Lawyers in Hell

by Morris, Janet

  On the dais sat a throne, carved from the biggest chunk of rock crystal Nichols had ever seen. And on the throne sat the oracle herself, mostly naked, too sexy and too muscular by half: golden nimbus glowing from her skin.

  The oracle said in a ringing voice, “You wish to know the Nature of Time. What you ask is not without price. What does my lord offer in payment?”

  Nature of Time? Shit, she knew before I asked.

  Nichols replied, “My lord, Satan himself, requests the information.”

  The oracle was staring at him as if his face held the key to eternal salvation, which it sure as hell didn’t. But he had to say something more, because she was waiting for it…. “Oracle, my lord will allow you a just reward – if you tell us what we want to know. Something valuable, something relevant to stabilizing time perturbations.”

  At this the sibyl raised both hands flat before her, and the lights went out. All that could be seen was her nimbus and the water atop the altar, bathed from below in a luminous glow.

  Silently the Delphic Oracle rose and bent over the water on the altar, staring into it.

  She babbled in a hushed tone: first in ancient Greek, then in a language he didn’t recognize. He understood some Greek: fighting in Tartaros beside Alexander and his heroes, Nichols had learned Koine Greek, the lingua franca of the Hellenistic old dead, but he was at a loss to understand this gibberish. Too bad Welch wasn’t here: his boss had had lots more linguistic training….

  The oracle started calling out numbers and what sounded like equations. Nichols pulled out his hellphone and keyed the video function for later analysis by linguists because he couldn’t go back to Welch saying the oracle blabbed her head off but he had no idea what she said.

  Then something went very wrong. Her hushed tones turned cacophonous. She was shuddering, writhing; contorting her body, tearing at her face and eyes; screaming and shrieking.

  “Kill me,” she sobbed. “Kill me, emissary of Satan. Now. Please. Relieve me of these frightful visions, I beg it of you.”

  Sure, honey. Just hold on a sec…. But then he realized he wasn’t sure if he should kill her. Welch hadn’t said anything about killing this oracle.

  A dull foreboding crept up his spine. Since Welch hadn’t prepared him for killing the oracle as part of this mission, then killing her wasn’t part of his mission. Her antics turned nightmarish. She raved and screamed and shook and threw herself at his feet. She frothed at the mouth. Her head wagged, her body thrashed. The acolytes stationed around the room broke formation, put their heads together, and started toward her.

  Enough was enough.

  Croesus, king of Lydia, would be pissed, for sure, but Croesus damned well needed a new oracle anyway. Blood poured from the oracle’s empty eye sockets. She couldn’t see the acolytes converging on her. They grabbed her as she struggled.

  Nichols knew exactly what to do.

  While the acolytes held her head still, he fired two quick shots from his Desert Eagle, hitting her cleanly and perfectly between the eyes.

  She slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut as his gunshots reverberated throughout the suddenly silent chamber, reechoing off the dome above.

  *

  Back in New Hell, safe and arguably sound, Nichols reported to his boss, tucked away in the deepest recesses of Admin in an unmarked office. After seeing Nichols’ hellphone video, Welch replied “None of this means shit to me – deliver that video to Zeno of Elea personally and answer any of his questions regarding this incident.”

  So Zeno had already been tasked to work the problem.

  Nichols had Achilles pick him up in his stealth-equipped Huey Cobra to expedite the rendezvous with the old dead philosopher. Nichols could soldier on: it was what he did; but he couldn’t shake the memory of the oracle’s eyes.

  *

  Pythagoras arrived late at the Infernal Observatory on the snow-covered peak of Mount Sinai. With a hellpad under his arm, he seemed a thoroughly modern version of the ancient philosopher who had inspired so many sects of Pythagoreans, including the Mathematici in whose name Hippasus was drowned for documenting the irrationality of numbers. Pythagoras was paying a surprise visit to Zeno of Elea, whose ad hominem attacks on the technical doctrines of the Pythagorean School still infuriated him: Pythagoras believed that reality was fundamentally mathematical.

  Demons standing guard outside Zeno’s lab at the Department of Apparent Time, were having their obscenely explicit way with a pair of human-looking snowmen. Something was amiss here.

  Zeno was in no mood for company. “Do you know what He asks of me, Pythagoras? The fabric of Infernal Time has somehow become unstable, and Satan himself has commanded me to fix it or face the consequences.” Zeno nodded toward the hall where more demons stood guard: “I can’t work under these conditions!” Out tumbled details of Satan’s last visit and the effect of the temporal disturbance on Satan’s pet, Michael. “Satan was toying with me – he showed up in a black robe and powdered wig and pronounced sentence upon me. There is no justice in hell, Pythagoras. None. I suffer undeserved punishment without benefit of even a trial. I didn’t cause hell’s temporal perturbations. How does Satan expect me to stop them?”

  “Shall I ask the Legal Aid Society to petition the Mount Sinai Appellate Division?” Pythagoras proposed. “File a Writ of Mandamus against Satan for travesty of justice? With your august status, perhaps Daniel Webster will defend you.”

  “Go up against Satan? You fool, will you never learn?” Zeno glared at Pythagoras as if about to bodily expel him for suggesting such a thing.

  Just then a man named Nichols showed up with a video for Zeno to see. This was a soldier, big and broad and muscular, and clearly discomfited by Pythagoras’ presence, barely acknowledging him.

  Nichols herded Zeno into a corner and spoke with him, sotto voce, then left hurriedly.

  Once Nichols was gone, Zeno was in no mood for company. “Please take no offense, but I have no time now for the pleasure of your company, friend Pythagoras.”

  “Good frater, time here is eternal! What else could we possibly have more of here, than time?”

  Zeno answered simply. “Almost anything. At the moment, so to speak,” Zeno grimaced mirthlessly, “time itself is the problem – it appears to be undergoing increasingly less subtle perturbations. I’m at a loss trying to quantify the boundaries of the problem.”

  Pythagoras, bowing smartly from the waist, said, “Perhaps I can offer some assistance, then? It would be a pleasure to tackle a real challenge.” With a wink, he added, “Besides, why should you have all the fun?”

  “I must caution you about consequences, since you can’t take a hint.” Outside Zeno’s window, several demons were performing unnatural acts upon a debauched snowman. “The problem is serious, its implications not well understood. Satan himself is very concerned. He is determined that efforts will be unflagging until a solution is reached. And His Satanic Majesty promises unending torment to those who fail him, so his man Nichols tells me.”

  Pythagoras smiled. “A joint effort to solve an impossible problem, the stabilization of Time itself? Sounds interesting. And, should we succeed, far more ennobling than most hellish pursuits. Besides what can he really do to us? Kill us and send us to hell?”

  Zeno clapped his hands. “Then, let’s be about taming time itself: a small feat, for you and me.”

  The two old dead turned their attention to the video left by Nichols, Satan’s emissary.

  *

  The words of the Delphic Oracle on the recording were cryptic but not incomprehensible. Pythagoras understood her. She spoke of an island appearing, an island of myth: “Onogoroshima – a self-forming island, the handiwork of Daikok – The Great Black One.” And she spoke of something else as well – an opening between worlds, a “Demon Gate.”

  So far, no such island or gate had been reported to Authority, or so the devil’s henchman, Nichols, had assured Zeno.

  Pythagoras didn’t trus
t Nichols.

  Where was this island, this gate? Another place, another space, perhaps another time? “‘Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it,’” Pythagoras muttered absently, a quote from Christopher Marlowe. Could there be place, space, and time beyond hell … accessible to the damned?

  The unknown beguiled Pythagoras. Thoughts of a new world, perhaps even a new dimension, filled him with hope. Whatever the risk, he needed to know the truth of it.

  First, he must find this island, if it did exist on this plane. Then, having verified its existence, he must set foot there. Not so easy. If he found the island, he could volunteer to join in any ensuing investigation of such anomalous loci. If he discovered the place, Agency would surely let him go along….

  Using Gurgle, Pythagoras found that some of the numbers given by the oracle included a latitude and longitude (49 degrees, 50 minutes South latitude; 128 degrees, 33 minutes West longitude); along with a height, several hundred feet below sea level. The numbers were given in polar coordinates, reversed and inverted, but this was to be expected: a good oracle is always inscrutable.

  He took his data to Zeno’s monastic cell in the observatory: “Zeno, consider the possibilities! An expedition! We volunteer our services. Once the existence of a site at these coordinates is verified, we’re the discoverers of a whole new island, perhaps even dimension. Your friend Nichols can assure us a place on the exploration team.”

  The Stoic Zeno was much less adventurous. Traveling hell’s ocean was perilous at best, suicidal at worst. Seaworthy vessels and crews foolish enough to undertake such voyages were few; most travelers flew or went by land across the infernal reaches of hell’s multilayered continent. But even travel by land would be difficult to arrange.

  Zeno looked at Pythagoras and said, “You have fun, my friend, chasing ancient gods of the netherworlds – I am chained to my desk, overseen by demonic taskmasters. And here I shall stay, by order of Satan, wrestling with the nature of space and time. Studying the paradox of reality in hell is more appealing to me than meeting forgotten gods face to face.”

  *

  Welch’s instructions to Nichols were explicit: “Pull together the assets you need, using every resource available. Determine whether or not a real threat to Satanic authority exists. Assess the situation and get out – don’t be a hero.”

  Pythagoras’ eagerness to volunteer made Nichols suspicious. But Pythagoras was willing and motivated. One thing was sure: Pythagoras’ coordinates were right on the mark.

  The SATSATPHORECNET (Satanic Satellite Photographic Reconnaissance Network) confirmed the existence of an island at those coordinates, where no island existed a month ago. This island was lush and green. A scant five degrees above the tree line, this island was covered with trees – in the sub-polar region where hardy grasses and other tundra plants should be struggling to grow. None of this data made sense.

  And this diabolical brain-teaser just kept getting better: the USS (Underworld Satanical Ship) Arizona, on a run from Satanic Samoa, had disappeared without a trace, two days past. Was there a connection? Although the course of the Arizona (through the “Roaring Forties” and “Furious Fifties”) lay within the turbulent ocean storm track, no storms had been reported and no SOS broadcast. NUDET (Nuclear Detonation) sensors had reported no activity.

  Nichols’ head hurt: he hated data that made no sense.

  Nichols pulled strings to berth a team on the IJN (Infernal Japanese Navy) Yamato, en route to investigate the disappearance of the Arizona. With Achilles’ tricked-up Huey and a team of four specialists, he’d reconnoiter the island and get out, hopefully without involving the Yamato’s crew.

  The Yamato was big for a ferry but, if push came to shove, Nichols wanted plenty of firepower available.

  *

  Pythagoras ventured into New Hell’s theatrical district, to find a friend he’d known long enough to trust. Erik Weisz was small, intense, and accustomed to accomplishing nearly impossible feats. In life, he’d been world famous as the master showman, Harry Houdini.

  When Pythagoras found him in a joke shop on Forty-Second Street, Houdini was morosely slumped over his counter, staring at a well-worn photo of his beloved Beatrice, once his wife and partner in the act known as “The Houdinis.”

  “How are you, Harry?” Pythagoras inquired.

  Houdini, looking up: “Pi! Could be worse. What’s the occasion? Have you found a way to transmigrate our doomed souls out of here?”

  Pythagoras just smiled. “Maybe….” Then he made Houdini the offer: “Not the chance of a lifetime, but of many lifetimes. Join me. Pull off the greatest escape in infernity’s history.”

  Hearing Pythagoras’ proposal, Houdini’s eyes widened: “Pi, I’m eager. Your scheme is far preferable to selling magic tricks that won’t work to the desperate damned, to pay for my sins of pride and lust for glory. The challenge is irresistible.”

  “And should we succeed, my friend,” Pythagoras said softly, “the prize is freedom.”

  *

  It took Nichols hours to identify candidates for his ops team. And hours weren’t reliably passing at the same rate.

  By the time he had his short-list winnowed to two, he was diabolically pissed off. The two candidates he adjudged most qualified were: Captain John B. Merkerson, late of the 10th Mountain Division and the 10th Special Forces Group; and Major John Wesley Powell, late of the U.S. Geologic Survey. These two men were experts in their fields, apparently fearless, and combat veterans.

  Merkerson was the son of a ski instructor in the Colorado Rockies. A mountaineer with an iconoclastic bent; he sought solitude but played well with others. While assigned to a Special Forces A-team during Vietnam, Merkerson received a battlefield commission and was decorated for gallantry. After the war, he transferred first to the 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) and then to the 10th Mountain Division at Fort Drum. He was killed in his prime during that tour by a drunken ambulance chaser. When Nichols interviewed him, Merkerson’s only condition was that if they survived the mission, Nichols would help him find the ambulance chaser who’d killed him.

  Next, Nichols tracked down Major John Wesley Powell, the quintessential exploration geologist. Like Merkerson, Powell had explored the Rockies widely. Fighting for the Union during the Battle of Shiloh in 1862, Powell lost his right arm. In 1869, he led the Powell Geographic Expedition through the Grand Canyon and up the Green and Colorado Rivers, then wrote the definitive book on the Colorado Rockies. Later, he became director of the U.S. Geologic Survey and founding director of the U.S. Bureau of Ethnology. If Powell had a personal stake in the outcome of this expedition, Nichols could easily enlist him. Powell’s DIS file noted that since the onset of the time perturbations, the missing right arm had begun “ghosting” in and out of existence, disappearing and reappearing randomly. Powell assumed the ghost arm was part of his personal torment.

  Nichols was going to convince him otherwise.

  *

  “You’re useful,” Nichols conceded to Pythagoras. “But now you want me to bring an escape artist on a caving expedition to an unexplored island? Why?” As Nichols got up, his heavy Desert Eagle snagged his ladder-back chair. “Houdini’d be excess baggage. A wild card with no training in rock climbing and spelunking. The last thing I need is a damned magician. It’s too risky.”

  Pythagoras pouted. “Fine, just leave me behind, too.” Nichols needed an expert on time perturbations and all matters temporal. Pythagoras was Nichols’ first, best choice. And Pythagoras knew it.

  Satan was already on Welch’s back, demanding results. The window for reaching the Yamato via Huey on schedule was rapidly closing. Nichols wouldn’t bother Welch with administrative detail. Pythagoras had Nichols over a barrel, and the stubborn little Greek with the comb-over and the long nose knew it.

  “Fine, Pythagoras. You’re responsible to see that this Erik Weisz Houdini guy doesn’t get in the way. The magician pulls any shit, or wimps out, we leave him behind – wherever or whe
never. A spectator on this mission is something I won’t fucking tolerate.”

  *

  The helicopter gunship moved stealthily on its flight path from the IJN Yamato to the mysterious island, giving Nichols too much time to think, and rethink, and wonder how he got into this fact-finding junket.

  If his prima donnas followed orders, everything would go fine. Get in, reconnoiter, get out. That’s all there was to it … but his hackles were up. Bad sign.

  So far it had all gone like clockwork. Shipboard, Merkerson and Powell clicked immediately and became fast friends, a geologic mutual-admiration society. Houdini was quiet and intense: agile, and physically strong enough for the task ahead. Despite his oldish bookworm’s body, Pythagoras was in reasonable shape.

  So what had Nichols so torqued? Maybe it was killing the oracle. Maybe just nerves. Pre-mission jitters. Still, he needed to shake his forebodings. His team couldn’t be allowed to guess that he harbored doubts about this mission.

  On initial approach, Nichols had Achilles swing wide and circle the island. It was about five miles wide by about seven miles long, with a large rock outcropping off shore on the leeward side, a small mountain rising a thousand feet at its center, and forested with deciduous trees, wrong for this latitude. A white sand beach with a scummy black border encircled it like a dirty collar.

  There were structures on the beach. Or rocks that looked like structures. Nichols had Achilles put the Huey down on the beach near the offshore outcroppings, to get a better look. He ordered Houdini to stay with Achilles, and Merkerson and Powell to reconnoiter the adjoining woods.

  He and Pythagoras then got out and walked toward the rocks.

  Structures?

  *

  Merkerson, with Powell, beside him, encountered utter silence in the woods. Normally, even in hell’s bleakest regions, you heard something: birds, beasts, insects.

  But here nothing howled or peeped or even fluttered.

  Could he and Powell be the only living things in this forest? The trees around them, trees that shouldn’t have been growing here, were twisted unnaturally. The deeper they trekked, the weirder the forest became.