Cruz Boardwalk instead of a romantic walk along West Cliff under dust-blurred stars.
The Boardwalk is a long, wide strip of garishly lit concrete guarded by a seawall fifteen meters high. No beaches. Those are long gone, wiped out in the first temperature
entafada
of the Greenhouse Years. Global warming has raised the level of the oceans worldwide by about ten meters. Now waves crash against the barrier, sending an occasional rainlike spray of water over the top, onto the tourists waiting in line at the rides, fast-food stands, and carnival games. Half a kilometer to the north, the old pier is still visible at low tide. The restaurants and stores it once supported are long gone, battered into flotsam by waves. All that’s left are a few creosote-and tar-soaked timbers.
A lot of the original rides, like the Giant Dipper roller coaster, are museum pieces, way too antiquated and dangerous to actually ride. Mostly they’ve been preserved for atmosphere, a kind of time-warped nostalgia that includes cotton candy, hot dogs, and the sensuous aroma of buttered popcorn. Blinking neon strips decorate the undersides of the UV umbrella palms, turning them into kaleidoscopic parasols that pinwheel crazily in the offshore breeze.
“Can we go up?” Josué pleads, staring up at the flags stirring above the top of the barrier. “Please?”
Anthea glances at Rigo, who shrugs. Why not?
The seawall is wide enough on top to walk along. A pleasant stroll, hand-in-hand, behind the safety netting while Josué races ahead of them, bouncing from one souvenir booth to the next with the energy of a billiard ball. Breakers crash thunderously against the face of the wall.
Anthea leans into him, tentative. “Nice night.”
“Beautiful,” Rigo agrees. “Just like you,
mami
.”
Her smile, thin as the curve of the moon, slices through the misty gauze of ocean air. Neon light from the Boardwalk beads on the carbyne mesh like dew on spider silk, a glittering rainbow pattern of gemstones. The rhythmic pulse of the waves is seductive, gentle yet carnal in its slow ebbs and violent outbursts.
“It feels good,” Anthea says.
“So do you,
mi amor
.”
Rigo pulls her close, feels her gradually surrender to the embrace. First her arms, then her back and shoulders. They pause to stare at the scalloped surface of the water, moonlight on the half shell. Venus watches from near the horizon.
“Aunt Thea!” Josué shouts. “Spec that.” He points excitedly at something down on the Boardwalk, an old-fashioned carousel with plastic horses galloping in a circle, and then trots off.
Anthea disengages herself and they follow Josué onto a spiral walkway that corkscrews into the ground. Josué’s not interested in risking life and limb on any of the more stomach-wrenching, adrenaline-inducing rides. He seems content to observe from a safe distance. Even the Xtreme virtualities aren’t his cup of tea. No surfing on hundred-meter-high waves, or rock climbing on the vertical face of one of the kilometer-deep trenches on Mars. So they spend a lot of time exploring the Psience and Xperience exhibits on the Beach Flats, remote-linked to bitcams embedded in the pupils of exotic wildlife and offworld microbots.
In one VRcade they look through the eyes of a condor as it navigates thermals over the Andes; watch the infrared image of a desert mouse stalked by a rattlesnake; carry bits of food down the tunnels of a termite mound in Africa. In another VRcade they actually get to control an aquabot at the bottom of the Marianis Trench, and a swarm of aerobots floating in the clouds of Venus. Now that the bots have outlived their scientific usefulness, they make great toys.
The only bad part is the adware, bits of airborne viral code that stimulate specific synapses and neural responses. Rigo’s mouth waters with acute, debilitating cravings for such exotic culinary offerings as anchovy sorbet, pickled peanuts, and cotton-candy-dipped bananas. Exerting
The Boardwalk is a long, wide strip of garishly lit concrete guarded by a seawall fifteen meters high. No beaches. Those are long gone, wiped out in the first temperature
entafada
of the Greenhouse Years. Global warming has raised the level of the oceans worldwide by about ten meters. Now waves crash against the barrier, sending an occasional rainlike spray of water over the top, onto the tourists waiting in line at the rides, fast-food stands, and carnival games. Half a kilometer to the north, the old pier is still visible at low tide. The restaurants and stores it once supported are long gone, battered into flotsam by waves. All that’s left are a few creosote-and tar-soaked timbers.
A lot of the original rides, like the Giant Dipper roller coaster, are museum pieces, way too antiquated and dangerous to actually ride. Mostly they’ve been preserved for atmosphere, a kind of time-warped nostalgia that includes cotton candy, hot dogs, and the sensuous aroma of buttered popcorn. Blinking neon strips decorate the undersides of the UV umbrella palms, turning them into kaleidoscopic parasols that pinwheel crazily in the offshore breeze.
“Can we go up?” Josué pleads, staring up at the flags stirring above the top of the barrier. “Please?”
Anthea glances at Rigo, who shrugs. Why not?
The seawall is wide enough on top to walk along. A pleasant stroll, hand-in-hand, behind the safety netting while Josué races ahead of them, bouncing from one souvenir booth to the next with the energy of a billiard ball. Breakers crash thunderously against the face of the wall.
Anthea leans into him, tentative. “Nice night.”
“Beautiful,” Rigo agrees. “Just like you,
mami
.”
Her smile, thin as the curve of the moon, slices through the misty gauze of ocean air. Neon light from the Boardwalk beads on the carbyne mesh like dew on spider silk, a glittering rainbow pattern of gemstones. The rhythmic pulse of the waves is seductive, gentle yet carnal in its slow ebbs and violent outbursts.
“It feels good,” Anthea says.
“So do you,
mi amor
.”
Rigo pulls her close, feels her gradually surrender to the embrace. First her arms, then her back and shoulders. They pause to stare at the scalloped surface of the water, moonlight on the half shell. Venus watches from near the horizon.
“Aunt Thea!” Josué shouts. “Spec that.” He points excitedly at something down on the Boardwalk, an old-fashioned carousel with plastic horses galloping in a circle, and then trots off.
Anthea disengages herself and they follow Josué onto a spiral walkway that corkscrews into the ground. Josué’s not interested in risking life and limb on any of the more stomach-wrenching, adrenaline-inducing rides. He seems content to observe from a safe distance. Even the Xtreme virtualities aren’t his cup of tea. No surfing on hundred-meter-high waves, or rock climbing on the vertical face of one of the kilometer-deep trenches on Mars. So they spend a lot of time exploring the Psience and Xperience exhibits on the Beach Flats, remote-linked to bitcams embedded in the pupils of exotic wildlife and offworld microbots.
In one VRcade they look through the eyes of a condor as it navigates thermals over the Andes; watch the infrared image of a desert mouse stalked by a rattlesnake; carry bits of food down the tunnels of a termite mound in Africa. In another VRcade they actually get to control an aquabot at the bottom of the Marianis Trench, and a swarm of aerobots floating in the clouds of Venus. Now that the bots have outlived their scientific usefulness, they make great toys.
The only bad part is the adware, bits of airborne viral code that stimulate specific synapses and neural responses. Rigo’s mouth waters with acute, debilitating cravings for such exotic culinary offerings as anchovy sorbet, pickled peanuts, and cotton-candy-dipped bananas. Exerting
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