THIS MORTAL COIL
The world may end later than the year 2060, but I see no reason for its ending sooner. This I mention not to assert when the time of the end shall be, but to put a stop to rash conjectures of fanciful men who are frequently predicting the time of the end, and by doing so bring the sacred prophesies into discredit.
– Sir Isaac Newton
How might our world be different, if our literature, to say nothing of our politics, behaved more like a rational, intrepid adult than a hand-wringing adolescent?
– Kim Stanley Robinson
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48.
The Silverdome was crowded. With winter coming, more deepees wandered in to escape the night chill, even if it meant serving on work crews and listening to preachucators while slurping free alganoodles, spiced with pulp- grade chicktish meat.
Arriving for his shift, Slawek groaned when he saw how many newcomers had arrived on the mezzanine level, erecting cots, privacy curtains, and cheap, pixelcloth vid-screens to distract the kids, perching it all on metlon-and- plyboard platforms that covered the old stadium seating.
Slawek passed an ottodog, sniffing for contraband, then hurried past the Big Placard of Rules painted in no- overlay red-the hue that specs were never supposed to cover or conceal. Though it only took some dime hackerware to change the spectral pattern of your goggles. Slawek knew a dozen u-levels where this sign had been defaced with crude mockings. Resentment toward authority was rising, among the Silverdome’s rowdier ethnics.
Aleksei “Danny” Hutnicki was in charge at Duty Station, where a banner-chart of work parties kept changing as laborers reported for assignments, got excused for sick call, or else came back from one of the homestead zones of Old Detroit. Aleksei glanced up and grimaced.
“You’re late. You never used to be, when you slept here.”
“Yeah, well.” That was before Slawek packed off to one of the Silverdome’s satellite projects, two dozen homes-a couple of city blocks-that were being reclaimed as a commune-complete with dairy, greenhouse, school, and some glass-covered ex-basements converted into algae farms. Still, you had to put in time here, at the main center, if you wanted to advance.
“The jitney bus broke down. Had to use my skutr.”
“Hm.” Aleksei looked dubious. Scanning the Duty Board. “Let’s see what I can find that’s right for you…” He seemed to be looking for a shit job to give Slawek.
But it wasn’t hard to in-spec the fellow’s facials, using cheapware to correlate flush tones and iris dilation.
Sure enough, Aleksei waggled a couple of fingers and the big board flickered. Slawek’s specs automatically zoomed on his name and the adamant word next to it.
ENFORCEMENT.
His face stayed impassive-he had been practicing with a feedback program. But Slawek’s soulvatar, responding to involuntary nerve twitches, expressed his disappointment by cursing and stomping in its private little capsule of subreality-a slightly sinful e-tantrum that the little homunculus thereupon commenced to pray-off, kneeling and offering fervent Hail Marys, observable only by Porfirio and God.
Meanwhile, placid on the surface, Slawek turned and headed toward the nearest ramp leading upward, into the higher galleries of the ancient domed stadium.
Slawek was less upset about getting enforcement duty when he learned he would be doing rounds with Dr. Betsby. It offered a chance to ask questions. Though first the doc had a few of his own, as they visited family encampments on the mezzanine level.
“Have you been keeping up with your studies, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Slawek answered a bit nervously. This man had the power to yank him off aixperience tutorials, and send him back into an old-timey classroom, alongside petulant teens who made life miserable for their flesh-’n’- blood teachers.
