Gothamite

Gothamite
by
Bobby Derie

The sun never shone in this room, and the candles trembled against the darkness. It was a place where the light died. The technician stood before the throne of wood and iron, staring at her charge. Lashes tied to screws held the prisoner to the seat, forcing his limbs and back and buttocks down upon the iron spikes. In the flickering candlelight, he chuckled quietly at some private joke.

With practiced care, she loosed his bonds, her face a mask that barely concealed the tumult within. At last, she tilted the chair violent forward, so that he fell out with a cacaphony of wet schlucks to bleed quietly on the floor.

"Teufel! How can you side with the enemies of humanity? How can you betray your own kind?" She shouted at him, spittle falling into the blood oozing from his cold face.

"Oh, my dear. Have you not been paying attention? This is who we are. This is what we do. Just as in the moments of greatest harshness and struggle, when we band together and pool all our strength and sacrifice just so a few will survive...there is a flipside to that coin, a darkness in the human soul. A rabid, animal creature that will submit to anything, join any side, stoop to any desacration, welcome any degradation...just to survive. It is our way."

Then he stood, with all the dignity of a serpent that remembered what it was like before it crawled, and looked her in the eye. "Vent your spleen at me as you will. In the end there is no nobility in this. Just...different means to the same end."

She opened the door then, and he staggered forwards. A nurse waited there, in his plain white gown, with bandages and ointments. The technician followed, on hand on the heavy wrench at her belt, closing the door behind them. With slight groans the tortured man lay face down upon the table, and the nurse set about with wads of cotton and lengths of linen, and liberal application of clear alcohol that wrung stings and grasps.

"You could spare some of that," he mumbled from the table.

"Against the rules," the nurse said, as he wadded more bloody cotton into one of the holes, "you're to feel the pain."

In time the nurse's work was done, and they stood as the melting candles marked the hour.

"Shall I tell you a story, while we wait?" came the voice from the table. Neither nurse nor technician  replied, but he carried on anyway.

"In fair Gotham, one morning, an alien took the subway. Anyone who saw him knew he was a giant tick - the green chitin fading to brown, the click of its mouth-parts as it chittered a little to itself - but no-one said anything. Because this tick smelled slightly of soap and citrus, its chitin shiny and clean, and it was dressed in a light gray suit that was obviously second-hand, grasping in one claw a cheap briefcase, shiny and new. That was enough for them, you see. It was none of their business, but any of them could see that it was new in the city, either looking for a job or out for its first day - and that was enough. It took its seat and kept its elbows and knees to itself. It didn't swear or play loud music. Truly, you couldn't ask for much more in a fellow commuter. A fellow...Gothamite."

His laughter echoed in the chamber, and all the nurse and technician could do was watch the candle...and wait.

###

Correctional Credits

Correctional Credits
by
Bobby Derie

"...remanded to the Joliet Correctional Facility, where you will be detained until you satisfactorily complete 24 correctional credit hours, in particular no less than 6 hours of drug & alcohol addiction therapy."
- Judge Wallace Grimes, Illinois Appellate Court

"Welcome to Joliet. Here, you will be provided a regimented study environment to pursue your correctional credits. Contact with the outside world will be limited."
- Warden Edwin S. Smithers, Joliet Correctional Facility

"Hi! I'm Janine, your Correctional Education Adviser. We operate on six-month semesters here at Joliet, in accordance with the Department of Corrections National Educational Schedule. All inmates are required to take certain core courses in Civics, Physical Education, and Life Management, which accounts for six credit hours per semester. In addition to this, there are a number of elective courses which you can sign up for, from vocational classes and remedial education to art and meditation! Some courses have prerequisites in terms of minimum test scores or prior classes that you have to take. All classes are taken on a pass-or-fail basis based on the course contract you sign with the instructor. If you do not meet the minimum requirements of the contract at the end of the course, you will not be awarded any correctional credits..."
- Janine Jackson, Correctional Education Adviser for the Joliet Correctional Facility

"You ever have that dream where you wake up and you're still in high school? It's like that, man. 'cept worse. We don't got no backpacks 'cause they're afraid we'd use the straps for weapons. I seen a gang of Bloods beat a Nazi half to death with their English textbooks 'cause he did his book report on Mein Kampf, you know? They all got sent to solitary study hall for a month. Half of 'em failed the semester 'cause the warden wouldn't let 'em in the library or on the internet to finish their research papers. That's fucked up, y'know?"
- J. J. Villamourous, 15 credits in to a 30 credit stretch for drug possession

"I hear there's some schools trying to privatize it, y'know? Think they can handle a bunch of cons, just throw up some barbed wire or somethin'. Buncha fools. I hope they try. You heard about that shit that went down in Waynestown, the juvie ed place? Jailbait pussy-boys, all offering to suck dick to get out a little sooner. Judge gave that teacher 3,000 credit hours. Might as well start on his doctorate."
- William "Old Dawg" Manning, 120 lifetime correctional credits, currently 23 credits into his 145 credit stretch for grand theft

"Advanced Cooking is one of the most strongly controlled courses in the Correctional Educational System. Because of the potential for disruption of prison life, entry to the class is typically restricted to trustees. Students must be responsible for maintaining a high standard of personal cleanliness. Some elements of the course do involve the use of knives; on days when knives are used they will be issued as part of your class kit for the day, will be picked up when you arrive, and will be visually inspected when you turn them in at the end of the class. If any of the knives are missing, the entire class will be held and cavity-searched until the item is found."
- Wanda Michaels, Chief Education Officer at Joliet Correctional Facility

"My name is Mrs. Goodall. This is not my first time teaching a Correctional Educations Course. If I catch someone with cliff notes tattooed on their arms, that is an automatic fail. If one of you shows up with a pornographic tattoo with my face on it, that is an automatic fail. If you have a question, raise your hand. Disrespectful language or disruptive behavior will result in removal from the course. Now, why don't we go around the room and introduce ourselves?"
- Amy M. Goodall, former Marine drill instructor, former elemental school teacher, current Educational Officer at Joliet Correctional Facility

"At the moment, I must respectfully decline your petition to reschedule the co-ed end-of-semester ball where male and female students may mingle socially. The recent riot among the female inmates does not currently permit such festivities. I know that the Correctional Teacher's Union strike has been tough on all of you, and many of you will not reach your graduation dates because of the hold-up in classes. The best I can say is that I am working with the union representatives to achieve resolution as quickly as possible."
- Wardern Smithers, reply to petition by inmates

"We still have the same problems as any correctional facility. Violence we deal with as best we can, when it erupts; our corrections officers are armed, and we often try to segregate the more disruptive students. Sexual violence is more difficult to police, though our educational efforts seem to have reduced that somewhat from pre-correctional education statistics. Drugs are, perhaps, one of the more difficult issues; we've run into a number of issues with introducing basic chemistry into the curriculum. Ironically, I sometimes feel that most of the inmates end up learning more than we do."
- Paul James McClellan, Corrections Officer at Joliet Correctional Facility

"It changed my life. I went in with 3 felony convictions and an 8th-grade education. I left with my GED and my Associate's Degree in Business. And it doesn't end when you're outside. They got me a Pell Grant, they got me into a dorm at Fullson Community College. I work at the library, student wage, but that's just a start. I'm going to be better than I am. You never stop learning."
- Lemar Coltrane, completed 80 credits at Joliet Correctional Facility

"There's always a few that buck the system. Don't want to learn. They take the bare minimum of courses, and often fail Civics - sometimes through disruptive behavior, sometimes just won't put in the effort on the tests and papers. It is possible to stretch out a 30-hour sentence a long time...we had one old man, it took him seven years. Now that's what I hate to see. We talked to him about it. We offered him special credit projects, credit for therapy. He wouldn't have it. In the end, I don't think we did anything for him but keep him locked up for seven years of his life. Now that's something I hate to see."
- Annette Wilhelmina Bennet, Chaplain of Joliet Correctional Facility

###

Vígríðr

Vígríðr
by
Bobby Derie

On the field of Vígríðr, the green grass had stolen back. Once a flat and even plain, now it was all a tumult of strange hills and mounds. The last of the dead had long ceased their moaning, and the earth shook no more; the waves crashed no longer against the Jotun hills, and in the sky the clouds of the Fimbulvetr parted, so the pale light of the sun shone once more on the blackened earth, strewn with the bodies of gods and giants, alfs and men. The gods were taken to their biers, to be burned and treated with honor, but the giants and monsters were left where they lay, and the carrion had grown fat on their bones, and finally the earth had claimed them.

Ulln stared out across the great field of Vígríðr, fingering her staff of bone, which was carved with runes. Grey hair streamed untied about her head, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her, grey eyes searching among the mounds. She walked upon the dead that day, over the skulls of giants and over the shattered spine of Jörmungandr, where still there were pools of venom that hissed and boiled in the black earth, and near which no grass would grow. Rust-covered blades and empty, eyeless helmets sheltering worms and insects marked the fall of man and dwarf, but still she climbed and clambered on. As the pale sun dipped down once more to afternoon, she came upon a hollow formed by a strange crescent-shaped hillock, and found in that hollow a traveler seated upon a stone.

By hair and height she guessed he was of the surviving Æsir, ruddy copper locks and a bushy orange beard on his chin, shot through with strands of gold, but he dressed as any warrior might, with a coat of mail and a helmet set at his feat, a broad sword sheathed at his belt, a shining shield upon the tuft and leaning against his left leg, and at his right food stood a spear, standing straight and tall as it was stuck into the earth. In his own two hands he held a knife and a pale yellow apple, which he was busy cutting into pieces.

"Hail," he said, as she stood upon the hillock, "and who might you be, to stand upon my cousin?"

"I am Ulln, widow of Ullr," she said, "and which son of Odin are you, to claim Loki's spawn as kin?"

"Víðarr," he said, "who avenged my father, by breaking the great wolf's jaw, and thrusting my spear into its heart. Well met." So saying, he placed a slice of apple in his mouth and began to chew.

Keeping an eye on the Æsir, Ulln came down from atop Fenrir's corpse, and with keen eye began to scan the sward of grass that had grown over and around him. The Æsir, for his part, watched her with interest.

"I had heard of Ullr," he said between bites, his beard sticky with juice, "a mighty magician. They say when Odin was exiled for ten years, Ullr took his place and his shape, so none would strike at Asgard in his absence, and when Odin returned her readily gave up the throne. I did not know he had a wife."

"Aye," said the woman, poking and prodding at tufts of grass with her bone-stick, "what you have heard is true. He honored Odin, and did not touch Frigg for ten years, claiming a war-wound; but by the same lie he could not touch me, and so I lay barren. When Odin returned he retired, and there would have been children; but he was slain by men, who feared him come among them."

Ulln was at this point on the opposite side of the small hollow formed by the curled corpse of the great wolf. She stopped and looked at the seated Æsir. "A game, my lord, to pass the time. Ask me three questions, and I shall answer. Then I may ask you three questions, and you may answer."

The Æsir paused to consider. "I do not know if I will profit by this game, but perhaps it will amuse us. Why came you here?"

"A widow I am, master Víðarr, and I have little in this world. Yet I loved my husband, and he me, and in his cups and in his arms and in our bed he taught me certain secrets, and where I might find more. So for my knowledge and my power I have come to Vígríðr in search of secrets."

The red beard seemed to bristle and the eyes narrowed, but Víðarr's tone was even. "Do you come here to rob the slain? For I swear there is no booty here of gods, nor little enough left of men or alf."

Ulln shook her head. "A widow I am, master Víðarr, but I am no thief. I swear on my husband's staff, I seek no treasure of man or god, alf or giant."

Víðarr's brow burrowed, but he only cracked his jaw. "I have asked two questions, and you have answered. Let us make the game more interesting: ask me your three questions, and I will save mine for last."

"Very well," she said, "where stood Odin, before he fell?"

"Why, right where you stand now," the Æsir said, "spear in hand, cloak rent and torn, his mail split, one boot filled with blood - that is where my father stood, when Fenrir closed his jaws upon him."

She looked around now, staring around at the scene.

"And his birds? Where was Huginn, where was Muninn as their master was devoured?"

 Víðarr's brow knotted further, and his eyes seemed to look back upon that fateful day. "They struck the wolf's eyes with their claws, and he snapped and snarled at them. Quick they were, but not quick enough! One - I know not which - was swallowed whole; the other was crushed beneath his paw - there." He pointed to a mound, from which the great grey curve of a claw could be seen.

"And a final question, master Víðarr - why are you here? I had thought the gods all gone back to Iðavöllr."

"Some did return," Víðarr said, "to live in temples. Others left, to be kings and fathers of kings, and now their sons sit upon their thrones. I, who have known battle...I was not made to live in temples, or sit upon my father's throne. I was born to avenge my father, and now having done that, I find no purpose or joy in life. So I have come to ponder awhile the grim joke, of outliving one's destined purpose."

Tossing the core of the apple away, Víðarr cleaned the blade and sheathed it at his belt. "Now Ulln, widow of Ullr, tell me truly: why came you here today?"

Now Ulln smiled. "Watch."

And so saying she took the staff of bone and dug out beneath that great wolf's claw, and the hours passed, even as afternoon passed to midnight, and moon shone pale to light the way for the ghosts and ghouls that yet haunted that field. By the moonlight she unearthed every bone of that bird who had been the secret-keeper and scout of Odin, and by its scarred beak Víðarr knew it was Huginn. With a small dagger Ulln worked to carve a rune on its skull, and whispered a certain charm until her voice was a raspy whisper. In the moonlight Víðarr saw the terrible miracle as the witch's magic took hold, and the dead bones of the raven cracked and clicked in grim mockery of life. Moonlight reflected off where its feathers should have been, giving outline and shape to the grisly thing, but shadow and bone gave it form and function, and from the pale skull the shade of Huginn stared out at the night.

"Why?" he said, at last.

"Because we have outlived the destinies written out for us," said Ulln, as he darkling familiar hopped upon her shoulder, "but that does not mean we are quite done living."

###

The Grand Mufti of Alabama

The Grand Mufti of Alabama
by
Bobby Derie

The call had come in at half past four in the AM, the time of day when Herman Cole was like to already be awake, but refusing to get out of bed before the alarm went off to avoid waking his wife, who snored ungently beside him. With a practiced ease, Cole rolled off his side of the bed, snatched up the cell, and took three steps into the hallway before he answered.

Four hours, three google searches, and two phone calls later, Cole was in uniform and driving through the sunny streets of Mobile, following the directions of the nav system, watching the traffic slow and come to complete stops at red signs and lights as his vehicle came into view, the copper star of the Sheriff's Office a better ward against bad behavior than a thousand traffic cameras.

The building was not remarkable for this part of town, a two-story boxy affair of light pink stucco with a matching wall around the property, reminiscent of an old Spanish mission, and a half-circle drive so parents could pick up and drop off their kids without parking; the sign for the Islamic Academy was written in English, with Arabic underneath. Cole drove slowly through the loop, then pulled off into a small adjacent parking lot where a tree overhanging the wall had created a bit of shade.

There was a women at the desk, in a light blue hijab over a peach-colored suit, and she smiled as Cole came in. Herman recognized her voice from the phone when he'd set the appointment earlier in the morning; a nicety as well as a matter of practicality - it was easier to talk to a man if you knew when and where he was going to be. The door behind her was already open, and the man at the desk stood up and came around to greet Cole as the sheriff came in.

The two men shook hands; both offering a firm and friendly grip, neither lingering nor abrupt. Cole took his measure then, as they took their respective seats. In truth, he hadn't know what to expect. Khalil al-Azzhar was closer to sixty than fifty, with kind eyes about a well-kept beard and mustache like grey wool, wore a light grey summer weight suit with a black tie, and a pair of glasses hanging on a chain rested on his chest. By face and complexion Cole took him as pure Arab, but the voice that came out had the same accent as Cole's own. Then again, maybe that wasn't so surprising; according to the FBI al-Azzhar had been born and raised in Mobile, and been here most of his life, except for a stint studying abroad. Khalil asked the secretary - Abeer - to bring in some sweet tea, and she disappeared, leaving the two men alone for a piece.

"Well, Sheriff Cole," Khalil said, "what can I do for you?"

"I reckon congratulations are in order," said Cole, "I'm told that last night you were elected as Grand Mufti of Alabama. First Grand Mufti ever elected in the United States, as a matter of fact."

By instinct, the sheriff looked to the other man's eyes, but they betrayed no surprise, nor any other sudden movement.

"Thank you," Khalil said after a pause, "though I hope I'm not too forward in saying I don't think that's much police business."

"Well, that there I agree with you." Cole responded with a vigorous nod. "Normally I'd give no more attention to it than I would the election of a Methodist bishop - I'm Southern Baptist myself. I hadn't realized there were that many Muslims in the state, in fact."

"Over three hundred thousand," Khalil said almost absently, "and the position is not quite...equivalent. A mufti is merely an expert in Islamic religious law among the Sunni; a Grand Mufti is...sort of a first among equals. It is my hope to use my standing to serve the Islamic community in the great state of Alabama. You know with all the troubles going on in the Middle East and 9/11, being a Muslim in this country can occasionally be difficult."

Cole nodded. "I hope you'll forgive my ignorance, but do you plan on issuing any fatwas, Mr. Al-Azzahr?"

"Very likely. But please keep in mind, Sheriff, that a fatwa is not a...command or order; it is a legal opinion only, and it applies only within the context of Islamic law. It is not binding on civil law, nor does it have any weight to influence any of the laws of the United States, or Alabama, or even Mobile county. I know you must have heard of muftis in other countries have abused their authority by declaring a fatwa against this or that individual, but doing so would be abuse of my position."

Abeer arrived with the tea; a great glass jug almost as dark as molasses, and a tray with two tall glasses, a good-sized lemon and a small knife. She set the tray on the desk between the two men and poured and sliced the lemon before leaving again. Cole squeezed a twist into his glass than plunked the whole slice in, peel and all, and took a sip, letting the sweet and bitterness settle in on his tongue before they continued.

"Might be there's a few folks that are concerned about that," Cole allowed, "might be curious about what your opinion is on Israel, say, or your connections to any extremist groups."

Al-Azzhar sighed. "Israel is...complicated. Naturally, as an individual I have sympathy with the plight of the Muslims in the region. You're probably aware that I've participated in the annual demonstrations against the Israeli encroachments into Gaza. However, my interests are only with regard to the safety and security of my coreligionists, not political. I have no ties to Hamas or the PLO."

Cole inclined his head slightly, and set his empty glass back on the tray. "What about Mohammed Jibran?"

The mufti clicked his teeth. "That poor boy. What do you know about it?"

"18 years old. Was arrested along with the other members of the Islamic States of America after an armed standoff in Montgomery six years ago. You were a character witness at his trial."

"I was there in Montgomery," Al-Azzhar said, "His birth name was John Mohammed Boggs. His father served in Iraq and Afghanistan, came home with an Iraqi wife. After he left the Army, the father settled in Alabama, got a job in the defense industry. John Boggs spent seventeen years surrounded by Southern children who hated him; there probably wasn't a day passed that somebody didn't call him a sand nigger. He wanted acceptance, he wanted to belong, and at seventeen when he was young and stupid he found a group of people that answered to his alienation and anger. It is a sad but very common story with terrorists - they target the young. John was an ideal candidate. But that is, as they say, only half the story. The ISA were trying to stockpile weapons - that's what set the DEA off, and led to the standoff. I came in and offered to mediate, convinced John to surrender. That day, we managed to avoid any bloodshed. But John was still sentenced to eight years in prison. He survived for two."

The Grand Mufti had closed his eyes as he told the story, but now he opened them again to stare at the Sherrif...not at his eyes, but at the badge on his breast.

"Why did you want to meet with me, Sheriff?"

"Officially, I was responding to a concern from some G-men in Washington," he grunted softly as he stood up, "Personally, I guess I wanted to make up my own mind. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Al-Azzhar." Cole said, and offered his hand.

The Grand Mufti rose and took it. "And you, Sheriff."

The two men shook hands. "And if anybody gives you any trouble, you know my number."

Abeer and Al-Azzhar waved as the sheriff drove off.

"What was that about?" she asked.

"Old wounds," he said, "and new worlds."

###

Prodigal

Prodigal
by
Bobby Derie

The bus ran to city center, but I got off at Southwark, right beyond where the old city walls used to stand. I wanted to walk in, feel the cobbles and concrete beneath my feet, the hum of the underground filtering up through the ground.

I'd spent time in the Southwark Projects, growing up. Locals called it Trogtown. The developers had drained the Dark Swamp, and set up red-brick tenements on the new-cleared land, but none of the lizardmen had really moved on. Street-level was all shops and markets, scalesmiths and bins of mealyworms and baby eels, black bricks of dried swamp tea. There were restaurants there where you'd never hear a word of Mannish, and people still counted in eights, and broodmothers warned their hatchlings not to cross the the Four-Fingered Hand. I kept to the main drag, where the sidewalks were broad enough for a couple trogs to walk abreast, and the traffic light enough I didn't have to fear getting squished.

Past the wooden gate into Feyville, I took a glance down an alley and saw a halfbreed in fishnets getting spitroasted. The more adventurous working girls like to work the boundaries; they charge kink prices and there's always a punter willing to fork it over for a little cross-species strange. Feyville was even more familiar than Southwark, the old Elves' Quarter where the bulldozed the Enchanted Forest, acid rain-stained marble buildings standing in the shadow of pitted modern concrete monsters. The roots of the old tree spirits ran deep, still springing up in the crack of every sidewalk, tunneling beneath the streets, strands of alfweed covering entire buildings. You couldn't run a car down any of the sidestreets, and the main roads only kept clean enough for the bus to run because the council sends a 10-man team down to keep it clear every month. With flamethrowers.

I took a turn off at the Blessed Isle, a roundabout that's claimed more lives from gang violence than automobile crashes, let the sounds and smells of the city start to sink in as I counted the blocks. Opium and fresh tar, sandalwood and cinnamon drifted down from kitchens and up from dens, different dialects coming down to me, more emotion than words: a mother berating a child, a noisy couple making love, two junkies in an alley, fighting over a screaming cat as the crude altar they'd erected started to heat up. A lot of Feyville had factories, back before the human mages broke the Ban on elfwork, now broken up into apartments. I took a moment to admire two female elves snogging in the shadow of a doorway. Darkweaver tribe, by their coloring. They'd have been clapped in cold iron and sold as the lowest-class slaves for that back in the Elflands.

I came at last to an almost human street - what used to be the entrance to the human district, back before the humans moved out. Schtroumpfs squatted in most of the buildings, mostly the French-speaking ones, "the blue pest." There were more stories about them than I knew, and I never could tell if any of them were true except for how the kids would hunt them down - the females as cheap pornography, the little blue goddesses a model of the humanoid figure with hourglass proportions; the males mostly to smash their bodies between two bricks and see their heads pop off. I knew those were true because that's what we'd done as kids, when I'd run with the pack at eleven or twelve.

My feet and the smell of fresh sawdust brought me to a set of stairs leading down into the earth, marked by the image of a gold coin and a closed hand - the sign of the Bribe Refused.

As in earlier days, I went down the worn, creaking steps into the earth, treading finally on fine curls of soft young wood and spruce needles, letting my eyes adjust to the mix of glowing fungus and strands of blinking Christmas tree lights strung up to the rafters, hanging strands of flowers covering the smell of cheap ale and vomit. No ragged cheer ensued, but my stool was empty, and the barman only saw me, nodded and set out a glass and a bottle. I took my time walking up to it, and the regulars all met me by name as I came up.

The bottle was grimmalk, which is made and bottled in the city, water fed from the old elf-springs that feed into the reservoir, brewed in the Down Below where the dwarfs have kept the same wooden girders for the past 500 years, because the yeast grows on the hardwood and ferments the batch, and distilled over on Bluejohn Street, where the lines run right beneath the building, and aged in Harwood in the smuggler tunnels used during the last Great War of Men. It was the city in the glass, and the first taste was like fresh asphalt laid on a summer day, and beneath it something loamy and old that left the throat dry and gasping for another sip.

It was the city itself welcoming me home.

###