supervisor?
She knows. She knows--
"I'm disappointed," Tolan said. "I had hoped you would take advantage of our LitEd. Not many jobs offer that benefit."
LitEd? What the hell?
Augie could only stare at her. She turned away from him, looking out the huge steel-plas window that gave her a view of the entire travel floor. Peds studded the circumference like the numbers on a clock, some of the manned, some empty. As Augie followed her gaze, one of the Historians flickered out of view and the ped drained of its sleek, glossy maroon color, turning matte grey while it waited for recall.
No, she didn't know. She'd called him for a lecture on LitEd. As if he needed extra schooling, with what he'd accomplished on his own.
"So many people depend on easy interfaces these days," Tolan said, not yet turning back to look at him. Perfect view of her uptight knot of hair, her uptight little ass in a tailor-faux skirt. She nodded at the floor below. "They depend on machines that do the thinking for them. Even our Historians, although they'd deny it." She turned her head just enough so he could see an unexpected twist of her lips. Something rueful.
But by the time she turned all the way around, it was gone. Her familiar
I'm your superior
face returned. "If you applied yourself to these classes, Augie, I know you could qualify for advancement. You're persistent in your problem-solving, and resourceful."
"But that doesn't count for anything without LitEd," Augie said, far more bitterly than he meant to.
It took her by surprise, but she smoothed it over. "Completing a LitEd class demonstrates more than your ability with the written language, Augie. It shows us the level of your commitment."
He barely stopped himself from laughing out loud.
If only she knew!
"I understand," he said. "I'll think about it."
It was what she wanted to hear. She handed him a course reg card. "Next opportunity, then," she said, and expected him to close the door behind him without being told.
He did.
Come the quiet hours, when Augie finally went Forward, he wandered over to the central raised platform where Supervisor Tolan oversaw Ops, staring down into that temporarily abandoned space. Historians...they were so full of themselves, full of their privileges and their schooling and their knowledge. Half the planet's population skipped basic Lit--who cared if he was among them? It didn't mean he deserved less respect than any self-important Historian.
When the day came--the day he brought back the future and turned it into the present--they'd understand. The day he changed baseline forever. He grinned into the darkness, lips a disdainful curl. "You just wait," he told the nighttime emptiness.
For years Augie had watched the Historians--resentful, coveting. He watched them and plotted...he watched them and planned.
He'd realized long ago that the Historians never saw him at all.
He'd swiped a chip manual on trav ped maintenance. He'd paid someone to read him the future lock specs. He'd snagged the right tools, and he'd used a week of night shifts to get the damn F-lock disabled. All that, he'd managed.
Without
their fancy extra schooling.
And now, Augie the Janitor Who went Forward and Didn't Die had his rounds to finish, back in his own time line.
The palm-sized recall unit fit so right in his hand, the contours inviting the curl of his fingers.
Like it was meant to be there.
He gave the silent room a sudden hard smile, and thumbed the recall switch.
I'll be back.
#
Another trip forward, another...he ventured out of the building. He learned the future. Still alive, still outwitting them all.
And now he shifted impatiently, stuck in a future pedestrian traffic jam. Traffic monitors watched the crowds from high-mounted platforms, as eager to ticket as the meter maids Augie's mother had once mentioned.
Dead now, she'd be. Dead for years.
Advertisements flickered around him, mid-air projections from he couldn't tell where. Most of them seemed to be
She knows. She knows--
"I'm disappointed," Tolan said. "I had hoped you would take advantage of our LitEd. Not many jobs offer that benefit."
LitEd? What the hell?
Augie could only stare at her. She turned away from him, looking out the huge steel-plas window that gave her a view of the entire travel floor. Peds studded the circumference like the numbers on a clock, some of the manned, some empty. As Augie followed her gaze, one of the Historians flickered out of view and the ped drained of its sleek, glossy maroon color, turning matte grey while it waited for recall.
No, she didn't know. She'd called him for a lecture on LitEd. As if he needed extra schooling, with what he'd accomplished on his own.
"So many people depend on easy interfaces these days," Tolan said, not yet turning back to look at him. Perfect view of her uptight knot of hair, her uptight little ass in a tailor-faux skirt. She nodded at the floor below. "They depend on machines that do the thinking for them. Even our Historians, although they'd deny it." She turned her head just enough so he could see an unexpected twist of her lips. Something rueful.
But by the time she turned all the way around, it was gone. Her familiar
I'm your superior
face returned. "If you applied yourself to these classes, Augie, I know you could qualify for advancement. You're persistent in your problem-solving, and resourceful."
"But that doesn't count for anything without LitEd," Augie said, far more bitterly than he meant to.
It took her by surprise, but she smoothed it over. "Completing a LitEd class demonstrates more than your ability with the written language, Augie. It shows us the level of your commitment."
He barely stopped himself from laughing out loud.
If only she knew!
"I understand," he said. "I'll think about it."
It was what she wanted to hear. She handed him a course reg card. "Next opportunity, then," she said, and expected him to close the door behind him without being told.
He did.
Come the quiet hours, when Augie finally went Forward, he wandered over to the central raised platform where Supervisor Tolan oversaw Ops, staring down into that temporarily abandoned space. Historians...they were so full of themselves, full of their privileges and their schooling and their knowledge. Half the planet's population skipped basic Lit--who cared if he was among them? It didn't mean he deserved less respect than any self-important Historian.
When the day came--the day he brought back the future and turned it into the present--they'd understand. The day he changed baseline forever. He grinned into the darkness, lips a disdainful curl. "You just wait," he told the nighttime emptiness.
For years Augie had watched the Historians--resentful, coveting. He watched them and plotted...he watched them and planned.
He'd realized long ago that the Historians never saw him at all.
He'd swiped a chip manual on trav ped maintenance. He'd paid someone to read him the future lock specs. He'd snagged the right tools, and he'd used a week of night shifts to get the damn F-lock disabled. All that, he'd managed.
Without
their fancy extra schooling.
And now, Augie the Janitor Who went Forward and Didn't Die had his rounds to finish, back in his own time line.
The palm-sized recall unit fit so right in his hand, the contours inviting the curl of his fingers.
Like it was meant to be there.
He gave the silent room a sudden hard smile, and thumbed the recall switch.
I'll be back.
#
Another trip forward, another...he ventured out of the building. He learned the future. Still alive, still outwitting them all.
And now he shifted impatiently, stuck in a future pedestrian traffic jam. Traffic monitors watched the crowds from high-mounted platforms, as eager to ticket as the meter maids Augie's mother had once mentioned.
Dead now, she'd be. Dead for years.
Advertisements flickered around him, mid-air projections from he couldn't tell where. Most of them seemed to be
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