After they’d dropped off Ms. Tosca and Russell, Lereesa escorted the others to their quarters. The facade facing the corridor was grand with synthetic stone and lights, but within…
“My closet is bigger than this room!” Greg said in awe.
“So was mine when I lived in Seattle,” Lereesa agreed. “These are just like the staff’s quarters.”
There were six of the tiny rooms opening into a small sitting room.
“Unbelievable,” Gina said, shaking her head. “Good thing I’m not claustrophobic.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t have been allowed up here if you were,” their guide explained. “The station is very careful about potential lawsuits.”
“Hey.” Christine came out of her cubby/room. “Can we, like, go out?”
“Yeah!” Gina said. “I don’t need to rest Can we explore a little?”
“I suppose so,” Lereesa said understandingly. “Let’s go down and cheek with your teacher,”
Sick bay was slightly less cramped than the students’ hostel, and it had a different odor—a slight trace of ozone and the chemicals which made sure that no mutant superbug lived long enough to divide.
Ms. Tosca left Russell’s side. “He’s going to be fine, I’m sure,” Lereesa said with a smile.
“Yes, he is,” Ms. Tosca said, with a trace of well-hidden anxiety. “But I’d like to stay with him for awhile.”
“The kids want to stretch their legs,” Lereesa explained. “I thought I’d take them to the arcade. It’s an area cleared for adolescent entertainment, full of games and age-appropriate V.R.” She caught Christine rolling her eyes and grinned. “This is good stuff; you won’t be disappointed.”
“I’ll bet,” Greg muttered.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep them entertained,” Lorraine Tosca said. She made a torn-in-two gesture. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving him, but…”
Lereesa reassured the teacher; it was something she had to be good at, in her line of work.
The arcade was one of the open areas of the station, a huge central area with balconies opening up to the twenty-fifth level of this module. At the farthest edges, the gravity was light enough to allow some spectacular bounds and the floor consisted of trampoline fabric, carefully calibrated to prevent head contact with the floor of the balcony above. The teens were instantly immersed; signs flickering and flashing in brilliant colors, air that pulsed with the latest music, subliminals catching at the corner of the eye. Game zones and restaurants and shops and booths to inspire the shopaholic hidden even in teenage males surrounded them.
Seeing her charges’ eyes light up, Lereesa smiled. They might be very sophisticated and very smart, but there was still a lot of common-or-garden mallrat left in there.
She knew they’d be safe here—even better, they wouldn’t go home bearing tales of nameless debauchery. At least they wouldn’t if they didn’t stray, so the guide laid down some ground rules and gave them a place to meet her in two hours—enough time for them to feel trusted and responsible, but not enough time to get into trouble or wander too far.
“And remember,” Lereesa said sternly, “no wandering away from this area.”
They assured her that of course they wouldn’t think of such a thing and, after a moment, scattered like a handful of dropped beads, disappearing into the crowd too quickly for her to follow.
Half an hour ago I was bored, Lereesa thought, with a stab of anxiety—mere should have been another adult helping her, and subtracting the sick kid didn’t make up for losing the teacher. She keyed her computer to the surveillance cameras.
I prefer bored.
Greg stopped at a game terminal with an exclamation of awe; the visual portal projected images of a huge blond warrior flourishing a sword that dripped realistic gore, while two pneumatic beauties in highly unrealistic scraps of fur clung to his massive calves.
“Crom Thunder! This isn’t even out yet, man!” In an instant he was plugged in and playing, his eyes dreamy as the machine fed him neural impulses that counterfeited reality.
Gina and Christine continued on their way with barely a glance at his discovery. There were times when it could be funny to watch someone plugged in, in a grotty sort of way, but they had a different agenda today.
“Boys,” Gina said, throwing back her reddish-brown hair.
“Geek boys,” Christine replied, wrinkling her snub nose.
“Young geek boys,” Gina said, topping her.
“He’s our age,” Christine pointed out.
“That’s pretty young, for a boy. He’s not going to miss any good killing or bikini time, that one isn’t.”
“And we’re not going to achieve program in this environment,” Christine said. “Let’s look for—”
In the crowd of sleek, well-dressed teens, he stood out like an Alsatian at a poodle convention. Soft black vat-leather, glittering with implanted spikes, and swirling motion from the tattoos on a slimly trim body nearly as hairless as theirs.
“Hey, those are great!” Gina said admiringly.
“Did you have them done here?” Catherine asked.
He looked them up and down for a long moment and asked, “Parlez vous Français?”
The girls looked at one another. “Uh, petit pas,” Gina said dubiously.
The boy laughed. “If that,” he said in English with a distinctly North American accent.
“Sprechen zie deutsche?” Catherine muttered, and they all broke up.
“Sorry,” he said, “just tryin’ it on. Who knew you knew petit pas.” He held up his thumb and forefinger almost touching.
“Sooo,” Gina said, her eyes roving over his colorful arms and shoulders. “Did you have any of this done here?”
“Check it out,” he said, and flexed a bicep. A colorful band glowed into life around his upper arm. It glistened with some antiseptic barrier and stood out from the others—the little flock of geese seemed more alive, and the deep waves crashing on a rocky shore were so green and frothy you could feel the cool spray.
He pinched it slightly and the colors began to flow, giving the coiled design the illusion of movement, surge and retreat of the sea, the graceful flex of wings…
“Oh!” cooed Gina. “It’s a cybertat! That’s just what I want!”
“It’s gorgeous,” Christine agreed. She reached out, one finger hovering above the glowing band. Then she realized what she was doing and, with a laugh, withdrew her hand.
He grinned. “No problem. My name’s Joe.”
“Well, that’s prosaic,” Gina said.
“I knew you two were geeks the minute I saw you,” Joe said with a grin.
He had a very nice smile. That and his being a year or two older took some of the sting out of his words.
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “Don’t look so sour. Who else would use a word like prosaic?”
“Well,” Christine said, looking down her nose, “you look like the kind of guy who has a name like Slash or something.”
He clutched his heart and mimed a dying fall. “Nah, Slash is what groundsiders think a guy like me should be called,” he said. “That is like, sooooo pressurized.”
“So,” Gina said. “Where can we get a tat like yours?”