The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(59)

When her aunt Helen came to visit she asked the girl what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said dead.

I’m being serious.

So am I.

No you’re not. You’re being flippant and morbid. Now. What would you like to be?

Terminally ill?

Her aunt got up and left the room.

When she woke again the Kid was in the room pacing and there was a thin man in rolled shirtsleeves tinkering with what looked to be an antique film projector mounted on a wooden tripod. The Kid waved a flipper at it. These bloody things, he said. Pain in the ass. What do you think Walter? Maybe this week sometime?

The projectionist didnt answer. He tugged at his billcap and bent to see about the trouble. The white smoke from his cigarette coiled in the beam of light. She sat clutching her pillow. The Kid glanced her way. No rush, he said. We got lights and chimeras but of course the action is always another question altogether.

What are you doing?

Trying to get the bloody projector up and running. Snooze some more if you like. This may take a while.

The projector set up a ratcheting and chattering and the yellow frame of light on the attic wall began to flicker. The number eight appeared briefly, then seven, then six, then all went black. Jesus, said the Kid. Somebody get the houselights.

She turned on the bedside lamp. What are you doing? she said.

The Kid tilted an old wooden cigarbox out on her desk and rummaged through it. He sorted through the reels of film and unspooled a length and held it to the light. No telling what’s in here. Old eight millimeter. This stuff hasnt seen the light of day in donkey’s years.

What stuff?

Pretty good shape for the most part. All things considered. Jesus. Look at this little group. It’s all genetics, isnt it? Wait till you see some of these citizens.

I’m all genetics you mean.

Dunno. That’s pretty much why we’re here, isnt it? Crikey. Look at this one would you? Anyway, if we intend to wage high war upon their asses we’re going to need more than bloodtypes. What do you think Walter? Any news?

The projectionist thumbed back his cap and damped the sweat from his forehead with a rolling motion of his shoulder and took a screwdriver from his rear pocket.

The Kid unscrolled the film. It dangled in a lolling helix. He shook his head. Go back a little further and you got people sitting around the fire in leopardskin leotards. Whoops. What was that?

The light on the wall flickered and died again.

False alarm, said the Kid. He respooled the film and sorted out another reel. Patience. Never my strong suite. Probably be my comeuppance before this thing is over. Doggedness on the other hand. Jesus. How did the chickens manage to shit in here?

What thing?

What?

What thing? You said this thing.

This thing?

You said before this thing is over. What thing?

Maybe I mis-spoke.

No you didnt. What thing?

Christ. I should have known. Okay. Shut it down Walter. Just unplug the fucker. All right. Fuck it. He turned to the girl. Look. What’s wrong with a little history? You should count yourself lucky we even came up with this stuff. Dawn raid on the poultryhouse. Everything covered with dust. Chicken droppings. In spite of everything that you’ve read some things really dont have a number. But it’s worse than that. Some things dont have a designation at all. Of any stripe. Well how can that be she asks. Well simple enough says the small gowned person of unflappable demeanor. The name is what you add on afterwards. Afterwards of what? Afterwards of it appears on the screen. Your screen my screen we all screen. We got some herky jerky images of dudes and dudesses but they got no name. They used to have names but they dont anymore. The last witness who could have put a name to the faces is boxed up in the ground alongside them and if not nameless as well will soon be so. So. Who are they? The fact that they once walked about in the nomenclative mode is small comfort. Small comfort to whom? Well shit. You just throw up your hands. You dont have to have a name you say. Okay. Dont have to have a name in order to what?

He paced. He appeared to be thinking.

More of the same, she said. I suppose you’re musing.

Maybe. I guess if you had a muse you wouldnt need me.

I dont need you. You’re just a liability. You’re not even amusing.

Yeah. You said.

Why dont I have a muse?

Where would you get one? You’re a one-off. You’re lucky you didnt come with an extra head.

Thanks. What thing?

What?

What thing? The thing in before this thing is over.

Christ. Not to be derailed, is she? Speaking of doggedness. Why cant we just move it along? Do it my way for a change.

We always do it your way.

I’m trying to look after you, Your Weirdness. You think this is easy? Walter gets the time machine up and running and we’re going to view some history, that’s all. Maybe a brief philosophical digression stressing the importance of a neutral stance. Start with the nameless and unknown and you might be less likely to say I told you so. Numeration and denomination are two sides of the same coin. Each one speaks the other’s language. Like space and time. Ultimately we got to come to grips with this math thing of course. Which is not going to go away.

Why am I a one-off?

The Kid paused and held his flippers out and looked up in a gesture of invocation and then went to pacing again.

Nobody is totally unique.