K Jeter: Farewell Horizontal

They’d had a big surprise then. Wonder how long they had to think, Not such a great idea, after all. Not too cool .

At least they got to satisfy their curiosity. About what the Dead Centers even looked like. Toads with jewels in their foreheads, or nothing but shining rods of light, or small golden-haired children with dead eyes – the scary stories of childhood romped behind Axxter’s eyes. At least I listened to those tales; these poor suckers must not’ve. And look what they got.

Axxter’s gaze came back to the burnt zone, the smell in his nostrils. He turned toward the jagged edge of metal curling beside him, grasped it, and hoisted himself back out onto the vertical.

† † †

Deepshade to night. Axxter made camp as far away from the ruins zone as he could get before dark set in.

Even at a distance of several kilometers, the torn metal remained visible, a rim of jagged teeth biting at the stars.

Other than that, a peaceful scene, as he lay in the securely anchored bivouac, hands behind head, rehydrated food inching warm through his gut. The Norton grazed a few meters away, scraping up the wall’s vegetation with its extruded proboscis. My cup runneth over, or at least closer to the rim – Axxter scratched his stomach in deep meditation. Weird day; small profits, smaller than I deserved, but still – profits. A section of his lower intestine gurgled assent, echoing the noises from the motorcycle’s conversion tank.

Overhead, out from the wall, a circle of dark silver: the Small Moon rounding the building, catching only trace light from the toplevel and the thin ribbons of the Linear Fairs’ perpetual activity. He’d kept the transceiver on, angling his head to catch the weak bounce of a free-access station. Ancient music – the Liebeslieder Waltzes , somebody (-thing?) called Tampa Red’s “She Don’t Know My Mind, Part Two” – seeped up the wire to his finger and then inside to his ear. Interspersed with commercials – enlistment bonuses from the Havoc Mass (made him think of Guyer’s surprising faith), new stuff online to buy and watch (maybe the mating angels were already in the catalog) – all of which he ignored. Or tried to; the image of the figures in the bright sky kept seeping into his thoughts.

“ Well, I looked in the window, and this is what I saw -”

Axxter ignored the barely human voice vibrating at the hinge of his jaw. He reached over and picked up the camera – after this morning’s lucky break, he had kept it handy – and cradled it against his chest. As if the image-data locked inside his archive were real blood and flesh. Magnified close enough to touch.

“- a man, on his hands and knees, doing… doing the cootie… cootie-cootie kuh-rawl .”

Well, shoot… made money today, didn’t I? Deserve some kind of treat for that. That’s how you program yourself for more of that kind of thing. That five-year-old kid at the center of your brain… Axxter didn’t know if he believed that sort of thing or not. Willing to let it slide, in the process of cajoling himself. Already knowing what he wanted. He shifted uncomfortably, the sling’s confines suddenly tight. Switched off the free-access, fearing something even worse than prehistoric Tampa Red.

The decision had been made by the raising of his bank account, intersected by the length of time he’d been out wandering on the wall. Two variables evoking a programmed response, his brain along for the ride. For a moment, the sheer predictability of his desires twinged disgust inside him. An idiot; he gazed at nothing, shaking his head. You’re an idiot. Why do you ding yourself around with her, anyway?

Axxter brought his vision back to medium focus, looking at the territory surrounding the bivouac. Seemed safe enough for a little indulgence in hollow time; at least in a certain fatalistic way, he supposed. There was no safecage for rent in the vicinity, the usual, advisable amenity for a disembodied spree. But then there wasn’t anyone else around in these sectors who might come across his body and do something weird with it. Unless Guyer had doubled back for some reason – an intriguing thought; he wondered what strange souvenir she might leave behind if she came across the sleeping, breathing meat part of him, his mind vacated elsewhere. Some pattern of bruises and muscles stretched into unusual postures, a trademark of hers written in the fatigue of tissues. Might be worth sticking around for, feigning being off in hollow time; I could dig it. If I knew it would happen that way. But it won’t. Guyer’s long gone, heading for toplevel inside rather than out of her own flesh. Pity.

Only the torn metal, black teeth against night, visible over the wall’s curve, worried him. Not enough to change his mind, though. A faint radiation, heat ebbing from inside the ruin zone, tinged the jagged limits. Whatever had done that wouldn’t be much fazed by a safecage with the tempting Axxter-morsel locked inside; it, or they would eat the whole goddamn thing, fry me up like a wienie on a spit. Of course, if they – the other two words had gone back down inside himself, not to be spoken – were going to come romping out, through the devastated stretch of their previous fun, to swarm out over the wall just to get him, it wouldn’t matter much if he was off in hollow time, or sitting up all night, eyes wide and gun on knee, waiting for the sun to break over the cloud barrier. So his reasoning, what was left of it after his internal cajoling, dissolved, fatalism giving the desired result. Might as well do what I want, without worrying about it.

He blinked on his terminal, the glowing words bright against the night sky.

YES?

“Get me HoloDays.”

YOU ARE THE VICTIM OF IGNOBLE PASSIONS.

“Jesus. Just do it, all right?” Fucker who programmed that … Shaking his head, Axxter leaned back against the building’s wall. The transceiver bounced a signal off the Small Moon’s metallic sheen, right to the toplevel.

The center of his vision brightened with the hollow-time agency’s logo. In one corner, the Small Moon Consortium nibbled away at his bank account, the call charges a shade less than the Wire Syndicate’s – for which Axxter was grateful.

A woman’s voice came, incongruous, from the smiling clock face. “What may we do for you?” One of the clock’s cartoon eyes winked cheerfully.

“Um…” The clock’s manic stare unnerved him, almost as much as the female voice. They always know what you want; otherwise you wouldn’t have called them in the first place. Ignoble passions. “I guess I need… about an hour. That’s all.”

“The second hour comes cheaper. By the time you get to the tenth hour, we’re practically giving it away.”

I bet . Axxter shook his head, the motion translating as simple no over the terminal. Listening to voices like the clock’s was how you wound up with a zipped-out bank account. “Just an hour, please.”

The voice stiffened, sensing cheapskate. “I don’t suppose you want full sensory, then.”

Another shake. “Just the minimum… gravity orientation, optic, midband aural… you know.”

“Right. Like your last order.” The person behind the clock face had pulled his number. “If that’s how you like it…”

… how much fun can it be . Axxter weathered the sneer. “That’s how I like it.”

“Guarded line?”

He could tell what answer the voice expected. “No; bare line.” Screw it; didn’t have any trouble with it last time. Why would ghosts be interested in his comings and goings over the building’s wires? When the voice asked, he gave the horizontal sector he wanted.

Another programmed wink from the clock face as his order went through.