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

“They, they said they needed to fuel their craft to return to Earth. I said we didn’t have any of what they asked for not already tied to life support.” He blinked and sneezed as well. “Of course, there is plenty on They Are To Be Respected.”

They left much unspoken about his motives. Soraiya’s stomach was still in knots over what they had done, what they were doing right now, the sight of the Earth people already plotting and marking and measuring.

“This dropship, it’s the same as the other ones?” he asked.

Soraiya nodded. “Only difference is that it was able to get us down here.” She wondered what the Earth captain’s reaction would be, when they told him.

He marched over to them, holding out a communicator. It showed a message from Past Captain Makwa. “Earth crew have taken control of bridge. Demand safe return of Earth captain and fuel, then they will leave.”

“No one will leave,” said Soraiya to the Earth captain.

He said something, the sharp confusion clear on his face.

Soraiya gestured for the communicator, and after a moment he handed it to her. She wrote a message in Mandarin, hoping he would understand. “Our dropships are meant only to bring down, not to launch back up. We needed their thrusters for Home. And we decided that we would only land on They Are To Be Respected when They, and we, were ready. If your crew wishes to come down here, they will have to build a new dropship.”

She passed it back to him. He read it. She sneezed again, several times. Her eyes had begun to feel sticky from whatever was in the air. The Earth people didn’t seem to be as bothered by it.

The Earth captain’s face went darker as he read. Then he began shouting at her. He threw the communicator down and grabbed the front of her handed-down uniform, shaking her. Captain Rodriguez pulled one of his arms away. “What did you think?” he shouted at him, as Soraiya covered her ears. “That we would let you just come and take things away?”

The other Earth people were running to intervene, she couldn’t tell if they were shouting at her or their captain.

But she didn’t care. She stood on the surface of They Are To Be Respected. They had rations to last seven days. Beyond that, who knew? Soraiya knew some of the information Home had collected in its hundreds of days of study from orbit might bear fruit, so to speak. But she suspected they would not have enough time to learn. That might suit the Earth people, she thought darkly; they seemed to like to get things over with so quickly.

The Earth captain was pulled away from her by his crew, one of whom was shouting at him and the others demanding answers or explanations from her and Captain Rodriguez. Through the snot and sneezing and tears clogging her nose and eyes, Soraiya smiled. She would finally see the sun set in open air.

Originally published by Mothership Zeta, October 2015.

Malachai loved his work. He loved wandering among the trappings of enormous wealth and influence, seeing the baubles that humans would excrete to express their status. He especially loved watching those wealthy, influential mortals tremble before the might of his inescapable superiority.

Malachai worked exclusively with those humans who had found themselves at the limit of how much power they could posses. They called him to bend the rules of time and space around their whims, so that they might be even more feared and loved by the other mortals. Their desires were predictable—money, knowledge, talent, authority. These were the kinds of people who hunted down ancient parchments with the Words of Invocation inscribed upon them. These were the kinds of people who did not concern their consciences with the compensation Malachai required for his services.

They appreciated a bit of theatrical flair.

So when he received the summons from dispatch, he responded with appropriate formality. Curling smoke, crackling lightning, the wailing of damned souls—a standard business-casual entrance. He waited for his cue, which was usually the sound of a man discovering terror for the first time in his comfortable life. Once that terror had peaked, Malachai would announce himself. Any sooner, and the human would get swept up in proceedings before their fear really set the tone. Thus, on this and all assignments, Malachai waited to hear the panic and the wailing and the what-have-I-wrought’s.

He waited for quite some time.

He looked around, waving his hands to clear some of the lingering smoke—which was actually just high-quality steam. They never noticed the difference, and real smoke would have aggravated his asthma. The result was visually pleasing and left his suit wrinkle-free, but occasionally served to obscure a mortal who was too frightened to plead at the proper volume. Malachai arranged himself into a posture of menace and waited for the last of the steam to dissipate.

There was nobody in the room.

Malachai frowned in puzzlement. There were rooster-shaped salt and pepper shakers on a well-used round table, and a sign hung over the door that read “If you want breakfast in bed, sleep in the kitchen!” This didn’t make sense. He didn’t do domestic calls.

A massive brown Labrador lolloped around the corner, his tail waving frantically. Malachai narrowed his eyes and bared his fangs at the dog. He projected threatening thoughts, visions of Labradors being eaten by bigger, scarier dogs; visions of thunder and flooding and tigers pouncing on unsuspecting puppies; visions of the hounds of Hell shaking off their chains and storming the little kitchen in search of a mortal morsel.

The dog smelled Malachai’s shoes-and, ignoring Malachai’s pointed objections, his crotch-with great interest. He wuffled to himself about the results and sat. His tail thumped on the linoleum.

Malachai stared at the dog. Looked over his shoulder. Nobody there. Just him and the dog. He crouched in front of the beast and looked into the large, vacant brown eyes. First time for everything.

“Did…uh, did you summon me?”

The dog panted happily and continued thumping his tail.

“ I summoned you. He’s a dog . He can’t read Archaic Latin.” A woman walked into the kitchen. Malachai was not good at guessing mortal age, but his best estimate placed her at around…three hundred years old? She was upright and walking, but relied heavily on a dull aluminum cane. Her back was straight, and her eyes were clear, and Malachai assessed her as aware of her encroaching mortality, but not concerned by it.

Malachai drew himself to his fullest, most intimidating height, and began billowing smoke (well, steam). He drew breath to begin his Terrible Introductions. The dog stood and nudged a cold, wet nose into Malachai’s hand.

“Oh, go on and pet him, would you? He’s going to start pouting if you don’t. And enough with the special effects. We have a lot to discuss and not much time.”

Malachai turned to the woman and allowed the fires of Hell to blaze behind his eyes. He hissed in a fashion he had picked up from a colleague with a uniquely crocodilian aspect.

The dog whined softly and nudged at his hand again.

The woman lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table and raised her eyebrows pointedly at Malachai. “Pet Baxter, and then let’s begin.”

The hellfire and hissing hadn’t worked. There was only one explanation: this was a mistake. The woman was old for a mortal—if he recalled his training, humans started to peter out around three hundred and fifty years or so—and she had probably intended to place an order for a new pelvis or lawn furniture or something. She just didn’t realize who he was . It had never happened to him before, but it wasn’t unheard of—someone means to say “Operator, please connect me to Home Shopping Network customer support,” but they have a stutter, and what comes out instead is an Archaic Latin summoning of a Pestilent Creature.