An ad for Duane’s Big and Tall Shop was projected into both my ears as the lift tube’s computer ran a superficial analysis on my appearance and chose what it deemed to be the most appropriate commercial.
The platform slowed and stopped on Surface Levels 1, 2, and 3 before the woman and I stepped off. We avoided each other but knew we were after the same thing. Money. Five hundred smackers for a single day’s work. More moola than I had made during the previous month. It’s rare for a real dyed-in-the-wool member of the Big Board to put out a call for one shooter, much less two hundred and fifty, so there would be plenty of takers. Especially since there were no requirements beyond “a reasonable degree of mobility and a valid weapons permit.” Or so the ads said.
And, thanks to the preference shown to disabled veterans, I had a permit. Brain damage and all. Scary, isn’t it? But that’s how it is in a world where poppers pop, snatchers snatch, and bodyguards guard.
The day workers scattered for their temporary jobs while I made my way through a labyrinth of corridors, sky bridges, and hallways before arriving at Droidware HQ. I have trouble with directions sometimes, so I had scouted the path twelve hours before and committed it to memory.
As with most corporations, the lifers had taken good care of themselves. The lobby was a huge affair that featured acres of dark red carpet, tons of gray-white marble, and what must have been a thousand board-feet of real mahogany. A golden “D” graced the back wall and shimmered with internal light. The woman at the front desk was real. Real pretty and well aware of it. She stared at the top of my head as she handed me the baton. “To your left.”