superhuman effort—the kind of self-denial exercised by celibate priests—he manages to resist. Anthea and Josué aren’t quite as strong-willed and, much to their gastrointestinal distress, end up succumbing. There’s also some irritating riboware floating around. At one point Josué ends up with a clown face, painted by tincture bacteria that blossom beneath his skin in different colors. Rigo gets a tattune on his left forearm, an animated pen-and-ink drawing of a politicorp security guard in fatigues who salutes him while a recruiting jingle streams through his IA. The tattune is clade-specific. For some reason it thinks he’s prime grunt material. Rigo feels Varda’s snigger as an electric tickle in his spine.
Very funny.
“This is the last VRcade,” Anthea warns Josué as he slips on the eyescreens for a telepresence unit that pilots a lunar rover across the Sea of Tranquillity.
“But, Aunt Thea—”
“No buts. It’s time we did something all of us can do. Together.”
Rigo helps Josué adjust the eyescreens. As he steps back into the crowd a man jostles him. Dumps a banana-kiwi-flavored snow cone down the front of his white shirt.
“Son of a bitch.” Rigo jumps away from the cold shock of shaved ice.
The man—a retired Eurocauc judging by his wooly vernacular and fondness for velvet—brushes at the yellow and green streaks of syrup that are bleeding into Rigo’s flimsy cotton gauze. “Sorry to bump into you like this.”
Not much of an apology. “Just get away from me.” Rigo knocks the Eurocauc’s hands aside.
Anthea rushes in to head off a confrontation. “It’s okay,” she states, looking at Rigo. Firm. “No big deal.”
Rigo gets the message, decides to back down. No sense causing an international incident. “Forget it.” He holds his wet shirt away from his skin. A couple of meters to the side of them, Josué is oblivious, ensconced behind the eyescreens.
“I have an extra T-shirt,” the man says. He fishes a travel-size sprayon out of a mesh pocket in his trousers and offers it to Anthea because Rigo has his hands full with his shirt, trying to keep it from sticking to his stomach.
Anthea reaches for the sprayon. “Thanks.”
“How’s Ibrahim?” the man asks, not quite relinquishing his grip on the ampoule.
She stops. Leans forward as if she’s misheard him amid the crazed ruckus of the VRcade. “Excuse me?”
“I want to help,” the man says.
“Who are you?”
“I’m with the ICLU.” He lets go of the sprayon, which drops to the ground when Anthea fails to take it.
“We don’t know any Ibrahim,” Rigo says, careful to annunciate. “You got the wrong people. Our kid is over there.” He motions to Josué and at the same time takes a casual glance around to see if anyone’s watching them. The last thing he needs is to be seen associating with an extremist human rights org.
Radical sympathizer. Conspiracy to subvert the status quo. That will look good on his upcoming performance review. Along with: questions authority, opposes the dominant paradigm, and doesn’t play well with others. The list goes on. Agitator. Trouble-maker. Civil disobedient . . .
“Don’t worry,” the man says, bending down to retrieve the sprayon. “I’m alone. No one’s watching and we can speak freely.” He stands, clutching the ampoule in one hand. “Trust me.”
Right, Rigo thinks. He squirms under the ghostly scrutiny of the tattune security guard. Wipes sweaty palms on his shirt, glad he’s got the snow cone stains to cover his act of nervousness.
“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Anthea whispers, barely audible over the din of white noise.
“I can protect him,” the man says. “Take him someplace safe.”
“That’s not what he needs. Right now, he could use some serious therapy and consistency in his life.”
“If you keep him, you’ll be putting him at risk.”
“He’s already at risk. Nothing you can do will change that. Not in the long
Very funny.
“This is the last VRcade,” Anthea warns Josué as he slips on the eyescreens for a telepresence unit that pilots a lunar rover across the Sea of Tranquillity.
“But, Aunt Thea—”
“No buts. It’s time we did something all of us can do. Together.”
Rigo helps Josué adjust the eyescreens. As he steps back into the crowd a man jostles him. Dumps a banana-kiwi-flavored snow cone down the front of his white shirt.
“Son of a bitch.” Rigo jumps away from the cold shock of shaved ice.
The man—a retired Eurocauc judging by his wooly vernacular and fondness for velvet—brushes at the yellow and green streaks of syrup that are bleeding into Rigo’s flimsy cotton gauze. “Sorry to bump into you like this.”
Not much of an apology. “Just get away from me.” Rigo knocks the Eurocauc’s hands aside.
Anthea rushes in to head off a confrontation. “It’s okay,” she states, looking at Rigo. Firm. “No big deal.”
Rigo gets the message, decides to back down. No sense causing an international incident. “Forget it.” He holds his wet shirt away from his skin. A couple of meters to the side of them, Josué is oblivious, ensconced behind the eyescreens.
“I have an extra T-shirt,” the man says. He fishes a travel-size sprayon out of a mesh pocket in his trousers and offers it to Anthea because Rigo has his hands full with his shirt, trying to keep it from sticking to his stomach.
Anthea reaches for the sprayon. “Thanks.”
“How’s Ibrahim?” the man asks, not quite relinquishing his grip on the ampoule.
She stops. Leans forward as if she’s misheard him amid the crazed ruckus of the VRcade. “Excuse me?”
“I want to help,” the man says.
“Who are you?”
“I’m with the ICLU.” He lets go of the sprayon, which drops to the ground when Anthea fails to take it.
“We don’t know any Ibrahim,” Rigo says, careful to annunciate. “You got the wrong people. Our kid is over there.” He motions to Josué and at the same time takes a casual glance around to see if anyone’s watching them. The last thing he needs is to be seen associating with an extremist human rights org.
Radical sympathizer. Conspiracy to subvert the status quo. That will look good on his upcoming performance review. Along with: questions authority, opposes the dominant paradigm, and doesn’t play well with others. The list goes on. Agitator. Trouble-maker. Civil disobedient . . .
“Don’t worry,” the man says, bending down to retrieve the sprayon. “I’m alone. No one’s watching and we can speak freely.” He stands, clutching the ampoule in one hand. “Trust me.”
Right, Rigo thinks. He squirms under the ghostly scrutiny of the tattune security guard. Wipes sweaty palms on his shirt, glad he’s got the snow cone stains to cover his act of nervousness.
“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Anthea whispers, barely audible over the din of white noise.
“I can protect him,” the man says. “Take him someplace safe.”
“That’s not what he needs. Right now, he could use some serious therapy and consistency in his life.”
“If you keep him, you’ll be putting him at risk.”
“He’s already at risk. Nothing you can do will change that. Not in the long
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