If she can really read minds, Zocco’s sure she must not think much of him.
“Not that it’s anything like reading,” Chopine says, “and not that what I think of you should matter, but you happen to be wrong.”
A snatch of song, a brief sexual fantasy featuring her, and resentment sweep through Zocco’s mind; the last because she can tell when his kindness is forced, but not vice versa.
“You’re becoming more aware of your own thoughts already.”
The little cues in her voice say she’s mocking him, but gently. With affection?
“See,” Chopine smiles, “you can do it too.”
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
At the time, Elizabeth stoops to conquer, and maybe that is why they think she’ll crack like lobster.
“No offense,” she tells them, “I don’t sing for mobsters.”
“Sweetie, you don’t get it,” grins the moonlighting bouncer. Â “He don’t wanna hear ‘no’ from a blowsy flouncer.”
“Really.” She rolls up her sleeves. Â “What utter nonsense.”
“Now are you copacetic, or do we have to toss ya?”
Her eyes and smile are torches in a steel ensconcement. “Try it, but let’s hurry. Getting ready for my concert.”
After that the word gets out: Â avoid the songster.
Everybody knows she’s a motherfucking monster.
Billie Youngblood is the only gunslinger in a pantomime world.
“I’ve got ten Federal dollars,” she tells the shopkeep. “How many bullets will that buy?”
“I just-a look,” he replies, turning to shove little boxes around on the shelf behind the counter. One of the boxes has eggs in it. “Oh!” cries the shopkeep, diving to keep them from hitting the floor, making eleven miraculous catches, then slipping on the shattered twelfth and going pantaloons-up in a spectacular pratfall that smashes the rest.
Billie’s trigger finger itches, because one of the goddamn harlequins put itching powder on her trigger.
“An archaeologist is like a detective–for history!” Aniridia mutters to herself, the kind of platitude that assembles itself in your memories of childhood when you’re not looking. She wipes her dry brow; she’s tired but not thirsty. The floor is yielding up evidence.
She’s torn out a rough square of boards underlaid with dense stacks of newspaper, its print archaic and blurred with time. Monochrome faces stare up without expression. She’s filthed her hands with ink.
Aniridia is struck by the idea of one way out of this place, and then struck again, with the certainty that it won’t burn.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
They’ve counted twelve bodies so far. The neater ones merely blew their own heads off.
“There’s nothing here but death,” says Tach. “If we find the generator, we can unshield it, and a magnet that strong should kill the drive–”
“All that will do is kick the number into our heads and you know it,” says Ashlock. “Fuck and damn it. Kirrily. Why would Kirrily have come here?”
“Something secret,” says Tach, who’s trying to ignore the hexadecimal edging at his vision.
“And where do you put a secret in Antarctica?”
They find the ragged tunnel entrance in the loading bay.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
They’ve just finished a new, non-burning clone of Commander Beard when the ship begins whooping with red alerts.
“State the nature of this emergency!” snaps Captain Spaceship, hand on his laser.
“Status quo field’s down, Captain,” crackles Lieutenant Ethnic over the comm.
“Are you saying things on ship could change?”
“In some cases,” says the Lieutenant grimly, “they might change and not change back.”
“Shit!” Â Captain Spaceship grips his laser a little too hard and accidentally slices off most of the new Commander. “Whoops! Shit! Get it back online, shit!”
So they fix it with technology and everything is fine again.
Deanne is in her forty-ninth trimester and that, like she, doesn’t sit right.
“You’re still not going to induce?” she says, wincing. Her back always hurts. Her feet are water balloons.
“Haven’t missed your due date yet,” smiles the doctor, who isn’t a guy like you’re thinking.
“And why won’t you tell me what that–”
“Patriot Act,” the doctor says.
Deanne’s done the math herself, but numbers collapse under the sheer fact of her belly. Exercise. She tries to make herself climb stairs; she knows it won’t help. Her body is a prison. She wishes somebody would tell her the charges.
What would happen in Nuremberg? They would learn from Drosselmeier’s cousin that Krakatuk had been in his home all along–sold to him, long before, by a laughing man who wanted only one coin of a specific year. It does no good to puzzle over such things. He could have been anyone.
What matters, my darlings, is that the new year has broken, and this story is done. The tale of the Nutcracker and his princesses is for another time. Into your pajamas, tapers lit; and if I read the stars aright, my old friend your godfather will be here by morning.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The spell broke. The deepest bell let out its twelfth peal. It was Christmas.
Time in the battle-bruised city unwound: men shredded by shot breathed again, boys wore beards, and snow flurried up from cobbles.
“We may never chase down the nut Krakatuk,” said the astronomer.
“I have been a fool,” said Drosselmeier.
“You have been legend,” said the astronomer. “I would not take all the kingdoms in Christendom in trade for our adventure.”
“Then let us home, to dear Nuremberg,” said Drosselmeier, “for whatever the consequences of failure, I will face them gladly, knowing you are by my side.”
Friday, December 31, 2010
Seconds whipped like snowflakes at the astronomer’s face and hands; he fought to drag his feet forward. Bells unrang.
“Why invoke such lunatic sorcery?” he cried.
Drosselmeier stood mad and time-whipped in the eye of the engine. “Because you did not deserve this,” he said, tears streaming into his eyes. “It was my quest! My life at stake! And in my fear, my selfish desperation, I took fifteen years from you!”
“My friend,” said the astronomer, “my dear Christian Elias Drosselmeier–for you I would give them all.”
The heartspring of the clock, driven beyond its strength, shattered like glass.
Thursday, December 30, 2010