The Card
by Stefan Case

"Tropical beach. Tang of salt water and coconut sun lotion. No, make that...lilac bushes after a rain storm." Immediately a heavy, floral scent flooded Matthew Mayerman IV's fully-loaded--only-10,000-manufactured--Excala Coupe.

He inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a whoof! when he heard, "Hello, Mr. Mayerman, CyberThrill Unlimited has created a once-in-a-lifetime journey for you to--"

"Cancel ad sector. Now," he barked. God, how many times did he need to re-program Customize Messages to eliminate ads during his ride home?

Probably never'd been done before. Music-only rides might blow out the car's motherboard. He smiled grimly.

But maybe...maybe he should listen to some of 'em. Maybe a few getaways would be just what the doctor ordered. "Consumer Alert." He still couldn't believe that was the prompt he'd received after he'd inserted his Accumula Card. He knew his balance had been edging toward the danger zone, but he never thought things had gotten to this point.

He imagined the headline, "Financial Failings Dog Accumla CEO" and felt something--fear? distaste?--flutter deep in his gut. To divert himself he glanced out the Excala's window, saw the Party Poolers' Metra-luxe Express zipping by. He winced at the glaring lights blasting from the windows and wondered how the commuters could stand them. He grinned when he saw a business-suit-clad man drop his pants and moon the windows. The other suits held up drinks, mouths "o'ed," cheering.

And then they were gone. Never to be seen again, he reflected with the tinge of melancholy he'd been experiencing lately. The existential angst of an aging, dangerously mine'd out businessman; he told himself. Come on, snap out of it, maybe should do some mind numbers.

"Affirmations. Success." His own voice intoned in unctuously smooth, newscaster-wannabe tones, "I am reaching my goals. And when I do, the bar is raised. Onward and upward. My numbers are good. I do my civic duty by--"

"Cease affirms. Music. Uh, rock 'n roll. Death--" His voice was chopped off by the words, "Prom queens equal consumer machines" from Deathrocker's "Remedial Rock Star 101" album discazer.

"Cease." Deathrocker'd been his grandfather's favorite group. Wonder if listening to their music, songs like this, could be construed as treason? He glanced around him guiltily, though he was alone in the car.

The Excala was on Auto-Nav and glided down the freeway. Other cars' headlights bounced off its windshield, billboards loomed into view and then winked away into the orange glow of the nitrous-tinted night.

Suddenly one over-sized billboard caught his eye. An ad he'd helped design.

A family. Three adults, a boy, toddler girl. Obviously Lower-Allotted. They smiled toward a disembodied hand that rained dollar signs upon their upturned palms. "Johnson Family Hits Stretch Goal. Doing their bit to ensure America's Future!"

Their obvious happiness stung him, reminded him of his own failings. He needed to get back on track, get down to business.

Maybe he should stop at the Universal Mall, maybe he could find one of those Revitalizers Gregory in DataSynch was so happy with, maybe...

No. He'd noticed lately that it was those kinds of thoughts that seemed to suck the life force from his very bones. Him, the legendary Matt Mayerman who'd once been the Department's Great White Hope. Him, who'd been heralded for the 15% uptick in early attainments. Him, who'd counseled hundreds of folks about their finances, about fiscal responsibility, about...

And now look at the mess he gotten himself into. Consumer: Alert. God. Again he noticed how deep-down weary he was. How he didn't feel like making an effort anymore. Maybe this is what caused people to exhibit hylephobic symptoms. Maybe this is how The Traitors...

No sooner had that thought popped into his mind, than the pulsing floodlights of the Uni Mall exploded into sight. The lights crisscrossed over the turreted, castle-like exterior the way he'd seen in videos of old Hollywood movie premiers. The three-story-high speakers poured out the discordant notes of Electronique into the rapidly darkening twilight. As always, a crowd of people surged from the parking lots only to have to join long lines that snaked almost to the freeway.

He wondered how much time he'd spent in just such lines. When had he last queued, when...when he'd bought the Excala, yes, that was it. But that line had been indoors, inside a football-shaped dirigible that floated languidly above the city. The Chosen--Invitation Only. Surround yourself in Luxury, Cocoon Yourself in Safety--wore evening gowns and tuxes and similarly-clad waitstaff balanced trays of imported cheeses, truffles, expensive wines and even the almost-impossible-to-obtain Youth Squared elixir made from the placentas of Third World babies. Matt had accumulated almost $5,000 points just for his and Emma's refreshments.

A measly 5 k--that must be why he was in the situation he was in now.

"Five minutes until arrival, Mr. Mayerman." Matt felt his right foot ease down on an imaginary brake pedal as the car, almost imperceptibly, slowed down to take the I-2500 off ramp.

"Geezer," the kid Howie in Full-Life Strategies ribbed him once. "Your right foot betrays your age, old man." Howie'd whacked Matt on the back, very hail-fellow-well-met. Need to watch out for Howie, Matt thought for the umpteenth time. Shit, the asshole'd Attained while still in college...wonder what Howie'd do if he found out my Accumula's reading? Go for the jugular, that's what.

The blank walls of The Moat: a Lifestyle Community burst into view. Its iron gates, fully surveiled, opened with almost ceremonial gravity.

His driver's side window slid down without the slightest whisper of sound. "Welcome home, Mr. Mayerman, after, I'm sure, a Consumtacular day in the hallowed halls of commerce."

Who programs these suckers? Matt thought irritably. Sounds like a commercial. Then he realized they all did: the AutoJeeves, the Buyonians, the Robopets.

"Matt, come quick! The marble from Moravia arrived today. Oops, sorry, sweetie, you look exhausted. First things first." Emma pecked him on the cheek, swiveled and spoke toward a picture of a beach scene. "Martini. Extra dry. Fully loaded?" She looked over at him, then through him.

He nodded. Why did she ask him that every day? Did she remember him one day to the next? And why hadn't he noticed until now that she, too, spoke in the same chirpy tones of every automated mannequin, every actress on every commercial, every Accumula promo? "With a shot of Blood Cord and some carboids. My Immunite levels were low after lunch," he explained, but Emma was already heading toward the first floor's second guest bathroom.

Was that it? His Immunite reading?, or low blood sugar, or depleted epinephrine levels, or...? But he knew what was bothering him wasn't physical. He walked over to the wall; the pixels blended into a picture, then the real thing: a chilled martini in a no-two-alike Raphko martini glass. He downed the drink in one long swallow, gasping for air as its fumes tickled his nose.

"Matt? I thought you were..."

"Coming." The bathroom's sunken tub emitted a delicately perfumed fog, frothy waves of bubble bath peaked and bobbed. Emma's right hand scooped up a handful and playfully blew them at Matt. Although her House of Xandra negligee was unbuttoned almost to the waist, no breast was exposed. Her left hand lovingly stroked the top tile of a precariously stacked pile. They were a deep emerald green with almost a hypnotic effect--like all the best things, Matt noted, they conjured up images of adventure, of the wind whistling through verdant forests, of jewels twinkling in hidden caves, of jewels twinkling in hidden caves in all the movies he'd ever seen. He shook his head. The weariness assailed him again.

"How many points?"

Happiness flooded Emma's face. "Three hundred thousand."

"Sounds like you've met your revised--"

"Told you I could."

Maybe it was drinking his martini so quickly--should have started out with the Blood Cord--but he felt giddy, foolish. Dangerous. Go for it, he told himself. "Emma, I-I wondered if maybe I could borrow some of your, uh, well, some points. You see--"

The expression on her face clouded over. Two fine V's deepened between her brows, though, he remembered, she'd just gotten laser'ed last month. "What do you mean? You know I'd loan you the points from the tile, but I'm going Mega Quota'd. You know that. I--"

"I know. It's just...well, I've noticed lately--"

"You said you were going to trade in the Excala for--"

"I know. It's just, well, lately, my, uh, my heart's not been in it. Into--"

She backed away from him like he was A Carrier. "What are you saying? You're scaring me. You're talking like, like a...a...--"

"Traitor?"

It was only when the stack of tiles wavered, then toppled, the top one cracking in two without a glance from Emma that Matt realized the depth of her concern.

"Shush. Don't even talk like that. That's how it gets started; I abstracted an article that said..."

"I know. I did my internship on Invasive Traitorship Counseling Techniques, remember? I know how subtle the thought processes can be. It's like...I don't have it in me, you know?" He could tell by the look on her face she didn't know. "I just, I just don't think I can buy another thing. I'm tired. Today my Accumula prompt read, 'Consumer: A--"

"Stop. Just shut up. You've got to stop this bullshit. You've got to remember who you are. You were one of the original architects of The Plan. Remember that. And you're no young turk anymore. You're old enough to remember The Aftermath, when people saved their money, when the economy collapsed, when..."

She was right, he knew. He was an Accumula hotshot. He was an example to Allotteds at every level. Imagine the scandal if he didn't buy his quota this year.

He knew what he had to do.

But, in his heart of hearts, he felt tired.

Very tired.

Stefan Case lives in New York City when he isn't pursuing his first love: travel. When not writing short stories and poems, he performs as 'Droid Man on the sidewalks of Central Park. He is hard at work on his first horror novel--the working title? Spitting Blanks.