Mercury Rises

by Robert Kroese

  "So," Christine said, "what is it, exactly? Some kind of enclosed garden, right?"

  "Eden Two," Finch announced proudly, "is a two-thousand-hectare completely self-sustaining ecosystem in the middle of the lifeless African desert."

  Christine's brow furrowed.

  "I know what you're thinking," said Finch. "Why would someone create a gigantic self-sustaining ecosystem in the middle of the desert?"

  "Actually," Christine said, "I was wondering what a hectare was."

  "Intellectual curiosity," said Finch, who evidently hadn't heard her. "Or maybe hubris. Yes, probably hubris, now that I think about it. Still, you have to admit that it's impressive."

  Something about Finch's flippant amorality reminded her of Mercury. An evil version of Mercury. It took her a moment to make room in her brain for this notion, because she wasn't entirely certain that Mercury wasn't the evil version of Mercury. Up to this point she had thought of Finch as an even eviller version of Harry Giddings.

  "You'll have to come see it sometime," Finch said. "Now that it's too late to...that is, now that it's practically finished. Not yet though. First we have to go to Mbutuokoti for this spirit talking bullshit. It's going to be fantastic."

  "Right," Christine said. "Mbutuo..."

  "Mbutuokoti."

  "Does this mountain have a nickname, maybe?" Christine asked. "I don't seem to have your knack for the local language."

  "It's easy," said Finch. "Mbutuo is 'mountain.' And koti means something like 'heaven.' Well, not heaven precisely. It's the Tawani word for 'emptiness' or 'void.' The Tawani cosmology is interesting because it posits that heaven is actually the realm of the minor deities. The greater spirits live in a great empty void above heaven. Koti is the name for that void."

  "Then koti is outer space," said Christine.

  "Well, not precisely," replied Finch. "Their notion of the void is rather primitive, but I suppose 'space' is as good a translation for koti as any."

  "So," Christine mused, "we're making a pilgrimage to Space Mountain?"

  SIXTEEN

  Circa 2,000 B.C.

  Uzziel leaned back in his chair, touching his fingertips together and frowning. "I don't know how you always manage to get mixed up in this nonsense," he was saying. "What were you doing at the planeport anyway?"

  "I'm fine; thanks for asking," said Mercury. "My neck hardly hurts at all."

  Mercury had regained consciousness in the planeport waiting area of the Courts of the Most High. Evidently someone had transported him back to the Courts and then left him sitting on a bench next to his own head. A Good Samaritan had stopped by and stuck his head back on. It would have reattached on its own eventually, but it might well have taken days. Angels don't die, but they can definitely be slowed down by decapitation.

  Once his head was firmly attached, Mercury had made his way to Uzziel's office in the hopes that Uzziel might have some idea what exactly had happened at the planeport. But Uzziel was, as usual, in the dark. Evidently planeport security had covered the whole thing up. There was no word of the attempted abduction of Michael (or was it Michelle?) on Angel Band or on any of the internal Court frequencies. Whatever that had been about, the higher-ups at the planeport didn't want anyone to know about it.

  "Do they know who attacked you?" Uzziel asked.

  "No word from planeport security. Just a random decapitation. It happens. Planeport ruffians."

  "I heard something about a V.I.A. coming through the planeport. Your little misadventure didn't have anything to do with that, did it?"

  "V.I.A.?" replied Mercury. "Nope. Hadn't heard anything about that. I was just minding my own business, following up a lead on this whole flooding business..."

  "Oh, right. What did you find out?"

  "Nothing, actually. I'll keep asking around. Somebody has to know something."

  "Forget it," said Uzziel. "I need you back in Babylon. Tiamat's up to something again."

  "Tiamat's harmless," replied Mercury. "Well, not harmless exactly, but her primary concern seems to be building ziggurats. And she's not even doing that these days, what with the flooding. Shouldn't we be keeping an eye on Lucifer?"

  "We are," said Uzziel. "But we already know Lucifer's a bad apple. Tiamat's an unknown quantity. I don't trust her. She doesn't suspect anything, does she?"

  "Nah. She still thinks the Civilization Shepherding Program assigned me to help her run Babylon. She has no idea I'm with the Apocalypse Bureau."

  "Just don't you forget who you work for," admonished Uzziel.

  "I'm sure you'll keep reminding me," replied Mercury.

  Uzziel smiled. "Only until the end of the world."

  Mercury gave a pained smile and excused himself.

  Generally unflappable, Mercury was starting to get irritated. He had stuck his neck out to help an archangel in trouble, and all he had to show for it was a doozy of a neck ache---and he still had no idea who or what was behind the rain. He could go back to Babylon as instructed, only to sit in a damp tent and be berated by Tiamat, or he could spend some more time trying to get to the bottom of things. Or the top, as it were.

  Outside the Apocalypse Bureau building, he stopped and looked up. Just down the way was the Seraphic Administration Building, a seven-story structure whose top disappeared among the clouds. That wasn't a figure of speech: the top of the building was constantly shrouded in a layer of thick white clouds. The Courts of the Most High was essentially a small city, filled with buildings that housed the various departments that ostensibly ran the Universe. There were seven levels to the Courts, organized hierarchically. At the bottom were the paper pushers and service personnel; on the second level were low-level supervisors, researchers, and analysts; and as one went higher, one began to find oneself in the rarified air of those who did little to no actual work.

  Most buildings didn't even rise to the seventh level; Uzziel's office, for instance, was on the top floor of the Apocalypse Bureau, an impressive structure that nevertheless had only four floors. In those buildings that had five or more levels, only seraphim were allowed above the fourth level, and they generally needed an escort to go above level three. It still chafed Mercury that to gain access to the top floor he needed to get "approval" from Uzziel's receptionist.

  The offices of the archangels, he knew, were on the top floor of the Seraphic Administration Building. Up there are answers, he thought. I should just fly up there and demand an explanation. Michael, or Michelle, or whoever, owes me that much.

  "You'll never make it," said a gravelly voice behind him.

  Mercury turned. A tall, hooded angel stood before him. He removed his hood to reveal a thin, stern face and locks of curly blond hair. "I'm Malchediel," he said.

  "Michael's bodyguard," Mercury said. "I saw you at the planeport."

  Malchediel nodded. "Michael thanks you for your assistance. And asks that you refrain from trying to contact him again."

  "Does 'he'?" said Mercury. "And what happens if I just fly up there and introduce myself?"

  "You'll be decapitated again, for one. Hidden in those clouds is a squad of heavily armed seraphim just itching to slice and dice an uppity cherub who doesn't know his place."

  "Look," said Mercury. "I'm not going to cause any trouble. I just want some answers. Can I just talk to Michael for two minutes? I did get my head hacked off in an attempt to foil her---his---abduction, after all."

  "And someday he will return the favor," said Malchediel. "But I'm afraid I can't let you talk to him. What I can do is give you some advice."

  "Ooh!" exclaimed Mercury. "Being given advice is my second-favorite thing!"

  "Your first favorite being..."

  "Not being given advice."

  "Of course," said Malchediel. "But this is advice worth heeding. You're not going to find the answers you want up there." He waved his hand in the direction of the Seraphic Administration Building. "If you want to know why it's raining, go back to Babylon. Look around you."

 
"Super," said Mercury. "I'll get right on that."

  "Also, I have this," said Malchediel, handing Mercury a small envelope sealed with wax. "Good luck."

  With that, Malchediel shot into the sky and disappeared in the clouds.

  Mercury opened the envelope. Inside was a business card with the seal of the archangel Michael. On the flip side had been written:

  The rain comes from above.

  ---M.

  "Wonderful," said Mercury. "Riddles." Michael and Malchediel couldn't even get their stories straight. Was he supposed to look around him or look up? Maybe, he thought, the answer is in my heart. He shoved the card in his pocket and trudged back to the planeport. Tiamat would be waiting.

  SEVENTEEN

  In the morning, Horace Finch and Christine arose before dawn to join the elders of the tribe on their climb up Mbutuokoti. The elders, a group of twenty men, had feasted on a concoction of milk and cattle blood the previous night and fasted in the morning in preparation for the climb. Christine and Finch snacked surreptitiously on packets of jerky he had brought with him.

  Mbutuokoti, it turned out, was a dormant volcano that arose incongruously from the plain to the north of the encampment. The hike from the village to the base of the slope took nearly two hours. After a brief respite, the group began to ascend the side of the volcano. The climb was steep but not overly arduous; even in her weakened state, Christine was able to keep up with the men. She was aided in this by the fact that the men were carrying heavy bundles of bark and sticks on their backs and several of them were attempting to coax a stubborn goat up the rocky path along with them. Christine didn't know what they needed the goat for exactly, but neither she nor the goat saw this little excursion having a goat-friendly ending.

  They reached the crest of the mountain by midmorning. Before them lay an oval crater, about three hundred yards across at its narrowest point and nearly fifty yards deep. The bottom of the crater was made of smooth black rock that was veined with dozens of crevices that spread out from its center.

  The group clambered down the side of the crater and made its way to the center of the crater's floor. They had to take a meandering route to avoid the crevice, many of which were wide enough to fall into. Finch seemed particularly interested in the crevice, stopping frequently to shine his flashlight into the depths. Christine stopped next to him and peered into the crack, but could see nothing but walls of rock disappearing into darkness many yards below.

  Upon reaching the center of the crater floor, the elders immediately began a complex set of rituals to prepare them for communing with the spirits. Christine and Finch stood awkwardly to the side. Finch admitted that he didn't really know what to expect; this was the first such pilgrimage the Tawani had undertaken since he had been among them, and they hadn't been very forthcoming with details. Only Tawani elders were privy to the arcane wisdom of communing with the spirits; the rest of the tribe would have to be content with receiving their spiritual guidance secondhand. As for pink-skinned strangers, they could tag along if they liked, but it was clear that they would receive little more deference than the goat.

  After nearly an hour of dances, prayers, and chants, the twenty men encircled the goat and the shaman produced a knife. Two of the men approached the goat with cords to bind its legs. As tension mounted, Christine could no longer take it. She screamed.

  Her unexpected outburst had the effect of panicking the goat and distracting several of the men. The goat took advantage of their lack of attention and darted between the legs of a particularly tall, bowlegged elder. It ran across the crater's floor for a good twenty yards before vanishing abruptly into a crevice. The men turned to face Christine in unison, howling incomprehensible curses at her. "Oh come on," Christine protested. "It's not all my fault. You're just looking for someone to blame."

  The next hour was spent trying to retrieve the goat, which bleated pathetically somewhere in the blackness below. Finch lowered a flashlight on a length of nylon rope he had brought along, but the goat remained hidden among the twists and turns of the rock walls.

  "How important is the goat, really?" Christine finally ventured. "Can't we do the rest of the ceremony without it?"

  "For your sake, I'm not going to translate that," Finch replied. "They just might oblige you."

  Christine was afraid to ask what he meant. Eventually one of the men volunteered to be lowered into the crevice on the rope. Finch made a loop at the end of it and the man put his foot through it and lowered himself into the fissure. He was one of the smaller of the men, but the Tawani were tall, gangly people, and it was clear he wasn't going to get very far.

  Finch began, "Maybe I should..."

  Christine stepped forward. "I'll do it," she said. "It is partly my fault the goat fell in, and in any case, I'm the smallest. I'm the only one who has a chance to get down there. You guys are all knees and elbows."

  As she approached, the men became agitated, apparently convinced that she wasn't through wreaking havoc with their ceremony.

  "It's OK," Finch said to the men. "She's just trying to get your goat."

  "Nice," said Christine. "How long have you been saving that one?"

  Finch tried to explain to the men in their own language what she had said. Christine could tell his grasp of the language was rudimentary; he spoke slowly and often struggled to find the right words. Still, it was amazing what he had picked up in one month with the tribe; evidently he was something of a linguistic genius, having already mastered Japanese, Hindi, and several Slavic languages in addition to his native English. After a few moments, the man in the crevice reluctantly climbed out and handed the end of the rope to Christine.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" asked Finch. "You haven't been feeling well. I think I could probably fit down there."

  Christine was a bit taken aback by Finch's chivalry. He didn't seem like the type. She said, "Thanks for the offer, but I'll do it. I feel better with you up here. I don't completely trust our hosts."

  Finch opened his mouth to protest, but Christine had already slipped her foot through the loop in the rope and began lowering herself into the crevice. Finch grabbed the rope and indicated for the Tawani to anchor the other end.

  Gradually they lowered Christine into the crevice. At first the opening was almost impossibly tight, but after a few feet it opened up into a wider chasm. She heard the goat bleating not far away, but it was difficult to pinpoint the source. Stopping on a small ledge that sloped downward, she shone the flashlight around her. She still couldn't see the bottom of the fissure, but a cavern opened in the rock wall below her. Shining the light into the opening, she thought she saw, for just a split-second, something moving inside. It was possible, she thought, that the goat had hit the ledge and bounced across the crevice, landing on the floor of the cavern. She hoped so, at least, because otherwise it probably lay wedged somewhere in the blackness below.

  She shouted to Finch to give her some slack, and he responded by letting down some more rope and making a stupid pun that she mercifully couldn't hear. Kicking off against the crevice wall, she swung to the far side and landed just within the cavern. "More rope!" she hollered up the crevice, and the rope slackened some more. Shining the flashlight into the cavern, she was suddenly met by two glowing green eyes. After a momentary start, she realized she had found her prey: it was the errant goat.

  The animal lay on the rocky floor of the cave, barely moving. Christine approached it slowly, speaking in low, soothing tones. The goat appeared stunned and frightened but unhurt, and it actually seemed happy to see her. That changed when she slipped the rope off her foot and slipped it around the goat's horns, tightening the loop quickly and wrapping the rope around a few more times for good measure. She gave the rope a jerk and it slithered across the floor until it became taut. The goat bucked and bleated, but it didn't have a chance against the men dragging it to its doom above. It was dragged, scraping and kicking, to the cavern opening, and then it lifted headfirst off the
ground.

  "Sorry about that," Christine said sincerely. "There just isn't any other way." She watched the goat recede against the blue sky as if being carried by some celestial dumbwaiter.

  Pointing the flashlight further down the narrow cavern, she saw that it opened up again a few feet past where the goat had been lying. While the goat made its slow, clattering ascent to the heavens, she walked gingerly to the opening. Once through, she looked around and gasped.

  The chamber was maybe thirty feet across, and a domed ceiling rose about twenty feet above. In the center of the room stood a simple stone pedestal, on which rested a nearly spherical object that glittered in the flashlight's beam. It was a glass apple.

  EIGHTEEN

  For some reason it didn't really surprise Eddie to hear that Tiamat was herself in the dark about who actually wrote the Charlie Nyx books. Lucifer, who had created the character known as Katie Midford and masterminded the whole Charlie Nyx phenomenon, would no doubt have played the matter as closely to his chest as possible. He wouldn't have given Tiamat any more information than she absolutely needed in order to play her role.

  Still, Eddie was at first skeptical regarding whether Tiamat would have hired a mortal (and a young, attractive, female mortal at that) to locate the real author of the books. This skepticism, however, dissipated after only a few minutes with Cody Lang. In addition to being handy with a Glock, Cody knew her stuff. In fact, Cody seemed to know just about everyone's stuff. She was a walking, talking, Glock-toting encyclopedia of what she referred to as "the secret history of Los Angeles." Whether or not she actually had any idea of who the mystery author was, it wasn't difficult to imagine a paranoid, power-mad schemer like Tiamat falling for her spiel. She was Rasputin to Tiamat's Tsarina. To Eddie it sounded like a load of nicely-dressed-up bollocks.

  "Chinatown was a completely sterilized version of L.A.'s history," she was saying. "They foisted that little fairy tale on the public to keep people from looking into what really happened here. Give 'em a happy little story about water rights and incest and they'll eat it up. If only it were so simple!" She chuckled and shook her head, downing the rest of her drink. "Want another?" she asked Eddie, who had barely touched his drink. Eddie shook his head and she made herself another.