Glimmering

Jack stepped away; when he was at a safe distance glanced down at his clothes. He was still wearing what he’d had on at Lazyland when Jule kidnapped him—white oxford-cloth shirt, quite soiled; dark green chinos; worn brown corduroy jacket. His temple throbbed; he rubbed it gingerly, trying to make sense of time. It had been, what? Wednesday morning when he left Lazyland? The twenty-ninth of December? He was fairly certain of the date, if not the day of the week.

Nellie’s words came to him: You’ll be at the party tonight…

He had lost a day; more than that, two days, squandered in a cell within the Pyramid. He had a flash of his grandmother sick with worry, his brother Dennis tending her; of the blond girl going into labor.

He recalled what else Nellie Candry had told him—

Blue Antelope. They’ve planned a terrorist strike against the SUNRA dirigibles…

He looked up, saw trees and night sky and stars, behind them a faint crosshatching, lurid pulse of green and violet. When he tipped his head, he could make out slender beams of light flickering through the air, like the traplines of a spider’s web, and discern where the projected constellations spun off from the center.

He turned back and saw a sweep of gold slanting upward: the Pyramid. The lozenges of black and gold at its base were elevators, tunnels, revolving doors, glowing corporate logos. The myriad multicolored figures—masked, helmeted, armored, sheathed—were other invited guests. He was in the staging area that adjoined the Pyramid, the atrium arena GFI had constructed for the Millennial Ball. The entire vast space had been turned into a kind of cyclorama. White flakes whirled in agitated arcs he associated with old movies and snowmaking machinery. Firs and leafless birch trees had been planted everywhere, receding into a silvery blur where he could make out raised stages, arcades, pavilions, gold-and-red-clothed tables, promenades of emerald glass, house-sized video monitors, red-and-gold information kiosks, Red Cross tents, pillars emblazoned with logos. The sight of so much stuff, so many people, made his head ache. When he blinked, phantom rockets spun off into the snow, so that for a moment he thought someone had set off fireworks.

But no. He yawned nervously, tasting copper in the back of his throat, and salt. His edginess swelled into anticipation, something close to exhilaration. He thought of Larry Muso, his absurd hair, how surprisingly soft it had felt. What had he said about meeting him? A place called Electric Avenue, sometime in the morning…

Jack was fairly certain that he’d missed morning. At the very least, the folks here at GFI had gone to a lot of trouble to create the illusion of a midwinter night, once upon a time. He gazed at tents and tables, fluttering pennons of gold and crimson video screens that showed GFI’s dirigibles silhouetted against a slowly turning pinwheel sky. There were people everywhere, revelers in costume and black tie, kimonoed men and women, guests in formal robes, and some who were all but naked, save for gold-mesh caches-sexe and dominoes covering their faces; and almost as many uniformed security personnel.

“Let’s find a goddamn place to sit,” complained a white-haired man, maskless, tuxedoed, his eyes invisible behind silvery plasmer.

“Let’s find a goddamn bar.”

Jack looked over to see an elegantly spare woman with sleek blond hair, bare shoulders thrusting from a column of hyaline silk. For an instant he thought she must recognize him, from some long-ago New York Public Library benefit or barbecue in the Hamptons. Then he saw the quiver of fear in her eyes, a tremor in the too-taut skin around her mouth. She turned away and took her companion’s arm, steering him toward a cluster of security guards beneath a video screen displaying an aerial view of the Pyramid.

Jack stopped, brow furrowed. The woman had been afraid of him. He was disheveled. Unshaven, too; and maskless; no expensive placebits or plasmer, no facial tattoos or identifying brands; nothing but skin.