George, who handed a
small device to a large, pantless Asian man standing next to him and grabbed
two suits from Shanti. “Let’s go,” he said to Philippe.
“Glad to,” said Philippe, and
eagerly escaped.
Philippe lay in the cubby, trying to fall asleep. He had
gone to bed early, right at the start of the 8 p.m. sleep shift, in hopes of
both getting a good rest and reducing the number of people he was forcing to
sleep on the floor.
But his mind kept going back over
what had happened that day. The Union Police he had worked with in the past had
a certain hard-bitten quality to them, and at times they could be blunt. But
they were always aware that they were representing the Union—its authority, its
historic role in binding countries together and improving people’s lives. They
were, in a sense, diplomats themselves, so they bore themselves with a certain
gravitas.
The SFers—oh, God. Philippe had
never heard such casual threats tossed around: I’ll break your arm, I’ll
snap your neck, I’ll shove this [random object] into your [specific orifice]. Not to mention the constant and casual references to sibling incest to mean
that someone had made, might make, or was going to make a mistake. He could
only pray that such obscenities wouldn’t translate very well where they were
going.
He shifted and touched his chest,
feeling the lonjons’ slightly clammy exterior. It was supposed to be his second
skin while he was on the alien station.
It was an impressive piece of
technology, albeit one whose wonders had been described in rather too much
detail by George. Even though the suit could handle it “without even giving you
a rash,” Philippe fervently hoped that he would never have to empty his full
bladder into the lonjons. And the fact that the female SFers were on menstrual
suppressors so that their monthly bleeding wouldn’t “trigger” the suit was
something that he simply had not wanted to know.
But the suit itself? He was
certainly falling prey to what his parents called Nifty Toy Syndrome. It was
like a bodysuit, with short sleeves, a turtleneck, and stocking feet. It was
made out of God-only-knows-what—it certainly wasn’t ordinary fabric. Whatever
it was made of was so stretchy that the lonjons had no fasteners: You could
literally stretch out the turtleneck far enough to step into the suit.
This stretch helped make the
lonjons such an effective form of protection. If you got stabbed or shot. and
the weapon got through the tough outer layer, the super-stretchy underlayer of
the lonjons’ fabric would get pulled into the wound by the force of whatever
was going into you. Then it would operate as a bandage, releasing coagulants
and antibiotics. You could put the outer layer into “hard” mode (or it would do
so itself if you were injured), which made every part of the lonjons that
wasn’t covering a joint nearly impenetrable. You could put on a hood that would
filter out any poisons in the air, and if the suit was in hard mode, you could
put on the hood and it would get hard, too, becoming a helmet. There were also
medical sensors and medical patches embedded into the suit, powered by your own
body’s heat, so if you accidentally came across something that turned out to be
toxic, your lonjons could perform immediate triage. And if anything at all bad
happened, the lonjons would instantly send out a distress call.
Definitely nifty.
Of course, at dinner the SFers had
a long debate over the best ways to kill people who were wearing lonjons.
Philippe had gone to pick up his ration bar after he had had a second meeting
with the still-obdurate Wouter Hoopen and had sent a memo to Beijing strongly recommending that the SFers be replaced by Union Police personnel as soon as
possible. About a dozen thankfully fully clothed SFers, including Shanti, had
been sitting near the bar dispenser, munching on their ration bars together
just like they were eating a proper meal. They had hailed Philippe as he
small device to a large, pantless Asian man standing next to him and grabbed
two suits from Shanti. “Let’s go,” he said to Philippe.
“Glad to,” said Philippe, and
eagerly escaped.
Philippe lay in the cubby, trying to fall asleep. He had
gone to bed early, right at the start of the 8 p.m. sleep shift, in hopes of
both getting a good rest and reducing the number of people he was forcing to
sleep on the floor.
But his mind kept going back over
what had happened that day. The Union Police he had worked with in the past had
a certain hard-bitten quality to them, and at times they could be blunt. But
they were always aware that they were representing the Union—its authority, its
historic role in binding countries together and improving people’s lives. They
were, in a sense, diplomats themselves, so they bore themselves with a certain
gravitas.
The SFers—oh, God. Philippe had
never heard such casual threats tossed around: I’ll break your arm, I’ll
snap your neck, I’ll shove this [random object] into your [specific orifice]. Not to mention the constant and casual references to sibling incest to mean
that someone had made, might make, or was going to make a mistake. He could
only pray that such obscenities wouldn’t translate very well where they were
going.
He shifted and touched his chest,
feeling the lonjons’ slightly clammy exterior. It was supposed to be his second
skin while he was on the alien station.
It was an impressive piece of
technology, albeit one whose wonders had been described in rather too much
detail by George. Even though the suit could handle it “without even giving you
a rash,” Philippe fervently hoped that he would never have to empty his full
bladder into the lonjons. And the fact that the female SFers were on menstrual
suppressors so that their monthly bleeding wouldn’t “trigger” the suit was
something that he simply had not wanted to know.
But the suit itself? He was
certainly falling prey to what his parents called Nifty Toy Syndrome. It was
like a bodysuit, with short sleeves, a turtleneck, and stocking feet. It was
made out of God-only-knows-what—it certainly wasn’t ordinary fabric. Whatever
it was made of was so stretchy that the lonjons had no fasteners: You could
literally stretch out the turtleneck far enough to step into the suit.
This stretch helped make the
lonjons such an effective form of protection. If you got stabbed or shot. and
the weapon got through the tough outer layer, the super-stretchy underlayer of
the lonjons’ fabric would get pulled into the wound by the force of whatever
was going into you. Then it would operate as a bandage, releasing coagulants
and antibiotics. You could put the outer layer into “hard” mode (or it would do
so itself if you were injured), which made every part of the lonjons that
wasn’t covering a joint nearly impenetrable. You could put on a hood that would
filter out any poisons in the air, and if the suit was in hard mode, you could
put on the hood and it would get hard, too, becoming a helmet. There were also
medical sensors and medical patches embedded into the suit, powered by your own
body’s heat, so if you accidentally came across something that turned out to be
toxic, your lonjons could perform immediate triage. And if anything at all bad
happened, the lonjons would instantly send out a distress call.
Definitely nifty.
Of course, at dinner the SFers had
a long debate over the best ways to kill people who were wearing lonjons.
Philippe had gone to pick up his ration bar after he had had a second meeting
with the still-obdurate Wouter Hoopen and had sent a memo to Beijing strongly recommending that the SFers be replaced by Union Police personnel as soon as
possible. About a dozen thankfully fully clothed SFers, including Shanti, had
been sitting near the bar dispenser, munching on their ration bars together
just like they were eating a proper meal. They had hailed Philippe as he
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