Mercury Rises

by Robert Kroese

  "No, I'll take it," said Uzziel. "These idiots have me on hold anyway. Who is it?"

  The voice spoke again. "She said her name was Susie. From the Punk Lips Bureau."

  "The what?" Uzziel demanded.

  "That's what she said. She said she was transferring Susie from the Punk Lips Bureau with a question about budding."

  "Whatever," Uzziel said wearily. "Just transfer her." He punched the button for line two on his phone.

  "Apocalypse Bureau, Deputy Assistant Director Uzziel speaking," Uzziel said into the phone. "Uh-huh. Yep. OK, I got it." He hung up and smiled humorlessly at Mercury. "I just hung up on myself."

  "I admire your patience," Mercury said. "I'd have hung up on you hours ago."

  "Seriously, Mercury, this is a disaster. I guess the worst of the flooding hasn't hit your area yet, but trust me, it's like the end of the world down there. Which, of course, it can't be, because I'm in charge of the Apocalypse and I don't know a damn thing about whatever is going on."

  "Really?" Mercury asked. "So you didn't approve this rain?"

  "No," replied Uzziel firmly.

  "Not even in Europe?"

  "No," said Uzziel, shaking his head. "I didn't approve the rain in Europe."

  "What about in Asia?"

  "No," said Uzziel. "I didn't OK the rain in Asia either."

  "Hmm," said Mercury. "But Africa, though. Surely---"

  "I most certainly did not bless the rains down in Africa!" growled Uzziel.

  "OK," said Mercury. "Let me see what I can find out."

  "Thanks, Merc," said Uzziel. "I'll owe you one."

  Mercury left Uzziel's office. Now what? Not only did Uzziel not know anything, evidently Mercury wasn't the first angel to arrive from the Mundane Plane to complain in vain about the rain.

  It occurred to him, however, that if a large number of angels had fled the Mundane Plane through the planeport, someone who spent a lot of time at the planeport might have overheard something useful. Mercury sighed. There was only one thing to do: head back to the planeport and find Perp.

  Perp wasn't difficult to find, as he was the only cherub Mercury knew who had assumed the appearance of a young human child with vestigial birdlike wings.3

  "Hey, Perp," called Mercury as he spotted Perp's winged figure buzzing down the concourse of the planeport. "Still doing the baby-with-bird-wings thing, eh?"

  "Hmph," replied Perp as he changed directions to approach Mercury. "Just wait until the Renaissance. Then we'll see who's at the height of fashion."

  "The Ren-what?" Mercury asked.

  "Forget it," Perp said. "In this job, I hear stuff about Mundane history that you wouldn't believe."

  "Actually," said Mercury, "that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Have you heard about the flooding?"

  "Have I heard about the flooding!" Perp exclaimed. "It's all anybody's talking about. I must have escorted five hundred angels through here in the past two weeks, every one of them soaking wet and whining nonstop about the incessant rain on Earth. Lousy fair-weather cherubim, taking an assignment on the Mundane Plane because they thought it was going to be all puppies and rainbows. And now they all want transfers. Well you can't have a rainbow without rain!"

  "Maybe they're just in it for the puppies," suggested Mercury.

  "Hmph," replied Perp. "Herbs such as rosemary and eucalyptus can help repel fleas."

  "I guess I deserved that," said Mercury. "So have you heard anything about why it's raining so much? I just talked to Uzziel, and the Apocalypse Bureau is clueless."

  "Everybody's clueless," Perp whispered. "And you know what that means."

  Mercury didn't.

  "It means," whispered Perp, "that this cataclysm wasn't cleared through channels. The entire bureaucracy is out of the loop. In other words, it came down from on high."

  "'On high?'" Mercury asked. "You mean the archangels?"

  "Shhh!" Perp hissed. "Higher. The order came from them."

  There was only one them that Perp could mean: the legendary beings known as the Eternals, who were to the angels what angels were to humans. Mercury wasn't even certain they really existed, but the official story was that the Eternals provided guidance to the High Council of Seraphim, which was comprised of the archangels and a few senior members of the Seraphic Senate. Mercury had always suspected that the High Council perpetuated the belief in the Eternals to cover the fact that they were making things up as they went along.

  "Come on, Perp," Mercury said. "You don't really buy all that crap about the Eter---"

  "Shhh!" Perp hissed again. "Doubt if you like, but I know when the entire Heavenly bureaucracy is out of the loop on something. Now if you don't mind, I've got work to do. We've got a V.I.A. coming through this afternoon."

  "Ooh, who is it?" Mercury prodded. "A senator? Somebody from the Council?"

  Perp responded only with a look of disdain.

  "An archangel?" whispered Mercury. "Gabriel? Michael?"

  An expression of alarm swept across Perp's face.

  "Wow, Michael? God's own general?"

  "Quiet!" Perp hissed. "This is top-secret stuff. Only planeport security and a few key employees of Transport and Communications have been told. So keep your mouth shut!"

  "I want to meet him," said Mercury.

  "What? No! You can't meet Michael! He's passing through the planeport on official business. He doesn't have time to stop and sign autographs."

  "I don't want an autograph. I want to ask him what he knows about this rain."

  "I told you," said Perp irritably. "Nobody knows anything."

  "Then it won't hurt to ask."

  "Absolutely not," said Perp, folding his pudgy arms in front of his chest.

  "Fine," said Mercury. "Then I'm going to walk over to that information desk and ask that they page the Archangel Michael. Archangel Michael, please pick up the white courtesy phone."

  "You can't do that!" Perp snapped. "That's a violation of security protocols."

  "How could I violate security protocols for something I have no way of knowing about? I mean, unless you told me. Wow, I bet you could get in trouble for something like that."

  "But I didn't tell you anything!" Perp protested.

  Mercury shrugged. "Well, you've got me convinced, but I'm a sympathetic audience."

  "OK, OK," grumbled Perp. "You can be part of the official escort. But asking him about the flood is out of the question. Under no circumstances are you to initiate a conversation with Michael."

  "What if he starts a conversation with me?" Mercury asked.

  "Why in hell would he do that?" Perp growled.

  Mercury shrugged. "I have a friendly sort of face. People like talking to me."

  "Whatever," said Perp. "Just don't start anything, and don't antagonize him. No talking about religion or politics."

  "Works for me," said Mercury. "I'll stick to completely non-controversial topics. Like the weather, for instance."

  NINE

  After the meeting at the Beacon Building, Eddie spent two days holed up in his hotel room reading books one through six of the Charlie Nyx series and then watching the five movies that had been released on Blue-Ray, looking for clues as to the author's identity. He was surprised to find that the books weren't actually bad. The writing style was a bit tired; clearly the author had talent, but Eddie got the impression that he or she wasn't trying very hard. Underneath the unremarkable prose, however, lay a story with mythical potency. It reminded Eddie of some of the ancient epic poems, but updated and translated to tween-speak. The movies, on the other hand, were absolute dreck, combining an overly literal reading of the books with a ten-year-old's obsession with shit blowing up. By the end of the last movie, Eddie was actually sick to his stomach---although that might also have had something to do with the two cartons of Whoppers and three gallons of Mountain Dew he had ingested during his Charlie Nyx marathon.

  Having learned almost nothing about the author of the books, Eddie drove the BMW a
cross town to the posh neighborhood that had once been home to Katie Midford. The drive helped relieve the nausea induced by the intake of excessive sugar and computer-generated graphics, but he was still experiencing a funk that even the warm weather and comforting smog blanket of Los Angeles couldn't dispel. It was dawning on him that even if he found the manuscript, it would undoubtedly be unusable in its current form, as it had been written before the Anaheim Event. Eddie knew enough about human nature to realize that releasing a young adult fantasy adventure that made frequent references to a place where a hundred and forty thousand people had very recently died would be considered in very bad taste, no matter what Wanda Kwan and her beloved shareholders thought. Not only that, but it was probably only a matter of time before someone discovered that there really was a secret network of tunnels under Anaheim Stadium, a fact that would raise a lot of uncomfortable questions that would undoubtedly be directed at Eddie himself. Maybe the authorities had found the tunnels already and simply hadn't revealed the fact publicly. But if they had, he reflected, he most likely would have been approached in Cork by FBI agents rather than the lovely Wanda Kwan. So they hadn't found them yet. And maybe, with a little luck, they never would.

  So, if he could avoid being arrested on the suspicion that he was the most dangerous terrorist in U.S. history, and if he could somehow locate the manuscript that had eluded the Finch Group's professional investigators, and if he could remove the horrifically offensive bits of the manuscript that were undoubtedly critical to the arc of the entire Charlie Nyx series without ruining the book, and if that book were then made into a blockbuster movie, and if he could then parlay the success of that movie into another movie deal, Eddie Pratt would be an actual honest-to-goodness Hollywood screenwriter---and wasn't that worth the risk? Of course it was. Eddie Pratt, the misplaced cherub of Cork, was going to be the biggest thing that ever came out of the M.O.C.

  Eddie drove up Katie Midford's driveway and waved his hand at the gate sensor. The sensor, mistaking an electrical irregularity caused by the manipulation of a minute amount of interplanar energy for a valid entry code, obediently opened the iron gate for the BMW. Eddie zoomed up to the house and squealed to a stop. Then, performing a similar trick on the front door locks and the house's security sensors, he entered the mansion.

  The house was large but sparsely furnished; he moved rapidly from room to room, looking everywhere he thought somebody might possibly have hidden a manuscript. Eventually he came to a heavy wood door at the end of a hallway that had evidently been locked from the other side. Once again taking hold of a slim vein of interplanar energy pulsing through the air, he created a slight kinetic push that nudged aside the latch of the door. Opening the door, he strode in and was immediately greeted with five very loud pops that startled him tremendously, temporarily distracting him from the five bullet holes that had been torn in his chest.

  Before Eddie could even appraise his condition, Katie Midford's tile floor leaped up from behind him and cracked him on the back of his head. He lay there, dazed and bleeding, nearly insensible with pain, while a well-built blond woman in a stylish black leather jacket and sunglasses approached him coolly. In her right hand was a smoking Glock 17 pistol.

  "You gonna get up?" the woman asked.

  This struck Eddie as rather rude. If there was any condition that gave a man carte blanche to lie down and take it easy for a bit, it was being shot five times in the chest with a nine-millimeter automatic pistol. But then Eddie wasn't a man. Still, he was in an awful lot of pain, and a great deal of blood that by all rights should still have been inside him was now re-coloring Katie Midford's grout lines. He lay on the tile and groaned.

  "Reason I ask is," said the woman, who was still pointing the pistol in Eddie's direction, "I need to know if I should reload or get a shovel."

  Eddie managed a chuckle. "Shoot me again and you'll regret it," he said.

  The woman squeezed the trigger again. Nothing happened. She checked the gun's magazine, releasing a handful of bullets into her palm. She peered at them curiously for a moment before popping one in her mouth. "Nice," she said. "Chocolate bullets. Haven't seen that one before. Gonna be a bitch to clean the Glock though." Melted chocolate dripped from the gun's barrel.

  She replaced the gun in a shoulder holster and held out her hand to Eddie. "Name's Cody," she said. "Cody Lang." She seemed profoundly unsurprised by Eddie's supernatural abilities.

  With Cody's help, Eddie struggled to his feet. "I'm Eddie Pratt," he said.

  "Sorry about shooting you, Eddie Pratt. My line of work can be dangerous. And you are trespassing, you know. Come on, let's sit in the parlor. I'll make you a drink."

  "Your line of business," Eddie echoed weakly. "And what would that be, exactly?" He stumbled along after Cody and collapsed in an easy chair in the parlor. Cody made them a couple of gin and tonics from the bar and sat down across from him. She handed Eddie one of the drinks. Eddie took it, wincing with pain as muscles in his not-quite-healed-chest tightened.

  "Actress slash private investigator," Cody said.

  "Um, what?" Eddie replied.

  "That's my line of business. Lines of business."

  Eddie was puzzled. "That's sort of an odd combination, isn't it?"

  "In this town," Cody said, "there's a surprising amount of overlap." She reached into her jacket, and for a split second Eddie prepared to pull the chocolate bullet trick again. But her hand came out bearing only a small white card. She handed it to Eddie. It read:

  Cody Lang,

  Actress and Private Investigator

  Specializing in:

  Infidelity

  Bail Bonds

  Polygraphs

  Body Double

  Thigh Model

  Crying on Command

  "Crying on command?" asked Eddie.

  "Would you like to see?" asked Cody.

  "Oh, uh, that's OK," said Eddie, who was secretly wishing he had asked about something higher on the list.

  "Fine," said Cody. "I don't...really like doing it anyway. It tends to stir up some things that I don't...It's hard to talk about." She removed her sunglasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. They were moist and red.

  "Hey, that's impressive," said Eddie.

  "Thanks," said Cody, suddenly sanguine again. "That's gotten me cast as the grieving wife at least a dozen times. It's also handy in infidelity cases, you know, when I have to break the news about some cheating bastard. People love it when you pretend to care." She took a swallow of her drink and said, "So you're one of them. A demon."

  This last caught Eddie off guard, but there didn't seem to be much point in pretending after his miraculous recovery from five gunshot wounds to the chest, not to mention the chocolate bullet thing. "Yes," said Eddie. "I'm one of them. But I'm not a servant of Ti...Katie Midford, if that's what you're thinking."

  "Yeah," replied Cody. "I kinda figured that from the fact that you broke into her house. So what's your deal?"

  Eddie told her about Wanda Kwan and his need to find the real Charlie Nyx ghostwriter. Cody laughed. "A screenwriter, eh? That's aiming a bit low, isn't it?"

  "What about you?" said Eddie, a bit defensively. "What are you doing here?"

  "I work for Katie. Or I did, anyway. Lately I've been trying to figure out what happened to her. She owes me twenty grand."

  "Twenty grand? For what?"

  "Heh, that's the funny part," said Cody. "You and I have something in common. She hired me to find out who the real writer of the Charlie Nyx books is."

  TEN

  Christine had been in the remote Kenyan village of Baji for three hours before becoming violently ill. She lay moaning in a cot in the back room of the rundown concrete building that served as the local headquarters of Eternal Harvest. On the wall across the room was the same poster she had seen in the former electronics store in Yorba Linda. It continued to assure her, despite much evidence to the contrary, that "YOU CAN HELP." It then went on, less cert
ainly, "EH?"

  So far she was proving to be a severe drain on the personnel and resources of the already strapped Eternal Harvest organization. Leaning over the edge of the cot, she vomited into a bucket, which was then spirited away and presumably emptied in some unhygienic fashion before being returned to her. She was under constant watch by two local women who doubtlessly had better things to do. Far from helping to make this godforsaken place more livable, she had actually managed, in the few hours she had been here, to detract significantly from the local quality of life. She could only hope that whatever malignant entity had seized her insides would kill her quickly, putting her out of her misery and letting the locals get on with their already miserable lives.

  The EH facility was currently staffed by a total of six people, three men and three women, most of whom seemed to be volunteers. One woman had some medical training; the others filled a variety of roles from construction foreperson to nutritionist. Any overt proselytizing that occurred was secondary to the hands-on work EH was doing in the community. At least that was the impression Christine got from the materials she had read on the plane to Nairobi and the three hours she had spent touring the town before being overcome by nausea.

  The next day she felt somewhat better, and was volunteered to assist Maya Keenan, the director of the group, in an errand: they were to drive to an agricultural test facility to pick up a shipment of surplus seed that Maya intended to use to help the locals produce more of their own food.

  Barely recovered from her illness, Christine was experiencing a new round of vertigo precipitated by a jarring ride in an ancient Land Rover down a remote track in Kenya.

  "Can we pull over?" she moaned. "I'm going to be sick."

  "Again?" asked Maya Keenan, who was driving. "How can you possibly have anything left to throw up?"