Paycheck Euphoria

By Gary Ballard

A Heist In Reverse
Peter Burroughs, teenage hacker turned 40-something wage slave, was a top chip fabrication expert at the Preemus Silicon Fabrication Plant in the corporate city-stae carved out of the rural South. Living just ahead of his estranged wife’s medical bills, all he could hope for was keeping his life at equilibrium, riding out life’s micro-apocalypses without a penny to spare. When he was assigned the top-secret task of fabricating the latest upgrade to global megacorp Chronosoft’s network hardware, all he knew was that he’d be working longer hours with no help and no extra pay.

And then he met Artemis Bridge. Los Angeles-based fixer and all-around “know-who” guy, Bridge needed a favor that only Peter could deliver. He needed access to the chip at the point of fabrication and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Peter thought his days of law-breaking were over. What could Bridge offer him that would tempt him to risk his job, his freedom, and potentially his life?

The sixth novel in the critically acclaimed cyberpunk sci-fi series The Bridge Chronicles, Paycheck Euphoria is gripping examination of life in the new Third World by author Gary A. Ballard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Ballard
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005640309

Gary Ballard

I began writing things down at the age of eleven, and I haven't stopped since. I have written far too many things that have gone unpublished, from very terrible horror novels in my teens, to comics during my time at Belhaven College until finally settling on cyberpunk science fiction after graduation. My first novel (Under the Amoral Bridge) is part of a larger series called The Bridge Chronicles. The second novel in the series, The Know Circuit has just been released. The Bridge Chronicles in turn is one slice of cohesive universe that began as a pen-and-paper roleplaying game.I currently live with my beautiful wife and three very insane dogs in Mississippi, where I continue to write my novels and blog on my personal blog at http://gameangst.blogspot.com.

Book preview

Paycheck Euphoria

The Bridge Chronicles

Book 6

A Cyberpunk Novel

By

Gary A. Ballard

Copyright 2021

Copyright © 2021 by Gary A. Ballard

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition 1.0 – 2021

Cover photographs by Vladimir Fedotov & Alexandre Debieve on Unsplash

Cover design by Gary A. Ballard

Author Photography by Gary A. Ballard

Copyright © 2021 Gary A. Ballard

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

About the Author

About The Bridge Chronicles

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Chapter 1

May 22, 2030

The OD (Original Dollar)

Peter Burroughs drove through the desiccated veins of the town of Butler, a sleepy village draped over the intersection of Alabama State Highways 10 and 17 in the fully owned Local Governance Licensee Territory of the Preemus Corporation, formerly known as the rural boonies of Alabama. He’d worked late again, at the only place that employed anyone in Preemus for anything close to a good wage, the silicon chip fabrication plant so large it required its own separate water, sewer, and electrical infrastructure. Though the sun had gone down about an hour ago, its heat lingered on in sticky, humid clumps that adhered to the skin and wouldn’t let go no matter how much of a breeze blew. Darkened buildings that predated the Civil Rights era sat abandoned in shadow, what few remaining workers fled home for the night. The only thing open in Butler after dark was the gas station, the Beef King hamburger joint and Peter’s destination, the Original Dollar or OD as everyone called it. Peter had passed the gas station on the way into town, and he could barely see the twinkling of its lights in his rearview as he turned right at midtown. Sitting in a pool of yellow light of its own at the very edge of the southern city limits was the OD.

The Original Dollar was the last of the non-supersized retail chains, a conglomeration of six or so regional corporations that had merged together in the early 20’s. Each of the chains had hit upon the same idea in the late teens when the aftermath of the Venezuelan War had wrecked the U.S. economy for the second time in a decade. Seeing that the big box superstores like Wal-Mart had essentially killed local grocery stores, they recognized that for as large a corporation as Wal-Mart was, it could not be in every single podunk town. Like any good parasite, the CEO of what became Original Dollar saw easy prey in the wallets of citizens in small towns too far from a big box store to make regular trips and too poor for their locally owned retail establishments, who were overpriced due to their small inventories. Figuring rightly that those customers would be hungry for the lure of cheap goods made in the worst third world countries and over-processed food with little to no nutritional value, he brought those chains together in 2023 as The Original Dollar. The store stayed open until 10 pm, unheard of in the rural shithouse of Preemus LGL (or Mississippi or Alabama before them) and there was nowhere else to get canned spaghetti, bread, and luncheon meat at an affordable price after dark.

Peter stepped out of his old beater of a car and onto the cracked pavement, asphalt battered and beaten from the shifting clay underneath mixed with the effects of scorching heat and swamp-like humidity. The parking lot was full at this time of night, between the other folks coming home from the plant to grab a cheap, quick meal or those headed to the plant with a need for a pack of nabs on the way in. The usual lineup of beggars leaned precariously on the wall leading up to the door. Most of them were African American but for the one diversity hire white trash homeless guy who mistakenly thought his whiteness would somehow make his shabby appearance less threatening than his darker panhandling competitors. Peter was inundated with various requests, from the standard spare some Seven-Year or just a little change to the more creative if you could just get me like a pack of crackers or something, I’m a vet, man to the one who swung for the fences in proclaiming that All I need is a ride up the street, man, to where my lady stay. Peter had hoped that the fab plant opening would have thinned this crowd but if anything, the rental space for homeless beggary had become more in demand than ever. Peter fended them all off with a wave of his hand and walked into the protective gaze of the sliding door’s electric eye. With a whoosh of air and the glare of fluorescent safety, Peter was reassured by the voice of a bored automated greeter. Welcome, Peter Burroughs, to the Original Dollar. Your Preemus account has been verified. Any transactions can be debited automatically from this account. If you wish to pay with paper dollars, they will need to be e-verified before the transaction is complete. Any other debit or credit accounts are welcome but will be subject to a variable transaction fee of up to 5% depending on the source and viability of the funds. Shoplifting is strictly prohibited…

Peter had heard the spiel many times before, so he ignored it and moved into the store as it rehashed the punishments for stealing from the OD and by extension, the Preemus Corporation. Past the single overworked clerk sitting alone with a line that stretched halfway to the back of the store, Peter ignored the flashing beacons of the front of store clearance merch. A holo display of the latest movies and TV shows flashed to life as Peter passed, offering to be available on demand on his portable viewing device, phone, or home network at his convenience. He fought off the temptation to browse the selection, knowing that the $5 rental was not in his budget.

Payday was still two days away and his refrigerator was barren. He had no beer, nor did he have the budget to buy a bottle of the cheap shit they sold here, the kind that had no label, just a white cylindrical can with the words Beer in black block letters underneath the Preemus logo. There wasn’t even a list of ingredients anymore, just the miniscule type around the bottom rim of the can that had its expiration date and a list of subsidiaries who owned the brewery and distribution chain, a pyramid that led to Preemus Corporation at the top. He spent longer than he should have looking into the coolers at those cans, before shaking his head and moving on.

The aisles were strewn with wheeled cages of restocking merchandise, plastic still wrapped around the unmoved boxes. At the foot of every item on the shelf sat the price sticker, a holo projector displaying the price of the good in four different currencies. The cheapest, of course, was the price in Preemus scrip, which was only given to employees of Preemus that had completed their twelve-month evaluations with the best marks. Below that was the price in Federal dollars if you used any kind of non-Preemus bank account, followed by the price for scrip from neighboring LGL corps, with the price in actual cash below that. Peter stopped for a minute when he realized the prices were missing a line, that of Seven-year cash, the kind of paper money they stopped issuing in 2023 when the Treasury started issuing cash with tracking chips embedded. There’d been rumors online for months about the bills being phased out, and most of the reputable conspiracy groups claimed it was because Seven-Year bills had been used from the beginning as the currency of choice for criminals after the cryptocurrency meltdown. Many of the dark GlobalNet sites were running auctions trading the currency itself, and the actual worth of the bill in Feds fluctuated with the supply and demand. As Peter wandered further down the aisles, he noticed the currency exchange kiosk was dark, its normal glow drained. The workers at the OD often disabled the machine if it acted up, leaving it ignored until they could get a tech out to fix it. Peter wondered if it was OD laziness or a decree from HQ that had dimmed the machine’s lights tonight.

Since he didn’t have nor need any Seven-Year tonight, he continued on, his hand basket getting heavy with the cans of spaghetti and cola. By his reckoning, he only had enough left for the bars of soap he’d done without since yesterday or a set of plastic cups to drink with in lieu of the dirty dishes piled up in his sink that he didn’t want to spend his water budget cleaning. Dishwashing liquid made way too many bubbles, but it worked well enough for hair and skin, so it had become his backup, He had enough water budget for a shower the next two mornings before work. He decided on the plastic cups. His plastic recycling budget was full up, as he rarely used it anymore. Drinking tap water instead of soda had put him in the black on the recycling for months to come.

As he stood in line behind an elderly African American lady, pink curlers poking through the hair net that covered her silver mane, he spotted the snack pack of his favorite chips. He might have enough for one of those, and he could stretch that out over two lunches if he ate judiciously. A bit of nervousness fluttered in his stomach as he got closer to the register, worried that he’d have to weather the embarrassment of the stern glares of the clerk if he had to remove the item from his order for lack of funds. YOLO, he thought, laughing to himself at the use of the phrase no one had used this decade. He felt stupid just saying it to himself.

As the numbers tallied upwards on the register’s ancient display, a little sweat built up in his armpits. Within seconds he’d cursed himself for being so stupid as to want the chips, cursed the worry such a trivial thing induced in him and cursed the corporation who paid him just enough to live hand to mouth. When the total was reached, he sighed as discreetly as he could, feeling a little surge of idiotic jubilation at this smallest of victories. His fingerprint on the POS pad signified the completion of his purchase. As he walked out, he felt awash with shame at the feeling of triumph he’d just had over such a small thing, then angry that such a small thing could even be considered a triumph. He didn’t even want to look at his balance on the receipt afterwards, and he avoided making eye contact with his car’s gas gauge. He thought he’d have enough gas for the next two days’ commute before needing to refill again on payday, wishing for the calm that such confidence would give him.

Return to the Table of Contents

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Chapter 2

May 23, 2030

Peter’s Trailer

The gentle buzzing sound of Peter’s alarm clock started with a low vibration throughout his mattress, gently waking him from sleep as it escalated through its series. Rather than the abrupt shock of the traditional alarm, this system caressed him out of sleep, lessening his tiredness the rest of the day. The mattress was a lease from his employer. They claimed that restful sleep improved productivity, and the built-in alarm system connection with his personal information system reduced workplace tardiness. He didn’t mind. It was the best mattress he’d ever had, and certainly better than the cheap piece of shit he’d been able to afford when he and Jenny had married, which had been long past its sell-by date. He looked over to the clock’s digital display, plastered across the wall in non-threatening green. 5:00 a.m. The sun had not even considered peeking above the horizon, but Peter had to get up early on workdays to make sure he was at his station well before time. The drive to the fab factory wasn’t all that long, but the wait time for the daily security sweeps was something no one could count on. Some days he’d be through in an hour, some days it might take twice that long, all depending on which procedures he was forced into that day. Cooper had explained it to him as a deliberate attempt to thwart security breaches. If the scans each employee were asked to perform were inconsistent, figuring out how to circumvent those procedures became a guessing game.

Being late to work at the Preemus Silicon Fabrication Laboratory wasn’t a fireable offense, unless of course it became a chronic issue. However, despite workers like Peter being on salary, tardiness resulted in what was called a privilege tax. Being an employee of Preemus offered perks they called privileges, little things like credits for movies, extra monthly GlobalNet bandwidth or the ability to purchase Preemus gear at what they claimed was cost. Peter had been eying a particularly fancy crèche so that he could fully participate in the GlobalNet world, and he sure as hell didn’t want to get slapped with a privilege tax for a few minutes of extra sleep.

As he stepped into his trailer’s shower, he checked on his water and energy credits. Living in this trailer in the Whispering Willows trailer park, wholly owned by the Preemus Realty Holding Company, his utilities were covered by the company up to a certain amount per month. Going over the allowance charged him directly, automatically debiting the overage from his scrip account, which was running dangerously close to zero from last night’s shopping trip. Putting oneself into overdraft on the scrip account was doable if the system would allow it, but the overage was fined either out of the next paycheck or by removing privilege credits. The longer you’d worked for Preemus, the lower the interest rate on that kind of short-term loan, but most of the employees were like Peter, both terrible at budgeting and struggling paycheck to paycheck. His utility allowance gave him enough time for a quick shower, but it would be a cold one. He decided to forego washing his hair, which was all right because he was almost out of the dishwashing liquid that served as shampoo and body wash anyway. It’s not as if the close-cropped stubble on his neatly trimmed head was all that hard to keep clean. A day or two without shampoo wouldn’t be noticeable.

After a quick breakfast of dry toast and one fried egg, both sans butter or seasonings, he hopped into the car and took off. The governor on his vehicle kept his speed below the limit, which he didn’t mind, since he wasn’t late today. He could have pushed it, but speeding would also deduct from his privilege credits, at least within the first 20 mph over the limit. After that, the PRLS (Preemus Law Squad or Pearls as they were called) would be notified and you might get a visit from your supervisor accompanied by an officer whose attitude could be generously called hostile.

During the drive, Peter mused to himself a bit about the huge role Preemus Corporation had in his life. Shortly after the Private Sector Act of 2027 had passed, Preemus Corporation had purchased a small state-sized chunk of east central Mississippi and west Alabama from the town of Meridian, MS on the west to Montgomery, AL on the east, north to Montgomery, AL and south to Mobile, AL. Its southwestern border edged around the casino-megapolis of the Port of Biloxi, which was owned by a different set of corporate assholes that Peter avoided like the plague. He had discovered that they did not take kindly to hackers who fixed their slot machines with roving WiFi burst injectors built into their shoes. He had been lucky that his manager at Preemus Fab liked him enough to get a supervisor involved in extraditing him from the prison of the Isle of Chance’s storeroom back to Preemus. There he had been assigned extra shifts to pay for the costs of the cross-LGL extradition. His accomplice Cooper, who worked with him at Preemus in the security division, had thankfully not been spotted playing the slots there that night, so at least Peter had gotten some money out of it, even if it had not been enough to pay the full costs of Jenny’s treatments that month.

Peter remembered watching the news feeds as the whole shitstorm that preceded the LGL vote unfolded in a slow-motion pantomime of catastrophe. The national media had been obsessed with showing the riots in Los Angeles that followed in the wake of the Jackson Five Incident. Watching the Hollywood sign burn had been surreal but his distance from the event had made it seem more like a movie than a real occurrence.

He'd just come in from his job at the Kwik-E Mart around 11 p.m. Jenny had been asleep in the bedroom, and his father had been passed out on the recliner sofa. The television was streaming the disgusting right-wing channel his father insisted on getting his news from, its flickering light giving the man’s sallow, leathery skin the blueish tint of a corpse. Peter had stopped in the entrance to the living room, expecting to turn the television off and put Pops to bed but the footage on the screen stopped him cold. The iconic Hollywood sign in the hills outside Los Angeles was on fire, smoke pouring from the tops of all the letters into the night sky. The ‘Y’ was already a complete wreck. He hadn’t bothered to check the news alerts on his phone, because his manager and the son of the Kwik-E Mart’s owner, Kamal, wouldn’t let him keep his phone at the register. He pulled out his phone and found the alert that linked him to the story.

With a snort, his father woke and jumped a bit as he realized Peter stood over him. What the fuck you doing there, kid?

Just looking at the story on the sign burning, Peter replied.

Pointing at the screen, Pops said, Why you looking at that doohickey? The story’s right there! With a dismissive wave of his hand, he continued. Goddamn Meh-i-cans burned the sign down. Whole fucking city of Los Angeles is finally eating itself alive.

Is that what that bunch of conserva-dicks is saying? Peter scowled, finally reading the TV’s chyron. Emblazoned across the bottom of the screen was a Breaking News headline typical of this network: Gangs of Illegal Immigrants Torch Iconic Hollywood Sign. AP says no one has taken credit for burning the sign.

Ahhh, you know it was the Spics or the Blacks. Those people out there in California got no respect for their own things, much less anyone else’s. They should just send in the goddamn military and be done with it.

This said the mayor already asked for the National Guard.

Good. Just level the fucking place and start over.

Dad, that’s America you’re talking about, not some faraway land. A-MER-ICA. You seriously want the military to just bomb the shit out of it?

Pops grumbled a bit, then changed the subject. Your wife had a bad night. Went to bed real early. You might want to sleep out here tonight. News was saying we might lose Medicaid benefits if they don’t get this budget thing fixed soon.

While watching that sign get torched had been like a dream, the effect that idiotic federal budget crisis had caused in his neck of the woods had been very real. Like most Southern states, both Mississippi and Alabama had relied on federal assistance dollars, especially in the rural areas, taking much more back in federal assistance than they offered up in tax revenue.

While they hadn’t needed food benefits, he and Jenny had been on the Alabama version of Medicaid, or at least as much of it as the politicians had deemed the couple deserved. Any other time and he’d barely have noticed the health insurance getting cut off, but that had been three months after Jenny’s diagnosis. Cristoff’s Syndrome was a new disease, a series of intermittent but particularly debilitating neurological symptoms that resulted from too much exposure to the electrical pulses of a cheap interface jack. Most of the jack manufacturers had denied the existence of such a syndrome until the lawsuits and Congressional hearings had forced them to publicly admit what their research secretly showed. Cristoff’s wasn’t widespread – barely one in a million heavy jack users were ever diagnosed. Unfortunately, Jenny’s work required heavy uses of computers with interface requirements that meant mouse and keyboard input was entirely too slow to be effective, and the company had bought the bottom of the line interface gear. Her job kept her on at her reduced capacity for as long as they could, but eventually her work was too slow to be effective and she was laid off. Medicaid was the only way the two of them could get her treatments without going completely underwater, and when the budget crisis hit, the state government began grumbling about paying for entitlements.

Food shipments started to run out. At first, it was just the Wendell’s grocery that couldn’t get food, a family-owned store that had been in Butler since 1900. Then the convenience store shelves started collecting dust, not even so much as a pack of nabs available for the hungry. Once the gas shipments stopped showing up at those same stores, they began closing one by one, which meant Peter lost his job at the Kwik-E Mart. Finally, the big box stores ran out of inventory. Birmingham caught fire shortly after that. The story went that a family had been camping in the foothills around the city and their fire had ignited the dry grass around their site, though GlobalNet rumor placed the blame on a particularly explosive gender reveal party.

Well, ain’t that a goddamn sight, Peter’s dad had said as he nursed the last beer that existed in the entire town of Butler, Alabama. He’d sat in that same living room, watching the local news while Peter and Jenny had been trying to figure out what they were going to do for money. Jobs were becoming scarce anywhere within 300 miles of Birmingham, and their aging car was not likely to be able to make