by Holly Lisle
"Well, you know we don't eat up there," he said.
"You don't get hungry either," Rhea said dryly.
"I know, but sometimes I miss being hungry, you know?"
Rhea cocked her head and smiled. "Really? Could it be that everything's not perfect in Heaven?"
"No, no! It's fine," Remufel glanced over his shoulder and winced. "Couldn't be better."
"You don't have to suck up, Remmy," Miramuel said. To Rhea, she said, "Remmy's been bucking for an assignment as a mortal. Ever since we got the news that Agonostis got out of Hell and got to become mortal, he's been itching to... ah... spread his wings, as it were. But what with new soul placements and reincarnations and... er... folks from your side of the Chasm converting to mortal status... and the sudden interest in advancement to mortality among the Heavenly Host, there's quite a waiting list for new births. And God is insisting that the Heavensent who convert to mortal have to start as newborns. No obvious miracles, he says. No direct signs of Heaven's presence."
Remufel said, "Everyone on the waiting list has gotten a little touchy."
Rhea smiled. Heaven's waiting lists for plum assignments were notorious. Apparently, while the idea of what constituted a plum assignment had changed, the structure hadn't. "So... what brings you two here?" she asked.
Remufel closed the refrigerator door. "Old friends can't just drop in for a visit? We've missed you, and we couldn't visit you... before."
Rhea pulled a chair out from under the kitchen table and sat down. "That's bullshit, Remmy," she said. "I've been here two years now. He has to have known that. I imagine you knew it, too."
Miramuel tapped her heels on the dishwasher and studied a nonexistent spot on the wall just above Rhea's left shoulder. "Everyone has been so busy dealing with details of the Unchaining that we just haven't had the chance to get away."
"You're a lousy liar, Mir."
"Averial—"
"Call me Rhea," Rhea said, "Averial was another person, a long time ago. And dim the auras a bit, too, would you? My eyes don't tolerate that light the way they once did."
"Fine. Rhea, then." Miramuel dropped her nimbus to a faint luster. Remmy followed suit. "Anyway, I'm sure His Gloriousness knew the second you arrived, and I admit, we knew you were here not too long after, but... we really have been busy with the events related to the Unchaining. We couldn't get here any sooner."
Half an eternity in Hell had given Rhea a good ear for bad stories. She was hearing one right then, but she couldn't figure out which part of it was true, and which was false. She decided to play along. Sooner or later her old friends would get around to what they really wanted. She'd figure out why they were lying about it when they did.
Remufel said, "You're right, though. There's more to our visit than just talking about old times. We want you to come home, Av—Rhea."
"Please. Just come home now. Apologize and everything will be forgiven. Everything." Miramuel punctuated the statement with a particularly strong tap, and the dishwasher surged into action. Startled, she sprang from the counter top, catching her vestments on the dishwasher latch. The hinged door crashed open and hot sudsy water and silverware spewed everywhere.
Rhea rushed to help Miramuel. Together they disengaged her robe from the washer door; the look on Mir's face as she tried to wring soapy water out of her robes was priceless. As Rhea tugged the hem free from the catch, she saw Remufel ease open the refrigerator door and spirit out a Saran-wrapped bowl of chocolate pudding. He looked so ridiculous; his oversized wings half unfurled, his movements furtive, the expression on his face one a little boy would wear when sneaking cookies from a cookie jar.
She couldn't help herself. She sank to the floor by Miramuel, unable to keep from laughing.
Both Miramuel and Remufel looked hurt, though Remmy didn't put the pudding back. Mir said, "That's right. Just laugh. Your house attacks me and you think it's funny." She thought for a second, picked up a wet fork and shook the water off of it. "I guess it is, though, isn't it?"
Rhea stood up, and gave Miramuel a quick hug. "I'm sorry," she said, "I couldn't help it." She opened the cabinet under the sink, pulled a towel off the rack and started to mop the floor dry.
"Going native?" Miramuel asked.
"What do you mean?"
Miramuel pointed, "Manual labor?"
"Never hurt anyone," Rhea said. "Besides, I'm lying low." She figured they already knew that, but if they were pretending not to, she'd pretend she believed them.
"My treat then," Miramuel said, and suddenly the floor was bone dry.
Remufel put down the pudding bowl and ambled over to the open dishwasher, poking curiously at the disarrayed assortment of dishes and utensils on the shelves.
"Remmy, don't fool with Avy's stuff," Mir said. She pulled out a chair by Rhea's and sat down. Rhea settled back into her own chair. "Now, as I was saying, before I was assaulted—"
"Hey, Av—Rhea, what's this?" Remufel asked, pulling a long, slightly tapered cylinder of pink silicone from the back of the top rack. It glistened wetly and wobbled in his grip.
Rhea felt the blood rush to her face. "That's, um, a... uh," she stammered. "Oh, Hell, you don't want to know. Just put it back, and come over here and sit down." She wondered at her reaction. She had become inured to Hell, and the events of her life prior to the Unchaining would have made a sailor faint, but in the company of her old friends, she was blushing like a nun teaching the rhythm method.
Miramuel looked at her sharply as Remufel came over. Rhea met her gaze and shrugged, her face still hot. Remufel's chair creaked as he sat down. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "What Mir's trying to say is that we need you. There's a lot of good to be done on this world, Rhea, and you could be one of the doers again."
"That's right," Miramuel said. "Heaven needs you back. Now more than ever. God will forgive the past."
"Maybe He will, but will I?" Rhea turned to Remufel. "Are we shielded here?" she asked. He nodded. "Okay, then, look." Rhea closed her eyes and concentrated, dropping her human manifestation.
When she opened her eyes, Miramuel and Remufel had pulled away from her, twin expressions of horror on their faces. "This is what I am now," Rhea said. "This is what happened to me because I argued that Lucifer deserved a fair hearing. They have a name here for what I did: devil's advocate. I didn't agree with Lucifer, didn't think his plan was any good, but if you're not going to listen to what the angels have to say, why give us free will? Lucifer may have fallen, but I was pushed."
"That's not true, Rhea," Miramuel said, leaning close again. "Nobody had to go, not even Lucifer. All of you could have... can recant at any time."
"How can I recant something I don't believe was wrong? Are you saying I should lie, could lie—to Him? I was a prisoner of conscience. I never agreed with what Lucifer did... but I still agree with what I did."
Remufel said. "You've had a long time to think about everything. Maybe it's time to reconsider. You've already made a partial break with Hell—we couldn't be here otherwise. Why not make it complete? Come back with us tonight."
Rhea stood up and started pacing. "Do you know what it's like to be denied Heaven, Remmy?" she asked. "Denied Heaven by my thoughts, and denied Earth by Lucifer's orders? I spent thousands of years in Hell. I did things there, awful things—and sometimes I enjoyed them. Hell does that to you. I did have a lot of time to think, and when the Unchaining came, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
"Earth is the glory of Creation, and here I stay." She stopped pacing and looked out the window over the sink. Was there any way to make them understand? She doubted it. "You say I should be a doer, come back to heaven to fight for right—I am going to give these people the stars and trust them to do right."
Miramuel frowned. "Lucifer was going to make things easy for them, too, and look where it got him. If they aren't ready..."
Rhea walked to the kitchen window and opened it. A mild green-scented breeze idled its way in. "They h
ave so little, but they're clawing their way up," she said. "How many symphonies have been composed in Heaven during the last ten million years, Mir? How many rap songs? Name me an angel who's written a book."
"That's not the point, Rhea," Miramuel said.
"Well, it is the point, in a manner of speaking," Remufel interrupted, "or at least it's a point. But it isn't what we're driving at. We see their worth. We love them too. It's unleashing their potential for evil that worries me. Us. That space drive—" He flushed and cut off the sentence midway. "The forces of Hell are loose in this state and the people are making an accommodation to evil. To Hell."
Rhea filled the tea kettle at the sink and set it on the stove to heat. Mir and Remmy knew evil the way some people knew Latin. Perfectly, and without any firsthand experience. "It's not that simple, Mir," she said. "They've lived over fifty years now with the ability to destroy themselves completely. They haven't done it, and I don't think they will." She shook her head. "We sit inside the borders of a country that has dedicated itself for more than two hundred years to the proposition that tyranny is not the natural state of man. It doesn't always do a good job of meeting its ideals, but it has never stopped trying. Reaching. I have people working for me now who once would have been flogged for trying to read, lynched for demanding to vote—except that brave men and women worked, suffered and sometimes died to forge those ideals into reality. And the idealists are still out there. Still reaching." Rhea spread her arms to encompass the world. "I'm moving them past a minor technical block. Allowing them to reach beyond the well of the world, Mir. Here I am, and here I stay. I can do no other."
Miramuel looked at Remufel. "Told you so," she said to him. He shrugged.
"We kind of expected that, Rhea," he said, "and we're sorry you feel that way. We'll shield you from Hell as much as we can without specific authority. And, well, we'll be here in your kitchen for the duration."
That didn't sound good. "The duration? The duration of what?"
"Can't tell you," Miramuel said. "But our orders are to set up a permanent angelic presence, and we can't do it in a place where we would have physical contact with mortals. That leaves you. Here we are, and this is our headquarters."
"My kitchen?"
"They were very specific orders. Oh, we'll be making sorties... and doing observation work—"
"—lots of observation work—"
"—but most of the time, we'll be here. Right here. We'll have lots of time to talk."
"I've got a life, Mir. I'm happy to see the two of you, but not as permanent residents. What if I have company?"
"Don't worry. We'll go immaterial if that happens."
"But what if I have male company?" Somewhat to her surprise, Rhea found herself thinking of Jack.
Miramuel considered. "Are you married? I mean, as a human."
"Of course I'm not married! I just happen to like men—a lot. If that shocks you, I'm sorry, but it is my house."
"Well, if you're not married, I imagine we'd have to keep a pretty close watch on you and any man." Miramuel grinned. "If he were really a temptation, we might have to bless him with a sound, invigorating sleep."
Rhea closed her eyes. That was all she needed: two friendly but prissy angels watching her every move. "You're kidding, aren't you, Mir?" she asked.
Mir smiled her angelic smile. "Remember, you can leave all this behind at any time."
"Leave what you're doing here. Come back. Help us," Remufel added.
"Become a force for good in the world. Sanctioned, approved good."
Remufel said, "As long as we're here, though, have you got any more of that chocolate pudding?"
In the living room, Laurie Anderson sang, "Put your head in your hands." Rhea thought it sounded like good advice.
Chapter 18
Jack was up early again. He hadn't really planned it, and at this stage, it was more anxiety than anticipation that drove him from bed. Still, a nice leisurely breakfast at home would be a welcome change from Hardee's, and still give him time to beat the rush hour traffic.
He stepped into the shower and turned the hot water faucet until the pipes started to vibrate, then backed off a quarter turn, counted ten and ran the cold water up half a turn. It was a combination he'd painstakingly worked out. He could run the hot up gradually from there, but any other start and the pipes would start knocking plaster off the walls. He'd have to fix that one day.
He dried quickly afterwards, and pulled on his clothes. He almost tripped as the printout that spread down the hall slid under his feet. It was really time to do something about that. It had to be a fire hazard. He bent over and looked at it. It must have meant something to him once, but now he didn't have a clue.
Better leave it, then.
Pancakes, he thought, surveying the kitchen. There should be a box of Hungry Jack over the stove, and a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth. There was, but he wasn't the only one who knew it. The pancake mix was full of weevils. He threw the box towards the trash. Amazingly, it landed right on the corner of the trash can, teetered and stabilized.
Great, he thought. Weevils wobble, but they don't fall down. He walked over and gave the box a shove.
Now what? Bacon, eggs and grits would be great, except he didn't have any bacon or eggs, and the grits had all coagulated into one massive king grit that seemed to dare him to boil it. Jack was starting to remember why he usually ate at Hardee's.
Well, cereal and toast then. Jack opened the refrigerator, hit the side panel twice to unfreeze the light switch and looked for the milk. There it was, near the 1983 fruitcake. He poured a bowl of bite-size shredded wheat, spooned a little sugar onto it and upended the milk carton. He didn't think schloooourp was a good sound for pouring milk to make. He was right.
Jack poured the whole mess down the garbage disposal. He looked outside. The sun was just coming up. If he left now, he could still go by Hardee's.
Jack had gotten used to going out through the back door. He walked to the end of the carport and looked up at the little mirror he'd put in the oak tree. It showed the roof, and even in the early morning gloom, he could see that the coast was clear. So far, his gargoyle hadn't moved from over the front door.
He waved up at her as he walked to the car. Actually, he felt a lot less hostility after the incident with the Jehovah's Witnesses, but still, he was going to have to do something. He'd tried everything he could think of to get rid of her: conspicuous good deeds, pokes with a sharp stick, KC & The Sunshine Band—nothing worked. She would answer his questions sometimes, but nothing else got a rise out of her. Maybe he should try to talk her down somehow. Otherwise... well, perhaps it was time to consider de-gargoyling as an engineering problem.
Jack buckled his lap belt and turned the key. Nothing happened. He sighed and popped the trunk. He was going to have to do something about that starter someday too.
Chapter 19
It was still early when he got to Research Triangle Park, and there were only a couple of cars in the lot. Jan's shiny '55 Chevy stood out like a greyhound among wiener dogs. Jack loved his Camry, but for Jan's car he felt pure lust. He put his nose to the driver's side window and looked at the odometer: still only twenty-five thousand miles—Jan's great-grandmother had not been a champion explorer. He shook his head in wonder and tore himself away.
Jan was already behind her terminal when Jack got to the third floor. "Good morning," he said.
She looked up from her screen. "Oh, hi, Jack. What brings you up here? Slumming?"
"Nah," he said. "Just thought I'd save you the trip downstairs with my mail... and figured maybe I'd see if you've shaken anything hot loose from the grapevine."
Jan laughed, "You mean, like will we still have jobs?"
Jack sat down on the edge of her desk. "Yeah, that's a good one," he said. "'Enquiring' minds want to know."
"I don't know, Jack," she said seriously. "It looked real good for a while there, after that TRITEL guy was here, but it's been holding at nin
ety-nine percent done since then, and I'm starting to get a bad feeling about it." She tapped her screen, "See my résumé?"
"That serious, huh?" Jack leaned over and looked. "Special Executive Assistant to the President in charge of Administration," he read. "Sounds pretty impressive."
Jan shrugged. "A little title inflation never hurt anyone. Besides, this one's a fishing expedition. I've already got three solid offers." She sighed. "Be a damn shame if I have to take one, though. This job has been about the most fun I've ever had vertical." She nudged him and unleashed a wicked grin. "Be a worse shame, though, if you leave without jumping Rhea's bones."
Jack knew he shouldn't be surprised by anything Jan came out with. She always said exactly what was on her mind, and as she'd told him more than once, A filthy mind's a terrible thing to waste. Still, even taking that into account, all he could think of to say was, "What?"
Jan winked. "She's warm for you, Jack. A woman knows. I'm surprised she hasn't attacked you in the stairwell yet. Think about it—all the other engineers come to her with progress reports. She comes to you for yours."
Jack shifted uncomfortably. "Nobody else is holding up the whole project," he said, but his body was remembering their last late night session and the scent of roses. Could it be Jan was right? Couldn't be, he decided. A man didn't get luck like that twice in a lifetime. But still—those hands...
"Earth to Jack, Earth to Jack." A nasal voice broke into his thoughts. His eyes refocused, and Jan grinned at him and let go of her nose.
"No, I don't see it," he told her.
"Don't see it, can't imagine it?"
"Nooo," Jack said slowly.
"Okay, then, stand up."
"What?"
"Stand up, right now."
Jack was suddenly acutely aware that he'd better not.
He blushed. "I'm not finished with our chat," he said. Jan's wicked grin flashed pure triumph. "Thought so," she said.
"Maybe your mind can't imagine it." She leaned back in her swivel chair and put her hands behind her neck. "Life's a lot more fun if you don't let your mind run it all the time, Jack."