by Susan Juby
“I assure you, my teeth are fine.”
Slater shuddered. Then he climbed to his feet. Grassly couldn’t help watching. How did the boy have so many muscles when all he did was sit on his board, talking about the things he was going to buy?
“So the girls will be back here soon?” asked Slater, yawning and displaying brilliantly white square teeth. Grassly envied the boy his relaxation. He felt on the verge of panic himself, and had to dig deep to remain focused.
“I hope so,” said Grassly.
“Well, then, I guess I better get pumped. Normally a bot keeps me tight, but I guess I’ll have to deal by myself.”
Slater dropped to the floor and lay on his stomach. He began using his arms to push his rigid torso up and down.
“What are you doing?” asked Grassly, afraid the boy was having an attack of some kind, perhaps a late-breaking reaction to the lights.
“Push-ups,” grunted Slater. “If you can’t get the muscles ripped through electro-stim, you got to get down and grind it out.”
“Oh my,” said Grassly, worried about his ability to work with such noises going on in the background. “Will it take long?”
“Hour. Maybe two,” said Slater. He’d begun to thrust his body up so high that he could take his hands off the floor, clap them together, then catch himself and lower back down until his chest nearly touched the floor. The activity looked exhausting.
“You were so quiet before,” said Grassly, as much to himself as to Slater. Not half an hour before, the boy could barely speak. Now he sounded more or less normal, for a party favour. He was pushing up and clapping and talking nonstop. Grassly was happy to see that the effects of the light didn’t last long. But what would it be like to have a whole ship full of enlightened ancestors who very quickly became unenlightened again? Would they all starting pushing up and clapping and talking about shorts and other garments?
It did not bear contemplation.
He turned back to his programming and summoned all his powers of concentration to tune Slater out. Time flew by, and before he knew it, he was finished. He’d reprogrammed the main lights in the Store. All the overheads and light fixtures that were controlled by the feed would now act as enlighteners when they were turned off and turned back on. He had gotten rid of the glitch that had caused the helmet light to flicker when first turned on, rendering Fon and Bright immune to its effects. This time, the lights should come on in a burst, instantly activating the ancestors’ ancient impulse to migrate toward natural light, which in their world was visible only overhead in the Natural Experience.
When the lights were turned back on—if the lights were turned back on—his Sending would succeed or it would fail. He would rescue the ancestors or they would perish.
He was as ready as he would ever be. Whether the ancestors were ready was another question.
In the ship behind him, a single favour continued to push himself up and down like a shorted-out piece of electronics.
23.00
Bright and Fon ducked into a doorway across the street from the House of Pretty Olds. The scene in front of them was so bizarre, Bright forgot that her feet hurt. They hadn’t been able to cut a hole in the membrane, which turned out to be self-sealing, big enough to drive the cart through, so she and Fon had walked all the way from the Natural Experience through Mind Alter and Gaming, until they reached the edge of the Partytainment District, where the House of Pretty Olds stood. Grassly had said to avoid Partytainment, but they had to go there to get the bots and their disguises. Anyway, Bright longed to be in a familiar situation, even for a few minutes.
At the edge of the district, the streets were peculiarly empty and the music had a lonesome, sawing quality to it.
Normally, Pretty Olds drew the smallest crowd. On this day it was fully surrounded, but not by clients. Instead, at least a hundred PS staff swarmed around the building.
“What are they doing?” asked Fon. “Why do the old ones need to be watched by so many PS officers? It’s not like they’re that popular or anything.”
Bright held a finger to her lips.
None of the officers had noticed Bright and Fon; they were all focused on the front door of the House of Pretty Olds. Two PS officers sat in a badly dented cart and others crowded behind it, pushing it ineffectually into the unyielding surface of the door.
“Now there’s a dumb idea,” said Fon.
“Shhhh,” said Bright.
A lone PS officer stood at the rear of the crowd. He kept his right hand tucked into the waist of his pants. “Again,” he shouted, when the cart bounced off the door. “And again!”
Bright propelled Fon forward. The few other people on the streets scurried, heads down, as though afraid to be noticed.
A pair of brown-jumpsuited productives walked past Fon and Bright and didn’t pause to look at them admiringly. Fon stared after them, her perfect face registering shock and hurt feelings.
“They were in a hurry,” said Bright before Fon could shout at the disappearing productives. “Let’s just get home.”
There were no officers in front of the House of Gear. No one was stationed at the entrance to the cart park. No crowd of productives stared up at the Total Access party room, which, to Bright’s trained eye, looked a little empty. Just two or three favours and a single productive danced inside the glass cube.
She told herself it was probably just a mid-shift lull. Everyone was inside having fun and spending credits. She considered which entrance to use. Grassly had said not to let anyone know they were from the House of Gear. He’d said they should wear disguises. That sort of made sense to her, especially considering how strangely the PS officers throughout the Store were acting. But to get into disguise, they needed access to their dressing room.
“Come on,” Bright pulled Fon by the hand onto the ramp that led down into the cart park. They’d go in that way and then up one of the privators.
Inside, the House of Gear looked the same as always, but it felt totally different. Bright couldn’t have said how, but the sensation was unmistakable. A few favours moved about the shadowed hallways, heading to various rooms or to the Choosing Room floor. But their postures were wrong. They appeared to be huddled in on themselves. Even their gear seemed smaller, somehow.
“Are we in the right house?” asked Fon.
Bright nodded.
There was fear in the air. That’s what it was. And it wasn’t the fun kind of fear, like when you fell during a big move and knew the bouncy mat would save you, or when you put a client into a hilarious headlock and hoped he wouldn’t pass out and ask for his credits back. This was a sick-making kind of fear, like an illness passing through the walls and into the people.
It had been too long since she’d had her pills. Her mind was not meant to be so … clear. It was meant to be nicely fuzzed over with a sludgy sense of well-being.
Despite herself, she couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation with Grassly. She didn’t want to remember all those things he had told her. That when you were released, you died and never came back. That he was trying to save her and everyone else from being released. That he planned to take them away on his ship. These memories rattled around in her head like a plastic pellets in the chamber of a fun gun. She tried to ignore them. She would not forget her training just because some strange PS officer told her some nonsense about her contract.
There were no PS officers in sight near the privator. Nor were there any near their dressing room. So far, so good.
Bright snuck a look over the railing at the Choosing Room floor, which was emptier than she’d ever seen it. Perhaps twenty favours danced with lures, and only a few clients milled around between them. A favour came down the slide pole while shooting a six-gun with streamers, and the shouts that greeted her were thin, lonely things. A single bid wand blinked erratically, like Fon’s halo after a bad night.
“So glad I’m not on shift,” muttered Fon.
Once they were in their dressing r
oom, Bright slumped in her chair and stared at her face in the mirror. She looked tired. And hungry. Barely hot at all. The big pink helmet was casting an unattractive shadow over her nose. Stupid hat, she thought. What was the point of working hard to look amazing if she was just going to … die. Her eyes widened at her lack of optimism.
But as soon as Pinkie whirred through the bot door, metal gripper twirling in mechanical eagerness to please, Bright felt herself relax.
“Two nutri with everything, Pink. Plus a double Vit-Awake for each of us.” There was no need to rush. They would get dressed and refreshed, then they’d rescue the bots. Then, if she felt like it, she’d turn the lights on and head back to the Natural Experience to await whatever came next.
Pinkie twittered and made her way to the bot door.
“We should get into disguise,” said Bright.
“And the lights? Didn’t that officer say something about the lights?”
“He said that the lights in the Store are going to go out. Sometime soon. When they do, we’re supposed to go to the Headquarters and turn them back on.”
“If it’s dark out, how will people see us?”
Bright pressed her hands to her temples under the pink helmet. She was too tired to lift it off her head. She was too tired to tell Fon that the whole point of wearing disguises was so that they wouldn’t be seen.
“People will see us later. When we’re promoted to the House of It.”
“Only the most super-elite house in the Store,” said Fon, with satisfaction. “Better clients. Better maintenance. More credits. More personal support.”
Bright thought of the PS officers swarming around the House of Pretty Olds and shuddered in spite of herself.
When Pinkie emerged from the bot door carrying two large glasses of nutri, Bright grabbed hers and her pills. Pinkie whirled around before retracting one of her arms, and it hit the mirror. A long crack appeared across the silvered surface.
Pinkie’s alarm siren went off and Bright patted the top of the bot absently. “Don’t worry about it,” she said.
She tossed back her drink. Within a minute her anxiety had eased and the impact of Grassly’s terrible words had faded. Bright took a moment to enjoy the sensation of not thinking clearly. Then she looked at the racks and into the bins. “Disguise,” she muttered. “Disguise.”
Every single item seemed to shriek, “I’m a party favour at the House of Gear! Stare at me as hard as you can! Then cancel my contract. With extreme prejudice!” That’s pre-pill thinking, she admonished herself. Keep looking.
Even the more boring, fully covered-up looks had elements that made them unmistakably favourlicious. Plumber had the back-of-the-pants feature. Astronaut had the reveal panels.
Bright’s gaze moved to a large package jammed into a corner of one of the gear bins. She could see the silver plates through the plastic wrapping. “Knight,” she said. “That’s a look with excellent coverage.”
She pulled the bulky but lightweight package out of the bin. She’d never worn her knight outfit. Couldn’t risk the low credits such an unrevealing outfit might fetch. Also, mobility was an issue and she’d worried about how she’d be able to get down to the Choosing Room floor safely, never mind dance.
Fon was too busy resurfacing her abrasions to pick an outfit, so Bright decided for her. “Old-Timey Religious,” she said, pulling a shapeless mass of fabric from a hanger.
“No way,” Fon said, staring at the yards of material.
“What don’t you understand about the word ‘disguise'?” asked Bright.
“Only everything!” said Fon. “Such as I don’t see the point.”
“You heard the officer. It’s part of the test.”
“But my outfit’s worse than yours. At least yours is shiny.”
“Fine. You wear the Knights of the Hot Table,” said Bright. For emphasis, and because she was losing her temper, Bright kicked one of the silver panels, which gave an unimpressive clink and dented beneath her foot.
Bright slipped the religious robes over her head. The lengths of fabric weighed almost as much as the knight panels. She tried on the head covering to make sure it would fit over her helmet. It did. The outfit was really quite comfortable and warmed up nicely once she had it on. It was like wearing a bed, and Bright was glad she’d switched with Fon. They weren’t going to be earning any credits for a while anyway. Or maybe ever.
Once dressed, Fon and Bright stared at one another. Fon was more covered than Bright had ever seen her. The knight outfit covered her from chin to toe in thin metallic panels. Her feet were encased in round scales of metal layered on top of one another so they would move with her feet.
“I can’t get the helmet on over my halo,” said Fon.
“Just carry it, then.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“Do my twinklers look nice reflecting off my suit? Am I getting any pretty underlight reflection on my jawline?” Fon asked finally.
Bright felt an odd surge of affection for her dressing-mate. “Definitely. The gleam is killer with your skin tone.”
“Good,” said Fon. She shifted in her shoes and made a clattering noise as she surveyed Bright’s fabric-swathed body. “And you look really, uh, warm.”
Bright gave her the flat eye.
“Well, you do,” said Fon.
“Let’s just get the bots and take them to the Natural Experience. Then, when the stupid lights go out, we’ll go to the Headquarters to turn them back on.”
“How are we going to transport the bots?”
Bright’s shoulders tightened under her voluminous robes. She hadn’t thought that far ahead. It would take forever to walk back to the Natural Experience with two bots in tow, and they’d be very noticeable. Fon’s cart wasn’t big enough for all of them.
Before she could come up with an answer, the Mistress appeared in the doorway. “You girls ready to party?” she slurred.
She’d obviously been riding the mix hard. Her lipstick was rubbed off where she’d been sucking on the scuba mouthpiece, and her eye makeup was smudged halfway down her cheeks, as though she’d actually been in the water and not just wandering around the House of Gear in scuba gear. Bright wondered if the Mistress had accidentally gotten a dose of the light. Parts of her had deflated. Her skin was mottled and damaged from too many tints. The latest cheekbone change hadn’t quite taken: one implant had slipped a couple of inches, so it looked like the Mistress had something hidden in the side of her mouth. Or maybe she’d grown a big muscle there from sucking on the mouthpiece.
“Party?” the Mistress repeated, as though it was too much effort to say the whole slogan.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Bright. Then a thought came to her in a blaze of inspiration. “We have our gear on and we are ready to party, so I thought we could do an adverdrive.”
The Mistress’s gaze followed the length of tube that led around to the mix canister on her back. She turned in a tight circle, as though trying to see behind herself.
“It’s just that I noticed our client numbers are down a bit. You always used to say that adverdrives were important tools for building the brand. And everyone knows you have excellent advertising instincts, ma’am,” continued Bright.
The compliment, or perhaps the mention of low client numbers, seemed to focus the Mistress’s attention. She pursed her lips, which were the latest shape and tint, even though lipstick was smeared all over them. She stared from Bright to Fon. “You bet your jobs I do,” she said. “I know hot. I know parties. I am also a close friend of dancing.”
As though acting without her brain’s permission, one of her hands brought the mouthpiece to her lips, and she took a deep pull. “Get your gear on,” she said, exhaling with a certain savagery.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bright.
Together they finished: “And get ready to party!”
“Who is going on the adverdrive?” asked the Mistress.
Bright swallowed. “I’m driving
Fon and a couple of other … people.”
“Not enough,” said the Mistress, slurring her words only a bit. “The House of Gear is a big party. You need a lot of favours and clients to tell that story. The bus needs to be full.”
“Full,” repeated Bright.
“A fun party takes a lot of people. Especially important with you two looking so … covered.”
The Mistress suddenly looked as fierce and inhuman as she ever had.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bright.
Twenty minutes later, supervised by the Mistress, Bright and Fon had rounded up six more favours and five clients, who now milled around the narrow hallway leading to the cart park. The clients swayed and mimicked the moves of the favours, who erupted into high-pitched screams and random giggles.
One of them took up a chant. “Party!”
“Party!” joined in the rest.
“They’ve got some gear on and they’re ready to party,” mumbled the Mistress to no one.
“Party! Party! Party!” cried the little group as Bright ushered them toward the cart park.
“Build the brand!” said the Mistress.
When they reached the adverbus, a long cart with flashing side panels advertising the House of Gear and equipped with an elaborate sound system to showcase the kind of music featured in the house, Bright told Fon to go get the bots.
“But we can’t,” said Fon. “Nobody brings bots on adverdrives.”
“The whole point of the adverdrive is to bring the bots with us.”
“What if the Mistress sees me?” said Fon.
“She’s out of it. Just tell her … tell her anything. She’ll believe you. I’ll stay down here and get things organized.”
Fon clanked off to the dressing room and Bright began to seat the favours and clients. It took her about one and a half minutes to see that they were not going to do much for the House of Gear brand. Two of the favours were dressed in mascot gear. One wore a giant goat head and another wore a full headpiece with an attachment that looked like the cool kind of toothbrush that people loved because the bristles spun around by themselves so you didn’t have to get all bored moving your hand. The favour’s headpiece didn’t spin, but there was a speaker somewhere inside that blared out a commercial for Spun Fun Dental Delights every four minutes. Both favours wore bikinis beneath their headgear and carried numbers, which they held up every so often, like ring girls—a classic look that could be worn in almost any house.
