When Dr. Orton smiles, the corners of her mouth turn up like the Joker’s. Once the Joker hit Robin until he died. Once he shot Batgirl so she couldn’t walk, and did bad things to her.
“It’s a special camera,” Dr. Orton is saying. “Ultraviolet. Is it okay if I take some pictures with it?”
Rhi nods.
“Look, I’ll take one of myself first. See?” She rolls up her sleeve.
Rhi understands the difference between Dr. Orton and the Joker. Dr. Orton is good. If she met the Joker, Dr. Orton would know just what to do. She’d fight. She’d win.
One of the ladies in coveralls shoos Bella into the elevator. “Come on,” she says, “won’t take a second.”
They stop on every floor; one lady slaps door open while the other peers between car and wall. “Don’t think so,” she’ll say, or “nope, next one.” Bella and the guy from six share “So! Yeah!” grins.
“It’s up on four,” says the peering lady finally, with satisfaction. “Yeah. Drop these folks off at the lobby.”
Bella looks back to see them strapping on backpacks with hoses. One of them stomps down, and a little box pops upen, striped yellow and black.
Krystal’s trying to start a fire in a shattered Bradford pear, on a median. Brittany drags the hood she’s salvaged over, trying to cut the wind; there’s already gravel pinging off it.
“How long we got?” asks Krystal.
Brittany guesses the distance between sun and Steeple. “Half-hour,” she says. “Maybe twenty minutes. Can you hurry?”
“You want to find tinder on asphalt?” Krystal snaps.
The great shadow of noon is creeping toward them, and there are howls nearby. Not wolves. Brittany looks bitterly up at the brilliant, mocking spire, deceptively far away across the parking desert: Overland Baptist. Goal, and doom.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
“They’re so gentle!” marvels Minka. One of the shipping containers breaches nearby, spraying the spectators from its blowhole; they all laugh and sputter.
“These are pretty well socialized,” Eero says. He scratches one container’s belly; it rolls over and clangs appreciatively. “This one saw a lot of urban traffic–it’s a Best Buy.”
“How can you tell?”
“The giant writing on its side,” says Eero, pointing helpfully.
“Ooh.”
“Want to feed one?”
“Sure!” Minka grabs a double handful of packing peanuts from the bucket and hurls them. The Best Buy kicks up onto its tail, creaking, and doesn’t miss a one.
“One washer of clean dishes,” Hawthorne says, “and one always dirty! A buffer system! No more piles in the sink, no more damn cabinets!”
“Some people like cabinets,” Senji says.
“Some people like this!” screams Hawthorne, and thumbs EJCT.
Acceleration pins Senji’s head down. The air’s cold; his eyes water. His chute deploys just in time to swing him crashing through French doors.
“You poor man!” says the father at the table.
“Let’s get those cuts cleaned!” says the mother. “You’ll be fine.”
“Then we can play games!” says a child excitedly.
He was right! is all Senji, astounded, can think.
The asteroid chunks leave the Space Revenge’s cannons at a significant fraction of lightspeed. The freighter train can’t dodge forever: its klicks-long tail of buckytrailers is easy to follow.
“Starboard cannons fire!” roars Space Captain Bonnet. “Prepare to board!”
“She’s slowing, cap’n,” announces Space Bosun Vine. He’s right–the freighter’s cutting forward power, jerking to port and starboard.
“Space arr!” Bonnet leers. “About time!”
“Wait–Space Helmsman!” gasps Vine. “Full thrust keelwise!”
“Arr?” He hesitates.
Vine grabs the controls, too late. The buckytrailers are following their engine perfectly, crack-the-whip.
The caboose hits the Space Revenge at a significant fraction of lightspeed.
The cardinal hops up when it wakes, and tries to fold its wings down. It can’t. It chirps, sharp notes. Then it only struggles.
Aubergine watches and sketches: lean here, twist. Hop so.
“Oh my God,” says Pira, walking in.
Two loops of strong silk bind its wings at pinions and elbow-joint. It has to be silk; silk doesn’t break. The pectoral muscles of a bird are proportionately stronger than an elephant’s or an ant’s.
“I’m learning,” says Aubergine.
“That’s sick,” says Pira.
“What’s art but a mirror, to see how we affect nature?” asks Aubergine. “What’s dance but movement, restrained?”
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Joy is the burr in her voice, like petting a cat backwards (when it’s warm). Boer always thought he’d like that, if he were a cat.
“Tell me what you’re scared of,” he says, tingly with the risk of asking.
“Umm. Bees. Tornadoes. Insurance.” Claudette rolls her head and pulls the picnic blanket close. “Antarctica public nudity used car salesmen. This is a very personal line of questioning, you know? Toenail fungus.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me back?”
“I’ll tell you.” She peers at him. “Mmm. Silence! Silence and barbed wire?”
He holds his breath, trying to prove her wrong.
“It’s just a comic strip,” Dorian chuckles nervously. “I guess it is set in a candle store. But not this candle store. Don’t–don’t poop where you work, right?”
“I think she looks like me,” says Camille, and stabs a page.
“That’s just a generic girl!” Dorian’s realizing he might get fired for this. “I promise, Camille. Ma’am. I didn’t draw it to make fun of–it’s just–write what you know, right?”
Camille taps her lips. He’s drawn her likeness and knows her name. How best to reclaim that power? A fetish of his fingers, or just eating his brain?
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