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It was one thing to be sent to Hell by mistake, another to have an agent of
God tell you that you belonged here. No one wanted to hear that
Not even Judah Maccabee, who was on speaking terms with many of Hell's movers
and shakers, including the redoubtable Welch.
"Out there?" Maccabees intelligent eyes narrowed; his tall frame stooped to
draw back his tentflap. He motioned Altos and his burden inside. Once the flap
was drawn and Alexander laid on Maccabees pallet, the Israelite said, "Last
time I saw him, he was ... in a deeper abode. Troy. Ilion, if you like. Or if
you don't." White teeth flashed in the gloom. "He couldn't have gotten back up
here by himself. I know. I made that journey. And where's Bucephalus? That's
what he stayed for, the horse..."
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"I don't know what to tell you, Israelite." A careful answer, for Altos had
seen in Alexander's eyes all that had transpired. And more, for the angel
understood what the Macedonian did not. "There was no horse, just the fallen
man. Perhaps the horse ran-"
"Bullshit." Maccabee had been long among the New Dead, the likes of Welch.
"You know; you don't tell me. Why not?"
Altos spread his hands. "Let us see if we can keep this man from the
Undertaker-cheat fate. You're an expert at that, aren't you?"
"First aid? Yeah, I can probably manage. But how is it you're so interested in
keeping him alive?" The Israelite stroked his bearded jaw. Eyes that had
looked upon die Roman army and dared to oppose it defocused, then sharpened.
Maccabee said: "What do you want from this, friend? What does your sort want?
Why not let him go back to Reassignments? Or did you bring him here-for your
own purposes?"
Too smart, this one. Too smart and too contentious. Altos answered the safest
question: "I didn't bring him. There are . . . temporal disturbances. Do you
understand? The very fabric of Hell's before-and-after is troubled. Someone
went. . . down . . ." Altos pointed to the ground beneath his feet and as he
did so, Alexander groaned softly, stirred, and then was still again, "... down
abruptly, to some deeper 'abode,' as you call it. And Alexander was ... thrust
up. Pure coincidence." Altos shrugged.
"I bet. But not coincidence that he'd appear here, when Che's not exactly
compos mentis, I'd wager. Don't you have to play fair? Or is this just more
punishment? Alexander's not up to these sorts of games. I know him." And,
rather than tending the battered Macedonian, Maccabee crossed his big arms
over his chest and stared hard at the angel.
"I know him, too," said the angel softly. "And he's capable of whatever he
asks of himself."
"You might as well be working for Satan, if you separated him from that horse
of his just to stick him in with these limp-dicked weekend wonders," said the
Israelite in colloquial English. Then he switched to Attic Greek, speaking
softly to the wounded man as if Altos weren't present.
The angel left the two men together, wondering why, when God's ways were so
mysterious to him, the very sword of Heaven in Hell, they were so obvious to
an Israelite whose main distinction in life had been teaching Jews how to die
for their ideals.
Of course, that had been Before Christ. It occurred to him then that Maccabee
might be jealous-might have wanted to take over the Dissident's; leadership
himself. But he could still do that. Though Altos didn't think that he would.
The Macedonian would change everything among the Dissidents. Where Maccabee
could have engendered only sacrifice-suicide, in Altos' terms-Alexander could
generate passion, belief, personal loyalty.
If Alexander wanted to, he could launch a crusade and every man and woman
among the Dissidents would be his willing crusaders. A crusade against the
Devil such as had not been seen since the Middle Ages on Earth-and never, in
Hell.
If the Macedonian chose to, he could bring the revolution to the Devil's very
doorstep in New Hell. If. Assuming, of course, that Che and his followers
mounted no opposition.
Altos, outside the tent, was wandering among dozens of other, similar tents
under cammo netting, not watching where be was going, absorbed in his
thoughts. Thus it took a moment for the commotion to penetrate his
abstraction.
As a matter of fact, he didn't notice the ruckus in the camp (Dissidents were
always bickering) until a blond woman who had been a twentieth-century news
reporter came running up to him, tape recorder in hand, thrusting a microphone
toward him.
"A chopper's crashed on the other side of the marsh!" she proclaimed. "Number
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of casualties, destination, and, cause of crash unknown. Would you like to
make a statement?"
"A statement?" Altos frowned. "No, I wouldn't. Why would I?
When the woman scowled and stalked away, he slipped between two tents and ran
toward the marsh. It was another result of the temporal wind shear, he was
certain. But someone should have warned the pilot.
Unless, of course, Satan was already countering the insertion of Alexander [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]