The Beam: Season One Read Online Free PDF

take it. If the cabbie died, AI would drive the cab the next day and the city would save money. It was a loop that existed only within itself.  
    Doc fished a twenty-credit note from his pocket and pushed it toward the driver. The fare stood at eight-seventy. Doc told him to keep the change and announced his plans to walk the rest of the way. As he exited the cab, the driver gave him an angry look. Doc had meant the tip as a make-peace gesture, but of course the driver had taken it as condescension.  
    Doc skirted the protesters, stuffing his annoyance low, figuring they were doing him a favor. Yes, the streets would be thick with assholes for a while, but Doc felt that there was no objective “good” or “bad” about anything. A self-made person understood that it wasn’t what happened to you in life that mattered, but what you did with those happenings. So yes, this all meant opportunity. The protestors wanted an end to decadence and inequality between the rich (who could afford the best upgrades) and the poor (who had no upgrades and accessed The Beam via old consoles and handhelds). Doc didn’t usually sell upgrades to the truly rich or truly poor; he sold mainly to the upper-middle, middle, and lower classes. This hullabaloo meant he had an opportunity to show the poorer of his customers that they could, indeed, afford upgrades on his easy payment plans. And for the upper tier of customers? Well, they’d buy fancier upgrades than ever if they thought their rights were being threatened. They’d consume out of fear. They’d consume to justify their previous consumption. And they’d consume to raise their middle fingers — to show the protestors that they intended to do whatever the fuck they wanted.  
    Doc cocked his arm and the nanobot-generated tattoo reappeared on his wrist, seconds ticking off near where his forearm began to thicken. He had fifteen minutes. And there wasn’t a cab — hover, wheeled, or pedi; human- or AI-driven — to be seen. The rails would take him too far out of his way. He’d have to run, and he was going to be late.  
    Doc hoofed it toward Xenia Labs, referring to his wrist every few minutes like a compulsion. Twelve blocks left. Eight blocks. By the time he had five blocks remaining, his time was up and he was sweaty as hell. He sold an upgrade that short-circuited perspiration and cooled the user via a rather toxic coolant circulated and (hopefully) contained by nanos, but Doc didn’t have it. Now, approaching Xenia, he wished he did, despite the occasional disastrous side-effect. He was going to look and smell disgusting. Then, because he decided he might as well embarrass himself fully, Doc tapped his ear and rattled off the voice message to Nicolai that he kept forgetting to send. Nicolai had been bugging him for days. Doc let him know that his new upgrade was in and that he could stop harassing Doc about it and come pick it up. With Doc running, Nicolai would get the message and hear his dealer panting. Not exactly the professional image Doc hoped to convey, but what the hell.  
    He kept running, his boots smacking pavement. He arrived at Xenia ten minutes late, rushed into a bathroom, and splashed cold water on his hot face. The bathroom didn’t have a groomer, so he ran his fingers through his blonde mane. His suitcoat was dark. Hopefully it would hide his sweat-stained pits. He took a final look in the mirror, trying to feather his hair away from the sides of his face where he refused to stop sweating. He failed. Doc’s hair stayed plastered to his skin like a dark blond halo.
    That done, he crossed the hall to Xenia’s suite and trotted up to the receptionist. The girl behind the desk had three different clips on her ears. Doc wondered if she ever hit the wrong one and ended up rattling off her hilarious drunken stories to her boss instead of her girlfriend by mistake.  
    “Hey, sweetheart,” said Doc. “My name is Thomas — although people call me Doc — and