Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  The brown-belt bowed himself onto the mat and hurried to pick up the fallen sword. But he was unable to; the thing seemed anchored in place. He strained to lift it, and could not.

  "Permit me," Mars murmured. He raised his right hand—and the red sword floated up and across the mat, dipped momentarily at its edge as if bowing, and moved to his hand. Mars gravely sheathed it.

  "And a remarkable man," Samurai said, exchanging bows with Mars. Then Mars turned and walked out of the dojo.

  Samurai turned to Clotho. "I regret that I mistook you. Yet is it acceptable for Fate to—"

  Clotho touched his lips with a finger. "I am just a woman—now."

  He nodded. "Tonight, then."

  "Tonight."

  Clotho walked out of the dojo. Outside, she extended a thread and ascended.

  "But we never got his commitment on the bomb," Atropos remembered.

  "We shall have it—tonight," Niobe replied. "And, unless I mistake Mars, he will give Samurai the secret of the finger-strike. As a token of esteem, not as a bribe."

  "I've got a lot to learn," Clotho said.

  And it was so—on all counts.

  Chapter 13 - COUNTERPLOY

  "We needed help on the last one," Niobe said. "Surely we'll need it on this one too!"

  "Who can help us with a Satanist?" Atropos asked.

  "My guess would be Gaea. She's generally considered to be the strongest of the Earthly Incarnations."

  "Nature? I thought Time was."

  "Chronos has the most potent single instrument, the Hourglass. But Gaea—" Niobe shrugged. "Let's ask her, anyway."

  Niobe took the body and slid the thread across to Gaea's vegetable mansion. They landed at the door.

  Sometimes it was difficult to reach the Green Mother, but that depended on the situation. Niobe remembered her journey with Pacian; Ge had known what she was doing that time!

  That's one fancy treehouse! Atropos thought.

  The leafy door opened, and Gaea stood there.

  Niobe froze. It was the same Green Mother she had known a quarter-century ago!

  "Why, it's Fate!" Gaea exclaimed. Then she squinted. "But a new Lachesis!"

  Gaea didn't recognize her! Of course Niobe knew she had changed considerably in the intervening period of mortality, and not for the better; why should anyone recognize in this dowdy woman the beauty that once had been? "And a new Clotho," she said. "And Atropos, too." She changed briefly to the other forms. Gaea shook her head. "All three at once? Unusual!"

  Quickly Niobe explained the circumstances. "Now we have one more mortal thread to modify," she concluded. "Because of our inexperience—"

  "You seek help," Gaea said. "Very sensible of you. Come inside a moment while I change."

  Inside, Niobe watched while Gaea changed. She did not do it by removing her leafy green dress; instead she stood still, and the dress turned yellow with some red; then the leaves fell off, revealing brown bark beneath. Her hair turned white. She had progressed seasonally from summer through fall to winter, complete with snow.

  She moved—and the brown corrugations shaped themselves into the creases and pockets of a long jacket. The snow became a white hat; her hair was not, after all, that far changed.

  Gaea brought out a small pair of spectacles, mounted on a rod at one side. "You will want these, Lachesis."

  "A lorgnette? Those haven't been used for a generation!" Niobe protested. "Anyway, I don't need glasses!"

  "Humor me, Lachesis," Gaea said gently.

  Niobe shrugged and accepted them. "Then you will help?"

  "Of course, dear. We matrons must support each other. We can't depend on foundation garments."

  Niobe smiled dutifully. Gaea needed no support from clothing; she could assume any form she chose, young or old, beautiful or hideous, animal, vegetable or mineral. Seldom did she display her power in an obvious manner, but it was as deep and versatile as that of any Incarnation. Many mortals thought they could balk her in the short term, but in the long term she always had her way.

  "I am ready," Gaea said. "Take me there, Lachesis."

  Niobe took her hand, extended a thread, and slid them both along it. They arrived at an industrialized section of Connecticut, near a large mall. They entered and walked to a small booth set between an ice cream parlor and a mini-dozen movie theater.

  Above the booth was a banner saying TO HELL WITH YOU! Inside it was a bored-looking woman of about Niobe's own physical age. "That's the one," Niobe murmured. "Elsa Mira, Satanist recruiter."

  "Well, we shall allow her to recruit us," Gaea agreed. "Call me Ge; I'll call you Lack." She smiled faintly, as if the sun were masked by haze, and suddenly Niobe suspected that Gaea did indeed recognize her. But the Green Mother could keep a secret as well as any creature of the world.

  They approached the booth. "We really aren't interested in going to Hell," Niobe said. "But in fairness we thought we'd look at your literature."

  "Why, certainly," the woman said, coming alive. "Hell has had a very bad press, but we are working to alleviate that." She brought out a colorful brochure.

  Niobe looked at the cover. Two cute baby devils were on it: the Hellfire trademarks. Dee and Dee. One was male, the other female. As she looked, the male Dee lifted one little red hand and solemnly beckoned. She was startled, though she knew she shouldn't have been; naturally the minions of Hell had magic to splurge.

  "Perhaps you can read the print more clearly with your glasses. Lack," Gaea murmured.

  "Oh, thank you, Ge," Niobe said. "I keep forgetting." She raised the lorgnette and peered through the lenses.

  She stiffened. Instead of the cute picture, she saw a lens. She was being recorded on video!

  She moved the lorgnette aside. The little devil was beckoning her again.

  Now she realized why Gaea had asked her to use the glasses. They were enchanted to penetrate illusion! Already she knew that the Satanists were not merely show- ing their literature, they were getting a direct line on anyone who inquired. They were a good deal more professional than they cared to seem. That lens could be making a record of the complete encounter, and storing her picture in a computer file, complete with the retinal prints. Hell intended to have her number, all the way!

  Fortunately, she had never had her retinal prints taken. She had existed, as a mortal, in the country, where such things were not common. Hell would not be able to trace down her true identity by this device.

  Gaea opened the brochure. Niobe glanced through the glasses again, and saw that the pages were mere frames; the sinister lens remained. But without the glasses, she saw the inner material: scenes of happy, healthy people swimming, playing tennis, skiing, and watching the sunset. GOTO HELL, the print proclaimed, AND LIVE YOUR AFTERLIFE TO THE FULLEST!

  "Is there skiing in Hell?" Niobe asked doubtfully. "I thought it was hot."

  "Indeed there is skiing!" the recruiter said encouragingly. "Hell is large; it has climates exactly as the mortal realm does. Some regions are in perpetual snow."

  Actually, Niobe had known that, because of her prior experience as an Incarnation. She also knew that poor sinful souls were frozen as solid as spirits could be, in that snow, and that the only skiers were demons who delighted in skidding over perpetually horrified frozen faces. As with many of Hell's claims, the snow was a halftruth: it existed, but was not used as represented. The whole of Hell's recruitment campaign was spurious, and only sadly deluded people could fall for it. Unfortunately, it was evident that many did.

  But she was not here to show off her information about Hell. She was here to talk Mira out of delivering the bomb to the UN complex, thus eliminating the last of the potential couriers. She had to act like an ignorant skeptic until she had a better notion how to achieve her design.

  "I don't know," she said. "Skiing, swimming—I thought Hell was a place of punishment."

  "Oh, that's not so!" Mira exclaimed. "Hell is a place of rehabilitation! The evil-soiled souls are reprocesse
d to be good again. There are many incentives for a positive attitude."

  And many tortures for the damned, Atropos thought sourly.

  "But if people aren't good in life, why should they be good in the Afterlife?" Niobe asked. She knew the answer, but had to play the part.

  "Many people don't really think about it," Mira said. "They just go their way until it's too late. Those are the ones we are catering to—the ordinary, mixed people who are too busy to be absolutely good all the time. I mean, it's a lot of work to be good all the time, and frankly pretty dull, and probably unnecessary, too. We feel that most people would really be better off worrying less about the Afterlife and just getting their mortal lives in shape. Then, in Hell, they can sort it all out at leisure."

  Leisure? Eternity! Atropos snorted mentally. What a crock!

  "But shouldn't they be good in life?" Niobe asked.

  "Well, yes, of course. But it can be very difficult. Take the man whose wife is ignoring him and won't let him touch her. But she won't give him a divorce, either. Now if he finds an attractive young woman who likes him, is it really wrong for him to have an affair? His soul may suffer an accumulation of evil, but is it wrong? We Satanists think we should do what is natural and atone later."

  Niobe hadn't heard this one before. "Are you married?" she asked.

  Mira laughed. "Me? Of course not! Not anymore! I wouldn't put up with that sort of—that is, all the ridiculous things men demand. But the principle remains—"

  "Pleasure first, mortality last," Niobe finished.

  "Anyway," Mira said quickly. "We want you to see for yourself what kind of place Hell is. Why don't you come to our demonstration complex?"

  "Your what?"

  "We have set up a working mini-model of Hell, so that folk like you can tour it or sample it and see for yourselves what it offers. We Satanists want to spread the truth about Hell."

  "Well," Niobe said, glancing at Gaea. "I suppose we might just look—to be fair."

  Mira jumped up. "Right this way! I'll guide you on the tour myself!"

  This was exactly what they wanted: a long enough association with the woman to talk her out of what she was otherwise apt to do.

  I bet they get bonuses for each recruit they sign, Atropos thought cynically.

  Such as a trip to the United Nations building? Clotho thought. She had been fairly quiet, recovering from her experience of the prior evening; she was in the first flush of something like love, and the warmth of it tended to spill over and buoy the other two Aspects. But she had not forgotten their mission.

  "Keep your glasses handy, dear," Gaea murmured like a fussy old lady as they followed Mira through the door in back of the booth.

  They found themselves in an elevator. There was a wrench. Then the door slid open, and they stepped out into an amusement park. Obviously magic had been used to transport them to the model Hell; there was no telling where on Earth it had been constructed.

  Niobe stared. Directly ahead was a towering Ferns wheel, grandly rotating. To one side was a bump-car enclosure, with children squealing happily as the little vehicles crashed harmlessly into each other. Elsewhere were miniature choo-choo trains, zoom-rides, and toy airplanes whirling about a pole. "This is Hell?" Niobe asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Well, the top level," Mira said. "Very mild entertainments, for those who are just waiting for friends, or for the children of those on tour. The ones who really don't have much sin to indulge."

  "What's it like for those who do have significant sin on their souls?" Gaea asked.

  "I'll show you," Mira said eagerly, leading the way to stairs descending below the pavement. These led to a large hall, well-lighted, filled with tables. People were clustered around the tables, intent on what was there.

  They approached the nearest. On it was a giant roulette wheel. "Oh—gambling," Niobe said disapprovingly.

  "You don't understand," Mira said. "Watch for a moment."

  They watched. The wheels turned; the ball rolled and landed in a numbered pocket. A man made an exclamation of joy. "I won! I won!"

  There was a smattering of applause from the other gamblers. The man collected his winnings and bet them on the next spin. And won again.

  "What?" Niobe asked. "Twice in succession? The odds against that—"

  "People can be very fortunate here," Mira said. "They usually do win."

  Gaea nudged her. Niobe lifted the lorgnette and peered at the scene.

  The roulette table was genuine—but little else was. Most of the players were bored park employees in grubby uniforms, not the well-dressed visitors they had appeared to be. There was a control panel at the croupier's place. When the spin commenced, the croupier's fingers touched buttons. This time the gambler bet on number 19, and that was the number the croupier punched. Sure enough, the ball rolled into that slot. The game was rigged.

  Now Niobe looked at the chips the gambler had piled before him. They were genuine. Where, then, was the catch? Surely the Satanists were not really going to let a mark walk out wealthy!

  Well, she could inquire, without giving anything away. "How can you stay in business, if you let people win too much money?"

  "Oh, the chips don't stand for money," Mira said as they moved on to another table. "They stand for points. One thousand points entitles the player to enter the next level, where the real action is."

  "But it seems guaranteed he'll make it."

  "No, it's not guaranteed. Only those people we feel are suitable prospects are admitted."

  "Then you admit it's fixed!"

  Mira turned a surprised gaze on her. "My dear, what do you expect of Hell? Of course it's fixed!"

  "Ask a silly question," Gaea murmured.

  "But you're giving us a tour, and we're not gambling," Niobe persisted.

  "Precisely. If you don't gamble, you can't win. That's the fundamental principle. You are merely looking—but I'm sure that after you've seen what we have to offer, you'll be eager to participate."

  "But isn't there an admittance price?"

  "I am glad you asked that question," Mira said. "Now we are very candid about this. Everything is quite clear. To participate in our entertainments you must sign a standard contract—"

  "In blood?"

  "It's only a pinprick. You'll hardly feel it."

  "A contract saying what?"

  "Well, everyone knows what Hell requires. It isn't as if we're concealing anything."

  "You're after my soul!"

  "Merely a portion of it, since this is only a model of Hell. Technically, all we require is a nominal attribution of evil. Only one percent, actually. If you are seventy percent good, our contract would cause you to be sixtynine percent good. That's hardly enough to cost you anything in the Afterlife, or to change your designation. Considering what we offer, it's a bargain."

  They were at the next table. This one was for blackjack. Again, the mark was winning; again, the enchanted lenses showed that the game was rigged. Hell wanted the marks to win.

  All of the tables were like that. The methods of gambling differed, but the system was the same.

  "Well, I never did like to gamble," Niobe said.

  "But all of life is a gamble," Mira said enthusiastically.

  "Still, there are other routes to Hell. Let me show you the next level." She led the way to another set of stairs. Niobe paused. "I see the others use the elevator."

  "Well, yes, but they have to sign for it."

  "Sign for it?"

  "Another contract," Gaea said.

  "Merely an amendment," Mira put in quickly.

  "Another one percent of their souls?" Niobe asked. "I thought that was a general admittance fee. What's the point in gambling for points, if you still have to pay to reach the next stage?"

  "Well, the general admittance fee gets a person into the park, and then he plays to determine his eligibility to advance to other levels, but that's a matter of qualification, not payment. If there weren't qualification, some u
nsuitable people would get into inappropriate levels, and if there weren't payment, we would not, as you pointed out a moment ago, be able to stay in business very long. It's a dual system, perfectly straightforward. Naturally the deeper levels have to be financed, too."

  "Just how many levels are there?"

  "Well, I really don't know the exact number. But no one goes to them all."

  Because, Niobe realized, at one percent per level, that person would lose more than half his soul before he completed the experience, tipping him into Hell for real.

  What a system! Atropos thought.

  What a Hellish system, indeed! Only a fool would fall into that trap—but there were plenty of fools in the process.

  The next level seemed to be a monstrous warehouse for money. Tables were piled with currency of many nations, with ingots of gold and silver and platinum, and with bins of precious stones. Wealth galore!

  Drawn as by a magnet, Niobe went to a vat of sparkling rubies. "May I?" she asked.

  "By all means examine the merchandise," Mira said generously. "Of course you can't keep any of it, as a tourist, but if you decide to join as a participantFor one or two percent of the goodness in her soul! Niobe grimaced. Still, the gems were lovely!

  She picked up a ruby. It was a faceted stone, a deep and glorious red, just about the most beautiful thing she had seen in her life. She turned it between her fingers, half-entranced by its luster. She began to understand the nature of the temptation. Such a fine gem, for so little soul!

  "Perhaps if you examined it more closely," Gaea remarked.

  Oh. Niobe lifted the lorgnette and looked again. The ruby was nothing more than a cherry pit. Niobe made her face a mask, lest she give herself away. All the rubies were cherrystones! The diamonds of the next table were rough lumps of quartz.

  Morbidly curious, she verified one of the stacks of gold coins. It was made of round slices of carrot.

  Now Clotho had to laugh. Carrots—instead of carats! That Satan had a devilish sense of humor! "Devilish," Niobe agreed. "What's that?" Mira asked.

  "Devilishly tempting," Niobe said. She moved on to a table of green bills. They were leaves of lettuce.

  Lettuce! Atropos thought, mentally doubling over with mirth. Literal lettuce! That Satan's a card!