Differently Morphous

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  59

  xxreaverxx: What’s new, pussycat?

  jess: hey

  jess: nita says ill probably be able to go home soon

  xxreaverxx: Ah, but will things ever be the same again?

  xxreaverxx: After your incredible odyssey of Travelodges and sleeping on two different couches.

  xxreaverxx: Will you ever be able to return to the mundane routine of everyday life?

  jess: yeah probs

  jess: there shutting down the nasty school so i wont be on the run anymore

  jess: and theres going to be like a big show at the nice school

  xxreaverxx: A big show?

  xxreaverxx: So, what . . . Les Miserables?

  jess: like a bunch of speeches and stuff so people stop hating people with magic powers

  xxreaverxx: You mean, the people who could kill everyone else in the country in a second if they wanted to.

  jess: not really

  jess: I mean even if you had a really good power that would probly take like a week at least

  xxreaverxx: Fair enough.

  xxreaverxx: So they think a few sob stories will be enough to make the entire country U-turn?

  jess: were gonna do some stuff with the fluidics i think

  jess: like an endorsement thing

  xxreaverxx: Ah, really?

  xxreaverxx: I suppose that means I’ll have to come too.

  xxreaverxx: Since I’m the Fluidic Killer and everything, and this will be an ideal opportunity to kill some fluidics.

  jess: i said i was sorry about that

  xxreaverxx: And I said, there’s absolutely no need to apologize.

  xxreaverxx: I am obviously the Fluidic Killer. It makes so much sense. It’s a real testament to the deductive skills of you and your friends at DEDA.

  xxreaverxx: So I guess I’ll see you next Saturday for some good, solid fluidic murdering?

  xxreaverxx: Or perhaps “solid” is the wrong word.

  jess: whatever jerk

  jess: ttyl

  jess signed off at 13:12pm

  jess signed on at 13:15pm

  jess: how did you know the show is next saturday

  60

  “The press event’s not till Saturday,” said Alison, watching the motorway ahead. “But Nita wants us to come down a couple of days early.”

  In the bucket on the passenger seat, Shgshthx rolled thoughtfully, doing a passable imitation of a taffy-pulling machine. “Why?”

  It took a moment for Alison to spare enough mental focus to reply. Diablerie’s car had disappeared along with its owner, and Alison was having trouble adjusting to the hire car, it being of sensible proportions with weight appropriately distributed. She had narrowly missed three collisions so far. “Yes, so, Nita wants to do a sort of proper photo-shoot thing with you and the Weatherbys at the school. She says there might not be a chance with everything she has planned for the weekend.”

  “Weath-oo-bees?” inquired Shgshthx.

  A van in the neighboring lane honked as Alison almost oversteered into their path, and she made a series of apologetic squeaks as she guided the car back into line. “Um, yes. Do you remember Jessica?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Shgshthx. “Is she still staying in our biw-ding?”

  “No, she had to move on, because . . .”

  Shgshthx jiggled patiently as Alison went quiet, pieces falling into place in her mind.

  “She’s not on the run anymore,” she said, mostly to herself as she readjusted the steering again. “She won’t get sent back to the secondary school.”

  “Is at a good thing?” asked Shgshthx, confused.

  “So I don’t need to cover for her,” continued Alison, her thoughts assembling like a snowball descending a hill. “So I don’t need to keep saying my credit card was stolen. Which is the main reason Diablerie was named the prime suspect.”

  Alison had confided in Shgshthx frequently during their garbage-exchange sessions. She had discovered that he, like most fluidics, was a very good listener, probably because their entire bodies could function as an ear. “Sho now oo can tell them the twuth?”

  “Y—” Alison’s word stopped short as she imagined confessing to Elizabeth. She imagined the subtle twitches and movements of Elizabeth’s facial features as she forced her expression not to change. Alison would have preferred to stand under a space shuttle and stare down one of the rockets as it began to glow.

  “Yesh?” prompted Shgshthx.

  “Well . . . it probably doesn’t really matter,” said Alison, feeling wretched. “Diablerie’s still the best suspect. He ran away when he was going to be arrested. And Mr. Brooke-Stodgeley says the killer has to have been either a salt elemental or using runes, and we don’t know of any salt elementals . . .”

  “Is Diabwewee the onwy person who can use wunes?”

  Alison shifted her hips left and right, as the seat was starting to feel prickly. “No . . . I think anyone can use them, once they’re written, but . . . he’s the only person I’ve ever seen using them. And anyway, he was near the scene of the second killing and doesn’t have an alibi. That was the other thing.”

  “Because he was in the toi-wet,” clarified Shgshthx.

  “Yes. No! He went into a toilet but we didn’t actually have any eyes on him when the killing started.” She was quoting the way Elizabeth Lawrence had explained the matter to her.

  Shgshthx gave a little fart. “So ee must have . . . come out of the toi-wet without you noticing.”

  “Yes.”

  “While you were wight in fwont of it.”

  Alison lifted a hand from the steering wheel and wobbled it for emphasis. “He’s Diablerie! He’s . . . you know. Mysterious.”

  They drove in silence for several minutes, Alison drumming her fingers on the wheel, Shgshthx watching the scenery go by. “Anyway,” said Alison eventually. “The only other suspect is David Badger, and I don’t think he’d travel all the way from Yorkshire to Devon to kill fluidics. That would’ve been insane. I mean, killing fluidics is insane, yes, but that would have been insane and it wouldn’t have made any sense, either.”

  “Awison,” said Shgshthx. “We know oo the kiwwer is.”

  Alison boggled. He was looking away guiltily, in the sense that he had formed part of his mass into a frowning face and angled it away. Another passing car honked, and Alison returned her gaze to the road. “What? Who knows?”

  “We do. We put our heads together.”

  “The fluidics? Like . . . all of you?”

  A long sigh bubbled through Shgshthx’s mass, making his frowny face wobble. “We don’t want to cawse a fuss.”

  “Shgshthx, we’ve been over this,” said Alison tolerantly, rubbing her forehead. “We know you don’t want to cause a fuss, but if one of us is going around murdering one of you, we actually would like you to cause a fuss. Because, if one of us might be doing that, then they might keep doing even worse things. So, when you think about it, not making a fuss could actually cause an even bigger fuss. You see?”

  Shgshthx slopped about in thought. “What if it’sh not one of oo,” he asked, so softly she could barely make out the words.

  “Not one of us?” said Alison. She injected as much sternness into her voice as she felt capable of. “Shgshthx, will you please tell me what you know.”

  “It’s Shgshthx.”

  She frowned. “Sorry, am I pronouncing it wrong?”

  “No, I mean, the Fwuidic Kiwwer. It’sh Shgshthx.”

  Alison let that one run around her cavernous mind a few times, making nervous taps of the steering wheel to mark each lap. “The Fluidic Killer is one of you?”

  “Yesh, it’s Shgshthx. We didn’t wike to cause a fuss because it was an in-too-nal matter.”

  “Hang on. Are you saying that all of you are the Fluidic Killer?”

  “No no no!” Shgshthx bobbed urgently. “Just Shgshthx.”

  “So which one of you is this Shgshthx?”

  Shgshthx coc
ked what was currently the most head-like part of his anatomy. “The Fwuidic Kiwwer.”

  “Yes, but what is it that sets them apart from the rest of the fluidics?”

  “They’re the one oo kiwws fwuidics.”

  Alison screwed up her eyes and rubbed her head harder. She recalled that the fluidics had once been cells of a single larger being and still struggled with the concept of independent consciousness; this was probably, on reflection, why they didn’t consider their individual deaths to be worthy of a fuss. The important thing was to remain tolerant and understanding of their cultural differences. “All right. Imagine we were in a room with Shgshthx the Fluidic Killer and another Shgshthx who isn’t the Fluidic Killer. One on the left, one on the right. How would you be able to tell them apart?”

  Shgshthx put on a confused face, with a sideways S for a mouth, which was the closest a fluidic ever got to showing impatience. “One of them is the Fwuidic Ki—”

  “Assuming I don’t know which one is the Fluidic Killer,” said Alison hastily. “You’re trying to explain to me which one is the Fluidic Killer because I don’t know that. How would you do it?”

  Shgshthx’s sideways S became an O of understanding. “Ohhh. I would say, it’s the one on the weft.”

  “What?”

  “Or the wight. Depending on which one it was.”

  Alison gave up. “You know what, there’s going to be a lot of fluidics at the event. Why don’t you just let me know if you see the killer.”

  “Oew-kay.”

  They covered the remainder of the journey to the primary school in silence as Alison devoted all her spare brain power to this new revelation. It didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. She had seen the Fluidic Killer at the second scene, or at least the legs and feet of someone who could not have been anything but the Fluidic Killer. She had only seen them for a moment, but they had definitely been wearing long trousers and shoes.

  Fluidics were amorphous—or rather, differently morphous, as Nita preferred to say. Could they take on a human shape, enough to fill trousers and shoes? A couple of fluidics had made an effort to fit in that way, but it was too complex a form to maintain, and they had ended up looking like half-sucked jelly babies. As for the clothing, there was a very fine line for a fluidic between wearing a garment and digesting it. Besides, fluidics couldn’t do magic. At least, she didn’t think they could. They were magical creatures, but that wasn’t the same thing as being magically infused. Was it?

  She had to force the deductive process to the back of her mind as they arrived at the monastery that housed the primary school. She pulled up in the courtyard in front of the main entrance building, as she had done over nine months ago, in the car of the two agents who had collected her from her mother. The friendly, ornate building, looking like something halfway between a church and a hunting lodge, seemed to her like it had grown smaller since she had seen it last.

  Nita’s car was already there, parked directly in front of the main entrance. Aaron-Byhagthn and Jessica Weatherby were leaning on the car, dressed in virtually identical dark T-shirts and jeans. Jessica wasn’t toying with any kind of electronic device, which was a change dramatic enough to immediately raise Alison’s curiosity, while most of Aaron-Byhagthn’s face was watching the school entrance pensively.

  Nita herself was standing at the door, addressing the familiar figure of Brother Burling. Both were standing with the rock-solid folded-arms body language of divorced parents being forced to interact across a threshold at the start of a visitation weekend.

  Alison jogged a few steps forward when she caught sight of the old monk. “Hi, Brother Burling!”

  Burling gave her a look that nailed her into place like a spear of lightning, and she froze with one foot in the air. His eyes, peering out above his thick silver beard, were like two warning lights in the middle of a frost-covered bramble patch.

  “Alison,” he said, an acknowledgment that veered only slightly into incredulity.

  “Oh, do you two know each other?” said Nita spitefully. “Alison, perhaps you could explain to this person who we represent and what we would like to use this building for?”

  “And perhaps you could explain to this person,” countered Brother Burling, like a solid oak tree trunk responding to the efforts of a woodpecker, “that if you intend to debase this building with demons and tainted ones, then you will have to do so over the corpses of me and all of my brothers.”

  “Brother . . . Burling?” repeated Alison, shocked. She looked to the nearest window and saw a cluster of other monks pressed against the glass, watching Burling with worship in their eyes.

  Nita finally managed to stop making disbelieving scoffing noises and produce words. “Do you know how totally, totally offensive those words are in this day and age? Do you know it’s actually the twenty-first century out here?”

  “I don’t care if it’s the forty-fifth century and the building behind me has been weathered into dirt. I will not allow your creatures to enter.”

  “Really?” said Pavani hotly. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter to you that we represent the government? The same government that owns this building?”

  Burling shifted his weight slightly. “Our order has always worked with the Ministry of Occultism in collaboration, not in servitude,” he said. “Your new curriculum does not come into effect until the weekend, and when it does, I and every single one of my brothers will resign.”

  Pavani reeled. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

  “I am mentioning it,” stated Burling. “Until then, this place, and these children, remain under our protection.”

  “Look,” said Alison, touching Nita’s arm tactfully. “Maybe we could just . . . take some photos on the grounds, outside.”

  “Very well,” said Burling gruffly. “But I will have brothers stationed around the perimeter to prevent you from venturing too close to the building.” He went back inside and closed the entrance door with a snap, not waiting for Pavani to stop gaping long enough to reply.

  “Protecting the children,” she eventually said, as Alison guided her along the side of the building. “That’s always the line, isn’t it? Think of the children! Can’t talk about homosexuality in schools. Can’t let transgender people use their preferred bathroom. Can’t open dialogues with the Ethereal Realm—what would happen to the children? It’s disgusting how they use other people like that.”

  “It was strange,” said Alison, not really listening. “Brother Burling used to be really nice.”

  “Oh, well,” said Nita, after a couple of cleansing breaths. “No hope of a calm, respectful discussion with silly old farts like that. They can have their last little tantrum; we don’t need their help. Shall we try over there?”

  There was a kidney-shaped playing field at the rear of the school grounds, adjoining part of the main building and the largest dormitory, with a small herb garden at the far end, just before the unfenced border of the surrounding forest. It was a place where students could go to calm down, if they had spent too long staring at focusing trays and were beginning to see marching ants every time they closed their eyes.

  It was entirely deserted but for Nita, Alison, the Weatherbys, and Shgshthx. True to Burling’s word, monks were keeping all the students indoors. Robed brothers stood in front of every door and window of the building, their fixed, disapproving looks clear even from across the field.

  “Do we have a photographer?” asked Alison, looking around.

  “No, I can do that part,” said Nita, producing a digital camera from her bag. “I thought about it, but I wanted to make absolutely sure we don’t get off message with these. Now, towards or away from the school, do you think?”

  “I . . .”

  “Yes, towards, definitely. The forest’s a little bit too wild; we might accidentally imply that interdimensionals don’t have a place in modern society.” She peered at the monastery through the viewfinder experimentally. “I suppose we can Photoshop ou
t the angry monks.”

  Alison felt a presence behind her that made her hair stand on end. “Hello, Alison Arkin,” said Aaron-Byhagthn.

  She turned quickly to find him standing just an inch too close for polite social discourse. His eyes were wide with sorrow, and one of his face tentacles was gingerly reaching over to pat her on the shoulder.

  “We are very, very sorry that we tried to murder you,” he said, as softly and apologetically as his voice could allow.

  “Oh,” said Alison, trying to resist making an instinctive recoil of horror. “Well, it was completely understandable. Under the circumstances at the time . . .”

  “No.” He shook his head, making his tentacles wave festively. “Trying to murder you was completely disproportionate. I feel very bad about it. At most I should have only tried to concuss you or break your arms and legs.”

  “That’s . . . good, actually,” said Alison, maintaining determined eye contact and nodding slowly. “It’s good that we can clear the air.”

  She noticed that Jessica Weatherby was standing directly behind her brother (or the entity that was partially her brother, or not her brother at all; the matter was yet to be fully clarified as far as Alison understood it), fidgeting and jiggling up and down as if standing in the queue for the lavatory.

  “Jessica, what’s wrong?” asked Alison.

  Jessica pushed Aaron-Byhagthn aside with the rude familiarity of a sibling. “I think you were right about Reaver, I think he might be the Fluidic Killer.” She said all the words in a single rapid exclamation which sounded slightly rehearsed.

  Alison blinked. “You think so?”

  Jessica produced her smartphone, which she had been fiddling with in the pocket of her jeans throughout the conversation. “He keeps sending me weird messages,” she said. “When we arrived, he said he could see us. He described what I’m wearing.”