Zero History

Something moved, three feet above Bigend’s head. The manta, a sinuous matte-black
blot, as wide, from wingtip to wingtip, as a small boy’s outstretched arms.
“Fuck, this is cool,” called Heidi, from across the floor of the atrium, “I heard
everything you said!”
“Be a dear,” Bigend called to her, not bothering to look up. “Swim it away. Try the
penguin now.”
The thing’s wingtips silently flexed, catching the air, for all the world like a real ray, as
it swam slowly up, wheeling gracefully, barely missing the hanging stairway. “Utterly
addictive,” Bigend said to Hollis. “Your locative art will morph again, with cheap aerial
video drones.”
“That doesn’t look cheap to me.”
“No,” said Bigend, “not at all, but cheaper platforms will be in the High Street by
Christmas. But the Festos are genius. We opted for their sheer strangeness, the organic
movement, modeled from nature. They aren’t very fast, but if people see them, their first
thought is that they’re hallucinating.”
Milgrim nodded. “He’s coming,” he said. “Gracie.”
“To London?”
“She said he’ll be here soon.”
“He has Sleight,” Bigend said, “so he knows that having a look at his pants was simply
basic strategic business intelligence. It isn’t as though we’ve done anything to harm him.
Or ‘Foley’ either, for that matter.”
Milgrim looked from Bigend to Hollis, eyes wide.
“A friend of mine has been in a traffic accident,” Hollis said. “I have to stay in town
until I know how he is.”
Bigend frowned. “Anyone I know?”
“No,” said Hollis.
“That’s not a problem. I wasn’t planning on sending you immediately. Say four more
days. Will you know by then whether or not your friend is out of the woods?”
“I hope so,” said Hollis.