Free Transmaniacon by John Shirley Page B

around one of the women and kissed her on the lips, bending her head back with the force of the kiss. She kissed him back.
    â€œBid!” A woman stepped onto the stage, put her arms around the woman who was the seven of diamonds, and kissed her; the kiss was returned. The first two gamblers remained, fervently kissing but watching the other players from the corners of their eyes.
    The dealer barked, “Bid!” and a young man strode jauntily to the stage, kissed the Queen of Clubs and was promptly slapped in the face. The king spat on him. The young man, white-faced, returned to his place. Gloria laughed loudly, and several of the players as well as the dealer turned to give her a warning glare. “What are they putting up as bets?” Gloria asked.
    â€œFor this particular game, their children.” Ben replied.
    She looked at him sidelong. “What do you mean?”
    â€œPrecisely what I said. If they lose, they lose one of their children to the casino. They leave their children in a room a few levels below, and, if they lose the child is carted away to be inculcated with motor-control. It then becomes the property of the casino and is given out as a prize or traded or sold back to the loser if he or she can afford it. Credit chips aren’t much use here, as gambling exchange. Either you bet your children or yourself or you risk a scar at the troughs. If you get scarred enough they repair your face—in exchange for which you work for them two years on no salary except a very minimal room and board.”
    â€œWhat’s motor-control?”
    â€œLike those dancers we saw in the first room, and all the pleasure chamber servicers—people whose motor functions are controlled by programs planted in their brains. They’re radio controlled by remote operators, or computers, and given to winners for a specified period....” He shrugged.
    â€œLet’s move on.”
    â€œFine by me,” Ben responded dryly. The room spun away. The next room was a pleasure-womb. Empty. But vidscreen images along the right of the transparent covering over the doorway displayed, in miniature, samples of activity in similar rooms. Disinterested teenage girls and boys performed in a variety of erotic poses for sleepy, masked patrons who sucked on barbiturate mists.
    â€œSurprisingly, Ranger isn’t here,” Ben observed. “Like a fool I gave him tin to trade for food; naturally he’ll use it for something else. I only hope he hasn’t bet his freedom somewhere...Might already have been pressed into service, if he lost. Attractive individuals are pleasure servicers, the less attractive become hydroponic laborers, janitors--or they traded to plantations. ”
    Staring at the child servicers Gloria said, “You can’t tell me I’m alive and make me believe it.” And in fact her voice was lifeless. “Cuz...this can’t be real.”
    Ben didn’t bother to argue.
    They went on, until they came to a long gallery with pellet guns at one end chained to short plastic bars. An attendant stood at one side in a padded suit and opaque bullet-proof helmet. At the far end, condemned criminals dodged back and forth, stimulated to run across the range by electric jolts. Two tourists listlessly took pot shots at them, scoring occasional hits; the pellets were small but sank deep, it took hours for the targets to die from their multitude of wounds. The players made bets on their projected accuracy. A naked, pallid fat man, wearing white plastic angel wings and a tinfoil halo, dodged across the range, howling, streaming tears. His body was mottled with pellet craters seeping blood.
    Gloria snorted and reached up to press the selector stud.
    Another room came into view, its door sealed over with plastic. Inside was a tall man with blotchy skin, a potbelly, and frightened brown eyes. His curly black beard framed a toothless mouth that hung slack in terror. He was on his