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Miss Fields. Please come again . “
    Even though the cross-identification program was my dad’s baby, even though I know it cuts crime, saves time and money, and sets apart all N-Corp debtor-workers from the unprofitables, there’s something disconcerting in never being able to escape my own name.
    My IC goes off again, and this time I answer the call.
    “Randal! Relax, would you? Everything is going to be fine!”
    But even as the words leave my mouth, part of me knows I’m lying. Everything isn’t going to be fine. It never was. It never will be.

—Chapter ØØ3—
    My apartment, morning. I’ve already clambered out of bed, off a mattress made of a highly advanced foam-polymer-sponge compound with a synthetic goose-down pillow-top; showered surrounded by the steam from the eighteen platinum-covered titanium showerheads that assail me from all angles; lathered with N-Spa Diamond series body wash, stuff that reeks of mint and innumerable varieties of flowers; and dried off with my new N-Spa series towel, a luxurious, cashmere-cotton blend with the gold stitching.
    Dry now, I apply my deodorant and style my hair (as much as I ever style it—which amounts to pulling it back into an uncomfortably tight ponytail).
    Every article of clothing I own is from the N-Elita collection, hand-tailored and made of the finest fabrics. The styles are patterned after the work of the greatest clothing designers who ever lived: Giorgio Armani, Coco Chanel, Donatella Versace, people like that. The N-Textile division stopped producing new clothing designs years ago, instead cycling through collections created in years past. The move saved the Company billions in design costs. And, of course, people buy the clothes anyway. The only competition for N-Corp’s clothing—in America Division, anyway—is nakedness. And nakedness is strictly forbidden by the HR handbook.
    I couldn’t care less about fashion anyway. The only reason I have these fancy clothes is because I’m expected to dress nicely—and because as a high-credit-level worker, I can.
    As I dress, Eva goes over my schedule for the day.
    “Hello, May Fields. Your day’s schedule is as follows: Arrive at work—8 am. 8 am until 9 am—Board meeting, attendance required. 9:15 am until 9:44 am—Complete digital correspondence. 9:44 am until noon—IC launch team meeting in conference room K15 . . . ”
    She goes on and on, reminding, nagging, confirming. I like to imagine her as a hot Asian woman with green eyes and a mini-skirt. It makes me want to choke her less.
    Dressed now, I hurry down the hall to the elevator, nibbling at an N-Nourishe bar, trying to choke a few crumbs into my stress-clenched stomach.
    The walk to work, the journey through the Headquarters lobby, the vertigo-inducing high-speed elevator ride up to the two-hundredth floor of the Headquarters building: all a blur. Before I know it, I’m standing in the boardroom. It’s an imposing space, three stories high and all windows, interspersed with a few sections of polished cherry-wood paneling. Even the scent-machine odor is different here in the boardroom: mingled essences of leather and musk. Brandy. A hint of cigar smoke. It’s the smell of success, intimidation. Power. The boardroom can accommodate up to one thousand people in the church-pew-style seats that border the room on three sides, and the seats are almost full. All the Company’s most important tie-men and women are here. One by one, they finish their chatter and take their seats, preparing for the start of the meeting.
    Amid the commotion, Randal hurries up to me, his awkward gait somewhere between a goosestep and a skip. As he approaches, I corral him and try to fix his tie and tuck in one side of his shirt while he hisses in my ear, “May, I don’t know if we should go through with it. I d-d-don’t—”
    “Randal,” I interrupt, trying to ply him with my calmness, “we were ordered to make a report to the board. That was our assignment,