Cyberpunk

all I could see was his toothy face and the long yellow curve of his neck. “Bunch of us have reserved some time on Playroom. Come in disguise. That new kid said she’d link, so scope her yourself if you’re so hot. I found out her name, but it’s kind of unpronounceable. Tree-something Joplin. Anyway, it’s at seven, meet on channel seventeen, password is warhead . Hey, did you send my car back yet? Later.” He faded.
    “Sounds like fun.” Comrade kicked the doorbone open and backed through, balancing a tray loaded with soup and fresh doboys and a mug of cold beer. “Are we going?” He set it onto the nightstand next to my bed.
    “Maybe.” I yawned. It felt good to be in my own bed. “Flush the damn soup, would you?” I reached over for a doboy and felt something crinkle in my jacket pocket. I pulled out the picture of the dead CEO. About the only thing I did not like about it was that the eyes were shut. You feel dirtier when the corpse stares back. “This is one sweet hunk of meat, Comrade.” I propped the picture beside the tray. “How did you get it, anyway? Must have taken some operating.”
    “Three days’ worth. Encryption wasn’t all that tough, but there was lots of it.” Comrade admired the picture with me as he picked up the bowl of soup. “I ended up buying about ten hours from IBM to crack the file. Kind of pricey, but since you were getting stunted, I had nothing else to do.”
    “You see the messages from that security op?” I bit into a doboy. “Maybe you were a little sloppy.” The hot cinnamon scent tickled my nose.
    “Ya v’rot ego ebal!” He laughed. “So some stiff is cranky? Plug him if he can’t take a joke.”
    I said nothing. Comrade could be a pain sometimes. Of course I loved the picture, but he really should have been more careful. He had made a mess and left it for me to clean up. Just what I needed. I knew I would only get mad if I thought about it, so I changed the subject. “Well, do you think she’s cute?”
    “What’s-her-face Joplin?” Comrade turned abruptly toward the bathroom. “Sure, for a perdunya,” he said over his shoulder. “Why not?” Talking about girls made him snippy. I think he was afraid of them.
    I brought my army ants back onto the window; they were swarming over a lump with brown fur. Thinking about him hanging on my elbow when I met this Tree-something Joplin made me feel weird. I listened as he poured the soup down the toilet. I was not myself at all. Getting stunted changes you; no one can predict how. I chugged the beer and rolled over to take a nap. It was the first time I had ever thought of leaving Comrade behind.
    “VE party, Mr. Boy.” Comrade nudged me awake. “Are we going or not?”
    “Huh?” My gut still ached from the rejuvenation, and I woke up mean enough to chew glass. “What do you mean we?”
    “Nothing.” Comrade had that blank look he always put on so I would not know what he was thinking. Still, I could tell he was disappointed. “Are you going then?” he said.
    I stretched— ouch! “Yeah, sure, get my joysuit.” My bones felt brittle as candy. “And stop acting sorry for yourself.” This nasty mood had momentum; it swept me past any regrets. “No way I’m going to lie here all night watching you pretend you have feelings to hurt.”
    “Tak tochno.” He saluted and went straight to the closet. I got out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom.
    “This is a costume party, remember,” Comrade called. “What are you wearing?”
    “Whatever.” Even his efficiency irked me; sometimes he did too much. “You decide.” I needed to get away from him for a while.
    Playroom was a new virtual-environment service on our local net. If you wanted to throw an electronic party at Versailles or Monticello or San Simeon, all you had to do was link—if you could get a reservation.
    I came back to the bedroom and Comrade stepped up behind me, holding the joysuit. I shrugged into it, velcroed the front seam, and eyed myself in the nearest window. He had synthesized some kid-sized armor in the German Gothic style. My favorite. It was made of polished silver, with great fluting and scalloping. He had even programmed a little glow into the image so that on the window I looked like a walking night light. There was an armet helmet with a red ostrich plume; the visor was tipped up so I could see my face. I raised my arm, and the joysuit translated the movement to the window so that my armored image waved