by T. A. Pratt
Hawkes tried the door, but it wouldn’t open for him. He stomped back and forth in his room, slamming his cane against the walls, creating holes that Pelham had to hastily repair. If Pelham’s vigilance wavered, Hawkes would escape and start laying waste to more of the afterlife. Pelham tried to banish the old man’s cane, but he couldn’t overcome the atheist’s will at that level. What if Pelham got distracted? Hawkes seemed to have the unwavering focus of a zealot.
Muscles said, “You could send in Edison, maybe. He believed in the afterlife, at least sometimes.”
“He’s such a deeply unpleasant man, though,” Pelham said.
“Then maybe Hawkes would get along with him.”
“More likely they’d join forces against me.” Pelham shuddered. “I peeked into Edison’s afterlife once, and it was all electrocuted elephants and Nikola Tesla licking his dirty boots. Hmm. Perhaps H.L. Mencken....”
“No go. He was a true believer, or non-believer, and he went poof into oblivion when he got here.”
“A pity. Though if Darwin didn’t work, the whole approach may be doomed to failure. Perhaps we won’t be able to talk Hawkes into accepting his new circumstances. I can just hold him until our queen returns, but keeping him contained takes most of my attention, and prevents me from dealing with anything else.”
“We could call the dread queen on the emergency line, boss.”
Pelham shook his head. “I have never failed her before, Muscles. I don’t propose to start now. She’ll think death has diminished me.”
“It’s a shame Hawkes isn’t just a line of code in a simulation, like he said in that speech,” Muscles said. “We could just delete the old bastard.”
Pelham stared at the demon, and a moment later, he began to laugh.
“That’s quite enough of that, sir.” Pelham strode through the wall into Hawkes’s hotel room—the old man was methodically smashing the furniture into nothingness—followed by Muscles. Both of them wore white lab coats, and Pelham wore spectacles and held a clipboard. “We’ve finished our examination.”
Hawkes raised his cane as if to strike Pelham, then lowered the weapon and scowled. “Eh? What do you mean?”
“It’s over. You’ve passed the final test.”
The atheist stared at him, confusion gradually overtaking his malevolence.
“I told you he hadn’t figured it out,” Muscles said. At some point the little goat-headed demon had conjured a pair of round spectacles for himself.
“Ah, of course.” Pelham cleared his throat. “Professor Hawkes, you suspected that reality was not as real as everyone assume. You speculated that you were, in fact, living in a historical simulation, created by scientists in the far future, isn’t that right?”
Hawkes blinked, then grumbled, “Of course, it stands to reason, there are probably thousands of simulations like that, copies of historical reality. The odds of living in the original reality seem quite low.”
Pelham nodded briskly. “Quite. A small number of individuals from within our simulation, who prove themselves truly enlightened beings, are offered the opportunity to live beyond the simulation, in our glorious future.”
“Ha!” Hawkes smiled, and in that moment could have been a celebrity spokesperson for smugness. “So all this nonsense here, this afterlife business, it was—?”
“The final test, of course. We needed to determine whether or not you would remain entirely rational even in the face of overwhelming evidence. If you would deny your own senses, if they told you something you knew to be untrue.”
Hawkes chuckled nastily. “I surprised you, didn’t I? People in my time are savages, ha, but I know the value of pure intellect.” He frowned. “There aren’t any Islams in your future, are there?”
“Heavens, no. No religious beliefs of any kind. Everyone is perfectly rational.”
“Good, good. And I’ll get a body? I won’t be stuck on a hard drive or something, in another virtual environment?”
“You’ll be given a body much like your own, but younger, and eternally healthy, yes.” Hawkes seemed unimpressed, so Pelham added, “And you can make any cosmetic changes you like to your form, of course.”
Now Hawkes smiled. “That would be acceptable.” He gestured with his cane at Muscles. “What’s that, then? Some kind of uplifted goat-monkey hybrid? Servitor class? You always need a servitor class.”
“Quite, quite.” Pelham aimed a look at Muscles to stop the demon from objecting. “If you’d step through this door, Professor.” He gestured, and a glowing rectangle of white light appeared on a wall. “You’ll find exactly the sort of wonderful, shining future you’d expect on the other side.”
“I always knew I was destined for greater things,” the old atheist said, and stepped into heaven.
“You done good,” Muscles said later, bobbing near the couch where Pelham sat, sipping a cup of tea. “We even recovered the souls Hawkes disturbed. He popped their afterlives, but didn’t do any permanent damage to their souls. They’re all back in their own worlds again.”
“Very good.” Pelham frowned at the wall, which showed a scene of Hawkes holding court before a bunch of gray-haired men, standing in a vast hall of silver spires. Long-legged, and obviously surgically enhanced, women in short skirts circulated, carrying trays of drinks and snacks for the learned men. “No, no, this won’t do.”
“Are you going to meddle?” Muscles couldn’t disguise his glee. “Get a little revenge for the trouble he caused?”
“I am going to... tweak his parameters.” Pelham gestured, and things began to change on the edges of Hawkes’s afterlife: the gray-haired men that filled the hall flickered and became women, of all ages and body types, until the only men left were the ones Hawkes was paying direct attention to, and they changed rapidly to women whenever he happened to glance away. Pelham sprinkled a selection of men among the wait staff, too, and made the women rather less like Barbie dolls and more like humans.
Pelham sat back, satisfied. “There. Now his afterlife is absolutely full of brilliant, accomplished women. I don’t think our queen would disapprove. It’s not as if you can really call it punishment. It’s more educational, and surely the professor would approve of that.” Pelham considered for a moment, then gestured again. About a third of the women in Hawkes’s afterlife suddenly wore al-amiras, or shaylas, or niqab, or some other form of hijab, the traditional Muslim head covering. “That might be seen as punitive, I suppose, but it’s not as if I’ve set demons on him with hot pokers.”
Muscles grinned. “You know, boss, I could get to like working for you.”
The Gift of the Anthropophagi
I was shocked to discover no one had used this title for a Christmas story before, and leapt on it before anyone else could. This is the same “Little B” you met in “Manic Nixie Dream Girl,” but with some variations. At the end of the novel series, Little B was made immortal due to a supernatural bargain, and Rondeau was effectively immortal, in that he could get a magically identical new body any time his old form failed him. It seemed natural to me that the two of them would team up to fight, and occasionally commit, crime.
Porter stood at the jewelry counter, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to conclude this transaction and move on to the next shop—they sold high-end messenger bags and fancy jackets, both things Dell would love—but the salesperson was taking forever at the register. She returned to him with an expression of lofty disdain. “I’m sorry sir. Your card was declined. Did you have another form of payment?”
He opened his mouth to say, yes, of course, and then remembered he’d maxed out his other two cards earlier today. That was the holidays for you, but it only came once a year, after all. He was stricken, though: that diamond tennis bracelet would be perfect for Dell. “Can you hold it for me?”
She shook her head, slow and deliberate as the tolling of a bell. “I’m sorry. At this time of year, well, there’s such demand—”
“Just until morning.” He wedged
the plea into the midst of her apology. “I’ll have the money by morning.”
“We’re closed on Christmas, I’m afraid.” She gave him a micro-smile and then looked past him toward someone who hadn’t already spent all their disposable income, and their non-disposable too.
Porter slumped out of the shop, arms a-dangle with shopping bags. His left hand twinged under the bandage when one bag strap brushed his stump, and he altered his grip. The flow of shoppers broke around him, people in scarves and reindeer horns and intentionally ugly sweaters streaming past, laughing and festive or grimly intent, as he maneuvered to a bench by the fountain (currently bedecked with lights and garlands and flanked by oversized candy canes). “The Carol of the Bells” ring-ting-a-linged over the loudspeakers.
Porter looked blankly at the crowd. He hadn’t realized people still shopped, out in the world, at malls, in realtime. Why didn’t people just buy everything online, a month or two in advance, to eliminate anxiety and panic? That’s what he always did. Or, rather, what he usually did. But it was Christmas tomorrow, with no time for anything to be delivered, and Dell needed more gifts, so here he was.
Porter’s feet hurt. His back ached. He was so exhausted that black fog intruded on the edges of his vision. He considered whether or not to go home. He’d bought Dell a lot of things already, but was it enough? Dell’s love language was gifts, after all—receiving presents was how Dell understood that he mattered to someone. Doubtless something to do with his upbringing. He’d probably been impoverished or food insecure or lived in foster homes or something. It briefly struck Porter as odd that he didn’t know the details of his one true love’s upbringing, but biographical specifics hardly mattered. He and Dell were joined at a deeper level than the merely informational: they were one, body and soul.
His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it. That name again, “Kendra.” It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it—she’d called a dozen times today. He shrugged and hit the “decline” button. He didn’t want to risk missing a call from Dell.
Two men sat down on the bench, on either side of him. One was tall and lean and wore a velvet suit in bright red, with white piping along the lapels and cuffs—it wasn’t a Santa suit, but it was the business-suit equivalent of one. The other was shorter, broader across the shoulders, dressed in jeans and a baggy light blue sweater with a dark blue knit cap pulled low on his forehead. The two began to converse across Porter, as if he weren’t sitting there.
The one in the red suit said, “Why are we hunting monsters again? On Christmas Eve, no less?”
Blue sweater said, “We’re immortal. We have to pass the time somehow. Anyway, this poor guy already lost a finger. If we don’t help him, there won’t be anything left in a couple days.”
“A pig that smart, you don’t eat all at once,” Red muttered.
“What’s that?” Blue said.
“Old joke. Never mind.”
Porter wasn’t sure if they were on drugs or drunk or just messing with him for their own amusement, but he didn’t have the mental energy to endure it. He started to get up, and each man put a hand on one of his shoulders and pulled him back down again. “Hold on there,” Blue said. “How far gone are you?”
“Get your hands off me!” Porter snapped.
They both dropped their hands. Blue turned toward him, holding up his hands and giving him a wide-eyed “I’m-harmless” look. He was blue-eyed and very handsome, like movie-star handsome, and Porter noticed even though he wasn’t attracted to men—except for Dell, of course, but, wait.... The man’s eyes were so blue, so deep, and Porter felt himself sinking into a soft, fluffy fog.
His bandaged hand pulsed a blip of pain, and Porter shook his head, looking away from the man and shivering.
“Well, hell,” Blue said.
“Told you it wouldn’t work,” Red said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re the most powerful psychic in the tri-state area, you can’t clear out this guy’s cobwebs. The anthropophagi aren’t telepathic, you know? It’s not a purely mental thing, it’s physical. There’s a chemical in their saliva, and it gets in the blood. It’s like an enzyme.”
“Do you even know what an enzyme is?”
“It’s a thing in their saliva,” Red said patiently. “Who’s the expert on supernatural parasites, huh? Me or you?”
“I have to go.” Porter had been feeling vague and foggy all day, and it was much worse, now, and his finger was throbbing.
“Someone’s waiting on you for dinner, I expect,” Red said.
Porter lurched upright and staggered off, head pounding, holding his myriad shopping bags. Outside, snow fell, but gently, almost picturesquely. It would be nice to ride on a sleigh with Dell, laughing and holding each other. He’d done that, once, hadn’t he, with someone else? A woman, with dark hair all in braids, what was her name....
Porter set down his bags, fumbled at his phone, and called for a rideshare—Dell had borrowed his car and never brought it back—and waited by the curb outside the mall. He wasn’t sure how he’d get around after this; he had a credit for the rideshare app sufficient to get him home, but after that, he was pretty much all the way broke. Oh well. There was always walking. He’d walk miles through the snow and ice for Dell.
A minute later Red and Blue came out and stood on either side of him. “Headed home?”
“Leave me alone.” Porter hunched his shoulders against them, and the cold.
“We’re just trying to help,” Blue said. “You’ll thank us later.”
“Who are you people?” Porter said.
“Oh, sorry,” Blue said. “I’m Bradley. This is Rondeau. We’re, uh.”
“Freelance immortals,” Rondeau said. “My kind of immortality is better than his though.”
“Disagree,” Bradley said. “My method is simple, direct, and elegant.”
“Yours is boring. Mine still has a little thrill of danger.”
“That’s objectively the worst kind of thrill, Rondeau.”
“And yet we hunt monsters.”
“Not for the thrill.” Bradley paused. “Mostly.”
A dark sedan slid up to the curb, and Porter moved gratefully toward it.
“Did you want to ride together?” Rondeau said. “Or should we get the next—”
Porter got into the car and slammed the door. He listened to the holiday music on the radio all the way home, dreaming of a Dell Christmas. His hand hardly hurt at all.
Porter unlocked the door and pushed his way into the foyer of his apartment building, across the marble floor, and toward the elevator. The lobby was decorated with garlands and wreaths and twinkling lights outline the bank of mailboxes. He loved coming home to this place. He wondered, briefly, how he was going to pay rent next week, and pushed the thought away. As long as he was with Dell, he could live under a bridge and it would feel like a mansion.
He rode upstairs, went down the short hallway, and knocked at his door—Dell preferred that to having him just barge in. After a moment, the door opened, and Porter went weak at the knees. Dell was so beautiful, so perfect, and, yes, he looked exactly like Porter (right down to the bandaged hand), so maybe that made Porter conceited, but it wasn’t Dell’s looks that had won his heart, it was his—his—everything.
Dell stepped aside and let Porter in. Soft lights glowed on Porter’s small tabletop Christmas tree, but otherwise the room was dark. Dell preferred the darkness. “Did you get me treats?” he said.
Porter nodded, holding up his arms, festooned with bags. “Yes, oh yes, did you want to open presents now, or wait for morning—”
Dell ignored him, took the bags, and started rifling through them. He glanced at Porter. “Go sit in that chair and be quiet.”
Porter obediently sat down in the wingback chair.
“Hmm, pretty good,” Dell said. “I wish you could have gotten bigger cash advances on your credit cards, but this is a decent compromise. Consumer electronics are always easy to move. Some more jewelry would have b
een nice though.”
“I’m so sorry, Dell, the woman at the jewelry counter was so unreasonable—”
“Quiet.” Dell chuckled. “We had a visitor while you were out. Kendra, I think her name is? Pretty, hair all in braids. Looked good enough to eat, but then, most people do. I might look her up later. She thought I was you, naturally. I said I was too busy to talk to her, and told her to get lost. She was pretty mad. Apparently you two had plans.”
“Kendra.” Porter’s hand throbbed suddenly. “Why do I know that name?” He winced, a headache joining in with the pain in his hand. “God, my head hurts.”
“Don’t worry, morsel. After tomorrow, you’ll never feel pain again.”
“I do love Christmas,” Porter said.
Then a lot of things happened very quickly. The front door burst open, and Bradley and Rondeau rushed in. Bradley crashed into Dell and drove him back across the living room and through the open bedroom door. Porter tried to get up, but Rondeau jumped into the chair and knelt on his lap, pinning his arms down, leaning in with all his weight.
Porter struggled to get up and help Dell—muffled shouting erupted from the bedroom—but Rondeau was surprisingly strong... or else Porter was unusually weak. He couldn’t remember when he’d last slept, and he had a vague memory of losing a lot of blood.
A moment later, Bradley emerged, holding up his right hand and wiggling his fingers. “See? That thing tried to eat me, and all it managed to do was cover me in slobber.”
“Mind-control saliva,” Rondeau said, still leaning on Porter. “Don’t get any in your mouth.”
“Yes, yes. The point is, my immortality is the best. Impervious to harm beats regeneration every time. Porter’s boyfriend would have bitten your whole hand off, and then you’d have to wait and get a new hand, and it would have hurt, and there would have been blood everywhere—so inefficient.”
“At least I can get tattoos if I want. The needles just break on you.”
“You don’t want tattoos.”
“No, but I like options.”
“What did you do to Dell?” Porter tried to shout, but it came out like a whisper.
