school blazer, Cynth again became distracted by the expansive view from her bedroom window. Whatever its transforming properties, the snow was still unable to extinguish the warm brass glow of the metal the Triplex buildings were composed of. Rows of great bolts, in keeping with the towers’ retro industrial style, looked like rivets stitching together the plates of battleships. But it was the flying vehicles that had caught Cynth’s eye, their outlines vague as they swam through the veils of snow like birds above a sea of looming icebergs. A private hoverbus, riding lower to the ground, would be arriving soon to spirit her to the exclusive school her parents had enrolled her in.
Mr. Moon said, “And don’t forget, Cynthia, that you have Lucia’s birthday party to attend this evening.”
Turning from the window, the child huffed, “Like I’d really forget that! Why don’t you stop nagging me?”
There was the briefest of pauses, and then Mr. Moon said, “I’m sorry, Cynthia. Would you rather I didn’t talk with you this much in the future?”
Mr. Moon’s tone hadn’t changed – it never did, and how could it? – and yet to Cynth, it sounded as though she had actually hurt his feelings. She stepped closer to the brass colored wall and placed her hand flat against it. It didn’t matter in what particular spot she placed her hand; she felt his essence everywhere in apartment 933. The metal was warm, not cool.
“Why don’t you sing me a song instead?” she said gently.
“What would you like me to sing to you?”
“How about...um, Blue Blues by Pearl Mason?” This past summer she had seen this performer in person at the annual Paxton Fair, Paxton being Punktown’s true name, and the singer had sung Blue Blues on that occasion.
Without hesitating or balking, Mr. Moon began singing the song. He had sung it before, but he could access the lyrics and tune of any song she requested. Whether it was a thoughtful ballad from Del Kahn or a bouncy hit from upcoming club queen Chandra Shankar, Mr. Moon always sang in the same softly modulated male voice, warm as his brass skin, somewhat deep as befitted his giant’s body. This was not a disappointment, however, but a comfort to Cynth, like the unchanging voice of a parent. And it was when her own parents were both late home from work – which was often the case – that she had him sing to her the most.
* * *
Cynth’s parents gave her a lot of freedom – at least, within the confines of the fortress they had made of her life, here in the heart of a city notorious for its level of crime. They allowed her to go to Lucia’s birthday party, five floors below their apartment, unescorted. Actually, she didn’t even care to go; her mother was friendly with Lucia’s mother, if their superficial exchanges in the lobby could be considered a friendship, and Lucia’s mother had invited Cynth during one of these recent chats. Instead, Cynth was tempted to ride up and down in the elevator and talk to Mr. Moon, because his was the elevator’s voice. She considered wandering the other floors, or sitting in the lobby and reading magazines for a few hours, but then what if someone who knew her should relate this to her parents? What if Lucia’s mother asked Cynth’s why she hadn’t come to the party? Cynth saw no way around it. So, a present wrapped in shimmering gold foil in her arms, she set out through the building’s hallways with their riveted brass walls, doors of glossy dark wood, deeply colored carpets and mellow crystal lamps.
As she approached the corner that would deliver her at a row of elevators, Cynth heard a soft but familiar whirring. “Mr. Moon!” she called ahead, quickening her pace.
From around the corner emerged a boxy looking machine that skated along the carpet, sucking up the
Mr. Moon said, “And don’t forget, Cynthia, that you have Lucia’s birthday party to attend this evening.”
Turning from the window, the child huffed, “Like I’d really forget that! Why don’t you stop nagging me?”
There was the briefest of pauses, and then Mr. Moon said, “I’m sorry, Cynthia. Would you rather I didn’t talk with you this much in the future?”
Mr. Moon’s tone hadn’t changed – it never did, and how could it? – and yet to Cynth, it sounded as though she had actually hurt his feelings. She stepped closer to the brass colored wall and placed her hand flat against it. It didn’t matter in what particular spot she placed her hand; she felt his essence everywhere in apartment 933. The metal was warm, not cool.
“Why don’t you sing me a song instead?” she said gently.
“What would you like me to sing to you?”
“How about...um, Blue Blues by Pearl Mason?” This past summer she had seen this performer in person at the annual Paxton Fair, Paxton being Punktown’s true name, and the singer had sung Blue Blues on that occasion.
Without hesitating or balking, Mr. Moon began singing the song. He had sung it before, but he could access the lyrics and tune of any song she requested. Whether it was a thoughtful ballad from Del Kahn or a bouncy hit from upcoming club queen Chandra Shankar, Mr. Moon always sang in the same softly modulated male voice, warm as his brass skin, somewhat deep as befitted his giant’s body. This was not a disappointment, however, but a comfort to Cynth, like the unchanging voice of a parent. And it was when her own parents were both late home from work – which was often the case – that she had him sing to her the most.
* * *
Cynth’s parents gave her a lot of freedom – at least, within the confines of the fortress they had made of her life, here in the heart of a city notorious for its level of crime. They allowed her to go to Lucia’s birthday party, five floors below their apartment, unescorted. Actually, she didn’t even care to go; her mother was friendly with Lucia’s mother, if their superficial exchanges in the lobby could be considered a friendship, and Lucia’s mother had invited Cynth during one of these recent chats. Instead, Cynth was tempted to ride up and down in the elevator and talk to Mr. Moon, because his was the elevator’s voice. She considered wandering the other floors, or sitting in the lobby and reading magazines for a few hours, but then what if someone who knew her should relate this to her parents? What if Lucia’s mother asked Cynth’s why she hadn’t come to the party? Cynth saw no way around it. So, a present wrapped in shimmering gold foil in her arms, she set out through the building’s hallways with their riveted brass walls, doors of glossy dark wood, deeply colored carpets and mellow crystal lamps.
As she approached the corner that would deliver her at a row of elevators, Cynth heard a soft but familiar whirring. “Mr. Moon!” she called ahead, quickening her pace.
From around the corner emerged a boxy looking machine that skated along the carpet, sucking up the
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