that an alternative to poverty and crime existed. And crime did exist. In the absence of police, timecasting, and ID chips, crime not only existed, but it flourished in dissytown. But no taxes meant no votes, no representation, no acknowledgment, so the crimes didn’t actually exist in the eyes of the government.
My personal feelings were a bit right-wing, but years of experience hunting for runaways in Chicago’s dissytown had forged me into a cynic. These weren’t people whom society had given up on. These were people who had given up on society. If you want a nice place to live, be willing to work for it and follow the rules. If you don’t want to work, or follow rules, a place like this was where you ended up.
McGlade and I were dressed for the part. He lent me a ratty old T-shirt and some stained camouflage khakis. His disguise was a holey sweatshirt that reeked of body odor, and some jeans with rips from the crotch to the cuffs.
But then, that might have been McGlade’s normal ensemble.
“I don’t get it,” I said. We hadn’t even crossed the border yet and already the garbage smell had gotten to me. “Who would choose to live here?”
He shrugged. “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.”
That was too much insight for McGlade. “Who said that?”
“Some dead singer. Janis somebody. Got a nude poster of her.”
We stood at the entrance. Not a door or a gate. Just a rusty, jagged hole in the fence. I heard rancid music coming from beyond it. Someone yelling. Someone crying.
“They should close all the dissytowns and force these people to get jobs,” I said, fingering some rust off the fence and rubbing it onto my chin.
McGlade spit a loogie into his hand and messed up one side of his wavy brown hair. “The authority of any governing institution must stop at its citizens’ skin.”
“Who said that?”
“Some dead feminist. Gloria somebody. She had a nice rack. I have a poster of her in a Playboy Bunny outfit. Feminists are hot.”
And after imparting that nugget of wisdom, we strolled into dissytown.
It wasn’t exactly like stepping through the looking glass, but it was close. We left the clean, green, orderly world behind, and traded it for ugly chaos and anarchy. This used to be the south part of town, part residential, part business, now 100 percent awful.
There was a shocking lack of plants, and an even more shocking pileup of trash littering the streets. No recycling, no garbage pickup, so people left refuse everywhere.
The apartment buildings looked like they’d been bombed, not a single window intact. Storefronts had been converted into hovels. The sidewalks and streets were ripped up to shit, but no one had vehicles because there was no fuel.
There were a few people wandering about when we walked in. The stares were either suspicious or hostile. They wore dirty, ripped clothes. The bleeding hearts insisted water mains remain open, so stinky shirts and greasy hair were by choice. Other utilities-phone, electric, gas-were shut off, but like many bigger dissytowns, this one somehow provided electricity for itself. Probably a combination of solar and hydroelectric, as Tesla was beyond their technology and traditional power plants required fuel sources they didn’t have.
“Untuck your shirt,” McGlade said. “Your belt is like a badge, announcing you’re a cop.”
I complied. “Will we need duckets?”
“I brought some. I’ll add it to your bill.”
“What’s the exchange rate?”
“Whatever I decide.”
Because dissys had no ID chips or bank accounts, currency in towns like this was still paper-based. That meant a lot of predators, trolling for cash. Luckily, Tasers and firearms were either useless here or sold off decades ago, so the only weapons available were of the cutting and bludgeoning type. While this kept me on my toes, at least I would see it coming, unlike a projectile.
“Watch out for arrows,” McGlade said. “They make them out of femur bones.”
So much for no projectiles.
I took in my surroundings, which were both dangerous and depressing, and wondered about the lack of people. I saw a few figures disappear behind doorways, a few heads duck beneath broken windows. Who would want to live in fear like this? Who could think this was freedom?
A clearly out-of-whack dissy paraded in front of us, holding up a plastic sign that read, REPENT NOW.
“Repent?” McGlade said. “I never pented in the first place.”
The dissy sneered. “God is watching you.”
“Sounds like he needs a better hobby,” McGlade answered.
Finally, we had our first approach. Weaselly looking guy standing on the corner. White, twenties, clothing and face so dirty it looked like he had recently been mining coal. He came up with his palms raised-a dissy gesture that showed he wasn’t holding a weapon.
“Got food? Duckets? I’ll suck you off for two duckets.”
“Tempting as that sounds,” McGlade said, “we’re looking for information. Know a guy named Rocket Corbitz?”
His eyes went from McGlade to me to McGlade to me, like he was watching a hypertennis match. “I know a lot of people. Whatcha paying?”
“Whatcha know?”
“Roider. Biggest in town. Got the rage.”
“Know where he is?” McGlade asked.
“How much?”
“Ten duckets. Five when you tell us. Five when we get there and you point him out.”
“Y’all are fuct. I’m not bringing you to Rocket. He’ll rip off my arms and shove ’em up my ass.”
“Okay,” McGlade said. “Eleven duckets.”
“No way in hell.”
Didn’t hear the term hell used much anymore. But where there was desperation, there was religion, and dissytown had plenty of both.
“Maybe we’re friends of Rocket’s.” I tried on a smile.
“Maybe we want to give him some roids, make his biceps bigger.”
“His biceps can’t get bigger. And you don’t look like no dealer.”
“Four to point us in the right direction,” McGlade said.
“Five.”
“Three.”
I raised an eyebrow at McGlade, wondering if he understood the concept of haggling.
“Not worth it for less than five, man.”
“Three forty-nine,” McGlade said.
“Give him the damn five, McGlade.”
He shrugged and dug a wrinkled bill from his pocket.
The dissy looked around, apparently worried that Rocket would jump out and give him an arm enema. “Try Rosie’s.”
McGlade forked over the five and the weaselly man scurried away.
“You know where Rosie’s is?” I asked.
“That’s what you’re paying me for, hoss.” We set off walking. “You didn’t tell me Rocket was a roider.”
“News to me.”
I stepped on something, saw it was a syringe. Didn’t these idiots know that everything these days was available in pill form?
“Some of those guys can get pretty big,” McGlade said.
“I watch Mr. Hyperuniverse. I know.”
“Seeing it on your projector is one thing. You ever see a roider in person?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“It’s sort of like the cyborg in Terminator 39. But bigger.”
