Elizabeth Hand - Glimmering

He laughed harshly. “—we had, oh, different views about art. Among other things. He hasn’t left that place up in Maine for years, now.”

“But he wanted to—” Trip’s voice rose defensively. “I mean, I didn’t, like, force him or something—”

Leonard stared at Trip.

“Didn’t you know how sick he was?” he asked. “Couldn’t you tell? You stupid fucking kid.”

“No! He wanted to do it—”

“Of course he wanted to do it!” Leonard grabbed Trip’s arm and shook him. “Look at you! Little blond piece—he fucking fell in love with you, you little prick! Christ, he thought he saved you? Martin spent his whole life looking for stray dogs! You fucking asshole!” Trip saw tears glowing in the basilisk eyes. “Didn’t you notice anything? Didn’t you see he was sick?”

“No.”

For a long moment he held Trip’s gaze. The boy stiffened, sure that Leonard was going to strike him. Instead he shook his head and glanced over his shoulder.

“Mikey,” he shouted above the music. “Get the others. We’re going. You—”

He turned to Trip. “You’re coming with me—”

“The fuck I am.” But before he could pull away another Barbie appeared, identical to the first shimmering plasteen mask, effaced eyes, latex catsuit.

“Bring him to the limo,” Leonard commanded. “We’re going. Now.”

The second woman dragged Trip through the crowd, following Leonard as he pushed his way downstairs. By the makeshift doors the caftaned bouncers stood, talking. As Leonard approached one began to shout.

“Hey man, no one leaves till—”

But then the others broke in.

“Leonard!”

“Yo, Lenny! Takin’ off?”

Leonard nodded as the caftaned men pulled aside a heavy metal fire door. Icy air roared inside, a flurry of ashes.

“’Night, Leonard.”

“Later, Leonard—”

They were outside. The ashes were snow; it coated the ground like dark fur. In the street a huge seal-grey limousine idled. A figure in black rubber and mouthless black mask stepped from the driver’s seat and opened one of the back doors, holding it as Leonard slid inside.

“Fayal, this young gentleman will be accompanying us,” said Leonard, jerking a thumb at Trip.

“Wh—” Trip began, but before he could say more was shoved into the seat beside Leonard.

“Shut up.” The older man smiled coldly, reached to take Trip’s chin in his hand. “You ought to thank me,” he said, as the two Barbies and several other people clambered into the limo’s backseats, laughing and complaining.

“Oh yeah?” Trip hunched against the window, trying to sound tough. He and Leonard had the middle seat to themselves. He could see the others watching him with amusement.

“Sure.” With a soft thump the last door closed. “You’re going to a party, Trip.”

“A what?”

“A big party. And you weren’t even invited.” As the limo shot into the street Leonard gazed out to where the sky moved overhead, gyring in upon itself. “You lucky kid.”

Trip stared at him. He cradled his knapsack and stared resolutely at his knees. “What kind of party?”

“What kind of party?” Leonard raised his eyebrows. From the backseat came raucous laughter. “Don’t you know what today is, Trip?”

The boy sank sullenly into the seat. “Yeah.”

“So!” Leonard reached over and grabbed Trip’s knee, shook it in mock excitement. His hazel eyes narrowed. He leaned in close as the limo roared around a corner and his entourage shrieked delightedly. “Well, gee whiz, Trip, gee whiz—Happy fucking New Year.”

The Chairman Dances

The elevator opened onto night: thousands of stars thrown across the sky, tree limbs scratching at streaks of cloud, silver moon. Beneath his feet crunched a thin layer of snow, and beneath the snow the firm-mattress spring of earth. There was the perfume of balsam, so fragrant Jack felt as though his face had been thrust into a soft-needled bed, and underlying that the faint sickly smell of Viconix.

“May I see your ID, please?”

He was so enraptured of the sky that it wasn’t until someone touched him lightly but insistently on the arm that he realized he’d been questioned.

“Sir?”

Jack looked up into the broad face of a veritable security giant, former linebacker or WWF hero in GFI’s red-and-gold livery, the outlines of his formal jacket corrugated by the bulletproof vest he wore beneath, his head haloed with chatlinks: headphones, mic, beepers, vocoder.

Oh: and three guns.

“Yeah, sure, wait—”

Jack patted anxiously at pockets for his wallet. He sensed shadows moving just beyond his vision, the premonition of many huge hands about to clap onto his shoulders.

“Oh! No—of course, wait,” he stammered, recalling his hand, the image scanned there by the foot courier months before. “You need this—”

He grinned feebly and held up his palm. The gryphon glowed a brilliant red-gold. A huge black-gloved hand encircled Jack’s wrist, held it steady while the other hand drew a flattened disc across his palm. There was a reassuring chime. Jack felt a warm, not-quite-painful tingling. The guard did a thorough pat-down, checking Jack’s pockets, running fingers through his lank hair.

“You enjoy the evening, sir,” he finally pronounced, beckoning Jack forward. Somewhere behind him he heard excited voices, the sooosh of a revolving door.

“Happy New Year.”

Jack stepped away; when he was at a safe distance glanced down at his clothes. He was still wearing what he’d had on at Lazyland when Jule kidnapped him—white oxford-cloth shirt, quite soiled; dark green chinos; worn brown corduroy jacket. His temple throbbed; he rubbed it gingerly, trying to make sense of time. It had been, what? Wednesday morning when he left Lazyland? The twenty-ninth of December? He was fairly certain of the date, if not the day of the week.

Nellie’s words came to him: You’ll be at the party tonight…

He had lost a day; more than that, two days, squandered in a cell within the Pyramid. He had a flash of his grandmother sick with worry, his brother Dennis tending her; of the blond girl going into labor.

He recalled what else Nellie Candry had told him—

Blue Antelope. They’ve planned a terrorist strike against the SUNRA dirigibles…

He looked up, saw trees and night sky and stars, behind them a faint crosshatching, lurid pulse of green and violet. When he tipped his head, he could make out slender beams of light flickering through the air, like the traplines of a spider’s web, and discern where the projected constellations spun off from the center.

He turned back and saw a sweep of gold slanting upward: the Pyramid. The lozenges of black and gold at its base were elevators, tunnels, revolving doors, glowing corporate logos. The myriad multicolored figures—masked, helmeted, armored, sheathed—were other invited guests. He was in the staging area that adjoined the Pyramid, the atrium arena GFI had constructed for the Millennial Ball. The entire vast space had been turned into a kind of cyclorama. White flakes whirled in agitated arcs he associated with old movies and snowmaking machinery. Firs and leafless birch trees had been planted everywhere, receding into a silvery blur where he could make out raised stages, arcades, pavilions, gold-and-red-clothed tables, promenades of emerald glass, house-sized video monitors, red-and-gold information kiosks, Red Cross tents, pillars emblazoned with logos. The sight of so much stuff, so many people, made his head ache. When he blinked, phantom rockets spun off into the snow, so that for a moment he thought someone had set off fireworks.