The Ape's Wife Part 12

I reach into the linen closet for a bath towel, and when I turn back to pa.s.s it to Eli, he's standing, the water lapping about his lower calves. Only it's not water anymore. It's something that looks like mercury, and it flows quickly up his legs, his hips, his a.s.s, and drips like c.u.m from the end of his d.i.c.k. Eli either isn't aware of what's going on, or he doesn't care. I hand him the towel as the silver reaches his smooth, hairless chest and begins to makes its way down both his arms.

"Anyway," he says, "we can talk about it or we can not talk about it. Either way's fine by me. So long as you don't start fooling yourself into thinking your hands are clean. I don't want to hear about how you were only following orders, you know?"

It's easy to forget them without tryin', with just a pocketful of starlight.

My ears haven't popped, and there's been no dizziness, but, all the same, the bathroom is redolent with those caustic triplets, ammonia and ozone, and, more subtly, sugar sizzling away to a black carbon sc.u.m. The silver has reached Eli's throat, and rushes up over his chin, finding its way into his mouth and nostrils. A moment more, and he stands staring back at me with eyes like polished ball bearings.

"You and your gangster buddies, you get it in your heads you're only blameless errand boys," Eli says, and his voice has become smooth and s.h.i.+ny as what the silver has made of his flesh. "You think ignorance is some kind of virtue, and none of the evil s.h.i.+t you do for your taskmasters is ever coming back to haunt you."

I don't argue with him, no matter whether Eli (or the sterling apparition standing where Eli stood a few moments before) is right or wrong or someplace in between. I could disagree, sure, but I don't. I'm reasonably f.u.c.king confident it no longer makes any difference. The towel falls to the floor, fluttering like a drogue parachute in a desert gale, and Eli steps out of the tub, spreading silver in his wake.

Slouching Towards the House of Gla.s.s Coffins Graze on my lips, and if those hills are dry, Stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie.

William Shakespeare, "Venus and Adonis" (15921593) Alieka Ferenczi has been walking for seven days, ever since the roller she'd bought back in Annapolis salted and sputtered its final sorrowful sput. She'd known the mole's conversion coils were half a step from fried when she bought it off a sc.r.a.pyard at the edge of the city by the sea. But she was almost at her last wad now, having already paid so much to the datswap jig for cords that would lead her across the Lunae to the walls of the Yellow House or might get her there, if he'd been that solo honest jig in ever one thou. The sand and dust swirls around her, various-sized dervishes to testify to how BrantCorp and AOWT's had gone so toto hit and miss on Barsoom. Sure, there were the shallow seas stretching from Chryse north to the pole, and the southern sea, and, here and there, patches of scrubland cactus, josh trees, verde and ironwood, yukka, s.h.i.+tty little paradisio's for snakes and lizards and the occasional rodent, but not much else. Alieka had always heard about how ace things had gone at far off Lake h.e.l.las, with its drip-dense rainforgets and those silver cities rising from the sh.o.r.e like spirals bound for Heaven Ausonia, New Moscow, Canas, Tugaske, Kyoto Neo three quarters of the planet's population crushed into the lake's eastern sh.o.r.e, and no newcomers welcome. f.u.c.k all to the rest a.s.sward, right? d.a.m.n so, d.a.m.n so.

These were among Alieka Ferenczi's bitter, weary thoughts as she dragged herself across wastes under the sky so bright with stars. Now and again, she'd stop and pick out the dot that was Earth. All sorta tales what went on homeworld, and they were most ghost tales for children and workers, House all happy and content out on the ring, sure. Talk about war and famine and tox oceans. Why, we're better off than them leftbacks, them s.h.i.+te-rat also-rans, ain't we just? s.h.i.+ and she dy jarroo, lay your glimmers down if we're wrong on that. These were among the jumble of her thoughts while the winds roaring down from the western highlands beat and whipped at her traveler's fraying swaddle. She kept a hand on her leather cap lesten it sail off her scalp, and she pulled the layers of insul tighter about herself. She only walked at night, so here were the wastes at their coldest, but better than the sun. Better be gnawed at by Old Man Aeolusk than have her brains nuked by Old Lady Sol, eh?

There was a light from the stars and light from Phobos rising in the west. She often ruminated on Phobos. Her da, whom she'd never met, had died in the phyllo mines up there. Lock breach, said her ma, and the entire shaft had gone spitter and kaputsky, said her ma. Not a dram of atmo, not nuff grav to house a cow tin from floating off. "He's up there," had said her ma. "You recall that, Alieka, when you gaze at the west moon. Still up there, goin' round, round Barso. And watchin' out for you."

Never did believe that, and she tried not to ponder at his frozen corpse orbiting the planet for all those centuries to come.

Alieka managed to climb up one side of a dune, and managed not to take a tumble coming down the windward slope, so she decided that worthed her a sit at the base, just enough time for a stingy sip from her jug. Only a stingy, though, because out here on the Lunae, not even hardly enough humidity for a dew spread. Not dry as dry can get, but d.a.m.no dry, betcha. Even with the purdah s.h.i.+elding her nose and mouth, her throat and lungs felt crisp as crack, and her lips b.l.o.o.d.y. Her sinuses ached.

May be I won't make it to the Yellow House, she thought. Could be best, that turn, eh? And Alieka thought how good it would feel to lie down on the sand and never get up again. Let blazing Nair's eye find her without the scant shade of the sheltie folded up in her knap, let the sand bury her, and let the scorpions and asps have their way. Tired as this, it was easy to forget why she'd ever started this fool's parade across the rusty wastes where not even the sappers and sourdoughs dared to tread.

"Muirgheal," she whispered. "Bring back Muirgheal from the Maafa. That's why, you withered cunny. You house your eyes and your mind on her. Ain't no sleep surrender, or you're something worse than the worst coward."

Not that anyone had ever come back once s.n.a.t.c.hed by the Maafa. The slaver caravans tripped back and forth across the plains, and no one much argued when they set their sights on your daughter or son. Oh, there were a few had tried, put up barricades and taken up arms and all that happy c.r.a.p. Right. But the Maafa were keen to any wait out, and sooner or later took their wares. You say any different, there were enough burnt settles to testify to having gone to the trouble, having been that much the imbecile. But, the long and short, Maafa b.i.t.c.h s.n.a.t.c.hed up Muirgheal from her bed, and no matter what anyone else heard going on, 'cause no one right says no, leave her be, sidewinder eeshobee, and be on about. They took her, and she was ghosted, like never had she been. Excepting for Alieka, who'd had it stone for that pretty-pretty since they were in study together in low sector. But Alieka never had found the requisite, and so sure by now Muirgheal didn't even spare a reminisce her way. And yet, and yet, and still, here was daft Alieka Ferenczi pilgrim on the waste and marching, what?, right up to the Yellow's gates and saying "Let me in, and turn her back." Or what? Have you even thought that far ahead?

The sappers have a phrase for what happens to the human faculties out on the woestenij, and that phrase is gone vergessenen cranio. Or just gone, gone, gone. Same on either, and what it means is that the wanderer loses track of her or his intent, and, bereft of purpose, might turn feral or suicide on the red sands, the Kyzyl-k.u.m, or, luck s.h.i.+nes down, poor soul might find its way home again or to some other home of men. But mad as Easter in Rishabha, Ramadan at Xmas. Oh, she dy jarroo, betcha flat.

Alieka bows her head, driving back the dust between her ears to uncover the memories of the one kilo canister tucked in her knap, the explosives, cush and hyped HNB, which took a hefty chunk of her savings before the meet with the datswap. Here to there, old girl, and if here was the bomb, then there was making a hole in the House big enough confusion might aft ensue she'd have time to find Muirgheal and beat a hasty get-shy before the Maafa f.u.c.ks knew what had swatted them. "You don't forget that again," she whispered to the desert night, and might be the wind blowing down from the Tharsis listened and took note. But she doubted it. Alieka promised herself another five minutes rest, and then she go on about her southerly way. Just another four and one, ja, ja, sh. Safe than sore, though, so she pulls the prox rod from her knap, unfolds it, and sticks it into the sand. When she switches it on, it hums like bees.

Here we are now, in the then of now, past and present and future always leapfrogging, and all cohabitating in the same instance, anyhow. But on this day, four solis before that night at the foot of that tall, tall dune out on the freezing plateau of the Lunae Palus, this day, Alieka Ferenczi is at the shop, just like any other Jovis afternoon. She's goggles down, grinding valves smooth enough the hydro farms won't put the boot to her boss, which means he won't put the boot to her. Five hundred ingots down, five hundred more to go before the whistle blows go home, because the boss sure ain't gonna spring for over. The shop noise is a scream to put the season of storms to shame, those perihelion sirens screeching down alleyways and street, and howling over rooftops. But these are not the thoughts Alieka Ferenczi is thinking on that four days ago now, if only because the earphones dampen the racket to the dullest whine of its true self.

She's thinking, instead, of the tix she's lucked into for the evening's match, right down front, her and her ma will be able to hear the whack, whack of the sticks against the leather b.a.l.l.s. But then the siren sounds, the repeating triple bleats to warn all low sector of a Maafa sighting within the borders of Annapolis. Not that business as usual stops. She doesn't shut off the bonnet grind. The lane helmer doesn't pop round to end the s.h.i.+ft and call it a day and send them safely home, send them to be sure family and friends are accounted, and, besides, all Alieka has is her ma and an elderly hound, and neither is on the Maafa's shopping list. They go for the young and the pretties. So, let the others worry, and let the militia do it's job while she does hers.

And it's only later, over their quick dinner before the match, that ma tells her how the slavers grabbed five before the law drove them away, and one of those, wouldn't you know, says she, was an old schoolmate of yours, Alieka, that sweet girl Muirgheal who always made such fine grades and wore sky-blue ribbons in her silver-grey hair. Alieka, though she'd not thought on Muirgheal Hemingtrust for years, hardly noticed the game, the goals, her ma so jubilant when home sector won, the cries of the fans, the press of the crowd, the smell of hot crisps and bags of fresh roasted chapulines. She only had room in her head for Muirgheal, whom she'd once loved, first crush and never a love thereaft. Too plain, too gruff to win a wife, and no eye for men. Muirgheal hauled away by the Maafa, chained in one of their bamboo wagons and rattling across the sands to her torture and eventual death behind the basalt walls of the Yellow House.

That night she dreamt of Muirgheal, and of all the rumored tribulations and harrows doled within those halls, how the Maafa butchers saw about their work such as no one went quickly. And before sun up she wrote a letter to her ma, packed her knap, and set about town gathering that which she imagined she would need, visiting ill-rep kiosks up west sector, spending for the tram because time was of the essence. The Maafa moved fast on gyped-up, seven-tread rollers, and might easy be fifty kilos in any direction by the now of then. It was mid-morning before she left Southgate, and too soon left the pave for southeast and the Lunae and the reputed location of the Yellow House. She knew she was pressing the mini past its castaway limits. But time was of the essence. Time was slipping by sure as the dust devils and the few birds wheeling overhead.

What you after, Alieka? Something you ain't ever had, something wants no part of you? Half forgot dream of a dream of a dream? Kiddish wishbegones? What you think you're gonna find, you find anything at all?

There was supposed to be a well at Pompeii, but the settlement had vapped since last she'd heard. The plains herders had moved on, as herders do. A dry, dry set of months, worse than usual, and the crater was cracker dry. The stones laid round the rim of the well had fallen over in the wind, and the bore had filled with dust in however many days since. She'd have to watch the level of her jug, and hope for better in the Maja. She'd have to keep the thirst in the back of her mind, lest it lead her to despair or lead to try for home again.

What you after, dirty factory prole? Cognations that slice of quim gonna have anything but plain and simple grat.i.tude even should you get yourself in and get herself out, which you ain't gonna do, anyway? You think eve a half that you've gone soft long ago, eh? She dy jarroo, betcha nothing and get nothing back.

"I don't know," she said aloud, jostling along, astride the roller. She said these self-a.s.surances to herself, but aloud, as the roller topping dunes and rus.h.i.+ng down the other side, rattling kidneys as the vehicle bounced and lurched when rocky terrain was come upon. She only thought the bad thoughts, so she had to speak the good ones, even if her voice was lost in clack, clatter, roar of the conversion coils and the last-legger engine.

You after a few wadda for hauling this girl home again, home again, jiggity quick? Maybe a hero's tumble you get lucky and make it back? And you won't, 'cause you and luck ain't no kinda intimates. You, Alieka Ferenczi, gonna get no better off them Maafa f.u.c.ks but maybe a slug in the gut, a cattle bolt to the skull, 'cause how they ain't about to waste the tribulations on a slag like you.

"Mysterious ways, his wonder to perform," she mutters. "Ain't that what the liturgicals say? So, I might be that mysterious way, I might, and this might be a wonder to perform, might not?"

Not even a believer, and look at you burbling holy muck.

"I believed once," she replies, talking back at herself and thinking of the news of her da dead in a Phobos blowout. That might have been what took away her faith, but it might have been half a hundred other things. "And since that's fact, I might well find divine again, might'n I not?"

And this now of then, this moment pa.s.sed, but not pa.s.sed then, is when the roller growled, and sparks came showing off the coils, and Alieka only just managed to throttle back and avoid a tump down a gully. She sat on the dead roller a long time, watching diminutive twin Diemos rising above the western horizon, one night past full, but still hardly brighter than Earth or Venus. She sat and thought on the walk, and on water, and on the canister of HNB in the roller's side basket. It would fit easy in her knap, not much weight at all. She sat ten or fifteen minutes, thinking on all the ways a woman can find her death in the arms of Kyzyl-k.u.m, as the Turkics named the wastelands. And then she took what would fit into the knap, checked the straps on her boots, and started the slog towards the fabled but all too factual Yellow House of the Maafa.

She thinks, distantly, through a dumb obscuring haze of thirst and muscles stripped down to copper threads, a mouth full of ferric dust and the ferric taste of blood, not even a tear left in her, so long since a decent sip of water. She thinks, distantly, of how a sound mind would pause to gape at all this baha, for no matter the scratch and scrab of the worst of the wind-raw Lunae scape is not out beyond the reach of the hand of beauty. Alieka Ferenczi, who, since birth and across all her days, has never left the smothersome abbrays.h.i.+o sanctuary of Annapolis. The sun is up, but she has not stopped walking. I am at the edge, she thinks. Few more steps, moments, and here I go gatherin' vergessenen cranio and never gonna strike the prize, just gonna lay me down to sleep and Mama Red will rock me off to sweet blivie. I won't need wet in the blivie black.

She squints at the lat-long tracker on her belt, and soft blue characters glow 12.5N, 58.3W, which has got to be too far east and not near enough south, way up at the northern wind of the Maja (the terraforms promised a river here, flowing down to the Chryse wide; there's another failure). She shakes it once, a tad hard to read with the sun s.h.i.+ning down, shakes it to see whether the box is reading wrong, because humanity will never be shed of the notion that violence convinces tech to get its s.h.i.+t together. It doesn't change, and so Alieka accepts the reading. She accepts she's strayed, and she'll never have the time, the strength, the will to change course now. There was meager water and food before dawn. She came across a poor excuse for a cienega in the hour before dawn. There wasn't a savior pool, but there were cacti, and she pierced her hands all over good sawing off the top of a p.r.i.c.kle pear with her knife, and now her palms and fingers sting and ache. They'll be infected soon enough, sure, but at least there were damp and bites of that green meat. Her throat's and stomach's forgotten about that by now, and she can't have any idea why she didn't cram a few of the cladodes into her bulging knap. Junk in there she could have tossed away to make room for so precious a commodity, but rarely do the dying bother to think straight.

Alieka Ferenczi mulls over 12.5N, 58.3W, and wonders if it doesn't matter, because maybe the datswap had no d.a.m.n idea of what he spoke. Maybe he only made something up there and on the spot to get her wad. Then she starts waltzing again, onwards south, even if there's no meaning in the movement, in the one foot in front of the other. It's something to do, and she's not yet (though she does not fathom why) ready to knock, knock, knock'a death's front door.

She could have kept up with the time by the arc of the sun across the sky, or by the lat-long, but where's the point, she was thinking when one is walking from nowhere to nowhere else and it can only end one way. Where's the minding clocks?

And it is while thinking this thought she sees the high mustard walls of the Yellow House, and stares a long time, because maybe it's only a mirage, cruel in its persuasiveness. This means she has to decide to follow this which might be nothing but a lie, or sit down now and pa.s.s over tricks of heat s.h.i.+mmer and exhaustion and sun-shuttered eyes. Moment of truth, she dy jarroo, now or not ever, fold or raise, sure. But here's the bright memory of Muirgheal, too luxe by far to ever even give the likes of oily handed Alieka two s.h.i.+ts and a howdy you do. Here is she. Teener wants and formative urges to lift up those heavy boots and set them back again.

Maybe there's not a pork's whit of honor it what I do, thinks Alieka. Maybe only my cunny leadin' my head, but what of it, sure. If the out's the same, then why the why. Ain't that in the gospel somewheres?

And she thought of the canister of hyped hexanitro riding on her shoulders, and she tries to reckon the distance between her and the mustard adobe. Can't be more than a mile, she a.s.sures herself, though it turns out to be more like four. But she stumbles, often falling, often on her knees, through poison scrub and wadi, once almost steps on a rattler might have been as big around as her arms, coiled and rat-tat-tat, and why it didn't strike she's never going to know. But she makes it, and the walls are higher than anyone she's ever heard hold forth of subject have ever claimed. There are char-skinned, forever burned black, brown, gold-skinned men and women perched atop the caliche, armed with spears and crossbows and sonics and punch guns. There are iron gates half as tall as the enceinte, so rusty Alieka wonders how the wind hasn't whisked them away to palus. The Maafa guards don't do anything she expected. They don't open fire. They call out profanities and warnings in their glottal creole, which she only just, and just barely, understands every thirdish word.

Why am I not dead? she thinks, as an auto clicks loud enough to make her stumble back a step or two, and the gates swing inwards. Might be, h.e.l.l takes them what come looking after it, might be, sure, and why had n.o.body thought of this? Because. We had our expects, didn't we. We thought we knew the beasts, all on what they raid s.n.a.t.c.h, but maybe that's bein' picky in the market stalls after so much risk and troubles.

The men and women on the wall shout some more, and something whizzes loudly, then there's a bolt, thunk, protruding from the ground at her feet. She shades her eyes and stares up at them. She points at herself, and they shout again, all in harmony it seems to her addled brain. So, knowing not else what they could mean (plus, all those only third words to help), or if they've understood her, Alieka steps through the gates that lead to the Yellow House itself, and they bang closed behind her. When children dream of Sheol, the gates sound like that. Just like, she thinks, then wishes that she hadn't.

There are more guards, dressed more raggedy than her by far, to escort her to tall lancet doors as rusty as the gate. None of them touch her, and this surprises Alieka as much as anything yet has. The house is not the shade of yellow that she always imagined it would be. Whenever she chanced to think on the color of the house, she saw it so bright it almost hurt to see, a bright shade of yellow that stood out stark against the brick-red plain. Maybe it was that color, to start with, the yellow of fields of sunflowers or rapa. Maybe the dust and sand have scoured it this color, over the many decades since it was built. Or maybe whatever transpires on inside, maybe that's what took away the bright. She goes along, because what else would she do? She lets them drive to and then through that gigantic doorway. And if the gate closing was the sound of the gates of Sheol banging shut, the clanging of those doors are simply beyond the terrors dreamt up by dull women of Alieka's sorry sort.

Inside, the Yellow House is not yellow. It might be no color at all, or it might be those walls, archways, ceilings, and stairwells are all black. She tries not the think on it overly much. In all directions not so unlike the palus it seems to go on forever. Why had she not expected that? Why had she underestimated its vastness? Well, why had she seen it the yellow of a rippling field of rapa flowers? If we have not seen, we do not know, 'cept rumors, what the mind may conjure, and pictures, and n.o.body's got no pics of the Yellow House. But, sure, on goes the halls forever, or so seems, and she is led without ever once their hands upon shoulders, arms, back, and without the prodding of spears or gun muzzles. Perhaps this is of her compliance, and perhaps it's not.

Somewhere in this place is Muirgheal, or whatever they've left of her, or made of her. Alieka does her best not to dwell on that. She wonders what's to be done with her instead, as that's far less disturbing a set of possibilities. She silently chortles to herself for ever having reckoned the one kilo canister of HNB would be enough to bring down this sprawling rack. Maybe twenty kilos might have turned the trick. Maybe all the trumpets of the army of Joshua on that day he felled Jericho. But the one is enough for a suicide, and enough to take a few of these s.h.i.+ts with her.

They lead her to a round room with a fire pit at its center, and above the fire pit is a hole, a chimney drawing the smoke, which must lead up to the sky, the world outside. There's something turning on a spit above the fire, and to her starved self it looks as good as any pig or chicken ever yet has. But it was human once, a man or a woman, though now it's impossible to be sure which. Her mouth waters, and she curses herself to already have sunk half so low as a Maafa cannibal.

In the round room, across the fire and its grisly, broiling fare, is a dais of basalt, and on the dais is a basalt throne. A man sits there, all skin and bones and raggedy as the rest and as raggedy m.u.f.f as Alieka.

"What did you come here to find?" the man asks, and it shocks her that he speaks Anglo as well as any school teacher or party member, after hearing only the creole from his pack. "Someone lost, and perhaps you have a mind we stole them away? Or are you here for something else, hoping we might take you in? Or just to satisfy a deadly curiousity that's haunted you so, so long." The man's head is shaved, or he's bald. His skin is a maze of tattoos, and maybe they mean something, something she could puzzle if she had the lux.

"Why am I not dead?" she asks him. Her voice is raw, and it hurts to speak.

"Someone bring her water," the man says, and someone does. She is careful to drink slowly, lest she vomits it all right back up again, s.h.i.+, s.h.i.+. She wipes her wet lips on the back of her hand, and her hand comes back b.l.o.o.d.y. She also glances down at the lat-long tracker: 21.3N, 79.1W, and that doesn't seem right at all, not after the last time she checked.

"Are you hungry, Alieka Ferenczi?" the man on the dais asks, not unkindly. She doesn't ask how he knows her name, because black witches, the lot.

She glances at the thing on the spit, fat dripping to sizzle in the coals, crispy skin, and split open here and there to reveal...

"No," she says. "I had a snake this morning."

"A snake?" he asks, skeptically.

"A rattler," she replies.

"Resourceful of you. So, I ask my questions the second time, and know my patience is not unendlich, as your people would say."

My people. My people. His people.

It's almost impossible not to drool at the odor rising from the spit above the fire pit, so, now, now, whose people has she become? Does the desert work magic, and transform Annapolis words into Maafa.

"May I sit down?" she asks.

"You may do ever as you wish."

She very near thanks him, but thinks better just in time. It's too perverse a gesture to consider. He spies at her with orange eyes, and she can't recall if the others had orange eyes, but having sat on the hard-packed dirt floor Alieka doesn't look up to spy back at.

"I am here to find a girl," she says, hardly above a whisper. "Her name be Muirgheal Hemingtrust, and she lived in Annapolis, and once wore blue ribbons in her hair."

"Es usted su madre?" the orange-eyed man asks.

Is he making fun? No. That's not the timbre of his wringer.

"No."

"So, your sister?"

"No." Alicka raises her head.

"Then, she must be your sheba, s.h.i.+?"

Only in your wettest, caboodled dreams, factory.

"No," Alieka tells the man. "Even though I wish that were so."

He smiles, revealing teeth filed to razor-sharp triangles. "Good answer, Alieka Ferenczi. I dislikes to the clatter of falsehoods upon my ears. So, you came so far to...take her home, yes?"

"Yes."

The man frowns, and Alieka lowers her gaze, so she only has to see the glow of the fire on the dirt playing across her filthy rags.

"You must know, no one comes into the Halls of the Maafa, who is not themselves Maafa, and goes back out again, yes?"

"Those are the yarns," she answers him.

"But you came, anyway. Though no one ever does this."

She only nods.

"A gallant, yonggan slit, are you. For that, a ward, it may come. For such a yonggan kite, a gift. This is what I think. Though you may not leave, and though you may not have what you came to retrieve, I will grant you view to her, eh? So long as you wish to see, at that." There's a surprised rumble of voices from the guards surrounding her.

"If that's the best," she says, wanting a mouth of that roasting thing.

The man is silent a while, then he says, "That's the best, plus."

"s.h.i.+," says she, knowing not what else to say. "No fair, then, my askin' more."

"And when you've wearied of my gift, Alieka Ferenczi, praps be you think again on whether to be of the Maafa and learn the Elegy of Pain, s.h.i.+? Now, with my blesses, yonggan. Go."

She doesn't see him wave his left hand at her guards, but they haul Alieka to her feet, first time their hands upon her. They lift her from the floor and lead her away from the sweet en'fast turning on the spit. Down more black (or colorless) walls and stairs, and then another door creaks open, and inside there is light that is not firelight. Inside the chamber beyond the creaking doors is genny light, fluoro maybe, but sure electrics of one sort of another. She steps inside, a ring of gla.s.s tubes, each set into the wall. The chamber is very big, and there might be thirty tubes, all told. At the center, an inner ring of what might be control panels, not so unalike those the bosses run, switches, dials, toggles, pads, and such. She does not yet look directly at the tubes, no more than glance. They are tall, though, and big round as the boles of the sobba trees growing in the middle park back homecity. One of the guards is talking, and she can understand the woman just enough to know she is being told Alicka is to stay here as long as she wishes, and that the door will not be locked, so she may leave when she is ready. And, she thinks, not to dare lay hands on the make-and-breaks. Then they leave her, and the door shuts, and she is alone with the tubes.

In my gla.s.s coffin, I am waitin'

In my gla.s.s coffin, I am waitin'

In my gla.s.s coffin, I am waitin'...

Stray lines clattering through her head. Isn't that some old Earth song? she thinks. Some folk ballad old when her grandmother's mother was born.

Let fall your dress I'll pay to part Open this mouth wide, eat your heart.

She walks the circuit of the room, does Alieka Ferenczi, and seeing the contents of each tube, those trapped within and unable to die, she is driven on towards the next. And, at finally, she arrives before that tube imprisoning the woman who was once, the now of then, a girl with sky-blue modal ribbons tied in her steel-grey hair. The woman, and what is inside the tube with her. Alieka knows those bugs, and knows what they do to a body, and that the death they bring will take many, many years. But already they've done with Muirgheal's eyes and ears, which might be a mercy and might be worse than all d.a.m.nations. Alieka sits on the floor (plastic, instead of dirt or stone), and she watches the remnants of the stolen, the one whom she loves who's never loved her back again. It occurs to her that the Maafa didn't take her knap, and the HNB might not drop down the Yellow House, but it would, she guesses, be plenty more than needed to vapor this circle of h.e.l.l, she dy jarroo. Alieka takes out the canister and hugs it to her chest. She says prayers to St. Anthony of Padua, as would, maybe, her ma. Her ma says St. Anthony of Padua is patron of the lost and forsaken. Alieka prays, and she thinks of the HNB, and she thinks, too, of that thing on the spit, and the offer that the man with the orange eyes made.

Tidal Forces Charlotte says, "That's just it, Em. There wasn't any pain. I didn't feel anything much at all." She sips her coffee and stares out the kitchen window, squinting at the bright Monday morning sunlight. The sun melts like b.u.t.ter across her face. It catches in the strands of her brown hair, like a late summer afternoon tangling itself in dead cornstalks. It deepens the lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She takes another sip of coffee, then sets her cup down on the table. I've never once seen her use a saucer.

And the next minute seems to last longer than it ought to last, longer than the mere sum of the sixty seconds that compose it, the way time stretches out to fill in awkward pauses. She smiles for me, and so I smile back. I don't want to smile, but isn't that what you do? The person you love is frightened, but she smiles anyway. So you have to smile back, despite your own fear. I tell myself it isn't so much an act of reciprocation as an acknowledgement. I could be more honest with myself and say I only smiled back out of guilt.

"I wish it had hurt," she says, finally, on the other side of all that long, long moment. I don't have to ask what she means, though I wish that I did. I wish I didn't already know. She says the same words over again, but more quietly than before, and there's a subtle s.h.i.+ft in emphasis. "I wish it had hurt."

I apologize and say I shouldn't have brought it up again, and she shrugs.

"No, don't be sorry, Em. Don't let's be sorry for anything."

I'm stacking days, building a house of cards made from nothing but days. Monday is the Ace of Hearts. Sat.u.r.day is the Four of Spades. Wednesday is the Seven of Clubs. Thursday night is, I suspect, the Seven of Diamonds, and it might be heavy enough to bring the whole precarious thing tumbling down around my ears. I would spend an entire hour watching cards fall, because time would stretch, the same way it stretches out to fill in awkward pauses, the way time is stretched thin in that thundering moment of a car crash. Or at the edges of a wound.

If it's Monday morning, I can lean across the breakfast table and kiss her, as if nothing has happened. And if we're lucky, that might be the moment that endures almost indefinitely. I can kiss her, taste her, savor her, drawing the moment out like a card drawn from a deck. But no, now it's Thursday night, instead of Monday morning. There's something playing on the television in the bedroom, but the sound is turned all the way down, so that whatever the something may be proceeds like a silent movie filmed in color and without intert.i.tles. A movie for lip readers. There's no other light but the light from the television. She's lying next to me, almost undressed, asking me questions about the book I don't think I'm ever going to be able to finish. I understand she's not asking them because she needs to know the answers, which is the only reason I haven't tried to change the subject.

"The Age of Exploration was already long over with," I say. "For all intents and purposes, it ended early in the Seventeenth Century. Everything after that reaching the north and south poles, for instance is only a series of footnotes. There were no great blank s.p.a.ces left for men to fill in. No more 'Here be monsters.'"

She's lying on top of the sheets. It's the middle of July and too hot for anything more than sheets. Clean white sheets and underwear. In the glow from the television, Charlotte looks less pale and less fragile than she would if the bedside lamp were on, and I'm grateful for the illusion. I want to stop talking, because it all sounds absurd, pedantic, all these unfinished, half-formed ideas that add up to nothing much at all. I want to stop talking and just lie here beside her.

"So writers made up stories about lost worlds," she says, having heard all this before and pretty much knowing it by heart. "But those made-up worlds weren't really lost. They just weren't found yet. They'd not yet been imagined."

"That's the point" I reply. "The value of those stories rests in their insistence that blank s.p.a.ces still do exist on the map. They have to exist, even if it's necessary to twist and distort the map to make room for them. All those overlooked islands, inaccessible plateaus in South American jungles, the sunken continents and the entrances to a hollow earth, they were important psychological buffers against progress and certainty. It's no coincidence that they're usually places where time has stood still, to one degree or another."

"But not really so much time," she says, "as the processes of evolution, which require time."

"See? You understand this stuff better than I do," and I tell her she should write the book. I'm only half joking. That's something else Charlotte knows. I lay my hand on her exposed belly, just below the navel, and she flinches and pulls away.

"Don't do that," she says.