by Tom Holt
“Sure.” The voice chuckled. “Let me guess. Working late again.”
“Someone’s got to do it, Mr. Eligos. Thank you ever so much.”
“No bother. You want mayo on that?”
Catering’s mayo had more calories in it per cubic centimetre than concentrated honey. Not for nothing was Eligos subtitled the Tempter. “Just straight, thanks.”
“Cheesecake? Profiteroles? I happened to go through the kitchen just now, and Mario was whipping up a really great-looking zuppa inglese.”
“Just the rolls, please. But thank you for offering.”
Gluttony, according to the map on his office wall, was the third ring out from the hub on Level Two. Never forget who you’re working with and what they are, even the nice ones.
Back to the quarterly cost efficiency reports. They made depressing reading. In spite of the pretty unambiguous directive he’d sent out six months ago, section heads were still exceeding the per-capita torment delivery targets by a margin of 6 per cent, with the result that, on average, it was costing a completely unacceptable one dollar seventy-nine cents per day to keep a Class D sinner in unbearable agony. The report he’d commissioned from a leading firm of efficiency experts clearly showed that an equivalent level of discomfort and despair could be sustainably provided for one dollar and seven cents, simply by shopping around for basic everyday supplies and utilising less highly qualified agency workers to supplement trained professionals where appropriate. The section heads took no notice. It made no sense, but they carried on doing it the old-fashioned way.
Up to a point, he could see where they were coming from. This is how we’ve always done it, they said, it’s how it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, and we don’t need some jumped-up Squishy—
Indeed. And the more he pushed, the more they pushed back. He knew that if he used all the strength of the front office, to which as Mr. L.’s authorised deputy he was fully entitled, he could run over them like a steamroller—which would, of course, be the worst possible thing he could do, and they knew it. Politics, always politics. Well, naturally. Remember where you are.
His screen flickered; the columns of numbers faded, and a message appeared in letters so fiery-bright they made him wince: And I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth, for the first Heaven and the first Earth were passed away, and there was no more sea. And all at sensible prices. Coming soon!!!
The message vanished as suddenly as it had come, and the efficiency figures stared back at him from the screen as though they’d never been away.
Huh?
Well, what else could you expect from clapped-out old Kawaguchiya XP7740 running Burning Bush 3.1 and DOSpel? He’d said it himself, in a strongly worded memo that Mr. L. assured him he’d glanced at: their system was the answer to a hacker’s prayer, and sooner or later the pranksters would find a way in and make hay. He sighed. It really was a shame that nobody ever listened to him, because a lot of what he said actually did make sense, even if he was just a mortal who’d only been there five minutes and couldn’t possibly understand the underlying ethos of the organisation. Still, he told himself, I only work here; it’s not as though I belong. Heck, no. Perish the thought.
A new Heaven and a new Earth. A very special kind of word, new, like change. Inherent human optimism makes you instinctively assume something new—a change—must be better, in spite of a hundred thousand years of race memory telling you it usually isn’t. Except that the vast majority of the personnel viewing these screens weren’t human, and therefore had no such assumptions. Evidence, if any was needed, that the originators of the message were human mortals, or at the very least trying to pass as such. Fooling nobody. Of course, it was entirely possible that the attack was the work of a disgruntled Squishy—plenty of those, unfortunately—equally plausible that it was down to a resentful native Flipsider who wanted to make it look like the work of a disgruntled Squishy. Plenty of them too. Or it could be precisely what it appeared to be, an outside job. Or an inside job designed to look like an outside job, to demonstrate the manifest shortcomings of the IT system. Or—
The red phone rang.
“Lachuk. Yes, Your Grace, I saw it. No, we haven’t traced it quite yet, we’re working on it, should have something for you any moment now. As soon as I’ve got hard data I’ll get straight back to you. Yes. Yes, I know. Though you might just care to consider that if we upgraded the hardware like the Resources Committee recommended back in 1476 … Yes, right away, I’ll see to it personally. Yes, thank you, Your Grace, goodbye now. Yes, and you. Thank you.”
Marvellous. Now he had the Archangel on his back. Wearily, he dialled a number. “Security? This is Bernie Lachuk. I—Yes, it’s about that. No, I understand. No, I don’t expect miracles. Just please do your best; I’m getting a certain amount of pressure from Topside. Yes, I told them, but you know what they’re like, so if you could possibly—Yes, thank you. Have a good one, bye.”
He put the phone down, closed his eyes, counted to ten and opened them again. Yes, absolutely, but do you really want to go back to working for Walmart? No, thought not. In that case get on with it and do your best.
And at sensible prices? Hm.
Security got back to him about four hours later. Yes, they could absolutely confirm that there had been an unauthorised message. They could also categorically assure him that it had come from either inside or outside the organisation, possibly from one of their own workstations Flipside, or from one of the Topside departments, or the mortal world, or it might be of extradimensional origin. That it might have been malicious in intent was quite definitely one of the hypotheses they were exploring with exceptional vigour, and they firmly anticipated making more enquiries in the short to medium term. They were being careful to rule nothing out at this stage, though of course it would be jumping the gun to make any premature assertions until all the relevant facts were available. They had good reason to suspect that the person who’d done it was very likely the perpetrator, though that wasn’t to say that they’d dismissed the possibility of an accident or a freak random data discharge that just happened to look like a message. Yes, they stood four square behind everything they’d just told him, but maybe it’d be better if he didn’t quote them. Just say, an informed source moderately close to the Security Department …
“Thanks,” he said. “You’ve been a lot of help.” The irony thing again.
No sooner had he put down the phone than Jenny told him she had Mr. Lucifer holding.
“This is awful,” said Mr. L., raising his voice over background noises Bernie couldn’t quite identify. “It’s a disgrace. How could you let something like this happen?”
Definitely the clink of glasses, buzz of voices, soft background music, but something else too, a sort of whirring. “Sorry, Mr. Lucifer. I’ve got Security on it, they say—”
“Them? They’re useless, you can’t leave something like this to them, we’ll be the laughing stock of the organisation. I don’t know. I turn my back for five minutes and everything goes to Us in a handcart.”
“Um, I’m sure the IT team will be able to—”
“Forget about the IT team,” Mr. L. thundered, “this needs action. You’ve got to get on to it personally, right away. You got that? You know my watchword. If a thing’s worth doing, you’ve got to do it yourself.”
“Absolutely, Mr. Lucifer, I’ll make sure I supervise every single thing myself. It’s just that I’m not sure I’ve got the time—”
“Then make the time, for crying out loud. And you can forget about supervising. Get off your backside and deal with it yourself, instead of lounging around all day. We pay you enough, for crying out loud.”
“Certainly, Mr. Lucifer, I hear what you say. Talking of which,” he added, “just out of curiosity, are you in a sushi bar?”
“What?”
“A sushi bar. Only that swishing noise I can hear, is that the little belt thing that moves the dishes round?”
“Just deal wi
th it, Bernie. When I get back, I’ll want a full report.”
“Of course, Mr. Lucifer. Thank you. Bye now.”
It’s the job, Bernie told himself; it’s just part of the job. Duties include running the entire Flipside operation practically single-handed (the other hand being tied firmly behind his back), liaising with inefficient section chiefs afflicted with inverse brain/ego ratios, running interference for a boss who’s never here and getting unfairly yelled at. It’s not always a pleasant job—neither is sewer maintenance or sweeping up after the night shift at the slaughterhouse—but this one pays better and you get to sit down most of the time. As long as you know it’s part of the job, you don’t mind, you don’t take it personally.
Do you?
Well?
Fortunately the phone rang again before he could go there. Like three quarters of his daily calls, it was somebody asking him why something hadn’t been done yet; the answer, needless to say, being that people kept ringing him for progress reports, severely reducing the time available for making progress. He didn’t say that. He said he’d look into it and get right back.
He’d taken the call with his eyes shut. It was a habit he’d got into, and it helped, a bit. When he opened them again, there was Jenny. He liked Jenny.
“If it’s Moloch chasing the stationery requisitions,” he said, “tell him he can’t have so much as a paper clip until he fills in his green forms. Tactfully,” he added.
Jenny shook her head, causing her long, straight hair to move in a ripple effect for which there was doubtless a perfectly mundane mathematical explanation. “I just wanted to tell you I’m off now.”
“Goodness, is that the time already?” Bernie glanced at his watch. Force of habit. Flipside, the only watches that functioned at all came from the workshops of S. Dali & Sons. “OK, route the main switchboard through to here when you go.”
“Sure.”
She hadn’t moved. He looked up at her. Something seemed to be expected of him, but he didn’t know what it was. Small talk? He tried to remember the kind of things people said in normal offices, in real time. “Well, have a good evening. Anything planned?”
“No.”
“Ah well. A nice relaxing evening in with your feet up. Sounds great.”
“Is that what you do?”
He frowned. She had the knack of asking questions like that. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not that often, in this job.”
“Is it what normal people do?”
Would it have killed her to ask those two questions the other way round? “Yes. Definitely.”
“Ah. So you’re not normal.”
He smiled. He found it helped. “Let’s rewind and rephrase, shall we? Is that what most people do? Yes, it is. Is that what you do? Yes, but not as often as I’d like. All right?”
She nodded. “How do you do a nice relaxing evening with your feet up? Is it difficult?”
“Um, no. Not terribly. Most people seem to manage.”
“Normal people.” She had that blank look. “Is there a book about it?”
His fault. Whenever she’d quizzed him about life skills before, he’d short-circuited the enquiry by referring her to a book or Wikipedia. But it’s so embarrassing, being asked by a grown woman how you brush your teeth. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“Could you show me?”
A small voice inside his head told him that there was nothing he’d like more. He ignored it, though with effort. Prince Sitri did good work, when he could be induced to do anything at all. “Maybe another time.”
“All right. When?”
Her personnel file classified her as a succubus, Third Class. He’d googled it. A perfect illustration of the dangers of enquiring too deeply into the past lives of one’s co-workers. He tried very hard indeed not to think about it every time he saw her or spoke to her on the intercom.
Fortunately he knew exactly what to say. “Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you, OK?”
Trouble was, she’d heard him say that a lot. “Tomorrow?”
“Tell you what. Why don’t you go to the movies?”
She shook her head. “I tried that. I didn’t like it very much.”
“Ah. What did you see?”
“The Exorcist.”
“Mphm. You really ought to give it another go. Try a nice Disney film. You’d like that.”
“All right. Will you come with me?”
Programming, said a voice in his head, a different one this time; it’s just programming. It’s what she was built for, the poor, victimised creature, and you happen to be the only human mortal male on the block. “I don’t like Disney films.”
“But you think I will?”
Prince Sitri didn’t build dumb blondes for the same reason Raphael didn’t paint matchstick men. “Bowling? Have you ever tried that?”
“No. Is it something you do?”
“I don’t do anything, I don’t have the time. Excuse me,” he added gratefully as the purple phone rang. It was Duke Malephar, bitching about Furnace Six again, and Bernie was really glad to hear his voice.
4
“Hello,” the caller said. “I’m ringing to report the imminent collapse of Western civilisation as we know it.”
Lucy stifled a sigh. “Sorry,” she said. “You’ve come through to the out-of-hours helpline, and we only deal with urgent emergencies, whereas Western civilisation has been in irreversible but gradual decline ever since the fall of Constantinople in 1453. Our regular helplines open at eight-thirty a.m. Mondays to Fridays, and one of my colleagues will be happy to assist you. Thank you ever so much for calling. Bye.”
“Hold on a minute,” the caller said. “It may have started in 1453, though personally I consider that a rather arbitrary choice, and if asked I’d probably plump for the early stages of the Counter-Reformation. Be that as it may. The point is, Western civilisation is in imminent danger of collapse, and I want something done about it now.”
Lucy breathed out through her nose. “Do you think it’ll possibly last till the morning?”
“Say what?”
“Because if it can struggle on till half-past eight, which is—” she glanced at the clock on the wall “—three and a bit hours from now, I’m very sorry but I really can’t help you.”
Short pause. “Dunno. It’ll be touch and go.”
“What I can do is,” Lucy said, “I can leave a note for the duty manager to call you back as soon as the lines open and a colleague is available. Will that do?”
“It’ll have to, I guess.”
Lucy reached for a yellow sticky and scribbled a few words. “All done,” she said. “Have nice day now. Bye.”
She pressed the sticky into the top left-hand corner of her screen, then logged the call on her worksheet; West civ AWKI collapsing, no action; time taken 32 seconds. A pity, really, because it was high time someone did something about Western civilisation, and it was no use leaving anything to the day shift, they were useless. Still, rules are rules.
Buzz buzz. “Hello, helpline.” She sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “Lucy speaking. Can I help you?”
A slight delay. Then a voice said, “Is this the helpline?”
Oh for crying out loud. “Yes,” she said. “You’re through to Lucy. What can I do for you?”
“The helpline?”
“Yes. By the way, I’m Lucy. What do you want?”
“Oh my God,” said the voice. “This is amazing. Do you realise, I’ve spent my entire adult life—and you really exist? You’re not a myth?”
“Could I have your user authorisation code, please?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve got that. Hold on.” She heard vague scrabbling noises. “I know I’ve got it because in order to get it I had to decode a fiendishly arcane riddle encrypted into the penultimate lines of the even-numbered sonnets of Shakespeare. Just a tick. It’s 773 4790.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said, “that’s not a valid—”
“No, hold on. My mist
ake, that’s my mother’s cellphone. Here it is: 4 946 8331.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. A very old authorisation code, but still valid. “And your name, please.”
“What? Oh, right. I’m Jersey Thorpe.”
“Sorry, we have nobody registered with that name.”
“Try Dr. N. Jersey Thorpe.”
“Ah yes, got you. I’m sorry,” Lucy said, “but the authorisation code you just gave me is registered to King Solomon. Unless you have—Hello?”
The line had gone horribly crackly.
“Hello? You still there?”
“Yes,” Lucy said.
“Thank God for that. Look, my battery’s almost flat, I’m nearly out of credit and the signal isn’t exactly wonderful, so could we—?”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “But I need evidence that you’re authorised to use that authorisation code. Otherwise—”
“No, wait!” Definite panic in the voice. “I can do that. It tells you how in the seventy-third chapter of the Midianite Book of the Dead.” Pause. “Except, I don’t happen to have a copy with me. Look, you couldn’t be really, really nice and just take my word for it, could you?”
“Unfortunately not,” Lucy said. “However,” she added, googling quickly as the tug on her heartstrings became too much to bear, “if I were to tell you that the first line of the seventy-third chapter is ‘Behold, I am Solomon, king of kings, and my number is ninety-nine times nine—’”
“Eight hundred and ninety-three.”
“You mean one.”
“You what? Oh, right. Eight hundred and ninety-one.”
“Code identified,” Lucy said smoothly. “How can I help you?”
She knew a sigh of relief when she heard one. “Oh boy,” said the voice, “where do I start? I mean, my whole life—”
“Sorry to interrupt, but this is the emergency helpline. Routine enquiries—”
“I’m trapped in the basement of a pyramid with no way out, no food or water and enough air for forty-eight hours.”
“One moment, please.” Lucy called up the GPS screen. “Would that be the pyramid of Uten-mep-re, Valley of the Kings, Egypt?”