House of Gold, page 12
Adaolisa nods at Jamal, who reluctantly extracts five steel-plated data sticks from his pocket and presents them to the woman on his palm. “One hundred thousand shillings in cold tokens,” he says, but when she reaches forward to grab them, he retracts his hand. “Ahp. No touching. You can look, make sure they’re valid, but I’ll keep them until you’ve met your end of the bargain.”
The woman gives a high-pitched laugh. “Yeah. No deal.” And just like that she’s walking away, getting back into her vehicle, and firing up the engines.
Jamal and Adaolisa make no move to stop her even as she takes off the landing pad and flies off, joining an aerial traffic lane.
“Well, isn’t this just great?” I moan as I watch the vehicle retreat. “Looks like we’ll be starving to death in this damned apartment. You could have handled that better, Jamal.”
His smugness remains infuriatingly strong. “Don’t you worry, Nandipa. She’ll be back.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“Ask your Prime.”
I look at Adaolisa. Her surprise still hasn’t left her, and above that she is intrigued. I can sense the puzzles coming together in her mind. “What is he talking about?” I ask her.
She gives the barest hint of a smile. “I . . . can’t explain it. But he’s right. She judged us naive and foolish by our appearance. If Jamal had given her the money, she’d have taken it and disappeared.”
“It’s the colors,” Jamal says. “And you haven’t even scratched the surface. Oh, look. Here she comes again.”
He’s actually right. Zandi’s rusty sky-blue vehicle touches down on the landing pad for the second time, finding us standing exactly where she left us, as if we knew she’d be back. Which, apparently, some of us did.
Without stepping out, she opens the doors and nods at us to come in. “You’re lucky I need parts for my ship,” she grumbles as we join her inside the vehicle.
Hondo agrees to let me sit up front while he and the Primes take the back seat. Then we lift off and bank into a fast-moving lane of traffic, the towers rushing by outside our windows.
The interior smells like grease, the leatherette covering the seats is cracked, and an electric beat rumbles out of the speakers. The vehicle races through a tunnel of green holographic squares produced on the front window to delineate the bounds of the traffic lane.
A minute into our flight, Zandi turns down the music and looks at the others through the rearview mirror. “My contact is at the Citizen Affairs branch in the Jondolos. I hope you’re not too fancy to rub shoulders with the riffraff.”
Jamal, seated in the middle seat, leans forward and says, “Zandi, right? We don’t mind where you take us so long as we get what was agreed upon.”
“You’ll go far with that attitude,” Zandi says with an amused cadence. “Tell me something. Do any of you speak Second?”
I can feel the frown on Adaolisa’s face even without looking at her. “Why is that relevant?” she says.
“If you do, it’ll make it easier to sell you as passengers from New Kwa. But it’s okay if you don’t. Your money will speak for you.”
“We can speak for ourselves if required,” Adaolisa replies in the Second Dialect.
I sense Zandi’s static growing cautious. “Who are you people?”
“Trust me,” Adaolisa says. “The less you know about us, the better.”
“For your own sake,” Jamal adds with an ominous bite to his words.
Zandi watches them through the rearview mirror. “I have a feeling you’re not joking.”
“That feeling,” Jamal says, “would be correct.”
The city appears to have been built on an estuary, with large island districts separated by rivers and straits. We fly across the busy waters of the bay to the island south of the city, bordered on the north side by the bay and the ocean and separated from the mainland by a tidal inlet. The buildings on this island aren’t as tall as the towers across the bay but are nonetheless wide and massive, dour monoliths of concrete stained olive with age and disrepair.
We come to a building so large it literally swallows us as we fly into the massive square cavity built into the upper third of its structure. The sky vanishes behind a concrete ceiling with bright lights; then Zandi pilots the vehicle to a parking bay and settles us down among hundreds of other dormant vehicles.
The inside of the cavity is several stories high. Across the parking area, a holo of the words ZIMBATECH CITIZEN AFFAIRS hangs on a wall above a row of glass doors leading into the building. Zandi motions for us to follow her as she disembarks, then leads the way through the parking area toward the glass doors beneath the sign.
A wave of static hits me as we approach the entrance. I’m suddenly in an ocean of noise, drowning in the sheer number of people thinking and feeling all around me. There must be thousands of people in this mammoth building alone. I can’t even hear myself think.
“Don’t fight it,” I hear Jamal say. “Don’t try to take it all in. Let it wash over you. Soon you’ll learn to pick and choose where to focus your attention.”
I belatedly realize he’s talking to Adaolisa, but his advice works for me all the same. The noise becomes tolerable the second I stop trying to make sense of it and let it exist without my input.
The smell, though, is another issue. An almost overpowering urine stench follows us from the parking area all the way to the entrance, where body odor joins the mix, emanating from the long line of glassy-eyed, miserable-looking people waiting outside the entrance. The line leads inside, disappearing beyond a glass door. I don’t know what they are waiting for, but Zandi ignores the line, taking us in through an adjacent door.
The central hall inside is even worse. More people with absent stares, more body odor, more noise, not just static but the hubbub of hundreds speaking at the same time, a baby wailing somewhere unseen. I count multiple lines of people waiting to be served at one counter or another, other lines going up the stairs, others disappearing behind corners, perhaps into offices. I have never seen so many people in my life.
Zandi takes us deeper into the hall to a seating area tucked into one corner. We attract quite a few eyes along the way, leaving a wake of curious static, and the people already seated there come out of their blank stares to gawk at us. We find a bench of four empty seats; the faded plastic on the seats doesn’t look like it’s been wiped in a good stretch of time, but we go ahead and settle down when Zandi tells us to get comfortable.
“Speak to no one,” she tells us in the Second Dialect. “My contact has to make everything look aboveboard, so he’ll call us in for an interview. When he does, let me do the talking. Understood?”
“How long is this going to take?” Adaolisa asks, grimacing as she inspects the grime on the concrete floors, walls, and ceiling.
Zandi gives a laugh, spreading her hands. “This is the Citizen Affairs Office, princess. It’s designed to crush your soul with waiting. But don’t you worry your pretty little face. You won’t have to stand in any lines today. Now wait here. I’ll be back.”
We watch her disappear into the sea of humanity, and I’m suddenly grateful Jamal held on to the money. I have a feeling we wouldn’t be seeing her again if he hadn’t.
“Do you smell that?” he says, still using the Second Dialect. “Give it a good whiff. That, my friends, is the stink of poverty, and ZimbaTech reeks of it.”
A man with gaunt cheeks seated two rows ahead keeps looking over his shoulder to sneak glances at us. His static is aggressive, and I can practically sense him building up the courage to address us.
“Mind your business, sir,” Hondo barks, sending the man’s static into a fearful spike.
The aggression remains, but he stops looking at us, and I sense his desire to start something dissolve.
“Was that necessary?” Adaolisa whispers reproachfully.
Hondo gives a shrug. “I’ve found that it’s best to be forward. Otherwise people will keep bothering us.”
“He’s right,” Jamal says. “If you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly fit in around here.”
I have noticed. The people in this place aren’t like us. I can see the haggardness on their faces, the gauntness, the pockmarked skin, the imperfect teeth, the premature wrinkles. They weren’t raised in sheltered Habitats, their every need catered to. Their genetic traits weren’t chosen in a lab somewhere under the ocean before they were even born. Their faces and bodies weren’t sculpted according to mathematical equations of physical beauty. Even Jamal and Hondo, who are expies, are the result of centuries’ worth of genetic science. We stand out, and I don’t think I like it.
“What are they all waiting for?” I say.
“Social security, probably,” Jamal replies. “It’s a neatly designed little cycle of slavery and decrepitude, you see. Most people in this city have Scree so low they can only work jobs that pay a pittance, which in turn means low Scree-earning potential. And because their wages are a pittance, they have to come here to trade what little Scree they’ve earned for financial support, which in turn keeps them working those low-paying jobs, and so on and so forth.”
“Most people in the city?” I say, finding this hard to believe.
“Oh yes. You’ve only seen the pretty parts. I reckon a good two-thirds of ZimbaTech’s population lives in the Jondolos.” Jamal’s disgust is so strong it’s like a heat source. “Just look at them. Lost in the false world of the Nzuko. That’s what they see behind their lenses; did you know that? A fake world that lets them pretend they aren’t walking around in filth.”
“I think you’re being too harsh,” Adaolisa says, echoing exactly what I’m thinking. “None of them chose this. And it wasn’t always like this, you know. In the beginning, this city was part of an egalitarian democracy. I read their original constitution, and . . . I was inspired,” she breathes. “They were so hopeful. They wanted to build a haven of free thought and scientific advancement without the corporate greed that devastated the Old World. I can’t wrap my head around why things ended up this way.”
Jamal makes a contemptuous sound. “Unless that egalitarian constitution explicitly acknowledged human greed in its first paragraph, then this was inevitable. If I were to write a constitution, I’d start it like this: People are greedy. Here are the strict and robust measures we’re putting in place to stop our own greed from destroying us.”
“There you go again, being cynical.” Adaolisa sighs.
“It’s realistic. Greed is the human instinct of survival without the brakes on, and few people have the self-control not to keep reaching for more when there’s more for the taking. More success. More wealth. More market share. More trophies, medals, awards. We can’t help ourselves.”
“Do you include yourself in this generalization?” I butt in even though I should know better than to insert myself into an argument between Primes.
“I include us all,” Jamal says with a look I’d like to punch off his face. “Not even you are immune, Nandipa. I should know. It was you and your Prime’s greed for the chair I exploited to keep myself alive. You didn’t need it. You could have survived a year without it and won it back again. But you just couldn’t let the prize go, and Paul was recycled instead of me.”
I seriously think about hitting him. Hondo would come to his defense, but I’d get there first, maybe crack his skull or pull out his tongue.
Before I decide, Adaolisa places a hand on my thigh, enveloping me in a sense of calm even though I can feel cold anger moving through her. “I suppose you’re right,” she tells Jamal. “I get nervous when I’m not in control, and maybe that is a form of greed. I don’t mind owning that. But you will never shame me for doing everything I could to keep Nandipa safe.”
He lets a moment elapse before he feigns contrition, dipping his head. “I apologize. I should not have said that. I think this city is screwing with my head. I take back every word.”
I don’t believe him, but Adaolisa’s composure soothes my temper, and I relax my balled hands. Jamal enjoys bringing out the worst in people. That’s what he was made for, after all, and I should know better than to give him what he wants.
Hondo’s expression has remained blank this whole time, and he’s masked himself so well I can’t tell what he’s thinking. How he tolerates being in Jamal’s presence for any period of time is a mystery to me.
We wait in silence for the next two hours, the glassy-eyed crowds shambling all around us without pause, their static absentminded.
I wanted to get out of the apartment, but I find myself wishing I could go back, if only to leave this miserable place. My empty belly is the sole reason I find the patience to sit still.
None of us masks our relief when Zandi finally shows her face, beckoning us over. We follow her up a concrete staircase, skirting the line of people waiting along the steps, and on an upper floor she takes us through a claustrophobic corridor with ancient fluorescent lamps, where the line continues along one wall, snaking into an office farther along the corridor.
Zandi takes us to another office two doors down, a tiny room with an even-tinier window and a workstation too wide for such a small space. The bald and rather short man seated on the other side of the workstation has the ZimbaTech logo printed on the chest pocket of his white shirt. The pristine color of that shirt and his general aura of health and tidiness tell me he doesn’t live in this part of the city. As we enter his office, his static intensifies so dramatically I almost look behind me to see what has excited him so much.
“Boss,” Zandi says to him. “I was told to bring these four in so you could see them. You should already have the paperwork.”
The man takes a moment longer to overcome his surprise. “Yes, yes, come in,” he says. “And shut the door behind you.”
Over the next few minutes, we let him take photographs of us and collect all the necessary biometric information needed to give us identities. He works with the proficiency of someone who’s done this kind of work for eons. When he’s finished, he tells us to sit down, but there are only two chairs available, so Hondo and I let the Primes take the seats while we stand behind them.
“So they’re really from New KwaNdebele?” the man says, playing with the graying bristles on his chin while looking at our information on the screens of his workstation.
“Noble exiles,” Zandi says from where she’s leaning against the door. “Forced to run after their houses made an unsuccessful play for the throne. You know how the story goes. They might be all that’s left of their families.”
That last part strikes dangerously close to the truth, but I show nothing, and neither do the others.
“Fascinating,” the man says, and I’m not sure if he actually believes this or if he’s in on Zandi’s act. He does something on the terminal before he asks, “Do they understand Third?”
“Like I said: nobles. Fancy education and everything.”
“Is that so?” After tapping more keys on his workstation, the man grins widely at us, revealing a number of golden teeth. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve put your last names down as Ndebele. It’s protocol for off-worlders, you see. Makes it easier to keep track of who’s from where, that sort of thing.”
We all look back at Zandi, who nods.
“It’s fine,” Adaolisa says, also speaking in Third. “We’re here for a fresh start anyway. Best to leave past attachments behind.”
In fact, we’ve never had last names, so we don’t have any attachments in that regard, but there’s no need for them to know that.
“I can already see you’ll be valuable additions to our society,” the man says with a smarmy grin. “Anyhow, you’re in the system now. But before you leave, allow me to . . . clarify . . . a few things so there aren’t any misunderstandings. I’m sorry to say that whatever privileges you enjoyed on New KwaNdebele by virtue of your noble birth will not be honored here. ZimbaTech is a meritocratic society. Here the value of an individual is measured by their productivity and hard work. Questions? Concerns? Objections?”
We all shake our heads.
“Good. That said, we are not heartless. As a gesture of welcome, we will start you off with gold-tier social credit, or Scree, as we like to call it. That means you can work and live in any gold-tier zone so long as you maintain the appropriate level of Scree. If you don’t, you might have to be bumped down to a lower tier, but don’t worry; you’ll always be placed wherever you can bring the most value to ZimbaTech. And if you have what it takes, you can work your way up to the platinum tier and maybe even the diamond tier. The sky is the limit! Questions?”
I sense Jamal boiling with an acidic remark; Hondo places a hand on Jamal’s shoulder before the remark can spew out. Jamal behaves himself.
“All right then,” the man says. “Welcome to Ile Wura, and thank you for choosing ZimbaTech. I hope you’ll find our city productive enough to stay here indefinitely.”
CHAPTER 7:
HONDO
The first thing Adaolisa and Jamal do with our new gold-tier status is split Counselor’s funds between themselves. They spend most of an evening at the dinner table after a meal of take-out couscous with vegetable stew, seated across from each other with their PCUs like lawyers negotiating a divorce settlement. Most of Counselor’s money was tied up in accounts whose paperwork was in the safe; it’s spread out on the table now, and both Primes seem equal to the task of figuring out ways of extracting the money without rousing legal scrutiny.
Nandipa and I leave them to it and negotiate our own settlement on the holo screen in the living room, first deciding on which of the available Nzuko remote grocery services to use, then deciding on what items to order, all of which, supposedly, will be promptly delivered to our landing pad via drone.
“That’ll rot your teeth,” Nandipa says, removing the box of chocolates I just added to our virtual cart.
I gesture to add it back. “I don’t care. I can get new teeth. I want to taste real chocolate.”
She sighs, moving us along. “You just like the color of the box.”
