When I wake up I always feel cheated, and when I oversleep I have the added displeasure of feeling as though I've cheated myself. By the time my head has cast off the fog I'm either bitter or frantic. When I have the luxury of bitterness I always curse the clockmakers. It's not right to lose so many hours to sleep.
Most of my mornings are frantic these days. It isn't difficult for me to remember how it felt to check the time without looking at the clock. Memories, however, are about as useful as dreams. Both are too costly in which to indulge.
It was 8:22 on Thursday morning. 00:367:42:15 was on my clock display. I only had a little over two weeks left. I'd been at two weeks for the last month. It seemed like I was never going to be able to sit still. I could always feel those minutes crawling out of me.
I rushed to get to work. The factory is only a ten-minute walk from my apartment if I don't stop for coffee. I was still hanging on to that frenzy from oversleeping. I didn't need caffiene, but I snagged an orange from a sidewalk vendor. At a price of three minutes apiece they weren't exactly a bargain, but they were large and fragrant and there was no line ahead of me so it only took a few seconds to swipe my palm over the DNA scanner, plug in and "O.K." the time transfer to the vendor. 00:367:17:52
I pressed on, peeling the orange as I moved. The first bite penetrated my sense of urgency and my pace slowed a little. I looked up from the pavement and noticed a wealthy man.
The difference between someone of wealth and someone like myself is not in their style of dress or jewelry or speech. It's all in the walk. A leisurely walk is the first hint of wealth, but a laggardly pace could also just be an indication of someone young, someone in their first year of Lifeclock. There's a way that someone who's truly wealthy, someone with more than twenty years, carries himself. There's a relaxed expression in the eyes, the shoulders hang back instead of being held in tight, the stride swings instead of steps, and they're often caught being distracted by the sky.
I've never walked like that. Even in my first year of Lifeclock, after I said goodbye to my parents and got my implants and my five-year allotment I never walked wealthy, but that's common for first-years. First-years are eighteen and too busy with freedom to look at anything but themselves, to ride in cabs and buy video units, to gamble and go to clubs and spend two or three years in the space of six months. I envy them, but not the way I envy the wealthy. I've stolen looks at the sky but I just don't see it the same way.
Mr. Peerson, my supervisor, had allowed me to hold on to the same workstation for three weeks straight so my piece-rate speed would improve and I'd bring in more minutes per shift. During the last two days I'd been able to make an extra four hours. I'd hoped for more of this luck, but when I walked onto the assembly line Peerson moved me to a new station. Now I'd be soldering instead of assembling, and I would have to do delicate detail work. I'd be lucky to break even on minutes.
Ten hours later I walked out with forty-five minutes more than when I walked in. 00:367:53:24. Not as bad as I'd envisioned, but not good, either.
On the walk home I stopped at the market and splurged on a bottle of wine. I cringed at my clock when I clicked "O.K." on the scanner amount, but I was tired. I wouldn't die tomorrow. I had two weeks left.
I was a block from my apartment when from behind me came the sound of squealing brakes, crunching metal and splintering glass. I spun around, too late to see the actual impact of the pavement on the young man. I only got to see the result. His neck was bent back in an impossible way, his body twisted, his face smashed flat but his eyes opened wide, opened dead.
I approached and knelt beside him. His clock was still attached to the implant on his forearm. As I picked it up, trying to avoid touching the splatters of blood, I heard others coming, some muttering indistinctly, some silent and wishing they were me. His clock display, in capital block lettering, read "READY FOR TERMI-TRANSFER."
My eyes didn't wander from his clock. One hand rushed to my own forearm and pulled my transfer plug free. There were no mixed feelings as I clicked "O.K."
A moment later I rose and found a gathering of solemn, envious faces. Bitter, hypocritical whispers of "vulture" followed me as I quickly walked through them. I didn't dare check my clock yet, not here. I walked as fast as the poorest of men.
Once back in the privacy of my apartment, I looked at my readout:
02:7531:57:37
I was hardly wealthy, but I spent that evening out on my fire escape, drinking that wine right from the bottle and staring up at the stars.