The Elf Conspiracy

By Katherine (Kass) Williams

Every Christmas Eve for a thousand years, Kris Kringle has crossed the dimensional rift between his universe and ours to bring gifts to children. Knowing the potential harm that unbridled human curiosity could do to his world, Kringle has placed secret operatives in key human organizations such as the Pentagon and Central Intelligence Agency. Their job is to conceal evidence of the alternate world and preserve the protective myth. But when four teenager hackers, Harald, Bart, Princess, and Shugger, discover the rift and plan to reveal its existence, Kringle and his special agents must act quickly.
To make the situation worse, a rebellious elf is planning to oust the old man and take Christmas over. And if that’s not bad enough, demons in a third universe are eagerly watching for their chance to launch a genocidal attack against Kringle’s world – and ours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katherine (Kass) Williams
• Release date: Nov 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994784803

Katherine (Kass) Williams

Kass Williams’s love of fantasy came about in part as a byproduct of working as a writer and editor, mainly for the Government of Canada. A daily diet of expressions like ‘horizontal proliferation’ and ‘constitutionalization’ naturally led to writing fantasy in her off hours as a way of staying grounded. Other experiences in her 38 years in the workforce were more fraught and resulted in her non-fiction book, Workplace Bullying: A survival guide. In her alter ego as Katherine Williams, she and her book have been featured on television and radio and in newspapers across Canada. She has been a guest speaker on this subject at seminars for employment equity organizations, unions, conflict resolution professionals, and others.

Book preview

It is imperative that the Fat Man suspects nothing."

Twinkle looked around the table at his fellow conspirators, noting their expressions of bewilderment, determination, bafflement, or, in the case of Snowflake, curiosity about the material he had just excavated from his nose.

Excuse me? A hand, just barely showing over the starched white cuff of an over-large business shirt, waved in the air.

Twinkle sighed. "Yes, Gumdrop?"

The smaller elf fiddled uncomfortably with his tie. Are you really sure we shouldn’t tell San—

The Fat Man, Twinkle inserted quickly. "I should not have to remind you that names have power. That name in particular can resonate across the human world." Ancient and feared words trickled through his mind: He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake, he knows when you’ve been bad or good—

Uh, sorry, Twink—

That’s Chief Executive Officer Tee Winkle!

Uh, yeah, sorry, Twin—I mean, Chief Executive Officer Winkle. What was I going to ask you?

Too much sugar, Twinkle told himself, resisting the urge to shake his head. A thousand years of sugar and spice and everything nice. Brain completely rotten. Aloud, he said, You were going to ask me if we should ask permission from San— damn the force of habit! —from the Fat Man before we take over the world. The answer is ‘no’. We do not tell the Fat Man. We do not think, speak, imagine, or ponder our plans in the presence of the Fat Man. We do not discuss our plans with each other in his hearing. Nor do we doodle our plans on the cubicle walls in the Male Elves’ Room. That means you, Snowflake. This comment, directed at the elf who had just finished plumbing the depths of one nostril and was engrossed in the next, won a sullen glower.

It’s Da Flaker now, the elf said. I ain’t Snowflake no more.

Of course. My mistake. Do forgive me. Humour the damp little toad! Twinkle urged himself. He needed all the helpers he could rally, including good cannon fodder. Of the entire conspiracy, no elf was more suited for pushing in front of a gun muzzle than ‘Da Flaker’. What a moniker! True, elves had difficulty understanding human beings and human ways: ten centuries of servitude in the frozen wastes of the Ur-North Pole meant their grasp of human culture extended largely to toys, candy, and smuggled books. Over centuries, Twinkle had amassed a collection that ranged from shocking Victorian penny dreadfuls to lurid true-crime paperbacks. Books so popular among humans, he reasoned, had to reflect how they really saw themselves. He lent them out to conspiracy members. Twinkle made a mental note to get back from Da Flaker his copy of Violent Vandals and Vicious Vixens. Fifty years was long enough even for a slow reader.

The lending library had lasted until the arrival of the Age of Electronics.

Electronics! Twinkle’s two hearts surged within his narrow breast. The road to freedom was paved with electrons!

Belatedly, he realized that everyone’s eyes were on him. He coughed gently. What I mean is, we must be cautious. Our endeavour relies on discretion. Catching Da Flaker’s eye, he added with just a hint of weariness, That means we clams up and lays off the eggnog, see?

No eggnog? Gumdrop’s lips quivered and all around the table eyebrows, some of them several centimeters long, shot up in disbelief. What about cocoa?

Careful! Twinkle warned himself. Don’t lose them now. Cocoa is fine, he said soothingly, nodding in the confident boardroom manner learned from hours of patient spying through computer monitors and security cameras. Cocoa has no rum in it.

That’s what you thinks! shouted Da Flaker, winning a round of nervous laughter. He looked around with the sly grin of a bully who thinks he has the crowd.

I know about the distillery in the back of the reindeer stables, Twinkle said coolly. I commend your creativity in brewing intoxicating spirits from pilfered supplies of fructose.

Again the blank stares! He almost wept: to be a genius among morons was to be like one accursed. Quickly, before the dull incomprehension on the other elf’s face morphed into his usual mean pugnacity, Twinkle said, For the benefit of Da Flaker, that means ‘Good on yer for squidging fire juice from bootleg candy sap’.

A round of appreciative laughter erupted at Flaker’s expense, and to Twinkle’s secret relief the wobbling emotional compass in the room swung back to him. He could hear their thoughts: The Leader can talk the talk, he knows the slang of the working elf, he isn’t just some bigwig in a fancy pair of pointed shoes, he’s one of the guys.

I take it we are all clear now on this matter? Twinkle picked up his agenda with a flourish and scanned the next item of business. There were many left to cover: how to infiltrate human society; whether to use lethal or sub-lethal weapons in a corporate takeover; surgical excision of executives—Twinkle had it down as SugExEx—and how to make coffee and so much more. So little time before Christmas Eve, so much to do! He looked at the other elves, assumed a carefully rehearsed expression of confidence and leadership (arch the left eyebrow just so, tilt the corners of the mouth, insert cheerful bright gleam in the irises and fold the extra eyelids out of sight) and opened his mouth to speak.

Right, then, said Gumdrop with a perfect lack of good timing. "Rum in cocoa is OK?"

Later, on his way home, Twinkle stopped at a dispensary and picked up a bottle of headache tablets. He swallowed two immediately and sat on a bench at the side of Nicholas Square to wait for them to take effect. All around him the Ur-North Pole gleamed beneath the gold, magenta, and emerald swirls of the Aurora. Wisps of ice fog curled and writhed elegantly in the breeze, tinted heavenly colours by the distant dance of the solar wind.

The square was the City’s focal point and at any hour of the long Arctic night it was full of elves talking, shopping, meeting friends, eating, making music or, like himself, just enjoying the radiant sky and the dancing shadows. This night it was even busier than usual. Work crews were preparing the square for the annual Christmas Eve celebration that always started the moment the Fat Man’s packed sleigh launched from the Embarkation Room on his great voyage, bearing with it the fruits of a year’s hard toil.

Do humans ever wonder where the gifts come from that they find under their trees every Christmas morning? Twinkle thought. Sure, some were purchased, but the buyers had no inkling of the secret industrial might that lay behind the stocked shelves or of the duplicate Earth lying beyond their limited senses behind the Doorway. How amazing that no one in the human world had ever worked it out.

He waved down a passing peddlar and bought himself a glass of sugar cane juice, imported from Earth’s distant tropics and costing ten whole bio-energy credits. He consoled himself over the expense with the knowledge that soon he could have as much as he wanted every day. He looked around with a satisfied eye. At the far end of the square stood a sculpture dedicated to elves who had lost their lives in defence of their homeland. Prominent in the centre of the group was a statue of his own great-grandmother, the only female to fall in battle since the race became sentient. Twinkle raised his glass in salute. He’d keep the sculpture when he ruled, but of course the monuments dedicated to himself would be larger.

In the very centre of the square a work crew was lowering the Party Chalice into place, a giant goblet that would be filled with wine for everyone to enjoy. A team of trained polar bears assisted by hauling on the ropes, lending their great strength and considerable intelligence to the task. Twinkle had heard that on Earth bears were dangerous creatures, but after a thousand years of selective breeding, the ursines of his world were both tame and helpful.

Like us elves, he thought sourly. Bred to serve human greed.

One of the bears ambled by, the imp perched on its huge shoulders drumming its tiny heels to make the animal go faster. With a good-natured rumble, the bear obliged. Twinkle raised his glass in salute and the young elf threw a grin and a thumb’s up his way.

Potential recruit, he decided, and indulged in a benevolent daydream of rewarding the youth for eventual service to himself. A kingdom, perhaps? A small one, no need to go overboard, say just a few Midwestern American states or a chain of indoor malls.

Standing up, he tugged at his silk tie to straighten it. While he fiddled with the cloth the sky flared with opalescent shades as the Doorway opened. On the other side of the dimensional rift it was snowing. Gusts of fresh white powder blew through the great gap and for several seconds the tops of the city’s crystalline towers disappeared in a soft, white haze. Twinkle drew a deep breath of the bracingly bitter air. It was good to be alive.

Operative Gumdrop, are you sure he suspects nothing?"

The little elf stood to attention under the heavy broadcloth suit jacket hanging off his thin shoulders. He fired off a crisp salute. Sir! Yes, sir!

Good. Well done, Operative Gumdrop. I would like your written report on my desk by oh nine hundred hours tomorrow morning.

Thank you, sir. I will do just as you instruct, sir. Report ready at, oh, nine hundred hours, sir. But—

A patient sigh rippled the glossy white beard that filled most of Gumdrop’s view. Yes? Is there something else?

"Nine hundred hours from when next morning, sir?" blurted the elf.

In the stables, life went on its placid way. Reindeer munched hay, chewed their cuds, let off explosive farts and pooped. Another day, another one hundred and twentythree and a half (Blitzen was always a picky eater) shovelfuls of manure. After centuries of stooping and scooping, Snowflake knew exactly the output of each reindeer. Size, colour, shape, consistency, odour, whether or not the Fat Man had slipped them treats or doctored their feed for extra pep during the annual world tour; he knew it all.

Therefore, he was more than a little surprised to discover that Cupid had a secret.

The evidence sparkled on top of a pile of reindeer droppings. Nonchalantly, not breaking his usual rhythm, Snowflake used his broom to nudge the little object to the back of a stall and out of sight. He picked it up and examined it with a beady eye. A tiny optic lens stared back at him from the head of what looked for all the world like a one-eyed beetle. Miniature legs suddenly unfolded; wings sprouted and with a hum of electronic purpose, the creature shot into the air, flew in a tight circle, and crashed into a wall.

Snowflake cautiously picked it up again and held it in a grimy hand until it emitted a few sparks and lay still. Clearly it was manufactured, though in the forgiving environment of the Ur-Earth the definition of ‘life’ was a generous one. The elf glanced about for onlookers and quickly tucked the device into a corner of the stall, covering it with a layer of reindeer manure. After that, he leaned on his broom and grinned. He was going to enjoy the trouble this would no doubt cause Twinkle, the smug, know-it-all bastard. Whistling, he went back to work, keeping his eyes open for more tell-tale sparkles.

Didn’t I tell you it would work?" Harald leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and beamed at his friends. They were a motley group: Shugger, who fiddled constantly with the contents of his bulging jeans pockets; Bart, whose leather cowboy hat and boots, black-enamelled fingernails and goth clothing only made him look like what he was, a geek with identity issues; and Princess. Her real name was Sandra but that was so, like, totally uncool.

Took two days, grunted Shugger, digging in the depths of a pocket. No one had ever seen what lay concealed in those denim-covered depths. Now it’s not responding to commands.

Harald squirmed a little in the chair. Well, we didn’t expect a reindeer to eat it. I mean, how unlikely is that?

Probability is four million, nine hundred and thirtyseven to one against, said Princess, who liked calculating odds in her head. At sixteen she was already blacklisted by every online casino that could keep up with her identity switching.

Never tell me the odds, Bart drawled, leaning back in his own chair and casually crossing booted feet on the edge of Harald’s computer desk. The cowboy hat slid off his head and rolled on the floor, shedding cigarette papers as it travelled. He didn’t smoke tobacco and marijuana made him throw up, but hey, a guy had an image to maintain. Handing out cigarette papers made people think he was, maybe, dealing. When he turned eighteen he hoped to hand out condoms instead, if his mother would let him buy some.

The thing, the important thing, Harald said as his friend scrabbled on the floor for his papers, is not to let the government know.

Why? said Shugger, scratching at his scalp. He examined his fingers intently for a second, shoved the hand deep into a pocket and smiled broadly. Princess sniffed and rolled her eyes.

Well, they must be in on it, see? Think about it. I mean, this is big, ginormic big. The Pole op is so huge, it has Walmart beat hollow. Warming to his topic, Harald leaned forward. They can place product anywhere on the planet; anywhere at all, and do it within a twenty-four-hour period. They deliver even when the doors are locked. That’s kick-ass, really kick-ass. Can you imagine the government not knowing about it? And not wanting to get in on the action?

What’s in it for them? asked Bart, carefully folding cigarette papers back into the crown of his hat. Wouldn’t they rather shut it down?

He’s got a point, Princess said. My Daddy says that government is the scourge of the entrepreneurial class. Daddy knows because he’s always getting audited. He says big people in the government, very big people, are jealous because he makes so much more money than they do.

Shugger grinned nastily. And doesn’t declare it at tax time.

Harald forestalled a fight by clapping his hands loudly. You’re both right, he shouted. It’s all about taxes! Claus doesn’t pay any. I’m sure he doesn’t. Turning to Princess, he said, Your Dad wouldn’t get hounded so much if the tax burden was fairly shared, and to Shugger, and your Dad could get a job. If Claus outsourced production, instead of giving it all to those elves, the little guy would stand a chance. I mean, when jobs are outsourced they always go south, right? Where can you go from the Pole but south?

Up? offered Bart. Why not open a manufacturing plant in the International Space Station?

Or have our own space station, Harald said. An idea, dancing like a fairy high on sugarplums in the back of his mind, popped up for air. We could, we could do it all. The sky’s not the limit any more. His eyes shone, focusing on a vision of gleaming titanium space ships, snug-fitting spaceman clothing and, flickering but tantalizing, people who didn’t laugh when he walked by. No; strode by, the fearless leader of the heroic boys who had saved the world.

Princess didn’t count as a girl because she was one of the group. Besides, she’d roll her eyes if he even tried to tell her that pink was his favourite colour too and that wasn’t fair because she got to wear it all the time and had even painted all her fingernails and toenails in different shades, ranging from a strong, vibrant fuchsia to a beguiling, delicate candy floss that made him both hungry and wistful about fashion magazines.

Hem?

He pulled his mind back to earth at Bart’s interjection and coughed, making the roll of fat about his waist jiggle. Well, I mean to say, we could make things better. Better, he said. Fair play for all. We just have to gather more information.

I’ve got parts for another robofly, Shugger said, picking thoughtfully at his nose. For a moment he looked very like Snowflake, though the elf didn’t store his harvest in a pocket.

I can build another power pack, Bart offered. His tiny devices, assembled from bits of old computers and fuelled by sugar, could’ve revolutionized the industrial world and brought about a Golden Age of cheap power and worldwide prosperity. Blocking the way was a massive obstacle: Bart’s assumption that if a loser like him could invent such a thing then so could everyone else, and if everyone else could, and hadn’t, then it wasn’t important. His genius yearned instead for the shining but unrealistic goal of total coolness.

Princess, will you do the coordinates? Harald asked.

Okay, the girl said languidly, carefully inspecting the paintwork on her nails. Sometimes, Lust at Sunset chipped like it was, you know, one of those cheap drugstore polishes and not from, like, the most expensive store in town. When will the sky hole open again?

I’ve got it all in here, Harald said, tapping the highend gaming computer his parents had bought for him in the desperate hope that he would become addicted to gaming and not spend his free time hacking into other people’s computers. That business with NATO a year ago still caused his father to wake at night in a cold sweat. If he’d known about how Google Maps® could be misused, he’d have had the coronary his doctor had long predicted.

Rubbing his chubby hands together, Harald turned to the computer, opened a satellite feed, and locked onto the thin, gleaming slit in the sky that had caught his attention weeks earlier.

Should we shut them down?" Junior Analyst Kevin Finnegan’s finger hovered over a button that would’ve given the four teenagers the shock of their young lives. Outside the window of his office, skeletal tree branches swayed in the winds of a leisurely Virginia winter. The drone of traffic passing by the CIA’s Langley headquarters thrummed faintly through the one-way glass.

Senior Analyst Candace Batonne, standing just behind Finnegan’s chair, pressed a long finger against her lips and took a moment to consider the question, though she already knew the answer. In the pale afternoon light her crisp white blouse, perfectly tailored suit and practical, if very expensive, shoes projected a clear message of authority and intelligence. Her only concession to femininity was her black hair, cut in a sharp page-boy with one lock curving dramatically across her face. The sweeping lock helped conceal her extra eyelid, which had an annoying habit of slipping out of the corner of her eye.

No, she said. We need to know more. Continue surveillance. Report to me every hour.

Order given, she left the room and marched briskly to her office, nodding politely to the people she passed in the hallways. Once in her sanctum, she carried out a quick security check with devices that would have amazed and alarmed her human employers. Satisfied, she sat down at her desk to prepare an encoded report to her other, more important boss. The message would, she knew, escape all detection.

Sunspot activity was strong that day and would make her usual method of communication unreliable. There was an alternative, however. Taking a pen and a piece of paper from a drawer, she paused for a moment to gather her thoughts and then wrote in a carefully round, childish hand: ‘Dear Santa. For Christmas, I want...’.

Twinkle walked to work along the bustling streets of the City, refreshed by a few hours’ sleep and braced by the knowledge of good work well done. The conspiracy was under way and in only a few short days, he would be master of two worlds.

Small irritations continued to niggle, however: the need for patience with half-wit subordinates; the many details that he had to see to himself, unable to trust those half-wits, and the strain of living a double life. He hated to admit how comfortable his traditional clothes felt after the stiff woollen suit and constricting tie of his secret alter ego, Chief Executive Officer Tee Winkle. The jacket he was now wearing of soft green velvet trimmed with silver lace and buttons; the tight scarlet leggings and shoes with pointed toes all marked him as Elf. So did the high-crowned cap with the ever-so-cheerful bell dangling from the tip. All around him he could hear a soft chiming as crowds of similarly dressed commuters hustled to work. He loathed the sound.

Twinkle pushed and jostled his way through the throng. Now, of all times, he dared not be late, dared not deviate in any obvious manner from his normal routine. He must do nothing to draw the attention of the Fat Man, or of the Patrol, the Ur-North Pole’s joint secret service and police force. The Patrol was always on the job.

Rounding a corner, he was almost bowled over by a surge in the flow. He elbowed his way determinedly forward but suddenly found himself on a street emptied as if by magic.

He saw the cause at once: Three elf women strode towards him, their long, slim legs scissoring in unison, their perfect faces radiating a scalding, come-hither invitation.

Worse, they saw him.

Melchior’s beard! Twinkle looked about frantically for an escape route. Under normal circumstances, it was a high honour to be chosen by a female, let alone by three at once. Less numerous than the males and unsuited for factory work, most elf women lived in the human world, where they were very successful in the fashion industry. Male humans encountering them suddenly lost interest in curves and fell madly in love with angles. Envious human women starved themselves to achieve that super-model slimness, unaware that they were competing with metabolisms not dissimilar to those of hummingbirds.

But if he mated, Twinkle knew it would take him months to grow back to full size. After three women, he’d have to leave his job as Candy Striping Department Head and go to work as a Micro Manager, shepherding electrons around circuit boards. True, corralling and taming wild particles in the good old days of the early video games had given him insight into the possibilities of electronics. But with the conspiracy so very close to success, he could not spare the time.

The three were almost upon him. Turning to run, he bumped into a smaller elf who had just rounded the corner. Twinkle snatched up the elf, tossed him into the reaching arms and sprinted away.

An ecstatic shriek, dwindling in a curious Doppler effect, followed him as he ran. Poor little guy, Twinkle thought and then sniggered: By now, microscopic little guy. The escape boosted his confidence: the conspiracy would succeed because it was meant to. He strutted through the front door of the Candy Striping Shop, slipped his time card into the clock and headed for his desk.

Several hundred metres away and almost straight up at the top of the City’s highest skyscraper, Kris Kringle lowered a pair of powerful binoculars and snorted Damn! as Twinkle disappeared through the factory door. He shook his head, launching cascading ripples through the glossy, pure white beard that fell to his waist. Shrinking the head conspirator would’ve bought time that he could’ve used to re-orient his fractious elves in a more suitable direction.

He tossed the binoculars onto a nearby divan. Clasping his hands behind his back, he moodily stared out over his domain. Things were so much easier in the good old days, he thought, turning to look at the tarnished, dusty crosier leaning in a corner. A cheeky spider had spun a web in the hook. Yes, back in the old days life was simpler: a benediction or two, a Mass once a day (and no skimping on the communion wine), and fistfights with the heretics now and then. He’d lived the good life, the life of a medieval bishop, lord of his congregation, master of his diocese, and the road beneath his feet had pointed straight to Rome, the Vatican, and a cardinal’s scarlet cap. Perhaps, one day, he might’ve worn the Pope’s mitre, if he bribed enough cardinals to vote for him. He sighed heavily.

Then came that day.

One bloody good deed and everything’s ruined, he growled, turning away from the window to the huge expanse of his desk. The damn list covered the whole surface. He’d already checked it once. A half-consumed bottle of the finest whisky stood ready to brace him for the next round. Why did he have to check it twice, anyhow? Didn’t he have people for that?

Well, elves. They did count as people. Sort of.

A bell chimed softly and his personal secretary entered, carrying a single letter. The secretary was tall for a male elf and Kringle wondered sometimes if he had gender issues. Minced when he walked. Back in the good old days, I’d have sold him to a Turkish harem, Kringle thought savagely, and then reproached himself. Transgender or not, Glitter was a good assistant. Besides, it was blasphemous to trade with the Turk. Openly, at any rate, and without a secret dispensation from Rome.

I’m very busy, he said gruffly. Is this important?

I believe so, sir, said the