Free Acts of Conscience by William Barton

on the black earth plains of the world we left behind. Ringed tiers of men and women, sitting quietly at their stations, as if...
    One man, furious somehow, standing up, shouting, shaking his fist at the rest of them, storming away up the long flight of red-carpeted stairs and out the heavy black teak door, door inlaid with bright silver and some kind of clear crystal. People up in the spectator gallery, yelling, cheering, hugging each other, and I could hear the excited voice of the announcer, “...bringing you this historic event, live from the floor of the Trade Regency in Kiev...”
    Historic event?
    But, God damn it, I’ve just been fired , you see, and...
    Voiceover: “...secret ballot of the assembled Regents voting to break up an industrial monopoly that has endured for more than five hundred years...”
    Those two men hugging each other, teetering on the gallery’s edge, in danger of toppling over the guard rail and falling down on the Speaker’s daïs. Those would be Doctors Roald Berens and Ntanë Vataro then, wouldn’t they? Cold, dispassionate voice starting to speak inside of me just then. They’ve taken the vote then, have they? Well, then...
    The stock trading AI popped up over the vidnet display, excited, waving fistfuls of displays, including the automatic renewal date stamp on my power of attorney. A great feeling of triumph, the joyous surge of a job well done. The happiness of a tool employed.
    Trading in stock options for Berens-Vataro Interstellar has been resumed. Option values currently held by trading license #0A61C-84, in the name of solar citizen Gaetan du Cheyne, occupation none, resident at L1(SE) workerhostel #67, room 472: £3,207,968.
    Three million, two-hundred-seven thousand, nine-hundred and sixty-eight livres. The calculator chattered inanely: just about what I’d see in my ERSIE pay voucher over the next... oh, call it the next twenty five hundred years or so. I...
    My heart, just then, seemed to come to a complete stop.
     

 
     
    Four: I awoke the next morning, still sitting

    I awoke the next morning, still sitting in my chair, still dressed in my spacesuit, feeling fine, in the bland, gray light of my empty apartment. OK, du Cheyne. Time to groan and yawn. Time to get up. Time to go to work.
    Long moment of nothing at all.
    Fragments of memories.
    Memories of sitting here, listening to the drink mixer rattle and hum, of sitting here, watching the vidnet, having one each of all my favorites, drinking far into the night. Staring at the news. Watching my stock ticker. Useless.
    I’d let it scan and found myself watching bits of old movies. I think I was watching a twenty-fourth century 3vee recreation of a prehistoric drama called The Philadelphia Story when Rossignol showed up with my toolbox and ancillary belt hardware. Rossignol and the shop steward, I think.
    Rossignol bending over me, recoiling from my breath. Jesus Christ, Gaetan, are you all right?
    I think I said something about wishing there were pornode viddies starring Katherine Hepburn, but maybe it was before her time, Rossignol looking over his shoulder at the display, bewildered.
    The shop steward said, I don’t know. I guess you could program the system to...
    Rossignol: Shut the fuck up, Jessie.
    Jessie the Steward rolling his eyes.
    Some time later, I realized the spacesuit must have picked up on what I’d said, giving instructions to the house AI, blending the recreation of Philadelphia with something called Bringing Up Baby , where dear old Kate gets it on with Cary Grant after all, I can’t give you anything but love, Mr. Bone...
    And now I was awake, clear headed, empty headed, sitting alone in my apartment, wondering what to do. Inside my toolbox something stirred, restless.
    Finally, I took off the suit and hung it in the closet, feeling it go to sleep as I undid the seams, a twinge of regret from the apartment. Went and got cleaned up, standing for a long time under the shower head, hot recycler