A Song Called Youth by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page A

listening.
    Maybe we shouldn’t bring them on these excursions till we can move them out of the dorms, she thought. Maybe it only makes them feel frustrated.
    “Everyone will be able to live there,” Claire said. “Everyone! Not all at once. There will be lots drawn to see who’s first.”
    “Who’s going to program the lottery computer?” Anthony asked, and she wondered if he was really that precocious or if someone had coached him.
    “The computer will be an Admin unit,” she admitted, “but it will be fair. Everyone will have a chance.”
    “But—”
    “Now,” she interrupted, blithely as she could, standing, “let’s go to the arcade!”
    “I don’t wanna go there,” Anthony said, crossing his legs.
    Claire jammed a thumbnail in her mouth, began to chew—then remembered the children were watching and quickly pulled it away, using another finger of that hand to point at Anthony. “Tony, don’t play that game with me. You love the arcade. You spend hours there. You complained when you had to come out here; you said it gave you headaches. Don’t give me that evac about not wanting to—”
    “I like it here, and I want to stay.”
    “Anthony, has someone been—” And then she broke off, seeing the men from TechniWave coming, and she understood it all.
    There were three of them. One with the cam-transmitter. Beside him was a guy with his look so burnished he must be the anchorman. And a third guy, an X-factor, might be the one who’d planned this.
    The cameraman wore a backpack-fed shouldercam/directional mike and a headset; the cam was mounted on his shoulder like a second, robotic head.
    She recognized the reporter, now—Asheem Spengle. He wore the fashionable triple-Mohawk in the technicki colors—white, silver, and gold—and also a white I’m-just-one-of-the-people jumpsuit. He was regular-featured, glib, a human cipher. The third man wore a flatsuit: a suit in which the jacket and vest and tie were false, just lapels and a tie-knot and vest-front sewn onto a one-piece outfit. He was sharp-eyed, coning his lips to seem perpetually thoughtful.
    Anthony jumped up excitedly, seeing them. “Misser Barkin!” he began. “I—”
    The man in the flatsuit shook his head at Anthony but smiled, showing an overbite.
    Anthony caught the cue and shut up. The reporter and the cameraman stopped just a few yards from Claire and the class; the reporter stepped in front of the camera, facing it, his back to Claire, and nodded. The cameraman was already focused, waiting. He hit a switch on his belt. A green light flashed on at the side of the little camera, and Spengle said, “Routen Admin Park talkwid Adminteach Claire Rimplerner stoods—” And went on.
    Stunned, mentally treading water, Claire listened, translating for herself. We’re out in Admin Park talking with administrative teacher Claire Rimpler and her students and trying to get her reaction on a disturbance that was reported to be taking place here—
    Claire thought, Should I just walk away from it? That might make us look pretty bad. And I’m responsible for the kids. And then they’d just quote Anthony. Or whoever’d coached him.
    But then Spengle turned to her and asked her a question.
    The camera was on her. His question had been recorded, Claire’s reply would be recorded, a recording to be edited for a TechniWave transmission to the whole technicki pop of the Colony.
    Translated from technicki:
    Claire: If you want to talk to me, I have to know if this is live or recorded.
    Spengle: We’re recording, Ms. Rimpler.
    Claire: I had two years of communications, and I know that machine: it can transmit. If you’ll do this live so I can say my piece without editing, I’ll submit to an interview. Otherwise I can’t be sure of getting a fair opportunity to reply.
    Spengle: I can’t guarantee—
    Claire: Then I can’t answer questions. It’s not fair.
    Spengle conferred with the flatsuiter.
    Claire used the delay to call Admin on her