Lisa Smedman - The Lucifer desk

Mrs. Samji ushered Carla into a living room furnished with two overstuffed leather couches and an expensive-looking trideo home entertainment unit that took up most of one corner. Children’s toys were neatly lined up like soldiers on parade at one edge of the room. From the plush feel of the carpet, Carla suspected that it was real wool. The lion-headed dog followed them into the room, its feet leaving faint gray smudges on the white carpet. As Mrs. Samji settled onto one of the couches, it sat by her ankle. She glanced uneasily at it before beginning to talk. Carla thought she saw the creature’s head move slightly, a bobbing motion something like a nod.

“Where is your camera?” Mrs. Samji asked.

Carla settled into the opposite couch. “I don’t need one,” she said. “This is an informal interview-more like a chat.” While she spoke, she adjusted the zoom in her eyecam for a tight shot of Mrs. Samji’s hands. The woman was twisting the rings on her fingers; the shot could be edited into Carla’s story as evidence of a widow’s grief. Noticing that a vase was slightly blocking the shot. Carla reached across the table between the two couches to shift it slightly. As soon as she sat back, Mrs. Samji leaned forward to slide the vase back into its original position. It was an instinctive action, the habitual act of someone who liked everything in its proper place. Exactly in place.

“You wanted to know about my husband’s work with the temple?” Mrs. Samji asked.

“The temple, yes” Carla answered. “Please tell me about it.” Having bluffed her way in here, she decided to let Mrs. Samji talk and see what came up. She would work in questions about Mitsuhama as the opportunity arose.

Zooming out again to capture a full-length shot of Mrs. Samji as she started to speak, Carla spotted a holo image of Farazad on a side table. She shifted along the couch until it appeared in her field of view, just over Mrs. Samji’s shoulder. The holo of the mage, holding what Carla presumed was one of his infant children in his arms, would make a nice graphic element.

“Farazad often spoke at the mabad- at the temple,” Mrs. Samji began. “His father was a mubad- a priest-and his grandfather before him. My husband could have claimed the title as well, but instead he chose to study magic. He regarded his studies as a religious practice, as a way of becoming closer to his god. He often spoke of this at the temple, and encouraged others to follow the hermetic tradition. He said that magic was a manifestation of the divine spark that exists within all-”

“Let me make sure I have your husband’s history correct,” Carla interrupted. “Instead of becoming a priest, Mr. Samji worked as a mage. For which company?”

“Mitsuhama Computer Technologies,” Mrs. Samji answered, after a brief glance at the creature at her feet.

“He was employed there at the time of his death?” Carla asked.

Mrs. Samji’s lips whitened slightly as she pressed them together. “Yes.”

“Working in their magical research and development lab?”

The pause lasted longer this time, “Yes.”

“What sort of work did he do for them?”

“What does it matter?” Mrs. Samji replied. “Farazad was planning on taking a leave of absence from Musuhama, and devoting himself to the temple.”

“But if you could just tell me a little more about his work with Mitsu-”

“I thought you wanted to talk about the temple ,” Mrs. Samji said, frowning.

“Of course,” Carla answered smoothly. “This is just background material-the usual sort of questions a reporter asks when doing an obit piece. Name, occupation, age, names of surviving family members, number of years spent with the corporation, the type of work he did for Mitsuhama, whether he was working on anything especially important when he died…”

“1 thought you were a religious reporter.” A hint of hostility had crept into Mrs. Samji’s voice.

“I am,” Carla said, backpedaling quickly. “I find Zoroastrianism one of the most interesting of the world’s religions. I’d like to hear more about its history. and its founder, Zarathustra. Perhaps you could start by telling me more about him. And about the significance of the eternal flame that bums in your temple.”

She seemed to have allayed Mrs. Samji’s suspicions. at least for the moment. The woman picked up a framed flatscreen portrait of Zarathustra from the table beside her and held it out for Carla to look at. It showed a young man with a full brown beard and flowing hair, wearing a white robe and hat. His eyes looked earnestly up-to heaven, Carla supposed. Mrs. Sarnji began talking about the life of the prophet, explaining how he had aided the poor and extolled the virtues of morality and justice. Carla bided her time, waiting for another lead that would allow her to ask about Mitsuliama. In the meantime, she focused her cybereye on a point just over the woman’s shoulder. A door in the wall behind her was partially open. Using her low-light boosters and image enhancers, Carla could see that it led to a study. A desk just inside it held a typical business work station. Everything in the room was neat and orderly, from the two pairs of men’s slippers lined up with perpendicular precision against the wall to the precisely aligned row of family portraits on the shelf above the desk. The only exception to this rigid neatness was the work-station itself. An interface cable lay in an untidy heap on the floor, and empty plastic memory chip cases had spilled onto the chair. A cyberdeck lay wrong-side-up on the desk, its circuitry exposed. It looked as though the decks central processing unit had recently been removed.

Carla rose and began walking toward the open door. “Is this your husband’s study?” she asked. “Perhaps we should do the interview in here. It would help to give me a feel for his-”

“No!” Mrs. Saniji leaped to her feet and grabbed Carla’s arm. She yanked Carla back toward the couch, a frightened look in her eyes. “You can’t go in there,” she said. “It’s a mess. I haven’t had time to clean it since Miyuki… since Farazad died. He left it in a jumble.”

Carla paused. The explanation just didn’t scan. Mrs. Samji was a neat freak who went to the extreme of organizing her children’s toys into neat rows. The sight of the messy den should have driven her nuts by now. Unless…

The lion-headed dog was focusing all of its attention on Carla. It had shifted away from Mrs. Sarnji’s ankle, and stood directly in the path that Carla would have taken to the study. Suddenly, Carla realized what must really be going on. The desk was rifled because Mitsuhama had been here already, picking up any incriminating pieces of data that Farazad might have left behind. They must have had some inkling that he’d been ready to blow the whistle on their research project when he died, and had come to his home to make sure he hadn’t left any files at his work station. And just in case Farazad had shared information about the new spell with his wife during pillow talk, they’d left the magical creature behind as a reminder to her to keep quiet.

No wonder Mrs. Samji was reluctant to talk. One word about her husbands work and she’d be lion-dog chow. The spirit creature might be only semi-corporeal, but Carla was sure it had a nasty bite. Or that its handlers did.

Mrs. Samji continued steering Carla toward the door. Clearly terrified, she was trying to end the interview. Carla tried to get her talking again. She focused upon the playback icon in her cybereye, keying an instant replay of the last ten seconds of data. “Uh, you were telling me about Zarathustra,” she prompted. “You were starting to tell me the origin of his name…”

They had reached the door. Carla glanced behind her, saw that the lion-headed dog was close at her heels. Now that it was closer to her, Carla could feel the chilling cold that radiated from it.