“Para-physical!”
Naturally, I had to prove I could do the trick as well. Verinne deployed her Bumblebee to take pictures, and we started bouncing over each other’s wakes and getting air, which is not as easy as it looks, standing up with your arms crossed.
“Ooh! I see it!” Sheeba pointed south.
We all slowed down and scanned the horizon. Metavision turned the muddy sea to iridescent purple, and the sky glowed gold. Yes, far to the south, there was one small speck of black.
“Right.” “That’s it.” “I see it, top,” we chorused. The seafarm.
The way Shee bounced in her saddle made us laugh. Surfing with an eager newbie gave our sport a fresh tang, and in high spirits, we raced each other across the dingy waves, then braked and coasted into the foamy lee of the giant seafarm. The solar still loomed much larger than the video had led me to expect, and the dome, coated in Gromic.Com’s gooey black paint, towered half a kilometer above sea level. We were supposed to climb that?
“Hmm.” Verinne pointed to a patchy area halfway up the dome. “Should’ve brought my cameras.”
I cued my visor for zoom, and when the image magnified, I saw the moving figures. Agitators. Twenty at least. They’d rigged flimsy rope ladders, and they were clinging to the dome’s exterior, scraping off a small swath of black paint.
“They’re not wearing surfsuits,” said Sheeba. “They’re breathing atmosphere. Doesn’t that mean they’ll die?”
True enough, they wore only their faded gray Gromic.Com uniforms. A few sported makeshift hoods, and most wore strips of cloth tied over their faces. Thin protection against poisonous atmosphere.
“Surfsuits are not standard issue for workers.” Verinne flipped open the saddlebag to get her climbing gear.
“Yeah, protes don’t go outside much,” said Winston.
“But they’re just kids.” Sheeba gazed at the workers for a long time.
I chewed my lip, wanting to advise her to look away. Negative images like that can stick in your mind for years. Like lychee nuts. Bright little red fruits. They get inside your dreams. Look away, Sheeba. I was on the verge of speaking, but Verinne beat me to it.
“Ignore them, dear. Protes never live long anyway.”
Sheeba said nothing.
The choppy waves bounced us around, and the sea-farm’s collar rose and fell with mountainous slapping quakes. I tried to lasso a cleat on the collar, but the swells kept throwing off my aim. Heat was building up inside my suit, so I checked my watch again. Almost 11:00 a.m., local time. We were behind schedule. I boosted my suit’s coolants and studied that collar of machinery. Boarding in these heavy seas would not be simple.
“I wanna talk to those kids.” Sheeba looped her tether line around her forearm and stood up in her saddle.
“Crazy girl, you’ll overturn!” I shouted.
Before any of us could react, she made a dazzling leap onto the collar, grabbed one of the oxygen mills and tied off her line. “Throw me your ropes. I’ll pull you in,” she said.
“Hey, guys, I have an idea.” Winston had been goofing around, turning his jet ski in lazy donuts among the waves. Now he spurted twenty meters away from us, then did a tight U-turn, revved up and headed straight into the collar at ramming speed.
“What is he doing?” Verinne rose in her stirrups, one gloved fist pressed to her helmeted mouth. “He minks he can jump his jet ski onto the collar.”
“He’ll kill himself,” I murmured, disbelieving.
As he roared past, he yelled, “Watch this, Sheeba.”
Winston impacted the collar just as it was rising on a massive wave. When the jet ski tumbled, Win flew over the handlebars. He whacked into the face of a solar collector, which luckily swiveled on its mount and spun with his weight. Win accelerated like a space probe looping around the sun, then rocketed off in a short parabolic arc, splashed down in the waves and sank.
Sheeba dove into the water. I was staring
Naturally, I had to prove I could do the trick as well. Verinne deployed her Bumblebee to take pictures, and we started bouncing over each other’s wakes and getting air, which is not as easy as it looks, standing up with your arms crossed.
“Ooh! I see it!” Sheeba pointed south.
We all slowed down and scanned the horizon. Metavision turned the muddy sea to iridescent purple, and the sky glowed gold. Yes, far to the south, there was one small speck of black.
“Right.” “That’s it.” “I see it, top,” we chorused. The seafarm.
The way Shee bounced in her saddle made us laugh. Surfing with an eager newbie gave our sport a fresh tang, and in high spirits, we raced each other across the dingy waves, then braked and coasted into the foamy lee of the giant seafarm. The solar still loomed much larger than the video had led me to expect, and the dome, coated in Gromic.Com’s gooey black paint, towered half a kilometer above sea level. We were supposed to climb that?
“Hmm.” Verinne pointed to a patchy area halfway up the dome. “Should’ve brought my cameras.”
I cued my visor for zoom, and when the image magnified, I saw the moving figures. Agitators. Twenty at least. They’d rigged flimsy rope ladders, and they were clinging to the dome’s exterior, scraping off a small swath of black paint.
“They’re not wearing surfsuits,” said Sheeba. “They’re breathing atmosphere. Doesn’t that mean they’ll die?”
True enough, they wore only their faded gray Gromic.Com uniforms. A few sported makeshift hoods, and most wore strips of cloth tied over their faces. Thin protection against poisonous atmosphere.
“Surfsuits are not standard issue for workers.” Verinne flipped open the saddlebag to get her climbing gear.
“Yeah, protes don’t go outside much,” said Winston.
“But they’re just kids.” Sheeba gazed at the workers for a long time.
I chewed my lip, wanting to advise her to look away. Negative images like that can stick in your mind for years. Like lychee nuts. Bright little red fruits. They get inside your dreams. Look away, Sheeba. I was on the verge of speaking, but Verinne beat me to it.
“Ignore them, dear. Protes never live long anyway.”
Sheeba said nothing.
The choppy waves bounced us around, and the sea-farm’s collar rose and fell with mountainous slapping quakes. I tried to lasso a cleat on the collar, but the swells kept throwing off my aim. Heat was building up inside my suit, so I checked my watch again. Almost 11:00 a.m., local time. We were behind schedule. I boosted my suit’s coolants and studied that collar of machinery. Boarding in these heavy seas would not be simple.
“I wanna talk to those kids.” Sheeba looped her tether line around her forearm and stood up in her saddle.
“Crazy girl, you’ll overturn!” I shouted.
Before any of us could react, she made a dazzling leap onto the collar, grabbed one of the oxygen mills and tied off her line. “Throw me your ropes. I’ll pull you in,” she said.
“Hey, guys, I have an idea.” Winston had been goofing around, turning his jet ski in lazy donuts among the waves. Now he spurted twenty meters away from us, then did a tight U-turn, revved up and headed straight into the collar at ramming speed.
“What is he doing?” Verinne rose in her stirrups, one gloved fist pressed to her helmeted mouth. “He minks he can jump his jet ski onto the collar.”
“He’ll kill himself,” I murmured, disbelieving.
As he roared past, he yelled, “Watch this, Sheeba.”
Winston impacted the collar just as it was rising on a massive wave. When the jet ski tumbled, Win flew over the handlebars. He whacked into the face of a solar collector, which luckily swiveled on its mount and spun with his weight. Win accelerated like a space probe looping around the sun, then rocketed off in a short parabolic arc, splashed down in the waves and sank.
Sheeba dove into the water. I was staring
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