The Entrepreneur

...choice but to burn it all.

Wednesday, Quintary 8th, 152 A.R.

I can’t imagine anyone will ever read these words. By week’s-end, I’ll be on the street, and then, within the month-- gone, vanished, as if I’d never lived. And this notebook-- this strange notebook, with its worn black leather binding and tatter-edged pages half torn out. That unsettling fragment of a phrase scrawled on the first remaining page: “...choice but to burn it all.” What will become of this notebook? I imagine its fate will be much like mine: oblivion. So why write in it at all? I don’t know. That’s the truth. For the same reason, I suppose, that I plucked this little book from the gutter in the first place. It’s something to do while I wait for the end.

All things considered, there are worse places to wait. My quarters are not so small nor bare as some, and my back window looks out over the weather engines. At night, I like to watch the shimmering beams of silver, yellow and blue radiating up into the sky. Their glow brightens the heavy, coiling clouds. It’s a beautiful sight. That is something I will miss.

It does not surprise me that it should end like this. I’ve never taken well to the entrepreneurial spirit. As a child in the cultivation center, my passion rankings were always marginal. When they issued me my storefront, I opened a signal routing business because it seemed like the easiest choice. I made my payments each month, but only just. I was not attentive to the details, and I began to lose accounts.

Next, I tried drone maintenance. I liked that a bit more, because I was more likely to interact with other people. Most would send their drones to me in troubleshooting mode, of course. But every so often, the problem was unusual enough to warrant an in-person explanation. To see another human, face-to-face, was always the highlight of my month. But my efficiency was suboptimal. Over time, my percentages began to slip. I began to draw from the profits to make my payments, and soon it became clear the business could not last.

With the last of my savings, I opened my final business: a drone staffing service. The maintenance work had left me with an inventory of hardware, and the knowledge of how to use it. I’d learned programming for the routing business. It seemed like the perfect fit. But that business, too, has collapsed.

I have nothing left. I cannot make my payment, and the Ministry will take my storefront back this Friday. With no home, I will be at the mercy of the streets. Even if I manage to avoid this month’s sweep, I will not be as lucky the next time. Sooner or later, they will catch me in the round-up. Where will they take me? What will befall me there? I cannot say. None have returned.

I wish it could be different. I wish my small life could be something more. I wish the money for my payment would appear to me tomorrow, out of thin air. But as I say, it does not surprise me that it should end like this. I am like this little black book, frayed and fading. I am out of place.

Friday, Quintary 10th, 152 A.R.

It has been hours now since it happened, but my amazement has not waned. In fact, I’m still so energized by today’s events that I cannot sleep. So I return to you, little black book, this time in a far more cheerful state of mind. I heard somewhere that long ago our ward was the only one in the borough spared by an acid monsoon. Tonight, with my $20,000 monthly payment made, I can imagine how that must have felt.

I couldn't believe it at first. That neural processor had been sitting on the back shelf for the better part of a year, gathering dust. I had no idea of its value. In fact, I’ve never heard of a nanochip being worth so much money at all. But the drone’s task mandate couldn’t have been more clear. I even ran a verification. It was true. Someone was offering me $20,000 for the processor. I completed the sale, and immediately transmitted my payment to the Ministry.

My situation is not erased, mind you. My business remains a failure. If I am to continue to make payments on my storefront, if I am to avoid the streets and the Ministry round-up, I still need a new enterprise. But I have gained an extra month! Has my luck changed at last? Today, it seems that it has. I can only hope it will continue. Will I stumble somehow upon an idea for a business that will succeed? That is certainly my wish.

Tonight, I feel that anything is possible. From my uneven table, in my dim quarters, I feel unbound. As I write this, I can see the beams from the weather engines through my window. They are silver tonight. They are pulsing, incandescent, as they soar ever higher above the sluggish clouds.

Saturday, Quintary 11th, 152 A.R.

I feel drawn to you tonight, little black book. Can it be I’ve made a habit of you so quickly? There is a comfort in lifting you open. Hearing the gentle creak of your spine. Catching your sweet, musty scent. Running my finger across your pages. There is comfort in entrusting my thoughts to you.

My day today was, once again, surprising. I wonder what you will think when I tell you what I’ve done? The Ministry would frown upon it, but I know you will understand. At this moment, one floor down, a homeless man is sleeping in my store. His name is Rattick, he says. I came upon him this morning during my usual walk. There is a spot I like, by the shores of the chemical lake. You can see across to the factories. Their exterior lights blaze in royal yellow, sharp against the charcoal sky. Beyond those factories lies the outer limit of our borough. I’ve never crossed that border -- never left our ward, in fact. One day, when I’ve paid off the storefront, I’d love the chance to see the world.

I admit, I am more hopeful than ever, since meeting Rattick. He lost his storefront, yes. But it was due to a fire, and no fault of his own. I almost lost mine, and still may yet. What I need is a bold idea. Rattick is a man with bold ideas. He has been two months on the street, and has escaped two round-ups. Before the fire, he built drones, and his business thrived. He’d even been able to get married, though he’s since lost his beloved wife.

It had been some time since I spoke to someone. I was out of practice, but Rattick is a spirited and audacious conversationalist. We spoke all afternoon, looking out over the waxy lake. Our topics were wide-ranging, but Rattick returned again and again to an idea: human labor. He spoke of a home security drone which had incapacitated a guest after a misunderstanding. Drones, Rattick insisted, lack emotional intelligence. He believes that, in some cases, humans can be even more efficient.

I offered Rattick a way off the street: work for me. Tomorrow, I begin my new business: human labor. It is a risky proposition, but I can only hope for the best. Or can I do more than hope, little black book? It seems that every wish I make in these pages comes true. Shall I wish for enormous success? Very well -- I wish it!

Monday, Liberotempus 7th, 154 A.R.

Here we are again, old friend, after all this time. I haven’t dared take pen to your pages since I came to understand your nature. Since I came to know your connection to Rattick. Since I fathomed what I’d done. It’s almost two years since I hid you away in my crawl space of a basement. My secret. My shame.

He is a bit better this week, I think. Rattick. It’s hard to be sure, and he has good days and bad. I went to see him in the infirmary today, after closing up the store. His eyes were bright. He even managed a smile when I entered the room. He looked almost like his old self, the Rattick I met by the lake, vital and splendid. I felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to confess. It’s an urge I’ve felt before, if never quite so strong. It has risen in me now and then ever since the day he collapsed on the quantum production line. The health database widget reported a high probability that his collapse was due to exhaustion, and issued a sedative. I attributed it to the labor. He is not a young man, after all, and the work can be taxing. But Rattick seemed unconvinced. I saw a darkness behind his eyes. Something dormant or hidden now roused.

That night, we sat on the roof and looked out over the ward. He seemed to be somewhere else in his mind, sorting and balancing his thoughts. Finally, and without preamble, he began to speak. His voice quiet and steady, his eyes fixed on the horizon, he told me everything. How he found a little black book one day, and began to write in it. How the book seemed to grant his every wish. How his business began to thrive. How his wife fell ill. How every success he enjoyed seemed to come at the cost of her health. He realized he was facing a choice. So he wrote a final entry. He wished that his wife would recover. And recover she did, as if she had never been sick. He knew the price for her health would be his business. But he didn’t expect that she’d be inside when the building burned down.

Today, almost two years later, I face a similar choice. With one more installment of $20,000, I will have paid off my storefront. With one more payment, I will be free.

I do not have the money.

Why must it be this way? I have never understood. I’m on the roof again, tonight, where I sat that night with Rattick. Looking out over the ward. It’s not much of a view. Block after block of squat, identical buildings, and factories beyond. But there is more out there, beyond the smoke. More than this toil and isolation. These drab storefronts and monthly payments. There is more. At least that’s what they say.

Why is someone like Rattick, so full of life, left to die here? And why is someone like me, with no head for business, given no path but entrepreneurship? And where does that path lead? If I pay off my storefront, what then? What promise am I chasing? What is there beyond the smokestacks and the chemical lake?

Have I ever had a choice?

Well, then. Let me be an entrepreneur.

156 A.R.

I do not know the day or month. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I don’t know why or how you are still here, little black book. I threw you in the chemical lake, yet you are here. I’ve torn you leaf from hinge, yet you are here. I’ve buried you and burned you, yet you are here. I cannot escape you. I cannot escape what I’ve done.

There is no promise. No something more. No path beyond this prison. Only me and my deeds. And this little black book.

I have no choice but to burn it all.