Aftertaste

by Kevin J. Anderson

  This was the first year Lucifuge had wanted a look at the books. Ours is not to reason why, Orabas told himself. North American headquarters seethed with gossip and backbiting—who knew what nonsense Rofocale had overheard, a hint that must have grown in his imagination, since suspicion was part of being a demon.

  It didn’t matter. Lucifuge’s accountant would fly in this afternoon. Then he’d check the books and congratulate Gorgo and Orabas. And in a day or two Rofocale would send Couching and Portal Inc. another citation for Best Stealth Operation.

  Not because they kept making a profit, but because every steeple they built, transported, and erected was delivered with its own resident imp or demon, turning each church into a focus of temptation. Orabas was proud. The whole thing had been his idea, and once it was green-lighted he’d built Couching and Portal up from nothing.

  Orabas adjusted his tie one last time, then turned to Gorgo. “How do I look?”

  He always had her check his human guise since the time he almost went public once with his horse ears showing.

  “Convincing,” she said.

  “Hold the fort,” Orabas told her on the way out.

  He started his car and pulled away from the office—he would have liked something sportier than a Cadillac, but verisimilitude was everything. He hit the remote and the receiving-yard gate slid open. The demon there was passing as human, helping the driver unload louvered windows and praying-hands plaques from a semi. Orabas waved and went on.

  Zagan stopped him at the outer exit. “Something you better see, boss.”

  “Like what?”

  Zagan pointed straight up, so Orabas had to step out of the car to see what the guard was talking about. He wasn’t impressed by the shapes he saw circling far overhead. “Just turkey vultures.”

  Zagan shook his head. “Ain’t buzzards. Angels trying to look like buzzards.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I can smell the difference.” Orabas could believe that. Even in his human form, Zagan had nostrils that looked like the business end of a double-barreled shotgun.

  “How long have they been there?”

  “Since day before yesterday. Without any others showing up. More proof they ain’t buzzards.”

  “Keep watching them,” Orabas said, and got back in his stodgy black Cadillac.

  All the way to the interstate he wondered about the vultures who weren’t vultures. Had anybody given angels a reason to hover around the plant? He hoped not—he’d drilled the security protocol into everybody’s heads repeatedly. No going outside in one’s natural shape, keep the shop doors closed when deliveries were being made in receiving, no daytime emissions of sulfur, and so on. To the best of his knowledge none of the rules had been breached, especially since the crew were encouraged to report on each other.

  The first church the interstate passed had a steeple from Couching and Portal, and buzzards above. Not good.

  But Orabas was partly reassured when he drove by Soul’s Lighthouse and saw it had visiting vultures too. Because that steeple wasn’t one of theirs, which meant all steeples were suspect. Though there was always the possibility these were real birds.

  Not likely, he decided when he passed another church with seeming buzzards circling overhead a dozen miles on.

  Maybe they’d be forced out of business soon. And spectacularly—a raid by angels with flaming swords wasn’t exactly bankruptcy court. Though if every steeple in the country was under inspection . . . No need to panic yet, just watch and wait. This might just blow over.

  And if worst came to worst, Couching and Portal would have had a good run. Orabas liked the slogan on the company letterhead: Pointing Toward Heaven for Twenty Years. Though he thought it was more like giving heaven the finger.

  Orabas remembered the moment the idea dawned on him. He’d been sent on a cross-country scouting trip, attending services in every monster church he could find—nobody called them megachurches then. He’d slouch in a pew toward the back, listen to the whispers of the congregation as much as to the sermon, then go back to his motel room and fill out the opposition research form. Possible weaknesses of the pastor, sheep-to-goat ratio of the flock, estimated tendency to confuse conformity with virtue. It was lonely work, except for the nights when he could consult his little black book of succubi.

  This wasn’t one of those nights, because Orabas had been too tired and discouraged for sex. He dropped a quarter in the Magic Fingers box, closed his eyes, and lay back on the vibrating bed, but even with his eyes closed he kept seeing jiggling steeples. He’d noticed them a lot this trip: so many of them were spiky prefab things that looked like afterthoughts. The church he’d been in that day had its steeple in the center, with low roofs slanting just enough for drainage all around, and looked like a huge, square thumbtack waiting for God to sit down. (And God did have a backside, because that had been all Moses was allowed to see.)

  The thought of God sitting on a tack plus the realization that spires were manufactured en masse were his inspiration. What if hell went into the steeple business, and each would come with a resident demon, a spy and saboteur delivered straight to the church? Orabas sat up and hugged himself in ecstasy.

  Conception was easy, accomplishment difficult. Back at headquarters he sent away for steeple and cupola manufacturers’ catalogs. Later he journeyed to the nearest competitor’s plant, creeping in unseen to study their shop practices. Next Mammon helped him flesh out his business plan, and Mulciber and the Cyclopes showed him how to speed production with demonic powers. The hardest thing had been selling the stealth project to Lucifuge. Lucifuge liked the idea from the start but needed to be convinced it was practical.

  Afterward Orabas never looked back. He discovered he had a natural talent for business, and Couching and Portal prospered beyond expectation.

  But now there were angels snooping overhead. Orabas had no idea why. He’d made sure the company stayed security-conscious, and they would have been raided before now if there’d been any slipup.

  Even this trip to pick up Lucifuge’s man was strictly according to protocol; without the need for secrecy the accountant could have flown in on bat wings last night.

  Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport resembled Pandemonium enough to make Orabas feel at home.

  Delta 1024 actually came in on time, and despite their human forms the two devils recognized each other instantly. Toglas looked like an accountant should: serious with glasses, gray suit, and tie, pulling a wheeled overnight bag.

  They traded banalities till they were in the car and could speak demon to demon.

  “Lucifuge sends his regards.”

  Orabas snorted. “But also wants to check my books.”

  “Merely a matter of form,” Toglas said. “Rofocale has nothing but praise for your operation.”

  “All right, but did he explain the operation?”

  Toglas grinned admiringly. “You manufacture state-of-the-art church steeples at competitive prices, then deliver each with an imp inside. Subversion in the midst of sanctity. Very clever.”

  “So far,” Orabas said. “Though it means you’ll have to do your job twice.”

  “Oh?”

  “We keep two sets of books. And I want you to check our fake books too, make sure they look as good as the real ones.”

  “I can do that,” the demon accountant said.

  “The fake books matter,” Orabas explained, “because they keep track of the company we’re supposed to be. Much bigger than we actually are. There’s lots of talk about lean, mean companies, but we’re the real thing, only eight of us, four demons on the shop floor and four fronting with the public. On paper we have to be twice as big, with payroll deductions and social security taxes for each of the supposed human staff. My secretary and executive officer does wonders keeping up with it all but could use somebody like you looking over her shoulder.”

  “She won’t mind?”

  “Gorgo will welcome your ass
istance.”

  They were heading home on the interstate now, giving Orabas a chance to see the churches off the other side. Neither of the steeples on the first two was from Couching and Portal, though buzzards circled over both. “Good,” he grunted, then saw Toglas looking sideways and realized he had to explain.

  “Worrisome that your watchman smelled angels above the plant,” Toglas said once he heard the whole story. “But every steeple you’ve passed is under scrutiny, whether or not it’s one of yours. So it’s time to find out if other steeple manufacturers are under observation as well. Couching and Portal might not be in the crosshairs.”

  “Of course,” Orabas said, feeling stupid. Should have thought of that himself.

  Orabas was pleased that Gorgo and Toglas hit it off right away, but his first priority was following through on Toglas’s suggestion. In a few minutes he was talking to Lucifuge Rofocale on a secure line.

  “Toglas get there all right?”

  “Everything’s fine here,” Orabas said. “He’s already going over the books. That’s not what I’m calling about. We have another kind of problem. Totally unexpected.” He explained about the disguised angels circling over the plant and what he’d observed on the way to and from the airport. “So every steeple I passed had turkey vultures over it, whether or not it was one of ours.”

  “Couldn’t some be real buzzards?”

  Orabas couldn’t help raising his voice. “Something dead by every church at the same time?”

  “Guess you’re right,” said Lucifuge. “Hard to believe. So what to do about the damn angels?”

  “First thing is to find out whether we’re the only steeple manufacturer under surveillance. Maybe not, if everybody’s steeples in the area are being watched. So send out scouts to see if our competitors’ plants have vultures hanging about as well.”

  “That’ll take a while,” Lucifuge said. “Give me the company names and locations.”

  That had been yesterday.

  Waiting made Orabas’s ears twitch. He put his hooves up on the desk but couldn’t relax and put them down again. The memory of the salamanders he’d had for breakfast returned to his throat. When he stood up Gorgo gave him an understanding look, which irritated him more. Toglas was too wrapped up in his task to notice when he went through the next room.

  Things on the shop floor were pleasanter. Clanging and banging, flame and fury, the scream of tortured metal.

  Balam was looking at plans with his ram’s head, projecting the exact line to cut with a laser beam from the mouth of his bull’s head, and whistling a pop tune from Ninth Circle with his human pair of lips. Furcas was scuttling across an aluminum sheet on his furry pads, scoring along Balam’s laser line with an extended claw. After Balam and Furcas repeated the process two more times, Gaap stepped forward, picked up the aluminum sheet, and folded it like origami in his enormous hands. Nitibus raced up the open seam, welding it with his blue-white tongue, and they had the topmost spire of a steeple.

  Balam grinned at Orabas with his human face. “What’s up, boss?”

  “Nothing. Just came to see how things are going.” Then Balam’s three heads triggered a memory. Reverend Clyde Whoozit was coming.

  “Something wrong?” Balam said.

  “Not at all,” Orabas told him. “You guys are doing fine. Just remembered something.”

  Back in the office, he asked, “When’s that preacher supposed to be here?”

  “The Reverend Clyde Simpson,” Gorgo said. “Sometime on the twenty-second.”

  “Holy hell—only six days to go! And we still have angels overhead.” Orabas went to his project planning board on the wall, stared at the smudged plastic till each path made sense. Then he wiped the vertical column for the twenty-second clean and grease-penciled an X down through every empty box. Erasing and changing everything on the board after the twenty-second took longer.

  Making the place safe for Simpson’s plant tour should take less than a quarter hour, but his visit would probably set production back a day: glamour was a lot easier to create than to reverse.

  If only Lucifuge would call.

  “Good news I think,” said Lucifuge. “It isn’t just you. Every steeple factory you listed has buzzards overhead.”

  “That’s some relief,” Orabas said. “Though what’s going on?”

  “I have no idea. But I’ve declared a continental alert.”

  “So what do we do here?”

  “What you’re already doing. Hang in there.”

  It was a near thing, but Orabas slowed his arm halfway and didn’t slam the phone down. Hang in there. Easy to say back at headquarters, not so easy here in the field.

  To calm himself he walked over and looked at the production schedule again. Still had a company to run—while it lasted. The 205 model for the Lutherans—roll-coated Kynar in “Colonial White”—would be ready for transport tomorrow. The skinny 202 destined to top a Church of God chapel would be finished the day after but couldn’t move because of the weekend. Next came the Reverend Simpson’s visit, which meant the Four-Square Gospel spire would be delayed two days.

  (Lutheran, Church of God, Four-Square, gibber gibber—he couldn’t keep track of all their names. Way-back-when a demon was supposed to have said, “Our name is Legion,” but Orabas thought these pullulating sects had a better claim on the title.)

  Meanwhile there were angels overhead. Though perhaps their turkey vulture disguise was wearing thin—just how long had they been there? Orabas did the count in his head. Zagan had told him they’d been there since the day before yesterday when he took off for Atlanta International, so now it was four days. People should have noticed if all the angels on patrol everywhere had been doing the buzzard act that long.

  Because carrion had a short shelf life, there might be a way to tweak the watchers here without too much risk. He changed to human form, dressed, and put on a wide-brimmed straw hat. “How do I look?” he asked Gorgo.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Just going to the front gate, need to ask Zagan something.”

  The hat let him look up at the shapes circling overhead without being too obvious. Patient sons of bitches, he thought, and corrected himself; angels never had mothers.

  “Not going away,” Zagan said when he saw the tilt of Orabas’s head.

  “Unlike real buzzards. Which gives me an idea. Suppose we put something big and dead out in the woods overnight.”

  Zagan grinned. “So next morning they won’t know how to act—lemme see what I can arrange.” He was already on his cell phone when Orabas started back.

  Orabas woke early, eager to see the results of his experiment. Late yesterday he’d watched as an extended-cab pickup unloaded its cargo under the roof of the receiving bay. He’d wanted a deer, and a man who jacked deer was among Zagan’s mortal connections, but using a deer carcass would have meant too long a wait, so they made do with a pig. The sow was so sweet-tempered the taming spell was hardly necessary; she would have had no time for fear or pain after Zagan led her into the dark woods.

  Hurrying through breakfast, Orabas went out to the receiving dock, where he could look up without drawing attention from the sky. Already the experiment was working. The twin angels were circling as always, but three real turkey vultures were orbiting with them. He’d wondered whether the fake buzzards had driven others away the first few days, or if real vultures had joined them in their soaring, then left when they saw nothing on the ground.

  Now he had his answer. But this was just the start. He could stay and watch all morning, except he had a business to run.

  Things were humming on the shop floor. Though the Model 205 for the Lutherans had already passed inspection, Orabas looked it over personally. Definitely ready to ship, once it had an occupant. The lights below came on automatically when he lifted the trapdoor. At the bottom of the spiral stair he checked the roster, though he’d already made his choice. Malpas would do well with Lutherans: he wa
s good with pride, spiritual sloth, and lack of imagination. There was no snoring as Orabas went down the row of bunks; dormant demons breathed too minimally for that.

  “Malpas,” he said, and Malpas opened his yellow eyes, instantly alert. “Time to go out on assignment.”

  “Right,” said Malpas. “What month is it now?”

  Orabas explained the basics on the way upstairs. Malpas would be going north to a big church of the Lutheran Missouri Synod. Everybody on the shop floor stopped work to shake Malpas’s hand or slap him on the back. “It’s a jungle out there,” Gaap joked, working his huge claws.

  Malpas showed every needle tooth when he grinned. “That’s how I like it.” They wished him luck as he crawled into the horizontal steeple.

  Back in the office Orabas made sure the transport and installation crew were on schedule for the afternoon, then went out to see what was happening with the birds.

  Promising indeed. The real vultures were descending, making the angels’ constancy absurd, even more absurd when the three hungry birds disappeared behind the trees. Once they realized how exposed they were the angels plummeted down to mingle with the others.

  Orabas couldn’t help laughing.

  He stopped laughing a moment later, staring as the angels burst back out of the treetops, flapping desperately upward at first without the help of thermals, then rising till they were almost too high to see. And they weren’t hovering up there but heading east. He watched them till they disappeared, unable to imagine what had happened, before going out to consult with Zagan.

  “Did you see that?”

  Zagan nodded. “Pretty funny. Looked like they ran into something they didn’t like.”

  “But what? Surely not the sight of a dead pig.”

  “Beats me,” Zagan said. “Whatever it is, the real buzzards must not mind it.”

  “Certainly nothing that could get between them and a good meal,” said Orabas. “Keep watching. The fake birds might come back, though I doubt it, considering how fast they left.”