Read Online Out on Blue Six by Ian McDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ian McDonald
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front bench seat, again the conciliator, “have you got a name?”
“My name is Kilimanjaro West,” he said, and something in the way he spoke that name made the crowded ’lectrovan fall electrically quiet. “Pleased to meet you all.”
“Wow,” said the woman who had rescued him.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the bearded man, first to break the awed silence. “Joshua Drumm, artistic director, manager, and father figure to this troupe of social urchins. May I introduce the Raging Apostles: Winston, who so nearly would have left you on the street”—the driver ducked his head and flicked mistrustful eyes in the rearview mirror—“my general factotum, our faithful provider and fixer. Thunderheart Two-Birds Flying”—a huge hairy thing bared white enamel—“vocal arrangements, stunts, and for the present, accommodation. Dr. M’kuba Mig-15”—an ectomorphic face, etched with blue tattoo lines, nodded a nimbus of luminous hair—“technical arrangements and special effects. Devadip Samdhavi”—a glitteringly dressed young man made a small bow—“costumes, design, choreography and dance consultant. V. S. Pyar”—a massive boulder of humanity, his sweat a palpable presence in the swaying van—“movement, acrobatics, physical training, and much-needed muscle. Kelso Byrne”—the arguing man nodded, curtly—“musical arrangements, original compositions, tapes, and lyrics, and unfortunate twin of Kansas,” and the girl who had, on a whim, a notion, an inspiration, pulled Kilimanjaro West away from his fatal fascination, grinned and blew a kiss across the van—“artist, conceptualize wonderfully talented and quite impossible to work with.” She wrinkled her nose and laughed at the man called Joshua Drumm. “Together we are the Raging Apostles. Welcome, Cizzen West. Winston my man! Yah speed us away with your best efforts! To the Big Tree!”
“Okay, Joshi,” said the driver, and the already hurtling ’lectrovan found a miraculous third speed somewhere in its shrieking motor and careened, swaying and slewing violently, down the rain-wet streets of Neu Ulmsbad.
Chapter 3
S HE WAS NOT ALONE down here. She was certain of it. Luminous arrows spray-painted on dripping walls. Discarded bric-a-brac: noodle cartons, numbgum wrappers, articles of clothing, a newssheet (intellectual shock to find Wee Wendy Waif gazing up through twenty centimeters of filmy rainwater). Wall panels removed, fizzing, sparking contraptions jerry-rigged to the power lines. The occasional heap of human excrement, hard and stale. The occasional ringing, plashing footfall—transported who knew how far?—along the ringing tunnels and crawlways of Undertown.
She was not alone.
Sometimes the thought terrified her; cold, hostile hands reaching into the cozy little womb she had woven into the underpinnings of New Paris Community Mall. At other times the presence of others/brothers sharing her runways and conduits was almost welcome. The solitude at the bottom of Shaft Twelve was absolute and unbroken. She had drawn one hundred and seventy-four Wee Wendy Waifs on her walls, smiling down like Botticelli angels. For company. They only deepened her sense of isolation. She had always been a solitary creature. The Compassionate Society had made her that way. But there was a world of difference between being solitary and being alone. Before there had always been the possibility of company: the Dario Sanduccis, the Marcus Fordes, and his four and twenty cushioncats. Down in Shaft Twelve there was only herself. And the dream.
Those blue-silver wings. That impossibly romantic white silk scarf flowing out behind. Up we go, up we go, up we go. Now that it was absolutely denied her, like heaven to the damned, the land above the clouds where the Great Spirits and the Celestials dwelled was painful in its purity. Its freedom mocked her. But not because it was unattainable. It mocked her because she had once touched it, felt it, held it, and
“My name is Kilimanjaro West,” he said, and something in the way he spoke that name made the crowded ’lectrovan fall electrically quiet. “Pleased to meet you all.”
“Wow,” said the woman who had rescued him.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the bearded man, first to break the awed silence. “Joshua Drumm, artistic director, manager, and father figure to this troupe of social urchins. May I introduce the Raging Apostles: Winston, who so nearly would have left you on the street”—the driver ducked his head and flicked mistrustful eyes in the rearview mirror—“my general factotum, our faithful provider and fixer. Thunderheart Two-Birds Flying”—a huge hairy thing bared white enamel—“vocal arrangements, stunts, and for the present, accommodation. Dr. M’kuba Mig-15”—an ectomorphic face, etched with blue tattoo lines, nodded a nimbus of luminous hair—“technical arrangements and special effects. Devadip Samdhavi”—a glitteringly dressed young man made a small bow—“costumes, design, choreography and dance consultant. V. S. Pyar”—a massive boulder of humanity, his sweat a palpable presence in the swaying van—“movement, acrobatics, physical training, and much-needed muscle. Kelso Byrne”—the arguing man nodded, curtly—“musical arrangements, original compositions, tapes, and lyrics, and unfortunate twin of Kansas,” and the girl who had, on a whim, a notion, an inspiration, pulled Kilimanjaro West away from his fatal fascination, grinned and blew a kiss across the van—“artist, conceptualize wonderfully talented and quite impossible to work with.” She wrinkled her nose and laughed at the man called Joshua Drumm. “Together we are the Raging Apostles. Welcome, Cizzen West. Winston my man! Yah speed us away with your best efforts! To the Big Tree!”
“Okay, Joshi,” said the driver, and the already hurtling ’lectrovan found a miraculous third speed somewhere in its shrieking motor and careened, swaying and slewing violently, down the rain-wet streets of Neu Ulmsbad.
Chapter 3
S HE WAS NOT ALONE down here. She was certain of it. Luminous arrows spray-painted on dripping walls. Discarded bric-a-brac: noodle cartons, numbgum wrappers, articles of clothing, a newssheet (intellectual shock to find Wee Wendy Waif gazing up through twenty centimeters of filmy rainwater). Wall panels removed, fizzing, sparking contraptions jerry-rigged to the power lines. The occasional heap of human excrement, hard and stale. The occasional ringing, plashing footfall—transported who knew how far?—along the ringing tunnels and crawlways of Undertown.
She was not alone.
Sometimes the thought terrified her; cold, hostile hands reaching into the cozy little womb she had woven into the underpinnings of New Paris Community Mall. At other times the presence of others/brothers sharing her runways and conduits was almost welcome. The solitude at the bottom of Shaft Twelve was absolute and unbroken. She had drawn one hundred and seventy-four Wee Wendy Waifs on her walls, smiling down like Botticelli angels. For company. They only deepened her sense of isolation. She had always been a solitary creature. The Compassionate Society had made her that way. But there was a world of difference between being solitary and being alone. Before there had always been the possibility of company: the Dario Sanduccis, the Marcus Fordes, and his four and twenty cushioncats. Down in Shaft Twelve there was only herself. And the dream.
Those blue-silver wings. That impossibly romantic white silk scarf flowing out behind. Up we go, up we go, up we go. Now that it was absolutely denied her, like heaven to the damned, the land above the clouds where the Great Spirits and the Celestials dwelled was painful in its purity. Its freedom mocked her. But not because it was unattainable. It mocked her because she had once touched it, felt it, held it, and
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