Read The Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow for Free Online Page B
Authors: Cory Doctorow
something that Pepe had found—Pepe still loved to have more than one PoV, so I’d given him four squirrels to drive at once—and when I looked up, I was staring into her boots, lace-up numbers, old fashioned with thick waffle-soles.
I kept looking up. She was a woman, in her mid-thirties. Her hair had grown out into an irregular mob of curls, her round face rosy-cheeked from the chilly weather. Fine lines radiated out from her drawn-up bow lips, and her eyes had small lines to match at their corners.
“Hello,” I said. She wasn’t a wirehead, I could tell that just by looking at the hair. They liked to wear it short so as not to interfere with the antenna.
“Jimmy?” she said, putting her hand to her chest. She was wearing a smart cowl that breathed gently around her, keeping her warm and dry.
I cocked my head, trying to place her. She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place her, not exactly—
“Jimmy!” she said, and grabbed me in a hard hug. There was a woman under that cowl, boobs and hips. She was a whole head taller than me. But the smell was the same. Or maybe it was the hug.
“Lacey!” I said, and squeezed back, barely getting my arms around her.
She practically lifted me off my feet, and she squeezed so hard that all the breath went out of me.
“Lacey!” I croaked, “easy there!”
She set me down, a little reluctantly, and took a step back. “Jesus Christ, Jimmy, you haven’t changed
at all
.”
I shrugged. “Immortal,” I said.
She put her hand to her chest and looked at me, her mouth open. “Yeah, of course,” she said. “Immortal.”
“I’m trying to cure it,” I said. “Not all the way. But I thought if I could age up to, you know, eighteen or so . . .”
“Jimmy,” she said, “please stop talking about this for now. I’m out of weirdness quotient for the day.”
I had some snacks in my bag—the tortillas and tomatoes that the cult favored for staple crops—so I sat down and spread out my picnic tarp and offered her a seat, then something to eat.
She sat down and we ate together. We used to do this, back in Detroit, sneak picnics together out in the boonies, in an abandoned building or, in a pinch, cupped in one of my mecha’s hands. We fell into the easy rhythm of it as though no time at all had passed since then. For me, none had—at least not physically.
I told her about the zepp ride and the daisy cutters, about the slow landing and my settling in here, bound to the Carousel, not wanting to abandon it.
She got a little misty when she remembered the attack on Detroit. “I remember the zeppelin lifting off, and all the explosions in the sky. I was hiding under something—a truck, I think—and trying to keep the goat from going crazy. What was her name? Louisa?”
“Moldavia,” I said. I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember that. It was like yesterday to me.
“Moldavia! We ate her, you know. I remember that now. Mom and Dad couldn’t get their silk into India and the farm took a turn for the worse and—”
She broke off and rolled up another chopped tomato salad in another tortilla, sprinkled some basil and cilantro on it from the little herb bag I kept.
“What happened afterward?” I asked. “What happened to Detroit?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well. The wumpuses came, of course. Took about two weeks for them to get through it all, and when they were done, there were so many of them that they mostly ate each other for another week, which was really gross, but when that was done, there was just good land. We farmed it for a while. Mostly redwoods. Big ones—four-hundred-footers. Anything for a carbon-credit. They were cheap and easy.”
I closed my eyes and rocked back on my tailbone. I’d stood by the Carousel for twenty years because, somewhere in my mind, I expected that Dad would be getting the museum back together and that wherever the Carousel was, he would come. He wouldn’t abandon it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind,
I kept looking up. She was a woman, in her mid-thirties. Her hair had grown out into an irregular mob of curls, her round face rosy-cheeked from the chilly weather. Fine lines radiated out from her drawn-up bow lips, and her eyes had small lines to match at their corners.
“Hello,” I said. She wasn’t a wirehead, I could tell that just by looking at the hair. They liked to wear it short so as not to interfere with the antenna.
“Jimmy?” she said, putting her hand to her chest. She was wearing a smart cowl that breathed gently around her, keeping her warm and dry.
I cocked my head, trying to place her. She looked so familiar, but I couldn’t place her, not exactly—
“Jimmy!” she said, and grabbed me in a hard hug. There was a woman under that cowl, boobs and hips. She was a whole head taller than me. But the smell was the same. Or maybe it was the hug.
“Lacey!” I said, and squeezed back, barely getting my arms around her.
She practically lifted me off my feet, and she squeezed so hard that all the breath went out of me.
“Lacey!” I croaked, “easy there!”
She set me down, a little reluctantly, and took a step back. “Jesus Christ, Jimmy, you haven’t changed
at all
.”
I shrugged. “Immortal,” I said.
She put her hand to her chest and looked at me, her mouth open. “Yeah, of course,” she said. “Immortal.”
“I’m trying to cure it,” I said. “Not all the way. But I thought if I could age up to, you know, eighteen or so . . .”
“Jimmy,” she said, “please stop talking about this for now. I’m out of weirdness quotient for the day.”
I had some snacks in my bag—the tortillas and tomatoes that the cult favored for staple crops—so I sat down and spread out my picnic tarp and offered her a seat, then something to eat.
She sat down and we ate together. We used to do this, back in Detroit, sneak picnics together out in the boonies, in an abandoned building or, in a pinch, cupped in one of my mecha’s hands. We fell into the easy rhythm of it as though no time at all had passed since then. For me, none had—at least not physically.
I told her about the zepp ride and the daisy cutters, about the slow landing and my settling in here, bound to the Carousel, not wanting to abandon it.
She got a little misty when she remembered the attack on Detroit. “I remember the zeppelin lifting off, and all the explosions in the sky. I was hiding under something—a truck, I think—and trying to keep the goat from going crazy. What was her name? Louisa?”
“Moldavia,” I said. I couldn’t believe she didn’t remember that. It was like yesterday to me.
“Moldavia! We ate her, you know. I remember that now. Mom and Dad couldn’t get their silk into India and the farm took a turn for the worse and—”
She broke off and rolled up another chopped tomato salad in another tortilla, sprinkled some basil and cilantro on it from the little herb bag I kept.
“What happened afterward?” I asked. “What happened to Detroit?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, well. The wumpuses came, of course. Took about two weeks for them to get through it all, and when they were done, there were so many of them that they mostly ate each other for another week, which was really gross, but when that was done, there was just good land. We farmed it for a while. Mostly redwoods. Big ones—four-hundred-footers. Anything for a carbon-credit. They were cheap and easy.”
I closed my eyes and rocked back on my tailbone. I’d stood by the Carousel for twenty years because, somewhere in my mind, I expected that Dad would be getting the museum back together and that wherever the Carousel was, he would come. He wouldn’t abandon it.
Somewhere in the back of my mind,