Authors: Robert Kroese
Benedict Arnold ran to his
side, cradling his head in his arms. “Lord Squigglebottom!” he cried. “I’m so
sorry! I thought…”
Mercury’s lips moved as if he
were trying to
speak,
and Arnold bent his ear close.
“What is it, Your Lordship?” asked Arnold frantically. “Speak to me!”
A gurgle escaped from
Mercury’s mouth, followed by two syllables. “Ass…hole…” Mercury gasped.
Arnold pulled back and looked
at Mercury, who was glaring at him angrily. “Excuse me?” Arnold said.
“I said you’re an
asshole
,”
Mercury repeated, sitting up and brushing Arnold’s hands away. “You can’t just
fucking stab someone like that, even if they
are
immortal.”
“Aha!” exclaimed Arnold. “I
was right!”
“Yeah, yeah,” replied
Mercury, getting slowly to his feet. “Congratulations. I would have told you if
you had just asked, you know.”
“You said you didn’t know what
I was talking about.”
“I don’t!” shouted Mercury.
“That is, I have no idea who this Rezon guy that you mentioned is.”
“Oh,” said Arnold. “Well,
I’ll tell you all about him if you answer a few questions for me.”
“Hey, why didn’t I think of
that?” said Mercury. “Oh, wait, I did. I was just about to suggest it when
somebody
stabbed me in the fucking heart
.”
“Oh,” said Arnold sheepishly.
“Sorry. That was pretty amazing, though.”
“Glad I could entertain you,”
said Mercury. “Now, tell me about this Rezon character.”
Benedict
Arnold told Mercury
what he knew.
Mr. Rezon, it turned out, was none other than Lucifer
himself. Arnold didn’t know that, of course, and Mercury didn’t tell him. But
it was clear from Arnold’s description—both of the man’s physical traits and
his slightly creepy yet oddly persuasive demeanor—who Rezon really was.
Evidently this Rezon had also been posing as a wealthy British aristocrat who
sympathized with the Americans, and Arnold had somehow deduced a link between Rezon
and Mercury. Rezon had gone to Arnold shortly after the incident at Lexington
to persuade him to take the offensive in the coming war against the British.
Lucifer, who had a number of sleeper agents in Heaven, had apparently come into
the same intelligence regarding British troop positions that Mercury’s
superiors had. So while Mercury was persuading Ethan Allen to attack
Ticonderoga, Lucifer was trying to persuade Benedict Arnold to do exactly the
same thing. Arnold, who needed permission from the
Massachusetts Committee of Safety, had taken a little longer to get his
act together, and had been nearly beaten to the punch by Allen.
“I don’t understand,” said
Arnold, after Mercury had done his best to explain what had happened (without
revealing any highly classified information). “If you and Rezon are working
together, why would you send two independent groups of men to take a single
fort? It was sheer luck and determination that got me here before the Green
Mountain Boys launched their attack. It seems like terrible planning on your
part.”
“That’s the thing,” said
Mercury. “We’re
not
working together.
At least not
intentionally.
There are different factions among my people, some good,
some
bad. Rezon’s one of the bad guys.” Mercury hadn’t
explained that he and Rezon were angels; he was technically not allowed to give
that information to mortals, and in any case it would have just caused more
confusion. He had told Arnold only that they were “supernatural beings from
another world.” That seemed to satisfy him as much as anything could.
“So Rezon is a bad guy,” said
Arnold.
“Correct.”
“And you’re a good guy,” said
Arnold.
“Correct again.”
“And you’re both on the same
side.”
Mercury frowned. “Well, I can
see how you’d be a bit confused. To be honest, I don’t fully understand it
myself. Usually Rezon and I are on opposite sides, but occasionally stuff like
this happens. He wants war for his reasons, and Heav—that is, my bosses want
war for their reasons. So I guess everybody is going to be happy.”
“So, Squigglebottom—”
“Call me Mercury.”
“All right, Mercury. What
makes you a good guy, if you want the same thing as the bad guy?” asked Arnold.
“Um,” said Mercury. “It’s not
that we want the same thing. Generally speaking, Rezon wants war and mayhem,
while my bosses want, well, peace and not mayhem. But in this particular
instance our interests are aligned.”
“And if I asked Mr. Rezon,
would he say that he’s the good guy and you’re the bad guy?”
“I…” started Mercury. “Well,
sure, I suppose, but that’s like, you know… not really accurate.”
“You seem like a smart guy,
Mercury,” said Arnold. “Do these questions not occur to you?”
“Honestly, I try not to think
about it too hard,” replied Mercury.
“It shows.” He turned back
toward the town square, where Ethan Allen’s men were packing up. “Well, it
looks like we’re heading out,” said Arnold. “Are you coming along for the
attack?”
Mercury shook his head. “You
don’t need me. Between you and the Green Apple Gang, you’ve got Ticonderoga
sorted. Anyway, I’ve got work to do elsewhere.”
“Stoking the fires of war
with your buddy, Rezon?”
“He’s not my… fine, think
what you want. Just take Ticonderoga, OK?”
Benedict Arnold smiled wryly
and gave Mercury a sharp salute. Then he spun on his heel and walked back to
the town square.
“Asshole,” muttered Mercury.
Chapter Seventeen
Somewhere in Wyoming; August 2016
“So now what?” asked
Suzy.
She, Eddie and Mercury were sitting in a booth at a
diner in a small town somewhere in Wyoming. For the first fifty miles they had been
airborne, the Tercel skimming low over the hills of eastern Idaho. They touched
down on the highway outside of Idaho Falls and drove into town, where Mercury
somehow convinced an old potato farmer to trade his Chevy Suburban for the
Tercel and what Mercury claimed was a solid gold potato that looked exactly
like Richard Nixon. Whether it was really gold Suzy couldn’t say, although it
was certainly the heaviest potato she’d ever tried to lift. The resemblance to
Nixon, though, was unmistakable.
The Suburban remained earthbound for the most part, but
Mercury insisted on driving well over 100 miles per hour most of the time. She
wasn’t sure if he was just punching the accelerator to the floor or using the
so-called “interplanar energy” to push the Suburban beyond its normal limits.
Whatever the case, they had somehow covered 300 miles in the past two hours,
and Mercury seemed satisfied that they had put enough distance between them and
the cabin that no one would be looking for them here. His concern had been that
the F-15 assault would be followed up with a squad of angels. Angels could
manage a top flight speed of about 500 miles per hour, making them
significantly slower than fighter jets, but they posed a much greater threat.
There was no way Mercury and Eddie could win a fight against five or six
combat-trained angels.
“Don’t ask me,” said Mercury, in response to Suzy’s
question. “I’m just here for the pie.”
Mercury had downed six cups of coffee and eaten four pieces
of coconut cream pie in the ten minutes they’d been at the diner. Somehow Suzy
found this more incredible than either the flying car or the gold potato.
“How can you stay so thin?” she asked incredulously. Mercury
was built like a long distance runner.
“Angelic biology,” said Mercury.
“That’s no answer,” said Suzy. “You can’t violate the laws
of physics. The food has to go somewhere.”
Mercury shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth and looked at
Eddie, rolling his eyes and making the crazy finger motion with his other hand.
“Can we stay on the subject?” Eddie asked. “We need to
figure out what we’re going to do. Obviously someone in the government has
decided we’re a serious threat.”
“She’s the threat,” Mercury said around a mouthful of
coconut cream. “You’re just some Internet conspiracy nutcase, and I’m a
manifesto-writing kook. Damn it!”
“What?” asked
Suzy.
“I left my manifesto back there in the woods. Can we go
back?”
“That strikes me as a fantastically bad idea,” said Suzy.
“He’s right, though,” said Eddie. “We’re just a couple of
unaffiliated cherubim. You’re the one they’re scared of, because you know all
about Brimstone. They want to silence you, at any cost.”
“But I don’t have any proof of anything!” she said. “It was
all on that thumb drive, which is either destroyed or in the hands of the
government.”
“She’s got a point,” said Mercury. “What are they so scared
of?”
“Us,” said Eddie after a moment’s reflection.
“The three of us.
They’re worried we’re going to go public.”
“What do you mean?” asked Suzy.
“Rosenberg and I called it the ‘nuclear option.’ Probably
not a great name, given the circumstances, but that’s what we called it.
A way of forcing the debate about the infiltration of the
government into the open.”
“You mean go public about the existence of angels,” said
Suzy.
“Yeah,” Eddie replied. “It’s never happened, not in the
seven thousand years that angels and demons have been fighting it out on this
plane. There have been rogue angels who have set themselves up as gods or used
their powers for unauthorized purposes…”
Mercury seemed to be choking on a piece of pie.
“…but it was always generally agreed by everyone that no
one’s interests are served by giving human beings definitive proof of the
existence of supernatural creatures. But we’re desperate, and Michelle knows
it. If Suzy reveals the truth about Brimstone, she’ll be dismissed as just
another disgruntled former government employee with an axe to grind. But if we
explain that the government is overrun with angels, and offer proof…”
“Proof of the existence of angels,” said Mercury. “
What,
like doing a press conference and bending a few
spoons? Damn it!”
“Now what?” asked Suzy,
exasperated.
“Left my trick spoon back there too.
Are you sure we can’t go back?”
“I was thinking something more along the lines of levitating
a Buick, but yeah.”
“Terrible idea,” said Mercury.
“Why?” asked Suzy. “It’s obviously what they’re expecting us
to do.”
“Even worse,” said Mercury. “Never do what anybody expects
you to do. The phrase ‘press conference’ is synonymous with ‘bullshit session.’
They’ll dismiss us as loonies and chalk up any miracles we perform to special
effects.” He waved his fork at a TV screen hanging in the corner of the diner.
“Take this chick here, for example, blabbering about terrorists and nuclear
bombs. Do you think anybody believes a word she’s saying?”
Eddie and Suzy turned to look at the screen. A young blond
woman was standing at a podium, addressing a group of reporters. She was saying
“…thought to be a member of the terrorist group known as Chaos Faction. We have
no information on her current whereabouts, but we do have solid intelligence
that Chaos Faction has been planning an attack on a medium-sized American city.
It has long been suspected that Cilbrith was involved in the theft of the
Wormwood bomb, and law enforcement agents have had her under surveillance in
the hopes of recovering the bomb. Early Friday morning however, she
disappeared, apparently with the help of several Chaos Faction operatives…”
“Hey, you never told me you’re a terrorist!” Mercury
exclaimed.
“I’m not!” cried Suzy.
A few of the diner’s patrons glanced over at their table,
but didn’t seem to make the connection between Mercury’s comment and what was
happening on the TV screen. One man complained that the press conference had
interrupted the Cornhuskers game.
“Then why did the blond lady on TV say it?” he charged,
pointing his fork accusingly at her.
“Brilliant,” said Eddie. “They smear Suzy, discredit the
previous administration, cover up the Brimstone program, and create a mass
panic, all in one fell swoop.
Pretty impressive, in a Joseph
Goebbels sort of way.
And notice how they keep the threat vague, so they
can justify doing whatever they want. I mean, they could probably institute…”
“…martial law in the following cities,” the woman on the TV
was saying. “Albuquerque, New Mexico; Nashville, Tennessee; Modesto,
California…”
“How can they do this?” Suzy asked. “It’s all lies! I didn’t
steal the bomb! They lost it and built another one, and they still have it!
I’ve never even heard of this Chaos Faction thing. What the hell is going on?”
“All part of Michelle’s plan to get complete control over
the U.S., and then the rest of the world,” said Eddie.
“You have to admit, though,” said Mercury, “Blondie is
pretty convincing.
If I didn’t know better…
Damn it!”
“What did you forget now, Mercury?” asked Suzy, irritated.
“Your toothbrush?”
“No,” replied Mercury. “I just realized who that blond chick
is.”
“It’s Gabrielle Gladstone,” said Eddie.
“The
White House Press Secretary.”
“Come on, Eddie,” said Mercury. “The blond bob fooled me too
at first, and I’ve never seen her in a suit before. Picture her with long brown
hair, and wearing a white robe. Oh, and carrying a big-ass trumpet.”