In other words, the Beacon's staff patted themselves on the back for advancing the cause of Reason and Science, but in reality their motivation was more negative than positive; more anti-religion than pro-science. This wasn't entirely their fault; it's much easier to rally people behind the idea of a miraculous savior than the idea that the purpose of the Universe, if there is one, can only be pieced together through a painstakingly dull process intelligible only to the sort of people who took honors calculus in high school. And since magazine editors tended to be yearbook committee people, the Beacon's involvement in the scientific process was essentially reduced to the role of yelling, "GO SCIENCE! BEAT RELIGION!"
That sort of deluded secularism was the last thing Christine needed after three years of dealing with deluded religiosity, and in any case she was more convinced than ever, thanks to her involvement in the events of the almost-Apocalypse, that she was not cut out to be a reporter. Unlike the Banner's other employees, she had the additional burden of knowing exactly what had happened in Anaheim and not being able to tell a soul.
What had happened was that her boss and sometimes friend, Harry Giddings, had been duped into proclaiming the onset of the Apocalypse by a Machiavellian schemer who turned out to be not only a demoness but a bad sport and a plagiarist. As a result of his duping, Anaheim Stadium and everyone in it had imploded, sucked through a pinpoint portal into an adjacent plane. That was a tough truth to face, and an even tougher one to keep quiet about. And as skeptical as anyone at the Banner might have been about that story, she knew that the smug twits at the Beacon would be even less receptive. Not that she planned on telling anyone, but somehow the idea of working among diehard skeptics filled her with dread. It would be like Troy Van Dellen moving to the rural Midwest: he still showed no signs of coming out of the closet, but even a closeted homosexual had to feel more comfortable in a place like Los Angeles than a place like Iowa.
"What are we going to do?" she asked Troy.
Troy shook his head, trying manfully to maintain his characteristic smirk-smile. "Maybe I'll finally finish that novel," he said. Troy had been working for the past five years on a novel that was, as he described it, a cross between In Cold Blood and My Fair Lady---a cross that Christine wasn't sure anyone could bear.
"What about you?" Troy asked. "I hear the Times is looking for copy editors. Not glamorous, but you'd get your foot in the door."
"Ugh," said Christine. "Maybe I'll go back to substitute teaching for a while. I need a change. Something drastic." Her eye fell on the poster of the African child. "YOU CAN HELP," reminded the poster. Below the words was the logo of Eternal Harvest, an interdenominational organization founded by Harry to alleviate poverty, famine, and disease in Africa. The logo was comprised of the letters EH followed by a sheaf of grain and a soaring dove, a combination of icons that had always looked to Christine like a question mark, so that the logo seemed to be saying, "EH?"
Despite its ambiguous logo, Eternal Harvest was a worthwhile organization, probably Harry's greatest legacy, despite his belief that his primary mission on Earth was to usher in the Apocalypse. Eternal Harvest had provided hands-on assistance to remote tribes in various areas of eastern Africa, digging cisterns to provide them with clean drinking water, building chicken coops to supply them with eggs, and inoculating them against diseases, among other worthy endeavors. Christine had on occasion thought to herself that Harry's efforts to promote the Christian faith would be better served if he were to shut down the Banner and send the whole staff to Africa to work for Eternal Harvest.
She had not, of course, been inclined to move to Africa herself, as she had a career as a journalist to pursue and linoleum to pay for. Things had changed, though. She jotted down the phone number of Eternal Harvest on the back of the envelope and walked out of the cavernous building for the last time.
FOUR
Circa 2,000 B.C.
After doing his best to rally the workers at the top of the ziggurat, Mercury reluctantly returned to Tiamat's palace to report on the situation. He sat across from her in the drawing room---so named because it was where she drew up the plans for the ziggurats.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Mercury said. "We've got problems on the ziggurat. I'm starting to think we should tell these guys we're doing eight levels next time. When they begin to lose steam after level seven, we'd be like, 'Hey, guess what? We're done!'"
Tiamat was busily examining sheaves of parchment laid out on a marble slab before her. "It doesn't matter," she said finally. "We're building in the wrong place. Again."
"Are you kidding?" cried Mercury. "This is the perfect spot for a ziggurat. High elevation, close to shopping, a stone's throw from the Euphrates...The only way someone could have picked a better spot for a ziggurat is if they, you know, actually knew what the hell a ziggurat was for."
Tiamat looked up from the papers and regarded him piteously. "Poor Mercury," she said. "Your problem is that you're too smart to be a cherub. You'd make a pretty good seraph, but alas, it was not to be."
"I'd make a lousy seraph," Mercury replied. "Too much pressure. Besides, I'd probably get stuck with some two-bit civilization like those idiots pushing stones around Britain. I don't know who's running that civilization, but whoever it is evidently has no idea we're in the middle of a global pyramid race here."
Tiamat laughed. "You should be so lucky as to get your own civilization," she said. "Do you know what the competition is like to get into the Seraphic Civilization Shepherding Program? I could hardly believe it when they told me I got the Babylonians. I mean, I was hoping for Egypt; we all wanted Egypt, but Babylon is pretty damn good."
Mercury nodded in assent. "It was lucky that Babylon opened up after Marduk got caught using alchemy to prop up the economy. If he had melted down those solid gold pigs before trying to sell them to the Egyptians, the muckety-mucks at the SCSP might never have caught him."
"Marduk!" Tiamat spat. "What a horse's ass. Have you heard what he's up to these days?"
"I'm sure I have no idea."
Tiamat peered at him suspiciously. "Mercury."
"What?"
"You know something."
"No, I swear," Mercury insisted. "I don't know where he is."
"Uh-huh. Tell me what you do know."
Mercury threw up his hands dismissively. "Oh, you know how the guys talk at the jobsite. They've got this whole mythology they've built up about you and Marduk. Crazy stuff. Just talk, you know."
"What are they saying, Mercury? Tell me. Now."
"Well, they've got this nutty idea that you're, you know, evil."
"Evil!" she howled. "Evil! No one accuses me of being evil! Tell me who it was and I'll throw him off the ziggurat! Never mind, I'll throw them all off the ziggurat! It's not like the lazy, incompetent, slandering fools are doing any work anyway. But first, I'll boil their children in oil while they watch! Call me evil, will they? I'll show them!"
"Yes, and as you've noted," Mercury went on, "Marduk hasn't been around much lately, so you get all the blame for, you know, throwing people off the ziggurat and whatnot..."
"Lies!" Tiamat hissed. "Scandalous lies! Tell me who it was and I'll throw them off the ziggurat!"
"Meanwhile," Mercury continued, "they've built up this exaggerated image of Marduk as some sort of conquering hero who's going to come back and save them."
"Save them!" Tiamat cried. "From what? Gainful employment? The chance to be part of history? The excitement of knowing that at any moment you could be thrown to your death from a ziggurat?"
"I told you it was crazy," Mercury said.
"So," Tiamat asked, "what do they say the great Marduk is doing these days, while his worshipers await his triumphant return?"
"Well, supposedly he's preparing for battle with you," Mercury said. "Of course, as you know, he's been away for longer than anyone expected, so the stories of his preparations are getting pretty involved.
"Involved?"
"Yeah, they as
ked me to write it down for them because they were starting to lose track of it all." He felt around in his satchel until he found a scrap of well-worn parchment. "Ah, here it is. OK, first Marduk has to make a bow, which takes a while, then he has to make the arrows for it, then he has to get his mace...Don't ask me how he's going to use a mace and a bow at the same time; maybe he's got like six arms in this scenario or something. Let's see, he throws lightning before him, fills his body with flame...wow, that's a good one, huh? Filling his body with flame. Nice. Makes a net to encircle you, gathers the four winds, creates seven new winds, such as the whirlwind, tornado, um, I don't seem to have the others written down, but they were all pretty similar. Dust devil, funnel cloud, that sort of thing. Oh, and they just added this one, the rain-flood. That's as far as they've gotten. Crazy stuff, like I said."
"Insolent fools," Tiamat muttered.
"It's just talk," assured Mercury. "I wouldn't take it too seriously. Anyway, now that I've told you all this stuff, you're probably going to want to finally level with me about what we're doing here in Babylon."
"We're building a great civilization," chided Tiamat.
"Right, sure," said Mercury, nodding. "But I can't help think how much greater it could be if we didn't spend thirty percent of our GDP on ziggurats. I mean, I get the national pride angle, but seriously, we've got like eighteen of these things now. What's the point?"
"The point," Tiamat growled through gritted teeth, "is to keep building them until we get it right!"
Her statement was punctuated by a distant rumble of thunder. "What the hell?" Mercury exclaimed. "I've been trying to get it to thunder for weeks, and now, out of the blue..."
"You've been trying to get it to thunder?"
"A little side project I've been working on," Mercury admitted. "I always thought it would be neat to be able to make a grave pronouncement and have it punctuated with thunder. You know, something like, 'You shall pay dearly for eating the last chicken dumpling!'"
Thunder rumbled obediently in the distance.
"Oh, I do like that!" Tiamat exclaimed. "Let me try again." She cleared her throat and growled, "I shall cast you and your descendents to twelve generations to your deaths off the top of the highest ziggurat!"
A light drizzle began to fall. Tiamat frowned.
"I think maybe you used too many prepositional phrases," ventured Mercury. "Keep it simple, like 'Stop teasing your sister or I'll turn this oxcart around!'"
Thunder boomed again, closer this time.
"Forget it," grumbled Tiamat. "I don't need cheap parlor tricks to make my point."
"Or do you?" Mercury asked, an ominous tone in his voice. There was another rumbling in the distance.
"Stop that!" Tiamat barked.
"Stop what?" asked Mercury spookily. "I'm not doing anything." There was a flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder.
"Damn you, I said stop it! If you persist, I shall boil you in oil until you cry to the heavens for mercy!"
The rain intensified slightly.
"Huh," said Mercury. "I honestly thought you nailed it with that one."
They watched out the window as the rain continued to fall harder and harder.
"Quarry's gonna flood again," said Mercury.
Tiamat nodded.
A few minutes later, he spoke again. "Probably the kilns as well."
Tiamat nodded again. Shouts arose throughout the city as streets turned into rivers. The sound of fists banging against wood could be heard below them.
"Did you remember to lock the palace doors?" Tiamat asked.
"Yep."
A moat began to form around the palace.
"Second-floor windows?" Tiamat asked.
"Yep."
Mud-brick houses deteriorated in the torrent. The city's wretched denizens slogged desperately against the current to get to higher ground. As the water rose higher and higher, it became clear that only one place would be safe.
"Look at them, scurrying up the ziggurat like ants!" Tiamat laughed. "Pathetic!"
"Yeah, about that..." said Mercury.
"What?"
"If this rain keeps up, the palace will be underwater in a couple of days. We might want to look into reserving some space on the ziggurat."
"It would take quite a flood to submerge this palace," Tiamat said. "Every living thing that moves on the Earth would perish. I doubt it will come to that."
"And if it does, and the top of the ziggurat is full?"
Tiamat smiled wickedly. "Why, then we'll..."
"I know, I know," said Mercury wearily. "Throw some people off the ziggurat."
FIVE
Los Angeles was a revelation to Eddie Pratt. He had been in Ireland for so long that he had begun to think of the Mundane Plane as an endless landscape of moss, cobblestones, and fog. Southern California was warm and dry, and the oppressive fog of Cork had been supplanted by a pleasant brownish haze that hung in the distance like a cozy blanket hugging the city. As an angel Eddie was immune to lung cancer, emphysema, and stray bullets, but not, it turned out, to depression and ennui. Driving down Rodeo Drive in a rented BMW convertible, he scolded himself for not daring to abandon his post earlier. No wonder they called this the City of the Angels.
After checking into his suite at the Wilshire, Eddie had procured the BMW on his newly acquired expense account and spent the next several hours driving around the city, admiring---and, he hoped, being admired by---the beautiful people. At two p.m., he strode into the executive conference room on the fifteenth floor of the Beacon Building wearing aviator sunglasses and a forest green velour jumpsuit that he thought made him look stylish while retaining comfort. He was half right.
Wanda Kwan introduced him as "the man behind the success of Charlie Nyx," and he smiled and shook the hands of the representatives of the various aspects of the Charlie Nyx franchise. There was a representative from the movie studio, someone who handled the Charlie Nyx action figures and other merchandising, a woman from the Beacon who was doing a feature on the Charlie Nyx phenomenon, a small, roundish man whom Wanda introduced as the marketing director for the Charlie's Grill chain of restaurants, and several others.
"Horace Finch sends his regrets," Wanda said. "He's out of the country right now, but he asked me to personally thank you for coming to Los Angeles, Eddie. I'll be his acting representative during this meeting, and if there is anything you would like to communicate to Mr. Finch, I'll be happy to relay it for you."
Eddie nodded understandingly.
"So," said Wanda to Eddie, "I think the big question on everyone's mind is, how's the book coming?"
Eddie affected a smile, trying to appear confident. In fact, although he couldn't explain why, this syndicate of Charlie Nyx-related interests was making him profoundly uneasy. It was ridiculous that he, a six-thousand-year-old angel, could be made to feel uneasy by this gaggle of money-grubbing bureaucrats, but here he was, fidgeting nervously under the table. He took a deep breath.
"Well," he said, "The book is fantastic. I mean, I really think it's the best one yet."
Nods and appreciative murmurs went around the table.
"Here's the thing, though," Eddie went on. "Given the recent, ah, events in Anaheim, there are certain elements of the story that need to be, well, massaged, so as to not appear insensitive to those aggrieved by this terrible tragedy."
The syndicate nodded and murmured in respectful agreement. No one wanted to be insensitive to those aggrieved by a tragedy, especially if being insensitive in any way tarnished the Charlie Nyx brand or the Finch Corporation's public image, thereby adversely affecting the beloved shareholders.
Thank God, thought Eddie. If they think I have to rewrite a significant part of the book, it might give me enough time to locate a copy of the actual manuscript.
"We completely understand," said Wanda. "In fact, I believe Tim has an idea in that regard." She motioned to the dwarfish man that had been introduced as Tim Scalzo, the marketing director of
Charlie's Grill.
"Yes," Tim piped up. "As you know, sales at most Charlie's Grill stores have been down for the past several weeks. In addition to the weak economy, which has affected all of our respective interests, Charlie's Grill has had to face a number of unique challenges lately. First, there's the bad press that has resulted from the class action lawsuit regarding Charlie's Triple Bacon Sausage Burger. Despite the fact that all four meats used in the burger were of the finest quality, six highly publicized deaths have turned this into an expensive and embarrassing public relations nightmare for us. Then there are the religious extremists who are boycotting Charlie's Grill because they didn't see the humor in our 'Be the Antichrist' promotion. I mean, come on, people, don't take things so seriously. It's not like Karl Grissom was the actual Antichrist!"
The syndicate laughed. Eddie shifted nervously in his chair.
Tim went on, "And frankly it's a bit unfair that they're refusing to call off the boycott even though Karl was shot in the head and was then absconded with, never to be seen again. I mean, how badly wrong does a marketing campaign have to go before we're forgiven?"
Murmurs of sympathetic understanding arose from the syndicate.
"And on top of all that," Tim continued, "our research indicates that seventeen percent of our frequent patrons have stopped eating at Charlie's Grill because they're afraid they might get shot at. Because of one shooting at one restaurant. I mean, how do you combat that kind of thinking? It's completely irrational. You're probably twice as likely to be struck by lightning as you are to be shot in the parking lot of Charlie's Grill."
Mercury Rises Page 3