SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

Sal was more disturbed by the sea horses. As soon as Opie picked up the keyboard, they fell into formation, then scattered. They were currently swimming in a very intricate pattern through the tank. Except that every few seconds, all of the sea horses would suddenly freeze in place, like a buffering video. The baby panda, meanwhile, rolled on its back happily, and a hand reached in from off-screen to rub its belly.

“I thought biocomputers were still theoretical.”

“In the rest of the world, yes. But if you have a little bit of magic to help you…” He gestured to the rest of the room. “All things are possible.”

“Is that the Index?”

“The Index makes this look like a Commodore 64.”

“So why are you wasting my time? I have friends in trouble. Can you help me or not?”

Opie gave her a smug look. “I can help you. But the Index contains the sum of all human knowledge. Like I said, you don’t get to access that for free.”

Sal scoffed and held up her cell phone. “I already have access to the sum of all human knowledge. Costs me sixty-five dollars a month.”

Opie snorted. “We both know that if that was enough, you wouldn’t have followed me, Cop Sister. The Internet is merely the totality of human knowledge that’s been written down and put on online. The Index is a repository of everything known by any human who has ever interfaced with it.”

“And that includes Mr. Norse?”

Opie nodded. “Ask your question, and know what he knows about what’s happening to your friends.”

“What’s the catch?” asked Sal, torn between being fascinated by the possibilities and really disturbed by the implications of what Opie was saying.

“For every question you ask, the Index takes one piece of knowledge from your mind, and you can never know it again.”

Sal had found Menchú when they both returned to their B&B after sunrise. Predictably, he had not been enthusiastic when Sal told him about her encounter with Opie and his offer.

“I don’t like the idea of losing a chunk of my memory any more than you do, but I don’t think we have a choice,” she said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice. Sal couldn’t imagine that getting snippy with Menchú would help matters, and it wasn’t like any of this was his fault.

“We always have a choice,” said Menchú. “And we only have the word of one techno-cultist that this so-called Index won’t wipe your entire memory. We don’t know that it even works at all.”

“I’m pretty sure that mind-wiping someone would be considered both breaking a deal and offering violence against another member of the Market. Do you really think they’d risk getting evicted?”

“I’m sure their expulsion will be a great comfort to you after your mind has been destroyed by their infernal machine.”

“That’s the other thing. If this is all a ploy, what’s in my mind that they’re so interested in? Out of everyone here, why target me?”

“Your brother.”

“You know more about what’s going on with Perry than I do. Plus more secrets of the Society besides. Why haven’t they been eye-fucking you this whole time?”

Menchú didn’t even crack a smile. “Because if they’d approached me, I would have said no, and we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

“You think they targeted me because I’m the weak link.”

“I think they know what you want, and now they’re offering it to you. It’s what demons do—find your weakness and turn it against you.”

“You think Opie is a demon? Seriously?”

“I think something is powering the Index, and it isn’t love and light.” If possible, Menchú’s expression turned even more serious. “You haven’t been with us for long, but even so, these people would be foolish to pass up the opportunity to suck you dry of every drop of information you know about the Archives and the Society. You remember how Liam was possessed?”

Sal nodded.

“This wouldn’t be the first time techno-cultists tried to use the residue of a demon to access our secrets. And once they’ve touched you…Demons leave scars just like physical wounds. Break a bone once, you’re more likely to break it again in the same place.”

“So where are you broken?” Sal asked.

Menchú froze. “What do you mean?”

“You recruited me after I fought off a demon possessing my brother. Liam was taken over by something out of his computer, lost two years of his life, and now lives to fight the kinds of things that stole that time from him. I’m willing to bet that Asanti had some brush with the arcane that got her so curious about magic, and for some reason, Grace isn’t afraid of getting shot. So what happened to you?”

The silence sat heavily between them.

“Does it have to do with an angel?”

Menchú’s head shot up. “What did Asanti tell you?”

“Nothing. But you just did.”

Menchú seemed to deflate before her very eyes. Shrinking somehow, as though the clerical collar was just a costume, and he wasn’t a crusader saving the world from magic, demons, and things that lurk in the night, but merely a middle-aged man who was suddenly very, very tired.

Sal expected him to tell her that the discussion was over. Or that his past was none of her business. Or even to send her back to Rome. Instead, he said, “It was a long time ago. When I was still a parish priest in Guatemala.”

The parish consisted of a single village, tucked into a valley surrounded by as much farmland as the residents could cultivate before the terrain became too steep to support anything but virgin forest. The United States had been telling the world that Guatemala was a democracy for at least ten years, although what evidence it had to support that claim beyond a nominally elected government was dubious. Were mass executions and disappearances the hallmarks of a democracy? Menchú was pretty sure they weren’t. And he was dead certain that they shouldn’t be.

Still, there were a few signs that things were changing for the better, and maybe that was why he had not seen the disaster coming. Unknowing, perhaps he had let his guard down. Whatever the reason, the first Menchú knew of the impending disaster was a small fist banging on the door of his residence in the middle of the night.

Menchú had not been asleep and was at the door almost immediately. It was one of the boys from the village, an altar server no more than seven years old, fist already raised to knock again. “Father,” he said, “come quickly.”

Menchú read his expression in an instant. “What’s happened?” he asked, even though he was certain he knew the answer. Still, What’s happened? was a kinder question than Who died?

“The Army. They’ve surrounded us.”

Menchú did not ask further questions.

He followed the boy outside into the square. Soldiers were roaring into town now, making no attempt at stealth. Menchú couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t heard them coming. There was too much noise to pick out what individual men were saying, but their intent was clear. Every resident—about sixty men, women, and children—had been rousted from their beds and corralled into the main square. The man with captain’s braid on his shoulders paced back and forth. Behind him, a dozen men stood, their rifles still slung over their shoulders. For the moment.

Menchú didn’t fool himself that they were going to stay that way.

“Father,” a low voice called. Menchú turned, and his heart sank even further. Apparently the rebels hadn’t all made it back to their hidden camps in the mountains in time. And now here they were, guns at the ready, hiding in the shadows by the church.