Elizabeth Bear - Hammered

He grabbed his crutch from where it leaned against the door of the Bradford, snarling at the ignominy of it. He’d spent longer than he wanted to spend, grounded in Hartford like a fox and then sneaking across the border. The big gangster, moving with a shuffling limp still, right foot in an inflatable cast, shook his head. “Good idea, cat, but nah. She got released from the hospital last week. She ain’t answered her HCD since she went in. I swear something is blocking her messages, cat.”

Boris flicked scarred ears, and Razorface kept talking. “And the hotel she gave me say she’s gone since last night. Which is good, means she didn’t die in the hospital, but damned if I know where she be.”

The cat blinked pumpkin-colored, silken eyes through the bars and pursed his whiskers forward. Razorface held a finger out and was rewarded with a brush of wet nose. “Fuck. We can’t go back to Hartford, man. Not unless we goin’ back with an army, and it ain’t worth that shit. Yeah. And here I am losing it, standing on a street corner in Toronto talking to a motherfucking cat.”

He stopped, rolled his shoulders back, and grimaced. “Goddamn it to Hell,” he said, turning to get his left hand on the door handle.

The cat purred louder as Razorface closed the door, walked around the front of the truck, and slid into the driver’s seat, first stowing his crutch behind it. He gave the cat one last glance before he keyed the ignition on. “I really miss my dog. You know about that, Boris?”

Silence answered him. He looked over. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess you do. Where you wanna go, kitty cat?”

What about you, Razor? He rubbed his jaw hard before he glanced in the mirror and pulled away from the curb. Where you wanna go?

16:00 hours, Tuesday 31 October, 2062

Brazilian Beanstalk

A corporate jet is a more pleasant way to travel than a military transport plane, but I still hate the fact that somebody else is flying this thing. Gabe, Valens, and I are the only passengers… along with my little secret, Richard, riding in the back of my skull. We disembark in Brazil, which has the distinction of being one of several countries I’ve been shot at in. Shot down over, even.

I don’t know how to describe a space elevator to you unless you’ve seen one.

They’re called beanstalks, or sometimes skyhooks. To oversimplify, a magnetically propelled car rides a carbon nanotube cable from planetside to an orbiting platform, which is anchored on the other end to a captured asteroid. It reminds me of playing “crack the whip” on ice skates with Barbara and Nell. Barb always won; go figure.

The idea is, your beanstalk lowers the cost of lifting things into orbit from the farcical to the merely expensive. The journey from earth to orbit takes almost eighteen hours, no more than four times the duration of the flight that brought us here. I didn’t know that. I looked it up on my hip while we were on the flight from Toronto. There’s still been no answer from Mitch, and I’m getting increasingly worried. Scared for Mitch, for Razorface — whom I also haven’t gotten ahold of — and for Leah and Genie and Elspeth, who are still back in Toronto. Hostage, I know perfectly well, for Gabe’s and my good behavior.

The skyscraper that serves as the base of the thing is lost in the clouds.

After an extensive search of ourselves and our baggage, a Unitek hostess greets us at the airlock of the corporation’s capsule, which is basically a glorified elevator car. The Executive Elevator, in this case. I’m stiff and uncomfortable in a dapper new plum-colored pantsuit that looks like Barb picked it out.

The urge to explore before I sit down might be childish, but I do it anyway, wishing I could get a look at the control room. I’ve heard about old railways, private cars. This is like that — inside, there’s a common room, and four separate little private spaces I might call bunk rooms, but they’re a bit Persian-carpeted for that. Which is funny, I think, because we’ll be in free fall soon enough.

Then I notice the hammocks retracted neatly into the walls of those private alcoves, and the restraints on the ostentatiously comfortable leather chairs in the lounge. I skip lunch when it’s offered, picturing the disgrace of barfing all over the knotty walnut paneling. I’ve never been in free fall.

After the hostess gives us our safety instructions and shows us the galley and the jakes, she retreats to the control room. I realize she’s also the car operator. Valens sits down in the lounge area, straps himself into a couch, and promptly falls asleep, leaving Gabe and me sitting across from one another, staring out the windows in silence while acceleration shoves us back into the couches like a hand against the breastbone.

Sometime later, the pressure drops away. They could accelerate us for longer and get us to Clarke that much faster, but it’s annoying to spend the entire trip under multiple g’s, accelerating and then decelerating again. Sometime in the middle of the ride, the car will reach maximum acceleration and we’ll have free fall.

Gabe reaches out, curiously, and takes my hand. “May I?”

“Sure.”

He turns it over, laying it palm-up on his thigh. The heat of his body radiates through his trousers, warming the back of my hand, but I cannot feel his fingers lightly encircling my wrist. “This is very different from the other one,” he says, fingertips stroking the hollow of the palm. “It doesn’t feel like metal.”

I’m shivering almost too hard to speak. It isn’t at all like having my right hand stroked: instead, there’s a prickling sort of pressure awareness, fleeting warmth and a tingle that seems to run the length of my spine. I master myself with effort, force the words out evenly. “There’s a polymer ‘skin’ over the steel. Improves my grip and it gives me tactile sensitivity. It’s supposed to be pretty tough, but it will have to be replaced a lot.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Strange. Prickly. Not bad,” I amend, as he moves to release his grip.

He lays his hand on my upper arm. “And nothing there?”

Valens releases a soft, kittenish snore. I glance over at him. Asleep, hair tousled, he looks old, although I know he must only be in his sixties. Gabe follows the line of my gaze and then looks back at me, as if studying my profile.

I’m out of excuses, I realize. I’m not necessarily dying any faster than he is. I can’t kid myself anymore that he’s not interested, or that I’d be hurting somebody who loves him, or that I’m so horrible to look at he could never want me. He’s not trying to tie me down or turn me into somebody I’m not. After all this time and pain and grief, he just wants to be as close to me as I’ll let him get.

He kissed me even when I still had those scars. The armor. The mask I could hide behind. Who ever would have thought they meant so much to me? After Chrétien — after Peacock — I think I needed them.

But Chrétien is dead. And Bernard is, too. And he wouldn’t want me to suffer in his memory.

No, Jenny, he wouldn’t. I know what Peacock would want from me. He’d want me to change the world for him.

“Gabe,” I say, looking out the window instead of at his face, “I’m scared.”

His voice is rich with amusement. “Getting old, Jenny? You talk like a woman who’s never jumped out of an airplane. Would it help if I told you to stand in the door, Private?”

I turn to catch Gabe’s eye, thinking: Richard?

No comment, no sense of presence. If he’s paying attention, he’s got enough sense not to let me know that he is.