"Must've cleared up," I said. "She never mentioned M.A. Central."
"It was graffiti," Doc said.
Just then the holo warped and suddenly we were looking at a very bizarre-looking Newsface — this guy had leaping flames where his hair should have been, and spiraling pinwheels for eyes. Central Data's policy was to keep its computer generated Newsfaces attractive but ordinary looking, and to rotate them frequently — in case the public got too attached to one of the nonexistent things. But we all developed favorites. Newsface Four was mine. This roguey guy was a sure sign that we were watching a graffiti capsule someone had slipped into the datastream.
Flamehead didn't waste any time getting to the meat:
"They're calling for help down at M.A. Central. Seems the lower levels there have been invaded by a small horde of kids. Or maybe I should say, a horde of small kids."
A quick cut to a wide angle shot of the groundlevel lobby of the Pyramid. It was filled — "jammed" — with urchins, milling about, moving up and down the arched stairs on the perimeter, playing in the up-and downchutes. The announcer continued in voiceover: "For those of you who manage to keep yourselves securely insulated from ground level, these are what are known as urchins. Maybe you've heard them mentioned at a party. You certainly didn't hear of them on the official datastream."
Noticed the angle of the sum coming in through the Pyramid's apex. This was recent vintage vid.
Moving right into the crowd of kids now. The graffitist must have had his hidden recorder strapped to his lower chest because we were winding through them at eye level — urchin eye level.
"Officially, the kids you're watching are not a problem. Their genotypes aren't registered in Central Data, therefore they don't exist. So why should you be concerned with kids who don't exist?
"Proud of yourselves?"
All those big deep eyes looking right at you and then shifting away. Sadness in them, a sense of loss, as if they were searching for something or someone who had been taken away from them. The effect was devastating.
"Nobody knows why they've come or what they want. They're just there, clogging the aisles and stairs. Mostly they're quiet, but every so often they begin to shout — "
The image warped and suddenly we were back in the official datastream.
"They sure yanked that one fast, Doc said.
Right. Usually a graffiti capsule got to run through the stream a couple of times before it was culled. Data Central tended to view the radical journalists as more of an annoyance than a threat — hecklers on the fringe of the Big Show.
Elmero said, "They're embarrassed by all those kids there," as he stared reflectively into the holochamber.
"Going down there," I told them.
"Yeah?" Elmero said. "Be sure to tell me all about it."
Could figure what was running though his mind: How can I make out on this?
Elmero's instincts were pretty astute when there was credit to be made. He sensed something big brewing. So did I. And Jean and B.B. were right in the middle of it.
— 10-
Either M.A. Central had become more crowded with urchins since the datadcast, or the graffito I'd seen hadn't done the crowd a bit of justice. Mobbed. They were everywhere. Could barely move through the crowd. All the kids were babbling to each other, to anyone who would listen. The sounds mixed and mingled into a constant susserant hum, an irritating white noise.
They'd brought the M.A. Central Pyramid — at least its lower levels — to a standstill.
Made finding B.B. just about impossible.
Felt a tug on the sleeve of my jump. Looked down to see a little redheaded urch. A boy, I thought.
"Sig?" he said, pointing up at my face.
Picked him up and looked him over. Didn't recognize him.
"You from the Lost Boys?"
He nodded proudly. "Lost Boy me."
"Know where my friend B.B. is?"
He looked around, then began screeching at the top of his lungs as he pointed at me.
"B.B.! Siggy! B.B.! Siggy!"
Was about to tell him that there were scads of urchins named B.B., and that even with his considerable volume, only a small fraction of the crowd was going to hear him, when I noticed that those around us were falling silent and staring at me. The silence grew, spreading out like a ripple in a puddle. It moved up the big arched stairways and across the balconies and arcades on the inner walls.
Soon the whole floor was quiet except for this one persistent squealy voice.
And then from fifty meters or so away came an answering cry.
"Sig! Here me! Ov'here!"
Looked and saw B.B. jumping up and down, waving his arms to get my attention. As he began moving my way, the noise picked up again, but it wasn't the formless hum from before. Now it was a word: my name.
"SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY! SIGGY!"
They were all looking at me, raising their hands each time they said my name. Seemed to go on forever. B.B. finally broke through and hugged me around the waist.
"Filamentous, Sig, yeah? Filamentous!"
Barely heard him over the chant. Pushed him to arm's length and got a good look at his shining eyes.
"Yeah. Filamentous, all right. But what's going on? What do you kids think you're doing here?"
"Ge'Wendy back."
Simple as that. If only they knew.
"But where'd all these kids come from?""
"Wendy Mom-to-all."
"So you've told me. But she couldn't have tucked every one of you into bed."
"Evbod hear Wendy. Come togeth."
"Everybody? They're all here?"
He shook his head. "More come. From all ov."
More coming? The place couldn't hold them. All the urchingangs in the Megalops were united, probably for the first time in history.
"Evbod hear Sig, too."
His smile showed how proud he was to know me. Damn rattlely thing to have a kid look at you like that. Could make you want to run and hide. Or move mountains.
While I was wondering where I could hide, a hand tapped me on the shoulder. Turned and found myself looking into a datastream reporter's recording plate — mounted on his forehead, leaving both his hands free.
"Excuse me," he shouted over the noise. "But am I correct in assuming you're this 'Siggy' fellow."
Didn't know what to say. B.B., however, was at no loss for words. He patted me on the arm as he piped up:
"Oya, san! Siggy him! Filamentous fren!"
"I'm Arrel Lum," said the reporter. He had black hair, dark eyes, and a round face. "I'm with Central Data."
Knew that. Looked for ways to keep his questions away from me until I could duck out. Tried sidetracking him.
"The datastream's ignoring this. Kind of a waste of time for you to be here, isn't it?"
"Not at all. Central Data records everything for the record. What's fed into the datastream for public consumption is another matter."
His frankness was engaging, but something about his diction, the rhythm of his voice. Familiar.
"You remind me of Newsface Four."
He smiled. "You've got a good ear. I've been writing his casts and doing his voice for the past five years."
"He's — you're my favorite Newsface."
"Why, thank you. But tell me: Who are you, and what's your connection with these kids?"
So much for sidetracking.
"Know one of them."
"What do they want?"
"You mean you don't know?"
He shook his head. "Nobody can figure it out."
Interesting.
"Embarrassing, isn't it?"
"Not for me," he said with a grin. "I think it's a bloaty show. Just wish I knew what it was all about."