Hell on High

by Holly Lisle

  "Are those real tomatoes?" Rhea asked as he started loading a sandwich bun.

  "Almost," he replied. "They didn't come from anyone's back yard, but at least they came from the farmer's market, not the grocery store." She took several slices. "And this," Jack said, "is real Vidalia onion." He put a thick, sweet slice on top of the tomatoes, then piled on three different types of cheese and some pepperoni. Perfect. Rhea built sandwiches to a less heroic scale, but hers looked as eminently edible as she; she leaned back against the tree trunk with her sandals kicked off and stray flashes of sun sparkling from her hair as the breeze opened momentary pathways through the leaves above, and he wished he knew just how alone they were.

  Rhea divined his thoughts. She grinned widely and made a teasing erotic act out of eating, but shook her head at his raised eyebrows, "Not here," she said, "this park is all ages. I've looked on the map and found another park for... this evening."

  Just as they finished eating, an Irish setter ran up holding a Frisbee in its mouth and looked at them expectantly.

  "I think," Rhea said, "we've just been issued a dog."

  It was, Jack had to admit, the perfect way to end a picnic. The dog was very friendly in that bumbling, dumb, enthusiastic Irish setter kind of way, and an expert jumper. He made catches that Jack could hardly credit, completely leaping the stream once while making an airborne grab. Finally he looked at Jack and Rhea, wagged one last time, took his Frisbee and left.

  Jack and Rhea looked at each other. "Time to go," Jack said.

  Jack left everything but one small bag in the recycle bins at the entrance to the park.

  "What next?" Rhea asked as they left.

  "Well, I'd like to see the Library of Lost Books. I hear it's got the Greek scholars in a tizzy. The complete texts of the Alexandrian Library, Homer's Triumph, and lots of new Aristophanes. And most of that sucks. I'm interested in smaller stuff though."

  Rhea consulted her map. "Well," she said, "I think we can just walk there. We don't need the train."

  There were no crowds by the library. In fact, like Picnic Park, there didn't seem to be anyone else around. It was a good trick—Jack knew the Library of Lost Books got thousands of people a day. A tall, thin devil met them as they stepped through the huge front doors. He was the first of the Unchained Jack had seen since coming through the front gate. The devil looked out over his half-frame glasses at Jack, and Jack could almost feel the appraisal and dismissal. His look at Rhea, though, was anything but dismissive. There was a speculative gleam in his eye that Jack didn't like. Rhea was not available. Jack put his arm around her.

  The devil smirked knowingly. "Welcome," he said, "to the Library of Lost Books. I am Lucien, your guide to the stacks. I sense that you, sir, are a man of many interests, and that you, madam... well, hmmm, perhaps your interests are less easily discerned, but nonetheless broad, I'm sure. How may I assist you?"

  Rhea looked at Jack and shrugged. Was she a bit pale? She hadn't seemed at all squeamish about the gremlins. Well, devils were considerably more unnerving than little, squeaking gremlins. He tightened his arm around her reassuringly. At any rate, their destination was up to him.

  There was very little that didn't interest him at least somewhat. He could have just started with the first book on the first shelf and worked his way through the stacks a book at a time... but he and Rhea were on a day trip, not a camping expedition. First things first. "Science fiction," he said, "from the last two hundred years."

  "Very good," Lucien said and steepled his fingers in thought for a moment. "This way, please."

  They had entered through the doors in what Jack still thought of as first gear. The demon lead them south to the central corridor, then east towards the last wing. He didn't offer any running commentary; in fact, he didn't look back at them at all. Jack and Rhea were left to make what guesses they could about all the statuary and exhibits they passed in the spacious hallway. "Fertility goddess?" Jack speculated about a blatantly immodest little statue perched lustily on an otherwise somber table.

  "Or a prehistoric business card," Rhea responded. "Maybe the glyphs on the tummy say 'For a good time, call Basheeba, third cave on the left past the mastodon skeleton. I'll make you Homo Erectus.'"

  As they left the sections of rock carvings and clay tablets, the smell of musty paper and parchment gradually became overpowering. It seemed to Jack that they had been walking much further than was possible given what he had seen of the building from the outside. "TARDIS," he murmured to Rhea.

  "What?"

  "Time And Relative Dimension In Space. It's bigger on the inside than the outside." He considered. "Like my mother's pocketbook."

  Finally Lucien brought them to the end of the hall, and ushered them north into the fifth gear area. They passed countless rows of shelves arrayed with every type of book, from leather-bound Victorian volumes to CD-ROMs and chips. Their guide opened the door to a side room and waved them ahead. "We have arrived," he said.

  Jack looked around. The room was divided into two parts by a center aisle. Across the aisle to the left, poorly lighted shelves stretched on almost as far as he could see, while to the right a compact group of well-lighted, dust-free shelves beckoned invitingly.

  "What's the difference?" Rhea asked, pointing to the left.

  Lucien took off his glasses and wiped them meditatively. He pointed into the dimness. "Those books are lost because they were unpublishable, unsubmitted or didn't find the right editor."

  "My God," Jack said, "it's the grand, cumulative slush pile of SF!"

  Rhea grabbed his arm. "Be afraid," she said. "Be very afraid."

  "Indeed," Lucien agreed. "It's the largest such for any of our genres. Seemingly, of every two people who read science fiction, one of them has a book he hopes to contribute to the field."

  Fascinated, Jack walked to the first shelf and picked up a dusty folder. Inside, the cover page was dated May 7, 1843, in precise early Victorian handwriting. He turned to the last page and read:

  "Whereat the man said, 'Good lady, I call myself Adam. And how might I politely address myself to you?' Upon which words the woman responded, 'Good sir, I have no other name than Eve.'"

  Jack shuddered and put the manuscript down. "Not a book that should be put aside lightly," he quoted, "but rather one which should be hurled with great force."

  "And on the other side?" Rhea asked.

  "Books by known authors," Lucien said, "or good ones. Lost due to fire, war, the post or what have you. Not nearly as big a set." He put his glasses back on and settled them firmly on his nose. The lenses magnified his distinctly demonic square pupils. "Now then," he said, "there is a bellpull in the wall by the door. Do pull it when you are done here, and I shall escort you out, but for now I must attend to other business."

  "Thank you," Jack said automatically.

  "No thanks are necessary," the demon said primly, and disappeared with a puff of imploding air.

  "Well," Rhea said, looking around, "I guess we're on our own."

  Jack was already rifling through the good stacks. "Yep," he agreed happily. "Hey!" he pulled a book and leafed through it rapidly, then turned back to the first page and started reading. Before long, he was chuckling, then laughing out loud.

  Rhea moved to look over his shoulder. "What is it?" she asked.

  "It's the sequel to The Witches of Karres," Jack said. "The one Schmitz lost when he moved."

  Jack looked up eventually, and saw Rhea looking at him in amusement. "How long have I been reading?" he asked.

  "A little over an hour," she said, "but who's counting? Was it good?"

  "Great! See what the Leewit does here?" He pointed, and soon Rhea was laughing too. He put the book aside with regret: so little time. One day he, or someone, would have to come in with a scanner. "But we've got to move on."

  He put the book back and yanked on the bellpull. It rang with a vast sepulchral thrummm that he could feel down to the soles of his feet.

 
Lucien popped back into view. "Yes?" he said. "You're done?"

  They nodded. "Very good, follow me." He led them back into the main stacks. "I believe we shall exit through the east doors if that is satisfactory."

  "What's on the east side?" Jack asked.

  "The Village," the demon answered. "Fine lodging, dining and entertainment. And," he looked over his glasses at Jack again, "Lover's Point—a spot for the most discreet of assignations. And here we are." He opened a massive door for the two of them. The sound echoed through the cavernous spaces behind. "Good day."

  "I wonder if he's the image they're trying to project," Jack said as they strolled out the doors and away from the library. The afternoon was beautiful and the sun bathed Devil's Point in a wash of light, lathering it occasionally with the shadow of a passing cloud. Ahead of them, the buildings of the Village gleamed like jewels, each one cut in a different style.

  "He was awfully stuffy," Rhea said. "Maybe he was trying to project a scholar/librarian sort of air." She didn't look convinced.

  Jack considered. "He wasn't like any librarian I know. They're always glad when anyone gets some use out of the library—and I didn't like the way he looked at you." Music began to fill the air as they entered the outskirts of the Village. Jack could hear snatches of show tunes from several different eras. "Look at this," he waved a hand at the scene. "This is where the Unchained put their best foot forward, show us all what great guys they are, and the first one we interact with is a pompous ass."

  "They are fiends from Hell, Jack," Rhea reminded him.

  He looked at her; she wasn't smiling.

  "Well, yes, I'll grant you that. So they say, anyway. I still think there could be other explanations. But isn't the road to Hell supposed to be attractive?"

  "You didn't enjoy the picnic, or our tour of the library?" Rhea asked.

  "I did. There were hundreds of books in the library I'd like to read just in the SF section—and I can't even imagine all the other things I could find there." He stared off into space, thoughtful. "I was already thinking about the next time I come here. After a few trips, I might even want more..." He looked over at her and nodded. "Point taken."

  They stopped by an electronic you are here board, and he studied it with interest. The "you're all alone" illusion gave way in the Village, and they were once more amidst the press of humanity. Unchained street vendors hawked their wares from quaint carts, catering to the steady stream of people filling the curving thoroughfares. "What do you think?" Jack asked.

  Rhea pursed her lips. "Well," she said, "it's been a while since I saw a Ziegfeld's Folly. How about that?"

  "Pretty girls, song and dance—how could I object?"

  Jack pushed the button by the description. On the screen, a glowing red line traced the path to their destination. "It's not very far, either." Where in the world, Jack wondered as they set off, had Rhea seen a Ziegfeld's stage show?

  They were about halfway to the Ziegfeld theater when Rhea grabbed his arm. "I think we're being followed," she whispered. He could hear a note of urgency in her voice.

  Nobody had ever told Jack that before. It wasn't something people said in real life. Not in his life anyway. "What do you mean?" he whispered back.

  "There are four people behind us—" He started to turn his head and she dug her fingers into his arm and whispered, "No! Don't look! They haven't let us out of their sight since we got to the Village."

  Jack stopped walking, but Rhea tugged him back into motion. "I don't have any enemies," he said. "You don't have any enemies. Are you thinking something industrial?"

  "Maybe." She glanced at a sign they were passing, pretending to point it out to Jack. Voice low, she said, "Between the two of us, we're ninety-five percent of Celestial's intellectual property."

  Jack looked at her sharply—there was something unconvincing about her tone. He'd assumed she didn't have any enemies... but maybe he'd assumed wrong. Her unwillingness to talk about her past could be a lot more than indications of an unhappy childhood.

  "Well, it doesn't matter," he said. "Let's find a cop."

  "No! There aren't any real cops here. This place is policed by Hell, and we can't trust Hell's police force." She peered intently into the crowd. "Follow me," she said, and ducked into a Scandinavian tour group coming out of a production of West Side Story. Most of them were still humming "Tonight"—badly. Rhea cut through like a lumberjack in tall wood, pulling Jack in her wake.

  "Sorry," he said as blond heads turned and the humming broke off in confusion. "Got to run. Left the dog in the dryer!"

  Rhea feinted left, then pulled a hard right into and then through a coffee shop. Walking at top speed, keeping in the center of crowds, they shot along the walkway at a painfully fast clip. At last they ducked in the doorway of a small, definitely nonkosher deli, and Rhea peered out cautiously. Jack was panting and sweat rolled down his back. As he concentrated on breathing, he noticed Rhea looked as cool as ever. He knew, intimately, how well toned she was, but this was just totally unfair. It was as if running for her life were an everyday occurrence. Well, maybe it was. He wondered if he ought to be more afraid. He wondered if he'd feel more afraid when he could breathe again.

  When Rhea turned and looked into his eyes, he got his answer. She was terrified. Her fear was completely out of proportion to anything he could imagine—and in that instant, he became afraid, too.

  "I think we lost them," she said. "Jack, let's get out of here. Now."

  Jack nodded. "No argument," he said and looked at his courtesy map, calculating rapidly. "I think we're on the southeast side of the Village, here," he pointed. "Our best bet is to cut down the footpath past the Mall and catch the Monorail—You're sure we can't call security?"

  "I'm sure," Rhea said, and her tone brooked no argument.

  "Then let's go!"

  "Wait," Rhea stopped him. "Have you got a rubber band?"

  Jack searched his pockets, bemused. He finally came up with a thin red band that looked like it had been through the wash several times. "Here," he said.

  Rhea took it, looked at it doubtfully, then pulled her hair back in a ponytail and secured it.

  "That's a disguise?" Jack asked incredulously.

  "All I have time for."

  Rhea stepped out into the street, walking rapidly. Jack sprinted to catch up with her.

  "Don't run," she said. "Keep pace with me. Look happy, and try to look like you're not in a hurry."

  Jack was sweating again, already. He resolved then that finding more time for the Y would have to move to the top of his list. "How do you propose... to do that... when we're walking... twice as fast... as anyone else?" he panted.

  "Point out the sights," Rhea said. "Talk casually to me."

  "Talk? I... can't even... breathe."

  But he managed. They moved out of the Village and past the Mall in full tourist mode. Jack pointed out each little change in the scenery, and Rhea nodded in seeming rapt appreciation. Once, a group of fifty tourists gathered around a bush he pointed at. He had no idea what it was, but they were still taking pictures of it when he lost sight of them.

  Rhea was keeping an eye out for people behind them, looking back as though casually every couple of minutes. Apparently she hadn't seen anyone so far, and the relief on her face made him almost mad enough to quit being scared. Anyone who made Rhea that glad not to see them deserved some major grief. Unfortunately, he was in no position to dish it out.

  They made the monorail station without incident and dived through the elevator door just as it closed, plowing ahead of a group of waiting Japanese students. Jack was sure that would spawn a spate of Rude American stories. "Au revoir," he called on impulse, waving at them as the door shut. Rude French stories were just as stereotypical, but he thought he could live with that. Rhea looked at him intently, and he shrugged. They observed standard elevator etiquette the rest of the way up in the crowded car—both stared straight ahead at the light display over the door, and neithe
r of them said anything.

  There was a train loading on the platform. Rhea pulled them out of the natural flow leading to the car across from the elevator, and guided them to the last car of the train; except for the two of them, it was empty.

  The monorail left the platform smoothly before anyone else joined them and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. "Now," he said, "can you tell me what the hell is going on? And don't give me that industrial angle. I don't buy it, and I can tell you don't, either."

  The monorail sped over the Streets of the Past section of Devil's Point. Below them, the thatch roofs of a Medieval village lined narrow footpaths where rats the size of Chihuahuas scurried between piles of rubbish. Jack wondered if that section of the park got many repeat visitors.

  Rhea looked as though she were wrestling with something. She stared ahead vacantly for a moment, then snapped back into focus. "Okay," she said, "I don't really think this is industrial espionage or sabotage as such, although they certainly wouldn't mind that as a by-product." She waved out the window. "This is Unchained home base on planet Earth—I think we were being followed by devils."

  The territory below them shifted to Classical Greece.

  A knot of men was debating excitedly beside a huge right triangle sketched on the ground. There were no women in sight. Jack felt he could use something as certain as the Pythagorean theorem. Not much else was making sense. "Well, why in the world would they do that?" he said. "And if it's demons, why are we running? Devils can't hurt us any more than the gargoyle on my roof can."

  "Usually," Rhea dropped the word like a bomb. "There are exceptions to everything. And that's devils, not demons."

  "But—" he started to say when a blast of displaced air almost knocked him from his seat. Suddenly there were four devils in the car with them. Devils with switchblades.

  Jack had never been in fear of his life before. He'd had his share of close calls on the highway, but those were usually over before he realized it. This was different. These were beings who meant him harm. He'd heard of being paralyzed with fear; now he experienced it. He was trembling so hard he couldn't move voluntarily at all and his gorge was rising—he was going to be sick.