Superluminal Read Free Page A

was
deserted. Green paint, meant to be soothing, had gone flat and ugly with age.
Her boots were silent on the resilient tile, but in the hollow shaft of the
fire stairs the heels clattered against concrete, echoing past her and back.
Her legs were tired when she reached bottom. She speeded the flow of blood.
    Outside, mist obscured the stars. The moon had risen, full
and haloed. Streetlights spread Laenea’s shadow out around her like the
spokes of a wheel.
    A rank of electric cars waited at the corner, tethered like
horses in an old movie. She slid her credit key into a lock to release one
painted like a turtle, an apt analogy. She got in and drove it toward the
waterfront. The little beast rolled along, its motor humming quietly on the
flat, straining in low gear on the steep downgrades. Laenea relaxed and wished
she were back in space, but her imagination could not stretch that far. The
turtle could not become a starship; and the city, while pleasant, was of unrelieved
ordinariness compared to the alien places she had seen. She could not, of
course, imagine transit, for it was beyond imagination. Language or mind was
insufficient. Transit had never been described.
    The waterfront was shabby, dirty, magnetic. Laenea knew she
could find acquaintances nearby, but she did not want to stay in the city. She
returned the turtle to a stanchion and retrieved her credit key to halt the
tally against her account.
    The night had grown cold; she noticed the change
peripherally as fog, and cobblestones slick with condensation. The public
market, ramshackle and shored up, littered here and there with wilted
vegetables, was deserted. People passed as shadows.
    A man moved up behind her while she was in the dim region
between two streetlamps. “Hey,” he said, “how about —”
His tone was belligerent with inexperience or insecurity or fear. Looking down
at him, surprised, Laenea laughed. “Poor fool —” He scuttled
away like a crab. After a moment of vague pity and amusement, Laenea forgot him.
She shivered. Her ears were ringing and her chest ached from the cold.
    Small shops nestled between bars and cheap restaurants.
Laenea entered one for the warmth. It was very dim, darker than the street,
high ceilinged and deep, so narrow she could have touched both side walls by
stretching out her arms. She did not. She hunched her shoulders and the ache
receded slightly.
    “May I help you?”
    Like one of the shop’s indistinct masses brought to
life, a small ancient man appeared. He was dressed in ill-matched clothes, part
of his own wares. Hung up like trophies, feathers and wide hats and beads
covered the walls of the secondhand clothing store. Laenea moved farther
inside.
    “Ah, pilot,” the old man said, “you honor
me.”
    Laenea’s delight was childish in its intensity. He was
the first person outside the hospital, in the real world, to call her by her
new title.
    “It’s cold by the water,” she said. Some
graciousness or apology was due, for she had no intention of buying anything.
    “A coat? No, a cloak!” he exclaimed. “A
cloak would be set off well by a person of your stature.” He turned; his
dark form disappeared among the piles and racks of clothes. Laenea saw bright
beads and spangles, a quick flash of gold lamé, and wondered uncharitably what
dreadful theater costume he would choose. But he held up a long swath of black,
lined with scarlet. Laenea had planned to thank him and demur; despite herself
she reached out. Velvet silk outside and smooth satin silk within caressed her
fingers. The cloak had a single shoulder cape and a clasp of carved jet. Though
heavy, it draped easily and gracefully. She slung it over her shoulders, and it
flowed around her almost to her ankles.
    “Exquisite,” the shopkeeper said. He beckoned
and she approached. A dim and pitted full-length mirror stood against the wall
beyond him. Bronze patches marred its face where the silver had peeled away.
Laenea liked the way the cape