by Susan Juby
Grassly looked around the room. Favours were certainly messy. It was one of their more endearing qualities. Even with bots to clean up after them, they managed to leave a trail of debris everywhere they went: discarded outfits, towels, robes, slippers, makeup and tint applicators, wrappers and pill bottles and empty glasses.
He thought he could tell Bright’s mess from Fon’s. Bright’s was smarter, he decided. It spoke of restlessness, with vague hints of subversion. Fon’s profusion of higher-quality garments and accessories and gear lay about more prettily, yet to Grassly’s eye, not so distinctively.
Grassly gave his head a shake. There was no time for speculation. He needed to pick a protective outfit and be on his way.
He strode to the large gear box and spotted a pile of fabric and unidentifiable gear behind it. He pulled a handful of the items away to reveal two bots, a pink one and a silver one with orange splotches. They crouched in their hiding spot, blinking worriedly.
“It’s okay,” he said. Of course, service bots weren’t sentient, but they were programmed to be responsive to emotions. He found himself relieved to see the little machines. Anyone or anything that wasn’t a PS officer on a rampage was a nice change.
He coaxed the bots out from behind the gear box. “I need you to help me get dressed,” he said. “Something with a lot of coverage.”
The pink bot made a cute, questioning noise, and Grassly felt gently disposed toward it.
“That’s right,” he said in a voice that was nearly a coo. “Thank you.”
The two bots chattered together as their robotic arms delved deep into the gear box and shot into racks of clothing next to the box. Every so often, one would turn around with a garment or a piece of gear clutched in its grippers.
“Your programming is terrible,” Grassly said softly as the pink bot showed him a small white dress with a red logo and the splotched one held up a pair of frilly white balls on a string and shook them to demonstrate how they should be handled.
The poor things were probably under stress thanks to the slaughter in the house and the problems with the feed. If he got angry or frustrated, they might retreat to their hiding place or into a bot chute.
“Bigger,” he said, spreading his arms wide to show what he meant. “Much bigger.”
The bots twittered. The orange one nearly disappeared into the rows of racks, emerging a moment later holding an insulated white suit in one hand and a round, glassed-in head covering in the other.
Not to be outdone, the pink bot held up a bra covered in round mirrors.
“Great. Both of you. Now, can you find me some tape?” said Grassly, taking the garments. When the pink bot turned around to look, Grassly tucked the bra under some clothes draped over a chair.
He began to struggle into the retro spacesuit. It was designed for a female party favour and was much too small.
The sleeves ended halfway down his forearms, and the legs barely reached his shins. It took tremendous effort to squeeze his wide shoulders into it, and the two bots had to work together to seal up the back.
After he forced his feet and hands into the boots and gloves, he had the bots wrap the exposed parts of him with silver tape. He pulled the helmet on and instructed the bots to put an extra few loops of tape around his neck. When he leaned forward so they could reach him more easily, he smacked his head, encased in the shatterproof helmet, on the ready station table. He felt almost nothing, which seemed like a good sign.
When he was thoroughly sealed into the spacesuit, he stood. Tape pulled at his arm and leg hair, but he could move, albeit stiffly.
It was time to go.
“Come on,” he said to the bots.
They whirred and twittered and blinked.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Come with me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Even though he was only speaking to bots, guilt turned lazily in his stomach. “At least, I’ll try not to let anything happen to you,” he corrected. “You can’t stay here. We have terrific robotics maintenance on H51. If we make it there, we’ll get you back into top condition.”
The pink bot whistled. Grassly took that as assent.
Grassly’s knees were constrained by the tight suit and he had to walk with straight legs and ease his weight from side to side. Turning was difficult, so when he got through the door, he simply hoped the bots were following him.
Grassly’s breath was loud in his ears, and the filtration systems on the suit were for show only. As a result, his faceplate fogged up before he made it halfway down the dark walkway. His balance faltered and he wondered if he was about to pitch over the side of the railing and plummet seven storeys to the Choosing Room floor. Behind the faceplate, his night vision dataglasses weren’t much use. Grassly suddenly felt dizzy and staggered sideways. Before he could bump up against the wall, two pairs of strong, slim metal arms reached out and steadied him.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The bots whirred loudly, and he felt them edge in closer on either side of him.
“Thank you,” he said again, letting his gloved hands rest on their rounded tops. Something sparkled in his peripheral vision. Grassly tried to make it out what it was through the film of condensation and blurred night vision. When he realized that the pink bot was holding up the mirrored bra for him, Grassly laughed until the fog inside the helmet became too thick to see through.
His smile faded when he and the bots emerged from the privator on the ground floor and he saw the commander, surrounded by a cadre of PS officers, standing in the Choosing Room, releasers drawn.
29.00
They had been walking through the Gaming District for about twenty minutes when the peculiar feelings started. Bright felt open, somehow, and taller. She wanted to look at everything and everyone. Her steps became longer, easier. Bright had spent years rushing here and there, from stare to stare. Now she was walking down the street like anyone else, and no one cared.
“You know what I’ve always wanted to do?” she said to Fon.
Fon didn’t answer. She was tinkering with her broken halo.
“Watch some games. Like a regular person,” said Bright.
“You mean, like a plain ugly person who is just part of the crowd?” said Fon.
“Well, I guess so.”
Fon shuddered. “Why?”
“It’s hard to pay attention when people are staring at you.”
“I love it when people stare. That’s how I know who I am.”
Bright nodded. She thought that was probably true for Fon. But it wasn’t true for her. Not anymore.
“Let’s just go look at a game,” said Bright. Her breath sandpapered her throat.
“Don’t we have to get to the Headquarters and turn on the lights and all that?”
“We’re walking through Gaming anyway,” Bright pointed out. “We’ll just check out a game as we pass it, then we can turn on the lights, then go get the bots. We’ll only stop for a minute. See what it’s like.”
Fon was nodding. “I get it. If we want to look at stuff and not be noticed, we should do it while it’s still dark and no one can see us not looking our best. You really are good at thinking lately!”
Bright felt a broad smile break over her face. She tried to contain it so it didn’t stretch her collagen into wrinkle territory. Aside from her difficulty drawing a breath, Bright felt lighter than she ever had before. She laughed out loud. Fon joined in. They clasped hands and ran. Their ugly running shoes made hardly any noise against the pavement.
“These shoes,” gasped Fon, after they had run three blocks, “are quite comfortable for running.”
Bright slowed down. Her lungs ached. She couldn’t catch her breath.
“But they’re still gross,” panted Fon.
Bright considered asking Fon if she was having trouble catching her breath, but it was too much work. She just wanted to watch a game for a few minutes. Then they’d go and do the thing with the lights and get the bots and then
… she couldn’t think any farther into the future.
“Look,” said Bright, pointing to a corner where a game of Dazzle had been set up. The game was normally one of the most popular and often drew a hundred spectators. Today, only a handful of people watched and only three people played. The host trained a laser beam into the players’ eyes and then the temporarily blinded players had to make their way through a short obstacle course. It was funny to watch them falling down stairs and hitting their heads on dangle bags. One woman, a productive whose badge identified her as working at Small Toys, ran right into the barrier that was supposed to keep the players on the course. The lightweight wall fell over, and she rolled out onto the street.
“That’s like you!” said Fon.
Bright stared at her. She looked nothing like a productive from Small Toys.
“I mean, with the light and making people blind.”
Bright realized it was true. Strange.
Bright watched the blinded people stumble toward the ring at the end of the course. The few audience members who stood against the barriers didn’t yell or call encouragement or scream when the dazzled players headed the wrong way or got stuck. That must make the game much harder, thought Bright.
“Dumb game,” she said. She and Fon walked on until they reached the Spin ‘n’ Sin. The cup-shaped seats pulsed with blue and yellow lights, vivid against the deep black of the Gaming District.
“I’ve always wanted to ride this one,” said Fon. “Because it looks fun and I’m really into fun. Like, more than most people.”
“Really?” said Bright. “Is that so?”
The operator was nowhere to be seen, and no one sat in any of the cups, which could be operated individually using simple buttons.
“It’s true. When I visit Gaming, the operators and crowd always comment on it. They say, ‘Wow, you’re even funner and more hot than you look.’ Which is extremely fun and hot.”
Bright rolled her eyes so hard she nearly strained an optical muscle.
“Some party favours look good, but they aren’t deep into fun the way I am. Like, they aren’t as well rounded from a fun perspective. I’m really just incredibly fun. So, can we ride it?” asked Fon. She looked at Bright.
With no hair, Fon’s head was surprisingly small. Bright imagined squishing it.
“Sure. I can operate the controls,” Bright said. “Give you a super-spin.”
“You would do that?” breathed Fon. “Just take the controls like that?”
Bright shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Fon looked around. The operator still hadn’t shown up. The entire Gaming District seemed off-kilter as well as underlit.
“Okay,” Fon said. “But only because my commitment to fun is near total, even when my look is not ideal.”
They walked quickly into the enclosure. Bright unfastened the opening to one of the cups and Fon scrambled up. Once Fon was settled in her seat and had latched her seat bar, Bright retreated to the control panel. One of the five cups shown on the panel was lit up with a pulsing green dot. Passenger Secure, read the text.
“Ready?” asked Bright, jabbing the Go Spin button before Fon had a chance to answer.
Fon’s scream was cut off by the swooshing sound the cup made as it rose from the central stalk and began spinning and tilting as though trying to rid itself of its lone passenger.
Bright felt herself smile. She just wished she could see better. Maybe she should put on her helmet. It didn’t go with her sensitive outfit, but there was no one around to notice. She dug in the parachute bag and pulled out the pink construction helmet, then flicked the beam on so she could see Fon. Her smile faded.
Using the force of will that made her a top credit getter, Fon had arranged herself inside the whirling vortex that was the Spin ‘n’ Sin cup so that she looked blurry but alluring. Her lips were pursed, though they threatened to flap in the wind. She’d angled her head so that the wind accentuated her cheekbones. Her overall posture said, “I Love to Party Even Though I’m About to Chuck.”
A familiar jealousy flared in Bright, and she glared down at the control panel. She hit the button that said Reverse, then glanced over at Fon, who was four storeys off the ground, suspended on a thin metal arm inside a glowing blue and yellow cup. The cup slowed, then stopped, and then, as though designed to create long-term clients for maintainers who specialized in injured necks, jerked and began to whirl frantically in the other direction.
The abrupt motion tore another scream out of Fon. Bright’s smile returned.
She looked at the panel. “There must be a Turbo button on here somewhere,” she muttered.
Before she could find it, Fon’s cry pierced the air. “I’m looooving this,” she said. “You should tryyyyy it.”
Bright let out a disgusted little sigh and hit the Stop button.
When the machine lowered the cup to the ground, Bright could barely bring herself to look at Fon. “Let’s go,” she said. “We have to turn the stupid lights back on.”
Fon, whose head was cocked at an acute angle, staggered out of the cup. She steadied herself against one of the arms. “That was great,” she whispered, her voice a rasp. “Really, really fun.” She made a honking noise that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her nose.
“Great,” said Bright. She took off the helmet and stuffed it into the parachute bag. She tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Fon to regain her balance so they could leave for the Headquarters.
But when Fon reached the control panel, she stopped. “Your turn,” she said.
“What?”
“You say you love to have fun too. It’s your turn.”
Bright swallowed and looked around for the operator. Still no sign of him. “We have to turn on the lights,” she said. “It’s important.”
“Are you a favour or are you a boring?” demanded Fon.
Reluctantly, Bright made her way to a cup and got inside.
30.00
Grassly lay strapped to the table in personal maintenance and reflected again that the ancestors did not handle discretion well. He was beginning to sympathize with the Board of Deciders, who had long ago stripped away almost all of the citizens’ opportunities to exercise their free will.
“Tell us who you work with!” demanded the PS officer who held his releaser an inch from Grassly’s nose.
The commander, who stood out of sight in the vicinity of Grassly’s feet, grumbled a question: “Is it Officer Tranger from Gaming? Is he making a move to take control of the PS staff?”
Grassly had no idea who Tranger was or what the commander was talking about.
“Answer the commander or face the consequences!” said the officer, allowing the releaser to drift closer. Grassly could almost feel its heat on his skin.
“Don’t release him by accident!” barked the commander. “We need his information. He’s a suspect and an agent of the opposing forces.”
“Are you behind the air-quality problems?” asked a PS officer to his right.
“Ask him if he destroyed the feed,” said the officer on his left.
Yet another officer, this one standing near his right foot, poked his leg with something sharp.
“Ow,” said Grassly.
“We should use some maintaining tools on him,” said the officer on the right. “Cut him open. Then he’ll talk.”
“Don’t take his tongue. At least, not all of it,” said the officer on his left. “I mean, if we want him to talk.”
Grassly sighed. While it was nice to see the ancestors show a little imagination, the uses they put it to were most disturbing.
He settled his heart rate and thought of his Mother. Like all 51s, Grassly went deep inside himself when stressed. He knew that if his life were to end during his Sending on Earth, it would be sad, but that he would live on in his Mother.
Sure, to leave behind an abbreviated memory would be less desirable than to return triumphant after saving the ancestors and learning all their da
nce moves. He would miss out on getting to mate and having offspring, not to mention the condo and sporty Splinter Continuum ship that were traditional gifts upon completion of a successful Sending, but life would go on for someone, so there was no need to panic. He still felt inclined to panic, however.
The commander and his team had cleverly realized there was something different about Grassly as soon as they saw him taped into his too-tight spacesuit and leading two bots to freedom, and they had arrested him as a spy, although they seemed a bit unclear about what a spy was, exactly.
He’d thrown four of them across the room so hard that they’d smashed into the far wall before he reminded himself that he wasn’t supposed to harm the beings he was trying to rescue. After that, he’d calmed down and allowed them to escort him to personal maintenance, strip off his spacesuit, and strap him to a bed.
There must be easier ways to come of age, he told himself as the officer with the pointy object dug it into his side.
He slowed his breathing further. The air was thick with carbon dioxide. The seal between the ship and the skin hadn’t failed yet, but the functions that kept the air quality in the acceptable range had. The seal would give way any time now. It was a toss-up what would kill him first. He might survive a direct hit with a releaser, which stopped the ancestors’ hearts but might not stop his, at least not right away, but he wouldn’t survive prolonged exposure to Earth’s fouled air, laden as it was with lethal poisons. He was at risk of going down in history as the 51 with the most disastrous Sending ever. The scale of his impending failure could threaten even his Mother’s self-esteem! There was healthy acceptance and then there was accepting the unacceptable. Allowing his entire family unit to be damaged by his actions was the latter. He needed a plan and he needed one immediately.
The voices around him sounded farther away.
“He’s not breathing,” said one.
“Well, if you stopped stabbing him with that thing, he might start!”