Elizabeth Hand - Glimmering

Unexpectedly he grabbed Jack’s shoulder. “And she doesn’t forgive me. I thought maybe if I explained things, maybe she’d understand. But it doesn’t work that way. I guess they have their own itinerary. Their own way of doing things.”

“Who?”

“The dead. Like people always think they can be summoned, with a Ouija board or a séance or whatever; but really they just do what they want to. Just like us. It’s not even like they have some message. Sometimes they just want to be with us, I think.”

Jack recalled the sound of his grandfather’s tread upon the stairs at Lazyland, the smell of cigarette smoke and Irish whiskey and his touch upon Jack’s cheek, cold and feathery as snow. Before he could stop himself he blurted, “I know—I know what you mean. A few months ago I had this dream, about my grandfather. Only it wasn’t really a dream. He was really there, and he—he gave me something.”

Jule nodded. “What did he give you?”

Jack hesitated. For one moment he considered telling Jule about the Fusax.

“It was just something I’d lost,” he said at last.

“Like your mind ? ”

Jack forced a grin. “Something like that.”

Around them vehicles slowed as though stuck in quicksand. They were in midtown. A few blocks to the south glittered a vast triangular complex of buildings, glass-and-steel walls shining gold and green and red like some monstrous Christmas ornament. From one side bulged a huge glass-domed arena, ovoid, still fluttering with orange construction tape and DANGER: KEEP OUT signs: the site of the millennial ball two days hence. High overhead, an array of solar shields blinked from black to silver, turning this way and that in an urgent search for light. There were bristling antennae like the spines of some huge undersea animal. Satellite dishes and windmills vied for space with hotel and television logos, a neon sign for a restaurant named Pynchon. Across the central pyramid’s surface, rippling letters splashed bright as water.

Jack gazed awestruck. Jule laughed.

“Don’t get out much, huh?”

“It’s been a while.” Jack smiled sheepishly. “I mean, they built that thing so fast… I remember when this was all live sex shows.”

“Oh yeah. The good old days.” He stared up at the monolith with its swags of Christmas lights. “Fucking Christmas. I hate fucking Christmas. And this place,” he said. “I really hate this place. Because they think it makes up for all that other shit, you know? They think you can walk inside and forget about everything here —”

He gestured fiercely at the flaming sky that could be glimpsed between the buildings. “They think we’ll just forget. Like with their fucking blimps. They think we can just pick up the pieces and start over again…

“But I’ll tell you something, Jackie.” Jule’s words were like granite falling. “You can’t ever start over again. Not once you’ve crapped in your own mess kit like we have. You don’t get a fucking second chance. That’s not how the world works, Jackie. That’s not how it works anymore.”

Jack was silent. Jule said nothing more. The Range Rover inched beneath a marquee whose titles melted into sherbet-colored grids.

Jack pointed at the shimmering edifice, the waves of people flowing in and out of revolving doors at its base. “How is it powered?”

Jule slid the car into a long line of idling taxis and limousines. He held up one hand, rubbing together the thumb and first two fingers. “Dinero, Jackie-boy.”

“But do they have their own generators? Or what?”

“Yes. And or what.’” Jule peered up at the great Pyramid. “Let’s see. Solar panels, some kind of plasma grid. Windmills. A champagne-effect reflexive waterfall. Supposedly they’ve got their own nuclear reactor, too.”

“So how come I can’t make a fucking phone call?”

“’Cause you’re not GFI Worldwide. Hey, get over it! I mean, here you are looking at where they make The Danny Show ! What else do you want?”

Before Jack could reply Jule gunned the motor. In front of them a lapis-colored limousine slid away from the sidewalk. The Range Rover roared into its spot. A doorman in Four Seasons livery started for the passenger door, but Jack waved him off.

“All right, listen,” commanded Jule. He rummaged in the seat behind him until he found a leather portfolio, sat for a minute staring at his friend. He reached out and rested one hand on Jack’s cheek. “You know how to drive a standard, right?”

“I’m not waiting in the—”

“Listen. It costs forty dollars to park here for five minutes. This’ll take me thirty seconds. You wait here, anyone asks tell them you’re picking up someone from The Danny Show. Or Sunshine Skye,” he said, glancing up at the marquee. “A cop comes, just drive around the block, okay? Okay.”

Jack watched as he got out of the car and strode to the sidewalk, carrying the portfolio officiously in front of him. Before he went inside Jule turned. He was swaying slightly, and he looked immeasurably sad.

“Fuck you!” Jack said under his breath, then waved. Jule nodded and disappeared into the crowd at the entrance. Jack turned his attention back to the scene outside. Well-dressed men and women came and went in a steady stream of overly bright colors. Lime green, candy pink, electric blue. Glittering swathes of Christmas lights hung above the revolving doors. A knot of Japanese businessmen in retro Infoguide sunglasses that made them look like extras from Not of This Earth. Models in silly masks, posturing with smokeless cigarettes. A bizarrely tall, thin man like a giant insect, surrounded by people waving cordless microphones. Jack tried to keep his expression blank as more vehicles pulled up beside him and honked.

“Shit,” he muttered. At least fifteen minutes had passed, he was sure of that. He could see cars entering and leaving the public parking area with clockwork regularity. He briefly thought of parking—he wouldn’t admit it to Jule, but he was dying to peek inside the world’s most famous corporate complex. But he’d be damned if he’d spend his own money on this idiotic venture.

He leaned forward and starting playing with the Range Rover’s entertainment system. Lights blinked off and on. When he tried the radio he got only static, then a very long advertisement for the Global Pyramid Four Seasons, recited by a woman with a brisk Pacific Rim accent broadcasting from the hotel. Jack craned his neck to look up at the marquee again.

He opened the glove compartment to see what was in there, found only papers and a squashed plastic cup. He sighed and glanced out the window. There seemed to be a bottleneck at one of the revolving doors. Several uniformed security guards ran down the sidewalk and began pushing their way through the growing crowd. One held a phone to his mouth and was speaking intently, his face grim.

Maybe Danny had a heart attack, thought Jack. He decided to take his chances with whatever music Jule had been listening to earlier, punched the music console’s Play button, and closed his eyes. Low hissing came from the speakers.

Only Jule would spend an extra three thousand dollars for a state-of-the-art music center, and then have nothing to play on it. He was reaching to stab the OFF button when the static cleared. Jule’s voice filled the car.