Crushingly, Renee finds herself writing fanfic. Or not exactly. Just stories about people who happen to be real, doing things they really didn’t. She changes names, swaps genders, sets them to music and mumbles the words at open mic: no good. She knows it’s derivative work.
She stops showing them to anybody and keeps them in a locked file drawer labelled “Insurance, Loans.” She cross-references themes against dates written and begins to understand, finally, why she’s doing it. At any distance from reality, these people have reserved parking in her brain; they are her canon, her conscience. Her personal hagiography.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
“Any way to break out of it?” frowns Rasmussen.
“It’d take more energy than has ever existed in this universe,” shrugs a Whitecoat. “Nothing new for us, but in this pocket it’s unpredictable. Could go möbius, maybe turn us all into c-squared…”
Rasmussen shakes his head. “Not worth it. Okay, run some edge-case sims and keep trying to drop substream messages to Mario–he’ll know where to look.”
“The sims will take a few hours.”
“Hours we’ve got,” says Rasmussen drily.
The Whitecoat smiles. “Well, we are in a timeloop.”
“Any way to break out of it?” frowns Rasmussen.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
20. Get doc proofs to Brandenburg
19. Get C, C & K to release proofs
18. Get C made partner
17. Hide evidence of C w/ Al
16. Destroy “Mr. Al”
15. Tell C know about “Mr. Al”
14. Hide camera in closet
13. Invite Costell to M6
12. Get Mr. Alpaca to Motel 6
11. Get alpaca in trailer
10. Rent trailer
9. Attach trailer hitch
8. Raid petting zoo
7. Purchase pantyhose for head
6. This doesn’t sound like me
5. Wait
4. Figure out when to-do went recursive, sentient
3. Make it stop doing
2. Dammit
1. help
And here, at the heart of the whole thing (maybe below the heart; maybe the colon) there’s a dusty little black webcam trained on a picture of her.
Chicago realizes her mouth is actually hanging open. It’s too much. A recent picture, too; she only got that haircut last month, but then why is it yellowed and curling? She’s never worn that shirt–
Not her. Her mother. She reaches for it.
Later, skating like mad away from the machine’s defenses, she thinks about Jamaica. Grand’s family has a house there, right? Maybe she could borrow it, go sip mimosas and tan.
“You’re shrinking,” frowns Jade.
“I have french fries and beer three meals a day!” South protests.
Seven, waiting, laughs and shakes his head. “You think your diet affects your weight? What century are you from?”
South quirks an eyebrow. “What does, then?”
“Chakras,” Seven says gravely.
“I mean it, South, Bailey asked for your measurements,” says Jade. “You’re supposed to look healthier on camera every week, and I don’t want to pad your coats.”
“Call me Hansel,” says South. “I’ll try.” He straightens his arm for sleeve length and luxuriates in it, the strange and pleasant sensation of the tailor’s tape.
The girl on the porch swing looks up from her Kate Chopin and blinks. “Mister J. T.?” she asks.
“Don’t have to be formal, the Girl,” he says.
“I suspect I do.” She nods at the long black guitar case. “A new accoutrement?”
“No,” he sighs, “just the only woman I’ll ever love again.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you come here, Mister J. T.?” She’s trying not to clench the book.
“I had all this sexy left over,” says the Justin, and hitches up his shirt just enough to pull the red vial from his waistband. “Thought you might want it back.”
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Ten days until the blitz. Khada tries to herd children toward the bathroom while the older students, Voort among them, lug boxes of textbooks to the truck. They’re moving through patches of shade on the way now; the shadows are starting to condense.
“That’s the last of the first-grade stuff,” says Voort to the Red Crescent rep, a little proud that he’s the leader today.
“Great, you’re ahead of schedule,” she smiles, flipping pages on her clipboard. “But so are they.”
Voort follows her gaze up to the slowbombs, almost still now, accelerating at 98 centimeters per day per day.
“You have new stockings,” observes one of the Impis, referring to the fact that Chelmsford’s feet are bleeding from the top now (the grass here is kinky, its edges serrated). They’ve covered fifteen miles today or, by Chelmsford’s count, infinity. The Impis aren’t even breathing hard.
“I hghcan’t!” He stumbles, heaving, and nearly goes down when his bound hands can’t catch him. “Hagh! Piss on me, leave me for dead, I won’t get up!”
Another Impi crouches. “Ready to go home, Red Shoes?”
Chelmsford glares sideways. “I asked for training,” he says, “don’t you want a few chances to beat me?”