helping Sheeba undo her seat belt, and men Winston lifted her out of the car with both arms. Sheeba giggled and made raucous jokes. No doubt, their excessive attentions embarrassed her. As soon as possible, I claimed her hand.
The tepid bay lapped under a veil of surly ochre smog. India brought back no memories. My childhood. My little brother Raju. Prashka, the first love of my youth. All buried. Calcutta lay under the swampy ocean now. Only a few of its old skyscrapers still protruded above the waves, rotted by sun and salt. I had trained myself to forget the mass evacuation. That was long ago, another lifetime—those recollections were edited, erased, shunted to deep storage. I stood gazing at the foam that sloshed around the pier and thought of nothing.
Winston asked the local guides for a weather forecast, and while I was distracted paying for the rented jet skis, Verinne pointed out the special features of Sheeba’s new pink surfsuit.
“Satellite earphone. Metavision. And here’s your water recycler.” Verinne patted the device on Sheeba’s breast. “It captures and purifies your waste body moisture. This tube connects to a nozzle in your helmet.”
“Sleek. Do I suck it?” Sheeba twirled the helmet and giggled.
“Yes, but first you need to put moisture in. There’s a gel pad here.” When Verinne touched the place between Sheeba’s legs, I dropped my cash card. Her white hand lingered, cupping Sheeba’s crotch. “You can urinate now if you like. The pad will soak up everything. Try it?”
Sheeba must have blushed. I could imagine her color rising under the lemon skin dye.
Get away from Shee, you dried-up old bat. That’s what I wanted to shout at the tall willowy woman I had once adored. Instead, I cranked one of the jet skis. Its throaty roar startled Verinne and made her drop her hand. Then I revved it up to drown further conversation. Storm clouds gathered overhead. I felt a dark mood coming on.
As the temperature rose over Bengal Bay, we zeroed our clocks and began timing Sheeba’s virgin surf. My mood improved as we glided out through the harbor flotsam. Good old Win couldn’t remember the local forecast. So much for his new memory sticks. Win suffered from a mutated strain of Alzheimer’s that failed to respond to traditional antibody therapies. No matter how often he upgraded his implants, synaptic plaques kept fouling his interface.
But we weren’t concerned about a forecast. After our global climate reeled through those first cataclysmic years, things settled down—as they always do—in predictable routines. Since the early 2200s, Bengal Bay’s weather had followed a clockwork pattern: Morning calm. Afternoon cyclones. Evening heat.
Soon we encountered open sea and chop. Winds were coming out of the south, shearing froth from the crests of the lathery waves, and a dense morning smog closed in. Chad called with news about my Trandent holdings, and we decided to vote out the current CEO. He also reminded me of a hair appointment
Since I was wearing a surfsuit and gloves, I couldn’t browse the IBiS screen, so I asked Chad to check it remotely. On his command, my implanted biosensor instantly pinged every NEM in my body, then beamed the data through the Net to my various doctors and monitoring agents, and finally relayed a status back to the processor in my thumb.
Chad read the message aloud. “All systems normal, boss.” Those words always warmed my heart.
Reassured, I spoke to Sheeba through my helmet sat phone. “Switch on your metavision, dear. It’ll help you see.”
“Try this, Sheeba.” Winston accelerated to top speed, then stood up in his stirrups and nonchalantly crossed his arms. Breezes whipped at his surfsuit as he skimmed over the waves, steering the jet ski with his thighs. I’d seen him do this trick before.
Immediately, Sheeba followed suit. “Weeee!” she squealed, cutting a wide figure eight. For a beginner, she caught on fast.
The tepid bay lapped under a veil of surly ochre smog. India brought back no memories. My childhood. My little brother Raju. Prashka, the first love of my youth. All buried. Calcutta lay under the swampy ocean now. Only a few of its old skyscrapers still protruded above the waves, rotted by sun and salt. I had trained myself to forget the mass evacuation. That was long ago, another lifetime—those recollections were edited, erased, shunted to deep storage. I stood gazing at the foam that sloshed around the pier and thought of nothing.
Winston asked the local guides for a weather forecast, and while I was distracted paying for the rented jet skis, Verinne pointed out the special features of Sheeba’s new pink surfsuit.
“Satellite earphone. Metavision. And here’s your water recycler.” Verinne patted the device on Sheeba’s breast. “It captures and purifies your waste body moisture. This tube connects to a nozzle in your helmet.”
“Sleek. Do I suck it?” Sheeba twirled the helmet and giggled.
“Yes, but first you need to put moisture in. There’s a gel pad here.” When Verinne touched the place between Sheeba’s legs, I dropped my cash card. Her white hand lingered, cupping Sheeba’s crotch. “You can urinate now if you like. The pad will soak up everything. Try it?”
Sheeba must have blushed. I could imagine her color rising under the lemon skin dye.
Get away from Shee, you dried-up old bat. That’s what I wanted to shout at the tall willowy woman I had once adored. Instead, I cranked one of the jet skis. Its throaty roar startled Verinne and made her drop her hand. Then I revved it up to drown further conversation. Storm clouds gathered overhead. I felt a dark mood coming on.
As the temperature rose over Bengal Bay, we zeroed our clocks and began timing Sheeba’s virgin surf. My mood improved as we glided out through the harbor flotsam. Good old Win couldn’t remember the local forecast. So much for his new memory sticks. Win suffered from a mutated strain of Alzheimer’s that failed to respond to traditional antibody therapies. No matter how often he upgraded his implants, synaptic plaques kept fouling his interface.
But we weren’t concerned about a forecast. After our global climate reeled through those first cataclysmic years, things settled down—as they always do—in predictable routines. Since the early 2200s, Bengal Bay’s weather had followed a clockwork pattern: Morning calm. Afternoon cyclones. Evening heat.
Soon we encountered open sea and chop. Winds were coming out of the south, shearing froth from the crests of the lathery waves, and a dense morning smog closed in. Chad called with news about my Trandent holdings, and we decided to vote out the current CEO. He also reminded me of a hair appointment
Since I was wearing a surfsuit and gloves, I couldn’t browse the IBiS screen, so I asked Chad to check it remotely. On his command, my implanted biosensor instantly pinged every NEM in my body, then beamed the data through the Net to my various doctors and monitoring agents, and finally relayed a status back to the processor in my thumb.
Chad read the message aloud. “All systems normal, boss.” Those words always warmed my heart.
Reassured, I spoke to Sheeba through my helmet sat phone. “Switch on your metavision, dear. It’ll help you see.”
“Try this, Sheeba.” Winston accelerated to top speed, then stood up in his stirrups and nonchalantly crossed his arms. Breezes whipped at his surfsuit as he skimmed over the waves, steering the jet ski with his thighs. I’d seen him do this trick before.
Immediately, Sheeba followed suit. “Weeee!” she squealed, cutting a wide figure eight. For a beginner, she caught on fast.
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