K Jeter: Noir

The bits of half-molten shrapnel had weakened the slow ocean’s surface, the membrane studded with scars and hissing, cooling bits of metal. She could see that Harrisch had hit with enough force to split the transparent layer underneath him; the gel oozed up through the narrow opening. Below, the gel swarmed thicker with the tangled, interconnected form of the poly-orgynism; the new sensation, like a whiplash sharp enough to draw blood, had drawn the strands and knots of the excited neural tissue, the thin black tattoos darting among the nerves and cortical material like quick shadows.

Silently, the tear in the surface membrane lengthened, like Harrisch’s own thin, ugly smile. The exec had recovered enough consciousness to roll onto his side and try to grab the retreating edge of the opening, as the gelatinous liquid welled up around his legs and torso. His fingertips missed; the shallow wave that rolled through the slow ocean was enough to slide him under the other side of the membrane.

Clinging to the rooftop’s edge, November watched, wondering how long it would take for the exec’s skin to start dissolving. Maybe it already is . She couldn’t tell; she’d only been able to see Harrisch struggling for a couple of minutes, before the stranded net of the poly-orgynism, shivering with the advent of an addition to its substance, had pulled Harrisch deeper and out of view.

“Here. Take this.”

November turned her head and saw McNihil beside her. He held on with one arm over the rooftop’s crest; with his other hand, he extended the black shape of his tannhäuser toward her. The asp-head’s face was wet; she realized that real rain had begun, the storm clouds’ contents hissing downward with the hot metal bits.

“Take it,” repeated McNihil. “When the jet gets here, put it up against the pilot’s head, and have him take you wherever you want to go. I don’t think he’ll give you any argument.”

Obediently, she took the weapon. “But what about you?” November watched as the asp-head began working his way back down the angled rooftop. The heaving motions of the slow ocean below had subsided; the building still trembled and shook, but held its remnants together. “Where are you going?”

McNihil had reached a gap large enough to lower himself down into the unlit reaches of the hotel. He stopped and looked back up at her. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ve got someplace else to go to.” He smiled. “I’ve always had it.”

He dropped down inside the building, where she could no longer see him. November could hear him for a few moments, then those faint sounds were gone as well. She turned away and looked up, watching the jet as it approached, surrounded with fire.

The fundamental element of the fox-trot derives from mechanisation, suppressed eroticism and a desire to deaden feelings through drugs.

– ANATOLY LUNACHARSKY (1875-1933)

Peoples’ Commissar for Education, USSR

THE KIND OF THING THAT HARDLY EVER HAPPENS ANYMORE

Tell me a story,” said the professional child.

“All right.” November laid her hands on top of the briefcase in her lap. The Asian shores of the Gloss rolled by outside the train. She took a deep breath before starting. “Once… there was a man and his wife. And they died.”

“That’s sad.” The professional child’s lower lip trembled. “Did they die together? At the same time?”

“No, they didn’t.” November gave a slow shake of her head. “She died quite a while before he did.” Her hands smoothed across the expensive leather surface of the briefcase. “But it’s not really so sad. Because they didn’t die the way people are supposed to. In some ways… they’re not really dead at all.”

“I know what you mean.”

A nod. “And because he died for her-kind of-now they are together. Forever and ever.” November managed a smile. “So he got what he wanted. That’s the kind of thing that hardly ever happens anymore.”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed the professional child.

“So you see-” November wiped the corner of one eye. “It’s not really a sad story at all.”

“Then why are you crying?” The professional child sounded genuinely concerned for her.

“Just for myself.” She let the smile turn embarrassed. “Because I’m not as lucky as those people are.”

“Nobody is.” The professional child regarded her with a wise, ancient gaze. “Nobody ever is.”

She gave the professional child the standard fee, and let her skip down the passenger car’s aisle to the next customer. November closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the padded seat. At the edge of sleep, or something like it, she felt the motion of the train’s iron wheels, the ocean’s stately tide, the meshing of all the earth’s gears.

K. W. JETER is one of the most respected SF writers working today. He is the author of over twenty novels, including Dr. Adder, The Glass Hammer, Wolf Flow , and Farewell Horizontal . His previous novels, Blade Runner 2:The Edge of Human and Blade Runner: Replicant Night , achieved international bestseller status.

After residences in England and Spain, he and his wife, Geri, currently make their home in Portland, Oregon. He owns two pairs of Dahlquist DQ-10’s, but none of them are wired with human neural tissue-yet.

An essay on the copyright issues raised in his novel NOIR can be located at http://www.europa.com/~jeter/copyrights.html