Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(30)

He had not yet even begun to search for employment. Work was, after all, optional. He would be provided for even if he made no discernible contribution to the world—and right now he had no desire to contribute anything to the world but his bodily waste.

He slapped the alarm off. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Why are you waking me up?” It took a few moments of silence to realize that the Thunderhead was not going to respond to that question as long as he was unsavory. So he sat up and looked at his bedside screen to see a message turning the room red with its angry glare.

“APPOINTMENT WITH PROBATION OFFICER AT 8:00 A.M.

FAILURE TO APPEAR WILL RESULT IN FIVE DEMERITS.”

Greyson had a vague idea what demerits were, but had no clue how to value them. Did five demerits add five days onto his unsavory status? Five hours? Five months? He had no idea. Perhaps he should take a class in unsavorism.

What does one wear to meet with a probation officer? he wondered. Should he dress up or down? As bitter as he was about all of this, he realized that impressing his probation officer couldn’t hurt, so he found a clean shirt and slacks, then put on the same tie he’d worn to his appointment at the Authority Interface back in Fulcrum City, when he’d thought he still had a life. He flagged down a publicar (which again warned him about the consequences of vandalism and abusive language), then left for the local AI office. He was determined to be early and make a positive enough impression to maybe knock a day or two off of his status downgrade.

? ? ?

The Higher Nashville AI office building was much smaller than the one in Fulcrum City. It was only four stories, and of red brick instead of gray granite. On the inside, however, it appeared much the same. He was not ushered to a comfortable audience room this time. Instead, he was directed to the Office of Unsavory Affairs, where he was instructed to take a number and wait in a room with dozens of other unsavories who clearly didn’t want to be there.

Finally, after the better part of an hour, Greyson’s number came up and he went to the window, where a low-level Nimbus agent checked his ID and told him things, most of which he already knew.

“Greyson Tolliver; permanently expelled from the Nimbus Academy and denigrated to unsavory status for a minimum of four months, due to an extreme violation of the scythe-state separation.”

“That’s me,” said Greyson. At least now he knew how long his status downgrade would last.

She looked up from her tablet, and offered him a smile that was as mirthless as that of a bot. For a moment he wondered if she might actually be one, but then remembered that the Thunderhead did not have robots in its offices. The AI was supposed to be the human interface to the Thunderhead, after all.

“How are you feeling today?” she asked.

“Fine, I guess,” he said, and smiled back at her. He wondered if his smile looked as insincere as hers. “I mean, annoyed at having been woken up so early, but an appointment is an appointment, right?”

She marked something down in her tablet. “Please rate your level of annoyance on a scale of one to ten.”

“Are you serious?”

“We can’t proceed with intake until you answer the question.”

“Uh . . . five,” he said, “No—six; the question made it worse.”

“Have you experienced any unfair treatment since being marked unsavory? Anyone refusing you service, or in any way infringing upon your rights as a citizen?”

The rote way in which she asked the question made him want to smack that tablet out of her hand. At least she could have pretended to care about his answer the way she had pretended to smile.

“People look at me like I’ve just killed their cat.”

She looked at him as if he’d just told her he actually had killed a few cats. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the way people look at you. But if your rights are ever infringed upon, it’s important that you let your probation officer know.”

“Wait—you’re not my probation officer?”

She sighed. “I’m your intake officer. You’ll meet your probation officer after we’re done with intake.”

“Will I have to take a number again?”

“Yes.”

“Then please change my annoyance level to nine.”

She threw him a glance, and made the entry on her tablet. Then took a moment to process whatever information on him she had. “Your nanites are reporting a decrease in your endorphin levels over the past few days. This may indicate an early stage of depression. Do you wish to have a mood adjustment now, or wait until you’ve reached the threshold?”

“I’ll wait.”

“It may require a trip to your local wellness center.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Very well.” She swiped the screen, closed his file, and told him to follow the blue line on the floor, which led him out to the hallway and to another large room, where, as promised, he was told to take a number.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, his number came up, and he was sent to an audience room that was nothing like the comfortable one he had been in last time. This was, after all, an unsavory audience room. The walls were institutional beige, the floor ugly green tile, and the table—which had nothing on it—was slate gray, with two hard wooden chairs on either side. The only decoration in the room was a soulless sailboat picture on the wall, which was perfectly appropriate for a room like this.