dry streambed of tears grated in his voice. “It’s an occupational hazard.”
McNihil took pity on him. “Why don’t you just read the code,” he said softly. “That’s all I came here for.”
From the corner of his eye, McNihil saw the numbers disappear from the monitor screen; enough time had gone by with no clicks or taps, to bring the automatic screen-saver up. He had just a glimpse of the image, a skeletal form with wild eyes and streaming black hair, clothed in pennantlike rags of human skin, before the bishop’s hand shot past him, hitting the monitor’s power button. The image disappeared, replaced by dead blankness.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” the bishop said stiffly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”
What else McNihil had caught on the monitor screen had been a single word, in letters of fire.
Tlazoltéotl
. “What is it?”
The bishop drew back, holding the cross against his chest. When he spoke, he sounded abashed and sullen. “I didn’t say
what
I’ve started to believe.”
McNihil let it drop. He watched as the other man hunched over the little bit of metal.
After a few seconds, the bishop ran his fingertip across the minutely incised coding on the back of the crucifax. “Okay, I’m getting a read on this.” The contact point at the end of the bishop’s index finger shone like a sliver of broken glass. “The guy’s name was … Trummel? Trabble?”
“Something like that.”
Gazing up at the mottled ceiling, the bishop continued to sort out the info. “Pretty recently updated,” he said. “The stats aren’t too bad; received communion on a regular enough basis to get the volume discount. Just the standard five percent, though. That’s a shame, kinda; with a little extra effort, this person could’ve gone up to the platinum Gen-U-Flex™ level, where you start getting the really good merchandise promotions.” The bishop shot a hopeful glance over at McNihil. “The ID card’s good at over ten thousand retail outlets in the central Gloss alone—”
“Don’t bother with the pitch.” McNihil held up a hand to ward off the other’s flow of words. “My credit rating couldn’t take the hit.”
The bishop sighed and went back to deciphering the crucifax. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mumbled. “Gotta keep the flock’s numbers up. I mean, this poor bastard’s not going to be at the rail anymore. You said he was … um … deceased?”
“Dead.”
“I’ll have to log a candle on for him. That’s a freebie; we don’t charge for that.” The bishop’s fingertip moved across the last of the incised code. “Now that’s interesting …”
McNihil looked down at the hand and the cross, as though the tiny marks had been converted into something easily legible. “What’s that?”
“This Trabble person …”
“Travelt, actually.”
“He wasn’t just an on-line communicant.” The bishop peered curiously at the crucifax. “He actually came around here to see me, and received the sacraments directly. Now
that’s
very unusual. Pretty old-fashioned, if you ask me; hardly anybody does that anymore.” The bishop nodded toward one of the larger tomes on the shelves. “I actually had to look it up in the operating manual, to see how it’s done—live and in person, I mean.” A visible shiver ran across the man’s flesh. “It was kind of creepy, you know? All that
touching
.”
“Next time it happens,” said McNihil, “put in for hazard pay.” He pointed to the cross in the bishop’s hand. “Would that tell you what he talked about when he was here?”
“Naw …” The bishop shook his head. “There’s not enough room for that kind of content, even if you overwrote the baptismal records. But—come to think of it—I might actually remember this guy. I mean, remember in my head.” The hand without the cross stroked the bishop’s stubbled chin. “I’m trying to recall what he looked like
McNihil took pity on him. “Why don’t you just read the code,” he said softly. “That’s all I came here for.”
From the corner of his eye, McNihil saw the numbers disappear from the monitor screen; enough time had gone by with no clicks or taps, to bring the automatic screen-saver up. He had just a glimpse of the image, a skeletal form with wild eyes and streaming black hair, clothed in pennantlike rags of human skin, before the bishop’s hand shot past him, hitting the monitor’s power button. The image disappeared, replaced by dead blankness.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” the bishop said stiffly. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone.”
What else McNihil had caught on the monitor screen had been a single word, in letters of fire.
Tlazoltéotl
. “What is it?”
The bishop drew back, holding the cross against his chest. When he spoke, he sounded abashed and sullen. “I didn’t say
what
I’ve started to believe.”
McNihil let it drop. He watched as the other man hunched over the little bit of metal.
After a few seconds, the bishop ran his fingertip across the minutely incised coding on the back of the crucifax. “Okay, I’m getting a read on this.” The contact point at the end of the bishop’s index finger shone like a sliver of broken glass. “The guy’s name was … Trummel? Trabble?”
“Something like that.”
Gazing up at the mottled ceiling, the bishop continued to sort out the info. “Pretty recently updated,” he said. “The stats aren’t too bad; received communion on a regular enough basis to get the volume discount. Just the standard five percent, though. That’s a shame, kinda; with a little extra effort, this person could’ve gone up to the platinum Gen-U-Flex™ level, where you start getting the really good merchandise promotions.” The bishop shot a hopeful glance over at McNihil. “The ID card’s good at over ten thousand retail outlets in the central Gloss alone—”
“Don’t bother with the pitch.” McNihil held up a hand to ward off the other’s flow of words. “My credit rating couldn’t take the hit.”
The bishop sighed and went back to deciphering the crucifax. “You can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mumbled. “Gotta keep the flock’s numbers up. I mean, this poor bastard’s not going to be at the rail anymore. You said he was … um … deceased?”
“Dead.”
“I’ll have to log a candle on for him. That’s a freebie; we don’t charge for that.” The bishop’s fingertip moved across the last of the incised code. “Now that’s interesting …”
McNihil looked down at the hand and the cross, as though the tiny marks had been converted into something easily legible. “What’s that?”
“This Trabble person …”
“Travelt, actually.”
“He wasn’t just an on-line communicant.” The bishop peered curiously at the crucifax. “He actually came around here to see me, and received the sacraments directly. Now
that’s
very unusual. Pretty old-fashioned, if you ask me; hardly anybody does that anymore.” The bishop nodded toward one of the larger tomes on the shelves. “I actually had to look it up in the operating manual, to see how it’s done—live and in person, I mean.” A visible shiver ran across the man’s flesh. “It was kind of creepy, you know? All that
touching
.”
“Next time it happens,” said McNihil, “put in for hazard pay.” He pointed to the cross in the bishop’s hand. “Would that tell you what he talked about when he was here?”
“Naw …” The bishop shook his head. “There’s not enough room for that kind of content, even if you overwrote the baptismal records. But—come to think of it—I might actually remember this guy. I mean, remember in my head.” The hand without the cross stroked the bishop’s stubbled chin. “I’m trying to recall what he looked like
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