IGMS Issue 33 Read online

  A week later a group of beings from a parallel universe showed up. They looked a lot like the alien grays on TV, if alien grays had fins and gills. I stared, perhaps beyond the point of politeness. Visitors from a parallel universe were a rare sight indeed, even in an establishment such as ours.

  "We seek the services of your underwater god," said the leader of the group.

  "What kind of services?" I just had to know.

  "We are aquatic beings," said the leader, whom I mentally dubbed Nemo. "Our waters have recently become infested with sea serpents. Being that we are pacifists, we can't handle thiscalamity on our own. But it is well known that the Deep Ones are the ocean's natural predators. We wish to awaken Cthulhu and release it into the wild, so it can eat all the sea serpents."

  I had my reservations about this plan, and about what Cthulhu might do to Nemo's people once it ran out of sea serpents. But at least they weren't planning to awaken Cthulhu in this universe. That was a big plus.

  "How much can you pay?"

  The aliens huddled.

  "In addition to being pacifists," said Nemo, "we're also a moneyless society. We don't mine, or fish, or produce artwork. We live in harmony with nature and eat algae. I'm afraid we possess nothing you would find of value. However," he added brightly, "we don't want to buy your god. We only want to borrow it. We'll be happy to return it to you, in perfect condition, after it feeds."

  I frowned. The idea of getting Cthulhu back, awake and nourished, wasn't appealing.

  "You'd be helping to save an entire civilization," said Nemo. "Surely the concept of compassion exists in this universe?"

  I felt bad for the naïve pacifists, but I was also fairly certain that I wouldn't be doing them any favors by unleashing Cthulhu on a society that couldn't even cope with a few sea serpents. Also, I was running a business, not an Interdimensional Wetlands Conservation Society.

  I told Nemo that I'd think about it, and ushered him and his friends out of the shop.

  "No one is going to give you any money," Grandma called out from the stock room once the door closed behind them. "But I'm sure you can find plenty of folks who'd be willing to take it off your hands for free."

  I gritted my teeth and went back to sorting and labeling the rack of love potions. Thanks to that song we were perpetually sold out of Number Nine. Despite the fact that, from what I heard, it tasted like troll vomit.

  Nearly two weeks had passed and I was beginning to worry, when another interested party arrived. This time it was a tall, lean man who wore a mantle decorated with a lion's mane draped over his shoulder. He seemed unperturbed by the balmy August weather outside. His broad chest was adorned with several rows of teeth hanging on strings from around his neck. I could've sworn a few of the teeth were human, but I'm no dentist. A long sword dangled off his belt.

  "I'm Sir Barnabas, the Grand Knight of the Order of Saint George," he announced, more loudly than was absolutely necessary.

  "Welcome," said Grandma. Sir Barnabas' bulging muscles and deep baritone summoned her from the back as if by magic. "I'm Heide. And that's my granddaughter Sylvia. She's single."

  "Madame." Sir Barnabas bent down to kiss Grandma's hand. "My lady," he gallantly bowed to me next. I could swear that I heard Grandma swoon.

  "On behalf of the Order of Saint George, I seek the monster Cthulhu that is said to be in your possession. Will you aid me in my quest?"

  "Is your quest dedicated to any Lady?" asked Grandma.

  "What do you want it for?" I asked before Grandma could get up to any of her matchmaking.

  "We're the Order of Saint George," said Barnabas. "Isn't it obvious?"

  "Humor me."

  "We hunt and slay dragons."

  "Dragons are extinct," said Grandma.

  "You're welcome!" said Barnabas. "We shall hunt this Cthulhu and kill it, too. It will be glorious. Songs will be composed about . . ."

  "Cthulhu isn't a dragon," I interrupted.

  "Strictly speaking, you're right," said Barnabas. "But it's got scales and wings, and it's a vile beast. That's as close as we can hope for, these days."

  "I see." The idea of a bunch of knights trying to defeat an elder god by poking spears at it was amusing, but only until I remembered that I shared the same planet with them. And that those spears would probably make Cthulhu mad. Madder. "What is your order prepared to pay for the privilege?"

  "The Knights of St. George take a vow of poverty. But your assistance in this quest shall be immortalized in the annals of our order. That's better than mere money."

  Grandma frowned. "Poverty is the stupidest vow a knight could take. However is one supposed to come up with a proper dowry then?"

  For an excruciating fifteen minutes, Sir Barnabas kept trying to convince us to hand over Cthulhu to him, gratis. I promised to consider it, just to get him out the door.

  "Told you no one will pay money for this thing," Grandma said, checking out the knight's posterior as he walked down the street.

  She was wrong.

  Two days before Cthulhu officially became the property of the shop, the next and final potential customer had arrived. It was a nondescript middle-aged man of medium height wearing a dark blue suit, the sort of person you would never look at twice in a crowd. The only distinguishing characteristic about him was an aluminum attaché case, which he plunked onto the counter in front of me.

  "I'd like one Cthulhu, please," he said as he opened the case. It was full of money.

  Grandma appeared out of nowhere again. The only thing capable of summoning her faster than a set of perfect pecs was a briefcase full of cash.

  "It's a deal," she said. "But you'll have to come back on Wednesday. The original owner has until then to claim his property. Rules and regulations, you understand."

  "I'm from the government, ma'am. I assure you that you won't get into any trouble for handing over the creature a few days early."

  "What do you want with it?" I didn't trust the government. Who does? "Is it the whole 'why settle for a lesser evil' thing? But the elections aren't for another two years."

  "Very funny," he said, but his tone and eyes did not agree. "My department is charged with destroying dangerous items and beings, before they get the chance to break free and bite everyone in the ass. Your operation is always on our radar." He turned to Grandma. "You should make things easy for yourself and take the money. I could've just as easily classified Cthulhu as a weapon of mass destruction and confiscated it with no compensation for you at all."

  Grandma stood up straighter and glared at the government agent, fire in her eyes. "No. You couldn't have. This is an ancient place of power, and there are wards and protections layered upon it by a hundred generations of my ancestors. It is much too tough a nut for the likes of you to crack."

  "Go." Grandma pointed at the front door. "I don't appreciate being threatened in my own establishment. Come back in two days' time and we will think about accepting your offer."

  Without another word, he went.

  On Wednesday, Grandma and I were awakened well before business hours by the loud noises coming from the street. Both of us got dressed and came down to the shop to investigate. Outside, there was pandemonium.

  Hundreds of the Deep Ones' worshippers faced off against an equally impressive force of soldiers who had a pair of helicopters and a tank. In the middle of the street, a dozen knights stood shoulder to shoulder and sneered at anyone who came too close. And all around, small clusters of gray-skinned, gilled aliens milled about, getting underfoot of everyone else.

  "This is madness," I said. "They're going to begin killing each other any minute now."

  "I knew this Cthulhu was nothing but trouble," said Grandma. "I've half a mind to let them fight it out." But I knew she didn't mean it.

  We were perfectly safe inside. The shop is protected by a collection of charms, spells, and enchantments laboriously assembled by the family over the centuries. An intruder would have an easier time getting into Buckin
gham Palace or the White House.

  But that didn't stop them from brawling with each other in the street. And, Grandma's offhand comment aside, we couldn't let that happen.

  "I know you like to do things the traditional way," I told Grandma, "but I'm responsible for causing this mess, and I have to set things straight. This situation calls for a forward-thinking, unorthodox approach. Will you please trust me to handle it?"

  Grandma hesitated for only the briefest of moments, then smiled at me and nodded. I unlocked the shop's front door and stepped outside.

  A few minutes later I had gathered the leaders of each group inside the shop. Keldmo, Sir Barnabas, Nemo, and the agent whose name - unsurprisingly - turned out to be Smith scowled at each other. The tension was so thick you probably couldn't cut it with Sir Barnabas' sword.

  "I can resolve the issue at hand to everyone's satisfaction," I said. The four of them paid close attention.

  "Sir Barnabas, meet the interdimensional alien. His world is suffering from a terrible sea serpent infestation."

  "Oh?" The knight was practically salivating at the thought of hunting sea serpents.

  "Would you agree that sea serpents are phylogenetically much closer to dragons than a dead elder god?"

  "Most assuredly, my lady," said Sir Barnabas.

  "Will you undertake the noble quest of hunting them down and, in exchange, abandon any future claim on stalking the Cthulhu?"

  "Gladly, my lady." He pumped an oversized fist on the breast plate over his heart.

  I addressed Nemo: "And will you accept the help of the knights and give up on the foolish idea of releasing an even more dangerous predator into your eco-system?"

  "They seem bloodthirsty enough," said Nemo, "and yet honorable. It appears to be a great solution."

  The two left the shop to break the news to their people. They were already discussing logistics, munitions, and the songs to be composed in the knights' honor.

  "Well, that was the easy part," I turned my attention to the remaining parties.

  "I won't let a dangerous creature fall into the hands of a cult," said Smith.

  "I won't let them murder my god," said Keldmo.

  "You can't stop me. I have the entire military at my disposal."

  "My disciples are everywhere. If you dare to harm a single tentacle on our god's head, they will exact a bloody revenge. My people are willing to kill and die for me." Keldmo sighed. "Well some of them, anyway."

  "No dying. No killing. I already told you, I have a solution. Wait here," I dashed for the stock room.

  I returned with a large silver plate under my arm.

  "Keldmo, you told me that you don't want to wake up Cthulhu, you just need an impression of him to rally your followers."

  Keldmo looked at me, waiting to see where this was going, but made no protest.

  "This is an enchanted plate, part of a matching set. It will display an exact replica of whatever item is placed on the other plate, for as long as it remains there." I tapped the side of the plate gently and the pyramid pocket dimension appeared on it. I offered the plate to Keldmo, who grabbed for it greedily. "You can see it, touch it, and verify that it's safe and sound on the other plate, which is at the back of our shop. Just don't remove the replica from the plate's surface or you'll break the spell."

  "As for you," I turned to Smith, "killing Cthulhu isn't an option. You don't need the trouble with Keldmo's followers, and I seriously doubt you could kill it anyway. So instead, I will offer our shop's services to store it for you permanently." Smith looked dubious, but I pressed on. "There are few locations in the entire world more secure than our shop. You know this, or you would have come in guns blazing, trying to take Cthulhu by force. No one will get at it here, and anyone who might want to try will believe that Keldmo's people have it anyway. Keldmo will make sure of that, won't he?"

  Keldmo nodded, with a huge grin on his meaty face. Smith thought about this and finally nodded, too.

  "We will, of course, require payment for our services. That bag of money will cover rent for the first hundred years. Our descendants can renegotiate after that."

  Smith mulled this over a while longer, but he could find no obvious flaw in my plan.

  Several hours later the contracts were drawn up (in triplicate - that's how the government rolls) and signed, and everyone finally left. The briefcase full of money sat in the office next to the silver plate housing Cthulhu. Smith wanted the case back, but Grandma got peevish at the last moment and insisted we keep it as part of the deal. She must've been still punishing Smith for his bullying earlier.

  "Did you like how I managed to make everyone happy and sell a silver plate for a giant wad of money in the process?" I did good, and deserved a chance to brag. "And we even get to keep Cthulhu. Governments and cults come and go, and who knows what it will be worth a few generations down the line? And are you convinced I'm ready to take over the shop now?"

  "Not yet," said Grandma. "If only you didn't pick up this beastie in the first place, we could've avoided all this nonsense altogether."

  I frowned, but didn't argue. Expecting too much and complaining regardless of outcome is the prerogative of family.

  "Not yet," Grandma said again, "but you're getting closer."

  I came over and hugged her. She pursed her lips, but in her eyes I caught a hint of a smile.

  Thirteen Words

  by J. Deery Wray

  Artwork by Nicole Cardiff

  * * *

  When I first saw Mr. Evans, he didn't look any different from my regular patients. If it weren't for the restraints at his wrists and ankles, I would have questioned Nurse Eileen's insistence on personally walking me through his medical chart. But cymbies don't need restraints.

  "He's not a cymbie, Nurse Sophia," Eileen said. "He'll wake soon. You'll see it then. He still remembers how to use his tongue. Only knows about ten words, but he does love to say them. He'll fight you every chance he gets. I've had to spoon feed him for the last ten years because they won't let me put him on an IV feed. But that's your problem now."

  And it was.

  "Forty, clover, key," Mr. Evans shouted.

  I wiped the spittle from his chin. He jerked away from my touch which still surprised me, but in a good way. A patient responding to stimuli shouldn't seem strange, but I'd worked with nothing but cymbie patients for so long; six weeks wasn't enough time for the novelty to wear off.

  "Happy, harmonica."

  "Happy harmonica," I replied.

  The words were an even greater novelty. He'd say "glass" next, then "tar," "box," "house,","weapon," "orange," "barrier," and "forgive." Nurse Eileen had been wrong. He knew thirteen words. They'd become a litany I repeated to myself as I tended to my cymbies.

  "Glass, tar."

  I couldn't help but smile. Tending to Mr. Evans had become the highlight of my day. Sure, he wasn't getting any better, but he also wasn't getting any worse. And I could accept that. It was harder to accept that cymbies just get worse.

  "Box, house."

  Like everyone else I knew, I followed the cymbid research, or rather the lack of it. In the early days, I'd been too young to understand the pull of it. I just saw my father smile more when the newscasts spoke of a bright new line of inquiry, less when the studies failed to pan out, then more again at the appearance of a new possibility. But as I grew older, as all the treatments and herbicides proved futile, I came to dread those newscasts. I watched them because I had to hope, but what I felt when I watched them was fear.

  "Weapon, orange, barrier," Mr. Evans spat out.

  No matter how much we struggled to find answers, the cymbies never struggled. The end came sooner for them, and the rest of us . . . How long before we're all infected? But no, it was no more useful to think of the end of humanity than it was to think of the research lost back on C-day. If there'd ever been any research.

  "Forgive, fort--"

  An unending beep sounded as Mr. Evans' heart stopped.
>
  "He has a few days, maybe a week at best," Dr. Reyes said.

  I frowned, but said nothing. If only I could feel nothing. The doctor replaced the chart at the foot of the bed and left the room.

  "House, weapon," Mr. Evans said.

  His voice was raspy now, but still he spoke the words. I wanted to assign meaning to them, especially now, but I'd studied his chart in depth and hadn't been able to. It contained little information about his past, just a street address in the old city. No mention of family. Not surprising, considering the timing. He'd suffered a traumatic brain injury twenty years past, on the fifth of August. The same day as the accident at Cymbid Corporation's La Jolla Research and Development Center.

  I didn't like to think about C-day. So instead I wiped the spittle from his mouth, and felt helpless.

  I pulled on my biohazard suit after work, and headed for the elevator. I'd made a note on Mr. Evans' chart that I wanted to be notified if he coded again or died. It seemed the least I could do, for him and for me. I knew what it was like to have no one to list under next-of-kin, and I didn't fancy returning to work only to find his room empty. Not without some warning.

  When I reached surface level, I switched to my portable air source, double-checking the gas pressure in my tanks before I passed through the last check point and stepped outside.

  As I waited for the shore boat, I scanned the sky. A few green clouds lurked in the distance, enough to make me nervous. I adjusted the flow on my regulator to make breathing a bit easier, even though the price of clean air had been climbing recently.

  One good thing about working in New San Diego and living in one of the original shelters in the old city: I made enough money to buy as much air as I needed. I hadn't breathed unfiltered surface air since I was five and didn't plan on taking the risk. I'd spent too many hours each day with people who had. A single cymbid seed sufficed. It took root in the lungs, then entered the blood where it hitched a ride up to the brain. And that was it; bye-bye consciousness.