Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “That's a lie!” Mary Lou shouted.

  “Is it?” Reverend Jim asked. “Then how do you explain this?” He reached into the pocket of his white lab coat and pulled out a hairbrush, which he held high over his head for the audience to see.

  “Hey! Where'd you get—” Pastor Billy blurted. Then he abruptly shut up, clamping his hand over his mouth.

  “My trusty sidekick Wills McGregor recovered this hairbrush from the No-Tell Motel,” Reverend Jim said, pointing the offending brush at Pastor Billy. “Exactly where you left it!”

  “I can testify to that,” Willis said. “That is the very same hairbrush Pastor Billy used to primp those golden locks of his while he was waiting for Marigold Flowers. I personally conveyed it to our scientists at the Creation Science Institute with my own hands.”

  “So we can say unequivocally that the chain of evidence has been preserved, is that right?” Reverend Jim said.

  “Unequivocally,” Willis said.

  “That's not evidence,” Pastor Billy scoffed. “It's a hairbrush.”

  “Ah ... but that's where you're wrong,” Reverend Jim said. As the camera moved in on his face, he slipped off his wire-rimmed glasses, peering resolutely out at the audience from the four overhead monitors. “Pastor Billy may not want to admit it, folks, but it just so happens that our scientists found one of his hairs lodged in the bristles of this very same brush—a hair from which they were able to isolate a sample of Pastor Billy's personal DNA.”

  “That doesn't prove anything,” Pastor Billy said. “I've already admitted I was at the motel. Like I told everyone, I was investigating the counterfeit Bibles.”

  “Maybe you were, and maybe you weren't, but that's not the point,” the reverend said.

  “Yeah, well, what is the point?”

  “The point is, when we tested your DNA, we discovered that you are missing a critical human gene!”

  “A what?”

  Reverend Jim grimaced, again turning to the camera. “It pains me to say this, folks, but those of you here in the arena—as well as you poor shut-ins at home—all of you have a right to know. When our forensic scientists tested Pastor Billy's DNA, we found out that he isn't like you and me.”

  “He isn't?” Willis said, peering into the camera with a perplexed frown.

  “No, he isn't, Willis. Like I say, it hurts like the dickens having to tell you all this, but the fact is...”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the fact is, Pastor Billy is missing the gene for the human soul!”

  A collective gasp arose from the audience. As the camera panned across the tiers of faces, many of the parishioners gaped at each other in dismay. Others clasped their hands and turned their gazes toward the ceiling. Still others closed their eyes and bowed their heads, slowly shaking them as though they wished the world would just go away.

  “That's a lie,” Pastor Billy cried. “That Creation Science Institute of yours is nothing but a snake-oil factory. And those so-called scientists—they couldn't find their way to the men's room!”

  “You can call me what you like, but the evidence speaks for itself,” Reverend Jim said. Reaching into his other pocket, he pulled out a computer printout, which he waved over his head. “The evidence is clear, my friends. Much as I dislike casting ethnic dispersions, the truth must be told. Pastor Billy's ancestors were never in the Garden. God had no hand in his creation. The sad fact is, Pastor Billy is a product of the very same theory of evolution that all those atheist school teachers have been using to despoil our nation's youth.”

  “Evolution!” Willis cried in dismay. “Are we talking Charles Darwin?”

  “Yes we are, Willis. Much as I hate to say it, Pastor Billy is descended from monkeys!”

  “Monkeys!” Pastor Billy exclaimed. He jumped to his feet. “Who are you calling a monkey, you good-for-nothing piece of goat cheese? You're nothing but a fruit vendor!”

  “At least I'm not leading my flock to Hell!” Reverend Jim fired back. “We all know what you were doing with that Flowers woman.” He turned to the audience. “He was riding Satan's rollercoaster, folks. Whooping and hollering like a teenager at his first rodeo.”

  “That's right!” Willis exclaimed. “They don't even have names for some of the sinful things he was doing.”

  “You're the one who's leading your flock to Hell!” Pastor Billy exclaimed. “Telling them they can atone for their sins with fruit juice. You don't know the first thing about sin! Or fruit juice, for that matter.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Reverend Jim said. “Well, I know a monkey when I see one! And you're a monkey!”

  “And you're a no-good huckster!”

  As the two men snapped and snarled, they dropped into a crouch, slowly circling each other with their arms outspread. Around them, members of the audience also turned on their neighbors.

  “Pastor Billy's nothing but a monkey!” one woman cried.

  “Yeah! He's leading us all to monkey hell!” another proclaimed.

  “He is not,” a man shouted back. “He was tainted by those counterfeit Bibles.”

  “All those typos and errors of faith,” another called out.

  The clash of voices rose louder and louder, until it echoed from the ceiling.

  “Oh, this is just terrible,” Mary Lou said, turning to face the camera. She clutched her shoulders as her rosebud lips twisted with anguish. “Who should we believe? How can poor, ignorant sinners know who to trust?”

  “You're right, Mary Lou,” Willis said, coming to stand beside her. “What's a true believer to do? If we follow the wrong man, we could all end up in Hell.”

  She and Willis turned and looked at Pastor Billy and Reverend Jim, who were now rolling around on the floor. Up in the seats, parishioners were bashing each other with purses and canes.

  “Monkey lover!” one woman cried.

  “Snake-oil hussy!” another shot back.

  “It doesn't seem fair, does it?” Mary Lou said. “If God created us in His own image, you'd think we'd know who we're supposed to follow.”

  “But we don't,” Willis lamented. “Even the experts can't agree who's right and who's wrong.”

  “If He could just send someone down to help us get it all straightened out...” Mary Lou said, turning her face up toward the ceiling.

  “An angel,” Willis suggested. “Someone we'd recognize just by looking at him.”

  “Someone in the heavenly family, so to speak,” Mary Lou said. “Just for a little while, just long enough to help us clear up all this confusion. So we'd know who's telling the truth and who isn't.”

  As if on cue, the red hotline rang. For a moment, no one was quite sure whether they'd heard it. The members of the audience paused in their struggles. Pastor Billy, who was straddling Reverend Jim's chest, looked up. No one breathed.

  The phone rang a second time, its jangling bell echoing from the metal roof.

  In the past, Pastor Billy had always initiated the calls himself. It had never occurred to anyone that a call might come the other way. Pastor Billy and Mary Lou looked at each other, unsure what to do.

  Slowly, almost warily, the pastor let go of Reverend Jim's lapels and climbed to his feet. Crossing the ring, he stared down at the phone. The camera moved in closer, filling the four overhead monitors with his face. The pastor's eyes were fixed on the phone, his lips quivering with apprehension.

  The phone rang a third time.

  Pastor Billy glanced quickly out at the audience, then he gulped a breath, squared his shoulders and picked up the receiver. “Uh, hello...”

  A moment passed as he listened, then he nodded his head. “Yes, this is he.” He looked out at the audience, mouthing, “It's Him,” as he pointed at the receiver.

  All up and down the tiers of seats, people let go of each other and turned to listen.

  “Yes, Sir,” the pastor said. “I guess maybe things did get a little out of hand.”

  He was again silent for a moment, listening before he
spoke.

  “Well, yes Sir, You're right. With us being natural-born sinners and all, sometimes it is hard to see just what You have in mind for us.”

  He listened some more.

  Mary Lou waved her hands back and forth, trying to catch the pastor's eye. “Ask Him if He could send someone down,” she said in a loud whisper. “Somebody who could get it all straightened out for us.”

  Pastor Billy nodded at her, then turned his attention back to the phone. “Uh ... some of the folks down here are saying they're confused....” He paused, listening. “Really? You're confused, too?

  Another pause.

  “Yes, Sir, that's true, but ... Well, we were tossing some ideas around, Sir, and we were wondering if maybe you could send someone down. You know, to help us get things straightened out. Like you did last time. Just for a few days. Kind of like a quick booster shot, so to speak.”

  Another pause.

  “Uh-huh ... yes ... well, yes, if that's what You think.” He looked over at Mary Lou, grimacing uncomfortably. “But ... but...”

  Another pause.

  “Well, yes, Sir, certainly, if that's what You want, I, uh ... yes, I'll tell them what You said.”

  Another pause.

  “Uh, yes, Sir, well You have a good day too.”

  He let the hand holding the receiver fall away from his ear. For a few moments he just stared at the receiver, then he carefully placed it back in its cradle as he slipped into the chair behind the coffee table to stare numbly down at the mat.

  “Pastor Billy,” Mary Lou exclaimed. “What is it? What did He say? Is He going to send someone?”

  Reverend Jim and Willis came to stand on either side of her, the three of them looking down at the pastor.

  Pastor Billy shook his head, looking up at them. “He says too many people are claiming they know exactly what He wants. He says they're sending too many folks off to do terrible things in His name.”

  “Well, yes ... But if He could send someone...” Mary Lou said.

  “Someone who can tell us what we're supposed to do...” Reverend Jim said.

  “He says nobody's willing to think for themselves anymore,” Pastor Billy said. “They don't want to use the brains He gave them. He says He didn't give us intelligence just so we could follow a bunch of self-serving Bible-thumpers.”

  “Bible-thumpers?” Reverend Jim said, blinking in dismay. “He called us Bible-thumpers?”

  “The real question is whether He's going to send someone,” Mary Lou said. “What did He say about that?”

  Thunder rumbled somewhere outside the building, shaking the arched steel roof.

  “He says He tried that and it didn't work,” Pastor Billy said.

  “Didn't work...” Willis repeated, knitting his brow.

  Pastor Billy grimaced. “He says the New Testament had a lot of good ideas, but we weren't ready for them. He says it's time to go back to the Old Testament way of doing things—to the stuff that worked for Him the first time around.”

  “The first time...?” Reverend Jim said.

  A second peal of thunder echoed through the building. This one louder. Rain began to patter against the roof

  “I think we're going to need a boat,” Pastor Billy said, looking up at the ceiling.

  “A boat?” Mary Lou said.

  The pastor nodded without taking his eyes from the roof. “A big one,” he said. “He told me He's going to wash the slate clean, start over again from scratch.”

  “Oh, my...” Mary Lou said. As the camera came in on her face, she followed Pastor Billy's gaze toward the ceiling. While outside, the rain began to fall harder, pounding against the roof in sheets as though the sky itself had opened and the all the seas of the earth were pouring down over the land.

  Copyright (c) 2008 Bond Elam

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Short Story: LET THE WORD TAKE ME

  by Juliette Wade

  * * * *

  Illustration by Vincent Di Fate

  * * * *

  Language is more than just words—sometimes much more.

  * * * *

  David Linden held his breath as two Gariniki paused in the rainforest's murky twilight, directly in front of his cramped observation blind—a gecko mother and child. With their backs to him, he couldn't understand all that the child was gesturing, but one of the signs was "story."

  “Oh, give me a story,” he whispered, knocking over an empty water cup in a vain attempt to lean closer through the station's video screen. “Just one. Just enough to let me figure out how to talk to you before they take us away.”

  The mother gecko's whistling laugh echoed through the speakers as she stroked the young one's head with claw-tipped fingers. “Even Afara-mudi fears the Word outside the House.”

  Which meant the path to the village was public, so no stories. David retrieved his cup with a groan of frustration. Why should his vigil yield more now, when four years of recordings from this location had given them nothing? The Gariniki didn't know that the eviction officer had arrived in orbit—and she would mean nothing to them, if they did.

  Even a single story might make the difference. Father was up dealing with Officer Monroe right now; he could use a recording to argue that Garini Provisional Colony needed more time—a year or so, maybe, to assemble a collection of the canonical stories that made sense of the geckos’ oblique language. Father had already won them a good six years’ worth of extensions: No one could argue logic like the Great Arthur Linden, who'd made his name across the Allied Systems with his papers exploring the allusive structure of canon-based languages.

  God knows they needed him to win another.

  There was a worse problem here than just lack of stories, one that would certainly get Officer Monroe summoning her transport ships if she ever learned of it. Despite thousands of phrases collected and learned in context, a thorough extrapolated grammar and his passable grasp of Gariniya phonetics, Father had never managed to get a Gariniki to recognize that he was speaking their language.

  Father was infuriated by the idea of a linguistic problem he couldn't solve, but David had to figure the problem wasn't linguistic at all, or the Great Arthur Linden would have solved it. No, it had to be a social problem—one linked to the mystery of when the geckos told their stories—as the Gariniki would say, why Afara-mudi never talked outside the house.

  “The house,” David whispered. “Damn!”

  What if the gecko stories were told inside the habitations, like bedtime stories?

  David quickly clipped a mobile data recorder to his belt. The gecko pair had already moved off. They would have at least a hundred yards on him by now, and Systems rules said humans weren't allowed to trespass into the village. He grabbed his water cup and tossed it in the waste carryout, along with three days of food wrappers and Systems rules too. He had to have a story tonight.

  The night air under the canopy was rich and humid, and the vegetation encroached too closely on the path for human comfort. By the time he reached the edge of the village David's clothes were clinging to his skin, his glasses slipping down his nose.

  The gecko pair had stopped at a cluster of ground-level huts instead of climbing to the upper habitations. Lucky thing. David tiptoed close enough to take cover under the thick drooping crown of a honihoni. The mother was conversing with a pair of neighbors; snippets of myth mixed with graceful dips of heads and tails, while the child added occasional silent gestures. It was beautiful, and utterly maddening.

  When the pair entered the hut, David crept around back to listen through the loose reed thatch. The parent was still making talk: “Kridia's head-scales shone,” for example, a phrase evoking lateness of night, or “Rosbas drew strength from the sedi,” an exhortation to eat. No stories, though—just phrases and silences. David listened until his head hurt, until the silences merged and swallowed the last of the words. Then he pulled away in disgust and walked back along the path. One more ide
a come to nothing, at the worst possible time.

  At the border of the village, a hand emerged from the speckled darkness and jerked him off the path into deep shadows.

  “David, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

  David caught his breath. “Father!”

  “If Monroe finds out you've been trespassing...!”

  “I know, Father, I'm sorry, I—” How stupid would he sound if he said he'd risked the colony listening for bedtime stories? It wouldn't win him the respect due to a fellow linguist, that's for sure, and Father would say he should have shipped him off world to college on Erimyno Treaty Colony instead of giving in to all his begging to stay. “I'm sorry.”

  “Well, never mind.”

  “So how did it go? Did you get the extension?”

  “Damned Systems functionary,” Father grunted. “She doesn't care about the years of work we've put in; all she thinks about is Systems resources being wasted on maintaining us here at Garini Base.”

  David shook his head. “How can anyone say we're wasting resources? We hardly import anything.” He shuddered, realizing that ‘resources’ must mean something else entirely. “Does she mean our defense ships? But she can't take them away—it would be like handing the Garini rainforests over to be shredded by pirates!” And, since the Garini Provisional Colonists had been the first to inform the Systems about Garini's biochemical wealth, it would be their own fault.

  Father was still back on Systems functionaries. “This Monroe's a meddler,” he said. “Wrecked my breakthrough just as I had it in my grasp, and now she's forcing me to extreme methods.”

  “Wait a minute—breakthrough? What kind?” Father had always been selfish about sharing exciting data that might revive his gradually waning academic reputation. “Did you hear a story?”

  “It's a Gariniki I met recently outside the Lands,” said Father. “She's being hosted on the orbiter right now. I'd hoped for progress, but now Monroe's gone and spooked her with a machine translator, so she hides in the bed alcove every time I come in.”