dare stand out, down here in the old part of the city, away from the wealthy towers of the elite. You have to fit in or you’ll be robbed, assaulted, molested, raped, killed. I’m told these are crimes in the wealthy areas. My dad once told me they used to be considered crimes everywhere, before the earthquake, but I didn’t believe him. Not then.
Normally, I wouldn’t be in one place for so long. You have to keep moving, blend in, not attract attention. Although Big Vern had some dirty stools arrayed at the front of his caravan, only the armed, the fearless or the stupid sit there. Well, if it’s a really busy time, you can risk sitting there and be hidden by the vast flow of people as they sweep past, all moving, trying to find work, a place to sleep, a place to belong.
Tonight, though, I had my monthly meeting with Tony. Tony pays me to wipe the circuits of stolen tech. Everyone knows that computers have memories of everything they have been used for, but few know that almost every piece of technology now contains a memory chip. Take a component from a burnt-out toaster to make your kettle work, the chip records it all. Higher up the scale, use different components from various computers to build a new one, you have a computer with the memories of all the predecessors. Given that making or repairing any consumer goods without a licence is highly illegal, this is very bad.
Hence, I got paid to wipe the memories. Hence, I was sitting outside Big Vern’s caravan with a bag full of blank chips, waiting for Tony, eating what I hoped was a chicken burger. Not that I got paid what the job is worth. It’s damn difficult, wiping the chips properly. Most people flush them, which damages the delicate electro-membrane and makes the chip malfunction. It takes skill to wipe each individual part of each chip.
Tony was late. Very late. I was getting worried. We had a routine. I would arrive at 1:25, order something and Tony would join me within three minutes. He’d put his bag down next to mine, containing the next lot of chips to be wiped and the money for the last job, drink the hot coffee he usually ordered, and when leaving, he’d casually pick up my bag and saunter off with it.
I’d then finish my meal and leave with Tony’s bag, running the risk of being mugged, attacked, raped or killed on my way home, as well as vomiting and sickness from Vern’s food. Which happens about three times out of every five.
Tony finally arrived. He looked different. He’s always shifty, but that night, he looked scared. Sweat beaded his brow, and he was trembling. Normally, I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses as we talked. That night, I was a blur.
“Tony,” I said as he slid into the stool next to mine. He hadn’t got himself his usual coffee. Just came straight toward me and sat down. I should have known. I didn’t want to admit it. “You’re late.”
He shrugged, looked round, licked his lips, looked anywhere except at me. Usually, he’s all over me, brushing up against me, trying to feel my tits until I either walk away or slap him down. He’s grimy and sweaty. He wobbles when he walks. Even if I wasn’t in a relationship, I wouldn’t fancy Tony. Not that being in a relationship stops Wrecker from trying it on with that bitch Manda Tomlinson every time he meets her.
“Where are the memory boards?” I asked him, the hairs going up on the back of my neck. I should have run. Why didn’t I?
“I, er, look, Zara,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sorry about what?” I demanded.
“Oh, God,” he snivelled, the tears suddenly streaking down his face. “They, they found me, Zara, they caught me. I, I was going to belong to them unless I helped them.”
“Helped who? Helped how?” I shouted as I slid down from the stool. “The police?” God, how I hoped it was the police. The police work for what is left of the government. Most can be bought off, one way or another. I’ve given the odd hand
Normally, I wouldn’t be in one place for so long. You have to keep moving, blend in, not attract attention. Although Big Vern had some dirty stools arrayed at the front of his caravan, only the armed, the fearless or the stupid sit there. Well, if it’s a really busy time, you can risk sitting there and be hidden by the vast flow of people as they sweep past, all moving, trying to find work, a place to sleep, a place to belong.
Tonight, though, I had my monthly meeting with Tony. Tony pays me to wipe the circuits of stolen tech. Everyone knows that computers have memories of everything they have been used for, but few know that almost every piece of technology now contains a memory chip. Take a component from a burnt-out toaster to make your kettle work, the chip records it all. Higher up the scale, use different components from various computers to build a new one, you have a computer with the memories of all the predecessors. Given that making or repairing any consumer goods without a licence is highly illegal, this is very bad.
Hence, I got paid to wipe the memories. Hence, I was sitting outside Big Vern’s caravan with a bag full of blank chips, waiting for Tony, eating what I hoped was a chicken burger. Not that I got paid what the job is worth. It’s damn difficult, wiping the chips properly. Most people flush them, which damages the delicate electro-membrane and makes the chip malfunction. It takes skill to wipe each individual part of each chip.
Tony was late. Very late. I was getting worried. We had a routine. I would arrive at 1:25, order something and Tony would join me within three minutes. He’d put his bag down next to mine, containing the next lot of chips to be wiped and the money for the last job, drink the hot coffee he usually ordered, and when leaving, he’d casually pick up my bag and saunter off with it.
I’d then finish my meal and leave with Tony’s bag, running the risk of being mugged, attacked, raped or killed on my way home, as well as vomiting and sickness from Vern’s food. Which happens about three times out of every five.
Tony finally arrived. He looked different. He’s always shifty, but that night, he looked scared. Sweat beaded his brow, and he was trembling. Normally, I could see myself reflected in his sunglasses as we talked. That night, I was a blur.
“Tony,” I said as he slid into the stool next to mine. He hadn’t got himself his usual coffee. Just came straight toward me and sat down. I should have known. I didn’t want to admit it. “You’re late.”
He shrugged, looked round, licked his lips, looked anywhere except at me. Usually, he’s all over me, brushing up against me, trying to feel my tits until I either walk away or slap him down. He’s grimy and sweaty. He wobbles when he walks. Even if I wasn’t in a relationship, I wouldn’t fancy Tony. Not that being in a relationship stops Wrecker from trying it on with that bitch Manda Tomlinson every time he meets her.
“Where are the memory boards?” I asked him, the hairs going up on the back of my neck. I should have run. Why didn’t I?
“I, er, look, Zara,” he blurted. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sorry about what?” I demanded.
“Oh, God,” he snivelled, the tears suddenly streaking down his face. “They, they found me, Zara, they caught me. I, I was going to belong to them unless I helped them.”
“Helped who? Helped how?” I shouted as I slid down from the stool. “The police?” God, how I hoped it was the police. The police work for what is left of the government. Most can be bought off, one way or another. I’ve given the odd hand
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