by Sam Enthoven
He gasped, sucking in a great glob of gunge with his first breath, which made him start couging all the air out again.
"There," said Number 3's voice. "Just breathe.. You are safe." Jack hacked and spluttered some more. "Blimey!" he managed finally. Then he fell silent, looking at Number 3's face, which loomed palely at him out of the surrounding darkness. Jack saw the expression there change from concern to relief. Number 3 was actually glad he was all right: Jack found that oddly touching.
"Did, er..." he said, once he'd got himself together. "Did everyone make it all right?"
"They are all 'ere," said Number 3, gesturing with his torch.
For a second Jack didn't recognize them, covered as they were in the same tarlike substance he could feel dripping from his own ears, hair, and everywhere else. The other Sons were all taking a moment. Number 2, who'd presumably had an especially difficult time, what with the pack, simly sat, breathing hard, with his oil-black legs sticking out in front of him.
The floor was strange. It crackled and crunched like shingle when Jack moved. He reached underneath himself and picked up a bit of it. Whatever the object was, it was too big to be a pebble. It felt hollow and delicate, and it was an odd shape: his probing fingers suddenly slipped into two little holes in the thing, and Jack hurriedly shook the object off with a shudder he couldn't explain.
"Is anyone hurt?" he asked quickly.
Hearing him, Number 2 looked up and took a deep breath.
"Everyone okay?" he barked. "Everyone still five-by-five?"
"I don't know about anyone else," said a voice in the darkness, "but — as far as I'm concerned? This mission sucks."
"You shut your mouth, Number Nine," said Number 2.
"I'm Number Twelve, sir," said the voice. "He's Number Nine."
"I don't care what your number is, soldier," Number 2 snapped back. "I'm telling you, if you don't shut your mouth, you'll... you'll be sorry!"
"Um, where's the Chinj?" Jack asked.
No one answered.
Well, Jack thought, the Chinj could look after itself. It would be back soon enough — he hoped. He sighed. Suddenly he decided he'd had enough of the darkness.
"Do any of you have anything stronger than these torches?" he asked, doing his best to ignore the way his voice was echoing. "What about a flare or something?"
There was a rustling sound, and torch beams danced overhead as the Sons checked their pouches and pockets. "I've got one," said Number 9.
"Well, don't keep us in suspense, soldier," said Number 2. "Light it up!"
There was a soft flump! Then the room was bathed in red light.
And Jack's mouth fell open.
At the center of the room, lapping sluggishly at the shore of crunchy stuff, was a lake of what appeared to be oil or some kind. It was completely black, except for where it reflected the burning red of the flare, and the ripples moved eerily slowly across its surface. But it wasn't this that Jack was looking at, really. What he was looking at was the roof.
The room was big: a gigantic hemisphere of shining black rock, arching overhead. He could see at least a dozen tunnel openings, high up the sides. Between these, the ceiling was entirely covered by a carpet of dangling, leathery black egg-like objects, packed together very tightly. As the flare continued to burn, Jack stared at them — stared until the light began to flicker, then went out, and the darkness was filled with the big blue splashes on his retinas.
At the last moment, some of the egg things had started moving.
There was another soft flump and another. As two more flares lit up the room, Jack saw that his earlier impression had been right. The strange dangling objects were moving, in a rippling motion that quickly spread across the whole of the ceiling.
"What on Earth?" began Number 2 as a soft, high-pitched squeaking began to fill the air.
"Put out the light," said Jack, realizing he was whispering, he said it again, as loud as he could. "PUT OUT THE LIGHT!"
The two men holding the flares looked at him for a moment.
Then the ceiling seemed simply to drop.
"GET 'EM OFF! GET OFF ME! AAAAAAAGH! " someone screamed, as everything vanished in a welter of wings and fangs. Long, clever fingers were clutching at Jack's neck, feverishly groping for something; whatever it was, they obviously found it, because Jack felt a sudden nervous pressure that made his whole body go limp and floppy. Curled up on the floor, in the last, wild second before losing consciousness, Jack glimpsed the pebble he'd picked up earlier. The strange holes his fingers had got stuck in looked back, and he realized that it was a skull.
His head filled with darkness. It was as if a second passageway had opened up beneath him and he was plunging again, as helplessly as before.
This time, however, it was bottomless.
THE STAFF
"Right," said God. He pulled his gloves off and dropped them on the table, next to the brass lamp with its green glass shade. Then he held his hands to and closed his eyes.
The air in front of God's hands began to wobble and shake. The effect was a bit like heat haze, but it only lasted for a moment, because just then a shadowy shape appeared, a shape that instantly began to thicken and stretch. The shape was long and silvery: a small flash of light trickled along its length as it materialized.
Esme looked at the magical staff that formed in God's hands. Her throat seemed to have gone strangely dry.
God opened one eye. "You've seen one before."
"Yes," said Esme. Nick's "test" suddenly seemed a long time ago. "But—"
"In here," said God, "is the answer you're looking for." He closed his eye again. "For what it's worth."
Esme took a deep breath. "All right," she said. "I'm ready."
"We'll see," said God.
Esme put her hands out: already her fingers were curling around the magical staff. Slowly, carefully, she let them curl a little further, and a little further still, until she could almost feel the cool of its metal on her skin. Then she closed her fists on it.
It was like being hit by a wave of cold water. The shock of the first images almost stopped her heart in her chest.
Death.
The images flickered and spun.
Death.
The images wouldn't stop coming.
Death.
And before she knew she was doing it, she'd let go of the staff, gasping.
"God," she said. "That was—"
"Yes," he replied. "That was your mother."
"I don't..." Esme was breathing hard. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because, even though she failed, it's the last time the Scourge came close to being defeated," said God. "Because it's time you knew the truth — and the truth, I'm afraid, always hurts. Now, have you seen enough? Do you understand what you have to do?"
Esme stared at him. Her head was full of what she'd just seen, the glimpses of it. Still, she took another deep breath, forcing herself back under control.
"Show me the rest," she said.
God looked at her, blinked, and bit his lip.
"Actually," he said, "I'd rather not."
"I'm sorry?"
God pouted. His eyes, Esme noticed, were shining strangely.
"If you must know," he said, "I find it all rather upsetting. It upsets me," he repeated, "personally. All right? So if it's all the same to you, I think I'd really prefer it if—"
"Show me," said Esme quietly. "Now."
"Oh, all right," said God — and sniffed heavily. "Hold out you hands, then."
Esme did. She closed her eyes. She took hold of the staff, and as the magical vision took her up like a wave, she held on tightly.
And this time, she saw everything.
* * * * *
A young woman was lying on a concrete floor.
Her skin was very dark, her orange caftan was very bright, and her strong brown feet were bare in a pair of knackered old sandals. Her hair fizzed out all around her face like a black halo. Her amber eyes were di
m with pain, and thick blood was running from her nose and mouth. The young man kneeling beside her pulled down his sleeve and dabbed at her uselessly.
"She's bleeding internally!" he said, panicking. "I can't stop it!"
"Belinda," said Nick, standing over the woman, still dressed in his customary black. "I—"
The woman scowled and deliberately looked away from Nick, turning her gaze instead on the kneeling man. A hand reached up and pulled him toward her with a fierce, feverish strength that surprised him.
"Raymond," she whispered.
"I'm here, petal," breathed the big man.
"You," said the woman, with difficulty. "Not Jessica. Not Nick. You." She took a breath. "Teach her," she said. "Look—" The word rattled to nothing. "Look after her." She was breathing fast now, the breaths coming in little shallow gulps that made it hard for her to from the words. "Tell her I l—"
She tried again.
"Tell her I l—"
It wouldn't come out.
"I'll tell her, love, I swear it!" said Raymond. "I'll tell her every day!"
And when the woman heard this, she smiled. Slowly, she drew her hand down the big man's rough, wet cheek — and the quick breaths suddenly ceased.
Then she died.
* * * * *
"There," said God, as the magical staff wobbled and disappeared. Tears dribbled freely down his wrinkled face. "Now are you satisfied?"
Esme just looked at him. She felt numb inside — cold. Still, she had enough strength left to ask the first question that had to be asked.
"How do you know all of this?" she said.
"What?" God sniffed. "You think I faked it?"
"What proof," asked Esme, with infinite patience, "can you give me that all that really happened?"
For a moment, God stared at her as though dumbfounded.
"Hell's teeth!" he shouted, stamping his foot and gesturing at his face. "Look what that did to me! Are you made of stone? "
But Esme just stared back at him, waiting. Her own tears were long dry now. A ball of something hard and bright and cold and heavy had formed inside her; she could feel it, the shape of it, tight against her ribs when she breathed. Her expression as she stared at the old man then did not waver in the slightest. She met God's eyes: met them until he had to look away.
He sighed. "Look, I told you," he said. "I'm the archivist of Hell. I'm your god: I know everything, that's how I got this job."
Esme was still staring at him. Still waiting.
"All right!" said God, throwing his hands up. "I don’t have any proof!" He thought of something and, smiling a thin smile, he added, "You're just going to have to take it on faith."
There was a long pause.
"Okay," said Esme. "Then I've got a few more questions I'd like to ask."
"Shoot," said God.
Esme took a deep breath, because for a moment, to her surprise, it seemed that the tears might come back. But then she said it.
"They didn't stand a chance, did they?"
God looked up. "Who? The Brotherhood?"
"Everybody," said Esme. "If it hadn't been Felix who let the Scourge out, it would've been someone else."
"Yes," said God. "I'm afraid that's probably true."
"So why was the Scourge imprisoned on Earth?" asked Esme. "Why put it among people, when it was obvious that one day someone would let it escape?"
God sighed. "Nobody knew or cared about my little planet." He shrugged. "It seemed the safest place. But the fact is, wherever Khentimentu was imprisoned, it was only ever going to be a matter of time before it got out." He smiled mirthlessly. "That's the problem with dealing with something that can't be killed."
"But why put it among people?" Esme repeated. "I mean, how could you do that to them?"
"It wasn't my decision!" God bit his lip. "Besides," he huffed, "I've helped you now. Haven't I?"
Esme sighed.
"All right, then," she said slowly. "Well, what about how to defeat the Scourge?"
God stared at her. "I thought that was pretty obvious," he said. "Didn't you? I'm certainly not going to show you the vision again."
"I don't want you to," said Esme, her patience beginning to wear thin. "I just want you to tell me something I can use, like you promised."
"But I showed you!" said God, exasperated.
"Showed me what?" said Esme, her voice rising despite herself.
"The answer!"
"What answer? Why can't you just tell me?"
"DUH!" said God. "What's wrong with you people? Did you all turn stupid after I created you? The only way to defeat the Scourge — the only way to make the magic strong enough to trap Khentimentu in the staff — is through—"
"Yes?" said Esme.
"Through... well..." God trailed off suddenly.
"Yes? "
"Through sacrifice," he finished.
There was a pause.
"What?" asked Esme.
"I think that someone has to die," said God. He looked up and, seeing Esme's expression, added: "I'm sorry, but there it is." Then he looked down at his feet.
There was another, longer pause, as Esme considered this.
She'd known, she supposed. At least, she always should've known.
What else was there for her, anyway? She was neither one thing nor the other, not demon and not human: she belonged nowhere.
This was her job. One job she'd trained her whole life to do: one chance to have her revenge.
Boom! The room shook, and a million glass bottles rattled in the boxes on the walls.
"You, er..." God looked guiltily at his feet again. "You don't have much time."
Esme squared her shoulders.
"All right," she said. "I'll do it."
TO THE DEATH
"There," said the Scourge, turning to the nearest Gukumat. "I believe we are ready to proceed. Is everything in place?"
The Overminister bowed. Yes, Sire. It's just—
"What is it?" The Scourge was suddenly aware of all of Gukumat's eyes looking in his direction.
Gukumat bowed again and folded his long-fingered hands in front of his robes in an awkward, self-effacing gesture. One hates to question Your Worship at a time like this, he said, but the situation being what it is, one can't help but feel a little... concerned.
"Say what you mean, Gukumat," said the Scourge, beginning to understand why Hacha'Frashi had disliked him so much.
Very well, Sire. It's the boy. Gukumat gestured toward Charlie, who was still sitting bolt upright, a blissful smile on his face. Are you quite sure he's... safe?
"The boy is in my power," said the Scourge, as patiently as it could. "He is, I assure you, perfectly 'safe'."
Your Worship's words are most reassuring, said the Overminister. However, the fact remains that when he realizes what is to become of him, he—
"Charlie is not your concern, Gukumat, snapped the Scourge. Then, in a more conciliatory tone, it added, "Please, leave him to me. Now, is everything ready for the next stage?"
For perhaps three whole hundredths of a second, Gukumat thought about this.
At that moment, the Overminister was engaged in a number of simultaneous activities. The Carnotaur — arguably the most dangerous of the gladiators — had lost what little patience its pea-size brain possessed and was busily attempting to break out of its magical bonds. A detachment of twelve clones was subduing it with fire lances while another fifteen were combining their powers to shore up the bubblelike wall of its makeshift prison. At that very instant too some seven thousand other Gukumats were also engaged throughout the vast heart chamber in similar containment activities with Hell's increasingly unruly populace. Demons were an impatient breed and not given to waiting in one place for long: there had already been casualties. However, these were well within acceptable limits. If fact, as the Overminister had discovered, having Hell's entire population in one place actually made it a lot easier to deal with — logistically speaking, at least.
&nbs
p; It is, Sire, he answered.
"Splendid," said the Scourge. "Then—"
A ripple went through the humid air, a soft susurrus of power that set the silken robes of the surrounding Gukumats rustling. The Scourge paused, distracted. Some twenty feet away across the wet pink fleshy floor, a patch of space seemed to bulge suddenly, condensing, taking shape.
Then Esme appeared.
She stood with her hands at her sides, the hilt of the pigeon sword jutting over her shoulder. The nearest Gukumats opened their hooked jaws and hissed at her, but they might as well not have been there. Her eyes were closed, but as soon as the haze of molecular disturbance in the air had dispersed around her, she opened them and looked at the Scourge, hard.
The Scourge folded its liquid-black arms. Though it showed no outward sign of it, it was smiling.
"So," it said. "You've taken the first step. You're beginning to realize what you can become. My congratulations: you're clearly a fast learner."
Esme said nothing.
"Am I to understand that this means you have decided to accept my offer?"
Esme looked around herself slowly. She looked at the gladiators, trapped high above in their bubbles of magic. She looked at Charlie, frozen, staring, on his throne of meat. She looked at the massed ranks of the Gukumats and the clamoring horde of demons spread across the landscape far below.
"You've been busy," she said.
"We have," agreed the Scourge. It gestured in Charlie's direction with long, inky fingers. "The boy is about to complete the ritual," it said. "You're just in time."
"How does it work?" said Esme. "If you don't mind my asking?"
"Not at all!" said the Scourge. "It's like this: before awakening fully, the Dragon must first be convinced that the universe is ready for its own annihilation. Do you understand me so far?"
Esme grimaced but nodded.
"Well," said the Scourge, "the reason I need Charlie is that he's going to play the part of the universe's representative."
Esme frowned.
"In just a few moments now, Charlie will be offered a choice. He will be granted a glimpse of the whole of Creation, and the Dragon will ask Charlie, as the universe's spokesman, what he, Charlie, wishes should be done with it. In that instant, the fate of us all will rest solely in Charlie's hands."
