Free Mercury Rests by Robert Kroese Page B

up a thick, dog-eared stack of papers. On the first page, just above what appeared to be tire tracks, was written:
    To Your Holiness the High Council of the Seraphim,
    Greetings from your humble servant, Ederatz,
    Cherub First Class,
    Order of the Mundane Observation Corps
    “What is that?” Christine asked.
    “Well,” said Lubbers, regarding the cover page intently, “obviously it’s a report to the High Council of the Seraphim.” After a moment, he put down the report and leaned forward, holding out his rough, stubby hand to Christine. She shook his hand uncertainly.
    “Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI Dirk Lubbers,” he said.
    “I’m Christine Temetri,” said Christine. “And this is Jacob Slater. But you know that, I guess.”
    Lubbers nodded. “I do. When Slater’s name came up on a flight from Nairobi to Paris, it raised some alarms. When we discovered he was traveling with a reporter from Los Angeles, we looked into you as well. It seems you’ve had quite the adventure lately, Ms. Temetri.”
    Christine shrugged. “I seem to be at the epicenter of the Apocalypse for some reason.”
    “The Apocalypse, yes,” said Lubbers thoughtfully. “Between you and me, I’m aiming to be National Security Advisor someday, and that’s not going to happen if I let the world end on my watch.”
    Christine stifled a laugh. “And just how do you plan to stop it? It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
    Lubbers was suddenly very serious. “By any means possible,” he said. “For starters, you and Slater are going to tell me everything you know about Heaven. Specifically about any defensive systems they have in place.”
    Christine regarded him coldly. “Do you even believe in Heaven?”
    “I didn’t when I got out of bed this morning,” Lubbers replied. “I’ve received some new intel since then.” He patted the stack of papers on his desk. “Between this intercepted report, Agent Slater’s suspiciously accurate assessment of the Anaheim Event, and the implosion of the moon, I’ve had to adjust my thinking a bit. In this job, you’ve got to be adaptable.”
    Slater said nothing. He seemed to be frozen in fear.
    “Just like that?” Christine asked. “You’re a believer?”
    Lubbers shrugged. “I believe there’s a race of beings who call themselves ‘angels’ living in a place they call ‘Heaven.’ I believe that these beings have made occasional contact with human beings. I also believe these facts go a long ways toward explaining all the superstitious bullshit that a lot of people believe.”
    “Hang on,” said Christine. “You’re presented with hard evidence of the existence of Heaven and angels and your reaction is to dismiss religion as superstitious bullshit?”
    “It’s pretty clear from the intel that these angels are a far cry from the godlike beings found in the Bible,” replied Lubbers. “Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d think this whole report was a joke. I mean, angels doing magic tricks? Bombs that look like glass apples? An interdimensional portal disguised as a linoleum floor in an unsuspecting reporter’s breakfast nook? Ridiculous.”
    Christine paled at the mention of the portal. She had hoped that the report left that part out.
    Lubbers chuckled. “You know,” he said, “I had actually pegged that last part as bullshit, but seeing the look on your face, I can tell I’ve hit pay dirt. So, tell me about this portal.”
    It was pointless to deny the portal’s existence now, so Christine took another tack. “It’s guarded by angels,” she said,trying not to picture Ramiel and Nisroc in her kitchen, bickering over the proper way to cook SpaghettiOs. “You’d never get past them, and even if you did, you’d be stuck in the planeport. The security there is insane. Cherubim with flaming swords...” She trailed off, realizing that the cherubim with flaming swords was pretty much it for security, as far as she could remember. How would they hold up against a