Authors: Robert Kroese
Christine stood in the middle of what appeared to be the lobby of an office building. There were four doors, one in each wall. She was standing on a shimmering circular pattern of light. Next to the portal was the sort of dull, abstract sculpture that inspires office building workers to think dull, abstract office building thoughts.
This was not at all what Christine was expecting. This was not, after all, her condo in Glendale.
Was she wrong, then, about the pattern she had seen at the planeport? No, it couldn't be. She would know that pattern anywhere; she had seen Don from Don's Discount Flooring install that very pattern in her breakfast nook only a few days ago.
She stepped off the portal and regarded it studiously. Strangely, the pattern didn't match that of the portal she had stepped through in the planeport. She had seen this pattern before as well, though: it matched the one that had appeared mysteriously in Harry's office.
Presumably if she were to step back onto the portal, she would be transported back to the planeport. So that explained why the pattern on this one matched the one she had seen in Harry's office. They both had the same destination: the planeport.
Wheels turned slowly in her head. If portals with the same pattern went to the same place, then she was wrong about the portal she had seen at the planeport. It matched her linoleum—there was no question about that. But the pattern matched not because the portal in the planeport went to her condo, but because they both had the same destination: here.
"So," she said to herself, "someone has built a portal between my condo and this place, whatever this place is." But this portal wasn't it, because this one went to the planeport. That meant that somewhere near here there was another portal that would take her to her condo.
This comforting thought quickly gave way to a troubling realization. Someone had installed the linoleum portal for a reason. That meant someone intended to use the portal to travel from here to her condo, or from her condo to here. Why? And where was
here
anyway?
Suddenly a small man in a slightly iridescent blue suit burst through one of the doors. "Come then," he said in a hurried tone. "No time to waste. We need you on the floor, ay-sap!"
Christine opened her mouth only to find she had nothing whatever to say, so she closed it again.
The man clutched her wrist and dragged her back through the door through which he had arrived. Christine went along, not knowing what else to do.
"You'll start small," the man said. "Cheating on biology exams, that sort of thing. It's a lousy job, but everybody has to start somewhere. Come on, let's go."
Christine followed the man helplessly as he led her through several doors and then through a maze of cubicles populated with pale, desperate-looking people staring blearily at computer screens and speaking into headset microphones. She tried to make out what they were saying, but their voices blended into a senseless buzz about her. There were no windows or doors that seemed to go anywhere other than more cubicle space. Christine got the sickening feeling that this entire plane was nothing but one gigantic cubicle farm.
"Excuse me," Christine shouted at the man's back. "I'm not sure I'm who you're expecting. I was just looking for. . ."
But he clearly wasn't listening, and Christine was out of breath from half-sprinting after him. They turned left, then right, then left again, negotiating an apparently random course through the cubicle labyrinth. By the time Christine decided she had had enough, she was hopelessly lost. Perhaps she could ask one of the desperate souls in one of the cubicles she was passing for help, but they didn't look terribly helpful.
The man stopped so abruptly that Christine nearly ran into him.
"Here is your cube," he announced. "Number 21482."
It was a dreary, barren little space, adorned only with a headset, an old-fashioned monochrome monitor, and a well-worn keyboard. There was a beep, and a block of text appeared on the monitor. The characters were completely foreign to Christine.
"Go ahead," instructed the man. "Make the call."
"What?" Christine asked.
"Just follow the script," he said. "Twenty-six-year-old woman on the verge of stealing a blouse. She's already told the attendant that she has five items, when in fact she has six. All she needs to do is tuck it into her purse. Put the damn headset on!"
"I'm sorry," Christine said. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. I went through that portal thinking that. . ."
The monitor beeped again, and another line of text appeared.
"Oh, good grief," the man said. "Well, we've lost her. She put the blouse back. I hope this isn't indicative of your capabilities. The agency said you had six hundred years of experience in corrupting mortals."
"Look," said Christine. "I wasn't sent by any agency. I'm not interested in doing this, whatever this is. I'm just trying to find the portal that will take me home."
The man's face paled, which was saying something because it was pretty pale to start out with. He glanced about nervously.
"What did you say?"
"I'm looking for a portal."
He eyed her suspiciously. "A portal to where?"
"To Earth. That is, the Mundane Plane. Glendale, California, to be specific."
A look of complicit understanding came over the man's face.
"I apologize," the man said. "I didn't know you were one of
them
. I was told your people weren't going to start arriving until later in the day."
"Yes, well," Christine said, trying to decide if this new misunderstanding was preferable to the last. "Yes, well, they sent me ahead, you know, to check things out."
"Of course, of course," the man said, suddenly very accommodating. "We were expecting a new recruit in Petty Corruption, so I assumed. . ."
"Yes, well," Christine said again, trying to strike an air of impatient disdain. "So I suppose you'll be taking me to. . ."
"Right!" said the man. "You'll want to see the munitions, of course. And the portal. Oh my, I've forgotten to introduce myself. I'm Nybbas. I manage the Floor."
"The Floor?" Christine asked.
"The Corruption Floor," said Nybbas. "We generally just refer to it as the Floor. This is where the magic happens. Most of the corruption in the Universe starts right here. A few choice words whispered in the right ear at the right time. . .we've been at it for nearly ten thousand years. As you can see, we've gone high-tech over the past few years."
Nybbas smiled broadly, surveying the endless expanse of demons clacking away in the green glow of their decidedly low-tech twelve-inch monitors.
"But we've never seen anything as exciting as
this
, of course. Who would have imagined that. . ." His voice grew hushed. "That Lucifer would use
this
place as his base of operations for the Apocalypse. Speaking of which, let's get you over to see Malphas. You'll want to make certain that the munitions are ready, I'm sure."
"Oh," said Christine. "Ah, yes. The munitions."
"That's what I thought," said Nybbas. "Right this way."
And with that, he was off again.
"What did you say your name was?" he shouted over his shoulder.
"I'm Chris. . ." she started, then realized that
Christine
was probably a very unlikely name for a demon. ". . .pix," she finished.
Nybbas stopped suddenly again and turned to peer at Christine. "Did you say
Crispix
?"
"Er," Christine said, wishing she had eaten something more ominous-sounding for breakfast. "Yes, Crispix. I'm a demon."
"Not
the
Crispix?"
"Er, yes. The very same."
"Well, then this truly is an honor. It makes perfect sense that Lucifer would send someone of your rank, of course. I see you've dropped the horns. And the flaming sword."
"Yes," said Christine. "I'm trying to keep a lower profile these days. It's hard to stay incognito when you're carrying around a flaming sword."
"Tell me about it," said Nybbas. And he turned and led Christine back through the cubicle maze.
They walked for what must have been close to a mile through a series of hallways punctuated by massive, low-ceilinged cubicle farms lit by oppressive, flickering fluorescent lights.
"Quite the operation you have here," observed Christine.
"Nine hundred thousand Corruption Representatives," said Nybbas proudly. "The result of an eight-hundred-year job retraining program. Most of these CRs were performing unskilled demonic activity only a few centuries ago," he said, gesturing broadly. "And now look at them!"
Christine glanced about at the fearful, pasty-faced creatures populating the cubicles all around her.
"You there!" said Nybbas, stopping in front of a fleshy, pallid-skinned demon. "What did you do before you started working here?"
The man glanced painfully up at Christine. "Routine possession. I once caused a villager to bite the head off a live rat. They burned him at the stake. Horrifically painful. And yet, still better than. . ."
"You see?" said Nybbas. "There are thousands of success stories just like that one. But enough of my bragging. No time to waste."
Eventually he led Christine to a massive steel door which, after Nybbas had punched a combination into a keypad, opened to reveal a spacious, dimly lit warehouse. He led her past steel shelves piled high with dusty crates and boxes until they reached a cluttered desk in the midst of the capacious room. Seated at the desk, with his back to Nybbas and Christine, was a heavyset man in gray overalls. Christine thought there was something vaguely familiar about him.
"Malphas?" said Nybbas gingerly. "There is someone here to see you."
The gray mountain of a man that was Malphas turned to face them, a surly look upon his face. "You!" he said as his eyes met Christine's.
Christine knew him instantly, even without the jumpsuit.
"Don?" she said. "Aren't you. . .Don, from Don's Discount Flooring?"
"You should call for a pizza," Karl said again. "I'm friggin' starved."
"Uh huh," said Harry. They were now only a few blocks from his house, and Harry's patience with Karl was wearing thin.
"So what's this thing we have to go to? Some kind of convention? Do I have to sign autographs? I hate signing autographs."
"It's a Covenant Holders conference. You've heard of the Covenant Holders?"
"What's a cunniventoder?"
"Covenant. Holder. It's a Christian group."
"Like Stryper?"
"Who?"
"Stryper. You know, to hell with the devil. Those guys were queer."
"It's a group of people with shared beliefs who come from all over the country to meet together. There are speakers and events."
"Do they wear Spandex?"
"
Spandex
? No."
"Sounds lame."
"Yes, Karl, I'm sure it would."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
"No, what did you mean? You say stuff like that, and it sounds all nice, but your lip does this thing where you think you're better than me."
"My lip is doing no such thing."
"See? You're mouth is all, 'My lip is da da da whatever,' but your lips are like, 'I'm better than Karl.'"
"Karl, can we not talk for the rest of the way? I'm getting a headache."
"No, screw you and your cover letter holders. I don't have to put up with this crap. I'm the Antichrist, and I'm going home. To Lodi." Karl took a sharp turn to the left and marched off.
"Karl."
"Shut up."
"Karl, that's the wrong direction."
"Is not."
"Karl, you're walking northeast. If you keep going, you'll hit Las Vegas."
"Then I'll go to Las Vegas."
"It's two hundred miles away, Karl. Across the Mojave Desert."
"Then I'll go there."
"Karl, come on. Come back. I'm sorry if I did a lip thing at you. I won't do it again."
Karl turned. "I can't see very well from here, but I bet you're doing the lip thing right now."
"I'm not, Karl. Come here and see."
"Why should I?"
"Karl, have you ever heard the term
destiny
?"
"Maybe," answered Karl.
"Your destiny," explained Harry, "is what you were meant to do. Everyone has a destiny. My destiny is to proclaim the Apocalypse. I believe that your destiny is to come with me to this conference."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you think that's my density?"
"Destiny, Karl. It's a long story, but I believe that there are powers beyond this world, and I believe that those powers have chosen to communicate some important things to me. They have told me that it is my destiny to be the herald—the guy who announces the Apocalypse. And they have told me that you are part of that destiny."
"OK, but what if I don't believe in your powers?"
"That's OK, Karl. I don't expect you to. I just need you to trust me that this is the right thing to do. This is the way things are supposed to be."
"Hunh," said Karl.
"I'll even get you a pizza. I can order it with my cell phone. We should have enough time to eat before we have to leave for the conference."
"OK," Karl said grudgingly.
"Excellent," Harry said. "Things are going perfectly according to plan."
"It's cool that you're so sure of everything," Karl said. "It seems like I'm pretty much always kind of confused."
"It's called 'moral clarity,' Karl. It's a gift."
"Cool," said Karl, nodding his head slowly in admiration. "Can I have it?"
"It's not really mine to give, Karl."
"But can I learn it from you?"
"Well, I suppose you could, but we don't really have time for—"
"Afterwards, then. After the culvert rollers thing."
"Yes, well, I'll certainly see what I can do about that. Destiny may have other plans."
"What do you mean?" Karl demanded. "Just teach me it. I'm not going unless you teach me it. The mortal clarity."
"Karl, it's not something you can just teach someone. It takes years of—"
"I've got time," said Karl. "I don't have to work because of the Antichrist thing. I could spend every day with you, learning mortal clarity."
"Karl, my moral clarity goes along with my faith. You understand? My religion. You can't have moral clarity unless you have faith."
"So I have to change religion?"
"No," said Harry. Then, thinking better of it, he said, "Yes, actually. You need to change religion."
"OK," replied Karl obligingly.
"Karl, you can't just change your religion, just like that. This is a serious decision. It's a life-changing event."
"OK."
"Can we just put this discussion off until after the conference?"
Karl didn't look happy, but at last he said, "Yeah, I guess."
"Thank God," said Harry quietly. "I take your sentiments seriously, Karl, I really do. It's just that there's a lot going on right now, and I'm not sure this is the best time to—"
"What's the name of it?"
"The name of what?"
"Our religion."
It was all Harry could do to keep control of his lip. "Christianity. Christianity is
my
religion.
I
am a Christian."
"Cool," said Karl. "Me too."
"No, you're not! You're not a Christian, Karl. You haven't converted. Not yet. You can be a Christian tomorrow if you still want to. Just not today, OK? Today you still have to be the Antichrist."
"Fine," said Karl glumly. "Are you going to order pizza or what?"