The Caryatids - Bruce Sterling [47]
“You’ve never looked prettier,” Radmila lied, and then the earthquake shock hit the building. The antique couch below them bounded straight into the air.
The entire studio audience went visibly airborne, their arms spontaneously flopping over their heads like victims in a broken elevator.
The museum floor dipped from rim to rim like a juggler’s airborne plate. It rose up swiftly under the audience.
The floor gently caught them as they fell.
The silence was cut by startled screams.
Radmila scrambled across the couch and groped for Toddy. The old woman had swooned away, her mouth open, eyes blank. There seemed to be no flesh within her massive, glittering costume. Toddy was a pretty, beaded bag of bones.
A second shock hit the museum. This shock was much bigger than the first, an endless, churning, awesome, geological catastrophe. The museum reacted with a roller coaster’s oily grace and speed, ducking and banking. They were suspended in limbo, an epoch of reeling and twisting, rubbery groans and shrieks for mercy.
Radmila found herself audibly counting the seconds.
The earthquake rushed past them, in its blind, dumb, obliterative fashion.
The sirens ceased to wail. People were gasping and shrieking. Radmila twisted in her stubborn costume to look at Toddy. Toddy was unconscious. Toddy Montgomery had a very famous face, an epic, iconic face, and that face had never looked so bad.
Radmila clambered to her feet. The panicked audience was struggling in semidarkness, while she had the stage lights. The audience badly needed her now, and a star on stage could outshout anybody.
Radmila tore the dented hat from her face. “Did you see what this building just did for us? That was completely amazing!”
Radmila dropped the hat and clapped her hands. The stunned audience caught on. They heartily applauded their own survival.
“The architect’s name is Frank Osbourne,” Radmila told them. “He lives and he works in Los Angeles!”
Those who could stand rose to applaud.
The museum floor beneath their feet was miraculously stable now. Their building was as firm as granite, as if earthquakes were some kind of myth.
Toddy was entirely still.
The sirens began again, different noises: fire alarms. The fire warnings had a gentler, less agitated sound design. Los Angeles fires were much commoner than earthquakes.
With tender respect, members of the audience began setting the prized furniture straight. They sat with conspicuous dignity, and simply gazed up at Radmila. They still wanted to be entertained.
A black-clad shadow vaulted from backstage, did a showy, spectacular front flip.
Lionel had made an entrance.
Lionel had thoughtfully brought her some scripting. The two of them hastily conferred. Lionel leaned his black-wrapped head against hers to whisper. “Grandma’s had a power failure.”
“I know that.”
“I’ll get her offstage, you manage this crowd.”
Radmila commanded the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, all the elevators in this structure are working beautifully. So we will have you out of here very quickly. Your limos are coming. We’ll evacuate anyone who is injured. So people, please look to your neighbors now, send out reports, send a prompt … The city’s comprehensive relief effort is already under way …”
The museum’s lights flickered nastily. They came on again, raggedly, and in a dimmer, amber, emergency glow.
The sound system died on stage. Radmila’s software failed, and the full weight of her costume fell on her, across her shoulders, back, thighs. It was like being wrapped in dead meat.
“Help me carry Grandma,” said Lionel, tugging at the inert mass.
Slowly, Radmila fell to her knees. “Oh no. I can’t move.” Radmila was able to turn, to look into Toddy’s face. The old woman’s eyes were two rims of white. Her lips were blue. She wasn’t breathing.
“My God, she died! Toddy is dead!”
“Well, she’s not gonna stay dead,” said Lionel. “She’s a Montgomery.”
QUAKE REPORTS WERE POURING IN from the urban sensor-web, popping out of the background noise as their relevance gained weight.
Things were grim in the aging