Incarnations of Immortality

by Anthony, Piers

  The spider enlarged. Four of its legs dangled down, fusing into two larger limbs, and four lifted up, becoming two lesser extremities. Its abdomen contracted and elongated. Its head rounded, and the eight eyes merged in much the manner the legs had, two pairs forming two larger orbs and the other two pairs sliding to the sides to form ears. In moments the arachnid became a woman, holding a strand of web between her hands. "Oh, we call it the delayed-reaction syndrome," she said. "You can't step from ordinary life into immortality without suffering systemic dislocation. You will survive it."

  "Who are you?" Zane demanded, surprised.

  "How short your memory is," she teased him, shifting to a younger form.

  Now he recognized her. "Fate! Am I glad to see you!"

  "Well, I did bring you into this, so it may be my responsibility to tide you through the break-in period. All you have to do is accept and adapt to the new reality, and you're all right."

  "But I know the new reality," he protested. "I know I'm supposed to take souls. But I'm not taking them! Not consistently. I talked one woman out of suicide and I actually rescued a drowning man."

  "That does complicate things," she said thoughtfully. "I never heard of Death helping people live. I'm not sure there's a precedent. Except—"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Death."

  Zane's brow wrinkled. "There's something you know that you won't tell me?" She had said something like that before, annoyingly.

  "That is the case. But in due course all shall be known." He realized that it was useless to try to coerce Fate. "Well, is there anything useful you will tell me?"

  "Oh, yes, certainly. What you need to do, to get yourself settled in, is to take some souls to Purgatory. Once you comprehend that aspect of the system, you won't be so reluctant to do your duty."

  "Purgatory? I've thought of it, but I don't know where it is. Chronos said I could ride my horse there, but somehow—"

  She pointed. "Right there."

  Zane looked. There, across the field, was a modern building complex, somewhat like a university. "That's Purgatory?"

  "What did you expect—a medieval dungeon guarded by a dragon?"

  "Well—yes. I mean, the concept of Purgatory—"

  "This is the twentieth century, the golden age of magic and science. Purgatory moves with the times, as do Heaven and Hell."

  Zane hadn't thought of it that way. "I just go there and empty out my bag of souls?"

  "Those you haven't been able to classify yourself," she said.

  Zane became suspicious. There was something devious about the way Fate phrased things. "What happens to souls there?"

  "They get properly sorted. You'll see. Go ahead."

  Zane considered. "First let me sort out whatever I can."

  "Do that." Fate shrank back into the spider, who climbed up its strand and disappeared into the dense foliage of the tree.

  He labored over the souls for some time. He managed to classify all except two: the baby and the Magician. The former was so evenly gray that no reading was possible; the latter was so complexly convoluted with good and evil that it was an impenetrable maze, even for the stones.

  He walked to the Purgatory main building. It was a structure of red brick, with green vines climbing the walls.

  The great front door was unguarded. Zane wrapped his cloak about him and pushed on in. There was a desk with a pretty receptionist. "Yes?" she said, in exactly the manner such decorations did on Earth.

  "I am Death," he said, slightly diffidently.

  "Certainly. Follow the black line."

  Zane saw the line painted on the floor. He followed it down a hall, around comers, and into a modern scientific laboratory. There were no people present, and no devils or angels; it seemed he was supposed to know what to do next. He was, in fact, a bit disgruntled by the receptionist's cool reaction, as if Death were routine. Maybe Death was, here.

  He looked around. He spied a computer terminal. Good enough.

  Zane seated himself before the terminal. He looked for a brand name, but there was none; this was a generic machine, as was perhaps appropriate. It had a standard typewriter keyboard and assorted extra function buttons. He punched ON, and the screen illuminated.

  GREETINGS, DEATH, it printed in bright green letters on a pale background. HOW MAY WE SERVE YOU?

  Zane was not a good typist, but he was adequate. I HAVE TWO SOULS TO CLASSIFY, he typed, and saw the words appear on the screen in red, below the computer's query.

  The machine made no response. After a moment he remembered—he had to ask it a question or give it a directive if he wanted it to react. WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THEM? he added.

  PUT ONE IN EACH DEVICE, it replied.

  Zane looked about again. He saw a line of devices. He started to get up.

  A buzzer sounded, recalling his attention to the computer. TURN ME OFF WHEN NOT IN USE, the screen said.

  Oh. Zane made a pass at the OFF button, but held up. WHY? he typed.

  IT IS NOT NICE TO WASTE POWER.

  Zane typed again. NO. I MEAN, WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A CIRCUIT TO TURN YOURSELF OFF WHEN THE OPERATOR DEPARTS? THAT WOULD BE FOOLPROOF.

  HAVE YOU EVER TRIED TO GET A GOOD SUGGESTION THROUGH A BUREAUCRACY? The print was turning reddish, as if from justifiable irritation.

  Zane smiled and hit the OFF button, and the screen faded. He suspected there was more to this computer than showed.

  He went to the first device. It looked like a spin-drying machine. He brought out the baby soul and fed it into the hopper.

  The machine purred. The soul dropped down into the spinner, which started to rotate. Faster and faster it went, plastering the soul against its rim.

  "A centrifuge!" Zane exclaimed. "To spin out the evil! So it can be measured!" Suddenly it made sense. Presumably after the evil was out, there would be another spin to extract the good, and some way to match them against each other.

  But no evil spun out. After an interval the machine stopped. The soul was ejected to a lower hopper.

  Zane picked it up and returned to the terminal. He turned on the computer. IT DIDN'T WORK, he typed. WHAT DO I DO NOW?

  DESCRIBE THE SOUL.

  IT'S A BABY, PURE GRAY. NO SHADES.

  OH, NO WONDER, the screen said with unmechanical expression. THAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION. TURN IT IN TO RECYCLE.

  This made Zane pause. He wasn't ready to let go of this yet. WHAT'S A DEFINITION DECISION?

  A CATEGORY OF CLASSIFICATIONS, the screen informed him blithely, adopting a blue tinge. It seemed the computer liked being didactic. SOULS THAT ARE AUTOMATICALLY IN BALANCE.

  In balance. Half good, half evil, Zane had been dealing with that kind all along; in fact, he was one of that number himself. BUT HOW COULD THIS BE, FOR AN INNOCENT BABY? he asked.

  A BABY CONCEIVED IN SIN, the screen explained. AS BY RAPE, INCEST, OR GROSS DECEPTION, WHOSE BIRTH CAUSES INVIDIOUS HARDSHIP TO A PARENT, IS DEEMED TO BE IN BALANCE UNTIL FREE WILL COMMENCES. NORMALLY AT THAT STAGE THE BALANCE SHIFTS, AND YOUR OFFICE IS NOT REQUIRED.

  So that was the way it was. Chronos had conjectured as much. This baby had died of illness and neglect before it attained enough free will to change. Thus Death had been summoned—and had found the infant soul almost unsullied by experience.

  WHY? he typed. WHY DO THAT TO A BABY?

  TO GUARANTEE IT HAS A CHOICE.

  BUT IT HAD NO CHANCE! Zane protested. IT DIED BEFORE IT HAD FREE WILL!

  THAT IS THE REASON, the computer explained patiently, taking Zane's statement to be a question. NO SOUL MAY BE RELEGATED TO ETERNITY WITHOUT A CHANCE TO ESTABLISH ITS OWN RECORD. A SOUL WITHOUT A RECORD MUST BE HELD.

  Zane began to understand. It wasn't fair to allow a soul to be damned to Hell without at least a chance to redeem itself, and probably Heaven had rules about accepting the children of iniquity.

  Zane thought about that and concluded he didn't like it. There might be iniquity, but it associated with t
he erring parents, not the child. If he were in charge, he would change a definition or two.

  But of course he was not in charge. He was not God—or Satan. It was not his business to make the rules.

  Yet he was involved, for he was Death. He had collected this soul. He felt responsible. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN A SOUL IS HELD? he typed.

  IT REMAINS FOREVER IN PURGATORY, the screen replied.

  FOREVER! he typed, appalled. EVEN CRIMINAL SOULS ARE NOT CONFINED HERE FOREVER, ARE THEY?

  TRUE. CRIMINAL SOULS GO TO HELL FOREVER.

  That realigned things. Purgatory was surely better than Hell! WHAT DO THE HELD SOULS DO HERE?

  THEY RUN PURGATORY.

  Oh. THE RECEPTIONIST IS ONE?

  CORRECT.

  That didn't seem so bad, if not exactly good. Desk work could get insufferably dull over the passage of centuries. But, of course, this was the in-between place. Eternal neutrality was surely better than Hell.

  Zane turned off the computer, moved to the second device, and drew out the Magician's soul. The device resembled a sealed robot, looking at a pile of papers on a desk. The soul got fed into a slot in the robot's back. In a moment the machine animated, its eye lenses glowing, its metal limbs moving.

  The robot glanced at Zane. "Am I dead yet?" The Magician's voice asked.

  "Yes," Zane replied, taken aback. No soul had talked to him before.

  "Where am I, then?"

  "Purgatory. Your soul is so precisely in balance, I couldn't clarify it for Heaven or Hell, so I brought it here."

  "Excellent," the Magician said.

  "You want to be stuck here?"

  "I have to be here, as long as possible. My calculations were most precise, but there is always that element of uncertainty. A lot hangs on this."

  "A lot hangs on what?" Zane asked, perplexed again.

  "Did my daughter Luna reward you for your consideration?"

  "Aren't you avoiding my question?"

  "Aren't you?"

  Zane smiled. "Your daughter offered, again, but I declined, again."

  "But you mustn't decline!" the Magician-robot protested. "Luna is for you. I left you the Love stone."

  "If you wanted me to meet her, there must have been some better way than bringing me to your own death."

  "No," the robot said. "No better way. Pay no attention to her protestations; she will do what I wish her to."

  "She didn't protest! I protested! It just isn't—"

  "Go after her, Death. She is worth your while."

  "She's not interested in me!" Zane said. "Why should I force my attention on her, by magical or nonmagical means, when I am such a personal nonentity? She surely deserves much better, and can get it." That, Zane realized now, was part of his objection. He could not afford to get emotionally hooked on a woman who would surely leave him soon for a better man.

  "You must," the Magician insisted. "It is essential."

  "Why?" Zane was quite curious now.

  "I can't tell you."

  "That's what you said before! And Fate tends to speak in riddles, too. That annoys me."

  "The rest doesn't matter. Luna is a good girl," the Magician said somewhat lamely.

  "Good reason for her not to be taken by Death."

  "I must get on to my chore," the Magician said, his metallic gaze resting on the desk.

  "What is your chore?"

  "Obviously I must tote up the balance of good and evil on my soul myself. These are the tote-forms." The metal hand touched the pile of papers. "One for every day of my life."

  Zane looked at a form. "Enter sixteen percent of balance from Form 1040-Z on Line 32-Q," he read. "If figure is greater than that on Line 29-P of Schedule TT, subtract 3.2 percent of Line 69-F. If less than amount shown on Line, vT5 on Schedule 11, go to Form 7734 Inverted." He looked up, his mind spinning. "This is almost as bad as an income tax form!"

  "Almost," the Magician agreed wearily. "Where do you think the Revenue Department gets its inspiration? It will take me eternity to get through this paperwork."

  "How do you think it will come out when the final total has been figured. Will you go to Heaven?"

  "By the time I complete the final form, I will have to start searching for errors," the robot said. "That will take a few more centuries."

  "Maybe there won't be any mistakes," Zane suggested.

  "Such forms are designed to be impossible to complete correctly the first time," the Magician said. "What would be the point if they were comprehensible?" He picked up a feather quill, dipped it in a pot of red ink, and commenced his labor. Soon oily sweat beaded his metal brow.

  Zane left the robot to his endless labor. Such a task would drive any normal person crazy, but perhaps the Magician had special resources.

  He dropped the baby soul off with the receptionist on the way out. "Oh, good," she said, this time showing some human animation. "We need new personnel!"

  Zane wondered how a tiny baby would be able to perform, but decided not to inquire. Purgatory surely had ways to facilitate such things and, of course, it had eternity to do so.

  Chapter 5 - LUNA

  His horse still grazed outside. "Hey, Mortis!" Zane called, and the gallant Death steed trotted across to him. What a beautiful animal!

  He mounted. "Take me home, wherever that is." The horse trotted to the edge of the green plain and stopped before a handsome funeral home with white columns on a spacious front porch. The name on the mailbox was DEATH.

  It Figured. Where else would Death live but in a mortuary?

  Zane looked at the horse. "Is it okay for me to stay here a while? At least long enough to familiarize myself with the premises?"

  Mortis flicked an ear forward affirmatively.

  "Do you have a stable or something here? Do I need to provide you with feed, gasoline, or anything?"

  The horse told him neigh, and wandered away to graze some more. The pasture looked exceedingly rich; it was probably all Mortis needed. There was a small lake nearby, so water was also available. This was a nice region.

  So Death had a mailbox! Who would be writing to this office? Zane walked to the box and opened it. There were four letters inside. He took them out, noting that the return addresses were Earthly. Interesting.

  He turned to the front entrance of the Death house.

  Should he ring the bell? Not if this drear mansion was now his home. Still, he was new here. He rang.

  A toll like that of doom sounded inside. In a moment the door opened. A black-clad butler stood there. "So good to see you again, sir. Let me take your cloak." He moved around to ease off the garment.

  "I—I've changed," Zane said somewhat awkwardly. "I'm not the same man."

  "Of course, sir. We serve the office, not the man." The butler hung the cloak in the hall closet and bent to touch Zane's feet. Zane realized the man intended to remove his protective shoes. Well, if he wasn't safe here, where else could he be safe? He acquiesced, and soon shoes and gloves joined the cloak, while Zane stood in comfortable robe and house slippers.

  He smelled something strange. "What is that odor?"

  "That is myrrh, sir," the butler replied. "This mansion is scented with it traditionally."

  "The House of Death has to be scented?"

  "Myrrh is associated with the office, sir."

  Now Zane remembered lines from a Christmas carol:

  Myrrh is mine, its bitter perfume Spells a life of gathering doom. Suffering, sighing, bleeding, dying, sealed in this stone-cold tomb.

  "Well, substitute something more pleasant," Zane said. "And change that death-knell doorbell. If I have any real influence, Death is going to develop a new image."

  The butler conducted him to a pleasant sitting room deep in the building. "Please make yourself at ease, sir. Do you care for an aperitif? Television? A restoration spell?"

  Zane sank down heavily in the overstuffed chair. He did not feel at ease. "All of the above," he said.

  "Presently," the butler agreed.
"And shall I take the mail, sir?"

  "The mail? What for?"

  "For destruction, sir, according to normal policy."

  Zane clutched the letters to his breast defensively. "Absolutely not! I don't care if it's all junk mail, I'll look at it first."

  "Of course, sir," the butler said smoothly, as if pacifying a child. The television set came on in front of Zane as the man departed.

  "Two changes in Purgatory personnel," the nondescript newscaster said. "The office of Death has a new occupant. The former Death, having acquitted himself satisfactorily, improved the balance of his soul and went to Heaven. Death is dead; long live Death! The policies of his replacement are not yet clear; he is running behind schedule, has allowed two clients to escape, and is annoying the staff of his mansion by demanding petty changes in routine. An anonymous, highly placed source conjectures that a Reprimand may be issued if improvement does not occur soon."

  Zane whistled. The Purgatory News was really current and specific!

  "One infant has been added to the staff," the newscaster continued. "He will be trained as a file clerk, once he grows to cognizance. He will, of course, be permitted to choose which age to fix for eternity. This will help relieve the congestion caused by increasing numbers of clients being processed, owing to the general increase in human population."

  Zane was becoming suspicious. Why was the news so directly related to his own involvement?

  The butler reappeared, setting a glass of red wine before him. "The spell is included in the formula, sir."

  "Why is the news so relevant to my interests?" Zane demanded. "It can't be coincidence."

  "This is Purgatory, sir. There is no coincidence. All news relates to the listener."

  "Purgatory? I thought that was the building complex across the way."

  "This entire region, sir. The larger building is merely the Administration and Testing Center. All of us in the intangible zone of Purgatory are lost souls."

  "But I'm here, and I'm not even dead yet!"

  "No, sir. You five are not, technically. The rest of us are."

  "Five? Who?"

  "The Incarnations, sir."

  "Oh. You mean Death, Time, Fate—"

  "War and Nature, sir," the butler finished "These are the living residents of Eternity. All others are dead, except, of course, the Eternals."