Page 7 of Redstone
“Because that would completely miss the point of this little exercise. And speaking of points, point four: you’re lying to yourself if you think you can continue not to care. You’re going to care sooner or later, and I suggest you get with the program sooner because otherwise you’re going to spend some uncomfortable years here on Solaydor. Every immigrant to this planet is put to work, and if you can’t or won’t perform to your aptitudes, then you’ll be stuck doing menial labor. We could let robots do it, but …” She shrugged. “Then where would we send people to work through their crises?”
She’d been smart and hateful and hurtful, and Isidore had gone away with an immigration counselor and absolutely no desire to ever see Symone St. Clair again. Sure enough, he’dfailed his aptitudes and been put in a work group that did something new, and generally simple, every day. Gardening, trash pickup, chauffeuring, basic maintenance for large-scale city machinery, food synthesis, waiting tables: the list went on and on. As people gravitated toward something in particular, they were taken out of the general program. Isidore resisted for as long as he could, but then a random trip to a body parlor as an ink stocker had opened his eyes to something new.
Mods.
They were as common on Solaydor as sand was on Paradise, but they were taken to a completely new level. These weren’t just iris insets or Regen-assisted programs for strength and speed. These were complete reimaginings of humanity, or in some cases, the gleeful abandonment of it. These were people who wanted the legs of a giraffe, the wings of a phoenix, or eyes like a solar system. People who wanted to soar and dig and run, people who wanted to be three people at once, or couples who wanted to try living in constant contact.
At first glance, it was barely regulated insanity, but it intrigued Isidore. He came back on his own time to look and feel. A week later, he was moved out of the general program and into cosmetic modification. But first, naturally, he had to meet with Symone again.
“Cosmods.” She’d sounded surprised. “You’re going into cosmods? I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming. Sometimes the best change is the biggest one.”
“I don’t want to learn this for myself.” It was tantalizing, the thought of just changing everything, never looking at his same old face again in the mirror, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Isidore needed … something, something larger than himself to provide him with a sense of purpose. He could change his appearance, but he could never reach into himself and changethe parts that hurt the most. But maybe he could help other people withtheirpain.
“You need a medical background to be a fully licensed modification surgeon,” Symone had said. “It’s about thirty years of study, all put together. Not impossible, of course.”
“I don’t need to go that far,” Isidore said.
“How fardoyou need to go?”
“I’m … not sure yet.”
“Hmm. Well.” She’d smiled and shown him the door. “I’ll be in touch again when youaresure.”
Learning had been a slow process. There were a lot of different levels of cosmodification, from simple surface work like skin tints and hair dyes to changing the very bone structure and vasculature of an individual. In five years, Isidore went from knowing next to nothing to being able to do entry-level surgical work on skin and nails, more carving and shaping than tinting. After ten years, he’d moved on to custom visual fabrication, bone seeding, and he had a certain reputation for surprising self-defense mods.
“Why self-defense?” Symone had asked on one of her infrequent visits, which had sweetened more over the years as the sourness of Isidore’s guilt had gradually been beaten back. It helped that he’d had visits from Wyl and Robbie, even from Garrett and Jonah once during their honeymoon trip. It helped to see them happy together far more than it hurt now. That sweetness didn’t diminish the sharp flare ofwantingin Isidore’s chest, but he was able to ignore it and show his friends a good time regardless.
“It’s important.”
“Obviously, but why is it so important toyou?”
It was hard for Isidore to put into words. He tried anyway. “Here, it seems like appearances are everything. Back home, though, it was … almost nothing. How you looked mattered farless than what you could accomplish. Both places have their own endemic problems with assault and rape and murder, though. Same problems, different reasons. Here, your appearance invites comment, sometimes criticism, sometimes more. On Paradise, you ruled through strength, however you could get it. In both places, you’ve got to be careful not to get hurt. I can help people do that. Quietly.”
“Sneakily,” Symone corrected with a sly grin.
“Discretely.”
“You designed asapfor someone’s palm that only activates at a certain velocity. It fractured her attacker’s skull. That’s not discrete, that’s deliciously disturbing.”
“Um … thank you?”
“You’re welcome,” she’d said. Her hair had been a whirlwind of flyaway locks that day, each one dancing to its own private hurricane. The algorithm that kept them from tying themselves into a knot had to be fantastic.
Symone’s approbation, it seemed, only went so far. The next time they met, she was fuming, but for once it wasn’t at Isidore. “Before we get started,” she’d said coldly as he’d entered her office, “I want you to know that I disapprove not only of the messenger of this offer but also of the message, its ramifications, and the effect it’s going to have on you.”
Isidore had just stared at her, completely lost. “What are you talking about?”
“I can’t tell you unless you agree to certain draconian privacy restrictions,” she’d snapped.
He had only ever seen Symone this affected by two people: Tiennan, her ward, who frankly affected everyone like this, and Garrett. Isidore had nothing to do with Ten, so it had to be …
“I agree.”
“You haven’t even read them yet!”
“I agree,” Isidore had said firmly. “Now tell me what’s going on.”
The story he got was complex. Even with all the revelations that were poured over him, Isidore knew he was only seeing a small part of a much grander picture, but he didn’t care. Because the person telling him the story was Garrett, and the task he was being asked to do, while dangerous, was important.
