Mississippi Blues
          Kathleen Ann Goonan
                   nanotech cycle 02


              3S XHTML edition 1.0
          scan notes and proofing history


                          Contents
    Prologue
•

    1- Trouble in Mind
•

          One: Resurrection Blues
      o

    2- Beautiful Ohio
•

          Two: Free-Fall Blues
      o

          Three: Cincinnati Underworld Woman
      o

          Four: Lost World Blues
      o

          Five: Jack O’ Diamonds and Lightnin’ Lil
      o

          Six: Mad Rafter Blues
      o

          Seven: Human Radio Blues
      o

          Eight: Ghostly Blues
      o

          Nine: Information Blues
      o

    3- Blaze Gets the Blues
•

          Ten: Soul Change Blues
      o

          Eleven: Dead Man Blues
      o
    4- Down to Cairo
•

          Twelve Winding Sheet Blues
      o

          Thirteen Change Your Mind Blues
      o

          Fourteen Revelation Blues
      o

          Fifteen Midnight Special
      o

    5- Mattie
•

          Sixteen: Big Bee Blues
      o

    6 Cairo
•

          Seventeen: Big Town Blues
      o

    7- Fast Train Blues
•

          Eighteen: New World Blues
      o

          Nineteen: Mississippi Blues
      o

    8- Bright Mississippi
•

          Twenty: Doppelganger Blues
      o

          Twenty-one: New Mind Blues
      o

          Twenty-two: Bomber Blues
      o

          Twenty-three: Nan in the Moon Blues
      o

    9- Memphis
•

          Twenty-four: Revolution Blues
      o

          Twenty-five: Memphis Blues
      o

          Twenty-six: Evil Eye Blues
      o

          Twenty-seven: Reunion Blues
      o

    10- Alice and the Mysterious Stranger
•

          Twenty-eight: Alice Blue Gown
      o

          Twenty-nine: Them Old Kozmic Blues
      o

          Thirty: Free Will Blues
      o
           Thirty-one: Past Blues
       o

           Thirty-two: Heavenly Blues
       o

           Thirty-three: Big Fish Blues
       o

           Thirty-four: Healing Blues
       o

    11- Delta Blues
•

           Thirty-five: Mattie’s Blues
       o

           Thirty-six: Blues in the Night
       o

           Thirty-seven: Changing Blues
       o

           Thirty-eight: Little Girl Blues
       o

           Thirty-nine: Definitely K Street Blues
       o

           Forty: Lost Future Blues
       o

    12- Crescent City
•

           Forty-one: To Miss New Orleans
       o

           Forty-two: Blues
       o

           Forty-three: True Grit Blues
       o

           Forty-four: Sad-Hearted Blues
       o

           Forty-five: New Orleans Blues
       o

           Forty-six: Blue Skies
       o

    Epilogue
•



       Tor Books by Kathleen Ann Goonan
       Queen City Jazz
       The Bones of Time
       Mississippi Blues
       A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
       NEW YORK
       This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events
    portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used
    fictitiously.
    MISSISSIPPI BLUES
    Copyright © 1997 by Kathleen Ann Goonan
    Quotes from The Land Where the Blues Began by Alan
  Lomax (copyright 1993, published by Dell Publishing)
  used by permission of the author. All rights reserved.
    All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
  this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
    This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by
  David G. Hartwell
    A Tor Book
    Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
    175 Fifth Avenue
    New York, NY 10010
    Tor Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com
    Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty
  Associates, Inc.
    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
    Goonan, Kathleen Ann.
    Mississippi blues / Kathleen Ann Goonan.—1st ed.
    p. cm.
    Sequel to: Queen city jazz. “A Tom Doherty Associates
  book.”
    ISBN 0-312-85917-1
    I. Title.
    PS3557.0628M5 1997
    813'.54—dc21 97-21892
    CIP
    First Edition: December 1997
    Printed in the United States of America


                   For my parents,
      Thomas Goonan and Irma Knott Goonan,
who made sure I had as many books as I wanted and all
  the time in the world to read them, with love and
               gratitude for all the joy.
                               THANKS
  The support and encouragement of my husband, Joseph Mansy,
were essential to the completion of this book, and I thank him for
this largesse and confidence with all my heart.
  Thanks also to those who took the time to read and comment on
the manuscript: Steve Brown, Tom Goonan, Pam Noles. Randy
Simmons, Michaelene Pendleton, Kathleen Dalton-Woodbury, Tad
Dembinski, and the Sycamore Hill workshop of 1995. As always,
David Hartwell’s shaping of the material was essential.


   Minsky: We’re going to make machines intelligent. We are going
to make them conscious!
  Englebart: You’re going to do all that for the machines? What are
you going to do for the people?
  —Page 34, Out of Control , Kelly


                         Mississippi Blues



                              Prologue
                               Blaze

My name is Blaze. I am walking by the riverfront in Cincinnati.
Cincinnati after the Third Nanotech Wave. I have to keep telling
myself because I forget. There is something wrong with me. This is
because I was dead, I guess.
   It is twilight: chilly, with a slight mist rising from the dark river.
It blurs the lights that flicker festively now and then from
Roebling’s ruined bridge, which extends bravely into the wild,
earthquake-spawned confluence of the new and old Ohio Rivers. I
know these things, can clap words to these qualities, and it is good
for it means that language is returning. It is frightening for the
connections between what you experience and the words, so
infinitely rich, to vanish. The bottom falls out of the world.
  A jostling, rowdy crowd fills the riverfront. They dance to no
music I can focus on; it is all just bits and pieces of shouted song,
arising seemingly at random from the melee, each fragment
conflicting with a thousand others in the general roar. There is so
much noise it’s hard to think. But I have to keep going over what
happened. Each time I remember a little more.
   These are the main things: I was shot in the chest by John, my
Shaker Brother, at Shaker Hill just outside deserted Dayton where
we lived secluded from nan, near the little empty town of
Miamisburg. I don’t remember being shot, but that’s what Verity
tells me. Verity killed John by throwing her radio stone at his head
before he could shoot anyone else. She always had a good strong
pitch. Maybe this is partly what is making me so sick: it seems as if
everything went crazy and I don’t remember it.
   Maybe I should feel like celebrating because of my resurrection
but I don’t. For a while I did, when I went into a bar with Sphere
and played the piano while he played the saxophone. Then I was
ecstatic—almost, truly, out of my body and out of my mind with
joy. The language of music is lodged deep within me, and happily
has not been lost. It is my core and always has been. But I can’t
find Sphere right now. My eyes are playing tricks on me anyway.
Sometimes all I can see are brilliant, moving splashes of color that I
can’t visually parse, so I might not recognize him anyway.
   I look uphill into the City, which flashes like lightning as parts of
it reactivate briefly. The buildings, from historically varying times,
stand row on row like silent stones in a spectacularly huge and
strange graveyard; then suddenly a vast splash of light illuminates
a Tulip or a Rose on top of a building—terrifying, for these Flowers
are out of scale, bigger than the deserted L. Steele Department
Store just outside of Dayton. I am relieved when they darken again
for I can forget that they exist when I don’t see them.
  Everyone I’ve ever known is dead, or gone, or, in the case of
Verity, changed to some sort of inhuman being. Hot tears course
down my cheeks. I collapse on a bench. I nod and take a beer some
ecstatic soul presses into my hand before she reels away and swig it
down, suddenly angry with everything. I clench my head between
my trembling hands and a huge, single sob rips through me.
  I leap from the bench and run, uphill, into the City, away from
the wildness. Panting, drenched in sweat after three blocks of
running, I stop, and sway.
  Yes, this is a quiet street. Blessedly so, for I remember more of
my story. I wasn’t really aware of what was happening so it’s just a
story to me.
   Okay. My chest was ripped open from John’s rifle shot. Verity
wrapped me in nan sheets that flashed with tiny lights. I was not
conscious but my body did not deteriorate. Had John known that
those sheets were there in the attic for so many years, he surely
would have destroyed them. It would have made him supremely
angry to be saved by them, as apparently he was, though he may
still lie dead within them, somewhere. Verity braved the wilderness
between Miamisburg and Cincinnati, stashed me (still alive but
suspended) in Union Station, and dared to enter Cincinnati, this
fortress surrounded by a nan-generated wall, enlivened within by
nan.
  There’s that flickering again. It’s unsettling. Verity said that’s
part of the rebooting process. Oh, God—a picture of Verity’s face!
But—now it’s gone, leaving just a blank gray wall. It shone from
the side of the building. For a moment it’s hard to breathe.
  But it really is like a dream here, so I’m not going to run
screaming through the night, as seems appropriate. I can’t get
upset over every little thing. I keep walking.
  Anyway, Verity did all this to find out how to revive me. But
then, from what I can gather, she freed Cincinnati. I’m not sure
what she freed it from. Something about how it was programmed,
and how the people were filled with the thoughts and lives of others
almost like slaves, year after year, and were stored somehow,
suspended, between their brief flashes of lived time.
   I’m about six blocks from the river and it’s quiet. I
remember—it’s not too far from the library. Verity tried to get me
to go in a little while ago but I refused. I see a lovely building on my
right called the Netherlands Hotel and admire the beautiful
phrasing of matter Verity says is Art Deco. But then it all twists
and blurs before my eyes. I’ve never been sick in my life and it is
just awful to be this way. Queasy, uneasy, and afflicted with visual
processing problems, that’s what Sphere called it.
  Down the street, in the center of a sort of mall, a black man sits
on the base of a fountain, playing a guitar.
  He is a lone, dark figure, and his shadow-double looms large on
the fountain behind him, bent where light causes it to climb the
steps, and rippled where it rests against some ornate curves. His
shadow moves in deliberate rhythm, and his hollering song rises
above the soft splash of the fountain.
   The music draws me down the darkened street. As I approach
him the building next to him lightens for about ten seconds,
revealing jewel-glowing lines of light, green and yellow and red,
which race upward then vanish while light floods from all the
windows so I get a good look at him though it’s over fast and I’m
still a long block away.
   Guitar chords stutter from beneath his long, plucking fingers in a
strange, halting rhythm. It’s good and loud, and echoes down the
empty street. The melodic quaver in his voice and the utterly new
sound of this music sends a chill down my spine. He sings it harsh
and straight and mournful, something about trouble in mind, which
I certainly have.
  I am dizzy. Sweat inches down my face. I might live the rest of
my life, and it might be short, in this awful, kaleidoscopic
half-world. Yet this music redeems me somehow, reaches through
the sensory flotsam and organizes it, removes the sickness.
   But he stops. I try to hurry forward but can’t go fast enough. I
shout but find to my horror that my plea is only in my mind; I can’t
make it emerge from my mouth. I try to run but my body won’t
obey and I fall, so slowly, it seems, onto the hard pavement, the
breath knocked out of me. There’s no point in trying to get up. The
cool, rough pavement is at least dependable, cradles my aching body
as an overwhelming despair washes through me. In this darkness,
though I’m sure it’s not full night yet but only another spell of the
blindness I’ve been experiencing, I might almost be dead again.
  Save for that distant music, beginning again, a bright, tenuous
thread to which I cling.


                                  1
                           Trouble in Mind



                          One
                Resurrection Blues</span

The first sunset after Cincinnati’s awakening was fiery, flaring
incandescent red and yellow sheets of light through transparent
intense blue, coloring the coming night as the inhabitants stood on
what was left of Roebling’s suspension bridge cheering and weeping.
  The roar of the Upper Falls on the New Ohio River was fierce.
Flock after flock of dark starlings rose from the Kentucky forests
expanding like the dissipation of darkness itself into the brilliant
air, and rumor took its first steps toward legend as people began to
talk about how it all happened, and to wonder what year it was —for
even immortals, they discovered, like to know .
   And several people jumped off the bridge, thinking that they could
still fly.
   Against the sunset a tremendous city shimmered, the last low
rays of sun highlighting in gold and silver a perfectly melded vision
of all the most wondrous manifestations of architectural thought in
recent centuries. Art Deco and Beaux Arts, Chicago School and
Postmodern, New Nan and even nineteenth-century stolid and
gargoyled Victorian skyscrapers filled the skyline, perfectly placed
so as to entrance the eye and fill the heart with wonder and awe.
  Anyone not from the City might have felt more terror than awe at
the huge Flowers blossoming from every high point, resembling
roses, gladiolus, daisies, an entire spectrum of lilies, stretching to
catch the last rays of sun.
  Even more terrifying was the abrupt eruption of a swarm of
human-sized Bees rising from the Cincinnati Zoo, at the heart of the
City, as the Earth’s turning intensified the burning, golden,
disappearing sun.
  The Bees swept over the City, and low over the bridge, with a
sound like a thousand rushing engines, so close to the people on the
bridge that the wind from the Bees’ wings stirred their hair.
  The swarm turned west, flew round the bend in the Ohio River,
and vanished into the last gleaming fragment of light.
   Around midnight, an old folktune rose from the City in unison,
from the bridge, from parks, from rooftops, from bars where people
spent hours on end sampling exotic brews gushing inexhaustibly
from the heart of the City:
          Some rows up
          But we floats down
          Way down the Ohio to Shawneetown
  And segued into:
          Oh the river is up and the channel is deep
          The wind is steady and strong
          Oh won’t we have a jolly good time
          As we go sailing along
          Down the river, oh down the river, oh down the river we go
          Down the river, oh down the river, oh down the Ohio!
  A great shout arose and then they cycled through the songs again.
  And again.
  And again.
  The entire populace was jolted awake, torn free from decades of
servitude to one woman’s dreams, during which they had constantly
re-created a living tapestry of novels, plays, music. They’d had no
individual lives during this time.
  But then Verity came, and changed the structure of the Cincinnati
system.
  From time to time people tried to access histories they did not
remember by pressing their hands to glowing interstices running up
the sides of the magnificent buildings. Their modified bodies
framed queries translated into metapheromones by receptors in their
hands. Those metapheromones were a precise language, and the
questions were translated by the membrane of the interstice; that
information met the DNA of the e. coli within. The DNA formed an
unimaginably vast storage system .
  But the buildings were not working correctly. SYSTEM WIDE
CRASH was the disconcerting message given forth, and, even more
alarming: 100 HOURS BEFORE CONVERSION—NEW
INFORMATION AVAILABLE AT THAT TIME.
  But the strangest message of all was much more simple and
direct: PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!
  And sputtering through at odd times was a single word: VERITY.
   The First Nanotech Wave occurred after a decade of
nanotechnology’s infancy, during which limited self-replication
came into wide use, with applications ranging from manufacturing
to medicine. During this period, self-replicating molecules entered
the world via small secret labs and the vaults of prestigious
international consortiums, promising heaven but often delivering
hell. Some were legal. Most violated the international laws and
treaties set up in haste.
  Verity, who was absorbing this information from a learning
cocoon, a clear membrane that surrounded her snugly as she lay
within it on the third floor of the Cincinnati library, was jarred to
awareness of the outside world by a faint vibration. It subsided
quickly, though, and Verity sank back into the history she had
never before known as into a rich, real dream.
   Radio had failed. She knew this, of course. Go on, she prompted
silently, her will translated into metapheromonal commands below
the threshold of her consciousness.
  The information flow resumed.
  When radio failed, washed out more and more often by a puzzling
source sometimes rumored to be a previously hidden quasar (this
particular history had no further details concerning the matter,
apparently), the Second Nanotech Wave emerged, and Flower
Cities began to flourish. Radio waves and all magnetic mediums
became completely undependable, sending civilization backward,
but also forward into a new world where the human body itself
could be modified to receive and transmit precise information.
Nanotech terrorist acts constantly threatened the integrity of every
link in the grid that maintained even fitful functioning. Work on
nanotechnology took on new seriousness and intensity in industry,
government, and at universities, then surged out of control in
unforeseeable ways. Those who did not accept the changes were left
behind in more primitive communities. Those who were changed
experienced terror and wonder; enslavement, and release into
utterly new ways of knowing.
   As feared, international research came to an abrupt halt as
communications ceased; terrorist destruction of wire and fiber
optics proved far too easy in the post-nan world. But genetic
engineering reached a state where it was not only possible but
supremely sensible to integrate biology’s speed, intensity, and
precision into cities, making every Flower City almost a single
biological entity. Nanotechnology was perfectly poised to inject the
correct minuscule information into living matter and thus regulate
its growth, its utility, any and all characteristics.
   Pheromones, used by many living creatures for precise
communication, were studied in great detail, isolated, and combined
like an entirely new alphabet into metapheromones. People within
the cities could choose to purchase biomodifications from
developers. With these receptors, transformed humans could use
metapheromones to communicate virtually any information swiftly,
fully, and precisely.
  Thus the Flower Cities were born.
   New and magnificent, they studded North America. Each city
that could afford to do so voted on whether or not to convert. Most
did. Denver, New York, San Francisco, the eastern seaboard from
Boston to Washington, Seattle, Houston, New Orleans all became
part of a vast network of new, almost Utopian cities. They were
linked by the powerfully swift maglev train line known as NAMS,
the North American Magline System, running on a switching
amalgamation of solar power, steam, and electricity. Jets were
unusable, since so many components of their operations were
undependable, but NAMS was almost as swift, and much more
convenient, delivering travelers within blocks of their destination.
Small planes flown low, in daylight, were still used by some people,
particularly those in the fiercely independent Aviators’ Clubs.
 Verity lost the flow as the building shuddered again. Again, the
motion subsided quickly.
  Verity struggled to subdue her rising panic and remain within
the cocoon rather than rise in fear and flee. She believed that there
were at least a few more hours until Cincinnati began its
conversion in earnest, and information was quite precious. During
her seventeen or so years as a Shaker, the history of the changes
nanotechnology had wrought were scant. Now she was filled with a
desire to know . She took a deep breath and returned to the lost
history, a combination of images, voice, and simulated experiences.
   During the heyday of the Flower Cities, pouches of
business-imbued metapheromones flew back and forth on NAMS;
literature hypertexed metapheromonally filled users with emotional
intensity and immersion in authors’ visions an infinity beyond
clumsy old-fashioned virtual reality. Within the cities, information
could be accessed or sent from any room. Glowing interstices filled
with fluid transported information that converged in rooftop
collectors. These evolved via nanotechnological breakthroughs into
huge flowerlike entities. Taking advantage of the fascinating and
precise communicative abilities of honeybees, nanotechnologists
quickly realized that large genetically engineered Bees (tm) were
far superior to the prototype cyborgs which originally collected
information and disseminated it throughout the cities, particularly
when implanted with human limbic tissue, which gave them an
emotional imperative to deal in human information.
  But the Information Wars, which raged worldwide, put an end to
this brief magnificence.
  Entire cities could be easily sabotaged, and nanotechnologists
were put to work in top-secret laboratories and think tanks to find
defenses. Some of these defenses turned out to be lethal. Airborne
plagues could kill quickly, or change the neuronal patterns of the
plagued to fill them with any thoughts the creator of the plague
might desire. Plagues of thought—viruslike, airborne informational
nan—released during the Information Wars were so compelling
that those unwilling to be drawn into the strangeness could only
isolate themselves and hope for favorable winds.
  And when a series of long-predicted earthquakes shattered the
northeast at the height of the Information Wars, a new phase
began.
   The Third Wave changed everything irrevocably, isolating the
Flower Cities and turning North America into an unstable collection
of independent, individual human frontiers. Cumulative tampering
with ancient genetic programs governing aspects of human function
and behavior, including the ability to survive famine resulted in a
precipitous worldwide drop in population. Yet at the same time, for
those so privileged, the old dream of human immortality took on a
terrible reality.
  “Terrible” was not a word most people would associate with
immortality. But in Cincinnati, immortality had been terrible
indeed.
  The library trembled again, for over a minute. This time Verity
could not ignore it.
  As she sat up, the cocoon unfurled, freeing her. She tipped herself
over the low clear edge and sat on the floor, trying to reorient
herself after her suffusion in history. She realized, as she stared out
the huge window at the Art Deco building across the street, that
she had no idea if the history fed her by the library was reliable.
   Verity stood slowly, battling dizziness. The clear, viscous fluid
beneath the cocoon, held within a hard transparent oval, through
which information flowed from the library and was transmitted to
the cocoon, moved in a single slow wave which stilled quickly. She
braced herself against another tremor, which lasted only a second,
then stretched and began to pace the vast, smooth floor of the
library, where there were no books, only cocoons. Anxious to leave,
she felt that she was still not done with the library. How long did
she have?
  She had recently initiated drastic changes within the heart of
Cincinnati, though she still wasn’t sure how they would play out, or
how long it would take to reset the deep, complex programs
governing all aspects of the City, including the very shape of the
buildings. The City trembled, literally, on the verge of a conversion
—a nanotech surge that would sweep through the matter of
Seam-enclosed Cincinnati and reconfigure everything, even the
mental state and the very bodies of the inhabitants. The conversion
would essentially reboot— reprogram —the City. Information would
flow anew, readjusting the organization of the very matter of the
place, filling those within it with whatever philosophy and goals
were mastered into it.
  Verity had penetrated to the very heart of that philosophy.
Though she hoped that she had changed it, hoped that the
conversion would instill Cincinnati with freedom and hope and the
possibility for true growth, she had no idea at all if her changes
would be successfully reflected in the conversion.
  For that reason, she had thought it best that all leave Cincinnati,
and allow it to mutate on its own—to generate new humans from
the memory banks of the Hive, if it chose to do so; if it could. If the
plans she had freed contained that capability.
  To compel the inhabitants to flee, Verity had used that which she
had grown up fearing as evil—the Territory Plague, or, as they
called it here, the Norleans Plague—and infected the entire City.
   The entire City . She stopped pacing and looked out the window,
at the few people on the street below. Most were at the riverfront
now. How many were there, in Cincinnati? It was a relatively small
area, just the old downtown and several blocks outward. A fleeting
figure named itself within her mind, information retrieved from her
intimate connection with the City. Nine thousand seven hundred
and forty-eight people. Of those, two thousand or more had already
set off, plague-driven, to meet the awful risk of whatever lay
beyond in the wilderness North America had become.
  No one knew who had created the Norleans Plague, but those
under its influence were overwhelmingly compelled down the
Mississippi, beginning from remote tributaries if necessary, reliving
the emotionally imperative journey of Jim and Huckleberry Finn,
escaping the old, the abusive, the inebriated, the enslaving, at great
personal peril.
  Of course, Verity knew the more recent history of Cincinnati
with every cell of her body: during the age of nanotechnology’s
birth, there lived a brilliant young nanoarchitect named Durancy,
who was in love with his older cousin, Rose, a city planner.
Durancy, crazed by guilt when his mother, India, died from a
terrorist plague just before near-immortality became possible,
preserved an emotionally warped India and replicated her within
the depths of the Cincinnati system. Rose knew what he was doing,
feared the worst, and created her own counterplan. Decades later,
Verity had saved the City from perpetual replaying of India’s
twisted dream of American arts.
  Just yesterday, in fact.
  Or was it last week? Verity was further upset by the realization
that time had blurred terribly for her. She turned away from the
window and resumed her pacing. It felt good to move. How long had
she been in the cocoon?
 The responsibility , she thought, increasingly sick with fear.
Norleans quite possibly did not even exist any longer.
  But whether it did or not, she had to lead all the people she had
released downriver to Norleans, or to whatever was in its place.
Imprisoned by the City decades ago, their hearts, minds, and very
beings pressed into service during which they relived the American
arts—literature, music, painting—so the City could update its
metapheromonal library, they were like innocent children now.
They didn’t remember what had befallen them and must now learn.
Verity wasn’t sure if they would be grateful. She had replaced one
form of enslavement with another. Perhaps they would regain their
identities; their individuality. But they still would be unable to
exercise choice. They would be compelled to raft down the river,
perhaps to their deaths. Or perhaps to true freedom, when they
reached Norleans. That had been her hope.
  But… did Norleans even exist? The only proof she had was the
brief spurt of sound from her old radio stone, a woman proclaiming
that she was broadcasting from a clear-channel station in Norleans.
Verity had only heard this once in her entire life. Now she realized
that she had bet all their lives on this tiny fragment of sound. She
sighed and bowed her head. A small crack in the library floor
mended itself as she watched.
  She had no way of knowing what would really happen. It was a
massive gamble. And the gamble was with the lives of others, who
had not made this decision for themselves. They could not have
done so, for they were trapped within the-Cincinnati system. When
she had given them all the Norleans Plague, she had thought that
she was freeing them, tearing them from the City by inflicting upon
them an even more powerful compulsion. Now they would all head
out. Into the Territory …
  This time, that word, “Territory,” invoked a vision of a rough raft
with a wigwam in the center, imbued with a tale which radically
rearranged one young man’s entire vision of the world from the
inside out when he realized that all he had been taught was false,
and that he had the power to form his own ideas and to act on them
in the face of the opposition of his entire society.
  Huckleberry Finn . The story at the heart of the Norleans Plague,
which she too now had. It alone had the power to tear her from
Cincinnati, from Abe Durancy’s mad, replayed tale of guilt and
power and pain. She remembered, dimly, reading it when much
younger, curled in a chair in the small Shaker Hill library on a
snowy day while a fire burned in the stove next to her.
  The memory of Shaker Hill enveloped her like a beautiful dream.
Just outside of the old town of Miamisburg, near Dayton, the
Shakers eschewed all nanotechnology—indeed, almost all
technology—in a community created when the Flower Cities were
going wild, and nanotech airborne plagues of thought drifted across
the land. Some said even throughout the world. But no one at
Shaker Hill seemed to know for sure.
  Of one thing she was quite certain—at Shaker Hill, they had
been terrified of the plague and its compulsions. The price they had
paid for trying to avoid it was a loss of history.
  Verity was beginning to think that perhaps no one—no one
person— knew what had really happened during the Third Wave.
She glanced over at the cocoon, gleaming in the low lights. It
couldn’t tell her something it did not know.
  But what had happened? Not just to her, but to the world? There
had once been a country, a government—the United States. Russ,
an old man whose parents created Shaker Hill when he was a
young man, always claimed they were better off without the
goddamned government. But where had it gone?
  The more she considered it, the worse her decision seemed. But it
was done and there was no going back. If there was a cure for the
Norleans Plague, no one she knew had ever heard of it. All that the
Cincinnatians could possibly desire, now, was to go to Norleans.
They might remember who they were and retrieve their
personalities, buried under decades of reliving the stories of others.
Norleans might still exist; but it was just a rumor. If it did, by some
miracle, still exist, and if they did, by another miracle, get to
Norleans, the plague might cease to matter once the victim reached
the goal.
   But the plague itself might kill them. The river might. Or any of
the unforeseen perils of an unknown continent. Once it had been
thickly peopled; now it was nearly deserted. Once there had been
gasoline engines, dependable communication devices, governments,
currencies, businesses. For the most part, these had vanished. But
she didn’t know much more than that. All her knowledge had come
from the small library at Shaker Hill, from Russ, their only living
link with the world before the Third Wave, and from the learning
cocoons, which had agendas of their own and were not necessarily
to be trusted.
  The rafts, and the river… maybe that was a peril she could
control.
  A thought took hold. Maybe it would be better for everyone to go
in one great boat. Or two. Safer, of course. Would the plague allow
for that? Would the downriver impetus be enough to satisfy that
craving for Norleans? Well, she had the plague, and she could
consider going on a boat as well as on a raft. Of course, she was
physiologically different from most of the Cincinnatians, though the
exact parameters of the differences were something that she did not
especially want to explore. That might explain her slight remove
from the plague’s effects so far.
  She dropped into a chair and brooded. Boats sounded like a good
idea. But where would she find a riverboat? Could the City perhaps
make one? It was not exactly functioning at full capacity. And she
no longer controlled the City. She no longer wanted to.
  She’d solved one problem and created others, which now seemed
equally serious.
   The marble floor paled as the subtle lighting of the library awoke,
triggered by the darkening sky. The sun was setting. The hours
were ticking by. She could afford to lose no more time. She had to
deal with the consequences of her actions, and quickly.
  Verity went back to the learning cocoon she’d used, one of many
scattered throughout the room, and paused next to it.
   It was all she had, this glistening wrap of, quite possibly,
seriously limited information; the only way to learn what they
might face before setting out for the Territory. Maybe she could
find out whether the City memories had stored somewhere the
plans for boats.
  She rolled back into it gently and felt its comforting membrane
shrink to grip her lightly, silkily, ready to link deeply, to tailor
whatever it had to impart to her specific learning style.
  But this time the connection was different. More distant; more
disorienting. Every few minutes, the floor of the library trembled,
as if from an earthquake. Brief shrieks punctuated the celebratory
songs Verity heard through holes in the windows that failed to
self-heal as they shattered. She tried to readjust herself, for she
was absorbing the history of the big earthquake that had changed
the Ohio River above Cincinnati forty years earlier to an entirely
new course. But it was no use. She was wrenched from the cocoon
as the floor tilted, spilling her out roughly.
  Dazed by the loss of connection, she staggered to her feet and
rubbed her eyes. Colors ran together, blurring the outlines of all she
saw. She felt ill, this time, and stumbled as the floor trembled
again. The city was definitely changing. Or maybe the Norleans
Plague was finally kicking in.
  She hurried down stairs now still which had been designed to
move, memory sharpening after her rough disconnection. It seemed
that she’d found out nothing about the Territory into which they
were heading… and she was crying…
   But no wonder, when she thought of all that was lost—Shaker
Hill, and her Shaker brothers and sisters—no wonder she dashed
tears from her face as she searched for the exit, afraid that the
library might collapse on her.
  Yet the impetus of the plague, created by a mad designer of
unknown intent, was powerful; overwhelming. After a moment
song overrode everything else:
          Oh, the river is up and the channel is deep
          The wind is steady and strong
          Oh won’t we have a jolly good time
          As we go sailing along.
  Verity’s clear voice sounded braver than she felt as she hurried
across the large lobby.
   The huge, arched doors stood open— Lift up your heads, ye
everlasting gates , Verity’s Shaker past sang. She added aloud, “And
let me out of this place!” Out of Cincinnati, through the gates
framed by the past, where all lay in ruins behind her, and onward,
down the river, down the river, down the river we go…
  When she rushed out the door the chorus enveloped her.
Everyone was singing it. Filled with joy, Verity hurried along with
them, turning toward the riverfront, the part of her that was
angry, even terrified, pushed aside for the moment.
  How could she have been so worried? The unreasonably bright
and happy waves of the Norleans Plague overwhelmed her. At
least, she thought that must be what it was; the world had a golden
sheen, though that might be from the setting sun. But even her
hands looked golden when she passed through the shadow of a
building.
   Get away, the plague told her. Norleans means freedom . Freedom
from slavery. To nan, to anything, to anyone. You’ll miss the light
at Cairo. But you’ll be free in the end. From the inside out.
   The plague-induced ecstasy was interrupted when she stumbled
over the feet of a man sitting on the sidewalk a block from the
library, his head in his hands. He looked up and she was completely
startled.
  The man was Blaze.
  She dropped down next to him, stared into his eyes, and was
deeply afraid. Something was dreadfully wrong.
   Blaze, the Shaker Brother she had grown up with, the dear
friend she had wrapped in nan sheets after he was shot in the
chest, the almost-lover she had brought to Cincinnati in a desperate
attempt to save his life, did not seem to recognize her.
  At least, she thought, heart pounding, he was alive . But at what
price? She pushed his red hair back from his sweaty forehead and it
stood up in damp spikes. His head lolled back and he looked at her,
his green eyes fearfully blank. His face was thin and pale, what she
could see of it, for some of it was covered by a new, scraggly beard.
  “Blaze, have you waited for me all this time?” He had refused to
enter the library with her. But that had been quite some time ago.
  She sat back on her heels, apprehensive, wondering what to do.
The nanotech sheets that had kept him somewhere between life and
death had evidently left him with neurological damage.
  Hearing distant hammering, she looked over her shoulder and
saw that the waterfront, a few blocks away, was mobbed with
people. Stacks of lumber were piled in intervals on the concrete
wharf, and it dawned on her that they were making rafts .
   Yes, she remembered… some of them had left already, swirled
downriver in swift ecstasy, singing; cheering. But how could they
possibly make enough rafts to accommodate all of them in the time
left before the conversion of Cincinnati, when it would, essentially,
reboot and try to reabsorb them? They only had another day, at
most. Boats, she had been thinking of boats…
  Blaze moaned and rocked back and forth, interrupting her
thoughts. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
  “Blaze! It’s me! Verity!” She could not succumb to fear, she told
herself. He had remembered her since awakening in the train
station. How long ago had that been? Days? More than a week?
  He had forgotten who she was several times, too.
  She pushed that thought away. He would get better, not worse.
  Or would he? There was certainly nothing out in the Territory
that could heal him. Helping Blaze stagger to his feet, she was
surprised when just that simple thought— the Territory —put a
smile on her face. She did not feel like smiling. Yet her face smiled
in the service of the plague.
  She put her arm around him and he leaned against her. Even
though he was emaciated from his ordeal, she staggered beneath
his weight. He was inches taller and probably three years older
than she was, though neither knew their exact birthdays.
   “What’s wrong ?” He spoke in a harsh whisper, his head bowed.
“This keeps happening . I can’t see … everything’s dark… There—it’s
lighter. But… it’s so blurry.” He squinted at her. “Verity, you’re just
like particles floating in the air… now it’s all so bright …”
  At least he remembers my name, she thought grimly.
  “Take a step. Another. That’s good.”
  “How far?” mumbled Blaze.
  Then she heard singing.
  “Where’s that music ?” asked Blaze, lifting his head. His eyes
became more alert, his steps more sure.
  “It’s on the next block,” she said.
  They staggered toward an elongated ellipse of stone pedestals.
Several fires in barrels illuminated a statue of a woman held aloft
by one of the pedestals, stone children ranged around her, splashed
by water. The spring air was chilly, now that the sun had set, and
Verity edged close to a flame-mouthed barrel.
  A black man sat on the steps below the statue. He was hunched
over a guitar that she could barely hear over the hiss of the
fountain. But Blaze stepped closer and she followed, until the
singer’s words were perfectly clear:
          And I’m goin’ to the river, take my boat and float,
          And if my underworld mama quit me I’m gonna cut my
          throat
          And it’s, oh, I ain’t gon do it no more
          And it’s, oh, I ain’t gon do it no more
          The last time I drank your whiskey, Mama, it made my
          belly sore.
   The guitar music rose high above the notes the man sang, in an
odd, catchy rhythm, short-long, short-long, two stringed notes fixed
from each other in a strange interval that slid up and down as his
finger did on the neck and quavered in a way that sent shivers
down Verity’s spine.
   “What’s that you’re singing?” asked Blaze, as they stopped next
to him. “Do it again. Please.”
  He squinted at Blaze in the dim light. “You all right, son?” he
asked.
  Blaze nodded desperately, his eyes pleading in the firelight.
“Yes,” he croaked.
   As the player repeated the song, Blaze hummed along, eyes
closed. His face relaxed, and then Verity saw a very slight smile.
  “That’s better,” Blaze said when the music stopped. He sank
down on a step. “What was that song?”
  The guitar clunked hollowly as the player rested it on the
concrete. “That’s called ‘Cincinnati Underworld Woman.’ ” His face
was long and furrowed. A small scar slashed his cheek, and moved
when he smiled. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
  “Is that who you’re singing about?” Blaze asked, pointing at the
statue above them.
   The man shook his head. “She’s another entity completely. More
like a goddess, I guess. She’s the Genius of Water. Been here since
way past forever.”
  “What’s your name?”
  “Kid Cole, boy, Kid Cole. Glad to be in Cincinnati, my hometown.
So glad. It’s been a while.” He finished his cigarette, tossed the butt
on the ground, and picked up his guitar. “How about another?”
  Verity bit her lip. He wasn’t really Kid Cole, of course. He had
been altered by the City to think he was. She was tremendously
disappointed. He really should be more himself now. But maybe all
she’d done was for nothing… maybe it hadn’t worked… “Blaze,
there’s something we have to—”
  “What kind of music do you call that?” asked Blaze.
   The man looked surprised. “Why, the blues,” he said. He chorded
up and down the neck of his guitar as he spoke, and soft music
filled gaps in the fountain’s splash. “I guess you could call it black
folk music from the Delta. Made up of all different kinds of
things—slave hollers, shouts, things from Africa, they say. The ring
dance and drums. My father came up here on a riverboat. He was a
free black. My mother was a runaway slave.” His laugh was bitter.
“Nasty place, really, for us, this city. For a while we were happy. I
remember, from when I was little. Lincoln freed my mother. But so
what? Nobody will give us a job, unless it’s some job nobody else
wants. My daddy had to go down South to work. I think he’s a
sharecropper but I don’t know. We can’t go to the schools and get
educated. Used to be a fine Negro school here. But the whites were
jealous of it—had it closed down, and they won’t allow our children
to go to their schools. It’s hell. But boy, it’s hell all over. I’m tellin’
you, if I wasn’t singin’ I’d be cryin’ about it all. It kind of helps, you
know?”
  Blaze glanced at him questioningly. “Are you talking about the
Civil War? I read about that. I read about Lincoln. But the Civil
War was a couple of hundred years ago, wasn’t it?”
  Kid Cole frowned. “Come to think of it…”
  “Yes, it was,” said Verity. “Thank you,” she told the man. “Let’s
go.”
  Blaze stared up at the statue of the woman and passed his hand
over his eyes. “Maybe I’d better. Listen, don’t go away, all right? I’ll
be back soon.”
  “Aren’t you going to Norleans?” asked Verity.
  “Norleans !” he snorted. “I don’t need Norleans. I’ve got the blues .”
He plucked a series of high, defiant notes from the guitar. “But
then again… maybe…”
  As Verity hurried him away, Blaze said, “Where are we going?”
  “Someplace where I can help you,” she said.
  They stopped a block away, at the Netherlands Hotel. Art Deco
metal birds flanked the glass, flower-etched doors. An interstice
glowed, pale and spooky in the darkness, not very wide, but rising
in a thin stripe up the side of the building until it reached a ledge
and vanished.
  The door opened at her touch. She was relieved to find that this
building worked; she had been prepared to try several since the
City didn’t seem to be functioning fully. Wall sconces lit as if in
greeting as she and Blaze followed a lushly flowered runner
through a glass-and-steel lobby. She held Blaze’s hand, but was
relieved that he was able to walk by himself now. She wanted to go
up, close to the Flower at the top of the building, and so she went to
the elevator, and of course it opened.
  Blaze followed her inside, leaned against the wall, and closed his
eyes.
  “Hello, Rose,” said a voice when the door closed. Verity jumped
and her throat tightened.
  “Who’s talking?” asked Blaze, his eyes fluttering open. “I don’t
see anyone.”
  “To the top, please,” she told the elevator. “It’s… an old friend,”
said Verity to Blaze, swallowing hard. “And he’s not really here.”
  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” said Blaze. “Do we have to go up
here?” He swayed a bit when the door opened, and glanced at the
readout. “Are we really on the one hundred and twenty-third floor?”
  Verity stepped cautiously out of the elevator, not knowing what
she would find. On seeing that the room was empty, she took a
deep breath and tried to relax.
  “Is this floor marble?” asked Blaze, touching its smooth surface.
 “It’s exactly like marble,” said Verity. “Of course it’s marble. It
was just grown, that’s all. Nobody had to get it out of a quarry.”
  “Who grew it then?” asked Blaze.
  I did , a part of her asserted. “Come over here,” she said, leading
Blaze to the window, a vast arch of glass set in iron girders that
looked like a child’s stylized rays of a rising sun.
  They looked down on a sea of darkness studded by flickering
bonfires people had lit on roofs. Cincinnatians, small with long
shadows, danced round them. Most of the large Flowers were
furled, though she saw one stubborn violet Iris many blocks away
half-open, waving slowly and majestically in downriver wind.
  “You used to talk about the Flowers when you were little,” said
Blaze. “You had nightmares about them. How did you know about
them?”
   “I came from Cincinnati,” she said quietly. “I was—created here.”
She turned and said almost desperately, “I’m not normal , Blaze. I’m
not like you. I was made for a special reason. But I didn’t really
know it until I came here—I didn’t really know it entirely until just
a few weeks ago. Or… well, I’m not that sure of the time…” She
stared out into the dark canyons.
  “Tell me about it, Verity,” said Blaze. He sighed and rubbed his
face with both hands. “I’m feeling better now. I don’t know what
happened.”
  “I will,” she said. “But there’s no time now.” I want to find a
cocoon for you. Or create one, she thought, finding she was
unwilling to speak it out loud, to tell Blaze all that she actually was
capable of doing, for it was quite strange to her that she actually
could, were the City working properly (and that was in doubt), do
just about
  Anything.
   She felt intense and grave at the thought, which whispered
through her, making her entire body tingle with something quite
close to desire. To be hooked back into the heart of the City again,
to command it!
  “There’s a holographic table behind us and I can have it manifest
a cocoon for you, Blaze, and—”
  “No!” shouted Blaze, stepping back from her, his face determined
and horrified. “I’d rather die, Verity.” His voice quieted. “I’m not
exaggerating. I don’t want to have anything to do with that. I’ve
had enough of it. I had to push my way out of one in the train
station. I didn’t even know who I was, why I was there. Verity…
there are times now when I can’t even talk. It’s like… all the
meaning drops out of everything. There’s nothing to connect to. And
then… I’m even better than before. Sharper, somehow. I have even
more words, more ways of saying things. I’m going through some
sort of process. Some sort of healing. That music out there, that’s
what helps. Not some— device .” He took a deep, shuddering breath.
“I’ve been lucky. Very lucky. I’ll never go back in one of those
hellish… cocoons , or whatever you want to call them.”
   Tiny beads of sweat stood out on his pale face. Verity saw that he
meant it. Yet she didn’t know what else to do. He might just get
worse and worse. The nan sheets he had been wrapped in put a lot
of bodily functions on hold. Besides that, the sheets had been very
old and probably hadn’t functioned quite right. A cocoon could easily
determine exactly what had happened and probably synthesize
whatever was necessary to heal Blaze—a certain hormone, even
genetic intervention.
  What might it cost her to reach back into the City again? And if
she did reconnect deeply enough to heal Blaze, she didn’t even
know, exactly, how to do so.
   But that would come to her, once she entered it again. That was,
in fact, what she feared. That was the part of herself that she had
to leave behind. But she couldn’t think of anything else to do at this
point.
  Biting her lip, she dropped onto a bench in front of the round,
smooth table, and holographic icons appeared, ranged around its
border. Flowers, all of them, and each with certain functions that
could modify the others, a grammar of intricate immensity with
which she could form any genetic possibility, any physical form, any
thought or feeling. She could manipulate the entire City, on any
level.
  If she still dared.
 She crossed her arms upon her chest and bowed her head for a
moment.
  Blaze stared at the table for a moment. Then he edged toward
the elevator. “I think I should get out of here,” he said, his voice
shaking. He cleared his throat. “I’ll meet you down at the square.
By that singer. That music . It’s wonderful. I felt better when I
heard it, somehow. I’m sorry, Verity. It just scares me so much
here. All those things that happened. I can barely remember them,
but…”
  He was about ten feet from the elevator when it opened. A tall
man stepped out. The man brushed past Blaze, completely ignoring
him.
  Verity squinted, trying to see if the man was a holographic ghost
or real. She glanced down to see if it might be possible that she had
by accident activated some program. But just her being here, with
her Queen-based metapheromonal capabilities, might be enough to
affect things.
  She sat very still, trying to think of what to do.
  Abe Durancy’s face looked blank at first, but he saw the huge
window and strode over, pressed his face against it. “Good evening,
Cincinnati,” he said, his voice low and somewhat ironic. “What is it
this time? What age? What lost glory?”
  “Who is that?” whispered Blaze.
  Abe turned from the window, tripped over a low table, stumbled,
and cursed.
  Unfortunately, he was not a ghost.
  Transfixed by dread, Verity watched him. She put one finger to
her lips to tell Blaze not to speak.
  Durancy looked up and saw Verity. He glanced at Blaze, then
back at Verity.
  “Rose?” he said uncertainly, then advanced across the room.
  “No,” said Verity firmly. “I am not Rose. Rose is dead, Durancy,
and so are you. Stay away from me.”
  “As I live and breathe,” he laughed, “you are Rose.”
   Something clicked in Verity. Maybe she could somehow use this
situation; turn Durancy’s certainty to her advantage. She looked
exactly like Rose, of course… and yes, she really was Rose. Not only
was she Rose’s physical clone, but she had been filled with Rose’s
memories, her personality and being. Rose always seemed ready to
leap out and overwhelm her, a pressure hovering behind each
thought. It seemed that the Rose part of her was particularly
activated when she put pressure on the tiny nubs behind her ears,
as if some sort of chemical was released thereby into her brain. She
avoided touching those nubs. But Rose was too much a part of her
to be entirely avoided in that way. She still didn’t understand the
barriers between herself and Rose, or indeed if there really were
any.
  Being Rose was what she was trying to leave behind.
  “Of course, Abe,” she said quietly, gently. “I am Rose. And I need
your help.” I am not Rose , she assured herself. I am Verity. I am
Verity …
  “That’s a switch, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice sarcastic and
yearning at once. “You know everything, don’t you, Rose?”
  “I wish I did,” Verity replied. “But I’m—” She had been going to
say that she was in a hurry, but changed her mind.
  He lowered himself into a large comfortable chair a few feet from
her. Blaze made some gestures behind Abe’s back: should I bash
him in the head? Verity stifled a near-hysterical giggle. She shook
her head once at Blaze.
   “Abe,” she said, “I want a riverboat. You know, an old-fashioned
one with a paddlewheel. Maybe boats. Yes, two would be better.
And two thousand rafts. I want them all stocked with food and
medical diagnostic equipment and all kinds of nan seeds.” That’s
right, she thought, steeling herself. No telling what this world
holds. Best be prepared for anything. Those who had left already
had cobbled rafts together for themselves, but there wasn’t time for
that anymore.
  “You’re—you’re leaving, Rose?” he asked, his voice sad and
uncertain.
  “I have to,” she said. “You know that, Abe. Please help.” If he
helped, then she wouldn’t have to surrender once again to the City
in order to get this done. If she did, she might be forever
submerged, captured.
  Just the thought of it made her break out in a cold sweat.
  “Maybe I’ll go too,” Abe said, his voice weary. As he turned
toward the window his vision swept past Blaze again, but Abe still
didn’t seem to notice him. Of course not. Abe thought Blaze was
just one of the pawns with which he’d filled the City in order to
please India, his mother.
  Abe stared out the window. “I feel… so tired. Disoriented. Every
time—this happens—at every pause and change and skip —I have to
come back and fix things… but I don’t really remember why.”
  Verity felt great pity for him. She knew everything about him,
his deepest memories, his most wrenching pain, his uncertainty and
sadness.
  And his insanity.
  “Just show me how to do this,” she said. “Surely your Cincinnati
has riverboats, Abe! They’re an integral part of its history.
Cincinnati was born because of the Ohio River. Cincinnati was the
goal of the great riverboat races from New Orleans.”
  “Yes!” he said. As he leaned over the bright light of the
translucent table between them she saw that his face had not
regrown just right; was mottled. One ear was just a nub.
  Somehow she had changed things. Or maybe she had just
damaged them enough so they would be skewed even worse when
the conversion came.
   Why should tears fill her eyes as she looked on his imperfection?
She blinked them away angrily. This man—his original , anyway,
still embedded in the programs of the City—had warped her entire
life, had ruthlessly used her. Abe, his cousin Rose, and his mother
India had battled for her very soul.
   And lost, she reminded herself, and straightened her back. They
all lost. Whoever she was, she was herself . And leaving, forever,
soon.
  “Please, Abe,” she said. “Do this for me.”
  He took a deep breath and sat on the bench beside her, shoving
her gently aside. “Anything, Rose,” he said, his eyes sad and dark.
“Now watch.” He touched various bright icons in an entrancing
rhythm and a slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth. All
sadness left his eyes. “Yes. Yes, that’s it. Cincinnati’s two hundred
fiftieth anniversary.” He was eager now. “We had many riverboats
here; it was glorious. I was a boy. India and I went for a ride on
one. We had tea and she told me about Life on the Mississippi .”
  This is all he is, Verity thought. All that’s left.
  He didn’t seem to notice when Blaze rose and stood behind them,
put one hand on Verity’s shoulder, and gripped it so hard that it
hurt.
   She watched the center of the table, feeling more and more
remote. Engineering plans rapidly fluttered across it, ephemeral,
and Abe drew in his breath with a hiss as a bank of colors arose,
each a bar, and the bars varied in height for a few minutes; then he
fixed them with a nod and swept them into a holographic bin that
appeared at the edge of the table.
  “They are here. But what’s this? What’s happened? They’ve been
tampered with. Never mind. It’s always this way. Things go awry. I
don’t… know why… ah, my beautiful city. Yes, there we go.
Now—details.”
  Verity was entranced in spite of herself at the sumptuous
staterooms that flickered before her, small doll’s rooms with
furniture ornate and splendid. She forgot her exhaustion.
  “Yes,” he mused. “Let’s see now. Where?” A map of the riverfront
appeared and he said “This is a job for—yes, Sternmeyer’s factory
down at the wharf. It’s large enough to make two at a time, plus
the rafts, and the tanks will open into the river when they’re done.
Are you sure two are enough?”
   “Two are enough,” she said. Time was very short. She saw that
each riverboat had beds for fifteen hundred people, at capacity, and
were capable of carrying many tons of cargo. On the edge of the
table she did some simple calculations and concluded that each boat
could carry as many as five thousand people if, for instance, ten or
fifteen people slept in each room, on the floor. There were also large
halls and promenades that could be utilized. It would have to do.
   The night passed for Verity in a blur of colorful schematics and
brief episodes of dozing. The building did not tremble so much at
night, and she assumed this was because the City drew so much of
its energy from the sun.
  When she noticed dawn coloring the buildings outside the
enormous window, she was surprised. Her eyes burned. Blaze had
sunk down next to the wall, his back propped against it. He was
watching Abe.
  As Verity glimpsed the river, shimmering pale blue beneath the
broken bridges, a strange energy passed through her, like points of
pixillation which, gathered together, filled her mind and heart.
  She whispered a rafter song, encouraged by the bones of the
lovely vessel, the Robert E. Lee , growing holographically on the
table. Was it actually beginning to form even now, assembling in its
tank on the river?
          Some rows up, but we floats down,
          Way down the Ohio to Shawneetown…
  She stood, filled with Dance, lovely, floating Dance , her Shaker
Gift. She took a halting step. She sang another few words, slowly,
whispering. She wanted to stop… it was the plague, the wretched
plague.
  Abe looked up. He watched her, hands poised over the screen,
and frowned.
  Blaze stood warily, looking first at Abe, then Verity.
   “Keep going ,” Verity told Abe, standing quite still with enormous
effort.
  Abe stood, tall and no longer so uncertain. “Verity!” he shouted.
“You’re not Rose! You’re Verity! I’m beginning to remember now.
Oh, yes, I remember it all! You think you’re so clever, don’t you?
Well, I can’t let you leave! Don’t think for a minute that you can
leave! You’re a part of us now, forever and ever. You’re inside the
City, Verity, you were born here. Now that you know it you can’t
get away no matter how far you go. Don’t be stupid. All this will be
stopped… I’ll stop it…”
  He raised his hand to sweep the embryonic boat from the table
but Blaze tackled him, so that Durancy’s hand cut the holographic
boat in half instead, and that half went flying until it left the field
and vanished. Blaze and Durancy both slid across the floor and
slammed into the window. Blaze got to his feet unsteadily; Abe
groaned and stirred, then slumped to the floor.
  Fierceness surged through Verity then from a new and powerful
place.
  “No you won’t!” she said. “I never needed you!” She felt
enormously angry. Because she had to call on the part of herself she
wanted to forget.
  Rose.
  Durancy’s cousin, who knew as much or more than he did.
   Knowledge came from the back of her mind, from her center,
from all of her, from every cell, draining her, as she worked at the
table, trying to restore what he had removed. “Don’t let him get up,
Blaze,” she commanded. “I don’t care what you do.” She tried to
ignore Blaze’s expression: puzzled, as uncertain as Abe had recently
been.
  “He’s out cold,” she heard Blaze say, as if from far away. “I tied
him up with his scarf. What a strange man. It’s not cold. Why was
he wearing a scarf? For decoration, I guess.”
  Her hands moved swiftly across the table as the sun came up full
and bright, filling the City, shining the river to light, flooding the
assembly table with renewed energy from the Flowers she was
newly awakening with her imperative commands. Lost in a haze of
thought, of memory, of command, Verity did not consciously have
anything to do with what she had loosed; it was a part of her. It
was the part of her that was Rose, old as nanotechnology’s very
birth, knowing the very core of nan’s power and its limits.
  Rose, the Rose part of Verity, built on what Abe had begun,
commanding the riverboat, and rafts, to form, and to stock them
with whatever was needed— everything —and hurry!—though the
table said, “That is too fast, it cannot be completed in this timespan.
Particularly since most systems are down.”
  “Then do the best you can,” she whispered, wondering if she
dared try and change the conversion schedule. No, no, just get
away! If the rafters couldn’t leave soon they just might jump into
the river without rafts or riverboats.
  A holographic raft appeared on the table. A deck of one by twelve
boards lay across a frame supported by hollow flotation devices
below each corner. Each raft would come with a wigwam, of canvas
rather than boards, which could be raised on a platform in the
middle of the deck. Other details such as mess kits and matches
were listed for a few seconds, then vanished along with the raft.
  A thrill of fear ran through Verity, watching Rose’s hands fly,
knowing that she, Verity, had lost control and that she, Verity, did
not really know what Rose was setting up, unleashing. Pain
blossomed on one side of her head and blackness spread across her
vision and the floor was shaking and she was falling…
  Blaze was dragging her to the elevator.
  “No,” she said, struggling. “Forget about the boats. I have to heal
you. That’s what I came for. I couldn’t tell Durancy. Rose can do it.
That’s the most important thing. I—I’m sorry; I just got started
with the boats. Go back , Blaze! Just go back and put your hand on
the table—”
  “No,” said Blaze shortly, flatly, without compromise. He pulled
her into the elevator. “How does this work? Take us down to the
ground! Now !” he yelled, and lost his balance and stumbled against
the side when the floor rushed suddenly downward.
  “Blaze! No! It wasn’t finished!” Verity wished that she was
stronger than Blaze, so she could take him back there against his
will, but she knew she was not.
  “Enough of this nonsense!” he said roughly. “I’m going to be fine.
At least I’m not dead which I probably will be if we stay here much
longer. Couldn’t you feel the floor shaking up there? We need to get
out of here. I don’t know what happened to you but I don’t like it.
And when that guy wakes up he’s going to be pretty mad, don’t you
think? What if the roof collapses? I shouldn’t have left him there.”
  The door opened and he pulled her through the lobby.
  “Just touch that interstice,” said Verity, desperate. “Something is
terribly wrong with you, Blaze. Maybe it can diagnose you!”
  “Touch the what ?” He laughed shortly. “Not on your life. Look
what’s happened to you.” Then they were out the door and both of
them were stumbling down to the waterfront.
   Verity was completely drained. The rafters, hammering and
sawing, were singing some song about “Blingo blango hammer with
my hammer, Zingo zango sawin with my saw” that sounded
distant, muted. They were simple patches of color moving in front
of her eyes for no particular reason. She allowed Blaze to sit her
down on a bench; he sat next to her and held her hand.
  He took a deep breath. “As long as we’re going to have a boat,
can we make sure there’s a piano on it?” he asked, somewhat
meekly.
  “I have no idea what will happen now,” she said crossly. “Who do
you think I am, Mother Ann?”
  “I’m not sure, Verity,” he said. “I’m just not sure.” And he stared
out at the river. Verity stretched out on the bench and fell asleep
instantly.
   She woke with a start and jumped to her feet. How could she
have slept? How many hours did they have left? She looked around
wildly and did not see Blaze. But about a quarter mile away she
saw a huge crowd gathered at the riverfront, and some people were
climbing onto warehouse roofs. She ran in that direction, down the
tree-lined promenade. Judging from the position of the sun it was
still before noon.
  When she got closer she heard a woman shouting, “Get back, get
back; no telling what might happen with this tank, this is a huge
project.”
  By climbing on a low wall Verity managed to grab a branch of the
tree next to her, and hoisted herself up.
  The riverfront was a vast concrete wasteland, lined with huge,
ugly buildings, some concrete, some corrugated aluminum, some
seamless nan-stuff, which seemed the ugliest of all, their reds and
greens and blues faded and mottled by design, not by nature.
  Verity rested in the branches and gawked, as amazed as the rest
of them though she had set it in motion.
   Twin black smokestacks with fluted, flowerlike tops were
supported by platforms of white, atop a small sea of viscous green
fluid.
  Each infinitely fine detail of the boat was precisely engineered to
assemble in a complex orchestration of events no less amazing than
the stages an embryo went through from zygote to viable being,
events that depended upon one another as modifiers and checks.
  As she watched, the green cleared, and the fluid was slowly
infused with swirls of blue. Now the liquid seemed less thick; wind
ruffled its surface. Verity blinked. The deep, crystalline blue, the
blue of the sky… could a mere color make her dizzy, now?
  She held tightly to the branches and visions seared the inside of
her closed eyelids, flickering quickly, jumbled: a narrow cobblestone
street; a black man playing a trumpet; a casket being pushed inside
a small, strange house…
   She opened her eyes and found that she had wrapped herself
tightly around the branch. How long had the vision lasted?
  The crowd was silent now. The boats were rising almost
imperceptibly. Railings and gingerbread balustrades crept into the
air with elephantine slowness.
  Maybe, just maybe, this would work.
  They looked smaller than she had imagined they would.
  One-third smaller than the originals , whispered a part of her. To
hurry the process. You specified that you must leave before the
conversion .
   By two in the afternoon the boats had almost completely risen,
slowly pushed upward by platforms beneath to float on the liquid in
the tanks. Pumps spewed water from the interior of the boats.
Rafts, like an afterthought of the growing pool, gradually coalesced
around the boats.
  Excited, Verity finally climbed down and wormed her way
through the crowd to the clear barrier around the tanks. The
barrier was full of pictures and words which vanished and
reappeared fitfully, eliciting groans and cheers from the crowd. 95%
completed, detail work remaining, she read in front of her. And
then a list scrolled past. Some of the items were pictures; others
were words: antibiotics, clarinets, cutlery, lamps, linens, sweaters,
vases… She touched the picture of a lamp, and was treated to an
invitation to learn the biochemistry that caused its illumination.
   The boat in front of Verity did look finished—proud, intricately
detailed. Metal cables distributed the structural forces of the tall
black smokestacks and the wide, slightly concave decks. A
pilothouse with sparkling windows perched up top just forward of
the boat’s midpoint. Huge wooden struts angled between the
bottom and second decks. A vivid red paddlewheel gleamed in the
sun.
   The contents in drawers and cupboards had probably not come to
rest in a very neat manner, and there were all kinds of loose things,
if the list had been correct, that would probably have just settled on
the floor as the fluid receded. Verity blinked. Was that the trophy
head of an elk attached to the front of the pilothouse?
  A woman next to her climbed over the barrier and plunged
feet-first into the tank. She surfaced gasping and laughing. She
was followed by two or three others, and then a plummeting rain of
people splashed into the tank. They began to climb onto the rafts.
   “No!” Verity shouted. “Leave them alone! They’re not ready ! Can’t
you read?” But the rafts were fairly simple, and did indeed look
finished. It was probably the boats that weren’t quite done.
  People were bunched up at the gates that kept the replicator bath
separate from the river. Of course, they wanted to release the rafts.
Once the gates were opened, the replicators would quickly be
rendered useless, she knew, for they contained a failsafe in case
they came in contact with mediums they might contaminate. Such
as people, and river water.
  As she pushed her way through the crowd, Verity felt a slight
tremor, and turned to see all the interstices flash, then darken
again. She realized she was the only person who had noticed. Or
who cared. She watched for a long jostled moment, but did not see
the flash again. It may have just been the sun coming out from
behind a passing cloud. But she did not think so. It meant that the
conversion was going to happen quite soon.
  Maybe the best thing was to liberate the boats. Even if they
weren’t finished. From her tree, they had looked almost finished.
But there was a possibility that certain processes were still going on
inside.
   A cheer went up, and from its velocity she knew that the problem
was moot. Giant gears long unused clanked slowly, and the gate
slid open sideways, inch by inch. The river met the fluid inside in a
flurry of whirlpools as the gap widened.
  Soon the water in the tank was the color of the Ohio: a clear,
sparkling green. The citizens of Cincinnati swam and laughed and
shouted. Perhaps drawn by the beauty of the boats, or out of
curiosity, some of the plaguers climbed onto the riverboats, using
ladders that descended into the water. Verity saw them wander
through the rooms like shadows, slowly, as if amazed. Some of
them seemed to be righting furniture. They ascended the levels of
the boat and ended up in the pilothouse, throwing open the
windows. Verity could only hope that some of the rafters might
understand, just as she did, the necessity of these boats. They
would need all the support they could get in the wilderness
downriver from Cincinnati. Rafts would not be enough. Perhaps the
fact that riverboats were in Huckleberry Finn might be enough to
lure them aboard. After all, she certainly didn’t know the
parameters of the plague.
  Tired with relief, Verity let the plague overtake her. She slumped
down, leaning her forehead against the clear cool barrier between
her and the boats, letting her eyes run up and down the lines of
them, taking in the details. The gingerbread, the tremendous
paddlewheel at the rear, the curious blue tinge of the boats,
somehow mingling with white. She realized the color must have
something to do with collecting solar energy and sending it to some
sort of storage. Probably the huge black smokestacks did the same.
  The majesty of the journey filled her. The Territory! Surely there
could be nothing so glorious as leaving the past behind, and
entering the unknown. Just one of those rafts below, that was all a
person needed; that and a fishing line.
  What freedom.
  What bitter irony , said a small voice within her, but the plague
overrode it.
   Some of the rafts swirled out onto the river, filled with exuberant
rafters, shouting and waving as they commenced their journey. She
felt their joy and waved back. Her worries seemed ridiculous. Some
of the rafts remained in the tank or were pulled round with long
lines to the wharf, and people started loading them with supplies
from the warehouses and shops of Cincinnati, where the concept of
money had not existed for decades.
  She turned west to survey the situation.
   The Seam of Cincinnati was a solid, self-healing wall. It marked
the point at which the last Surge had stopped, when the replicators
went wild and surged through the matter that was the City,
changing it, and all within, swiftly and mercilessly. Twenty stories
high, casting a shadow on the buildings within, the Seam extended
smooth, impermeable, and unscalable into the Ohio River. Where it
ended, a constant wave sprayed upward, spending itself in the air,
for it was just above the Lower Falls, hidden by a bend in the river,
which very few, if any, Cincinnatians now living had ever seen.
They had been trapped within the Seam for decades. Verity knew,
from information she’d learned in the library, that these falls were
not like the Upper Falls—high, wide, and completely unnavigable.
She was counting on them conforming to the map she’d glimpsed in
the library, for a few seconds, where they were depicted as a long
series of rapids. Of course, the map was very old, and might no
longer be true.
   She was immensely relieved to see that someone had chosen to
attempt piloting. Maybe she was right about the Huckleberry Finn
part. The Robert E. Lee was brought around to the wharf, after a
fearful moment when it seemed as if it might be washed downriver.
The current was probably quite strong here, and an inexperienced
pilot could easily lose control. But once at the wharf it was moored
by a gang of people. The American Queen followed. The gangplanks
went down and streams of people began coming and going, adding
various bundles taken from shops to the boat.
   She rested her gaze on downtown Cincinnati, with Mount Adams
rising behind it, all the beautiful Flower-Buildings of which
Durancy had dreamed long ago, so long ago that no one could even
remember when that had been, exactly.
   What if it didn’t go as she thought it would? What if she had
failed?
  Who then could fix her beloved City, the City where she had been
created, the City of which she had dreamed as a child, thrust forth
too young to be sure whether or not there was any reality to those
haunting dreams?
  This was her home . She could not leave. Maybe there was too
much of Rose in her, and not enough Verity. Maybe the plague had
not taken her strongly enough. Maybe Verity didn’t really exist,
was a ghost who would fade if she stayed. She would then be Rose,
and she could help restore Abe Durancy. She remembered with pity
how he had looked last night: ravaged, destroyed. Where was he? A
part of her longed to help him.
  The part of her that was Rose.
  She moved to the stairs around the growing tank and hurried
down. She turned and walked quickly toward the tall buildings of
Cincinnati, which seemed to be calling her…
  Someone yelled her name and she turned. Blaze was behind her,
his gait halting. She stopped and he caught up with her.
  “Where are you going so fast?”
  “Where have you been?” she asked.
  Blaze’s face lit up. “Sphere and I went into a little club and
played for about an hour. After you left I had another one of my…
spells, I guess you’d call them. But I feel much better, at least for
now. And we found a store full of wonderful things—radio stones,
things that Sphere calls records—”
  Verity sighed. Sphere had been her lover, briefly, after they
entered Cincinnati together, when Blaze had been dead, or nearly
so. She would tell Blaze, soon, when there was time. She had met
Sphere in the Cincinnati train station, where he had played the
saxophone. Now, he was completely changed, tapped deep into the
City’s system. Or so he claimed.
  She resumed walking. “I’m sorry. I mean, I’m glad that you’re
feeling better. Very glad. But I can’t leave.”
  “Why not? What are you talking about?”
  “It’s too hard, Blaze. This is my home. My true home. I just can’t
bear to leave!” She started to run and he caught her arm and he
was much stronger than she thought he’d be as he gripped it and
whirled her around and held her tight.
   His voice next to her ear was low and quiet and removed her
from the din around her. “We’re leaving, Verity. Sphere told me a
lot about what happened, about Edgetown, and about who you are
and what you did. Something about you being the Queen. I didn’t
really understand it. I think I remember waking you, finding you
there, in the hive…” He fell silent for a moment while he looked at
her sharply, wonder and puzzlement in his eyes. Then he continued.
“Sphere said you’d want to stay and that you couldn’t, that you had
to leave. He was afraid of what might happen to you if you stayed.
Some kind of permanent cycle or freeze-up. Just like before.
Whatever that was. He made me promise to make sure that you
left.”
  “So where is he now ?”
   “He said he had some things to do. He said he’d come back and
say good-bye. Let’s go out on the bridge, all right? I think you need
to get as far away from the City as possible.”
   If it had been anyone other than Blaze she would have wrenched
free. His words made sense but something in her violently
disagreed. Yet they made their way past the bevy of rafts moored
on the long waterfront and eventually found their way to the stairs
at the foot of the bridge and climbed, up and up, and Blaze was
right; out here where the wind was blowing and the sky was so blue
she felt better. Much better.
 She watched the river for ten minutes, fifteen, studying the
mesmerizing current below, slowly beginning to think in terms of
what lay ahead, wishing she could predict the way the river
twisted, wondering why her maps had suddenly stopped working,
thinking that perhaps if she went to the top of the very tallest
building she might get a glimpse, though the Seam was as high as
that and in some places higher… wondering why she felt no fear
and that did seem strange, surely this exodus was a fearful thing,
not something that should ring this great joy through her cells like
a low steady note of music…
  “I think we’re almost ready,” Blaze said finally, gently, startling
her. He rested a hand on her shoulder and his touch calmed her
even more. He said something about loading rafts.
  The wind blew back her hair and the plague rose within her
again, so it was almost as if she were floating above the river,
instead of standing on a bridge and then turning, oriented by the
sun, ready to take flight down the river like an arrow. Hurry! she
thought. We must hurry! There is not a second to waste! A part of
her looked at this from a distance, a part that seemed ready to
vanish, swept away by the rising tide of the plague.
  “Come on,” whispered Blaze. “One of the riverboats left an hour
ago. The other is waiting just beyond the stadium. It’s time.”
  And then Sphere was walking out onto the bridge with his
saxophone to say farewell.
   A final wave of wild plagued rafters swarmed toward the river.
Verity was among them, pushed and battered on the landing by a
mob seized by a great roar of song. She did not remember coming
down off the bridge. She stumbled and Blaze pulled her to her feet.
His pale, frightened face spurred her to push onward until they
came to the wharf’s sudden edge. The waterfront was lined six deep
with rafts, bobbing about four feet below, several breaking away
from the main mass every minute, as soon as eight or ten people
filled them and cast off.
  Verity turned back toward the city. Blaze grabbed her around the
waist and they were both pushed to their knees by the crush of the
crowd. Someone tripped over Verity and fell too; then Blaze was
pulling them both up and carrying her… she was lost in a haze of
color and scent; brilliant light flashed forth from the city and she
must stay, she had to stay…
  Blaze pulled Verity down a ladder and she was too low to see the
City. She felt herself being dragged across a rough surface; then a
splash of cold water drenched her face.
  She gasped and suddenly comprehended their situation. She
grabbed Blaze’s hand and staggered to her feet. Together they
leaped across the stepping-stones of rafts until there were no more.
That raft filled and someone pushed them away from the other
rafts with a board. Their raft swirled out into the river, where a
fast current seized it.
 Verity braced her feet wide as the raft danced on the river’s small
waves, and looked back.
  The conversion had begun.
  Cincinnati flared with color. A dull glow suffused the buildings,
then grew in color and intensity. The interstices began to flash in
unison, thin lines of light rolling from ground level to the crowns of
the buildings.
  The City trembled.
   It was as if the hard stones, the high sleek towers, the complex
1930s architecture, the canyons of lost commerce and life, melted;
became more plastic; moved and changed according to directions
issuing from deep within the City’s heart: Rose’s plan, taking form.
  The roar of the river, loud as it was, could not drown out the
screams of those still on the wharf. A wall of people jumped onto
rafts and when the rafts were gone jumped into the river.
  But a few others turned, paused, and walked back into town.
  A slow wave of muted light moved across Cincinnati.
  Verity saw one indigo Tulip slowly unfurl as golden streaks shot
up each petal.
 Then the Ohio’s bend took them. The raft bounced on the rough
water above the rapids. Verity had one final glimpse of golden,
moving, surging matter…
  Good-bye, my lovely City.
  Then they moved beyond that point, ever more swiftly.
 Lighting out.


                        2
                  Beautiful Ohio



                      Two
                 Free-Fall Blues



Her own crazed laugh startled Verity. Torn from
her, it blended with the whitecapped waves
heaving round the raft. She raised her face to
the sky; laughed. “We did it!” she shouted, then
let go of the sweep and spun around, long wet
hair swirling, arms stretched outward.
  A sudden shift flung her to the heaving deck of
  the raft and someone grabbed her arm, jerked
 her to her feet. She staggered and regained her
 balance; turned and saw Blaze. She just missed
 stepping on a man holding tight to a rope as he
                  lay on the deck.
  Blaze’s hair was plastered to his head; his face
 streamed with water. His eyes, concerned and
  angry, pulled her back to herself. “Steer!” he
hollered, pointing to the stick at the rear of the
raft, behind the collapsed wigwam—the sweep,
Verity’s plague told her, the simple steering oar
        that was all the control they had.
  The turbulent water around her was crowded
    with rafts slipping and flowing down the
   mountainous furrows of the current, split
  everywhere with boulders. Screams mingled
              with the water’s roar.
    Something within her focussed when she
 grabbed the sweep. It was rough in her hands,
  and she felt the heart of the river through it;
 knew when to hang from it with all her weight
and when to push against it. It was the plague at
work. She shouted, her voice hoarse: “Heigh, ho,
               the boatmen row…”
     Ahead, an island split the river. The left
  branch was smooth and compelling but she
couldn’t see where it led. The right branch was a
 wide maelstrom of foam surging between large
   rocks, then a slicksmooth tongue of green
                     water—
  She leaned on the sweep and took the right
   fork, terrified by the roar, the speed, the
massive rocks they missed by inches. Yes! Steer!
 In the river’s grip, they swept down the chute.
 The raft swirled, almost knocking her off her
 feet, and as it turned she saw a terrible sight.
     Behind and above them the Robert E. Lee
teetered on the edge of the more extreme rapids
  they had just avoided, the left branch, where,
 she could now see, water fell from a rock ledge
   thirty feet high, thundering into a turbulent
cauldron of boulders. She froze in fear. Whoever
was piloting had made the wrong choice, simply
 by chance, the same reason she had made the
                 right choice.
     The Robert E. Lee ponderously tipped
sideways. It slid down the white wall of water,
and smashed onto the rocks sideways, splitting
 apart. People spilled from the decks into the
                foaming rapids.
 Verity heard screams from those next to her on
      the heaving raft. The Robert E. Lee’s
 paddlewheel spun briefly in the air before the
boat slowly completed its roll and was pinned to
 the rocks by the force of the water. Shattered
        remnants bobbed to the surface.
  “STEER!” Verity heard again, and she looked
forward and saw that they were on the edge of
               another drop.
    The raft shot out over the edge and dropped
  back onto the water, only about a foot below.
 Verity staggered at the impact, holding tight to
  the oar. The current caught the corner of the
   raft and spun it so it faced backward; Verity
leaned on the oar, caught the water’s force, and
  completed the spin so the sweep was again at
 the rear. One side of the raft smashed against a
rock and splintered with a rending crunch; then
     they were through the worst of it, for the
                      moment.
     Holding the sweep with one hand, Verity
dropped to the deck facedown, reached into the
   river, and grasped the hand nearest her. A
   woman’s face, twisted in fear and anguish,
surfaced as Verity tried to hold on, but the hand
  slipped from hers and the woman vanished
             beneath a rush of foam.
         “No,” Verity breathed to herself.
  “Verity!” Blaze shouted. “There’s more rough
                 water ahead!”
  Luckily, these rapids were not as treacherous
  as the last, and they safely rode the gradual
 descent around the final rapids. The raft shot
          into a calm stretch of water.
  The water was filled with bobbing heads and
outstretched arms. Far ahead, she saw a flotilla
 of rafts and the American Queen, still afloat.
 Verity and Blaze dragged people onto the raft,
  where they lay coughing in the sun. Soon a
 dozen rafters, bleeding from gashes on their
  heads, legs, and arms, sprawled on the wet
 wood, so that the raft rode low in the water.
    The river was green and broad and smooth
  here. Heavy forest lined the Kentucky shore,
and on the Ohio side the kudzu-covered detritus
   of quake-crazed suburbs formed low green
   hillocks where glints of shattered windows
                caught the sun.
     “Where the hell are we?” demanded one
   woman after a coughing fit. A man quietly
sobbed, and two boys stared at the scene around
 them with eyes deer-wide in stunned wonder.
   A few more rafts swept through the rapids
  behind them and coasted into placid water.
 Verity blinked, for they all glowed, faintly but
unmistakably golden, as if very lightly brushed
 with phosphorescence. Those whose skin was
 darker were burnished by the plague as well.
     The enormity of what she had done filled
 Verity anew. They were now her responsibility.
     They had never done a damned thing for
themselves in all their lives—whatever “all their
lives” meant to them. In Cincinnati, the life of an
 individual had not been worth much. They had
spent decades helplessly immersed in India and
        Durancy’s vision of the American
   arts—literature, music, drama, even comics.
  And some of them had just died because of her,
instead of living on for maybe hundreds of years
               as slaves of the city.
  As the raft drifted into chilly shadows beneath
     overarching trees, she began to tremble
violently. She remembered only in bits, in bright
  flashes, in dark valleys of helplessness, what
 had happened in Cincinnati before she freed it.
 The faces of people whose names she could not
     recall were superimposed on the river,
transparent as dreams. She had better be right.
 She had chosen Norleans over home for all of
                   them.
       The raft was pulled by the current into
   sunlight once more and she was warmed. The
sky was still brilliant blue overhead and another
   vision superseded the Cincinnati faces like a
 fine mist: an ancient street paved with stones; a
dim-lit room filled with a million winking lights;
    a vast continent seen from the air for just a
   moment. She was filled with odd, imperative,
    overwhelming joy, a joy so strong she forgot
    where she was even in the midst of terrible
    danger, and let go of the sweep. She did not
  particularly like this joy, for she recognized it
for what it was: the Norleans Plague. But maybe
    that recognition meant that she had a bit of
           control; some distance from it.
   “Norleans!” a rafter shouted joyfully. “We’re
              going to Norleans!”
  The rafters broke into applause and two boys
began to sing that froggie song with Cairo in the
chorus, then began another rafter favorite, “The
 Erie Canal.” Everyone joined in except Verity,
who stared grimly forward and wondered what
            would become of them.
      And Blaze, who seemed unable to sing.
  He stared at Verity with panicked eyes, his
  mouth open, and she grabbed his hand and
   stared back, helpless. With gestures he
 indicated that he could not speak. Tears stood
in his eyes. She could only hold his hand tightly.
 They had left behind anything that could seek
out the source of his problem and heal him. They
   were on their own now, spurled out into the
  Territory like dry leaves in an autumn storm.
    The songs, which soon began to wear on
    Verity, lasted until they all got hungry.
   In late afternoon Blaze and Verity caught up
    with the American Queen, and along with
  several other rafts poled along the side until
they found a ladder. The riverboat was anchored
 in a large, quiet cove out of the main current of
                     the river.
     As the air thrummed with the murmur of
   insects and the rustle of newly green leaves
 caught by the light breeze, Verity climbed the
last steps of the ladder, hoisted herself onto the
lower deck, and ran her hand over the railing in
  amazement. She had risked her identity—her
newly won life—to make the city create this. She
closed her eyes against the memory of Durancy,
      sadly monstrous, thinking her Rose—
   Well, she did look like Rose. Exactly. There
had been many Roses manifested by Cincinnati,
apparently. And Rose was inside her, within her
 memory sponges, those nubs behind her ears.
  That was the plain, unpleasant truth. Rose’s
 entire personality, memories, and being were
 there, ready to overwhelm her own if she was
     not strong enough to hold Rose back.
   But she was out of that city. Forever. Yet she
could not rejoice in her escape. Her heart ached
for those on the wrecked boat. She was not even
sure how this boat worked; what it could do. At
             least the Queen floated.
    Debris from the wreck of the Robert E. Lee
 drifted past, and a pale, battered body fetched
  up on some weeds along the shore. Sadness
washed through Verity. Already things had gone
                 terribly wrong.
 “Verity,” said Blaze, and touched her shoulder.
   Relief washed through her as she turned.
              “Your voice is back!”
    He shrugged. “For now. Let’s have a look
   around. Tell me how you did all this. Even
       though I was there, I don’t know.”
   She shrugged, bone-tired. “The plans were in
 the City’s memory. The Queen was a gambling
boat, and went to New Orleans and back several
    times a year. Actually, there were several
pre-nan Queens—most of the famous riverboats
 went through several incarnations—different
boat, same name. Anyway, these nanotech plans
    were developed in Cincinnati, with a few
  components from St. Louis and Pittsburgh. I
      think that the power plan came from
   Pittsburgh—I don’t remember it that well,
though. The—what was it?—interior design was
  done by a company from San Francisco!” Her
    laugh threatened to become hysterical.
 “What is interior design?” asked Blaze, looking
  at the polished decks, the white railings, the
long row of green louvered doors with gleaming
 brass doorknobs. He opened one of the doors.
      “Oh,” he said. “Wallpaper. With flowers. It’s
beautiful. It’s against the Millennial Laws, that’s
for sure.” He ran his hand across it and frowned.
  “No… it’s not paper. It’s just… the wall. I guess
   this is interior design, eh?” He drew back the
 curtains. “They’re damp,” he said. Light flooded
 a small, pretty couch, a four-poster bed draped
    with mosquito netting, and a marble-topped
   washtable. The washtable and a dresser were
 built in, of fine woods, but the bed had skidded
  across the floor, bunching up a rug beneath its
  legs. An overstuffed chair lay on its side. “Help
me get this up,” said Blaze, and together they set
    it upright. Water squished out beneath their
   hands. “I hope it doesn’t mildew,” said Blaze.
“But it’s pretty hot. I guess it will all dry out in a
                      few days.”
    Verity said, “I told the program how long we
 had until the conversion. This boat is one-third
   smaller than the original so that it would be
finished in time. The program made adjustments
so that the rooms are still as large; there are just
     less of them.” She went around the room
  touching things, quite amazed. Even this was
 like a chunk of the city, of Rose and Durancy
and India. “It’s still not completely finished, and
 now I guess it won’t be, but I’m really not sure
                what was left out.”
  Well, if anything important was missing, they
 had rafts. And rafts were the main thing—Jim
  and Huck had used rafts. Verity understand
       that as deeply as the other rafters.
   They went back outside. Blaze hailed rafts as
 they drifted around the last bend one after the
   other until there were over a hundred rafts
                crowding the cove.
   “What about the ones already downstream?”
                 asked Verity.
    Blaze shrugged. “As far as I can tell, I’d say
 there must be thousands of people ahead of us.
     We left—well, we left at the last possible
 minute.” Verity saw a shadow pass through his
  green eyes, and his face became grave. “There
      seems to be room for thousands on this
   riverboat. Must have been that many on the
    other boat—” He took a deep, shuddering
   breath. “Well, the rafters ahead of us are on
their own, I guess. But really, so are we, right? I
 mean, we don’t know much more than they do.
And I don’t think that everyone will stop with us
anyway, just because I tell them to. Why should
                       they?”
  Blaze handed the megaphone to an old woman
and showed her the tie-ups for the rafts, where
rope ladders hung from the railings. “Come on,”
     he said to Verity. “Let’s look around.”
  Blaze picked up some lightsticks and Verity
 noticed that his hands shook. He looked pale,
                   not golden.
       “I thought you were feeling better.”
                   “Sometimes.”
         “But you don’t have the plague.”
     Blaze shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
      “You did at Shaker Hill,” said Verity.
 Blaze paused in front of her. “I don’t remember
 that,” he said. “Why don’t I still have it, then?”
     Verity sighed. “I don’t know. You’ve been
 through so much.” She remembered, distantly,
   that she had taken the plague from him and
infected everyone in the city with it. Maybe that
  had changed him somehow. And maybe if she
     were the Queen again, in full control of a
healthy Cincinnati, she could figure out how she
 had done that, and replicate it. But she was as
far from that state as an ant from the stars, and
   she wouldn’t want to return to it even if she
      could. And maybe there was another
reason—the other cocoon Blaze had been in, for
                     instance.
  “I guess you have too,” said Blaze. “Come on,
      let’s figure out what we’ve got here.”
     The rear of the main deck was filled with
 rooms of machinery— massive boilers, gears as
big around as she was tall, pistons that vanished
      out a hole, linked, she supposed, to the
  paddlewheel. They moved toward the front of
  the boat; Blaze opened a door, smacked one of
 the light-sticks, and handed her the other. She
saw a room of dark shapes. They stepped inside.
Their lights cast a gentle glow over mountains of
jumbled supplies. The room smelled of wood and
                    damp canvas.
  “It’s a lot neater at the other end,” he said, as
she pushed around a huge canvas-covered lump.
   “The later it got the harder it was to keep
               everyone organized.”
  She said, “I guess I wasn’t much help loading
                     stuff—”
   “You did great just getting on the raft. I was
 afraid you wouldn’t come.” He shook his head
  quickly, once, as if trying to shake away his
     memory of the conversion’s beginning.
     Verity remembered it, now, those initial
  moments when the buildings loosened their
  shape, subtly, coalescing to new form as she,
   next to Blaze, stretched her hands outward
  toward it, determined never, ever, to leave…
  “I—didn’t you carry me?” The day shimmered
behind her, a wild confusion of motion and light
        and aches where she had fallen.
   Blaze was silent behind a large wooden crate.
     She passed around it and saw that he was
   right—things were more organized here. She
   saw countless barrels stamped flour in large
black letters. Bushel bags of oats slumped to one
 side. There was dried milk and dried bean curd
and, happily, coffee. Various other supplies were
              neatly stacked in rows.
    “Look, Verity,” said Blaze, relief in his voice.
“Fishing line. A hundred yards a spool. Plenty of
  that.” He rattled a box. “Thousands of hooks.
     Rifles and ammo. Good. We can’t survive
  without them.” He pushed aside some bags of
   flour and pulled out one of the rifles. “I was
hoping they were on this boat. I found them in a
  store. Only about thirty or so. We’ll pass them
 out later if some of them want to hunt.” The air
   was absolutely still, though they could hear
        clumping on the deck above them.
      “What’s this?” asked Verity, pointing to a
barrel that said chicken medium. She wondered
   if there had not been, possibly, a better and
   more modern way to package and transport
 food, and was filled once again with dread and
responsibility: a lot of the boat—substance and
content—was the result of a personal symbiosis
       with the program. It had responded to
   something deep within her as she had given
 directions for the boat. It echoed her thoughts
   and experience except when there had been
blank places, and then something else had filled
          in. Both facets troubled her.
  Blaze turned suddenly. His eyes sought hers
and she was caught by the pain she saw in them.
  They stared at each other barely breathing,
seeing at the same time the same strange truth.
   She was different. He was different. And that
difference, wrought by the city and by who they
     had each become while apart, filled the
 light-stick glow between them like something
solid, like glass, where they could see each other
  yet no longer touch. Still she raised one hand
   and touched his, just brushed his fingers—
           “I feel so lost,” he whispered.
   Before Verity could grasp his hand with a
good, tight hold, a voice came from the direction
      of the stairs. “Anybody down there?”
 Blaze gave Verity a troubled look. “Over here!”
 he yelled. “Get some help. We need to clear a
path to the food and take it up to the galley.” In
   a minute the hull was filled with people.
     There were spoons and plastic cups but
“chicken medium,” enthusiastically mixed with
  water and doled out (won’t matter if it’s not
heated, said the man who had appointed himself
 cook, or chemist) had little to do with chicken.
   Verity leaned back on a wooden bench and
  forced herself to swallow it. One spoonful in
    water rapidly expanded into a yellowish
gelatinous mass. After a few bites she threw the
rest in the river and rinsed the cup and spoon at
 a table with buckets of water someone had set
               up for that purpose.
  Blaze worried about purifying the river water
but was met with puzzled looks and a stampede
 to eat. His shoulders sloped downward and he
  was pale. He lifted a hand to brush back his
hair, and it trembled slightly. He’d removed his
shirt as he worked to help organize the food and
              she could see his ribs.
 But, rather chillingly, there was no scar on his
chest where he’d been shot point-blank at close
                     range.
  It was as if part of him had vanished. What
  else had vanished while he was within the
sheets? She feared that it was something deep;
                   essential.
   She sighed. Blaze was alive, yes. But he was
  not at all well, it seemed. His state of being,
  whatever that was, the very unsureness of it,
  created within her an unshakable feeling of
                        dread.
   A few minutes later she glimpsed him on a
higher deck, trying doors, until one opened and
  he went inside and closed it behind himself.
    Oddly, she did not feel tired. As evening
darkened to night the lemon glow of sunset gave
  way to deep velvet blue and stars. The light
   breeze brought the scent of the river and the
   forest, a scent free of coercion or thoughts of
  any kind. She stood on one of the lower decks
and leaned against the railing. Fires flickered on
  the rafts, held in metal hemispheres someone
       had found in a warehouse down by the
river—thousands of them, in boxes that declared
    “Grown from a program exclusively held by
Wokmaster of San Francisco, all rights reserved,
   if tariff not paid product will disassemble in
thirty days.” Apparently, they had been properly
 paid for, long ago. She heard faint singing from
  some of the rafts, which ranged outward from
         the boat like stars in the night sky.
     Restless, she paced the deck, her mind
  sharpening with each step. How could they
 stand to stay here? They must be getting on!
  They must not miss a moment in getting to
 Norleans! How far was it? How many nautical
                     miles?
                    Norleans!
  The very word ignited visions. For a moment
   she was surrounded by a mob of dancing,
sparkling people, caught in their madness. She
   even glimpsed a street sign, bourbon, and
        watched it swirl off behind her.
  She moved from the plague-vision back to the
present with a conscious effort, and grasped the
 railing. It was damp with dew. She listened to
 the slosh and swish of water hurrying beneath
               them, hurrying to…
    “No,” she said aloud. She would not let
  Norleans, whatever it might have been, or
whatever it might be now, rule her. It would be
                her guide only.
   Right. Her laugh was short and harsh. Why
should she be the only one of all ever afflicted to
       shake free whenever she wished?
  She heard voices above, found the stairs at the
 center of the boat, and climbed. The moon cast
ornate shadows of gingerbread trim on the next
  deck. Here she saw only a row of closed cabin
doors, people sleeping on the deck, a long white
railing that curved with the curve of the boat so
she could not see its end. The stairs to the upper
 deck were wide and the rise of each step slight.
   She emerged on the top deck. It was open to
  the stars, and the twin smokestacks towered
  above. A circle of about twenty people sat in
  white wooden chairs. A lamp that cast a pale
  green glow stood on a table in the center. At
   least that lamp had been completed. Trees
rustled in darkness reminding Verity of moonlit
   nights on Bear Creek. Without thinking she
reached to grasp Blaze’s hand, then remembered
               that he wasn’t there.
     “My name is…” As Verity drew closer she
heard the voice falter… “was…” It faltered again
as she dropped into a chair on the outside of the
  circle, feeling dew penetrate the seat of her
  pants “… is!” The woman’s voice continued,
firmly, and with slight astonishment, “Higgins.
 My name is Higgins. Janet Elizabeth Higgins.”
    The woman-who-had-been-Janet was young
and attractive. She wore her dark hair in a short
    cap which caught the light of the lantern.
Dressed in jeans and a shirt, she pulled her long
 legs up onto the chair and clasped them as she
spoke, staring into the lantern, rubbing her bare
             feet as the night cooled.
     “After work… sometimes… yes, I remember
 now… I’d take the bus down to the Ohio… this
   very river… and walk out on the suspension
     bridge. I especially loved to be there on a
summer’s night when a storm was coming. There
  was the rush of traffic behind me and I’d face
   downriver and watch the dark heavy clouds
 come fast; then that hissing sheet of hard cold
     rain and wind. There was such a sense of
release. And I’d think of what I was going to do,
   someday, maybe, when I had enough time to
 come up for air. They said that radio was going
    to go completely at any time, and anything
 broadcast, but it was just hard to believe, even
  though it was already spotty. When the Vote
came, and the chance to get receptors, I knew I’d
  be in hock the rest of my life, but it seemed to
  me that life itself would be different and what
did I care, anyway? I already was in hock, really,
             to meaningless work.”
  Janet’s words rushed on, and Verity felt that it
  was a story she was telling herself as much as
    anyone else, caught in the keen poignant
 remembering of who she truly was beneath the
  layers imposed by the city. “Before that—for
years before the Vote—I worked for Richardson
in his nan factory in the Tenderloin district. Not
a nice place, but I had two kids. I couldn’t be too
  choosy. He let me know just about every day
how goddamned lucky I was to even have a job.”
  Verity saw heads nodding as she settled back
    into the chair and listened. Janet’s voice,
          hushed at first, grew stronger.
 “This was before the Infowars. We lived in two
crummy rooms, all I could afford. I’m no genius
  but anyone with money got more with this
 nanotechnology stuff and the rest of us were
   worse off than ever no matter what they
    promised us would come eventually.”
   “Yeah,” said an older man from the shadows.
  “Same here. Every once in a while we talked
 about a neighborhood co-op buying tanks and
  programs for clothes and little stuff like vid
  players and electronic things but there were
     always some kind of licensing hangups.
 Lawyer’s fees— and who knows what kind of
                    bribes…”
 “Well,” replied Janet, “a lot the people I knew
were terrified of nan. Sometimes I thought they
 were scared because people wanted them to be
   scared, the people with money, to keep them
from demanding things that at the beginning we
       all thought would be free.” A look of
   bemusement crossed her face. “Right. People
  like me controlling our own lives. Yeah, sure.”
  Janet fell silent for a moment and Verity saw
  that the faces around her were thoughtful;
somewhat puzzled. She wondered how many of
 them really remembered what their original
  lives were like. And how many of them had
         original lives, for that matter.
   Janet continued, her dark eyes distant as if
 she were visualizing it as she spoke, dredging
         memories across a wide gulf.
  “I was better off than most because I got some
tech training. Richardson hired three workers.
 At first I wondered why he needed that many.
What we did was pretty easy. And all he did was
sit behind a window and hassle us, and smoke.
   Finally I realized he just liked being boss.
Probably some kickback or tax bonus for hiring
   humans; who knows.” Her voice filled with
   amazement. “I’m remembering. I’m really
                  remembering!”
               “He—” She paused.
   “Go on,” encouraged the woman next to her.
 Janet frowned. “I’m thinking… yeah. That’s it.
The contract. He had a government contract but
they didn’t send him much work. Maybe one job
every two weeks. It pissed him off. The jobs were
   always some kind of parts that went with
something that was being made somewhere else.
Maybe… they didn’t want anybody to know what
                they were up to.”
    “Those were tests,” threw in the old man.
   Janet glanced at him. Nodded slowly. “Well… I
  did have the feeling that a lot of the things we
  made didn’t really have any purpose except to
      see if their programs worked. Whenever
 something came in Richardson would follow us
  around raging that he’d lose his contract if we
didn’t step on it. But the job was made for idiots.
       The spheres—the plans were on crystal
   spheres—came like precious jewels in boxes
  filled with soft stuff. That was all for show. To
  impress us workers. They were wrapped with
    bands as hard to cut as steel but flexible as
  cloth. They’d done something to Richardson’s
    body so that he could touch them and they
would open but not just at his touch; the person
   who brought it had to be touching it, too. The
 boxes had two little indentations like the place
       you rest a cigarette on an ashtray, and
   Richardson would rest his finger in one and
    whoever brought the crystal would rest one
 finger in the one on the other de and when they
did the fastenings came loose and he’d hand it to
me. And then …” She closed her eyes, shook her
               head. “Then what?”
  There was a tense silence, as if, Verity thought,
 everyone was afraid that Janet might lose her
thread, subside back into dark unknowing… and
    a few sighs of relief when she continued.
    “Yes,” said Janet, firmly. “The tanks. After I
   popped the sphere into the computer… on a
    shelf above the main tank where things got
     assembled were a lot of tanks, each one a
  different color and with different numbers on
them, and tubes that ran down to the main tank.
   The tanks and the laser were the only things
  that were clean in the whole place. One of the
   other people had to check out the tanks and
 keep them full of the right-numbered stuff, and
 run tests a couple times a day to make sure the
     mixtures were just right, not going bad or
anything, and make sure the tubes were cleaned
                  after each job.”
  “It was so old-fashioned, wasn’t it?” whispered
            the woman next to Verity.
   “Anyway, after I put the sphere in, there were
   specifications on the screen of whatever was
     being made, you know, like blueprints or
  mechanical drawings. There were layers and
  layers of specifications and views but I didn’t
 know what they meant and didn’t have to. All I
  had to do was make sure that each stage was
executed correctly—the sensors checked that of
 course, and I just had to watch the screen and
  agree for the next step to occur if it all went
  okay. If it didn’t we’d stop and clean out the
  tanks and tubes and start again. I remember
 that at first things would happen like we’d be
   making, say, a big batch of screws and they
wouldn’t have any threads, or the threads might
not be at just the right angle, and then I’d have
 to save the mistake and send it back with the
                     program.
    “Anyway, first the tank filled with solution.
  The jets would kick in to keep the assemblers
 circulating. The jets had to go at just the right
rate for the assemblers to attach to one another.
   The molecules in the tanks up top had to be
 piped into the solution at just the right time. I
had to manually adjust things from time to time
 and whenever I did that adjustment got added
  to the sphere. Everything I did was recorded.
Every once in a while Richardson would glare at
me through the window and I’d wave at him and
 smile my cheeriest smile. It might have been in
   the back of his mind that since I knew more
  than him and could do more than him I could
         steal his pitiful little contracts.”
 “Yeah,” muttered someone. “Just try and get in
 on the ground floor like they told us we could,
                   the liars.”
        “Then what?” asked someone else.
    “Well… yeah. About ten minutes after the
finished product went through the dry cycle an
 armored truck would come. They’d check the
 sphere to make sure it was the same one and
lock it up. Then they hauled off whatever we’d
made that day. We never made anything too big
  for the truck. Our tank wasn’t big enough.”
 She was silent for a moment. People shifted in
                  their chairs.
  Dark forest canopy arched above, rustling in
the wind. The moon had vanished, and the sky
was splashed with stars. As she looked at them,
a memory touched Verity: walking up the back
 stairs from India’s kitchen and seeing, on old
          brown papers, celestial maps.
   Despite the hour, and the rigors of the day,
 Verity saw that only a few of them dozed. The
rest were listening with hunger on their faces;
with eagerness, she thought, to speak their tale.
    These people, thought Verity, have been
 submerged in the City for… how many years?
   Decades before I was born, even. She was
 amazed at the clarity of Janet’s recollection;
         wondered how real it was.
   Yet, she realized, she had to reverence it and
all the manifestations of these people. What else
   was there to do? Janet had a lot to be angry
about. Verity wondered if they would remember
what had happened to them in the City after the
    nan surge, the overlay of personality after
personality, role after role, in the ecstatic dance
 that Durancy and India and even Rose had led
                   them on.
   Janet laughed wryly. She held her hands up in
   the dim light and looked at the back of them.
“No wrinkles. I know I was older than this body.
 At least sixty. So long ago! I was so happy to be
chosen! It was like the beginning of a whole new
life. By then my boys had both gone west and my
    mother had died. Richardson had died too,
  though not in the way I’d so often fantasized. I
wanted to push him into the big tank and watch
   him get made into some sort of machine part,
   hopefully with the memory that he was once
   human.” She laughed again, and some of the
        others around the circle joined in.
  When Verity was next aware of anything, it
 was of Blaze, shaking her awake, and it was
morning. She squinted at the sun. Eight? Nine?
How had she been able to sleep so long in this
                 hard chair?
         “Do I smell something baking?”
  “I made biscuits. We have to feed them again,
               Verity,” he said.
  She groaned. Her thousand—or how many
 were there?—children. Like birds with open
 mouths. She got up, her stomach heaved, and
   she rushed to the railing and threw up.
  “Ugh.” She wiped her mouth with the back of
her hand. “I hope we brought something besides
               chicken medium.”



                Three
    Cincinnati Underworld Woman

Verity ran up the broad, shallow stairs at the
center of the boat. The stairs were highly
polished but her bare feet kept her from
slipping. At each landing she saw the green
surging river and across it scattered rafts like
endless stepping-stones reaching from shore to
shore.
    She burst into the topmost room and halted
                    suddenly.
  In the flooding sunlight, a huge wooden wheel
 arched through the floor, reminding her of the
lovely Art Deco arch of Union Station. She felt a
 pang, remembering that she had met Sphere in
                   the Station.
     At last there was time to tell Blaze she had
slept with Sphere. It had been perplexing to find
 that although she had grown up with Blaze and
 was trying to rescue him from death, she might
not necessarily be close only to him, forever. But
  it hadn’t been as clear as that. Cincinnati had
been unimaginably strange, and despite the pain
 and strangeness, she still had to live, and make
choices, and she had done so. She did not regret
  it, though only a few months earlier she had
 believed that she would live her entire life as a
  celibate Shaker. How quickly the plague had
              changed everything.
   She placed her hands on the wheel. The top
 was level with her eyes. Each spoke stuck out
beyond the rim, but it was hard to turn. Maybe it
   would work better once they were moving.
         Three walls of the pilothouse were
double-hung windows pulled down from the top
 so a breeze blew through the room. The rear of
the pilothouse was a wall of shelves and drawers
made of various polished woods. Outside, almost
   like a vine that had attached itself to every
  straight edge, curling woodwork shaded the
tops of the window. The oak floor was burnished
   honey-gold; the walls were knotty pine. The
  ceiling, of white beaded boards, was ten feet
  high. Several easy chairs upholstered in fine,
  flowered fabric were grouped around a large
wooden table. A few books rested on the shelves.
She walked over and looked at them. The covers
 were muted red, blue, and green. But they had
 no titles. She picked one up and leafed through
             it. The pages were blank.
          One of the unfinished details.
   Did I do this? she mused. Wonderingly, she
 touched the controls. She looked out over the
 hundreds of people on the rafts. Surely one of
 them— perhaps whoever had brought it these
few miles below Cincinnati—would know better
  than she did how to pilot this thing. Yet she
              itched to master it.
  Next to her shoulder, hanging from the ceiling,
  was the end of a black tube clearly meant for
   speaking. She picked it up and said into it,
“Hello?” She jumped as her voice was broadcast
over the river; people on the rafts stopped what
 they were doing and glanced at the boat before
                   continuing.
   Well, she thought, returning it to its hook,
                 that’s useful!
    What powered the boat? Paint, she recalled,
remembering at least one of the screens that had
  flashed before her eyes—or had it been within
    her, somehow?—when she had accessed the
      plans. Paint that gathered solar energy,
 transmitted it to fine tubes running throughout
   the boat’s inner structure, and turned water
     into steam. It was something old— steam
   power—combined with something new, nan.
  Some energy was also stored in the part of the
 boat’s structure which was a fine foam. But how
much did she know about what she had wrought
in Cincinnati? And how much had she forgotten?
  For a moment, that forgetting was a vast blue
 space, nothing more, intense and absolutely,
overpoweringly blue, a wave of color that filled
 her and the world and then vanished, leaving
          everything as it was before.
  Below her, on the river, rafters dismantled the
rope webwork that moored them. Verity touched
a bare plate in front of her and a screen blinked
   to life, filled with options. She took a deep
 breath, then smiled and touched it once again,
as the power of information surged through her
  and she sequed through screen after screen.
  A schematic of the Queen showed that it had
room for about two thousand passengers, and a
lot more if they doubled up, though she figured
    only about five hundred were on board.
    She watched rafts drift off down the river,
   passengers cheering and waving. At last the
river was clear, and she touched another button.
 She heard the loud clank of their anchor being
raised, pushed back panic at the thought of falls
 and rapids and touched the button which said
                      power.
  A quiet shudder ran through the boat. Elated,
she moved a large, heavy lever forward, and the
          boat moved into the current.
  What else was there to do but move, down the
Ohio River. She touched and touched the screen
  and brought to view a chart of the Ohio, on
which the Queen was a blinking light just below
Cincinnati. Yes, move. Past Louisville. Past Old
  Shawneetown. To Cairo, where a light kept
 everlasting vigil, at the place where the Ohio
 merged with the Mississippi, where the water
 below became fierce and wild and beckoning.
  But as she held to the wheel, she watched the
   chart re-form, and reform, and re-form yet
   again, obviously uncertain. It was as she’d
feared—all the information about the river was
  probably pre-earthquake, which was when
  Cincinnati had become absolutely isolated.
 It been a horrible morning so far. After making
   breakfast, Blaze lost his composure again,
  became fuddled and tired. She had tried to
  organize matters but that was like trying to
 change the course of a flood and she had been
completely unsuccessful though at last they had
                 all gotten food.
   Keeping an eye on the river, she tried to figure
   out what to do. With one hand she rummaged
 through the cupboard beneath the window, just
to the right of the wheel, and found, to her relief,
  some paper and a pencil. The tablet was partly
  used, the pencil had a tooth mark in it, and the
               eraser was just a nub.
   The memory of the City had apparently been
           vast and quite precise.
 She was startled to hear from deep in her mind
 a sarcastic laugh, and the voice could almost
have come from outside, somewhere: Now, dear,
  do you understand the necessity for control?
 “Leave me alone!” Verity shouted. She propped
     the tablet on the wheel and scribbled
 “ORGANIZATION OF MEAL CHORES.” Right.
First, who exactly was there to organize? They
had to have names, and a home raft, instead of
     shifting from raft to raft, and then—
  A thin, middle-aged man peered in the door.
The top of his head was bald and his eyes were
                   pale blue.
     “Was someone bothering you?” he asked
                 hesitantly.
   Verity was annoyed when he walked right in
and plopped down in one of the chairs. She had
to concentrate! And she felt so… so restless! Her
hands tingled and she put down her pencil and
             rubbed them together.
   “No,” she said. “Sorry. I just have so much
 work to do and I have no idea how to go about
                       it.”
   “What do you have to do?” he asked, clearly
puzzled. “It’s an absolutely beautiful day. That’s
the problem—don’t you see? This is not a day to
be under a roof, away from the sun! It’s glorious!
 When the sun is out, it’s your duty to let it into
 your eyes. Then everything will straighten out;
you’ll be the very picture of good cheer. Certain
biochemical reactions take place, you know.” He
rose and took her arm gently. “Do come outside
  and see it all. While standing in the glorious
  bright summer sun. The river. It flows all the
way to Norleans. And the trees. The fields. More
   beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
 Tremendous to be out in the world again, after
   all that time.” He gave her a helpless look.
              “However long it was.”
  She pulled her arm away from him. The sun
was yet another problem. Too much exposure to
            the sun was dangerous.
    Or at least, it was for Shakers, who forswore
   any sort of genetic manipulation to deal with
skin cancer. But these people were different, she
reminded herself. It was possible that their skin
  was completely resistant to cancer because of
restorative genetic engineering which kept cells
 normal. She looked at her golden arms. Without
   a doubt she was different now. Her body had
  changed in bizarre and wrenching ways. A life
free of fear of the sun? Was that possible? Maybe
 that was the least of what was possible now. Or
                   the most benign.
 Some barrier within her vanished and opened
 her to a world of beautiful, welcome sunlight.
    “I can see it all from here,” she said, with a
little less irritation. “What are we going to have
 for lunch? Who is going to fix it? Where will it
  come from? Who will distribute it and how?”
   “Ah,” he said. He looked at what Verity had
  written and picked up the pencil. “Don’t you
    know? We’ve thought of that of course. It
definitely occurred to us after that rampage this
morning; I guess we were too tired to consider it
                   last night.”
  He found a blank page and sketched lines and
   connecting circles onto the pad. He started
  writing things in the circles, like “dining rafts
  1-6” and “kitchen duty” and “gathering crew”
   and “initiators.” He frowned, set the pencil
 down, and rummaged through several drawers.
“There’s one,” he said, finally, and pulled a small
 black scroll of some thin sleek material from a
                      drawer.
   He unrolled it, and it stayed flat, about three
by five inches. He said “Wake up!” and the thing
    began to glow. He pulled on the edges and
stretched it a bit larger. “There!” he said. “Look.
It’s all been taken care of. Didn’t you know?” He
    looked at her quizzically and she felt very
strange indeed. Not only was she not in control;
        she was not needed at all, it seemed.
     For the wakened light on what was now a
 screen had become several colors and imitated
     what he had begun except the lines were
straighter and all appeared instantly. “Look,” he
  said. “We all coded in early on.” He picked up
  the scroll and squeezed a corner and another
  screen appeared. “Yes,” he said. “See? Tod L.
Michmaster, that’s me. That’s me!” His voice was
   tinged with awe. He looked at Verity again.
          “Yes,” he said, “it’s really me!”
  He tossed the scroll back into the drawer and
wandered out the door. He spread his arms wide
   as if to embrace all that he saw as he stood in
  the sunlight. Over the murmur of the boat, the
 rush of the river, she heard him laugh and then
 begin to sob. He hugged himself and bent over,
sobbing and laughing, then held onto the railing,
       wiped his eyes, and stared at the river.
  Verity took the scroll out of the drawer. It was
   extraordinarily smooth and pleasing to her
  touch. Below his name was a list of things he
  was apparently to do. He was to activate the
  bilge pumps. He was to run a rather complex
  water purity check and adjust for microbes.
            Impurities. And plagues.
  She laughed, shortly. Yes, and plagues. That
would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Well, that was
him and he had a job to do, but would he do it?
Had he? Who—or what—had decided this? Had
 thought swept over them all somehow at the
                  same time?
      Or… had it somehow come from her?
 No. She thought not. She had been a part of the
     hive only briefly, and then had only…
            What had she done? What?
    To avoid that darkness, she picked up the
scroll and touched a green light at the top right,
              which was blinking.
  r.d. #47, the scroll read, and she was chilled to
                      the bone.
    R.D.? Of course. The chill turned to anger.
Rose Durancy. I was number forty-seven. That’s
     me! And what, really, did it matter?
 She’d have to figure out how to tell it her name
was Verity, that was all. And what will your last
 name be? She laughed aloud. She’d never had
                      one!
  Fine then. What were the chores of R.D. #47?
She read, scrolling, while trying to keep an eye
                  on the river,
    1. access area 72 by pressing top right
  corner twice and use tutorial.
    2. distribute antibacterial for
  dishwashing to trent samson and jonah
  pinetti at 1:00 p.m. ab is in plastic
  pouches stored in #38. give them each a
  box of fifty; one pouch per ten gallons of
  water. they will meet you at the cabin
  door.
    3. meet later this evening with… there
  was a blank, ha! thought Verity, not
  decided yet ? to consider pros and cons of
  activating recycler. see page 1425 for
  pros and cons.
    4. walk for at least one hour around
  deck as you are pregnant and renew
  daily anti-nausea and vitamin patch #7
  labeled prenatal in cupboard #35…
              “What?” she shouted.
   you are pregnant, repeated the scroll, then
   said, norleans or bust! have a lovely day.
            It blanked, then lit again.
   do you wish to know if it is a boy or a girl?
        “Not… just… yet,” she muttered.
           “Who are you talking to?”
   She turned and saw Blaze. He wore a white
T-shirt and tight black pants and was barefoot.
 His red hair, which Sare had usually cut, had
  grown shaggy almost to his shoulders, and
curled and caught the sunlight. His beard was
  red-gold. A cut over his left cheekbone was
 healing. He looked much better than he had
              earlier this morning.
 “This!” she said, and picked up the scroll from
the table. It was not much thicker than a piece
 of paper. It lit again when she touched it. “It
               says I’m pregnant.”
 “Well,” said Blaze calmly, after a short pause,
               “is that possible?”
 She put her hands in her pockets. “Yes,” she
said, “it’s possible, but it just seems unlikely.”
 “Oh,” he said. He stepped in out of the sun and
                said again “Oh.”
    “Sphere,” she said. “The father would be
                   Sphere.”
 Blaze took a deep breath. “I always thought—”
 She saw tears glimmer in his eyes before he
              blinked them away.
     “I know what you thought,” she said. “I
           thought the same thing.”
  He sat on one of the chairs. “I guess—well it’s
 strange.” He frowned. “It’s hard to say when I
thought that it might even be possible. That we
     might—” He stopped and said nothing.
 “Make love,” she said. “That’s one way to say it.
And we couldn’t. We weren’t allowed. Remember
   how mad John was when we stayed in the
 Dayton Library? It was because he thought we
                     had.”
 “Oh, Verity.” He stood, walked over to her, and
  took her hand. He asked quietly, “Are you
           happy? Are you excited?”
  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just found out. It’s
                 very strange.”
  For a while then they were silent, and the river
 enfolded them, entranced them, the green and
 winding corridor lined with forest from which
large birds rose on wide dark wings, while small
  rafts slipped through patches of sunlight and
                 shade downriver.



                   Four
             Lost World Blues

Indiana on the north shore (or more properly
west, since the Ohio had taken a turn to the
south) was a land of low, green hills.
Innumerable tiny creeks fed the Ohio and
glinted through the Kentucky forest in the
distance. Sand and gravel bars ran alongside for
stretches and after several hours of piloting
Verity’s back and shoulders were stiff from
tension. She moved cautiously, as slowly as
possible. There were no proper charts,
apparently, and she knew from some of the
older charts that there had been a lot of dams on
the Ohio before the earthquake. Most had been
low, locking dams. But she doubted if any were
attended now. From time to time they passed
channel markers—nuns, some were called, a
reference screen told her, but they might be out
in a vast wide wash and so far had meant
nothing. She’d managed to thread the boat
through the massive concrete pillars of a train
bridge, barely breathing the entire time. When
they anchored the second night, a green light
blinked in the distance and she did not know
what it meant, what place in the river it marked,
though she had an old running chart called
Character and Period of Light. It listed things
like “People Moored Barge lights 2F.W 494.0 mi.
from Pittsburgh. Gunpowder Light Gp Fl.W., 4
sec, 2 flashes.” On the evening of the third day,
as the hubbub of dinner subsided, Verity
searched for Blaze. She realized that she hadn’t
seen him in many hours. He was not in his room,
and she was growing panicky when she heard
the tones of a piano, so faint that they might be
coming from another age. The age when
showboats plied the Ohio, the Tennessee, the
Green rivers, and all their tiny tributaries.
   Drawn by the sound, she found herself in a
  short corridor which led to an arch of large,
                welcoming doors.
    Next to them was a blank space, which she
  touched. As she expected, a poster appeared:
    bloomer girls, good family fun—Tuesday
    through Thursday nights, 8 p.m. After it
vanished she touched it again, and this time saw
      a poster for ten nights in a barroom.
     Next to the poster a sign hung over the
     corridor—fine china and other gifts.
    Opening the double doors, she stood for a
moment at the end of a long aisle that followed
 the curve of the hull, descending gently and
rising toward the large stage at the other end.
    An enormous room of empty velvet seats
waited; a wine-colored curtain was drawn back
 on both sides and on the stage were the dark
shapes of some set, behind the piano. On either
side were balconies and several private booths
            rising above the stage.
  Blaze was tiny on the faraway stage. Now that
     she could hear his music better, it was
disturbing—halting and tortured. Mournful, like
a cry. She hurried down the aisle but he did not
 seem to notice her; she climbed the steps at the
    side of the stage and stood next to him.
 His face was as unearthly white as porcelain,
but maybe that was because of the floodlight
which bathed him. His shirt was patched with
 sweat, and sweat dripped from his forehead
   onto the keys, though it was cool in the
 auditorium. As his long fingers spanned the
                keys, he sang.
      And I’m goin’ to the river, take my boat
      and float.
      And if my underworld mama quit me I’m
      gonna cut my throat
      And it’s, oh, I ain’t gon do it no more
      And it’s. oh. I ain’t gon do it no more
      The last time I drank your whiskey.
      Mama.
      It made my belly sore.
           The song from Cincinnati.
  He bent over the keys and pounded them in a
frenzy, eliciting curious chords, and his fingers
  brushed the black keys or played two notes
  right next to each other, fleetingly. She was
             afraid to interrupt him.
 When he finally turned his head and saw her,
his eyes were blank for an awful long moment,
as he continued to play and sing, and then his
 hands crashed down on the keys. The harsh
         sound echoed in the vast hall.
  “Verity?” he whispered. He looked around.
“Where am I? I was dreaming… dreaming… oh,
Verity, you don’t know what it’s like to be dead.
 Where’s Mother Ann? I kept looking for her,
                 everywhere…”
   Still sitting, he grabbed her waist with both
    arms and held her tight, putting his head
   against her stomach. She stroked his head,
 wondering if this was what it would be like to
 have a child. He seemed so helpless, so lost. He
        shook for a few seconds with sobs.
  “There was a man I met in Cincinnati,” he said,
  his voice muffled against her shirt. “Kid Cole
  was his name. He was black, and thin. He was
 standing next to a big fountain of a woman and
was playing a guitar and singing this song. I was
looking all over for you, Verity, and couldn’t find
 you, but then I kept forgetting what I was doing
 and everything was so… so jumbled, everything
 I saw and heard and felt, and then I heard this
  music, and I made him sing it again and again
   and again because when I listened, and sang
 with him, the awful sickness left me, I feel sick
all over sometimes, and I remembered my name.
  You don’t know how awful it is not to even be
          able to remember your name.”
  “I’m sorry. Blaze,” she said, in a low voice, and
 hugged him, and rubbed his back, shocked to
 realize that he didn’t even remember that she
had been there with him. His trembling slowed,
and his breathing became more normal. Finally
   he loosened his arms and looked up at her.
   She sat next to him on the bench and their
              shoulders touched.
 “Play it again, Blaze,” she said, and he did. and
  his voice was stronger this time, and almost
         stilled the terror in her heart.
  On the fourth morning they saw a town on a
 long straight stretch of river that was unlike
         those they had been passing.
     This town had been partially drowned.
   The water of the Ohio was fairly clear, and
   people knelt on the edge of their rafts and
stared into it. A hush fell over the entourage, so
  that all was birdcalls in the forest, a steady
insect buzz that rose and fell, the slip and slosh
  of water lapping the two-lane road that ran
  down the northwest bank and vanished into
                    downtown.
  Verity relinquished the piloting to Blaze. She
 stood on one of the high decks and glimpsed a
   cross caught in wavery parallax a moment
     before the Queen drifted over it with a
    hesitation—slight, yet Verity knew it was
  because the steeple was being torn from the
              waterlogged church.
   An old woman came and stood next to Verity;
 gripped the rail with thin, withered hands. Her
eyes were large and serene, delphinium blue; the
skin on her face was translucent and networked
  with fine lines. Her hair was long, white, and
              rather stiff-looking.
 “Now there’s Rising Sun for you,” she said, her
voice a harsh whisper. “What a sight. They were
 a stubborn lot but it suited them. Worked out
well, I guess, except for the earthquake that got
                 them drowned.”
     “What worked out well?” asked Verity.
  The woman continued gazing outward as they
  drifted across what looked like an industrial
   section of town, the peaked roofs of houses
giving way to blunt flat roofs of warehouses and
 malls, all crumpled and uneven and often not
    there at all, revealing metal and concrete
                     lineaments.
     “The Preservation Federation,” said the
 woman. “These folks out in the country were
mad as hell. Said they wouldn’t—now, how did
my old man say it? ‘We won’t stand for none of
  this goddamned nanotechnology stuff being
  shoved down our throats!’ Stood up there on
Sunday in the pulpit and took the Name of the
Lord in vain and what do you know—the whole
 congregation stood and cheered. I guess,” she
    said, “that was a hell of a long time ago.”
    PF blinked in the upper right quadrant of
Verity’s vision, and a man’s inflectionless voice
  began, When Cincinnati voted to convert, the
   countryside was already in disarray. Some
looked upon conversion as a defensive gesture—
  “Stop!” yelled Verity, holding her head in her
hands. Her shout rang out across the quiet river.
 The voice stopped. She took a deep breath and
                    blinked.
   “I assume you’re not talking to me,” said the
 old woman. “It’s them voices buzzing like flies
around dead meat. Well, I wouldn’t listen to any
  of them”—she gestured downward with her
     thumb extended from her fist—“not my
   neighbors, not my dull, scared friends, and
especially not my God-infested father. Look over
                     there!”
     Verity looked, and saw, mingled with the
forest that was growing into the part of the town
   still on land, the very tip of a metal tower.
    “W-G-O-D,” said the woman, with wonder in
   her voice. “That’s it. His tower. Yes—see the
  bones of that old shopping center? Westgate
Mall, it was. Low, through the trees. His station
   was there; you could go and watch him rant
through the plate glass. He was quite a terror in
  his day, you know. Soaked up money from all
       around. Bags of envelopes, all full of
money—how he’d laugh with glee when the mail
 came! He was completely astonished I think. I
 sure was. He thought that mother would stop
treating him like an old crackpot but she didn’t,
   just said there were a lot more idiots in the
   world than she’d ever suspected. He bought
   himself a big leather chair and put it in the
station so he could froth at the mouth in comfort
but I’m telling you he used just about every cent
  of that money for the Cause. It really hurt him
 when radio went. But during the years when it
 faded—the end of the world, you know; I guess
    he and that Bible were right, in a way—he
gathered quite a different little town here. Why,
if he told his disciples they were to walk around
  on their hands all day they’d do it and be glad.
    Strangest thing, I thought, then look what
 happened to me in Cincinnati. But you know, I
 can’t really say as I’m sorry. No, I left the whole
backward crew and went off to the big city. Now
look! They’re all dead, and I’m still alive! I might
   be a little daft, but then, I always was.” Her
        raucous laugh shook her frail body.
  “The only thing is,” she said in a quieter voice,
“I do wonder what year it is. Now. And how long
they’ve been drowned. Probably all the people I
      knew were long dead by the time of the
earthquake anyway. He is, I’m sure; more irony.
I’ve got everlasting life, or something like it, and
  he’s rotted away in the ground. Except maybe
  my sister’s children. They might have made it.
  Maybe they got away. Look. It’s the park. Nice
   library in the west corner, before he yanked
                most of the books.”
  Verity saw tears in the woman’s brilliant blue
  eyes before she closed them and bowed her
                      head.
  Later in the afternoon Verity saw, a quarter
mile away when they rounded a bend, Lock and
                    Dam 33.
   The words were painted in large white letters
      across the top, but it slanted at about a
  thirty-degree angle and was broken in places.
 The water ran fast and they were pulled to the
west. Verity’s mind watched as her hands pulled
    levers, so quickly she did not even notice a
decision, but then she stopped, afraid that if she
did manage to pull the boat to one side it might
     have worse consequences than if she did
      nothing. She stood helpless in the high
pilothouse, clenching the wheel with both hands
  to hold it steady as the Queen slipped down a
 fast-moving incline. The dam was behind them
   before Verity could even think about it but
 afterward she took great gulps of air and held
      the wheel tight to stop her hands from
                     trembling.
  That evening, Verity stood on the texas deck
and looked out over her kingdom. She knew it
was the texas because she had studied a plan of
                   the boat.
     Above the main deck, supported by giant
 struts, was the boiler deck, with a wide ornate
  promenade down the center, carpeted and lit
with chandeliers, with staterooms on both sides.
   The next layer was the hurricane deck, and,
 slightly above that, a smaller structure called
  the texas deck, upon which rested the texas.
 There was a story that staterooms were called
staterooms because there was one for each state
 on one of the original riverboats—except they
ran out of rooms before they got to texas. So the
        structure up top got that honor.
  On top of the texas was the pilothouse, like a
  rectangular park gazebo. Verity was feeling
   more and more at home on the boat—even
                  proprietary.
       Over the course of the day everyone had
responded to the directions on their little scrolls
  with an alacrity that troubled Verity. She had
   pecked in suggestions with the tiny keypads
 which became visible if one touched the upper
 left corner, about what they would make in the
  main galley to augment their meal, and what
      time they would stop. Even though that
       cooperativeness had been essential to
 decentralizing the food supply and distributing
 it among the rafts—now they all had their own
  chicken medium—she was troubled by it. She
  noticed some of them talking to their scrolls,
and when she asked one man what he was doing
    he looked surprised. “Training it,” he said.
     The tang of water was in the air. Dusk
 deepened, and a thousand or so fires flickered
 around her—one thousand three hundred and
                  twenty-six—
  “Oh, what do I care!” she said impatiently and
    continued to gaze over her minions. Or
 dependents. Or companions. Or whatever they
 were. Half of them dead now, at least, of those
    who had so gaily boarded vessels on the
  Cincinnati wharfs. Dead for good. Except—
  Of course their information was all stored in
 Cincinnati. And those were the kind of people
who would populate the Earth now, apparently.
        And she was one of them, too.
  And her child, in whose reality it was difficult
   to believe. Except that when she forgot to
     change her patch she had been so sick
                   yesterday.
   About six rafts over, eleven men and women
   sat in a circle, naked, and quiet as the raft
bobbed on the smooth river. Verity thought their
 eyes were all closed but she couldn’t be sure. It
 was a bit chilly for that sort of thing. Then one
of them opened her mouth and spoke but Verity
   couldn’t hear what she said. When she was
  finished, no one gave any sign that they had
          heard anything. Verity sighed.
  They seemed to have settled into their routine
  easily enough, now that they had the scrolls.
 They gathered on the Queen for breakfast and
   dinner, though many preferred fishing and
cooking for themselves on the rafts. Blaze fished
  for several hours a day from one of the rafts.
   They seemed to enjoy socializing among the
 rafts, and boarded the Queen freely whenever
they pleased. Verity gave them a big head start
in the mornings, and generally found them tied
   up in a cove somewhere around four in the
   afternoon, early enough to finish dinner by
 dark. At night they danced on their rafts, and
 sang. For the most part. Of course, it was to be
 expected that most of them were more addled
                  than peahens.
    On another raft, just below her, three girls
played as a man washed dishes. “Stay away from
             that fire!” he warned.
   “You be the Bee,” said one girl and another
  replied “No, you be the Bee!” and they began
 shoving one another and the man jumped up
 from his dishes and said “Stop that now, how
about a story?” and they quieted and sat. He did
   too. The girls stared at him. He didn’t say
            anything for a long time.
     “Tell us!” said the smallest one finally.
   “I… don’t know,” he said, and his voice was
 troubled. “I was going to tell you some sort of
story about the hole-in-the-rock pirates further
              down the river but…”
     The oldest girl took his hand. “Tell us a
 different one then,” she said. “We don’t care.”
            After a moment, he began.
  “Once upon a time three little girls and their
 mommy and daddy lived in a tall, tall tower in
                 Cincinnati.
     “Their mommy was a nanotechnologist who
     had moved to Cincinnati from Los Angeles
     during the First Wave. Their daddy was a
   carpenter who used to build houses and then
  went to one of their new strange colleges for a
long time and now was in charge of maintenance
 in one of the towers. It was a tower called Wild
  Rose. The man and the woman saw each other
 for the first time during the monthly Wild Rose
Homeowners’ meeting. The homeowners liked to
 rake the man over the coals for any little thing
    that was not perfect with their unit. He was
     used to it but in the last month many had
complained of contradictory news reports—they
      got these by touching their hands to the
  interstice, mind you—and that concerned him
     more than too few coffee cups in cupboard
      number twenty-two. Besides, they were
                      blaming—
    “—me. They were blaming me and saying I
  wasn’t mixing the news packet properly—you
kneaded the news up, inside its plastic bag, and
  the heat activated it, and then you broke the
    seal by touching a certain place and only
 certified people had the receptors to open the
   news and then you poured it into the news
receptacle and it flowed up the interstice so you
see that there wasn’t much I could do wrong, but
      of course someone could possibly add
 misinformation if they knew how to get around
  the failsafes, or if they somehow copied my
  receptors. All kinds of strange crimes were
possible, and without broadcasting we were all
frantic for news. Anyway I had requested that
  one of the technologists attend the meeting
 mainly so that the blame could be shifted to
      where it belonged, the fact that the
metapheromone packages were shipped all the
  way from Denver and I felt as if the quality
 assurance checks were not being performed
    correctly. At least that was my theory.”
   “You?” asked the middle girl. “You were the
              man? The daddy?”
 “Yes,” he said, a bit of a surprise in his voice. “I
 guess so. I mean, I didn’t know that when the
                  story started.”
        “Our daddy?” asked the youngest.
    “Well…” He blinked and looked around at
 them. “That doesn’t seem too possible does it?
   And what makes you think you’re sisters?”
 “We are,” they said indignantly, all at the same
 time. “And furthermore,” said the oldest, who
  had short red hair that seemed aflame in the
firelight, “it would be easy enough to do a test,
                      and…”
   “All right, all right,” said the man, and his
  voice sounded weary. “So then where’s this
 woman in the story, your mother I suppose? I
mean it sounds like a fairy tale to me. I might as
 well be telling a goddamned fairy tale! Where
       did you kids come from anyway?”
  He stood up and looked around wildly. “Mary
Ann! Mary Ann!” he shouted. “It’s Dan! I’m here!”
  “Daddy, sit down,” said the little one. Her hair
   was pulled into braids, which were coming
 undone. They all wore shorts and T-shirts and
                    no shoes.
   “Well then where’s your mother?” he asked,
sobbing, and the redhead hugged him, and then
  the other two, and they stood on the gently
        bobbing raft until he was quiet.
      “What will I do with all of you?” Verity
 wondered aloud as she watched. What stories
were unfolding on the other rafts? Up on the top
 deck had the little story group gathered yet?
 Verity hadn’t done much work all day, really;
 she’d only felt, but what she had felt, she now
realized, had left her chest aching from muscles
   that had been constricted and tense since
                      waking.
    “Who put you in charge, anyway?” asked a
           quiet voice next to her.
      “Where have you been all day, Blaze?”
  He leaned on the railing, and his face was pale
  in the light of the rising moon, and his beard
    golden. “Oh, here and there. Everywhere.
 Fishing. Like that catfish you had for dinner?”
  “Are you going to grow that very long?” asked
  Verity, and touched his beard. It was crinkly
  beneath her fingers. She gave it a slight yank
and Blaze smiled though she couldn’t really see
  his mouth. She was happy. He looked normal
 tonight, though tired, as if he had wrestled all
               day to just be Blaze.
   “Maybe,” he said. He pulled a white cylinder
from his pocket and lit it with a match which he
             struck on the railing.
 “A cigarette!” said Verity. “Where did you find
                     that?”
    “Cabinet number fourteen-B in Memphis
 stateroom. My room, in fact. Pretty nice.” He
                 took a puff.
            “Let me try,” said Verity.
  “NO SMOKING PLEASE,” said a voice in her
 pocket and she jumped. “YOU’RE PREGNANT
   AND WE ARE NOT CERTAIN THAT THE
DETOX NAN IS FUNCTIONING. DO YOU WANT
  TO KNOW YET IF IT’S A BOY OR A GIRL?”
   “How do you shut these things off?” asked
                  Verity.
  “Why don’t you want to know?” asked Blaze.
      “I just don’t,” she said, feeling cross.
  “You seem awfully young to have a baby. You
    were only eighteen last January 31st.”
  “How do you know?” asked Verity, staring at
  him. She had never known her birthday. “I
            thought I was seventeen.”
       Blaze shrugged. “The scroll said so.”
   “How can you access information about me?”
she asked. She pulled out the scroll and puzzled
 over it. “YOU DIDN’T PUT ON YOUR VITAMIN
 PATCH TODAY,” it admonished. She stuffed it
    back in her pocket. “Besides, what does it
 matter? My name is Rose. Rose Durancy. We’re
    all Rose Durancy. For all I know I’ll meet
several of me on this trip. Little, big, old, young.
I saw—I saw—in the hive—” She started to gasp,
  remembering small faces, smashed against a
                  membrane—
   Blaze’s arm came around her and she leaned
into him. “You were holding the scroll while you
  napped before supper. That’s all. Remember?
 You fell asleep on the deck chair and I wheeled
 you into a spot that was still sunny and it came
                        on.”
  “It’s a girl,” she said. “I think I can only have
                        girls.”
             “Girls are nice,” he said.
  “You don’t care?” she asked, staring out at the
        water. “I mean about Sphere…”
   “I care about Sphere,” said Blaze, his voice
quiet. She looked at him, but he gazed out over
   the water. He took another puff from his
  cigarette and a brief look of astonishment
passed over his face as the butt disintegrated.
       He said, “I guess it was finished.”
     He took a deep breath and turned to her.
“What I mean to say, Verity, is that I care about
 Sphere, and I care about you. I know what I’m
  supposed to be feeling—all those things that
  people in books used to feel, right? Jealousy,
 anger, rage. Well. I don’t. There seems to be—I
 don’t know—lots of space around my feelings.
  They come from me. What there are of them.
  They don’t come from outside me, like John’s
 did, all those rules he had to make himself feel
   safe. I don’t know. Maybe that means that I
don’t—don’t love you?” His voice vanished into a
whisper as he looked squarely into Verity’s eyes.
     “Maybe it means that you do,” she said.
  “Well I do,” he said roughly, and stalked off
 down the deck. “I do!” he yelled back over his
                   shoulder.
    Verity took a few steps to follow him; then
  someone pulled on her shirt and she turned.
  It was a boy, about six, thin, with light brown
  hair falling across his eyes. “Hurry,” he said.
                 “We need help.”
    As Verity jumped from raft to raft, following
 the young boy, she apologized to the people she
encountered and sometimes stepped on. The boy
   ran right through the middle of the circle of
     naked people without batting an eye and
   neither, she noticed, did they. Once her foot
 dipped and she fell into the river but a woman
 reached down and pulled her out immediately,
  with surprising strength. Dripping and cold,
  Verity hurried on, across rafts where people
spoke in low murmurs or slept, sprawled on the
            rough wood, oblivious.
 “There!” shouted the boy, after pausing to take
his bearings. Verity heard a man swearing, and
 when she stepped onto the raft where the boy
  was heading the man grabbed her roughly.
        “Holy Queen, you’re here at last!”
   Well, Blaze, she thought, someone appointed
                       me.
  “I’m not the Queen anymore,” she said. “I gave
                     it up.”
   “Then we’re alone,” the man whispered under
 his breath, and Verity heard his tone as one of
 terror. Anger, or something deeper, swept over
his face, making it beastlike; his eyes bulged and
    his mouth twisted. With a roar, he grabbed
Verity’s shoulders and began shaking her, hard;
  her head whipped back and forth dizzyingly.
  The boy set upon him like a small tornado of
  swirling fists, and then he let go and stepped
                   back, panting.
   Verity stumbled, and regained her balance.
 Anger surged through her. The man turned to
  the wigwam and grabbed one of the poles; it
 promptly collapsed, bringing two women and
      one man crawling out from under it.
   “Then who is?” yelled the man. “Who is the
 Queen? Who brought us to this queenforsaken
 place?” He thrust his hands beneath Verity’s
 eyes. She caught a glimmer of apology mixed
  with the desperation in his eyes. “I need it. I
  can’t stay here! When do we get to the next
                     City?”
 Verity could see that his face was covered with
  sweat, though the night was chilly, and was
                   frightened.
                 The pheromones.
  His receptors were still active, of course, and
               he was addicted.
                  They all were.
   What about the rest of them? She gazed out
 over the myriad rafts, to the Queen, with a few
             windows still alight.
  How many? Thousands. Thousands of crazed
          addicts in withdrawal.
    “Hey!” yelled one of the women, as the man
  kicked a bundle into the water as if it were a
football. “Those were my clothes! I just got them
                  this morning!”
  “There’s more where they came from, isn’t that
 right, Miss Queen Bee?” His face was as ugly as
his voice. “We can just make them, right, in a big
  clothes vat. Sure. I used to work in a clothing
    store. Yeah. Pissed me off. All those picky
 people—” His voice went mincing and high. “
   ‘Oh, send it back. I told you no trim on the
      collar.’ I didn’t want these goddamned
receptors. I just got caught, and then it was too
  late. But I’ve got ’em now, all right. Hey, how
about a whole new body while you’re at it? And
don’t forget the tattoo. It’s the Mars ship. They
 said I didn’t make the grade—who are they to
  say? They go around enhancing anyone they
please—anyone willing to kiss their ass, which I
  wasn’t—but I’m just not Mars material. Just
   because I refused the rehab nans in prison.
     Perfectly legal. Then they give me drone
punishment by making me work in that stupid
                        place—”
 Verity’s heart beat hard. She shoved her hands
 into her wet pockets, thinking. The Norleans
 Plague was no substitute for the pheromonal
input these people were used to, though it had
  been strong enough to impel them to leave.
   Maybe this man hadn’t had a full dose, or
something. He certainly didn’t have a full deck,
she thought, but then who did, here? Certainly
                    not her.
 He grabbed Verity’s arm, hard, and yanked her
 around. “Listen to me!” he yelled. “You’re not
              paying attention!”
 “Let go!” she yelled back and kicked him in the
         shin. He staggered backward.
  “You—” he choked, bent over, then raised his
               arm to hit her.
 The other four on the raft jumped on him and
wrestled him down. His head hit the raft with a
           thump and he went limp.
   One of the women sat next to him, looking
dazed. The other woman stood and said, “What a
        jerk. Are you all right, honey?”
  Verity shrugged her shoulders. “I guess. How
                do you feel?”
   “Not like him, I guarandangtee it,” she said.
 “But I don’t know. Maybe I will. Hey, if you’re
    the Queen, when are we going to get to
  Norleans? Will it take long?” Her dark eyes
  glowed in the firelight. She started to sing,
     “Some rows up, but we floats down—”
   “We passed right over the top of Rising Sun
this morning, in case you didn’t notice,” said the
     other man, rubbing his hands together
nervously. “And I could use a little Burroughs at
 this point myself. I’d go back to Cincinnati if I
       didn’t want to see Norleans so bad.”
  “Burroughs!” said the other woman, glancing
    up from the downed man. “You would.”
     The man laughed and crawled inside the
   wigwam. One side of it went up. “Help me
 straighten this out,” he said, his voice muffled
                   by canvas.
  “Do you know him?” asked Verity, indicating
the former criminal, who was stirring groggily.
  “He’s my brother,” said the woman sitting next
to him. “At least I think he is. I’m not sure why.”
         “Does he look like your brother?”
  “Well, no,” she said. “The last I remember of
 my brother he was about eighteen. He wasn’t
 this old. He was a smart kid. And a smartass.
     Mom kicked him out about that time.”
 “I’m not old,” the man protested, sitting up and
rubbing his head. “And I’m not your brother. My
  sister always took my side. And she’s not the
Queen. I guess there’s nothing anyone can do. I
                 am going back.”
  Without another word he rolled into the river,
        surfaced, and swam for shore.
            “Jake!” yelled the woman.
  “Let him go,” said the other man from the door
 of the wigwam, which he had resurrected. “I’m
exhausted. Let’s get some sleep. I’ve got a feeling
    it will take longer than you think to get to
                     Norleans.”
   “Couldn’t take more than a few weeks,” said
                  the woman.
    The other woman stared after Jake. Verity
 wasn’t sure what she should do if she dove into
 the river and tried to follow. Prevent her, she
  decided, but wasn’t really sure why. The only
real reason was that they were about sixty miles
from Cincinnati. A pretty long walk. And Jake, if
 he got there, might not like what he found. If he
               could get inside at all.
  Verity was shivering. “Sorry I couldn’t help,”
  she said, and turned to go back to the boat.
    Verity climbed the ladder to the boiler deck
with her last ounce of strength. Her entire body
ached. She was deeply disoriented. So much had
  happened in the past few months. Her whole
  world had changed. And what had she done?
   Her conceit had been utterly ridiculous. She
 couldn’t possibly help these people. The plague
 she had given them wasn’t freedom, as she had
 believed, freedom from the tyranny of the City.
It was confusion, dissolution, death. They would
 die on the river, from blundering like children
   into some hazard, by killing one another, or
   from lack of metapheromones. They were as
much at a loss as she was, perhaps even more so.
   She realized that she was gripping her scroll
  tightly as these feelings and thoughts swept
through her. She wished she could squeeze it to
    splinters. She hated it and its ridiculous
 promise of control and order. Order could not
come from one as helpless and ignorant as she.
And she didn’t want to control. She was utterly
    exhausted, her spirit as dark as the night
                between the stars.
  Dew damped the railing on which she set the
  scroll. Night fires flickered and stories, she
 knew, were beginning, released from depths as
distant as the secret to her own identity, but she
       did not want to hear them tonight.
   As she turned to find a place to sleep, she
shoved the scroll. It fell into the river without a
                      sound.



               Five
 Jack O’ Diamonds and Lightnin’ Lil

Around three in the afternoon of the next day
the riverboat chugged along an Ohio River
relaxed and broad.
                For the moment.
 Verity, doing her best to spot upcoming shoals,
  was frazzled and worn. She still didn’t have
much control over the huge boat. It was difficult
to turn the big wheel, yet easy to overcorrect so
the entire boat swung sideways in the river. Her
 arms ached. Blaze had tried to relieve her but
 she refused to leave so finally he told her that
          there was a lot to do and left.
 She was finding more and more moments when
she longed to be lying on her back on one of the
rough rafts just seeing clouds drift past above,
crawling into the wigwam for a lazy nap during
  the time of high sun, watching for that one
particular light, which would be the freedom of
                    Cairo…
   She blinked. The vision thinned and instead
 she saw a split in the river ahead as it coursed
around both sides of what looked like an island.
  She hurriedly touched the cool chart screen,
 running her finger up and down it as she had
found that the river map rushed along beneath
 her finger as she did so. But where were they?
  She ran her finger above the words atop the
screen and touched fix and a list of coordinates
  came onscreen, useless to her, and then she
  touched fix again and there they were—the
 Queen, blinking in the river above the Falls of
         Louisville. Could that be true?
  She felt terrific panic for a moment and then
    the map relented and said, “Shifted by
 earthquake, bear port around Gambler’s Isle,
    more formally the Louisville Kentucky
  Gambling Annex Island.” So what? Was this
        information any more current?
   She took the right channel. A narrow spit of
 sand backed by thick green woods widened as
they neared it. A bit to the south on the map was
the legend louisville drowned, written in a large
      curve over a five-mile circumference.
  The island increased slightly in elevation. A
few houses were scattered among the trees and
  then she saw a large stone landing rushing
     toward her—how fast? Fast enough!
  Graceful mature trees shaded a hard-top road
  that led away from the landing. A large sign
  arched over the road: gambling for life stop
                     here!
   “DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT SET FOOT ON
LAND UNTIL WE ASCERTAIN NONTOXICITY,”
    hollered Verity into the mouthpiece of her
speaking tube, then saw that she had got the one
   labeled engine room, not the one that would
 blare out over the speakers on top of the boat.
   She grabbed the other one and repeated her
message, but no one heeded her. She wasn’t sure
  what she meant by nontoxicity; just Danger,
   damn it! Do as I say! “I AM THE CAPTAIN. I
  COMMAND YOU TO BYPASS THIS ISLAND!”
    But she watched with resignation the rafts
  sweep past the landing. Quite skillfully the
 pilots of the tiny crafts pulled on their sweeps
and soon an entire flotilla was beached on a long
   sandy shore where the tattered remains of
blue-striped cabanas hung still in the breezeless
                  hot afternoon.
  Blaze clomped up the stairs. “Are you going to
stop, Verity?” he asked. There was excitement in
                his voice. “Look!”
  Exasperated, Verity shaded her eyes and saw
     exactly what he wanted to stop for.
   Amid small quaint shops, in a central park,
   grazed a herd of horses of ethereal beauty.
 Delicate yet strong, perfectly proportioned and
  a bit larger than the Shaker Hill horses, they
  stopped grazing and looked at the river, ears
pricking forward, then took flight and seemed to
 vanish instantly though she could still hear the
echo of their hooves clattering over ever-farther
            streets. She saw no people.
  “Blaze,” she said, but he was gone. Verity saw
  him emerge on the boiler deck below her. He
 turned and with broad emphatic swings of his
   arm motioned her closer to the landing. He
 lifted one heavy coil of rope to a shoulder and
 she saw that he was ready to jump. He seemed
completely energized by the sight of the horses.
              That was a good sign.
  “It’s not as easy as you think,” she muttered,
        and began pushing various levers
experimentally, hoping she wouldn’t smash the
boat, then saw that the side of the landing was
                     baffled.
   By now the beach was covered with rafts.
People were tearing off their clothes and diving
    into the river, whooping and laughing.
  It was hot. Verity lifted her hair from her neck
for an instant, then grabbed the wheel with both
hands. Angling left, she was relieved to see Blaze
complete his leap and land gracefully on the flat
   concrete landing, and quickly pull the rope
through the metal rings bolted to it. He then ran
 to the back of the boat, yelling, and a rope came
snaking across the widening slice of river as the
 end of the boat kept going, angling out into the
  river. Then she felt it catch. The gap lessened
    and the boat stilled as she cut the power.
   She saw a small flood of people, an exodus
from the riverboat in a happy laughing stream.
  Why was she not as carefree? Weren’t they
worried about who they might meet, what might
             happen to them here?
     She didn’t really want to go ashore. She
 enviously watched the rafters splashing in the
 river. They wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.
     She went to the lowest deck, back by the
         paddlewheel, and undressed.
    Her dive was long and flat in case the water
      was shallow. The cold clear water was a
  welcome shock, tingling along her body as she
   swept beneath the surface of the river before
 emerging and taking a gulp of air. It cleared her
    head. She was just Verity, a young woman,
 possibly a month or so pregnant, swimming in a
clear, cool river in early summer while big white
 clouds drifted in a clear blue sky. A fish jumped
 nearby, slapping the water. A flock of sparrows
     swooped through the sky, elongating and
 contracting as if one organism, then settled in a
 white-barked sycamore on the other shore. She
  remembered some information she had about
flocking behavior and thought of the scrolls they
all had. Did have; she didn’t miss hers. But could
       there be some sort of connection?
    Cool at last, she climbed back on the boat.
  She dried herself with her shirt and dressed
quickly, more relaxed, and curious about what
 might be happening in the town. She walked
     down the gangway onto the landing.
    She passed through a block of warehouses
 with dirty windows, trying a door or two but
   they were locked, though it would be easy
 business to break into them. Needed supplies
  might be inside, and at Shaker Hill she had
grown up used to scavenging from the deserted
 towns nearby. All of them had been deserted,
  and this island seemed to have no residents
  either. But what do we need? she wondered.
They were moving so fast! They really needed to
stop for a day, take stock, organize. Maybe this
         would be a good place to do so.
  She walked farther and found herself on Main
Street, which was the typical deserted avenue of
 so many small towns near Miamisburg— small,
   empty shops—and was dunned by a rain of
                   whispers.
 They stopped when she did, but resumed when
she stepped forward: eager voices, happy voices.
  “Win big at Jimmy’s Fifth Street Arcade. Slot
     machines receptor-friendly. Megadose
hard-to-find custom-designed Old Louisville and
     a thousand other megs to choose from.
    Permanent or temporary, your choice.”
    “Horses professionally handicapped by the
  finest nangineers at Churchill Downs all bets
    fair wins redeemable onboard or portable
seconds left hurry races starting on the hour on
 three fast tracks real jockeys. Take Elm Street
                     south.”
  She heard the blare of distant trumpets, and
       knew where Blaze had headed.
  She continued to walk into the heart of town,
 though. Blaze was still disturbingly unable to
speak at times. He would seem to not remember
 her. He wanted to know where Russ was, or, if
 he remembered Shaker Hill, he wondered who
  was taking care of the horses. Sometimes he
   babbled about Shaker Hill not being real,
because there was no Heaven and there were no
           angels and no Mother Ann.
   But he didn’t have the plague. He was a lot
 more competent and able to look after himself
 than the plagues rafters, who were also dazed
    after their strange lives in Cincinnati.
  It looked as if Jimmy’s Arcade was already full
of rafters. A large brilliantly lit arch proclaimed
 the address, and mechanical pings and whirrs
    issued forth along with smooth high tones
     constantly cut short. Verity felt as if they
 shouldn’t go inside but wasn’t really sure why;
 her faint panic might merely be the vestiges of
 John’s blue voice gravely intoning the Shaker
       philosophy concerning gambling.
          She stepped inside cautiously.
    Every booth had a rafter leaning over it in
  intense concentration. The levers they kept
 pulling were iridescent, like rainbows; Verity
 suspected immediately that they meshed with
the receptors in their hands, perhaps providing
some sort of relief from the torment they’d been
                      feeling.
  At what cost? One young man reeled toward
 her, eyes vacant, a silly grin on his face, then
   saw and avoided her at the last instant,
             staggering to one side.
  Alarmed, she took another step and someone
              grabbed her arm.
  It was a goofy, leering clown, about seven feet
tall, loose-jointed and wavery as if he were made
                     of rubber.
  His face was a narrow oval, stark white with
bursts of blue and yellow lines around his eyes,
which looked vacant and hungry beneath their
grinning grimace. He yanked again and Verity
     yanked back but his grip was strong.
    He wore a pointed yellow hat covered with
 large blue polka dots; it rested on wild orange
hair fluffed out on both sides of his head. A wide
white collar encircled his neck like a flower and
 his suit was black on one side and white on the
 other, filled with tiny designs which appeared
and vanished like faintly shimmering electrical
                      etchings.
 “You have to pay, miss,” he said, his voice deep
                and menacing.
      “With what?” she asked, truly curious.
  His laugh was not friendly. “What do you care,
gambler woman? Ah, yes,” he said, as he grabbed
   her hand and squeezed it. “Cincinnati! Most
 valuable!” His eyes widened as he looked at her
and said, “Especially you! You have a lot to lose.
And a lot to win! You came here of your own free
  will. You could win big. You could win untold
 riches in Gambler’s World. We have everything
   here. All the power and glory anyone could
                      want.”
         “How did you get it?” she asked.
   “From our customers, of course.” He laughed
 again, and the sound was cold and unpleasant.
  “What you win, others lose. What’s gambling
 without an edge? If there’s nothing to lose it’s
 not a gamble is it? And that’s why you’re here,
               gambling woman.”
     “That’s not why I’m here. What are you,
                   anyway?”
    He shoved her away, still laughing. “Your
 mother teach you to be rude, missy?” She saw
  that his teeth were sharp and yellow, and he
 chewed something, then turned his head for a
   second and spit into a metal pot next to him.
  “Come back in when your gambling head is on
  straight,” he commanded—it had the tone of a
    command. “You won’t be disappointed.” He
 grabbed the man behind her and Verity headed
   toward the door. “Don’t worry, the machines
   will take their toll,” he yelled at her over his
 shoulder. “Nothing is free on Gambling Island.
And that’s why you came. That’s why you came…
               for a taste of real life.”
   She passed machines which were inscribed
with ornately lettered legends on the top which
  glowed: lust, religious fervor, seventh circle,
 venus velocity, six minutes to live, everlasting
    life, endless torment, the vanishment of
norleans, third surge in acapulco… the list went
on and on, a dizzying array which attracted and
repelled Verity. Each booth had a line in front of
                        it.
               Everyone had to pay.
                       How?
  They had nothing but their bare lives, and all
 their brains held. They had strange blood and
bizarre hope; they dreamed of freedom and of a
   place as strange as Heaven, where all their
            dreams would come true.
     Did these machines steal the chemical
 by-products of hope, or hope itself? The titles
              looked menacing.
  Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. This place
         was enlivened to the hilt.
    She rushed away from the building on the
   cobblestone street, wondering how to get
 everyone out and back on the rafts, wondering
  how to suck the power from those machines.
   And where was Blaze? Well, that should be
easy enough. She knew he’d follow those horses
                  anywhere.
  She hurried up the cobblestones, following the
   signs that read churchill downs, and turned
 onto Elm Street, which was lined with deserted
houses with broken windows. An empty gondola
    stopped next to her and asked “Churchill,
miss?” She sighed, then got in. “Hurry,” she said
 and it did, so that the wind swept her hair back
 and she had to hold on to the bar in front of her
and was exhilarated by speed. “Stop!” she yelled
  as they approached neat whitewashed stables
  and what she thought was the entrance to the
     racetrack where fluttered and snapped a
thousand bright triangular flags but the gondola
 did not stop and she thought she heard it laugh
   but was not sure. She stood and prepared to
     jump onto the intensely green lawn they
 trundled across and had to grab the back of the
seat as it did stop, abruptly, then rushed off just
                as she stepped clear.
  She looked around but did not see Blaze, and
         the stables appeared empty.
      She walked into a corridor below the
                  bleachers.
  To her right she saw tall boards flashing with
 names, starlight express 2:1; crazy for you 4:3;
                easy winner 3:0.
  The vast hall was empty and no clown tried to
                  pull her in.
       She climbed stairs and emerged into
  thousands of rows of seats, like Riverfront
Stadium. They were all empty. “Place your bets
 for the third race, ladies and gentlemen,” she
heard a voice say over the loudspeaker and the
                voice was Blaze’s.
     She looked up and saw him, tiny, in an
 open-air booth, looking out over the racetrack.
    “Hurry up here, Verity,” he said, his voice
     booming out. “The view is wonderful.”
  She ran up the long shallow steps, breathing
  hard, vastly annoyed. “We have to get out of
          here,” she yelled. “Come on!”
     “After the race,” Blaze returned over the
  loudspeaker. “I want the fastest horse. Look!
 They’re going to the gate! It’s amazing! A board
  down there asked me if I wanted to go to the
races and I said sure, and trumpets blew and the
            horses all came up here!”
     Verity turned and saw a prancing line of
 riderless horses parading over the green lawn
 and entering small booths. She hurried up the
  last few steps and ran into the grandstand.
“This is a really bad place, Blaze,” she said. “We
 need to get everybody back on the rafts,” but
 Blaze pushed a button in front of him and the
            gates flew open all at once.
      “And they’re off!” he announced over his
microphone, his voice choking with excitement.
 “It’s Starlight Express in the lead, followed by
Harvest Moon, then Stewball, Rambler Gambler,
   Ten Miles High, Fast and Loose, and Speed
  Unlimited ladies and gentlemen it’s Stewball
coming up fast behind a two-year-old filly out of
Green and Growing by Damn Straight the Triple
    Crown winner and odds-on favorite she’s
  holding her own but now out front Rambler
Gambler in the lead by a head but likely to burn
 out early in this three-mile race look it’s Island
  Dreams on the inside rail…“ He was reading
words that appeared on a transparent screen in
                    front of him.
  Verity was caught in his unending patter and
  watched the amazing welter of golden, black,
   and brown horses, racing without jockeys,
  stretched out and flowing along the track as
 Blaze pushed another button and an invisible
 crowd cheered. The cheers seemed to spur the
horses to greater speed, and Verity saw beads of
sweat on Blaze’s forehead, as if he were running
                    himself.
  She looked beyond the track. Over the tops of
 the trees she saw the end of the island and the
  channel they had not come down, which was
 white with boiling rapids. Between the island
 and the mainland what looked like a bridge of
wires hung with tiny unmoving gondolas swayed
 in the wind. And beyond, a ghostly empty city
   choked with trees glittered golden where
    broken windows caught the waning sun.
    “Blaze!” she said, but he was yelling, “And
ladies and gentlemen, it’s Stewball the winner!”
He pushed another button and she heard a wild
 crowd cheer in deafening waves. She reached
   over and pushed the button that said off.
  In the silence, after her ears adjusted, a wash
  of wind rustled the new green leaves on the
                       trees.
      “Are you ready to go now?” she asked.
        He dropped the mike. “Come on.”
  She followed him down the steps but of course
 he ran much faster than she could and she was
  amazed when he ran right over to Stewball, a
dark brown stallion who trotted toward him and
 stopped just in front of him. Blaze’s head came
   up to Stewball’s withers. Most of the horses
were walking slowly back and forth, and nearby
  she saw oats emptying into a feeding trough
   through chutes from a large tank above the
   trough. A large digital sign above said 58:19,
                    then 58:18.
 “Aren’t they wonderful, Verity? The trumpets
   call; they race—oh, they love to race, don’t
  they!—and after they cool down the feeding
 trough will open. I bet that’s what that time
means.” He patted Stewball and talked to him in
                   a low voice.
    Verity was not as excited about horses as
Blaze, but then, his communion with horses had
          been one of his Shaker Gifts.
  “You want one, Verity?” he asked. “Pick one.
 They’re lonely. It would do them good to have
                  some people.”
        Maybe a horse would help Blaze.
         “Pick one?” she asked. “How?”
  “Well, how about Mollie? She placed.” Blaze
whistled sharply and a gray mare cantered up.
Verity didn’t even wonder why; Blaze just had a
 way with horses and these were not ordinary
                     ones.
      “Pet her!” said Blaze. “Rub her nose.”
   “Blaze, we don’t need horses. We can’t take
them on the boat. How will we feed them? How
 will they get exercise? And besides, don’t they
belong to somebody?” She knew when she said
 that, though, that these horses belonged to no
 one. They were just here, vestiges of when the
             island had functioned.
  “We do need horses, Verity,” he said. “In fact
the Queen has stables. And plenty of oats. Just
 like the original, I bet. How do you think people
 used to take horses up and down the river? And
in the evenings we can go out for a ride. Explore.
          It will be fun, don’t you think?”
  At least the horses cheer him up, she thought.
               That was something.
  He ran over to a mounting block and Stewball
followed obediently. He stepped up on the block
  and pulled himself over onto Stewball’s back.
               “Come on, Verity.”
   “I can’t ride her bareback,” she said. She
jumped when Mollie reached down and snorted
        against the back of her neck.
 “We can get some bridles and saddles from the
  tack room.” He clucked to Stewball and the
  horse trotted toward the tack room. “I can’t
believe how smooth his gait is!” Blaze yelled, his
   voice brimming with delight. He vanished
         through the tall dark doorway.
  Verity followed, with Mollie behind her, taking
care to stay well back from the heels of Stewball.
  As she stepped inside the stables the smell of
 horses, sweet hay, and sharp liniment made her
   blink with a sudden memory of Shaker Hill.
Blaze slid from Stewball’s back and landed with
 a soft thud in the sawdust. He selected two soft
         halters and handed one to Verity.
       “They don’t have bits,” she objected.
   “They don’t need bits,” said Blaze, his voice
  enthusiastic. He readied Mollie and boosted
                   Verity up.
   “You can’t take them there horses,” came a
        sharp voice from the shadows.
     They turned. A man walked toward them
 slowly, holding a shotgun across his chest. His
hair was long and grizzled, his clothes unkempt.
  “Why not?” asked Blaze. “Who do they belong
                  to? You?”
   The old man looked puzzled and his grip on
  the rifle relaxed. He shook his head. “Nope.
    They’re old. Some kind of fancy horses.
    Special-made by some highfalutin horse
 manufacturer in Louisville. They always been
                here. Ever since…”
 He frowned and lowered his rifle. He squinted
  at Blaze. “Usta be more people… hired me…
dressed-up folks… You one of them?” He looked
 at them with pleading in his eyes. He started
 breathing hard. “Haven’t seen ’em in… years?
 Nor any other people. Just them goddamned
clowns. Killed one last year. Think it was last…
                     year…”
    “Well, can we trade something for them?”
 Blaze asked. “I mean, you’re the only one here,
                     right?”
  The look of fury returned to his face. “Shoot…
 to… kill? Yeah, that’s right! Kill, they told me.
  Nobody calls me stupid! Yes, sir! I can follow
  directions. Shoot… to…” He raised his rifle.
   Blaze leapt for his horse, grabbed his mane,
   and pulled himself up. “Let’s go!” he said.
   Mollie bolted. Verity grabbed her mane and
  ducked beneath the lintel. She heard shots.
   They swept down a broad trail through the
 forest, Verity’s face whipped by overhanging
  leaves as the path twisted beneath her. She
caught glimpses of kudzu-covered houses off in
the woods. “Hold on!” yelled Blaze, and she felt
Mollie gather herself and leaned into the jump
as Mollie leaped across a creek and scrambled
 up the opposite bank. They pounded through
               sun-dappled forest.
    Ahead of her Blaze burst into the sunlit
 square. She kicked Mollie and surged ahead.
 She yelled “This way!” and veered left toward
                  the arcade.
   Mollie paused at the entrance, then stepped
inside, but snorted and pranced to a halt when a
  clown leaped in front of them as the brilliant
swirling lights of the interior and the clangs and
     chimes surrounded them. Verity heard
  Stewball’s hooves behind her on the concrete
                        floor.
  “Ha!” yelled the clown. “You could not resist.
                 Enter, enter!”
   Verity blinked as seven more clowns joined
  him, swaying tall and menacing, advancing
  toward them. Beyond, she saw her hordes of
                   rafters.
   “Get out of here!” she yelled, as loud as she
could, but her voice was but another component
       of the cacophony that filled the air.
    She watched aghast as one booth dropped
 diaphanous sheetlike curtains around the man
  operating it. The sheet eddied inward around
 him; a lower corner caught his leg as he pulled
the lever again and again. She could see his grin
           faintly through the sheets.
  “Everybody has to leave!” she yelled, and slid
  down off Mollie’s back, landing hard on the
  floor. She ran to the man as Blaze hollered,
         “Stay away from that, Verity!”
   As she began tearing blindly at the sheets she
heard the clowns laughing behind her. The stuff
 was stuck fast to the helpless man, and though
 he continued to pull the lever she saw panic on
 his face as he turned his head from side to side
  frantically. On the screen before him she saw
 only flashing numbers, green, which flew past
for a second, stopped at a random number, then
 flashed rapidly again, halting at odd rhythmic
  intervals. One of the clowns grabbed her arm
and she struggled with him, catching a glimpse
 of his eyes, which were grim and cold. “Get out
of here, Bee-woman,” he hissed, “before we keep
  you as well.” Then he fell to the floor and she
 saw that Blaze had smacked him with a broom
  handle. “Come on, Verity,” he panted. “He’s
                   right.”
   “No,” she said, and began running from booth
 to booth, yelling and yanking and wishing she
  had time to figure out what to do really. She
   caught glimpses of Blaze near the entrance,
trouncing the rubbery, weaving clowns; saw two
run out the door and three downed and then the
 noise and fervor of the place gradually died, as
 if a balloon were deflating. The machines gave
off slow halfhearted pings and finally the lights
               went off altogether.
     In the dim light penetrating the dirty
windows, Verity saw that everyone was moving
toward the door with stunned slow steps. Not
 everyone moved; she saw two or three people
            lying tangled in sheets.
  “Leave them, Verity.” She heard Blaze’s voice
   next to her, low between gasps for breath.
   “They’re dead. I checked them. No pulse.”
      “But how?” she asked, stunned at the
 quickness of everything. “Why?” She thought
wildly, Are there sheets on the boat to save them
             with? Maybe—maybe—
   “We’ll probably never know,” he said. “But I
   don’t know if there’s anything left to save,
after—” He gestured at the machines, bowed his
 head for an instant after she saw deep pity fill
his eyes and pull his mouth downward. Then his
 arm went around her. “Want to go home?” he
               asked quietly.
 “Where’s that?” she asked. “Where in the world
      is home now?” She fought back brief
discontinuous flashes of blue water that washed
through her with a euphoria completely at odds
  with what was happening. She tried to stay
grounded in what was happening and held tight
       to Blaze for an instant; that helped.
            “Maybe it’s the riverboat.”
         “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
   She stepped around the downed clowns, who
   lay in glorious still-shimmering suits on the
 floor at the entrance. She peered down at one;
his eyelids flickered and a long fast arm reached
out and grabbed her ankle. She yanked it away,
    staggering backward. “You’ll be back,” he
       whispered. “Everybody comes back.”
   Outside, thunderheads had gathered to the
west and the wind was picking up. People were
heading back to the rafts and boarding. Did they
 feel the blue pull, the euphoria? The clean air
 quickened gloriously and washed all fear and
  tiredness from her and she ran down to the
Queen, but turned when she heard the clatter of
      hooves. Blaze was leading the horses.
    “They really can’t come with us,” she said.
 “Says who?” he asked without stopping, a grin
                 on his face.
            “They can’t live on a boat.”
  He just continued, and the horses followed.
The sun flashed beneath a dense dark tower of
cloud, illuminating the river and the rafts and
the boat in sharp clear outline as if they were
    etched on the river. The wind gusted.
    Mollie halted at the gangplank but Blaze
clucked and she followed. “This is a silly idea,”
       Verity said in her firmest voice.
 Blaze just continued and lead the horses to the
 right, toward the back of the boat. “These are
   really nice stalls, guys, I think you’ll like it
     here,” she heard him say. She sighed in
                   exasperation.
    But she had more pressing things to worry
  about. Where would they stop tonight? It was
getting late. The river had lost its peacefulness;
 small waves smacked the hull and she saw the
 rafts, ahead of her, bobbing ever more rapidly.
Some of them disappeared around a bend in the
   river and she wondered who would cast off.
Blaze seemed to have forgotten. But he had been
 coherent. That was something. She climbed to
the hurricane deck and turned, hearing shouts.
  A tall, thin couple dressed in amazingly fancy
   clothing dashed toward the dock, along the
  cobblestone street beneath trees which now
 thrashed wildly in the rising wind. The woman
held a hat on her head with one hand and a long
 white plume trailed out behind her. Verity did
  not understand how she could run in those
high-heeled shoes but she did, with long strides,
and both of them looked like they were laughing
                     hard.
     The woman ran to one of the ropes and
crouched, a long slit in her dress revealing her
 thigh, and the man ran to the other mooring.
  Almost in unison they undid the ropes and
tossed them with twin thumps upon the deck.
The woman ran up the gangway first, followed
 by the man, and together they cranked it up.
  “Who’s the pilot of this tub?” yelled the man,
  looking around. He saw Verity and waved.
                 “Start ’er up!”
  Verity did not want to take these people with
     them. She didn’t think they were from
Cincinnati. But she saw some clowns staggering
    down the street toward the boat and she
certainly didn’t want to take any of them, so she
ran up to the pilothouse two steps at a time and
pushed the button that made the ship shudder,
 pushed forward the lever that made it go, and
  pulled the heavy wooden wheel with all her
                     might.
     As they swept past the beach it gleamed
golden for one last instant before the rain swept
down and pocked the river while wind buffeted
                  the tall boat.
  In a moment the door slammed open and Blaze
came in, his hair darkened by rain. “What are we
   going to do about these rafters?” he asked.
         “They’re like a bunch of kids.”
    Verity did not want to admit that she felt
almost as they did. Perhaps it would be easier if
  she were entirely like them, but she was not.
       They heard footsteps and turned.
    The two people burst in, soaking wet, and
                  laughing.
  They were both tall, taller than her by a good
 five or six inches. And thin. The woman’s skin
 was ebony, sheened with rainwater. The man’s
 face was several shades lighter, a golden dark
                      brown.
  The woman doubled over with laughter again,
then sank into one of the big comfortable chairs
             to one side of Verity.
          “Who are you?” asked Verity.
         “I am so sorry there are no mutual
  acquaintances to introduce us properly,” said
  the man, clearly trying to master himself, but
started laughing again and the woman said, “I’m
      Lightnin’ Lil, and he’s Diamond Jack.”
    “Jack and Lil,” said Verity, leaning on the
 wheel hard as a large rock came into view. She
said nothing for over a minute, as the huge boat
      slowly responded. “You can’t stay.”
  “Verity!” said Blaze. “What’s gotten into you?
           First the horses and now—”
   “Oh, yes, the horses,” said Verity. “Maybe the
  horses belong to them. The man with the gun
      said the owners were well dressed.”
            “Why, thank you,” said Lil.
     “I saw horses,” said Jack. “But they don’t
 belong to us. Nothing on that island belongs to
anybody, unless it’s the clowns. It was declared
a disaster area a while back. At first there was a
   warning sign, but the clowns tore it down.”
          “What are they?” asked Verity.
   “They used to be part of the show, but then
 they took over the island. As to what they are,
            it’s hard to say exactly.”
  “Well, you still can’t stay,” said Verity. “Blaze,
here, hasn’t been feeling well. He’s in no position
               to issue invitations.”
            “What’s wrong?” asked Lil.
  Blaze shrugged. “I forget my name. Stuff like
 that. Something to do with some nan sheets I
was wrapped in. I don’t think I have the plague
        though. That’s one good thing.”
   Lil didn’t say anything. Her mouth trembled
                     slightly.
     “You’ll likely survive,” said Jack. “You’re
                  lucky, though.”
   “That’s what I think,” said Blaze. “Usually.”
    Lil’s sigh was tremulous, but when Verity
  glanced at her she grinned back like she was
 trying to pretend she hadn’t sounded that way.
 Jack pulled up a chair next to the small round
table next to Lil. They had passed the island and
      were moving downriver at a fast clip.
  Lil reached up and pulled large pins from her
  hat; swept it from her head and regarded the
         drenched feather with dismay.
     “It’ll dry,” she said. “But it will never be the
   same.” She tossed the hat on the floor, then
    loosened something else and thick hair fell
  halfway down her back, black and kinky. She
      wore an emerald-green dress with a high
  neckline and long sleeves—tight, but evidently
 of giving material. She kicked off her shoes and
leaned back in the chair; Verity saw a shiver run
 through her. Blaze opened and closed cupboard
   doors and finally found a blanket, which he
  handed to her. She wrapped it around herself.
 “Thanks,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she
     might have been crying not long ago, even
         though she’d been laughing so hard.
   Jack reached into his vest pocket and pulled
out a box of cards. “Good old Bee cards from the
 U.S. Playing Card Company in Cincinnati,” he
 said, slitting it open and shaking out the deck.
He glanced at Verity out of the corner of his eye
as he said this and Verity was annoyed. “Dry as
  a bone.” He shuffled them and pushed them
             toward Lil. “Cut,” he said.
   Blaze stood watching them, his hands in his
    pockets. Finally he asked, “What are you
                    playing?”
   “Five-card stud,” said Jack. He fished in his
      pockets and pulled out a cigar; lit it.
    Verity coughed and said, “Blaze, try and get
these windows open.” They had evidently closed
 themselves against the rain. She was irritated.
  They were careering down the wild river in a
 storm and all these people could do was smoke
 and play cards. “Are you gamblers?” she asked.
  Lil’s laugh was deep. “You could sure make a
     case for it,” she said, then, “I’ll stand.”
 “You need gamblers on a riverboat,” said Jack,
 studying his cards. “Bet you don’t have any.”
    “Don’t listen to him,” said Lil. “He’ll bet on
                    anything.”
  “We haven’t been on the boat long enough to
know,” said Blaze. “I mean, if there’s gamblers or
           not. I guess there could—”
 “Are you from that island?” asked Verity. Blaze
would tell them whatever he knew, which wasn’t
  much, but it was more than they knew now.
   After those clowns, she did not feel very
                   trustful.
   “No. Just got there,” Lil said, the same time
        Jack said, “Been waiting there.”
        “Waiting for what?” asked Verity.
           “For the sky to fall,” said Lil.
    “For love-lee, wonderful you,” sang Jack,
  making it sound like a song and a joke at the
  same time. “I’m from Wheeling. Originally.”
   “Washington, D.C.,” said Lil, “at one point.
 Well, I’m feeling better and better, Jack.” She
  laid her cards on the table with a flourish.
  “Shit,” said Jack, and swept the cards up. As
he riffled them together they made a soft, rapid
   sound which was quite companionable. It
reminded Verity of something, yet she was sure
  it was a memory of Rose’s. She set her lips
          grimly and tried to ignore it.
      “Are you from Cincinnati?” asked Lil.
  Verity shrugged. Blaze opened his mouth and
       she frowned at him. He closed it.
   Jack set the cards on the table and stood next
to Verity. Rain blurred the gray river. “You want
     to hug the Kentucky shore up here. The
Louisville part of the river is nutsy cuckoo. Used
 to be a pretty fancy lock-and-dam setup. Got all
  twisted in the quake. Here, let me help—” He
leaned into the wheel with Verity and they made
       the left channel through the surging,
     mud-yellow rush of storm-tossed water.
         “You do this real well,” he said.
   “Don’t try and flatter me,” she said. “I don’t
  want you on this boat. I don’t know who you
  are.” She bit her lip and steered hard to port
and narrowly missed some rafters. “I don’t even
  know if we should keep this big boat. It’s a
                  hazard.”
   “You do need us,” said Jack. “Lil’s an expert.
 And I’d advise you to keep the boat. Where are
  you going to get another one?” His cigar had
 gone out and he put it in a metal tube he took
                from his pocket.
     “What is Lil an expert in?” Verity asked.
           “Having hysterical fits?”
   “Verity, why are you being so rude?” asked
                     Blaze.
  “Statistics,” said Jack, and both of them burst
 out laughing again. Can’t get a straight answer
        out of these two, thought Verity.
  Lil recovered from her laughter, gasped a few
  times, and said, “Don’t listen to him. He’s the
 statistician. Has a doctorate, even. Worked for
                the government.”
    Verity thought she saw Jack flash Lil a
warning look. “She’s very tired,” he said gently.
  “Where did you get a doctorate?” asked Blaze,
and Verity could tell by the tone of his voice that
he was swallowing everything these people said.
   “What government?” asked Verity, but was
                 ignored.
   “Well,” said Lil, “it was a”—she choked on
laughter again—“a correspondence course!” and
   she and Jack broke up again. Lil found it so
amusing that she pounded the table a few times
 with her fist and several cards fluttered to the
  floor. She leaned over and gathered them up.
 “Chances are, um”—she closed her eyes for an
 instant—“oh, eight to one, just to round things
  off, that you won’t make it to Norleans. That’s
why—you need us!” She gasped a few times. She
 appeared to be almost hysterical. “Because we
            know so goddamned much!”
  “That’s right,” interjected Jack, and Verity was
 almost positive that he wanted to keep Lil from
saying anything else. “We know everything there
  is about entertainment. Can’t have a gambling
           boat without entertainment.”
   He leaned forward and set up a steady slow
rhythm on the table with his hand. He began to
sing, in a clear, low voice. Lil dashed tears from
 her face, took a deep, shuddering breath, and
  joined in after the first line. As rain sluiced
    down, Verity listened to their haunting
               mournful harmony:
       When I came to Georgie, money and
       clothes I had,
       Babe, all the money I had done gone
       My Sunday clothes in pawn, Sunday
       clothes in pawn,
       Sunday clothes in pawn.
       Dollar more, the deuce beats a nine,
       Dollar more, the deuce beats a nine, lovin
       babe
       Dollar more, the deuce beats a nine.
   The song went on for several more verses.
 Verity was exasperated at the way Blaze hung
on every line, nodding his head with their beat.
     “What was that?” he asked, when they
                  finished.
 “Blues,” said Jack. “Real old blues at that. Old
guy name of Howell wrote it. Lil doesn’t like the
blues all that much. She likes classical music a
            lot better.” He shrugged.
      “Nothing but a lot of whiny black men
 complaining about how bad women are,” she
said. “Calmed me right down. And I was having
   such a good time.” She pulled her blanket
         tighter around her shoulders.
 “Yeah, well, everybody seems pretty ridiculous
 in those operas you like.” Jack picked up the
    cards and shuffled them over and over.
   Blaze said, “You know any more songs like
                     that?”
     “He knows thousands,” said Lil, dryly.
  After a few more shuffles Jack said to Verity,
“There are all kinds of hazards ahead. You won’t
             be sorry you took us.”
  “I already am,” said Verity, and they headed
  down the river as fast as the current would
 carry them, and then a little faster, as Verity
              gunned the engine.
                   Six
             Mad Rafter Blues

Verity was absorbed in the shadow pattern of
the gingerbread, repeated over the golden deck
at her feet. It was quite lovely. A shout broke the
spell. She looked up, startled; remembered. She
was going somewhere— oh, yes. Blaze’s room.
Why had she slept so late? The boat was moving,
but she had not had anything to do with it. She
didn’t care. Evidently this morning it was
someone else’s chore. She looked down at
herself. At least I got dressed, she thought. She
didn’t remember doing so.
  She passed the large hall that Lil and Jack had
   settled into, and heard wild laughter within.
 Jack was vague about how to use such oddities
   as a “roulette wheel” and a “craps table” but
 they were definitely there. She heard him curse
 and complain that one of the pool tables lacked
    a corner pocket and Lil of course laughed
 uproariously before Verity turned a corner. Lil
 seemed kind of unhinged. Verity hoped that she
would calm down, but she had too much to think
 about to worry about that pair; enough trouble
     just staying on-balance and precariously
 centered in a vision of being Verity, no one else,
just Verity from Shaker Hill staying in charge of
            her passel of refugees.
  Blaze was hunched over a large wooden desk.
The heavy, ornate wood was highly polished and
 shone warmly in the morning sun through the
   open French doors. She smelled something
 sweet and saw that he must have picked some
  lilacs from the bushes that flourished on the
 bank where they had stopped last night, for a
      gigantic bouquet of them filled a large
    widemouthed jar, their thick green stems
    distorted by water and glass. She vaguely
 remembered the tattoo of hooves on the deck
 early this morning, which she had woven into
                   her dream.
      Two unmade beds with iron head- and
  footboards were on one side of Blaze’s large
 room, which also held two couches and three
    chairs, several lamps, and two enormous
                     dressers.
 Outside, the sleepy, periodic rise and fall of
  cicada whir paralleled the rise and fall of
moans, punctuated by imprecations. It seemed
   that the rafters were getting worse. She
                 certainly was.
        “What are you doing?” she asked.
    Blaze twisted in his chair, and Verity saw a
large book open on the desk. He slammed it shut
             and put down his pen.
               “Nothing,” he said.
     “Can I see it?” she asked, taking a step
                    forward.
  “No, you can not see it,” he said, and she was
   surprised at his proprietary tone of voice.
  “All right, all right,” she said. “I won’t look.”
                 “Sorry,” he said.
 “It’s all right.” Her vision clouded, and she sat
   down hard on the chair next to her. Blaze
 hurried over to her. She felt his hand on her
                     forehead.
               “Are you all right?”
      She was trembling. “No, damn it,” she
        whispered, and then was gone.
 She was flying over Cincinnati. This is life, she
thought fiercely. She was vaguely aware of her
body, sprawled in the chair, and that Blaze was
 putting a cool wet cloth on her forehead, but
 that reality became thin and insubstantial as
she was jerked from the streets of Cincinnati to
          an entirely different vision.
  The street was very narrow, and paved with
cobblestones, which glistened dark and ruddy
  after the morning’s shower. On both sides
ancient buildings slanted inward above her, a
hodgepodge of design and complexity. The sun
touched only the tiny panes of the windows of
the fifth floor. French doors opened onto tiny
wrought-iron porches where droplets of water
 caught the sun, and pink and red geraniums
 glowed against rough brick. The air felt heavy
 on her arms, damp and hot, and she heard the
            cries of strange birds.
    She turned into a narrow doorway with a
heavy rough-hewn lintel and walked through a
 room that smelled of beer and was filled with
pool tables, though it was empty of people. She
 climbed tiny stairs which turned sharply at a
landing and emerged on the fifth floor, where a
hallway opened into a large room with polished
    oak floors and many small tables. A few
  sleepy-looking people were sitting at tables
    sipping coffee and reading newspapers.
  “Milk, please,” she said to the tall, thin, woman
behind the counter. Her hair was very short, and
 clung to her head in tight ringlets, showing the
 lovely shape of her skull. Her face was thin and
  strong, with high cheekbones and large brown
eyes. Her skin was dark brown, with a dusting of
 darker freckles below her eyes. She wore a long
yellow cotton sundress. She tamped coffee into a
   gleaming cup and inserted it into a machine.
    Steam hissed as she pulled down hard on a
   lever. Dark liquid streamed into a tiny white
   cup. Verity saw, in the light spilling through
large double doors that opened onto a balcony, a
tiny golden tattoo on her back, outlined in black,
          a few inches below her shoulder.
  She leaned over to get a better look, “Is that a
                     bee?”
  The woman just smiled and put the cup on a
  small saucer and rested two cubes of sugar
                  against it.
     Verity took the cup and went out to the
 balcony. For a moment she remembered that
    she’d asked for milk, not coffee, and was
confused. The balcony jutted out over a corner,
so she had a 180-degree view. She sat on a white
wooden chair and set her cup on the damp table.
    Below her was a jumble of rooftops, some
  peaked, some flat and filled with plants and
 furniture. The view beyond the rooftops took
                her breath away.
   She saw nothing but blue, blue water and no
other land anywhere, as if she were on the tip of
  a peninsula. She rose and leaned against the
railing, dwelling for a long moment in utter and
                  glad blueness.
   Huge swells rose and fell as the sun glittered
 on a bright infinity of facets. The white sails of
    three boats were brilliant and tiny on the
     horizon. Something in her opened to the
hugeness of the vista; something in her rejoiced.
   She longed to be here always; this was deep
 home; she must never, ever leave, or if she did,
  all her efforts must bring her back. The wind
was strong against her and brought the scent of
  ocean. She turned and saw to her surprise a
  huge, open-grid structure, composed of what
         looked like beams of white steel.
  “Verity, you’ve got to help them,” she heard. Or
 had been hearing. Her eyes fluttered open. She
sat up and took a deep breath, her being still full
  of a wide, blue, unfettered horizon and a tiny,
      ancient town that whispered mystery.
  She became aware that Blaze was next to her,
  holding her hand, and that the air was filled
              with riotous shouts.
  A picture on the wall across the room caught
 her eye: a painting of a woman in a blue dress.
     As she stood to help them (help who she
  wondered) the blue of the dress expanded, a
 vibrant sheet of color, and—she could not see
where the waves broke; whether on a dock or on
 a shore. She had to see. She gulped her coffee,
turned, and rushed back through the shop and
 into the street— which turned into a flowered
 rug beneath her feet, and once more she could
hear the shouts welling up all around, outside,
             and felt the boat lurch.
   Blaze was out at the railing, his shoulders
  bowed. She went out and stood next to him.
  “I’m sorry,” she said. She felt as discouraged as
    he looked. She was in thrall to factors over
 which she had no control—and it was she who
     had done this, not just to herself, but to
 everyone. She had essentially kidnapped them
   from a life which, though bizarre, had been
 familiar to them, and put them at the mercy of
              the Norleans Plague.
 The people on the rafts were in obvious agony.
      Children wailed without end. Adults sat
listlessly, moaning, though some paced back and
 forth on their rafts, and many were arguing. As
 they drifted downriver they roughly kept pace
      with one another on the slow current.
   “What’s wrong with everyone?” asked Blaze.
          “What are we going to do?”
   “I’m not in charge,” said Verity ruefully. She
 pulled a scroll from her pocket and saw that it
   was filled with unintelligible hieroglyphics.
“See? Here’s what we’ve decided today. The new
 plan of action. I don’t even know who’s running
the boat right now. Look. It’s not even telling me
          to take my vitamins anymore.”
        “It’s not funny, Verity,” said Blaze.
  Then, with a start, she remembered that she
  had thrown her scroll away the other night.
   Presumably no one was allowed to be without
  one. She digested that. Had someone crept in,
 furnished her with a new one, sticking it in the
 pocket of her jeans, thrown over a chair, while
she slept? “What about you, Blaze. Do you have a
                     scroll?”
               “No. Do I need one?”
 “Touch the screen.” He shrugged his shoulders
   and touched it quickly. It went blank, but
            nothing else happened.
    “Hmm,” she said. “I guess it doesn’t prove
    anything. It doesn’t seem to be working
                   anyway…”
    As she spoke, she saw a tall metal tower,
 standing alone, frighteningly huge, on a vast
  expanse of intensely blue water, beneath a
 cerulean sky. High waves swept through its
open base. She shook her head, trying to clear
                  her vision.
    “What’s wrong with them, Verity?” Blaze
                   asked.
    Blaze’s voice helped. “These people all have
   receptors which received metapheromonal
     commands. Of course, the system wasn’t
   designed to be one of command—quite the
      opposite. It was designed to facilitate
information transfer. But it became the way the
    Queen was able to control everyone in the
 City—people wanted the information because
    they needed it. They can’t live without it.”
   “Metapheromonal. I think you told me that
before. I guess I’ll have to study up on that kind
 of thing. But what do you mean—that they’ll
                        die?”
   “I’m not sure,” she said. “But it is a kind of
     food, to be sure.” With a dark, sinking
  realization she understood that probably,
 somewhere within her was that information.
   The information of Rose and Durancy, the
  information she was trying to weave herself
 over, a fragile idea of one person, Verity. Not
   Durancy, Rose, the Queen. She wanted, so
 fiercely, to be herself, whoever that might be.
  She made the idea of a separate self into one of
   those white-sailed boats far out on the blue,
  windy sea, and let that white sail vanish. And
 there was only blue left, infinite blue, wide and
frightening, trackless. And free. She had to float
on this, whatever it was, or drown in it. She had
  to let go of her old ideas of what was self and
    what was other in order to function fully.
  Without her help, they probably would die. All
 of them were from Cincinnati, but only she had
  been to the center. Though she did not know
 how to access the information she had, she had
   to accept the fact that she could not push it
aside. She had to allow it as part of her, however
   dark, however overwhelming. Freeing them
  from the City was only the initial part of the
process that would truly free them. They would
    have to earn their freedom, she saw, for no
 matter how far she took them down that path,
 only their ability to make decisions could truly
               constitute freedom.
 At first a sort of balance had welled up among
 them, making her think that everyone would
adjust and move gladly down to Norleans. Now,
in just a day, that had all fragmented horribly.
  “Maybe there’s nothing you can do,” said Blaze
   gently. “You can’t give them back their City.
   They’re like children taken away from their
 parents. Like you were, like all of us at Shaker
                  Hill. Orphans.”
  “They are like children,” said Verity, “and they
   can’t do anything for themselves. But I don’t
      know if I can either. I can’t seem to stay
 focussed. I get these damned pictures—I guess
   it’s the Norleans Plague. But how did we get
               started this morning?”
   “Oh, they all agreed on that necessity well
 enough, this morning. It doesn’t take much to
 get moving. You just have to haul in the lines,
     after all, and the water does the rest.”
    “It frightens me,” said Verity. “We need to
know where we are on the river and where we’re
going and whether or not our information is any
   good. There are falls ahead, and rapids. I’m
  hoping that there will be locks around them.
 There used to be. I think we must be on the Old
 Ohio River again, since we passed over Rising
      Sun. Look. What’s happening now?”
  The rafts were squeezing closer together, as if
        those in the front had stopped.
  They had, she saw, as they rounded the bend.
 To their right, fertile fields spread out. Verity
 was soothed at the sight of knee-high corn, a
white-blossomed orchard pacing over a low hill.
   They drifted farther out around the bend’s
        apogee and saw a small town.
 She read the signs along the lowest street with
        something like wonder, harry’s
   blacksmith—horses shoed—tools mended,
farmer’s market, janet ray, dentist, diary co-op.
    The next tier of the town looked as if it
comprised many small factories, boone nut and
        bolt, read one deteriorated sign.
 One particularly well lettered sign read eliza’s
  brewery, finest beer for a hundred miles.
 She saw a few people making their way across
        the rafts toward the landing.
  “We can’t let them get off,” she said. She ran
  out to the railing and yelled as loud as she
 could, “Please stay on the rafts and continue
                   downriver!”
 No one paid any attention. “What’s wrong with
              them?” she asked.
 “Why should they listen to you?” asked Blaze.
 “They can’t just rush ashore any time they feel
               like it,” she said.
            “Why not?” asked Blaze.
       “Because it’s dangerous,” she said.
     “I guess they’ll have to figure that out
             themselves,” he said.
  By now, a crowd was snaking its way up the
  street and disappearing into the brewery.
  It was a yelling, rowdy crew, raising a cloud of
  dust, trooping across the rafts like lemmings.
 She heard faint choruses of “Caimaneero, down
to Cairo,” mixed like a round with “Fifteen years
                on the Erie Canal.”
  Verity’s gut tightened as they made their way
   across the rafts, in the wake of the ragged
exodus. A few people had stayed behind, lying in
  their wigwams; as she passed, some of them
raised their arms and reached for her, or looked
 at her with pleading in their eyes, and she felt
     cruel and helpless as she passed them.
  She climbed the ladder onto the wharf behind
   Blaze and they stepped into the town. The
        streets echoed with wild shouts.
  “They’ll kill us,” she said. “We have to get these
people back on the rafts and get out of here. And
then tie them down.” She remembered how Russ
 had hinted that even the Shakers had perhaps
      shot at Rafters from the bluffs above
  Miamisburg. This town had real inhabitants,
 unlike Gambling Island. That much was clear.
         She and Blaze stopped at the first
 establishment on the street, a bakery. It was
ransacked. Crumbs littered small round tables,
  chairs, the floor. Glass cases stood open and
empty. “Coffee!” she said, spotting a large glass
 pot filled with brown liquid, but did not take
any, though she wondered where it came from.
 This actually belonged to someone, unlike the
things on Clown Island, and she was sick at this
                    looting.
              “Come on,” said Blaze.
  The next store, a grocery, was much the same.
A hundred jars of put-up peaches, tomatoes, and
    ocra lay on the floor, as richly colored as a
  church window where the sun touched them,
some smashed and drooling thick liquid. Burlap
   bags of flour sprawled in a corner like large
  sleeping animals where they had been pulled
 from shelves, slashed so that pale flour spilled
 across dark floorboards. Why? No reason. The
      rafters were completely out of control.
 Apparently the brewery held their interest the
 best. The mob had halted there, and pressed
 with single, concentrated intent through the
        huge double doors at the front.
  Blaze led Verity around to the side, and they
             peered in a window.
    Near the back of the dim, barnlike building
   light caught rows of heavy mugs. Every few
  seconds someone grabbed a mug and filled it
from a keg; a brigade passed them along, sipping
               as each mug passed.
  The din was deafening, the laughing, singing,
                  shouting.
   Verity caught a movement on the next street
  up, which was lined with small factories and
  warehouses. “Come on,” she said, and Blaze
followed as she climbed one block away from the
                     river.
   “There!” she said, seeing this time a chubby
  blond toddler, a boy, vanish into a doorway.
 They hurried down the street and went inside.
  The vast building was filled with dark shapes
 except where light from high windows slanted
                       in.
      It was filled with ancient machinery. She
walked beneath a gear as wide across as she was
tall, like a huge rust flower with a filigreed edge
 and holes through which light streamed. Pale
green lichen blossomed here and there, layering
        the grainy orange-umber roughness.
  “It’s all frozen up,” said Blaze. He picked up a
bent piece of metal from the clutter on the floor
and hit the gear, which answered with a hollow
   clank. “Must not have been used for years.
    Wonder what they manufactured here?”
   “Something that nan could do more cheaply,
 probably,” said Verity. She smelled dry sweet
  sawdust, saw soft mounds of it piled around
 various saws in the back of the vast building.
“Look,” she said. They walked toward the saws.
   The woodworking shop was dwarfed by the
 immensity of the old machinery around it, the
separate pieces inexorably blending together in
                quiet oxidation.
  Blaze examined the woodworking tools. “This
    one’s a router,” he said. “They must have
electricity, somehow. They’re plugged in. Maybe
   they have a dam on a creek somewhere, or
      something. But where is everybody?”
  “Mommy?” they heard from a dark corner, a
       voice small and frightened.
    Then behind her, from a side door, Verity
    heard the click of a rifle being cocked.
                  “Don’t move.”
    A tall, thin woman wearing jeans sidled
  around into their field of vision. “Come on,
                Hunter,” she said.
  “Are you the only one who lives here?” asked
                     Blaze.
  “Now what kind of a damn fool question is
that?” she asked. “Step back over to that wall.
 That’s right. Come on, Hunter, before I warm
                 your bottom!”
   Instead, the little boy rushed over to Verity,
    and stopped several yards from her. She
 stepped back as far as she could. Up close, he
looked older than she had first thought—maybe
             three and a half or four.
 “No,” whispered his mother, or at least Verity
was pretty sure she was the mother—“Hunter,
        baby, please—don’t touch her!”
  “Go on back to your mother,” said Verity. “Go
                     on.”
        The boy looked at her doubtfully.
   “Go on,” said Verity. “She won’t spank you.
              She’s just kidding.”
    The boy pulled something from his pocket.
    “Listen,” he said, and blew a chord on it.
            “A harmonica!” said Blaze.
    The boy threw it at him and ran over to the
 saws, laughing. “Yes, she will spank me, now,”
he said, and hid behind one of the big machines.
He threw a screwdriver out from behind it and
 it clattered onto the floor. They heard a crash.
 Another howl of amusement. “Can’t catch me!”
                     he yelled.
    “Why did you people stop, anyway?” said the
woman. “Most people have the sense to just keep
   on going. And I’ve never seen so goddamned
many rafters in my whole life. Usually we get up
  to the Granger barn and whoever it is, even if
 they stop, don’t stay long. Where did you come
   from? Suddenly there are thousands of you.
   Solid, for days. We can’t kill everybody who
comes down the river—don’t want to. Didn’t you
   see the sign—Plaguers Keep Out? Of course,
 maybe you’re too stupid or your brains are too
  frizzed to read. Hunter, if you don’t get on up
the hill, now, you won’t be able to sit down for a
week. And you’ve lost the harmonica Aunt Beth
 gave you. Now it’s infected. I told her you were
   too little to take care of it.” Her voice shook,
though, and Verity knew she was terrified of the
     plague. She decided it was best to say
   nothing—the woman was so nervous that
   anything might set her off. But Blaze had
       apparently decided no such thing.
   “I’m sorry,” said Blaze. “We’ll try to get them
  back on the rafts as soon as we can. If there’s
 something you folks need that we have, maybe
                     we can—”
     “We’ve survived this long without getting
tainted,” she said. “No good reason to get crazed
  now.” Her thin mouth twisted downward and
 she said, “I’m just trusting that Hunter’s going
  to be all right. We don’t need a damned thing
that you have. We’ve got the R-net, and it comes
            from inland, not the river.”
            “The R-net?” asked Blaze.
  “Rural Network. Goes almost to Michigan and
as far west as the Mississippi. Maybe further for
all I know.” She turned at the sound of running
      footsteps. “Now where did he get to?”
  “He went out the door,” said Verity, and Blaze
        gave her an exasperated look.
   “Good. I’d suggest that all of you get out of
  town as soon as possible,” she said, “before
somebody takes it into their mind to kill a few of
  you to hurry you along. I’d say that I’m just
about the mildest person in town—lots of people
 would have shot you dead on the spot. And I’m
  pretty pissed about the beer. I’m Eliza.” She
          turned and ran out the door.
    “I wanted to ask her more questions,” said
       Blaze, an annoyed tone in his voice.
  “I’m afraid the gun made me a little nervous.”
   Blaze picked up the harmonica. “I guess they
   won’t want this back,” he said, and blew an
  experimental chord. “B flat,” he said. “That’s
        strange.” He put it in his pocket.
    Verity and Blaze tried to get the rafters back
  on the river, but it was difficult to keep them
 still; a certain percentage of them staggered to
    their feet and made their way back to land,
  careering dangerously over the gaps between
      rafts. Together they dragged about ten
 unconscious women and men out of town; then
      Verity found a wagon behind one of the
  buildings and it went a little easier after that.
 But eventually Verity sank down in a doorway,
 exhausted, and watched the legs of the revelers
 pass, listening to bits of drunken song and the
shuffle of feet on dirt alleys and the old blacktop
  two-lane highway, reflecting that Cincinnati’s
 record for beer consumption—the most gallons
       per year for decades, according to old
   statistics—probably remained unchallenged.
    The sky filled with dark, heavy verges of
 clouds twisting in the chilling wind sweeping
downriver. Verity wondered if there would be a
   storm every afternoon. She pushed back
sweat-dampened hair, and let the wind cool her
                    face.
    Below, the flotilla of rafts spread out across
 the river, and the big boat shone white the last
moments before the clouds covered the sun. The
river was not very wide here. On the other side,
she saw hints of old buildings—concrete pilings,
   and well back from the bank, just above the
   level of the treetops, a golden curve. But the
 forest had swallowed whatever had been there,
    and she watched the green mass moving in
occasional gusts of breeze. The edge of the river
   was shallow and marshy, filled with grasses
           which bustled with tiny birds.
  How nice it would be to gather a few supplies
   and just set out into the woods. Take those
horses and head south. A map sputtered into her
   mind. Kentucky. Tennessee. Alabama. The
                  ocean, blue…
   Verity shook the overwhelming blueness from
  her mind and instead wondered how soon the
 impending cloudburst would startle them into
near-sobriety, and wondered how to keep them
from doing this again when she heard the crack
  of rifles from high above the two-street town.
  The street erupted in screams. Verity jumped
                  to her feet.
    Up on the bluff stood three men and two
women, holding shotguns. One of the men had a
                megaphone.
  “Next time we’ll shoot to kill,” he yelled. “Get
 the hell out of town. You have ten minutes—”
   The crack of thunder drowned out whatever
     he had to say next, and the sky let go.
  Cold rain streamed down Verity’s face, soaking
her clothes, as she tried to herd the people onto
 the rafts. They seemed to understand the rifle,
  and began to trample down to the wharf and
  onto the rafts. Verity ran down the street and
 made a quick search of the buildings they had
been in. She found one teenaged girl, passed out
on the floor of the bingo hall, and Verity grabbed
her beneath her arms and pulled her to the door.
One of the women passing by took her without a
 word and continued dragging her to the river.
 When Verity went back into the street she saw
 a knot of people on the next block. She ran to
   them and pushed her way into the middle.
 A man of perhaps thirty, with light brown hair,
  had been shot in the shoulder. Verity’s vision
    filled with Blaze, lying in the winter-bare
orchard as snow began to fall, his chest red with
blood. She turned away and took a deep breath,
                 then turned back.
  She yanked off her overshirt, laid it on top of
  his shoulder, leaned on it, hard, then yelled,
  “Tear me some strips to tie this down,” and
heard the sound of cloth ripping. Long pieces of
 green cloth were thrust into her face, and she
grabbed them and bound the shirt tightly to the
  man’s shoulder. He was breathing shallowly.
   “Let’s go,” said Verity. “Pick him up,” she
  commanded, for she was bone tired, and she
 hoped they wouldn’t drop him more than once
                     or twice.
    Some of the rafts were moving. The wind
  brought another sheet of rain sluicing over
them. Behind her, the street was deserted, and
     she began to run down to the wharf.
   Blaze glanced at Verity with concern every
once in a while. Sometimes her eyes were open
 and she saw him do so, though she lay on the
large bed in deep midnight shadow, and knew
             he couldn’t see hers.
   She’d groggily stripped off her wet clothes,
sneezing, she remembered that; had pulled on a
 white cotton nightgown, then toppled into his
bed, and he’d drawn a white lacy comforter over
her. It had still been day, though rain lashed the
  boat. She’d used the last of her energy to get
them all moved about two miles down the river,
                   then collapsed.
  Now it must be very late. She watched Blaze.
 On Blaze’s large desk a stained-glass lamp cast
 a glow, filled with the phosphate analog that
             made lightsticks shine.
 On the wall next to the desk were large framed
botanical prints, and just above it, a painting of
 a riverboat. She did not wish to look at it if it
 was floating on blue water, but whatever the
 color of the river it was grayed by night, only
        dimly illuminated by the lamp.
   Next to Blaze’s elbow was a small, hinged
wooden box, which stood open. In the dark she
 could see that it was inlaid with some sort of
        gold lines that caught the light.
 She watched him reach in and remove a green
   crystal and set it on the polished desk.
                  A radio stone.
  She wondered how everyone was doing, then
  lost interest, caught in the glow of the radio
stone. The rafters were either dead or alive; she
     really didn’t care which, the idiots. The
consensus power of their scrolls had apparently
been lost in chaos, and perhaps it was up to her
 to insert the direction which would save them
 but not just now, particularly since she hadn’t
      the faintest idea what that might be.
  A cool breeze came in the open French doors,
causing a wall hanging to flutter. She saw a few
  clear stars in the black square of night, and
 Blaze took out another radio stone, and then
another. He stood over them, resting his weight
                   on his arms.
   Verity woke several times during the night,
   and either she was dreaming or Blaze had
  heaped his desk with wires and gizmos, and
once she thought she heard tinny wild wails of
sound which could not be music by any stretch
of the imagination and saw, by the pale light of
 the stained-glass lamp, a look of reverence in
 Blaze’s eyes as he tilted his head and listened.
   Finally Verity could sleep no longer. It was
  still dark. Blaze was slumped over his desk,
    snoring, and the radio stones were dark.
   Her hands had awakened her, she realized.
  They throbbed and itched. She rubbed them
together and got out of bed, restless and alert.
She wondered where Blaze had found his radio
 stones. Had they just grown in the drawers of
                   his desk?
   Well, she supposed, that was possible. There
 was much about the boat she didn’t know. She
had somehow given the commands for all this to
  grow. Layers and layers, shells of Durancy’s
            exquisite metacommands.
    Though it was surely possible that she had
   commanded these people to come forth and
possibly die because their lives depended on the
metapheromone jolt they’d received while in the
 City, she wondered if she had not known this
 would happen and provided for it. Their little
  scrolls had worked at first, she remembered,
linking hivelike, brought to life by their shared
 information, and had then fallen to gibberish.
    Opening the bottom drawer of a bureau she
  felt a sweater, pulled it out, and held it before
 her. It had a strange foreign smell and was very
 large but it would do. But when she pulled it on
she pushed, puzzled, with her right hand, trying
to find the arm of the sweater. Finally she pulled
it back over her head and stepped around to the
doorway where there was enough light for her to
 see on closer examination that it lacked an arm.
   She tossed it on the floor and found another,
      which had the correct number of arms.
    Kicking around on the floor she found the
clothes she had discarded, still wet. In the right
  pocket of her jeans she found the scroll and
  pulled it out, dried it on her nightgown, and
      slipped out barefoot onto the deck.
     She could only see the rafts immediately
below; the rest were obscured by fog. Her hands
  felt unpleasant, full of jitters; she shook and
          clenched them several times.
 Strange clicking sounds stopped Verity as she
passed a window. A light was on inside and the
        curtains were not fully drawn.
  It was even more ornate than the other rooms.
 Tiffany lamps hung from the ceiling. Here and
 there were small tables covered with lace and
things she thought of as gimcracks and geegaws,
because the Gift Shop on the boiler deck sported
       a sign that described them as such.
 Lil and Jack drifted into view, startling Verity.
They were only about ten feet away. A cigarette
dangled from Lil’s mouth, and much to Verity’s
  surprise she was carrying a long white stick.
Verity was getting used to her dress—long tight
 sleeves, high in the back, with a low V-neck in
        the front. But this one was gold.
   Lil perched on the edge of the pool table and
 leaned over, holding one end of the stick over
                    her head.
                 “Lil,” said Jack.
     “Both my feet are on the floor,” she said.
  “Both your shoes are on the floor. Your dress
          isn’t as long as you think.”
   “What are you going to do, shoot me?” asked
  Lil. “Five in the corner.” She gave the stick a
quick shove and Verity heard the clicking sound
                       again.
  “A day doesn’t go by that you don’t surprise
 me,” said Jack. “But don’t think that you can
               beat me at pool.”
   “Oh, heaven forbid,” said Lil. “Three in the
           side?” Again that sound.
       “You make me nervous,” said Jack.
                 “You should be.”
  “Not that you might beat me because I know
                 you can’t.”
  “Pretty puffed up, aren’t you Jack Hamilton?”
  “I’m nervous because our chance of success is
  pretty poor and I don’t think you’re helping
   things any. You’re acting kind of—nutty.”
               “Oh, pooh,” she said.
     “Maybe you can’t tell,” he said, his voice
                  worried.
   Her voice turned steely. “Look, Jack, this was
your idea and I think it was a good one. The only
 way. I’m staking everything on your faith— oh,
sorry, on what you know. This is our last chance
   because nutty is what I’ve been. I’m trying to
  loosen up. That’s the only way I’ll make it. If I
start thinking about what’s at stake—and seeing
   all these plaguers is incredibly upsetting to
                       me…”
 “I know, Lil,” he said in a low, apologetic voice.
 “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea in the world.
I’m worried about you,” he said, his voice tight,
  yet filled with emotion. “I don’t really give a
damn about anything else.” He laughed and his
voice cracked. “After all, Lil, if you don’t make
   it… Look. Let’s go back, think this over—”
  “For another decade or two? Oh, stop it, Jack.
 You’re only bringing me down. We’ve got to be
 committed. But we’re only two people. All we
can do is our best…” Her voice faltered. “Maybe
you’re right. Our best has been none too good in
                    the past.”
    “You’ve always done as much as you could
 possibly do, Lil. And you’ve usually tried to do
   more than one person could do—that’s the
 problem. I’m sorry I said anything. You aren’t
 emotionally prepared for this. How could you
                       be?”
     “Bullshit, Jack.” Her voice strengthened.
“You’re just a moosh. You think too much. You’re
   stuck with me, babe. We’re going down this
 river. To the bitter end. Face it. You want to get
  rid of me because you hate to lose and now—”
   There were two sharp cracks. “—you have.”
           “Shit. How did you do that?”
                “I distracted you.”
   After that, Verity heard no more except soft
 clacks and the sound of them walking around,
and Jack’s occasional curse. Part of her wanted
to walk in and demand to know what they were
  talking about. Committed to what? She saw
danger all around, but somehow she thought the
    danger Jack spoke of might be somewhat
                    different.
    But the nervousness seized her again. She
     clenched her hands, deprived now of
metapheromonal input for many days. She had
   not counted on this. A transformation had
    occurred while she was in Cincinnati, a
transformation she had feared and sought. Her
body had changed, become capable of accessing
 and sending metapheromonal information. It
 was a hunger, keen and dark and completely
                 unsettling.
   She sat on a bench, then jumped up; it was
 wet. Using the sleeve of the overlarge sweater,
 she dried it as best she could, then sat again,
 propping her feet on the railing. She needed a
map of the boat and what it contained. The river
           swished along in the dark.
   She touched the scroll on, feeling urgent and
   invigorated, though her hands shook. Now,
       where was the tutorial she had been
   commanded to use? She closed her eyes and
tried to remember, then opened them to see she
didn’t have to; the screen from the first morning
had come back, telling her to take her vitamins,
  telling her that she was #47. She sighed, then
   went to the tutorial screen and was shortly
amazed at the information she held in her hand,
               and at the power of it.
  The sky had lightened just a shade when she
 looked up, over an hour later. She stood and
hurried down two decks, glancing at her scroll
as she turned left at the stairway and counted
 doorways. There. The fifth one. She held the
scroll up to the number on the door and by its
     pale light read the cabin number: 32.
  But it was locked. She could not turn the knob.
 Then a palmprint flashed and she put her hand
to it and heard a click within, and then the knob
                  turned freely.
  She stepped inside the room and saw that it
was windowless, but lit with a gentle glow. The
  walls were alive with tiny, dancing lights.
   She sat in the only chair, which looked like a
  delicate graceful insect. In front of her was a
  narrow desklike down-slanted ledge, with an
 indentation that flashed. And as it flashed, the
scroll in her hand flashed in unison, so she set it
in the indentation and it appeared satisfied, for
           the urgent flashing stopped.
  what do you want, #47? asked the scroll, the
 words floating within it. The colors the scroll
 used were never the same. This time she saw
    bright purple letters on a yellow field.
       “The people from Cincinnati need
metapheromones to survive,” she said. “We can’t
 function without them. Are there any on the
                    boat?”
    of course, said the scroll, in raw form,
 bombykol, danaidone, ipsdienol, verbenone…
   Tiny charts of straight lines and letters, the
 chemical shorthand for each, appeared next to
  every listed pheromone, of which there were
 thousands. As she watched they began to shift
and link to one another like magnetized puzzles,
  and the information on the scroll overflowed
              onto the desk surface.
  Verity felt both relieved and frightened. But
she had no room for fear, and it was too soon to
 be relieved. She allowed those feelings to eddy
 away, and was left clear and focussed. What to
 ask? But you have more than three questions,
    she told herself. These are not the deadly
 questions of fairy tales, where what is in your
own mind will weave you back into yourself only
 worse, showing you the awfulness of who you
   really are. This is a tool to unfold not only
  yourself but all of those around you, and you
must believe that that is good. You have as many
              questions as you want.
   Still she paused. She did not want to be in
charge; she did not want those desperate hands
yanking on her sleeve as she passed; she did not
want to remain sober while everyone else drank;
  she did not want to be pregnant, even, and
          responsible for another life.
  But no one else was able to be in charge; she
  was not free to do as whim dictated because
 innocent people would suffer, and unless the
   scroll was wrong she was most certainly
                   pregnant.
  She was able to remember the glowing bits of
  metapheromone Sphere had generated with
 music in the hive. He had become one with the
City and claimed to be able to use it. She, on the
other hand, was mostly used by it, and was only
able to use its own energy to flip its momentum
  in a new direction. This room was small and
primitive compared with the golden energy she
        had been filled with in the hive.
But she was pretty certain that it had what she
needed, if she could only steel herself to use it.
  “What do we need in order to function—to be
able to think, and do our tasks, and survive—to
be human—and what is the smallest dose of it,
      and how should it be administered?”
   There. Too much at once? Many of the lights
turned green, while others changed to a colored
    pattern rather than random winks, and it
 looked to her as if it was emerging into greater
and greater order. Don’t worry, she told herself,
    it can do the work; it can do the thinking.
    She hoped. Her palms were sweating. She
 heard steps overhead, even heard dim shouts
 outside on the river, and knew that she didn’t
  have a lot of time. They were waking up, no
     doubt in much worse shape than her.
 Yesterday’s deterioration could only continue,
  and she feared the stories embedded within
  them—stories from American literature, the
 whole gamut, Raymond Chandler to Flannery
    O’Connor to Frank Baum to… well, just
everything. Murder—she knew that. Pain, fear,
   love… the entire range of human emotion
powerfully distilled by literature, but here with
  no outside stimulus, simply welling up from
within and flowering in the brain like long-held
poisons, manifesting in mad and inappropriate
   action; deadly action. They could not be so
gripped; to survive they would have to be able to
grasp their situation, to see their surroundings.
  She remembered that first morning, how the
man had pulled her outside and commanded her
to see; how they had all rejoiced in the beauty of
       their new freedom; how all had been
harmonious. That was what they needed. Unless
    they could somehow get through this, and
survive without the metapheromones. That was
 the best option; otherwise they were so limited.
     But she didn’t know if that was possible.
       She had been resting her hand in the
palmprint and she was startled to see a message
flash: more of that #47 we need to know what we
                  are aiming for.
  Verity bit her lip. She did not want to program
them any more; no. She wanted them to be able
 to survive on their own. She wanted their true
 individuality to emerge at last. For good or for
  ill, each to their own, for she had no right to
make them into her own image of what a human
   should be; that would be as dangerous and
lopsided an enterprise as Abe’s mad Cincinnati.
   The lights blinked all at once and the scroll
 said thank you. we need time for evolution to
                     occur.
    Fine, she thought; go ahead and program
freedom. It seemed an absolute contradiction to
                      her.
           “How long do you need?”
     Brief pause, very long, seven minutes.
She smiled briefly. Such a worried sensibility.
                   “Fine.”
  She rose and paced, feeling on the verge of
  Christmas. What wonderful pheromonal
 presents would emerge, and in what form?
 Would they splat forth, drinkable? Would a
  giant heap of wafers come spewing out?
  She caught a glimpse of her scroll, and saw
that it was composing odd pictures—chemical
 bonds, she recalled from her time in the Bee
                   Library.
        “What am I seeing?” she asked.
 artificial metapheromones. we have made a
miscalculation. yours will be ready soon. the
         rest will be completed asap.
                     asap?
          Then the lights went dark.
 Verity stumbled and found the chair with one
hand; sat, and discovered her scroll with the
other; put her palm where the print had been
            but nothing happened.
     Discouragement darkened her mind.
 Christmas indeed. Just another day of hell.
“Wake up!” she yelled, but no lights occurred.
“Function! Start! What’s the answer? Too hard
            for you to figure out?”
  She slumped in her chair. Well fine. It sensed
your ambiguity and went one way instead of the
  other. It was probably for the best. She rose,
grabbed her scroll (at least she could study the
 tutorial), and found the door, relieved to find
  that it would let her out. She walked slowly
                 down the deck.
 Her scroll beeped as she walked, and she took
            it out and looked at it.
 The scroll said she was looking at a map of the
boiler deck, and that the light that was blinking
               was in Stateroom 5.
   She hurried down one flight of stairs and
 walked first one way, then the other, quickly.
  She came to a locked door but a palmplate
         flashed and it opened to her.
  She went in, and closed the door behind her.
   “Hello, number forty-seven,” said the room.
 “I am not number forty-seven, I am Verity,” she
              said, and waited.
  “We have thought the problem over and have
 decided that the best solution is gloves. Yours
are in compartment number five thirty-eight.” A
 tiny green light on the opposite wall came on
                  and blinked.
                    “Gloves?”
 “The gloves are made of a light, clear material
  infused with metapheromones individually
tailored to your receptors. They will remind you
 of who you are, they will balance you, and they
         will do the same for everyone.”
   “Can they block the plague?” asked Verity,
eagerly. “Yes! Make them so that we will also be
         freed of the Norleans Plague.”
   She waited an anxious moment before the
voice came again. “The Norleans Plague, as you
          call it, cannot be hacked.”
                    “Hacked?”
   “Deciphered, decoded, disabled. It instantly
   re-forms when challenged. This is known.”
   “Known by who? I thought you were smart.
        Who are you?” asked Verity.
             There was only silence.
    “And how can they remind me of who I am
      when I’m only number forty-seven?”
              There was no answer.
  She heard the staggering footsteps of someone
passing down the corridor. The person pounded
on each door, once, as he passed. “For the love of
 God, help me, please,” he moaned. “Somebody!”
  Verity held her breath, hoping that the room
  wouldn’t say anything as he passed. As the
 sound of the steps and the thumps grew more
     faint, the room said, “It is up to you.”
    “What will happen if they don’t get these
metapheromones?” she asked. There was silence
 for a minute. Then the room said, “We do not
                    know.”
  Verity felt twitchy, unsettled, as if tiny bugs
  were crawling over her body, and her mind
         flashed blue again. Norleans.
   All I have to do is put on those gloves, she
thought, and I’ll feel much better. I’ll be able to
                 think straight.
                I’ll know who I am.
 You’ll know who they tell who you are, she told
   herself, yet took a step toward the green,
                  blinking light.
                   She stopped.
   She wiped sweat from her forehead. Hadn’t
she freed them—and herself—from Cincinnati to
        get away from this sort of thing?
   Angrily, she turned and left, slamming the
               door behind her.
              Outside, all was chaos.



                Seven
           Human Radio Blues

The scene before Verity reminded her of
medieval etchings of purgatory from one of
those musty books at the Shaker Hill library.
One that John had not burned. But this had
sound and motion.
    The mass of humanity on the rafts writhed
 before her eyes. Cries of anguish rose and fell.
  Someone jumped from a deck above her and
plummeted past; hit the water with a smack and
 did not resurface. Numb, Verity did not spring
 to action, though a part of her said, Leap down
                 and rescue him!
          The scene assumed dreamlike
contours—softened; distant. A little girl wearing
 a bright blue shirt caught her eye, so far away
that Verity could not see her face, only a mop of
                    dark hair.
    That particular shade… it was so lovely, so
   soothing. It was time to get under way. She
wished these troublesome rafts would clear out
 soon or the riverboat would have to plow them
under. Why was she not dressed yet? No matter.
    How many days did she have? There was
something about needing to complete this trip…
by… when? She hummed a few bars of “The Erie
                      Canal.”
     “Verity!” It was Lil, towering over her,
wearing, this fine morning, a dress covered with
        purple glitters. Verity blinked.
 “Are you all right? Hell, you’re as bad off as the
  rest of them.” Lil’s eyes were concerned. She
frowned, jerked her head back to the door from
   which Verity had emerged. “What were you
                doing in there?”
   Verity found she could barely remember. It
 was all rather muzzy. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s
  time to go. I’ve got to get the boat started.”
    Lil tried the door, but it was locked. Verity
 wasn’t sure why, but was pleased at that fact.
 She walked away but turned when she heard a
  crunching sound. The door dangled from the
   hinges; Lil was braced against the railing.
  She grinned at Verity. “I suppose you thought
these fancy shoes were all show? Strong as steel,
  light as a feather, the ad said. And they last
                     forever. ”
     Verity was impressed. She knew that she
  couldn’t even walk in Lil’s black heels, much
 less use them to kick down a door. Lil prowled
 inside, touched on a light. “My, my. What have
                    we here?”
   “None of your business,” said Verity crossly.
               “Leave it alone.”
      “Oh,” said Lil. “This is interesting.” She
     stepped back outside, looked around. A
 ten-year-old boy was hurrying down the deck,
eyes crazed, muttering, “They’re not going to put
      me back in the trouble house, oh, no.”
  “Wait a minute,” commanded Lil, and the boy
                 shrank back.
   “You’re not going to put me in the trouble
house!” he said and tried to run past Lil but she
  grabbed both wrists and he twisted vainly,
panting. “Let go! I don’t want to go to the trouble
house.” He started to sob as Lil adroitly avoided
                     his kicks.
  Lil pulled him inside the door and pushed him
 into the chair that Verity had been sitting in a
  few minutes earlier. “Sit still! I’m not sending
   you to the trouble house. But I might if you
 don’t—here! That’s right. Not an inch! Verity! I
                 need your help.”
     Verity stood reluctantly in the doorway.
     “Where’s your scroll?” Lil asked the boy.
    Glaring at her, he pulled it from his shirt
               pocket. Lil took it.
  “That’s good. Hmmm. Nice little gizmos, eh?”
       “Don’t you have one?” asked Verity.
       Lil ignored her. “Okay, good. Number
      three-fifty-six. Kind of slow and crude
    but—here—” Verity watched her give that
number to the room using a keyboard she hadn’t
 noticed. A sweet smell filled the air, just for an
 instant, so quickly that she thought maybe she
 had imagined it. A drawer glowed green briefly
 and Lil nodded to the boy. “Go ahead. Open it.”
   She watched as he touched the circle on the
  door and it slid open soundlessly. Lil looked
  inside. “Well, I’ll be. Gloves. That’s novel. Go
  ahead.” She nodded at the boy. “Put them on.
                        Now!”
    The boy shrugged and pulled them on. Verity
watched them blend into his hands like a second
 skin. The only reason she could tell that he was
wearing them was because a message glowed on
 the back of his left hand. He lifted it, looked at
it. He blinked and took a deep breath. “My name
     is Jet?” he asked. The tremble in his voice
   vanished. He looked at Lil doubtfully. “Well,
          that’s what the scroll said too…”
    “Okay,” said Lil. “Great. Thanks, Jet. Run
                  along now.”
  He looked at Lil and at Verity. “Who are you?”
      “I said move,” commanded Lil. With a
  backward look, he continued down the deck,
 looking at the back of his hand as if reading a
                     watch.
 And no doubt, thought Verity, the correct time
             was in the gloves.
             “Now for yours,” said Lil.
  “No,” said Verity. “Jet was right. Who are you?
  What are you doing here? What do you know
                   about me?”
  “I can’t answer any of those questions right
now,” she said, and Verity thought, At least she
didn’t say that she’s Lightnin’ Lil. “We need to
         get these gloves distributed.”
  “I don’t think so,” said Verity, able to focus at
least on this conversation. “They’re what we left
            the city to get away from.”
  “I won’t quibble philosophy with you right at
 this moment,” said Lil. “Though I will at some
 other time. But I don’t need your permission.”
    Verity involuntarily glanced down at Lil’s
                     shoes.
       “Don’t you see,” Verity argued,
“they—we—need to get through this. Away from
             all this control.”
    Lil shook her head briefly, impatiently. “You
 don’t understand. Or maybe you don’t want to.
Or maybe you can’t, right at this minute. It’s not
 just a whim of theirs or a simple addiction like
   caffeine. These people have been mainlining
 information for so many cycles that they don’t
    even know how long it’s been. They’ve been
   doing this because of physical modifications
 made to their bodies—modifications they paid
 for. Dearly. And if you want to put it that way,
they did have a choice in the beginning and they
deserve to be able to live and sort it all out.” Her
  voice was low and urgent. She began touching
            the flat panel like a pianist.
    “How do you know all this?” asked Verity.
    Lil looked up for a moment and her eyes
looked ancient; weary. She might be a hundred
   years old flashed through Verity’s mind.
 Lil turned back to the keyboard. “Information
wants to be free, Verity. It flows on, through us,
around us, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need us
  but we need it. I can’t say that I know much
 more than that, anymore. This is information.
      They are information. You and I are
 information.” She frowned and continued on
 with a flurry of long fingers. A voice said, “Six
thousand and thirty-two gloves being readied.”
              “How long?” asked Lil.
   “Thirty-five minutes and seventeen seconds,”
said the voice. “You will find them in a bin to the
               right of the drawer.”
     Lil leaned back against the counter. Her
purple sparkles flashed small rainbows around
the tiny room. “Round up as many people as you
 can,” she said. “We’ve got to distribute these as
               quickly as possible.”
 “What about… Lil, there are people ahead of us
who won’t have any gloves. What will happen to
                    them?”
  Lil bowed her head briefly, then looked back
up at Verity. Verity had the fleeting impression
that such a thought was nothing compared with
  what Lil might have had to consider before.
    “That’s life,” she said bleakly; then, “They
 might get through it. It’s possible. We can only
  think about here and now. That seems to be
                   quite enough.”
   “But don’t they have to come here, like Jet,
with their scrolls?” asked Verity. “That will take
                     forever.”
    Lil shook her head. “Their own bodies will
 individually initialize the gloves. That’s what I
                    just fixed.”
   Verity frowned. “But—does that mean that
                everyone’s—
   “You’re quick,” said Lil. “It means that every
  last one of those people and more are in this
 system here; that’s right. You’ve brought it all
 along with you. Each person will get the entire
    system and their specific metapheromone
  receptors will communicate with the gloves.
       Bionan is infinitesimally small, and
   infinitesimally powerful. At that point, the
gloves will then respond with the proper mix for
 orientation and focus. And then—I’m not sure
                what will happen.”
 Dread filled Verity, weakening her knees. “The
      proper mix?” She felt so irrational, so
disappointed, so angry. She tried again. “Lil, we
 all need to get away from that! We just need to
                   be normal.”
  “Are you normal?” asked Lil gently, her eyes
   compassionate in the dim light. “Are you,
 Verity? Who, or what, are you? You’re not like
               the rest of them.”
               Verity said nothing.
  “Well, if you could be normal, would you want
                      to be?”
  Verity stood silently, her whole world turning
 on Lil’s question. But she had heard it before.
She would always, she realized, answer it in the
                    same way.
    “No,” she whispered. She had to whisper,
because the answer stuck in her throat. “I don’t
 think I ever was normal. I don’t think there’s
anything for me to go back to. But I don’t think I
  would want to, either.” Greed, she thought,
  greed for the new. For the ability to access
      information. Hunger for the visions.
  “Give them the same freedom of choice,” said
Lil. “If they’re dead, they’ve definitely lost that.”
Her mouth curved in a faint smile. She tilted her
head and looked into Verity’s eyes and stopped
     smiling. “You can talk to me, you know.”
    Then the wall beeped. Lil patted her on her
   shoulder and pulled a sheaf of gloves from a
 large bin and handed them to Verity. “Let’s get
               to work,” she said.
       The morning sky deepened into a very
satisfying blue as Verity passed out gloves. They
were diaphanous, yet strong as spider silk, more
like a web than a solid layer of material. A fresh
  breeze blew back her hair as she walked from
   raft to raft, passing out large quantities and
      instructing people to distribute them.
  Lil was quite forceful with the gloves the first
 hour or so, cornering people and making them
  put on the gloves, then giving them a stack
    “fresh out of the oven,” she said, and telling
    them to go forth and do likewise. Once they
were wearing them, they seemed to understand;
  now, three hours later, the scene before Verity
 was one of exhausted calm. At one point during
 the chaos everything had flipped from disorder
to order. About twenty people had taken it upon
themselves to initiate the breakfast chores, and
    while she watched some of the rafters carry
   their food back to their raft in a little basket,
    Verity wondered if food might not be a more
  efficient medium through which to calm them
     and sank down on a bench, horrified at the
    thought and feeling on the edge of sane. She
   leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees,
           and locked her hands together.
   “That would be good, Verity,” she told herself,
the words spinning out into the clear spring air
    like a song with which she could entertain
  herself. It was almost as if someone else were
speaking. Perhaps there were many such selves
waiting to have their say. “You could really look
into this. You could figure out what you wanted
 them to think and do and feel and learn how to
  put it into their food. Something like, ‘Ignore
 that city back there. Forget it all happened. Be
   happy!’ Marvelous idea!” She pulled her legs
  close to her chest and bent her head down so
that she was squeezed into one point and yelled,
  “I just want them to be free! I want them to be
           free! They need to be free!”
   She couldn’t seem to stop. It was satisfying
 just to yell while yet another part of her said
this is silly, Verity, it’s not doing any good at all
and still she could hear the words over and over
                  and over again—
   Then someone was prying her hands apart.
  “She’s crying.” That was Blaze. He wiped her
face roughly with his shirt. “I don’t know what
       to do.” His voice was despairing.
 It was Lil who grabbed her right hand, she saw
when she squinted open her right eye just a bit.
                  “No!” she yelled.
  “Hold her arm still,” Lil said and Blaze’s grip
   was like steel and then the glove was on.
 She saw, as Lil pulled it on, pale green ovals in
it which matched the receptor locations in her
 own hands and then they blended together. It
 felt warm, for a moment, and then tingly, and
        then she could not feel it at all.
 “The other one for good measure,” said Lil and
  it was easier for them to pry forth her other
                       arm.
  Then she was lying on her back on the bench
             listening to them.
  “What’s going on?” asked Blaze. “I just woke
 up. I can’t believe I slept so long. I guess I was
                  up pretty late.”
  Playing with the radio stones, thought Verity.
      Blaze could sleep through anything.
 “Verity thought of a way to… orient everyone,”
                    said Lil.
  I did not, thought Verity. Don’t blame me. The
                   boat did it.
 “So how do you know all this?” Blaze asked Lil.
 “What’s that you put on her hands? She didn’t
                   want it.”
       That’s right, Blaze. Ask her! Ask her
        everything! I’d like to know too.
   She wanted to know all these things. But she
 felt much too lazy to ask, as if she were floating
    in a warm, pleasant bath, with the blue sky
   overhead, which was a very strange thought
  because her baths had always been taken in a
      big white tub with white beaded boards
   overhead, using solar-heated water pumped
with the red handle at the kitchen sink. Though
she had from time to time floated on her back on
Bear Creek; even in high summer the water was
   cold enough to turn her blue in ten minutes.
                       Blue…
  She realized that Lil was not saying anything.
  Her head began to clear. She began to know
 things. These were not new things, but things
that had existed in a haze, as if she had not been
      thinking straight and now she could.
  She sat up on the bench. Blaze sat next to her
and took her hand. “Are you feeling better?” He
 rubbed her hand a few times. “That thing just
             seems barely there.”
  She nodded and looked around. Lil’s sparkly
dress caught her eye as it disappeared around a
                    corner.
  “How did Lil know what to do?” asked Blaze.
     Verity remembered the argument she’d
   overheard. “I think—maybe she’s from the
           government,” said Verity.
 “The goddamned government?” asked Blaze, a
 faint smile on his face. That’s what Russ had
                always called it.
  “Must be,” said Verity. “She knows something,
  that’s for sure. There’s a room down the deck
  with a—” She frowned, unsure what to call it.
 “—system node in it. It’s a place where you can
access the information in the boat.” She laughed
   briefly. “I didn’t put that information there.
    Rose did. Lil knew how to use it right off.”
“That wouldn’t be too hard, Verity,” said Blaze.
 “I figured out how to use the Dayton Library
pretty fast. It seems so natural. So—what’s the
word? Intuitive. That’s it. The library told me
 that it was set up to work intuitively. Maybe
          that’s the way this boat is.”
     Verity turned to Blaze and felt tears of
helplessness well up again, though she blinked
them back. “Oh, Blaze,” she said, “I thought we
   were through with all that. I thought we
could—” She stopped. She was no longer sure
what she thought about the future, for now she
  had an entirely new past. She was not the
person she had thought she was during all the
 years of her growing up on Shaker Hill. She
touched the nub behind her right ear softly. A
memory sponge; she had one behind each ear.
 Filled with thoughts others had put there…
     Despite the new stability of the gloves, or
  maybe because of them allowing her to pause
  and take a breath in the onrush of biological
 buffeting, she began to sob deeply and harshly.
 Everything was gone. Everything. Nothing was
    the way she thought it was but what had
 replaced those certainties was like quicksand
and in this world she was called on constantly to
 act, to make decisions that affected the lives of
    many others, with very little information.
 Blaze caught her and held her tight against his
   chest. She felt his hands on her back and
  remembered for a moment the way he had
  looked at her, touched her that one time at
    Shaker Hill before he had been killed—
   As if he could tell what she was thinking, he
held her closer. “Relax, Verity,” he whispered in
   her ear. “You’re so nervous. Relax. Relax.”
   She did. It was a small miracle. She pushed
back from Blaze, looked into his concerned eyes.
  “This is all we have,” he said. “There’s nothing
else. We’re going to have to make the best of it.”
    “What do you mean, there’s nothing else?”
         There was the whole world!
  The look in his eyes did not change—steady,
yet somehow bleak. “There is no heaven, Verity.
  I was dead. I didn’t see angels, believe me.”
   There it was again. His despair at finding no
 heaven. “What did you see?” She tried to stop
 the images but they ran their course: her dear
dog Cairo, spun round by the force of the bullet,
 John training the rifle on her, as she watched
from her window above the yard. Blaze pulling
 on John and John turning faster than thought
    and shooting Blaze square in the chest.
   And herself, flinging the radio stone, which
    struck John in the head and killed him.
  “I’m not sure,” he said. “But it wasn’t angels.”
   “Maybe it’s because you weren’t really dead,”
  she said, but she was pretty sure that he was
 right. She shrugged. “These people don’t need
  heaven anyway. It seems as if they could live
                     forever.”
 “They can live forever in a human world,” said
  Blaze, standing and leaning on the railing.
  Miraculously, all was orderly now, almost
subdued. They were probably exhausted. “They
won’t ever get to God’s world. There is no God to
get to.” He turned and looked at Verity. “There
is no point. And that’s the strangest thing of all.
It’s very hard to get used to. I don’t think you’ve
           tried, yet. But you’ll have to.”
  Verity lay on her back on a bench on the very
    top deck. It was midafternoon. She was
     watching the polarization of the sun.
     She sat up, and turned west. Her vision
       oriented her instantly, precisely.
     Shall I fly? she thought. She took a deep
   breath, a breath of all the scents deep and
  revealing of what the others were thinking.
  Shall I speed to a City where the sheer joy of
 instantaneous communication is embedded in
the very matter that surrounds me? Where I can
   communicate by simply thinking in a very
 particular practiced way that will then release
 precise metapheromones that the others of us
                  can then sense…
                     Shall we?
 She shifted to human vision just by wanting to
              and looked around.
 Cumulus clouds drifted low over forest, and on
  the north shore the signs of an old partially
    submerged strip mall rippled the river’s
     leisurely flow, adrianne’s hair razors,
replicators by harry fully licensed limited nan.
   wing-ding supermart. The color had been
leached from the bottom of the letters but their
              relief was still clear.
   Rafters stood, as did she, on their various
 crafts, staring at the beauty of the day as if it
 had been suddenly revealed to them. It was so
very beautiful. In color, in form, in sheer being.
   She looked at her hands, and found them
beautiful too, their economy and grace. She had
   never really looked at her hands before…
  The sun gave it all a lovely clarity, this silent
 drifting, for a few minutes ago she had found
even the wash of the paddlewheel intrusive on
this early-summer crystalline beauty and then
             the sound had ceased…
         It had ceased with her thought…
     She brought her hand, a second ago so
otherworldly, to her chest, as if it could still her
            rapidly beating heart.
                No. Not my thought.
    But yes. And yet… had it really been hers?
Hers alone? Or had that thought been the echo
 of what the others were also thinking, feeling?
Let us have silence so we can hear the beauty of
             the world around us…
     Could it be that they needed a Queen no
                     longer?
     She saw then that everyone was looking
  around like her. Puzzled. Tremulous. On the
        brink of some great Thought…
 Drifting down the Great Ohio River, Beautiful
Ohio, Most Blessed of Rivers, Most Glorious of
                  Waterways…
  Once the political demarcation between slave
                 land and free.
    The wonder of the land lay upon her. For a
   moment it was as if the very shores spoke.
Beyond the strip mall was a tall, conical hill. An
 Indian Mound; they’d had one in Miamisburg.
The burial sites of untold generations of people.
   And a pioneer town on a bluff, Clarksville,
 named after its founder, George Rogers Clark,
Revolutionary War veteran. George’s heart had
  been broken by Jefferson, who sent George’s
   younger brother William off to explore the
      Louisiana Territory instead of him.
                   The Territory.
      This had been the new land. The old
  inhabitants had been subdued, killed, like…
                    like…
  Verity shook her head, angry at the intrusive
  feelings that ran through her then, and the
thought that surfaced from the tough yet gentle
 part of her that she was beginning to know as
       Rose. There was no mistaking her.
  Like the people before nan. Soon there will be
none of them left. I have seen them, in my travels,
   scattered in their reservation-like colonies,
 trying to preserve the old human ways, the old
       human mind, the separateness, the
 individuality. And I weep for them. I weep for
  them, for they are a vanishing species. And
     because I started out as one of them.
 The spell, the clarity of the moment, or of the
hour, however long it had been, was shattered.
    And it had been shattered by reality.
                    And yet…
      It was not only Clarksville, she realized,
 drawing her legs close to her chest and letting
the sun beat down on her head, happy to be out
 in its warmth without the fear of cancer which
   had kept her under broad-brimmed hats for
   most of her life. She knew that bionan now
      protected her, that mutations would be
instantly repaired despite the greatly increased
           deadliness of the sun’s rays.
          There was more. Much more.
   And she knew part of it. Everyone knew part
of it. Their own part, what they had witnessed,
    what they had known. There was no real
 centrality to it. It was like a great mosaic. She
 only knew a few of the tiles of it, and could not
  even imagine where they fit within the entire
 history, which had many dimensions, so many
that every new bit of information would change
                the whole picture.
               They would not fly.
                 We shall not fly.
   No matter that they could not, not now. For
she realized, with more warmth than shock, that
  if they all so desired, they could create a new
Flower City in the wilderness. Or even move into
    an existing, deserted town… Clarksville…
    But they were looking outward now. And
                   forward.
  Forward, toward Norleans. And so there was
 no time to settle, no time to build. They were
    moving on, downriver, and it was all the
Territory now, open and brilliant and filled with
                   themselves.
   What were the nexuses around which their
           story would coalesce?
  Something on her glove caught her eye. Yes.
 There it was again, flickering, and then more
 solid, in bold black letters as if etched on the
                back of her hand:
          the information wars! act one.
    And then to her delight phrases and images
  cascaded over her hands, one picture or word
    superseding the other swiftly, a babble of
       visions and razor-sharp tiny pagelike
 successions of text. When she stared at one line
 in which the word “Norwood” caught her eye it
  all slowed and she read an address, and then
 what appeared to be a genealogy tree, and then
a similar one replied, on her other hand, and she
 was able to look up and realized that everyone
  she could see was staring at their hands, and
that went on for at least an hour or maybe more,
 they were awash in a sea of information and
 memory. She saw a recipe for Ice Box Rolls, a
   favorite chair rocking on the porch in the
  breeze, a baby dressed in white eyelet, a jet
          streaking through blue sky.
   And then a jolting, powerful melody broke
 forth, shattering the silence, and the pictures
  and print with them, but Verity laughed out
loud as she recognized it: “The Erie Canal.” But
      halting, hesitant, and coming from…
  She ran down the stairs, and followed it to its
source. It was not difficult. As those around her
on the decks and on the rafts sang, and danced,
 some whirling partners, some alone, she ran.
The auditorium door was open, and she leaned
        against the doorjamb, watching.
    The calliope was rising from a hole in the
  stage! And Blaze, of course, was standing in
front of it, pressing on the steam-powered keys
 with all his might. High windows slanted light
  onto the semicircle of steel gray pipes from
  which the music issued. The only thing she
  could think of to compare this music to was
              immensely loud flutes.
   We are making our story as we go along, she
 thought, letting the sound wash over her, fill
 her, infuse her very bones. She settled on the
  threshold and listened as Blaze segued into
   some new song that she did not recognize.
    A halting rhythm. Haunting. She saw his
 mouth open, but could not hear his voice at all
     for the instrument was so very loud.
   Then someone stepped around her and she
      saw that it was Jack. And then Lil.
     Tall, thin, and dark, formally dressed as
always, they promenaded down to the stage and
  Jack mounted the small flight of stairs first,
bowed to Lil, and assisted her up the stairs. She
 had never seen the like of the dance they did,
  holding hands, whirling back, clasping each
  other close, then parting and dancing alone.
  And then there were more people behind her,
  and they poured past her so that she had to
 stand to see, and filled the seats, and stood in
the seats, and danced on the seats, and danced
 in all the aisles, and on the stage, while Blaze
 played “Cincinnati Underworld Woman,” and
then other songs that she faintly recalled from
what she had thought were dreams but that had
 probably been from the radio stones, blaring
   their music interruptus late at night when
        released from the quasar’s sweep.
  And her hands and lower arms, she saw, were
  filled with pulsing color, and they released
                  sweet scent.
 Remembering the City, remembering pasts she
 had not previously known, she found herself
weeping, and did not know if it was from pain or
joy, and did not care, and danced, first as Verity,
  then as Rose, and then as someone new whom
she was just beginning to know. Her Shaker gift
  of dance expanded and searched out this new
 grammar of motion, past the dance-language of
 Bees, from whence it had come, and changed to
 something she could now only glimpse the edge
of. She spun out into it, learning through motion
                     its light.
   And the Territory unfolded around them as
  faint, clear stars appeared in the blue sky of
                      evening.
        Ohio. Indiana. Kentucky. Illinois.
      Mississippi. Arkansas. Louisiana. The
Territory would be there, bold and free and new.
                They would dance.



                   Eight
                Ghostly Blues

Verity opened her eyes not knowing at first why,
wrenched from a dream of heaven where she
was able to float invisibly around Blaze’s head
and tell him that, yes, heaven did exist, had
always existed, and always would exist. Like
Mother Ann she was everywhere and could see
his face brighten with the information and then
that world was gone and she was in her dark
cabin and Blaze’s strange music sounded from
very far away.
    She blinked again and her heart froze. She
could hear someone breathing, quite close to her
in the darkness, in the small room she had taken
  as her own. She wished for a weapon but she
        had none and what if it was Blaze.
 But Blaze would not hover over her, so spooky;
  he might kneel, he might kiss her; he would
            most definitely speak.
    With one hand she quietly searched for the
 lightstick she kept handy for when she had to
pee. Grasping it, she brought it round as hard as
       she could hoping to hit something.
    The stick did hit something and lit. Verity
                     gasped.
   In the instant before he turned and fled she
 thought she recognized— but no. It couldn’t be
                      him.
                Not Abe Durancy.
   Her throat constricted. She had vanquished
 him and his plan, surely. In Cincinnati, the day
she had ventured into the library to program the
    boats, that ruined, sorry version of him,
incompletely manifested by the City, had wrung
     her heart with pain. If this prowler was
      Abe—and she could barely believe the
possibility—why had he followed? To seek some
                 sort of revenge?
  She did the only thing she knew how to do in
                the face of fear.
  She jumped out of bed and tried to run down
                 the source.
  All was dark on the river, save for a few fires
   that burned on rafts and painted orange
  winking flames on the face of the Ohio. She
smelled faint woodsmoke and water. She heard
  nothing except the rush of the current. Her
heart was beating hard, though. A stranger had
               been in her room.
  She had no clue as to where he had gone. She
had heard no splash. He could have ducked into
  any number of rooms, slipped round a dozen
corners, climbed up or down stairways. Perhaps
he was studying, even now, his ruined reflection
             in a gently lit mirror.
     Could it have really been him? Could the
   outside world heal one as twisted as him,
  restore him to functioning health? Could he
    even survive? He was her blind spot, her
 nemesis, a dark side of her own self which she
 could never see. She had outmaneuvered him
   and the programs of his devising by only a
 hairbreadth. For a moment all her doubts and
    guilt about giving all of these people the
  Norleans Plague vanished. It had been right.
   She knew his sickness intimately, a sickness
  composed in equal parts of twisted love and
 guilt and the need for total control. The Rose
  part of her had anticipated all that and had
   provided the tools for her to help release
 Cincinnati from his and India’s bizarre rule.
  Perhaps there was no place for him there, any
                   longer.
   It was impossible to predict what he might
have in mind now. But maybe he’d been healed.
  If it really was him. Maybe he even had the
                 plague himself.
  She felt better out on the deck. The night was
 normal and quite beautiful. A breeze blew her
  white nightgown against her body, blew back
her hair, and she leaned against the dew-beaded
railing and wanted to gaze at the stars for a long
                       time.
  But she did not feel easy doing so. She turned
  and walked down the deck to Blaze’s room.
  But after a moment, she turned around. She
would not cower in Blaze’s room. If she did that
tonight, why not tomorrow night? And the next
 night after that? Besides, Durancy had some
               explaining to do!
  She thought of questions she would ask if she
 saw him again. How can you survive out here?
 Tell me about Rose. He couldn’t hurt her, out
    here, away from the City. He couldn’t.
   Light lay in a wedge on the deck ahead. She
  quickened her step, realizing that it was the
 salon where she had seen Jack and Lil playing
  pool. She fully intended to walk right in the
door, but stopped by the open window. Jack and
      Lil were shadows behind the curtain.
    “This is useless, Lil. Utterly useless. And
 dangerous. For us and them too. It’s really too
   late. I think my information was wrong.”
  Verity heard a sigh. “Oh, Jack, I hope not. It
       can’t be wrong. It just can’t be.”
   Verity stepped closer. Was Lil crying? That
              didn’t seem like her.
   “Well,” said Jack. “Here. It’ll be all right.
 Maybe I’m wrong. I mean right. To begin with.
 Oh, hell. I don’t know what I mean anymore.”
        Lil gave a muffled, sobbing laugh.
 “Anyway,” continued Jack, “what better way to
go, than riding down this glorious river on this
               wonderful boat?”
  Lil said, “It’s just that you’re probably right,
         Jack. And it’s so hard to bear.”
      Verity’s nose itched and she sneezed.
  “Who’s that?” called Jack. His chair scraped
 back. “Could be that madman… I told him to
               leave us alone.”
  Verity heard him walk across the room. “It’s
                me,” she said.
  Jack poked his head out the door and pushed
 it open a bit wider. “Come on in. How long you
               been out there?”
  “Not long,” she said. “I just got here. I can’t
                    sleep.”
  “You’ve come to the right place,” said Jack.
         “Know how to play poker?”
   Verity went inside. Lil’s face looked puffy.
  “What’s wrong?” She sat at the card table.
     “Oh, I’m just a silly old lady,” said Lil.
   “How old are you?” asked Verity, as Jack
rummaged around and muttered about how it
was hard to keep a deck of cards in this place.
“And what were you talking about just now?”
  Jack and Lil looked at each other. Lil sighed
and looked away. “Old enough to know better,”
she muttered. Verity was quite surprised when
Lil reached over and patted her hand. “Later,”
she said. “Don’t worry. You’ll know everything
            when the time is right.”
 “But I want to know now,” she said. “I demand
       that you tell me! I’m the captain.”
   Jack said “Aha!” and held up an unopened
 deck of cards. “We’ll try not to be too hard on
you, Verity. For the first half hour.” He winked
           and opened the package.



                 Nine
           Information Blues
The grizzled old man stood up and pounded the
table in the dining hall and proclaimed, “I was a
general in the Information Wars and I could
have told the whole lot of you to go to hell and
you would have spent the rest of your lives
hieing to the nearest volcano vent and jumping
into it! But they trapped me inside Cincinnati,
the enemy did! Helluva great strategy. Little did
they know I’d escape someday!”
    Homemade noodles, Blaze’s latest attempt to
 use up the flour, went flying as he brandished a
     forkful. Verity was glad Blaze wasn’t here;
 sometimes he played the piano while everyone
   ate. He would be pretty irritated. Verity was
  sitting at the general’s table, and continued to
  calmly eat; she was famished, and Blaze made
 excellent noodles as Sare had taught him well.
 Hers were always tough. These were tender and
    swimming in butter or something quite like
                       butter.
   To Verity’s surprise the woman sitting next to
her stood; her chair fell backward with a clatter.
   “There were no generals in the Information
  Wars! I won’t have you talking like that about
   what killed my father and my sisters! As if a
little twerp like you had anything to do with it!”
  Her face was red and twisted. Verity decided
that maybe she had better move if she wanted to
 finish her dinner; the woman picked up a glass
  and hurled it at the general and reached for a
             plate—Verity’s plate—
               “Hey!” said Verity.
 And in another second the air was full of flying
  food and plates. Verity ducked beneath the
                     table.
     “Idiots,” she heard hissed next to her. A
                  familiar voice.
                     “Jack?”
  He threw back the tablecloth so the light was
  better. In front of them was a lot of squished
food and broken plates and moving legs. “I don’t
  think I’m going to let them eat in the dining
   room again,” said Verity, and Jack laughed
                      heartily.
   “I thought things would go more smoothly
  now,” said Verity, complaint in her voice. “I
       thought they wouldn’t act like…”
  “Like children?” asked Jack. “They’re finally
  remembering, I think. They’ve settled down
 enough for that. It’s painful. There used to be
something called therapy. Well, a lot of things
     called therapy. But remembering, and
sometimes acting out the remembering, was a
part of some therapies. Bringing what was lost
back into the conscious mind so that it can be
  examined and learned from. Looks like this
   crowd runs along the acting-out theory.”
   “Well then, who did start the Information
  Wars?” shouted the general, whose quavery
     indignant voice was easy to recognize.
   “France! Seattle! China! Ireland! The moon
  colony! Cuba!” Through the din Verity could
  pick out just about any country or place she
                 could think of.
 “The pity of it is,” said Jack, “is that they’re all
                      correct.”
 “So tell me about it,” said Verity. But Jack was
  gone, his long legs, clad in perfectly pressed
          pants, lost in the sea of legs.
          “Russia! Anarchists! Fascists!”
  Then the old general shouted again. “Hey, sit
 down. I think we might have something here.”
     Verity’s glove blinked and a lit message
appeared—tune in next time—it said. Then that
fluttered and in its place, in stark letters, was a
                    question.
                        title?
   Verity watched, fascinated, and many words
  fluttered on her glove, some overlapping, in
various scripts, colors, and sizes, intermingled
with images tiny but laser sharp. Then it slowed
           to a few repeated words—
  queen city of the west, the information wars,
when bees play stride piano, humanity lost, the
rising storm, matter’s whirlwind—and flashed
 among them for long minutes. Bees, thought
 Verity, wondering why, since she had no idea
 what was going on or what the title applied to.
      Then it settled on smaller than sand.
 Hmph, thought Verity. An ugly title. who asked
 you? said the glove. Verity wished she had a
    glove for her glove and it went blank.
    The room buzzed with conversation. Verity
crept out from under the table, avoiding patches
of squished food. She pounded on the table. Just
                like the general.
    “Who’s going to clean up this mess?” she
                    yelled.
     She was completely ignored. “I said—”
  “We heard you,” said a nearby woman. “We’re
                    busy.”
   So much for control, thought Verity. It did
 seem to come in handy at times. She climbed
            down from the table.
 As she made her way through the small groups
    of people, she heard snatches of excited
 conversation—“Yes, I remember that. I was in
                    Duluth—”
    “But after that it was the worst. We didn’t
   know anything for two months. Horrible!”
 “My little girl—my little girl ran off and joined
 the Advance Squad. It was like the end of the
                 world for me.”
           “Remember when China—”
   Verity found a broom in a corner cupboard.
 She set it against the wall and started picking
 up the chairs and flipping them so their seats
were resting on the table. They were very light.
 No one paid any attention to her, though when
she got to work with the broom they moved out
of her way. Her back began to ache. It was now
    dark outside. Their chatting hour, Verity
supposed, though this had a different energy. A
different feel. It was as if something had broken
                        free.
   They drifted out on deck as if by one accord,
 and Verity heard them clumping up the stairs.
             But someone was left.
  It was Jack, working his way toward her from
  the other end of the dining room with a mop.
     It felt good to be doing something simple,
  something with a result that was easily seen.
 The chandeliers, turned up bright so she could
see everything, glittered above. She continued to
 work; after a while the floor was entirely swept
and the dishes were piled in huge tubs, awaiting
 the dishwashers. Verity held up her hand and
 touched the first joint of her index finger. The
   night’s schedule of chores appeared: blank.
     Jack stood next to her, looking over her
        shoulder. “I’ll do them,” he said.
  “But I don’t understand,” said Verity. “What
  happened? Everything was moving along so
     well; things finally seemed settled.”
 “It’s what’s known as a chaotic system, Verity,”
               Jack said, grinning.
          “Well, you can say that again.”
  “Chaos is actually an old theory which people
at one time felt was the underlying commonality
      of dynamical systems. Which this is.”
 “Oh?” asked Verity. She pulled out a chair and
   sat down. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”
     Jack dimmed the chandeliers and sat in
another chair. The river sloshed past outside the
  open windows, and Verity heard faint shouts
   now and then, presumably from the people
                    upstairs.
  “Good question,” said Jack. “Well, weather is a
    good example of a dynamical system. The
   emerging awareness of the people heading
    downriver is another example. The initial
spread of nanotechnology was an illustration of
Chaos Theory, and the subsequent patterns that
 have emerged worldwide are another. A visual
      display of the various surges is quite
 fractal-like. Now we are awash in information,
   yet it is largely unusable. We are crippled.”
  Verity hoped he could not see on her face the
thrill that ran through her body as she realized
that Jack knew what he was talking about. She
was suddenly dead sure that he had been there—
   And that he did not really want her to know
   this. He must be kind of tired; punchy. She
  decided to bypass “fractal” for the moment.
 “What did you do as a statistician, Jack?” she
asked, covering a pretend yawn with her hand.
 He gave her a sharp look. “I gambled,” he said,
   and his voice sounded sad and defeated. “I
gambled big. And I lost.” He started to sing, his
 rich voice filling the room and echoing off the
               far walls and ceiling:
       A gamblin man he has no home
       A gamblin man he’s bound to roam
    Verity saw Blaze standing in the doorway,
 attracted to Jack’s song, she knew, like a moth
to a flame. He listened to a verse, then sat down
 on the piano stool. It was too low, so he got up,
  gave it a spin, sat down again, and started to
    play, running an alternating bass up the
 underside of Jack’s lament, which Jack did not
  cease when joined. Instead he bent his head,
nodding as Blaze played the break while he went
  silent, then picked up on the other side and
   repeated the first verse. He was silent for a
moment after the music ended, and night noises
           suffused the cool, damp air.
   Jack went over and leaned on the windowsill.
   “Did you know that the Ohio River was the
 boundary between the slave states and the free
states? Why does that seem so recent to me? And
  all the years of growing up I never gave these
things a thought. It was ancient history. We had
important things to do. Yet whenever I’m here, I
  can’t help but think of ancestors of mine who
 risked their lives trying to get to this river, and
     cross on over into freedom. It’s like the
   river—and the land—are trying to make me
   remember. Like it’s embedded in them, like
 they’ve been waiting for me. This river—there’s
   something about this river.” He sighed. “Ah,
 well. We are all flawed, all changed. None of us
 are pure anymore. There are no old humans left
in the whole world. Oh, of course there are some.
  But they’re statistically invisible. No longer a
  factor. The rising tide of change is lapping an
  inch beneath our noses. And the moon is full.”
          His voice was low and musing.
  After a minute he turned and walked through
 the dining room, past her and Blaze, and onto
   the deck, with a slow gait, his hands in his
 pockets, the expression on his face unreadable
                in the dim light.
   Verity thought about what Jack had said. A
               chaotic system?
    Perhaps they had all been pushed into some
  new level, some critical imbalance, and there
  would later be a resolution. But all was now,
 actually, in flux. They were afloat and though
   they knew that they were heading west and
 when they got to Cairo they would head south,
that was about all they knew. They didn’t know
 who and what they really were anymore; they
 didn’t know what the world was like though it
seemed a bit more stable than Cincinnati. It was
  as if she had been to the future and now was
 back in a more familiar present but even that
was not true. Had the Flower Cities risen briefly
and then failed? Or had some become what they
had been meant to be? Somewhere in the world,
       had nanotechnology delivered on its
magnificent promises? Were humans capable of
 using it as it should be used? Who existed who
   could decide? The Durancys of the world?
   She looked down at her gloves, which were
swarming with words and tiny images. They had
          never told her who she was.
   Because she was nobody. She was only #47, a
   person created for a particular reason. She
   looked like Rose. Rose was in her somehow,
 from when she had been an integral part of the
     City. Now she was faced with the task of
 creating herself. She had nothing in particular
to remember. She knew all about Rose’s life and
death, had remembered them in Cincinnati, and
  her own creation too, and how a large Bee had
  dropped her outside Cincinnati, fifteen years
                      ago…
  She reached up involuntarily with one hand, to
 touch the nub behind her right ear, but caught
                herself in time.
   The memories in them were not her, either.
  She felt that, at all costs, she just wanted to
keep Rose away. Build a barrier behind which to
      hide. No matter that Rose might have
  information that might come in handy. She’d
 been to the very bottom of that particular well;
had sprung from the horrible suffocating depths
   with all the strength she could muster and
 barely made it to the top, gasping for her very
                       life.
   Let Rose sleep. Let whoever Verity might be
                  learn to live.
   Blaze put his hands back on the piano keys
and began to play Jack’s song again, with a slow
  solid rhythm. “Think you can dance to this,
  Verity?” he asked without turning around.
   “It’s strange—I don’t feel much like dancing
 today.” It was as if her gift had been too fragile
for real life, had been overwhelmed. Or maybe it
was hiding. Continuing the transmutation begun
  after she donned the gloves. She didn’t really
              care. She was bone-tired.
  She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes,
 and listened to Blaze play, feeling deep joy in
         the pure fact of his aliveness.
              It was enough for now.
     She walked back to her cabin in the dark.
  Blaze would play all night and her heart was
 sore and her body tired. Fires flickered on the
   rafts and set tongues of gold dancing on the
 black river. The night was warm, touched by a
  slight breeze. Verity yawned and walked into
 her cabin; looked in a drawer and pulled out a
                  nightgown.
                     “Rose.”
   It was a whisper from the door. She turned
  and saw Durancy standing there, shadowed.
  “Rose. You must help me, my love. I’m sorry.
Sorry about everything. Just—please listen. I’m
 starting to remember—damn memory! Damn
memory! Memory is what I’ve tried to escape for
                  so long.”
   His voice was harsh and ragged. The light in
   the bedroom was dim. just one small wall
sconce. But his bleak look shook her to the core.
  Somehow it called forth in her that whom he
                sought. Rose.
   The heart of Rose awakened. It was Rose who
allowed him to approach her. Rose who kept her
 steady, Rose who reached out to touch the side
  of his face, and the tears which crept silently
 down her face were those of the woman whose
  memories—the body memory that had grown
    her, and the memories she had found and
absorbed while in Cincinnati, giving her the key
to freeing it—composed a part of her she wanted
            and needed to leave behind.
     It was no use. With Abe here, it was too
      damned hard to keep Rose sleeping.
    “Abe.” she whispered, and embraced him.
   He wept aloud, in harsh, ragged sobs that
 shook him. He was skeleton-thin. “Thank you.
         Rose, thank you. Thank you.”
   It was the smell which brought her back to
 herself. Sweet and sickly, almost as if he were
 decaying. Verity, not Rose, pushed him back,
                 though gently.
 “Don’t,” he begged, clinging to her. “Just let me
   hold you. Come back to Cincinnati with me.
   I’ve… come to my senses. We can just—live
there.” A brief laugh shook his body slightly. “I
don’t even know what that means anymore. But
 we can try, you and I. I can’t survive out here.
      The world has changed far beyond my
   imagining. Or maybe it was I who changed.
Whatever. I need you to help me back. Oh, Rose.
  I’m so thankful that you’re listening to me at
                      last.”
 Verity stepped back then, and left him clinging
    to the bed rail with one hand, his eyes
    entreating, one hand reaching for her.
 “Listen to me,” she said gently, but very firmly,
talking slowly and clearly as if to a child though
 her voice threatened to catch in her throat. “I
          am not Rose. I don’t love you.”
 “I don’t believe you.” he said, and the voice was
the sweet, entreating voice of a thousand cocoon
     dreams, all the memories of Rose and of
Cincinnati and of Abe Durancy himself, echoing
             within her, pulling her.
   His eyes held hers for a long time, and she
 could not look away. She looked into timeless
  agony, and felt Rose awakening even more
                    fully—
   She knew then that she had to be strong and
  even cruel to save all that she had gained, to
  make everything that she had been through
              mean anything at all.
     “Go away and leave me alone,” she said.
 “Please. As Rose and as Verity, I ask you to go.
There can be nothing between us, ever again. I’m
             sorry. I’m sorry, Abe.”
    The look on his face made her long to fly to
 him and say that it wasn’t so, that she lied, that
she would help him back to whatever Cincinnati
   had become, and help restore him, help him
      become all that he might have been—
           But he spoke. And saved her.
      “I’m sorry too. Verity,” he said, slowly,
thoughtfully. “I love you, and I love Rose within
 you. Never before has one of you been so able,
so… so like a bolt of lightning. So very real. I… I
               see that I must go.”
     But still, he lingered, and looked at her
 searchingly. She could not turn her eyes from
            his. Her heart beat hard.
  “It’s rather amazing.” he said gently. “I think
that even in this pitiful state I have the power to
  ruin you. That’s something, isn’t it? Funny!
Funny what it’s all come to.” He reached for her
        with both arms. “A kiss, then?”
    She almost took a step toward him, but he
turned suddenly with a cry and rushed from the
     room, slamming the door behind him.
  She forced herself to wait. She held on to the
 bed rail until her knuckles turned white. She
did not think, tried not to remember or even to
be. She wished that it were light, and that there
were something blue to help her, but there was
nothing, nothing but bleak darkness, the loss of
 all that had ever been for her and for him and
          for their long-ago Flower City.
    Countless images flew through her mind, of
  shaded streets and old houses, of India and of
 those later heady days of planning what would
  be the pinnacle of humans, the Flower Cities,
built on unavoidable catastrophe. How glorious,
   how golden it all was to have been. Her hand
  moved of its own accord. She could press the
 memory sponges, have more of this happiness,
              pure, sweet, intense…
 Then she heard the creak of the boat, and some
   rafters began to sing far off in the night.
          Caimineero, down to Cairo…
  As the plague had rescued them, so it rescued
                      her.
   She wiped her face roughly with her palms
 and took a deep breath and walked across the
          room and opened the door.
   He was gone. The moon was out. She stood at
 the railing and gazed at it for a long, long time.


                      3
             Blaze Gets the Blues



                    Ten
             Soul Change Blues

When Stewball and I got off the Queen that
morning I wasn’t too happy about leaving Verity
for so long but it was the best thing to do in the
circumstances. She was terribly concerned
about the next stretch downriver.
   We’d been lucky so far concerning dams. Way
    back when, it seems, there were numerous
    locking dams on the Ohio. The quakes had
      demolished quite a few of them, leaving
 dangerous breaches through which the current
 sped; we’d rushed through several with inches
to spare, always a harrowing ride. Especially for
       Verity. She was getting pretty good, I
thought—taking us between the massive piers of
     several abandoned railroad and highway
  bridges, metal filigree affairs like the one we
 used to cross to get to Miamisburg, but a whole
   lot longer. Dam Number Forty-two had been
  wrenched up from the riverbed so that all its
  metal innards were exposed. And I think that
the river was in a whole new bed in some places.
Jack, despite his brag, hadn’t been a whole lot of
 help. But he too thought that between here and
  Cairo we needed caution. So I was the scout. I
 did not know how much that day would change
                     my life.
   It seemed a normal early-summer morning,
  alive with scent and color. Stewball pranced
 eagerly down the gangplank. The wharf was so
 big it dwarfed the Queen; ten riverboats could
 have docked there. At one time, it seemed, the
   Ohio had been a major shipping highway.
   Now, the blacktopped landing was pierced by
 a forest of spindly trees that shook with every
   gust of wind. The gangway was cranked up
  behind me; I’d advised Verity to anchor out in
 the river. There was no telling who might be in
    these parts, and the only people remotely
capable of defending the boat were Jack and Lil.
   I didn’t know about those two. Sometimes I
thought they might throw us off and go on ahead
 with the boat. I regretted having agreed to take
them on, but they probably would have managed
               to go with us anyway.
 A huge metal warehouse filled one side of the
wharf. It was pocked with rusted holes and the
doors rested crumpled like huge pieces of stiff
          foil on the concrete. Inside were
  shadows—broken crates and the like— dotted
  by pinpoints of sunlight. The wind blew my big
straw hat right off my head. I grabbed at it but it
    was gone, flying up above the trees where it
 lodged in a tall oak. That was unfortunate and I
thought I’d better find another soon. I’d realized
the previous day that the sun was really getting
 to me. Seemed as if it was something new every
  day. I’d described what had happened to me to
 Jack after we sang that night. He just shrugged
   and told me those sheets I’d been wrapped in
         were illegal, and we both laughed.
     I was chilled, when I reached the end of the
 wharf, to see a long, low building emblazed with
   stylized flowers of concrete. It was in perfect
 repair. It was lovely, too, with a speedy train in
 relief beneath the flowers. I could not tell if the
NAMS sign over the door was glowing on its own
   or because of the sunlight, but I certainly did
not want to run into any passengers who may be
  debarking into this wasteland, having entered
its depths who knows where. I saw no movement
  through its unshattered windows, though, and
 judged it long-unused, particularly considering
 the condition of the wharf. I saw no tracks, but
  most of the NAMS network was underground.
   Apparently the network had been extremely
     broad, and tendrils of it had reached into
     practically every block in the olden days.
Despite my romantic love of trains and the lost
     world they represented to me, I felt
               apprehensive.
    As I urged Stewball to a trot, I began to
wonder what I was doing, where I thought I was
                   going.
   Not just this morning. In general. I was just
     following Verity, but my skin was not
  nan-golden, though my brain was somewhat
warped. She had snatched me back from death,
 but what for? It is hard to think of a new life, I
discovered, when the old one is gone. Very hard.
 Still, I was determined to enjoy my day out. A
 huge solar road veered off to the north, and I
    was glad that it was going in the wrong
 direction for me. The larger the road and the
better repair it was in, the more likely I would
have to decide whether or not to use my rifle.
 Funny how quickly I’d been converted to the
idea of using a gun as a weapon against other
     humans, rather than for killing food.
   I took an exit that curved round and joined a
  small road winding along the river. The road
 looked very old, and trees arched over it, four
 lanes divided by a low railing of some smooth
                     material.
    I remembered dimly my brief sojourn in
 Cincinnati, but most of it had been agony and
terror and now I had to confront the fact that I
was out abroad, in the country. And that all the
things the Shakers had tried to protect me from
could be anywhere around me, taking any form.
This was not a comforting thought. Miamisburg,
Franklin, even Dayton— these had been known
 territories. But even a few miles could make a
    big difference now, with nan and all its
         workings abroad in the world.
  I felt my thoughts scatter as they so often do,
     now. Only after singing, or playing, am I
   concentrated and able to think of myself as
  Blaze. It would sound outlandish to someone
  like Russ to try to imagine not being able to
think of himself as Russ, but when I go too long
without playing music it is as if the air is a hard
  outline around me, and everything is distant
 and meaningless, and I look into even Verity’s
eyes and feel nothing, nothing at all. Maybe this
is change, or maybe it is nan, something I must
   fight, the aftereffects of death, or whatever
 happened to me while I was in the Cincinnati
 train station. Verity said that the cell I was in
 was activated, and that I was supposed to get
 some sort of information from it, some sort of
   briefing. But that process was interrupted,
midway from death to life. I suppose I should be
glad of that, somewhat, since had it finished its
 course I might not even have remembered my
name or any of my past, but been filled with the
  personality of a completely different person.
 I shuddered at that thought, and bid Stewball
  trot toward a rise, and sunlight, despite its
power to scatter me, for it could also warm me.
Take me from the ravaging thoughts of death.
     There were buildings along the road now
  which spoke of a larger town than I had ever
 seen, barring Dayton and Cincinnati. My heart
  was beating harder, as I came to a rise, for all
the buildings looked empty yet I felt I was being
watched. I tried to think how it must have been,
 before plagues swept the country. It must have
   been like Cincinnati, teeming with people,
   everywhere. But that was hard to imagine.
  I pulled my rifle from behind me and rested it
  on my saddle, and touched the gun inside my
jacket, which Lil had slipped me. I realized that
 the buildings lining the road were all stores, of
course, but from a more recent era, I supposed,
 than the old downtown of Dayton, or the small
   forgotten towns around Miamisburg, itself
 chiefly built in the early 1900s. A narrow track
    ran above the road and I saw elevators at
regular intervals, small shafts for passengers to
  descend. They must have been lazy; the track
     was only about ten feet off the ground.
   When we reached the crest of the hill I was
glad to see that a large cobblestone square filled
 one side and we were able to get out to the end
 of it and see the river. The side of it was lined
  with small empty shops, in the old-fashioned
               style I was used to.
  I got out my binoculars and followed the river
 along, closely, as best I was able though it was
hidden here and there by hills. I was increasing
the power with one finger and rather absorbed
 in my job when someone tapped me on the leg
     and I almost fell off the horse in fright.
    My hand went to my gun but the voice of an
 old man said, “Wait, wait, son, no harm meant,”
and with the gun in my hand I looked down and
saw him standing there, rather reminding me of
 Russ with his eyes, though he was tall and thin
  where Russ had been short and stocky. It was
  kind of strange though, because his voice was
old and quavery, the way his eyes looked old, yet
  his face was no older than mine. He had long
    blond hair hanging curly down below his
    shoulders, and a long, curly blond beard.
 “What are you doing here?” he asked, forcing
his voice past the quaver. He smiled. “I surely
wouldn’t mind some company, if you have some
  time to spare. How about some breakfast?”
    I was not about to get off my horse. “I don’t
 know,” I said. “I’m kind of in a hurry. I have to
 get moving.” I blinked against the sunlight and
longed to move into the shade. The river’s glare,
though half a mile away, scattered my thoughts
   like a mirror scatters light, and I guess my
                  caution with it.
 “Well, I don’t blame you,” he said. He gestured.
  “I live right over here, though, in that old
                   bookstore.”
 “You live in it?” I asked, glancing around at all
         the deserted houses. “Why?”
    “It’s mine,” he said. “That’s why. Come on
                      over.”
      The possibility of books drew me. I let
Stewball amble behind him and briefly thought
      of all the information in the Dayton
  Library—the learning cocoons that I, by then
  plague-driven, had crawled into; the amazing
   ways in which information was stored and
transmitted. I supposed, or hoped, that much of
   what I had learned was still with me, even
 though I couldn’t remember it. Maybe it would
        come back someday. Maybe not.
    We were in a square paved by cobblestones,
   about two hundred feet across, framed with
   many two- and three-story shops. I had seen
   several generations of merchandising in the
area around Shaker Hill. Russ said that when he
      was young the rage was for all kinds of
merchandise in one big spot, but that with nan a
      lot of that vanished, went back to small
 specialty stores or even shops that would grow
 anything you ordered with assemblers. I wasn’t
  sure if what I was seeing was from times quite
early or quite late. The cobblestones were an old
     touch but I had learned from Russ about
nostalgia for old things and old ways. So it was
                   hard to tell.
     I saw a sign for a Pastry Shoppe and
remembered Evangeline’s pies. “Anything to eat
        in there?” I asked the old man.
  “No,” said the man. “But I have plenty to eat.
   Get down off that high horse and come on
inside, young man. I just baked some bread this
 morning and I have some nice hot coffee to go
                   with it.”
   The sunlight was scattering me and I said yes.
 I was not the best person to send on a scouting
 mission but I suppose I was better than any of
  the rafters. It looked to me as if they’d forget
    what they were supposed to do and never
remember. I think that the only place that they
 could function at all was on the river, just like
    the only way I could function was through
music. I hadn’t forgotten what I was supposed to
         do. But I guess I was distracted.
     I had one last thought of Verity waiting
anxiously on the Queen and trying to hold back
those idiotic rafters; then I drooped Stewball’s
  reins over a metal post with a blank digital
readout panel and a red arrow and the old man
  gestured toward the door of his shop, which
                   stood open.
  “My name’s Moore,” he said, pointing up at the
sign above our heads, which said moore’s books
and, below that in smaller letters, “Moore Books
     Than You’ll Ever Have Time To Read.”
       He smiled briefly. “Unfortunately, or
fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the
    second part is no longer necessarily true.”
      Through the open windows of the store a
    strange, exciting scent struck me as I stood
     there, equal parts fresh bread and dry old
 books. Thousands of them. I took one step, and
 then another, and soon I was inside, sitting at a
small table with a red-checkered tablecloth, and
   craning my neck as I looked around at all the
    books. It looked as if this room, and those I
glimpsed beyond, had a strange upward velocity
 because of all the vertical books. Moore walked
     through great stacks of them holding two
 steaming mugs of coffee. He pushed honey and
   cream at me and left, returning with a loaf of
      new bread cut raggedly, a plate of sliced
sausage, and some sweet mustard. He beamed as
  I ate and I forgot my fear, though I did become
   much less scattered inside away from the sun
   and decided to eat quickly, remembering my
                      mission.
   “Are there any locks or falls below here?” I
                    asked.
       He looked puzzled. “Locks or falls?”
    “Yes,” I said, eating my third helping of
sausage and bread. “We are heading downriver
                      and—”
   He jumped up so fast he knocked a great pile
of books over. That raised some dust. “Your skin
       looks normal—” he said accusingly.
      It was my turn to be puzzled. Then I
   understood. “Oh. I don’t have the plague.”
  “I can’t think of any other reason you would
  want to head down the Ohio River,” he said.
   “Sit down,” I said. “Have some more coffee.
 Relax. I can think of a lot of reasons. Don’t you
           want to find out—to know—”
  He interrupted me as he sat again. “I do want
    to find out. And I can. In these books is
   everything I need to know. Everything.”
     “Oh,” I said doubtfully. Although they were
    filled with many facts and stories, I did not
  think that if I had as much time as he thought
 now existed that I would be satisfied with just
  sitting here and reading them. They could not
 tell me what was going to happen to Verity and
 myself. They could not tell me the story of Jack
   and Lil, or what they were hiding. No matter
  what glorious tales or revelatory information
 those books held, they did not hold the story of
 my life, and if I sat reading them for a hundred
years I would not have a life worth telling about.
  “Do you have any books that can tell me about
             the blues?” I asked.
    “Hmph,” he said. “And what if I did. What
      would you use to pay me for them?”
  “What is it you want and need?” I asked. “Do
 you want food? How do you get your food?” I
had only chicken medium to offer, though, and I
was pretty sure no sane person would consider
                  it valuable.
    “The rural network,” he said. “They come
 about once a month and bring me what I need.
  Wheat and corn, ground. Corn oil. Fruits and
vegetables, lots in the summer and I can and dry
 them to put by for the winter. I keep chickens
 and a cow in a field a few blocks over in what
    used to be a park. A woman lives over in
Shumacker’s Department Store makes sausage.
                    I get along.”
   Apparently the rural network didn’t reach as
far as Miamisburg. Or maybe the earlier Shakers
 had not trusted their goods and drove them off.
         “How do you pay for it?” I asked.
    “I loan books,” he said. “I don’t sell them. I
     tried it, long ago, but it always made me
 unhappy to let them go forever. I hear tell that
in Cairo there are as many books as a body could
  want, and sometimes I feel like going there to
 see. To bask in them. And that they have all the
  other things—the book environments and all,
  though I never took to them. But there are too
          many fearful things in Cairo.”
   “Like what?” I asked, aware that I had eaten
close to half of his loaf of bread and almost all of
 the sausage, so I tried to stop, but he motioned
                       me on.
   “Eat,” he said. “There’s more where that come
 from. Well, for one thing, NAMS is still working
  in Cairo, you see. So they have a link with Los
    Angeles. Made Cairo grow, hear tell, for the
     town had dwindled to nothing more than a
   grease spot at the turn of the century. A long
time ago they was sending doctors out from Los
  Angeles. Kind of like social workers. Supposed
 to inoculate us from the plague. One was killed
  here. I reckon they was just trying to do some
 good. But people felt as if they were part of the
  problem. I was just a boy, but I remember her.
   The doc. She seemed like an old lady but she
   probably wasn’t. I went to her house one day
    though my pa said I shouldn’t ever speak to
    her—my ma was dead—and I had a plate of
cookies. She watched me eat every one and said
 good boy. I was only about five. I think she was
  getting desperate at that point, because it was
      against the law to administer any sort of
  nanobiology without permission. I don’t know
exactly what she gave me, but I know I’ve never
  gotten a plague. And I’m well over eighty but I
   sure don’t bear any resemblance to pa at this
  age. By then he’d had umpteen operations and
then that last arthritis cure that I think did him
in. It was experimental and not even licensed by
the nan board but he had to go and do it. I guess
   this is as good as it’s going to get for me. My
voice has aged but the rest of me seems all right.
It’s a genetic thing and from what I’ve been able
    to read you can do things on a genetic level
   which are very discreet. But sometimes one
  thing leads to another and that other thing is
   something you don’t want at all. So you see I
would like to go to Cairo, someday, and get more
  books, after I’ve read all of these. But traders
bring me books now and then—I’m known as the
  book man—so I haven’t been forced into that
                     quite yet.”
    My heart beat harder at his mention of the
  trains. NAMS—I feared NAMS because of one
   incident, all connected to my waking in the
 Cincinnati station that horrible day… not even
  able to remember my own name. But it hit me
  with a jolt why Verity had left me there. How
     often I’d talked about the beauty of the
  Cincinnati station, which I’d seen in books. I
    blinked back tears for just a second then.
   Imagine her doing that for me! Imagine her
taking a dead young man and a dead dog on that
              journey to Cincinnati…
 And the glory of those trains! The fact that one
 was even running, connecting Cairo with Los
Angeles. That must mean… that had to mean…
     “So Los Angeles is still there?” I asked.
   Moore shrugged. “Far as I know. The blues.
    The blues.” He got up and wandered into
another room while I polished off the rest of his
  food and coffee. I had to get going. I felt more
focused now. I hummed a few bars of music, and
hummed some more. I looked around, hoping he
   had a piano, but Moore appeared devoid of
musical impulse. I pulled out my harmonica and
 started to play and walk through his rooms of
                      books.
               One caught my eye.
          “Can I have this one?” I asked.
  He gave a little scowl but nodded shortly. “It’s
 not as if I haven’t read it,” he said gruffly. He
   had about four books in his arms. I looked
 around and saw a strange order to his books,
  but it was more like an order of subject than
 author. “And here,” he said, shoving the other
                   books at me.
 I was overwhelmed. “Moore, I can’t pay you. I’d
like to, but I don’t have anything. Nothing that
                   you’d want.”
   “That’s okay,” he said shortly. “Just return
them if you’re ever back this way. And bring me
 more. Don’t matter what. If you want to know
about the blues, there’s a woman who lives down
  on Front Street. Four-oh-eight. She knows a
                  thing or two.”
        A thing or two! Holy Mother Ann.
  The day was even more sunny when I stepped
     out the door, a brilliant, powerful day.
     I stuffed the four books about the blues into
     my saddlebag without looking at them and
 thanked him profusely. I suspected that all the
  information I’d ever need about anything was
  right there in the riverboat, but I didn’t know
   how to get to it and hadn’t really had time to
  find out. I didn’t have the “receptors” that the
    others were always talking about and didn’t
    want them anyway, and it was the receptors
   that allowed them to access information. So I
    couldn’t wait to get back and take a look at
those books. But now I had to find out what lay
downriver, and half the morning was gone. They
were probably going nuts on the rafts. Much as I
    wanted to talk to the blues woman, I figured
 that would have to wait. Maybe I could double
back after I’d given them the scout information.
    I played some tunes on my harmonica as
 Stewball picked his way down the hill toward
 the river and as luck would have it we found
           ourselves on Front Street.
      Front Street was about five miles long, or
  more. It seemed to stretch forever, broad and
  high on the edge of the bank. I could hear the
river beyond the trees but not the roar of rapids
 or falls. I couldn’t see it, though. I decided that
 it might be a good idea to get to higher ground.
     It looked as if there was a bluff up ahead,
    probably out of town, several miles away. I
  almost hoped that I could see some locks from
there, and relieve Verity’s tension. She’d showed
   me maps where the old Ohio had been tamed
with a series of dams and locks. It was broken or
age-ruined dams we had to fear, with no chance
  that we could portage around them. We’d have
 to abandon the riverboat and go ahead on rafts.
   So far we’d been lucky. But her maps showed
the Loveland Dam somewhere not far from here,
 unless it had been ruined by the earthquake. It
     could be that some of the dams repaired
             themselves. Who knows?
     I saw a few people, but they drew back into
 shadows when they saw me coming, which was
fine with me. I hurried Stewball down the street,
  which eventually took a landward swing when
 most of the buildings had been passed. Far out
in a hollow of land I saw the suburbs, thousands
    of identical houses so tiny in the distance I
   could not really see their disrepair, but only
  their creepy sameness as they marched up the
   low hills like rows of genetically engineered
                        corn.
   I had to negotiate a maze of curved ramps to
  get back down to the river but eventually we
 were down there on a small forgotten highway
 full of holes which rambled along the river and
looked as if it might head out toward the bluff. I
  passed a huge sign which told of Alma’s Jook
  House up ahead, showing a picture of dancing
 silhouettes, and at the bottom in smaller print
  which appeared and disappeared at regular
intervals, “Where the Southern Cross the Dog.”
      We emerged from the trees and passed
through some fields where corn and wheat grew,
 though I saw no one cultivating it. The sun was
    bright and in self-defense I pulled out my
 harmonica and we proceeded on toward a large
stone building. Soon I saw that it was none other
 than the Jook House itself and what’s more, the
address on the front was the same as Moore had
 told me. Another small road crossed what used
  to be Front Street and headed north. I looked
more closely at where the roads crossed and saw
 vestiges of an old railroad like the one that had
  run along the river in Miamisburg: worn rails,
  and a crumbled crosstie or two. I realized that
   Alma’s had been a train station at one time.
 I pulled Stewball to a halt and let him yank up
          grass and stared at the sign.
 Alma May Johnson, it said, below where it said
 Jook House. Dr. of Philosophy. Musicologist.
           Transporter of Souls.
 Next to that were a few notes of music and the
worst part of it was that the thick wooden door
   swung open and the blues poured forth.
   It wasn’t just any blues. It was deep, sweet
blues; painful blues; low-down blues that made
  me shiver, caused tears to well in my eyes.
   “I been ’buked and I been scorned,” sang a
   woman inside, in a husky, mournful voice.
   I had never been ’buked and scorned, yet the
    music made me feel as if I had, as if all of
 history’s injustices were heaped upon me, one
  single human who had to bear the weight of
 them all. And it was too much, just too much,
except that the hairbreadth of the blues rescued
  me, kept my head above water, kept me from
  drowning in self-pity by helping me to laugh.
The blues turned darkness to pure sound, sound
that could cut listeners to slivers with its sharp
                     honesty.
     “Well don’t waste time sittin’ around out
  there,” said the woman’s voice. “Come on in,
show’s free. Leastwise, unless you got something
 I value. Which you may well have, young man.
   You may well have.” Then I saw the woman
standing in the door, just barely, because it was
  dark inside, but I did see her look me up and
 down and I did see her smile. “Bring that harp
in here and let me hear you play. Put that horse
          in the back there, it’s fenced.”
 I briefly checked the fence and slid the saddle
  off and hung it over the fence along with the
 bridle. Stewball trotted off, whinnying, and I
stepped up on the broad cool porch of the Jook
     House with my harmonica in my hand.
  “Leave your weapons at the door,” said the
 woman and I Hesitated for a moment but the
    music poured out almost drowning her
   command: that odd, syncopated guitar, a
harmonica line that made my hand tremble with
  the desire to hold mine up to my mouth and
imitate it, like a dog who wants to howl with the
                       pack.
  I set Lil’s pistol next to the rifle and stepped
                       inside.
  A tall, thin black man sat on a beat-up stool on
   a low stage, playing the hell out of a piano.
  Another held a guitar, and a third stood at a
  microphone playing the harmonica, his hand
 wrapped around it and flapping outward once
in a while and I watched carefully to try and see
exactly what he did. I could tell right away that
 his harmonica was in a different key from mine
     or else I would have tried to play along.
   The woman, with a mass of dark hair which
 hung down in long curls in a way I found quite
 enchanting, sat in a big yellow easy chair right
next to the stage. She looked small and helpless
 in the large chair. I wondered about her being
   way out here in the country all alone and a
stranger walking in the door but she didn’t seem
                  a bit worried.
  “Want a beer?” she yelled out over the music.
  “Help yourself.” She gestured toward a long
   high counter but I didn’t see any beer. She
watched me for a moment, said “Men!” and stood
 up. She pulled on a lever behind the bar and
beer came out into a glass she’d grabbed from a
   shiny row; silly me. She handed it to me.
                   “Hungry?”
  I didn’t think I’d be hungry for quite a while. I
shook my head. I turned to stare at the men but
 suddenly they and the music vanished and the
       room was filled with quiet sunlight.
    It took me a good long minute of gaping to
   realize that they had been ghosts. “How?” I
                 croaked. “Who?”
     Alma—I assumed her to be Alma—laughed.
      “Honey, that was Lightnin’ Hopkins and
Sunnyland Slim, back in 1986 in Chicago in some
little club. Here, I can tell you the exact date and
   place—I can see you’re interested. Not many
                     people are.”
  She wasn’t as tiny as she’d seemed in the chair,
  but she was not quite as tall as me and awful
   slim, and beautiful in her movements. She
  walked across the room and bent over a little
 white box and touched it a few times. “There,”
she said. “It was down on North State Street. Of
 course they didn’t have holo recorders then, at
 least I don’t think they did, not for every little
 thing. This was reconstructed, anyway, it says
       right here, from a television show.”
  “Play it again,” I begged, utterly forgetting the
   boat, the dizzy rafters (but who was I to call
 someone else dizzy, eh?), and Mother Ann help
 me, even Verity, by now no doubt fuming and
         worrying in equal measure.
 She just laughed. “Why you want to hear that
 one again? I’ve got thousands here. Memphis
           Minnie. How ’bout her?”
   Memphis Minnie played the guitar and it was
  in B-flat and so I listened for a few bars then
 jumped in. Alma watched me from the bar, her
  face tilted, her eyes occasionally closed; then
toward the end of the piece she started singing
along, in a deep, rich voice that made me shiver.
     “You’re not bad,” she said, when Minnie
             vanished. “Not bad at all.”
   The Jook House erupted in sound and motion.
  It was filled, suddenly, with maybe forty black
     people, all dressed in strange clothing, all
   dancing, laughing, drinking, eating, having a
   time while a heavy woman stood on the stage
      this time and sang a steady, low, almost
     growling blues about some awful man she
wanted to poison. A necklace of gold coins hung
 from her neck. She was majestic, powerful, like
       something out of a fable. There was no
   microphone, and a piano player accompanied
her with a rough, tinkling tune. Her voice was so
 loud that it shook the whole Jook House; made
     the boards vibrate under my feet though I
 realized that Alma had control over the sound.
   “Bessie, Bessie Smith,” yelled Alma into my
ear, and pulled me out onto the floor. I finished
  my beer and set the glass down on that long
           shiny table and danced.
  I’d never danced this way. Verity’s precise and
careful dances flashed through me for a second,
   high and golden then gone, replaced by this
    sweaty, bending, shouting movement that
 surged through me. Bessie Smith would shout
    and everybody on the floor would shout in
   return, including me. I grabbed Alma by the
 waist and swung her around and she laughed,
her head thrown back, and came back and held
me tight for a second before whirling out again.
    We must have danced for almost an hour.
Sometimes we stopped to drink a beer. Her eyes
 were eager and bright. Once she kissed me on
  the lips then swirled away like nothing had
happened, just dancing like mad and holding on
tight then letting loose only to grab me again as
   if she couldn’t get enough of touching me.
 Finally, panting, she sprawled into the yellow
 chair and snapped her fingers a few times and
 the sound stopped and the stage was empty. I
   was dripping with sweat. “I’ve got to go,” I
                     gasped.
  She caught her breath quickly and looked at
   me with her dark eyes. “I don’t see why. I
     haven’t had this much fun in ages.”
  “Where did you get all those ghosts?” I asked.
 “Didn’t you see the sign? I’m a music professor.
    I’m a Professor of the Blues at the Chicago
  Interactive University. Or at least I was,” she
 said, standing up and putting her hands in her
pockets and walking around the room with long,
slow steps, like she was thinking hard. “At least
  I was,” she said, sounding lost and alone. Her
  whole way of talking had changed, suddenly.
She took another slow sip of beer. “I was born in
Osaka. That’s in Japan. My mother was working
  on some sort of molecular-engineering project
  that went haywire. I was an American citizen,
  but I grew up speaking Japanese too, at least
  until I was fifteen and the bottom fell out. Or
 grew out.” She laughed, but I didn’t understand
 why. “I first heard the blues in a club in Tokyo,
 when I was trying to escape. All the Americans
  were being impounded because they might be
 infected. I couldn’t exactly blend in over there.
  But some friends took me to this club, and we
fixed it up so that I was part of the act, and I got
    away. And after that I discovered my own
         culture. It felt like coming home.
  “Look!” she said, whirling suddenly. “I can tell
  you like the blues. I’ve got a special treat for
                       you.”
   And then a tall black man wearing a suit and
tie was up there on stage, sitting in one of those
   beat-up chairs. He held a battered guitar. A
cigarette dangled from one corner of his mouth.
     His voice was filled with strange clicks.
 He sang something about hellhounds being on
    his trail. I watched, utterly spellbound,
  forgetting everything, then. “Who is that?”
  “Robert Johnson,” she said. “It’s all made up,
     of course, extrapolated from just one
 photograph. Except the voice. That’s real. I’ve
         kept the unenhanced version.”
            “What else do you have?”
              And she played more.
  And then the strangest thing happened. As I
  watched, he was joined by an older, heavy
  woman who belted out the blues in strange
 harmony, mixing with his voice as if she were
                   his soul.
  Her face was distorted as she sang, from low in
  her chest like Bessie had done. Her white and
   gray hair frizzed out around her head like a
  cloud of lightning. I felt like she and I would
 both explode from the power of her song. I was
feeling more and more and more like myself, but
   different, like a new me was emerging like a
 moth from a chrysalis, and it hurt, it was like a
 dam bursting and I looked at Alma and saw she
  was crying and I looked again back and forth
              and I said, “She’s… you!”
   “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her tears and
 trying to smile. “I’m sorry. Yes, that was me.
Alma May Johnson. I had a great show. First it
was just me, myself. And it was good. I had fans
   all over the world, even in Europe and Asia.
  Before things got bad, I went on tours but live
   touring was pretty dangerous then so I went
 virtual. And then I had this idea of teaming up
with all the people I loved. I think the blues was
   so big all over the world because it spoke to
  people, spoke to their hearts about what they
  were going through. It was like you were in or
 out of the Flower Cities, they were the citadels,
the pinnacles, but most everyone was out, and it
 was a frightful time, a scary time, and the blues
  were something that everyone could feel. Did
feel. I didn’t need the money by then. I did it like
  a missionary might. I did it to help. And even
 after the Surge, I landed on my feet, and I knew
so much, I had several degrees in music, not just
  blues of course, and so I thought what better
   thing was there to do than teach? So all this
music won’t be lost. Disseminate it. Give it away.
Give the heart and soul of my people away. Some
    would argue about that, sure. Some say the
   blues are too raw, too primitive. But it’s folk
 music, the folk music of people who were slaves
  and after that when they were supposed to be
free, things just got worse, and there was no law
    for them, only for whites, and there was no
    money for them, and families still couldn’t
  afford to be together, and all this music came
      out of their suffering. The blues are the
 sublimed experience of our culture, a vital part
   of the history of the country this used to be.
They’re what’s left of those people. That’s what
  art really is—the sublimed truth. I love the
blues. The blues bought me my freedom. And I
 don’t want it to be lost. But oh, it is, it is, it is!
   Just like everything else!” Her voice was
                   despairing.
  I had to tell her. “It’s not, Alma.” And I went
over to her and reached down and around her
slender waist and hugged her, and she kissed
 me again but different, saying, “I think you
  understand, I think you really do,” and the
  funny thing was I really did. She parted a
curtain behind the bar and led me through it.
   Her room, in the back of the Jook House, was
filled with African things. Out the open window
   I could hear Stewball pounding around the
 paddock and whinnying like he knew I should
            be going but I didn’t care.
    Masks were on the walls of her room, with
    severe and distant features. A few small
   statutes, I guess you might call them, were
 arranged on a plain, almost Shaker-like table;
   they were abstract and beautiful but still I
   recognized them: a spider, a fox, a rabbit, a
turtle. She saw me looking at them and started
 to talk, her voice low but precise, like she was
                teaching her class.
  “Those are African Tricksters. They live to
upset anything they possibly can. They like to
cause chaos, create a whole new situation that
lets in light and life. They are the enemies of the
 status quo. They seem tiny and powerless, but
their power is the power of the mind. They help
  people survive in hard times by giving them a
     way to trick those in power without ever
     revealing themselves.” She reached for a
grinning wooden monkey which was on her bed
    table; handed him to me. “Meet Signifyin’
Monkey. You can signify without revealing. The
 blues is all about signifying—and quoting, in a
way. Showing; representing. Like all art, it’s also
  about taking time and tearing it up—ragging
 time—re-forming it, repeating it, overlaying it,
    putting it back together in your own way.
   Taking from the world and making it new,
 giving it shape and form. That is what humans
  do—take raw information, nature, and make
  something else out of it. It is at the same time
    their gift and their curse. And the African
     musical tradition is communal. What the
 musicians play is constantly modified by what
  the others play; modified by the dancers. We
 constantly incorporate the new, make it a part
  of what we are doing. Every moment is a new
               community synthesis.”
  I didn’t care about all that, though; not really.
   “I’d like to be able to play the blues,” I said,
 putting the monkey back on the table, and her
eyes became very intense, so deep that I thought
    they had no bottom but reached back into
 serious time. She looked skeptical. “I’ve tried,
but it’s no good. I feel like… I’m only imitating.”
   “It’s only for a few,” she said. “You know the
story of Robert Johnson, don’t you?” she asked.
                        “No.”
   “They laughed him off the stage and he went
  away for a time. When he came back he could
  play like an angel. Or like the devil. He liked
 people to believe that he’d met the devil at the
crossroads one moonlit night. The devil told him
 that he’d have to give up his soul, but in return
      he’d show him how to play the blues.”
  “Did he agree?” I asked. The Shakers had not
 talked about the devil much, and since I knew
there was no heaven I wasn’t afraid of the devil
        or hell. They weren’t real either.
  She laughed quietly. “Well, some people say he
 got a good start from other musicians, like Son
                     House.”
  “That’s what I need,” I said. “Son House, or the
devil.” Maybe I smiled a little, I don’t know, but I
  was suddenly desperate and she could tell. I
 needed the blues like I needed food and water,
   maybe more. To live. To pull together all the
      parts of myself that were in danger of
   dissipating forever—my memories, my very
 sense of self. To make something where there
    was now nothing; to create myself anew.
  She sat at a low table on a cushion and opened
a carved box. She took out a small ivory-colored
      vial and shut the box and stood up.
               “Take this,” she said.
             “What will it do?” I asked.
   “A musician named John Coltrane believed
 that the experience of certain organized tones
leads to a particular state of mind. Brain scans
  of musicians show that they use their brains
   differently than nonmusicians. This will…
                remap your mind.”
  “I don’t know,” I said, suddenly remembering
 Verity and the boat and the rafters. The room
seemed too small and my throat got dry when I
    tried to talk. It seemed like my mind had
 already been remapped, but maybe it had only
 been unmapped. Maybe I was just dissolving. I
could hear my own heart beating. “It’s nan, isn’t
                         it?”
     “Everything is,” she said, her voice going
      dreamy. “Here. Take it. Take it. Now.”
      I felt flushed despite the breeze blowing
  through the room. This was what I’d spent my
 entire life carefully avoiding. Maybe with good
reason. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “I don’t have time.
I’ve got to find out about the river and locks and
  dams. I was supposed to be back hours ago.” I
was talking fast and stammering and I felt kind
                       of sick.
  “So you really don’t want to know the blues,”
   she said. She turned away and walked back
  toward the table, still dreamlike and trancy.
 You’re not the one, her hand said, as it opened
  the box. You don’t deserve the blues, said the
 stern carved masks. You’re white, laughed the
           Tricksters with wicked glee.
   I watched her carefully seat the vial into the
  velvet. Her hand poised on the lid of the box.
   I thought about how strange everything was
 now. Shaker Hill was gone, and John had shot
 me in the chest. Verity and I would never be—
 whatever I’d thought, lying there in my small
  white bedroom at Shaker Hill. Whatever I’d
      thought, we’d never be that. And I was
      somewhat ruined, imperfect, partially
resurrected but undependable and strange even
 to myself. I did not know what the world held
 but I knew that when I heard the blues on the
radio stone, when I tried in my dull way to play
 the blues, I felt focussed and as if things were
                 right once again.
  I knew then that I would sell my soul to be able
to understand the blues. What did it matter? Did
I even have a soul with which to barter? If ever I
  did it was sucked out of me by those sheets. I
left it in the Cincinnati train station, in the yard
  at Shaker Hill, when my Shaker Brother John
 shot me. He shot it right out of me, and his own
 too. Verity didn’t know what that was like. She
 never would. Afraid of nan! I was already up to
my neck in nan. Might as well lift my feet and let
       the river take me; learn to swim.
   Yes. I did want the blues! I wanted to swallow
   them, succumb to them, bathe in them, live
 them. What did I have to live for? Mother Ann?
There is no Mother Ann. There is no God. There
is no heaven. Verity, I thought, there is not even
  you, not anymore. But there is music. There is
                     the blues.
    And so I stepped next to Alma and put my
                 hand on hers.
   The blues had no taste, no flavor. They were
heavy and silky on my tongue as she watched me
    with her dark eyes down them after she
unscrewed the cap. The small holder was carved
          with tiny African symbols.
       “Keep it,” she said, and I felt then the
 irrevocableness of it all wash through me. Her
   eyes turned kind and she whispered, as she
   caught my hands and held them tight, “You
   won’t regret it. I promise you. You have the
history of your country inside you now. The true
history. Even though you are not black. You are
closer now to understanding. Maybe as close as
  a white person can be.” She looked at me and
 her look went deep inside. “You are the horse.
The blues is the rider.” I didn’t understand. Not
                        then.
  “Thank you,” I remembered to say, and when I
   saw her face I knew it was the right thing.
     “How—how long will it take?” I asked.
             “I don’t know,” she said.
   And then she said, “Watch,” and snapped her
fingers, and activated the strangest thing in her
                      room.
  It was a statue composed entirely of words, a
 ghost statue that glowed in one corner, taller
     than me. He was as dark as Alma, with
forbidding features contradicted by a strange,
sly smile. On his forehead was a red feather of
  light extending above his bald head. He was
 made of words, words glowing and floating in
his blackness, defining his boundaries against
                 the white wall.
 “He’s the African god Esu,” she said. “He’s had
 many names and incarnations. Legba, Eshu,
Ellegua… sometimes he’s the Devil, sometimes
    he’s Jesus. He lives at the crossroads.”
          “Which crossroads?” I asked.
  She smiled and her eyes gleamed. “Touch it,”
             she said and so I did.
   I touched the words that said “Stack O Lee,”
and heard the old tale. For I know not how long
 I touched words and heard prison blues; blues
  where chips flew and the jonnie wagon came
and prisoners were whipped, beaten, and killed.
I heard “Midnight Special”; I heard slave songs
 where the words meant one thing to the white
    overseer and another to the slaves. I heard
   levels and depths of music that took me to a
    world I couldn’t have previously imagined,
      emotionally, harmonically, in form and
  complexity and beauty. Something happened
 deep in my mind and being; the hunger I’d felt
    since Cincinnati, the loss of heaven which
    nothing could fill, was satisfied, sated, and
  finally I hugged black light-filled Esu and my
arms met and Alma pulled me back and she was
   within my arms instead, kissing me in a way
that sent fire through my body; unbuttoning my
shirt, unbuckling my belt. I tried to undress her
 gently but it was no use; I heard something rip
                 and she laughed.
   As she pulled me to her bed I saw her smile
with Esu’s smile, but she and I were both beyond
angel and devil, dark and light, heaven and hell.
             “Esu gives life,” she said.
               I know that it is true.
    When she got out of bed, slim and beautiful
and not at all like her old self in the holo though
I saw the sameness in her face, her breasts were
 touched by the afternoon sun for an instant as
    she walked past the window. It was odd, I
thought, how much I’d wondered what it would
 be like with a woman and this was what it was
    like and though I understood now, it was
     different from anything I’d ever read or
                     imagined.
  She pulled some sort of shift over her head and
once she had it on she looked just like a girl. She
  could look various ways, I thought, somewhat
confused. She pulled her hair back and fastened
it with a silver clip and she looked like a woman
                       again.
   “It’s time for you to go,” she said. Her eyes
were distant now, as if she didn’t remember who
            I was or what we’d done.
   I dressed, then walked out through the empty
Jook room wanting to stay forever, seeing those
  long-dead men, learning what I did not know.
     About the blues. And about Alma, and her
strange and beautiful life. And I might have, had
    not Verity been waiting, depending on me.
  “Oh,” Alma called, running out the door after
 I’d saddled Stewball, who I imagined eyed me
coldly, and mounted up with my rifle and pistol
           secured. “You’ll want this.”
 She was standing on the porch with a battered
                 old guitar.
               “I tuned it,” she said.
            I took it and my life began.
  It must have been almost five in the afternoon
but the spring days were getting longer. I kicked
     Stewball to a gallop and with the guitar
    bouncing gently against my back hurried
toward the bluff. I might have asked Alma about
 the river but somehow I thought she knew and
cared about the river as little as did Moore. And
 I’d had a kinder welcome here than any rafters
  would have had at Shaker Hill. It was best to
   count my many blessings and get on with it.
  The warmth of the day, what there had been,
 was settling back down to the ground and the
  shadows of trees bridged the small country
 road. It was not self-healing and with all the
   holes I was afraid that Stewball might be
   injured but with the sun going down the
urgency of my mission returned to memory and
         I cursed myself for dawdling.
                 But not too hard.
   It took about half an hour for me to get to the
 head of the bluff. At one time the hill had been
partially cleared and I passed the foundations of
several homes with views that seemed to stretch
      all the way to Michigan. The small road
  switching up the hill must have been just for
those homes. I hoped I would not be sidetracked
  by any more people on the way up, but these
homes had not been built as sturdily as Moore’s
  brick townhouse or Alma’s stone Jook House,
and most of the roofs had caved in and some had
                even been set afire.
   I figured I had about forty-five minutes of
 daylight when we finally emerged from thick
brush at the top of a cliff that plunged down to
                   the river.
     What I saw caused my blood to run cold.
  Here came the Queen, heading downriver on a
               strong current.
 She was still pretty far upriver. I figured that I
hadn’t come very far today, maybe six or seven
miles, and surmised that the boat hadn’t started
 off until just recently. I couldn’t think of why
Verity would decide to move so late in the day.
Either some sort of commotion had taken place
on the boat, or there had been a threat from the
                       land.
     Well, then I took the time to take the
 downriver look that I’d set out to do ages ago
  and saw the other half of the chilling sight.
    What must be the dam Verity was thinking
  about was there, about half a mile beyond the
   bluff. With the binoculars I could clearly see
that the upper gate to the locks were closed. The
 river was running high, and it looked as if the
 whole mess of them would just be washed over
                 the top of the dam.
 If all was as it should be, of course there would
 be a sign down below along the river, and the
lock-people would be there to operate the lock
and see them safely through to the level below.
  The first rafts were already rounding the bend
 about level with Alma’s place. I thought about
   trying to pry some huge boulders loose and
 letting them crash into the river to warn them
 but I didn’t see any and besides with my luck
          they’d crash on top of a raft.
   I could wait until they got closer and fire off
my rifle. But with all the noise and commotion
 down there I figured they wouldn’t hear that
either, or take it for some sort of attack and try
                to go even faster.
  I wheeled Stewball and we galloped like hell
               down that hill.
  We left the road and tore through woods and
 backyards and I stuck to his back like a burr,
     hollering and kicking, and there was a
   crunching and cracking of branches as we
smashed our way through. If he’d fallen I might
    have been killed. We detoured around a
high-fenced woodlot where the trees were thick
and random and caught the small road again at
             the bottom of the hill.
   He remembered racing, then, and I swear he
   was moving faster than any of those NAMS
 trains could have gone. I scrunched myself up
   low and small on his back and let him out.
 I figured that Verity had to stop before sunset
but then why would she have gotten moving so
 late in the day? Something was wrong and I
           couldn’t count on normal.
  I was relieved to see that the area around the
dam wasn’t the usual gnarl of ramps and twisted
  concrete curlicues which might delay me by
         taking me to the wrong place.
  No, the tower just sat out there pretty much in
the middle of nowhere, with a red light blinking
 up top so I knew that something was working.
As I urged Stewball down the final stretch with
the sun starting to sink behind the flat fields of
 Indiana, that red-tinged tower looked like the
 end of the world to me. Surely everyone would
             see it, and try to stop…
  But the rafts had no way to stop. Much as the
rafters annoyed me, the last thing I wanted was
 for them to die. Norleans was like heaven for
  them and I wanted them to get there if they
  possibly could. I hoped they would not be as
  disappointed with the whole damned idea of
         heaven-as-elsewhere as I was.
    I pulled Stewball to a halt at the foot of the
tower. I jumped off and I don’t remember taking
  off the guitar and putting it down next to the
  tower but I must have because that’s where I
  found it later. I almost cried with frustration
when I saw how tall the tower was, and much as
   I hated elevators I was glad to see one but I
   shouted at it and punched buttons there for
   what seemed an hour but was probably only
 seconds and nothing happened so I took to the
                       stairs.
  They zigzagged up one side of the tower and
my heart felt as if it was going to burst. Already
 I could see some rafters swirling around the
  bend and didn’t bother to shout at them; they
   couldn’t hear me over the roar of the water
  rushing over the top of the dam and over the
upper part of the lock into the lower part. Once
I looked down and it was a sheer drop of maybe
   sixty feet though foreshortened for me so I
   couldn’t tell too closely. Might have been a
hundred for all I knew. Then I saw what looked
like bodies being swept over the dam, five or six
                     together.
    When I reached the top I saw a tiny room lit
  with the dim glow of a lot of lights. I felt like I
was going to collapse. The door was locked and
it wasn’t glass in the big window but something
    a lot stronger. Then I saw that there was a
  window open just a crack. I stuck my fingers
 inside and pulled as hard as I could and with a
wrenching sound the whole damned thing came
   off. I tossed it over the side of the tower and
                    climbed inside.
    There I saw all kinds of controls and various
    panels and knew with a sinking feeling that
 there was no way I could figure them out in the
time I had. So when I saw a big emergency alarm
  button I punched it hard and was enormously
   pleased when a powerful horn sounded every
  two seconds, interspersed with a message that
   said lock is closed! danger!, on a big arm that
 stretched out over the river with flashing lights
although I was upset to see Stewball run off into
      the darkness when all the din began.
  Powerful spotlights lit the falls and I saw one
               raft swept over.
    I jumped back out the window and ran down
  the tower, down and down and down, and the
   side of the river was concrete here and filled
    with berths. I ran up the wharf waving and
shouting and wishing I had a lightstick and first
 one rafter steered toward me and then another
  until they all pulled together as if magnetized
    and to my great relief I saw the Queen steer
toward the bank as well quite a bit upstream so
as not to crush the rafts. It was getting cold now
 and I started to shiver with fatigue and desire
                    for the blues.
  I heard Verity yelling at me from the Queen
and then the gangplank came down and she ran
       to the shore and hugged me tight.
    “Blaze!” she said. “I thought they got you!”
           They did, I thought. “Who?”
  “Oh, it was terrible,” she said. “Suddenly—at
 least it seemed sudden— the wharf was filled
                  with people.”
    “There was a NAMS station there,” I said.
    “They all headed for the boat, yelling and
 saying they wanted us to take them downriver
  and waving some sort of tickets. I know they
were tickets because I could hear them yelling ‘I
   have a ticket good for Memphis! Or Cairo!’
 Or—Nawlins, they called Norleans. It couldn’t
   have been more than an hour ago. We were
anchored out in the river but that didn’t seem to
 stop them; they jumped right in the water and
started swimming. I guess it wasn’t very nice of
me but I didn’t want them along and the rafters
all had to hit them over the head with whatever
                   they could.”
  Verity’s face looked haggard and I could tell
 she was exhausted. I held her in my arms and
smoothed back her hair and tried not to think of
                     Alma.
    “Where have you been, Blaze?” she asked.
             “What happened?”
       “I’m afraid I got sidetracked,” I said.
    “Sidetracked! With everyone waiting…?”
    “I couldn’t help it,” I said. And even when I
 thought of those people washed over the dam I
   couldn’t feel sorry about it. Was something
wrong with me? Russ would never have allowed
  himself to feel this way, I was sure. It was like
   an important piece of myself was missing. I
knew that it should be there but it was gone and
I doubted whether I’d ever get it back. What was
sliding in instead was new and strange, exciting
 and like something in the distance that I had to
 run to catch up to while it kept getting farther
                        away.
    Verity’s face looked haunted and troubled
then. She looked away. “I know what you mean,”
 she muttered. “I know.” There was more yelling
  and commotion and she said, “At least we got
   away from them, whoever they were.” Over
everything we could hear the din of the alarm. “I
           guess you found the dam?”
        The night was actually quite cold. The
quarter-moon shed a little light on rolling fields
and through the windows of strange ugly houses
 as I searched and called for Stewball. I took out
   Mollie and began crisscrossing the area we’d
 come from, with the lightstick hung around her
neck providing a pale green light. And the whole
   time with the moon and the night I felt songs
      welling up in me and realized anew how
     beautiful night was. A few dead satellites
   streaked by, catching the sun. They made me
    think of all that humans had lost when the
     quasar came and forced us all into Flower
    Cities, when it made us invent new ways to
communicate and started the Information Wars.
   I wished I could remember all that Russ had
told me about what he knew but for some reason
     all I could remember was him cursing the
  goddamned government. And his eyes. I knew
  that somewhere within me lay vast clusters of
 memories about Russ. But they were as distant
   and dead as those satellites, just giving off a
 glimmer of reflected light that was all the time
                before John killed me.
  I came over a rise and saw below Alma’s Jook
 Joint, emitting yellow light and distant music.
   I could not resist. Mollie and I were picking
  our way gingerly through a field when I got
               close enough to see:
 There were people, real people, milling around
  in the yard, shouting. I knew they were real;
 ghosts would not be so solid in the night with
  only the light from the house. It would have
          streamed right through them.
    They were the NAMS people; I knew it in a
 minute. And I feared them. I feared them more
 than I craved the blues, right at that moment,
     though the stuff Alma had given me was
 working within me. A great wave of loneliness
 and exile hit me. I was not like the rafters, for
   somehow I was healed of the plague. Verity
figured that most likely I’d developed some sort
  of immunity from having had it before. And I
   was not at all like Verity, with her nub-held
 memories, her Queenliness, her ability to lead.
  And I was certainly not like the people below.
                     Wasn’t I?
 I shivered because, suddenly, I wasn’t sure. If I
              went down there…
  I heard twangs of music freed on the night air,
 loud singing, shouts; saw dancing. The searing
core of the music glimmered in my mind like the
  night lights of Cincinnati, like the scales of a
 fish in deep water, and I wanted to dive down
and catch it, hold it in my two hands, and then it
 was Alma I held there close to me, even closer
    than before, and for much, much longer…
  I would have flown to the blues like an arrow,
 then, had not I heard a glad whinny and then
Stewball rushed up to Mollie nickering like mad
    and they rubbed noses and danced about.
 I snagged Stewball’s reins and we headed back
               toward the dam.
    But the blues was inside me, you see, and I
        could not escape them so easily.
   I didn’t sleep very well and I was up before
                      dawn.
     I went off the boat, out into the chilly fog.
There was a shadowy figure there, checking out
the lock. I didn’t recognize him, but I thought at
first it was because of the fog and because of the
multiplicity of rafters. He was not very tall, and
 slightly rotund. As I approached, I saw he was
    wearing gray work pants, a navy blue shirt
    unbuttoned at the top, and over it a zipper
   jacket made of some soft material. His shoes
   were sturdy, and covered with mud. He was
examining the lock, looking down into the empty
         metallic cavern, hands on his hips.
   “Who are you?” I asked, and he turned and
jumped, as if I’d shocked him. The fog must have
              muffled my approach.
   “Ah,” he said, and held out his hand. “Jason
Peabody. Engineer. At your service.” His grasp
 was firm and his handshake businesslike. His
face was round, and a very slight fringe of hair
 saved him from complete baldness. He had a
mustache. Pale blue eyes peered from beneath
  bushy eyebrows as the sun broke forth from
 beneath a bank of low clouds, giving the air a
  bright silver quality. Peabody had an air of
   friendly competence; certainly, he was not
   afraid or furtive. I liked him immediately.
   “Towers aren’t working,” he said, with a nod
toward one. “Been in both of them.” He pointed
 to another tower, black against the lightening
sky, at the low end of the lock. “The alarm had a
lot of backups, I guess. Beautiful boat you have
    there. Here’s what we have to do.” To my
 surprise, he pulled a small pad from his jacket
pocket and with a pencil sketched a diagram of
              how the locks worked.
  They were about a thousand feet long, hugging
   the concrete bank. A hundred feet wide and
  maybe eighty feet deep. As the sunlight grew
     stronger I gazed into the lower one, a big
   concrete box with all kinds of fascinatingly
 intricate metal webwork and various concrete
 formations. Big letters were written across the
top of the dam: dam number 48. “The lockmaster
 would have had a gondola to go between them,”
 said Peabody. “Cables must have snapped. It’s
probably around here somewhere on the ground.
 Once he’d filled the lock and the boat was in it,
he had to close the upper gates and let the water
out until it was at the level of the lower river.” I
could see the gates, like barn doors that opened
             into the flow of the river.
   Peabody’s sketch showed how there were big
valves that opened and allowed water to flow in
and out of the locks through conduits embedded
 in the concrete under the lock chambers. The
 sun was up now, flooding the river valley with
  light. He tapped his diagram with his pencil.
              “Time to get to work.”
               “Oh,” I said. “Right.”
     With Peabody directing, it still took a big
 crowd of us hours to loosen the manual valves,
banging away at the wheels that stuck out of the
  concrete. After an hour we were all sweating
and I was sure we’d have to leave the boat where
   it was and carry the rafts around. Peabody
     paced anxiously while we pounded with
  hammers and rocks, whatever we could find,
and even hitched the horses to them. Finally the
 upper valve broke loose with a sudden wrench
 and the people who had been pulling with the
  horses stumbled and fell flat on the concrete
and everybody cheered. Then Peabody muttered
    about how he hoped we hadn’t broken the
  damned thing off, but water started swirling
        into the lock and his face relaxed.
 It was just as hard to get the lever that opened
the gates to work, once the water got as high as
    the upper river. “These things need more
maintenance, damn it,” said Peabody, as if there
were city officials around who had deliberately
neglected things. I figured that no big boats had
been this way for a good long while, either up or
   down the river. Of course, once they got to
 Cincinnati that would have been the end of it
                     anyway.
   Verity got the boat into the lock all right. I
knew she would. I could see her up there in the
  pilothouse, not her face, but I knew how she
  looked: jaw set, eyes staring straight ahead
while she worked the controls by memory, like
 she was used to doing now in tight places. All
the rafts got in too; the lock was made for huge
long tows and it looked like there were acres of
                       room.
  We already had the lower valve loosened up, so
 it was kind of fun to close the upper gates and
open the lower valve and let the water drain out.
   Jack watched the water level and gave us a
wave and a shout when it was about right. Then
 we opened the lower gates, and they all left the
                       lock.
    As everyone boarded their vessels, I looked
  round to thank Peabody and saw that he was
right next to me, holding a small, battered black
                     valise.
    “Do you mind,” he said, “if I come along?”
  I was startled. “Oh. I thought—I thought that
     you were the new lockmaster here, or
                   something.”
      He shook his head. “No,” he said, and I
wondered if what I saw in his face was sadness.
 “No, I’m out of a job. I’ve come from Chicago.
Rode as far as I could in a solar car, walked the
last forty miles or so. To tell you the truth, I’ve
been waiting for you. Heard tell of a large party
 making its way down the river. It’s somewhat
dangerous to try and make this trip alone. I’ve
 heard that there are pirates along the river.”
  The last of the stragglers were boarding. The
 late-spring sunlight was strong. Over a green
 rise a white steeple shone in the sun, but we’d
   had no curious townsfolk here at the lock.
   “I don’t know if you want to come with us,” I
felt obliged to tell him, though he seemed to be a
 handy enough fellow to have along. “Many of us
                    are plagued.”
  His laugh boomed. “Well, now, I’ve spent all
morning among you, haven’t I?” His eyes looked
       oddly eager, rather than afraid.
          “Why did you leave Chicago?”
 Yes, the look I’d seen before was sadness, for it
   was back, and unmistakable. “Wife died.
        Couldn’t stay. Couldn’t stand it.”
  “Do you know anything about radio stones?” I
                      asked.
          “What is it you want to know?”
       We walked up the gangway together.
    It was only midafternoon by then but most of
    us were pretty tired. We only drifted for an
hour, then decided to stay there for the evening.
     It was a pretty part of the river, not many
   factories or power plants like there had been
   closer to Cincinnati. We’d seen a lot of pretty
    little towns along the way, some of them on
new-made islands, some of them partly drowned
like Rising Sun, and sometimes a concrete wharf
  stranded a mile or so from the river. But all of
 them were curiously empty, like Miamisburg. It
was like they were just waiting, kind of hopeful,
  for folks to move back in and use them, all the
 big-porched houses and high-ceilinged shops. It
    made me a little sad, to tell the truth. After
supper I got out Alma’s guitar and it wrote “Lost
 Town Blues” practically on its own. Still, it took
hours to smooth things out, and work out all the
words, and play it about a hundred times. But in
  the end I was satisfied, though I think I might
 have heard some rafters shouting at me to shut
           up so they could get some sleep.
     I wasn’t a bit tired, though. I remembered
 Peabody then. I’d forgotten about him, but that
wasn’t surprising. What was surprising was that
I’d remembered him. Maybe I was starting to get
                        better.
              Peabody. Radio stones.
     I opened my drawer and looked at them.
   Sphere and I had taken them from a shop in
 Cincinnati where they lay scattered beneath a
  glass showcase looking for all the world like
                 fancy jewelry.
     I picked one up and held it. Cool, pinkish
crystal, an inch long, a slight weight in my palm.
 I remembered Verity’s radio stone, the one she
 had at Shaker Hill. It was forbidden to us, like
all tech. It was our secret. She shared it rarely. I
   think she listened to it at night whenever it
   would work, which was sporadically, maybe
once every two weeks and then only for minutes.
She kept it under her pillow, but the sound was
  very faint, and apparently came from a place
called Tokyo. She had heard someone say this in
  English once, but mostly it was some foreign
            language and strange music.
  I’d asked Russ about broadcasting once, about
   why it didn’t work. His answer was that he
     suspected that only a few people in the
  goddamned government knew for sure. “It all
      happened so quickly,” he said. “Whole
   communication system crashed. Somebody
 knew it was coming. And dollars to doughnuts
 somebody knew why, too. Oh, we had plenty of
  stories. Quasars, nanotech terrorists, aliens,
cosmic rays, you name it. But when it came right
down to it there wasn’t a damned thing the little
guy could do, as usual. Flower Cities came and
went. People who invented the things that made
 Flower Cities possible made a bundle. Maybe
  they had something to do with it, the way I
 heard the old automobile industry put public
 transport out of business, or the way electric
   utility companies put alternative-energy
   companies and research out of business.”
  I’d asked him why those people who invented
  Flower Cities would even need money, since
 nanotechnology made everything so available.
  He just shrugged and said something about
 human nature being pretty hard to change no
       matter how you tried to dress it up.
      I lined up my stones and the wires and
 mysterious gizmos Sphere had insisted that I
  take, even though he admitted that he didn’t
 know what they did, either. They had a heavy,
satisfying feel: soft, heavy copper wire wrapped
   around something made of glass; tubes that
 went in some kind of socket; a battery Sphere
said he was sure must be dead, just a mishmash
of stuff from that shop, where a sign said it had
     been established in 1948. Ancient stuff.
  I was just going off to hunt up Peabody when
    he and Verity knocked on my open door.
   Verity didn’t mince words. “He says that you
  told him he could come along.” She had that
irritated look she had more and more often. Her
mouth was a straight line, lips pressed together.
             Her voice was sharp.
   “He’s an engineer,” I told her. “He already
      helped get us through the locks.”
       “We didn’t need any help,” she said.
   Peabody was completely unruffled by all of
  this. His face lit up when he spied the radio
 paraphernalia. “Ah,” he said, and crossed the
room. He picked up a green crystal and held it
   beneath the lamp, tilting it thoughtfully.
   “See? WLW. That’s a station that an inventor
named Powel Crosley, Jr., started in Cincinnati
 in 1922. That’s because he manufactured radio
  sets. People had to have a reason to buy them
    and he gave them a reason. Clear channel,
   seventy kilocycles. Five hundred thousand
watts at the end of the twenties—do you believe
 that? The nineteen-twenties, that is. Amazing!
  Crosley also manufactured small lightweight
cars that nobody wanted, thirty years too soon,
and refrigerators. He even built radios into his
refrigerators. Later he manufactured television
  sets and started a television station as well.”
  “How do you know?” asked Verity. I relaxed.
      Maybe she’d see Peabody’s value.
          “Oh, I’m kind of a radio buff.”
           “I mean, what station it is?”
 “Well,” said Mr. Peabody, “one way is the color.
  Each frequency is picked up by a particular
  color, but actually it’s not that easy because
 you’ve got a whole spectrum of colors and the
differences can be quite subtle. So each crystal
  just grows the call letters deep inside. See?
  You’ve got to tilt it just right—they’re very
                      tiny—”
   She took it and tilted it back and forth, then
     exclaimed, “Yes, I see it. Look, Blaze.”
    I tilted it back and forth and saw the letters,
tiny as fleas but obviously magnified a bit by the
material in which they were grown. I felt stupid.
  I’d spent many futile hours with them, but I’d
 never seen the letters. “What does the number
                   mean?” I asked.
          “That’s the frequency,” he said.
   “Oh,” I said, but didn’t ask what that was. I
  rubbed it, but it did not come on. “Okay, Mr.
    Peabody, how do we make these work?”
 “Well,” he said, “it’s easy,” and then stopped.
He looked bewildered. Then he said, heavily, “I
     don’t remember. I don’t… remember.”
   He walked over to an easy chair next to the
    door and sank into it. “I—this has never
 happened to me before. Of course, it has been a
shock to my system, leaving Chicago. I’ll recover
                soon, I’m sure.”
    “Is Chicago a Flower City?” asked Verity.
 “Oh, yes,” he said eagerly, and a little wistfully.
“But Anita died… yes, that’s it, that’s it.” Now he
  looked very sad. He leaned back in the chair.
 “I’m sorry. I—I am an engineer, and a licensed,
bonded nanotechnologist. And I do not have the
 plague. Not that it would matter to you. I chose
 to come here of my own free will after my wife
died. I always wanted to see the country, but she
  wouldn’t leave. She loved Chicago, she loved
                 Lake Michigan.”
   “Why did she die?” asked Verity. “I thought
    people couldn’t die in the Flower Cities.”
   Mr. Peabody looked at her sharply. “Oh, they
can die, sure enough. Death is never vanquished
 finally. We can put it off for a good long while.
  She killed herself, you see.” He bent over and
       began to sob, his face in his hands.
  Verity rummaged through a small top drawer
and found a handkerchief for him. Peabody blew
 his nose. I felt happy, despite his obvious pain.
             Verity had accepted him.
      “At least take me to Cairo,” he said,
  pronouncing it “kay-ro.” “That’s a free city.”
       “What do you mean?” asked Verity.
  “The maglev still stops there. To the best of my
knowledge. Which is old. Goes all the way to Los
  Angeles, when it can make it. The people who
    ride must be pretty brave. I’ve heard that
terrorists regularly sabotage it along the way. Of
   course, it always regrows if damaged. Must
  really upset them. The saboteurs, I mean, not
the passengers.” He stood and brushed wrinkles
  from his suit. “Well, show me what you have
  there. Best medicine, I think. I’m sure it will
            come right back to me.”
   He rubbed his hands together and picked up
one of the wire coils; nodded. He began to hum. I
 looked at Verity. She shrugged silently and left
                    the room.
   Peabody made pretty fast progress. He asked
 for a big sheet of paper and I tore one out of my
   log. He drew a map of the old United States
   complete with rivers and cities. Next to the
cities he wrote call letters. He’d examine a stone,
   write the frequency on the map, and set the
                     stone there.
    “We don’t have very many radio stones,” he
 said presently. “It may be possible to get a full
  set in Cairo. Not many of these will work, I’m
  afraid—nothing to pick up at that particular
       frequency. Where did you get these?”
   “A shop in Cincinnati,” I told him, sick at all
    I’d had to leave behind. “It was full of…
 recorded music, and radio stones. I got a huge
  box of blues records too. That’s what they’re
  called, I think. But I don’t have a machine to
                   play them on.”
  “We can remedy that,” said Peabody absently,
and moved to the tangle of wire and membranes
with which I’d vainly struggled for many nights.
       “Ah, a battery,” he said. “Simple and
old-fashioned. But it will do.” He bent over the
   mess and seemed to straighten everything
magically in about fifteen minutes as I watched,
  fascinated. He took a very complicated knife
 from his pocket and began to cut plastic from
the ends of wires and connect them to this and
                      that.
 And then—a miracle! Singing voices sputtered
 from another small box at Peabody’s elbow.
       “Drinking Elbavox will cure
       All that ails you that’s for sure .”
  Peabody laughed out loud. “Elbavox! Quaint!”
            “What’s Elbavox?” I asked.
 “One of the earliest nan elixirs,” said Peabody.
 “People really thought that ad was true. They
 went around sipping Elbavox or analogs of it
  morning noon and night. Supposed to cure
colds, cancers, just about every thing short of a
                  broken bone.”
                   “Did it work?”
    “More or less,” said Peabody. “It was crude,
  though. It wasn’t a bit intelligent, so it might
 bypass what was ailing you, or it might make it
  worse. It was put out without FDA approval.
  The creators didn’t care. Elbavox would have
   been sued out of existence but of course the
developers had absconded with all the money by
then. Made everyone more wary. And soon after
 that, money rather lost its importance. You’ve
  no idea what terrible uproars that caused.”
  “So—this is an advertisement, right?” I asked.
 “Why are we hearing it? Nobody is selling this
               anymore, right?”
   Peabody looked at me with surprise. “Oh. I
    thought you knew. All these stations are
 completely unmanned. Running on automatic.
The systems all know how to repair themselves.”
 The box had reverted to static after one round
  of the jingle. Peabody turned a knob and it
                     quieted.
  “That’s funny,” I said. “You’d think people
would want to get hold of one of those stations
           and just… sit and talk.”
   “Well, for one thing,” said Peabody, “most of
  them are heavily booby-trapped. Unless you
 knew exactly what had been done, you would
     probably die before you got into one.”
          “Why? Who would do that?”
  “There’s power there,” said Peabody. “Kind of.
   You have to realize that the entire country
 became completely dependent on NAMS after
 the radio problem. And there were all sorts of
failsafes involved in sending information. Let’s
      say you’re putting out one version of
   information and somebody is transmitting
something entirely different. Even if you could
 only pick it up at erratic intervals, with gaps,
 say, of days or weeks, you could put out some
         pretty subversive messages.”
             “Such as?” asked Blaze.
     “Such as… well, you tell people that a
government had fallen or risen or that a plague
              was on its way.”
            “What’s wrong with that?”
  “Well,” said Peabody, “what you heard would
    most likely be lies. It got down to that,
  eventually. You couldn’t trust a damn thing
  outside.” His smile was wistful beneath his
 bushy white mustache. He gazed with distant
eyes at the neatly arranged glowing crystals on
 the table before him. His hands lay loose and
relaxed on the table. He sighed. “And inside—”
       “Inside the Flower Cities?” I asked.
       “Of course. Inside it was like heaven.
    Everything was so perfect, so orderly. No
physical need went unmet, and we were free to
 invent all kinds of other needs and just for the
  fun of satisfying them. Travel was so swift, so
easy. My wife and I traveled a lot when we were
 young, to Seattle, Toronto, San Francisco. She
    was very… special.” He sighed. “We were
    planning an Asian tour when it all—broke
                 down.” He sighed.
      “After that, we were almost completely
isolated. We lost the balance necessary to such a
network, the… immunity to all sorts of problems
  for which diversity is the ideal inoculation.”
          I asked, “Did you have Bees?”
 Peabody glanced at me. “My lands, yes, we had
Bees. Still do. You have to have Bees to function.
           Bees are the juice, the glue.”
         “Did the Bees ever… take over?”
   Peabody gravely shook his head. “We guarded
    well against that danger. I’ve heard rumors
   about other places where all kinds of things
    went wrong. But Chicago—I guess we were
    fortunate. Things went as planned. I was in
paradise for—” He closed his eyes and massaged
  his eyelids with a thumb and two fingers as he
 frowned, then opened them wide. “You know, I
don’t like to think about it, but I am… well, older
 than I like to think about.” He smiled sadly and
   flicked one of the stones. A sputtering sound
  came out of the box at his elbow. “Here we go.
             Think we have a live one.”
   Loud, twanging sounds burst from the box.
 “Your blues revolution,” said a woman’s voice,
       smooth and deep, over the music.
  “The blues!” I exclaimed, terribly excited. “Get
  it back!” But the box remained silent despite
               Peabody’s fiddling.
   He smiled. “Like it? Anita didn’t, not much.
  But we had a great lot of it in Chicago. Let’s
see—that’s funny! Never saw call letters like this
before. Definitely illegal… or… well, what does it
                      matter.”
             “What are the letters?”
 “STAX,” said Peabody. “It should start with a K
 or a W.” He rotated it a few times. “But that’s
                 what it says.”
  “Can we keep that hooked up somehow while
 we’re trying the other stones out? What about
    this one? And this one?” I suddenly felt
  connected, connected to the world. Peabody
     would help me! Peabody actually knew
                   something.
  “Calm down,” said Peabody, smiling. “We have
                  all night.”



                 Eleven
             Dead Man Blues

Several evenings later I pulled back on the oars
of my johnboat with all my might; leaned
forward, then pulled back again, falling into a
satisfying rhythm. A fishing pole, a frying pan,
and a jar of crickets sat at my feet. A quiet
evening out. An attempt to relax, to estrange
myself from the inner turmoil I’d created in my
quest for the blues.
   Sweat broke out on my forehead and trickled
 down my face. The sun was a fireball low in the
 west and the thunderheads gathering promised
  a sultry evening, though I thought they might
   rumble off over the plains. I gritted my teeth
 and pulled again, again, again. The knottedness
  inside me did not relax so much as yield to the
 greater physical imperative and my thoughts of
   Verity stopped going round in my mind—how
strange she is how strange she is how strange she
 is—for she was. She was strange. And she was a
 stranger. Not my friend, not my so-close Sister,
    not the girl I’d sometimes dreamed in wild
     moments of running off with, off into the
     wilderness of Ohio. That Verity was gone
 forever. And I missed her. Even the blues could
   not replace what Verity had meant to me. But
 they had to. A stubborn stranger had taken her
             place, taken over her body.
        I would never see my friend again.
  This was my life now. This was all I knew. All I
  would ever know. My life was not filled with
angels and it was not filled with devils. Verity
  was not a demon, the Demon I affectionately
    named her when we were much younger,
perhaps feeling even then her strangeness. But
 it was bewildering, compared with what went
  before: crazed, cracked, and unrepairable. It
   was up to me to let the light in through the
    cracks. It was up to me to follow the light
                wherever it went.
  To me the light was music. Sound permeated
 my life. All the aural world fell into and out of
 patterns which I could not help hear, which I
   must imitate, regularize, lift to new intensity.
Vision was music, when it fell to patterns again.
  It no longer sickened me when that happened,
      as it had after I woke from the dead in
    Cincinnati, for there was a rhythm to vision
   underlying the sense my mind had learned to
 make of it. The clink of the chain as the anchor
was winched up was music. The voices of others
    when I did not hear the words but only the
rhythms of the words, the rise and fall of distant
   conversation was music too. Everything was.
The voice of the river, the voice of the forest, the
 voice of the birds. The voice of the radio stone,
which pierced me at night, pulled me as if I were
caught as surely as a fish on a hook, being reeled
 into some vast blues source more powerful and
real in my mind than the idea of God ever was. I
 blessed the day Peabody had boarded the boat,
     and showed me that ever-opening world.
   God! Where was God when John went insane?
 God did not keep him from committing an act
  that the real John, the true John, would have
     abhorred. John was stern, and strict, and
sometimes afraid, but he was not a murderer. He
    trusted God. He followed all the rules that
  rightly, if God existed, would have protected
                        him.
  I could not help but hate the idea of God, the
idea of Mother Ann, demanding obedience to all
   kinds of strictures and holding the reward
  behind their back with one hand, the reward
that would never be. So much pain and delusion.
 All my life I wanted to know! To know what lay
                   beyond that.
   And now was my chance. I’d left the safety of
the past, the safety of the orchard, which proved
 to be more dangerous than any of us could have
  possibly imagined. Oh, yes, I was remembering
 more and more now, but that was painful, for it
        just showed me how much I’d lost.
 Row! Row! Row! Upriver, round the bend, away
  from the craziness, into the cooling evening
where the rustle of leaves replaced the pressing
  shouts of the rafters, the endlessly recycled
 simple songs that grated on me so, where the
breeze no longer carried the nauseating smell of
chicken medium. Where I could think. I planned
  to pull over at a clearing, maybe start a fire,
catch a fish, cook it, sleep under the stars, catch
up with them again tomorrow sometime, letting
          the river carry me back down.
  The setting sun fired the river and clouds with
 gold and red, then vanished behind green hills.
     The river was molten silver, shimmering
 outward from a heron’s catch on the riverbank,
 from the splash of a fish, from the paddling of a
 duck family in the shallows. It was a calm, wide
 stretch. I rested my oars for a moment, and the
johnboat turned in the current. A few faint stars
    appeared in the darkening sky, then were
 blotted out by clouds as the wind rose. Soon
  small waves smacked the side of my boat.
 Another evening storm. They were wild, but
weatherable. If necessary, I could pull up on the
      shore and shelter beneath my boat.
  I leaned forward and squinted. Was that a raft
  stuck on a sandbar? Was that a person, lying
             half out of the wigwam?
    Probably sick, I thought. So, what are you
 going to do? Heal him? I was surprised to find
that my immediate instinct was to stay away. I’d
          just wanted some time alone.
    But I sighed and grabbed the oars and rowed
toward the raft. The current was stronger on the
 deep side of the sandbar and I struggled across
the rush of water, pulling hard, coming in above
and letting the current angle me toward the raft.
     Maybe the fellow was weak from hunger;
  perhaps he’d not eaten in a few days. I had my
fishing pole and a jar of crickets; I could remedy
   that quickly enough if that was the problem.
 And perhaps I should just take him back to the
  Queen in my boat. A storm might dislodge his
 raft and he’d be completely at the mercy of the
                       river.
  The wind increased as I stepped on board the
raft and tied up to it. It bobbed beneath me; my
boat knocked against the raft once and was held
 there by the current. The man was behind the
 wigwam. The raft was unusually empty of the
 paraphernalia of rafting—fishing lines, pots,
ropes. I stood over the man, but he didn’t stir. A
   chill washed through me—could he be—?
    I knelt and seized his shoulders, trying to
think of the best way to turn him over, when the
man jerked suddenly and with a moan turned on
                    his side.
  His long face was ravaged, and much too thin,
 what I could see of it beneath the wild beard. I
 had seen him before. I suddenly remembered
                      where.
  But I couldn’t be sure, in the dimming light. I
fumbled among the three or four knives I kept in
   my pockets and found my lightstick and
            smacked it on the raft.
      You could have knocked me over with a
 feather. My knees were weak enough. Durancy!
That guy from the tower in Cincinnati who kept
 calling Verity Rose. I had him by the shoulders
 when the wind blew his hat off and I got a good
 look. He looked like himself, all weird and sick
like his face was melting off, except worse—thin
        and bony and he smelled real bad.
    His eyes when he opened them and stared
  straight into mine were so dark, so painful.
  Something moved inside me then, he was so
         shattered and weak and alone.
  Then thunder boomed and lightning flashed
 and rain swept across the river in a big white
                     sheet.
    I dragged him inside and laid him on the
          pallet. We were drenched.
    He moaned a little and asked for water. That
was easy enough; I stuck a cup out the door and
    caught the runoff from the wigwam. It was
 quite a cloudburst. I closed the flap against the
 wind. Then I saw there was some kindling and
 bigger wood laid by and I managed to get them
  lit. The wind helped the draw and soon it was
 nice and warm. The burning wood masked his
 smell or maybe I got used to it. He dropped his
   head back down after I gave him a drink and
 moaned some more. For some reason I thought
of a line that I’d heard from Esu; all those songs
were burned into me. Johnny Shines sang it: “I’ll
   be glad to get to hell so I can lay down by the
   fire and rest.” This guy looked like that line.
   I tried to remember what Verity had told me
  about him, but my head was swimming what
 with all the strange things that had happened
   since. And with the blues, which was an old
    weary voice singing around me, just now,
 something about a long way from home. A long
                 way from home.
   I was starting to wonder what I should do,
   especially since if the night cleared off I
 suddenly wanted to go back and get Peabody
and see if we could pull in some radio. I guess I
    wanted something familiar after seeing
  Durancy. The blues was about the only thing I
 cared about. I didn’t like that feeling too much.
    It was too strange, when I compared it with
 what had been before; when I remembered how
  much I used to love everything about life, and
    how much I loved Verity, and Russ, and the
   horses, and everything about Shaker Hill no
   matter how much I wanted to leave, at times.
But I could feel the blues gathering inside of me
 like it was going to blow the top of my head off.
  Peabody seemed to be helping, with the radio
stones. Once, before Alma, I fired up the calliope
 in the middle of the night but people got pretty
 upset about that. I just wanted something good
  and loud, louder than the piano. Since Alma, I
just got out the guitar and it almost seemed as if
   the guitar itself pulled the music out of me. I
 played and sang all night a few times. I thought
 I was making up the words but maybe I wasn’t.
  As the raft bobbed on the storm-lashed waves I
   pulled the harmonica out of my pocket and
  started to play something. I played a line and
then I sang and made up words. I decided to call
              it “Dead Rafter Blues.”
       A hundred miles from nowhere,
       A thousand miles from home
       A hundred miles from nowhere,
       A thousand miles from home,
       Afraid I’m going to die here,
       So cold and so alone.
     I was just working out the harmonica part
   when Durancy started to mumble. It was so
 strange. He frowned and moaned from time to
  time, his eyes closed, and it was as if he was
   talking to somebody he knew very well and
   thought they could hear him. It was kind of
pitiful, really. Kind of sad. He didn’t even know I
                     was there.
 “I know that I sound rather normal. It’s called
 flat affect. Really, I’m trying to tell you how I
wish I had been. Reasonable. Sensible. Rational.
   “But this is a fiction I’m feeding your cells.
Despite myself. I am telling you, you see. Maybe.
  Or maybe I’m making up this level too. It’s
      rather hard to tell anymore, myself.
  “You see, it’s hard to have killed your mother.
  It puts a strain on you. Did you ever see The
 Wizard of Oz, where the Wicked Witch of the
 West is melting, drifting away? I’m rather like
       that. Helpless. Very much afraid.”
    After he said those things about a witch
 melting, I knew that he was purely insane. He
           kept mumbling on, though.
  “I am in the very center of something which I
  really don’t understand. Despite my role in
  creating it. For instance, you have sex. You
 create a child. How? With your mind? No. On
levels which are driving you. I’m like that now.
  “The ways out… simply don’t exist, I’m afraid.
   Already I’ve done too much controlling. Too
much deciding. That’s why I’m here in this tower
making up the memories as I go along, creating
fictions… but are they fictions, the way we wish
                  we had been?
 “Yes. Understand. I’ve thought about this a lot,
          quite a lot, enormously a lot.
Rooms-At-The-End-Of-The-World a lot. The view
        from this room is just stunning.
   “And you can talk all you like. Think, too. It’s
invisible. It’s just an essence. Maybe in the new
     future thought itself will create matter,
 pheromonally. I’ve seen glimpses of that, to be
  sure, and laid down the gridwork. That’s the
  future where some part of me will live again.
  Maybe. We can’t see beyond this instant. As I
well know. It’s kind of like putting money in the
   bank. Worrying that you might outlive your
money and then what? What horrific imagined
 reality? For your compulsive soul? Well. That
 may be a rather old-fashioned sort of thought
   for you, like heating with coal is for me, eh?
  “I’m sorry. I wish that I could be more direct,
 much more direct, and helpful. Less emotional.
But it hurts so much. You know, sometimes you
just want to live again, to correct every mistake
   instead of like a rational adult letting it go.
 That’s what Shakespeare is all about, though,
isn’t it Mom, at least the tragedies: the mistakes
     are so horrific, so final, that humans are
 shattered in the face of their ineptness, their
         greed, their so-powerful sins.
    “So what’s the alternative? To do nothing?
                   “I think not.
   “We lurch on, we slouch on, as they say, we
 assimilate we plan we love the light and shun
 the dark. And light, light, my future one, is so
      various, so captivating, so powerful.
 “Ah, thou of mystery, my mental offspring, you
can’t imagine the blessings I send forth to you.”
  Some kind of deranged prayer? He continued
                  to intone.
   “Do the right thing. But don’t die trying. Live
to think. And live to act another day. With better
                  information.”
  Then he jerked up and opened his eyes. Rain
  drummed on the wigwam. He stared at me.
                  “Who are you?”
  “I’m Blaze,” I told him. “We met in Cincinnati.”
  His smile was kind of funny. “Cincinnati,” he
          said. “What a coincidence.”
   “Well, I’m surprised to see you here,” I told
him. “I don’t think Verity would be too happy to
                 see you, though.”
   He really woke up then. He tried to sit but
  collapsed back onto the pallet. “Verity! You
 know Verity?” I think tears came to his eyes.
They shone in the lantern light. “I—I need to see
her. Take me to her. Please. I—I’m not as strong
                 as I thought.”
   “You’re right about that,” I told him. “I don’t
think you’re strong enough to go anywhere. How
 about some hot tea? Got anything to eat around
 here?” I don’t know why I wanted to feed him. I
  didn’t really like him very much. “Verity says
      you put those nubs behind her ears.”
      I just thought I’d try him on that. Verity
wouldn’t talk much about them. I knew that she
wanted to tell me a lot of what happened to her
 in Cincinnati, but she just couldn’t. It made me
  mad sometimes, because I wanted to know. I
      wanted to know everything about her.
 Everything. But she always ended up saying it
was too confusing. And then I got mad because I
    thought she wasn’t trying hard enough, or
  because it seemed like there were things she
   wanted to hide from me. Well why shouldn’t
she? We were two different people, right? That’s
what I told myself. That’s what was reasonable.
    But I never wanted to be a different person
 than Verity. I wanted us always to be together,
  sharing everything, becoming more and more
     strong together. Then it all went wrong.
   Right in front of me was the man who had
made Verity different from the start, so that the
 hopes I had were always futile. All the hope of
 years. All the hope I never even realized I had
because it was so normal, as if there was never
any doubt that it would be what happened. Here
was the man who made it so that Verity went to
 the Dayton Library every year without telling
   anyone, and climbed into that cocoon, and
    learned things that I could never know.
  He narrowed his eyes then like it was hard to
     see—it was, sort of, with the flickering
 shadows—and looked at me across the fire. “I
  know it’s difficult for you to understand,” he
  said. He talked real slow like it was hard for
 him. “You knew her when she was… out in the
world, right? That’s why you call her Verity. But
                she’s really Rose.”
   I fed another stick to the fire. The rain was
 loud on the teepee and the river was roaring.
                “Who is Rose?”
 “Rose is—Rose is—” He started to cry, then got
hold of himself. It was hard to look at him when
he was crying; it made me feel like crying too, so
           I just looked into the fire.
   “Rose is my cousin. Very smart woman. Very
smart indeed. Much more intelligent than I am.
  Much more kind, much more wise, much less
 selfish. I am everything corrupt and selfish. If
 there was a choice to make, I always took the
                  wrong path.”
             “Why did you?” I asked.
   “Well, of course I didn’t know at the time. I
thought that I was always doing the right thing,
 the good thing. I tried to save my mother, India,
from one of the early terrorist plagues and I did;
I had her read into the City’s memory. But there
 was something wrong with the copy. During all
  the upheaval, later, she just… took over. And
  part of me… one of me… tried to remedy that
  situation. By allowing Rose to live again. The
   person you think of as Verity is one of those
  Roses. And it worked. It worked. But she’s not
 Verity. She’s Rose. And she needs to come back
home with me. I promise that everything will be
  better now. Tell her that. I know she’ll change
   her mind. This Verity person will disappear.
  Rose will come back. I know she’ll come back.
   We have to go back. It’s dangerous for us out
    here. It’s too primitive. We need the City in
                   order to survive.”
   The way he talked was still funny. He wasn’t
    looking at me; he was just looking straight
ahead. I saw that his cheeks were bright red and
 I reached over and felt that he was burning up
with fever. Then I realized that he was delirious.
And also that if he was sick maybe I shouldn’t be
there. I wondered why he couldn’t heal himself,
     though. But maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he
needed the City to do that. A chill went through
me, thinking that maybe Verity needed the City
                       too.
   His voice changed then, turned into John’s
 voice when he was talking about Mother Ann.
Kind of worshipful and filled with awe. “And it
 did work. It worked. Now we can start over
                   again.”
      “Verity doesn’t have to start over with
        anything,” I said. “She’s Verity.”
  He looked at me then and shook his head. “I’m
 sorry. I really am. But the best thing to do is to
help her just be who she is. Rose. I suppose that
she should remember who she thought she was,
 those few fleeting years she didn’t understand
  who she really was, but I don’t think that she
can be happy or satisfied until she really comes
 to grips with who she is. I want to help her do
that. I have ways of… reminding her.” I saw that
 his hands were pressed together in front of his
 chest like he was praying. I didn’t want him to
remind her. I didn’t know if he really could or if
    he was just touched, but I didn’t want this
  lunatic around Verity any more. I didn’t even
     want her to be reminded that he existed.
  He bowed his head suddenly way down on his
chest with a jerk. He coughed a few times. Then
he lifted his head and looked at me with strange
         dark eyes that suddenly cleared.
   “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry,” and his voice
was different. “What have I been saying? I don’t
   remember. I can imagine, though. If you see
Verity, tell her I love her. And tell her… tell her
that she is right. I finally realize that. I realize a
 lot of things. A lot of things. But it’s hard. Very
hard. You can’t imagine how difficult it is. To be
 here. After all that.” He could barely talk. He
 closed his eyes and slumped down. He looked
                  about done in.
    I knew that I wouldn’t tell Verity any such
thing. She was strange enough already. He could
             only make her worse.
   To my shock and amazement, I realized that
    what I really wanted was for him to die.
    I wished, as we sat out there on the river, on
 the raft, under a wigwam with the rain pouring
    down and lightning flashing and the river
starting to run higher and higher, that he would
  die and then suddenly the raft was jolted hard
  and something, a stump maybe rushing down
  the river or the like, dislodged us and the raft
began to move. Slowly at first then in a fast mad
swirl, a quick up and down that made the fire fly
 up for just a second then settle again in the fire
 pan with a thump and a spray of sparks and we
                      were off.
   I went out on the deck and rushed to the back
of the raft and grabbed the sweep. I saw my boat
fly past; the rope had snapped. I was soaked and
ice cold in about two minutes and hanging on to
 that oar though I soon realized it wouldn’t do a
  whit of good, the river was so wild. I thought
  that maybe even a dam had broken upriver. I
  heard my teeth chattering, I was so cold. The
              wind was blowing hard.
    It didn’t take but a minute to fly past the
Queen, all its beautiful filigrees lit, illuminating
   the sheets of rain that twisted around it. I
 thought I saw my window and Peabody’s head
  bent over the radio stones wondering when I
was going to come. Verity and Jack and Lil were
                there somewhere.
    But there was nothing I could do. I shouted,
but the wind swallowed my voice. We swept past
them all in the night. I was hoping that we’d run
into one of the other rafts, or get caught in their
  lines, but they were all tied up outside of the
main current and then it was dark, dark, and we
  were alone on the huge raging river and I was
 afraid and then something happened inside me
   and I was wildly glad and didn’t know why.
   I started shouting and yelling into the night
 again, but it was different. This time it wasn’t
because I thought anybody would hear because I
   knew they couldn’t but just because of the
 wildness the river brought out in me, because I
  had been dead and now I was alive, because I
had always known where I was going and now I
                      didn’t.
     “The hell with you, Mother Ann!” I heard
 myself yelling, and yelling, over and over and
over again like something was broken inside of
me. I stretched out my arms as wide as I could, I
 danced around like a madman even though a
part of me realized that I could easily get tossed
 off the raft but I didn’t care. I just didn’t care.
My main memory of that time, and I don’t know
  how long it lasted, is one of ecstasy. A savage
joy. We rushed on into the night, Durancy and I
 both mad and caught in the rush of the river. I
remember feeling a strange kinship with him as
I danced and yelled in the rain, and with Verity
 too. So this is how it feels to be mad, I thought.
  So loose and free! As if nothing matters! Like
lightning! Which was flashing all around, while
   great booms of thunder shook the air. I was
  alone in the world, heading nowhere, my past
 gone, with people I didn’t understand and who
         didn’t, couldn’t understand me.
  When I went back inside I started wondering
all over again if maybe there was a Mother Ann,
and that maybe she cared about Verity and me
 and answered my shouted imprecations in her
                    own way.
           Because Durancy was dead.


                      4
                 Down to Cairo



                 Twelve
           Winding Sheet Blues
Verity was concerned about Blaze, as he was
nowhere to be found the next morning, but tried
to ignore his absence. She had a lot to do, after
all.
     About noon they passed a raft that had gone
   aground on a long, narrow sand island. She
  would have thought it abandoned except that
  she saw someone walking around in the scrub
trees and told one of the young women lounging
 on a bench in the pilothouse to take a johnboat
                 and investigate.
      “But I’ll be left behind!” she objected.
  “That’s right,” said Verity. “You can catch up
  with us tonight. Now go before it’s too late.
   What’s the matter? Afraid you’ll get lost?”
      The girl shrugged and Verity was purely
  disgusted at her cowardice. Well, that was all
right—she’d welcome a change, herself. Slowing
  the boat with a reverse of the paddlewheel so
that the girl slipped off her chair and fell with a
 thud on the floor and the sound of many small,
distant crashes filled the air as other things fell
   from tables, she called for Peabody over the
 voice tube as the boat shuddered and groaned.
 “Hurry!” she added, and was relieved when he
showed up within a minute. “Got a problem?” he
                      asked.
  “I want to take a johnboat and check on that
 raft we passed back there. Can you pilot the
boat for a while?” Too bad Blaze wasn’t around.
   This was the sort of thing he would enjoy.
   In five minutes she had been lowered into the
water via the davits. She unhooked the lines and
 swirled free of the wake of the Queen. She was
     alone, for the moment, on the river. The
   johnboat bobbed on small rough waves. The
 river had a pleasant, clean smell. The visor she
had grabbed automatically darkened, protecting
her eyes and face, and for an instant all flashed
                       blue.
  She tried to ignore the blue and the visions it
 invoked and pulled hard on the oars. She was
almost at the southern tip of the island. Her tiny
   boat coasted over the chop as she labored
 upriver, but she was there, there, in that small
room in New Orleans where she more and more
               often found herself.
 The thin black woman was dressed plainly, the
   bee tattoo that nestled just below her neck
covered by a brilliant yellow sweater. She rose
  and pulled the casement window closed and
  Verity was struck by the detail of the small
 panes divided by white-painted wood. As she
closed it Verity caught the flash of intense blue
 outside which had to be water but which was
much too blue for that. She sat at the table once
                      more.
  The table was covered with a tablecloth, but
when the woman touched the tablecloth Verity
realized that it was the same sort of material as
  their gloves. The woman frowned and sighed
and leaned far back in her chair, dropping her
    chin to her chest as she crossed her arms
 tightly. Her face distorted and Verity realized
that the woman felt some sort of anguish, some
   sort of loss, some terrible guilt or fatigue or
  both. She looked directly at Verity and said,
     “They are dying. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
      The bottom of the boat grated on gravel,
  startling her. She rested the oars and jumped
out, soaking her shoes and pants, and pulled the
   boat up onto the shore, heaving it out of the
water as far as she could. She tied it up to a tiny
    sycamore and began to walk up the island,
 which was so long that she couldn’t see the end.
     Above her on mounded dunes waved tall
 spring-green grasses scattered with daisies and
 red splashes of Indian paintbrush. She climbed
   the low hill to the island’s top, covered with
thick scrub and a line of adolescent oaks twisted
               by the constant wind.
  She took a deep breath of the clean, lonely air.
 The Illinois shore had relaxed into flat plains,
   for the moment, but there were more bluffs
    ahead. Verity thought she could see a city
 glittering far off to the north, but she could be
wrong about that. The Interstate was still there,
though, and still empty. The noonday sun gave a
peculiarly empty feel to the gold and green land.
     She walked briskly through low grasses.
   After about ten minutes of walking, Verity
 looked for some sort of opening in the scrub.
 Then, through the screen of branches she saw
   Blaze, kneeling, with a board in his hand.
 She opened her mouth to shout then closed it.
 Blaze tossed the board aside and picked up a
 crude cross. It was made of two sticks bound
   together with a vine, twisty and gnarled.
  Blaze stood up with it in his hand and started
to look around. Verity saw a big rock next to her
and picked it up and pushed through the briars,
ignoring their pull on her clothing and the brief
  scratches as they dug into her forearms. She
  broke through and yelled, “Need a hammer?”
  Blaze turned. “Verity?” He shielded his eyes
    with his free hand and saw her. As she
 approached him, Verity thought his face was
 very pale. “What happened?” she asked. “Who
                    died?”
      Blaze looked down at the mound of his
makeshift grave. “Just… somebody,” he said. “I
 went out last night with a johnboat and found
  him on a raft. Thought he should be buried.”
Without further comment he took the rock from
Verity’s hand and drove the cross into the sandy
 soil with a few sharp cracks. Then he tossed it
 onto the ground. It landed with a thud. “Won’t
last long. But it’s better than nothing, don’t you
           think?” His voice was shaky.
   “Are you all right?” asked Verity. “I’m sorry
     you had to find him. How did he die?”
  Blaze shrugged. “Who knows? Seemed like he
                had a fever.”
  “He was alive when you found him? Why didn’t
you come get us? Maybe somebody could have—”
  “There’s nothing you could have done!” said
Blaze sharply, startling Verity. “I didn’t realize
    that he was going to die. He just did.”
  “It’s all right,” said Verity hastily, raising her
 hand to touch his shoulder then dropping it as
  he pulled back. “Maybe we should have some
                 kind of… prayer?”
  “What for?” asked Blaze, his voice harsh. “To
  convey him safely to Mother Ann?” Then he
     sighed. “Sorry. Maybe we should do…
                  something.”
  Sunlight washed the long, narrow island, and
  the weeds cast short waving shadows on the
 nearby dunes. Tennessee across the river was
gathering herself into greening cliffs and rolling
  hills suggestive of mountains. Verity heard a
  whippoorwill from somewhere in the brush,
 maybe worried about her babies, and noticed a
 single set of rabbit tracks crossing the sandy
  clearing next to them. The sound of the river
was hypnotic, a soothing, rushing sound, pulling
       at the gravel on the riverside shore.
   Blaze pulled his harmonica from his pocket
               and began to play.
  It was a mournful tune, piercing and slow, sad
enough to squeeze tears from a stone. Verity felt
the gone life of the person buried below her, lost
 after too-brief freedom, his whole life spent in
      thrall to the Bees in Cincinnati, barely
   remembering what it was like to be himself.
         What had it all been for? What?
  Blaze stuck his harmonica back in his pocket
and wiped her tears. “Come on,” he said gruffly.
                   “Let’s go.”



               Thirteen
        Change Your Mind Blues

Verity whispered softly to Mollie as she slipped
into the horse’s stall, breathing the warm smell
of horse and shredded marsh grasses which
reflected the daily cleaning Blaze had assigned
to a horse-smitten lad. Soft gray dawnlight
washed in through the open casement window.
“Stand still now,” she said, and Mollie’s ears
flickered as Verity smoothed on the blanket and
kicked the stool over close so she could stand up
on it and drop the light saddle down and cinch
it.
     Mollie’s slow hooves striking the deck made
 Verity wince; the echoes were magnified by the
    rocky bluff, which was crevassed with dark
 slashes of shadow. The bluffs downriver were
translucent purple in the first rays of the rising
                     sun.
   When they’d crossed the gangplank Verity
      hoisted herself onto the saddle.
   A cool rocky riprap trail led upward and she
    took it, brushed by still-wet overhanging
   branches, kicking Mollie gently so that she
 scrambled up the trail with a speed that might
have frightened Verity had she not been so eager
  to get away, just get away! She glanced down
 and saw her gloves had quieted: it looked as if
     she were not wearing them at all. Good.
    She was not sure she wanted to trade her
   autonomy for the contents of the minds of
others, nor for their cumulative effect. But how
 long could she stay comfortable without their
                   proximity?
             Damn this conundrum!
   Mollie surged over the rim of the bluff with
   one strong bound and Verity was almost
    breathless with the beauty before her.
    She saw a land of low, rolling hills, newly
 green after spring rains. The hills were hazed
 with pink and white from stands of dogwood
and, Verity surmised, old apple orchards. The
path emerged in a field and continued onward.
   She came to a sharp rise and there was the
  Interstate gleaming below, half a mile away,
    seeming sweetly undamaged yet silent and
  empty as the land. Verity shivered. Had she a
solar car, how far could she go? What wild bands
roamed these roads, flicking downroad, silver in
  a flash of sun-speed? Could they go to Denver,
 Arizona, Oregon? Could they go to the vast and
 legendary Country of Los Angeles, once domed
 against plagues and sunlight? The road looked
     clean and swift and beckoning and yet—
                  It was not blue.
     She kicked and Mollie leaped forward. The
path broadened to an old wagon road kept clear
by someone, flanked by high grasses, and Verity
  felt those mooring lines which held her to her
     new community tighten and then snap as
      though she’d pushed through a binding
 membrane. She hunched down on Mollie’s back
and yelled and Mollie stretched out and took the
   land with speed, like the racehorse she was,
 almost out of Verity’s control and she whooped
                       again.
  She had an instant’s fear as Mollie went flying
after topping a hill but it was a small creek and
she kept her seat though Mollie braked sharply,
  suddenly in woods. She walked Mollie up the
   earth-smelling hill and then Mollie stopped
 short, to keep from falling off the cliff straight
               down into the river.
  The shimmering ribbon twisted between the
bluffs, almost turning back on itself. She heard
leaves rustle behind her; jumped, and turned in
                   the saddle.
 It was Blaze, of course, on Stewball, coming up
               the hill behind her.
  “Why didn’t you stop?” he asked. He brought
 Stewball up next to her, his eyes green as the
Ohio but unlike the river tinged with anger. “I
   kept yelling at you to stop,” he said. “You
shouldn’t be galloping around like that, should
 you? You’re pregnant. Remember when Jewel
              lost her first foal—”
  “I’m not a horse,” she said. She knew he was
right but of course couldn’t say so. “You’re the
      one who said we needed to get out.”
    “I didn’t think you’d go riding like an idiot
  through unknown country at a speed like to
   break your neck! I thought we’d take rides
together. And you need to take your rifle when
you go out.” He had his slung over his shoulder,
                     as usual.
   “You’ve been sleeping late in the mornings,”
 she pointed out. “And I’m piloting the boat all
day—I can’t take off with you and get picked up
downriver. But—I just can’t stand it anymore! I
               had to get away.”
   “What can’t you stand, Verity?” asked Blaze,
his voice low. He looked at her steadily, and the
            anger went out of his eyes.
  Below, there was movement on the rafts. The
      flow of people from raft to raft as they
  breakfasted ceased. Their distant, occasional
 shouts as they cast off and coiled mooring lines
on their rafts echoed from the rocky bluff. Those
  at the forefront of the mass of rafts caught the
   Ohio’s drift. In twos and threes they slipped
through the silver shaft of sunlight at the river’s
          curve and vanished from sight.
  Their motion soothed Verity. Things could
move without her; her effort was not needed to
   make the river flow or the wind blow.
  “Verity—look!” said Blaze. He pointed toward
                   the bluff.
                      “What?”
  “Isn’t that somebody… yes! There are people
 over there. It’s a cave. They’re coming out of a
                       cave.”
  Verity shaded her eyes and studied the bluff.
       “I don’t—oh. Yes. There they are.”
    She counted five people, tiny; they were at
least a quarter mile away, walking down a path
  etched in the bluff. They were moving rather
        quickly, almost jogging downhill.
 “I don’t know who they are or what they want
but they seem hellbent on getting to the boat.”
 Most of the rafts had swirled downstream by
now, and the Queen was just waiting for Verity
 and Blaze. “We’d better get back,” Blaze said,
         and gathered Stewball’s reins.
   But before they could turn, the tranquility of
the morning was broken by a powerful explosion
 from the bluff. An arc of smoke hung in the air
as a huge splash geysered from the center of the
    river, just off the bow of the Queen. Mollie
   reared and Verity grabbed the reins tightly,
frightened at the narrowness of the promontory.
   Rocks and dirt from Mollie’s frantic hooves
              tumbled down the bluff.
       “Get back!” yelled Blaze. “Come on.”
 She managed to get Mollie turned and followed
  Blaze down the trail for a few hundred feet,
feeling completely disoriented. They stopped at
           an opening in the trees.
               “Look,” said Blaze.
  From a black cave, another shot erupted. “It’s
a cannon,” said Blaze. It took off a chunk of the
boat’s railing, which splintered high and white
in the morning sun before falling into the river
                    like hail.
           The cannon boomed again.
    A few people ran around on the decks. It
 looked as though they were preparing to cast
    off. Blaze unslung his rifle and raised it,
           pointing it toward the cliff.
       “What are you doing?” yelled Verity.
  Then the people from the trail burst from the
canopy of trees and ran across the gangway onto
 the boat, hitting those who tried to fight them
        off. One person fell in the river.
   Blaze put his rifle across his back as they
  wheeled their horses and crashed down the
                      trail.
 It only took them a few minutes to descend the
  hill but it seemed an eternity to Verity. Then
they were free of the forest and galloping across
the field, low on the backs of their horses, Blaze
     yelling at Stewball to go faster, faster…
    Blaze’s horse disappeared beneath the trees
 fringing the river. Verity gained the brush as a
   shot rang out. Mollie, spooked by the sound,
  veered wildly off the trail and Verity thought
she’d be thrown over Mollie’s head but the horse
    skidded straight down to the river on her
haunches amid snapping branches which stung
   as they drew blood from Verity’s bare arms.
   They landed in the river with a loud splash.
Verity gasped at the frigid grip of the water and
  Mollie made a beeline straight for the shore.
  Verity loosed her feet from the stirrups and
floated free; struck out for the aft ladder, just a
                 few yards away.
   She swam to the boat and peered cautiously
               around the side.
  Stewball stood on the gangplank, and in a
moment Mollie joined him, her hooves loud and
   slow. But Blaze was nowhere in sight.
  Verity cautiously climbed the ladder, wincing
  at each small creak, shivering in the cool
morning air. She stuck her head slowly over the
              railing of the deck.
                  She saw no one.
   She scrambled over the railing and dropped
  down behind a huge coil of rope. She heard
 voices that seemed to be coming from the next
                     deck.
  “We know it’s here. Hand it over—everything
                  you’ve got.”
   “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
 Jack’s rich, gravelly voice was unmistakable.
  “I’d advise you to get the hell out of here.”
  “We can kill every last one of you dingbats and
look for ourselves, if that’s the way you want it.”
                A woman’s voice.
      Verity’s teeth were chattering. Her shoes
 squished with water as she crept forward. Her
  rifle was in her room. She pried off her shoes
 and left them behind. Someone had left a stout
 walking stick leaning against the engine-room
              door, and she grabbed it.
             “Who are you, anyway?”
    “We’re the Cave in the Rock Pirates,” the
                 woman said.
                 “Shut up, Nancy.”
  “We’re a network, see? The Cave in the Rock
Confederacy. CRC. All for one and one for all. Up
              and down the river.”
       “Nancy! It’s none of their business—”
  “Who cares? We’re going to kill the plagued lot
of them anyway. Do our little bit. It’s an ill wind
      that blows no good, eh? Norleans!” An
     unintelligible sound. “Full of the rats of
whatever’s left of the sick nation. Them that put
 us in this position. Not that I mind it so much.
 It’s a fine, fine life. So come on, I want to hear
 some tongues wag. You, black man. Never saw
such a fancy boat in all my life. Where you from,
                anyway? Pittsburgh?”
  Another cannonball whistled through the air,
  and shook the boat with a rending crunch.
  “Not very well organized, are you?” asked Lil.
“I guess it’s just a kick to fire the damned thing
 off. They don’t seem to care much if you’re on
                the boat. Do they?”
              “Shut up,” said Nancy.
    Verity leaned against the side of the cabin,
   wondering. Was there some sort of weapon,
some nanotech aspect of the boat, that she could
 use against these pirates? What did they want,
  anyway? The boat? Why not let them have the
  boat? Rafts were the thing, anyway. Everyone
else agreed on that; they only came onto the boat
 in the evenings. Just a raft, drifting, while fish
   hung on the line behind and the sun shone
                   overhead…
     The stick was wrenched in her grip and
  someone grabbed her around the waist. She
  managed to twist the stick and give it some
 force as she was bent double and she heard a
whuff behind her and a heavy thump as she was
 released. She turned and raised the stick and
 struck her assailant sharply on the head with
the butt end and he lay still. But it was too late.
A skinny blond kid, maybe seventeen, emerged
      from the door, holding Blaze’s rifle.
   The fallen man groaned, pushed long brown
  hair away from his blood-streaked face, and
              glared up at Verity.
 The blond kid said to Verity, “Well, come on in
 and join the party.” He motioned with Blaze’s
                      rifle.
  Blaze looked at her miserably as she entered
                   the room.
   The self-proclaimed pirate gang was ranged
  throughout the room. One of the women had
long, straight black hair. She too held a rifle and
  wore a glowing purple headband that flashed
  nancy off and on, in white letters, which was
rather distracting. Another teenaged girl wore a
 black jumpsuit beneath a short rabbit-fur vest.
 Verity stared, for from the bottom of it dangled
 the plastic heads of dolls, each attached to the
               jacket by their hair.
  The teenager, seeing Verity’s scrutiny, puffed
  up her chest. “Bet you’ve never seen anything
like this,” she declared solemnly. Verity thought
   that maybe she was fifteen. In fact, they all
 looked pretty young. Nancy was the oldest. But
   of course they had no real need to look any
    particular age. And she was only eighteen
herself. Except for all those years stuffed inside
 her… She fought an urge to burst out laughing
              at the grotesque jacket.
        “No,” said Verity gravely. “Never.”
          “Come on, Trish,” said Nancy.
  “Genuine Barbie heads,” Trish said, ignoring
 her fellow pirate. “Got it off some rafters from
  Pittsburgh. It’s a real antique. Watch this!”
 She shook them with a sharp twist of her torso
 so that they swayed, and all the heads said at
 once, in a small, squeaking chorus, “Ken is an
                     asshole.”
  Lil’s laugh began with a long, low whoop; she
 drew in her breath and then the laugh began
again, a bit higher. She gasped for breath again
 and Verity saw tears on her cheeks before she
      doubled over, clutching her stomach.
   When she straightened she had a gun in her
                    hand.
              She aimed it at Nancy.
             “Drop the rifle,” Lil said.
  “You,” said Nancy, and fired once through the
                       wall.
   Jack took two huge steps across the room and
  wrenched the rifle from Nancy’s hands. Verity
 grabbed a chair and whacked the brown-haired
  man, who had wandered in the door and was
looking at all of this dazed; it didn’t seem to faze
  him but Blaze punched him and he staggered
    back. The blond kid raised his rifle. Verity
  yelled “Lil!” and Lil whirled and fired; the kid
     fell to the carpet with a spatter of blood.
    In the melee Verity thought she saw a look
pass between Nancy and the blond kid; thought
he gave a quick nod, and that Nancy returned it.
Then she ran with the rest of them, out the door
            and down the gangway.
     Lil dropped down next to the fallen man.
“Damn,” she said. “Don’t be dead.” She absently
reached through the slit at the side of her dress
  and stuck her gun back into a black holster
 around her thigh; Verity suddenly understood
   the utility of her strange mode of dressing.
   “Lil,” said Verity, and put her hand on the
  woman’s thin shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. I—”
 “Hell,” said Lil, standing up. “I don’t feel bad. I
   feel alive. It wouldn’t upset me if he was
stone-cold dead. The only reason I’d feel bad is
because I want to ask him some questions.” She
grinned and poked him with the pointed toe of
her shoe. “He’s breathing. Let’s take him to the
pool room, Jack. We can lay him on the table and
  circle him menacingly—” She took a few long
 slow stalking steps and made her eyes narrow
                   and mean.
 “You’ve got to be kidding,” Jack replied with a
vehemence that surprised Verity. “I’m not going
  to let him bleed all over my table. I’ve been
waiting years to have enough time to play pool.”
 “Poor baby,” said Lil. “I wanted him to suffer. I
          wanted a little drama—”
     “Haven’t had your morning’s dose yet?”
               interjected Jack.
    Lil flashed him a look. “But I see you are
against me. All right. Wrap the evil one in satin
       and give him some nice, hot tea.”
                 The boy groaned.
  “They’ve deserted you, kid,” said Lil. “Nice lot
 of friends you’ve chosen.” She knelt and lifted
his head. “How much nan you got stockpiled up
 there? How many different assemblers? Know
             what any of them do?”
       “Leave me alone, bitch,” said the kid.
  Lil spat, but directed it to the floor, and let his
   head drop back with a thud. She stood and
  straightened her dress. “Whatever you say, O
   mighty King of the Pirates. I guess we’ll just
 have to head up there and root them out to get
     some answers. How old are you anyway?
Sixteen? Sure you’re ready for the consequences
                of a life of crime?”
  The boy avoided Lil’s stare. He tried to raise
 himself up on his elbows but groaned and fell
back. He looked at his abdomen, felt his bloody
          clothes. “It hurts,” he said.
   “I can fix it,” Lil said. “For a price. You’re a
 pirate, aren’t you? A nan pirate, right? Get my
                        drift?”
  “Just… don’t… hurt… them,” he said, and fell
                   back.
     “Post a guard,” Lil told Verity. Then she
 smiled. “I guess that means you and Jack. You
  too, Peabody, if you can muster the gall. Or
      maybe you can get this tub moving.”
  Another cannonball shook the ship. Peabody
 ran from the room, his face pale and serious.
Verity was surprised that he could move so fast.
    Lil motioned to Blaze. “Help me carry this
 deluded kid to a nice down bed.” She lifted his
shoulders and Blaze took his feet. “Careful now,
   be gentle to the poor angel,” she said, and
  dropped his shoulders. He screamed in pain.
 “Whoops. This is too awkward. Blaze, can you
 just… thanks.” Blaze scooped up the wounded
    pirate with some effort and carried him
    sideways through the door. Lil followed.
  Verity and Jack picked up rifles and stepped
 cautiously out on deck. The boat vibrated and
chains clanked as the anchor rose, but before it
was fully in, the boat began to move faster than
          Verity had thought possible.
   One last cannonball came sailing out of the
  dark mouth of the cave, and landed behind
     them. Then they rounded the bend.
                       Safe!
  All the rafts were long gone, swept downriver
for their morning’s tour. Verity felt the familiar
  anxiety in the pit of her stomach: they were
    heading with little control into unknown
          territory. Waterfalls, rapids…
  “Hey!” said Jack. “You okay? I think the kid
will be all right. Lil might seem tough, but she’s
                got healing ways.”
  “I’m fine,” said Verity, realizing with surprise
that she was. The morning’s gore had not upset
 her as much as she expected, but maybe that
 was because the kid would be all right. “What
           does Lil want to find out?”
 Jack gestured with his rifle toward the cave, a
black gash in the cliff face. “You didn’t hear the
whole thing. They burst inside, demanding that
we hand over any sort of nan we had on board.”
      Any sort of nan. The fact of the patent
enlivenment of the boat overwhelmed Verity for
a moment, taking her breath away. She managed
 to push it out of her mind most of the time. But
   there it was—every bit of the boat had been
 grown by nanotechnology, powerful molecular
 engineering, directed by a part of her she was
  trying desperately to avoid knowing, as if it
  were some sort of diamond-hard tumor she
            might someday excise.
     Absently, she rubbed one of her nubs. Don’t
   touch! warned a whisper in her mind and she
jerked her hand back to the familiar stock of the
  rifle. She had grown up thinking of a rifle as a
 helpful tool, with which she’d shot rabbits, and
 sometimes deer, though always reluctantly, for
 her Shaker community back on Bear Creek. She
  looked at it doubtfully, now, as its gray barrel
 caught the spring sun. She had never dreamed
     that a gun might be turned against other
  humans, as John had used his, to kill Blaze; as
 Lil had so swiftly pulled out her pearl-handled
              pistol and shot the boy…
   “I think you might need to rest a bit,” said
Jack, his voice concerned. “You look awful pale.
  Those kids aren’t going to storm back down
 here. Right now they’re cowering up in their
   cave, worried about their friend. But not
   worried enough to die trying to save him.”
  Verity breathed deeply. “No, really, I’m okay.”
  She ignored the way her stomach felt. It had
 nothing to do with the events of the day. “Why
              do they want nan?”
   Jack shrugged. “All sorts of possible reasons.
I’d say that they don’t have the infrastructure to
 use it. They don’t have the background, either.
  They’re probably descended from the Pure
  People. There are enclaves of them in these
                    parts.”
               “The Pure People?”
    Jack grinned. “A long time ago… oh, a very
  long time ago, the country manifested a last
         gasp of white supremacists…”
                  “White what?”
  “People who believed that the white race was
   born to rule the earth, was the best sort of
human, chosen by God to prevail, and, of course,
   that all other races were evil and had to be
                   wiped out…”
     “Really?” asked Verity, a bit stunned. She
remembered Tai Tai—her dark African skin, the
  beautiful slant of her eyes which added some
sort of Asian background, exotic-seeming next to
 Verity’s humdrum whiteness. Tai Tai had been,
as far as Verity could tell, a mathematical genius
   of some sort. That was one thing Verity had
        longed for as a child—difference…
           Well, she certainly had that.
   “Really,” said Jack gently. “You are a naive
      child, I can see that. Racism is a very
    fundamental human trait. Not limited to
Caucasians by any means. One of the things nan
 could do with ease was change racial markers
like skin color which had for so long kept us all
separate and at war. Of course new markers of
  thought arose quite rapidly. But nan made it
possible to actually change one’s race. The Pures
 naturally believed that all Africans, all Asians,
  everyone that didn’t fit their template might
   disguise themselves in this way. Of course,
 hardly anyone aspired to such nefarious ends!”
    Jack laughed hugely for a moment, quite
   tickled, apparently, at the very thought of
                  turning white.
    “They waged a war against all nan. For this
 reason. Lots of groups did. They all had their
 own reasons. Looks like they might have been
 right. Nanotech has certainly changed things.
But what can you do? There are some ‘antidotes,’
 I suppose you might call them. But it was like
trying to stop a flood with a teacup. I’d say that
bunch up there has made a living for some time
  by selling captured nan to a network which
   assures them that it’s being destroyed. But
      actually, they then use it themselves.”
            “For what?” asked Verity.
  Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Just about anything,
 my dear. That’s the fun of it all. And that’s the
             terror of it all too.”
    “How do you know all this?” asked Verity.
  “Well,” said Jack, “I’ve obviously been around
 longer than you. I can take care of this end of
things.” Blaze was coming down the deck. “Give
     Blaze your rifle and go sit in with Lil.”
       Instead, Verity made her way to the
  pilothouse. She was worried about the boat.
  One corner of the roof had been ripped off by a
  cannonball. Splintered debris was scattered
across the floor, and the gaping hole was ragged.
  Peabody stood in a flood of sunlight. He had
 stuffed a cushion between the wall and a lever
  so that the console was shaded and readable.
   Glancing at the river every other second, he
 spent the other seconds staring at the console
 with a frown on his face. “Damndest thing I’ve
  ever seen,” he muttered, then looked up. “Oh.
 Verity. Good. Can you keep an eye on the river
              while I fool with this?”
  Verity stepped up to the wheel and saw that
 her customary charts were not on the screen.
  Instead, Peabody had invoked some icons she
              had not seen before.
            “What’s that?” she asked.
     “Damned if I know. I need some sort of
translation. This boat’s from Cincinnati, right?”
                 “Yes,” she said.
   “It’s amazing how much the systems seem to
 have diverged after NAMS was destroyed.” He
 frowned again. “The pumps are on but I think
  we’re taking on water. Look, maybe you can
  help. I need a schematic of the entire Queen.
            Give me back the wheel.”
   They traded places. She touched the screen
  and invoked a boat icon, about a foot long. It
hovered in front of the cushion. She wasn’t sure
how she knew how to do this. The motions came
  from a place she did not know. This is Rose’s
 boat, that’s how I know these things. And it was
  somewhat of an emergency. She’d found that
    Rose—or at least information Rose would
know—had a tendency to break into her mind at
                    those times.
        Rose, the ever-helpful, she thought
                  sarcastically.
 Her fingers danced on very particular parts of
  the screen. She touched it once, and saw a
network of pipes; again; and the boat was a fine
web through which coursed three colors of fluid.
  As she watched, the colors blended to make
  every color imaginable and then fixed on a
 particular spectrum, which changed slightly
                every second.
  “That’s the replicator network,” said Peabody.
   “But it’s not reflecting the boat as it is. For
 instance…” He touched the portion of the icon
    that corresponded to the pilothouse, but
 nothing happened. “See, it’s a very specialized
system, and I’m just not part of it, my dear. I’m
not of much help. But can you try and show this
             pilothouse as it is now?”
   Minutes passed while Verity fooled with the
system. Having a particular goal helped. Before,
not knowing its capabilities, she had been lost in
 the very multiplicity of information available.
   She finally flattened the boat onto the screen
and by touching the pilothouse replicated it, but
 still intact, not showing the morning’s damage.
    “Is there a date function?” asked Peabody,
pulling back on the throttle as they approached
 a raw new island on the right, where the river
ran muddy. “Maybe you can get to it that way.”
  Verity suddenly realized that she didn’t really
know what year it was. Russ had kept the dates,
 of course, but she’d never paid much attention
 to them. It had never really mattered, adrift in
                time as they were.
                    And now?
 She found a chart of the river and made it very
   small. With a tiny pointer she followed the
course of the boat down the river and the screen
 ran down the minutes and then the hours and
then the days, hours, minutes, and seconds they
              were from Cincinnati.
  “That will do,” said Peabody. “Keep going till
                the clock stops.”
      When she got to the present—she was
       surprised to see that this was their
 twenty-eighth day out—she again manifested
the pilothouse and there it was, or rather, there
          it was not, the roof missing.
  “Good,” said Peabody. “Now the whole boat.
 Good. Well. Big bash on the right bow but just
above the waterline. Now, if I could just get into
the subprogram and… well, you can do it… let’s
                     see…”
  “How about this?” asked Verity. She put the
smashed boat and the perfect boat side by side.
 Then she pushed them together so they were
               superimposed.
    “Well,” said Peabody doubtfully. “I don’t
                   know…”
               “Look,” said Verity.
  A crack in the window in front of them was
   slowly vanishing. So slowly that it almost
seemed not to be happening, like the setting of
                   the sun.
                Then it was gone.
         “You’ve done it,” said Peabody.
“Congratulations. I guess I’m all but useless out
 here. Funny!” He turned back to the river, an
             odd look on his face.
  “But where is the matter coming from?” she
   asked. “I mean, the window can probably
rearrange slightly, and knit, but the top of the
pilothouse went into the river. The boat grew
       from special fluid in Cincinnati.”
  “Water,” said Peabody. “It will take a hell of a
 lot of water. But there’s particulate matter in
  the water, and I’m sure if we knew more we
   could access its composition. It looks as if
  there’s a furnace that uses other fuels too, if
necessary. If I were designing a boat like this I’d
have the whole hull be a processing membrane.
  In fact, I’d have the whole damned thing be
unsinkable.” He glanced at her. “You look tired,
 child. I think we’ve got it now. Go have a rest.”
   “But—” she said, suddenly noticing that his
  hand, in the shadow of the cushion, had that
             slight, golden sheen…
    He followed her look and smiled slightly,
though his eyes had a sad, distant look. “Oh. Yes.
        I was hoping for that, actually.”
                      “Why?”
        “Because, don’t you see, my dear?”
                    “See what?”
      “It will give me something to live for.”
   Verity slipped inside the bright stateroom
where the very young man lay in the center of a
huge bed. His bloody shirt was a crumpled heap
 on a green rug next to the bed, and he wore a
 white bandage across his chest. He appeared
 awake and alert and Lil turned her head and
               nodded to Verity.
   “His name’s Eliot,” said Lil. “He might have
some internal injuries. But of course he’d rather
          die than be healed by nan.”
       The kid just glanced wearily at Lil.
   “And I told him that we certainly have some
    good old-fashioned non-nan painkillers
   somewhere. But he’ll have to cooperate. Of
 course, there’s really nothing to keep me from
using nan on him, is there? Not just healing nan,
        but all kinds of plagued stuff—”
   Eliot twisted on the bed as if to spring away
 but Lil leaned over and grabbed his wrists. He
thrashed and started to kick. Lil raised her fist
   and held it squarely above his face and he
                     quieted.
     “His orders are just to steal nan,” Lil told
 Verity. “He’s not supposed to actually benefit
  from it himself. That’s for his boss. He’s been
 trained to think of actually using it himself as
 the worst sort of heresy.” She turned to Eliot.
             “How many are there?”
  “Fifty,” he said. “And they’ll kill you. Cut you
            off downriver. With nets.”
 “If there are ten of you I’d be surprised,” said
 Lil. “I guess you usually get what you want?”
    “Why didn’t you come last night?” asked
                   Verity.
   “We were planning our strategy,” said Eliot.
  “They were shaking in their boots,” said Lil.
“They were waiting until the rafts left. But my
guess—no, more than a guess, truth be told— is
that there’s some despotic old bum up there—”
           “He’s not a bum!” said Eliot.
   “—Eliot’s father, maybe.” Lil grinned while
Eliot glowered. “Been there since kingdom come.
Takes young ones off rafts and raises them up.”
   “We don’t take any plaguers from rafts. I’m
                   from—”
   “From where?” asked Lil sharply, but Eliot
                  shut up.
    “Well, he’s a kind old man,” Lil continued.
 “Loving as the day is long. Never hits. Never
yells.” She leaned over Eliot. “He’s been leading
 you on, kid. He’s well preserved. He’s about a
 hundred and fifty years old. Because of nan.
    Because of the things he has you steal—”
 “He is not!” yelled Eliot. This time he did make
 it off the bed but only staggered a foot before
   grabbing the dresser. He clutched his side,
gasping. “It hurts,” he said, and tears filled his
  eyes. He did not blink, but stood and walked
slowly and carefully to the window, supporting
                himself on the sill.
  “It’s the only life you’ve ever known, isn’t it?”
  asked Lil gently. “Robbing and killing. How
          many people have you killed?”
 He shrugged, his shoulders thin and pale from
                   behind.
   “You don’t have to,” said Lil. “I know you’re
planning to slip off as soon as possible. But you
can come with us, and welcome. You can be free
                 of that tyrant.”
         “He’s not welcome,” said Verity.
    “Stay and get the plague,” he whispered,
   wheeling and sagging against the window.
 “That’s why we have to kill them. Like vermin,
        he says. It spreads everywhere.”
   It was why Shaker Hill was created, Verity
thought, remembering Russ’s brief mentions of
guards with guns posted down at the New Ohio
      River bluffs during the early years.
   Eliot continued. “We’re helping the world.
We’re bound by an oath. A blood oath, like in the
 books. All the nan—he gives it to people who
 deactivate it. It’s horrible stuff. Horrible. The
                   work of the—”
    “Devil,” finished Lil, dryly. “Like the blues
itself—the devil’s music. The devil’s technology.
Unfortunately, it was all made by humans. With
               a little help from AI.”
       “Ae-I?” asked Verity. “What’s that?”
   Lil turned her head. It was clear that she’d
    almost forgotten that Verity was there.
         “Artificial intelligence,” said Lil.
           “How do you know all this?”
            “It’s not a secret,” she said.
    “I mean about the pirates—this group—”
 Lil sighed. “Just guessing,” she said, but Verity
did not believe her. She decided to say nothing
  about it, though, in front of Eliot, who was
  bound by a terrible pirate blood oath to kill
   them all. Why keep him around? The first
         chance he got he’d kill them.
            “Let him go,” she told Lil.
 “Why?” asked Lil. “So he can kill more people?
We need to go back there and clean out the lot of
       them, with or without his help.”
      “What do you mean, clean them out?”
   “Oh,” Lil laughed. “I don’t mean kill them. I
               mean convert them.”
              “How?” asked Verity.
       “With information,” said Lil. “This.”
 And before she or Eliot could move Lil pulled a
  small vial from her pocket, reached around
  Eliot, and squirted it beneath his nose. Eliot
sneezed and looked at her in terror. “What have
                   you done?”
 He began sobbing, then rushed her. Lil handily
 grabbed him around the waist and flung him
  down on the bed, where he lay panting. He
started to rise again, then fell back and passed
                       out.
  “What did you do?” asked Verity. “Where did
               you get that?”
  “I think you know quite well what I did,” said
  Lil, breathing hard. “He’s quite a handful. I
   guess I’ve had my exercise for the week—”
                      “Lil?”
   Verity and Lil turned. Jack was standing in
  the doorway. The look on his face was sad;
               almost wistful.
       “Well?” said Lil. “He irritated me.”
    Jack said quietly, “Are you all right? I was
 afraid this would be too much. It’s been a long
 time since you were… around so many people.
     It’s stressful. You can’t save the world,
 remember? You didn’t ask his permission. You
didn’t give him any information. You didn’t give
                 him any choice—”
           He took a step toward her.
 “Nobody gave me a choice,” yelled Lil. “And I’m
   happy as a clam, see? See?” She shrugged
     elaborately and dropped into a chair.
       Jack just sighed and looked worried.
  “Everything you’ve ever done has been your
 choice and you know it. Don’t you? Or are you
forgetting what you are, what we’re supposed to
   be doing. Lil, has there been any sort of… I
                      mean…”
 “I’m intact,” said Lil. “No wolves or tigers yet.”
               She looked defiant.
  “What are you talking about? When are you
going to use that on us? Or have you already?”
                 asked Verity.
  Lil burst out laughing. Wildly. Hysterically.
Tears rolled down her cheeks. “You? You’re all
on such strong stuff that this wouldn’t make a
dent in it. The Norleans Plague is the strongest
       there is, Verity. Oh, it certainly is!”
  Then Jack was hugging her, shushing her. She
continued talking after a minute, more subdued,
looking at Verity over Jack’s shoulder. “No, this
is just a mild pacifier. It’s working on his limbic
         system. Replacing this and that.”
 “Replacing this and that,” said Jack, dropping
his arms, his voice heavy with sarcastic mimic.
 “So easy,” said Jack. “Take away his life, his
community. The people who love him and care
                  about him.”
   “Community? Love? Excuse me, but I don’t
think those words apply. You think I should go
 on letting him kill people?” asked Lil. “When I
           have the power to stop it?”
 “Yeah and all because information wants to be
 free,” said Jack. “Well you can stuff your old
                 information.”
   “We’ll let him go now,” said Lil. “He’ll infect
                    them all.”
  “They’ll kill him straight off,” said Jack, “and
you know it. Pick him off on the way up the cliff.
 He’s contaminated. He’s yours, Lil. Your little
                       pet.”
   Lil smiled. But—were her eyes glimmering
 with tears? Her sudden laugh seemed to belie
       them. “So hard to save the world.”
   Verity looked back and forth between them.
          She didn’t know what to say.
 “I think you’re wrong,” she finally told Lil, and
                started to leave.
  “What? After keeping them from killing all of
you? Like I said,” replied Lil with a heavy mock
   sigh. “Like I said.” She sat in a swatch of
  sunlight, gazing thoughtfully at Eliot, as he
slowly blinked his eyes and a slight smile lit his
                       face.
   “We’re going to Cairo, aren’t we?” he said. He
   sounded strangely satisfied. He turned and
 looked straight into Verity’s eyes. “If you can’t
            beat ’em, join ’em, right?”
 Lil frowned. “It never worked that fast before.”



                Fourteen
             Revelation Blues

The breakfast table where Lil and Verity helped
themselves to yellow mounds of scrambled eggs
and the never-ending biscuits was splashed with
sunlight. One of the children had discovered a
great store of dried eggs, much to everyone’s
relief. Verity decided she preferred the
red-checked tablecloths she had found in an
upper cabinet to the white linen that somehow
cleaned itself after every meal, stains gradually
fading.
    “I don’t recommend you stopping in Cairo,”
 said Lil. She poured a dollop of honey into her
coffee and stirred. There was plenty of honey. “I
hear everyone talking about it and it’s just not a
                   good idea.”
    “Why not?” asked Verity, feeling her usual
  irritation with Lil, which had to do with how
much Lil seemed to know and how little she said
about anything. She was a bit thinner, lately, if
 such a thing was possible. Every day she wore
   one of those dresses which seemed like they
might get pretty warm and confining, since they
  had those long sleeves and were so tight and
covered her so completely. Her cheekbones had
 not been quite so visible a few weeks ago, had
                       they?
          “It’s not a nice place,” said Lil.
   “Why not? What’s wrong with it? Are there
              pirates there?”
 Eliot looked up from the next table. “Pirates?”
 he asked with his empty, angelic smile, then
went back to eating. He spent a lot of time in his
room with the door shut, or else he was poking
 around the ship, wandering in his demented
  way into storage rooms and even, once, the
          pilothouse, always smiling.
   Lil sighed and leaned back in her chair. She
   bowed her head briefly, then raised it and
spoke. “Of course. But not only pirates. Cairo is
a strange town. Your whole trip could fall apart
                      there.”
     Not mine, thought Verity, as a flash of a
bluebird flying past the window caught her eye.
   Nothing could stop my trip. “So what?” she
  asked. “I’m getting tired of all these people, if
you want to know the truth. If they want to go to
  Norleans—Nawlins, they’re calling it now—by
 themselves, fine! Let them! All they do is whine
     and complain about how they’re not in
  Cincinnati anymore, and about how it’s all my
      fault. I thought I was helping them.”
  Lil nodded thoughtfully, and took another bite
of toast. “It is hard to help people, certainly. But
now that they’ve left Cincinnati, their womb, so
  to speak, it’s really your responsibility to get
                 them to their goal.”
 “It seems to me that the plague will get them to
       their goal regardless,” said Verity.
  “That’s the problem,” said Lil, leaning forward
   suddenly. “Time. They have to get there in a
            certain amount of time.”
  “Why?” asked Verity. “How do you know?” She
 suddenly wished that there was a whole history
 that she could open, somewhere, hook into, and
  curl up, absorbing it all, knowing it all at last,
the good and the bad and why this and why that.
 Why humans were different now, how it had all
 happened, where it was leading. “Why is this all
              a goddamned secret?”
 She pushed her chair over backward and stood
up. Why are you getting so excited? a part of her
           asked. Just calm down—
   “I will not calm down! I will not!” she heard
                  herself yelling.
     “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” asked Lil,
looking Verity up and down suddenly. “That’s it!
 Why did it take me so long to figure it out? Oh,
honey, that’s wonderful!” She got up and hugged
       Verity and Verity pushed her away.
  “It’s none of your business,” she yelled, feeling
                 worse than ever.
     “That’s okay, Verity,” said Jack, from the
doorway. She stood there shaking as he grabbed
a plate, went to the table, sat down, and started
filling it up with breakfast stuff. “Hey. Rave on.
Lil has the same effect on me. You’re pregnant?
                That’s wonderful!”
  “Oh, stop it!” she said. But she sat down again,
   rather worn out. She could hardly keep her
  pregnancy a secret, but Jack and Lil already
 knew too much about her. “I’m just tired of not
knowing anything. Lil said something about how
 we have to get to Norleans in a certain amount
                 of time, that’s all.”
  “Oh?” asked Jack, glancing at Lil. Her lips set
    in a line and she didn’t look back at him.
    “And what will happen if we don’t?” asked
                    Verity.
    Lil sighed, then said, “The Nawlins Plague is
 degenerative. It gives a big push to all sorts of
areas of brain growth. But those chemicals cease
to be secreted after a certain amount of time. I’m
  really not sure how long. But once they are no
  longer secreted, people die. That’s one reason
the plague is so strong. It’s a tradeoff. I’ve heard
 that the last stretch of the Mississippi is filled
   with dead bodies. Or was, at one point.” She
          stood suddenly and left the room.
   “She seemed kind of angry,” said Jack, as he
         peppered his eggs and sighed.
    “She doesn’t think we should stop at Cairo,”
    said Verity. “But I don’t see how I can stop
  anybody from doing whatever they want.” She
felt a sudden stab of fear. What would this mean
 for the baby? Too late to worry about that now.
   “I think you could, if you really wanted to,”
said Jack. He piled eggs on a piece of toast and
                  took a bite.
     “What do you know about Cairo?” asked
                   Verity.
    Jack ate in silence for a minute, but Verity
        could tell he was just thinking.
 “They voted to convert, back at the beginning,”
  he said. “But then they voted to stop it. Got
 scared. It was half-finished. I’m not sure how
   they stopped it at that point, but there are
 vestiges of the conversion all around. It’s a lot
larger than it used to be, back around 2000. Once
  the trains came back, it grew fast. All kinds of
 people show up there. All kinds. People heading
           west. People heading south.”
       “People heading east?” asked Verity.
  “Nobody heads east,” said Jack. He folded the
  rest of his toast and stuffed it in his mouth.
                    “Why not?”
                 “They just don’t.”
      “Right. Have you ever been to Cairo?”
   “Oh yes,” said Jack, his face sad. “I’ve been
                    there.”
        “What for? How did you get there?”
 “I had to do a report,” he said. “And I got there
                   via NAMS.”
 Blaze came in and picked up a plate. He turned
 when Jack said NAMS. “What?” he asked, his
    face pale so that his freckles stood out.
   “You’re up early this morning,” Verity said.
     Blaze ignored her. “What about NAMS?”
   Jack shrugged. “What about it? I was telling
          Verity about using NAMS.”
    Blaze set his plate back on the pile and sank
 into a chair. “NAMS,” he whispered. “I thought
 I’d forgotten. But I haven’t. I wish I had. It was
                    so horrible.”
       “What was?” asked Verity, alarmed.
  “Riding NAMS into Cincinnati. I… Cairo had
 just woken me. It’s like I felt a jolt, somehow,
and opened my eyes all of a sudden and instead
 of being at Shaker Hill I didn’t know where I
 was and Cairo was pulling those sheets off of
me, just gripping a little bit with her teeth and
    pulling, and growling, and licking me.”
    “Poor Cairo,” said Verity. A black wave of
  sadness suffused her. “She was a good dog.”
  Blaze raised his eyes to hers. “I didn’t know
who I was, Verity. I didn’t know where I was. I
didn’t know how I got there. I felt sick, so sick.
   It was like I was dreaming.” He started
breathing harder, as if breathing was difficult.
   “Calm down,” said Jack, reaching over and
           rubbing Blaze’s back.
 “I remember the worst thing,” Blaze said dully.
“The worst thing was that there was no heaven.
   It was just all kind of blank and awful and
            hurting… faces… pain…”
  “Because you weren’t dead, Blaze,” Verity said,
  trying not to scream at him. “I never believed
  you were dead! Not for one minute!” She was
 trembling. “But you don’t care, do you? All you
  care about is that—that music! And the radio
 stones. You’re just like all the rest of them. You
 don’t care how hard it was for me to save you!”
     She jumped up and rushed out the door,
ignoring Blaze’s “Wait!” She ran very fast so that
he couldn’t catch her if he was following her and
ducked around a corner and sat there curled up,
               shaking with anger.
   But after a few minutes, she began to laugh,
and wiped her tears away as she stood up. “Why
 should they care?” she asked herself. “What do
              you want? A medal?”
   It was time to get under way. She walked up
the stairs to the pilothouse and stepped into her
  domain, where the flashing blue-green of the
       river pulled her on, and on, and on.
   Later on in the day, she relinquished a bit of
 piloting to Mr. Peabody, after he insisted that
  she take a rest. He was, as Blaze had said, a
  competent fellow. She felt more comfortable
  with him on the boat. Not quite as alone and
                    nervous.
   As she passed the auditorium, she heard the
faint strains of a blues song coming faintly from
the auditorium. She stopped still and the words
                    came clear.
       I got nineteen men and I want one more
       I got nineteen men and I want one more
       If I get one more I’ll let those nineteen go.
  There were two female voices, one singing the
first line, the other responding with the second.
  As she listened, the song ended, and dialogue
                       began.
  Curious, she descended the stairs, opened the
tall doors to the auditorium, and slipped inside.
 She sat on one of the velvet chairs at the very
  back. No one onstage paid her any attention.
  She saw three black girls. Verity thought they
were probably twelve. One of them had her hair
 cut very close to her head, so close she looked
 almost bald. Another had very long hair which
curled in strands so that, with her golden-brown
  skin, she looked almost lionlike in the warm
   lights of the stage. The third wore a large
               jeweled headdress.
     The short-haired girl reached for the
headdress. “It’s my turn to be Bessie,” she said.
  The first one kept the headdress firmly on her
 head with both hands. Her dress glittered and
 she wore a necklace of gold coins around her
   neck. “No! I get to be Bessie the whole time
         today. That’s what we agreed.”
   “That’s right, Sarah,” the other one pointed
out. “Quit making trouble. Jesse’s right. We have
   two more acts to go. Now where were we?”
 “New York,” said Sarah. “I was getting ready to
make my first record. Hey,” she yelled, “don’t we
           get some props, people?”
 “We’re still working on them,” came a yell from
  a console where a boy and a girl were sitting
 with a look of concentration on their faces. A
background depicting a small room with a ghost
    engineer manipulating dials and wearing
  headphones wavered around the girls for a
         moment, then faded away.
  “Forget it,” said one of the girls. “How about a
              microphone, at least?”
    “We made this for real,” said the boy, and
      dragged on a large placard with an
       advertisement for race records.
   “Well,” said the other girl doubtfully. “Better
 than nothing I guess. Now are we in Harlem or
                      what?”
   The play moved along. Bessie got a check for
  $125.00, all she would ever make for a record
  side though a record might sell hundreds of
thousands of copies. She never got any royalties.
 They went to a man who coopted them without
 telling her. Apparently this was the way many
blues singers were treated well into the thirties.
         “I can’t believe this,” said Jesse.
  “That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” said
                     Sarah.
    “Well, I don’t know much about money…”
                “I’ll say you don’t.”
   “Well, who does? But this doesn’t seem fair.”
            “So what? She was happy.”
       “Maybe she didn’t know any better.”
    “She fired a few managers because of it.”
    “It’s kind of like… what’s fair? My mother
signed up for me to have receptors. She got them
   too. But all the good stuff was withheld until
     they were paid off. Even after the original
  conversion. She used to come home screaming
      mad after meetings with the class-action
  lawyers. Not at me but at CintiBeez, Inc. They
    were the original company. I’ll tell you who
  made a killing—the lawyers. My mom was the
    curator of the Museum of African-American
Arts.” In the spotlight, she lowered her head and
 closed her eyes. “I can still remember what was
    inscribed over the door… ‘Only the art, the
     distilled culture of the subjugated people,
   survives.’ In our case, I guess that was music
                     and dance.
      “Anyway, we couldn’t really use all the
services the city offered until it was all paid off.
So, like, the richies were having all these loony
fantasies and living in those flower towers, and
 we were had to live in houses at various stages
 of enlivenment. I mean, you couldn’t even get
 into a tower without the right receptors.” She
  opened her eyes and looked at her hands. “I
   don’t know. I guess I was… sleeping… for a
 while.” She grinned. “But then the True Queen
       came, and gave access to all of us!”
    “And now here we are,” said Jesse sourly,
    “floating down the river like a bunch of
               low-grade idiots.”
  “But Jesse,” said Sarah, her smile broadening,
        “remember where we’re going.”
    “I know,” said Jesse. “I remember all that
   history. Right into the heart of the land of
                 slavery. Ugh.”
   “No,” said Sarah in a gentle voice. “That was
  long ago. We’re going there now.” And Sarah
  began to sing, some sort of blues song about
                going to Nawlins.
 At first, Jesse had her back turned. But by the
chorus, the others had joined in, even the crew
 in the back, the members of which wandered
   onstage. Their voices were haunting; the
harmonies were strange to Verity’s ears and the
rhythms within the music changed constantly.
 Suddenly Verity didn’t know if their dialogue
     was real, or was just part of the play.
    Verity was drawn into the strange music as
 she never had been before, the bits she’d heard
   on the radio stones, Blaze’s fumbling guitar
attempts to imitate what he was hearing. Which,
   she had to admit, had improved quite a bit
lately. Her heart was torn by the simple tales of
woe, hard times, and the broken relationships of
people whose families had been wrenched apart
  by force for generations and now that slavery
    was officially over found themselves in an
  economic reality that duplicated many of the
   same conditions: constant indebtedness to
sharecroppers, inability to attend good schools,
 vote, or have recourse to the legal system. She
heard, woven into the music, a history of it; how
  the coded messages conveyed in field hollers
evolved into the music played at night, at family
      parties on weekends, in jook joints in
out-of-the-way places, worn shacks that had no
               value to the whites.
   Then she was startled from that stream by a
                  new voice.
     Rich and deep, it came from a tiny black
   woman onstage. She was accompanied by a
   guitar, but she was not playing it. She was
standing alone in a spotlight. Behind her, sitting
    on a stool, was Blaze, with his guitar. She
     wondered again where he had found it.
    The woman sang a song about jealousy and
loss. Blaze’s guitar work held the woman’s voice
   perfectly in a musical web which constantly
   changed, in tenor, in rhythm, in intensity. It
  keened in flattened intervals above her voice,
   swooped from below and touched it in brief
unison. With a pang, Verity remembered the way
he used to play to her dancing: like this. But this
   music was more intense, and so much more
 personal. When the woman stopped singing, he
  played on, but without her voice he made the
 guitar sing like a woman, and misery and pain
            exploded in Verity’s heart.
        Was it his, she wondered, or hers?
  Maybe it came from both of them. How distant
he had been lately. She missed him… but it was
 the old Blaze she missed. This new Blaze was
          more and more a stranger.
    At least he’s alive, she thought, I saved him
 from death but this is what the cure did to him
 and to us, and her mind went round and round
in that same circle while his blues played on and
                          on.
    There was some commotion and she went up
on deck. She was surprised to see that they were
  locking through a dam. For an instant she felt
 panic; then it subsided—Peabody could handle
 this as well as or better than she. And this time
        there was a lockmaster, a woman.
      Verity saw her as she rode the gondola
    between the two towers; stared up at her
 shadowy, impersonal profile as she opened the
lower gates and let them through. There was no
  town visible. Just the dam, the lock, and the
woman. Verity waved at her as they rounded the
        bend, but she did not wave back.
  When Verity next went to the auditorium, on a
rainy evening, she was surprised to see Jack and
                      Lil.
   Lil’s long legs were draped over the chair in
 front of her and Jack’s extended into the aisle.
 Lil wore a green dress tonight, as glittery as all
the others. Or maybe, thought Verity, narrowing
 her eyes in the glow of the footlights, it was the
 same dress every time. Self-cleaning, changing
             color with Lil’s whim.
    Of course. Why had it taken her so long to
                 realize this?
   Jack turned and waved her down the aisle.
  Verity dropped into a seat behind them and
leaned forward. “How do you—” she began, but
  Jack shushed her with a wave of his hand.
    Three people were arguing onstage, but not
projecting. Finally the word paris dissolved on a
  screen set on an easel on one side of the stage
 and was replaced by Washington, d.c. A muscle
in Jack’s cheek began to tic; then the lights went
           down and rehearsal began.
     The sign changed again, this time to blues
 alley. A couple came onstage and sat at a small
                     table.
  Tiny lines of dialogue had appeared on Verity’s
  hands quite often during the days as the play
 evolved. The words changed almost constantly
  as the concepts were smoothed by the group
    mind of the awakening rafters, sifted for
   importance and tested against what others
 might know. She ignored the words, though, for
 the most part, completely focussed on the river
     by the unseen dangers it held, and held
somewhat apart from that emerging mind by her
difference, by her very Roseness. Now the words
          came back to her like echoes.
     Woman: What time does the show start?
   Man: What do you care? I thought you only
          came because I insisted.
  Woman: I just want to get it over with. I’ve got
              a lot of work to do.
   Man: I know. But you always liked Alberta
Hunter. I thought you’d like to see her in person.
                    Kind of.
   Woman: Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know
anymore. All this… idiotic nonsense. Re-creating
  long-dead singers. Visiting the “real” Henry
       Ford. It’s just—toys for children.
 Man: But why does it upset you so? Your hands
                are shaking!
  Woman: You’re supposed to reach across and
                 hold them.
                 Man: Oh. Sorry.
   Woman: Um… It’s kind of chilly in here, isn’t
it? I may have to go to Salt Lake City tomorrow.
 I just got the message on the way here to meet
                       you.
               Man: Salt Lake City!
  Jack sat up straight and said “Salt Lake City!”
  Lil yanked him back down and said “Shhh.”
       Man: What for? I’ve heard rumors…
  Woman: Nothing important. Putting out fires,
                 that’s all.
  Jack’s bitter laugh filled the theater and the
 actors looked up, squinting in the footlights.
  “Fires,” muttered Jack. “A nice way to put it.”
            Lil said, “Want to leave?”
        Jack stayed put and Lil shrugged.
  Man: An awful lot of these fires lately, aren’t
   there? Look, I’m no molecular-engineering
expert like you, but… well, I guess you can’t tell
    me anything anyway, can you. I’m just a
commoner… a mere ordinary human caught up
                   in all this…
  Woman: Aren’t you supposed to laugh bitterly
                 right here?
   Man: Oh, yeah. Sorry. (Laugh) How’s that?
  A woman stepped up behind them and began
  to sing in a spot while the rest of the stage
                    darkened.
 Woman: It’s okay, don’t worry—shhh—Alberta!
     It… no, she … really is amazing. She
sounds—just like those old recordings. Thanks
                for asking me.
  Jack said, “But it didn’t happen in Salt Lake
City, did it, Miss Molecular Biologist? We did a
   good job there. At least, that time. No, it
happened right at home. Right in Washington,
D.C.” He took a flagon from his jacket pocket,
unscrewed the lid with his thumb, and took a
                    big swig.
      “What happened, Jack?” asked Verity.
    “Oh,” said Jack. “Forgot you were there.”
   Lil snorted. “I think you forgot anyone was
 here. But that’s kind of the plan, isn’t it?” She
  pushed past Jack roughly and strode up the
      aisle. The door slammed behind her.
     “What’s wrong with her?” asked Verity.
    “Too close to home,” said Jack. “Guess I’d
             better go talk to her.”
  “I’ll go with you,” said Verity. She hurried to
 keep up with Jack; with his long legs he took
only one stride to Verity’s two. “What were they
 talking about there? It’s just a play, isn’t it?”
 “I’m not sure,” said Jack, and pushed open the
                door. “You first.”
  They found Lil right outside, leaning against
      the railing, her head in her hands.
  “Kind of chilly out here, isn’t it?” asked Jack.
He pulled off his jacket and flung it around Lil’s
shoulders. “Of course if you dressed sensibly—
 just kidding, just kidding,” he finished as she
           gave him a withering look.
 “I don’t know why you have to go swigging that
           stuff all the time,” said Lil.
    “Why not?” asked Jack. “It can’t hurt me.”
   “It hurts me,” said Lil. “It hurts all of us. It
 makes you careless.” She looked at him again
and then saw Verity. “What are you doing here?”
   “What you don’t seem to understand, Lil, is
 that it doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference
  that she’s here. Or what she may or may not
                     know.”
    “I disagree,” said Lil. “I haven’t given up. I
 guess I did, for a long time. You’re the one who
kept me going, Jack. What’s come over you?” She
 sighed. “I don’t know why I stay with you.” Her
    long black hair cascaded down her back,
catching the moonlight with uncountable kinky
                      strands.
   “I wonder the same thing. Is it because I owe
you money?” Jack took another deep drink. “But
I’m going to win it back. Have no fear. Besides, I
  think I’ve advised you to go back. More than
   once, if I recall. I still do. I made the wrong
               decision. It’s too late.”
     “Oh, you’re impossible!” Lil frowned and
                  turned away.
   “So what happened in Washington?” asked
 Verity. “It seems as if we’re all going to piece it
  together pretty soon. Why not tell me now?”
      “They’re just making it up,” said Jack.
           “Why not ask them?” said Lil.
   “Why not just get off the boat?” said Verity.
               “Now, now,” said Jack.
  “Maybe we will,” said Lil, her voice cool. “And
             maybe we won’t.”
      “I’m not getting off the boat,” said Jack.
    “Easiest stretch I’ve done in quite a while.
 Enormously pleasant. Wine, women, and song.
Craps and poker, music and pool, from morning
 till night.” He leaned back against the railing.
        “I’ve become a virtual millionaire.”
    Lil raised her voice. “You’re an idiot, Jack
                    Hamilton.”
    Jack nodded. “I’m sure of it. You are most
              astute, my dear.”
            “Don’t condescend to me.”
   Jack widened his eyes. “Me? Why, I always
     treat you with the utmost respect—”
   “Fuck you!” said Lil, and walked off into the
                     night.
       “Guess I made her mad,” said Jack.
    Verity sat next to him on the bench. “She
         doesn’t want to talk about it.”
                   “About what?”
  Verity could see why Lil would be reduced to
  screaming, but she persevered. “About what
   happened in Washington, D.C. When did it
 happen? What was it? Was it like Cincinnati?”
     “You’ve been through a bit of it yourself,
                 haven’t you?”
                “Hasn’t everyone?”
  Jack nodded. He looked completely sober to
her. His face fell into its usual serious lines. “We
    lost control, to put it simply. We just lost
                      control.”
             “What do you mean, we?”
  Jack bowed his head. “Really,” he said quietly,
 “that’s all I want to say right now. It’s just very
painful. Lil is more… positive than me. She sees
 a light at the end of the tunnel. It was the other
 way around for a long time. I stayed part of the
   network. Did my job. Followed orders. When
there were orders. Sometimes I just had to make
        them up. Sometimes I issued them.
   “But she’s grasping at straws. We’re all going
 down fast. I couldn’t quite realize it until I was
  here, on the boat—among normal people!” He
    laughed shortly. “Humans are a vanishing
    species. What’s coming is… well, different.
 Maybe that’s as it should be. There’s nothing so
special about us, no reason for us to last forever.
We brought it all on ourselves, but we thought it
  was all for the best. And for a while, it was. It
         really was magnificent, Verity.”
  He rose and patted her on the shoulder. “Enjoy
 it while you can, child. Enjoy it while you can.”
 He pulled out the flask and looked at it. “Wish
this stuff worked better. Too bad it has no effect
  on me. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
  Just like everything else.” He stuck it back in
his pocket. “It’s kind of fun to tease Lil, though.
      She doesn’t know.” He sighed. “Simple
                    pleasures.”
 His steps were slow and somber as he followed
                      Lil.
  Maybe I should have left them all to their little
games in Cincinnati, thought Verity. She curled
 up on the bench and listened to the river rush
           below. What had she done?
   What had happened in the world, to make it
           such a dangerous place?
               Where would it end?
   Norleans, washed a whispery voice through
  her mind, and she did not know if it was the
rush of the river, something she’d made up, or a
         voice that came from her nubs.
            And she didn’t really care.



                 Fifteen
             Midnight Special

The chill rain of early spring deluged them
today, rather than the warm greening rains of
early summer. Icy wind pushed spray and waves
against the hull of the Queen, and Verity feared
for the rafters in this roughness as she surveyed
the darkening day from the pilothouse.
    She pulled down the voicetube and held the
    cold coil in her hand to speak into it, then
  remembered that it was obsolete. Smiling, she
   saw the back of her hand blink the message
 shelter in the next cove. As the Queen rounded
  the bend, new white apple blossoms filled the
air like snow and a hundred strands of wigwam
  smoke were pulled sideways by the powerful
wind. The dark green water was lake-calm in the
                 protected cove.
     Verity felt exceptionally irritable toward
    everything and everyone. Particularly the
 rafters. Let them sink or swim. Let them argue
 or dance to their own crazed chemicals. Let Lil
loose infinite nan upon the world. Let the world
  perish, madly or quietly, in revelry or regret.
            What did it matter to her?
 Her hand went to her stomach, barely swollen.
She should care. She had to. She carried the new
 world within her. She wondered if all parents
 believed that their child might be the turning
 fulcrum of something powerful as the light of
                      stars.
 At least, unlike herself, her child would have a
                     mother.
  Verity put down the binoculars and stared out
at the gray sheets of sleety rain sweeping across
    the river. Absently she touched the brass
 compass, thinking about that strange compass
in her heart which pointed so unerringly toward
  Norleans, and lifted the binoculars in a swift
 angry motion and brought them down hard on
  the compass. The binoculars bounced off the
clear surface of the compass cover and crashed
                  onto the floor.
   She closed her eyes and saw a gray street, and
  in that gray street, in morning mist, thin men
with drooping shoulders walked toward the end
of the street, away from her, in drifting, aimless
 cadence, weaving a pattern of which they were
  an unknowing part. The vision was haunting.
The muffling silence of fog, the gray men flitting
   like leaves caught in a slow whirl of wind as
   they receded from her; their floating aspect.
            But the vision was not hers.
     Where was the street? Whose memory was
  this? So many shards within her, battling for
their moment in consciousness, the few seconds
when she might review them, give them life. But
  they were not her memories. She still was not
  free. And what had happened to Durancy? He
could come round at any moment, and she might
 just follow him back to Cincinnati. No. Despite
   her battle, she was not free, nor were any of
     those rafters. What made her think that
Norleans would free her? The golden burnish of
 her skin, the deeper glow of those with African
           blood, bespoke enslavement.
    Yet, she was more free; they were more free
  than they had been in Cincinnati. There were
glimmers of hope. The blue she saw was sharp as
 a flavor she’d never actually tasted, which lay
  out of reach of her ability to describe it, like a
 sweet, alien fruit from a foreign land. Though
   she had wondered about Mother Ann and
heaven, she did not wonder about the reality of
   this. That in itself was rather disquieting.
    Perhaps there were only degrees of freedom,
 nothing more. She looked down at her hand, act
 iv, it said. A fine drizzle drifted across the river,
 swathing the hills in a gray mist. What else was
there to do? She turned and started back toward
                    the auditorium.
  A thin black woman with wild hair stood in the
aisle yelling at the people onstage “No, that’s not
 it!” just about every time someone spoke a line,
     and Verity could tell that the actors were
  getting irritated. Finally one of the older men
 yelled, “The hell with you, you’re not the boss,”
  and she stomped past her row with clenched
   fists, frowning, and slammed the door as she
         left. The sound reverberated in the
              high-ceilinged auditorium.
   “Okay,” said the man, looking around at the
rest of them. “This is the Berlin segment, right?”
   “This is taking way too long,” complained a
  boy Verity recognized as Fred. “This play is
               about a week long.”
  “So what?” asked a young woman next to him.
 They were about fifty feet away, but the stage
 was designed to carry voices. “If that’s what it
       takes, then that’s what it takes.”
 “Berlin,” muttered Jack, whom she had settled
next to. Lil was in the row in front of them, and
 Eliot was right down at the stage, most likely
with that vacant grin on his face. She knew that
Lil felt bad about Eliot. When she tried to talk to
       him he just smiled and said nothing.
  “They’re missing all the good parts,” said Jack,
 in a curiously ironic voice. “Nothing happened
                    in Berlin.”
    “Shut up,” said Lil over her shoulder. “I’m
                 trying to hear.”
  “Skip Berlin,” said the old man up on the stage
 impatiently. “We did Berlin okay. It only takes
       one run-through. The general’s son is
demonstrating against nan when he gets a whiff
  of terrorist nan. The general decides that she
can’t take it anymore. Starts to organize against
     the government. Knows too much. She’s
 kidnapped and when she gets back all she can
                    do is knit.”
   “Fine,” said another man. “I want to go back a
little further.” He walked over to an easel on the
    stage and touched the top of it a few times.
 “How do I stop these pictures—oh, right, I have
it now.” He bent over it, frowning. “The timeline.
Here we go. More of that hypertext stuff… fine…
     rivers… Columbia, Colorado, Mississippi,
   Tennessee, shit, at last, Potomac. Okay, map,
  Alexandria… that’s right… Angela, you be the
     GS-eighteen, Carl, you be the triple agent.
 What’s his name? Triage. Huh. That’s a name?
  Okay, the storefront scene. In… Alexandria,
 Virginia. Pasta. Generous George’s Cosmically
  Advanced Cuisine. Bring it up. That’s right.
  Fred, you’re not old enough… Janet, you be
                     the…”
   “Shit.” said Jack softly, and sat up straight,
    staring at the scene evoked by the holo
  projectors. “Shit. Lil, we have to stop them.”
    Lil lounged farther back in her seat, and
 hooked her legs over the seat back in front of
  her. “Right, Jack. Isn’t that what I’ve been
saying? And you’ve been saying, here we are in
      the middle of nowhere, who cares.”
  “We are heading toward Cairo, Lil. Haven’t—”
   “Shut up, Jack,” said Lil, and Verity saw her
glare at Jack in the bright reflection of the stage
lights. Then she removed her legs from the chair
        in front of her and leaned forward.
   “Do you have it?” asked the woman onstage.
                 The man nodded.
   “Say yes,” directed the old man. “Don’t just
               shake your head.”
  “Yes, I have it,” said the man. “How much will
                     you pay?”
  “I need verification,” said the woman. “Proof.”
  The man laughed. “You ought to be afraid to
have proof,” he said. “You ought to be terrified.”
  “More of that,” said the director. “You know.
                   Terrified.”
   Verity saw that Jack’s hands were shaking as
he held on tight to his bottle. Sweat stood out on
his forehead. He threw the silver flask down and
  it went spinning across the aisle. He erupted
 from his chair like a waterspout and ran down
            the aisle toward the stage.
              “Yo! Jack!” yelled Lil.
 Jack bounded up on stage and pulled the easel
down, bending it back and forth. He threw it on
 the floor and stomped it flat while the actors
               watched, stunned.
   “How do you kill this fucking thing? This is
 idiotic!” Jack yelled. He picked up a chair and
started whacking the easel. “This is dangerous.
    Terribly dangerous. You have no idea…”
   Lil ran up next to him and pulled him away,
    grabbing his arms and leading him firmly
 offstage. “Sorry,” she yelled over her shoulder.
     “He’s had way too much to… to drink.”
  Verity sat and watched the players complain
 for a few minutes and try to straighten things
up, then got up and left too. What had come over
       Jack? It was that odd word. Triage.
      The deck was wet from a steady rain. It
 seemed for all the world like a normal night at
Shaker Hill. She welcomed the cool, damp air on
her face. Any minute now Sare would call her in,
 yell from the kitchen window and tell her that
 she’d catch her death of cold standing around
              outside in the damp…
   The river rushed past and she could see brief
   white flickers out in the middle. The rafters
were snug in their wigwams though she thought
she could hear a round of the new song that was
  sweeping through, just now; Blaze called it a
blues song and it was about the river too, but it
  wasn’t jolly and happy as “Down the Ohio” or
 “The Erie Canal.” It was about knowing what it
           meant to miss New Orleans.
  She looked for Jack and Lil in the poolroom,
 but did not find them. She hurried on to their
   next choice, the ornate bar, but they were
              nowhere to be found.
   She figured it was a short-day run to Cairo,
now. Maybe less. It was hard to be precise. Why
was she so worried? The boat was running fine;
 they had all the routines down. They’d take a
 breather there. It had not converted, Peabody
said, so she was not worried about it. And once
  past Cairo, how long would it take to get to
              Norleans… Nawlins?
   Shivering, she decided to go try and figure it
  out, if she could. She climbed the stairs to the
  texas, and let herself into her pilot room, and
saw a shadowy figure standing by the navigation
                       table.
    “Who are you?” she asked, and the person
 turned around, surprising her. “What are you
          doing here?” she asked Lil.
      The table glowed, lighting Lil’s face from
beneath. For the first time she was not wearing
 a glittery dress. She was wearing a tight-fitting
black sweater and black pants that looked fluffy
 and warm. She wore boots that came up above
her ankles, like Verity, instead of her high heels.
    “I’m just looking at the charts. Is that all
                     right?”
   “I guess,” said Verity. What could she say
about it? She was once again irritated with Lil,
who obviously knew more than she did but who
 volunteered nothing. “Who are you, Lil?” she
  asked. “I mean, really. What are you doing
                    here?”
        “You don’t want to know,” said Lil.
    “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to
  know,” Verity said, trying to keep her voice
                     level.
  Lil flounced onto the couch and crossed her
   arms and legs and looked levelly at Verity
  across the glow of the screen. “What do you
         think is going on?” she asked.
 Verity felt an instant’s vertigo and gripped the
map table. She averted her eyes from the blue of
 the river on the screen and touched it off. She
    sat in a straight chair next to the stove,
            welcoming the warmth.
 “All I know is that I’m responsible for all these
 people and that I don’t think I’m doing a very
                   good job.”
  Lil leaned forward, her eyes on Verity’s face.
“Why are you responsible for them?” she asked.
  Verity said nothing. “You see?” said Lil. “It’s
 not as easy to trust someone else as you think.
 You’ve really told us nothing about yourself.”
   “Why should I?” asked Verity. “Surely you can
 talk to anyone else and figure it out. You’re the
ones hitching a ride on my boat. I’m the captain.
 I think I’ll put you and Jack off at Cairo.” Even
as she said it she realized that putting Jack and
              Lil off would be difficult.
  And she also realized that she did not want to
            put them off, not really.
   She had a great hunger to know about the
world. They were the first people she’d ever met
 who might be able to tell her something about
    what lay beyond the rim of the horizon.
    But they would not do so voluntarily. Not
unless they had to. There was some great secret,
  something they could not or would not talk
 about. And that was what she wanted to know.
 “Lil,” she said, “I feel very much alone here. I’m
  trying to hold things together but it’s hard. I
don’t know where we’re going, and I don’t really
 know why. We’re just caught in the flow of the
   river and we have to follow it to the end.”
    Lil stood and in a swift surprising motion
 reached up and gently touched the nub behind
one of Verity’s ears. “Fine. When you want to tell
     me more, let me know. I’ll be around.”
           Lil let herself out the door.
     Jack was sitting alone in the poolroom.
  Rain slashed at the windows, and light from a
flickering candle Jack had on the table limned
     the drops that danced on the window.
 Verity stood in the doorway and watched him.
He moved his arm languorously, every moment
  or so, taking sips from a small clear glass of
 amber liquid that she was sure was whiskey.
 She shivered a bit in the chill air and hugged
her sweater around her more closely. “I thought
  that didn’t have any effect on you,” she said.
    Jack’s smile was slight and lasted only a
second. “That was yesterday. Anything encoded
 can be decoded, Verity. I decided that a little
  decoding was in order. It’s best to enjoy the
 finer things in life. Like Tennessee whiskey.”
    “So you carry a little decoder around with
                you?” she asked.
   He took another sip, then refilled his glass
from the bottle sitting at his elbow. “Do I detect
an edge of hostility? Do you think Lil is the only
 one with any brains? I wouldn’t be surprised.
Come, sit down. What are you doing up so late?”
       He pulled out a chair next to him.
 “I don’t know. I’m kind of nervous, I guess. But
      I’m not sure why. What time is it?”
  “Oh,” he said, and shrugged. “One, one-thirty.
  Here. Let me get you a glass of whiskey. It’s
       soothing. Good for what ails you.”
 “No thanks,” she said. “Why were you so upset
             in the auditorium?”
                  “Was I upset?”
   “You ran down the aisle and tried to destroy
 their information screen. And you told Lil that
you had to stop this.” She leaned forward so she
  could see his eyes better. “Jack, stop what?”
  “I just don’t like plays,” he said. “Never have.
           They put me in a bad mood.”
    “No, you said things. Like… like, ‘Nothing
  happened in Berlin.’ How do you know what
 happened in Berlin? They’re just making it all
   up, anyway, right? And when did nothing
               happen in Berlin?”
   “A long time ago, Verity,” he said. “It was a
very, very long time ago that nothing happened
in Berlin. Ages ago, so to speak. I’m just a little
              sensitive, that’s all.”
    “So how do you know about all this?” she
  asked. “Did you work for the government?”
         “I told you that I did, didn’t I?”
    “But what did you do? Why did you get so
    upset about that—that word, ‘Triage.’ ”
    “Damn it, Verity, can’t you just leave me
                   alone?”
  “No, Jack, I can’t. You and Lil are on my boat
   and I find both of you very strange. You’re
secretive. I don’t know where you come from or
what you’re doing or why you want to be here. Is
 someone following you? Someone who might
                  endanger us?”
   Jack took another drink and stared at her.
  “Tell me!” she shouted, and banged her fist on
                    the table.
   “What’s the first thing you destroy if you’re
    trying to cripple your enemy?” he asked.
                     “What?”
     “You heard me. What do you destroy?” %
 “I… I don’t know. I’ve never really thought that
                     way…”
  “Well, plenty of us have, Verity. We just can’t
seem to help it. I don’t know. Maybe that’s what
 needed to be changed, really. But you can bet
   that it’s been tried. And you can bet that
      someone, somewhere, succeeded.”
         “What are you talking about?”
 “Thinking like us and them. We are good. They
               are bad. Get it?”
 “Yes, of course,” she said slowly. She’d learned
 us-and-them. Us, the pure Shakers. Them, the
 poor crazed Rafters. She laughed. She was one
  of them now. What’s so funny? she wondered,
   seized by intense laughter. John had killed
 Blaze because of us-and-them. Yet she laughed
 until she choked and tears were coming from
   her eyes and Jack was thumping her on the
                      back.
  “Yeah, it is pretty funny,” he said, when her
 hiccoughing stopped. “Gotta admit, I find it
 hilarious.” He poured another small glass of
whiskey. His speech was slightly slurred. “Hee-
larious!” But he did not laugh. “To get back to
             my original question.”
    He looked at her for a long moment and the
 shadows on his face danced in the candlelight.
He said slowly, softly, and clearly, “Okay, lesson
number one. In a war, when you want to destroy
  the enemy’s capability, what is the first thing
                  you think of?”
   The look in his eyes was strange and deep and
  helpless. The intensity of his question almost
frightened Verity. And yet there was a hard edge
    in that look, a sort of defiance; maybe even
                        pride.
  “Communication,” he said after a long pause,
during which Verity wondered if he’d forgotten
   his question. “You destroy their ability to
                 communicate.”
   Something deep stirred in Verity then, like a
glimmer of light, like something she really ought
 to know but which still lurked too far beneath
       the day’s tiredness to summon up.
 “I guess that makes sense,” she said, beginning
 to feel her way through the web of inferences
          that suddenly filled her mind.
   Then a faint shudder ran through the boat.
 “What was that?” She jumped out of her chair.
   “That would be Lil,” said Jack, pouring the
     remainder of the bottle into the glass.
   “What do you mean, ‘that would be Lil’? You
    mean she’s starting the boat? We can’t go
anywhere this time of night. It’s too dangerous.”
Now the jolt of the paddlewheel biting the river
vibrated beneath her feet. “Come on!” she yelled,
 but Jack just sat there as she ran out the door
        and rushed back up to the texas.
       The lights of the boat were on and they
   illuminated storm-tossed waves and hapless
  rafts caught in their wake. Anger boiled up in
 Verity as she ran and when she got to the door
 she saw Lil inside, her face illuminated by the
 faint green light of the readouts and dials. She
   tried to open the door but it was locked. The
palmprint panel was dark. All the windows were
 shut tight. She pounded on the door, pounded
   on the windows, yelled at Lil, but Lil did not
                even glance at her.
 “Stop the boat!” she screamed. “You’re going to
hurt people. You’re swamping the rafts! Lil, are
                   you nuts?”
  Lil did not even glance at her. Her chin was set
defiantly and she stared straight ahead, a frown
 of concentration on her face. Loud blues music
   pulsed within the pilothouse, drowning out
                  Verity’s yells.
   “Shit!” said Verity and looked around to try
  and find something with which to break the
 glass. In the next cabin she grabbed the poker
for the stove and returned, and began to wildly
   bash at the window. But it resisted all her
efforts and she found that she was beginning to
                      shake.
  What was it? What was Lil trying to do? She
     had to be insane. Either that, or…
    The rush of the river quickened. The fog
   parted for a moment and she saw a light.
   It was tiny in the distance. She might have
    taken it for a low star had it not pulsed.
 Regularly. Every two seconds. And then it was
        obscured by the fog once more.
         “The Cairo light,” she breathed.
          Lil was trying to bypass Cairo.
  The decks were filled with dazed people. They
  were muttering and wandering around; some
  were shouting, and from the river came back
shouts which echoed strangely within the fog, as
        if they were all in a large room.
   She had to stop this headlong rush. They
needed to stop in Cairo. They needed supplies.
They needed to be on dry land, if only briefly.
 And, she realized, the thought seeming to come
from nowhere, they had to get to Cairo because
         they had to put on their play.
                   Their play.
 She looked at Lil and then she understood. It
             all came together.
  Somewhere in that play were things that Jack
and Lil did not want other people to know. The
information was buried within the minds of the
 Cincinnatians, and was now flowing forth: the
     history of the Information Wars, and
                nanotechnology.
      The reasons the world had fallen into a
brilliant darkness, illuminated now only by the
    insane, the enslaved, the nan-possessed
survivors rushing downriver to Nawlins, in the
               grip of the plague.
  She still did not know what the rest of the
world was like. And Jack and Lil would not tell
                     her.
   Perhaps there were some answers there in
                   Cairo.
 Gritting her teeth, Verity picked up the poker
and began smashing at the window once more,
    reeling backward and forward as the boat
  tossed on the wild river. She thought she saw
Jack out ahead, standing at the railing, staring
 at the Cairo light through the darkness, while
   some of the sleepy players joined him. “Help
 me!” she yelled, but no one did and she had the
fleeting thought that at times control really did
                  come in handy.
    Then Blaze was there behind her, bless him,
and he had … a baseball bat? “Get back, Verity,”
 he commanded, and broke through the glass in
the window with a few quick blows. Still Lil did
 not look at them, but struggled with the wheel.
The water was rougher now; and even this huge
riverboat was tossed in the new turbulence. The
confluence, thought Verity, with a thrill, despite
 the desperation of the moment, holding tight to
the railing. Soon they would come to it, just past
    Cairo, a tad past the light, which was just
 beyond the landing according to her old charts.
 The confluence of the Ohio and the Mississippi,
  two great rivers, where the muddy Mississippi
   did not mingle with the clear green Ohio for
     over a mile, where the two rivers flowed
shoulder to shoulder in a line that was clear and
                  unmistakable.
 I’m leaving the Ohio River, thought Verity. All
 my past, I’m leaving behind. My history. Russ
   and Sare and Evangeline, Shaker Hill, my
childhood; even Cincinnati, the Queen City. I’ll
never be back again. It’s over. And I don’t know
                what’s ahead.
    She took a deep breath and observed the
               passing instant.
   Then Blaze reached inside the broken window
   and pulled the door open and together they
rushed in. “Stay back,” said Blaze and lunged at
 Lil, but she swatted him aside with hardly any
trouble. She was fighting the wheel now, and the
  clouds parted and Cairo was a line of brilliant
 lights against the dark water. Verity gave a cry
   just upon seeing it. It was not a Flower City.
              Why was Lil so afraid?
   She rushed at the wheel as Blaze grabbed Lil
 from behind once more, pinning her arms and
dragging her away. Lil struggled and Verity took
      care to stay out of range of her legs.
   “Damn it,” Lil said, and her voice was full of
  anguish as Mr. Peabody, of all people, joined
 Blaze in helping pull her away from the wheel.
 “Watch out for her gun,” said Verity, as she put
   all her weight on the wheel, angry at being
 forced to navigate this rough stretch by night,
which might be filled with snags and whirlpools.
 She thought she saw Jack still standing there,
  about ten feet ahead, on the starboard bow, a
  dark figure with rain dripping off his hat, as
      rain began sheeting down once more.
  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” said Lil,
 her voice harsh. “Verity, it’s not too late. Stay
              away from Cairo.”
               “Why?” asked Verity.
  But Lil said grimly, “I guess it is too late,” and
          slipped out of the pilothouse.
   Verity heard faint singing. And then, to her
   surprise, she joined in, the song coursing
 through her like lightning, like enlivenment,
 like the greatest joy that she could have ever
                    imagined:
       Caimeneero, down to Cairo
       Caimaneero, Cairo
       Straddleaddleaddle baba ladababa
       linktum
       Linktum body mitchie cambo.
   Why am I crying? she wondered. She was
crying and singing at once, deliriously happy,
moved by some deep joy to these strange tears.
 Cairo. The word kicked up plague-induced
 memories of a hundred thousand pioneers,
    heading for Cairo, thence to cross the
     Mississippi, and enter the Territory.
             They were almost there.
  Lightning flashed, and Verity saw Jack and Lil
  standing like figureheads at the prow of the
 boat. Lil’s hair streamed out behind, and when
 the roiling clouds parted for a moment, caught
the moonlight and glowed as if electric. One arm
            clasped Jack’s waist tightly.
     Cairo looked glorious to Verity: first a low
smudge of light on the horizon, glowing through
heavy fog and spitting rain, like nothing she had
 ever seen from the outskirts of the dead towns
   and cities they had scavenged back in Ohio.
Maybe Dayton had once looked as exciting from
    afar of a summer’s night. As they careered
       closer, Cairo’s lights were like stars,
  scintillating through the storm’s veil. So this
was what a city, a live city, was like! She dashed
 away her tears of joy but still felt just as glad.
 Running lights came on, suddenly. Peabody, of
   course. In their glow she saw rafts swept
downriver, into the darkness beyond. Rain blew
   through the hole Blaze had bashed in the
                    window.
   Blaze, next to her, gripped the brass railing
  and he certainly wasn’t talking to her—his
remarks were to the darkness, to the storm, to
the space where Mother Ann once waited with
outspread arms and the listening mien of those
who take note of prayers: “It’s so beautiful. I’m
  so hungry for all this. It doesn’t matter that
there’s no heaven. This is enough. Driving rain,
cold wind, the boat plowing through turbulent
 night toward a foreign shore of lights.” Blaze
          waxing poetic. This was new.
  But she forgot it as a bridge loomed seemingly
 out of nowhere, black and shining wet in their
 lights. She only had a second to be afraid; the
boat rushed between vast concrete footings with
 inches to spare as she was paralyzed with fear
 that the current would smash them against the
                      piers.
   The Queen rocked across the wild currents
  and Verity’s arms and shoulders seized with
   pain as she struggled with the huge wheel.
  “Want some help?” Blaze asked. His eyes were
    clear as he looked at her, as if he’d just
           awakened from a trance.
  “ ’M okay,” she managed, panting. “I wonder if
   there’s a clear channel to those lights or if
  there’s sandbars in the way. Damn that Lil!”
   “Maybe we should let down the anchor here
       tonight—if the current slows—”
    She shook her head. “I thought of that. But
  look—see that snag? There’s another. Some of
 those stumps and logs are heavy as houses. I’m
not sure how quickly the boat could heal itself if
              one of them hit it.”
            “But if we run aground…”
   “We might not run aground,” she snapped,
   leaning on the wheel with all her weight.
Suddenly it spun around the other way, sending
  her sprawling across the floor. Sharp pain
     lanced the arm on which she landed.
 Blaze grabbed the wheel. Whatever had caused
  the momentary recalcitrance was gone. The
 pitch of the boat threw Verity to the deck the
   first time she tried to stand. She grabbed a
railing and pulled herself up, and saw that Blaze
            had the boat under control.
   The lights of Cairo welcomed them, splashing
 light onto the high concrete landing. A mass of
           people waved and pointed.
     “Are you all right?” Blaze asked. “Is that
                     blood?”
  She pushed up her sweater sleeve and looked
 at her arm, where a long dark gash oozed. She
 didn’t feel anything. “A cut. I’ll live. Look out!”
 she yelled. She grabbed the wheel and pulled,
 along with Blaze, but wasn’t sure that the boat
  responded. She saw a raft, two pairs of wild
      eyes, and then the dark river again.
    “You’ve got to pay attention!” she said, her
                   voice sharp.
       They were closing in fast. People in
rain-shined coats waited on the wharf, holding
ropes as big around as their legs. Verity pushed
 Blaze aside and slammed a lever down which
  put them into reverse. The rear of the boat
swung round. With Blaze’s help she brought the
boat parallel to the wharf with only a few rough
   smashes against the old tires roped to the
                     concrete.
 Jack and Lil didn’t budge from their post, only
  turned a bit to look out into the dark night
 instead of at the city. The wharf teemed with
  people, though it must have been two in the
                    morning.
   As the Cincinnatians lined the rails in deep,
silent curiosity, Verity realized that for many of
    them this was their first real contact with
         outsiders in… how many years?
     A few rowdies on the wharf broke into a
 chorus of “Froggie Went A-Courtin’,” and when
they got to the bit about Cairo the people on the
         boat joined in with a great roar.
  They got the gangplank situated and poured
    out of the boat, mingling with the good
 Caironians, who were apparently as eager to
share their drink as the Cincinnatians were to
                   sample it.
     Verity leaned back against a tall chair,
  drained. She watched Jack and Lil out the
 window and mopped blood from her arm with
                 her sweater.
  Without another word, not even to his muse,
 Blaze walked out the door and a few moments
later she saw him on the wharf, his red hair lit
in the glare of the tall lights before he turned a
 corner. Strange. Jack and Lil just stood there,
 arms around each other, also puzzling: they’d
        been so at odds with each other.
      She even saw Eliot on the gangplank,
unmistakable with his blond hair aglow in the
 lights of the wharf, stuffing something into a
large bag slung over his shoulder. She thought
 about calling him back, but he looked around
  then hurried off up a narrow street. Verity
hoped he’d be all right. Whatever Lil had done
       had left him quite empty-headed.
   She glanced down at the back of her hands,
where images often played. They were fractured
 into a kaleidoscope of color. But it wasn’t even
that organized—more like wild flashes, and long
 stretches of simple white, as if the chaos of all
 their impressions canceled all of it into static.
   She let her hand drop. Her organizational
      impulse, at this point, was utterly nil.
   She stepped out onto the small balcony and
was lost in a flood of sound, jarring after weeks
of the soothing rush of the river and the sound
   of the wind through the trees. Three men
danced down the wharf, arm in arm, their legs
  engaged in intricate kicks, and one of them
 glanced up at Verity and waved. Startled, she
    began to wave back, but a twinge of pain
stopped her. She noticed someone approaching
 the door and went back through the cabin to
                     open it.
 A tall woman with long blond hair stood there.
Her attire was odd: a short, tight beige skirt, a
matching jacket, both of linen. A startling blue
 silk shirt that matched her eyes. Around her
 neck was a black ribbon from which hung a
large, round brass pendant engraved with the
 word cairo and tiny buildings and symbols too
 small for Verity to make out. She stuck out her
     hand. “Hello. I’m Mayor Lyle. Linda.”
 “Um—hello,” said Verity, and realized that she
was to shake this woman’s hand, which she did,
              grimacing. “Verity.”
  “What’s wrong?” asked Linda. “Can I come in?”
Without waiting for a reply she stepped over the
threshold and Verity was again surprised, at her
 shoes: pointed toes and higher heels than Lil’s.
    “Is it like this every night?” asked Verity,
             gesturing out the window.
  “More or less,” Linda said, sitting in one of the
chairs and crossing her long legs. She linked her
 arms over the low back of tke chair. “Oh, you’re
          bleeding. What happened?”
            “It’s a cut. It’ll be all right.”
   “No, you need to wrap it up, or something,”
 said Linda, springing up and prowling round
                   the cabin.
   “Ah, here!” said Linda, pushing a button that
  said first aid, at which a door in the wall slid
open. She pulled out scissors, bottles, tubes, and
 finally a tight white roll of cloth. “Let’s clean it
    up and get it bandaged.” She ripped open
packages of gauze, squirted something from the
kit on it, and mopped at Verity’s arm. Verity was
         too tired and bemused to object.
     “This is a very deep cut.” Linda unfurled
something and wrapped it around Verity’s arm.
  Verity smelled a light, pleasant scent as the
  woman’s hair spilled onto her arm when she
  bent over and reached around Verity’s neck.
“There, now,” she said. She briskly straightened
              up the first-aid kit.
    Then she paced round the pilothouse as if
   looking for something— even peering into
 cupboards. Verity was too tired to object. She
wondered how Linda Lyle could be so lively, and
so beautifully dressed, at this hour of the night.
    “Where are you from?” Linda asked after
another moment of poking around. She seemed
 awfully nosy. “You came from upriver. That’s
rather unusual. No one goes east. We get a fair
  amount of traffic from St. Louis. But no one
     comes from the east except rafters.”
   “Why not?” asked Verity, resting against the
stool, dazed and tired. She noticed that Lil and
    Jack were gone, and the emptiness of the
   American Queen rose up from all its lovely,
    intricate rooms, enticing her for one wild
moment to think she could fill each one with its
own long and unique life. It was a thought that
India might have, and she did not like it much.
But there it was. Perhaps the madwoman would
always be with her, an inner, diaphanous skein
 of being and intent, waiting to overwhelm her.
    She steeled herself against such gloomy
 thoughts and tried to pay attention to Mayor
  Lyle, whose voice was unfortunately far too
soothing and beautifully modulated to keep her
                    awake.
  “… plague,” Linda finished, crossed her arms,
looked at the floor, and continued. “Of course, it
doesn’t seem to be a whole lot better in the west,
but it’s particularly wild and lawless to the east
 and south. It’s harder for people to live out on
their own in the west, and I think that cities are
     such a civilizing influence, don’t you?”
  “Maybe too much so,” blurted Verity without
   thinking. “I mean, Cincinnati was really
                 civilized…”
   “Cincinnati!” Linda jumped up, her eyes wide,
   and assumed a stance which looked as if she
thought Verity might attack her. “You didn’t tell
   me that you were from Cincinnati! I thought
 maybe from Wheeling. Except I’ve heard there
    are falls… Well. Hmmm. Um, plaguers don’t
    bother us here,” she said proudly, drawing
      herself up a bit. “No! After all, this is a
  cosmopolitan place, not like those backwoods
  towns, those places that can’t accept change.
 And there’ve been a hell of a lot of rafts passing
 by lately. Not many of them could make it over
this way. Current’s too strong. The ones who did
       make it here were stark raving mad.”
         No gloves, thought Verity sadly.
   “But—” said Linda, and she started to back
    away now—“are all of you… plagued?”
   Verity crossed her own arms and nodded.
“Yup.” She yawned hugely. “I’m sorry,” she said,
        “but I really need to sleep now.”
  Linda looked around. Even exhausted, Verity
  could see that this examination held a new
  quality of assessment. “Hmmm. We—um, we
   require a Docking Inspection and Docking
 Permit, here in Cairo. That’s right—we simply
 must inspect this boat from top to bottom and
      inside out. Consider it impounded.”
                  “Impounded?”
             “You can’t leave Cairo.”
  “That’s ridiculous,” said Verity, more amused
 than angry. “We’ll leave whenever we feel like
                        it.”
  “It’s the law,” intoned Linda, as if that settled
 it. “I’ll send our inspector by first thing in the
                      morning.”
   “I don’t think we need an inspection,” said
                    Verity.
   “Well, then, you’ll have to leave. Right now,”
said Linda, evidently trying to put somewhat of
        an edge in her voice and failing.
  “I thought we were impounded,” said Verity.
            “Make up your mind.”
   “You are trying to put words in my mouth,
    young lady. I might have to fine you for
                 impertinence.”
   “Right this minute, I have other plans,” said
    Verity, walking out the door past Linda.
       Linda followed her down the deck, her
 trip-trapping shoes reminding Verity of hoofed
 animals in odd promenade. She yammered the
  entire way, something about danger and riots.
Verity stopped at her cabin and put her hand on
the knob and was about to turn it when a lanky
   man with brown muttonchop whiskers, a top
hat, and old-fashioned black tails rushed up and
  practically pushed Linda over. Linda grabbed
the railing and sprawled back against it. It was
  clear from her face and gestures that she was
    trying to say something, but the barrage of
   welcome that flowed from the man’s genial,
   smiling face was booming and constant and
      completely obliterated whatever it was.
    “Sorry my dear Linda and hello, hello, hello
young lady, that is, Captain Young Lady! I am so
 happy to make your acquaintance.” He bowed
  low but did not stop talking for a second. He
  helped Linda up and kissed her on the cheek
 and she frowned. “Mayor Thistlewood at your
 service, madam, we are always delighted when
 vessels of commerce choose to dock at our fair
  city. We are at your service. Many fine eating
establishments await the pleasure of your crew
  and passengers, for I am sure that your chef
   deserves a rest. Tomorrow morning Mr. and
Mrs. Ogleby await your call at ten a.m.; they own
 the mill which mills the finest flour between
     here and Memphis. It might be to your
   advantage to allow us to bid on whatever
commerce you are carrying on your own behalf,
 sir… I mean, madam… and just what are you
 carrying?” He peered round with sharp eyes,
   and touched the doorframe over Verity’s
     shoulder lightly several times with his
                   fingertips.
     “Get out of here, Thistlewood!” exclaimed
    Linda, giving him a rude shove, which he
   completely ignored. “There’s something you
   don’t know! Don’t pay any attention to him,”
      Linda told Verity, stepping in front of
  Thistlewood. “He’s not really the mayor. I am.
 There was a Mayor Thistlewood right after the
  Civil War—oh, I try to run a decent town but
 look what happens!” She whirled and yelled at
  Thistlewood, “Why don’t you go back to your
  mansion? I mean it! I hate it when you’re like
       this! You’re such a—a mountebank!”
    Verity was about to pat her on the back and
say, There, there, but Linda burst into tears and
stomped away as best she could in those strange
  shoes, grabbing Thistlewood by the arm as he
 spouted invitations and pulling him along too.
  Verity opened her door, slipped inside, firmly
shut it, and fell onto her bed, sick of all of them.
                      5
                    Mattie



                  Sixteen
               Big Bee Blues

The wind was hot and dry. It was always hot and
dry.
     The curtains in Mattie’s window had been
 white when she made them, but were now gray
from constant dust. It was no use washing them.
She watched them snap in the wind for a minute
 after she woke. Her skin was covered with fine
                       grit.
  She rolled out of her narrow bed. The sun was
a low, hot ball, barely breaking the horizon, but
  white. Mattie didn’t know what was worse—
bone chilling winter or blazing summer. And it
                  was only June.
    “June, June, June. Just because it’s June,
 June, June!” she muttered, knowing that she
couldn’t carry a tune and not caring. It was just
 a joke anyway, lines left over from some play
  one of her aunts, the schoolteacher one, had
   organized many years ago. That aunt had
broken down crying, backstage, in the middle of
  the play because the entire community was
   jeering at the play, at the sentiments, the
    absurdity, the silliness of going to all that
 trouble. But the words and music still stuck in
                  Mattie’s mind.
    Mattie ran a quart of murky water into the
plugged sink, splashed herself, and let the wind
  dry her. Next to the sink fluttered her latest
 collection of self-painted mandalas, tacked to
  the wall, filled with suns, arrows, and trains.
  She pulled on her plaid dress and the purple
stretch shoes with hard soles she’d found in the
abandoned solar car the week before, and poked
 her fingers through her frizzy hair to take out
       the flat parts she saw in the mirror.
  “ ’Bout time you got up,” said her father, when
 she walked into the kitchen. He was sitting at
 the table, eating bread and drinking soymilk.
   “You ought to get an early start hoeing the
        soybeans. It’s gonna be a hot one.”
  Mattie nodded and sliced some bread and got
some cheese from the refrigerator. “It’s puddling
  again,” she noted, pointing a toe at the water
                      stain.
   “I talked to Hebrita about finding a new one
     last week. Think this one’s about shot.”
 “Her gang’s no good,” said Mattie, sitting down
  at the table. “Jason says they don’t have the
 balls to blow up the train. If we could just get
           whatever’s on that train—”
  “Jason doesn’t know what balls are,” said her
   father. “I’d like to see him blow up the train.
 You’re too young to remember, but it’s not like
 people haven’t tried. And they didn’t want the
stuff on it. They were trying to blow the damned
thing to hell. I’d like to see Jason get within half
 a mile of it, the chickenshit. If he’d just get the
energy to go to that appliance warehouse that’s
 supposed to be in Tyler I’d be satisfied. Before
 everything in it’s gone for good. I think we just
  need a new part. Maybe I can rustle one up in
    the shop next week. They got a small army
 guarding that warehouse, anyway—those folks
  from Prairie Rose. I guess they killed off most
   everybody in Tyler. At least they won’t come
 round here—there’s nothing here worth killing
                          for.”
  “Jason has been—” Then she stopped. No point
in telling her dad that she and her cousin Jason
 had stood within ten feet of the magtrain many
   times, both arms wrapped around one of the
  metal posts which used to generate the force
field out west of town, talking about what they’d
    do in LA when they got there. But the train
  never stopped. Week after week, month after
 month, year after year, it never stopped. It had
been running before she’d been born; it would be
  running after she died. Mattie was sure she’d
   seen the same pale face pressed to the glass
  more than once, and that the woman had even
waved to her in that one flash vouchsafed by the
  fast train as it replaced the distant brown
mountains with iridescence for a long streaking
                     moment.
     Her father didn’t notice that she’d stopped
talking, but clapped his hat on his head and left
the room without another word. Her mother was
 out hunting. She usually was gone for a week at
a time, with a band of other hunters. Sometimes
   they brought back buffalo. The last time, less
  fortunate, they brought back large white-meat
lizards. Inside the right thigh of each one grew a
    stamp they’d never seen before. “Maybe it’s
      Mexican,” her mother had said. “Eat it.”
   Alexa, her friend, twelve years old like her,
 burst in the door. “Listen,” she said, shifting
   back and forth like she did when she was
nervous. “I have something I want to show you.”
   “Gold?” asked Mattie, tying on her sun hat.
They’d been down in several mines and that was
 their dream. They weren’t sure what they’d do
with gold. They weren’t even sure that they had
been gold mines, or some other kind of mine. But
 the many dangers of the ancient shafts lent its
           pursuit great excitement.
 “Better,” whispered Alexa, her face a pale spot
 as she stood inside the dark doorway. “Come
                      on.”
 “Come on, what? I have to weed the soybeans.”
 “It’s a—a Flower thing. But we have to hurry. I
  think it’s going to die. Bring a jug of water,
  okay?” She wheeled and set off at a fast trot
      before Mattie could further object.
   Not that she would have. She scooped up the
 plastic jug she’d been intending to carry to the
   fields, making sure the cap was tight, and
               hurried after Alexa.
   Her father was already out of sight. The fields
were to the east of Elysia and they were heading
       west. The Orgummy Mountains were
   purple-shaded to the north, between the old
 frame houses. That wasn’t their real name, she
called them that because when she was little her
 uncle used to fold orgummy things for her, and
 in the mountain’s sharp shadows she often saw
   the same figures—the Crane, the Butterfly—
  mornings when the shadows were deep. Their
          real name was the Desolates.
  The blacktop was already hot beneath her new
soles as she passed the soy dairy where floated
   the lovely bean-curd squares, and there was
   Mrs. Cook’s battered blue solar car creeping
townward on Route 10 as usual, and her breath
began to burn in her throat. The rays, a bank of
about fifty solar panels, charging batteries that
 townsfolk took and replaced for recharging as
needed, glinted behind Main Street. “Wait up,”
 she yelled, but Alexa just turned and walked a
  few steps going backward then took off again
                      faster.
   She took the fork to the abandoned Tolliver
place, where the big sycamore still grew next to
 the spring. The Tollivers’ place was nice, with
green plants filling up the dip in the land by the
tree, bearing small white flowers. No one would
move into the empty white frame house, though,
where the paint remained eerily intact through
the harsh seasons. “Time’s aren’t so bad yet that
we have to steal what isn’t ours,” her father said.
     “I look for Lenny Tolliver to come back
  someday.” But parts of the barn roof, over a
  hundred years old, had fallen in, and that’s
where Alexa’s mystery was, on the concrete slab
   beneath a crazed section of sagging beams.
    Mattie rounded the corner of the barn and
          smashed into Alexa. “Why—”
 “Shhh. I think it’s asleep. The storm last night
must have blown it in. Must’ve hidden in here.”
  “Jesusjumpinjehosophat!” breathed Mattie. “A
                    Bee.”
    Sweat poured down Mattie’s face and stung
her eyes. She pushed her hat off her head so that
it hung from her neck, absently reached into her
pocket, and looped the soft sweatband she found
             there around her head.
  The Bee’s legs scrabbled weakly on the floor,
  making scritching sounds. The girls jumped
                     back.
    “See what I mean?” said Alexa. “It must be
  thirsty, and hungry. Maybe we should have
             brought it some sugar.”
   “It’s not a real bee, silly,” said Mattie. They
spoke in nervous whispers. “I don’t even know if
                 they get thirsty.”
  As if in answer to their whispers, a long thin
    tongue unfurled from the Bee’s mouth.
     “Go on,” said Alexa. “Give it the water.”
  “You,” said Mattie, but felt the Bee’s strange
eye fix on her and moved forward one slow step
                   at a time.
    “Hand me a bucket or something,” she said
 without looking away. She held her hand back
 to grab whatever Alexa might find but couldn’t
  tear her eyes from the Bee. She heard Alexa’s
 footsteps recede and things rattling elsewhere
   in the barn. In that moment sunlight angled
through the holes in the side of the barn and the
            Bee glowed just like gold.
    She could see that it wasn’t really that much
like a real bee. It was gold all over, and the ends
 of the tiny hairs that covered its body sparkled
 like splayed fiber-optic cable. On the end of its
   legs were pads covered with moist stuff that
  looked sticky. It was bent up in a funny way,
   kind of crumpled. Clear viscous fluid leaked
              from a gash in its side.
  She’d seen Bees before, but they were always
dead, dried out and hollow, and when you poked
 them with a stick they crunched nicely and the
   dried stuff blew away on the wind, harmless,
 they said, though adults avoided them and told
children to keep away too. They got blown away
   from their cities by storms. Most of the ones
     she’d seen, few enough to remember each
  incident, had been from Denver. Everybody in
 these parts knew what the Denver Bees looked
like. This one looked kind of different, or maybe
         that was because it was still alive.
   She knew that different cities had different
  Bees and she took a step closer and peered
around to see if she could read anything. Maybe
      on the flat place between its eyes…
                      “Mattie!”
 Alexa’s sharp voice made her jump and in that
  instant the Bee reached out one of her legs,
perhaps in entreaty, and smeared Mattie’s arm
                   with goo.
    Mattie wiped at it frantically while Alexa
 stared. “Well, don’t just stand there!” she said.
       “Pour that jug of water over me.”
  But Alexa ran out the door and down the road
screaming, a flash of green shirt and yellow hair,
      her feet raising small puffs of dust.
   “Well, now, that’s a fine thing, isn’t it?” Mattie
asked after Alexa rounded the bend. The silence
  had a new quality, more profound, and Mattie
 felt all around her the pressure of something—
something—which now just had to happen. She
  knew she should fear it but the sun was too
       bright for that, the sky too blue.
 She’d heard that Bees had once been people. It
didn’t make much sense but then stuff from the
            cities didn’t, generally.
   For a moment she watched golden dust motes
  dance in the shaft of sunlight. “They’re small
things,” she said, looking at her arm, thinking of
 how the bad stuff traveled. “Very small.” Some
    metal thing clanged in the wind out by the
house. The Desolates, seen through a wide chink
 in the wall, assumed the flat unvarying blue of
 midmorning. The air smelled of dust and dried
weeds. It all was much more beautiful to Mattie
 than it ever had been before. It also seemed to
  her that she was too young to die but that she
probably would, maybe in the next five minutes.
    Moving slowly because she knew it probably
   wouldn’t make much difference, she took the
bucket Alexa had dropped and poured the water
  from her jug over her arms and hands into the
bucket, rubbing violently, preserving the water
    without even thinking about it. Her hands
 tingled. “Here,” she said and shoved the bucket
toward the Bee. “Oh, what does it matter now?”
   She tipped the bucket and was thrilled to see
         the Bee suck water into its mouth.
  She knew that she had to leave now. Not leave
the Bee. Leave Elysia. In case the goo didn’t kill
                       her.
  She walked closer to the Bee, staring at it. “So
  strange,” she whispered, walking around the
 staring dark eye, big as a dinner plate but an
 arched, raised surface of interconnecting flat
    triangles like a buckydome. There it was,
 marching across what might be the cheek. The
 copyright and city of origin. Twainbee IV (tm)
         St. Louis, Missouri. Back East.
    She sat cross-legged and watched the Bee
               while she waited.
   After half an hour a shadow fell across the
  door, but it was not that of the raging crowd
                 she’d expected.
   “Mattie,” her father said, and she had never
heard him say her name like that before, kind of
            choking and sad. “Why?”
  “It was an accident.” She stood and faced him.
    Neither of them had any idea what would
         happen to her. Maybe nothing.
                “How do you feel?”
    “Hot,” she said. “Too hot.” She staggered
             toward him and fell.
   She woke on the Tollivers’ fancy couch, soft
and covered with pretty pink fabric, smooth and
cool. Her father sat across from her in a rocking
   chair, staring at her. It was getting dark.
 “How did I get here?” she asked. She didn’t feel
  like sitting up. She was rather light-headed.
Everything looked kind of glimmery, like it was
 all made of particles glowing in the dusk, like
itsy bitsy suns encased in a billion transparent
         colors. She was terribly thirsty.
   “I carried you,” he said. “I rolled you in the
 blanket from the couch. Found some gloves in
                    the barn.”
 “No sense taking chances,” said Mattie. She sat
up and was dizzy. He rose and put a package on
 the table that sat between them on the carpet,
  then stepped back. “Food’s in there,” he said.
  “Jerky, roasted soy nuts, stuff like that. And
your mother’s old forty-four that belonged to her
dad. Ammo. It’s heavy but you’ve practiced with
                    it enough.”
     “She won’t like that much,” said Mattie.
  “She won’t mind,” he said. “She’d want you to
                   have it.”
    Mattie stood shakily and pulled the table
 toward her, taking care not to spill the glass of
   water, strangely lucid compared with the
 particulate stuff in town. “They really do have
  good water here, don’t they?” She drank the
sweet water down at once and set the glass back
         on the table. “How’s the Bee.”
   “Dead,” he said, and Mattie thought he had
   probably smashed it to smithereens. She
reached into the pack and pulled out a familiar
    smooth container. “Your raisins? Pa—”
   “Mattie, I’ll never see you again,” he said, and
 his voice was cracked and desperate. He stood
and paced across the darkening room, his boots
 striking the floorboards sharply. “I don’t know
where to tell you to go. If only your mother was
   here. She could tell you plenty of places I’m
 sure. But I don’t think Alexa can keep her trap
shut for long. You’ll have to leave as soon as you
      can. I think there’s a little cabin in the
 Desolates, if you follow Route Ten and turn…”
  She shook her head. “I know where I want to
                    go.”
             Where the Bee was from.
                     St. Louis.
    The food revived her. Her hands were really
 tingling now, and the sight of her father in the
   doorway, waving, brought tears to her eyes.
 That surprised her. She never thought she’d be
  sad to leave this place or anyone in it. In the
twilight, she looked at her palms, always lighter
   than the back of her hands, but now almost
  glowing with splotches of deep pink and blue
 arranged in some pattern, the way a lizard or a
            snake might be patterned.
   She knew she was burning with fever and her
   vision was playing tricks since the Tolliver
house seemed to sparkle in the dusk. She turned
right onto Route 10 and the moon threw a strong
light as the sky darkened, luckily, since her dad
had forgotten to pack a lightstick. The shadows
  shifted with the wind. She felt light and free.
              And then hot and sick.
      The train came through eastbound every
Tuesday night but she’d never thought about the
    time, though if people had clocks instead of
  infinite timepieces they set them by the train.
    She’d strained to see an engineer countless
times, peering up at that high sleek mountain of
steel since she was a little girl; looking at it from
   a far rooftop with binoculars, climbing some
abandoned steel pole near the track by using the
metal things that must have been put there just
   for climbing. But the glass was always blank.
    She’d stopped waving when she was seven.
    The road was cooling but she kept an eye out
    for snakes. She forced herself to hurry even
     though she felt so sick, and felt stirrings of
irritation with everything. Everything! Everyone
    in town, the fools. God, especially, someone
  she’d never given much thought to, despite the
         urging of some of her more militant
  Bible-thumping relatives, who were constantly
   insisting that the end of the world was quite
  obviously nigh. The night opened up like some
     new vast thing she’d never seen before and
 something in it was coming to get her, swooping
   toward her from an unimaginable distance…
   There! The kind of thoughts they were all so
afraid of. Clear eccentricity, to think of anything
  besides crops and hunting. So what! Let them
   live and die there in Elysia. She was going
somewhere. She was going to do something. She
   would have to tell them all… the truth. The
 unkind, urgent truth. Just for the telling. Tell
them what they already knew but were afraid to
                   say out loud.
  She started to run, heart pounding, when ever
so far away she saw the great burning headlight,
tiny as a pinprick in the night sky from here, but
   it would grow fast. She turned off the road
     toward the blue light of the box, pushing
    through scratchy scrub, stumbling on the
    uneven ground. Only a quarter mile to the
    switchbox. Only a hundred yards. Only…
  Panting, her breath burning in her throat, she
staggered to the switch-box. She and Jason had
opened it many times, stared at the strange flat
 panels, tried unsuccessfully to inflict various
kinds of damage on it, tried to confound the tiny
  blinking lights, or coax from it a new pattern
      somehow. Nothing had ever changed.
   The train was a vast roar now, and the wind
  whipped her hat away. She pried at the box,
crying in frustration. “Stick now, will you?” she
hollered and smashed at the clasp with a rock. It
                 popped open.
            She knew what to do now.
   As the engine flashed past she grabbed the
   pole with one hand and pressed her other
            against the flat screen.
 “Stop, damn you!” she screamed. “I’m here! I’m
                    here!”
 She saw individual windows fly past, and then
she could catch details inside, and then it was…
  yes… with a change so gradual she could not
      gauge it, it slowed… it slowed… it…
                     Stopped.
   It stood stock-still, like a well-trained horse
             waiting to be mounted.
  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” she whispered as a
door slid open and some steps unfolded down to
 the ground half a car away. She picked up her
          bundle and ran toward them.
   Elysia had few lights, and they grew small
quite swiftly and then were swallowed by night.


                        6
                      Cairo



                Seventeen
              Big Town Blues

Verity woke late, judging by the light. A quick
check revealed that the boat was deserted. No
wonder. She had a dim memory of Blaze trying
to wake her earlier, but he’d not succeeded.
   She washed, pulled on some pants and a shirt
with a bee on the front, and walked out onto the
                      wharf.
                 Oh, what a day!
  She recalled that Cairo was farther south than
 Washington, D.C., that forgotten capital of the
  forgotten Goddamned Government. The day
  would be hot, and already it was muggy. She
could feel that the fluffy white cumulus afloat in
  the clear blue sky of early summer would by
 evening gather into a luminous silver tower of
        water and unsatisfied electricity.
  The river was broad as a lake. She’d never seen
water like this, so big and wild: currents swirled
      through it, raising continuous waves.
   White-caps flirted with wind and with the
floating debris of wood that rushed along on the
 surface, except when caught in whirlpools. The
  opposite shore was just a distant brown line
 with low scrub islands between here and there.
 Verity marveled that they had made it through
       this mess. And the sky was so blue…
  She paused, looking around, to fix it all in her
memory. Despite their troubles, she had grown
  used to the slow beauty of the Ohio, and the
 seemingly timeless spring days spent upon it.
She had a feeling that their pace would quicken
                       now.
     This was the first real city she had seen.
Cincinnati—how could that have been real? This
was real, real like in the olden days, before nan,
  before the Flower Cities! An American town,
  with a mayor and everything. Two of them, in
 fact. Maybe more. One of them clearly living in
                     the past.
            Yeah. Pretty real, all right.
  She shielded her eyes against the sun and took
 in the regular streets, which ran perpendicular
   to the wharf; the low, brightly painted shops
 and houses on streets that rose only a bit above
the river. The town ended rather abruptly a mile
or two to the northeast, but sprawled northwest
  perhaps all the way to the Mississippi, which
 must be at that far point to her left. She saw no
          buildings over six stories high.
   The streets teemed with people, horses, and
bicycles. She was startled as a small cart fixed
with a sail bumped down the street, a woman at
 the till and a box of green melons in the back.
      No one took any particular notice of her,
 which pleased Verity. At a market shaded by a
 trellis she saw bushels of apples, green and red
  and yellow shot with pink stripes, and she felt
like making pies of them. Rows of river trout lay
   on ice, eyes staring. The smell of fresh bread
              wafted through the air.
   She climbed up Twenty-eighth Street for a
 block, then stepped into the Blue Café. A nice
                    name.
 It was hot inside. The booths were of some sort
 of soft blue plastic and Verity stuck to hers as
 she slid in. The café was crowded with people
  who paid no attention to her, and their many
  conversations wove together into a pleasing
 patchwork of unconnected words drifting into
 the air of summer. Yes, summer—or almost; it
  was early June. They had taken six weeks to
     gingerly navigate the Lower Ohio River.
    She pushed her hair back from her face and
 lifted it off her neck for a moment, then took a
menu from a metal holder and ordered apple pie
   and ice cream from a girl who looked about
 fifteen. The girl raised her eyebrows and said,
                  “For breakfast?”
       Sunlight streamed through the large
plate-glass windows, and huge fans mounted on
  the ceilings stirred the white paper napkin
   beneath Verity’s fork. Electricity. Hmmm.
  She soon finished her pie and coffee and was
 about to leave when the waitress returned and
gave her a piece of paper that said $4.31. “You’re
      asking me for money?” asked Verity.
  “Durn tootin’,” said the girl. “Four crisp Cairo
 City bills and change, lady. Some for me, some
 for the Blue Café, and some for George. And I
               don’t got all day.”
   “And I don’t have any money,” Verity said,
  irritated with herself for forgetting about
money. Never in her life had she been asked for
 money. She’d have to get some, she supposed,
     and wondered how. “Who’s George?”
    “You from out of town? He owns Cairo. You
  shoulda stopped at the Customs House first.
  Didn’t you see the sign at the wharf? You can
 trade for money at the Custom House or at the
  Rural Network building or at any of the three
    branches of the Cairo Bank. All owned by
 George, of course, and the network too, I know
 he skims off the top of that. Where you trade is
just a matter of your convenience. What you get
    for your goods is according to the list the
 committee makes and they work on the list all
the time to keep everything fair. Nobody comes
 here without something to trade.” She paused
  and shifted back and forth impatiently. “You
                 didn’t, did you?”
           “Evidently so,” said Verity.
   The waitress tapped her pencil against her
 pad and sighed. “I hate it when this happens.
 Look, I’ll take that shirt then, and pay the bill
myself. My mom will kill me when she sees it.”
   Her eyes lit, apparently in anticipation of
irritating her mother. “Where’d it come from?”
   “Cincinnati,” said Verity, suddenly loath to
      give up her shirt. “What will I wear?”
   “Cincinnati!” the waitress said, her mouth
 falling open for a moment. “No shit! You can
have mine,” she said, indicating her plain white
shirt. She looked around furtively. “I wouldn’t
         tell anyone else if I were you.”
    “Why not?” asked Verity, sliding out of the
                    booth.
    “I don’t know. It’s just—people are funny,
                   that’s all.”
    “Who is—are—those men?” asked Verity,
     passing a booth where four identical
 white-bearded men sat in white suits, smoking
                    cigars.
  “Mark Twains,” said the girl, sounding bored.
 “Old ones. They come in all ages, y’know, along
  with Huck Finns and Tom Sawyers. We had a
 river-pilot-aged one in here about an hour ago.
   Younger guy. The Mississippi River is right
    around the point. They come down from
Hannibal a lot. Then they don’t know what to do.
Nobody wants to pay for Mark Twains anymore.
They’re all the same. They say the originals were
 Historical Attractions, or something. And went
  around giving performances. Way, way back
when there were lots of tourists. My mom says.”
    “There aren’t many tourists now?” asked
                   Verity.
  The girl said, “You really are from out of town,
                  aren’t you?”
     They changed in the bathroom and she
  chattered questions without giving Verity a
chance to reply. “Oooh, you’re pregnant. Boy or
  girl? I never seen anybody from Cincinnati.
   What’s it like? You a plaguer? I’m immune,
don’cha know. They have Bees there, don’t they?
 And all kinds of nan? Any kind of nan in this
 shirt?” She smoothed it over her breasts and
          poked the bee experimentally.
  Only all of it, thought Verity, amused. “I have
  no idea,” she said. “Why are you immune?”
   “I dunno. Because I was born here, I think,”
she said. “George says we owe it all to him. I get
sick and tired of George sometimes. We have to
 listen to him give a speech in the park once a
 month. I mean, everybody has to go. He always
 wears that silly hat. Hoo-ray for Cairo, and we
  must keep the enemy at bay! Same old stuff.
 How did you get here?” she asked as they left
                  the bathroom.
                 “On a riverboat.”
     “A riverboat?” The girl grabbed her by the
 shoulders. “Oh! I saw it this morning. So big! I
thought it was from St. Louis. Take me with you.
 Please! Wherever you’re going! I really want to
 go to LA except… that’s too scary. Every time I
stand there next to the lev I chicken out. The lev
  is so big and strange and you can’t see in the
windows and it goes straight into a Flower City,
    at least they think it does and I’m not even
  allowed to talk about them and I’m not even
 supposed to go to the train station. It’s spooky
there. And people die on the way, the lev doesn’t
  always make it, sometimes they get blown up
  and stuff. Then they heal themselves. That’s
what my mom said but maybe she’s lying. Just to
 scare me. But every time I don’t go I feel really
bad. Sometimes it just stops across the river and
 we can see it way out there. It should get here
any time and it will leave tonight. There’s never
anyone on it. If there is they don’t stick around.
I’ve heard there’s a train up on the line north of
 town that has zombies on it. I mean, I wouldn’t
 want to get on a train with a bunch of zombies
 would you? But the river—that’s not scary. I’ve
seen it every day of my life. I’ve seen every bit of
   this town inside out and I need to get away.
                   Please! Please!”
   By now she was pulling on the sleeve of the
  shirt Verity was wearing, and Verity noticed
 three small stains splattered across the front.
    She gently removed the girl’s hands. “We’ll
  see,” she said. “I have to go now.” She wasn’t
sure where she was going, except to see as much
as she could of the town this girl was so tired of.
     She stepped into the street, into steamy
summer air filled with the scents and sounds of
a functioning city. A real city, just like they used
  to be, before people like her existed. Money.
    Private property. Bees a distant legend.
  Immunity to the plague. Wouldn’t that have
 been handy at Shaker Hill! But of course they
  hadn’t even known that it was possible. The
 price they paid for their isolation. All that was
                       here.
   All that and a NAMS maglev to Los Angeles.
     She shivered, thinking of Blaze. He loved
 trains. Had always talked about riding on one.
             Where was he, anyway?
     A good chance that he was at that train
                   station.
   She wished for maps, but none came. She was
       different now. What had changed her?
  Cincinnati itself? Her ordeal? Her pregnancy?
    She’d left something behind. She felt oddly
 lonely as she walked past the many small shops
  of Cairo—clothiers, restaurants, market stalls,
    and the Rural Network building, two brick
   stories. In the plate-glass window next to the
sidewalk she saw a map, apparently of the Rural
 Network, and studied it with interest. It spread
    like a tree through Indiana, Michigan, and
Illinois, the only states visible. Without thinking
  she pressed her hands against it but of course
 her hands couldn’t access anything here. There
                was nothing to access.
  As she walked away, a man rushed out of the
 building and rubbed the window with a cloth,
               glaring at Verity.
   A group of five people hurried past her and
    she recognized rafters by their somewhat
 shabby river clothing. One of them climbed up
 the side of a wrought-iron arch that led into a
green, cool-looking park and after a few minutes
   succeeded in unfurling a banner that said:
    FABULOUS ENTERTAINMENT ON THE
          AMERICAN QUEEN!
    “WHEN BEES PLAYED STRIDE PIANO”
              A Revelatory Drama
              TONIGHT AT SEVEN
              Come One, Come All!
     After they secured it, they hurried off,
carrying what looked like several more banners
 beneath their arms. Passersby stopped to take
              note and walked on.
  The play that Jack and Lil had been so worried
     about. The play that sprang from their
long-suppressed minds, from who they were and
   what they knew before Cincinnati enslaved
  them. A mosaic of history, a play that almost
composed itself, an order that emerged from the
  chaos of their memories. A revelatory drama.
  Revelatory of their own hidden history. Well,
  thought Verity, this should be interesting. At
  least they’d changed the name from Smaller
than Sand. In a way, she wished she’d been part
   of it, but there was still, and always was,
 something unique about her. Rose, of course.
There would always be Rose. And Rose’s history
 had not been suppressed. It had lived within
 Cincinnati, waiting to unfurl within Verity’s
                      being.
 Verity frowned and turned from the banner. It
     was too bright a day to get irritated.
     But she was. She was now on Washington
  Street, quite a few blocks from the river. She
headed back toward downtown, wet with sweat
 that didn’t seem to cool her, wondering where
    the train station might be. It was already
afternoon—maybe one o’clock, judging from the
 sun. Blaze was gone, Jack and Lil were too; the
 rafters were running around advertising their
play, and she was pregnant and discouraged. All
  the weight of tiredness that the patches had
 remedied seemed to descend on her at once. It
  looked as if a cool park with a crown of trees
 was just a block away, up on a hill. She headed
                     toward it.
   A few minutes later she trudged through the
gate of a tall, stately mansion—magnolia manor,
   said the sign, and indeed, the grounds were
filled with huge magnolia trees, the sweet smell
of the white blossoms permeating the heavy air.
  Not a park, but a private estate. She counted
  three stories, and the many arched windows
were crowned with metal hoods like eyelids. The
    house was brick, with several porches and
   verandas. There were the ruins of Victorian
      mansions in Miamisburg, including a
   particularly well preserved one at Fifth and
Linden, with stained glass and a lovely fireplace.
  But none this grand, and none that seemed as
 living. A green bike was lying on the lawn next
                   to the porch.
 “Some lemonade?” she heard, and looked up to
    see where the voice was coming from.
     The man dwarfed by the enormous porch
   looked familiar. “Thistlewood?” she asked.
    He nodded vigorously. “Yes, thank you for
remembering my invitation. Please come on up.”
 He hurried her along with a welcoming gesture
 of his arm. “That’s right, quite a few steps, eh?
   You should have seen the Grant entourage
descending the morning I gave my speech. They
stayed here with the Galligers, you know. Grant
   burnt a hole in one of Mrs. Galliger’s linen
 sheets with his cigar.” His voice boomed out as
 she climbed the stairs to the porch, which was
       about twenty feet above the ground.
    Verity was glad of the coolness beneath the
      roof. She felt rather at home with Mr.
 Thistlewood’s delusion. He was still dressed in
his outlandish manner, though lacking a top hat.
   “Welcome to my veranda,” said Thistlewood.
  She turned to survey the green, lush grounds.
 The spray of a small fountain glinted in a shaft
of sun, which pierced the canopy of trees. White
 wrought-iron benches were scattered here and
there on the lawn. She saw only a glimpse of the
 city bustle just outside the gate, and its sounds
   were muted. She might still be on the boat,
surrounded as she was by gingerbread. A gust of
    air issued from the wide-open front door.
   “It’s cool!” she said, holding out her arms so
 she could have the full advantage, discovering
the reason Thistlewood did not have to descend
  to uncouth dress simply because of the heat.
   “Yes, it’s my secret,” he said, “or rather, the
secret of Magnolia Manor. The house stores the
  cool of the night, and the walls are a double
 thickness of brick with an air space between.
The cool air sits in the house, though I probably
shouldn’t squander it like this. Sit down and I’ll
             bring out the lemonade.”
  Verity wondered if he lived here alone but said
  nothing. She was grateful to sit on the chintz
  cushion of a huge white wicker rocking chair
  and rest her feet on the stool in front of it as
  Thistlewood entered the overwhelmingly tall
front door and vanished into the cool dim foyer.
  She felt disconnected from everything here. It
 was quite pleasant. Everything was green, and
there were no voices in her head, no blue visions
of otherwhere, no troublesome rafters, no worry
   about what the next turn in the river might
 bring. Now that she was sitting, she was much
      cooler anyway, never mind the special
  properties of the house. A breeze rustled the
  huge, waxy leaves all around her and white
  petals drifted down and settled on the lush
    lawn. Her eyes closed but then she heard
         footsteps on the concrete steps.
  “Hello,” said a man wearing navy-blue shorts
 and a white shirt with an embroidered badge
that read cairo postal service. He handed her a
white envelope. “Letter for George, from Linda.”
                    “George?”
     “Nobody else here, lady,” he replied. She
looked at the envelope, which just read, George
Mills, Magnolia Manor, written in a rather stern,
                 square hand.
  Thistlewood emerged carrying an ornate silver
    tray and a sweating cut-glass pitcher of
 lemonade with quartered lemons floating in it.
He glanced at her anxiously from beneath bushy
 eyebrows as he set it on a low table next to her.
“After I went in I thought you might have rather
                   had iced tea.”
 “Lemonade is wonderful,” she said. “I’ve never
   had it before. Here’s a letter for George.”
    Thistlewood fished a pocketknife from his
  pocket and slit open the envelope. As he read
 the letter, he frowned, then glanced quickly at
    Verity before looking back at the letter.
       “Are you George Mills?” she asked.
  “Oh, sorry,” he said, and folded the letter and
stuffed it in his breast pocket. “Well, actually, I
 am.” He dropped into a chair across from her
and poured them both tall glasses of lemonade.
  It was sweet and sour and invigorating and
 Verity drank the entire glass in one long gulp.
 “Thank you,” she said, as he poured another. “I
    thought you were Mayor Thistlewood.”
   “Well, I am he as well,” said the man. He looked
down and cleared his throat. He appeared to be
       thinking. Then he grinned at Verity and
  suddenly looked a lot younger. “To tell you the
truth, I have been in love with Linda for lo these
      many years and she paid me not a whit of
   attention. I went away for a while, then came
 back and found she was the mayor. Since I was
     living here, in the home of the most famous
 mayor of Cairo, it seemed quite natural to offer
  her a bit of competition. Show her what a real
  mayor is like. At least now she’s annoyed with
me.” He threw back his head and his three short
 laughs reminded Verity of a barking dog. “Well,
there’s no law against it! I wouldn’t be surprised
    if she tried to make one, though, she and her
 shyster lawyer friend, Alexander Pittentot. The
    Pit, I call him. She almost married me, once.
    Before I went away. She should still. The Pit
hasn’t a breath of humor in him. Dull, dull, dull!
     Well, how would you like to see the house?”
  “I’d love to,” said Verity, refreshed. “Mind if I
              call you George, then?”
                   “Delighted.”
    In the foyer, where the ceiling towered far
  overhead, was a spiral staircase. She looked
 upward through its snail-like curve and saw a
 round light. “The skylight,” he said. “But let’s
   start at the bottom and work our way up.”
 He chattered his way through a kitchen as big
as the barn at Shaker Hill. On the marble table
  she saw a heap of squeezed lemons. A large
        ceiling fan turned lazily above.
       “You have electricity?” she asked. She
wondered how much technology they used here.
And how much nan. There was obviously some—
 look at the Mark Twains. And NAMS came here
      as well. Unease lapped at her sense of
well-being. Lil had gone to a lot of trouble to try
   and avoid Cairo—but why? She had her own
 agenda, linked to some wider reality which she
had not shared. Cairo was oddly insulated. Alive
and functioning, but certainly not a Flower City.
More like a small, healthy hub, a center of trade.
   “Oh, of course,” he said. “We have all manner
   of energy—wind, solar, and of course, water
 velocity. We use solar energy to produce steam
 which in turn produces electricity. Of course, it
       doesn’t always work, as the magnetic
fluctuations in the atmosphere have an effect on
                 the turbines.”
        “Does the solar road come here?”
    He gave her a strange look, pausing before
leading her into the dining room, their footsteps
  echoing in the huge old house with its lovely
 wallpaper and high embossed plaster ceilings.
   “No, of course not,” he said. “It passed many
 miles north of here. Cairo was just a forgotten
   spit of land during the road’s heyday in the
early twenty-first century—river commerce was
no longer as important as it once had been, nor
  were railroads, so the town almost vanished.
 The one solar road that came down to Cairo is
  completely cut off. Now the river is the main
 thing again—full circle, eh? The old Interstate
 system is a conduit for all manner of outlaws.
 Which you well know, don’t you?” He looked at
          her with keen, suspicious eyes.
  “I’m not a solar road outlaw,” she laughed. The
dining-room table, its surface shining and dark,
    looked to be as long as the entire house at
Shaker Hill. An immense number of places were
 set, old silverware glowing dimly in the muted
   light, the various goblets, wineglasses, and
 coffee cups at each place turned upside down.
    “Is your boat on the way upriver then, to
   Hannibal? We can always use new Rural
Network links. See, I do have an official function
               in that regard—”
                 “No,” she said.
 “Not going up the Ohio, are you?” he asked, his
             voice more guarded.
  There were several doors to the room, Verity
noticed, and the windows all stood open. “No,”
she said, just as guardedly. “Thank you for the
       tour, but I should be going now.”
  “Going back downriver?” he persisted, as she
turned and walked back to the kitchen. She said
          nothing, but kept walking.
  “Then you are from the Ohio,” he said, and she
 thought she detected awe in his statement, so
 low that he had really been talking to himself.
    “Linda said so—but I can hardly believe it.
Please wait,” he said, rushing to catch up with
   her. “Please accept my sincere apology.” He
caught up her hand and closed his eyes for just
   a second, then blinked. She pulled her hand
 away. “I didn’t want to offend you by saying it
   right off—most people would consider it an
                      insult.”
 She walked out onto the porch, feeling relieved
 and much safer. She turned, holding on to the
               railing. “Why?”
 His eyes filled with tears. He blinked and they
overflowed and he pulled a white handkerchief
  from his pocket and wiped his face. To her
amazement he collapsed onto the wicker couch
and bent over, sobbing outright, his head in his
  hands. “I’m sorry,” he managed, looking up at
her with eyes washed and brilliant blue. He blew
 his nose. “I thought all these feelings were long
      gone. Long gone. Funny. They’re not.
     “My mother voted for conversion here in
     Cairo,” he continued. “I was just a boy. I
remember the times. So exciting. She was a wild
 woman, at least my father always said so, and
 even after she left he sounded proud when he
did. He loved her to his death. Even though she
 left us, after our conversion was interrupted.”
       “It was interrupted?” asked Verity.
 He nodded. He continued to talk, and after a
while, she relaxed enough to sit on the top step
                as she listened.
 “She voted for it, my father voted against. They
argued a lot those days. I was ten. She’d already
 taken my sister and I to Denver once. In those
days you could travel to all the Flower Cities on
 NAMS. Ah, it was lovely, so lovely. We took the
  night train there and the top of the train was
clear and my sister and mother and I lay in our
  bunk and watched the stars, one of her arms
    around each of us as she pointed out the
 constellations, and we talked about the moon
       colony where her father worked—”
    “The moon colony!” said Verity, sitting up
                  straight.
   “Yes,” he said, looking at her curiously. “Did
 you know someone there too? I never met my
              grandfather.”
     Verity shook her head. “Go on. Please.”
   “Denver is like a dream to me now. You had to
   take on a temporary initialization pack that
  allowed you to function while you were there.
Well, you didn’t have to, but my mother thought
we should, to enhance our enjoyment of the city,
 that’s why she went, of course, to try it out. My
father didn’t go. He was against it. Said nan was
  going to ruin the world. I guess he was right.”
 “But didn’t they have to do something?” asked
   Verity. “I mean, because of the quasar?”
     He was silent for a moment, studying her.
  “Quasar. Hmm.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I
     guess they thought they had to,” he said.
     “Certainly a lot of people were all for it,
starry-eyed, like her. I can’t blame them. Denver
   was a wonderland. We could only take in so
 much of it, of course, not only because of time
 but because we weren’t fully converted. I still
  remember the Bees.” His eyes were wistful. “I
   remember wanting to go for a ride on one of
      them. They didn’t look like the Bees in
Cincinnati. They were called Bees because they
  did carry information between the buildings,
   which did have the interstices, which meant
   nothing to our hands.” Verity involuntarily
clenched her own, glad that her receptors were
covered by the now-invisible gloves, which were
thankfully free of pictures right now, as if some
 sort of pact had been reached among them not
   to communicate in that way right now. Or
maybe she was just too far from the rest of them.
   “… those Bees were much more machinelike,”
 continued George, his eyes shut, as if he saw it
all inside his head, that long-ago trip. “We went
    to see them, of course. We got to touch the
 sensors they used. They felt funny, kind of soft
and a little bit rough, and looked like a rainbow
 because each of those—oh, how many artificial
            pheromones did they end up
    creating?—metapheromones adhered to a
  different-colored receptor, all so very tiny of
   course but the result was kind of a rippling
  colored surface. Everyone was talking about
  how people would have new senses now, how
      people themselves would be all new, so
different! Heady times! And when Cairo changed
  its mind after the conversion began it was so
very strange! So many of us have vestiges of the
conversion within us. My mother took my sister
              and went to Cincinnati.
  “After Cincinnati surged, and you couldn’t get
in or out, my dad took me up there and we flew
as close as we could. He had a friend who was in
 the Aviator’s Club and had a small plane. I was
 terrified at first and then it was exciting. I was
 about fifteen by then and I knew it was silly to
  think that I could see Mom and Melinda. The
  Bees of Cincinnati kept us from getting very
close. The whole City, the Seam and everything,
scintillated. Sparkled. I’m not boring you, am I?”
   “No,” said Verity, her voice low. “Not at all.”
      He sighed deeply. His hands were clasped
  between his knees, and his back was bowed as
he gazed at the floor. “My dad felt guilty the rest
  of his life. It was almost like he had a fever, a
fever of guilt, and these sort of guilt waves came
off of him. I had to get away from him, I couldn’t
  stand it, and then of course I felt guilty about
   that. I had wanted to go with her. But it was
some kind of deal they made, him and her. They
   didn’t ask us. I bet Melinda would have been
   just as happy to stay behind. Sometimes dad
   thought he should have gone with her, other
      times he was yelling that he should have
 stopped her, she was too wild for her own good.
    I wanted to reach out and touch those Bees,
  when I saw them, one of them came so close to
us I could see right into her eyes… I couldn’t call
her ‘it.’ The eyes were so aware. The Surge made
  some kind of difference. It wasn’t like Denver.
  They were all different, the Cities, when they
 started surging. And then, that’s when I knew I
                had to do something—”
              “So what did you do?”
    George started and looked at her as if he’d
         forgotten that she was there.
  “If you’re here,” he said, his eyes hungry, “so
  many of you, that means that something has
           happened in Cincinnati…”
    She felt great pity for George, suddenly. He
  seemed to have so little to take up the time of
  his life. “Something has happened,” she said.
 “Cincinnati has been freed. Kind of.” Freedom!
     The word was like ashes in her mouth.
   George leaned over and grabbed her hands
 and held them tightly. “Don’t make fun of me!
   Don’t! I couldn’t stand it! Can it be true?”
  Verity tried to take back her hands but he
 wouldn’t let go. His eyes were very blue, very
                    piercing.
               “It’s true,” she said.
 George sprang up, and looked across the green
 grounds. “This is the happiest news of my life.
 And if you have come from there… where are
                   you going?”
               “Norleans,” she said.
   “Ah,” he said, thoughtfully. He looked at her
 for a moment. Then he said, “Come to the most
  beautiful part of the house. The roof. You can
  see the confluence from there. It’s tricky. You
must study it. A lot of boats run aground on Bird
Island. Cincinnati! What a change! Like a dream
            come true! My life’s work!”
   It seemed important to view the confluence.
  They had been lucky to make it to Cairo last
    night. She followed him into the house.
  “Your life’s work?” asked Verity, but he didn’t
  appear to hear her. He kept talking, and she
  could barely catch his words as they walked
   past a partially open door. George turned a
corner, but something had caught Verity’s eye.
Glancing in, she saw strange equipment, several
flat screens embedded in the high wainscoting,
      library shelves holding rows of jars…
  She dropped to one knee and pretended to tie
             a loose shoestring.
 She must have a longer look. But George stuck
  his head out from round the corner as she
          finished her double knot.
  “Come on,” he said, frowning and glancing at
     the open door. “What’s taking you?”
   Strange symbols flickered briefly in the back
of Verity’s mind, then vanished as a breeze blew
down the hallway from a tall window at the end.
 He helped her up and she did not like his hand
on her arm but he let go right away. He hurried
        onward, resuming his questions.
  “Would she have come with you? My mother?
 How can I find out? Will you help me? Maybe I
can go on the boat and look around. Would that
 be all right with you? Yes, I’ll come down and
          make a thorough inspection.”
  Verity didn’t have the heart to tell him, as he
rushed her up the spiral stairs, one flight, then
another, and another, twisting round so she was
getting dizzy, that if his mother still existed she
  might not remember, or that she might have
been one of the rafters who by now had died, or
 that she might die if she didn’t get to Norleans
   in time, according to the blue vision of the
          woman with the bee tattoo…
        They emerged on the roof, which was
  furnished with wrought-iron chairs. The Ohio,
 almost hidden beneath a canopy of trees before
   it burst forth to the east, glinted blue in the
    late-afternoon sun, reflecting the sky. She
struggled to keep the plague visions at bay. Keep
  thinking. Keep your eyes moving. The massive,
 ruined bridge was crumpled, rust-red, stranded
in the middle of the river. The Ohio passed Cairo
  and carried her eye west and she had her first
             glimpse of the Mississippi.
      A muddy, roiling brown snake. She was
   amazed that the two rivers kept their own
identity for such a long way, blending only very
 far downriver, perhaps farther than she could
 really see very clearly. The Ohio, a wide green
    jewel-ribbon, was gradually soiled by the
 Mississippi. Verity felt a bit affronted that the
     Ohio lost its name here, rather than the
                    Mississippi.
   George said, “You could probably get some
help from some of the other pilots, but nobody
else is in town right now. How many people are
            on your boat, anyway?”
 “I’m not sure. So there are a lot of boats on the
river?” she asked, settling in a chair beneath a
    large green umbrella and taking in the
               magnificent view.
 “A few. Do you have the plague?” asked George
           suddenly, staring at her.
              “I—” she said, rising.
  “No, no, sit, I’m not worried. I’m supposed to
be immune. We all are. That’s what makes Cairo
    so accessible. It was a special thing I—”
             He stopped suddenly.
    “A special thing you what?” Verity asked,
             absorbed in the view.
 “Something that makes Cairo special. We don’t
             have to be afraid.”
   Verity was suddenly irrationally afraid that
she would become immune. Why not? she asked.
 Everyone is free now. Everyone could become
                   immune…
  Why did she hate the thought that something
            might save them all?
 Lil was right. The plague was tough. “How did
    this special thing happen?” she asked.
 George pulled up a chair next to her, scraping
     it loudly on the rough roof, which was
surrounded by an ornate metal rail, and smiled
  broadly. She wondered why she thought the
           smile was somewhat false.
     “I can almost see the wheels turn,” he said,
   taking her hand gently. He patted it with his
  other hand and she pulled it away. She stuck
   her hands in her pockets and resolved not to
  take them out. “Once you have the plague, my
 dear, you can’t turn back. That’s not why these
     people would fear you. But there’s a lot of
 sentiment here about when the conversion was
     halted. Feelings are still quite bitter. The
       beginnings of conversion left vestiges
everywhere. But no need for someone like you to
    think about such horrible things. Look over
 there. Would you like me to take you for a ride
                   in my glider?”
  Not really, she thought. But he clearly wasn’t
going to answer her question. “What’s a glider?”
       “There,” he said, and pointed north.
  She saw an area the size of about five acres on
the outskirts of town, not far away. Lined up on
the edge were—airplanes? Two were white and
                 two were black.
  “But are they all gliders? The black ones have
                   propellers.”
        “You are a sharp young woman.”
 It did not seem as if sharpness was required to
          notice this, only good vision.
    “The white ones are gliders,” he said. “The
black ones are airplanes. Biplanes, actually. For
 the double wings. I was doing some work on
them earlier in the day. They should have been
put up by now. Ah—good. Here comes my boy.”
   Verity saw a young man bump down the dirt
road toward the small airport on a bike. He got
off and walked round to the wheels of one of the
  gliders and did something; then he hooked a
rope to the nose and started pulling it toward a
         large, metal barnlike building.
  “But who’s that?” George asked. He pointed to
a man riding away on a bike. Apparently he had
            been behind the glider.
   It was really too far away to tell, but Verity
 thought it might be Peabody, for some reason
         she couldn’t put her finger on.
  “Why do you need so many?” she asked. “Are
     you the only one who flies them?”
 “Ah… you never know when one might break.”
        “What do they run on?” she asked.
    “The gliders run on thermals,” he said. “The
  wind.” His voice grew more excited. “I tried a
     method of launching them from a steam
launcher for a while. But their lightness renders
them too fragile. My latest method works pretty
  well—a friend of mine pilots a hot-air balloon
which lifts them high enough to be released. Ah,
  the view! Magnificent! I cruised almost all the
way to Memphis one day and back. But you have
 to know the weather.” The young man came out
  of the building and started to pull the other
                    glider in.
  “What about the biplanes?” she asked. “How do
 you power them?” Now the boy was pulling the
 first one toward the building. It did not look as
if it was very heavy. Verity knew that there were
 ways of making materials which were very light
and also very strong. “Don’t they have to go very
            fast to get off the ground?”
  He pursed his lips and his eyes did not look at
 all merry. They looked as if he were measuring
her. “You are certainly full of questions,” he said
 after a pause. “It is a very complicated matter
      and I don’t think you’d understand it.”
    “Do any of them use nanotechnology?” she
  asked, irritated. There were any number of
approaches, Rose was telling her—several quite
 dependable nanotech methods of utilizing the
 solar power collected by the black wings. And
 many small ways to make the planes smart. It
 was a bit of a surprise how unobtrusively the
         information became available.
             Rose did come in handy.
  “My dear,” he said gravely. His voice became
more chiding, a bit pompous. “You have no idea
 of the deep evils of nanotechnology. I’ve been
preaching that—yes, preaching, I don’t know a
 better word for it— to the people of Cairo for
many years now. It is a sin. That’s all. A crime
  against nature. It’s the devil’s work. Coming
    from Cincinnati, you should know this.”
   The devil’s work. The Shakers had never
    believed in the devil. Would he think
nanotechnology so bad if his mother really was
                    alive?
  But if she was alive, she might not be for long.
  She might have already died on the Ohio; she
might die on the Mississippi. Verity remembered
 the bee woman in her blue visions of Norleans,
   and her warning about dying, and her eyes
               filling with tears.
   Verity held on to the railing tightly and stared
  at the blue. What had she done? Taken eternal
 life from them all, from herself! If sin really did
  exist, this probably was sin. She’d given them
this horrible plague from which they could only
be released by death or by some unknown being
    in Norleans who might not even exist! How
foolhardy! Feelings roiled up in her and she just
 could not help it. You’re pregnant, a part of her
                  said. That’s why.
  “Why are you crying?” asked George, and put
  his arm around her. “Surely it’s not all that
                    bad.”
      She stepped away from him. “It is,” she
 shouted, surprising herself. “It’s all my fault. I
don’t know if your mother is here! She may have
  died. Because of me, because of what I did!”
 “I don’t understand,” murmured George. “How
            can it be all your fault?”
    “Because I was the Queen!” she shouted. She
took great gulping breaths of clean water-laden
   air. She was drenched with sweat. Having a
  baby was an odd business. It seemed to make
her prone to shouting. A sort of pressure seemed
     to build up. People could be so irritating.
Everything was irritating. She noticed with one
  part of her that was still noticing such things
   that the golden plains to the north, past the
    distant, glimmering solar Interstate which
 appeared just once between low hills and a gap
   in some trees, were darkened by a lowering,
intense black cloud which grew as she watched
                         it.
  “Oh, don’t get so upset,” George said, looking
  at her in a curious way, in a way that Verity
 really didn’t quite understand. Part fear and
part eagerness? “Such delusions can be terribly
 strong. The Queen never would have left her
              city. Come, sit. Relax.”
       Walking in what she hoped was a casual
  manner back toward the open doorway, Verity
 looked back at the riverfront and saw the boats
at rest there. A crowd thronged the boat, as if all
of Cairo was trying to crowd onto it, and she was
  filled with misgiving. What if Linda, last night,
               was right about riots?
  “Do you think they might hurt the boat?” she
                     asked.
   “Didn’t I hear something about a play earlier
   today?” he asked. Verity saw lightning flash
     across the vast distance of the plains, out
  beyond the Mississippi. “I’m sure that’s what
they’re there for. Don’t worry. That storm won’t
    be here for hours, if it gets here at all. And
there’s nothing we like more than a good play. It
 will be like olden times on the river, you know,
and Cairo honors its past quite deeply. We hope
you will stay for weeks. Yes, weeks. Really settle
 in. Don’t be in a hurry. What is the play about?”
 “I don’t know,” said Verity, then decided she
might as well tell him. He’d know soon enough.
   She leaned against the doorframe. “The
              Information Wars.”
  He stared at her in stark amazement. “I’ll be,”
                he said finally.
  Verity pointed toward the one quadrant she’d
     missed. She saw a low, sleek building
       glimmering in the low sun’s rays.
  “What’s that?” she asked, though in her heart
                   she knew.
   “The NAMS station,” he said. “The train is
there, though we can’t see it. It’s underground.
   It should leave in about an hour—wait!”
 But Verity whirled and ran headlong down the
   stairs, getting dizzy on the roundabouts.
  “Hey, what’s your name?” yelled George over
  the balcony a flight or two above her. “Slow
               down! I like you!”
  Judging from his continued shouts and heavy
  breathing, she was at least a minute ahead of
him when she got to the bottom of the stairs. She
 dashed past some newly opened French doors,
   then had to back up and take a closer look.
                 Yes. It was Eliot.
     He was sitting at a large table that was
 covered with all manner of strange devices. He
  looked up at her and his eyes were no longer
                     empty.
     But then they were again and he smiled.
  George was down the stairs now and reaching
                  for her.
   She ran out onto the porch, down the steps,
  grabbed up the bike, and jumped on it while
                   running.
   “Don’t hurry off like this! We can help each
     other! You are quite extraordinary…”
   She sped off down the winding walkway and
 shot out into the street. George’s shouts faded.
    She whipped down the street, cooled by the
   wind, headed in the general direction of the
station. Why did she think Blaze would be there?
     Always, always, he had longed to see the
         mighty trains. To ride them.
     She pedaled faster and the bike leaped
 forward. If Eliot was normal, he certainly could
  have answered all of George’s questions about
the boat. Had he recovered? His eyes had looked
so… odd, in that moment. And George knew they
 were from Cincinnati all along. What was he up
    to, anyway? Worming information out of
                   her—but why?
  Well, she’d think about Eliot and George later.
             She had to catch Blaze.
 She wove in and out of pedestrians and saw to
  her surprise a sign shaped like a flower that
 said NAMS and she followed it around a long
curve to the left and coasted to a stop beneath a
small, glowing flower, where before her was an
        arched gap in a plain gray wall.
  A girl of about twelve emerged from it, a look
 of determination on her face. She did not even
         glance at Verity as she passed.
    This station had none of the beauty of the
 Cincinnati station. Verity wondered why they
 allowed it here, if they hated nan so. Maybe it
           was impossible to destroy.
  Though the outer wall of the train station was
 low and plain, the inside was more impressive.
       She coasted down a long ramp which
   gradually widened in a grand curve and she
realized that it was a spiral. After she descended
 about fifty feet, she judged, though on the ramp
  it took a while, she was in a grand hall lit by
                  golden light.
 She braked, wondering where to go. The place
 was completely deserted. Maybe Blaze wasn’t
                here after all.
  The floor was a complex tile-mosaic map of the
old United States, big as a city block, for she was
  standing in the middle of Florida (which she
   believed was now submerged by the rising
     ocean), and Georgia was ten feet away.
  She looked to her left. Norleans! There it was,
a star on the map but with the old spelling, New
   Orleans. And toward it twisted the blue-tile
 Mississippi, and on the river was even a small,
             tiled, fanciful riverboat.
  She did not really understand why the station
 was enlivened, for it was. The people of Cairo
  had evidently found some way to control the
 station, to live with it. Yet they did not use it.
They preferred to face the past—not the recent
    past, but the distant past, existing in the
  river-based world of the nineteenth century.
Someone had bequeathed them immunity from
   the plague. Someone had sown some sort of
 strictures round the station. The trains led to
the great Flower civilization of North America,
                what was left of it.
         Perhaps not much was left of it.
  Around the high, golden arch of the interior
was the familiar frieze of flowers, indented into
   the wall and lit from the interior so that it
                 glowed quietly.
 She told herself that she must not succumb to
the power of the place, to the wonder of nan, a
world that she could control—or could have, in
                 Cincinnati…
   As she slowly walked across the map of the
     United States, voices filled her head.
  In a few steps her shoes touched New Orleans
   and she was surrounded by utterly familiar
  brick buildings, with wrought-iron balconies,
 and ghosts swept through her, a bit taller than
her as if all were magnified in New Orleans, and
    a cool female voice said, “The City of New
      Orleans leaves each afternoon at four
   forty-seven p.m., with stops in New Madrid,
     Memphis, and Natchez.” Verity watched
transfixed as images of the trip unreeled around
      her: long vistas of river, a grand city,
   presumably Memphis; swamps and bayous,
which flashed past flat; hammocks of palms and
 mangroves supplanted by a table covered with
      white linen. She saw a half-submerged
 champagne bottle, a vase holding a pink rose, a
 plate of opened oysters and some fresh bread…
         she could even smell the bread…
                 “Verity. Verity!”
  Startled, Verity looked up as the images faded
and Blaze stood there, his face sunburnt, his red
beard gold at the edges. He looked relieved. His
 guitar was slung over his back. They stared at
           each other for a moment.
  “Please don’t go!” she said, surprised when it
                burst out of her.
   “Come and see the lev, Verity,” he said, and
 from the tone of his voice she knew it was no
                      use.
  She didn’t move and he took her hand and led
 her across the map where one voice blended to
another as she walked through the NAMS trains
schedule of… how long ago? From what lost age?
  Crowds of people appeared and vanished and
  she said, “It must have been pretty confusing
         when a lot of people were here.”
    “Maybe,” said Blaze, as they walked into a
 tunnel at the far end which said trains. “But I
   think that somebody’s probably just been
playing with this. There are so many functions!”
     His voice was filled with awe. His steps
hastened and she had to hurry to keep up with
                       him.
     “Doesn’t this frighten you?” she asked.
   “Of course,” he said, but his voice was calm
  and deep and did not sound frightened. Her
 heart was beating hard and fast, thinking him
 gone and when would they meet again, if ever,
  yet it did not seem to bother him in the least.
 The walls of the tunnel flashed with constant
 advertisements, though thankfully they were
soundless, and then they came to the end of the
             tunnel and she saw it.
  “The Western Zephyr, nonstop service to Los
  Angeles, departs from track three in fifteen
  minutes,” said the stern voice. Blaze hurried
 forward toward the shining, monstrous train.
  But, she realized, as the coolness of the tunnel
made her shiver, it was tremendously beautiful!
 Low and sleek, the engine shaped like… a fish,
 perhaps, pointed and low and rising gradually.
The air was filled with a deep, pervading sound
of immense energy, and she had the feeling for a
   moment that Blaze was going to run up and
  embrace the train, but suddenly the platform
   was boiling with people running toward the
   track. They were caught in a mass of ghosts
wearing strange clothing, carrying parcels, their
   coats flashing with messages, talking to one
     another, all hurrying to their cars, some
         embracing others for an instant.
  She saw that the passenger car was lit inside
and appeared to be full of passengers. Then they
            all vanished suddenly.
    “Blaze, there’s no one on it!” she said in
 despair, as if this would make any difference.
“How do you know that it will get there? How do
 you know what LA is like? How can you leave
                       me?”
  “I’m not sure,” he said, but caught and held her
 tightly. “Verity, you don’t need me! But I need
     this! Don’t you see? It’s what I’ve always
 dreamed of. It’s been going between Cairo and
 LA for years. I found the horses a good home in
      town, so you don’t have to worry about
exercising them. I talked to a lot of people today,
about the train. But it’s true…” His voice caught
  for a moment. “… it’s true that I couldn’t find
        anyone who had ever been to LA…”
      She pulled back and looked into his eyes.
 “Maybe they’re killed as soon as they get off the
  train. Did you ever think of that?” She felt him
sigh. They had never embraced for this long. Her
arms tightened around him. “I can’t bear for you
 to leave.” She tried to blink back tears, but they
                    overflowed.
       To her surprise, he kissed her then.
   It was their first kiss, their first kiss not as
    celibate Shakers, Brother and Sister. She
grabbed the back of his head almost in a panic,
  felt his rough hair, and when the kiss ended
   pressed the side of her face to his. He was
crying, too, she could feel it, all those emotions
  squeezed into his center with no place to go
except another kiss—longer this time, and even
                 more hungry—
   “I have to go, Verity. I just have to. Don’t try
and stop me!” And he whirled and jumped on the
 train and the door slid shut behind him as if it
 had just been waiting for him and the ghosts
flickered but it was just her standing alone on
               the cold platform.
    Blaze appeared in the window and tried to
 open it, then just pressed his face against it as
the train filled the station with harsh echoes. In
 seconds his window was gone and they all slid
 past in a blur of light and the tunnel was dark
                     and empty.
    It was all so sudden. This was all that she
 could think. So sudden, sudden as death. Like
                      death.
  No plague was strong enough to keep her from
following. She would wait for the next train. Let
        them go to Norleans without her!
  Someone touched her shoulder and she took
               off running.
         “Verity!” She turned. It was Lil.
   “We need you, Verity,” and in Lil’s voice she
           heard deep compassion.
  “What business is it of yours what I do?” Lil
 wasn’t going to stop her! “How did you know I
                   was here?”
              “A little bird told me.”
 Verity stared down the vanishing track at the
empty black space which led everywhere. That
 tunnel led into her country’s past, the past
 hidden from them. It led into Blaze’s future,
        which would go on without her.
 Lil had made her dress blue, and it shimmered,
 iridescent, as if lit from within, and this made
Verity even more angry, for she was sure that Lil
   knew what the color did to her. She looked
  away, back into the blackness. She imagined
Blaze riding, alone, the stars brilliant overhead.
                Riding to nowhere.
    Well, what was she doing? She didn’t even
  know if Norleans even existed anymore. New
   Orleans, Los Angeles, Denver, Washington,
D.C… if they still lived, if people inhabited them,
    why were they all so silent? Why was the
                 country so still?
         What was the point of anything?
 Just to live, like George Mills, pretending to be
  someone else, drinking lemonade alone in a
                  great mansion?
  “Oh, Lil,” she said, wiping tears from her face,
                 “what’s the use?”
   To her surprise Lil hugged her gently, and
  stroked her hair back from her forehead. “I
know, honey. Sometimes I feel the same damned
                way. Let’s go.”
    They walked back out through the station,
through the enlivenment, which Verity ignored,
her heart dead. She hated Cairo. “You were right
   about Cairo. I wish we’d never come here.”
   They came to the map. She picked George’s
bike up from where it lay on the Gulf of Mexico
and walked it up the ramp into the sultry air of
Cairo, where thunder rumbled and great gusts
of wind pushed on them then suddenly ceased,
as if the gods of storm were only testing the air,
          and finding it not quite ready.
  A last deepening verge of blue glowed on the
          horizon, where Venus shone.
   Excitement stirred in Verity as the wind
gusted again and the dark clouds drew closer.
                 Let him go, then!
   She jumped on the bike and Lil gave her a
  push. “See you later,” Lil yelled, and Verity
waved without looking back and coasted down
 through the streets of Cairo, in the direction
              everyone was going.
 Toward the Queen, and the evening’s Fabulous
              Entertainment.
     Verity leaned the bike against the gate of
    Magnolia Manor, which loomed dark and
  forbidding against the gathering clouds, and
remembered Eliot. She should have told Lil. But
          then, Lil didn’t tell her much.
  She turned and ran down toward the wharf,
falling in with a crowd of people dressed in all
                manner of styles.
   “Are you excited about the play?” asked a
  woman walking next to her, wearing a pink
sunbonnet and a long calico dress. “What do you
           think it will be about?”
   “I have no idea,” said Verity. She pushed on
ahead, and saw a great mob roiling about on the
 wharf, trying to jam their way onto the boat.
Floodlights came on suddenly, illuminating the
  scene in sharp relief. A banner with hasty,
   crooked lettering was being unrolled and
 fastened onto the lower deck of the Queen. It
   advertised the play for the next five days.
   Nice of them to ask the captain how long we’d
be here, she thought. She looked west, wondered
 how far past the river Blaze’s train went before
it surfaced, imagined the lights streaking across
     the dark, empty countryside west of the
                   Mississippi.
                  The Territory.
       And he hadn’t even asked her to go.
   The crowd inched forward and the back of
Verity’s hand lit. stage crew please report now!
                 this means you!
  Not me, thought Verity, but her hand insisted,
                   yes, you.
   She sighed. Well, it would definitely distract
  her. She shoved her way through the crowd,
angry for a moment about the horses—hadn’t he
      thought that she might want to keep
them?—then forgetting it all in the hubbub and
                  excitement.
    Every seat was filled, creating a dark mass
 behind the bright footlights. Programs rustled
  in the quiet, after the calliope ceased playing
   “Miss the Mississippi” in deafening off-key
 tones. Apparently Blaze was the only one who
   had mastered the recalcitrant instrument.
     Murmurs in the audience grew during the
  second act. A family was arguing about what
was happening, each of four members crying out
   their version: China has conquered Russia!
Unity, the moon colony, has died. A nanotech lab
 in Japan has surged, and the entire country is
    quarantined. The entire world has become
  Buddhist! No, Muslim! No—! They sat in their
   small kitchen and argued. For there was no
         longer a reliable source of news.
     There was shouting from the audience
  between the second and third acts, but the
   players ignored it. Verity’s small spate of
 directions subsided, having mostly to do with
 carrying on the props that had to be real and
not holo, such as the kitchen chairs around the
                      table.
   Jack and Lil came backstage then, rippling
 along behind the velvet curtain and bursting
         out. “Verity,” whispered Lil.
  “I meant to tell you,” Verity interrupted, also
 whispering so as not to disturb the beginning
    third act, “I saw Eliot today. In that big
     mansion. He looked as if he got better.”
       “Why, that—” said Lil, quite loudly.
 “Shhh,” said Jack. “There’s going to be trouble.
            People might get hurt.”
  Lil said, “I was hoping till yesterday that we
 could bypass all this— I was going to tell you
  more but I didn’t know we were so close—”
 Verity had never seen Lil look worried before.
  “You had plenty of time beforehand,” said
Verity. “I don’t know why you had to wait until
                 the last minute.”
 “I was really hoping to avoid the entire issue,”
 said Lil. “But I’m sure that Eliot has made it
  worse. We just didn’t realize that George’s
network was so sophisticated. I can’t believe I
  was so stupid!” Her mouth twisted in utter
disgust. “What I did to Eliot didn’t do anything
     to him. Ever hear of Bre’r Rabbit, the
                   Trickster?”
  “Yes… but Lil, George… George is just worried
about his mother. Isn’t he? He told me the whole
story—” She stopped as Lil let out a loud guffaw.
   The curtain parted behind them then, and a
   man burst through the opening, hiding Lil
 behind velvet folds. “You!” he said, pointing at
                      Jack.
              “George!” said Verity.
  “I remember you,” said George, still staring at
 Jack. He was wearing his Thistlewood clothes.
   But his face, twisted with an almost manic
   hatred, seemed that of a different man. “I
thought you might be among this crew, bringing
your ratty philosophy with you. All that bullshit
  about information wanting to be free. After
 meeting her—” He pointed at Verity. “—I hope
 you haven’t corrupted her. She’s so sweet and
                   innocent.”
    Verity thought she heard a muffled snort
 behind the curtain but George didn’t notice it.
 “And once the play started,” George continued,
“I knew you had to be here. You told the people
 on the Queen all kinds of scurrilous lies about
me, didn’t you? And now the people of Cairo—my
 people—are hearing this nonsense. Those lies
  will ruin me. I was hoping that I’d killed you
 when we had that little encounter in St. Louis.
       Such a long time ago. No such luck.”
   He turned to Verity. His face assumed yet
another visage—kind; imploring. It was such an
  extreme change that Verity stepped back,
                startled by it.
   “You didn’t let me finish what I was going to
 say earlier today,” George said. “I want you to
   stay.” He jerked his head sideways at Jack.
“Surely you’d never believe anything a person of
 his race said. I’ve been trying to help the good
   people of Cairo, improve their lives. With a
   Queen—someone who knows about Flower
Cities—don’t you see, there’s no limit to what we
could do together! We could create splendor! I’ve
been working for decades, amassing what I need
 to create a Flower City right here in Cairo. My
  own Flower City. Not like that aborted early
attempt. I only need someone who knows how to
put it together. You! Like a gift from heaven! Oh,
can’t you see that it was meant to be, you and I,
together? Some lucky twist of your fate brought
you here. You of course would be equal to me in
  all respects. I’m a rich, powerful man. I could
  make you wealthy beyond your dreams. Stay.
              Please. Please say yes!”
           “No,” said Verity, decisively.
    George’s expression became quite ugly. He
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a
clear gel pack the size of an onion. “Remember,”
 he said in a low, threatening voice, “I was fair!
   I’m a fair man! I offered you more than I’ve
  offered any woman in my entire life! But you
 have the gall—the stupidity—to turn me down.
Well, I have another deal to propose.” His voice
had risen to a shout. “Come with me, now, or I’ll
  destroy this boat and you along with it!” He
   raised his arm high above his head. He was
                 breathing hard.
   Lil stepped out from behind the curtain and
 smacked George over the head with a wooden
  chair, breaking the seat. He crumbled to the
  floor, blood from a deep cut in his forehead
         spreading across his slack face.
   “You took your damned time,” complained
          Jack, as Verity let out a cry.
 “What is going on?” she demanded of Jack and
      Lil. “What was he talking about?”
   “The Information Wars aren’t over yet,” said
  Jack heavily. “I guess they never can be.” He
  stared at a puddle on the floor which issued
from the clear membrane, which apparently had
  ruptured when George fell. “It’s leaking,” he
                    whispered.
      The curtain billowed again as someone
  fumbled on the other side. “I know you’re in
 there somewhere,” a voice said, and out burst
   Linda Lyle. Today her outfit was red, and
 matched her lipstick. “George!” she shrieked.
 “Darling! What have they done?” She dropped
down beside him for a moment and touched the
blood on his face. “Help! Murder!” she shouted,
 and ran out onto the stage. They could see her
    from the side, brilliant in the footlights.
“Mobilize!” she screamed. “People of Cairo, it is
              time for us to fight!”
   Lil bent and felt his neck. “It’s only a scalp
 wound, idiot!” she yelled, but Jack yanked her
            arm and said, “Let’s go.”
  Jack, Lil, and Verity slipped out the door next
to the dressing rooms. Behind her, Verity heard
       rising voices and stampeding feet.
   “Get the boat ready to go!” Jack yelled. He
grabbed a passing woman and Verity heard him
 say something about the gel pack. The woman
  turned pale and ran toward the auditorium.
      Jack and Lil ran out onto the wharf.
    Lightning raced through the sky. Thunder
boomed. Jack bent over, the wind catching his
 tie and jacket, and began to unwind the heavy
  rope from the massive cleat embedded in the
  wharf. Lil hiked up her dress and ran to the
back of the boat, and worked on the other rope.
   Verity noticed the back of her hand glowing,
  and the words depart immediately appeared
  and then vanished. No kidding, she thought.
   She ran up the gangplank as a sheet of cold
  rain swept across the river and whipped the
 lines to a clanking fury. In the light from the
 wharf, she saw a swarm of rafts whirl into the
  night and vanish. Another flash of lightning
showed them several hundred yards away, tiny,
the rafters leaning on sweeps and lashing their
           wigwams against the wind.
     Huge splats of rain began to fall. A flood of
people stampeded down the gangplank as Verity
headed toward the pilothouse. Others ran wildly
 around the boat in preparation for leaving, and
 a mob from the auditorium prevented her from
 climbing the main stairs to the pilothouse. The
  rain was now a surging downpour hammering
   the boat. Standing at the railing, completely
soaked and shivering in the cold wind, she could
  barely see Lil as she struggled with one of the
        ropes. They were not loose yet.
    Verity pushed her way up another flight of
    stairs and paused at the railing. Fighting
     erupted on the gangplank. Rafters were
 throwing barrels onto the wharf in an attempt
   to deter attackers who were now swarming
  down from the town. Two men ran up behind
 Lil, and Verity yelled as loud as she could and
  Lil turned and began kicking them with high
kicks that punched one of them in the chest and
knocked him flat. The other one turned and ran
 and then Jack was there, dragging Lil toward
the gangplank. Someone was cranking it up but
  they jumped for it and landed on their hands
                   and knees.
 The boat was free! Verity dashed up the stairs.
 Lightning flashed, and her heart was beating
hard. The American Queen was moving, at last,
     out onto the great Mississippi River.
     She fought her way through the crowd,
screaming, “Let me through! I’m the pilot!” and
the great boat bucked and rolled in the storm’s
    fury as it left the lights of Cairo behind.


                     7
              Fast Train Blues
                Eighteen
             New World Blues

Terror. What I felt was pure terror. I couldn’t
get out of the train!
   Verity was on the platform, on the other side
  of glass too thick to break, running alongside
  the train, tear streaks on her face shining in
subterranean light, and the doors wouldn’t open
   for me, and I could not, could not leave her
   behind. I would tell her everything that was
        happening to me—the blues, Alma,
  everything—and that would heal us, bring us
    through all these changes so that we could
   connect with each other again, just as if she
  might be Mother Ann, the Being I always told
    everything to, a new sort of Mother Ann—
     Mother Ann, made from nan, Mother Ann,
 made from nan, ran through my mind as Verity
 vanished backward into the absurdity of it all,
the way I had run into this trap, the goddamned
 newness of me, the way the train rushed into a
 tunnel of streaming lights and a woman’s voice
   filled the air with “We are now beneath the
  Mississippi River”—beneath! beneath!—called
forth laughter and tears until I was little better
 than a maniac, screaming “Verity!” as the voice
   said, “Please take your seat until we reach
                cruising speed, sir.”
   Acceleration rather than volition pushed me
into the seat. It was soft and covered with silver
leather and as I was pressed back into it a more
   intimate voice in my ear said, “Welcome to
  first-class service to Los Angeles aboard the
                 Western Zephyr.”
  Well, now I’d done it. I’d severed myself from
   all that was even remotely familiar. I was
  moving like an arrow of light into unknown
territory so fast it almost took my breath away.
   Not only that, the train was eerily empty.
 Everyone in Cairo, apparently, thought this a
                      bad idea.
  I jumped up though speed pressed me against
   the back of the seat and looked around. My
                      guitar!
  I was looking backward thinking I may have
put it on the floor between the seats and it slid
   that way when someone tapped me on my
shoulder and my heart nearly jumped out of my
                      chest.
   I whipped around ready to kill and saw my
guitar, held by a man in a suit so white it almost
    gleamed. I looked up into eyes blue and
 strangely blank. “Sorry to startle you, sir. My
 sensors are not working properly and to get a
 strong enough sample I had to touch you. You
     left this on one of the seats up front.”
   I grabbed it from him and barely refrained
   from hugging it. “What sensors?” I asked.
  He tapped his nose. “My met processor. At one
 time I could get a more than sufficient sample
from the air. I only needed one part per million.
    And I could sort very quickly! Now…” He
       shrugged and looked at his hands.
                 “Met processor?”
 “Yes, sir.” He dropped into the seat next to me
and his eyes were now earnest as well as blank,
  if that is possible. I realized that the eyes of
most people are framed by a constantly shifting
   musculatory landscape, which he lacked. I
  swallowed hard as my throat was suddenly
                     quite dry.
    “Metapheromones.” He brushed the guitar
with his fingertips and then showed them to me.
They glimmered with a complex pattern of color,
mostly purple and gold. He touched me with his
  other hand and displayed both of them. The
 pattern on the fingertips of both hands looked
 identical. “I’m sorry. It’s roundabout, I know.”
  “I’m the only person in here anyway, aren’t I? I
 mean, besides—you.” I didn’t mean to be rude.
 But I couldn’t really think of him as a person. I
 didn’t know what other category to put him in
                      though.
              “Oh, no, sir, not at all.”
    I wasn’t sure how to take that. “Where are
                     they?”
   He held up one finger and smiled. “Five cars
    back. I must go see to her.” He patted my
        shoulder lightly. “Don’t be sad.”
             “Sad?” I asked, startled.
    He glanced at his hands, and added, “Or
melancholy, or bereft.” He stood. “Why not order
    your dinner?” He strode off behind me.
     “When can I get off?” I shouted over my
shoulder, but the door at the back of the car was
          sliding shut and I was alone.
   Numbers of light at the front of the car, just
      above the door, hovered around 74 mph.
Although this was faster than I had ever moved,
 I thought that it must be slow for this kind of
 train. We had long ago emerged from beneath
    the river and I was sorry that I had let the
 attendant distract me from the moment. I was
 on the train now, I might as well experience it
     fully. Exhilaration washed in and lapped
   loneliness until I was suffused with an odd
mixture of both. As I leaned toward the window
  the interior light above me dimmed so that I
                   could see out.
   Twilight deepened the sky, and the landscape
was one of green rolling hills, low and clothed in
 young pines with long needles that caught the
 sun’s last rays. Indeed, we moved past them so
  swiftly that it was more of a panorama than I
   had expected, and when I glimpsed a white
  house down a lane I wondered if I had only
    imagined it, so short was that instant.
    Behind us the sky was black and lightning
  played through the clouds every few seconds,
   connecting with Cairo, now just a small low
 prickle of lights. Then I could not even see that
and instead stared into the final orange glare of
 the sun beneath lowering clouds and then that
 too was swallowed by a V in the low hills and a
spectacular greenish twilight gave way to indigo
    gleaming with stars. It was strange to be
           separated from the weather.
   “Would you like a drink?” the voice asked,
interrupting my thoughts. I looked around, but
      it seemed to be coming from the air.
                 “I’m not thirsty.”
  “Dinner is served in the dining car in fifteen
minutes,” said the voice. “Do you wish to order?”
      That was choose. I knew that. “How?”
       “Do you wish to have an appetizer?”
                 “An appetizer?”
   “Oysters on the half shell, crayfish chowder,
                   fois gras.”
  I was starting to get tired of asking questions.
                    “Oysters?”
   “Blue-point or Olympia. I apologize for the
 limited selection but we have experienced a
minute disintegration in our program for Point
Reyes Thirty-three and do not feel as if they are
          up to our high standards.”
              “Crayfish chowder?”
   “Real crayfish fresh from Cairo, sir. Loaded
       less than three hours ago. Highly
                recommended.”
          “What was that other thing?”
                  “Goose liver.”
  I’d eaten plenty of goose livers in my life and
didn’t especially see the need to have any more.
                “Crayfish,” I said.
  “Excellent choice, sir. You may order the rest
  of your dinner when you arrive in the dining
                      car.”
 “How do I get there?” I asked, but there was no
                    reply.
  I pulled my guitar strap over my shoulder and
       headed toward the back of the car.
     Some of the seat backs had little colored
  pictures playing across them. One caught my
  eye—some Flower City. But as I watched, the
colors flowed swiftly upward and changed into a
 pattern wild and entrancing, dancing flames of
yellow and violet shifting gradually through the
  spectrum. I felt as though I could watch that
  cycle for hours and for that reason walked on
 swiftly and did not allow my eyes to rest on any
               of the other screens.
 A door slid open as I approached the end of the
 car and I crossed an interface containing the
 noise of wind but otherwise silent and walked
               into the next car.
     This was arranged differently. I was in a
 narrow corridor punctuated every few steps by
  doors. I wondered what was inside them but
continued on until I heard a voice say, “Sir, this
is your compartment. Would you care to freshen
               up before dinner?”
  I stopped. A picture of myself hovered on the
door and I found myself studying it as if it were
            the image of a stranger.
      As it was. But not completely. We had no
 mirrors at Shaker Hill, and, eerily, this was not
 one. But I’d seen myself on plenty of occasions.
 Verity and I often cavorted in Kaleen’s Elegant
Dresses in downtown Miamisburg, in clothes we
  belted around ourselves with gleeful derision.
 The selection in the small shop was limited, but
     we dared brave the mall only once, with
lightsticks, as it was huge and always dark. The
  Queen had mirrors aplenty but I had been too
      busy to pay much attention to myself.
    My eyes were staring, green and wide and
ingenuous. My skin had darkened somewhat but
 was still rather pale and there were freckles all
  over my cheekbones, which stood out. My red
     hair was shot with gold, from the sun I
   presumed, and swirled outward like a lion’s
mane. A curly thick beard covered my lower face
completely and I was pleased about this: vanity.
 Seeing my mouth reminded me of Verity’s kiss,
  so desperate and intense. I wanted another.
   “Well, open up then,” I growled, and when the
door didn’t open I kicked it a few times and then
 looked down to see an indentation glowing and
          touched it. The door slid open.
  A small neat bunk to my right had been made
  up. Below it was a low, comfortable-looking
                     couch.
    “Would you like us to prepare any reading
          material for this evening?”
 I didn’t like the voice coming from everywhere.
                   “Like what?”
                “Your choice, sir.”
       How does one choose from infinity? I
 remembered one of the books I had left behind
  on the boat. I kept wanting to read it again. “
           Huckleberry Finn,” I said.
    “Very good, sir. It is now receptor-ready.”
              “I have no receptors.”
   A short silence. “We will need to remedy that
    before arrival, sir. The cost will be seven
 thousand four hundred ninety-two dollars and
        fifteen cents if you lock in now.”
 “No thanks.” I pushed my guitar back and put
 my hands beneath the faucet and splashed my
face with the cool water that flowed into them.
 “Please get me a real book,” I commanded as I
   left the room, determined to avoid awe if
                    possible.
 My determination evaporated as I came to the
end of the car and was suddenly surrounded by
                 open country.
   The horizon still glowed orange from sunset
but the sky overhead was fiercely black and the
  whiteness of the stars was just as fierce. The
 moon was low and huge and golden. Trapped
inside that clear tube as I was, I’m not sure why
  something I had seen since childhood newly
   moved me but it was so. Perhaps it was the
  small green numbers glowing above the door
         membrane which read 200 mph.
   We were moving fast, and dark shapes close
  rose and fell in a kind of rhythm, jerky, like
                   some blues.
  I was moving. I was going. I was heading out.
             Out into the Territory.
  I wished it were not night, or that the train
would stop and resume at dawn so that I would
               not miss a mile.
             “Stop the train!” I said.
              “Is it an emergency?”
                      “Yes.”
    “Describe the nature of the emergency.”
        “I need to see everything slowly.”
           “That is not an emergency.”
            “It seems like one to me.”
   The voice was silent. The train barreled on.
 I passed through two more cars of empty seats
     and finally arrived in the dining car.
     About twenty small tables were lit by soft
    membranes that glowed on the wall in the
 shapes of various flowers. I did not appreciate
the additional decorative touch of small glowing
   bees, one about every foot in a straight line
   between the flowers. Each table had a white
 tablecloth and was set in anticipation of a full
  train of hungry passengers. To my surprise, a
   woman sat at a table midway in the car and
        raised one hand in a languid wave.
      “Join me.” she said, as I approached.
    The chairs were green wicker with white
cushions. I settled my guitar in the chair next to
                    me as I sat.
  Her hair was cut very straight, just below her
  ears. Her eyes were black and her face quite
  pale. She smiled faintly. “Hello. My name is
             Masa. What’s yours?‘”
      “Blaze,” I managed. She wore a simple
turquoise scarf of sheer fabric around her neck,
  and her white dress showed her collarbones
 angling down below her pointed chin. Her lips
 were red and so were her cheeks. She looked
                  exquisite.
 I must have been staring, for she laughed. “You
  look pretty strange yourself,” she said and I
              said, “It’s not that—”
   She patted my hand and said, “Look, here
come our appetizers. I was rather disappointed
   with the selection tonight, weren’t you?”
              “What did you want?”
  “This is your first time on the train, isn’t it?”
 I nodded. “Not yours?” Her clothing was not all
  that strange, but its very simplicity was not
                  Midwestern.
   She shook her head, a slight smile playing
              around her lips.
    Excitement was an explosion in my chest.
 “Where are you from then?” In my eagerness I
   think I stuttered. “Where have you been?”
   She displayed an open hand halfway across
 the table and looked at me expectantly. After a
few long seconds, she withdrew it and slipped it
into her lap, hunched her shoulders, and looked
 down at the table. “Sorry,” she muttered. “We
  have just met.” Her words were clipped and
                     short.
    “What are you sorry for?” I asked. “I only
          asked where you’d been.”
  The same attendant brought our food. Well, I
  actually didn’t know if it was the same one or
   not, really, but he looked identical. “I guess
those are oysters,” I said, as her plate was set in
   front of her. Small gray blobs on iridescent
crescents. Fragrant steam rose from my soup; it
   was rich and delicious and filled with small
 meaty chunks. Something in it made my mouth
burn in a pleasant way. Masa took a small bottle
     from the side of the table and sprinkled
something over her oysters. Then she picked up
one shell and let the oyster slide into her mouth.
I don’t think she chewed. She did that six times,
   jerking her head so that her hair fell back,
            revealing ears oddly small.
  The man returned and said to me, “Have you
               decided yet?”
                “Decided on what?”
               “Dinner,” said Masa.
  “I want dinner. The soup was good. It was all
                    edible.”
   Her laugh fluttered upward. “Of course. And
though I’m terribly bored by the vat-grown beef,
 if this is your first trip you might like it.” She
     nodded expectantly. “Go ahead, try it.”
                 “All right,” I said.
         The attendant still stood there.
  “And wine,” said Masa. She was cheering up.
               “Shall I choose?”
               “Go ahead,” I told her.
  She pressed one finger on one of the bees next
   to her and nodded. “Wild River 2031. Quite
          lovely. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
  The man turned and left with our dishes. Masa
    looked at me for some reason much more
friendly now. “You don’t have any seps, do you?”
                      “Seps?”
                    “Receptors.”
       “No,” I said. “And I don’t want them.”
    Her eyes become darker and more intense.
     “I’ve never met a naked person before.”
       “Is that what you call people without
                   receptors?”
                  “What’s it like?”
  “What do you think?” I retorted sharply, aware
     that she found me incredibly primitive.
 “Absolutely normal.” I buttered a feather-light
    roll and ate it slowly, determined to enjoy
 myself despite her. The butter had none of the
pungency of our own butter, made from the milk
 of our own cows, but was light and bland. For a
 second the thought that I was probably eating
    nanotech crossed my mind and I snorted.
                      “What?”
  “Nothing.” I buttered another roll, even more
    lavishly. The man brought a salad and I
recognized at least six varieties of lettuce, leaves
 red and spiky, or spring-green and innocently
                    smooth.
         “Where are you going?” I asked.
    “Oh, look!” she said, and pointed out the
    window. It was dark, and I saw only our
       reflection, and that of the table.
  “Where can I get off? The train won’t answer
                     me.”
    “Los Angeles,” she said, and hunched her
            shoulders a bit more.
        “But the train goes back to Cairo?”
     She brightened. “Oh, yes. It turns right
around. Actually, it doesn’t really turn around.
  There’s an engine on both ends. My, what an
interesting few days I’ve had. First the girl, and
  now you. If I were superstitious I’d say that
 something’s going to change. I haven’t seen so
           many passengers since—”
   The waiter arrived and showed her a bottle of
 wine. I anticipated it eagerly. I’d never had any
 wine, much less fine wine. She nodded and he
    extracted the cork and poured us each a
swirling red glass. “Of course it’s just right,” she
  said, sipping. “We’ll have a different one with
 dessert. I apologize for being so remiss. I ought
to have ordered for each course. And this will be
                your only dinner.”
                      “It will?”
    She nodded as the waiter set our dinners
     before us. My beef was quite red and
           tremendously aromatic.
      “We’ll be in Los Angeles just after lunch
 tomorrow.” She began to shovel her food down
  like—well, like a farmer. She glanced up and
         smiled. “I’m hungry,” she said.
      “Have you ever been in Los Angeles?”
   Her fork paused midway to her mouth. Her
 eyes became bleak. “Of course,” she said. She
 resumed eating, but now she was frowning. I
  was sorry I’d asked, but I had to ask more
 questions as well. I supposed that I could ask
the train all that I wanted, but the train struck
 me as being somewhat prejudiced, unreliable,
                and out of touch.
   And I was positive that she hadn’t gotten on
              the train in Cairo.
   “When was the last time the oyster program
                  worked?”
    She threw her fork down on her plate and it
 bounced off onto the floor. The waiter appeared
  immediately and proffered a new one but she
ignored it. She stood, flung her crumpled napkin
on top of her food, and stormed up the aisle. Her
 white dress was cut low in the back. I wondered
   what Verity would look like in it. For a brief
   instant I saw her again, capering around the
  clothing store in something quite similar, but
much more baggy on her fourteen-year-old body,
     as we collapsed in gales of laughter.
   “I’m sorry!” I said, leaving my fine dinner. I
   suspected I could get another whenever I
 pleased. I hurried up the aisle behind her. She
  turned and her face was contorted. She was
       crying and her fists were clenched.
   “Why do you have to ruin everything? Why
      can’t you just enjoy— (hiccup)—this
    lovely—(hiccup)—TRAIN!!” Then to my
 amazement she flung herself at me and there
was nothing for me to do but embrace her while
she sobbed in my arms and I thought, of course,
                    of Verity.
 If this happened every time I asked a question,
  I’d need every minute between here and Los
           Angeles to get any answers.
  “The oyster program has never worked,” she
                said, sniffling.
           “Why are you on the train?”
 “I don’t have to answer all your questions! Just
                leave me alone.”
    “No, of course you don’t,” I said. “I’m just
               curious, that’s all.”
  “Well, then, what are you doing on the train?”
  I told her everything. During the next hour we
 drifted back to a car with soft, luxurious seats
    that folded down almost flat. She touched
something that made the top and sides of the car
 transparent—she wanted the floor clear too but
   I begged her to leave it alone—and I told her
     everything. All about Russ, and John, and
  Shaker Hill, and Verity. I told her about Alma
    and the blues and the radio stones and the
    plague. Whenever I talked about the plague
she’d close her eyes and scrunch up her face like
 it hurt. After a while I realized that she’d fallen
asleep while stars burned all around us. She had
          succeeded in telling me nothing.
 I rose and wandered back to the dining car. All
the tables were empty, and the silver glowed in
the moonlight. I sat down next to a window and
    turned the chair toward it and watched.
  The waiter came and poured me some wine. It
   was different wine from the one Masa had
 ordered. The train had begun to climb. “If you
 would like a guide, press that bee,” the waiter
    said quietly as he poured another glass.
      “You have chosen to take NAMS’ deluxe
 over-the-Rockies route,” said the voice, infusing
the words with a strangely artificial enthusiasm.
 “We know that you will appreciate the fact that
    it takes a bit longer than going under the
  mountains, as you will be rewarded with rich
                       vistas.”
  “Why don’t you schedule it so that it goes this
        way during the day?” I asked.
 “This NAMS route is serviced every four hours
  from Cairo. For a complete schedule press
                    twice.”
               “Never mind,” I said.
     Silent moonlight drenched a panorama of
jumbled cliffs, huge jutting pines. My heart was
  in my throat as we crossed a black gorge; we
were suspended on a thin thread of steel I could
  not even see. I’d never been so high in my life.
And we climbed higher. I prowled from one end
 of the car to the other. I shouldered my guitar,
picked up my glass, pulled the bottle from its ice
bath, and made my way to the back of the train.
 I came to Masa, still sleeping, her face silvered
by moonlight. I pulled the blanket the attendant
   had covered her with up to her chin and she
 stirred sleepily. I wondered what sad story she
    held within. Were there no normal people
                     anywhere?
 I was beginning to realize that there might not
be. Everyone I’d ever know, everyone I met, was
 troubled and disturbed by the great changes
wrought by nan. I wondered how quickly these
 changes had come about. I realized how very
                  little I knew.
  I dropped into the seat across from Masa and
watched the stars some more. They and the wine
 pulled thoughts from deep inside me, thoughts
   that jumped the black chasm of death and
  melded my Shaker past to this strange, new
 present, which had existed all around us when
 we were young, as if Shaker Hill had been the
 still, unchanging center round which whirled
unimaginable terror and wonder. I felt the blues
   grow inside me, clamoring to burst forth. I
  grabbed the bottle and headed for the rear of
                    the train.
   There, as I had hoped, was a clear bubble with
some chairs, though beyond was a door that was
stuck fast. I was even able to open windows and
  expected a great roar from the wind but there
     were some sorts of funnels or bumps that
 channeled the rushing air and tempered it to a
  quiet hiss. I could see that it was quite windy
 outside; the tall pines swayed and tossed, black
  silhouettes, and the moon made a path across
  three small lakes tiered away below me in the
 distance like three great teardrops. I asked the
train for strong coffee and the tireless attendant
   brought it to me in a silver pot and another
bottle of wine as well and a roast-beef sandwich.
      The guitar was still tuned. I plucked the
strings in wonder; it had been through so much.
  I could untune it. But after a few minutes the
strings regained their former tension. Alma had
                tuned it indeed…
  I plucked one exploratory note; then another. I
 ran my fingers down the strings and distorted
them and they cried out lonely as the moonlight.
  I saw a satellite flash across the sky and then
another and then another and it occurred to me
 to wonder if they really were dead, or if they
could somehow be enlivened again. Even death
  had changed its nature. Humans had begun
something, and then that change had expanded
and grown on its own, reinfusing the humans…
    As I thought, my hands moved. My fingers
   chorded up and down the neck of the blues
  guitar (I did not think that it would deign to
play a cakewalk or rag with me but later found I
 had badly underestimated it) and a song grew
  through me, growling and low and aching—
       I followed her to the station
       With a suitcase in my hand
       Well it’s hard to tell it’s hard to tell
       When all your love’s in vain
       When the train rolled up to the station
       I looked her in the eye
       Well I was lonesome I felt so lonesome
       I could not help but cry
       All my love’s in vain
      It was the song of that Robert Hellhound
 Johnson, I knew, and his blues fell down on me
  like hail. My hands did not dance on the neck,
on the strings, as they did on the keys of a piano.
    They moved deliberately, with strength and
 calculation, chorded to something deep within
      me, rising and falling in odd stuttering
 cadences, singing of distance and of loss and of
     pain. I drank but I did not eat. The swift
 troubled life of Robert Johnson flashed through
   me relentless and raw. I saw the long straight
 black dirt roads of the Delta fringed by endless
  fields of cotton superimposed on the Territory
  as I flashed past, a place I’d longed to be all my
 life, a place distant from Shaker Hill as heaven,
  and now I was crossing it, singing and playing
 my guts out, smelling the whiskey-soaked floors
   of the countless jook houses as I ducked into
them from the hot afternoon sun; playing for the
     laborers whose fathers had been promised
freedom by Lincoln, then had it taken away from
 them by reconstruction, and I remembered then
      with complete clarity the last chapter of
      Huckleberry Finn, read as a child, when I
        wondered at the charade of Jim being
   repeatedly freed and imprisoned and finally
understood it. The men and women surrounding
  me, drinking and dancing and whooping, were
  feeling the only freedom they could in a world
   that had cruelly canceled their participation
  and left them with ashes and grits. And music.
  I sang as the train tilted downward and I sang
as we rushed through dawn onto an amazing flat
  dry distance, brown and purple brushed here
 and there with green, and my fingers were raw
    and bleeding and I fell fighting into sleep
     staring straight into the sun so that the
     darkness would not take me ever again.
   I woke with a start. My head was aching. My
  hands were puffy. It was horrifically early, as
 the sun was just inching above the horizon, but
it was strong enough to hurt my eyes. Masa, still
in her white dress, stood over me grinning but it
            looked like a leer to me.
        “Poor dear,” she said. “I can help.”
   She immersed my hands in water brought by
  the attendant in an ornate crystal bowl. Only
   there was something in the water, because
besides being cooling it healed my fingers. I felt
 the tips of the fingers of my left hand with my
thumb. They were thickened somewhat. So were
        the ends of my right-hand fingers.
    I was in the future and I had to accept it.
              Hey, it wasn’t all bad!
       Masa ordered breakfast and I ate it.
   Hard-boiled eggs, white toasted bread, that
  same bland butter, and little black fish eggs,
     caviar, crunchy and salty. My headache
    vanished as I drank champagne, bubbles
    exploding on my tongue and effervescing
through the glass of the stuff. I felt tremendous.
                 “Where are we?”
              “Near Salt Lake City.”
        “Salt Lake City! Oh! Will we stop?”
     I was seized with great excitement. Los
  Angeles was a distant, abstract blur. I knew
 nothing about it. But I’d grown up with Russ’s
 tales of Denver, and Salt Lake City, during the
          early days of the Flower Cities.
   “We stop for five minutes,” she said, and her
 eyes were strange. “But the doors never open.”
 “I find that very surprising,” I said. “Can’t you
make them open? We—at least I—could get off.”
    “Then you’d be left behind!” Her eyes went
             wide and I saw fear.
    I shrugged. “So what? And there’s another
        train. I can just get on that one.”
   “There is no other train,” she said flatly. She
    got up and left. I’d made her mad again.
    I went back to my compartment, took a
shower, put on the new clean clothes waiting for
          me. I could get used to this.
    W, proclaimed small green emblems in the
   windows, on my mirror. W! W for West! The
Territory! This land is my land! This land is your
 land! Oh, the music that bubbled through me. I
 ride an old paint. I lead an old dan. I’ve gone to
  Montana to throw the hoolihan. What’s a dan?
   What’s a hoolihan? And where the hell was
             Montana? I didn’t care.
  I heard a piercing scream down the corridor. I
rushed out into it and hurried toward its source.
When I got to the dining car, I saw that it was, of
    course, Masa. The attendant had his arms
    around her. He was stroking her back and
      saying Shhh, it’s all right, it’s all right.
   Over her shoulders he looked at me and said,
“It’s all right, sir, she’s always like this when we
  get to Salt Lake City.” He turned and led her
away. She looked frail and pathetic. I was a little
                afraid, but not much.
 But then I saw Salt Lake City, out the window.
That had to be it, at the foot of the mountain we
were skirting, and I too was seized with terror. I
fought it as best I could. It was not reasonable.
    But there were those Flowers, those awful
                    Flowers.
      They were not, I realized, as we rapidly
    approached the city through a flotsam of
abandoned communities where I saw absolutely
 no one on empty streets flooded with sunlight,
 like the Flowers of Cincinnati. They were stiff,
unmoving. As we moved closer, I saw glints, and
      colors did not grow as I had expected.
   Instead, these Flowers resembled nothing so
 much as the ancient abandoned machinery we
had seen in the little town on the Ohio, but on a
much more massive scale. The buildings were all
  metallic, and their interstices clear as water,
  giving it all a monochromal look. The Flowers
    were not at all flowerlike but were instead
 spiked or curved nodes surrounding a central
 indentation. The buildings were copper, brass,
    stainless-steel, aluminum. Or so it seemed.
  Every once in a while I thought I saw a golden
 glittery thing arise above the buildings, but
couldn’t be sure, and we descended then into a
                  dark tunnel.
     We were going very fast, and after a few
  seconds the interior of the train glowed with
light and apologized for the delay. It announced
    our arrival in two minutes and told those
        debarking to gather their things.
   I grabbed my guitar and hurried toward a
 door. But as we emerged into the station and
         stopped I saw an awful thing.
   On the platform was a line of people. They all
had guns. Their clothing was a ludicrous mix of
 pioneer garb, late-twentieth-century business
suits, women wearing high heels or huge puffy
 colorful boots or long evening gowns. They all
 had weapons. Guns and big tubes bigger than
  guns. They raised them, pointed them at the
  train. I hit the floor. I heard loud explosions,
muffled shouts outside, scuffling. A panel on the
   door blinked green. I raised my head to the
 window and stared down the barrel of a gun. I
 dropped back down. The train began to move.
   We were in the tunnel again. The attendant
 came through. He looked surprised to see me.
  “Oh, sir, I apologize. I suppose you wished to
                    debark?”
             “Not really,” I muttered.
   “They are always there,” he said. “Not all of
them are real. I think that only a few of them are
 real. But Masa’s brother thought none of them
        were real. She watched him die.”
            “How long ago was that?”
  “Sir, I…” He blinked. “I am sorry. But I really
            shouldn’t tell you that.”
    I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. He
remained completely passive. His head whipped
 back and forth. Horrified at what I was doing I
   stopped and said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!”
    “Years, sir,” he whispered, staring at me.
                     “Years.”
   I blinked and let him go. I stormed down the
aisle, looking into compartments and yelling her
 name until I found her. She was lying on a bed.
  Her eyes were red. She sat up. “I’ll be better
                  soon,” she said.
          “Why do you do this?” I asked.
   “My brother and I were moving to Salt Lake
City,” she said, and her voice shocked me: rather
   dreamy, calm, and distant. “Or Denver. Or
anywhere viable. This was just the first place we
got to. We were so excited. We’d been wanting to
            leave the dome for so long.”
                   “The dome?”
     “Los Angeles. Don’t interrupt,” she said
petulantly. “We planned it for a long time. It was
  the first step in getting out. An intermediate
                      place.”
    Out? I wondered, but did not say anything.
   “We first had to condense,” she said, and there
  she lost me completely. “That was the hardest
    part, we thought. Because no one seemed to
remember how. We worked really hard to figure
    it all out. There’s really no time there, or it’s
   very different—more speedy, more jerky, but
 disconnected and not linear, just linked. And it
  never ends. So that’s not really time, is it? But
   we worked our way back to DNA from binary
    code. We knew, of course, what we were. We
were just so curious, so hungry. Our parents had
 done it to us. We were little kids when they did
   it. I could still remember everything. I really
 could. James said that I couldn’t, but I did. Our
living room in that house in the Hollywood Hills.
       We could go there any time, of course I
remembered it, but I really remembered it, from
   before. He said that they must have put that
  curiosity in us for some reason, that there was
   some mission for us, that we had to work our
      way back. Not everyone had made it. Not
  everyone was translated after the loading. We
       didn’t think that our parents had been.
  Sometimes glitches occurred. Read errors and
     such. We looked for them everywhere, with
every search engine there was. He said that they
   could very well be in an identical living room
somewhere, waiting for us, waiting and waiting.
 Or that our copies were there, and they didn’t
          realize that we had divided.”
              I sat down. I listened.
  “I wanted to see the real ocean, you know? I
wanted to touch it. To have it all over my body.
Not just a program of it. Not just an algorithm.
But real.” Her voice was low and intense now. I
certainly believed her. I just wasn’t sure what
                   she meant.
  “We thought the Flower Cities would welcome
   us. We’d learned so much about them. We’d
  evolved from them, in a way. We knew every
aspect about how they functioned, of course. In
 there. Out here there isn’t enough memory for
that. I wish I’d known that before. I don’t know
why we didn’t. We were so blind, so foolish. But
we were young. We’d never known anything else.
We thought we were so smart—passing through
all the failsafes. Recondensing. Waking in those
  cocoons. With bodies! Real bodies! Oh, it was
     heavenly, really it was. Almost worth it.”
   “But Salt Lake City is frozen and those people
killed James when he stepped off the train.” She
 started to choke. Her eyes got wild and darting
    and I took her hand. She breathed in great
 gulping sighs. “That’s all,” she said. She closed
  her eyes. She curled up and pressed her fists
 beneath her chin. She began to breathe deeply.
   “Come, sir,” said the attendant. “I gave her
something to help her relax. She always needs a
    sedative here. She’ll sleep for a while.”
  I felt like sleeping myself but didn’t dare. Out
 the window I saw only a vast, white, glittering
 plain and an old, empty solar road next to our
 track. Behind us—well, I glanced at Salt Lake
        City, but quickly looked away. The
 brown-and-blue mountains were much smaller
 now. It appeared that we’d taken a southward
                       turn.
   I went back to my guitar and hugged it. Music
flared through me, distant at first, then nagging,
  then insistent. I had no choice but to play it—
       I went to the crossroad, fell down on my
       knee
       Asked the Lord above, Have mercy, save
       poor… Masa
       If you please
   It was Bob’s plea, Robert Johnson’s, but it fit
 Masa and there was nothing I could do except
 sing for her, sing for her… to a Lord no longer
   there, unable to dispense a shred of mercy.
   Just after lunch, she said. Just after lunch.
                Just after lunch.
  As I stared out the window, there were mesas,
strange red rock towers, broken and dry-looking
  mountains in the distance, and an occasional
 majestic peak. I was told that it was lunchtime
by some voices, but I ignored them. My stomach
 was knotted tight. We flashed through a great,
 flat desert. Distance. Shimmering places that
 looked like water but that I thought were not.
  Another rush up brown mountains, again the
scattered pines, the lakes, round and unworldly
      green. Down, down, and then I saw it.
                    The dome.
  Beyond, the Pacific Ocean. The dome itself was
      not on flat land, but climbed the side of
   wrinkled brown mountains. I saw the tips of
      sunken buildings beyond it, beautifully
  filigreed, with strong, arresting crowns, glass
 unbroken and shining. The ocean was so clear
that I could follow their forms down into it for a
     ways with my eyes. White, frothing waves
 crashed around them; at least I imagined them
 crashing, like in books. From this distance the
waves were just white lines etched on blue. The
 day was bright and fine; sunny and beautiful. I
          pressed my face to the window.
   “Enlargement, sir?” He touched the window
        and everything was magnified.
   White birds circled the tops of the buildings,
  settling and rising every few minutes in great
clouds. The waves were indeed massive, licking
up the seaward sides of the buildings for a story
    or two. On the upper balconies, palm trees
 waved in the wind and viny growths cascaded
down the sides. I swear I thought I saw a person
 sitting on one of the balconies but it must have
  been my imagination, as was the small boat I
 might have seen bobbing in an enclosed pond
     that had once been a huge terrace.
     Just south of this was the dome: curved,
   glowing, crisscrossed with interstices that
hopscotched across one another in the sunlight.
 Small concave dishes spouted from it here and
 there; Peabody had taught me enough so that I
knew that they were satellite dishes. What were
    they doing with them, I wondered, if the
 satellites were dead? What was the diameter of
the dome? Thirty miles? Fifty? It was frightfully
                    massive.
     Masa joined me. She appeared rested, her
simple, beautiful white dress as clean and fresh
as if she had not worn it since I got on the train.
               Her face was serene.
       “Are you going to stay?” she asked.
             “How could I?” I asked.
  “You could,” she said. She pressed a pad next
   to us and a voice said, “The present cost of
   initiation is thirty thousand four hundred
sixty-eight dollars and twenty-two cents if you
lock in now. Now. Now. Now,” it repeated, and
then she pushed the pad again and it stopped.
 “That really doesn’t mean anything once you’re
                 in,” she said.
            “Would you do it?” I asked.
  Her eyes were troubled. “Every time, I think
  that I will. I do it, almost. I could see James
 again. But then—I don’t know. I’m afraid. It’s
       like jumping off a high building.”
   “Why don’t you ever get off in Cairo?” Years,
        the attendant had said. Years.
   “James isn’t there. He’s here. I don’t have to
decide yet. I really don’t. There’s always another
                       trip.”
       “Of course you don’t,” I said gently.
      “Then why are you forcing me to?” she
screamed and the attendant rushed in and gave
  me a disapproving look. The dome was much
 larger now and it had no openings at all. They
       couldn’t see out. I couldn’t see in.
 “We’ll get out again? Out of the dome?” I asked.
    “We won’t get stuck in there, will we?”
     “Why are you bothering me?” she asked
 crossly. She stood and started pacing back and
forth across the small space. Her agitation grew
until she was muttering in a small, fretful voice.
We were approaching the dome at a tremendous
                      speed.
  “Look,” I said desperately, suddenly terribly
afraid, “if you stop the train we can go down to
    the ocean. The real ocean. I think I saw
                    people—”
   She gave me a single wry look. And then we
                    were in.
    “Oh” was all she said, her face and hands
  pressed against the glass as we rushed into a
 corridor of light. She began muttering. “Home.
I’m home. James. I know you’re here. I need you.
  But I’m afraid. So afraid.” The same phrases,
  over and over again. I noticed the attendant
               hovering behind her.
    It was pure light. The inside of the dome.
 There was nothing else there. The entire train
  became transparent, even the track, and we
 floated through light. It glowed all around us.
 Like heaven. And like heaven, there were high,
                 singing voices.
  “James! I’m home! I’m really home. This time I
                will! I promise!”
  “Come on, Masa,” said the attendant, stepping
                   forward.
        “Leave her alone,” I said, suddenly
           remembering the sedative.
  I heard a tearing sound and glanced toward it.
Masa was pulling the left side of her dress apart;
 apparently that’s how it came off. She stepped
 out of it, completely naked, and kicked off her
   shoes. How beautiful she was! Her pale skin
 caught the light through the windows and she
  was utterly unself-conscious as I stared. She
  pressed her body against the glass again, her
       arms wide as if embracing the light.
   She turned to the side, toward me, pressing
  against the glass with all her might, pushing
with her legs, her face scrunched and frowning
mightily. “Yes,” she breathed, as if in answer to
     what the voices sang. “Yes, yes, yes.”
    And then I saw a face outside the window. It
  coalesced there and followed the train along,
  re-forming constantly in the luminous field of
 twisting colors. Her face charged with wonder,
 eyes wide open, Masa placed both hands at the
   sides of the face, her eyes grave. She nodded
      again. “Yes. Yes. Yes,” she whispered, in
intervals, as if in answer to questions I could not
             hear. Then, “Upload. Now.”
  I had already seen many strange things in my
      life. But I was not prepared for this.
   She splayed herself out on the concave curve
of the window, pressing the entire front of her
 body against it. An interface between her skin
and the glass began to glow, and then her body
   began to glow as well, like that of a plague
  victim, golden. The glass seemed to melt and
 form around her and from the side I could see
her face, lit with ecstasy, though her eyes were
closed. This seemed to last an eternity, but was
  probably only minutes. I was in agony. Did I
need to do something? Was she going to die? At
  one point I must have jumped up but felt the
    attendant’s warning hand on my arm, his
whispered “It’s too late, sir. You would damage
 her now.” His hand was like steel and held me
                 much too tightly.
  Without warning, the membrane around her
withdrew and there was no tension at all in her
body. Her head jerked back and she slumped to
                   the floor.
 And, I swear, I saw her outside the train for an
  instant, waving at me. Then she was gone.
     The attendant was sobbing. It took me a
   minute to realize it since the sounds were
   wooden, harsh; almost like an imitation of
someone crying. But I could tell that his feelings
 were real enough. He stood over her body and
  glared murderously at me through his tears,
which coursed down his oddly unaffected face. I
                  was afraid.
 Then the hate left his eyes. He said resignedly,
     “I knew it would happen someday.”
  He gathered up her body tenderly and carried
                   it away.
      I was glad of the rush of the train on the
  return trip. I still fell deeply into the distant
buffs and purples of the mountains, the scrub of
   the desert, the majesty of distant red spires
 rising straight out of the flat plains at sunset.
During it all I could feel the blues coming on as
 if this strange voyage had washed me clean of
the past and left room for them to burn into my
soul. I was in a damned hurry to get back. Back
  to the Mississippi, which flowed down to the
 Delta. When I got to the Delta, I would really
                  understand.
    It seemed to me that all of us were trapped
somehow, slaves to something. Masa, trapped on
 the train, for how many years? Why hadn’t she
 just gotten off somewhere other than Salt Lake
  City—Cairo, I suppose— and tried to see what
  else there was to see? Trapped by a memory.
   Returning to that which she’d escaped. The
 luminous place was awful to me, but I suppose
that’s because I didn’t really understand it. And
I didn’t want to. Some things are best left alone.
 But the division between myself and that place
  was not very deep. I had only to agree to pay
them whatever they demanded and I could have
              melted into it like her.
                  Or died trying.
   I asked the attendant why he hadn’t done so,
 for he was disconsolate at his loss. I came upon
  him standing at an open doorway, seeming to
 contemplate the rush of the ground next to him
in a thoughtful manner. I touched the panel that
   closed the door and he shrugged. “What’s to
               keep me here now?”
   “Why don’t you go to Los Angeles, then, like
             Masa?” I asked him.
         “You have to be human,” he said.
     “It doesn’t look that way to me,” I said.
   “The train won’t even tell me how much it
  would cost,” he said, with an air of finality.
  “Then get off in Cairo with me. I’m going to go
         down the Mississippi River.”
                  He was silent.
 “Think about it,” I told him. Not that I wanted
  to be around his moping, but I was worried
    about him, whatever he was. He did have
feelings. I didn’t know what about him was not
  human. What exactly was human, anyway? I
   remembered Russ talking about DNA and
wondered if the attendant had DNA. Russ said
   that everything living had DNA except for
     viruses, which were different somehow.
       I wondered if the man was a virus.
    Salt Lake City was the same. I watched the
     performance on the platform with great
  curiosity. One of the women stepped forward
   and raised some sort of barrel and a blast of
  flame licked the window just inches from my
 face. I drew back in shock and when the flame
ceased the woman stared into my eyes with grim
     satisfaction and gave one quick nod. She
  mouthed something and shook her fist as the
 train pulled away. Well, I got the message. The
early Shakers had been no different. Apparently
      one of the blessings of nan had been to
            completely isolate everyone.
  I felt isolated enough. I began to worry about
  whether or not I would be able to get off the
train. It would be the worst sort of horror to be
  slung back and forth across the country like
  Masa. With no company except that strange
moping thing. I was amazed that she had done it
 for so long. She must have had every little hill
              and gully memorized.
  I sang the last verse of “Love in Vain” for her:
       When the train, it left the station,
       With two lights on behind
       Well the blue light was my baby
       And the red light was my mind
       All my love’s in vain.
    But it wasn’t anymore. She’d felt that way
every time she went through Salt Lake City. But
        her love wasn’t in vain anymore.
                     Was mine?
    Verity was pregnant, and the father of her
child was Sphere. Did she miss him? I did. I still
 did. I could understand what she felt for him.
  But it still upset me. There was an ache inside
  me, a hollowness that refused healing. Even
  though I understood, a bit more, since Alma,
what had happened, I could not let my illusions
 about Verity go. In a way, I understood Mother
   Ann even better. Sex had not been a sin for
     Shakers. But it stood in the way of true
relationships between Sisters and Brothers, and
  was therefore put aside in order for a deeper
                union to be achieved.
    The hell with that. The blues urged me to
            scream in a jealous rage.
  So I did, with music. Or at least I tried. “Evil
Woman Blues”—ah, but I couldn’t think of Verity
as evil. Well, then, “Heartbreak Blues”! Better…
          closer… “Angry-Hearted Me.”
   Hmmm. As I ran through the lyrics of so many
    blues I realized that the problem that I was
 having was that I never felt as if I owned Verity,
  the way these songwriters seemed to feel as if
    they owned others and all their actions and
       decisions too. Russ had brought us up
   differently. Even with the blues inside me, I
   couldn’t believe that there was anything bad
     about Verity, the way all those blues songs
     wanted me to think. She had been a young
      woman in the midst of a strange new life,
finding things out about it and about herself, the
    way I was. She had brought me back to life.
     It was unutterably surly to be angry with
someone who had risked so much for me. It was
my own hopes and dreams that were changed, in
 a way, as if I had dreamed of a certain kind of
heaven which was now out of my reach. But was
 it? Without talking to Verity about it, I had no
way of knowing whether it was or it wasn’t. She
    had certainly kissed me eagerly enough…
   I wondered what it must have been like for
Masa—to have heaven so near yet denied her by
 something inside her very self, I didn’t really
know what. To be ferried right into the middle
 of it twice a week yet not being able to touch it
                without dying first.
  It must have been something like that for the
men and women who wrote the blues. They were
supposed to be free, but in the South they were
         denied schooling, the vote, and
 property—dignity, really. And when they went
 north to the land of milk and honey it was the
same. Better jobs, sometimes, but homesickness
 and in the end the denial of entry into society.
   I was amazed at this unknown history, like a
  dark thread winding round the bright one I’d
 absorbed from the few American History books
at Shaker Hill. I interrupted the attendant from
his new pastime of standing on an open platform
  and watching the ground rush past and asked
 him about the informational capabilities of the
 train and of course he was happy as a puppy to
    help out. He showed me how to access the
   Harlem Renaissance, to begin with, all those
fierce, happy young women and men unleashing
 their stories at last, the stories of their people,
  their stories of suffering and joy. A deep voice
    read me passages from Sojourner Truth’s
Narrative and I wept. I experienced the majesty
   of Scott Joplin’s black opera, Treemonisha.
    And after that, ah, was Ma Rainey, Bessie
Smith, those independent divas of the road and
of early black recordings on what the industry
 called race records. Memphis Minnie, Blind
 Blake, as if all the stuff Alma had put into me
was reflected back in a mirror. I was like a wire
with the current of the blues running through
 me; I was like a radio stone finally receiving a
    station; I looked at my ghostly skin and
 wondered at this gift and wondered if I could
 ever fully understand it without being black
                       myself.
  The South blossomed into rhythm-and-blues as
   the train rushed through the night and I was
  beginning to regret that I would soon debark.
    The attendant did something that made the
  train one huge pulse of sound that I imagined
  flared for miles around, startling animals and
 any of the meager towns we flashed past, lights
     glaring, a party they could never attend. I
shoved aside tables and danced in the dining car
   like a madman, wishing for Verity, or Masa. I
grabbed the attendant and he smiled and closed
   his eyes and added flourishes of his own as I
spun him round in clumsy approximation of the
 dances the music and Alma’s potion awakened
                     in my cells.
   The next morning the land had scrunched in
    on itself. It was all cramped and crowded
 together. Old forgotten towns straggled out of
  sight, rural and empty. They were cupped in
 land hilly and green and I saw whole hillsides
covered with flaming pink-blossomed trees like
 a fairyland. I had but one thought in my mind:
                    Memphis.
 The Cairo station was like a strange dream of a
  life long past, though it had been less than a
   week since I’d been there before. In a way I
 thought Verity might be waiting there for me
 but of course she was not and brief bitterness
               flashed through me.
 I kidnapped the attendant from the train. I set
    my guitar carefully on the platform then
grabbed him from the steps and held him with
sheer strength while he screamed and kicked
  and punched out at me. When the train slid
    down the track he slumped to the floor.
  “Why?” he whispered. “I cannot live out here.
                  Can I?”
   “We’ll find out, won’t we?” I said somewhat
 callously I suppose. “I didn’t think you’d last
               long alone anyway.”
    “I was going to try to join Masa,” he said
                reproachfully.
    “Like hell,” I replied. “You don’t have the
  nerve. What’s your name, anyway?” I asked,
   ashamed of my unkindness to this thing.
 “James,” he said, somewhat sullenly. “I named
myself. I never told her.” He paused. “She never
   asked, either.” He laughed unexpectedly,
                  startling me.
  Perhaps there was hope for him. I picked up
                 my guitar.
 As he staggered through the empty station he
kept talking. “It feels funny not to be moving. I
think I’m going to fall down.” He stretched out
       his arms. “There’s so much room.”
    I felt as if my lifelong passion for trains had
   been cured quite definitively. I’d been on the
    train ride of a lifetime, on a train from the
 deluxe future, which was really my past. What
 I’d seen was so far in the future that I couldn’t
imagine what it might be like there. And I didn’t
want to. The scents of Cairo—asphalt cooking in
the summer sun, the shouts of someone hawking
   watermelon (“Red! Sweet! Cold!”) out on the
 street, the hot blast of pure sunlight unfiltered
          by tinted windows, the babble of
  voices—reached down into the cool station of
  the future with its ghosts and advertisements
    for a long-dead world, and pulled me out. I
emerged into the sunlight and wept, briefly, and
    wiped my eyes, so damned glad to be back.
  “What is it?” asked James, staring around in
something that approximated wonder. “What’s
                   going on?”
   “Life,” I said. “That’s what’s going on. Come
                        on.”
   James started wheezing, and then couldn’t
seem to catch his breath. He gasped for air and I
 didn’t know what to do. He staggered forward
  and sprawled on the pavement. “There’s too
   much,” he said breathlessly. “Too much!” I
  reached down for his hand and saw that it
   danced with colors and patterns, and he
clenched them as if in pain. His eyes were shut
                    tightly.
  “Come on,” I said, helping him stand. “A little
           bit at a time, all right?”
      “The sun is so bright,” he complained,
 stumbling alongside me. I remembered that on
 the boat we had dark glasses, though I’d done
without them all my life and didn’t seem to need
them. The street was lined with little shops and
 we went into several and finally one man said,
“There’s a junk shop around the corner, think I
             saw a pair last week.”
     The girl in the shop found them, on a table
surrounded with all manner of strange things of
     metal and plastic, switches and whatnot,
  apparently scavenged from machines that no
   longer worked. I was surprised when James,
blinking, pulled a coin from his pocket and gave
it to the girl behind the counter. She looked at it
                    suspiciously.
   “It’s good,” said James. “It’s from Cairo.” He
  had regained his composure. “I got it from a
passenger as a tip. Carried it with me ever since.
            It’s the only tip I ever got.”
    “Yes,” she said, “but it’s thirty years old.”
     We left with her still staring at it. On the
   sunny street, he slipped on the glasses and
nodded. “These are nice,” he said. “They have a
 music chip and an encyclopedia too. Awfully
             outdated, though.”
     I thought I felt someone watching me from
 that creepy big house surrounded by magnolia
  trees as we went down Washington Street but
    we hurried onward, toward the landing. I
  thought I passed several people I recognized,
   rafters who must have shaken the plague, or
  perhaps it was just lying in wait deep in their
cells awaiting the next chemical instruction. It
was revelatory to be in a living city, and myself
truly alive. There seemed to be a lot less people
here than there had been just a few days before,
        but maybe that was my imagination.
   James walked next to me, exclaiming about
  something every minute or so. “I can’t touch
everyone,” he said in anguish. “I’ll never be able
              to tell them apart.”
  I vaguely remembered Cincinnati but it was
 the way a ghost might remember his past life
  while haunting dusty corridors and trying
     desperately to make himself known. I
   remembered fleeting images, like the Bee
sweeping down upon me, like the baseball game
   with all those inept players, and, mostly,
          running, and horrible pain.
  But now I was alive, fully alive, doubly alive,
because of the blues! I ducked into a small café
that proffered a tempting array of breads and
 cheeses. James had no more coins, so I sat and
  played for the few customers for half an hour;
  soon their heads were nodding and they were
 deep in a current of blues and reverie, and I got
  a big bag full of bread and cheese with apples
 thrown in. I asked where the rest of the people
were and they were surprised that I didn’t know
that the plague had come to Cairo, after all these
  years, a strain from Cincinnati to which most
 were not immune, sweeping half the population
                   down the river.
  I continued down hill to the wharf; of course,
the riverboat was gone. I felt a brief pang, and a
somewhat deeper chagrin at having made Verity
             travel on without me.
   But James and I boarded a raft tied up there
  and I surveyed with satisfaction the line and
  hooks, the wigwam, the firebox with dirt in it
and the little tin of matches. I unwound the line
 and pushed off as several angry people rushed
   toward me from one of the riverfront cafés,
yelling and shaking their fists but turning back
  shrugging after a few minutes of the sport. I
  knew that I was heading toward the blues as
             much as toward Verity.
  James just stood around looking helpless until
I told him to sit down, then he sat, like a puppet,
putting his arms around his white-clad legs, the
     ridiculous blue-and-yellow braids on his
  shoulders bright and crisp in the midday sun.
          “What should I do?” he asked.
   I shrugged. “Rest. Enjoy the view. You’re on
                 vacation now.”
 “I have to have something to do,” he said, with
desperation in his voice all out of proportion to
  what was happening. “This is all so big.” He
  looked at the increasing distance between
              ourselves and Cairo.
  “You’ll have your wish in just a minute,” I said,
for the current was increasing dramatically and
    we were approaching an eerie division of
 waters—the green-blue of the Ohio appeared to
      be running right alongside the brown
 Mississippi, flowing fast from the other side of
 Cairo Point, and then we crossed that line and
          were in the Mississippi River.
          It was a magnificent moment.
  Without planning on it in the least, I tore off
 my clothes, grabbed the thick rope used to tie
      up the raft, and dove into the river.
  The water was full of grit and when I opened
 my eyes I couldn’t see my hand. I swept to the
surface and whooped for pure joy, throwing my
hair back and sluicing water from my face with
 my free hand. I let the rope pull me along for a
  couple hundred yards, cutting through the
 water that fed the blues. The fact that James
  was standing on the raft screaming bloody
 murder only added to the fun. But the current
was picking up and I pulled myself in, hand over
  hand. “You ought to try it,” I told him, as I
  climbed dripping and naked onto the raft.
    “You scared me,” he said reproachfully. “I
 didn’t know what to do. I thought you were—”
 He closed his eyes for a minute. “—drowning.”
   “Look ahead,” I said. “We just might drown.”
  And then we were into some rapids, which we
probably could have avoided had I not indulged
in my little prank. Water swept across the deck
   as we tilted crazily and scraped along some
     rocks. I grabbed a pole and pushed and
 amazingly so did James, getting the idea quick
 enough, and we ran from side to side bouncing
the raft off rocks until a smooth, powerful swirl
  caught us and shot us out into the calm river
  below. On the other side of the narrow island
  we’d just passed I saw that the river dropped
                    gradually.
  I studied this new place, hoping that I, like the
    plaguers, was now immune to skin cancer,
because the hot sun felt so good on my bare, pale
   skin. I felt like making some music. I looked
      around. “Where’s the guitar?” I asked.
  A quick search of the raft revealed that it was
   gone, probably swept off somewhere in the
  rapids. “Why didn’t you watch it?” I yelled at
                     James.
    He just hung his head in an irritating way.
      I rummaged around and found some
 binoculars, but couldn’t see it anywhere. The
   river was full of flotsam but I thought I’d
 recognize the guitar. I considered going back,
 for an instant, jumping off, walking up-river,
and trying to spot it, but that was silly. It might
   be anywhere. There was no way to find it.
   “What are you doing?” I asked. James had
 removed his jacket and shirt and had his arm
       stuck in the water to his elbow.
               “Sampling,” he said.
  He sampled for about thirty seconds and stood
up. “Can you get around to the other side of that
 big rock?” he asked, pointing to a gray boulder
             ahead just off the shore.
                    “What for?”
          “Your guitar should be there.”
                      “Right.”
    I think he looked wounded. “I am good for
             something, you know.”
                “Can’t hurt,” I said.
    It was actually remarkably easy to catch a
  swirl of current with the oar. We might have
             gone there on our own.
    The guitar had. The rock was actually about
 thirty feet long, and hooked around at the end
   like the tail of a lizard. Alma’s guitar bobbed
  there in the quiet pool formed by the curve of
                     the rock.
         “How did you do that?” I asked.
  I swear he looked smug. “I simply analyzed the
     currents and plugged them into a fractal
    analysis program. There was really a huge
 chance that it wouldn’t be here, but, averaging
everything together including the factors that it
   was impossible for me to know, this was the
    most likely place. I couldn’t predict much
 further than that, but… well, it worked, didn’t
     it?” He had a pleading look in his eyes. I
wondered how I could have thought them blank
on the train. But maybe they had been. Maybe he
              was just a fast learner.
   “Thank you, James,” I said. We poled close to
 the rock. Some sticks and leaves were trapped
 in the still water with the guitar. I lifted it out
  and as I examined it he pushed us around the
rock and we were off again. As we swirled down
 the river I dried the guitar reverently with my
abandoned clothes. There were no nicks. It was
 in tune. I sighed. It was an evil thing, made for
the devil’s music. It was nan, something created
by humans that had doubled back and enslaved
    its makers. It had certainly enslaved me.
              I smiled and hugged it.
 I settled back on the raft, leaning against a box
 filled with whatnot the previous owners must
   have scavenged from the river, sitting on a
folded blanket on the east side of the wigwam, in
                   the shade.
 The guitar insisted on a slow, steady rhythm.
 The disconsolate tune came from somewhere
               deep inside me:
       Out by the levee
       Early in the morn
       I lost my honey babe
       Where the Cairo bridge come down
  I was so tickled to have the guitar back. I just
  played and watched as we were swept along.
   This was a different river. I could see it right
away. Soon the ruined bridges of Cairo were far
  behind us. I really have no idea how fast we
were going but we were moving. The Mississippi
did not stick to its banks like the Ohio; it spread
 out wherever it could take its leave, and so the
 shore was not a single demarcation but often a
      zone where land and water mingled.
 The low land had no defense against the water.
On the eastern side were blue, undulating hills,
 not very high. It was a living, breathing river,
  constantly on the lookout for more ways to
 enlarge its boundaries, taking a swipe at this
 bank over here, overrunning an island there.
   James could not sit still; he was constantly
 asking what he could do to help. He’d finally
removed his shirt and his chest was sculptured
  like one of those old plastic dolls we found
hundreds of in a store one time. I wondered if he
    had bones and blood inside, he looked so
perfect. But he did eat and I saw him pee off the
side before too long, so… So at least there’s that,
       I told myself, unable to infer more.
   Soon I was having the time of my life, rushing
 to and fro, taking in the sights, feeling so alive,
 after being closed in the train. I showed James
  how to bait the hook with some jerky that was
on the raft; didn’t know what it would bring but
it was all that we had that would stick on. I told
   him to toss it in and leave it. I’d had a lovely
light fly-fishing rod at Shaker Hill and a fine set
 of flies I’d tied myself. Of course we’d admired
any number of complicated rigs in the forbidden
  stores, because at some time in the past it had
      been easy to drive up north to the vast,
 sparkling lakes described by Russ, and the Big
 Lake, which was more like an ocean where one
 could not see the other side. But this was just a
    springy green pole, half-inch in diameter, a
    nylon line tied through a hole someone had
 pierced in the end, to keep it from slipping off,
some weights, and a rusty hook. The Queen had
 all kinds of gear to choose from and we’d tried
 to distribute them at first. But they’d gone into
the drink, because the Norleans Plague dictated
this sort of primitive fishing rod. At least, so we
                      surmised.
     It didn’t matter, because after about five
 minutes James whooped and the pole bent. By
the time he pulled the fish in, he was panting; it
took him about ten minutes. It was a catfish, ten
 pounds at least, flopping all over the raft, and I
pulled it to the middle so it would not get away.
He stared at it, clearly puzzled, and I dispatched
 it by hitting it on the head several times with a
    heavy pot I found among the cooking gear.
James gasped when I did this and stepped back
                  and stared at me.
  “You had beef on the train,” I reminded him.
   “Someone had to kill those cows. Um… I
  guess…” But no. There were no cows on the
         train and it never stopped.
 “That was grown,” he said flatly. “It was grown
   in the shapes that we told it to grow in.”
 And then he told me how that worked. In great
detail. And how his metapheromonal processors
 worked. I never did really understand how he
knew where the guitar was. This took up most of
                 the afternoon.
  I didn’t have a whole lot to give him in return.
 I showed him how to gut the catfish. I showed
 him how to build a fire. He knew how to cook
the thing, once all those particulars were taken
                      care of.
   We ate in the light of a gorgeous sunset, and
  decided to drift down the river for the night.
                 Nineteen
             Mississippi Blues

I wasn’t sure how far it was to Memphis but I
figured that it would take a few days. I also
hoped we would overtake the riverboat at some
point, but that was more chancy. They had
power, and possibly a few days’ head start. I
longed to see Verity, yet was willing to keep that
yearning in abeyance. Somehow her presence
shut down the world for me, narrowed it in to
one point. The wideness of everything without
her was strange, even a bit scary, but most of all
exhilarating.
           And Memphis was the blues.
   It was so much quieter on the river without
that blasted paddlewheel churning away. There
  was a bleakness in this wilderness through
which we drifted; or perhaps it wasn’t bleakness
but just a feeling of the place being unpopulated
             and difficult to traverse.
 Heavy forest lined the shores we drifted past. I
 say shores because of the innumerable coves
and islands, because of the sheer irregularity of
   the river. Headlong we floated, with little
 control, sometimes fast and sometimes slow.
 From time to time we saw another raft in the
distance and hailed each other, but that was it.
 No boats, no barges, nothing. Well, that’s not
entirely true. Before dawn the churn of a steam
engine woke us and its wake almost capsized us.
  In the heavy mist, as it slid past us, heading
 upriver, a sheath of rust-streaked black metal
lumpy with rivets, I thought I saw a faded rn on
  the side, for Rural Network, I presumed. But
                   that was all.
  I was awake then, and sat waiting for the mist
 to burn off. The ephemeral blues and grays of
the river gave way to gold-shot green along the
banks. The air was fresh with only a hint of the
heat the coming day would bring. We were full
               into summer now.
    I relished the wilderness. I saw deer leaping
 along the bank of an island and figured that the
land harbored any number of edible critters. But
  the raft held no rifle, which made me feel a bit
   helpless and kept us dependent on fish. They
 were quite plentiful, though—just throw in the
   hook and find one on it when one thought to
  check. James was thus occupied at the back of
 the raft just now, crouched and staring into the
  muddy water as if he might actually be able to
  see the fish. The raft made a kind of swishing,
 burbling sound now and again as it was slapped
by a wavelet or rose a bit and fell over a patch of
  current-braided water. I stood and watched in
    fascination and fear as we passed a kind of
boiling place in the water where the surface was
 disturbed from below in a circular, upchurning
pattern, wondering what caused it. Then it was
 gone, but we were to pass more of them as the
                 day went on.
     We got caught in a large whirlpool shortly
 before noon. At first it was amusing—we were
  swept round in a long, slow circle about fifty
yards in diameter. James squatted on the side of
  the boat and stared at the water, apparently
deep in thought, if that was possible. Some long
 sticks, a board, and an old shoe kept pace with
     us, at exactly the same distance from us.
    “It’s like us,” he said, about the third time
  around. I was getting a little bit edgy at that
         point. How would we break free?
          “What are you talking about?”
   “It’s like everything. How everything came
  about. We’re a part of the pattern here, like
 those sticks. We’re not the energy itself. We’re
just held in this position by these forces. That’s
   how everything came about. The universe.
   Matter. Time. Evolution. Consciousness.”
   He was certainly hitting on all the big ones.
    “Yeah,” I said. “But how do we get out?”
  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Something else
          will come into the pattern.”
    “It matters to us,” I said. “Here. I’ll paddle
                while you steer.”
  After about ten minutes he hit on the idea of
snagging the board and holding it in front of us
  to slow us down. While he broke the water I
hung on the sweep and we gradually moved out
   of the whirl and spurled out into the main
current. I was exhausted. He looked back on the
        whirlpool as if he would miss it.
 “That was pretty interesting, James,” I said, as
 I lay panting on the raft. “How did you think
                   that up?”
 “I could tell you eventually,” he said, “but we’d
          have to start from scratch.”
       “What do you mean, from scratch?”
    “Well, there are these things called amino
                      acids.”
  “Oh,” I said. “Well, go on. It’s not like we have
              anything else to do.”
   But James had a kind of stiff, droning voice
   which began to blend with the mechanical
   keening of the cicadas. It dropped into the
  background as I watched the shore roll past.
 Despite all this beauty a strange darkness was
growing in my being, a mournfulness, a dread I
could not shake. I tried to think what it might
                   come from.
    Beyond the wild shore I could see glimpses
   now and then of a high green wall. The levee.
    Must be broken in places for sure, after the
quake. But it made a kind of double barrier. The
 levee—the thought of it troubled me. What a lot
of work it must have been to pile up all that dirt!
As an hour passed, and another, and it became
more imposing, I began to think of how long the
 river might be, and to wonder if the levee ran
 down both sides complete to the sea. Between
  the levees I was helpless, at the mercy of the
         river, a prisoner of the river…
                     Prisoner.
  With that word my mind began to dance with
               horrific images.
    I was hallucinating in the broad daylight. I
think that I retched over the side of the raft but
 I’m not certain. Because my mind and my body
  were not my own. They were possessed by the
  ghosts of the bluesmen and blueswomen who
    had once roamed this part of the country.
  I felt James’s hands on my shoulder and his
face swam into view. “Are you all right? What’s
            wrong? What can I do?”
  “Nothing,” I gasped. “Nothing.” And all I could
 do was sing while the images flashed through
 me, more than a memory, flowing from my own
 brain’s rearrangements of chemicals now that
    the blues had seeped deeply into me and
blossomed into a reality too intense to avoid, too
   awful to bear. My only release was to sing.
   And so I sang, that long day, while the raft
shot through a jungle-bound chute between two
                    islands.
       Long-chain Charlie
       He’s got me in his claw
    I was starving. No, I was being starved. No
 point in feeding me much. I was convict labor,
 leased from the State of Mississippi in 1876 by
  one Mr. Hamilton for $1.10 a month. Then he
 charged the railroads $9 a month for my labor,
    with barely any food and no medical care
  provided. When I died, I would be tossed in a
           shallow grave and replaced.
     I was walking down the road one fine spring
   day when Sheriff Connally come along. Arrest
  me. When I ask what I’d done he said I’d broke
    the law and had to pay. Seems I’d stole a pig
 from Mr. Tam. When I told him I’d done no such
    thing he said he had witnesses and that the
  judge would hear the case. That was a joke but
the joke was on me. The judge didn’t hear nothin
    I said and fined me extra for disagreein. If I
     could of run then I would of because I seed
       which way the wind was a-blowin. But
  Long-chain Cholly clapped me in his grip, give
   me the round stripes to wear, tell me to build
    this levee. Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow.
     More dirt. More dirt. More dirt. More dirt.
   Dey fetch us up before daylight and fling us
 back on the ground after dark. Two men drop
 dead yestidday and dey roll em out da way and
bury em in da night. Got guns and dogs on us all
through the hot sun day. A man right next to me
shot dead for sassin the trusty. Give me nothing
  to eat. Got a rash all over from sleepin on de
 groun. I tell shotgun I need more to eat. Now I
   ache in a dozen places and burn in a dozen
other. Big leather strap with holes in it he keep
  at his side just to beat people with. Name of
    Mollie. “What you say?” It go on long past
  forever, till I stagger bleedin an screamin to
pick up the filthy rags they call clothes then lay
 moanin in the cool dirt for a long time before I
                  even try to move.
  I shook James’s hand from my shoulder and
gasped for a minute after that, but Alma’s blues
       didn’t give me much time to rest.
  Then I was an sick old man working away the
last life in me. I wrote a letter to my old master:
 I werked for you for fifty yeers an now I need
ten doller fo the doctor for a oprashun. Cud you
pleas help yur old Eliza. But there was never an
                    answer and
       You shoulda been on the river, nineteen
       and nine,
       Number one was runnin, number two was
       flyin,
       Number three was hollerin, number four
       was cryin,
       Number five was draggin, and the
       pull-do’s dyin.
       Why don’t you wake up, dead man, help
       me drive my row?
       My row is so grassy, I can’t hardly go.
       They have murdered my partner, plan on
       killin me.
       If I get my chance, buddy, I’m gonna try
       to run free.
   I was on the number-two hoe squad, there on
   that Texas prison farm, and my whole body
  burned with the way I had to move, and keep
    moving, without a rest, no matter how my
muscles and lungs cried out. James told me that
I was writhing around naked, begging for mercy,
     and that he could not wake me from this
           nightmare though he tried.
    COAHOMA COUNTY, that was the place, the
   bad place, hell on earth, with the long roads
    heading nowhere down the infinite rows of
  cotton. I was born in one of them little shacks
   you see over there and grew up rough as my
  daddy before me. My momma, she had to work
  hard too, and I was out there when I was four
 doing what I could to help. I learned to gamble
    young and when I was twelve I won enough
        money to buy my own guitar at the
five-and-dime. One day I’s sent to take a package
   to the foreman. His daughter Miss Ellie May
meet me at the side door, take the package, close
the door, that’s all. Next thing I hear her daddy’s
accusin me of rape and I’m off and runnin’. Beat
   the hounds and the mob laying for me. Saw a
 man soaked with gasoline last year, hoisted up
     under his arms and burned near an hour.
    Course they cut off his fingers and ears for
souvenirs first fore he was damaged by the fire.
Everyone in the country came round and drank
  lemonade and watched and said they wished
 they could kill him ten times over he was that
bad. With that in the back of my mind I run like
     a rabbit and don’t stop till I hit Texas.
   Fall in with a blind man who plays for pennies
  on the street holdin out a tin cup. All he could
   do to make a livin but he damned good at it.
 Took to carryin him round where he want to go,
he tell me and we get there somehow and I learn
  all the jook joints for fifty miles and learn how
   he play too, with a broken filed bottleneck to
     run up an down coaxin sweet or mournful
     deep-down blue curves of sound from the
strings. His songs mostly bout pickin cotton and
     muleskinners and bein in prison and bein
lonesome and how mean the wimmens treat him.
Don know about that last, they seems to fawn all
  over him. In a jook joint one night we’re rollin
the dice and the man they call Mouse cuse me of
  cheatin. I know what’s comin and draw faster.
   His shot goes wild but mine flies true and he
  lays bleedin and dyin. His friends eye me mad
   and afraid. I run out of there leavin behind a
  price on my head and a bad-looking picture of
   me pasted round two counties; I see it in the
 train station an rip it down. Last time I see the
   blind man. But I gots him in my fingers now.
   I ride the train back up home and it’s been a
few years and the ruckus has died down I think.
  I must have lived fifty of these histories. They
 assumed an awful sameness. Alma’s blues was
filled with statistics; after all, she was a scholar
                         too.
  Then it was Bessie Smith in the big city, and a
 voice so big that it could fill a concert hall. Try
  and get a handle on that. Her songs were so
   dreadfully and unvaryingly mournful, like
 dirges, that before long I was ready to jump in
  the river and drown, too. There were happy
blues too, running like a shining thread through
 the darkness. But they were mostly awful sad.
  I sang until my voice was just a raw whisper. I
cried the blues from the pit where I was buried,
with all the others, from that endless row where
 the shooter called out “ten minutes” so I could
 step out of line because the guy next to me was
   in a bad mood and I had to try and kill him
 before he killed me. I sang the happy blues of a
gentle country sharecropper who lived and died
 on the Delta, who worked hard and taught his
children how to read and write and told them to
get out of there and not look back, head on up to
                      Chicago.
    I finally came to late in the afternoon, with
“Midnight Special” falling from my lips. I’d lived
   a hundred lives as a slave, then as a convict
 laborer, building the plantations, the railroads,
  the levees of the South, denied my rights as a
human, spat upon, treated like dirt, a member of
the “inferior race.” I’d been raped by white men
 and our children—his own children!—sold for
                       slaves.
   I sobbed, incredulous at the history of this
country. It was a bad joke. It was a tragic joke.
The laws were not for me. The land was not for
  me. The riches or even what meager profit I
might make was not for me. Education was not
 for me. I was to labor and thank them for the
opportunity and be quiet and die before I was a
                     burden.
     I couldn’t believe it. It was unspeakable.
  If that country was gone—good riddance! Land
of the free! Home of the brave! More like home of
   the slaves, land of the cowards who mobbed
together to kill innocent men just because their
skin was black. Then congratulated one another
                 on doing “justice.”
      I was cold. Shivering, my teeth clacking,
despite the blanket James had thrown over me. I
      felt my body all over, amazed to find it
  unbroken. I felt my face, my nose—whole and
straight. No scars from knives or whips. Dazed, I
   looked around, gradually remembered who I
   was and where I was and why, and that that
 time I’d dreamed was long past, long, long past.
James was napping. It was dusk. I thought then
of Huckleberry Finn. It had just been a story for
     me back there at Shaker Hill. I’d read the
Constitution, the Declaration of Independence.
The jury of peers, to which John said, “A jury of
 my peers would be twelve Shakers with black
          beards and overalls, then.”
  I poked at the coals of the fire and it blazed up,
crackling part of a fish James must have put on
 hours ago. I pulled it off the fire and it burned
 my fingers; I let it cool on the raft and then ate
it, crunching the thin burned bones between my
teeth as if I could chew up that burnt history I’d
   drunk, chew it up and change it with anger,
      even though it was long past. James had
 carefully stacked a pile of sticks snagged from
the river on one corner of the raft. I wondered if
     they were too wet to burn. They weren’t. I
    settled down to watch the wavering flames,
hoping that they would not somehow trigger the
blues because I was so very, very tired. I did not
deserve to have the blues, I realized. Though bad
  things had happened to me, I had never been
     mistreated. I had grown up loved, with an
  abundance of food, with the underpinnings of
religion; fake as it turned out to be, it sustained
                   us for so long.
  I longed for the information that I knew the air
 was full of: radio waves. We were coming closer
to Memphis, and STAX. I had no idea whether or
  not anything was there besides a radio tower.
      Memphis could be drowned; it could be
     deserted. It could be terribly dangerous.
           It could be heaven on earth.
   Blues Boy had turned to B.B. in Memphis.
Beale Street jumped with the blues. The devil’s
music found fertile ground and flourished there.
  Esu the Trickster was still alive. I could tell.
 He was inside me now, transforming me from
                the inside out.
      I fell asleep to dreams, dreams that were
  simply dreams and nothing more, a dream of
    walking into a dark Chicago bar one rainy
Saturday afternoon. Four people were sitting at
  the bar, and Sunnyland Slim and a side man
were blasting the place out, Sunnyland at a tall,
 square piano, the other man playing bass. I got
cigarettes from a machine and ordered a beer. I
     lit a cigarette and sat at a scarred table.
 Sunnyland played the blues for the sake of the
blues, because he couldn’t do anything else, and
  the wide floorboards vibrated with them as I
smoked the pack down and drank beers which I
did not count and wondered why the place was
                        empty.
          Well, maybe it wasn’t a dream.
  I woke to James’s shout and to the vast wheel
 rending the raft and me flying through the air
and plunging deep into the cold and the shocked
pain in my head as I breathed water, this was all
       at once for me, then only darkness.
                      8
              Bright Mississippi



                Twenty
           Doppelganger Blues

As the American Queen careened away from the
wharf, pulled by the current, Verity finally
pushed through the mob and reached the texas.
She flung open the pilothouse door and stopped
in astonishment.
    A man about as tall as herself, dressed in a
  finely cut black formal suit with a gold chain
hanging from his vest pocket, stood at the wheel
      with a look of anticipation on his face.
                 “Who are you?”
  The man turned, and, in the glow of the chart
 screen, Verity recognized him, except this one
  looked younger than those in the Blue Café.
  Fierce eyebrows overshadowed even fiercer
   eyes. His reddish hair, wild and curly, was
streaked dramatically with gray, and she could
     not see his mouth for a huge mustache.
      “Mark Twain, at your service. We have
  departed, then? An emergency situation, it
 seems.” He frowned, then accurately touched
the start button, and the boat rumbled to life as
the paddlewheel began to churn, slowly at first,
 then more rapidly as they continued into the
   confluence through silvery sheets of rain.
   “I don’t care who you are,” said Verity. “Get
        out of my way. This is my boat.”
  “Begging your pardon, Captain, ma’am, but—”
              “I mean it!” she yelled.
 He replied, “Then you must be slightly insane.
But, as you wish.” He nodded, stepped back, and
             offered her the wheel.
   The current immediately seized the boat. The
 Queen had never felt so large and, at the same
 time, so fragile. She struggled with the wheel;
she could not see where she was going; her arms
  ached with effort. When lightning flashed she
 saw a wilderness of frothing white water filled
           with debris and whirlpools.
 “Excuse me, please,” said the Mark Twain, “but
                   I must!”
   He pushed her away and grabbed the wheel.
  He turned it so sharply that everything not
  nailed down slid to the floor in a loud crash.
 Lightning flashed once more and Verity saw,
 directly in front of the boat, the island George
             had pointed out earlier.
  Waves pounded a dark shore. Looming trees
reached outward as if to seize the Queen with
   vigorously shaking limbs that stretched
yearningly over the waves. She was astounded
that they were so close; the island had looked
 such a long way off when she had seen it from
          the roof of Magnolia Manor.
   Twain pushed the large lever that gave more
    power to the paddle-wheel as they veered
sideways. The Queen leaped forward as the tree
  began to slowly topple forward. Verity heard a
 loud, chilling crunch. She ran out the door onto
    the deck and saw that the tree had indeed
caught on the railing of the top deck. The railing
     ripped from the deck, and the wind sent
              splinters of wood flying.
    She went back inside and closed the door,
                   soaked.
    Twain kept his steady eyes on the river,
seemingly unruffled. He hummed and chewed on
                   his cigar.
  For the next fifteen minutes they rode out the
  storm until it subsided with low mutters of
 thunder. The rain turned sweet and slow and
 warm. After another ten minutes of cautious
travel Twain said, “We’ll anchor here,” and she
                   said, “Fine.”
   Verity busied herself with the controls to let
down the anchor, thinking how lucky it was that
  Mark Twain, or whoever he was, had come on
 board. The clouds moved rapidly, revealing the
                     moon.
  Then a girl stood in the doorway, illuminated
 by the moonlight. Verity recognized her as the
girl who had wandered out of the train station.
  Her plaid cotton dress was plastered to her
 thin body, and dripped, darkening the floor.
Beneath one arm was firmly anchored a wooden
 box. She pointed imperiously at Mark Twain.
 “You, sir, are an impostor!” Her voice throbbed
 with fury. She whirled and said to Verity, her
brown eyes full of deep rage, “He is! I tell you, he
                       is!”
    She slammed her box—a cigar box, Verity
  noted—down on the table and turned back to
Twain, her hands on her hips. She stood straight
   as a young maple; Verity thought of a good
sturdy fencepost, rooted in the ground. Her face
 twitched and her nostrils were pinched. “You!”
she fairly spat. “Stealing another writer’s name!
Writing that wretched, laughable stuff! Thinking
     you were so funny when you were only
                     pathetic!”
  “How was I to know that I’d become famous?”
  rejoined Twain, astonishing Verity. “Way out
 there on the West Coast.” He straightened, and
   jerked on the bottom of his vest with both
          hands. “How was I to know?”
   “You were an idiot,” the girl agreed. “Truly.
And you’re still an imposter, you’re always and
  forever an impostor. I am Samuel Clemens.
  Afraid of who you really were. That’s what I
 think. Clemens! A fine name! Connotations of
  mercy, of kindness! When did you ever show
mercy? You laughed at the Indians, laughed at
the Hawaiians, laughed at anyone poor and not
                   white—”
   “Not so!” hollered Twain, his face growing red.
“You wretched pipsqueak! Who do you think you
 are, you little rat of a girl!” He stepped forward
and grabbed her by her shoulders. Verity moved
  to help but the girl flashed her a look of scorn
    and twisted free with an easy shake of her
                      shoulders.
  “I laughed at everyone, I’ll have you know,” he
   said. “Rich Europeans, stuffy old religious
 ladies, the lot of them, yes. And myself most of
                        all.”
   “And yourself most of all,” said the girl more
                   quietly.
 Verity could see that her lips were blue; waves
 of violent shivers shook her. “Let me tell you,”
  she began, but then Twain opened the box of
            cigars and reached inside.
    “Mine!” the girl yelled, and leaped forward,
 smashing the lid on Twain’s hand with her fist.
 The thin wood cracked. Twain pulled his hand
    free and looked at the bleeding scrape in
amazement. “Why, you little—” Then he began to
 laugh. “Have it your way, my dear,” he said. He
       turned and walked down the stairs.
  Tears stood in the girl’s eyes, but Verity could
  tell that they were tears of anger. “He’s an
asshole,” she whispered through trembling lips.
                  “To think—”
 “Quiet,” said Verity, and held her close to still
                her trembling.
    “They were after me,” she said, her voice
 muffled by Verity’s clothing. “I stole the very
best cigars.” Verity felt her laugh, a single brief
shake. She felt the girl’s knobby spine, thought
 that it was possible she could span her small
waist with her hands. She knelt and looked into
                 the girl’s face.
   It was a plain face. Her skin was the color of
 coffee with rich cream in it. Her hair was light
brown streaked with gold and stood out around
    her face in kinky splendor. Her nose was
   straight and imperious. She looked almost
homely, but something in the way her face was
  put together—the slightly slanted set of her
  eyes? her high cheekbones?—saved her from
      that. She stared at Verity and blinked.
        “What’s your name?” asked Verity.
              “I told you! Samuel—”
    “Your real name,” she said as gently as
 possible, and looked long into the girl’s eyes.
         Something stubborn melted.
   “Mattie,” she said. “My name’s Mattie.” She
                swayed slightly.
    “Well, Mattie,” she said, “how about a hot
                     bath?”
  She led Mattie to the doorway, then the girl
 broke loose, ran back, and grabbed the box of
                    cigars.
   “I hope you don’t actually smoke them,” said
       Verity, as they descended the stairs.
  “I most certainly do,” said Mattie. “I hope that
        son of a bitch didn’t crush any.”
    Verity woke to a sensation of movement and
   loss. She jumped out of bed—yes, they were
 under way! Without even her say-so! Who did
 this Twain person think he was, anyway? She
dressed in a fury, which helped push back the
 memory of Blaze, his face pressed to the train
window. Where would he be now? Denver? Did
  the train go to Denver? Russ had been there.
Denver would have been interesting. Perhaps…
  A bluebird lit on her open windowsill and just
  that patch was enough. She zipped her jeans
 with difficulty—she needed to get some larger
 clothes—tied her shoes, and marched onto the
 deck, invigorated. They had passed Cairo! This
            was the Mississippi River!
    And the shore, she noted as she climbed the
 stairs to the pilothouse, was so distant that the
trees were a green and brown blur. The land was
    wild and flat and she thought, as she went
  higher, that she saw marshes shimmer to the
                       west.
   Leaning against the railing of the hurricane
 deck, she looked up and down the river. There
  were possibly twenty rafts in sight. Had any
rafters perished in the Cairo melee? Or perhaps
 a lot of them had gone on ahead in the night…
  Lil had been right. Cairo had been a disaster.
  Her heart heavy, she walked in the door to the
    pilothouse, in no mood for the Twains.
   Mark Twain stood at the wheel, puffing on a
cigar, wearing the same river pilot’s suit she had
 seen the Twains wearing in the restaurant. An
  ash fell onto his lapel and he brushed it away
   with a scowl. At any rate the dark smudge
vanished rather quickly. “You have no idea how
 many microbes and diseases cloth harbors,” he
                      growled.
     “You have no idea,” Mattie mimicked. She
  stood on an upended wooden box, both hands
 gripping the brass rail below the front window.
   “You really have no idea—about anything. I
can’t believe how primitive you are. You have the
     mind of an amusement-park attraction.”
   “You are disturbing my concentration, brat,”
     returned Twain. “I am normally kind to
  children. I love all children as I love my own
    children. But you are not a normal child.”
  Mattie stared ahead. “Assuredly, I am not. I
 advise you to bear port around that island—”
     “Keep out of this. This is a man’s work.”
  “Actually,” said Verity, “it is my work. Please
                   step aside.”
  “This is not the correct time for a cub to take
             the wheel,” said Twain.
   The river did seem to be running a bit more
 swiftly now, but Verity was irritated. “Move, I
         said. I command you to move.”
     Twain and Mattie each snorted, with an
identical snort, identically timed. Twain stepped
      back, his face amused. “Be my guest.”
   Verity stepped up to the wheel and touched
                   the map.
  the mississippi segments of these maps have
         not been updated since 2050.
  “Hmm,” said Verity, wondering if that was the
 last time information from downriver got into
               Cincinnati. “Well…”
    “Watch out!” Twain and Mattie yelled in
  tandem, and Mattie grabbed the wheel and
   wrenched it to the right. Verity heard the
 ominous scrape of a snag along the side of the
                     boat.
     “As I said,” Twain remarked, and stepped
forward, but Mattie shoved her box over in front
of the wheel, jumped onto it, and grabbed two of
 the polished spokes. Twain merely lifted her up
 beneath her arms and set her on the floor after
              prying her hands loose.
“You!” Mattie said, eyes blazing, fists clenched.
“We’ll see about this!” She marched out of the
                     cabin.
     Twain chuckled and chewed his cigar.
          “Spirited imp, isn’t she?”
 Jack came in the door and crossed his arms.
        “Well, well. That’s a relief.”
        “What’s a relief?” asked Verity.
   “We’ve got a real pilot at last,” said Jack.
 Verity demanded, “What do you mean by that
                    ?”
 “Just what I said. He may be limited, but one
thing he does have is lots of piloting reflexes.”
                 Jack smiled.
  Twain turned, scowling. “What do you mean,
 ‘limited’? You’d best get below. Back to your
                     work.”
    “Yes sir,” said Jack. “Come on, Verity.”
               She stood hesitant.
  “It’s all right,” said Jack softly. He took her
    arm and led her outside. “Breakfast?”
             “Oh, I guess,” she said.
 “You have to eat,” said Lil, showing up beside
      her and patting Verity’s stomach.
“You are both making me very cross,” she said.
 “I’m not sure if we’re entirely to blame,” said
Lil. “Peabody was looking for Blaze. He seems
             rather downhearted.”
   “I hope Blaze is having a grand time,” said
 Verity, with a savage twist that surprised her.



                Twenty-one
              New Mind Blues

Mattie watched Mark Twain from a chair in the
pilothouse as she took languid puffs from her
cigar. They no longer made her dizzy; instead,
they sharpened her thoughts. She had guarded
them jealously at first, but this morning that
nice Peabody fellow had showed her how the
boat could replicate them, after Twain threw a
fit and called her a greedy pig. Well, he had been
more clever and elegant than that. But that’s
what he had meant.
     Twain was bigger than she, so he prevailed
    when it came to deciding who would do the
 piloting. For now. She kept a steady eye on him
 but had to admit that he was doing an adequate
 job. Twain’s red hair, only lightly streaked with
  gray, gleamed in the sunlight flooding through
  the windows. He was in high spirits, especially
   since she had agreed to share her cigars with
 him. Well, now she could afford to be generous.
  The river had changed since “he”—the Mark
Twain inside her—had been here. She could see
the difference, superimposed on his memories.
   Of course, all those memories were just taken
  from books of his. So they weren’t that precise
   anyway. But some of the little towns were far
 inland, others had been swallowed by the river.
 Apparently there had been an earthquake even
 worse than the one in 1812, when Reelfoot Lake
had been formed. The Mississippi River had run
 backward for several hours way back then, and
the first steamboat to try to go to Cincinnati and
  return to New Orleans had the bad luck to try
  the maiden journey at just that time. They had
     succeeded, though, despite the terrifying
                     conditions.
  Livy. Livy and the children and the great debt
they had to pay off. Sunlight coaxed the trees on
the far shore to unimaginable greenness. Beyond
 that rose the levee. Mattie took another puff of
  the cigar and the bluish bluffs ahead and the
     smell of the water and the view from the
pilothouse washed the girl Mattie away for a few
                     seconds.
  He’d been such a damned fool to keep pouring
  money into that Paige Typesetting Machine.
  Now he was up against it—years of grueling
lecture tours; Livy, his conscience, quite rightly
 would not let him get out of his debts so easily
 with a simple bankruptcy. No, everyone had to
 be paid back. A great void opened within him.
Out of it roared bitter words. He closed his eyes
and thought about how best to arrange them. He
         took another puff of his cigar.
   Suddenly she choked and tossed the cigar in
                  the ashcan.
             Suddenly she was Mattie.
     But she knew that she was also Twain. And
 when she was Twain, she realized, usually, that
 she was Mattie. That last time, though… Twain
seemed more intense. It all came from books and
    critical papers—in fact, her Twain was the
    proud scholarly creation of Missouri State
  University, copyright 2053, a message that had
flashed swiftly through her mind at one point on
  the train. But it was a Twain intensely refined
  by research, a Twain who had obviously lived
      uncountable times within students and
 professors, who had added all that they knew, a
     Twain created to be sharp and whole and
 complete, all-encompassing, overwhelming and
powerful, to react to situations, to think. But she
 could not help but know the truth, being in this
    body. She was still Mattie. Really she was.
        She glanced up at the Mark Twain
 competently piloting the boat. His entire body
 was a model of Twain’s. He didn’t seem to have
any other identity. She didn’t know if he’d had a
childhood or if he had somehow been created to
 be this particular age. In Elysia, they’d known
 that things like this were going on elsewhere.
     That’s why most of them kept to Elysia.
    They were ignorant, she now realized. Fear
   had kept them in the dark. Mattie could not
believe her own good fortune. There was a price
 to pay—she had to suffer Twain. He was a pain
in the ass—but he was also fascinating. Through
 him she had access to all kinds of information.
   History, and how it felt to go through all the
   things he’d been through. Piloting expertise,
  which was very real, since it didn’t depend on
 just him. It might have been assembled from a
  real, living pilot. Certainly the river was alive
      with meaning for her. And, even more
     remarkable, at least in her eyes, she was
  beginning to realize that he’d been round the
world several times. Several times! She’d barely
    dreamed of leaving Elysia, and then it was
always on the train, with the destination a great
    blank. She’d barely known anything of the
  world. Of course the world was different now
             than it had been for Twain.
     But he seemed to have had some sort of…
   prescience, now that was a word that came
 straight out of his head… that things were on a
   downhill slide. A dark and bitter vision that
  seemed true, but was sometimes hard to bear.
Joy had completely fled his life, and he realized
    what a lot of people in Elysia still had not
realized—there was no God. He had pretty much
 preached No-God for the last decade of his life,
 howling with the truth, trying to get the world
                to face the facts.
   She knew that the Twain next to her was
  younger, and not as dark, as the latter-day
Twain, who emerged after debt and death and
heartbreak. This Twain was at the height of his
         bloom and of his happiness.
   “But I’m dark,” she said aloud. “I’m the dark
                side of Twain.”
 “Your skin is dark,” he agreed, glancing at her.
            “But you’re no Twain.”
   “We are both Twain, the two of us, and that’s
 the problem,” she said. “It’s death that divided
 us—death and pain and guilt. I read Darwin. I
    began to see too clearly what you always
  suspected. And then while I was touring the
 world to pay off the debts you made, Susy was
    blinded by meningitis and died alone and
insane, while just a young woman. It took over a
 week. No one could reach us in time. We didn’t
  even know how horribly she was suffering.”
Mattie gasped a few times at the pain of Twain’s
                      grief.
   “Don’t you ever say anything so foolish again!”
    said Twain, turning a deeply horrified face
toward her. “Why, it’s like walking on someone’s
      grave. My little Susy—the smartest, the
  liveliest—why, I wouldn’t leave her alone like
    that, to die—that’s the worst blasphemy—”
  Mattie kept talking as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Though you’re at his piloting age, when he was
still Sam Clemens, you seem to have knowledge
 from his married life. I suppose they made you
into this historical and humorous mishmash for
   the pleasure of sentimental spectators who
  preferred to ignore the real Twain, the dark
                     Twain—”
 “What is all that blather about?” he demanded,
   staring at her with stern, intense eyes.
  “Nothing,” she said. “Enjoy yourself. I can at
least try to do so. My parents brought me up to
                   be sensible.”
   Yes, there was every reason for her to rejoice.
   Here was more water than they dreamed of,
     back in Elysia. Here, they didn’t have to
  jealously hoard everything—they could make
new stuff just as good as the old stuff. Why were
    they all hiding, out there in the dry dusty
 wasteland? She had been released to a land of
 milk and honey as surely as if she had died and
 gone to heaven. As far as they were concerned,
 she had died. Maybe that was what death was
really like. Just like Aunt Evvie always said. You
  left your body behind, but your spirit went to
                       heaven.
 She pinched herself. So far, her body, if not her
              mind, was intact.
   But with the thoughts of death and heaven
 anger swept through her, causing her to open
 her mouth and shout, “ ‘I bring you the stately
     matron named Christendom, returning
 bedraggled, besmirched, and dishonored from
  pirate-raids in Kiao-chow, Manchuria, South
Africa, and the Philippines, with her soul full of
  meanness, her pocket full of boodle, and her
 mouth full of pious hypocrisies. Give her soap
and a towel, but hide the looking-glass.’ ” A Pen
Warmed Up in Hell, noted something inside her,
    along with some numbers, for an instant.
     Twain sighed. “What’s gotten into you now?
I’m telling you, life is tremendously grand, there
  isn’t a drawback to it. Times like these I could
 almost believe in a God—a beneficent God, that
  is. Not the God who goes round punishing and
 torturing for no good reason. Not the God who
  set us up to fail, that intolerable blaggart. But
 you wouldn’t believe that grand house I have in
    Hartford, girlie, fit for a king, and no end of
 friends and neighbors—all artists, I’ll have you
      know, the cream of the crop, like Harriet
       Beecher Stowe and Charles Warner—to
 entertain and to be entertained by—simply no
    end. It’s absolutely topnotch. Why, we’re so
         booked to the hilt with parties and
     entertainments that Livy and the girls are
 hard-pressed to keep up, and I have to go away
  for several months of each year just to get any
                      work done.”
  “ ‘What an ass you are!’ ” Mattie replied. “ ‘Are
 you so unobservant as not to have found out
 that sanity and happiness are an impossible
combination? No sane man can be happy, for to
him life is real, and he sees what a fearful thing
                       it is.’ ”
    “I assure you, it’s real to me,” said Twain,
spinning the wheel. “Though I can’t claim much
 on the sanity issue. It’s so real and perfect I’m
beginning to believe in angels and all manner of
  pious nonsense. Why, if God Almighty came
 along and told me that Livy was sent straight
     from heaven I might believe the Great
  Mountebank himself and take out a lifetime
                  subscription.”
  “I’m just trying to tell you that you’d do better
     to work than spend all your money on ice
     sculptures,” said Mattie sourly, limp and
  suddenly exhausted. “You’ll soon be singing a
   different tune.” They tickled the back of her
   mind, these words, and sometimes pictures
      came with them and then she was him,
full-blown, this puffing fool. She felt pretty sick
 then, but figured it must be the cigars. She did
hate how things could change from good to bad
    in the wink of an eye. But there—it passed
                      quickly.
    “Looks like there’s a sandbar ahead,” she
          offered. “Those ripples—”
  “Don’t worry, whippersnapper,” Twain said.
          “Already accounted for.”
  “If only we could read life as clearly as we can
 read the river. It looks so smooth, so beautiful.
   It’s marvelously accommodating, taking us
        along for a ride. But underneath—”
   “Your cheap philosophizing needs a bit of
  polish,” remarked Twain. “Come back when
 you’re older than twelve and we might have a
           nice chew over the matter.”
    Mattie sighed, suddenly more sorry for than
  irritated with the man. “I’ve had too damned
many years. That’s the problem.” Waves of deep
 sadness washed through her. She struggled to
  keep from bursting into tears. Everyone gone!
  Everything changed! Hannibal full of old men
and what’s more those misshapen old men were
   his childhood friends! The very shape of the
 river had changed. And the life itself was gone.
Railroads had taken it. After the time out West,
    where he learned to entertain, to write; he
  eventually began to earn money, good money.
Yes, he’d had wealth, a family on which to lavish
it, health and happiness, fame and solvency, for
                a few short years.
   But that was all gone now. Vanished behind
  the churning paddle-wheel. Susy, Livy, Jean,
  dead. And not dead to rise again. Even Livy—
pious, accepting Livy—had lost her faith once he
 got hold of her. He’d reasoned it out of her. The
  century had turned, the country had gone to
hell, the world not far behind, and all humanity,
 when you thought of the science end of things,
of planets and space and time, was clearly just a
      momentary flash of light and dust…
   Mattie gasped as she came back into focus.
   But it made little difference. She was not so
 different from this cantankerous old man, this
 dandy who went round wearing suits so white
they almost gleamed. With every minute more of
               him bubbled forth.
  But she knew there was no heaven, no matter
how that woman on the train had babbled about
it, the white light, an infinity of time, some sort
of change you went through when you left your
                   body behind.
    It was all scientific, what was happening to
   her. She knew that. If she repeated one word
over and over and over again, which she used to
   do a lot when she was little because it made
   everything seem strange and new like “gate,
  gate, gate, gate,” her mind would let go of the
word and she would be faced with a thing there,
  just existing. She had tried to teach Alexa but
 Alexa thought it was stupid. Well, she had been
doing it on the train, her disengaging exercises,
  and a cascade of images was released and she
   could see how her brain was changing, like a
   mote would get in your eye except this was a
     flood of transparent stuff washing quick
 through your vision. The nice lady on the train
had been awfully worried about her and actually
 she’d had to rip away from her grasping hands
 and had felt so relieved when the doors opened
  at Cairo, about the closest she could get to St.
  Louis apparently and that man was standing
 there on the platform with the guitar although
he had not seen her when she debarked, since he
            was looking the other way.
  But it had all worked out perfectly. Perfectly!
 Here she was on the Mississippi. The center of
the country. If such things were possible maybe
there was a heaven. If she could just shove that
 troublesome, dumbed-down Twain out of the
way and take the wheel, she would be in heaven.
Absolutely. She glared at him and he hummed a
  wretched little tune. Just to irritate her, no
                      doubt.
   The tall black woman, Lil, stuck her head in
 the door. “Hi, honey.” She had a nice smile. She
  reminded Mattie of her aunt Zelda, who had
died three years ago. “Come out and sit with me
awhile. You must be getting tired standing there
                    so long.”
 “I don’t know about her, but it would afford me
     a welcome respite,” remarked Twain.
    I suppose I am tired, thought Mattie, as she
  allowed Lil to help her down and lead her out
 the door into the sunlight. They went round to
 the prow of the boat, on the broad promenade
   lined with white wicker chairs, and sat on a
  cushioned couch that creaked, and stretched
  out their legs on an ottoman. Mattie admired
  Lil’s shoes. They looked very strange. Mattie
liked Lil. Jack was pretty nice too. Verity was in
         a bad mood, and too busy to talk.
   The boat was on a serene stretch of river,
overhung by delicate green willows on the west
  bank, and there would probably not be any
      piloting emergencies for a while.
  “You look like you have some African blood in
                  you,” said Lil.
  “My grandfather was black,” said Mattie. “And
one of my grandmothers on the other side of my
family was a Hopi. The United States were a big
   mixing… basket. Or something like that. My
             aunt used to tell me.”
  Lil nodded. “Absolutely. So what brought you
                here, anyway?”
   “A Bee,” said Mattie. “A St. Louis Bee. But I
was born in Elysia. That’s where I came from. Or
    was it Florida? Yes—Florida, Missouri. I
                  remember…”
 “Elysia,” said Lil firmly and squeezed her hand
                       hard.
   “You don’t know where that is,” said Mattie.
 “But I do,” said Lil. “It’s on the NAMS line. Tell
                  me about it.”
     “Well, Elysia has been there since the
eighteen-eighties. They thought there was gold
there at first but if there ever was they got it out
   fast and left. My dad’s family’s been there all
     along, even during the times when hardly
  anyone lived there. Bunch of farmers. He says
the reason that Elysia’s survived is that Elysians
  are mean by nature. My mother calls it strong
  and self-sufficient. My grandma, the one that
    was a Hopi, moved to Denver and became a
    lawyer. My mother liked the reservation in
    Arizona better, and spent a lot of time there
  when she was little. My grandma argued that
 the Flower Cities were unconstitutional before
                the Supreme Court.”
 “There were some famous cases,” said Lil. “She
                lost, I guess.”
   Mattie said, “My mom said that she won, but
 that it didn’t really make any difference. She’d
taken my mom with her to Washington. My mom
 was only ten. Some terrorists blew up the train
  track near Elysia and my grandma died. My
          dad’s family took my mom in.”
 As Mattie described her childhood Lil took her
 hand, looked at it. “Germ-line receptors,” she
                      said.
               “What?” asked Mattie.
   “Your receptors are inherited. Those ovals.”
  “Yes,” she said. “My grandmother had them.
Whatever they are. My mother says they don’t do
 anything anymore.” She kept talking, and Lil
  continued to hold her hand as she gazed out
over the river. After a few minutes Mattie’s hand
    began to tingle and she withdrew it. Lil
  appeared not to notice, and prompted her to
                continue her tale.
     But Mattie’s eyelids were fluttering shut.
“Time,” Mattie heard herself saying, in a strange
  drawl. “Time is the worst sort of fooler. If we
 could but fix ourselves in that one special time,
  that perfect season of joy and happiness, who
  would dare to look outside it, who would dare
   pierce its membrane and be drawn into the
darkness which lies on the other side?” She was
 thinking of several things at once as she spoke.
 Those few years at Nook Farm, in the beautiful
mansion he built, when Susy and Clara and Jean
  were small, the money was rolling in, and the
               world was at his feet.
   And then something that woman on the train
  had talked about, so earnestly, wondering if it
    was wrong, dishonest, or a betrayal of her
    brother to want to return to the place of
 timelessness, where she could choose always to
forget that which made her unhappy. Where she
           would lose a part of herself.
   The two streams came together and flowed
into the words. When she remembered who she
   was—Mattie from Elysia—and where she
  was—on the hurricane deck of a Mississippi
riverboat—Lil was looking at her with concern,
 and putting a hand to her forehead, feeling for
fever. But that was silly. She wasn’t hot. She was
                 very, very cold.
  Lil insisted that she take a nap, as if she were
                      a baby.
    Later, when she woke up, she had to admit
 that it had been refreshing. After splashing her
   face with water, she took the dressing-table
stool from her stateroom and carried it up to the
 pilothouse. She’d give that limited Twain a run
  for his money. Stupidity could be dangerous.
      She’d have to keep a close eye on him.
 She spared one last thought for Elysia, set the
stool on the texas deck, and opened the door to
                 the pilothouse.
   Verity couldn’t seem to stay away from the
pilothouse. After all, it was her boat! But Twain
        seemed to be doing all right as he
 piloted—jaunty as a king, though Peabody, at
       her elbow, seemed nervous as well.
  Mattie flung open the door. “Afternoon.” She
shoved a velvet-covered stool through the door
                in front of her.
  Twain looked at her and frowned. Mattie set
 the stool next to Twain and climbed up on it.
“Nice,” she said, wiggling around. “No wobble.”
       “Don’t crowd me, girl,” Twain said.
        “It’s my watch soon,” she replied.
     “How do you figure that?” asked Twain.
    “Four hours on, four hours off, that’s the
              watch schedule.”
    “Who says I need to sleep?” asked Twain.
          “It’s only fair,” Mattie replied.
    Twain shrugged. “Life isn’t fair. I thought
that’s what you spent a good half-hour trying to
       convey to me earlier this morning.”
    “The current is picking up. I think we’re
             coming to a chute.”
   “I don’t think so. I’m going to take the outer
                bend,” said Twain.
   “I suppose we’re in no hurry. It’s just that
  everyone’s going nuts, that’s all.” As far as
  Mattie could tell, the people on the boat did
             seem rather agitated.
        “You, especially,” rejoined Twain.
   Verity leaned around Mattie and touched the
 screen. It obligingly featured a map which was
  Engineering Authority Map 67.5, accurate in
  1934. It was swiftly superseded by another, a
Satellite Enlargement with about fifteen rows of
letters and numbers beneath the latitudinal and
  longitudinal description of the area. She put
 them next to each other. “They’re so different,”
she said. The course of the river had apparently
 moved west by more than half a mile, and could
 very well have moved back since then. “I don’t
 understand. The Ohio is pretty much the same
  as it’s been for at least a few centuries, even
              with the earthquake.”
 Peabody said, “There’s no shortage of faults in
 this area. And the bed of the river itself isn’t
moraine, like that of the Ohio. This river bottom
              is nothing but mud.”
   Twain gestured toward the riverbank on the
   right. A portion of the bank had collapsed
 almost straight down into the river, so that the
tree-tops still stood straight though their trunks
   were submerged. Another several hundred
 yards were in the process of crumbling, and as
they watched, a tree at least a hundred feet high
  crashed into the river. Just beyond, another
  bobbed up and down, apparently still rooted,
 but grabbed by the force of the river so that the
 crown and trunk regularly surfaced, then were
       pulled underneath, again and again.
    “That’s a sawyer,” said Twain. “Wreaks all
kinds of havoc if you come across a sawyer while
  you’re going through a chute. It’s a trickster.
  You might come around a bend and not see it
 because it’s underwater. Then—wham! Knock
          the brains out of your boat.”
   “That’s why you called your trickster Tom
     Sawyer?” asked Peabody, a smile of
understanding slowly spreading across his face.
    “Now that would be the sort of highfalutin
   thing somebody like Bret Harte might try,
someone with pretensions and the will to put all
  kinds of double meanings into what they’re
  writing. It’s purely enough work just to tell a
 good story, that’s the way I look at it.” Despite
    his tone, a smile crept onto Twain’s face.
 “Liar!” said Mattie. “You never wrote anything
          pure and simple in your life.”
   “You’re calling me a liar? You’re saying I
wrought works of complexity and deviousness?
    Why, now I’ve had the pleasure of two
compliments in a very short time. If you’re not
  careful you’ll make my head swell up and
      explode.” Twain grinned broadly.
 “Stop it, you two,” said Verity. “The current’s
picking up and we seem to be heading straight
              toward this island.”
 “What are the leads?” Twain bellowed into the
 speaking tube so that it boomed all over the
        boat. “Wake up down there.”
      “The leads are right here,” said Mattie,
  pointing at the information displayed on the
   screen. “I told you before but you seem too
stupid to learn anything. Right now it says mark
                       six.”
  “You are ceasing to amuse me,” said Twain, as
            he pulled on the wheel.
    “There’s a sandbar!” screamed Mattie, and
 everyone on the boat appeared to be out at the
 railings now, following the proceedings with
                great attention.
     Twain pulled on a lever and reversed the
 paddlewheel, causing things to fly off tables
 onto the floor. Just as quickly, he stopped its
  turning completely. As they drifted, silence
  filled the boat. Even Mattie didn’t breathe a
word as they brushed the trees hanging over the
                      water.
     In that instant Twain sprang into action,
 pulling levers and spouting orders to which no
one attended. But the paddlewheel erupted with
 a great roar, and the boat backed smartly and
   the front swung round and slid through a
    narrow channel suddenly revealed in the
                  island’s heart.
 They were in a swift-running chute, completely
enclosed on two sides by junglelike forest laced
with vines. Birds fled in confusion as the Queen
  smashed through the branches and Twain’s
booming laugh filled the pilothouse. The chute
widened to a pleasant little waterway, still with
               plenty of current.
  “High water, in early summer,” he remarked.
               “The river is up.”
   “And the channel is deep,” offered Peabody.
            “Exactly,” agreed Twain.
              Mattie was frowning.
  “Jealousy doesn’t become a lovely young lady
         such as yourself,” said Twain.
  “I’m not jealous, I’m not a young lady, and I’m
 not lovely. I’m older than you and a good deal
wiser.” Her voice was steady and assured. “I am
 just wondering about the mouth of the chute,
        that’s all. It may be silted over.”
 “Not to my reckoning,” said Twain. “Not unless
  it… turns.” And the chute took a sharp turn
                     west.
 He glanced down at Mattie, new respect in his
                   eyes.
  “Full throttle!” he yelled, but followed his own
 command with the lever. “Stoke the fire down
there! Pour on speed!” Their velocity increased;
   the boat sped recklessly through the green,
             light-dappled corridor.
 Suddenly they saw the end, a silver arch, and
Twain chomped down hard on his cigar. “This is
    it,” he said, and leaned into the wheel.
 There was a grating sound and a loud gravelly
   hiss, and the front of the boat rose—only
  slightly, but being several tons its descent
 caused a very respectable splash, and a wave
that set out across the river, and loose objects
and even furniture went flying through the air
      amid the screams of the passengers.
   Twain and Mattie both laughed to beat the
 band. Tears rolled down Mattie’s face and she
  wiped them away with the back of her hand.
    “Good ride!” she said. “Excellent work!”
  Verity was stunned. “You had no right to take
  such chances! We must get to Norleans,” she
            said, her voice shaking.
  “The Mississippi River is nothing but one great
 chance,” said Twain. “You’ll see wrecked boats
  all along the river. Piloting is an art on which
      I’ve staked my life more than one time.”
  “It’s a more honorable profession than telling
                lies,” said Mattie.
  “Amen to that, pipsqueak,” agreed Twain. He
 turned to Verity. “Madam Captain, you are no
longer on the tame Ohio. You are on the river of
 the frontier. The great Mississippi. It drains a
   watershed of thousands of square miles. It
changes according to whether the water is high
 or low. Channels are lost and gained with each
passing day. It has been thus since DeSoto came
   up the river claiming it for Spain and was
 stuffed into a hollow log for his trouble. It has
wiped out entire cities overnight, and stranded
others miles from its former banks so that they
may as well have been submerged. It has created
  and lost fortunes for men. I suggest that you
   pass the time as captains usually do. Avail
  yourself of the bar and the dining room. You
might try checkers or a hand of faro. Or a good
               book.” He chuckled.
    Verity looked at him and then at the girl,
Mattie. They shared a language and a consensus
 about the river that she lacked. Verity didn’t
know how much of Twain this person possessed,
 but he’d obviously reached the piloting stage.
   She was surprised at the relief that washed
through her. It would be wonderful not to have
to worry so much about trying to pilot the boat
  herself. The Ohio had been nerve-racking at
times, and it looked as if the Mississippi would
                  be far worse.
    “Thank you Mr. Twain,” she said. “I’ll take
                your advice.”



                Twenty-two
               Bomber Blues

Their second day out from Cairo, the boat was
once again surrounded by a bobbing carpet of
rafts. Many rafters had pulled into coves to
recover from their terrible night journey, when
they had been swept past Cairo. Verity insisted,
over the clamor of Twain and Mattie and most of
the passengers, not to mention her own
Norleans-yearning compass, on waiting for those
who might have been delayed by the riots when
they left Cairo.
    Late in the afternoon, rafts of people, some
  injured, began drifting into view; these were
    hauled onto the riverboat and tended to.
 One woman had jumped from the wharf onto a
raft. She had a broken ankle; her face was dirty
and streaked with tears beneath short-cropped
                   black hair.
  “It was awful,” she hollered at them as she was
 pulled up in a sling with a winch. “Why did you
 desert us? How were we supposed to get away?
     Get Adelaide out of the wigwam; she was
 burned. They tried to tar and feather her. They
claimed that we were all criminals and deserved
    to be lynched. They said we gave them the
 plague. They were coming after us with ropes.
Ropes!” She covered her face with her hands and
 burst into sobs; the people waiting on the deck
   for her gently lifted her from the sling and a
             large man picked her up.
   Lil said, “We’ll have to set up an infirmary.”
      “I’m—er, I was, a doctor,” said one man,
    looking confused. “It’s been a long time.”
               “Come on,” said Lil.
       Before long about fifty injured people
   occupied a long row of previously unused
staterooms. Moans issued from doors that stood
    open in the steamy heat of the afternoon.
Several of the men and women made themselves
useful by cleaning wounds inflicted by the angry
  citizens of Cairo. Apparently there had been
   more than one death. Verity digested this
 information and wondered again why she had
            disregarded Lil’s advice.
   “You’ll always feel guilty about them if you
 don’t watch out,” said Jack, who fell in next to
     her as she walked from room to room.
  “I am responsible for them,” she said, battling
 a sinking feeling as she watched a young man
  gently wash a large abrasion on a little girl’s
 abdomen. Apparently she had fallen and was
 then pushed across the concrete wharf by the
feet of the surging mob. Luckily, she had found
       shelter behind a fishmonger’s stall.
 “In a way, I suppose,” said Jack. “But you can’t
 control the world, and you can’t control them.
 It’s all out of your control now. Whatever you
did in Cincinnati, and I’m not entirely sure what
that was, it was something that you had to do. I
     know that much about you. It was not a
            frivolous decision. Was it?”
                 “No,” said Verity.
   “Could you have made a different decision?”
   “Not really,” she admitted, surprised that in
spite of the truth of this she was loath to give up
  the deep certainty that this was all her fault.
   “Come on,” he said. “Maybe Lil is cooking up
                  something.”
  Jack led Verity back to the small room where
 the gloves had been made. Lil sat in the small
  swivel chair surrounded by softly blinking
      lights, and with her was the doctor.
  “We need a painkiller—an opiate,” the doctor
                 was saying.
     Lil called up an array of capital letters
 connected to one another by lines. “An opiate,”
             she said, biting her lip.
  “Wait! I’m remembering now. When I studied
nanicine, we used Opinan for pain. That was the
brand name. Why not just try that word and see
                what happens?”
    Lil typed in the word, impatiently wiping
sweat from her eyes. “I think it’s more important
       to worry about infection, isn’t it?”
 “Bactronan,” said the doctor. “That’s easy. In a
    salve. And Indonan for internal use.”
                Lil glanced at him.
                 “Really,” he said.
   “Well, now I consider my medical training to
be complete,” said Lil, with sarcasm in her voice.
    He didn’t seem to notice, and leaned over
  eagerly as figures popped up on the screen.
          Then the screen went dark.
   Lil frowned and touched the pads in a swift,
sure cadence. There was a slight flicker and she
 leaned forward and touched a few more pads.
 She leaned back in the chair and stared at the
                    screen.
           “Start up the boat,” she said.
        “But there are rafts—” said Verity.
      “Clear them out and start up the boat!”
  In ten minutes the paddlewheel was churning
and Verity was hurrying back toward Lil’s room.
 They were progressing at the slowest possible
 speed downriver. Verity thought about having
Twain turn the boat upriver so as not to further
outdistance any other rafts still to catch up with
   them, but she wasn’t sure exactly why Lil
             wanted them moving.
   She burst into the room, where people were
crowded around Lil so that she had to push her
             way through. “Okay?”
  “Not okay,” said Lil. “Something is very wrong.
   Even with the energy generated by the boat,
everything is crashing. I’m trying to isolate… I’m
 trying to see if I can figure out exactly what the
     problem is before I lose the diagnostics.”
  There were more cries outside and Verity ran
         out to see what was going on.
  Below, from the boiler deck, a rope snaked out
   and those on a raft about twenty feet away
  managed to catch it after a few tries. As they
 drew closer, Verity recognized the girl holding
 on to the rope, mainly because of the bee shirt
       that she’d traded for her apple pie.
  She hurried down to help them onto the boat.
  First, there were two young men. Their clothes
  were torn and bloody. They had a look of dim
 exhaustion about them, and it was difficult for
 them to ascend the rope ladder. They did not
look at Verity as they staggered onto the deck.
           Then only the girl was left.
 She looked up. Her blond hair, bloodied from a
    gash on her forehead, fell back. As she
 recognized Verity, her eyes widened and her
 face lit with a smile. Verity leaned down and
grasped her hand as she climbed the ladder. In
    the shadow of the boat, it was golden.
   “Welcome aboard,” said Verity, thinking that
soon enough they’d want to be back on the rafts,
 to drift free down the Mississippi, toward blue,
    blue Norleans. But maybe now they were
   hungry. “I thought you were immune to the
                 plague,” she said.
 “We did too,” said the girl, slowly. “But thank
   God we were wrong!” She smiled again,
angelically. “Oh, I’m so happy,” she sighed, and
              Verity’s heart sank.
    Then she heard a sound she’d never heard
before, insistent and growing, a harsh buzz. Not
  the melodious buzz of Bees, but impersonal.
  Terrifying, as it grew and surrounded them.
  “A plane!” people were crying out, and indeed
                     it was.
    “George,” said the girl, shading her eyes.
 “Look. It’s his plane. They’re all his planes, of
course. Like everything else in Cairo. Come on,
George,” she yelled. “Just try and squeeze money
          out of us now, you bastard!”
   The black biplane floated in the blue sky of
                  afternoon.
  Towering just behind the plane was a black
thunderhead that had come up quite suddenly,
pushing before it a breeze that kicked up small
  waves. The rafts on the river bobbed as the
              waves grew larger.
  The plane was much closer now; Verity could
  distinguish the propellers. Another came up
 from behind and joined it, the identical black
                plane from Cairo.
 They seemed to pause motionless for a terribly
long time before one swooped in a sudden dive
           straight toward the boat.
  A gust of wind blew it sideways and she saw
the wings wobble as it bore down upon them. A
white fog spewed from beneath the plane but it
was blown away as fast as it was released in the
        wind from the upcoming storm.
  The plane veered upward just after passing
 over the top of the boat, barely clearing the
smokestacks, with a deafening roar that shook
                   the boat.
 Peabody rushed past Verity, up the stairs, pale
 and intent, as the second plane began a swift,
               relentless descent.
  There was nothing to do but watch helplessly.
 This time a series of missiles plummeted from
the sides of the plane; as the first two fell Verity
 could see that two others were attached to the
side of the plane. They were both released in the
                   same instant.
    Transfixed by fear, Verity watched as the
  missiles sent up an irregular row of towering
geysers. One hit a rock only a few yards from the
                  paddlewheel.
   Fiery fragments of bomb and rock smashed
into the Queen with unexpected force. The boat
     bucked like a horse in the wake of the
   explosions and the huge waves sweeping
 downriver, flinging people to the deck. Planks
  from a raft rained down upon the boat and
            splashed into the river.
   General panic erupted. People plunged into
  the river from even the higher decks. Verity
 turned and ran against the surge of the crowd
    toward the pilothouse, intending to give
  directions, but wondered, What? She looked
 down at her hands but saw nothing coherent.
The plane rose high and circled for another run.
      This time he would surely hit them.
  Instead he streaked by only twenty feet above
the pilothouse, narrowly missing a smokestack.
  Verity glimpsed George in the open cockpit,
 though his face was covered by goggles and he
 wore a ridiculous scarf that swept out behind
 him in the wind. He appeared to be struggling
   with something—perhaps he was trying to
 release the missile that Verity saw attached to
  the other side of the plane. His plane took an
              abrupt upward turn.
   The other plane, crossing the river not far
behind them, unfurled a huge banner, catching
   the sun’s last brilliant flash before it was
         eclipsed by the black cloud.
           surrender, verity and jack!
 A deep gasp arose from those watching, almost
    in unison. Some people screamed, “We
surrender! We surrender!” Others tore off white
 shirts, if they were wearing them, and waved
           them off the side of the boat.
    Then a great boom shook the boat and the
         screams doubled in volume.
    A whistling sound accompanied a streak of
  light that flew straight toward the plane and
 exploded, shimmering in the air and shredding
the banner. The missile clearly missed the plane,
but the plane nonetheless spiraled earthward as
    a white parachute blossomed against the
        thunderhead. Verity heard cheers.
  She ran up the stairs, panting. Another long,
 drawn-out whistle; she emerged on the texas
deck just in time to see another explosion as the
 plane falling out of the sky burst into flames.
  Peabody was out there on the deck, next to a
  small black cannon, screaming maniacally,
jumping up and down and waving his fist in the
 air. “You wasted it!” he screamed to Jack, who
   apparently had aimed the weapon. “Go for
                     George!”
    Verity was astounded. Peabody enraged
surprised her almost as much as the attack and
         the counterattack combined.
    As Peabody leaped and yelled, Jack poured
gunpowder into the cannon and tamped it with
a large wooden tool. The second Jack pulled out
   the tamper Peabody staggered over with a
 cannonball and let it roll down the barrel. He
jumped aside and Jack sat on a small stool and
 followed the remaining plane through the air
   with the barrel, which was apparently not
 difficult to maneuver. He struck a match, lit a
    fuse, and rolled across the deck all in one
 motion. The cannonball whistled through the
  sky, and the cannon rolled back several feet
               with the explosion.
  “You missed!” yelled Peabody. The remaining
plane banked high, then began laboring upriver
against the wind as lightning forked through the
                       sky.
  Lil, Twain, and Mattie had joined them on the
                     deck.
  “He’ll be back,” said Lil. “What should we do,
                     Jack?”
 “You’re asking me?” said Jack. “This is a first!”
   “This is no time for jokes,” said Lil, her face
    grim. “We can’t be responsible for this.”
   “What are you talking about?” asked Verity.
   “He wants us,” said Jack. “Lil and me. That’s
 all. We’ll make a bargain. He won’t get Verity.”
   “Well, he’s not going to get you either,” said
   Peabody. His face was streaked with black
 grease and his white hair was in disarray. “He
wants a mechanical war? He wants to fight fair?
  He wants to return to the good old days? He
hates the insecurity of the Information Wars? I
  know his kind! Blow ’em up, the honest way.
 Chicago was swarming with them in my youth.
    I’ll give him a mechanical war—an honest
war!—right up the wazoo.” He clapped his hands
   together once and clenched them, smiling
broadly. “I wasn’t just gaggling around in Cairo
  stirring up a hornet’s nest like some of you.”
  “I don’t think he wants an honest war, as you
 call it,” said Jack. “His first offense got blown
                       away.”
    “No,” said Lil. “His first offense worked.”
      “What do you mean?” asked Peabody.
 “He dropped something on the stage,” said Lil.
  “We got rid of it right away, but some of the
molecules must have invaded the Queen. Just a
small amount, so things are deteriorating quite
                      slowly.”
    “Well, it must have been hit-or-miss. He
 wouldn’t have had time or any way to create a
very precise offense,” replied Peabody. “We were
   in Cairo for less than twenty-four hours.”
 “Eliot,” said Verity. “Eliot took something from
  the boat. I saw him take something in a bag
                  when he left.”
   “With the right equipment, it wouldn’t take
    long for something to evolve,” said Lil.
            Peabody frowned. “Eliot?”
   “I saw Eliot in George’s house,” said Verity.
         “Nobody told me,” said Peabody.
 Jack stared at Peabody and looked as if he was
  going to say something but then just walked
away. “Come on, Lil,” he said. “Let’s see if we can
   figure something out.” They hurried away.
  “Where did we get this cannon, or whatever it
              is?” asked Verity.
   “ We didn’t get it,” said Peabody. “I did. While
  you fools were gadding about I checked out a
few things and decided to be prepared. Picked it
  up in Cairo on Washington Street. Great little
     shop there. Full of all kinds of stuff. It’s a
    stockpiling center for the Rural Network.
 Fantastic bargains. I got a bazooka too, but I’m
             not sure if it will work.”
  Verity was not at all pleased by the gunpowder
  aboard. “That could blow us all up,” she said.
 “Look. There’s a fire down on that railing right
  now.” Some people below were splashing the
   railing with pans of water and soon it was
                    doused.
  “As you can see, it saved everyone’s life,” said
 Peabody in a maddeningly equitable voice she
was sure he reserved for small children. He bent
over the cannon and a breeze teased his sparse
hair into a little dance. “Nice and dependable.”
  He looked as if he might even pat the thing.
  Twain arrived on the deck. “Will the captain
    give me the pleasure of her orders?” he
  demanded. “I thought at first the boiler had
 blown.” His craggy face saddened. “Reminded
  me of when my brother Henry died after the
 Missouri exploded. What’s this?” He looked at
 the cannon with interest. “Perhaps I can lend
   some expertise. I fought in the Civil War.”
  “And deserted, you coward,” said Mattie, who
            was always at his side.
    “Understandably!” roared Twain, rounding
 suddenly. Mattie just glared at him and Twain
  lowered his head, deflated. “It was a horrible
 war,” he said sadly. “All wars are. And I was on
 the wrong side. Why did you remind me? What
branch of hell sent you? I’m beginning to believe
 in Satan. Truth to tell it would be quite a relief
 to have something to believe in besides the evil
 of the human race. Blame it on a higher power.
   How could we, helpless motes, ever contend
            against God or the Devil?”
  “Now you’re getting the picture,” said Mattie
                   dourly.
    “I guess you don’t want to help with the
cannon,” interrupted Peabody, just to keep them
       from yammering, guessed Verity.
      Twain turned round. “What made the
 cannonballs blow up in midair, anyway?” he
asked. “That’s a useful invention. Is it yours? Is
   it too late to get in on the ground floor?”
   “Well, I just put them on a straight timer for
 that. I wasn’t sure the remote that guy sold me
  would work,” said Peabody. “Depends on the
                   atmosphere.”
   “I thought you had the plague,” said Verity.
  “You seem a lot more alert than most of the
                   rafters.”
   Peabody grinned. “As you well know yourself,
    the plague doesn’t make one dim-witted.
 Obviously, I’m devoting all my mental energies
toward getting us to Naw-leens. We just took out
half of the Cairo Air Force. Probably by the time
 they regroup we’ll be out of their range. But we
 need to stay prepared. Later on tonight I’ll run
                   more tests.”
   “I wonder who was flying the other plane,”
                said Verity.
   “Oh, come now,” said Peabody. “Who do you
                   think?”
                     “Eliot?”
     Peabody snorted. “Lovely Linda Lyle.”
  “But they don’t get along at all,” said Verity.
  “They certainly make a good case for that in
  public, don’t they? I had a glimpse of them
 myself, while I was poking round. Early in the
morning. They make a great team. Ought to take
             their act on the road.”
          “On the road?” asked Verity.
    “Never mind,” said Peabody. “Get inside!”
    The storm swept over them, peppering the
 boat with pellets of hail which slashed into the
river; the rattling surge was so loud that speech
  was impossible. Verity did not seek cover but
helped two rafts full of shivering people aboard
and left one dead person in a wigwam. He had a
  hideous injury that she did not want to fully
                     examine.
   In moments the hail had passed. The air was
filled with the stink of smoldering wood mixed
  with the freshness of chilled air. Steam rose
from a dozen small fires as they sputtered out.
        Verity looked out across the river,
   white-pocked by hard rain that fell with a
  strange, hushed sizzle on the water’s brown
surface. She spotted some people waving on the
  far bank, downriver. Probably some of those
  who had abandoned ship during the attack.
  She put some matches in a small waterproof
box and slid it into her pocket. Then, soaked to
 the skin and shivering, she lowered a boat and
pulled hard for the shore. They’d probably have
  to launch from upriver a ways in order to get
back. While the storm passed they could shelter
under one of the towering live oaks, and maybe
  start a fire, if anything was dry. She’d have a
    talk with Jack and Lil later, she promised
  herself, though they were slippery as snakes
 when it came to imparting useful information.
   Or maybe it wouldn’t be useful, she mused,
slowly crossing the muddy, leaping current. She
 wished she’d at least brought a hat to keep the
        rain from dripping into her eyes.
  But it would be pretty damned interesting,
 whatever they had to say. As Russ would say.
       Pretty goddamned interesting.
   She hit mud and the stranded rafters were
       waiting to pull the boat ashore.



             Twenty-three
         Nan in the Moon Blues

Two hours later it was evening. The storm had
passed and the sky was a delicate, washed blue.
Verity paced the deck, impatient to be off.
   The debris had been cleaned up, as best as it
 could be, and those who knew how were trying
  to repair the damage. Peabody and Lil were
    working on trying to stem the progress of
  whatever sort of molecular-level havoc George
  had inflicted on the boat in Cairo. It could be
 that his hastily composed weapon would not be
able to generate enough change, quickly enough,
   to overpower whatever defenses might have
  been built into the Queen. But there would be
tiny, constant breakdowns as each new phase of
            replicators was produced.
   Peabody seemed surprisingly well prepared
for the task of getting the Queen to Norleans. He
 appeared to work on the same level as George.
 Verity wondered seriously about Chicago and
  Peabody’s story. But she was sure that he did
have the plague, and she trusted him to look out
    for their interests. That would have to do.
  But the sky was so blue. The stop was driving
                   her nuts.
    The surrounding countryside was wild and
 forbidding, and swampy as well. An island lay
 between them and the river’s eastern shore, a
       wave of white sand over a mile long,
wind-washed and rising stark above the muddy,
  roiling water. Cottonwoods fringed the shore
     and reeds gave way to high grasses that
   shimmered in the wind below the brilliant
                 white-gold peak.
  There was still at least an hour before sunset.
     In five minutes she was in the johnboat,
pulling hard on the oars. It swirled once, caught
   in a faster stream of water, then sped to a
 crashing halt against a submerged stump ten
                  feet from land.
   She tied up the boat and slid cautiously into
 the water, knee-high and curiously warm, and
struggled against the slippery bottom onto more
solid footing. A flock of birds flashed past, white
  wings reflecting the pink of the lowering sun.
   She picked up a stout dry stick and broke it
 over her knee so that it was only as tall as she,
 and used it to beat the grass in front of her to
 scare off snakes. A heron she had not noticed
startled her by erupting out of a nearby treetop
      and flapping awkwardly downriver.
    Soon she was above the grass and into the
 sand, still warm, and climbed till she reached
the top of the dune. She sank down to rest, sand
   sticking to her wet legs. The river widened
  below the island, assuming a most probably
   deceitful smoothness, a shimmering silver
 southward curve. She absently shredded some
  sweet, aromatic leaves between her fingers.
  After a moment she thought she heard music,
                piano music.
 Of course, it was more of that blues stuff in her
  head and before long she’d be filled with the
 willies about taking so long to get to Norleans.
   What was there? What would they find? She
  had images aplenty by now: wrought iron,
    narrow cobblestone streets, more like a
European city glimpsed in a dry lithograph than
   a sensible foursquare Midwestern town.
 But who was that woman she kept seeing, the
 one with the Bee tattoo on her shoulder? The
              one who had wept?
       The one who had told her to hurry?
   How long ago had that imploring look been
          recorded and sent aloft?
    How many people, over the years, had been
 infected with the Norleans Plague? How many
  had made it all the way downriver? Not only
 that, but one old satellite map, and she had no
  idea of its age, showed Norleans as drowned.
   Where were they heading? Someplace dead,
following a signal that was by now meaningless?
  The music grew louder, chords building to a
   crescendo, then softened into some sweet
old-fashioned tune, the kind Blaze used to play
  before that awful blues stuff filled his head.
   Well, he was gone now. She’d never see him
                    again.
   To ease the tightness in her chest, she stood
  and brushed dried sand off her legs and her
 shoes. This music… this music was different…
         maybe it was not in her head.
  She slogged higher on the sandy ridge, and
some rabbits feeding on the grasses fled before
 her. She thought she saw a deer melt into the
  shadows of a small forest that was revealed
when she got to the top and could see the other
              side of the island.
      The other side was much larger than she
 expected, with a small stand of sycamores and
 live oaks. She looked more carefully, and then
   she saw it—a white frame house in the small
hollow within the trees. Two stories, but still not
      large, with a porch on which sat wicker
 furniture. The house was sparkling white, and
  so were the chairs. She walked closer and the
 music got louder. A woman sang, in a low voice
    oddly rough and soothing at the same time:
      “Miss the Mississippi and you, dear…”
   A woman with long white hair pulled into a
 ponytail that cascaded down her straight back
 looked up from her piano and saw Verity, who
      by now was peering in the window.
     “I’m sorry,” said Verity. “Keep playing.”
   “You near scared me to death,” said the old
woman. She was wearing a neat white shirt and
 pressed khaki shorts and brown boots sturdy
  and clean. She was thin and tan and looked
strong and healthy. Despite her white hair, her
face had few wrinkles. “Who are you? What are
        you doing on Widder’s Island?”
  “We’re just passing by on a boat,” Verity said.
          “I needed to go for a walk.”
     “Oh. Well come and sit a spell then. I’m the
   widder. Widder Jones, they call me. Or they
would if there was anyone else here. I’m not sure
   if I’m really a widder or not, but Frank ain’t
been home now in quite a few years and I’m way
past crying about it—least in the broad daylight.
     Nights, now, that’s the hardest, specially
 considering what happened to him. But I’m too
    old and smart to feel sorry for myself. You
    shouldn’t go tramping around by yourself,
     young lady. You never know what sort of
  roughnecks you might meet round the river.”
 She reached down next to the piano bench and
pulled up a rifle, which she brandished. “Lucky
 I didn’t blow your head off. Come in, come in, I
              don’t have to beg, do I?”
  Verity walked past some peony bushes with fat
  white flowers to the front porch and realized
   that the house was really a raft, sitting on a
foundation of pilings. Ready to float free in high
 water. A hundred questions crowded her mind
 as she climbed the porch stairs and opened the
                  screen door.
  The woman had shrewd blue eyes that looked
   Verity up and down. Quick as a wink she
   grabbed Verity’s hand and turned it palm
upward. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Cincinnati, eh?
   And stranger than that to boot. You been
    washed a far piece from home, my girl.”
   “I’m not really from Cincinnati,” said Verity.
       “Plain as day, you are. Lemonade?”
  “You have lemons?” asked Verity. Lemonade
      was quite the drink in these parts.
   “You sit right there”—she pointed to a wing
  chair upholstered with blue fabric on which
  floated a repeated white mansion—“and I’ll
show you who has lemons.” She left Verity alone
        while she went into the kitchen.
       Verity took in the polished wood, the
lace-covered tables crammed with knickknacks,
the pale, worn Oriental rug on wide boards, and
spied a curious, black cube on a table across the
                      room.
  “Dammit, you stupid thing, I said lemons, not
   limes!” Verity heard from the kitchen, and
           stepped closer to the cube.
  Something about her presence activated it, for
  out from its sides blossomed pictures. A man
   pulled a hefty fish out of the river, waved,
 squinted in the sun, held it up for inspection.
The same man smiled beneath a huge steel arch
 that spanned a city block. Jones was standing
                   next to him.
  “St. Louis,” said the dry voice behind her, and
Verity heard sounds of pouring and the clatter
 of ice. “He’d retired and they called him back.
  Bastards. After all those years in Texas they
called him back. We thought we’d escaped good
  and proper too. Back to our home on the old
      river shore, as the song says. Try it.”
        Verity took a sip. “Good!” she said.
 “It came out limes, but it’s okay,” the lady said.
  “Now watch this.” She tapped the top of the
   cube. “Come on now, you contrary thing.”
    Verity was amazed to see a huge sleek white
 thing gradually separate from the earth, then
   turn to a cone of light above blue ocean. The
     close-up heads of a few people, seen from
behind, bobbed across the bottom of the picture.
“Not many of us there. They weren’t going to let
 me see it but Frank insisted. And he told me to
take pictures too, which was forbidden but how
 would they know anyway? The photopanel was
  in my hat, hidden in the bottom loop of the S.
Last I saw anything of him. Well, drink up, don’t
    let it go to waste. It’s not every day I have
                     company.”
      “He went into… space?” asked Verity.
   The old woman grinned. “That’s right, dear.
 Don’t let anyone tell you different, either. That
was only about forty years ago. Hardly a blink of
  time, if things went the way they planned.”
     “And what did they plan?” asked Verity,
          gulping down her limeade.
  “Well—” Jones sighed. “He wouldn’t tell me.
 Not exactly. I only know that it was big, a long
   project. Something to do with the signal.”
           “The signal?” asked Verity.
   “Land sakes, girl. Where have you been? The
 reason why radio’s such a pisser, for starters.”
      “I thought it was because of a quasar.”
    She laughed. “Well, rumors were running hot
for a long, long time, I suppose. No, it was pretty
   clear that it was a signal, a deliberate signal.
 And he was heading toward the source. I guess
  they really didn’t want anyone to know but he
 told me and I wasn’t even supposed to know of
 course. A long trip. They didn’t know how long.
    I’m all set up here, this was our retirement
place, we come back to the river where we grew
up. I’m thinking that Frank had just this kind of
   thing in mind when he planned it all out. He
 insisted that I have some kind of treatments in
 St. Louis. I guess I don’t look all that wonderful
  but I can recognize myself, despite that young
    technician lady who was sure everybody in
  creation wanted to look just like her, big eyes,
     high cheekbones, blond hair. No reason I
   shouldn’t last as long as Frank if the rabbits
  hold out. Plenty of fish in the river again. The
main question is, will I still want him and will he
                   still want me?”
    She sighed. “Well, I’m babbling on I see. I
wouldn’t mind some company. You’re in a hurry
 though, I bet. I saw your boat out there. It’s a
 beauty. And lands, all that commotion today! I
was hoping that idiot in the plane wouldn’t spot
  my place, I’m under the trees but my panels
 have to be out in the sun. I’ve seen him before,
and some other planes, but sometimes it’s a year
between times. Those aviators like to follow the
river, makes it easy for them. He sure had a bee
                 in his bonnet.”
   “Why don’t you come with us?” Verity said.
         “We’re going to Norleans.”
  “Course you are,” said the woman gently. She
  patted Verity on the shoulder and took her
 empty glass. “You take care. It’ll get dark fast
now that the sun’s gone down. I’ll see you to the
 top of the hill. I bet that boat’s lit up prettier
than St. Louis at night. I might sit up there and
  watch it awhile, if the bugs aren’t too bad.”
    She grabbed a lightstick hanging from the
door and led the way to a path made soft by pine
  needles, and Verity followed her through the
cooling night as the stars came out between the
              boughs of huge trees.
  Jones was walking in front of her and Verity
   asked, “What makes you think I’m from
                Cincinnati?”
  Jones stopped and turned around. “Hold out
your hand.” She held the lightstick over it. “See
  this display below the right index finger?”
  “That greenish circle?” asked Verity. When it
    was displayed, which was fairly often, it
contained an unvarying pattern of red blips that
           were meaningless to her.
    “I wasn’t always an old nut living alone
 playing the piano,” Jones said, her head bent
 over Verity’s hand. “I was an epidemiologist.”
                     “A what?”
  “I studied the distribution of diseases. Plagues
were my specialty. Now, one thing that the First
Wave did was put everybody’s DNA on a display
  for medical reasons. For one thing, it made it
easy to tell whether or not there was a problem,
or if a particular therapy worked. Not everyone
 was happy about it, of course. But all kinds of
other markers are on there too—city of origin, of
 course, right there—see? Cincinnati was ten. I
            remember all the biggies.”
          “I don’t see a ten,” said Verity.
  “That red doohickey there. And no black dots.
Add a black dot and you’d have eleven, Dayton. I
could get a lot more depth out of the display if I
     touched it with a light pen—the sugars
rearrange themselves.” She folded Verity’s hand
   up, patted it, and continued briskly up the
      needle-softened path. Verity followed,
   pondering how little she knew of what had
happened in the past fifty years or so. Although
    Rose probably knew… if she only had the
strength to let Rose into her—to become whole,
 to acknowledge the being hidden within her—
  But no. She shivered, remembering Durancy.
 She’d been too busy to think of him. No doubt
   he’d show up again when she had the least
       strength to resist him… and maybe
        remembering Rose caused certain
 metapheromones to be produced, which might
possibly rouse him, were he living on the boat, in
            some room he rarely left.
      No. She could not allow Rose into her
conscious mind. Even though she was only half a
              person without her.
     As they paused at the top of the dune,
 admiring the way the boat’s lights lay on the
 water in delicate stripes of color, an explosion
                    rang out.
   Light and a whistling sound erupted from an
upper deck, and then far off in the sky there was
 a brilliant explosion. They heard a few distinct,
    distant cheers, a smattering of applause.
 “Good for you!” said the woman, and clapped
Verity on the back. “Teach them to come round
            here dropping bombs.”
     Verity found Jack and Lil in the poolroom.
“Seven in the corner,” said Jack, and Lil laughed
 in derision but Jack pulled back sharply on his
   cue after striking the ball just left of bottom
  center and set an utterly precise sequence of
    events into play which indeed ended as he
                 claimed it would.
 “Pay up,” he said, strolling around to the other
               side of the table.
 Lil said, “I’m going to do something to you but
 that’s not exactly it. I’m afraid it may involve
                   some pain.”
  “I’m sorry to interrupt your fun,” said Verity,
         “but I’m really pretty curious.”
   “No more than we,” said Jack. “We’re pretty
              much in the dark.”
   “Well, I’m a lot more in the dark than you,”
  said Verity. “Who is George? I know why he
  wants me. Why is he after you? And what did
you mean, the Information Wars aren’t over yet.”
There hadn’t been a quiet minute since Cairo. Or
   when there had been, she had been fuming
                   about Blaze.
  “The straight answer is we’re not going to tell
    you,” said Lil. “Jack shouldn’t have said
                     anything.”
  “Then you can just get the hell off this boat,”
said Verity hotly. “You owe us an explanation.”
   “Okay,” said Lil. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go.”
   Jack nodded absently, studying the table.
“Wait a minute. What a setup! That three goes in
          the corner, six in the side…”
 Peabody came in the door, wiping his hands on
 a rag. “Ah, there you are. Been looking all over
   for you, Verity. I thought maybe we should
       discuss our strategy for tomorrow.”
     “Yes,” said Jack. “Good idea.” The balls
    cracked together and Jack nodded with
                 satisfaction.
                “Showoff,” said Lil.
   “It passes the time,” said Jack agreeably. “It
 just gets kind of boring, not having anyone to
        play against.” He winked at Verity.
     “Now it really is time to leave,” said Lil.
     “Verity, it’s been great to know you—”
     “Where are you going?” asked Peabody.
  “I told them to leave,” said Verity. “They won’t
   even tell me why we’re being dive-bombed.”
  “Oh, that,” said Peabody. “I thought you knew.
Jack and Lil—or whatever their names are—are
    secret agents. Or whatever you want to call
them. They probably have some more fancy title
 for themselves that some hierarchy gave them
 in—where is the seat of government now? New
  York? Front Royal? Hard to keep up, isn’t it?
Even when you’re in the government. Or want to
   imagine that it still exists. But if I had to lay
  odds I’d say that they’re nanarchists. When it
         comes round to government and
antigovernment, though, there’s sometimes little
                    distinction.”
  Jack and Lil stared at Peabody. “What do you
         know about it?” asked Jack.
   “Oh,” said Peabody vaguely, “I was on some
committees, in Chicago. We tried to keep up, but
you see, it really didn’t interest us much. In fact,
    Chicago is pretty stable, unlike most of the
Cities. I’d like to think that I had a hand in that.
Kind of medieval, in a way, but it seems to work.
 I had you two pegged soon as I got on the boat.
Well, I admire your spunk. But I think it’s a lost
cause. We’re all going to go down. Just like that
poor George if he’s brainless enough to return at
dawn and avenge Linda Lyle—who is most likely
  fine, except that she has to get home the hard
 way. But you have to go through the motions, I
   guess. Even Chicago has its weaknesses, as I
 know only too well. We’ve been damned lucky.
   It’s as simple as the prevailing winds. If the
 climate changes much more that city could go
   down in a week, blood and chaos and death.
   Big-time.” He gave them his stern look again.
 “We’ve got to get to Norleans, that’s all. That’s
  all that matters. Simplicity is always the best
    approach. I’ve always said that. Solid and
  dependable and everything that really works
shakes down to what’s simple. At least it does in
                      my world.”
   He took a deep, satisfied breath. “Lovely, this
 plague. Absolutely heavenly. I’ve got to hand it
to whoever designed it. I mean, without it, what
    would there be to believe in? Humans are
       meaning machines, that’s all. We can
      manufacture meaning out of thin air.
Sometimes, though, it seems the more you know,
 the less there is to believe in. And that can be a
    very unhappy place. But now I believe in
                  Norleans.”
   “We’re just going through a period of chaos,”
 said Lil uncertainly, as if Peabody had started
an argument to which she had to respond. “But
it’s starting to draw together again. It’s starting
   to organize. It’s predictable. Jack says—tell
them, Jack—there’s a fifty-eight-percent chance
                       that—”
   “Come on, Lil,” said Jack, in a surprisingly
  gentle voice. “If Verity doesn’t want us here
  there are other ways to get down the river.”
 “But I wanted to help them—” said Lil. She had
an oddly concerned look on her face. Odd for Lil,
                   anyway.
     “You can see that we’re not. We’re only
                drawing fire.”
   “George and Linda won’t have any idea that
you’re gone,” said Peabody. “They’re hell-bent on
blowing us to kingdom come. George thinks that
      nan can be stamped out completely.”
  “He doesn’t,” said Verity. “He had some in his
                     house.”
    “George is not as simple as he seems,” said
 Jack. “He’s part of a small group of people who
  want to re-amass nan for their own exclusive
use, fantastic as that sounds. I had a run-in with
him in St. Louis, years ago. They want to stamp
  out all practical knowledge of how it works—
 not that there’s much of that left anyway. Their
      goal is to return the world to complete
   ignorance so they can lord it over everyone.
 George, for instance, wanted Verity because he
    thought she could help him connect all the
     ragtags of nanotechnology he’s collected
 through his pirate ring and turn Cairo into his
       very own Flower City. These groups,
   collectively, have pretty much succeeded in
 suppressing information. All those treaties the
       nations had, back in the early days of
      nanotechnology—they were all for the
 protection of the owners, not for the protection
   of the world from nan. We didn’t need to be
 protected from nan. We needed to be protected
from the humans who wanted to use it in certain
                       ways.”
      “As usual,” said Mattie, standing in the
  doorway, exuding the smell of stale tobacco.
  “But it’s the growth of the military and their
 industry that caused the bad in humans to get
   so magnified out of proportion. Sounds like
that’s what you’re getting at. You ought to read
   Following the Equator. In it I discussed the
 matter in great detail. By 1900 we’d ruined any
    number of foreign countries. Any whiskey
around here?” She stepped inside and started to
          rattle through the cupboards.
   Twain came in behind her. “There you are,
  Peabody. Been looking high and low for you.
 Thought you fell overboard. You said you’d be
    right back. Any whiskey around here?”
    “So we can stay?” asked Lil, surprisingly
                   humble.
 “Please?” Jack added. His eyes were unusually
 serious. “Cast a vote, Verity. Be on our side.”
 Verity looked round at everyone and shrugged.
 “I still don’t know what I’m voting for. But go
  ahead. Stay. I guess it really doesn’t matter
                   either way.”
   “It does,” said Jack. “It matters more than
                    anything.”
  “Oh, come now,” said Twain, having poured
himself a glass of whiskey. “What could matter
 more than a game of pool? Except, perhaps,
   billiards. You any good?” he asked Jack.
 “He thinks so,” said Lil, handing Twain her cue
  stick. “I hope you beat the crap out of him.”


                     9
                  Memphis



              Twenty-four
            Revolution Blues

Here come some more of those infernal engines
of war,” growled Twain around the cigar
clamped between his teeth.
   Verity turned to look behind them, upriver,
   but Twain said, “No, straight ahead,” and
 pointed. He lifted the speaking tube, held it to
      his mouth, and bellowed “Peabody!”
 Verity whisked the binoculars from their hook
and focussed them with a touch. She was chilled
  by what she saw, and had to clear her throat
       twice before she was able to speak.
       “Those aren’t planes,” she managed.
  “Let me see.” He took off his glasses and held
the binoculars up to his eyes. He snorted. “They
       look like nothing more than bees.”
       “That’s what they are,” said Verity.
          “Then why are they so large?”
   “Because they’re more than bees,” she said.
    Peabody entered the cabin, huffing from
 having run up the steps. “What is it this time?”
  Twain pointed. “Thought they were a fleet of
   those aeroplanes. But they’re only bees.”
 Peabody took a look through the binoculars. “I
 thought so, but of course you can’t be sure of
              much these days.”
          “Thought what?” asked Verity.
    “Thought that perhaps Memphis was still
  viable. We picked up a radio signal but that
    means nothing. Not a signifier in itself. I
 wonder…” He raised the binoculars again and
stared. “Too far to see a trademark of course. At
  one time Memphis contracted with Midwest
  Information Systems for their Bees. The MIS
  Bees were not fully tested and approved but
               they were cheap.”
     “Tested and approved by whom?” asked
                    Verity.
      Peabody continued to stare through the
  binoculars as he spoke. “There was a Federal
  Agency—a United States Government Agency
        called the Federal Communication
Commission—responsible for thoroughly testing
      the Bees. They and the Food and Drug
Administration fought over jurisdiction, but the
 FCC won. Had a whole battery of tests they put
    any Bee proposal through. Parity had to be
  statistically impeccable, that is, with as little
distortion as possible from message to message.
  Of course when you get into this bionan stuff
  you have evolution pure and simple and there
     had to be all sorts of guards and failsafes
     against the evolution of information into
   something other than what it started out as.
Legally, only a one-Bee link—called a BL, bell, of
 course—was allowed, when sending any sort of
 business or legal or technical information. One
  bell meant the highest standard of reliability.
For anything where precision was required, you
had to take the information from one source and
deliver it directly to the receiver. If you stored it
 at an interim point then it became two bells or
 more. Four or five bells was deemed acceptable
                 for certain types of
information—advertisements, for example. That
  cost a lot less, and was still pretty reliable. It
  was just not guaranteed. Storage temperature
was another important factor. There’s a certain
 range in which the e. coli is happy and the DNA
               does not deteriorate.”
    Twain was steering and ringing bells and
 occupied with sandbars and snags. He glanced
  over at them every once in a while and made
contributions such as, “Unbelievable,” and “The
      devil’s work,” and, “If only I’d had an
 opportunity to invest in these creatures.” The
   rest of the time he turned the air blue with
curses which were magnitudes beyond any that
    Russ had favored them with at his most
   creative. He seemed to be enjoying himself
                    immensely.
   “So there’s something not right about these
              Bees?” asked Verity.
    “Probably a lot of things, by this time. Once
  they take over a city, it’s doomed. Of course,
they all evolve in different ways, but in the end
 it just means a ruined, sick place. If you know
how you can slip any kind of message into their
                   directions.”
     “But they could be put on the right track
   again, too, couldn’t they?” asked Verity.
  “My, you are young,” said Peabody. “Who’s to
  decide what that might be? It would take a
 formidable AI to see that far ahead, anyway.”
 “But if the basis is well thought out,” said Lil,
behind them, “you can restore a City to health.
                 Let me look.”
      Peabody handed over the binoculars.
                “Toxic,” she said.
        “How can you tell?” asked Verity.
                   “It’s my job.”
 “Oh, really?” asked Peabody with undisguised
                   sarcasm.
 “Really,” said Lil calmly. “Closest I can tell you
 is that it’s as intuitive as reading a thousand
slides to find one diseased cell. When you see it
    you know it. Okay. Look. Every physical
characteristic is meaningful. See the set of the
 antenna? See how the forelegs have one extra
                       joint?”
           “Bad juju?” asked Peabody.
                    “Exactly.”
                Peabody snorted.
  “But how are they bad?” asked Verity. “What
  do they do? Are there any people in there?”
    “Sure there are,” said Lil. “Poor things.”
    “They probably don’t feel that way,” said
                    Peabody.
           “Probably not,” Lil agreed.
      “So can we help them?” asked Verity.
   Lil looked at her with a trace of pity in her
    eyes. “No, we can’t. That’s not our job.”
        “That’s not your job,” said Verity.
  “There’s nothing to be done. It’s self-limiting.
 What do you want to do—raze the place? Our
information sources tell us that they release no
         plagues to the atmosphere.”
 Jack was standing next to her. “Those sources
  are pretty old, Lil. And they have a lot of…
           negativity… to release.”
    Lil frowned. “As I recall, the reports were
    rather ambiguous. But we do know that
  something unsavory is going on there. It’s a
      Class-Six City. That’s not too good.”
   “What is Cincinnati?” asked Verity. “Class
                    Six?”
  “No,” said Lil. “Cincinnati was a Class-Three
City. It was very different from Memphis. Much
   more sophisticated, in a variety of ways.”
 “Chicago is Class-One,” said Peabody. “A-one.”
“True,” said Lil. “And completely neutral in the
              Information Wars.”
 “With defenses as good as can be devised,” said
                   Peabody.
  “Yeah,” said Lil. “Just put that feel-good stuff
                in the water…”
    “We do nothing of the sort,” said Peabody.
   “Human contentment is actually possible,
     believe it or not. You’d do well to study
                     Chicago.”
  “We sent some people to do just that,” said Lil.
     “They didn’t want to leave once they got
                    there.”
   “That’s right,” said Lil. “They were rendered
  completely useless. Some of our best people.
                     Disabled.”
     Peabody smiled. “They became content.”
       Lil frowned. “They became selfish.”
     Peabody countered, “They learned what
                happiness is.”
    “Their minds turned to shit!” Lil shouted.
   “It’s all in how you look at it,” said Peabody,
                     unruffled.
   “What I’d like to know is, are we going to stop
in Memphis and take on supplies?” asked Twain.
   “No!” said Peabody and Lil at the same time.
        “Absolutely not,” added Peabody.
 “Under no circumstances do we stop,” said Lil.
  “Memphis used to be a pretty hot town,” said
          Twain rather wistfully.
  “It’s a pretty hot town now,” said Peabody. “It
        would fry you in a city minute.”
       Late that afternoon the river turned
 shimmering silver and then varying shades of
 pink, orange, and gold. Twilight lingered long.
   Twain grumbled about not being able to stop
  in Memphis, but showed no signs of possible
                   mutiny.
   After dinner Verity went for a stroll on the
deck. If only Blaze were here, things would be as
   near-perfect as they could be, considering
                   everything.
      The air was pure and sweet as the sky
  darkened. And as they came around a broad
 curve her eyes met a felicity of lights, pale and
   high in the gray dusk. Verity was glad that
Twain was piloting. She raised binoculars to her
  eyes and scanned the river for the island the
 latest charts showed across a narrow channel
 from the city. But it was not there. Mud Island
had apparently been swept away, washed down
                   to the gulf.
   Memphis itself was on the Fourth Chicasaw
Bluff and that, apparently, had survived. But at
    the expense of much of Memphis, for the
   channel broadened like a lake and parted,
drifting round to the east. It looked as if it had
flooded and cut away the foundation of most of
 the great skyscrapers. They appeared to have
 fallen slowly, and a few were still leaning into
  the river, ready to fall, tomorrow or in fifty
years, onto the glinting mountain of debris that
   Verity had to climb to the top deck to see.
  She picked out four bridges, rising one after
another but vanishing midway into thick forest
   on the Arkansas side, finishing half their
journey above land. The riverbank had silted in
                 on that side.
     The current freshened. The first bridge lit
 against twilight, throwing intersecting lines of
 gold, blue, and red across the river. The lights
  showed that the bridge had sustained a great
      deal of damage, for it was comprised of
   disconnected angles that pedestrians would
   have had trouble ascending, not to mention
vehicles. Its bed shot almost straight toward the
sky in one or two places. But a portion had been
cleared from the river and perhaps the channel
  kept dredged—by the Rural Network? Green
   lights began blinking atop black buoys just
      below the bridge, showing the channel.
  A glint of silver on shore caught Verity’s eyes
and she swung the binoculars round, focussed,
then focussed again, to make sure that she was
                  seeing clearly.
   It was bizarre. A gargantuan silver pyramid
  rose from the shore, hundreds of feet high. A
 huge, calm eye stared out from the very point.
Curiouser and curiouser. Memphis, she recalled,
  was an Egyptian name, as was Cairo. But… a
 pyramid? She would have laughed out loud if it
   were not for the fear she had at traversing so
close to what Lil insisted was an unsavory place.
 She swallowed hard. What could be worse than
 Cincinnati? She picked out a Bee settling down
  among the streets before it became too dark to
 see. It was tiny but she could tell that was what
            it was by the way it moved.
       She dropped her binoculars, took deep
breaths, tried to loosen her chest from the tight
    feeling of being trapped, trapped with her
 sisters in the great, golden hive. It was over. It
could not happen again. She was free, out on the
  river, more free than she had ever been in her
     life! The hateful Bell was gone, no longer
   compelling her. No matter that she had the
     plague. The plague called her to glorious
  Nawlins, where life would begin anew, where
 she would have her child… She closed her eyes
   to bask in those visions with which she had
   become so familiar, as if she were returning
  home instead of going somewhere she’d never
                        been.
   A blast of sound scared the bejesus out of her.
   “THIS IS S-T-A-X, YOUR MEMPHIS BLUES
SOURCE,” a soft, rich female voice said. “For the
 revolution!” Then followed the usual sounds of
  whining static. “Drat!” she heard, and realized
 that she was outside Peabody’s window. Then a
 steady bass and drumbeat overcame the static,
and a man sang, “I’m gonna put a spell on you…”
  The lights of the city were breathtaking; stars
     against the starry night. The river was
narrowing; they had no choice but to go through
the cut in the bridge and trust there were more
 beyond, and as well lit, for Lil had insisted on
shooting past and getting downriver despite the
hour, and anchoring below. “We’re just a target
 if we stop here for the night,” she said grimly.
  Verity opened her eyes and took another look.
        The bridge loomed almost overhead,
  breathtakingly huge. The wharf bustled with
 activity, even more so than Cairo’s. It appeared
  that people were dancing. Yes, that must be a
  band up on that low stage. A woman and two
  men played guitars, and another woman sang.
 There seemed to be horns. The powerful thrash
 of the paddlewheel precluded hearing any of it.
People jostled Verity on both sides as the crowd
at the railings swelled. A single red light blinked
      high atop a fragile-looking metal tower.
   “TURN OFF THE LIGHTS,” hollered Twain
  urgently. “I CAN’T SEE A DAMNED THING
           WITH THE LIGHTS ON!”
      Verity hurried toward the pilothouse;
   evidently Twain didn’t know that he could
        control all the lights from there.
   Then there was horrible rending sound and
 the paddlewheel mechanism groaned to a halt.
The boat shook. A jangle of bells and curses rang
   out from the pilothouse. The Queen swung
sideways in the current. They had collided with
                   something.
    A raft! Fragments of it flew up over the boat
  and crashed onto the upper deck, and planks
    littered the water. A ragged portion of wet
 taupe-colored wigwam was plastered to one of
the hurricane deck staterooms. Horrified, Verity
   rushed to the back to see if anyone could be
                     rescued.
   In the light that still shone from the windows,
  she saw below on the river a man holding to a
 scrap of wood, which was rushing away in the
 current. He held another man fast, faceup, one
strong arm flung across his chest, and there was
     his face—Blaze’s face! unmistakable and
  chillingly without awareness as the two were
 swept through the patch of light and then into
         the darkness of the surging river.
  “Help me!” she yelled, ran down to the boiler
deck and struggled to let down the johnboat. As
  she climbed down into it Lil leaned over the
                    railing.
       “Don’t you go into Memphis, Verity!”
  “It was Blaze!” she shouted over her shoulder.
  “I don’t care if it was God Almighty, you stay
   out of that city. Do you hear me, Verity?”
   Lil’s voice grew faint. Verity caught the oars
   and pulled in the direction of the current,
 hoping to overtake them before it was too late.
  Though she was still a hundred yards out, she
 spotted the man who had Blaze in his grip. His
 head bobbed up right next to the high concrete
  wharf which rose from the water, a massive,
 seamless balustrade, blotched with great pale
green and red stains which were illuminated by
overhanging lights. She hoped that the man still
  held Blaze. His tiny head moved at a fast clip
  downriver. Verity was afraid he would smash
  into the wharf but then she saw his arm rise
from the water and grab at something and then
 she saw the narrow flight of steps cut into the
                       wall.
     Yes! He rolled a limp body onto the steps,
pulled himself up, flung Blaze over his shoulder
like a sack of grain and hurried up the stairs, at
 an amazing speed considering his burden and
                     his swim.
    “Hey,” she yelled constantly as she rowed
 closer, struggling against an eddy which kept
pushing her back toward the middle of the river.
 “STOP! I’M BLAZE’S FRIEND! I’LL TAKE YOU
              TO THE BOAT!”
   Her shouts echoed back to her from the wall,
but apparently he did not hear, or did not want
to. He gained the top and vanished; she couldn’t
see beyond the edge and she was still about fifty
                    feet out.
   Verity pulled hard on her oars. She had to get
 to the wharf upriver from the steps. If she was
  swept past she couldn’t go round again; she’d
  just have to watch sharp for her next chance.
   She pulled closer—closer— finding that the
   current slowed helpfully at this point—and
  stood to grab the rusted bar embedded in the
   wall next to the steps. As she reached, a log
rammed her boat and she fell backward onto the
    seat, smashing her leg and arm. The river
 grabbed the boat again and sent it racing away.
   Cursing as fiercely as Twain, she scrambled
 back onto the seat and took up the oars again.
  Tears of frustration coursed down her face.
  There had to be another way to get in! There
                   had to be!
    And finally, there it was. Only a few blocks
 past the first place, but better, a concrete arm
 reaching out into the river like a broad scoop,
forming a harbor place large enough for eight or
  ten small boats. A few were tied up, and the
 place even had lights. She let the current push
  her into the tiny harbor, delicately using her
oars to maneuver herself into a slip. In the boats
  she saw fishing rods and nets. These people
         couldn’t be too bad, could they?
   It was quieter in this part of the City. She
  heard no sounds of revelry. She wished she
 knew what Lil knew about it. To darkly warn
against something without explaining it was not
  much of a deterrent. Lil had warned against
   Cairo, and Lil had been right, though she
suspected that if Jack and Lil, or whatever their
   names were, had not been on the boat the
       debacle would not have occurred.
     She feared Bees. She feared them past all
 reason. If they wanted to, they could probably
  latch hold of her somehow and imprison her
                  here forever.
  Who was that man who was carrying Blaze?
  Why wasn’t Blaze on the train? Why had he
                 returned?
    No matter. Joy leaped in her heart. He had
   come back, and that was all that mattered.
       Now she had to go in and find him.
         The shadowed concrete steps were
moss-covered and Verity slipped on them in her
 haste. Their dank smell enveloped and followed
her onto the landing above and she realized that
  it was the smell of Memphis, entire. Victim of
   the river but still surviving as best it could,
   hazed with evening mist. The gold and blue
lights of the bridge glowed through the mist like
                 dense close stars.
  Around her were unlit alleys and a street down
which she glimpsed old, sagging mansions. She
 saw someone on one of the porches, saw a dark
figure rise and say, “Miss, don’t go that way, it’s
dangerous, hear?” But she ran from him, toward
 the lights of the dancing wharf, where Blaze’s
     music blared like a new way of being.
  The concrete of the landing was cracked; lined
     with great gouts of weeds over which she
tripped; littered with broken glass. The verge of
   the crowd was sudden, as if there was some
 invisible line, presumably that of the overhead
  lights, which delineated its border. She drew
  closer, wondering if they would be hostile or
   friendly, these dancers to the strong, harsh
    rhythm of powerful guitars and horns. She
slowed as a cramp stitched her side, took a deep
breath of the odd-scented air of evening, glanced
 out at the river where the Queen had anchored,
   in Lil’s danger zone. She gasped more of the
      dank river air, in it intertwined other
  smells—beer, tobacco smoke, the sweat of the
    dance, and another scent unknown to her.
    Before her, the crowd ceased to be dancing
people, but merely moving shapes of color which
lacked intent, and then even their colors faded.
A part of her noticed this and thought it strange,
 and another part was deeply frightened as her
   vision transmuted. But most of her simply
  watched as she stood unmoving, and then it
passed. An energetic burst of horns, backed by a
powerful drumbeat, pulled her in as she caught
 the rhythm of the dancers and slipped into the
                      crowd.
  This was the place where the man had carried
Blaze. He had to be in there somewhere. She was
  enveloped by dancing, smiling people. Their
eyes were filled with joy and odd purpose, and a
few looked at her as if trying to pass important
 information to her through the air, with their
  eyes, but she did not understand what that
might be. Warnings mingled with looks of alarm
            and oddly serious faces.
  Most of the people were black, brown, golden,
 a tremendous variety of dark, burnished hues.
She was swept into their grace but resisted their
    dance, which took on sudden changes that
passed through the crowd like wind flattening a
      field of grass. They moved their arms in
 cadence, shook their hips, danced forward and
    then back. She passed through a circle of
  dancers as they shouted, raised their arms as
 one, danced back, and then she passed out the
 other side. The music, which invaded the air as
   thoroughly as wind or rain, had a deep, full
texture of pain and longing and redemption that
     she’d never heard before when Blaze was
                  playing the blues.
                 Where was he?
  She began to feel frantic. She would never find
him in this melee. She broke into a run, shouting
 his name, pushing between people who didn’t
   even seem to notice her, until one man said,
    “The dance is all,” grabbed her waist, and
caught her in their rhythm. She stepped lightly
  with him without thinking, as if born to it.
 “Dance! Yes! Do it with us. Join us. Help us.”
    And he kissed her, full on the mouth.
  His hands on hers, his mouth, his presence…
part of her awoke and realize that this was joy,
but a desperate joy, coupled with the fierceness
  of warriors. She stopped and stared at him.
 “What is it?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
 But he did not hear, and was absorbed by the
              crowd in an instant.
   Verity felt tremendous despair. More of what
   Blaze wanted. Everything here. Had he not
found what he wanted on the train? If not, it was
 here, then, the essence of what he was looking
  for: life with a mission, blues so deep he’d fall
 into them and if she wanted him to leave she’d
              be the traitor, the enemy.
    She stood still for a moment, trying to will
   information out of the dancers, out of their
 shouts, their wild yet informed motion. Dance
was a message, and always a message, she knew
 this deep in her being. What was the message,
here? She turned to look behind her. The texture
of the crowd thinned for a moment, and she saw
                  it, with a jolt.
           The huge unearthly pyramid.
  It glowed silver against the dark river. No one
 was near it, not within a hundred yards. She’d
made her way through the crowd and was out
              the other side.
 The pyramid was hypnotic. It almost… pulsed.
 Could she hear another music coming from it,
one of high voices? Or was a it a low, brooding
tone, almost beneath hearing, but vibrating in
   her bones? Dirgelike. It brought to mind
pictures of Dante’s Purgatory she’d seen in one
        of the books John approved of.
   She thought a whispery voice laughed in her
  ear but there was no one near. She tilted her
   head. Nothing. Nothing but the blues. She
 stepped closer, in order to hear better. Maybe
 here was information about Memphis. Maybe
  she could access the city, the way she’d been
 able to access Cincinnati, and everyone in it if
   she wished, just by touching an interstice.
Interstices, filled with the fluid that translated
         metapheromones, must be here.
 The air smelled sweet, not of the river, not the
overwhelming smell of liquor, behind her, but a
     pleasant one, like flowers. Flowers…
 Her vision blurred, and she blinked, and a gust
  of wind blew the smell of flowers from her.
  Ahead of her, from behind one corner of the
         pyramid, a man stepped out.
    In the faint silvery light emitted by the
pyramid, she saw his bald head shine. He was
 dressed completely in black. His shoulders
sloped downward. She seemed unable to move,
          as if she was in a dream.
  She expected him to approach, but instead he
turned and walked toward the river. He arrived
 at a bench not far from her, sat, and stared out
                  at the water.
 In the shadow of the pyramid, as Verity’s eyes
adjusted to the darkness beyond, she saw Bees.
  They were resting, having apparently sunk to
 the ground at sundown. Without the sun they
                 could not see.
  The surface of the pyramid appeared to be in
motion. She heard a warning shout behind her,
from one of the dancers, but took another step
                     closer.
   She saw a face, and then another. Faces, like
 silvery holographic images, flowed upward in
  lines toward the great eye at the top. It was
  fascinating and frightful. The faces were all
          different, and all distressed.
  “Don’t worry,” she heard clearly from the man
  on the bench, who spoke without turning his
head. His voice was harsh, low, whispery. “You’ll
 be a part of this eventually. Everything will. In
 the last instant, you’ll thank me. You rowed in
 from the boat. Not many visitors here. Not like
   before. Used to have half the air force under
    me.” He nodded toward the pyramid, then
  turned on the bench and looked at Verity, his
   eyes like two dark pits. He waved one hand
 toward the dancers. “Even them. They’ll thank
   me too. Brave souls. I can’t help but admire
 them. But…” He shrugged, and turned back to
 watch the water. “Takes all my will to stay and
                  finish things.”
   Verity was able, then, to back away, and to
 run. She thought she saw him rise and follow
     her, slowly, as if speed didn’t matter.
  She plunged back into the crowd. She’d never
 felt so terrified in her life, not even within the
  depths of the hive at Cincinnati. And she was
   not even sure what she was afraid of. Just
  darkness. Just… nothing. She could feel it all
around, like a hand wanting to choke the life out
                       of her.
  And then it was swept away, that nothing, by
            the joy of the dancers.
   But she soon realized that she couldn’t stay
hidden within them, where it seemed safe. She’d
 have to venture into the streets that edged the
  wharf. She pushed through and through the
 crowd and never saw Blaze. He might be there.
          She might have missed him.
         Or he could have gone into town.
    A steady night breeze washed the cloying
  humid air from the wharf. She made it to the
 edge of the crowd and was relieved to see that
         the crowd didn’t actually end.
    In front of her was a narrow, brick-paved
street. Neon signs vied with one another above
  dark doorways. The mass of dancers flowed
 down the streets, drinking and hollering and
having a good time. The air was filled with the
clash of many bands. Apparently each club had
                    their own.
      She pushed her way down the street.
   These buildings did indeed have interstices,
like Cincinnati. One pulsed next to the doorway,
                   neon green.
  If she were in Cincinnati, she could touch an
     interstice and receive a wide variety of
 information. Such as where to find a man of a
   certain description. She could send him a
message, had he receptors with which to access
     the interstices. Blaze had no receptors.
  Hers were covered by gloves. Were the gloves
 permeable? She could feel through them; they
  were weightless; so thin that she completely
    forgot they were there most of the time.
Metapheromones were manufactured by them,
but did that mean that her receptors would not
        work here? She didn’t think so.
   However, Memphis was a different system
    than Cincinnati. Each Flower City was
individual. But maybe it was learnable. Maybe
    she would be automatically initiated…
                 But maybe not.
  As she stood there, a dancer smashed into her
from behind, pushing her toward the interstice.
Without thinking, she held up one hand to break
       her fall, and it met the interstice.
  As when she had been exposed to the strange
  scent on the border of the crowd, her vision
                    altered.
   She could not make sense of what she was
 seeing. All was shapes and colors, like in the
 visions of Modern Art she’d had when in the
 Dayton Library. She leaned against the brick
 wall breathing deeply, hoping that this would
                     pass.
  Slowly, her vision resolved. But she felt a deep
 inner tremor, as if she’d just wakened without
              having slept enough.
  Well, now she knew that the interstices didn’t
                    work!
  She was dizzy. She had to concentrate to walk
  down the street. Next to her she heard a soft
               voice say, “Wait.”
   She turned toward the voice and was startled
  to see a face on a door. It was a living face, the
 face of a black woman with many braids falling
across her face. Next to her face was a picture of
a radio tower, emanating lightning bolts. Below
   the picture of the tower the door said STAX,
         Radio Energy for the Revolution!
   Verity stepped closer, soothed, reminded of
   how Sphere had mastered Cincinnati and
         appeared in this way to her.
       “Who are you?” she managed to ask.
   “I’m the Shadow Woman. I play the blues. For
the revolution. For the world. For life. Stay away
  from Clean Mind. He’d love a tasty tidbit like
 you. He’s following you. Go back to your boat.”
  “How did you—I can’t,” said Verity. “I have to
        find—” But the face vanished.
   Verity stood there for a minute. She tried to
open the door but it was locked. She didn’t have
 time to fool with the Shadow Woman or Clean
Mind or anyone. An open door next to her blared
          music. Blaze’s kind of place.
   She pushed her way inside the bar. It was
 uncomfortably hot. The overwhelmingly loud
music was almost physical, like a wall. The room
  was tiny, but as stuffed with people as the
                     wharf.
   She climbed onto a table to get a better view,
 standing carefully as it was not well-balanced,
trying not to step on plates and ashtrays. No one
  seemed to notice or care, not even those using
                    the table.
 She studied every corner of the dimly lit room,
noting uncomfortably the ever-present bee motif
  repeated and glowing on the walls, a kind of
 wallpaper. The small table tipped a bit as she
 stepped back toward the chair she’d used as a
  stepstool. The two men sitting at the table
 grabbed their beers simultaneously without
 turning away from the stage, where a heavy
 black man hollered indecipherable words. A
hand grabbed Verity’s own and steadied her as
              she crouched down.
  “The truth will set you free,” the man holding
 her hand said, close to her ear. Her hand flared
  with unpleasant sensation. Darkness flowed
into her from his touch, dimming her vision and
                    her heart.
  She looked down into black, fathomless eyes.
She wondered how his voice could be so clear in
            all this blaring noise.
    “Your receptors have been initiated now.
 Every little bit helps spread the truth. But you
   don’t have to stay out here. Please join the
 others; join us; our cause. Come with me to the
                    pyramid—”
   She jerked her hand away in horror, slipped
   on the wet table, and fell. The table toppled
 sideways. The man pushed backward through
                    the crowd.
    The two men sitting at the table jumped up
 and grabbed her in an instant, before she even
   reached the floor, and set her on her feet as
smoothly as if it were all part of an act. The man
 holding Verity’s arm said, “Shit, how did he get
in here?” and Verity followed the man’s gaze and
 saw the bald-headed man disappearing out the
                   doorway.
     A great shout erupted, and the bar rapidly
  emptied. She heard cries of “Get him! Kill the
   bastard!” But they all seemed rather distant.
 Even the musicians jumped off the stage to give
 chase, so that soon the place was empty, though
it still vibrated with sounds from the other sides
                   of both walls.
    Verity sat down slowly in a chair. The room
  spun around her. She felt dizzy, as if she were
falling. And sick, very sick. She vomited onto the
    floor. She couldn’t help it. Couldn’t be the
   pregnancy, she thought dimly. That was all
 adjusted for. It was the lights, their brightness,
 their garish colors. Their awful, invading colors
  were giving her a headache. She took a sip of
 beer to clear her mouth. Maybe someone would
 come along to clean things up. She really didn’t
                       care.
  She looked at her right hand, which he’d held.
 His touch had been a jolt of utterly sickening
  feelings which rushed through her. Horrific
     images, of war and death and pain. The
 accumulated horror of what being human had
 meant to millions caught in the countless wars
that plagued the planet. She knew this, clearly,
and knew she was meant to know this. This was
  a vast, painful, truth, impossible for any one
person to fully bear. This man indeed thought of
        himself as a truth-giver. A hero.
 There was a little spotlight above her table and
 she set her hand, palm up, in the center of the
               spot on the table.
  It was turning blue. But maybe that was just
  the light. It had to be the light. Living flesh
                 didn’t get so blue.
         She put her left hand next to it.
  It was pale, her own color. But then it slowly
          started to turn blue as well.
  She clenched both hands tightly. Where were
all the people? The room spun away from her. It
was really a very big room. The walls were so far
                      away.
  People started trudging back in, quiet, their
 faces grim. One woman dropped into the seat
 next to her. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I’ve
   never seen him so bold. Have you, Circle?”
  A man with a spiral tattooed on his cheekbone
  below his eye shook his head. “Snuck right in
 here. Took a big chance. He must have thought
  you were really something,” he said to Verity.
“He always hangs out with his Bees. Stays away
  from us at night. We rule the night. The blues
  rule the night. The Bees can’t see at night. We
 take it all back, then. Where are you from? Not
                  from Memphis.”
     “From the boat,” suggested the woman.
   Their conversation seemed more and more
  distant to Verity. The woman’s eyes looked
  upside down. Her long braids twisted like
snakes. Verity looked down at her hands again
  and they were gray. “I’m… looking… for…
someone,” she said. Her voice sounded funny to
        her. The band started up again.
 The woman shouted in her ear. “We have to get
you back to your boat,” she said. “He won’t dare
    come back here tonight. But you should
        leave—the sooner the better.”
    “No!” shouted Verity and much more quickly
   than she thought she could she rose and ran
 through the bar, slipping between the dancers,
  then was out the door, onto the street, hiding
around a corner, then continuing down an alley.
  She staggered and the dimly shining bricks of
the pavement reeled up to meet her. She slowly
  got to her feet and knew that her palms were
 torn and bleeding but it didn’t seem to matter.
  She stood stock-still in the alley. She became
   aware of a large eye in her field of vision.
  Yes. It was the All-Seeing Eye. Like at the top
                 of the pyramid.
  Then a new band struck up, in the street at the
    end of the alley. The music retrieved her,
somehow, struck clear through her and focussed
 her thoughts. She was sheeted with dampness;
 mist from the river; sweat from the hot summer
                     night.
 “Blaze,” she whispered. “Got to find you.” She
  walked unevenly, for there was something
wrong with her legs. Or maybe her balance. She
 had to concentrate. She couldn’t forget. She
seemed to be forgetting, and the neon signs on
  the street she found at the end of the alley
 weren’t brilliantly colored, like those on the
 other street. This street was in tones of gray,
white, and black. It was strange. But the music
was loud, and for a moment, the Eye vanished.



               Twenty-five
              Memphis Blues

I woke to a paroxysm of coughing and dreadful,
burning pain in my throat and nose and
pounding on my chest and then I was thrashing
round and black water just then water was
black the color of death poured from my mouth
and I was sick, sick, sick.
     There were brilliant lights and colors and
   pulsing music all round me and I lay on hard
    wet concrete, soaked, shivering, and buck
  naked. Faces pressed round me and I thought,
  second time dead and no angels this time but
  perhaps there was one, before, and there was
    one this time too, and his name was James.
    “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously. I
 noticed incongruously that his hair was much
 longer than on the train—it grows, I thought…
 To stop those strangers staring at me I nodded
and forced my voice past the burning and it set
 me to coughing again. “Yes,” I whispered, and
 vigorously nodded as water and drool spewed
     from me. Drowning is an awful mess.
   Music pounded in the air. The feet around me
resumed dancing. We were in a circle of rhythm.
  I began to breathe easier, though it still hurt.
  James helped me sit up. “Wait here,” he said,
 “I’ll try and find you some clothes.” He looked
 around fearfully. “There are too many people,”
 he muttered, “it’s a hundred times worse than
 Cairo,” then set his jaw and wove through the
dancers and was gone and I hoped he could find
his way back. No one paid much attention to me,
   naked as I was. Maybe they were just being
polite. The smell of whiskey was heavy in the air
     and it dawned on me. I was in Memphis.
 Not the home of the blues, no. The home of the
  blues was down on the Delta, the hottest,
        meanest place this side of hell.
  But the blues had come to live here, and made
     themselves quite comfortable indeed.
   Alma’s potion tossed out more facts for me, as
if my mind was a river shore just aching to snag
         whatever floated downstream.
      W. C. Handy had written “Memphis Blues”
      here, and earned himself the somewhat
    exaggerated moniker “Father of the Blues.”
  Robert Church, a onetime slave, bought up all
 the real estate he could grab after Memphis lost
its city charter because most of the city had died
of cholera and malaria. He brought the city back
to life and became a millionaire. Riley King from
   Itta Benna, Mississippi, metamorphosed into
     Blues Boy and sold the mildly inebriating
     Pepticon over WDIA and played the blues
between commercials. Sam Phillips started Stax
  Records, which helped the crossover to white
    audiences, and got a lot of black performers
    started. The inclusion of a white boy named
  Elvis puzzled me, but Alma’s potion told me he
  was one of the bridges taking the blues from a
  black audience to white, and that he was deep
into the blues, imitating the very best nuance for
                      nuance.
 The river night was hot, steamy, and loud. And
       this was the blues, playing now.
   I stood up, forgetting my nakedness. No one
cared so why should I? They were stark raving
 mad so I could walk around stark naked. The
night was hot, and sweat replaced river water. I
  dimly remembered the wreck, when the boat
plowed into us, waking me, the crunch of wood,
 the flight through the air and the hardness of
  the water, which stunned me. I remembered
hearing James’s frantic shouts at the same time
  I was tossed. I wondered if it had been the
Queen; we’d seen only one other boat, a shadow
     the previous night, heading upriver.
 If it was, then Verity would still be downriver
                whenever we left.
                   If we left…
   For Alma’s blues history flowered deliciously
in my brain even more fully as I listened with a
  faculty that was deeper than mere listening.
  There was nothing but the sweaty night, and
  that massive sound that cut me to ribbons. I
 even recognized the style of how he pulled the
    notes out low and throbbing—the voice—
        “Muddy Waters!” I shouted. I was
               overwhelmed.
 I imagined his guitar in my hands, long smooth
  neck held low, trying to fathom the mastery
 with which he pulled sound and emotion from
the guitar, echoing what he felt inside. So alive;
              so raw and powerful.
   James broke through the crowd and thrust
  some clothes at me. “Here. Get dressed,” he
 shouted over the blare of the music. “Hurry.
   Then let’s get out of here. I don’t think we
   should stay.” Over his shoulder, above the
 bobbing heads of the crowd, I saw something
bizarre: the glittering point of a huge pyramid.
  Well, I’d seen stranger things in Cincinnati.
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” I shouted back,
 overriding the pain in my chest. “Didn’t I tell
   you that this is where I wanted to go? Why
 didn’t you wake me up when you saw it? This
has got to be Memphis, unless I died and heaven
 is real. And I know it’s not. Let’s go find some
                    cigarettes.”
   I’m sure he felt horrified and he diligently
 tried to express this with a frown. Since he’d
     been off the train he’d been practicing
         applicable facial expressions.
 “Come on,” I said. “They can’t hurt us.” While I
spoke I was pulling on some black leather pants
  a little too tight for me and struggling to zip
them up. I pulled on a black T-shirt and pushed
  barefoot through the crowd. “Thanks for the
                       clothes.”
   “You don’t understand,” he said breathlessly
as we reached the fringe of the wharf where the
  music wasn’t quite as loud. “I—I think there’s
  something very strange about this place.” He
took a deep breath. He frowned harder. “There’s
 too much isopentyl acetate for State 18946 and
 yet that’s the one we must be in since I find no
 closer parity…” He muttered on in this fashion
 at my side as I walked on, peered down a street
 of colored jewels, flashing in various rhythms,
   proclaiming performers and other services.
  “Beale Street,” I breathed, as excited as if I’d
     stumbled into heaven, neuron pawn/sex
 magic/seven swinging elvi/memphis minnie, I
 managed to pick out as the signs vied with one
    another, a fantastic, glittery overlay in
                continuous flux.
     “Oh, glory,” I muttered. Where to begin?
  I pushed past James and I admit that I did feel
   a twinge of trepidation when I noticed that
     intermingled with all the big signs were
innumerable tiny Bees—not real flying ones but
      Bee signifiers, as if to remind everyone
 constantly… Closeup, I could see that even the
   letters of one of the signs were composed of
                  pixel-like Bees.
     I continued regardless. I’d made it out of
   Cincinnati, hadn’t I? Not through your own
efforts, a little voice reminded me, but I told it to
                        shut up.
  The streets were brick and the buildings were
only a few stories high. Music issued from every
  door. I soaked it up. It exploded in my mind.
Who needed heaven? This was enough! The night
 reeled around me. I ignored the dazed looks in
        the eyes of the people around me.
   I paused at a door with a picture of a metal
 tower on it. Lightning bolts, or radio waves, or
   something, issued from the top. Below the
               picture a sign said,
                        STAX
                 BLUES FOR LIFE
 I pounded on the door, which was locked. “Let
me in!” I yelled. I set up quite a din. James tried
 to pull me away but I wouldn’t budge. Finally
     someone tapped me on the shoulder.
  “You can’t get in there,” a man told me. “Only
the Shadow Woman gets in there. I only heard of
her. Never seen her. She plays old blues records
  for broadcast. For the revolution. I hear tell
       sometimes the broadcast works.”
        “It does! I want to see her!” I said.
     He smiled. “You’re not the only one.” He
           vanished into the crowd.
 I imagined the Shadow Woman with reverence.
I pounded some more, to no avail. And finally I
 couldn’t resist. I succumbed to my immediate
surroundings and entered the next open door.
       A wave of sound almost floored me.
    The entire audience was black, as were the
  performers. The air was filled with a sweet,
maddening scent and oh, the ecstasy it induced.
Bees, whispered something from the back of my
mind which I easily ignored. I floated into blues
   heaven and slow-dragged and clapped and
  yelled and drank the innumerable cold and
 delicious beers pressed into my waiting hand.
    There was that powerful blues feeling of
suffering in the air, a feeling that only the music
was holding back the chaos of utter despair and
 endless night. Blues was the life raft, the only
     positive energy, the only light. And that
dichotomy gave it overwhelming power. It was
 religious, just as religious as anything Mother
Ann thought up. It was pure and holy, like light,
      on the side of good. On the side of life.
     After a while James pulled me out of the
  crowd. He was very strong. Out in the street,
 which still held heat, but where my ears rang in
the sudden cessation of blaring sound, he looked
at me sternly and I marveled in my drunkenness
  at how quickly he was changing… growing…
 “Had enough?” he asked. “You’ve been in there
  for hours. The metas here seem to be held in
 abeyance, somehow. They’re all around, in the
        air. But—I touched a few of these
    people—actually, I couldn’t help it; it’s so
crowded. And it’s very curious. Their… how can
 I put this? Their state of being doesn’t reflect
      what they should, given these metas.”
     “What are you talking about?” I asked.
  “Extremely precise states of mind are endemic
     to Flower Cities. It’s something that we
   bypassed in the domes. We took a different
    route. The states of mind are precise and
 repeatable because of metapheromones. These
people should be in an entirely different state of
mind, given the metapheromones being pumped
into this place… best I can figure, it’s some kind
         of war. They’re the resistance.”
 “That’s ridiculous!” I said. “This isn’t a war. It’s
a party! Besides, I don’t have anything to worry
 about. Those things don’t affect me. I’m just a
hundred-per-cent-normal human being. It does
have its advantages.” Except for Alma’s blues…
  He stared at me with his bland blue eyes and I
 could tell he was trying to summon something
   from his memory banks, or whatever he had
 inside. Finally he just looked resigned. “Maybe
 some exercise would help,” he said. He took my
arm and walked me down Beale Street. I wanted
 to go more slowly but he kept pulling me along
      when I stopped to peer into doorways.
  “I’m fine,” I protested. “Right as rain.” But he
   kept on walking and I said, “Where are we
                      going?”
  “Where I can think,” he said, and I found that
funny and began to laugh and he just pulled me
 on more quickly, yanking me to my feet when I
                   stumbled.
  “I always gave Masa coffee when she got like
   this,” he muttered. “Where’s the coffee?”
    The streets quickly gave way to a stretch of
chain fences and warehouses and concrete for a
 few blocks. James stopped and turned around.
  “There seems to be someone following us,” he
                      said.
 I turned and saw a shadowy figure about five
 blocks behind us, very far, on the edge of the
 music district. He was stumbling and weaving
about. Then he keeled over. “He’s not following
us,” I said. “He’s just drunk.” Then I saw a sign
 up ahead. “Maybe there’s coffee there,” I said,
though I hoped it was another blues bar. But as
we got closer I saw that it said instead national
               civil rights museum.
  Something flicked into my mind. The Lorraine
  Motel. A man had been killed here. What did
  that have to do with the blues? Why was it in
 Alma’s curriculum? “Let’s look in here,” I said.
   “At least it’s quiet,” said James. He followed
                        me in.
  It was cold inside and there was no one there.
  No one alive. But it was full of ghosts. James
  took a deep breath. “This is better,” he said.
                  “Much better.”
   Once again, this time in front of me instead of
 inside of me: the history of black slavery in the
United States. The Declaration of Independence
  and the Constitution, documents from the old
United States of America. I read the highlighted
words again, marveling at how my ancestors had
deliberately chosen to not apply those fine ideas
  to black people. The South grew rich on their
  misery. I saw on a map the flowering of huge
  plantations, the very bricks of their mansions
made and stacked by humans who had no choice
but to labor at whatever task was set for them. I
   saw the University of Virginia being built by
  slave labor. I stood in a circle on the floor and
     found myself in a line of slaves, with the
overseer cracking his whip, the rough feel of the
    hoe in my hand. I even felt exhausted and
utterly hopeless and wondered how the museum
  accomplished that. Then it changed from the
year 1820 to 1920 and I was a prisoner, hefting a
great ax straight overhead as did my immediate
 neighbors and we brought them straight down
 on a great log that was in front of us and as the
    chips flew our holler seemed to shake the
ground, the lead man singing first, the rest of us
          overlapping on the downstroke:
       Well, it’s early in the morn
             In the mornin
       Baby, when I rise,
             Lordy, Mama
       It’s I have a misery,
             Berta
       Well-ah, in my right side…
   Bottle Eye, Little Red, Tangle Eye, and Hard
   Hair sang this with me and when we were
    through the huge live oak crashed over. I
 stepped out of the circle and the hallucination
vanished. It was just a simulation of a Parchman
 Farm worksong, but even that was frightening
for it contained the awful aura of that infamous
prison plantation, run at a profit by the State of
   Mississippi for so many years, providing so
 much fodder for blues songs, filled with people
unfairly imprisoned. And if they had committed
  crimes, the sentences far outweighed what a
   white man would get for the same offense.
   The pleasant beer buzz receded and soon I was
painfully stone cold sober. I saw Clyde Kennard,
      a black Army Paratrooper who served in
      Germany and Korea, apply to Mississippi
  Southern. He’d already completed two years of
      college at the University of Chicago, but
     returned to Mississippi to care for his sick
   stepfather. His application was turned down,
     but although he refused legal aid from the
       NAACP, to which he belonged, he wrote
   reasoned letters to the newspapers about the
situation. Within a month, an all-white jury took
      ten minutes to convict him of a frame-up
accusation of stealing $25 worth of chicken feed
from a warehouse, a felony that would deny him
entry to any state university, and which carried
  a seven-year hard labor sentence to Parchman
   Farm. Even after he had a cancerous growth
removed and lost forty pounds, he was sent back
 to the fields and denied further medical care by
    Parchman officials. In spring of 1963 he was
   pardoned by a new governor to avoid further
   bad publicity, but died two months later. His
was just one story out of thousands. Generations
 of blacks kept poor and uneducated, brutalized
without recourse to law, lynched and raped and
 scorned, twisted up inside me as disbelief grew.
These were Americans? The callousness of these
                people shook me.
   I probably watched ten times the schoolgirls
walking brave and scared down the gauntlet of
  soldiers with full-grown white men jeering at
 them. All they wanted to do was go to school! I
    don’t know how many times I would have
  watched the terrified, innocent faces of those
girls and contrasted them with the twisted evil
  surrounding them but James pulled me away
and wiped my tears as I imagined he had wiped
             Masa’s countless times.
     “Maybe this is worse than the blues,” he
         whispered. “Let’s go back.”
   “This is why there is the blues,” I whispered
 back. I saw how unworthy I was of Alma’s gift.
        The music of these people, the music
 graciously granted life by their captors because
   it helped keep the slaves plowing the fields,
  picking the cotton, building the levees, laying
 the tracks, doing the laundry, had risen up and
    conquered the nation. It washed away the
    remnants of strict-metered well-mannered
 European songs in a great flood of syncopation,
   blue notes, bent notes, and irrepressible life,
leaving the world awash in its spawn—the blues,
  jazz, and rock and roll. I saw that too, colorful
   streams of music surrounding a holographic
    globe. I could touch one part of it and see a
     Coltrane concert in Japan, after a mob of
cheering fans engulfed his plane on the runway,
 causing him to wonder what celebrity was on
  the plane. I touched another and saw Louis
 Armstrong at Versailles, treated like royalty.
       I saw how they had claimed their civil
 rights—boldly, at last, with loss of life, fighting
 hard for every bloody inch. I saw how even the
  white Freedom Riders had been murdered, as
    was Martin Luther King, Jr., in this very
 building, a holy spot for that. A shrine, where I
stood, undeserving, in America’s burning center,
    at the heart of the rift which divided the
   country with untruth and bad faith and the
 infliction of generations of hell upon an entire
                      people.
 I stumbled from it at last, hours after entering,
 dazed and numb. I headed back toward Beale
Street, and James did not try and stop me. Fog
 eddied knee-deep in the streets and I hurried
  back toward the lights and noise and liquor.
   They met my anguish with open arms and
hugged me tightly to them, and it was back into
 a café where I ate barbecue and hush puppies
 and cole slaw and drank beer and felt the low,
  hot pulse of blues louder than thunder in my
  very bones. I got to dancing and carrying on
 again as a huge black woman stood up on the
               stage and belted out:
       Once I led the life of a millionaire—
  There was a break in the music, after her. The
  band left the stage unguarded from me, as it
                      were.
  I took one step and then another and the third
 and fourth steps had me standing on the stage.
  Alone, and a shining red guitar stood waiting
next to me on a stand. I felt right at home. There
were drums, and another guitar, which I ignored
     in the face of this glory. So lovely, fender
stratocaster flowed across the red guitar in gold
       script and the knobs looked gold too.
   It was like water in the desert. How had this
wonderful juxtaposition of events, this apex of
all my desires, occurred? Something in the club
sensed the yearning within me? I don’t know; it
               was a magical night.
      “What yo’ name?” someone yelled out.
  “Blaze,” I yelled back, slightly startled at the
   way my voice was magnified and echoed.
     “For his hair,” I translated to myself as one
   woman said to the man next to her, “Foh his
hay-ah.” They all talked that way, the blacks and
     the few whites, softening every word that
    crossed their lips. It occurred to me that of
course, my whole life had been leading up to this
   moment, even my being named for a physical
 characteristic, my bright red hair, by long-dead
    Sister Serena. Half Ear, Whining Boy, their
      names whispered through me and I felt
 privileged and pushed back the louder whisper
  that said white boy what do you know of those
 blues. Unlike the old blues-men, though, I had
 no idea what my given name was, and I never
                     would.
   I reverently plucked the guitar from the stand
   and looped the strap over my neck. I brought
  one hand toward the shining steel strings and
  was rewarded by an ear-piercing whine; some
  instinct made me reach for the knobs and that
fixed it. There was a pedal at my foot and I knew
               what that was for too.
   I didn’t need my calluses with this magical
 instrument. I tore into “Drowning Man Blues”
with fierce intensity and the audience whooped
                  and clapped:
       Rollin and tumblin
       River’s got me in her grip
       Rollin and tumblin
       River’s got me in her grip
       Like to wash me down to New Orleans
       If I take a slip
   They yelled back, go white boy, go. My fingers
     went wild. The bass player and drummer
   returned from their break and took up their
   places again, sliding in naturally behind me
    without missing a beat, grounding me. The
 fellow whose guitar I assumed I played sat at a
table and drank, unperturbed. A blues came into
       my head and it was “Big Bee Blues”:
       Now you big Bees of Memphis
       You think that you’re the king
       Well fly on down to New Orleans
       And burn your evil wings
      Then James was pulling me off the stage.
“You’re really stupid,” he said, and I kept hold of
    the guitar as the leads popped out and that
  horrible screaming whine commenced again. I
   heard a commotion behind me. “I need more
 whiskey,” I said. “Let go of me.” I yanked away
too stoned to pay much attention to the fact that
 the old plaster crown molding running around
the ceiling flashed with menacing red-light bees.
   “Fucking parasites!” I yelled, infused with a
powerful new vocabulary. I had no choice but to
  stumble after James; he was stronger than me
  anyway and stone-cold sober. I kept a grip on
 the guitar. It was mine, meant for me, made for
 me. It had met its destiny. I caught a glimpse of
 the owner sitting in a whirlwind of commotion,
    sipping whiskey, as I flew past, and he just
 raised his glass and gave me a nod. I figured it
  wasn’t too hard to come across such things in
   Memphis. It sure as hell would be anywhere
           else. I clutched it to my chest.
    We tumbled onto the street where mist was
 flowing downhill like a river and the sky was
   graying with dawn. “They’re going to be up
  soon,” he said. “We have to get out of here.”
     “I’m not afraid of no fucking Bees,” I said
 belligerently, marvelously empowered by beer,
        whiskey, and God knows what else.
   “I am,” he said. “You’re just too stupid to be
                     afraid.”
  I mulled that over for about a second, and cut
   down a back alley to the right, carrying my
 lovely trophy, angry at James for spoiling my
fun. And it was more than fun. It was some vast
fulfillment, a tremendous awakening. I felt like
 worshiping the damned Bees! They’d kept the
                   Blues alive!
         Then I stumbled right into one.
  I was surprised. I always thought they spent
 their time cruising above, flying menacingly
 overhead. Not that I knew a whole lot about
them, I realized, my mouth fuzzy and my head
               beginning to ache.
  It was about as tall as I, but longer. It danced
  back, startled, I guess, and appraised me. It
  reached out a shiny black leg and I jumped
                      back.
  I guess my foreignness, or something, startled
 it. It backed off. I did not like its looks. There
 was nothing felicitous about it, nothing fuzzy
and round like your normal bumblebee. It was
   thin, more like a wasp, and parts of it were
metallic, or something like, because it had to be
pretty light in order to fly. I took in the strange
  insignia tattooed between its eyes—a snake.
Now why would a bee want a picture of a snake
on its head I wondered crazily. Beneath it was
some writing too small to read and as soon as I
 thought this it enlarged and it said Nan Is All,
 Surrender. Then it reached for me again and I
smelled that smell and held my breath and ran.
  All sorts of thoughts bubbled through my mind
     as I flew back down that alley. For one, I
  decided that the Bees had nothing to do with
  keeping the blues alive. For another, how big,
really, was Memphis? Just a few blocks of blues
 mayhem? I could see more buildings at the end
  of the dank, shadowy alley and glancing up I
    could see what I’d missed the night before,
   towering, dreadfully high buildings, all with
their interstices glowing dully, without color, as
 the night turned to day, and behind them was
  the massive tumbled carcass of another and I
 thought I saw water lapping the building as it
lay at that extreme angle but wasn’t sure for the
                       mist.
    My footsteps echoed in the empty alley, and I
thought I could hear the scritch of that monster
behind me. I don’t know what I thought, nothing
      rational, it was just big and alien and
  frightening. I did not know what it wanted of
me. I suddenly knew that I didn’t want the blues
 forever, not if I had to stay in Memphis to have
   them. Above me, I saw a few Bees in the gray
                        sky.
 Oh, the dawn was sweet as I burst out onto the
wharf, its cover of fog silver and rose. Within the
     fog, coming from the wilderness around
 Memphis, was a tone too deep to hear, though I
could feel it whirring in my bones. The river was
 swift and to my joy I saw, through rifts in the
fog, the Queen, waiting above the ruined bridge.
            A breeze shredded the fog.
  The Bees appeared to be massing above me.
 And a big circle of them were dancing on the
  wharf. Yes, dancing, their circle tight and
   probably about forty feet in diameter.
    The wharf was littered with bottles, which
were being gathered by some sort of low round
 things like turtles that scuttled about; I had to
  take care not to trip over them. People lay on
   the concrete as if dead and the turtles went
carefully around them, feeding the bottles into
holes on their backs. The Bees were between me
  and the boat; I’d have to make a large detour
  and hope that I didn’t attract their attention.
  Just at that moment, something in their dance
dictated a backward move. Their circle enlarged
     and I could see through to the middle.
                Verity was there.
  I called out her name and she turned, slowly.
 But she didn’t seem to recognize me. I hurried
  toward her; the Bees did not pause in their
    steps. I was apparently nothing to them.
  I stopped outside the circle, about fifteen feet
from her. She looked at me blankly, then looked
            back at one of the Bees.
   The guitar was slowing me down. I stooped
  and laid it on the concrete. Then something
     caught my eye, something that had been
   invisible in the gray fog, but that assumed
    looming form as the sun gained strength.
  The pyramid, massive and overwhelming. It
 was constructed of panels, and in the panels
were faces, ever-changing faces, rushing upward
   toward that terrible eye, each filled with
  anguish. I knew that they were the faces of
 people trapped inside, without even thinking
                    about it.
  I glanced at it for only a second before looking
back at the Bees. Now that it was lighter, I could
   see that they were covered with all sorts of
    words and runes, some of them skulls and
    crossbones and some of them less easy to
 understand. Verity cast a long shadow across
     the concrete, as did the Bees, as the sun
           suddenly flooded the wharf.
            They resumed their dance.
      I was mesmerized for a moment. Their
movements were graceful, fantastically so. Their
 rear ends moved in a syncopated waggle. They
  would back up and then go forward and each
      time they were a bit closer to Verity.
  She cried out and ran for a gap between two of
 them but they just danced closer and closed it
  and reached out to touch her. She stumbled
           back, clearly exhausted.
   “How did you get here?” I yelled. The Bees
 bowed on their knees as if one and it gave me
                 the creeps.
 She gazed dully at me but did not speak. She
 moaned and rubbed her hands together as if
            they were in pain.
     I took a step back, grabbed that Fender
 Stratocaster by the neck and ran toward that
  circle holding it straight up over my head.
                   Screaming.
 I bashed one of the Bees on its tail and it began
 to ponderously turn and I ran round its other
side, smashing the Bee next to it. “Run,” I yelled
 at Verity and she ran out through the gap. The
       circle moved, capturing me within.
 I was terrified. I laid into one of them with the
guitar, just whacked him straight on the head,
   distantly surprised that the guitar did not
break. The Bee staggered back and I was happy
to see that they could be hurt. But I wasn’t fast
           enough to make it through.
    They were no longer surprised. Their eyes
 fixed on me, they began emitting some sort of
  sweet smell. I tried not to breathe. The Bees
 approached to claim me, I knew not what for.
 Beyond them the pyramid flashed with faces,
  faster and faster, a blur, streaming upward
toward that apex, that ghastly eye. In my daze I
noticed that one of the tall buildings beyond had
   those symbols all over them, the skull and
  crossbones, the snake. I knew them for blues
   signs, and wondered if their very presence
                 fought this eye.
 The blues started running through my head, a
 musing, deep voice singing, and I sang along,
 loud as I could, taking deep breaths of that
     tainted air, and saw the Bees pause.
 Then Jack was there, somehow, brandishing a
gun, shooting at them and hollering to beat the
 band. He dropped one, then another while I
         stared, completely amazed.
  “Well, come on,” he shouted. “We don’t have all
   day.” I heard Lil yelling from somewhere I
 couldn’t see, “Jack, get back to the boat! Don’t
 you know what will happen if they get hold of
                      you?”
   I ran around the downed Bees and I knew that
the others were pursuing me. I didn’t know how
 fast they could run. I heard the scritch of their
  legs, the whirr and buzz of their wings as they
 took flight, their ominous shadows chasing my
  own. Jack had hold of Verity and they dashed
   south along the wharf as if they knew where
   they were going. I looked back and hollered,
“James! James!,” but there was no sign of him. I
stopped. “I have to go back,” I yelled, surprised
at myself. The Bees hovered over me. I stood up
  straighter, despite my deep fear. What could
 they do? A deep, dim memory awoke… plenty.
 Relief washed through me as James shot out of
 an alley, sprinting like lightning, and woke me
  from that dream. He’d be good on a baseball
     team. If we ever got out of this mess…
  We dashed down a long flight of steps and into
a waiting boat. The five of us almost capsized it.
Jack told Lil to cast off and kept his gun trained
upward. One Bee swooped close and Jack fired.
  The Bee crashed onto the steps and bumped
 toward us and splashed into the water where
  our boat had been as Lil pushed us off with a
                  mighty heave.
  As the boat swept into the river, the sky over
 Memphis was black with Bees. Lil said tersely,
“Jack, if they had gotten you, it would have been
                all over. All over.”
             “I know,” he said calmly.
    “I can’t believe you risked it all like that.”
   “Believe it,” said Jack, still holding his gun
          while Lil pulled on the oars.
  I shivered and held my Stratocaster tighter,
and James, panting, looked at me with what was
                surely disgust.



                  Twenty-six
               Evil Eye Blues

A sharp tattoo of shots stuttered from the
general direction of the Queen as Lil pulled out
onto the river, and several Bees plummeted into
the water, swirling to the surface downstream.
   “Peabody sure was busy in Cairo,” said Jack.
 “He collected a regular arsenal. Isn’t that some
         kind of antique machine gun?”
    “Wouldn’t know,” said Lil through gritted
  teeth as she pulled back on the oars with her
entire weight. “Kind of convenient how you have
to keep watch with that gun while I row, isn’t it,
                      Jack?”
 “Here, take it and I’ll switch with you,” he said,
                instantly contrite.
    “You’ll swamp us,” she said, pulling again.
   “You make a terrific martyr,” said Jack. “I
   mean it, Lil. The best. I never would have
suspected. It’s good enough to synthesize…” He
picked off two Bees which were swooping down
                    on them.
        “Shut up, Jack. I’m warning you.”
   The Queen let out a deep, mighty tone that
  shook the air and the paddlewheel began to
                     turn.
  Verity saw all this as if from a great distance.
It did not really matter. The day seemed kind of
 pretty but really there was blackness inside of
         it. The river, the trees, the boat, the
 people—everything she saw was just a disguise
     for a whole lot of nothing. Inside all of the
    particles which made it up. Before, she had
      thought that there was light inside those
particles but she knew now that it was not true.
Inside everything was so much nothingness that
   it could not be comprehended. There was no
  reason for these people to be trying to protect
 them from the Bees. Or from anything else. But
 there was no reason to try and stop them from
                    doing it, either.
   The young man squeezed next to her on the
 seat put his arm around her and kept hugging
her tighter and tighter while he said things like
are you all right, I’m sorry, don’t worry, I won’t
leave again, but it was kind of a nuisance to be
             jarred around like that.
  The only thing was her hands hurt and she
turned them palm up. They were covered with
something and she tried to pry it off but it was
                   stuck.
   Verity, what are you doing? asked the man
 who was hugging her and she stopped tugging
    and just watched pale pink lines streak
  crookedly up her arms and then turn red.
   The small boat lurched in heavy waves. The
riverboat was coming toward them fast. On the
     shore was that enormous, bright pyramid,
 catching the sun’s light, so bright but she knew
  it was filled with a horrible kind of blackness
    that could spew out into the air through the
    All-Seeing Eye, once it had distilled enough
 energy from human misery. The All-Seeing Eye
  was part of what used to be on the dollar bill.
   The All-Seeing Eye had looked around a long
 time ago and thought to itself, We need to have
  these slaves to do our work for free so we can
      have big, fat dollar bills. So thought the
   All-Seeing Eye. It thought these things in the
    name of Freedom and Democracy and, even
 better, in the Name of Jesus Christ. They could
 tell the slaves about Jesus and that would be a
   good thing. It would help the slaves, because
  before that they didn’t know about Jesus and
heaven. It could even remember that that’s what
  the Spanish did, teach the Indians Spanish so
that they would know about Jesus Christ before
 they were slaughtered. Life on earth was short
and brutal, but that was all right for they’d have
their reward in heaven. The All-Seeing Eye saw,
   like the Popes had, how this type of thinking
   helped everything move along better. People
  were much more content with wretchedness,
 and you didn’t have to share things with them.
    You could take it all for yourself. Later, the
All-Seeing Eye created all sorts of tools of death
     and destruction, like bombs and chemicals
    which poisoned, slowly or quickly; diseases
  incredibly deadly; and even later all kinds of
     wonderfully complex nan weapons of an
unprecedented variety and cunning deadliness.
 These weapons would help the pure and noble
 philosophy of democracy, which the All-Seeing
   Eye pretended to believe in, to be foisted on
  people who did not much care for it because
they had their own way of thinking. It was hard
   for the All-Seeing Eye when people thought
  differently, and tried to take control of their
 own lives, but there were all sorts of remedies
for that. The nice thing about it was that all the
remedies—the guns, the drugs, the diseases, the
      nan, all so cunningly conceived and so
   vigorously pushed upon the world— helped
    fatten the All-Seeing Eye with more of the
               energy of nothingness.
   She could help that nothingness spew out of
the All-Seeing Eye. It would be released into the
 atmosphere and she could even see how long it
  would take to swirl everywhere: to fall as soft
 rain over Paris; to freeze solid on the edge of a
glacier in Nepal and rush that summer into the
  rivers of China, to work itself into the water
   table of draughted Western North America.
  The beauty of it was that once this happened
no one would ever care about anything again. In
 the face of the blackness, the nothingness, the
  destructive power amassed and invented by
humans and all of the emotions that went into it
(which, when you took into account that the way
  the All-Seeing Eye got so big and fat was from
people paying for all this black nothingness, was
  quite a lot, more than just about anything else
 there ever was), there was no way to care about
      anything at all. Humans would finally
  disappear, leaving room for what would come
 next, whatever that might be. Giant brains that
  knew better. Intelligent gases now confined to
  vacuum tubes. Creatures without DNA. There
 were forces against the All-Seeing Eye, but they
could not stand against this, the awesome power
                within the pyramid.
   Why are you crying? asked the man next to
her. His beard was red. Look the boat is coming
 and I won’t leave again. We’re going to be all
 right. I can’t believe you went in there. I just
                  can’t believe it.
   Three Bees swooped all at once toward them,
in the shadow of the great boat. Verity shook off
 the man’s arm and stood to meet them and held
  up her hands which were burning burning. In
 them was information which could help release
   the nothingness. If she did that everything
    would stop hurting. TAKE ME she heard
         someone shout and it was her.
  The boat capsized as Jack leaped for her and
          they were all in the drink.
   Nobody ever listens to me, complained the
  black woman swimming next to her as they
                    surfaced.
       Verity lay sick with the sickness of the
All-Seeing Eye in one of the staterooms. She told
 them about it and about what the Eye could do
  and how she wanted to help and people stood
  around her bed looking grim. The woman Lil
brought her all kinds of nothing stuff to eat and
she woke up once to Lil poking a needle into her
but she still kept telling them about the Eye and
 all that it was made out of and all that it could
                         do.
      Her mind was filled with images of the
 wonderfully subtle weaponry of nan. It was so
beautiful because people had spent a lot of time
    thinking about every little detail. These
  weapons were among the most clever things
  ever thought up by human beings. Tiny, tiny
    gears that could be just about anywhere.
   Molecular interfaces which changed shape
 easily when the right interlocking atom clump
came along. Things which could lie in wait until
     awakened with the message from a tiny
   collection of precisely oriented molecules.
       Mark Twain and the girl who Verity
recognized as embodying the older Twain, who
  had long ago recognized the essence of the
All-Seeing Eye and had tried, too late in life, to
become a force against it, now came and sat at
 the side of her bed and argued about it. They
 were always arguing. Verity knew that at one
  time this would have irritated her but now it
   was part of the nothing and it was quite all
right. It went in one ear and out the other. She
knew it did because Lil came in and said stop it
now, it doesn’t matter to her, it just goes in one
  ear and out the other but the Twains paid no
 attention to Lil. This was no surprise, because
            she said no one ever did.
  The bright nothing sun glowed golden. Verity
 lay there bathed in it. Some of that music was
playing from very far away and she once would
   have disliked it but now its tunes were not
 mournful or depressing or insulting, not even
 the Evil Woman Blues. They all made sense, it
  was all true. They should all jump off of tall
 buildings on Stormy Monday but why bother?
  Sam Clemens sat in a straight-backed chair on
  one side of her bed and Mark Twain sat in an
identical chair on the opposite side. It was easy
   to see why they talked across her as if she
weren’t there, because of course it didn’t matter
    whether she was or wasn’t there. Lil kept
 talking about her baby who she had to live for
 but it was a shame to bring a baby into all this
                   nothingness.
    “You travel around the world as much as I
  have and you’ll see that imperialism is what’s
ruining the country. It’s going to ruin the world,
  mark my words. Countries taking over other
 countries all in the name of some fine ideal but
  at the bottom of it all is greed, the greed of
countries,” said Mark Twain. “I’ve written lots
about it but Livy’s afraid for me to publish it or
    say it in lectures, at least not flat-out.”
    “You’re coming along,” said Mattie. “Making
   some progress. But after a few more whirls
 you’ll realize that humanity is destroying itself.
 It can’t help it. And good riddance.” She sat up
straighter and cleared her throat, and her voice
  became more gruff. “ ‘Two or three centuries
    from now it will be recognized that all the
competent killers are Christians; then the pagan
 world will go to school with the Christian—not
 to acquire his religion, but his guns.’ I said that
           in The Mysterious Stranger.”
   That’s right, thought Verity. I’m with her. The
   sun touched the riot of Mattie’s tight brown
curls to a blazing, tawny lion’s aureole. Her face
    had thinned out and her eyes looked much
larger above her high cheekbones. They had fire
     in them. She had taken to wearing white
  clothing so bright that it hurt Verity’s eyes to
 see the dress she had on today, lit as it was by
                      the sun.
   “Well, all that plays fine in lectures, I’ll grant
you,” said Twain. “I’ve been having great success
    with lectures. I’ve mastered the form. I’ve
  mastered the audience. Sometimes it seems to
 me as if I’m the happiest man alive. My house is
 the loveliest, the richest, the swankest house in
the swankest, most air-putting-on neighborhood
 in Concord. Olivia Langdon believed my pledge
 to stop drinking but I’ve won her over now and
she has a beer and bitters before bed and allows
me whiskey before breakfast. The boy died”—his
face grew sad—“but I have three of the loveliest,
      smartest little girls you’d ever want to
  see—they’re miles more clever than any of the
              girls they play with.”
  Mattie’s face hardened. “And you tried to keep
them little girls forever. You made Clara suffer—
  I made Clara suffer, because I didn’t think it
         ladylike to be a concert singer.”
 Twain roared with laughter. “No daughter of
mine would even consider singing on the stage!
  Next thing you know she’d be dancing the
                  cancan.”
  “I’m trying to help you, you idiot!” returned
Mattie. “You have another chance. You can wake
              up. You can reform.”
 “Reform? I’ve been reforming my entire life, I’ll
 have you know. I don’t know how many times
            I’ve taken the pledge.”
         “You’re misunderstanding me.”
             “It’s easy enough to do.”
  Verity understood that they were both a lot of
   nothing. Neither of them was real. But they
  thought they were real and that was all that
   mattered to them. She herself was not real,
either. All her thoughts and memories of herself
     were simply fortuitous constructions.
“Fortuitous” meant “accidental” and they were,
  just a grand accident. Beneath them all was
               nothing. Why worry?
   She noticed for a moment that the room was
   sky-blue and she felt sorry for Lil, who had
 insisted on this particular room. It didn’t make
   any difference to her, color. Not like it had
     before. She was completely reborn into
blackness. For moments at a time it even seemed
  to her as if she wasn’t seeing colors anymore,
 but that they were gradually fading. Then they
would return again. It was an interesting effect.
   Mattie slumped in her chair and a funny look
 crossed her face. She sighed deeply and said to
Twain, “Hadn’t you better go back and see to the
 boat? I’m not sure if Peabody is the best pilot.”
      “Good Lord, no! I only meant to pay my
  respects and you enticed me into this absurd
 argument.” Twain jumped out of his chair and
strode from the room. He could stride very well
  for a man only about as tall as herself, Verity
                    thought.
  Lil came back and bent over Verity. Her eyes
                were troubled.
  “What’s wrong with her?” asked Mattie, and
Verity heard a young girl’s voice, not the harsh,
   acerbic tones she affected when she was
       Clemens. “What’s wrong with me?”
 Verity, propped up on a pillow, saw and heard
 everything. Not that it made any difference.
 Lil slid back into a large, soft chaise. The floral
 pattern was green for a moment then faded to
     shades of gray. Verity would have been
  frightened except for the lack of meaning in
everything. The cherry trim, polished like glass,
was a graceful furl of dark roses and leaves, and
          still caught the light as before.
    Lil patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit
next to me, Mattie,” and Mattie looked almost as
if she might cry as she slipped in next to Lil and
  Lil put one arm around Mattie’s shoulders as
         she nestled close, like a little girl.
    “I miss my mom and dad,” she whispered.
  “I know,” said Lil. “Do you want to go back?”
     “I can’t,” said Mattie. “They’ll kill me. Not
 them, but the people in Elysia. I’ve seen them
kill before. They like to do it in public. It’s like a
  big party. It’s all a dream, anyway, isn’t it?”
  “What do you mean?” asked Lil, looking at the
             side of Mattie’s face.
       “This Mark Twain dream. It’s kind of
  like—kind of like a dream the whole country
    used to have, isn’t it? When it used to be a
 country? Almost like he dreamed thoughts into
them and made them laugh but I’m not sure they
 understood how angry he really was. There was
    that—” Her smooth forehead wrinkled a bit.
   “—that Darwin, and Twain believed him and
  thought religion was absurd, and God, and all
that. But in Elysia they’re still like the people he
  made fun of. And that was so long ago. I guess
   it’s hard for people to understand. How little
    they matter. That there’s no one big to help
     them. There’s no one to help me.” Her eyes
 flashed for a moment. “And that’s fine with me.
    But I’m not sure if it’s a dream to the person
who just left, the Mark Twain. I feel so sorry for
 him. I’m not sure if he ever wakes up, like I do.
                      Does he?”
  “I don’t know,” mused Lil. The look on her face
 was thoughtful. “It’s against the law to create
  people like that. The process started out as a
black-market enhancement for actors. But a lot
   of people thought it would be nice to have a
different body, a different mind-set, for a limited
     time. So for a while, that was all the rage.
   Unfortunately, these Twains are essentially
   slaves. It’s quite tragic. The creators booked
   them on tours and made money off of them.
    Quite a to-do, at one point, about bringing
people like them to justice. But that the creators
    are long gone, so the Twains have no legal
   recourse. Not that there’s any legal network
         anymore… it’s all local rule now.”
     “So he’s stuck in his dream,” said Mattie,
sadly. “I feel sorry for him. Even though it seems
 like such a complete kind of dream. No matter
   what happens, he makes it all a part of his
dream. I wish I could help him wake up. There’s
nothing wrong with dreams, if you wake up. My
 mother dreams. She goes out and has visions.
Sometimes she tells me about them. Sometimes
she doesn’t. She has visions of the country, she
 says. But she wakes up. She knows who she is.
   I’m afraid that I won’t, one of these times.”
    “What kind of visions?” asked Lil, a slight
         smile playing over her lips.
     “Oh, all the people living in harmony, that
 kind of thing,” said Mattie. “About how there’s
going to be a big change, and a person who helps
   bring it all to pass. A person who sacrifices
  herself. My dad says we all just have to work
   hard and do what we can to help the other
fellow along. He thinks it’s a waste of good time
   and energy for her to go out and have these
  visions. He likes planning things out, like the
 crops. He doesn’t think visions about harmony
                  are very useful.”
  “They’re the most useful thing there is,” said
 Lil. “Nothing gets done without some sort of
 vision. But if you try and see them through it
          can get kind of complicated.”
   “Is that the kind of dream you have?” asked
                     Mattie.
                 “It is,” said Lil.
        “Is it complicated?” asked Mattie.
                  “Very,” said Lil.
           Mattie nestled closer. “Lil?”
                      “Mmm?”
  “Why is it that sometimes when I touch you I
see… oh, a big whirlwind of animals and plants
              and bugs and stuff?”
 Verity saw how Lil’s face went still, but Mattie
     didn’t because her eyes were closed.
  “Oh,” said Lil lightly, “I don’t know, sweetie.”
 “Don’t lie to me,” mumbled Mattie. “I hate lies.
    If you can’t tell me, that’s okay. Lil?”
    “What?” asked Lil, letting out her breath.
  “Sometimes I’m afraid of what’s happening to
 me,” said Mattie. She curled a bit closer to Lil.
Lil hugged her tighter and frowned. She glanced
 over and met Verity’s eyes and Verity thought
           she saw tears in Lil’s eyes.
           “I know,” Lil said. “I know.”
   “Tell me a story,” said Mattie drowsily. “My
              mother always did.”
 Lil looked afraid for a second. Then she took a
                 deep breath.
  “Once upon a time there was a little girl. She
          lived in West Virginia…”
              Verity closed her eyes.
     “Is the little girl you, Lil?” asked Mattie.
           Lil was silent for a moment.
   “Don’t lie to me, Lil,” said Mattie. Her voice
    was sleepy and sharp at the same time.
               “It was me,” said Lil.
    “Tell me,” said Mattie, her voice hungry.
  Lil’s voice was soothing and low. Verity knew
somehow that Lil meant for her to hear this and
 that it was some kind of strange apology but it
  didn’t really matter to Verity. Her eyes were
      closed but her ears listened anyway.
  “I was born in the middle of the Second Wave.
 My parents were actually pretty old. My father
   was sixty-five and my mother was fifty-five.
 They lived in Knoxville, Tennessee. My mother
 was a maintenance engineer for the university
     there, and my father was a professor of
 African-American literature. I think that they
 were very happy for many years and my father
      had made a name for himself with his
 spontaneous lectures, deliberately so, to avoid
  being replaced by a simulacrum. People were
very creative around that time in trying to make
   themselves unique. He loved teaching and
thought he couldn’t live without it. My mother’s
    job was quite secure. And she made it her
      business to keep up with the latest in
       everything. She realized that a lot of
 information was censored but she had ways of
                getting around it.
     “They’d never had children because of the
 zero-population-growth laws. People could live
     longer and there was kind of a lottery, or
 waiting list. When someone did die, one couple
   was awarded the right to have a child. This
    situation encouraged the growth of young,
murderous vigilante bands roaming the country,
  furious because the State blocked fertility at
 birth, or when your parents brought you in for
inoculations, or whenever you had to have some
sort of interaction with the world at large. A lot
   of those blocks are still in effect, one way or
another. It’s easy to keep the rebels down if they
            die out after a generation.
   “My parents had always been law-abiding, and
 then something happened to change them. I’m
    not sure exactly what it was. Something my
 mother saw, or learned, about the hypocrisy of
   the system. It really shook her up. Anyway, I
 think she kind of bullied my father into having
      me, since he loved his job, but she stole
  something at the medical school that restored
 her fertility—it was even possible at her age, if
  you won the lottery, to have a baby—and they
resigned and left. They weren’t sure where to go,
  so they ended up in a pretty remote place, the
   mountains of West Virginia near the Virginia
state line. My father contented himself with the
   thought that a huge technical university was
  only about forty miles away, and with the fact
 that they were experimenting with a prototype
   Flower Village. Sometimes he’d go down and
   talk to people there but I’m not sure what he
  told them about himself. The town we lived in
  was practically deserted. At one time it was a
   coal town but that was all gone, that era. My
parents were friendly, nice folk, and they made
   friends with the few people around and were
welcomed. There was a history of independence
  and privacy there which suited them. Nobody
  pried too hard; they all had their own secrets.
 There was a library full of bookman programs,
  though a lot of them were deteriorated. It was
 really irritating to get halfway through a book
and have it turn to garbage on the screen. There
     were thousands of real books there, and I
   started to read them instead. The pages were
brittle and a lot of them were eaten by bugs, but
there were more than I could ever read anyway.
   My parents taught me everything they knew,
               which was quite a lot.
   “Then my mother got sick. It was something
  that was easily curable, some melanoma that
  could have been wiped out in a week with the
 right bionan. They weren’t sure what it was at
    first, but finally they exhausted the local
 medical network. One of the doctors told them
 what he thought and my father loaded us into
the car one night and we drove all the way to the
      University of Virginia Medical School.
 Eighty-one was still a decent solar road back
then and it only took about five hours, since we
were lucky enough not to run into any anti-tech
             vigilantes or pirates.
      “But when we got there my mother was
  refused treatment. She was not a Person any
   longer, they said; she was not in the system.
Neither were my father and I. My father stashed
  me in a little motel and came back to give me
    reports. I was fourteen at the time and no
   dummy. A little older than you, I guess. One
  night he didn’t come back. I woke up early. It
     was still dark. I was really worried. I got
 dressed and went out for a walk on a little hill
 above the motel where my father and I usually
went each day and watched the sun rise. When I
 was walking back through the woods I looked
down at the motel and saw a police car parking
in front of my room. A man got out. He knocked
     for a minute, then he kicked the door in.
      “I didn’t know what to do. I knew from
   listening to my parents’ stories that these
  people, the enforcer class, were cruel but I
didn’t know then that a lot of workers had been
   infected with cruelty, or at least a lack of
 empathy. I was sick with fear for my parents.
   “I heard a noise behind me and jumped and
turned but it was my father. He hugged me tight.
 He was crying. ‘You have to get out of here,’ he
said. ‘Your mother is dead. They refused to treat
her. They could tell that she’d had a child. They
got her records from Knoxville. They could have
   helped. I’m sure they could have. But they
  wouldn’t.’ I’d never seen him look that way.
   “ ‘You’re coming with me?’ I asked. Somehow
   his news did not surprise me. I had felt it, I
  think, her passing, the night before. I didn’t
 really know what to make of it. Death was new
           to me. I guess I was in shock.
  “He shook his head. He gave me the address of
   his brother in Alexandria and told me that it
   was only a few hours to the north. He wasn’t
   sure if his brother was still there or even if I
would be welcome, but it was all he could do, he
said. He said that it wasn’t safe for me to be with
   him. I cried and clung to him. He told me to
remember him and my mother. He said that they
didn’t have any information about me other than
 that I existed and that I had to try and keep it
  that way. ‘Maybe you can change things’ were
  the last words he said to me. A form of money
 was still in circulation then, and he gave me all
       he had. It was all coded of course, the
government had ways to know who spent money
 and on what and who got money and what for.
       “He’d left the car a few blocks away in
anticipation of this sort of development. I took it
   and drove out of town and found some back
  roads. Roads in the mountains are tricky; they
 twist and wind and get you going in circles, but
  the compass helped and there were some old
 maps in the system. It was still a lot like West
 Virginia out of town, off the main roads, but it
 was only a few hours before I realized that I’d
  have to risk taking one of the big highways. I
  studied the maps and got on Two-fifty. I was
  amazed at all the cars there were! I was glad
 that the automatic steering worked because I
 would have been too nervous to steer, I think.
There was a kind of franticness in the city which
   worked to my advantage. So I was blessedly
 anonymous. My uncle welcomed me with open
arms, though he wasn’t easy to find. He’s the one
who put me in touch with the underground. And
they gave me an identity and sent me to school.”
   Lil paused. “I guess I put you both to sleep,”
                    she said.
   Verity was not asleep but she did not say so.
 She heard Lil get up and shut the door quietly.
      After a while, Verity heard Mattie stir.
     “It’s evil,” she said. “It’s evil to do this to
                       people.”
    The door creaked as it was opened. Mattie
            slammed it behind her.



                Twenty-seven
                Reunion Blues
Blaze sat with his head in his hands on a chair
outside Verity’s door and waited for Lil to relent
and let him in. She had told him sharply that
Verity shouldn’t be bothered when he stuck his
head in the door. He figured Lil was just mad
because he’d left, though he wasn’t quite sure
why it was any of her business.
  It was only ten in the morning, but the air was
  thick with heat. They were moving along at a
 good clip—some sort of Mark Twain being was
the pilot now. Every time Blaze thought nothing
     new would surprise him, something did.
     The steady churn of the paddlewheel was
   lulling, despite his concern for Verity. The
Queen looked the same. But being back on it felt
completely different, starting with the way they
all huddled around Verity after they fished her
  out of the drink and hustled her to her room
 while pushing him aside as if he weren’t even
                       there.
  Masa’s transformation, the luminous dome of
   LA, the overwhelming torrent of ravaging
  images that informed him of the roots of the
    blues formed an unclear, yet powerful,
 juxtaposition within him, a new lens through
 which he saw everything. But as yet there was
                 no clear focus.
  And no, the Queen wasn’t really the same. His
         room was definitely smaller.
    And the worst thing was, he’d lost Alma’s
 guitar. He wondered if he could still play the
 blues, or if they’d be lost to him. But the blues
 were in him, Alma had said. He was the horse,
             the blues was the rider…
  The girl Mattie was shaking his shoulder. He
 must have dozed off. “Go on in,” she whispered.
“Lil’s gone. Verity’s the same.” Mattie gave him a
                 sad look and left.
  His eyes burned and his head throbbed. Last
 night in Memphis, he certainly hadn’t worried
                 about sleep.
     At first glance, he was frightened. Verity
looked like a corpse, pale and still. She lay in the
   middle of a big iron bed. They’d put her in a
   white shift and covered her with a flowered
 sheet. Her arms were stiff at her sides, on top of
   the sheet. Next to her bed was a large, open
                      window.
     She stared at the ceiling. She didn’t even
            notice when he came in.
                      “Verity?”
  When she didn’t respond, he sat next to her on
 the bed, wondering if he should be careful or if
  it would be better to startle her in some way.
     “Verity! It’s me! I know you can hear me!”
                It was too strange.
   He bent and kissed her cheek, her forehead,
  even her mouth. Twice. The lack of response
              deepened his anxiety.
   He stroked her hair back from her forehead.
  She was so beautiful, and so young. She had
     twice risked everything for him. She’d
 apparently been in Memphis all night, looking
 for him. He guiltily remembered the supposed
drunk who had been following him from several
        blocks away. Had it been Verity?
  Of course, he told himself, if I had known she
was there, I would have found her and taken her
                 out to the boat.
 Would you have? asked something inside him.
 Or would you have just stayed there with the
                   blues?
 Well, I didn’t, did I? he shot back and the thing
                    slunk away.
 “I have some things to tell you, Verity,” he said.
 He might have been talking to a tree for all the
  response she made. He picked up her hand,
 which was limp and unresisting and lay in his
              like a dead weight.
  First he told Verity about Alma and the blues
 and how he understood now about Sphere and
her. He told her about the potion he’d drunk and
  as best he could how searing the blues really
                      were.
   “I was really afraid of nan. I only drank the
blues because… well, why not? I had nothing to
  lose, I thought. Before that, I was trying to
pretend that I wasn’t a part of the world. Maybe
I was trying to stay a Shaker. Maybe I hoped I’d
believe in all that again. Everything was so dark
without God, without heaven, or Mother Ann, all
  those made-up ideas. I couldn’t see that I still
                     had you.”
 She blinked a few times, but not in conjunction
with anything he said. He decided that although
 it made him feel better to tell her these things
maybe he’d have to tell her again later when she
                could talk back.
    Then he tried the train trip. Surely she’d be
 interested. She’d always cared about the things
he cared about. He was sure that what happened
 to Masa would get some kind of reaction out of
                       her.
  No—but maybe she just flat-out didn’t believe
   him. Then he told her about how Cairo was
 plagued now and she kind of stirred under the
                     sheet.
  “What’s been happening since I left, Verity?”
   he asked, his chest tight with fear. “How’s
 Peabody? I missed him. I missed you, too. You
know that, don’t you?” Maybe she could tell how
free he’d felt on the raft, how the world seemed
   so wide. Maybe she was angry about that.
   Or maybe not. They were both tremendously
 different than they had been just a few months
ago. Their whole world had changed, so quickly,
and was still changing. It looked like this new
  world might kill her. Blaze wondered if she
 would ever care about him again. He realized
that was a little selfish, so he wondered if she
would ever care about anything again. Not that
   either kind of wondering would help her.
 He slumped back into the chair, overwhelmed
             with melancholy.
 A blues began to tickle the edge of his mind, a
blues by Big Bill Broonzy. He sang it to her in a
  low, quiet voice, a strange song; poetic and
    pointed. It was called “Just a Dream.”
     He sang about how he dreamed he had a
million dollars, and had a mermaid for his wife,
 about how he won the Brooklyn Bridge on his
knees shooting dice; about how he won so much
 money that he didn’t know what to do. But it
 was just a dream that he had on his mind and
 when he woke up in the morning not a penny
                   did he find.
   The next verse that came to him made him
choke as he sang it. He dreamed that he was in
 the White House and the president shook his
 hand and said he was glad that he was there.
  But when he woke up from that dream, Jim
  Crow was all that he could find. It was all a
dream, man. Acceptance of black men by their
          country was just a dream.
 Just a dream. Money, a happy family, political
parity, the thought of heaven—just a dream to
     those who lived and wrote the blues.
 That was the way everything was beginning to
      seem to Blaze. And maybe Verity.
  But they would never wake from this dream
  and find it all put back the way it had been.
   Her eyes were closed the whole time but he
 thought he saw her smile a little. Maybe it was
just his imagination. He squeezed her hand and
 maybe she squeezed back, just a tiny little bit.
  Lil came in and told him to get some rest. He
  didn’t want to leave but she said she’d stay
   there. He was tired and hungry so he left.
  After a few hours’ sleep he found Jack playing
pool. A glass of whiskey sat on the bar and Jack
took a sip between each shot as he walked in a
   slow calculating way around the table. Just
 looking at the whiskey made Blaze’s headache
                      worse.
          “You look like hell,” said Jack.
 “I feel like hell,” he said. “Isn’t there something
             I can take to feel better?”
       “Boat’s broke,” Jack said. “Game?”
            “Tell me the rules again.”
  Blaze played very badly but Jack didn’t seem
to mind. “So where have you been?” Jack asked.
                  “Los Angeles.”
  Jack hit the cue ball funny and it jumped the
         rail and rolled across the floor.
   “So… what’s it like?” Jack asked after a very
long pause, during which he just stared at Blaze.
He chased down the ball and retrieved it. He set
 the ball down behind the mark and said, “Your
                      shot.”
  Blaze lined up his shot deliberately and to his
surprise it went in the pocket he’d predicted. He
 casually walked around the table and chalked
 up the cue stick while he thought the situation
                       over.
  He knew that it irritated Verity that Jack and
 Lil wouldn’t talk about themselves. He realized
that up to now he hadn’t really cared that much.
 He hadn’t cared about much of anything except
            the blues and being angry.
  But now he knew that he wasn’t alone. Radical
      changes had happened to everybody.
  Everything. Every place. Even glowing beings
 like Masa, even made-up creatures like James.
The whole world was haywire and strange. Why?
    “You and Lil know a lot more about what’s
  going on than we do,” he said to Jack. “So far
Verity’s put up with you, but it seems a lot more
   important now that we know more. Verity’s
pretty sick. I’ll tell you about the train, and Los
Angeles—what I can figure out about it, anyway.
 But you need to tell me what you know too. For
instance, what’s wrong with Memphis?” It made
   him tremendously sad that the blues was
  juxtaposed with whatever awful thing was
              happening there.
         Jack took a big swig of whiskey.
   “I don’t know if you know this,” Blaze said,
 starting to get mad, “but I’ve known Verity all
  my life. All my life. She’s like a sister to me. I
       care about her more than anyone.”
    “Then why did you leave?” Jack asked. He
  started cleaning up the table, one ball after
   another, click-thump, as they fell into the
                    pockets.
  It was Blaze’s turn to shrug. “I had to. But I’m
                 back, aren’t I?”
 “Run across a man calls himself Clean Mind in
 Memphis?” asked Jack. “I was kind of on the
              lookout for him.”
 “I met a Clean Head,” Blaze said, trying to cast
back through the whirling blur of the previous
    night. “Great bluesman. Is he the same?”
    Jack shook his head. “I doubt it. This guy is
 really a creep. You’d remember him.” A creep?
  wondered Blaze, but didn’t interrupt. “Clean
  Mind got hold of a nan augmentation device a
long time ago. Best we can tell, he paid someone
to make exactly what he wanted. Then he tested
 it on the guy to make sure it worked. His name
             then was Ken Simmons.”
  The hairs on the back of Blaze’s neck rose but
he just racked up the balls. “So then he went to
                  Memphis?”
  “He was stationed in Memphis at the Air Force
Base,” said Jack. “After the Second Wave we lost
  touch with him. We lost touch with just about
everybody. Rumors came back to us that he’d set
up his own little empire there. And after a while
 a kind of blackmail request came. Make him a
  general or he’d release a plague so bad that it
 would decimate the world in two years. He sent
  us a little sample. One of our volunteers took
                       it—”
     “A volunteer?” Blaze asked. “Who would
      volunteer for something like that?”
            “We’re at war,” said Jack.
   He was just stating what was to him a simple
fact, the world he lived in every day. Blaze could
 see that. But it shook him to the core. This was
 an organized thing? People were taking sides?
                        Oh.
   Jack looked at Blaze. “This is a new kind of
war. It’s a war being fought all over the world in
  a very new way. The problem is that no one
 seems to know what the stakes are, what they
     want. There is the potential for lots of
 profiteering. There’s also the opportunity for
people to sit down for the first time and try and
  decide the direction humanity should take.
  Before it’s too late. It’s almost too late, in my
  opinion. But I guess it’s never too late to try.
 That’s what Lil and I are doing. Trying. Maybe
humans can evolve to the point where each of us
 can control nan. All of us, not just the rich, not
 just governments. Information for the people.
  Or,” Jack laughed, “whatever we might be, at
                   that point.
     “But to get back to what happened. Brave
  people sacrifice themselves during wartime,”
 Jack continued. “Taking it was the only way to
really see what would happen so we could try to
   hack it. How to disarm it. We couldn’t find a
  way. The volunteer tried to kill herself several
 times and finally succeeded. It’s pretty difficult
to keep someone from killing themselves if they
really want to.” He sighed deeply. “I wish I could
  remember some of the particulars of the stuff,
 but I wasn’t really in on that end of things.” He
  perched on the stool and poured himself more
  whiskey. “Clean Mind just got to thinking too
hard about humans and decided that we’d all be
    better off dead. But he was an economical,
free-choice sort of fellow. Thought we should all
know the score and then take care of the details
    ourselves. Not a lot of overhead that way.”
           “So what about the pyramid?”
    “I don’t know,” said Jack. “We don’t know.
 Maybe it’s better not to know. We’ve lost a few
   people trying to find out. We wouldn’t have
stopped at all if it weren’t for Verity. I looked for
her all night. Memphis is bigger than it seems.”
     “Did you see Clean Mind?” Blaze asked.
    Jack shook his head. “I saw a lot of happy
people,” he said. “Who knows—maybe they hide
 in the day. The blues rule the night, the Bees
rule the day. One woman even told me that.” He
   was quiet for a minute. “I don’t know if I’d
recognize him anyway—or if he’d recognize me.
         It’s a long way from K Street.”
                   “K Street?”
   Jack nodded. “We shared an office on K Street
in Washington, D.C. Statue of an old general on a
     horse there, right below my window, in a
  beautiful green park. D.C. was lovely back in
    those days. At least, that part of town was.
 Other parts weren’t.” He smiled. Blaze thought
  his smile always looked like he was using it to
 make fun of something. “Everything was pretty
 up-to-date there. You couldn’t even ride on the
  Metro without being scanned for poison, any
    sort of open-ended unlocked nan, chemical
     weapons, you name it. If they could have
    scanned you for having a bad hair day they
                    would have.”
                 “Bad hair day?”
 “Something that got stuck in the language,” he
                    said.
   “What would you have done if you had seen
             him?” asked Blaze.
   “I would have killed him,” said Jack. “He’s
  definitely on the roster.” He looked at Blaze.
                Blaze looked back.
   “Well, you asked,” said Jack. “Anything else
     you want to know about the world?”
  “Well… did you have that horrible kind of life
          like they did in the blues?”
                      “What?”
   “You know,” Blaze said. “They made people
  work on the levees and the railroads without
    paying them and put them in prison and
           wouldn’t let them vote…”
  “Oh!” He laughed. “It isn’t funny, actually. It’s
  just interesting that you might think that all
  blacks had it so hard. But no, of course not. I,
  and millions of other blacks, and our parents
  and their parents before them, had perfectly
 normal middle-class lives. Or became perfectly
  normal millionaires, or scientists, or artists.”
  Blaze was relieved. “So all that stuff” (all that
stuff from Alma, he was thinking), “all that stuff
                   isn’t true.”
       “Well,” said Jack, “it is true, and it was
    horribly true for a whole lot of people. The
 reason that it wasn’t true for me is that a lot of
people made it their life’s work to change things.
 If a lot of people work together for a long time
 on something that’s right, it helps. Of course, a
  lot of people can work together on something
    that’s wrong for a long time too, either on
   purpose or because they’re misinformed or
because they’re fooling themselves. And that can
      certainly have an effect on things. But
discrimination was a fact, even for my parents. I
don’t really think I experienced any, at least not
because of the color of my skin. But I was always
 pretty preoccupied with one thing or another. I
might not have noticed unless it smacked me in
                     the face.”
            “So things are better now.”
      “In some ways,” he said, but he sounded
 doubtful. “Maybe there’s just a certain balance
  of human misery that has to stay constant. A
certain number of conflicts simmering. A certain
 number of people dying. Maybe it’s for reasons
we are not even aware of. Like that Gaian Meme
     Plague that got loose a few years back.”
  “Gaian? Meme?” It was interesting when Jack
               got to talking.
     “Yeah. Bunch of people who believed that
 humans were killing the Earth. Well, of course
they are. Or at least they were. It was supposed
   to make people aware that we all live in an
   interdependent web. They claimed that the
 Earth is a living organism. Makes sense to me.
 It’s a cold, hard fact that after the rain forests
 were gone, a lot of species vanished that were
   kind of contributing to the overall effect of
   things. There were worldwide famines that
  wiped out whole peoples. There were climate
 changes. It didn’t help that a lot of people had
   bought a germ-line genetic modification that
kept not only you but your children from being
  able to store a lot of fat. You got a discount on
    your insurance and you could eat like a pig
without gaining weight. So a storage system that
  had worked pretty good was gone. And on the
   other hand people were deciding not to have
   children, and a lot of other people had been
sterilized by their governments. I don’t know if
 the Gaian Meme really works, but the thinking
 behind it was to help humans become aware of
  the deep self-regulating systems of the Earth
and tune themselves to them. There are a whole
     lot of factors in the decline of the human
population, and those are a few of them. I think
  we’re down to a few billion now. Maybe less.”
  Blaze wasn’t really sure how many that was. It
            still sounded like a lot.
   “Now it’s your turn,” said Jack, settling on a
                      stool.
  Blaze told him about the train. Told him about
  Masa, and Salt Lake City. Jack got kind of a
grim look in his eyes at that point and shook his
 head. “We lost it there,” he said softly. “Really
                  lost it. Go on.”
                   “Who lost it?”
   Jack laughed shortly. “The forces of good. I
 thought. It doesn’t really matter anymore. At
least that’s what it seems like sometimes. So, is
              there a dome at LA?”
               “You know all this?”
  “Rumors and suppositions,” Jack said. “I used
 to know some of the people who were into that
 artificial-intelligence stuff, a long time ago. LA
 was the target for their own particular kind of
 conversion, their own kind of immortality. I’m
not sure I understand it myself. But I think that
  there are quite a few domes worldwide. Well,
   maybe ten, fifteen. So this James was on the
                       train?”
  Blaze suddenly felt unaccountably protective
           of James. He just nodded.
 “Interesting,” said Jack. “I guess he’s just kind
     of a pinched-off piece of intelligence.”
      “I’m not sure I follow you,” said Blaze.
   “Well, I suppose the entire dome experiences
    some form of consciousness that we really
couldn’t possibly understand. But James is like
 a tiny piece of it. Like an entire hologram is in
              every portion of itself.”
 “Oh.” Another thing Blaze would have to learn
 about. “Do you have any children, Jack?” He
  wasn’t sure where the question came from.
           Jack looked kind of amused.
               “What?” Blaze asked.
  “Would you believe that I haven’t had time?”
  He shook his head and there was that smile
again, that slight nod. “Yep. Been pretty booked
                       up.”
  The blues stirred in Blaze’s hands again. They
flared up, needed to get out. He closed his eyes
  for a minute, making sure, thanking Alma…
     Sorry, Alma, so sorry I lost your guitar.
   “Have you seen that guitar I brought from
         Memphis?” he asked Jack.
  “Seen it?” asked Jack. “I was hoping you might
just forget about it.” He opened a closet, pulled
it out, and handed it to Blaze. “Damn, it’s a nice
                       one.”
     Blaze pulled the strap of the beautiful,
gleaming Stratocaster over his head, and played
       a good, hard, B fifth diminished.
         It emitted a faint, tired twang.
  He was aghast. “What’s wrong? It was so nice
            and loud last night.”
  Jack about fell off his stool laughing. “Come
on,” he said. “Maybe Peabody can help, if he has
                     time.”
  Verity was dreaming, or something like it. The
All-Seeing Eye was spewing out magic carpets of
  dollars that could fly. There was a person on
every dollar and they flew all around the world
heaving things overboard—bombs, nan weapons
 that would propagate themselves to the end of
    time, leaflets of lies. Every person on every
  flying dollar was Verity. She just touched the
icon of the All-Seeing Eye and death spewed out
and the blue of the sky changed a little bit more
    toward twilight. When she was finished, it
would be night, more than night, a night with no
 dawn. It was very important that this work be
 done. There was nothing more important than
           this. Nothing. Nothing. Nada…
  A loud twang jolted her awake and then two
crazed voices joined in a strong, blued interval:
       The devil went to Memphis
       And you know what he found?
       The blues alive an’ kickin
       And he was awful proud.


                    10
     Alice and the Mysterious Stranger



               Twenty-eight
              Alice Blue Gown

The boards of the old warped dock were cool,
damp, and splintery beneath Alice’s bare feet.
  Her frail blue shift touched her lightly as dawn
 breeze brushed the surface of the Mississippi,
 and the dull ovate leaves of the live oak next to
  her rustled then were still. Ropes of Spanish
         moss festooned the branches.
   She started, hearing the smash and tinkle of
 glass behind her, but did not even turn to look
at the white mansion on the hill. She grinned as
she settled on the end of the dock, keeping her
  coffee cup level as she lowered herself down.
Her bones protested with snapping sounds, and
she dangled her feet over the edge, sipping her
hot, sweet drink. She could hear him: he called
 himself the Professor, for reasons unknown to
her. But perhaps the genesis of his name was as
         distant as that of her title: Doc.
   “You can’t keep me locked up like this! Aren’t
    there any law-enforcement officers in this
  godforsaken back-assward shithole?” Frantic
    rattling of the wooden sash, but the young,
strong Inue brothers, her handymen-on-call, had
    done a good job of nailing it shut from the
                   outside for her.
   The Mississippi shimmered, ephemeral as
dream in this light. The heat of the coming day
 was tamped down, a beast preparing to rise,
  lazily, and expand into muggy sensuality,
hugging the trees at noon and later turning the
    live-oak leaves brightly upward if that
 heat-beast compressed into a thunderstorm.
 But now it was cool. The other side of the river
was a blue-green haze a mile away and the river
itself was olive-green snaked with silvery lines
as the sun began to burn away the fog. A wood
stork floated down on wide white wings, folded
    them, and stood next to her on the dock,
                  impassive.
  “No fish yet this morning, bud,” Alice said, and
  squinted upriver against the silver shimmer.
  Sometimes Norleaners stopped on the island
halfway across the river for the night. They had
gradually become less common than five years
   ago, when she’d arrived from Montana after
    almost a year’s journey, realizing that the
 Mississippi satisfied her eastward, homeward
  urge. And that she was simply too tired to go
 any farther, and was afraid of what she might
 find if she did. Reports were bad; had been for
   years. The whole Southeast a patchwork of
    nanotech zones, humans transformed into
zombies; strange and unimaginable effects left
  over from the Information Wars and general
self-inflicted mismanagement. But lately, great
      clots of rafts had passed the Landing.
   She wasn’t sure what else she could do with
the Professor. He’d been going round with some
  sort of cure-all kit for a week, with resulting
  chaos in the close-knit town of four hundred
 souls. Already Sal Hendricks had run off, after
the Professor did something to him, leaving his
  wife hysterical and the kids without a father.
     Then Talulah Smith proclaimed to her
 astonished elderly children that she’d been an
 internationally wanted nanotech terrorist way
back when, which was how she’d paid to have all
her life-prolonging treatments. Apparently she’d
  not been a kindergarten teacher, as she’d told
    them all along, and used her hard-earned
pension money. Talulah said that she was plenty
 relieved and that her secret had caused her an
 overlong lifetime of debilitating stress, but the
 revelation engendered no end of caustic debate
      among her relatives; already one of her
daughters had decided on a divorce rather than
  listen to further invective about her dear old
                      mother.
  When confronted, the Professor just shrugged
 and said that his job was to restore the balance
of the universe and that he would continue to do
                        so.
      Alice had decided that he could do his
 restoration work away from Madge’s Landing,
   particularly since restoring the balance of
young Alfonso Traynor had caused him to chase
  his mother around the kitchen with a sharp
knife. When Alice asked him to explain that, the
Professor nodded quietly, looked rather pleased,
  and said that the Lord moved in mysterious
 ways, and that sometimes balancing took place
           in several stages, over time.
  The little girl who had been apparently cured
  of seizures nagged at Alice. Nothing she had
  tried had worked. But the rest of this uproar
   was more than tiny Madge’s Landing could
                     endure.
     Even after Alice asked him to leave, the
Professor had insisted on hanging around. She’d
   found it necessary to lock him in her spare
  bedroom, with the help of the Inue brothers,
  who were quite able to resist the Professor’s
   increasingly hysterical suggestion, as they
 carried him upstairs, that they too needed to
             become more balanced.
    Then he’d ripped up her good peony drapes
 last night and tried to use them to climb down
  from the roof. When she saw him fall past her
   window and land with a thump on the front
    lawn she threw down the book she’d been
       reading while eating dinner, deeply
                   exasperated.
   She found the old roly-poly lying on his back,
  looking like a stunned penguin in the stained
tuxedo he affected. She ran to the shed and got a
  rope, rolled him over, tied his hands and feet,
then went off for the Inue brothers. She ignored
 the swarm of colorful, complex schematics that
 blinded her when she touched him. She walked
the path as firmly as if she could see just fine for
 the minute or two they took to subside, for she
  knew her grounds by heart. This was the last
  straw. She absolutely hated to touch anyone.
 Now, she sipped her chicory-tinged coffee and
enjoyed the sun’s first heat on her dark brown
arms. When the next bunch of Norleaners came
    down the river, she intended to toss him on
   board and wash her hands of him. They’d be
  happy to have him, no doubt, and it would get
     him out of town. She shivered despite the
 growing heat. She’d come a far piece to stay out
  of the way of noodleheads, and to do what she
  could to protect her adopted town from them.
She did have a certain amount of responsibility,
damn it. Well she’d been the one who insisted on
   going to medical school so many years ago, in
    Charlottesville. She wanted to Help People,
she’d told her father, her chin in the air, and had
   been so angry when he laughed! That was my
 plan too, he told her, but there’s no help for any
  of us now, he told her more soberly. Nothing a
 physician can do. As I’ve found. You really want
   to be a government technician? Can’t you see
what I’ve been reduced to? But he patted her on
 the shoulder and said well then let ’er rip. Dead
 years ago, when a nan surge caught D.C. and all
  the surrounding suburbs unaware. Maybe his
         body lived, still, but he was dead.
   The Professor hollered again and she blessed
him for interrupting her memories. She rose and
poured the rest of her coffee into the river. Josh
 the giant catfish swirled near the dock to see if
  there was anything good coming down. Once
      she’d caught from him chilly visions of
sun-pierced depths as he brushed her hand with
   his long fat length after snatching a piece of
food from her. They were blurry and vague, but
   she didn’t think she was imagining it. She
   suspected that he was the spawn of some
genetic-engineering experiments in interspecies
 communication. She imagined that could make
even a fish lonely. But she avoided touching him
 again. Her cat was quite enough responsibility
                     for her.
    “Hungry?” she yelled, as she strolled up the
  walk. The Professor glared at her through the
  small rectangles that still held shards of glass
   around the edges. Two jays squabbled in the
 tree next to her, and her cat darted halfway up
the trunk, claws scrabbling. “Do you like grits?”
   “Not fit for man nor beast!” he retorted, and
 turned away from the window, a look of utter
                disgust on his face.
   The first dozen or so rafts that hove into view
   that day were filled with suspicious, jeering
 folk. Something was going on upriver but Alice
didn’t care. That’s what she loved about Madge’s
Landing. Nothing shook their quiet world here.
              Except that interloper.
      Alice tried to wave them down from her
landing, shouting and cajoling and offering food,
 but they drifted past, making no effort to come
   ashore, and treating her to various obscene
 gestures in reply and faint bursts of those tired
  old rafter songs. Hands on hips, she watched
     them float past. It was getting to be late
afternoon. She’d have to keep old Roly another
 day. And maybe another. But sooner or later,
                   he’d go.
  She stopped in the garden on her way back up
  to the house, kneeling in rich black-dirt rows
 amid vegetable bounty. The lettuce would bolt
 soon and she pulled it all, light green and ruby
red both, snaking white roots holding dirt she’d
hose off at the house. Zucchinis, tomatoes, baby
 red potatoes and fingerling carrots. She’d give
 old Roly a feast tonight, that was for sure. Not
that he’d appreciate it. Here she was, willing to
   arrange a free river trip for him, and he was
 acting so ungrateful. She rose, tried to rub the
dirt from her bare knees, raised the basket, and
  picked a few delphiniums and zinnias on the
                way to the house.
 She about jumped out of her skin when out of
  the air next to her on the porch she heard,
      “Alice, go back down to the river.”
    Her heart beating hard, she dropped the
  basket and whirled around. “Who’s there?”
 Another, more distant voice sounded, this time
                 riverward.
           “Al-ice! Oh, Al-ice! Hur-ry!”
 To her surprise, she heard a faint, discordant
 blare that was indeed coming from the river.
   From her porch she searched the tranquil
  water. From bend to bend, she saw nothing.
 “Who the hell?” she asked. She thought she
heard a chuckle coming from somewhere, and
      then the boat rounded the bend.
       A riverboat! She’d hit the jackpot.
    She ran down to the river, shouting and
                  waving.
     To her delight, the boat began to turn.
     “Why are we stopping?” asked Mattie.
   “For that woman,” said Twain. “She either
  wants to put something on or embark as a
passenger. That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
 Lil burst in the door. “Why are we stopping? It
     won’t be dark for another few hours.”
 “Unless I get an order to the contrary from the
  captain, it’s my duty to stop when someone
        signals me. As is that woman.”
  On a small dock below a low green hill where
  perched a ragged-looking white mansion, a
    woman shouted and waved frantically.
         “I’m the captain now,” said Lil.
   “I don’t think so,” said Twain equably, and
 steered the boat toward the landing. “Pretty
deep here. Current’s scoured it out well. I’d say
she’d best move her house well back before the
         river takes it. Won’t be long.”
 Jack and Blaze were really cooking when the
Queen rounded the bend, Jack on the piano and
           Blaze with his guitar.
 Jack stopped in midsong. “Why are we slowing
          down? Is it getting dark?”
  Blaze pulled the curtain aside. “No.” He took
 another sip of whiskey. Lil came to the door,
              agitated, as usual.
                “Jack, I need you.”
   He sighed, rose from the piano bench, and
          followed her. So did Blaze.
  It was a lovely place, Madge’s Landing. Blaze
    feasted his eyes on it. It was almost like
    Ohio—green and farmlike. It lacked the
desolation they’d seen along the river so far; the
                   loneliness.
  He went to Verity’s room. She was still lying
there on the bed, under the sheet. She opened
her eyes and looked at him. Her look made him
 uneasy. But at least she was looking at him.
 “Verity, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything.”
  She didn’t move, she didn’t blink, she gave no
 indication that she heard anything. Blaze bent
 down and hugged her. Just a little at first and
     then more tightly and then he was just
squeezing her and crying because she was like a
                    rag doll.
 Mattie came in behind him and touched him on
                 the shoulder.
               “Are you all right?”
   Funny, he thought, her asking me. She was
nuts, herself. But at least she was lively. He put
Verity down gently, smoothed back her hair, and
                    stood up.
               “I guess so,” he said.
    “You were on the train, weren’t you?” she
                    asked.
                   He nodded.
            “You met the weird lady?”
                He nodded again.
                  “How is she?”
  He opened his mouth to tell her. Why not. But
he found that he just couldn’t describe what had
happened. “She’s… all right,” he said, and Mattie
 looked at him suspiciously. “Come on, let’s see
               what’s going on.”
 He left Verity’s door open because the sunset
 was streaming in and it was so pretty. “I’ll be
     back with some dinner,” he told her.
    Alice looked around her dinner table with
   shrewd eyes as she passed around zucchini
pancakes, new potato salad, and fried chicken.
She’d rinsed dust off some bottles of wine from
  the cellar and they sparkled green in the last
rays of sunlight as she swirled golden wine into
  long-stemmed, and long-unused, crystal. The
  dining room was like the prow of a boat, with
  windows all round. She had unfolded a white
 lace tablecloth over the mahogany claw-footed
    table, with Jack’s help, while Blaze and Lil
  worked in the kitchen. They all acted starved
for real food. She wondered what they had to eat
 on that boat. She wondered about the boat, too.
   But it didn’t matter to her. She had a deal to
 close. Take the roly man and be gone. Take him
for free. Nice meeting you, guys. No, hey, I’m just
  fine. Enjoy your trip. A wave, and back to her
               books and her garden.
      Jack, some sort of flimflam river man. The
    river spawned them like fry. Lil, his sparkly
 lady friend, kept removing the wine bottle from
 his hand. Blaze looked just plain hungover, but
    underneath strong and fit, a good kid. Mark
    Twain, a young one this time; she’d not seen
       many lately but then she made a pretty
respectable effort to see no one at all. Mattie, the
  girl, had a determined sort of face, but kind of
  lost-looking. She had some sort of sickness but
    Alice wasn’t sure what. When she looked at
       Mattie, though, something struck at her
heart—the innocence of her face contrasted with
  the fierce, proud despair in her eyes. Her color
   was high and Alice thought she might have a
      fever. Not your business, she told herself
   sternly, but of course it was. You asked them
      here, she told herself, as she lowered the
 chandelier with a pulley and let them help light
  the candles. It was pretty, the light glinting off
     the old silver she had Blaze take out of the
buffet that they used for the baked apples with
             fresh whipped cream.
    While carrying plates back to the kitchen,
  Blaze stopped in the short hallway to study
   something on the wall. Alice’s heart sank.
     “You’re a doctor?” Blaze called from the
                    hallway.
  “ ’Fraid so,” she said. “But I haven’t practiced
  in years.” Lie. But what she did around here
                really didn’t count.
              “We need help,” he said.
  “Of course you do,” she said, with resignation.
        Nothing was free in this world.
 “It says the University of Virginia,” continued
the intrusive lad. Lil looked at her sharply and
 Alice upgraded her opinion of her. More than
        meets the eye. That was for sure.
  “Quite a long time ago, you’ll see,” said Alice. “I
have a pretty poor memory.” That’s why I carry
    all this horrible nondeletable inforam. She
clenched her hands under the table. Tools of the
   trade. Gone awry, like just about everything
                        else.
     “I’m sure you do,” said Peabody, helping
          himself to more potato salad.
  She was pretty sure that whatever was going
on on that boat, it was far beyond her. As long as
         she kept her hands to herself.
  The Professor pounded on the floor and then
she heard, as if it were coming from right next to
 her, “This lady is a criminal! She’s keeping me
 prisoner upstairs! She has not even offered me
                      dinner.”
  They all looked at Alice with indignation and
                   surprise.
           “Who’s that?” asked Mattie.
  “I guess it’s the Professor,” she said. “Excuse
       me while I take him some dinner.”
              “Who’s he?” asked Lil.
  “Oh, just… a highly cultured guest of mine. He
prefers to take his dinner in his room. He needs
to get downriver. I thought you all might be able
                  to take him.”
                “Liar,” said Mattie.
                  “No,” said Lil.
             “Of course,” said Blaze.
  “Thank you,” said Alice to Blaze, smiling. “I’m
    sure he’ll appreciate your hospitality.”
    “Please, sir, I want some more,” said a high
   boy’s voice in a British accent. Alice heaped
 some food on a plate and fled. They heard her
   running up the stairs, and they also heard a
 normal male voice at the table: “Thank you for
 your gracious invitation. I’d rather go through
 ten medium-sized hells than stay here another
  day. Grits for breakfast, gruel for… Oh, hello,
                   dear doctor.”
    “Tolerable good voice-thrower,” remarked
 Peabody. Mattie just stared at the place where
the voice had been coming from. Then, as if with
 one impulse, they pushed back their chairs and
               began cleaning up.
 The long solstice sunset burnished the river as
 Alice and the Professor walked down through
 the garden and the grassy field to the Queen,
         surrounded by the entourage.
    Alice was thoughtful, as she walked. She
  would have to diagnose this person Verity
without touching her, of course. Perhaps it was
 some new strain of malaria, or appendicitis.
  “I feel as if I’m being hustled, I do,” complained
 the Professor, clutching his little black bag of
  cure-alls. His old suit was shiny in the setting
sun; the repair nans standard in almost all cloth
for the last few decades must have given out, for
       Alice saw a frayed place on the elbow.
   “I could do a lot of good in your little town.
  Why, my reputation has followed me far and
                     wide—”
   “You’ll just love life on the river,” said Alice.
    “You can build up a whole new clientele.”
          “What’s in that bag?” asked Lil.
 “The finest medicines money can buy, my good
   woman. Elixirs which can work veritable
                  miracles.”
   “We’ll have to have a look at them before we
     can allow them on the boat,” said Lil.
       “Why?” asked Jack. “I mean, doesn’t
         information want to be free?”
  “Shut up, Jack,” said Lil, flashing him a frown.
   “We’ve got enough problems with whatever
George dumped in the auditorium. Verity’s been
swamped. Maybe we don’t need any more factors
  here. Maybe I’m just nervous. Whose side are
                you on, anyway?”
      “Why, I’m on the side of information, of
 course,” Jack said, with mock surprise in his
 voice. “I thought you were too. You’re the one
 who convinced me how important it is. But I
    understand. The results of freedom can
    sometimes be inconvenient. This is very
     interesting, Lil. Could it be that you’re
   undergoing a philosophical conversion?”
             “Jack, I’m warning you!”
  “Maybe I’ll just stay here,” said the Professor.
   “Oh, no,” said Alice. “Look, I don’t care what
  you do with his bag. That’s between you and
him. But if he doesn’t go downriver with you, I’m
not going to be able to help you.” She knew that
  she would no matter what, but she made her
             voice as firm as possible.
   Lil stopped walking. “So can we look in the
               bag, Professor?”
  “Anything for a price, madam,” he said, with a
                   slight bow.
   “What’s your price?” asked Jack, sounding
   amused. “How about a fifth of Tennessee
                  Whiskey?”
  “Didn’t you lay on any Mark Twain Whiskey?”
  asked Twain, sounding aggrieved. “It’s quite
easy to procure in Cairo, and I get a percentage.”
 “If it’s Twain, you’ll have to make it two fifths,”
 remarked the Professor, as they trooped onto
  the landing. “No, three. That’s terrible harsh
                       stuff.”
   “It’s so hot,” complained Mattie. “When is it
                 going to cool off?”
    “In another five months or so,” said Alice.
           “Why not go for a swim?”
   “A swim?” asked Mattie. The thought seemed
to astonish her. “I do know how to swim. There’s
 a lake in the Desolates. Like ice.” She looked at
     the water doubtfully, a muddy calm pool
             sheltered by the landing.
 “You’ll be quite safe if you stick close to shore,”
  said Alice. “I swim almost every day. It’s not
                      cold.”
   “You all get on the boat so you can’t see me,”
 said Mattie. She started to unbutton her white
                      dress.
   “I’ll keep an eye on you while I look through
    this stuff,” said Lil, reaching for the bag.
    “Ah—” said the Professor, pulling it back.
  “Get him his whiskey, please, Jack,” said Lil,
as Mattie stripped down to her underwear and
              dove off the landing.
  The floor of the boat echoed beneath their feet
    as they trooped aboard. Alice admired the
graceful beauty of the boat, the wealth of detail,
     the way it spoke of the short but opulent
steamboat era of the Mississippi, when the river
  carried most of the trade of the young United
                      States.
  Blaze led Alice up a flight of stairs and along
                   the railing.
  Verity was bathed in the light of the sunset as
  Blaze said, “Verity, I’ve brought a doctor for
     you,” and pushed the door fully open.
   Alice stood on the threshold and her heart
                     sank.
  The young woman was lying on her back on a
 big white bed, propped up on two pillows and
  wearing a light shift. She had long, shining
black hair. The sun shone straight into her eyes
              but she didn’t blink.
  Alice put the woman’s body-age at somewhere
between seventeen and twenty, whether natural
  or chosen. Her hands, palms down, rested as
still at her sides as if she were a doll. They were
   red and puffy. And she was pregnant. Just
        barely, but unmistakably, showing.
  “Close the door and pull the curtain, please,”
      said Alice. “Do you have candles?”
  Blaze did as she asked and the room lit with a
   soft glow from some sort of line around the
    ceiling and Alice’s heart beat faster for a
  moment. Nan. Well, she’d be off the boat soon.
She wasn’t a superstitious ninny. She’d had the
finest nanicine training available when she had
gone to medical school. She’d taken her training
to areas of need. Africa and Montana. But she’d
  had her fill of it, all those technical fixes, one
 after another, that whirled out of control. She
 could heal without them. After what happened
                   to her father—
   But she wouldn’t get started on that again.
 She walked over to Verity and Verity’s eyes did
               not track her.
    “Hello,” she said. “I’m Alice Winford. I’m a
doctor. Your friends brought me to examine you.
  They’re a little concerned. What happened?”
 Verity did not speak. Alice looked at Blaze and
 he looked uncomfortable. “I’m not sure—” he
                    began.
   “If no one will talk to me I can’t help at all,”
    she said. “It’s somewhat of a handicap.”
           “There were Bees,” he began.
   “Bees. Yes. Well, that narrows things down.
                     Where?”
                  “Memphis.”
   “Oh.” Alice pulled up a chair and sat down,
 rested her elbows on her knees, and clenched
    her hands together. She wished for the
 thousandth time that some sort of glove could
 shield her from the effects of her inforam, but
    she’d never found anything completely
impermeable. The effects only took a bit longer
                  to manifest.
  “You are a doctor, aren’t you?” asked Blaze
         anxiously. “A real doctor?”
                 Alice nodded.
       “We never had one at Shaker Hill.”
   “Is that where you’re from? Where’s that?”
         “In Ohio. Near Dayton. But—”
                  “But what?”
  “It’s gone now. Verity—” His voice cracked.
 “Verity took me to Cincinnati to save my life.
         She was—she was the Queen.”
 Shit, thought Alice. It would have been better
          just to keep the Professor.
“What do you think is wrong with her hands?”
She leaned over and looked at one closer. She
 ached to pick it up. She didn’t dare. “What’s
that on her hands? Some kind of transparent
                    cover?”
  “Gloves,” said Blaze. “They get messages on
them. Or at least they used to. The people here
  on the boat. I’m not sure if they’re working
                   anymore.”
             “Can you take them off?”
            “I’m not sure—” said Blaze.
            “Try it. Please,” said Alice.
    Blaze shot her a look with eyes amazingly
green. Then he sat down on the bed and tried to
   peel off the left one, the one next to Alice.
   The covering was melded to her skin. “I’m
    afraid I’m going to hurt her,” he said.
  “She’s been like this since Memphis?” asked
                     Alice.
 “Yes. It was on the wharf. She was in Memphis
all night. Looking for me. I didn’t know she was
          there—” His voice was rising.
 “It’s all right,” said Alice, and patted his back.
  “I just can’t—I just can’t—” He began to cry,
 quietly and desperately. His fingers picked at
the gloves, explored her hand, again and again,
 until he began to shake. “Verity! Wake up!” he
 yelled, and Alice stood and pulled him away.
  After a few seconds Blaze’s schematics died
                     down.
 “It’s all my fault,” he said. “It’s all my fault. If I
           hadn’t gotten on the train—”
        “Yes, well,” said Alice. “Whatever.”
  Verity had not shown any sign of noticing his
                    touch.
    “Is she using the bathroom?” asked Alice.
 “She gets up every once in a while,” said Blaze.
    “Hmm,” said Alice. “Who’s in charge here,
                  anyway?”
  “Verity used to be,” said Blaze. “When we left
Cincinnati. Then it seemed like they all were, for
                     a while.”
                     “They?”
          “The people from Cincinnati.”
        “Really,” murmured Alice. “Most
   extraordinary. Were there many of them?”
    “Thousands,” said Blaze, and Alice thought,
 something is changing. “They used those gloves
to communicate. It helped them. Before they had
          them they were going nuts.”
        “You don’t have them,” said Alice.
 “I don’t have seps,” said Blaze, and showed her
                   his hands.
                     “Seps?”
                   “Receptors.”
 “Turn her hand over for me again, please,” said
                   Alice.
              “Why can’t you do it?”
               “Please do as I ask.”
  Blaze turned Verity’s palm up. Alice looked at
  it with her magnifying glass and sighed, but
didn’t comment. The woman was definitely from
  Cincinnati. But Alice couldn’t get much more
information this way. She sat in the chair again.
      “You don’t have the plague,” she said.
                       “No.”
         “Does anyone else on the boat?”
   “I think there are still some rafters aboard,
and most of them are plagued,” said Blaze. “A lot
 of them were injured in the attack. They’re on
  the boat. And some people from Cairo too. I
    don’t know much about it, I wasn’t here.”
             “You were on the train.”
   “Yes. I’m not sure about Jack and Lil. I don’t
 think they do. James is from the train and I’m
          not sure if he’s even a person.”
         Worse and worse, thought Alice.
    “Mattie’s crazy, and Twain is some sort of
 actor creation from St. Louis. I’ve only known
 Mattie for a day or two, but it seems as if she
        thinks she’s Mark Twain too—”
   “Don’t ever call me that!” The door slammed
open and they squinted in the last brilliant flare
of sunlight before the hills swallowed it. Mattie
stood there. She had put her dress on again and
was dripping wet. “My name is Samuel Clemens.
 That old fake destroyed himself by denying his
  real name and his real self. He made my life—
 our life—into a living hell!” She marched to the
 bureau and yanked open a drawer. “I thought I
left some cigars in here this morning. Who took
them? You have a really strange fish here. He’s
                      big.”
        “He’s a catfish. His name is Josh.”
        “That’s not his name,” said Mattie.
   Alice leaned back in her chair thoughtfully.
         Everyone was gone. It was dark.
  Verity got out of bed. She walked over to the
 door and opened it. She walked out onto the
deck and stood at the railing. There was a thin
new moon low in the sky. She thought she felt a
   stirring within her but it didn’t matter.
      The water below was dark, very dark.
     Verity climbed to the aft deck where the
 cannon still sat, blunt and black. There was a
box there and it was full of cannonballs. She slid
     the lid over, knelt, and picked one up.
 She could barely stand. It was very heavy. She
         walked over to the railing.
 If she jumped off and held this cannonball she
          would go right to the bottom.
  But maybe she would accidentally let go of it.
  Maybe it wasn’t very deep here and her feet
       would just get stuck in the mud.
  She slowly lowered the cannonball back into
 the box so that it wouldn’t make a sound. She
   slid the lid back on. No rush. There would
always be time until there was no more. Either
way was all right. It was chilly. She walked back
 to her room and got back into bed. She wished
    the Eye would come back. At least it was
 something. Anything was better than this. Was
 she crying? It didn’t matter. But she was. Yes.
                     She was.
   The paddlewheel jumped to motion late the
               next morning.
   Alice’s cat vanished once on board. They had
 spent several hours this morning loading not
   only Alice’s larder but a good supply of all
   manner of foods from the Madge’s Landing
 General Store, where the proprietor had been
pleased to get several hundred yards of silk in
trade. Or, “nano-silk,” as Alice took great pains
  to point out to him, not that he cared. Karen
Jackson had profited as well when they bought
out her entire woodlot. Apparently some of the
nanotech features of their boat were failing, or
           they anticipated failure soon.
 Alice stood holding the railing of the boat and
thought, what a beautiful house! I wonder who
  lives there? She must have a wonderful life.
Bucolic and carefree. Isolated and independent.
           Boy, she must have it made.
     Too bad she has this problem of feeling
         responsible for other people.
   She watched her house until the boat went
    round the wide bend below the landing.
  Then she sighed, turned, and entered Verity’s
                     room.



             Twenty-nine
         Them Old Kozmic Blues

Verity was the same as she had been the
previous day.
  Alice paced the floor back and forth. “You have
to eat,” she said. “You have a baby. I think you’re
  about fourteen weeks pregnant. Am I right?”
 That did get a blink out of her. That or the sun.
   Alice put her hands on her hips. “There are a
 lot of injured people on board that need care.”
She was particularly anxious to examine Mattie.
  “There are a lot of time-consuming problems.
   Burns, broken bones. I need to get back to
                       them.”
    Nothing. But she had known that cajoling
    wouldn’t work. There was deep, serious,
         neurochemical trouble here.
 Alice rubbed her hands on her jeans nervously.
 She pulled up a chair, sat next to Verity, and
             picked up her hand.
  A rush of schematics of chemical bonds flowed
    across her vision. All sorts of unpleasant
 clenchings and joltings took place throughout
   her body. She dropped the hand, took a deep
breath, and picked it up again. Feeling what the
    other people felt was a malfunction of the
  inforam she carried. I’m just here to help, she
 reminded herself, and tried to get to that place
she’d found where it would not affect her, where
       she could instead concentrate on the
         information at hand, so to speak.
      What she saw was the neurochemistry of
     severe depression. That certainly fit the
 woman’s demeanor. There appeared to be a few
extra bonds, though, that she would think about
later. Her handheld recorder, which would store
this information so that she could retrieve it at a
touch without disturbing the patient (or herself,
   once the initial contact had been made), was
missing from her hastily grabbed bag. That little
  Treadwell boy had rummaged all through her
 bag while she tended to his daddy’s burn a few
    weeks ago. That was probably where it had
 gone. She was sure that she’d miss all kinds of
  things in the next days and weeks. Well, there
                was no going back.
   She pulled up Verity’s shift and palpated her
  abdomen, which was normal. She put on her
stethoscope and listened to her breathe; listened
      to her heartbeat. No problems there.
     “Could you please sit up?” she asked. No
                    answer.
    “Look, I just saw you get up and go to the
   bathroom.” At least she’d been able to get a
    urine sample, though it hadn’t been easy.
 Gritting her teeth, she reached under Verity’s
  back and began yanking her hips toward the
   pillow, boosting her upright with one hand
  around her neck. Verity suddenly sat up very
straight and crossed her legs but the expression
            on her face didn’t change.
    “Thank you,” said Alice, and pulled Verity’s
  long hair back so she could get a good look at
   the bump she’d felt behind the woman’s ear.
Sitting on the bed and looking straight at Verity,
     she brought her own hands forward and
    touched both of the nubs at the same time.
 Verity jerked her head away and glared at her.
  “Ah,” said Alice. “Sensitive, are we? Memory
 matrices are quite unusual. Old-fashioned but
overwhelmingly powerful.” She raised her hand
        and Verity jerked away from it.
 “If you’d deign to talk to me, you could tell me
what happens when I do that,” said Alice. “As it
  is, I think that I might as well try it again.”
    Verity’s lips moved but nothing came out.
    “Try again,” said Alice, grabbing Verity’s
  shoulders and giving the matrix a good hard
            push. Verity screamed.
  Alice heard running feet and the door burst
 open. “What are you doing to her?” demanded
         Blaze. His face was flushed.
  “Examining her,” said Alice. “Maybe you can
    help. How long have you known her?”
             “All my life,” said Blaze.
      “How long has she had the matrices?”
                   “The what?”
          “The bumps behind her ears.”
 “Always,” said Blaze. “We were afraid to touch
                    them.”
     “I think the first steps here would be to
 remove the gloves and to remove the matrices.
  However, the gloves have apparently become
  incorporated into her body like a graft. Her
veins and nerves have grown into this layer. I’ve
 never seen anything like it, but then I’ve been
retired for quite a while too. And really, there’s
      no limit…” She paused thoughtfully.
  “I don’t know anything about the nubs,” said
    Blaze. “What do you think will happen?”
    “Do you care about Verity?” asked Alice.
 “I love her,” said Blaze, his voice catching a bit.
     “Then sit here and hold her hand. In the
absence of more precise information, that might
 help a bit right now. I need to think about it. I
 really hesitate to remove the matrices without
                 her permission.”
   Blaze sat next to Verity on the bed and took
   one of her hands in both of his. “It’s hot.”
   Alice nodded. “There’s an information flow
there and it’s causing the heat. You say that you
 were in Memphis and that’s when this started?
         She was all right before then?”
       “Pretty much,” said Blaze. “I mean,
                considering.”
  “Right. You said she was the Queen? What do
              you mean by that?”
  “She was the Queen of Cincinnati,” said Blaze.
    Alice was pretty sure that Blaze was sane.
           “Tell me about it,” she said.
  It took about half an hour. Blaze had kind of a
limited perspective, but it was an extraordinary
tale. Alice was sure he didn’t know the half of it.
         “She’s been through quite a lot.”
   “Yeah, and then I left her,” said Blaze. “She
            begged me not to go.”
        “Blaze, I don’t want to denigrate your
  self-image or anything, but I think she would
 have gotten over it in time. People do. So stop
kicking yourself. Apparently she saw you go into
       Memphis and followed you, correct?”
            “Yes, but I didn’t know—”
       “Right. So she was in there all night,
    wandering around. These Cities are very
   powerful systems. Generally one has to be
 initiated in some way or other before using a
 City. Now, you weren’t, but since you have no
 receptors I guess it didn’t matter—the City’s
 system didn’t really interact with you a lot. It
didn’t make you sick or disable you in any way.
                   Correct?”
 “Well—I played a lot of blues and drank a lot of
beer—” Alice could see that there was something
             he wasn’t telling her.
                       “And?”
  “Well, I have the blues inside me. I mean, it’s
   something I—I’ll tell you about later.” He
               glanced at Verity.
      “All right,” said Alice. “But Verity is
 exquisitely sensitive to such things. What else
  can you tell me about Memphis? I’ve heard
              unpleasant rumors.”
     Blaze told her what Jack had told him.
     “Oh,” said Alice, irritated. “Why didn’t
someone tell me sooner? Apparently she has the
  capability to transmit this information, this
depression, to all of the people from Cincinnati
          metapheromonally, right?”
 “I guess,” said Blaze. “But, like I said, since I’ve
   been back, everything is different. Maybe
     something happened in Cairo. All the
 Cincinnatians seem to have splintered apart.
   Maybe that’s good. There haven’t been any
messages on her gloves and I haven’t seen them
                on anyone else’s.”
     Alice sighed. This was a bit beyond her.
      Lil opened the door. “Can I come in?”
   “Please,” said Alice. “What can you tell me
about these gloves?” She saw Lil hesitate. “Look,
 we’re talking life and death here. If you know
 something I suggest you tell me. Now. Please.”
    Lil’s eyes darted to Verity. “You can’t help
                       her?”
  “I’m considering a few alternatives. But I need
 more information. All right? Now, last night I
thought you were just one of the gang. Until you
ran through the Professor’s bag. You knew what
                you were doing.”
         “All right,” said Lil. “Follow me.”
         “Watch her,” said Alice to Blaze.
  It was just a numbered stateroom but inside
Alice saw a world she had hoped to put behind
 her forever. “Things have been moving right
along, haven’t they?” she mused. She sat down
and ran through a few screens. “Damn. This is
               from Cincinnati?”
 “Mmm-hmmm,” said Lil. “And it’s not exactly
up-to-date. And neither is it dependable. We’ve
      been having problems since Cairo.”
   “It’ll do,” said Alice. “What kind of person is
                       Verity?”
   “Determined,” said Lil. “Confused. She feels
          guilty about Cincinnati.”
  “What have you told her? Anything she didn’t
                already know?”
             “Like what?” asked Lil.
   “I lived in Washington, D.C., just before the
 Third Wave, Lil. Or whatever your name is. I
  know your type. My father was a doctor too.
 Just trying to help. He laughed at me at first
 when I said that’s what I was going to do. And
  then he tried to stop me. He’s probably still
there, you know. Or something quite like him.”
                   She sighed.
      “I’m… sorry,” said Lil, in a low voice.
   Alice looked at her sharply. “It was long time
  ago. Anyway… memory matrices really aren’t
 happy things. They’re an early technology that
     proved much too overpowering for the
 architecture of the brain. She would be better
off without them. I think. I think that whatever
she picked up in Memphis has been augmented
by the matrices. She’s not an ordinary person by
         any stretch of the imagination.”
            “No,” said Lil. “She’s not.”
  “But maybe she’d like to be. Or maybe not. I
  don’t know. She probably doesn’t either. I
 wonder what was originally in the matrices?”
 “I don’t know,” said Lil. Alice looked at her for
 a long minute. “I really don’t,” she said. “She
  doesn’t talk about it. We know about her, of
course, because of the other Cincinnatians. But
            she keeps pretty quiet.”
 “Well,” said Alice. She sighed. “I think that it
may be possible to neutralize the gloves. It will
   take a while to figure out how to do it.”
                 “But—” said Lil.
             “What’s your objection.”
            “It could be… dangerous.”
  “Why do you think it could be dangerous?
What do you know about it? Anything specific?
         What’s your background?”
  “I was a bionan behavioral scientist,” Lil said
     after a minute. “That was my training.”
  “And where did you do your training?” asked
                   Alice.
    “Howard,” said Lil, tossing her head back a
 little and looking Alice in the eye. “And Johns
                    Hopkins.”
    “I’m kind of tempted to asked what—or
 who—you did your training on, but I suppose
            that would be rude.”
     “You got some kind of burr under your
              saddle?” asked Lil.
   “I’d just like to know what your stake is in
        keeping this woman nutted out.”
  “It’s a new sort of mind here,” said Lil, quite
    earnestly for such fluff, Alice thought,
 considering how no-nonsense she looked. “An
emergent mind. It may be important. Not just to
          them but to the whole world.”
  “Oh,” said Alice. “Kind of an experiment, eh?”
     “No,” said Lil. “That’s not what I said—”
  “New mind, hell,” said Alice, in a low, tough,
      voice. She favored Lil with her best
patient-advocate glare. “I’ve got one sick young
woman here. So just take your emergent bullshit
 and stuff it. I’ve got work to do. And I may not
                  have much time.”
 To her surprise, Lil said, “I guess you’re right,”
                    and left.
         “Do you want me to help you?”
  Verity heard a voice in her restless dreams, as
 she lay tossing on her bed. She dimly realized
that there was no one near—Jack was sitting at
 least twenty feet away, outside her open door,
       eating dinner. It was early evening.
  Alert, now, she looked around. But there was
no one in the room. It could not be Mother Ann;
          the voice was a man’s voice.
                    “Do you?”
                 “Yes,” she said.
   “Who’s there?” asked Jack. He jumped up and
  came into the room, holding a chicken leg. He
looked around. “Must have been hearing things,”
                     he said.



                    Thirty
               Free Will Blues

It was dark but that did not frighten Mattie.
Insects made a wall of sound around her as she
lay on the pilothouse roof on her back, and the
fresh clean smell of the river was sublime:
water. So much water. She loved the night. She
had always felt at home at night in Elysia, where
she liked to sneak out on the roof after
everybody was asleep and lie there and watch
the stars. Some of them came round and round
and round again, and those were the satellites.
   The stars were the same here, and so were the
 satellites, but the sky seemed smaller somehow.
  Probably all those trees and the damp, which
 misted the night sky over sometimes. And now,
 that comet was coming after her, but she didn’t
     even mind that. It would transform her,
   somehow. Maybe it could take her outward,
   outward from this planet, into that brilliant,
diamond-studded infinity. Why not? She had left
  Elysia. She would not mind leaving the whole
  planet. She could not imagine anything finer.
  She heard a sound below and turned over on
  her stomach, inched toward the side of the
    pilothouse, and looked over the edge.
 Below on the texas deck sat the Professor, on a
 bench. There was a wrought-iron table next to
him. On it sat a lightstick. He lifted up his black
  bag, set it on the table, dialed a combination,
 and opened it. The colored vials inside winked
               in the light like jewels.
   He picked up one vial and held it up to the
light, nodded in a satisfied way, and picked up
                 the next one.
   “I thought Lil got rid of all that,” whispered
                     Mattie.
 She grinned as the Professor slammed the lid
shut and glared up at her. “What are you doing
             up there?” he hissed.
   “Watching the stars.” She turned, found the
    ladder with her feet, and climbed down.
           He opened his bag once more.
   “The bottles are all full again,” said Mattie.
 When she first swam with Josh the other night
    at Madge’s landing, she had watched Lil
carefully pour the contents of all the vials into a
 metal container and then dump some powder
   into it before sliding the case back to the
                    Professor.
  “Don’t tell her,” he said. “They’re getting there.
I just had to re-replicate everything, that’s all. It
      has secret compartments for just that
  contingency. It is almost impossible to travel
     around this country doing good without
  small-minded people becoming agitated from
    time to time. It isn’t the first time this has
              happened. Want some?”
 His question was eager. His eyes and his slight
smile were both sincere. “It will cure what ails
you. Even things you don’t know about. I won’t
charge anything. All my needs are being taken
         care of here. And I like you.”
   “No,” said Mattie. “What’s that sign say?” A
brass plate was screwed onto the velvet backing
           of the interior of the case.
 “That’s where I got it from,” he said. “I ordered
it many years ago when I was living in Texas. It
     was expensive, but well worth it. I had it
    shipped to me on NAMS. I left to roam the
country then, to do good, yes ma’am. In fact, the
 very hour I picked it up in the train station, I
 made a snap decision and took the next train
   out. Once I opened the kit I knew it was my
   calling. I haven’t seen my wife since. I don’t
     believe she missed me though. She often
expressed a hearty desire to see me gone. And I
 was sure that after she discovered I’d cleaned
 out our bank account to buy my kit she would
   lean even more strongly in that direction.”
  “Hold the light closer,” said Mattie. The plate
                      said,
            BAY REPLICATORS INC.
 COMPLETE UNIVERSAL RESTORATION KIT
      POSITIVE RESULTS GUARANTEED
                 Patent Pending
    “They fix everything,” said the Professor.
     “They really do. The directions said that
  everything is a pattern. Patterns of memory,
    patterns of mind and thought and being.
 Patterns of flesh and bone and gene. We’re all
 just a temporary pattern. This finds the main
 pattern and restores it. That’s what it said on
  page five, section c, though I lost the booklet
 long ago. It didn’t matter, though. The ad said
‘all-purpose, easy to use,’ and it was correct. So
  reassuring, don’t you think, in this world of
 hyperbole and lies? And I am a religious man.
         Every time I use the kit, I pray.”
       “I don’t believe in God,” said Mattie.
        “I can fix that,” said the Professor.
     “No, thanks,” said Mattie. “Why didn’t
 everyone in the world get one of these bags?”
    “Well, my dear,” said the Professor, “this bag
   broke any number of laws. It was not easy to
     procure. I became a criminal the minute I
   ordered it. Can you imagine all the people it
    would have put out of work? Psychiatrists,
      physicians, pharmaceutical companies,
 hospitals… it was simply unthinkable. The very
   right of something like this to exist had been
  litigated into oblivion. It was created by some
 sort of radical do-gooder cult of doctors. Only a
 limited number were made and shipped before
the FDA found these people and forced them out
                    of business.”
    Mattie said, “I asked Alice what was wrong
     with your bag and she said that it was a
technofix and that she was tired of technofixes.
She said that it’s what’s caused all the problems
 in the first place. It just all got out of control.”
  She raised her voice a bit. “You can come out
              now, whatever you are.”
    “My name is James.” He stepped out from
             behind the corner.
    “You’re always following me around,” said
                     Mattie.
         “Yes,” said James. “That’s true.”
    “Humans and technology are like the double
      helix of DNA,” continued the Professor.
“Humans are technology. There is no other face
    to technology. There is no way to separate
    technology from humans, or humans from
   technology. Those who remain apart become
     extinct—those too poor to have access to
     medicine, or electricity, or those who for
  philosophical reasons isolate themselves from
all technology. Every attempt to use technology
  is simply evolution. Humans have never been
   without technology, from a simple tool like a
planting stick or spear on to here, where we are
now. And beyond. There is a beyond, you know.
Probably when the first person made a spear, all
 the others declared the world was going to hell
 in a handbasket. Alice is silly. But I think she’s
            unhappy about something.”
   “It seems like just about everybody is,” said
  Mattie. “Everybody except me. And Clemens
  loved technology. Went round claiming that
Huckleberry Finn was the first novel written on
a typewriter. Had the first phone in town.” She
 leaned against the pilothouse and crossed her
                       arms.
   “Alice poses an interesting point, though,” said
the Professor, settling into his chair. “Let’s look
       at this from the point of view of an old
technology. At one time weavers of cloth were in
    demand. They mastered a skill and could be
  independent. Then people who could afford to
  build cloth mills. Not only did this technology
 put the weavers out of business, but the people
  who labored in the mills worked long hours in
unhealthy conditions for very little money. They
 did not receive a proportionate return for their
labor. After the expense of building the mill and
 the ongoing expense of raw material and labor,
the owner generally made enough money to live
 in a much finer and healthier manner than the
    workers which made it possible. In fact, the
       workers lived miserable lives. Was the
technology to create beautiful cloth quickly and
 relatively cheaply a bad thing? No. People need
    cloth. What was wrong was the exploitation.
 That was the human element, the exploitation.
   The motive for exploitation is what has to be
 gotten rid of, not the technology. You could say
that the free will of the workers was taken away
    by technology, but that would be a false
  conclusion. The free will of the workers was
  taken away by the owners of the technology.
             That was the problem.”
   “Are you really a professor?” asked Mattie.
   “I was merely a humble high school teacher,”
    said the Professor. “My lectures appeared
 virtually via a private high-school consortium.
 They kept very poor records about how often I
appeared, and how much they ought to pay me. I
  claimed they were cheating me. I think they
were going to fire me. I decided a career change
                  was in order.”
  “I think you’re the Mysterious Stranger,” said
                     Mattie.
 The Professor nodded. “Apropos,” he said. “If I
   remember correctly, Twain’s Mysterious
      Stranger gave humans autonomy.”
  “He healed them of their faith in God,” said
Mattie. “He made them realize they had to make
up their own minds about things. It was pretty
                    scary.”
   “I’m not sure I like being compared to the
Devil,” mused the Professor. “Seeing as how I’m
   about the Lord’s work. Though it’s been
 suggested before. Loudly, by people chasing
                      me.”
    “I suppose you could think of the Devil as
 bad,” said Mattie, “but he’s the main proponent
of free will.” She frowned and scrunched up her
face. “Wait a minute… there’s a dissenting paper
 here… but that student got a pretty bad grade.”
    “You don’t have free will,” said James to
    Mattie. “You think you’re Mark Twain.”
 Mattie glared at him. “Don’t worry, James. My
 will is free as a bird. Not that it’s any of your
                     business.”
   He shook his head. “It doesn’t look like it to
  me. I don’t think that you know when you’re
 going to be Twain and when you’re going to be
 Mattie. I don’t think you chose this. Did you?”
  “I’m choosing to stay this way,” said Mattie.
 “You’re a fine one to talk about free will. You
            don’t even have a brain.”
   “On the contrary,” he said. “That’s all I am.”
          “You’re a fake man,” she said.
   “I’ve been thinking about that lately, and I
disagree with you,” said James. “I evolved from
   the LA dome. I was manifested by it. I… I
condensed—I was caused to be condensed—out
 of the same material as all of them, the same
 stuff as Masa. I don’t have a past as a human,
   certainly, like the people on the train; no
  memories to return to; no one to miss. I was
manifested for the convenience of the people on
  the train. But I am as human as they were.”
 “Which is to say, not much,” said Mattie, with a
          sniff. “That lady was weird.”
 “It was her humanity that made her seem that
 way, not the part from the dome,” said James,
         with an odd look on his face.
        “You are not human,” said Mattie.
    “Let me tell you why you have that sense of
   me,” said James. A breeze brushed his light
  brown hair from his brow and a fish jumped,
   slapping the water. His put his hands in his
pockets and bowed his head. “While I was on the
   train, I didn’t think that I was as human as
 them,” James said. “They didn’t treat me as if I
   was, and I never really minded—all I cared
 about was her. …” He was silent for a moment.
  “But since I’ve been off the boat, all that has
            changed. Thanks to Blaze.”
  “You still haven’t convinced me,” said Mattie.
 “You just don’t seem like it. It’s your face. The
way you act. They just made you, right? Thought
                     you up?”
 “Well…” James looked at Mattie. “The closest I
  can come to it in English is they needed me.
   They wanted me. I just conformed to their
vision, that’s all. And I guess the train wasn’t as
  stimulating as all this out here. Brains need
     stimulation, variety, to grow, to make
                    connections.”
    “Well,” said Mattie indignantly, “That’s not
 fair! If they made you, and you need all that in
order to be… to be real, it was cruel of them not
       to help you! They should be shot!”
  “One of them was,” said James, and his mouth
 turned down at the corners. “I probably seem
different because I’m actually more than human.
     Kind of on a sideways track. My DNA is
  artificial. It’s possible that the entire idea of
  being human evolved far past where you are
now, in the dome. I don’t particularly want to be
  human, mind you. But it seems important to
 you.” He gestured at the Professor’s open bag.
       “May I please sample some of that?”
  “What do you mean?” the Professor asked. “I’d
           be happy to treat you—”
  “I just want to see what’s in those vials. Touch
            it. That’s one way I learn.”
   “You understand that it might change you?
           Touch is how it works.”
         James nodded. “DMSO,” he said.
                “Transdermal.”
      “I don’t know about all that,” said the
Professor. “How about the diagnostic first.” He
 selected the vial that had a label of diagnose.
      “That looks pretty easy,” said Mattie.
 “I told you that it is. But there is another step.”
   He quickly pushed a small white oval onto
          James’s palm and took it off.
  “Interesting,” said James, holding his palm in
  the light. “I see nothing, and feel no pain, but
 you’ve created a thousand tiny breaches in my
                        skin.”
   “Hold out your hand,” the Professor said to
                    James.
     The Professor put a bean-sized drop on
  James’s palm, and it flattened out. “Hold it
 under the light,” he said. He stared at it for a
  minute. He looked at James’s face. “It’s not
  working,” he said. “Something’s wrong. It’s
supposed to turn colors. It’s just staying clear.”
He sighed. “Maybe something’s happened to the
                      kit.”
    “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s fine. Try one of
      those other vials,” suggested James.
  The Professor said, “I don’t think that would
be very responsible. I’ve never seen this before.”
  “I don’t think it will hurt me,” said James. He
glanced at Mattie and the corners of his mouth
  turned up. “Not if Mattie is right about me.”
   “He can joke!” said Mattie, with a sarcastic
     twist that might have been Twain’s.
  “Can that heal the Norleans Plague?” asked
Mattie. “Somehow I think Twain would be pretty
    proud of that plague—the rafts and all.”
 The Professor said, “The Norleans Plague, best
 I understand it, is a balance, of sorts. At any
     rate, no, I’ve had no success with it.”
    A dot of the red goo sat on James’s palm. He
   said, “This contains retroviruses that carry
     genetic repair information. A cocktail of
      megavitamins. All kinds of antibiotics.
Hormones. Some are absorbed through the skin.
The retroviruses are too large for that, but they
slip easily into the bloodstream via the breaches
                   you created.”
     “I’ve never gotten that technical,” said the
Professor. “It’s the Lord’s work. No matter what
 Mattie says about the Mysterious Stranger. The
  way I think about it is this: Human hopes and
    dreams have a certain configuration in the
  brain. There’s a baseline of normalcy in what’s
        happening in the human body, in the
      communication between all its different
systems. But each whole being is unique. Used to
    be, in old-style medicine, that they’d fix one
   thing and that fix would push something else
    out of whack, create a new problem. To me,
 that’s what a technofix is. That’s the way things
     used to be. The brochure said the kit was
  created to resolve physical, philosophical, and
      psychological pressures. And that such
    pressures are caused by imbalances in the
 body.” He looked at Mattie. “Which is what you
                  have, young lady.”
  Mattie said gravely, “I like my philosophical
 and psychological pressures, thank you. I feel
  alive. I feel useful. Sam Clemens felt useful.
 Even his darkest writings were an attempt to
 make himself useful by trying to tell everyone
    how deluded they were. He disguised his
darkness with that jolly Mark Twain stuff, but
 that all fell away at the end. He was trying to
save them. And he was trying to save his whole
 country from the evils that came from people
 benefiting from the death of others by selling
weapons and by starting wars abroad. Trying to
  save people gives you a real purpose in life.”
   “Mattie,” said James, hesitantly, “you’ve been
changed by some sort of technology gone awry. I
heard you telling Masa what happened to you on
  the train. Maybe what the Professor has here
 could rebalance you. It could make you human
again. Twain has taken you over. You don’t have
       any free will of your own anymore.”
       Mattie flared instantly, “I don’t want my
 balance restored. I like being who I am, what I
 am, now. If I weren’t Twain, I couldn’t even say
 these things, not this well. I choose to be who I
  am. If balance means going back, I don’t want
   it.” Beneath the stars, she could feel Twain’s
     facility with words shaping her thoughts,
  thoughts that had their seed in hard-scrabble
        Elysia but that had taken root on the
    unimaginable train and begun to put forth
shoots on the riverboat. What the flower would
    be, she did not know, but she could feel its
beauty and majesty within her, as potential that
 would soon be realized in some powerful way.
 Maybe it was all these stars that made her feel
this way. Or maybe it was that comet, sweeping
                    closer…
    “I’m a new sort of person. It may be strange,
  but that’s what I am, now. And that’s what I’ll
   be.” Invisible trees rustled in the wind, and
 Mattie stared at them across the dark river. “In
  Elysia, you play the hand you’re dealt. You do
the work you’re given, for the good of everybody.
You don’t shirk or whine. This is an opportunity,
not a curse, and I won’t have it taken away from
 me. I never could have imagined such thoughts
 before. This is my glory. This is my dream. This
 is my vision. It’s who and what I am, right now.
 It’s what I’ll do because of who I am. You think
 you’re human, James. Do you have a vision? Do
                 you have a dream?”
    James tilted his head and looked at Mattie.
  “No,” he said. He frowned. “In the dome, we…
it… or whatever I used to be… it’s different than
out here. In the dome, every thought/place leads
 to another thought/place. It’s all already there.
 Closed. Finished. The idea of glory, of vision, is
there, I guess. You can experience it. It’s already
  done, accomplished, finished. There’s nothing
        new. You just move to that space.”
 “That’s not human,” said Mattie, triumphantly.
  “There wasn’t even a real you there. And you
    didn’t decide anything. You just splashed
         around like water in a pond.”
 “No,” said James to Mattie. “There was more to
   it than that. Things… I can’t talk about.”
  “Why not?” asked Mattie. “Why can’t you talk
                  about it?”
   “I’ve never really tried,” said James. “I know
I’ll be able to eventually. This is just all so new.
  If you’re a new kind of person, then so am I.”
 “Post-human,” suggested the Professor, closing
                   his kit.
      “I like the sound of that,” said James.
  “Sounds a lot more high-class than fake man,
           doesn’t it?” said Mattie.



                  Thirty-one
                  Past Blues

Blaze and James went up to the pilothouse to
see the lay of the river. There was a fine view
and Blaze thought it might help take his mind
off whatever Doc was doing to Verity. She’d had
knives. They were small and shaped funny but
they were still knives and very sharp ones at
that which she pulled from her bag. She smiled
at the knives almost fondly and said something
about knives being a fallback that never went
out of style in medicine. When Blaze started to
argue with her she threw him out of the room.
    As Blaze walked toward the pilothouse Lil
 rushed by him. Her eyes were red from crying.
 She wouldn’t stop to talk to him. Half a minute
 later Jack came running by and asked Blaze if
                 he’d seen her.
       “What’s got her so upset?” he asked.
  “Two people killed themselves last night—one
  hanged herself, the other one cut his wrists,”
said Jack. “And another one injured in the Cairo
                   riot died.”
  Blaze sighed. People had been dying regularly,
 about one a day, from injuries too devastating
for the boat to handle, especially now that it was
 crippled. And sometimes they died even if they
  weren’t injured, but nobody knew why. Alice
 probably hadn’t slept since coming on the boat.
Before he could ask Jack anything else, Jack ran
                    off again.
 Blaze felt helpless. It didn’t seem as if anything
could help these people. He’d stayed up half the
  night playing the blues for Verity, but it was
     hard to tell whether or not she liked it.
  Mattie was in the pilothouse, on her stool, as
  usual. Today she wore a cool-looking white
 dress, part of the white wardrobe she’d asked
Peabody to have the boat make her way upriver.
The boat had done a pretty good job with that. It
    had a mind of its own now. Sometimes it
worked, sometimes it didn’t. Which made it good
that they’d picked up food at Madge’s Landing.
  But, Blaze thought, Norleans couldn’t be far
    away. Only a few more days. If it wasn’t
 drowned, like Verity had said. It seemed like
 they could hold out for a few days. Just a few
                  more days.
  Mattie was taking a stronger line with Twain
    than she had the day before regarding
 navigation. “We’re coming to a dead channel,”
          she said, about three times.
   “Just leave the hard lifting to me, cub,” he
     said. “And nip me off another cigar.”
  “It’s your turn to do the nipping and my turn
         to take the wheel,” she replied.
   “Here, ma’am, I’ll fix the cigar for you,” said
 James. He really seemed to like Mattie. Blaze
 knew he missed Masa. He was capable of that.
   James whipped a cigar out of the box and had
  it cut and lit before anyone could say boo, and
 practically stuck it in her mouth and smoked it
  for her too. “Some whiskey, perhaps? Or some
lemonade? How about some iced tea. Refreshing
 in this weather. Or maybe whiskey with water
                   and lemon or…
   “I’m fine,” she said, and her little face was
 anxious as she studied the river. But he kept
 badgering her and finally she snarled, “Leave
      me alone, man! I’m trying to think!”
 James stepped back and Blaze expected to see
 his usual hurt look cross his face. It was just
          about his only expression.
  Instead, he smiled a little, seemed surprised at
      his smile, then smiled again, this time
 indulgently. “That’s all right,” he said. “You’re
   just a little girl. You probably shouldn’t be
          smoking or drinking whiskey.”
 “That’s all right,” she said in a mimicking tone,
clearly irritated by this obvious condescension.
She turned an imperious stare on him. “Call me
   ‘just a little girl’ if you like. You don’t know
much. Only what’s been put into you. We had a
 word for you in Elysia. Simulacrum. We’d just
   never seen one. You and that woman on the
 train. Both cracked. But I think she was real.
     Post-human, my eye.” She seemed to have
  snapped back to being Mattie, for a moment,
 though that was getting more and more rare.
  “Simulacarum,” James said thoughtfully. “A…
  representation… an image of something… an
imitation or sham… Hmmm. Well, although I am
 supposed to be, in a way, an imitation in that I
    look as if I’m human, I was created to be
     something more. Something different.”
   “Pretty fancy stuff for a fake man,” Mattie
                    replied.
   “What if I were rude to you, James?” Blaze
 asked. “Would you be hurt? Would you smile?”
He was aware that it was a rude question, in and
 of itself, but he tried to frame it in a curious,
              rather than rude, tone.
   “You’re always rude to me,” James said. His
     smile was broader. Apparently he was
    developing a sense of sarcasm. Probably
  absorbing it directly from Mattie somehow.
         Blaze wasn’t sure he liked it.
  “But you know,” Mattie said musingly, taking
 another puff before Twain borrowed her cigar,
“A simulacrum might not be half-bad. They’d be
better humans. Better than humans. They could
leave humanity in their wake. They would make
  more sense of things than humans. Wouldn’t
they, James? You had no name on the train,” she
         said. “And you couldn’t smile.”
     “I had a name. I just didn’t tell anyone.”
                   “The smile?”
            “You’re right. I couldn’t.”
 “That’s because…” Her voice changed; then she
continued in a lower, rougher voice. “ ‘… you are
 not you—you have no body, no blood, no bones,
     you are but a thought. I myself have no
  existence; I am but a dream—your dream, a
        creature of your imagination.’ ”
   “That’s pretty good,” remarked Twain. “I’ll
            have to remember that.”
 “You will,” said Mattie, in her own voice. “You
 will. But when you do, you’ll believe it, and it
         won’t be a joke to you either.”
    “By God, you’re really starting to wear me
              down,” said Twain.
 “Somebody has to do it before it’s too late and
you’ve made too many mistakes that you can’t
   take back, wasted all your money on the
Machine, spoken harshly to your poor daughter
 Susy to whom you can never apologize after
                she’s dead—
  “ENOUGH!” thundered Twain. “Remove this
        flea from the pilothouse.”
 “Take the left channel,” said Mattie, with quiet
     authority. “The right has filled in.”
     “You are wrong, pipsqueak,” said Twain,
turning the wheel to the right. They had about a
    quarter mile to make the choice and the
distance was closing fast. An island divided the
  river, a sight they’d seen a hundred times by
   now. Both sides looked equally mysterious.
  “Damn you!” shouted Mattie. “You’ll kill us all
yet!” She yanked on the wheel and Twain picked
 her up, set her outside the door, locked it, and
              returned to his post.
 Outside the window, she looked shocked for an
  instant, then set up a screaming that shook
 Blaze’s very teeth, climbed through the open
window, and rushed Twain. James grabbed her
 and carried her from the room, slamming the
door behind them. It seemed appropriate. Blaze
could hear her screams diminish as he took her
             to the back of the boat.
     “What if she’s right?” Blaze asked Twain.
   “I know this river like I know my own face,”
 Twain replied in an irritated voice. “Have you
 any idea how long, how tedious the training—”
    “But it might have changed, mightn’t it?”
       “Get out!” he shouted. “A man has to
                  concentrate.”
            He took the right channel.
   Blaze sighed, then went back down to see if
   Alice would let him back in to see Verity.
  She was sitting in a chair with her head in her
    hands. She looked up when he came in.
   “What’s wrong?” Blaze asked. The gleaming
knives were laid out on a piece of cloth that said
sterilizing on it, like it was something that kept
happening. Maybe it did. But the knives weren’t
           making her smile anymore.
   She sighed and leaned back in the chair. She
 looked at Verity sadly. “It seems that the boat’s
    not working,” she said. “Of course it’s been
    years—decades, I suppose—since I’ve tried
  anything like this, but I used to be pretty good
at it. You can’t imagine all the bizarre things I’ve
                       seen.”
  Blaze thought he could probably could get a
 good running start at it, but an answer didn’t
            seem to be required.
    “Well, it seems as if it’s spreading. Whatever
was in Memphis. I thought that I could separate
 it out. But it’s really intertwined too deeply. It
  affects all the neuronal pathways.” She stood
up, suddenly decisive. “I’m glad you’re back. You
 can sit with her while I anesthetize her hand.”
   Verity looked the same, and it gave Blaze a
chill to see her just staring into space like that,
          with no expression on her face.
                      “What?”
     “Numb her hand,” she said. “Probably not
    necessary, just polite. I’m trying another
approach. I’m going to cut a very tiny patch out
 and analyze the interface. This will take very
 little energy from the boat. If we’re lucky, the
                synthesizer can—”
                   “The what?”
  “The room that made the gloves,” she said. “I
  used it to show Verity what was happening
inside her body, but of course she didn’t care. I
don’t blame her. It’s actually pretty depressing
in and of itself. Anyway, I want the synthesizer
  to create an enzyme that can slide along the
 interface between the glove and her skin and
                   divide them.”
   She looked up. The Professor was standing
 outside the window, gazing in at Verity with a
curious, wistful look on his face. It struck Blaze
       that the fellow wore the strangest
 costume—some kind of formal black suit with
   ruffles on the white shirt, long tails on the
jacket that did not fit round him, and a top hat.
 His white shirt was stained and his black hat
                   was faded.
    Alice stared at him, eye to eye. “Shoo!” she
                       said.
                 He sidled away.
    “I know you’re a doctor,” Blaze said, “and I
know you’re trying to help. But why do you want
  to fool with the gloves? They were all insane
 when they didn’t have the gloves. They needed
 Cincinnati, whatever was in Cincinnati. They
 needed it more than Twain needs whiskey. It
   was awful. Is that going to happen again?”
   “I don’t know,” said Alice. “But she’s insane
             now. Which is better?”
   Blaze said, “I think the question should be,
                Which is worse.”
    The low, silky blue of Jack insinuated itself
 through the open window. His blues were quiet
and sedate, at least now, so early in the morning.
  He had taken the music up with a vengeance.
  Blaze thought Jack was kind of depressed too.
    He was singing something about Memphis.
   “Ropes and knives and bridges,” said Verity,
  startling us both. She stared straight ahead,
   though, and didn’t move. Her mouth barely
     moved. “Ropes and knives and bridges.”
        “What are they for?” asked Alice.
               “Nothing,” she said.
   “You could kill yourself with those things,”
                   Alice said.
      Blaze said, “Now just wait a minute!”
           Verity said, dreamily, “Yes.”
      “You want to kill yourself?” Blaze asked
incredulously. Such a thought was beyond him.
  It was absurd and horrible both at the same
    time. “She’d never do that. She couldn’t.”
   “She could, and more easily than you might
 think,” Alice told him. “I talked to Jack about
Memphis too. Look at it this way. If she doesn’t
kill herself, and whatever was in Memphis can
somehow use her as a conduit, then that would
 be a pretty bad thing. She might realize this.”
                  Verity blinked.
   “Couple this with the depression that this
  philosophy causes and I don’t think it’s so
            far-fetched,” said Doc.
  “Well, I guess you could try the glove thing,”
                   Blaze said.
  “I’m also going to remove the matrices,” she
                      said.
         Jack’s music got a little louder.
 Verity’s eyes filled with tears. “Rose,” she said.
“I am Rose.” She touched one matrix, pushed it,
           pushed it again. And again.
  “Why don’t you stop her?” Blaze asked, panic
                 in his voice.
   Alice just looked at Verity shrewdly. In the
   silence, Jack’s voice rang out, the steady
               cadence of his blues.
         “Are you Rose yet?” Alice asked.
     “Always Rose,” she said, her voice dull.
              “Are you ever Verity?”
  “I’ve never been Verity. Always Rose. Always.”
 Blaze was astonished at the tears which began
                   to flow.
   Sobs shook Verity’s thin body. He had never
 seen her face so anguished, not in all their life
   together, through all their seasons of being
Shakers. She pulled her legs tightly against her
body and rocked back and forth. Her voice was
 muffled when she spoke. “No one else. Nothing
else. There’s nothing else to me. There can’t be.”
  “That’s not true,” Blaze said. He dropped down
 next to her and gently pushed his arm between
 her legs and her chest and held her close. Her
     breasts pressed against him; he felt her
  backbone beneath his splayed hands and she
 was so very thin and frail, which startled him.
    “You’ve always been Verity to me! Always!
Please come back, Verity! Don’t… don’t do any of
        those terrible things. I love you!”
 “Verity, please let me remove the matrix,” said
    Alice. Her voice was quiet but insistent.
              “But without them—”
          “There will be you,” said Alice.
   Verity’s shoulders stiffened. “No,” she said.
     Just then the boat let loose with a huge
     roar—the reversal of the paddlewheel.
   Verity and Blaze were thrown from the bed
and everything on the dresser and table crashed
                 to the floor.
   Alice and Blaze ran out the door and saw the
 sign that said welcome to angelville where the
     river ended, dollars all types welcome.



                Thirty-two
              Heavenly Blues

Verity hid in one of the rooms until they got the
gangplank down and while she was hiding she
pulled on some too-large clothes she found in
the bureau and bunched up her hair and stuck it
under a straw hat. They were trying to kill her
and she had to get away. She knew that did not
make sense because after all she had just tried
to kill herself the other night so what difference
did it make, but there it was. They were trying
to kill her and she had to get away. That doctor
would take away Cincinnati and take away the
messages and everyone in her mind in one fell
swoop and there would be nothing left of her
except…
               All that nothing.
 Her hands ached though and she ripped off the
  shirt she was trying to button but could not
because her fingers were too puffy and instead
threw clothes out of the drawer until she found
                    a T-shirt.
   Blaze ran down the deck yelling for her and
 when his voice got close she crouched behind
 the bureau and when he stuck his head in and
  yelled he didn’t even see her, and ran on, his
       shouts receding. How simple it was.
  Scores of people flooded down the gangplank.
 Abandoned rafts littered the rocky beach and
 more rafters drifted around the river’s bend in
   the Queens wake. Verity heard the Twains
  arguing up above as she crossed over to the
      shore. She saw Peabody back at the
     mud-jammed paddlewheel yelling and
                  gesticulating.
     Up ahead she saw a smiling man directing
everyone up the path. “Wel-come to the ho-ly city
  of An-gelville,” he said or rather yelled not at
 her but at anyone, everyone, as if they were all
 going to the circus. “For the glory of God and to
  praise his ho-ly name morning noon and night
    and as a refuge for sinners. Donations wel
                       -come!”
      Verity was completely indifferent to his
message but hurried along so she could get over
 the rise and away from the boat. Another sign
said that there was a Revival every night. “We’re
back in America,” said the woman next to her, in
   a happy, swooning sort of voice, and ran on
                     ahead.
    Verity wondered what had happened to the
 plague in all these folks, but probably not all of
them were from Cincinnati. Maybe some of them
were from Cairo and others of them appeared to
have been here for a good long time. There was a
big building down by the river that said trading
  post. She noticed that the next hill over was
 covered with white crosses, rows and rows and
  rows of them, shining in the sun. How many?
  Five hundred? A thousand? Was that but the
      local harvest of the Norleans Plague?
 She stopped on the rise and looked back at the
  boat. Blaze was there. Looking for her. The
   doctor wanted to take away her memory
 sponges and the receptors and everything. So
               she had to leave.
  “I can tell them no,” she said, and sat down on
        the rise. People walked past her.
         The strange darkness had lifted.
  She did not know why. And she was afraid
when she thought of it for it could come back at
 any time. That was the scariest thing of all.
Maybe just thinking about it could bring it back.
But how could she not think about it? Trying not
 to think about it would remind her of it. Maybe
 it would be better if she just killed herself. The
 world would be better without her. That was a
  fact. There was a huge live oak not a hundred
feet away, with pale green Spanish moss stirring
in the breeze. She could climb up on it and jump.
 That would not take very long. She would have
 to try and get as high as possible. Once she was
  dead could the nan creep out of her, that dark
stuff from Memphis? Could it go on without her?
   She did not know. It was something to think
    about. Maybe she could set herself on fire
  somehow and it would all burn up. That might
                     be better.
   The doctor had another alternative. Knives
 and enzymes. But why would changing her so
        much take away the darkness?
        Because the nan from Memphis had
apparently lodged within the vortices of the nan
 she already bore and used it to grow faster and
  to intensify itself. The doctor had shown her
pictures of it, she remembered now, though she
   hadn’t paid much attention at the time. The
doctor had taken Verity down to the glove room
and Verity had seen it moving through her body,
    and growing. If she understood the doctor
correctly, the memory sponges… “matrices” was
    the proper name… were an augmentation
                    device.
  An augmentation device that she’d had almost
  all of her life. Would she remember anything
without them? She had recalled, once, the scene
 and the circumstances of their insertion. They
were inserted solely to rescue Cincinnati. Which
she had done. And that had been her goal in life,
     but not one that she had chosen herself.
   Maybe it was time to choose one instead of
being driven willy-nilly by all of this. One good
thing was that without color vision, the plague
was not invoked so often! So the darkness was a
               respite, of sorts.
    And her hands! She looked down at them.
   Silent for so long, perhaps it meant that the
    mind which had been borning was now
fractured. The gloves had served their purpose.
      Maybe it was time to just be herself.
             Whoever that might be.
 She held up her hands and examined them. To
her surprise she could find few vestiges of the
    gloves. They had been a thin, clear, light
  covering, skintight. She could not see where
they ended at her wrists. They had completely
melded with her hands. The marking were still
 there—for instance, the green circle that had
said Cincinnati to Jones. Her hands were still
 kind of puffy, kind of warm, but the swelling
was going down. Some sort of process had been
              completed, perhaps.
   But she wished she did not feel so woozy. So
                     dull.
  “You are tarred with the blackness of sin,” said
  a sweet-looking middle-aged woman, bending
 over and looking into Verity’s eyes. “Come with
me and we will save you.” She reached down and
   took Verity’s hand but when she did so she
pulled away after only a second of futile tugging.
She stared into Verity’s eyes for a long moment,
    then walked off without saying anything.
  And she will give it to someone else and she
will give it to someone else and what do I care?
      thought Verity. What does it matter?
  Then the thought struck her: What is it doing
                to my baby?
   What do you care, that dark part of her said. It
 is better off not being born. You could save it a
  lot of trouble. You could get a sharp knife and
     cut your wrists, isn’t that how it’s done?
   “Shut up,” she said. She sat there for another
 few minutes. Everything was in shades of white
and black and gray. Down at the dark gray river
  a huge crowd of people were pushing the boat
backward, slipping and splashing into the river,
  using long boards as levers. They must be the
ones who still had the plague, or maybe they just
  didn’t like Angelville. Peabody was yelling and
    so was Twain, over the voicetube, his voice
           booming out over the river.
  It was amazing. She looked again. They were
 actually moving the boat! Just a little at first.
 Then more, and then a bit more, until at last it
     slid smoothly backward as if down an
        underwater hill. A wave, a cheer.
    The All-Seeing Eye was beginning to stir.
   She could feel it. Its tendrils were cold and
    snaked through her brain. It whispered
 messages about how nothing meant anything.
  Personality, the organization of matter, the
 hopes and dreams of humans. They all meant
 nothing. The messages were true. It was the
                       truth.
            And then Rose was there.
 Was it Rose? Sitting next to her? Or was it just
           someone she imagined?
     Rose’s voice was gentle, not threatening.
    Comforting, not imperative. We will pull
through, you and I. We’ve done so much, against
 tremendous odds. You are a very brave person.
 Without you I would be nothing. Without you I
could have done nothing. Now you need to heal.
  Rest, and accept help. Don’t push everything
        away. You need the world to live.
     Verity squinted into the sun, which was
glaring down on the Queen. “How do you know?”
     she asked. “You don’t know about this
 blackness. You don’t know about the All-Seeing
                      Eye.”
       What do you think it was like for me in
 Cincinnati? An eon of darkness. An eon of pain.
Until you came. Until you came with your energy
  and your truth and your anger. I could not be
angry with Abe. I loved him too much. I failed my
city. It was you who saved it. With your hope and
                 with your being.
  Rose’s face was full of lines and pain and love.
               Then she vanished.
   That’s what comes of playing with those
memory sponges, Verity thought. Alice had been
          poking at them for days.
  But what did it matter whether or not Rose
had been sitting there? Rose had been real, and
          Rose had been within her.
  And Rose was very strong. It could not have
been herself who was strong. She was tired, and
               weak, and small.
    Peabody and Jack and Blaze were scurrying
around on the hurricane deck. That was of mild
  interest. She watched as kegs of something or
 other were rolled onto the boat. Water? Food?
She must have been sitting here longer than she
   thought. What about all those cords of wood
    being carted up the gangplank? That was
strange. They didn’t use wood for fuel. Did they?
 She hadn’t really been keeping up with things.
She should be. It was her job! Her responsibility!
               But she was so tired.
   Rest. You’ve earned it. You need it. Rest. And
                     think.
     Then the veil of the All-Seeing Eye quieted
   Rose’s voice, divorced it from the part of her
 that could acknowledge Rose, acknowledge her
own being and her own past. The All-Seeing Eye
 sucked color and meaning from the scene until
  it was once again something happening in the
  distance. Those men on the deck, one of them
   sitting at the piano, another with a guitar, a
third fiddling with some sort of box… what were
   they UP to? She kept forgetting their names.
  The guitar man eased into a sad, sharp tune in
   which he picked out individual notes, then
 struck the same chord four times and paused.
Another powerful chord ripped through the air
  and by now everyone on shore had turned in
                 amazement.
  He began to sing, in a voice filled with pathos:
       Mississippi blues, rollin through my mind
       I’m lost on you big river, and there’s no
       end in sight
       I’m rollin,
       I’m Norleans bound
       But without my baby,
       Lord, I’m goin down.
       Mississippi blues, oh I’ve lost my mind to
       you
       Oh, river, big river, you’re so long and so
       blue
       I’m rollin
       Yes, I’m Norleans bound
       But without my sweet baby,
       I just may as well drown.
   As each new verse of “Mississippi Blues” filled
 the air, vibrant and mournful at the same time,
   Verity watched the black cold tendrils of the
 All-Seeing Eye pause. It was very interesting. It
  was like they were superimposed on what she
 saw—the hill, the people, the boat, the sky, the
island beyond which had turned out not to be an
  island but a peninsula. She could see from her
      hill where the river started back up, a
   glimmering ribbon across a narrow isthmus.
  Their names were back. Blaze was playing the
 blues notes in a fluid, fast riff, while Jack kept
the solid beat going underneath. It reminded her
of Shaker Hill, a little, but most of all Cincinnati
 when she’d been so bold and where it had been
   so necessary to fight to the death to release
           those who were imprisoned.
  She stood uncertainly and started to dust off
 her hands but stopped because that hurt. She
  did not know what she would do. She looked
  over at the graveyard. If Blaze was right and
there was no heaven, she could really rest there.
 But if Blaze really thought that was true, why
    didn’t he feel this same nothing? It was a
mystery worth considering, how he could still go
   on like that. She stood looking at the boat.
   A man who had been preaching all kinds of
 things about damnation and hell from several
tents over amid a babble of other preachers ran
  over to her and grabbed her wrist. “It’s the
 Devil’s music,” he said. “Don’t be tempted. You
 must resist it. God is waiting for you. Perfect
                   love. Come.”
 Something kicked in, then. “It’s not the Devil’s
 music,” she said. “I know the Devil and Devil
doesn’t have any music at all. The Devil just has
              an All-Seeing Eye.”
 The man dropped her wrist as if it had burned
 him. He walked round to face Verity and his
voice was harsh. “You say you know the Devil?”
                   he said.
 She looked at him in utter amazement. “John?”
   His beard was much longer now, and filled
 with bits of food. He smelled awful. His voice
was much more rough, as if he used it mostly for
  shouting. His eyes were no longer kind and
    stern. They were fixed, staring, angry.
   Well, what do you think your eyes look like,
          Verity? Sane as rainwater?
  “My name is John,” he said. “But I don’t know
you.” He looked at her doubtfully, as if he didn’t
            believe his own words.
                   “I’m Verity.”
  “Verity,” he whispered. He raised a hand to his
forehead, to the place where the radio stone had
 hit him. She saw that like Blaze he retained no
     scar after being wrapped in the sheets.
   He started to back away from her. “You’re a
    sinner. You said you know the Devil—”
  “John,” she said gently, the part of her that
was Verity surfacing strongly, somehow driving
back the darkness. It seemed so important that
 John remember. The light of the past arose, a
past beautiful and complete, drowning out the
                   darkness.
 That was what was so important about Shaker
Hill, she suddenly realized. Not that the Shakers
  had been made up. But that such a refuge of
     harmony and joy had even existed at all.
  “John. Shakers don’t believe in the Devil. Not
     like this. You’re a Shaker. Remember?
    Remember Russ, Tai Tai, Shaker Hill…”
      His eyes held horror and pain, then. He
nodded. “Yes. Yes. But it was so long ago. Before
I knew the truth. Verity, I…” He buried his face
  in his hands and began to sob. His shoulders
               shook. “Oh, Blaze.”
   “He’s all right,” she told him. She embraced
                        him.
    At first he pushed away from her; then he
   allowed her to hold him close. “Really?” he
                   whispered.
                    “He’s alive.”
    “Oh, my God,” he said, brightness stealing
across his face, restoring his eyes, his being. “It’s
                    a miracle.”
  “It is a miracle,” she said, yet something in her
   disagreed. It seemed a miracle—but she had
 almost given her life to bring it about. And she
had decided to do it… but John would have it be
  a miracle no matter what. That was all right.
                   Maybe it was.
            “Where is he?” John asked.
                 “He’s on the boat.”
    John whirled. “That boat? The boat that’s
          playing the Devil’s music?”
   She had not known how deep pity could be.
 “John, it’s just music. There is no Devil.” She
 decided not to tell him that Blaze was playing
                   that music.
     “You blaspheme,” John said, looking at her
with his stranger’s eyes. “The Devil is real. Very
real. The Devil was in you at Shaker Hill. He was
 in me. We didn’t know it. But events revealed it
  to be so. I have renounced the Devil. You must
                 renounce him too.”
  Verity struggled to be calm. But it was hard.
And what did it matter. And what could she do,
              anyway? Nothing.
  But the music beat into her like a live flame. It
                   mattered.
“John. You had the plague. It wasn’t the—” She
stopped herself from saying Devil. “It was the
 Norleans Plague. You didn’t know what you
were doing. And Russ—Russ loved you so, even
 then. Russ saved your life. We still love you,
Blaze and I. You don’t have to be this way. We
                 forgive you.”
 “I don’t need your forgiveness,” he said coldly.
He was so very thin. Verity was sure he was sick.
               “You’re not well—”
          “I am as God wishes me to be.”
  Despair and darkness were returning. Maybe
  he was right. What did it matter. It was as it
                     was.
  “Where are Sare and Evangeline?” she asked,
 grabbing on to the eagerness she felt when she
   realized they must be here too. The loving,
 gentle twins, the only mothers Verity had ever
   had. They had taken John, wrapped in the
    sheets, and left for Norleans. Surely they
    wouldn’t be this way. Guilt and pain had
changed John. Whatever was happening to him.
 it was wretchedly sad. A tragedy. A waste of a
                truly good person.
 John’s eyes grew even more distant. He did not
                    reply.
              Dread struck Verity.
    She looked around wildly, while the blues
 played in a rising crescendo. “Where are they?
 They went down the river with you on the raft
   Russ gave them. What happened to them?”
     Tears filled John’s eyes once again, and
 overflowed. He nodded toward the graveyard.
   “They’re—dead? No, it can’t be true. It can’t
                    be!”
 “It’s your fault!” said John, his voice filled with
grief. “Because of your sin! I remember now! You
      went to the Library—it was forbidden!
Forbidden to go there, to use tech, to use nan …”
   John’s voice rose, became hysterical. “They
 died—because of you! You are a consort of the
                       Devil!”
   Verity grabbed his shoulders. “John, come
with us. Please. It’s all right. I’m so sorry about
   Sare. Evangeline. My dear Sisters. I can’t
                    believe…”
              She choked on her sobs.
  Then she continued. “But it’s not your fault.
Come to Norleans. Blaze and I love you. You can
                get better—”
  He shook her hands away. A look of revulsion
crossed his face. “Norleans! Believe me, you are
         going to hell!” he whispered.
   Suddenly, she was angry. “I’m going no such
              place,” she retorted.
   “You will burn,” he said sternly, and all she
had ever known of John was gone from his eyes,
 from his face. And his face was the face of the
  world—distant, implacable, unbending in its
   uncaringness, while the fragile brightness
   woven over time by human hope and love
     dissolved, revealing the infinite dark.
  The All-Seeing Eye rose like a specter in front
  of her. She thought she heard laughter; evil,
                 dark laughter.
         Then the music became louder,
  overwhelmingly loud. She backed away from
    John, turned, and began to run downhill.
 “She’s a consort of the Devil!” the man who had
        been John screamed. “Kill her!”
  A stone hit her shoulder and made her stumble
 and shots rang out behind her. A bullet pocked
the dust at her feet. Why are you running? a part
        of her said and she slowed a bit.
  “Verity RUN!” screamed Blaze and she heard
the rat-a-tat-tat of Peabody’s gun returning fire.
 At the sound of Blaze’s voice her feet flew; she
 was almost floating, she would fly above them
on her new wings, she would kill them all, with
  bombs and drugs and mostly with thoughts,
 mostly with thoughts, mostly with thoughts—
    Blaze grabbed her and there were more
  shouting orders over the voicetube and the
 paddlewheel began to turn, slowly at first and
then faster, spewing up great clots of mud. They
 ran onto the gangplank and as they jumped on
   the boat it was ripped from the side as the
steamboat ponderously but surely backed out of
 the channel, away from Angelville, and the last
      thing she heard was a chant they took
      up—“RE-PENT! RE-PENT! RE-PENT!”
  “That was a close one,” said Blaze, and hugged
her tightly to him. “I looked all over for you. We
didn’t know where you were. Then Jack had this
    idea about the music. If the music hadn’t
worked, we would have had quite a battle on our
                     hands.”
      “Aren’t you afraid of me?” she asked.
 He laughed out loud and pulled her close and
 kissed her. His beard was rough. “Oh, you’re
    talking! Never,” he whispered. “Never.”
 “Well, you should be,” she said, and he laughed
            again. Then he sobered.
  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell
you. I was afraid it would make you worse. But
who knows.” He paused. “Durancy’s dead,” he
said gently. “I buried him on that island there,
            off the Illinois shore—”
    Rose was back instantly and strongly and
  overwhelmingly and she sobbed; deeply and
    wrenchingly, as if her heart was broken.
   It was gone, all of it, all of the past, glorious
  and painful and dreadful and bright. Bright
    with the promise of the unknown day—
     And then Verity was laughing, laughing
   hysterically through tears, and dancing,
whirling round the deck, shouting, I’m free! I’m
free at last!, and Blaze’s face was so puzzled, so
 worried, so astounded, and then she calmed,
   gradually, as if a great storm had passed.
  Sitting next to him on a bench, exhausted but
  clearheaded for the first time in a long time,
 nestled in his arm, she remembered what had
just happened. In a slow, halting voice, she told
   him about John, and Sare, and Evangeline.
  And as she did, the blackness returned. There
                was no escape.
              There never could be.
  So he took her back to her room and put her to
 bed and played for her because he said it made
him feel better and because it was music against
the darkness, there in Memphis, and he thought
it kept those people alive and kept the darkness
  at bay and she said fine, and listened, and fell
                 asleep listening.
  Verity’s room was bathed in silvery moonlight.
She opened her eyes at the creak of the door and
 saw the man in the strange suit and funny hat
 shut the door behind himself, tiptoe across the
room, and sit on the chair. She had fallen asleep
  a while ago. Blaze had been there, playing the
   guitar quietly. In fact, he was still here, she
 saw—asleep with all his clothes on, sprawled
           across the other bed.
    The man watched her for a long time. She
             watched him too.
   Finally he reached out and took her hand
 where it lay outside the sheet. He held it for a
   moment. Then he put it down so that it
            remained palm upward.
    He leaned over and opened his black bag.
Glass vials gleamed with colored liquids, held in
  neat rows by some sort of foam. They looked
          quite pretty in the moonlight.
  “This won’t hurt,” he said. He placed a white
eye-sized patch on Verity’s palm and it adhered.
    He quickly pulled it off and set it aside.
   Then he selected a vial. He held it up and it
    was clear. The top of the bottle was an
  eyedropper. He unscrewed it and put some
  drops on Verity’s palm where the patch had
 been. He carefully closed the bottle and put it
               back in its place.
    He held her hand up to the moonlight and
            studied it for a moment.
            “Green. Definitely green.”
          Blaze stirred but didn’t wake.
   The man reached down and picked up the
green vial. He set it on the table and got a clear
bag from a little compartment next to the vials.
He opened the bag, removed the sponge that was
  inside, and set the sponge and the bag on the
 table next to the green vial. He pulled out some
       rubber gloves and snapped them on.
  He opened the green vial and the sponge fit
exactly onto the top. “Your hand again, please,”
                    he said.
  Verity held her hand out for him. He upended
 the vial and soaked the sponge with the green
stuff. He started brushing it onto Verity’s hand.
    “I heal thee in the Meme of the Most Holy
                  Lord,” he said.
            “Thank you,” said Verity.
  The green stuff was a cool gel. It was quickly
            absorbed by her skin.
   When he was finished, he opened yet another
 vial, again clear, but much larger. He filled the
green vial, now half-empty, back to the top. With
 a small white cloth, he wiped the mouth of the
 clear vial and put the lid back on, then did the
 same to the green one. He sealed the cloth, the
used sponge, and the inside-out gloves in the bag
  where the sponge had been, after tipping in a
 few grains of a white powder from yet another
vial. He put this in a drawer on the other side of
his valise and secured it with a little hook. Then
  he closed the valise, twisted the combination
lock, nodded at Verity, and left, closing the door
              quietly behind himself.
                Thirty-three
               Big Fish Blues

Mattie watched the Professor from the railing at
the back of the boat. He had only been in
Verity’s room about twenty minutes. He sensed
her gaze, turned, and raised his hand in salute,
and she did the same. He seemed to need as
little sleep as she did. He walked the other way
and disappeared into the shadows.
     She shrugged off her robe. She’d found it in
  the closet of her room, and it was way too long
 for her. She had to take care not to trip over it.
     Beneath she was wearing her lovely white
   bathing suit. Blaze had told her that it would
  turn brown if she kept wearing it in the river,
     but he was wrong. In the moonlight it was
   gleaming, powerful white. Quite beautiful, in
      fact. And absolutely microbe-free. She’d
   specified that to Peabody, and he’d laughed,
 then looked at her sadly, then nodded his head.
   Now she would have to take care. The bucket
 of food scraps was heavy and liable to spill. She
 picked up a handful of bread and tossed it into
the river. It floated on the surface. Nothing. How
        about some fish scraps, cannibal…
     There! A ripple, and the cooked fish was
                 snatched away.
   Using all her strength, she lowered the heavy
  bucket down to the water on the rope, which
was tied to the ladder, making sure the bucket
bobbed upright. Then she climbed down next to
 it and sat on the small wooden seat just below
               the water’s surface.
   She gave Josh one or two more tidbits. His
 whiskers brushed her legs. He was as big as a
cow. Or at least a hog. She closed her eyes, then
               slid into the river.
 It was cool, but not shockingly so. Holding on
 to the ladder with one hand, she touched his
                      side.
  Within her closed eyes a schematic lit, as it
had that first time she touched him at Madge’s
Landing. He’d nudged her and instead of being
  afraid she had patted him, all over, as the
   pictures became stronger and stronger.
 It had taken her a day’s travel to realize that it
was a map of the river. A present-time map of
 the river, which the boat lacked. She thought
Josh might have been invented to be some sort
                     of spy.
  She saw blue lines on a white background. Red
lines arrowed off the blue lines—they were dead
   ends, filled-in channels. Distance was fairly
 precise, she had found. The vision burned into
  her mind. Boils were tiny stars. But they were
 not constant. Rapids were also red. Whirlpools
were yellow. A wide branch went off to the west
   in half a mile, then ended, as had the one at
   Angelville. And there was a cut through an
 island which was too narrow as yet for a boat.
    This would take them about seven miles.
                      Good.
  Josh nudged her, hard. She dumped the entire
    contents of the bucket into the water and
  scrambled up the ladder as the water boiled.
    She hoped he would stay hungry. It was a
    dangerous journey. Most of these people,
including Twain, did not know how dangerous.
Without Josh they would have been crushed in
 some rapids today. Luckily, Twain had agreed
with her suggestion on that matter. But he did
         not always agree. He was a fool.
   She pulled up the empty bucket by the rope,
 pulled on the robe, and, holding the robe up so
  she wouldn’t trip over it, hurried back to her
room. She would add this to her latest mandala,
             so she wouldn’t forget.
 Sam Clemens was quieter at night. She figured
           he needed his sleep.



               Thirty-four
              Healing Blues
Alice did not like Verity’s suggestion. “You can’t
just heal yourself,” she said, standing next to
Verity’s bed with crossed arms. Lil leaned
against a dresser.
  “I’m not,” said Verity. “The blues is healing me.
                I feel much better.”
    “Not for long,” Alice pointed out. “After an
  hour of normality the symptoms return. You
  can’t see colors. You have suicidal ideation. I
  can’t let you. And even though we’ve isolated
  you, the symptoms are spreading among the
 other Cincinnatians. We can’t keep a close eye
   on everyone unless we tie them all down.”
  “But you have no guarantee that removing the
       matrices is going to help,” Lil said.
  “It’s radical,” said Alice. “But I think that it’s
      our best bet. Sorry to interrupt your
                   experiment.”
      Lil’s lips tightened, but she didn’t say
                     anything.
  Verity liked to touch the matrices now. Her
 mind filled with vivid images when she did so.
They were not as vivid as when she had been in
 Cincinnati, though, when the entire City had
entered into their orchestration. They were not
overwhelming. They did not pull at the core of
her being. They were merely informative. They
        were a memory, not the present.
   At least, not right now. But Rose was much
  more present, and she liked living a lot. Rose
                liked the blues.
  “Where’s Blaze?” she asked. “I feel a lot better
 when he plays music.” When he wasn’t playing
   music, she felt more and more childish and
   irritable and unable to cope with anything.
       “I bet music helps,” said Lil. “Really.”
   “Balderdash,” said Alice. “But I suppose it’s
           somewhat distracting.”
 “It’s more than that,” said Lil. “Blaze told Jack
  that he thought that the blues was keeping
Clean Mind at bay in Memphis. He said that the
     Civil Rights Museum and the blues and
 everything that’s going on there had to have a
                powerful effect…”
   “That’s a lovely theory,” said Alice. “It sounds
ever so plausible. If you’re wrong, will you let me
   remove the matrices? It’s not just Verity. I’m
  concerned about everyone on the boat. It’s too
    late to do anything about the gloves. I don’t
   know if you’ve noticed, but those snakes and
eyes and all have been showing up on the gloves.
 The augmentation in the matrices is real. I saw
it, Verity saw it, and I’ll show it to you again just
 for good measure. Is the boat working? I was in
 the synthesizer room early this morning and it
               finally just shut down.”
   Lil looked sad and uncertain. “I don’t know.”
  “Well,” said Alice. “Do you even care about all
                 those people?”
   Lil’s eyes burned with something but Alice
            wasn’t sure what it was.
  “Okay,” Lil said. “Come on. Let’s get Peabody
     and make the damned thing work.”
    “Where are we going?” asked Verity as she
stumbled along next to Alice an hour or so later.
   She felt as if she should remember but she
     didn’t. “I’m tired. I want to lie down.”
    “You will,” said Alice. “In just a minute.”
    Verity did not understand why she had to
move around so much. Her stomach was so full.
 She felt like throwing up. Alice had made her
eat this morning, eat a lot of nothing tasteless
 food. It had not been nothing and tasteless at
the time but had colors and taste and she had
wolfed it all down like an idiot. Crunchy toast
   with butter, scrambled eggs with cheese,
applesauce, coffee with cream. It would take a
     long time to starve to death if she kept
 backsliding like this. She stopped and leaned
  over the railing and Alice grabbed her arm.
    “Oh, no, you don’t. Come on, we’re almost
                    there.”
   Jack and Blaze were sitting out on the deck
   next to the room where Alice stopped. She
  realized where she was. The glove room. She
hung back. How silly to put a piano out there on
 the deck. There wasn’t room for anyone to get
around it. Blaze’s red guitar was there too. She
only remembered that it was red. Right now it
              was black as night.
 Alice pulled her inside the little room and slid
     open a door and there was a cocoon.
     “No,” she said, fear bubbling up in her.
 It was clear, as were all the cocoons Verity had
 ever seen—the one in the Dayton Library, the
 many she had seen in Cincinnati. They all put
   things into her mind when what needed to
 happen was for everything to drain out of her
                     mind.
   Before she knew what was happening Alice
 had done some sort of little flip on her knees
and back and she was lying in the cocoon and it
    enfolded her with sleek, cool softness,
something she could barely feel. It was like she
  was floating in space. She struggled but she
                couldn’t get out.
  “Let me go,” she said, but not very loud, not as
loudly as she wanted to, because it really didn’t
  matter all that much. Let the doctor play her
  silly games. “I wanted to get away from this”
burst out of her mouth, from someplace she had
forgotten, some other part of her mind, a foolish
         part that still cared about things.
   “It’s hard to get away from it,” said Alice. “I
 tried. And here I am.” All the while Alice was
  frowning, pushing pads and making lights
     flicker and sounds ping at the console.
  Verity closed her eyes. The better to see the
All-Seeing Eye. It was kind of faint today. That
 was strange. She scrunched her eyes tighter.
 Alice ran the initial diagnostics. She’d been up
all night trying to get them right, in the stutter
 of the system that was off now more than on.
     She was not entirely familiar with this
  particular manifestation of the technology.
But—yes, it was working, about as well as it had
when she’d shown Verity a glimpse of what was
                    ailing her.
 “Here’s the information I first recorded from
Verity,” she told Lil. “I guess we can consider it
                  our baseline.”
   Alice replayed what she had saved the other
  day, when she had first brought Verity here.
  The mix of neuro-nan Verity had on board was
 truly awesome. Her brain was far from normal;
in fact, Alice was pretty sure that the removal of
    the matrices, and the sustaining nan they
continued to send into Verity’s cells, would be a
  bad shock to her entire system. But the life of
everyone on board was at stake. It was a terrible
 dilemma. The nan was completely intertwined
    with every cell, and had probably been an
integral part of each developmental stage of her
  growth. Alice wondered if any provision had
 been made for its removal or cessation at some
 point and thought not, and cursed those who
            had done this to Verity.
               “Okay, Lil, got that?”
                    Lil nodded.
     “Okay. Now here’s where I isolated the
               Memphis nan.”
     The first time, it had taken quite a while to
     isolate it from the models made from the
    biosamples she had taken from Verity. The
  infinitesimally small crystals were constantly
 attempting to create links and grow. They were
successful… Alice had run some numbers, which
flashed before her again… on average, they were
         successful 52 percent of the time.
   “If you run these numbers out,” said Alice, “a
       critical mass will be reached sometime
      tomorrow. And she’s infecting everyone.
See—the Memphis nan is so successful because
 the matrices create a friendly environment for
 it. The docking sites it uses are also being used
by the Memphis nan—see how the Memphis nan
    has disguised itself with that outer ring? It
 mimics the outer ring of the Cincinnati nan, to
    which the matrices are very receptive. And
within that—well, you can see that the Nawlins
Plague is a real tight fit. Do you know which one
                 the plague is, Lil?”
       Lil flashed a brief, startling look at
  Alice—startling because Alice couldn’t quite
 place it. “Yes,” she said. “I know. I can see that
 Verity is like Typhoid Mary. She’s the linchpin
             of the whole group here.”
    “Apparently these people are all exquisitely
sensitive to one another,” said Alice. She sighed.
Probably someone smarter than her could figure
out a way to fight the Memphis nan from within.
Obliterate one of the docking sites, perhaps. The
problem was that she did not have the expertise
  to run the possible outcomes. And even if she
could, she would still have no idea how changes
     she made might correspond to mental or
 emotional states. It would be completely hit or
              miss, most likely miss.
  “Okay.” The screen flickered. Alice slapped the
 console with the palm of her hand. “Damn. Get
     back on—okay. Here we are real-time.”
     She moved her baseline to the left, put a
 progress report from yesterday in the middle,
 and ran Verity’s present state on the right. It
 flickered on the screen, then came into focus.
              Still, Alice squinted.
   “I must be tired. Is there some kind of extra
  cell in there?” She enlarged the video, upset.
    Had Verity picked up something else in
     Angelville? She watched for a moment.
   Yesterday’s screen showed that the Nawlins
 Plague had been surrounded by the Memphis
 information. The Memphis nan had overtaken
 the plague. It had been vanishing from Verity.
  She was being healed of the Nawlins Plague.
 “Well,” said Lil, her voice shaking, “looks as if
Clean Mind came up with a cure for the plague.
 And they thought it couldn’t be done. What a
                     genius.”
   Alice glanced at Lil. Her voice had a strange
 note in it. Were those tears in her eyes? Maybe
    she was going to go off the deep end too.
   “That would jibe with the loss of color vision,
wouldn’t it? It seems to me that all these people
go nuts over the color blue. But take a look here,
      Lil. That was yesterday. This is what’s
  happening now.” She pointed to the screen on
 the right. “The plague seems to be… regrowing.
See those hexagonal tubes? They’re growing that
    lattice structure. It attracts the Memphis
 information… look—it sucks the Memphis nan
    away from the plague cells and ties it up.
         Neutralizes it. Don’t you think?”
   Alice propped her elbows on the console and
   rested her chin on her hands. She frowned.
  “But… so what? It’s still hopeless. There’s so
   much going on. How can I possibly invent a
                     cure?”
   “No—look,” said Lil, her voice excited. “The
 plague is surging back. I think that’s good, in
  this case. People say that the plague gives
people hope. A reason to live. The things Verity
 lacks right now. Just ask Peabody.” Her voice
had an odd, ironic cast, as if she barely believed
                   it herself.
   A tentative piano chord from Jack brought
Alice back to the present. Nothing to do but test
     out Verity’s crackpot theory. Why not?
         “Okay boys,” she said. “Ready.”
 Jack and Blaze, sitting outside in the sunlight,
              started the show.
       Now Stackerlee, he was a bad ole man
       And he wanted the world to know
       He toted a .32-20
       And a smokeless .44
  Alice watched clinically, skeptically, as the old
story of Stackerlee filled the air. Jack and Blaze
made an effortless, haunting harmony of it and
          the breaks were a wonder too.
      Verity’s brain waves gradually assumed
synchronicity with the music over the course of
 five minutes. To Alice’s surprise, a slight smile
 appeared on Verity’s face as she lay there with
                  her eyes closed.
     Alice switched to a different view. The
         Memphis crystals were being
attacked—regularly, systematically, with each
rhythmic surge of electricity in the brain. They
  were actually dissolved by the tubes, which
   were replicating, as if the new electrical
environment in the brain induced by the music
  provided them with the right chemicals for
   growth and maybe some sort of enhanced
   intelligence. The tubes disassembled the
  crystals into harmless components, which
                 swirled away.
  She remembered that the Nawlins Plague had
 another symptom. Constant singing. Perhaps
  there was something which music did to the
brain that superseded, and overwhelmed, every
other influence, an effect that the creator of the
Nawlins Plague had used to augment its power,
        a self-enhancing feedback loop.
   The plague, quite possibly, could save them
                from nihilism.
 “I’ll be damned,” Alice said, though neither she
nor anyone else could hear it. “I’ll bet it doesn’t
 have to be the blues. I’ll bet any music would
                     work.”


                      11
                  Delta Blues



                Thirty-five
               Mattie’s Blues

I watched Mattie dive off the skiff again and
again, admiring the neat way she went into the
water without a splash. She ranged far,
surfacing ywenty feet or more from the skiff.
Then she’d dive in a different direction.
        It was about noon, and sweltering. I
considered taking a dip myself but it was too hot
 to make the effort. It was hard for me to believe
  that people had voluntarily endured this heat
 and accomplished the task of building cities so
  far south. Maybe it was hotter now than it had
                   been before.
    I never saw anybody go for swimming like
 Mattie did. She swam early every morning and
several times each evening after we stopped for
 the night. She always took a healthy snack of
leftovers for that big catfish—pounds of food in
    a big bucket. Apparently he was tagging
along—no surprise, considering the huge meals
                  she provided.
   Today she’d wanted to stop at noon and swim
      and feed him and Lil vetoed it. Mattie
threatened to go to Verity and after a minute Lil
agreed that we could stop for half an hour or so.
  I’m not sure if it was because she didn’t want
 Verity disturbed or because she thought Verity
 would agree to it anyway. Or maybe it was just
  because Mattie cursed and made suh a stink
whenever she was crossed. Verity got better for
 a while this morning but then was just as bad.
Alice said it was to be expected but that she was
   pulling ahead. I didn’t know how she could
figure out what to expect. Jack and I took turns
   playing for her and when I did the blues just
  welled up in me and I forgot the time and put
 every ounce of myself into it and thanked Alma
 constantly. I was thrown into that world where
    Verity was, that world of hopelessness and
  death and senselessness, the world where the
  blues were born, and I organized it and it fell
apart between each note in the silence and then
  I would organize it again, and then the whole
 thing linked together like a sheet of sound and
my heart and being would soar and I could only
hope the same thing was happening to her. After
  two hours or so Alice would make me go away
   and let Jack take a turn. She said she didn’t
             want me to get too tired.
    When Mattie wasn’t being Sam Clemens, she
 was being Mattie. But that was less and less. It
   made me sad and angry, too. She was such a
fascinating girl. Sometimes she sat in the dining
  room and made mandalas. She just drew them
with a pencil at first, intricate, hypnotic things,
      and then Lil found some paints for her
  somewhere and she really went to town. She’d
   start off with something, some shape, in the
 center, it didn’t seem to matter what. Or maybe
   it would just be a space. Then it would grow
     outward, a circle, in swirls and lines and
   connections. I asked her about them and she
     said, “It reminds me that there aren’t any
                   mistakes.”
  “What do you mean by that?” I asked. They
were all different, and all quite lovely. I tacked
           them up around the boat.
       “Because I might think of putting
something—like this—” She squiggled a jagged
 shape about three layers out from the center
 and yeah, it did look ugly and off balance and
            the picture was ruined.
   “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to bother
                       you.”
    She laughed, an odd mix of the Twain and
Mattie laughs. “You can’t,” she said. “That’s the
whole point. This just reminds me that I can use
   something that looks like a mistake”—she
     repeated the ugly shape all round the
 mandala—“make it into a part of it all. I think
   about how to restore the balance.” To my
amazement, she quickly added another symbol,
 three bars with a dot at the end of the middle
bar, and when she was finished I saw what she
       meant. It was harmonious again.
   “But that’s boring,” she said. “What would he
 call it? Trite.” Then there was a snake, like the
  one in Memphis, and I shuddered, and then a
soaring bird. Then she batted the piece of paper
   away. “I’m getting pretty dry,” she said, and
               went for the whiskey.
 “Do you think you should drink that?” I asked.
    “I don’t think it really does much to me,” she
    said, slugging it back. “It’s just a prop. You
 know. Keeps me in character. Like in that play
 about Oklahoma. It was pretty hard to stay in
   that character. Might have helped if I’d had
some whiskey.” She laughed at my look and said,
“Really, it’s like water. I think it’s part of what’s
happened to me. You know, he drank constantly,
  like a fish, isn’t that what they say? Morning,
   noon, and night. Didn’t bother him. Doesn’t
bother me. Ask me anything about him, anything
 at all. I can’t help it, anyway, can’t stop it, and
                 you can’t make me.”
  I had her teach me the song she kept singing,
“Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” It made a nice
              break from the blues.
       Now, as I watched, she surfaced in the
 brownish water but stayed where she was for a
   while, treading water, which glimmered out
  around her thin arms. Then she turned with a
  satisfied look on her little face and climbed up
 on the skiff and yelled “Okay!” I pulled the skiff
to the boat with the rope; she climbed the ladder
                   and I followed.
       When I got up to the deck the look of
   satisfaction had turned into a deep frown.
 “There’s going to be trouble,” she muttered to
               herself, and sighed.
     “What kind of trouble?” I asked just to be
   sociable. Seemed to me we had nothing but
 trouble. A different sort might be interesting.
    “You’ll see,” she said darkly. She pulled her
 white dress on over her still-wet white bathing
suit and her brown skin was set off wonderfully
 by all that white. She would be quite beautiful
    when she grew up, I thought. Not that she
seemed the sort to care. I think that Masa cared.
  I wondered what she was like, inside LA. Did
  she even have a body? Or think that she did?
  Jack would be on his blues watch for another
hour, singing and playing to Verity before it was
my turn, so I followed Mattie’s dripping path up
    to the pilothouse. It had a nice view and
  something interesting was always brewing.
   Mattie climbed up on her stool and Twain
scowled. “Well, Your Highness, are you ready to
                   proceed?”
   She just nodded, staring anxiously out the
window. She gripped the brass rail tight. Twain
rang his bells and bellowed his orders and the
   paddlewheel took life and we started to
              ponderously move.
   “There’s an island around the bend,” Mattie
said. I thought I heard trepidation in her voice,
                but also resolve.
   “Island number seventy-three,” said Twain
             testily. “I know that.”
    “Yes,” she said. “We need to take the east
              channel around it.”
 “Absolutely not,” said Twain. “It’s too narrow.”
  “Not anymore,” said Mattie. “And on the other
side is a huge whirlpool. It measures more than
a third of a mile across. We’d perish there. We’d
  whirl round and round forever. And beyond
 that, if you ever get out, are rapids. Too rough
   and sharp for the boat. A long, treacherous
                    waterfall.”
  “You have a wonderful imagination when you
   put a full charge on it,” said Twain. “That’s
         absolutely first-rate nonsense.”
    “There’s no time to argue about this, man,”
   said Mattie, her voice trembling. We nosed
 around the bend. “There’s the island now.” It
 was small, probably about a mile away. I was
 starting to get a bit nervous. That was quite a
           scene that she’d described.
      “I’ll not get stuck again like we did at
              Angelville,” said Twain.
   “We won’t get stuck!” said Mattie, her voice
 shrill. I knew she was utterly serious because
she didn’t even take the time to remind him that
  at Angelville he’d ignored her advice as well.
           “Turn,” she repeated. “Now.”
     When he didn’t respond, she continued,
talking fast and low like she’d thought about it
                more than once.
   “I’m trying to save you. And all of us. From
 yourself. From myself. From all of us, from all
 we think and from all we are. You are stubborn
unto death, in the face of all evidence before you
  that you should change your ways. Have you
             ever heard of hubris?”
   “I believe it’s in my vocabulary,” said Twain.
     “That’s your problem. Once you set on a
 course, as with that cursed Paige Typesetting
Machine, you’d rather pour a fortune into it and
bankrupt your family than admit that you were
  wrong. Always trying to get rich quick, the
whole damned country trying to get rich quick
  with gold or rubies or machines or weapons
 or—or this stuff that’s made you and I freaks.
          That’s what we are! Samuel!”
    “I thought you were Samuel,” he remarked
  calmly, nudging the wheel a bit and taking a
             deep puff of his cigar.
     “Samuel. Listen to me. We are both dreams.
Both of us were dreamed by greedy fools the like
 of which the world has never seen before and if
we don’t wake up—if we can’t wake up, you and
  I, and those like us, then the world will never
get another goddamned chance to dream, do you
 hear what I’m saying? We have to pull together
  now! We have to put both of our sorry severed
    selves together and get this ship of fools to
Norleans!” Angry tears stood in her eyes and she
  dashed them away. “You’re not listening! WE
   HAVE BEEN DREAMED BY DREAMERS OF
       UNSPEAKABLE EVIL!” she shouted.
“DREAMERS who are WORSE THAN GOD! I’m
   TELLING you! I’M TELLING YOU THIS
  BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!” She finished in a
 shouting thunder that made me fear for her
                   lungs.
   “There, there,” he said, in a soothing tone of
  voice. “You get mighty stirred up for a little
                      girl.”
       “That’s right, that’s right.” She was fairly
 jumping up and down now. “Pretend you can’t
hear me. That’s you all over. Ignore what’s right
   in front of you—the truth!—for some fantasy
that you prefer. Well, that’s the human way. But
  I’ll tell you the truth of it. Hold on to your hat
              for it’s a very rough ride.”
   Her voice changed and she hiccupped as she
spoke. She was hysterical. Her voice was hoarse.
 I wondered what I should do. I eyed the island
uncomfortably as she shifted into high gear. The
 very cadence of her voice changed and I knew
   she was in deep water now, out of her head,
 somewhere else, quoting Mark Twain, the real
                      one:
        “ ‘Nothing exists; all is a dream.
God—man—the world—the sun, the moon, the
wilderness of stars—a dream, all a dream; they
 have no existence. Nothing exists save empty
 space—and you!… Strange, indeed, that you
should not have suspected that your universe
 and its contents were only dreams, visions,
fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and
 hysterically insane—like all dreams: a God who
 could make good children as easily as bad, yet
          preferred to make bad ones…’ ”
 She paused, breathing hard, her eyes wild, her
 hair frizzed out round her head like the halo a
lion might wear if lions could be angels. James
was staring at her and nodding. I figured maybe
  all that stuff really meant something to him.
  “And that’s what SATAN would say if HE were
  here. And what I say—me, Mattie, is the same
 thing: Wake up! It’s a dream! I know because it
came upon me like one. But you can WAKE UP!
 And turn, man turn, or we’ll all die, and it will
   be the death of ALL dreams! For all people
   everywhere! These fools have to get to New
Orleans! Please! Listen to me! There’s a vortex, a
           huge vortex, a waterfall—”
  “Where do you get your information?” asked
Twain, showing no sign of heeding her. “If I may
            be so bold as to ask.”
   “From a fish!” she retorted and while he was
laughing she grabbed the wheel with both hands
          and wrenched it to the left.
 They struggled for a moment, Mattie grunting
 and Twain more surprised than challenged, I
                  suppose.
 Then he raised an arm, caught her against her
 waist, and sent her flying. She landed with a
hard thump on her back and gasped as the wind
          was knocked out of her.
    I was astonished. It wasn’t like him to do
something like that. I ran over to her to help her
  up but she sprang up almost instantly and
         darted out through the door.
   “Troublesome pipsqueak,” muttered Twain.
“Please convey to her my abject apologies, if you
 would. I don’t know what came over me. But I
can’t have her grabbing at the wheel like that. A
       pilot can’t allow it. It’s dangerous.”
  I thought of her swims and I thought of Verity
and of how she could learn things just by touch.
     Although what Mattie claimed sounded
 outlandish, I thought that it might be possible.
   “She could be right,” I said, my heart in my
throat. Which one was right? The man who was
only and who would always be, tragically, what
he was designed to be, unless he could change,
right here and now? Or the young girl, filled to
   overflowing with two lives, two powerful,
    raging, unmanageable lives, filled with
           conviction and courage…
 “Could we stop, perhaps, and send a scout… ?”
         “Do you doubt me?” he hollered.
                “I only thought—”
    The right channel was wide, smooth, and
inviting. It bent round farther to the right and
was lost to view. The left channel was narrow, a
    mere creek sluicing through the woods,
           overshadowed by trees.
            “See for yourself,” he said.
        “I know how it looks, but let’s—”
             The door slammed open.
  Mattie stood there, brown and hazel and gold
  and white, straight as a stick, a young girl
  burning with a sickness new to the world.
  Braced in both her hands was a black, shiny
gun. She held it steady and she held it on Twain.
   “Move away,” she told me, her voice steely. “
                    Move!”
  I stared at her for a second. Maybe two. I saw
       so clearly, as time hung still and the
 paddlewheel churned and the split in the way
came closer, inexorably closer, John waving that
      rifle around, pointing it at my chest—
                     I moved.
  The current was quickening and I could feel
 the boat careening toward the right channel.
       “You!” she said, addressing Twain.
  “What now?” asked Twain lightly, not taking
    his eyes from the river. “I’m sorry…”
  “You’ll be sorrier if you don’t move away. I’ll
                   shoot you!”
  That earned a glance. His cigar dropped from
  his mouth and rolled across the floor. “Why,
 you—” he said. He took two strides toward her
            and grabbed her wrist.
   The boat began to swing round from the rear
from the force of the current, twisting so it faced
                       west.
       “NO!” screamed Mattie in my general
   direction. “DON’T LET IT GO THAT WAY!”
     I ran toward the wheel. It was almost too
difficult for me to turn the boat; almost too late.
We were forced toward the opposite, wide shore
 across a veritable lake of water, which pulled
    and twisted the boat in a bizarre braid of
   currents. I wrestled with the wheel while I
   heard shouts and grunts behind me. James
 sprang to assist and even his strength seemed
diminished. “HELP!” I yelled into the voicetube
and a single unmistakable shot reverberated in
                 that small cabin.
  I glanced aside to see Mattie sprawled flat on
 her back, the gun next to her on the floor. She
 scrambled to her feet and looked at Twain in
                     horror.
  “I didn’t mean—help him!” she cried, and ran
 to the wheel, which came just to the top of her
      head, and pushed with James and me.
 By pushing with all our might while she pulled
      on levers and set up a wild series of
countermoves with the paddlewheel, we got the
boat turned… a bit… a touch more… she leaned
on the throttle, teeth clenched, eyes wild… yes!
  The Queen shot into the cutoff and we cracked
  through branches at a frightfully fast speed. I
heard cries from the passengers and the trees on
    the island to our right gave way to a low,
 treeless stretch of sand and rocks and I looked
                   to the right.
    A boat larger than ours, a rusted cargo barge
       of some sort, drifted slowly in a huge,
  inward-slanting arc. I thought I heard piteous
   cries as several people on the deck, tiny from
 where we were, raised their arms in entreaty. I
caught a glimpse of the letters RN and saw rafts
   aswirl, some holding people who looked like
 they were sprawled out for a nap but who were
   probably dead, perhaps having leapt off and
 then struggling onto their raft again when they
  found they could not escape. I saw two bodies
   tangled in a huge snag of roots which slowly
    tumbled over and over, carrying its ghastly
  cargo. The great whirlpool was filled with logs
    and even the roof of a house and other, less
    recognizable debris, slowly and inexorably
circling, drawing in everything which came near
 it, imprisoning it forever in its endless swirling
  energy beneath the blue, cloudless sky fringed
                 by desolate forest.
    I saw this scene of horror for only a minute
before the trees closed in again, but it imprinted
  itself on my mind, good for a nightmare from
         which I still wake screaming.
   Lil appeared at the door. “I heard a shot—”
 Then she saw Twain and she gasped, bent over
him. “He’s dead,” she said, after a moment, and
            looked up at both of us.
  Then whatever she said was lost as a roar rose
 from beyond the forest at our right: the roar of
 water thundering through a narrow fast chute.
  Ahead the cathedral row of overarching trees
ended abruptly and we shot down and out into a
           vast and horrifying scene.
    We spun around with the force of the water
   cascading from the other side of the island.
 Rocks big as houses cut water to white ribbons,
trees stuck between them like chaff in the teeth
of a giant. The roiling, muddy water foamed and
crashed not a hundred feet from our boat, which
    was helpless as a toy. A log shot out of the
  rapids as if from a cannon and sailed straight
toward us, missing our prow by mere feet. I was
                      shaking.
  “He wouldn’t listen to me,” Mattie was saying.
I think she’d been saying it for a long time. Her
voice was unusually subdued. “He just wouldn’t
 listen. I thought sure he was going to wake up
soon. I so wanted him to wake up. I believe that
 it was just possible. But now he can’t ever. I’m
 sorry. Thank you,” she said to me, and then to
  James, and then she collapsed onto the floor.
  Lil wanted to wrap Twain in a sheet and toss
him over the side. She called this “burial at sea”
       and argued that it was honorable.
 Mattie insisted that we stop and have a proper
 funeral and burial. She was crying the entire
 time, slow, distantlike tears that welled from
   her eyes as she stared, like she was seeing
              something far away.
   Jack and I dug the grave on top of a lonely
green bluff overlooking the river. From up there
  the river looked grand and amazingly huge,
 stretching off into the distance, snaking here
and there as if crazed, shimmering gold and rose
                   in the sunset.
    Jack wanted to sing a blues song but Verity
  insisted on a hymn. Alice knew a gospel hymn
  and sang it a capella, her voice sure and deep
and big as it dipped and soared over the river in
fascinating, hypnotic ripples of pure beauty and
yearning. If Mark Twain had a soul, Alice’s voice
 conveyed it straight to heaven, with flourishes.
 Mattie was shaking uncontrollably by the time
   it was over, and it was getting dark. Alice
bundled her into a sweater and asked James to
 carry her. I was surprised when Mattie didn’t
     object, but clung to James like a baby.
 We walked single file down to the boat, which
sat like some sort of dream, as Mattie had said,
white on the black water, light fanning from the
  filigrees as if painted on the river by a brush
dipped in moonlight. A ship of fools, dreamed by
   my country’s past. Heading nowhere. I was
        almost sure of it. Heading nowhere.



                Thirty-six
            Blues in the Night

Mattie woke with a start and it was the middle
of the night with no moon and she was terribly
alone. Alice had insisted on sleeping in the bed
next to hers, but she was alone in the universe
now. Twain was gone. He was the only one who
understood her, and she had killed him.
  She had known him for so short a time. Surely
  she could live without him. Surely she could.
             But she didn’t want to.
  She slid out of bed without making a sound.
 The door creaked, so she just climbed out the
window and walked toward the rear of the boat
where the ladder was and sat down. Maybe in a
few minutes she’d go in and see what Josh had
                     to say.
  She heard footsteps but recognized them and
   didn’t turn. After a minute the Professor
             squatted next to her.
 “I will ask you one last time,” he said, sounding
                    unhappy.
   “No,” said Mattie. She didn’t look at him but
          stared out at the dark shore.
   “I’m afraid that you will change your mind
           later and I won’t be here.”
  “Why don’t you come with us?” asked Mattie,
    in a tone that was curious rather than
                  entreating.
   “A boat is too confining,” he said. “I’ve heard
things about Nawlins. Whatever it is now, I don’t
  think that I could help there. They wouldn’t
   need me. I would be useless. Out there”—he
  waved his arm toward the dark shore—“I can
                       help.”
         “That makes sense,” said Mattie.
  “Let me leave something for you. in ease you
 change your mind.” He settled onto the deck
awkwardly and opened his case. “Hold out your
                   hand.”
 Mattie hesitated for a moment, then shrugged
and held out her hand. A drop of something fell
         on it and she pulled it back.
    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will do nothing
without your permission. Let me see it now. Ah.
    Yellow. Then purple. Two steps. That is
                   unusual.”
   Now she watched curiously as he put a few
drops of yellow in one tiny bottle and purple in
another. “Yellow. Just put the whole bottle on
 your hand. Wait thirty seconds. Then purple.
           Can you remember that?”
  “If I can’t remember that I’d be better off dead
                    anyway.”
    He looked sad as he arranged the vials in a
  small leather holder which he took out of yet
  another compartment. He sealed the top and
   handed it to her. “This is in the Meme of the
   Most Holy Lord.” he said. “‘Would you mind
 doing me a favor and rowing me over to where
that old ferry road comes down to the river? It’s
 right over there and the current is not strong
                here in the cove.”
  Mattie put the leather pouch in the pocket of
   her robe. “Not at all,” she said. “Ready?”
                     “As rain.”
          “That’s right as rain,” she said.



               Thirty-seven
              Changing Blues

Verity’s gloves flickered back on sometime in
the night. She woke to their light but this time
the messages were different. Nothing about
chores or any other mundane issue. And,
thankfully, miraculously, not a single snake or
eye.
     Instead, she saw pictures of Norleans, the
   Norleans she had come to know through the
fleeting visions in her mind. Cobblestone streets,
   small shops, wrought-iron balconies, flowers
     brilliant in the sun. A river wharf where
sunlight danced on water, burnishing vast black
freighters, was a mute unknowing witness to the
   trade of a country. The pictures though fluid
       were fixed as to content; alluring and
   comforting, enticing as though they released
     within the person experiencing them the
            chemicals of home and hope.
    The music continued, playing through the
 voicetube from the pilothouse, Jack and Blaze
  keeping their own watches against the dark.
  Every once in a while that changed and she
 could even remember that Blaze had told her
  that Peabody had fixed things up so that he
   could play those records from Cincinnati.
  Verity lay in bed, quietly enjoying the absence
      of the All-Seeing Eye, feeling strangely
 victorious though she really had nothing to do
with vanquishing it. It had washed through her,
a horrible disease, and Blaze and Alice and Jack
  and Peabody and that strange little man had
   created a cure. She wasn’t sure if just one of
those attempts had been the right one or if they
all needed to be together. It didn’t matter. It was
 good to be connected once again, to the others.
The others were there. When Mattie was Twain,
    she professed the belief that there were no
others, that all was self, and that self was only a
  thought adrift in space. Twain thought that
 honesty; Verity knew it for madness. Even the
  woman with the bee tattoo knew it. She had
  made the Norleans Plague. And it had gone
   wrong, and she knew it, and she suffered.
  That woman might well be dead by now. For
 the Norleans Plague had existed since before
Verity was born. It had drained the bulk of the
  population from the land surrounding the
Mississippi and its tributaries. But where had it
             taken them, and why?
  Verity tried to envision the bee woman as she
          might be today but could not.
     How long would this bright moment last?
 Would it last forever, or only for a few hours, or
  for a few minutes? Suddenly she realized that
 she and all of them were on the peak of a wave
 that would soon subside into the trough again.
     But maybe if they remembered, and kept
remembering, the brightness would last, and last
                     forever.
  At least her hands were better. They no longer
  ached. They were cool. She wondered where
            Blaze was, and fell asleep.



                Thirty-eight
              Little Girl Blues
Alice started awake, and wondered why. Then
she saw that Mattie’s bed was empty and
jumped up, pulling on her jeans and zipping
them as she left the room.
     The moon was gone, but the stars were so
 brilliant that they lit the river with a faint eerie
 glow. Alice stood still for a moment, hearing the
 familiar river rush and a sudden, unmistakable
                       splash—
     Verity! Or one of those other sick ones—
     Alice sprinted toward the sound and saw a
  ripple in the water near the ladder. She took a
 flying dive and arrowed into the water, into the
center of the ripple, and grabbed the body there,
   which began fighting, towed it to the surface,
  and began to stroke toward the boat, ignoring
   the blinding sheet of information this touch
  engendered, then realized it was not Verity. It
                       was—
  Mattie spluttered, “Let me go, goddamn it! I’m
all right!” She pushed on Alice’s arm with all her
 might and Alice released her. They faced each
  other, treading water, in the calm cove where
                 they’d anchored.
     “Can’t a body take a swim?” complained
                     Mattie.
  “In the middle of the night?” asked Alice, still
     stunned by the force of Mattie’s being,
 overwhelming even though diluted by water.
       “Any time I please,” retorted Mattie.
     “I thought you were Verity or one of the
                   others—”
  “One of the poor plagued fools,” said Mattie,
  her tone ironic. “One of the damned human
                     race.”
 “Of which you are still a member. How about
  some coffee?” asked Alice. She did not like
Mattie out here in the water, or herself either.
Who knew what kind of deadly creatures might
be swimming round here? Snakes, alligators—
 One of them brushed her leg and she screamed
and flailed toward the ladder. Mattie’s laughter
   followed her. “It’s only Josh,” she jeered.
  “I don’t care if it’s my long-lost sister,” panted
  Alice, and heaved herself out of the water. “I
thought you said that wasn’t his name, anyway.”
    “It’s not,” said Mattie. “But that’s how you
 think of him.” Mattie dove down for a moment
  and then resurfaced. “I’m finished,” she said.
                     “Let’s go.”
  Mattie was trembling when Alice turned at the
  top of the ladder to pull her up, surprised at
how light the child was, though she was almost
five feet tall. Nothing but skin and bones. “You
 shouldn’t be smoking those cigars,” Alice said.
“Or drinking whiskey either. You need to listen
             to me. I’m your doctor.”
    “You’re fired then.” But she didn’t object as
 Alice nipped into an empty room and pulled a
  blanket from an empty bed, bundled it round
the wet girl, and continued on toward the galley.



               Thirty-nine
        Definitely K Street Blues

I was surprised to see Mattie come into the
galley, soaking wet, followed by Alice. It was
after midnight.
   “Good. You have coffee,” said Alice, and went
 straight over and poured two cups. She handed
                  one to Mattie.
 Some music was playing quietly. It came from
an overhead speaker. This meant that Peabody
 was still awake too, in his little laboratory of
                     wires.
 Alice smiled at me. “Gospel music. Reminds me
of when I was little. We use to go to a church in
Southwest Washington.” She hummed along as
 she sat Mattie in a chair. “Drink your coffee,”
      she told Mattie. “Your lips are blue.”
     “That’s ridiculous,” said Mattie, but was
                obedient, for once.
      “What happened to you two?” I asked.
  “She tried to drown me,” said Mattie, as Alice
                   sat down.
   “But she was too tough,” said Alice. “Maybe
   you shouldn’t drink coffee. You need your
                    sleep.”
   “I don’t need sleep but if I did this wouldn’t
 keep me awake for a minute,” said Mattie, and
with both hands round the cup drank half of it
  at once. “We have to get under way in a few
hours, anyway. I have to get you jokers down to
  Nawlins. But tomorrow will be an easy day.
   Anything would be easier than today.” She
 sighed and sat back in her chair and in thirty
               seconds was asleep.
 “What was she doing in the river?” asked Jack.
   “Josh tells her the way to go,” I said. It was
 pretty unusual for me to know something that
          everyone else didn’t know.
    “Oh, really?” said Jack, looking bemused.
      “Well, I’ve heard of stranger things.
Unfortunately.” He brightened. “Well, how about
                  some poker?”
 “Where do you keep the whiskey?” asked Alice.
   “What are we going to bet?” I asked, as Jack
    got the whiskey from a nearby cupboard.
   “Our stories,” said Alice, and poured us all
                     drinks.
       “You’ve already heard mine,” I said.
  “I know,” said Alice, shoving the cards toward
      Jack. “And mine is pretty dull. Cut.”
    “I’m not allowed to tell my story, so I can’t
  lose,” said Jack, grinning. But his eyes were
  bleak and serious. I saw he and Alice look at
       each other over the top of his cards.
   “You’re dying to tell me,” she said. “You have
 to tell someone. Good for the soul and all that.
 After all, I think it’s about the end of the road.
                     Don’t you?”
   “What are you talking about?” asked Jack.
   “Norleans isn’t there,” said Alice. “But you
                  knew that.”
     I opened my ears and studied my cards,
   though I felt a slight shock. I kept my face
 neutral. This was poker, after all. The stakes
 were interesting, to say the least. I kept dead
  calm and still though my heart beat hard. If
 Norleans wasn’t there, where the hell were we
                       going?
  Alice was right about Jack. It took a while for
him to drink half the bottle, and finally he went
down in flames. But he kept pretending to play
and we pretended along with him, dealing cards
         and bidding hand after hand.
    “You’re in a pretty deep hole,” said Alice at
last. “I don’t think you can get back out, at least
        not tonight. So what’s your story?”
   He stared at his cards. “I guess my story is
                really Elaine.”
      “How did you meet her?” asked Alice.
                 “At MIT,” he said.
          “What were you doing there?”
    “Getting a doctorate in statistics. She was
  doing postdoc work in learning and memory.
She got there by way of Harvard Medical School.
Sequed into artificial medicine—nanicine. It was
very hot stuff at the time and MIT was one of the
       hotbeds, along with UCLA Davis.”
  It was my deal. I wondered if Elaine was Lil.
 Alice cut the cards and I spun them round the
table. Jack was sufficiently wound up now and
continued on his own as he examined his hand.
      “In essence, Elaine was at the heart of the
development of nanotech plagues. But that came
  several years later. When I met her—” Here he
looked puzzled, as if he’d tried to figure this out
       more than once. “—I suppose that her
  seriousness attracted me. Maybe I would have
    liked to be that serious, I don’t know. That
  focussed. But I just don’t have the personality
 for it. I have a sense of humor. It took me years
 to see that she just didn’t.” He twisted his face
            into a wry smile. “Such is love.
   “She didn’t go in for glamour—at least, not
then. By the time we got to Washington, all that
 changed. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Two,
                    please.”
 I gave him two more cards and gave myself one
 and Alice stood. He took another drink and I
was pretty sure that Alice understood this next
      part but it was kind of new to me.
  “Let me tell you what she was working on. The
biochemical processes which cement events into
   memory involve discrete releases of certain
neurotransmitters. If artificial analogs are there
 at the appropriate moment, they can augment
    this natural process. The war on aging and
senility was on. Learning is like memory, except
more active, more aggressive, changing the very
 structure of the brain. She taught me all this. I
was pretty involved in complexity theory at that
 point, and we kind of synergized one another’s
  progress. What does it take to effect a phase
     change in the brain? How does it happen
 naturally, in children, in adults? How could we
 do it artificially? I was only peripherally a part
   of their team, but it was pretty heady stuff.”
  He sighed deeply and slugged back the rest of
his whiskey. “Full house,” he said, and laid down
 his cards. Better than ours. He gathered up all
 the cards but kept on talking like some kind of
 plug had been pulled. I wondered how long ago
  this all was but I didn’t dare stop him to find
                        out.
 “I wish to hell I’d realized a lot earlier that my
 taste for this fanatic might turn out to be my
fatal flaw. I was a dedicated middle-of-the road
guy, perfect for government service. She didn’t
  want to marry, but she dated no one else and
    neither did I. So after a few years we got
 married. When the government recruited her,
 we went to Washington, right into the heart of
the storm. Cut,” he said, and shoved the cards at
                  me, then dealt.
     “The city was full of lobbyists and payola, all
    sharking around the heralded release of the
     memory nans, the learning nans. Oodles of
   money to be made. But of course the Defense
     Department was working on the fringes of
    things. There was an ugly world out there, a
      world of religious fanatics who would not
       hesitate to kill with any means at their
  command. The Defense Department wanted to
     develop defenses against them. They had a
complicated nan spy net throughout the world. I
      guess Elaine kind of wanted me out of her
hair—I found out why, later—and she put me on
   to them. I was perfect for them. They trained
    me. I was a smart and affable guy. My social
  skills were pretty good—after all, I was able to
develop the semblance of a blazing love affair in
   the heart of an ice queen, and even got her to
        marry me. In the believable guise of a
  statistician, since I was one, I gained access to
all kinds of information about the international
  progress of the Flower Cities. And passed it on
 to the good guys, I thought. All these individual
  projects were feeding into the development of
  the Flower Cities, but everybody had to make
their nut up front because they were afraid that
 once the information got out everything would
be free. So this created a hell of a lot of secrecy,
the biggest informational bottleneck you’d ever
  want to see. This was after we started getting
              the signal, of course.”
             “The what?” I had to ask.
          Jack asked, “Need any cards?”
  I threw down a trey in hopes of expanding a
 pair of jacks I seemed to have grown attached
                       to.
   “I’ll skip ahead,” he said. “Just to get it over
           with. Where are those cigars?”
  Alice knew exactly where they were and gave
   him matches too. She gave me a meaningful
 glance and I didn’t ask any more questions. He
     was talking about the quasar, of course.
  “By then we were living high on the hog. She’d
gone glamorous on me and I didn’t mind. At first
 she was actually coached, because they had her
going to lots of parties and social events. But she
got to like it pretty well. Damn, I remember that
          night in such detail! I can’t—”
     “You have to,” said Alice. Her voice was
 absolutely neutral. I could tell that she meant
 that it was something he had to do for his own
                      good.
 He gave up pretending to play cards. He didn’t
look at us, but at someplace inside. He held on to
   the table with both hands as he talked like it
 might try to fly away. “We had a condo linked to
 a warren of private tunnels of course. Everyone
     did by then. It was the kind of place that
   gangstas would have loved to break into but
 they couldn’t. The condo association had voted
   to accept advertisements projected no more
than three inches to help with maintenance fees.
 That night there was one for a new Indonesian
restaurant and I thought that Elaine and I could
 go sometime. I remember all this because I was
nervous as hell. Sweating like a pig. I had stolen
  something from her lab. Well, after all, I was a
 spy. But I’d done it for myself. I thought. I kept
  hearing somebody behind me but every time I
  glanced back there was no one there. I wanted
  to run but I forced myself to walk. I remember
that I was irritated because the scanner greeted
 me by name and I thought I’d suppressed that. I
  didn’t see any reason for anyone who might be
 around to know my name.” He gripped his glass
             tightly but did not drink.
 “The elevator ride to the forty-third floor only
  took a few seconds. It had been years since
   Washington had gone vertical. I was glad
 because our view was just stunning. I helloed
 when I went inside and searched every room
even though she was supposed to be at a party
but the place was empty. I’d told her that I had
to work that night and indeed I did. I went in my
 office and locked the door. That damned view!
     I’ll always remember that too, I guess.”
  “Nice, eh?” asked Alice. She had a distant look
       in her eyes and was blinking a lot.
    “We could see the Capitol, and the river, and
    all those lights. But down below there were
  neighborhoods of unimaginable terror. Elaine
   didn’t think about them but I did. To her the
 people there were less than human. I sat down
  at my desk and took out my package. It was a
 slim black thing about three by four inches and
it came open in the middle. I thought of a prayer
book even though I hadn’t been to church since I
                      was a kid.”
           “What was it?” asked Alice.
  “A prototype. Primitive compared to what was
to come, but groundbreaking. On one side was a
       screen with ten choices. Inside were
compartments filled with the raw materials with
which to create psychoreactive molecules. There
   used to be drugs that could heal depression.
Drugs that could eliminate the hallucinations of
  schizophrenics. Drugs that opened the neural
   pathways between the fore- and hindbrain,
  giving the sociopath the empathy which he or
she formerly lacked. But those I held in my hand
 were infinitely more sophisticated. They built a
 succession of powerful images that played out
  on the user’s eyelids, like dreams, only so fast
      that the victim—I thought of them as
     victims—couldn’t possibly consciously
    remember what they had seen. But other
    components anchored the emotions thus
   generated into memory. These images were
selected after virtual centuries of work with real
humans by people like Elaine, and the statistical
   results had been created by people like me.
What a team. Like electric shocks in reverse, the
user could be led down a very precise emotional
   path. Beliefs could be precisely inculcated.”
  He got up and started to pace. Mattie opened
        her eyes sleepily and watched.
  “I had in that little box Christianity, Hinduism,
 Buddhism, and Islam. I had Nihilism, Atheism,
and Existentialism. Perhaps I inadvertently got
 a dose of that. I had Totalitarianism, Marxism,
  Nazism, Communism, Democracy. It seems so
  commonplace now, so primitive compared to
  what’s happened since. But back then—I held
the world in my hand and I knew it. The origins
 of the world we live in now. I was drenched in
sweat. I had the roots of pornography, spiritual
ecstasy, criminal behavior, statesmanship. I had
idiocy, workaholism, sloth. Whatever was not in
   there specifically would come, and in much
     more sophisticated ways, and much more
biochemically directly. I was amazed, terrified. I
 knew that it was happening, but having that in
my hand, after laying careful plans for a month
        to get it—well, that made it real.”
     Jack ripped off the tie he always wore and
      flung it on the table. He loosened the top
   buttons of his shirt and leaned over the table,
        looking me in the eye. “By calling up a
particular profile, I could cause the molecules in
 the gel to combine in a particular formation. At
 that point something like RNA would record it
    and pass through a membrane into a liquid
  which would then organize itself according to
the directions. That was a failsafe feature—if the
   soup wasn’t there, the stuff didn’t travel any
  farther. Of course, that night it was there. In a
matter of seconds, a vial of chemicals suspended
    in a liquid would become available in a tiny
       compartment on one side. A minuscule
    concentration could multiply quickly in the
 water supply. It could enter a building through
  the ventilation system. You could put it in the
food of a schizophrenic friend and turn him into
  a crack scientist, able to see things in a coldly
    real way. Replication like this was strictly,
   absolutely forbidden by all sorts of laws and
 treaties. Limited nan, to produce products, had
    been used for a decade or two. This was not
   limited. And someone had been very careless
    with it, too. That’s what amazed me. A little
         while later I wasn’t quite so amazed.”
   He shoved back from the table and ran his
hand across his head. “That was what I had been
       working on. That little box. Gathering
 information that went into it. I had to find out.
That’s why I took it. I had to know. I wasn’t sure
what I was going to do with it. There was no way
   I could destroy the information. It was there,
out in the world. Forever. For good or for ill and
  that looked pretty much on the ill side to me.”
  He slumped back into his chair and continued
in a low voice. “There had been a lot of meetings
around that time that I had been excluded from.
 Except for Elaine, I wouldn’t have known. Not
  that she told me, but certain routines of ours
   had been disrupted and I finally made it my
 business to find out why. I guess they thought
Dr. Statistics a bit simpleminded. A bit too much
  of a champion of unwashed humanity. Elaine
 had heard me hold forth often enough. At that
      point, looking at what I’d gone to such
     excruciating trouble to pilfer, I was only
 surprised that they had allowed such as me to
 be that close to this project. Elaine had spoken
 from time to time about a possible separation,
 saying she thought it might be unfair of her to
 keep me from having relationships with others
   when she was so very caught up in work. Of
  course, this was no problem for me, because I
understood that she had to work very hard and
    very long. So the matter was dropped and
  probably those who put her up to it threw up
 their hands in despair. Perhaps even now they
  were thinking of other ways to take me out of
  the picture. I was certain that they could not
reveal them to Elaine for fear that she would tell
     me; too certain, I suppose. We are all so
   frighteningly malleable, as that little box in
front of me could so quickly prove if put to use.”
 He stopped. Alice got up and poured him some
  coffee. He drank some. After a moment she
       asked gently, “What next, Jack?”
  He bit his lip. “Well, I started playing with the
   thing. I pulled up the schematics of IQ 250.
Although intelligence had a different paradigm
by then, the old label was still used. In my slow,
stupid way, I pondered. If this really worked, of
 course they had all taken a healthy dose of IQ
      Infinity, which no doubt lurked here
  somewhere. But then, I was certain that they
   had not. I doubted that they had enhanced
             themselves in any way.”
   “Why?” Mattie asked, though her eyes were
                 still closed.
   He glanced at her. “Well, for one thing, it was
dangerous. It was the kind of thing they liked to
  test out on people far away. People who were
     enemies. However that was defined that
 particular day. It was far too rudimentary, too
   crude to risk using on oneself. That was my
  assessment. Plus, there was a chance of being
 found out by those who had commissioned the
                     project.”
          “Who was that?” Alice asked.
   “The Department of Defense. I probably knew
  more about that end of it than Elaine, though
 I’m sure it would have been difficult for her to
  credit me with that.” He sighed. “I wondered,
were there antidotes? Blocks? Perhaps that was
   simply the pad marked Idiocy. Why develop
 Idiocy, anyway? That certainly made no sense.
 Except as a weapon. What did it mean? Surely
there were enough average people in the world
 that Idiocy could have been bypassed. Except,
     perhaps, to anticipate its development
  elsewhere. Or to render the war machines of
other countries utterly impotent.” He sat down
                      again.
  “My mind spun round as Idiocy commenced. I
must have touched it.” He gave us an anguished
  look. “There were no failsafes. They were all
one-way streets. Just as you can’t squeeze time
back into a tiny, powerful dot, just as you can’t
 unmake an omelet, so it was necessary to take
 the new brain-state and develop the means to
   lead it to a new state once Idiocy had been
  achieved. Just using IQ 250 would not do the
 trick. I found this out later. But that night, in
  my gleaming power, I was shocked to hear a
 beep and see a blinking light at the top of the
right-hand leaf. I was horrified. It told me that
Idiocy had been completed and was in the door
                    at the side.
       “I was frantic. I felt like the sorcerer’s
apprentice. There had to be some way to undo it.
 Of course. These states were all made from the
 same grab bag of molecules. Maybe I could just
    activate the opposite— IQ 250. And did so,
 terrified, I suppose, that Idiocy would get loose
            and flow through the city…
   “At the moment that IQ 250 appeared on the
 tiny screen, Elaine walked in the door.” Jack’s
 voice trembled, now, but he continued. “I was
 tremendously surprised because not only was
she holding a gun, but there was a man with her.
   Some colleague I had met briefly at a party.
  They had obviously been drinking quite a lot.
 They all did, at those parties. There were more
 sophisticated ways to experience euphoria, of
course, but the ritual of drinking had something
  to do with showing their solidarity with one
    another. Ancient human rites are hard to
                     eradicate.
      “She thanked me and told me that I’d
   performed exactly as I’d been expected to,
although it took a damned long time. She waved
me out of the way with the gun and I refused to
move and the man took the gun from Elaine and
          got a little more aggressive.
  “Elaine got scared and told him not to hurt me
 and he laughed. Then he saw that I’d activated
it. He asked her to tell him what it said. She told
him IQ 250 and I tried to tell them that it wasn’t,
  that it was Idiocy, but he hit me on the head
 with the gun and I fell down, holding my head,
  which was bleeding. I was seeing stars but I
 heard him telling Elaine that they should take
 it, why not? Something about how they didn’t
have to have it at the drop point for another half
       hour and that no one would know.
   “Elaine objected at first but then they both
  grabbed at it and I think I tried to grab it or
 something and he hit me again and this time it
                knocked me out.
   “When I came to I don’t think much time had
  passed. The book was gone and I heard them
laughing outside the door. I pushed it open a bit.
   “Elaine was sprawled on the couch, smiling. I
    saw him through the window dividing the
 kitchen from the living room. He had the water
on and was just staring at it. I don’t want to talk
              anymore. I’m tired.”
     Alice got up and started to massage his
shoulders. “I think you’re almost done now,” she
  said. “You might as well finish. It won’t take
                  long, will it?”
    “No,” he said in a defeated voice, and tears
 stood in his eyes. He talked faster then. “Elaine
turned to face me. She frowned and asked who I
was. She tilted her head and the look in her eyes
broke my heart. I wished that IQ 250 had been in
that gel. I would have stood there and cried like
    a baby had not that creep turned from the
faucet and picked up the gun from the counter.
He could still do that. It doesn’t take a nanotech
   engineer to do that. An idiot can do that. He
 fired it. He missed me.” Jack was sobbing now,
  his face in his hands. “He hit Elaine, instead.
   Her head jerked to one side. I knew she was
dead. I ran into the room and grabbed the book
   from the coffee table, and ran down the hall.
  Even stupid, the man knew to pursue me, but
the elevator wouldn’t work for him. Oh, Elaine,”
he sighed and shook his head. “So very long ago.
     Eons. So much has happened since then.”
   “You joined the International Underground,”
said Alice. “What did they call themselves then?”
     Jack laughed and wiped his face with a
  napkin. “It was so secret that we didn’t even
           know what it was called.”
         “And that’s where you met Lil.”
  “That’s right, Doctor Nosy,” said Lil. She was
standing in the doorway. “Are you happy now?
 Come to bed, Jack. You’re going to feel really
bad in the morning. Oh, but what do you know,
                 it is morning.”
  I felt pretty bad myself. But I was glad that Lil
 wasn’t Elaine. And it was a bad day altogether.
Not because of the whiskey, but that didn’t help.
  As I got up to go to bed, I noticed that Alice’s
               glass was still full.
                   Forty
             Lost Future Blues

The next morning everyone gathered on the
decks to watch, in dread and amazement, Baton
Rouge. Or what once had been Baton Rouge.
  Blaze scooted some wooden chaises next to the
railing and helped Verity settle in one. “Can you
  see?” he asked, and she nodded. She seemed
          better, but it was hard to tell.
   But there was no doubt that this was Baton
     Rouge, the Gateway to New Orleans.
  Half-drowned as it was, there were signs all
  over, ads and billboards and directions and
                  invitations.
    The western bank of the Mississippi had
   vanished, receded. In its place was a new
 waterscape, tiny islands scattered to vision’s
   end. They were completely covered with
 vegetation. Around them, tall trees grew right
                out of the water.
     They slowed to pick up rafters every few
   minutes. Most of them were disoriented and
 frightened, afraid of drifting off into the bayou
 and never reaching Norleans. Just about every
raft carried one or two dead people, or some had
 been buried along the way. The past few nights
 the refugees had slept five and six to a room,
            and out on the decks.
    Time seemed to stand still as the Queen
chugged past the unbelievably huge port, ten—
twenty—times as big as Cincinnati’s, lined with
 empty slips and silent, rusting cranes. Once it
 must have been full of clanking, clanging life.
            Now it was just spooky.
   The blues the boat played echoed off the flat
steel and concrete of various wharves and came
 back to them across the stretch of water. Blaze
decided that Peabody must have spent the night
 rigging the boat somehow so that it was like a
   giant speaker. Peabody didn’t seem to need
    much sleep. Blaze’s own eyes burned from
staying up till dawn with Jack and Alice. Jack’s
tragic story had opened a new place of darkness
within him. It was terribly sad. How many other
millions, billions of stories like that were there?
   Anticipation had the rafters on edge. They
milled around on the decks, talking in excited
bursts. Their eagerness to reach Norleans took
      the form of a mild, flashing buzz at
first—flashing, truly, because their hands had
   begun to flash with small pictures again.
  Blaze watched as, one after another, rafters
approached Verity and thanked her for getting
   them out of Cincinnati. He realized that
something had changed during the night. Some
   kind of barrier had broken, like a fever.
   Relief filled Blaze. He knew that a lot of what
had been ailing Verity had to do with feeling bad
  that she had freed them, and given them the
 plague, because of all their subsequent trials.
There was something, too, about them not living
     forever anymore—but being able to be
   themselves again. A wrenching decision, he
  imagined, if you had to decide which path to
 take. He couldn’t fathom having to make it for
      someone else, as Verity had for them.
  Not everyone was pleased—one man cursed
    Verity, and Blaze just barely kept from
   punching him. Instead he suggested that
 Norleans was still a long swim and the man
  skulked away. Another man came and told
Verity that he was a changed person for having
been in Cincinnati so long and having lived all
  those emotions. He said that one plain life
wasn’t long enough to even begin to understand
  what emotion and meaning were all about.
    But all that ceased as their surroundings
   increased in strangeness. The passengers
 quieted as Baton Rouge’s old downtown came
                    into view.
    The Flowers atop the buildings were dead
husks. Discolored streaks ran down the sides of
the buildings; many of them had crumpled like
 those in Memphis, but their construction was
 different. The Memphis skyscrapers had been
  glasslike, metallic, hard-surfaced; tilted and
    racked by flood and earthquake. These
 buildings were more like rotting vegetables. A
          stench hung over the river.
     Lil joined Blaze and Verity at the railing,
 looking forward anxiously. Verity smiled up at
   her but it looked like it took a lot of energy.
  Blaze took Verity’s hand. It was cool, though it
flashed now and then with little twinges of light.
She glanced at him but he couldn’t tell what she
                   was thinking.
  “What are we going to do when it isn’t there?”
               Blaze asked Lil.
   Lil turned her head. “What are you talking
          about?” she asked sharply.
  “Norleans,” Blaze said. “Alice says that it isn’t
                     there.”
             “How would she know?”
              “Beats me,” Blaze said.
   “It’s there,” said Verity, and it was the first
 thing she’d said since Twain’s funeral. “I know
                     it’s there.”
     “You’ve got the plague,” Blaze told her.
  “Yes,” she said happily. “I do. But I mean—it’s
            somewhere. Isn’t it, Lil?”
  Lil turned to look at Verity and her eyes were
  shocking; full of pain. Blaze saw all kinds of
 emotions on her face—disbelief, regret, anger,
resignation. It was the strangest look he’d ever
 seen. Then Lil hurried away, almost running.
  “Where is she going?” asked Verity dreamily,
as if she hadn’t heard what Lil said or seen the
                look on her face.
   “I think she has something to discuss with
               Alice,” Blaze said.
  They watched the shore pass by, and seagulls
  screamed overhead. It was disquieting to see
  how big Baton Rouge was—fifty times bigger
 than Cincinnati?—but after forty-five minutes
Blaze saw a sign that said Cinclare and realized
    that at one time there had been so much
industry and commerce here that one city had
              blended into the next.
 And everyone who lived here had died. Or had
  run away. Or set out for the Territory. Or
         drifted down the river to—
 Where are we going? he wondered. He decided
  that it might be a good idea to make some
  alternate plans. No one else seemed to be
          thinking along those lines.
  He remembered Cairo, the train, Shaker Hill.
He thought of all the places they’d been and of
 all of them he liked the little towns along the
Ohio, the farming villages with their windmills
  and old tech. Maybe Verity could get better
                     there.
    On the other hand… he considered the
Territory, where Mattie had come from, where
the land stretched bleak and strange for so very,
  very far. It might be interesting to travel out
 that way, if Verity would want to, if they could
          take everything they needed.
     But then he thought about the things he’d
    learned from Peabody and the things he’d
learned from Jack, and Alice, and everyone he’d
 met on this trip and he realized that he wanted
to know more. More about what was happening,
more about what had happened. He didn’t know
 if there was anyplace in the world he could do
        that but maybe he could find out.
   Well, maybe it wouldn’t be too much longer
before he’d have to decide what to do if Norleans
really wasn’t there. But then, of course, it might
    be too late. Maybe it was already too late.
 Peabody was at the wheel and Alice was sitting
 next to Mattie on a cot in the pilothouse when
      Lil came in, looking dazed and tired.
    Lil stared out the window at Baton Rouge,
 crossed her arms, and sighed. ‘’You know,“ she
       said to Alice. ”You knew all along.”
 “Knew what?” asked Alice. “Not to mention I’ve
     only been on the boat a week or so.”
                “About Norleans.”
  “What about it?” asked Alice, trying to contain
    the exasperation that trying to have a
         conversation with Lil evoked.
     “About what happened after the flood.”
  “Well,” said Alice, “so what if I do? And it’s just
   the best information that I have, which isn’t
saying much. And it’s old information. More like
     a rumor. I don’t even know when it was
supposedly destroyed. Thirty years ago? Forty?
I wasn’t even around here that long ago. I think
the people at Madge’s Landing said there was a
    hurricane, but I haven’t been the least bit
 curious. Maybe it’s all been built back up, Lil,
    eh? Calm down. I didn’t think you had the
                      plague.”
  “I just don’t know what they’ll all do if it’s not
there,” said Lil. Alice noted that Lil’s hands were
  trembling, very slightly. Her voice rose high.
  “What are we going to do? What has everyone
   with the plague been doing all these years?
  Where have they gone when they saw it wasn’t
                       there?”
     Alice looked at her keenly. “Me saying it’s
there or it isn’t there isn’t going to change what
  we’ll find when we get there. If it’s not there
 then we’ll just have to decide what to do about
   it, right?” She paused. “If I didn’t know you
better I’d say that you were having a hysterical
                      attack.”
  Lil grasped the back of a chair and took deep,
 deliberate gulps of air. “The closer we get, the
   more real it seems. From far away, I could
 dream… that maybe Norleans was really still
 there, just enclosed in a Zone. I could believe
 that maybe they were able to build it back up,
  and that all the people with the plague had
  made it there, and that they were all getting
ready for some—some amazing rejuvenation. I
 thought—well, just now I thought that maybe
you knew something I didn’t. I mean—I haven’t
          been sure. I’ve only hoped…”
  “Gracious, Lil,” said Alice, “how could I know
 more about anything than you? Why, whatever
you think you know supersedes any rumors I’ve
heard by magnitudes. So get hold of yourself. If
  you think it’s there, why, I’m sure it’s there.”
 “I don’t really know,” said Lil, calming. “Sorry.
    I just—after all this way—I got a little…
flustered. It has to be somewhere. I just have to
              believe it. If it isn’t—”
 “Sure,” said Alice. “Want me to see if I can find
      you something for those shakes?”
  “What can we do?” asked Lil, in a whisper. “It
   will be a complete uproar. Chaos. They’re
 expecting Norleans. They’ve been expecting it
   for so long. So deeply. These people and…
                 everyone else…”
           “You have too, haven’t you?”
                 “Not like them.”
 “Maybe they’re more sensible than you think.”
  “Who knows,” said Lil. She rubbed her arms
   briskly, as if she was cold, though it was
sweltering. She laughed, once. She held out her
 hands and stared at them. Then she clenched
 them and shook her head. “Sometimes—well,
realizing something horrible, something awful.
Can be. Very hard. Even if you knew it. Even if
            you knew it all along.”
     “Are you talking about having fooled
           yourself?” asked Alice.
    “Something like that, I guess,” said Lil.
     The two woman looked at each other.
  “These cigars aren’t half-bad,” said Peabody
    from the wheel. “Anybody want one?”
                “Me,” said Mattie.
 “Look, Mattie, I want you to rest today,” said
 Alice. “No cigars, understand? No whiskey.
Peabody can pilot the boat, can’t he? You said
          it’s just a simple stretch.”
 “He doesn’t know how to deal with whirlpools
and cuts and all,” she said, but her voice shook
  like that of a frustrated child and she was
               drenched in sweat.
  “That’s true,” said Peabody. “But this part of
the river is pretty tame, isn’t it? I mean, it was
             dredged out years ago.”
    “You can see it’s jumped its banks,” said
       Mattie through chattering teeth.
 “Well, I’d know better than to steer smack dab
  through the streets of a city,” said Peabody.
     “I want to take her into New Orleans,”
   whispered Mattie fiercely. “That’s what he
            would have wanted.”
  “I want to do some tests on you down in the
  room,” said Alice, frowning at Mattie. She
brushed the girl’s hair back from her forehead.
   “No tests!” said Mattie. “I told you. I’m fine!”
       “You’re a very sick girl,” said Alice.
   “I’m not a girl!” she said. “ ‘And you are not
 you—you have no body, no blood, no bones—’ ”
   “Oh, Mattie,” breathed Alice, and there were
 tears in her eyes as she picked the girl up with
some difficulty and said, “I’m going to try a cold
bath.” She carried her out the door and Lil was
               alone with Peabody.
   Lil paced in the small cabin. “We just have
rumors. That’s all anyone has. That’s why it took
         me so long to risk this trip—”
  Peabody just smiled broadly around his cigar.
       “People are funny, aren’t they?”
       “You’ve got the plague too,” she said
                   resignedly.
   “That’s so,” he said, and smiled some more.
   “Well, what did they think about all this in
 Chicago? What do you think? You know more
than you’re saying. That’s about all that I know
                  about you.”
   “I reserve the right to remain inscrutable,”
                 said Peabody.
  “I guess it’s all a big joke to you,” said Lil, and
 left the pilothouse, slamming the door behind
                          her.
  “Hardly,” said Peabody. But there was no one
                left to hear him.
      Verity lay soaked in sweat, though the sun
 wasn’t even out. The air was heavy; it seemed as
if her lungs couldn’t extract enough oxygen from
 it. There was no breeze, and magnificent frigate
   birds hovered overhead, looping round again
  and again, diving for fish in the still afternoon,
their backslanting wings vulturelike against the
                      gray sky.
 There was an air of restless anticipation on the
boat. People stood talking to one another about
 what they would do when they got to Norleans,
how they would feel, how wonderful it would be.
  The few children ran back and forth on the
               decks screaming.
    The Queen churned on and on, past the
desolate wasted unending city, on a course of a
   slow, broad loop that hugged the line of
                  buildings.
   Verity napped now and then on her chaise.
Blaze kept bringing her drinks and food but she
   didn’t eat anything; she felt sick. For long
 moments she felt like she was sinking into the
   blackness but then it would lift. She was
  irritated and confused and uncomfortable.
Mattie was right. Identity—thinking of yourself
as one person or another—was all just a fiction.
             But the thought of getting to
   Norleans—finally!—could lift her from those
 thoughts. Even though she knew that urge was
  just some sort of combination of chemicals in
her mind. And that was the most irritating thing
        of all. Even now, she was still being
    manipulated. Maybe it was silly to want to
 control all this, to think that she could. Maybe
    she could ask Alice to think about it some
                       more—
  But maybe that was all being human ever was
   and ever would be. Chemicals in the brain.
    Hormones that made one believe in the
              existence of a soul.
  Somehow, though, the sum was more than the
parts. Except when the blackness came. Then it
   was easy to believe that everyone was just
reacting, not deciding, and that humans were a
sort of fluff that would soon blow away, leaving
 the coast clear for whatever would come next.
    A far cry from Mother Ann’s eternity, for
  which she and so many others had lived and
                    died.
    Even her loose cotton dress was too much
 weight to bear. Too hot. Her dress stuck to her
  and every time she moved rivulets of sweat
 rolled down her face. Gulls shrilled round the
  boat, their harsh cries echoing from the close
    gray sky. Tremendous live oaks growing
  through the dead corridor’s pavements were
 dwarfed by the seemingly endless procession of
 deserted buildings. It was as if a poison was on
the land. There were not even bands of children,
 not a single sign of humans. Verity thought she
saw odd phosphorescent glimmers now and then
    deep in the heart of the thatch of rotting
 buildings, like seeing a single slash of sunlight
  on a cornstalk several rows into the field, but
    decided it was probably her imagination.
    Shortly after noon, Lil returned to the deck.
Even she had made a concession to the weather.
She had abandoned her glitter dress and shoes,
  and was wearing white shorts, a red strapless
 halter, and over that a navy blue short-sleeved
   shirt, unbuttoned, that flapped in a sudden,
teasing breeze. Her hair, instead of flowing long
   and loose, was braided back tightly from her
 face in narrow rows, and she’d wound the ends
   of the braids into some knot pinned atop her
        head. Her face looked different, thus
            revealed—sharper, younger.
   “How are you doing, Verity?” she asked. She
 leaned against the railing, gazing forward like
                   everyone.
 “It’s the end of a long trip,” said Verity. “I don’t
  know. I feel tired. Kind of worried. But this
  place—” She grimaced. “It might have been
dreamed up by that thing in Memphis. Norleans
will be wonderful after all this misery. Won’t it?”
  Lil’s sigh was deep. She wiped sweat from her
 face with her shirttail. “I hope so,” she said. “I
 hope so. I wish that breeze would come back.”
She pulled off her shirt, balled it up, and tossed
               it down behind her.
   The elegant lines of Lil’s face, seen from the
   side, woke something in Verity. That high
  cheekbone, determined chin, long neck, and
  narrow shoulder, undisguised by clothing or
   hair for the first time, were deeply, utterly
           familiar, burned into her—
  Lil turned her head a bit, as if she felt Verity’s
 gaze, and looked at her with questioning eyes.
                    “What?”
   Below Lil’s neck, between her left shoulder
    and her spine, Verity saw a bee tattoo.
     It might not be called a tattoo, strictly
speaking. It glowed soft gold against—no, within
                —Lil“s black skin.
    Verity struggled to breathe. Her body was
     galvanized by a series of emotions that
         crescendoed into searing rage.
 “Why?” Verity slowly rose from the chair, still
unable to believe. It was some mistake, or some
 sisterhood, or a random accident. It couldn’t
     have been Lil. Not Lil, herself, alone…
      But she knew in her heart it was true.
 “Why did you create the Norleans Plague, Lil?”
    Lil’s face was suffused with the strangest
            expression for a moment.
  Her face was soft and open, as if the weight of
 years had vanished. She looked at Verity with
   eyes suddenly direct, filled with candor.
 “It’s that tattoo, isn’t it?” Lil asked gently. “I’m
   sorry, I forgot. I included it in some of the
 visuals. It’s been so long. So very, very long.”
   A great blue heron took flight from a nearby
  hummock. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
 “I can’t believe—” said Verity. “You’ve killed so
 many people. You killed my family at Shaker
 Hill. The plague did. And here we all are now,
  and what’s going to happen? Where are we
                  going? Why?”
 “I’m sorry,” said Lil. “I look very different now,
                     don’t I?”
    “Your eyes are the same,” said Verity. “The
look in them. Except— sadder, I guess. Your face
  is different. It’s more aged. Your skin is a bit
   darker, I guess. Jack told me that’s easy to
change. Your hair is a lot longer. But I feel like I
       should have known—all this time—”
    “No one was meant to know,” said Lil. “I’ve
 been careless today. Keeping the tattoo was an
affectation, a foolish sentimental thing. It meant
  something to us, back in those days when we
 thought we were saving the world. We thought
  that the Flower Cities were a major leap in
  human evolution—but that they were being
 subverted because of the innate selfishness of
     humans, because of all sorts of subtle
 characteristics that might even be invisible to
                       us.”
   Lil bowed her head. “And maybe—and maybe
in coming in among the plagued like this, where
the image of who I once was still exists, I wanted
 to be found out. It’s been difficult—so difficult.
  Horrible to know what’s happened to all our
                       plans.”
      “What were your plans?” asked Verity.
   She felt as if she were floating, seamless and
nerveless, reactionless in a dream more strange
than anything that had come before. I should be
 angry, she thought, but the affront was so vast,
  so all-encompassing, that she was just numb.
    “Norleans was a free city,” said Lil. “Free of
 government control, that is. It was a safe haven
   from all of the madness of the world at that
    time. A place of life and hope. One woman
practically owned the whole place. She created a
  community of learning. The water was rising,
even then, but slowly, so it was rather beautiful,
 with canals instead of streets. A lot of people in
     the scientific and technical communities
gathered there. It was like a pilgrimage. Anyone
   who wished to could stay—the whole, deep,
 fascinating culture was still there, voodoo and
all—but our activities weren’t proscribed by any
   government, local or otherwise. A lot of cities
    had by then proclaimed their independence
      from the United States. We did too. Our
   philosophy was simple—we wanted to spread
      information. And we wanted to have an
 interdisciplinary situation. We wanted as many
 people as possible to know as much as possible
   about the reality of what was happening. We
    wanted cross-pollination of ideas. It was the
  secrecy of governments that brought us to our
 knees, the ingrained tribalism and nationalism
     and just the basics of human nature that
brought us down. At the turn of the millennium,
  around 2000, the human population had a thin
      veneer of people who really understood
       technology, who understood what was
   happening, how things worked, how it had all
  come about. But it was almost as if there was a
    direct conspiracy to keep people from going
         through the intrinsic basic human
   developmental tasks of learning not only the
  language of the written word but the language
 of mathematics, the language of computers, the
   grammar by which our very minds work. And
     that got worse with nanotechnology, that
selfishness, that us-and-them. It all happened so
  fast, before I was born, of course. It was as if a
      whirlwind seized a bewildered world, a
   whirlwind of human making, all of it slanted
        toward exactly the wrong ends. The
development of reliable educational nan was one
      of the challenges we gave ourselves.
   “The international organization of which I
became a part infiltrated all of the Flower Cities
   in the world to try and find out what was
  happening. I gave Peabody a hard time, the
 other day, but to tell you the truth, back then
Chicago was a model city. Most of them weren’t.
  “We wanted to get people down to Norleans as
    quickly as possible. Give them a taste of
 freedom. Give them the opportunity to become
educated, in one of the many fabulous ways that
were becoming possible. Give them choices. Give
   them the opportunity to participate in the
              rebirth of the world.”
 “Did you know about the signal?” asked Verity.
  Lil looked surprised. “Well, we probably knew
 as much as anyone. But that information was
the tightest. Even when it was starting to bathe
the Earth, if there were people or organizations
that knew more about it, they weren’t talking. I
 think that most everyone who knew anything
  was silenced, early on, or became part of an
elite. Of course, we didn’t last long—maybe five
   years. In the early days we maintained the
 magrail system to get people to the city, but it
   was blown up time and time again, and we
  thought, Well, the river will always be there.
 They sure can’t stop this river. That was years
 and years ago. Years and years. The Norleans
 Plague is extremely simple, made of a few very
 strong images to which practically everyone in
   North America responds. And it meant a lot
more to me. I loved the idea of people rafting out
of slavery—slavery to nanotech, to Flower Cities
gone awry, or even to ignorance of all that might
be possible—to the freedom of New Orleans. The
 golden color was an inescapable by-product we
thought might serve as a sort of bonding device,
  at one point, but what you call the plague was
        unfinished when it was released.”
     Lil continued talking after a moment of
 silence. She seemed to be talking to herself as
 much as to Verity. “There was still a lot more
 testing to do but we learned that the National
Guard, or what passed for it at that stage of the
 game, had been sent to take out New Orleans.
  They were closing in on us, fast. We were not
popular with what was left of the government.
   We didn’t have weapons, we had no way to
  defend ourselves. Most of the scientists were
               complete pacifists.
  “Anyway, a group of radicals—radical even for
    us—left with an imperfect prototype of my
   information ‘plague,’ as these multi-medium
distribution information packets had come to be
     called. MDI was the name at the Defense
Department because they could be disseminated
    through the air or through the water. This
 particular MDI became known as the Norleans
                     Plague.
  “Anyway, those radicals thought we were too
slow; too cautious. We followed them, of course.
About ten of us left, including Jack and me. We
  were able to find only two of the radicals. We
    learned soon enough that they had been
    successful in the dissemination process.
   “One of our committees had developed a plan
     to grow a floating city. It was to be like a
   country—completely independent. We were
  going to move New Orleans there—or, rather,
 re-create certain aspects of the city, floating in
the Caribbean, and then inhabit it. So I included
 visions of what I imagined it would be like. But
   of course, they didn’t have time to start the
                   floating city.”
             “Why not?” asked Verity.
      “Jack and I heard that after we left the
military drowned the city. Drowned it, with no
warning. Destroyed the levees. It was a massive,
     sudden flood surge. All our friends and
colleagues died, most likely. It was a massacre.
   They picked their time cleverly. I think that
 they might have been waiting several years for
    the optimum conditions. A hurricane was
 building and everybody was preoccupied with
preparing for it. Right in the middle of the flood
surge, the hurricane hit. So it must have been…
bedlam. Complete bedlam. After that, there was
  a complete blackout. We couldn’t get within a
    hundred miles of the city, nor could any
 couriers or spies. There were massive Zones.
Maybe they were seeded by the National Guard.
And they were controlled by someone who most
 definitely didn’t want information to be free.”
        “What are Zones?” asked Verity.
 Lil said, “Everything was fragmented after the
Third Wave. The Third Wave created the Zones.
They’re places where nanotech surged and kind
 of made everything uniform, as if it was one
                     entity.
   “Zones are terrifying. You can enter a Zone
without knowing it, since everything looks the
  same. But it’s been replaced. A Zone can be
 anything, theoretically. It can embody a single
  belief, it can embody no beliefs, it can be as
devoid of consciousness as a plant, even though
 the beings look like people and go through all
 the motions—at least it seems that way if you
don’t look too hard. We’ve heard that there are
 Zones scattered all through the South and the
  East. They seem to be self-limiting. Not like
   Cincinnati at all, which was informed by
                   intelligence.”
   Lil’s eyes were anguished as she looked at
   Verity. “I was heartbroken. I fell into the
 deepest depression that you can imagine. At
 that point, what I had participated in was so
  unspeakable that I didn’t think of myself as
    worthy to have a part in another such
       enterprise, if there ever was one.”
    “So there might really be a floating city?”
                 asked Verity.
  Lil shook her head. “I doubt it. Jack thinks so.
   He’s heard rumors that another faction had
 been building it all along. I think that’s a fairy
 tale. A chimera. They weren’t far enough along
in their plans. And the people who knew how to
do it must have all drowned. Alice hasn’t heard
  of it, and she’s been living much closer to the
                    Gulf than us.”
  “What happened after you left New Orleans?”
               asked Verity.
    “We settled in Kentucky. I isolated myself
   completely. I guess I was kind of nuts. The
mountains reminded me of my childhood. I was
  just protecting myself. I thought I had good
 reason. Jack went out fairly often, to various
  cities, or what remained of them. He stayed
 plugged into whatever network survived. He
               still believes in it.”
    She laughed, sadly. “Maybe there’s more to
that than I think, but back then, and even now, I
thought that everything was in complete tatters,
     and that whatever he was doing must be
  ridiculous; meaningless. I didn’t even want to
 know what was happening, what he did, when
he was out. I was too… stupid, I guess, to try and
  alleviate the way I felt about everything with
 any sort of easy fix. I thought that I needed to
  suffer. I was inordinately afraid of finding
myself in a Zone, and in my nightmares our little
house in the hills was surrounded by Zones and
  it practically took dynamite to pry me out.
       “Then Jack heard about the liberation of
    Cincinnati. Not any details, just that a lot of
    people were setting out down the river. For
  some reason that really excited me. Cincinnati
     was tight as a tick, completely isolated and
     self-referential. If it broke, maybe that was
 significant. I was reluctant but Jack convinced
  me that we needed to go, to find out what was
   happening. And we had to hurry! If we hadn’t
 met you on the gambling island, we would have
   tried for further downstream. It was just like
the old days for him, I guess. Almost like a party,
    a celebration of life, and we’d had so little of
 that excitement over the years. And once I was
 on the boat, my old feelings and ways of dealing
  with things kicked in. I thought maybe I could
   matter again. I could try and help some of my
     victims. Find atonement, in a way. Another
                       stupidity.”
    Jack slipped next to Lil and put his arm
 around her. “Why don’t you tell her the whole
                   story?”
  Lil shrugged. “What for? It’s kind of too much
   for one day. Doesn’t make any difference,
                   anyway.”
  “Might as well get it off your shoulders,” said
          Jack. “Maybe I’ll tell her.”
                  Lil was silent.
   “Lil stole the World Genome Project,” Jack
                      said.
   “What do you mean?” asked Verity. “What is
                    it?”
  Jack said, “It was a library of the genome of
every species living from around 2000 on, until
 so many of them were wiped out. Plants and
 animals. Lil got a lot of good references from
working on the Chameleon Project, and that’s
        how she got a job at the NIH.”
       “Oh, Jack, I’m not very proud of the
         Chameleon Project,” said Lil.
   “You should be. It was groundbreaking.” He
     smiled at Verity. “It’s how we met. Very
  romantic, actually. It was a project to imbue
  anything or anyone with characteristics that
    you, the consumer, would find attractive.
  Whether it was a political candidate or toilet
paper. The beginning of using metapheromones,
 actually. My assignment was to steal the specs
          for the Defense Department.”
   “Of course,” said Lil, “I knew what he was up
   to immediately. I caught him lurking in the
  network and asked him over. He came to the
office—a fly-by-night company on Dupont Circle.
      Of course I was really working for the
 underground. Even my company didn’t know
that. I thought Jack was cute, in a serious kind
                    of way.”
        “Cute!” said Jack. “What a word.”
  “Well, you were,” she said. “You weren’t very
good at what you were doing. Not yet. Not only
 were you completely transparent, but I could
          see your heart wasn’t in it.”
  “She arranged for some misinformation about
 the Chameleon Project to fall into my hands,”
said Jack. “No wonder I didn’t get a promotion.”
   Lil continued, “Anyway, the underground
 heard a year or two later that Jack had stolen
   an important government prototype, and
               wanted to deal.”
  Verity remembered dimly that Blaze had told
her something about Jack—some prototype, and
   his wife being killed. She didn’t interrupt.
   Lil said, “They sent me to evaluate him and
what he had, since I’d had that previous contact
 with him, even though it had been brief and I
 hadn’t seen him since. He was a wreck. But he
 was definitely sincere. I recruited him on the
                      spot.”
  “Yeah,” said Jack, grinning. “I’ll say she did.
     Even though I was so transparent.”
             “Oh, shut up,” said Lil.
    Jack turned serious. “I would have died
without her. It was that simple. I just wanted to
hand over what I had to someone who could put
it to good use and check out. But she convinced
 me that there was an alternative. She showed
 me that there might be a light at the end of the
tunnel. Something to work toward. Some way to
 get through this horrible crisis that humanity
               was going through.”
 Lil sighed. “I don’t know if I was doing you any
                 favors, after all.”
              “It’s not over yet, Lil.”
   She shook her head. “I think that you heard
 wrong, Jack. When they drowned New Orleans,
things just weren’t far enough along to continue
             with the floating plan.”
                “We’ll see,” he said.
           “We can’t go back,” she said.
  “There’s not much to go back to,” he said. “It’s
time to go forward. I thought we’d gone over this
                enough times—”
  “You’re right Jack,” she said. “It’s just hard to
    go ahead into—nothing. It has been an
            interesting trip, though.”
   “More fun than sitting at home,” said Jack.
     “What about the genome?” asked Verity.
   Lil ducked her head and frowned. Then she
  jerked it upright and looked ahead again. “I
 almost went straight, there, at the NIH. Those
 people were doing incredible work. They were
   the most dedicated people in the world.”
      “And you were one of them,” said Jack,
               obviously proud.
     “I played a very minor part,” said Lil. “Of
  course, with such a big project, everyone did.
And the thing is, information was free there. For
 the first time ever, it seemed to me. No secrecy.
 Everyone had access to what everyone else was
   doing. No backbiting. We were all working
together under a terrific, world-ending deadline.
  Species were disappearing at such a fast rate
    that it was, simply, frightening. The very
           biomass was being depleted.”
   “It seems all right now,” said Verity. “There
         are birds, fish, insects, plants…”
  “Ah, you can’t tell,” said Lil. “Not from here. It
does seem richer locally, as if the world might be
 slowly recovering. But it might not be able to.
 Not soon enough for us, anyway, or, rather, our
   descendants. It takes eons to build up from
  nothing, which is what parts of the ocean are
       like, and much of the continents.”
    “So… how did you steal it?” asked Verity.
    “It’s not that I really stole it,” said Lil. “It
    belongs to everyone. But I’m keeping it.”
                      “Where?”
  Jack took Lil’s hands. He kissed them. “Here,”
 he said. He ran his hands up her arms. “Here,”
he said. “And here.” He gathered her into a close
    embrace and kissed her, hard, for a long
moment. He let go, and they were both breathing
hard. “When I kiss her, I feel like I’m kissing the
            universe. And when I—”
    “That’s enough, Jack Hamilton,” said Lil, her
      cheeks faintly red. “I’m sure she gets the
   picture.” She turned to Verity. “Washington
surged. It doesn’t happen overnight, necessarily.
  It just seems like it in the end, because after a
    certain critical mass is reached it goes a lot
 faster. Actually, it started across the river, in a
  storage room at the Pentagon. Of course, they
   kept the surge a secret as long as they could,
  like maybe it would go away, or maybe they’d
 think of a way to stop it in time. But it was one
 of those things without an antidote. There were
 plenty of things like that. But our organization
knew. We tried to get the city evacuated but two
 very good people were killed for trying to bring
   to the public’s attention that they were Zone
  fodder. Then we heard that they were hoping
that it wouldn’t cross the river—but they forgot
 to blow up the bridges. Anyway, the Potomac is
  not a very wide river. With any kind of wind it
would have jumped. At that point people started
   realizing what was happening and there was
  general panic. It was the middle of the night. I
   know that no one went back to NIH because
 when I went back it was completely deserted.”
  “We were just one step ahead of it,” said Jack.
     “But Lil insisted on going to NIH and
downloading the library. I was sure it would kill
                      her.”
  “It would have,” said Lil. “It still could. But it’s
locked in. None of it can get loose into the rest of
 me. Unless…” She paused, then continued. “It’s
   kind of like artificial blood, maybe that’s the
  best analogy. It circulates in me, it stays alive.
The information constantly updates itself, keeps
               itself from degrading.”
   “Why didn’t anyone else do it?” asked Verity.
  “Maybe someone did. And maybe in other parts
 of the world the information is still there, still
intact. But if so I don’t know about it. See, it was
what I was planning to do all along. I’d prepared
my body for it. It’s why I got that NIH job. To get
that information everywhere. Even though we all
  cooperated amongst ourselves, there was still
 the government mind-set that the information
 just belonged to our government, our country.
   But the project was never finished. It might
 never have been. It was so intoxicating to stay
   there, and learn more and more and more.”
   “So the World Genome was in New Orleans,
             right?” asked Verity.
   Lil shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. The
 NIH system was incredibly complex, and one of
the things we were working on was reproducing
 it in New Orleans so the information could be
 decompressed. I did leave samples in various
 places as backups but I’m sure that they were
               lost in the flood.”
  Verity touched Lil’s bee tattoo with her finger
almost reverently. Her anger had vanished. “I’ve
seen this so often,” she said. “It’s so strange that
                    it’s you. …”
  Lil looked at the people milling around on the
 deck, in seeming euphoria. Song rang out here
    and there, mostly blues that they’d been
 learning since Memphis. Her face was pensive.
  “Lil,” said Jack in a warning voice, looking at
      her closely, “don’t get started, now.”
 “I should apologize to all of them,” said Lil in a
low, desperate voice. “All of them and everyone
 who’s ever gotten the plague. I’m sure a lot of
 them are dead, aren’t you, Jack? Aren’t you?”
          Her voice was angry; bitter.
 “There’s the possibility that a lot of them got to
Norleans, Lil,” said Jack. “In time. It really could
be there. Trust me, Lil. I’ve always trusted you.”
     “You have,” she said, taking his hand. She
 sighed. “I really have to face what’s happened,
  Jack. It’s about time. I’ve been hiding for too
  long. Maybe a personal reckoning is the most
that I can hope for now, although it seems pretty
 trivial in the face of all this misery. All my life,
     I’ve thought that maybe we—the human
 race—were going to break through to the next
level. To some kind of openness, the next level of
  evolution. I know there is one. That’s the way
  natural systems work. For good or for ill, I’ve
   been part of pushing things through, even
  though it seems that we’ve fallen backwards
           into the dark ages instead.”
 She turned and looked at Jack. “But Norleans
 probably is gone. That’s what I think. I guess
 this was my penance, to come down here too,
where I sent so many people. To their death, I
     suppose. There’s nothing out there but
 wilderness—the bayou, the Gulf, uninhabited
  islands, and a whole lot of snakes. Have you
noticed what’s happened in the past half hour,
     Verity? Where’s the shore? The land is
completely drowned now. It’s like a lake here,
part of the Gulf. All that beauty, all that hope!
      All those clear-sighted people and our
vision—gone. No target for the plagued. For all
 these years. I knew it, in my heart, of course.
             That’s what upset me so.”
   She dropped into a chair and said to Verity,
while staring out at the strange, ruined shore, “I
 worked, you know, on several antidotes. Jack
 took them round here and there, on trips that
took months, but the plague that I made—” Her
laugh was sardonic. “The plague that I made is
  quite a survivor, I’m afraid. It takes the new
stuff in and gets that much stronger, that much
  less vulnerable. I had hope, once we landed in
    Cairo, that there was a completely resistant
    population. I had to hope. I knew that most
   likely once the Cincinnatians got off the boat
 their strain of the plague would overcome any
sort of vaccine the Caironians had, and that they
too would be rushing downriver to—die. Hope is
 a funny thing. As unrealistic as any dream that
    Twain might have had. Maybe he was right.
 Maybe it is all a dream—scientific method and
 all. All part of a strange, dark dream, and if we
     ever woke from it there would be nothing.
                       Nothing.”
     She put her face in her hands. Her thin
          shoulders shook with sobs.
  Verity hunkered down and pushed Lil’s hands
away; held Lil’s face between her hands as Jack
stood helplessly by. Lil’s eyes were full of agony.
     “It’s not true,” Verity said. “I’ve been to
 nothing and I’ve come back. We—humans—are
something. For good or for bad—which are ideas
        we made up—we really do exist.”
    “I’m so sorry,” Lil whispered. “I’m just so
                     sorry.”
    “I know,” said Verity. “I am too. For all that
  I’ve done. I gave the people in Cincinnati the
 plague. I think that was part of what I’ve been
 feeling lately. But you were trying to do good.”
          “That doesn’t matter,” said Lil.
  Verity had nothing with which to comfort Lil,
because she knew that what she said was true. It
wasn’t your intentions that mattered. It was the
                    result.


                      12
                 Crescent City



                Forty-one
           To Miss New Orleans

Alice perched on a stool at the front of the
pilothouse, leaning forward to get the best view
of the river. The weather was sultry beyond
belief. She wished it would rain. But even that
wouldn’t really take the edge off the heat. When
it rained, instead of just being hot, you were hot
and wet.
    While Mattie slept, directly due to a sedative
 Alice had slipped her, and about which she felt
     no guilt, Peabody stood at the wheel with
   nothing much to do. Alice realized that she’d
    been so busy tending sick people that she’d
   never really had time to talk to Peabody. But
  clearly he was holding everything together in
his quiet way. She sensed that he had some kind
      of overview that everyone else lacked.
   Now that Verity was better and the general
     panic of the suicides and sickness was
subsiding, Alice had time to turn her attention
 to Mattie. She was waiting for her synthesizer
   room to come up with some sort of cure for
Mattie; she’d taken some samples for it to work
on. Except that it kept stopping, and she had to
            start the evolution again.
 She also now had time to notice that they were
  going nowhere, and that it seemed too late to
jump ship. Not that she could have, not without
dragging Mattie away with her and she doubted
            she had the strength.
  As Peabody steered he brought up some map
   and punched through twenty or so before
                  pausing.
   “That’s interesting,” said Alice, looking over
his shoulder. “Why didn’t Twain and Mattie use
                     them?”
    “They’re not much good except right about
here,” said Peabody. “This area has been pretty
 stable. You can see that it was quite developed
    and this was a major corridor of trade. So
    naturally it’s been pretty well fortified in
 addition to all the work done on it in previous
centuries. Lots of concrete work down below. In
   fact there was an entire multimillion-dollar
channel dredged over a hundred years ago just
   to protect New Orleans. Flooded out all the
 farmers, but New Orleans didn’t care. We just
  have to stick close to that line of submerged
                   buildings.”
 The decks were full. Everyone on the boat had
  turned out, and no wonder considering how
  stifling the rooms were. Alice idly pressed a
green patch glowing at her right elbow. Linked
hypertext of all kinds of articles were available,
   it said. Quantum Functional Parameters.
 Photonic Devices Index. Submillimeter Wave
   Adjustment. Organometallic Components.
             “This is nice,” Alice said.
 “Oh, it’s a very nice boat,” said Peabody. “A bit
  warped, is all. Considering that it emanates
  from such a mad port, it’s been a wonderful
                      boat.”
  “Do you think that Norleans is there?” asked
                    Alice.
    Peabody shook his head. “Nah. Hasn’t been
 there for decades. First they let the river loose
   on it, and then there were the earthquake
floods. It was always below sea level.” He waved
    his arm to the west. “See how the river is
    spreading out here? That’s swamp, to the
  west-southwest. New Orleans is under water.
  And the Mississippi has washed out over the
     delta. Lake Pontchartrain isn’t separate
                    anymore.”
          “You’ve known this all along.”
                  “More or less.”
             “And you said nothing.”
              “No. I’ve said nothing.”
             “Why is that, I wonder?”
 “Oh, because I’ve got the plague,” he said, with
          a slight smile. “Go, go, go!”
   “Right,” Alice said. “Whatever you’ve got, it
 hasn’t interfered with your thought processes
                     much.”
       He shook his head. “I beg to differ, dear
 Doctor. Before the plague, I cared for nothing. I
  cared for nothing that was going on out in the
wide world beyond my happy home in my happy
city, though I knew full well which way the wind
 was blowing. Now I care. I care about getting to
                    Norleans.”
               “Which is drowned.”
   “One of them,” said Peabody, “is drowned.”
    “Ah,” said Alice thoughtfully. “How do you
                      know?”
   “You are trying to put me on the spot,” said
    Peabody, but didn’t look uncomfortable.
    “I do enjoy that sort of thing,” said Alice.
  “Well, if it amuses you to know,” said Peabody,
  “not all the satellites are dead. Some of them
       weren’t knocked out completely. And
    occasionally those who know how and are
   diligent can pick up information. There are
   chaos-based algorithms that enable one to
 pinpoint possible times. Which are quite rare.”
            “Is that all?” asked Alice.
 “That’s all I want to talk about,” said Peabody.
   Alice pushed a few more buttons and stared
   absently at the information received. “You
know,” she said, “when I was in medical school
 there were rumors that a new kind of human
  had appeared. They were all born in pretty
 much the same month. Roughly, nine months
after the first electromagnetic shock wave that
   knocked out radio. I thought it was pretty
mysterious how quickly that rumor vanished.”
     Peabody looked at Alice sharply, then
   shrugged. “Must have been nothing to it.”
   “Maybe not,” said Alice. “Well, then, that’s
that.” She continued looking at her screen. “I’m
not sure how up-to-date this is, but the delta is
big and confusing. A million channels. No clear
  way through. We could easily die there. Run
          aground in a blind channel.”
 Peabody nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He sighed. He looked over at Mattie. He sighed
            again. “Don’t tell her.”
            “How long, do you think?”
  He looked at his map. “Well, if my estimate is
correct, we’ll be in the vicinity in about another
 two hours. Right around sundown. We could
   stop here, if you’d rather, and go on in the
                    morning…”
  Alice said, “No, I think that the timing is just
                    perfect.”
     She left and strolled down to the galley
   through such a crowd that she honestly
   wondered where they had all been hiding
themselves. A lot of rafters had come on board.
But they weren’t very hungry, apparently— the
               galley was empty.
     Something cold, she thought. Iced tea and
lemonade would be nice. Iced tea, lemonade, and
 a few soothing chemicals. Perhaps even a slight
  bonus of euphoria. Why not. They deserved at
  least a little euphoria. Perhaps they ought to
   stay euphoric for the next week or so. Worse
           things had been done to them.
    She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.
       Mattie woke yelling bloody murder.
     She sprang from the cot and ran to the
 window, climbed up on her stool. “Where are
we?” she demanded, glaring at the river. “What’s
  this? I can’t believe I fell asleep. We’re only
        about five miles from Norleans.”
           “That’s true,” said Peabody.
    “And you were just going to let me sleep!”
  “I was just getting ready to wake you,” said
Peabody. “My watch is supposed to last another
             ten minutes. Right?”
         “I suppose,” she said grumpily.
   “I’ll bring you some supper,” said Peabody.
  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “But… I need to go
                  swimming.”
 “No, you don’t,” Peabody said gently. “Not now,
                    anyway.”
 “I’m the pilot, and I say when we stop the boat,
     cub,” she retorted. “And we stop here.”
    She jangled bells and pulled levels and the
  mighty churning came to a gradual halt. She
gave the order to throw out the drag, grinned at
Peabody, and yanked her shift over her head. In
 her bathing suit, she was a slim brown girl with
long, fragile-looking limbs and tiny, new breasts.
 She walked straight and proud as royalty out of
  the pilothouse. Peabody heard grumbles and
  complaints arising down below—“Hey, we’re
 almost at Norleans!” and the like—and noticed
 Alice passing out drinks on the hurricane deck.
  Peabody slid open a little door in the pilot’s
  console and took out a bottle of very nice
whiskey he’d found in Cairo. Tonight he felt the
          need of something strong.
  “Here’s to you, my dear,” he said quietly, as
   Blaze’s “Mississippi Blues” played, and a
   dancing, singing, shouting party evolved
throughout the boat. “Here’s to you. And to the
signal. If only you’d waited.” The whiskey was
   almost effervescent, from Scotland if you
  believed the label, and he sipped it slowly.
   Mattie was back in twenty minutes dripping
and quiet. She sat on her stool and stared out at
                   the water.
              “Well?” asked Peabody.
  “You were right,” she said. “I didn’t need to go
   swimming until tomorrow. But then—” She
looked at him with resignation in her eyes, and
  fear. And courage and resolve as well. “How
much farther do you think we have to go?” she
                     asked.
               “You weren’t asleep.”
                    “Not really.”
            “I’m not sure,” he admitted.
  “Well, I’ll just have to hold out that long,” she
 said. She started to shiver again. “What’s this
  called, anyway? The ague?” She grabbed the
                blanket from the cot.
               “Doesn’t Alice know?”
  “She has some fancy name for it,” said Mattie.
 “She says I’ll die if I don’t take her medicine.”
   “Take it, then,” urged Peabody. He held her
thin shoulders gently. “Please, my dear, take it.”
  “Her stuff won’t work anyway,” she said. “And
if it did, if she removed Twain before we got out
                 of here, we’d all die.”
     “No we wouldn’t,” said Peabody. “That’s
             utterly ridiculous.”
 “Don’t lie to me,” said Mattie. “I can’t stand it.”
She stared out the window. “It’s he who feels the
 river. It’s he who translates what I know into a
way to use the currents, to feel our way through
 the cuts, to keep from flying up onto the banks,
and bashing the brains out of the boat, or letting
    the river take us down the wrong channel
  because the wheel wasn’t twitched at just the
                   right second.”
   She paused a long moment before speaking
        again, in a quiet, certain voice.
  “The life of the world is at stake. Is it not? The
true life of the world. The life I felt—out there in
Elysia—” Her voice became that of a girl again, a
    young girl with her whole life—hard, but
                real—in front of her.
   Peabody looked out the window. On his face
     was a pained, thoughtful expression.
      “I know that it’s true,” she said. “Don’t try
    thinking up some kind of fancy blather. I’ve
listened to what all of you know—Jack, Lil, you,
   Blaze, Verity. Even James. Especially James.
  And Lil—she doesn’t know, but I felt what she
     has inside of her.” She looked down at her
   hands. “I don’t know what it is, really, but it’s
 like an explosion of light when I touch her. And
  then pictures of plants, animals, people—oh, it
   doesn’t die down for a good ten minutes. And
just look at all those nuts from Cincinnati, down
 there—shining! But they’re like children. So—”
She turned to Peabody, and looked him directly
in the eye. Her gaze was deep and steady. “What
     makes it so necessary that this trip be
completed, for someone like you, or Lil? Why are
you so hell-bent on getting down this river? You
 know a lot more than you’re saying, too! It has
  something to do with that signal. And it has
something to do with figuring out a way to keep
what’s happened to me from happening to other
people, people with no way out. It has to do with
   whether humans will control nanotech, or
whether nanotech will control them. And this is
 the last stand, this golden city place where all
 the scientists have gone. Lil told me about the
scientists. I’m young, but I’m not stupid, and I’m
 a lot less ignorant than I was just a few weeks
  ago, thanks to the Bee from St. Louis. So tell
   me—is it so important that this boat get to
 Nawlins, wherever or whatever it is? I think I
            deserve a straight answer.”
    “You’re right,” said Peabody in a low voice.
“It’s very important. But not important enough
for you to sacrifice your life. Nothing would be
 that important. It would be better for us to all
                       die.”
   “Now that’s what I call ridiculous,” Mattie
said, lifting her chin slightly. “For one thing, I
won’t die. And furthermore, unless Alice’s stuff
 works, and I don’t think it will, I don’t really
               have a choice. Do I?”
      Peabody looked distressed. “Mattie—”
  “Let me put this to you another way, Peabody.
If I were to forsake Twain and live on as Mattie,
 there would be no one to bring us through and
     I’d die anyway, wouldn’t I? It’s just pure
common sense. It’s nothing glorious. It’s just the
     path I have to take. One of those old-time
   Christians Twain had so much fun with and
 hated so blackly when he got old might think of
it in that way, as a sacrifice or something. A way
   to get into heaven. I don’t. Life in Elysia was
   hard. There was no way around it. I guess it
 made me hard, too, but it gave me clearer sight
   than all these hoo-hoos on the boat. I’d say it
made me strong, that’s all. You do what you have
                  to do, Peabody.”
  She looked him straight in the eye. “If I do this,
 I might still live. But you know what, Peabody?
I’d rather die doing this, being here, than live to
be a hundred in Elysia. I’m not just a girl. I’m an
  old man. I’ve traveled round the world, many
times. I love technology. I invested in it. I ruined
my life for it. But it’s the future. And it’s us, now.
  What do you want, man—to go back to being a
  microbe? To go back to where Satan— or God,
   who is identical, I’ve found—cracks his whip
 and we all cringe? To go back to being slaves to
   fairy tales and rumors and the political and
         economic whims of bad people?”
   Her voice, still strong, rose. “No—this is me,
and I am this. It’s glorious. That’s all. And what’s
  out there, anyway?” She swept her arm in a
 gesture that indicated the universe. “That’s us
too. And that is what will get me. My comet. It’s
           coming for me even now.”
     “There’s another way,” said Peabody, a
   desperate note in his voice. “We might get
               through on luck.”
        “On luck?” asked Mattie. “How many
 thousands of little hummocks block our way to
    the Gulf, do you think? For years it was a
 full-time dredging job to keep the mouth of the
   Mississippi open to the Gulf. Sam Clemens
  remembers that! But that channel is wrecked
and I don’t believe there’ve been any dredgers at
   work recently. This is the bayou. Land and
water mixed together. Swamp. Even with Twain
and Josh, we might not find a way out the other
    side. With them, we have a slight chance.”
       “Mattie, please change your mind.”
   But she said, “That’s enough. I think we’ve
      covered all the important points.”
    Then she was all Twain. She assumed his
dignity with a slightly changed face and subtle
 gestures that exuded powerful authority. “Get
my white suit, cub. Make sure it’s pressed. We’re
  heading into New Orleans this evening and I
   want to look spiffy at the club. And you’ve
         neglected to ready my cigar.”
   “Sorry, sir,” said Peabody, his face sad. “It
 won’t happen again.” The tone of his voice was
 one of admiration and respect, as to an equal.
 “We’re a team, then?” she asked. Her voice was
          strong but he saw her blink.
             “Guaranteed,” he said.
  “I’ll be counting on you,” she said. “Now go.”
 Verity turned and walked away from the door,
         where she had been listening.
 She didn’t have to tell them what she’d come to
            say. They already knew.
     The boat churned down the river again,
 chopping at the water as they rounded a broad
bend golden in the sunset. People were dancing
to the blues, crying and singing, hollering about
freedom and happiness and how the world was
                       one.
   Verity saw it first, she thought, since no one
else seemed to notice. Alice was walking round
looking extremely distressed. She stopped next
 to Verity and said, “I tried. God knows I tried.
But I don’t think it’s going to work.” She sighed
heavily and twisted her hands together. “It just
    didn’t come out right. I just saw the final
   evolution readouts. It’s completely null. It
                  evolved into…”
  “Lemonade,” said Verity. “Perfectly delicious
  lemonade. I’m getting to be quite fond of it.
                 Thank you.”
 “Oh,” said Alice, slumping down onto a bench,
“you just don’t understand. It was supposed to
  do something. It was supposed to help. And
  there’s nothing—nothing for Mattie, either.
             That’s the worst part.”
    Verity felt Alice’s defeat. They stood high on
   the boat, just below the pilothouse, and she
   looked upward. She knew Mattie was at the
 wheel, though she couldn’t see her through the
 slanted glass. She could feel the girl’s resolve
and courage through the very lineaments of the
boat. She allowed herself to be infused by it. She
  lifted her chin. She wondered where Lil was,
                  where Blaze was.
  The water was like a lake rather than a river.
  The waves sent forward by the boat were a
series of glimmering curves stretching into the
                   distance.
   And straight ahead it was, it had to be: New
                   Orleans.
    Only the tops of the buildings were visible,
 crowned by vital, powerful, amazingly detailed,
  and staggeringly vast Flowers. Verity thought
her heart would break, remembering Cincinnati
and all that had happened there. There had been
   beauty as well as terror, and so much hope.
    She had to think of the world as a place of
 beauty and hope, she realized, for her child as
 much as for herself. For no matter what Mattie
said about the damned human race, that was the
 latter-day Twain speaking, the one who saw
  American Imperialism, life, and religion, as
dark; deluded; lies. Yet Mattie still held true to
 some force within herself. Verity understood
 what Mattie had to do now and she feared for
                      her.
      “Oh, God,” moaned Alice. “This is it.”
  For it was certain that they were here at last,
 at the apex of their overwhelming desire. And
that desire would not be satisfied. The voices of
the passengers grew loud as Alice saw it—what
everyone saw. The terrible visage of a drowned
                       city.
   “It can’t just be that the water’s risen,” Alice
 said in wonder. “I think the quakes must have
                 hit hard here too.”
      Some of the buildings tilted crazily, and a
    story or two of mirrors sent forth blinding
    flashes. But above them—oh, it was weird,
  unearthly, and Alice had seen many things on
 the edge of imagination’s possibilities. She had
 seen several living Flower Cities in her day, but
it was much more strange to see one that should
 be dead seemingly alive, living past its planned
  function, as if it had crossed some impossible
                      threshold.
    Mattie turned east to avoid a bridge that
 peeked through the surface of the water. She
steered straight through the center of town, up
 a broad boulevard lined with sagging, drowned
towers. Perhaps half of the building’s height was
  above water. Their reflections, and that of the
   massive Flowers growing at the apex of each
   building, shimmered on the still water. Alice
 looked over the side, down into the canyons of
   the drowned city, where a green fur of algae
  clothed the buildings, and saw other Flowers,
    swaying dreamily with the currents below.
      Huge fish, ten feet long and more, swam
 through open windows beneath them. A great
    flock of white cranes wheeled against the
 evening sky, where the clouds were dispersing
 to reveal a luminous virginal blue. There were
       no Bees. They needed humans to live.
      But then Mattie brought the boat to a slow
drift as people hailed them from ahead, from the
unglassed windows of one of the towers. Several
   hundred of the rafters from Cincinnati, who’d
    left before them, ragged and delirious, were
     camping in one of the buildings. They were
    ferried aboard with johnboats, greeted with
laughter and tears, and the boat rode even lower
 in the water. They gasped out stories of strange
lights in the sky, a rescue program they thought
  they’d activated, monsters in the deep, and the
  short-circuited history of Norleans with which
they’d finally been able to relieve their ungloved
   maddened receptors. Norleans, they babbled,
              Norleans was still ahead.
         But no one knew exactly where.
  After, amid the singing and confusion, the
Queen drifted over a place where the buildings
 had been too low to break the surface of the
                    water.
  “It’s the French Quarter,” said Lil, tears on her
face. “Look, Jack. Remember? Can you see, down
   there. The church steeple! That’s where we
 lived, behind the church… oh, Jack. There’s no
   one. No one.” Jack hugged her to him as she
                     sobbed.
    Next to Alice, Verity smiled. And her skin
                 began to glow.
  The golden glow had subsided, in the past few
  weeks, under the onslaught of the All-Seeing
Eye. But now, tiny pictures began to dance down
   Verity’s arms, upon her neck, her back, her
legs—every place unconcealed by her thin dress
   was alight with pictures. Some of them had
 color and all were perfectly, minutely resolved,
                sharp and precise.
  Alice was struck dumb, seeing these pictures
wash across Verity’s body, while Verity seemed
not to notice, intent instead on Norleans. Alice,
looking around, saw that all the plagued people
            were similarly affected.
 Lil stepped next to her, whispered, “This is it,
 Doc. I think my heart is going to pound out of
my chest.” Tears filled her eyes, and one spilled
   slowly down her cheek. “This is where it all
 happened. Such a long time ago. Being here at
  last—what will it do to them? I’m so afraid.”
    Blaze pushed through the crowd and stood
next to Verity. He looked tremendously excited,
   and held a guitar. He opened his mouth to
 speak, then closed it. He stared at Verity and
    then exclaimed with wonder in his voice,
“Verity, that’s”—he traced the motion of a face
down her arm— “that’s Russ, I guess. He looked
 a little different to you—oh—oh, Sare! Sare—”
       He choked a bit. He pushed Verity’s
sweat-soaked hair back from her forehead, and
  kissed her. “What’s going on?” he whispered
hoarsely. He put his arm around her shoulders;
shook his head. “Every time I turn around, you
      are more and more strange. Oh, Ver.”
  And then a cascade of deep, intense memories
  overwhelmed Verity— memories of home, of
love, of deep full days. Each generated a flood of
 images, and as she looked at her arms, herself
amazed, she saw pictures she did not recognize.
 Jostled by people pressing next to her she saw
that they too were covered with pictures and on
   the face of the woman next to her flashed a
picture which looked a lot like John, as he used
                      to be…
   The setting sun intensified and the people
  became utterly still, their skin awash with
pictures—pictures traded, floating through the
still, windless air, metapheromones transferred
among themselves, symbolized by the part of the
    brain that did such things, transmitted by
     specialized molecules generated by their
genetically modified bodies in ways much more
   sophisticated than the ancient pheromonal
      systems of humans previous to the first
                  nanotech wave.
       It was a new language, and they were
 stuttering in it, evolving the grammar, glowing
  with meaning, overflowing with information,
    with memory, which each ached to share.
 And then a song began faintly; strengthened. It
 started somewhere, as a thought, which was
 soon echoed by all of them. Probably, during
  that interval, there were a thousand other
    thoughts and impulses which were not
magnified, which did not oscillate among them.
The age-old, slow meme of style was sharpened;
         had attained lightning speed.
     It was one of the blues songs they had been
   hearing lately, poignant and sweet and filled
with longing, branched with haunting, delicious
harmonies which spontaneously arose. A certain
amount of singers chose each part, some of them
    switching, switching again, until a natural
four-part division balanced; full and magnificent
 as it swelled through the evening air as though
  it were the precise expression of the haunting
    wilderness that it infused, something about
   being born by the river and that a change is
going to come. Blaze’s guitar accompanied them;
   it rang out clear and strong over the system
 Peabody had rigged. After that Blaze sang song
   after song, and Verity noticed that he had a
 different guitar, not his red one, and he’d sing
  one line over Peabody’s system and everyone
 sang along, but it was like they knew it and he
was only reminding them and sometimes one of
  them would sing one line and he’d know that
          song right off and play that too.
     And the images on their bodies changed to
  those of Flower Cities, and within Verity Rose
emerged and gave forth her eternal cycled life in
  points of light, suffusing Verity past tears and
 far into some new and freer realm of truth, one
 she had not known existed, which loosened her
chest and helped her sing more clearly, and then
 the pictures became those of a ship, rising into
 space, and finally there were no more pictures
 but only singing, slow sweet dancing, tears and
   laughter, and the will to go past—past!—the
   promised land, and into the unknown future.
  They slowly sailed through a vast waterswept
  garden of brilliant purple Iris, glowing white
 Hyacinth, and Lilies of every imaginable shape
and hue. Each Flower was a city block across, or
  larger. Orchids hung in a huge sweeping arc
 overhead, anchored in the crown of a building
  still living, still drawing life from its roots. It
 was like Home—Cincinnati. But it was not. It
was new, and drowned, and past, all in one swift
hour. And now there was truly, only Downriver,
the Territory, a Nawlins of the mind and of the
                     soul.
   The rafters cast fear from them in great and
 glorious dance. Verity’s gift, her Shaker Gift of
  dance, returned, but this time it came toward
  her from everyone around her, and the dance
changed, changed, with each new heightening of
  music, with a new step, a new gesture, which
    they all incorporated as if it were a great
   mandala of motion in which there were no
   mistakes but only eternal motion, part of a
pattern annealing and annealing again, through
 contraction and expansion and the music was
  all blues, all intense, all yearning, and maybe
 even all-powerful as the sun set gloriously red
  and pink and golden across the lake and the
           treed marshes around them.
                      Then—
   There was a pause, a silence, a slight shift
     among the singers, the dancers, the
  image-bearers learning their new language.
  They were washed clean of color and of song
     and of motion, and stood silent. The
paddlewheel was the only sound, and the splash
         of its waves, in the twilight.
       A new picture appeared among the
Cincinnatians, generated from those Mattie had
 stopped to pick up, the people who had been
camping in the ruined tower of downtown New
 Orleans. Everyone knew where it came from.
        And they all knew what it was.
            NorOrleans. The real one.
   A glorious white city, complexly structured,
 tinged golden with sunlight and blue where it
caught the vast ocean’s reflection, glowed from
  hands and faces, an insistent tattoo eliciting
                 tears and joy.
  Heaven, thought Verity, in the wondrous haze
       of revelation, too weak to resist the
  overwhelming pull, the beauty of this future
    place, this jewel awaiting them… farther.
     Farther on. Even more wonderful, more
fabulous, than the Norleans first promised, back
in those first golden days when song filled them
                  with such fervor.
       Their minds were filled with glory.
   The dance resumed, more slowly now, and
  their songs were low and fervent, rich with
           harmonies and yearning.
  With the pictures and whatever chemicals of
 hope the ragged band had absorbed from the
    still-Flowered buildings, the plague was
 reinforced, renewed, strengthened, though it
had never left them. But now it was boosted to
                  new heights.
   They were ready to go on. Norleans, the real
          Norleans, was still ahead.
  Only Verity was able to wonder, What if it is
ruined too? Then dance and song overwhelmed
   her, and washed doubt away on a flood of
            overwhelming promise.
                 For the present.
   “Well, Doc,” said Lil in the midst of it all, “
something happened.” She was silent for a long
moment, and her shoulders lifted. “At least they
          didn’t die,” she whispered.
  Then they were past the city. Gradually, they
quieted. All that was left was the wild beauty of
the place, and the many-beckoning channels of
 the delta fingering off in the distance, each a
 molten golden river in the blazing setting sun,
             soon replaced by stars.
   Fear swept in with night, after the remaining
 rafters abandoned their crafts and boarded the
boat until Verity worried that there might be too
              many of them to hold.
 They paused on the brink of a maze with many
         paths and only a few exits.
  The mysterious, unmapped Mississippi River
                    Delta.



                  Forty-two
                     Blues

That evening on the American Queen as we
drifted through the remnants of Norleans is
something I’ll never forget. I became a part of
the rafters that night, in a way, because of
Alma’s guitar. I don’t believe in miracles
anymore, but finding it again was like a miracle.
One of the folks we picked up, a man who’d been
in the Cairo riots, had it on his raft.
   I saw it, the neck sticking out of the wigwam,
  as he climbed up the ladder from the johnboat,
 just as I stuck out my hand to help him over the
                        side.
     When I saw the guitar I yanked that guy
aboard so fast he sprawled onto the deck behind
 me, saying “Hey!” I didn’t even stop to ask him
 about it. I figured instantly that he’d fished it
out of the water around Memphis, right after we
            ran into the paddlewheel.
  I dove from the Queen, stroking hard for that
raft before it was lost again. I finally caught up
 with it, dragged myself onto the raft, crawled
across it, grabbed Alma’s guitar, and hugged it
to myself. I think I even spoke to it a minute or
            two, like it was a person.
  Then I tried one chord. And then another. And
            after that came the flood.
    I played and played, out there as we drifted
 into New Orleans, and it was still in tune, and
   all that had happened to me welled up and
   changed to blues. I sang Verity’s blues, Lil’s
 blues, Jack’s blues, Twain’s blues, and Mattie’s
blues too. They were all stories of pain and loss
and I gave them rhythm and form. I just knew I
  could have healed Verity in a snap, if I’d had
Alma’s guitar. I was oblivious to everything else.
     After a while a woman grabbed my arm,
surprising me. I hadn’t even noticed her rowing
      toward the raft. She made me get into a
 johnboat and rowed me back to the American
                       Queen.
     In the middle of all the dancing and singing
    there was Verity, swarming with pictures of
light. And Alma’s guitar knew just what to say; it
   filled me too with pictures, musical pictures,
 sweeping me toward the end of my own journey
 from anger and disillusionment, from having no
   identity, to something just beginning to take
 shape, giving me, truly, life beyond death. I was
     the servant of the blues, thanks to Alma’s
 potion, and they surged through me, and set all
   the wreckage of my heart and mind to rights,
    gave me a new vision, so wide and free. That
    night was the grandest party you could ever
                      imagine.
     But then it was over and the fear set in.
   You could hardly get around on the boat, it
was so crowded. Alice and Lil set up all kinds of
 routines for rationing food and even for using
   the bathroom. Jack had a crew yank all the
seats out of the auditorium and we were using
  them for fuel, because whatever George had
  done in Memphis had messed up the way the
 boat processed power from stuff in the water.
    Peabody seemed to think Norleans was out
    there somewhere. We had no choice but to
  believe him. Lil seemed kind of driven by that
belief, and the demented rafters we’d picked up
in Norleans, who’d been there for several weeks,
  babbled about some kind of directions they’d
    tried to follow to let somebody know they
    wanted to be picked up. The plagued ones
  probably would have mutinied and driven the
boat on without us had we even tried to go back.
   They’d not been satisfied with drowned old
Norleans; it didn’t have the stuff they needed to
  be healed and they were all the more frantic. I
 figured that if we paddled all the way to Africa
   they’d jump off, kiss the ground, and call it
Norleans. Lil, who was thinner than matchsticks
  by now, said that there was supposed to have
  been some kind of antidote administered once
           they got to the real Norleans.
    After we’d been trying to get through the
 swamp for four days or so, everybody was on
   edge. Even the blues didn’t seem to help.
  The endless bayous were beautiful, but primal
 and fear-making. The air smelled of water and
   decaying trees. Some of the hummocks had
 palms on them, and brilliant strange flowers,
  orange and red and yellow, growing on vines
   with leaves as big as Mattie, and unearthly
plants I’d never imagined in my wildest dreams.
The channels reminded me of a spiderweb, going
      every which way, most too narrow to
            accommodate the Queen.
   The air was thick with birds and those weird,
haunted cypress trees were everywhere, draped
with old-man’s-beards, I called them, pale green
   and deathlike in the still, wet air. The Queen
  snagged them when Mattie piloted us through
 tight channels. The air seemed greenish, like it
    was twilight, because the sun was filtered
through so many leaves. The water was the color
 of clear dark tea and so still that it reflected us,
    and birds, and the trees that grew out of it
                perfect as a mirror.
         Peabody said that the mouth of the
Mississippi—actually, the last hundred miles or
so of the river—had been engineered to keep the
  water from flowing into the Atchafalaya River
  Basin, south and west of New Orleans. “They
 called them Water Control Structures,” he said,
 and pointed out one on an old chart, just north
of the old Louisiana border. But they’d done that
over a hundred years ago. Without maintenance,
and particularly after the earthquake and years
    of typical Mississippi rampages, they all
  eventually failed, and the levees washed out.
   Mattie went slow; so slow that sometimes I
wanted to scream. The turtles outpaced us. The
water didn’t seem to have any current at all. All
 the channels looked the same. We might have
              been going in circles.
   Mangrove trees lined every island, rising out
of the water on their thin leglike roots as if they
 were birds poised for flight. White ibises paced
 the shallows, with their queer curved beaks. It
  was glorious to see flocks of wood storks take
 flight. You could hear their wings beating, and
  they were completely white when folded. But
 when their wings spread out you could see that
     the ends of them were black and it was a
  beautiful surprise. Some of the birds, like the
great blue herons, acted like pets. They stood on
 the deck and swallowed fish heads whole; you
could see them stuck in their long snaky necks. I
  saw the most beautiful flower I’d ever seen: a
   delicate yellow orchid, about a foot from my
 face, cascading in graceful arcs from a cypress
             branch as we glided past.
   Alice passed out something she called good
  old-fashioned bug dope several times a day;
   she’d brought a supply of it from Madge’s
 Landing. We needed it. Alice looked grim and
haggard. She kept trying to evolve something for
  Mattie, that’s what she called it, but the boat
 didn’t seem to be able to do that kind of thing
  either. James fiddled with it but said that 99
   percent of the interfaces had deteriorated
 beyond use, and the other one percent was not
  enough through which to do anything of any
                      value.
    In spite of the ghostly gloom, there was a
 feeling of excitement among the rafters but I
expect that was just Alice’s medicine. I had my
share of it, even though she said it did nothing,
 her shoulders slumped. I guess she felt pretty
 useless. But I drank it and it made me happy,
even if it was some sort of illusion, or “placebo
  effect” like she called it. Why not? Our lives
might end pretty soon. Might as well enjoy the
                    last days.
     I thought through plans for swamp island
   living. I saw a village of swampers once, or
thought I did, through the binoculars—a few old
shacks and docks. But it was probably deserted.
 Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad—if there was fresh
  water. It was getting brackish fast. But there
 were fish and birds and who knows what all to
 eat there on those low islands. You could rig a
sail to a raft and get around that way, with poles
                     and wind.
  James was wildly angry. At Mattie, and at the
 rest of us for allowing her to continue. But we
had no choice; there was no cure despite Alice’s
endless attempts. I think Mattie reminded him
of Masa, and of how she just slipped away from
him at the end. He no longer accepted things as
 they were, as he had on the train. He wanted
 desperately to change what was happening to
  Mattie. He sampled her and he said that the
 Twain information she’d received was forcing
her body to change too swiftly for the effects to
   be properly assimilated. It was a learning
  program for adults, not for children, and its
presence in her body triggered changes only the
  brain architecture of a thoroughly initiated
          adult student could sustain.
   When Mattie wasn’t piloting she was lying on
  her little cot, spouting Twain, delirious, while
 the boat was anchored. James actually started
 the boat once while she was sleeping and ran it
   into a sandbar, despite having sampled the
 water beforehand. It didn’t move, and gave him
 no clues. We spent hours slogging in the water
 getting the boat free. Of course all of us itched
to help but I watched Mattie careful, every move
she made, and I would have made different ones
    often enough and those moves would have
     wrecked us. I guess everyone realized it.
   There was no way we could get through that
place without Mattie being Twain and only she
 could feel what Josh had to say. We all tried it
but it was no use. To us he was just a huge cold
fish who disdainfully let us touch him. We were
 completely, absolutely helpless. Maybe he just
       liked her, and would only release the
  information to her. That made sense if he was
  some sort of spy fish, like Alice said, ready to
 imprint on the first person with receptors who
  touched him for a certain length of time. Who
     knows. I wondered where Mattie got her
receptors, and Lil said that she’d inherited them
 from her Hopi grandmother, a famous lawyer. I
 felt so terribly normal, even with Alma’s blues,
          among all these strange people.
    Mattie swam every hour or so, running her
hands along Josh’s sides, her eyes staring wide
 and strange. I went with her, in the johnboat,
  and held a big gaff to fend off snakes. Once a
    cottonmouth swam straight for her, white
 mouth wide, but even then Mattie didn’t seem
scared, only determined and bent on one thing:
   getting us through. I smacked it hard and it
sank into the river. Sometimes snakes dropped
  from trees onto the boat; that was good for a
commotion. Alligators slid into the water when
    we approached with hardly a splash. They
  looked like logs when they were in the water
floating just below the surface except that logs
 don’t have eyes. Once I saw a huge golden cat,
 standing stock-still in shady jungle, watching
                        us.
  I watched James pretty carefully. He made
himself useful on the boat, took care of people.
 He mentioned one time that he knew how to
    make more of himself and that was kind of
strange. That was not something that I could do.
Peabody said beings like James were the Fourth
  Wave, and that it was just beginning. I wasn’t
sure what he meant, but he sounded pretty sure
  about it. How did James learn things, how did
   he know things? I was sure that if I asked he
   would explain it to me in great detail. Maybe
 someday I’d be able to understand his answers.
   Lil watched Mattie as sorrowfully as anyone
else. In her I saw Esu, the Trickster, the figure
at the crossroads. All her life she’d been at the
  edges and the center at the same time, doing
what she could to make things right. I could see
  that Lil felt pretty bad about the plague. But
she’d pull through. She had to. She had the life
   of the world running through her body. She
 carried the code of the world within her very
 self, the way black music had once sent coded
 messages through society. There were people
 who had done lots worse things than Lil with
 lots less cause, I guessed. And it wasn’t really
her fault, the plague. It was just another one of
     the silly, stupid things that happened to
         humans. It got out of her control.
  I wasn’t quite sure what sort of crossroads we
  were at, but I could feel that current pulling
 both ways. Out of the delta, with its confused
 passages, emerging onto the open sea toward
something that nobody wanted to talk about. Or
we might sink in the shoals and be food for Josh
    and his kind. Not just us on the boat, but
   everyone in the world. Whoever was left. I
 understood Shaker Hill now, and Russ. A few
people had lived and died there with dignity and
hope and purpose. What more could you ask for?
   It seemed that a lot of people had asked for
   more. And a lot hadn’t, but got it anyway.
   All kinds of thoughts were running through
  my mind. One afternoon I tried to tell Verity
                   about them.
   We were sitting in her room and I had been
 playing the guitar for at least an hour. I set it
  aside, to rest my hands, and sat back in my
                     chair.
  “You seem different,” Verity said. Her tone was
 thoughtful: it was not bad that I was different,
                     or good.
                      “I am.”
   She got up and started walking around the
room, stopping at the dresser where I had put a
  vase of profusely blooming yellow flowers,
    branches of a low tree that grew on the
                  hummocks.
    “These smell nice,” she said, wistfully. She
turned and looked at me. “It’s all gone,” she said.
“The past. And everyone. Except you. And you’re
    right—heaven is gone too. All those years,
  thinking about heaven, about Mother Ann—”
                 She shrugged.
     “Verity, heaven is the body.” I jumped up,
 excited now. “We were always in our minds, at
 Shaker Hill. Don’t you see? Thinking. Learning
  and living that distant, abstract philosophy,
denying everything we felt within ourselves as if
  it was bad. But it’s not bad. Heaven is in our
                     bodies.”
             She looked at me warily.
                    “In dance.”
     “I’ve always danced,” she said. “ We always
danced, us Shakers. Didn’t we? In a trance. I felt
   like I was getting messages—messages from
     Mother Ann. And I never remembered the
 dances—all of you danced with me, and learned
  every new dance, and wrote them down.” She
laughed bitterly. “But there was no Mother Ann.
  The dances weren’t coming from anywhere.”
    “Sure they were! Even though the Shakers
 tried so hard to separate body and mind, even
     they couldn’t do it. That was spirit, that
         movement. You know it, Verity.”
  “I suppose I do,” she said, and I could tell she
 was remembering something from Cincinnati,
when she was Queen, something she didn’t want
                 to talk about.
  “That’s what the blues is,” I continued eagerly.
 “It came from the music of African dance, and
 for Africans dance was the union of the spirit
  and the body, the crossroads of… eternity and
    temporality, spirit and matter. That’s what
 makes what’s happening here sacred. Now! This
is where everything important is happening. Not
  in some distant impossible heaven! This is all
 there is—and it’s enough, Verity! Believe me! It
   took me a long time to figure this out. I know
                   how you feel.”
   The words tumbled out and I didn’t know if
they were mine or Alma’s. It didn’t matter. You
are the horse. The blues is the rider. I had been
ridden, hard. And that ride—that possession of
 me by the blues— had restored my life. Verity
 knew what that was like too, I was sure, even
       though she couldn’t talk about it.
    “It’s like,” I said, a thought striking me, “it’s
     like nan, inside our bodies. Nan—it was a
     thought. But that thought, that idea, has
changed our bodies—rearranged the very matter
of ourselves, and the world. Nan patterns matter
 with thought, with molecular control. It’s been
     out of control—our control, though. It’s a
  balancing act, like dance. We need to find out
where we’ve been so we can maybe decide where
 we want to go. We have to understand matter,
    we have to understand that we’re made of
matter, we are matter. It’s up to us to make that
     a good thing, whatever good means to us.
  Freedom, maybe, whatever that is. Ecstasy. A
   new kind of divinity, a divinity of song and
dance and music and rhythm. A divinity of us.”
   There I was nattering along just as if I was all
     thought, when really I couldn’t stand it
 anymore, suddenly, to be so apart from Verity.
Her… the way her collarbones met, making that
 hollow. Her breasts, beneath her thin shirt, and
  her long, slender legs, brown from the sun ais
they’d never been before. Her eyes, filled with so
 much pain and knowledge and something else,
                   called me—
    I grabbed her. But that’s too rough a word. I
embraced her, and held her close, and then I was
     kissing her at last, hard and deep, all my
  feelings, all my new life, flowing through me.
      She was holding me so tight it hurt, and
 moaning, kind of, deep in her throat, and then
   we were at each other, like we’d never been
allowed before. In two minutes our clothes were
 scattered across the floor, and we were on the
bed. Our lovemaking was fierce. All our waiting,
all those long years of everlasting no changing to
      explosive Yes! Now! was a thing of joy—
            Then I stopped, stricken—
  “What?” she whispered. Her hand, run lightly
   down my back, sent a shiver through me.
                   “The baby—”
   She laughed, her rounded bare belly against
             mine. It felt so good.
    “It’s all right. Alice told me it would be all
                     right.”
              “Why would Alice—?”
  “I asked,” she said. In the silence I heard her
 heart beating hard. “I missed you. I need you.
                       I—”
  “Love you,” I finished with her, shouting, and
 we laughed, and cried, and did what the blues
 told us to do, long after night fell, and then we
   slept, cradled by the bayou, released by the
        dance we did into our very selves.



                Forty-three
              True Grit Blues

Their third day out from New Orleans, Mattie
stomped around her room, swearing. The boat
was not moving. They were waiting for her to
return to the pilothouse and continue down the
channel, which pressed in upon them on both
sides so the hammock trees brushed the boat.
“Where are those goddamned cigars!” she yelled
to no one in particular, for she was alone. She
slammed her wardrobe door and stood still,
shivering.
   A bird flying past the window caught her eye,
                  and she paused.
  The sun filtered through rustling palm fronds
  stained the very air a vital, life-filled green.
  Mattie took one step toward the window, then
    another, freed for a moment from Twain’s
   constant, exhausting vigilance. The morning
 breeze blew sweet-smelling orange flowers onto
  the deck, the petals drifting past the window
like some exotic rain. Entranced, she went to the
     sill, put both her hands on it, and stared.
                   So beautiful.
    She turned at a sound. James stood in the
                open doorway.
    “I brought you a drink,” he said. He held a
     glass of pink-tinged liquid toward her.
  She blinked, and swallowed. Her chin went up.
 “What’s in it, simulacrum?” she asked, walking
  over and yanking open the top drawer of her
dresser. “It’s a mighty strange color. Wouldn’t be
   something Alice cooked up, would it? Now,
where in the dad-gum world did I hide them this
time?” She slammed the top drawer and opened
 the next, and pitched wrinkled clothing on the
    floor. “It’s irritating as hell. The boat isn’t
making cigars anymore. Not even bad ones. I bet
 Alice had something to do with it. I’m running
                     dreadful low.”
  He didn’t say anything. She turned and looked
        at him, leaving the drawer open.
  “You didn’t say what’s in that muck. You can’t
       lie to me, simulacrum, can you?”
  “My name is James,” he said, holding the glass
                   out to her.
 She smiled. “You’ll always be simulacrum to
me. Why do you want to force that slosh on me,
                 anyway?”
   “I can’t stand to see you die,” he said flatly.
 “Does that seem so strange to you? Why won’t
       you drink it? Tell me why, at least.”
 “Why?” she asked, as if surprised. “Remember
   what we talked about, that night with the
Professor? About free will? About vision? About
                   dreams?”
  “This has nothing to do with all that,” he said
                   savagely.
     “It has everything to do with that. Now,
             where—ah! Salvation!”
  She fished a dented cigar from a drawer, cut
off the end with an expert twist of the penknife
she pulled from the pocket of her white suit and
    flipped open, and tossed the tobacco nub
   carelessly on the floor. James pulled out a
 match and lit it almost as if he could not help
          himself and it took two tries.
  She puffed, thin cheeks drawn in, and briefly
  closed her eyes. When she opened them and
spoke it was in Twain’s rough voice. Her words
    were quiet yet sonorous, deliberate and
     thoughtful, intense; steeped in belief.
  “There is a place beyond. I can feel it. A place
beyond the imperialism that created the slavery
and exploitation which has plagued humankind.
   A place where people—our loved ones—live
 forever. As themselves, not brainless angel folk
with frivolous wings. Themselves, with all their
  infuriating, beautiful, heartbreaking twists. A
 place where the heaven we had, Livy and I and
  the girls—the love, the harmony, the freedom
from material cares—truly exists! And I can take
  humanity there. I can take them there. And no
                  one else can.”
 “That’s Twain talking,” said James, in an angry
                     voice.
  Mattie stared at him for a minute. She put the
  cigar in an ashtray, rubbed her eyes with the
  back of her hands. She looked with reddened
eyes at James, and said, in her own voice, gently,
“No, simulacrum, it’s me. It’s me. And I mean it. I
believe it.” She stepped next to him, reached up,
touched his face. “You were a slave, weren’t you?
                    In a way?”
   He blinked a few times, his blue eyes staring,
but without offense. “I guess you could have said
 so, in the beginning. That’s why I was created.
More like a servant, I suppose, and a willing one.
 But Blaze freed me. He forced freedom on me.
It’s taken me a long time to figure out what that
means to me. It took me a long time just to learn
                  how to think.”
  He was quiet for a minute. “I’m glad that Blaze
  took me off the train, Mattie. I was terrified
   when he did it. And I’m glad that I met you.
     Because you know what? I’ve just been
 intelligence without a soul, without vision. All
the makings are here. I can change. I can learn.
But on the train, it was the same as being in the
 dome. Finished, complete, self-referential. Just
because I—a James—never existed in the old LA
doesn’t mean that I can’t learn to be myself now.
I can invent myself. I can invent myself in a way
  that the people who created me, who created
          what led to me, never could.”
     Mattie grinned. “That’s right, James.” Then
 her grin faded. “You know what I think? You’re
like something out of my grandpa’s prayer book.
  You were created. Not born like the rest of us.
   You’re from another realm, beyond us, but…
maybe you’re human, too. Not that I believe that,
   mind you. Not for a second. But if it was true
  you’d be kind of like Jesus, you know? Dream,
   vision… whatever you want to call it it’s all
    purpose, James. Remember that. We’re just
  creatures of chance. We’ve been created out of
matter. God didn’t make us. Not the kind of God
   a lot of folks believe in, anyway. That doesn’t
  make sense. Twain knew that. That means it’s
  up to us to give purpose to chance. We have to
 take responsibility for what happens. For what
we can make happen. That’s what I’m doing. It’s
   a choice I’ve made. Out of my own free will.”
  “That’s just it, Mattie,” said James. “You don’t
                 have a choice.”
   “I do,” she said firmly. “I’m making all this
   mean something. It’s my responsibility.”
  “That’s what I want to do,” James said, slowly.
          “Make it all mean something.”
 “Good for you, then,” she said. “Maybe you’ll be
          more than a fake man yet.”
         “Mattie, I’m not…” He fell silent.
  “You’re unique,” said Mattie quietly. “A unique
 creature. But you still don’t know who or what
 you are. You’re part of what I’m saving, James.
All that we still don’t know, but might someday.”
  He went down on his knees before her, so that
she was looking straight into his face. His hands
    were on her shoulders, solid and strong,
  reminding her of her father. “Please, Mattie.
Please take it. I don’t want to be saved. Not like
   that. It’s not fair. You’re the best one here.”
    She shook her head. “You’re wrong. I’m no
 better and no worse than any of them. I’m just
an ordinary human. And you’re—” She stopped.
   “I’ll never be human,” he said. “Not like the
 rest of you, not really. And I don’t want to be.”
                   “You don’t?”
  He burst out laughing and jumped up. “Good
  lord, no!” He was laughing then harder and
 harder and she was laughing with him, harder
 and harder, and they hugged each other at the
same moment. He spun her around, so that her
feet left the floor, so fast that for a moment she
was a little girl again and her father was doing
   it, making her dizzy, and she shrieked with
 delight. She closed her eyes, and laughed, and
 laughed, and laughed—and she suddenly it all
                  changed over—
            “You’re crying,” she said.
    “So are you,” he pointed out. “Oh, Mattie.”
  James staggered to a stop and set her gently
     down, his face most definitely sad.
 “I’m sorry, James,” she said quietly. She wiped
her eyes on a T-shirt straggling from the drawer.
     “I’ve got to get back to the pilothouse.”
  By the next day, Mattie was all Twain, raving
 at times about a comet that was coming to get
 her, allowing no one to take the wheel as they
inched through the frightfully shallow flats (“I
  could pilot this boat across a field of heavy
dew!” she’d yell); steering with such confidence
  that no one dared speak to her to break her
                 concentration.
  James kept harping at Alice all the time. “You
need to give her the medicine,” he whispered, as
    they stood outside the pilothouse door.
  “She doesn’t want it,” said Alice wearily. “And
  it wouldn’t work anyway. If I thought it was
   worth a damn, I’d pour it down her throat
                    myself.”
  “It’s all we have. She’s not sane,” said James.
         “So she shouldn’t have a choice.”
   “Who says I’m not sane, simulacrum?” came
 Mattie’s voice from inside the pilothouse. “I’m
miles more sane than you!” Sometimes she was
strong and hearty as anything and then they all
     had hope that she’d last until they got
         to—wherever they were going.
    “Just be quiet,” whispered Alice. “Already
     she’s afraid to eat or drink anything.”
 “Aren’t there other ways to get it into her?” he
               whispered back.
    “I’d like to see you try, fake man,” Mattie
                    yelled back.
  He scowled, a look that he had mastered with
  ease, probably because he saw so much of it
                  around him.
    Mattie struck a pose and lit into one of her
Twain routines—“ ‘There is something curious
about this—curious and unaccountable. There
must be two Americas: one that sets the captive
 free, and one that takes a once-captive’s new
  freedom away from him and picks a quarrel
with him with nothing to found it on; then kills
              him to get his land.’ ”
  She took a deep breath and continued in her
own voice, but just as loud: “And that’s what it’s
 all about, fake man. We have to end that once
    and for all! And I’m telling you—you’re a
  fugitive. They’re going to be after you! They’re
 going to want to take you back! Dismantle you!
 Once you’re not doing them any good anymore!
 Once they can’t make money off of you! All this
nanotechnology stuff—it’s struggling to be freeee
! Look at all these rafters—will they be slaves to
   nanotechnology? Or will they be free? Who’s
   going to be the boss?” She let go of the wheel
  and flung her arms wide; raised her voice and
bellowed roughly in Twain’s voice to the tune of
        “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”:
       In a sordid slime harmonious,
       Greed was born in yonder ditch,
       With a longing in his bosom—and for
       other’s goods an itch—
       As Christ died to make men holy, let men
       die to make us rich—
       Our god is marching on—
  “One of those little ditties Livy didn’t want me
     to publish, bless her soul,” Mattie said,
 staggering as she retook the wheel. “But that’s
   our history! The history of the country. The
 history of the world. Men sending other men to
   war for their own profit. Will it be different
 now? Can we make it new? Can humanity truly
  change? Oh, it’s up to you fake man, it’s up to
you. You were created, not born! You are the new
             holiness of the universe!”
    James turned away, his face wretched, as
   Mattie continued to emote, and laugh, and
 scream, and pilot with a delicate touch and a
   determined, desperate face, engaged in a
        constant, exhausting struggle.
   One morning piercing screams came from the
pilothouse. Blaze, Alice, and Verity were there in
 an instant, along with everyone else in earshot.
   James was trying to hold Mattie down but it
 was clearly not possible. From somewhere she
found the strength to slither like an eel, bite like
 an alligator, and kick like a mule. She smacked
 the glass from his hand and it smashed against
                  the doorframe.
  “I don’t want it, simulacrum, understand?” she
    said, panting, as she struggled to her feet.
 “There’s more to being human than you know.”
   He stared at her, his face savage. “Well, I’m
    learning, Mattie. I’m learning, aren’t I?”
  She gave him a long, measuring look. “Seems
          you are, James,” she said.
   Amazingly, she hugged him. Even more
amazingly, he burst into great, deep sobs while
             she comforted him.
   For a moment, she was Mattie, through and
                  through.
   Blaze pounded on the wall of the pilothouse
   with his fist. “Let’s take this boat back to
  Cincinnati,” he shouted. “No—let’s take it to
     Cairo, and put her on the train to LA.
          Somewhere there’s a cure!”
   Peabody just shook his head sorrowfully.
“We’ll be lucky if this boat lasts another week.”
   “And Mattie?” Blaze yelled. “How long is she
                going to last?”
  Alice, her face filled with grief, started to say
 something, then just turned away and went to
                       Mattie.
   “It’s not your choice,” they all heard Mattie
   say, and her voice was clearly Mattie’s not
               Twain’s. “It’s mine.”
    “All the sounds of the earth are like music,”
  sang Mattie, her voice thin and high and quite
pretty as she swayed back and forth on her stool
in front of the wheel. Her white dress gleamed in
 the sunset, and the rays of the waning sun beat
 through the open window with the power of an
                  enraged beast.
       The breeze is so busy it don’t miss a tree
       And an old weeping willow is laughing at
       me—
    She straightened and gasped, just a little,
 staring at something. She was so thin that her
 arms looked like sticks. It was beyond fear of a
  cure; she lacked all appetite. Her hair floated
outward from her head in the late afternoon like
           a golden-brown lion’s mane.
     Peabody and Alice looked at each other.
  “Sir, it’s getting dark,” said Peabody. “At least
  have something to eat. Isn’t it time to stop?”
   “I’ll tell you when it’s time to stop, cub,” she
 said. But her voice did not have its customary
                     sternness.
  The grip of the swamp had loosened gradually
   during the day, and finally there was more
 water than land. They were at the center of an
irregular circle of low, flat islands covered with
      scrub. The shallow water glowed with
twilight—brilliant, translucent green, like a fine
  gem—and it was hard to tell where the water
 stopped and the sky began. The day had been
   crushingly hot, but a sudden cooling breeze
  washed through the pilothouse and the boat
     turned on its own and picked up speed.
 “Is that a current?” asked Peabody, jumping to
                    his feet.
  “Of course,” said Mattie, but she sounded weak
   with relief. She was quiet for a minute, as if
     trying to master her voice. “It’s the main
channel. Just where Josh felt it. The open sea is
 only a few knots past that far island.” She was
     quiet for another moment, as she peered
   through the window. The sky had deepened
  overhead to an intense, deep blue, with a few
stars visible. Her words came quick and sharp.
 “Tell me, cub, what’s that bright light up there
    in the sky? Is it Halley’s Comet?” She had
reached into her pocket; now her hand paused.
   Her voice held a deep thrum of excitement.
 “Absolutely not, sir!” said Peabody, with alarm.
  He stood next to Mattie and peered out the
  window. The lemon sky still glowing on the
horizon brightened, as twilight tinged it blue on
evening’s turning verge, and it was not the sun,
             and it was not a star.
   Peabody said, “It’s… quite powerful… but it
           must be just a satellite.”
   “You lie,” she whispered, and collapsed into
         his arms, and hung there limp.
   A small leather pouch fell from her hand and
 two vials of colored liquid bounced from it. The
purple one smashed open and whatever was in it
               soaked into the floor.
 Mattie from Elysia died as the American Queen
drifted into the Gulf of Mexico, free of the delta
                    swamps.
    It was night. The path of the moon on the
 water led outward, toward infinity. It was like
 the Territory: vast, free, all promise and hope.
  The crossroads were behind them. Mattie had
            brought them through.
 No one really cared, though. Not just then. The
           price had been too high.



               Forty-four
            Sad-Hearted Blues
After Mattie died I thought I’d cry forever but it
passes. It passes but there’s nothing left to feel.
  I couldn’t think of Mattie being in heaven, and
 that made everything worse. I understood then
     why people invented it in the first place.
  Josh hung around the boat for another day. I
  was watching the morning he turned back, a
 huge shadowy swirl just beneath the surface,
and headed back the way we came. I wondered if
                   he knew.
   James was definitely in mourning. This was
the second death he’d experienced in his life. We
  tried to comfort him the best we could. I was
    surprised at how quickly he seemed to be
   changing. He seemed more and more like a
   natural person. I had a feeling that, had he
    fallen in among the fish, he would now be
             swimming with abandon.
   Once we were free of the delta, we followed a
series of huge towers across the Gulf of Mexico.
   For some reason, Peabody knew to do this. I
kept asking him how he knew and he said that it
  wasn’t a secret. When we got to one, the next
   was just barely visible in the binocs and we
 headed toward it. I suggested that he might try
  getting the Norleans radio station Verity said
   she’d heard once, and he said that we didn’t
   have a radio stone for Norleans, though he’d
looked for one in Cairo. And besides, he said, all
           his systems were down now.
    The waves were six, eight feet high at times,
  the water more shades of blue and green than
     you could possibly imagine. We pitched
   unendurably and I was often sick. The days
    were still hot and sticky, with white puffy
clouds overhead shadowing patches of the sea in
 the mornings. In the afternoons, the sky always
    darkened on the horizon, and black clouds
rushed toward us and lashed the boat with wind
  and rain while lightning played the water too
close for comfort. Flying fish zipped the bow and
    landed on the lower decks, and porpoises
  curved sleekly alongside with their strangely
                   merry smiles.
 We caught what rain we could in big tarps and
  pots. I felt tremendously anxious about the
water situation. We couldn’t last long without it,
 and Lil and Alice were setting up some sort of
recycling system. Any automatic systems on the
boat were pretty well shot, and probably all the
 salt completely did things in. I could tell that
         they were getting worried too.
  The plaguers, mostly, were not. They had faith.
 Faith doesn’t necessarily have much to do with
reality. Some of them kept talking about how we
had to go to the towers and activate a signal that
 would call a rescue boat from Norleans. When I
asked Lil about it her face went sad and she said
 yes, the towers had been part of the plan. You
 would think that being right about something
 might cheer her up, but it didn’t. Peabody just
said that he had his compass, which adjusted for
    the magnetic changes, and that was all he
                     needed.
 We didn’t even talk about what would happen
  when we ran out of wood. The gingerbread
might be good for a hundred miles. After that we
            had a lot of furniture.
   Despite everything, a new excitement was in
me because of Verity, kind of a low, happy hum
of contentment that caught me in odd moments,
   even when I was thinking of Mattie. Mattie
    wouldn’t have minded. It was what she’d
  wanted—for us to have the chance to live and
 grow. To give us the chance to do something as
           important as she had done.
   What changes I’d been through since leaving
 Cincinnati! Then, I could barely remember my
  name, and when I could, I was confused and
bitter. Now, I felt like I could do anything, learn
             anything, be anything.
   I saw Alice poking at Peabody’s screen up in
  the pilothouse and I started spending a lot of
time there. Turns out that there were lessons on
   all kinds of things—magnetism, chemistry,
 physics, math. They started out easy and then
   got hard and I liked them. I could always go
  back to the last one if I got lost. It took up the
 time. It took up a lot of time, actually, because
the boat was stopping continually and each time
it did I had to start over again. There were odd,
 interesting asides, like how the changes in the
   magnetic field had affected the behavior of
  animals, especially migratory birds. A lot had
      changed since radio had been ruined.
     The sky at night was vast and dazzling with
stars, rivers of pure light. I felt again like I’d felt
    on the train—the magnificence of it, but this
  time with no barrier between it and me. I felt I
   could almost reach out and touch those stars,
 they looked that close. And the night wind was
   cool and balmy. I found the tutorial about the
stars and read all about the birth of the universe
   and how it all expanded and contracted and,
poof, there was the end of everything. Maybe. Or
maybe it would go on forever. It was almost like
  God the way they talked about it, those people
who found out so much about time and space. It
 just might do, as a replacement for that kind of
 awe. And I found a pretty interesting one about
   a moon colony and then one about something
     called the signal. It wouldn’t give me any
                    information.
     Peabody was cool as a cucumber despite all
    our troubles. He chugged on day and night,
  letting me take the wheel to spell him. I could
almost see why Mattie would have found it hard
 to give up, even if she hadn’t been Twain—I felt
like the king of the world up there, steering that
            big boat beneath the stars.
   On the second night Peabody told me about
    the signal, after I pestered him about it.
    “The signal is from space,” he said. “From
        intelligent beings. Or some form of
 intelligence—who knows if they could even be
  described as beings? For instance, the signal
                  could be them.”
  “Why do you know about them?” I asked. Far
below, gleaming phosphorescence glimmered in
the water, so it looked as if we sailed through a
                   sea of stars.
    He hesitated for a moment and I thought he
  was going to say something, but stopped. The
 look on his face was pensive. It was the look he
 always got if he mentioned his wife. Finally he
    said (and I got the feeling he started to say
  something else then stopped), “I know about
them because I had a deep curiosity about them.
 I spent my life learning things that would help
 me know more, trying to get to the heart of the
                       matter.
       “At first they thought it was a quasar.
       SETI—the search for extraterrestrial
 intelligence—insisted that it was not, all along.
    But the source didn’t matter, on one level,
because they had practical issues to deal with. If
communications interruptions continued at the
  same rate, then we’d have complete washout
     within a decade. Period. Plus all kinds of
   terrorist nan had been developed that could
 deal a death blow to fiber-optic cable anyway.
 They couldn’t have the world in a panic about
  aliens—they had work to do to insure that a
 semblance of civilization continued, or that at
 least some humans who would have access to
   knowledge would survive. The cities of the
 modern world grew because of commerce, but
  this would be a return to the self-contained
medieval model, depending on the outside world
              as little as possible.”
    “So the signal is some sort of weapon?” I
                     asked.
  “That’s not clear either,” said Peabody. “What’s
 happened here could just be some sort of side
    effect of what they’re doing. They could be
completely unaware of us and what’s happening
 here. Of course it’s human nature to think that
   we’re at the center of everything. But it’s not
    true. I do know that study ships were sent
     off—nanotech lightships with colonizing
 capabilities. But they knew that they couldn’t
communicate with us once they left, despite the
 complicated protocols they’d developed to try
 and get round, or through, the problem. I’d say
               they’re gone for good.”
  It was pretty hard to digest all that Peabody
had to say. We had been living on a farm in the
middle of nowhere believing in angels. I felt like
 I was bursting through levels and levels and
 that maybe there were an infinite number of
   them and that was a nice thought, because it
    made me feel so alive. I didn’t need heaven
 anymore. All this was more wonderful than any
 heaven could possibly be. But all this about the
  signal had happened before I was born and to
 hear Peabody talk it really made no difference.
   It appeared to me that he’d kind of given up,
  there in Chicago, but that now he was coming
   back to life. I asked him how he happened to
come across our boat and he said it was a happy
  accident. The more I listened to him, the less I
thought that was true. All kinds of organizations
   were prowling round the country, each with
   their own network. I wondered who Peabody
        really was, and what else he knew.
 One morning the boat was involved in its usual
 heaving gyrations and James lost his balance
          and fell against Peabody.
  “I’m sorry,” he said, grasping Peabody’s arms
and staggering to his feet. Then he looked at his
  hands and back at Peabody, his expression
   incredulous. For a moment I hung on that
expression; it was so full, so far beyond anything
             I’d yet seen on his face.
 Then he said, “Who… what… are you? I seem to
 remember… there’s something in the dome…”
    Peabody sighed. I’d never seen him look so
 uncertain. “I’m not sure,” he said, his eyes sad
 and oddly hungry. “I’m just not sure. I’m going
  to Norleans to find out. I hope I can find out
            there. I truly do,” he said.
     “What was in the dome?” I asked James.
  James frowned. “It’s kind of like a myth. That’s
 the nearest I can come to the flavor of it. It was
one of the places we could go. Something about a
  rain that changed humans. A rain with seeds
         that came from another galaxy.”
     “Go on,” said Peabody eagerly. “Go on!”
  James looked at Peabody oddly. “It’s a myth,
  that’s all. A story people make up to explain
   things. That’s all I know, from the dome.”
 Peabody nodded to himself. “Makes sense,” he
murmured. “Makes sense.” And he would speak
no more of it. He said he’d told me all he knew,
   which was more than most people knew,
  because anyone who knew about the signal,
early on, had apparently disappeared. Except
 for those who dared speak of it only in coded
                     terms.
            Like a myth. Like the blues.
  I had to be satisfied with that, but I wasn’t. But
 I’d have to wait. Apparently Peabody had been
           waiting for quite a long time.
   The universe, apparently, was even stranger
              than I’d imagined.



                   Forty-five
            New Orleans Blues

The Queen was rimed with salt. There had been
no rain for three days, and water supplies were
low. They were in an endless blue desert, broken
occasionally by high metal towers. The water
was so rough that they could not venture very
close to the towers, and eventually they left
them behind. Peabody said they were in the
Caribbean, based on the chart where he marked
off their progress as best he could. Tension was
high.
   But on the morning of the fifth day, Peabody
  announced, with rare excitement in his voice,
      that they were nearing New Orleans.
  They were all in the pilothouse—Blaze, Verity,
   Alice, Jack and Lil, Verity, and James. The
Queen wallowed in the waves. The paddlewheel
was often out of the water. The constant beating
 had loosened everything and the creaking was
 getting on everyone’s nerves. They all strained
  their eyes, but there was nothing to be seen.
There was no land in sight. Certainly not a city.
      “Are you sure, Peabody?” asked Jack.
      “No,” he said, raising his binoculars.
  They must have been only about three miles
 away when Verity saw it—or, rather, realized
  that it was there. She was thunderstruck,
  because it was huge. A huge, hidden thing
            floating in a tropical sea.
 It was blue and green, which was why it was so
 hard to see. But no… it shimmered, reflective,
                 like a mirage…
  “That’s it!” whispered Lil. She gripped the sill
 and leaned forward through the open window.
   “It’s… it’s like a dream, isn’t it, Jack? It’s so
 beautiful. Like a jewel in the sea. I really didn’t
think… Oh, my God. I guess they didn’t die.“ She
  blinked away tears. ”Maybe all those rafters
             lived after all. Somehow.”
    “Maybe,” said Jack, very gently. He briefly
traced Lil’s tattoo with a finger, then pulled her
              tight against his side.
   “Who do you think is in there?” asked Alice
                 nervously.
      “Aliens,” said Peabody mischievously.
     “Oh, I hope not,” said Lil fervently, and
               Peabody laughed.
   Verity, standing next to them, reflected that
she was probably as alien as someone from outer
                     space.
  And her child? She put one hand on her belly
and watched the vast floating city before them
assume contours, shadowy at first then sharp
 and clear. No telling about her child. She felt
         fear, anticipation, and hope.
   Blaze shook her arm and pointed. Off to the
   west, a regatta of white sails skimmed the
                 blue-green sea.
 Lil thrust binoculars at Verity. “I’m shaking so
  much I can’t hold them. What do you see?”
  As the boat poised at the top of a crest before
  thumping downward with the usual jarring
   smash, Verity gasped. “Islands,” she said.
 “Beautiful golden islands at the foot of each…
         tower… Each island is huge.”
  “Those are the breakwaters,” said Jack. “They
    just float on the surface too, like the city.
 Although I’m sure there’s a certain amount of
    interesting subsurface architecture. The
  underwater environments were to be used to
 simulate space travel.” His voice held wonder.
 “Just the way they planned. But I don’t know
 about any towers. Let me look.” Verity handed
him the binoculars. “It appears to be much more
 of a fortress than we thought it would be, Lil.”
  “They probably have their reasons,” she said.
  “Think they’ll be glad to see us?” asked Blaze.
               No one answered.
   They labored closer. Their progress seemed
  excruciatingly slow. Below, on the pitching
 decks, the Cincinnatians stood in a great mob.
          They were not even singing.
  Lil said, “I can’t stand it. Go faster, Peabody!”
  Peabody laughed. “I’m going as fast as we can
without tearing this tub apart. You don’t want to
                 swim, do you?”
 Now they were close enough for Verity to make
 things out better. The city assumed a focus. It
  rose to a central peak, somewhat like a tent,
 formed of fanciful towers, multilevel terraces.
  Verity had an impression of a floating forest.
  “It seems a lot bigger than Cincinnati,” Verity
                       said.
     “It grows,” Lil answered. “It grows to
  accommodate a growing population.” Hope
  shone in her face, and Verity knew that Lil
    hoped it had grown so large in order to
     accommodate victims of her plague.
     They came abreast of one of the islands.
  Turquoise water shimmered in vast lagoons
formed by stony enclosures around each island.
Two women pulled a fish-filled net into a boat in
the middle of the lagoon, while others picnicked
 on a golden beach where coconut palms cast a
   hatchwork of shadows on the sand. Small
 colorful boats rested on the beach. One by one
  people noticed them and soon everyone was
            waving with both arms.
   “They grow all kinds of things in the lagoons,
algae and fish and sea vegetables,” said Jack. He
looked slightly dazed. “It’s amazing. They did it.
               They really did it.”
  Peabody followed a string of buoys between
two of the islands, which sloped upward rather
steeply on their seaward side, then descended in
  a more gentle incline on the city side. As they
 passed the crest Verity looked back. “Are those
     orchards?” she asked. “And fields of…
  soybeans?” The city sides of the islands were
                 evidently farms.
  Lil nodded, apparently too overcome to speak.
   Verity wondered if the city was anchored, or
  floated willy-nilly, or was powered here and
        there for reasons beyond her ken.
 “Look!” she said, handing the binoculars to Lil.
                    “People!”
  And there they were, leaning from long, curved
ledges, waving and cheering, apparently, though
 all they heard on the boat was the slap of waves
    and the constant chug of the paddlewheel.
    Huge letters appeared along the side of the
city, as ornate as the calligraphy with which was
    written the name of the American Queen:
      WELCOME TO NEW ORLEANS, THE
            CRESCENT CITY
  Lil said, “I guess we made it.” Tears shone on
her face, and she hugged Jack. “You were right,
                      Jack.”
 “As always,” said Jack, but his voice shook just
       a bit and he let out a deep breath.
  The vast, stubby towers holding New Orleans
dwarfed the Queen as the city’s shadow eclipsed
  them. They were of clear, thick material that
 reduced whatever was inside to colorful blurs.
   The water was luminous where the towers
 vanished beneath the sea’s surface, and Verity
   saw heavy steel cables thick as tree trunks
             vanishing downward.
   The sound of the paddlewheel echoed along
with the sound of their own voices. The rafters
filled the air with an excited hum. Then one of
 the towers glowed phosphorescent green and
   Peabody looked round at them, shrugged,
           steered the boat toward it.
   As they approached it seemed as if part of it
 just dissolved, revealing glowing light within.
 “Sure you want to go?” asked Peabody, and Lil
 said, “Stop teasing us!” and Peabody laughed.
  The Queen rode the waves closer. The light
        inside grew as they approached.
        They passed through the opening.
   After they were inside the door grew smaller
  behind them. The inside was luminous, and it
seemed as if there were no edges. There was just
  the smell of salt, the sound of water, and the
   nearly invisible shell of their enclosure. The
 water was not completely calm, but the waves
                   were muted.
  Shouts echoed through the enclosure. Ahead
was a wharf with slips filled with all manner of
 seacraft. A group stood on the wharf holding
  curious instruments: tubas, trombones, and
trumpets. At a signal, they struck up a tune that
            filled the harbor place.
 After a moment, Blaze gasped with laughter. A
hysterical edge to his voice, he said to Jack, “Is
            that what I think it is?”
   “Absolutely,” said Jack, laughing so hard he
 doubled over. He wiped tears from his eyes. He
burst into laughter again. “Do You Know What It
    Means To Miss New Orleans—” and they
shouted out the words together, tunelessly, as if
  drunk. Above the wharf, on a balcony, a huge
  crowd had gathered. They waved and yelled,
         almost drowning out the band.
     Peabody piloted the Queen, battered and
 limping from the long journey, into one of the
slips. Behind them a wall shot up and the water
  calmed and people stood there on the edge of
   the wharf waiting for them to put down the
                   gangplank.
     Those in the pilothouse heard shouted
 exchanges about why there was no gangplank.
   The small party in the pilothouse stood in a
 circle and looked at each other for a moment,
dazed. It seemed impossible. They had arrived.
 Peabody pulled a half-empty bottle of whiskey
  and smudged glasses from a cupboard, and
           poured them all a sip.
               “To Mattie,” he said.
     The whiskey burned Verity’s throat and
brought tears to her eyes. She looked round the
pilothouse, which had seen so much. The wheel
  was burnished from months of use. Mattie’s
     stool was still there, next to the wheel.
Peabody’s piloting clutter lay on the shelf below
                   the window.
  A vast roar arose as a team of people hurried
     down an incline carrying a makeshift
gangplank. The boat trembled with the impact
 of trampling feet and cacophonous cheering.
   As of one accord they all began to laugh and
    cry and hug each other and Verity knew,
  suddenly, that one part of her life was over.
    And that another part was about to begin.
  The balcony on which Verity sat was so high
  she felt as if she were flying. She liked that
  feeling. At times she rather hoped that she
 might become a Bee again someday, if only to
               experience that joy.
   The day was exhilarating and bright. The sea
 was blue as far as the eye could see; sparkling
and infinite. The sky was blue as well, without a
   cloud, and gulls wheeled round the various
 towers and plazas and streets which fell away,
   far below. In all this light it seemed that it
 would be impossible for the darkness to catch
up with her, ever. She could begin to feel strong
            in this place, once again.
  She was sitting around a table with a crowd of
  people. Lil sat on one side of her and Blaze on
the other. Jack and Alice were there as well, and
                      James.
                 Mattie was not.
   The world became dark and sound receded.
 Verity sighed. Blaze heard her and reached for
  her hand. They looked at each other and she
     knew he knew what she was thinking.
             “So much gone,” he said.
  Various officials from the city, which, she had
  learned, thought of itself as a non-country, a
 concept she was trying to grasp, were feasting
      them, after settling them in spacious,
             comfortable quarters.
     Peabody stood to one side of the balcony,
  speaking earnestly to a small group. Peabody
had seemed at home immediately. He expressed
   concern about hurricanes, but was told that
 Norleans had weathered even a Category Five
 storm, which interested him tremendously. He
wanted to know every detail about the city, from
   its inception to the present day. He was not
                wasting a minute.
 The rafters had been dispersed throughout the
city, paired with hosts who took them into their
   homes. But first they were taken to a clinic
      where the Norleans Plague was at last
  neutralized. For each group of plaguers who
reached New Orleans, a cure had been grown by
 the tremendously advanced AI at the heart of
   the city. Now the terraces overflowed with
Cincinnatians, each inevitably surrounded by a
          crowd of curious Norleaners.
   Jack and Lil were beginning to catch up with
what had happened so long ago. They now knew
     that the floating city had been privately
financed and masterminded by the same woman
  who had gathered the scientific community to
 New Orleans. Nurturing the vision fostered by
  the city of her birth, she had tried to keep her
 project as secret as possible, knowing that New
 Orleans was under siege. Wary of sabotage, she
used New Orleans almost as a decoy, and set up
detailed evacuation plans that were executed at
  the last minute. Lil and Verity had learned, to
 their vast relief, that for years boats were kept
 in New Orleans to ferry rafters here. Even now
 they responded once or twice a year to signals
    from the towers, though many were false.
 Evidently, a rescue boat had passed them going
 the other way, having received the signal, long
   delayed by atmospheric conditions, from the
        rafters who first reached Norleans.
 “Look,” said Jack, and nudged Lil. “Over there.
Isn’t that Marie?” They had an appointment to
meet with her the next day, if they felt up to it.
   They both remembered meeting her at a
long-ago opulent party in the French Quarter,
and hearing rumors of her voodoo rituals on the
  shores of Lake Pontchartrain, quite different
 from the original rituals. Neither had dreamed
              she was so powerful.
   On a terrace a step down from theirs, a tall
    black woman with flowing hair stood,
surrounded by a crowd. Perhaps feeling Jack’s
 gaze, she lifted her eyes, smiled broadly, and
                 waved at them.
  An older woman came and dropped into the
 chair next to Verity. Her hair was white and
Verity thought of delphiniums when she looked
            into the woman’s eyes.
      “I think I recognize you,” Verity said.
  The woman nodded. “We met way upriver. On
  the Ohio. When we passed over Rising Sun.
            That’s where I’m from.”
      “Yes, I remember,” said Verity. The trip
coalesced for her suddenly, now, when it seemed
to be ending—the quiet wonder of the wakening
 souls, then their wild rampages. Their growing
 memories, melded into a play; their injuries in
   the bombing. And then, at last, the pictures
  which blossomed in New Orleans, which grew
 daily in complexity and depth, as they learned
          how to use their new language.
    “I want to thank you,” the woman said to
                    Verity.
            “For what?” asked Verity.
    “For getting us out of Cincinnati,” said the
 woman. She reached over and touched Verity’s
arm and the back of her hand had a tiny, bright
    picture of a child on it. “I had some angry
moments, thinking about what happened, about
how we left Cincinnati. We didn’t have a choice.
    You chose for us. There was a glory about
  Cincinnati. A fearfulness, and a glory. Maybe
   you can’t have one without the other. But I
wanted the future when I went in there and I got
 it full strength. Now, here, it seems like we’re
  back to square one. And yet—I have a feeling
that this is the future too. The Cincinnati future
didn’t work out quite right. It was kind of like a
 little backwater, where mosquitoes grow. Oh,
        what am I trying to say? Stagnant.
    “I’ll probably never remember half of what
happened during the Cincinnati years of my life.
 It was like being tumbled round in one of those
 rock-smoothing machines. Now time is slower,
and it keeps on moving straight, and I’m me and
I know it. There. Does that make sense to you?”
         “Yes,” said Verity. “Yes, it does.”
    “Well, I hope it does,” said the woman, and
       patted Verity’s arm. Then she left.
  Lil lifted her glass of champagne. “Here’s to
the future,” she said. “Whatever it might hold.”
  “Could be just about anything,” said Jack, his
               dark face somber.
    “Seems like we’ve been through something
 close to that already,” said Blaze, and they all
laughed, and drank to something—perhaps the
 future and whatever it might hold, or perhaps
  just one another, while white gulls wheeled
overhead and a steady sea wind blew strong to
                    the west.
   The next afternoon Alice stood next to James,
       who stared out over Norleans, down its
 green-terraced splendor to the open sea. Being
 wonder-struck was common, Alice had noticed,
to all of those from the Queen, including herself.
  The glorious architecture of the terraced city
grown from seawater was filled with astonishing
  versions of humankind, who used all kinds of
 nan enhancements without suffering apparent
 ill. It was a place of mastery and harmony. And
 though they had just arrived, Alice had caught
hints of the greater purpose of Norleans, as well,
   a purpose that infused the city with a fervor
   she’d never before experienced. But she felt
removed from it. She knew where her happiness
                         lay.
  “The Professor would say that this place was
 balanced,” said James, looking at the rainbow
  pattern on his hand, meaningful only to him.
 “These people have free will. They can choose.
                       …”
   His voice broke, and Alice knew that he was
 thinking about Mattie. She put an arm around
him and held him tight and after a stiff moment
         he relaxed into her embrace.
    “It’s the city she saw,” he whispered. “She
talked to me about it. ‘The place where our loved
 ones live forever,’ she said. But it’s awful to be
 here without her. She could have lived forever
                     here, too.”
   “I know,” murmured Alice, trying to comfort
   James as her own heartache sharpened. “I
                   know.”
       “The thing is,” James continued, “she
succeeded. She knew what she wanted to do and
she did it. And she gave me a great gift. She gave
   me the gift of myself. I think that here I can
truly grow and learn. And give. Whatever gifts I
  have to give. I don’t know what they are yet.”
    Alice patted him on the back. Scientists had
swarmed all over James when they learned what
  he was but after the initial frenzy she fended
 them off for him, since he seemed incapable of
doing so. She saw that he was overwhelmed, not
     only because of Mattie, but because of the
  importance accorded him. He needed time to
assimilate the fact that others indeed found him
 vitally important, time to balance that with his
 own embryonic but growing sense of self. Alice
   felt that James was in need of a physician as
much as any of her patients had been, though he
  suffered no physical ailments. Growing a soul
was hard work. It would take time and patience.
   And a good deal of privacy, she suspected.
   The sea breeze freshened, sweeping away the
    doldrums of the afternoon. The festivities
  behind them, the hypnotic beat of the music,
 became louder. The sun drew near the sea and
subtle lights appeared along the wall where she
and James stood. On the terraces, to drumbeats,
    gypsy colors swirled as those from China,
 Poland, Russia, Korea …names which now had
as little meaning as the United States of America
 …manifested their own ancient forms of dance,
adapted to the music occurring now, and waves
of change swept through them like wind playing
across a vast field of grass. These people seemed
 to live to dance, able to meld celebration with
their utterly serious purpose. They would party
       all night. At least, they had last night.
 Alice sighed. Parties bored her. And in spite of
the beauty and shared joy, they didn’t need her
                     here.
  She thought of Madge’s Landing, there on the
banks of the slow, wide Mississippi. In the midst
 of all this brightness, this openness to the sky
and sea, she yearned for the river mists, the sky
    glimpsed through towering live oaks, her
    neighbors, and her home. She had strolled
  through the acres of gardens and parks that
   flowed like flower-filled veldts through the
terraces, but they felt foreign and unsatisfying.
She wondered if there was a way to return, now
    that her duties were almost over. She had
managed to save some rafters. She had probably
 helped Verity, at least in some fashion, though
she certainly could not claim to have healed her.
  She had only been able to verify that healing
 was taking place, which was more than enough
 for her. She knew that the loss of Mattie would
 always haunt her. If only she’d had the time to
turn her attention to Mattie sooner. If only she’d
   had the expertise, the tools… if only Mattie
             hadn’t been so stubborn.
    Well, she had been stubborn, and fixed on
some vision that seemed, in the end, to give her
 a deeper satisfaction than most people would
                   ever know.
 But now only James still needed her. Still, his
need was great. It would hold her until he was
  ready to fly, to live on his own terms in this
bright place, unique in all the world, where the
    new was brewing with heady urgency.
   She linked her arm through his. “Come on,
 James, let’s take a stroll and then go back to
  that little restaurant on St. Anne Street for
 dinner. Shall we?” The previous night he had
talked, in the candle-filled courtyard, of Masa,
and Mattie, and then of the pain and wonder of
   having been brought into existence from
               seeming nothingness.
              “I’d like that,” he said.
     They slipped through the crowd and, as
evening grew, descended to the quaint and quiet
                streets below.



                  Forty-six
                  Blue Skies

The morning shower passed over in minutes,
leaving the cobblestones on Royal Street
glimmering, and Verity stepped out from
beneath a sheltering awning. Seagulls wheeled
above, crying, and the streets began to fill with
people.
  The sun was much more powerful here than in
 Ohio, instantly hot in the morning. It burnished
 everything to golden radiance as Verity turned
  up Bienville, shielding her eyes with her free
 hand every few minutes as she glanced upward.
  After a few minutes she checked the address
         glowing on the back of her hand.
  Mattie, in a sling on her chest, was asleep, and
  heavy for her two months. Verity hoped she
  would sleep for a while. Her own eyes were
 heavy from awakening for the previous night’s
                     feedings.
    The distinctive architecture of the French
 Quarter glistened in the morning sun. Slices of
red brick, stone, and colorful shutters ranged up
the narrow street. Verity passed the Shop of the
   Golden Man and smiled; the seeds for lovely
 learning toys were there, and manifested in his
shop-window. Already Mattie enjoyed one or two
of his creations: mobiles to help the focussing of
  her eyes, and things to touch and roll around.
 The fragrance of beignets baking wafted down
    the street from some unseen source. Her
   stomach growled. One beignet, made with
spirulina-based flour, could supply her protein
needs for one day, and was more delicious than
she could have imagined. Blaze was quite taken
  with lobsters and had one practically every
  night, each time in a different restaurant, if
 Mattie allowed them the luxury. Lobsters and
    crabs thrived in the large farming ponds
surrounding Norleans; all manner of plants and
animals grew in the nitrogen-rich seawater that
exploded with life after being pumped from the
depths; the city depended on the heat-exchange
technology which had, in fact, been essential to
                   its growth.
    Later in the day the streets would be thick
  with music and troupes of dancers, dancers
evolving thought and language through motion.
 Even the scientists danced here, especially the
scientists, indistinguishable from the throngs of
   incredibly varied pilgrims from all over the
  world who had made it to Norleans, refugees
from and progenitors of nan alike, the strangely
changed survivors. And, Verity had learned, the
   completely human, yet more-than-human
 denizens who, like Peabody, had arrived here
drawn by a golden tide of thought and yearning,
coupled with what hard information they could
  glean about themselves, their earth-altering
past, and the future that information promised.
     Verity found herself looking forward to her
 afternoon’s session with the debriefer assigned
      her. The woman, an African who chose to
 manifest an ancient tribal tattoo over much of
     her body, worked with Verity on a shaded,
 breezy patio on the west side, a short train and
   elevator hop from the French Quarter, where
Blaze and Verity lived. Every Cincinnatian spent
 several hours a day in these sessions, in which
  layers of their hidden history were brought to
   light and consciousness. Many Cincinnatians
   were in a position, because of the knowledge
   they had before Cincinnati was converted, to
    add substantially to the mosaic of what was
           known about the three waves of
 nanotechnology. The Cincinnati dialect of what
Lil had called an emergent mind was now a part
   of the city’s international grammar, a form of
visual communication taken up with enthusiasm
           by the citizens of New Orleans.
 As Peabody had mentioned, the world was on
 the verge of a Fourth Wave. The tremendous
undercurrent of excitement threading through
  every moment of every day, in the faces and
mien of all Verity met, had to do with the feeling
       that this time would be different.
  In her brief time here, she had not had time to
  learn more about what the Widder Jones had
 alluded to, the lightships sent out, the reasons
why radio had ceased to be dependable, though
that information was open and free. It had been
    pretty absorbing to give birth and care for
   Mattie. But soon, when she felt that she and
Rose were balanced enough, she would move to
     new realms of endeavor and knowledge.
    In Norleans, that was gloriously possible.
    She walked a few more steps, turned back,
checked her hand. That was the address—a row
 of French doors open to the street, flanked by
            pots of red geraniums.
     She stepped through a green-painted
  doorframe scratched and battered as if by
decades of neglect into darkness and paused as
              her eyes adjusted.
   The room smelled of spilled beer and cigarette
   smoke. Her nose wrinkled. She put her hand
over Mattie’s head as if to shield her, though the
 toxins could not actually harm her, and hurried
   past the pool table. A vagrant ray of sunlight
illuminated a mosaic of liquor bottles behind the
  bar, where a single man sat drinking. He paid
                  her no attention.
 It was possible, if one so wished, to do nothing
    except party here in Norleans. It was all
                  information.
 She was through the room quickly enough and
started up the stairs on the other side. Her feet
  clanged on the open metal stringers. At the
landing, she stopped in front of a narrow, open
window to catch her breath and adjust Mattie.
   In that instant, the precise juxtaposition of
 balconies against the street scene below, the
terraced lines falling to the sea, the rhythm of
windows and rooflines and doors, snapped into
 some larger template and deepened, as if she
 were falling back into herself, through layer
             after layer of memory.
              Recognition dawned.
     She gazed out over an utterly familiar
 quadrant of Norleans. Utterly familiar, though
       she had never been here before.
                Except in vision.
  The river trip unreeled within her—the pain,
 the uncertainty, the sorrow. She looked at her
hand again. It had flashed when she rose before
dawn with a message from Lil to meet her here…
     She hurried to the upper landing on the
 clanging stairs and pushed through the green
           swinging door at the top.
     Lil jumped up from a chair when Verity
   emerged. “I’ve been waiting,” she said. She
  embraced Verity and Mattie in a single hug.
   Behind Lil was a small, high-ceilinged café
where, beneath the collection of small, exquisite
 European paintings arranged on the vivid red
   walls, people drank coffee and read news
   manifested by their tables, if they wished.
  Zydeco music, a fusion of blues and Cajun,
  played softly. A woman reading a magazine
 behind the coffee bar looked up and smiled at
  Verity. The scuffed marble floor was faintly
                    golden.
  Verity stared over Lil’s shoulder, taking it all
  in. Lil pulled back and smiled crookedly at
                     Verity.
  “Welcome—home?” Lil whispered. Her eyes
 were questioning, oddly yearning. “This is one
      thing that went according to plan.”
      “I remember…” stammered Verity, then
    stopped, beyond words. The vision of the
  Norleans Plague met her—now, here, in this
precise moment and place—and merged with the
  memory deep inside her, bringing it into the
              light of the present.
   Mattie woke and waved her arms. Lil took
 Mattie, bounced her a few times, and laid the
baby on her own shoulder. “Come on,” she said,
  gesturing with her head. “Our breakfast is
                getting cold.”
     Lil led Verity between tables toward a
  sun-drenched balcony where mugs of coffee
    steamed beside a plate of beignets on a
             wrought-iron table.
   Potted palms rustled in the salty morning
 breeze as Verity approached the open French
 doors. In front of her, Lil’s bee tattoo glowed
    golden below Lil’s short-cropped hair.
  She touched the bee with one finger, lightly.
Lil turned her head, a questioning look on her
                     face.
 “Thank you for bringing me here,” Verity said.
 “In spite of it all?” Lil asked, her eyes startled;
                       hungry.
    “In spite of it all,” said Verity firmly. She
  reached up and held Lil’s face between her
hands, tried to pour her own certainty into Lil’s
         brown eyes. “In spite of it all.”
   Lil bit her lip and blinked. She let out a deep
breath. Her face relaxed. Verity realized it was
  the first time she had ever seen Lil look this
   way. Maybe it was the way she had looked
before everything had happened, when she was
a child in the mountains, and her parents were
           still alive— peaceful; radiant.
  “Thank you, Verity,” she said quietly, after a
   minute. “That means everything to me.”
 The glimpse of blue ocean expanded in front of
 Verity, then seemed to explode and flood her
  being with joy as she stepped through the
    doorway into the light of a glorious new
                   morning.



                  Epilogue

This is the territory for me, New Orleans. It’s a
territory of the mind.
   Verity had her baby. A girl with dark eyes and
  golden brown skin. Her name is Mattie. I think
she’s the smartest baby in the world, never mind
 that she’s the only baby I’ve ever known. Verity
   and I have a fine apartment, all sunlight and
 books and ways to learn that aren’t as strong as
   the interstices, though methods like that are
 available. Verity has been studying Flower City
 theory, and helping add to the information they
   have here about Cincinnati. She knows a lot
  about Cincinnati; so many things that she still
spends several hours a week being debriefed, as
                     they call it.
  The music here is stunning; extraordinary. I
 play often and I’m always learning. I’m filled
   with, overwhelmed by, transformational
  patterns of sound. Everyone here is. It’s a
 powerful, moving force that’s opening up the
                    world.
 There’s a whole section of Crescent City that is
  just like old New Orleans, and that’s where
people come to listen to me. Well, that’s one way
   to do it, anyway. I’m studying the works of a
composer named Duke Ellington. He wrote short
songs, operas, indigos, and long, intricate pieces
      called rhapsodies. Right now I like the
  rhapsodies the best, their rising energy; their
 subtle beauty. I think it’s possible that he was
    the greatest musical genius that ever lived.
       But that’s not all I do. New Orleans is a
  community of scientists, from all around the
world, harvested from the wrecks of the Flower
 Cities, from the intelligence communities Jack
   and Lil came from. There are a lot of unique
people here, and more coming every day. Some
 of them, including Jack, are going out to study
      some of the Zones pretty soon. Strange
   discoveries abound. I have so much to learn
    before I can even begin to understand the
  Signal, and how lightships work, and just the
 basic things Peabody seems to have grown up
knowing. For instance, that light in the sky that
    Mattie saw just before she died: it wasn’t a
satellite. But it’s so complicated that it will be a
     long time before any of us understand it.
  I’ve died and gone through hell and come back
to life. And now I see that there’s so much more
 to it than I ever imagined there was, at Shaker
   Hill. And also, sadly, less, in some ways. But
 that’s the way it is. There, I believed in God, in
Mother Ann. Nanotechnology was evil; like the
 devil, perhaps, even though we Shakers were
 not inclined toward personifying evil in that
                      way.
  But because of nanotechnology there has been
a revolution within me. Mattie, as Twain, helped
 me see that this revolution is not new, and not
unique to me. The idea that all was not wrought
     by God but by forces humans were just
  beginning to be able to see caused an uproar
during the age when Mark Twain lived. Because
  of Darwin, honest thinkers had to face those
 facts, and the effects of this new raw thinking,
untouched by God and angels, smashed through
society like a cannon-ball. The idea that humans
   should take control of things on a very deep
   level because there’s no one else to do it, no
  Godlike being to offend or please, is somehow
 hard for humans to grasp. But I’ve had to try. I
    had no choice. That simple realization has
         changed me, from the inside out.
  Nan can help me learn; it can do things to my
 brain. Nanotechnology can be enslaving, and it
   can also be liberating. I’m considering my
choices very carefully now. It’s the first time I’ve
         had the opportunity to do that.
   I’m human. That’s as divine as I ever want to
  be. It’s enough. Being human means that I can
learn all the things that those before me learned,
  and find ways to understand what we are, and
 what we may become, in this sea of complexity
                we call life.
              —«»—«»—«»—
[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
          [A 3S Release— v1, html]
              [March 19, 2006]