For Gods' Sake

By Paul Brockman

There's going to be trouble.
Alien gods have decreed that all the mortals in the Polyverse must be integrated for their own good. Zeus is really upset about it, which doesn't bode well for anyone who gets in his way. Storm clouds are gathering over Mount Olympus. The alien mortals charged with implementing the Integration Plan are not happy about it either and plot sabotage. Their first step, obviously, is to build a brothel in an out-of-the-way village on planet earth. A high-ranking diplomat is murdered in the brothel and this leads to a godswar that will destroy the earth, purely as a side effect, of course—it's nothing personal.
Annihilation is assured unless Amelia Maybury, spinster of Little Howling, can solve the murder and save the world. The task will pit her against gods and aliens. The gods may think themselves immortal, and they may be pretty good at hurling thunderbolts, but sometimes they're a bit thick, so outwitting them should be fairly straightforward. The aliens, on the other hand, are tricky devils. Amelia will have to watch her step.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Brockman
• Release date: Jan 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465742087

Paul Brockman

Paul Brockman relocated from England to America in 1984. A retired aerospace engineer, he has written several novel-length stories, mostly in the science fiction and humorous fantasy genres, with an excursion into an autobiographical book about hot-air ballooning. These are currently available as ebooks. Brockman has relocated to Somerset, England

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Prologue

Have the gods all gone mad?

The speaker suddenly found himself in an expanding emptiness as other members of the gathering inched away from him and looked nervously skyward for thunderclouds. The chaircreature's eyestalks twitched spasmodically. This nervous tic was a recent development.

It's a fine idea. Very, er—progressive. We must implement it as soon as possible.

But it won't work, the dissenter said, flatly. It's outrageous. People won't stand for it.

Those closest to him increased their separation still further. The chaircreature's head bobbed up and down in negation, though his eyes didn't move at all.

It is a decree from the gods, he said pontifically. "Indeed, they are most insistent that it be done at once. We must therefore lend the venture our wholeminded support. Integration is the new watchword, gentlethings. Integration. It is a word with which we will soon all be familiar—in the new context of course."

It's crazy, the dissenter insisted. A creature on the other side of the long table slammed down a malformed hand, his claws clacking on the tabletop. He sneered at the dissenter.

I would expect nothing less from a Sikbut. The gods have spoken! Ours is not to question but to obey!

The others said nothing. Their minds were still trying to gain traction on the slippery surface of the new concept. The chaircreature filled the numbed pause.

Of course, the gods take the long view, he ventured, their notion of immediacy could encompass a substantial period—possibly a lifetime, mmm—or longer.

Several pairs of eyestalks swiveled in the chaircreature's direction. We must work together—Sikbut and Galt. If we cooperate to the fullest extent and demonstrate that we are taking their edict seriously, perhaps they will leave us alone to get on with it. Long enough perhaps for integration to become someone else's problem. Or perhaps they will just forget about it as time goes by, gods being what they are.

The other members of the gathering leaned forward. The chaircreature studied his claws minutely. He had their attention now. Even the dissenter showed interest. Only the Galt with the deformed hand seemed unready to move on.

The gods are immortal, he muttered. "Much time could pass before they forget."

What we need, the chaircreature continued, with an irritated glance at the Galt, is a plan.

And of course you have one? the dissenter ventured. The chaircreature looked around the table and smiled, revealing perfect black fangs.

But of course, he said.

* * *

Zeus lowered himself gingerly onto his massive throne and groaned. He glanced around the great hall to see if anyone was watching. It was bad enough that he had the headache to end all headaches without having his discomfort witnessed by lesser gods. The hall was empty save for a servant who was busy sweeping near the entrance. If the man had heard the god's thunderous groans he paid no attention. Not that it would have mattered if he did. Mortals didn't count.

The conclave had been held in one of the many garden spots of the Polyverse. It had been fun while it lasted, especially the orgies, but now it was over and things would soon be back to normal. He'd been back on Mount Olympus only a little while and already it felt as though he'd never been away. It was good to be home. Now, if only his head would stop throbbing…

Zeus reached for his golden goblet and took a mighty swallow of the dark wine within. It wouldn't cure a hangover but it would make it wait until he was ready to deal with it. The conclave hadn't been all play. There had been much pompous talk about guiding people's destinies and shaping the future of the Polyverse. All utter nonsense, of course. Sanctimonious drivel. Zeus ruled the gods of his dimension and the gods ruled the lives of men. Such was the theory. In practice men did exactly what they wanted to do and the gods manipulated events to align with what humans had decided to do anyway. The gods felt they were performing a useful function and men were reassured that the gods were on their side. That made it not just acceptable but mandatory to take up arms against wrong-thinking unbelievers. Such activities were performed with very little intercourse between men and gods. The system worked so well that formal communications were no longer necessary. Zeus liked to maintain a clear demarcation between mortal and immortal. Apart from the occasional—actually, more than occasional—dalliance of gods with humans the lives of gods and men seldom intertwined. Zeus frowned upon such fraternizing. And when the supreme ruler of the gods frowned somebody was going to be very sorry. Retribution was swift and terrible. Well, fairly swift, and usually not very nice. The gods thought themselves immortal, of course, but as some had discovered to their cost, that could mean spending the rest of eternity as a toad with an unquenchable penchant for fermented grape juice.

The conclave had adopted some progressive notions toward the end. Progressive was not a word that Zeus favored. This integration business was the latest of their fancies. He had gone along with it because he was well into his cups when the matter came up for a show of hands—or in some cases, tentacles. On sober reflection (or as sober as he was likely to get) the whole idea seemed fraught with problems. The longer he pondered the likely ramifications of integration the less he cared for the idea. Take this dalliance business for instance; it was one thing for the younger and more rebellious gods to involve themselves with human females—or perhaps males, according to taste—but the possibilities that presented themselves when you threw aliens into the mix made Zeus reach for his goblet again. No, it was no good—this integration nonsense would have to be stopped. The great god glowered until a small cloud began to form above the golden throne. The conclave of the gods had voted for integration, Zeus among them. Only a handful had opposed the motion. It would have mattered not at all whether he had voted for, voted against, or abstained. Zeus pounded his fist onto the arm of his throne in frustration. In his own halls he was accustomed to being revered; he was accustomed to being obeyed; he was even accustomed to being drunk, but he was not accustomed to being irrelevant. The thunderous crash echoed from wall to distant wall and thunderheads gathered over the mountain. The servant clutched his ears and fell to his knees. Zeus was not a happy god and when Zeus was unhappy Mount Olympus was not a good place to pick for a weekend getaway.

Zeus gestured irritably and the trembling servant found himself kneeling before the throne.

Find Hermes! the god boomed, and bid him attend me at once!

The servant tried to leap to his feet but his best efforts resulted in an agonized stagger.

Right away master! he croaked. Zeus watched him hobble slowly across the great hall.

Zeus snapped his fingers. The servant froze.

What do you think you're doing?

My best, master—nothing less, I swear. The voice sounded as though it had crawled across broken glass. The god was confused.

How long have you served me?

Almost three hundred years, lord, man and zombie, the pale servant replied.

Why then do you not hasten to obey me?

It's my old bones, master, I just can't leap about like I once could.

Zeus mulled over the servant's answer for several moments. Gods may be immortal and omnipotent but they're a bit thick sometimes. At last, understanding suffused his features. He snapped his fingers again.

Now you shall leap, he commanded. The zombie straightened, leaped into the air and clicked his heels. A grin spread slowly across his lined face.

Thank you, lord. Now, can you do anything about my voice?

Zeus was in no mood to be grinned at.

Begone impudent human! Find my son as I commanded!

The zombie's grin disappeared. He bowed and then scuttled out of the great hall. When he was out of his master's sight his grin returned. At least he could bow and scuttle again.

Chapter one

Thirteen Men A-hanging

Stan Arkright wove his short fat way along in the general vicinity of the gutter, stumbling occasionally, and with frequent pauses to hiccup. He was able to walk—in the loosest sense of the word—or hiccup, but apparently not both at the same time. Nonetheless, his progress had a sort of swagger about it; a devil-may-care approach to perambulation that left his companion in his wake. Brian Borthwaite also weaved, but he did so with the considered and cautious gait of a hunting stork. If, in his present condition, he should abandon caution and fall, then for him it would be a long drop.

Wait up, Stan! Where's the bloody fire? Borthwaite's voice crashed into the breathless quiet of the suburban night. He reached out to steady himself against the trunk of a substantial oak, one of many that lined the edges of the residential avenue. There was nobody about to watch the pair save for the oaks who didn't much care what the humans did as long as they weren't carrying chainsaws.

Arkright paused, hiccupped, and turned slowly about, his arms flailing to assist the maneuver.

If I don't get 'ome before dawn the missus'll kill me. Get a move on will yer?

She'll kill you anyway, you drunken sod.

Damn right I'm drunk. Money well spent, that was, Arkwright said, smugly.

Borthwaite closed the gap between them and paused, swaying slowly. The light from a streetlamp bathed the pair in its ghastly sodium aura.

How's it money well spent? All you did was piss it up against the wall.

What wall? I din't see no wall. Arkright chuckled and then fell quiet. The expression on his companion's face aborted further witty repartee. He lurched around to follow Borthwaite's gaze and became suddenly a lot less drunk.

Bloody 'ell!

In the partial shadow of the great tree, hanging like some grim Christmas ornament, a man dangled by his neck from the end of a rope. Arkright backed slowly away. Tripping on some unseen obstacle he fell heavily. As he struggled to rise his hand fell upon a furled umbrella. Beside it lay a bowler hat. Borthwaite tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he pointed. From the next tree a second figure dangled, identical to the first. Arkright gained his feet. Grasping his companion's arm he tugged on it, urging him away from the trees. The pair began to run and didn't stop till they were far away. Considering their fragile condition their progress described a remarkably straight line.

There were thirteen bodies in all. One in each of the thirteen trees that lined the street. Thirteen furled umbrellas lay on the ground beneath them, together with thirteen bowler hats and thirteen neatly folded journals printed on pink paper. That they had been captains of the financial world was readily apparent. That they were to achieve immediate posthumous fame as the Banker's Dozen was ineludible.

* * *

The tall man moved warily, staring about at his unfamiliar surroundings. Ahead of him on the narrow way a blue-clad figure, wrapped in a perpetual cloud of suspicion, closed the gap between them with ponderous inevitability. Constable Percy Bloom was, contrary to recent trend, a very large policeman. Impervious to heat or cold, his blue serge uniform enclosed and shielded his substantial frame summer and winter like the armor of the righteous. The front wheel of his only known mode of transportation, a throwback to a time when things were made to last, wavered scarcely at all and turned slowly, maintaining a regulation speed. With many years of Mrs Bloom's dinners beneath his belt Constable Bloom seemed much too large for the bicycle which followed beneath him as a gondola follows below a balloon. In the village of Little Howling, Percy Bloom fit perfectly.

Not so the tall man who didn't seem quite suited to his surroundings. Or perhaps it was the other way around. He obviously belonged somewhere, but perhaps it was somewhere else. Even his name seemed to hang slightly askew on the air when he spoke it. Perhaps the newness would wear off in time.

The blue serge storm cloud loomed larger. Its shadow fell across him. He tensed and set his expression to one of cautious neutrality. The official drew level with him. The official head turned in his direction.

Good morning, the constable murmured suspiciously, and passed by. There was nothing personal in it—Constable Bloom did everything suspiciously. Throwing some belated response onto the wind, the tall man stopped and stared at the broad retreating back.

From a pub window on the other side of the village green three pairs of eyes watched the encounter.

That was respect, that was, Sidney Brown observed, his work-calloused right hand wrapped protectively around the handle of a pint glass, from one professional to another.

Two heads nodded agreement.

What's his name again? Terry Wiggin asked. Known throughout the village as Young Terry for the first half of his life, he had morphed almost unnoticed into Old Terry. The former epithet didn't seem to fit anymore on someone who constantly forgot where he had left his money, his keys, and his bicycle, and who kept his teeth in a glass on the nightstand.

Bode, Alexander Bode Widow Stone supplied as she watched the subject of their discussion move slowly along the path that fronted a row of neat cottages.

He looks a bit young to be retired. Either that or he's just aging well. I bet he was quite a lad in his day, Sidney ventured, continuing his theme.

"In his day? Whatever do you mean by that? And what makes you think he's retired?" She sounded miffed. Two pairs of eyes turned in her direction.

Well, well, Hilda, I didn't know you were soft on our mystery man. Old Terry leered. To be fair he had tried to grin but his missing teeth defeated the attempt. If he's not retired, what's he doing in Little Howling? Everyone here's retired. Even the kids in school are retired—they just haven't realized it yet.

Hilda's nose tilted upward a fraction and she gave her shoulders a small shake.

"I was just saying, she huffed, that he's a fine figure of a man—that's all. I mean, you've only got to look at his chin. Chiseled, that is. All your heroes have chiseled chins. It's a well-know fact."

Sidney thrust out his almost nonexistent chin and Old Terry ran a hand over his grey stubble contemplatively.

I wonder what he really did before he came here. Sidney let his imagination roam. SAS, probably. Or the paras. Been out there in the desert doing them special ops. Wouldn't surprise me.

Could be, could be—that's a desert tan, that is. Old Terry nodded agreement.

I was in the desert once. Tan like that never fades.

Where's yours then?

All right—eventually.

Old Terry cackled at having scored a point. Hilda ignored them as she watched Alexander Bode disappear into the small shop that also served as the local post office.

* * *

The village of Little Howling was situated in a small pocket of countryside that time ignored. It wasn't that time forgot the village, rather it deliberately divided and flowed around the place as if it sensed something it didn't like. Or wouldn't like. Time is prescient, after all. The habitants of Little Howling could, if they took it into their heads, and happened to be carrying some high-power binoculars, climb to the top of Lumping Tor and see in the distance a main highway running by. The highway was running because it knew what was heading toward the village and wanted no part of it.

There had always been strange goings-on in the swamp but they had until now been confined at the level of things that slithered and hopped—or perhaps swam, after a heavy rain. Today the goings-on were of a different order entirely.

That's strange, Jenks the postman observed, his otherwise smooth face wrinkling in puzzlement. If he'd ever had another name, even he had forgotten it. He was just Jenks.

Bloody right it's strange, his companion replied. "I mean, who would build on the swamp. There's a good reason people don't build there—it’s a swamp. The last person who tried it was never seen again, so they say."

Went bankrupt and moved away you mean. Jenks spoke without taking his eyes from the goings-on. He didn't need to see Edgar Brewster's expression to know that he was chewing his mustache. It was just something he did when he was upset.

What I mean is, Jenks continued, there's no road. How are they getting the building materials in there if there's no road?

Brewster briefly considered the question with that tiny part of his brain that wasn't mad as hell.

It'll spoil my view! he exploded. I mean, just look at it. The bloody thing's poking above the trees already and they're not finished yet.

It's a funny-looking building, Jenks observed, ignoring the question. Brewster snorted.

Nothing funny about it. It's damn weird, is what it is. Just look at those towers and—whatever they-ares. Who builds things like that?

I still want to know how they're getting the stuff in there to build it with.

Oh, do shut up about the bloody road. Brewster was working himself into a lather. Maybe they're bloody fairies. Maybe they can fly. I just wish they'd sod off and put it somewhere else.

* * *

The gilded sign above the entrance looked freshly painted. It always did. It announced that Bird & Son had been in business since 1915. Alexander Bode stepped through the open doorway and glanced about warily. The dimly lit interior was empty save for an old lady at the post office counter and a clerk behind it, serving her. Bode relaxed a little. Directly before him the end of a truncated partition that almost divided the shop in two suggested that two small rooms had once occupied this space. A private dwelling had been converted into a shop by the simple expedient of removing a section of wall—in 1915, perhaps. To his right, the walls bore shallow shelves upon which newspapers and magazines were arrayed. A display of greetings cards stood in the middle of the floor, subdividing that part of the room and providing a boundary between those approaching the post office window, and those leaving it. The area to the left of the central wall was given over to stands of groceries and sundry items. Bode moved to the left, picking up a small wire basket as he passed the unoccupied counter and cash register. He was already getting the hang of shopping for himself. Strangely, the thought pleased him out of all proportion to the achievement. Above his head a neon tube flickered annoyingly. He began charging his basket from the shelves. He had just reached the dimmest part of the shop when the flickering light chose that moment to stop flickering and plunge the area within its ambit into a gloom relieved only by the residual daylight that struggled in from the open entrance, exhausting itself in the effort. At almost the same moment a door at the back of the shop swung wide framing a figure in the opening. He saw the silhouette of a man carrying something long and sinister. Bode backed away as the figure advanced toward him. He made to retreat but he was too late.

Good day sir, sorry for the inconvenience. I'll just put this new tube in and you'll be able to see what you're doing. That flickering was driving me crazy. The proprietor's grin was barely visible in the gloom. Bode retreated toward the entrance to allow the man access to the light fixture. Stepping backward he collided with something soft.

Oh dear! The voice came from about waist-level. He turned quickly. The little old lady was stuffing money into a small purse.

I'm so sorry, young man, I wasn't looking where I was going.

It was my fault, Bode responded. I hope I didn't hurt you?

"No, I'm quite all right. Why, it's Mister Bode isn't it? Our new arrival? We haven't been introduced. I'm Amelia Maybury. That's Miss Maybury." She held out a tiny, frail-looking hand to be shaken. He stared at it for a moment and then took it gingerly.

How is it you know my name? Suspicious tendrils quested at the back on his mind.

It's a small village, Mister Bode. Word gets around, you know.

The tendrils withdrew.

It's very nice to meet you at last. I'm sure we will be seeing you at some of our little gatherings. We have quite a lot of those you see. There isn't much else to do in Little Howling, after all. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. I do hope you won't be bored here. She tripped out of the shop with surprising agility and was gone before he could respond.

* * *

What we need, Edgar Brewster opined, is official representation.

Why don't you just go and ask them what they're doing? Hilda Stone said, shortly. She didn't like Brewster very much. He was an outsider and he was too opinionated, in her opinion. The swamp is hard by your land, after all.

The other six people present waited for Brewster to respond. He was a big man and he tended to dominate meetings, especially when there were no fresh ideas forthcoming and there were silences to be filled. This meeting was not yet officially begun but the early arrivals had started anyway. That would, Brewster thought, make the latecomers feel guilty for being unpunctual, and give him a small advantage. A faraway look crossed his fleshy features. For a moment he seemed uncertain. He began to chew on his mustache.

I tried that. Went over the stile at the bottom of my lower field and set out toward the swamp. Next thing I knew I was back in my field again. Oddest thing, really.

Hilda's expression reflected her opinion of someone—particularly a man—who undertook a task and then didn't finish it. She murmured a comment to Amelia Maybury who sat at her side and hadn't said anything yet. Drunk, I suppose.

Amelia smiled slightly but did not respond.

It's a job for Percy Bloom, that's what it is, Brewster continued. He nodded vigorously, having convinced himself that it was somebody else's job and that the right man had been selected.

Well, Percy won't be doing any official jobs for a while, Jenks said. He went up to the hospital in town yesterday. Said he'd been getting pains in his back. Anyway, they wouldn't let him leave, so his wife says.

The market town of Northwold was the nearest community boasting more citizens than could comfortably be accommodated in a village hall and was thus regarded by the denizens of Little Howling as something of a metropolis. They didn't call it by name; to them it was just town, and town was invariably somewhere one went up to.

What's he got then? Hilda was all ears. Jenks shrugged.

Don't know. They kept him in for tests. He'll be out of it for a while, I shouldn't wonder.

Hilda sighed. I'll have a word with Silvia Bloom and find out. You men don't ask the right questions. You just don't know how to communicate.

If he's out of the picture, they'll have to send another officer to stand in for him then, Old Terry spoke up. That's the law, that is.

What would you know about the law? Hilda scoffed. Old Terry bridled and opened his mouth to retort but Brewster beat him to it.

They won't be sending anyone for a while. They're shorthanded as it is. Be some time before they can spare anyone for us, I shouldn't wonder.

Well, it's not as though we have a raging crime wave going on, is it? Jenks said, sarcastically. The last crime we had was when someone opened a gate over at Trebbie's farm and the sheep got out.

Hardly a crime though, was it? Old Terry finally got a word in.

It was when they made off with the sheep, Brewster retorted. That's a serious crime, in my opinion.

The look Hilda cast in Brewster's direction suggested that she didn't really care to hear another of his opinions.

To get back to the matter at hand, she said, firmly, we need to come to a decision about that monstrosity in the swamp. Which one of you men is going to do something? The way she enunciated men made the male members of the group cringe. They were granted a breathing space by the arrival of more villagers. Hilda suffered in silence through the greetings but broke in when the conversation deteriorated into small talk.

Well? Who is going to volunteer?

The newcomers looked at her in confusion.

Hilda started the meeting without you, Old Terry told them, still miffed at her for calling his knowledge of the law into question. He returned her glare with one of his own. There was another delay while the newcomers were brought up to date.

What we need, said Amelia Maybury, thoughtfully, is a champion. Everyone looked at her. Several heads nodded agreement.

Brewster went down to talk to them— Jenks began.

But he couldn't manage the job, Hilda finished. Brewster huffed and chewed his mustache. Nobody seemed likely to volunteer for the mission.

Why don't we ask Mister Bode? suggested Sidney Brown. As a latecomer he thought he should contribute something to the discussion. He's champion material if I ever saw it.

Now that, Hilda Stone said, is the first sensible thing I've heard all evening.

Chapter two

Pervile

Alexander Bode paused to allow Miss Maybury to catch up. She had insisted on accompanying him and he was secretly glad of that. Nobody would expect him to associate with a little old lady. She was good cover and she may prove useful.

We'll just go in and ask them nicely what it is they're building in our community, she told him. You'll want to know, naturally. Just like the rest of us. It's quite a reasonable request, isn't that so?

Why me? He tried to keep the suspicion out of his voice. She seemed to think it a strange question.

Well, Mister Bode, a man like you—we all thought you would be perfect for the job, what with Constable Bloom being incapacitated. You have an air of authority, you see, and that's what's needed at a time like this, don't you think?

There had been more but, try as he might, he could find no other motive behind her request.

It won't take long, Mister Bode. Just a few minutes of your time. And we really would be most grateful.

So here he was, sneaking toward the strange-looking edifice. Sneaking? Oh, surely not. Striding slowly and confidently—that's what he was doing. But it felt like sneaking. It's hard to stride slowly without looking as though you're in a funeral procession but he couldn't go any faster without leaving the old lady behind. On a positive note it did give him time to think.

* * *

Here is your new identity, the official said. Abbreviate the name, if you like, that way you won't sound as if you just learned it. The man tossed a wallet onto the table between them. Driver's license, credit cards, and cash. Change your signature. Practice the new one till it becomes second nature. He slapped a plain envelope down beside the wallet. "This is your life story. Your legend. Read it and keep reading it till you know it by heart. It's the new you."

The official's thick north-country accent emphasized the contempt in his voice. They didn't ask him to sign for anything, he noticed. The contempt was free too. He'd earned that. He was a banker, after all. Had been a banker. Banking was outlawed now. The third Great Depression, triggered by the collapse of the world's financial institutions, had brought forth a tsunami of public rage. The Banker's Dozen incident had been just the beginning. Other lynchings had followed. Under tremendous public pressure the government had stepped in and enacted laws making banking illegal and bankers wanted men. All financial matters were subsumed into a newly created government organization: the Unified National Collection & Lending Establishment. The more cunning bankers escaped