off to one side, stunned into silence by his favoured
candidate's abrupt fall from grace.
"Um, yes," he said now, rising
from the table a heartbeat after the Lead Developer. "We'll be in
touch."
There was nothing else to do but
get up, nod, and leave the room. Their scrutiny followed me all the
way across the hall and into the lift. And my better-than-human
hearing couldn't help but pick up the threads of their analysis of
me.
"He knows jack shit."
"Maybe he just needs a little
training, some hands-on stuff. I don't remember most of what I
learned in college."
"No one has time to babysit. You
like him, put him in sales."
#
It's very hard to get
lost in the grid that is downtown Toronto, and by the time I
reached Allan Gardens. I still hadn't managed it. Giving up, I
headed South on Sherbourne, to Moss Park, and claimed a bench in
the shadow of a stunted birch. There, I waited for the cortisol to
fade from my system. It took effort; the sun was tinged orange by
the time my humour was restored. The wind changed direction,
bringing with it the almost undetectable smell of sweat and urine
and old-man clothes.
And, suddenly, the
Symbiot woke up.
It zeroed in on a
man, shuffling slowly towards my bench. A mutation, one I had not
seen before, lurked within his decrepit body. It tainted the air
with want, clamouring to be fed upon.
A heartbeat later, a
strident ringing from my pocket jarred the Symbiot out of its
singular focus. Grateful for the reprieve, I thumbed
talk.
"Hello."
"This is an automated
reminder from Petra Exile Services. Thank you for choosing Petra
Enterprises for all your Relocation needs. Payments on your account
are now overdue. If you have already made a payment, please
disregard this message, otherwise please contact our Customer
Service department at 1-800-555-5555 immediately. For your
convenience, this message will repeat in Akkadian, Imperial
Mandarin, Latin, Sanskrit, Lingua-"
Sighing, I hung
up.
The old man lowered
his body onto the bench. "A long day," he said. "A long day, young
man."
"It was," I agreed,
and went home.
#
The convection
currents are strong today; the helium-rich updraft is making my
poor baby's engines whine.
Breath-mask, full
tank. Check.
Sensors, safety,
comms. Check.
Excalibur.
Check.
Enough.
I've got your
number...
It took effort to
wrench myself out of the dream-memory. Imp was shuddering, curled
into a tight ball against my stomach.
"Hush, hush little
thing," I whispered, stroking its scaly head. "It's over. And it
won't ever find you."
Peep?
"White noise.
Promise."
#
Wednesday morning
brought with it new mail. Imp placed it at the corner of my desk,
along with a cup of the vile-tasting coffee.
Thinnest envelope
first.
Apparently my
application did not meet the required merit criteria, but they
thanked me sincerely for applying. With elaborate care, I crumpled
the paper and placed it in the bin.
There was also a very
nice letter from the cellphone company that thanked me for choosing
them, thanked me for paying the first month's bill via electronic
means, and then thanked me for paying the environmental tax for
paper-based billing.
A
little less gratitude would perhaps have been better received by
me; that particular letter earned itself a violent
transition to refuse.
Still no emails. A
vague restlessness came over me. Stepping out of the study, I
caught a ray of sunlight through the drawing room
window.
"Walk." I said to
Imp. It gazed mournfully at the TV. "Fine, stay."
It squeaked,
snuggling deeper into the sofa.
At College and
University, the wind tore my attention away from the cellphone bill
and towards the entrance to Queen's Park station. Misshapen
whispers, like the longest shadows at sunrise, were rising out of
the ground.
And that's why the city and I broke up last
time. She drew my attention too deeply into her dark folds,
reminded me, painfully, that I was not my father, that the Mark of
the King did not grace my brow, and
candidate's abrupt fall from grace.
"Um, yes," he said now, rising
from the table a heartbeat after the Lead Developer. "We'll be in
touch."
There was nothing else to do but
get up, nod, and leave the room. Their scrutiny followed me all the
way across the hall and into the lift. And my better-than-human
hearing couldn't help but pick up the threads of their analysis of
me.
"He knows jack shit."
"Maybe he just needs a little
training, some hands-on stuff. I don't remember most of what I
learned in college."
"No one has time to babysit. You
like him, put him in sales."
#
It's very hard to get
lost in the grid that is downtown Toronto, and by the time I
reached Allan Gardens. I still hadn't managed it. Giving up, I
headed South on Sherbourne, to Moss Park, and claimed a bench in
the shadow of a stunted birch. There, I waited for the cortisol to
fade from my system. It took effort; the sun was tinged orange by
the time my humour was restored. The wind changed direction,
bringing with it the almost undetectable smell of sweat and urine
and old-man clothes.
And, suddenly, the
Symbiot woke up.
It zeroed in on a
man, shuffling slowly towards my bench. A mutation, one I had not
seen before, lurked within his decrepit body. It tainted the air
with want, clamouring to be fed upon.
A heartbeat later, a
strident ringing from my pocket jarred the Symbiot out of its
singular focus. Grateful for the reprieve, I thumbed
talk.
"Hello."
"This is an automated
reminder from Petra Exile Services. Thank you for choosing Petra
Enterprises for all your Relocation needs. Payments on your account
are now overdue. If you have already made a payment, please
disregard this message, otherwise please contact our Customer
Service department at 1-800-555-5555 immediately. For your
convenience, this message will repeat in Akkadian, Imperial
Mandarin, Latin, Sanskrit, Lingua-"
Sighing, I hung
up.
The old man lowered
his body onto the bench. "A long day," he said. "A long day, young
man."
"It was," I agreed,
and went home.
#
The convection
currents are strong today; the helium-rich updraft is making my
poor baby's engines whine.
Breath-mask, full
tank. Check.
Sensors, safety,
comms. Check.
Excalibur.
Check.
Enough.
I've got your
number...
It took effort to
wrench myself out of the dream-memory. Imp was shuddering, curled
into a tight ball against my stomach.
"Hush, hush little
thing," I whispered, stroking its scaly head. "It's over. And it
won't ever find you."
Peep?
"White noise.
Promise."
#
Wednesday morning
brought with it new mail. Imp placed it at the corner of my desk,
along with a cup of the vile-tasting coffee.
Thinnest envelope
first.
Apparently my
application did not meet the required merit criteria, but they
thanked me sincerely for applying. With elaborate care, I crumpled
the paper and placed it in the bin.
There was also a very
nice letter from the cellphone company that thanked me for choosing
them, thanked me for paying the first month's bill via electronic
means, and then thanked me for paying the environmental tax for
paper-based billing.
A
little less gratitude would perhaps have been better received by
me; that particular letter earned itself a violent
transition to refuse.
Still no emails. A
vague restlessness came over me. Stepping out of the study, I
caught a ray of sunlight through the drawing room
window.
"Walk." I said to
Imp. It gazed mournfully at the TV. "Fine, stay."
It squeaked,
snuggling deeper into the sofa.
At College and
University, the wind tore my attention away from the cellphone bill
and towards the entrance to Queen's Park station. Misshapen
whispers, like the longest shadows at sunrise, were rising out of
the ground.
And that's why the city and I broke up last
time. She drew my attention too deeply into her dark folds,
reminded me, painfully, that I was not my father, that the Mark of
the King did not grace my brow, and
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