states, ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’ I.e., for most people, technology might as well be magic, since they understand it so poorly.”
Drake nodded approvingly. “So it would seem, and it was much the same way in my day for those not among the privileged. I cannot say I am comfortable knowing that little about the technology I use, but adequately covering more than a hundred years of technological advances to bridge the gap of knowledge has proved difficult.”
Ree shifted her weight, taking in the sight of Drake Winters and his aggressive oddity. “I bet.”
“No wager necessary,” Drake said. “But I’m afraid I’ve waylaid you long enough. I shall take my leave and allow you to resume your mission.”
Drake gave a graceful bow and reached down to kiss her hand. Instead of making contact, he merely brought his lips to within an inch of her hand. She felt the warmth of his breath and ignored the small shiver that went down her back, blaming that, too, on William Goldman. Then the walking anachronism rose, spun on the balls of his feet, and walked away.
“Huh.” Ree considered the oddity for a moment, then went back to browsing. She had just found a well-loved copy of Underground when Eastwood emerged from the back room, a burlap sack thrown over one shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked.
Ree walked with Eastwood back toward the bar section. “I could spend a week in here.”
Eastwood huffed. “I’ve done that. Wasn’t very fun. But that was more due to the Yu-Gi-Oh! zombies.”
“Metaphorical or literal zombies?”
Grognard joined in from behind the bar, where he had returned to the Most Archetypal Bartender Thing Ever: cleaning glasses. “That time it was literal,” the big man said. “I stopped carrying that crack afterward. The profit wasn’t worth dealing with the junkies.”
“Does every part of the geekverse have a weirdo supernatural aspect?” Ree asked.
Eastwood nodded several times. “Just about. The trick is learning which what goes where and does what.”
“That was some Tennant-level vaguebabble.”
“Thanks, I’ve been practicing.” Eastwood swung the bag out for her. She caught it with a huff. It was somewhere between really heavy and really f—ing heavy. “And on that thought, allons-y !” Somehow he’d acquired a crook-handled umbrella, which he used to gesture as a cane.
“I’m mad, you’re mad, we’re all mad here . . .” Ree voiced to herself as she swung the bag over her shoulder and followed Eastwood out the door and back down into the sewer.
Chapter Seven
Mad Shopper What Shops at Midnight
The sewers had spectacularly failed at getting less drab and gross during their visit to Grognard’s, but after a couple of miles of walking, Ree decided to study the various types of grates, concretes, and doors. Who knew when a taxonomy of sewers would come in handy.
“What exactly is this place we’re going?” Ree asked.
“It’s the Midnight Market. Think of something between a town council meeting and a monthly convention.”
“Well, that’s not the least bit confusing.”
“You can say that again.” Ree was about to reply when Eastwood cut her off. “But please don’t. The Market’s the best place to acquire oddities, and we all check in to resolve issues, make plans, and, usually, get drunk and tell stories about the old times.”
“It sounds like I’ll have a blast.”
“You’ll get plenty of attention.” Eastwood led them down another stairwell. Ree was surprised that there was more down to be had, since they were already in the sewers. But given the week she’d had, it was barely worth a twitch on her WTF-o-meter.
On this level, even Ree had to squat to avoid the low ceiling. Eastwood and her steps synced up, making moaning chords in aged wood over concrete. “That’s the problem. I get hit on or ogled enough at work,” she said.
Eastwood chuckled as he reached the bottom of the
Drake nodded approvingly. “So it would seem, and it was much the same way in my day for those not among the privileged. I cannot say I am comfortable knowing that little about the technology I use, but adequately covering more than a hundred years of technological advances to bridge the gap of knowledge has proved difficult.”
Ree shifted her weight, taking in the sight of Drake Winters and his aggressive oddity. “I bet.”
“No wager necessary,” Drake said. “But I’m afraid I’ve waylaid you long enough. I shall take my leave and allow you to resume your mission.”
Drake gave a graceful bow and reached down to kiss her hand. Instead of making contact, he merely brought his lips to within an inch of her hand. She felt the warmth of his breath and ignored the small shiver that went down her back, blaming that, too, on William Goldman. Then the walking anachronism rose, spun on the balls of his feet, and walked away.
“Huh.” Ree considered the oddity for a moment, then went back to browsing. She had just found a well-loved copy of Underground when Eastwood emerged from the back room, a burlap sack thrown over one shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked.
Ree walked with Eastwood back toward the bar section. “I could spend a week in here.”
Eastwood huffed. “I’ve done that. Wasn’t very fun. But that was more due to the Yu-Gi-Oh! zombies.”
“Metaphorical or literal zombies?”
Grognard joined in from behind the bar, where he had returned to the Most Archetypal Bartender Thing Ever: cleaning glasses. “That time it was literal,” the big man said. “I stopped carrying that crack afterward. The profit wasn’t worth dealing with the junkies.”
“Does every part of the geekverse have a weirdo supernatural aspect?” Ree asked.
Eastwood nodded several times. “Just about. The trick is learning which what goes where and does what.”
“That was some Tennant-level vaguebabble.”
“Thanks, I’ve been practicing.” Eastwood swung the bag out for her. She caught it with a huff. It was somewhere between really heavy and really f—ing heavy. “And on that thought, allons-y !” Somehow he’d acquired a crook-handled umbrella, which he used to gesture as a cane.
“I’m mad, you’re mad, we’re all mad here . . .” Ree voiced to herself as she swung the bag over her shoulder and followed Eastwood out the door and back down into the sewer.
Chapter Seven
Mad Shopper What Shops at Midnight
The sewers had spectacularly failed at getting less drab and gross during their visit to Grognard’s, but after a couple of miles of walking, Ree decided to study the various types of grates, concretes, and doors. Who knew when a taxonomy of sewers would come in handy.
“What exactly is this place we’re going?” Ree asked.
“It’s the Midnight Market. Think of something between a town council meeting and a monthly convention.”
“Well, that’s not the least bit confusing.”
“You can say that again.” Ree was about to reply when Eastwood cut her off. “But please don’t. The Market’s the best place to acquire oddities, and we all check in to resolve issues, make plans, and, usually, get drunk and tell stories about the old times.”
“It sounds like I’ll have a blast.”
“You’ll get plenty of attention.” Eastwood led them down another stairwell. Ree was surprised that there was more down to be had, since they were already in the sewers. But given the week she’d had, it was barely worth a twitch on her WTF-o-meter.
On this level, even Ree had to squat to avoid the low ceiling. Eastwood and her steps synced up, making moaning chords in aged wood over concrete. “That’s the problem. I get hit on or ogled enough at work,” she said.
Eastwood chuckled as he reached the bottom of the
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