The Nex

by Tim Pratt

  Cal laughed. “Nobody ever said happy endings were easy, Randy. Mom is grilling Dad like a steak in there. You should go take some of the heat off him.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to be grounded until after college graduation. Maybe longer when Mom sees your haircut.”

  ***

  Two days later things were just as complicated, but we’d done the tearful reunion thing and Dad cooked us all a huge meal – Mom’s boyfriend was there too, which was awkward, but whatever. I was totally grounded – even though I’d brought Dad home, I wasn’t off the hook for being AWOL for the best part of a week – but late one night I jumped back to Nexington-on-Axis. The palace was barely recognizable, just a dome of faintly-glowing stone without so much as a window or a door. The Queen had been serious about closing the place off to outsiders, and I guess the palace was happy to go along with her wishes.

  Howlaa and Wisp had set up their government in the saloon, and I found them there, at a big table surrounded by lizard-people and Nagalinda and humans and cyborgs, everybody arguing, with Wisp floating in the middle and translating. Various bummed-out Mablings sat around the bar drinking, their whole worldview turned over when their mistress ran away.

  “The hero of the revolution!” Howlaa called, and everyone cheered, which was pretty freaky – I haven’t gotten that much applause since I won the third-grade spelling bee at the county fair. People slapped me on the back and shoved drinks into my hands, which I mostly put back down again, because the last thing I needed was Mom realizing I had a hangover in the morning. She didn’t know I was technically un-ground-able, and I liked it that way.

  Howlaa shooed everybody off, and he and Wisp took me into a curtained-off private booth. “So how’re things going?” I asked.

  “Chaotic,” Wisp said. “But the Queen says repairs on the snatch-engines are coming along nicely, and she’s willing to allot us one-sixteenth of her children’s time to import the things we need. Once we have your jump-engine, we won’t be as dependent on the Queen, which I think will suit all of us better. I wonder if the Regent was trying to develop independence from the royal family all along?”

  “Probably trying to make it so he could kill all of them,” Howlaa said. “Don’t give him too much credit.” She sighed. “You know, Randy, I thought once word got out that we could send people away, this place would become a ghost town, but enough people want to stay that we’ll definitely need a real system of government. Though for now the government of, ‘Because I said so and I can beat you all up’ seems to be working.”

  “Generally speaking, second and third-generation Nexingtons have no desire to repatriate to their ancestral homes,” Wisp said. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten us into, Miranda. Putting the Nex back on track, emptying the prison camps, creating some sort of reasonable governmental structure – it’s a huge undertaking.”

  “Nobody ever said happy endings were easy,” I said, and didn’t bother crediting the line to Cal. “Has Templeton figured out how to get this ring off me yet?”

  “Let’s go see,” Howlaa said.

  Templeton’s lab was more machine shop than operating room, all greasy tables and rattly shelves heaped with a mini-Machine Waste’s worth of junk. “Miranda!” he called. A lot of his body was gleaming with gold fittings now; he’d spent some time doing incredibly tacky upgrades. “Come here, sit down.” I took a chair at a table heaped with schematics and wire and weirdly-shaped tools that seemed to curve out of this dimension and into another. Templeton sat across from me, took my hand in his, and leaned over, putting his mouth-grille half an inch from my knuckle. A lens came telescoping out of his face, and then one of the ends of his fingers split up into a dozen hair-thin micro-manipulators and began tugging and twisting at the ring. “Turn your face away,” he said, just in time for me to get nearly blinded by a flash of purple light. The ring began to hum and twist and heat up on my hand, and I tried to pull away, but Templeton grabbed my wrist with his other metal hand, and a noise like a dentist’s drill rose from the ring.

  “If you hurt her, I’ll break you down for scrap,” Howlaa said, stepping forward.

  The drilling sound stopped. Templeton sat up. “There, it’s done. It can be taken on and off, though I wouldn’t do it too often in rapid succession. The ring, please?”

  I touched the ring, which felt tight but not super tight, and slid it off, holding it in the palm of my hand. I passed it over – but to Howlaa, not Templeton. Howlaa couldn’t use it herself, but I doubted Templeton would be her choice for official Ringbearer for the new government.

  “Do you feel any different, Miranda?” Wisp said.

  “I don’t know.” I tried to jump across the room. Nothing, not so much as a twitched mental muscle. My jumping days were over. I sighed. “I’m really going to miss that thing. You know somebody who can use that ring to send me home?”

  “Merrill will,” Howlaa said. “He won’t do as a permanent ringbearer – too unreliable – but he’s delighted you sent the Regent to his own oppressive Earthly home, and he doesn’t want to leave the Nex, so we can trust him to wear it for a few moments.”

  “I guess... that’ll be goodbye, then,” I said. “I feel like I’ve known you two forever. I’m going to miss you a lot.”

  “You’ve literally changed our world, Miranda,” Wisp said. “We can’t thank you enough.”

  “You showed me it’s possible to kick ass with your brain,” Howlaa said. “We’re going to miss you, too.”

  “Vomiting imminent,” Templeton said.

  ***

  So they sent me home.

  ***

  About a month after I left the Nex for the last time, life had settled down, but wasn’t exactly what you’d call normal. Mom and her boyfriend were “on hold” while she tried to “figure some stuff out,” which was annoying, because I’d figured they’d insta-break-up once Mom found out she wasn’t a widow. But, like Cal said: not easy.

  Dad had finally convinced the government he was still alive, and he was working at a restaurant and living with us, though he and Mom weren’t sharing a bedroom or anything. She kept poking holes in his amnesia story, no matter how much Cal and I tried to cover for him, and she was convinced he’d walked out on us and only come back out of guilt or desperation. She went back and forth on whether I was his accomplice or if he was lying to me, too. I knew we were going to have to tell Mom the real truth sometime, but the problem was, I didn’t have a jump-engine anymore to prove any of the crazy story to her. Which made things kind of difficult.

  I was still mostly grounded, but Mom had started letting me go to the library to do some studying, which was how I got some time alone with my friend Jenny Kay at last. I wanted to tell her all about Nexington-on-Axis, but knew she’d never buy it without proof. She’s an Occam’s Razor kind of girl, and she’d just assume I was crazy if I didn’t have any evidence to the contrary. So I just fed her the story about seeing Dad on the street and trying to track him down, and she seemed satisfied with that, though I wasn’t thrilled with lying to my best friend.

  I was in the library with Jenny Kay when Howlaa Moor strolled in – along with the blonde Underdweller who’d punched me in the nose. She wore a golden ring on her finger, and a green dress, and her face tattoos were gone, and she’d even had a bath in the recent past. Howlaa wore a long trenchcoat made of shadowcloth.

  “Randy,” Howlaa said, too loud, but she doesn’t really know how libraries work, probably. “Your father said I’d find you here.”

  “Who’s this?” Jenny’s voice was a little sharp but mostly curious, because she’s full of the curious.

  “Jenny, this is my friend Howlaa.”

  “Interesting name,” she said. “Where do you know Randy from?”

  “My reputation doesn’t precede me?” Howlaa said. “Randy, I’m hurt. You haven’t told –”

  I made cutting-my-throat gestures and Howlaa shut up. “Ah, right. Well. Nice to meet you, the
famous Jenny. I’ve heard of you. And Miranda, you remember our friend Ermintrude? We call her Trudy.”

  “Guten tag,” the Underdweller said, looking around the library like she expected to be attacked by books at any moment.

  “I guess she’s, ah, mellowed a little since we last met?” I said.

  “She’s the god-worm’s ambassador to the city center,” Howlaa said. “We worked out our differences, and she’s got a wide streak of loyalty, so she’s the perfect ringmaiden.”

  “Are you all talking in some sort of code?” Jenny Kay said, not quite patiently.

  “I won’t keep you,” Howlaa said. “I just wanted to give you... this.” She set a small silver ring on the table in front of me, where it clicked gently against the wood. “First new one we’ve made, and everyone agreed, you should be the one to have it. Wisp sends his whiny love – he wanted to be here in person, but figured he’d be too conspicuous. A votre san, Miranda. Come see us sometime.” She turned on her heel and strode out of the library, and Trudy sighed a long-suffering sigh and went after her. I could see how being Howlaa’s chauffeur would get old.

  “What on Earth was all that about?” Jenny Kay said.

  “Nothing on Earth.” I picked up the silver ring, and slipped it onto my index finger. It tightened a little and tingled. I took Jenny Kay’s hand. “Nothing on Earth at all.” I looked around, and we were unobserved, nobody in our little corner of the library.

  I had two hours before I had to be home. Plenty of space and time.

  “Come on, Jenny,” I said. “I’ve got something you’ll have to see to believe.”

  Dream Engine

  This story was first published in the online magazine Intergalactic Medicine Show in August 2006. It’s set in the same world as the preceding novel, and while it takes place some time before the events of The Nex, it does feature Howlaa, and Wisp, and the Regent, so it may be of interest. Enjoy.

  The Stolen State, The Magpie City, The Nex, The Ax – this is the place where I live, and hover, and chafe in my service; the place where I take my small bodiless pleasures where I may. Nexington-on-Axis is the proper name, the one the Regent uses in his infrequent public addresses, but most of the residents call it other things, and my – prisoner? partner? charge? trust? – my associate, Howlaa Moor, calls it The Cage, at least when zie is feeling sorry for zimself.

  The day the fat man began his killing spree, I woke early, while Howlaa slept on, in a human form that snored. I looked down on the streets of our neighborhood, home to low-level government servants and the wretchedly poor. The sky was bleak, and rain filled the potholes. The royal orphans had snatched a storm from somewhere, which was good, as the district’s roof gardens needed rain.

  I saw a messenger approach through the cratered street. I didn’t recognize his species – he was bipedal, with a tail, and his skin glistened like a salamander’s, though his gait was birdlike – but I recognized the red plume jutting from his headband, which allowed him to go unmolested through this rough quarter.

  “Howlaa,” I said. “Wake. A messenger approaches.”

  Howlaa stirred on the heaped bedding, furs and silks piled indiscriminately with burlap and canvas and even coarser fabrics, because Howlaa’s kind enjoy having as much tactile variety as possible. And, I suspect, because Howlaa likes to taunt me with reminders of the physical sensations I can not experience.

  “Shushit, Wisp,” Howlaa said. My name is not Wisp, but that is what zie calls me, and I have long since given up on changing the habit. “The messenger could be coming for anyone. There are four score civil servants on this block alone. Let me sleep.” Howlaa picked up a piece of half-eaten globe-fruit and hurled it at me. It passed through me without effect, of course, but it annoyed me, which was Howlaa’s intent.

  “The messenger has a red plume, skinshifter,” I said, making my voice resonate, making it creep and rattle in tissues and bones, so sleep or shutting-me-out would be impossible.

  “Ah. Blood business, then.” Howlaa threw off furs, rose, and stretched, arms growing more joints and bends as zie moved, unfolding like origami in flesh. I could not help a little subvocal gasp of wonder as zir skin rippled and shifted and settled into Howlaa’s chosen morning shape. I have no body, and am filled with wonder at Howlaa’s mastery of physical form.

  Howlaa settled into the form of a male Nagalinda, a biped with long limbs, a broad face with opalescent eyes, and a lipless mouth full of triangular teeth. Nagalinda are fearsome creatures with a reputation for viciousness, though I have found them no more uniformly monstrous than any other species; their cultural penchant for devouring their enemies has earned them a certain amount of notoriety even in the Ax, though. Howlaa liked to take on such forms to terrify government messengers if zie could. Such behavior was insubordinate, but it was such a small rebellion that the Regent didn’t even bother to reprimand Howlaa for it – and having such willfully rude behavior so completely disregarded only served to annoy Howlaa further.

  The Regent knew how to control us, which levers to tug and which leads to jerk, which is why he was the Regent, and we were in his employ. I often think the Regent controls the city as skillfully as Howlaa controls zir own form, and it is a pretty analogy, for the Ax is almost as mutable as Howlaa’s body.

  The buzzer buzzed. “Why don’t you get that?” Howlaa said, grinning. “Oh, yes, right, no hands, makes opening the door tricky. I’ll get it, then.”

  Howlaa opened the door to the messenger, who didn’t find the Nagalinda form especially terrifying. The messenger was too frightened of the fat man and the Regent to spare any fear for Howlaa.

  ***

  I floated. Howlaa ambled. The messenger hurried ahead, hurried back, hurried ahead again, like an anxious pet. Howlaa could not be rushed, and I went at the pace Howlaa chose, of necessity, but I sympathized with the messenger’s discomfort. Being bound so closely to the Regent’s will made even tardiness cause for bone-deep anxiety.

  “He’s a fat human, with no shirt on, carrying a giant battle-axe, and he chopped up a brace of Beetleboys armed with dung-muskets?” Howlaa’s voice was blandly curious, but I knew zie was incredulous, just as I was.

  “So the messenger reports,” I said.

  “And then he disappeared, in full view of everyone in Moth Moon Market?”

  “Why do you repeat things?” I asked.

  “I just wondered if it would sound more plausible coming from my own mouth. But even my vast reserves of personal conviction fail to lend the story weight. Perhaps the Regent made it all up, and plans to execute me when I arrive.” Howlaa sounded almost hopeful. “Would you tell me, little Wisp, if that were his plan?”

  Howlaa imagines I have a closer relationship with the Regent than I do, and has always believed I willingly became a civil servant. Howlaa does not know I am bound to community service for my past crimes, just as Howlaa is, and I allow this misconception because it allows me to act superior and, on occasion, even condescend, which is one of the small pleasures available to we bodiless ones. “I think you are still too valuable and tractable for the Regent to kill,” I said.

  “Perhaps. But I find the whole tale rather unlikely.”

  Howlaa walked along with zir mouth open, letting the rain fall into zir mouth, tasting the weather of other worlds, looking at the clouds.

  I looked everywhere at once, because it is my duty and burden to look, and record, and, when called upon, to bear witness. I never sleep, but every day I go into a small dark closet and look at the darkness for hours, to escape my own senses. So I saw everything in the streets we passed, for the thousandth time, and though details were changed, the essential nature of the neighborhood was the same. The buildings were mostly brute and functional, structures stolen from dockyards, ghettoes, and public housing projects, taken from the worst parts of the thousand thousand worlds that grind around and above Nexington-on-Axis in the complicated gearwork that supports the structure of all the universes. We live in the pivot, a
nd all times and places turns past us eventually, and we residents of the Ax grab what we can from those worlds in the moment of their passing – and so our city grows, and our traders trade, and our government prospers. It is kleptocracy on a grand scale.

  But sometimes we grasp too hastily, and the great snatch-engines tended by the Regent’s brood of royal orphans become overzealous in their cross-dimensional thieving, and we take things we didn’t want after all, things the other worlds must be glad to have lost. Unfortunate imports of that sort can be a problem, because they sometimes disrupt the profitable chaos of the city, which the Regent cannot allow. Solving such problems is Howlaa’s job.

  We passed out of our neighborhood into a more flamboyant one, filled with emptied crypts, tombs, and other oddments of necropoli, from chipped marble angels to fragments of ornamental wrought iron. To counteract this funereal air, the residents had decorated their few square blocks as brightly and ostentatiously as possible, so that great papier-mâché birds clung to railings, and tombs were painted yellow and red and blue. In the central plaza, where the pavement was made of ancient headstones laid flat, a midday market was well underway. The pale vendors sold the usual trinkets, obtained with privately-owned low-yield snatch-engines, along with the district’s sole specialty, the exotic mushrooms grown in cadaver-earth deep in the underground catacombs. Citizens shied away from the red-plumed messenger, bearer of bloody news, and shied further away at the sight of Howlaa, because Nagalinda seldom strayed from their own part of the city, except on errands of menace.

  As we neared the edge of the plaza there was a great crack and whoosh, and a wind whipped through the square, eddying the weakly-linked charged particles that made up my barely-physical form.

  A naked man appeared in the center of the square. He did not rise from a hidden trapdoor, did not drop from a passing airship, did not slip in from an adjoining alley. Anyone else might have thought he’d arrived by such an avenue, but I see in all directions, to the limits of vision, and the man was simply there.