Windswept (42 page)

“Since when has that stopped you?”

“Since never,” said Soni, “but it also came with fifty hundred-yuan notes, each of them with my name written on it.”

“Nice touch.”

“I thought so,” said Soni. “Widows and Orphans certainly appreciated it.”

I picked up the envelope and cut it open with a nearby table knife. Inside were two pieces of paper.

The first was a receipt, dated yesterday. It was for a one-way ticket to some planet I had never heard of. I blinked it up; the place was right on the edge of Occupied Space, a Union-run world used as a jumping-off point for idiots who wanted to go to the Beyond.

Idiots, or people who needed to run away.

I looked at the second piece of paper and my heart stopped. It was a deed for the Old Windswept Distillery, lock, stock, and carefully charred barrels. I looked over the thing twice and blinked all the bar codes into the Public. The deed was legitimate.

There was no signature on either one, no way to tell who’d sent it. But I didn’t need that. I knew where they’d come from. Banks had made it after all.

“Good stuff?” said Soni, nodding at the paper.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think they’re going-away presents.”

“What, are you leaving?”

“Who, me?” I said, putting the papers into my pocket. “No, I’m here for good. Besides, I got a trillion-yuan debt to pay back.”

“I thought that was a bit excessive, sticking you with the bill for rebuilding the lifter.”

“I was the one who blew it up.”

“Yeah, but it was to stop that Ghost. It was to protect us.”

“I suppose that’s why they knocked two trillion off the original judgment.” I patted the deed. “I’m going to be OK, Soni. Really.”

Soni stared at me, and then someone outside Big Lily’s tooted on a trumpet. A clarinet answered back, then a harmonium spun up, and a chorus of voices began to sing, “Oh, great is her might, and strong is her fist...”

“Oh, God,” said Soni. “Not this again.”

“What?” I said. “You don’t like my theme song?”

“I’m still not sure what you did to deserve a theme song,” she said.

The Brushhead Memorial Band reached the chorus, and everyone joined in. “Oh, Padma, Sky Queen of Justice, we raise our glasses to you!”

I waved, then sipped my tea, washing the heavy mint around my mouth. The air drifted in off the ocean, carrying the smell of lamb stew and dead bicycle tires and molasses. Soni rolled her eyes, but she sang along, the whole place swaying back and forth to the band. It was five o’clock. Time for Happy Hour. And in an hour I would go home, light my candle, and have my sip of Old Windswept.

I still haven’t dreamed yet. But as I breathed in the evening air, I figured, hell, this would do.

I started this book on July 27, 2007, at a hotel bar in Waikiki, Honolulu, Hawaii, pecking away at a tiny Bluetooth keyboard that propped up a Nokia e61. I finished that first draft in a motel room in Lakeview, Arkansas, on July 6, 2009 on an Apple MacBook Pro. A lot happened between me stumbling into the bar and loading up on eight-dollar glasses of pineapple juice, and me sprawling on a bed, finishing the last lines before going trout fishing. Even more happened between wrapping up that first draft and delivering the final version to your hands. Most of it was good, and the good stuff happened thanks to the following people:

Ken Brady and Yuki Sakai, who asked me to officiate at their wedding and then had the ceremony in Hawaii, which lead me to that hotel bar. This book wouldn’t have happened without them.

David Ivory, Jason Stoddard, S Ben Melhuish, Derek Powazek, Christopher East, and Daryl Gregory, who read versions of
Windswept
and took the time to tell me what worked and what didn’t.

The gang at Starry Heaven ’10: Brad Beaulieu, Deb Coates, Brenda Cooper, Kris Dikeman, Robert Joseph Levy, Jenn Reese, Bill Shunn, Greg Van Eekhout, Rob Ziegler, and our fearless leader, Sarah K Castle. Special thanks and extra rum rations to Bill and Brad, who read the whole thing and very politely tore it to tiny, tiny pieces. Super special thanks and a Mojito of Merit to Sarah K Castle, who organized the whole thing. The patio at the Zane Gray is calling to us, people. We should do that again.

Magdalen Faith Powers, whose copy editing skills are unparalleled. Thank you for keeping me from looking like a jackass when it came time to submit this book to agents, Maggie.

Joshua Bilmes, Right Hand of Doom Sam Morgan, and everyone at JABberwocky Literary.

Phil Jourdan, Caroline Lambe, Penny Reeve, Mike Underwood, and Cybernetic Overmind Marc Gascoigne at Angry Robot.

My parents, who taught me how to read and write and did not sell me into indentured servitude.

My brother, Chris, because why not? Also, you should totally buy his books, too.

Grace, who took really long naps and let me finish, and Anne, who wouldn’t let me quit. Man, I love you both.