’
‘Doing what?’
‘This and that.’
‘Well, fuck, Carl. I could have guessed that. What, exactly?’
Carl struggled to suppress a smile. ‘Okay, but what I’m about to tell ya goes no further. Right?’
Marcus nodded and leaned forward. ‘There’s this fella called Enzo Agostini. Met him at one of the strip clubs over on East? Well, his daddy is some big name in the black market. He says the World Government is gearin’ up to leave this hellhole and us behind.’
‘And the extra credit?’
‘Doin’ jobs fer Enzo.’ Carl necked the rest of his drink and grimaced. He turned to the bartender and pointed at his glass. The bartender poured another.
‘Why haven’t I heard of this crowd?’
‘Been keepin’ it a secret to see if it turns into anythin’.’
‘So get me some work with this Enzo. If you’re making more than the cleaning job, why are you still even there?’
Carl smirked. ‘Didn’t wantcha gettin’ lonely in there all by yerself.’
Carl got up and paid for his second whiskey at the bar. He returned and sat back down.
‘Fuck you, Carl. You had a better job offer and you didn’t share it with me?’
Carl sat back. ‘Relax, Maaarcus. I was always gonna tell ya. Enzo only had a few jobs for me to do, so I didn’t wanna share. That’s all.’
Marcus hated it when Carl elongated his name. He mirrored his friend’s casual pose. ‘And now?’
‘Well, Enzo says his daddy’s gearin’ to make a move when the World Government makes up its mind. There’s a bunch of factions planning on comin’ in from outta town. The ones who run the black market in New York and beyond, they’re gettin’ nervous. The Agostinis need to make sure no outsiders get in when the time comes. They’re recruitin’ now, gettin’ their numbers up.’
The black market was an illegal operation that sold contraband goods to people under the World Government’s nose. Stuff like real liquor, and failed World Government prototypes from Nanoid Valley. Their most lucrative business was facial reconstruction and identity/security chip replacements.
But there were rumours the government had a vested interest in keeping the market alive, that they used it to control the criminals deemed too difficult to manage. Marcus’ father was a regular trader at the pop-up market that would operate in a different location in the city each week. His business kept him away from home, leaving Marcus to raise himself. His mother had died when he was three years old.
A dipshit and a liar. That’s what the others had called his father when Marcus, at age twelve, had looked for him at the market he’d spent three whole days trying to find, after his father had been missing for a week.
One man had told Marcus his father was busy and not to look for him again.
‘He must be an important man, your father, if he’s away from home so much. How about you come see me and I’ll fix you up with a few jobs?’
Marcus had declined and relayed his conversation to Carl.
Carl had responded with his usual suspicions. ‘That man’s a fucking liar. Your daddy’s dead, Maaarcus. Like mine is. Hasn’t been home for a month now. At least your mother had the courtesy of dyin’. Not like mine who ran off with another fella. It’s just you an’ me now. Better get used to it.’
The factions were divided up according to families; blood was thicker than water in this business. Three factions ruled New York where the first black market operation originally started. Some had close ties with the World Government, most did not. But on an operational level, everything ran fairly. No hierarchy sat above the black market. Who controlled each market depended on the faction who controlled the region.
But if the World Government was leaving, the order of the factions, whose cloak and dagger operations were repressed under a powerful government, would be blown wide open. And if new factions were coming in from out of town, there must be something big to this move.
Marcus wouldn’t be left on the sidelines when those changes happened.
He watched a glassy-eyed Carl order another drink with a swirl of his finger.
When he had his attention again, Marcus said, ‘Get me a meeting with this Enzo. How soon can you arrange it?’