The Armageddon Blues | Page 8

passed underneath. Far overhead, a
front of dark, rain-heavy cumulus clouds moved toward the bridge.
Second by second, its shadow killed the sunlight on the moving water.
"I like bridges the best," said Jalian. Her hands were resting on the
guard rail. "There were no bridges on the Big Road, not even any
places where bridges used to be." Beneath them, the murmur of the
river was barely audible. Georges reached out, and ran one finger along
the profile of her jaw. "The first time I came to a bridge, I was almost
afraid to cross it."
Georges sighed. "You know I don't have any idea at all what you're
talking about?" Jalian did not reply. Georges whispered, "Look at me."

Jalian kept her eyes averted. She was looking at the guard rails of the
bridge. The rails were made of iron, and were badly rusted. They
reached to Jalian's waist. Jalian ran her hands over the rough metal, as
though she were studying the texture and shape. After a long silence
she said, "What is your name?"
Georges said, "Georges," absently. The breeze was blowing her long,
silky hair toward him. His hand dropped from her chin, and tentatively,
he ran his fingers along its surface. Jalian shivered, and brushed his
hand away.
Georges said, so softly that his voice could not have been heard more
than a meter away, "Je ne sais quoi. What am I to do about you?"
"Georges what?"
"Eh?"
"Is Georges all there is?" Jalian persisted.
Georges leaned back against the railing, not looking at her. Where
Jalian's hand had touched the rail, the rust was smeared faintly. Small
patches of clean steel began to appear with creeping slowness.
"Mordreaux," said Georges finally. "Georges Mordreaux."
Jalian straightened and brushed her hands off on her white jumpsuit.
Her hands left faint orange splotches behind. "My name is Jalian. Jalian
of the Fires of the People with Silver Eyes in the long form." She
moved closer to him, and lightly touched one of his hands with one of
her own. "Does your name mean anything?"
Georges shook his head no. He was more aware of her touch than of
any other physical contact with a woman that he could recall in all his
long life. "Not that I know of." With the hand that hers was not
covering, he touched her chin. He would have turned her to meet his
eyes; before he could do so she looked up of her own accord
/self. life is calm power running through deepquiet channels worn

smooth. control is necessary and uncertain./
/self. most alone. rivers of black concrete freeze in grief, melt in fire.
there are thirty-eight years until Armageddon./
and Jalian's desolate grief and aloneness slashed through Georges as
though it were his own.
Jalian's voice trembled. "How old are you?" Her eyes were averted
again.
"Two ..." Georges licked his lips and said, "Two hundred and fifty
years old. About."
Jalian turned slightly away from him, so that even by accident she
could not meet his eyes. "I think I had better leave." She took a step
away from him, turned, and took another before Georges found words.
"No." Jalian froze. Georges Mordreaux said in silverspeech, "I am not
Ralesh and I am not ghess'Rith. I am myself, and I will never hurt you."
Jalian started to speak, and her voice broke on the first word. She had
to begin again. "All of the people I have ever loved, Georges, they have
wanted me to be things other than what I was; things other than what I
could be. I ..." She seemed at a loss for words.
Georges shrugged. "I know what you are. I know you as well as you
know yourself. And I'm more objective about it."
"The ending of things..."
"Is not your fault," he said mildly. "Jalian, when you left your own time
you meant to change things for the better--"
She interrupted him. "I am not sure that it can be changed. Georges, it
happened."
"Oh, to be sure," agreed Georges cheerfully. "It happened once. Need it
happen twice?"

Jalian's voice was steady. "What do you mean?"
"The nature of time," said Georges solemnly, "is a mystery to the best
of us." He paused. "Einstein said that to me, the one time we met."
"I do not understand."
"Second Precept of Semi-Divinity," said Georges, "is ‘Don't Worry
About It.'"
"I shall not worry about it, then," said Jalian hesitantly, "but ... who is
Ine-stine?"
"Well," said Georges comfortably, "that's rather a long story. You
see ..."
They walked away down the freeway together.
In the spot they had vacated, for five meters in either direction, the iron
railings were completely free of rust.
And so it came to be that Jalian d'Arsennette and