Rumor was still outside. He was talking to an Asian woman who seemed thrilled by his attention.
"Rumor,” Ange said as she approached. He turned, dropped his head in a you again? gesture. She raised the water gun.
Rumor laughed like he'd never seen anything so funny. “Are you going to shoot me, little peanut?"
She shot him, right in the face. He went on laughing as he turned his face from the spray, wiped his eyes. He stopped laughing when he saw that his hands were covered in blood.
"I told you, my name is Ange. My dog's name was Uzi."
She ran, because he probably had a gun, and it would be 24 to 48 hours before he would lose the will to use it. She crossed the square, bolted up York, jumping over homeless bedding down for the night.
Her phone jingled. She pulled it out; maybe it was one of her friends, cluing her in to Rumor's pursuit.
No—it was a text message from Albert: ange. we had a dinner date, correct? did you forget?
Fresh rage poured into Ange's bloodstream. Oh, had he picked the wrong fucking time to crawl up her ass. Smarmy bearded dickhead pervert Albert. Fuck him, fuck the PhD. Fuck everyone.
Blood sloshed inside the water gun as she cut right on Drayton. Why not? A cozy Swedish dinner with Albert. They could have a talk. Only it wouldn't be about twentieth century literature or Native American mythology.
He opened the door wearing a silk shirt, unbuttoned to the breastbone, exposing his hairy grey chest.
"Well finally!” he said, struggling to look suitably annoyed yet still suave and seductive. Then he seemed to notice that Ange was panting, was dressed in a sweaty T-shirt, was clutching a water gun, and had a wild animal look in her eyes. “Are you all right?"
She brushed past him, into his living room, which was decorated with modern art prints and antique fertility statues with big dicks.
"You're not going to let me defend unless I fuck you, are you?"
Albert pulled an earnest expression out of his repertoire. “Whatever gave you that idea? There's no quid pro quo. I admit, I'm very attracted to you, Ange.” He took a step toward her.
She raised the water gun. He looked at it, frowning. No, he didn't deserve bliss. She dropped it on the couch.
"What's gotten into you?” he asked.
As she stood there, hating him, it occurred to her that she knew just how to get him.
"Dr Schmid told me how you take out your little mirror in the bathroom before every lecture, making sure your bald spot isn't showing,” she said. “You're pathetic, do you know that?"
Albert looked at her, stunned, his beady eyes watering. “I'm not sure why you would want to say that to me. If I've offended you in some way—"
"Save it,” Ange said. Her heart was pounding, her hands shaking with rage. “Everyone laughs at you. You're a joke, especially to the women you think are so impressed by you. Everyone sees through you. I see through you. You're an ugly, creepy, old man."
His lip trembled. “I think you should find another advisor."
She punched him in the mouth.
Then she left him, with his congealing Swedish fucking meatballs and his bleeding mouth. She headed home.
Every few minutes she realized that Uzi wasn't with her, and for an instant worried that she'd left him tied somewhere, before remembering afresh that he was dead. It hurt every time she remembered.
Behind a wrought iron gate, a middle-aged man in an expensive power-suit supported a girl in her early teens who was vomiting onto an azalea bush in full bloom. The man was saying “Oh no” over and over. The vomit began to turn pink. Ange moved on. She started to cry.
She passed an exhausted-looking woman with a toddler in one arm, a bulging plastic trash bag full of their stuff in the other. Ange looked away, embarrassed that the woman might see her crying. She didn't cry often.
She thought of what Chair had said to her last night. It had never really touched her before. None of her friends or family had died. It was all around, but it was like a movie. Not real. Stage blood. Actors. Her PhD was real, executions and flesh-eating viruses were not.
Uzi's blood was real though, and now all the blood was real, and her PhD was not.
* * * *
There was knock on her bedroom door. “Ange?” It was Rami's voice. She opened the door. He was grinning.
"Come on,” he said, putting an arm across her shoulder, leading her down the hall.
"What?” she said.
"You'll see."
Her mother was in the living room, and her brother, and her friends.
"Welcome,” Chair said. He waved her forward, held up a sheet of paper and read from it. “By the powers vested in me by your friends and family, by the laws of reason and logic and justice, and by the Science Alliance, I hereby confer upon you the degree of doctor of philosophy in botanical biotechnology."
He handed her a rolled document with a little bow.
Tears streaming down her face, Ange opened the document as everyone clapped. It was signed by all of her friends and family—even her grandparents (though not her bitch aunt).
Ange hugged everyone.
"I'm in,” she whispered as she held Sebastian. “I'll see you in Atlanta."
She hugged Chair last; he held her and rocked her as she cried and cried.
"There's one more person who wants to congratulate you,” Chair whispered in her ear.
"Who?"
"Outside. Front door,” he said.
She let him go, and went outside. She froze.
Rumor was sitting on the steps. There was a puppy asleep in his arms.
"Hello, little peanut,” he said. He stood, turned to face her. He was smiling, his eyes glassy with tears. “I can't undo what I did, but I hope this little one will ease some of your pain.” Gently, he folded the puppy into Ange's arms. “I'm very sorry."
He reached into a pocket of the hunting jacket he wore, and pulled out a vial of blood. He pressed it into her palm.
"If you decide to join us, I wish you would use my blood—"
"No!” Ange said. “I don't want it. I'm never gonna do that.” She pushed the vial back toward him, but couldn't raise her hand very far because of the puppy.
"Maybe you won't, but keep it, just in case.” He closed his hand over hers. “Who knows how dark this night will get."
* * * *
For Angela and Uzi.
Copyright © 2007 Will McIntosh
* * * *
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE ALGORITHM—Tim Akers
* * * *
* * * *
Illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
* * * *
Tim wrote this story in a lined moleskine notebook with a brushed aluminium Lamy Studio fountain pen and antique brown ink. ‘The Algorithm’ is the fourth story set in the world of Veridon, and the third to appear in Interzone. Tim lives in Chicago with his wife.
* * * *
God came down the river in tiny boats at appropriate intervals. Wright Morgan waited, in a tiny boat of his own, and trawled for revelation.
The river heaved dark shoulders under a coat of fog. Wright Morgan shifted on his plank and squinted into the murk. He was worried about meeting up with one of the wide barges that crawled these waters on their route from Veridon to the cities upriver. The fog was so close that even if he saw one coming, he'd never get away. Dronehorns moaned far to the city side of the river, a few downriver. Another one, distantly, upriver. Not close enough to worry about, he decided.
Wright Morgan leaned over the theoscope, the cherrywood box warped from countless trips to the river. The church only had two of these miracles, and only one was allowed on the river at a time. Another reason to not get plowed under by a barge, he thought.
Still. All this fog. Even if the ‘scope picked something up, it'd be hell to find in the gloom. No matter. It didn't happen every period, right? Morgan lifted his watch. And this phase, the only one this week, was
almost over. Maybe there'd be nothing today.
On cue, the brass gears of the ‘scope chattered to life. They began to run their courses around one another, tight concentric orbits within orbits, until they settled and came to a stop. All four gears were doppled together, pointing portward over the bow.
Wright Morgan sighed and leaned into his oars.
* * * *
The vessel was small, as expected, but heavier than usual. It was the size and shape of a barrel, though its bow and stern were tapered to guide it through the rougher water upriver. Hard brass trimmed the planks in impossible complexity. It sat heavy in the water, mostly submerged. Morgan grunted as he levered the vessel into his boat. He pointed towards shore and started to row, looking the vessel over as he went.
It appeared undamaged. Now that it was in the boat, Morgan decided that it was larger than he had thought. Most of it had been underwater. The fine cherrywood planks looked new, and the brass fittings were untarnished. It was as though the vessel had been slipped into the water yesterday, though Wright Morgan knew that it had been traveling down the river for at least a week. That's how far it was by river, from the Mountain of God down the Reine to Veridon.
Clear of the deepest water, the river's swell shallowed, became a harsh chop and the fog parted. Morgan looked back over his shoulder at the approaching city. He was running hard into the mouth of the river Dunje, and the harbor that had grown up around the confluence of that body and the Reine, where Morgan had spent his morning. This was only one of the city's three harbors, and certainly the busiest. The banks of the Dunje and the Reine were cluttered with towers and walls and the stepped roofs of factories and homes. The Dunje stretched away from Morgan, burrowing into the city like a canyon cut through architectural strata. The way here was busy, and even though most pilots gave the anointed ship a wide berth, the Wright had to sound his own dronehorn several times to clear his path.
* * * *
"A large one,” Wright Hamil said, then slapped the side of the vessel, rocking it in the iron cart. “Any trouble finding it?"
Morgan shook his head. “No, not really. The fog was bad, but the ‘scope found it."
"Of course. Well, good haul, Wright. A hand?"
"Certainly.” Morgan moved aside, and he and Hamil leaned against the cart's handle. Together they pushed the vessel into the churchyard.
The yard was empty. There was no other traffic as the two Wrights clattered across the brickwork.
"Heavy,” Hamil grunted. He wasn't as large as Morgan, though he was no small man.
"Yes. It sat low in the water. Almost submerged. Cog of a time getting it into the boat."
Hamil laughed through gritted teeth. “Blasphemy in the church, Wright Morgan? With your hand on the body of God?"
Morgan shrugged. “We're not in the church, yet."
They paused in front of the door and rested their backs.
"Who's on duty?” Morgan asked.
"Wright Paulus. You can take it from here? I've got to be back in the tower."
"Yes.” Wright Morgan stood upright and rubbed some life into his tired hands. “Get the door."
Wright Hamil swung the massive oak door open, closing it again after Morgan and his cart had passed.
* * * *
The church was cool and dark. There was no pew space, no altar, no choir loft. There was machinery. Nothing more. Gears and tumblers, weighted pendulums, solid walls of coiled spring creaking and ticking in oily cycles. There were columns of whirling cogs that rose in measured cacophony from the floor, spun through the air and disappeared into a ceiling full of metal teeth. For windows there were abacists; the apse was lined with row upon row of engrams, memories in metal and pattern. A dozen boilers squatted throughout, their tangled pipes lacing up to the spires to terminate in the clock tower. It was like a geode of cogwork, the open spaces stolen away by layer after layer of machinery, a slowly closing fist of gears.
"Wright Morgan,” Paulus greeted him from a scaffolding against the back wall. “The phase is over? Already?"
"It is. But it went well."
Paulus scrambled down from his perch and weaved through the mechanical growths on the main floor. His face was streaked with ash, and the lines of his hands were grease-black. He had been in deep communion.
"Good. Let's get it open, get it distributed. I've much to do this afternoon. There's something wrong in the Cascading Mural. The timing's off. I think the cam Elder Merril decreed that we add last week screwed up the procession."
Morgan locked the wheels in the iron cart and retrieved a hatchet from the nave, anointing it with oil. “It took a week to discover?"
"Many iterations. The error only occurs maybe, what? Every hundred or so cycles? But over a hundred of hundred, it builds up. The whole mural is out of sequence now.” Paulus anointed his own hatchet and started to peel open the top of the vessel, one splintered plank at a time.
"Is it? Or is the sequence finally becoming what it's supposed to be?” Morgan smiled, a little sarcastically. He assumed the thin voice of Elder Hines. “Is the pattern simply different than what we expect?"
"If the pattern means half the cogs coming loose and spilling across the floor like a game of tumblejacks, then maybe.” Paulus chuckled and gathered up the broken wood from the vessel, tossing it into a hopper to be fed to the boilers later on. “That would be an awfully random pattern, Wright Morgan."
Still in the voice of Hines. “We are not the pattern, young son, and the pattern is not in our understanding."
"Yeah.” Paulus wrenched off the last plank and returned his hatchet to the nave. “That's what I was thinking. Okay, let's see what God has brought us today."
The highest compartment held a dozen slatted shelves, each one holding a cog, each cog of various material and size. The two Wrights catalogued the items, turning the gears over in their hands and speculating about their eventual placement. This one's for the Column Prosperous, they'd say, or the Eventual Scales. Perhaps the Empty Shrine, the Sequence of Open Faces. They even found the correct gear to fix the problem with the Mural.
Wright Morgan tagged the last cog from the top compartment and set it aside. “Well, the Elders will have their say, of course. But that one has to be part of the Three Walls Turning. That part of the algorithm has never made any sense."
"I don't think so. I mean, the material is the same, but...” Paulus hefted the cog and held it in the palm of his hand. “The period is no good. The teeth are too wide. No, I'm afraid the Three Walls will remain a mystery for now, friend Morgan.” He shook his head and returned the cog to its place with a thoughtful look. “Where that one is going, though, I haven't a clue. The Elders..."
"Paulus,” Morgan said.
"Yes, I know. The Elders, the Elders, the Elders.” He waved his hands in exasperation. “It gets old, but it's true. That's their position, they've earned it. And in time, it will be our position as well."
"Paulus, fucking cogs shut up and look at this.” His voice was a whisper.
Wright Paulus wrinkled his brow and came to stand by his friend, looking down into the barrel of the vessel.
The second chamber of the vessel was also the last. There were no cogs in it, no levers or gearboxes, not even one of the rare caryatids or crenellated plinths that marked a major new direction for the algorithm.
There was one thing, curled up fetal in the bottom of the vessel. A child, a girl, no more than nine years, maybe ten. She was breathing.
* * * *
"It was my room. But now you'll have it,” Morgan said as he pushed the door open. “Not a bad place."
The room was small, the walls and floor a smooth mosaic of river stone. Most of the furniture was wood, salvaged from bits of vessel. The tiny boats that came downriver were the church's only tithe, and not a scrap of it went to waste. There was a single shuttered window, looking out over the city proper.
"A good view, I think.” Morgan said, nodding outside. A bristle of towers and
warehouses stretched all the way to the silver thread of the city's third river, the Ebd.
The girl inched into the room, her colorless hair brushed back, her eyes down.
"Though it's a bit cold, I suppose. Yes, I suppose you'll want some blankets or murals or something. Yes, we'll need to get some blankets in here.” The girl looked cold, as though she were drawing into herself for warmth, though she hadn't yet complained. Hadn't spoken at all, yet.
She crossed the room slowly and looked out the window. Her eyes went wide. It was surprise, not fear. She back-stepped into the bed, then sat down and looked at Wright Morgan.
"Yes,” Morgan said uncomfortably. “Blankets. I'll see what I can. Um. Well, I'm just down the hall, if you need me. Or anyone else. And, um, I'll see what I can find in the way of blankets. Yes."
Morgan backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.
* * * *
Morgan wiped the oil from his fingers with the edge of a rag and leaned away from the mural. His back was killing him, but the iterations in the troublesome wall were nearly correct. He felt pure revelation, shining down on him.
"Hey, Morgan. How goes it?” Paulus called from the floor below.
"Well, most of it is matching up. Only this one sequence left."
Paulus hauled himself up the scaffolding and settled next to Morgan. He unfastened his peer-eye and leaned in to the mural. Morgan could see him counting cycles under his breath.
"Yes. Very nice.” Paulus straightened and returned the lens to his belt. “You've done well, Wright."
"The pattern has done well, Paulus, through me,” Morgan said, but he smiled. His heart felt warm. Communion with the algorithm was very satisfying.
"So.” Paulus patted his knees, then glanced over his shoulder at the sanctuary below. It was empty. “So tell me. The girl."
Morgan grimaced and put away his rag. “The girl. Well, what's to say. She's eating, she's sleeping. She looks out the window. She stares at everything.” Morgan looked at his old friend and raised his eyebrows. “She's a mystery."
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212 Page 13
