Free Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand

"Did you—"
    "I
can't," I yelled back. "I'm late—"
    He
stumbled down the steps as I roared off, his face bright red. Maybe he was mad
I didn't stay for coffee.
    The
road was slick. I drove as fast as I dared until I got stuck behind a
schoolbus. By the time I reached Burnt Harbor, it was seven-thirty. I drove to
the waterfront and hopped out of the car.
    I
saw no one. A few pickup trucks were lined up at dockside. Gulls circled above
the water, keening loudly. The lobster boats were gone.
    I
shaded my eyes and looked across the harbor. I could see the islands clearly
now, bathed in morning light. The nearest one was a slaty blue, its jagged
headland softened by golden mist. A small white shape churned toward it from
the harbors mouth.
    I
hoped that wasn't my ride. I turned and headed for the Good Tern.
    It
was more crowded than it had been the night before. A different waitress
hurried between tables and gave me a brusque nod. "One?"
    "I'm
looking for Everett Moss." I scanned the room, trying to figure out which
burly man in a Carhart jacket and gimme cap might be the harbormaster. "Is
he here?"
    "Everett?"
The woman frowned. "He was here earlier, but I think he went out. Hey,
Toby—"
    She
called to a man sitting alone at a table by the window. "Where'd Everett
go?"
    Toby
Barrett looked up from a plate of eggs and bacon.
    "Everett?
He left a while ago." When he saw me, he blinked. "Oh. It's you. You
know, I think he was waiting for you—"
    "Well,
he didn't wait long enough," I snapped.
    "Have
a seat." Toby nudged a chair toward me with his foot. "You want
coffee?"
    "Yeah,
sure."
    I
slumped into the chair. Toby paid me the courtesy of turning his attention back
to his food. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before, with the
exception of a faded T-shirt commemorating the 1975 solar eclipse in Boze,
Montana. After a minute the waitress brought me coffee and a menu.
    "I
can't eat," I said. I held my head in my hands. "God, I can't believe
this." I picked up my coffee, grimacing. "So where the hell is
Everett's office, anyway? If I had been able to find him?"
    "His
office? That would be it, there—"
    Toby
gestured out the window to a red GMC pickup.
    "His
truck?"
    "Yup.
He give you his home number? That's the best way to get hold of him, unless you
radio him on his boat. Not much cell reception up here."
    I
drank my coffee miserably, hoping I wouldn't get sick. "I overslept. But I
thought he’d at least wait."
    "He
did. For a while, anyway. He was in here for breakfast—he's here every
day." Toby speared an entire fried egg and ate it in one bite. "But
then he got another paying customer, so he left."
    "Will
he come back?"
    "Not
for a while. He'll make his delivery. Then he'll probably be out hauling
traps."
    "Shit."
    I
finished my coffee. The waitress set a fresh pot on the table, along with a
plate of toast. I picked up a piece and ate it slowly, fighting nausea.
    Now
what?
    Toby
leaned back in his chair. He reached into the pocket of his flannel shirt, took
out some rolling papers and a bag of American Spirit tobacco.
    "How
come you need to get out there so bad?" he asked as he began to roll a
cigarette.
    "I
have a job out there."
    "A
job?" He seemed taken aback. "On the island? Who you working for?
Aphrodite?"
    I
hesitated. Phil had geared me up with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff about
Kamestos and her paranoia, but it all seemed stupid now that I was actually in
Burnt Harbor. There was no one here, and certainly no one who seemed to care
that I'd arrived.
    "I'm
supposed to interview her," I said at last.
    "Really?
She expecting you?"
    "Yeah."
I wondered if maybe this guy was the friend Phil had mentioned, and asked him.
    "Phil
Cohen. Nope. Never heard of him." Toby tipped his head, regarding me with
calm hazel eyes. "But you do know Aphrodite."
    I
finished my coffee.
    "No,"
I admitted. "I've never even spoken to her. Phil was the guy set it up for
me. Through an editor in London."
    I
poured myself more