Free River of Gods by Ian McDonald Page B

three
under-twenty-five wetware rajas, the two edgy games designers, and
the deeply shady Lord of the Sundarbans, the Cyberjungle entrepreneur
of the Darwinware hot zone, all on his ownio, at ease and sleekly
tigerish as only a man with his own pandava legion of aeai bodyguards
can. Plus the overdressed overmouthed faces Tal doesn't recognise but
who advertise their fashion magazine origins, the fortysomething tivi
commissioning editors looking sweaty and over-familiar with each
other, the gossip journos with the very wide and active peripheral
vision, and the Varanasi society have-to-haves, ruffled and sullen at
being outshone by a gaggle of nutes . There are even a couple
of generals, gorgeous as parakeets in their full dress. Army is tres tres hip in this time of edge-play with Awadh. Not
forgetting that clutch of sullen seeming-ten-year-olds looking
daggers over the tops of their gyro-stabilised cocktail glasses: the
Golden, the Brahmin sons and daughters.
    Tal's been given a checklist by Neeta, boss Devgan's PA. Most of the
metasoap unit find Neeta's perfect vacuity oppressive but Tal likes
her. Her unfeigned banality throws up unexpected, Zen-like
juxtapositions. She wanted to know what yt was wearing, what makeup
yt was going to put on, where yt was going for pre-club drinks and
the after-party bash. You have to make an effort for the biggest
brashest celeby gotta-go bash of the season. Along the colonnade yt
clicks thirty Big Names off Neeta's list.
    Two rakshasas guard the entrance to the sanctuary and the free bar.
The groove is Adani, Biblical Brothers remix. Scimitars swing down.
The actors are flesh but the lower set of arms is robotic. Tal
admires the full-body makeup. It really is seamless. They scan the
invitation. The swords go up. Tal steps into wonderland. Every nute
in the city has turned out. Tal notes that yts ankle-length
shag-fibre optical shatter coat is still the thing, but since when
have ski goggles pushed high on the forehead become the accessory?
Tal hates missing a move. Heads turn as yt progresses to the bar,
then bend together. Yt can feel the wave of gossip spread behind yt
like a wake: Who's that nute, yt's new, where's yt been hiding
ytself, Stepped Away or stepped in?
    I disregard your regard, Tal declares to ytself. Tal is here for
stardom. Yt stakes a pitch at the end of the curving luminous plastic
bar and scans the talent. Four-armed barmen shake acrobatic
cockrails. Tal admires the dexterity of their robotics. "What's
this?" yt asks of the fluorescent cone of golden ice balanced on
its point on the bar.
    "Non-Russian," says the barman as his lower arms lift
another glass and scoop up ice. Tal sips cautiously. Vodka-based
something vanilla-syrupy, a fistful of crush and a slash of German
cinnamon schnapps, flakes of gold foil drifting down through the
interstices in the ice. The thrum of the microgyros tickle Tal's
fingers.
    Then party dynamics opens a momentary corridor of clear eyeline and
in pure white polar bear shag and gold-tinted ski goggles Tal
glimpses the Star Ytself: YULI.
    Tal can't speak. Yt is paralysed by the presence of celebrity. All
media pretensions and sophistications fly. Even before yt Stepped
Away, Tal idolised YULI: Superstar as a construct, a manipulation
like the cast of Town and Country . Now yt's here, in flesh and
clothes and Tal's awestruck. Yt has to be near Yuli. Yt has to hear
yt breathe and laugh and feel yts warmth. There are only two real
objects in the temple tonight. Guests, nutes, staff, music, all are
indeterminate, in the domain of Ardhanarisvara. Tal is behind Yuli
now, close enough to reach and touch and reify. The angle of the
cheekbone shifts. Yuli turns. Tal smiles, big dumb grin. Oh Gods, I
look like a drooling celebrity idiot, what am I going to say?
Ardhanarisvara god of the dilemma, help me. Gods; do I smell, I only
had a half bottle of water to wash in. Yuli's gaze washes over yt,
looks right through yt, annihilates yt, swings to focus