by Tom Holt
15
Far over the misty mountains cold, in dungeons deep and caverns old and hopelessly unhygienic, bathed in the steel-grey light that filters through a half-mile-thick ceiling of frozen ocean, they live, work and occasionally eat each other. Their claws are hooked and needle-sharp, but they long ago learned to adapt, to make the most of what little they have, to turn handicaps into advantages. Because of, not in spite of, the claws they do the most amazing work in microcircuitry, each talon a precise pincer capable of gripping and manipulating the tiniest component. They’re experts in other fields as well. They’re blacksmiths and textile workers, carpenters, upholsterers, carvers, embroiderers, software engineers, machinists, specialists in plastic extrusion and precision injection moulding. The points of their ears are hard and sharp as blackthorn spines, they have teeth like sharks and their eyes are ruby red.
How long have they been there? They themselves don’t know, or care. They still wear the colours that camouflaged them when they cowered in the underbrush of the greenwood, just as you still have vestigial claws on your fingers and toes. They’ve come a long way from the savage, terrified forest-floor creatures they once were, but there are some traditions they won’t give up, even if they no longer remember what they once meant. You might call them stubborn or set in their ways. In matters of diet and cuisine, for example …
A window opened in thin air and a smiling human in a suit stepped out of it. “Hey, guys,” he said. “I notice that you’re operating dangerous machinery without a guard or appropriate safety precautions, thereby endangering yourselves and others and contravening health and safety regulations. Here’s your invoice, with details of convenient ways to pay on the back.”
They looked at him, then at each other. Then one of them said, “Get him.”
The smiling human didn’t move. “In case you were thinking of eating me,” he said, “may I point out that this would be impossible, since I am (a) an angel and (b) not strictly speaking present in a corporeal sense. It’d also be a Class A sin carrying a tariff of twenty million dollars. Theoretically even considering assaulting an officer of the Authorities is a Class B sin, so I would strongly recommend …”
He tailed off. They were grinning at him. Even though he was immortal, immune and not there, he felt a tiny quiver of panic and stepped back into his shimmering window. It wouldn’t open.
They took a step closer, their eyes red as a sniper’s laser sight. “Guys,” he said, “this is no way to behave, trust me. I don’t care how rich you are, you can’t afford it.”
He’d said the wrong thing. “Money doesn’t matter,” one of them hissed through gritted fangs. “It’s the thought that counts. Right, lads, on three. One, two …”
He was immortal and immune, and according to the laws of physics prevailing in 99.67 per cent of the Multiverse, he wasn’t there; he was somewhere else. But they ate him anyway.
16
“And that’s the position,” Mr. Lucifer said. “It’s not exactly what I’d have liked, but it wasn’t up to me, was it?”
Mr. Lucifer had just spent an hour telling Bernie everything he’d already found out about the new regime. Bernie felt sorry for him. He looked desperately tired, and his face was a pale shade of pink instead of its usual fire-apple red. Too long spent cooped up indoors when he could’ve been out on the golf course. “No, Mr. Lucifer. I guess not.”
Mr. Lucifer poured himself a glass of water. It hissed slightly as he drank it, and wisps of steam drifted out of his ears. “What it comes down to,” he said, “is money.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucifer.”
“We’re going to need a lot of it.”
“Yes, Mr. Lucifer.”
“And what they’re giving us won’t be nearly enough.”
“No, Mr. Lucifer.”
A sigh that seemed to come from the centre of the Earth. “I tried telling them, but they just wouldn’t listen. They kept talking about bottom lines. What’s that supposed to mean? I said. They just looked at me.”
It had come as a bit of shock to find out that, where finance and commerce were concerned, the Father of Lies was hopelessly naïve and a bit of an idealist. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, of course; he’d spent his entire working life in the public sector, so naturally what did he know about the harsh realities of the marketplace? To him, bottom lines were what you got if you sunbathed in a bikini. Bernie had been at Walmart before he got this job. If he lost it, he’d have to go back there, or somewhere very much like it. The thought of that had been concentrating his mind like nothing else.
“So,” Mr. Lucifer went on, “if they won’t give us enough money to keep this place ticking over, well, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. It’s unreasonable.”
So much bewilderment, such a world of abused innocence squashed into five little syllables. “Yes, Mr. Lucifer. Mr. Lucifer …”
“Hm?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
The Great Enemy looked at him, like someone who’s just realised that the scruffy old painting that had been hanging on the lavatory wall since he was a boy might in fact be a priceless Old Master. “Say what?”
“I’ve been thinking, Mr. Lucifer. About the money.”
“But I’ve only just told you—”
“Yes, well, I did a bit of, um, creative extrapolation.”
Mr. Lucifer frowned. “You mean, you’d already got it all figured out before I told you.”
“Um, not all of it. But I did have a few ideas.”
The look on the Prince of Darkness’s face was a picture. It was how Pooh and Piglet might have looked as Christopher Robin strode up to rescue them from some tiny but insuperable crisis. “You’re a smart boy, Bernie. I probably haven’t told you that often enough, but you’re a really smart boy. What ideas?”
“Well.” Bernie had written a list on a piece of paper, but he found he didn’t need it. “The way I see it, we’ve got a lot of stuff we aren’t going to need any more, right?”
Mr. Lucifer nodded sadly. “Redundant capacity,” he said. “All of which has got to be maintained, and eating up valuable income.”
“Yes and no, Mr. Lucifer. I prefer to look at it as resources.”
He knew that Mr. Lucifer was on the cusp of one of his headaches. He took a couple of tablets from his pocket, dropped them in Mr. L.’s glass of water, and nodded at it.
“You’re a lifesaver, Bernie. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Properly speaking, aspirin was utterly forbidden in Flipside, which was probably why Mr. Lucifer had never tried it until Bernie introduced him to it. Probably it was very wrong, but who was ever going to know? “Resources,” Bernie repeated firmly. “Like, take Purgatory.”
Mr. Lucifer rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said, “be my guest. You know I had the builders’ estimates a couple of weeks ago? They’re saying the whole of the east wall is structurally unsound. You just won’t believe what it’s going to cost.”
Bernie cleared his throat. “Am I right in thinking,” he said, “that under the new system we won’t be using that part of the facility any more?”
Mr. Lucifer nodded. “Still got to keep it maintained, though,” he said savagely. “I told them, it’s just not enough. What they’re giving us is barely going to keep the furnaces lit.”
“In which case,” Bernie persevered, “we’ve got a large structure standing empty, with accommodation, assembly and activity areas and a large purpose-built lecture hall.”
Mr. Lucifer frowned. “You could say that,” he said.
“Ideal,” Bernie went on, “for conferences, trade exhibitions, conventions—”
“Just a moment.” The coal-red eyes had narrowed. “Are you suggesting—?”
“We hire it out.” Bernie nodded. “We’ll have to spend a bit to get it into shape,” he added quickly. “Carpets, en-suite bedrooms, toilets, etcetera. But I’ve done a few projections.” He handed Mr. Lucifer a sheet of paper. “I think you’ll
find that even on a quite conservative business model …”
Mr. Lucifer looked up from the paper and gazed at him. “That much?”
“I don’t see why not. And yes, there’s some initial outlay but, like you said, we’d have had to spend most of that just to keep it from falling down. And the potential returns—”
“And your lot—I’m, sorry, humans—they’d really pay money to come and stay in …?”
“Oh yes.” Bernie nodded confidently. “There’d be a lot of interest, I can guarantee it. You see, Mr. Lucifer, what we’ve got here is a brand.”
“I know. Lots of them. And red-hot pokers and—”
“A brand,” Bernie said, “which is instantly recognised. Everybody’s heard of it. You have no idea how valuable that could be.”
Mr. Lucifer sucked his teeth. “You sure about that? I mean, you people …”
Bernie shook his head. “You’re thinking humans won’t want anything to do with us because we’re nasty.”
“Well, yes. I mean, it stands to reason.”
“With respect, Mr. Lucifer. Humans love nasty.”
Mr. Lucifer blinked. “You do?”
“They do, yes. I mean, if you don’t believe me, look at their literature, their entertainment, their popular culture.”
Mr. Lucifer gave him a wry grin. “Have I got to?”
“My point exactly. Look at human make-believe, the stuff we invent in our heads for fun. We love murder and violence. We make heroes out of criminals; we get a thrill out of seeing people on a larger-than-life screen getting beaten up, robbed, hurt, made unhappy. As children we swoon over characters we’d run away from screaming if we met them in real life. But it’s not real life. That’s the difference, you see. As nasty as possible, as long as it’s just pretend.”
Mr. Lucifer blinked. “And your point is?”
“They’ll be crazy about Flipside,” Bernie said. “They’ll come here in droves, just so long as they can leave when they’re done. Theme parks, adventure weekends, things for the kiddies to do in the school holidays—and we don’t even have to worry about the weather, cos it’s all indoors. And the merchandising.” He stopped and caught his breath. “The merchandising will be huge. Trust me.”
“What’s merchandising?”
Bernie closed his eyes just for a moment. Then he explained about merchandising. When he’d finished, Mr. Lucifer used his thumb to close his mouth, which had fallen open. “Really?”
“Really and truly.”
“T-shirts with me on them?”
Bernie hesitated. “Maybe not,” he said. “No offence, but I think we may have to get an actor or a model or something.”
“Huh?”
During his time Flipside, Bernie had learned tact the way a man falling off a building learns to fly. “People have a mental picture of how they think you ought to look. It’s not quite you, if you see what I mean. But that’s not a problem. Like I said, we can hire someone. It’s all about giving them what they think they want, you see.”
“Not really, no.”
Bernie pursed his lips. “The thing is,” he said, “ever since they were kids, my lot—Squishies—have always believed they know what you look like. And that picture in their heads, to them it’s the real you. So if they met the real real you, they wouldn’t believe in it. So, we have to give them what they can believe in. You can’t go messing about with that, or your whole brand becomes worthless. You’ve got to preserve that idea in their heads, intact, untarnished. What you might call the doctrine of the immaculate preconception.”
Mr. Lucifer gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “I think I’ll leave the whole thing up to you, if you’re OK with that.” He started to get up, then stopped as though an unseen hand was pressing him down into his chair. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes, Mr. Lucifer.”
“Really, really sure?”
“Yes, Mr. Lucifer. I know people. All due respect, you don’t. Trust me.” He hesitated, then unfolded a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk. “Just an idea I had,” he said. “It’ll need work, but it ought to give you the general idea.”
Mr. Lucifer glanced at it, and his eyebrows rose like gold prices in a financial crisis. “You’re kidding.”
Bernie shook his head. “Mr. Lucifer,” he said, “there’s an outfit Middleside called the Disney Corporation; they’ve got several of these places, bringing in billions of dollars a year, and I promise you, we could get ten times the throughput.”
“This thing here.” Mr. Lucifer jabbed a claw at Bernie’s sketch. “That’s one of those carrier things you people use to transport shopping.”
“That’s right, Mr. Lucifer.”
“But it’s huge. And it’s got wheels on.”
Bernie nodded. “Actually, it’s a bus,” he said. “The idea is, you sit in the bus and it drives around the theme park, and you can see all the sights without having to walk. The people who go to this sort of place don’t like walking much. So you’ve got to have a bus.”
Mr. Lucifer shrugged. “If you say so. But why make it look like a shopping thing?”
“For the slogan,” Bernie said. “It’s the slogan that does it. That’s the principle on which all commercial activity Middleside is founded. Doesn’t matter if the goods are no good and the services ain’t serviceable, if you’ve got a few snappy words that catch the public imagination, you’ve won.”
Mr. Lucifer massaged the roots of his left horn. “Fine,” he said. “And what did you have in mind?”
Bernie felt himself blush, but he couldn’t help that. As far as he was concerned, this was his moment; he had the right. “Go to Hell in a handcart,” he said. “We’ll need to get it trademarked, of course, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
A sad look spread over Mr. Lucifer’s face. “You know what, Bernie?” he said. “Maybe all this has come at just the right time. Maybe it’s a good thing, getting out of the business. It’s at moments like this, I realise, everything’s got so …”
Bernie shot him a look of genuine compassion. “Yes, Mr. Lucifer.”
17
“it’s ghastly,” said the pink-faced man at the British consulate. “Absolutely appalling. It’s getting so that I can’t do my job.”
“Oh?”
“We can’t tell lies any more. Every time we do, some loathsome little man pops up out of thin air and charges us fifty thousand dollars. We’re diplomats. How can we be expected to function under those conditions?”
Lucy nodded slowly. “Awkward,” she said. “Still, in other respects it must make life a little bit easier. Like, for instance, you know without any possibility of doubt that when I say I’m stuck here with no passport, no money and no plane ticket I’m telling the truth. Which means you can fly me home without all the tedious business of checking up on me.”
The pink-faced man frowned at her. “Ah yes,” he said. “Now I’ve considered the circumstances of your case and I have to say, I’m not sure that you qualify for—”
Lucy held up her hand, then pointed to a space in thin air just over the pink-faced man’s right shoulder. It would be just about where a window would form, and a Sin Guidance Adviser would materialise. “Fifty thousand dollars,” she said. “Taxpayers’ money.”
The pink-faced man scowled at her. “Yes, all right. You see my point? There’ll be hordes of feckless idiots rolling up here and we’ll have to send them home again, just because they’ve got stupid rights. It’s not the way we do things.”
Lucy beamed at him. “Now then,” she said. “About my friend.”
The pink-faced man relaxed slightly. “Can’t help you there. He’s not a British citizen.”
“He will be if he and I get married.”
The pink-faced man winced. When it came to marriage, Venturi brothers morality was refreshingly cut-to-the-chase: if you say you’re married, you are; if you say you aren’t, you aren’t. In due course, no doubt, nationality laws w
ould adapt and catch up, once they’d been through committee and three times round the Upper and Lower Houses. Until then, however, you could marry in the departure lounge and divorce while waiting to pick your suitcases up off the carousel, and it’d all be perfectly legal. “Congratulations,” the pink-faced man snarled. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“We will be once we’re on the plane. Thank you so much.”
But they weren’t. “Keep it down, will you?” Jersey hissed as the slight kick of take-off nudged his spine into the seat cushions. “People are staring.”
He might just have said the wrong thing. “Screw them.”
“It’s perfectly all right. We’re airborne.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms. Don’t contradict yourself, it’s rude.”
“There’s absolutely nothing to be scared of.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Come on,” he said. “You’re the one who used to go everywhere by magical zapping. Now that was scary.”
“It was not,” she snapped. “By definition.”
“Excuse me?”
“God was doing the zapping; I was cradled in the arms of the Almighty—how safe can you get? This thing only stays up because of chemically induced flatulence.”
Jersey shrugged. “Relax. I’ve flown hundreds of times—helicopters, microlights, jet fighters, once on the back of a very large eagle. There’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about.”
A slight gust of wind rocked the plane a tiny bit. Lucy screamed and scrabbled at the window with her fingernails. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No, actually I’m not sorry at all. Make them turn this thing round and go back. I’m going to walk home.”
Jersey closed his eyes. “Are you always like this?”
“Well, no.”
“Just when you’re with me. I see.”