Rewired_ The Post-Cyberpunk Anthology - James Patrick Kelly [173]
“Come on, car,” Jenny coaxed. “He must be at home by now. Let’s just try your house, okay?”
The car beeped and executed a precise three-point turn. As they turned off Commerce and climbed the viaduct that arced above the Farmer’s Market, Jenny caught a hint of motion in the darkening sky. “THP bicycles, for sure,” she said. “Tracking your bug friend.”
At the highest point on the bridge, Jenny leaned out and looked down into the controlled riot of the market. Several stalls were doing brisk business, and when Jenny saw why, she asked the car to stop, then let out a whistle.
“Oi! Monkey!” she shouted. “Some beets up here!”
Jenny loved beets.
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“It’s funny that I don’t know what it means, though, don’t you think, friends?” Soma was saying this for perhaps the fifth time since they began their walk. “Church Street. Church. Have you ever heard that word anywhere else?”
“No,” said the blue-eyed boy.
The Kentuckians were less and less talkative the farther the little group advanced west down Church Street. It was a long, broad avenue, but rated for pedestrians and emergency vehicles only. Less a street, really, than a linear park, for there were neither businesses nor apartments on either side, just low, gray government buildings, slate-colored in the sunset.
The sunset. That was why the boulevard was crowded, as it was every night. As the sun dropped down, down, down it dropped behind the Parthenon. At the very instant the disc disappeared behind the sand-colored edifice, the Great Salt Lick self-illuminated and the flat acres of white surrounding the Parthenon shone with a vast, icy light.
The Lick itself was rich with the minerals that fueled the Legislators and Bears, but the white light emanating from it was sterile. Soma noticed that the Crows’ faces grew paler and paler as they all got closer to its source. His work was fascinating, and grew more so as more and more disciplines began finding ways to integrate their fields of study into a meta-architecture of science. His department chair coauthored a paper with an expert in animal husbandry, of all things.
The Owl held Soma’s head as the painter vomited up the last of whatever was in his stomach. Japheth and the others were making reassuring noises to passersby. “Too much monkey wine!” they said, and, “We’re in from the provinces, he’s not used to such rich food!” and, “He’s overcome by the sight of the Parthenon!”
Japheth leaned over next to the Owl. “Why’s it hitting him so much harder than the others?”
The Owl said, “Well, we’ve always taken them back north of the border. This poor fool we’re dragging ever closer to the glory of his owner. I couldn’t even guess what’s trying to fill up the empty spaces I left in him — but I’m pretty sure whatever’s rushing in isn’t all from her.”
Japheth cocked an eyebrow at his lieutenant. “I think that’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say all together at once.”
The Owl smiled, another first, if that sad little half grin counted as a smile. “Not a lot of time left for talking. Get up now, friend painter.”
The Owl and Japheth pulled Soma to his feet. “What did you mean,” Soma asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “‘the glory of his owner’?”
“Governor,” said Japheth. “He said, ‘the glory of his Governor,’” and Japheth swept his arm across, and yes, there it was, the glory of the Governor.
Church Street had a slight downward grade in its last few hundred yards. From where they stood, they could see that the street ended at the spectacularly defined border of the Great Salt Lick, which served as