Life on the Preservation, US Edition by Jack Skillingstead Page B
Authors: Jack Skillingstead
Tags: Science-Fiction
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seemed distracted, but you must remember. Hold on a minute, I have to switch lanes.”
“You’re driving?”
“Yes, just hitting the Aurora Bridge.”
Ian could hear the car, Vanessa’s radio turned to a jazz station, KPLU probably. A low surge of static occurred on the phone connection, so brief he almost didn’t notice it. Ian flashed on the time he and Zach crossed the bridge in the VW, panic-accelerating to get away from the city, how right before they reached the far side the car had begun to shudder. The end of the bridge must be at the outer boundary of the bubble. And Vanessa had just crossed it.
“Okay, Icky, go ahead.”
Ian turned the phone off. It wasn’t her anymore.
DRIFTER
B ENEATH THE CITY the Curator reverted to his deep space soma and oozed through a complex network of tunnels. Bioelectrical impulses shimmered over his body. He projected outward to the Cloud, but encountered only void. He tried again, increasing his intention, straining.
And failed.
The Preservation appeared to function as others had. His Lensing ability was intact. He could effect whatever changes in the city he desired, he could manufacture Shadow camouflage in which to hide from the Hunters. But he was no longer himself, a light in the Cloudmind. He felt more akin to Charles Noble than he did to either his old star-dwelling soma or the Cloud.
The Curator expelled himself into Elliott Bay to drift in the salty cold water and contemplate the situation. Jellyfish floated around like immature versions of himself.
He regarded them. Natural evolution suggested greater complexity, not simplification toward a rudimentary state. Had he naturally evolved into this expression, this perfect body for extended life in deep space, prior to his final transphysical evolution and joining with the Cloud? Or had he been made this way deliberately?
What was he before?
It had never occurred to him to ask such a question of himself. Perhaps because he had never before been so abandoned.
But having asked it, he must answer it: No. The Cloud had discovered his race, recognized the evolutionary potential, and so began the long... adjustments. Just as the Cloud had begun the long adjustments on the human race.
Before the Hunters intervened.
CHAPTER TEN
OAKDALE, WA., 2013
T HEY CAME IN the night while Billy was sleeping in the basement.
Kylie sat upstairs with her mother. The house dated from the 1950s. In a time before Kylie’s memories jelled, her father had put a lot of effort into eradicating the 50s feel. He had torn out the funky stone fireplace, for instance, and replaced it with marble facing and a heat-efficient glass front. He took down all the old light fixtures and installed modern, if cheap, replacements from Home Depot. All that was before the marriage disintegrated. It wasn’t so easy to renovate a wife, Kylie supposed. Maggie kept the house spotless, even now. Every week she laboriously vacuumed the wall-to-wall carpeting, using a non-electric carpet sweeper. She was getting sicker, though; she wouldn’t be able to keep that up.
Maggie was showing Kylie the album of old photographs. The room pulsed with the light of homemade candles.
“See,” Maggie said, tapping a picture with her finger. “Your grandparents.”
“Uh huh.”
Kylie had seen the pictures many times. This one showed a sixty-something couple standing in front of a yellow frame house. The man was wearing a bulky white sweater, the woman’s sweater was red cable knit. They looked happy. There was a pattern of sunlight and shade on the side of the house. Flame colored leaves lay scattered over the lawn.
“That’s their house,” Maggie said. Maggie was only forty-five but looked old, her hair gray and stringy, pouches under her eyes and the eyes seeping with the telltale discharge; she was sick and getting sicker. The people in the picture looked younger, more alive.
“I know,” Kylie said.
“In Seattle,” Maggie
“You’re driving?”
“Yes, just hitting the Aurora Bridge.”
Ian could hear the car, Vanessa’s radio turned to a jazz station, KPLU probably. A low surge of static occurred on the phone connection, so brief he almost didn’t notice it. Ian flashed on the time he and Zach crossed the bridge in the VW, panic-accelerating to get away from the city, how right before they reached the far side the car had begun to shudder. The end of the bridge must be at the outer boundary of the bubble. And Vanessa had just crossed it.
“Okay, Icky, go ahead.”
Ian turned the phone off. It wasn’t her anymore.
DRIFTER
B ENEATH THE CITY the Curator reverted to his deep space soma and oozed through a complex network of tunnels. Bioelectrical impulses shimmered over his body. He projected outward to the Cloud, but encountered only void. He tried again, increasing his intention, straining.
And failed.
The Preservation appeared to function as others had. His Lensing ability was intact. He could effect whatever changes in the city he desired, he could manufacture Shadow camouflage in which to hide from the Hunters. But he was no longer himself, a light in the Cloudmind. He felt more akin to Charles Noble than he did to either his old star-dwelling soma or the Cloud.
The Curator expelled himself into Elliott Bay to drift in the salty cold water and contemplate the situation. Jellyfish floated around like immature versions of himself.
He regarded them. Natural evolution suggested greater complexity, not simplification toward a rudimentary state. Had he naturally evolved into this expression, this perfect body for extended life in deep space, prior to his final transphysical evolution and joining with the Cloud? Or had he been made this way deliberately?
What was he before?
It had never occurred to him to ask such a question of himself. Perhaps because he had never before been so abandoned.
But having asked it, he must answer it: No. The Cloud had discovered his race, recognized the evolutionary potential, and so began the long... adjustments. Just as the Cloud had begun the long adjustments on the human race.
Before the Hunters intervened.
CHAPTER TEN
OAKDALE, WA., 2013
T HEY CAME IN the night while Billy was sleeping in the basement.
Kylie sat upstairs with her mother. The house dated from the 1950s. In a time before Kylie’s memories jelled, her father had put a lot of effort into eradicating the 50s feel. He had torn out the funky stone fireplace, for instance, and replaced it with marble facing and a heat-efficient glass front. He took down all the old light fixtures and installed modern, if cheap, replacements from Home Depot. All that was before the marriage disintegrated. It wasn’t so easy to renovate a wife, Kylie supposed. Maggie kept the house spotless, even now. Every week she laboriously vacuumed the wall-to-wall carpeting, using a non-electric carpet sweeper. She was getting sicker, though; she wouldn’t be able to keep that up.
Maggie was showing Kylie the album of old photographs. The room pulsed with the light of homemade candles.
“See,” Maggie said, tapping a picture with her finger. “Your grandparents.”
“Uh huh.”
Kylie had seen the pictures many times. This one showed a sixty-something couple standing in front of a yellow frame house. The man was wearing a bulky white sweater, the woman’s sweater was red cable knit. They looked happy. There was a pattern of sunlight and shade on the side of the house. Flame colored leaves lay scattered over the lawn.
“That’s their house,” Maggie said. Maggie was only forty-five but looked old, her hair gray and stringy, pouches under her eyes and the eyes seeping with the telltale discharge; she was sick and getting sicker. The people in the picture looked younger, more alive.
“I know,” Kylie said.
“In Seattle,” Maggie
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