by R. E. Vance
Still, The BisMark was different, and maybe, just maybe, his special brand of justice was indeed mortal justice. I had played into his hands by jumping on stage and standing in front of everyone. And so I had a dilemma: I either trusted BisMark, or I didn’t. Not that it made any difference. The cameras were trained on me and there was nothing to do but hope BisMark was true to his word.
And as if reading my mind, The BisMark whispered, “Don’t worry … I will be true to my word.”
“OK,” I said. “I’m going to believe that you are. Besides, I can’t worry about that now. We have to cancel the gala, send everyone home. That was an unnatural earthquake, and—”
“Cancel? Why? Things are going great. After all, it’s not a party unless Nature or Chaos takes notice. It’s just their way of saying, ‘Hi.’ ”
“Nature? Chaos?”
The BisMark shook his head. “Oh, Human Jean-Luc, you have much to learn. That earthquake wasn’t a bad thing. It was a boon.”
“For who? I don’t think that—”
But before I could finish, he spun me around and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, OnceImmortals and AlwaysMortals, let me present to you our human friend who risked life and limb—and a few strands of his hair—to make sure that yours truly was safe. He put my life before his, and if that doesn’t make him a hero, then I don’t know what does. Unlike Hercules, he’s not half a god. Unlike Odysseus, he hasn’t been cursed. Unlike Benkei, he doesn’t have a destiny to fulfill. He is just an ordinary, regular human. But he is a human who cares.” The BisMark lifted a single finger up. “Give it up for the human who cares!”
The Others went friggin’ crazy. And I don’t mean the usual stomping and grunting, hopping and cheering. I mean that every single Other hooted and screamed. I know that most of it was for The BisMark, with less than ten percent of it for me, but that ten percent was enough. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my skin felt tight. Their screams chased away the air, and I couldn’t breathe. I started to go dizzy and I felt like I was going to faint. The BisMark grabbed my wrist and lifted it up in a victory dance. But he might as well have blindfolded me and spun me ’round and ’round. My heart raced as my vision blurred, the crowd turning into a hazy, macabre scene of cheers and jeers. I was going to pass out, and—I swear by the GoneGods—The BisMark knew it. He wanted me to pass out, and a voice that was more inspiration than anything else spoke harshly within me—This is my moment. Mine! And you’re stealing it.
The voice was crushing, and I knew that in a second or two I’d fall to my knees and pass out. Then what? Get carried away? Taken to my room? Left alone. That wouldn’t be so bad.
You always hated being the center of attention, echoed another, softer voice—this time not from my mind, but from somewhere much deeper. You would be happy if the world left you all alone, my people-hating Jean …
“The whole world,” I whispered, “but not you. Never you.” And then I saw her. Bella, standing in the crowd. She was not clapping or cheering. Just giving me that playful look of hers—a look that said, “Buck up, Jean-Luc, it’ll be over soon.” The apparition I knew to be a dream folded her arms over her chest. “In this life and the next,” I mouthed.
I knew that she wasn’t there. She was the mirage I needed in order to find balance. And it worked. Just thinking of Bella equalized me and, suddenly, I was fine. Oh, my Bella—you could always save me. I sighed and, calmed, looked over at The BisMark. He was grinning from ear to ear, loving the elation the Others bestowed upon us.
He looked at me and smiled.
I smiled back, and for a split second his lips betrayed confusion. He patted me on the back and bowed in my direction, hands clasped together in reverent thanks. Then in a low, respectful voice he said, “Jean-Luc, amongst your species, you truly are one of a kind.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Hellelujah!
Chapter 2
Apocalypses Aren’t Just the End of the World—They’re a Mind-Set
The crowd eventually died down and I was ushered off stage by Stewart, who exhibited about as much emotion as a toaster. Clearly I had had my moment in the spotlight, and it was time to give it back. That was fine by me.
Besides, I had something far more important to attend to—Astarte was gone. I didn’t like the way she had lurked near the stage, staring at her sister with that odd look of hers, but sometime between the crowd erupting and me getting off stage she had disappeared. Atargatis sat at the table holding back tears, as her seven children stood around her solemnly watching their mother’s despair.
Either she was upset over her moment being stolen, or Astarte had managed to get in a quick jab before disappearing. Maybe it was both. Either way, it was clear that her evening was ruined.
At least that was how I saw it. Just once I’d like to be able to read situations concerning Others correctly. Had I read this one, I would have done something. Anything. Instead, I went back to my table, completely unaware of what was coming.
↔
Music I didn’t recognize pumped through the speakers as the stone gargoyles cleared the tables, the chairs and the spilled dinner. Others from all walks of life started dancing in their own quirky way. A cèilidh jig, a do-si-do, a pako-pako and a dozen other dance styles mixed on one dance floor.
At least twerking hadn’t caught on—thank the GoneGods for small miracles.
Awkward and staged, more than one Other pandered to the cameras, and I was starting to understand what The BisMark was up to. He wanted to show the human world their vulnerabilities, their weaknesses. If we were to get along, the humans needed to see the Others not as powerful creatures of myth or the tangible reminder of the GoneGods, but as fragile beings … just as lost as everyone else.
The thing about Others—many of them may walk on two feet, but their gait wasn’t human. Maybe it was their bulk or extra appendages, or the fact that most of them lived a near eternity in places far more pleasant, or far more hot than Earth—whatever it was, you could always tell an Other was an Other by the way they walked. And so when they attempted human dances, it came out clumsy, awkward and somewhat humorous. Sure, the average home viewer would laugh at a dust devil doing the Macarena dance, but laughing at it would dull the monster’s teeth and make its claws less fearsome.
You can’t be afraid when you’re laughing. The two emotions simply can’t occupy the same space.
And once the laughter fades, most humans will step up and teach that very same dust devil how it’s done. Not that there’s anything right about the Macarena.
I wasn’t sure if this tactic would work, but I had to give it to The BisMark—at least he was trying.
↔
I scanned the room, looking for Greg. Maybe he’d know where Astarte was. But he was gone too, which probably meant that the two of them went upstairs to start another awkward dance of their own. And with Brian in the room, Astarte was about to be the centerpiece of a nerd-vana.
So that was one problem solved. I hoped. Sex doesn’t have the habit of solving a lot of problems. It was more of a “defer to a later time” kind of animal. Very well then—one problem deferred and a dozen more to deal with. If—and the jury was still out on this one—The BisMark was right and the earthquake was a good sign, or simply some Other burning a bit of time for fun, then I didn’t have to worry about the fact that the ground shook. Still, my experience taught me that an act of nature was rarely an act of nature when Others were around.
But until the problem presented itself, there was nothing I could do about it. So, yet another problem was deferred, which meant that the problems I had left were still numerous and demanding. I had Sally and her Being Human Salon to deal with and, despite Stewart’s assurance the WildMan wasn’t going to crash the party, I doubted the gargoyle knew what they were up against. I swear that his chest hair alone could stop bullets. Regardless of whether or not he crashed the party, he attacked my friend, and I wasn’t going to let that go. Sooner or later we were going to have w
ords. More than words.
And then, of course, there were Penemue and EightBall, and the bills of this place, and the ruined carpet, and my ugly mug that could be recognized by the past that I’d been hiding from for the last six years.
My head spun. I walked over to my table and sat down, thinking about how all I really wanted to do was to go upstairs and stage a reenactment of Gulliver’s Travels with the Smurfs and Grendizer.
I was so consumed with everything that was going on that I didn’t notice a snake popping out from under the table until it was almost eye level with me. “Holy moly!” I jerked to my feet.
“Marty! Be nice,” a voice admonished. Medusa’s mocha-colored face peered out from under the tablecloth. She looked worried. “Is it over?”
I lifted the tablecloth and saw her sitting there, petting a few of her snakes. She had a bottle of wine and two glasses. But this wasn’t some kind of seduction. She wasn’t luring me under the table for some alone time. She was worried. “Hey, Jean. I was wondering when you’d show up,” she started, and I got the sense that she wanted to say something else but was holding back.
“Sorry,” I said. “I should’ve gotten you right away. It’s safe to come out.”
Medusa chuckled. “Are you sure?”
“I think so.” I looked back at what the Others interpreted as dance and shook my head. “Then again …”
“Come down here. It’s peaceful.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me under.
Beneath the canopy the barrage of noises dulled, if only slightly, and I was grateful for the reprieve. The carpet beneath us was comfortable enough, and the table under which we sat had been designed for Others, which meant that it was larger than your average banquet hall table, and we had a lot of space to move around under there. Soft light filtering through the white silk tablecloth illuminated the table’s underbelly, and even though we could hear the bumping and the thumping of the music outside, we were somehow shielded from it. It was like when I was a kid and I’d build forts where PopPop wasn’t allowed unless invited.
I liked it here. And I liked not being alone. Especially when my company was wearing such a tantalizing low-cut dress and had a smile that could make puppies swoon.
“That was very brave,” she said, her eyes gleaming with more than just a crush.
“Stupid,” I reassured her. “Very, very stupid.”
“But you saved a lot of Others from getting hurt. That was brave …” Her voice trailed off and her look of concern returned. It was more than concern. She looked afraid.
“More stupid than brave,” I assured her.
“True,” she said, her voice distracted. Distant. She gave Marty a pat on the head. She handed me her glass of wine and gestured for me to take a sip. “Tell me what it tastes like to you.”
I tasted it. It was bitter. Not just bitter—it tasted like acid. I spat it out. “It’s sour.”
Her eyes widened like she hadn’t wanted me to confirm that the wine was sour, like she had wanted me to tell her that the wine was fine and that it was her Other taste buds that made it sour. She shook her head and a trembling lip accompanied her worried expression. “Exactly. I believe we’re all in grave danger.”
“That’s a bit of an overreaction for one bad bottle of wine.”
“Is it?” she said, and Marty stretched out from under the tablecloth and came back with another bottle of wine. “Try this one.”
I put the bottle to my lips. The wine tasted like battery acid fermented in spoiled grapes. “Yuck … it’s awful.”
“Exactly!” Medusa said. “It absolutely is. Think about it, Jean-Luc. That earthquake was unnatural. It lasted far too long.” Medusa paused. “And that’s not all. The sky fell, Jean-Luc.” She pointed up past the table’s ceiling and to the spot where the chandelier no longer hung.
“OK—fine. Stars fell. So what?”
“So the sky literally fell right after the earthquake. And now the wine is sour …” Medusa shuddered. “The last time I drank sour wine after an earthquake, a city was leveled by hellfire.”
“Oh, come on—don’t tell me that there was sour wine in Atlantis.”
“Not Atlantis … Sodom.”
“Oh,” I said, and followed it up by a decisive and firm, “Crap.”
“You’ve got to believe me, Jean-Luc,” Medusa said. “These are signs. I’m sure of it.”
“OK. Let’s say I buy into your signs theory. What are these signs for?”
“What do you think? The end of the world.”
↔
Medusa’s somber expression told me that she wasn’t joking. She believed that the earthquake, the fallen chandelier and the sour wine all pointed to the end of the world. I looked over at the Queen of the Gorgons as she absently petted Marty. Her lower lip was cutely caught between her teeth, and she had a pouting expression as she worried about the world ending. Again.
But that was just the problem. Others had lost their homes. And I don’t care what kind of creature you are—suddenly losing everything you own is one of the most traumatic experiences you could ever live through. It isn’t just about living in a new place. It’s about losing the place that had once made you feel safe. Lose that, and it won’t matter where you end up—you’ll never feel safe again. There was never a study done to confirm this, but I suspect that most of the Others had some form of posttraumatic stress disorder, being constantly worried about the next tragedy and when it was going to strike them.
When you live in constant fear, it’s easy to see signs that aren’t there. And when you are a creature born of magic, it’s even easier to see earthquakes, chandeliers and sour wine as signs of bad things to come …
I took Medusa’s hand in mine and said, “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” she said, her voice immediate and full of dread.
“OK—let’s rationalize this. You said these are signs, but I’m sure there is a natural explanation to every one of them. Let’s take it step by step. The wine—The BisMark ordered all food from one source. It stands to reason that we didn’t just get a bad bottle, but a bad batch. Also, do we even know that the wine is sour? Maybe this is some weird troll wine that’s meant to taste like sulfuric acid mixed in brimstone.”
“Brimstone doesn’t taste like this,” she said in all seriousness.
“It was a joke. But can we at least entertain the theory that the wine was either meant to taste like that, or that the supplier sent us a bad case of it?”
Medusa hesitated before nodding.
“OK—now the earthquake. You know how much The BisMark wants to make his party a big deal. He even told me that the world would be watching. Have you seen how many cameras are out there? Exactly two. The world doesn’t care about his party, and it must drive him crazy. So why not add a little oomph by making the world shake? He’s this all-powerful Other, right? He can afford to spend a year or two shaking things up.”
“You think it was magic?”
I nodded. “I think it was The BisMark’s magic. Or one of his gargoyles was trying to please its master. I mean, it could be that, couldn’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“And as for the chandelier actually being stars … I figure that he’s just boasting. What if it is just really, really expensive crystals imbued with a ton of time?”
Medusa shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. They really are stars.”
“No way can that be true.”
“Yes, they are … How do you think the gods paid The BisMark? With gold? No. A guy like that was paid with the most valuable commodity the gods traded in. Stars.”
I narrowed my eyes, skeptical. “Not actual stars.”
“Yes—actual stars.”
I shook my head. “You’re serious, aren’t you? OK—but what did they pay him for?”
“For organizing the world. Think about it … Do you know how many gods, demigods and AlmostGods there are? And they all have dominion over the same thi
ngs—fertility, crops, sun, war, life, death … the list goes on. Can you imagine the pandemonium that would’ve happened if God A chose winter for the crops to grow, and God B chose summer? And what about the gods who wanted perpetual winter or summer, or a planet where it rained frogs all the time? Nothing would get done, and the world would be torn apart. Hence the definitions—fertility meant the same thing to all the gods because The BisMark defined it so.”
“Do you mean the Laws of Nature?”
Medusa nodded. “Yes. And someone had to negotiate the parameters under which they could operate. Hence The BisMark. But the Laws of Nature are only one aspect of it all. You have the other, less tangible stuff …” She let the word “stuff” hang in the air like it was self-explanatory. It was not self-explanatory.
“Like what?”
“Miracles. Holy symbols. Stuff like that.”
I stared blankly at Medusa.
“The gods get their power from worshippers. They get worshiped by providing. If there are limits to how much they can give the mortals when constricted by the Laws of Nature, then they are left to obtain them through other means.”
“Like impressing us. Hence, miracles.”
She snapped her fingers and pointed at me. “Exactly! But if the gods flooded the world with miracles, then all sorts of unnatural stuff would occur, and the world would once again be thrust into chaos. So The BisMark defined the parameters of miracles. How many? How long? How powerful? Who could be the avatars? Could the gods appear in person, or did they have to use agents? You know … parameters.”
“Regulating miracles, huh? Like the Trade Commission.”
“Oh, no. The BisMark did not concern himself with trade. The gods could do as they pleased.”
“Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. “OK, so The BisMark was the Master of Logistics, and he was paid in stars. Fast forward to now—what did this BisMark fellow do? Accidentally set off an apocalypse?”