Michael Connelly’s Rally

“You came back.” The tone was not an accusation and it was not surprised, merely stating an observable fact.
Portia pushed the greasy plastic coated menu across the table. “I can’t resist a good cup of coffee.”
“Hmpf.”
Today the waitress with the synthetic yellow hair was wearing a badge that said “Mabel.”
Portia looked closely at the waitress’s face. It was hard to gauge her age. She had a Rejuvenation, that was obvious, but the eyes were puffy and her mouth looked like it preferred to sag into a permanent scowl. She’d had a cheap Rejuvenation and it showed. Ever since her won rejuvenation, Portia was forever comparing, trying to assure herself that she sold her integrity for quality.
“Is that your name?”
“What?”
Portia pointed to the badge that read Mabel.
“No. The boss says he has such a high turnover, there ain’t no sense in investing in name badges. This is the name I was given.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Thirteen years.”
“I’ll have the special.”
The woman who was not Mabel rolled her eyes as she turned away from the table.
The transit workers were still on strike. Two weeks and counting. While the first day’s bicycle ride into Central Trade District was enjoyable, Portia clearly realized that half the city took the day off work. Every morning commute was a nightmare. For two weeks the streets were crowded with bicycles trying to dangerous weave around the pedestrians and the pedestrians were everywhere. The few private vehicles that did travel on the surface streets were paralyzed by the congestion.
The blue gossamer threads of the Elevated hung miraculously in the city, glinting in the sun, empty and still. The threads wove delicately around the tall buildings. Portia almost felt as if the tracks were spelling out a message and she was near understanding.
Michael Connelly’s face was on every vid screen, repeating demands that the Corporation seemed able to ignore. Apparently it was quite good at ignoring many things.
The data pad weighed heavily in her jacket pocket. Portia could not stand to watch the transmission another time, knowing there was nothing she could do.
The waitress slid the plate in front of Portia. Today’s special was some type of pasta with a vivid red sauce on top.
“You know I didn’t tell you the truth yesterday.”
“About the crippled husband and the sick kid? Yeah, I figured.”
“My point still stands. I work damn hard.”
“I know.”
“And I deserve to be treated like a human being.”
“You deserve to have you own nametag.”
The waitress smirked and poured a cup of coffee.
Portia sipped cautiously, pleased to discover the bitter taste gone.

* * *

Michael Connelly was waiting for Portia was she returned to work.
She tucked her head down and prepared to walk quickly past Viktor Ang’s office when she realized that there was no boss lurking in the office. Michael Connelly was speaking on the vid screen, playing to an empty room.
Portia’s feet became rooted in place.
“Hard to believe people listen to him.”
Portia was jarred out of her reverie. Viktor Ang was standing beside her.
“People need a leader.”
“Not those people.”
“Yeah,” Portia added hollowly, “ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Let me assure you, that if those were my employees, there wouldn’t be any negotiations. I’d fire the lot of them. Plenty more drones desperate for work where they came from.”
Portia did not make a sound to convey agreement. She looked Viktor Ang in the eyes.
Viktor Ang scanned her person, starting from the feet up. Portia clutched the powdery blue satchel closely to her person.
“Can we have a word in my office?”
“No, we can have a word right here,” she said.
“I was trying to spare you some humiliation, but if you insist.”
“Oh, I insist.”
“Your shoes…”
“Goulashes,” Portia correct.
“Yes, the goulashes are not appropriate.”
“I suppose the Handbook says nothing about goulashes.”
“Certainly, but the failure of the Handbook to anticipate…”
“The rain? It’s raining you know, and people wear goulashes to protect their feet. Keeps them nice and dry.”
“But they are not appropriate.”
“They’re appropriate footwear for the weather. In case you haven’t noticed, everyone in this building had to walk in the rain this morning. I’m not the only one wearing goulashes. Did you write them up their weather-related footwear? Or is it only my feet you’re fascinated with?”
“They’re pink!”
“I like pink.”
“Pink is clearly not appropriate and does not demonstrate the seriousness with which you should dispense your duties and further more…”
“I like pink!”
“Take them off this instant or you’re fired!”
“Fine.” Portia balanced on one foot and yanked off the bright pink goulash. She switched foot and was quickly standing in her socks in the hall, goulashes in either hand.
“Clearly the Corporation would rather employees go barefoot than question the precious dress code.”
Portia walked down the hall, holding her head high. She could feel the eyes on her.
“One more write up in your file, Clovelly, and your employment is terminated.”
“Write me up, then! I don’t want you to do me any favors!”


* * * * *

Portia lived on the Fifty-first floor in a studio apartment. Her building was not affluent but it was not shabby. What the building was happened to be perfectly average.
Her apartment was perfectly bland. The walls were painted in a dull buff color and the furniture was comfortable and upholstered in dark colors to better hide stains. There was no art on the walls, no colorful posters, no sign of a hobby or any interest outside of sleeping and eating.
Her apartment looked like a twelve-year-old girl decorated it. The walls were a soft pink, the sofa covered in a fluffy white synthetic fur. The same synthetic fur covered the floor in a circular rug. Large, colorful pillow covered every chair. An animated poster of the Superpower Kung-Fu Koalas driving a gold cart cavorted on the wall. The Koalas giggled, their capes flapping in the wind, the golf cart weaving dangerously.
Portia liked gadgets. She made her living with gadgets. Currently old gadgets, but everything old was new once. She had the latest Pod, the newest generation Data Pad, an extensive collection of Holos, an enormous vid screen opposite the polar bear couch, and a computer of such blazing speed and strength it made her weak in the knees. And every item coordinated in white or bright pastels. The only thing not sickenly sweet was the black ct, Cloister, who spent most of his time sleeping on the white couch.
Portia’s apartment was as radically different from Bea’s home as possible. Everything of Portia’s was consumer driving, new and glossy. Bea’s home was filled with worn and loved furniture. Photos cluttered the walls. Half finished craft projects were scattered about the house. Bea was forever embarking on a great new hobby, all involving complicated plans to craft useful items. The most recent fad was quilting. Perfect cut squares of fabric littered the house.
Bea had a home. Portia had an apartment filled with toys.
Cloister rubbed against her legs. “You know I’ll feed you.”
Portia opened the package of Feline Nutrient Supplement and emptied it into a purple bowl with pink painted flowers. Cloister immediately forgot all promises to love her forever and dove face first into the chow.
Portia peeled the lid off the instant dinner. She wasn’t much a cook. Steam from beef scented noodles curled lazily in the air. She looked at Cloister’s dish and back to her bowl of noodles, not sure who had the better meal.
Michael Connelly was on the vid again. The media could not get enough of his rhetoric or bright blue eyes and ever-smiling smile. When Michael Connelly looked into the camera and smiled, it felt like he was smiling at you.
“All we are asking for is the respect and decency entitle to human beings. Far too long have the working classes been laboring in servitude. The War Years rationing is over, yet we starve. There are more houses than people in the city, yet our houses have wholes in the roofs and no heat. Our work, our labor, is the lifeblood of the city, yet we are ignored. We will no longer be ignored!”
Michael Connelly smiled and raised two fists in triumph. The crowd erupted into cheers.
With the smallest movement, Portia’s fingers glided over the control panel built into the arm of the couch and the vid screen changed stations to a showing of the old holo, The Courageous Clovelly Sisters. The holo had about fifteen more minutes before the end.
Portia sat lotus style on the coach, twisting the noodles around a fork. This holo was always on, it seemed. It was a terribly cheesy movie produced at the end of the War Years, glorifying the bravery of two sisters, Kathryn and Beatrice. One was a captain, the other a pilot, and both served on a starship during one of the bloodiest battles of the war. In short, the movie was feel good propaganda. The actress playing Kate and Bea were tall and blonde and far more stunning than the real Clovelly sisters, who had awkward cameos in the holos.
The movie was a favorite of Portia. As a child, she’d watch it on an endlessly repeating loop. When she was that age, she was certain she would grow up to be a pilot just like her grandmother.
After the end credits began to roll, Portia switch channels back to the news feed. A talking head filled the screen. Even though the man smiled, he seemed plastic and artificial. “To lend support to the striking Transit Worker Union, other unions are threatening to strike if the Corporate Authority can not negotiate a resolution by midnight. The unions which are threatening to strike are the Foodservers, Sanitation Workers, Clerks and Cashiers, Postal Workers, and Launderers.”
Cloistered landed on Portia’s lap, knocking the bowl of noodles with his head. Hot broth sloshes over the sides.
Portia sucked in her breath. All those service workers leaving the jobsite would cripple the city. No restraints would be open, no mail received, no garbage disposed, no shops could do business, and no dry cleaning. She seriously doubted there were plenty more workers to replace all those strikers.
Her first thought was that she should take the day off and hide in the comfort of her apartment. Her second thought was that if all those people could be brave, so could she.
The data pad slide easily into the larger terminal. Portia attached the transmission file and added some quick lines of code to make sure she covered her tracks. No footprints.
Her finger hovered over the keys, weighing what she needed to do and what she shouldn’t do. The need was greater.
The file was sent. She didn’t really like her job, anyway.
Tomorrow she would take her place in Michael Connelly’s rally.