David Brin - Earth

Relocation officials tell them — No , you may not use that valley over there; it is reserved for the reindeer .

No, you may not tap the river at that spot; flow rates must be maintained for proper oxygenation.

You must choose one of these proven designs for your houses. You’ll be glad you did when the arctic winter comes, and you wish the walls were thicker still.

Staring at vast reaches of perspiring tundra, swatting persistent gnats and mosquitoes, the newcomers find it hard to imagine this sweltering place blowing neck-deep in snow. Shivering at the thought, they nod earnestly and try to remember everything they are told. Grateful to be here at all, they thank their Russian and Yakut hosts, and promise to be good citizens.

The tall, well-fed Soviets smile. That is well , they say. Work hard. Be kind to the land. Restrict your birth rate as you have promised. Send your children to school. Before, you were Kurds, Bengalis, Brazilians. Now you are people of the North. Adapt to it, and it will treat you well .

The refugees nod. And thinking of all those left behind them, waiting to come to the land of opportunity, they vow once more to do well.

“Watching, all the time watching… goggle-eye geeks. Soon as I get out, I’m gonna Patagonia, buy it? That’s where the youth growth is. More ripe fruit like us, Cuzz. And not so many barrel spoilers… rotten old apples that sit an’ stink and stare atcha…” Remi agreed with Crat’s assessment as the three of them strode side by side down a gravel path through the park. Roland also expressed approval, nudging Crat’s shoulder. “That’s staccato code, boy-oh.”

What brought on Crat’s sudden outburst was the sight of yet another babushka, glaring at them from a bench under one of the force-grown shade trees as Remrand Roland and Crat scrambled up a grassy bank from the culvert where they’d been smoking. The very moment they came into view, the old woman laid her wire-knitting aside and fixed them with the bug-eyed, opaque gape of her True-Vu lenses — staring as if they were freaks or aliens out of some space-fic vid, instead of three perfectly normal guys, just hanging around, doing nobody any harm.

“My, my!” Remi whined sarcastically. “Is it my breath? Maybe she smells… tobacco!

“No joke, bloke,” Roland replied. “Some of those new goggles’ve got sniffer sensors on ’em. I hear the geek lobby in Indianapolis wants to put even home-grown on the restrict list.”

“No shit? Tobacco? Even? Roll over, Raleigh! I just gotta move outta this state.”

“Settlers ho, Remi?”

“Settlers ho.”

The stare got worse as they approached. Remi couldn’t see the babushka’s eyes, of course. Her True-Vu’s burnished lenses didn’t really have to be aimed directly at them to get a good record. Still, she jutted out her chin and faced them square on, aggressively making the point that their likenesses, every move they made, were being transmitted to her home unit, blocks from here, in real time.

Why do they have to do that ? To Remi it felt like a provocation. Certainly no one could mistake her tight-lipped expression as friendly .

Remi and his pals had promised their local tribes supervisor not to lose their tempers with “senior citizens on self-appointed neighborhood watch.” Remi did try, really. It’s just another geek. Ignore her .

But there were so gor-sucking many geeks! According to the Net census, one in five Americans were over 65 now. And it felt far worse in Bloomington — as if oldsters were a ruling majority, staking out every shady spot with their electronic sun hats and goggle-scanners, watching from porches, watching from benches, watching from lawn chairs…

It was Crat whose reserve broke as they approached that baleful inspection. Suddenly he capered. “Hey, granny!” Crat bowed with a courtly flourish. “Why don’t you record this!” Roland giggled as Crat swept off his straw cowboy hat to display a garish scalp tattoo.

Merriment redoubled when she actually reacted! A sudden moue of surprise and revulsion replaced that glassy stare. She rocked back and turned away.

“ Astonishing !” Roland cried, mimicking their least favorite teen-behaviors teacher at J. D. Quayle High School. He continued in a snooty, midwestern drawl. “It should be noted that this small urban band’s totemistic innovation achieved its desired effect… which was? Anybody?”

“ Shock value !” all three of them shouted in unison, clapping hands, celebrating a minor victory over their natural enemy.

Used to be, you could break a babushka’s stare with an obscene gesture or show of muscular bluster — both protected forms of self-expression. But the biddies and codgers were getting harder to shake. Any time nowadays you actually made one of them yank back that awful, silent scrutiny was a triumph worth savoring.

“Freon!” Crat cursed. “Just once I’d like to catch some goggle geek alone, with fritzed sensors and no come-go record. Then I’d teach ’em it’s not polite to stare .”

Crat emphasized his point with a fist, smacking his palm. Today, since it was cloudy, he had forsaken his normal Stetson for a plaid baseball cap, still acceptable attire for a Settler. His sunglasses, like Remi’s, were thin, wire framed, and strictly for eye protection. Nothing electronic about them. They were a statement, repudiating the rudeness of geriatric America.

“Some people just got too much free time,” Roland commented as the three of them sauntered near the babushka, barely skimming outside the twenty-centimeter limit that would violate her “personal space.” Some oldsters were gearing up with sonar, even radar, to catch the most innocent infraction. They went out of their way to tempt you, creating slow-moving bottlenecks across sidewalks whenever they saw young people hurrying to get somewhere. They hogged escalators, acting as if they hoped you’d bump them, giving them any excuse to squeeze that police-band beeper, or raise the hue and cry, or file a long list of nuisance charges.

These days, in Indiana, juries were composed mostly of TwenCen grads anyway. Fellow retirement geeks who seemed to think youth itself a crime. So naturally, a guy had to accept the endless dares, skirting the edge whenever challenged.

“Granny could be doin’ something useful,” Crat paused to snarl, bending to really scrape the zone. “She could be gardening or collectin’ litter. But no! She’s gotta stare!”

Remi worried Crat might spit again. Even a miss would be a four-hundred-dollar fifth offense, and despite Granny’s averted gaze those sensors were still active.

Fortunately, Crat let Remi and Roland drag him out of sight into the formal hedge garden. Then he leaped, fist raised, and shouted, “Yow, tomodachis!” pumped by nicotine and a sweet, if minor, victory. “Patagonia, yeah!” Crat gushed. “Would that be dumpit great? Kits like us run it all there.”

“Not like here, in the land o’ the old and the home of the grave,” agreed Remi.

“Huh, say it! Why, I hear it’s better’n even Alaska, or Tasmania.”

“Better for Settlers!” Roland and Remi chanted in unison.

“And the music? Fuego-fire’s the only beat that Yakuti Bongo-Cream can’t meet.”

Remi didn’t care much about that. He liked the idea of emigrating for other reasons.

“Naw, cuzz. Patagonia’s only the first step. It’s a staging area, see? When they open up Antarctica , settlers from Patagonia’ll have the jump. Just a hop across the water.” He sighed. “We’ll have new tribes, real tribes when the ice melts enough. Set it up our way. Real freedom. Real people.”