Mercury Falls (16 page)

With some difficulty, Christine managed to convince Perpetiel to give her a tour of the planeport. Despite the obvious differences, it really was about as interesting as a midsized airline hub. In place of lettered signs with the names of destinations on them, the gates were marked with exotic symbols that represented each of the different planes. The same symbol was repeated in more intricate fashion in the portal itself. There were no ordinary windows or doors; the planeport seemed to exist in a sort of self-contained space outside of any of the planes to which it connected. Harried interplanar travelers tramped down the concourse, vanishing into thin air as they reached their respective portals.

Most impressive were the security guards, great hulking winged angels who carried flaming swords. Christine was almost disappointed not to actually have the chance to see them in action; mostly they were standing around at various checkpoints, patting down travelers and examining their luggage for God knows what. The guards' mighty blades smoldered harmlessly in jeweled scabbards hanging from their belts.

While she and Perp walked, Christine managed to squeeze some answers out of Perp to her more pressing questions about the Apocalypse, in exchange for first listening to long stretches of advice of dubious value.

"If you're going to keep me here while my world is destroyed," Christine said, "the least you could do is explain to me a little more clearly what the hell is going on. Like, who is Uzziel, in the scheme of things?"

"Fine," Perp sighed. "When ants travel in a straight line, expect rain. When they scatter, expect fair weather. Uzziel works for the Apocalypse Bureau. He's what you'd call middle management. His boss—well, he has several bosses, but his main boss—is one of seven Assistant Directors of the Apocalypse, who report to the Undersecretary for the Apocalypse, who reports to the Secretary for Apocalyptic Affairs, Michael, whom you've probably heard of."

"You mean,
the
Michael?"

"Correct. Archangel. Important guy."

"Wow. OK."

"Then there's the Mundane Observation Corps. Completely separate entity, with entirely different concerns. They report—ultimately—to the Observation Committee, which answers to the Seraphic Senate. The MOC has far more in the way of intelligence resources than the Apocalypse Bureau does. They observe virtually everything that happens on the Mundane—that is, on Earth. On a lightweight bicycle, the tires should last two to three thousand miles. If they last longer, they're too heavy. Unfortunately, the raw data is not available to the Apocalypse Bureau, for various reasons having to do with interplanar security, checks and balances, that sort of thing. There were concerns that if the Bureau had direct access to MOC intelligence, there would be. . .abuses. In fact, much of the current separation of functionality goes back to the Vesuvius Scandal, when agents of the Bureau misinterpreted data from the MOC that seemed to indicate—"

"Good lord," said Christine. "I mean, this is fascinating and all, but is there any way we can stay in the current century?"

"Hmph," said Perp. "There's no biological difference between a puma, a cougar, and a mountain lion."

"Thanks for clearing that up," said Christine. "Now if you could—"

"So the MOC observes everything, but the Bureau usually doesn't get the data until a few days or even weeks later. And they often only get summaries and have to fight to get the really sensitive information declassified. It's a constant battle between the two organizations."

"And how do you know all this?"

"Me? I'm under Transport and Communications. We hear everything. Well, not the most sensitive information, but generally the T&C angels are the best informed. If the cats aren't sleeping on the radiators, turn down the heat. As I understand it, the Bureau has been trying to keep tabs on you, but it's been rather difficult. And right now, they can't risk losing track of you."

"I suppose you know who it was that rescued me from the rubble of that house in Syria then?"

"Hmm, no. I don't think anything of that sort was in the SPAM. In fact, that whole bit with Isaacson was unplanned. Presumably the renegades were responsible for Isaacson's death, but I've got no information regarding your rescue."

"So," said Christine. "Here I sit, in the waiting room of the Apocalypse."

"Precisely. You have no idea how much planning has gone into this. Can you imagine what it's like trying to get the angel hierarchy and the demon hierarchy to agree on anything? The angels alone are bad enough. You've heard the joke about the three seraphim, right?"

"No."

"Ah, well, I think the joke is 'What has eighteen wings and nineteen opinions?' But I've kind of ruined it. In any case, a lot of people would be very upset if things went sour now."

"But, presumably, some people would like very much to see the Apocalypse fail," Christine said.

"I suppose," admitted Perp.

"That's what all this is about, isn't it? That's why I'm here. Because somebody is trying to throw a wrench in the works?"

"True. And between you and me, I wouldn't be surprised if Lucifer is trying to gain some kind of unfair advantage through all of these unplanned events."

"Well," said Christine, "he is
Satan
, right? Treachery would seem to go with the territory."

"I imagine so. Even grizzly bears won't attack groups of four or more people."

A thought nagged at Christine. "You said that Uzziel's boss is the archangel Michael?"

"His boss's boss's boss, yes."

"And he reports directly to. . .?"

"Erm, well, that's where things get complicated. Above the archangels is another tier of beings. There's no word for them in English. The word in Seraphic means something like 'Eternals.' The Eternals are, essentially, to the angels what angels are to humans. I've never seen one, of course, but I'm assured that they are quite real."

"And above the Eternals. . .?"

"Erm," said Perp. "
Above
the Eternals. Not sure about that. There may be another tier above them."

"And above that tier. . ."

"Well, there's no point in speculating. Let's just say that we all have a place in the Divine Order."

"But for all you know, it could be turtles all the way up."

"I'm sorry?"

"Forget it. Human expression. The point is, you never stopped to think that maybe the Universe is just an endless hierarchy of bureaucrats, all doing what they've been told, without any understanding of
why
? Or worse yet, maybe Michael and his pals are just
pretending
to be getting orders from On High?"

Perp stared blankly at her. He began again, "You see, Uzziel works for one of seven Assistant Directors of the Apocalypse, who report to—"

"Yeah, I got it," said Christine. "So you're saying that Heaven's bureaucrats and Hell's bureaucrats negotiated a plan for the Apocalypse, and now you think Lucifer is double-crossing you?"

"Well, that's a rather simplistic. . .basically, yes."

"What do you think they're after?"

"Oh, the usual, I suspect. Power, control, et cetera."

"Right, but specifically, what are they trying to do?"

"Hmmm," said Perp. "Hmmm. Ahhhh. Hmmm."

"You're completely incapable of thinking treacherously, aren't you?"

"Hey, I'm the one who told you I thought Lucifer was up to no good."

"Yeah, congrats on that. Everybody else seems to think that Lucifer is such a straight shooter. Way to see through the facade."

A hurt look swept over Perp's fleshy face. "It's not easy, you know, working with angels all day and then trying to deal with the minions of Lucifer. People are more likely to remember you if you always wear the same outfit."

"Exactly!" said Christine. "I mean, not about the outfit thing. That's ridiculous. But you need someone like me to help you figure this stuff out. Someone who is used to dealing with. . .What's that?"

Christine's gaze had drifted to a portal that looked eerily familiar.

"That?" Perp said. "Just another portal."

"Where does it go?"

"Oh, nowhere you'd be interested in."

"Really," said Christine flatly. She had seen this particular pattern before. There was no mistaking it. It was, she mused ruefully, a very welcoming pattern.

"Tell me," said Christine, standing in front of the portal, her eyes transfixed, "how do these portals work exactly? Could I just draw one of these patterns on the ground and open a portal to anywhere I want?"

"Certainly not," said Perp. "There is a very precise method for creating the pattern. Also, on most planes there are only a handful of geographic locations where the transplanar energy channels converge in such a way as to make a portal possible. And you can only travel between adjacent planes."

"So what planes are adjacent to Earth?"

"Erm," said Perp. "It doesn't really work like that. You understand that terms like 'adjacent' and 'planes' are really metaphors. We're not talking about 'planes' as in two-dimensional figures, like sheets of paper. It might be more helpful to think of a plane as a sheet of paper that is rolled up as cylinder and then stretched out like a garden hose. And then, ah, tied up with several thousand other hoses, crushed flat again, crumpled up like a tissue, and then had holes punched in it at various places. And then the holes are filled with, oh, say macaroni."

"Yes," said Christine. "That's very helpful."

"The point is that the whole thing might seem rather arbitrary to a mortal being such as yourself. For example, Earth only has a single feasible portal location at present."

"Is it in Glendale, by any chance?" Christine asked.

"Glendale? Never heard of it. No, it's in a place called Megiddo. As I understand it, there are two adjacent planes with portals to Megiddo. One is from a plane within the Heavenly sphere of interest, and the other is from some godforsaken place under Lucifer's control."

"So there's a portal between the Middle East and Hell?"

Perp shot Christine a pained look. "Well, first of all, there's no plane called 'Hell.' Hell is the absence of God, and there is no plane where God is completely absent. Conversely, Heaven is the presence of God."

"So. . .whatever plane God is on, that's Heaven?"

"Erm, in a manner of speaking."

"So," Christine mused, "Heaven is like God's Air Force One."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Wait, if Megiddo is the only place you can open a portal on Earth, then how did Uzziel open a portal to Harry's office in LA?"

"Oh, temporary portals are another thing entirely. They're very expensive, and they only last a few minutes. Also, you can only use them to get to an interplanar hub, like this planeport. When boiling eggs, add a pinch of salt to keep the shells from cracking."

"So there's no reason anyone would create a portal in my condominium in Glendale?"

"Not unless they planned to move the building to Megiddo at some point. Or reconfigure the interplanar energy channels. The former being the simpler option, by far."

"Hmmm," said Christine, regarding the familiar pattern of the portal with interest.

"You don't just reconfigure the channels. You'd need some kind of massive—"

"Oh my!" Christine suddenly exclaimed, pointing at something over the cherub's shoulder. "Is that Joseph Smith?"

Perp turned, a sour expression on his face. "I wasn't informed of any. . .hey, wait!"

But it was too late. Christine had disappeared through the portal.

"Duplicitous race," muttered Perp.

Harry's affinity for Christine was threatening to spoil what would otherwise be a moment of unmitigated triumph. His feelings of exhilaration at the imminent realization of his destiny were intermingled with guilt about getting her mixed up in this whole sordid business. Of course, in a sense everyone was mixed up in it—it was, after all, the Apocalypse—but he had rather hoped to keep things on a professional level. His unplanned and prolonged proximity to Karl wasn't helping his state of mind either.

"This blows," said Karl. "That dude coulda at least called us a cab or something. And I'm freaking starved. We need to get a pizza. You should call for a pizza."

"My house is just a few blocks up," said Harry. "You're welcome to whatever food I've got."

He and Karl had been unceremoniously transported to a cul-de-sac in Harry's Pasadena neighborhood and were now trudging toward his house. Harry hoped to change his clothes and take a shower before the conference, and he had high hopes that Karl would shower as well. The smell emanating from Karl's sweaty body was the only thing distracting him from Karl's incessant whining.

"You should call for a pizza. It could, like, be there by the time we get there."

"Uh huh," said Harry.

"Is there a Charlie's Grill around here? I can eat there for free."

"No."

"Are you sure? I think I've been here before. Let's go that way."

"Karl, this is my neighborhood. I
live
here. There's no Charlie's Grill around here."

"What a stupid place to live."

"Yeah," Harry replied. "I really wasn't thinking when I bought a house in a residential neighborhood."

As Karl's recitation of grievances dulled to a nearly indecipherable, monotonous hum, Harry's thoughts drifted back to Christine. What was it about her? He had, he assured himself with some success, no romantic interest in her. He was a happily married man. In any case, he was married, and he was perfectly OK with how that situation had turned out. His wife supported him in his career, although she wasn't privy to the details of his visions. She was under the impression that God spoke to him in the sort of vague but reassuring way that allows one to achieve great things without being clinically insane.

Harry, for his part, allowed those around him to believe he was somehow privy to some sort of ineffable spiritual knowledge while steadfastly denying that God ever spoke to him—a statement that was accurate if somewhat misleading. In point of fact, it was the angels, not God himself, who spoke. And they did not speak
to
him so much as
around
him. He seemed to be receiving random snippets of conversations and images, as if he were an AM radio tuned to the same frequency as the cell phones of commuters whizzing past on a nearby freeway. It was a frustrating way to receive information, tending to be comprised of snippets such as:

or

This had been going on for his entire life; it had, in fact, been a bit of a shock to realize in his youth that not everyone on Earth was subjected to the occasional incoherent snippet of a conversation about incomprehensible matters being held by mysterious and invisible beings.

Most of these beings seemed to have no idea that he could hear them, which tended to undermine the hypothesis that Harry had been chosen to be some sort of modern-day prophet. Prophets were generally thought to be recipients of intentional communication from On High, not accidental receptors of the occasional errant angelic missive. Harry chose to believe, however, that God had allowed him to eavesdrop on these communications for reasons of His own.

He was aided in this belief by two individuals. The first was his devoutly religious mother, who had been convinced since before Harry was even born that he was destined to be a great prophet. It was never quite clear to Harry why she believed this, but he did his best to play his part, as this conviction seemed to provide his mother a good deal of pleasure.

The other individual was an entity that Harry referred to—or would have referred to, if he ever spoke of such things—as "The Messenger." The Messenger, it seemed, spoke directly to Harry. Or, in any case, didn't seem to be talking to anyone else and seemed to have a vague understanding that Harry could hear him. And Harry could hear him, all right. Loud and clear. Many times, in fact, Harry had wished that the Messenger's semi-coherent ramblings didn't come through quite so clearly. The Messenger was a real downer.

The Messenger didn't provide much in the way of new information, but he provided a sort of framework in which to place the snippets that Harry received. Through these fragments, filtered through the morose assessments of the Messenger and colored to some extent by the impassioned religiosity of his mother, Harry managed to get an overall sense of how the Apocalypse was going to go down. It was his knowledge of these imminent events that had propelled him to build his media empire. He wanted to be ready to proclaim The End when it came.

Harry had always been cognizant of the danger of becoming so wrapped up in the business of empire building that he would miss out on his true calling, to be the harbinger of the Apocalypse. He was, however, unprepared for the distraction caused by his feelings for Christine. It's the Apocalypse, he kept telling himself. What does one person matter in the scheme of things?

But he couldn't shake the feeling, as he trudged along the quiet streets of Pasadena toward his destiny, that Christine's fate was somehow linked to the fate of the world itself.