A Very Celestial Mix-up (or, How a Celestial Ruined Christmas)

A Very Celestial Mix-up

(or, How a Celestial Ruined Christmas)

By Gabrielle Steele

The moment I materialise on the mortal plane, I know something has gone horribly wrong. Though the clipboard-wielding woman standing before me is wearing a red dress, it isn’t as blood-red as I’d expect, and its white border is fluffy like polar bear fur. Far too hot, surely. Her sour expression is the only thing right about this situation.

We stand in a room full of lights, some of them blinking like we’re in the server room of a Tom Cruise spy thriller. But others are twinkling. Urg. It makes me want to vomit. That’s probably the worse sign of all.

“Follow me,” the woman says with no introduction. Aren’t I there to be her boss? A little respect would be nice.

I follow her across the room and out into a corridor so blindingly white I have to cover my eyes. It’s torture. We must be in the area for clients. That would make sense. All the garish ornaments strung from the ceiling and walls must be designed to remind clients of terrible childhoods and get all those buried feelings to the surface right where we need them.

But then we come to an open plan office. I pause at the end of the corridor, staring at the rows of tiny desks occupied by people in green. No, not people. Creatures. Fluffy white creatures that look like a cross between a harp seal pup and a Samoyed dog. Even their big void-like eyes can’t overcome their adorableness. I do my best not to be sick.

“Come along,” the woman says.

I hurry after her. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

She stops and turns so abruptly, my chest crashes into her obnoxious clipboard. “There are no mistakes in this office. Can you imagine? A mistake at Christmas? No no, that would not do. We run to strict deadlines here. Mistakes are not permitted.”

Christmas? Yup, there’s definitely been a mistake. I’d got my hopes up when I saw her name badge, thinking claws were her favoured means of torture. Apparently not.

A few of the nauseatingly cute creatures stop typing and look at us. Mrs Claws – ah, no, on closer inspection her badge definitely says Claus – waves a hand and they get back to work.

“Elves,” she mutters under her breath before leading me on to a large glass-fronted office. As she reaches for the door to open it, I notice the name plaque. Oh, I’m definitely in the wrong place. I step in after her and shut the door.

“Look, Mrs Claus, there’s been–”

“I’ve made a list of your duties and put them on the desk, along with your login details. Given your work experience, I’m sure three months is plenty of time for you to get up to speed before the big rush.”

I glance at her clipboard. That’s definitely my resume. “I can certainly handle this job, but–”

“Good. The last celestial cracked under the pressure and caused quite the light show. Fortunately, he was outside when he erupted. We can’t be having office fires at this time of year.”

Damn it. I love office fires. “I still think–”

“It’s nice to have a woman apply for the role for once. I’m sure you’ll be far more capable of dealing with the time pressure.”

“Yes, but–”

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to select this year’s candy cane flavour.” She strides out of the office without another word.

I slump into the overly soft office chair behind the desk and let out a sigh. If she’d let me get a word in edgewise, I could have sorted this all out. Plucking a sticky note from on top of my to-do list, I log into the system, doing my best to ignore the desktop background. (Children set my teeth on edge at the best of times, let alone when they’re smiling). I log into my celestial email, hoping I can dig up the contact details for Celestial Placement HR from my application. I’m going to set a fire under them. And I mean that literally. How could they make such a stupid–

Oh.

My forehead meets the desk with a thud. This is my fault? How? I triple, no, quadruple checked my application. I must have scrolled while the mouse was over the dropdown box. That’s the only explanation. Otherwise how did I apply for the role of Santa instead of Satan?

I reach across the desk and pick up a Toblerone-shaped snow “globe”. Golden letters spell out Santa inside. I watch the horrifically glittery snow settle on them, then shake the snow globe hard before throwing it across the room. To my great annoyance, it doesn’t shatter.

Santa? SANTA? How can I be the celestial who brings joy to two-point-four billion children? I lean over the waste bin and retch, but of course I’ve never eaten on the mortal plane, so I don’t get the relief of bringing anything up.

When I sit up, I notice several elves watching me, their sickeningly lovable faces full of concern. I wish I were capable of cracking under pressure, then I could take several of the bastards with me when I explode and return to the celestial plane. I grab a stapler and throw it at the glass. They flinch as it bounces off, and a satisfied smile creeps onto my face. Perhaps this place won’t be so bad. Either way, I’m stuck here now. Like hell am I going to admit I made a mistake.

~

The work is beyond tedious. My main task is to sign off on spreadsheets the elves have compiled, to ensure I agree with the present choices. They’ve even got software to track if I’m actually scrolling so lazy Santas can’t click approve without checking. Macros are disabled, so I can’t trick the system either. I bet Mrs Claus is responsible for that. Every time she brings me mince pies, I catch her sneaking a peak at my screen. Yes, you old cow, I’m doing my job. I might hate it here, but I hate messing up my resume even more by being fired. There’s not a project I’ve failed yet, and I won’t let the easiest celestial job be the first.

Scroll. Scroll. Scroll. Approve. Repeat for every postcode in the world. (The North Pole Express has a postcode for everyone even if their own country doesn’t). After a week, I’m so bored I start wandering around the open plan offices to see what the elves do. Ah, research. I’m very tempted to offer to swap jobs with an elf, because I’m somewhat fond of research. How can you make someone miserable without knowing what buttons to push?

One thing I notice as I peer over the shoulder of a quivering elf (I love making them uncomfortable) is a box that rates Bobby Robinson as naughty. No wonder he’s naughty, with a name like that.

“How do you decide which list they go on?” I ask.

“Oh, we don’t decide that Sir. Ma’am.” He goes whiter as I glare at him. “Boss.”

My eyes drift back to the screen. “Then who does?”

“No one. An algorithm decides.”

“And how does it decide?”

“No one knows. It’s Top Secret, invented by the first celestial who became Santa.”

“I see.” I pat him a little too hard on the back and return to my office, a malicious grin on my face for the first time since arriving. What a relief!

Abandoning the ever-expanding list of spreadsheets I need to approve, I go digging through the corporate wiki. No matter what I search, I can’t find anything about the algorithm. Any references to naughty or nice only mention a “decision”, not how it’s made. This, of course, is far from enough to make me give up.

I phish login details from an elf with concerning ease and take a look at the client profiles assigned to them. The profiles arrive already assigned to a list, and all I gain inspecting a naughty-list file is a churning stomach. In this politically correct day and age, even naughty children get gifts. I’ve never agreed with giving them something as useful as coal, but toys? Bad toys are still a gift. Hopefully they’re ones they don’t want and will start them whining or, better yet, crying. Not that it will matter once I’m done. There are far more children on the nice list. And nice children cry easier than naughty ones.

There has to be some way to find the algorithm. I’m pretty skilled with computers from the mortal plane, yet I can’t find a damn thing. One thing I learnt from the wiki is the North Pole is entirely isolated from the rest of the mortal plane to prevent human hackers finding their way in (adults are meant to believe Santa doesn’t exist, after all). I can access celestial systems fine, but the IP address that sends client profiles to the elves is an internal one. There must be a machine on-site that’s making the decisions. I just have to find it.

~

When December arrives, I still haven’t found anything. I’ve spent the last week catching up on approving spreadsheets because Mrs Claus withheld her gingerbread cookies until I got France finished. Those things are addictive. Honestly, if I ever do manage to get the role of Satan, I’m taking her with me. She’d be perfect for research and development.

I munch on a cookie as I stroll through the corridors, leaving a trail of crumbs to wind up the cleaner. Everyone else is so neat and tidy, he’s not used to having actual mess to clean up. Cookie finished, I pull out a gingerbread person and bite off their head as I stop before a door. I swear I’ve been everywhere in this complex, but I don’t recognise the door. I look around. The corridor is white like the others, but there are no tasteless Christmas decorations. The door itself has no markings, not even a handle. The only thing on it is an ID badge reader.

Grinning, I pull out my celestial tablet and set it floating in the air in front of the badge reader. I look around again, making sure there aren’t any elves or other non-celestials nearby. If I let them see this tech, I’ll be more than fired. Rumour has it, the last celestial who let a mortal see celestial tech spent a thousand cycles in a blackhole. Boring.

When I’m sure the coast is clear, I draw the holographic interface out of the crystalline tablet and multiply my arms. Sifting through the badge reader’s world imprint, I frown. This isn’t mortal tech. By the stars, someone really dared to leave celestial tech in plain sight? I’d love to shake the hand of someone with such guts. Finally challenged, I get to hacking. I have to move the reader through several dimensions and bypass a few triggers that would summon eldritch horrors, but the reader finally turns green, and the lock clunks open. I stash my tablet, re-merge my arms, and creep inside.

Oh, I like this room. It would fit right in in hell. It’s about the size of my office, and around the edge of the room, tiny pine trees grow in jars of lightly glowing goo, the way you might find brains in a horror story. On the far wall is a grid of screens playing videos on about a thousand times speed. Between me and the screens is a small pine tree decorated as you might expect any classic Christmas tree to be. Only, as I walk past the jars of saplings, I’m delightfully creeped out by eyeballs that hang from the tree’s branches like baubles. This creature is certainly celestial in origin. We have a thing for eyes.

The tree’s lowest branches stretch to a panel of paired buttons, moving so fast I can barely see them. Each pair of buttons corresponds to a screen, their colours red and white. Naughty and nice. There’s no algorithm, only a screen-addict Christmas tree.

The tech is mortal, and wires run from them to a panel that connects to a large server rack. Everything is colour coded, making my life much easier. It doesn’t take me long to swap the pairs without disturbing the tree. I’d rather not deal with a celestial creature, especially one that probably shoots its needles like porcupine quills.

When I step from the room and re-lock the door, my smile is so wide I have to tone it down. Mortals would faint if they saw someone really grinning from ear to ear. Still, I struggle to suppress my excitement. Only a few weeks to go before all hell breaks loose.

~

I sleep in on Christmas morning, as is traditional for Santa despite the elves doing most of the work on Christmas Eve. All I had to do was press a button to launch the North Pole Express delivery drones. I yawn and stretch, taking my time before I pull on a red and white robe, which I let slip off one shoulder to add a little spice to the elves’ day. They might not be humanoid, but I’ve seen them looking. The poor little mites have been so confused over their feelings.

After decapitating a few gingerbread people for breakfast, revelling in their imagined screams, I head to my office. To say I step into chaos is an understatement. Elves stare at their screens in disbelief, their eyes glistening with tears. A few huddle beneath their desks, the fur on their cheeks flat and wet. Ah, how glorious. This is the work environment I’ve always dreamed of.

Mrs Claus waits in my office, and I can tell from the far end of the open plan area that her golden skin is a touch paler. I can’t believe it. She’s actually stunned. I thought nothing would make that woman’s facade crack. Putting on a cheery smile, I walk into my office as if nothing’s wrong.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, hating myself for how jolly I manage to sound. “How are the children this morning? Screaming with delight?”

“I…” Ooo I love it when people are at a loss for words. “There’s been a mistake.”

I sit in my chair and steeple my fingers. “But you told me there can never be mistakes when it comes to Christmas.”

“I did… But…” She glances at the chair opposite me. I make no gesture for her to sit, so she remains standing, looking as if she might keel over. I hope she does. It will upset the elves.

“What happened?” All the jolliness is gone from my voice.

“Naughty children usually get a little upset with their gifts, but they’re generally happy to receive anything at all. The problem is… we’re getting reports that thousands of children are distraught. And… they’re… They’re crying.”

It takes all my willpower to make my mouth curve down instead of up. “Crying? On Christmas? How could this happen?”

“We’re looking into it now. Checking each list twice. Perhaps the drones…” She sways but steadies herself with a hand on my desk, damn it. “I should never have suggested the upgrade.”

“You valued efficiency above relying on reindeer?”

“It cost so much to feed them.”

“Perhaps this wasn’t your mistake. Perhaps the algorithm went wrong.”

“The…” She looks at me sharply. “I didn’t know you knew of it. The algorithm could never be wrong. The first celestial Santa ensured it would always be fair and impartial. Be correct.”

I suppose a tree can’t be anything but impartial. “Then we must find the root of the problem, or Christmas may be ruined forever.” I can see the panic rise behind her eyes.

“Of course, Santa. This will be rectified. I promise you, this will all be sorted by next Christmas.”

I wave a dismissive hand, and Mrs Claus staggers away.

Swivelling in my chair, I face the back wall of my office like someone contemplating disaster, though really, I’m hiding my smile. It spreads slowly across my face, my teeth sharpening to fangs and my pupils turning to slits. Oh, this makes me very happy. Very happy indeed.

It will be easy enough to undo my changes in the tree’s room before the elves run scenarios to test the system. They’ll never find a cause, but Mrs Claus will always doubt her decision to use drones. It will eat away at her, making her second guess everything she does. And once she begins to crumble, so will the elves. But they’ll carry on, because something as important as Christmas can’t be allowed to end up cancelled.

Challenge accepted.