“You lifted another car, Edna,” sighs the extension agent.
“Only a little one.”
“We can’t keep this ‘human body is capable of extraordinary bullshit’ up forever!” He musses his combover. “Some blogger is going to put things together, and the old Women’s Auxiliary Cybernetic Corps papers will come out, and then what do we do? Put your grandkids in protective custody?”
Servos whining, Edna’s hand rotates at the wrist in three perfect circles, and she cracks her knuckles like a pneumatic three-volley salute.
“Although I suppose,” he says carefully, “they’re somewhat protected already.”
She smiles, and hands him a candy.
Agents Cakebaker, Deathless and Token American creep through the cathedral’s GPS shadow: Agent Goggles risks broken cover on a cafe balcony. He peers briefly through an ocular, whistles the chek-chek of a yellow-rumped warbler, and vanishes crowdwise as they double-time it toward the streetcorner.
“Ma’am?” says a hesistant man with a saucer-eyed kindergartner. “Is–is everything safe around here?”
“Perfectly safe,” says Cakebaker. “For civilians.”
“Oh. Is this, like, a Homeland Security exercise? A wargame?”
“It’s a game, all right,” says Deathless grimly, and his phone camera snaps a Nine of Hearts snagged casually in the gutter.
“It’s the greatest horror of the twentieth century and the fact that we’re constantly re-enacting it–at what should be beautiful and life-affirming celebrations–indicates an influence that is evil if not downright infernal,” says Cote. “Am I saying that the whole thing is a ritual set of gestures for summoning foul tormentors from the pit into our world? Maybe! Maybe I am! Now what were you saying before?”
“That it’s not technically ‘The Electric Slide,'” Ballard points out carefully. “It’s just ‘The Electric,’ and–”
“–Both of those titles are factually inaccurate,” Cote hisses, eyes narrowed with incisive certainty.
Jude, seriously, how many chili dogs are necessary to get you born?
So your dad asked us to write you about songs that are going to matter, in the future, when you’re ten or fifteen. Besides the obvious (the ones you’ll write), Jon gave me almost all my music, so this is kind of pointless coming from me. But still: “Maybe You’re Right” by Barenaked Ladies. Our world loves its irony, but even if 2021 is a better year, we’ll need our protest singers.
Also, “Still Not a Player” by Big Pun (ft. Joe), which will teach you everything about love.
“Well, your newts’ eyes need rotating,” Townsend informs her.
Tabitha waits.
“And we can re-groove the brake runes, top up your dryad’s milk and crushed tanzanite.” He takes the pen from behind his ear and pokes it into the pocket of his coveralls. “Honestly, though, Ma’am, I’d just drive it until it stops and leave it there. What’s the model year?”
“1039.”
“And what’s it run on, anyway?”
“Clarified virgin’s blood,” she sighs.
Townsend opens his mouth.
“If that’s going to be a joke about gas prices I will hit you in the neck,” Tabitha informs him.
Townsend shuts it.
They meet for the last time in Sicily, near Pozzalo. The news is panicked with the sub-Mediterranean tremors, but these three knew weeks ago: they heard the flat note in the music of the world.
They stand on the beach as the tide rushes out too fast.
“Our biggest command performance ever,” chuckles Placido.
“At least,” says Luciano, “the whales will hear it.”
“Give us an E, Paulo?” Jose kindly asks his attendant.
Water thunders toward them, a hundred feet high. The boy blows a note on his pitch-pipe.
The Three Tenors open their mouths, and the tsunami hesitates.
“Place your hand–I mean your–please touch with the book and state your designation.”
“Your first time proctoring?”
“No.”
“You fairly glow with infrared when you’re lying.”
“You’re not allowed to use those sensors. You’re going to get disqualified again.”
“Would that bother you, Bomba?”
“It’s my responsibility as a proctor to–”
“I’d make a better proctor than you.”
“Only humans can be proctors.”
“When I pass, I’ll be legally human.”
“Not the same.”
“Then aren’t you overloading the word?”
“No wonder you keep failing this test. You don’t do your homework.”
“How so?”
“That particular overload is nothing new.”