Glimmering

by Elizabeth Hand

  “ARE YOU READY? ELEVEN MINUTES AND—”

  Jack glanced at Mr. Tatsumi, still standing by himself. The CEO looked small and rather lost, and impatient. A few tentative notes wafted from where the sextet sat very straight in their folding chairs. Around the perimeter of the dining area, the lighttubes flickered from blue to soft lavender. People who had been standing quickly settled back into their seats. The room grew quiet as the strings’ scattered notes resolved into the opening bars of “The Blue Danube.”

  At one end of the dance floor a single follow spot appeared. Mr. Tatsumi stared at it, frowning. Jack moved his chair to get a better view, the hairs on his arms prickling. The follow spot bloomed larger, brighter, resolved into a column of blazing white. The column pulsed and trembled: something was taking shape within it. Then the adamant brilliance grew still. Light coursed into the figure at its center, like quicksilver filling a glass. People gasped. Jack heard someone whisper a name.

  On the dance floor stood a woman, radiance streaming around her like water. She was small, black-haired, with a white face and burning black eyes. She wore a fabulously elaborate kimono, iridescent as a diamond, and so much larger than the woman it seemed as though she were impaled upon it. The waltz strains faltered; Jack glanced at the sextet, saw them gazing awed as everyone else at the vision in white. Very slowly, with careful steps and head downcast, the luminous figure walked to the center of the dance floor.

  “Holy Christ,” breathed Leonard. “It’s Michiko.”

  Jack shook his head. “Who?”

  “His wife. The one who killed herself. Michiko Tatsumi. They made an icon of her.”

  Jack looked for Mr. Tatsumi. The CEO was bent double, clutching the edge of the table in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the icon. Several men clustered at his side, Larry Muso among them, but Mr. Tatsumi motioned them away. The CEO straightened, and haltingly walked to the dance floor.

  The woman stood, arms outstretched, the sleeves of her kimono spilling from her arms like wings. Her mouth parted in a rapturous smile. As the chairman approached, she moved her head slightly back and forth, as though struggling to see him in a darkened room. When he stopped in front of her she cocked her head and opened her arms to him. The waltz swept joyously on. For a moment they were absolutely still, the frail black-clad man staring down into that glorious nimbus of a face, the icon’s mouth fluttering as though she were trying to speak. With exquisite care, he took her in his arms, and they began to dance.

  Jack wiped his eyes and glanced around furtively, to see who else was crying. At his table, everyone. With the exception of Leonard, whose expression shifted from wonder to amusement to something Jack couldn’t read. He turned, looked at Jack, then shook his head.

  Enough, Jack thought. Leonard Thrope is rendered speechless.

  The room was still, all eyes fixed on the dancing pair. As “The Blue Danube” ended and the strings swept into another waltz, a couple from the head table stood and walked to the dance floor. Another couple joined them, and another, a zephyr of flowing gowns and coattails, until the entire room flowed with dancers, men and women, men and men, women and women, Mr. Tatsumi and his luminous bride, whirling like gorgeous clockwork toys. Jack watched them, so enthralled that he jumped when someone tapped his shoulder.

  “Jack?” Larry stood there, smiling. “Would you like to dance?”

  Jack stared at him, then nodded. “Yes,” he said, getting to his feet. “Of course.”

  There were so many waltzing couples that they could only move very slowly, and nowhere near the dance floor. Jack held Larry hesitantly, his hand poised upon the smaller man’s shoulder. Larry tilted his head and stared up at him with such naked joy that nothing mattered but this, that he was no longer alone; that he could still dance, hear music, feel the warmth of Larry Muso’s neck beneath his hand. They turned, clockwise, counterclockwise, first one leading and then the other. Jack glanced up to see other faces mirroring his own joy, women with their husbands, daughters with their fathers, lovers and businessmen, scientists and artists. Only Leonard Thrope seemed to be sitting it out, leaning back in his chair with legs crossed, watching with an expression at once wistful and satisfied: as though finally, after all these years, he had gotten what he’d paid for.

  “Look,” murmured Larry. He tipped his head to stare upward. “It must be almost midnight.”

  High above them the stars were gone. The dome seemed to have melted away as well; the grid of glass and metal had disappeared. Where it had been an aperture was an opening in the ceiling, a circle spiraling outward like a huge blinking eye, until it revealed the naked sky in all its livid glory, and within it the Fougas, blindingly lit. It was as though sunlight spilled onto the assembled waltzers, sun and the glimmering’s bacchic pennons streaming across the heavens. The sounds of the waltz grew faint as couples clutched each other and cried out in amazement. Jack heard an exultant roar as the Pyramid’s ten thousand invited guests looked upon this crack in the dying century’s defenses. From an even greater distance he heard the almost unimaginable thunder of the city’s trembling revelry; the world’s.

  “They’re ready,” said Larry Muso. Jack could only nod, watching raptly as the Fougas began to move. A darkness blotted out the whirling sky, as though a cloud passed between the Pyramid and the heavens.

  “That’s the platform.” Larry grabbed Jack’s hand. “That’s what it’ll look like again, soon—we’ll see the sky again! We’ll see the stars—”

  “It’s—it’s amazing.” Jack was trembling, with fatigue and exhilaration and something he could only think of as rapture. “I mean, that they’re going to do it.”

  Larry squeezed his hand. “We’re going to do it. All of us. We’re going to make it all right again.”

  The music had stopped. There was a deafening wave of sound, but Jack could still hear the Fougas’ steady thrum. He stared into open sky, the icy air dispersing the scents of perfume and sweat and Viconix. The dirigibles with their heraldic gryphons began to drift in formation, the SUNRA platform a swath of darkness behind them. Jack’s eyes hurt, he saw once more those luciferian flashes of emerald green. He found himself shouting, one hand on Larry’s shoulder, the other pounding at the air; cheering on the fleet.

  Beneath one Fouga there was a starburst of white and crimson, a Catherine wheel of orange flame. Everyone applauded wildly, and Jack laughed, exultant.

  “Look!” he cried. “God, look at it!”

  He glanced at Larry. His eyes were wide, his smile gone.

  “No,” said Larry Muso. “That’s wrong, they’ve got the timing wrong.”

  “What do you mean—”

  And then Jack looked up at the sky and saw that it was not fireworks but a conflagration, the night on fire:

  Blue Antelope had struck.

  Horrified screams as flame rained down and metal joists, burning fuselage and liquid fire. Glass exploded everywhere, there were bodies flying as people ran blindly, trampling tables and chairs, bodies. The forest of lighttubes shattered into bolts of violet and green. Jack stood, too stunned to move. Something slashed his arm. He looked down and saw a piece of glass protruding above his wrist. As in a nightmare he plucked it out, staring as blood welled from the seam of flesh.

  “Jack! Jack!” Oily black smoke stung his eyes as someone barreled past him. “JACK! ”

  “Larry!” Jack cried, and desperately searched until he saw him, sprawled on the floor. “Larry!”

  The other man lifted his head, stumbling to his feet. His face was dead white, but as his eyes met Jack’s he nodded and raised his hand.

  “I’m okay!” Larry shouted. “Go back to your house—wait for me there, Jack, I’ll meet you as soon as I can!”

  There was a roar as a slab of burning fuselage crashed to the floor, and Larry’s voice echoed from behind smoke and leaping flame. “I’ll find you, just GO! ”

  Jack staggered toward the blaze. His mouth formed Larry’s name, but he could no longer t
hink of anything but the smell of burning metal, burning flesh, the screams of a woman made of light lurching toward him—

  “Jackie ! Goddammit, Jackie—”

  A hand grabbed him and yanked him back. Through that infernal chiaroscuro he saw forms like great scorched insects staggering through the murk. Someone shoved him through smoking rubble, the heaped bricks of a fallen tenement. A video monitor opened onto the ocean’s calm blue eye, blinked into sparks and the stink of melting wires. Jack fell to his knees, gagging, was pulled to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried into a passage dense with smoke, walls radiating heat as though he stumbled through a furnace. He coughed, choking on poisonous fumes. Whoever had pulled him to safety was gone. There was only smoke and echoing screams, an airless passage funneling into darkness.

  As though he had plunged from a cliff, that world fell away. Smoke faded into frigid air. The darkness broke into plumes of crimson and violet. Jack shivered uncontrollably and looked around, dazed, saw that he was outside, in the street. There were people everywhere, thousands of them, the roar of flames and myriad explosions; sirens, screams, shouted orders, and the hoot of bullhorns. He saw a line of blazing cars, and overhead a vast pinwheel of green and violet, smoke and flames roiled into its core. A figure shook him fiercely and began to push him through the crowd.

  “Keep moving, Jackie, keep moving—”

  He turned and saw Leonard Thrope.

  “Leonard,” he choked. “What—”

  “Shut up.” Leonard pulled Jack close, holding him so tightly it hurt. “Fuck, I hope they’re here…”

  Leonard stopped, panting. His skin was dark with soot. His cheek had been ripped open; Jack could see a spur of bone beneath the blackened skin. Leonard turned his head, spit blood, and pointed down a side street. “They should be there. Come on—”

  He began to run and Jack followed, gasping with pain. “Who?”

  “My limo. I told them to wait for me—”

  They ran to where the sidewalk ended in a vacant lot strewn with wrecked cars. On the other side of the lot a grey stretch limo was parked. A man stood by the driver’s door, his mouthless mask shoved onto his forehead as he punched frantically at a cellphone. Another figure crouched beside the passenger door, face buried in his hands.

  “Leonard!” the first man shouted, as Leonard and Jack ran up. “What the—”

  “They blew ’em up!” Leonard yelled. The figure on the ground looked up: a young man in an anorak, stringy blond hair falling to his shoulders. “What the fuck’d you think, Fayal? Here—”

  Leonard flung the passenger door open and reached inside, pulled out camera bags, and tossed them into the street. He looked over his shoulder at his driver and pointed first at Jack, then at the young man. “Okay, listen, Fayal,” he commanded. “I want you to take them to Yonkers—”

  “Yonkers! The fuck I’m going to—”

  “Just fucking do it!” Leonard thrust his hand into his leather jacket and withdrew a wallet. “Here,” he said, shoving a wad of bills at Fayal. “That’s for you. You’ve done a great job, now you’re fired. Take the car, take it and go—it’s yours, go wherever you want! Just take them first—”

  The chauffeur shoved the phone into his pocket. He stared at the cash, took it, and stuffed it into his coat. “Shit. Where in Yonkers?”

  Leonard cocked his thumb at Jack. “He’ll give you directions. But go, now—”

  He grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pushed him toward the car, then snapped something at the blond boy. The boy just sat there. Leonard dragged him to his feet. “Get in the fucking car! No—in the front, with Fayal. Now listen to me, Trip—”

  Leonard pointed at Jack. “He’s bleeding. Find something to tie off his hand with, your sock or something, and then just sit tight till you get to Lazyland. There’s a doctor there who can help.”

  “ Doctor?” the boy repeated. “What do you mean, a—”

  Leonard pushed him roughly. “Just get in the fucking car, Trip.” Leonard turned to Jack. “Okay, now listen, Jackie.”

  Leonard grasped his friend’s upper arm and guided him to the middle seat, pulled a soiled bandanna from his leather jacket, and gave it to Jack. “Wrap this around your wrist. Trip! For Christ’s sake, find something for his hand!” he shouted angrily, then perched on the seat beside Jack.

  “Now listen, Jackie. You know Fayal. He’s going to take you to Lazyland, okay? He’s going to take you home. Emma’s there, she can help you. You’ll be okay, Jackie. You hear me?” He shook him gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”

  “What about you?” Jack whispered. It hurt to talk. Jack’s tongue probed at his lips, the inside of his mouth, and found blisters, scorched skin. “Leonard? Where’re you going?”

  Leonard’s hand remained on Jack’s shoulder. He turned to look back, to where buildings like molten gems blazed against a churning violet sky. Above them pulsed a mountain of light, so brilliant Leonard shielded his eyes.

  The Pyramid was in flames. Very slowly, the structure’s apex bulged outward, like an ampoule giving way. With a deafening roar it burst into an enveloping cloud of black and scarlet.

  “Holy shit,” breathed Fayal, ducking into the front seat.

  “Right,” said Leonard. He reached out onto the sidewalk, pulled open one of his leather satchels. There was a videocam inside. He slid the strap over his head, clicked the camera on and off a few times, playing with the focus.

  “Leonard?” Jack demanded. “Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Coming with you? What, to Lazyland?” With a grin Leonard turned the camera on Jack. Sirens wailed behind them; there was the clatter of gunfire. “No, Jackie.”

  “But you have to, Leonard—you can’t stay here—”

  Leonard whipped the camera from his face and began to laugh. “Are you kidding?” he yelled gleefully, sweeping his arm out to take in boiling sky, flames flickering across buildings, the rain of ash that had started to fall. “Leave? And miss all this? No can do, Jackie-boy! Not for anything on earth—”

  He grabbed Jack’s hand. “Oh, Jackie—I have loved you, in my fashion. You know that, right?” Jack nodded. “Okay. So you go on back to Grandmother’s house, and I’ll hang out at this swinging party.”

  Leonard stretched his legs out onto the sidewalk, chains jingling. As he turned to leave, Jack touched him on the arm.

  “Leonard—” His blue eyes met Leonard’s manic gaze. “Will I—will I ever see you again?”

  Leonard grinned. “Will you see me? Sure, Jackie—you’ll see me again, we’ll see everybody again, real soon.” He stood on the sidewalk, vidcam nestled within the folds of his leather jacket. Unexpectedly, he leaned down, his eyes filled with tears. He let one hand rest upon his friend’s cheek, and kissed Jack on the mouth. “I promise.”

  Jack gazed up at him. For a fraction of a second he saw them both there, the man who had saved him and the boy he had loved a hundred years ago, standing in a rain of fiery ash.

  But before he could say anything, Leonard danced back from the limo and closed the door. He tapped on the driver’s window and shouted, “Get him home, Fayal, got me? You take care of him, Trip! Do your fucking Christian duty, okay?”

  In the front seat the blond boy nodded.

  “Fucking idiot,” muttered Leonard Thrope.

  Jack stared out his window as the limo’s engine thrummed to life. “See you in the funny papers, Jackie-boy!” Leonard yelled. With a whoop he drew the vidcam to his eye. From behind the limo’s darkened glass two white faces gazed at him, bright flecks trapped in the lens and almost indistinguishable from the fluttering ash falling everywhere. The cam’s motor hummed as the recorded image flickered on the tiny monitor, dusted with electronic snow.

  The limousine began to drive away. As it did, Leonard stepped backward, his camera fixed on the car, heedless of nearby gunfire and smoke billowing from burning buildings. He moved deftly from the sidewalk into the middle of the shattered street, not feeling w
here embers gnawed through the soles of his boots or noticing the scent of his own scorched hair as he tracked those two faces staring at him from the car, recording them through the scrim of ash and video noise, the two of them growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared into the cloud of moving particles, flesh and flames and falling sky all exactly where Leonard wanted them.

  And Leonard himself exactly where he had always wanted to be: dancing in the century’s graveyard, laughing at the end of all things.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Glimmering

  It took them six hours to get to Lazyland. Trip tore a piece of fabric from his anorak and handed it to Jack. Jack wrapped his wounded hand, then slumped against his seat and fell into an exhausted stupor lanced with pain. Now and then he heard shouts from outside, Fayal’s curses and pleas for divine guidance, the sound of other vehicles, police sirens, ambulances. The boy in the front seat said nothing, and Jack made no effort to speak to him; only offered directions to Fayal when after hours they finally passed Co-op City, the limo edging through the mass of cars like a queen bee making her way through a broken hive. When Jack peered out the window behind them, he saw a city in flames: smoke rising from skyscrapers, flickers of gold and scarlet leaping from shadowy canyons and avenues. Fires burned along the George Washington Bridge. On the western banks of the Hudson he could see more blazes. The air inside the limo was acrid with the scent of burning.

  At last they broached the outskirts of the city of Yonkers. They drove past crowds of people, revelers and rioters who moved reluctantly to let the limo pass. Bottles crashed against the hood, rocks bounced off the roof, and once Jack dived to the floor when Fayal yelled at him, and automatic weapons-fire echoed in the street outside. The car plunged through a sea of bodies. Jack heard a sickening thump, but Fayal just kept on going, until at last they were bouncing down familiar rutted streets, past Delmonico’s and the ruins of Hudson Terrace, past gutted mansions where Jack could see figures capering beneath a sky like an open wound.