The Naked God — Flight

Confederation uses them. Joshua has a set. It’s only Norfolk which doesn’t allow them. She raised her arm, and looked at the discreet medical nanonic package bracelet. Also banned on Norfolk, yet it was helping her pregnancy. That settled it. She grinned, emboldened by her decision. I have to take responsibility for myself now. If I need neural nanonics to help me on Earth, then I will get myself a set.

They hadn’t left the room since arriving at the hotel. Lunch had been a snack delivered by room service. Genevieve had flopped on her bed in weary disgust at the inactivity, and activated her own block. She was smothered by a laser-haze of grid lines and feisty fantasy beasts which leapt about enthusiastically at every excitable shouted command.

“Gen?”

The projection shrank. Genevieve blinked up at her, trying to focus. Louise was sure that being immersed in the projection so much was bad for her little sister’s eyesight.

“What?”

“We’re going out. I can’t get the hang of the desktop block, so I’m going to buy some neural nanonics instead.” There, she’d said it out loud. There’d be no backing down now.

Genevieve stared at her in astonishment. “Oh Louise, don’t tease so. We’re not allowed.”

“We weren’t allowed. We’re on Earth, now, remember. You can do anything you want here as long as you’ve got money.”

Genevieve cocked her head to one side. Then the most charming smile graced her face. It didn’t fool Louise for a second. “Please, Louise. Can I have one, too? You know I’ll never be allowed once we get home.”

“I’m sorry. You’re not old enough.”

“I am!”

“Gen, you’re not. And you know you’re not.”

She stamped her foot, little fists clenched in outrage. “That’s not fair! It’s not. It’s not. You always pick on me coz I’m the youngest. You’re a bully.”

“I’m not picking on you. You just can’t have one, your brain is still growing. They can’t connect it. I checked. It’s not legal, and it’ll do a lot of damage to your brain cells. I only just scrape in if you measure my age in Earth years.”

“I hate being small.”

Louise put her arms round the girl, reflecting on how much she’d done so since leaving home. They never used to hug much before. “You’ll be bigger one day,” she whispered into her sister’s fluffed up hair. “And things are going to be different when we get home.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yes.”

The receptionist seemed rather amused at being asked, in a lofty sort of way. But she was helpful enough, telling Louise that Oxford Street and New Bond Street were probably their best bet for clothes, while Tottenham Court Road was where they would find any conceivable kind of electronics. The sisters were also assured these areas were safe for girls to walk through by themselves. “And the hotel runs a courtesy collection service for any items that you purchase.” She handed over an authorization disk, keyed to Louise’s biolectric pattern.

Louise loaded a comprehensive street map into her block, taken from the hotel’s memory; and combined it with the guidance program. “Ready?” she asked Gen. “Let’s go spend the family fortune.”

Aubry Earle had spoken the truth on the lift capsule when he told them arcology dwellers would always respect their privacy. Out on the street, Louise couldn’t quite work out how people always slid to one side at the last second. She was constantly scanning bodies all round to try and find a way through the gaps, while locals moved as smoothly as the automated traffic without ever once glancing in her direction. Some of the pedestrians quite literally glided past. People their own age wearing calf-high boots with soles that seemed to flow over the pavement slabs without any resistance. Genevieve watched their effortless progress with admiration and longing. “I want some boots like that,” she said.

A subwalk got them under Piccadilly and into New Bond Street. It turned out to be a dainty little pedestrian lane, lined with enchanting boutiques whose marble frontage was embossed with brass lettering saying when they’d been established. None of them were under three centuries old, while some claimed to be over seven. The labels on show meant nothing to either of them, but judging by the prices they must have been admiring the most exclusive designer garments on the planet.

“It’s gorgeous,” Louise sighed longingly at a shimmering scarlet and turquoise evening gown, sort of like an all-over mermaid’s tail—except it wasn’t all-over, nowhere near. It was the kind of thing she would love to wear at a summer ball on Norfolk. The planet had never seen its like before.

“Then buy it.”

“No. We’ve got to be sensible. Just everyday clothes that we need to get about in the arcology. Remember, one day I’ll have to explain the entire bill to Daddy.”

The evening gown was just the start of New Bond Street’s provocative temptations. They trailed past window displays she could have bought en masse.

“We’ll have to have supper in the hotel dining room,” Genevieve suggested artfully. “I bet they won’t let us in unless we dress up.”

It was an insidious suggestion. “Okay. One dress. That’s all.”

They dashed across the threshold of the boutique in front of them. Privacy didn’t apply inside the shop; three assistants swooped eagerly. Louise explained what they wanted, and then spent the next forty-five minutes ricocheting in and out of a changing room. She and Gen would look at each other, comment, and go back for the next trial.

She learned a lot in the process. The assistants were very complimentary about the sisters’ hair. Except . . . on Earth, it was fashionable to have actives woven among the strands. Their one-piece suits with big pockets, were current, but not that а la mode. Yes, Oxford Street stores were perfect for buying streetfashion clothes, and we recommend these. Louise could have sworn she heard the block’s memory creaking under the load of names they entered. She used her Jovian Bank credit disk with only a momentary twinge of guilt.

Out on the street again, they laughed at each other. Gen had wound up with a scarlet dress and deep- purple jacket. While Louise had bought herself a full length gown of deepest blue, that was made from a material crossed between velvet and suede. There was also a short ginger-coloured waistcoat to go with it, which complemented its square cut neck.

“It’s true,” Louise said happily. “Retail therapy actually works.”

They didn’t get directly to Oxford Street. There was a stop at a salon at the top of New Bond Street first. The beauticians made an incredible fuss over them, delighted with so much raw material to work on. The owner himself came over to direct the operation (once their credit rating had been verified).

After two hours, several cups of tea, and enthralling the staff with an edited version of their travels, Louise had the wrap taken off. She stared in the mirror, not believing she’d spent her life tolerating unmanaged hair. Norfolk’s simplistic regime of washing, conditioners, and sturdy brushing was barbaric ineptitude. Under the salon’s professional auspices her hair had become lustrous, individual strands conducting a little starlight shimmer of light along their length. And it flowed. Every day of her life she’d held that thick mane in place with clips and ribbons, sometimes getting the maid to braid fanciful bands. Flexitives made all that irrelevant. Of its own accord, her hair fell back over her shoulders, always keeping itself tidy and together in one large tress. It also rippled subtly, as if she was engulfed in her own permanent private breeze.

“You look beautiful, Louise,” Genevieve said, suddenly shy.

“Thank you.” Gen’s hair had been straightened, darkened, and glossed, its hem curling inwards slightly. Again, it held its shape no matter what.

Stalls were lined up against the road barriers, filled with brassy, cheaper items than those in the shops. Genevieve saw one with pairs of the magical boots hanging from the awning. Slipstream boots, the cheerful owner told her as he found some her size. Popular with the under fifteens because you didn’t need neural nanonics to