Complete short fiction, p.97
Complete Short Fiction, page 97
Gabriel suddenly went queasy. “You mean . . .?”
“Yes, that stupid hairless monkey-thing. It’s ugly and it’s stupid and it smells.”
It was Adam, of course, the apple of the Lord’s eye, the only one of the new creatures made more or less in God’s own image.
“But . . . what’s wrong with it, Miss Sophia?” Gabriel didn’t really want to know, since it was bound to upset him, but he was desperate to stall her. “Your father was very, very specific about wanting . . .”
“Well, look at it.”
“That’s exactly what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to have dominion over the beasts of the earth, and use them to feed himself,” Gabriel said.
Adam heard them talking and looked up from where he had been repeatedly spearing a tomato, and waved. “Hi, Gabe! Hi, Metty! What’s up?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s totally stupid,” said Sophia, not hiding the scorn. “He just goes around spearing everything. He’s been killing that tomato for about ten minutes and there’s nothing left of it to eat. He needs someone to tell him how to know which things to stab and which things to harvest. Someone like me.”
Gabriel drew himself to his full angelic height. A line had to be drawn. “I feel quite sure that your father is not going to let you follow His favorite creation around and give him orders all day . . .”
“Okay, fine, fine. Sheesh.” Sophia rolled her eyes. She watched as Adam climbed a tall tree and began enthusiastically spearing a beehive. A moment later, surrounded now by irritated bees, he began to screech and wave his arms, then fell off the branch and plummeted to the ground. “Look, part of him popped out,” the girl said, interested. “That’s gross . . . but also kind of cool.”
Gabriel sighed. “Go fix him back up, will you, Metatron? I admit it would be nice if he’d quit doing things like that.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” The girl hurried over, and before Gabriel or Metatron could stop her, she had lifted up the curve of shining bone that had popped out of Adam when he hit the ground. She examined it thoughtfully, then set it back on the ground. After a momentary shimmer of light, the rib was gone and in its place lay another fully formed Adam creature. This one, though, had subtle differences.
“What is that supposed to be?” Gabriel demanded. “It’s lumpy. And it hasn’t got a nozzle!”
“It’s a more sophisticated design,” said the girl. “You won’t see this one always tripping and hitting himself in the plums like the old one. In fact, I don’t even want to call it ‘him.’ It’s named ‘Eve,’ and it’s a ‘her.’
Gabriel was considering an immediate transfer. Somebody must be mortaring up the walls of Hell, and that suddenly sounded like a very comfortable, safe job compared to his current occupation.
“I don’t get it,” said Metatron. “Why do we need a second one? Won’t they fight?”
Sophia stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re just grumpy ’cause mine is better. They’ll get along fine. They can make babies together, like the animals do.”
“We already took care of that! He’s full of eggs!”
“Eeewww!” Sophia shook her head in disgust. “No. Do something different. They can make babies some other way.”
“But what . . .?”
“I don’t care. Just take care of it.” She looked around in satisfaction, but when she turned her eyes to the sky, reddened now with light of the setting sun, her expression soured. “I just thought of one more thing that’s really dumb that I have to fix.”
Gabriel fought down panic. God was going to have a screaming fit about the lumpy new Adam. What now? “Honestly, Sophia— Miss—it’s getting late. I mean, it’s going to be dark soon, so maybe you should . . .”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Watch.” She pointed to the sky.
“I don’t see anything.” Gabriel turned helplessly to Metatron. “Do you see anything?”
“Sssshhh. Just watch.” She waited as the sun disappeared behind the west end of the Garden.
“I forgot to tell you,” Metatron whispered. “She got rid of one of the directions . . .”
“What? You mean there’s only four now?” Gabriel gasped. “We’re going to have to redo all the winds and everything . . .!”
“Now look,” said Sophia. “Don’t you see?”
Gabriel looked up at the sky. With the disappearance of the sun, the stars sparkled against the dark sky like jewels. “See what? It’s lovely. Your father said that was some of our best work . . .”
“It’s boring. And it’s really dumb, too. I mean, you’ve got the sun up there all day long when everything’s already perfectly bright, but as soon as it gets dark and you really need it, boom, the sun goes away! How stupid is that?”
“But . . . but that was always your father’s plan . . .”
“No, see, what you need is a nice bright sun for the nighttime, too.” She clearly was not going to accept disagreement. “I’m going to make one.”
“No!” As soon as he saw Sophia’s expression, Gabriel immediately realized he should have spoken more courteously—after all, what if God’s daughter decided the universe didn’t need archangels, either? “I mean, yes! Grand idea! But if it’s sunny all the time . . .”—he cast about for an excuse—“then . . . then the cute, furry, iddy-widdy bunnies and kitties won’t get any sleep. Yes. Because the light will keep them awake.”
“Kitties will sleep in the daytime,” she said, scowling.
“Okay, but bunnies! They love to sleep! And just think of all the fish up in the trees getting sunburned . . .”
Metatron leaned toward him. “They’re in the water now, sir, remember?” said the junior angel, sotto voce.
“. . . I mean the birds, yes, the birds, high up in the trees. If the sun’s out all day, the cute colorful little birdie-wirdies will all get sunburned and they’ll be so sad!”
Sophia gave him a withering look. “ ‘Birdie-wirdies’ ? My dad must really like you, to let you keep this job.” She shook her head. “Okay, then not a regular sun. Just a little one that doesn’t shine so bright.”
And before Gabriel could invent another excuse, she raised her hands and suddenly a vast, ivory disk hung in the night sky. As Sophia stood admiring it, several unsuspecting birds and even a butterfly or two banged into it, leaving pockmarks on the pearly surface.
“Stupid birds,” she said. “Guess I’ll have to put it up higher.”
The first day of the new week had already come once before, but this time it had a name—Monday. The Lord God showed up in the morning with His coffee in a travel-cup, looking relaxed and fit.
“Good to be back, good to be back,” He said. “Ready to get to work, boys. Still have to figure out how Adam is going to lay those eggs—I mean, anyway that we do it, it’s going to look funny . . .”
“Uh, now that you mention it, Lord,” said Gabriel, “we wanted to talk to You about that and . . . and some other things. See, a few changes got made yesterday, while You were gone. Your daughter came and rearranged a few things.”
“My who?”
“Your daughter, sir. Your daughter Sophia.”
God lifted one of His great, bushy brows. “Daughter. Sophia. Mine, you say? But I don’t have a daughter.”
Gabriel was suddenly grateful that God had not seen fit to give the archangel a nozzle like Adam’s, because Gabriel felt certain he would have wet himself. “You . . . you don’t? But she said she was Your daughter.”
“Impossible. I mean, really, Gabriel, where would I come up with a kid? Just . . . I don’t know, impregnate a virgin human or something?” He frowned. “Which would mean Adam, since he’s the only one, and he’s not really my idea of . . .” The Lord God trailed off, staring at the Garden. “What’s going on down there? Why are there two Adams?”
Gabriel swallowed. “I’ll go get Metatron. He was in charge of the whole thing.”
His master was barely listening. “And what’s with the trees? Why is it so Me-blessed green?”
When Metatron arrived he quickly realized that Gabriel was planning to throw him under the celestial chariot. To his credit, he did not attempt to return the favor. “But Lord, she was here,” he said. “She told us she was Your daughter and that her name was Sophia. Why would we make that up?”
God frowned. “Well, in a few billion years Sophia is going to mean ‘wisdom’—so maybe you’re telling the truth at that.”
“We are, Lord. We really are,” said Metatron.
“I don’t understand,” Gabriel said. “What do you mean, her name’s going to mean ‘wisdom’ ?”
“Simple. I was sleeping most of the day yesterday—all that parting the darkness from the face of the waters and whatnot turns out to be surprisingly tiring—and suddenly she just . . . shows up here. Holy Wisdom. I suspect she was a part of Me.”
“Wow.” Gabriel had heard his boss say some weird things, but this was right up there. “That’s deep, Lord. Part of you? You really think so?”
“Maybe.” God set His coffee down. “Can’t be positive, of course—My ways are mysterious, right?”
“They sure are, Lord,” said Metatron.
“They sure are.” God laughed and clapped the junior angel on the back, which set a few feathers flying. “So let’s forget about all this for now and get back to work, guys—maybe see if we can get that whole ozone-layer thing cracked before we break for lunch. What do you say?”
“You’re the boss,” said Gabriel.
“Yes, for My sins, I am.” God laughed.
Gabriel hoped He’d still be in a good mood after He saw His first platypus.
Omnitron, What Ho!
What’s that, you say? You want to hear how I first met Omnitron, my robot servant, the admirable, clanking Crichton who has saved my bacon more often than a pig-herder with a Tommy gun? Very well, but I warn you—it is not a pretty tale.
Like many grim things, it begins with an aunt. You all know what it is to have an aunt, I think. It is much like having a fish, and a cold one at that, if said fish had control of your finances and conceived you to be a complete waste of human tissue. And if there was anyone who was an authority on the subject of human tissue, it was my Aunt Jabbatha, owing to her having lost most of hers.
As usual, when she deigned to see me at all, I found Aunt Jabbatha floating in her transparent vat in the day parlor, while all manner of supporting devices hissed and gurgled. The gimlet eyes of aunts are not made softer when couched in a disembodied head floating in a very, very large jar, with only a kelplike swirl of spinal cord and branching ganglia washing softly back and forth to keep them company. Downright eerie, some might call it, but we Boosters are made of stern stuff.
“Werner Von Secondstage Booster,” she proclaimed by way of a greeting, “you are a waste of human tissue.”
“Of course, Aunt Jabbatha. I think we established that fact in our earlier interviews. Every single one of them.”
“Don’t talk dribble to me, boy. We have a family emergency. You are being pressed into service.”
There is only one word more frightening to a Booster than those dreadful two syllables, “service,” but in deference to those of tender feelings, I will not disclose that word at present. “But I don’t want to be of service to anybody, Auntie.”
“And you’ve made a splendid start, because you are completely useless.” Her head floated up to the front of the glass and bumped against it like a withered olive in an extremely unappetizing martini. “But that’s about to change. Your cousin, Budgerigar Scallop, is eloping with a young woman of very dubious parentage from some backwater outer rim planet. Her biology militates against her inclusion in this family. You will put a stop to it.”
“But Aunt Jabbatha,” I said, hoping desperately to stall long enough for something on the order of a medium-large meteor strike to cripple civilization yet again and distract her, “how could I possibly do that? Budgie never listens to me. Besides, I’ve been invited to a rather jolly costume ball at the Suborbital Drones Club . . .”
“Hang your costume ball. And hang your cowardly piffle, Wernie, you worm. This is your chance to redeem the dreadful failure that has been your life so far.” She floated higher in the tank so that she was looking down on me, rather like a child’s balloon with the face of a gargoyle. “The shuttle for the HMSS Chinless is leaving tonight from Luton Spaceport. Your cousin and his . . . inamorata will be on board. So will you, because we have booked you a place. You will bring young Scallop back untethered, or you will throw yourself into the nearest star. Actually, no, if you fail, you must still come back and receive your punishment in person.” She frowned. “I may have other plans for you, even if you manage to botch this, as you have botched almost every other small favor I’ve asked you to do.”
Her confidence in me was so inspiring I thought I might as well leave on this high note, and so rose to my feet. But it was not to be!
“You will be accompanied on this voyage by my butler,” she said. “At least then there will be some chance of everyone surviving your involvement. Omnitron, come in.”
What stepped from the shadows then was something like a man, but more like an espresso machine. It had the futuristic gleam that one associates with the hood ornaments of very fast hover cars, and an air of confidence not usually seen in the lower classes, especially the artificial ones.
“Omnitron,” Aunt Jabbatha said, “this is my famously worthless nephew, Werner.”
“Sir.” It tilted its shiny chin ever so slightly toward its shiny chest.
“You will make sure he gets on the shuttle and then onto the Chinless, Omnitron. If he does not fulfill his duties as I have detailed, you have my permission to twist off his ear. Ears are worth little. They can be grown on a saltine cracker these days.”
The robot bowed with a whir of well-oiled gears. “As you wish, Madame.” Then he lifted me up and tucked me under his arm as easily as a padded matron might hoist a small dog dressed in an embarrassing sweater, and carried me out of Aunt Jabbatha’s parlor.
“Try to get things right for once,” she called after me. “Don’t be a weed, boy!”
I wasn’t sure what a weed was—something that used to grow on the planetary surface, I suspect, before the Big Oh Dear—and so my flashing riposte was delayed until after the lift door had closed behind us.
“See here, Omnitron,” I said as I surveyed my cabin. “This will never do. Old Budgie has a stateroom the size of Berkshire, but I seem to have been stowed in one of the laundry room dryers.”
“I admit the room is not large, sir,” said Omnitron, “but it was the best that could be done with a last minute booking—the ship was quite full. All that was available was Third Class.”
The purser, who seemed to have taken against me since my first cry of “Yo ho ho! Where’s my bottle of rum?” as I walked up the gangway, surveyed me with cool disdain. Considering that he had those glowing red cybernetic eyes so many people are wearing these days, it was most unappealing. “Does sir have an objection to the accommodations?” he asked.
“Oh, of course not,” I replied, rapier-like. “Who could jolly well object to a stateroom the size of a face flannel? And where am I supposed to sleep?”
The purser again fixed me with his smoldering gaze. He was a small, thin man, the kind who look as though they only enjoy themselves at funerals. “Ah, but sir misunderstands. There is a bed. It folds down, thus.” He fiddled with something on the wall and let down what I swear was a child’s toy ironing board. It had a teeny tiny blanket, and a pillow that had probably been stolen from a gerbil. “I’m afraid those who wait until the last moment to book passage cannot blame the staff for the lack of choice, sir.”
“No,” I said under my breath, “but I can blame the staff for being unpleasant, abominable, red-eyed swine.”
The purser, who had been about to leave, turned and squinted his glowing cyber eyes at me, which gave rather the impression that a couple of maraschino cherries had leaped out of a Manhattan glass and rolled into a deep ditch. “Beg pardon, sir?”
“My master merely asked for some of that pleasant Andromedan red and white wine,” Omnitron cut in—quite deftly, I thought, for something that looked like a washing machine hammered into the shape of William Gladstone. This Omnitron fellow was nothing to sneeze at. “Mr. Booster likes to drink both sorts at the same time. Thank you for your help.”
“Hmmmph,” said the purser, and went about his business.
“Thank you, Omnitron,” I said. “Considering that you are a robot, you are still a vastly superior human being to that fellow. Did you see him sizing me up? You’d think I had snuck on board in a fishing net.”
“Quite, sir. A bad sort, no doubt. But now I think you had better put on your dress coat and make your way up to the Lido Deck. Your cousin and his friend will be there.”
“No time for a little room service, or a swift nap? That shuttle flight took it out of me, Omnitron. I had the vacuum-hose to my mouth the whole time. Dashed bumpy.”
“I’m afraid not, sir. But I understand your aunt has provided you with the wherewithal for a couple of free drinks.”
“Say no more—it’s Booster into the breach. Lido on, MacDuff.”
The scene on deck was quite cosmopolitan, with not only all manner of Earth quality present, but the wealthy and well-fed from many other colonies and alien cultures as well. In the midst of all those unfamiliar green and blue and occasionally downright startling faces, it took me no small time to locate Cousin Budgie, but at last I spotted his generous silhouette. Budgie is a well-fed sort himself, and his cummerbund bulged like a mainsail in a stiff breeze.
“Hullo, Booster,” he said as I walked cautiously across the antigravity dance floor. “What brings you out here? Didn’t think this was your sort of picnic. Because it costs money and all.”
I scowled as pleasantly as I could at this unneeded reminder of my current financial inconveniences, namely my continued debt-slavery to Aunt Jabbatha and the collection agents of several well-known Fleet Street touts. “Cheers, Budgie, old sprat!” I replied. “And who is this lovely young lady . . .?”
