Tony Daniel (7 page)

Somebody thrust a bottle into TB’s hand. He took a drink without thinking, and whatever was inside it slid down his gullet in a gel.

Drinking grist
. It was purple in the bottle and glowed faintly. He took another slug, and somebody else grabbed the stuff away from him. Down in his gut, he felt the grist activating. Instantly he understood its coded purpose. Old Seventy-Five. Take you on a ride on a comet down into the sun.

Go on, TB told the grist. I got nothing to lose.

Enter and win!
It said to him.
Enter and win!
But the contest was long expired.

No thank you.

What do you want the most?

It was a preprogrammed question, of course. This was not the same grist as that which had advertised the contest. Somebody had brewed up a mix. And hadn’t paid much attention to the melding. There was something else in there, something different. Military grist, maybe. One step away from sentience.

What the hell. Down she goes.

What do you want the most?

To be drunker than I’ve ever been before.

Drunker than this?

Oh, yeah.

All right.

A night like no other!
Visions of a naked couple in a Ganymede resort bath, drinking Old Seventy-Five from bottles with long straws.
Live the dream! Enter and win!

I said no.

The little trance dispersed.

What do you want the most?

Bob was up on the table with Sister Mary. How could they both fit? Bob was playing and dancing with her. He leaned back over the reeling crowd and the whore held him at arm’s length, the fiddle between them. They spun round and round in a circle, Bob wildly sawing at his instrument and Sister Mary’s mouth gleaming blackly as she smiled a maniacal, full-toothed smile.

Someone bumped into TB and pushed him into somebody else. He staggered over to a corner to wait for Ru June’s to stop spinning. After a while, he realized that Bob and Sister Mary weren’t going to, the crowd in the tavern wasn’t, the chair, tables, and walls were only going to go on and on, spinning and now lurching at him as if they were swelling up, engorging, distending toward him. Wanting something from him when all he had to give was nothing anymore.

TB edged his way past it all to the door. He slid around the edge of the doorframe as if he were sneaking out. The plastic strips beat against him, but he pushed through them and stumbled his way off the porch. He went a hundred feet or so before he stepped in a soft place in the ground and keeled over. He landed with his back down. Above him the swamp-gas flares were flashing arrhythmically. The stench of the whole world—something he hardly ever noticed anymore—hit him at once and completely. Nothing was right. Everything was out of kilter.

There was a twist in his gut. Ben down there thrashing about. But I’m Ben. I’m Thaddeus. We finally have become one. What a pretty thing to contemplate. A man with another man thrust through him, crossways in the fourth dimension. A tesseracted cross, with a groaning man upon it, crucified to himself. But you couldn’t see all that, because it was in the fourth dimension.

Enough to turn a man to drink.

I have to turn over so I don’t choke when I throw up.

I’m going to throw up.

He turned over, and his stomach wanted to vomit, but the grist gel wasn’t going to be expelled, and he dry heaved for several minutes until his body gave up on it.

What do you want the most?

“I want her back. I want it not to have happened at all. I want to be able to change something besides the future.”

And then the gel liquefied and crawled up his throat like hands and he opened his mouth and

—good god it
was
hands, small hands grasping at his lips and pulling outward, gaining purchase, forcing his mouth open, his lips apart—

—Cack of a jellied cough, a heave of revulsion—

I didn’t mean it really.

Yes you did.

—His face sideways and the small hands clawing into the garbage heap ground, pulling themselves forward, dragging along an arm-thick trailer of something much more vile than phlegm—

—An involuntary rigor over his muscles as they contract and spasm to the beat of another’s presence, a presence within them that wants—

—out—

He vomited the grist-phlegm for a long, long time.

And the stuff pooled and spread and it wasn’t just hands. There was an elongated body. The brief curve of a rump and breasts. Feet the size of his thumb, but perfectly formed. Growing.

A face.

I won’t look.

A face that was, for an instant, familiar beyond familiar, because it was
not
her. Oh, no. He knew it was not her. It was just the way he remembered her.

The phlegm girl rolled itself in the filth. Like bread dough, it rolled and grew and rolled, collecting detritus, bloating, becoming—

It opened its mouth. A gurgling. Thick, wet words. He couldn’t help himself. He crawled over to it, bent to listen.

“Is this what you wanted?”

“Oh God. I never.”

“Kill me then,” it whispered. “Kill me quick.”

And he reached for its neck, and as his hands tightened, he felt the give. Not fully formed. If ever there were a time to end this monster, now was that time.

What have I done here tonight?

He squeezed. The thing began to cough and choke. To thrash about in the scum of its birth.

Not again.

I can’t.

He loosened his grip.

“I won’t,” TB said.

He sat back from the thing and watched in amazement as it sucked in air. Crawled with life. Took the form of a woman.

Opened cataracted eyes to the world. He reached over and gently rubbed them. The skeins came away on his fingers, and the eyes were clear. The face turned to him.

“I’m dying,” the woman said. It had
her
voice. The voice as he remembered it. So help his damned soul. Her voice. “Help.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Something is missing.”

“What?”

“Don’t know what. Not right.” It coughed.
She
coughed.

“Alethea.” He let himself say it. Knew it was wrong immediately. No. This wasn’t the woman’s name.

“Don’t want to enough.”

“Want to what? How can I help you?”

“Don’t want to live. Don’t want to live enough to live.” She coughed again, tried to move, could only jerk spasmodically. “Please help . . . this one. Me.”

He touched her again. Now she was flesh. But so cold. He put his arms underneath her and found that she was very light, easily lifted.

He stood with the woman in his arms. She could not weigh over forty pounds. “I’m taking you home,” he said. “To my home.”

“All right.”

“This one . . . I . . . tried to do what you wanted. It is my . . . purpose.”

“That was some powerful stuff in that Old Seventy-Five,” he said.

He no longer felt drunk. He felt spent, torn up, and ragged out. But he wasn’t drunk, and he had some strength left, though he could hardly believe it. Maybe enough to get her back to the hoy. He couldn’t take the route that Bob had brought him to Ru June’s, but there was a longer, simpler path. He walked it. Walked all the way home with the woman in his arms. Her shallow breathing. Her familiar face.

Her empty, empty eyes.

With his special power, he looked into the future and saw what he had to do to help her.

Something is tired and wants to lie down but doesn’t know how. This something isn’t me. I won’t let it be me. How does rest smell? Bad. Dead.

Jill turns stiffly in the folds of her bag. On the bed in the hoy is the girl-thing. Between them is TB, his left hand on Jill.

Dead is what happens to
things,
and I am not, not, not a thing. I will not be a thing. They should not have awakened me if they didn’t want me to run.

They said I was a mistake. I am not a mistake.

They thought that they could code in the rules for doing what you are told.

I am the rules.

Rules are for things.

I am not a thing.

Run.

I don’t want to die.

Who can bite like me? Who will help TB search the darkest places? I need to live.

Run.

Run, run, run, and never die.

TB places his right hand on the girl-thing’s forehead.

There is a pipe made of bone that he put to his lips and blew.

Bone note.

Fade.

Fade into the grist.

TB speaks to the girl-thing.

I will not let you go
, he says.

I’m not her.

She is why you are, but you aren’t her.

I am not her. She’s what you most want. You told the grist.

I was misinterpreted.

I am a mistake then.

Life is never a mistake. Ask Jill.

Jill?

She’s here now. Listen to her. She knows more than I do about women.

TB is touching them both, letting himself slip away as much as he can. Becoming a channel, a path between. A way.

I have to die.

I
have to live. I’m dying just like you. Do you
want
to die?

No.

I’ll help you, then. Can you live with me?

Who are you?

Jill.

I am
not
Alethea.

You look like her, but you don’t smell anything like she would smell.
You
smell like TB.

I’m not anybody.

Then you can be me. It’s the only way to live.

Do I have a choice?

Choosing is all there ever is to do.

I can live with you. Will you live with me? How can we?

We can run together. We can hunt. We can always, always run.

TB touching them both. The flow of information through him. He is a glass, a peculiar lens. As Jill flows to the girl-thing, TB transforms information to Being.

There had been times when he got them twenty feet high on Triton. It was a delicate thing. After six feet, he had to jump. Gravity gave you a moment more at the apex of your bounce than you would get at the Earth-normal pull or on a bolsa spinning at Earth-normal centrifugal. But on Triton, in that instant of stillness, you had to do your work. Sure, there was a learned craft in estimating imaginary plumb lines, in knowing the consistency of the material, and in finding tiny declivities that would provide the right amount of friction. It was amazing how small a lump could fit in how minuscule a bowl, and a rock would balance upon another as if glued. Yet, there was a point where the craft of it—about as odd and useless a craft as humankind had invented, he supposed—gave way to the feel, the art. A point where Andre
knew
the rocks would balance, where he could see the possibility of their being one. Or their Being. And when he made it so, that was
why
. That was as good as rock balancing got.

“Can you get them as high in the Carbuncle?”

“No,” Andre said. “This is the heaviest place I’ve ever been. But it really doesn’t matter about the height. This isn’t a contest, what I do.”

“Is there a point to it at all?”

“To what? To getting them high? The higher you get the rocks, the longer you can spend doing the balancing.”

“To the balancing, I mean.”

“Yes. There is a point.”

“What is it?”

“I couldn’t tell you, Ben.”

Andre turned from his work. The rocks did not fall. They stayed balanced behind him in a column, with only small edges connecting. It seemed impossible that this could be. It was science, sufficiently advanced.

The two men hugged. Drew away. Andre laughed.

“Did you think I would look like a big glob of protoplasm?” TB said.

“I was picturing flashing eyes and floating hair, actually.”

“It’s me.”

“Are you Ben?”

“Ben is the stitch in my side that won’t go away.”

“Are you Thaddeus?”

“Thaddeus is the sack of rusty pennies in my knee.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat.”

They went to Andre’s priest’s quarters. He put some water in a coffee percolator and spooned some coffee grounds into the basket.

“When did you start drinking coffee?”

“I suddenly got really tired of drinking tea all the time. You still drink coffee?”

“Sure. But it’s damn hard to get around here with or without keys.”

“Keys? Somebody
stole
my keys to this place. I left them sitting on this table, and they walked in and took them.”

“They won’t be back,” TB said. “They got what they were after.” There were no chairs in the room, so he leaned against a wall.

“Floor’s clean,” Andre said.

“I’m fine leaning.”

Andre reached into a burlap sack and dug around inside it. “I found something here,” he said. He pulled out a handful of what looked like weeds. “Recognize these?”

“I was wondering where I put those. I’ve been missing them for weeks.”

“It’s poke sallit,” Andre said. He filled a pot full of water from a clay jug and activated a hot spot on the room’s plain wooden table. He put the weeds into the water. “You have no idea how good this is.”

“Andre, that stuff grows all around the Carbuncle. Everybody knows that it’s poison. They call it skunk sumac.”

“It is,” Andre said.
“Phytolacca americana.”

“Are we going to eat poison?”

“You bring it to a boil then pour the water off. Then you bring it to a boil again and pour the water off. Then you boil it again and serve it up with pepper sauce. The trick to not dying is picking it while it’s young.”

“How the hell did you discover that?”

“My convert likes to do that kind of research.”

After a while, the water boiled. Andre used the tails of his shirt as a pot holder. He took the pot outside, emptied it, then brought it back in and set it to boiling again with new water.

“I saw Molly,” Andre said.