A Cup of Normal (17 page)

“Allen. Storm looks pretty bad. Abort?” It was Don’s voice in my ear. He’d interfered with Archives’ connection, a dangerous action this close to a broken line, where the access to Archives’ instructions was critical.

My reply was brief, “No.”

The storm whipped. Belt tools slapped my hips. I attached the come-along to the main line. I pumped the ratchet, pulling the heavy main line slowly taut. The break map at the left corner of my eye shield showed a point where two lines intersected above the break. If I could pull the broken line close enough, I should be able to crawl out to that intersection above the break and seal the line below by hand.

When the ratchet couldn’t be cranked any farther, I called over to Don. “I’m crawling out. Unhook safety.”

“Negative, Allen. Don’t unhook. Abort repair. We can take care of this after the storm rolls over.”

Which would be too late. Tomorrow, maybe the next day, and I’d promised Ce.

I unlatched his safety hook on my belt. “Unlatch, Don. I’m crawling out.”

Don swore once in my ear. I waited, but there was no movement on my belt line, nothing that indicated Don had unlatched my hook from his belt. I tried a different tactic.

“You have family to see, Don. The break’s not far, just a few meters out. Let me get this done so we can go home.”

Still no response.

“Unhook, Don, or I’ll cut my line.”

The line at my belt tugged. I could feel the unfamiliar weight of it swaying free in the wind. I triggered the recoil. The line slid up and wound into my harness.

Don’s line scooted to the edge of the platform and slipped over. I waited to a count of twenty.

“Safety re-set?” I asked.

“Hooked and solid as a stone. You damn well better latch that safety to the platform, Allen. I am not going to make the climb down alone.”

“Affirmative.” I slapped the hook over the railing on the far side of the platform and tugged it once. With the safety there, instead of on the side nearest the line break, I’d have more of a chance of missing the main tower if I slipped. Of course, if I slipped, the chances that I’d survive without getting tangled or battered to death by the winds were slimmer than I wanted to admit.

I ducked under the railing and placed both hands on the wire. As slowly and carefully as I could, I wrapped my legs around the line and let the world invert.

Hanging upside down by my calves and hands, I began my backward advance.

The storm howled and spat hail. I tilted my head back once to glance over my shoulder. The line below me was obscured by hail. I tipped my head back up and tracked my progress by the map on my eyeshield.

Razor sharp ice bit at the backs of my hands, my exposed jaw and chin. I scooted palms along the wire, its surface rough enough to give at least some traction in the wind. My legs stayed locked at the ankles. The line pitched and swung in the wind.

The voices were louder, sounding almost as if they were in my earpiece.

“. . . Allen . . .”

“. . . Choose . . .”

“. . . all dreams . . .”

The break was almost in reach. Two more stretches. One. I saw another line cross the one I was suspended from and made my way to the intersection for a better hold. The blueline map across my eyeshield blinked yellow. I didn’t need the map to tell me the break was below me. I could smell it, rank as melted steel, feel it, hot as a yellow sun, and hear it. The voices called my name.

“Allen,” Celia.

“Allen,” Don.

“Allen,” Archives — no, that voice was my own.

I twisted and looked down into the break. Yellow as the center of pure fire, yellow as old Sol. Bright enough to bring tears to my eyes, yet I found I couldn’t blink, couldn’t squint.

The voices rose from the split in the line, a ragged fissure three meters in length. Playing across the bright light were images, ghosts, flashes of colors vaporous as moonlight and mist. The figures were easy to make out, familiar: my wife, Ce, wrapped in the solar blanket waiting for me, Don’s bulky form, walking ever closer and yet not moving, and me, staring up at myself.

I looked down into my own eyes, and saw myself smile. The image of me wasn’t wearing a safety belt and harness, but rather was bare-chested, bare-footed and wore light, loose pants. I stared. I looked so human, my skin the same color as Celia’s, my chest complete with nipples and hair. The way I had once looked. That image was joined by another, smaller image. A child, an impossible daughter, with Celia’s smile and my eyes.

The image of me extended a hand. I could see fingernails there, and the creased lines of a palm made of living flesh instead of my own smooth palm, the inhuman palm of a linewalker.

The voices called out.

“. . . Allen . . .”

“. . . can’t wait . . .”

“. . . dreams . . .”

I let go of the line with one hand and reached for the yellow light. The image of me drew forward. Our fingers brushed briefly past each other. I stretched further, intent on something else, something more.

“. . . Transport home? . . .” Don’s voice.

“. . . Transport child? . . .” Celia.

“. . . Transport reality? . . .” Archives’ voice.

I let go of the line with my other hand and triggered the welder, spraying and sealing the break in one motion.

But not before I answered all the voices. “Yes.”

“Don’t go,” said Celia, my lovely wife.

Familiar words. It felt as if we had begun each of our days here, caught by the violet light of the new rising sun: she, wrapped in a solar blanket against the cold, I buckling the last latch on my safety belt.

“I won’t be long. The string-break doesn’t look too severe.” No sound from her. I looked up from the all-go green on my wrist pack. Her eyes were dark, mouth tugged down in a frown. That was familiar too.

“I promise, Celia.” I extended my hand and gently pushed the strands of her hair away from her temple.

“I know.” She turned in the doorway.

Just before the door closed, I saw a small figure looking out at me. She had her mother’s smile and my eyes.

A chill ran down my spine.

I slipped my index finger into the slot on my wrist pack. “Allen Bourne.”

“Transport requested?” the soft voice of Archives asked.

“Negative,” I said. “Request off-duty status.”

There was a pause, and I realized my heart was pounding too hard. My fingers fell in their familiar ritual, belt, wrist, eyes and ears. I was surprised to feel ice on my shoulders.

“Acknowledged,” Archives said. “Off-duty status granted.”

I shook my head and studied the ice melting in my bare, lined hand. For a moment, I remembered something more, a hand like mine, but smooth as plastic. There had been a choice. I had chosen a life, this life, this reality . . . then the memory was gone. I shook my head again. A man only had one life, didn’t he?

The light flicked on in the house, and I glimpsed the shadow of Celia and our little girl. She was three now, I remembered. Memory tugged, of Celia’s pregnancy, of the hard work it took to become a lineman, choosing not to have the modifications. The relief we both had in that choice when years after I took the job here on Archives, they discovered the sterilizing side-effects of modification.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with cold air. It felt like a storm was coming. Better to be home than up on the lines today.

I smiled and walked back to the house, the familiar thrum of wind through the lines singing out in choices and dreams far above my head.