Crache (4 page)

“When would you like to implement an in-vivo update?” the IA says.

“Later,” Rexx says. The orchid can wait. He squirts a little White Rain, then opens the biomed file and begins to read.

6

THE EZ LIFE

L
. Mariachi hates merengue—can’t stand the slick rhythms and seductive vocals that promise nothing but happiness—and that is what the band at the Club Pair-A-Dice is playing at the moment.

The franchise is new, sugarcoated to lure him into a sense of false security. The decor is imitation glass and chrome with cheap faux-wood accents over structural foam and lichenboard. The atmosphere is upbeat but low key—sensuous. The air is raging with pherions that have everybody swaying together on the dance floor and waxing optimistic about the future.

No discontented
braceros
tonight. All of the guest workers are laughing, satisfied. Giddy with change. It’s always this way just after the migrant workforce has been recladed and relocated. A new assignment always brings with it renewed hope; the work will be easier, the
patrón
nicer, the wages better.

It’s bullshit, of course. Wishful thinking. Nothing will be better, it never is. Soon, it will be back to
el tambo,
the prisonlike trailers, for a few hours’ sleep before they start work at dawn. Harvesting pharm-bred berries this time. That means he’ll be wading in vats filled knee-deep with nutrient solution, breathing in the fumes of whatever hazmat they’re using for fertilizer. The vats are sealed with plastic bubble domes. Which means it will be not only hot but humid.

The beat quickens. The syncopated pulsing of biolum panels suspended over the bar and the dance floor amps up, engulfing him in a staccato swirl of pastels. A contingent of
cholos
in retro-gangsta regalia—oversized T-shirts, loose sprayon khakis, and backward baseball caps—take to the dance floor and launch into a wild
quebradita
.

L. Mariachi shakes his head at the fuck-me dance. He’s too old for this shit anymore. The lights and music are giving him a headache. Even his eyes hurt. It didn’t used to be like this. When he was only a few years younger, back in his late forties, he could party with the best of them. It was the only way to burn off all the pent-up frustration and rage that came with being trapped in a dead-end existence. The only way to keep going was to vomit up one job and move on to the next. Now he can’t even do that.

“Had enough?”

The
cantinera
serving beer is a pretty
chinito
, Asian-eyed with olive skin, long black hair, and a look of distaste that tells him she’s new to the Entertainment Zone.

“
Ni madres!
” he says. Hell no!

She rests both elbows on the thin veneer of sprayed mahogany that covers the cheap lichenboard bar. Behind her, a wallscreen flickers between random channels. At the moment it’s streaming a indoor soccer match between the European Union and SEA, Southeast Asia. “You should quit while you’re ahead,
viejo
.”

“Who are you calling old?”

“I know a
desmadroso
when I see one.”

“I’m not drunk,” he protests, voicing the obligatory protest.

She consults a tiny display that materializes in front of one eye, hovers long enough for her to read a datasquirt, then dissipates into gnat-size particles. “That’s not what your biomed feed says.”

“Point one-five-six, to be exact,” a nasal voice whispers over his cochlear imp.

His fucking IA. Num Nut. “What do you expect from politicorp-owned software?” he says.

“
You’re
politicorp-owned,” the
cantinera
says.

“You make your living off the corpocracy, too,” he counters. “If it wasn’t for the pharms, you wouldn’t be here.”

“The Pair-A-Dice is an independent contractor. It’s not the same.”

“Bullshit.” He jabs himself in the chest with one finger. “If it wasn’t for us
braceros
there wouldn’t be any Entertainment Zone. You wouldn’t be living the EZ life.”

She juts her chin at a man passed out on the floor in a pool of frothy yellow vomit. “You call this easy?”

“Try working the vats for a few months.”

“No thanks. This is as close as I want to get.”

L. Mariachi raises his empty beer pouch. “
Que viven los mojados!
” he shouts at the top of his lungs. Long live the wetbacks! But his voice is swallowed by the din, lost almost before it leaves his lips.

Her mouth twists in what might be pity or contempt. “I didn’t realize that being a migrant was something to be proud of.”

It was at one time, he thinks, back when borders were arbitrary, abstract lines that could be crossed. It was a form of rebellion, of not accepting the status quo. It wasn’t the physical barrier they were violating so much as the idea of boundaries. Only a couple of generations ago it was possible to blur the divisions between people, break down rigid ideologies and challenge differing philosophies of life. The ecocaust, and the clade-based ecotectural systems that grew out of it, put an end to unregulated integration. No more illegal mixing of genes and memes or the erosion of cultural, social, and economic identities. From now on, things would be controlled. It could even be argued that the biochemical segregation enforced by the various clades was a way of preserving diversity.

“Why do you do it?” the
cantinera
asks.

“The same reason you do.”

She shakes her head, in puzzlement or denial, and then replaces his empty pouch of beer with a new one and charges it against tomorrow’s wages. For some reason she’s decided to let him keep drinking. Maybe she’s bored. Maybe she’s a politicorp informer, sent to draw him out, trip him up. No doubt the place is crawling with bitcams, acoustic spores, and sniffers looking for unregistered or illegal pherions manufactured on the black market.

Fuck it. What’s a Sin City binge without a little gambling? Besides, it’s not like he has anything to lose. The politicorp has already taken everything it can.

L. Mariachi picks up the pouch, peels the tab off the top. “All migrants have
patas de perro
,” he declares.

She frowns. “Dog’s feet?”

He sips the beer, squeezing the pouch, then nods. “We’re restless. We can’t stay in one place.”

“Like gypsies.”

“Migrants have always done the shit work,” he says. “The jobs no one else wants to do. We’re opportunists.”

“Sounds like a lack of self-respect to me.”

He grips the pouch tighter. Beer bubbles out the top. “What we have is freedom. We’re not trapped in one place, or one job, like you.”

“At least I have a home.”

“We get free housing and medical care. Plus, we’re independent. Not tied down to any specific ecotecture.”

She wipes the bar with her sleeve. “That doesn’t mean you’re free. You’re just as isolated or marginalized as the rest of us. The only difference is, you take your cage with you.”

In the beginning that hadn’t been the case. Institutionalized migration had been a way of remaining free, of not being absorbed into one single clade. Collectivism and solidarity were the migrants’ creed. Their saving grace. A few
braceros
still believed in that. They hadn’t lost faith in themselves or the future.

“Have you always been a migrant?” the
cantinera
asks.

L. Mariachi looks up, surprised to find her still there, chewing a stick of nicaffeine gum. “No.”

“What did you do before?”

He puffs out his chest. “I was a
taxista
and a musician.”

“Where?”

“Zamora.”

“That’s in Mexico?”

“Michoacán, a couple hundred miles from Mexico City. I drove a taxi by day and played clubs at night.”

“You were in a band?”

He nods, the alcohol filling him with false bravado at his
rockero
past. “Daily Bred,” he says. “We had an online single that topped the charts with a billion hits. ‘SoulR Byrne.’” It stayed in the number-one spot for a full hundred and twenty seconds before losing its place.

The
cantinera’
s gum pops. “I never heard of you.”

“We were marketed as Mexitallic,” he says. “A blend of ethnic
pirekua
rap with a speed metal beat.”

“What’s
pirekua
?”

“A traditional Indian ballad, from the Purépecha highlands. I played mandolin and electric guitar.”

“Have you thought about playing in the EZ?”

He laughs, a short bark, and holds up his deformed left hand with its gnarled joints and crooked fingers.

“What happened?”

“Things didn’t work out. So I signed up as a migrant.” He raises his beer, squeezes out the last of it in one shot to wash down the bitterness.

“And now you’re stuck.”

He shakes his head, doesn’t need to hear this.

“You can’t go back,” she goes on. “Can’t get ahead.”

“Fuck this noise!” He slams down the pouch, crumpling it on the thin veneer, and stands. The wallscreen behind the bar has cycled to a newstream. Digital video of a contaminated aqua pharm on one of the Gulf Coast offshore settlements. The ancient oil-drilling platform looks familiar. He’s harvested kelp there, on a previous job. Seventeen people dead in the last five hours, killed by some unknown toxin.

Tottering under the influence of a syrupy Pedro Infante ballad and the chatter of the
cantinera,
he stumbles for the exit. Weaves his way past the dance floor and the craps tables, where the gangstas are whooping it up, as if they’re
estafadores,
big-time con artists who are going to beat the house. Thing is, the house never gets beat. They haven’t learned that yet.

“Hey,” one of the
cholos
complains, his heavy gold chains rattling. He’s working on a mustache, a wispy collection of meticulously groomed strands that look like a bad comb-over plastered in place. His eyes are flushed, bulging with machismo. He’s got swagger up the sphincter, deserves respect.

L. Mariachi waves him off—“Fuck your mother”—and shoulders his way out the front entrance.

In the street—surrounded by bars, restaurants, VRcades, and solar-panel–shaded stalls selling everything from jewelry to fortunes—the air is bright and hot, feverish with activity and the insect hum of flitcams. A half moon is up, barely visible above the canopy of tall circuitrees that generate power for the EZ, aquaferns that supply water, and umbrella palms that block UV. There’s no breeze, and a pall of dust hangs in the air. Maybe the air filters aren’t working yet, or maybe they’ve decided not to turn them on to conserve power. Most of the buildings are new, assembled a day ago in preparation for the arrival of the migrant pharm workers. But a few are older and show signs of successive renovation to make them more energy efficient and ecologically sound: sonic floor tiles, thermal wall hangings, piezoelectric siding, and photovoltaic windows, all soaking up the raucous energy given off by the crowd.

The party atmosphere reminds him of the old fiestas. The feast of St. Francis, still celebrated around the time of the original pre-ecocaust autumn harvest, signaled the end of hard work, frustration, and disappointment. A few months later, Easter heralded a fresh beginning, filled with renewed promises, hopes, and resolve. All that’s missing are the bullfights and the
nazarenos
, the ragged procession of teenage boys who dressed in white robes and carried home-built crosses on their shoulders, reenacting the pilgrimage to Golgotha.

Instead the EZ’s got carnival rides and imitation gangstas who are weighted down with boredom rather than guilt or reverence. Nothing is authentic anymore. Everyone, including himself, is living the idea of
norteño
migrant culture. The real culture is dead. It disappeared during the ecocaust, along with the plants and animals. They’re not even Chicano anymore. They’ve lost their identity.

He passes an Xstream 2na sushi outlet, then a Nito Kino tattune parlor. Resists the sudden pang of hunger and vanity brought on by the airborne virals circulated by the businesses. Good thing he’s not wearing his wraparounds. He doesn’t have to look at all the shit they’re selling. The viral ads are bad enough.

“It’s getting late,” Num Nut tells him.

He checks the time. Ten-ten. “Not that late.”

Behind him, two of the gangstas from the bar have followed him into the night. The one he bumped, plus another.

“I think you should go home,” Num Nut says. “Get some rest.”

“What do you know?”

“You have a long day ahead of you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have shit.” Not even a future. And the past is hardly worth keeping. Hell.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” his IA counsels.

“Is that what I’m doing? I thought I was getting fucked up.”

“You are.
Muy borracho
. And you’re going to regret it big-time in the morning.”

“Along with everything else.”

“Don’t do this.”

“What?”

“Berate yourself. It will only make things worse.”

He glances over his shoulder. The gangstas are still following him. “How can things get any worse?”

“Let’s see. . . .”

“Never mind.” He really doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to think about it. He’s got other problems right now. Like how to pull a disappearing act before he ends up with a cut throat.

He stumbles across a large, open-air amphitheater where a group of badmash performance actors are staging a show. Some melodrama in which the actors wear different colored barbed wire to represent different clades. Crass social commentary. But the smart mob that has spontaneously gathered to watch it is really into the shared mood they’re streaming, eating it up like cotton candy. Part of the reason for the smob is the free samples the troupe is handing out: deodorants and perfumes that represent the pherions used by the clades to limit access and control behavior.

L. Mariachi ducks into the smob, hoping to lose himself. It should be easy. He’s as faceless as the next
bracero,
just as interchangeable.

Quería hacer algo
. He wanted to make something of himself, the same as anyone else. But his ruined hand put an end to that. Now he can’t even put up a decent fight. If he wants to save himself, he has to run.