Dulap and his gunny are gone by noon.
Silhouine, ashamed of herself, pokes through the front room: trinkets and baubles, mostly. Gewgaws. Mlle. Sunanza sold junk to the gullible and information to the incognito rich, but neither magic nor connections can be stuffed in a sack.
“Beds and fresh linen in the back,” says Yael. “Come on. You need some sleep.”
Silhouine fingers a pewter key, pockets it, sighs and obeys.
She wakes with a sack on her head, jouncing along saddle-hung on a humpbacked donkey.
“I deeply regret making your acquaintance,” grumbles Yael, nearby.
“So do I,” says Silhouine.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Chicago spins around.
Tossing a dead man’s key from hand to hand, True contemplates tactics. He’s startled her; an advantage against a typical foe, but perhaps not the wisest choice when facing, say, a wolverine. She’s automatically half-crouched, and he knows she’s thinking about weapons first, speech second.
True knew Chicago’s mother: she used to teach his Sunday School class. He attended Sunday School, and Chicago didn’t. It’s never struck him until now how odd that is.
They really would look alike, he finds himself thinking. Those eyes, those freckles.
The curl of her lip.
The fall of her hair.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The tracks of the train are a bit pinged up by spacetrash now, but still as beautiful as that famous photo: helices of carbon spiraling up out of the gravity well, product of insane mathematics and clever branding. Nobody wanted a space elevator; that’s where you get stuck while they play bad music.
But everybody gets excited on the way up a rollercoaster.
Another thing they took from coasters: gravity isn’t always down. Spin us fast enough and we’ll believe anything, thinks Lila, wishing for windows, even if they’d make her barf. Without scenery, it’s a long trip to the Moon.
The survivors take stock of their worldly possessions.
- Silhouine: nothing
- Yael: nothing
- The cat: nothing
- Dulap: pretty much all the things he had before
“Whatever you want from my shop is yours,” says Dulap. “I’m packing a gunny for the north road.”
“Why do I suspect,” says Silhouine, “that what you’re actually offering us is Mlle. Sunanza’s remaining stock?”
“Do our masters deserve anything?” says Dulap. “They ran off to the country and left us here to get extorted and bombed!”
“It wasn’t actually a bomb,” groans Silhouine.
“What is a bomb, after,” Yael muses, “but a crater and leftover fear?”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Electric Magnajoust is a sport thriving among people who care about things that matter, which is to say most teams barely make the rent on their domes. The antiques industry is larger, in gross annual revenue, than both Joust leagues combined.
This is why Stephanie Long sometimes buys dinner for professional athletes.
Simon Yu (#0) wouldn’t permit it, of course, but Carol Tolliver (#41) doesn’t mind. “You have something you want to ask me,” she says, around a mouth full of salmon nigiri.
“Say I did something,” begins Stephanie, “to make my best friend incensed.”
“Well,” says Carol Tolliver (#41), “why?”
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
