Free Vellum by Hal Duncan

oprechnika—half orthodox monastic order, half secret police. I’ve seen him in a fight—defending Jack, of course, who’d managed to insult some yob—
clear latent case,
said Jack—by coming on to him while out of his face on ecstasy—and I’ve wondered what he would be capable of in other circumstances. Puck doesn’t like him at all, but then Puck is only jealous because Jack and Joey go back such a long way. They’ve been through high school in a nowhere town housing scheme and they’re like a double act that nothing can break up—Carter and Pechorin, Pechorin and Carter—except for maybe flighty fairy Thomas.

    â€œOK,” I say. “So this Book was written by the angel Metatron before the world even existed and it’s actually God’s plans for, well, everything. Except that being God’s Word, it’s not just the plans. I mean, it doesn’t just describe reality; it defines it. God says, Let there be light and, bingo, there’s light, and it’s good, of course. He says, Let there be this and let there be that and all of reality pops into existence, and it’s all good. Smashing. But what happens when the sound of his words dies out? I mean, eventually the echoes fade away and you’re left with silence again, the big black void. So, of course, God has his private secretary write it all down for him, make it all a little more permanent. Written in stone, signed and sealed, here we go, mate, sorted, this is reality the way it is, was and ever will be. Boxed up.”
    I sip my G ’n’ T.

    â€œBut then, of course, his right-hand man decides to stab his boss in the back and take over the business for himself. Everything goes tits-up and war breaks out in Heaven. Most angels stay with the Big I Am, but there’s enough of them on Lucifer’s side that maybe the outcome isn’t as certain as you might think, so some of them, some of them just panic and leg it for Earth. Either that or they’re sent there, secret mission and all that, because anyway, they have the Book. Maybe God
is
going to fall. Maybe Lucifer’s about to get his hands on the Book and rewrite reality the way he thinks it should be. Whatever the reason, the Book winds up on Earth, hidden or lost, for all of history, just waiting for the day that it’s discovered. Gathering dust in some library somewhere.”
    â€œSo if you change what’s written in the Book, you change reality?” says Puck.
    â€œExactly,” I say. Write someone out of history or write them back in where they don’t belong at all.

    â€œSo what happens?” says Jack.
    â€œI haven’t decided yet,” I say. “I mean, I know I want to have the angels and demons both hunting for the Book. I could write it as a straightforward fantasy adventure, you know? Some normal human finds the Book and gets drawn into the whole big cosmic struggle thing. Blond-haired, blue-eyed heroes and black-hearted villains, and all that. But, it’s just…that seems a little escapist.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that?” says Puck. “Escapist sells. I’d buy it.
The Book of All Hours,
by Guy Reynard. Cool.”
    â€œWar isn’t an adventure,” I say. “There’s no glory in war.”
    â€œBollocks,” says Jack.
    He grins as he flicks the Zippo open, lights up another cigarette.
    â€œYou don’t fucking get it, Guy. Of course war is bloody glorious. Flamethrowers and Agent Orange. Deforestation bombs. Fucking beautiful. That’s the true horror of it, mate.”
    â€œJack,” I say, “sometimes you worry me.”
    â€œCheers,” he says.
    The
SEARCH ENGINE
    I trace the course of the River of Crows and Kings with one fingernail, running it softly over the vellum of the Book and looking down to the real thing below, down through the glass desk on which the Book sits, down through the glass floor of