Claire and her class sat in a cleared area just above the cactus garden, between the eccentric shapes of gray-green euphorbias and lime-green succulents. The children wore their school jumpsuits, but in the tradition of the Technics Section, the outfits were patched and pinned with ribbons and their parents’ work-section badges and viddyprogram logos. The logo patch fad came across like gang colors, a resemblance which made Claire nervous. The most popular patch advertised Grommet the Gremlin. Grommet was a cartoon monster, a cute monster, for God’s sake, who giggled moronically as he pulled out the wires sustaining your life-support systems if you didn’t feed him access credit for sweet-rations. He was a feral, free-floating giga-pet. His bug-eyed face leered idiotically from patches on the shoulders of eleven of the twelve children.
Claire Rimpler wore a white technicki jumpsuit, a kind of bluff social camouflage. But she was Admin, was teaching the technicki children as a volunteer—really as part of her father’s program to better relations between Admin and technicki—and had been doing it for two weeks, and for all fourteen days she’d regretted it.
Claire was twenty-one, but looked sixteen when she was smiling. She was small, with a rose-tipped pallor, soft-looking auburn hair clipped short like an EVA worker’s; her lips were a shade too large for her doll-like face. Her expressive eyes were brown-black. Her eyebrows were a trifle too thick to be feminine. But the whole, as an ensemble, was far more attractive than she knew… Her petiteness and girlish features deceived people into expecting docility. “The truth is, Claire’s pure Admin,” her brother Terry had said of her. “Gives orders as naturally as a technicki gives back-talk.” Her father had lectured Terry about making “classist” remarks about technickis.
No, she’d never been docile. But there were times she’d been passive, introspective, before her brother’s death—before Terry had been snuffed into a statistic, in the Third EVA Disaster. Her brother had been supervising a technicki hull-team in the construction of section D, the Earth-end of the cylinder, two years before. An EVA pod had come too close to a tethered satellite. One of the pod’s landing struts had snapped the comsat’s tether, so the satellite tumbled into the extra-vehicular team on D-sec, striking two, who spun to hit two more, a weightless domino effect that in turn spun thirty-one men off into space, most of them with ruptured suits. Only one of them was recovered alive. Six bodies were never recovered at all. In the wake of the disaster—and with the ongoing problem of the Colony’s costs outweighing its financial benefits—public pressure on UNIC had almost cut off funding. Claire’s father tried to resign as Colony Committee Chairman and Design Supervisor. New funding had come from select UNIC members, certain big corporate investors, like the Second Alliance. The SA… Rimpler had been persuaded to return to work…
But her dad was never the same. He wouldn’t look out the ports, into space. Maybe he was afraid he’d see Terry floating out there. Floating up to the glass. Staring accusingly.
And Claire was different after that. The occasional moods of passivity vanished forever. She blamed Admin laxity for Terry’s death. Which meant she had to become Admin, to set things right. And she was Admin now. Almost completely.
Claire had explained to the children why the land overhead wasn’t going to fall on them, and how if they walked in a straight line to arbitrary east they’d eventually come back to the spot they’d left, arriving from the west, all in the same day if one walked fast enough. The children were patient through all this, except, of course, for Anthony, who ostentatiously smoked a syntharette through it all, expecting her to rebuke him for inhaling nicotine vapor, frustrated when she pointedly would not play that game.
They ate a lunch of pressed fruit, from produce grown in the Colony’s agripods, and soybutter ’n’ jelly sandwiches. And when they’d finished, Claire said, “We’re going to have to go back soon. So if anybody has any more questions…?”
Chloe raised one of her small black hands and asked, “Whunna finzuhruzat?” She pointed to the arbitrary north, the inner part of the sphere away from the sun. The land here, between the meager areas of finished developments, looked calico, brown and yellow in patches, with outcroppings of raw blue metal.
“First of all,” Claire reminded her, “ask the question in Standard English. Technickinglish isn’t what you’re here to learn.”
Chloe sighed and said, laboriously, “When… they are—”
“When are they.”
The little girl made a moue of frustration and went on, “When are they going to… finish the… rest… of zuh—no—of that?”
“Good! To answer your question, the Colony is about two-thirds finished. Maybe five years more and it’ll be done.”
“But who’s going to live in the new part when it’s finished?” Anthony asked abruptly, showing off his command of Standard English.
She’d been expecting the question. And she could feel their attention had shifted, suddenly, from whispered jokes, giggling, teasing, complaining—shifted to her. Now, now they were listening.
Maybe we shouldn’t bring them on these excursions till we can move them out of the dorms, she thought. Maybe it only makes them feel frustrated.
“Everyone will be able to live there,” Claire said. “Everyone! Not all at once. There will be lots drawn to see who’s first.”
“Who’s going to program the lottery computer?” Anthony asked, and she wondered if he was really that precocious or if someone had coached him.
“The computer will be an Admin unit,” she admitted, “but it will be fair. Everyone will have a chance.”
“But—”
“Now,” she interrupted, blithely as she could, standing, “let’s go to the arcade!”
“I don’t wanna go there,” Anthony said, crossing his legs.
Claire jammed a thumbnail in her mouth, began to chew—then remembered the children were watching and quickly pulled it away, using another finger of that hand to point at Anthony. “Tony, don’t play that game with me. You love the arcade. You spend hours there. You complained when you had to come out here; you said it gave you headaches. Don’t give me that evac about not wanting to—”
“I like it here, and I want to stay.”
“Anthony, has someone been—” And then she broke off, seeing the men from TechniWave coming, and she understood it all.
There were three of them. One with the cam-transmitter. Beside him was a guy with his look so burnished he must be the anchorman. And a third guy, an X-factor, might be the one who’d planned this.
The cameraman wore a backpack-fed shouldercam/directional mike and a headset; the cam was mounted on his shoulder like a second, robotic head.
She recognized the reporter, now—Asheem Spengle. He wore the fashionable triple-Mohawk in the technicki colors—white, silver, and gold—and also a white I’m-just-one-of-the-people jumpsuit. He was regular-featured, glib, a human cipher. The third man wore a flatsuit: a suit in which the jacket and vest and tie were false, just lapels and a tie-knot and vest-front sewn onto a one-piece outfit. He was sharp-eyed, coning his lips to seem perpetually thoughtful.
Anthony jumped up excitedly, seeing them. “Misser Barkin!” he began. “I—”
The man in the flatsuit shook his head at Anthony but smiled, showing an overbite.
Anthony caught the cue and shut up. The reporter and the cameraman stopped just a few yards from Claire and the class; the reporter stepped in front of the camera, facing it, his back to Claire, and nodded. The cameraman was already focused, waiting. He hit a switch on his belt. A green light flashed on at the side of the little camera, and Spengle said, “Routen Admin Park talkwid Adminteach Claire Rimplerner stoods—” And went on.