Glimmering

WHEN THE WHEEL OF TIME SHALL HAVE

COME TO THE SEVENTH MILLENNIUM,

THERE WILL BEGIN THE GAMES OF DEATH.

From the street came a roar, an answering chorus of shouts. Trip whirled to glimpse a car hurtling past, and then a second. From the shadow of a building children darted. They took off running, purposeful as birds in flight, shot down an alley, and disappeared.

For the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness.

The Biblical words were remote as his memories of the stars. They had lost all meaning for him. Without the world he had known to frame them—without John Drinkwater, without his music, without the night sky over Moody’s Island or the sound of voices in a dilapidated clapboard church, without the girl—without these things, Trip saw with a clarity that left him breathless, God and the stars could not exist.

He had always thought it was the other way around.

Something cold brushed his cheek. He blinked and saw a few stray snowflakes spinning down, not white but pink. He wondered what time it was. Late, probably; night—New Year’s Eve, the man had said, could that be true?—and he was alone in the city. Echoing voices and the sound of breaking glass came from a block of shabby apartment buildings. He turned and walked quickly back the way he’d come.

At the edge of the park a bunch of children had gathered between two benches, sweeping back and forth on Rollerblades and skateboards, sometimes in tandem, playing an elaborate game that seemed to involve knocking down their friends. He was a little shocked to hear the way they cursed; none of them could be more than eleven years old. As he drew nearer they began to look over at him with the same bright hunger he had seen in the eyes of feral dogs.

Too late he realized his mistake. Something came whipping past him, a blur of yellow and green, and pounded him in the stomach. He caught himself before he hit the ground, turned, and saw a mass of bodies rocketing through the twilight.

Trip tried to run, staggering behind a bench. A few yards before him was the open street, but there were more figures there, jumping the curb and landing with such force that the wheels of their blades struck sparks from the gravel. Trip flung out his knapsack to sidearm a figure that grabbed his elbow.

A voice yelped, jubilant. Trip looked down to see a pale grinning girl with scabbed cheeks yanking at him. Her grin became a snarl as she twisted his arm viciously, then savagely bit him.

Trip shouted in pain, kicked her as another child ran up. The air rang with shrieking wheels. Their hands were everywhere, their sharp knees digging into his ribs and blood trickling into his eye. One of them had his head in a hammerlock and was slamming it into the pavement—

—and then there was an instant of shocked silence; followed by a deafening roar, a ping like rock striking metal. And Trip was on his hands and knees, coughing and weeping, and someone was beside him.

“Whoa, buddy! Shit, they almost nailed you—”

Trip swiveled his head painfully and saw the man he had followed earlier crouching beside him, a gun in his hand. His patchwork overcoat flapped open to reveal an intricate holster holding some kind of compact assault weapon, and what looked like dental equipment.

“Whee doggy.” Then got to his feet. He looked around, the gun light as a toy in his big hand, and tipped his chin. “See there?”

Trip stood groggily and looked. A small form lay on the ground at the far end of the park.

“Nailed her,” the man said. “But she wasn’t on wheels. Not that she wouldn’t’ve taken you out,” he added. “Fuckin’ A. But they nailed you BT, buddy—”

He slid the gun into the holster, flicked a catch, and let the overcoat fall across his chest, made a gun with his finger and cocked it at Trip’s forehead. “What’s your stats, pro?”

“Huh?” Trip’s jaw ached. He swiped at his face and saw a smear of blood on his hand. “Aw shit—”

“Your status, man,” the man went on. “You’re losing some bodily fluids there, don’t you got a bandanna or something?”

“Oh—yeah, yeah—” Trip shoved his hand into the knapsack and pulled out a T-shirt, mopped his face with it. “It’s okay, it doesn’t really hurt—”

“Fuck if it hurts, man! Are you fucking negative?”

Trip looked at him through a fold of dark cloth. “Yeah, I’m fucking negative.”

“Well, here—” The man tossed him a silvery object. Trip caught it, a little sani-pack of sterile gauze treated with Viconix.

For Travel and Emergency Use. For When You NEED to Feel Safe, the label read, with smaller letters proclaiming, THERE IS NO KNOWN CURE FOR THE FOLLOWING VIRUSES. FOR PROPHYLACTIC USE ONLY, PLEASE CONSULT A HEALTH CARE PROFESSIONAL IF—