For a bravo, the pitfalls of a tychistic view of the universe are many. No matter how polished your blade or your reputation, you could die betrayed by a loose flagstone or a stumbling thrust. And that’s just if you fight without flourish, without scrambling along trestles or snatching axes off the wall; without the whole point.
The downside to a deterministic view, conversely, is simple: the grim mathematics of the duel.
Verlaine will take the former, thanks. She whets her lucky coin on the same stone as her rapier. On a soft surface, she can make it land on edge.
The ship is light, yare and sweet to the helm: Silhouine swoops around a flock of cranes, then dips the keel to score the surface of a sparkling lake, just for the joy of it. Flight. The Loveblind Bird must be centuries old, but she behaves as if her beams were cured yesterday.
Plans crowd into Silhouine’s head. A ship wants a crew, and the crew will want a destination. Where will they go?
What, Silhouine asks herself, does she want?
Yael, more than anything, wants the ship to go in a straight line long enough for her to safely vomit.
Aldous puts the book back and walks to the next shelf, then pulls down another. Darren Darya Daryl Dashiell–wrong way. Two shelves back. Three. Ban Barathrum. Closer. Aldaea. Alder. Aldi.
Aniridia.
It’s a misplaced word. Aldous is certain her name should be there: Alejandro comes right afterward. Someone’s been messing with the order of things.
She replaces the slim volume. It’s not a name at all, is it? Greek roots: an, without, and then Iris, rainbow, messenger of the gods. But she never claimed to be getting their mail in the first place.
Aniridia leaves the library, determined and bound.
“Excuse me,” says Maddy with precise enunciation, “it’s very important that you give me a Screaming Orgasm now please.”
“Um, remind me how you make that?”
“Sure! Put some ice in a blender. Then take me out to your car and–”
“NOT that kind of bar, Maddy,” says Landrey, yanking.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why,” says Maddy cunningly, “do they have hot bartenders?”
Lights dim; the audience mobilizes. “Please excuse my friend,” sighs Landrey.
“How much did she manage to drink in one intermission?” says the concerned, hot bartender.
“None.”
“INTOXICATED WITH THE POETRY OF MARLOWE,” declares Maddy, digging for her flask.
BRISTA
You wouldn't listen!
BRISTA'S MOM
You're right, baby. I should have understood. I just
can't believe my own Teenager had such a Secret Life!
BRISTA
There's something else we need to tell you.
BRISTA / KATELY'S MOM
We?
KATELY (entering, w/ belly)
Brista isn't the only one in this family who's expecting.
MOM
Oh my gosh! All these surprises are making me feel...
pregnant!
BRISTA
Only teenagers get pregnant, Mom.
KATELY
Lord a'mighty! I just got a cell phone call from my
pregnant friend Nevaeh!
MOM
What is it now?!
KATELY
You won't believe this... but her baby... is PREGN
The Shibboleth hulks before them, a thing out of time, its skin a sloughing mess and its mouths full of feelers. Some of the expedition vomits; some clutch their heads.
Percy steps forward.
“We have not come so far to hesistate at a thing like this,” he says, steaming in Antarctic air. “Stand aside. We will enter the city of madness!”
“What dost thou seek therein?” hisses the Shibboleth in a dozen languages.
“The tomb,” says Percy, “of dread Chtulu!”
It snorts. “Who?” it says.
“Chtulu!” says Percy, less certain.
“Thou art not from around here,” it giggles, looming, “art thou?”
“This thing seems busted, huh?” says Zach, clicking the call button. “Man, Europe.”
The girl finishes her water and hands him the glass. “Ti si nježan idiot,” she says agreeably.
“You’re welcome,” says Zach, unsure about that last word. She puts one hand on her pillow, one beneath it, like a child in a picture book.
Sara steps into the hall from the stairs, pocketing lockpicks. Visiting hours are definitely over, but there’s no one here to catch her. Odd.
Yards away, Hidebound finishes strangling the second of the on-call nurses. Room 503 has been buzzing. He decides to attend.
Authority derives from pain. Your own or someone else’s, it doesn’t matter: some people cause suffering in order to draw power, while others choose to remain indifferent to its source.
Beth will do neither; thus her authority is weak. But sometimes it’s enough.
“Nothing back there but frozen corn,” she drawls, heart pounding.
“We need to look inside anyway,” says the checkpoint trooper.
The door creaks; her cargo blinks in the sunlight. The trooper has one hand on his gun, another on his radio.
“These aren’t the boys you’re looking for,” says Beth, match lit and unwavering beneath her open palm.