Lotteries sufficed well enough to control the population, finances, and education, but when the one made its way into my church, I couldn’t help but feel violated. Religion shouldn’t be random, and regardless of how many conspiracy theorists proposed otherwise, the lottery was random. If not, aristocrats would dominate colleges instead of vagabonds and street scum. Convicts would never receive the opportunity to procreate while the upper crust was cauterized. It had to be random. Nothing else made sense.
The shuttle rattled me out of my thoughts; I immediately realized I’d missed my stop. No big deal. I’d already considered hitting the District tonight and maybe I’d score some tickets for a chase or two. Nothing gets the blood going like a hunt. The bright lights, pumping music, and vibes – I’m sure they rig an electrical current through the coliseum. I dug the com from my pocket and called my friend Brazil.
“What’s the plan?” He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but a quality adrenaline supplement could do that.
“Coliseum. 22:00. Bring Jenner.”
“You got your bot?”
I disconnected and cut his laughter short. No, I wasn’t bringing my bot. She was recharging. As I hadn’t paid my bills in weeks, it was a long wait before I’d have any female companionship. Hiring someone was unsanitary. Plus I had hopes on getting selected for the High Church. While bots were accepted in their theology, pros were not.
The shuttle slowed at the 12th Street interpass. I unloaded and watched the bubble-shaped stadium illuminate the sky. I wasn’t going to make the first few chases, but maybe some blueblood sucker would unload his tickets if his family summoned. Worse comes to worst, Jenner could always forge something passable enough to get us through the gates. Beyond that, finding a seat was easy. I pushed my way to the street and started towards the glow.
What happened if you were selected for a chase? Were you compensated? Chasers never looked clueless or helpless, so I’m sure they went through some kind of boot camp to get them up to speed. That’s free food and shelter for four weeks!
With time to kill before Brazil and Jenner arrived, I walked to the Steel Cathedral to check for charity. Depending on who was running the operation, I’d stand on either side of the line – sometimes helping the bishops mete gruel to the homeless, sometimes gulping the slosh myself before entering the structure and climbing the west tower. There, Bishop Nanto provided guidance in exchange for news of the outside. His vow of seclusion only applied to insiders; since the High Church hadn’t yet accepted me into the fold, I ascended the stairs after collecting an extra bag of food in my pocket. Detracting from the taste was impossible.
I slid a hand on the metal door, careful to stay silent until he admitted me into his room. He peered through an opening, nodded once, and waved me in.
“Bishop.”
“Pisces.”
I scooped the sustenance into a bowl for him which he slurped greedily. “What else do you have for me?”
“The half-lifers are at it again.”
He covered his mouth with a cybernetic hand so I couldn’t decipher whether the output was a curse or a cheer. As long as I could remember, Nanto supported the half-lifers. I believed it was a cruel existence, trading sleep and rest for perpetual energy. Relegated to factory positions and security posts, they expired after thirty years and were ungraciously recycled as limbs, eyes, and miscellaneous parts for cyborgs. I understood the pattern, but that didn’t mean I agreed with it: sleep was a waste of time and space; with injections and programming, half-lifers matured at twice the rate as the rest of us. Adolescence ended before they reached ten, between increased mental capacities and youthful energy, teen-adults promoted marathon sex sessions (wasn’t that why most signed up for the program?) They lived on double-time, but their hearts couldn’t withstand the strain beyond three decades – at least, they hadn’t yet.
