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Authors: John Shirley
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this . . . ” Steinfeld tilting his head back, making the beard jut at the ceiling. So Smoke pictured it (all the time watching the indistinguishable movement of the Colony). “All this . . . supposition. But I do think they have come to some accommodation.”
“Mark me,” Willow said, “they plan to divide fucking Western Europe up betwixt the blewdy power brokers.”
“I’m still thinking about ‘no salary,’ ” Hard-Eyes said flatly.
“What do you believe in?” Voortoven asked. He was a broadchested, muscular man, always clean. Curly brown hair.
“What?” Hard-Eyes was a little startled.
“Do you believe in anything at all? You just want money to bribe your way back to the States? You going to play the drifter who does not get involved? Or you are, maybe, a mercenary?”
“We’re not above using mercenaries,” Steinfeld said, a fraction hastily. “ ‘Mercenary’ is no insult.”
Voortoven snorted.
Steinfeld went on, “We can’t pay money, but we can pay in goods and, eventually, in transportation.”
“I want to know what he believes in,” Voortoven said.
Forty-five seconds of silence as they waited for Hard-Eyes to declare himself.
Hard-Eyes said, finally, “When I find it, I’ll know it.”
“To know what we are takes time,” Steinfeld said. Steinfeld was Israeli. Long history of involvement in radical movements, Democratic Socialist, but never stained Marxist. It was assumed he had a family in Israel. He’d never mentioned them, but there were pictures in his wallet no one had seen up close. And it was assumed he was run by the Mossad—which might be a wrong assumption.
Hard-Eyes had heard that one, too. “You might be anyone,” he said, looking at Steinfeld. “I could get killed and never know who I’d been working for. Dying for.”
A full seventy seconds of silence this time. And then Jenkins said, “You say we could trade some mercenary work for transportation. We work for you awhile and then . . . ”
Smoke stopped listening. He focused on the Colony and said, “Richard, you know how many tons that thing is, up there? More than the membranes of thinking can carry.”
The crow fluttered and dug at its breast for a louse.
“You’re not impressed? Crows take bright things into their nests, Richard. The Colony construct is both a nest and a bright thing. You know how many tons that nest is, Richard?”
The crow shook itself.
“I don’t either. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. At least it’d weigh that on Earth. They’re supposed to be making it bigger and bigger. There are no crows there . . . ”
Looking at the Colony, a city tossed into the sky, Smoke felt a sucking vertigo. He looked away from it, down to the Earth. He and the crow gazed out at the wrecked harbor, beyond to the Ijsselmeer, and Smoke had a strange sense of being in place, wedged somewhere outside the flow of time.
The harbor’s flooding had submerged the docks and boardwalks; it had thrown boathouses up past the sidewalks, half crushed them against the swamped bases of the buildings; it had wedged boats into alleys and had made trucks and cars the new housing development of octopi and sea anemones. There was a whirlpool marked by twisting fluorescent foam where the outflowing currents from the rivered streets met the tidal push of the sea. The harbor’s sea vista was hobbled by half-sunk ships, boats, tankers jutting like tombstones. There, and there, well apart, were two dull red throbs, where campfires illuminated stanchions and deck fittings on the upthrusting superstructures of two foundered ships; a couple of squatters there, perhaps three more over there, feeling relatively secure on the wrecks with expanses of cold seawater between them and everything else; more security than in the city, where scavengers roamed the rooftops or sculled the narrow, flooded streets in boats.
Smoke’s eyes were drawn by movement; the high movement of electric light. One of the
“Mark me,” Willow said, “they plan to divide fucking Western Europe up betwixt the blewdy power brokers.”
“I’m still thinking about ‘no salary,’ ” Hard-Eyes said flatly.
“What do you believe in?” Voortoven asked. He was a broadchested, muscular man, always clean. Curly brown hair.
“What?” Hard-Eyes was a little startled.
“Do you believe in anything at all? You just want money to bribe your way back to the States? You going to play the drifter who does not get involved? Or you are, maybe, a mercenary?”
“We’re not above using mercenaries,” Steinfeld said, a fraction hastily. “ ‘Mercenary’ is no insult.”
Voortoven snorted.
Steinfeld went on, “We can’t pay money, but we can pay in goods and, eventually, in transportation.”
“I want to know what he believes in,” Voortoven said.
Forty-five seconds of silence as they waited for Hard-Eyes to declare himself.
Hard-Eyes said, finally, “When I find it, I’ll know it.”
“To know what we are takes time,” Steinfeld said. Steinfeld was Israeli. Long history of involvement in radical movements, Democratic Socialist, but never stained Marxist. It was assumed he had a family in Israel. He’d never mentioned them, but there were pictures in his wallet no one had seen up close. And it was assumed he was run by the Mossad—which might be a wrong assumption.
Hard-Eyes had heard that one, too. “You might be anyone,” he said, looking at Steinfeld. “I could get killed and never know who I’d been working for. Dying for.”
A full seventy seconds of silence this time. And then Jenkins said, “You say we could trade some mercenary work for transportation. We work for you awhile and then . . . ”
Smoke stopped listening. He focused on the Colony and said, “Richard, you know how many tons that thing is, up there? More than the membranes of thinking can carry.”
The crow fluttered and dug at its breast for a louse.
“You’re not impressed? Crows take bright things into their nests, Richard. The Colony construct is both a nest and a bright thing. You know how many tons that nest is, Richard?”
The crow shook itself.
“I don’t either. Hundreds of thousands. Millions. At least it’d weigh that on Earth. They’re supposed to be making it bigger and bigger. There are no crows there . . . ”
Looking at the Colony, a city tossed into the sky, Smoke felt a sucking vertigo. He looked away from it, down to the Earth. He and the crow gazed out at the wrecked harbor, beyond to the Ijsselmeer, and Smoke had a strange sense of being in place, wedged somewhere outside the flow of time.
The harbor’s flooding had submerged the docks and boardwalks; it had thrown boathouses up past the sidewalks, half crushed them against the swamped bases of the buildings; it had wedged boats into alleys and had made trucks and cars the new housing development of octopi and sea anemones. There was a whirlpool marked by twisting fluorescent foam where the outflowing currents from the rivered streets met the tidal push of the sea. The harbor’s sea vista was hobbled by half-sunk ships, boats, tankers jutting like tombstones. There, and there, well apart, were two dull red throbs, where campfires illuminated stanchions and deck fittings on the upthrusting superstructures of two foundered ships; a couple of squatters there, perhaps three more over there, feeling relatively secure on the wrecks with expanses of cold seawater between them and everything else; more security than in the city, where scavengers roamed the rooftops or sculled the narrow, flooded streets in boats.
Smoke’s eyes were drawn by movement; the high movement of electric light. One of the
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