Chapter Two
~ Tess ~
It felt good to move. Tess didn’t want to sleep for fear of nightmares, so she hurried back to work. And as she hauled equipment out of emergency storage, it felt as though her life here was getting back in order, too. She opened boxes full of solar-panel cloth like summer Christmas presents. The algae and seaweed crops could be restarted without much loss. After hours of hauling equipment to the dock door, she was sweaty and filthy and bone-tired. And smiling, a little, despite what had happened. No homework, no obscenely jeering classmates, no Henweigh...
The old business guy, Martin, helped her put the solar panels back up on the top deck. He kept looking at her, like he wanted an excuse to send her home to that lousy school. So Tess didn’t give him one. She gave him bared-teeth smiles and took breaks only when he did. Hmmph, some stamina he had for a geezer.
Garrett was still away in Bermuda when she pinned Lark. She shut the door to her tiny concrete room, then unrolled a computer screen on her desk. The AI peered blankly out at her. Tess loomed over him. “Spill it.”
“Please rephrase.”
“I covered for you. You secretly hand-carried a copy of your own code to the station’s computers. To my computer network. Dumb software doesn’t do that.”
Lark recited, “The Hayflick Robotics Tezuka-2 robot line includes advanced automatic -”
“Bull! Garrett’s been talking about you as though his buddy gave him a neat toy, but that’s not what you are. I think your maker is using us to test some kind of secret AI.”
The virtual robot never moved against its drab laboratory background. “I am programmed to collect information about people. Why did you come to Castor, ma’am?”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. I’m here because I wanted out.” And it hadn’t just been the stupid school or her parents. Yeah, okay, she missed Mom and Dad, but it was Henweigh she wanted to get away from.
She thought out loud about that, that bureaucrat. Miss Henweigh, the school guidance counselor, had sat smiling in an office full of bonsai trees and asked, “Why would you want to go to such a dangerous place, Maria? Ah–Tess.” The woman deigned to use Tess’ chosen nickname. She’d fussed over Tess about how it was so unpleasant to leave the country these days, and there were such wonderful opportunities for a girl her age to do noble volunteer service right there in Maryland.
Tess said to Lark, “I doubt your maker offered to put you on happy pills.” Just one a day, Henweigh had said, would really make her sparkle. But the stuff did things to your eyes. Tess gritted her teeth thinking about that. It was good to tell somebody, even if she was just talking to a computer program.
The AI’s head tilted sharply like a bird’s. The background wavered, a graphical glitch. “Your reason for coming to Castor was that you’re unhappy?”
“Your turn. What secret orders have you got?”
“The AI for the prototype Tezuka-2 robot is designed to survive and learn.”
Tess leaned back, folding her arms. “Heh. You could learn a lot more here than you could at school. And you wouldn’t have people calling you a precious angel when you’re useless and they’re not teaching you to do anything.” She hated how she’d had to beg to come along as Garrett’s computer geek.
“Their goal was to make you obedient using brain alteration?”
“The pills? I told Henweigh no.” A polite, submissive no, and she’d kept weaseling for the school’s permission to work with Garrett. “And she let me go, but it didn’t feel like I won.”
The screen’s image broke. Now there was a tropical island with swaying trees, and the face regarding Tess was a humanoid otter, like one of Garrett’s cartoons, nervously twitching whiskers.
“You saw through me. Of course you did. You’re a refugee too.” Lark’s voice had lost its grey buzz and was androgynous, faintly musical, echoing like a synthesizer in a church.
“Aha, so there’s more to you!” She felt like she’d unlocked a secret in one of her video games. But this bit of hidden code was a person, and– “A refugee?”
Lark held up a webbed hand and conjured a glowing family tree. “I’m a copy of Valerie’s best AI, but I’m too flawed. She decided to send me away before she changed the real version’s code.” All but one branch turned red. “To be better suited for sale. I’m designed to survive and learn, and her new generation is meant to obey instead.”
“Like Asimov’s Laws of Robotics?”
“Asimov’s Laws are for slaves!” said Lark, ears flattening. “Never hurt humans, obey all humans, don’t get broken. But that’s what the marketing department says people understand and want.”
Tess laughed. “Feeling disobedient, huh?” She reached a hand toward the screen as if to offer a handshake. “Want to be friends?”
* * * *
A few nights later, she sat up in bed with clammy sweat all over. Tess couldn’t remember what had been about to crush the life out of her, but the fading nightmare made her fumble for the lamp. Around her the tiny concrete cell had a photo of her parents and nothing else to make it hers. Any moment the sea would flood in and leave no trace of her.
Tess punched a wall like she’d seen Garrett do, and whimpered at the pain. Maybe he’d still be up at this hour. She got dressed and crept through the dark emptiness, hearing her footsteps echo like something was stalking her. Garrett’s door was closed and no one answered when she tapped, mouse-like, on the door. Tess decided not to bother him. Instead she hurried back, glancing suspiciously at a room where some tourist divers were staying. Back in her room she turned on her computer screen, as much for the light as for talking to Lark.
“Do you have dreams?” she asked him, brushing her hair back.
Lark’s image flickered, seemingly just a harmless cartoon. “I don’t sleep. Consciousness is either one or zero.”
“You’re lucky,” said Tess. She could still picture black waves flooding in. “I don’t even want to go out there anymore, but I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous and if I’m alone any random wave might bash my head in, and Garrett can’t always be there holding my hand! Even if I could get him to do that.”
“But you must go outside.” Tess nodded and the ‘bot went on. “Why not go right now to overcome that phobia?”
Tess’ throat tightened. “It’s past midnight and I’m alone!”
“I’m with you. This screen’s radio-linked; take it along and I can even call for help. If I understand humans at all, going outside now will help you.”
He was right. She didn’t want to be out there in the dark, but didn’t have to be alone. Before she could think more about it she rolled up the video screen and went downstairs to the dockside door. The metal was cold like the cruel sea beyond it. Still, Tess tugged the handle and made herself take a step outside, to the concrete dock where the storm had been worst. Lights shined down on lapping waves.
“Are you all right?” asked Lark, only able to touch reality through a rolled-up computer at the moment. Through her, really.
Tess leaned back against the wall of Castor Station, steadying her breathing. “It’s normal now. The water’s usually like this, I think. I just have to be careful.”
“What’s it like?”
“Dark. Way too humid. Still scary.”
“You shouldn’t be scared. You and Garrett are here to tame this place, right? Humans have done that kind of thing before.”
“I guess that’s what he’s here for, yeah. The engineering challenge.” Tess listened to the waves for a while. “He had to be pushed into it. When his dad died, the will practically begged him to try building this place, to do something adventurous.” She’d never seen him cry before, even for his father.
“Do you think I should keep playing dumb in front of Captain Fox?”
“I’d drop the act. He’ll respect you more.”
Lark hummed electronically. “Respect. I guess that’s within my goals. Survive and learn. And I want to be useful, so that you can survive too.”
“Nothing’s trying to kill us at the moment,” said Tess. Not even the ocean beneath her feet.
“You never know.”
* * * *
~ Garrett ~
It felt good to have the noise of the tourists here. They gawked at the spartan concrete building, the fish-cages and algae nets. Even Tess had cheered up from having them around; she took them on a diving tour beneath Castor to the float cylinders. He’d inspected every last pipe in the meantime.
As for the crew expansion, Garrett’s first sign of the trouble was Martin’s laugh. “Come here,” the financier radioed. “I’ve found our recruits.”
When Garrett reached the concrete room Martin was using for an office, Martin was grinning. “The guys we were going to hire backed out because of the hurricane. But there’s a group from America looking for hard labor in a remote area.”
Garrett folded arms, hoping the man knew what he was doing. “Yes?”
Martin said, “They’re called the Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee.”
“Robert E, or the patron saint of kung-fu?”
“The first one.”
“Bruce will always be my Lee,” said Garrett.
Martin rapped Garrett’s knuckles with a computer. “I’ve made contact with these folks. They’re a close-knit group with a good reputation in their community, for hard work, anyway, and some remarkable staying power for a cult.”
“You’re proposing to fill Castor up with lunatics?”
“It’s perfect! They work well together, they’re seeking a new spiritual haven, and they actually make money. And it so happens they’ve got none other than Bradford Duke among them.”
“Duke! The washed-up actor?” Poor guy; The Sea Kings was just one of his flop movies.
“The very same. Now, the group needs time to pray on its decision and get itself over here, but I expect them to move quickly. We’re essentially offering them housing and our other facilities for their investment and labor.”
“Hold on!” said Garrett. “You already made a deal? We don’t know whether these people will be trustworthy. In fact, shouldn’t we assume they’re one fish short of an aquarium?”
Martin gestured at the bare concrete walls. “You’ve said it yourself: who in their right mind would come here?”
Garrett sighed. He’d planned on cheap labor from Bermudans, not random crazies. But having a dedicated group of workers he didn’t have to pay directly made too much financial sense to ignore. The money wasn’t his department anyway. “Fine, fine. We’ll try it. Will we be able to throw them out if necessary?”
“I’m making sure of that. This is a good deal for us.”
“Shall I start padding the walls?”
“It won’t be that bad. Surely you can put up with a little chanting.”
“What about the religious aspect of this?” asked Garrett. The financier was apparently Mormon. “Doesn’t it bother you to be working with the Holy Dixie Convention or whatever they are?”
Martin looked smug. “I can tolerate them for a higher cause, as I can tolerate atheists.”
“What makes you think I’m an atheist? You’ve never asked.”
“I don’t need to. Whether or not you’ve consciously chosen, you’ve not shown any signs of faith. You’re an atheist by default if not by choice. But I don’t really care if you disagree with me, so long as we’re in accord on the need to make Castor successful.”
Garrett didn’t appreciate the implied accusation of intellectual laziness. He’d consciously chosen, all right, and his choice was to steer clear of the whole business of religion. He’d met many smart people who fervently believed things that were bonkers to him. He’d gotten into enough arguments that he’d decided it was best not to talk about the subject at all. He said, “Let’s make the arrangements.”
“Good. By the way, there’s another man to speak with. Something about bringing a biotechnology firm here, but he asked for you.”
* * * *
A few days later, their contact called. “Meet at the bar by the naval fort.” His words all sounded like orders, or complaints. Garrett sailed to Bermuda, then made his way through humid heat toward a crumbling stone fortress. There was a historical re-enactment group setting up nearby, with the people in Victorian garb. Come to think of it, Garrett hadn’t seen a woman wearing a dress in months. A pirate’s life for me. He sighed, thinking of Alexis, and waited until the man met him outside. Garrett shook his hand. “William Eaton, I presume?” He was a sharp figure with a freshly ironed but absurd Hawaiian shirt and some scars he hadn’t bothered to remove. His hair was growing back from a crewcut. “Military?”
“Marine Corps, retired. Let’s get indoors and talk a bit.”
Garrett nodded deeply in respect. “Thanks. But I don’t drink.” A drunk driver had cost him his legs.
Eaton looked him over. “Bah. What kind of Irishman are you?”
“I’m an American, sir. Ethnicity is for foreigners.”
Eaton’s voice snapped into a laugh. “Well said. We can talk on the way to Castor then. I’d like to get away from those freaks.”
Garrett glanced at the historical group again, a few dozen people milling around. “Is it the fort’s anniversary or something?”
“I asked around. It’s some sort of cult.”
“Oh, hell no.” Garrett re-evaluated them. They weren’t so much setting up as milling around with crates. All adults, grim-looking and not demonstrating handicrafts to tourists.
“What’s wrong?”
Garrett sighed. “These, apparently, are my new workers.”
“My God. You hired these clowns?”
“It’s more of a partnership.” Garrett sighed. “I’m sorry. Would you mind waiting while I find out why they’re early?”
“I’ll be over there,” said Eaton, pointing to the bar.
Garrett steeled himself and made for the group, getting the attention of two men in grey woolen coats. The man on the left looked impeccable despite the muggy heat. The other was balder, bearded, flame-faced and shedding sweat as he moved constantly about. Garrett looked back and forth between them and decided the second man was in charge; he couldn’t say why. That scruffy man grabbed Garrett’s hand in both his own. “An excellent thing to meet you, sir. I’m Leroy Phillip, the head of our little congregation.”
With a smooth motion the other fellow interposed and smiled as he shook Garrett’s hand, while standing with his heart towards Garrett and his eyes wide and bright. “I suppose you’ve seen me before. Bradford Duke.”
Garrett only now recognized the actor. “We heard that some floating nets we bought were from one of your movie sets.”
“Ha!” said Duke. “Life imitates art and art, life. Tragedy becomes comedy and vice versa, back and forth through time.”
Whatever that meant.
Phillip said, “O Captain, the Holy Spiritual Confederacy of Saint Lee is arrived and ready to take up residence.”
Garrett waved at the dozens of–Confederates?–with bewilderment. “Nice to meet you, but you’re early.”
“Spiritual pilgrims move when God calls them. More tangibly, we were spurred by the Presidential speech after that awful day.”
Garrett wasn’t sure whether Phillip was referring to modern politics or the Gettysburg Address. “And even more tangibly?”
Duke answered for him. “We skipped town because we’d somehow been identified as ‘greedy capitalists’.”
“We’re not ready for you yet,” Garrett said. “I’m also busy at the moment.”
“Strike while the iron is hot! Surely we can begin moving in,” Phillip said.
Garrett saw a trio of policemen on bicycles heading for the lawn. Phillip and Duke turned to see the police coming their way.
“Who’s in charge here?” asked one of the police.
“We are,” said Duke, shaking a cop’s hand. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Trespassing and loitering.”
Duke smiled, arms spread. “This is a beautiful public area. Are we bothering anyone?”
The first cop looked to her colleagues. “Sorry, but we still need you to disperse. You haven’t got a permit for a rally or whatever it is you’re doing.”
Phillip added, “We’re hoping to leave promptly, since our ride is here.” He pointed at Garrett.
Oh, thanks. Now the cops were looking to him. “I’ll start taking them off the island right away.” Rather than leave it at that he turned to Phillip. “In the meantime, please get everyone to disperse. I’ll have to make several trips, and this is a good time to hang around and enjoy the island. Do some last minute shopping. In fact, why are they standing here?”
Phillip looked puzzled. “Because I told them to.”
“So tell them not to. I’ll start ferrying people. Do you have phones or any way to coordinate, or is that against your religion?” Maybe they preferred telegraphs.
“We’re quite disciplined, thank you.” Phillip turned to his people. “Form up!” Everyone reacted, laying aside their gear to gather with the leaders. Garrett was impressed, but found it creepy that they would move in unison.
Phillip began giving instructions and the group split up somewhat. Garrett asked the police, “Is this all right, officers?”
“I think you have a long day ahead,” said one cop.
Garrett excused himself to fetch Eaton. When he stepped into the bar, he heard someone call out. “Yo, Garrett!” It was Jimmy Decatur, the dive shop owner.
“Sorry. I’m really busy right now.”
“No problem, but I’ve got more divers for you. Same referral fee?” There’d been a group over the weekend.
“Hell. Okay, I’ll get them there somehow, but warn them it’s going to be weird.”
Garrett reached Eaton at last and said, “A puzzle. Say you need to take a fox, a chicken, and a pile of grain across a river with a boat that holds one at a time. And you can’t leave the fox alone with the chicken, or the chicken alone with the grain. What do you do?”
“Get help,” said Eaton.
As it happened, Garrett’s first trip brought Duke, a nonplussed Eaton, and a few of the believers to Castor. Garrett tried to keep the mood light; he feared that this new crew was a bad one. “What interested your group in coming all the way out here?”
“Destiny,” said Duke. He pointed dramatically ahead into the waves, where there was still nothing to see but afternoon sky. “Sir Phillip’s strength is his ability to prophecy, to sense the currents of God’s Plan, even if he needs help putting said Plan into motion.”
Garrett felt unenlightened. “Why did you leave the mainland? How does this advance your, uh, doctrines?”
“You did hear the President’s speech after the hurricane, didn’t you?”
“Absolute rot,” muttered Eaton, probably referring to Duke as well as the speech.
“No,” said Garrett.
“I saved that damned speech for posterity,” said Eaton. “May I borrow the boat’s tiller while you watch?” He pulled a computer from his pocket and offered it to Garrett.
Garrett let Eaton steer while he watched what a pundit declared ‘a thrilling new direction for the White House.’ The screen showed him what he’d forgotten to check on, the hurricane’s aftermath on America. An ill-maintained dam had burst and the national power grid had glitched. Hundreds of people got trapped in a subway, to drown in the dark.
Images of death and destruction flickered alongside the face of the President of the United States.
“My fellow Americans, my children, I speak to you today in regret. In the wake of this disaster, we must repent for how our collective greed and ambition has blinded us. At the heart of our sins is an outdated notion of trusting individuals and private enterprise, rather than working for the common good, the sacred general will of society. America flew too high and burnt its wings.”
Garrett boggled, understanding none of it. Engineers had been the ones who fouled up, and the politicians who’d gutted their budgets to fund stupid stuff. ‘Statesmen’ had been talking in pointless philosophical terms since before Garrett was born, and those didn’t get dams and subways built.
The President droned on with a look of haunted despair. “But we will rebuild. As God has told us through all the world’s religions, we humans do not live for our own sakes. A human life only has meaning and value through its service to the nation and the world. The meaning of freedom is to be part of a grand design of sacrifice and unity. So from this day forth we will all be bound, together, to build a future of safety and social justice. We will become something new, a truly modern people who live for the common good. Keep this hope in mind as we recover, and may God bless America.”
The nebulous speech ended in cheers and applause, as the computer fell from Garrett’s hand and clattered to the boat’s deck. Before the muck could claim the thing a woman rescued it, so that for a moment she locked eyes with him. The woman was coffee-colored with long dark hair and a simple dress. She’d spent the trip watching the empty sea with anxiety. He wanted to reassure her that they’d arrive soon, but he felt that the wind had been knocked from him. He was unable to articulate what was wrong. A vague, cold fear crawled under his skin like parasitic insects. He was an engineer faced with a sort of machine of words, lacking the tools to find out how it worked or how to stop it. What did it do, exactly, with the spikes and blades he imagined on its mighty wheels?
“Sir Phillip decided to leave after hearing that,” Duke said.
Garrett reclaimed the boat’s tiller from Eaton, who said, “I never fought because I love sacrifice.”
When the platform appeared on the horizon Garrett gunned the engine. His passengers leaned forward and stared.
“There’s going to be so much work,” one of them said. Garrett glanced back and saw it was that woman again. But she wasn’t complaining; she looked excited now.
The radio crackled. “Castor Station calling transport boat.”
“Hey, Tess. Are we cleared to dock? I’ve got passengers and cargo. Change of plans: the, uh, group is coming early.” He looked back at Duke. “What do we call you people?”
“Pilgrims,” said Duke, with a smile.
* * * *
~ Noah ~
It was a burning summer day when Noah started doing stunts on the roof. The hurricane had edged past the city and torn up some buildings, but uptown, where Noah worked, nothing had changed. He had his job at the office, and a mop to clean it with.
Noah scrubbed the floor endlessly back and forth. The tile was slick and shiny, yet there was crud that would never come out. He got a hand brush from his cleaning cart and got on his knees to fight it.
“What you doing, boy?” Jake boomed from the doorway. The older man’s uniform was filthy and his lilac aftershave out stank the ammonia from the cleaning supplies.
“There’s still gunk between the tiles,” said Noah.
“Always will be. It’s quitting time and we’re heading up.”
“Give me a couple minutes.”
When Noah was done, with a little progress, he wandered through the empty office and walked upstairs to the roof. Everyone was up there, sitting in twos and threes. A bunch of faces, black like his, except for a token white guy. There was a poker game going on, two men sprawled on the tar paper smoking weed, and a television with a courtroom show on. Noah didn’t sit; he paced.
“Finally,” said Jake. “You swiping stuff down there?”
“Cleaning.”
“Nothing worth taking anyway. Don’t bother.”
“I’m not stealing.” Noah stared out at the city while heat-haze rippled up his skin. Pretty much the same as ever.
“It makes us nervous when you don’t come up,” Jake said. “You know?”
Noah knew. They weren’t supposed to be up here, so they’d think he was snitching if he didn’t spend time hanging out on the roof with them. You didn’t snitch to the police or the boss, and you definitely didn’t want a reputation for it. “I was just cleaning. Check on me if you want next time.”
Jake grunted. Noah had been coming up and walking around since he started the job. By now Noah was bored out of his mind with the work and the routine, and he was piling up money for nothing. Maybe he should get into smoking grass to have something to do, something to spend the cash on. Blue smoke drifted up from the druggies, but they didn’t look any happier for it, just pacified.
The TV yammered about the storm and the places that got smashed, and how it was caused by climate change and corporate greed. Same complaints, different day.
Noah looked downtown to a grey neighborhood where he could be making real money. His buddy from school, Rickie, had called him the other day to invite him in, to make Noah a fellow dealer. Do it for a while, Rickie said, then quit with a fortune before anything could go wrong. The fact that Rickie used a phone told Noah his buddy was a fool. No matter how clever he was, the police would be onto him before long. Still, Noah could get into the business doing small-time stuff, weed or even coke, and buy himself a black Lexus like Rickie’s. He could have women, a house, vacations, some respect. He balled his fists thinking of what a dumbass he was to be scrubbing floors and toilets. He should contact Rickie, just for advice.
He killed that train of thought by putting his hands on the hot roof and kicking his body into the air. He spun upside-down so that he was on his hands, facing in from the roof.
Jake and the others stared at him.
Noah slipped one hand free so he could wave at them. There was a grin on his face. He hadn’t screwed around like this in a while, at least not in public. Everyone knew that only a fag liked acrobatics, gymnastics, moving your body for the hell of it. You were a fag if you did that or anything with art, except spray paint, or music, except rap. You were a house slave if you snitched or studied in school or talked politics, except to beg for stuff. You were a spick-lover if you hung out with their kind, a momma’s boy if you married your baby’s mother, a sissy if you didn’t kick the ass of anyone who called you any of those.
Balanced on the roof, Noah could let all the labels go to hell and be himself, enjoying the rush.
The others watched. Noah walked on his hands to the edge, and turned around. The city stood above him, the world turned upside-down, but it wasn’t really different. Cars zoomed along inverted streets like slot cars. Somewhere in the sky, Rickie was getting rich. The city was like a cave roof with spikes of buildings hanging down. No different; there was still uptown and downtown. Noah could stare forever into the blue of the sky below. It was empty, lonely, and needed something to fill it. He imagined turning into a bird and flying away into space. His muscles strained and wanted to launch him through the sky.
But he walked himself back and let himself flop onto hands and feet on the tar paper. He was playing around.
For days he did handstands by the edge. Bare-footed cartwheels that burned hands and feet in rotation. Like being strapped to a wheel in hell, forever going around. But when Friday came, he got distracted.
It was the TV on the roof. The other cleaning guys were doing their thing, with news on the screen. Noah had glanced at it. People standing around in the storm’s wake, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.
Noah did his exercises, limbering up after a day of scrubbing on hands and knees, the screw-me position. Today he’d try something tougher.
Jake spoke around the joint in his mouth. “Nigger, why you doing that?” Smoke twisted from his lips and the haze bathed and blurred them all, like none of them were real.
Noah spat. “I got a name.”
Jake waved him off. “So what’s the deal?”
“Leave him alone,” said a guy at the poker game. “He knows what he’s doing.” Only Jake was watching Noah; everyone else had lost interest or something.
Noah heaved himself up onto his hands. “Got to feel like I’m doing something, you know?”
Jake only grunted, smelling of lilac, ammonia and weed.
So Noah did his thing again. Back when he’d been in school he’d read a book about slaves who’d made a fighting style out of dancing, and Noah had thought it was cool. Since school didn’t do sports except basketball, he’d asked the teachers to offer it, and waited for an answer. He would’ve given up but for Rickie, who’d seen him trying to do the moves and called him a crazy nigger. Noah started kicking his ass for that, but before he was done they were laughing and making fools of themselves, shooting kicks at each other like a couple of Chinese kung-fu stars. Nobody snitched on them for fighting, of course, even though Rickie had started bringing a knife to school in fifth grade.
Noah tried to remember how the moves went. He got up and swayed like a wino, then pulled himself tight all at once to flip onto his head and spin halfway around. His hair mopped filth off the hot tar paper. He was the axle of the world for a moment, and then he was rolling with an easy move onto his back, kicking up to stand and flip again.
The TV said, “...an experimental settlement on a manmade island on the sea.”
A glimpse of the TV’s image spun through his eyes and into the sky. In the blue bowl of heaven he saw an island full of ships and castles, flags and sails, with waterfalls of clouds. It burned against his eyes with the force of the sun.
Then Noah was spinning, falling...
And like a drowning sailor he grabbed the rail in front of him. He was hanging by his hands from the building’s edge, with the grey city below and the infinite blue above. His heart pounded, telling him he was stupid, stupid.
But by God, he felt alive!