Tach catches Ashlock looking at his temples and pulls up the hood of his parka.
The captain of the Matthew Henson is tall and rightly suspicious. “You’re the investigators, you investigate,” he says. “Any supplies you need, we’ll run them down the plank and that’s that. None of my crew are setting foot on that ice.”
That’s fine by Ashlock: their cover would fold under scrutiny anyway. They hoist packs and drag the RAID-sled down to the broken road, and Dumont d’Urville rises cyclopean before them. The lights are still on, but no one’s waving. Katabatic wind burns Ashlock’s nose.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The cat coughs up something headless, effervescent and green.
“Dammit, Taco,” mutters Merle, levering herself out of the Adirondack. Its wings are still spasming but, she notices as she bends down, it’s not a bird or a dragonfly. Taco washes one paw, looking insufferable.
Emerald stains the paper towel when she scoops it up. Suspicion worms into Merle’s chest and she googles up confirmation: Taco has half-eaten a garden sylph. Shit.
She packs the stupid cat off to Mom’s and hangs horseshoes on lintels, but the tribe still slashes her tires in vengeance. The neighbor’s dog doesn’t stand a chance.
Friday, November 26, 2010
“Congratulations! You’re a finalist for our tenth season here on The Decision.” The host grips Winthrop’s shoulder; the audience whoops. “For tonight’s challenge, we’ve brought your bedroom closet to the studio! You need to organize it, AND–” The audience murmurs. “–start your 2011 taxes!”
“Wow. What’s my alternative?”
“You can let this professional welder hold an acetylene torch to your face until the count of thirty.”
The torch ignites with a blue-white hiss. Winthrop winces.
“Time for your Decision!” says the host. Floor lights swell with tension; the audience and the orchestra hush.
“Can I count, like, onetwothreeforfivesix?” Winthrop says.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
It wasn’t ideal, but this is the last trip the icebreakers can make before the sea goes solid for winter. Â They steam through the groaning water toward d’Urville, and muttering perturbs their Tasmanian crew.
Ashlock climbs down into the hold every few hours to check the trembling RAID and its car battery, lashed to a frame of PVC pipe. Â Its lifespan diminishes. Â Tach’s taken to whalespotting, and is no help.
The station ruins hove into view just as the sun begins to dip toward the twenty-hour night. Ashlock hoists the rig, and quells fears too old for the Greeks to name.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The microscopes are heavy and delicate and Ms. Peril wouldn’t normally be breaking them out this early in the year, but something’s happening, something strange. The kids tromp around the school parking lot steaming, glass slides in their mittens to catch snowflakes.
Each time they get two under the lens they confirm it again: identical. All of them. The scope camera clicks away, filling a card with proof.
“What does that mean, Ms. Peril?” asks Chandra.
“It means you should all pack your lunches tomorrow,” says Ms. Peril, who wouldn’t normally break out the probability portal in the fall semester either.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The annual meeting of the Presidents of Things attracts no protests; it’s held in a Days Inn and anyway, no one understands its importance. Â The President of Grownups makes sure of that.
“We have new business to get through, people, pay attention!” Â The President of Whether You’re Paying Attention raps her gavel and frowns. Â “Can we just do a quick vote? Â Those in favor?” A chorus. “Those opposed?”
“Nay,” says the President of Internet, without raising her voice.
Everybody gets quiet at that. Â The President of Internet is a nice lady and all, but never forget: Â she knows what you did.
Monday, November 22, 2010
In his day your name was the city where you were assigned and so on file he’s Brandenburg, last of his kind, long since retired into legend. She wouldn’t have known his face, but he showed up in the safehouse with supernatural ease and gave a one-time passphrase, unused for fifty years.
“Whatever you need,” she says.
“Just one job. Finding an asset for an old friend.” He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.
“All right,” she says, waking her laptop, “I assume you got nothing in the database?”
He looks at her steadily. “The what now?”
Friday, November 19, 2010
Dogs aren’t the only ones who can do it. They did this study where they had men sweat for an hour in identical white t-shirts and mixed them up and their girlfriends could each identify their boy by smell, without fail, and that’s how Dahlia is tracking him down three miles of subbasement corridor and through doors as thick as sleep. They do not want her here, the secret-keepers. They are helpless before her. Her gun barks and booms the names of dead giants and she strides on, singleminded, a bitch on the scent with a job to do.
Thursday, November 18, 2010