Lucifer's Lottery (27 page)

“How can . . .” you begin.

“Hallucinosis Transformers at the fringe of each Privilato estate provide the preferred environment,” Howard answers. “Should you so desire, Mr. Hudson, your sky will always look exactly like the sky in the Living World.”

“Incredible,” you mutter, but then you think of something. “There’s an awful lot of—what?—supernatural technology here—”

“The proper term is Occult Science or Systematic Magic.”

“Fine, but it’s still the opposite of science in the Living World, right?”

“Quite right. It’s antithetical. As I explained previously. The subjective on Earth is objective here. The blacks and whites of the Living World is the all-crucial gray area in Hell. The hard science of God’s green earth is magic in Lucifer’s kingdom.”

“All right!” you exclaim, “but that’s my point. If Lucifer can do all of this with Occult Science, then what has God done in Heaven with Godly Science?”

Howard seems taken by your observation. “I am quite regrettably unqualified to render an answer but I must speculate . . . It must be rather dull when compared to all of this.”

Really?
You stew on the words.
I’ll have no way of knowing, will I?

“But to return to our former topic—there,”—Howard points over the parapet—“the Satanic Chapel. You
will
have to attend Black Mass on occasion, but I would think that little to ask in view of what you’ll be receiving, hmm?”

The black church sits in the corner, past the courtyard proper, almost quaintly were it not for the high upside-down cross erected on its steeple. Several bosomy nuns busy themselves about the small building.

“I mean your previous question regarding, um, sexual refraction,” Howard goes on, “and your potential concern about the prospect of being ‘worn out’ by the bevy of sexually available women at your disposal.”

“Huh?”

“Privilato status entitles you to your very own personal aphrodisial farm. Note the garden, Mr. Hudson.”

You see the area of space, a great square of flower beds tended to by sultry women in white cloaks and hoods. Only their breasts can be seen through apertures in the cloaks.

“The women are Bio-Sorceresses, and they will suffice for your groundskeeping staff. Every Privilato gets his own rod of Orgia Extremus Root. The Bio-Sorceresses are occult chemists who pick the root at harvest time, extract the Inhuman Growth Hormones from it, and then further process a priceless Gonadotropic Elixir that not only abolishes sexual refraction between climaxes, but allows for massive orgasms that last for not seconds but the equivalent of a full hour.”

Your demonic mouth hangs open at the information.

“It should go without discourse that Privilatos spend most of their time engaged in one manner or other of licentious congress.”

Hour-long orgasms
, you think.

“And for such occasions when you
do
long for diversity of a nonsexual mode . . . there, in the corner opposite.”

You follow Howard’s finger to said corner, and see a troop of well-weaponed Conscripts surrounding one of those glowing green holes you saw the Privilato disembarking before he took his entourage into the Fetal Aperitifs bar.

“The Conscripts of the famed Diocletian Brigade will serve as your bodyguards when you wish to travel, and for traveling, you have at your constant disposal your very own Nectoport,” Howard says.

For
when I want to go out on the town
, you think.

You must admit now . . . the possibility is sounding better and better.

“But wouldn’t I need money?”

“Ah. The filthy lucre!” Howard takes you back inside, through one stunning hall after another, and down myriad jeweled corridors. Eventually, he turns into another room.

Jesus!

The room’s ceiling causes you to look involuntarily up.

“The Unholy Coffer-Vault,” Howard says.

The room must be a hundred feet high and hundreds deep. It is filled with pallet after pallet of banded paper money.

“There must be a billion dollars here!”

“Six
billion, Mr. Hudson, though not dollars. Hellnotes.” Howard’s focus drifts off. “I once wrote a longish tale entitled ‘Dreams in the Witch-House.’ I thought it was most abysmal, but a friend submitted it and got for me the unheard sum of $140. I’ve often wondered what that would be worth in Hellnotes.”

As usual, you don’t hear Howard; your attention, instead, has been highjacked by the airplane-hangar-size vault of cash.

That’s A LOT of MONEY!

“You also need to be apprized, sir, that once you’ve expended the entirety of this vault, Satan’s Treasurers will simply fill it up again.”

Now you’re getting dizzy looking at all of it . . .

“In spite of all of Hell’s horrors, there’s quite a bit for a
wealthy
man to do,” Howard goads on. “Especially one who will know wealth for
eternity
. . .”

“Take me out of here,” you say suddenly. “I’ve got to think . . .”

Howard smiles.

When Krilid received the coordinates for his next familiarization surveillance, he squinted hard through the accommodating headache. He had headaches all the time simply as an aftereffect from the Head-Bending job the Satanic police had treated him to; the telepathic orders from Ezoriel’s mental antennae array only felt worse. As the illegal Nectoport soared high and fast through clouds like coal dust, the Troll rested his head in his clawed hands and felt it literally throb.

There was no aspirin in Hell.

But he had to hand it to the Contumacy’s skill in stealing and then replicating Lucifer’s leading-edge Sorceries. Krilid need only receive the coordinates and then
think
once very hard, and he was on his way.

A nebulous intelligence memo had slammed into his head along with the coordinates. When the headache passed, he thought,
This might be very interesting
. . .

If
the intelligence wasn’t counterfeit.

Krilid had revivified the Hand of Glory only when he finally began to descend toward the next assignment. He liked the idea of nobody being able to see him while he could see entire Districts of Hell with any given glance. Now, miles below, he could see the staggering Pol Pot District and its smoking crematories, its killing fields, and its almost
endless landscaping of heads on pikes.
Didn’t know this burg was so big
, he thought, but then his gaze fixed on a break in the District’s layout, an irregularly shaped construction site of some kind. At this altitude, it was tiny of course, but as the cloaked Nectoport slipped lower . . .

I don’t believe what I’m seeing. They really did it
.

The thing stood immobile in the middle of the fortified site, a
thing
taller than any skyscraper in the District. The wedged, neck-less head sat propped upon dark shoulders straining with inanimate muscles. The monster’s arms—which had to be 200 feet long—hung just as muscularly at its sides; and the corded legs shined blackly in the sky’s scarlet light. Krilid took the Nectoport lower, to encroach upon the Demonculus’s face and—

Aw, shit
. . .

He nearly vomited at the sight at the pitted muck that had been sculpted to comprise the most revolting and indescribable visage.

Krilid retook to the clouds, his stomach in queasy turmoil.
That face’ll take a LOT of getting used to
, he reminded himself.

But only
if
he succeeded, and the odds of
that
seemed to be shrinking very quickly. But he knew this full well:
If the Master Builder brings that thing to life, there’ll be a world of hurt coming down the pike for Ezoriel and the Contumacy
. . .

Krilid hovered next, to focus his Monocular, actually laughing to himself now that he was considering his odds of success.
I don’t stand a chance in Hell
—
pun intended
. There were Noble Gas Skiffs floating all over the place, full of Conscripts and Warlocks armed to the hilt with every weapon in the Satanic Arsenal.
All I have is this Nectoport, a pistol, and a couple of muzzle-loading long rifles
, and then he laughed again.

He thought:
I’m a pawn in a chess game that Ezoriel KNOWS can’t be won
. . .

The field, hundreds of feet below, was impenetrably walled with Hexed Blood-Bricks and full of ranks of more soldiers, not to mention marching formations of Ushers, Golems, and Flamma-Troopers.

All that
. . .
against little old me
. . .

He homed the Monocular in on the Demonculus’s chest, noticing the protective plate bolted into it. Two more Security Balloons floated to either side, to discourage a sneak attack. Krilid just laughed and laughed, knowing that Ezoriel’s plan meant certain death.

Oh, well. What else do I have to do?

A third balloon seemed to be disengaging from the others about the chest plate. Krilid’s eyes narrowed—from that particular Skiff an Imperial Flag was flying from the balloon net. Krilid quickly checked his folder of vellum sheets containing target identification diagrams . . .

The flag’s insignia showed an emblem of a bat with a fanged skull-head, while the bat’s dripping talons grasped hammers, ladders, and shovels.

The Master Builder’s regimental colors!
Krilid knew. He focused the Monocular further and saw the crowned, withered-faced Human in the rearmost seat. The shimmering surplice of spun lead told all. It was the Supreme Master Builder himself, the acclaimed Warlock Joseph Curwen . . .

I can’t have this pressure!
Krilid’s thoughts exploded. His gnarled hands snapped up his rifle, fixed the Monocular on the barrel; and then he dumped his powder cartridge and rammed a ball.
If Ezoriel’s Clairvoyants are so great, how come they didn’t know Curwen would be in the Skiff?

Krilid brought his rifle to bear, cocked the hammer, and lined up his sights right on the Master Builder’s head
. . .

He took in one full breath, let half of it out, and began to depress the trigger—

The sudden headache hit him like a ball bat.
Holy shit!
Krilid dropped the musket and landed flat on his back on the Nectoport deck, cringing from the pain like a dentist’s drill boring straight into unanesthetized nerve pulp, only the pulp wasn’t a tooth, it was his entire brain.

NOT NOW, KRILID
, Ezoriel’s static-ridden voice slammed into his head.
THE TIME IS NOT YET AT HAND
. . .

“But I had him right in my sights!” the Troll bellowed, hands clamping his warped skull.

THE PLAN WILL MOST CERTAINLY FAIL UNLESS IT IS EXECUTED ON PRECISE SCHEDULE—

“The evil scumbag was right there! I had a perfect head-shot!”

The Fallen Angel chuckled through more corroded static.
YOU’RE A ZEALOUS GODLY SOLDIER, BUT FAR TOO IMPATIENT. YOU MUST WAIT UNTIL YOU ARE GIVEN A DIRECT FIRING ORDER
.

“Nobody ever told me that!”

THAT IS BECAUSE WE MUST DISCIPLINE ALL OUR INTELLIGENCE. REVEALING TOO MUCH AT ONCE MIGHT ONLY INCREASE THE CHANCES OF INTERCEPTION. KILLING CURWEN PREMATURELY WOULD RUIN EVERYTHING
.

“Now
you tell me!” Krilid griped and sat back up when the headache receded.

PATIENCE, KRILID. NOW RETREAT TO SAFE DISTANCE AND EXTINGUISH YOUR HAND OF GLORY. CONSERVE ALL RESOURCES UNTIL THE FINAL MOMENT
.

“All right,” Krilid sputtered. “But when
is
the final moment, Ezoriel?”

No reply was made, as the Fallen Angel’s telepathic signal had already crackled out.

“You must be a veteran,” said the short, overly tan woman behind the counter. Her voice was as craggy as her face.

Gerold sighed. “Why? Just ’cos I’m in the chair? I could’ve been driving drunk, or fallen off a balcony or something.”

The woman—whose ’70s-styled hair was blazing white—tittered almost like a witch. Her redneck accent replied, “Well, son, first off, you’re young. Second, I can tell by your face you ain’t
dumb
enough to drive drunk or fall off a dang balcony—”

Wow. I guess that’s a compliment
.

“—and third, your buttons are all buttoned up.” She pointed a sun-withered finger. “That tells me you was in the army or marines.”

“You got me,” Gerold admitted. “Army. Got out a year or so ago and put in physical therapy.”

When Gerold had gotten off the Greyhound, he’d taken a cab to Lake Misquamicus, having flipped himself into the cab seat while the cabbie stowed his wheelchair in the trunk. Upon arrival, he wheeled toward the dock, marveling at the sight of the silverish lake.
This’ll kick ass!
Over the great reflective expanse of water, not one other boat could be seen.
Privacy
. . . So the Fates had granted his wish after all. He’d be able to kill himself here and no one could interfere.

The bait shop proprietor was probably in her late fifties but looked ten years older from being in the sun for—more than likely—her entire life. She was very slim, tattoo-dotted, and still bore some vestige of bygone good looks even with
the wrinkles, sun blemishes, and veininess. A far cry from the young and spritely bikini girl in the ad; however, this woman
was
wearing a bikini—a raving, metallic candy-apple red—that was absolutely minuscule.
She’s almost too old to be wearing it, but . . . more power to her for doing it anyway
, Gerold reasoned. Her perfectly straight hair shined perfectly white to the small of her back; the bikini top satcheled a sizable bosom, obviously implants dating back to the ’70s.

“And you’ll be pleased to hear this, hon,” she said, grinning behind the counter. “Here, there’s no charge to veterans for bait!”

“I appreciate it,” Gerold said, managing not to laugh.
Now THERE’S a gesture for servicemen. Free worms, chum, and dead shrimp
.

“And rod rentals and Jet Skis are half off,” she added. “But I don’t suppose you’d be able to Jet Ski by yourself.” Then her eyes glittered. “But I’d be happy to take you out myself and you can hold on to me.”