“Thank you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
They were gone, and Kiru was naked and alone and defenceless with the alien. The creature looked her up and down, down and up.
She thought she’d spent most of her life being scared, thought she knew what it was always to live within the ominous shadow of fear.
But she hadn’t, she didn’t.
She’d never known total terror.
Until now.
She shivered with absolute fright.
Then the thing began to strip.
And she became more afraid, too petrified even to tremble.
Its shirt was gone faster than Kiru could have blinked. Not that she dared to.
The beast ripped its shirt in two and held out both pieces toward her as if they were a gift.
She looked at it. At him. He wasn’t a monster, she realised, or at least no more than any other man was. Because he was a man. Ugly, a dwarf, but human. Kiru breathed again.
He gestured toward her, to her breasts, to her hips. She frowned. He made another movement, holding one arm across his bare chest, the other over his crotch.
She nodded her understanding, and he gave her his torn shirt. Her fingers shook, and it was a while until she managed to tie one piece around her waist, then the other across her torso.
“Thanks,” she whispered, finally. “My name is Kiru. Who are you?”
The man touched a finger to his lips before running it quickly across his throat, making a cutting motion. They had to remain silent.
As he lowered his hand, it brushed across a silver amulet hanging from his neck. It was heart-shaped, palm-sized. He clutched at the pendant, staring at Kiru as he did so.
Then he turned, gestured for her to follow, and walked off through the woods. She glanced around, wondering about the other three thugs. They were dangerous, but the dwarf was very dangerous. She hurried to catch up with him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Norton and Travis were sitting in a donut shop.
Or its twenty-third century equivalent.
This was the first time Norton had been outside since his revival, and they were on the roof of a skyscraper which made the Empire State Building look like… like a donut shop.
“I thought you’d want to see the world,” said Travis.
Norton gazed down, but all he could see was mist. Or fog. Or…
“Are those clouds?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Travis. “You should have kept your eyes open during the ride up here.”
The building was a pyramid of golden glass, and they had reached the summit via a transparent outside elevator. In the distance, he could see the sun reflecting off other peaks, other immense buildings. They were the size of mountains.
“This isn’t Las Vegas, is it?” said Norton.
“No,” said Travis.
“New York?”
“No.”
“The United States no longer exists?” Norton was still cross-checking his information.
“Not the one you knew.”
Norton looked up, up into the sky. “It used to be blue,” he said.
The sky was yellow.
“That’s the roof,” said Travis. “It keeps the air breathable, keeps out the cold and wind, filters the ultraviolet radiation.”
Any lingering doubts Norton may have had about his temporal journey had vanished during his ascent of the glass pyramid. This sure wasn’t 1968. The world looked amazing.
And so did Colonel Travis.
Tall and broad, strong and muscular, he was dressed in what must have been a uniform, with epaulettes and ribbons and braid, badges and chevrons and insignia. But his loose tunic was bright orange with green pockets and was open to the waist, and his pants were wide and baggy, lime green with orange stripes. His belt and his boots were yellow, and he wore spurs on his heels and a sword on his hip. He could have been starring in The Arabian Nights.
Travis was black, but his shoulder-length hair was white, as were his eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyelids and lips, even his fingernails, were also white—because of his eyeshadow and lipstick and nail varnish.
Norton was wearing a reasonably smart sweater and not-too-crumpled slacks, but he was the one who looked out of place. There was no predominant clothing style amongst the other people on the roof, their outfits varying from beachwear to fantastically elaborate costumes. Every face was painted with gaudy makeup, and there wasn’t one natural hairstyle or colour to be seen. It was as if they were all at a bizarre fancy-dress party.
Spread around the roof were tables and chairs, almost like those of the twentieth century, except that they had no legs. People were sitting and eating, talking and drinking, just as they would have done in the twentieth century. (And they did have legs.)
Travis led Norton to one of the tables and sat on one of the floating seats. Very carefully, Norton also sat down. The seat took his weight.
“At one time,” said Travis, “people had to book months ahead to get a table here.”
Norton didn’t believe him. Who would book for a meal so far in advance? “They’d have starved to death by then,” he said.
Travis smiled. “That was before the Crash, of course. For a long time after that, no one could afford the prices here. If it wasn’t for those of us on the guest list, the place would never have had any customers.”
“The Crash,” said Norton, remembering what Mandy and Brendan had told him, “that was when the global economy took a nosedive?”
“Yes.” Travis nodded. “You can tell things are improving by looking around this place.” As he spoke he looked around. “Elite restaurants are an economic barometer.” He glanced at Norton. “What is a barometer? Did they have them in your time?”
“Yeah, they did. It was a kind of… er… a device for measuring the weather.”
Travis kept staring at Norton, and he nodded again. “So much has been forgotten,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Because most of it isn’t worth remembering.”
“That happened because of the Crash?”
“No, long before then. A hundred years ago. Or more. Or was it less? No one knows exactly.” Travis laughed. “There was a total data meltdown, a complete erasure of almost all the world’s information. The Crash was bad enough—we’re still living through it—but Day Zero must have been absolutely catastrophic. You want a drink?”
All Brendan had ever offered was water. Cold or hot, it always reminded Norton of being frozen. He shivered for a moment.
“How about a Coke?” he said. Surely some things were eternal.
“You’re cold?”
“What?”
“You want a coat because you’re cold?”
“No. I want a Coke. Or a Pepsi.”
“What?”
“Does cola still exist?”
“Cola, yes, of course,” said Travis. “Cuba Cola is the world’s most popular drink. With ice?”
“No,” said Norton, and he shivered again.
A waitress came over to their table. She was as tall as Travis. If he was Ali Baba, she was Scarlet O’Hara at the grand ball in Gone with the Wind —or almost. Her bodice was cut very low, her long skirt was flared out by numerous lacy petticoats, but the entire outfit seemed to be made of metal filaments which changed colour every few seconds. She carried an open parasol with the same iridescent effect, reflecting a random rainbow down onto her shaven scalp.
“One Cube,” said Travis, “and a vodsky. I’m on duty, so make it a treble.”
The waitress glided away. Because her feet were hidden beneath her skirt, it was almost as if she were floating like the tables and chairs.
“How did you find me so fast?” asked Norton.
“I’m a good cop,” said Travis.
“Five minutes after I was on screen, three guys burst in. No one’s that good.”