Differently Morphous

by Yahtzee Croshaw

  “And they’d done nothing wrong?”

  “Of course not.”

  Aaron-Byhagthn leaned towards Nita and whispered, their mouth inches away from her lapel mike. “We did try to kill someone.”

  “That—”

  “I’m sorry, we’re going to have to leave you there,” said Pippa, rotating to face camera again, dramatically flicking her hair aside to finger her earpiece. “We’ve just received word of breaking news. The Department of Extradimensional Affairs has issued a statement in the last few minutes, revealing that two fluidics have been murdered in the same location by what is believed to be a serial killer. We can go now live to the main studio for more information.”

  Pavani’s mike had already been turned down, but keen-eared listeners with loud televisions heard her final words in the brief pause before the camera cut away. “What did she d—”

  29

  Comments under the YouTube clip of the previous:

  ███████:

  Wow it happens every time. A minority tries to educate us about the real societal oppression they live under every day then some privileged white person barges in and tries to make it all about themselves.

  Fluidics are still struggling to be accepted but some white lady wants to come in and go “oh magic humans can have problems too”? We fluidics are literally being KILLED just for being who we are but these people on the media have the BALLS to tell us to care about magic freak boys because WAAH WAAH THEY DON’T LIKE THEIR SPECIAL SCHOOL. I’d rather be in a cozy classroom than be REALLY ACTUALLY MURDERED.

  GOD these people

  ███████:

  your a fluidic????

  ███████:

  Well I identify as fluidic-kin

  (Names redacted)

  30

  The tablet on Elizabeth’s desk displayed a grainy video of a grimy interior wall. In front of it, poorly framed in the center of the image, were the head and shoulders of a person. They were too deeply silhouetted by cold fluorescent light to show any identifying features, although it was clear that they were wearing a cardboard cutout of a fantasy wizard’s face as a mask.

  “So this is . . . ?” asked Danvers, leaning over the desk with one hand holding his back.

  “The YouTube people pulled it offline and brought it to our attention in the early hours of the morning,” said Elizabeth. “Not before it had been copied and found by the media, of course.” She tapped the screen to unpause the video.

  “Our organization accepts responsibility for the execution of the two shoggoths,” said the person in the video, the voice electronically disguised until even their gender was impossible to determine. “We will not stand idly by as aliens and demons invade our country.”

  “You really think they mean it?” said Danvers. “The crazies always come out when we announce things. The first week the Ministry was exposed, there were all those videos from that mad Scottish woman who thought we’d transformed her cat into a larger cat . . .”

  “Keep listening,” suggested Elizabeth.

  “The Hand of Merlin labored for centuries to shield our lands from the forces of darkness,” continued the person in the wizard mask. “Now they have been torn down, and everything they defended is being given away piece by piece in the name of political correctness. We are guided by their wisdom and their example. We are the New Hand.”

  “It goes on like that,” said Elizabeth, silencing the video with a haughty finger tap. “The important matter is that my press statement made no mention of the Hand of Merlin symbol.”

  Danvers’s index finger tapped rhythmically on the desk, and his eyes swiveled ceilingwards as he contemplated this. “That might not mean much. People already associate the Hand with fluidic murder. That’s why they got shut down in the first place.” He continued tapping for a few more moments. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s not worth looking into . . .”

  “My thoughts precisely,” said Elizabeth, dismissing the video and calling up a display of recent emails. “The video was posted with a brand-new user account, as expected. The only information given in the profile was that they were based in London. I believe this was an attempt at subterfuge, as the IP address of the upload was traced to a location in Yorkshire. So this person can’t be particularly smart.”

  “Yorkshire,” said Danvers to himself.

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at him. “Does that mean something?”

  “A name leaps to mind. Mike Badger.”

  Elizabeth glanced away, trying to recall. “He was . . .”

  “One of my triggermen. Long time. He was the man Henry Wollstone met on his way down to London, the one who was hunting the fluidics.” A thoughtful tone entered Danvers’s voice. “Somehow the media got hold of his name, so I had to cut ties with him when the Hand went down.”

  Elizabeth nodded and made a quizzical gesture towards the tablet. “Is this him?”

  “It really doesn’t feel like him . . .” He caught Elizabeth’s questioning gaze and sighed, knowing she would want to know what lay on the far end of his ellipsis. “He is linked to the Hand. It was my dad who recruited him. I think he used to poach on the family estate.”

  “Your father. Have you kept track of his activities? Any sign of conspiracy, contact with other Hand members?”

  “I don’t know!” snapped Danvers. “I haven’t even been to the family estate since we became the Department. I can barely keep up with the workload as it is.”

  “Perhaps now would be a good time to take a—”

  The door flew open, and Nita Pavani burst in with a selection of newspapers under one arm. She jumped when the door hit the wall with a loud crash, but she brushed an errant hair behind one ear and reasserted her offended stance. “Really, Ms. Lawrence?” she asked, spiking the words through tightened lips. “Would you really hold back progress in interdimensional relations just out of some petty dislike for me?”

  “And good morning to you, Dr. Pavani,” said Elizabeth dryly. “Please feel free to come right in.”

  “What’s this about?” sighed Danvers, like a teacher wading into a nasty hair-pull fight between two senior girls.

  “I organized a television interview with Aaron-Byhagthn last night, to start mending the centuries of damage the Ministry has done to persons of dual consciousness.” She paused to gauge Danvers’s reaction. “Someone at this department deliberately released a statement on the fluidic murders halfway through the segment!”

  “Is that right,” said Danvers, giving Elizabeth a pointed look.

  “Yes, I released information vital to the safety of innocent civilians as soon as I became aware of it,” said Elizabeth, unconcerned. “I couldn’t possibly have known the precise moment it would be broadcast. And in any case, I saw your interview. If anything, the bulletin came to your rescue.”

  “Oh, really?” said Pavani, smiling a little bit too widely for comfort. She dumped her armpit load of newspapers onto the desk between them. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with these, either?”

  Now curious, Elizabeth gently spread the individual newspapers apart to reveal the headlines: demon-possessed kids running amok. is your child a magic hooligan? our children’s souls under threat. magic teens link to dartmoor forest fire?

  “Is it me?!” asked Pavani, a suggestion of moistness in her eyes. “Is it . . . is it because I’m Indian?”

  “I can assure you, Doctor, I did nothing but send out a statement on the fluidic murders,” said Elizabeth, scanning the text of the articles with interest. “You’re welcome to check my phone and email history, as long as you’re still on the rational side of paranoid.”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Danvers, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Get me up to speed. Pavani, you’re doing some kind of awareness thing for demonic possession?”

  “Dual consciousness!” barked Pavani. She made a frustrated noise that began at the back of her throat and rumbled out throu
gh her mouth and nose. “I’m calling Anderson. This environment is just completely progress-hostile.”

  Danvers waited until the thuds of pointed office shoes on thin carpet had faded from audible range, then turned to Elizabeth. “She’s Indian?”

  31

  Alison, bleary eyed, was discovering why it had been a bad idea to work on her report until three in the morning. She had planned to submit her report first thing but had decided to stop at her cubicle for some last-minute editing, and this had so far taken over an hour. A lot of things that had made perfect sense to her exhausted self no longer scanned in the cold light of day. It probably wasn’t appropriate for a government document to describe Diablerie as “doing poos.”

  Just as she was wondering if it was strictly necessary to account for the changing state of Victor Casin’s shoelaces, Nita Pavani marched past. She walked with shoulders hunched and arms held perfectly vertical, clenched fists aimed at the floor like loaded cannons.

  “Hi, Nita,” said Alison brightly, eager for distraction.

  “Hi,” replied Nita without stopping, elongating the vowel and twisting it around like a dagger in the gut. A few confused moments later, she returned, clasping her hands apologetically and resting them on Alison’s cubicle wall. “Alison, you’re friends with those interdimensionally advantaged persons, aren’t you?”

  Alison mouthed some of the words back to herself. “Those what?”

  “The two young men with magic infusions.”

  “Oh! Victor and Adam. Yes. Well. Friends? I don’t think we’ve ever sat down and figured that out. Maybe. We hang out sometimes.”

  “Do you think either of them could be persuaded to become dual consciousness?”

  Alison looked startled. “Um. No, I really wouldn’t think so. Their Ancients don’t talk to them anymore. Apparently that’s what going through the school does.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame.” Pavani tapped her chin for a moment before finally registering Alison’s discomfort. “That was very ignorant of me, wasn’t it? Of course I wouldn’t ask someone to do that on a whim. However much it would help the larger struggle.”

  Alison coughed. “How did the TV interview go?”

  “Were you watching?”

  “No, I had . . . work to do.”

  “It went fine! Not one hundred percent ideal, perhaps, but, you know, it, I.” Her words became more and more unintelligible and high pitched as her statement went on, as if invisible fingers were gradually tightening around her lips. Finally, her shoulders sagged. “It may not have gotten the message across.”

  Alison winced sympathetically. “Was it Aaron?”

  Nita went back into her tight, offended stance. “Their name is Aaron-Byhagthn, Alison. Please don’t misidentify.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And no! Aaron-Byhagthn were great. They’re incredibly brave persons and deserving of our respect and understanding.” In the center of her clasped hands, unseen, a couple of her fingers began to fidget. “But . . . I do think, perhaps, our message would come across more clearly if we had spokespersons who were . . .” She tailed off.

  “Less attempted murder-y?” suggested Alison.

  “. . . More marketable. No, not marketable . . . sympathetic.” She held a crooked finger to her lip, excitement growing. “That’s it. That’s what I should have done in the first place. I should have focused on the mistreatment at the school. If I could just find a sympathetic interdimensionally advantaged person who went through the current school system, we could do an exposé. Wouldn’t even need to be dual consciousness.”

  “Well, Victor wouldn’t help. He supports the school.”

  Nita’s jaw slackened for a moment. “It is so sad when oppressed people internalize hatred, isn’t it? I should explain some things to him.”

  “I think his Ancient is one of the bad ones, though,” said Alison sheepishly.

  Nita held up a didactic finger. “There are no bad people, Alison. There are only people going through bad times. What about Adam?”

  “Oh, he’d be onboard.”

  “Greeeat,” said Nita, grimacing as she drew out the word. “Not the kind of face we want to put on this, though. I mean, his support would be greatly appreciated, of course, but . . . straight white male, privileged background.” She held up her hands in mock horror and sucked air in through her teeth. “Doesn’t exactly scream progress. We need to put our best feet forward. Either someone from an ethnic minority or a girl.”

  “Oh, well, there’s always—” began Alison brightly, before a better instinct dived across her mind and smashed its fist on the Cancel button, leaving her mouth hanging wordlessly open and the rest of her face frozen in helpful mode.

  Nita cocked her head. “There’s always who?”

  “Nothing.” Alison returned to her computer, hammering on the keyboard and staring fiercely at the cursor as it moved. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  “C’mooon, who were you going to say?” Nita rested her folded arms on the cubicle walls and leaned forward, as if they were gossipy teenagers talking over the bedspreads at a sleepover.

  “No one. Really.”

  “Alison, this is me talking. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  Alison finally looked up. “Are we?”

  “Of course we are. And I don’t want you to feel like there’s anything you can’t share with me. We’re all on the same side here, aren’t we? We both think the Department needs to shut down the school?”

  Alison, staring into Pavani’s large, dark eyes, bit her lip. She lacked the articulacy to say what she really felt, which was that openly agreeing that the school should be shut down was a lot easier over a big dinner and half a glass of wine than it was within visual range of Elizabeth’s office door.

  “Alison,” said Richard Danvers, coming to the rescue. His head peered around the door of his office like an indoor gargoyle. “A word.”

  “Let me talk to someone and get back to you,” said Alison to Nita, hurriedly copying her report onto the local network.

  “Fine,” said Nita, in a skeptical tone that left a wound.

  Flustered, Alison followed Danvers into his office. He gestured for her to sit and perched himself on his desk as she did so, looming over her with a look of grave seriousness that made all of her limbs tighten with anxiety.

  “Alison,” he said, in the tired, fatherly voice of a school counselor addressing a problem child. “You do understand that the credit card I gave you is strictly for work-related expenses?”

  “Of course,” said Alison automatically, before cold realization dripped into her heart. The image of Jessica Weatherby’s chubby hand closing around her assigned credit card hit her hard enough to leave an indent in her brain.

  “Really?” Danvers leaned over his desk and turned his flat-screen monitor around to face them. “Then maybe we could talk about a few of these charges you’ve made.”

  “Which ones?” asked Alison, looking over the lengthy list and feeling ill.

  “First of all, I’d rather you use the computers we already have rather than buy your own, and second, pizza every night is hardly a healthy diet for a field agent.” He pointed. “And what about this one? Twelve-month subscription to Mogworld? I hardly think magazines are an appropriate work expense.”

  “Um. That’s an . . . online RPG,” mumbled Alison.

  Richard looked at it again. “Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so? That’s perfectly acceptable. I thought you had more sense than you displayed on your first day, Alison. Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m not!” said Alison, unable to stop herself. The reference to their first meeting had cut a little too deep.

  Danvers frowned. He indicated the filename. “This is your credit card number? And don’t tell me you don’t remember.”

  “H-hang on a moment,” said Alison. With shaking hands she took out her purple wallet and opened the zip, then did her best to feign surprise. “Oh no. Look. It’s gone.”

/>   “It’s been stolen?”

  “Yes. That explains everything.”

  Danvers’s skeptical look held for a few tense seconds, before he sighed, hopped forward, and made his way around the desk into his chair. “Okay. That makes more sense. When was the last time you had it? I’m sure you know for certain.”

  “I only ever used it once, honestly,” said Alison, relieved. “To buy the train ticket to Barnstaple on my first day working with Diablerie.”

  Danvers paused in the act of typing. “That was three months ago. You seriously haven’t tried to use it since then?”

  “Just . . . never had a reason to,” murmured Alison. She had never been comfortable with lying, and the space between her skin and her clothing seemed to have become filled with red-hot biting ants. “Last time we were on a mission, we drove Diablerie’s car. That was the only other mission I’ve been on. Things have been really busy getting the new Department set up.”

  “And you’ve been using your own money to buy lunch and things the whole time?”

  Alison couldn’t tell if he was aghast at her foolishness or still suspicious. “Sorry,” she said, it being the universal response.

  Richard rolled his eyes and returned to typing. “Listen, I’m sending you and Diablerie on assignment tomorrow for what may turn into a long one. Why don’t you take the afternoon off to pack a few changes of clothing?”

  “Erm, just hypothetically,” said Alison, standing up, “what happens if whoever stole my card keeps using it?”

  Danvers crinkled his brow, then pointed at his monitor. “They won’t be able to. I just canceled it.”

  “Oh.” Alison fiddled with her fingers. “I suppose you had to do that, didn’t you.”

  “Ye-es,” said Danvers patiently. “Why wouldn’t I? You said it was stolen.”

  “Yes, but . . . I just thought . . . they might really need it.”