The Super Man and the Bugout by Cory Doctorow (best e ink reader for manga .txt) 📕

Tenant Protection Act from memory, then grudgingly gave in to
Hershie's pleas. Hershie had half a mind to put his costume on and let the man
see what a _real_ super was like.

But his secret identity was sacrosanct. Even in the era of Pax Aliena, the Super
Man had lots of enemies, all of whom had figured out, long before, that even the
invulnerable have weaknesses: their friends and families. It terrified him to
think of what a bitter, obsolete, grudge-bearing terrorist might do to his
mother, to Thomas, or even his old high-school girlfriends.

For his part, Thomas refused to acknowledge the risk; he'd was more worried
about the Powers That Be than mythical terrorists.

The papers the next day were full of the overnight cabinet shuffle in Ottawa.
More than half the cabinet had been relegated to the back-benches, and many of
their portfolios had been eliminated or amalgamated into the new
"superportfolios:" Domestic Affairs, Trade, and Extraterrestrial Affairs.

The old Minister of Defense, who'd once had Hershie over for Thanksgiving
dinner, was banished to the lowest hell of the back-bench. His portfolio had
been subsumed into Extraterrestrial Affairs, and the new Minister, a young
up-and-comer named Woolley, wasn't taking Hershie's calls. Hershie called Thomas
to see if he could loan him rent money.

Thomas laughed. "Chickens coming home to roost, huh?" he said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hershie said, hotly.

"Well, there's only so much shit-disturbing you can do before someone sits up
and takes notice. The Belquees is probably bugged, or maybe one of the commies
is an informer. Either way, you're screwed. Especially with Woolley."

"Why, what's wrong with Woolley?" Hershie had met him in passing at Prime
Minister's Office affairs, a well-dressed twenty-nine-year-old. He'd seemed like
a nice enough guy.

"What's _wrong_ with him?" Thomas nearly screamed. "He's the fricken
_antichrist_! He was the one that came up with the idea of selling advertising
on squeegee kids' t-shirts! He's heavily supported by private security outfits
-- he makes Darth Vader look like a swell guy. That slicked-down, blow-dried
asshole --"

Hershie cut him off. "OK, OK, I get the idea."

"No you don't, Supe! You don't get the half of it. This guy isn't your average
Liberal -- those guys usually basic opportunists. He's a _zealot_! He'd like to
beat us with _truncheons_! I went to one of his debates, and he showed up with a
_baseball bat_! He tried to _hit me_ with it!"

"What were you doing at the time?"

"What does it matter? Violence is never an acceptable response. I've thrown pies
at better men than him --"

Hershie grinned. Thomas hadn't invented pieing, but his contributions to the art
were seminal. "Thomas, the man is a federal Minister, with obligations. He can't
just write me off -- he'll have to pay me."

"Sure, sure," Thomas crooned. "Of _course_ he will -- who ever heard of a
politician abusing his office to advance his agenda? I don't know what I was
thinking. I apologise."

#

Hershie touched down on Parliament Hill, heart racing. Thomas's warning echoed
in his head. His memories of Woolley were already morphing, so that the slick,
neat kid became feral, predatory. The Hill was marshy and cold and gray, and as
he squelched up to the main security desk, he felt a cold ooze of mud infiltrate
its way into his super-bootie. There was a new RCMP constable on duty, a
turbanned Sikh. Normally, he felt awkward around the Sikhs in the Mounties. He
imagined that their lack of cultural context made his tights and emblem seem
absurd, that they evoked grins beneath the Sikhs' fierce moustaches. But today,
he was glad the man was a Sikh, another foreigner with an uneasy berth in the
Canadian military-industrial complex. The Sikh was expressionless as Hershie
squirted his clearances from his comm to the security desk's transceiver.
Imperturbably, the Sikh squirted back directions to Woolley's new office, just a
short jaunt from the exalted heights of the Prime Minister's Office.

The Minister's office was guarded by: a dignified antique door that had the rich
finish of wood that has been buffed daily for two centuries; an RCMP constable
in plainclothes; a young, handsome receptionist in a silk navy power-suit; a
slightly older office manager whose heart-stopping beauty was only barely
restrained by her chaste blouse and skirt; and, finally, a pair of boardroom
doors with spotless brass handles and a retinal scanner.

Each obstacle took more time to weather than the last, so it was nearly an hour
before the office manager stared fixedly into the scanner until the locks opened
with a soft clack. Hershie squelched in, leaving a slushy dribble on the muted
industrial-grade brown carpet.

Woolley knelt on the stool of an ergonomic work-cart, enveloped in an
articulated nest of displays, comms, keyboards, datagloves, immersive headsets,
stylii, sticky notes and cup-holders. His posture, hair and expression rivaled
one-another for flawlessness.

"Hello, hello," he said, giving Hershie's hand a dry, firm pump. He smelled of
expensive talc and leather car interiors.

He led Hershie to a pair of stark Scandinavian chairs whose polished lead
undersides bristled with user-interface knobs. The old Minister's tastes had run
to imposing oak desks and horsehair club-chairs, and Hershie felt a moment's
disorientation as he sank into the brilliantly functional sitting-machine. It
chittered like a roulette wheel and shifted to firmly support him.

"Thanks for seeing me," Hershie said. He caught his reflection in the
bulletproof glass windows that faced out over the Rideau Canal, and felt a flush
of embarrassment when he saw how clownish his costume looked in the practical
environs.

Woolley favoured him with half a smile and stared sincerely with eyes that were
widely spaced, clever and hazel, surrounded by smile lines. The man fairly oozed
charisma. "I should be thanking you. I was just about to call you to set up a
meeting."

_Then why haven't you been taking my calls_? Hershie thought. Lamely, he said,
"You were?"

"I was. I wanted to touch base with you, clarify the way that we were going to
operate from now on."

Hershie felt his gorge rise. "From now on?"

"I phrased that badly. What I mean to say is, this is a new Cabinet, a new
Ministry. It has its own modus operandi."

"How can it have its own modus operandi when it was only created last night?"
Hershie said, hating the petulance in his voice.

"Oh, I like to keep lots of contingency plans on hand -- the time to plan for
major changes is far in advance. Otherwise, you end up running around trying to
get office furniture and telephones installed when you need to be seizing
opportunity."

It struck Hershie how _finished_ the office was -- the staff, the systems, the
security. He imagined Woolley hearing the news of his appointment and calling up
files containing schematics, purchase orders, staff requisitions. It wasn't
exactly devious, but it certainly teetered on the meridian separating _planning_
and _plotting_.

"Well, you certainly seem to have everything in order."

"I've been giving some thought to your payment arrangement. Did you know that
there's a whole body of policy relating to your pension?"

Hershie nodded, not liking where this was going.

"Well, that's just not sensible," Woolley said, sensibly. "The Canadian
government already has its own pension apparatus: we make millions of
direct-deposits every day, for welfare, pensions, employment insurance, mothers'
allowance. We're up to our armpits in payment infrastructure. And having you fly
up to Ottawa every month, well, it's ridiculous. This is the twenty-first
century -- we have better ways of moving money around.

"I've been giving it some thought, and I've come up with a solution that should
make everything easier for everyone. I'm going to transfer your pension to the
Canada Pension Plan offices; they'll make a monthly deposit directly to your
account. I've got the paperwork all filled out here; all you need to do is fill
in your banking information and your Social Insurance Number."

"But I don't have a Social Insurance Number or a bank account," Hershie said. Of
course, Hershie Abromowicz had both, but the Super Man didn't.

"How do you pay taxes, then?" Woolley had a dangerous smile.

"Well, I --" Hershie stammered. "I don't! I'm tax-exempt! I've never had to pay
taxes or get a bank account -- I just take my cheques to the Canadian Union of
Public Employees' Credit Union and they cash them for me. It's the
_arrangement_."

Woolley shook his head. "Who told you you were tax-exempt?" he asked,
wonderingly. "_No one_ is tax-exempt, except Status Indians. As to not having a
bank account, well, you can open an account at the CUPE Credit Union and we'll
make the deposits there. But not until this tax status matter is cleared up.
You'll have to talk to Revenue Canada about getting a SIN, and get that
information to Canada Pensions."

"I _pay taxes_! Through my secret identity."

"But does this. . ." he made quote marks with his fingers, "_secret identity_
declare your pension income?"

"Of course I don't! I have to keep my secret identity a _secret_!" His voice was
shrill in his own ears. "It's a _secret identity_. I served in the Forces as the
Super Man, so I get paid as the Super Man. Tax exempt, no bank accounts, no SIN.
Just a cheque, every month."

Woolley leaned back and clasped his hands in his lap. "I know that's how it used
to be, but what I'm trying to tell you today is that arrangement, however
longstanding, however well-intentioned, wasn't proper -- or even _legal_. It had
to end some time. You're retired now -- you don't need your _secret identity,_"
again with the finger-quotes. "If you already have a SIN, you can just give it
to me, along with your secret identity's bank information, and we can have your
pension processed in a week or two."

"_A week or two_?" Hershie bellowed. "I need to pay my _rent_! That's not how it
works!"

Woolley stood, abruptly. "No sir, that _is_ how it works. I'm trying to be
reasonable. I'm trying to expedite things for you during this time of
transition. But you need to meet me halfway. If you could give me your SIN and
account information right now, I could speed things up considerably, I'm sure.
I'm willing to make that effort, even though things are very busy here."

Hershie toyed with the idea of demolishing the man's office, turning his lovely
furniture into molten nacho topping, and finishing up by leaving the man
dangling by his suit from the CN Tower's needle. But his mother would kill him.
"I can't give you my secret identity," Hershie said, pleadingly. "It's a matter
of national security. I just need enough to pay my rent."

Woolley stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. "There is one thing," he
said.

"Yes?" Hershie said, hating himself for the note of hope in his voice.

"The people at DefenseFest 33 called my office yesterday, to see if I'd appear
as a guest speaker with the Patron Ik'Spir Pat. I had to turn them down, of
course -- I'm far too busy right now. But I'm sure they'd be happy to have a
veteran of your reputation in that slot, and it carries a substantial
honorarium. I could call them for you and give them your comm. . .?"

Hershie thought of Thomas, and of the rent, and of his mother, and of all the
people at the Belquees who'd stared mistrustfully at him. "Have them call me,"
he sighed. "I'll talk to them."