Mercury Falls (14 page)

". . .happen," finished Harry.

The floor shook beneath their feet.

Christine clutched the edge of Harry's massive oak desk with her right hand as the room shook. Harry's oversized Bible was still in her left. "Oh no," she said, sounding more like a mother scolding a habitually misbehaving child than someone afraid for her life. She was starting to get fed up with almost dying in a freak disaster.

Karl was standing in the middle of the room, arms spread and feet splayed, like someone trying to balance on top of a seesaw. Harry was in the process of trying to crawl under his desk.

The
Banner
's offices were on the fifth—and top—floor of the building, so the vibrations of the earthquake were alternately softened and magnified as they worked their way up the structure. While the bottom of the building jerked and rumbled, the top swayed and snapped like the boughs of a willow tree. Ceiling tiles fell and walls groaned. Harry's computer crashed to the floor. It went on, and on, and on.

"I'm going to be sick," said Karl, still holding the can of Dr Pepper, which was now spewing its contents on the floor.

Christine felt the same.
Just fall down already
, she thought to the building. Her goals in life had been reduced to keeping her breakfast down until she was crushed by falling concrete.

Just when it seemed that the building couldn't possibly take any more, an interplanar portal opened in the floor, right in the middle of the room.

Christine didn't
know
it was an interplanar portal, of course. It was roughly circular, about three feet in diameter, and comprised of a strange interlocking pattern of glowing lines. It looked as if someone were shining a spotlight covered with a cardboard cutout pattern onto the floor. It looked so much like that, in fact, that the three of them momentarily looked at the ceiling. Their eyes found nothing to explain the illuminated pattern on the carpet.

"Oh man," cried Karl. "This is it. I'm dead."

"Don't be stupid, Karl. You're not dead," shouted Christine, sounding more certain than she felt. But she realized somehow that she knew what the thing was.

"It's a doorway," she said. "Some kind of portal. I think someone is trying to help us get out of here."

"A doorway?" said Karl. "To where? Hell?"

"No!" shouted Harry, peering out from under his desk. "My work isn't done yet! Go away!"

"Does it matter?" said Christine. "We're dead if we stay here."

"Screw this," said Karl as he stepped into the circle. His frame shimmered for a moment and then was gone.

The room pitched violently. A fluorescent light fell to the floor with a crash. Massive cracks snaked along the walls.

"Harry!" yelled Christine. "This may be our only chance!"

"No!" cried Harry again. "I have to see it through! I'm not ready to die!"

"You're going to die if you stay here," shouted Christine. "We don't know what's on the other side of that thing. Maybe God is offering you a way out so you can finish your work."

A plate glass window shattered.

"You have to go through, Harry!"

"No! You do it!"

"I will, but I'm not leaving you here! I'll be right behind you."

Harry tentatively got to his feet, gripping the edge of the desk.

"I'm. . .scared," he said.

"Of course you're scared, Harry. But you have to do this. It's our only chance."

Harry crept toward the portal. One hand still held firmly to the desk. "But. . .I don't know what's on the other side," he murmured.

Christine let go of the desk and grabbed the Bible with both hands. She lifted it in the air and brought it down hard on Harry's white-knuckled hand. Harry screeched in pain, letting go of the desk.

"It's called 'faith,' Harry," growled Christine. "Look into it."

She shoved Harry with all her might toward the portal. He stumbled into it and disappeared. As the ceiling fell down around her, Christine dove after them.

Christine, Harry, and Karl found themselves in an altogether strange and yet uncannily familiar place.

"Are we in Hell?" asked Karl fearfully.

"Close," said Harry, who was still visibly shaken but doing his best to regain his composure. "It looks like. . ."

"An airport terminal," finished Christine.

It did indeed resemble the concourse of a medium-sized airport. There were gates, waiting areas, and throngs of tired-looking individuals lugging baggage from one place to another. There were even shops with whimsical logos in a strange alphabet, places that presumably sold snow globes and baseball caps at entirely unjustifiable prices. Only one thing was missing.

"There are no planes," said Harry. "There are gates, but no planes. People seem to be arriving out of nowhere."

Then he noticed something like a hummingbird zipping towards them down the concourse. As it got closer, he realized that it was much bigger—and creepier—than a hummingbird. It was a small, fleshy pink man in what looked like a cloth diaper, with wings sprouting from his back.

"Taking in the view?" asked the winged creature.

"Sorry?" said Harry.

"Tell me," said the creature, "on the pathetic plane you came from, do the natives customarily wear each other as hats?"

"Er, no," said Harry.

"Then I suggest you move," it said. "You're standing on the portal. No telling when the next group will arrive."

They looked down to see a complex pattern etched into what looked like a fifteen-foot square sheet of marble.

"Yes," said the creature. "Take it all in. Why should you do what I tell you to do? It's not like I've been working here for eight thousand years or anything."

They shuffled sheepishly to the waiting area.

"Can you tell us where we are?" Christine asked.

"Certainly," said the creature. "First, though, I should like to give you a bit of advice."

"Er, OK," said Christine.

"To maintain freshness," the creature said, "keep mushrooms in a paper bag in the refrigerator."

"I've heard that," said Karl.

"Oh," said the creature sardonically. "Then I suppose it
must
be true. If
you've
heard it. It's not like I've been working this job for nine thousand years or anything."

"You said—" Harry started.

"Who
are
you?" Christine said. "
What
are you? You look like a cherub. . .I mean, what I thought cherubs—"

"Cherub
im
!" snapped the creature. "And I'll tell you who I am."

"OK," said Christine.

"First, though," it said, "a bit of advice."

"Fine."

"To unstick a stubborn zipper, try rubbing a pencil over it several times."

"Why are you telling us these things?" Christine asked, bewildered. "Are we likely to find stubborn zippers and mushrooms here?"

"Why am I telling you these things?" the creature asked incredulously. "What kind of silly question is that? Is this your first time in a planeport? You realize that if you keep asking questions like that, it's going to cost you."

"We don't have any money," said Christine. "I mean, I've got a few dollars, but I don't even know what—"

"Money!" the creature scoffed. "I work for tips!"

"I'm sorry," said Christine. "As I was going to say, I don't even know what kind of money—"

"Not money!" the creature spat. "
Tips
. I work for tips. You know, how to get red wine out of cashmere. That sort of thing."

Christine frowned. "I don't know how to get red wine out of cashmere."

"Not yet you don't," said the creature. "But if you keep asking silly questions, you will."

"Hold on," said Harry. "You mean that you will help us in exchange for us listening to
your
tips?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" said the creature.

"Yes," said Christine. "We would."

"Fine. Then I will tell you. First, however, a bit of advice."

"Wait," said Christine. "You still owe us one. You gave us two tips but you still haven't told us your name."

"My name," it said, "is Perpetiel. Perp for short."

"OK, Perp," said Harry. "Where are we?"

"You really don't know?" asked Perp.

"Do people normally ask you questions they know the answer to?" said Christine impatiently.

"Do you really want to know?" said Perp.

"No!" growled Christine. "I mean, that last one was a rhetorical question. But we do want to know where we are, even if it means you have to tell us how to get red wine out of cashmere."

"Oh, I'm not going to tell you that."

"Why not?"

"Because now you're curious about it. I'm not going to waste my advice answering questions you want to know the answer to. That's not how it works. By the way, you should always send a thank-you note after a job interview."

"I couldn't care less about getting red wine out of cashmere," Christine lied. "Just tell us where we are."

"As you wish," said Perp. "If you don't want a cat to jump in your lap, avoid making eye contact with it."

"Really?" asked Karl.

"No, Karl," said Christine. "I'm pretty sure that one is wrong."

"Who cares?" said Harry. "Now he's got to tell us where we are."

"This," said Perp, motioning around him, "is a planeport."

"It looks like an airport," said Christine. "Except that there are no planes. The one thing that it is missing, in fact, are planes. Why would you call it a planeport?"

"In blackjack," Perp said, "if the dealer has an upcard of five, don't take any new cards because the dealer will probably bust. It's called a planeport because it allows you to travel from one plane to another. That thing you were standing on was an interplanar portal. But surely you knew that. You had to step on one to get here."

"We didn't have much choice," said Christine. "We were about to die in an earthquake. The 'portal,' as you call it, just appeared in front of us."

"Really?" asked Perp. "That's actually. . .rather interesting. You don't know who might have opened an emergency portal for you? Do you know any important angels?"

Christine and Harry both looked at the floor, making noncommittal noises.

"Well," said Perp. "In any case, it appears you've been summoned. Follow me."

"Summoned?" said Harry. "By whom?"

"How would I know?" said Perp. "Nothing on my schedule for today, but you know how seraphim are. They think nothing of an unscheduled summoning. You can figure that a properly riveted joint will have three-fourths of the strength of the pieces it joins together."

Perp turned and flew back down the concourse the way he had come. The three of them had no choice but to follow.

They walked for what seemed like miles through the planeport, while Perp prattled on about how to thaw a frozen car door lock, calculate the height of a building using only a thermometer, and make mock hollandaise sauce.

Perp, it turned out, was a sort of combination skycap and escort, who tended to bewildered travelers such as themselves—although he took pains to note that he had never met a group quite so bewildered as they. There were other porter angels escorting other travelers, but none who looked like Perp. Amid advice on the best wine to serve with chicken and how to find the fastest ferry across the river Styx, Perp explained to them that he was a very "traditional cherub." Evidently angels could, to some degree, choose their own physical appearances, and several hundred years ago it had been fashionable to appear as a nearly naked infant with birdlike wings. Currently the style was to look more like an adult human male, but Perp was never much for jumping on the fashion bandwagon. "In another five hundred years," he said, "the infant look will come back around.
Then
who'll be the trendsetter?"

Presumably most of the "people" they passed were, in fact, angels of some sort. From what they could gather from Perp's occasional pertinent comments, the three of them were the only actual human beings in the planeport, and perhaps the only human beings who had ever been to the planeport.

Perp suddenly turned down a narrow hallway, leading them to an unremarkable conference room. It was the sort of depressing little meeting room that had no windows except for a panel of glass that served only to make one nostalgic for the corridor one had just left. At the head of a long faux-mahogany table sat a tall, angular man who, although he superficially resembled the other angels Christine had met, had a softer, tired look about him. He was wearing a suit that made him look a bit like a used car salesman.

"Have a seat," said the man.

The three of them sat. Perp buzzed quietly back down the hall.

"What the hell is going on?" Christine demanded.

"That's what I'm hoping to determine," said the angel.

"And you are?" asked Harry.

"My name is Uzziel. I'm a seraph."

Uzziel, thought Christine. I know that name. He's. . .Mercury's boss?

"So. . .are we dead?" said Karl.

"No," said Uzziel. "But you almost were. If I hadn't opened that temporary portal in Harry's office, you would be. So, explain yourselves."

The three of them sat dumbly for a moment, staring at Uzziel.

"Er, what?" said Harry.

"That earthquake wasn't on the Schedule. Clearly someone is up to something."

"Clearly," said Harry. "But as you just mentioned, the earthquake nearly killed us, so presumably that someone isn't us. Unless you're suggesting that the three of us were attempting suicide by earthquake."

"Well," said Uzziel, obviously rethinking things. "Well, it
is
your fault."

"My fault?" said Harry. "How on earth could it be
my
fault?"

"Not just yours," Uzziel said. "The fault is all of yours."

"Well, sure," Harry said. "Original sin and all that. In a sense, I suppose we're all to blame. . ."

"No," said Uzziel impatiently. "The fault. It's yours."

"I as much as admitted that," replied Harry, starting to get annoyed. "I'll concede that humanity in general is to blame for the evil in the world. But if you're suggesting that the three of us are somehow specifically—"

"Not the three of you," said Uzziel, impatiently. He made a broad, sweeping gesture with his hands. "
All
of yours. The fault. It belongs to you. All of you. Earth."

"I think he means. . ." said Christine.

"I know what he means. He's trying to blame us for the damned earthquake. Listen, pal," Harry said, stabbing his finger at Uzziel, "you're the angel. You're supposed to know what's going on with the earthquakes and Apoc. . .that is, the other stuff that's going on."

Christine's eyes narrowed toward Harry. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," said Harry. "I was just saying that angels shouldn't expect us to know about earthquakes when they're the ones in control of everything." He turned to Uzziel. "You are in control, correct?"

"Well, yes," said Uzziel, suddenly on the defensive. "Don't misunderstand me. A little wrinkle like an assassination attempt or an unplanned earthquake isn't going to derail things. I'm merely attempting to pin down a few X factors so that there aren't any further surprises. I believe you're all aware that plans for the Apocalypse are well under way. . ."

Karl said, "The plans for
what?
I thought I was just supposed to be in a movie."

"Er," said Uzziel. He turned to Christine. "He doesn't know?"

Christine shrugged.

"OK, so," said Uzziel. "Karl, you understand that you are the Antichrist, correct?"

"Duh," said Karl.

"I'm not sure you understand, Karl," said Uzziel. "We're not just talking about some silly contest anymore. You're the
actual Antichrist
."

Karl stared blankly at the angel.

"Ah, OK, then," said Uzziel.

"It's part of his charm," explained Christine.

"Hmmm, right," said Uzziel. "And Christine and Harry, you understand that you have been designated as Persons of Apocalyptic Interest?"

Christine couldn't muster the effort to feign ignorance. She and Harry both grumbled something vaguely affirmative, and then each of them examined the other suspiciously, as if to say, "And you were planning to tell me this
when
?"

"So here's the deal," Uzziel continued. "A lot of work has gone into planning this. I mean, thousands of years of negotiations between our people and Lucifer's people."

"People?" asked Christine.

"Sorry, it's a generic term for sentient beings. When I say 'people,' I generally mean angels, although of course humans are occasionally involved."

Christine and Harry nodded understandingly. Karl looked like he wanted to ask a question but couldn't decide what the question was.

"As I was saying, a lot of work has gone into designing the Attache Cases of the Apocalypse, getting them to the appropriate people. . ."

"Selecting the appropriate Antichrist. . ." added Christine.

"Er, yes," said Uzziel. "That's not my department, of course. Not to mention centuries of groundwork, setting up the situation in the Middle East, funding the right biotech companies. . .you get the idea. And now somebody's trying to foul it all up. Killing off General Isaacson, trying to assassinate the Antichrist, stealing the Attache Case of War. . ."

Christine wanted to weigh in, but she couldn't decide whose side she was on. She was, in fact, having trouble figuring out what sides there were to choose from. She found herself looking around for a menu.

"Have you seen the case, Christine?" Uzziel asked. "Does Mercury have it?"

So he knows Mercury's off the reservation, thought Christine. What about the other two, Gamaliel and Izbazel? How do they figure into this?

"Mercury?" asked Harry. "The cult leader in Berkeley? When did you. . .?"

"Our intelligence indicates you met Mercury shortly before. . .the natural gas explosion."