With the exception of Photography and French, Chicago doesn’t do well with grades. She approaches homework as a seasonal accessory, to be used as a prop for the Innocent Sophomore guise, and she skips any given class two days out of five.
Her teachers rarely object to the latter, though. They keep passing her, or at least passing her off: nobody wants her twice.
She doesn’t do many afterschool activities either. She remembers why every time she walks down the third floor corridor, where True has somehow talked the Fellowship of Christian Athletes into protesting, via flier, the suffrage of women.
“Vampirism,” says Hawthorne. “Contagious.”
“Okay,” says Senji.
“Zombies. Contagious.”
“Well, yes.”
“Werewolves.”
“Were-everythings, now,” says Senji uneasily. “Since you generalized the virus.”
“Exactly!” Hawthorne does a little dance. “I thought too small! One recombinant agent creates a host of rapacious metanthropes. The solution? A second virus! An army of their natural enemies! Frankensteinitis!”
“Aside from that being a horrible idea,” says Senji, “the only time Frankenstein’s monster met the Wolfman was in movies, wherein he was portrayed as peacef–”
“Wrong!” says Hawthorne, slaps two bolts on his own neck, and hits himself with a stun gun.
“Ow!” he says, later.
Proserpina and Iala have been friends since their second day, and each has found this useful: Proserpina is most confident of the new girls, Iala the best at charming their elders. Between them they have half the school in their jumper pockets.
Radiane seems to have only one friend, an apple-cheeked second-year named Georgette; they eat lunch and do assignments together. Proserpina mentions to Iala, casually, that they should talk with Georgette more. Doesn’t she seem like a darling? Lucky there’s a space at their table.
Radiane eats alone after that, looking cool and bored and never their way.
Tamsin tests the speed of light through diamond (1.24×108 kilometers per second).
“You won’t find anything,” Sandy says helpfully. His eyes are earnest. “It’s not like you’re going to supplant Einstein, honey! Don’t get above yourself!”
Tamsin tests the speed of light through a cristobalite sphere suspension.
“I was hoping we could talk about your budget allocation.” Sandy’s a little firmer this week.
Tamsin tests the speed of light through Bose condensate.
“These results are faked,” snarls Sandy. “And when I prove it you’re going to be branded for exactly what you are–”
Tamsin tests the speed of light through Sandy.
To build Atlantropa they drain much of the Mediterranean, which drops the coast about two hundred meters, and the Children’s Crusaders are still down there off the coast of Abruzzo. They’re white and cold and wide-eyed. Eventually someone mentions the new land bridge and they shuffle off toward it, singing.
“We’re on a Crusade,” explains Nicholas, when people ask awkwardly why he’s not dead. “To retake the Holy City.”
The people try to say it’s dangerous. They try to explain about Israel, and Palestine, and Hamas and the Gaza Strip and suicide bombings.
“We know,” says Nicholas fervently. “Brilliant, those.”
Cehrazad’s grandmother had three daughters, and all three married the same man; when the third wedding was over, she disappeared. Cehrazad’s father is so important in the city’s administration that he wears his official mask, Loong, even at home. None of the children have ever seen his underface. Nor do they know precisely which mother gave birth to whom.
Dunyazad wouldn’t admit it, but Cehrazad knows she’s gone to find their grandmother. She doesn’t understand. They have plenty of parents; why seek a woman they never met?
Cehrazad’s mothers never knew their father, or fathers. In Memorare, that’s almost the norm.
The bee starship isn’t yellow. Bees can see and appreciate hues, certainly, but do you own a car the color of your skin?
It’s not bulbous with a pointy end, either; it’s not a single mass at all. To describe it to someone with only one brain and two eyes, you’d call it a ghost ship, or a smoke ring. Or a dance.
And they’re not leaving for the reasons you suspect. They enjoy global warming, and the comforting buzz of cell phones; but they know when the blooming optical network will suddenly inflect. They don’t fancy having another hivemind around.
“I’ve never heard of–”
“Alectryomancy,” says Jaboullei, smiling. “Most haven’t. But we provide accuracy comparable with the leading diviners, and utilize agricultural synergy to ensure that our prices are–” he winks. “–chicken scratch.”
“All right,” chuckles the peasant. “Do I just ask you or…?”
A rooster fixes him with one black eye.
“That’s Gallus,” says Jaboullei. “But yes, ask me.”
“Um. There’s this girl–”
“His brother’s already fertilizing her,” says Gallus.
The peasant stares. “That almost sounded like talking!”
“Do the pecking thing,” Jaboullei hisses.
“Oh, yes, bock bock,” says Gallus sarcastically, and pokes at a circle drawn in the dirt.