Mercury Rises

by Robert Kroese

  "Huh," Mercury said. He did vaguely remember that, now that she mentioned it. Now the stones were a pale rose color.

  "The ziggurats," she said, "channel energy that vibrates at a higher frequency than the normal interplanar energy. Call it metaplanar energy. It's undetectable even to angels, but with the right equipment, its paths can be traced. Every ziggurat I build is an attempt to get the metaplanar energy focused on this portal. Unfortunately, the channels are difficult to trace with any precision, and the slightest miscalculation can send them wildly off course."

  Mercury's eyes had glazed over.

  "Pay attention!" Tiamat barked. "Look, think of it like this: you have a nail. The tip of the nail is stuck in the ground. Balanced on the head of the nail is a large wooden wheel, lying on its side. Your goal is to drive the nail into the ground. You are not allowed to touch the wheel, but you have a pile of small rocks that you may place on the wheel. What would you do?"

  "I'd start piling rocks in the middle of the wheel," answered Mercury.

  "Right," said Tiamat. "But now let's say you're not allowed to place rocks within six inches of the center of the wheel. Now what?"

  "Hmm," Mercury said. "I suppose I'd start by setting two rocks as close as I could to the center of the wheel, counter-balancing each other."

  "Fine," said Tiamat. "But let's say you've miscalculated slightly, causing the wheel to tilt dangerously in one direction."

  "Then I'd set another rock on the high part of the wheel to balance it out."

  "And then the wheel tilts in that direction, because you've overcompensated. Or worse, you've undercompensated, and you have to place another rock near where you've just placed one, but then the wheel will be way off balance, so you've got to drop one on the opposite side to counterbalance your counterbalancing. It's not a perfect analogy, but you get the point. It would take a long time, but eventually, if you keep patiently placing rocks, you'll drive the nail into the ground."

  "So the ziggurats are the rocks?" asked Mercury.

  "Right," replied Tiamat. "And this," she said, gesturing at the mosaic, "is the center of the wheel. Except that instead of driving a nail into the ground, we're breaking through the barrier that separates our Universe from the one above it. When the final ziggurat is completed, the channels will be precisely focused on this spot. Those stones will turn completely white, and this will become a portal to the metaverse. And once I have access to the metaverse, I'll be able to transport instantly to any location on any plane. I'll be able to observe anything that happens, anywhere. For all practical purposes, I will be omniscient and omnipotent. I will rule the entire Universe, and then some!"

  "Wow," said Mercury, trying not to let his voice quaver. "I always knew you were ambitious, but I had no idea..."

  "I'm going to make Lucifer's rebellion look like a toddler's tantrum!" Tiamat declared. "God Himself will bow before me!"

  Mercury smiled weakly. "And I'll be able to say I had something to do with it," he said.

  But Tiamat, cackling madly, didn't hear him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Christine was exhausted, but the faint hope that she'd be able to get some sleep in the Land Rover was dashed as soon as they hit the road. Maya was about as happy to see her as she had expected.

  "...not sure what you thought you were signing up for," Maya was saying, "but you can't just up and leave whenever you feel like it. I don't have time to be driving to Nairobi and back on a moment's notice. I just get back from the Tawani camp, and then I get a call that you're in Nairobi, for God's sake..."

  "I know," said Christine. "I'm really sorry, but this really is an emergency. I've got to get to the Tri-Fed facility or...some really bad things are going to happen."

  "Really bad things happen here all day, every day, Christine. Living in Los Angeles, you don't really have the perspective---"

  "Listen," Christine growled hoarsely. "Have you been to Anaheim? Have you seen the giant hole in the ground that used to be Anaheim Stadium? That's the kind of bad stuff I'm talking about. Except Anaheim was just a warm-up. Think of something ten-thousand times worse than what happened in Anaheim, centered right here in Kenya. That's the kind of bad stuff I'm talking about. Now shut up and drive."

  Maya shut up and drove.

  Christine had taken the first flight from Geneva to Nairobi, having called the Eternal Harvest facility to arrange for Maya to pick her up. Her luggage consisted of her purse and one checked bag: a metallic suitcase bearing an icon that looked like some sort of protozoan. She had hoped Mercury would be able to get away from Izbazel and Gamaliel, but they had been prepared for the possibility that he wouldn't make it. Fortunately, angels had a tendency to underestimate mortals like Christine. They hadn't even noticed her slinking away with the real Attaché Case of Pestilence.

  With Mercury in captivity, it was up to her to retrieve the Case of Famine and...then what? She hadn't had time to think through her plan beyond that point. Somehow she'd have to get back to her apartment, take the linoleum portal to the Courts of the Most High, and then try to find someone in the Heavenly bureaucracy to listen to her---and hope she wasn't too late to save Mercury, not to mention the world.

  Maya pulled up to the Tri-Fed facility and honked. Crispin, the pudgy man with the giant head, came out to greet them with a puzzled look on his face. Christine got out to meet him.

  "Back so soon?" Crispin asked through the chain link. "I don't have any more seed. Maybe next month."

  "I don't want the golden eggs," said Christine. "I want the goose."

  "The goose? I don't have any---"

  "The Attaché Case," Christine said.

  "The what?"

  "Don't play dumb, Crispin. I know it's here. That's where all the seed comes from. After the trouble with the corn in South Africa, Tri-Fed moved it up here, where no one would be looking for it."

  "I'm sorry," said Crispin. "I can't help you. I don't know anything about any Attaché Case."

  "Fine," said Christine. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to go back to the EH office, call up Tri-Fed, and tell them that a certain employee of theirs at Test Facility 26 named Crispin is selling their top-secret seed on the black market. How do you like them apples?"

  "You're threatening to get me fired?" Crispin asked. "You know that if I give you that briefcase, I'm going to get fired anyway." The rate of his perspiration had visibly increased.

  "Look, Crispin. Here's the deal: Tri-Fed isn't supposed to have that briefcase. It's dangerous. And I don't mean rusty nail dangerous, I mean worldwide famine dangerous. You watch the news, right? You see what's going on with that corn in South Africa. That's the sort of thing you get with these Cases."

  "You can't prove that what's going on in South Africa has anything to do with Tri-Fed," said Crispin.

  "Your loyalty is commendable," said Christine, "if a bit lack-luster. Have you ever wondered why someone would release an unkillable, inedible strain of corn that wipes out every other form of vegetation in its path?"

  "They're saying it's ecoterrorism," said Crispin uncertainly.

  "Right," said Christine. "And what terrorist group might be responsible for such an insidious deed? SPECTRE? THRUSH?"

  "Huh?" replied Crispin.

  "This isn't a James Bond movie, Crispin. Terrorists try to sneak onto airplanes with bombs in their shoes and box cutters in their pants. They don't spend tens of millions of dollars and God-knows-how-many years developing genetically engineered strains of corn to wreak havoc on South Africa's farmland."

  "OK," said Crispin. "But why would Tri-Fed release a harmful strain of corn? It isn't in their interest."

  "I have no doubt their intentions were good," replied Christine. "That's the thing with these Cases. Most of the time they'll give you exactly what you want, but occasionally...well, things will go horribly wrong. I'm sure the scientists working at this facility are super smart and well-intentioned, and I'm sure they think they can weed out the problems, but they can't. T
hat's the rub with the Attaché Cases of the Apocalypse. They always cause more problems than they solve."

  "Cases of the what?"

  Christine sighed. "Wait here," she said, and walked to the driver's side of the car.

  "Get out," she said to Maya.

  "What?"

  "Get. OUT."

  Maya got out.

  Christine got behind the wheel, threw the Land Rover into reverse, and gunned the engine. She slammed on the brakes, kicking up a massive cloud of dust, and then threw the transmission into first gear and gunned the engine again, smashing into the gate and tearing it from its hinges. She got out of the car and trudged past Crispin to the door of the facility.

  "What the hell are you doing?" Crispin yelled. "You can't..."

  Christine picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground, hurled it through a window, and then spun around to face Crispin.

  "Here's the deal," she growled. "You have two options. Option one: you can say that a crazy woman drove her Land Rover through that gate, broke into your office, and took the briefcase. Option two: shoot me. Please decide quickly; I haven't got a lot of time." She eyed the holster at Crispin's hip.

  Fortunately for Christine, Crispin was the sort of person who was more than happy to let someone else frame his options for him. Christine had given him two, and for a moment he considered the latter. He could shoot her, he thought. Unfortunately, what was in the holster was only a half-empty canister of pepper spray, on account of the fact that Crispin was only one-eighth of a security guard. He pictured himself spritzing the woman with pepper right in her oddly mesmerizing face. And then he pictured the woman going ballistic and chasing him around the compound with rocks in her fists. He started to sweat even harder. He really, really wanted to go home.

  Crispin stared dumbly at Christine, considering his options. What was the worst that could happen if he gave her the Case? He'd get fired, that was it. They'd send him back home.

  Crispin lumbered back to the building. He came out bearing a silvery briefcase. Christine took it from him and walked to the truck.

  "What the hell was that?" Maya asked incredulously.

  "No time to explain," said Christine. "I need you to take me back to Nairobi. I need to get to Los Angeles."

  "Los Angeles?" said a man's voice behind them. "Why would you want to take the Attaché Case of Famine to Los Angeles?"

  Maya and Christine spun around. A strange man was approaching from behind the truck. He was tall, with angular features and sandy brown hair.

  "Who is that?" Maya asked.

  Christine stared, shaking her head. "I have no idea," she said, but she had a sinking feeling that the strange figure was not a man at all.

  "Name's Israfil," said the man. "I work for the Bureau."

  "The FBI?" asked Crispin. "I swear, I didn't know I was breaking any laws..."

  "Different Bureau," said Israfil, winking at Christine. "Christine knows."

  "What is he talking about?" Maya demanded.

  Christine's gripped tightened on the handle of the Case.

  "Hand over the Case, Christine. And don't try any funny business. Uzziel warned me about you."

  Christine studied Israfil, trying to get a read on his motivations. Was he in on Uzziel's scheme, or was he just a conscientious employee of the Apocalypse Bureau who thought he was doing the work of Heaven? If he was the latter, then she might be able to appeal to his sense of propriety.

  "Uzziel warned you about me, did he?" Christine asked. "Well, let me warn you about Uzziel. Do you know who Izbazel and Gamaliel are?"

  "Of course," said Israfil. "Demons. They're both in Heavenly custody, I believe."

  "You believe wrong," said Christine. "I just saw them in Geneva a few hours ago. Uzziel's got them doing his dirty work. He assigned Mercury to retrieve the Case of Pestilence but then sent those two to intercept him."

  "Ridiculous," said Israfil.

  "What if I can prove it?" asked Christine. "What if I can get you the Attaché Case of Pestilence as well?"

  "You know where Pestilence is?" asked Israfil.

  "I do," replied Christine. "I've stashed it somewhere safe. And I'll tell you where, but you've got to do me a favor."

  Israfil frowned. "I don't like the sound of that."

  "It's nothing illegal," Christine assured him. "And think of it: you'll be exposing a major defection within the Bureau and handing them both missing Cases. You'll be a hero, Israfil. Hell, they'll probably put you in charge of the Bureau. Trust me, there's going to be an opening soon."

  "All right, what is it?" Israfil asked.

  "I need you to set up a meeting for me."

  "A meeting?" asked Israfil. "With whom?"

  "With a friend of mine," said Christine. She pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to Israfil. It bore the seal of the Archangel Michael.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eddie, Cody, and the mysterious man claiming to be Saint Culain had retired to Eddie's suite. Cody had nearly fainted at the sight of the man, and Eddie decided that whatever was going to happen next, it would probably just as well happen in the comfort of his private suite than in a hotel bar. In any case, whoever the mystery man really was, Eddie was certain he was human---which meant that he was no match for a cherub, if it came down to fisticuffs. Whoever he was, Eddie wasn't going to let him lay a finger on Cody.

  Once Cody was resting comfortably on the couch, Eddie sat in a plush chair across from her. "So let me get this straight," He said. "This guy is your father? Colin Lang?"

  Cody nodded numbly, her face still white. She was staring at the mystery man, who had taken a seat in another chair. He regarded them with a bemused smile on his face.

  "You told me you were Saint Culain," Eddie said to the man.

  He nodded. "I was. After that, I was Colin Lang. I was a dozen others in between. These days I'm Kevin Baine. I've learned not to get too attached to any one identity."

  "How about your family?" demanded Cody. "I thought you were dead!"

  "I'm sorry about that," said the man. "I have to keep moving. There are...certain factions who would very much like to get their hands on me."

  "So what do we call you?" asked Eddie. "Who were you, originally?"

  The man sighed. "I'll tell you if you want, but you won't believe me."

  "Try me," said Eddie.

  "My original name, my birth name," the man said, "was Cain."

  "Cain?" Cody asked dubiously. "Like, in the Bible? The son of Adam and Eve? Brother of Abel?"

  "That's correct," said the man.

  Cody snorted.

  "You're right," replied Eddie. "I don't believe you."

  The main shrugged. "Call me Culain, then, if you prefer."

  "Fine, Culain," Eddie said flatly. "Although I'm not completely buying that either. Now tell me what the hell is going on. What do you have to do with Charlie Nyx and the Anaheim Event and all the rest of it?"

  Culain nodded. "It's a long story, and absurdly unlikely, but it's all true, I assure you. You know the account of Cain and Abel from Genesis, of course?"

  Eddie replied, "Cain kills Abel in a fit of jealous rage. God curses Cain to wander the Earth, and puts a mark on him so that no one will kill him."

  "Hmm, yes," said Culain. "More or less. Except it wasn't a visible mark that kept people from killing me. God changed me. Something about my biology. Made me immortal. Impossible to kill."

  "The mark of Cain was immortality?" asked Eddie, doubtfully. "Why would God reward murder with eternal life? That makes no sense."

  "Reward!" Culain scoffed. "It was no reward. I was a farmer. It was all I ever wanted to do; all I was ever good at. But God cursed any soil that I worked, so that it bore no fruit. I tried being a potter, but the pots I made were marred by my guilt. I tried weaving clothing, but the yarn snagged and tangled. I found work as an unskilled laborer, but failed even at that. Any enterprise I was involved in would eventually fail. Locusts would eat the crops, or bandits would
steal the inventory, or fire would destroy the warehouse. In every case, it didn't take long for the proprietor to determine the source of the trouble: me. If I was lucky, I'd have left town by the time they figured it out. If I was unlucky, they'd beat the hell out of me and then chase me away with pitchforks.

  "On the rare occasion that I managed to live in peace with my fellow peasants for a few weeks, angels would show up and start harassing me. I didn't know at the time if they were specifically assigned to make me miserable, or if angels just have a special resentment for a human who dares to claim the mantle of immortality---even if it wasn't my choice. Either way, they would ultimately force me to move on.

  "They could hurt me, but they couldn't kill me. Nothing could, and trust me, I tried everything. Eventually I became a writer, like you, Eddie. I found that writing was the one thing I could do where the mistakes I made were never permanent. If I wrote something and the next day I didn't like it, I would just crumple up the paper and write something else. I got pretty good at it after a few centuries. By that time I had had plenty of time to think about the nature of reality, and immortality, and time...and to research many arcane subjects. I met Pythagoras, Aristotle, Euclid, Augustine, and many others. In what you call the Dark Ages, I spent some time wandering around Ireland, taking on the name Culain. I wrote a number of treatises on the relationship between matter and time. The notions didn't make much of an impression at the time, but Culain attained a bit of notoriety after his 'death,' and was even canonized by the Church. That was my own fault---I tried to stay out of the limelight, but when you survive a fall from the bell tower of a cathedral onto an oxcart full of rotten beets, people tend to talk. I walked away without a scratch, and somebody asked me how I felt. I said, 'Meh,' and kept walking. That's how I became Saint Culain the Indifferent.

  "Anyway, not long after that, I had to ditch the Culain identity and move on. I spent several centuries in obscurity. My greatest success as a writer came when I wrote under the name Shakespeare..."

  "Oh for fuck's sake," Cody spat. "Do we really have to listen to this? Look, I get it, OK? You weren't big on the family thing. I'm over it. You don't have to make up this crazy shit about being Cain and Methuselah and Hemingway."