“So this ‘drawing’ is a population-control thing, right?” says Wheeler glumly, holding his mandatory winning ticket. “Slash ritual sacrifice? Point being they’re going to hit me with rocks.”
“No,” says Katerina, “you just get a red limo and a big bag of money.”
“But I’m a pariah,” Wheeler guesses. “Mark of Cain.”
“No, you should make lots of friends. You have a bag of money.”
“But how will I know if their friendship is genuine?”
“Spend all the money. See if they stick around.”
“Money can’t really make you happy!” Wheeler says.
“No?” says Katerina. “Can I have it, then?”
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
“I knew gene therapy was the answer,” exults Alexandrei. “The rats are ignoring the laced pellets entirely! We’ve done it, Susan. We’ve cured addiction!”
“And still no side effects?” she says, a little stunned.
“None!” says Alexandrei. “I mean, they do experience a serotonin surge, but that’s hardly a negative. I imagine they just feel excited for a while.”
“And it’s a one-time treatment, or…”
“Well, no,” he frowns. “The body rejects the foreign matter, so they need another dose every day or–”
“Will it,” says Susan slowly, “at least be cheaper than an eight-ball?”
Alexandrei bites his lip.
Twenty-One doesn’t go past Kenner Street. Sure, on the map the route appears to circle the block at Eighty-Second, but in fact it just stops a couple blocks away.
Not that there’s anyone in its seats by then to object.
It used to be the “bad part of town” was shorthand for the presence of poor or, specifically, black people. The idea seems quaint today. Twenty-One is a predator bus, no trifling machine: it disappears trucks and once ate a pack of thrashers. But each time it hauls up short at Eightieth, rattles, and executes a difficult turnabout.
“I’m having trouble nailing down your character,” Marcus prays.
Go on.
“I need you in the book; to leave You out of the world would be false, and blasphemous. But a character without flaws is of no service to a narrative. Can I depict You as flawed?”
Your depiction of Me, comes the dry answer, will be flawed by its very nature.
“But see what I’ve done just now!” says Marcus. “Assigning You a sense of humor.”
Yes. Humor is a defense: a reaction to injury.
“Have I injured You?” asks Marcus. “Can I?”
There is no answer that he perceives.
“You’re a deus ex machina,” Miss Havisham whispers.
“We are not yet,” says Proserpina tightly, “out of the machine.”
They can’t get out the way they came in. Emily-Jane’s already had to break an orderly’s nose; more must be coming soon–
And then, suddenly, Elijah is standing in a delivery door. “Come on,” he says. The world outside is surprisingly sunlit.
“I’m taking her into town,” says Proserpina. “Elijah?”
He nods.
“I have to get back to school,” says Radiane. “Georgette, Euphrania, you can help me cover–”
“I’m going to tell my father,” says Iala, pale and sick and furious.
“I. Need. Amacackas,” says Sebastian patiently.
“What, sweetie?” asks his mother Fern.
“Amacackas!”
She shakes her head. “I just don’t know–”
“I! Need! AaaaaaNGH.”
“Sebastian!” Fern rushes over to him. “What did you do?”
“Borrowed some time from a potential future self, probably,” says Sebastian, and glances down at his diaper. “What am I, here, about two?”
Fern gapes.
“It’s quantum,” says Sebastian, waving his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Okay, is there an emergency?”
“I,” says Fern, “uh. You wanted something? But I didn’t know what.”
Sebastian furrows his little brow.
“I think it’s animal crackers,” he says at length.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
“I demand tea!” Captain Spaceship yells at the computer.
“Actually, Captain, it can’t really interpret voice commands,” says Lieutenant Ethnic politely. “It could, perhaps, but true artificial intelligence and complete servitude are mutually incompati–”
“Enough!” says Captain Spaceship. “What were we doing?”
“We were getting boarded by hostile forces, sir.”
The door opens with a specially recorded hiss. Captain Spaceship spins and fires a raygun hole through Commander Beard, who topples gently, the requested teacup still in his hand.
“That should have been an ensign!” roars Captain Spaceship.
“They abolished the rank of ensign,” sighs Lieutenant Ethnic. “We both know why.”
You have to be in good shape to Magnajoust, of course, but you don’t need the traditional athletic form. Miguel Sebanon (#8) is only 5’4″. He and the other rogue back (Carol Tolliver, #41) derive a distinct advantage from their low centers of gravity.
Gravity, like peripheral vision, matters in Electric Magnajoust. This is why Imani Rhodes (#17) makes them hold flashcards to either side of her as she stares intently straight ahead.
“You look ridiculous,” Stephanie Long informs her.
“I’ve almost got it,” Imani Rhodes insists.
“The previews are starting,” Simon Yu groans.
“Zero!” says Imani Rhodes. “Shit, six?”
Lie isn’t easy for a coboy.
Cly Lonley rides into tow with the tumblewee, hat low over his yes. He ties his hose to the itching pot and jingles into the Ack of Heats Salon; when he pushes through the winging doos, the pinist hits an ugly chod.
“What can I get you, miter?”
Lonley drops ten Moran ollars in a puddle of bee. “Just keep it coming,” he runts.
His togue losens soon enough. “When I’m away from her,” he mumbles, “there’s something missing from the worl.”
The batender just glares, and sucks the finges he burned on a hotglass.
#9430, from the orderly’s sloppy logbook. Proserpina tiptoes to slide open the viewing slot, and inside, Madeleine Havisham twitches back in reflexive fear.
“Ma’am,” she whispers, “it’s us.”
Miss Havisham says nothing–this isn’t her first hallucination, in here–but leans closer.
From down the corridor, Emily-Jane gives a pigeon’s whistle: at school, it would mean a teacher approaching. Radiane’s throat is pounding. “Can we circle back?” she hisses.
The door is double-bolted and bound with steel. Proserpina looks at it, thinking of filmstrips, of her father, of six boards placed in a stack.
She draws back her fist.