Bad Cow

by Andrew Hindle

  “Berkenshaw doesn’t know a lot about what happens in his company,” Fagin said. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” Ash echoed quietly.

  The silence stretched out again.

  “Perhaps it would be best,” Fagin went on after twenty or thirty seconds had crawled by, “if we discuss what has happened with your sisters,” he waited again, but Ash sat in silence, shifting her legs and shoulders and torso slowly and imperceptibly, limbering up. “Roon, as you know, is dead. You have taken care of her killer, I understand. Your other sister, furthermore, has taken my lifetime friend and ally from me. Fury, the Demon, is dead. I’m deeply saddened by this, even though for the past few hundred years she had succumbed more and more to a … malady. She was rarely lucid, and almost certainly saw death as a blessing even as she feared it. You, at least, have the benefit of knowing you will see your sister again. Both of your sisters – I do not know of Ariel’s ultimate fate, but think it is safe to assume she is dead, or trapped far from here. Still, you will be reunited.”

  “Because we’re immortal Firstmade Disciples who get new bodies instead of really dying,” Ash said.

  “Yes,” Fagin said. When the silence once again extended to his discernible discomfort, he let a brief chuckle fuzz through the barrier. “Did you know,” he went on, “we recently took possession of a piece of correspondence that we believe was written to you – at least, to one of your previous incarnations – by a close friend back at the end of the Twentieth Century? We found it in the same location, the Ballywise Tavern in the Fremantle Archipelago, at the same time as we secured a quantity of the hyper-stable fluid I have always thought of as liquid God-space,” he smiled whimsically. “The final resting place of our mutual friend Augustus Sloane, as well as of some version of your previous incarnation. I don’t understand it myself,” he smiled, stuck the smouldering cigar between his teeth and reached inside his other lapel, opposite the one where he’d kept his cigar. He paused, reached up and took the cigar back out of his mouth. “Would you like to hear the missive left for your past self?” he asked puffing smoke against the panel.

  Ash looked up at the Demon for a moment, then turned back to contemplation of her feet. This was a familiar approach – painfully dated, almost cheesy in its sadism. If she asked not to hear the letter, he would read it. If she expressed an interest, he would withhold it. The lesson was that her desires meant nothing, and her captors' power was absolute.

  It was an old technique. ASEAN Union Special Forces tended not to bother with such cheap theatrics. She ignored him, and after a few moments he took his hand out of his coat and went back to the cigar, puffing smoke through a slightly rueful chuckle.

  “And then there’s the prototype,” he went on, changing tack. “You’ll be pleased to hear it has begun to operate, so far only in a testing capacity, but I understand our scientists are flummoxed.”

  “Flummoxed,” Ash echoed.

  “The power output, completely devoid of waste byproducts … it’s like nothing they’ve ever experienced. They’re terribly excited. They’re fairly sure they’ll be able to rig up large-scale distribution hubs around the converter, and reverse engineer more of them from the prototype and the schematics we acquired.”

  “Mm hm,” Ash said, not having to fake disinterest particularly hard. From what she understood about the system, the converter Sloane had stolen wouldn’t have begun to work without the Destarion enabling the power link. Whether energy was now passing through from outside the veil, or Roon’s Godfang was feeding the Earth from her own stockpiles, didn’t particularly matter. She took another slow look around the cell, looking for evidence of how long she might have been there – or where exactly 'there' was. She let her eyes linger on the basin, as though plumbing was more interesting than Mercibald Fagin.

  “You may also be curious as to what happens next,” Fagin said, and went on without waiting for a response he must have guessed he wasn’t going to get by now. “We’re going to keep you here until we’ve identified the new Third Disciple, and ascertained the fate of the First. Then you will be reunited. Out of sync, perhaps, but–”

  “You really believe, don’t you, Mercy?” Ash cut across him softly, still looking at the sink. “You really believe that my sisters and I are immortal beings in human disguise, capable of rebirth into new bodies, new incarnations for all eternity.”

  “Obviously,” Fagin said, unease clear behind the impatience in his voice. “We don’t go to this sort of effort for just anyone–”

  “Then I’m going to tell you what happens next,” Ash said, turning to face him. Fagin’s grin faded around the cigar. By this point, an experienced professional would already have deactivated her sound transmission through the thick panel … but experienced though he might be, Mercy was no professional. “Next, Mercy, you start to run. And you don’t stop.”

  “Why ever would I–”

  Ash rose smoothly, feeling a mild lightheadedness that probably would have left her frail or unsteady on her feet if she’d been unprepared for it. Her abrupt and dangerously rigid bearing, as she padded across the floor, didn’t just silence the Demon – it made him take a step back from the panel. This, Ash reflected in something akin to sympathy, was the exact moment he utterly lost control of the interview.

  “You know, if your whole crazy belief system is true, that you can’t kill us,” she said placidly. “We will always come back, and we will never forget you. It’s already too late. Fling yourself into that bathtub full of sludge you pulled out of the Ballywise. My sisters and I will find a way to drag you back. Flee into God-space until you get eaten by that stuff growing inside you. My sisters and I will hunt you down. You will never get away from us, Mercy. You may have thought you knew what it meant to have an implacable foe. You were mistaken.

  “Run away, Mercibald,” she said, stepping right up to the thick panel. “Run and hide and never show your face again. Because from now, until the end of days, you are the wanted enemy of Firstmades.”

  Mercy stood for a moment, his cigar sagging slowly in his mouth. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out of sight.

  Ash smiled.

  III

  (SATURDAY NIGHT, 10:00 P.M.

  AUGUST 12TH, 2378 AD)

  The Floating City sounded a lot grander and more lovely than it was, since what it was floating on was a salt lake at best, a slightly runny landfill at middle, and at worst…

  Well. Tonight it wasn’t at its worst, but the Floating City was most definitely ripe. The thin wind howling in across the salt flats carried the smell of what the locals whimsically called ‘seaweed’ but which was, in fact, food scraps and sewage and more than a few dead bodies dissolving in high-salinity water. If the clubs and casinos and hotels hadn’t all been hermetically sealed and run off their own space-station-like environmental systems, the whole thing powered by the great clean silvery spire of the distribution hub at its centre, the city would be uninhabitable.

  The hotel-casino he was currently staying in was named Viva, and at seventy-five years of age it was the second-oldest establishment in the Floating City next to the hub itself. The city had been around longer, but its many establishments were in a state of constant flux, renewal, searching for that elusive perfect setup. Hotel-casino Viva’s name was intended as a reminder – a desperately sad reminder – that this city, or at least its predecessor that had lived and breathed on this ground since before the Floods, had been called Las Vegas.

  Nothing much had changed in the intervening centuries, except that if you wandered too far from the city limits today you were less likely to die of thirst or exposure, and more likely to drown or get eaten by … well, something. These days there were even Vampires in the vast swamp that surrounded the Floating City. Humans hadn’t managed to resurrect the cow – although they’d genetically modified a breed of pig that everyone seemed to think was close enough – but the Vampires had bounced right back. And they weren’t even the worst th
ings out there.

  He loved the place. He made it a habit to visit at least two or three times a decade.

  He’d eaten – no, he’d gorged, in the time-honoured style of the Flood-Sundered States – and was utterly replete, although he could and would eat more before the dawn. The bright lights and the bone-rattling noise and the million exotic scents to be found even within the atmosphere-controlled bubbles washed over him. This – this was a city.

  Yes. He would gorge one more time, he thought with lazy satisfaction, and then have a Ra-shiner as a nightcap. One tangible benefit of the modern day was the flavour and stimulating narcotic effect recreational drugs added to an otherwise boring menu. A Ra-shiner would keep him smiling for nights. The endorphins and hormones alone…

  The endless jabber of the crowd faded a little, so that the music could be heard as more than just a beat and an occasional chord in the background. It was an old waltz, a ballad, set to a modern style he didn’t care to recognise.

  The bloody hand shall take its stand

  When Oræl rides to war,

  And blinding sands devour the land

  When Oræl rides to war.

  The crowd parted around a strikingly mismatched couple, the throngs of humans barely seeming to notice them even as they accorded them space the Viva’s main bar could ill afford. He noticed them, of course. They were the reason he was here, after all.

  Gabriel, squat and broad and dressed in a burn-spotted and rather shabby blue robe. What little skin he left exposed was covered in long dark hair, his knuckles practically thumped the carpet as he walked, and his sooty pair of ragged wings swept out behind him like twin smoke stacks, impossible to ignore and yet apparently unworthy of comment.

  All hope will die while justice bleeds,

  The good will rise and do dark deeds

  When Oræl rides to war.

  No … not unworthy of comment, that wasn’t quite true. A few of the more sober and insightful humans glanced in Gabriel’s direction even as they stepped aside, looking puzzled or troubled or surprised for a moment, then shrugging it off with murmured remarks. Costume, he heard, and performer. Carnival. Cabaret. Grotesquery. Familiar fare.

  And then there was Laetitia.

  She was as exquisite as ever, although the never-ending churn of fashion and beauty trends had left her almost as remarkable as Gabriel with her silken tresses, elegant face and neck, her athletic but healthily-rounded figure. Humanity was going through another phase of starvation worship, and all the most ‘beautiful’ people looked like toothpicks with mange. He loathed it, even as he adored her. He’d adored her from a safe distance for so many years.

  He watched the pair until they’d strolled on into the crowd and were gone from sight. Then he sighed sentimentally and looked down at his glass. His hands, elegant silver-chrome microprosthetics that responded as readily as his own hands once had – and possessed infinitely greater potential for built-in gadgetry – tapped the expensive crystal in a pensive little rhythm.

  Could nobody else feel it? Could they not feel it coming?

  Could Laetitia not feel it? Could Gabriel not?

  He wondered if he should go after them. Break the centuries-old prohibition, confront them both and hang the consequences. He wouldn’t touch Laetitia, wouldn’t make any sort of move towards her that Gabriel could misconstrue, but after so long, even the simple act of walking up to the pair was enough to send a chill of panic through him.

  The tinkle of his metal fingers accelerated on his glass. What would he do, if he asked them whether they could feel the change that was approaching, feel the world straining in its skin, feel the harmonics ringing the distribution hubs as though they were giant mirror-glass tuning forks … what if he asked them, and they looked back at him as if he was mad?

  Or worse, a stranger?

  He didn’t think he would be able to handle it. And after all, there was time. Probably. And if he was wrong about that … he shrugged to himself, turned, and smiled at the three young women beside him. They smiled back, but didn’t pause in their excited, bouncing dance in time with music barely audible over the roar of massed humanity.

  The true shall spurn that which they learn,

  The dead will yearn…

  Canon leaned forward.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” he called, amplifying his voice just short of the unnatural. When they looked at him again, with slightly more attention to detail this time, he smiled widely. “How would you like to get drunk?”

  The lost return,

  The tide will turn,

  The world will burn when Oræl rides to war.

  THE END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Well. This book exploded on me and wound up being three books, but they only really hung together – sort of – as a single volume. I couldn’t in good conscience release them as three 200-page bizarro novels and expect anyone to go for it. Plus, I’d need to do three times the work, and so would my amazing cover artist Gabriel (see that segue? That was a nice segue), for whose brilliant efforts I daily thank my lucky stars. I never dared hope that my faithful Archangel Gabriel – the other Gabriel to make this book special – would ever come to life in an illustration like this. Kudos to Mr. Gajdoš for stepping out of his space art comfort zone and making it look easy.

  But really, this author’s note belongs to the editors.

  Janica, Timo, Zachary, Christina and Kristiina – thank you. Talk about above and beyond the call of duty. These saints of the editorial art were not expecting an 800-page doorstop, with only a month or so to read the whole thing, much less offer feedback. But offer it they did, and it’s thanks to them that you’re holding in your hands something even vaguely resembling a coherent story. And, well, let’s be honest. The subject matter, plot and general feeling of Bad Cow, after eight novels and four novellas of verbose but ultimately simple sci-fi … it’s a challenge. And one they rose to admirably. It’s one thing to be a critic when the story’s working nicely and all you need to do is point out typos. It’s another thing entirely to be a critic when the story is a monster, equal parts boring tangential exposition and utterly preposterous world-building, both of which the author clearly adores. And to then look into his bright puppy-dog eyes and smack him with the rolled-up newspaper of readerly expectations. Ah yes.

  I’d also like to thank my brother-in-law Fredrik, aka. Vuta, for his help with parts of this story. His insights into military training, the military mind, and the ways you can kill an unwary butler with nothing more than a swift rap on the back of the neck … the story, again, would be all the poorer without your assistance, sir, and I have no doubt I will need it again before the story’s told.

  Yes, it was a long process, extended by several months. Not only did the story turn out to be bigger, and the editing more extensive, than expected, but in the summer of 2017 Worldcon happened in Helsinki for the first time, bringing that whole wonderful universe within reach. A lot of time and effort went into my time there, and while we’re unlikely to make it to the States for 2018, Dublin 2019 is looking solid. See you there?

  All in all, I was surprised and delighted by this book, which I had never really expected to write. I had a lot of fun and I can only hope you enjoyed reading it, but I know this was a challenging tale. More world-building / philosophy than action / adventure. It forms a cornerstone of my story universe – my urverse – that, as I say, I really wasn’t expecting to write. And the thing about stones is, they tend to be heavy.

  And the funny thing is, a lot of it was already written. Part One, the strange tale of the Archangel Barry, has been waiting some 20 years to reach completion, and with any luck there’s two or three readers out there who enjoyed the serial novel I started on my very first website all those years ago, and will be happy – or sad – to witness it finally seeing the light of day. Albeit filtered, if you will, through stained glass.

  Part Three, now, I also started to write in serial format – on my blog this time,
Hatboy's Hatstand (www.hatboy.blog), under the title Way Backstory. Because … well, that’s what it was. The readers of that story were mostly my esteemed editors, and I know they’ve been waiting to see how it turned out (and they were outraged! And they still don’t know what’s really going on!). All I can say is, I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry.

  Part Two, then, was really the only completely new story, and it needed a lot of hedge-trimming. See, I don’t care for a lot of classic science fiction and fantasy that seems incapable of presenting non-human cultures as anything but generic, single-society, everybody wearing the same shirts. But as soon as you start introducing cultural complexity, traditions, distinct social varieties into it, to make alien races more like human races, it gets bloated and – probably, to a lot of readers – dull. Oh well, too bad. I made what compromises I could there.

  Anyway, there it is and that’s why I’m thanking my editorial team so deeply and sincerely. The first foundation stone is set, and others will follow, and it’s the hard work of my editors that made it happen. An even deeper and more sincere thank you should go to Janica, my dear Mrs. Hindle, for putting up with my moods and my absences and my constant distraction. You, and our amazing daughters, are true heroes. Anyone who even slightly enjoys my writing should send you flowers. Or, you know, something that’s not just going to die in a vase.

  Nothing much remains but a couple of notes I feel obliged to share with you, just out of interest.

  A lot changed between 1990 and 1995, the latter being the year I finished high school and began personally to become a little bit more aware of the world around me. As a result, I had to do a bit of research. And research is generally not something I do.