by Tomas L. Martin
The bouncer looked at me appraisingly as I reached the front of the club's queue.
He scanned me with a handheld PDA, reading my social network information from
the RFID in my earlobe. I prayed I'd got my reputation high enough to get in. This
was my last chance to get my music heard.
The bouncer shook his head, and my heart sank.
"Sorry mate," he said, "one in one out."
I nodded glumly and retreated to the collection of clubbers who'd also been
deemed unworthy of admittance. The club wasn't full. I just didn't have a high
enough rep to be worthy.
I was still standing in the queue when Rachel walked straight in. I'd saved weeks
of carbon credits to stand a chance of getting in to the best nightclub in town, and
she swooped right in, as usual. I'd hate her, if she wasn't so gorgeous. Some
people are popular for a reason.
Her reputation hovered around 94, wavering a few points as jealous and admiring
members of the queue sent her positive and negative rep. One of only three girls in
my university making the national charts, Rachel was the highest ranked person I
knew. The bouncer ushered her in. I wondered if she'd remember me.