Mercury Rises

by Robert Kroese

  "So," Eddie replied, trying to appear nonchalant. "What do you want, exactly?"

  Wanda smiled. "Good, yes, let's get right down to it. What I want is you. Your gift, that is."

  Eddie nodded slowly. "My gift," he repeated.

  "Yes," said Wanda. "We---the company I work for, that is---we're aware of your abilities, and we need your help to take care of a certain thorny problem. The job will pay very well, but before I say any more, I need you to assure me that you can be discreet."

  What the hell? thought Eddie. What is this, rent-a-cherub? Where do people get these crazy ideas?

  "Hmm," said Eddie. "Here's the thing. I'm not really interested in money. That is, it's useful on occasion, but I have ways of making a few pounds here and there. Let's just say my wallet always has enough money in it for what I need."

  "That sounds like a very sensible way of looking at things," said Wanda. "But it does make me wonder, if you weren't doing it for the money, what was in it for you in your deal with Katie Midford?"

  Eddie frowned. How did this woman know about that? How could anyone know he had agreed to nudge Harry Giddings toward the Apocalypse in exchange for extraction from the Mundane Plane? And why the hell would she bring that up, considering that Katie Midford never lived up to her side of the deal?

  He said, "The deal with Katie Midford didn't work out so well for me. Our arrangement was supposed to be my ticket out of this place, and as you can see..." He trailed off, gesturing at his surroundings.

  Wanda replied, "If you need a visa, I'm sure we can help with that as well. My company is connected with some very important people."

  A visa? thought Eddie. What the blazes was she talking about?

  "In fact," she went on, "I believe we can get you a temporary work visa right away. We'll put you up in the finest hotel in Los Angeles. A suite, of course, so you'll have a dedicated place to write."

  Eddie stared at her dumbly, trying to make sense of what she was saying. "To write?" asked Eddie. "Yes, I'll need a place to write. What, ah, am I going to be writing, exactly?"

  Wanda appeared puzzled. She motioned toward the stacks of papers. "Why, this, of course."

  "This?" he replied. "Why would you be interested in the adventures of a rogue angel named Mercury on the brink of the Apocalypse?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry," said Wanda, "I assumed this was, you know"---her voice dropped to a whisper---"the last book."

  "The last book," repeated Eddie, uncomprehendingly.

  "You know," said Wanda, "the final book in the Charlie Nyx saga."

  "Ah..." replied Eddie, not knowing what else to say.

  Wanda went on, "Before she...disappeared, Katie told us that she was nearly done with the final book in the series. We all knew, of course, that...well, Katie was a smart gal and all, but it was pretty obvious she didn't have the follow-through to write a three-hundred-page book, let alone seven of them. We knew she was fronting for someone, but she was a rather secretive person, as I'm sure you know, so we could never figure out who the real author was. We eventually decided that if the real author of the Charlie Nyx books wanted to remain outside of the limelight, and if he or she had come to some mutually beneficial arrangement with Katie Midford, well...who were we to upset the applecart, as they say? But when Katie disappeared after that whole tragedy in Anaheim, our connection to the real author disappeared with her. Fortunately we have some investigative resources at our disposal, and we were able to ascertain that an employee of Katie's paid you several visits in this very pub shortly before her disappearance. When our sources reported that you spent all of your time in this pub, writing, well, we knew we had our man."

  Eddie stifled a laugh at his earlier fears. This woman wasn't an agent of some insidious entity looking to employ a disgraced angel to do their dirty work for them; she was a representative of Midford's publishing company, who thought she had located Midford's elusive ghostwriter.

  "Hold on," said Eddie. "You're trying to finish the series even though Katie Midford is presumed to be dead and the setting of the book is a three-hundred-yard-wide crater in the middle of Los Angeles?"

  "Yes, well," said Wanda, "I'll admit it's a bit distasteful when you phrase it like that. But the book is already completed, right? And what better way to honor the memory of Katie Midford than to release the final book in the series as she had intended, along with the accompanying movies and merchandising."

  Eddie frowned. Something still didn't make sense.

  "If you have the finished book, what do you need me for?" he asked.

  "Ah," said Wanda. "As I say, we're going on Midford's assurances that the book was nearly done shortly before the...Anaheim incident. We've never actually seen the book, but we assumed from her comments that the writer...that is, that you were nearly finished at that point."

  "So," said Eddie, "the official story is that Katie Midford handed you the completed manuscript only days before her tragic death, and that you are fulfilling her final wishes by publishing it?"

  "Oh my," said Wanda excitedly. "You do have a way of spinning a story. Yes, that's exactly it. We want to be true to Midford's dying wishes. I must remember that."

  Eddie's brow furrowed. "And you're doing that by tracking down her ghostwriter in an attempt to get him to finish the series she was pretending to have written?"

  "Exactly," said Wanda. "Of course, as I said, we assumed from Katie's assurances that the book really was nearly done. But if you're working on..." she looked somewhat distastefully down at his scribblings, "...something else, then I suppose we'll just have to accept the fact that Katie Midford's dream will go unfulfilled, along with our fourth-quarter revenue projections. Oh, Mr. Pratt, it breaks my heart to think of the poor children who will never get to see the seventh Charlie Nyx movie, and the poor shareholders who will, through no fault of their own, lose a valuable piece of intellectual property. Breaks...my...heart."

  "Shareholders," murmured Eddie, the word echoing meaninglessly in his head. His brain had screeched to a halt in front of an earlier word in the sentence, and it now stood (in a figurative sense) stock still, with its eyes wide and its jaw open, staring at the word in awe. Lovely Wanda Kwan, the vaguely Asian-American publishing company representative, had uttered, through her lip gloss and perfect teeth, the one word that every writer secretly yearns to hear. That word is movie.

  "Ms. Kwan," he began.

  "Call me Wanda, please."

  "Wanda, there is something I need to confess to you."

  "Yes?"

  "This manuscript, this book I'm working on...it's not really about an angel named Mercury."

  "No?"

  "No. It's about a young boy with a dream and a magical staff. A boy named Charlie Nyx."

  "But you said---"

  "I know what I said, Wanda. I was lying. You see, I was nearly done with the seventh book when I heard about Anaheim and Tia...Katie..."

  "You call her Tia Katie?"

  "Er, yes," said Eddie. "It's Spanish for aunt. She was like an aunt to me, you know. You know, a, um, Spanish aunt."

  "She was like a Spanish aunt to so many people," said Wanda.

  "Yes," Eddie went on, "and I didn't think there was any way the book would ever get published with Anaheim in ruins and Tia Katie dead, so I...changed it. I renamed a few characters and made them angels instead of, you know, what do you call them...?"

  "Troglodytes?"

  "Right, instead of troglodytes, because I was hoping to get it published with a different title...but underneath those superficial changes, it's still Book Seven of the Charlie Nyx series."

  "Oh!" Wanda exclaimed. "This is so wonderful! Think of how happy the children and their parents, the shareholders, will be, when we announce that Katie Midford's dying wish, the publication of Charlie Nyx and the Undead of Anaheim, will proceed!"

  Eddie felt a gnawing in his gut. The Undead of Anaheim? Good lord, was there any way that this project could be in poorer taste? "Right," said Eddie, trying to maint
ain his enthusiasm. "We're married to that title, are we?"

  Wanda laughed. "It's only printed on the back covers of thirty million copies of Charlie Nyx and the Tunnels of Doom," she said. "So sure, we can change it." She chuckled and shook her head.

  "So not really then?" asked Eddie.

  "No, not really," Wanda replied cheerily. "You'll have to work with that title. I'm sure you can come up with a tasteful way of handling it."

  Eddie began, "I'm a writer, not a---"

  "I know, not a miracle worker. Don't worry, we've got a whole staff of writers who can help you work out these little problems."

  "Oh, miracles I can do," said Eddie, "but this..."

  She pretended not to hear him. "And once Book Seven is done, we'll have to talk about other projects. A lot of people are saying angels are the next big thing. I'd love to hear your ideas for a movie about a rogue angel at the...how did you phrase it?"

  "The adventures of a rogue angel on the brink of the Apocalypse," said Eddie numbly. Wow, could it be possible? His report, ignored by the angelic powers in Heaven, made into a Hollywood movie?

  "Oh, I do love the sound of that," gushed Wanda. "First things first, though. What's the earliest you can make it to Los Angeles?"

  Eddie smiled. "If I leave right now, I can be there in four hours."

  Wanda laughed. "You writers and your crazy imaginations," she said.

  THREE

  As the writing career of Eddie Pratt seemed poised to take off, that of Christine Temetri was about to crash and burn in the wake of a series of events that turned out, once again, not to have been the Apocalypse.

  Her employer, the Christian news magazine known as the Banner, soldiered on despite having been deprived of its raison d'être, its headquarters, and its leader, Harry Giddings. Nearly a third of the Banner's staff had been killed in the earthquake that had leveled its building, and Harry had been violently sucked out of Mundane existence at the peak of his career by one very bad apple.

  Troy Van Dellen, the Banner's irrepressibly chipper news editor, had rallied the staff at an abandoned strip mall in Yorba Linda two days after the Anaheim Event, as it was being called, and had even managed to put out a special edition of the magazine covering the near-Apocalyptic events that had occurred in Southern California of late (besides the earthquakes and the puzzling obliteration of Anaheim Stadium, a mysterious wildfire had blazed for days in the San Bernardino Forest). Now, six weeks later, it was becoming clear that without some firm direction from the Banner's corporate parent, the magazine would fold in short order. Deadlines were being missed, stories were going uncovered, and the staff members who weren't dead or missing were shell-shocked and demoralized.

  Thus it was almost a relief when Troy informed Christine of an emergency meeting in the Banner's makeshift offices at nine o'clock on a Saturday morning. It was undoubtedly bad news, but at least their days in limbo would be mercifully brought to an end.

  Christine trudged into the cavernous, fluorescent-lit building that had once served as an electronics outlet store. The folding chairs, Formica tables, and haphazardly placed phones and laptop computers reminded her of her meeting with General David Isaakson in a concrete block house on the Israeli-Syrian border---a meeting that had ended abruptly when the house collapsed, killing Isaakson and nearly killing her. And yet, somehow this hollowed-out shell of a store, with its stark lighting and faded sale posters that advertised long-expired special offers on electronic components that nobody needed five years ago and certainly didn't need now, managed to be even more depressing than the building that had tried to kill her. The most cheery item in the whole place was a poster depicting a starving African child, at the bottom of which were the words YOU CAN HELP. Christine sighed and sank into a chair, gripping her caramel macchiato with both hands.

  Christine was tired. She hadn't slept well since she and Mercury had averted the Apocalypse. Partly she was having trouble readjusting to Mundane reality after having seen the strings holding it all up, but mostly she was finding it difficult to sleep on Troy Van Dellen's couch because his house smelled oppressively of lavender and his cat kept trying to sleep on her face.

  She hadn't returned to her condo in Glendale since it had been invaded by demons. Her stated reason was that the earthquake had damaged the walls---which was true---but in reality she couldn't shake the image of the hulking, demonic Don materializing uninvited in her breakfast nook. Presumably the linoleum had been torn out by Uzziel's lackeys, but she wasn't feeling up to confirming the fact herself.

  As she sat nursing her coffee, two men Christine didn't recognize were engaged in hushed conversation with an uncharacteristically somber Troy Van Dellen in a distant corner of the room. While they talked, the rest of the Banner's extant staff trickled in and, after a few forced pleasantries, seated themselves in anticipation of some kind of announcement from the higher-ups. They didn't need to wait long. One of the men, an older, balding gentleman in an expensive gray suit, left the huddle and strode toward the tables. A few paces behind him followed the other stranger, a stocky, pink-faced fellow sporting a blond crew cut. The older man stopped a few paces in front of the assembled staff members, cleared his throat, and spoke for precisely fifty-three seconds.

  He said, in a staccato style that reminded Christine of movies from the 1940s, "Good morning. My name is Gardner Vasili. I'm an attorney representing the estate of Harry Giddings. I am, in accordance with Mr. Giddings's will, ordering the immediate dissolution of the entire Banner organization. All of the Banner's remaining assets have been sold at a private auction to a company known as the Finch Group. The Finch Group is, as you may know, the publisher of several magazines, including the country's fastest-growing news publication, the Beacon. As the Beacon is rapidly adding staff, I encourage each of you to consider applying for a position at their headquarters here in Los Angeles. I have in my hand," he said, waving a stack of envelopes, "an envelope for each of you. Inside are your last paycheck and a business card with the phone number of the Beacon's head recruiter. When you call, please tell them that you were an employee of the Banner and that you were personally referred by Gardner Vasili. Your dedicated service to the Banner will be taken into account. My associate, Dave, will lock up." He handed the stack of envelopes to the blond fellow, evidently named Dave, and walked out.

  The room was silent for a few seconds. Then the staff erupted into a flurry of questions, pleas, accusations, and epithets, all directed at the hapless Dave, who had clearly been selected for this job due to his lack of knowledge of virtually everything other than how to hand out envelopes and lock doors behind him.

  Christine took her envelope and grabbed Troy's as well. She handed it to him, and he smiled wryly.

  "Guess I'll see you at the Beacon," said Troy, with a wink.

  "Oh, absolutely," said Christine. They each opened their envelopes, pulled out the business cards, and tore them to pieces in unison.

  "See you tonight?" asked Troy.

  Christine nodded grimly. "One more night," she said.

  "No worries," replied Troy. "I think Morrissey is starting to like you." Troy had named his cat Morrissey. Christine was afraid to ask whether it was because the cat physically resembled Morris from the old 9 Lives cat food commercial or because he temperamentally resembled the lead singer of the Smiths.

  Christine had to admit that although she still didn't really get along with Troy, he had been exceedingly gracious about letting her crash at his house. And she and Troy shared another bond: their unmitigated hatred for the glorified birdcage liner known as the Beacon.

  The Beacon was, in many ways, the mirror image of the Banner. Whereas the Banner had been established by a religious fundamentalist looking to herald the Biblical Apocalypse, the Beacon had been founded by a strident atheist who was hoping to usher in a glorious era in human history based on Science and Reason. The Beacon was, in fact, founded as a direct response to the Banner by Harry Giddings's chief rival (some would say
nemesis), Horace Finch. Finch was a secular Jew who had assembled a network of television and radio stations throughout Eastern Europe after the collapse of the Soviet Union. His secular media empire gradually expanded toward the west as Harry's Christian empire moved east, and the two men had once met for drinks and a fist-fight in Tours, France.

  Neither magazine had ever made a profit, both having been founded for ideological rather than pecuniary reasons. Toward the end, in fact, the rivalry had mutated into a contest of which magazine could bleed more red ink and still survive. Every day the Banner lost its thousands and the Beacon lost its tens of thousands. And now that Harry was dead and the Banner was on the verge of collapse, Finch had evidently decided to take the high road by looting its rival for its assets and staff. The Beacon didn't need any more reporters or editors; Christine could only assume that Finch's true motivation was to obliterate any memory of the Banner and prevent it from ever rising from the ashes.

  As ambivalent as Christine had been about the Banner's strategy of combining proselytizing and news reporting, she found the Beacon's methodology even more distasteful. At least Harry was up-front about his motivations (excluding the bit about proclaiming the Apocalypse); there was never any attempt to conceal the faith-driven agenda of the Banner. The Beacon, however, was another story.

  The Beacon was run by the sort of cynical atheists who stuck four-legged fish symbols labeled "DARWIN" on their cars in response to the Jesus fish that marked the hatchbacks of their Christian counterparts. Admittedly, the Jesus fish trend had always seemed a little silly to Christine. The fish had been used as a secret identifier by the early Church in the days of persecution by the Romans; sticking it on your car in the twenty-first century reeked of the sort of smug camaraderie that afflicted aging fraternity brothers and those old women who wore red hats when they met for brunch at Denny's. But the Darwin fish---that was something else entirely. Once it stopped being an amusing, ironic commentary (after about the eight hundredth time she had seen one), it began to strike her as somewhat petty and mean-spirited. Beyond that, it had the unintentional effect of elevating Darwin to the position of secular messiah, which seemed to Christine to be a telling marker of the subconscious motivations of the amphibianists, the automotive decal version of a Freudian slip.2