“There were some people in the Noughts,” says Albany, “who tried to cut the ‘God spot’ out of the brain. Mexico icepick lobotomies, you know.”
“I’m guessing they cut out a lot more,” shudders Westwood.
“Well, to all appearances, yeah. But I’m not convinced they missed. I think whatever hardwires us to search for the divine has other purposes. The whole drive gives us some evolutionary advantage.”
“What, like altruism? Individuals sacrificing for the species?”
“Hardly,” Albany says. “We’re apes. You know what most apes are?”
“No,” says Westwood.
“Apex predators,” says Albany, and pops the host wafer into her mouth.
Friday, December 21, 2007
The Loveblind Bird kisses the tops of the waves.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” mutters See Me.
The Princess Leaves pulls a blanket around his shoulders. “There wasn’t anything you could have done,” she says. “They’ll follow us–that’s the only explanation for the ease of our escape. But that’s only because he left them no other choice.”
See Me shakes his head. The Princess touches his cheek. Then his ear.
Dog Shouting is at the cabin door, unnoticed; she watches for a moment before she raps the frame.
“We’re not out of this yet,” she says, with hard blue eyes.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
“And since the disk heads can write or read at an atomic-spin level,” explains Ninsun, “you can just slap together a storage unit out of whatever’s lying around.” She grins. “A lot of people around here use river mud.”
“Hey, it’s biodegradable, right?” chuckles Kopra.
Ninsun rolls her eyes. “And there’s even an artists’ collective who’ll decorate the tablet for you,” she says. “They use local materials too, like they’ll just use the end of a reed–”
Kopra’s interested. “Have these guys got a marketing rep yet? What’s the collective called?”
“Summer,” says Ninsun, “only they leave out an M.”
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
They pull the bag away, and Cehrazad blinks in the sudden light. She dropped Dunyazad’s mask on the way here, in fear and resignation: she was caught, and would hide behind no face but her own.
“This isn’t her,” grunts someone in surprise.
“What?” A head wearing an ornate full mask blocks the light. “What’s your name, girl?”
“Cehrazad,” she manages, “of House Loong.”
Silence. Then: “You were wearing your sister’s face.”
This time Cehrazad is the silent one.
“Get her an underface,” grumbles her captor, and when he turns in profile his mask is like a great and cruel bird.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
“Action,” calls Teller.
“Because I’ve discovered something,” pipes up the child soldier on the soundstage. “More than hate, more than bullets–the ultimate weapon is Jesus.”
“Cut!” says Teller. “Stick to the script, sweetie, okay? Somebody get the clapboard back out.”
“–is music!”
“–is puppies!”
“–is a shark that ate a hydrogen bomb, riding a comet, holding a sword and a grenade launcher, infected with bird flu!”
“I’m not reading it wrong, am I?” says the bewildered producer. They’re on take twenty-eight. “The line is ‘the human heart?'”
“Actually, after that last one I might change it,” Teller mulls.
Monday, December 17, 2007
“But it’s my favorite and we would be best friends and I promise I’d take care of it!” groans Yulies.
The pet bounces off the cage and tips over, snarling, spitting cordite as it spins in place.
“I don’t know, sweetie,” says Mother.
But she begs and begs and eventually there’s a roaring, smoking box under the Christmas tree. Yulies unwraps it almost before it unwraps itself.
“Couldn’t it have been a puppy? Or a snake?” asks Mother despairingly.
“I suppose,” says Father.
“Then why a panjandrum?”
“Because it doesn’t poop,” he says fervently, as it takes off his daughter’s finger.
Friday, December 14, 2007
“Again, from your left,” says Proserpina. “You saw what that Pole did at the match last week–he had just one little routine, pop pop swish crack, but all he had to do was reverse it and the other man was flummoxed. You’re better than that.”
“Give me a moment, can’t you?” Radiane pants. “I already had field hockey practice today, and it’s harder from this side.”
And Proserpina almost pauses, remembering her father, and her left hand tied behind her back as she wrote shaky As.
“There’s no hugging under Queensberry rules,” she says shortly, and Radiane blushes and scowls.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
“Iaiguitsu,” said Ptah patiently.
“Yaygutso,” repeated the Justin.
“To draw, to shred, to sheathe again in a single thought: this is iaiguitsu, the heart of guitaido. Stevie couldn’t teach you this because he doesn’t know it. He’ll be a wandering bluesman until he understands.”
“I don’t understand either,” the Justin admitted.
“You will. Let me see the Martin.” Ptah pulled a hidden bead from the bridge and stretched it down the neck.
“A seventh string?” gasped the Justin. “What’s it made of?”
Ptah fretted out a power fifth with his first and last fingers, then held them aloft. “Metal,” he said.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007