prairies, scattering snow across the entrances to the old, narrow tunnels…people moving across the white in reflective camo suits that chilled their exteriors to outside temperatures so as to fool infrared detectors, walking hunched over and carrying weapons, their faces masked against gas and bacteria…a storm rising far away on the flat horizon, conjuring a wall of white, advancing like a cloud. The whirlwind that Sheol had summoned, that Steward had become.
Steward took a breath and wondered if he could summon the wind here, ride it outside the gravity well to the source of himself, to the origin of the voice he’d heard on the blurred video, the grating phantom voice that was his own, his Alpha. Who had gone through his own process of becoming, of finding the heart of himself on the skin of the frozen prairies and in the cold tunnels that led into Sheol’s secret womb, in these places and in the howling Coriolis madness that had become his mind.
CHAPTER SIX
It was dark in the hotel room save for a soundless rain of color from the vid. Steward lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hair and body still damp from the shower. A wisp of smoke from his Xanadu twisted into his field of vision, gaining tint, faint green and faint flesh, from the wall video. Steward was coming down now, feeling the adrenaline draining from him, pouring away like rain down a gutter.
The telephone receiver adhered warmly to his mastoid, plastered over his short wet hair. The receiver signal went straight to the audio centers of his brain, bypassing the imperfect human ear. Griffith’s voice echoed in his head in perfect audio clarity. “Jesus, man. Spassky did that?”
“I fucked somebody up bad, Griffith. That monowire might have taken his head right off.”
“Jesus.” Steward heard, very loud in his skull, Griffith’s hacking smoker’s cough. He winced. The cough went on and on. Then Steward heard the hiss of Griffith’s inhaler. When the man’s voice returned, his tone had changed. It was faster. Hyped. Angry.
“That fucking fastbuck punk. I’ve still got friends. He’ll regret the fucking day.”
“It seems to me you don’t quite know who your friends are,” Steward said. Tinted smoke curled in his vision. “It seemed to me that Spassky had perfect confidence in his ability to take me off and retain your friendship. If your friendship meant anything to him.”
There was a moment of silence. “Look. You’re okay, right?”
“No damage.” The Xanadu marijuana tendrils were creeping through his muscles, replacing the fading adrenaline, turning the ebbing high into a buzz of another kind.
“And you’ve still got the Thunder.”
“I put it in a deposit box before I went to the meet. I didn’t like the neighborhood.”
“Look. Don’t even bother to get the stuff. It’ll be safe where it is.”
“That suits me.”
“I’ll give you your fee. Then you give me the key, and I’ll have someone else pick it up.”
“Sure,” Steward said. “Let’s just do it in a public place, okay?”
“Shit, buck. Whatever you say. I’m sorry this thing happened.”
The Xanadu was relaxing the muscles in the back of Steward’s neck. He pushed his head back into his pillow, making an arch of his neck. Vertebrae crackled, the sound more intimate even than Griffith’s hoarse voice. He relaxed, felt his body awareness dissolving, sleep creeping closer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Steward said.
“Yeah. Listen. I had no idea that little punk was gonna—”
“Tomorrow,” Steward said. His hand went to the phone and broke the connection, then reached for the receiver on his mastoid. The adhesive tried to take some of his hair along with it, and he peeled it away carefully.
He took the Xanadu from his mouth and dropped it into the hotel ashtray. Video colors prowled along the ceiling.
Steward shut his eyes. Lights moved on the roof of his closed lids, video of his own devising. He willed the lights to
Steward took a breath and wondered if he could summon the wind here, ride it outside the gravity well to the source of himself, to the origin of the voice he’d heard on the blurred video, the grating phantom voice that was his own, his Alpha. Who had gone through his own process of becoming, of finding the heart of himself on the skin of the frozen prairies and in the cold tunnels that led into Sheol’s secret womb, in these places and in the howling Coriolis madness that had become his mind.
CHAPTER SIX
It was dark in the hotel room save for a soundless rain of color from the vid. Steward lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his hair and body still damp from the shower. A wisp of smoke from his Xanadu twisted into his field of vision, gaining tint, faint green and faint flesh, from the wall video. Steward was coming down now, feeling the adrenaline draining from him, pouring away like rain down a gutter.
The telephone receiver adhered warmly to his mastoid, plastered over his short wet hair. The receiver signal went straight to the audio centers of his brain, bypassing the imperfect human ear. Griffith’s voice echoed in his head in perfect audio clarity. “Jesus, man. Spassky did that?”
“I fucked somebody up bad, Griffith. That monowire might have taken his head right off.”
“Jesus.” Steward heard, very loud in his skull, Griffith’s hacking smoker’s cough. He winced. The cough went on and on. Then Steward heard the hiss of Griffith’s inhaler. When the man’s voice returned, his tone had changed. It was faster. Hyped. Angry.
“That fucking fastbuck punk. I’ve still got friends. He’ll regret the fucking day.”
“It seems to me you don’t quite know who your friends are,” Steward said. Tinted smoke curled in his vision. “It seemed to me that Spassky had perfect confidence in his ability to take me off and retain your friendship. If your friendship meant anything to him.”
There was a moment of silence. “Look. You’re okay, right?”
“No damage.” The Xanadu marijuana tendrils were creeping through his muscles, replacing the fading adrenaline, turning the ebbing high into a buzz of another kind.
“And you’ve still got the Thunder.”
“I put it in a deposit box before I went to the meet. I didn’t like the neighborhood.”
“Look. Don’t even bother to get the stuff. It’ll be safe where it is.”
“That suits me.”
“I’ll give you your fee. Then you give me the key, and I’ll have someone else pick it up.”
“Sure,” Steward said. “Let’s just do it in a public place, okay?”
“Shit, buck. Whatever you say. I’m sorry this thing happened.”
The Xanadu was relaxing the muscles in the back of Steward’s neck. He pushed his head back into his pillow, making an arch of his neck. Vertebrae crackled, the sound more intimate even than Griffith’s hoarse voice. He relaxed, felt his body awareness dissolving, sleep creeping closer.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Steward said.
“Yeah. Listen. I had no idea that little punk was gonna—”
“Tomorrow,” Steward said. His hand went to the phone and broke the connection, then reached for the receiver on his mastoid. The adhesive tried to take some of his hair along with it, and he peeled it away carefully.
He took the Xanadu from his mouth and dropped it into the hotel ashtray. Video colors prowled along the ceiling.
Steward shut his eyes. Lights moved on the roof of his closed lids, video of his own devising. He willed the lights to
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