Read Online Heaven's Fall by David S. Goyer, Michael Cassutt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David S. Goyer, Michael Cassutt
Ads: Link
him now,” Mrs. Remilla said. “And I have something for you.”
Yahvi glanced at Rachel, who, mouth full, nodded in approval.
The gift turned out to be an electronic device, a small rectangle no bigger than the palm of Yahvi’s hand, with frail-looking tendrils attached to it. “It’s called a Beta,” Remilla said. “It holds hundreds of thousands of popular recordings—everything that hit the top twenty for the past one hundred years.” She looked at Rachel. “I couldn’t live without mine.”
“Are people still making music?” Pav said. “Are there still bands?”
“Yes,” Taj said, “though not necessarily where they used to be. We’ll be talking about that shortly.”
Remilla spent several moments showing Yahvi how the Beta worked; the tendrils had tiny weighted units at their ends that fit into one’s ears.
There were only three controls: play/stop, up/down for title/artist, right/left for keyword. “The battery is good for two years,” she said. “If you’re still on Earth at that time, call me and I’ll give you a replacement.”
Two years on Earth! The thought terrified Yahvi. But she managed to utter, “Thank you.” She had that much social sense.
Shunning the food, she took the Beta to a corner of the room and sat down.
Yahvi Radhakrishnan was a proud yavak.
It was a sensible reaction, since many of the original Bangalores made fun of them as a group, these two-hundred-plus who had been born on Keanu since 2020. Yahvi knew there was something about the word itself— yavaki and its comically savage sound—which seemed to tickle the older HB generation. It was especially true when some adults said her name, which meant both “heaven” and “Earth,” since it sounded so similar. Let them have their fun, she and her friends said at times. They’ll be gone soon and we’ll be in charge.
It wasn’t as though Yahvi or anyone her age had invented the term. As nearly as she had been able to determine, sixteen or seventeen years ago, one of the Bangalores, while in full pick-on-the-kids mode, had come up with it.
Yahvi the yavak was taller than her mother and even her father. Slim, even (she had overheard Rachel using this term once) “gawky,” though that was when she was eleven and grew seven centimeters in a year. She had her father’s coloring and her mother’s blue eyes and hair that was, most of the time, an unfortunate blend of the Stewart-Doyle coloring (reddish blond) and the Radhakrishnan curls.
She had spent a lot of time hating the way she looked, something her mother assured her was “normal,” which was what HBs continued to use instead of “Earth-like.” It was especially obvious when Yahvi pressed Rachel on that point once. Why, for example, was it normal for someone to hate the way she looked?
“Because you might just feel bad. Have zits, for example, or blotchy skin. Or other girls might tease you.”
“Why would they tease me?”
“Because they’re girls. Or just human beings.”
“Won’t they hate themselves, too?”
“Some, or all of them at one time or another. But for some people, making others feel bad makes them feel better.”
Yahvi had seen evidence of that, so she was still listening. “Why do any of us care what we look like?”
“Well, because of boys, I guess.”
And this was where Rachel Stewart-Radhakrishnan’s idea of “normal” conflicted with her daughter’s: Yahvi never gave any thought to what the boys her age thought of her looks .
After all . . . there were only a couple dozen her age. (It could have been worse: The oldest yavaki were nineteen, and there were only four of those.) They had been raised together, taught in the same classrooms. They had worked at the same jobs. They had eaten the same food and, more to the point, dressed the same in T-shirts and shorts.
Nevertheless, the boys often acted like boys, all clumsy muscle and embarrassment. The girls ranged from a couple of tee-hee types that Yahvi
Yahvi glanced at Rachel, who, mouth full, nodded in approval.
The gift turned out to be an electronic device, a small rectangle no bigger than the palm of Yahvi’s hand, with frail-looking tendrils attached to it. “It’s called a Beta,” Remilla said. “It holds hundreds of thousands of popular recordings—everything that hit the top twenty for the past one hundred years.” She looked at Rachel. “I couldn’t live without mine.”
“Are people still making music?” Pav said. “Are there still bands?”
“Yes,” Taj said, “though not necessarily where they used to be. We’ll be talking about that shortly.”
Remilla spent several moments showing Yahvi how the Beta worked; the tendrils had tiny weighted units at their ends that fit into one’s ears.
There were only three controls: play/stop, up/down for title/artist, right/left for keyword. “The battery is good for two years,” she said. “If you’re still on Earth at that time, call me and I’ll give you a replacement.”
Two years on Earth! The thought terrified Yahvi. But she managed to utter, “Thank you.” She had that much social sense.
Shunning the food, she took the Beta to a corner of the room and sat down.
Yahvi Radhakrishnan was a proud yavak.
It was a sensible reaction, since many of the original Bangalores made fun of them as a group, these two-hundred-plus who had been born on Keanu since 2020. Yahvi knew there was something about the word itself— yavaki and its comically savage sound—which seemed to tickle the older HB generation. It was especially true when some adults said her name, which meant both “heaven” and “Earth,” since it sounded so similar. Let them have their fun, she and her friends said at times. They’ll be gone soon and we’ll be in charge.
It wasn’t as though Yahvi or anyone her age had invented the term. As nearly as she had been able to determine, sixteen or seventeen years ago, one of the Bangalores, while in full pick-on-the-kids mode, had come up with it.
Yahvi the yavak was taller than her mother and even her father. Slim, even (she had overheard Rachel using this term once) “gawky,” though that was when she was eleven and grew seven centimeters in a year. She had her father’s coloring and her mother’s blue eyes and hair that was, most of the time, an unfortunate blend of the Stewart-Doyle coloring (reddish blond) and the Radhakrishnan curls.
She had spent a lot of time hating the way she looked, something her mother assured her was “normal,” which was what HBs continued to use instead of “Earth-like.” It was especially obvious when Yahvi pressed Rachel on that point once. Why, for example, was it normal for someone to hate the way she looked?
“Because you might just feel bad. Have zits, for example, or blotchy skin. Or other girls might tease you.”
“Why would they tease me?”
“Because they’re girls. Or just human beings.”
“Won’t they hate themselves, too?”
“Some, or all of them at one time or another. But for some people, making others feel bad makes them feel better.”
Yahvi had seen evidence of that, so she was still listening. “Why do any of us care what we look like?”
“Well, because of boys, I guess.”
And this was where Rachel Stewart-Radhakrishnan’s idea of “normal” conflicted with her daughter’s: Yahvi never gave any thought to what the boys her age thought of her looks .
After all . . . there were only a couple dozen her age. (It could have been worse: The oldest yavaki were nineteen, and there were only four of those.) They had been raised together, taught in the same classrooms. They had worked at the same jobs. They had eaten the same food and, more to the point, dressed the same in T-shirts and shorts.
Nevertheless, the boys often acted like boys, all clumsy muscle and embarrassment. The girls ranged from a couple of tee-hee types that Yahvi
Similar Books
