Yarn

by Jon Armstrong

  "When did she start M-Bunny?"

  "M-Bunny." She paused. "That was one of the first things she did. She overhauled the prisons. She was going to save the men." Vada shook her head slowly and then focused on me. "You have to understand that before you… I mean years ago… the slubs were terrible in other ways. They were violent wreckages. Bands of gangs roamed around… killing… beating… you heard stories that there were ten million rapes a night out there in the darkness." Vada put her elbows on her knees. "Bunné neutered them all. She gathered them up, clothed them with her shirts. She made them into sexless simpletons. They're happier, she said. We've done a good thing for them. Maybe they were." Vada gazed at me sadly. "Anyway, it was a huge success. The city wasn't being attacked; the tourists came. That's how it all started. And she was just a kid then. She was nineteen."

  "She's the one in the posters." In the COM in M-Bunny buses and on the back of the fry trucks were posters of a smiling young woman, maybe fourteen, with apple cheeks and clear eyes. In most of them she is holding a basket of corncobs. In others, she stands amid rows of corn with sunshine blessing her hair.

  "I know!" Vada said, as if I had said it a hundred times before. "Those paintings… I did those."

  I thought of all the years I had stared at those posters in awe. "You painted those?"

  "I tried to stay close. I tried to steer her as best I could. I painted her how I wanted her to be." She rolled her eyes. "I've never seen any royalties on those, either!"

  "I remember staring at those posters at the COM. I didn't even know what she was, but I grew up loving her."

  "I know," she said softly. "I know."

  "She started with M-Bunny and built her empire from there?"

  "She invented those B-shirts with the hormones in them. From there, she just kept going."

  "Why are those so awful? That's the one thing I just can't fathom. Why isn't the neck hole even right?"

  Vada stared at me for a beat and then laughed. "You are crazy!"

  "I hate those shirts!"

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't laugh. I've never worn one very long." Vada shrugged. "What else can I say? She can sing. She can dance. She knows how to tell a story. It doesn't hurt that she's gorgeous. She's a brilliant researcher. I've told you all the things she's invented. As soon as she had her gender, she never looked back. And there were people begging to help her."

  Through the front of the ship, I could see the glowing towers straight ahead. They were only a few miles away. "You sound almost jealous."

  "No…" she said with an exhale. "It's not jealousy. I'm in awe. Or I was. All that she's done is amazing. It's just that now there's no one to tell her to stop."

  "Except her older sister."

  Vada snorted bitterly. "She'd cut me if I did."

  From behind a dozen layers of oilcloth and organza, I heard Xavier slur from his wounded mouth, "Begin city ascent!" The nose of the ship began to rise, and I could feel the strained harmonies of the powder motors.

  Vada's voice sounded a thousand miles away. "Let's get you ready."

  As I re-dressed in black super-stain, fingerless gloves, and Jacque 24 chameleon sneaks, and applied my yarn pulls, the Pacifica began its long climb to the top of the city making a slow corkscrew around the buildings. Once I was ready, Vada and I slipped into the forward observation port. The height of the city, the dazzling kaleidoscope of colors, the humming spires, towers, and constellations of color and geometry seemed to so fill our senses that for several minutes we didn't utter a word.

  Here, at last, was the communion I had expected to feel upon my return. I was taken back to the wonder of my first dazzling sight of Seattlehama as a boy. And even as I remembered the endless hallways, the miles of souvenirs, and the costumed t'ups in their worm coats, elaborate hoop gowns, chrome chokes, giraffe heads, and ball-shirts, I couldn't help but be awed by the structure of the city itself.

  Vada nestled beside me and we kissed. And then in the confines of the observation-little more than a sleeping-bagsized bubble of the organza-we said goodbye.

  "Three hundred," came Xavier's voice just as we were redressing.

  "We should get down to the mudroom," said Vada. "You've got everything?"

  "Yarn pulls," I said, holding up my hands. Patting my pockets, I continued, "Suicital pass… Gecko gloves… and my dad's yarn."

  Vada smiled. Just then the ship lurched to the right, and I heard a wall seam pop.

  "She going to make it?" I asked as we felt our way down the now-sloped corridor to the bottom of the ship.

  All Vada said was, "Hope so."

  Marti stood inside the mudroom, her arms crossed. "All finished with your biological farewell?"

  "That will be enough," said Vada.

  Marti frowned, and pointed toward the floor. "Don't unbutton the hatch until we give the call-we need the aerodynamics." She held out a hand. "Good luck."

  I shook it and thanked her.

  When she left us, Vada and I huddled in the growing cold. The engines began to choke as the air thinned and the balloon's lift stalled, and I found myself straining as if to raise the craft with sheer resolve.

  "Eight hundred stories," he called out. It seemed to take forever as the ship strained for each inch. Winds buffeted the ballonets and sometimes it felt like we were plummeting hundreds of feet at a time. Outside, the city continued to slowly spin around us. When we finally crested the neon green static of Infinity Tower, Xavier announced, "Nine hundred."

  Slipstreams of cloud and haze filled the air giving the buildings a crystalline glow. I heard several more seams snap.

  Marti whispered through the speaking tube, "Open the hatch!"

  Vada crouched down to undo the buttons, letting in the freezing night air. Straight down it was pure black and cold, but when I leaned far to the side, I could see the vista of the buildings stretching a mile down through layers of mist. I grasped the walls and held on. Above us, the ballonets quivered like soap bubbles. They seemed barely able to support us. The ship trembled and when I peered down to check, I could see that we had come to a stop.

  "We're not moving."

  "Shh!"

  More threads snapped. Several sounded like they were far above and I worried that the ballonets had broken. On either side of the gondola the motors were vibrating so violently that I feared they would rip from their moorings.

  Vada leaned toward me. "Tane," she murmured, "I do love you."

  Her words arrested me. And it was the first time in my life I heard them. My heart swelled, my throat tightened, and for the next minute-maybe more-I could barely breathe, let alone speak. I nodded my head, but knew she could only see the barest outline of watercolor on black from the city lights.

  Xavier's voice stretched down the tube. "Is the hatch open?"

  "I told them already!" came Marti's voice in the background.

  "That's why there's too much drag!"

  Ignoring the argument on the bridge, I put my arm around Vada's waist. "I love you."

  She kissed me, but in the darkness her mouth missed mine so that her upper lip knocked into my teeth. She pulled back with a yelp. I think she was cut.

  "Sorry!"

  "Shh!"

  Through the open hatch, I saw that we were now fifty feet above Bunné's huge, scalloped, open-air amphitheater at the top of her building. Rows of seats were filled with thousands of costumed t'ups. Through the gusts of air I could hear snatches of applause and the thump of a beat.

  "Destination target approaching," said Xavier.

  Vada grasped the flax rope and held it for me. "Good luck."

  "Twenty feet!" called Xavier.

  I took the rope in my gloved hands and stepped to the edge of the hatch. In the cover of darkness, the Pacifica was invisible.

  Because of the music and the noise, the motors were inaudible. It was eerie watching the costumed t'ups below so oblivious to our presence.

  "Fifteen feet."

  Some were eating; others, lau
ghingly throwing back glasses of brightly colored liquor. I saw a row of men, each dressed as Warrior Remon of Loin, dancing back and forth. Farther to the right I saw two Choky Bears fashioning each other.

  "Ten feet."

  We were nearing the stage and the mosh, filled with women dressed as Maiden Hunk, Pricilla Filth, and several Fine Sensual Rats. Grasping the rope tightly, the muscles of my arms and legs shook from cold and excitement.

  "Eight," shout-whispered Xavier as the ship began to shudder. I could hear the motors whine.

  "Five!… Four!"

  "Vada," I said as I heard several fabric tears.

  "Three… two…"

  "I'll always want you." The cloth above our heads ripped.

  "Zero! Jump! Now! Destination! Target!" Xavier's voice was a pistol discharging into the air.

  We were above the far edge of the mosh where it met a glass fence at the edge of the amphitheater. Beyond was only the sheer drop of the tower, an ocean of vapor, and, far below, the hard earth. I tried to find Vada's eyes amid the shadows and darkness to see if she had heard, but except for the shape of her dress, the puff of a sleeve cap, and the wrinkles of her bodice everything was black.

  "Now!" shouted Xavier. "Jump now. Jump now!"

  Re-grasping the rope, I leapt through the opening and plunged into pure icy cold. Clenching every muscle, I hung on to the rope as it was pulled taut-vibrated a low C-and then yanked me backward. When I let go, I spun head over feet.

  ANTARCTICA: MB INDUSTRIES BUILDING #9

  The windowless building was made of brick and painted the color of exhausted earth. And as I slowly approached, I saw a guard sitting at the bottom of the dry moat that surrounded the place. He peered up at me from shadow. While his shirt was fresh and smooth, his pants didn't look like they'd seen the affection of an iron in a long time. Worse, the knees had been distended and probably not just from protracted sitting, but weak fibers, low-spun yarn, and the application of some cheap finishing solution for shine and fit. When I stopped ten feet away, he uttered his predictable taradiddle, "Can I help you?"

  I stopped at the edge of the moat and pointed at the structure with my chin. "Inside." I trusted the guard to add both subject and predicate.

  He squinted up at me unhappily, chewing the inside of his right cheek. After a long moment, he spoke. "You need credentials."

  "Name's Tane," I told him.

  He stopped chewing, his mouth flattened into a thin line. "What?"

  "Tane Cedar," I enunciated. "Men's Precision Tailor."

  "You got credentials?"

  "Tell the rep I'm here."

  "No one goes in without credentials."

  If he said that word once more, I thought I might rip his shirt apart and make a gag with it. I pointed at the building behind him. "They know me." I hoped it was true. Glancing up at the sky as if content to watch the filmy clouds swim by, I noted that I didn't hear gravel beneath the soles of his plasticott shoes. I inhaled, and then as loudly and angrily as I could, screamed, "Do it now, smuthead!" I saw my own spittle fly toward the shadows and fall near the scuffed toes of his shoes.

  It was the man's belly that reacted first, stretching in pulls and wrinkles across his shirt. Then he swallowed, and I could see the strain around his eyes as he tried to shore up his front of disinterest and disapproval. For a moment, his lips flexed as if he were about to speak, maybe even mention credentials again, but then he looked away, fumbled his weight left and right, and finally, muttering a string of curses, pushed himself up, and trudged to the left.

  A minute later, I heard "Tane Cedar?" The guard stood, his hand clasped protectively over his belly. "Very sorry, sir." Turning, he pointed to the far end. "Use the green stairs to the office."

  I eyed the guard and nodded. The way he stood there, the orange light heating his face, eyes, and plump body, I felt sorry for him and ashamed of my outburst, even if it was the currency of influence.

  The green paint on the stairs was bubbling here and there, where rust sores were about to pop. While my reputation and notoriety hadn't done me much good with Ryder and Zoom, maybe they would be more impressed, here at the end of the slubs.

  Under the soles of my shoes, the metal clanked hollowly and the whole staircase swayed. At the roof, the green staircase became a walkway with handrails on either side leading to the peak of the roof, where I was surprised to see a greenhouse about thirty feet across.

  As I approached, I saw that the door was slightly ajar. Through the glass, I could see what looked like hotel furniture.

  "Hello?" I heard no reply and pushed open the door. Inside sat a black desk and chair, a bed, and a night table. Straight in back was another glass door that probably led down to the mill, and beside that door stood a dressing screen where a figure was visible through the pebbly glass, dyed burgundy hair peeking above the edge. All I could tell through the distortion was that the person was lean and was apparently dressing slowly.

  I licked my dry lips. "I'm looking for the rep. I have business."

  The figure paused and then with renewed energy finished buttoning something around her neck and stepped from behind the screen. I felt a shock of recognition: Pilla. It was impossible-and yet I knew immediately it was her. Though her skin was a shade lighter, probably bleached from the long darkness of Antarctica's winters, and her hair was no longer a cartoonish orange but a dignified shade of oak, the tiny and heartbreaking sadness that had filled her eyes remained. The real change was the ring embedded in her neck.

  A brilliant gold, two inches wide and a quarter of an inch thick, the metal pierced a good pinch of her flesh on the left side of her throat. It took me a second to decide that the ring wasn't some antipodal fashion statement. In that knot of flesh, the ring passed around her jugular. And from there the ring was tethered with a titanium rope to an I-beam above. It was not jewelry but a leash.

  Her eyes traveled to my shoes and back up. For a moment a smile played at the corners of her mouth, but quickly soured. "Don't tell me you're here to see me."

  "Of course I am. I'm on a supply errand and was directed here by a couple of fabric jobbers." I stepped across the threshold as the door closed behind me. "I love your new hair color! It works so well with your skin tone, it must be your original shade. It's a perfect juxtaposition." I smiled a little harder. "Curiously, I used a shade of brown exactly like it in a necktie just the other day." My eyes darted toward her jugular-she wasn't in charge here; she was another prisoner. "We never said goodbye in Seattlehama. Things changed quite quickly and drastically, and I had to leave. So I never got to really thank you for my time with Nathan Zanella.

  His influence was enormous and I doubt I-" I stopped and swallowed. "How are you?"

  She laughed at me with bitter delight. "I don't think I ever saw you lie so badly!" I could see the artery encircled by the golden ring pulse.

  I peered past her through another glass door that led down a set of stairs. On the floor below, I could see rows of workers sitting on what looked like large plasticott recliners. "This is a Xi mill, isn't it?"

  "The last in the world." Pilla stepped toward the desk, touched the screen and fiddled for a moment. She then narrowed her eyes at me. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I could ask you the same thing!" She did not respond, but gazed impatiently. I had delayed enough. "I need pure Xi. Enough to make a coat."

  "You don't still burn, do you?" Her tone was caustic. "It's not the fashion it once was."

  "No. I haven't since Seattlehama."

  Her fingers moved swiftly over the screen as she tabulated and finished what might have been a factory report. Her fingers stopped. "I never thought I'd see you again."

  "Nor I, you!" I tried to smile.

  She peered up at me. "You left me in quite a lurch."

  "I'm very sorry about that."

  "You don't know how bad it was… is." She craned her neck to the side. "How do you like my beautiful golden ring?"

  My heart was f
illed with the itchy wool of shame. "I don't know if you know this, but satins pinned Izadora's murder on me. I was arrested and almost killed."

  She shrugged sadly. "But you weren't."

  I had run a marathon around the globe only to smash into a brick wall two feet from the finish. "Is the Xi for sale?"

  "What's your rush?"

  "It's for a client. I have a deadline."

  She snorted, "Of course," and idly swiped at the screen.

  "Is it for sale?" I reached for my wallet. "I'm willing to overpay."

  "Why should I help you?"

  "I'm sorry about leaving you like I did. And I know I owe you. Name your price for the Xi."

  Gently adjusting the golden ring, she shook her head slowly. "What good would money do me?"

  "Can't you bribe your way out of here?"

  She glared at me.

  "Pilla, how did you get here? Who did this to you?"

  "I'm not telling you!"

  "I'm sure they could be persuaded to let you go."

  She laughed heartily at that.

  "I've come too far to leave without the Xi." She didn't even look up, just continued working her screen. "What do you want? Don't you want out of here? Don't you want to get out of that ring?"

  Pilla frowned at me. "Maybe I like being tethered in this little office atop this factory in the middle of nowhere!"

  I pointed over my shoulder. "I have a pair of water-shears in the car. I'll get them recharged, and I'm sure I could cut that thing off."

  She flicked angrily at the screen, which went black. "Do you know how much I risked for you? Do you have any fucking idea?"

  SEATTLEHAMA: EDGE OF THE AMPHITHEATER STAGE

  I came down hard, bounced, and crashed into the floor. As pain flashed in my bones like dots of a constellation, I took stock of myself. I was hurt, but alive. "Hey," I heard from behind. A t'up in a heavy fornication jacket glared at me. "That's not dancing!"