Ian McDonald - Desolation Road

“Arnie Nicolodea,” she whispered. “Little Arnie.”

When the news of the surprise birth of the third natural citizen of Desolation Road broke in the Bethlehem Ares Railroad/Hotel, Persis Tatterdemalion declared drinks all round and there was toasting and merrymaking by all save Grandfather Haran, who came to realize as the night passed into morning exactly what had been done to him. He also came to realize that he could never prove anything.

“Isn’t it strange,” commented Rajandra Das, made loquacious by maize beer and wine from the hotel fermentory, “that the couple who wanted the baby didn’t get one and the couple who didn’t did?” Everyone thought that a pithy summarization.

Rajandra Das had once lived in a hole under Meridian Main station. He still lived in a hole: in the Great Desert. Rajandra Das had once been prince of gutterboys, tramps, beggars, freebooters, goondahs and bums. He still was prince of gutterboys, tramps, beggars, freebooters, goondahs and bums. There was no one to compete with him for the honour. Too lazy to farm, he lived by his wits and the charity of his neighbours, charming their broken cultivators and faulty sun-tracker units to renewed vigour, aiding Ed Gallacelli in the construction of mechanical devices of little practical value save the utilization of too much time. Once he had fixed a Bethlehem Ares Railroads Locomotive: a Class 19, he remembered; it had limped into Desolation Road with a badly tuned tokamak. It had felt like the old days again. In a fit of nostalgia he had almost asked the engineers for a ride: to Wisdom, shining dream of his heart.

Then he thought of the guard who had thrown him off the train and the hardships, hard kicks, and work, hard work he would encounter on such a journey. Desolation Road was quiet, Desolation Road was isolated, but Desolation Road was comfortable and the fruit could be picked fresh from the tree. He would stay awhile yet.

Upon the winter solstice, when the sun stood low upon the horizon and the red dust glistened with frost, Adam Black returned to Desolation Road. His coming was as welcome as spring to the winter-weary farming folk.

“Roll up, roll up,” he bawled. “Adam Black’s Travelling Chautauqua and Educational ’Stravaganza once again ” (and here he banged his gold-topped cane on a small block for emphasis) “presents to you the wonders of the four quarters of the world in an all new ” (bang bang) “show! Featuring for your delectation and delight ladies ” (bang) “gentlemen” (bang) “ boys ” (bang) “and girls , a never-before-seen novelty, an Angel from the Realms of Glory! Cap tured from the Heavenly Circus, a real, bona fide, hundred percent cardcarrying gilt-edged angel !” (bang bang) “Yes, roll up, roll up, good citizens, only fifty centavos for five minutes with this wonder of the Age; fifty centavos, good people, can you really afford not to witness this unique phenomenon? ” (bang bang) “If you would be so kind as to form an orderly line, thank you… no pushing please, there’s time enough for everyone.”

Rajandra Das had come late to the show. He had been comfortably asleep by his fire when the Chautauqua train drew up and as a consequence had to stand in the cold for over an hour before his turn came.

“Just the one?” asked Adam Black.

“Don’t see anyone else.”

“Fifty centavos then.”

“Ain’t got fifty centavos. You take two honeycombs?”

“Two honeycombs are fine. Five minutes.”

It was warm in the coach. Black drapes covered the windows and whispered as the hot air from the ventilators stirred them. In the centre of the car stood a large and heavy steel cage, most solid, without doors or locks. Sitting on a trapeze suspended from the roof of the cage was a melancholy creature Rajandra Das was meant to believe was an angel, though it was no angel he had ever been taught about as a child on the pious knee of his dear and departed mother.

Its face and torso were those of an extraordinarily beautiful young man. Its arms and legs were made out of riveted metal. At shoulder and hip, flesh blended into metal. There were no distinct boundaries between skin and steel. Rajandra Das could see that this was no mere fusion of human with prosthetic. This was something distinctly other.

A glowing blue aura outlined the angel and provided the only illumination in the black, warm carriage.

Rajandra Das did not know how long he stood and stared before the angel extended its mechanical legs into long stilts and stepped down from its trapeze. It telescoped to human height and pressed its face close to the bars, eye-to-eye with the staring Rajandra Das.

“If you’ve got only five minutes, I suggest you ask me something.” the angel said in a thrilling contralto voice.

The staring spell was broken.

“Hoee!” said Rajandra Das. “Just what sort of thing are you?”

“That’s usually the first question,” said the tin-pot angel with the weariness of long-established routine. “I’m an angel, a seraph of the Fifth Order of the Heavenly Host, hand-servant of the Blessed Lady of Tharsis. Now, would you like me to petition Our Lady on behalf of yourself or others, or take a message to a departed beloved beyond the veil of death? That’s usually the second question.”

“Well, it ain’t mine,” said Rajandra Das. “Any fool can see you’re not taking any message anywhere, not while you’re in that cage performing for Mr. Adam Black. No, what I want to know is what the hell kind of angel you are, sir, ’cause I was always taught angels were like ladies with long hair and pretty wings and glowing shifts and all that.”

The angel pouted in petty offence.

“No damn dignity these days. Anyway, that’s the third question most mortals ask. I expected better of you after you missed out question two.”

“Well, how’s about answering question three, then?”

The angel sighed.

“Behold mortal.”

Out of its back unfolded two sets of collapsible helicopter vanes. The cage was too small to permit the rotors to open fully and the drooping blades made the angel seem even more pathetic and futile.

“Wings. And as for the gender question.” The angel’s halo flickered. Peculiar swellings rose and moved under its fleshly parts. Its features melted and ran like rainwater off a roof. The subcutaneous moundings converged, solidified, and formed a new terrain of features. Rajandra Das let out a low whistle of appreciation.

“Nice teats. So you’re either.”

“Or neither,” said the angel, and repeated the facial thaw trick, melting into an extraordinarily beautiful young person of indeterminate gender. Now worthy of the pronoun, it tucked its rotor blades into its back and smiled a disconsolate smile. Rajandra Das felt a needle of sympathy prick his heart. He knew how it felt to be in a place he had not chosen to be. He knew how it felt to be pissed on by life.

“Anything else, mortal?” asked the angel wearily.

“Hey hey hey man, not so touchy. I’m on your side, honest. Tell me, how come you can’t bust out of this cage with one flick of your pinky finger? I was taught angels were pretty powerful things.”

The angel leaned confidentially against the bars of its cage.

“I’m only an angel, Fifth Rank of the Heavenly Host, not one of the big shots like PHARIOSTER or TELEMEGON; they’re the most recent models; First Orders, Archangelsks; they can do just about damn anything, but we angels, we were the first, we were the Blessed Lady’s prototypes and she improved the design with each succeeding model: Avatas, Lorarchs, Cheraphs, Archangelsks.”