He chuckled. “You have the word of the Xenarch before these witnesses.”
She stepped from the dais and plucked the strings of her harp, lifting her voice in ancient song. She sang a ballad of great antiquity which extolled the virtues of a simple life lived beneath the sheltering solid sky, of the eternity of a loving heart. As Lhalorin crooned of faith and hope, a light appeared in the Xenarch’s eyes. None present in the chamber, even those guardsmen who had never known any emotion other than brutality, were untouched by the sweet strains. She finished with a lingering note that merged with a soft satisfied sigh from her father’s lips.
“Bless you, Daughter,” the Xenarch murmured. “The darkness lifts, even if only briefly.”
“Now the boon, Father.”
He smiled. “What shall it be, my child? A new gown of silver and gossamer? An audient resin-gem from the shores of the Fherlassian Sea? A new festival at which to dance with some special young man?”
She shook her head. “I want you to give me the eyes and tongue of the Stranger.”
His eyes widened in horror.
“It is what I want,” she said evenly. “It is what I will have.”
“You don’t know what you ask!” he protested. “Ask for something else, anything else.”
“You gave me your word,” she reminded him. “The sacred word of a Xenarch.”
“Before witnesses,” Bosha added, stepping to the Xenarch’s side. “You may not refuse. You may not reverse your own words.”
Calimosh stared unbelievingly into his daughter’s sweet innocent face. He looked to Bosha for enlightenment, but saw only flinty dispassion.
Bosha leaned close and whispered: “You know what you must do, Calimosh.”
“This has been a night of horror and blood,” Calimosh moaned.
“The word of the Xenarch is law,” Bosha murmured, “only as long as the law is the word of the Xenarch. When that is no longer true, the Xenarchy must pass to another. You know the law as well as any other, Calimosh.”
Calimosh buried his face in his hands. “See that it is so, Bosha. Bring the eyes and tongue of the Stranger to my…to Lhalorin.”
Bosha gestured to two of his own guardsmen. They stepped behind the curtain hiding the entrance to the Pits. Too soon, they returned carrying a burden between them. The advisors in the chamber murmured, some in dismay, others in delight.
Calimosh looked up at the sounds. His mouth opened, but only a ragged terrified gasp emerged.
The guardsmen carried between them a wide slab of wood inlaid with filigrees of silver. Upon it rested the blank-gazed head of the Stranger.
“No!” Calimosh screamed. “You were to take his eyes and tongue only, but leave him his life.”
“You granted your daughter the Stranger’s eyes and tongue,” Bosha insisted obstinately, a little smile flickering about the corners of his mouth. “They are here, my Xenarch, as you commanded.”
Lhalorin dropped her precious harp with a clatter, rushed to Bosha’s guardsmen and entwined her delicate fingers in the Stranger’s black, unkempt hair. She lifted the grisly trophy from the slab and glared accusingly at Bosha, then adoringly into the death-glazed eyes.
“I have you, Blake, you are mine,” she told the severed head. “You cannot deny me. I will take what you refused me.”
She pressed her pink-petal lips against the Stranger’s mouth.
Bosha stood close behind the Xenarch.
“Tell me of the open sky,” Lhalorin commanded. “Tell me now of worlds among the stars, of all the pleasurable sins practiced in the great void.”
“What monster is sprung from the poison of my blood?” Calimosh cried, tears streaming down his withered cheeks. “What madness afflicts my sweet child?”
Bosha leaned forward and murmured: “Not madness, my Xenarch, but high heresy, for which there is a price to pay.”
“No, not heresy, but insanity,” Calimosh protested, but weakly, as if he could perceive the inescapable doom looming over them all. “See how she embraces death. The child has lost her senses! She is not responsible!”
“You dare not hesitate, not this time…not if the Xenarchy is to remain yours,” Bosha said harshly. “Hesitate, and you will lose everything! I will see to it.”
Calimosh buried his face in his palms and wept.
At Bosha’s shrill command, the guardsmen rushed Lhalorin from all sides, slamming her with their thrusting shields, continuing to bear down when they came together. Her breath vomited from out her lungs and the press of the guardsmen prevented her from drawing another. She struggled like a desperate animal caught in a trap, but there was no escape. Strength seeped from her, and she lost her grip on the thing she had desired so greatly. The Stranger’s head rolled across the floor, coming to rest as the base of the Xenarch’s raised throne, staring sightlessly up at the wretched ruler.
The guardsmen stepped away when Lhalorin’s struggles ceased. Her inert body flowed to the floor.
Calimosh stepped down from his throne.
His advisors and guardsmen sought to follow, but he halted them with a severe gesture.
“My Xenarch, I…” Bosha started to say.
“Let me alone, all of you!” Calimosh screamed. “Do not follow me. Stay here and commune with death! It’s what you all thrive upon! Feast upon murder and lies! Believe what you will! Believe that my daughter was not mad, that the Stranger was merely a heretic! Convince yourself the Ship will not come…if you can.”
Bosha watched Calimosh depart, smiling, for he knew it would not be long before the crown of the Xenarchy rested on the brow of another, one of his own choosing.
Calimosh fled down silvered corridors till he reached his own sealed chamber. He broke open the doors and rushed through the moon-washed air. The blood had been cleaned up and Diaban’s body removed, but the scent of death was still thick and heavy. He stepped onto the balcony. He gazed into the waters and saw two moons still high among the stars hung in the vault, and a third moon blistering the horizon.
Lanterns hung from the solid sky, he told himself without belief, some close enough to touch from the high mountains at the edge of the world.
One by one, then en mass, the stars began to wink out of existence.
Fearfully, Calimosh lifted his gaze.
The shadow of the Ship descending from the open sky spread over Abraxas-by-the-Sea like a pool of black blood.
Mystery and detective stories have always figured large in my literary universe, but when I encounter old acquaintances after years of silence the first question asked is, “Are you still reading and writing science fiction?” People forget that I was as likely back in the day to have a mystery story in my hand as a science fiction book. But they noticed the science fiction books more than the mystery books. At the time, mysteries were not only an accepted form of literature, but a genre in a long descent, having fallen quite a bit since the Golden Age, which started in the late 1920s and ended in the early 1950s. I blame that on changing popular tastes, a decline in recreational reading, and the demise of magazines, which was where most writers honed their craft, where classic detectives achieved their greatest popularity. True, on television during the 1960s and 1970s cops and detectives dominated the airwaves, but that did not translate into a florescence of mystery literature in culture at large, though many great novels were published. Science fiction, on the other hand, was experiencing a new popularity, no doubt tied to the rise of the counter-culture and the exploration of social issues like race relations and the environment. But I always read both genres, a reason, perhaps, why, like Isaac Asimov, I saw no problem in writing stories which combined elements of various genres, such as this one, in which we discover that going to Heaven doesn’t make a private eye any less hardboiled. Demons beware.
Agent In Hell
A Tale of Mystery (& Fantasy, maybe)
Jehovah and Lucifer play chess quite often, which, in a way, is good for me. If they were really all-knowing, the game woul
d become pointless and an intelligence service, for Heaven or Hell, would be superfluous. Truth is, though, I don’t if they really are limited in scope, or whether they agree to turn a blind eye for the sake of maintaining order in the Universe, or to make the game a bit more interesting. And, guess what? I ain’t asking.
Don’t ask me how I got into Heaven. When alive, I never took divorce cases, but I don’t know if that has anything to do with it. I used to ask when I first got here, if only to make sure they knew I didn’t jimmy the lock on the Pearly gates, but the celestial clerks and middle-management angels always clammed up and muttered something about classified information.
All I know is that most private eyes end up in Heaven, most government agents (no matter the government) end up in Hell, and police detectives get split about fifty-fifty, though the NYPD, for some reason, seems to have a little bias for Heaven. Between the heavenly and infernal intelligence services, the two top dogs of the Universe keep pretty well informed about Heaven, Hell, and all the spheres of existence betwixt.
Sir Robert Peel called me into his office. The last time Sir Robert had called me in, it had been about the bottle of hooch I usually kept in my desk drawer. Couldn’t be that this time – I’d hid it too good.
“Mr Reynolds,” Sir Robert said to me, “we have a problem.”
I kept my mouth shut. Twentieth Century brashness usually grated on Nineteenth Century sensibilities, as I’d learned the hard way. I stood waiting while he shuffled papers. Like many people in Heaven, Sir Robert opted for white robes. Fortunately, he stopped short of halo and wings. Me, I could never get used to a wraparound bedsheet, so I dressed as I always dressed – cheap suit and dark fedora pulled low over the eyes. I missed my insurance policy from Smith & Wesson, but I have to admit it wouldn’t have been of much use in the realm of immortals.
“It appears an Intercessory Messenger is missing,” Sir Robert finally said.
“Anybody search in Purgatory for the joker?” I asked.
Intercessory Messengers were chosen for carrying souls and word-perfect prayers, not for their sense of direction. Seemed like they were always getting hung between here and Earth.
The chief frowned. “Hardly a time for levity, Mr Reynolds. We have searched every possible place.”
“That might mean . . .”
“That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Holy Moses.” I knew things were serious when Sir Robert did not bother to correct my language. “So, where on Earth, and when, do I pick up the trail?”
“The American south, middle Twentieth Century,” he replied. “The messenger was dispatched at the request of the Reverend Lucius Bran of the All-Soul Hallelujah Revival Tent and Traveling Show, near Loki, Tennessee.”
“What do we have on Bran?”
“Not much,” Sir Robert admitted. “We used to get souls and prayers all the time from his meetings. He went silent about three terrestrial years ago. Then came the request for the Messenger.”
“Backslider?”
“We hope so.”
“If I have to go into Hell, how much help can I expect?”
He shook his head. “If the case goes that far, you’ll be on your own, I’m afraid. Relations between the spheres are, as you can well imagine, a bit strained at the moment, so divine intervention is out of the question. No rescue squad either.”
“I’m sure I’ll get along fine in Hell.”
If he smiled, I couldn’t see it. “That’s why we chose you for the task, Mr Reynolds.”
So, sue me.
Going from the ethereal to the corporeal is a rush, like leaping from the top of the Empire State Building. I know. I’d once jumped off the 86th floor Observation Deck in pursuit of a librarian possessed by a demon. Yeah, they always give me the easy ones.
I materialized in a back alley in Loki. Things hadn’t changed much since my last trip to Earth. Time is funny in Heaven. Einstein and some other high mucketymucks tried to explain it all to me, but I told them I’d rather wait for the comic book. That was the last party I got invited to.
Loki was a grimy little town, the sort gritty haven of corruption Hammett wrote about in The Glass Key. It made me homesick.
Don’t get me wrong. Heaven’s okay. Never had it so good on Earth. Got an office in the Celestial City and a home in the country. The Celestial City itself is huge, a sprawling conglomeration of all the cities that have been or will be, but without the vices, the pollution, or the quiet desperation. The streets are clean but not made of gold. Peaceful place. Boring, of course, but no politicians makes it nice.
Bran’s tent was easy to find. The town wore his posters like a gaudy overcoat. It was morning when I came upon his tent at the outskirts of town. I found Bran in a silver Airstream trailer behind his tent, sitting at a desk reading a novel by Stephen King. He was surrounded by shelves lined with books. He was gaunt and dressed in black. When he looked up, there was fire in his eyes. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe not.
“May I help you?” he asked in a voice as gentle as a lamb’s.
“Tom Reynolds, Nashville Herald,” I told him. “Like to do a story on you and your ministry for the religious section.”
He stood, eyes glittering. “That so?”
I looked around. There was something wrong with the shelves of books. It took me a few moments to figure out what the fly in the soup was.
“Yeah, we have complaints you’re mishandling souls, Bran.”
The revivalist gawked, and he looked a little scared.
When he didn’t laugh me out the door, I knew I was right. The books stuck out too far, I swept away the first layer of theological books and Bible commentaries to reveal a secret library, a collection of works on demonology, necrology, paganism and other infernal sciences. Bran was a closet diabolist.
I didn’t bother stopping Bran when he went for his desk and yanked out a gun. He sent a bullet into my brain, awakening ugly memories, but it was already too late for Bran.
Dropping to the infernal regions took a good while and gave me time to think.
Most crowd-mongering preachers are hot air. But they don’t do any harm and occasionally they even manage to help people who are looking for better lives. You don’t always have to be sincere to do the Boss’ work. They do good in spite of themselves.
People like Bran are something else, though, actively working for the Adversary. They’ve been given power to sending prayers and souls to Hell rather than Heaven. The past three years had probably been busy ones for Bran. As far as summoning the Intercessory Messenger, Bran’s conscience must have twitched for a moment, and an infernal clerk slipped up.
The Wild Woods outside Hell proper were full of thorns and beasts. I saw the entry to Hell, and long queues of lost souls waiting to get in. I had to get in myself, and fast. The Messenger would be under pressure to give up the souls and prayers under his care. Even angelic beings have limits.
Down at dockside immigration had set up booths. I wasn’t about to wait in line for the eternity it takes to get though red tape. I pushed my way to the front, knocking aside sad-faced people.
“You’ll have to wait, just like everyone else,” a young demon told me. He barely had horns and his skin was only pink.
“Shove it, Pinkie,” I said. “Name’s Karl Gorman, from Chicago. Got friends in high places, if ya know what I mean.”
He wasn’t sure what I meant, but he didn’t want any trouble. He punched my name into his computer terminal, waited, then frowned as he read the flaming words.
“You certainly belong here, Mr Gorman,” the demon said, “But, uh, well, according to our records, you aren’t dead, yet. It says here that you won’t die till…”
“Tell that to the punk who turned my Caddy into junk with that pipe bomb!” I yelled. “If I’m not dead, then what the blazes am I doing here?”
“Take it easy, Mr Gorman,” he said. “Given time, we’ll get this all straightened out.”
“Figure it out
on your own time, Hot Stuff.” I stormed past the booth. “Got old friends to look up, and scores to settle.”
And quicker than you can say, Springheel Jack, I was in Hell.
It would take time to discover that Gorman, an amoral Mafia enforcer who specialized in baseball bats and brass knuckles, was still very much alive. By then, though, I’d be lost in Hell even to the crack investigators of the Infernal Bureau of Inquisition. Hell is a great place to lose yourself in.
The hydrofoil ride across the Acheron was tolerable as long as I stayed near the rail. Once on the other side, I didn’t hang around the suburbs. The Messenger wouldn’t be held in any of the outer circles. I took an express monorail to Dis, Hell’s biggest city.
Dis dwarfs even the Celestial City, but given human nature I suppose that makes sense. As the monorail neared Dis, I was presented with a skyline of basalt blocks black spires, and leaping flames. It even made me shiver, and I’d grown up in Los Angeles.
Leaving the monorail terminal under the watchful gazes of storm troopers from all ages, I fought crowds to the center of the city. It was worse than Disneyland in summer.
Inquisitory Central is a gloomy monolith in the center of Dis, an odious place that even Hell’s hardcore avoid. They really should take the “Abandon All Hope” sign off the Dark Woods and nail it to the wall of this place. Like a demonic roach motel. You go in, you probably won’t come out. If the Messenger was anywhere, he was there. Uttering a silent prayer, just in case Someone was listening, I passed through the grim portal of Inquisitory Central.
“What is your business?” the blonde receptionist demanded in a German accent that time had not softened.
I flashed my forged credentials and looked mean. “Special Investigator Seventh Circle, Infernal Security. Need a secure link to the central databanks.”
She looked uncertain, but fear won out. Hoover, my supposed boss, was a fiend among fiends. He threw people into the Pit of the Sodomites for any reason, or no reason at all except it made him laugh. Nobody crossed Hoover.
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