Pandora's Closet Part 2

Alberich looked her up and down. "You must be the one he was going to buy the Ring for." He snorted. "Waste of effort. You're not nearly ambitious enough."

"You mean I'm not greedy enough," Lydia shot back. "Why won't they take it back?"

"Of course they'll take it back," the dwarf said maliciously. "The problem is, the Ring won't leave him. That means the Rhinemaidens will have to take a bit more than just the gold."

Lydia inhaled sharply. "You mean... his finger?"

"Or his hand," Alberich said. "Possibly his whole arm."

Lydia looked at Nick in horror. "No! They can't."

"They will." Alberich pointed to a jagged rock in the middle of the river, barely visible above the surging water. "That's their rock, and they're already on their way. But there is an alternative."

"What is it?" Lydia asked.

"Forget it," Nick snarled. "He's just playing another angle."

"I'm as strong as they are," Alberich told her. "For another twenty percent I can keep them away from him."

"I said forget it," Nick said again. He could see something in the water now, moving toward him just below the surface. "Even if it costs my whole arm, it'll be worth it."

"Nick, that's insane," Lydia said urgently. "We're in the middle of nowhere, with our car fifty feet up a hill. You'll bleed to death before we can get you to a hospital."

And then, abruptly, three slender bodies surged out of the water onto the sh.o.r.e, and six hands grabbed at his clothing.

"Back!" Alberich snapped, leaping to Nick's side and pulling his right arm away from the grasping hands.

"The Ring!" the Rhinemaidens called in unison, their voices thin and ancient and terrifying. One of them shoved her way beneath Alberich's grip, and suddenly there was a tug-of-war going on for Nick's right arm.

"Give us the Ring," one of the Maidens said, her hand wrapping like a vise around Nick's ankle and tugging him toward the river. "You retain it at your peril."

"I know," Nick said. "I want to give it to you-really I do."

"Only the waters of the Rhine can wash away the curse," the third Maiden said, her hands on Nick's jacket, her face up close to his. Over the smell of fish he caught a glimpse of sharp barracuda teeth.

"It won't let go," Nick pleaded.

"It likes him," Alberich said, pus.h.i.+ng the first Maiden's hands off Nick's arm. "Don't be a fool, Nick. I can still save you."

Nick blinked. It likes you. Alberich had said the same thing the first time Nick had set eyes on the Ring.

Only the Ring didn't like Nick. All it liked was his money.

His money. " Lydia!" he shouted, shaking his left arm free long enough to dig his phone from his pocket. "Here," he said, tossing it awkwardly toward her.

For a second she fumbled, then caught it in a solid grip. "Who do I call?" she shouted back, flipping it open.

"Phone list one-second entry," Nick said, stumbling as the third Maiden got a fresh grip on his left arm and pulled him another step closer to the river. The one who'd been tugging on his ankle abandoned that approach and moved instead to Nick's right arm, and now Alberich had two sets of hands and teeth to fight off. "Input trader pa.s.scode 352627."

Lydia nodded and leaned over the phone. The Maiden on Nick's left arm s.h.i.+fted one hand to his belt. He kicked at her legs; it was like kicking a pair of oak saplings. "I'm in," Lydia called.

"There are five funds listed." On Nick's right arm, one of the two Maidens opened her mouth and lowered the pointed teeth toward the Ring. Nick cringed, but Alberich slapped the creature's cheek and shoved her back again. "Transfer everything in the first four into the fifth."

"What are you doing?" Alberich demanded, frowning at Nick in sudden suspicion.

"The Ring doesn't like me," Nick said. "It just likes my money."

"What?" The dwarf spun toward Lydia. "No!" Abandoning Nick's arm, he charged toward Lydia.

And suddenly Nick was fighting all three Maidens by himself. "Alberich!" he shouted as they dragged him toward the river. "Help me!"

"For what?" the dwarf spat, lunging for the phone. But Lydia was faster, twisting and turning and keeping it out of his reach even as she continued punching in numbers. "Seventy percent of nothing? She's throwing it all away, isn't she?"

"She's transferring it into my charity distribution account," Nick said. His feet were in the icy water now, the Maiden on his left arm already in up to her knees. "All the Ring cares about is money. And as of right now-"

"You're broke!" Lydia shouted in triumph. "You hear me, Ring? He's broke."

Spinning away from Lydia, Alberich threw himself back at the Ring. "Get away from the Ring!" he shouted.

"The Ring is ours," the Maidens chorused in their eerie unison.

"It's mine!" Alberich snarled, grabbing Nick's wrist.

Something cold ran up Nick's back, something having nothing to do with the water swirling around his feet. Lydia was right-with all his money now in the irrevocable trust fund, he had nothing left in the world.

But the Ring still wasn't letting go.

"Is this how you want to die?" Alberich demanded, pulling at Nick's arm with one hand as he shoved at the Maidens with the other. "Drowned in the Rhine by ancient creatures who have nothing left but hate and greed? There's still time for us to make a deal."

"I don't want a deal," Nick said. He was knee deep in the river now, the numbingly cold water threatening to cramp his calf muscles. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lydia doing something with the phone. "I don't want money. All I want-"

And without any warning at all, the Ring came loose.

Nick's arms were still pinioned, but for the moment no one was gripping his hand. With a desperate flick of his wrist, he sent the Ring arcing into the air toward the center of the river and the Rhinemaidens' rock. "No!" Alberich screeched, diving toward it.

But the Maidens were ready. Two of them twisted their arms around the dwarf's neck and dragged him into the river, swimming backwards toward their rock. The third Maiden dove into and then out of the water like a dolphin, reaching up and catching the Ring in midair as it fell. For a moment she held it triumphantly aloft, then turned and disappeared with her sisters beneath the waves.

And then Lydia was at Nick's side, pulling at his now aching arms, helping him back to the sh.o.r.e. "What did you do?" Nick asked, s.h.i.+vering violently. The storm, he noticed, was starting to abate. "How did you get it to let go?"

"You had no money," she told him, wrapping her arm around his waist and leading him toward the cliff where their car waited. "But you still had the potential to earn it all back."

He nodded in understanding. "So you fired me."

"I text-messaged your resignation to Sonnerfeld Thompkins," she confirmed. "I guess it'll never be Sonnerfeld Thompkins Powell now. I'm sorry."

Nick blinked a few lingering drops of water from his eyes. "I'm not. Thank you."

"I'm glad it worked." She paused. "Nick... your phone list. Number two was your online investment number, three and four and five were Sonnerfeld and your office. Number one..."

"Is you," Nick confirmed with a tired sigh. "You've always been number one. I just forgot that for awhile."

She squeezed his hand. His aching, ringless, free hand. "Come on," she said softly. "Let's go home."

WHAT QUIG FOUND.

by Chris Pierson.

This all happened at a restaurant in Rhode Island, the name of which I don't care to recall.

Well, actually I do recall it. I just can't tell you what it is.

I'll explain.

What happened there caused a bit of what my mother would call a foofaraw, which means publicity, and not the kind a major restaurant chain enjoys. So the first time I tried to get this story published, I mentioned the name, and next thing there were cease-and-desist orders flying, and... well, they're a multinational corporation worth billions. I'm a database programmer with student loans and a car to pay off. You tell me who'd win in court. So turns out I can't tell you where the story takes place.

Ah, narrative in the modern era.

But I can tell you the type of restaurant I'm talking about. It's the sort of joint that always springs up in that special kind of strip-mall h.e.l.l you find in the suburbs. The kind you find next door to the mini-golf course, where they play bad cla.s.sic rock and serve fajitas and triple cheeseburgers and other things sure to kill you before you start collecting Social Security.

They're also the kind where there isn't a square inch of wall that isn't covered in some old piece of random junk. Pair of snowshoes, was.h.i.+ng board, stuffed wolverine, Alaskan license plate. You know the sort. They always have a cute name, like J.P. Fern-stubble's Goode Tyme Emporium, or Holy c.r.a.p, It's Still Thursday's. You've probably eaten there, then spent the evening scrounging for antacid.

Anyway, I used to work about half a mile from a place like that. Little startup company, sold baby products online. I'll spare you the glamorous details. This was back in '99, before the tech bubble popped, and half of America was made up of little places like that, with way more venture capital than clue. Since Footwell McBucketfish's Olde-Style Roadhouse was just down the street, my team went there for drinks after work. A lot.

So there we were, five of us. There was me-I'm Jered, by the way-and the rest of my crew. Rick was one of the company founders, a burnout who didn't get any work done. Gabby was the best user interface programmer I've ever met, but she hated her job and spent half her time using the office copier to make dupes of her resume. Ravi did server work; he moved to Canada last year after some drunk morons who thought he was Iraqi set fire to his lawn.

And then there was Alex Quigley. We called him Quig. He was our project lead, and he was older than us-fiftyish, a bit fat and nerdy (in a tech company, you say? Egad!), on his second career. Good guy to work for. He used to be an actor, when he was my age; he even did a little off-Broadway before he got tired of being poor.

We were regulars at the Muggawugga Gulch Saloon, which meant we had a regular booth, with a waitress named Donna. She brought us oversized margaritas and their special chili-cheese-'n'-bacon fries ("They're Defibrillicious!") and kept the families with shrieking babies at least three tables away. We never tipped her less than twenty percent.

"Rough day?" she asked that rainy night, setting down our second round of drinks. "You all look like you just found out Jar Jar Binks was going to be back in the next Star Wars."

Nerd humor. Usually it got a laugh, but all we could manage were pained grimaces.

"G.o.d," said Ravi. "Don't depress us even more."

"Quig got yelled at," Gabby said, and shrugged. "But what else is new?"

Rick took a long pull off his beer. "Nah. It's bad this time."

We all looked at Quig. He and the CEO had had a blowup that afternoon. See, the CEO thought we should all be working sixteen-hour days until we s.h.i.+pped our product. Quig thought that was just going to make us tired and sloppy, which meant delays. It got to shouting, and Quig lost. Now he looked as though someone had stolen his car in order to run over his dog.

"You gonna get fired?" Donna asked.

Quig shook his head and sighed, watching his margarita melt. "That'd be too merciful."

"They're setting him up to fail," I said. "They want someone to blame."

"I told them from the start: Fast, Cheap, Good-you only get to pick two," Quig said, and shook his head. "But these guys have MBAs, so they knew better."

"So now we're gonna work our a.s.ses off on something we know is gonna fail, and Quig'll take the fall," Rick said. He raised his drink. "To the New Economy."

That got a few morbid laughs. We toasted with Rick-everyone but Quig. He just sat still, moping.

"Jeez." Donna touched his shoulder. "You should just quit. Life's too short for that c.r.a.p. I'll get you some Alamo Ma.s.sacre Wings. You eat 'em, the pain'll take your mind off things."

Quig looked up at her and managed a smile. "Thanks, D. You're a peach."

Off she went, dodging a table of half-drunk biker-looking dudes a short way away. There was a lot of shouting, and one of the bikers tried to grab Donna's a.s.s, but she escaped and vanished toward the kitchen.

"Jacka.s.ses," Gabby muttered, giving the drunks a dirty look.

"Donna's right," Ravi told Quig. "You should walk."

"I can't do that to you guys," Quig replied. "They'll ride you into the ground without me there."

Rick finished his beer. "It's happening anyway. It's not like you're protecting us from anything."

"Jesus, Rick," Gabby said.

"What?" he shot back. "It's true. Or are we not staying for 'Productivity Nights' starting next Monday?"

"All right, enough," I said. "We talk about work any more, I'm going to jam this fork in my eye. Who's up for a game of Spot the Tchotchke?"

I'd come up with Spot the Tchotchke one day after realizing the stuff on the walls of Q.T. von Thunder-pants's Publick Haus wasn't always the same from one week to the next. Believe it or not, they add and remove things on a regular basis-I don't know if they rotate it between restaurants, or buy new junk, or what. I suspect magic gnomes are involved, but that's just a guess.

Anyway, in Spot the Tchotchke, you take turns trying to find stuff that wasn't there last time you visited. Whoever finds the weirdest thing gets their meal paid for by the rest of the table.

"I'm in," said Ravi, and pointed across the room. "New traffic sign over there. Armadillo Crossing, I think."

"That's an aardvark," Gabby said, squinting.

"Even better. Beat it."

"Easy," she said. "There, behind that flock of teenagers. That's an old medieval instrument called a serpent."

I looked. The teens were busy throwing food at each other and generally acting like idiots. Hanging nearby, smeared with ketchup, was a wavy thing that looked like a clarinet that had been in an accident.

"Advantage: Gabby," I said. "Obscure musical instrument beats road sign."

"Does not!" Ravi protested.

"It's in the rulebook." There was no book, of course, but as the game's creator, I made the call. "Anyone else?"