The Long War

They were talking about Lobsang, of course. Even now Joshua would have difficulty in explaining who exactly Lobsang was. Or what. Imagine God inside your computer, your phone, everyone else’s computer. Imagine someone who almost is the Black Corporation, with all its power and riches and reach. And who, despite all this, seems pretty sane and beneficent by the standards of most gods. Oh, and who sometimes swears in Tibetan…

Joshua said, “Incidentally I heard a rumour that he has an iteration headed out of the solar system altogether, on some kind of spaceprobe. You know him, he always takes the long view. And there’s no such thing as too much backup.”

“So now he could survive the sun exploding,” Sally said dryly. “That’s good to know. You have much contact with him?”

“No. Not now. Not for ten years. Not since he, or whichever version of him resides on the Datum, let Madison be flattened by a backpack nuke. That was my home town, Sally. What use is a presence like Lobsang if he couldn’t stop that? And if he could have stopped it, why didn’t he?”

Sally shrugged. Back then, she’d stepped into the ruins of Madison at his side. Evidently she had no answer.

He became aware of Helen walking ahead of the two of them, talking to a gaggle of neighbours, wearing what Joshua, a veteran of nine years of marriage, called her “polite” expression. Suitably alarmed, he hurried to catch her up.

He thought they were all relieved when they got to the town hall. Sally read the title of the show from a hand-painted poster tacked to the wall: “‘The Revenge of Moby-Dick’. You have got to be kidding me.”

Joshua couldn’t suppress a grin. “It’s good stuff. Wait for the bit where the illegal whaling fleet gets its comeuppance. The kids learned some Japanese just for that scene. Come on, we’ve got seats up front…”

It was indeed a remarkable show, from the opening scene in which a narrator in a salt-stained oilskin jacket walked to the front of the stage: “Call me Ishmael.”

“Hi, Ishmael!”

“Hi, boys and girls!…”

By the time the singing squid got three encores after the big closing number, “Harpoon of Love’, even Sally was laughing out loud.

In the after-show party, children and parents mingled in the hall. Sally stayed on, clutching a drink. But her expression, Joshua thought, as she looked around at the chattering adults, the children’s bright faces, gradually soured.

Joshua risked asking, “What’s on your mind now?”

“It’s all so damn nice.”

Helen said, “You never did trust nice, did you, Sally?”

“I can’t help thinking you’re wide open.”

“Wide open to what?”

“If I was a cynic I would be wondering if sooner or later some charismatic douche-bag might stomp all over this Little House on the Prairie dream of yours.” She glanced at Helen. “Sorry for saying ‘douche-bag’ in front of your kids.”

To Joshua’s amazement, and apparently Sally’s, Helen burst out laughing. “You don’t change, do you, Sally? Well, that’s not going to happen. The stomping thing. Look—I think we’re pretty robust here. Physically and intellectually robust, I mean. For a start we don’t do God here. Most of the parents at Hell-Knows-Where are atheist unbelievers, or agnostics at best—simply people who get on with their lives without requiring help from above. We do teach our kids the golden rule—”

“Do as you would be done by.”

“That’s one version. And similar basic life lessons. We get along fine. We work together. And I think we do pretty well for the kids. They learn because we make it fun. See young Michael, the boy in the wheelchair over there? He wrote the script for the play, and Ahab’s song was entirely his own work.”

“Which one? ‘I’d Swap My Other Leg for Your Heart’?”

“That’s the one. He’s only seventeen, and if he never gets a chance at developing his music there is no justice.”

Sally looked uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Well, with people like you two around, he’ll get his chance.”

Helen’s expression flickered. “Are you mocking us?”

Joshua tensed for the fireworks.

But Sally merely said, “Don’t tell anybody I said so. But I envy you, Helen Valienté née Green. A little bit anyhow. Although not over Joshua. This drink’s terrific, by the way, what is it?”

“There is a tree in these parts, a maple of sorts… I’ll show you if you like.” She held up her glass in a toast. “Here’s to you, Sally.”

“What for?”

“Well, for keeping Joshua alive long enough to meet me.”

“That’s true enough.”

“And you’re our guest here for as long as you wish. But—tell me the truth. You’re here to take Joshua away again, aren’t you?”

Sally looked into her glass and said calmly, “Yes. I’m sorry.”

Joshua asked, “It’s the trolls, right? Sally, what exactly is it you want me to do about that?”