The dreamcatcher works so well for Dagmar and Hesse that they buy a mailcatcher, a friendcatcher, a flycatcher and a discussioncatcher too. (The flycatcher is just one of those unrolled sticky things; they call it that for symmetry.)
Life gets a lot smoother. Too smooth, in fact.
“Dag,” says Hesse carefully one day. “Ever get the impression that we can’t actually… talk about those?” He waves toward them.
“Because of the dis–the disc–” She can’t quite name it.
“Yeah.”
“Um.” She bites her fingernail. “Should we take it down?”
“Mmf mmfff!” agrees Rondo, from the cotton web outside their door.
Sam gets run over and suddenly it’s 1973! Aww crap!
He gets used to it: the brutality, the petty corruption, the little girl and her creepy clown doll. He gets these awesome chops and a bomber jacket and a muscle car just right out of Hell.
Later he wakes up and man, I guess he was in a coma? But the present is all “professional” and “meetingy” and “blue camera filtered” so he kills himself right back to the Seventies.
“Turns out being a florist in 1973 is perfect!” he tells his boss.
“Go beat up those orchids,” his boss grunts.
Wednesday, October 8, 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
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
Citrane tries not to be out after dark, but things have been hellish at work and the days are getting shorter. She waits at the bus shelter and hopes (not prays) nobody else comes along.
“‘Scuse me, ma’am,” grins a methhead’s mouth.
“You need to leave,” she whispers.
“Aww, now, I’m just waitin’ for the 17!” he says, injured. “There’s plenty of room for us both under there.”
“My guardians–”
“Ain’t nobody here but you and me,” he says, and then the invisible swords descend.
Citrane closes her eyes against the spatter, and her pulse rushes in her ears like wingbeats.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
