Farewell Horizontal by K. W. Jeter

the wall, a circle of dark silver: the Small Moon rounding the building, catching only trace light from the toplevel and the thin ribbons of the Linear Fairs’ perpetual activity. He’d kept the transceiver on, angling his head to catch the weak bounce of a free-access station. Ancient music – the Liebeslieder Waltzes , somebody (-thing?) called Tampa Red’s “She Don’t Know My Mind, Part Two” – seeped up the wire to his finger and then inside to his ear. Interspersed with commercials – enlistment bonuses from the Havoc Mass (made him think of Guyer’s surprising faith), new stuff online to buy and watch (maybe the mating angels were already in the catalog) – all of which he ignored. Or tried to; the image of the figures in the bright sky kept seeping into his thoughts.
     
    “ Well, I looked in the window, and this is what I saw  –”
     
    Axxter ignored the barely human voice vibrating at the hinge of his jaw. He reached over and picked up the camera – after this morning’s lucky break, he had kept it handy – and cradled it against his chest. As if the image-data locked inside his archive were real blood and flesh. Magnified close enough to touch.
     
    “– a man, on his hands and knees, doing . . . doing the cootie . . . cootie-cootie kuh-rawl .”
     
    Well, shoot . . . made money today, didn’t I? Deserve some kind of treat for that. That’s how you program yourself for more of that kind of thing. That five-year-old kid at the center of your brain . . . Axxter didn’t know if he believed that sort of thing or not. Willing to let it slide, in the process of cajoling himself. Already knowing what he wanted. He shifted uncomfortably, the sling’s confines suddenly tight. Switched off the free-access, fearing something even worse than prehistoric Tampa Red.
     
    The decision had been made by the raising of his bank account, intersected by the length of time he’d been out wandering on the wall. Two variables evoking a programmed response, his brain along for the ride. For a moment, the sheer predictability of his desires twinged disgust inside him. An idiot; he gazed at nothing, shaking his head. You’re an idiot. Why do you ding yourself around with her, anyway?
     
    Axxter brought his vision back to medium focus, looking at the territory surrounding the bivouac. Seemed safe enough for a little indulgence in hollow time; at least in a certain fatalistic way, he supposed. There was no safecage for rent in the vicinity, the usual, advisable amenity for a disembodied spree. But then there wasn’t anyone else around in these sectors who might come across his body and do something weird with it. Unless Guyer had doubled back for some reason – an intriguing thought; he wondered what strange souvenir she might leave behind if she came across the sleeping, breathing meat part of him, his mind vacated elsewhere. Some pattern of bruises and muscles stretched into unusual postures, a trademark of hers written in the fatigue of tissues. Might be worth sticking around for, feigning being off in hollow time; I could dig it. If I knew it would happen that way. But it won’t. Guyer’s long gone, heading for toplevel inside rather than out of her own flesh. Pity.
     
    Only the torn metal, black teeth against night, visible over the wall’s curve, worried him. Not enough to change his mind, though. A faint radiation, heat ebbing from inside the ruin zone, tinged the jagged limits. Whatever had done that wouldn’t be much fazed by a safecage with the tempting Axxter-morsel locked inside; it, or they would eat the whole goddamn thing, fry me up like a wienie on a spit. Of course, if they  – the other two words had gone back down inside himself, not to be spoken – were going to come romping out, through the devastated stretch of their previous fun, to swarm out over the wall just to get him, it wouldn’t matter much if he was off in hollow time, or sitting up all night, eyes wide