Glasshouse - Charles Stross [40]
Walking out of the store with a basic workshop on its way over to my house and an axe hidden in a workman’s holster under my coat, I feel a lot better about the outlook for the near-term future. It’s a bright, warm morning: small feathery dinosaurs are issuing territorial calls from the deciduous plants between the buildings, and for the first time since I arrived I am beginning to feel as if I’m in control of my own destiny.
Which is when I run into Jen and Angel, walking arm in arm along the sidewalk toward a rustic-looking building with a sign above the door saying, YE OLDE COFFEE SHOPPE.
“Why, hello there!” Jen gushes, spreading her arms to drag me into an embrace, while Angel stands back, smiling faintly. I yield to Jen’s hug stiffly, hoping she won’t feel the axe—but no such luck. “What’s that you’re wearing? And what have you got under your coat?” she demands.
“I’ve just been to the hardware store,” I explain, forcing myself to smile politely. “I was buying some tools for Sam for the, the garden, and I didn’t have room for them in my bag so I’m carrying them in the shoulder pouch he asked me to get.” The lies flow easily the more I practice them. “How are you doing?
“Oh, we’re doing really well!” Jen says expansively, letting go of me.
“We were just about to stop for a coffee,” says Angel. “Would you like to join us?”
“Sure,” I say. There doesn’t seem to be any polite way to say no. Plus, I haven’t had any human contact except Sam for the past hundred kilosecs, and I wouldn’t mind a chance to pick their brains. So I follow them into Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe, and we sit down at a booth with shiny red vinyl seats and a bright white polymer-topped table while the waitrons attend to our needs.
“So how are you settling in?” asks Angel. “We heard you had some trouble yesterday.”
“Yes, darling.” Jen smiles brilliantly as she nods. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress and some kind of hat that vaguely resembles a ballistic shuttlecraft. She’s applied some kind of paint-powder to her face to exaggerate the color of her lips (red) and eyelashes (black), and something she’s used on her skin has left her smelling like an explosion in a topiary. “I hope you’re not going to make a habit of it?”
“I’m sure she won’t,” Angel chides her. “It’s just a natural settling-in mistake. We can all expect to make a few, can’t we?” She glances sideways at the waitron: “A double chocolate iced latte made with fair-trade beans and whipped cream, no sugar,” she snaps.
“I’ll have the same,” I manage to say just as Jen starts rambling about the contents of the price board above the counter, changing her mind three times before she reaches the end of every sentence. I study Angel while I’m about it. Angel is wearing a jacket-and-skirt combination—a “suit,” they call it, though it doesn’t look like the version permitted to males—and while it’s darker and drabber than Jen’s outfit, she’s got some shiny lumps of metal stuck to her earlobes. I can see it’s meant to be jewelry, but it looks painful. “What’s that on your ears?” I ask.
“They’re called earrings,” Angel tells me. “There’s a salon up the road that’ll pierce your ears, then you can hang different pieces of jewelry from them. Once the hole heals,” she adds, with a slight wince. “They’re still a little sore.”
“Hang on, that’s not glued onto your skin or properly installed? They shoved it through your ear rather than rebuilding your ear around it? And it’s metal?”
“Yes,” she says, giving me an odd look. I don’t know what to say to that, but luckily I don’t have to because Jen finishes ordering her cafe americano and turns back to focus on us.
“I’m so pleased we ran into you today, darling!” She leans toward me confidingly. “I’ve been doing some research, and we’re not the only cohort here—in fact, all six will be meeting at Church tomorrow, and