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shouter-to-dead-parrots · 4 years

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Medium story - “Eye for an Eye”

The Great Leader cowered in his stronghold. The walls shook as each salvo from the grand Alliance found their mark. The glorious war was not going well. Once the world had awakened to what was taking place in his lands of his "benevolent union", their reaction had been swift and forceful.

Like many of his kind, the Great Leader underestimated the fortitude of his opponents and overestimated his own intelligence. Thus he overreached and was now in free fall.

The Eternal Empire was no more than the citadel that surrounded him. And soon enough that would fall and it would all be done. In public, the Great Leader strove to hold together the nation by sheer force of will. Within the walls of his inner sanctorum he knew better. The noose was around his neck and every thump of artillery pulled it tighter.

There was a price on his head - sufficiently large to impress even the Great Leader. A large reward was for there for the taking for anyone who delivered him into the hands of the Alliance - alive. Of course they would accept his corpse too, but there was only so much public humiliation they were willing to subject a dead body to, while the living could suffer the tortures of the damned over and over. He knew full well what would happen - they would drag him through the recently captured "special centers" where only the necessary had been done - what Nature would have done if not for the decadence and false compassion of so many members of the so-called Human race.

Nature grants victory to the swift and powerful, and sets the others aside, dispassionately. All the centers did was what necessary - cull the sick and infirm, the dull of mind and weak of spirit. In a proper world, her impartial forces of would have dealt with them as a matter of course. But the so-called Human race was itself weak and unwilling to do what was necessary. Its leaders were infected with the insane sentimentality that all human life is precious before God. What idiocy, thought the Great Leader. Even if there was this "God", there was scant evidence of the benevolence this belief required upon the part of the deity.

But whatever forces the Great Leader believed in had now deserted him, along with even his most trusted followers. When the Alliance forces set foot in the citadel, there would be no one to greet them. Cowards the lot of them, he thought.

The bombardment ceased. The Leader waited and soon heard the sounds of boots pounding down the hallway. Perhaps one pair belonged to the Great General who lead the alliance forces - he had a penchant for dramatics that the Great Leader shared. A flurry of gunshots rang out in the corridor - then silence. The door was flung open and the Great Leader found himself looking down the barrels of a dozen guns, held tightly in the hands of Alliance soldiers. Was it time, he asked himself? No, not yet. Sit still. Wait for the General.

The Great Leader sat smiling blankly at his would-be captors. After a moment he spoke: "I would like to speak to the General." Soon enough the General himself walked into the room. Not as tall as I expected, thought the Great Leader. Not as terrifying, either. An ordinary old man in rumpled fatigues, the only symbol of his rank the stars on his collar of his jacket. Very much different than the elaborate decorative uniform worn by the Great Leader - the very one he wore the day he first appeared before *his* people as their new ruler. Somewhat wrinkled from storage and tailored for the more robust man he once was, never the less the uniform projected authority - as befits the Great Leader.

He looked in the General's eyes and saw there a fire - not of mere hatred - he did not expect the General to be that simple. If took the Great Leader a few moments to determine what shown through the windows to the Generals' soul - not contempt - he had seen enough contempt in the eyes of his father to last him a lifetime. He knew how to deal with contempt. No, these eyes said something very different, unfamiliar.

A second later the Great Leader realized that the General's eyes were saying - weariness. The General was ready to return to hearth and home, sit by the fire with his wife and dogs and let the world go by. To give up being the General and once again just be a man.

Of all the emotions the Great Leader could read in the General's eyes, this was the one he was least prepared for. He could never quit being the Great Leader, sit by the fire and be just a man again. As long as he drew breath, the Great Leader he would be - with all that brought. His fall would not change that - even without the power to command armies, to dictate life and death over millions, he would still be the Great Leader. That thought wounded him deeply - what use was the title without the power? He had sacrificed the possibility of the domestic life to become the Great Leader, and did not regret it until this moment.

Until that moment, the Great Leader was sure of what he was going to do. Beneath this room rested the technological treasure of his nation - a home built nuclear weapon. Originally it was destined for an atmospheric test to let the world know of the power he held. Scraped together from reprocessed nuclear fission products, the device was small in yield but clumsy to transport, hence it never left the citadels' workshops. Now it waited a few meters below where the Great Leader and General stood glaring at each other.

With a smile, the Great Leader hit the trigger. He had a momentary perception of a light bright enough to make the floor beneath his feet transparent. Then darkness.

The Great Leader heard a name being called. It was not his name, but he recognized it, but not because he had ever heard it before. Something about this place belonged to the name. He began to feel a presence around him. No, he thought. Not around me, not even within me - I am the presence. He felt himself flowing into a new form, unknown but familiar. It was a human body, but not his own. This one felt younger, more vital than his own. But something was different - very different. He felt cold somewhere where one should not feel cold - a place which nature had carefully enclosed.

He tried to move but could not. This body was not capable of moving. I must be paralyzed, he thought. But even the most brain-damaged person can move something - an eyelid or - anything. He willed this body, by now he was sure that it was not his body, to move. Nothing happened.

The Great Leader fell silent within and realized what was wrong - the absence of breath or heartbeat. This body was dead. But it retained the warmth and softness of life, so the Great Leader presumed it was freshly dead. Now he was able to identify the sensation that had first assailed him upon consciousness - the coldness was in the abdomen - what was supposed to be inside was outside, spilled on the ground beneath his body.

Who is that? How did he die? The Great Leader wondered. In the next moment, his body was rudely flipped onto its back. Now the Great Leader could see through the dead man's staring eyes. The face he saw showed the concern of one warrior for another and the cold detachment of fighters in the midst of battle. After a moment that face vanished and all was still.

A new face came into view. The Great Leader had no measure of time, no count of heartbeats nor ticks of a mental clock. This face looked very different - it shone with the glee of victory and arrogance of power. The face looked closely at him and smiled. The barrel of an automatic rifle came to his eyes. A flash then darkness.

Awakening. This body was small with a burning pain between the legs and a crushed windpipe. Eyes gazing on a red face bulging with unbridled lust. One last sharp pain between the legs; then it ceased, leaving mangled flesh in its wake.

The Great Leader catalogued the other pre-mortem wounds; wrists cut and chafed, blisters from burns, a broken nose - he could go no farther. This body was that of a young girl, not yet on the cusp of puberty. She had been abducted, tortured, raped and finally strangled. In that moment, the Great Leader felt something rare - disgust and horror. For I ever did or caused to be done, the rape of children was forbidden. What kind of creature would perpetrate such horror upon a child?

His reverie was broken by the body being yanked off the filthy mattress and hauled up and down stairs until it was lain down on cold concrete. A burning gash appeared on each arm and he/she felt blood drain from the body. Then a horrible sound filled the room.

The face once again filled his/her vision, holding a running chain saw. With horror the Great Leader realized was about to happen and silently cried out for what, he didn't know - mercy?

He felt the flesh of his/her neck rip under the teeth of the saw and then darkness.

Awakening. Falling through the air among the shattered remnants of an airplane. Still strapped to seat but legs and arms torn away. Neck twisted at an impossible angle. The Great Leader remembers - the man with the bomb, the plane diving and rocking, passengers hurled around. A defiant scream in an unfamiliar language and then the explosion.

The ground approaches, the clouds recede, tumbling over and over again. The roof of a house, a yard with a garden. Darkness.

Awakening. This time there is anticipation, fear. He still has his own mind - he is not a mere observer. There is darkness, but also a presence - something in the shadows. The Great Leader gets to ask "what?" before sinking into deep, cold water. Darkness.

Awakening. The Great Leader senses the presence - waiting. Waiting for what? "Why?" he asks, but there is no answer but pain and horror. Darkness.

An angry child murders his parents for their insurance.

A man butchers his pregnant wife, cuts the baby from her belly and throws them both into a dumpster.

The torturer demands the answer his prisoner cannot give.

A child caught in the crossfire between narco-lord armies.

The poisoning wife, the obsessed ex-boyfriend, a cocaine-blurred holdup.

"What now, what now?" asks the Great Leader.

"Pain", a voice answers. "Threads broken short."

More pain. More darkness. "How many?" he now asks. "How many have I? How many must I?"

There is no answer but the cycle - Awakening. Terror. Pain. Darkness.

There is no counting, but only the cycle. And the other who waits.

A day, or a year, or a millennium, later the other speaks. "Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, life for life."

The Great Leader understood. And was horrified. How many lifelines had he savagely rent while there was still thread on the spool? How many weaves had he pulled from the tapestry of life?

He knew. A life for a life. A life for his life. For as long as it took to balance the scales.

Light.

Terror.

Pain.

Darkness.

Repeat.

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shouter-to-dead-parrots · 4 years

Text

Not so short story - “Wingman”

“Doctor, your four o'clock is here," came the receptionists voice through the intercom. The man behind the desk closed the file folder, stood up, and stretched. The last patient of the day, finally, he thought. Deal with this guy and it's off to the Bahamas for a week.

Day after day people discontented with the lot Nature gave them came to him to be made perfect. Tighter faces, larger breasts, a smaller butt.

Alex McNally MD had a good reputation and amassed a considerable fortune remaking the vain and beautiful. Early on he enjoyed the challenge of improving upon beauty, but that had soon lost its appeal. Now he ran a mechanical operation, an assembly line of body parts to be cut and stitched

This particular month was a rough one. He had reached the point of not caring and having to be careful not to mistreat his patients. He was good, but not so good that he could afford to be an asshole. Some plastic surgeons were assholes but were also so skilled that people put up with them. He was not yet in that category.

"Send him in," he spoke into the intercom, then rose wearily from the desk to greet his appointment. Within a few seconds the door opened and in walked the patient.

This is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. The face and body of a Greek god, with hair the color of sunshine and a skin tone which bespoke of Mediterranean ancestry.

"What can I do for you mister" he looked at the patient information form in front of him. "Merioplios", the man replied. "It's from an ancient Greek dialect. I come from a very old family."

This small talk continued for another couple of minutes, then the doctor again asked "What can I do for you?"

"I need reconstructive surgery."

“I haven’t done that for some time.”

"Yet you are highly competent and experienced in that area."

"Yes, but it is not my emphasis in this practice. I specialize in cosmetic surgery."

"Improving on God's work?" the man asked.

He nearly blushed. That motto had been chosen by his advertising agency. He didn't think much of it at first, but he had grown to like it and sometimes feel a bit boastful. He did improve upon what God, or Nature, had given people.

"A bit of advertising hyperbole, but it does attract patients." he replied.

"Your ads in LA Style do not speak of subtlety or modesty," the man said. "But on to business. I have need of some reconstructive surgery and will remunerate you well for the work. There are some growths on my body that I wish to have removed."

"How large are these growths?"

"Substantial."

McNally felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He felt mild rush of what - anxiety, excitement, fear? “I will have to see before I can tell you anything. If you will follow me”, motioning towards the examination room.

McNally expected the man to start disrobing, but instead he just stood there. The room filled with a soft white glow, temporarily blinding him. When the light subsided, Mr. Merioplios was transformed.

His skin glowed from within. But all that paled in comparison to the wings that sprouted from his back.

Even folded, they dominated the room. They were covered with delicate feathers. Each one was a distinctive color but every one of them was absolutely white.

He had heard that the Intuits have a thousand names for snow. He always thought that a clever saying but indicative of people with too much time on their hands. Now he understood. In a few seconds, his eyes adjusted to the light.

"Can you help me?" said the man.

"Help you?" McNally stammered. “You have wings,” he said and immediately regretted stating the obvious. “What are you?”

“I am of the body of Cherebum,” the man replied.

“You are … an angel?” The man nodded in assent. The doctor stood transfixed for what seemed an hour, staring blankly. When his voice returned, McNally whispered “May I touch them?"’

"You may do better than that, Doctor" the angel replied. "I wish you to remove them."

McNally was stunned. "Remove your wings? You want me to ... chop them off?" His voice quavered.

"To remove unwanted growths," the angel replied.

"Are they damaged or diseased?"

"They are in excellent condition, as am I. My reasons are personal."

An angel was sitting in his exam room asking to have his wings removed. "They don't cover this in medical school," he thought. "Why do you want your wings off?"

"That is none of your concern", the angel said. "Suffice it to say that I am willing and able to provide proper compensation for your services."

"I am not an expert in angel wings, but they look perfect. Why are you unsatisfied?” asked McNally.

"Ten minutes ago you were wondering just that about your patients. You questioned why you have a good business at making perfect people better. You are ashamed of what you do sometimes, taking lots of money from the beautiful to feed their egos and extend their careers. Part of you longs to return to reconstructing children's clef palates and trying to make burn victims look human again."

McNally was silent. That is exactly what he had been thinking just before the angel arrived. How could he know?

"'Improving on God's work', is that not your credo? Taking what God has made and remaking it to tastes of the customer? What I want is no different than the facelift you did for that young lady singer last week. You did good work, improving a face that was nearly perfect to begin with. I ask no more for myself."

"But wings! They are so big! Not like a nose job or tummy tuck. Those are ... adjustments. I don't do amputations."

"I have full confidence in your skills", the angel said.

"I don't know anything about your physiology. I wouldn't know what to cut where. I can't do it."

"I will give you instructions and provide the necessary instruments."

"But I couldn't... God, they are so ... "

"Perfect? A work of God that you can't improve on? Come now doctor, don't you believe in your own reputation?"

McNally sat silent for what seemed an eternity. The only sound in the room was that of his breathing. Breathing, he noticed. The angel was standing there still, not even breathing. His curiosity and bewilderment were giving way to fear.

"But wouldn't He be angry with me if I cut off your wings?" asked McNally.

"Him? You mean God?"

"I guess so. Whoever gave you your wings. Wouldn't He get mad if I destroyed them?"

"'Improving on Gods work'?"

"Stop throwing that at me", McNally snapped. "It's just an advertising slogan. I don't mean anything by it."

"But you chose it. Do you now not mean it? Have you changed your mind?"

"I'm not sure."

"Mortals rarely are when confronted with the reality their choices lead them to."

"Why do you want your wings removed?"

"Why do your other patients want their noses changed, their breasts enlarged or wrinkles removed? You only ask them if they have insurance coverage and which makeover package they want. Why I want this is beyond your comprehension. Beyond any mortals' comprehension. I assure you that I am capable of providing reasonable compensation, either monetary or metaphysical."

"Why did you come to me?"

"I saw your billboard. I liked your slogan and hoped you would live up to it."

"And if I refuse you?"

"I will go on my way and you will remember nothing of this."

"Maybe that would be for the better," McNally said.

"That will be for you to decide" replied the angel.

"I've got a 7 o'clock flight to catch. It must be nearly five by now."

"You have all the time in the world," he said gesturing at McNally’s watch. The doctor looked at the Rolex on his wrist and saw that the second hand was no longer moving. He shook his wrist and tapped the crystal "Damn, must have let the battery run down again."

"I assure you your watch is working perfectly. It is time which is in abeyance. So, you have all the time you need to make a decision."

"Let's step back into my office" McNally said, motioning out of the exam room. They returned to his office, and he dropped into his chair.

"Would you find me less intimidating if I sat down?" the angel asked.

"That would be more comfortable for me, yes."

"Then I shall have a seat" and planted himself in the overstuffed chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Minutes passed in silence, then the doctor asked “I need to know only one thing of you before I decide.”

"As you wish.”

"I need to know why."

"About what?"

"Why you don’t want your wings."

Meriopolis' eyes narrowed. McNally saw a flash of anger cross the angelic face. Oh God, I've pissed off an angel, he thought. This could be bad.

"Very well. I will tell you why I want my wings removed. I warn you that my story will be disturbing. Some may call it blasphemy. Do you believe in the soul?"

"I never thought a lot about it."

"Yes, you did. Between 12 and 13 you spent a lot of time wondering about God and whether you had a soul and if that mattered. You decided that God did not matter and souls did not exist. You mother nearly fainted when you told her that you were not going to confirmation."

The angel continued "Some of us were born on the eve of creation. The first inhabitants of the Universe were the most powerful creatures except for the Creator. Later they created more such, of a lesser standing and power. I am one of those.”

"From the Creation. The Big Bang and all that? Are you fifteen billion years old?"

"Time is very different in my realm and yours. Suffice it to say that I am much older than Mankind."

"But you appear human."

"You need us to be in your image."

"Or we in yours."

"That is also possible." the angel smiled.

"Life in the higher realm is unlike anything of this existence. The Universe passed cycles and eons, time had little meaning. Then came your people and everything changed."

"Changed? How?"

"The Presence took an interest in your people and sent some of the Host to watch over you. I was one of them."

"How long ago?" McNally asked. This was getting weird. He could not believe what he was hearing but he knew it was all true. What am I getting involved in?

"By your standards, I have been here for five hundred thousand years, give or take a century or two."

The angel stood, walked to the window and stared out as if looking for something well beyond the horizon. "When your race was a few bands of primitives, the Presence decided that you were destined for greatness. The most trusted and powerful of us was sent to watch you but not interfere.

“For a thousand generations, he did just that. What he saw broke his heart. While your race held the spark of greatness, he also saw in you the embers of self-destruction. The very passions which make humans capable of glory also make you quite capable of horrors.”

He turned from the window, as if he had not found whatever he was looking for. "The angel returned home and petitioned the Presence for permission to help. His plea was presented with an impassioned oratory that we still remember. We were sure that the Host would agree. How could He not? Man needed some help else he would be gone in the blink of His eye, and all that potential would be lost.”

"But He did agree, right?" said McNally. "We're still here, so we must have had help."

"The Host refused the petition and chastised the angel who delivered it."

"What happened?"

"He fled in anger, renouncing his allegiance to the Host and in defiance he drew a flaming sword and severed his own wings. In the deep hours of the morning, I can still hear his screams of pain and terror. He was no longer one of us."

"Did this angel have a name?"

He smiled. "Your people have called him by many names since that day. He was called the Lightbringer, herald of the morning star. ... You may know him as Lucifer."

"Wasn't he cast out for the sin of pride - something about loving himself more than he loved God?"

"That is the official story. It sounds better than admitting that one of the heavenly hosts stomped out in anger and told the Almighty to get stuffed."

"Was he punished?"

"Your kind blame him for all the evil of this world and beyond. Being reviled by most and sycophantically worshipped by a few lunatics. Cast down from the guardian of Mankind to be the pariah of Heaven. Pretty strong punishment, don't you think? Thousands of years of a ruined reputation.

"I was selected to take his place in your world. I did not feel adequate to the task. The light bringer was ... is a much better mentor than I."

"Where is he now?"

"Everywhere. He returned to be unofficial guardian of Humankind, but the dispute with the Almighty embittered him. He is not the ... man he used to be. His cause is to help humanity advance by misfortune and challenge. He believes that all must learn by triumph and failure, peaceful evolution and violent revolution, good ... and evil."

"So, is he the Devil?"

"Yes and No. The evil Man does comes from your own hearts. No demons are whispering in your ear, despite what Grandma Hattie told you."

"If I do remove your wings, what happens to you?"

"I don't know. Maybe I just walk out that door and lose myself in the happy-hour crowd. Maybe I cease to exist. Maybe nothing happens."

He's lying, McNally thought. He knows damn well that something bad will happen and is looking forward to it.

"What will happen to me?" McNally asked. "I would damage the body of the Host. Wouldn't he be mad at me?"

"You said you didn't believe in God."

"I said that I wasn't sure, and when in doubt, I chose the stance of the skeptic. Until now. I don't know if I believe your claim to be an angel. But I know what my senses tell me.

"Maybe I am wrong about God. Maybe you are an angel. If what you tell me is true, I'm scared."

Silence held for a few seconds. The angel said "You are scared. Good. Finally, you are asking the right questions."

"But what are the answers?"

"That," said the angel, "remains for you to see."

"Would the ... removal hurt you?"

"More than any mortal could conceive. My wings are not appendages like your arms and legs, they are the very essence of my being. Losing a single feather hurts like you breaking your arm."

McNally stared out the window. It was already near sunset and he had a spectacular view to the west as the sun sank into the brown haze that nearly obscured the spires of the downtown skyscrapers.

I can't do it, he thought. He is too perfect. I would be destroying something holy. I am a corrector of Nature's mistakes. But this is not of Nature. I cannot do it. McNally turned to face the angel and tell him. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment. In that instant McNally saw the angels' life. From a distant moment when his spirit was conjured from the primordial ylem and made into form, through his long eons of waiting and watching, to his time with Man, seeing the parade of history pass by but unable to alter its tragic path. McNally saw a reflection of the heavens, the ebb and flow of life and death, destruction and rebirth. Most of all he saw exhaustion. This emissary of the Power of the Universe, was tired and more than anything, wanted his journey to end.

The gaze lasted only an instant, but McNally had in that half-tick of the clock more than he had in his entire life, and maybe in past lives also.

“When I was 10 years old, my best friend Jimmy Kellor was in a car accident. He lived but was badly burned. He didn’t want anyone visiting him in the hospital. I begged to see him, even for a minute. I had to know he was still Jimmy. His parents thought it was okay, but said that Jimmy was adamant about not being visited.

“I begged, I cried, I cursed God that my best friend would get hurt. After Jimmy came home, he never came out, starting being home schooled. For two months I must have called or tried to visit nearly every day and always Jimmy wouldn’t even talk to me. Then I just gave up.

“Rumor was that Jimmy had been burned so badly he didn’t look human. There were some really gross stories going around school about how he looked. Then one day when I was home sick, I saw Jimmy and his mother get in their car, off to rehabilitation. I got one look at his face and wished more than anything that I was a plastic surgeon who could fix his face and bring back my friend.

“His family moved to the other side of town soon after, to be closer to the hospital. A few months later I overheard my mother telling my dad that she saw Jimmy’s name in the newspaper. It was in the obituaries. He killed himself, but of course that is never listed as the cause of death.

“I know that my best friend killed himself because he could not stand what he looked like. I wanted him to be the same Jimmy that I had always known, but he’s not. I was depressed for weeks.

“So, you decided to become a plastic surgeon in the memory of your dear friend.” Said the angel, again with a sliver of irony.

“Yes”, McNally laughed. “As corny as that sounds, that is just what I did. I changed from nearly flunking out of school to honor roll in one term. I vowed to make it to medical school and become a plastic surgeon. I wanted to be the person who could fix damaged people.”

“But something diverted you from that altruistic path.”

“Graduating with $120,000 of school loans to repay. There isn’t much money in rebuilding the faces of burn victims – at least not enough to pay off that debt in anything less than a lifetime. I became a junior doctor in a cosmetic surgery practice. It was only for a few years to pay my bills and get some experience.

“I found out I had a great skill for face lifts and tummy tucks. I could do them easily and they paid well, usually in cash so there were no troublesome insurance hassles between the practice and the patients. Well to do people came in, looked at the catalog, pointed out what they wanted and were sent to my knife. In five years, I fixed hundreds of nearly perfect people, and had paid off my debts. It was easy money. I was seduced.

“You forgot about Jimmy and his scarred face” said the angel.

“I … forgot”, replied McNally. “Yes, I forgot why I went to medical school in the first place. Forgot the desire to make people whole again. I lived in a world where the nearly perfect wanted to be made better and were willing to pay what it cost. I was all too willing to take their money and give them their illusion – after all what do they say about a fool and his money?

“You are no fool, Doctor McNally. You are blessed with a great talent, and beneath your professionally detached demeanor, a kind heart. Though you would not grant yourself that honor.” Replied the angel.

“Fifteen years of helping people lie about their appearance can wear anyone down. I wouldn’t give this up for anything but I’m so tired of it.”

The angel held out his hand and there appeared something akin to a short sword or very long knife. It glowed a soft white, which reminded McNally of glacier ice. An involuntary shiver ran up his spine. “I don’t want to touch this thing,” he thought. It looks like death. A bubble of bile surged up his esophagus, and it took considerable effort to force it back down. It left a stale smell in his nostrils.

“This … thing can cut off your wings?” asked McNally.

“It is sufficient for the task,” replied the angel, holding the handle towards McNally. “If you please,” and he spread his wings, filling the room with luminescence. McNally looked at the implement proffered by the angel. He tried to reach for it but his muscles failed to expedite his desire. He stood frozen there, trapped by the force of his own indecision.

For McNally minutes passed, then he slowly reached out and accepted the instrument from the angels’ hand. It was cold as ice and heavy as a millstone, he was surprised that he could even hold it.

“At your discretion, doctor”, said the angel, who then closed his eyes and assumed a stance of what McNally assumed was prayer.

Time slowed to nothing. An eternity passed while McNally stood with the strange implement in hand, looking at the wings, finding himself mesmerized in the endless vista of white feathers. The sword handle froze and burned his hands. He heard a dissonant chorus in his head, pleading for him to strike and begging him to stay.

After a seeming eternity, McNally said “No. “I cannot do this. I will not do it.” He offered the sword back to the angel by the handle.

The angel looked up and stared at the blade as if loathe to handle it again. A look of surprise and disappointment crossed his perfect face, but only for a fleeting moment.

McNally continued “It would have destroyed us both. You knew that but didn’t tell me. Were you ready to sacrifice me as well as yourself? Doesn’t seem like the behavior I would expect from an angel.”

The angel was silent, holding the sword before him, eyes fixed on the blade of cold fire.

McNally dropped onto the couch, feeling like a marionette whose strings have been severed. He was exhausted but serene, more than he had been for years.

“I had this patient years ago. I was just out of medical school and working my first job in at a that practice. She was trying to be an actress but her career was going nowhere, so her agent said “Go get a nose job.” I thought there was nothing wrong with her nose and told her so. She agreed, but explained that her agent told her that unless she got her nose ‘fixed’, she could not expect the good roles.”

“I tried to talk her out of it, and finally succeeded. I hoped she would go back to her agent and give him the what-for. Later I heard that her agent had made an angry phone call to a senior partner of the practice, complaining of my disrespect towards his charge, and a solemn vow to direct as much business away from us as possible. The senior doctor tore me a new asshole and damn near fired me on the spot. I learned that the patient is always right, even when they aren’t.”

“What of the woman?” asked the angel.

“The senior surgeon did it himself and docked my pay to cover the cost. I didn’t think her face looked any different, but. now she gets $20 million per picture. And someone else got the credit for her face.”

“Do you regret turning her down?”

“I regret the shit I got, but no, I don’t regret telling her the truth. She didn’t need a nose job - I knew it and she knew it. But her feelings didn’t matter. Logic didn’t matter. Truth didn’t matter. But I never said no to a patient again. Until now.”

“Then you will not honor my request?” said the angel.

“No.” replied McNally. “I can’t do it. I don’t know why, but I can’t.”

The angel stared past McNally, eyes focused at something over the horizon. McNally stood, feeling strangely calm inside. I should be terrified, he thought. I’ve just pissed off a being of unknown power and dubious attitude. I could be toast any second now.

“There is hope for you yet, dear doctor.” said the angel. “There is hope for you yet.” He turned towards the door. The sword and his wings vanished. He once again looked human. He opened the door, “Good day Doctor McNally”, and headed out the door.

“I have one more question,” called McNally as the angel was about to step through the doorway. The angel half turned to face him, a wry look upon his face.

“What would have happened to you – and me – if I had removed your wings? You said you didn’t know. That’s not true, is it?”

The angel mused for a second, and replied “That would have depended upon you, my friend. Now I must be going.” He walked through the door, closing it behind. McNally heard him say goodbye to the receptionist, and listened as his footsteps left the foyer.

McNally sat in his chair for a long time, looking at nothing. The beep of his intercom startled him back into reality. His receptionist was leaving for the weekend. Mechanically McNally acknowledged the call, then noticed something on his desk.

There sat a single white feather. McNally picked it up gently, looking at it as if it were some alien artifact dropped from the sky. As he examined the feather, it appeared to slightly twinkle, just enough to notice if you were careful. Payment, he thought.

Alex McNally MD sat in his chair looking at his angel feather for a long, long time.

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shouter-to-dead-parrots · 4 years

Text

Short Story - “The Adjustment”

“The Director will not like your report”, said Eleanor. “What you propose is insane. How the hell are you going to sell that shit to anyone?”

“The numbers are all there, Eleanor”, I replied. “I don’t like what they say either, but I’ve run them a hundred times with deviations on the scenarios and the results are the same - plus or minus five percent.”

“Plus or minus 50 million,” she said. “That just can’t be true, Adam. Did you use the standard projection algorithms?”

“And the advanced, and the experimental, and the old ones. They all gave essentially the same answer. All of the projections eventually converged within five percent of each other. Three tracks came in less than one percent apart.

“These numbers are as solid as our computers can make them. Is this unbelievable? Is this totally insane? Is it a ride on the WT&F? Hell yes. I wish they weren’t.”

The comm on Eleanor’s desk beeped. “He will see you now. I don’t know if I should wish you good luck or not.”

I smiled at Eleanor and replied “I don’t know either.”

I entered the Director’s office and walked up to the desk.

“Projection Statistician Adam Mackensie sir.”

“Sit down, Mr. MacKensie”, said the Director. “This is one hell of a projection you have here,” he said, holding up the data pad on which I could see my report. “Where the hell did you get this from?”

“The upcoming year is a major inflection point in some major countries. We know many of the current actors will be contending for power. While the behavior of some of these individuals is difficult to project, a distribution analysis of their past actions does provide a basis for calculating their future actions.”

“You mention here that psychological aspects of the prime individual remain a wild card in these calculations. Explain.”

“Psychological aspects are a wild card because there is no accepted method for factoring them into the projection process. Several experimental frameworks exist but they appear to have very little shared theory and processes - no easily located common ground. For that reason I have not included such data into my projections. However as noted in footnote four, one reasonable approximation of psychological aspects of individuals can be to increase the randomness factor in certain modelings. I have done so for data sets six, eight and nine, for which this idea appears most applicable. The original computations are, of course, also included.”

“I noticed that. Your randomization factoring gives some very interesting and also disturbing results. In fact I find all your results disturbing. If true, these projections are extremely disturbing. If not true, then this deviation from your usual standard of work is disturbing.”

“I understand,” I replied. “I hope these numbers are wrong, that I missed something important, that I made an impulsive conclusion which is not really backed by the data. I am very disturbed by these projections.

“But I know that just because I am not sure about a projection, that does not mean it should be dismissed. Even if what I learn from it is what not to do in the future, all projections have value, even if they are wrong.”

The Director leaned back in his chair, listening. After an eternal few seconds of silence, he leaned forward, placing his arms on the desk.

“I believe that you believe your projections. I find no procedural or process errors in your computations. I have no objections to your source data, though I think some of it is well outside our usual information acquisition channels, but that is how we get answers - ‘Listen To Everything’.

“You are not the first Projection Statistician to bring me a report like this. Two others very similar have landed on my desk in the last three months. They were also disturbing and in places, terrifying.

“Now I have three data points - although your projection is not as … colorful as one your colleague’s. But they all say essentially the same thing.”

“Thank you sir,” I replied. “It is reassuring to know that others have followed the bread crumb trail and reached the same destination.”

“Now,” the Directory continued, “About this possible ‘adjustment’ of yours. No one else has suggested much in the way of revectoring their projections - such things are usually way above the paygrade of a Projection Statistician.”

“Indeed so, sir. I assure you that my projections were not influenced by my theoretical adjustments. The adjustments are the product of counter-scenario infraction point analysis. “

“Yes, I recognized the structure of the adjustment scenario. But this is the most extraordinary adjustment I have ever seen. It is also the most unbelievable and horrible one I have seen.”

“Yes sir, I am aware that this may fall into the category of world-wide effect with long-term alteration of societal and economic structures.”

“Well, that’s one way of saying it. I trust you know what happened the last time an adjustment of this type was employed. It was meant to quickly end a terrible war but indirectly caused another more horrible and murderous war. I’m not sure we made the right choice.”

“I agree that the 1918 adjustment had severe unexpected consequences. As did those of 1940 and 1943. I am fully aware of the hubris of attempting such large scale adjustments. Understand that I would not have even worked on a counter-action had not the conclusions of all these projections converged at the same place at slightly different times.”

“This idea of yours would.. “

“Cause considerable damage and losses, but still orders of magnitude less than the projections.”

“I am not sure that I can agree with you on that,” said the Director. “Our goal is to avoid as much trouble as possible, to smooth the road as well as we can - fill the holes, remove the rocks, put up guard rails. We don’t blow up the road.”

“I consider this placing tire spikes on the road,” I replied. “We can see the bus weaving from side to side at a dangerous speed. We know the driver is reckless and none of the passengers who can speak to him will be listened to.

“I am telling you that the bus is soon going to take out a guard rail and crash into the ravine, killing many and wounding more. Ripping up the tires will not stop the bus, but they won’t be going fast enough to breach the guard rails. Yes,the bus will be damaged and quite likely a number of the passengers killed, but more will walk away than be carried and the driver will be pulled from behind the wheel.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked the Director.

“No way in hell,” I replied. “The probability distribution here is totally insane. A million things could go wrong - and the outcome would still be better than letting the bus fall down the cliff.”

“You estimate the loss at about 1.3 billion, plus or minus 50 million. Your adjustment comes in at about 10 to 12 million. Still a lot.”

“The difference between going over the edge and smacking up against the guard rail. I am not happy with any of those numbers. I don’t want any of them to be right - I want them all to be so damn small that everyone gives me shit about it.”

The Director is quiet for another eternity.

“Adam, I believe your projections. Your work is as solid as anything I have seen in years. So is the work of your colleagues who came to the same conclusion. If things continue as they are, certain powers will consider themselves totally unrestrained. What is already bad for many will become horrible. It will only take a small match to start a huge fire.”

“And finally the long knives,” I said. “Eight-nine percent probability of another world war within three years. At best there would be about 100 million dead during the first week. Then more war, more bombings, more genocide, more dying of a rampant contagion. Hundreds of millions die in the vacuum where governments used to be. My number of 1.3 billion sounds insane, but every projection gets there within twelve months of the war starting.”

“But your way could also kill millions”, said the Director. “Do you really believe that this would properly adjust the vector?”

“All evidence indicates that Actor One would fail to manage such a crisis, bringing forth a chaotic response that would cause great suffering and damage and that would be enough.”

“Have you considered the unexpected side effects or consequences of this plan?”

“All that I can without trying to factor in more psychological vectors. But yes, there will be unexpected side effects. There always are.”

“Sometimes the ‘side effects’ are more important and more remembered than the actual actions taken. And more deadly.”

“Yes sir, there are a lot of wildcards in this game, and we don’t even know how many cards are in the deck, much less who is the dealer. We will have to deal with that when it comes up.”

“Not ‘if’?”

“We both know the answer to that,” I said.

“How do you get the tacks on the road?” asked the Director.

“The same way you always do - let people do what people do, despite being told how bad or dangerous it is. But we will have to do a nudge here and there to keep up the momentum. We both know that won’t take more than a couple of months. And we have less than a month to take action.”

“Why hasn’t this crossed my desk earlier?”

“I did not believe that a projection of this grave a nature should be presented without at least the outline of a possible adjustment or revectoring. I ran many scenarios, tweaking the parameters to come up with something better. Time has run out for that.”

“Indeed, the Board of Governors will not meet for two more weeks. That does place a considerable time restraint on this plan. I suppose I could authorize this as an emergency act, or conduct a flash poll of the Governors, but I suspect some of them would have considerable problems with this proposal.”

“I believe you are correct about that,” I said. “Taking into account the composition of the Board, I agree with your assessment.”

“Well thank you Mr. Mackensie. You have left me with much to think about - and have nightmares about.”

The Director and I rose from our chairs. We shook hands and I turned to leave. I was just about at the door when he spoke to me again.

“You are right. That son-of-a-bitch is going to get us all killed. This is an insane way to get rid of him, but I haven’t yet been presented with an idea that isn’t a hell of a lot messier. It may be that we sacrifice the lives of millions than lose billions later. We shouldn’t have that power. No one should have that power. Only God should have that power, and oh are we not presumptuous to believe that we are fit to wield it.”

“This was not what I signed up for either,” I said. “Maybe we are better off not knowing?”

“You and I know that is bullshit.”

I nodded in agreement.

“I dare not authorize this, you know that?”

“Yes sir, I know that.’

“What would it take?”

“All you need is a living body in the right place at the right time,” I said.

“Aren’t you due for some time off? You have been working very hard. Take a trip - see some exotic corner of the world. And then go to Europe, Russia - take the Grand Tour.”

“Thank you sir, but although I do not complain about my compensation, such an undertaking is well beyond my means.”

“That can be managed, Mr. Mackensie. That can be managed.”

The look on the Director’s face stifled any questions I might have had. I understood. Oh fucking hell I understood.

“Yes sir, good day sir.” I walked out the door of the Director’s office and heard it close behind me.

“How did it go?” asked Eleanor. “Still got your job?”

I looked her in the eyes. Within seconds she understood. Her face went pale.

“Oh shit”, she said.

“Oh shit,” I replied.

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