Read Asimov's Science Fiction: July 2013 for Free Online Page A

instinctively pressed herself to the wall, a narrow rectangle opened and she tumbled through—Bengt heard her cursing at her rough landing on the street.
    Bengt pressed himself against the wall too, and he could feel the material beginning to thin. But at the last moment one of the room's rapid peripheral shapes sped close and nipped his left ear. He felt more than heard the sound of the punch—a juicy crunch of cartilage. He began screaming.
    The wall opened up a rectangle just wide enough for Bengt to squeeze through. On his way out, he heard Churchill Breakspeare's voice echoing from within the Lifter trailer. "Harvest party tomorrow." Bengt and Cammy made their way home through the shady back streets of Boston and conked out on their bed without even talking. The experience had been so disorienting that Bengt didn't think to check on what had happened to his ear until the next morning. And then it was Cammy who pointed it out.
    "Oh god, they tagged you. It's a yellow-green disk with weird runic symbols on it. I'd call the color chartreuse? High visibility. Like something you'd see on a wild animal from an endangered species."
    Bengt fingered the oddly slick tag, took a look in the mirror. Kind of cool. Like a high-hole earring, but it didn't have a removable back. Tentatively, he tugged at it. The gaudy tag resisted, inf licting pain proportional to any pressure. He relented.
    "Well, it's no weirder than half the jewelry you see on the street," he said defensively. "Urban primitive. Maybe it's like some kinda Lifter customer loyalty card? Latest tech, I bet! Favored status, bargains galore! I guess Churchill dug me."
    Cammy looked at Bengt as if she were inspecting a pickled specimen at a carnival freakshow, a jar in a medical teratology museum. "Or maybe he picked up on what a pushover you are. You're the guy who gives money to those just-need-f ive-dollars-tocatch-a-bus-back-home street scammers. Are you saying it doesn't bother you—being microchipped like a three-toed sloth?"
    "Not one whit," blathered Bengt. He still felt a little giddy from that magical pudding dessert. "Not if it means free delicious grub like we had last night. How is this any more humiliating than food stamps? Being unemployed, I've gotta cut corners, gotta manage the ol' nonexistent cash flow."
    "Listen, we're getting by fine with my video blogs and sock-puppet reviews and on-line ads. I told you not to worry. We're married. I'll take care of you."
    "Yeah, okay, but I'm ashamed. I still can't believe that my Brown University bachelor's degree in semiotics with a minor in French isn't good for anything! And meanwhile my student loans are as big as an elephant's balls, and they're not getting any smaller."
    "You'll get your chance, Bengt," said Cammy, patting his cheek. "I still believe in you. But now I've got to get cranking on the edits for my new instructional video. "You could afford a fugu?" "I'm not using a real one. Just a sand dab. Looks the same on the video. I never did f ind that video I tried to upload last night, by the way. And there's no sign of a Wiggleweb. I guess that weird food made us kind of high." "A lot of questions," said Bengt. "Why don't you go see your pal Olala?" suggested Cammy. "A visit to his cave always cheers you up. Find out what's the deal with Lifter. And ask him about that silly tag in your ear. And while you're at it, maybe you and your old pal can do somecareer networking?" A giggle escaped Cammy. "He might know of a job deconstructing old issues of
Paris Match
magazine."
    Bengt felt miffed by Cammy's slight upon his chosen field. "Johnny Hallyday is a king, Cammy, and don't forget it! You've heard me singing his songs. His wife Sylvie Vartan was the
Blondie
of the yé-yé era. That's too dated? How about pop philosopher Bernard-Henri Lévy, his heavily cosmeticized wife Arielle Dombasle, and his billionaire mistress Daphne Guinness?
Paris Match
has a great tag line for Lévy.
God is dead, but my hair is