Mercury Rises

by Robert Kroese

  Israel's war with Syria still dragged on, and some hawks in Congress were already hinting that Syria "couldn't be allowed to use an Anaheim-type device on Israel." This was such an absurd assertion that it was virtually impossible to argue against. In addition to the fact that no one had any idea what type of device (if any) had been used at Anaheim and that there was no reason to suspect the Syrians of being involved, it was unclear how anyone could stop them from using such a device if they did have one. Furthermore, if they did have another device, why hadn't they used it already to wipe out Tel Aviv? And for that matter, why had they used the first one in Anaheim, a city that most scholars agree is not one of the major points of contention in the ongoing Arab-Israeli conflict? Still, the hawks urged preemptive action due to the "scale of the threat," an argument that boiled down to the notion that it was better to be wrong than dead. Jacob feared that unless the various factions at the site of the implosion managed to come up with some compelling alternate explanation, escalation of the conflict in the Middle East was inevitable.

  As Jacob regarded the surreal landscape, he took special interest in three large green canvas tents that had been erected roughly in line with each other, about a hundred feet apart. They were round like circus tents and maybe fifty feet in diameter. He had seen men moving in and out of these tents carrying all sorts of equipment, most of it apparently excavation related. They were digging something up inside of those tents, he knew, but so far he hadn't been able to find out what. National Guardsmen maintained a perimeter thirty feet around each tent, and his protests that he needed to take soil samples from the area inside one of the tents were met with curt rejection.

  "What's under the big top?" he muttered to no one in particular. In the distance he heard the whup-whup-whup of an approaching helicopter. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he trudged toward the helipad on the other side of ACHOO.

  The helicopter waited on the ground for twenty minutes, but when it finally took off the only passengers were Jacob and a junior congressman from Delaware who, failing to have elicited any interest from the media in his presence at Ground Zero, decided to cut his trip short and head home. As the chopper lifted away from the crater, Jacob pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and snapped a picture of the site---a memento of the high point of his career.

  He got to LAX a mere half hour before his flight was to depart, but the airline had overbooked the flight and was offering a free ticket to anywhere in the U.S. to anyone who would wait three hours for the next flight. Jacob, who badly needed a vacation and was in no hurry to return to Washington, D.C., jumped at the offer. As a result, he spent the next two hours dozing in the waiting area of the departure gate.

  While he slept, he dreamed of a snake about to bite its own tail. As the snake's fangs sank into its flesh, he awoke with a start, falling out of the chair and frightening a nearby family. Wiping drool from his cheek with the back of his hand, he stood up and went for a walk down the concourse.

  Something was bothering him about the implosion site, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. Still not fully awake, he unthinkingly pulled out his phone to call his now ex-girlfriend, Karen, which is what until three weeks ago he had always done when he was feeling uneasy. She had broken up with him because, as she put it, "You're always bringing me down with all this heavy shit." He reflected ruefully that if he had ceased his practice of calling her when he was uneasy a week earlier, he might still have a girlfriend, albeit one who no longer served what was, in his mind, the primary purpose of a girlfriend.

  Jacob had no friends, per se. He had mastered the basics of social interaction but found it nearly impossible to make any sort of deeper connection. The closest he had come to making a friend was in graduate school, over ten years earlier. Jacob had graduated from the University of Michigan with dual degrees in chemistry and physics, and before deciding to work for the FBI, he had intended to go into theoretical physics. He was accepted into the graduate program at MIT, where he met an eccentric young professor named Alistair Breem. Allie, as they had called him, became Jacob's advisor and mentor, and the very first thing he advised Jacob to do was to get out of theoretical physics. After two years of study, during which he realized that the only quark he was interested in was a bartender on Star Trek, Jacob obliged him. He had felt a special bond with Allie, but they lost touch when Jacob dropped out of the program, and he heard that Allie had been killed in a car wreck not longer after.

  As a result, Jacob now stood in front of a newsstand at LAX with his phone in his hand but no one to call. His eyes alighted on one of those children's activity books filled with mazes and connect-the-dots puzzles. On a whim, he brought up the photo of the implosion site he had taken from the chopper. The picture was small and grainy; the three tents were merely dark green dots in a field of gray. "Connect the dots," he mumbled to himself.

  An idea struck him. At the newsstand he bought a map of Los Angeles with a detailed blowup of Anaheim and a souvenir ruler. He then walked across the concourse to a coffee shop where he sat at a table and laid the map out in front of him. Examining the picture on his phone, he carefully made three dots on the map with a ballpoint pen and then, with the ruler, found a fourth point that was equidistant from the other three. He marked this point as well.

  Next, to the puzzlement of several onlookers, he removed his shoelace and tied one end around the pen. Holding the pen as close to vertical as he could, he place the tip of it on the dot marking the location of the middle tent and with the fingers of his left hand pulled the shoelace taught across the map, pinning it to the fourth point with his index finger. Keeping his index finger still, he traced an arc that traveled east past the Costa Mesa Freeway, down to the Santa Ana, across to Garden Grove and up to Fullerton before returning to the implosion site.

  Sitting back, he regarded his work. A circle some four miles in diameter now enclosed much of the southeastern Los Angeles metropolitan area. The epicenter of the circle, where he had put the fourth dot, fell at the intersection of two streets with portentous names: Euclid and Beacon. Jacob pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up a map of the area, zooming in on the intersection. A chill shot down his spine: at the corner of Euclid and Beacon sat the pyramidal structure known as the Beacon Building. What did this circle represent? he wondered. And why was the Beacon Building at its center?

  He wished he knew what they were digging up in those tents. It seemed to him that there were two possibilities: either HeadJAC had found something that had to do with the cause of the implosion, or the implosion itself had unearthed something, something possibly unrelated to the implosion. He tended to think it was the latter, because the tents were located off-center of the crater. If they had found the remnants of some sort of implosion device, one would have expected to find it near the crater's center. So, Jacob thought, I will assume for now that the implosion uncovered something that had been hidden under the stadium. But what? Some sort of prehistoric structure, maybe? The ruins of some ancient civilization?

  But if it were some sort of archaeological find, why the secrecy? And why were they using earthmovers and backhoes? Any kind of archaeological find would seem to require a little more finesse. No, HeadJAC had found evidence of something deep underground, something that they needed to move a lot of dirt to get to. But what? A vein of some precious metal? Gold, maybe? Uranium? The discovery of a vein of uranium under Los Angeles would warrant a fair amount of secrecy. But that didn't explain the circle with the Beacon Building at its center. Or was that merely a coincidence?

  Jacob's ruminations were cut short when he realized he was being eyed circumspectly by a security guard across the concourse. It took him a moment to realize why, but it eventually occurred to him that sitting in an airport with a shoelace tied to a pen, making strange markings on a map, and muttering to oneself might conceivably fit under the heading of "suspicious behavior."

  He smiled sheepishly, slipped the map into his duffel bag, and re-threaded
his shoelace. He got to his feet and made his way to the rental car counter.

  TWELVE

  Circa 2,000 B.C.

  Although angels are capable of existing in a purely spiritual form, most find that being unincorporated is, generally speaking, rather impractical. Other than a few obvious benefits (like having a good excuse for not being able to help a friend move), there isn't much advantage to going sans corporealis. Every angel in Heaven has a job to do, and with a few exceptions (contemplating the Infinite, waiting in line at the DMV, etc.) most of these jobs require having some sort of physical form.

  Angels do have some control over what form they take, but their choices do tend to reflect their inherent characteristics and also tend to gel over time. The closest human analog is probably posture: you can choose to walk differently than you ordinarily do, but unless you're extraordinarily talented, you probably can't keep it up for very long.5 And if you walked with a slouch when you were sixteen, you'll probably find it difficult to straighten up when you're sixty.

  Due to the malleability of their physical forms, angels have no definitive physical identifiers such as fingerprints or a DNA signature. An angel's one unique identifying feature is his name. An angel, whether seraph or cherub, comes into being with a name already encoded into his being. In a sense, an angel is his name, in the same way that a human being can be said to be described en toto by his or her DNA sequence.

  Because of the relative ease with which angels assume different forms, the Heavenly Authorities very early on realized that they would need a foolproof method for identifying angels regardless of their appearance. What they came up with was an artifact known as an identity disc.6 Observe:

  A tall figure wearing a hooded leather cloak strode silently through the corridors of the planeport, flanked on all sides by four massive cherubim garbed in black except for a white star insignia marking them as members of the Angelic Special Protection Force. A small group of servants, also wearing hooded cloaks, brought up the rear. Perp, flanked by two planeport security guards with flaming swords, led the way. The guard on the right wore a sash marking him as the head of the group. Mercury, accompanied by two more guards, trailed behind. Mercury had taken the place of another escort cherub from Transport & Communications who was more than willing to take a long lunch rather than trail behind some bigwig seraph.

  Occasionally Perp would issue a shrill "Make way!" but for the most part those occupying the planeport's corridors got out of the way well in advance. The entourage seemed to project an air of reverent silence. Only the occasional announcement over the planeport's PA system and a few hushed murmurs guessing at the identity of the tall angel could be heard.

  Mercury didn't care who the tall angel was. He knew who it wasn't, and that's all that mattered. Who it wasn't was the Archangel Michael, commander in chief of the Heavenly Army. The figure walked with a swagger, the sort of affectation that gave away a pretender to power, someone who was overly enthusiastic about his status as the lead dog of the pack. No, whoever that hooded character was, he wasn't Michael, that was certain.

  Mercury was more interested in a smaller figure who lagged behind the entourage as if consciously forcing herself to remain out of sight. She---Mercury couldn't see her face, but was convinced by her size and her walk that it was a she---moved anxiously back and forth across the concourse, like a jockey waiting for an opening. Curious behavior for a servant, Mercury reflected.

  The entourage entered a narrow corridor leading to a restricted area of the planeport that allowed access to mysterious planes that were only open to very high-ranking seraphim. He noticed the guards to his left and right move their hands closer to the hilts of their swords, smoldering in scabbards hanging from their sides. Had they sensed something? Mercury wondered. If somebody was going to attempt an attack, he realized, this would be the place to do it: the narrow corridor would even the odds between a small attacking force and the sizeable planeport security forces. All the attacker would have to do would be to seal off the opening of the corridor that led back to the main part of the planeport. The entourage would be completely isolated.

  As these thoughts went through his mind, he noticed that the two planeport guards up front had abruptly stopped and turned to face the black-garbed henchmen flanking the hooded angel. They unsheathed their swords.

  At that moment, the two guards flanking Mercury ran forward, drawing their swords as well. All four guards fell upon the four henchmen, decapitating two of them before they could react. The remaining two henchmen drew their swords simultaneously, and one of them managed to stab a guard before they, too, were cut down. Just then, the tall figure drew his sword, taking a step back to get all four attackers in front of him.

  The servants fled past Mercury down the corridor, except for the slight figure Mercury had observed earlier. She drew a fiery blade as well and advanced toward the melee.

  "Oh, no you don't," whispered Mercury, grabbing the back of her cloak. She whirled to face him. Beneath the hood, a stern young female face was visible.

  "Get your hands off me," she growled, in a tone that made Mercury want to run and hide. He released her cloak.

  "Ma'am," Mercury said, with a slight bow. "No disrespect, but you're going to lose this battle. You need to get the hell out of here."

  The girl turned back toward the fray. The tall man was swinging his sword wildly, valiantly beating back the four attackers. The aggressors seemed to be trying to encircle the hooded man and disarm him in an attempt to subdue him without serious injury. Meanwhile, Perp buzzed frantically back and forth across the hall, shouting, "Security! Security!"

  "Please," whispered Mercury urgently to the girl. "If you're who I think you are, you need to get out of here before these guys realize they've been had."

  As he spoke, the blade of one of the attackers sliced through the hooded man's arm at the elbow, cutting his forearm clean off. He fell to his knees, clutching the stump. The head guard leaped on top of him, pinning him to the floor and pushing the hood back to reveal a head of thick, curly blond hair. "Quickly! The disc!" he barked.

  Another guard handed him a silvery disc about the size of a half-dollar, which he pressed against the blond angel's forehead.

  Suddenly Mercury stepped in front of the girl. "Hey, guys!" he yelled. "Wanna see a magic trick?"

  "Decapitate the idiot," said the head guard.

  "You should be more specific," Mercury said. "How am I supposed to know which one you're talking about?"

  Two guards moved toward Mercury, brandishing their swords.

  "Blast!" yelled the head guard, studying the silver disc. "It's not him! The identity disc says it's Malchediel."

  "Michael's personal bodyguard," said another guard. "A clever ruse. But our intelligence is good, I'm sure of it. So where is he?"

  "Or she," said the head guard, peering down the hallway past Mercury. "Stop her!"

  A guard moved to run past Mercury after the girl, but Mercury stuck his foot out, tripping the guard and sending him sprawling down the hallway. As another tried to run past him on the other side, Mercury gave him a shove between shoulder blades, and he, too, lost his footing and fell facedown on the floor.

  "Ten-yard penalty for clipping," Mercury said. "Unsportsmanlike, I know, but you guys have me outnumbered."

  The third guard took a step toward Mercury, drawing his sword back over his shoulder as he did so.

  "I hope you've got better offense than your teammates," Mercury said, "because they weren't much of a challenge."

  "In the name of Lucifer," growled the head guard, "seize her!"

  The guards scrambled to their feet and ran down the hall. The head guard smiled, drew back his blade, and sliced Mercury's head off. The last thing Mercury saw before losing consciousness was the guards converging on the girl.

  THIRTEEN

  "The good news," said Maya, "is that these aren't raiders."

  "And the bad news?" asked Christine.

  "They
're Tawani tribesmen," Maya replied. "They aren't known for being particularly friendly to outsiders."

  Maya greeted the men deferentially, speaking a few stilted words in the Tawani language and gesturing toward the flat tire and to Christine, who tried to appear harmless.

  There was a brief, halting exchange between Maya and the men.

  "They want us to go with them," Maya said to Christine.

  "Go with them? Where?"

  "To their camp. They think we've come to get someone they call Matu-ku-oto."

  "Matu-ku-oto? Who is that?"

  "Dunno," said Maya. "A visitor to their camp. A white man, apparently. They seem rather anxious to get rid of him."

  "A white man named Matu-ku-oto?" asked Christine.

  "I don't think that's his actual name," replied Maya. "They have a hard time pronouncing European names. Matu-ku-oto is just what they call him. A nickname, basically. I think our best bet is just to go with it."

  "What does it mean?"

  "Matu-ku-oto? Well, my Tawani isn't very good, but I believe it means 'silver-haired stranger.'"

  Christine's heart skipped a beat. Could it be true? Had Mercury been hiding out among a primitive tribe in remote Africa? It certainly was a good hiding spot; this area had apparently been overlooked by Heaven for some time now. And the Tawani tribesmen's eagerness to get rid of Matu-ku-oto weighed in favor of the notion as well. Mercury was a bit much to take in doses of a more than a few minutes at a time. It was absurdly unlikely that Christine would have happened upon his hiding place, but she had learned to take such occurrences in stride. Evidently the Universe wanted her to find Mercury once again.

  She and Maya were escorted by the men down a narrow trail through the brush. While they traveled, Maya told her what she knew about the Tawani.