A little more than half the station was devoted to civilian pursuits. That half paid for a lot of the rest of the station. There, travelers were offered the ultimate in luxury accommodations, food, and drink. Live entertainment by the best and most popular actors, singers, and comedians on Earth in every language and culture was available. Plus unique attractions like zero G ballet and “flying” with strapped-on wings.
There was also what Lereesa called, to herself and her friends, high-end sleaze. What some unkindly referred to as “hot and cold running whores.” The station had its own laws about recreational chemicals, too—and they could be enforced, in this antiseptic environment. And good old-fashioned gambling was offered in elegant surroundings reminiscent of a time when the rich were safely separated from the hoi polloi by the simple expedient of being somewhere ordinary people couldn’t afford to be.
“I couldn’t afford to be here,” she muttered. “When everyone can afford to go to Monte Carlo, Monte Carlo goes to space.”
She couldn’t afford a drink of water in those places. Even the charge for air was higher in the big clubs. Not that she had to worry about the air charge; that was the tourists’ concern.
Sometimes all Lereesa could think about was escape. Just a day away from here, where I could see blue sky, feel a breeze, a rainstorm, see a bug! It wasn’t until you’d left Earth that you realized how much everything there changed from day to day.
“I know I won’t break down. The psych tests said so. Unfortunately!”
And the station was safe. Zero tolerance described a generous policy next to the station’s attitude. This wasn’t the Wild West; management controlled everything.
As she waited for her party, Lereesa switched the viewport beside her to an Earth view; there weren’t any actual viewports in the long domed corridor of the passenger shuttle dock. She sighed again and activated the notebook computer that was part of her uniform sleeve to check the names of her new charges one more time. Ms. Lorraine Tosca, a high school science teacher and her four: Gina Mancuso, Russell Moore, Christine Wu, and Greg Baca. High school kids.
Lereesa had actually groaned when she pulled this assignment. These kids would be seeing parts of the station that most tourists weren’t even remotely interested in, and would rarely be allowed to visit even if they were. They’d be wandering through the guts of the station and they’d even be allowed onto the original station, preserved in the center of the ring. The places she’d have liked to visit—on her own.
The kids were here on a special scholarship, so she supposed she could expect a certain degree of decorum. Meaning perhaps they wouldn’t try to duck out of the tour to catch some of the action in the adult entertainment section. I hope. The only thing worse than being bored by the tourists was having them do something so reckless it would stop your heart. And who better to do that, Lereesa thought, than teenagers?
A couple of handlers came along and said hello as they stationed themselves on either side of the white-coated hatch. One of their jobs was to assist passengers from the zero G of the shuttle to the station’s near-Earth-normal gravity. After so many months she knew them both well.
“I guess this has been one of those hell trips,” Pete said with a grin.
Lereesa raised her brows.
“Some kid puked his guts out all the way up, I hear,” he said. “Apparently, he sparked off an orgy of upchucking.”
“The head stewardess said they’d have to fumigate the shuttle before it could be used again,” said the other handler.
Oh, boy, she thought, her heart sinking. Please let it be somebody else’s kid.
The hatch opened with a hydraulic hiss and passengers began to disembark, along with a faint sour odor, despite the best the airscrubbers could do.
First out was a black youth who was an interesting grayish-green shade. He staggered and almost fell, but the handlers kept a grip on him until they were sure he was steady. The kid lurched to the bulkhead opposite and leaned his forehead against it, swallowing and wiping at the clammy sweat on his face. Active misery made him look younger than he was, and Lereesa felt a stir of compassion.
This was Russell Moore, one of her guests. He was followed by an anxious-looking woman of about twenty-five; olive-skinned, with a curved nose and intelligent dark eyes. Lorraine Tosca, the chaperone. The other three members of Lereesa’s group followed rapidly, looking both bored and shell-shocked, something she was sure only teenagers could manage.
“Hello,” she said to the teacher. “I’m your guide, Lereesa Norton. We can take Russell down to the clinic if you like, to see if he needs to be rehydrated.”
“Lorraine,” the woman said. “Tosca. That might be a good idea. He’s had rather a rough trip.”
Other passengers filed by, casting resentful glances at the group.
“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” a pale Christine Wu muttered, “if he hadn’t been so loud.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Greg Baca returned, “if he hadn’t started out by boasting how his astronaut uncle had never been sick once in space, and how he was looking forward to seeing us puke our guts out.”
“Well, he sure got to see that,” Gina Mancuso said with a grimace.
“How’m I gonna get home?” Russell asked with real horror.
Ms. Tosca blinked.
“It might not happen again,” Lereesa reassured him. “Or if you do get sick it might not be as severe. Try not to think about it,” she suggested. “Why borrow trouble?”
“Yeah, maybe it was a fluke,” Gina said.
Russell slid down the wall and rested his head on his knees. “I’ve got a headache,” he complained quietly.
“Then he probably does need to be rehydrated,” Lereesa said to Ms. Tosca.
The teacher rose from Russell’s side and nodded. “Okay. Why don’t you escort us down to the clinic, then you can take the kids to their rooms. We haven’t got anything scheduled tonight but settling in and a quiet din …”
“I know,” Lereesa said with a smile. “I’ve got your schedule.”
“Of course. What about our bags?” Ms. Tosca asked distractedly.
“They’ll be delivered to your quarters,” Lereesa assured her. After they’re thoroughly inspected.
There were more than a few fanatical groups who would love to blow up what they called the “Babylon of the sky.” Since there was no easy way to determine who might be a member of said fanatical groups, everything that came aboard was checked and rechecked for possible weapons or explosives. And since most of their guests had to be handled delicately, the station simply pretended that delivering their bags to their quarters was for their convenience instead of for security. A pleasant fiction that everyone conspired to accept.
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 su
re,” 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?”
“That could be a problem,” Joe said thoughtfully. “You don’t have an appointment and he’s a busy guy. How long are you gonna be here?”
With a grimace, Gina said, “Just four days.”
“Yeah,” Christine nodded, “and this is the most free time we’re likely to have.”
Joe looked at them and raised one eyebrow; the row of spikes above it made a rippling, musical sound at the movement and he smiled to see Christine’s mouth open in unconscious appreciation.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got an appointment for Lazro to finish up some work on my back, but I’m gonna be here for another week, so I can reschedule. If you have a couple of hours right now, I’ll let you have my appointment.”
Cries of joy and delight met his suggestion and he rose from his seat.
“C’mon then, we’ve got some traveling to do. You won’t find anybody like Laz here in cotton candy heaven.”
Joe gestured contemptuously at the affluent crowd around them. “Not a tat showing.”
The shop was named Torture Tattoo, as a holo with a faint sonic undertone of screaming proclaimed outside. Most of the storefronts along this corridor were dark, and it was as close to a run-down neighborhood as the station boasted, with color-coded conduits thick on the low ceiling. Inside, it was long and narrow, with a smell much like the hospital’s, but with a harder edge of disinfectant and old, old metal.
Laz was more of a pattern than a person. He was tall and wide and bald, covered with swirling, flashing colors worked into fanciful designs everywhere except the parts covered by a twisted cotton loincloth—and, Gina thought with a start, probably there, too.
He’d chosen bands of designs rather than building out from a single image.
Christine whispered in Gina’s ear. “An unkind person would say he looks like the bargain bin in a ribbon shop.” Their giggles had a nervous edge, and Laz reacted not at all.
His face was hard to read with all that motion going on; actually it was hard to even
see his features, as wild horses in galloping motion were superceded by abstract patterns. But with a flick of a muscle his visage was suddenly naked.
And he was still hard to read, all massive bones and coarse pores, but no trace of beard stubble. The gold rings in his ears moved slightly as he raised his eyebrows.
“We … I want a tat,” Gina said, fighting an impulse to turn half away and talk to him over her shoulder. “A cybertat.”
“That’s the reason people usually come here,” Laz agreed, nodding. He looked at Joe. The boy in leather—and he suddenly looked much more like a boy to both of them— spread his hands.
“They’re only here for four days, Laz,” Joe explained. “I said they could have my appointment. I’ll make another for… say the first week in June?”
“It’s your money and time,” Laz shrugged, with the slightest hint of a smile, before turning to the girls. “Bye.”
He didn’t say much and that was said curtly, and his prices were sky-high, but Gina immediately fell in love with a display of a three-color mandala that swirled clockwise and changed shades, simultaneously, never repeating itself.
“How does it do that?” she said.
Laz smiled again, with a quirking curve of his thick lips. “Chaotic pattern,” he said. “The algorithm is simple, but the permutations are infinite. I call it seminfinity. It runs off your body heat, like the others. Lasts indefinitely.”
“Oh, yeah,” she replied dreamily.
He considered her with a technician’s eye. “It would just about fit on your stomach,” he said. “Use the navel as the pivot, and—”
“No!” Gina said. “What’s the use of a tattoo you only show in the shower?”
“Or to your boyfriend,” Christine said, chuckling even more at Gina’s quelling look.
“I want it in the middle of my forehead.”
He shrugged. “In order to center it right, it’s gotta be smaller, so there’ll be less detail.”
Gina pouted. “I really like this design.”
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