Tim Powers - Dinner At Deviant's Palace

«Well! As far as what's in it for me, I'll tell you frankly that I'm spread just a bit thin at the moment, a trifle overextended; like a farmer with vast fields of ripe crop but no field hands or horses and only a couple of bushel baskets. And, too, ten years ago I foolishly indulged in the, uh, extravagance that left the Holy City paved in glass. Bang! Bang!»

Rivas nodded, remembering Jaybush's memory of the sudden unexpected white flash.

«So,» the Messiah went on, «I'd find it useful to have a full partner, rather than just a lot of uninformed employees, who could travel back and forth between here and Irvine– bang!—and make sure everything's proceeding efficiently, and perhaps give me useful advice from the point of view of an intelligent and informed native. We could present you as a sort of latter-day Saint Paul—once a merciless scourge of the true faith, but now, enlightened and forgiven, one of its stoutest pillars! I like it. Greg, Greg, why do you persecute me?» He chuckled hugely.

«And,» he said, «as to the question of why you —my dear fellow, you underestimate yourself! I learned something about you, too, during our brief psychic linking. Why, in all my travels, I swear to you, never have I encountered such a fellow soul! Confess, confess—you too find other entities interesting only to the extent that they might give you pleasure or hindrance. Like me you consume with greedy haste everything you can get from them, and are indifferent to what may become of them afterward; you are in fact sickened by the sight of them afterward, like being forced to linger over the chilling, congealing remains of a dinner! And, like me, your real focus of attention, shorn of peripheral poses and pretences, is the one thing, the only thing, worth an eternity of regarding— yourself. You and I understand each other perfectly, boy. We could, without having to simulate any affection for each other, help each other considerably. We don't merge with anyone, boy. We consume. You and I are always distinct, undiluted, individual. Quanta rather than arbitrary segments of a continuum.» Jaybush laughed harshly. «We're two of a kind.»

Rivas stared across the deck table at the fat smiling face and knew that no one had ever understood him as thoroughly.

«And is,» said Jaybush, «the offer still—how did you put it—'definitely, absolutely unattractive'?»

«No,» said Rivas.

Neither of the women at the table had seemed to be paying any particular attention to the conversation—Uri had been staring earnestly into Jaybush's face whether he was speaking or not, and Sister Windchime had been just as intently staring at her hands, wearing the expression of pained tenseness of someone who's just swallowed a too-big mouthful—but now Sister Windchime looked up and met Rivas's glance, and the look of hurt and betrayal in her eyes had doubled.

Jeez, kid, thought Rivas, I'm agreeing with your damned Messiah, your precious god.

The gondola was back, laden with steaming trays, and the waiter dextrously put the right plates in front of the right people and set out the drinks.

«But I'm afraid,» Rivas added, touching the sewn-in lump under his collar for reassurance, «I'm going to refuse.»

Jaybush, a forkful of some glowing trash halfway to his bulging mouth, paused to smile tolerantly. «Are you sure, my boy? Tell papa why.»

Rivas downed the remainder of his tequila and refilled his glass. «Well,» he said almost comfortably, sure now that he would never leave Deviant's Palace alive and that nothing he could say would change anything, «because of . . . a bald boy who died on a garbage heap. And a pile of old stove parts that died on a glass plain. And a murdering pimp who evoked, and died out of, loyalty. And a whore with a sense of justice. Am I boring you? And because of Sister Windchime, who has compassion, though you've tried hard to stamp it out of her. And because the hard selfish part of Greg Rivas is swimming around in a canal someplace.»

«I understand, my boy,» said Jaybush gently, putting down his fork. «What you need is to see a little show, isn't it?»

«No,» said Rivas unsteadily.

«I know you don't mean that.» Jaybush smiled and clapped his blubbery hands and raised his voice and called, «I need some volunteers from the audience!"As if all twitched by the same string, half a dozen people leaped up from chairs at various tables.

«One of the waiters is bringing around a boat,» Jaybush called to them. «I'd appreciate it if you'd all get into it, and he'll bring it to a spot right in front of this raft.»

Rivas watched as the six people, three of whom were women, stepped one by one into the boat the waiter was towing around the lagoon behind his gondola. At last the boat, with all of them on it now, was left rocking gently in front of Jaybush's raft table.

«Hi!» Jaybush called to the boat's occupants.

«Hi,» they all responded.

«How's everybody feeling? Glad to be here?»

An overlapping chorus replied, «Sure!» «You bet!» «Damn right!»

«Glad to hear it,» Jaybush assured them. «Now I want all of you to pay attention, okay? Please stand up—carefully, don't want you all tumbling into the water—and each of you look straight at me and hold out your hands, palms up, as if you were carrying a dish.»

Smiling cheerfully, the six people did as they were told, and after some jostling and elbowing they all stood facing Jaybush's raft and holding out cupped hands.

«Do you know what you're holding?» Jaybush asked.

They shook their heads, glanced at each other, shook their heads again. Rivas suspected that they'd been hypnotized.

«What each of you is holding is his or her own face,» said Jaybush forcefully. «You're all standing there holding your faces in your hands, and the fronts of your heads are as smooth as eggs! You're all absolutely identical! Good heavens, don't any of you drop your face, or get it switched with someone else's!»

None of the people moved, beyond some shiftings of weight and licking of lips, but now they were agitated, tense. Their hands were claws.

«You can't even speak!» marveled Jaybush. «You're just egg things.» He picked up a salt shaker and tossed it into the water. His face was placid, but he put panic into his voice as he said, «You dropped them! You've all dropped your faces in the water!»

All six of the people instantly leaped into the water, splashing Jaybush's raft and sending their boat rocking away.

«And are you, sir,» asked Jaybush, turning to Rivas, «holding on securely to your own face?»

«Yes.» Rivas peered down at the agitated water.

«Ah. Never any uncertainty about who it is in the mirror? Here's a question—if there's no mirror around, do you still have a face? Are you sure?» He followed the direction of Rivas's gaze. «Oh! Oh, no, my boy, they won't be coming back up. Would you?»

Involuntarily Rivas again touched the lump under his collar. «I . . . don't know.»

«Identities can erode,» Jaybush said. «I'm offering you the chance to armor yours and preserve it forever—but they can erode.» He extended one fat finger and leaned toward Sister Windchime. «Merge with the—»

«No,» said Rivas sharply.

Urania had stopped chewing her taco and was looking alarmed again.

Jaybush glanced at Rivas in feigned surprise. «I beg your pardon?»

«Don't give her the sacrament.»

Sister Windchime hadn't moved, but was staring hard at nothing and holding her fork so tightly that her knuckles were white.

«But you'd benefit too,» Jaybush told Rivas. «We'd share, if we were linked. I'm in a mood to consume both these girls tonight, right down to the core, and bequeath two more pocalocas to the Venice streets. Bang! Bang! Of course, if my partner objected, I wouldn't do it. Are you my partner?»