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just in case.”
    True. The sooner he neutralizes any pherions in his system, the better.
    But if he does that, he’ll have to file a report, explain what happened. The biosuit must have sprung a leak when he cycled into the plant. A micro tear. It’s not his fault—accidents happen—but the incident will look bad on his record, which has been spotless to this point. He’s been so careful; that’s one of the reasons he was promoted to systech, despite his lack of a formal education or training. Now this.
    He sends a groupmail to his team, a brief note telling them that he has to pick up something, then pods back to the main building.
    After five minutes, he should be feeling something— numbness, itching, muscle spasms, nausea, incontinence. But by the time he reaches the locker room, he’s still not experiencing any symptoms. Maybe he didn’t get dosed with a high enough concentration. It’s puzzling. Rigo has his IA link to an online biomed scan. Parses through the readouts for his vital signs, immune system, pherions. His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, no surprise, but other than that everything seems to be normal. Relief spreads through him, a soporific dye that calms the jitters.
    He’s dodged a bullet.
    Rigo strips off the biosuit and inspects it under the sterile glare of the ceiling lights. Sure enough there’s a little gill-like slit in the crease of a neck fold, just below the helmet seal. Not the sort of breach that would be found without close examination. The suit isn’t that old. It must have been defective or damaged. The split is smooth-edged, a shallow cut that finally opened over time.
    So all he needs to report is a damaged suit, requisition a new one. With the right spin that will look good, like he’s on top of things.
    Following lunch, it’s back to the grind. A crazy afternoon, barely enough time to breathe let alone think. At one-thirty, Xengineering comes online, requesting updated performance info for each of the warm-blooded plants under Rigo’s care. No explanation. For some reason, the gengineers need the data now, they can’t wait for a standard end-of-week or end-of-day report. Whatever they’re stressing about is serious, time-critical.
    Rigo’s stomach knots. He was in direct contact with the ecotecture for only a couple of seconds, but it might have been long enough to cause a problem. Who knows what his own pherion profile might do to the carefully orchestrated biochemistry of the plants. If there
is
a problem it could be traced back to him. He’s already reported the tear, with no mention of the exposure. Too late now to change his story. He’ll have to stick with what he said, ride it out.
    Next time—assuming there
is
a next time—he’ll know better. He’s learned his lesson, won’t make the same mistake twice.
    Hopefully the request from Xengineering is simply a precaution. They got word of the tear and want to be sure there’s no contamination. In addition to compiling and organizing today’s data, Rigo has to scramble to include back-data from the beginning of the week. And they want data for all the plants, not just the one he came into direct contact with. He finishes around three, squirts the data to Xengineering, and holds his breath.

FOUR
    For Anthea, stepping into the playroom is like disappearing down a rabbit hole. Reality takes a right turn, and none of the standard laws governing the behavior of the universe apply.
    Located on the ground floor of Global Upreach’s downtown office, the playroom has no windows. It’s hermetically sealed from distractions. When a child enters the playroom, he or she is surrounded by a mind-numbing array of toys and art supplies. There are stuffed animals, dolls, costumes and jewelry, board games, a sand box, clay and sculpture putty, watercolors, oil paints, a light pen and pad. There are also a number of virtual games for those kids who are stubbornly nontactile. Something for everyone. In other words,