Steampunk III by Ann VanderMeer

Author:Ann VanderMeer [VanderMeer, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction, Short Stories, Anthologies (Multiple Authors)
ISBN: 9781616960865
Amazon: 1616960868
Publisher: Tachyon Publications
Published: 2012-12-02T08:00:00+00:00

The job didn’t start well for Cam. Sleepless and strung out, too long since his last high, he was marched into the presence of Duodiseus Gast. The gangster filled an antique wire frame chair, loose flesh sagging through the gaps, dressed only in a stained pair of shorts. The walls around him were lined with obsessively hoarded sketches, paintings, and sculptures. Cam’s eyes fell upon a tiny oil of St. Joachim with the shepherds, and he felt his pulse accelerate, that hollow hungry feeling rising inside.

“You into icons, Maguire?” Gast asked, fingers drumming against an enormous thigh.

Cam nodded. There was no point lying to Gast. He probably ran Cam’s suppliers.

“I thought science soldiers stuck to amphetamines and unhealthy thoughts,” Gast said.

“I was clean in those days.”

Cam could feel himself stiffening into a posture of wary defense. Gast’s guards shifted away from the walls, hands reaching inside bulging jackets. The man himself only laughed.

“Don’t worry, Maguire,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “No one here’s going to judge you. In fact, I have something for you.”

A serving girl stepped out of the shadows, demure beneath her cloth cap, and held out a silver tray. In the center was a flat block of wood no bigger than Cam’s thumb. The varnish on its surface was old and cracked, but beneath it could be seen a bearded face in archaic oils.

“St. Peter. One of a series of twelve.”

Cam picked the icon up from the tray and carried it to a window, examining it in the brief sunlight before a pipe factory approached, plunging him into shadow. A hiss of scraping mortar filled the room as the two buildings pressed past each other.

“A down payment,” Gast explained over the noise. “The remaining eleven to be paid on delivery.”

Cam placed the picture in a pocket of his weathered jacket, then looked back at Gast.

“What’s the job?”

Gast stopped twiddling his thumbs and gave a small wave. Another servant girl approached. On her tray was a glass cube about eight inches across. Even by the muted light of electric bulbs, it sparkled with rare beauty. Bright points filled its internal space in smooth, flowing lines, etched in the glass as it was formed. They shimmered with fragile elegance, a glowing network that made Cam’s breath catch in his throat. Though abstract they embodied something substantial, a heartfelt joy toward which he might aspire.

“The Song of the City,” Gast said, his voice hushed. “Second most valuable of Nebulous Efram’s sculptures of the ideal. I also own the third through to the fifteenth. Naturally, I want the top one too. I want Urban Drift.”

The factory finished grinding past outside, exposing a swath of parkland. Sunshine streamed in through the window, splintering as it hit the cube, forming a bright web more elegant than that of any spider. Gast paused for a moment, basking in its glow, before an office block rumbled into view, once more blocking out the sun. In the dulled moments that followed, Cam was sickeningly aware of the sweat trailing down his employer’s skin.

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