by Mark Cain
This wasn’t going to be a long stop at the office. I just wanted to check in. Then I had a very unpleasant task to attend to. As I opened the door to my office, Edison came running out. He looked pretty shaken up.
“What happened?”
“Beelzebub happened,” Edison replied. He unbuckled his tool belt and handed it to me. “Here. I guess I won’t be needing it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Orders. I’m supposed to return to the mines ASAP.”
“Orders, huh? Okay then. If you want to get there faster, I can have BOOH … ”
“NO!” Edison almost screamed. “I mean, no thank you. The Escalator will get me there fast enough. See you. I wish I could say it’s been fun, but it hasn’t. I’ve enjoyed root canals more.” Then he hurried down the street, as if he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the office as quickly as possible.
On stepping inside the office, I found Orson lying unconscious on the peeling linoleum tile. Atop my desk, there was a smoldering scrap of paper. Since the damned weren’t unconscious very often in Hell - a second of unconsciousness is just that much less time available for torment - I figured he’d wake up in a second, so I went to the paper. I slapped out the flames with Edison’s tool belt then picked up the sheet. It was an unfinished memo from Orson to me.
Plant Department
MEMORANDUM
TO: Steve Minion
FROM: Orson Welles, Hell’s Super
I shook my head. Poor Orson. Pride goeth before a fall. A groan emerged from the large smoldering lump on the floor. I put the paper back on the desk and went to help my friend.
“Wha … what happened?” he said, as I got him off the floor and onto his stool. I would have given him my chair, in view of his condition, but I suspected Beelzebub was watching, and I needed to get our little work universe back in its proper order.
“Beezy probably didn’t like you promoting yourself to Hell’s Super,” I said, pointing at the scrap of a memo he had begun.
“I was doing the work, so I thought I could use the title.” Orson rubbed his forehead and winced. He probably had a killer headache going on. “I suppose that wasn’t one of my better ideas.” My friend looked around the trailer. “Where’s Edison?”
“Our boss sent him back to the mines. I guess we’re back to a department of two.”
“Suppose so,” Orson said glumly.
“I never stopped being Hell’s Super, you know.”
“I know, I know,” he replied sourly. “It was a stupid thing to do, I admit it, so can we just drop the whole thing?”
Going to the sink, I grabbed a dishtowel and wetted it then handed the sopping cloth to my assistant. He grimaced, cleaned his face then held the wet fabric over his right eye, which was blackened by the blow he’d taken.
I plopped into my office chair and leaned back, propping my legs upon the battered All-Steel desk that was the command center for the Maintenance Department. No points for posture for me this day.
Our time clock, an old analog model that could have been used in one of Henry Ford’s auto plants back in the day, was ticking away with a dull thud thud thud that I could hear even from across the room. The leaden ticking was what I imagined my own heart sounded like at the moment.
Orson sighed. I sighed back. Both of us had our reasons for being glum.
Even through the haze of his pain, Orson could see my discomfiture. “Why the sour expression, Steve?” he asked from his perch atop the stool. He looked to me like Humpty Dumpty in a HAZMAT suit.
With another sigh, I pulled my legs off the desk and leaned forward, pressing my hands flat against the desktop surface. “Female trouble, for one.”
My friend looked at me dubiously. “Even if you were a woman, that kind of stuff stops after death.”
“Shit, Orson, don’t be so intentionally obtuse. It doesn’t suit you.” I then proceeded to explain what was going on with Flo and Lilith.
He whistled. “A succubus! Man, they’re as rare as hen’s teeth.”
“Not really. According to Lilith, there are 666 of them.”
“Yeah, well not down here. Most of them are topside, driving mortal men to distraction … and damnation.”
“That’s true,” I said slowly. “I wonder why Lilith is kept down in Hell. Perhaps she’s too nice to play the seductress.”
“Don’t know about that,” Orson said, switching the cloth to his forehead, where a big knot was beginning to form. Beezy must have been really mad to hit Orson twice. Once was usually more than enough for our boss to get the job done. “She seems to have done a pretty good job on you.”
I smiled ruefully. “She’s got the talent alright, but Lilith seems a bit too kind-hearted for the job.”
“So you say. For all you know, she was putting on an act, setting you up for that little scene with Flo in Asmodeus’s study.”
I frowned. “Maybe, but for the moment I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt.” I stood up from my desk and began pacing the office. “Right now, though, Flo and Lilith are the least of my worries.”
“What’s the most?” Orson asked, grabbing a can of sardines and opening it.
I slammed my fist against the office wall. A framed photograph of Beelzebub fell to the floor, cracking the glass. Hurriedly, I picked up the frame and hung it back on its nail. “Crap, Orson. I haven’t a clue how to go about fixing an HVAC system that’s unbreakable, especially if there’s someone out there intentionally breaking it.”
“I thought you had some suspects.”
“Yes, three, but I’ve eliminated two of them.” I gave him a short account of my recent activities.
“So who’s the third?”
I glanced at the photo I’d just re-hung and then at the speaker of the PA system, through which Beezy sometimes shouted his orders.
Orson’s eyes grew wide, or one of them did; the blackened one had swollen completely shut. “Ah.”
Without warning, Orson’s stool pitched him to the floor. That happened sometimes. Orson’s stool, wobbly as it appeared, was perfectly capable of holding all four hundred non-corporeal pounds of him, yet periodically it would just destabilize on its own, dumping Orson on the linoleum. This time, though, I suspected it was just a little extra payback from Beelzebub. I got out of my chair and helped Orson to his feet again.
“I wish it wouldn’t do that,” he grumbled.
“I know.” Leaning over, I picked up the diabolical stool and set it back on its feet. “It’s Hell, but whatcha gonna do?”
“Nothing. I’m used to it by now. Mostly.” Orson settled his ass back on top of the stool. Rolls of fat spilled around the sides, completely obscuring the seat. How the thing managed to support all of my friend’s weight, even when Beezy wasn’t pissed off at him, was beyond me.
Orson’s black eye faded and the swelling receded. His face would be back to normal soon. “What are you going to do now?”
I reached a decision. Best get this over with. “Go have a talk with our boss, I guess.”
“Good luck with that.” There was a sound like a Gatling gun firing. A mass of work orders had just dropped into my wire in-basket. Orson groaned. “And I guess you know what I’ll be doing while you’re gone.”
“Triage?”
“Triage. See you later.”
“Uh huh. If I’m very, very lucky.”
Leaving the trailer, I whistled for BOOH. He opened one eye, then the other, then stood and shook out his titanic wings. I guess that was his version of a stretch. Then he bent down and, with great reluctance, I climbed aboard and asked him to take me to see Beezy.
My boss wasn’t in his office again. He had always had a restless quality, but he seemed to be wandering more than usual these days. I hoped it didn’t have anything to do with the HVAC system.
Beelzebub, the great Lord of the Flies. Number two in Hell. My boss. Could he possibly be the one who had sabotaged the HVAC system? Was he really willing to take on Satan him
self for supremacy in Hell? If there was anyone who could pull it off, Beezy would be the one. Of all the devils and all the demons I’d encountered since my death, no one but Satan seemed more powerful, and on any given day, I wasn’t even sure about that.
Sure, Beezy had never demonstrated the voodoo mind-reading ability that was Satan’s stock and trade, and the Lord of the Flies tended to travel by way of thermonuclear explosion, rather than teleportation, but that didn’t mean my boss lacked those skills. He had his own style. He was no infernal impersonator.
BOOH and I searched for a long time on Level Eight but could not find Beezy. Finally we came to a portion of the Circle I’d never been to before. It was desert still, but a high desert, like the Chihuahuan in the United States. There was little sand, but it was dusty. Here and there were tall, broad mesas, rocky outcroppings from the desert floor.
On top of one of these, we found Beezy. My boss was sitting in the lotus position at the highest point, looking out over the land beneath. The air up there was cold, and Beezy was dressed once again in his Mongol del. He glanced at me as BOOH landed then turned his attention back to the land below. I walked over to him.
For a few minutes I said nothing, and he, atypically, did not prod me into speaking. “Kind of pretty,” I said at last.
“You mean for Hell,” he commented.
“Yes sir.” That went without saying. Nothing in Hell was pretty.
“You know,” Beelzebub said, turning to me, “you humans just think all of Hell is hideous, but if you could see it through my eyes … ” Then he was silent again.
“Chilly up here.”
“Yes, I know. Just in case you can’t get this HVAC system fixed, I’m trying to get used to a colder climate. Of course, if you don’t fix it, I will flail you alive.”
“I’m dead, sir.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes sir.” I settled next to him, and for a wonder, he didn’t object. “Lord Beelzebub, I’ve come to give you my report.”
“Well?”
“I have eliminated two of my three suspects.”
He looked at me appraisingly. “Well, that’s something I suppose. Who were they?”
“Well, since I’ve proved their innocence, or at least their innocence in this matter, I guess I can tell you. Mammon and Asmodeus.”
Beezy nodded thoughtfully. “Did Pinkerton help you come up with them?”
“Yes sir. He gave me a lecture on motive, means and opportunity. We figured only the most powerful of devils could pull this off, but Satan, Leviathan and Belphegor didn’t seem likely.”
“And that leaves me. I’m your third suspect, aren’t I?” Beezy’s black eyes glinted.
“Yes.” I gulped. “Yes sir, you are.”
Surprisingly, Beelzebub didn’t fricassee me on the spot. “Well?” he said at last.
My heart was pounding. Should I ask his whereabouts for the past couple of days? Should I ask if he had an alibi? I closed my eyes and thought hard on how to begin.
“Well?” he repeated.
“Lord Beelzebub,” I said finally, opening my eyes and turning to him, “did you sabotage the HVAC system?”
“No.”
I nodded, got off the ground, brushed off my coveralls, and headed toward BOOH.
“Wait!” Beelzebub called. “That’s it? I say no and you leave?”
“Yes sir. Your word’s good enough for me.”
Beezy stood and turned toward me. I expected to see anger, but instead all I saw was incredulity. “I am a devil, you know. I could be lying.”
“Yessir,” I said hurriedly. “I know as a devil that you’re perfectly capable of lying, it’s just that … ”I looked at the ground, not knowing how to put this. My boss closed the few feet that separated us. I could feel his eyes on me, and it took all of my courage to return his gaze.
“It’s just that what?” he said.
I sighed. Better to just spit it out. “Oh, shit, boss, of all the devils I’ve ever known, you’re the only one who’s ever been straight with me. I’m not saying you can’t lie, but I’ve never known you to lie to me. Please don’t take this the wrong way, because you are evil, and really good at your job, but you’re not a liar.”
Beezy plopped back on the ground. “Hmmph. You’re right, of course. I don’t lie. Lies are a lot of trouble. They’re much more complicated than just telling the truth.”
I nodded. “Sir, you have more integrity than … ”
“Don’t push it, Minion.”
“Yessir,” I repeated. No point insulting him.
“And Steve,” Beezy said, as I crawled onto BOOH’s shoulders. “Thanks. I’ve not had anyone trust me in a very long time. It’s refreshing. But don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”
I smiled. “Scout’s honor. I’d better get back to Orson now. You did a nice job on him, by the way.”
“Well, he was asking for it.”
I couldn’t disagree. “Later, sir.”
“Later,” said the Lord of the Flies. Then he shut me from his consciousness and resumed his contemplation of the desert floor.
Chapter 18
I was back at my desk, bad posture reassumed, feet again on the desktop.
Bik had rejoined us after his lengthy visit with Surtr. The young fire giant had enjoyed a growth spurt since we’d last seen him. No doubt Surtr could feed him better than we could with our matches. Bik was now the size of a ballpoint pen, and I thought idly that the pocket protector would be a better fit for him. He was flying around the room in frenzied fashion, like he was on speed, looking at everything in our office with a lot more interest than any of the items warranted. He seemed unusually agitated, and he was glowing more than normal. Apparently, he and his grandfather had had a falling out, but Bik refused to talk about it.
I shook my head.
“What are you thinking about?” my assistant asked.
“What else?” I said, turning from the whizzing point of light. “The HVAC system. No clue how to fix it, and now no suspects.” Not to mention that I was so tired I could drop.
Orson had a thoughtful look, which was good, since at the moment I was completely tapped out. “You told me,” he said slowly, “that Beezy considers the system to be very dependable, and we spent a good chunk of the day confirming that, right?”
“Right.” I pulled the folded HVAC schematic from my pocket. I’d forgotten it was there, and when I’d washed my coveralls, it got washed too. The colors had bled a little, and the paper was a bit limp from being soggy, but it was still perfectly legible. We spent a little time reexamining the design.
After a few minutes, Orson looked up from the drawing. “I just don’t see how much could go wrong with the cold side of things. Erebus is an immutable mountain of ice. It’s not likely to change.”
I nodded.
“But,” he continued, “the burners down on Nine: they’re another story. Despite Surtr’s assurances that everything’s working okay down there, you saw several jets blink out, right?”
“Right,” I said, barely suppressing a yawn. “They were like Venturi tubes on a barbeque grill get when they are clogged or something.”
“Not likely,” Bik said, as he extinguished his flame and dropped to the diagram. “Nothing gaseous, liquid or solid flows through the pipes.”
“Then what does?” I asked.
“The Spark.”
“Huh?” Orson scratched his beard. “What the fuck’s that?”
I tried to think of a shorthand way of explaining. “Hey Orson, what gives a Jedi his powers?”
“Are we playing Trivial Pursuit now? Okay, I’ll bite. The Force.”
I nodded. “The Spark is something like that.”
“Sounds pretty hokey.”
“I thought so too, but go with it, okay?”
“Okay. So where does the spark that fuels the burners come from?”
“The Spark,” I corrected him. “But it’s a good question.” I leaned down to
where Bik was studying the tube drawings on Level Nine. “Bik, do you know?”
The tiny redhead stared at my face, hovering like a moon above him. “Grandpa told me that after Beelzebub constructed the system, Satan infused it with his will, and the burners caught fire.”
I frowned. “Satan has no shortage of will, but he DOES have a shortage of attention span. I can’t imagine that he’s funneling his will all the time through those burners.”
“I mean he lit the pilot,” Bik explained, “not that he was funneling his own Spark through the system on an ongoing basis. I suppose The Spark might come from Satan, but it might come from somewhere else. I don’t really know. Grandpa might.”
“Maybe,” I said, scratching my chin, “but … ”
Splat! A Work Order fell from the pneumatic tube into my inbox. I took a quick look at it and flushed red. Orson, seeing my reaction, checked out the signature.
“Flo? Flo is sending us a work order? That’s odd. Almost nothing ever goes wrong for her.”
Except me. I had gone wrong for her, but I doubted the work order had anything to do with that. I picked it up and started to read.
“Besides,” Orson continued, “considering the chilly relations between you two right now, I would think she’d just put up with it.”
“She can’t,” I said, shaking my head as I put down the work order. “Her lamp needs replacing.”
The Lady with the Lamp. That lamp was her trademark. In life, Florence Nightingale had been known to walk battlefields in the dark, lamp in hand, looking for wounded soldiers. The Lamp was as important a symbol of hope as the torch in the hand of Lady Liberty. It needed to be fixed.
“I could take care of it,” Orson offered.
This was a chance for me to see Flo, something I would normally jump at, but since we’d parted on a sour note less than an hour ago, the timing was terrible. Yet her work order was important; I could feel it in my bones. Suddenly I made a connection. “Bik? This lamp Orson and I are talking about has a wick and lamp oil. The oil soaks up the wick, you light it, and the fire illuminates things. What causes the flame, do you think?”