Living Hell Read Free Page B

were courts and gymnasiums, and enough open space to kick a ball around.
    Not that you could just wander in to play ball whenever you felt like it. Access to the Health Centre was strictly rationed, so that everyone received enough ‘free-motion’ exercise time. Competitive sport took place on Sundays, and you could watch the games if you felt like it.
    Everything had been carefully thought out for our comfort and convenience. I can hardly believe that now. I can hardly believe we were so important.
    Why didn’t I savour it while I could?
    Anyway, when I arrived back from Haemon’s party, my mother was already in our cabin. She was doing three things at once: loading the laundry dump, studying the Interface Array, and talking to someone at MedLab. In those days, Plexus had a very complex communication system. You could log on to the Visual Interlink Network (VIN) wherever there was an Interface Array, and the visuals would pop up like a window on a wall. (We used to call it Vindow, because of this portal effect.) There was also a voice patch sewn into the collar of every garment, which allowed you to talk to any person on board. The ID bands around our wrists did more than monitor our vital signs. Each one contained a genetic signature that served as a lock-in code. By tracking our genetic signatures, CAIP – our Core Artificial Intelligence Program – could route signals from one person to another.
    ‘I’ll have to go, Sadira, Cheney just walked in,’ my mother declared, upon catching sight of me. ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. After I’ve read that report. Linkdown.’ She signed off. ‘How was the party?’
    ‘Good,’ I said. The three-dimensional diagram displayed on the family-room Interface Array was labelled ‘Proopiomelanocortin chain.’ Mum had obviously brought some work home with her. ‘We finished early. Firminus had to run some charts,’ I continued, and seated myself at the table. ‘Do you know why?’
    ‘Some kind of anomaly, your father says.’ Mum went to the food dispenser, and keyed in directives. ‘He won’t be eating with us. He has to stay on the Bridge, for now.’
    ‘Really?’ I was surprised. ‘Is it an emergency?’
    ‘Of course not. We’d be on red alert if it was.’
    ‘Is that curry?’
    ‘I think so.’ Mum lifted the cover on the first tray, and sniffed. ‘Yes. That’s curry.’
    We ate our supper. Mum asked about the party, and I asked about Yestin, who hadn’t been able to attend. According to Mum, Yestin’s artificial osteocytes weren’t behaving quite like the real thing. ‘But we’re sorting it out,’ she assured me.
    Yestin’s health was of great concern to my mother.
    She was fifty-one, then (seventy-five in real time), but she didn’t look it. Her hair was still brown, straight and fine and cut in short wedges. Her voice was still strong, and her movements brisk and full of purpose. Though small, she had a dominating presence – perhaps because of her large, pale, penetrating eyes. She always wore red. Not that she had much choice, mind you. Our clothes only came in four colours: red, navy, black and beige. But given even this small selection, my mother always, always wore red.
    ‘My turn to clear up,’ she announced when she had finished, and leapt to her feet. She was one of those people who are always darting around like electrons. You didn’t often see her sitting still, unless she was studying a cardiograph or something. (My father called her Comet.) ‘Weren’t you going to play chess with your dad tonight?’
    ‘I think so.’
    ‘You’ll have to find someone else to play with, then.’
    ‘I think I’ll visit Sloan. We missed our Hobnob, because of the party.’
    ‘Are you sure he’s not at work? Sadira was complaining how she never sees him any more. He’s always got his nose stuck in some Petri dish . . .’
    ‘I’ll visit him at work, then.’
    Sloan and I met three times a week, for an hour in the late afternoon. These