by Tom Holt
Nick sighed, opened a desk drawer, pulled out a bottle and two glasses. “Toast?”
“Sure.” Ashtaroth raised his glass. “To the last customer we’ll ever get.”
They each took a sip and pulled a face. “Out of interest,” Nick said, “who was he?”
“She,” Ashtaroth amended. “Susan Velikovski, retired, forty-six years with the Revenue. Died at one minute to midnight, poor cow.”
Nick shook his head. “Save your sympathy,” he said. “I figure she’ll be better off with us. Don’t know about you, but I’d rather have a nice cosy berth in Number Six than spend my next forty incarnations as a rat.”
“Or a spider.” Ashtaroth shivered. “I can’t abide spiders.”
“Is that a fact?” Nick said and scribbled a note on his jotter. Then he shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “Force of habit. I forgot.” He crumpled up the sheet of paper and lobbed it into Number Four. “We don’t do that stuff any more.”
A single drop of sweat had formed in the middle of Ashtaroth’s forehead. He borrowed the floating handkerchief to dab it away, then put it back. “Right,” he said. “We don’t.”
Nick sighed. “That’s right,” he said. “We aren’t bad guys any more. We’re just—” he made a vague gesture “—curators, I guess. Caretakers. A team of dedicated specialists standing guard over something that no longer has any relevance at all.” He picked up his glass and looked at it. “I never knew you had a thing about spiders.”
“Well,” Ashtaroth said. “Not something you mention, is it?”
Nick acknowledged a fair point. “Must’ve been tough. Explains why you and Duke Nimloth never saw eye to eye.”
“Eyes,” Ashtaroth corrected with a shudder. “Talking of which, now that we’re all morally neutral and buddy-buddy, I’d like to make a formal request. Kindly keep that bug-eyed freak the heck away from me.”
Nick grinned. “I’ll see what I can do. Though really she’s not so bad once you get to know her.”
“Take your word for it.”
“No, really. Kind-hearted. She spun me a lovely scarf Christmas before last.”
Ashtaroth picked up the bottle; Nick nodded.
“You know, Ash,” he said as the Duke refilled their glasses, “it’s going to take a while to sink in. I mean, it’s a big change. No more Good and Evil.”
“We’re going to miss them, that’s for sure.”
“And this new place they’re going to build, the Marshalsea. What sort of name is that for a correctional facility?”
“Not our concern any more,” Ashtaroth said.
“True, true,” said the Father of Lies. “Meanwhile, we’ve got our job to do, bearing in mind our customary high standards and the noble traditions of the Service.” He shook his head. “This place is going to go to heck in a handcart, I can see it, clear as day. Stagnation, Ash boy, that’s what we’re looking at. We’ll be a backwater. A footnote, an anomaly. I don’t know. For two pins I’d quit. Cash in my pension, head out to the stars, start taking it easy for a change.”
Ashtaroth pulled a face and Nick realised he’d been tactless. Ash and the guys didn’t have that option. “It’s all right,” Nick said. “I’m just kidding. We’ll see it through together, same as we always have. When I first saw this place, it was nothing but a bitumen lake and a few deposits of low-grade sulphur. And now look at it.”
Ashtaroth smiled. “Two thousand and seventy-six consecutive Mephistos for Best Negative Afterlife,” he said softly. “They can’t take that away from us.”
Nick flashed him a rare smile. He was proud of his Mephistos. He’d built a vast suite of lavatories behind the Gluttons especially to display them. “This reincarnation thing,” he said. “They’re not actually serious about it, are they?”
“Apparently. I checked out the Venturi Corp website, and they reckon they’ve introduced it successfully on over a hundred million worlds.”
“Introduced.” Nick scowled. “Means they set it up, then buggered off and left some poor sod of an assistant deputy manager to try and get it to work. I mean, second-hand souls, how cheap can you get?”
“Recycled,” Ashtaroth amended. “Very green. I gather their carbon clawprint is practically nil.”
Nick pointed at the bobbing handkerchief. “Would you buy a used soul from this man? Ah, the heck with it. Screw ’em.” He drained his glass and poured them both another. “I know, I know,” he said as Ashtaroth frowned slightly. “I want to go easy on this stuff, before it stops being the answer and starts being the problem.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“We know each other too well, that’s our problem. Here’s health.”
“Prosit.”
The handkerchief quivered, then dropped to the floor.
“Looks like he’s ground to a halt,” Ashtaroth said.
“About time.” Nick scooped up the handkerchief, screwed it into a ball and lobbed it into Number Three. The hot air rising from the vents reduced it to floating ash. “Let’s forget about all that stuff for now and talk about something else, shall we? How goes the hunt for the merry prankster?”
“Oh that.” Ashtaroth frowned. “Hardly seems important now.”
“I despise loose ends.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“Ah.”
Ashtaroth drew his chair a bit closer to the desk. “So we have this cluster of cryptic messages,” he said, “apparently predicting—accurately—the regime change that’s just happened. That’s fine,” he went on, “until you take a closer look at the timings.”
“Ash, you know sequential linear time isn’t worth a hill of beans around here.”
“Internally.” Ashtaroth gave him an owlish look. “But these messages came from outside.”
“Ah.”
“They entered our timeless continuum at a given point that can be triangulated with reference to external—”
“Yes, all right. I get the idea. So what?”
“We checked with Topside,” Ashtaroth said. “The first message—the new-Heaven-and-new-Earth one—came in before His Nibs got the first offer from the Venturi boys.”
Nick leaned back so far in his chair that the springs creaked. “You don’t say.”
“Checked and double-checked.”
“That’s …” Nick scratched his head, showering orange sparks like dandruff. “So whoever’s been hacking our system knew about the deal before—”
“It looks like it. Now, think about that. Say what you like about the Venturis, their security is cast-iron. No way sensitive information like that is going to leak out where some hooligan in a backwater like this can hear about it. Wherever the prankster found out about it, I’ll bet you anything you like it wasn’t from the Venturis.”
“That makes no—”
“And there’s this.” Ashtaroth took a folded scrap of paper from his top pocket. He spread it out on the table and scratched a line under three short words with the tip of his claw. Nick read it, and his eyes grew big and round.
“You’re joshing me,” he said.
“Cross my heart.”
Nick flopped back in his chair as though he had a rubber backbone. “You know what this means.”
“It’s only a theory. Based on pretty thin evidence.”
Nick shook his head. “Ho, ho, ho?” Then he grinned, ear to ear. “He’s back,” he said.
13
“What the Hell,” Jersey asked, “was all that about?”
Before Lucy could answer, a window appeared in thin air next to him and a man in a suit climbed out of it and gave him a friendly smile. “Hi there,” he said. “Swearing in public, the H word. Here’s your invoice.” He handed Jersey a sheet of pink paper. “You’ll find a choice of easy ways to pay on the back, or you may want to consider our Pay-As-You-Sin cellphone app. Have a nice day.”
He vanished. Jersey glanced down at the pink invoice. He owed the Venturi Corporation five hundred dollars.
“
My … gosh,” he said. “They mean it.”
She’d gone white as a sheet. “Looks like it,” she said.
“I thought it was just—”
“Apparently not.”
They were alone in the deserted restaurant, the other customers having fled during or shortly after the Venturis’ infomercial. “You know what this means,” Lucy said.
“What?”
“My travel warrant is presumably no longer valid. How the—?” She paused and swallowed, just in time. “How on Earth am I supposed to get home?”
Jersey shrugged. “Plane? I’ll stand you the fare. There’s plenty of change out of that diamond.”
“I haven’t got a passport with me, have I?” She sat down, and they both knew exactly what she was thinking and not saying. If she hadn’t agreed to dinner, none of this would have happened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“That was sympathy rather than remorse. I guess you’ll have to go to the British consulate first thing in the morning. They get you home, don’t they?”
“I believe so, yes.”
That look in his eye was back. “In that case,” he said, “you’re not in any tearing hurry to be off anywhere, and this is a city that notoriously never sleeps.”
“You want to go clubbing? After what we’ve just—”
“No.” He fished in his pocket for what he hoped was enough to cover the bill, which had never arrived, and put it on a plate. “What I’m suggesting is, we find somewhere warm and quiet where we can get a coffee, and you can tell me everything you know about these Venturi people.”
14
How long do you think it would take to convene a meeting of all the heads of state of the one hundred and ninety-six autonomous nation states that make up the political world? Answer: if you’re the Venturi boys, less than a second.
It wasn’t a mass kidnap because they’d been given due notice. In one hundred and ninety-six handsomely appointed offices across the globe a window had opened in thin air, a man in a suit had climbed out and told each of the kings, shahs, presidents and prime ministers that they were required to attend. Each of the leaders thus addressed had got as far as “You must be out of your—” when they found themselves seated at a long table in what they later found out was the Muscat Sheraton, the only hotel on Earth with appropriate facilities. Each leader was standing in front of a place setting with his or her name on it, a bottle of Perrier water, a plastic flower and an after-dinner mint.
“Please sit down,” said Snib Venturi. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Each mint had the Venturi logo embossed on its gold foil wrapping, and each leader heard Snib’s words in his or her own language or dialect. There were guards on all the doors holding what had to be weapons, though the way in which they functioned wasn’t apparent, which was probably just as well. A hundred and ninety-six hitherto very important people looked at each other, then sat down.
“I know how busy you are,” Snib said, “so I won’t detain you longer than necessary. I just thought it’d be great to have a chance to get to know you all, answer any questions and explain how all of this is going to work in practice.”
The President of the United States shot to her feet. “I want to protest in the strongest possible terms,” she said, “about this disgraceful tweet tweet tweet.” She then flew three times around the room, spat the sprig of olive out of her beak and perched on the head of the Prime Minister of Tonga.
“She gets that one for free,” Snib said, “as a token of goodwill, but the next interruption will count as blasphemy and will cost your taxpayers ten billion U.S. dollars. If you’d care to resume your place, Madam President, we can get on.”
The white dove fluttered back to her seat. Someone placed a long ruler across the arms so she could perch more comfortably.
“That, ladies and gentlemen,” Snib continued, “was a small demonstration, unplanned but timely. If you had any doubts at all, dismiss them. We—my brother Ab and I—are it. We rule.”
A moment of deep silence. Nobody moved. Then Snib grinned and went on: “Now then. If you were paying attention to our inaugural broadcast, you’ll have gathered that there are some mighty big changes in the offing. Let me take a moment to explain them to you.
“The Venturi Corporation started in the shadow of a sand dune on Mars and now rules a billion worlds. We got big by developing a system of … let’s call it morality, because your languages are hopelessly underdeveloped, that gives the customers what they want. I’ll cut to the chase. Traditionally, your planet, and millions like it, have lumbered along through the Dark Ages on basically dualistic moral systems. You think in binary terms. Mostly it’s Good versus Evil, though in the past—credit where it’s due—some of you went for the more rational and commonsensical Honour/Shame dichotomy—which you guys currently regard as quaintly primitive. But let’s not dwell on that because everything’s about to change. From now on, there is no more Right or Wrong, Good or Evil. We’re doing away with all of that. It’s holding you back: it leads to war, unhappiness and grossly inefficient distribution of valuable resources. It’s gone. Don’t give it a second thought.”
The assembled leaders of the planet stared at him as though he’d just jumped out of a cake brandishing a flame-thrower. He ignored them, smiled and continued.
“Welcome to the brave new world of Venturi morality. There is no more nasty and nice. There’s just behaviour, and how you behave is entirely up to you. Nobody is entitled to look down their noses at you for what you choose to do or not do. The key word here is choose. It’s all about choice. Feed the starving poor, though you’d better get a move on, because pretty soon there won’t be any—your choice. Burn down an orphanage? If that’s what you want, then fine. There is no more guilt, there is no more conscience. You can do whatever you like, and that’s official. Always provided—” he stopped and grinned, and sipped from a glass of murky orange liquid “—always provided …” he repeated. “Pin your ears back, people, because this is the fun bit.
“Under Venturi morality, every sentient being is master of his fate and captain of his soul. You can do what you want, when you want, how you want, provided you pay for it. And we’re not talking some vague metaphysical, allegorical, wishy-washy philosophical price here. We’re talking about a fixed tariff of charges, payable in your local currency, fourteen of your Earth days from date of invoice, no excuses, no credit. If you don’t pay, you go to jail. We’re currently building—” he glanced at his watch “—no, scratch that, we’ve just completed a magnificent new purpose-built facility in the heart of your delightfully arid Kalahari Desert to house payment defaulters. As a token of respect to your wonderful literary genius Dickens Charles, we’ve called it the Marshalsea. If you don’t pay, that’s where you go and that’s where you stay until you or someone on your behalf settles the bill, plus interest and administration and handling fees. Let me stress, the Marshalsea isn’t Hell. There’s no punishment, no fire and brimstone, it’s just very, very boring and absolutely one-hundred-per-cent secure.
“Now, you’re dying to ask me, what counts as a sin and how much will it cost me? Well, full details are available for download from our website, www.venturi-bros.div, but let me give you the basics.
“We don’t actually care what you people like or don’t like. It’s none of our business. We don’t want to intrude, or offend deeply held cultural sensibilities. And you don’t want to have to learn a whole new rota of dos and don’ts; it’d be confusing and you wouldn’t know where you stand. So we’re staying with the basic sins you people have been brought up on for generations, your Big Seven and their various offshoots. Feel free to change these at any time, as and when you feel comfortable doing so. Like I said, it’s none of our business.
“So, your basic murder will cost you ten million U.S. dollars. Blasphemy is a flat-rate five hundred. Theft is a hundred times the value of the item stolen, same for fraud and embezzlement
, only double that if the victims are widows and orphans. Pride is calculated as a multiple of your average yearly income, and we’re doing an introductory special offer on coveting your neighbour’s ox, one thousand dollars. And so on. If you want to sin and you can afford it, please go ahead. We value your custom. Bear in mind though that detection and invoicing will be immediate and unconditional, and we don’t take excuses, justifications or American Express. Within ten seconds of committing your sin, you will be greeted by one of our accredited collection agents and handed a statement. Failure to pay within the specified time will land you in the Marshalsea, as I just explained, and interest on overdue bills will be 20 per cent per annum compound. Right now, all across the planet, people are finding out how the system works in practice, but I expect you’d like a demonstration. So, if I could have a volunteer? You, madam? Thank you. If you’d care to steal the pencil of the gentleman on your left.”
The German Chancellor reached out and slipped the pencil into her bag. At once a window opened in thin air and a man in a suit climbed out of it and gave her a friendly smile. “Hi there,” he said. “Theft of a pencil valued at forty-five cents U.S. Here’s your invoice.” He handed her a sheet of pink paper. “You’ll find a choice of easy ways to pay on the back, or you may want to consider opening an account with us, entitling you to use our online One-Crime-One-Click option. Have a nice day.” He vanished. The Chancellor stared at the pink slip, then scrabbled in her bag for her chequebook.
“There you have it,” Snib said. “Divine justice. Quick, efficient, infallible, incorruptible. You people came somewhere close to it back in your Middle Ages, with your system of indulgences, but for some reason you turned against it. Never mind. Now, I’d like you all to go back to your various nation states and think very carefully about what this is going to mean for your citizens and society in general. I think you’ll find, as billions have before you, that the Venturi way is so much better than anything that’s gone before. Thank you so much for your time.”
The world leaders vanished. Snib Venturi pulled out a big red silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Then he drained his glass, strolled down the table to where the Chancellor had been sitting, picked up her cheque, folded it precisely in half, kissed it and slipped it in his top pocket.
