Something More Than Night by Ian Tregillis Read Free Book Online

thing nobody can do. When two or more of us come into physical or conceptual proximity—that is, when our spheres of influence overlap—we’re bound by the consensual basis of reality. That’s where ontological consistency enters the picture. Nobody can flout that, not even the high rollers.” I sipped again, lubricating the pipes. “If you want to get fancy about it, you could say the structure of reality contains no branch cuts. Good thing, too. You got any idea what happens when some mugg decides it’d be real swell if time had six dimensions, while some rooster hiking his flaming sword through an adjacent Magisterium decides multidimensional thermodynamics is for suckers?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Molly. But she seemed a little less glum than she had been. Good. She was getting to be a real drip. Bet she’d have a nice laugh, if she ever gave it the reins.
    “It happened once, long time back. After the fireworks settled, the result was completely sterile. Which is sort of the whole point. You and me and the rest of the Choir? We make the mundane realm an easy place to live for the monk—… mortals. Thanks to us they’ve got causality and conservation laws and gravity and all sorts of perks. They’ve got it real good. And so do you. The system’s been in place for a good long while now, ticking along nicely. All you have to do is go with the flow and not rock the boat. It’s nothing but smooth angles as long as you don’t.”
    Flo set a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs on the counter and topped off my cup. I dusted the plate with salt and pepper while she swept the change into her apron. Then I lifted a forkful of rubbery eggs to my mouth and said, “Thus ends the lecture. Welcome to the Choir, kid.”
    Flametop was quiet for about as long as she’d ever been during our brief and stormy acquaintance. She hadn’t touched her coffee. The salesman got his plate of hash browns and demanded a bottle of catsup. The lamps buzzed, and in the kitchen somebody hit a single. The eggs weren’t bad. The bacon was worth every cent.
    “If you made this place,” said Molly, “how come you’re actually paying for the food?”
    “Aw, don’t pick on old Bayliss. Told you, I spent a lot of time on Earth. You’ll find thinking like a mortal is a tough habit to break.”
    “Were you mortal?”
    My snort sent coffee where it wasn’t meant to go. Rye fumes stripped the paint from my sinuses. “No,” I said, when I could speak again. “You’re a rare case. Most of us have been around since the big one.”
    Well, she was the only such case. Details, details.
    “Then why did you choose to make things compatible with li—”
    “Look, angel. Molly. If you want to argue teleology with the wise-heads, be my guest. But my opinions on the matter don’t amount to a hill of beans. I’ve given you the Pleroma 101 lecture, and now it’s time for me to dust.” I took the last bit of egg and bacon in a bite, and washed it down with what little remaining joe I hadn’t spilled or coughed on myself. I winked at Flo, retrieved my fedora and coat from the empty stool beside me, and gave the cook a little salute.
    “Good luck, doll.”
    Molly jumped to her feet. “That’s it? That’s fucking it ?” They were staring again, all of ’em. “You push me under a train, give me some half-assed meaning-of-the-universe crap, and then you fucking take off?”
    “As much as we seem to enjoy each other’s scintillating personalities, yes.” It was embarrassing, my screw-up, but the sooner I got away from her the sooner I could try to forget about it.
    I was glad she’d left the baseball bat back in Magisterial Minneapolis. Given a little more time to practice, the look in her eyes could have ignited the bacon grease on my shirt. “You owe me answers,” she said.
    She wasn’t lying. That nickel dropped when she fell from the platform. I sighed again. An overactive conscience can be a real wet