Read Online Watson, Ian - SSC by The Very Slow Time Machine (v1.1) - Free Book Online
Authors: The Very Slow Time Machine (v1.1)
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morning,
switched off again at night. If a sunspot had ever bathed the hospital, she
wouldn’t have seen it through the solid walls.
As
we crept into the ambulance sheds, she began to cough, grating explosive little
coughs that she did her best to stifle with her hand.
A
dull orange glow from standby lighting pervaded the gloom of the sheds, where
half a dozen of the great sleek snub-nosed ambulances were parked and a number
of impounded buggies— beyond, light spilling from a window in the crew room
door and the sound of muffled voices.
We
climbed into my buggy—the key was in the lock—and I ran my hands gently over
the controls, reuniting myself with them.
Tezcatlipoca’s jaguar stenciled on
my seat radiated confidence strength suppleness and savagery through my body. .
. .
Marina
sat limply in the passenger seat looking around my world, stifling her
cough—but the air was cleaner in my buggy, would get even cleaner once we were
on the move.
“Who
opens the doors?”
“We
have to wait for an ambulance to leave, then chase it
out. How soon till we see the sun, Considine?”
“Sooner than you think.”
“How
do you know?”
“What
is the sun, Marina? A blazing yellow ball of gas radiating
timelessly and forever at six thousand degrees Centigrade, too bright to look
upon. A bear with bells on his ankles, striped face,
blazing eyes. A magician with a puppet dancing in his
hand. A smoking mirror. A
giant in an ashen veil with his head in his hand. A
G-type star out on the edge of the galaxy around which planets and other debris
revolve. Your choice.”
“I’ve
seen movies of the sun—maybe it’s no big thing after all.”
“Oh
it’s big, Marina-—it’s the climax.”
Then
a siren went off in the shed, shockingly loud, and the lights came up full.
The
ambulance crew spilled from their room, zipping their gear and fixing their
masks as they ran. They took an ambulance two along the line from us.
Its
monobeam flared out ahead, splashing a hole bright as the sun’s disc on the
door. Its turbines roared.
And the door flowed smoothly,
swiftly, up into the roof.
As
I started the buggy’s engine a look of fear and terrible understanding came
over Marina’s face—sleepwalker wakening on the high cliff edge. She tore at the
door handle. But naturally it was locked and she couldn’t tell where to unlock
it.
“Marina!” Using the voice that cuts through flesh to the bone. “Quit it!” A voice I’d never used to beg or plead with in the hospital. Authority voice of the Sun Priest. Obsidian
voice. Voice that cuts flesh. Black, volcanic, harsh.
Her
hand fell back upon the seat.
The
ambulance, blinding the smog with its monobeam, sped through the doors—and us
after it, before the doors dropped again.
Great
Tezcatlipoca, Who Bringeth Wealth and War, Sunshine and Death, Sterility and
Harvest! For Whom Blood Floweth Like Milk, That Milk
May Flow!
The smog so thick outside. Even the great eye of the
ambulance saw little. Undoubtedly they were relying on radar already, as I
was—and wondering, doubtless, what the tiny blip behind their great blip
represented, Remora riding on a shark ... I dropped back, not to worry them.
When
we got to the highway entry point, I took the other direction.
Whichever
way I took, I knew it led to the sun.
Two
hours down the highway, Marina sleeping on my shoulder, bored with
switched off again at night. If a sunspot had ever bathed the hospital, she
wouldn’t have seen it through the solid walls.
As
we crept into the ambulance sheds, she began to cough, grating explosive little
coughs that she did her best to stifle with her hand.
A
dull orange glow from standby lighting pervaded the gloom of the sheds, where
half a dozen of the great sleek snub-nosed ambulances were parked and a number
of impounded buggies— beyond, light spilling from a window in the crew room
door and the sound of muffled voices.
We
climbed into my buggy—the key was in the lock—and I ran my hands gently over
the controls, reuniting myself with them.
Tezcatlipoca’s jaguar stenciled on
my seat radiated confidence strength suppleness and savagery through my body. .
. .
Marina
sat limply in the passenger seat looking around my world, stifling her
cough—but the air was cleaner in my buggy, would get even cleaner once we were
on the move.
“Who
opens the doors?”
“We
have to wait for an ambulance to leave, then chase it
out. How soon till we see the sun, Considine?”
“Sooner than you think.”
“How
do you know?”
“What
is the sun, Marina? A blazing yellow ball of gas radiating
timelessly and forever at six thousand degrees Centigrade, too bright to look
upon. A bear with bells on his ankles, striped face,
blazing eyes. A magician with a puppet dancing in his
hand. A smoking mirror. A
giant in an ashen veil with his head in his hand. A
G-type star out on the edge of the galaxy around which planets and other debris
revolve. Your choice.”
“I’ve
seen movies of the sun—maybe it’s no big thing after all.”
“Oh
it’s big, Marina-—it’s the climax.”
Then
a siren went off in the shed, shockingly loud, and the lights came up full.
The
ambulance crew spilled from their room, zipping their gear and fixing their
masks as they ran. They took an ambulance two along the line from us.
Its
monobeam flared out ahead, splashing a hole bright as the sun’s disc on the
door. Its turbines roared.
And the door flowed smoothly,
swiftly, up into the roof.
As
I started the buggy’s engine a look of fear and terrible understanding came
over Marina’s face—sleepwalker wakening on the high cliff edge. She tore at the
door handle. But naturally it was locked and she couldn’t tell where to unlock
it.
“Marina!” Using the voice that cuts through flesh to the bone. “Quit it!” A voice I’d never used to beg or plead with in the hospital. Authority voice of the Sun Priest. Obsidian
voice. Voice that cuts flesh. Black, volcanic, harsh.
Her
hand fell back upon the seat.
The
ambulance, blinding the smog with its monobeam, sped through the doors—and us
after it, before the doors dropped again.
Great
Tezcatlipoca, Who Bringeth Wealth and War, Sunshine and Death, Sterility and
Harvest! For Whom Blood Floweth Like Milk, That Milk
May Flow!
The smog so thick outside. Even the great eye of the
ambulance saw little. Undoubtedly they were relying on radar already, as I
was—and wondering, doubtless, what the tiny blip behind their great blip
represented, Remora riding on a shark ... I dropped back, not to worry them.
When
we got to the highway entry point, I took the other direction.
Whichever
way I took, I knew it led to the sun.
Two
hours down the highway, Marina sleeping on my shoulder, bored with
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