Seveneves. Neal Stephenson
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been asked to pay more attention to message shaping.”
“Message shaping? What’s that?”
Ivy let out The Sigh.
“Okay, never mind,” Dinah said.
“People want to know what became of their Uppity Little Shitkicker.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Ivy said. “People like their ULS. They remember the thing you did with Tekla. Tekla porn is a big thing now too, by the way.”
“I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Anyway, people are asking where is plucky Robot Girl and her mechanical menagerie.”
“That explains some weird emails I have gotten.”
“From random strangers?”
“No, from my own family! I don’t read the ones from random strangers. How about you? What’s your role on the reality TV show, Ivy?”
Ivy stared at her coolly. “I’m the uptight bitch who can’t handle it.”
“Oh.”
“To American viewers, I’m not fully American. To Chinese viewers, I’m a banana.”
“I’m sorry, Ivy.”
“That’s the bad news.”
“Okay, and what is the good news?”
“All the people saying mean things about me on the Internet are gonna be dead in four hundred and thirty-three days,” she said, deadpan.
Okay. It was an example of that dark humor thing.
“After that, none of it matters—except my ability to be of service to Our Heritage.”
“Okay, baby, how can I help you?” Dinah asked. “We could take a selfie, you and me, and I could post it on the Uppity Little Shitkicker blog.”
“You and I are going to go for a ride on the first operational bolo,” Ivy said, “and you are going to be reminded of what one gee feels like.”
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