belligerent or otherwise hard to deal with.
“We were children,” Mereziah said, removing his torque wrench from his belt and getting a good grip on the pliant handle. “ Children . We knew the meaning of responsibility, of duty, and we quickly learned the meaning of loneliness. But there were times — ”
He reached behind the pod and fumbled with the wrench until he heard the head mate wetly with the reversal nut. “There were times, it’s true, when Merezath and I turned to each other for comfort. Boys will be boys, after all. Now he’s a crusty old bastard and I despise him.”
From the netting below, as if Merezath had heard his name, rose an ululating wail; inside the lift, the mad passenger quickly pulled his hand back. When Mereziah surveyed below, he could not see his brother. He waited, holding his breath, one hand in the netting and the other on his wrench. There was no second shout but soon he did hear another noise, a quiet noise. From within the pod. Looking through the window once more, he saw the passenger’s lips move. The man repeated something, barely audible, his expression belying urgency. The words Mereziah made out when he put his ear close to the speaker were, the engineer , the engineer . . .
Mereziah torqued the wrench. He did not unfasten his safety belt from the lower rings of the pod, though they struggled feebly and tried to convince him to do so. He held his cable in place until both rings surrendered. Coming free, the reversal nut made a squelching sound and the entire pod quivered, rumbling.
Oddly, it came as some surprise to Mereziah when he fully understood what it was he intended to do: break the sacrament of the attendant, the first fundamental rule.
The lift began to ascend.
Below, Merezath called out again. Perhaps he assumed that Mereziah had fallen to the bottom of the shaft. Was there a slight chance he was looking up, watching the red glow of ascension as the pod cast its broadening hemisphere of light against the darkness? Possibly, in that case, he might even distinguish the form of his older brother, hanging under the pod as it crept slowly up, up, away from their lonely station.
TRAN SO, L20
Generations ago, the lake god made multitudes of healthy fish, but now it was sick, like the people, and produced only a few small fish, these being weak, thin, and spotted of flesh. The lake god made even fewer crustaceans. Regardless, every morning, after kissing his feverish wife on the cheek, Tran so Phengh made his way down from the communal shack where the couple lived to his adopted place on the beach, to sit there, rod in hand, spending the daylight hours fishing and staring out over the cluttered, receding waters of Lake Seven.
The ailing god, it was said, lived under the surface, in a large tank. Some citizens believed that this deity — maker of fishes, crabs, and aquatic plants — was actually dying , but Tran so could not imagine how any god could stop living. He could not imagine what might become of society if gods ceased providing altogether.
Semi-reclined, eyes half closed, Tran so Phengh saw a great crescent of the beach, extending away from him, out of sight, in both directions. Mists curled the periphery and gave an illusion of infinity. Before him, on the water, coracles, rafts, poorly made junks, and every other conceivable type of homemade vessel bobbed and creaked and rapped against each other. Some, in those vanished, plentiful times, had been fishing boats. Others, floating homes. Most were now abandoned wrecks. Masts and ribs of sunken vessels poked up from the bottom of the shallows like bones. Flotsam filled gaps between the vessels. Over the years, as the level of the lake had slowly dropped, Tran so often imagined a day that he might walk across the entire lake, to the far wall, without ever once touching water.
He would see the god’s house then, if it existed, and he could knock on the front door.
Calling this place where he sat a beach
“We were children,” Mereziah said, removing his torque wrench from his belt and getting a good grip on the pliant handle. “ Children . We knew the meaning of responsibility, of duty, and we quickly learned the meaning of loneliness. But there were times — ”
He reached behind the pod and fumbled with the wrench until he heard the head mate wetly with the reversal nut. “There were times, it’s true, when Merezath and I turned to each other for comfort. Boys will be boys, after all. Now he’s a crusty old bastard and I despise him.”
From the netting below, as if Merezath had heard his name, rose an ululating wail; inside the lift, the mad passenger quickly pulled his hand back. When Mereziah surveyed below, he could not see his brother. He waited, holding his breath, one hand in the netting and the other on his wrench. There was no second shout but soon he did hear another noise, a quiet noise. From within the pod. Looking through the window once more, he saw the passenger’s lips move. The man repeated something, barely audible, his expression belying urgency. The words Mereziah made out when he put his ear close to the speaker were, the engineer , the engineer . . .
Mereziah torqued the wrench. He did not unfasten his safety belt from the lower rings of the pod, though they struggled feebly and tried to convince him to do so. He held his cable in place until both rings surrendered. Coming free, the reversal nut made a squelching sound and the entire pod quivered, rumbling.
Oddly, it came as some surprise to Mereziah when he fully understood what it was he intended to do: break the sacrament of the attendant, the first fundamental rule.
The lift began to ascend.
Below, Merezath called out again. Perhaps he assumed that Mereziah had fallen to the bottom of the shaft. Was there a slight chance he was looking up, watching the red glow of ascension as the pod cast its broadening hemisphere of light against the darkness? Possibly, in that case, he might even distinguish the form of his older brother, hanging under the pod as it crept slowly up, up, away from their lonely station.
TRAN SO, L20
Generations ago, the lake god made multitudes of healthy fish, but now it was sick, like the people, and produced only a few small fish, these being weak, thin, and spotted of flesh. The lake god made even fewer crustaceans. Regardless, every morning, after kissing his feverish wife on the cheek, Tran so Phengh made his way down from the communal shack where the couple lived to his adopted place on the beach, to sit there, rod in hand, spending the daylight hours fishing and staring out over the cluttered, receding waters of Lake Seven.
The ailing god, it was said, lived under the surface, in a large tank. Some citizens believed that this deity — maker of fishes, crabs, and aquatic plants — was actually dying , but Tran so could not imagine how any god could stop living. He could not imagine what might become of society if gods ceased providing altogether.
Semi-reclined, eyes half closed, Tran so Phengh saw a great crescent of the beach, extending away from him, out of sight, in both directions. Mists curled the periphery and gave an illusion of infinity. Before him, on the water, coracles, rafts, poorly made junks, and every other conceivable type of homemade vessel bobbed and creaked and rapped against each other. Some, in those vanished, plentiful times, had been fishing boats. Others, floating homes. Most were now abandoned wrecks. Masts and ribs of sunken vessels poked up from the bottom of the shallows like bones. Flotsam filled gaps between the vessels. Over the years, as the level of the lake had slowly dropped, Tran so often imagined a day that he might walk across the entire lake, to the far wall, without ever once touching water.
He would see the god’s house then, if it existed, and he could knock on the front door.
Calling this place where he sat a beach
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