The Management Style of the Supreme Beings

by Tom Holt

  But maybe …

  He sat bolt upright, catching a fold of his red gown on a projecting antler. Maybe there was a better way at that. Maybe there was one piece in the game that everybody had overlooked, and with a little subtle, dexterous wiggling it might just be possible to fix the Earth, get everything right for once and piss off the old fool and the Venturis into the bargain.

  Memories, an ocean of them, flooded his mind, as they tended to do whenever he allowed it to wander. He could remember everything he’d ever seen or heard: the sudden blinding flare as a stray spark lit a giant gas cloud and it became the sun; the tentative flop-flop sound as the first upwardly mobile fish squirmed and wriggled out of the sea and up the beach; an enthusiastic caveman explaining to his sceptical wife that if you had four of them, you could nail them to a couple of planks and then you’d have a cart. He remembered umpiring wars, posing for Praxiteles, Raphael and Andy Warhol, choosing peoples, raising cities and smiting them down again because some fool had been eating shellfish, endless interminable sacrifices—roast goat again; just for once why couldn’t someone slaughter him some nice fresh lettuce and a few spring onions? Out of the swirling mist, vague patterns loomed, the phases of human obsession, habit and apathy, the frenzy of belief and the long, slow decay of disillusionment. First it had been honour and shame, then right and wrong, and now the Venturis, with their wonderfully businesslike system that solved all the problems and left everybody miserable. To have seen it all was one thing. Scorn is easy, particularly when there’s so much to be scornful about, and humans tended to cling to crucial institutions governing every aspect of their lives not because they were any good but because they perceived them as marginally less ghastly than the ones they’d tried before. Fine. The old fool and the young clown had put him out of business, chased him to the frozen end of the Earth and only left him alone because he was too much aggravation to catch: a fine excuse for washing his hands of the lot of them, and what satisfaction he’d had, watching the Venturis bulldozing everything they’d worked so hard and so ineffectually to achieve. Great fun, marvellous entertainment, but maybe he’d been missing the point all along.

  Human politicians, when they’re honest (and you can tell when that is by looking up at the sky and counting the passing pigs) will tell you that being in opposition is so much better than government. You can sneer and criticise and let everybody see how much more competent and clever you are, and you’ll never be faced with the exquisite difficulties of getting something done or coping with the crisis du jour. For thousands of years he’d been the Earth’s loyal opposition, and nothing had been his fault, and everybody loved him because of the tinsel and the presents and the cheerful red dressing gown and the faint illusion of distant sleigh bells. Was that the reason he’d got into this line of work in the first place? Come to think of it, no, it wasn’t. And if there was a sudden revolution, and he found himself in charge, absolute power, lord of all he surveyed, would he be capable of making a better job of it? Of course not. Six weeks into the job and they’d all hate him to death, doubtless with good reason. A man ought to know his limitations. He’d had thousands of years to reflect on his, and there were ever so many of them.

  But what if …?

  He laughed, and compass needles all over the world trembled and whizzed round like propeller blades. What if? It was a bloody stupid idea, but so what? Much better than all those good-ideas-at-the-time that had turned human history into a bizarre game of consequences, and it was so dumb, so profoundly silly that it might just stand a chance. And best of all, it could be boiled down into four little words, not ten commandments or five pillars, and no subsections, subordinate paragraphs or tendentiously phrased principles capable of differing interpretations. Just one rule, and not even a rule, because where you have rules, ten minutes later you have a buzzing cloud of lawyers, and every good intention is just another paving slab in the yellow brick road to the everlasting bonfire. Just one guideline, and make the buggers think for themselves.

  And of course you’d need someone to announce the rule, to say the four little words—not something he wanted to do himself. He could do it, sure. Three thousand years ago he’d have relished the challenge. But now … He yawned. Even the thought of expending that much energy made him feel tired, right down to the bone. No, he’d need someone else to front it, be the face on the poster, and if it worked and went well, to take charge and run things and make the sun rise and the plants grow and the atoms collide and the electrons orbit the protons and neutrons: all the endless admin. And who could he possibly think of who might—A thought struck him and he grinned. Yes, he thought. Yes. The perfect candidate. And wouldn’t that be a laugh and a half?

  And then he thought, well, yes, it might work, but can I really be bothered? And he waited for an answer to that one, but none came.

  27

  “So this is Hell,” Jersey said, looking round. “You know, it’s not quite what I …” They found a table, and almost immediately a waitress came and took their order. “Just a coffee,” Jersey said cautiously. “No milk or sugar. And no little cinnamon biscuit, either.”

  That made Bernie smile. “The other side of that door over there,” he said, “you’d have made a wise choice. This side you can eat as much as you like and still leave. And they do fantastic cookies.”

  So they ordered some Sicilian biscotti and snickerdoodles. “I like these,” Lucy said. “What are they called?”

  “Ossi dei morti,” Bernie said. “It’s Italian for—”

  “Yes, quite. Those ones look nice too. Why don’t I try one of them.”

  “This isn’t Hell,” Jersey said a bit later with his mouth full. “So where is it?”

  Bernie made a vague gesture. “Well, it’s not Topside. Sorry, that’s our name for where you guys live. But it’s not Flipside either.” He lowered his voice slightly. “The thing is, when the old management signed the deal with the Venturis and we got kind of parcelled off as a separate entity, they marked out our designated turf on a plan with a thick red felt-tip pen. This space here is the thickness of the pen nib; neither one place nor the other. Which is handy,” he added. “No-man’s-land. More precisely, no-deity’s-land. Doesn’t actually belong to anyone, see. The guys with the franchise on this place don’t pay rent; they just turned up here one day with a stove and two dozen plastic chairs, and now look at it. Reminds me a bit of those flowers that grow in cracks in the pavement.”

  Lucy was looking at the menu. “Actually, I fancy something a bit more substantial. What’s the Thai green curry like?”

  “Slightly too much chilli. Anyhow, it suits us, because there are … well, certain things we’re not strictly speaking allowed to do under the terms of the charter, but we do them here and nobody can hassle us. Also, if you look over there, at that table in the corner … where those two big Asian guys are sitting?”

  Jersey stole a glance over Bernie’s shoulder. “Got you. What about it?”

  “That’s the new registered office of the Bank of the Dead. The man in the blue’s Jackie Dao.”

  “Why’s he playing the harp?”

  “That’s an abacus,” Bernie explained. “He runs the whole of the bank’s operations from that table. Amazing. The biggest financial institution this side of the Lesser Magellanic Cloud, and he does it all with a primitive adding machine and a piece of paper.”

  “I think I’ll have the lemon sole,” Lucy said.

  Jersey’s eyes were very wide. “So this place—”

  “Doesn’t legally exist,” Bernie said “which means you’re safe here, for as long as you can bear it and your money holds out. Though you could always talk to Jackie Dao about an overdraft. He’s very approachable.”

  “The Venturis can’t get at us here?”

  Bernie grinned. “I’m not sure they’ve figured that out yet,” he said, “but no, they can’t.”

  Jersey frowned. “Best to make sure, though. Excuse me. Nothing personal.”

&nb
sp; He prodded the middle of Bernie’s forehead sharply with his forefinger. A window appeared in thin air, flickered and faded out. “Ouch,” Bernie said. “You could’ve taken my word for it.”

  “Sorry. But look, this is great. What’s it called, by the way? Or hasn’t it got a name?”

  Bernie pointed at the name on the menu: THE HOLE IN THE WALL CAFE & GRILL.

  Jersey nodded, then reached in his pocket, took out a pen and wrote above this, The Free People’s Republic of. “There,” he said. “Here, miss.” He beckoned to the waitress. “I want to speak to the manager about holding free and fair elections.”

  She looked at him. “I’m the manager. Get lost.”

  Bernie frowned. “You know, they’re fairly easy-going here, but if you’re planning on founding a nation state, they’ll probably throw you out. Just drink your coffee and behave yourself.”

  The manager walked away, and Jersey shrugged. “Probably just as well,” he said. “I think it was Winston Churchill who said that democracy is the worst possible form of government, except for all the other ones. Let’s just keep things informal.”

  A small movement in his peripheral vision caught Bernie’s attention, and he realised it was Jenny, yawning. He’d actually forgotten about her, which was appalling. “Listen,” he said. “I’d love to stay and chat, but you’re now perfectly safe, and we were just on our way to the movies, so—”

  Lucy looked up. “What are you going to see?”

  “The new Star Wars. So, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be making tracks.”

  “Ooh,” Lucy said. “Can I come?”

  Bernie glared at her, but Jenny smiled and said, “Yes, if you like. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to.”

  “Thanks. What did you think of the last one? If you ask me, the franchise has definitely lost its way since Twilight of the Force.”

  “Well, it was much darker, but—”

  “Hang on,” Jersey interrupted. “We’ve just had a miraculous escape from the enemy goons; we’ve located a potential bridgehead from which to launch our counter-offensive and you’re going to the pictures?”

  Lucy shook her head. “You escaped,” she said. “Which was only necessary because you beat up the guards, because you wanted to go looking for Father Christmas. I, on the other hand, have missed several meals and been chased across Leicester Square in unsuitable shoes. Also, I want to see the film. I like the talking robots. And,” she added, before he could say anything, “I am not your sidekick. Got that?”

  “Now you’re just being unreasonable.”

  “I am not being unreasonable.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, I’m not. Why is it every time I do something I want to do, it’s being unreasonable? Whereas dodging Venturi death squads to hunt for Santa is clearly the quintessence of logic, I can see that.”

  “Would you mind keeping your voices down,” Bernie muttered. “And if you could possibly see your way to not saying that name—”

  “You agreed,” Jersey said angrily. “When do we start, you said, so obviously you agreed that finding … um, the fat man is the only way—”

  “I agreed because you’d obviously got your heart set on it, and equally obviously you wouldn’t last five minutes without me along to keep you from getting in the most appalling trouble, which you’ve now done, thereby proving my point, and if you’re going to persist in this ludicrous nonsense then I suppose I’ll have to come too, since I appear to have taken responsibility for you, like a stray kitten in a hailstorm, my own stupid fault for being tender-hearted. But after I’ve been to the movies. And had something to eat. And changed my shoes. Got it?”

  “See what I mean?” Jersey demanded in Bernie’s general direction. “Completely unreasonable. Serves me right, I suppose, I should’ve known better than to expect an amateur—”

  “Excuse me,” Jenny said.

  “No, you’re wrong there,” Lucy said bitterly, “because amateur means someone who does something for fun, and being around you and your idiotic theories is no fun at all, so you can forget all about that for a start. And just because I saved your life when you got yourself stuck inside a pyramid, a pyramid of all things, I ask you, that doesn’t mean I’m going to throw up a perfectly good job and go scooting about the place getting shot at and arrested simply because you think the mince-pies-and-tinsel man is some kind of primeval thunder god.”

  “But he is.”

  This was Jenny. Everyone turned and looked at her, and she went all pink. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought everybody knew.”

  Jersey crowed with delight, which made Lucy fold her arms and pull her oh-for-pity’s-sake face. “Which changes nothing,” she said. “All right, so he’s a thunder god, so bloody what?” She paused and grinned. “You have no idea what a relief it is being able to swear again,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been holding my breath underwater for the last six months.”

  “Are you two looking for, um, a man with reindeer?” Bernie asked.

  “He is,” Lucy said. “I’m going to see the new Star Wars. Anyone coming with me?” She stood up. Apparently not. She scowled at them all (but they weren’t paying attention), sat down again and finished her caramel latte. Then she read the menu.

  “I think,” Jersey said, “that the fat jolly man is the only power left on Earth who could possibly stand up to the Venturis. Because they’re scared of him, that’s obvious, or why do I suddenly have a regiment of stormtroopers down the back of my neck? So it stands to reason—”

  “Yes, but he’s retired,” Jenny said. “Well, he is; it’s common knowledge. He just lurks somewhere up near the North Pole and makes toys for Squishy kiddies. It’s no good trying to get him involved in anything, he’s not interested.”

  “Can I just clarify?” Bernie put in. “You two were being chased by the Venturis because you want to find the fat man and get him to do something?”

  “Which he won’t,” Lucy said with her head still in the menu. “Not interested. You heard her.”

  “Actually,” Bernie said, and although he said it very gently and quietly he had their undivided attention. “Jenny, you remember those things that showed up on our computers? The virus stuff?”

  “You mean the nasty scary threats. Yes, of course I do.”

  Jersey looked at her. Bernie smiled weakly. “She means,” he said and hummed a few bars by way of illustration.

  “That showed up on your computers? In Hell?”

  Jenny nodded. “Like a kind of virus thing. Bernie says it’s nothing to worry about, but I’m not so sure. I mean, if he really is watching everything we do—”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Lucy said. “I think I’ll go for the spinach and ricotta parcels with chickpea salad.”

  “What exactly did it say on your screens?”

  So they told him, and he told them about the inscription in the secret chamber under the catacombs, and after that nobody spoke for a very long time.

  “That’s got to mean something,” Bernie said at last, “but I have absolutely no idea what.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jersey said eagerly. “That’s not how it works. You follow the clues, you get beaten up and dumped in scorpion pits and scrabble your way out and eventually you get there, and then you find out what it all means. If you knew before you started, what would be the point?”

  “It only makes sense when you realise that all the horrible stuff is his idea of fun,” Lucy said to nobody in particular. “Trust me. I know, I’ve been putting up with him for months now.”

  “It sounds,” Bernie said, “like he’s letting us know he’s coming back. But when? And to do what? I mean, in the past he’s never shown the slightest interest in, well, politics and stuff. Not his bag.”

  “Sack,” Lucy grunted. They ignored her.

  “Which is why,” Bernie went on, “the old management gave up trying to catch him. More trouble than it was worth. Also, he was shrewd enough to think of the giving-every-kid-on
-Earth-a-present thing, which meant he was so popular he was effectively untouchable. Well, think about it. What would your reaction have been if you found out that God had arrested Santa and locked him up in a dungeon twenty miles under the Himalayas? The smoke from burning cathedrals would’ve blotted out the sun.”

  “All right,” Jersey said. “But that was the old regime. Everything’s changed.”

  Bernie shook his head. “The fat man may be a bit eccentric but he’s not crazy. I don’t think you people realise who you’re dealing with here. The old lot were … well, if gods are shops, they were a street-corner convenience store, and the Venturis are Walmart. It was as much as he could do to keep out of the way under the old management. Do you really think he’d want to pick a fight with the largest theocratic corporation in the known Universe?” Bernie paused, then added, “And come to that, do you?”

  “Hell, yes.” No hesitation in Jersey’s voice.

  Lucy just shrugged and pulled a sad face.

  “Look, you said it yourself,” Jersey went on, his voice getting steadily louder and higher. “The Venturis are only interested in making a profit, right? So, if this planet turns out to cost more to keep subdued than it produces in revenue, what’re they going to do? Pull out of course, just like Tesco had to do in the USA. Hit ’em in the back pocket, where it really hurts, and we can win this.”

  There was a long, awkward silence. Then Bernie stood up.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s been nice meeting you, and I hope you manage to stay alive and free for as long as possible, but if you’ve set your heart on going to war with the Venturi corporation—”

  “But we can win. I just told you.”

  “Mphm.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, we’ve missed the film in London, but if we get a move on we can catch it in Geneva, Nairobi or Kuala Lumpur. I vote Geneva. There’s a really great pizza place on the other side of the square and they accept U.S. dollars.”