“Je ne se qua,” Christine said, pressing MUTE on the remote control. The reporter, whom Christine had begun to think of as Pierre Gabrielle, continued to motion energetically over his shoulder, as if he were juggling. Christine wondered if the MUTE button on French remote controls was labeled MIME.
“So you’re okay?” asked Harry.
“Considering that I recently inhaled about half a house, yes,” said Christine.
“They told me what happened,” Harry said. More quietly, he added, “Isaakson’s people.”
“So Isaakson is d – ”
“Shh!” Harry whispered. “They’re keeping it under wraps for now. At least until they’ve assessed the damage. They don’t want to embolden the Syrians.”
“But we’re going to report it,” said Christine, trying to avoid making her statement into a question. “We have to report it.”
“We will,” said Harry. “Soon. The Israelis just need a chance to get a handle on things. This sort of event can act as a catalyst, provoking more violence. We need to make sure –”
“Harry,” Christine interjected, sensing once again that there was something Harry wasn’t telling her. “What is this about? We don’t work for the Israelis. We’re a news magazine. If I’m going to risk my life getting the last interview….” She was seized by a sudden coughing fit.
“Don’t worry, Christine,” Harry said, once the coughing had subsided a bit. “The Israelis have asked for a couple of days. We can still make next week’s deadline. It might leak to the news channels before then, but we’ll be the only print magazine with the story. Fax your notes over and I’ll have Maria start on it right away.”
“My notes,” rasped Christine, who was starting to realize what a terrible reporter she actually was. “Right.”
“You do have notes?” asked Harry. “From your interview with Isaakson?”
“Well, I have a pretty good opening line.”
“Which is?”
Christine cleared her throat as if preparing to read from her notes. “Holy shit,” she pretended to read. “It’s a fucking rocket.”
“Christine,” said Harry flatly.
“Of course,” continued Christine, “we’ll have to tidy it a bit for general consumption.”
“Fine,” said Harry. “Don’t worry about it. We don’t need much more than a headline anyway. Something terse, like ‘Sudden Death on the Syrian Border.’ But not that, of course. Something more tasteful.”
“How about ‘General Mayhem on the Syrian Border?’” Christine offered.
Harry, choosing not to acknowledge her suggestion, went on, “We’ll do some generic pictures of devastation and work up a retrospective on Isaakson. We can do a first-person essay about what it was like to be with him for his last moments. What was it like, by the way?”
“Frankly,” said Christine, “it was surreal. He had this….” She trailed off, having caught sight of a silvery briefcase resting innocuously in the corner of the room. What the hell? She dropped the phone and got out of bed, trying to ignore the sudden rush of blood and pain to her head. Having seized the case, she made her way back to the bed.
“Christine?” the phone said.
She picked it up, cradling it with her shoulder. She tried to open the case, but it was locked. “Oh, I was just saying…”
A combination lock stared back at her. The case said, “SO?”
Christine found it strange that the case was challenging her in this manner. In her experience, briefcases weren’t ordinarily so sassy.
“I was just saying,” Christine continued absently, “that I’m not sure Isaakson gave me anything I can use.”
She blinked at the case. Now it said “507.” The combination lock’s tumblers had been left on those digits. The case looked like titanium. She would need some kind of explosive – or a lot of patience – to get it open. She had neither.
“Well, think about your angle on the story during the flight back,” said Harry. “You can fly back tomorrow, right? I’d like to have you in town so we can talk about the story. Also, I was hoping you’d be able to make it to the Covenant Holders conference in Anaheim. I’m doing the keynote address, remember.”
“Keynote,” repeated Christine absently, still staring at the silvery case. She didn’t know why Harry kept reminding her about that damn Covenant Holders event. Sure, it would be nice to attend in support of Harry, but there was something unsettling about being in a stadium packed with tens of thousands of fundamentalists. Besides, how much support could one man possibly need?
Christine’s attention was drawn to something that had appeared on the television. The French news channel had segued from the war to what they were presenting – if the whimsical graphics of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse were any indication – as a bit of the lighter side of the news. The screen then showed a blurry photograph of a man who looked vaguely familiar. Underneath the picture, amid a cloud of incomprehensible French, were three words Christine recognized: Berkeley, Apocalypse, and Mercurians.
More indecipherable words appeared on the screen, followed by a date: le sept mai. The Seventh of May. Something about that date seemed familiar. The French news channel cut to the image of a mushroom cloud, and then to a group of blow-dried Frenchmen in a news studio chuckling good-naturedly. God, I hate the French, thought Christine.
“So?” Harry asked. “Can you fly back tomorrow?”
“I think so,” said Christine. “Hey, about that Mercury character, do you still want me to check him out?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Harry said. “Like you said, I’m sure he’s just another Apocalypse nut. There’s no time to get a story for this week’s issue any more anyway. And I understand that if Mercury is to be believed, the world is going to end on May Seventh, so next week is out.”
A chill shot down Christine’s spine.
Le sept mai. The Seventh of May. 5/07.
She looked at the briefcase again. It said, “SO?”
Was it possible, she wondered, that Isaakson had meant the Mercury who ran an apocalyptic cult in Berkeley? That these two men were somehow connected? It was hard to imagine that they both even existed in the same universe.
“That was a joke, Christine.” Harry said.
“Hmm,” said Christine. “What if I fly into SFO instead of LAX?” said Christine. “Look into the Mercurians a little and then head home.”
“Well,” said Harry. “It’s fine with me, if you really want to. But I thought you weren’t going to do any more of these Apocalypse stories.”
“Trust me,” said Christine. “This is the last one.”
EIGHT
Christine’s trip back to the States was uneventful. After once again experiencing the wild-eyed joy of Heathrow International, she popped three Demerol left over from a tooth extraction and boarded her flight to San Francisco, wondering, not for the first time, why prescription narcotics were so much more readily dispensed for minor surgery than for bouts of being tossed halfway across the globe in a giant steel tube. With the help of the opiate fairies, Christine slept soundly through a movie she vaguely recalled as Charlie Nyx and the Unlimited Effects Budget, and thanks to the giant steel tube making a good show of outracing earth’s rotation, she was on the ground a scant six hours after she left. She spent the next fourteen hours dozing in the Villagio Inn of San Mateo, a cheap hotel that she dreamt had been constructed under a pile of rubble shored up by a massive Formica folding table.
At present she was guiding a Toyota Camry across the Bay Bridge toward Berkeley. Troy had provided the address of the Mercurian cult and some basic information about Galileo Mercury and she was trying to focus on what questions she might ask him. Unfortunately her mind currently resembled a Hollywood cocktail party, with a roomful of third-rate notions all simultaneously vying to be the center of attention. There was the titanium case that she was supposed to bring to another planet, that damned teenage warlock Charlie Nyx, the constant nagging sensation that s
omething wasn’t right with her linoleum… not to mention, slumped right in the middle of the festivities, the corpse of David Isaakson, architect of the Olive Branch War.
Christine had, at present, no other plan than to show up at the front door. She certainly had no intention of handing over the case to Mercury – at least not until she knew what it was, and whether he was even the right Mercury – a possibility that seemed less and less likely the more she thought about it. She probably shouldn’t even have taken the case on the plane, but hadn’t known what else to do with it. A palpable wave of relief had flowed over her when it passed innocuously through airport security. For now it would remain in the Camry’s trunk.
Berkeley struck Christine as an interesting place, bustling with pedestrians who evidently thought they had better things to do than get out of the way of a smallish Japanese car. Ninety percent of them looked to be younger than twenty-five, and the other ten percent were either homeless people or university professors, the former being distinguishable from the latter by their elegantly crafted cardboard signs assuring her that “ANYTHING WILL HELP.” She theorized that the professors were either to proud to carry such signs or too poor to afford cardboard.
She felt almost entirely recovered from her ordeal, although she was popping lozenges like an Echinacea addict in an effort to keep her low-grade cough from erupting into a gran mal-like fit of involuntary muscular contraction. As she neared the address, she checked her appearance in the rear view mirror. Other than a few nearly healed nicks and scratches, she thought she looked almost respectable.
She managed to tear herself away from the mirror in time to avoid running down a woman who was either a physics professor or a bag lady, and found herself smack in front of 507 Olive Avenue. By a miracle on par with her rescue from the folding table sarcophagus, she found a parking space just off Telegraph. Flush with this success and the relief of having avoided killing any homeless and/or tenure-track pedestrians, she got out of the car and walked the fifty yards to the front door of the Mercurian headquarters.
The house was an odd choice for the headquarters of a cult, apocalyptic or otherwise. Christine had never seen a cult headquartered in a Victorian mansion. Cults, particularly those of the “the end is near” variety, tended to prefer more modern – and less permanent-seeming – structures. A building like this had a way of hinting that you weren’t the first batch of wing nuts it had housed, and you wouldn’t be the last.
She was met at the door by a young woman who had an oddly tired and pallid look that made Christine think that maybe she wasn’t getting enough artificial coloring in her food. Her skin was pale and grayish, her hair was mousy and grayish, and her teeth were yellowish and grayish. This, thought Christine, is why God invented sunlight. And whitening strips.
“I’m Ariel,” said the woman, in a voice that seemed to be wandering through her larynx on its way to somewhere else. “I can take you to him.”
Christine balked, having expected somewhat more resistance, but then darted after the waifish girl, who seemed likely to disappear into thin air. They meandered through the massive house, past several other Ariels and their male counterparts. Other than sporting the blandly cheerful look of individuals who had surrendered their critical thinking ability in order to mindlessly follow an authority figure, they looked like ordinary college students. On second thought, Christine noted, they looked exactly like ordinary college students.
They came to a cheery room that had probably been intended as a sort of study. It would have been difficult for anyone to study in it at present, for a number of reasons. First, the room was unfurnished except for a single overly large plywood table. Second, the table was being unrelentingly harassed by a small plastic ball. Third, and most importantly, the sound of the ball bouncing off plywood was so loud that it made one feel like a kernel of popcorn in a tin kettle, listening to its brothers explode.
“Hwaaaaaah!” exclaimed the lanky man on the left side of the table. It was unclear whether it was a cry of victory or exasperation – or merely exultation in the simple joys of ping-pong.
The man was tall, maybe six foot four. He had the physique of a cyclist and the hands of a harpsichordist, thought Christine. He could just as well have been a long distance runner and concert pianist, but a journalist of Christine’s stature was conditioned to avoid such clichés. His features were pronounced and aquiline. Deep set green eyes peered mischievously out from under his prominent brow. His hair was – there was no other word to describe it – silver. Were it not for the absurd hair, Christine would have put him at about twenty-five.
“Hwaaaaaah!” he shouted again, as he executed a particularly unremarkable shot.
The lanky man’s opponent was a pudgy young Asian man wearing a blue and yellow Cal Berkeley sweatshirt, who parried every shot effortlessly. He appeared simultaneously amused and frightened, like someone who had learned how to juggle chainsaws but hadn’t yet learned how to stop.
“I’m looking for Galileo Mercury,” Christine said.
“Hwaaaaaah!” the tall man exclaimed again, slicing his paddle sideways to connect with the ball. The ball shot off the paddle in the direction of his opponent but then arced wildly toward Christine. She threw up her hand, catching it an inch from her nose.
“English!” the tall man said.
The Asian man looked relieved. He quietly put down his paddle and began to slink away.
“I’m from Glendale,” corrected Christine.
The tall man shook his head. “English. I’m learning how to put English on the ball. Galileo here is teaching me.”
The Asian man stood there, blinking dumbly at Christine, a pained expression on his face.
Christine turned to the diminutive man, who was now halfway out the doorway.
“You’re Galileo Mercury?”
The Asian man sighed in resignation.
“Not what you expected, eh?” said the tall man. “I thought journalists were supposed to be objective. No preconceptions, that sort of thing. Is there some law that a Chinese dude can’t be named Galileo?”
Christine sputtered uncertainly. “Er…” she started.
The tall man dropped his paddle on the table and approached her, holding out his hand.
“I’m Mercury,” the tall man said. “But you have to admit, it would be pretty funny if Galileo Mercury was a Chinese dude. Toby, get us some beers, would you?”
The Asian man, evidently named Toby, left. He had the distinct look of a recent parolee.
“Toby’s a good kid,” Mercury said. “Not really the cultist type, to be honest. Let’s sit in the drawing room.”
He led her to a medium sized room populated with a variety of mismatched and oversized easy chairs. He thumped into a massive floral thing and she took a seat in a Naugahyde monstrosity across from him.
“I’m Christine Temetri,” she began. “With the Banner.”
“I know,” Mercury said. “I’ve been reading your stuff. Really phenomenal stuff. Hysterical, really.”
“It’s not really supposed to be….”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes it so funny.”
Christine decided to start over. “Most cult leaders don’t acknowledge that they are running a cult,” she said.
“Don’t they?” Mercury asked.
Christine waited for him to say more. In her experience men of his sort needed very little prompting to launch into a soliloquy or diatribe.
Mercury glanced about, seeming to be searching for the right words. Finally he spoke.
“What do you think is keeping Toby?” he said.
“Well,” Christine said. “I haven’t known Toby that long. He seems like the kind of guy who would be capable of getting a couple of beers, but I’m basing that assumption mostly on his aptitude at ping-pong.”
Mercury nodded, seeming satisfied with this assessment. “Anyway, where were we?”
“Your full name, it’s Galileo Mercury?”
“Full name,” Mercury said thoughtfully. “You mean like on my driver’s license?”
“Well, yes.”
Mercury nodded. “No,” he said.
“No, it’s not Galileo Mercury?”
“No, it’s not on my driver’s license.”
“What is on your driver’s license?”
“There’s really no telling,” Mercury said. “I don’t have one.”
“You don’t drive?”
“Well that’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it? I never said I didn’t drive. I said I didn’t have a license. And technically that’s not true. I have a de facto license.”
“A de facto license.”
“Right. So far, no one has prevented me from driving. I’ve been de facto permitted to drive. The limitation of a de facto license, of course, is that I can’t tell you what name is on it. Also, I have to rely on Toby to buy my beer. Speaking of which, if that guy could serve a Sierra Nevada half as well as he can serve a ping-pong ball….”
Toby entered, bearing two green bottles.
“Ah, Toby!” Mercury said, taking the bottles and handing one to Christine. “I was just talking about what an excellent server you are. Do me a favor and run to the 7-11 for me. We’re out of Rice Krispies. And get some of those marshmallow Peeps, if they have them. Have you ever made Rice Krispy bars with marshmallow Peeps, Christine?”
“I’m afraid not,” Christine said, setting the beer down next to her chair.
“Ooh, you’ll love it. They’re like regular Rice Krispy bars, but with this sugary glaze on them. Also, it’s fun to watch the little chicks melt in the pan. Peep! Peep! Stick around, this is going to be crazy.”
Toby nodded and left again.
Christine tried again. “So your full name….”
“Mercury. Just Mercury. I use Galileo because people insist that you need two names these days. I suppose it’s meant to prevent confusion. They give you two names to differentiate you from everyone else who has two names. Anyway, it’s got a ring to it.”
“But your given name….”
“I used to go by Ophiel, but people seem to have an easier time with Mercury. My given name is nearly impossible to pronounce,” he said. “Cherubic doesn’t transliterate well into English.”
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