“No, ma’am,” he said sheepishly. “The servo’s broken. I’m sort of an emergency replacement.”
“There’s a lot of that going around. Let me guess. You probably have ten years’ experience too. You’re a virtual ghost the same age as Prime Minister Yablokov.”
“Excuse me, tavarishcha?”
“Comrade,” no less. This one was as young as he looked. “All right, look. Compost. Noun. A mixture of micronutrients for the nourishment of aging nanobugs. Named for the taste—”
“Oh, you mean NanoSweet?”
“That’s what the manufacturer is pleased to call it, yes.”
The bartender chuckled. “I’ll just need to see your readout, tavarishcha.” Oh, goodie, I’d made a friend.
I touched the telltale to the back of my neck, and showed it to him when it chimed. The number was higher this time; Mirabara must have fried quite a few bugs remodeling the rental car. That was fine with me. At least the drink would taste like alcohol, even if it didn’t feel like it.
Ten minutes later I’d drunk the last vile drop, and still no sign of Mirabara. I gave her another five minutes while I drank a cup of coffee, then got up to leave, resolving to fill out a repartnering form before I went to bed. I was almost out the door when a bell chimed softly and a speaker above the bar singsonged: “M. T. Andreyeva, hearth News One, clan Camera, insert a white courtesy plug please. Maya at News One of Camera, white courtesy plug.”
I found the rack of plugs conveniently located right where people had to stand to look up at the arrivals screen. You’d think a trainport would be quiet at two in the morning, but, this being Leningrad, there was a crowd. By the time I got through to the phone I’d used three different obscenities a total of seven times, made at least two lifelong enemies, and possibly broken one toe— not mine, someone else’s. Served them right for using the monitor when they could get the same data faster from the Net.
When I looked at the plug I felt a wave of nausea. The cable was crusted with reddish-brown spots—catsup was the least disgusting theory—and the plug itself was greasy with someone’s hair oil. I didn’t relish the thought of having it a centimeter from my brain. Why do they always give you an audio plug, anyway? A microphone and speaker would be just as good and far more sanitary. Kickbacks from the manufacturer? There was a story in there somewhere.
I looked wistfully through the press of bodies at the snow dome store, where I might beg a disinfectant. But that would mean fighting my way out again through sweat, perfume, body heat, and gutter exclamations. Besides, they probably wouldn’t have it. I settled for wiping the plug on my shirt, to replace some of the unknown dirt with dirt I was on intimate terms with, and slid the disgusting thing into my minisocket. Then I remembered that the minisocket was sitting right on top of Wernicke’s area, so if the plug infected my brain with something, the first thing I’d lose would be the ability to understand speech. Oh well, I thought jauntily, it’s too late now; and besides, how often do people say anything worth listening to, these days? You could almost get along without that skill.
In this cheerful state of mind I thought out into the cable and said: “This had better be good.”
The answer was terse and delivered at a volume just this side of a shout: “Slot up for God’s sake, agoraphobe.” Click. It was Keishi.
Sighing, I made my way back through the crowd, less rudely and therefore more slowly than before. I settled back down at the bar, took out my Net chip, and put it on the counter in front of me.
“Would you like something else, tavarishcha?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said, leaning forward. “I would like to get well and truly drunk. I know it’s probably against company policy, but you wouldn’t tell on me, would you?”
He shuffled his feet uneasily. “Drinking beyond your ration can be very dangerous—especially—” He broke off.
“Especially at my age. So you know that, do you. You know, you remind me of a car I met once. Look, overfeeding them just this one time won’t kill me. Even if they have evolved out of their bug birth control program, they can only reproduce so fast.”
He gave me a pained look. “I’m sorry, tavarishcha. We’re not allowed.”
“Oh, all right then. If you can’t, you can’t.” I started to turn away, then looked back at him appraisingly and said: “Of all the seedy two-bit brains in all the Historical Nations in the world, she patches into mine.”
He searched my face, puzzled. Then he smiled the smile of someone finally making out the elephant in a child’s drawing. “Oh, is that supposed to be Bogart, ma’am?”
Just as I’d suspected. I ordered coffee to make him go away, then picked up the chip from the counter and slotted it in.
“Behind you,” she said.
I turned around on the stool. “Fashion risk, Mirabara?” Keishi was wearing a Leningrad University T-shirt that must have been twenty years old, and at most had been washed once in all that time; white slacks stained gray and rolled up at least six inches; wisps of greasy hair escaping from a broad-brimmed hat. She looked like a hard-core wirehead, the kind you see trying to kiss the horse on Nevsky Prospect.
“I saw the way you looked at my earrings last time. I thought I’d try a different effect.”
“Maybe something a little less radical,” I said.
She shrugged and morphed back into the clothing of the day before. “It’s just a virtual image. Actually, this is what my body’s wearing today in real.”
“Then what was it wearing yesterday?”
“Nothing.”
“All right, if you don’t want to tell me…”
“I just did,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
This reminded me that my body was sitting in a trainport bar carrying on a conversation with thin air. I glanced warily at the bartender. He returned the look without surprise and said, “More coffee, ma’am?”
“No, I’m all right,” I said. He seemed blasé enough about it.
“Anything for your friend?”
I looked at him incredulously. “I’m not a lunatic, I’m virtual conferencing. And even if I were a lunatic, I wouldn’t need you to humor me.”
Keishi’s voice chimed from the speaker above the bar: “Please excuse Maya Tatyanichna, she is a little confused about modern technology this morning. I’ll have a coffee, too, please.”
“And your Netname?”
“Keishi Mirabara, of hearth—”
“Put it on mine,” I interrupted, before she could say “News One.” I don’t like being recognized.
“Thanks, but it doesn’t matter,” she told me. “I’m hearth Whisper—Margay clan, you know. I only use News One bang Screener as a hathook, for expense accounts. But thanks.”
“What are you here for, Mirabara? With a high-class address like that, why do you need a job?”
“Green,” she said frankly. “Margay doesn’t take the Robot Dollar.”
“Bozhe moy—last capitalists on earth refuse the dole; sensorium at eleven.”
“They have to,” Keishi said. “Most of their hardware’s from Africa—Whisper itself runs on a Dahlak. They have to have money they can convert.”
The bartender pulled a sky-blue cable out from under the counter, cleaned the plug carefully with peroxide, and handed it to me. When I hesitated he said, “it goes in your wrist, tavarishcha.”
“I know a wrist plug when I see one.” I looked at Keishi, then sighed and plugged it in. At least it was clean. “You do know that you’re completely insane. If you can materialize half of a car, you can easily whip up some virtual coffee. But instead you’re paying trainport prices for it.”