A Song Called Youth by John Shirley

Admin washunmunener filzerbush, they’d say. Admin washes in money and our air filter’s broken.
    Praeger, damn him, had had a water shower installed. The technickis had heard about it, every last one of them, an hour later.
    Praeger. president of UNIC’s on-Colony board. The sick feeling in Rimpler’s gut returned when he thought of Praeger.
    He stepped out of the shower, and it sank back into the tiled wall. He went to the mirror, punched 8 on the numbered row of buttons beneath the glass; the mirror reversed itself, showing him its shelved backside. He found the anesthetic spray and coated the welts on his back with it. Again with some regret. Then he dressed in Japanese house pajamas, airy blue silk, and found Claire in the living room. His stomach tightened as she said, “Hi, Dad,” with a friendly enough smile, nothing censorious in her eyes.
    “How you doing, babe?” he said, bending to kiss her on the forehead. He hadn’t seen her for almost two weeks.
    “Dad—I’m okay, but—”
    He sat down across from her, thinking, She seems coiled up.
    She wore a light, soft gray suit with a triple-flap skirt; her lips were pursed, her cheeks hollowed.
    “You’re going to give me more details about the wonderful viddy interview you did—” He laughed breezily. “Forget it! It was a put-up job and by now everyone’s realized it.”
    “Dad . . . ”
    And then he saw the tension in her posture and the knuckles white on her knees. He thought, Shit, it’s Praeger again.
    “Dad, when you asked for a four-day in-house vacation—”
    “You think it was bad timing? Right after your screw-up with the little technicki kid? I told you—”
    “Dad! . . . No. But—I only just found out that you had a no-calls up. I mean, no one could figure out why you weren’t making a statement . . . ”
    “Well—sure. How could I have a vacation, a retreat, if everyone’s calling me with the Colony’s problems? There’s a dozen people happy to—”
    “Dad . . . ”
    This time her voice actually broke. He stared. He hadn’t seen her show her humanity like that in years; not since Terry died.
    “For God’s sake, Claire, out with it.”
    “Dad, when you sealed the place off, you left it open for LSSE. Right?” There was accusation wrapped in the sarcastic twist she gave to “Right?”
    He laughed nervously. “Well, of course!”
    LSSE: Life-Support Emergency. There hadn’t been an LSSE. Impossible.
    “Dad—there was an LSSE. I mean—this is the sort of thing that keeps happening with you.” She was in her bitchily maternal mode now. “Things are flying to hell around you and—Dad, there was a Bright Red. Full alert. And Praeger gave orders that you were not to be told. I mean, I don’t know that for sure but . . . he must have.”
    He felt himself sinking. “What was it?” His voice a crust.
    “Dad—”
    “Will you stop saying that and just tell me !” His fear of her vanished. He was standing now, arms straight at his sides.
    “The Russians have blockaded us. We’re in the war. The last supply ship was boarded. Captured! There hasn’t been another. No ships outgoing. They’re even jamming communications. We get through now and then—”
    “Why didn’t you come to me before? I mean—how long has it been?”
    “Three days. Dad, I couldn’t get through to see you till today. And you had your screen down. The riots—we couldn’t get through because of the riots.”
    “Riots.”
    “A man named Bonham has been asking for a general strike. There are four of these organizers really pushing it—a man named Joseph Bonham, a man named Samson Molt—”
    “Oh, don’t tell me their names, tell Security, I’m not the local thought police. Shit.” He found he was staring at his decanters on the table. Wanting a drink and not having the courage even to reach across the table. Afraid the Colony was so fragile it would shiver apart if he moved. His shell, his armor. His insulation