Part Eight
Another one of the Middle-rooms, or a large Middle-closet, was full of all kinds of clothes. A big percentage were Wendy's size. She could imagine Ida having to alter stuff to fit or order new ones, bitching all the way because it meant treating her as a permanent addition to the team. A vaguely Russian-looking blouse in heavy cotton gauze sparked an idea. "I'm going to be Lacey," she said.
Profound silence behind her, then "you might want to repeat that."
Wendy grinned. "I'm not challenging your total lack of kink. I mean for a cover story I'm going to be someone a lot like Lacey. Or the way people think Lacey is when they don't know her. Featherbrained, all emotion and no rationality, jumping onto whatever Dances With Credit Cards new age stuff is the latest thing." She found blousy pants in the same fabric. At some point some Middle must have been under cover at a Renaissance fair. Wendy turned away from the clothes. "Not to be mean, but usually our cover stories are not so hot. Fish and Wildlife, NASA, any set of badges pulled out of a hat. We need to do better." She studied the outfit. "I'd have to be an idiot to wear this in public, so it's perfect. I'm a crystal-power flake who is, OMG, so interested in the Children of Mother Ocean retreat center I absolutely have to see it right now. New Age flavor of the month. Play it up and the character doesn't even need an ID. And you're..." she considered. "Ground control. You think every bit of it is crap, but you're coming with me to make sure I don't wind up with all my credit cards maxed out or sold to a cult or something."
He nodded. "Like the sorority business, your half-brother the campus security guard."
Wendy moved closer until one of them shivered. "Way wrong reflexes, any more. Husband. You know I'm a complete ditz, but you just can't resist my wiles."
He looked more innocent than usual. "And the cover story?"
Wendy hit him lightly in the chest. "You're ... an aerospace engineer would be about the right tone, I think. Named Bob. Maybe Mark. Something so absolutely white-bread Midwest that you'd break out in a rash if you ever went to Seattle. Seattle would break out in a rash."
He moved to a wall panel opposite the door. It rotated to show a honeycomb of tiny jewelry compartments. "An engineer would insist on titanium." Slipped on the larger dull-silver ring, handed her the smaller one. Wendy held it and breathed.
The Middleman watched her. "Name the day. Name the minute. Your mother's in town, the timing makes good sense."
"Maybe she's still here." Phone calls to the sublet had gotten nothing but the machine; Wendy tried to believe they were just out. She'd left a basic message not to worry, nothing would happen tonight.
"It can't give us a thing we don't already have." Wendy's tone wasn't as certain as she might have wished. Tried again. "You said once that you can't share a name without having a name."
The Middleman's expression was naked and serious, even for him. "You're a modern woman. You might not change your name for anyone."
"The point is, you don't say anything you don't mean. Not to me." Wendy slid the smaller band on herself. "I've made promises. You remember." In the presence of umpteen dead Middlemen; holy ground. "But you breathe a little easier that it's not that promise. Even when we live like married every day. As if it would hurt you a little less, or me a little less, comes a really bad day. You can just about manage letting a partner take half the risks. Almost half. A wife... everything in you would say protect whether it made sense or not. I don't want you killed fighting your reflexes. I don't even want you feeling guilty.
"Paperwork doesn't matter. You'd take a hit in the honor if you changed that much for me. That matters."
His relief was subtle, but Wendy knew she'd said the right thing. He let her hands go. "Maybe I should take the completely irrational persona."
"Things don't have to make sense to be true. Trust me. I'm an artist."
He touched her face, almost too lightly to feel. Picked up a hideous green tie. "Engineer-like?"
Wendy breathed. "So campy it almost looks ironic. Try the one with Planck's Constant all over it."
------
Her dad had taught her to shoot, off and on, from the age of ten. The Middleman had checked her proficiency and her safety with firearms as part of her basic training. She'd carried around a lethal weapon -- if not this kind -- most days since she'd joined the Middles. But Wendy had never put on a regular, lead-and-gunpowder gun in the expectation of using it on people. Hey, no virgins here. She'd killed a man with a harpoon gun on one mission. Killed another, for some definitions of kill, by ramming a sharp blade through his heart and letting him splatter. At least this won't be up close and personal.
The solid weight of the gun didn't match her organic-cotton blousy shirt and pants. She clipped it to the back of her belt , covered it with a long lumpy hand-knit vest. "Ready."
They'd stopped under a road sign, Children of Ocean Retreat Center 2 Miles, for a last minute polishing of roles. The Middleman had on a worn but tidy sweatshirt -- MIT -- and jeans so well-kept they practically had a crease. "Heads up display, Ida," he said.
The windshield went half-opaque, replacing the view in front of the car with a satellite image of this part of the coast. "It's not real time. Even satellites are starting to have trouble seeing into the anti-tech field," Ida said through their watches. "But the still image is only ten minutes old." It zoomed in on a rocky area. At closer range they saw a semicircle filled with a virulent swampy green. "Ten-foot wall between them and the outside world," Ida said. The straight side facing the ocean was open. A tighter zoom showed rows of buildings inside the compound. The semicircular wall broke at one point, a gravel parking area outside the wall and a multi-sided building just inside the wall. "Visitor center," Ida said. "If you're gonna talk your way in instead of bringing in the heavy artillery, that's where." Another zoom. At the focus of the semicircle, open to the rocky beach, was a large clear area like a town square. A hundred or hundred and fifty people -- presumably people, their straight-down images were blurs the size of thumbtacks -- gathered in tight, organized arcs around a central platform. "Pretty sure that's the whole damn batch," Ida said.
"Not that I've ever seen an alien ritual to re-consecrate an ancient idol," Wendy said. "But that's what one looks like. We should hurry."
"We are." The Middleman put the car back in gear.
----
The Middlewatches went dead a hundred yards from the front gate. The car engine coughed and sputtered, but they'd expected that. They coasted into the gravel entry area on the last bit of momentum.
----
The Children of Mother Ocean Visitor Center was all wood, a semi-openwork structure like a huge gazebo. The sky was overcast with a gray haze growing thicker by the minute, the air saturated with humidity. The wooden building and the fence behind it were streaked with moss and algae. The background scent was less "wetlands" than "swamp." A girl in long sloppy Earth-friendly clothes started pounding on the outside of the door. Her dark hair was an explosion of curls in the wet air. Six or seven silver necklaces jangled when she moved. A purse-sized wooden box on a hand-woven strap dangled from her shoulder. "Hello? Anybody? Let all portals open unto True Seekers ... The people at the herb shop said you're open Saturdays!" More jingling. "I can see somebody moving around in there!" She seemed prepared to keep it up forever.
A visibly older man (physical age gap around ten years; emotional maturity, twenty and counting) followed her but stopped a few feet short of the door. "Darling." The tone mixed indulgence and embarrassment. "Maybe this isn't a good time." The knocking didn't pause.
A shape came closer to the door, inside the unlighted building. "We're, uh, closed." The voice was thick and hoarse. "So sorry, miss. Private ceremony, initiates only."
She grinned joyfully. "That is so great! I've never seen one of those!"
An uncomfortable pause. "You can't come in."
The man stepped up beside her. "Listen, you. My wife and I drove all the way from Santa Barbara to get here. We're not going away until we've seen your crystals or snake oil or whatever you're selling."
"Please?" she put in, all charm. "We won't be in the way."
"Hmm." After a few seconds, the door rattled open. "Sorry to be rude. Let me give you some of our literature."
Wendy Watson walked lightly, every sense alert, as she stepped into enemy territory. The Middleman was behind her, covering her blind spot. Whether it was magic or wishful thinking, Wendy felt his presence almost as clearly as skin-to-skin contact.
She was sweating under the gun at the small of her back, in spite of the clammy air.
The ... person who'd opened the door wasn't much taller than she was, but bulky and rounded. Other details were lost; he wore a long, vaguely monk-like homespun robe with a hood and a veil. Even his hands were covered in cloth gloves. "Be welcome," he said. "This ..." a gesture at the heavy clothing, "Is ... preparation. The first Ceremony of Rebirth in many years. We will become one with our ancestors in the eternal glory of Ocean, in the depths." Wendy felt the hidden eyes were staring at her more directly. "A true seeker, you said ... with the rebirth we will be able to share our gifts with the world of dry land. You come at an auspicious moment." The veil turned toward the Middleman. "Even without a predisposition to believe ... we can prove what we say. The oneness with deepest Nature, all the secret knowledge of the ancients." The wall opposite the door had a wide window hidden behind a wicker screen; the "Child of Mother Ocean" started moving it aside. "You can see the ceremony from here, come closer."
When the Middleman came forward the other stepped to the side, at an angle, coming up a little behind him. One gloved hand moved...
The Middleman moved faster. He was imposing enough in an ordinary fight. The shift from complete stillness to explosive speed could be outright terrifying. A twist, an audible pop. The Deep One hybrid made a wet, pained noise.
A small object hit the floor. It was a glitteringly sharp dagger of some dark metal, curved like a fang.
"Color out of space!" He almost sounded cheerful; no more pretenses. "If you had gotten Wendy alone, she'd have made you sorry." Toed the knife aside with disgust.
"You said we were a long way from home," Wendy said. "They haven't gotten any, so to speak, new blood in years. He couldn't wait." She got a fistful of veil. "Let's see what kind of fish we caught."
Under the cloth, their tour guide was about halfway between a human being and the Deep One from the statue. A head that had probably started out normal human was half-bald in random patches, a swept-back point in the skull clearly visible. Round, bigger-than-human eyes with lashless lids. His skin wasn't just hairless, most places, but subtly translucent like a frog's. The thought of touching it made her queasy. Wendy shook the creature by his clothes. "What's the story, Guppy-boy?"
"Filthy mammals." The wide, shallow-chinned mouth showed conical teeth. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"Half-human descendents of Deep Ones," the Middleman said flatly. "From the black abysses of Cyclopean and many-columned Y'ha-nthlei. Servants of that which sleeps dead and dreaming at R'lyeh."
Wendy grinned. "We read up. Oh, and say hi. He's the Middleman."
The hybrid showed teeth; Wendy couldn't guess if it meant fear or threat. "We killed the Middleman. Both of them. We managed that, anyway."
"There's always another Middleman," the latest version said. "Keep that in mind. This whole settlement is a violation of treaty, potentially an act of war. Deep Ones are required to leave the top kilometer of the oceans and all of dry land to human beings."
"Also you're all dumb." Wendy added. "What did they do, send you the only magic make-a-hybrid statue? Or you never thought of getting Grandma on the Fish-Phone and asking for another one?"
The expression this time was recognizably human contempt. "Why should our elders correct our mistakes? If we want to share their immortality, we have to earn it."
"Nice people," Wendy remarked. "I see why you want in the club."
"He means it, using 'mammal' as an insult," the Middleman said. "In their pure state, Deep Ones are egg layers. They don't have the biological imperative to look after their offspring that's built into humans. More like sharks or crocodiles. The hatchlings have to fend for themselves. Sink or swim, metaphorically."
Wendy could have felt for him, if it hadn't been for the dagger. "You guys are just as ... gross to the Deep Ones for being part people as you are to us for being part fish," she said quietly. "Screwed from both directions."
The hybrid picked up on the momentary empathy. Tried to grasp it like someone guessing their way through a foreign language. "Unless the avatar, the link purges the contamination of land from us," it said urgently. "We must have it. Every last one here. The pure-bloods went home when we failed by losing the link. The humans we bred with..." It stopped.
The Middleman leaned a little closer. "Interesting sentence. Go on and finish it. What happened to your human parents?"
The hybrid didn't speak. "At Innsmouth your people took an entire town," the Middleman said. "Bribed the leading citizens with treasure and promises of power. Bribed a few outsiders to marry hybrids by the same means, or tricked them. Townspeople who refused disappeared. But there wasn't a town here before you came ashore. How many human members of your 'cult' were volunteers? Any of them? Are any of them alive now?"
"We need the avatar to purify ourselves," the hybrid said. "Only that. Let us transform, and ..."
"And you'll go right back to speed-dating," Wendy said. "Like you wanted to with me."
A muscle worked in the Middleman's jaw at the reminder, but he kept focus. "This ends," he said. "Today. I don't want to kill anyone, any species. Give back the idol and we'll go. Your group can stay here, provided you leave the general population alone."
"Not even half alive," the hybrid snarled.
"Not even half our problem," Wendy shot back.
"Or you can fight. I don't recommend that course of action," the Middleman said without raising his voice.
The hybrid moved then, with the speed of utter desperation. Two wild roundhouse swings at the Middleman that barely needed blocking. Switched directions to grab at Wendy as the more vulnerable target. She deflected and caught the arm but didn't put on elbow-breaking pressure.
The Middleman had ages -- at least half a second -- to get his gun out. No reason to touch the trigger. He slashed sideways, blackjacking the hybrid across the back of the skull with the heavy steel. It dropped to the floor. "Check the layout. I'll tie him up."
Wendy went to the window, slid the wicker panel slightly. "Actually, he was telling the truth about the view." They were at the apex of the semi-circular compound. Wendy could see straight down a wide gravel path to a crude platform, about six feet high, at the water's edge.
As they'd seen from the satellite picture, every hybrid in the half-human colony was gathered around the platform in concentric arcs. All of them wore heavy robes and hoods like the welcoming committee. An altar on the platform held a small black object. Too far away to see clearly, but Wendy had seen its picture. "Right there."
She looked back. The Middleman had stripped all the robes off their prisoner.
"Crap," Wendy said. "Aren't you a little tall for a stormtrooper?"
"It's a practical approach. If he was detailed to lock the outer gate, he'd go on and join the ceremony." The Middleman leaned in for a look through the edge of the window. "I don't see any alternative except a ranged attack."
They'd prepared for everything. The Middle-armory held a wide selection of gear, including simple but solidly designed rifles. He'd said they were standard-issue from World War II, for snipers; the guns were in perfect condition. The Middleman had checked Wendy out on them, with top-notch results that surprised neither of them. Shooting a rifle from a fixed position was child's play compared to shooting a pistol accurately. Fish in a barrel. Two of them waited in the Middlemobile's trunk, with a few hundred rounds of ammunition. And the visitor center, slightly elevated with a panoramic view of the town square, would make a good sniper nest.
"I'll break one out," Wendy said. "You do the disguise thing, I'll cover you. If they catch on, I can reach out and touch someone."
"It's not like target shooting," the Middleman said gravely. "Or even like killing in the heat of combat. You'll feel it."
"Get back here with the gizmo, in one piece." Wendy handed him the magic-proof wooden container. "Afterward I can have hysterics for a week."
He took it. "They're probably in the process of regaining their mystic link with the artifact. That link will be cut like a guillotine if I get it into Roxy's box. That might disorient them enough for an easy getaway."
"A little less maybe and probably before I panic and go clock-tower." The moment was wrong for a lover's kiss. "Be careful, Boss."
"I always am." He picked up the armful of robes.