In truth Jerry was already late for his appointment. But he had found that his clients didn't generally care for that kind of thing. If anything they considered slow pacing to be an important part of Iowa's charm now. In all fairness it's not like it was that easy to synchronize watches anymore. All those big antique clocks in the town square of whatever town anyone happened to be passing through were the real time now. It was all very localized. Whatever time the Internet said it was could only really be a consideration for tourists.
So it was that even after Joel had left Jerry was still staring and preening over his appearance in the diner's bathroom mirror. Jerry Shankar didn't look much different from a typical Des Moines resident minus the dark skin tone. Gerald Littlefoot, on the other hand, needed carefully braided hair, classically styled glasses, and casual clothes with a vaguely Native American theme. Simply having the right basics to work with had necessitated Jerry arrive at the diner with a fairly buffoonish look, but then Jerry didn't much care what random strangers thought of him so long as he gave the correct impression to the people who mattered when it mattered. Jerry smirked, as he often did, thinking about how for all his birthright everything he knew about Native Americans came from these weak stereotypes. Still, as long as he looked the part, what did it matter?
Jerry rode his double bike out to the eastern edge of Des Moines at the designated parking lot. There was only a single man standing there, waiting, besides an unusual looking car. Though this must have been a rare sight Jerry observed that guard was entirely indifferent, simply leafing through her newspaper as might be expected on any old day. Quite a job, that was, being a guard for bikes or vehicles, although in the old days there had certainly been more useless ones. Jerry got off his bike, chained it, then walked up giving the man a big broad wave and smile, making sure to enunciate slowly.
"Howdy, partner," Jerry said, extending his hand. "Waiting long?"
"No, or at least, not that much," the man replied, offering a weak handshake.
"So I'm Gerald Littlefoot," said Jerry. "You can call me Jerry. And I should call you...?"
"You can call me Barack," the man said.
Jerry sized Barack up. Barack seemed like an odd name for a wealthy, healthy looking white man, but Jerry had met quite a few in his time. It was a generational thing- one that would normally place Barack's age at around forty-three, but this particular Barack looked ten years younger than that. Jerry noted that he wasn't wearing a proper coat, yet oddly enough, wasn't shivering.
"I'm sorry if this sounds rude," said Barack. "I'm sure your tours are very high quality and all but I only came here for one reason, and I'd appreciate it if we could just get to it straightaway. You will be paid in full, of course, and a little extra for your trouble."
"All right," said Jerry leisurely. "What do you want?"
"To see the Oracle."
Jerry knew exactly what Barack was talking about. Everyone wanted to see the Oracle, also known as Cassidy Jones. But usually she was just the capstone. The substance of the tours was a bike ride through Des Moines proper. The clean streets and rivers in particular were a major attraction, rare as they were in the more developed part of the country, as was much of the city's architecture. After the last population crash Des Moines was about as large as a city could get while still being presentable to outsiders. And there were, of course, also their queer customs, and system of government-
"I'm sorry," said Barack, tapping his wristwatch. "But can we get going?"
"Oh yes, sure, of course," said Jerry. "It's just, you came out a very long way to see a place quite unlike any other in the country and you just...want to meet the Oracle? That's it?"
"My time is too valuable for excursions like this," said Barack, a little rudely. "I could only justify the trip by working in my car on the way here."
For the first time Jerry took a good close look at Barack's car and realized this particular client was of an unusually high class. The vehicle was completely smooth on the surface and Jerry could see that it was self-cleaning. It lacked any handles, presumably opening only in response to fingerprint scans. The dashboard didn't even display relevant driving information, suggesting that the machine itself was just a giant computer. And obviously, a self-driving one, which Barack could just order around like a butler. Barack was an entire degree of wealth above any client Jerry had previously serviced.
"Do the Botanical Gardens have parking space?" asked Barack.
"Yes," said Jerry. "But what do you need me for? The Botanical Gardens is a long-standing institution with a public address off a major road. You could have just told your vehicle to go there and it would have taken you."
Barack blinked rapidly a few times. Jerry became intensely aware of the man's obvious sense of discomfort.
"I did not know that," he said.
"Well in any case," Jerry said, trying to change the mood, "you've no Internet access now, so I'll have to guide you in. Does this car have room for my bike?"
"No," Barack said. "And I'm sorry, but I would rather not risk damaging my car by putting your bike onto it. I could pay you however much the bike costs."
Jerry increasingly had to suppress the urge to burst out laughing. That bike was the single most expensive thing he owned, yet Barack was so obviously ignorant of anything regarding how the local small-scale survivalist economy worked that he was willing, and probably able, to give Jerry however much money he asked for.
"All right, I get it, let's go," said Jerry. Barack tapped his wristwatch and the door opened. Jerry scowled, though he was careful not to let Barack see it. This machine truly was a symbol of the insanity of the elites in the United States. What person in their right mind would ride around in a vehicle with no means of manual escape?
Still, the self-driving vehicle wasn't completely useless. There was an interface for Jerry to type in the address and the navigation was still functional even without Internet. Soon Jerry and Barack were on the way. From the front seat Jerry marveled at the car's strange design. It had been years since he had even been inside a car, but they had always been ones that had to be driven. The lack of obvious control of the vehicle inspired panic in Jerry's mind, even as he could tell that Barack had no inclination that the vehicle was dangerous at all.
"I'm very sorry to have to waste your time like this," Barack said from the back seat. "But maybe we can look on this encounter as serendipity. I'm sure there's something you'd like to tell me."
"Well," said Jerry. "I think outsiders could learn a lot from our system of government. We have completely different systems for domestic and security policy. The Supreme Council in Des Moines collects tax revenue and distributes it throughout the state. Members of the Hunter's Guild do the same with venison year round. No one ever knows when someone in the Hunter's Guild might be around, but they're easy enough to summon when anyone is in danger-"
"That wasn't what I meant," said Barack. "But what is this 'Supreme Council'? Do you vote on the members?"
"No," said Jerry. "They're secret. Popularity contests for strong leaders are considered responsible for most of the world's woes here."
"Then what's to stop them from being overtly corrupt?"
"The people here despise overt wealth. Anyone who has too much of it comes under immediate suspicion, and the Hunter's Guild may be called upon to assassinate them."
"Your military might assassinate your leaders at any given moment?"
"They're not proper military. They're more like a giant militia. And they're survivalists. Even if they wanted to take over the government they wouldn't have the slightest clue how to run it. Besides that most of the time they have to collect food just to ensure people don't starve to death. That's why wealth hoarding is such a big deal. If any one person holds on to the state's food supply, that is to say, its wealth, that person might as well have the power over who lives and who dies."
They spent a moment in silence. The awkwardness was not helped by the almost entirely empty highway.
"Doesn't that strike you as a bit savage?" said Barack. "What of law, and order?"
"Luxuries for the well-fed," said Jerry. "Look at the state the planet's in. If there's another population cull Des Moines won't survive as a city at all. We're only barely able to hold on to the civilization we have. Our leaders know that. About the only incentive anyone has to actually be on the Supreme Council is that they're guaranteed full rations in the event of a shortage."
Barack sighed and looked out the window. He looked wistful.
"I'd heard rumors to this effect, but I never imagined it was true. Faceless leaders, an unaccountable military, the risk of starvation...I had no idea life was so bad out here."
"Well it's not as awful as all that," said Jerry, getting annoyed. "And besides, you're just taking the craziest rumors at face value. I can assure you we're an extremely functional society given the circumstances."
"Mm, I see," said Barack.
"Oh come on!" said Jerry. "I've heard plenty of terrible stories about you east-coasters."
"How did you know I was from the East Coast?"
"This car, for one thing," said Jerry. "Who else could afford it? Your accent, your affectations...tell me, is it true that you've been sending cybernetic death squads to terrorize people all over the Free States?"
"Yes."
The sheer bluntness of Barack's answer caught Jerry off guard. Jerry had intended for that allegation to sound as demented and crazy as possible, yet Barack just soaked it up uncritically.
"What?"
"I said yes," Barack continued. "We have cybernetic death squads, which are necessary in this day and age to root out the fascist scum in the provincial areas that have drifted away from the proper influence of the rightful government of the United States."
Jerry just sat quietly for a moment, dumbfounded. On the Internet, people usually got mad when he started making these kinds of outrageous statements. But that was in the context of thinking that death squads were bad things, and that he was making ironic exaggerations.
"Oh," said Barack, mistaking Jerry's confusion for fear. "Don't worry about us coming after you. Maybe you Iowans are fascists or maybe you're just naive. But it is rather hard to assassinate leaders when we don't even know their names. Bigger fish to fry and all that. Although, that's what I wanted to talk about you know. I could take you away from here."
"OK, uh," said Jerry, pursing his lips, "why?"
"You obviously don't belong here," Barack said, "with all these white people. I happen to run one of those cybernetic death squads myself. We're always looking for good persons such as yourself to bolster our numbers."
"Look, Barack, you seem like a nice guy and all," said Jerry, trying to sound sincere. "But do I look like the kind of guy who can stop being a tour guide and just start being a professional killer?"
"It's not as hard as you think," said Barack. "Believe me, once we start installing some cybernetics in that worn out fleshy body of yours, that's when you'll have the confidence to say and do just about anything."
"I think I'll pass."
"Suit yourself," said Barack. "Is this it?"
Jerry noticed that they had finally arrived. Tempting as it was to stop in and say hello to Cassidy, by this point Jerry was so repulsed by Barack that he just wanted to get away.
"Yes," Jerry said, trying and failing to open the door. Once again, Barack tapped his wristwatch. Then, Barack too got out of the car.
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Gerald," said Barack. "I hope we can meet again some day."
It was only then that Jerry realized his bonus was going to come in the form of digital payment. He looked around in irritation. It would be several miles to the nearest place where he had credit enough to get a new bike. Well, no matter. He could always vent about it on the Internet later.