that didn’t exist. Felt tricked, though whether by those designers or by herself she couldn’t say. More than tricked, she felt – betrayed.
Cynth left the party early, found her mother had finally arrived home from work and complained to her of a bellyache before retiring for the night.
In her room, Mr. Moon spoke from the screen of the computer. “Was the party fun, Cynthia?” he asked.
“You tell me. You were there.” She changed into her pajamas without her usual teasing about Mr. Moon peeking at her bare body, then slipped into bed without bothering to brush her teeth first.
“I heard you tell your mother you were feeling unwell. Should I bring you something for it?”
“No. I need to sleep.”
“Would you like me to sing you to sleep, Cynthia?”
She didn’t reply. And she didn’t ask Mr. Moon to sing to her again for a long time after that night.
* * *
It was several months after Lucia’s birthday party, and Cynth’s parents were both late in coming home from work, even though it had long since become dark outside. It was not unusual that they were late, nor was it unusual to hear the harpy cries of sirens in Punktown, but tonight the sirens were louder – nearer – than usual and Cynth found herself drawn to the window that nearly filled one wall of her bedroom.
Every night, the skyline of Punktown dazzled with constellations of lights, a conflagration of neon, holograph and laser. It was beautiful, but removed as she was from it, Cynth did not see up close the sidewalks lit green as if with radiation, an absinthe green under which one’s skin was bleached cadaverous white, while red light leaked its way into alleys like the blood channels grooved into a sacrificial altar. Cynth did not see, from her bedroom window, the people who moved along those streets, some human and others not, nor would she understand the activities that so many of those restless souls pursued in the pulse and flicker of the city’s carnival lights.
The flashing lights she watched now, though, were those of police and emergency vehicles, some floating high off the ground like fireflies while others hovered low, in the triangular park that filled the space between the Triplex’s towers. She did not know that if this were another, less affluent portion of the immense colony city, the response would not be this intense – if there were any response at all.
In the lights from the vehicles, she could just make out small figures racing to the entrance of the building directly opposite, designated Tower 3. The colored lights flashed across the front of her own building, Tower 1, and through her window, alternating red and blue on the walls of her room.
Distracted as she was by all this, Cynth realized belatedly that she had begun to whimper, and when she heard herself whimpering she began to cry. She flinched, startled, when a hand lightly stroked the back of her head. She whirled around, expecting to see her mother there, arrived home from work at last. Instead, she saw a glittering brassy arm that had unfolded from its track in the ceiling, like a large metal spider that had descended on a strand of its far-reaching web.
“Don’t be afraid, Cynthia,” Mr. Moon said in his soothing tone.
“Please...will you sing to me, Mr. Moon?” she sobbed.
He started to sing to her, then, and his arm lowered further so that she could grip his hand. It was large, and enfolded her own like the claw of some imaginary, benevolent dragon.
Cynth’s parents would not tell her, the next day, how two young men had found their way into Tower 3, and then into an apartment on the second floor, where an elderly couple lived. One of the men was a nephew of the couple, and the other was his friend, and both were
Cynth left the party early, found her mother had finally arrived home from work and complained to her of a bellyache before retiring for the night.
In her room, Mr. Moon spoke from the screen of the computer. “Was the party fun, Cynthia?” he asked.
“You tell me. You were there.” She changed into her pajamas without her usual teasing about Mr. Moon peeking at her bare body, then slipped into bed without bothering to brush her teeth first.
“I heard you tell your mother you were feeling unwell. Should I bring you something for it?”
“No. I need to sleep.”
“Would you like me to sing you to sleep, Cynthia?”
She didn’t reply. And she didn’t ask Mr. Moon to sing to her again for a long time after that night.
* * *
It was several months after Lucia’s birthday party, and Cynth’s parents were both late in coming home from work, even though it had long since become dark outside. It was not unusual that they were late, nor was it unusual to hear the harpy cries of sirens in Punktown, but tonight the sirens were louder – nearer – than usual and Cynth found herself drawn to the window that nearly filled one wall of her bedroom.
Every night, the skyline of Punktown dazzled with constellations of lights, a conflagration of neon, holograph and laser. It was beautiful, but removed as she was from it, Cynth did not see up close the sidewalks lit green as if with radiation, an absinthe green under which one’s skin was bleached cadaverous white, while red light leaked its way into alleys like the blood channels grooved into a sacrificial altar. Cynth did not see, from her bedroom window, the people who moved along those streets, some human and others not, nor would she understand the activities that so many of those restless souls pursued in the pulse and flicker of the city’s carnival lights.
The flashing lights she watched now, though, were those of police and emergency vehicles, some floating high off the ground like fireflies while others hovered low, in the triangular park that filled the space between the Triplex’s towers. She did not know that if this were another, less affluent portion of the immense colony city, the response would not be this intense – if there were any response at all.
In the lights from the vehicles, she could just make out small figures racing to the entrance of the building directly opposite, designated Tower 3. The colored lights flashed across the front of her own building, Tower 1, and through her window, alternating red and blue on the walls of her room.
Distracted as she was by all this, Cynth realized belatedly that she had begun to whimper, and when she heard herself whimpering she began to cry. She flinched, startled, when a hand lightly stroked the back of her head. She whirled around, expecting to see her mother there, arrived home from work at last. Instead, she saw a glittering brassy arm that had unfolded from its track in the ceiling, like a large metal spider that had descended on a strand of its far-reaching web.
“Don’t be afraid, Cynthia,” Mr. Moon said in his soothing tone.
“Please...will you sing to me, Mr. Moon?” she sobbed.
He started to sing to her, then, and his arm lowered further so that she could grip his hand. It was large, and enfolded her own like the claw of some imaginary, benevolent dragon.
Cynth’s parents would not tell her, the next day, how two young men had found their way into Tower 3, and then into an apartment on the second floor, where an elderly couple lived. One of the men was a nephew of the couple, and the other was his friend, and both were
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