Going Postal

into the banshee’s responses: the prey should be huddled, or running away. But Moist’s shoulder caught him in the chest.
    The creature was as light as a child.
    Moist felt a claw slash into his arm as he hurled the thing onto the Sorting Engine, and flung himself to the floor. For one horrible moment he thought it was going to get up, that he’d missed the wheel, but as the enraged Mr. Gryle shifted, there was a sound like
    …gloop…
    …followed by silence.
    Moist lay on the cool flagstones until his heart slowed down to the point where he could make out individual beats. He was aware, as he lay there, that something sticky was dripping down the side of the machine.
    He arose slowly, on unsteady legs, and stared at what had become of the creature. If he’d been a hero, he would have taken the opportunity to say, “That’s what I call sorted!” Since he wasn’t a hero, he threw up. A body doesn’t work properly when significant bits are not sharing the same space-time frame as the rest of it, but it does look more colorful. The trade-off is not to its advantage.
    Then, clutching at his bleeding arm, he knelt down and looked under the engine for Tiddles.
    He had to come back with the cat, he thought muzzily. It was just something that had to happen. A man who rushes into a burning building to rescue a stupid cat and comes out carrying the cat is seen as a hero, even if he is a rather dumb one. If he comes out sans cat he’s a twit.
    A muffled thunder above them suggested that part of the building had fallen down. The air was roasting.
    Tiddles backed away from Moist’s hand.
    “Listen,” Moist growled. “The hero has to come out with the cat. The cat doesn’t have to be alive—”
    He lunged, grabbed Tiddles, and dragged the cat out.
    “Right,” he said, and picked up the suit hanger in his other hand. There were a few blobs of banshee on it, but, he thought light-headedly, he could probably find something to remove it.
    He lurched out into the corridor. There was a wall of fire at both ends, and Tiddles chose this moment to sink all four claws into his arm.
    “Ah,” said Moist. “Up until now it was going so well—”
    “ Mr. Lipvig! Are You All Right, Mr. Lipvig? ”

    W HAT GOLEMS removed from a fire was, in fact, the fire. They took out of a burning property everything that was burning. It was curiously surgical. They assembled at the edge of the fire and deprived it of anything to burn, herded it, cornered it, stamped it to death.
    Golems could wade through lava and pour molten iron. Even if they knew what fear was, they wouldn’t find it in a mere burning building.
    Glowing rubble was hauled away from the steps by red-hot hands. Moist stared up into a landscape of flame but also, in front of it, Mr. Pump. He was glowing orange. Specks of dust and dirt on his clay flashed and sparkled.
    “Good To See You, Mr. Lipvig!” he boomed cheerfully, tossing a crackling beam aside. “We Have Cleared A Path To The Door! Move With Speed!”
    “Er…thank you!” Moist shouted above the roar of the flames. There was a path, dragged clear of debris, with the open door beckoning calmly and cooly at the end of it. Away, toward the far end of the hall, other golems, red-hot in the pillars of flame, were calmly throwing burning floorboards out through a hole in the wall.
    The heat was intense. Moist lowered his head, clutched the terrified cat to his chest, felt the back of his neck begin to roast, and scampered forward.
    From then on, it became all one memory. The crashing noise high above. The metallic boom. The golem Anghammarad looking up, with his message glowing yellow on his cherry-red arm. Ten thousand tons of rainwater pouring down in deceptive slow motion. The cold hitting the glowing golem…
    …the explosion…

    F LAMES DIED . Sound died. Light died.
    A NGHAMMARAD .
    Anghammarad looked at his hands. There was nothing there except heat, furnace heat, blasting heat that nevertheless made the shapes of fingers.
    A NGHAMMARAD , a hollow voice repeated.
    “I Have Lost My Clay,” said the golem.
    Y ES , said Death, THAT IS STANDARD . Y OU ARE DEAD . S MASHED . E XPLODED INTO A MILLION PIECES .
    “Then Who Is This Doing The Listening?”
    E VERYTHING THERE WAS ABOUT YOU THAT ISN’T CLAY .
    “Do You Have A Command For Me?” said the remains of Anghammarad, standing up.
    N OT NOW . Y OU HAVE REACHED THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO MORE ORDERS .
    “What Shall I Do?”
    I BELIEVE YOU HAVE