Ian Tregillis - Something More Than Night

by Ian Tregillis

  “Did you leave,” she asked, “or were you kicked out?”

  “Don’t get cute. I left,” said Bayliss. He muttered, “I really wish somebody had given old Milton a sock in the kisser when they’d had the chance.”

  Molly said, “So you figured you’d just pick somebody at random to take up the slack after the last guy died.”

  “Not at random. I was told to find somebody who wouldn’t kick up a fuss. But I got you instead.”

  One thing, at least, was beginning to make sense. Back at that shithole diner, he’d kept saying things about going with the flow, not rocking the boat. He’d implied it was just for the sake of getting oriented. But that wasn’t it at all. Somebody important, or powerful, snapped the whip. Somebody Bayliss feared.

  “Who made you do this?”

  Bayliss shook his head. “I have bent over backward to not know that.”

  “You wanted somebody who wouldn’t get herself in trouble,” she said, “because you didn’t want her drawing attention to you. That’s what this is, isn’t it? You’re trying to save your own skin.”

  “Lady, I’m just a two-bit player trying to get by in this crazy gummed-up world.”

  “And you killed me in order to do that.”

  Bayliss winced. “I apologized for that. You sure know how to make a guy feel like a heel.” He stood. “Figure I do owe you. Can’t help but feel a little responsible that you got your place tossed. So tell you what. Let me go talk to some folks. I’ll put my ear to the ground, get the lay of the land.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  He shook his head and gave an embarrassed little grimace. “Nope. These players won’t talk to the likes of you.”

  Molly narrowed her eyes. The edges of broken memories started to curl and blacken again. “Because I’m a woman?”

  “Because in their eyes you’re still nothing but a well-groomed monkey.”

  Charming.

  “Trust me. It’ll be jake. You’ll see.” He looked into the sensory discontinuity where the pantry had been. “Hey. I know that joint.” He stepped through the remains of the kitchen into Notre Dame. “Later, angel. Try to keep buttoned till I get back.”

  He flicked the brim of his fedora when he departed. He didn’t remove the hat when he slipped into the memory of the cathedral and out, through it, to the mundane realm. She watched him go.

  Fuck, she thought. He’s a fallen angel. And he’s terrified.

  5

  NEXT TIME, SKIP THE WAKE

  I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her, but damned if flametop didn’t prove it in record time. She barely had time to kick off her shoes and wiggle her piggies before the gunnies came for her. She’d rubbed somebody the wrong way. Hadn’t even bothered to cobble together a decent Magisterium before she did it, either. But never let it be said Bayliss turns a cold, hard heart to a dame in distress. Even if it was distress of her own making.

  The sooner I knew what she’d done, the sooner I could smooth the ruffled feathers and wipe my hands of the whole affair. For good this time.

  Problem was, getting a bead on that meant making a visit to the old homestead. It’d been a good long while since I’d been back. I barely knew my way around any longer. And if too many people knew I’d returned, it was apt to get awkward. Last thing I needed was to have every joe and jane in the Choir ribbing me for not having the courage of my convictions. I’d made a big point of making myself scarce.

  I escaped Notre Dame through the Portal of the Last Judgment (domine, domine, pater noster, and all that jazz), took a seat alongside a hedge, lit a pill, and considered my next move. The steel-gray smoke of my contemplations mingled with the scent of incense-laden guilt leaking from the cathedral and the humid stink of the Seine. A light rain fell on me, dusted the flower gardens, pattered on the river. I listened to the Babel hubbub of tourists, mostly German, English, and Japanese, and the ticker-tape clatter of cameras. Old ones, too. Actual film cameras. From back when the monkeys used chemistry to capture their holiday memories. (All possible courtesy of the Mantle of Ontological Consistency.) Those cameras predated flametop’s conception by decades. I wondered whose memory she’d lifted. My money was on a shutterbug grandparent with a photo album. Had to hand it to her: she had a good eye for detail. She’d build a crackerjack Magisterium someday. Assuming she survived long enough to do so, and assuming she didn’t get me killed before I could see it.

  A gargoyle funneled the rain into a steady drip on the crown of my hat. Now that brought me back. My one and only gig as a model happened back when they were sculpting all those gargoyles. Had to do it through dreams, though, so I never made any folding from it. The monkeys are a superstitious lot, but never more so than when they’re building a cathedral. A few centuries later I could have taken the master artisan to dip the beak, and convinced him to blame the hallucinations on the green fairy. The artsy crowd was mad for that hooch even after it drove them a little loony. But Paris was a different place then. A few francs could buy you a bottle of wine and some willing company.

  I squinted at the gargoyle. It wore a big, wide frown on its puss. I said, “Long time, no see, pal.” It spit in my eye.

  Another puff sent tar swirling through my wet and glistening simulacra of monkey lungs. It set my thoughts in motion.

  Someone had a real beef with flametop. Why? And what did this mean for me?

  Who wasn’t the issue. Not really. Even I could take a decent shot in the dark on that one. The way I figured it, any notoriety she had stemmed from coming along just after Gabby punched out. That was her only claim to fame, but it was a lulu. So whatever had the loogans’ dander up was probably connected to the stiff. And that pointed to whoever tapped me for their fishy little errand down on Earth. And, by extension, whoever rubbed the Seraph.

  I thought I’d sidestepped that whole flop after seeing which way the winds of the Pleroma blew. The currents hinted at something too big, too ambitious, too dangerous. I figured the scheme was destined to blow up in the conspirators’ faces like a novelty cigar, but not before it rained trouble on everybody in the Choir. So I ducked the guilt by association by lamming to Earth. Or so I thought.

  It was too good to last. I’d barely been among the monkeys a few centuries—hardly enough time to pick up decent vices—when the first of the anonymous telegrams arrived. Messages sculpted in the swirl of cigarette smoke; implied in the sleep-murmur of a dozing street-corner wino; outlined in an improbable roll of dice in a back-alley parlor; writ across the sky in the hiss and flare of burning space debris. I ignored them long as I could but the deck was stacked against me. My attempt to steer clear of the trouble made me the perfect stooge. So perfect that my unwillingness to cooperate didn’t enter the math.

  Once that came clear, I kept my head down. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t try to get clever. But above all I made it a point to not know who they were. All I knew was I’d been tagged by some faction in the Choir with deep pockets and an ax to grind. We had an implicit agreement: I’d run their errand—using my familiarity with the monkeys to plug a hole in the MOC—and then they’d go climb a tree. Forever.

  And besides. I gave long odds to their grudge. A cork isn’t useful unless you have a place to put it, and that told me they were fixing to scratch somebody. But who ever heard of bumping off an angel? Everyone knew that was impossible. We can’t die. Even nickel-grabbers like me.

  But then Gabriel’s demise lit the night sky.

  So I whittled a cork and beat a hasty retreat. Because the faction that had twisted my arm threw a lot of weight in the Pleroma. More than I thought possible. Enough to rub a Seraph. Enough to send a pair of Cherubim to brace flametop.

  Didn’t know the why of their beef with Molly, but I did know it was bad news for me. Accident or no, I’d tagged her, but they didn’t like her. I sighed. Dames.

  I dragged her into this mess. She’d been having a rough time of it thanks to me. As much as I hated to admit it, I did feel like
a prize heel. Guess I owed her for the train thing. But if I were to make good on my words to flametop, I’d have to know what got Gabby croaked.

  Plan in hand, I flicked my pill into a flower bed overflowing with bedraggled snapdragons and wilted daisies. I tipped my hat at the gargoyle. “Don’t be a stranger.” It spat again.

  A fat American pointed his Kodak at the flower beds, and me, just as I shifted into the Pleroma. If he ever bothered to develop that film, he’d find a ghostly wisp of vapor making an obscene gesture. Back home I went.

  Gabriel had been one of the oldest and most powerful of us. Rumor said he’d even interceded with METATRON on behalf of the Choir once or twice. Don’t know if I believe that. But I did know he’d been a load-bearing member of the MOC.

  So much so, in fact, that I hadn’t needed to worry about anybody ribbing me over my reluctant return to the Pleroma. Nobody noticed. Gabby’s death had kicked a hell of a dent in the MOC. Flametop’s ascension was the equivalent of cramming a matchbook under the wobbly table leg—it fixed the worst of the problem, but this didn’t mean the table was good as new. Likewise, mortal physics and mathematics still chugged along with the monkeys blissfully unaware of the chaos behind the scenes. Because while the twist and I had managed to shore up the MOC just enough to prevent it from toppling over completely, an impossible murder had produced a steep conceptual gradient. Gabby’s absence caused a certain lack of intellectual pressure; it created ideational lacunae that had the MOC listing to port like a waterlogged cruise liner.

  I’d never seen so many members of the Choir together. Well, together and not bickering like the Council of Nicaea. Everyone had turned out to put things right: Angels, Archangels, Principalities, Powers, Virtues, Dominions, Thrones, Cherubim … I even glimpsed a few flaming swords in the mix, meaning the remaining Seraphim had lent a paw. The monkeys like to believe the best part of their nature comes out in times of crisis. But never underestimate the power of enlightened self-interest: the Choir had rolled up its sleeves because Gabby’s death threatened to upset the whole damn apple cart. And that would have been the end of pie for everybody.

  Speaking of which, a Dominion brushed past me carrying the final digits to a half-dozen transcendental numbers. It passed them along to a whirling Throne who appeared to be acting as an impromptu sub-foreman, who passed them up the chain to where they could do some good. A cloud of Powers surveyed the damage and orchestrated the repair effort with a thousand-dimensional bird’s-eye view. Somebody had built scaffolding out of a mathematics both consistent and complete (chew on that, Gödel) and now the spackle went on one axiom at a time.

  A pretty picture of cooperation. But I wasn’t about to forget that crowd contained Gabby’s killer, or killers. I steered clear. And besides, they seemed to have the whole mess under control. My clumsy mitts weren’t likely to make a difference. I had an errand to run.

  Even money said Gabby’s Magisterium wasn’t likely to decay any time soon. In fact, if I knew the Choir, and unfortunately I did, they’d freeze it in place as a memorial to our fallen colleague. So, assuming I could find them, a once-over of his digs might tell me what he’d been up to these last few eons. If I was lucky, it might tell me what had gotten him pinked. If I was unlucky, it might tell me who had done the job, and how—the kinds of things I didn’t want to know. Things that make a target of a guy. And if I was cursed, the trigger boys would know I knew. If that happened, I figured my and flametop’s lives weren’t worth a plugged nickel. Anybody hard enough to croak a Seraph should get a wide berth. Berth? They get their own private car, meals courtesy of Mr. Pullman.

  But first things first. I needed to find somebody who could point me to Gabby’s Magisterium. But I figured I’d let the rubes come to me. Once the hard work was done, the sappier members of the Choir would drift off to gnash their teeth and weep.

  The raw Pleroma, outside a Magisterium, isn’t all clouds and pearly gates. Even that would have been something. The real Pleroma is dull. Not quite a flat featureless plain, but on a cosmic scale, it’s close. It’s the raw material for our Magisteria, the sand that makes the concrete. It’s the liminal space in the corner of the eye; the darkened shadows at the edges of the stage. It’s the crawl spaces, the plumbing and pneumatic tubes, behind the MOC. Nobody ever oohs and aahs over wiring conduits and sewer lines. The view from the high window ain’t terrible: universe above, Earth below. But it does get boring.

  I’ll say this for the celestial spheres, though: great acoustics. We’re talking Platonic ideals here. Pythagoras would have smashed his corny little harp across his knee if he’d heard it. And it just so happens that if you exist near the proper event locus, manifesting the concept of sound in just the right way—something akin to hitting E below middle C, give or take ten thousand octaves—the tingle isn’t all that unpleasant. Which makes this spot the closest thing the Pleroma has to a watering hole or a corner newsstand. Everybody passes through here, eventually. All I needed to do was stake it out and wait.

  So I racked out behind a thicket of zodiacal light and waited. It took longer than I’d thought it would. I dozed off until a cosmic four-part harmony rattled my dreams.

  “Holy, holy, holy!”

  I peeked out from my blind. The racket came from the celestial equivalent of a barbershop quartet: two Principalities, an Archangel, and one little hanger-on Angel like me and flametop, its heiligenschein barely bright enough to out-twinkle the dimmest star. But damn if that kid didn’t have some pipes; no wonder it sang with the varsity team.

  The Principalities stood on the hooves of oxen but had the visages of lions, and each wore four wings that gleamed like brass. The humaniform Archangel had on its pan a third eye that constantly wept tears of blood, for it had been pierced with the shrapnel of Creation. The Angel looked as though it had taken fashion advice from a Botticelli painting. Each wore a cowl darker than a starless expanse. Mourning rags. At least they hadn’t smeared themselves with ash, the mopes.

  “You kids ever think about trying out for the talent show? I think you’ve got a shot at a ribbon this year.”

  As one, they turned to regard me. And then they scrammed like their lives depended on it.

  “Aw, you lousy lollipops!” I called after them.

  They must not have recognized me. Gabby’s death had everyone on edge; they weren’t taking chances with some fresh face they didn’t know. Even a clean piece of beef like mine.

  I fished out a pocketknife and cleaned my nails while waiting for them to return. They sidled back a few astronomical units at a time. I kept to myself, making no sudden moves, until they decided I was on the level. Eventually, they started crooning again.

  Over the racket, I said, “I missed Gabriel’s funeral. Guess I need to start reading the obits more regularly. Any of you birds know where I can go to pay my respects?”

  The Angel sang, in a voice like the ringing of a golden tuning fork, “Gabriel is gone, gone, gone. Oh, holy of holies, the Pleroma is bereft—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got that postcard. But thanks, kid. Anybody else?”

  One of the Principalities stretched its wings; they clanged together like church bells. Its voice sent lightning storms across the Pacific. “The Pleroma mourns for Gabriel. Our sorrow is boundless. All is sackcloth, the fairest starlight naught but the bitterest ash. Do as thou wouldst.”

  I recognized its voice. We’d met a long time ago. It didn’t recognize me. I chose not to complicate things.

  “Look,” I said. “Gabby was a pal. I’d like a chance to say a private good-bye.” I made a show of lighting another pill. Took my time with it. Only after the smoke wreathed the heavens, tarnishing wings and stinging bleeding eyeballs, did I continue. “’Course, without knowing where to go, I’m stuck hanging around here.”

  That sent the Ps and the Archangel into a huddle. Seemed nobody wanted to talk about the poor guy. How annoying would I have to get before they coughed up some answers? My next course of action was to sing alo
ng with them. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  The heavens wheeled. A star died while I waited; its cobalt corona sent a gamma-ray shimmer cascading across the MOC. I occupied myself by writing blue words in the rain of neutrinos sleeting through the Earth. Too bad none of the monkey wise-heads would ever pick up on it.

  Finally, the Archangel spoke up. “Gabriel’s Magisterium exists inside the teleological conundrum of unbeing. It is the tremor of awe begat by contemplation of perfect, empty eternity.”

  As a rule I don’t talk to Archangels unless I can’t avoid it. They speak by projecting thought through that extra peeper. Imagine shaking hands with a midwife right after an emergency C-section. And then imagine it’s not your hand smeared with gore but the inside of your mind.

  But I had what I needed, so I let it ride.

  “Thanks. This is real ducky of you.”

  They went back to their glee club antics almost before the sentiment crossed my lips. “Holy, holy, holy!” they sang. I didn’t stick around for the rest. I already knew the lyrics to this ditty. It wasn’t a favorite.

  In the Pleroma, the shortest distance between two points is to contemplate a reality where that distance is zero. And so I did. Teleology? Sounded to me like Gabby had been spending too much time with the navel-gazing crowd. I was sorry to hear it. Always thought he was smarter than that. But I followed little Redeye’s instructions, thought long and hard about primal and final causes in a universe perpetually empty both forward and backward, and before I knew it I was speeding like an arrow toward a foreign Magisterium.

  And then I bounced off.

  The impact spent me spinning into distant corners of the Pleroma. But I hurried back before I got slapped with a trespassing rap.

  Having learned my lesson, I didn’t go diving headfirst the second time around. Instead, I decided to use my brain and my peepers. Even so it took a bit of effort before I could perceive a faint fuzziness rippling through the ontological boundary to Gabby’s digs. That was a sign of recent alterations. By then I had a fairly good idea what I’d find, but still I looked more closely.