Heaven Bent

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  "I get it." I managed a weak version of my Hollywood smile. "So do you think Curie was right? Will Byzantine just send me back for more?"

  "Only if you can get tortured and do a shoot at the same time," she said wryly.

  "Shoot?" I frowned.

  We reached the exit, and she pushed the door open. "A movie shoot." As we lurched out into the sunlight, she dug out a pair of dark glasses and pushed them onto my face. "You're scheduled for one this afternoon."

  As we started down a gold cobblestone path toward the park, I shook my head. "They make movies in Heaven now?"

  "Of course," said Lillian. "Just think of all the great stars we've got here. What would their idea of paradise be?"

  "Getting away from the grind?" I smirked. "Not making movies?"

  "The opposite." Lillian stopped and adjusted her grip on me, then started forward again. "Wait till you see some of the incredible work they've done."

  "And now I get a shot at the big time?" I ducked my head as we walked under a tree dripping with low-hanging white blossoms. "They do know I just got tortured, right? And abducted by rebel fighters before that? And nearly killed in the theater bombing before that?"

  "Byzantine wants you there," said Lillian. "He's the director. And producer, actually."

  "So what if Curie had killed me on the table?" I stopped walking and pulled away from her, able to stand on my own again. "And by the way, where's my contract? I don't work without a contract."

  Lillian sighed. "Consider yourself lucky. More movie shoot, less torture, capiche?"

  I couldn't argue with that. Anything that kept me away from Curie and got me closer to Byzantine sounded like a good deal. "So what's this movie about? Is there a script waiting for me at my apartment?"

  "It's all improv," said Lillian. "I'll take you to the set, and then you just follow what the director says and go from there."

  She reached for me, but I put up my hand and shook my head. I was still hurting and exhausted, but at least I'd gotten some strength back and could walk unsupported. "I'm guessing he's very open to input from his actors?" I said it with tongue firmly in cheek.

  Lillian shrugged. "You can give it a try." Then she looked away and brushed her long black hair behind her ears. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of weariness on her face, a bone-deep exhaustion as great as my own. Weariness and something else, something dark--disappointment, maybe? Despair?

  Then, it was gone. She licked her lips, running her tongue along the diagonal stripes of alternating black and white. By the time she turned to me, she was smiling.

  "Let's get you home," she said brightly. "You can nap for a few hours before I swing by to get you for the shoot."

  "All right." As we continued along the golden path, I wondered what was behind that glimpse of emotion I'd caught. I wondered why she kept it hidden.

  And I wondered how I might reach it for my own purposes.

  *****

  Never in my life (or death) has a bed felt so good.

  When I got inside my quarters and threw myself face-down on the enormous bed, I never wanted to get back up again. It was all the paradise I needed.

  I hadn't had a good night's sleep since I'd died. If I could just get some solid rest, maybe I could think clearly and handle my crazy situation better. Maybe I could figure it all out and take control instead of running blindly from one drama to the next.

  So I just totally went for it. The second my head hit the luxurious pillows, I closed my eyes and let myself drift. I pushed out all my worries about Byzantine and the rebels and the movie shoot, forcibly shoved them out of my mind and floated toward blissful oblivion. It didn't take long for me to fall asleep.

  Which, of course, was when I felt the hand shaking my shoulder.

  At first, I thought it was part of a dream, and I ignored it. But the shaking continued and got more persistent.

  Then, I heard a voice, a very familiar voice, calling my name. "Willy! Wake up, Willy!" My real name, my birth name. "Willy!"

  The name my mother gave me, spoken by one of the few people who knew it.

  Pitching myself over on my back, I flung out a fist and took a swing at him. I missed, and my arm landed hard on the bed. "Damnit!"

  "Nice welcome, Willy," said the guy, who looked and sounded like me--exactly like me. "Talk about self-hatred!"

  "You again." I groaned and winced. Another meeting with my future self was the last thing I wanted to deal with at that moment. "Can't you come back later?"

  "I already did, I think," he said. "I mean I will. Or is that...ah, screw it." He waved it off. "I can't keep this crap straight."

  "I know the feeling." Grunting, I pushed my aching body up to sit against the padded headboard. "So can we keep this brief, please?" I gave him my most insincere smile.

  "Brief is all I've got." Future Me combed his fingers through his hair, which looked more like mine than the first time I'd seen him--less silver, more salt-and-pepper. Was he coming at me from a different future time than when he'd popped up at the TV studio? "Look, I'm here to give you a warning."

  No surprise there. "Is that so?" Why don't future people ever come back to give me good news?

  "First, don't cooperate with the rebels. Second, don't cooperate with Byzantine." He ticked off the warnings on the fingers of his left hand. "Third, get your ass to the silver spire. It's more important than anything."

  I frowned. "That big silver tower way out in the jungle?" I'd seen it during my nighttime flight with E.P. on Thundercloud, escaping the bombed-out theater.

  "Fourth," said Future Me, "do not, under any circumstances, seduce Lillian."

  My head jerked back and bumped the headboard. "Ow! What?"

  Suddenly, a golden light began to build around Future Me. "Stay away from Lillian!"

  "My daughter? Of course I'll stay away from my..."

  The light flared to a blinding burst of brightness. "She's not your..."

  And then, before he could finish his sentence, he was gone.

  Finally, I was left alone in my bedroom, with a few hours to go until the movie shoot. A few hours for me to get enough rest so I could get through whatever was coming next.

  But for a long time, all I did was lie there in bed and think about what Future Me had said...and not said.

  How the hell was I supposed to do what he'd told me now that I was so deep in the middle of this mess?

  *****

  "Look what the cat dragged in!" That's how I was welcomed to the set of the movie shoot--a set so perfectly designed, it could have been a city street back home, complete with cars. "You look like shit warmed over, Stag!"

  I couldn't argue, because I knew it was absolutely true. After the visit from Future Me, I'd dozed off for maybe an hour in between worrying about his cryptic warnings. Naturally, the hour had kicked in at the end of my break, so I'd been in the deepest sleep when Lillian had come knocking. The result: I felt like crap warmed over.

  The old-timer who'd called me on it couldn't resist lumbering over to rub it in. "Too much partying last night, Stag?" He pushed him mammoth bulk up beside me, draped in a red and gold kimono, and smacked me on the back. "Well, it's time to get with the program!"

  Talk about a walking irritant. I'd known him all too well back in the day, and I'd hated him then, too. We'd costarred in a series of Mafia pictures, and he'd walked all over me. He'd been way past his prime, then, running on the fumes of past glories but still acting like he was king of the world. It hadn't helped when he'd won the Academy Award for his Mafia role.

  Of all the reasons not to believe this was truly Heaven, his presence was one of the most persuasive. When he laughed in my face and smacked my back again, I wanted to walk right off the set and keep going, eff the consequences.

  But I settled for giving it right back to him. "Hey there, M.B. If I look like shit, I hate to say what you look like."

  "An Adonis, as always, of course." He sneered and turned to Lillian. "Just look at the way she stare
s me up and down."

  I slid between them. "It's called disgust, you bloated hog."

  "I say otherwise." M.B.'s lips curled with lecherous delight. "I say she can barely control her raging animal impulses as we speak."

  I pushed closer, getting up in his face. "You do realize that's my daughter you're talking about."

  "Don't worry," whispered M.B. "You can have the sloppy..."

  "Stag!" A new--and more welcome--voice rang out across the set. "So grand to see you!" The woman who followed was no spring chicken, but she carried herself with a youthful bearing. Her dark hair was teased in a pretty, flippy style, and the curves that filled out her black dress were voluptuous.

  She had a rep for being difficult, but I'd always been nuts about her. "E.T.!" Instantly, I broke away from douchebag M.B. and hurried over to her. "You're here!"

  She spread her arms wide and let her hands droop open at the wrists. "My dear boy, where else would I be?"

  I hugged her like she was my long-lost mother. She kissed me on both cheeks and stroked my hair gently, gazing into my eyes. "I'm torn," she said. "On the one hand, I'm selfishly glad to see you, but on the other, I'm so sorry you've died."

  I was no longer convinced about the dying part, but I kept it to myself. "So we're doing a movie together?"

  "With him, unfortunately." She looked glumly at M.B., who was waddling toward us. "But beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. The story is excellent."

  I frowned. "So what's it about?"

  Just then, Byzantine charged out of a nearby fake storefront. "No spoilers!" He wore a white turtleneck and khaki jodhpur pants and yelled through a gold megaphone. "Places, everyone! Let's get this show on the road!"

  Suddenly, a film crew came out of the woodwork--two dozen people, all of them muscular bald men in white uniforms. Some carried cameras, others carried lights or audio gear or rigging or props. They rushed through the city street around us, setting up equipment in a humming flurry of activity.

  "What a great director." E.T. gazed adoringly at Byzantine. "One of the best I've ever worked with."

  "For once, I agree with you," said M.B. as he pushed his vast bulk up alongside us. "He brings out the best in his actors. Knows just how to plumb the depths of the human soul."

  "He sounds like a real auteur." I tried not to sound sarcastic when I said it.

  "Oh, he is, he is," said E.T. "I've made dozens of pictures with him. I swear, he just gets better all the time."

  "I'll second that," said M.B. "And I'm not one to offer idle praise, don't forget."

  I looked at each of them in turn, trying to figure out if they were putting me on. But as far as I could tell, they were dead serious. Which either meant they were under his spell, in fear for their lives...

  ...or Byzantine really was a great director. If two of the greatest actors of all time said so, and they weren't loony or under duress, how could I say they were wrong?

  "You'll see." M.B. smacked me on the back, but this time it wasn't to get a rise out of me. "Keep an open mind, and he'll work wonders--even with you."

  I ignored the dig and turned to E.T. "Does everybody feel this way about him?"

  "Well, no." She scowled in disapproval.

  "Some people wouldn't know great direction if it kicked them in the privates," said M.B. "That's why they're not here, and we are."

  "So what happened to them?" I asked.

  "Oh, they're around," said E.T. "But they're not making movies anymore. Some are with that awful Liberation Front."

  "Ungrateful bastards," M.B. said with a snarl.

  "Right." I nodded, not because I agreed, but because I was interested to learn that not everyone was pro-Liberation Front. Until then, I'd run into one supporter after another after another. It had started to seem like everyone in Heaven hated Byzantine and wanted a revolution. Apparently, that just wasn't so. Not everyone hated Byzantine, as hard as that was to believe.

  "Now here's an awesome moment!" He marched up to us now with a giant grin on his tanned surfer face. "How's it feel to be with two of the all-time greats, bro?" He tousled my hair.

  Which I then straightened. "Way cool, bro. Honored out the yin-yang."

  "Well, someone of your caliber is nothing to sneeze at." He tousled me again. "We're gonna make some history here today. You brought your A-game, right?"

  I stepped away so he couldn't mess up my hair when I fixed it again. "It's the only game I've got, bro."

  He grinned and pointed a finger at me. "I knew that about you, Stag. You wouldn't be here, otherwise."

  Did he mean I wouldn't be on the set, or I wouldn't be in Heaven? He had a "thing" for me, according to E.P. Was that why I'd been brought here in the first place? If so, did that mean Byzantine had pull in the world back home?

  As my mind whirled with questions, one of the baldies from the crew stomped over and whispered something in Byzantine's ear. Byzantine nodded, and the baldy hurried off. "We're ready for the first shot. Places, everyone."

  As Byzantine swooped away and the other stars walked off, I stood in the middle of the street and spread my arms. "So what's my place, exactly? Who's my character? What's my cue?" I knew my voice had an edge, but I couldn't help it. Lillian had warned me this would be improv-based, but even improv needs someplace to start.

  "Just play off the other two," Byzantine said over his shoulder. "They'll give you what you need."

  I shook my head. "So I don't need any costume or makeup?"

  Byzantine turned with a smirk. "This is Heaven, bro. You're gonna shine no matter what."

  I started to say something else, but then Lillian caught my eye. She was standing off to one side, at the edge of the set, giving me a look--eyes narrowed, jaw set. She was shaking her head slowly, giving me a very clear signal that I should leave it alone.

  I remembered what she'd told me earlier: More movie shoot, less torture.

  With a shrug and a sigh, I decided to quit asking questions. Better at that point to try and make do, no matter how crazy the scenario.

  Looking around, I surveyed the set. M.B. sat on some stairs in his kimono, reading a newspaper. E.T. stood on the sidewalk below, posing in her black dress with a brown bag of groceries balanced on her right hip.

  At the end of the section of street, Byzantine sat in a folding director's chair with his legs crossed. An old-fashioned film camera stood on a tripod a few feet in front of him, manned by one of the baldies.

  Byzantine raised the megaphone to his mouth. "Lights!" When he said it, the lights arranged on stands around the set blazed to life, bathing us in brightness. "Camera!" The cameraman flipped a switch, and the camera started running. "Aaaannnd...action!"

  Seconds after the cue, E.T. walked to the base of the stairs where M.B. was seated. "Hello, Poole." She shifted the grocery bag to her left hip. "Haven't you forgotten something?" Her tone was sharp, her expression icy.

  "What's that?" M.B. said it without looking away from his paper. "My earplugs to block out your senseless babble?"

  Angrily, E.T. lunged up three steps, stopping just short of him. "Your wife. The one who died three days ago?"

  This time, M.B. crumpled the paper in his hands and looked at her. "Now how could I forget somethin' like that?"

  "I know it was you." E.T. pushed closer, hissing in his face. "I know you did it."

  He sneered at her. "Prove it, bitch."

  "I don't have to." E.T. turned and pointed at me. "He will."

  Picking up on the cue, I walked toward them. Guessing I was some kind of cop or detective investigating a murder, I straightened my posture and did my best to look tough.

  "He's here to take you in," said E.T. "He's gonna question you."

  With a snarl, M.B. hurled the paper aside and leaped to his feet. He paused to snap out a few words to her: "We both know you're the killer, Myra." And then he scrambled down the steps and threw open the door of a black four-door parked along the curb.

  Just as he climbed inside, Byzantin
e yelled "Cut!" through the megaphone. Instantly, everyone relaxed. The camera stopped running, and the lights went dark.

  "Okay, guys." Byzantine strolled across the set and stood beside the car. M.B. rolled down the driver's side window to hear him. "That was silver, but not gold. We need more fire between Poole and Myra." Nodding, he looked from M.B. to E.T. "Dig deeper, dudes. Spark it up."

  "No problem, Mr. Byzantine," said E.T.

  "I was thinking the same thing myself," said M.B. "This next take will knock your socks off."

  "Great, thanks." Byzantine flashed his surfer dude grin and turned to walk back to his chair.

  This was the great direction I'd been hearing about? Was "dig deeper" and "spark it up" the best he could do?

  I looked at E.T. to back up what I was thinking, but her expression was perfectly deadpan. If she had the slightest doubt of his abilities, I couldn't see it on her face.

  I looked at M.B. next, and that was when I saw them. Two pale streamers like ribbons of cloud shooting down from the sky...and into the car. One through the driver's side window, one through the passenger's side.

  M.B. didn't seem to notice them--but he didn't get out of the car to reset the shot, either. He just sat there, hands on the wheel, and stared straight ahead as the streamers whirled around him.

  I glanced at E.T., who was looking right at the car, but she didn't seem to notice anything unusual. No one else seemed to, either, though baldies were hustling all around us.

  "Places!" barked Byzantine through the megaphone as he got to his chair and sat down.

  The baldies quickly cleared out, leaving us actors on the set. My eyes were drawn back to the streamers, which were still swirling around M.B. They looked like smoke rings, like airplane contrails, with one difference. The longer I watched, the more clearly I could make out the one detail that set them apart from common smoke or steam.

  They both had eyes. Little more than oblong dark spots, stretched out in the turning tendrils of mist--but eyes nonetheless.

  WTF, I thought.