weaving of the loom to spin and weave instead in frenzied dance, caught in the frantic and frenetic, schizophrenic trance of Harlequin.”
And I whirl off the stage, to leave an emptiness, a pause, a smattering of confused applause.
THE UNDYING FLAME
Joey lets the silence hold for a few seconds.
“So you have a problem,” he says eventually, walking to the window.
“Jack Flash,” says the Minister. “We need him … laid to rest.
” Through the dim reflection in the glass, Joey tries to pick out shapes he recognizes out past the perimeter wall—concrete, tall and buttressed—arcing around the brow of the hill on which the Circus sits. Just past the wall, and lit up now and then by its swinging searchlights, a pedestaled statue of some general on horseback stands at the edge of where the park slopes down into darkness, looking out like a lone sentinel across the park to the old tower that dominates the Rookery's silhouetted skyline. To the north, the tenemented streets of merchants are lit by halogen streetlights. To the south, by the river and near the monolithic, hulking husk of the old granary, the bombed-out wreck of the old Imperial Chi Industries works lies sunken among the skeleton cranes and warehouse shells of the airshipyards and docklands, concrete ruins on the skyline still burning, belching out blue-green orgone smoke from broken chimneys, like some dragon necropolis. Twenty years ago it was the largest orgone manufactory in all of Albion, before it was pounded into rubble; it still smolders, might do so forever, the undying flame of a failed rebellion. The undying legend.
“We believe you're the person for the job, Agent Pechorin.”
Joey gathers his long dark hair behind his head into a ponytail, slides an elastic tie over it. In the glass, his own pale face stares back at him, the Minister just a faint shape over his right shoulder.
Jack Flash, he thinks. It's a name that holds a lot of history to Joey. The spark of a Zippo, the glow of its flame in eyes wide and black with chemical zeal. Punk hair the color of the Molotov in his hand. Midnight raves in the subway system, decks and amps pounding, FAST PUCK tagged on every train in the depot, Joey's hold-all stuffed with drugs, then money and drugs, and then just money. Militiaraids and mobs in riot, petrol bombs splattering flame on dank brickwork behind them as they splash through tunnels. Wild nights in Rookery clubs.
You've got to meet these guys
, says Jack.
Here. Fast Puck. Guy Fox. This is my main man, Joey. Joey Narcosis.
Then cons and hustles, deals and heists. They made a good team, Guy and Puck, Jack and Joey, every job done with the Thieves Guild seal of quality. Bigger and bigger scores, jackings of airtrains, whole wireliners. But it had to get political, had to turn into a revolution, and Joey, always on backup and contingency, the Flawfinder General watching their asses for reality's bite, Joey saw the end of it right from the start. A cigarette flicked down in disgust as he walks out of a room, shaking his head, rebel against rebellion itself. They were a good team. But every team has to have its traitor.
“Jack Flash is dead,” he says. “He's just a memory, a symbol.”
“The people have enough
symbols
without this Jack Flash,” says the Minister. “This city has always been a troublesome place. We don't want another King Finn.”
Joey studies the gray-suited shade in the reflection, as the man straightens his armband nervously—the circle of white on red, the black swastika, corporate logo of Albion PLC. The Minister drones on about the stability of the realm, the danger of another Shabti Uprising out in the fields beyond the city, heroic myth patterns and memetic threats, Futurist plots. Joey's eyes drift from the shade of the man to the bars that crisscross the window, black with paint peeling here and there to rust beneath. Stability has never been his big concern. He wonders how many of these new-generation
And I whirl off the stage, to leave an emptiness, a pause, a smattering of confused applause.
THE UNDYING FLAME
Joey lets the silence hold for a few seconds.
“So you have a problem,” he says eventually, walking to the window.
“Jack Flash,” says the Minister. “We need him … laid to rest.
” Through the dim reflection in the glass, Joey tries to pick out shapes he recognizes out past the perimeter wall—concrete, tall and buttressed—arcing around the brow of the hill on which the Circus sits. Just past the wall, and lit up now and then by its swinging searchlights, a pedestaled statue of some general on horseback stands at the edge of where the park slopes down into darkness, looking out like a lone sentinel across the park to the old tower that dominates the Rookery's silhouetted skyline. To the north, the tenemented streets of merchants are lit by halogen streetlights. To the south, by the river and near the monolithic, hulking husk of the old granary, the bombed-out wreck of the old Imperial Chi Industries works lies sunken among the skeleton cranes and warehouse shells of the airshipyards and docklands, concrete ruins on the skyline still burning, belching out blue-green orgone smoke from broken chimneys, like some dragon necropolis. Twenty years ago it was the largest orgone manufactory in all of Albion, before it was pounded into rubble; it still smolders, might do so forever, the undying flame of a failed rebellion. The undying legend.
“We believe you're the person for the job, Agent Pechorin.”
Joey gathers his long dark hair behind his head into a ponytail, slides an elastic tie over it. In the glass, his own pale face stares back at him, the Minister just a faint shape over his right shoulder.
Jack Flash, he thinks. It's a name that holds a lot of history to Joey. The spark of a Zippo, the glow of its flame in eyes wide and black with chemical zeal. Punk hair the color of the Molotov in his hand. Midnight raves in the subway system, decks and amps pounding, FAST PUCK tagged on every train in the depot, Joey's hold-all stuffed with drugs, then money and drugs, and then just money. Militiaraids and mobs in riot, petrol bombs splattering flame on dank brickwork behind them as they splash through tunnels. Wild nights in Rookery clubs.
You've got to meet these guys
, says Jack.
Here. Fast Puck. Guy Fox. This is my main man, Joey. Joey Narcosis.
Then cons and hustles, deals and heists. They made a good team, Guy and Puck, Jack and Joey, every job done with the Thieves Guild seal of quality. Bigger and bigger scores, jackings of airtrains, whole wireliners. But it had to get political, had to turn into a revolution, and Joey, always on backup and contingency, the Flawfinder General watching their asses for reality's bite, Joey saw the end of it right from the start. A cigarette flicked down in disgust as he walks out of a room, shaking his head, rebel against rebellion itself. They were a good team. But every team has to have its traitor.
“Jack Flash is dead,” he says. “He's just a memory, a symbol.”
“The people have enough
symbols
without this Jack Flash,” says the Minister. “This city has always been a troublesome place. We don't want another King Finn.”
Joey studies the gray-suited shade in the reflection, as the man straightens his armband nervously—the circle of white on red, the black swastika, corporate logo of Albion PLC. The Minister drones on about the stability of the realm, the danger of another Shabti Uprising out in the fields beyond the city, heroic myth patterns and memetic threats, Futurist plots. Joey's eyes drift from the shade of the man to the bars that crisscross the window, black with paint peeling here and there to rust beneath. Stability has never been his big concern. He wonders how many of these new-generation
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