The Fall of Hades

by Jeffrey Thomas

“No, please, let’s get them out in the open.”

  “I said I was sorry. Let’s go.”

  Begrudgingly, Vee allowed herself to be led onward, through one last door, and then they emerged into Freetown.

  33: THE CITY OF COLORS

  Like Los Angeles, Freetown had expanded from its original level into the one above:129. Whereas the entire upper floor had been removed in L.A., however, in Freetown only portions of it had been cleared here and there, with an abundance of ramps, staircases, ladders and even escalators communicating between the two levels. The dwellings and places of business looked much the same as those in that other city—boxes built from salvaged materials, or machinery adapted for habitation—but with the striking difference that the buildings here were painted in a multitude of hues. Pastel shades like aqua, pink, and yellow abounded, but there were plenty of crayon-bright shades of red, blue, purple, and so on. Vee didn’t know where they had come by these pigments, but it definitely made for a pleasing effect. Almost like a town of toy blocks, assembled by gleeful giant children.

  There was an even more significant difference between L.A. and Freetown, however, and that was the citizenry that massed in these hap-hazard streets. They were a mix of Damned (and, apparently, Angels) and Demons of numerous humanoid races. Among these were a class of Demon with an African appearance, but devoid of any hair or even eye-brows, with raven-like wings, and a race of Caucasian Demons with skin as white as paper and wings like those of a dragon. Seeing this latter type of Demon gave Vee a shiver of recognition, stirred repressed memories of the Demons who had imprisoned and tortured her, so very long ago.

  She was surprised that these Demons as often as not were naked (she was hardly offended, however, as every one of them had a beautiful physique), though some of the bat-winged Demons wore uniforms much like her own. Which caused Vee to turn to Michael and ask, “Do you think I could get a change of clothes and maybe a shower before I meet this important person of yours?”

  The security commander sighed. “He’s waiting for us right now.”

  “Please. I mean, look at me.”

  “I’ll have something arranged. After your appointment. I’m sure he won’t care how you look.”

  Vee didn’t press the issue further, and Michael took her directly to a rather nondescript, three story structure, its heavy walls of riveted metal slabs made less formidable-looking by having been painted lime green.

  Two more guards posted by its front door saluted Michael and allowed him and the others entrance.

  Vee looked around her, at a large open office subdivided into work cubicles, each housing a sturdy computer with a white enamel casing, looking like a toilet turned on its side. Several of the people seated before them were wired into the Mesh. Over an intercom system played a lovely, gently melancholy song that Vee recognized, though not by name or by artist. “Music?” she said. It sounded a bit faded and tinny, but it was the first music she’d heard in Hades.

  “Yeah,” said Michael. “I love that one. Here’s Where the Story Ends by the Sundays.” He gestured around him. “This is what we call the print shop. That’s Roger over there—the guy who cared for my son in Hades before I was able to find him.” Michael nodded at a pleasant-faced man in his late twenties, who had been reading text off a terminal. Roger gave a little wave back. “Roger worked at a print shop in Apollyon, until the city was ruined. The Damned made books for themselves there. So we started making books here, too. But paper was scarce, so we decided to use the Mesh instead.”

  “Adamn told me about that. That he’s helped find ways to draw books and movies and music out of people’s heads.”

  “Well, movies are easier to dig out than books, and music is easier than movies.”

  Vee could believe that. As her memory of the mortal world had slowly filled in, she had sometimes found songs running through her mind, as exact as recordings. (One of these had been Heroes, by David Bowie.

  Jay’s revelation that his avatar was a dolphin had caused her to recall specifically the lines, “I, I wish you could swim, Like the dolphins, Like dolphins can swim.”) But remembering a book word for word?

  “Books are tough to recapture from memories,” Michael said, as if reading her mind, “but we still liked that idea. So what they do here in the print shop is have people with writing skills rewrite their favorite books, directly into the Mesh for anyone to access on their own computer, or in our library’s computers. This guy over here is Frank Lyre, one of our best writers, right Frank?”

  A man seated in a nearby cubicle swivelled around to smile up at Vee.

  She found him good-looking, rather reminding her of the actor William Hurt. His amicable reaction to her suggested that, despite her bedraggled appearance, he wasn’t displeased with her looks, either. He said, “Uh, well, I just want to point out that I prefer to write original books, myself.

  But right now I’m editing a re-imagining of Gone With the Wind that one of our citizens has written.” Lyre indicated the screen of his computer. “I never read the original, but I imagine it didn’t have this many typos…or sex scenes…but who am I to judge? I’m cleaning up the typos and letting the sex stay.”

  “Can’t wait for the movie,” Vee told him.

  “If you like that, you should read The Godfather. I rewrote that one myself. I didn’t take any liberties like having Sonny survive his ambush or anything, but I did cut out that whole ‘Lucy with her big box’ subplot.”

  “It’s funny…it reminds me of a movie. Fahrenheit 451. Everyone remembered one book.”

  “Ha, right,” Lyre said. “That was a book first, and it just happens to be another of the ones I’ve done. I’m no Ray Bradbury, but I do my best.

  I hate to admit it, being a writer, but it does help me remember a book if I’ve seen the movie, too.”

  A figure stirred at the back of the office area, differentiating itself from the shadows, and Vee switched her gaze there. Returning her stare was a tall, almost androgynous female Demon of the dark-skinned African type, her finely formed hairless head gleaming with reflected light, her features glowering but intensely beautiful. She was without clothes, onyx rings pierced through her black nipples, four claw-like keloids above each breast, her black wings folded behind her. Why was she glaring at Vee with such seething menace?

  “Come on upstairs,” Michael said, taking Vee lightly by the arm.

  “There’s another writer I want you to meet.”

  34: THE AUTHOR

  At each landing were stationed two more heavily armed and helmeted guards—the only sign that someone of great importance to this city made his offices on the top floor of their “print shop” building.

  Michael knocked, and rather than call for them to enter, seated imperiously behind a desk, the man himself opened the door to admit them.

  Michael, Vee and the two soldiers entered. Over the intercom, softly, played Everyday I Write the Book by Elvis Costello.

  “Sit down,” said their host. Michael and Vee took chairs that had been set out for them. The two soldiers remained standing in front of the door, holding their assault rifles.

  Vee watched the man go to a chair in front of his own ceramic-coated computer, take a seat and turn to face them. If the writer downstairs, Frank Lyre, evoked William Hurt, this man made Vee think of a young John Hurt; a little haggard, a little haunted. It wasn’t that he looked physically old—he must have only been in his thirties when he died—but his soul seemed worn far beyond those years. Made old by the burden of immortality. He had bristly short hair, wore a simple brown t-shirt and baggy tan trousers, and sandals.

  Vee squirmed a little under his gaze, and even though only a second or two had passed broke the tension by saying, “So…you’re a writer?”

  “Yes. You’ve never heard of me? Dan Alighieri?”

  “Um…it sounds familiar…” Vee wasn’t lying. Where had she heard that name? The odd unease she was feeling was making her thought processes stutter.

/>   “Those are some of my books, behind you,” Alighieri said.

  Vee half turned, and Michael passed her three perfect-bound volumes he’d picked up from a table. She read the titles. Letters From Hades, Beautiful Hell and Voices From Hades.

  “Ah, I didn’t write Beautiful Hell,” the author pointed out. “That was a friend of mine, Frank Lyre, writing about his own experiences in Hades.”

  “Right…I met him downstairs.”

  “Voices From Hades is a collection of stories based on the experiences of a number of Damned, Angels and Demons I interviewed or was told about. One of the stories concerns Michael, here, and his efforts to locate his son.”

  Vee nodded. “He told me about that.”

  “Letters From Hades, though…that’s my own story. Based on a journal I kept for a while when I first came to Hades.” He seemed to lean forward just a bit in his chair. “Sure you’ve never heard of it?”

  Was this some kind of trick question? Dan Alighieri…Dan Alighieri…

  “Wait…yeah, okay. My gun told me about you.”

  “Your gun? ”

  “She has a Demonic gun,” Michael explained. “Sentient, Mesh access. It’s been confiscated.”

  “Ahh. So, Rebecca Phelps, what did your gun tell you about me?”

  She didn’t correct the author about her name. “Um…let me think. He said you rescued a Demon woman, who was captured by Damned rebels…”

  “She had been captured, yes, and nailed to a tree. Left to die when I found her.”

  “You freed her. And that caused a big commotion. It sort of broke the camel’s back, or something—stirred up more rebellion. Because…because you fell in love.”

  “Very good, Rebecca. And do you by any chance remember her name? My Demon lover’s name?”

  “Uh…no, I don’t. Sorry.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Vee was getting tired of this line of questioning, said a little more firmly, “No, I don’t know her name. Why are you asking me this?”

  “Her name was Chara. Chara, Rebecca Phelps. And I loved her. And more surprisingly, perhaps, given what she was, she loved me. She was the love of my afterlife.” He gave a bitter little smile at his own pun. “And the reason I’m asking you this is because—since you claim to have forgotten so much—you killed her, Rebecca Phelps. Rebecca the ‘Demon Hunter.’ You murdered my Chara.”

  “What?” Vee looked over at Michael, partly to see if he might confirm this, partly because she expected a trap to be sprung on her at that moment. Michael was watching her grimly, his assault rifle lying across his knees. Its position looked casual, but it was pointed in her direction, and his hand rested on it lightly. It was Adamn who had set the trap, though. He’d found out who she was. Told them she was coming. And they had been waiting.

  Vee looked back to the author, found she was trembling—either from fear of her captors, or from how this information might further define the person she was. “You’d better fill me in, Mr. Alighieri, because I swear to you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really, Rebecca?”

  “I’m telling you!”

  “Okay, Rebecca, I’ll play along for now. You do know your father is the Pastor Karl Phelps? And that he led an army of Angels into Hades to help fight the uprising of Damned and Demons?”

  “Yes, yes…I’ve found that out. But I was a prisoner of the Demons, and I’ve forgotten—”

  “Yes, Rebecca, I’m familiar with all that from Adamn. Anyway, you accompanied your father. You were quite fearsome—the ‘Demon Hunter,’

  they called you. Your father and most of his troops became trapped inside the Construct with the rest of us, when the deluge came full force. You entrenched yourselves on the 7th level, but that wasn’t enough for you, apparently. You ventured out from that base on raiding parties, to continue your attacks on Damned and Demons both. It was in one of these raids that your party encountered Chara, who was on her own mission with some other Demons—in the Construct’s basement, trying to convince a group of Demons of her own race to come back with her to Freetown.

  Your team engaged the Demons. You were defeated, and taken prisoner in the basement outpost—as you’ve related—but not before Chara was killed in the exchange. By you, Rebecca Phelps. That was quite a coup for you, Chara being seen as the catalyst for rebellion, and all.”

  For a long moment Vee couldn’t say anything. And that was because she couldn’t deny it. Wouldn’t try. She knew it had to be true. When her voice returned, all she could do was restate her ignorance of what had occurred. “I promise you, Mr. Alighieri, I swear to you on whatever’s left of my soul to swear on, that I don’t remember doing that. If it’s true…”

  “If?” Now she saw that Alighieri was trembling, too.

  “Okay, look, I don’t doubt that it’s true. But I don’t remember it, okay? I don’t remember! And more importantly…more importantly, I’m sorry. I’m truly, sincerely sorry.”

  “You’re…sorry,” the author said in a dry, dead tone.

  “Yes.” Vee sat up straight in her chair. Firm in her testimony, as if she were on trial—both innocent and guilty at the same time. “I’m sorry, Mr.

  Alighieri. I’m not the person I was. I can’t imagine myself doing that.”

  “I see you’ve been in a scuffle or two along your way here to Freetown.” Alighieri indicated her ripped uniform. “You haven’t killed a few more Demons in more recent times?”

  “Okay…yes, I have. And some Celestials. And some Angels, too—some of my father’s men, except they don’t stay dead. Of course I’ve had to kill people to get here. And you’ve never killed anybody since you came to Hades, Mr. Alighieri? In the rebellion you started? In the Great Conflict?”

  Now it was the author’s turn to say nothing for a long moment.

  Vee went on, “So you were aware I was taken prisoner down in the basement. Did you order it?”

  “It was the Demons’ choice. I was simply informed about Chara. I never sent anyone down there for revenge. But I never sent anyone down there to free you, either.”

  “I’m not saying I blame you,” Vee muttered. “I understand your anger.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for being so understanding.”

  She swallowed, feeling defiant and contrite at once. “What are you planning to do with me? Return me to my prison, maybe?”

  “What would you suggest I do?”

  “I suggest…well, I would hope that you could—forgive me.”

  “Forgiveness,” he said. “There is always that. Or…isn’t.”

  “Look, why don’t you talk to my gun? It won’t lie to protect me…it’s a Demon itself, isn’t it?”

  “You may have lied to it, too.”

  “Oh for…what about my father, in the Mesh? Hasn’t Adamn told you about that? Why would my father be calling for my capture? And please don’t tell me you think that’s just some plot my father and I came up with to trick you into trusting me.”

  “Yes, your father in the Mesh.” The author leaned back in his chair now. “I’ve seen his messages about you, Rebecca. Since his return, he’s been a real nuisance in our systems. Not that the fine folks in Los Angeles haven’t irritated us before. Once in a while they get into our library system and delete our books, or substitute the Bible for every title, but luckily we have them backed up so we just restore them again and put up new fire-walls. They have some good hackers on their side—maybe even Demons they force to work for them—but we’ve got our own people working on crashing their access to the Mesh altogether.”

  “So if you’ve seen my father in the Mesh do you believe me or don’t you?”

  Alighieri sighed, and seeming not have heard the question, asked,

  “Did you see the beautiful Demon downstairs? I’m sure she was keeping an eye on you.”

  “I saw her.”

  “She’s my wife, Olisha. She respects me, protects me, she’s considerate and helpful and…accommodatin
g. I just don’t know if she loves me.

  And to be honest, I’m not so sure I love her. I mean, I care for her. She’s the only wife I’ve ever taken in Hades. Frank downstairs has had six wives since coming to the Construct.”

  “Seven, I think,” Michael cut in.

  “Maybe you’re right. He’s tried them all—Damned, Angels, Demons.

  And loved every one of them. It’s not that those marriages ended in hatred, necessarily. It’s just that over time, love wanes. I don’t want that to happen with Chara, Rebecca. I want my love for her to be truly immortal. And so I suppose I’ve resisted falling in love again.”

  “It’s nice that you honor her like that. But maybe not so fair to Olisha.”

  Alighieri’s eyes seem to spark. “Fair? Are you going to teach me about fair, Rebecca?”

  “I’m sorry.” She dropped her gaze in repentance. “I guess I really don’t know what’s fair or just. I don’t even know if I should be forgiven.”

  Alighieri stared at her hard for a moment longer, but couldn’t seem to sustain the effort or the emotion. He lowered his own eyes to his knotted hands, in an aspect almost like prayer. “It was always my intention to forgive you, Rebecca. Adamn believed you, but he wanted to let me know who you were. And I believe your father’s messages are genuine.”

  Vee lifted her eyes to him again. “So why did you question me like this?”

  “I just wanted you to know what you’d done. It isn’t right that you should forget it.”

  After a few beats, Vee nodded and said, “Fair enough. And I’ll tell you again, whether you care to believe it or not…I am deeply sorry about it.”

  “Sorry. Yes,” Alighieri said. “Michael, why don’t you let Miss Phelps get cleaned up a bit. If she cares to stay with us, get her settled somewhere until she can decide what she wants to do here. What she might want to do for work.” He faced his guest again. “We all contribute something of ourselves here, Rebecca. We take care of each other. But I have it easy. All I do is write.”

  “I suspect you do more than that.” She rose from her chair, and said,