Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories

by Alex Shvartsman

  With a heavy heart, I launched the incantation program. The spell-casting machine whirred to life, lines of code and lines of arcane symbols scrolling down my monitor screens. I worked feverishly, activating various scripts and making on-the-fly adjustments. For a time, I was able to push everything but the pure challenge of the code out of my mind.

  Even in a strange situation like this one, I felt in my own element. Computers and codes are logical, predictable. They aren’t swayed by emotion, by desire, by addiction. I always knew where I stood with code, because I was capable of understanding its nature.

  One by one, the layers of arcane protections fell aside like so many network firewalls. My scripts tore relentlessly through the veil of the physical universe. Then the last of the protections gave in, and I had full access. Interpreted by my computer, I could see spread before me the fate of every living being in the cosmos.

  “We did it!” I shouted. “We’re in.”

  “I knew you could do it, my friend,” Adler said. “Make these modifications quickly now, before our meddling is noticed.” And he handed me a list of his own.

  There were a dozen names on the page. People I didn’t know, faceless individuals whose future Adler wanted altered and whose fate was now literally in my hands. I scanned through the list. Sheila Horowitz wasn’t on it.

  Adler hadn’t lied to me, not exactly. He must’ve let me follow him that time so that I’d draw my own conclusions. Still, he was a devious and underhanded man, just like Singh said. Then again, he didn’t kidnap my brother and hold him hostage to secure my cooperation.

  I tried to decide between the two lists as precious moments ticked away. Adler or Singh—the man who’d obtained my help by cunning, or the man who’d done so by the unsubtle threat of force—whose vision of the future did I dare unleash upon the world?

  In the background, Adler was saying something, urging me on. I ignored him. Whatever supernatural forces controlled our lives, our fates, this decision was mine to make alone. Free will—my will—truly mattered in that one moment, perhaps the most important moment of my existence.

  So I used the hard-won access to do the only thing that made sense to me. I crashed the system.

  Billions of records, a multitude of pre-ordained paths, were permanently erased. I had no way to know if God, or angels, or whatever passed for an intelligent designer in this universe, would eventually rebuild the fate database. I hoped not.

  There was very little time before Adler would realize what I’d done. I used it to get rid of the scripts and programs I wrote. I had no way of knowing what Adler would do once he found out. Would I survive his reaction? Would Singh release my brother or kill him out of spite? I’d taken a terrible risk to do the right thing and I could only hope for the best, knowing that whatever happened, the future was in flux, no longer predetermined by anyone.

  If he survived, my brother would find the inner strength to overcome his addiction, or he would not. Sheila’s cancer would go into remission, or it would not. Adler and Singh and billions of others would make everyday decisions, struggle and scheme, win and lose, and do all of it on their own. They truly had free will now.

  And as I reformatted the spell-casting machine’s hard drive so that no one could ever use it again, I took a small comfort in the hope that my decision was the last choice ever forced upon humanity by somebody else.

  This story originally appeared in Galaxy’s Edge magazine.

  This is one of my all-time favorite stories I’ve written. In fact, I pushed back the release date of this book to make sure the exclusive rights would run their course and I’d able to include it.

  In the Hebrew alphabet, each letter is also a number. The practitioners of Kabbalah study the Torah through the prism of these numbers, looking to glimpse some additional insights into the meaning of its passages. And since anything that can be converted to numbers might also be calculated faster and more efficiently by computers, a spell-casting interface seemed like the natural next step.

  About The Author

  Alex Shvartsman was born in Odessa, Ukraine in 1975. He emigrated from the Soviet Union with his parents at the age of fourteen and settled in Brooklyn, New York where he now lives with his wife and son.

  Alex spent most of his adult life in the strategy gaming industry. He played Magic: The Gathering in over thirty different countries and for a long time held the world record for the most (21) Grand Prix top 8 finishes, a record it took another player almost a decade to break after Alex retired from playing the game professionally.

  In 2002 Alex opened his own game shop, Kings Games. It is currently the largest gaming center of its kind in New York City, and Alex continues to run it as his day job. In addition, Alex has been involved in game design, development, and organized play consulting for various companies. He was one of the designers of the award-winning Vs System trading card game, based on Marvel and DC comic book properties.

  A lifelong fan of science fiction, Alex set aside his literary aspirations for many years because he didn’t begin to speak English until he was a teenager, and wasn’t confident he would ever learn it well enough to write fiction. Fortunately, he finally gave it a try in 2010, and never looked back.

  Since 2010, Alex has sold over seventy original short stories to a wide range of magazines and anthologies. His fiction has been translated into Russian, Chinese, Spanish, Polish, and Romanian. He won the 2014 WSFA Small Press Award for Short Fiction. This is the first time the best of these stories have been collected in a single volume.

  Alex has edited a number of anthologies, including the critically acclaimed Unidentified Funny Objects annual anthology series of humorous science fiction and fantasy, Coffee: 14 Caffeinated Tales of the Fantastic, and Dark Expanse: Surviving the Collapse.

  Alex’s website is www.alexshvartsman.com and you can find him on Twitter at @AShvartsman.

  He finds writing about himself in third person rather strange.

  Bonus Content

  Bonus Content Foreword

  The following stories are bonus content. They aren’t included in the print version of this book. Think extras, like you might find on a DVD.

  I’m taking a bit of a chance sharing some of my older and possibly weaker stories with you and exposing my soft writer underbelly, so to speak. However, there’s a method to my madness.

  As a reader, I don’t want to miss anything from the authors whose writing I enjoy. I love the idea of having everything at my fingertips, in one handy volume. So as a writer, I want to offer my readers as complete a volume as I can manage. I couldn’t do that in the dead-tree version of the book, but thanks to the wonders of e-books, I’m able to share with you every story I’ve had published between 2010 and 2014 (which also had its rights revert to me in time for publication).

  Of course, I keep writing more stories. Even as you read this, there are multiple stories cued up at anthologies and magazines that are scheduled to be released in 2015 and 2016. But that’s okay. That’s what future collections are for!

  THE SKEPTIC

  His death was going to be televised. Ekram Patel squinted as he looked out into the auditorium past the powerful flood lights that bathed the stage. He was pleased to see no empty seats.

  Patel seemed an unremarkable man, of medium height, and just a bit overweight. A store-bought suit did not fit quite right; the jacket was bulging a bit once he sat down in the chair. It was a stark contrast to the tall, handsome man smiling easily at the audience from the other chair. Guru Malhar did so enjoy a chance to pose in front of a crowd. It was only a few weeks ago that the two of them squared off for the first time, in a small television studio of a regional cable network.

  The host of Punjab Daily was an up-and-comer in the world of Indian television. Although his show was not yet broadcast outside of the Punjab state, it was enjoyed by an ever-growing audience. His program was graced by politicians, Bollywood stars, and other celebrities who would normally only accept invitations fro
m programs aired on national television. Naturally, it was just a matter of time until Guru Malhar was scheduled to make an appearance.

  Malhar, too, was a rising star in his field. He was a faith healer, spiritual guide and general adviser to over a million people. Like most religious leaders he started out small, tending to a flock of a few dozen villagers. Word of his amazing abilities spread quickly to nearby farms, then to the town, and so on. Now, Malhar was on the verge of becoming one of the best-recognized gurus in India.

  The interview went very well. The host and Malhar enjoyed bouts of witty banter, both men experienced at eliciting the best response from their audience. A great many viewers tuned in because the guru promised to perform a miracle. He was going to create fire using only the power of his mind, right in front of the cameras.

  The show’s host did not gain his prominence by making life too easy for those who appeared on his program. Before the grand finale he introduced a surprise guest – Mr. Patel, the skeptic.

  “My name is Ekram Patel and I am one of the founding members of India’s Skeptic Society. It is the goal of our organization to debunk false claims of the supernatural, and promote logic and science in their stead.

  “Gurus, Yogi and Fakirs are nothing but charlatans who are after your money. They prey on the poor and uneducated. They take advantage of the gullible by using tricks and misdirection. There is no such thing as magic, and there is no shred of legitimacy to any of the supernatural claims Mr. Malhar has made here today.”

  Guru Malhar did not expect to be so attacked, but he hid his displeasure well. He waited patiently for Patel to finish the tirade and responded into the camera, not deigning to directly acknowledge his accuser.

  “Since the beginning of time there have been small-minded men who would deny the greatness of the mystic arts. Even Buddha himself was plagued by such unbelievers. You, my people, know better. Was it not I who returned the gift of sight to a boy with but a touch of my hand? Was it not I who only had to stomp my foot and a swarm of locusts dropped dead before they could reach the fields? Is it not I who channels the great Guru Nanak and through him knows all the secrets of the dead? Is it –”

  “These are nothing but cheap parlor tricks!” Patel cut off the guru’s boasts.

  Malhar’s face hardened, and while he struggled to maintain the calm façade, Patel could clearly tell the man was seething, for no one had dared interrupt him in years.

  “Everything you did can be replicated by science,” Patel pressed on. He turned toward the host. “Today, on this very show, he was supposed to start a fire in a pot just by staring at it. Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is indeed,” the host was happy to cooperate. His audience was getting quite a spectacle and other networks were going to be running clips from his show that evening for certain.

  “What if I were to tell you I can do the same thing? I will prove it if you bring me the same pot that Malhar here was going to use.”

  The guru was visibly angry, but the host waved off his protestations and the pot was brought in. Patel fumbled with it for a few seconds, then set it on top of a table and took a step back. Almost immediately a small puff of smoke appeared within. The smoke intensified and moments later a flame erupted from the bottom of the pot, almost a foot high.

  “You see, I can do this also, yet I am not a Guru or a Swami. It’s just science.” Patel produced a small vial from his sleeve.

  “The stuff in Malhar’s pot is a chemical compound called potassium permanganate. I poured in a few drops of glycerol from this container while I was setting up the pot. These two chemicals combust when they are mixed together. You can reproduce this so called miracle in any chemistry classroom.”

  Patel was very pleased with himself, but Guru Malhar was now furious. He stood up from his chair and pointed at Patel angrily, addressing him directly this time.

  “You may need earthly science to create pale replicas of my miracles, but my power comes from the gods themselves! If you spent your entire lifetime trying, you could not begin to comprehend my mystical wisdom. I can use my mind to kill a man and then bring him back to life! I can make it rain for a week or cause a drought that will last a season. Tremble before me!”

  “Talk is cheap,” Patel also got up from his seat. While he still was not eye to eye with the taller man, he defiantly stared back at him. “You say you can kill a man with your powers. Then do it. Go ahead and kill me, if you can.”

  That is how the events of this evening were set in motion. Confronted and asked to deliver on his own boasts made on live television, Malhar had no choice but to accept Patel’s challenge. Within days the whole country was talking about the upcoming showdown. When the agreed-upon date came, their meeting was set not in a recording studio but a huge theater with hundreds of people attending in person and millions more watching it live across all of India. Regular programming was canceled for this broadcast and the smiling host, who finally achieved his goal of going national, was presiding over everything.

  Many thought that Ekram Patel was committing suicide. Thousands of people wrote to him or stopped him on the street. Some were angry, some felt sorry that his stubbornness would be his undoing. Even the police had someone come by to confirm that Patel was a willing participant. They took his statement to make sure Malhar would not be charged as a murderer should he succeed. Patel was patient with all of them, using every opportunity to deliver his message of logic and science, and speak out against the likes of Malhar.

  The host gave the signal to begin. Malhar got up from his chair and walked over to Patel, who remained seated. A wave of excitement washed over the spectators and everyone seemed to be whispering to each other at once. Malhar raised his hand and waited for several seconds until the crowd was silent.

  Malhar began chanting mantras. At first it was a quiet recitation, almost a mumble. Over several minutes he got progressively louder until he was shouting, his rich baritone voice becoming hoarse and strained from the effort. The mantra was in some language that was not familiar to Patel. It sounded theatrically ancient and sinister but it did not cause Patel to lose his composure.

  It was much harder to ignore Malhar’s intense stare. The two of them did not break eye contact even for a moment since the chant began. Staring back into the mystic’s eyes Patel was now certain that the taller man genuinely believed he would succeed. The skeptic felt no pity for Malhar’s delusions – it only made him despise the guru more.

  Patel and his confederates had been working for years to curb the influence of cult leaders, astrologers, and anyone else seeking to take advantage of the people’s ignorance. During his quest Patel had to learn many of the common techniques yogis used to awe their followers. Feats like walking barefoot through fire or lying down on a bed of nails. He read books on applied psychology and watched recordings of stage magicians, eventually figuring out many of their techniques. He was ready for any direct confrontation but, in a country where millions did not have access to proper schooling or even television, he knew he was fighting an uphill battle.

  The guru kept shouting mantras. His hands traced arcane symbols through the air in front of Patel’s face. About ten minutes into it, the act was beginning to really take a toll on the mystic. He was drenched in sweat and his voice was beginning to crack, but he pressed on with the ritual.

  Patel was careful not to do anything that could later be interpreted as an unfair interruption. He didn’t want to help Malhar find some way of explaining away his failure. He didn’t remain entirely passive though. Patel rolled his eyes, smiled at the host and the audience and even yawned at one point. He did everything to demonstrate that he was feeling no ill effects at all.

  After a while longer the guru had changed tactics. He laid hands on Patel’s temples, ruffled his hair and traced symbols on his victim’s forehead. It was to no avail. Malhar could barely stand now. His hands were shaking and his chants were mere whispers. The guru pressed the palm of his right hand hard against
Patel’s heart, held it for several seconds and then staggered back as if he touched a live wire. He stood there for another moment staring in disbelief at his victim, then visibly slouched, the fight gone out of him. He turned around and took several steps with great effort back to his own chair.

  “The gods! Whatever gods he worships protect him,” Malhar groaned.

  “I am an atheist, sir. I worship no gods.” Patel got up from his seat and launched into another speech denouncing his would-be murderer. This was going to be a good day for the Skeptic Society.

  It was late evening by the time Patel finally made it back to his hotel room. He was exhausted by the ordeal but it was important to appear as completely unaffected by Malhar’s efforts as possible.

  This was far, far too close. Although it was clear from his technique that Malhar had no formal training at all, his natural ability exceeded anything Patel had expected. Patel reached into his pockets and began removing various charms and talismans that helped protect him against the arcane onslaught.

  Malhar would be discredited now, deprived of most followers and much money. More importantly, he would live on always doubting his own abilities – a handicap that will keep him from ever becoming a truly powerful rival. As an added benefit, even more people would remain blissfully ignorant of the Discipline, leaving Patel and his associates to operate with impunity.

  Patel unbuttoned his shirt and removed the thin platinum amulet that was covering his heart. The precious metal was corroded and curved and deep black marks were left upon it where Malhar had pressed his palm. Far too close, indeed.

  “The Skeptic” was the first short story I wrote when I decided to take writing seriously, back in March of 2010. It was based on a true story (well, maybe not the twist, but you never know, right?). There was indeed a guru so full of himself, that he accepted the challenge of killing his detractor on national television. Hilarity ensued, as can be witnessed in this YouTube video.