Interzone #244 Jan - Feb 2013 by Various Read Free Book Online Page B

and she didn’t hear. He rubbed her back. Her skin was smooth and warm. She moved sleepily under his hand, murmured something he didn’t catch, and settled down again.
    Achimwene stared out of the window, at the moon rising high above Central Station. A mystery was no longer a mystery once it was solved. What difference did it make how Carmel had come to be there, with him, at that moment? It was not facts that mattered, but feelings. He stared at the moon, thinking of that first human to land there, all those years before, that first human footprint in that alien dust.
    Inside Carmel was asleep and he was awake, outside dogs howled up at the moon and, from somewhere, the image came to Achimwene of a man in a spacesuit turning at the sound, a man who does a little tap dance on the moon, on the dusty moon.
    He lay back down and held on to Carmel and she turned, trustingly, and settled into his arms.
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    Copyright © 2013 Lavie Tidhar
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    ‘The Book Seller’ is the latest story set in Lavie Tidhar ’s Central Station milieu, following on from ‘Strigoi’ in issue 242. He also has a story (‘What we talk about when we talk about z------’) in the current issue of our sister magazine Black Static (issue 32, out now). Lavie’s novel Osama recently won a 2012 World Fantasy Award, and is out now as a mass market paperback. Visit his website at lavietidhar.wordpress.com for more information.
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    Please check our website, ttapress.com, for details and ordering of all available back issues of Interzone, Crimewave and Black Static/The Third Alternative. You will also find links to the publishing sites of our Ebook editions if you want to see earlier e issues.
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BUILD GUIDE
    by Helen Jackson
    Illustrations for Build Guide by Richard Wagner

    BUILD GUIDE
    T he new apprentice was a slight, childish figure, maybe 150cm tall and massing about 50 kilos. She clung to a grabrail and glared at us. She looked nauseous. She wasn’t what I’d hoped for.
    The Gaffer said what we were all thinking: “Great. They’ve sent us a little girl. She’s no good to us. Did you know about this, Peggy?”
    I shook my head and sighed. I was too old to wrangle teenagers. The Earthside contractor we worked for had embraced the New Modern Apprentice scheme. They got government subsidies, tax breaks, and good PR. We got a stream of unemployed – possibly unemployable – youngsters. This was the youngest yet.
    The Gaffer spoke to the kid. “What’s your name, girlie?”
    “ Grace Benjamin Murray , gramp s ,” the kid said, pointedly. She spoke with spirit, despite still being doped up from the shuttle journey, in a pronounced South London accent. Eltham, maybe, or Kidbrooke. One of the rougher estates. The Gaffer didn’t rise to the challenge.
    “ How old are you, Grace Benjamin Murray? Fifteen?”
    Murray kept her head up. “I’m nearly nineteen and I’ve been through full training.”
    Diego snorted. “What, six weeks groundside? Think that’ll help you up here, nearly-nineteen?”
    Murray looked fit to explode. She reminded me of myself at that age: scrappy and determined. I stepped in before she could say something she’d regret.
    “ Peggy Varus, foreman’s assistant,” I introduced myself. “You’ll be bunking in with me. The Gaffer’s Rasmus Larsson, Mr Larsson to you.” I nodded at the Gaffer and hoisted a thumb Diego’s way. “He’s Diego.”
    “ Mr Fernandez to you.”
    “ In your dreams,” she said, letting go of her grabrail and attempting to step forward. As she floated, her face went distinctly green. I barely got the sick bag to her in time.
    The Gaffer looked disgusted. Diego burst out laughing. I hustled the kid away before she could get herself in more trouble.
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    “Can we kee p her inside?” asked the Gaffer. “I haven’t got time to babysit.”
    We were running through the week’s build guide for th e nt h time. Although we’d each be fed our step-by-steps on the