Eclipse One

by Jonathan Strahan

  Brian listened patiently while the first prisoner was brought forward and the charges read by the seneschal. He'd been caught cart-jacking; however, his arrest had gone wrong, and he'd managed to kill a pair of guards. With Hirsh's words echoing in his head, the very sound of conscience, Brian stretched out his arms and turned down his thumbs. Fair was fair. Guards were hard to come by these days and expensive to train, and this man had killed two and lamed a third.

  The roar of the crowd surged over him, and Sarpent took but a moment to loosen his shoulders before striking the man's head clean from his body with an almost negligent swipe. The body stood headless for a moment, before the trapdoor sprung open and it plummeted from sight. With a skilful back heel-kick from one of the ceremonial guards, the head followed.

  Now that wasn't so bad, Brian thought. Sarpent was nodding his approval, and the crowd was chanting, "Overlord . . . Overlord . . ."

  The next prisoner was another murderer, though this time the occasion had been a bar brawl. The wiry man had a pockmarked and surly looking face. He contended that he'd not started it, that it had all been in self-defense. He then wailed and pleaded, but somehow all of it sounded rehearsed. Brian listened, nodding, as if in agreement. Then he stretched out his arms and turned down his thumbs.

  Sarpent was elated. It looked like his Lord was back to his old evil ways. Grinning from ear to ear, he put a little too much effort into his sword swing, and the head went soaring out into the crowd, where the peasants amused themselves by tossing and kicking it around like a beach ball.

  Once again the trapdoor clattered. The next man was brought forward.

  This one was just a thief, and Sarpent was a little disappointed to be instructed just to remove a hand; but still, it was all blood and suffering, and the crowd always enjoyed a bit of variety.

  Five more thieves followed, and Sarpent felt more like a surgeon than an executioner as he was ordered to remove several ears, a nose, and two fingers.

  There was a brief flash of hope as the Lord ordered a rapist castrated, though secretly Sarpent wished he'd just ordered him beheaded. It was far less fiddly.

  And then it happened.

  A baker accused of short-changing his customers was given a custodial sentence.

  "Surely, my Lord," Sarpent whispered, "a hand, at least . . .thumbs . . .tongue?"

  But Brian was having none of it. He was now determined to imprison, or fine, or even pardon criminals who had committed minor crimes.

  The blood on the blade of Pain dried as it hung by Sarpent's side, unused.

  After such a promising start, it was all going so terribly wrong. Worse yet, the Overlord actually seemed to be enjoying himself. He questioned each accused and took the time to consider and weigh each crime before dispensing something that looked far more like justice than punishment.

  The Overlord stood before the crowds and raised his arms. A hush fell over all. In a loud and impressive voice, the Overlord declared: "Good people of Hellinor, in honor of a dear friend's birthday, I have just decided that today shall be a day of amnesty. All but the most heinous crimes will be forgiven, and furthermore, I have also decided that it will be a public holiday, with a lifting of the usual dusk curfew." He paused as the crowd let out a huge enthusiastic roar. He ignored Sarpent's groan and continued, "Henceforth, today shall be known as . . .Tinklefest."

  "Tinklefest? TINKLEfest? Oh Brian, what were you thinking?" Hirsch shook his head, causing the freshly waxed tips of his moustache to bob.

  "It seemed like a nice thing to do."

  Mrs. Tinkles had let out one hiss at the doctor then promptly hid under a cabinet at the far side of the room.

  "A NICE thing . . . Oh, Brian, Brian, Brian . . . I've got to tell you that in all my years of practice I've never, ever . . ." Hirsch just shook his head again.

  "You're disappointed in me," Brian said softly, transfixed by Hirsch's exaggeration of a moustache.

  "DISAPPOINTED?" Hirsch took a deep breath and looked around, counting to ten under his breath to dispel the anger. Brian's study at the top of the Black Tower was small but surprisingly comfortable. He had a large desk (not unlike Hirsch's own, but without the glass protector, which, Hirsch thought absently, he could really do with, as the bloodstains were ingrained and the edges were rutted with what looked like axe marks). Four huge arched windows looked out over the land to all points of the compass, letting in a nice amount of natural light, and the views were stupendous. I should build myself one of these in Manhattan.

  Seven . . .eight . . .nine . . .ten. He released a long breath and returned to the task at hand. "Brian," he said, "you do know why Sarpent called me out here."

  Brian nodded.

  "Well, then why don't we start with you telling me exactly what was going through your mind yesterday? Just take your time. Sarp has already signed a treasury wavier for my call-out fee. You're putting my three grandchildren through college—and I believe little Hiram Junior is going to Harvard. Think long and hard, great lord of Heckinor.

  Brian started to say "Hellinor," but gave it up.

  I want to know everything," Dr. Hirsch continued. "I want to know exactly when things started to go bad . . .or rather, good."

  Brian smiled, thinking the doctor was making a rather funny joke, but the expression fell from his face when he saw Dr. Hirsch angrily and compulsively biting the edges of his moustache. Brian stroked his smooth chin, wondering if perhaps the secret to evil lay in facial hair. After all, Hiram Hirsch seemed to have no problems thinking up clever and horrid plans . . .there was the BoneDoctor of Riddel. He was supremely evil and he had a huge beard, then of course the ArchWitch Hagspittle had a bit of a moustache herself . . .and there was Saddam and Adolph, bin . . .

  Hirsch slapped his hand down on the desk. "Brian!" he shouted, making even Sarpent jump. Another cat hiss came from somewhere behind the cabinet. "You're doing it again."

  "What?"

  "Procrastinating. Daydreaming. An idle mind leads to idle deeds, and evil is never idle."

  "Sorry. I'll remember that. Evil is never idle. Would make a good motto, don't you think?"

  Hirsch just shook his head again.

  "There was a time, sir," Sarpent said, folding his hairy arms across his broad chest with a creak of leather armour, "that you'd have someone's head cut off for speaking to you like that."

  Brian sighed and lowered his head into his hands despondently. He tried to focus on his green chakra.

  "Okay, let's start simply," Dr. Hirsch said. "What's bothering you right now, at this very moment?"

  Brian frowned, stopping himself from voicing the obvious answer. "Well . . .I'm a bit worried about reports that the Armies of Bil'tha are massing to the south again—" Sarpent grunted, but Hirsch silenced him with an upraised hand. "—the Do'raki ambassador is here, and Mrs. Tinkles is off her biscuits."

  "That's perfect!"

  "Not really, I have them shipped in especially at great cost."

  "I meant the ambassador. Is he here now?"

  "Waiting in an antechamber on His Overlord's pleasure," said Sarpent, absently using one of his horns to pick some dried blood from under a fingernail.

  "What does he want?" Dr. Hirsch asked. "Isn't the land you relocated the Do'raki to upmarket enough?"

  Sarpent flicked his fingers. "The ambassador claims they've not had sufficient time to replant crops, and therefore he and his people can't afford to pay their taxes this financial year."

  Brian said, "Which sounds fair enough, given that—"

  "WHAT?" Hirsch's moustache was practically curling back on itself. "Am I mistaken or did the word 'FAIR' just leave your lips?"

  "Well, I . . ."

  "There will be no buts and no excuses this time. Brian, go out there and strangle the ambassador with your own hands. Right this minute. And then I want you to take your army and kill, maim, torture, rape, and pillage your enemy."

  "Right this minute?"

  "You heard me."

&nbs
p; "I . . .can't," Brian cried. "I like Ooblier."

  At Hirsch's frown, Sarpent leaned over and whispered, "The Do'raki ambassador's name is Ooblier."

  "Oh, charming." He turned back to Brian, who was tracing an intricate whorl in his desk, desperately trying anything to avoid eye contact. "Brian, what on earth is wrong with you? Have I missed something? Is the air not foul enough in your kingdom? Is the water unpolluted? You used to be an Overlord of repute. Now you're behaving like a . . .a putz. Surely your parents taught you that Satan only helps those who help themselves?"

  There was a pause.

  Despite the wicked scar, the missing eye, the flash of white hair against the black, Brian looked very much like a little boy, and the sneer resembled a crooked smile. "My mother always used to complain that I had a sunny disposition. My mother and father would thrash me and send me to my room to think about things, but it never seemed to help. So they'd burn me with pokers then thrash me again. I started pretending to be evil to please them. It worked for quite a while, but I guess I'm finally coming out of the closet."

  "Well, you'd better think long and hard about going back into the closet," Hirsch said.

  "Why don't you do it?" Brian suggested after a moment.

  Hirsch was baffled. "Come out of the closet?"

  "Sure," said Brian, sitting up a little. "You always seem to have the best ideas about how to be evil. And we're about the same height, build. You can be me. After all, nobody would recognize you. You'd be wearing a mask."

  "The Overlord is supposed to always wear a mask," Sarpent quickly pointed out to Hirsch.

  "Well, I don't know. I'm a doctor, not a dark lord." But Hirsch stroked his moustache, obviously considering Brian's suggestion.

  "What if I watched you, from one of the secret spyholes? Perhaps if I could see evil working again, maybe I'd be . . .inspired?"

  The doctor was still curling hairs around his fingers, and Brian could see by the excited gleam in his eyes that he had him. Brian's eyes narrowed slyly.

  "This is all highly irregular . . ."

  "Think of it as a new kind of therapy," Brian said. I could get the hang of this therapy thing, he thought as he rose from his desk, crossed over to the mask stand, and picked up one of the soft velvet masks.

  "Do you . . .do you think I could have that one?" Hirsch said almost shyly, pointing at the big elf skull.

  The new career was going well.

  He had the office redecorated in eggshell white with classic cream carpets and friendly vases of fresh flowers everywhere. He kept the Chesterfield sofas, but had them reupholstered in the finest beige calfskins. The bragging photos were gone, replaced by small paintings by Cézanne and Dürer etchings; the cool, lush sounds of the Modern Jazz Quartet drifted out of a pair of matching white Bose speakers above the receptionist's desk.

  Even the self-help sign had been changed. It now read:

  Be the person your cat thinks you are.

  Behind the desk, above the receptionist's beautifully coiffured head, was the glass installation that welcomed the visitor to The Tinkle Studio: An Ethical Executive Consultancy.

  Brian opened his office door and stepped out into the waiting room. Dressed in a soft Armani linen suit and Gucci loafers, he looked more like a yachtsman than a therapist; but that was the idea. His eye patch was exactly the same color as his pocket square, something which, for some reason, had set the New York fashion scene alight.

  Even after a year, Brian still marveled at how everything had turned out. Hirsch had so enjoyed being Overlord that he offered to buy him out right there and then. Sarpent hadn't minded—he just wanted to serve evil, and if not Brian, then Hirsch would do just as well. The negotiations had been relatively simple, and though Hirsch had come off much better (though the price of a Kingdom compared to Upper West Side real estate wasn't really that different), Brian didn't mind. He had the New York practice, a reasonably immense fortune stashed away in a place called the Cayman Islands, and a brand new alpaca farm in Idaho.

  Brian discovered that he had a natural talent for steering people back towards the light. Kings, seers, sages, presidents, ministers, and all manner of monsters and piebald creatures from across the breadth and width of the ninety-nine dimensions sought his sage advice when they found themselves succumbing to their darker desires.

  "Your three-thirty is here, Doctor," the receptionist said politely, handing Brian a manila folder. A single, sad-looking elf sat enveloped in one of the Chesterfields, hands held stiffly in his lap. Brian smiled, remembering how he'd felt when he'd sat there waiting for Hirsch. He opened the folder, glancing quickly at the front page. Having decimated the world Kah in error, the LightLord of Quaa'lar, First Seeker of the Justice of Marlorr, Luminescent Silverhand of . . . Brian skipped down.

  His first name was Simon.

  Well, it seemed Simon continued to stray somewhat from the light after his administrative mistake and had taken a blue orc for a mistress and murdered her prankster in a jealous fit. Nothing that couldn't be put right. Well, the prankster might be a problem, but he could probably be resurrected, or at the least, reincarnated.

  Brian motioned the elf through with a smile and a soft welcoming word.

  This should be a walk in the park.

  And he would certainly be finished in time to hop a plane to Idaho for the weekend.

  MRS. ZENO'S PARADOX

  Ellen Klages

  Annabel meets Midge for a treat.

  She enters a small café in the Mission District in San Francisco, bold graffiti-covered walls and baristas with multiple piercings and attitude. Sometimes it is the Schrafft's at 57th and Madison, just after the war, the waitresses in black uniforms with starched white cuffs. Once it is a patisserie on the rue Montorgueil; the din from the Prussian artillery makes it difficult to converse.

  On entering the restaurant, she scans the tables for Midge, who is always somewhere.

  Annabel sits and requests an espresso. She asks for tea with milk. She waits until Midge comes before she orders, to be polite.

  Midge is young and cheaply dressed, in a shabby coat, her stiletto heels clip-clip-clopping on the marble floor. Her hair is the color of faded daffodils, sleek and dark, perfectly coiffed. Her sneakers shuffle on the worn wood.

  She kisses the air near Annabel's cheek. "Am I late?" she asks. She puts her handbag down on an empty chair. Its contents clank and tinkle, thump and squeak.

  "I'm not certain," Annabel says. It is a small lie, a kindness to a dear friend.

  The server materializes. "What are you having?"

  Annabel answers and Midge says, "The same, please."

  "You know," Annabel says, "I think I'd like a little something sweet."

  "Oh, I shouldn't."

  "Nothing gooey, nothing too decadent. A brownie?"

  "Whatever you want. I'll only have a bite."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Absolutely." Midge pats her waist. "Just the tiniest bite possible."

  The brownie appears on Fiestaware, a folded napkin, a lovely seventeenth-century porcelain platter. They gaze at it, fudge-dark, its top glossy, crackled like Arizona in July, sprinkled with powdered sugar.

  Annabel cuts the brownie in half.

  She eats it with obvious pleasure, flecks of chocolate limning the corners of her mouth. She blots her lips with a tissue, leaving an abstract smudge of chocolate and Revlon's Rosy Future.

  "This is too good," Midge says, moistening her forefinger to pick up an indeterminate number of small crumbs.

  "Stairmaster tomorrow," Annabel agrees. "Probably." She sips from her cup.

  They talk about their jobs, the men they are dating, the men they have married. They have been friends since the beginning of time, Midge jokes.

  "That's your half." Annabel points to the brownie.

  "Oh, I couldn't. Not the whole thing."

  Midge cuts the brownie in half.

  They glance at the clock. Time is irrelevant. Annabel gets a refill.
"Are you going to eat the rest of that?"

  Midge shakes her head.

  Annabel cuts the brownie in half.

  After the twentieth division, the brownie is the size of a grain of sand. Midge extracts a single-edged razor blade from her large purse and divides the speck.

  They discuss the weather. A chance of rain, they agree. Their conversation loops around itself, an infinite amount of things to talk about.

  Annabel puts a jeweler's loupe into her right eye and produces a slim obsidian knife from a leather case, its blade a single molecule thick. A gift from an ophthalmic surgeon she dated some time ago. She neatly bisects the dark mote and pops half into her mouth.

  "Oh, go ahead. Take the last piece," Midge urges.

  "No. Common sense says it's yours."

  "I assumed as much." The smooth surface of her handbag warps as she reaches into one of its dimensions to reveal an electron microscope.

  Midge cuts the brownie—now an angstrom wide—in half.

  "A sheet of paper is a million angstroms thick," Midge says, as if Annabel hasn't always known that. Annabel is a nuclear physicist. She is Stephen Hawking's bastard daughter, a receptionist at Fermi Lab.

  Midge is quite fond of them.

  "I'm really not that hungry," she says.

  Five cuts later, the room shimmers and shudders a bit. Annabel and Midge smile at each other.

  "You must finish it off," Midge says, pointing to the apparently empty space between them. "It's just a smidge."

  Annabel follows her finger and looks down, which is a mistake. The photons of visible light play air-hockey with the particle of brownie.

  "I'm not sure where it is," she says.

  Midge puts on her reading glasses and punches numbers into a graphing calculator with nimble fingers. She reaches through her handbag with a sigh. It will take ENIAC decades to process all that data.