decked out in tight-fitting dark suits, short in the arm and leg. They wore no shirts and either had Cuban heel boots or gym shoes. They all looked intent on having a seriously good time—or maybe it was day three of a seriously good week.
Some “fashionistas” came out of the club; there were two of them—a male and a female. They stood at the corner waiting for two other females approaching from further down the street. The four greeted each other as Shane passed them on the street. Their physical alterations were so pronounced that Shane’s suspicions were aroused. Were they actually Napean? He was an expert eavesdropper.
“Love your button nose,” said the male to one of the approaching women.
She replied, “Hey! Thank you!” They all kissed. “Crazy beak!” said Button Nose. She was referring to the nose job he must have had done. Fashionistas were characterized by their surgical alteration to bones, skin, and cartilage. Shane could see obviously that the male with the “beak” had also had major surgery on his chin and nose, the latter now being so large and aquiline as to resemble the hooked beak of one of any number of now extinct parrots. The male was also well over one hundred and ninety-five centimeters tall and extremely angular, indicating thigh extensions and subcutaneous elbow and shoulder caps.
Shane also noticed the “button nose” woman had no fingers. Her hands had been sculpted; even the stubs of her fingers had been taken so that her hands looked like fleshy paws. Her protruding cheekbones and enlarged eyes gave her the look of some nocturnal creature. Shane thought her very cute. The other female from the club had the vampira look which also spiked his interest. They—the blood sucking sect—were one of a number of groups who hunted Subterraneans. If news escaped that a Sub or Subs were at large in Napea, Shane had to rush to get there first, or there would likely be little left of the intruder. They had a network; if anyone knew about the presence of Subs, it would be her. Shane pretended to be involved in some ETP conversation so that he could keep listening.
The male from the club was talking about the music going on inside. Like most Napean nightspots, the “music” was generated by the thoughts of the people using ETP in the room. A particular music application was visible on the iris, and by selecting certain images, colors, numbers, and patterns while dancing, each person contributed to the sound being produced. There was not necessarily a particular rhythm or melody just a wash, a mélange of sounds that evolved to the mood of the group. It was very popular. It sounded awful.
The Napean man who’d been in the club, the one with the beak, was talking to Button Nose. They were all very animated, hyper, talking frenetically and gesticulating madly. Shane watched and listened.
“I’ve been researching ancient music—it’s so weird,” said the tall beak man. Somehow he was playing the music through his body. Shane realized it was coming through his mouth. The others in the group stopped their conversation, intrigued.
“Oh, I just had this done—with the nose! There’s a micro-speaker in my throat. It amplifies my voice…” He activated the speaker and his voice came out as if through a megaphone: “HELLO LAKESIDE!” It was deafening. They all fell about laughing.
Shane allowed himself a moment to examine each of them. They were typical Napeans—good storage fodder for the space program, they did their duty in that regard. But they lived utterly oblivious to events outside their direct sphere. In a way, they had to.
“Or,” continued the beak man, “it plays music. It uses my skull as a soundbox. Noise escapes here and here,” he said, indicating his ears. “This song is…” He looked at the playlist on his eye. “It’s Gary Glitter. Twentieth century!” The song came out crystal clear and loud.
“What is that noise?” asked the large-eyed woman,
Some “fashionistas” came out of the club; there were two of them—a male and a female. They stood at the corner waiting for two other females approaching from further down the street. The four greeted each other as Shane passed them on the street. Their physical alterations were so pronounced that Shane’s suspicions were aroused. Were they actually Napean? He was an expert eavesdropper.
“Love your button nose,” said the male to one of the approaching women.
She replied, “Hey! Thank you!” They all kissed. “Crazy beak!” said Button Nose. She was referring to the nose job he must have had done. Fashionistas were characterized by their surgical alteration to bones, skin, and cartilage. Shane could see obviously that the male with the “beak” had also had major surgery on his chin and nose, the latter now being so large and aquiline as to resemble the hooked beak of one of any number of now extinct parrots. The male was also well over one hundred and ninety-five centimeters tall and extremely angular, indicating thigh extensions and subcutaneous elbow and shoulder caps.
Shane also noticed the “button nose” woman had no fingers. Her hands had been sculpted; even the stubs of her fingers had been taken so that her hands looked like fleshy paws. Her protruding cheekbones and enlarged eyes gave her the look of some nocturnal creature. Shane thought her very cute. The other female from the club had the vampira look which also spiked his interest. They—the blood sucking sect—were one of a number of groups who hunted Subterraneans. If news escaped that a Sub or Subs were at large in Napea, Shane had to rush to get there first, or there would likely be little left of the intruder. They had a network; if anyone knew about the presence of Subs, it would be her. Shane pretended to be involved in some ETP conversation so that he could keep listening.
The male from the club was talking about the music going on inside. Like most Napean nightspots, the “music” was generated by the thoughts of the people using ETP in the room. A particular music application was visible on the iris, and by selecting certain images, colors, numbers, and patterns while dancing, each person contributed to the sound being produced. There was not necessarily a particular rhythm or melody just a wash, a mélange of sounds that evolved to the mood of the group. It was very popular. It sounded awful.
The Napean man who’d been in the club, the one with the beak, was talking to Button Nose. They were all very animated, hyper, talking frenetically and gesticulating madly. Shane watched and listened.
“I’ve been researching ancient music—it’s so weird,” said the tall beak man. Somehow he was playing the music through his body. Shane realized it was coming through his mouth. The others in the group stopped their conversation, intrigued.
“Oh, I just had this done—with the nose! There’s a micro-speaker in my throat. It amplifies my voice…” He activated the speaker and his voice came out as if through a megaphone: “HELLO LAKESIDE!” It was deafening. They all fell about laughing.
Shane allowed himself a moment to examine each of them. They were typical Napeans—good storage fodder for the space program, they did their duty in that regard. But they lived utterly oblivious to events outside their direct sphere. In a way, they had to.
“Or,” continued the beak man, “it plays music. It uses my skull as a soundbox. Noise escapes here and here,” he said, indicating his ears. “This song is…” He looked at the playlist on his eye. “It’s Gary Glitter. Twentieth century!” The song came out crystal clear and loud.
“What is that noise?” asked the large-eyed woman,
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