From: st3uy@jetson.uh.edu
Subject: :			       ..byproduct ingesture (emission censor)
Date: 18 Nov 1993 17:43 CST
Lines: 203

					byproduct ingesture (emission censor)

Moongirl picks the jackgel off her hands; rolling the thin strips of immersion-
time residue into small balls.  Each bundle is then tossed into Wetboy's dreds.
His right hand waves at the pseudoplastic projectiles in masquito annoyance.
Moongirl's clumply booted feet pressure-push in the back of Wetboy's mouldchair.
He grunts in arrogance; both of them bored like blue ladybugs wanting to get out
of the Associate's Meeting.  Supposed to brunch with Heat in ten minutes.
Moongirl keeps popping Wetboy's dreds with gel-balls; his right hand flips her
off two seconds before the Meeting Tone dismisses them.  Wetboy stands from his
chair, green moodgum bubble sploding from his lips in anti-conformity, only
afterthought realizing he's actually conforming to Associate standards because
it's after the tone.  Next time, he thinks.

Moongirl rubs her hands in affection on Wetboy's WWi loden flakjacket, actually
to rub off more gel, "Heat's gonna whiz if we don't hurry our butts.  These
meetings are about to drive me bolts."  Wetboy grabs his backpack, SEGABoard
eiephones dangling from the back-pocket.  He velcro's the kiddy-deck in and
follows Moongirl into the queue of WALMart Corp Associates ramming through the
double doors at the back of the class room.  He's about ready to sue his
parents for making him work for WAL.  He'll be able to do it too in three
months when he turns eighteen.  Just because his mom and dad have lived in the
Corporate Collective for ten years, doesn't mean, in his mind, that he should
have to carry on the bonding ritual.  His mind drones on poor Moongirl, how
she was conned by her own parents into the Corp Collective.
Said that if her grades didn't improve she'd be shipped off.  The last six
weeks before finals she was tagged, inoculated, and put on an EMtrain straight
into the Nuclear Free Zone, ground zeroing for WALMart Corporation Collective
#23.  Self contained megaburb conglom; superstore first square-mile floor,
housing next three floors up, parking in the basement.  Wetboy grabs Moongirl's
hand as they push through the fleshmesh.  Moongirl squeals in riotous kidding,
people staring at her, probably sighting on her purple hair first, next
sloughing her off as a swingraver.  She doesn't care.

Wetboy yanks her down by the Joltsnack machine.  Since WALMart bought the
Jolt Cola Corp, all the snack machines have been monopolized with surplus
Cola products.  Moongirl primps her weave in the machine's flank metal and
slaps an eyeshade on her nose wile Wetboy adjusts his boot-laces.
She blasts, "Hurry it up bean, enough with the laces already.  Should'a wore
yer straps today, Jeez!"  He pulls her arm to stand and moodgum pops in her
face; red this time.  They walk down the steril hall, WALMart Corp Positivity
signs blaring.

Warmth on Moongirl's neck, "Did you guy's bring your rubber suits?"  Moongirl
turns in a gasp, "Heat! We'were on our way t'the warehouse.  Already done
unloading the shipment?"  Heat grins, cropped bleach hair wavering in the
Associate Corridor's white light, "Yeah, but have to be back for the next
in twelve.  Let's bug."  He holds a McDonald's freshseal partypack up.
Wetboy groans, "Are we gonna do the picnic thing?  Jap it!  Is there anyway
I can unsubsribe from this ef-ing group?  What a bunch of lame-o's."  Moongirl
perks, "Nope.  In it for life."  She laughs like benzene, her eyes crinkling
behind the eyeshades.

Heat begins detaching the hobberman powerlattice from his arms.  The WALMart
Corp issues each of its employees with collapsible hoberman structures the first
day of floor-clerk training; the gossamer looking wire frames
designed to mould around certain bodyparts for reinforcement and enhancement.
Heat's hands fold the powerlattice into compact form, the delicate looking
tinkertoy joints immolating to layered points; her reiterates, "Seriously.
Got your suits?  Since the nanochine reactors o'heated near the mesa the
flooding's been bad.  Haven't seen my jeep in days."  They walk the hall,
"Bet the memorywire coils are eaten."  Heat pushes his warehouse goggles up
in mock despair, "But we could always go to the roof."

Wetboy coughs, "No way.  I'd rather rubbersuit it before having to cool it
on this pile."  They walk to the stairwell and down the first half-flight of
steps.  Wetboy pulls two shrinkpack anti-porous packs from his backsatchel and
hands one to Moongirl.  Heat reaches into his jeanspocket, pulling out a similar
pack.  Rip of the shrink-wrap and the rubbersuit material expands a bit.
Heat's the first to pull his on.  Holds the material disk under his rightfoot
pushing it through.  The green foam expands into a thin film, quickshrinking
 back around his clothing.  He pushes his other foot into what's left of the
disk.  Heat watches Moongirl, the greenfilm riding up her legs, crotch and
covering the lower part of her chest.  She stretches the rest up some of her
arms.  Wetboy crams, "Sheis, this is stupid."  Moongirl spits, "Shut'up."
She smiles.  Heat finishes and leads them down the steps and into the silver
water.  A small basin of reactor residue washing up their legs as they lower
to the bottom step.  He opens the yellow-blackstripe-door, microseals around
the edges depressure, they walk through, into the pressure room proper.  The
first door closes and the second opens, more nonochine water filling in from
the parking garage.  Heat leads them into the red-white lit darkness.
Microvans, minibuses, and hypercompac cars line up before them, all flooded
with chine water, slight paint-bubbles breach from standing in the corroding
nanowater too long.  Moongirl wades the knee deep chine slime ahead of the
guys.  Heat yells, "Watch it girl, don't let the stuff get too high on your
film.  The anti-pore gets weaker near the edges."  She slows only a bit.

Wetboy holds his backpack over his head, aiming his gate straight for Heat's
jeep.  Moongirl tries not to splash, but meanders away from then next-to the
jeep after the guys get there.  Heat perks, "We'll have to go in through the
back.  I don't want to chance the door-seals leaking."  They all pile one-by-one
through the plastic-tarp top cover in the back, peeling the anti-pore off,
nanochine residue out, and setting it aside.  Heat squeezes over the backseat
and into the driver's, "Think the engine's high enough.  Hope so."  Heat tosses
the foodpac in the backseat.  Wetboy sits next to it, turning to reseal the
jeep's plastic-tarp cover.  Moongirl co-pilots.  Heat keys, ignites and revs
the engine, lets it idle for a minute.

Moongirl digs through the russian-ammobox-turned-disc-catcher and picks out
her favorite bELOVED album.  Heat keeps it in the car just for her, old classic,
 at least ten years gone.  But she trances to it just fine.  She pops it in the
dashdeck.  Wetboy groans, pulling out, in preference, his SEGABoard deck; he
removes his sunglasses.  The poly-slap-flesh sound of eiephones over iris'
echoes in Heat's ears before the hyperbase hits, "I hope that isn't an ef-ing
deck in my car!?"  He looks in the rearview, watching the eiephone vr lights
synch from Wetboy's eyes.  Heat rolls his own in wasted frustration.  His foot
lets off the clutch and Moongirl holds on to the dash-handlebar.

Aside from the filmed gateguard telling them to "please be back before dark",
Heat easily tiretreads up the garage ramp to groundlevel and onto the roadway.
Moongirl turns to Wetboy but notes his deckheading.  She speaks to Heat instead,
"Doesn't it seem all he does is homopunk on the nets?"  Heat grins, "Yeah, but
he does have his uses."  They laugh in a muted tone; Heat interrupts, "Just
a sec."  He tunes the virtual display on the dash; an overlay of the supposed
(pre-recorded) highway road lightly plays over the front window.  Heat drives
on, "I thought we'd go to the old Sprint phoneshed.  It's got a ladder to the
roof.  Should be a good spot to sight the chrome-waves."  Moongirl manages an
excited, "Neat" and goes about bodytrancing to the bELOVED.  Heat shifts into
third, slight pulse-ripples in the nanochine water spiral away from the car,
the nanoflood looking like starch under the sun.  Heat remembers overhearing
one of the deckheads at the last Associate's Meeting; some talk about a bitvirus
slamming the mains at the nanoreactor's mesa sight.  The girl had remarked
between moodgum bubblepops tha she hardcopied a piece of tech saying the virus
ground zeroed from Canada for someplace in the Grand Canyon Complex.  Said that
fRONt 696 (personal friends) were already scoping it.  Heat found it hard to
believe that Canada's Minister of Information would let a virus cross the border
and two, that this deckhead would have infocess to technomythic modernangels
like the fRONt.  He thought anyway, that didn't matter; genengineers were basing
on the nanoflood problem right now.

Moongirl points, "It that it?"  Heat unnecessarily blinkers off the unexposed
highway and heads for the ragged phoneshed transfer station.  Pulling the jeep
up to and backing it near the ladder.  Moongirl cautiously shoves Wetboy as
the jeep's inertia wears thin.  Wetboy yanks the eiphones off, "Get yer arsen
hand off my jacket!"  His gum, now orange, pops.  Moongirl laughgrowels, "Do'all
you kibers have to chew that disgusting gum?"  Wetboy pops again, the gum
purple.  "Just get out!" Moongirl yells.  Wetboy stuffs the small SEGABoard back
in his pack and over the backseat, pushing the plastic-tarp up and stepping to
the ladder.  Up.  Moongirl pops over, out.  Up.  Heat turns the jeep engine off,
grabs the 'forgotten' McDonald's bag from the backseat and ups the ladder.

Sitting on the corrugated aluminum roof, Wetboy dangles his left-booted foot off
the shackside; he begins to pull his deck out.  Heat asks, "Do you think you
could eat with us for just five minutes before immersing yourself again?"
Moongirl huffs in response; Wetboy responds casually, "Cool.  Gimme some fries."
His hand homes-in on the McDonald's bag and clamps around something.  He removes
an unheated sealpack of fries.  He pops the bubblepop corner tag, releasing the
patented microenzyme.  The frozen moisture in the friepack quickheats from the
chemical release; Wetboy rips the outer seal and fingerpicks the hot fries.  He
pulls his thin sunglasses on.  Heat reaches into the bag and manages a bigmac
and softpac DR. Pepper.  Moongirl shoves, "Did you get my milk?"  Heat laughs,
"Yes, I got your silly milk.  Under the ketchup."  She pulls the softpac, shake
and cool, milk from the bag.  Shake, shake.  Moisture instantly sticks to the
silvery pac's outside.  She giggles and punches the wrapped, attached, straw
through the target hole.  Wetboy waves his hand in annoyance when Moongirl makes
slurping noises.  Heat stares in bewilderment.

A midsummer breeze of iceheat blows the nanowaves.  Heat remarks on the miles
of stretching reactor residue.  What few buildings near the mesa being halfsunk
in chrome waves of hyperprocessing nanomachine water.  Micromolecules ribosoming
base constructing reality from the pieced atom on.  An industry begun four years
ago, and tested in what was once Utah and the Northwestern US, now the NFZ.  No
nuclear energy, only pollutant free, ecology conscious nanochine byproducts
escaping into the air.  Stuffing into anyone's lungs who dares breathe.  The
flood's only a minor setback.  Most Associates at the Collective never dreamed
of seeing a real ocean of steal.  Mirror flection of the sky.  Night-time's
beautiful, dual stars, don't have to look up either.

Wetboy grabs the milk from Moongirl's hand.  He teases her with the softpac, his
leftleg slapping against the roof edge.  Moongirl lunges.  Wetboy squeezes the
the milkpackage.  The whiteliquid dribblefoams from the straw.  Drips into the
nanowaves below, near Heat's jeep.  Moongirl curses, "Weenie!  That's my milk!
You know i gotta keep my weight."  She pouts but giggles in afterthought,
planting a green-black lipstick kiss on Wetboy's forehead.  He squirms, "Get
off me!"  The milk still drips to the nanowaves.

Heat remarks, "Excuse me."  He snaps his fingers, "Look."  Heat points to the
stealbeach ocean.  Like fractal paisley's arching from a mandelbrot attractor,
microcosms of nanochine eddies collapse into dust.  Ground zeroing from the
phoneshed in all directions, soundbarrier metacracks of ozone replacing
previously wet-air, shunt into place.  Wetboy's sunglasses come off his nose in
a tight handgrip.  His mouth slightly open, "What the ef?"  he looks at the milk
pac and hands it to Moongirl, "I believe this is yours."  Wetboy pulls his
SEGABoard out.  Slap of eiephones to eyes.

Heat's eyebrows rise, "Let me see'it."  He reaches for the milkpac.  Moongirl
limply releases the liquid container, staring at the deconstructing aluminum
ocean.  Slightly imploding into self-agggregating piles of picodust.  She
laughs as usual; a little uneasy this time though.  Heat reads the back of the
milk container, "Jap.  It's those arsehead buckyballs agian.  Your milk's laced
with stupid carbon lattice spheres for counter-acting indigestion.  When
what's-her-name from Berkeley cracked the AIDS thing with nanochines, she said
the parallel was groundbuilding the vaccine from buckyball blockers.  The
buckyspheres in the milk must act like a neutralizer to the nanowater lattice,
breaking the sliding bonds.  This is too cool."  Heat smiles, setting the milk
container down, "Well Moongirl, how does it feel solving the world's problems?"
Her former smile weakens only a bit more, "I'm not too sure *professor*, ask
me later.  My stomach's a little upset right now."  She tries to perk up.
Wetboy groans, obviously having heard every word.


							.dEMO :11.17.93:.