Taking the Highway

ANDRE DROVE THROUGH GROSSE Pointe Shores on his way to Oliver’s house. He didn’t feel like talking to his brother—not now, anyway—but Nikhil was another matter. Nikhil didn’t deserve to be swirled down the drain of his father’s political ambitions any more than Andre did.

He drove past a little plaza three blocks from Oliver’s house. A central fountain was bordered by cute stores selling overpriced knickknacks that nobody needed. Six men stood in various proximities to the fountain, all of them casing the street. They looked a little scruffier than most fourths, a little older, a little more worn. Perhaps the better fourths had been chosen in Saturday morning’s first rush.

The highways were in use around the clock, as people came and went to jobs that didn’t obey last century’s nine-to-five rules. Work the job was the new catch phrase. Don’t work the hours. However, on weekends, those without a member of their regular carpool usually begged friends and family, or just took the surface streets. Because of that, fewer fourths worked weekends, so the supply and demand tended to balance out.

Andre flicked his eyes over the standing fourths. Nikhil was not among them. He circled the block and drove to Lochmoor Boulevard. Oliver’s house was halfway down from the corner. Nikhil stood at the edge of his lawn like a movie star waiting for his close up.

Andre pulled to the curb, lowered his window, and looked at his nephew over the top of his sunglasses. “What are you doing?”

“Fourthing.”

“Been here long?”

Nikhil shrugged.

“Get in the car.”

“Come on, Uncle Andre. You’re embarrassing me.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself. Get in the car.”

“No.”

“Look. Last night was . . . I didn’t plan for it to go that way. Your dad and I . . .” He stopped, hoping Nikhil would fill in the apology for him, but he just stood there, arms folded, face turned toward the street. “Things happened,” Andre finished.

Nikhil finally looked at him. “That was kind of f*cked up.” His shoulders relaxed. “You did what you thought you had to do.”

“It was a mess,” Andre said. “But it’s over, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Where?”

“It’s time for Fourthing 101.”

When Nikhil got in the car, Andre held up a hand for silence and drove him the three blocks to the plaza fountain. He parked in a metered space and pointed through the windshield at the gathered fourths. “You don’t stand by your house. You stand here.”

“With the competition?”

Andre swatted him on the back of the head. “Yes, with the competition. You need to stand with the other fourths so that the people in cars know this is a fourthing point.”

“Anywhere is a fourthing point,” Nikhil said. “That’s the whole idea.”

“You get many rides outside your house?”

“A few.”

“You’ll get more at the fountain.”

A red Lexus slowed at the curb and the passenger made a choice. One of the fourths disengaged himself from the group and approached the car. A moment of conversation, and he disappeared within.

“Don’t worry about those other guys,” Andre said. “If you’re better than they are, they aren’t competition. Now get out and go to work.”

Nikhil stiffened and clawed at his pocket. Andre wondered why people bothered to silence their datapads when the reaction to a vibration was just as disruptive to a conversation as a ringtone. Nikhil peeked at the display and then held the screen so Andre could see it. His mother. He clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “Can’t let Grandmere go to mail.”

“Can you translate for me?”

“Ask her to speak English.”

“Even when she speaks English, I have no idea what she’s saying.”

“Like I do?”

Nikhil grunted and answered the call on voice-only. Shading toward rude, but Mom wouldn’t think so. Her generation regarded voice-only as normal, and would keep talking whether they could see you or not. Sometimes he thought they preferred not to.

Nikhil was already deep in conversation. Or, deep in listening. “I know, Grandmere,” he managed to slip in. “I miss you too.”

“I know you are so busy with school,” Mom said. “But a small visit would be good, yes?”

“Very good. I love Arizona.”

Andre smiled. Nikhil hated Arizona. But he loved his grandmother.

“Perhaps your father can come too, help me with my tax troubles.”

Andre grabbed the pad away. “What tax troubles?”

“Andre?”

“Oui, Maman.”

“Oh! Remarkable.” Mom’s accent got thicker in surprise. “Don’t worry. Oliver is supposed to do my taxes. I’m completely in darkness. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“Oh, darling, I couldn’t trouble you. It’s too much.”

But not too much for Oliver? “Just send it to me.” He handed the datapad back to Nikhil.

“Grandmere, I have to go. Uncle Andre is teaching me how to fourth.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “He thinks he knows how.” Nikhil said his goodbyes to his grandmother and pocketed the pad.

“Let’s go, smartass,” Andre said. They were already in late second rush. Not likely Nikhil would be chosen, but figuring out why not was good training.

“Can we not do this today? Monday’s easier. Unexpected sick days always catch carpools unaware on Mondays.”

“True, but everyone else will be out here on Monday too.”

“I appreciate the help and everything, but I don’t think you and I are going to be fourthing buddies.” Nikhil removed his badge from his lapel. He stared at it a moment before shoving it in his pocket.

Andre drummed his palms on the steering wheel. “Fair enough. Tell you what. I see a coffee shop right there that doesn’t look too pretentious. I’ll drive you home after.”

Nikhil got out and shut the door. He waved his multicard at the meter. “You ever been in Blackstones?”

“No.”

“Their coffee is so good you’re going to want to f*ck it.”

“F*cking coffee?”

“I’m serious. Some guy walked out with an open cup and got busted for possession.”

As they walked through the door, a warning tone told Andre that his phone implant was no longer receiving. Blackstones had those new Iwate panels in their walls. More and more stores and restaurants were using the sheets of nickel zinc fermite to harmlessly disrupt all wireless signals. Andre paused at the door. He didn’t want to be out of touch, but Nikhil needed help. Left on his own, he’d never learn to fourth. Andre followed Nikhil to the counter. He’d stay through one cup of coffee, then click back in to the police band to see what he’d missed.

The interior of Blackstones was darker than most bars. Thin neon strips ran in jagged lines near the top of the walls, providing the only color. The walls, the floor, and the tables were all black. Andre knew before they reached the counter that the cups would be black, and the napkins too. He bought a coffee for himself and a double sweet latte for Nikhil, and they found an empty table in a dimly-lit corner.

“So level with me,” Andre said. “Your first week on the job. How many rides have you scored? Two? Three?”

Nikhil glowered at him. “You were new, once.”

“Don’t remind me.” Andre took a sip of coffee, did a double take, and tried another. “Damn.”

“Told you,” Nikhil said.

“You were wrong, about us not being fourthing buddies. You need all the friends you can get.”

“I have friends.”

“Good. You’re in trouble, you’re in a car that seems dodgy, anything your gut tells you isn’t right, you blip me. You blip your friend Topher. You blip every fourth you know. It’s called a FIT—fourth in trouble. And if someone nearby blips you, for God’s sake, show up.”

“Jesus, Uncle Andre. We’re not homeless drunks.” Nikhil licked foam off his upper lip. “We’re not going to get rolled on the street.”

Andre leaned back in his chair and regarded Nikhil. “You have the confidence to be a fourth and you certainly have the looks.”

“Runs in the family.” Nikhil held his cup as if for a toast.

Andre kept his own cup firmly on the black table. “Now all you need are the brains and the connections.”

Nikhil glowered into his latte. “I have plenty of brains.”

“Uh huh.”

“And connections.”

“The Council for Economic Justice?”

“Yeah.”

“What does the CEJ think about the fourthing union? I assume they’re into it.”

“Probably.”

“You know a guy named Hugh Ingersol? Pale white guy? Southern accent?”

Nikhil considered. “I don’t think so.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure. Why?”

Andre stared into his cup of black on black. “Just a hunch.” He commanded his implant to reconnect out of habit, but the signal remained blocked.

Nikhil put his palms on the table and leaned forward. “Can I ask you something?” His hand dove into his pocket and he worried at something there. “Have you ever heard of fourths being tracked through their badges?”

“Oh, hell. Not that. That has to be the dumbest urban legend out there. Everybody says it, but it’s not true.”

“Then why does everyone say it? Stories come from somewhere.”

“They come from someone’s paranoid fantasies. People repeat it because it sounds plausible.”

Nikhil pulled his badge from his pocket and laid it flat on the table. “You can scan badges.”

Andre finished his coffee. “Well, yes, you can. There’s also a record of it. So everyone knows when they are being scanned.”

“If you can scan it, why can’t you track it?”

“And break about twelve privacy laws in the process.” Andre stood to leave. “Even if you could track a badge, see where it goes, why would you? What would be the point?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Nikhil took a nervous sip of his latte. “I don’t know. It just seems that if someone can do something, he will.”