David Brin - Earth

Roland glanced at him sidelong. Months ago they had qualified as a youth gang, which meant mandatory tribal behaviors classes. That was okay, but Remi’s friends sometimes worried he might actually be listening to what the profs were saying. And sometimes he did have to fight that temptation… the temptation to be interested.

No matter. It was a good afternoon to be with pals, drooping out in the park. It was well past the sweltering heat of midday — when those without air-conditioning sought shade in the hedge garden for their siestas — so right now people were scarce in this section of the garden. Just a couple of seedy ragman types, slumped and snoring under the fragrant oleanders. Whether they were dozers or dazers, Remi couldn’t tell from here. As if the difference mattered.

“Real privacy , maybe,” Roland agreed. “You just make sure that’s in the constitution, Rem, if they nom you to write it.”

Remi nodded vigorously. “Dumpit A-okay! Privacy! No gor-suckers watchin’ your every move. Why, I hear back in TwenCen… aw, shit.”

Sure enough, bored with just talking, Crat had gone over the top again. With no one in sight from this hedge-lined gravel path, he started drum-hopping down a line of multicolored trash bins, rattling their plastic sides with a stick, leaping up to dance on their flexing rims.

“ Sweet perspiration… Sweat inspiration …” Crat chanted, skipping to the latest jingle by Phere-o-Moan.

“ Sniffin’ it stiffens it… ” Roland countertimed, catching the excitement. He clapped, keeping time.

Remi winced, expecting one of the bins to collapse at any moment. “Crat!” he called.

“Damn what, damn who?” His friend crooned from on high, dance-walking the green container, shaking its contents of grass cuttings and mulch organics.

“U-break it — U-buy it,” Remi reminded.

Crat gave a mock shiver of fear. “Look around, droogie. No civic-minded geepers, boy-chik. And cops need warrants.” He hopped across to the blue bin for metals, making cans and other junk rattle.

True, no goggle-faces were in sight. And the police were limited in ways that didn’t apply to citizens… or else even the aphids on the nearby bushes could be transmitting this misdemeanor to Crat’s local youth officer, in real time.

“ An aroma for home-a, and a reek for the street …”

Remi tried to relax. Anyway, what harm was Crat doing? Just having a little fun, was all. Still, he reached his limit when Crat started kicking wrappers and cellu-mags out of the paper-recycle bin. Misdemeanor fines were almost badges of honor, but mandatory-correction felonies were another matter!

Remi hurried to pick up the litter. “Get him down, Rollie,” he called over his shoulder as he chased a flapping page of newsprint.

“Aw petrol! Lemme ’lone!” Crat bitched as Roland grabbed him around the knees and hauled him out of the last container. “You two aren’t sports. You just—”

The complaint cut short suddenly, as if choked off. Picking up the last shred of paper, Remi heard rhythmic clapping from the path ahead. He looked up and saw they were no longer alone.

Bleeding sores , he cursed inwardly. All we needed were Ra Boys .

Six of them slouched by the curving hedge, not five meters away, grinning and watching this tableau — Remi clutching his flapping load of paper, and Roland holding Crat high like some really homely ballerina.

Remi groaned. This could be really bad .

Each Ra Boy wore from a thick chain round his neck the gleaming symbol of his cult — a sun-sigil with bright metal rays as sharp is needles. Those overlay open-mesh shirts exposing darkly tanned torsos. The youths wore no head coverings at all, of course, which would “insult Ra by blocking the fierce love of his rays.” Their rough, patchy complexions showed where anti-one creams had sloughed precancerous lesions. Sunglasses were their only allowance for the sleeting ultraviolet, though Remi had heard of fanatics who preferred going slowly blind to even that concession.

One thing the Ra Boys had in common with Remi and his friends. Except for wristwatches, they strode stylishly and proudly unencumbered by electronic gimcrackery… spurning the kilos of tech-crutches everyone over twenty-five seemed to love carrying around. What man , after all, relied on crap like that?

Alas, Remi didn’t need Tribal Studies 1 to tell him that was as far as teen solidarity went in the year 2038.

“Such a lovely song and dance,” the tallest Ra Boy said with a simper. “Are we rehearsing for a new amateur show to put on the Net? Do please tell us so we can tune in. Where will it be playing? On Gong channel four thousand and three?”

Roland dropped Crat so hurriedly, the Ra Boys broke up again. As for Remi, he was torn between a dread of felonies and the burning shame of being caught picking up litter like a citizen. To walk just three steps and put it in the bin would cost him too much in pride, so he crumpled the mass and stuffed it in his pocket — as if he had plans for the garbage, later.

Another one joined the leader, sauntering forward. “Naw, what we have here… see… are some neo-fem girlie-girls… dressed up as Settlers. Only we caught them being girlie when… when they thought no one was looking!” This Ra Boy seemed short of breath and a bit droopy eyed. Remi knew he was a dozer when he lifted an inhaler and took a long hit of pure oxygen from a hip flask.

“Hmm,” the tall one nodded, considering the proposition. “Only problem with that hypothesis is, why would anyone want to dress up like a gor-sucking Settler in the first place?”

Remi saw Roland seize the growling Crat, holding him back. Clearly the Ra Boys would love to have a little physical humor with them. And just as clearly, Crat didn’t give a damn about the odds.

But even though no geeps were watching now, dozens must have recorded both parties converging on this spot… chronicles they’d happily zap-fax to police investigating a brawl after the fact.

Not that fighting was strictly illegal. Some gangs with good lawyer programs had found loopholes and tricks. Ra Boys, in particular, were brutal with sarcasm… pushing a guy so hard he’d lose his temper and accept a nighttime battle rendezvous or some suicidal dare, just to prove he wasn’t a sissy.

The tall one swept off his sunglasses and sighed. He minced several delicate steps and simpered. “Perhaps they are Gaians , dressing up as Settlers in order to portray yet another endangered species . Ooh. I really must watch their show!” His comrades giggled at the foppish act. Remi worried how much longer Roland could restrain Crat.

“Funny,” he retaliated in desperation. “I wouldn’t figure you could even see a holo show, with eyes like those.”

The tall one sniffed. Accepting Remi’s weak gambit, he replied in Posh Speech. “And what, sweet child of Mother Dirt, do you imagine is wrong with my eyes?”

“You mean besides mutant ugliness? Well it’s obvious you’re going blind, oh thou noonday mad dog.”

Sarcasm gave way to direct retort. “The Sun’s rays are to be appreciated, Earthworm. Momma’s pet. Even at risk.”

“I wasn’t talking about UV damage to your retinas, dear Mr. Squint. I refer to the traditional penalty for self-abuse.”

Paydirt! The Ra Boy flushed. Roland and Crat laughed uproariously, perhaps a little hysterically. “Got him, Rem!” Roland whispered. “Go!”

From the scowls on the Ra Boys’ patchy faces, Remi wondered if this was wise. Several of them were fingering their chains, with the gleaming, sharp-rayed amulets. If one or more had tempers like Crat’s …