See Me twists rope, and his akas lock up in attack position. They’re skimming breathless down the narrow canal, high moonstone walls blurred on each side, so at one with the wind that the air seems eerily still. Bolters crackle through their spray into the sea.
Colt Standing cracks a hull and spins away; Knifebone gasps and splinters kiss See Me’s cheek. He glances back to see the thundering Heavenly ships behind him, their glittering glass spheres like the eyes of dragons. A bolt finds brass. Kid Rabbit screams.
See Me understands, then, what it is to be a Hopeless Warrior.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
“English is a shitty first language.”
“Better a first than a second,” Jarrod chuckles.
“Exactly!” says Mori. “So it would be easier than ever as a zeroth language.”
“Oh, like how they teach babies sign language?” Jarrod says brightly. “I’ve heard that can be really helpful when–”
Mori flaps that away. “So zeroth has been done,” she says. “But know what hasn’t? A negative-oneth language.”
“Negative-first,” says Jarrod.
Mori frowns. “No, I checked,” she says. “There’s nothing in the APA Manual–”
“So what’s after that?” Jarrod laughs. “Twoth? Threeth?”
“A negative-oneth language wouldn’t have these problems,” Mori grumbles.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
They pad through cracked streets: asphalt over bedrock road, and around them, hasty stucco over ancient wood. The stucco is decaying much faster. Litter tumbles by in the breeze.
Miss Chamuel leans down and picks up a crushed soda cup. On the side is a man in a horned cartoon helmet, shrieking “RAGNA-FEST ’89!” in bright green letters. She waits until they pass a rusting wire bin to toss it aside.
The street leads to a pier and a little sailboat, bobbing on water as blue as television. Miss Chamuel dismounts and steps on board.
“Baldr,” she says. “Wake up.”
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
On her way to the interview Mara asks for courage, and it is granted: she strides in and nails it. The other candidate doesn’t even show up.
Over the first few months she asks for cleverness, and some days it’s with her, and some days it isn’t. It is, however, never with her colleagues. Some get remedial training.
Two years later her job is challenged by a superior. Mara asks for pride; she speaks eloquently, but the position is eliminated.
Mara asks for wrath. Her superior’s position opens up.
Mara attends the funeral, and starts to wonder exactly who she’s asking.
The earthquake hits while Mrs. Gretten and Mr. Hill are engaged in a quickie in the chemistry supply closet. It’s just a normal California shiver and only a couple of things fall off the shelves behind them.
These comprise two packets of silver nitrate, a small cascade of instructional DVDs and a beaker of sulfuric acid. It’s a Pyrex beaker, and sealed; it bounces off that indestructible black resin countertop once without breaking.
Then Gretten and Hill scream, because the beaker bursts in midbounce. It’s been struck by something very small, moving very fast.
But not as fast as Chicago’s shutter.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
“Really, all the good reviews in the world don’t amount to more than they’re meant,” says Daryl, “to, amount to, mean, to, er, help, I appear to be trapped in this sentence and I don’t know how to get out.”
“Go meta,” says Janis, grinning. “That’s my secret trick for getting out of anything.”
Daryl laughs. “Man, you should tell that to, like, criminals. It’s not a jail if you think outside it!”
Pause.
“I didn’t mention that I was in prison, did I?” says Janis, fiddling with her fork.
Going meta! thinks Daryl frantically. I am going meta right now!
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
“It’s not really appropriate discussion for someone your age,” Miss Havisham says.
Proserpina just waits.
“Very well, if you insist,” says Miss Havisham. “But I’m not undoing my bodice again: I’ll trace it. Here.”
Proserpina watches her finger. “Where did you get it?” she asks.
“A harbor town on the far side of the world.” She shakes her head. “Quite a lifetime ago. Your lifetime, nearly.”
“Is it like a brand?”
“Hardly! The King of England has tattoos, you know.”
“Miss Greenbrier says the Romans tattooed escaped slaves.”
“We’re women, Proserpina,” says Miss Havisham tiredly. “To what else do we aspire?”
“This isn’t supposed to happen to me,” protests Clarice. “You’re supposed to be giving this talk to some birthmarked teenager with violet eyes that change color with her mood!”
The dragon blinks mildly. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m a forty-six-year-old single mother,” snaps Clarice, “and my eyes are hazel.”
It shrugs. “I can’t speak for the sword’s predilections. You are its choice; this is your destiny.”
The grip’s wound with ancient leather in grooves that perfectly fit her fingers; the blade nearly leaps into her hand, thrumming with life and power.
It kind of reminds her of her vibrator.
“The true nature of reflexology isn’t that the body exists pre-mapped onto the foot,” explains Behrooz. “It’s that the therapist is capable of mapping the zones onto any arbitrary surface. Feet work because they’re an easy and uncluttered interface, but the same technique informs aura readings, chakra theory and what you would probably call ‘voodoo dolls.’ Understand the flow of qi in the body and anything becomes an input device. The wall of this room, for instance.”
He flips a light switch. Avi screams.
“Now,” Behrooz says, “are you going to cooperate, or do I have to explain the sauna?”