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Glimmer

Marjorie B Kellogg
Chapters (47)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS
  3. Dedication
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  47. About the Author

Cover

Cover for Glimmer, Author, Marjorie B. Kellogg

ALSO BY MARJORIE B. KELLOGG AVAILABLE FROM DAW BOOKS

LEAR’S DAUGHTERS

The Dragon Quartet

THE BOOK OF EARTH

THE BOOK OF WATER

THE BOOK OF FIRE

THE BOOK OF AIR

Dedication

To my brothers John and Jarvis, and in memory of our sister Nancy, triplet number three

ONE

When the fog clears, even for a moment, it can really turn your head around. I’m talking brain fog here: suddenly it was like, hello, it’s Glim, finally having a thought about something other than survival.

A brief thought, but a beginning. Here’s how it went.

Heading out on my usual shift. Been soloing less than a week, foraging through the steamy, dark, flooded city. Hated it. Most of us did, ’cept the adrenaline freaks. Each time the job posts went up, I’d mention other tasks I’d score better at, but hey, we were the young and able-bodied, so night was our beat. Beefing only got you a stern reminder that picking kept the den clothed and fed.

“Oughta call it what it is,” my buddy Rubio groused, scrubbing his black scrawl of hair like it was the culprit. “Call it trash collecting. Junk mongering. Scavenging.”

“Recycling?”

“Theft.”

“Not anymore.” Like most newbies, I took den practice at face value: we went to bed with our bellies full. What else could matter? “Like, no evac’s coming back for his stuff any time soon. Or ever.”

Rubio could dismiss entire arguments with a twitch of one shoulder.

“C’mon, Rube. Maybe tonight you get lucky.”

“Ran outa that a long time ago.”

Every night was hard, but out on the walkway that night, getting up our nerve seemed harder than usual. The overcast hung so thick and low, even the heat had weight, like stew on a slow boil. The dark uptown skyline wore a moonglow of cloud along its peaks. The water below us, what we called the Lagoon, was opaque and still as glass. Slack water.

I scowled at the looming sky. “Smells like rain.”

“A thousand toxins drifting from the sky . . .” he sang softly.

“Rain’s cleaner now, with the factories mostly down.”

“Good thing, since we’re drinking it. When’s high tide?”

“Do you ever check the tables?”

“Why? When I have you to tell me.” Rubio slouched on the railing for a long cough, scrawny legs rattling in his boot cuffs. His lungs sounded full of liquid.

No use me trying to help. “Maybe you shouldn’t . . .”

“I’m fine,” he croaked.

The scarred-up dude with one arm was on front door watch. He brandished his torch like it was us he was guarding the den from. “Yo! Gitcher selfs upright! Git out there an’ show sum pride! Doncha be scurryin’ roun’ lika buncha marks!”