The Nightmare Stacks

by Charles Stross

  “Consort,” Cassie volunteers helpfully just as Alex manages to force the word “date” past his suddenly too-large tongue.

  Sarah’s eyes roll up in her head. “Saved,” she says fervently, “we’re saved!” She takes a step back, blinking dizzily. “Come on in, you can help with damage control.”

  The front room of the house is a combined living room and dining room. At one side, the TV is blatting a content-free soap opera in the direction of the three-piece suite. (Probably EastEnders, Alex guesses. It’s his family’s favorite window into a world of excitement and glamor.) At the other side, the over-polished dinner table* is laid with settings for six.

  Dad is sprawled on the sofa. His eyeballs are pointed at the screen as if blind to the world around him. He’s wearing his usual work suit, minus jacket and tie, plus gray wool cardigan and tartan slippers. A half-drained tumbler of gin and tonic dangles precariously from his left hand.

  “Where’s Mum?” Alex quietly asks Sarah.

  “In the kitchen, hiding.”

  “And your . . . ?” Mick? Mack?

  “In the bathroom, hiding.”

  Oh God, he thinks again, just as Cassie skips into the living room like Zelda on crystal meth, all cloak and boots and pointy ears. As she registers the presence of his father her manner suddenly shifts toward uncharacteristic diffidence: it’s almost as if she’s nervous about something. “Uh, Cassie, this is Dad—”

  He points helplessly. Then Dad, hearing his son’s voice, opens his eyes.

  “Hello?” Cassie says quietly.

  Dad flails and sits bolt-upright, drops his G&T, and shouts, “What now?”

  “Dad!” Alex winces. “This is Cassie, my”—he swallows—“girlfriend.”

  Dad sits up unsteadily and looks at Cassie. “Oh good,” he slurs, “this one’s normal.”

  Cassie shoves her cloak back, endangering the table setting in the process, and delivers a sweeping bow: “I am at your service, oh liege and master,” she declares. “Life, power, and the blood of your enemies poured on the altar of your gods!” She finishes with a salute, her gloved left fist clenched before her beating heart.

  “We’re going to a fancy-dress party later,” Alex announces to the disbelieving silence, his heart speeding. “She’s an elven princess—” His tongue stumbles into shocked silence as he recognizes what’s been under his nose all along. Those ears, he thinks, still enchanted despite the shiny new protective ward hanging against his breastbone, they’re not falsies. “And I’m a vampire,” he adds, unsure whether he’s courageously outing himself or merely supporting Cassie’s conceit.

  Dad raises a hand. “Son, get me another drink? This one’s broken.”

  Sarah looks at Alex in mute appeal. He takes a deep breath and shrugs, then looks back at her helplessly. She’s about one-sixty centimeters tall, with short, mousy hair and mild brown eyes. Right now she’s filling a pair of jeans with torn knees and a checked lumberjack shirt. Her DMs are adorned with tiny multicolored daisies. Another penny drops. He’s lived in the big city long enough that despite his sheltered upbringing he’s learned what this particular dress code means. He nods, minutely: “I’ll get it,” he says.

  “Do you think that’s wise—” Sarah begins, then notices Cassie. “Make it a double. You’d better get me one, too, and a Coke for Mack. She doesn’t drink alcohol.”

  Alex potters over to the sideboard, where he finds a half-empty bottle of Gordon’s and a couple of bottles of Schweppes sitting beside a bowl with half a lemon in it, neatly pre-sliced. Cassie is kneeling at his father’s feet, as if she’s about to perform an elaborate ritual prostration. Okay, deep breaths, he tells himself. The worst is over. Dad’s drunk and Mum’s in hysterics because Sarah’s girlfriend is hiding in the bathroom. Mum and Dad aren’t narrow-minded, but they lack imagination . . . when it comes to their children they have curiously rigid ideas. Coming right after their daughter coming out, breaking the news to them that their son is a vampire and he’s dating a self-identified elven princess should be a walk in the park. Just don’t mention the pay cut, some residual sense of self-preservation prompts him.

  He lines up a row of four tumblers, divides the remains of the gin bottle evenly between them, throws in a curl of lemon and a couple of ice cubes, then tops them up with a drop of tonic water. Then he picks one up and nods at Sarah: “Is Mum still in the kitchen?”

  Sarah nods and clutches her drink like it’s the last one in the world. So he turns and goes in search of his mother.

  Mum is fussing around the kitchen, multitasking between a hot oven and a variety of serving dishes with vegetables keeping warm on the hob. She’s in twinset and pearl necklace, evidently having felt the need to raise her game to tax audit levels in preparation for meeting both her children’s partners simultaneously. Her movements are fussily precise and over-controlled.

  “Mum.” He puts the tumbler down on the butcher’s block with a deliberate thump, to telegraph its presence despite the risk of sloshing the contents. “Mum?”

  “Alex?” She turns to him with a sniff, eyes wide. She opens her arms. “Come here! How you’ve grown.”

  He hugs her. She seems to have shrunk, or he’s taller, or something: he can almost rest his chin on her head. She’s vibrating with nervous energy. “It’s all right, Mum. I brought you a drink.”

  “Oh, you good boy! Have one—” She pauses doubtfully. “Are you driving?”

  “Yes, Mum. Is there a Coke? And a Diet Coke for me?” There are always a couple of cans in the recesses of the family fridge, pining for company.

  “Of course!” She lets go and looks at him. “You bought a car? Did they pay you a bonus?”

  “Not exactly.” It’s now or never. He resolves to tell the truth this evening, or as much of it as his oath of office will permit: it’s a huge weight off his conscience. “Uh, Mum, the bank—they, uh, they downsized my unit.”

  “They what? But they can’t do that! There must be some mistake.” She looks bewildered, all the certainties of her carefully curated family picture thrown askew.

  “It’s all right, Mum,” he says wearily. He’s rehearsed this in his own head so many times that now he’s got his back to the dishwasher it’s almost a relief to get the prerecorded spiel off his chest. “They could and they did, but I got a good job with the Civil Service. It’s in the defense sector and it’s technical so I can’t talk about it, but it’s much more secure than the bank. You win some, you lose some. They’re threatening to relocate me up here.”

  “Oh.” She sniffs again, then takes a deep breath and sighs. “Be a dear and pass me that drink, will you? This seems to be the day for disappointments.” He hands her the tumbler, silently angry on Sarah’s behalf. “I suppose next you’ll be telling me that your Cassie is an imaginary friend like Gregory’s Girl, and you just made her up to get me off your back.”

  Alex shrugs uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t do that, Mum.”

  “Oh, you know your father and I just wanted you both to do well. So perhaps we leaned on you a bit too hard with our own ideas of what would be a success story. But really, it doesn’t matter. Why did the bank fire you?”

  “They fired my entire team, Mum, it wasn’t just me. There was a scandal. Our manager Oscar was, uh, he had something over the chief executive. It all fell apart after Sir David killed himself—I’m sorry, it went that high—the rest of us were collateral damage. An institutional embarrassment to be swept under the rug.” He gets creative: “I’m probably blacklisted for life from the entire investment banking sector. But I guess I got lucky because I was unemployed for less than a week when I got an offer.”

  His mother’s expression turns mulish. He knows that look. It has been known to make headmasters and company secretaries wet themselves. “You got an offer within a week? Really?”

  “There was—” He swallows. “Listen, we were
doing cutting-edge mathematical research. It came to the attention of certain people and they made us an offer. It seemed like a good idea to take it at the time.”

  He’s careful to avoid the idiotic, broken, no-good F-35 software story, and to also avoid telling her any lies—Mum has a tax inspector’s built-in lie detector—while not overstepping the red line of his oath of office.

  “You mean GCHQ, don’t you?” she asks, a sudden quiet respect creeping into her voice.

  “Not them, exactly, no. Uh, I can’t tell you anything about who I work for. Just, it’s defense-related and it involves mathematics.” He pauses. “The pay’s rubbish, but the job security is high. And the rest of the security. Security is high in general where I work—” He realizes he’s babbling and manages to stop.

  “I see, I think.” She turns away and opens the oven door, throwing out a blast of heat and an odor of cooking beef brisket that nearly makes Alex involuntarily extend his fangs. “Hmm, I think it’s done.” She bends down and lifts the roasting tray out. “Would you be a dear and carry the vegetables? We’re ready to eat, and it would be a shame to let the food go cold.”

  * * *

  Dinner is not obviously a total disaster at first.

  While Alex is talking Mum down from the trees and Cassie tries to engage Dad in small talk, Sarah scrambles upstairs and bangs on the bathroom door. The result is that by the time Alex backs into the dining area, bearing a steaming hot dish full of boiled frozen peas and identically formed bright orange conic sections (“carrots” in Mum’s culinary vernacular), he finds a stranger seated at the table at Dad’s right hand, listening attentively as Dad apologizes stumblingly for something or other he may or may not have said earlier. By a process of logical deduction he recognizes that the stranger must be Mack. She’s glammed up for the event in a navy blue polka-dot dress and enough makeup to notice but not overwhelm. Obviously this is her way of trying to make a good impression on the partner’s parents. Her hair is longer than Sarah’s, which reminds him that the last time he saw his younger sister she sported a bushy mane. “Hello?” she says quietly.

  “Hi, I’m Alex.” He deposits the serving dish and offers a hand: she shakes it firmly, surprising him with her grip. “This is Cassie—”

  “I got that.” Mack smiles reassuringly. Her voice is a little husky.

  Cassie looks excited. “Alex! You didn’t tell me your people have ceremonial eu—”

  “No,” Alex interrupts hastily. But he’s too late.

  Sarah smiles, icily. “You do not call Mack that,” she says calmly. “I don’t care whether you’re staying in-character for the evening; her gender identity is none of your business. Are we clear?”

  Cassie looks away and nods. “YesYes,” she mutters sheepishly. Louder: “I’m sorry. I was just excited because I had been wondering where your kind keep your—” She stops abruptly.

  Alex wishes the dining chair would swallow him up. The prickly tension between Mack, Sarah, and Cassie is mortifying. He gets that Mack is trans and that Sarah is coming out and he’s supposed to play a supporting role in kid sis’s family drama, but at least she could have warned him before he brought Cassie into this without notice—

  Dad takes a big gulp of G&T as Mum enters, bearing the beef joint.

  “Is she always like this?” Sarah asks Alex challengingly.

  “Cassie is studying acting and drama at Leeds Met,” Alex says defensively. “It’s just method acting isn’t it, Cassie? Your character . . .”

  “I’m a princess-assassin of the Unseelie Court!” Cassie agrees enthusiastically. “Not human, not even slightly human. So of course I’m weird and I make horrible social blunders when I try to pass for human! Faux pas is my middle name and I don’t understand human social mores at all!” Her smile is blinding and utterly sincere. “I am sorry for your discombobulation! We’re going to a fancy dress party later,” she confides.

  “Huh.” Sarah smiles, not entirely nicely. Mack, for her part, is as impassive as a poker player, clearly unwilling to contribute further to what promises to be a family reunion that will be remembered for all the wrong reasons. “How did you get here, then?”

  “Oh, very easily!” Cassie giggles: “Alex stole a Nazi half-track motorcycle from a mad scientist he knows through work! It was most exciting!”

  Alex sighs. “I did not steal Ilsa,” he explains before Dad can throw a drunken hissy fit at the hint of impropriety: “Brains lent her to me for the evening.”

  Sarah stares at him. “I’ll swear someone said ‘Nazi half-track motorcycle.’ And ‘mad scientist.’ I must be hallucinating, right? Tell me I’m hallucinating.”

  Mack opens her mouth, then pauses thoughtfully for a moment. “Would it happen to be an NSU Kettenkrad?” she asks. “If so, was it wartime or postwar manufacture?”

  Mum clears her throat diplomatically. “Alex, your father is a bit sleepy. Would you do the honors and carve the brisket?”

  “Wartime,” Alex says, his feet carrying him on autopilot towards the sideboard and the dish with the carving set. “How did you know?”

  “I made a model of one when I was a kid. The Tamiya 1:35 scale precision one.” Mack sounds just slightly wistful. “I used to make lots of models before I grew out of it. It was something I could do by myself and I was good at it.”

  “Half-track,” mutters Sarah. “So you’re driving?”

  “Yup.” Alex picks up the carving fork and pokes the brisket hesitantly. As usual for Mum, it’s slightly overcooked but just the right side of burned. “So I’m not drinking.” He can feel eyeballs drilling into his back like gimlets. “I’m not making this up,” he protests defensively, “it’s parked outside!”

  “I believe you,” Sarah says after a moment, as Cassie chirps: “It’s all true! Even the mad scientist!”

  “He’s not mad, he just works in Technical Operations,” Alex says as he begins to carve. After the first slice: “Well, he’s not very mad.” After the second slice: “By Tech Ops standards.”

  “What does your mad scientist friend do for your employers, dear?” his mother asks.

  “He does quality assurance testing on death rays.” Please, dear God, don’t ask me about the coffee maker. “Also, he repairs stuff for a hobby. Like the Kettenkrad. He’s working on a hovercraft right now.”

  “My hovercraft is full of eels,” Dad slurs, but nobody pays any attention to him except Cassie, and Alex is too busy trying not to slice his left hand off to look round.

  Presently he has six plates stacked with what he hopes is enough burned cow’s arse to feed a dysfunctional family, so he turns and begins to deliver them around the table.

  Things go all right until he gets to Mack, who looks perturbed. She turns and whispers something in Sarah’s ear. Sarah responds, audibly: “I told Mum . . .”

  “Told Mum what?” Alex asks.

  “Mack’s vegan,” Sarah confesses.

  “I said not to make a big fuss,” Mack touches her wrist. “I’ll be okay.” But she’s leaning away from the plate in front of her as if Alex has deposited a great steaming jobbie on it.

  Mum’s smile freezes in place. “Do vegans eat fish?” she asks. “Because I’ve got a couple of salmon fillets I can microwave if it’s any help—”

  Mack takes a deep breath, then visibly bites her tongue. “Not really,” she says quietly.

  Cassie looks confused, then her left ear twitches, telegraphing enlightenment. “Oh! I know, you need tofu!” Then her ears droop. “I didn’t bring any. No pockets, sorry.”

  “Those prostheses are amazingly responsive,” Sarah says brightly: “Are they those Japanese toys that can sense brain-waves? Can I touch—”

  It’s either kid sister’s revenge for Cassie putting her foot in it with Mack earlier, or a brilliant attempt to redirect the conversation, but before Alex can work out which (or Sarah can t
ug Cassie’s ears) Cassie sweeps the offending burnt offering from before Mack. “Be right back!” she trills, and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

  Mum takes a deep breath, smiles tremulously, and lifts the lids off the vegetable dishes with a flourish.

  British domestic cuisine spans the gamut from the sublime to the abysmal. Alex never really questioned Mum’s culinary efforts before he left home—they came off well when compared to school dinners—but exposure to a broader diet has taught him how close she sticks to her 1970s Domestic Science lessons, raiding Tesco’s and Asda’s chiller aisles for variety. Mum is not an adventurous cook, and faced with the prospect of catering to two grown-up children and their guests she has panicked slightly and retreated into the comforting certainties of meat and two (frozen) veg. One of which is still frozen.

  “Um.” Alex stares at the brick of broccoli florets, ice crystals glittering under the dining room chandelier. “I’d better just take these through and heat them up . . . ?”

  Mum blinks, then with no warning whatsoever her eyes overflow and she starts to sob.

  Sarah, Mack, and Alex watch in paralyzed silence. Dad is no help whatsoever, muttering inaudibly into his nearly empty tumbler: he’s out for the count. Alex looks round and realizes he must have put away a quarter of a bottle of gin. The crashing and clattering of an enterprising alien foraging for who-knows-what echoes from the kitchen. Across the table, Mack clutches her chair’s arms as if she wants the floor to swallow her. Sarah leans towards her protectively from the next seat, but her eyes are on Mum, and she’s as appalled as Alex. Mum is a tax inspector: she has nerves of steel. She doesn’t lose her shit like this, she just doesn’t. But there she is, at the far end of the table, quietly weeping tears of desperation and unhappiness. Alex has no idea why, or what to say.

  The silence is broken by the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Alex realizes he’s standing beside his mother’s seat. “Mum. Mum? Come on, let’s get you some tissues and clean up. Hey, it’s going to be all right—”

  She stands up and leans on his shoulder. “I’m being silly,” she sniffs.