Philo says most of the entities reading this will have lived their whole lives in the pre-corporate world, so I need to explain how cops work now.
First, they’re still called cops, but they are not technically “police” anymore. They still wear uniforms and carry guns and stuff, but technically they are agents of a Unified Security Force, maintained by the big ten corporations on the Security Council.
Most of them are straight up corporate security who wear obvious company uniforms, marking them as formal employees of HDI, GAC, VBC or whatever, but they all take an oath to uphold the Universal Code of Conduct, and any security officer working for any affiliated company can fine or detain any employee of any company who has agreed to the Code.
Every employee signs the UCC when they do their induction paperwork. I signed it when I enrolled in college, I signed it again when I went to work for Innovex, and I signed it again when I became an employee of Bluestar and got my badge.
I could technically detain or fine any corporate employee who broke the code, now that I was fully employed by a licensed UCC enforcement agency, but in practice, Bluestar agents were supposed to avoid conflicts with anybody who didn’t have powers, and just call for the regular cops.
The Universal Code of Conduct was like a reverse Bill of Rights, more like a corporate ten commandments that had basically replaced billions of federal regulations with one sheet of paper.
Thou shalt have no other employer but your primary employer. Thou shalt not steal corporate property. Thou shalt not bear false witness before corporate arbiters. All the way down to the last two, which were essentially, thou shalt not impede the free flow of commerce, and don’t hit people.
Most petty crime was covered under that commerce one, since, in practice, any officer could arrest or fine you for that, for any reason they wanted, even if you were just jaywalking, spraying graffiti, or talking too loud in a restaurant.
Any time anyone was caught breaking the code, an officer would scan your retina or your ID, determine which company you worked for, and take you to the nearest arbitration center.
Most of the arbitration centers were just jails, literally old detention centers with the signs changed to say arbitration on the outside.
The minimum-security facilities had been turned into corporate arbitration centers, managed by whatever company they were affiliated with, so if an HDI employee got arrested, he would be shipped off to the nearest HDI arbitration center.
If the violator was a well behaved or high-ranking employee, they would put him in a room with soft music and a couch and send in a counselor to discuss what the problem was, usually after the employee had a chance to rest and sober up.
If the guy had a real problem or a history of causing problems, he would be shipped off to drug rehab or a rehabilitation farm in the country until he got his shit together.
Most of these arbiters had been judges in the old world, and they were much more powerful now. All the old laws were gone, so anybody who tried to get legalistic or pedantic with an arbiter was likely to get cited for contempt, just for being a pain in the ass.
Arbiters had incredible leeway to punish or ignore corporate crimes, so most things were resolved with fines. The arbiters were paid bonuses based on how much they collected in fines, and by how they were ranked by the various HR departments they arbitrated for, so they had to walk a fine line between lining their own pockets and keeping their customers happy.
I had to report to arbitration after I beat up that HDI liaison guy at Innovex, but I handled the whole thing online and got off with a slap on the wrist. I just had to pay a two thousand dollar fine and confirm my termination papers.
I learned later that the asshole who bullied me got sent to a work camp, after everybody on my team signed a complaint against him.
Arbiters developed a keen sense for when a company was ready to throw one of their own employees under the bus, and exactly how much any particular executive would be willing to pay, before he convinced his own HR department to file an appeal.
This meant high-ranking execs could do pretty much whatever they wanted to their subordinates, as long as they were willing to pay the fine.
In practice, an executive could get away with that once or twice, but after the third strike, they would be sent to a fancy executive rehabilitation camp for a month or two. No one knew exactly what went on in these camps, but executives who fucked up bad enough to end up in one tended to come back very humble and very polite; especially the ones who came back missing fingers.
If an employee was low-ranking or straight up violent, they would be taken to a much more primitive rehabilitation camp, where corporate code enforcement could use any means necessary to keep them in line and get a day’s work out of them, using methods ranging from harsh language to caning.
They could keep you docile with drugs, or they could kill you with a midnight injection and send you back to your family in a box.
But most of the people who caused trouble were “unaffiliated,” people who survived on the black or gray market, supplying drugs and contraband that corporate employees couldn’t get from the company store.
Unaffiliated criminals who broke the code of conduct went to a much more severe arbitration center, which is what most of the state jails and federal prisons had been turned into.
People who ended up in those facilities would usually stay there until their families figured out a way to pay their arbitration fees or until they signed up for a voluntary work camp, and consigned themselves to dig ditches or make custom jewelry for one of the corps, until they paid off their debts.
It wasn’t always a dead end. An unaffiliated person who signed up for a work camp and did a good job could get called up to the main company and become a groundskeeper or something. A lot of people you saw in low-level corporate jobs had started out at work camps and were grateful to be back in society, cleaning offices or fixing robots.
I quickly made friends with half a dozen of them who maintained Berkeley Street HQ and heard their stories. They didn’t get much discretionary income, but they were all provided with sleeping pods and were allowed to use communal facilities at their “hotel.”
Their biggest complaint was having to live on whatever came out of the hotel vending machines, usually branded drinks and energy bars, forced to wear uniforms or t-shirts with their company logo on them.
They had access to an automated infirmary that diagnosed any basic illness and gave them an injection for whatever the problem was, even if it was usually just a painkiller.
Any low-level employee who needed real health care would have to get it approved by HR, and a lot of them who did that ended up back at the camps, where even major surgery was “free,” as long as you didn’t mind being cut open by a robot.
As a result, most of the people doing blue collar jobs at HQ were dealing with untreated medical conditions to some degree.
* * *
I don’t want to sound like I’m defending this. The old world was basically gone before I came of age, so I can’t say if this system was better than late-stage democracy.
I’m just saying that in 2058, you could go into any corporate break room in the country and leave a wallet full of commodity certificates on the table, and every dollar would still be there when you came to pick it up a week later.
The price for this? If you tried to go anywhere else in the city, if you tried to walk through an unincorporated neighborhood, day or night, you better be on good terms with the gangs who ran the place, or you better have a fully charged protection drone hovering over your shoulder.
The borders of these unincorporated zones were surrounded by big walls, barbed wire, electrified force fields, and belt-fed autoguns. There would have been a wall around my Reclamation Zone, if Nergal’s miasma wasn’t there to eat it, and consume any robot sent in to start building one.
* * *
The rules for punching people were pretty simple. I could punch monsters and demons all day, but I could only punch humans who tried to kill me first.
I could restrain a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime, and I could step in and stop a crime in progress if I wanted to, but I wasn’t required to, and I was strongly encouraged not to, unless the bad guy was using powers, or if someone was in immediate danger.
I could technically restrain a shoplifter leaving a store with a pair of sneakers, but I wasn’t allowed to hurt them, and if I did, I would probably lose my badge, unless they had pulled a gun or something first.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Denise’s DMA buddy, Harrison Moore, sent me a text message a few hours after my promotion went through, cheerfully informing me that I was allowed to get shot now.
I asked a bunch of questions about legal liability and getting sued, like I had seen police officers get sued in all those 20c TV shows, but the holographic instructor assured me it didn’t work that way anymore.
Every petty criminal still threatened to sue, but our brave new corporate world didn’t tolerate that shit. It was sobering to realize ordinary people didn’t really have rights anymore, and it was almost impossible for an unaffiliated person to request arbitration.
If I were to beat up or injure an unaffiliated purse snatcher, I might get fined or reprimanded by my Bluestar supervisor, but the criminal would have no legal recourse, and no way to really retaliate, unless some news station decided I had used excessive force and drummed up public outrage against me.
An unaffiliated person couldn’t sue me, even if I put them in the hospital, and they would have no legal claim against the Bluestar organization. Hurting a civilian would just be an internal disciplinary issue, unless that civilian happened to be employed by a major corporation.
If I detained or injured a corporate employee committing a crime, I would end up in arbitration, where Bluestar and my corporate sponsor would hire lawyers to represent me and defend my actions, while the victim would be represented by people appointed by his own company.
If I was deemed to have acted appropriately, the arbiter would rubber stamp the arrest, and the employee would be punished by the HR department of the company he worked for, maybe even to the point of being confined to a work camp.
If that employee decided to quit, he could leave the camp easily enough, but he would be consigned permanently to the black and gray market underground, unable to get a respectable job anywhere, ever again.
In practice, it meant any conflict we had with a corporate employee would be mediated by their HR department, while any conflict we had with an unaffiliated citizen would be completely ignored, unless we did something dramatic enough to make the news.
Sonny Mao regularly beat the shit out of drug dealers and gang members, and the worst he ever got was a slap on the wrist – a five thousand dollar fine or a required appearance at a children’s hospital.
Denise said I had really just been given a license to fight monsters and would still be expected to leave the real crime to someone else.
* * *
I was freaking out over what to do at the awards ceremony, until Denise explained what all the words in the email meant.
“It says I have to wear a uniform. Where do I get a uniform?”
“It’s not a uniform,” Denise said, “it’s a blue polo shirt with a logo on it, and I’m not going to wear one. Just get a polo and a pair of black slacks and grab a pair of boots from the distro. Then take them to the bot in the locker room and have them shined before the ceremony.
“Get a haircut, shave that scruff off, and don’t let that demon touch you for twenty-four hours before the thing. There may be some powerful mages there, or a savant that can read auras. And do not fanboy on me, Tim! You’re about to meet the real members of Bluestar 7. Just stay cool and don’t try to say anything cute. I promise they will not give a shit about us, and they will not want to be there. Just nod politely and let everybody go home as fast as they can.”
* * *
Here's how our “awards ceremony” went.
These things were usually done in a state-of-the-art corporate press room at VBC Tower, but Denise and I had told VBC to go fuck themselves, so somebody had cleaned the mops and old furniture out of a conference room at Berkeley Street HQ.
I stood there in shiny black boots, stiff black slacks, and an itchy Bluestar polo, while the members of Bluestar 7 marched in and sat down in a row of folding chairs.
I was a bit starstruck to see them, but they all looked so incredibly bored and angry to be there, it kind of killed it for me.
The team leader, Randall Something, got up and gave a boilerplate speech that was about four lines, praising our valor and the way we went above and beyond to protect the city of Boston.
Then they played police drone video of the zombie attack and firebombing, taken from about fifty feet over the graveyard.
It was way scarier to watch from up there, because you could see just how many zombies there were, and just how close we had come to being overrun. But the really weird thing? In those three or four seconds when I looked up and might have had my face visible on camera, it was blurred out, even in the official video.
Then I realized this ceremony wasn’t being recorded, and there wasn’t even anybody there to take our picture.
Randall gave his little speech, then he waved his hand over our badges, and a tiny commendation icon appeared in the left corner under my face.
A few seconds of weak, half-hearted clapping, and the members of Bluestar 7 all stood up and filed out, without saying a word. The only one who even acknowledged us was the nerdy guy in the engineer vest, Phil Bower, who pursed his lips and gave us a respectful nod on his way out.
I leaned over and whispered, “Denise, why did they bother? I didn’t need a damn ceremony. Next time, just send me the bonus check and write an email!”
But before she could answer, a floating drone came up and a blue cartoon dragon started talking to me from the screen. “Timothy Erin Kovak, no longer quite so provisional member of the Bluestar program!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to peer behind the drone. “Who am I…? Hello?”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the dragon said brightly. “I am Elton Vanderhoff, the Chairman and CEO of Vanderhoff Broadcasting. I wanted to take a moment to thank you personally for the incredible service you and Miss Hardy have done for my city, not just last week, but through this entire tour of duty, as you have logged a quite respectable one hundred and four service calls. They don’t give awards for the little things, but every little thing matters to someone, yes?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
Denise waved to the little drone and promptly vanished, leaving me alone with the machine.
The little cartoon figure ushered me to sit down, somehow, and lowered itself to eye level, a comfortable distance away.
What kind of lunatic floats around using his corporate logo instead of his face?
The dragon seemed to notice my discomfort and said, “Please forgive this unconventional method of communication. I assure you it’s not meant to be insulting. I use this avatar because my physical body is very sick, very weak, and very old. I have lived far longer than any human has a right to, and I am too controlling and paranoid to delegate properly.
“So, I use these devices to keep an eye on my holdings and do my best to keep lines of communication open, even when I can’t be there in person. Meeting with me via terminal will be much more pleasant than trudging to my bedside, just to say hello.”
I didn’t know what to say, so he continued.
“I wanted to speak with you personally, first to congratulate you, but also to ask some questions about some rather curious difficulties I’m having with your media rights.”
“I haven’t sold my media rights, and neither has Denise.”
“Yes, and you are certainly within your rights to retain them, but even if I don’t own the rights to your face and likeness, I am allowed to broadcast any footage of you taken during team functions, including your valorous actions at the graveyard, and this ceremony, in the context of public service news coverage.
“But I was unable to do that, because when I first tried to run footage of you and Miss Hardy at King’s Chapel, the material was flagged by HDI Revenue, and I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not allowed to broadcast your face or name on any of my platforms. Indeed, I was discouraged from using footage of you at all, even if it was just part of your body, in the frame with Miss Hardy.
“I was hoping you could enlighten me and provide a little more detail about your relationship with Hyde Defense Industries.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have a relationship. My father worked for them for ten years or so. I was enrolled in a specialized boarding school for a couple years when I was twelve, and they gave me a college scholarship when I graduated high school, but I dropped out after a couple years.
“Then my dad died, his funeral benefits paid off, and I think that was the last email I ever got from them. My HDI distro card still works, but I’d say my only relationship is with their discount clothing rack.”
“You say your father died several years ago, but his identification card still works?”
“Yes, sir. Is that weird?”
“Yes, it is. I suppose it could be some kind of error, but usually these privileges are revoked upon death of the employee, unless the family member is also employed by the company. Have you ever had any personal contact with an executive from HDI?”
Oh, shit. Surely this couldn’t be…
“I, uh. Sir, I don’t know if this is on my permanent record or not, but the company I worked for, Innovex, was bought out by HDI at one point, but I was just a contractor. We didn’t get any corporate benefits, and the only contact I ever had with an HDI executive… I got in a confrontation with the HDI corporate liaison and was fired over it. I am ashamed to admit it was a violent confrontation, and I was barred from the building after they threw me out. Could this media blackout be some kind of retaliation?”
The dragon seemed amused by this. “Doubtful. And you’ve never had contact with anyone higher up in the company? Did your father work directly in the CEO’s office, perhaps?”
“What? No way. My dad ran fiber cable in reconstruction zones. He wouldn’t even have reason to meet anybody from the CEO’s office, unless maybe he drank with one of them?”
“Curious,” the dragon said. “What a delightful mystery! In any case, did you know about this blackout when you declined to sell your media rights during orientation?”
“No, sir. Denise told me I should decline, until I gave the matter more thought.”
“And have you?”
“No, sir. I haven’t had time. I think it’s a political thing with her. I hope you’re not insulted.”
“I am not. And unfortunately, even if I wanted to make you an offer today, you would not be eligible, since you have been blacklisted by HDI. VBC maintains good relations with all ten companies on the Security Council, but we are not one of them, and HDI has de facto veto power over the rest, so whatever you’ve done to earn the protection, or the ire, of the most powerful man on Earth, I certainly won’t be the one to cross him.”
“However,” the avatar said. “You have performed an extraordinary act of valor here, and I believe you will eventually make a valuable contribution to this team, so I would be happy to offer you housing in my tower, and the customary access to shops in my lobby, simply in appreciation for what you’ve done.
“I… God, that would be amazing, but Denise said… Denise said I shouldn’t accept anything from you until I talk to her first. Again, I hope I’m not offending you, and I hope this offer will still be good later? If I decide to make a deal on my own?”
“Of course. And please relax. I’m not trying to buy your soul, Mister Kovak. I just want to move you closer to your teammates, to pave the way for full membership and make it easier for you to do your job.
“And I would appreciate it if you would throw away that HDI card and spend your money with me or my Bluestar affiliates going forward. If you ever need anything we don’t have, please send a message to my office.”
“You need better food!” I blurted, immediately turning red as the words came out.
“I beg your pardon?”
Well, shit. Can’t stop now. “You need better food available from that Bluestar terminal. All you’ve got now is sugar water and energy bars, and a lot of these young heroes and support staff can’t afford to spend their discretionary money on food.
“I’m not asking for gourmet stuff, but there should be some real food in there. Meat, vegetables. Let them buy an apple for god’s sake!
“These people may not all be superheroes, but you’ve got maintenance guys and groundskeepers trying to live on whatever that store sells, and trying to live on that crap is making them sick! The ones who can’t afford blockers are like, fat and malnourished at the same time! It’s not right!”
I don’t know how a cartoon dragon was able to pull off a look of deep concern, but he said, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, I will see to it immediately.”