The Praxis by Walter Jon Williams Page B

second. She looked up at Gredel. “You heard of them maybe? The Sula family?”
    Gredel tried to think of any of the linkages with that name, but couldn’t. “Sorry, no,” she said.
    â€œThat’s all right,” Caro said. “The Sulas were big on Zanshaa, but out here in the provinces they wouldn’t mean much.”
    Caro Sula finished her second glass of wine, then got two more from the pyramid and drank them, then reached for Gredel’s. “You going to drink that?”
    â€œI don’t drink much.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Gredel hesitated. “I don’t like being drunk.”
    Caro shrugged. “That’s fair.” She emptied Gredel’s glass, then put it with the others on the side table. “It’s not being drunk that I like,” she said, as if she were making up her mind right then. “But I don’t dislike it either. What I don’t like,” she said carefully, “is standing still. Not moving. Not changing. I get bored fast, and I don’t like quiet .”
    â€œIn that case you’ve come to the right place,” Gredel said.
    Her nose is more pointed, Gredel thought. And her chin is different. She doesn’t look like me, not really.
    I bet I’d look good in that jacket, though.
    â€œSo do you live around her someplace?” Gredel asked.
    Caro shook her head. “Maranic Town.”
    â€œI wish I lived in Maranic.”
    Caro looked at her in surprise. “Why?”
    â€œBecause it’s…not here.”
    â€œMaranic is a hole. It’s not something to wish for. If you’re going to wish, wish for Zanshaa. Or Sandamar. Or Esley.”
    â€œHave you been to those places?” Gredel asked. She almost hoped the answer was no, because she knew she’d never get anywhere like that, that she’d get to Maranic Town if she was lucky.
    â€œI was there when I was little,” Caro said.
    â€œI wish I lived in Byzantium,” Gredel said.
    Caro gave her a look again. “Where’s that?”
    â€œEarth. Terra.”
    â€œTerra’s a hole,” Caro said.
    â€œI’d still like to go there.”
    â€œIt’s probably better than Maranic Town,” Caro decided.
    Someone programmed some dance music, and Lamey came to dance with Gredel. A few years ago he hadn’t been able to walk right, but now he was a good dancer, and Gredel enjoyed dancing with him, responding to his changing moods in the fast dances, molding her body to his when the beat slowed down.
    Caro also danced with one boy or another, but Gredel saw that she couldn’t dance at all, just bounced up and down while her partner maneuvered her around.
    After a while Lamey went to talk business with Ibrahim, one of his boys who thought he knew someone in Maranic who could distribute the stolen wine, and Gredel found herself on the couch with Caro again.
    â€œYour nose is different,” Caro said.
    â€œI know.”
    â€œBut you’re prettier than I am.”
    This was the opposite of what Gredel had been thinking. People were always telling her she was beautiful, and she had to believe they saw her that way, but when she looked in the mirror, she saw nothing but a vast collection of flaws.
    A girl shrieked in another room, and there was a crash of glass. Suddenly, Caro’s mood changed completely: she glared toward the other room as if she hated everyone there.
    â€œTime to change the music,” she said. She dug in her pocket and pulled out a med injector. She looked at the display, dialed a number and put the injector to her throat, over the carotid. Little flashes of alarm pulsed through Gredel.
    â€œWhat’s in there?” she asked.
    â€œWhat do you care?” Caro snarled. Her eyes snapped green sparks. She pressed the trigger, and an instant later the fury faded and a drowsy smile came to her lips. “Now that’s better,” she said. “Panda’s got the