Free The Lightcap by Dan Marshall Page A

shoes striking against concrete, syncopated by the rhythmic thwack of his messenger bag against his back.  There was no sign of the man.  Adam struggled to catch his breath, hands on his knees, then drew odd stares as he tried to fill his lungs with air while spinning around to examine each face in the crowd.
    After giving up in bewildered frustration, Adam started to walk toward home, wondering if he had imagined it all.  He had been under a great deal of stress lately, and it had been his first day with the Lightcap.  These were the only explanations he could fathom.  It was either that or he was losing his mind.  Probably both, came the thought, unbidden.
    Adam’s adrenaline was still pumping from his earlier sprint, so he decided not to go home.  It was election night, both in the remaining States and the Corp Regions.  Large crowds usually gathered at bars, playing drinking games and placing bets on how Public and Executive positions would be awarded.  The election system had been modified to apply the Metra Corp Charter of Incorporation onto the Democratic framework its citizens expected, a holdover from their time as separate States under the banner of a Federal government.  In those days it had been one person, one vote, Adam knew from school.  “A terribly unfair system,” his teacher had said with a shudder.  “Just think of how unlikely it would be for actual merit to be rewarded.”
    Under the New Metra Charter, however, each citizen of the Region was given one voting share per year after eligibility, with the option to purchase more shares at the current trading rate.  In principle, good work was rewarded with more say in government.  In practice, poor people sold their vote on their first day of eligibility, which was still the eighteenth birthday, as was tradition.  The last time Adam had checked, a single share sold for two hundred credits, enough for three to four weeks of frugal meals.  The rich hoarded their shares and bought many more, and had come to account for nearly forty percent of the votes cast in the Metra Region.  Fortunately, the system was impossible to rig due to strong biometric security.  Actual votes were still necessary to win, and anyone with enough credits could buy shares.
    Alliances formed among the diminished middle class, the people who worked and lived paycheck to paycheck, along with other voting blocs such as the racial and ethnic minorities, the elderly, and the poor who retained and consolidated their voting shares.  For decades before the collapse of the States, people had been urged to vote with their ballots and their pocketbooks.  Now they really did vote with their money, and those with the most money got the most votes.  Adam had never been political, though he still voted.  Most did, since it was easy, and if they didn’t vote they’d sell to someone who would.  Adam didn’t see the point of getting involved in things that were ultimately out of his control, especially because of the unnecessary drama of it all. 
    Election night had turned into an occasion to celebrate or to drown sorrows.  Regardless of the outcome, there was an excuse to party, to drink, and to curse the other side, that terrible separate half of society who were too stupid to see things the “right” way.  It seemed odd to Adam that most elections were evenly split.  Forty percent of the votes were usually for the most pro-business candidate, who somehow convinced another ten percent or so of the voting public to go along with him or her, either through a barrage of false ads or by paying the media for positive coverage.  There were many theories from many sources.
    Adam headed to Hanley’s, a place he’d seen featured on several ad zep screens that showed whatever spectacles were on the video nodes each night.  Why watch the big game, execution, or election in the privacy of home when one could go to Hanley’s, spend four hundred credits, and not remember any of