Blood Zero Sky by J. Gates Read Free Book Online Page A

gazelles, interspersed with shots of shiny new N-Corp buildings.
    A voice-over:
    “ The Africa project is among the Company’s most profitable endeavors of this decade. Due to its success, millions of Africans have been provided with safe, sanitary housing.”
    (Image: a plastic “beehive” unit, capable of housing twelve hundred debtor-workers on a single acre of land. Image: a family of three sitting Indian-style next to each other in a five-foot-by-five-foot, sterile-looking plastic room. They’re smiling, playing cards.)
    “These new employees and customers of N-Corp have been provided with a plentiful food supply, safe drinking water, and the chance to purchase hundreds of low-credit-level items. Each new worker is granted a fifty-thousand-dollar line of credit, which on average will keep him in the Company’s service for fifteen to twenty years, not counting any additional credit he may accrue during his employment.”
    I glance down at the field of numbers on the IC clenched in my trembling hand and my mind drifts to the terrible news I’m about to drop on everyone in the room. My stomach turns and my mouth starts to fill with saliva. I glance around for a trashcan to puke in, but there isn’t one handy. Typical. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply.
    “It’s okay, May,” Randal whispers in my ear. “They can’t get mad at us. It’s the t-t-t-truth.”
    If Randal’s trying to comfort me, I must be pretty far gone.
    The imager continues: “The Africa Division Growth Project has, to date, netted the Company over twenty-five million new debtor-workers, worth approximately $12.5 trillion over the next ten years and 2.3 trillion lifetime man-hours of labor. Today’s proposal calls for the expansion of the project beyond the pilot phase to include another nine hundred million workers, surpassing the number of debtor-workers in America Division and rivaling Briggs & Stratton’s enormously successful debtor-worker program at their Trans-Asiatic production facilities. . . . ”
    The presentation seems to go on forever. Pictures of happy Africans riding N-Moto scooters, playing video games and working in factories dance across the huge face of the imager, ad nauseum . Toward the end, an image lingers on the screen that catches my eye. There is a tall, lean African man wearing a sharp-looking suit. He holds hands with an emaciated, naked, pot-bellied child. They both smile into the camera, displaying teeth of the purest white.
    That’s what the Company is, I remind myself. It’s civilization. The difference between prosperity and oblivion. That’s what I’m working for. I have to pull it together.
    I close my eyes and breathe deeply again. In, out, in, out.
    The next thing I know, I’m hearing my name. There’s a beep as the IC in my hand syncs with the room’s audio/visual system, and suddenly Randal’s numbers appear on the massive screen for everyone to see.
    Applause. Half the world is watching me. I rise, half walking, half floating up the red-carpeted aisle. I carefully avoid looking at the hazel-eyed young woman sitting in the front row—the last thing I need now is an extra butterfly in my stomach.
    As I near the podium, Dad grins at me then glances down at his own IC. Ms. Yao frowns, her arms folded. Jimmy Shaw gives me a wink. I step up to the microphone, clear my throat. The mic squeals. Suddenly, I panic. In my mind, I flash back to last night, walking through the shopping plaza in a tie and pants.
    I love wearing a suit, love winning at Rocketball. I love to wear pants. I love women. Everyone can see through me. I am a fraud.
    Pull it together, May . . .
    I adjust the microphone, and it squeals again.
    I begin. “In reviewing the revenue and expense projections for the next year . . .” My voice sounds too low. I am a sinner. Everyone knows. I wipe the sweat from my brow, clear my throat, try again. “In reviewing the numbers, Randal Watson and I have discovered an unfortunate