The Zenith Angle - Bruce Sterling [10]
But that would burst the limits of the world. It meant total loss of control.
The Dot-Commie cleared his throat politely. “Tom, did you say this thing is ‘made out of lights’? I only ask because, well, there are often good explanations for unusual visual phenomena.”
“You can’t see it at all? Look, it’s wheeling around! It’s coming back right at us!”
“No, Tom, I don’t see it. I do see that it’s getting a little hazier up there, as you said. So maybe it’s just car headlights, Tom. It’s reflections off low clouds.”
“Kid, that thing is flying. I see a flying object!”
“Car headlights can fly. Their lights move up and down on hillsides. Wait, Tom! I’ve got it! It’s those giant windmills.”
“What?”
“It’s flickering, right? They’re setting up megawatt windmills down in the valley now. Those windmills are huge. Light could flicker off their giant blades.”
“Are you crazy? It’s a flying saucer! I can see it.”
“Okay,” the Dot-Commie said calmly. “Okay, I guess you’re right. So then, it’s got to be an artifact.”
“An alien artifact?”
“No, an artifact of your perceptions.”
“You’re telling me that I’m a lunatic.”
“No, Tom. I’m telling you that you’re shaking like a leaf, and you’re saying things that make no sense to me, and I can’t see any reason why you should do that. And that’s got me very, very concerned. This UFO you’re witnessing, is it still up there?”
Of course the UFO was still up there. It wasn’t there like a piece of aircraft metal—it was there like a terrifying bloody haze, occult, supernatural. “Yeah. It’s still there. It’s hovering. I think it’s watching us.”
“Tom, I never thought I would have to use this with you. But I learned this in the chill-out tent at Burning Man. Tell that thing to move, Tom. Give it an order, out loud. Speak right to it. Because if it’s all in your head, then it’ll do whatever you say.”
“That proves I’m crazy.”
“You’re the boss, Tom. Tell that thing where to get off.”
DeFanti craned his neck and stared. He was encountering a UFO. He didn’t have many choices. “Move left!”
In all its uncanny majesty, the intruder slowly did as he said. It crawled across the zenith like a jellyfish.
“Move north!” DeFanti screamed.
The disc flickered in and out across a screen of distant stars.
DeFanti broke into sobs. The Dot-Commie put both his hands on the trembling rawhide fringes of DeFanti’s shoulders. “Tom, let’s go inside now, all right? It’s just no good out here.”
DeFanti’s teeth were chattering. Cold tears ran down his face. “Help me.”
“We’ve got to talk about the medications, Tom.”
“I need something bad . . . I need . . . I need a cigarette.”
“Back to the ranch house, okay? Can you ride the back of my bike? You’re really shaky! Hey whoa! Let me help you up!”
CHAPTER
ONE
NEW JERSEY, SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
With eager screams of hunger, little Ted Vandeveer drove his parents from their bed.
Dottie slipped a rubber-coated spoon between the infant’s lips. Baby Ted blew out his chubby cheeks. Porridge spurted across the table.
Dottie scanned the mess. Her eyelids flicked upward meaningfully.
“Where’s the au pair?” Van hedged.
“She didn’t come in last night.”
Van rose from his white plastic chair, and fetched a white paper towel. With the wisdom of experience, Van tore off a second towel for Ted to use as backup. Van still felt giddy inside his mansion’s bright new kitchen. The new kitchen featured deep steel sinks, thick red granite counters, and a chromed fridge the size of a bank vault. When he’d signed up for a house renovation, Van hadn’t known that New Jersey contractors were so enthusiastic.
At least, Van thought, Dottie approved of the changes in their house. The mansion’s original kitchen had been a nightmare straight out of H. P. Lovecraft. Dottie’s new kitchen was now the only place in the Vandeveer home where the plumbing worked properly.
On a corner of the new stove, a small TV played WNBC out of New York City. Van had hooked the set to