HebrewPunk Read online

  HebrewPunk

  By Lavie Tidhar

  With an Introduction by Laura Anne Gilman

  APEX PUBLICATIONS

  Apex Publications, LLC

  PO Box 24323

  Lexington, KY40524

  HebrewPunk

  Lavie Tidhar

  ISBN TPB: 978-0-9788676-4-5

  Horror, Dark Fantasy

  This collection is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  HebrewPunk

  Copyright © 2007 by Lavie Tidhar

  Introduction © 2007 by Laura Anne Gilman

  Cover art © 2007 by Melissa Gay

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.apexbookcompany.com

  An Introduction: Why You Should Read This Collection and Then Read It Again

  HebrewPunk.Right. Catchy title. What the hell does it mean?

  Hebrew: Seems like it should be pretty self-explanatory, right? “A member of the Semitic peoples inhabiting ancient Palestine and claiming descent from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; an Israelite.” Or, “a Semitic language of the ancient Hebrews, retained as the scholarly and liturgical language of Jews, now the national language of Israel.”

  Punk: the first reference most of us will think of is “a style or movement characterized by the defiance of social norms of behavior, usually associated with punk rock musicians and fans,” as adapted to cyberpunk, within the SF/F genre. But it also means “any prepared substance, usually in stick form, that will smolder and can be used to light fireworks, fuses, etc.” It has also been used as slang for a young or budding criminal.

  So.HebrewPunk. A person or language in defiance of the norm, a fuse waiting to be lit. A dangerous tradition.

  I first heard the name Lavie Tidhar from another writer, in passing. “This kid,” that writer said, in the tone writers have sometimes, when they’ve been annoyed by someone coming up with a story idea first, or getting the idea at the same time and telling it better. “This kid, he’s going to be good.”

  So okay, I said. I’ll take a look. It took a while before I found the time, but eventually a story found its way onto my desk.

  The writing in that earlier work was a little raw, the themes not quite as well-integrated into the story as one might wish, but the power of the visuals, the depth of voice, was already there, and I marked the name as one to keep an eye on. Not just because he was a good writer, but because he was doing things with Jewish myth and religion that reminded me of a writer I had long loved—Isaac Bashevis Singer—if Singer had been raised on a steady diet of Hammer films and 21 century politics.

  So when I was asked to write the introduction to this volume, I paused long enough only to check my calendar before saying yes. Stories of Tzaddik, the Rat, the Rabbi… Lavie is mining ancient traditions and recent history to write stories of modern despair and a weird sort of redemptive compassion, messing with our expectations and always, always, leading with our humanity, even when the heroes are, by some standards, monsters.

  Tradition, yes. The works in this volume are infused with centuries of tradition: traditions of the past, of the present the reader brings, and the future that is both dreamed of and dreaded. These stories require you to be aware, to think, to question. And that, too, is the Hebrew tradition.

  Dangerous? Yes. Because these are not stories that you can take in passively. You have to read them, experience them, be changed by them. Change is dangerous. Is that good or bad? Only the nature of the change can tell us that.

  One thing that I can tell you.This kid? He’s already good.

  Laura Anne Gilman

  April 26th, 2007

  Table of Contents

  “The Heist”

  8

  “Transylvania Mission”

  28

  “Uganda”

  52

  “The Dope Fiend”

  100

  The Heist

  Breach

  The bank stands alone at the city’s heart. Circular and tall, its face to the world is of unbroken, smooth steel, a façade that hides and protects its heart. Whatever windows there may be are hidden.

  Along its vertical wall a shadow moves. Where no living creature could go it crawls, a piece of darkness and moonlight almost indistinguishable from its surroundings.

  It moves along. Its body is encased in a darkness that is more than clothes; its hands cling to the wall by uncertain means. It climbs the tower like a spider, scuttling in a silence that is more than the absence of noise.

  The tower’s immune system has not so far detected the intruder. If it had, hidden machines would open fire, for every five lead bullets two of silver, for every four bullets one tipped with gold. If it had, if the motion sensors and the heat sensors, the dust sensors and the X-ray censors, radar and cameras and other, more arcane means, have not temporarily failed, the intruder would be captured and brought inside to the intimate womb of the tower, from which it would never return.

  The intruder moves, uninterrupted, until it reaches the upper levels of the tower. Here there are hidden windows, a loose array of armoured, one way mirrors.

  The intruder feels along the sides of one, running its hands along the perimeter of the small window. Any impact with the glass, any cut made to the layers of glass and wiring, will cause an immediate reaction. It jerks away its hand in seeming pain: there are tiny crucifixes cut into the glass, every five centimetres. The intruder scuttles up and down the side of the wall until it finds a window that it is apparently satisfied with. Feeling along the bottom of the windows, it detects the tiniest motion of air. There is a gap in the tower, a breach on a micronic scale.

  In seconds, the intruder is gone. A cloud of vapour hangs in the air for a short while yet, the ghost of the dark mist that edges its way into the tower.

  Inside, the cloud quickly reassembles. It reveals its shape first, then solidifies further, now that it is in the building. The intruder’s clothes are matt black, sealing the body inside it.

  The intruder removes its headgear, revealing the face of a woman. She glides along the walls and down a corridor, looking around her cautiously. Her movements are precise.

  There are no sounds. Her steps become more confident as she walks further into the heart of the tower.

  Then, without warning, dark shapes slide out of the ceiling.

  They look like bulbous plants at first, little metal balls that noiselessly grow a circle of tiny pipes around themselves, like the offshoots of a flower.

  They sprinkle out water in a fine mist that gently descends to the floor. The intruder does not even notice until the water is nearly on her naked face.

  Then she screams.

  In the dim light of the corridor her face is a mask of writhing shadows. Where the water touches it, the skin blisters and frays.

  Only the eyes remain for a while longer as the face around them is rapidly consumed, staring with an unnatural fear at the floating mist. Then they, too, are consumed in a bright flare and her whole head explodes, spraying the walls with brain and blood that are dry, and that form little mounds of mud on the floor. The intruder’s body slowly topples over.

  In time it, too, is consumed by the mist.

  Interlude

  Somewhere, a phone rings. A large, hairy hand picks up the receiver. A Chopin concerto is playing loudly in the background.

  “Yes?” The speaker is sitting in an armchair, looking out of a large window on the city that sprawls underneath. It is early morning, and the sun is already burning.

  “We failed.”

  “So I gather.” There’s a newspaper spread on the man’s knees.


  “Last night,” he says, his dry voice echoing down the line, “a burglar attempted to gain entry to the blood bank’s premises. The intruder was apprehended by bank security and killed while violently trying to resist arrest.” He pauses. “But we know what really happened, don’t we?”

  The voice on the other side of the phone sounds tired. “They tell you at the bottom of the article,” he says. “I think. A friendly little warning from the authorities.”

  The man’s finger traces the lines of text. “Incidentally, we have recently learned that the automated fire-prevention system recently installed at the blood bank carries water blessed by a high-ranking member of the clergy.” He can see the tall tower of the bank from his window, shining coolly in the bright sunlight.

  “Holy water sprinklers?” His voice is even, but cannot totally disguise that the man is impressed.

  “Another one bites the dust.”

  “Quite.” The man sits quietly for a few moments as musical notes chase each other around the room. “Find me someone who can do it,” he says. “Anyone.”

  He puts the phone down, gently.

  Corporate Politics

  “Yes, sir,” Jiminy says, even though the line is dead. Jiminy is balding, with unruly tufts of hair sticking out of his head like wildfire. His face is grey and lined. There are dark patches of sweat on his suit, under his armpits.

  From his office window he can see the abandoned docks and the river. The dark water foams, churning out a familiar, almost welcome stench.

  “The boss ain’t happy,” he says to the short man leaning against the wall. His tone is accusing. The man shrugs, a gesture of carelessness that infuriates Jiminy.

  He grabs the short man and kicks him in the groin. The man falls to the ground. Jiminy’s hands shake. “Listen, you little shit,” he whispers. “If the boss ain’t happy then I ain’t happy.” He kicks the man in the ribs, hard. “And if I ain’t happy then you certainly ain’t happy.” He grabs the man’s hair and forces his head up, sharply. “Especially seeing as it was your burglar that just got vaporised.” He slaps the man hard with the back of his hand.

  “I want results this time, sunshine,” he whispers. “Or it’s your time to start looking for some prime real estate at the bottom of the river, ‘cause that’s where you will be relocating to on a permanent basis real soon. Understand?”

  He drops the short man to the floor and kicks him one last time. “Now get out and fix it.”

  The Fixer

  “I know a man,” the short man says. “A macher.” His voice on the phone is hoarse.

  Jiminy is chewing on a short cigar. He is still at his office. “A macher?”

  “A fixer.” The short man takes a deep breath. “Name of Cahana. Ezra Cahana. Known as The Rabbi.”

  “A Jew,” Jiminy says. His hand is drumming a rapid beat on the oak desk.

  The short man hesitates. “We’ve exhausted all other avenues,” he says.

  In the dark room Jiminy nods.

  He thinks briefly, then speaks into the phone. “Where do I find him?”

  It turns out the Rabbi doesn’t travel. You want him, you come to him. Jiminy curses as he drives through the narrow streets of downtown, searching for the address. He pulls over outside a small house. The street lamps are unlit and the windows of the house are dim. Rats hurry through a mound of rubbish outside. In the light of the moon their fur looks blood-encrusted and dirty.

  He pats his coat, reassuring himself of the gun’s presence. He knocks on the door.

  The Cast

  The Rabbi knows a few people. He opens a thick folder of brown paper and leafs through it. There’s Yanek ‘the Gondolier’ Kozlovsky, a contract killer with a speciality in vampires who likes drowning his victims in vats of holy water. There’s Motti the Shark, a rogue Kabbalist with a line in curses. There’s Jimmy the Prophet, whose powers of divination allow him to burgle empty houses with an unnatural ease.

  He knows a few people. He pulls three sheets from the folder and lays them on the table in front of Jiminy.

  “Jimmy the Rat.” His finger taps a staccato on the page. “Age unknown, though at least a hundred. A vampire, and, almost uniquely, a Jew.” The Rabbi sighs, but it is not clear whether it is the idea of a Jewish vampire or its uniqueness that saddens him more. He continues. “Shape-shifting abilities – the moniker is not for nought – immunity from crosses, holy water and silver, although he is fatally affected by gold. A loner, naturally. Served with the partisans in Eastern Europe during the Holocaust, an expert with explosives, several posthumous medals for bravery.”

  He shifts his finger to the second sheet. “Frankie Bloomenthal, AKA The Tzaddik. Frankie is a Wandering Jew, and the rumour is he was once one of the Lamed Vav – the Thirty-Six Tzaddiks who preserve the order of the world. An unfortunate taste for expensive drugs and young girls. Immortal – naturally – he can be hurt but not stopped.”

  The Rabbi’s finger shifts to the third sheet. “Lastly, one of my close associates. Strong – much more so than a human – obedient, extremely loyal and very quiet on his feet.” He stares at a point directly behind Jiminy and smiles. “Very quiet.”

  When Jiminy turns round he has to control his hand, prevent it from reaching for the gun. There is a huge thing blocking the door, a man-shaped figure made of a dark, fluid material. It exudes menace like a pungent cologne.

  “Goldie.” The Rabbi says proudly.

  “What is that thing?” Jiminy says. He takes a step back.

  “A golem.” The Rabbi Says. His smile is unpleasant. “Certain Rabbis, you see, can mould a human figure from clay and animate it.”

  His tone of voice makes it clear to which category of Rabbi he belongs. “It’s done by writing down the true name of God and putting the paper under the golem’s tongue.”

  Jiminy isn’t going to argue with that, not with the golem standing right beside him.

  The Rabbi continues. “Goldie is an improvement in several ways on a traditional golem, however,” he says, “most importantly in his physical attributes. Instead of the traditional clay I’ve used a special mixture of clay, industrial diamonds and steel that can absorb double the impact of a standard golem, and produce three times the punch. In addition, the usually flat mouth has been enhanced with a special set of teeth. Smile, Goldie.”

  The giant golem opens its mouth. Sharp, artificial dentures shine in the dim light.

  “Alternating gold, silver, and titanium alloy,” the Rabbi says. “Can take on anyone. In addition,” he continues, “certain modifications to the writing that animates Goldie have been made that provide him with a modicum of free will.” The Rabbi shrugs. “A necessary requirement if one was to assist successfully in an unpredictable operation. Such as,” he says evenly, “the operation you have in mind.”

  Jiminy has heard enough. “You’d better not fail,” he says.

  Money changes hands.

  Jiminy has to push past the golem on his way out. He takes a deep breath in the steamy air outside and hurries to his car.

  Recruitment

  The Rabbi finds the Tzaddik at his favourite place, a nearly-empty bar whose dark interior is illuminated only by the dim light of the neon signs outside. The Tzaddik is sitting in the corner, a glass and bottle of wine on the table beside him.

  The Rabbi sits down and places a second glass on the table. He murmurs a short prayer over the wine then pours himself a generous helping.

  “Got a job for you,” he says. The Tzaddik doesn’t seem to hear him.

  “The big job, Frankie--” the Rabbi’s voice is excited “--this is it. The retirement fund, the bailout money, the big payout. Even for you.”

  The Tzaddik grips his wine glass. His fingers are long and pale, and hairless. Pigmentation spots are strewn across them haphazardly. He smiles crookedly at the Rabbi. “There is always one last job, Rabbi. Always one more.” He empties his glass and stands up.

  “And there will always be a Tzaddik to do th
em,” the Rabbi says. He tops up his glass. “Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  He drinks wine and watches the retreating back of the Tzaddik.

  Jimmy the Rat hangs out at the Glass Tit, as bright as the Tzaddik’s bar is dark. The night club is neon lit, smoky and loud, with a uniform bass beat that sends shock waves through the entire structure.

  The Rabbi finds Jimmy in the VIP lounge upstairs. He is smoking a cigarette, watching the people on the dance floor below. A brief nod acknowledges the Rabbi.

  “What have you got?” he says. He waves his hand and the room empties of people, fast. The Rabbi sits down.

  “I have need of your talents,” he says. It’s almost a tradition.

  “Something big?”

  “The blood bank.” The Rabbi notices the fleeing reaction of the vampire and knows the bait was taken.

  “Impossible.”

  “No,” the Rabbi says. He smiles at the tall vampire. “Just very, very dangerous.”

  The vampire lights up another cigarette. “How much?” he says finally.

  “As much as you can carry.” The Rabbi stands up. “Meet me at the warehouse tomorrow, eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  His steps follow the beat as he walks out.

  Blueprints

  A dirty moon casts a pale reflection in the river. The warehouse is a low building squatting on a deserted quay. It casts a low reflection in the water.

  Naked neon bulbs illuminate the warehouse from within. The Rabbi and his accomplices are standing around a high table.