K Jeter - Noir

“That’s what it would mean, all right,” said McNihil.

A sulky cloud settled over the weighted landscape of the bishop’s face. “I can tell that these things aren’t important to you.”

“Hey.” McNihil pointed a thumb toward the computer terminal. “You were the one bitching about your job.”

The bishop scrubbed even more determinedly at his fingertip. “I can’t help it if I’ve started to believe.” A dry streambed of tears grated in his voice. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

McNihil took pity on him. “Why don’t you just read the code,” he said softly. “That’s all I came here for.”

From the corner of his eye, McNihil saw the numbers disappear from the monitor screen; enough time had gone by with no clicks or taps, to bring the automatic screen-saver up. He had just a glimpse of the image, a skeletal form with wild eyes and streaming black hair, clothed in pennantlike rags of human skin, before the bishop’s hand shot past him, hitting the monitor’s power button. The image disappeared, replaced by dead blankness.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” the bishop said stiffly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”

What else McNihil had caught on the monitor screen had been a single word, in letters of fire. Tlazoltéotl . “What is it?”

The bishop drew back, holding the cross against his chest. When he spoke, he sounded abashed and sullen. “I didn’t say what I’ve started to believe.”

McNihil let it drop. He watched as the other man hunched over the little bit of metal.

After a few seconds, the bishop ran his fingertip across the minutely incised coding on the back of the crucifax. “Okay, I’m getting a read on this.” The contact point at the end of the bishop’s index finger shone like a sliver of broken glass. “The guy’s name was… Trummel? Trabble?”

“Something like that.”

Gazing up at the mottled ceiling, the bishop continued to sort out the info. “Pretty recently updated,” he said. “The stats aren’t too bad; received communion on a regular enough basis to get the volume discount. Just the standard five percent, though. That’s a shame, kinda; with a little extra effort, this person could’ve gone up to the platinum Gen-U-Flex™ level, where you start getting the really good merchandise promotions.” The bishop shot a hopeful glance over at McNihil. “The ID card’s good at over ten thousand retail outlets in the central Gloss alone-”

“Don’t bother with the pitch.” McNihil held up a hand to ward off the other’s flow of words. “My credit rating couldn’t take the hit.”

The bishop sighed and went back to deciphering the crucifax. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mumbled. “Gotta keep the flock’s numbers up. I mean, this poor bastard’s not going to be at the rail anymore. You said he was… um… deceased?”

“Dead.”

“I’ll have to log a candle on for him. That’s a freebie; we don’t charge for that.” The bishop’s fingertip moved across the last of the incised code. “Now that’s interesting…”

McNihil looked down at the hand and the cross, as though the tiny marks had been converted into something easily legible. “What’s that?”

“This Trabble person…”

“Travelt, actually.”

“He wasn’t just an on-line communicant.” The bishop peered curiously at the crucifax. “He actually came around here to see me, and received the sacraments directly. Now that’s very unusual. Pretty old-fashioned, if you ask me; hardly anybody does that anymore.” The bishop nodded toward one of the larger tomes on the shelves. “I actually had to look it up in the operating manual, to see how it’s done-live and in person, I mean.” A visible shiver ran across the man’s flesh. “It was kind of creepy, you know? All that touching .”

“Next time it happens,” said McNihil, “put in for hazard pay.” He pointed to the cross in the bishop’s hand. “Would that tell you what he talked about when he was here?”

“Naw…” The bishop shook his head. “There’s not enough room for that kind of content, even if you overwrote the baptismal records. But-come to think of it-I might actually remember this guy. I mean, remember in my head.” The hand without the cross stroked the bishop’s stubbled chin. “I’m trying to recall what he looked like…”

McNihil dug another bill out of his wallet, one of the old kind with a still portrait of a famous dead person on it. “He didn’t look anything like this, I suppose.”

“You’re right; he was younger.” The bishop stuck the bill into a hidden pocket of his vestments. “I can see him plain as day now, though.”

I bet , thought McNihil. “So what did he talk about? He must’ve come to see you for some reason. Some special reason.”

“Of course.” The bishop showed a yellow-toothed smile. “The only reason people would come to see someone like me would be because they’re connected-up. Or more connected-up than usual.”

“And that’s what Travelt was?”

“Connected-up? Oh, yeah.” The smile had gaps in it, through which the bishop’s tongue showed like a wet lizard. “I was B.S.-ing you. Of course I remember the guy. Not just for the rarity of his visit here… but the severity of it. Severe on him, I mean; even before he got here. He looked like quivering hell.” A slow shake of the head. “Or at least that’s what he said he was afraid of.”

“Really?” The poor bastard sounded like an even sorrier case than before. “Of going to hell?”

“No-” A damp glittering had collected around the rims of the bishop’s eyes. “Of going back there.”

“Right,” said McNihil. Like he would’ve known -that was always the problem with these junior-exec types, leading their sheltered lives in their little corporate rabbit warrens. They get a little experience , thought McNihil, and they figure it’s the end of the world . “Not even firsthand experience,” he mused aloud. “The jerk was using a prowler to go out and get his stimulation for him. It’s not like the Wedge ever saw him step inside its limits.”

“Maybe his way of enjoying himself wasn’t as safe as all that.” The bishop spoke in a tone of mild reproof. “The man is-as you’ve said-no longer with us.”

“Just goes to show,” said McNihil. “Accidents will happen.”

One of the disordered eyebrows rose in skepticism, creasing the bishop’s forehead. “Would someone like you be here… if you really thought it was an accident?”

“‘It?’” McNihil’s sharp gaze fastened on the man in front of him. “What ‘it’ do you mean?”

The bishop spread his hands apart, the cross dangling on its chain from his fingers. “Whatever happened. I wouldn’t know-the ways of this world are not my concern. I’m paid to be concerned with matters of the soul.”

“And that’s what Travelt came and talked to you about? His soul?”

“Of course.” The bishop studied the cross’s swaying pendulum. “Like the way people would take their cars into the garage for repairs. They didn’t do that if the machines were working fine. Same way with this poor fellow. Only I’m not sure his could be fixed.”

“That’s what you told him?”

The bishop nodded slowly.

“I thought,” said McNihil, “it was different in your line of work. A matter of doctrine. That all things could be fixed. Washed clean.” With his forefinger, McNihil gave the cross a gentle push, setting it in motion again. “Forgiven.”

“Ah. That used to be doctrinal. But that was a long time ago. Mankind has progressed since then, in so many ways. Including sin.”