Read Online Jack Glass: The Story of a Murderer by Adam Roberts - Free Book Online
Authors: Adam Roberts
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said Mo. ‘I think it is a little warmer.’
‘Barely,’ said Marit, shivering. But it was true: the worst of the arctic chill had gone out of the air. ‘We should hold on to the memory of this cold,’ said Lwon.
‘Soon enough, it’ll get hot in here, and then our problem will be finding a way of disposing of the heat. Then we’ll look back on these days with fondness.’
‘Better be too hot than too cold,’ said Mo, earnestly.
The thought that they would one day look back on these times – that there might actually be a future for them – mellowed the group as a whole. It made them meditative. ‘There
must be ways to dump the excess heat,’ said E-d-C. ‘Thousands of prisoners survive their term. The majority, I reckon. They find a way, and so will we. There’s no problem this
rock can throw at us that we won’t be able to solve.’
Jac held his peace.
Mo started speaking about his time on Earth, working hauling luggage for a wealthy fretman. ‘That full gravity,’ he said, ‘it’s tiring, sure, like they say. It tires you
because it’s there even when you’re sleeping, so you never sleep quite right. But my god and lord how it tones your musculature! It was just hauling bags, not even specially big ones,
but my arm muscles got big as boulders.’ He displayed his arms. ‘Not so bulky now,’ he conceded, sadly.
Gordius farted. ‘Hey!’ Davide objected, loudly; and then, as the stench penetrated even over and above the foul smells in which they habitually lived, everybody groaned and spoke
threatening words. Gordius started giggling. ‘Sorry, guys,’ he said, but he didn’t stop giggling. The giggles made the folds and curtain-drapes of his flesh wriggle and flap like
a flag in a strong wind. His laughter acquired that hysterical edge, that grating edge. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’
Marit roused himself, and floated over to Gordius. He reached out and slapped him in the face. The sound of a wet cloth on a riverside stone. Gordius’s head turned quickly to the right,
but the laughter didn’t stop. Marit drew back his arm again, folded his open hand into a fist. Then he thrust it hard against Gordius’s cheek. The giggling stopped. The sound of a bat
hitting a ball. The sound of butcher’s cosh hitting flesh. Marit’s arm was back out, and down again: punch, punch, again in the face. Gordius was making a high-pitched warbling noise,
and wriggling to get free; his own arms stretching and trying to push Marit off. Another wet thwacking sound, this one right in the eye. Marit had hold of Gordius’s long hair with his left
hand, and was holding it tight. Again, another blow, on the nose, and an adder-shaped strand of dark fluid leapt out into the air. Gordius’s struggles meant that the two of them were
rotating, their feet coming up to where their heads had been a moment before, but all of Marit’s attention was on where his blows handed: his fist sank into cheek, his fist hammered into the
eye socket a second time, Gordius’s cries increased in volume. Finally Marit’s fist made a booming noise as it cracked against forehead bone, and Marit released his grip. He floated
back, nursing his right hand. ‘You hurt my fist!’ he snarled. ‘You’ve done something to my knuckles – you bag of blubber.’
Gordius was foetally clutching himself, sobbing, his great bulk rotating slowly. Trails of sticky-looking bloody mucus extended and curled oddly in the zerogravity.
Lwon said, ‘are you OK, god-boy?’ But got no reply.
Marit came back over to the new bundle of ice, where it floated, and tried to apply some to his reddened knuckles. ‘You smelt what he did?’ he demanded, of nobody in
particular. ‘We got to breathe all that? No way. Not me.’
Jac went over to the big fellow and tried to soothe him. It took a long time before he could coax him to take his hands from his face, and when he did he saw what a mess it was. Seaweedy
extrusions of blackened blood hung from his
‘Barely,’ said Marit, shivering. But it was true: the worst of the arctic chill had gone out of the air. ‘We should hold on to the memory of this cold,’ said Lwon.
‘Soon enough, it’ll get hot in here, and then our problem will be finding a way of disposing of the heat. Then we’ll look back on these days with fondness.’
‘Better be too hot than too cold,’ said Mo, earnestly.
The thought that they would one day look back on these times – that there might actually be a future for them – mellowed the group as a whole. It made them meditative. ‘There
must be ways to dump the excess heat,’ said E-d-C. ‘Thousands of prisoners survive their term. The majority, I reckon. They find a way, and so will we. There’s no problem this
rock can throw at us that we won’t be able to solve.’
Jac held his peace.
Mo started speaking about his time on Earth, working hauling luggage for a wealthy fretman. ‘That full gravity,’ he said, ‘it’s tiring, sure, like they say. It tires you
because it’s there even when you’re sleeping, so you never sleep quite right. But my god and lord how it tones your musculature! It was just hauling bags, not even specially big ones,
but my arm muscles got big as boulders.’ He displayed his arms. ‘Not so bulky now,’ he conceded, sadly.
Gordius farted. ‘Hey!’ Davide objected, loudly; and then, as the stench penetrated even over and above the foul smells in which they habitually lived, everybody groaned and spoke
threatening words. Gordius started giggling. ‘Sorry, guys,’ he said, but he didn’t stop giggling. The giggles made the folds and curtain-drapes of his flesh wriggle and flap like
a flag in a strong wind. His laughter acquired that hysterical edge, that grating edge. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’
Marit roused himself, and floated over to Gordius. He reached out and slapped him in the face. The sound of a wet cloth on a riverside stone. Gordius’s head turned quickly to the right,
but the laughter didn’t stop. Marit drew back his arm again, folded his open hand into a fist. Then he thrust it hard against Gordius’s cheek. The giggling stopped. The sound of a bat
hitting a ball. The sound of butcher’s cosh hitting flesh. Marit’s arm was back out, and down again: punch, punch, again in the face. Gordius was making a high-pitched warbling noise,
and wriggling to get free; his own arms stretching and trying to push Marit off. Another wet thwacking sound, this one right in the eye. Marit had hold of Gordius’s long hair with his left
hand, and was holding it tight. Again, another blow, on the nose, and an adder-shaped strand of dark fluid leapt out into the air. Gordius’s struggles meant that the two of them were
rotating, their feet coming up to where their heads had been a moment before, but all of Marit’s attention was on where his blows handed: his fist sank into cheek, his fist hammered into the
eye socket a second time, Gordius’s cries increased in volume. Finally Marit’s fist made a booming noise as it cracked against forehead bone, and Marit released his grip. He floated
back, nursing his right hand. ‘You hurt my fist!’ he snarled. ‘You’ve done something to my knuckles – you bag of blubber.’
Gordius was foetally clutching himself, sobbing, his great bulk rotating slowly. Trails of sticky-looking bloody mucus extended and curled oddly in the zerogravity.
Lwon said, ‘are you OK, god-boy?’ But got no reply.
Marit came back over to the new bundle of ice, where it floated, and tried to apply some to his reddened knuckles. ‘You smelt what he did?’ he demanded, of nobody in
particular. ‘We got to breathe all that? No way. Not me.’
Jac went over to the big fellow and tried to soothe him. It took a long time before he could coax him to take his hands from his face, and when he did he saw what a mess it was. Seaweedy
extrusions of blackened blood hung from his
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