The Management Style of the Supreme Beings

by Tom Holt

  Which—he guessed he’d known it all along—was why he was here, on the assumption that the two confused young people he’d met on the plane were the right ones to help him do what he had to do. Weird assumption, like saying that because the sun rises in the east we should all eat pimentos. One thing he’d learned from Dad, though: be decisive. Choose to do something and do it, even if it subsequently turns out to be incredibly stupid.

  There’s a knack to casually bumping into someone and making it look like a complete coincidence, one that Kevin had not yet mastered. The intended slight collision ended up with the young man in the gutter and the young woman rolling around on the pavement clutching her ankle. “I’m so sorry,” Kevin said with feeling. “Did I hurt you?”

  No need for supernatural mind-reading powers to figure out what the young man was thinking: How much will it cost me to smash this clown’s face in, and where can I raise the money? Thank goodness for poverty. “Yes,” the young man said. “And I think you just twisted her ankle.”

  Back in the old days Dad had attached a list to the fridge door with a magnet in the shape of a smiling sheep: THINGS KEVIN MUSTN’T DO. Number six on the list was HEAL THE SICK.

  Mind you, it’s hardly rocket science. All you do is picture in your mind a perfectly healthy, functional human body (which you can do really easily, since you designed it, every nerve, fibre and incredibly delicate blood vessel), then look at the deficient component and say, Make it so. All Kevin knew about the human ankle was that for the last few months he’d had two of them. Even so, how hard can it be? To which the answer, he knew, was, incredibly.

  Still, everybody’s got to start somewhere. “Make it better,” he murmured under his breath, and either it was his imagination, or he heard a very soft, faint click.

  The young woman stood up. She exhibited no obvious signs of discomfort. She said, “You idiot.”

  For a moment Kevin was stunned. A miracle.

  The young man was on his feet too. “Why don’t you look where you’re … Hold on. I know you.”

  Kevin put on a weak smile. “You were on that plane.”

  “Yes. I liked you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m a lousy judge of character.”

  “He’s said he’s sorry,” the young woman said. “And he didn’t actually draw blood. Besides, you can’t afford it.”

  “True.”

  “You could tread quite hard on his toe for only three hundred and ninety-nine pounds, because we’re doing a special offer this month, but then you’d have to sell your bike.”

  “Oh, forget it.” The young man smiled. “Anyway, I like him.”

  “That’s all right, then,” the young woman said. “Let’s buy him a coffee instead.”

  It was a shame he couldn’t tell her about the miracle, but then, if it was a miracle, it hadn’t been for public adulation. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d like that.”

  It was weird, Lucy thought, running into the nice kid from the plane again, almost providential. He was one of those incredibly rare people who you can really talk to, even though they’re practically strangers, and right now that was exactly what she needed. And Jersey seemed to think so too, because when she caught his eye he nodded. Let’s see what the kid thinks about this. So, as soon as they’d bought their drinks and found a table …

  “Talking of which—” they’d been discussing the perfect cappuccino “—do you believe in Santa Claus?”

  Kevin paused for a moment before answering. “You mean, does he exist? Yes, he does.”

  Jersey’s eyes opened wide, but he didn’t say anything. “You sound awfully sure,” Lucy said. “That’s, um, unusual in a grown-up.”

  “Well, yes. Do you believe in the internal combustion engine?”

  “What? I mean, well, yes. It’s not something you need to believe in. It’s just there.”

  Kevin nodded. “They’re both equally miraculous or equally mundane, depending on whether you happen to know for sure. Why do you ask?”

  “Because we’re looking for him.”

  “Why? Does he owe you money?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I mean is, if I tell you how to find him, will it get him in trouble? I wouldn’t want that. I don’t care what he’s done.”

  What a curious thing to say. Still, Kevin seemed to make a habit of that kind of thing. “We just want to find him,” Lucy said.

  “He’s not actually all that keen on being found,” Kevin replied. “Especially these days, I would imagine.”

  Jersey’s eyes lit up, and he glanced quickly at Lucy. “You mean, the Venturis—”

  “I should imagine they’d be very keen to find him, yes.”

  “But they can’t?”

  Kevin nodded. “His location is a closely guarded secret,” he said. “In the old days you’d have said, God knows where you’d go to start looking for him. Actually, that would’ve been incorrect.”

  A pause while Lucy translated that. “So nobody knows—”

  “I do.”

  Kevin looked away. There are some things you don’t talk about. He’d never told anybody—not Jay, not even Dad, who knew everything anyway. Did Dad know? Actually, he didn’t think so. At least, he couldn’t be sure.

  He’d been something like six or seven at the time (‘something like’ being the operative words; see above, under eternity and sequential linear time). It was Jay’s birthday, and they’d had a wonderful time. They’d all worn party haloes, and Uncle Mike and Uncle Gabe had sung funny songs, and Uncle Nick did the fireworks, and Dad did some of his conjuring tricks. The man swallowed by the whale was his favourite, followed by parting the Red Sea and one where he set a large rubber plant on fire and yet it was not consumed. And Jay walked up and down on the swimming pool and then pretended to fall in and get all wet, and Uncle Ghost flew around the table in the form of a white dove, and there was great food and all the fizzy orange he could drink. He’d gone to bed tired out and as happy as it’s possible for anyone, even a child, to be.

  How long he slept he had no idea, but at some point around the middle of the night a noise woke him up. Now in Dad’s house there were no funny night-time sounds—many mansions, yes, but no clunking plumbing or creaky stairs; just dead silence until Dad’s alarm went off and it was time to raise the sun.

  Kevin wasn’t scared because he knew there was nothing in Heaven and Earth for him to be scared of, but he was curious. He opened his eyes and raised a dim glow, so as not to wake up the rest of the house. “Hello,” he said. “Anybody there?”

  And then he saw a man, or something a man’s size and shape, standing by the fireplace holding a sack almost as tall and wide as he was. “Shut up,” the figure said. “Go to sleep.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Nobody. I ain’t here. You’re having a dream. Go to sleep.”

  Kevin brightened the glow just a bit. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

  He did fit the description, sort of. He was a big, burly man with long white hair and a big beard, white with streaks of black in it, like a badger, and curled into hundreds of tight ringlets. He looked old, the way Dad didn’t. His robe was scarlet and he had a face like thunder. Anyone else would probably have called it a cruel face, all pouchy cheeks and deep hollows under the eyes.

  “You’re him,” Kevin repeated.

  “Maybe.” The intruder shrugged. “Everybody’s somebody.”

  “Dad told me about you.”

  “I bet he did.”

  “He told me I’m not to talk to you.”

  “Better do as you’re told, then.”

  “He told me you’re bad.”

  The intruder grinned, showing teeth that weren’t human. “Yeah, well,” he said. “Your dad and I don’t exactly see eye to eye. Mind, I got nothing against him. He’s all right, your dad. He really understands weather and he can be pretty darn good company. Did he ever show you that one where he sets fire to a pot plant and yet it is
not consumed?”

  Kevin nodded. “I like that one too.”

  “Really broke me up, every time.” He sighed. “Well, that was then and this ain’t. Now go back to sleep before I smack your head.”

  An empty threat obviously. “Who are you?”

  “You already know that.”

  “Yes, but who are you?”

  The intruder looked thoughtful for a moment. “It’s like this,” he said. “You ask your old man that question, he’ll tell you. I am what I am. Me, I am what I was, just about, give or take a few scratches in the paintwork. Will that do?”

  “No.”

  “Tough.” The intruder lifted his sack. It looked dreadfully heavy, so the intruder had to be very strong. “You know what I got in here?”

  “No.”

  “Tigers,” the intruder said. “And if I open it, they’ll jump out and eat you.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  The intruder rolled his eyes. “All right,” he said. “If I ask you to close your eyes and look away, will you do it, just as a favour to me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Cool. You’re a good kid, Kevin. Do it. Now.”

  So Kevin closed his eyes and waited, and he waited and waited for a very long time. Then he opened them again, and the intruder had gone without saying goodbye or anything, which was a bit rude. Also, he’d left something behind, which was careless.

  Still, if he was a friend of Dad’s, Dad would know how to send it back to him. Kevin jumped out of bed and took a closer look. It was a package, all done up in fancy-coloured paper, with a big red bow. Some unaccountable and irresistible urge drove him to open it, even though he knew he shouldn’t, because it wasn’t his; it belonged to the intruder.

  Kevin had never ever done anything deliberately wrong, and had never told a lie or made up an excuse. Nothing had ever just sort of slipped out of his hands, and no dog had ever eaten his homework. For obvious reasons. So if he opened the parcel, Dad would know, and he’d be so mad.

  There was a label. It had a little picture of a robin, and his name: FOR KEVIN.

  A present? But why? It wasn’t his birthday. And why would someone he’d never seen before, someone bad, give him anything?

  He looked at it. He really wanted to rip open the paper and see what was inside. But he shouldn’t do that, should he? Well. Dad had never told him in so many words, if that red-robed man gives you a present, don’t open it. He’d never do anything Dad had told him not to—only he had, because he’d been told not to talk to the man, but not talking would’ve been rude, so Dad couldn’t have meant it literally. And he was burning up with curiosity, and … Aw, heck, what harm could it do?

  It was a cowboy hat. More than that, it was the best cowboy hat anyone could possibly imagine, broad and swoopy and decorated round the brim with little silver conchos, and Kevin had yearned for one for as long as he could remember, but Jay had told him not to ask for one because Dad wouldn’t approve. Just what he’d always wanted, and the red-robed man must’ve known that, unless it was the most amazing coincidence, and now he had one of his very own.

  He shivered as though a cold wind had just blown under the door because he knew, deep in his heart, that he could never wear the cowboy hat, or mention it, or leave it anywhere Dad or Jay might come across it, and for the first time he knew what unhappiness is, and he wanted to cry, but he daren’t. And later, looking back on that night over the years, he’d asked himself over and over again if that had been the reason, if the red-robed man had meant to upset him and make him unhappy out of spite or revenge on his father for some unknown slight, or simply because he really was bad. But he kept the hat, and nobody ever said anything about it.

  And ever since, on the eve of Jay’s birthday, he’d lit a roaring fire in the fireplace, then collected up all his socks from their various forgotten places on the floor of his room and locked them away in his big oak chest and piled heavy books on the lid. So yes, he believed. Nobody more so.

  “Right,” Jersey said. “So, where do we find him?”

  “Not where. How.”

  The proprietor of the cafe was glowering at them. It was well past chairs-on-tables time, and he wanted to go home. The only other customers in the place were a couple of old men in blue serge coats shiny with age and knitted hats, talking softly over big mugs of tea.

  “Let’s not get hung up on relative adverbs,” Lucy said. “How do we go about finding him? That’s what we want to know.”

  Kevin was perfectly still and quiet for a moment, as though he’d been switched off at the mains. Then he said, “Well, it’s quite simple really. All you do is—”

  At which point the door flew open, and a dozen men in yellow tracksuits burst in.

  Why yellow? Well, the Venturi people had done a lot of research on that one. They wanted a colour for their security forces’ uniforms that commanded respect without being unduly intimidating or antagonistic. Bright but not primary, their consultants recommended, and their first suggestion was pink (they weren’t from Earth), later modified to primrose yellow, eye-catching and with positive associations of spring flowers, butter fresh from the churn and newly hatched chicks. It didn’t actually matter all that much in the event, because the rest of the Venturi programme had gone so well that this was the first time that security forces had been deployed on the planet since the change of ownership. In fact, if they hadn’t had AUTHORISED STORMTROOPER stencilled on their chests, it would have been easy to mistake them for a troupe of wandering mimes.

  Their leader raised the visor of his helmet. “Freeze,” he said.

  Kevin turned his head, looked at him and smiled. “We will, if you don’t close the door. You won’t have noticed in all that gear, but it’s bitter out.”

  “Nobody move.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Kevin was still beaming amiably. Lucy was making up her mind whether this was trouble or rag week. Fair enough. But Jersey had seen that formation and heard that tone of voice many times before and knew exactly what they meant. Twelve to one was a bummer, but at least he could buy the others time to get away. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “Go out the back way. I’ll handle this.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were—”

  But Jersey wasn’t listening. He picked up two teaspoons and bent them round the fingers of his right hand to form a rudimentary knuckleduster. “Just like old times,” he said happily. “Right, who’s first?”

  A window opened in thin air and a man with a clipboard stepped out of it. “Hi,” he said.

  The yellow men fell back to give him room. “Hold on,” Jersey said. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  The man with the clipboard beamed at him. “No, but you’re about to, and usually we’re quite happy to levy our charges in arrears, but where there’s likely to be the sort of mayhem you’ve got in mind, we reserve the right to request a payment on account before you get started. Basically, I just need to take a swipe of a major credit card.”

  Jersey glared at him. “What about them? They’re the ones who came barging in here.”

  The man with the clipboard kept smiling. “Yes, but they’re properly accredited peace officers, whereas you’re a private individual who’s about to resist lawful arrest. By the way, can I interest you in a Venturicorp loyalty card? It means you can thump nine guards and get the tenth one free.”

  Jersey looked at him, then slowly unclamped the bent spoons from his fingers. As he did so, he heard a voice behind him saying, “Excuse me, will this do?”

  It was one of the two old men in the corner, and he was holding out a slim rectangle of shining yellow metal. Not a Gold Card, a gold card. The man with the clipboard stared at it, then nodded quickly. “That’ll do nicely,” he said and vanished.

  The old man gave Jersey a warm smile and a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Carry on, son,” he said. “Go do that voodoo that you do so well.”

  “But—”

  “All taken care of. Give
’em whatsisname.”

  And then he and his friend didn’t seem to be there any more, and the yellow tracksuits were closing in, and it was just like riding a bicycle: you never forget how.

  About ninety seconds later Jersey put down the chair leg he’d been using to such good effect and breathed a contented sigh. “Thanks, guys, that was fun,” he said. Then he turned to Kevin, who’d been watching with a pained expression, and said, “Who was that? The old guy with the card.”

  “My Uncle Raffa.”

  “I think I may have cost him a lot of money.”

  “He can afford it.”

  One of the yellow tracksuits groaned softly. Jersey picked a stray cushion off the floor and tucked it under his head, so he wouldn’t wake up with a cricked neck. Little acts of kindness. “I think we should go now.”

  “Probably just as well.”

  Lucy looked round for a waiter but there was nobody about, for some reason, so she put some money on the table to pay for the drinks. “Your uncle,” she said.

  “Not really my uncle, more a friend of the family. The other one was my Uncle Gabe.”

  “When you say family …”

  Kevin grinned at her. “A bit like that,” he said, “but not what you’re thinking. I think we should leave. There may be more of them on the way, and your friend’s had quite enough healthy exercise for one day.”

  There was a door at the back leading out through the kitchen. “You were just about to tell us,” Lucy said, “how to find Santa.”

  Kevin swerved to avoid a projecting saucepan handle. “Yes, well, it’s pretty straightforward, really. All you’ve got to do is—”

  And then he vanished.

  23

  Snib Venturi closed the door, kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, poured himself a stiff drink and sagged into his favourite armchair. It creaked slightly. He glugged a third of the drink and closed his eyes.

  He wore the tie, the suit, the tight shoes and the corporeal body to remind himself of where he’d come from and how very far away, in all conceivable dimensions, that place was. Right now his feet ached and his arthritic hip was giving him grief. He savoured the sensations as though they were fine vintages and smiled. He thought about a pair of scared wide-eyed disembodied young water sprites without a nerve-ending or a scrap of skin, bone or sinew between them, cowering helplessly through the savage Martian sandstorms, remembering how they’d have given anything for bodies they could call their own—skin or fur or scales or carapace, who gives a damn, anything at all they could huddle up in and keep themselves together with, instead of being blown about by the slightest hint of breeze.