Twenty-six years later it occurs to Marty that she probably cheated on him that week, in college. It bothers him. He buys a plane ticket to Italy.
The village streets are still dangerous and the woods are still beautiful. He hikes deeper, into the green shadow, to the cold mouth of the cave; he pays Charon, crosses, and walks up to a particular tree on the other side.
“Remember when you went to see that band? The Somethings?” he asks. “Did you sleep with the guy in it?”
“Probably,” she says grayly.
“Okay,” he says, “I just wanted to know.”
Thursday, August 31, 2006
The golden age of the Space Opera House is past. Its velvet curtains are leprous, its holograms blank; no infrared gowns file in on Saturday nights. The regulars now come at midnight, through the broken basement door.
Because the acoustics–oh, the acoustics! You can sit on the apron and clear your throat, and the House will turn you into a roaring lion. Can’t get that sound in a hypertrain tunnel. Not for free.
Milandra’s turn, tonight: seventeen eyes on seven beings watch her ascend the stage. Villi pluck a lasertar.
Milandra opens her facial sphincters and sings the Neptunian blues.
When Murphy Kozal builds the Luxurious Rex, people talk so much about the Titanic that she decides to sink it before it launches. They build a Fuller dome on top and install a reactor. Its maiden voyage traces the Puerto Rico Trench.
Naysayers naysaid, Murphy decides to build one that actually floats. But bigger. Much bigger.
“Not just a putting green on deck,” she tells her imarchinects, “a nine-hole course. A theme park. A lagoon.”
“There’s a big lagoon planned,” they assure her.
“How big?”
“How big should it be?”
“Can we fit,” she asks, “another cruise ship in it?”
Nobody’s buried in Washington’s Tomb, but they don’t let you go down there to see for yourself anymore. You know. Security.
“And why would you want to see it anyway?” asks the guard. “If you know it’s empty?” The guard’s hand wanders closer to her radio; Joliette decides not to push things.
“It was supposed to be built so everybody could see it,” she sighs, “but glass was harder to come by back then. Sorry, thanks.”
She rejoins the group and looks up at the Rotunda like a good tourist. Two floors down, Washington prowls a rectangle, tail high, eyes glowing.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
They Shall Breathe Ashes, the famous assassin, and her assistant Shelby are in a HALO jump. They is wearing a Kevlar-polypro-spandex white bodysuit with red accents; Shelby, an insulated brown coverall.
“Ten seconds to opening altitude,” crackles Shelby over the link.
“Remember, we’re splitting east-west once the chutes open,” says They. “You’ll steer onto the roof, penetrate security, poison his spoon and rendezvous at the maintenance tunnel exit. Try to avoid the dogs this time? I’ll change clothes and smirk at the front gate.”
Radio silence.
“Shelby?” says They.
“You always take the goddamn hard part,” Shelby responds.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Lot doesn’t want to hurt tonight, so when bat with the nail in it makes contact he refers the pain to his crabby old aunt Renny in Fort Lauderdale. She’s dead, but she left a forwarding address, so her neighbor (and sometime lover) Horton gets the pain instead. Horton refers it to his lawyer. The lawyer refers it to his go-to pain expert. The expert sends it to Guam.
Jumps and skips, fast as electrons down a nerve fiber, the pain skitters between continents and family trees. Until finally it ends up with Miranda.
It always ends up with Miranda.
Wehr signs a haiku for him: dog eyes the water / how are you, friend, one question / how’s the moon down there?
“Are you trying to be cruel?” asks Dyson. “You know I could never count syllables.”
“Just to tease,” she says. “Never mind.”
You have to stop thinking of this as a handicap, he signs.
“I can’t even sign that word!” Wehr shouts. “You have to remember that I’m not good at remembering that your world is, is different–”
“How’s the moon down there?” he mocks.
She crosses her arms and turns her face to the wall. He stomps his foot.
Struts and beams, seismographs and counterweights, a crowbar six miles long: at last, Steadman and Chandrababu stand atop the gantry and shake hands, and it’s done. They’ve stopped the Cascadia megathrust subduction event.
“Well I can tell you that personally, it’s been a rough journey,” confesses Steadman to the lady late night host. “The men and women at CasLab are my closest friends now–we’re all the support network any of us has got.”
“What about your family?” asks the lady.
“They live on the moon,” says Steadman.
It’s evident for the first time that in total silence, the cameras hum.