Half a world and twelve hours away, another crank is turning on a reel of film, this one crisp and virginal.
“Speed,” says the nervous cameraman, “I think.”
“Cue!” shouts the director. Then: “Go!”
“Is that for me?” asks the chapped and holstered bushranger, squinting dawnward. His voice is squeaky, but his face is all stone and leather.
“Yes! I cued you!”
“But last time you said ‘start.'”
The director’s neck veins pop. “I’m sorry. What word would you like to settle on?”
“You could try ‘action,'” mumbles Dacelo, perched on an apple box in trousers too nice for this dust.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Pretty much the usual way. Ensign Prozski reported for duty pale and sweating, and once they’d voted to defect and smashed the radio, it wasn’t like they could request a medevac. Within a couple days their little pressure chamber had yielded to the inevitable mathematics of infection.
Funny thing about nuclear subs: not only can they run silent and deep for decades, they can sneak in a mutation or two while doing so–even in viral DNA. Prozski and his comrades retain awareness and volition. They just get used to being a little peckish, speaking Russian, and cruising for amphibious sex.
Marla’s got the evening on a choke chain and autumn’s arm behind its back. The leaves are strangling on their branches, bruising brown and yellow. The sun’s flush with wallowed rage.
Campus: Latin for field, more specifically of battle. What did Caesar have that college doesn’t? Columns, lust and gluttony, blood on the grass and a knife in his back.
She’s knocking on the door now, tape tight around her knuckles. The Romans liked bloodsport, too. She’s ancient and aquiline, eyes blank as marble; she’s waiting for the Emperor’s thumb to turn. Marla’s no sadist. Pain isn’t pleasure: pain is pain.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
“So warping space takes an impossible amount of energy, right?”
Eddie’s brow leaps. “Right. Are you doing Star Trek math again? Don’t waste your–”
“But warping the perception of space is easy,” says Marv. “I’m doing it right now. Learn by taking tests! Lower taxes, more revenue!”
“I’m not sure handwaving contradictory statements is the energy source of the future.”
“Perception is reality!”
Eddie sighs. “So what, you’re going to spin generators with this?”
“Nah. Put it in a spaceship, maybe,” muses Marv.
The newly christened SS Crabtree’s Bludgeon is halfway to Tau Ceti before they actually finish turning it on.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
He shows her where the film feeds from its reel into the intricate wheels of the Kinetoscope, and holds the stock up before a single hot bulb to show her the nearly-identical frames.
“Now blink like this,” Elijah says, “that many times a second, and watch–”
His hand is on hers, cranking the handle; Corbett’s fist withdraws before her eyes, and Fitzsimmons’s head whips around.
“I should be getting back,” Proserpina says, at last and with regret.
“Come by Saturday,” he says.
“You know I can’t–”
“Say I kidnapped you.”
“They’d never believe,” she says dryly, “you won that struggle.”
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Rooney has grown old.
In thirty-five years he’s never stopped watching the boy, tracking each development in his curling scrapbook: his rise to frat president, entrepreneur, team owner, mayor. It’s all so horribly effortless. Chicago isn’t just eating from his hand, it’s hooked and strung out, begging for another hit.
Now Rooney watches the weekly parade march through downtown, Bueller cackling as a dozen underlings strain to pull his Ferrari. They say he’s got higher political ambitions, very soon. Governor. Senator. Maybe even–
Rooney was in the army; Rooney keeps his rifle clean. Rooney knows what he’s got to do.
Monday, September 29, 2008