fascinated by the Network until the day she dies, so help her goddess. Look at this little one who’s darted over to nibble at her sharpened fingernail! This simulation of life, this frolicking little billionth of a billionth of a galaxy-spanning Network—how could you not want to see her play? Yes, she’s part of an advertisement, created for no purpose but increasing someone’s bottom line. But look at her! Look at the cloud of others that follows her! They play so realistically around her hands and sleeves that she very nearly breaks the silence of the corridor by laughing aloud.
[So anyway my father wants me to go into civil administration], says a new rush of symbols ahead of her. They are beautifully styled in silver, hovering in midair next to a student named [Rama] and then fading away as soon as Sarya has read them. So many thoughts! Everywhere! And Sarya would never have known if not for her Network unit. All her life, she’s been missing ninety-five percent of reality.
[I thought you were thinking xenobiology?] says another student. This is [Jina], according to her Network unit. Jina’s letters flash a glittering blue, spilling into smoke as Sarya’s eyes take them in.
[Shrug], says Rama. Sarya didn’t catch the gesture but her Network unit apparently did, and here it is, captured and translated into silver meaning. [No facility in this system], she says. [And you know how my dad feels about Network travel.]
[Laughter], says Jina in a burst of blue. [Aren’t you a little old to worry about that?]
But it is at this point that Jina notices Sarya’s delighted stare. Rama turns as well, glaring back for a split second as if she can’t believe this audacity. There is a moment of one-sided awkwardness—Sarya’s unit helpfully overlaying the words [contempt] and [disdain] over Rama and Jina respectively—and then they turn away in synchrony. Their beautiful words disappear, replaced by a more businesslike [private conversation].
Sarya swallows and glances downward, a familiar heat spreading over her face. After so many years of this she doesn’t normally dwell on any particular incident…but then it’s never been literally spelled out for her before. Now she’s thinking uncomfortable thoughts, and her euphoria is rapidly ebbing. How often has she received those glances without the ability to translate them? How often have the blank gazes of a thousand different species actually meant contempt and disdain and any number of similar things?
[Sarya’s Little Helper would like to speak with you], says a notification down near the floor.
That’s right, her mother mentioned Helper was installed on this thing. But for the moment…no. She brushes it away with a violent two-handed movement that her Network unit interprets perfectly. She doesn’t want to speak with her helper intelligence. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and she certainly doesn’t want to play with these tiny virtual intelligences who have followed her down the corridor from that advertisement. She is no longer entertained. Damn things, go annoy somebody else or she’ll—
Hands still thrashing through a cloud of imaginary beings, Sarya plows into another student. A fogged face mask turns up toward her, several eyes blinking behind it, as a sweet scent fills her nostrils and stings her eyes. Her unit instantly inserts a registration beside the face: [Jobe (he family), species: Aqueous Collective, Tier: 2.05.]
She steps back with a muttered “Beware”—the standard Widow apology—and instantly regrets it as the sound of her voice echoes in the corridor and draws gazes from up the line. It’s a painful reminder: no matter how magical her new Network prosthetic, it’s still a prosthetic. It has no direct connection to her mind, which means it’s one-way. Unlike practically everyone else on this station, she cannot send outgoing mental messages. No, she is restricted to the same process she’s always used: hunting and pecking symbols with eyes or a digit in a process long enough to be nearly useless in situations like this.
A pair of moist hands adjusts the face mask. “Oh, it’s no problem at all,” says their owner, his voice the loudest sound anywhere in this corridor. He raises a squishy-looking arm to gaze at her through a small light display mounted to its back. “No problem at all, Sar-ya,” he repeats, this time adding a butchered pronunciation of the Widow name listed on her own registration.
Sarya refuses to correct him. She keeps her mouth shut, more than aware of the eyes drifting toward the two of them and the emotions attached to