Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

“German! I knew it. Cut it a wee bit fine, if you ask me,” Mr. D. said with just the hint of a smile.

Harry shook his head. “Bray says it’s all up to the weather, and the weather isn’t talking very clearly to us or the Gerries right now. Wally couldn’t have compromised anything. And their intelligence should now be thoroughly confused as to Arthur’s activities.”

Arthur looked up from his book and gave a quick smile.

John also looked up, as if confused about something. “It worked, then?”

“Perfectly. Exactly as planned. You know, if you had whipped that beam across the face of the moon in a hundredth of a second, its apparent velocity would have been roughly the speed of light.”

“Do you think we’ll ever go that fast for real, Arthur?” John asked.

“Given enough time. Given we don’t kill ourselves in wars. Or maybe something else will find us that already goes nearer light speed.”

“In this case, faster than sound was more than sufficient,” Harry said. “Another pint. Mr. D. Make it the Young’s Stout; as it betrayed Wally and helped secure our invasion’s success. Is something wrong, John?”

John looked around, with the oddest sort of look on his face. “I was going to apologize. The operation was all a complete flop on my end. The power supply for the lamp burned out and I couldn’t get the light on at all. There was no projection.”

Then what was there?

After a decent interval, Harry said, “To reiterate, we are being watched. Another pint, Mr. D.” He lifted his glass with the kind of manic smile with which a man greets his dentist. “Cheers. Shouldn’t be long now, should it?”

“Ah.” Alice Mary, Our Lady of Justice, Solace to Superheroes, sipped her latest brew, savoring the light honey and berry notes. She shoved back the light cotton cuffs of her pale blue work shirt and raised the clear glass high, studying the amber liquid carefully for any floaters. Nothing. She compared the color of the beer to her own straight, ash-blond hair, pulling a strand forward to hold next to the glass. In contrast, the brew brought out the faint copper notes buried amongst the dull gold hair fading into brown. She could see the beer’s faint glow much better. A good sign, especially when brewing for superhero consumption. If the beer didn’t glow in plain light when compared to her hair, then it lacked the appropriate supernatural touch. “This should work for tonight’s War Council.”

She carefully took another swallow, inhaling deeply and smiling at the light aroma of honey and berries. Her talents didn’t include fighting battles, but at least she could brew up a beer to ease the pain of the superheroes, deities, saints and Holy People who formed the alliance battling the Kraken’s forces.

Someone stood behind her. Only a slight displacement of the warm, late afternoon breeze whispering through the open door of her brew shed in a garden courtyard of Monalba monastery told her of the arrival. Then the improbably lily-shaped magic wand hanging from her belt tingled. Itchy spot behind her right shoulder . Alice Mary smiled to herself.

“Hello, Coyote,” she greeted her old friend, rising to pour a glass for him. “Come early to taste my latest brew?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I always know when it’s you. You fill the room differently from anyone else.”

“Ah.” He sighed, took the mug, and sat heavily, his shape blurring between canine and human. His muzzle grew more pronounced as he sniffed her beer deeply. “And how do you produce such ambrosia?” His shape morphed toward the canine as he lapped the beer. A hind leg scratched at his left shoulder. He paused in his drinking to twitch the shoulder’s skin.

“Got something there?” Alice Mary asked.

Coyote shrugged and continued to lap his beer. “Nothing. Just an itch that won’t stop. This beer is marvelous! You’ve outdone yourself! How do you do it?”

“It’s just a knack,” she said. “Nothing big.”

Coyote stopped halfway through his change back to fully human, scowling. He scratched at his left shoulder with his right hand, growling deep in his throat. “You give us heart. That has value.”

“But does it stop the Kraken?” Her words came out sharper than she intended.

“Not all of us are called to war,” Coyote said. He lapped further at the beer, struggling to angle his muzzle deeper into the mug before pulling it out just enough for him to finish his transformation back into mostly human shape, that of a handsome young Native man with long black braids, laughing dark eyes, faintly pointed chin, and, incongruently, a gray and white tail. He took the mug in both hands once his nose had receded and drank deeply, slamming the now-empty mug down hard with a grin and wiping his face on the pearl snap-buttoned sleeve of his gray Western shirt. “And this— this , my lady of Justice, this will bring us the solace we need after today’s battle. Those hobgoblins—” He shook his head. “They are nothing like those we’ve encountered in the past. We’re losing superheroes, saints, demigods and humans alike. Something keeps sucking the strength out of the hobs’ victims. Foul, pustular growths appear on those the hobs attack, so they collapse and die. We can’t see where they come from, but those things grow freely on the hobs without affecting them!”

Alice Mary shuddered and got up to pour him another. “That sounds horrible. I’m glad this little brew gives you heart.” Her lily began to tingle again, this time in warning. She paused during the pour, frowning, trying to isolate the sensation. The vibration intensified. Invader. Invader.

But what? And how? She turned and slid the filled mug back toward Coyote, looking around, seeing no intruders. She frowned. Sometimes the lily sent her false warnings. This might well be one of those times. She took another sip of her brew. The world around her shimmered. Curious. She drank more. There was something on Coyote’s shoulder, a knobby, gnarled little gray and white knot that didn’t go with the shirt. Another drink. The carbuncle swelled larger.

“Is something wrong?” Coyote asked. He scratched at the outgrowth. His skin paled, gray under tan, almost the shade of his pale gray shirt.

“I’m not sure,” Alice Mary said slowly. She watched the growth. “How are you feeling?”

The growth faded away, but the skin on Coyote’s face began to sag. She took another drink, and the excrescence returned.

Coyote shook his head. “Faugh, I feel faint. More beer!” He drank deeply. “Ah.” Color returned to his face and the monstrosity shrank slightly.

Her lily buzzed insistently. Beer in one hand, she pulled it out of her belt, holding tight to the stem. A gift from her patroness St. Catherine, the lily had been known to develop a mind of its own at times. The lily pulled toward the thing on Coyote’s shoulder, tugging at her hand.

Alice Mary whacked Coyote on the shoulder, knocking the outgrowth loose. Coyote flinched away, a hurt look crossing his face.

“What the—Alice Mary, I didn’t do anything!”

“ Look ,” she said, pointing at the malignant, pulsating globule on the table between them.

“At what?”

“Drink. Drink it all.” She shoved another full tankard into his hands.

Coyote took a deep swig, his eyes on the table. Suddenly he leapt back, raising his hands protectively, spilling his beer on the table.

“That’s what appeared on those who died! I thought I was clear!”

The horror began to ooze toward Coyote, until it reached the puddle of beer. It stopped, then drew back.