by Tom Holt
“You’re right, of course. I just worry, that’s all.”
“Course you do. You’re his father. Come and get it while it’s hot.”
Jay was a good cook—he could work miracles with a couple of loaves of bread and a few fish—but Dad didn’t seem to taste what he was eating. Understandable, but they’d been through all that. “Tell you what,” Jay said. “Tomorrow, let’s get up early and go try that place out beyond the electromagnetic reefs. They reckon there’s grllp out there thick as your wrist.”
“If you like, son.”
“Or we could hire a comet and go out after zbnsnorpak in the Oort cloud.”
“Sure. Why not?”
And that, Jay decided, was the problem with leisure. In order to enjoy a day off, there has to be something for it to be off from. But endless free time—free in this case meaning without charge, without price, therefore without value. Nothing to do, and for ever to do it in. Still, it had been Dad’s idea and his decision. His free will, in fact. “Anything else in the papers?”
Dad shook his head. “That Venturi Corporation stock we took as part of the deal,” he said, “just went up another three thousand and seventy-five points.”
Jay’s eyebrows rose. “In a week?”
“I guess that means we’re rich.”
“That’s nice.”
“Isn’t it?”
Dad took off his old fishing hat and looked at it. Not a rich man’s hat. It had been shabby right from the Beginning, and you could clearly see the marks where Dad had carelessly left it lying in the path of an advancing glacier. But money couldn’t buy that hat. It was a companion, more than that, a witness. “He could at least call,” Dad said sadly. “Or write.”
“Never much of a one for letters, our kid.”
“But he could call, just once in a while. Let us know how he’s getting on.”
Jay could smell danger. “If you want,” he said, “I’ll get on to Gabe, see if there’s any news.”
Dad shook his head. “They’d have let us know if anything had happened. No, it’d just be nice to hear from him, that’s all.”
“He’s just fine, Dad. Trust me.”
Dad shrugged. “Maybe that’s what’s bugging me,” he said. “The thought that Kevin’s there, and he’s doing fine without us. Maybe he was only too glad to see the back of me, same as the rest of them.”
Jay gave him a sad smile. “You know you don’t mean that.”
“No, I don’t suppose I do. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to pick up a phone.”
“You could call him.”
Dad frowned. “He made his choice,” he said. “He wanted to stay on.”
“Free will.”
“Exactly.”
Jay turned away and started scouring out the pan with a handful of dry grass. On Earth, under the Venturis, the phrase free will no longer had much meaning, unless followed by something like with every divorce when you instruct Wheeler, Moresby & Shark. Assuming they still had lawyers, or were they redundant too, along with the police and the jailers? Quite possibly. If so, he’d miss them, if only for the splash of colour they lent the world with their outrageous ingenuity. Who could forget the outfit who’d built the mile-long needle just opposite the gates of the Kingdom of Heaven? The eye on that thing was so big you could get an oil tanker through it, let alone a camel. You had to admire someone who could think like that.
“Haven’t heard from Nicky, either.”
“I guess he’s busy.”
“Sure.” Dad scowled at his float. There had been a time when his slightest frown would have parted the waters in a flash, cleaving a channel through water and rock right down to the magma, but not now, not here. Here and now he was just another expat, filling in time and hassling the fish. “Never thought I’d live to see the day when I’m jealous of the Prince of Darkness because he’s busy. Doesn’t seem right, does it?”
Jay grinned. “Bet you anything you like he’d swap places in a heartbeat.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Jay pursed his lips. It was worse than he’d thought. By now, surely, the withdrawal pains should be easing off, not getting worse. But how would he know? He’d never been retired before. True, it was easier for him. His role in the organisation had been mostly in toxic waste disposal, taking away the sins of the world (sins of the world to take away; you want fries with that?) and, truth to tell, he’d never really cared for it much. A necessary job, no doubt about it, and someone had to do it, and he’d done it with all his might because he believed in what they were doing, in the organisation, in Dad … But did he miss it on a day-to-day basis, the actual stuff he used to do, the scapegoating, the everything turning out to be his fault? No, to be brutally honest, he didn’t. Nice to start off a bright new day without having to take responsibility for the twelve thousand murders committed the previous night; nice to see something less than optimal go down and be able to say, Hey, nothing to do with me. Nice, even, to burn the toast or spill the coffee and be able to feel guilty for something he actually had done, for a change. Simple pleasures, but none the less valid for that.
“Why do I get the impression,” he said, “that something’s bugging you?”
Dad grinned at him. “Because something is.”
“Ah. That’d do it every time.”
Dad heaved a long sigh. “You know what, son,” he said. “I think I may just possibly have made a mistake.”
“Surely not.”
“Nice of you to say so, but—”
“I mean,” Jay repeated, “surely not. Because of, you know, the infallibility thing? You, make a mistake. Not possible.”
Dad laughed. “It’s that old chestnut, isn’t it? Can I create a rock so heavy I can’t lift it?”
“Oh, I remember that one.” Jay smiled fondly. “Took you a whole afternoon, and then we realised we couldn’t get the darned thing out of the living room, so it had to stay there, and Mikey and Gabe had a go at it with cold chisels and turned it into a fireplace.” He frowned. “It’s still there, presumably. Unless the Venturis—”
He didn’t complete the sentence, but the harm was done. “Yes, well,” Dad said. “This is the same sort of thing, isn’t it? Can someone who’s infallible make a mistake? And if he can’t, how can he be omnipotent at the same time? Only, I think I did.”
A thought struck Jay. He tried to pretend it hadn’t, but he was dealing with someone to whom all secrets are known. “Go on,” Dad said. “Spit it out.”
“When you first got the idea of retiring,” Jay said.
A look of dreadful clarity slowly spread over Dad’s face. “I remember now. It was here. That fishing trip. The one before last.”
Jay nodded. “So when you thought it’d be a good idea to retire, you weren’t on Earth; you were here.”
“Out of my jurisdiction. On Sinderaan, where I’m just an ordinary Joe.” Dad shook his head. “Figures. Well, I guess that settles it. I made a mistake.”
For a long time neither of them spoke. Overhead, clouds masked two of the three suns. A bzyggwazhk nibbled at the bait on Dad’s hook, saw the fallacy in the underlying premise just in time, and swam away unscathed.
Old habits die hard. “Drat,” said Dad.
Jay nodded. “Still. Nothing we can do about it now.”
“I guess not.”
“I mean, if we were back home and you hadn’t sold the business, we could, because we could do anything. But we aren’t and you did, so …”
“Quite.”
“Feels funny, doesn’t it, not being able to do something.”
“Yup. Not sure I like it much.”
“Me neither. Doesn’t seem right somehow.”
“No.”
Jay stood up. “Well,” he said, “no use crying over spilt milk. I guess we’ll just have to make the best of it. Come on, let’s pack up here and try that place over by the Bottomless Lake.”
“I’m sick of fishing.”
Jay sighed and sat do
wn again. “Me too. But what can we do?”
“Pray?”
“Yeah, right. Who to, Snib Venturi? I don’t think so. Look, it’s no good beating yourself up about it. These things happen.”
“And I’m sick of this place too. I never want to see it again as long as I live.”
Absolution, Jay thought, absolution and forgiveness is what he needs, so he can move on and make a new life. I should be able to do that for him—if not me, who else?—but I’m not sure I can. “I know,” Jay said. “Let’s fire up the Winnebago, head out to the stars and travel. Go places. Third star to the left and straight on till morning. Well? What about it?”
Dad frowned. Suddenly he looked old. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Sure you do. Dad, there’s a whole infinite Multiverse out there, just waiting to be explored. All sorts of really crazy stuff. Dad, I never told you this before, but all my life I’ve wanted to travel, only I never could because of the business. There’s so much out there I want to see, and—”
“And I’ve been holding you back.”
Jay shook his head furiously. “I never saw it like that. But let’s you and me go together, all right? Let’s get out there, see the Infinite and have ourselves some fun.”
Dad looked at him and thought, Greater love hath no man than this. He swallowed and turned away.
“Sure, son,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
19
Freedom of movement is a fundamental part of the Venturi way. Borders, they maintain, are just artificial conventions. If a person wants to leave one land mass and move to another, why not? The place he moves to ought to take it as a compliment—immigration is the sincerest form of flattery—and as long as he settles down, plays nice and pays his taxes regularly once he’s there, what about it?
So Jersey moved to England. He went there because that was where Lucy was headed, and under the old regime the only way he could get out of Holland was to go with her, since he had no papers of any description and could no longer steal military aircraft without incurring severe financial penalties. Shortly after his arrival, the Venturis abolished borders, countries and citizenships, so he could go wherever he liked, if only he could afford the fare, which he couldn’t. So he stayed. That’s the cockeyed way in which things tend to come about, and even the Venturi boys haven’t come up with an answer to it.
Bearing in mind the cause to which he’d devoted his entire adult life, there was a certain irony to the fact that the only job he could get was in a call centre set up by the new regime to answer those frequently asked questions that have always tended to interfere with the smooth passage of everyday life on this planet. These include the following. Is there a God? (Yes, there are two; follow this link to see their portraits and like their Facebook page.) What’s the purpose of existence? (Work hard, earn a good living and be sure to get your self-assessment forms into the revenue in good time to avoid the rush.) Why did the chicken cross the road? (To take advantage of better employment opportunities suited to its skills and experience on the other side.) Is there a Santa Claus …?
He scratched his head. Most of the answers he knew by heart, but for the more abstruse or rarely asked enquiries there was a handy booklet, arranged in alphabetical order. He thumbed through to S.
“No,” he said.
“You what?” said the little girl at the other end of the line.
“No, Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. He’s—” he squinted to read the small print “—he’s an atavistic survival of primitive folk-belief; doesn’t exist, and never has. Sorry,” he added entirely off his own bat, though improvisation was not encouraged.
“My mummy says there is,” said the little girl.
“Then your mummy’s wrong, isn’t she? Silly old mummy.”
“My mummy says there is a Santa, and if I’m very good he’ll bring me lots of nice presents.”
Jersey closed the booklet. “That’s because your mummy is still clinging to the outdated dualist fallacy of Right and Wrong,” he said, “which is basically just obsolete Judaeo-Christian morality stripped of the Jehovah delusion, operating in the interests of the old regime to keep people from developing their true potential as vibrant economic entities. You might want to take a look at a great new colouring book just published by Venturi Press, Janet and John Go Beyond Good and Evil, which explains it all much better than I can be bothered to do, and for only six pounds ninety-nine. By the way, does Mummy know you’re using her phone at one pound twenty a minute on top of her usual tariff?”
“There is a Santa,” the little girl said. “I know, because I saw him.”
Jersey frowned. There was something in her voice, a note of utter, unshakable conviction, but so what? Kids can believe anything, even, in extreme cases, election manifestos. “No,” he said as kindly as he could manage, “that was just some grown-up pretending. However, don’t be downhearted or disillusioned, because there are loads of wonderful things in the world that are really real, without having to make believe. For instance, right now you could be investing your pocket money in a Venturicorp Triple-Bonus Tontine Annuity Cash Bonus Bond, which means that when you’re a little old lady, all grey and wrinkly, you could be getting a return of—Not interested? Ah well. Thank you so much for calling.”
Santa Claus. As he answered the next call (Is there any point going on or should I end it all? What, and risk missing out on the Venturicorp Pacific Growth Derivatives Venture Capital Bond? You must be out of your tiny mind.) he found his thoughts straying back to a moment long ago, in the catacombs of San Callisto …
“We meet again, Dr. Thorpe.”
He could barely hear the rasping voice above the squeaking of the rats, the hissing of the snakes and the soft plop of the gorged leeches dropping off his legs into the oily floodwater around his knees. “Hello, Dmitri,” he sighed. “Short time no see. Look, is this going to take long, because I’m on a schedule.”
“Just long enough for you to die, Dr. Thorpe.”
It had been one of those days. He’d been scorched in the lake of fire, bruised by the hurtling, tunnel-filling stone ball, stabbed in the bum by the portcullis of steel spikes; he’d lost a contact lens while dangling by one hand over the bottomless pit and quite possibly eaten a bad oyster the previous evening at the hotel. If his interpretation of the secret cabbalistic code woven into the first two stanzas of “O sole mio” proved to be correct, he also still had three nasties to overcome before he reached the hidden chamber. On top of all that, Dmitri was a bit much. “Whatever,” he said. “Look, you wouldn’t consider lowering me a rope, would you?”
“No, Dr. Thorpe.”
“Ah well.”
“Instead, I shall press this lever here, which will release a half-starved eight-hundred-pound alligator into the tunnel, which is blocked at both ends, so there’s no possibility of escape. Goodbye, Dr. Thorpe.”
“Alligator?”
“Yes, Dr. Thorpe.”
“Why an alligator, for crying out loud?”
Brief silence. “Why not an alligator?”
“Dmitri,” Jersey said, “this is me you’re talking to. Why would anyone in his right mind go to all the trouble and expense of shipping a live alligator all the way from Florida to Italy, diddling customs, filling out false shipping manifests, feeding the bloody thing four times a day, building some sort of cage for it in the bowels of a scheduled ancient monument, just to do a job that a simple hand grenade could do just as well or probably better? An alligator, for God’s sake. Whatever possessed you?”
Longer pause. “You don’t like it.”
His torch guttered and went out. Somewhere in the inky blackness, uncomfortably close, something splashed softly.
“I didn’t say that,” Jersey replied. “In a way I’m flattered. It’s just such a screwy way of going about things, that’s all.”
“We wanted to do something special. After all, it’s your—”
“My birthday. You remembered.”
The splashing grew louder. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Next you’ll be wanting to know what I want for Christmas.”
A loud hiss. At first he thought it was the snakes, but no snake ever sounded quite so venomous. Interesting, and somewhat out of character for Dmitri, who he’d always found to be a pretty equable, easy-going sort, apart from the fact that every time they met Dmitri tried to kill him.
“Sorry,” he therefore ventured. “Was it something I said?”
A pause, then, “I forgive you. After all, you’ll be dead in a minute or so.”
“Fine, so it was something I said. What did I say? Just out of interest.”
“The C word.” Dmitri spat it out so savagely that Jersey’s cheek was fanned by the slipstream. “Don’t ever let me hear you say the C word again. Well, you won’t, obviously, because you’re about to get eaten, but—”
“What, you mean Christmas?”
A shot rang out, followed by another. A few inches away to his left something convulsed in the water, then became still. “Dmitri.”
“Die, verminous infidel.”
“I think you just shot your alligator.”
“Oh, snot.” Four more blasts echoed off the tunnel walls, followed by a loud splash. Then muttering, from which Jersey deduced that Dmitri, trying to reload his revolver in the pitch dark, had dropped it in the water. “Next time, Dr. Thorpe. The next time we meet, you won’t be so lucky.”
“What’s so very bad about Christmas?” Jersey called out, but there was no reply. He counted to twenty under his breath, just in case, then took a few tentative steps forward. He bumped into something which moved away—the dead alligator, presumably—stopped and listened. No hissing or squeaking, which suggested that before it met its untimely end, the alligator had eaten the snakes and the rats, bless it. You wouldn’t read about it, Jersey said to himself, and waded on until he barked his shin on a sharp ledge which proved to be the bottom step of a winding stone staircase that led him directly to the secret chamber. Piece of cake.