Lacey met the creature’s baleful eye. A stunning, blond princess stood at the other end of this linkup, gazing outward through that eye, no doubt wondering why a fellow multi-trillionaire would take eccentricity so far, choosing to build an epic-scale ego monument amid frigid peaks, where no one but specialists would ever see it.
“All right,” Lacey sighed. “I’ll attend.”
Lacey cursed. “Oh, crud! I promised I’d tune in and watch! Sorry, Helena. I’ve got to go.”
A few seconds later, delayed by lightspeed and bioelectronics, the bird replied with the voice of a woman standing on another mountaintop, halfway around the world.
The bird followed Lacey with its tired gaze as she hurried up the steps of a shiny new observatory dome, the size of Saint Peter’s, still festooned with dedication ribbons, containing the Lacey Donaldson-Sander Farseeker Telescope.
Her cathedral.
Then, with a soft croak of surprise and despair, the parrot keeled over, smoke curling from both nostrils.
Hello and welcome to your new-temporary home beneath the great roof of the Detroit-Pontiac Silverdome! I’m Slawek Kisiel. I am fourteen years old and a deepee-displaced person-just like you. I’ll be your virt-guide today.
Under the Michigan Resettlement Act, you and your family may live here for up to six months while you homestead and restore an abandoned house in one of the renewal neighborhoods. Whether you come from the EuroFreezone, or you’re fleeing the Big Kudzu, or you just need some more time to get over Awfulday, we’re happy to help.
As I said, I’m just another deepee trying to learn better Midwest Amer-English. So when we meet in person, for the reality part of our tour, don’t expect me to talk like this avatar does, in your native tongue! Speak slow, so my earwair can keep up. And come with your own listenplugs turned on.
Oh, while we’re on the subject of wair, we can only provide one free pair of Vuzix spectacles per family, and just five square meters of pixelated cloth to make teevees and touchvees out of. Budgets are tight. So share.
There are
But first some boring-needful stuff.
NO WEAPONS, QUASI-WEAPONS OR CHEM-TECH
Molecumacs or venterfabs must be inspected
NO UNAPPROVED DRUGS OR MOD-SUBSTANCES
have ’em checked out at the clinic; (we have good sniffers!)
USE PROPER SANITATION
no balcony dumping! (that means YOU mezzanine-dwellers)
PRIVACY IS AN EARNED PRIVILEGE
CHILDREN ATTEND SCHOOL
ESSORS MUST GET HELP
EVERYONE WORKS
NO “MEDITATION” BETWEEN 0900 AND 1800 HOURS
There are many more and you better study them. Like banned organizations.
Okay? Then enjoy the rest of the virtual tour. There’s a comedy version on simlayer 312, a rhyming translation on 313, and a monster-fantasy rendering on 314. Then hop to layer 376 and take the required (but fun!) quiz.
Finally, join me for the best part-the live-reality-walking portion. It begins at 1500 hours, in front of Didja- Jamaica’s Ganja Bar.
7.
“Thanks for coming on short notice, Mr. Brookeman.”
Crandall Strong’s clasp seemed calm and assured, with fingers almost as long as Hamish had. The impression was a far cry from Tuesday’s infamous rant, when the senator’s body seemed wracked with nervous tremors, veins throbbing as he babbled about dark conspiracies before several hundred luncheon guests, float-cameras, and aiwitnesses.
Here in the senator’s outer office, loyal staffers bustled like a normal day. Though any acute observer-like Hamish-could sense undercurrents. Instead of lobbyists and constituents, there were mostly media stringers, banished to a far corner, gangly youths who muttered and twiddled their fingers, roaming virtual worlds but still on the job, staking out this office, ready to hop up and record if the senator went newsworthy again. Because a living, breathing citizen had rights and… hey, it was employment.
“Happy to oblige,” Hamish replied, taking in the senator’s distinctive gray locks, tied back in a proud ponytail, framing craggy features and a complexion that seemed permanently tanned by years spent under the Central American sun. He was a tall man, almost matching Hamish in height. Fine clothes and expensive manicure contrasted with callused rancher’s hands that were both muscular and clearly accustomed to rigorous-if happy- toil.
“You’ve been a leader in our Movement, Senator. I figure you’re entitled some benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s a minority opinion.” Strong tilted his head ruefully. “This town quickly turns on its own. Right now, a lot of folks wish I’d just go back to pushing pills and the gospel in Guatemala.”
Hamish winced. Those were his own words, expressed yesterday on a semiprivate fanbuzz-just before he got the call to fly down here and see Strong. Fanbuzz statements were “unofficial,” protected by pseudonyms. The senator was pointing out that he still held tools of power.
“We all say things, now and then, that we’d rather not see made public. Sir.”
“True enough. Which makes what I did last Tuesday…” Strong paused. “But let’s go to my inner office. I have a small favor to ask, before business.”
He motioned for Hamish to enter past a trio of spectacularly well-dressed secretaries-one male, one female, and one deliberately androgynous, all three of them clearly recipients of high-end face sculpting-into a sanctum that was adorned by art and souvenirs of the American West. With a practiced eye for fine things, Hamish scanned the room, comparing it to a web-guided tour he had taken on the private jet coming here. He dropped into a narrative inner voice. Wriggles-his digaissistant-would tap Hamish’s laryngeal nerves and transcribe it all.
