Glasshouse by Charles Stross Page B

male one.
    â€œItem not available in female fitting,” he says.
    â€œOh. Great.” I scratch my head. “Can you alter it?”
    â€œItem not available in female fitting,” he repeats. My netlink bings. A red icon appears over the rack of pants: SUMPTUARY VIOLATION .
    â€œHmm.” So there are restrictions on what they’ll sell to me? This is getting annoying. “Can you provide one in my size fitting? It’s for a male exactly the same size as myself.”
    â€œPlease wait.” I wait, fidgeting impatiently. Eventually another male operator appears from an inconspicuous door in the shop wall, carrying a bundle. “Your gift item is here.”
    â€œUh-huh.” I take the pants, suppress a grin, and think about these irritating shoes and how . . . “Take me to the shoe department. I want a pair of shoes in my size fitting, for a male—”
    When I pay using the “credit card,” I score a couple more social points: I’ve made five so far.
    I catch up with Sam down in the furniture department about five kiloseconds later. We’re both massively overloaded with bags, but he’s bought a portable container called a ‘suitcase’ and we shove most of our purchases into it. I’ve bought a shoulder bag and a pair of ankle boots that have soft soles and don’t clatter when I walk—I shoved my old shoes into the bag, just in case I need them for some reason—and I’m a lot more comfortable walking around now. “Let’s go find somewhere to eat,” he suggests.
    â€œOkay.” There’s an eatery on the other side of the road from Macy’s, and it’s not unlike a real one, except that the food is delivered by human (no, zombie) attendants, and is supposed to be prepared by other humans in the kitchen. Luckily, this is a simulation, or I’d feel quite ill. For deep combat sweeps they teach you how to synthesize food from biological waste or your dead comrades, but that’s different. This is supposed to be civilization, of a kind. We order from a menu printed on a sheet of white film, then sit back to wait for our food. “How did your shopping go?” I ask Sam.
    â€œNot too badly,” he says guardedly. “I bought underwear. Andsome trousers and tops. My tablet says there are a lot of social conventions surrounding clothing. Stuff we can wear, stuff we can’t wear, stuff we must wear—it’s a real mess.”
    â€œTell me about it.” I tell him about my difficulty ordering trousers that didn’t have holes in them.
    â€œIt says—” He pulls his tablet out. “Ah, yes. Sumptuary conventions. It’s not legally codified, but trousers weren’t allowed for females early in the dark ages, and skirts weren’t allowed for males at all.” He frowns. “It also says the customs appear to have changed sometime around the middle of the period.”
    â€œYou’re going to stick by the book?” I ask him, as a zombie walks up and deposits a glass of pale yellow liquid called beer next to each of our settings.
    â€œWell, they can always fine us,” he says, shrugging. “But I suppose you’re right. We don’t have to do anything we’re not comfortable with.”
    â€œRight.” I hike my right leg up and put my foot on the table. “Look at this.”
    â€œIt’s a heavy boot.”
    â€œA boot from the males-only department. But they sized it for me when I told them it was a gift for a male the same size as me.”
    â€œOh?”
    I realize I’m showing the leg with the torn hose and put it back under the table. “We’ve got some autonomy, however limited. Now we’re in here, we can live however we want, can’t we?”
    Plates of food arrive—synthetic steaks, fake vegetables designed to look as if they’d grown in a muddy corner of a wild biosphere, and cups of