Bari pours the flat gray discs shyly into Armin’s hands. “I want you to have these,” she says.
Armin picks one up and turns it over. It says COMISSUM on one side, and TRUST on the other.
“Thank you,” he says. “Do you have a dollar?”
Later, as Armin’s new biker friends set her couch on fire, Bari struggles through the party crowd into her kitchen. “This isn’t fair!” she screams over the music. “I want it back now!”
“Ah no, sweetie,” says Armin, crushing another disc to powder and rolling the dollar into a tube. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Friday, November 11, 2005
In the white there is the Word, and the Word is MEIT.
Rob tries to speak the Word and stops. Ah, yes, to say the Word would make it transient; to speak is to debase it. He still his tongue. He stills his breath.
Rob lurches and falls. His vision blurs, then doubles: MEIT and MEIT cross over each other and become something else. Different. Rob understands that this is wrong. He must be rid of it. He must make it transient.
“EMET,” he whispers. Then he’s choking, gagging through the vomit in his nose, struggling with a rough brown blanket.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
The unobtrusive ads in Besnik’s peripheral vision suddenly pop 404s. He blinks twice, trying for a reboot, but then the whole GRail maglev whines down and chunks to a stop. The lights flicker out; battery backups flood the car with red light.
“Someone ping support,” he says. The woman next to him thumps her WiPod and shakes her head.
“Can’t get a signal,” she says. “No connectivity just when the train dies? It’s almost like Google cras–”
“Don’t say it!” hisses Besnik. It’s not real if nobody says it, he thinks, swallowing panic. The impossible can’t be true until it’s named.
Wednesday, November 9, 2005
“They can’t withstand escape or re-entry, obviously,” says Hitomi, striding the catwalk. “We rent a skyhook for that, or a recyclable rocket. But once in the vacuum, they’re excellent for interstation transport, lunar trips…”
Cherise leans over the rail. “I just can’t believe origami’s come this far. Or that the astronauts don’t get papercuts!” She laughs; Hitomi doesn’t.
“Would you joke about missing thumbs in a sausage plant?” she asks coldly.
“No–” sputters Cherise. “Of course not–”
“And we don’t joke about papercuts.” Hitomi points down at the factory floor, where a one-armed foreman is directing a complicated fold.
Tuesday, November 8, 2005
Halfway through her sandwich, Liddy opens her mouth and starts to sing. Her mouth is full; Martha gets sprayed with chicken salad. She wipes her t-shirt and realizes that Liddy’s not singing a song, just holding out one note.
Somebody takes it up behind her. Martha stumbles up and the note populates the lunchyard. It’s starting to hurt her ears, and just then they find whatever note resonates inside cinderblocks, because the wall of the school collapses.
“Holy shit,” whispers Martha. All the singers have stopped. They’re looking the same direction. Their eyes are enormous, and black as piano keys.
“Never thought I’d see you with that haircut,” says Epstein.
“The meds are helping.” Jackie smiles. The coffeehouse is warm and yellow.
“They really did a nummm.” Epstein tries to take back the half-word. “Fixed you up in there, huh?”
“I maintain that everything’s data,” Jackie says quietly. “But I’m better at prioritizing some over others.”
“Not still trying to decode your heartbeat?” Epstein asks. “You’re not doing that thing where somebody says where’s that siren, and you take two steps and–”
“I told you,” says Jackie, “the meds are helping,” and reads the barcode of a passing bicycle’s spokes.
“Oh, man,” says Caraway, “with a name like that you must have gone through–”
Satan smiles. “It’s just the Hebrew for ‘adversary.’ Like being named Buster.”
“Bet you had fun at school,” chuckles Caraway.
Silence.
“Anyway, your application seems fine,” Caraway mutters. “Just looking for seasonal work?”
“With an eye toward the future, if there’s a permanent opening. And if I stay in town.”
“Well, bring me three forms of ID tomorrow, and the job’s yours.”
“Good to hear.” Satan sounds relieved; they stand and shake.
“Welcome to Pet A Bit, Satan,” says Caraway. “I hope you like hickory and piss.”
Thursday, November 3, 2005
“This town has no scene,” says Maddox as he slaps down the Arts & Entertainment Pullout. “Scene morkus est.”
“Almost positive that’s not Latin.” Tiscali flips it open: the only bands it lists are tour acts and tributes.
“We can’t run a label when all the local talent is… is skating! Or covering the Gin Blossoms.” Maddox pulls at his hair. “Where’s the Scotch?”
“You can have root beer,” says Tiscali, and thinks, the scene’s not gone. It’s just got no air. The sparks don’t die; there will be new bands–gasping, drowning, dying as they rise. The scene’s a phoenix underwater.
Wednesday, November 2, 2005
“I want you to make me a promise, Sarge,” chokes PFC Stumbo.
Vijay grasps his slick hand and nods. Stumbo’s hand is ancient and spotted; Vijay’s is soft and smooth, like any fifteen-year-old’s, but his eyes say this isn’t the first death he’s watched.
“You’ll be one of them before long,” says Stumbo. “Few years now.”
“Never,” Vijay grates. “I’ll die first.”
“Don’t forget that the young and the old have rights, can think–can–don’t let the Age War happen again, Sarge,” Stumbo heaves. “Don’t let.”
“I don’t want to grow up,” whispers Vijay, and closes Stumbo’s eyes.
Tuesday, November 1, 2005
She had no pants clean so she wore the damn overalls, damn it, and everyone will think she actually wore a costume to school. A Farmer Tally costume.
“You need a straw hat,” chuckles Theo, behind her.
“Hrk,” says Tally.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!” He pounds on her back. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt.
“Not dressed up,” Tally manages, “only losers dress up.” She couldn’t look stupider in front of him.
“You don’t like my costume?” he says soberly. An endless pause.
And he winks and it kills her, just kills her, the way Halloween kills October.