IGMS Issue 30

  Issue 30 - September 2012

  http://www.InterGalacticMedicineShow.com

  Copyright © 2012 Hatrack River Enterprises

  Table of Contents - Issue 30 - September 2012

  * * *

  Sojourn for Ephah

  by Marina Lostetter

  Dragonslayer

  by Nathaniel Lee

  Write What You Want

  by Eric James Stone

  Constance's Mask

  by Nick T Chan

  The Last God-Killer

  by Grá Linnaea & Dave Raines

  Shaken to the Bone

  by David Lubar

  Flying Children (excerpt from The Gate Thief)

  by Orson Scott Card

  InterGalactic Interview With Stanley Schmidt

  by Darrell Schweitzer

  Sojourn for Ephah

  by Marina J. Lostetter

  Artwork by Eric Wilkerson

  * * *

  I cannot get the Bishop to hear me, and his are the Ears of the Church. The Holy Scrolls were written for an infant race, an infant intelligence. There is another layer to the stories -- a hint at something fundamental about the universe -- but the Church continues to teach them at face-value. I feel a hair's breadth away from it, like the knowledge is under my fingernails and I have only to dig it out.

  -- Personal Journal of Father Aaron, Parish Pastor to Our Lady of the Skies cathedral

  "Come quickly," Brother Landers called to me. "There's -- there's something strange out on the vestibule."

  I flipped the page as he spoke. Private time was scarce, and I often used mine to go over the documents Father Aaron had bequeathed to me. He'd discovered a new -- or, lost -- aspect to our studies, but failed to impart his revelations before passing. The spine of the heavy, leather-bound volume squeaked as I shut it.

  "Some thing?" I asked.

  Brother Landers was given to fits of excitement, making it difficult to distinguish between a summons of real urgency and self-indulgent rushing.

  "A . . . a creature. On the steps. The people -- they're pouring inside to get away from it, Father."

  With an effort I hefted the journal back onto the shelf between my favorite tomes on quantum mechanics and cosmology. "A lion, or a --"

  A clammy hand curled around my wrist. I turned from the shelf and saw sweat on his brow.

  "Father . . . It's like nothing I've ever seen." He made a warding sign. "It has the look of a demon."

  Before he could say another word I ushered him out of my study.

  Making our way as fast as dignity allowed, we marched through the crossing and across the nave. Worshipers trickled through the cathedral's open airlock, fresh off the city streets. Anxious whispers passed between them, and their darting eyes revealed true confusion.

  "There are still more outside, in the square," Landers said. "They fear to mount the steps, even for a chance at sanctuary."

  Six inches of folded steel marked the barrier between our house of worship and its foster city. I lifted the hem of my white deacon's robes as I passed over the threshold.

  The bright mid-day glare from Chandra -- this system's star -- confused my vision for an instant. Even blinded I could tell the atmosphere was strained and unnatural. Though I could sense a crowd of people, all was silent.

  "There, Father. There." Shielding my eyes, I followed his quivering finger to the northern corner of the steps, where the foundation of the landing pad met seamlessly with the docked cathedral.

  If it had stayed still I might have mistaken it for one of the sculptures. It lay curled against the smooth stone steps, a heap of limbs, hiding its face. Sunlight glimmered off its skin in a silver iridescence. A mane of coarse, gray hair cascaded from its crown and shoulders like a great theatrical headdress.

  There was something about the thickness of the limbs and the texture of the skin that was familiar. Very . . . human. Perhaps Landers had jumped to conclusions. It wouldn't be the first time.

  But any doubts about its strangeness were dashed as soon as it stretched one long, thrice-kneed leg. I gasped as it scrambled to curl into itself again.

  "Where did it come from?" I asked.

  Landers shrugged. "No one saw." He twisted the sleeve of my robe. "Shall we alert the authorities? The colony military, perhaps?"

  The people on the square watched us intently, huddled in groups around the statues and transplanted Earth trees. One brave man ascended the steps, using brother Landers and me as a shield.

  "No, they'll find out eventually. Right now we need to get it out of sight before it causes full-on panic."

  There was no question -- this thing wasn't from the colony. Was it from another part of the planet? The records stated only minor native life forms -- mostly single-celled, like in all the other systems -- nothing like this.

  Landers' face twisted in disgust. "You can't mean to bring it inside --"

  "We are all God's children," I reminded him curtly. And where else could I take it? "You need to find Bishop Krier. Let him know what we've found."

  He nodded obediently, then hurried down the steps.

  At first I feared it would act like a cornered animal when I approached. I braced myself for an attack. "Hello there," I said gently, as if to a puppy.

  It quivered, and my heart contracted. It must be afraid.

  I'd seen many new breeds since setting out to serve the colony planets -- forced mutations and strange mongrels. Unique creations of science and industry. But this being seemed unrelated to any of them.

  It did not respond to cooing, but when a man on the square let out an expletive it lifted its head. Its face was like a child's drawing -- it showed a likeness of humanity without being human at all. The proportions were wrong, the movement was wrong. It was both fascinating and off-putting.

  What was an alien entity doing with a human likeness?

  Pausing less than a body-length away, I repeated my lame attempt to communicate. "Hello?"

  "He-low," it said softly, clearly mimicking.

  With a stretch, it turned over and unfurled onto its back, fully exposing itself. Though its legs were unusually long and ended in what looked more like slippers than feet, its arms were very much like mine. And its mass of hair -- flowing like the clumps of decorative grass on the square -- framed a similarly heart-shaped face.

  I could handle its odd extremities and the grotesque simplicity of its features, but its countenance sent a cold shiver up my spine. Black eyes glinted beneath its coarse brows, and they shone with a deep-seated intelligence. Noticing that, I took a step back. Its gaze fixed on me, tracking every twitch I made.

  My entire body tensed with excitement. The sudden feeling that I'd come face to face with a universal secret unnerved me, and I fought the urge to flee from the overwhelming emotion. Was this . . . first contact?

  My heel slipped another inch in reverse, but I caught myself. I would not let the flock see me cower. The people looked to me for reassurance. If I lost control we'd have chaos.

  Teetering dangerously, the creature rose fully erect, a head above myself. Several people in the crowd cried out.

  At its chest were two large swells, like a woman's breasts covered in a fine sheath, and the junction between its legs was round and smooth. But the creature was clearly naked. It looked incomplete, with only hints of anatomical correctness, like a doll.

  Its lack of genitalia was somehow more shocking than if a harem of naked women had stood before me. Forgetting my fear and its strangeness, ashamed for it, I rushed forward to cover it with my robes.

  No strike came, and it did not shy away. It let me wrap the cloth around it without gesture or expression.

  Thinking to lead it, I grabbed its forearm. The flesh was clammy and tore easily in my gr
asp, like the cooked skin of a fish. Its arm split wide from the inside of its wrist to elbow, exposing what should have been a great gash through muscle, right down to the bone. Instead, it was all the same. The inside of the arm was made of the same substance as the exterior. It did not bleed or ooze, and the creature appeared un-pained.

  I let go quickly, and the alien covered its wound. I wanted to apologize, to fix whatever I'd just done, but the words never formed in my brain.

  "Come," I eventually said.

  Together, sheltered by my robes, we strode through the airlock and into the cathedral.

  Cries of, "Dear God," were uttered by worshipers and clergy alike. The creature nuzzled its face into the crook of my neck. As we passed by, people fell to their knees in prayer.

  I took it back to my study, unsure of what else to do. It looked too much like a person to treat it as an animal, and yet its foreignness was too unsettling to ignore.

  My robes slipped away from its gray skin as I moved to offer it a seat. When I turned back it had already made itself comfortable on the floor.

  Its mannerisms were unassuming, innocent. And not like an it at all.

  Instinctually, I knew it was a she.

  With her hand -- which was more like a mitt -- she began tracing patterns on the hardwood floor.

  I thought first to attend to her injury, but there was already little sign of it. The flesh -- or whatever it was -- must have ripped cleanly.

  Folding white fabric across my lap, I took the red leather chair I'd retrieved for her.

  "What are you?" I asked.

  She looked up, and those dark eyes narrowed. She was deciphering things, learning, calculating. "Arrr . . . oooo?" she said.

  "You are not native to this place," I thought out loud. "But, if you are not of this world, how did you arrive on my steps?" No one saw anything, if Landers was to be believed. But, people -- or beings -- don't appear out of thin air. "Where did you come from? What planet? Do you know?"

  Suddenly she stood, approached my bookshelf, and pulled down Father Aaron's journal.

  I was on my feet in an instant. "No -- no."

  The volume was too heavy for her, and it fell to the floor. It landed on her foot with a disheartening squelch, but again she remained unmoved.

  She didn't act as I'd expect an interstellar traveler to act. Her body seemed detached from her mind, and I could sense her intellect, but also an extreme naiveté. This was no explorer before me, no scientist or conqueror.

  She behaved like a fledgling out of its nest for the first time.

  I had an infant on my hands. But an infant what?

  She wiggled her mashed foot free, then set to work on the book, leafing through, never looking at the text, always at me.

  When she'd laid hands on every page, she spoke. "Are you Aaron?"

  I didn't answer right away. She couldn't be mimicking; I hadn't mentioned Father Aaron. "No. I'm Thomas."

  "In here, Aaron mentions a maker of man. Are you a man?" Her intelligence had grown keener over the last few minutes.

  "Of course."

  She nodded thoughtfully, seemingly pleased with the answer. "Can you introduce me to your creator?"

  "It's called prayer," I said, out in the nave. Father Timen was about to read from the Holy Scrolls, but first everyone had to approach the Lord. "With it, we speak to our creator. We thank Him for all He has done for us."

  We stood at the back of the pews, mercifully unnoticed. I'd given her a black velvet cloak, like those the Sisters who buried the dead wore. It was risky to take her out amongst the people, but I was excited by her miraculous grasp of our language. What learned man could resist acting as first ambassador to a new intelligence? She wanted to learn, and I had the desire to teach.

  In my memory I'd never seen the cathedral so full. Every worshiper sat with eyes screwed shut, neck bent, and hands clasped as though they meant to wring blood from their palms. I spared a glance for Ephah -- that's what the alien had asked to be called -- but her attention was fixed on the crowd.

  Though no one spoke their prayers aloud, it was obvious what they were asking of God: Spare us from the creature.

  But she was not something to be feared. Studied, perhaps. Nurtured, for sure.

  "It is appropriate to thank your maker for His work?"

  "If one truly believes, it is required."

  "I see." She brought her hand to her mouth, pensive, and I noticed it was no longer mitt-like. In place of the round stump were long, elegant fingers -- tipped, even, with sharp nails.

  It wasn't just her speech that was rapidly evolving. Her body was morphing, growing, becoming more defined.

  It reaffirmed my suspicion: she was new. "Where did you --"

  With careful strides, like a practiced skater taking to the ice, she moved away from me, towards the pulpit. Worried she'd spook the congregation, I pulled at her cloak, but she let it fall. The memory of her split skin kept me from reaching for her arm.

  Father Timen continued with his service, his attention firmly on the Scrolls.

  "Ephah!" My hoarse entreaty sounded loud, but she either didn't hear or simply ignored me.

  There was something unusual about her gate -- she moved as if unattached to her surroundings. Yes, there! Her feet weren't even touching the floor. She rose further, and I could see her soles reflected in the polished marble.

  I faltered, unsure of what to do, and my inaction cost me the room. There was a shout, a collective gasp, and then a wave of people climbed up and over the pews. Several benches toppled, and successive smacks rang out when cherry wood met marble. The congregation swirled in a mass of pushing and shoving. Children had their mother's hands ripped away in the sudden frenzy. Someone sobbed.

  "Stop," I held my hands out to the crowd. "Please, she won't hurt you." It sounded ridiculous, even to me. Here was something so foreign we had no explanation for it. Yet I was treating her like any other lost soul who'd stumbled upon my doorstep. I didn't know what else to do, how else to react. I'd been trained to preach the word of God and to turn no one away -- not the deformed, not the disabled, not the simple, and not the criminal. Everyone deserved to receive the love of God, even she.

  My words went unheeded. The people brushed past me as though I were just another tapestry dangling from the ceiling. A man fell to the floor and his hand was crushed by a heavy boot. I hurried to his aid, afraid the crowd would trample him.

  And all the while, Ephah continued to rise into the air. She lifted her arms towards the intricate designs on the domed ceiling and threw back her head. Her long mane floated free, as though gravity had no power over her. A low harmony seeped from her lips, and she spoke unearthly words.

  "Thomas!"

  I whirled at my name and was met by the bulging, red face of Bishop Krier.

  "What have you done, Thomas?" His wide-eyed gaze shone with fury. "You've brought a demon amongst us!"

  Landers huddled behind the Bishop, his mouth hanging open like a fly trap. He looked paler than before. I feared he'd faint.

  "She's not . . . She's not . . ." But how could I explain? Bishop Krier was not like Father Aaron and me. He did not think critically, analytically, or scientifically. He couldn't see the remarkable being, the fantastic find. All his beady eyes perceived was the unusual, which he translated as unnatural. She'd done nothing demon-like since Landers had found her, except --

  "It's speaking in tongues!" Krier said, spraying me with spittle. "How dare you put this house in danger? How dare you put these souls in danger?" He made a warding sign. "The authorities are on their way, but they'll be useless against a servant of the Evil One. Landers, Timen! Bring me nectar from the Holy Flower, we must cleanse the cathedral."

  Grabbing my collar, he pulled me close. I could smell the inner-city on him. He'd been out at the tea houses preaching to the business men. "You had better hope we can contain it, cast it out -- if it defiles even one mind, I'll not only have its influence excised from you, I'll have
your influence excised from the Church."

  He cast me aside with a shove, then hurried to the airlock. Once the last person had fled, he shoved his shoulder into the heavy door. It closed with an ominous thunk. "No one goes in or out until we've rid ourselves of this infestation."

  Landers returned with a bottle of nectar. "But, sir, the colony police --"

  "They'll wait 'til we're through."

  "Sir, she's not a demon!" I protested. Though, of course, I had no proof. Only my instincts.

  The Bishop snatched the bottle from Landers. "Then, pray tell, what is it?"

  Just then, Ephah's muttering ceased and gravity became her master again.

  The others froze, so I ran to her. She needed protecting.

  I wrapped her in my arms and noticed immediately that she'd changed again. Her skin was pinker, though still mostly gray, and her face no longer looked a caricature. There was more detail on every part of her -- fine hair grew on her arms, and her strange breasts had tiny, budding nipples. A splattering of dark freckles covered her nose and cheeks.

  And I made another observation: her chest did not rise and fall against mine. She did not breathe.

  "What were you doing?" I asked, then stole a glance at the Bishop. What if she didn't give a child-like answer like I expected? What if the others were right? Did they see something I didn't? Had I been tricked? Wouldn't the Evil One disguise his servants and give them powers to disarm?

  "I was praying." She perceived the worry on my face. "Was that not the proper thing to do? They were thanking their creator," she gestured at the empty, upturned pews, "so I thanked mine."

  "They are one in the same, creature," the Bishop said.

  Then she laughed, and it reminded me of tinkling wind chimes. "I did not create them." She skipped back, out of my arms. "I have not created anything besides myself. Not yet."

  "The blasphemy!" Krier raged behind his desk.

  I had no retort. How could I profess her an innocent being when she claimed to be a god?