Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Each star, its own tiny diamond.

Earlier, Reed shoving pulse rifles into the dufflbag. Carelessly, if you ask me. Nobody did.

Each star, its own tiny lantern. A pinprick against the night.

Reed drives us south. Drove us south. We've been on foot for hours. He'd said it himself, "There's no freeing Ypres Contagion when he enters that cage." So we headed south. City behind us, smaller and smaller, diminution a thing I never thought it capable of.

Basslines. Reed shoves basslines in the dufflebag. Carelessly, ruthlessly. All muscle memory.

Pressbox Zero heard what I'd say. Pressbox Zero for what I heard. I rub my eyes and thump my head. That never happened. Dust grits itself onto my front teeth and settles onto my tongue.

The light's so yellow around here. The air violently lashed with dust. Only at night looking up is anything close to unbroken. Stars, and the satellites, stations, and orbital billboards masquerading as stars of their own.

The horizon shimmers, an undulating wave. "Fata Morgana" I heard Reed Jr. call it. Like way ahead of us, all the earth was swimming, treating the air as if it were water.

I carry a gun of my own. Which sucks. Its heat griddling my ass cheek. Pointless, probably, its heat sink unlikely to dissipate in the hot air. Lucky to get off more than a couple shots. Better off ditching it and going close quarters with the shock prod. But Reed calls things, so hardware strapped we remain.

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