My lip curled up into a half-smile. "Something like that," I said, amused at her cluelessness. It was kinda touching that she wanted to understand, but I felt embarrassed on her behalf to treat her like a snipe in trying to explain our way of life.

And still…I was done with the life, I’d cut myself out of it hard with that raid, but I still had some feels for my buds in Bandersnatch and didn't want to risk their hides any further. I frowned. I thought especially about Fred, and worried that he probably hated me now.

It didn't happen often, but when a runner left the life, they were usually made to feel like crap for it, called sell-outs, and even spat on. Most who left couldn’t find their way into Academic society, even in a position as lowly as an archivist. And if that happened, their lifespan was numbered in months or weeks, since if the gangs wouldn’t have you and the nerds wouldn’t have you, the best you could do was appeal to the merchers for some kind of gig that paid enough to synth food and shelter. Maybe a few made it that way, but hipsters could never be truly accepted in mercher society, and without acceptance food and shelter alone wouldn’t be enough for them to last long.

But for all that my 'Snatchers knew, I was defecting to another gang, maybe a rival, probably Random. That was far less of a crime than leaving the life altogether, because if a runner left the life, they were either a dumb-ass or they were a shill for the nerds―which was considered even more perverse and lame than being a dumb-ass.

"So, you collect junk and make copies of it, right? " Fern asked, sounding almost authentic in her confidence, but then she shifted in her seat, looking a little sheepish. "Hipsters are only covered in elementary history courses as the frivolous subculture that almost held humanity back from its destiny."

I raised my eyebrows and glared at her until she looked hella uncomfortable.

"I―I―uh," she stammered. "I didn't mean―"

Mission accomplished. I busted out laughing and slapped her on the shoulder.

I shook my head. "We don't make copies―we scan in old stuff, make synther recipes for it, and sell the recipes on StarNet markets. Anonymously, of course. The Committee would have your ACOs Relocate us for that if they could trace us."

I guess I wasn't giving anything away by sharing that much. She was trying to be nice to me, but who the hell knew what she might tell other nerds.

Fern nodded. "I've heard colleagues use the phrase, 'hipster junk,' when they want to insult someone's choice of equipment or furnishings."

I sneered. "Whatevs. We know how to pick out far more interesting stuff than you Academy types do. You all only make stuff from these boring modern synther recipes that have no flair, no soul. I may not want in on the life anymore, but I still understand aesthetics and culture more than you scientists do. All you care about is research."

Fern blushed and lowered her voice. "I didn't say I thought it was nice when people did that. I'm not so crazy about the single-mindedness of our society, either."

“And about that ‘holding humanity back from its destiny’ thing. I have an old bud who told me its actually kinda the opposite. Without the hipsters, we never would have colonized the stars.”

Fern’s eyes widened in astonishment. “But…how?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure of the details, but if I get the chance to find out I’ll let you know.”

Fern took a sip of tea.

We sat in silence, both avoiding each others' gaze. My eyes wandered to other tables, and I noticed a lull in the conversations around us. The place had gotten more crowded, and was not a solid mix of merchers and nerds. I strained to lose myself in the variety of styles the merchers dressed in―much more variety than the scientists who were almost all in white lab coats.

Fern broke the silence first. "But don't you use some distributed supercomputer to help you decide what's stylish? That doesn't seem very creative or soulful."

I balled my fists up so tight it hurt. I took a couple of deep breaths. She was helping me. We were far from Betts and Random. I was going to be patient. Be chill. Really.

"You know about that?" I muttered nonchalantly as my eyes darted up at her and then away.

"Well, yeah, for centuries it's been stealing causal channel bandwidth that properly belongs to Academy allocations. The Committee's still never figured out how."

“Nobody knows how Hipstamatic works,” I explained, stretching. “It was built to separate out your lame designs from interesting designs. But that’s's not such a hard problem to solve; I don’t think we really even need a computer to do it, especially when your designs are so soulless."

I smirked at her, knowing I'd won.

Her expression became perplexed for a moment, as if she didn’t even realize we were having a debate.

But then she sighed and rolled her eyes. "You know, I don't really care. Fine, our designs are soulless."

My grin broadened. I took a big chug of my cider.

"Look," she continued, "I didn't mean to offend you."

I dropped my smirk, feeling my hands get clammy. "Ok, well, don't worry about it," I said, hiding my face in my cider. I took another swig of my drink and slammed the glass down hard. A little bit sloshed out onto the table, but I felt better.

Fern jumped. My hand went to my shoulder. A glance told me Netzach was grinning under my fingers.

I grunted. "It doesn't matter. I was running on inertia. That's a science thing, right? Fam was all that kept me going 'til now, anyway," I looked at Fern.

She got real quiet. I absently ran my finger around the rim of my glass, and looked anywhere but at her. My eyes wandered around Mackos. Giant, glossy, posters hung on the walls, some that were clearly astro stuff—swirly halos of color, fields of bluish black speckled with bright stars, things like that—and some that were portraits of scientists (well, smug dudes and babes in lab coats, so probably scientists). The chairs here looked fresh from the synthers; they were clean and had no cracks, rust, or paint chipping off of them. The sofas had plumped-up cushions without a single loose thread; I'd never sat on a sofa that didn't sag.

"Are you worried about Betts? You said she's your gang leader, right?" Fern asked. She picked up her tea and blew on it, sending wisps of vapor into the air.

My heart skipped a beat and I felt my face warm up. I wasn't sure how to answer that. Was I worried? She was a tough bitch, but would she actually send the guys to beat on me? She was willing to be violent with Random...

"Not sure. I screwed her pretty bad. All of them, really. I couldn't blame them for hating me, after that. For now, def want to be out of her way, and hard to find. What about you, don't you have science stuff to do?"

Fern laughed. "'Science stuff?'”

I flushed.

Fern pushed a lock of hair out of her face absently. "I'm sorry. I'm just constantly surrounded by scientists and that's not how we usually talk about it, you know? My field is xeno-chemistry, the study of exotic molecules that haven't been discovered yet. And yeah, I've―"

She let out a long exhale and she had a sullen look again. "I've been doing research for Dr Angstrom―I think I mentioned that yesterday at Joe's Post. I managed to find some of what I needed at the site," she said, nodding to indicate where we'd come from. Where I'd saved her from Zim.

"But I need more," she continued. "I've got a starship to catch that will be taking me to Tau Concordia, where there's more data I need to collect. I'm not really keen on this research, but Dr. Angstrom―"

"It's weird that you call your mom Dr. Angstrom, especially since you're also Dr. Angstrom."

"You pointed that out yesterday," Fern glowered at me. Her cheeks turned crimson.

She shook her head. "Anyway, it may seem that way to you, but I have to work for her, which...in retrospect, was a really bad idea, but what else was I going to do?" she said, her voice becoming tight. I thought I might have pissed her off.

Fern glanced at me and then looked into her cup of tea, as if searching for something. “Look, I guess you wouldn’t know this, but because I have a famous mother, and because she has strong opinions about what I am supposed to do, my options are fairly limited.”

I took a long swallow of my cider. "Sorry," I said. “And you're not keen on the work she wants you to do?”

Fern nodded. "Yeah. First, I think it's pointless. She thinks there's this grand pattern and has some hypotheses about what it means, but I don't believe it's very likely. And second, I've been realizing how much I just don't enjoy this work. I'd rather be doing...other things."

She ducked her head low and shot me a furtive glance.

I raised an eyebrow. "Other things?"

Fern shifted in her seat and looked away. She grabbed her teacup and took a long sip.

I rolled my eyes. "Is it worse than being a hipster in a cycler gang?" I said, then grimaced at her pointedly.

Turning back to me, she said in a small voice, "No offense, but as far as Academics are concerned, it's only one very small step above being a hipster in a cycler gang."

I perked up at that. "None taken. So what is it? What is this awful, subversive passion of yours? I'm crazy curious, now."

She turned to her left and to her right, and then looked me straight in the eyes, and I could see her calculating just how safe it was to tell me this, in an establishment filled with her own people. "It's called Philosophy," she said in a low murmur. She seemed to deflate and melt into the sofa cushions, and even smiled a little bit.

"Huh, you mean, like, musing over the nature of existence, shiz like that? What's the big deal? I mean, really, that's kind of what we do, in a sense―"

Now she grimaced. "Exactly."

We both laughed, and I felt my own tension drain away a little bit.

Fern's smile vanished, and an edge crept into her voice. "But that's just not a priority. The Academies don't pay us to be out here musing, they pay us to be discovering, and creating technologies that help us understand how the universe ticks."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The human condition doesn't interest them," Fern said. "But if you ask me, they ought to pay closer attention to the human condition, because it's not so great everywhere, or for everyone."

I nodded absently. I was surprised to hear her say something I could agree with so readily. A nerd and a hipster agreeing, what was the galaxy coming to?

She glanced down and took a sip of tea.

I shifted in my seat, watching the bubbles float to the top of the glass and burst.

Fern set her cup down. "We live in a society whose only purpose is scientific research and you either work in a job to support that, sell equipment to the Academies, or you have no place. What kind of life is that?"

“And by have no place, you mean ‘be a hipster in a cycler gang’,” I suggested.

She looked me in the eyes and shrugged. Yeah.

Fern stared into her tea, then looked up at me abruptly. "Did you know that the most common job in the Priaspora is archivist? How pointless is that?"

She pursed her lips and then turned to me. "They're like the cockroaches of the Academic world."

I shook my head. "The junkbunnies rule? Really?"

Fern shot me a puzzled look at first, but then nodded. "Yes, that's really what they are. Junkbunnies. And then there's you hipsters. How damaged are we as a civilization that you―your people―have to hide and scavenge just to survive?"

She was totes trying to be sensitive, I could tell, but I bristled slightly.

"I don't really understand," she added, "why you care so much about stuff that's unpopular...but that's not a reason to have to struggle."

My fingertips pressed against the synthed wood of the table. "Like I said before, Academic designs are lame. Boring. All canned stuff with no character. You Academics never look back, never take an interest in your own history. We don't get cred if we don't make folk think about our own forgotten histories. And I mean literally cred―infobucks. We can't sell synther recipes on the 'Net unless they enlighten the masses about their own past."

"You're always looking ahead," I continued, "trying to find answers. Maybe you should also be looking behind and asking questions."

Fern slapped her hand on the table, almost knocking over her teacup.

My fists automatically went up in front of my face.

"That's exactly it," she said, probably a little too loud, "We need more of that. More questions, more engagement with our past."

”You—you think so?" I asked, lowering my fists.

"Well, yes. Our history―it's just not a topic that's prioritized. Our culture's grown stale; except what gets injected into it by hipsters. If we Academics could step away from our labs and our data and just look back, once in awhile...reflect on how we've gotten to where we are...consider what our values have been and what the meaning of value is to begin with, we might be less single-minded. In philosophy, that's called axiology―the study of value―which is my particular interest. For example, why has scientific research in pursuit of understanding how the universe works become the most important value―the only value―of the Priaspora? I think we could stand to examine that more, and look to our history to remember what other things might be valuable. But that focus of the Academies has relegated all such pursuits to the junk heaps, so only hipsters can think about these things without anyone blinking. But maybe―maybe the way you guys go about it isn't the only way."

My heart beat a little faster. But then I slumped a little, realizing the pointlessness. “Yes but for all the pride the cycler gangs have, it's a hard life. Bandersnatch was one of the lucky ones, but things have gotten worse, even for them. We've been smacked down and ground underfoot for centuries. I hear even some of you nerds secretly envy us and think we're cool for constantly looking for styles that nobody's heard of in ages, right? But we don't get to live in shiny, clean synthed buildings like this, or drink fine ciders and eat high quality nutritional supplements the way you do. Until you brought me here, I only had a guess at what I'd been missing. I haven't eaten off a dish cleaner than the street we got here on."

Fern frowned and shot me an uncomfortable look. Friggin' bleeding heart. I guess it was better than the contempt I got from most nerds. But not by much.

I rolled my eyes. "Not like it's your fault or you could do anything about it. If you check your history, you can blame the Old Earth leaders. And the Rads. They got things going the way they are."

Fern smoothed her coat and nodded. "I've heard of those of us who secretly have an interest in hipsters and hipster synth recipes. I haven't met any. Everyone I talk to cares about nothing but research. I don't know about style, but it'd be nice to have a conversation about something other than research. It gets so boring. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do like some things about research and discovery. But there are different kinds of discovery. But there’s not much variety in it.”

I raised an eyebrow. A scientist bored with science? "I remember an old holo-novel that talked about a time when people had to know how to do lots of things. We couldn't just be so laser-focused on things like research or re-cooling stuff. It was before synthers, so we had to make everything. With our own hands, and primitive tools that had no smarts. Can you imagine that?"

Before Fern could answer me, a jangling Old Earth tune blared from my wrist comm. "I don't practice Santeria, I ain't got no crystal ball..."

I slid the cracked leather band around. It was Fred. I tapped the face to answer.

"Yo, Freddie," I murmured, "I'm kinda busy―"

His voice was trembling. "Juno, I―I don't know what happened up there. I know you've always had issues with Betts. And I don't blame you for getting fed up with her. That maybe wasn't the best way to deal with it, though. She's on the rampage, now, hunting you down. I just wanted to give you the QT...she's pissed as hell. Says you ruined the mission; cuz, well, you kinda did. I got your bike to a safe spot where she can't get at it, but you might wanna think about getting offworld, like―yesterday.”

My neck muscles tightened. "Serious? Has Betts gone friggin' nuts? I didn't take her to be out for blood. Anyway, how am I supposed to do that without my bike? You think I got any more spending kale than the rest of you?"

There was a pause on the comm.

"I dunno, but I don't see how I can get your bike to you without her following."

"Frig, Fred." I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "Hey, thanks for the warning. I'll figure something out. Keep her safe; I put a lot of work into her."

His voice got all ominous. "Will do. Betts doesn't look like she plans on giving up. She's got sniffers on you already; I saw her train them on your dirty clothes back at the warren."

I groaned. Those sniffer drones were real good at finding what they were programmed to find, and would lead her thugs to me easy.

Fred paused again. "Juno, get out of here. Whatever happened up there, you're fam to me, and I understand if Betts pushed you past your limit. If you're looking for a new gang, best find one in a different system; maybe one in a different star cluster, even."

My hand was shaking as I held the comm up to my face. "Aw, Fred, don't get all sentimental on me, now. Squirt me any updates as you get 'em."

"You know it, J. You've always been my fave tassel. Laters," he said. I could almost hear his wink.

I killed the call. My face was getting all hot. I wanted to tell him I was done with gang life altogether, but I just couldn't do it.

"So your leader is after you."

I nodded, staring absently at a glossy poster of the Horsehead nebula.

Fern put her hand on my arm. I flinched, but held back my instinct to shove her away. "You helped me," she said. "Let me return the favor."

That knocked me right out of my terror. Of course. She was a nerd. She had all kinds of science funding. She probably could get me access to a ship. I let out a long breath as if I'd been holding it in. Maybe I had been.

"Come on," she said, pulling me up. The table rattled our empty drinks as we stood. Fern kept her voice real quiet. "Remember that starship I told you I needed to catch? Well, it leaves tonight at oh one hundred."

Looking down at my wrist chronometer, that meant we had about four hours and I was a sweaty mess. Fern somehow grokked my concern.

"You can grab a quick shower up in my room. There's a small synther in there, too, so we can make you some new clothes," she said, leading me to a winding stairway.

In her room, she punched in a recipe for an Academic-looking outfit. The machine scanned me for my dimensions and spat out the clothes. I got cleaned up and changed while she gathered her things.

When I finished and came out of the john, she had a rugged, silver rucksack slung over her shoulder.

She nodded her approval. "Let's get to the starport. I'll say you're a research assistant. Nobody will even blink."

I glanced at her as she led me quickly out of Macko's. "You mean because you're an Angstrom?"

She grimaced at me. "I never thought I'd be happy to be one, but if it can help you―"

I looked away and my mouth twitched. "Thanks."

"No―this makes us even. And it's nice to have someone to talk to who cares about something other than research."

Fern cut a path through the clumps of upstanding citizens, making me chase after her down the busy street. The clamor still baffled me after spending my life in vast and desolate junk hoods.

I got a chill, remembering the fights we passed on our way to Macko's. And then I remembered what Gallagher had said the day before:

But Hipstamatic has been...odd, the last couple decades. Trust me, I've been in this gig for almost a century, and I'm tellin' you something's not right. We're bein' told to collect stuff that's causin' more and more clashes, more rumbles than ever before. Also, some of the stuff is wanted hard by the Committee―isn't that a little strange?

And uncle Alec's vid message.

I didn't know when I'd be back on BFII, but I had to finish watching that vid message. Maybe Gallagher could fill me in. I made a mental note to call Gallagher once we got to the starport.

Fern held me back and made me slow my pace as we entered the starport burb. I nodded, understanding: we'd look more suspicious running in a nice place like this. I leaned over to her as we walked.

"We gonna be somewhere safe soon?" I mumbled.