Vengeance of the Dancing Gods

by Jack L. Chalker

  The woman smiled evilly and beckoned to the Polynesian to come out. "Perhaps so. If not, we can always give her as a gift to old fang-mouth in there," the Baroness said. "Come." It was said simply, but there was no question that it had the force of a spell behind it from Mahalo's look and her instant obedience.

  The Baron snapped his fingers, and two Ministering Angels appeared with handcuffs and leggings. "I had these prepared a week or two ago, just in case," Boquillas told Joe and Tiana. "They are ordinary, but are silver-plated. I would not suggest struggling in them, because they will cause permanent damage, even to you."

  Dacaro took them and fastened the cuffs on behind their backs, then snapped on the leg irons, which were essentially handcuffs for the feet. Even the handcuffs were really manacles, with a few inches of chain—enough to allow some movement, but hardly very much. Neither of them was likely to hit anyone or run very fast, that was for sure.

  Joe looked up at the iron cage and saw it was empty. "What did you do with Poquah?"

  Dacaro grinned. "Wish I could take you up and show you the upstairs entrance hall. Got two beautiful marble statues up there, facing each other. One's a nude of an elf warrior, the other's a beautiful female winged fairy creature. Got 'em cheap, too."

  Joe struggled in his rage but to no avail. Finally he calmed down. "So you got Marge, too, huh? So where's the souls?"

  "For all the good it will do you, the only thing Dacaro had available were two of Father O'Grady's used whiskey bottles," the wizard said, chuckling.

  "How can one man be so despicable?" Tiana wanted to know.

  The Baron looked at Joe. "Follow me into my little office, Joe. I wish to speak with you alone for a moment." He saw the alarm on Dacaro and the Angels, but quieted them. "It's all right. Tiana's out here with you, and he's quite encumbered. Come."

  With some difficulty, Joe managed to follow him, then stood there while the Baron closed the door. Joe just stared at him for a moment. "Just what kind of a creature are you, anyway. Baron? How can a man be so charmingly evil without showing signs of total insanity?"

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence in my sanity," Boquillas replied, sitting on a comer of his desk. "You see, Joe, all my life has been devoted to mathematics. It sounds dull and ridiculous, but it's really the most practical of all things because everything is mathematics. Not just spells, not just dry and abstract formulae, but real. You are mathematics, Joe, and so am I. The beauty of a leaf, the falling rain—all mathematics. That's how spells work—by altering the mathematics in some way to achieve a new balance. The more I studied, the more I looked at the world, the more I realized that there was but a single great random factor that kept human society from also being mathematically balanced. Human societies—all of them—were somehow structured in a nonlogical, non-mathematical way. That's the true punishment of original sin, you see. Eve, in perfection, was not perfect. She made a single irrational, illogical decision, and Adam went along with it. Don't you see, Joe? This all-wise, all-knowing, all-powerful, omnipotent Creator blew it. Adam and Eve were both imperfect from the start, yet they were regarded as perfect creations.

  "And that, of course, was Satan's point of view. Either the Creator intended perfection and failed, or he wanted all this misery to happen and is therefore punishing human beings for no reason at all except his own perverse pleasure. He created Satan and the others, too, don't forget. It is a terrifying vision to a mathematician, yet the conclusion is inescapable on the face of it. The Creator is insane! We have a root random variable at the core of our being that comes from that insanity."

  "Ever think your problem was in thinking of Him as human, as natural? That maybe He's so far beyond anything we can comprehend that He's beyond our understanding at all?"

  "I considered it, but it is actually an irrelevant point. What isn't mathematically balanced is insanity. Such a being is, therefore, insane, and I refuse to be a party to serving one who is not the heart of all logic and mathematics."

  "And the Devil is?"

  "Well, the Devil's got his own problems, I admit, considering the record; but taking the long view, Satan's fight is my fight because he is battling the Creator, and for the same reasons. Look at this world! I thought ours was bad, but it pales by comparison to the Creator's chosen and personally created own! The world is a madhouse in which the bulk of the population at any time is in slavery or subjugation, starving or in other miseries, and Hell is allowed to run roughshod while all the good and saintly of this world are killed. A world that worships martyrdom above all else, that equates good with dying for a good cause, is a world that is so mad it is unbelievable. Out of this, I have the means to create a single, worldwide, mathematically balanced society. I have the tools. I might well fail; if I do, the world will be destroyed. But if that happens, it will be because it deserves to happen. Better to end it than to bring into being generations yet to be born to suffer all the more!"

  "I'm no priest. Baron, or theologian. I can't give you the answers, if there are the kind of answers either of us will understand. All I understand is that, by the prophecies of the Oracle of Mylox, your plan will lead to Armageddon, unless it is stopped, and I think these people should have the right to blow themselves up without your interference."

  Esmilio Boquillas smiled wanly. "Joe, what can I do with you? I like you, but you and I will always be enemies. Marge and Poquah are in two whiskey bottles on my bedroom mantel. On Tuesday our drunken priest may go his own way—I'll even have some of his superiors under my control. He is headed for the madhouse and we both know it. He is no threat. But you are a threat. Something watches over you, Joe. Something protects you. I can't put my hand on it or find it, but it's true. All the others, including Tiana, I can handle, but you always seem somehow to slip out of every total and absolute trap that is laid and cross me up."

  "What do you plan to do with Tiana?"

  "I will remove her from that odd mermaid's body that Sugasto somehow stuck her with and place her soul in the body of one of the Angels. That will rid me of the were curse, and restore the undisciplined power that the mermaid condition suppresses. She will be under my control, but a good mate for Dacaro."

  "You mean your surrogate and life insurance. You don't trust Dacaro, once this is too far along, anymore than I would. She's stronger than he is—if she's fed the spells."

  "Exactly. But, you see, Joe, I can't do the same for you. No matter where I stuck your soul, somehow it would go wrong for me. If I transformed you into a monkey or a toad and removed all your memory, it would somehow be brought back. I stab you through the heart, my men shoot you three times in the back with a .44 Magnum, and here you stand, healthy as a horse. You were even a horse yourself once, and that didn't stop you."

  "So if you're going to kill me, let's get it over with. One of those silver bullets ought to do it."

  "That would be quick, easy, and relatively painless. I'll certainly give you that option. Quick and painless, or very drawn out and very ugly. It is your choice."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Dacaro rightly pointed out that your actions wouldn't stop us, just badly inconvenience us. There's something else afoot, something more serious and permanent going on, and I want to know what it is. I want the text of what the Oracle told you, and I want to know your interpretation. You know what I'm doing here. Somehow, you've all figured it out. I want to know what counters are being taken by others."

  Joe chuckled. "I don't know them. Baron. They wouldn't tell me or Ti and you understand why. A wave of Dacaro's hand and I'd spill my guts. What little I did know was erased by a spell so complicated it would be tomorrow morning before you could solve it and then dismantle it."

  "I don't have any proof of that, Joe. All right—we'll go the hard way."

  It proved to be a big cellar. Joe was suspended in a small room with a high ceiling, the chain of his hand manacles secured by iron bolts to an overhead beam, so he dangled in the air. It was painful and
somewhat dizzying at the same time.

  Beneath him, perhaps three feet below, was a small tub in which had been placed a very large number of nasty-looking snakes. They were not, however, ordinary snakes, but ones modified by spell.

  "The snakes' venom is a compound of silver nitrate," the Baron explained. "It is almost five now, and sundown is at six thirty-three today. No one will disturb you, Joe, but at sundown the only thing close is going to be those snakes. You'll turn into one of them and drop, as you did with the rats in my old dungeon. They cannot climb beyond the slanted screen barrier, so neither will you. If they don't bite you repeatedly when you drop in, they will all bite when you change back at dawn after a thrilling evening as a snake. Angels will be armed with silver bullets outside the door, and someone will keep an eye on you from time to time. If you get any good ideas, just yell the information and someone will shoot you, if it's of value to us. Otherwise, the snake pit. Believe me, Joe—the door cannot be opened from this side, and there are no windows or other exits big enough to admit anything of value or to use as an escape. No matter what, they'll shoot you, in whatever form, if you try that." He sighed. "Good-bye, Joe. I go to my destiny. Too bad you couldn't come along."

  He exited and the door closed with an unnerving finality. He twisted slowly, his arms aching like hell, and all he could think was. Damn you, Poquah! Your cavalry better come in time!

  Chapter 16

  Spelling Out The Big Broadcast

  And, as that Theban monster that proposed

  Her riddle, ana him who solved it not devoured;

  That once found out and solved, for grief and spite

  Cast herself headlong from th' Ismenian steep,

  So strook with dread and anguish fell the Fiend...

  —Milton

  GIMLET ONLY SUCCEEDED IN HER MISSION BECAUSE Dacaro was paranoid enough that he wanted no one, not even Ministering Angels under his spell, to be in his small office when he worked. Being a wizard, no one had even bothered to investigate when occasional sounds of typing had issued from the office after he'd gone to eat. She was pretty well satisfied; she just hoped she hadn't misspelled anything.

  After completing that part, she was on her own in the big house. She didn't worry about the guards, since any pixie that could remain unnoticed in Brooklyn had no worry about being unnoticed here. She was aware that she alone held a real advantage; unless the other team was captured and had talked or had been asked the right questions, not a single one of the enemy even knew she existed.

  It was late in the afternoon when she completed the task and was satisfied, though she moved on out to see what else she could do. She was met almost immediately by the two marble statues newly placed in the hall, and she had no question in her mind, considering what Joe and Tiana had told her, that these were no artist's copies and that the team below had met with failure.

  She checked in all the rooms up and down the hall, including those with the enforcement arms in them, and even the Baron's bedroom, but found no one else familiar until the last door, more a closet really. She almost skipped it, but slipped under the sill by flattening herself and found Father O'Grady inside. There were several whiskey bottles around, and the priest, stark naked, was sitting there looking forlorn in a comer.

  Something seemed to attract his attention, though, and he looked up and saw her. His expression became instantly friendly and childlike. "If only you could hear me," she sighed.

  "But, faith, I hear ye fine, little fairy," the priest responded in a whisper.

  She was startled. Certainly he wasn't hearing on the usual level. The only thing she could figure was that this guy had real wizard's power—but only when he was drunk.

  "Tell me what happened," she asked him.

  "They caught us, that was all. They were layin' for us all the time. They aren't sure they can control their beastie, y'see, and they wanted me to show 'em how. I drew it all but one small character. 'Tis a shame indeed."

  "Listen—if I can get you out of here, do you think you could get down dere somehow and finish it?"

  He thought a moment. "How? They've got their damnable security in every room and in every hall."

  She thought a moment. "Dat's downstairs. Hey—listen. Do ya t'ink you could shimmy down a long rope in your condition?"

  He got up unsteadily. "To vanquish the foe I would shimmy 'til it hurt!"

  She flew to the lock, then seemed to back her tiny rump into it. There was a little glow when she left, and he was boggled by the idea. "Pixie dust!" he breathed. "Uh—it's your excrement?"

  She stood in midair and shrugged. "Dem fairy stories was for kids. What can I say about the real t'ing?"

  He went over and tried the door. It slid open noiselessly and he peered cautiously outside. "Coast clear. Lead on!"

  "Yeah, well, wait'll you see de dumbwaiter."

  "Almost sundown," Dacaro said. "It's a big night. In an hour and a half we'll own a little part of this world." He and the Baron walked onto the porch and looked out at the grounds and the equipment. New temporary lighting had been installed just to flood the front porch, and over to their left sat the great satellite dish on its trailer, wires going to a separate truck trailer with the control room in it. The three cameras were in place, and being checked by their technicians, which were provided by the cable network. A thousand folding chairs were set out behind them on the lawn. Tonight those who attended would wear no yellow robes, but their finest and fanciest clothing, and look damned respectable, as did those within the house.

  The night was atypically clear and relatively warm. Dacaro, thanks to the Baron's computer, had arranged it that way.

  A fancy lectern with a banner over it reading TRUE PATH CRUSADE was set up in front, and the microphone was in place and could be detached so Dacaro could walk out from behind it if necessary. Two boom mikes, out of camera frame, supplemented it, and all were tied together in the base of the lectern by a mass of switching and other electronic gear that almost filled it.

  The Baron intended that he and the Baroness would watch the proceedings from chairs in the front row center of the audience; Dacaro had to carry the talkathon ball, of course. He would have assistance, but he'd be on as part of it for the entire time, and, by doing so, act as a carrier for the more subliminal but vitally more important spells being transmitted at the same time. Dacaro, or even himself in his prime, would have been incapable of broadcasting that steady level of power for more than a few minutes, but Dacaro merely had to be on. The power would come from below.

  Boquillas took a moment to appreciate his own brilliance. The sun would be down in a moment, and that would finally be the end of Joe. He had beaten them all, including Ruddygore's best, and he'd killed, imprisoned, or enslaved all those who had cost him dearly in the past. This was indeed a night to remember.

  Gimlet had gone ahead of the priest, who had a very tight fit and was also very tight. Moving the panel in the basement back just enough to get through, she looked over the place. As she expected, it was empty—no, it wasn't. Two of the Ministering Angels with their nasty rifles stood near a small door over to one side. She knew they would have to be taken out before the priest made it down this far.

  She lowered her glow to the minimum and shot from the opening. In a flash, she was hovering over the two guards, one on each side of the door. They hadn't noticed her, obviously. Now, she flew back and forth over each in turn and a twinkling substance settled down and came to rest in each of the guard's hair. They did not seem to notice, but odd smiles suddenly crept out on their faces and they seemed to relax a bit. One giggled.

  It was a bit noisier when the priest got down and pushed the door all the way back. He hardly made it, feet first, out of the opening, and only his condition kept him from feeling the pain.

  He looked around, saw the two Angels, and froze. They looked at him, started giggling uncontrollably, and began pointing and gesturing, but the last thing they seemed to want to do was shoot him.


  He felt suddenly a bit insulted. "What's with them?"

  "I peed on dem. Dey're pixilated, y'know. Forget 'em." They both looked through the glass, which was darkly transparent from this side, and saw only the deserted entry point with the candles burning. The priest stared.

  "They didn't even erase what I drew!" he said. "The Seal's intact!" He turned excitedly. "Quickly—find me a piece of chalk. Red's best, but any will do."

  She went off and looked through Boquillas's office. The pack they'd taken from the priest was still there, and she shed a tiny bit of her essence on it and it levitated out and followed her to the priest, who took it and smiled. "I'll finish the Seal," he told her. "You go see if you can help some of the others."

  Gimlet turned and looked at the hysterical guards. "I wonder what dey're guardin'?" she muttered, and flew to the door. One of the laughing and giggling guards obligingly opened it for her.

  She flew immediately to Joe, knowing he could see but not hear her. He seemed happy to see her, or anybody, but puzzled. Suddenly, through his pain-wracked mind, he managed to say, "Stay with me! Sit on me if you have to! Sit on me until..."

  It was six thirty-three, and he suddenly found himself free and falling through the air, and barely had the presence of mind to pull up. The move was instinctive; he was now an exact twin of Gimlet, and had all of her instincts, drives, powers, and limitations. Everything but her accent.

  "What's happening?" he asked her.

  "Gee—dis is neat," Gimlet commented. "Been a long toime since I had a sister."

  "Can the comedy—you know what happened, and thanks for arriving in time. Close, though." He sighed. "It's always so damned close."

  "I freed da priest. He's drunk as a skunk but he's in dere now finishin' up da drawing or whatever." They quickly exchanged what information they had.

  "I'd say let 'em go ahead with the show for now," he told her. "We can't do anything about it. Let's try and free any we can. I know where the souls of the fairies are kept—the Baron told me."