Christine turned it over in her hand, trying to appear nonchalant. It was heavy, but it easily fit in the palm of her hand. It looked like a glass apple.
“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “These will do… I suppose.”
“You’ve seen an anti-bomb before, of course?”
“Of course,” said Christine.
“It’s Heavenly technology. We’ve got more destructive weapons, but we were told to use these. I suppose they want there to be some confusion as to who is responsible for the attacks. Although it seems to me that everyone’s going to figure it out pretty quickly.”
“You’re going to send these through the portal?”
“That is the plan. The brigade will be arriving in a few hours. As soon as we get the word, we’ll activate the portal and send them through.”
“To Glendale.”
“Right.”
“You need six hundred and sixty six of these to blow up Glendale?”
Malphas looked quizzically at her. “Of course not. They’ll be dispersed as widely as possible before detonating. Each recruit has a designated checkpoint. Surely your people informed you of all this?”
“Yes, yes,” said Christine. “Just making sure that you’re clear on all the details. I’d like to see the portal now, if that’s alright. That is, take me to the portal.”
“I’ll need that back,” said Malphas.
“Right,” said Christine, handing the glass apple back to him. He replaced it in its padded slot on a shelf in the vault.
After shutting the vault behind them, Malphas led them to a small closet off the warehouse. In the middle of the floor, a roughly circular geometric pattern was etched into the floor. Christine had never seen this particular variation, but she assumed that it was the symbol for the portal in her condo.
“It’s a bit out of the way,” said Malphas, “but our calculations indicate that this is the optimal location for the portal. Or will be, anyway. After the reconfiguration is complete.”
“The reconfiguration,” repeated Christine. “Yes. How is the, ah, reconfiguration progressing?”
“It’s a tricky business,” said Malphas. “But our people are confident that one more quake will do it. In fact, Ramiel just reported in. We’re hoping for another one any minute now. If it works, we should see….”
As he spoke, the portal began to glitter around its edges.
“There!” exclaimed Nybbas. “They did it!”
“Excellent,” said Malphas. “Now as soon as Izbazel gets his lazy ass over here, we’ll know for sure.”
“Izbazel is coming here?” Christine said weakly, the bravado suddenly draining out of her voice.
“He was supposed to be here already. This whole plan rests on his shoulders. If he doesn’t take out the Antichrist…. But first things first. We’re not even certain the portal works yet. Izbazel is supposed to be the first one through.”
“Can’t we test it before Izbazel gets here?” Christine asked.
“We could,” said Malphas, “but we’ve been forbidden to do so. Lucifer wants Izbazel to be the first one through.”
“Yes, well,” said Christine, realizing that her only chance to get out of here alive – much less stop this diabolical plot – was to go through the portal before Izbazel showed up. Once he arrived and recognized her, it was all over.
“Yes, well, there has been a change of plans,” Christine found herself saying. “His Luminosity wants me to go through first.”
Malphas frowned. “It’s not like Lucifer to change his mind at the last minute like this. I’ll need to run it down through channels.”
“No can do,” said Christine. “There’s a… that is, Lucifer suspects that there’s a mole in the organization. Somewhere up the, er, down the channels. I mean, somewhere in the chain of command. A traitor. Quisling. A fifth column, if you will. Someone feeding information to the other side. That’s why I’m here. Had to, you know, circumvent the channels.”
“This is highly irregular,” said Malphas. “You’re expecting me to believe that Lucifer is deliberately keeping his subordinates in the dark?”
“Would it be the first time?” asked Christine.
“And now he sends you, Crispix, a demon that was still on bad terms with His Luminescence the last I heard.”
“Lucifer needed someone from outside of his organization,” said Christine. “Can’t you see it was the only way to be sure?”
“Not to mention,” said Nybbas, “that we haven’t actually verified your identity. You could be any shape-shifting demon, for all we know. Why, you could be an angel.”
“Or human,” said Malphas.
“Human!” chortled Christine, feeling sick to her stomach. “Tell me, do you get many humans down here? Besides, how do you explain that I was the one who contracted you to do the portal installation? Lucifer sent me because he knew you would recognize me as someone else who was in on the plot.”
“Hmm,” said Malphas.
“Were any other demons aware of what you were doing in that condo in Glendale?”
“No,” admitted Malphas.
“You were under orders from Lucifer himself. There is no way I would know about that – no way that I could have shown up here – unless Lucifer himself told me about it. Unless,” she added sardonically, “you allow for an absolutely absurd set of coincidences.”
“Well,” Nybbas noted thoughtfully, “we could always test to see if she’s human.”
“We don’t have time for that,” snapped Christine.
“It’s a simple test,” offered Nybbas helpfully. “We just chop your head off and then stick it back on. If it reattaches, then you’re not human. I have a relatively sharp scythe around here somewhere.”
“Look,” said Christine. “What is it that you think I’m going to do once I go through that portal? Warn the Los Angeles police to be on the lookout for six-hundred-sixty-six demons armed with glass apples? In any case, I’ve got my orders, and I’m going through. You do what you have to do.”
Christine closed her eyes and took two steps forward, expecting a giant leathery hand to yank her back. But the hand didn’t come. The next thing she knew, she was standing on the linoleum in her condo.
Home.
For a moment she imagined that the whole thing was some kind of dream or hallucination. But even here the evidence of world-shaking events was visible: Books lay scattered on the floor where they had fallen from the shelves, several windows were broken and a massive crack ran from floor to ceiling of one wall. Los Angeles as a whole must be reeling in the wake of the earthquakes.
So. What now? She half-expected Malphas to materialize before her eyes, ready to yank her back to that demonic place. They were probably checking her story right now. It might take seconds or minutes for them to realize that it was all nonsense, and then they’d send somebody through to get her. And that would be it. The end, for her and for the entire world.
What if she were to tear out her linoleum? That would presumably destroy the portal. How hard could it be to tear out linoleum? All she would need was some kind of….
It occurred to her that she had no idea how to remove linoleum. Maybe peel up one of the corners with a screwdriver? She had a screwdriver somewhere, but she vaguely remembered it was the kind with a cross for a tip, not the flat kind. It had a name, something biblical. Peter? Paul?
Damn it, there was no time for this. She noticed an award she had received from the Evangelical Society of Journalists lying on the carpet near the edge of the linoleum, where it had presumably fallen during one of the earthquakes. She had won the award for one of her first assignments, back when she still thought she might be doing the world some good by reporting on apocalyptic cults. It was sort of flower shaped, with a marble base and a glass body that came to a sharp point at the top. She had always thought it was supposed to be a flame, but it occurred to her now that it looked a little like a bird. A pigeon, maybe. Didn’t she read once that a pigeon was ess
entially the same thing as a dove? Or was that cougars and mountain lions?
She grabbed the flower-bird-flame thing and carried it to the center of her linoleum, roughly where she had appeared. Kneeling on the floor, she raised the ambiguous award above her head and brought the point down as hard as she could. BAM!
The impact shot through her hands and arms. It was like striking concrete.
Inspecting the point of impact, she saw only a tiny divot in the surface of the linoleum, and even that was springing back into shape. After a few seconds there was no evidence of any damage.
She tried again, even harder this time. Once again, the floor refused to budge more than a millimeter, and the brunt of the impact shot through her body. She felt it in her toes.
The third time the award shattered, and a shard nearly sliced open Christine’s wrist. Still no damage to her floor was evident.
Christine cursed herself for acquiescing to the installation of Mrs. Frobischer’s linoleum in her condo. Poor Mrs. Frobischer; Lucifer’s minions had probably killed her to set up this whole linoleum ruse. She had to admit, though, that she was impressed with the linoleum’s durability. She would recommend Don’s Discount Flooring to anyone who didn’t mind the occasional demonic intrusion on their breakfast nook.
She toyed with the idea of leaving the gas open on the oven and hoping for an explosion – after all, it had been hours since the last time she had nearly died in an explosion – but she suspected that such a plan would result in the incineration of the entire building while leaving her linoleum intact. Besides, she remembered hearing that natural gas was actually quite safe, generally speaking. She would need to rig something to create a spark, something on a timer maybe. She wished that she had watched more movies where this sort of thing was done. She tended to watch a lot of movies featuring Hugh Grant. Had Hugh Grant ever needed to explode a condominium? She thought not.
This was not, she thought ruefully, a job for an English major from Eugene, Oregon, who didn’t know a router bit from a Philips screwdriver. Philips! That was it!
It occurred to her that her stove was electric.
She needed to get out of the condo. She needed to find Mercury.
Mercury.
He was her only hope. The world’s only hope. He was, ironically, the only one whom she could trust, because he was the only one acting on motivations that she could comprehend. Selfishness she could understand. The abstract impetuses of angels and demons were beyond her. There were no good guys in this story, as far as she could tell. There were only the bad and the incompetent. The closest thing to a good guy was, she grimly realized, Mercury.
She had no idea where he was, or whether he would even want to help her. But if she could convince a pair of demons that she was sent by Lucifer himself to check up on them, maybe she could convince Mercury that it was in his interest to help her put an end to this idiocy. The thought did occur to her that maybe there was nothing Mercury could do, even if he wanted to, but she shoved it back into the far recesses of her mind. One impossible task at a time.
TWENTY-SIX
There is a good deal of confusion among angels about how the Mundane Plane got its name. A common misconception is that the name arose from the fact that the plane is, to the typical extraplanar visitor, almost unfathomably dull. The relative dullness of the Mundane Plane is, however, only a symptom of a more profound difference, and it is that difference that gave rise to the name.
To best understand this difference, one should consider the fact that over the past few centuries on the Mundane Plane an overwhelming movement has arisen to describe everything that happens there in what is known as “scientific terms.” This movement is perplexing to angels, as we are used to dealing with a Universe that is arbitrary, unpredictable, and completely beyond comprehension.
Most occupants of the Mundane Plane labor blissfully under the illusion that the Universe operates according to certain definite and inexorable rules. It is thought that one needs only to ascertain these rules through scientific experimentation, after which one can insist that the Universe continue to act according to these rules from that point on. When the Universe opts not to follow a rule that it has been given, the scientists assume that the rule is inadequate, not that the Universe is misbehaving.
The situation is rather like that of parents who observe their son doing his homework diligently every night at seven o’clock and decide on this basis to enact a rule that their son should do his homework every night at seven o’clock. When, on the following three nights, the son does in fact do his homework every night at seven o’clock, the parents congratulate themselves for their excellent parenting and are perhaps invited to speak at a parenting conference in Belgium.
Then, on the fourth night, the son decides to watch cartoons at 7 o’clock. The parents, thinking themselves powerless to control their son’s behavior, modify their rule to allow their son to watch cartoons on Thursdays. If he takes the weekend off, they append their rule with a Weekend Exception. If he starts taking days off apparently at random, they suspend the rule until some PhD candidate in Indiana informs them that their son’s homework schedule correlates with the cycle of the moon, or possibly the programming schedule of the Cartoon Network. The PhD candidate is probably wrong, but it makes the parents feel better, and the PhD candidate gets his dissertation published in the Connecticut Journal of Juvenile Homework Studies, so everybody is happy.
This goes on until the rules used for predicting the son’s homework schedule get so unwieldy that they are thrown out in favor of a far simpler explanation that has fewer holes – for example, that the son is simply trying to drive his parents crazy. This is what is known as a paradigm shift.
The amazing thing about this method is that it works, at least on the Mundane Plane. The Universe, generally an ornery and capricious beast, has for some unfathomable reason allowed itself to be domesticated on the Mundane Plane. For the most part, within the confines of the Mundane Plane, the Universe actually acts in a predictable fashion. Thus it is that Mundane scientists can gradually eke out an understanding of the laws by which their plane operates.
What these scientists don’t realize is that the laws which they so painstakingly formulated are themselves completely arbitrary and do not apply to most of the Universe. Most of the Universe doesn’t give a damn about things like entropy or the conservation of energy. On planes other than the Mundane, the shortest distance between two points might involve a jaunt through an abandoned tire factory, and an object at rest tends to stay at rest until it finds something more interesting to do. Principles that are thought to be ironclad laws on the Mundane Plane are more like general suggestions to the rest of the Universe.
In fact, even on the Mundane Plane the Universe is not completely housebroken. Occasionally, even the Mundane Plane experiences violations of its supposedly inviolable physical laws. These violations are referred to as miracles, and they are the result of a being – usually, though not always, an angel – manipulating supernatural energy that flows through invisible tunnels that perforate every plane. These tunnels are commonly referred to as interplanar energy channels.
Mundane science does not permit the existence of miracles, because Mundane science has never even been able to establish the existence of the interplanar energy channels – an oversight that would be rather embarrassing if anyone on the Mundane Plane had any way of knowing about it. But as science won’t admit the existence of anything that hasn’t been scientifically proven, it can’t ever be held responsible for missing anything. In this way, science is like a judge who is in charge of recusing himself of a case where he feels that he has a conflict of interest.
Anyone familiar with the mysterious workings of the interplanar energy channels, then, would not have been surprised that not a single scientist[9] could be found among the dozens of people who had gathered to see a six-foot-four man with silver hair building a gigantic snowman in a freak snowfall just south of Bakersfield.
This was, to Mercury’s knowledge, the first time an angel had personally created anything on the Mundane Plane. The fact that it was in the most ephemeral medium was of no account; he didn’t really expect to finish it. He was surprised, in fact, that his casual manipulation of extraplanar energy hadn’t already brought the angelic cavalry raining down on him.
Mercury paused a moment in his task and looked skyward. The snow continued to fall, impossibly thick, and the heavens gave no sign of wanting to obliterate him with a pillar of fire. He shrugged and continued to work. Around him, at what they presumably thought was a safe distance, a ring of onlookers stood open-mouthed, agape at the freak snowfall and the absurdly large snowball rolling itself in circles along the ground.
“Enjoying yourself?” asked a woman’s voice.
Mercury turned to see who it was. Her features were nearly obscured by the thick blanket of flakes drifting down, but there was no mistaking that face.
“Christine!” he yelped, with an enthusiasm that surprised him.
“The world’s going to hell, and you’re making snowballs?” Christine said.
“Snow man,” corrected Mercury. “He’s not really ready for prime time yet. How’d you find me?”
“I just started driving north from L.A. When I heard about a freak snowstorm outside of Bakersfield, I figured you were involved. You’re cheating, you know.”
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