says.
“I’m not going to lose it.”
“Oh. Uh, good.” Eisfanger still looks a little confused, but that’s a expression I’m used to seeing on his face. I smile at him reassuringly.
I have a plan. Oh, yes, I have a plan.
“Sounds like half the celebrities in the city are movie stars and the other half gangsters,” I say. “Interesting mix. On my world, a lot of movie and TV production happened in Vancouver because of a weak Canadian dollar and local tax breaks—plus it wasn’t that far from LA, just up the coast. I’m guessing this kind of border security wouldn’t have let that happen here.”
“No,” says Charlie. “The film industry in Van is pretty much homegrown, in more ways than one.”
“How’d that come about?”
Charlie shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “Gangs with too much money. Started with porn, but that just generated more income. And you know gangbangers—it’s all about ego. All it took was one guy making an action movie starring himself as the antihero, and pretty soon all the other warlords had to outdo him. Snowballed from there.”
“Sounds a little like Hong Kong on my world, with Triads financing martial arts epics.”
“Here, too. Lot of them got their start over in HK—but here’s where the big money is.”
We’re driving through farmland now, cornfields lining the highway on either side. A hawk circles overhead in wide, lazy loops. Traffic is sparse, mainly big rigs hauling cargo to or from the port. I wonder how easy it is for them to get through customs.
Strangely enough, Charlie didn’t have any problems getting his weapons across the border. They ignored my gun, of course—but they confiscated my scythes. Charlie wisely refrains from telling me this until we’re at least ten miles away.
“Sorry,” he says. “They could tell the scythes were yours. Apparently you didn’t have the right permits.”
A fact that Officer Delta refrained from mentioning. A final parting shot from Mr. Civil Servant. “That’s fine, ” I say, and smile.
Charlie takes one look at me and shuts up for the rest of the trip.
* * *
Farmland gives way to urban sprawl interspersed with plenty of green space, stretches of tall fir or pine rising up next to gas stations or roadside restaurants. The highway becomes a freeway, which routes through a mostly industrial area called Richmond, over a bridge and then into the city of Vancouver proper. It looks a lot like Seattle at first, but that changes once we hit the downtown core.
Plenty of skyscrapers, but I don’t spend much time looking up; it’s what’s at street level that’s riveting, and not in a good way.
It’s early evening. I see lems and thropes out and about, but none of the thropes are in human form; even the ones driving are in half-were mode. Those outside are almost all four-legged—packs of three or four roam together down the streets, darting and weaving through the traffic like suicidal bicycle couriers, bounding over and off cars. One slams into the DeSoto, claws screeching against the metal, and I can practically see the steam coming out of Charlie’s ears.
We’re on a street called Granville. Lots of neon, run-down hotels, bars, and sex shops, like Times Square before it was cleaned up. “No pires,” I point out.
“They mostly stay indoors here, except at night,” Charlie says.
“Why?”
“Because a popular gang initiation is to catch a pire outside during the day, and see how many times you can slash open his daysuit before he catches on fire.”
“Ah.”
We head for an area called Gastown, the oldest part of the city. When I’d visited Vancouver on my own world, I’d spent an afternoon there; like heritage districts in many cities, it had been spruced up into a tourist attraction, with old brick buildings now housing upscale restaurants and souvenir shops. Red cobblestone streets, an enormous steam-powered clock, and turn-of-the-century gaslit lamps completed the
“I’m not going to lose it.”
“Oh. Uh, good.” Eisfanger still looks a little confused, but that’s a expression I’m used to seeing on his face. I smile at him reassuringly.
I have a plan. Oh, yes, I have a plan.
“Sounds like half the celebrities in the city are movie stars and the other half gangsters,” I say. “Interesting mix. On my world, a lot of movie and TV production happened in Vancouver because of a weak Canadian dollar and local tax breaks—plus it wasn’t that far from LA, just up the coast. I’m guessing this kind of border security wouldn’t have let that happen here.”
“No,” says Charlie. “The film industry in Van is pretty much homegrown, in more ways than one.”
“How’d that come about?”
Charlie shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “Gangs with too much money. Started with porn, but that just generated more income. And you know gangbangers—it’s all about ego. All it took was one guy making an action movie starring himself as the antihero, and pretty soon all the other warlords had to outdo him. Snowballed from there.”
“Sounds a little like Hong Kong on my world, with Triads financing martial arts epics.”
“Here, too. Lot of them got their start over in HK—but here’s where the big money is.”
We’re driving through farmland now, cornfields lining the highway on either side. A hawk circles overhead in wide, lazy loops. Traffic is sparse, mainly big rigs hauling cargo to or from the port. I wonder how easy it is for them to get through customs.
Strangely enough, Charlie didn’t have any problems getting his weapons across the border. They ignored my gun, of course—but they confiscated my scythes. Charlie wisely refrains from telling me this until we’re at least ten miles away.
“Sorry,” he says. “They could tell the scythes were yours. Apparently you didn’t have the right permits.”
A fact that Officer Delta refrained from mentioning. A final parting shot from Mr. Civil Servant. “That’s fine, ” I say, and smile.
Charlie takes one look at me and shuts up for the rest of the trip.
* * *
Farmland gives way to urban sprawl interspersed with plenty of green space, stretches of tall fir or pine rising up next to gas stations or roadside restaurants. The highway becomes a freeway, which routes through a mostly industrial area called Richmond, over a bridge and then into the city of Vancouver proper. It looks a lot like Seattle at first, but that changes once we hit the downtown core.
Plenty of skyscrapers, but I don’t spend much time looking up; it’s what’s at street level that’s riveting, and not in a good way.
It’s early evening. I see lems and thropes out and about, but none of the thropes are in human form; even the ones driving are in half-were mode. Those outside are almost all four-legged—packs of three or four roam together down the streets, darting and weaving through the traffic like suicidal bicycle couriers, bounding over and off cars. One slams into the DeSoto, claws screeching against the metal, and I can practically see the steam coming out of Charlie’s ears.
We’re on a street called Granville. Lots of neon, run-down hotels, bars, and sex shops, like Times Square before it was cleaned up. “No pires,” I point out.
“They mostly stay indoors here, except at night,” Charlie says.
“Why?”
“Because a popular gang initiation is to catch a pire outside during the day, and see how many times you can slash open his daysuit before he catches on fire.”
“Ah.”
We head for an area called Gastown, the oldest part of the city. When I’d visited Vancouver on my own world, I’d spent an afternoon there; like heritage districts in many cities, it had been spruced up into a tourist attraction, with old brick buildings now housing upscale restaurants and souvenir shops. Red cobblestone streets, an enormous steam-powered clock, and turn-of-the-century gaslit lamps completed the
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