Free Clade by Mark Budz Page B

been pricked. “Why not?”
    “Too dark. It’d be night all the time.”
    “But you’d be gengineered to require less sunlight. Like the plants. You wouldn’t
feel
deficient.”
    “Plus, it’d be cold.”
    “Again, you wouldn’t notice.” Whipplebaum’s mood reinflates as Rigo’s objections are quickly overcome and dispatched. “It would
feel
balmy. You would be absolutely comfortable. Perfectly adapted to your environment.”
    Rigo shrugs. “I guess I don’t spec the advantage.” What else can he say? It’s just not his idea of a good time.
    “For one,” Whipplebaum says, “there’s considerably more open space. Scads of it. Several times the land area of earth, in fact.”
    “Only more spread out.”
    “True. But that means no overpopulation for several centuries. Not to mention, cheap real estate.”
    Rigo digs one heel into the nutrient-rich ice underfoot. “But not much to look at in the way of scenery.”
    “Not until the plants are well established. After several years—fifteen or twenty at the most—it will be a tropical paradise.”
    Rigo shakes his head. “What would I do there?” “The same thing settlers on a frontier have always done, build a new world. You would certainly enjoy far more freedom and independence than you do now.”
    There’s a sort of bow-legged, tobacco-chewing, shit-kicking romanticism to Whipplebaum that feels . . . what? Not just anachronistic—hopelessly antiquated—but dangerously unrealistic.
    “I’m happy here,” Rigo says, “doing what I am.”
    “Too bad. You’d be missing the chance of a lifetime.” The second time this has come up. “Especially for someone in your situation.”
    Rigo’s subtext meter twitches. “What do you mean?”
    Whipplebaum hesitates a fraction of a second. “Only that you’re young. You have very little weighing you down, holding you back. Nothing to lose, everything to gain, as it were. Not like those of us who have acquired far more baggage than is healthy.”
    Rigo has the impression he was going to say something else, and then thought the better of it—that Whipplebaum is dropping hints. Trying to
tell
him something. Father Cielo had the same effect on him when Rigo went to church as a kid. Rigo was guilty, even if he didn’t know what the sin was. Eternal damnation lurked just around the corner. He was just too blind to see it.
    “I’ll think about it,” Rigo says, noncommittal.
    Whipplebaum claps him on the shoulder, turns, and exits the vat building. When they’re back outside, blinking at the sunlight, Whipplebaum says, “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”
    “A party?”
    “A private gathering for some of the project specialists you and your team will be working with on Tiresias. Gengineers, programmers and technical support personnel, as well as a number of the colonists.” Whipplebaum winks, as if a wasp has just kamikaze’d into his eye. “I can promise that you’ll find it most entertaining. An intimate get-together, quite unlike any you may have attended before.”
    “Sure,” Rigo says, not wanting to be impolite or impolitic. “Sounds good.” Plus he’s mad curious. His interest is
piqued
.
    Whipplebaum’s IA, an agent named Trigger, squirts him an invitation. The party starts at eight, and is in CV. Carmel Valley. Rigo opens his mouth, prepares to concede that he’s not claded for CV, when Whipplebaum pulls out a sprayon ampoule and hands it to him with a flourish, as if he’s delivering an invitation from the queen. “Dose yourself with this half an hour before you arrive at the door.”
    The ampoule is yellow glass with blue and red tracery. Very art nouveau. “What is it?”
    Whipplebaum does a little half bow. “Your admission ticket.” He seems to have anticipated Rigo’s situation and deftly headed off any embarrassment.
    “Congratulations,” Varda says after Whipplebaum is gone. “After all your hard work, you’ve finally hit dirt pay.”

SEVEN
    Anthea