next. At last, night fell and they could move more freely.
Broken was drunk. When they’d bought more baby food and diapers for Ian, she’d picked up ten tiny, plastic bottles of vodka, and had started downing them as soon as they’d managed to find a place to crash for the night.
This time it was one of the many abandoned buildings along the riverfront. They didn’t dare turn on Michael’s small flashlight, so the only light they had came from the silvery moon, far overhead, and the reflected glow of streetlights.
He heard her open another bottle. Was she crying? He checked on Ian; the baby slept peacefully. At least they had some money. It wasn't much, but it might get them to Delmarva Spaceport—if only they could get out of New York. How had she come by the money?
Better not to ask. He wasn’t entirely sure she’d paid for all of those bottles of booze.
He read some of the graffiti on the walls, and tried to think about what to do next. He had Broken and the baby. That fulfilled part of the vision, and it was a huge achievement. But the rest…it seemed impossible. Broken wasn’t fit for travel; he hadn’t counted on that. When he’d tried to talk her out of drinking, she’d pretended he wasn’t there. When he tried to take the bottles away, she almost bit his arm off. He rubbed the red marks absently.
So what now? How could he get to Delmarva with her?
He knew he couldn’t get there without her. He glanced over at her.
—She knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand.
—She watched over Ian and Michael while they slept.
—She let the Black Band beat her while Michael and Ian escaped.
Possibilities. She would make a difference. She had to; otherwise he would die before he ever saw Delmarva, and Ian would become a monster.
* * *
Too tired and worried to sleep, he distracted himself by looking around at the dilapidated old heap they were hiding in. The graffiti on the walls betrayed the building’s age.
"God save us from China," read one.
"Fuck the bombs," read another.
"Nuke Beijing again!" read a third.
"Victory," prayed yet another. None of these things had come to pass; the people who had scrawled their desperate hopes on the walls had lost their war sixty years ago. He knew history. The million futures staring him in the face often drove him to the past, which was safely linear, and didn’t fragment with each new development. What had happened stayed happened. Done was done.
As the possibilities approached the present, they became fewer and fewer, until, at the moment of passing, only one was left. Then it moved safely into the past, where he could remember and read about it, but never again see it unbidden whenever he looked at a face or glanced in the mirror.
He sighed. He hated the future.
From the first moment he’d looked in his mirror and seen not his reflection but the horrifying confluence of a million futures, this thread had enthralled him the most. He’d clung to it for all of his short life. Joe had done what he could to get Michael ready...and then the letter from Val Altrera had arrived, not long after Joe had died, and Michael had left his home to chase after a thin thread of hope in the form of a little orphan baby.
Hope against impossible hope.
Ian gurgled softly.
Broken sobbed in the corner. He thought about going to try and comfort her, but decided against it. He rubbed his aching arm again, and was glad he didn’t have a mirror now. What he was likely to see would probably depress him terribly.
He glanced at Broken again. She’d fallen asleep. It figured.
—The thin man stood opposite her.
—The thin man laughed, Ian in his arms.
—The thin man shot Michael.
—The thin man took Ian.
—The thin man shot Michael again.
—The thin man wrested Ian out of her grasp.
—The thin man shot her.
—The thin man took Ian from Michael’s corpse.
Every vision—! The thin man…
No. No… Michael tried to tear the vision from his
Broken was drunk. When they’d bought more baby food and diapers for Ian, she’d picked up ten tiny, plastic bottles of vodka, and had started downing them as soon as they’d managed to find a place to crash for the night.
This time it was one of the many abandoned buildings along the riverfront. They didn’t dare turn on Michael’s small flashlight, so the only light they had came from the silvery moon, far overhead, and the reflected glow of streetlights.
He heard her open another bottle. Was she crying? He checked on Ian; the baby slept peacefully. At least they had some money. It wasn't much, but it might get them to Delmarva Spaceport—if only they could get out of New York. How had she come by the money?
Better not to ask. He wasn’t entirely sure she’d paid for all of those bottles of booze.
He read some of the graffiti on the walls, and tried to think about what to do next. He had Broken and the baby. That fulfilled part of the vision, and it was a huge achievement. But the rest…it seemed impossible. Broken wasn’t fit for travel; he hadn’t counted on that. When he’d tried to talk her out of drinking, she’d pretended he wasn’t there. When he tried to take the bottles away, she almost bit his arm off. He rubbed the red marks absently.
So what now? How could he get to Delmarva with her?
He knew he couldn’t get there without her. He glanced over at her.
—She knocked the pistol out of the man’s hand.
—She watched over Ian and Michael while they slept.
—She let the Black Band beat her while Michael and Ian escaped.
Possibilities. She would make a difference. She had to; otherwise he would die before he ever saw Delmarva, and Ian would become a monster.
* * *
Too tired and worried to sleep, he distracted himself by looking around at the dilapidated old heap they were hiding in. The graffiti on the walls betrayed the building’s age.
"God save us from China," read one.
"Fuck the bombs," read another.
"Nuke Beijing again!" read a third.
"Victory," prayed yet another. None of these things had come to pass; the people who had scrawled their desperate hopes on the walls had lost their war sixty years ago. He knew history. The million futures staring him in the face often drove him to the past, which was safely linear, and didn’t fragment with each new development. What had happened stayed happened. Done was done.
As the possibilities approached the present, they became fewer and fewer, until, at the moment of passing, only one was left. Then it moved safely into the past, where he could remember and read about it, but never again see it unbidden whenever he looked at a face or glanced in the mirror.
He sighed. He hated the future.
From the first moment he’d looked in his mirror and seen not his reflection but the horrifying confluence of a million futures, this thread had enthralled him the most. He’d clung to it for all of his short life. Joe had done what he could to get Michael ready...and then the letter from Val Altrera had arrived, not long after Joe had died, and Michael had left his home to chase after a thin thread of hope in the form of a little orphan baby.
Hope against impossible hope.
Ian gurgled softly.
Broken sobbed in the corner. He thought about going to try and comfort her, but decided against it. He rubbed his aching arm again, and was glad he didn’t have a mirror now. What he was likely to see would probably depress him terribly.
He glanced at Broken again. She’d fallen asleep. It figured.
—The thin man stood opposite her.
—The thin man laughed, Ian in his arms.
—The thin man shot Michael.
—The thin man took Ian.
—The thin man shot Michael again.
—The thin man wrested Ian out of her grasp.
—The thin man shot her.
—The thin man took Ian from Michael’s corpse.
Every vision—! The thin man…
No. No… Michael tried to tear the vision from his
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