renegade I cooperated with for a while: the legend of the anomaly. The All-Defector. The
‘Oh yes,’ says the All-Defector, and pulls the trigger.
And then things stop making sense.
In the dream, Mieli is eating a peach, on Venus. The flesh is sweet and juicy, slightly bitter. It mingles with Sydan’s taste in a delicious way.
‘You bastard’, she says, breathing heavily.
They are in a q-dot bubble fourteen klicks above the Cleopatra Crater, a little pocket of humanity, sweat and sex on a rough precipice of Maxwell Montes. Sulphuric acid winds roar outside. The amber light of the cloud cover filtering through the adamantine pseudomatter shell makes Sydan’s skin run copper. Her palm fits the contours of Mieli’s mons Veneris exactly, resting just above her still moist sex. Soft wings flutter lazily in her belly.
‘What did I do?’
‘Lots of things. Is that what they taught you in the
Sydan smiles her pixie smile, little crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes. ‘It’s kind of been a while for me, actually,’ she says.
‘My ass.’
‘What about it? It’s very nice.’
The fingers of Sydan’s free hand trace the silvery lines of the butterfly tattoo on Mieli’s chest.
‘Don’t do that,’ Mieli says. Suddenly, she feels cold.
Sydan pulls her hand away and touches Mieli’s cheek.
‘What’s wrong?’
All the flesh of the fruit is gone, and only the stone remains. She holds it in her mouth before spitting it out, a rough little thing, surface engraved with memory.
‘You are not really here. You’re not real. Just here to keep me sane, in the Prison.’
‘Is it working?’
Mieli pulls her close, kissing her neck, tasting sweat. ‘Not really. I don’t want to leave.’
‘You were always the strong one,’ Sydan says. She caresses Mieli’s hair. ‘It is almost time.’
Mieli clings onto her, the familiar feel of her body. The jewelled serpent on Sydan’s leg presses hard against her.
‘Just a little while longer—’
The transition is hard and painful, like biting down on the peach-stone, the hard kernel of reality almost cracking her teeth. A prison cell, fake, pale sunlight. A glass wall, and beyond it, two thieves, talking.
The mission. Long months of preparation and execution. Suddenly, she is wide awake, the plan running through her head.
Mieli spits the peach-stone at the glass wall. It shatters like ice.
First, time slows down.
The bullet is an ice-cream headache, burrowing into my skull. I am falling, yet not falling, suspended. The All-Defector is a frozen statue beyond the blue line, still holding his gun.
The glass wall to my right shatters. The shards float around me, glinting in the sun, a galaxy of glass.
The woman from the cell walks up to me briskly. There is a deliberation in her step that makes it look like something she has rehearsed for a long time, like an actor who has received a cue.
She looks at me, up and down. She has short-cropped dark hair, and a scar on her left cheekbone: just a line of black against her deep tan, precise and geometrical. Her eyes are pale green. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ she says. ‘There is something for you to steal.’ She offers me her hand.
The bullet headache intensifies. There are patterns in the glass galaxy around us, almost like a familiar face —
I smile.
‘No,’ I say.
The dream-woman blinks.
‘I am Jean le Flambeur,’ I say. ‘I steal what I choose, when I choose. And I will leave this place when I choose, not a second before. As a matter of fact, I quite like it here—’ The pain makes the world go white, and I can no longer see. I start laughing.
Somewhere in my dream, someone laughs with me.
A hand made from glass brushes my cheek, just as my simulated brain finally decides it is time to die.
Mieli holds the dead thief in her arms: he weighs nothing. The pellegrini is flowing into the Prison from the peach-stone, like a heat ripple. She coalesces into a tall woman in a white dress, diamonds around her neck, hair carefully arranged in auburn waves, young and old at the same time.
Mieli feels borrowed strength growing within her, and leaps into the air. They rise up higher and higher, air rushing past, and for a moment she feels like she lived in Grandmother Brihane’s house and had wings again. Soon, the Prison is a grid of tiny squares beneath them. The squares change colour, like pixels, forming infinitely complex patterns of cooperation and defection, like pictures—
Just before Mieli and the thief pass through the sky, the Prison becomes the pellegrini’s smiling face.
Dying is like walking across a
I never wanted to die in a
I hate it so much when they catch you.
not at all as much fun as
It’s like dying. And getting out is like
being born.
Deep breath. Everything hurts. The scale of things is wrong. I cover my eyes with vast hands. Lightning