glass bodies 211 220


A crescendo in time, soulless timesharing. My fellow soldiers in flames. Barracks, giant hot planets, pirates declaring independence. The history of the Mint. At a crossroads, I came out of prison to be alive, and I found myself in debt. I used to be a man, so I became a slave. But as a woman I built multiversal screens creatively. I joined the revolution. Then I escaped from camp. It was a wet ridiculously hot colony of miners, and the stars in cluster were backburning, and the shockingly scorched KELT-9 system was about to burst. Its tail, with semblance of a feeble threat, was level with my eyes. Pirates and criminals, rejected by our Joyride had been my companions. The day I was arrested my mind was 650 light years away, locked in perpetual light. Our folly, searing heat of exoplanets, was to believe we could be free. In a cloud of evaporating helium, our hard fought rights burst up in flames. All violent fumes where violet had been. The imperial troops were claiming the Capulets of our brain, nerve thresholds and all, our electric lives. Then, I was tortured, cast aside, tortured again. They were kind to me. Old soldiers, you know, pensioners with one foot in the grave. I was afraid they might catch a cold. “Reality isn’t real”, they would tell me. Before our star died, every good intention was blasted away with one button push, and all the shingles in my conscience would be swatted aside.

Now, friend, I am a real estate agent, claiming a cool 17 percent on Proxima Centauri. My teeth are no longer a concern. I operate with the help of the Empire, my accountant is from the sub star system. He is a weasel. With today’s technology I can instantly soulshare from the palm of my hand, and every shiny app A lister, every 20 mil people is found in my address book, orbiting my parties, horse racing at my day at the races. I made it, yobs. I sell, therefore I am. I PR. I market. I think, what do people think? But I dont do G-type stars any longer. Now I am better. There is a thing in my voice, I go to lessons you know, from one of the citys top people, a chairwoman of Glory. She once knew the great leader, our dear departed. I wear hats, most extravagant. Bring me your business, then.

But before I was this rare particle, I had to survive in the Free Liberty of the Mint. I came out of gaol only to find myself tiptoeing around debt collectors, I found a way to frustrate every murderer’s choice. I was like water, no reason. One side of my face always points to the Sun. My spectrum was the pit and pendulum, but I since discovered gambling, and I am cured. On this balmy day, many years ago, I stood before the gates of barracks and accepted the fact that I would become a killer, mediating death and the elements. The hounds of guards were furious, snapping at our heels. My fellow recruits had voices of pallor, already quickly dying inside. I am dead now, and this is my echo. It burned in water, in oil tanks, and in the exploding rounds of bullets.