Cyberpunk

as the slidestrips pulled them away in separate directions, he chose only to wave goodbye.
    The boy did not wear Eyes™ or Ears™. Near the time of the boy’s birth, he had undergone direct sensory augmentation. The old man had seen to it himself. When the boy squinted in just the right way, he could see the velocity trajectories of objects hovering in the air. When he closed his eyes entirely, he could watch the maximum probability version of the world continue to unfold around him. He was thankful for his gift and did not complain about his lessons or cry out when the old man made adjustments or improvements to the devices.
    The city is unsafe and I must protect the old man , thought the boy. He will probably visit the taudi quarter for used gear. Mark his trajectory well , he told himself. Remember to be alert to the present and to the future.
    The boy expertly skipped across decelerating slidestrips until his direction changed. Other passengers shied away in disgust, but again the boy did not mind. He walked directly to the center strip and was accelerated to top speed. A vanilla-smelling breeze pushed thin blond hair from his disfigured, smiling face.
    • • •

    The old man smiled as he cruised along the slidewalk. The systematic flow of identical people was beautiful. The men wore dark blue suits and red ties. Some of them carried briefcases or wore hats. The women wore dark blue skirts and white blouses with red neckerchiefs. The men and women walked in lockstep and were either silent or extremely polite. There was a glow of friendly recognition between the pedestrians, and it made the old man feel very glad, and also very cautious.
    I must hurry to the taudi quarter and be careful , he thought. The rigs there have all been stolen or taken from the dead, but I have no choice.
    The old man made his way to the decelerator strip, but a dark-suited businessman blocked his path. He gingerly tapped the man on his padded shoulder. The businessman in the neatly pressed suit spun around and grabbed the old man by his coat.
    “Don’t touch me,” he spat.
    For a split second the clean-cut businessman transformed into a gaunt and dirty vagrant. A writhing tattoo snaked down half of his stubbled face and curled around his neck. The old man blinked hard, and the dark-suited man reappeared, smiling. The old man hastily tore himself from the man’s grasp and pushed to the exit and the taudi quarter beyond.
    Bright yellow dome light glistened from towering, monolithic buildings in the taudi quarter. It reflected off of polished sidewalks in front of stalls and gonfabs that were filled with neatly arranged goods laid out on plastic blankets. The old man tapped his malfunctioning Ears™ and listened to the shouts of people trading goods in dozens of languages. He caught the trickling sound of flowing refuse and the harsh sucking sound of neatly dressed people walking through filth. He looked at his shoes and they were clean. The smell of the street was almost unbearable.
    The old man approached a squat wooden stall and waited. A large man wearing a flamboyant, filthy pink shirt soon appeared. The man shook his great head and wiped his calloused hands on a soiled rag. “What can I do for you, Drew?” he said.
    “LaMarco,” said the old man, “I need a used Immersion System. Late model with audiovisual. No olfactory.” He tapped his Eyes™. “Mine are beyond repair, even for me.”
    LaMarco ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not still living with that . . . thing, are you?”
    Receiving no reply, LaMarco rummaged below the flimsy wooden counter. He dropped a bundle of eyeglasses and ear buds onto the table. One lens was smeared with dried blood.
    “These came from a guy got zipped by the militia last week,” said LaMarco. “Almost perfect condition, but the ID isn’t wiped. You’ll have to take care of that.”
    The old man placed a plastic card on the table. LaMarco swiped the card, crossed his arms, and stood, waiting.
    After a pause, the old man resignedly removed his glasses and ear buds and handed them to LaMarco. He shuddered at the sudden sights and sounds of a thriving slum.
    “For parts,” he coaxed.
    LaMarco took the equipment and turned it over delicately with his large fingers. He nodded, and the transaction was complete. The old man picked up his new Immersion System and wiped the lenses with his coat. He slid the glasses onto his face and inserted the flesh-colored buds into his ears.