“And you say I never take you anywhere nice,” Spyder said to Lulu.
That evening, they camped in a small dune valley, out of the night wind. They hadn’t seen any airships all day, so the others started a fire while Primo showed Spyder how to hobble the horses. He didn’t feel it while riding, but once on his feet, Spyder’s ass and back were sore. It took him a while to pour grain into the horses’ feed bags, as he couldn’t grip either bag properly with his injured hand. The Count found him and helped him slip the bags onto the horses’ heads.
“Back in Berenice, I upset you. That wasn’t my intention,” said Count Non.
“No harm, no foul, man,” said Spyder, slipping the feed bag on the last horse. “I’m just a little on edge. You and Shrike, you’re used to this Conan the Barbarian stuff. I’m just passing through and it’s getting to me.”
“It is a situation. I can see how ending up here unwillingly could leave one unstrung.”
“That’s it. I am un-fucking-strung,” Spyder said. “What’s your story? You don’t sweat anything. That some stiff upper lip blue blood thing?”
“My father certainly wouldn’t say so. Unlike Shrike, I can’t claim a tragic seduction or a kingdom stolen. I’m nothing more than a bad son who can’t go home.”
“What did you do?”
“What does any son do? I didn’t love my father enough. And he didn’t have the patience to let me find that love on my own terms.”
“We’ve got something in common, then. The last thing my father ever said to me, before he disappeared into a sea of Jack Daniel’s, was, ‘You are my greatest mistake.’ I was twelve.”
The Count nodded and stroked the neck of one of the horses. “Making our own way toughens us. Look at you. Not everyone could take the shock of being snatched unwillingly from one world and dropped into a new one.”
“Halfway to Hell, man. I thought I’d cleaned up a little, and was going the other way. Or, at least, holding steady.”
“It’s not a kind universe. I’ve lived many places since leaving home, many much worse than this. Compared to where we could be, this isn’t so bad at all.”
“The idea that we could die out here doesn’t bother you?”
“There are worse things than death. Would you rather change places with Shrike’s father?”
“No thanks.”
“For now, we have this sky and the moon, warm air in our lungs and good companions. I can tell you one thing for certain, little brother: In this life, no matter what anyone promises you, what allegiances of love or fealty they swear or what gods they pray to, you will never have more than what you have at this moment.”
“Goddam, Count, you cheered me all the hell up. I might just dance.”
Count Non looked up at the sky. “‘Every night and every morn, some to misery are born; every morn and every night, some are born to sweet delight; some are born to sweet delight, some are born to endless night.’” He motioned for Spyder to follow him away from the horses. “Show me how well you can use—what are you calling it?—the Hornet.”
Spyder held up his injured hand. “The wing’s clipped.”
“As it may well be in battle. Come on, I’ll show you some tricks that will impress the girls.”
“You make a convincing argument.”
THIRTY-SIX
Highway to Hell
“My left ring finger,” said Spyder.
“My little toe. Either one,” replied Lulu.
“I suppose I could lose an ear.”
“A nostril.”
“Nope. It’s the whole nose or nothing.”
“Picky fucker. I’ll keep my nose. How about my pancreas? I could lose that. What the hell does a pancreas do anyway?” Lulu asked.
“That’s where your Islets of Langerhans are.”
“What the hell are they?”
“I have no idea. I just remember the name from high school biology.”
“I wonder if I even have a pancreas anymore.”
The group was riding north, into a waste of dust and heat. It was early in the day and the air was still crisp. The lemon sun had bleached the sky to a pearly blue.
“If they took it, they must know what it’s for, so someone’s getting some use out of it.”
“As long as someone’s happy.”
“Smell,” said Spyder.
“Smell? That’s a sense. Smell’s not a part of your body you can lose.”
“Excuse me, Nurse Ratched, but smell is a neurological response in the olfactory cortex in the temporal lobe of your brain. Ipso goddam facto, ‘smell’ is a part of your body.”
“Fuck you and the Discovery Channel,” said Lulu. “It’s still a stupid answer. Without smell, you’d never get laid again. Sex is all about smell. Pheromones and all that invisible shit that let’s you know who wants to ride you like a rocking horse and who just wants to steal your smokes.” Lulu turned around in her saddle. “Am I right, Shrike? Guys are such idiots.”
“She’s right, Spyder. Sex is smell. Smell is sex.”
“You’re all against me,” Spyder said. “Primo, you lost something the other day. You should be playing, too. What part of your body would you lose first if you had to lose something?”
“I don’t think I’d like to lose anything more, thank you,” said Primo.
Shrike said, “You don’t want to play game this with Primo. He’ll win.”
“Why’s that?” Spyder asked.
“Primo, what did you do with your severed arm?” Shrike asked.
“I ate it, ma’am.”
From the desert floor rose the detritus of long-dead cities. Spyder slowed as they rode among the ruins. He ran his fingers over broken pillars that curved up from the sand like the ribs of a fossilized giant. Spiral stairways curled into the empty sky. Faceless, wind-scarred statues stood watch over the wreckage of enigmatic machines of corroded brass gears and cracked mirrors, stained ivory, springs, sprockets and shattered quartz lenses.
“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”
“I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” Count Non said.
“It’s shit like that that most weeks made me cut Sunday school,” said Spyder. “I got a beating for it, but I’ll take that over brainwashing. Everything we do or try is corrupt? What are we supposed to do with our lives?”
“According to a number of prophets,” said Non, “our true calling is a lifetime of worship and nothing more.”
“Praise the lord and pass the ammunition,” said Spyder. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“I agree.”
“You’ve got quite a stack of biblical pickup lines, Count. You in the seminary or something?”
“I am the victim of a classical education. I learned at a young age that a good quote allows you to appear smarter than you really are.”
“‘In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock,’” recited Spyder. “Welles says that in The Third Man. I remember it whenever life goes all abstract expressionist.”
“That’s every other weekend for you, right?” said Lulu.
“Fuck you, Martha Stewart.”
Along a high ridge to the east, desert nomads were salvaging junk from the sand. They had sheets of sand-scoured metal, ornate urns and statues piled on long sleds that they hauled, by hand, across the dunes.
“Should we stop and say hi?” asked Lulu.