“Things were better around here before Athebaxis the Lizard God popped in and enslaved us all, forcing us to mine deep underground for his dirty rocks,” said the boy.
“That seems like a reasonable conclusion,” I replied.
“Pitchblende! Who uses pitchblende for anything?”
“Pitchblende has its uses.”
The boy screwed up his face at me over his dented pint mug. Unlined pewter, I noted. “You an alchemist, guv?
“Of a sort.”
“Huh.” The boy took another swig of beer. I tried to hide my wince. “The Lord Marshal told Athebaxis that the silver mines dried up a long time ago. Thought he would turn his yellow-eyed gaze elsewhere. But no, the Lizard God told us to dig up the black crumbly stuff my Pa’d been trying to dig around for years, bless his spirit.” The boy made the sign of the Great Ash upon his chest, thumb and pinkie to opposite shoulders. I saw the gleam of a plain steel ring on his little finger, a common badge of the mining trade in local iconography. I took note of it; any little detail might be important. “Makes no fecking sense, it doesn’t.”
“The Lizard God’s ways are not your ways.”
“Ain’t that the truth. He’s having us dismantle all the old shrines so we can raise icons to him instead. Such times we live in.”
“Surely someone among you might have the courage to stand against him.”
The boy made a disgusted noise. “We’re just normal folk here, sir. Sure, we all do our part when we raise a militia, but this isn’t something a militia can handle. This is the Lizard God. He’s possessed of otherworldly powers.”
“That’s admittedly true,” I said, without proper forethought. Mistake. The boy’s heavy eyebrows bunched as he peered at me.
“What do you know about the Lizard God?”
“No more than any of you,” I said. “Do you have any birthmarks?”
“…what?”
“Port wine-stains. Aberrant hairs. Interesting moles that have been with you since birth. Anything like that?”
“Why in heaven’s name do you want to know that?”
“I think you may be more important than you believe, boy. I am a student of many old tales and prophecies, and I was led to this spot following a particular celestial alignment. ‘Why here?’ was my first instinct. ‘This tiny village? Surely nothing important could come from such a place.'”
“Sounds like your first instinct had a lot going for it.”
“Ah, but that’s just it! Beautiful and special things can come from humble places, don’t you agree?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but in my experience, beautiful and special things come from beautiful and special places. Shit towns beget shit.”
I reached into my cloak and removed a small object, placing it upon the pocked and uneven wood of the bar. It twinkled in the dim pub light.
“Quite a trinket you have there,” said the boy. “What is it?”
“It’s a silver framework surrounding a collection of polished opals,” I said.
“Yes, but what’s it for?” He frowned again. “Is it some sort of religious icon?”
“The opals are to look pretty. The silver framework is to hold the opals in.”
“I don’t get it.”
“That’s amazing. Have you literally never seen an object with no function?” I waved a hand, absently. “It looks pretty. It has no function and represents nothing. But the silver of this cage came from the mine this very town sits above. Based on its date of manufacture, this silver was probably dug up by your grandfather. Or one of your grandfather’s friends down in the mine. I’m afraid my knowledge of this item’s provenance is not quite that specific. Point is, it’s an item you’d never expect would come from this little shit town. Am I right?”
“I suppose not.”
“Right, so back to my question. We’ve metaphorically established that anyone from anywhere can be special. So, I need you to tell me what makes you special. What about you is unique to this town? What can you do that absolutely no one else can do?”
“I’m not following.”
I glanced toward my wrist before catching myself. “Ever climbed the tallest tree in the border forest? Dove deeper into a quarry lake than anyone you know?”
“No, sir.”
“Chopped through an unresolvable knot? Pulled a sword out of a stone? Those are popular choices.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Anything? Ever won a pie-eating competition?”
“What are those?”
“Someone bakes a whole huge mass of pies, and you have a bunch of people eat them all, and whoever eats the most pies wins.”
“Are they starving?”
“No!”
“Okay, but then,” said the boy, “wouldn’t it be a terrible waste of pie?”
“I’m not—how do I say this? I’m not here to debate the ethics of competitive eating with you. I’m just trying to find the one thing that you can do that no one else can.”
The boy lodged himself in thought like a splinter lodging into a wound. “There is this thing,” he said.
“Yes?”
The boy stood away from the bar, clasped his hands behind his back, and extended his arms downward far enough that his elbows touched each other at the level of his lower back.
“So that’s it then?”
“You wanted special, you got it. Some of the boys try and get the girls to do it because it makes their chests all stick out when they try. Turns out I can actually do it, though.”
“That looked like it hurt.”
He shrugged. “Not bad. Pops the joints a little sometimes.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s about it. Like I said, you want beautiful and special, you don’t come here.”
“Acknowledged,” I said. “Well, this has been exceptionally interesting. For your trouble and for indulging me, let me pay for your drink.” I unlocked the little cage of opals and tossed him one. He caught it, mid-air, which was a good sign. Reflexes are always important for someone in his position.
“Isn’t exactly legal tender,” he said, eyeing it. “How much is it worth?”
“However much you can get for it,” I said. “Find someone who likes beautiful and special things.”
Before he could reply, I breezed out of the pub and headed out into the border forest. Once sufficiently obscured by vegetation, I knocked a couple times on a tree trunk large enough to permit the passage of my body, and in a flash, I was back aboard the Chronotopic Operations Base.
“Touching his elbows behind his back!” I exclaimed, tossing the cloak away. “That’s what passes for distinguishing characteristics around here!”
“How are you planning on composing a rhyme that works with that?” asked Phinea, looking up from her eternal messing with the calibration of the matter reactor.
“I’m not planning on doing any such thing,” I said, throwing myself on the more comfortable of the two major control couches. “That, Phinea, is going to fall to you. You owe me for making me be the Mysterious Stranger all the time.”
“You’re good at it.”
“Good or not, I’m always shouldering it.”
“Bren, we’ve been over this. Female prophetesses in this culture are only credible when ensconced in an established social structure. What do you think it’d look like to these people if I wandered into town unaccompanied?”
“Whatever. Just don’t start internalizing these people’s barbaric and hidebound gender roles.” I kicked off the rough leather boots. “And also, go make me a sandwich or something.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
I grunted. “They’re knocking down some old shrines in the neighborhood soon. Once we’ve got a rhyme worked out we can just laser-cut it into a titanium sheet and stick it between some bricks back when they were first being built. I suppose the Mysterious Stranger will be responsible for that as well?”
“You want me to hobnob as equals with ancient stonemasons? Yeah, that’ll go well.”
“Don’t know why I even take the boots off. Then it’s on to the next poor schlub. Possibly an exhausted gold-mining town this time.” I emptied my supply of opals into my open palm and tossed the silver cage into the recycler. “I need to ask the fabricators to make me an antique-looking gold box or something. The ‘silver cage with a possible connection to your father’ idea tested pretty well with number seven here. Let’s see how number eight feels about it.”
“If we even do a number eight,” muttered Phinea.
“Oh, we’re doing eight. Possibly nine, if I’m feeling saucy.”
Ominous silence flowed out from the matter reactor control station. I turned to look. “What?”
Phinea took a deep breath, made a motion like she was going to say something, thought better of it, stopped, then recanted her recanting and went ahead with it. “Maybe we’ve sacrificed enough bright-eyed young lads to Athebaxis, do you think?”
“Each new bright-eyed lad increases our chances of taking him down.”
“But—”
“But nothing. They’re drinking out of raw lead pewter and mining raw uranium ore. None of these people will reach fifty. Might as well give them a thrilling exit rather than a slow, painful death via cancer and heavy metal poisoning. Most people go through their entire lives believing they’re nothing special. These kids get to think they’re the Hero The Old Legends Spoke Of for a few weeks. One of them has to succeed; whoever it is gets to come back home a big, shiny hero. The rest get a blaze of glory I would have killed for when I was their age. I’m doing these kids a kindness, Phinea!”
Then I softened my tone. “I’m doing my best, here. I didn’t choose this line of work. There are plenty of space heroes out there to choose from. I have no idea why the ancient intergalactic prophecy fingered me specifically. I’m not beautiful. I’m not special. I’m just an ordinary schlub with access to a time machine, and I’m trying to do what I can with what I have.”
“Ever wonder who wrote the ancient intergalactic prophecy in the first place?”
“Is it going to turn out that it’s me from the far distant future? Is that what you’re asking? Setting myself on this course?” I shrugged. “I suppose it could be. Does it matter? Athebaxis is an asshole. Somebody has to get rid of him.”
“Does this whole process make you feel like a big, shiny hero?”
“Kinda does,” I admitted. “If this really is Future Me doing this to us, he sure knows how to push my buttons.”
“You’re a little horrible,” said Phinea.
“I know,” I said. “Now come on. Let’s make some more heroes.”
Most excellent!
Thanks so much!
This is good, but I agree with your post about “salable status”. You should send some of these to magazines instead of publishing them here. (That’s pretty much all you can do with SFF short stories, I think–there’s no point trying to publish a collection of them until you’re a recognized name.)
Yeah, that was the plan, which is why I quit a monthly posting schedule here–I felt like it was rendering some hard work on my part immediately unable to be published right out of the gate.
Thanks for the feedback!