The Sky was Full of Fish

Carver's eyes narrowed a bit as he regarded me. He said, "Well, I don't know that you needed to check in with me. Company policy is pretty clear on Mr. Bob and his associates. Still, given the sensitive nature of your assignment, I guess I can't fault you for being too careful."

I shrugged. Carver fixed me with a careful expression. I did my best to look blandly back. Finally, his face cleared. "Just as well you're here," he said. "I have some more info from Management anyway. It ties in with your Mr. Bob encounter, as a matter of fact. We've learned that Mr. Bob's organization is responsible for the fish in the sky, and I'm to instruct you to include them in your investigation, and to regard them with extreme prejudice. That would seem to be your answer."

I blinked. As you might imagine, I was not at all pleased. Two powerful factions who both wanted me to do the same thing were each implicating the other to be at fault, and I was smack dab in the middle. This was not good.

I decided to get the hell away from Carver (and any other representative of Management) for the time being, until I could get things sorted out. To this end, I said, "Great, thanks for the update. I gotta run. I'll catch you later."

Carver took my arm, checking my retreat. He took a second to look around and make sure no-one was within earshot. Satisfied, he turned back to me, leaning his head towards mine. "Hopscotch switcheroo," he whispered. "Penguins dream of formless, unloved salad smoke."

I blinked again. I'm sad to say I lost my cool at that point. I snatched my arm from Carver's fingers and whispered hotly, "I have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

Carver raised his eyebrows and made a thoughtful grimace. "Interesting approach," he said. "I'll have to get back to you on that." He clapped me on the shoulder and shot me a half smile. "Be careful."

I left Carver with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

My route out of the Complex took me past my department's cube farm. As I was walking through, I ran across Harold, who smiled at me. "Hi Andrew," he said. "Are you in the office all day? Maybe we could finally get that lunch."

"No," I said. "Sorry," I added as an afterthought. I began the subtle dance of getting away from someone who is trying to strike up a conversation.

"Gee, that's too bad," said Harold, crestfallen. Then he brightened a little. "So how's the fish thing going?" Harold was always fairly enthusiastic when it came to talking shop and gossip. It occurred to me at that moment that he might be a useful source of information on Management. I stopped dancing.

"Things are going," I said noncommittally. "But listen, about that." I leaned in and lowered my voice. "Have you heard any rumors about Management concerning the fish?"

Harold shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. Everyone's talking, but nobody knows anything." He paused, considering something, then apparently decided to forge ahead. "Do you need any help on this? It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the fish are a big deal around here. Maybe you could use me."

I shook my head. "No. Absolutely not. For one thing, it's totally against the rules."

"Yeah, I know, but I figured --"

"For another, this is looking like it will get nasty. Believe me when I say you don't want to get involved."

Harold shrugged. he was a little put off, but not really upset with me. "It's your call," he said. "I just wanted to make the offer."

"I appreciate it," I said, and meant it. "Thanks anyway. Look, I gotta run..."

"Yeah," said Harold. "Catch you later." He turned and walked off.

The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach had gotten worse.

As I made my way out of the Complex, I thought about Harold. He had been with the company almost as long as I had, and we had been fairly close workplace friends in the early days. Over time, as we each proved ourselves, we earned an increasing level of responsibility and workload that drew us apart. But we had always been on good terms. I thought it was nice of him to offer his services, even though he should have known it was an offer I could not accept.

I could not pinpoint the source of my stomach pain, but I wasn't overly concerned about it. I had bigger problems than a queasy tummy at the moment. As I hoisted myself out of the Complex entrance hole, my primary thoughts were with getting back to Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude and putting our heads together over the puzzle of the origin of the fish. I headed out of the alley, passing through the hologrammatic wall without breaking stride, and made my way briskly back to the hotel. By the time I reached the lobby, the pain in my stomach had evaporated.

Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude were about as thrilled with my new information as I had been. Which is to say, not at all. We were sitting around the kitchen table at the suite, discussing the matter.

"And what's with Carver's gibberish?" Gertrude was saying. "I'm surprised you didn't just smack him upside the head."

"I doubt that would have improved matters," said Matilda.

"I don't see how it could have made things worse," Gertrude countered. "Both the League and Mr. Bob say that the other one is to blame for the fish, and they're both insisting that Andrew get rid of the fish. I don't see how the situation could be more fucked."

Matilda and I nodded glumly at the same time. "How are you?" she asked me.

I thought about it for a minute before I answered. "I'm worried," I admitted. "But I'm also confident that I can work this out. If I could just think of what to do next."

As though it had been choreographed, we all turned to Sara, who was the smart one among us. Sara noticed us gazing expectantly at her and sighed wryly. "I'll see what I can come up with," she said.

While we waited, Sara started thinking. She absently chewed a fingernail. After a brief time, she looked back up at us. "I can't think of anything either," she said. We all sighed. "But it seems to me," she continued, addressing me directly, "that you have some untapped resources. There's that independent contractor, what was his name?"

"Roger Binks," I replied. "But I don't want to use him unless I have to. I don't fully trust him."

"There's also Barbara," said Sara. "Would she come and help if you asked?"

"I don't know," I said, "but it's certainly worth a try."

Just at that moment, we heard the tick-tack-tick of dog toenails on the vinyl floor of the kitchenette. We all turned towards the sound, and there was Barbara making her way sedately toward us. She stopped at the foot of my chair and said, "Please convey me to the tabletop."

I did as she asked. The beloved quartet looked at her with undisguised interest, and she returned their gazes. "Hello, Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude," she said. "I am honored to meet you. Andrew holds you in high regard, and so indeed does the God of Toast."

Heather blushed, and the others appeared flattered. Matilda spoke for them. "We are likewise honored, Barbara," she said. "Thank you."

Barbara nodded and turned to me with a businesslike air. "First," she said, "I must ask that you not summon me in that fashion again." I started to apologize, but Barbara held up a paw. "I am not offended," she said. "You couldn't have known, since I neglected to tell you, that calling upon an enlightened child of the universe in that manner is..." She trailed off as if casting about for the right word.

"A faux pas?" suggested Sara.

"Precisely," said Barbara.

"It won't happen again," I said.

"Thank you," said Barbara. "And now to the matter at hand. Why did you summon me? How may I assist you?"

I had no way of knowing how much Barbara already knew, so I explained the whole situation to her. She listened without interrupting until I finished.

"You have not answered my question," she said. "What is it you want of me?"

"Well, that's just it," I said. "I'm kind of stuck on what to do next and I wondered if you had any ideas."

"I see." Barbara regarded me implacably. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way," she said.

"You mean you won't help us?" said Gertrude.

Barbara turned to her. "I didn't say that," she said. She turned back to me. "Tell me, what is it that you need right now?"

"We need your help," snapped Gertrude. I gave her a warning glance and she flounced back in her chair, lips tightened in annoyance.

After some thought, I replied to Barbara. "I need to know whether the League or Mr. Bob is responsible for the fish in the sky."

"I would tell you the answer if I knew it," said Barbara. "Sadly, I do not. Is there anyone else you can ask?"

I thought some more. Then I said, "I can't ask the League. Even if I could get the question to Management, simply posing the question would arouse suspicion."

"True," said Barbara. "Who else might tell you?"

"Mr. Bob," said Sara.

Everyone looked at her. "It's the only choice," she said. "Sad to say, but he's a safer person to ask than the League. If you ask to see proof that the League is behind the fish, he might even show it to you."

I was about to protest when I realized she had a point. Whether I liked it or not, Mr. Bob was my best option for getting information at the moment.

"Where's Barbara?" said Heather suddenly.

Sure enough, Barbara had vanished while our attention had been diverted.

"I think that's our answer," said Matilda. Even Gertrude nodded in agreement.

* * *

Getting in to see Mr. Bob was surprisingly uncomplicated. That evening, I made my way to the house we had passed through on the previous evening. I wasn't exactly sure how to proceed, so I decided to take the benignly normal approach and knock on the door.

About ten seconds after I knocked, the door was opened by Sherraine. "Come in," she said, to my surprise. Tentatively, I entered the house. "Mr. Bob has been expecting you," she explained as she closed the door. "Come this way."

I followed where she led, and soon we were in the elevator, going down. Neither of us spoke. For my part, I was too busy thinking. Being welcomed into the headquarters of Mr. Bob was the last thing I had expected. As a result, I was completely unprepared for what was happening. I used the time in the elevator to get my bearings and calm down.

The elevator stopped and the door opened into a lobby that I had not seen before. It was lushly appointed and furnished, and I surmised that it was Mr. Bob's true headquarters. At the far end of the room, there was a large set of double doors. In front of them sat a desk complete with receptionist. This particular receptionist was a reptilian humanoid creature of indeterminate gender, but it had a lovely speaking voice.

"Welcome, Mr. Millik," it said, standing up and walking around the desk towards us. The soft lighting glinted off its shiny black and green mottled scales as it moved. The three of us met in the center of the room.

"With your permission," said the receptionist, "I will conduct you to Mr. Bob. May I take your coat? Would you care for some refreshment?"

"No thanks to both," I said, trying not to sound rude. "Let's just go in. If that's okay."

"Of course, sir," said the reptilian receptionist smoothly. "Right this way." I followed it towards the double doors. Sherraine moved to sit in one of the chairs that were tastefully arranged about the room.

The receptionist opened the double doors, each hand pushing a portal inwards. "Mr. Millik to see you, sir," said the receptionist. It stood aside and I entered a room that was jaw-dropping in its urbanity. In the center of the room sat an enormous desk, behind which Mr. Bob had arranged himself.

"Ah, Andrew," said Mr. Bob. "Come in, come in. Have a seat. Cigar?" A large green hand fished a huge cigar from a polished wooden humidor and brandished it in my direction.

I moved into the room warily. I heard the doors click to behind me. Mr. Bob and I were alone in the room. "No thanks," I said. "I don't smoke."

"Neither do I," said Mr. Bob, puffing on an enormous cigar of his own. "Cigars don't count."

By then I had reached the desk, and I stopped in front of it. Mr. Bob looked up at me for a moment, then said, "Well, are you going to sit, or are you going to make me crane my neck the whole time you're here?"

I considered for a moment and decided to opt for politeness. I took a seat in one of the armchairs that were arranged near the desk. "Alright, I'm seated," I said. "Now suppose you tell me what this is about."

Mr. Bob gave a short croak of laughter. "Me tell you? You're the one who came to see me, aren't you?" I was about to make a retort, but Mr. Bob held up his hand. "Easy now, Millik. I think you already know what this is about. You've got business with me, and it just so happens I've got some business with you."

"How did you know I was coming?" I demanded.

Mr. Bob snorted. "Of course I knew you were coming. I'm Mr. Bob."

That, I had to admit, was a fair point. "Alright," I said. "Who's going first?"

"Nice of you to ask," said Mr. Bob, flicking cigar ash into a tray on the desk. "I think I'll go first. Got a proposition for you."

"Oh?"

"That's right. I want to offer you a job."

I wanted to laugh, but my indignation would not allow it. "Mr. Bob," I said coldly. "Currently, you have arranged for my house to be replaced by a pond, and you have installed an incendiary device on my wife's face. You have a strange way of wooing potential hires."

"Now don't get excited," said Mr. Bob. "I realize I was a little hasty and heavy-handed yesterday. I've already disabled the device on your wife. As for your house, well, unfortunately that will take some time to rectify. But work is already underway, and it shouldn't take more than a few days. I'm letting up on you because I've become convinced that you're going to get the job done with the fish without my persuasion."

There was a pause as Mr. Bob waited for me to say something. I did not oblige him, so he continued. "I like the way you handle yourself, Millik. You're a straight shooter, and I can respect that. And I can definitely use someone with your talents on my roster. How'd you like to work for me?"

"You haven't told me what the job would be," I pointed out.

"I'm pretty loose with my people. I figure you can decide how you would want to fit in with the organization."

"What about the League?"

Mr. Bob took a leisurely puff on his cigar before replying. "Well, there's two ways to play it," he said. "You can quit with the League and work for me full time, or you can stay with the League and be on my payroll as a double agent."

"Double agent?" I repeated. "The League's got all kinds of wizards and psychics. How would you make that work?"

Mr. Bob chuckled. "The League ain't the only game in town, kid. They're not the only ones who've got wizards and psychics."

I had no response, so I waited for Mr. Bob to break the silence. After a moment or two, he did.

"So, Millik. What do you say?"

I chose my words carefully. "As much as I appreciate and respect your offer, I'm afraid I cannot accept it."

"No?"

"No. The thing is, I'm a white hat to the core. It would never work."

Mr. Bob shrugged. "Figured as much. Still, I thought I'd make the offer. You never know." He stubbed out his cigar and leaned towards me. "Your turn," he said.

* * *

An hour later, I sat in a diner, goading my concerns with coffee and sucking down greasy eggs and toast. This particular diner, known as Mel's, was one that I sought out from time to time when I needed to do some mulling. I find greasy spoon diners in general, and Mel's in particular, to be refreshingly mundane, uncomplicated, and unthreatening.

I had asked Mr. Bob for more information concerning the origins of the fish, and he had given it to me with a certain gleeful satisfaction. As he unveiled satellite photos, film clips, and the like, it became more and more clear that the fish did, indeed, have their origin from within the League Complex. I spent some time carefully analyzing the material he presented for forgeries and doctoring, but as near as I could tell, they were genuine. Mr. Bob, for his part, took obvious pleasure in my discomfiture over his information.

The unavoidable conclusion was that Management knew about the fish, and where they were coming from. Management's control over the Complex was absolute. The question was, why had they assigned me the task of stopping the fish when the ability to do so was almost certainly within their grasp? And why had they lied to me about the origin of the fish? Were they trying to get me killed by throwing me against Mr. Bob? Were they directly responsible for the fish, as Mr. Bob had not unreasonable asserted? Or were they simply complicit in allowing the Complex to be used as the staging area? Despite his actions, was Mr. Bob in cahoots with the League in order to set me up? And where did the other bit players in this drama come in? What of Carver? Or Harold? And what about Roger Binks? Who had hired him to kill me?

These questions, fueled by caffeine, whirled around and around in my mind until I was nearly dizzy. I had to stop going in circles. I took a deep breath and tried to quiet my mind by return my attention to my late-evening breakfast.

As I finished my toast, my thoughts went to the God of Toast himself. Somehow, he was mixed up in all of this as well. And Barbara, too. I wondered how they were involved.

Contemplating Barbara and the God of Toast made me hungry for more delicious, wonderful toast. I signaled the matronly waitress, who moseyed down the bar towards me.

"Yeah?" she said.

"Could I have some more toast, please?" I asked politely.

"Sure hon," she said with a smile, and walked back into the kitchen.

She did not emerge for some time. When she finally did, she was without toast.

"Sorry honey," she said to me, a perplexed expression on her face. "Toast's off."

A cold chill ran up my spine. "Off? What do you mean?"

"Something's wrong with the toaster. It heats up and all, but the bread won't cook."

* * *

I got back to the hotel as quickly as I could. Once there, I ran across the lobby and frantically pushed the elevator buttons until the doors opened. Like a caged animal, I paced around inside the small metal box as it carried me upwards. When the doors slid open, I ran down the hall to our room and fumbled with the key until I managed to get the door open. Then I burst into the suite... and plowed right into Matilda, Heather, Sara, and Gertrude, who had come to the door to investigate.

Luckily, Sara acted quickly, using her telekinesis to slow our forward momentum and set us gently down on our feet by the couch.

"Thanks, I'm sorry, I've got to get to the kitchen," I gasped, turning to bolt in that direction.

"Hold it, crazy eyes," snapped Gertrude, whipping out a hand to capture my wrist. I was jerked to a halt, similar to how I would have been jerked had I been chained to a tree. I knew better than to fight Gertrude, so I forced myself to stop and wait.

Matilda took my wrist from Gertrude and placed her other hand on the side of my face. Almost instantly, I felt her soothing energy suffuse my body. It felt indescribably nice just to breathe easily. "You're swimming in caffeine," said Matilda, eyeing me reproachfully. "We'll just take care of that."

Gradually I became less jittery, but I remained alert. After a minute or so, I felt like a new man. It was then that I noticed the patch on the beloved quartet's face was gone.

"Yes," said Sara, reading my glance. "It fell off and evaporated a little after you left."

"So where's the fire?" asked Heather. We all groaned at the joke.

"Can we talk on the way to kitchen?" I asked. The beloved quartet nodded, and we walked in together. "The fire," I explained, pulling out a piece of bread, "is that I think the God of Toast may be in far greater danger than we might have guessed." So saying, I dropped the bread in the toaster and pushed down the lever.