by Joseph Fink
And there goes the emissary, a solemn reminder of why our volunteers continue to fight in the Blood Space War. What a brave being. Soon we will trap it back in its pit.
Speaking of those volunteers, the Night Vale Veterans of a Blood Space War Association is holding a fish fry this Saturday to raise money for a statue of the unknown soldier to be built one thousand years in the future, by which time we may know who the soldier is. Bring friends, family, fish, and whatever else you would like fried over to the VFW hive located in the space between the walls at the abandoned cannery.
[distant, comical car-honking sounds]
Oh no. While I avert my gaze from the Shriner’s homunculi, let’s have a word from our sponsors.
Do you have dry eyes? Red eyes? Goat eyes? Aphid eyes? Any other eyes you’re not currently using? We want your eyes at Richter’s Eye Glass Hut. We give you money for your unwanted eyes and turn them into glass for affordable window panes. How? Don’t ask questions. Come on down to Richter’s Eye Glass Hut, located conveniently off the highway helix in the shadow of the immense precarious rock. [faster disclaimer] No longer accepting potato eyes or the eye of a storm. Not responsible for our windows watching you while you sleep.
And now, let’s return to Basimah’s story.
[ambient sound of her bedroom]
[Basimah is doing an impression of her father’s voice.]
BASIMAH: “The ship is so big. It makes me think of big things, Bazzy.” That’s what he calls me. It was my nickname when I was six. I’m not six.
It all comes out of him in a jumble. “They say what we are going to fight is an idea, like a color or pride, but it can kill us. If the idea gets inside you then it’s over. Bazzy, do you remember the song I used to sing to you to put you to sleep? Paula Abdul. ‘Rush Rush.’”
And then he wrote the whole song out, but he got a bunch of the lyrics wrong. I guess he was doing it from memory.
I just got a capsule two months ago telling me he wants me to be a doctor so I can cure one of the big diseases like cancer. Like cancer? There’s nothing like cancer, there’s just cancer. Sure, I’ll cure that, Space Dad. No pressure, right?
Most of the messages my father sends me are lists of ways I need to live my life. Things I should do and shouldn’t do, you know? He told me to pray every day and obey my mother. When I was nine he warned me not to kiss a boy until I’m sixteen. Which, well, I guess good news for him there.
[New ambient sound. She’s outside, maybe in the lunchroom, maybe somewhere else.]
The divergence started with little things. He said I should get a puppy for my eighth birthday, but I got a snail. When I was fifteen he wanted to make sure I had started wearing my hijab. Mom said I should make my own choices, so sometimes I wear it and sometimes I don’t. Like, always at mosque, but not that often at school. That sort of thing.
My father is talking to a person who isn’t me, to a person that doesn’t exist. He has imagined my entire childhood and young adulthood. He brings up obvious milestones, like starting high school or that first kiss. But he didn’t know about the car accident I spent most of my fourteenth year recovering from. I can’t tell him about the poems I write or the fact that I have a girlfriend, not a boyfriend.
He’s a ghost to me now or, maybe, since he’s going to be around long after I’m gone, I’m the one who is a ghost to him.
I take some comfort knowing my dad got paid a lot of money for joining the Blood Space War, enough to take care of me and Mom for a long time, and, really, having a space dad is just another way to have a family. Everyone has their own thing, you know? Like all of the Mizz Fits. Clara is in a nuclear family straight from the 1950s, but, like, literally from the 1950s even as she lives her life in 2015. Nisha has a council of fathers. Jacquelyn’s mom is a spider.
As long as you are loved, it doesn’t matter. So my dad’s a space ghost? I can deal. I just wish dad loved me and not who I was eleven years ago.
Or maybe I’m not okay with it. Maybe I wish he would come back.
I wish he would be a dad to me, not to the ghost of me that haunts him.
CECIL: More with Basimah coming up, but first, the weather.
WEATHER: “Sharon” by Good San Juan
The parade has ended, most of the onlookers have ceased to look on, and the wind is gathering up the paper Remembrance Day masks and depositing them in a random scattering across our sidewalks and streets. A lone dog I recognize from a recurring dream is staring at me from a block away. A dark van rumbles past. Everything is calm and quiet once again and—
[close, loud fluting]
Oh my! You startled me. Listeners, the emissary has appeared in the studio without warning, without even opening a door. It is sitting in the chair next to me and slowly rotating. Its visor is open, and I am being forced to stare at the ineffable darkness within the emissary’s helmet.
[fluting]
I believe it is asking if I understand the nature of unreality. Emissary, I understand dreams and fantasies and this gooey, sometimes—incredible, sometimes—painful world that surrounds us, but I can only experience it with my seven senses.
[fluting]
Listeners, the emissary is saying that the nature of unreality . . . is . . . that experience and reality are linked but separate. What is experienced may not be real. What is real may never be experienced. So far this is just basic geometry like we all learn in third grade. Where is the emissary going with this?
[fluting]
The emissary is saying . . . “in a thousand years, we will turn the vastness of space red for no reason. There was never a purpose to this war we made.”
But if Remembrance Day has taught me anything, under strict order of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, it is that war is a purpose unto itself.
[fluting]
The emissary is asking me to end the conflict, but I’m sorry, emissary, I do not have the power to end the Blood Space War. After all the blood that has been spilled in space, or will be spilled, or may be spilled at some theoretical point in the future, I am a humble radio host and you are a sentient nothingness inhabiting the suit of a dead cosmonaut. How could the two of us hope to stop a war?
I don’t know. I just don’t know.
The emissary is gone, as though it was never here. Maybe it wasn’t. After all, this moment was only something I experienced, not something I know is real.
Let’s hear the rest of Basimah’s tape.
[Basimah, quiet ambient room, guitar playing of “Rush Rush”]
BASIMAH: People always say to me, “You must be proud of your father going off to fight in the Blood Space War.”
I used to say yes to them. Not anymore. I don’t care if it makes me selfish or ungrateful. My dad made the wrong choice and I want him back.
He wrote down the lyrics all wrong.
[singing to the tune of “Rush Rush”]
You’re gonna see
I’m gonna run,
I’m gonna fly,
I’m gonna bring this love back to ya
[fluting on the recording]
Ah! How did you get in my room? What are you? What are you?
[The fluting shifts, distinctly playing the tune to “Rush Rush.”]
Daddy? Is that you, Daddy?! [laughing] Daddy! [crying, laughing] Daddy. Daddy. Daddy. [crying]
CECIL: Listeners, I don’t know how the emissary ended up in this taped recording, dropped off at the studio three days ago, given that the emissary was only released from its pit this morning. But then: I don’t know how my favorite type of pie is made, but when I order it, there it is, steaming and delicious. I don’t know how the mail gets delivered, but every day, like clockwork, it doesn’t. I don’t know how lost pets end up on the moon, but they do, and they have built an extensive city up there.
The clock claims it is now 12:01. Remembrance Day is over. We can all return to our lives and to forgetting that the Blood Space War is going on, or will go on, maybe, a thousand years from now.
And mayb
e, in one thousand years, plus a day or two, those brave volunteers we sent to fight in a war none of us understand will allow the most dangerous idea of all into their heads. They will turn back, and return home to us, against all laws of time and space.
Paraphrasing the half-remembered words of an ancient prophet, perhaps they will bring this love back to us. Or maybe they already have.
Stay tuned next for events that will or will not happen, in the order that they may or may not occur.
And from the present as I am currently experiencing it, good night, Night Vale. Good night.
PROVERB: Ever wondered how a plane flies? Well, the answer is that no one knows. Pilots are scared to ask. If we ask, maybe it’ll stop working.
Episode 80:
“A New Sheriff in Town”
DECEMBER 15, 2015
JOSEPH AND I MET THE AUTHOR MAUREEN JOHNSON ON TWITTER A FEW years back. (She’s @maureenjohnson. Go follow her. Do it now. You will not regret it.) She found our show about a year in and started talking about how much she liked it. We developed a Twitter friendship with her, and that would have been a terribly confusing sentence for all of us just eight years ago.
Maureen is a delightful, funny, and wise person. And like we do from time to time with people we enjoy, we named an intern after her. Intern Maureen first appeared in Episode 35: “Lazy Day” on November 15, 2013.
Maureen responded on Twitter immediately to her namesake’s debut (note the timestamp):
But as with most Night Vale radio interns, something terrible would befall her, and in Episode 38: “Orange Grove,” from January 1, 2014, Intern Maureen drinks the orange juice that causes her to flicker out of existence.
Maureen Johnson responded a couple of days later:
On Twitter, @NightValeRadio and @maureenjohnson teased back and forth about this unfortunate occurrence, until Joseph and I decided we would bring back Intern Maureen if Maureen Johnson agreed to perform the character live onstage at Town Hall for our second anniversary show (Episode 49: “Old Oak Doors” in June 2014). She did, and she was great.
Once we cast an actor as a character, it gives that character a fuller life, direction, and personality. Maureen Johnson’s mock-angry glares on social media really informed the character of (former) Intern Maureen’s true angry glares at Cecil.
Even when the actor isn’t voicing that character—as is the case with Maureen in the newest episode where Cecil runs into Maureen, and she is, unsurprisingly, annoyed with her old boss—that actor has still strongly informed who that character is. And having spent a lot of time with real Maureen this past year (GeekyCon, NerdCon, the Night Vale book tour event at WORD Bookstore in Jersey), her namesake was fresh in our minds. We couldn’t resist bringing her back into podcast.
I mean, it’s probably just for this one small part. I’m sure it’s just a one-off scene and will never come up again. I mean, why would it?
—Jeffrey Cranor
* * *
A few other intern-naming notes: Intern Dana was named after one of our podcast’s earliest fans; Intern Vithya was named after one of the first people I met in college; Intern Zvi was named after choreographer Zvi Gotheiner, whose work I saw once and liked; Intern Hannah was named after a winner of WNYC’s excellent game show (and podcast) Ask Me Another.
I fought the law and the law won. I ignored the law and the law won. I abided by the law and the law won.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE
There’s a new sheriff in town, Night Vale. The former sheriff, whose name we never knew, whose face we never saw, and whose voice was only ever heard through a vocoder, is gone. Our former sheriff was secretive, reclusive. Really into classical music and kleptocracy. Rarely made public appearances, and when he did, it was with a balaclava and cape.
The new sheriff has a more public persona, refusing to wear the traditional mask or cape and actually allowing their first name to be known. (It’s Sam, by the way.) The sheriff called a press conference this morning to announce that they are taking over the Secret Police effective immediately.
More on this story as it develops.
But first, an editorial. It’s the holidays, Night Vale. I hope many of you will get to spend this time with people you love. I know I’ll be sharing some eggnog with my dearest family: Carlos, Abby, Janice . . . others . . . But let’s not forget those people who quietly make our lives better: the postal carriers, the baristas and food servers, cabdrivers, and the agents from a vague yet menacing government agency who sit outside our homes night after night recording all of our conversations and activities.
Think how boring a job domestic espionage must be. They are out there at all hours. Do they ever get to sleep or spend holidays with families or take vacations? Who even knows?
So the other day, swept up in the holiday spirit, I took some delicious Pfeffernüsse cookies out to the windowless van across from my home and gave them to the agent sitting in the back. Her name is Monica Barnwell, and she was just a lovely person. She appreciated that I recognized all the hard work she has put in the last several years surveilling me. And I thanked her for her service to our community.
We had some small talk and then I said, “Well, gotta get back to my dull life,” as I looked down at my shoes. She said, “Thanks, Cecil.” And then I said, “Monica, would you like me to . . . I don’t know . . . question the World Government or be more antiwar or talk more like a political dissident or something, just to make your day a little more exciting?”
“Oh, that’d be so fun, Cecil. Thanks!” she said.
Then I went back inside and told my boyfriend I wanted to get a beret, either red or camouflage.
So, Night Vale, this holiday season, think about all the people you may take for granted. You don’t have to give them a gift or anything. Just a thank-you and a smile for all their hard work is enough. And if you have any particularly juicy secrets, consider brightening some agent’s day by announcing them in a loud, clear voice to the nearest hidden microphone in your home.
The new sheriff has spoken. They opened their press conference with the following statement: “Citizens of Night Vale. We have a crisis on our hands and that crisis is . . .” Then the sheriff performed a ten-minute modern dance piece (set to music by Steve Reich, of course) that frantically, yet lyrically, conveyed a disdain for the fiscal irresponsibility of current mayor Dana Cardinal.
The press corps loved the piece, especially its subtle tribute to choreographer Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker’s sweeping repetitive style, even though the sheriff’s muscular, longitudinal movements obviously indicated heavy training in Lester Horton’s methodology. The press applauded politely and the sheriff continued with their speech.
Quote: “Our Secret Police force has been secretly requesting budget increases to help cover overtime and new equipment. Maybe you didn’t know about it,” the sheriff said, “because it’s, you know, secret, and all. But we were requesting it. . . . Secretly! Don’t print that! It’s a secret!”
The sheriff went on. “Instead the mayor has decided to use our money to help the citizens of our unfriendly neighboring town Desert Bluffs. We will not only see a rise in crime because we have a mayor who decided to disrupt our stable economy, but we also will face a lack of financial ability to effectively stop this crime.”
The sheriff went on. “I will secretly undermine the mayor’s authority with the help of the City Council and some lizard people I know to keep Night Vale ‘safe.’ (Don’t report my finger quotes around the word safe! They’re secret!) This is my promise to you as your new sheriff.”
One reporter then asked, “Uhh, what happened to the old sheriff?”
The new sheriff responded by painting a canvas entirely blue.
More on this story, but first an update on the Trial of the Century.
Judge Siobhan Azdak has brought in a computer programmer named Melony Pennington to develop the first ever all-AI jury for the trial of Hiram McDaniels.
Attorneys have had a di
fficult time finding a jury of peers for McDaniels, as he is literally a five-headed dragon, and outside of his family, seems to be the only one of his kind in the area. Not knowing how to find actual dragons to serve on the jury, and not willing to have a five-headed dragon unfairly juried by all humans, Judge Azdak called for science to solve this problem, because, according to Azdak, “Science has solved every other problem.”
Both the prosecuting attorney, Troy Walsh, and the court-appointed defense attorney, also named Troy Walsh, agree that this is a fair solution, and artificial intelligence is “probably a thing anyone with a MacBook and some Red Bull has already mastered, like, years ago,” they said in unison with identical smiles and matching haircuts.
Pennington has been working with young computer prodigy, Megan Wallaby, who is an eleven-year-old girl who inhabits what once was the body of a Russian sailor and also was only born three years ago, but then the specifics of her identity and her manifestation within time are really none of your business.
Wallaby is helping Pennington engineer a sentient program that can think exactly like six different five-headed dragons. Megan has had a real affinity for computers ever since the, uh, the incident in the school gym that one time. The other members of the jury will be humans. Auditions for those jury slots will be conducted Wednesday at the Night Vale Community Theatre.
Four of Hiram’s five heads are being brought up on charges of conspiracy and attempted murder of our mayor. The fifth head, the violet one, is being courted as a key witness by the prosecution, but they’re having a difficult time getting a private conversation with it. The trial is scheduled for early next year.
By the way, listeners, I ran into former station intern Maureen. I actually didn’t notice her at first, as I was listening to an album I just got. It’s a new musical about Alexander Hamilton, who became our nation’s fourth president because he successfully killed former vice president Aaron Burr in a duel. Anyway, the soundtrack is fantastic, and I was totally engrossed in my lip-syncing and self-styled choreography, when I saw Maureen waving to me from down the street.
