Chapter 7
“Is it possible all these expressions—Culture, Subculture, Class, and Social Contract—are so much needless academic overcomplication? It seems so many of these shrink away from the rather offensive question that distills it all: Do you identify and value your Tribe? And do they, in turn, identify and value you?”
—Dr. Georgette Hester-Vicary, Irresistible Puppeteer: The Motivational Primacy of Tribe
Like most of the younger demi-cit residents in Imperial City’s suburban domiciles, he had chosen his new name in his early teen years, rejecting the perfectly serviceable “Robert” bestowed by his kindly parents, opting for Jaybad instead. Bitch-Mother, the synthetic Intelligence that managed all demi-cits on Coreworld, would happily refer to a demi-cit by whatever name they officially selected, and it provided Jaybad an absurd degree of pleasure every time her voice shaped the name he alone created. It was Jaybad’s first taste of independence from the stagnant world that his parents and Bitch-Mother tried to force upon him.
Other fleeting samples of defiance came to him as the years passed, but many were not without cost.
He once collected fruit and sugar, creating a batch of crude alcohol to bypass Bitch-Mother’s enforced limit of four daily ounces of low-proof. He not only made himself miserably ill, but emerged from the agony to find a sermon from Bitch-Mother and a cluster of red demerits on his account.
Other forays achieved greater or lesser success, respectively, as Jaybad began to revel in the oppression his birth as a demi-cit subjected upon him. He strayed into commercial zones designated exclusively for Vested Citizens, he hopped a ride atop the roof of an autocab, he hocked up a load of phlegm and spat it onto a Citizen’s head from (he thought) a concealed location upon a bridge.
All this had buried Jaybad under a load of red demerits and subjected him to lengthy conversations with Bitch-Mother, who clearly tried to psychoanalyze him. It even brought him a visit from an actual human being.
Residential Monitor Perkins wore no sword, just as much a demi-cit as Jaybad, but he had applied himself for years in training classes and minor postings until he had obtained the cushy monitor job. He wore a nice holo lens set on his face, and his fancy shoes looked expensive. Jaybad felt certain that Perkins got a fat stipend and a bundle of blue merits on his account. Bootlicker!
Perkins had droned away to Jaybad about finding a new education course or employment path that he might enjoy, or perhaps a challenging new hobby, to which Jaybad had blown raspberries.
“You can play their stupid little games if you want, Perkins, but I’ll be damned if I will,” Jaybad had declared.
Jaybad would always remember the steady gaze Perkins had lowered on him then, and the accompanying suggestion: “So promote then—um—Jaybad,” Perkins had said, and at Jaybad’s expression continued, “No, really. You’ve got a real fire to do things your own way. Take the citizenship class, and promote. Blaze your own trail and leave these…uh, ‘stupid little games’ all behind.”
“Right,” Jaybad had replied, sneering. “Jump right from one setup to another, just to be cut down by some rich fuck’s sword. No thanks.”
Perkins had actually brought up the numbers and charts then, intending to show Jaybad just how few promoting demi-cits actually died in lethal duels, but Jaybad wasn’t interested. He wasn’t going to put some cheap sword on his hip and go waltzing out, begging to be included in an exclusive club where he felt sure he would always be an outsider, an inferior.
Somehow, he would make his own way, outside their stupid rules…a different path, not begging anyone to accept him, and certainly not conforming to anyone’s standards.
Instead he slowly worked off his red demerits, complained to the other young wags who joined perfectly with his sentiments, and looked every day for his own exciting path. For Jaybad and several of his friends, that new path arrived unexpectedly from within their own demi-cit environ.
Transfers from one domicile to another occurred regularly as residents desired a change of scenery or some work or education offer in another locale, the transfers trickling through as apartments became available in whichever domicile one desired to inhabit.
One such incoming transfer to Jaybad’s longtime domicile involved two demi-cit men of about his age who arrived one day and swiftly began to overset the tedious uniformity of their environment. Of the two, Jaybad struck up an almost instant connection with Stringer, a tall, charismatic fellow, while the other new transfer, Silencio, remained an uncomfortable enigma. The two of them together, though, showed Jaybad just how far belligerence could be pushed.
Within a day of arriving, the domicile inhabitants found themselves treated to a display of crude sign-making as Silencio used a soupy concoction of cleaners, lotions, and food paste to paint large words across the wall in the domicile’s entrance hall: DEMI-CITS ARE PEOPLE.
Jaybad wasn’t entirely certain what was meant by this assertion, since he had never really felt anyone thought otherwise, but the whole attitude of outrage, and the bold defiance of Bitch-Mother, excited Jaybad to a new height.
As Silencio worked away, Bitch-Mother’s voice explained which rules Silencio violated, and what demerits he would now be awarded, but Silencio utterly ignored Bitch-Mother’s voice. While many demi-cit residents transiting the entrance hall as Silencio worked seemed appalled or outraged, many of Jaybad’s closest companions looked on with obvious admiration. It was only as Silencio finished his drippy piece of protest art that Jaybad noticed Stringer looking quietly on from the far corner of the entrance hall. He did not look at Silencio’s handiwork, instead observing the reactions of each demi-cit resident in turn, seeming to pointedly note their glares or gleeful smiles.
Jaybad wondered just how far Silencio would push his defiance of Bitch-Mother, but after completing his “artwork,” Silencio yielded to Bitch-Mother’s commands, retreating obediently to his apartment for punitive confinement. Silencio seemed unmoved by the prospect of punishment, his perpetual fixed smile stretching his lips all the same.
“Hah! What a lark!” Stringer had laughed, suddenly standing beside Jaybad. “Silencio doesn’t just lie down and let these bastards walk all over him.” Jaybad smiled a little self-consciously, simultaneously loving the cheeky insolence and internally cringing at Bitch-Mother’s interpretation of their conversation. It wasn’t until much later that Jaybad thought to question Silencio’s alleged reputation for disobedience. If Silencio was such a rebel, how did he ever accrue enough blue merits to transfer to Jaybad’s domicile? The two things seemed mutually exclusive, but for that moment, Jaybad tagged along with Stringer, a gaggle of his more rebellious fellow residents joining them as they left the domicile.
As a group they ambled along, each of them sharing scathing or amusing observations arising from Silencio’s performance.
“Did you see the look on that cow Marcella’s face?” one laughed.
“Or how about old Reeves?” another chimed in. “Took one look at Silencio up there lathering that shit on the wall and turned about like a top! He thought Bitch-Mother’d get him just for seeing it happen! Hah!”
Their voluble ebullience increased as they moved to environs where Bitch-Mother’s monitor was scanty—or so it seemed. Sometimes it seemed Bitch-Mother punished sins that could not possibly have been observed, so they were never entirely certain of her limits.
Stringer looked on as his coterie of new friends gloried in the rare moment of defiance, smiling indulgently. Eventually he cast a bit of a damper over the assembly. “This? It wasn’t much. Just a taste of Silencio’s fun. When we get truly serious about the unfair treatment from these sods, you’ll think nothing of a little protest artwork.” The way Stringer talked made Jaybad feel a bit silly for thinking that Silencio’s performance was a major act of rebellion. His own prior misbehavior seemed that of a recalcitrant child, now in the light of Stringer’s casual disdain.
“You know what you’re all missing?” Stringer had asked of the small crowd, a mocking smile curving his lips. “You lack belief.” Jaybad and the others shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uncertain looks, wondering if this was a joke of some kind. They hadn’t expected him to say something so…peculiar. As demi-cits, of all the things they lacked, belief didn’t rise to prominence in their thoughts.
Stringer saw their uncertainties and laughed. “You should see yourselves.” His laughter faded. “Why does every demi-cit in the Myriad Worlds accept this humiliating existence? They do it because they don’t really believe they’re as good—no!—better than the bastards holding us down! And we are better!” Stringer ended with something like a shout, and all around Jaybad his long-time companions joined in, shouting out defiance, shaking their fists in the air. Jaybad even made some cheering sounds, though a sudden memory came to him resonating in the calm voice of Residential Monitor Perkins:
“If you are truly so great, promote, become a Vested Citizen and show the worlds what you’ve got!”
That voice and the path it depicted submerged immediately beneath the fear and uncertainty of a doubtful journey to find acceptance as a Vested Citizen…even as Jaybad found this far more immediate cocktail of outrage and defiance offered so freely by Stringer.
* * *
The demi-cit domicile stirred slowly to life in the early hours, Stringer slipping quietly out of the building with only one older resident in view as he made his way quickly into the nearby commercial zone. In only a few minutes of fast walking, he wove through a rather weary-looking athletic club frequented by demi-cits and poverty-stricken Vested Citizens, emerging from a back door and pausing in the shadows of a shabby alleyway, the rising sun brightly lighting the door as he waited, watching. After a few minutes without any sign of a tail, Stringer turned and continued on his way with a new, confident swinging stride that in no way resembled the gait of any demi-cit one ever saw.
Stringer observed a gaggle of finely attired Citizens some distance ahead, and he hesitated a moment, wanting to avoid encountering any Vested Citizen from the higher strata of society.
What the devil are they out so early for, anyway?
Probably ending their night at some low-class dive…
Stringer spotted his goal just a little farther ahead and hurried to the unremarkable door, darting in with just a glance at the early morning revelers. Only one or two seemed to look in Stringer’s direction, and thankfully none appeared to take any notice of him.
One calming breath was all Stringer needed before continuing through the second door to the two figures awaiting his arrival.
Preston and Paris Okuna regarded Stringer with identical expressions of impatience. “You’re late, Cedric,” Preston said, while Paris merely glared.
Hearing his own real name added to the building sense of ill-usage Stringer felt from his experience of the last few humiliating months, posing as a demi-cit.
Posing.
Stringer—Cedric—felt that clawing grip of combined shame and panic again. He wasn’t posing, really. He, Cedric Okuna, member of the proudest Great Family of Imperial City, had demoted. He had made the one-way trip from Vested Citizen to demi-cit, and all the talk from the Family leaders about his temporary mission felt more and more ethereal and empty by the day. Had any Citizen ever demoted and yet regained their former status as a Vested Citizen? No…never.
“I had to be certain I wasn’t followed,” Stringer said.
Paris twisted her lips into a sneer. “Followed? Who follows a demi-cit?”
Stringer felt the heat in his cheeks and withheld an angry outburst only with great effort. Had Paris spent weeks living in the sterile domiciles, listening to all the effete whining of the most pathetic delinquents? Had she spent even one day of her adult life micromanaged by an unyielding Intelligence as Stringer now did? He took a calming breath as Preston laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. He—Stringer—had already occupied a lower rung of the Family ladder. Such was his fate…and Paris answered to unyielding voices also, he knew, and those voices were nowhere near as gentle as Bitch-Mother.
“Let’s not worry about all that just now,” Preston said. He slid a slender packet to Stringer. “Our allies provided these notices for you to distribute.” Stringer opened the packet, glancing at the inflammatory language as Preston added, “They say the demi-cit’s Intelligence can’t readily detect these little things.”
Stringer dropped the packet on the table. “They say? What happens if they’re wrong?” he demanded.
Preston shrugged. “Have your ally handle it, then.”
“Silencio is restricted to quarters already. It will have to be me taking the chance.”
“Slumming with demi-cits dried up your courage, Cedric?” Paris purred.
Preston held up a restraining hand before Stringer could reply. “The Family has relied heavily upon our new allies, and they have proven themselves entirely reliable.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Paris said in a mocking tone. “Get sent to your room without supper?”
Stringer felt his anger surge again. “We don’t know how the Intelligence would respond if it figured out what we’re actually doing, do we? Maybe call Imperial Security.”
“Hardly likely,” Preston said with a smile.
“Besides,” Stringer went on, ignoring Paris entirely, “why am I even doing all this? I mean…who really cares if demi-cits are all angry?”
Preston’s smile disappeared. “We all obey because we are told to. Or have you forgotten so quickly among the honorless class?”
Stringer felt his cheeks burning. “I—I know…I just wished all this was doing something…important.”
Preston pushed the packet toward Stringer. “You are. How can you doubt it, with one of our allies at your side every day? Hmm? Do you think they are willing to waste their precious time?”
Stringer had no satisfying answer to this, and a moment later he stepped out the door, his thoughts a tumult of fear, anger, and shame, his attention focused entirely inward, even as a cultured voice suddenly jerked him back into the living moment.
“Cedric Okuna! What awful trousers, I must say.”
Stringer looked up to see that foppish idiot, Claude Carstairs, lounging nearby, looking as neat as a pin despite an undoubted night of debauchery drawing to its end, his vacuous gaze fixed critically on Stringer’s humble demi-cit attire.
“Uh, hello, Claude, I—”
“What were you thinking, Cedric? I’ve always credited you with—er—more refined taste.”
Stringer shot a furtive look down the avenue, glad to see Claude’s aristocratic companions seemingly preoccupied, one of their number standing drunkenly on a café table while the others looked on, calling encouragement. Stringer needed to exit the area before some old acquaintance with more mental acuity noticed Stringer in his humble clothing, his lack of the requisite citizen’s sword standing out like a missing limb.
“Well, Claude, you—uh—know how it—it is...” Stringer mumbled, backing away, smiling with all the conviction his unsteady nerves could sustain.
“Do I?” Claude asked, his expression bemused. “Can’t think why I’d ever wear such a ghastly rig as that, even on Battersea, unless it was a…wager!” Claude smiled, his face clearing. “Lost a wager, have you, Cedric?”
Stringer shrugged, backing farther away, keeping Claude between him and the distant gaggle of rowdies. “You—you’ve guessed it.”
“Rather thought I did,” Claude said.
“But I really, really must go.”
Claude shook his head, his face becoming serious. “You really must, Cedric. Trousers like those are a damned emergency. Hurry off now.”
Stringer fled with a wave, thankful it was only that idiot Claude he encountered. As Stringer rounded the corner, he shot one parting glance back, and Claude seemed to be gazing after him with an almost thoughtful light in those vacuous eyes.
Fortunately, Stringer had known Claude for nearly fifteen years, ever since Claude spent some years with his uncle here in Imperial City, and Stringer knew Claude didn’t possess a coherent thought that extended beyond sartorial interests.
Stringer put Claude easily out of his mind, making his way back through the serpentine path to his new home, the demi-cit domicile, having greater difficulty silencing his more pressing doubts.
Among the disgruntled, reactionary members of the domicile who clearly idolized Stringer already, he counted anarchic misfits like Jaybad, and then the super-educated set who had haunted higher learning with no productive goal, and lastly the mere followers who heeded any appeal to their immediate appetites. As Stringer strolled into the domicile, the packet of propaganda tucked out of sight, this diverse mob awaited him, the obvious light of admiration dawning in their faces.
Never in his life—as Cedric Okuna, or as mere Stringer—had he known the sensation he now felt.
Though he would never admit it to Preston or Paris, Stringer suddenly felt a giddy wave of pleasure. These pathetic demi-cits were his, the quiet militia of his creation, and he was their general. The cocky smile that curved his lips flickered momentarily as he thought of cold, smiling Silencio locked in his room.
As these humble new followers encircled Stringer, all acting so nonchalant, so falsely apathetic, Stringer’s smile reemerged. This role could be played by Stringer alone. Silencio, his smiling ally of the moment, could not stand in for Stringer and inspire these demi-cit sheep, no matter his alleged abilities. He could not form the human bonds that Stringer now wove around his eager, gullible recruits.
Hell, Silencio wasn’t even human!