Zob Kane stood above the greatest floral spectacle in the galaxy: myriads of grottos
and rosy shadows, elegant trunks with spines extended and quivering in the
alien sunset. “Ah, Regulon V is so sublime,
in its summer cycle. Can’t you feel the sublimity?”
He sighed: the long, peaceful sigh of the Artist-In-His-Element. “I could paint
here forever.”
Perhaps, thought Will. But nothing good.
They set
up their tripods, planting the legs deep in the nitrous-rich earth. Sublime…
What did this idiot know about sublime? They’d eaten burgers for breakfast, for
Chrissake. But Will didn’t go for mockery—it wasn’t like his friend would’ve
listened.
“Very sublime,” he said.
“They’re
poisonous, when they come down. The blossoms. Did I tell you?”
“I was the one who told you.”
“Right,
right. Just like you told me about that girl, back home. Good call there. She
was fantastic.” His friend fumbled for the z-axis paints, failing: the mittens
of his space-suit were soon stained in a clumsy rainbow. There were newer
models, but Zob had insisted on “authentic” suits. He tried to preen his Dali
mustache, couldn’t do it because of the bubble helmet, and settled for a raconteur
pose. “Look at those blossoms, how rugose!
That quintessential sunset! I think I’ll
start in lime-pink. Lime-pink is so trendy.”
“You do
whatever feels right, man.” Will moved his easel several steps back; he didn’t
want to get in the way of genius, after all.
“I’m so
glad we came. My Muse is with me, Will. She’s embracing me.”
I brought you here. It was my money, my
life. Given for you.
Will
painted a Regulan flatworm. He wasn’t sure why; it just seemed to fit the empty
space, its features sharp and vicious. The colors came to life, wriggled free
of the canvas, and started floating towards Zob. The pincers snapped, the
stinger flashed and throbbed with menace.
Will was quite far along, in Z-axis
painting—farther, he suspected, than anyone had ever gone. Without a better
word for it, he supposed he was a god. It brought no joy; the girl had been
the last in a series of insults that stretched for years. His hands trembled.
Regulan flatworms were ethereal;
they wriggled right through the molecules of your clothes and skin, to suck
your organs empty. It was a horrific way to die.
Zob, the peacock, stayed oblivious. “They’ll
hang this one in the gallery, just like my thesis. I can sense it.”
Liar. That work was mine.
The theft had been subtle: “a little help” on the final graduate assignment had required more and more work, until it was unparalleled. Now, Will’s piece hung in the alumni hall at Berkelee, a plaque naming it Bee’s Insides in Radical-Yellow… by Zob Kane.
The theft had been subtle: “a little help” on the final graduate assignment had required more and more work, until it was unparalleled. Now, Will’s piece hung in the alumni hall at Berkelee, a plaque naming it Bee’s Insides in Radical-Yellow… by Zob Kane.
The
flatworm was very close.
You
do whatever feels right, man. Was this the act of a just god?
A loving god?
Will’s hands grew still. He painted
a gentle breeze of lavender-indigo: it rose from the canvas, drifted and blew
the flatworm away. Its delicate body tumbled over the leaves.
“The
petals! Oh, the petals!” Zob was painting, Will saw: really painting. Not well,
but still. The pigments were a pale copy of the valley, but the first layer had
promise; the second might well contain real technique. The third… Well, by the
finish, his friend might have something. His very first non-plagiarism. “Look
at those colors. I see what the religious types are about, now. God is great,
and all that shit!”
Will
smiled. “Yes. He truly is.”
Zob
turned to him, and his cheeks were shining the color of the toxic blossoms. “What
would you know? You haven’t even started yet.”
