so they wouldn’t be confused with live bodies didn’t apply. And it
was
confusing. Most of the nearby patrons were zombies—virtual images their owners weren’t monitoring. They were completely still, expressions frozen on unblinking faces. Evidently people set up in multiple locations so they could be seen, and waited for someone to approach them.
Scanning the bar, Rob spotted Nathan talking with a virtual woman. Rob hung back and watched, waiting for the conversation to finish. Nathan had a Mediterranean look, with pretty, long-lashed eyes and a three-hundred-dollar haircut, complete with stylish white highlights. Rob fumbled with his unfamiliar system, called up the profile of the woman Nathan was talking to, curious about what kind of woman Nathan went for. Ms. Petra Knox. Twenty-eight, compared to Nathan’s (Rob called up his profile) thirty-eight. She was a transportation analyst (whatever that was), didn’t want kids, an atheist from a Methodist family. Ratingsmart certified her attractiveness at eight point nine, FaceN at eight point seven.
The ratings firms used highly scientific programs to arrive at their ratings, but Rob was sure the programs missed important aspects of beauty they couldn’t teach a computer to recognize. There was no way Petra Knox was more beautiful than Winter West. Petra looked like a thousand other beautiful women; she had an elegant face, perfect cheekbones, a long neck. She was perfect to the point that she looked artificial. Even dead and frozen, Winter’s face was so much more expressive. When Winter smiled, the lines that formed around her mouth, and the way she seemed to show far too many teeth, made her look warm and real and unique. Also, Winter was more cute than classically beautiful, and from whatRob could tell, the programs never awarded a “cute” woman a score approaching nine, no matter how achingly cute she was. Higher scores were only for women with aristocratic faces, faces that indicated superior breeding, but did nothing to make the heart skip a beat.
Petra Knox’s screen finally swiveled away from Nathan, and Nathan immediately turned and headed toward Rob. Either he’d spotted Rob watching him, or had set up a facial-recognition program to alert him when Rob showed up.
Nathan extended a hand as he approached. “How did you get my name again? You said you were a friend of Winter’s?” He looked to be carrying on at least two remote conversations, maybe three, while speaking to Rob. His style was impressive; Rob didn’t even recognize the vocal rhythm he was using, and his fingers worked the air so deftly Rob could almost see the virtual keyboard he was working, in lieu of working directly on his system.
“I got it from Idris Badini, one of Winter’s friends. And I
am
a friend of hers, not was.”
Nathan looked Rob up and down, not missing a beat. “You’ve got a rented system and out-of-style boots, but you’ve got the juice to be friends with a dead girl at eighteen hundred a minute? Okay, suddenly you got interesting. Give me some context.”
If he told Nathan the truth straight-out, would Nathan punch him? Rob wasn’t sure. Nathan wasn’t a thick-browed hyper-masculine orc, but he had a restless, high-energy style that might translate into violence under the right circumstances. Rob opened his mouth to tell some credible lie, but couldn’t think of a damned thing. What would explain his situation, besides the truth? He took a subtle half step back from Nathan.
“I’m the one who hit her.”
Rob watched Nathan take this in, his face slack with surprise, his other conversations dropped. It was strange to have someone’s full attention (someone other than his dad, anyway).
“Hold on,” Nathan finally said. “Let me get this straight:
you
killed Winter? You ran her over?”
Rob looked Nathan right in the eye, fighting the urge to look at his shoes. “That’s right.”
“And then you thawed her out for a visit?” He was shaking
was
confusing. Most of the nearby patrons were zombies—virtual images their owners weren’t monitoring. They were completely still, expressions frozen on unblinking faces. Evidently people set up in multiple locations so they could be seen, and waited for someone to approach them.
Scanning the bar, Rob spotted Nathan talking with a virtual woman. Rob hung back and watched, waiting for the conversation to finish. Nathan had a Mediterranean look, with pretty, long-lashed eyes and a three-hundred-dollar haircut, complete with stylish white highlights. Rob fumbled with his unfamiliar system, called up the profile of the woman Nathan was talking to, curious about what kind of woman Nathan went for. Ms. Petra Knox. Twenty-eight, compared to Nathan’s (Rob called up his profile) thirty-eight. She was a transportation analyst (whatever that was), didn’t want kids, an atheist from a Methodist family. Ratingsmart certified her attractiveness at eight point nine, FaceN at eight point seven.
The ratings firms used highly scientific programs to arrive at their ratings, but Rob was sure the programs missed important aspects of beauty they couldn’t teach a computer to recognize. There was no way Petra Knox was more beautiful than Winter West. Petra looked like a thousand other beautiful women; she had an elegant face, perfect cheekbones, a long neck. She was perfect to the point that she looked artificial. Even dead and frozen, Winter’s face was so much more expressive. When Winter smiled, the lines that formed around her mouth, and the way she seemed to show far too many teeth, made her look warm and real and unique. Also, Winter was more cute than classically beautiful, and from whatRob could tell, the programs never awarded a “cute” woman a score approaching nine, no matter how achingly cute she was. Higher scores were only for women with aristocratic faces, faces that indicated superior breeding, but did nothing to make the heart skip a beat.
Petra Knox’s screen finally swiveled away from Nathan, and Nathan immediately turned and headed toward Rob. Either he’d spotted Rob watching him, or had set up a facial-recognition program to alert him when Rob showed up.
Nathan extended a hand as he approached. “How did you get my name again? You said you were a friend of Winter’s?” He looked to be carrying on at least two remote conversations, maybe three, while speaking to Rob. His style was impressive; Rob didn’t even recognize the vocal rhythm he was using, and his fingers worked the air so deftly Rob could almost see the virtual keyboard he was working, in lieu of working directly on his system.
“I got it from Idris Badini, one of Winter’s friends. And I
am
a friend of hers, not was.”
Nathan looked Rob up and down, not missing a beat. “You’ve got a rented system and out-of-style boots, but you’ve got the juice to be friends with a dead girl at eighteen hundred a minute? Okay, suddenly you got interesting. Give me some context.”
If he told Nathan the truth straight-out, would Nathan punch him? Rob wasn’t sure. Nathan wasn’t a thick-browed hyper-masculine orc, but he had a restless, high-energy style that might translate into violence under the right circumstances. Rob opened his mouth to tell some credible lie, but couldn’t think of a damned thing. What would explain his situation, besides the truth? He took a subtle half step back from Nathan.
“I’m the one who hit her.”
Rob watched Nathan take this in, his face slack with surprise, his other conversations dropped. It was strange to have someone’s full attention (someone other than his dad, anyway).
“Hold on,” Nathan finally said. “Let me get this straight:
you
killed Winter? You ran her over?”
Rob looked Nathan right in the eye, fighting the urge to look at his shoes. “That’s right.”
“And then you thawed her out for a visit?” He was shaking
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