by DD Barant
“Charlie! I’m—”
CRASH!
“—okay.” I sigh. “Does our expense account cover hotel room doors?”
Charlie glares at me. The only thing he’s wearing is his fedora, which actually makes him look a lot less naked than you’d think—golems have the same sex organs as a Ken doll, which is to say none. The door is on the floor, hinges and all. Charlie doesn’t let a lot slow him down when he’s in a hurry.
“You sure?” he growls, looking around like he expects to see an assassin hiding behind the drapes or under the bed.
“Yes. Bad dream, that’s all. Go back to to bed.”
“Can’t.” He looks down, then back at me. “Got a door to fix.”
“Sorry.”
“You got to stop with the sauerkraut and mushroom pizza before bed,” he mutters as he picks up the door and examines the damage. “I’m gonna need tools…”
“I’ll call down to the front desk.”
A terrific start to another great day …
I hole up in the bathroom and take a shower as Charlie waits out in the hall for maintenance to show up. I mull over the dream as I scrub, trying to figure out what it was trying to tell me.
A lot of it was actually close to reality: Cassius did smuggle anti-plague charms to the human population at the end of World War II. The plague was actually more of a curse, part of a deal the pires made with an Elder God named Shub-Niggurath to gain the ability to procreate. The deal required the sacrifice of millions of human souls, a price Cassius thought was too high. He’d done his best to help save those he could—though I don’t know if he had a human lover while he did so. Knowing Cassius, it’s entirely possible.
The black-and-white to color stuff was weird, too—in fact, as a psychologist I’ve never heard of that happening in a dream. It seemed like some kind of metaphor, beyond the obvious sexual one. But for what? The past and the present? Something simple becoming something complex?
And then there’s how it ended. The thing chasing us down that endless hallway, all the doors and the bizarre things behind them. Were they supposed to represent memories? Choices? Emotions? I don’t know.
What I do know is that the sense of menace was overpowering, so vivid and real that I can still feel echoes of it. Either my subconscious is scared to death of something and trying to send me a message—or this was more than just a dream.
It was a warning.
But from who? Cassius? If he’s trying to communicate with me through dreams instead of just picking up a phone, does that mean he’s in trouble? Or am I reading too much into having an ordinary nightmare under stressful conditions?
No easy answers pop up from the shower drain or magically appear in the soap dish. I lather, rinse, and repeat, not because I believe in following directions but because I need a little more time to ruminate.
Dream-Cassius was definitely trying to tell me something. He told me to think about what I’d just said. What was it again? Something about his lovemaking and comparing it to—
Fireworks.
I open my eyes in abrupt realization, and promptly get shampoo in them. I curse and turn my head into the shower spray to rinse them out.
Cassius’s world has never seen fireworks. Fireworks were the crude precursor of firearms, which never evolved here. So what, right? It was a dream, it didn’t have to make sense. But the thing is, Cassius not only noticed that discrepancy, but tried to point it out to me as well. Which means some part of my brain thought it was important enough to tap myself on my own mental shoulder through a surrogate.
Now that I think of it, there was another reference to guns in the dream—something about ammunition. So whatever the dream was really about, my gun—or maybe the global anti-gun spell—was involved.
I get out, dry off, get dressed with the clothes I brought in with me. Leave the bathroom and find a paunchy guy in jeans and a faded black T-shirt fixing my door with a cordless drill and a couple lengths of wood. Charlie’s wrapped a white towel around himself, sarong-style, out of consideration for my delicate sensibilities. Together with the fedora, it’s quite the outfit.
“Wow,” I say. “You look like a hard-boiled … guy. In a sauna. Like a guy who was really unclear on the whole hard-boiled thing, and tried to cook himself a little more. In a sauna.”
Charlie gives me a look.
“Okay, not one of my best. Caffeine now, please.”
“Just give a moment to slip into something a little less punch-line-oriented, all right?”
We rap on Eisfanger’s door, tell him we’ll be in the hotel restaurant. We get a sleepy but coherent acknowledgment and head downstairs.
Coffee. Gulp gulp gulp. Ahhhhh.
“Right,” I say. “Brain function returning. Will to live at acceptable levels. Robot imitation program terminating—now.”
“I know I’m going to hate myself for asking this, but—in what way, shape, or form was that an imitation of a rowboat?”
“Robot. Robot imitation.”
“What the hell’s a robot?”
I squint at my partner suspiciously over the rim of my coffee cup. Charlie once got me to believe that lems prefer the term Mineral American, and he still makes the occasional outrageous claim with a straight face, relying on my relative inexperience with Thropirelem’s history and culture.
After a moment’s reflection, though, I realize that what he’s saying makes perfect sense. Nobody ever came up with the idea of robots here, because a real version already existed: golems. They’re mystical, not mechanical, but conceptually they’re virtually the same thing; they’re manufactured, they’re inorganic, they’re used mainly for repetitive labor or as weapons.
“Oh my God,” I say, putting down my coffee. “You guys don’t have robots. No R2-D2, no Gort, no Robby. No Data or Hymie or Optimus Prime. Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy. My grief is somewhat alleviated by not knowing what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I feel like I just discovered a whole branch of your family you didn’t even suspect existed.”
“Lems don’t have families.”
He says it bluntly, like it’s a self-evident fact that he has no personal connection to. I’m not fooled. I can tell when he’s trying to hide something.
“Well, now you do,” I say. “Okay, they live a long distance away, and speak a different language, but just think of them as relatives from the old country. Part of your heritage.”
“Heritage, huh? So these ‘robots’ have been around a long time? Longer than lems?”
“Oh, sure. C-3PO was built a long time ago. And far, far away, for that matter.”
Charlie frowns. “Far away from what?”
“From, uh, here. I mean, all the robots I mentioned are from my reality, so they’re all far, far away. Obviously.”
“Obviously. So what, exactly, is a robot?”
“It’s a machine. Usually humanoid, but not always. Some look like garbage cans on wheels.”
“How inspiring.”
“No, no.” I finish my coffee and signal the waiter for a refill. “Most robots are impressive. Take the Transformers, for instance. We’re talking fifty-foot-tall guys made out of steel and electronics and machinery. Walking engines of destruction.”
“Like military lems. Grizzly units.”
“Yeah, exactly! Except bigger and able to fly. And blow stuff up from a distance.”
“Huh. That does sound kind of impressive. But I don’t get the name: Transformers. What is it they transform into?”
I blink. “Um. All kinds of things.”
“Like what?”
“It depends. They’re all different.”
“Give me an example.”
I try to desperately come up with one that isn’t ridiculous, but I can’t remember any of their names except their leader. “Well, there’s Optimus Prime. He turns into…”
“What?”
“A truck.”
Charlies raises one
hairless eyebrow. “A truck?”
“A really big truck.”
“It’d have to be.”
“A tractor-trailer rig, actually. You know, a semi? With a big trailer on the back?”
“Uh-huh.” He’s looking at me intently now. “So this fifty-foot, flying killer robot turns into a truck. Towing a trailer.”
“Well, yes.”
“Why?”
I feel like I’ve been lured into an inquiry about Santa Claus by a six-year-old. “To fool people,” I say weakly. “Because they aren’t just robots. They’re robots in disguise.”
Charlie leans back and considers this. “Yeah, I can see that,” he murmurs.
I’m trying desperately to come up with a way to change the subject before Charlie decides to unravel my logic a little further when I’m saved by the unlikely appearance of a thrope dressed in the brown, short-pants uniform of a delivery guy. He comes straight over to our table and says, “Hi. Got a delivery for a Jace Valchek?”
I study him carefully. “How’d you know who I was?”
“I was gonna deliver it to your room, but the guy at the front desk said you were eating in here with a lem, and here you are. Sign here.”
Charlie takes the package while I scrawl my signature on one of those electronic clipboards. The guy thanks me and leaves.
“Seems legit,” Charlie says. “Label says it’s from Canada Customs.”
The package is about two and a half feet long by a foot wide, and the weight is familiar. I grin and rip it open, revealing the polished wooden case I keep my scythes in. They’re inside and seem none the worse for wear. “How about that. Funado is a god of his word.”
“We should still have Eisfanger give them the once-over, make sure they haven’t been messed with.”
“Good thought. Paranoid, but good.”
“Paranoia is just the bastard child of fear and good sense.”
“Poor thing. Let’s adopt it, give it a last name and raise it right.”
“You want to get it a puppy, too?”
“Sure. We’ll call it Panic. It and little Paranoia can play together at the park and scare the hell out of all the other kids.”
My breakfast arrives at the same time Eisfanger does. He orders a huge meal himself, then scoops up the scythes and runs them back upstairs to check them out for any enchantments or spells that might be attached. He times it perfectly, strolling back into the restuarant just as his order shows up, by which time I’m halfway through my own. Charlie’s hiding from the carnage behind a newspaper.
“Scythes are fine. So what was the yelling last night about?” Eisfanger asks as he digs in.
“Nothing much,” I say. “Lucifer showed up, announced that Armageddon was starting, and apologized for all the confusion about the date. Apparently his prophecy department has been screwed up since he started outsourcing to another pantheon.”
“Uh, is that your usual mix of sarcasm and bizarreness, or are you upset with me?”
“Not really. I just wondered why you didn’t bother seeing for yourself. You know, what with all the screaming.”
He chugs down half a glass of orange juice before answering. “Oh. I heard Charlie charge in, and then you two talking, so I figured everything was okay. I was ready to back you up if you needed it, but—”
“But I didn’t. You’re right, I’m sorry. False alarm, just a bad dream.”
“Another one? About what?”
“Uh—just stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” Eisfanger has that combination of curiousity and cluelessness on his face, more interested in new information than picking up any pesky social cues of inappropriateness.
I sigh. “I had a dream that ended badly, with me being chased by some kind of nebulous, evil entity. Okay?”
Eisfanger frowns. He puts down his fork. “No. Not okay. Tell me the whole thing, start to finish, and don’t leave out any details.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Well, some of it was kind of personal, so I don’t know if I feel comfortable with that—”
It’s Eisfanger’s turn to sigh. “Jace. You’re not embarrassed about stripping down for a doctor, are you?”
“Depends on how drunk I am. And if he’s a good tipper.”
He pauses, then shakes his head and continues. “I’m asking in a professional capacity, all right? As a trained shaman, I’d like you to describe your dream so I can determine whether or not you were attacked on the astral plane.”
Charlie lowers his newspaper. “Attacked?”
“Okay, okay,” I say. I tell him the whole thing, glossing over some of the more erotic parts. He listens attentively, not commenting until I’m completely done.
“Do you remember any distinctive odors?” he asks. “The smell of something burning, for instance?”
“No.”
“How about pain? Could you feel pain in the dream?”
“I didn’t feel anything like that, no.”
He pauses, balancing his thick chin on two stubby thumbs. “Hmmm. What about unearthly sounds—any sort of whining or keening noises, something actively unpleasant to hear?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I don’t think you were attacked. Those are all markers that usually accompany an astral incursion. But this is the second disturbing dream you’ve had involving Cassius, and this one doesn’t sound normal.”
“So, what? A premonition?”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. More like someone was trying to contact you and having trouble doing it.”
“Cassius, you mean?”
“Not necessarily. The Cassius character might have been a symbolic representation of someone or something else. It could even be a pun—the brain loves to interpret language in creative ways.”
“So what’s the message being sent?”
He shrugs. “A warning, obviously. But other than that, I can’t say—there are just too many variables involved.”
Terrific. A mysterious someone is trying to warn me about a mysterious something, and my own brain is playing games with me. I feel like I’m being punished for every pun I ever made. Including that one.
“This is good news,” I say.
Charlie tosses his newspaper down on the table. “Absolutely.”
“Why?” Eisfanger asks.
“Nobody tosses around warnings unless you’re getting close to something they want you staying away from,” I answer. “So we’re definitely on the right track with Hemo.”
“What’s next?” Charlie asks.
“We ramp up the heat. I want you and Eisfanger to put in another appearance at Hemo, and this time I want the place checked out for masking spells. If those kids were really taken there, the place will be thoroughly masked, right?”
“That would make sense,” Eisfanger says. “But a corporate HQ doing sensitive R and D is going to have all kinds of wards up anyway, and we don’t have the warrants to peel them back and see what they’re hiding.”
“Doesn’t matter. I just want them to stay nervous, and get a feel for their defenses. If they’re trying to conceal something as specific as pire children there should be indications of it.”
Eisfanger nods, but he looks troubled. “I’ll see what I can find. How about you?”
“Thought I’d go to church.”
* * *
Church isn’t really accurate, but where I have in mind is a place of worship. A shrine, to be exact—to a piece of sushi. And no, it’s not a restaurant, though my devotion to raw fish on rice does approach the religious. The sushi in question is called inari, which isn’t fish at all but a piece of fried tofu. It’s very common, kind of sweet, and named after a goddess: Inari, with a capital I.
Inari is kind of a big deal in the Shinto religion. Of all the thousands of Kami, she’s in the top five—in fact, over a third of all household Shinto shrines are devoted to her. She started out as a humble rice goddess, but became more and more popular over time, largely as a protector. After a
few centuries, her responsibilities have grown considerably; she’s now prayed to by actors and prostitutes, by fishermen, by people who want to prevent fires, by women who want to bear children. She’s seen as a deity of desire, as the goddess you can go to when you need something.
But most of all, she’s the patron saint of two very specific professions: warriors … and blacksmiths.
It was my encounter with Funado that got me thinking along these lines. On the surface my problem might seem purely physical, one of diminishing resources, but I can’t see any way to resolve it except through the metaphysical. Even though it goes against my own stubborn sense of self-reliance to ask for help, I realize I’m fighting a losing battle on my own. When in Rome, do as the Romans do—and I’ve been stranded in Rome for a while now, with my supplies running low. Time to swallow my pride, slip into a gladiator outfit, and practice my Latin.
Besides—if I can’t share a little girl-talk with someone who’s fond of sashimi, ass-kicking, and a well-crafted piece of lethal steel, who else would I go to?
According to my laptop, the shrine is in an area next to the heritage district of Gastown, in a lane called Blood Alley. Not exactly welcoming, but in a world of pires it’s really no more ominous a name than Bourbon Street. The neighborhood is obviously Japanese: corner stores with posters of cute anime animals in the windows, an average of two-point-five noodle shops per block, even pagoda-style roofs on the bus shelters.
Blood Alley is just that, an alley. It smells of rotting fish and rancid grease, it’s got Dumpsters lined up at regular intervals, and even features a picturesque drunk snoring off his latest bender while slumped against an upended shopping cart. I can tell he’s a thrope, because he’s not wearing any shoes and his feet are large, hairy and clawed. I wonder if he howls in his sleep.
Most of the buildings that line the alley face the street, and from the rear it’s difficult to tell much about them. What I mainly see are locked, featureless metal doors set into aging brick walls.
Until I get to the halfway point.
The shrine itself is in a narrow slice of land, flanked on either side by taller buildings. It’s a three-story structure, an old, Victorian-style house with a steeply pitched roof, and it’s set at the very front of the lot, as far from the alley as possible.
