Read Balzac's War: A Tale of Veniss Underground for Free Online Page B

can go back to the window.”
    Jeffer gave Balzac a wan smile, but Balzac only slumped down beside Jamie.
    “Jamie,” he said when Jeffer had gone back out onto the balcony.
    “I’m cold.” A voice like an echo, rich with phlegm or blood.
    “Cold like the oasis lakes – do you remember the oasis lakes?”
    He thought he saw her mouth curl upward. She gave a little hiccupping laugh.
    “I remember. I remember the cold. It makes me sneeze.” Then, doubtful: “That was a long time ago . . . ”
    The water had been cold. They’d dived in together, into the hardness of the water, swum through it, their muscles aching. They’d snorted water, gurgled it, luxuriating in the decadence of so much water, and surfaced to kiss, breathlessly, under the stars. Her lips had tasted of passion fruit and he had pressed her into the shallows where they could stand, then moved away from her shyly, only to find her pulling him back toward her and putting his hand between her legs; making sharp, quiet sounds of pleasure as his hands moved lightly on her.
    But, faced with her in the flesh, he could not hold onto the memory of the emotion. It dissipated into the grime and darkness: a dimly glittering jewel against whose sharp edges he could only bleed.
    “We made love there,” he said.
    Silence.
    Dawn would come soon and they would have to move on while they had the chance.
    Jamie whimpered and moaned and cried out in her half-death, half-sleep. He was cruel (wasn’t he?) to prolong her pain.
    He could feel Jeffer staring at him. If not Jeffer then Mindle. Mindle hated him. Jeffer loved him. But they both wanted the same thing.
    Balzac let his gaze linger over Jamie’s face, the thickness of it which had overtaken the grace, as if the architects that had put her back together could not quite re-create their source material. This was the woman who had worked side by side with him to rebuild the city, she planting trees as he excavated and drew plans. He had even grown to enjoy the planting – long hours, yes, and the work made his fingers bleed and blister, but he had liked the smell of dirt, enjoyed the rhythms of the work and the comfort of her presence at his side.
    He thought of the times he had made love to her on the cool desert sand under the stars, and how they would sneak back to the crèche in the years before they were married, there to lie in bed for hours afterward, talking or telling stories. The sweet smell of her, the taste of her tongue in his mouth, these were real, as was the peace that came over him when he was inside her, so very close to her, as close to her as he could, to be inside her and looking into her eyes.
    He owed it to her. If he loved her.
    In agony, he ran to the balcony, pushing Jeffer aside, and beat his fists against the stone railing.
    “Listen to me: it’s better this way,” Jeffer whispered. “Come morning, there’s a good chance we can come under the protection of a larger unit. If we can only survive – ”
    “Shut up!” Balzac hissed. “Shut up or I’ll yell and they’ll all hear us.”
    “Should I leave?”
    “Leave? No . . . but I don’t want to talk. I just want to stand here for a moment.”
    “That’s fine. That’s fine. I’m your brother, Balzac, your brother. I don’t want to hurt you.”
    Balzac tried to slow his breathing. He leaned on the railing and looked out across the city. Dawn soon, and still the dirigibles burned and still the darkness closed in around them. A hundred shades of darkness for a hundred different tasks – darkness to cover buildings; darkness to cover pain; darkness to cover thoughts; darkness to cover the light, and the light, when it came, only emphasized the darkness all the more. He could no longer hear the faint, ghostly shouts from the front lines; the darkness had swallowed the voices, too.
    For the first time, looking out over not only the ruined city but also the ruins of his own ambition, Balzac felt the pull of that darkness, felt