Last Summer at Mars Hill: and Other Short Stories by Elizabeth Hand

Author:Elizabeth Hand [Hand, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480422032
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2013-05-13T21:00:00+00:00

I don’t write much science fiction, and have always found it particularly difficult in the short story format; this takes place in the same universe as my first three novels. I had read Connie Willis’s “All My Darling Daughters” and was taken with the idea of setting a tale on a space station. Bill McKibben’s The End of Nature was still very much on my mind; thus the little red salamander at story’s end.

Engels Unaware

“IT’S A PRETTY RITZY OFFICE,” the agent at Kahn Temps warned Rebecca, staring pointedly at Rebecca’s uneven hem where the faint glint of a staple hinted at what was holding the worn skirt together at the knees. “I don’t know why they don’t just hire a permanent receptionist. Don’t want to pay for benefits, I guess. But it’s your assignment if you want it.”

“Thanks,” squeaked Rebecca, promising herself that she’d pay off her credit-card bills and start from scratch, really save some money this time and clear her credit rating.

“Fine. You start Monday.” The agent’s glance slipped from the frayed skirt to a run that began just below Rebecca’s knee and arrowed to the curled edge of her old loafer. Rebecca knew the look. She cleared her throat and smiled, tugging furtively at the loose pocket of nylon behind her knee as she fidgeted in her seat. The agent wrote the name and address of Lorimer Brothers on a little pink business card, then handed it to Rebecca.

“Thanks,” said Rebecca, coughing as she stood and lined her left foot behind the right, so the agent wouldn’t notice the broken heel curled like a blackened sliver of dried beef. “I have to run now. Shopping.” She smiled brightly. When the agent turned to answer the phone she fled.

On Monday she didn’t feel so good about the new skirt. It didn’t actually go with last season’s gaucho jacket, and her old pumps were the wrong color: ecru when they really should have been toast. The skirt had cost her one hundred and seventeen dollars, even on sale at Glumball’s; but sale items couldn’t be returned, and besides she’d had to charge something or they were going to close out her account. Now she stood too long in the lobby of the vast corporate office building, squinting at her reflection in the black marble walls and wondering why she hadn’t bought the moleskin cardigan. By the time she got to the eighty-seventh floor she was late.

“This is your station,” barked a woman in a fire-engine red Italian suit. She pointed to a slab of polished gray marble surrounded by a low smoked glass wall, the whole thing facing the hallway; Rebecca’s head suddenly felt very light. She rested her hand on the edge of the dark glass wall to steady herself. It was so cold, its edge so sharp that she gasped and snatched her hand away, checking her fingers for blood. The office manager pursed her lips and took a tissue from her wallet, then wiped the offending glimmer of Rebecca’s fingerprint from the glass.

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