Read Online Voice of the Whirlwind by Walter Jon Williams - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter Jon Williams
Ads: Link
still looking away. “Tomorrow,” he said. “When I give you the package.”
Relief flooded Steward’s limbs. He could feel himself getting closer.
“I need to know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Griffith looked down at the grass beneath his feet. “No you’re not,” he said.
Steward reached in his shirt pocket for a Xanadu. He wanted this high to last awhile.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not sorry in the least.”
*
Steward was on the roof of Ardala’s condeco. It was late at night. Grass-colored carpet, stretched over concrete, scraped against his feet. The open deck was lit by the fluttering blue-and-gold radiance of the swimming pool and by colored spots planted behind metal tubs that held scentless bushes.
Sweat dripped on the carpet. Steward punched forward, repeating the movements over and over, trying to achieve a perfection in his balance, the slick flow of his muscles, the rhythm of heart and breath, his concentration perfect on the invisible target before him, the phantom objective toward which he directed his controlled violence.
He came here often, usually at night, for the long solitary workouts. In the daytime there were too many people, too many distractions, too many disturbed looks. At night there was just the darkness, the nuclear blue glow of the pool, the cold distant hum of the city.
Steward began alternating his punches with kicks. He was full of adrenaline, but he’d been drinking earlier with Ardala and was on the edge of a sugar crash. The result was a strange, disturbing high in which he felt perpetually on the edge of losing control, adrenaline battling insulin for command of his body. The feeling was unsettling but exhilarating, a perpetual fight for possession of his own actions, something like he’d felt when he’d been peddling wetware from his moped and didn’t know whether his customer would pay him with a hot credit spike or a knife, when his arms and legs were trembling with the urge to run but he’d just given the boy a smile from behind the comfort of his shades and asked him if he’d had any money down on the jai alai….
Colors began to flicker at the edge of his vision. The sugar crash was coming in like the shock wave off the ablative nose of a commercial shuttle. Steward decided to face it, ride the shock wave to a last attempt at Zen, at perfection. He set himself, balanced forward, leaning toward the target. His knee cocked up, his foot thrust out, his balance going forward as the kick delivered, as one arm punched forward, withdrew as the other arm drove his power through the target, the target that seemed, for a fractional hallucinatory moment, to bleed like a torn artery at the dark edges of the swaying earth, and then the crash moved through him and the glider swung out of control, spiraling down into the darkness of the dream. As it spun, Steward laughed.
He was there. At the center.
CHAPTER FIVE
L.A. Night. Steward looked down from the window ofhis descending aircraft and saw a web of Earthbound stars that marched from the mountains right into the rising ocean, stars that blurred with heat shimmer and promise.
The plane began to buffet as its plastic and alloy skin changed configuration, braking from supersonic to landing-approach speed. Below, Steward could feel Los Angeles reaching up for him with mirrored fingers.
He smiled. At home, though he’d never been here before.
*
Steward put the package in his pocket. He was to deliver it to Spassky in LA tomorrow evening.
“Beer in the refrigerator,” Griffith said. “Make yourself at home.”
Lightsource’s apartment in Flagstaff was furnished in a utilitarian way, very like a hotel room: bed, sturdy chairs, video, refrigerator, cooking range—just like a hundred other apartments in the same building, most owned by corporations. Steward sat on one of the chairs. He felt scratchy brown fabric against the backs of his arms.
Griffith stubbed out his cigarette and disappeared
Relief flooded Steward’s limbs. He could feel himself getting closer.
“I need to know,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Griffith looked down at the grass beneath his feet. “No you’re not,” he said.
Steward reached in his shirt pocket for a Xanadu. He wanted this high to last awhile.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m not sorry in the least.”
*
Steward was on the roof of Ardala’s condeco. It was late at night. Grass-colored carpet, stretched over concrete, scraped against his feet. The open deck was lit by the fluttering blue-and-gold radiance of the swimming pool and by colored spots planted behind metal tubs that held scentless bushes.
Sweat dripped on the carpet. Steward punched forward, repeating the movements over and over, trying to achieve a perfection in his balance, the slick flow of his muscles, the rhythm of heart and breath, his concentration perfect on the invisible target before him, the phantom objective toward which he directed his controlled violence.
He came here often, usually at night, for the long solitary workouts. In the daytime there were too many people, too many distractions, too many disturbed looks. At night there was just the darkness, the nuclear blue glow of the pool, the cold distant hum of the city.
Steward began alternating his punches with kicks. He was full of adrenaline, but he’d been drinking earlier with Ardala and was on the edge of a sugar crash. The result was a strange, disturbing high in which he felt perpetually on the edge of losing control, adrenaline battling insulin for command of his body. The feeling was unsettling but exhilarating, a perpetual fight for possession of his own actions, something like he’d felt when he’d been peddling wetware from his moped and didn’t know whether his customer would pay him with a hot credit spike or a knife, when his arms and legs were trembling with the urge to run but he’d just given the boy a smile from behind the comfort of his shades and asked him if he’d had any money down on the jai alai….
Colors began to flicker at the edge of his vision. The sugar crash was coming in like the shock wave off the ablative nose of a commercial shuttle. Steward decided to face it, ride the shock wave to a last attempt at Zen, at perfection. He set himself, balanced forward, leaning toward the target. His knee cocked up, his foot thrust out, his balance going forward as the kick delivered, as one arm punched forward, withdrew as the other arm drove his power through the target, the target that seemed, for a fractional hallucinatory moment, to bleed like a torn artery at the dark edges of the swaying earth, and then the crash moved through him and the glider swung out of control, spiraling down into the darkness of the dream. As it spun, Steward laughed.
He was there. At the center.
CHAPTER FIVE
L.A. Night. Steward looked down from the window ofhis descending aircraft and saw a web of Earthbound stars that marched from the mountains right into the rising ocean, stars that blurred with heat shimmer and promise.
The plane began to buffet as its plastic and alloy skin changed configuration, braking from supersonic to landing-approach speed. Below, Steward could feel Los Angeles reaching up for him with mirrored fingers.
He smiled. At home, though he’d never been here before.
*
Steward put the package in his pocket. He was to deliver it to Spassky in LA tomorrow evening.
“Beer in the refrigerator,” Griffith said. “Make yourself at home.”
Lightsource’s apartment in Flagstaff was furnished in a utilitarian way, very like a hotel room: bed, sturdy chairs, video, refrigerator, cooking range—just like a hundred other apartments in the same building, most owned by corporations. Steward sat on one of the chairs. He felt scratchy brown fabric against the backs of his arms.
Griffith stubbed out his cigarette and disappeared
Similar Books
