by IGMS
Issue 16 - January 2010
http://www.InterGalacticMedicineShow.com
Copyright © 2010 Hatrack River Enterprises
Table of Contents - Issue 16 - January 2010
* * *
Return to Sender
by James Maxey
Through the Blood
by Mette Ivie Harrison
Odd Jobs
by Josh Vogt
Mudlarks
by Kat Otis
Mean Spirited
by Edmund R. Schubert
America
by Orson Scott Card
InterGalactic Interview With Vernor Vinge Part 2
by Darrell Schweitzer
Return to Sender
by James Maxey
Artwork by Julie Dillon
* * *
I'm at the window, looking out over the dribble of traffic at two in the morning. In the window's dim reflection, Brother Anthony frowns as he studies the items spread out on the bed -- various receipts, a few blurry pictures, handwritten notes. In his brown wool monk's habit, with the shaved tip of his scalp gleaming in the lamplight, he looks like he's walked straight out of the fifteenth century. He doesn't fit amid the modern furnishings in this hotel room on the twenty-third floor of a high-rise. He wears his otherness for everyone to see.
I place my hand on the window, my fingers meeting those of a matching phantom. My window-ghost stares into my eyes as if she doesn't recognize me. I'm dressed in a Backgammon Pizza uniform -- checkered shirt, navy pants, a cap with a bright red brim. My braided hair drapes over my shoulder and hangs down my chest like a black serpent. Like Sampson, I'm forbidden to cut my hair. But, even with locks down to my hips, I pass for an ordinary college girl with a side job delivering pizza. I look like I'm part of this world. It's only inside that I feel so out of place.
Brother Anthony clears his throat. "This intelligence isn't very useful, Crystal." He picks up a white slip of paper. "What is this? 1/2 pep, sg, x chez?"
"That's the pizza order of the Golden Veil."
He furrows his brow, not fathoming the code. Pizza isn't on the menu at the monastery. I had my first taste only a month ago.
"Delivery driver may not have been the best cover," I say. "It's easy to get to Westcott's house, but I can't see much from the front door."
"Make conversation. Have them invite you inside." He offers this advice as if it's something I wouldn't have come up with on my own. I resist rolling my eyes.
"They would have been suspicious if I asked too many questions early on," I say. "Now they're used to me. It'll be easier to gain their trust."
I sound like I have some grand strategy. I'm clueless as to how to talk my way into the Golden Veil meeting house. The monks have trained me endless hours for combat, but never spent a single minute training me to make small talk. I know the true names of 3,333 angels, their realms and principalities, but don't know the name of a single professional sports team. Bill Westcott, the leader of the Golden Veil, gave me an opening on my second trip to his house. There was a football game on in the living room and he asked what team I rooted for. My brain locked up. All I know about football is that it's the sport where the ball isn't round.
"We're running out of time," says Brother Anthony. "It's two weekends until Halloween, and we still don't know which of hell's minions the Golden Veil plans to summon."
"I'll go back next Saturday. They always order pizza. If they're up to something, I'll find out."
"You used the word, 'if,'" says Brother Anthony.
I cringe, anticipating a scolding.
"Crystal, our success depends on your unwavering faith. You cannot doubt for even a moment that your cause is just! These men will unleash a terrible evil into the world if you aren't vigilant."
"I know."
He doesn't look convinced.
My window-ghost isn't convinced either.
It's three in the morning when I get back to the dorm. I tiptoe into the room with the lights out, so I won't wake my roommate. I stand for a minute in the darkness, listening to the silence; if Sherry's here, she isn't breathing. I flick on the lights and see her unmade bed.
Tension slides out of me. Sherry and I don't get along. What began as a lack of anything in common is festering into open hostility. She's a fashion conscious rich girl from Los Angeles. I'm the last Knight Templar, kidnapped at birth and raised in a hidden monastery in Idaho.
Since Sherry's not here, I strip out of my Backgammon uniform and put on a robe, then kneel to begin my nightly prayers. I'm supposed to devote four hours a day to prayer, but I've been slipping without the monks' constant supervision. Prayer is good for anyone's soul, but in my case it has extra benefits.
According to the monks, my father is an angel named Baphomet. He's one of the good guys, a warrior spirit who stands ready to fight the final battle when Judgment Day arrives. Only, his vigilance has been known to waver, and he sometimes slips off to earth to relax in the company of humans -- young, female humans in particular. For centuries, the Order of the Temple has tracked down Baphomet's bastard children and raised them as demi-angel soldiers, the Knights Templar. Through prayer I can tap into my angel blood and gain strength, toughness, and even a little magic. At least, that's the theory. Compared to the legends I hear about the feats of the knights of old, I don't feel all that strong or tough. The monks try to assure me that my magical gifts will kick in when they're truly needed; apparently a lot of the other knights got off to a slow start also. I wish I had someone to talk to about this, but Baphomet has mostly behaved himself this century; there aren't any other half-angels around.
I've been praying for ten minutes when the door opens. It's Sherry; she's in a short black dress. A guy I don't know is standing next to her, his arm tight around her waist. She looks like she'd collapse without his support.
"Oh crap," she says, seeing me. "I thought you'd be asleep." Her speech is slurred.
"Are you drunk?" I ask. She's showing all the signs of inebriation the monks have warned me about.
"What's it to you?" she asks. "Crystal, you gotta leave. Tim and I need to use the room."
"Jim," says the guy.
"Boys aren't allowed in the dorm at this hour. You could get expelled."
"No," she says, staggering toward me, "you could get expelled." She giggles, apparently pleased with herself. "Hit the road. Tim and I have business."
"Jim," he says. "I don't mind if she stays."
I stand up. "Jim, you have to leave."
"You aren't my mom," says Sherry. "Get out of here!"
She grabs me by the arm and tries to pull me toward the door. It's a simple matter to use the momentum of her tug and separate her from Jim. I spin her around and launch her toward the lower bunk with a gentle shove. She lands face down on her pillow.
I put my hands on my hips and give Jim a stern stare. "You're going to leave now."
"She invited me."
"I'm uninviting you." Then, though he's taller than me by a foot, I grab him by the throat with both hands, lift him from his feet, and carry him back into the hall. I drop him on his butt and say, "Have a good night," as I close the door.
I don't know if that was angel strength or adrenaline, but it felt pretty good.
Sherry is still in the bed, face down, giggling.
"Alcohol lowers your inhibitions," I say, wondering how she can be unaware of this. "It's extremely dangerous, not to mention illegal at our age."
She sighs, still face down. She looks completely limp, too worn out to move. She mumbles something.
"What was that?" I ask.
She turns her head slightly. "You're such a buzzkill."
I've not heard the word before, but it's easy enough to decipher from the context. I'm ready to
lecture her, to point out how many different dangers she inviting to both body and soul, when I realize that she's passed out.
Out in the hall, I can hear footsteps stumbling away. Jim dissuades easily.
Too bad. It might have been fun to really pound him.
While I've had a lot of training, this is my first mission in the "real" world. The monks keep track of various supernatural threats, and the latest thing on their radar is a cult called the Golden Veil. The group was founded in Victorian England; it's waxed and waned over the years, vanishing completely for a few decades before a history professor named Bill Westcott started it back up.
My role as a student is the monks' way of hiding me in plain sight so I can keep tabs on Westcott. My job at Backgammon Pizza takes me straight to his living room every Saturday night. A side benefit of delivering pizza is that I get to pretend to be normal for whole hours at a time. My visits to the Golden Veil take only a couple of minutes. The rest of the night I'm bringing pizzas to rowdy college dorms and quiet, middle-class neighborhoods. Despite my inability to make small talk, I earn good tips. Mostly, I've been spending my money on music.
The background music at Backgammon is something called "oldies," though it's all new to me. I'm fond of this one singer called Elvis. I can't get enough of "Heartbreak Hotel." Of course to be heartbroken, I'd have to fall in love, and that's not going to happen. Romance, the monks tell me, would be the end of me. Like Sampson, I've got a list of no-nos as long as my arm. Sampson was done in by carnal desires. Fortunately, having grown up surrounded by pasty-faced monks, the needle on my carnal desire meter rests safely on "E."
It's the last Saturday before Halloween. The Golden Veil meets at 9:00 p.m.; the pizza order comes in at 9:05. It's always one large pie, half pepperoni, half sausage, extra cheese. The fact that it's one pizza is useful intelligence. Westcott doesn't have many followers.
I'm humming "Blue Suede Shoes," as I get out of my car. Westcott lives in a Victorian house, surrounded by high hedges. No grass grows in the yard; there's too much shade from the giant oaks that hide the front of the house. The place has seen better days. It's ringed by a wide porch that wraps all the way around, gray paint peeling, the boards split, rusty nail heads jutting up along the edges. I rap on the door. It's mostly glass, but I can't see inside due to a lace curtain, yellowed with age. As I wait, I softly sing, "uh-uh honey lay off of my --"
"Is that Elvis?" a voice behind me asks.
I spin around. Westcott is standing at the foot of the stairs. He has a small black Chihuahua on a leash. The dog growls and bares its teeth, his eyes narrow little slits.
"Didn't mean to startle you," says Westcott. "Hercules and I were at the hedge when you walked past. You were humming Elvis?"
"Yes sir."
Westcott smiles. He's sixty years old, tall but with hunched shoulders. He has a gentle smile and soft blue eyes. His hair is perfectly combed, and his cheeks have no trace of razor stubble. The most sinister thing about him is his complete lack of menace. He doesn't look like the leader of a cult planning on summoning a resident of hell.
He says, "I made a joke about Elvis in class and no one got it. Made me feel ancient."
"What was the joke?"
"I was lecturing on the Roman emperor Elagabalus, about how he died in a latrine. Said I could write a book on famous people who died in their bathroom; Elvis would be chapter twenty."
He smiles.
Was that the whole joke? I force myself to grin.
Westcott sighs. "Not that funny?"
"I just . . . I don't know much about Elvis. He's dead?"
Westcott laughs as he walks onto the porch. "Oh lord. Now I really feel old."
"Don't go by what I know. I had a sheltered childhood."
He nods. "I noticed the hair, and you're not wearing makeup. I had the impression you were a hippy, but now I'm guessing you're a fundamentalist?"
"Sort of," I say, annoyed that he feels so free to label me.
He winks at me. His eyes fall to my chest. This makes me uncomfortable until I realize he's reading my nametag. "We'll keep your Elvis fetish our little secret, Crystal. Come in while I get my wallet."
I step into the foyer. Three older men are sitting in the living room, just ten feet away. As Westcott goes into the room, I follow, and ask, "Is this your bridge night?"
"Poker, actually."
The living room is huge. There's a big fireplace and tall windows covered in curtains that have seen better days. Two beat-up leather couches face across a low, wide coffee table covered with dusty mail. Westcott was divorced ten years ago; it looks like it's been that long since anyone's vacuumed.
"Next weekend's Halloween," I say, searching for an opening. "What a great house for a party."
Westcott shrugs as he walks toward me, counting money. "I'm afraid my party days are behind me."
"He'd have to clean up if he had a party," jokes a short, dumpy man on one of the couches. I know him from my briefings as Scott Patterson, owner of Patterson's Pages, a used book store.
An idea pops into my head. "You know, pizza delivery is only one of my jobs. I also do maid work. My fees are really reasonable."
In a perfect world, Westcott would smile and ask what I charged. I could ask to see more of the house to form an estimate. Instead, he frowns. "I didn't invite you in to criticize my housekeeping."
The Chihuahua next to him is still growling, his pointy body aimed like an arrow as he eyes my ankles.
"I didn't mean any offense."
"None taken." Westcott hands me money. "Keep the change."
He takes the pizza from me and heads for the door. I see no choice but to follow.
"Good night," he says as he shuts the door behind me.
I look at the money. He's tipped me sixty cents.
Driving back to Backgammon, I weigh my options. Westcott's schedule is public knowledge; I'll have to break into his home when he's in class. Brother Anthony wanted me to take this approach a month ago. But, this is my first time living on my own, away from the monks. If I'd wrapped up this mission a month ago, I'd be back in the monastery now. I'm kind of enjoying playing college girl. I may not like my roommate, but at least my vocabulary is getting richer because of her.
At the end of my shift I clock out without talking to anyone. As a driver, I spend more time out of the restaurant than in it. I barely know the names of my coworkers. They frequently hang out around the back but I've never joined them. I don't have any friends my age. I don't have any friends at all, in fact, just trainers and handlers. Still, friendship isn't on my list of forbidden temptations. I'd love to find someone I could talk to about . . . well, about anything. I could tell them about angels and they could tell me about Elvis. But my coworkers behind the restaurant are poor candidates for companionship. They're always smoking back there. Tobacco is on my list of "thou-shalt-nots."
I walk past the schedule posted next to the time clock without paying it much attention. Then I step back and look closer. I'm not scheduled for next Saturday. I've been swapped with Jason to work Friday night.
I find Skater, the assistant manager, out back. He's only a year older than I am, but isn't a student. He's been working here full-time since he was seventeen. He's a few inches taller than me, athletic in a skinny way, with spiky black hair and a constellation of silver studs in both ears. His left arm is covered in tattoos, heavy black stripes in a tiger pattern. I've never seen him outside the restaurant without a cigarette in his mouth.
Skater is talking to Brandy, another driver, but their conversation is wrapping up.
"See you Monday," Brandy says as she walks toward a beat up Honda Civic. Skater flicks the remnants of his cigarette to the pavement, then turns to go back inside, nearly running into me.
"Woah," he says. "Didn't see you, Crystal."
His breath smells sweet, like cloves, instead of ordinary cigarettes.
"Why am I switched with Jason?" I ask. "I always work Saturdays."
He shrugs. "Jason's band has a gig Friday at the Cool Brew. Wanna go?"
"I'm working Friday! That's the point of this conversation."
"Oh, right. No problem. They won't get on stage 'til after midnight."
"Then why switch us?"
"He said please."
I cross my arms. "I can only work Saturdays."
"Then I'll get someone else to cover Friday, and you can have Saturday off. Brandy's having a Halloween party. You wanna go to it with me?"
"She hasn't invited me."
"I'm inviting you."
My thoughts skid to a sudden halt. Is he asking me out? "I . . . uh --"
Skater jumps in, saving me from one awkward moment by plunging me into another. "I mean, hey, it doesn't have to be, like, a date. I understand if you aren't into men."
My cheeks flush red. "I . . . what are you implying?"
He looks at his feet, embarrassed. "Wow, I'm really blowing this. Sorry. You're tough to read, Crystal. You're so quiet."
"I'm just shy," I say, pushing a stray strand of hair back from my face.
"So . . . you wanna go to the party with me, shy girl?"
"Why would you ask me out? You don't know anything about me."
He shrugs. "You're mysterious. I like mysteries."
"I'm not mysterious. I'm boring."
"I'm not picking up that vibe," he says, looking directly at my face. "Here's a wild guess: I bet you were home-schooled."
"You might say that."
"I was too! My mom and dad are religious freaks. They went to this crazy church. It's why I moved out of the house when I was seventeen."
I frown. "What church?"
"The Pentecostal Assembly of Signs. It has, like, twenty members, all snake handlers."
"Snake handlers?"
"They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them. They play with venomous snakes during worship. I was barely out of diapers before I started picking up snakes myself. But, when I was fourteen, one day I looked down at the copperhead in my lap and thought, 'Holy shit! This is insane!' My faith never recovered from that moment of clarity. Eventually, I was kicked out of the church, then kicked out of my family."