Unsong

by Scott Alexander

  A bolt of lightning struck the stage. Multicolored light blossomed in alien geometries. Five weapons in five pairs of hands melted into metallic sludge.

  “I AM SOHU WEST,” said the glowing figure in the middle of the light, and the glow faded until they could see her, ringed by symbols and powers beyond their ken. “I MEAN YOU NO HARM. I HAVE COME TO TALK TO ERICA LOWRY. REVEAL YOURSELF.” A wave of hard light swept over the crew, settling on them, highlighting their invisible forms.

  “Okay!” shouted Clark Deas. “I have feckin had it with this bollocks. I was quiet through the flour. I was quiet through the dogs. I was even quiet through the feckin ball bearings. But feckin Sohu West? This is completely ridiculous.”

  “Mr. Deas,” said Dylan, rising from his director’s chair, “when you joined BOOJUM, you told me you were ready for anything. Shall I take it you wish to amend that statement?”

  “I’m with Clark, actually,” said Brenda. “I appreciate what you’re doing, and the special effects are neat, but we’ve only got a few hours to train, and I feel like we need to concentrate on plausible threats. So far we’ve gotten ball bearings, dogs, and now Cometspawn, and we haven’t even dealt with, like, a normal platoon of security guards or anything.”

  “My dear Ms. Burns, I already know you can deal with a platoon of guards. The point of this exercise was to test your mettle. In a real fight, are you going to stop what you’re doing and protest to me that what’s happening is ‘unfair’ or ‘implausible’? Or are you going to deal with whatever Nature can throw out at you?”

  “I AM SOHU WEST,” said the scintillating figure amidst the storm of light again, insistently. “I MEAN YOU NO HARM, BUT I DEMAND THAT ERICA LOWRY REVEAL HERSELF. I COME BEARING A MESSAGE FROM HER FRIEND, AARON SMITH-TELLER.”

  “The hell?” Erica asked Dylan. “I didn’t even tell you that name. Where did you hear about Aaron? And what does he have to do with any of this. I feel like it kind of breaks the realism, you know? Suspension of disbelief? Sohu West caring about Aaron is about as likely as her caring what leftovers I put in my fridge last week.”

  “I AM ACTUALLY SOHU WEST,” said Sohu. “THIS IS NOT A TEST. ERICA, I NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU.”

  “Look,” said Mark McCarthy. “Dylan’s obviously not going to listen to reason. The faster we get through this whole Sohu thing, the faster we’re getting out of here.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Clark. “I shoot Sohu with my gun.” He pointed the melted metal stick at Sohu. “Bang. Bang.”

  Sohu stared at him like he was an idiot.

  “You can’t shoot the gun!” protested Dylan. “Sohu already melted the guns!”

  “I use my backup gun,” said Clark.

  “You have a backup gun?” asked Erica.

  Now Clark looked at her like she was an idiot. He removed his backup gun from his boot and shot Sohu. The bullet collided with her shield of light, fizzled into nothing.

  “Really?” Clark asked Dylan angrily.

  Erica stepped forward. “I am Erica Lowry, friend of Aaron Smith-Teller. I represent America! I am not afraid of you! Speak, but know that we are BOOJUM, and even Cometspawn cannot make us afraid!”

  “No, look,” said Mark McCarthy. “You can’t just make ritual magic happen by saying exciting-sounding things. You have to prepare it, you have to know what you’re doing.”

  “You can totally make placebomancy happen by saying exciting-sounding things,” said Dylan. “I say the girl is doing a good job. Keep going.”

  The glowing cloud around Sohu diminished in intensity. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” she said. “But your friend Aaron discovered a Name, and it spread through the kabbalistic link to his friend Ana, and then he realized it must have traveled through another kabbalistic link to you. It’s in your unconscious, waiting until you need it, just like the Spectral Name was at first. I need to get it. Will you let me into your mind?”

  “Don’t do it,” said Brenda. “It’s probably some kind of trap.”

  “Nah, knowing Dylan it’s probably some sort of stupid placebomantic metaphor,” said Clark. “Probably a Christ myth. Erica’s supposed to offer complete surrender, and then she’s going to come back more powerful than anyone could have possibly imagined.”

  “How is this helping us train for a realistic threat?” Brenda continued to protest.

  “Okay,” said Erica. “I let Sohu access my mind.”

  For a second, she stared into the Cometspawn’s eyes. Something invisible passed between them.

  “You’re married,” said Sohu. “To Dylan Alvarez.”

  “Do you guys think I should admit it?” she asked Clark and Brenda.

  “I say deny everything,” said Brenda.

  “Deny it!” said Clark. “Maybe she’ll keep some respect for you!”

  “I deny being married to Dylan,” Erica told Sohu. But the Cometspawn had already floated over to Dylan’s director chair. “MIHAN-TAIG-SAROS-ATHTEN-GAHANOR…” she started. The Confounding Name. Dylan’s eyes glassed over briefly.

  “There,” she said. “Pretty sure the Universe owes me big for that one. And you too.” She spoke the same word to Erica. “Be glad I don’t have time to deal with whatever else is going on here. But I got what I needed.”

  “What?” asked Erica.

  “The true Vital Name!” said Sohu, who turned to light and vanished.

  For a second, all was quiet. Then: “That was the most feckin’ pointless thing I have ever had to sit through,” protested Clark.

  “Just keeping you on your toes!” said Dylan. “I would say your preparation for a sudden manifestation of Cometspawn is a C minus at best.”

  “Just glad to be done with this mess,” said Brenda.

  “Done? My dear Ms. Burns, we have not yet begun to fight!” Dylan Alvarez sat down on the director’s chair again. “The Assassination Of Malia Ngo. Take nineteen. Having previously tested themselves against ball bearings, dogs, jeweled idols, and an immortal quarter-archangel eight-year-old girl seeking secret Names of God, the intrepid heroes of BOOJUM stop complaining, drop their grievances against their wise and exceptionally handsome leader, and prepare once again to save the world from the plutocratic tyranny of UNSONG. Lights…camera…” He pulled the noise machine out from underneath his chair. “YEEYEEYEEYEEYEEYEEYEE!”

  Chapter 60: O Rose, Thou Art Sick

  There is free memory available into which we can design our programs, to increase the trespass of Israel.

  — kingjamesprogramming.tumblr.com

  September 3, 1999

  Magdalena, New Mexico

  It could have been that she was pretty once. Now her face was sunken, her head hairless. Her arm was hung in a cast, and she looked terribly frail.

  “You’re the ritual magician?” she asked. “But you look so…”

  “So young? Twenty. And that’s ‘apprentice ritual magician’ to you. Technically I’m not even allowed to do consultations on my own. And yet here we are.”

  “I asked a friend for the best ritualist in Greater Colorado who was, you know…”

  “Unencumbered by ethics? Well, like I said, here we are.”

  “Yes, that.” The young lady wrinkled her nostrils. Typical stuck-up rich girl, he thought to himself, wanting his decidedly black-market services but still holding him in contempt for providing them. “What’s your name?”

  “Lola Rivers.”

  It sounded fake, but he didn’t care. Anyone who gave their real name in a business like this was either a fool, or else so arrogant as to defy belief.

  “And I’m Dylan Alvarez. Nice to meet you, Ms. Rivers. What can I do for you?”

  Not that he didn’t know. Head as smooth as an apple, frame that looked like she could stand to gain forty pounds or so, desperate look in her eyes. And here she was, seeking illicit magical help. Cancer, that was what it was. He could see it from a mile away.

  “I want you to teach me to summon demons.”

  Well, that was unexpected
. He always liked a change of pace.

  “Which demon, exactly, are we talking about?”

  “Thamiel. The Lord of Demons.”

  “Hoo boy, lady, you go all the way to the top. Or bottom, as the case may be. Look, I’m as unencumbered by ethics as the next guy, but I gotta ask you – you sure you want to do that?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked familiar. Alvarez squinted. If she had a little more flesh on her bones, a bit more hair, then…he still wouldn’t be able to place her. Damn.

  “I understand a summoning doesn’t really bring him here, right? Not in a way where he could destroy anything later, or infiltrate the city?”

  “That’s mostly true.” He took a copy of the Greater Key Of Solomon off his shelf. Then a few other grimoires. The Goetia. The Sacred Magic of Abramelin The Mage. The Antichrist’s Cookbook. None were relevant to the issue at hand, but he was a ritualist; he played to an audience. Opening a grimoire was a way of saying hey, I’m serious about this demonology thing.

  “Demons of that caliber are in Yetzirah or Briah already; for all we know Thamiel projects into Atziluth. Hell, they say he’s a facet of God. When you’re at that level, space is just a big game. They’ll play by the rules, but a summoning changes those rules a little. You get an aspect. You could think of it as a shade. It’s not like Thamiel starts off in Siberia or Hell and then you summon him and he’s in Colorado. You allow the parts of him that are everywhere to take on a little more shape.”

  “And how dangerous is that?”

  “The good news is that technically he has no power except that which you give him. The bad news is that there’s a crack in everything. Just like there’s no unpickable lock, there’s no flawless soul. If you’re escalating all the way up to Thamiel himself, there will be holes in you big enough to let him in, and from there he’ll do what he wants.”

  “But other people, bystanders, they’ll be safe?”

  “God no. They’ll be safe from Thamiel. They won’t be safe from you when he’s done with you.”

  “I appreciate your candor.”

  “At your service. Dylan Alvarez, the West’s greatest expert in demonology, demononomy, and demonography. Tell all your friends.”

  She didn’t smile. The two word phrase he would have used was “steely resolve”. Someone who seemed like she always knew what she was doing. And yet someone thinking about summoning Thamiel. Very curious.

  “Can you give me a ritual that will work?”

  “Lady, I can give you twenty. The bottleneck to summoning Thamiel isn’t that it’s difficult, it’s that you would have to be a freaking moron to try.”

  He watched for a reaction. She didn’t give him one.

  “Look, Ms. Rivers, I’m not blind. You’ve got cancer. People with cancer do some desperate things. So go see the quack who says he can cure you with mushrooms and dried beetle legs. Drink a homeopathic solution or two. But don’t summon Thamiel.”

  “Again, I appreciate your candor.”

  “You’ve already paid me. I get the same amount either way.”

  “Send me the ritual by Monday. I’ll give you a PO box you can use. In fact, if there are twenty, send me extras, in case the first doesn’t work. I can pay you more.”

  “I’ll send you the paperwork. But Ms. Rivers. I’m serious. Don’t do this. Your health, your life, whatever it is you want from him – it’s not worth it.”

  “I think it will be,” said Ms. Rivers. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Alvarez.”

  Before he could respond, the lady was gone.

  “Well, that was the least boring thing to happen to me today,” said Dylan, and he started copying summoning rituals.

  Chapter 61: And Ololon Said, Let Us Descend Also, And Let Us Give Ourselves To Death In Ulro Among The Transgressors

  He has a devil-may-care-so-let-us-make-every-effort-to-be-considerate-of-his-infernal-highness’s-feelings attitude.

  — Steven Kaas

  September 20, 1999

  Colorado Springs

  [Content warning: Thamiel chapter. Sorry for short chapter. Story will pick up again next week as we move into final arc.]

  Midnight falls in the Garden of the Gods, and Robin West stands alone beneath the cold stars.

  She draws a circle on the ground, names various angels; not your better class of angels, but the sort of angels who hang around the seedier parts of Heaven and murmur about how they “don’t want no trouble” whenever the gaze of the Almighty falls upon them. She sprinkles the ground with various libations. Says some words in some languages that are not so much dead as not-talked-about-in-polite-company. Some more sigils.

  A tall dark man appears in the circle. A crown of fire is on his head. His facial features are oddly indistinct. No matter how directly she looks at them, she cannot shake the feeling that she is seeing them through her peripheral vision.

  “A woman,” he says, “young, but with sunken face. Hairless. Too thin. A terminally ill patient, driven to summon Thamiel, Lord of Demons, in her desperation.”

  He paused a second for effect.

  “…is what I would say if I were a moron. I am Prince of Lies, Robin West. Don’t ever try to deceive me.” He stepped out of the magic circle, strode up close to her. “These things don’t actually bind me, you know. The books of black magic say they do, but nobody ever thinks to ask who wrote the books of black magic.”

  “I want to make a deal,” whispered Robin.

  “Good,” said Thamiel. “I like deals. But just so you know, my BATNA is killing you, wearing your body like a suit, and slowly poisoning the lives of everyone you have ever loved until they scream for death.”

  “You’d do anything to destroy my husband, wouldn’t you?”

  “If you’re going to ask me to sell you my soul, I will have to cut off this conversation right here.”

  “No,” said Robin. “All I’m saying is – if he knew I went into this willingly, it would break his heart.”

  “I’m listening,” said Thamiel. Then, “Wait, no, I’m not listening, too low-bandwidth, I’m clawing the information directly out of your mind.” He grabbed her head and pulled, not quite hard enough to snap her neck. His hands were scalding hot. Robin screamed. Thamiel didn’t let go. Then, suddenly, he said “Interesting!”, and relaxed his grip.

  Robin panted in pain and exhaustion.

  “I am contractually required to inform you that you will lose your immortal soul and burn in Hell for all eternity.”

  “I understand.”

  “You really don’t,” said Thamiel. “You really, really don’t.” He mulled it over for a moment. Then he said “Nope. No deal.”

  Robin’s shock was palpable. “What?”

  “Too easy. You’re plotting something.”

  “How could I be plotting something by offering you my soul for eternity?!”

  “I don’t trust the Comet King. I don’t trust the people who trust the Comet King. And I definitely don’t trust the people whom the Comet King trusts.” He kicked a foot on the ground, and sparks flew from it. “How do I know you’re not trying to infiltrate Hell, use some kind of special Name once you’re in there to bring the whole place crumbling down?”

  “The Shem haMephorash? You know my husband is the only person who can say that without burning up or going mad halfway through.”

  “True, true. But something doesn’t add up. You don’t add up, Robin West. What are you plotting?”

  He grabbed her head again with one hand, wrenched it back, stared into her eyes.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’m afraid that’s not much of a plot. I’m not sure I would call it a plot at all. A hope? A wish? A desperate attempt to deny obvious reality?”

  Robin tried to answer something, but couldn’t make herself speak.

  Thamiel frowned. “But still, no deal.”

  “What?”

  “Offer me something else.”

  “What else is left to offer?”

  “Oh. De
finitely the right question, there. Let’s see. I’ve got your soul. What’s left after the soul? Ah yes. The body. Make love to me, Robin West.”

  She stepped backwards. “What?”

  “You said it. I would do anything to hurt your husband. I want to grind him down and break his heart and rot his soul. So, make love to me.” He held out his arms for her, laughing.

  “Fine,” she said. “But not like that. Show me your true form.”

  The laughter stopped. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What would you possibly…”

  “So that nobody will ever say I did it because I was deluded. I’ll do it, but show me your true form.”

  The tall dark man began to melt. A misshapen figure, too-tall, with a second head on his shoulders, locked in a perpetual scream. The sound of buzzing flies.

  “Your true form.”

  “Any truer and I stop being in space-time. It’s this or nothing.”

  Robin started to take off her clothes. The buzz of the flies was louder than anything she had ever heard before. Every tree in the garden wilted at once. The bright rocks turned black. The stars fled to the edges of the sky.

  Robin West made love to the Lord of Demons.

  When it was over, in between the waves of pain crashing through her body and the nightmare visions crashing through her head, he whispered “The day he returns. At sunset.”

  “So soon? Can’t it be later?”

  “You have nothing left to bargain with. Sunset. Expect me.”

  And then he disappeared into smoke.

  She lay there, in the Garden of the Gods, naked and alone, on the foul sulfur-scented dead grass, and it was not until morning that she picked herself up and returned to the palace.

  Chapter 62: That The Wide World Might Fly From Its Hinges

  Thou hast been faithful in a very interesting way.

  — kingjamesprogramming.tumblr.com

  Afternoon, May 14, 2017

  Citadel West