The Nightmare Stacks

by Charles Stross

  “C’mon, Mum, over here.” He guides her towards the sofa. There’s a box of Kleenex on the coffee table. He glances past her, back at the table, as Dad’s head tips slowly backwards and he begins to snore. Mack’s shoulders are shaking and as Alex turns back to focus on Mum he sees Sarah hug her. Good for them, he thinks, then a loud crash and a musical tinkling from the kitchen remind him that Mum is only Crisis Number One on his bucket list. “You can sit down and have a good blow and tell me all about it. What’s wrong?” Because even to Alex’s untrained male sensibilities it is obvious that something badly unhinged Mum right before he and Cassie arrived. Whatever it was, it hit her so hard that she burned the brisket and forgot to defrost the broccoli.

  A possible explanation suddenly occurs to him: Could it be the V-question? Work. Did Security interview her for my enhanced background check? “What’s wrong?” he repeats. Quietly: “Was it me? Did you get any, uh, visitors? From my new employers?”

  “Visitors?” Mum blinks bewilderedly. “No dear, it’s your sister.”

  “Mum.” He holds a bunch of tissues out for her and she takes them, wipes cheeks, blows her nose. “You know that’s kind of bigoted?” He treads carefully. Mum has never been particularly religious, other than filling out the census forms with Church of England—it’s the default option—but you can never tell, and while he’s never seen her as a homophobe before—

  “No, it’s not that! It’s her degree course.” Mum honks mournfully into her wad of damp tissues.

  “Her course.” Alex’s brain freezes. “What about her degree?”

  “She’s changed her course”—she’d been studying for a BA in Business Studies and Accounting, Alex recalls—“to study history.” Mum begins to tear up again. “History! Why? What use is that? How is she going to earn a living with a history degree?” And she’s off again.

  Another crash, this time barely distinguishable from a smash, interrupts his confusion. Oh God, Cassie, he thinks. “Stay here?” he implores his mother; “I need to see what that was.”

  He finds Cassie in the kitchen, surrounded by the shattered wreckage of dessert. A glass pudding basin lies in pieces on the floor; the tortured corpses of fruit, viciously flayed and seeds eviscerated, sprawl around the worktop. “I know it’s supposed to go together!” she protests. “I just can’t get them to fit properly.” There is a supermarket spongecake base in a plastic container, along with the makings of a liter of raspberry jelly, an unopened carton of custard, and a jar of whipping cream. Mum was evidently planning to make a sherry trifle before Sarah’s educational catastrophe dismayed her and drove Dad to drink.

  “Don’t bother.” Alex takes everything in at a glance. Cream comes from cows, custard contains egg, and as for the jelly—Isn’t gelatin some kind of kryptonite for vegans? he thinks, then surrenders to the inevitable. “We’re done here; I’m calling in the professionals.”

  He goes back to the living room and clears his throat. Sarah and Mack disengage, somewhat bashfully. “I know what this looks like,” Mack says before his sister shushes her.

  “Not my problem.” Alex drags Mum’s chair round to face them. Puffy-eyed, she holds a bundle of tissues to her face and sniffs mournfully. “Listen. First, is Dad okay?” Before anyone can answer Dad supplies an answer by beginning to sing the refrain to “With a Little Help from My Friends,” in a new and creative key. “Fine, that just leaves us in need of something to eat. I’ve got a takeaway app—Mack, you’re vegan, I know what Mum and Dad will take, Cassie is easy, do we have any other restrictions?”

  Sarah shakes her head. “Alex, I don’t know what Mum’s told you—”

  “Food before inadvisable career choices.” He pulls out his phone, locks it into guest mode, and fires up a takeaway menu finder. “Let me guess, South Indian or Mexican are good bets?” Mack nods. “Okay, see if you can find something that appeals to you and fill in what you need. Then I’ll order for the rest of us, can you do that?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Mack takes his phone, just as Cassie bounds out of the kitchen on the tips of her toes, announces, “I’m done!” in a loud stage-whisper, and drapes herself over Alex’s shoulders. She stares wide-eyed at Mack. “What’s he—she—doing?”

  If looks could kill, Sarah’s glare would reduce Cassie to a pile of cinders as she replies: “Magicking up dinner for six. And please don’t misgender, it’s rude.”

  Alex forces himself to breathe. Cassie is doing unprecedented things to his neurohormonal system—she seems to be an amazing antidote to his creeping sense of inhumanity—but right now he feels as if he’s caught in the middle of some sort of alpha-female threat display between lionesses. (And there’s the matter of her own inhumanity to address, but not in public.) He concentrates on Sarah. “Mum said you’d changed your degree.”

  His sister nods. “That’s right. Mum thinks she’s more broad-minded than she is, and she’s having a little trouble adjusting to the idea. As for Dad—”

  Mack glances up. “It’s his fault,” she says defensively. “He shouldn’t have asked if he didn’t want a straight answer.”

  Alex closes his eyes. “Do I want to know?”

  “You probably need to, for your own good.” Sarah’s lips are a tight line. “There’s an FAQ, things not to ask trans people on first acquaintance. I sent him the link but he obviously didn’t read it.”

  Alex opens his eyes, with an effort. “Hence the gin bottle.”

  “Hence the gin,” Sarah agrees. “Maybe you should read it, too?” she adds, pointedly making eye contact with Cassie.

  Cassie tenses. “I apologize for any offense I may have caused, but your urük ways are alien to me. I will read this FAQ if you direct me to it. I am of the Host,” she says stiffly, “and although we do not like to unintentionally give offense I am still finding my way among you . . .”

  Alex glances down at the table. Mum has laid it with the good cutlery, he notices for the first time. It’s a wedding present from his grandparents, silver-plated and a complete pain in the neck to clean. She obviously did it because she was making a special effort. He reaches round with his left hand and touches Cassie’s wrist, but she’s wearing a glove and she’s behind him so he can’t look her in the eye. He feels a telltale tingling and a sense of urgent desire from her, and he’s sure there’s something he ought to say, although it’s on the tip of his tongue. But then he looks up and sees Sarah aim a guarded nod at Cassie and a certain tension goes out of their posture.

  “Here,” says Mack, passing his phone back to him. “It says they can deliver within half an hour once you place your order: you’ve probably even got time for a drink while we’re waiting—a small one, seeing you’re driving.” She smiles disarmingly.

  Alex sends the order. “I need to check on Dad,” he says, and Cassie lets go of him as he stands. Dad is still singing quietly to himself. “C’mon, Pa? Let’s get you to the recliner.” It’s an overstuffed armchair that matches the sofa’s crumpled floral velour. It is Dad’s habit to nap in it for half an hour each evening when he gets home from work. Unlike the dining chair there’s no risk of him sliding off it. Paternal relocation completed, Alex confiscates his near-empty tumbler and refills it with ice and tonic water. As he positions it on the occasional table by his father’s right hand, Cassie materializes beside him.

  “This is your father,” she says quietly.

  “Yes.” Alex puts the glass down.

  “But he’s harmless.”

  He glances at her sidelong, and remembers the question he’s been saving up for some time. “Can you tell a lie?” he asks.

  She meets his gaze, unblinking. “Not to my father.”

  “Your father.” He thinks for a moment. “The food won’t arrive for at least half an hour. It’s time you and I had a little talk about your family, isn’t it?”

  Cassie draws breath to reply, then n
ods abruptly and stands. “Outside,” she says, “where the stars can stand witness to my truth.”

  12.

  LA CAGE AUX FOLLES

  Alex stands in the open front doorway. Cassie squats on the front lawn, clutching her knees, her back tense. They are serenaded by distant traffic and barking dogs. For a moment he’s torn. He ought to help out with the mess indoors, make sure Mum is all right and that Mack (who is clearly having a terrible time) isn’t traumatized. But he has a horrible feeling that if he doesn’t talk to Cassie right now he’ll be making a huge mistake.

  He comes up behind her and kneels. “You’re not human, are you?” he says.

  “No. Are you?”

  “I’m—” He stops dead, rephrases what he was about to say. “I used to be.”

  “Well then. What would you do if I said I’m trying to be? I mean, I like it here. Only I’m not very good at faking being one of you.”

  “You’re good enough for me,” he says, carefully feeling his way through the swamp of assumptions.

  “Oh, you poor fool,” she murmurs sadly, leaning back against him.

  Alex thinks very hard for a few seconds. Then he asks, “Why are you here?” Meaning, Why are we having this conversation?

  She is silent for a few seconds. “Alex, when I asked you to come with me to meet my family I did not mean you ill. But I have to take you, do you understand? I am forced to do so. An obligation—I’m not sure that’s the right word? A compulsion that I can’t break, perhaps.” She falls silent again. Then, just as he’s about to ask her to explain, she continues: “I don’t like my father, and my stepmother hates me and wants me dead. At best they will try to use you against me, or me against you. Do you understand?”

  Alex understands let’s-you-and-him-fight games all too well, but something about Cassie’s vehemence scares him. “Not really. Why do you have to introduce me if they’re so bad?”

  “Because he’s my—” She shakes her head and half-turns towards him. Her expression is one of mute misery. Alex wraps his arms around her and she tucks her chin into the side of his neck. Her ears quiver like a frightened rabbit’s. She’s warm, and he can feel her heartbeat, hear the hiss and sigh of blood in her arteries, the ebb and flow of air in her lungs.

  She’s not human, he thinks. But neither am I. And he’s torn in multiple directions by his own ignorance and the urgent sense of impending crisis. How did she find him? Why did she find him? (Because he can’t kid himself that this is nothing to do with work.) What is she, and have her kind been living in the shadows all along, or—did she come here from somewhere else? What— He stops. There’s no safe way out of this. “What kind of person are you?” he asks, half-afraid of what she’ll tell him.

  “I’m a—” She pulls back slightly, frowning faintly. “I’m of the People. That’s how our name for our own kind translates into your tongue: not very helpful, is it?” He nods encouragingly. “In our tongue we would say alfär. We are distant relatives, closer than your Neanderthal cousins. But prehistory took a different path in my home-world. Speech came late to my ancestors, and when words arrived they already had the makings of magi. Your kind have many names for us: fae or unseelie. My father is the All-Highest. Everything I told you is true. But your legends about my People are nonsense and confusion.” She pulls back further, raises a hand to his face, and pokes at his upper lip. Alex flinches. “Magister,” she says, peering into his eyes.

  Alex meets her gaze. Cassie’s irises are a dark, muddy brown, turbid as a bog pool. Her pupils are slightly elliptical, almost catlike, but in the streetlight it’s hard to be sure because they’re also dilated. He feels a glamour pressing on his mind, but held carefully in check. He pushes back, and her pupils dilate wider as he feels a matching resistance. Then, before the mental shoving match escalates, she leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

  Alex recoils. “Wait!” He takes a deep breath. “It’s not safe, I’m a, a . . .”

  “Vampire?” Shocked, he lets her take his hands. “You aren’t going to suck my blood, are you?” she asks suggestively.

  “But I’m infectious—”

  “Not to me and those of my rank: only those of us who embrace the blood feeders become magi.” She pulls him close. “We control the mage-power: we do not allow it to control us.”

  Alex’s head spins. “How?” he asks desperately, then wishes he could swallow the word: Wrong question, nerd-boy.

  But she doesn’t seem to notice; instead she kisses him again, and this time he doesn’t try to escape, or even to hold his breath. He loses track of time until someone behind him clears their throat. At the second throat-clearing he opens his eyes. Cassie is still there but she’s looking past him. Alex turns sideways just far enough to see Mack holding his phone out at arm’s reach, as if she’s afraid of getting too close: “It’s for you. Your work, I think?”

  Cassie smiles smugly but relaxes her grip to allow Alex to stand up. He takes a deep breath. “Thanks,” he says, breathing heavily as he extends a hand.

  Mack passes him the phone, then retreats. Her cheeks are flushed, and Alex wonders, mortified, how it must look to her. Way to make a good impression on kid sister’s girlfriend, he thinks, looking at the caller ID, then doing a double-take. A wash of fear settles over him. It’s the Duty Officer in the control center in London.

  “Schwartz here,” he says. “I’m in public.” He looks round. “Among civilians,” he adds quietly. The urge to report his latest discovery is strong, but he holds back for the time being: obviously head office wouldn’t be calling unless there was a matter of overwhelming immediate importance, he rationalizes—

  “Alex, this is the DM.” The harsh, grating voice is instantly familiar from a rainy night in Whitby. Déjà vu stabs at Alex, and he feels a pang of fear for Cassie. “You are in Leeds, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harrumph.” Only the DM can make a throat-clearing sound like an accusation. “Did you conduct the ley line survey around Leeds docks last week?”

  “I was part of it, yes—” Alex does a double-take. “You know I’m not on duty right now?”

  It’s water off the DM’s back. “Was there a proximate ley line endpoint in the vicinity of Leeds Docks, connecting to the Lawnswood vertex? Did you successfully traverse—”

  “Yes there was and no I didn’t. It was just a site survey with a K-22, establishing signal strength and geometry. Also, for the last time, I’m not on the clock and I’m with company.” Alex is firm. He’s had co-workers like the DM before, driven types with no life of their own and a tenuous grasp of work/life balance. “It’s a family event.”

  “Oh. Well, Dr. Schwartz.” The DM sounds more than slightly irritated. “Would this be your parents at”—he rattles off their address—“or some other family?”

  Alex tries not to choke. “Dinner. With my parents.”

  “Well then, you may return to your family repast for now. But can I suggest as a matter of urgency that you check whether the ley line between the Lawnswood bunker and Leeds Docks is active, and let me know as soon as possible? Forecasting Ops were most insistent that you should investigate it this evening. I believe it is adjacent to the shortest route from your parents’ house to your own lodgings, and the matter is of some importance. Thank you.”

  The DM hangs up, leaving Alex staring at his phone.

  “Who was that, sweetie?” Cassie clutches his left arm possessively.

  Before he can think of an answer Mack clears her throat. “Are you coming inside?” she asks. “Because you’ll get awfully cold if you plan on waiting out here for the takeaway, and”—she lowers her voice—“Sarah says Mr. Green opposite is a creeper and he’s got a set of binoculars.”

  “That was work,” Alex mutters despondently at Cassie. To Mack, gratefully: “Yeah, we’ll come inside.” Then, to Cassie: “Let’s eat. Then how about we go fi
nd your friends’ party?”

  “I’d like that! YesYes!” And suddenly she’s as chirpy and bouncy as before—almost as if there are two different Cassies inhabiting the same skin. “If we go via my house we can pick up your costume?” She makes it sound so like a salacious invitation that Alex shuffles uneasily.

  “Okay. I’ve got to pay a visit along the way, but it’ll only take ten minutes. And then, party time!”

  * * *

  Cassie might as well be a cardboard cutout of a girlfriend as far as Mum and Dad are concerned. They’re perfectly polite to her but it’s as if her weirdness makes everything she says and does slide right past them. Cassie isn’t using a glamour or any form of magic to hide herself as far as Alex can tell. Some people are just better than others at noticing things that don’t align with their concern, and Mum and Dad are simply oblivious to elves, vampires, vegans, and other esoteric manifestations of modernity. All they care about is a sensible career development path and a solid pension plan. Alex figures this is all for the best, because expecting them to cope with a manic pixie dream girl while they’re still figuring out how to respond to having a history student and a civil servant in the family is a parental trauma too far. But it doesn’t make for easy dining table conversation. Sarah and Mack seem to realize there’s something weird about Cassie, but they’re at pains not to make a big deal of it, proving that they can behave like civilized adults even if she can’t. He can’t talk about work, and the more Cassie smiles and the less she says the better. So the conversation around the table veers wildly between willful vacuity and long, awkward silences until the takeaway arrives to put them out of their misery.

  The arrival of food is a blessed relief from the pressure of conversation. Alex and Sarah manage to keep Dad’s glass topped up with plenty of soda water and lemonade until he shows signs of recovering from his sobriety excursion, which he does just in time to dive into the dosas that Mack magicked up on Alex’s phone. Mack’s mastery of the latest smartphone fast food app scores her brownie points with Mum, and Cassie’s blinding smile seems to charm her, so by the end of the evening it is only Alex and Sarah who are in the doghouse.