into?
Lagrante, Pelayo thought. He might have some ideas. If not, he'd know someone who did or could find out.
A face in front of him morphed into the newest downloadable image of F8. At the same time, the philm manifested on half a dozen other faces in the surrounding crowd as the autoupdate kicked in, instantiating in every cast member who'd preordered the latest release.
"Slavation is near."
Pelayo's head snapped around. The TV stood a few meters away, under the pink awning of a flower kiosk philmed in yellow polka dots and blue daisies.
"Great," he muttered. Just what he needed. He loosened the razor wire on the inside of his belt in case things got nasty. It wouldn't be the first time a philmhead had come after him, hoping to rip a copy of whatever new ware he was testing.
Pelayo started across the street, saw that the cluster of TVs hadn't moved, and veered onto Pacific Avenue, hoping to lose himself in the crowd.
He walked quickly, passing art galleries, clothing stores, cafés, and gift shops philmed in cheerful wa-tercolors. Two blocks later, reflected in the oblique window of a fajizza bar and grill, he spotted the TV doggedly trailing after him, a featureless shadow only partly dissolved by the sunlight.
6
The homeless shelter in Santa Cruz had once been an elementary school, back when kids attended class in person. Even though those days were long past, the wide halls of the three-story building still reverberated with the sporadic outbursts of children... loud, violent squalls that ended as quickly as they began. The elderly residents were worse; their moans drooled endlessly into the night.
Because Nadice was pregnant, she had been assigned a semiprivate cubicle in a second-floor classroom. The cubicle contained a futon that folded into a couch, a collapsible cardboard table, and stackable white plastic trays in which to store her belongings. She shared the classroom with an aged woman who snored when asleep and wheezed when awake. A sun-faded alphabet clung to the walls near the ceiling, Cheshire As, Bs, and Cs stenciled on the ancient plaster. Instead of whiteboards and chalkboards, several Vurtronic screens hung from the earthquake-cracked walls. One was tuned to time- lapse cloud formations. Another followed flocks of migrating birds under the hygienic white glare of the LED track lights. The room's only nonvirtual window faced east and overlooked the ruined tarmac of a fenced playground.
"You can stay a week," one of the social workers who volunteered at the shelter had said when she first arrived. "I'm afraid that's the best I can do. After that..." Her voice trailed off, vaguely apologetic.
The woman's face was pinched, but resolute. Nadice wondered what government regulation lay behind the one-week limit, but didn't argue. "I should be able to find a new place by then," she said. A week was better than nothing.
They sat in a cubicle in a first-floor classroom that had been subdivided into work spaces using recycled sound-absorbent partitions. The tatty fabric on the privacy screens was programmable, and appeared to be networked. All of the screens displayed the same Chinese restaurant motif of golden dragons, verdant, mist-shrouded mountains, and generic pink blossoms.
"Do you have a job?" the social worker asked.
Nadice peeled her gaze from a white crane balanced on one leg in concentric rings of pond water. "I worked for Atherton, Lagos. But I quit after they transferred me here."
"They wanted you to give up the baby for adoption?"
Nadice shook her head. "Abortion."
The social worker grimaced in sympathy, then nodded. It was an all-too-familiar story. The woman rephilmed the palm of her hand, activating a compact d-splay. "You were employed by them in what capacity?"
"Housekeeping."
Information populated the d-splay. "Contract work?"
Nadice nodded. "Five-year indentured." More text scrolled.
"How much time left?"
Nadice forced her gaze from the d-splay. "One year, seven
Lagrante, Pelayo thought. He might have some ideas. If not, he'd know someone who did or could find out.
A face in front of him morphed into the newest downloadable image of F8. At the same time, the philm manifested on half a dozen other faces in the surrounding crowd as the autoupdate kicked in, instantiating in every cast member who'd preordered the latest release.
"Slavation is near."
Pelayo's head snapped around. The TV stood a few meters away, under the pink awning of a flower kiosk philmed in yellow polka dots and blue daisies.
"Great," he muttered. Just what he needed. He loosened the razor wire on the inside of his belt in case things got nasty. It wouldn't be the first time a philmhead had come after him, hoping to rip a copy of whatever new ware he was testing.
Pelayo started across the street, saw that the cluster of TVs hadn't moved, and veered onto Pacific Avenue, hoping to lose himself in the crowd.
He walked quickly, passing art galleries, clothing stores, cafés, and gift shops philmed in cheerful wa-tercolors. Two blocks later, reflected in the oblique window of a fajizza bar and grill, he spotted the TV doggedly trailing after him, a featureless shadow only partly dissolved by the sunlight.
6
The homeless shelter in Santa Cruz had once been an elementary school, back when kids attended class in person. Even though those days were long past, the wide halls of the three-story building still reverberated with the sporadic outbursts of children... loud, violent squalls that ended as quickly as they began. The elderly residents were worse; their moans drooled endlessly into the night.
Because Nadice was pregnant, she had been assigned a semiprivate cubicle in a second-floor classroom. The cubicle contained a futon that folded into a couch, a collapsible cardboard table, and stackable white plastic trays in which to store her belongings. She shared the classroom with an aged woman who snored when asleep and wheezed when awake. A sun-faded alphabet clung to the walls near the ceiling, Cheshire As, Bs, and Cs stenciled on the ancient plaster. Instead of whiteboards and chalkboards, several Vurtronic screens hung from the earthquake-cracked walls. One was tuned to time- lapse cloud formations. Another followed flocks of migrating birds under the hygienic white glare of the LED track lights. The room's only nonvirtual window faced east and overlooked the ruined tarmac of a fenced playground.
"You can stay a week," one of the social workers who volunteered at the shelter had said when she first arrived. "I'm afraid that's the best I can do. After that..." Her voice trailed off, vaguely apologetic.
The woman's face was pinched, but resolute. Nadice wondered what government regulation lay behind the one-week limit, but didn't argue. "I should be able to find a new place by then," she said. A week was better than nothing.
They sat in a cubicle in a first-floor classroom that had been subdivided into work spaces using recycled sound-absorbent partitions. The tatty fabric on the privacy screens was programmable, and appeared to be networked. All of the screens displayed the same Chinese restaurant motif of golden dragons, verdant, mist-shrouded mountains, and generic pink blossoms.
"Do you have a job?" the social worker asked.
Nadice peeled her gaze from a white crane balanced on one leg in concentric rings of pond water. "I worked for Atherton, Lagos. But I quit after they transferred me here."
"They wanted you to give up the baby for adoption?"
Nadice shook her head. "Abortion."
The social worker grimaced in sympathy, then nodded. It was an all-too-familiar story. The woman rephilmed the palm of her hand, activating a compact d-splay. "You were employed by them in what capacity?"
"Housekeeping."
Information populated the d-splay. "Contract work?"
Nadice nodded. "Five-year indentured." More text scrolled.
"How much time left?"
Nadice forced her gaze from the d-splay. "One year, seven
Similar Books
Dressed to Killed
Milton Ozaki
Black Stallion's Shadow
Steven Farley
The Marks of Cain
Tom Knox
Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)
Jean Harrington
Wedding Song
Farideh Goldin
Mary of Nazareth
Marek Halter
Ancient Aliens on the Moon
Mike Bara
The Athena Factor
W. Michael Gear
A Minute on the Lips
Cheryl Harper
Troubletwisters
Garth Nix, Sean Williams