Head Full of Mountains Read Online Free

part of the haptic called
chocolate cake
, which had once been a configuration of pellets no longer available from any dispenser, with seven
candles
so real Crospinal almost believed father’s story that they would have been hot, if Crospinal were able to touch them. Details meant father was well-stoked. Fearful of saying or doing the wrong thing, Crospie grinned awkwardly and kept fairly silent. The outcome seemed inevitable.
    Afterwards, father dispersed the guests, most of whom vanished instantly. The two elementals, made of metal and the hardest of plastics, lingered for a moment before turning and leaving under their own accord, without a word. Only the spirit carrying father’s image remained.
    And Crospinal, of course. He could hardly vanish.
    “I’m proud of you.” Father’s face, shining like ambients, the nutrients almost visible through the tight skin of his face. He was wearing the front plate of an amber helmet—all he could fit. “I might not tell you often enough, but I’m
very
proud of you. Look how well you’re doing, Crospie. Your legs are much straighter. Do they hurt today? You haven’t said in a while. You can get about quite well.”
    Crospinal stood there, best he could, another absurd haptic called a
balloon
in one mitt and projections of icing on his face. Even at such an age, he knew there was more coming. There was always more coming. That’s what life was like. Implications and half-complete expressions, undefined expectations, ever unsure what exactly was needed, or what, in fact, was happening. He waited uncomfortably.
    Father cleared his throat; tubes shook, back in the pen, where his body waited. The spirit carrying this representation loomed even closer. Smoke and mirrors, layers of illusions.
    “You’ve passed many hurdles, son. You’re
healthy
. You’re
alive
. You’re
civilized
. Do you understand what this means, Crospie? Do you see?”
    Crospinal’s stomach rumbled. “Not really. But I think so?” Yet he did not.
    “One day, sooner than either of us thinks, we’ll have to part. You know that. Of course you do. And when you’re on your own, you’ll bring civilization with you, like a torch. Everything will be made available if you persevere against the dark. This is the year of action. The seventh year. A year of renewal, a year of hope. You’re a success, son, and you’ve made
me
a success. The past is inconsistent but the future will be
clear
! Today, I had images in my mind so lucid I could almost touch them. Look at what I found: the birthday party of a child! If you continue to listen, Crospinal, and
believe
, we can push the dark away together. But, for now, stick by my side, son. Keep your old man company. There’s much to learn and you’re not ready.”
    Crospinal fumbled with the balloon string (which, like the hat, the candles, and his companions, was constructed from photons). He needed to go pee more than anything. He liked to hold off for as long as possible, only relieving himself while alone, and without any choice, because the catheter, when activated, made him queasy. He shuffled his feet. The apparition wavered. Crospinal’s legs were killing him. They always did. But he had stopped complaining, that’s all. Father’s representation continued to grin and beam. Even Crospinal’s eyes hurt.

    The grand entrance—prodigal son, returned—was, needless to say, less effective than he would have liked: when Crospinal appeared in the opening to the central chamber—where father had bound himself to the gate, and called forth his throne, ensconcing them both—he was hot and out of breath (his regulator was on the fritz), and the neoprene fabric of his sleeves was smeared with stains. Rivulets of sweat stitched down his face, quavered by the shield thrown up by his collar, and trickled down his neck, where capillaries of his uniform kicked in to lap them up, but the old processor was stale and overheated.
    Here, where father’s influence was