Zero History

was heavier than he would have expected, more substantial, stiffer. He buttoned it.
Folded it carefully, the way someone in a store would refold a shirt. It lay on his lap, the
focus of one of Bigend’s mysteries. A secret.
The rectangular label was made of heavy, stiff, tan leather, branded with some fourlegged
animal, its head wrong.
He closed his eyes. Put his head back. He was hurtling through a tube, under the
English Channel. Did the French call it that? He didn’t know. Why were these giant
projects so relatively common in Europe? He’d grown up with the unquestioned
assumption that America was the home of heroic infrastructure, but was it, now? He
didn’t think so. How did they pay for these things here? Taxes?
He reminded himself to ask Bigend.
>>>
“You don’t know where you’re going?” Hollis asked, from the cab, as he lifted her bag
in.
“No,” said Milgrim, “I’m supposed to wait here.”
“You’ve got my number,” she said. “And thank you. I wouldn’t have wanted to do that
alone.”
“Thank you,” said Milgrim. “And for the laptop. I’m still not—”
“Never mind,” she said. “It’s yours. Be careful.” She smiled and pulled the door shut.
He watched the cab pull away, another taking its place. He stepped back, gesturing for
the couple behind him to go ahead. “I’m meeting someone,” he said, to no one in
particular, glancing around. As Fiona’s horn pipped, just beyond the cab’s black fender.
She gestured, urgently, the yellow helmet jerking, astride a large, dirty, gray bike.
She took his bag as he reached her, and began securing it to the gas tank with elastic
cords, shoving a black helmet into his hands. The visor of her helmet was up. “Put that
on. I’m not supposed to be in here. Get on behind and hold on.” She flipped the visor
down.
He fumbled the helmet over his head. It smelled of something. Hairspray? The
transparent visor was scratched and thumb-printed, greasy. He didn’t know how to fasten
the under-chin thing. Padding rested uncomfortably on the crown of his head.
“Put your arms around me, lean forward, hold on!”
Milgrim did.
She sounded her horn again as they rolled forward, Milgrim unsure where to put his
feet. He shifted, trying to look down. Heard her yell something. Found muddy pegs for
passenger feet. Saw a rapidly strolling pigeon framed for an instant in the narrow,
smudged field the jiggling helmet allowed his vision.
Fiona felt like a very determined child, encased in layers of ballistic nylon and an
indeterminate number of armored plates. Milgrim locked his fingers together,