Morning Light
Slick spent the night on a piece of gnawed gray foam under a workbench on Factory’s ground floor, wrapped in a noisy sheet of bubble packing that stank of free monomers. He dreamed about Kid Afrika, about the Kid’s car, and in his dreams the two blurred together and Kid’s teeth were little chrome skulls. He woke to a stiff wind spitting the winter’s first snow through Factory’s empty windows. He lay there and thought about the problem of the Judge’s buzzsaw, how the wrist tended to cripple up whenever he went to slash through something heavier than a sheet of chipboard. His original plan for the hand had called for articulated fingers, each one tipped with a miniature electric chainsaw, but the concept had lost favor for a number of reasons. Electricity, somehow, just wasn’t satisfying; it wasn’t physical enough. Air was the way to go, big tanks of compressed air, or internal combustion if you could find the parts. And you could find the parts to almost anything, on Dog Solitude, if you dug long enough; failing that, there were half-a-dozen towns in rustbelt Jersey with acres of dead machines to pick over. He crawled out from under the bench, trailing the transparent blanket of miniature plastic pillows like a cape. He thought about the man on the stretcher, up in his room, and about Cherry, who’d slept in his bed. No stiff neck for her. He stretched and winced. Gentry was due back. He’d have to explain it to Gentry, who didn’t like having people around at all. Little Bird had made coffee in the room that served as Factory’s kitchen. The floor was made of curling plastic tiles and there were dull steel sinks along one wall. The windows were covered with translucent tarps that sucked in and out with the wind and admitted a milky glow that made the room seem even colder than it was. »How we doing for water?« Slick asked as he entered the room. One of Little Bird’s jobs was checking the tanks on the roof every morning, fishing out windblown leaves or the odd dead crow. Then he’d check the seals on the filters, maybe let ten fresh gallons in if it looked like they were running low. It took the better part of a day for ten gallons to filter down through the system to the collection tank. The fact that Little Bird dutifully took care of this was the main reason Gentry would tolerate him, but the boy’s shyness probably helped as well. Little Bird managed to be pretty well invisible, as far as Gentry was concerned. »Got lots,« Little Bird said. »Is there any way to take a shower?« Cherry asked, from her seat on an old plastic crate. She had shadows under her eyes, like she hadn’t slept, but she’d covered the sore with makeup. »No,« Slick said, »there isn’t, not this time of year.« »I didn’t think so,« Cherry said glumly, hunched in her collection of leather jackets. Slick helped himself to the last of the coffee and stood in front of her while he drank it. »You gotta problem?« she asked. »Yeah. You and the guy upstairs. How come you’re down here? You off duty or something?« She produced a black beeper from the pocket of her outermost jacket. »Any change, this’ll go off.« »Sleep okay?« »Sure. Well enough.« »I didn’t. How long you work for Kid Afrika, Cherry?« » ‘Bout a week.« »You really a med-tech?« She shrugged inside her jackets. »Close enough to take care of the Count.« »The Count?« »Count, yeah. Kid called him that, once.« Little Bird shivered. He hadn’t gotten to work with his styling tools yet, so his hair stuck out in all directions. »What if,« Little Bird ventured, »he’s a vampire?« Cherry stared at him. »You kidding?« Eyes wide, Little Bird solemnly shook his head. Cherry looked at Slick. »Your friend playing with a full deck?« »No vampires,« Slick said to Little Bird, »that’s not a real thing, understand? That’s just in stims. Guy’s no vampire, okay?« Little Bird nodded slowly, looking not at all reassured, while the wind popped the plastic taut against the milky light.