The Hades Connection

by Gabriel S. Timar

Chapter 16

The last things George Pike remembered about his life on Earth were the suntanned, streamlined, naked body of Lynn, the report of a gun, the bullet hole in the wood paneling, and his blood on the white carpet next to the black towel.

The next thing he knows, he’s being welcomed to the Third Dimension, where he has a choice not only of afterlifes but of accommodations and a new body, as well. George signs up with Hades, Ltd., a corporation that seems to be the best of a dubious lot.

George very much enjoys being welcomed by Arabella, who is not only highly efficient but something of a race car driver. And yet she has asked one question he cannot answer: how he died. Neither he nor anyone else seems to know. Now George must meet the head of Hades, Ltd., a certain Mr. Lucifer... and prepare himself for a career as a double agent in interstellar intrigue.

After Esther and I had finished our brief but vigorous bedroom acrobatics, we got ready to meet Mike. I fed the coordinates of a high-rise building clearly visible from the window of our motel unit into the targeting computer of Fedorov’s laser cannon aboard the “Baby.” I told him to go into orbit and transfer the firing controls to my communicator. If I punched in the four-digit firing code, the laser cannon would fire on the target coordinates. I had no doubt that the building would collapse.

Mike arrived in about an hour. He found us dressed and on our best behavior. He looked at us strangely with disbelief in his eyes.

“I am Captain Rudolf von Vardy, né George Pike,” I said as we shook hands.

“Enchanted,” he growled.

“The lady is Ann Forrest, née Esther Jackson.” I pointed at my partner. “She’s my associate in this venture.”

Mike gave Esther a questioning look, like someone who is searching his mind for a name. “Are you any relation to the Esther Jackson of Transcontinental Airlines?” he asked as they shook hands.

“I used to work for Transcontinental in my previous life,” she replied, “but I don’t know if I qualified for the title of the Esther Jackson.”

“If you were on their flight 720, the one hijacked over the North Atlantic, then you would be the Esther Jackson, the legend of courage and self-sacrifice,” he said.

“Mike,” I interrupted, “I would love to hear Esther’s story, but let’s get on with our business.”

“Okay,” Mike replied and took a seat on one of the two armchairs. “Go ahead.”

I recounted the story of Khomu, the decay of Earth’s orbit, and my mission. I was surprisingly fast, finishing in less than half an hour.

As I expected, Mike’s first question was: “Do you have any proof?”

“I can prove the decay of the orbit to the scientists,” I replied. “I hope they have the equipment to confirm it. If they don’t, I can help them develop it and set up the procedures in their laboratory. I’m prepared for that; I assumed the leaders would not take my word for it.”

“You’ll have to take it up with the scientists when we come to that,” Mike said. “I’m not going to ask you to give me more proof of being the reincarnation of my friend George, but you must prove your extraterrestrial connections.”

“I know it would have been most effective if I’d landed a spaceship in the courtyard of the Herald Building and had little green men charging up the stairs,” I replied, “but unfortunately I cannot do that.”

“That would be most effective,” he mused. “What other proof can you offer?”

“I could give you a demonstration of our destructive power,” I said.

“What would it entail?” Mike queried.

“It’s your choice,” I replied, using my well-practiced, ice-cold tone reserved for the prosecutors in apparently lost cases. “I could cause a few catastrophes and kill a few hundred people. It does not bother me how many. Just tell me what your preference is: earthquakes, floods, airline disasters, highway catastrophes, structural collapses or just a simple, good, old-fashioned nuclear explosion.”

The content of my statement may have frightened him a little, but I was sure the tone of my voice scared him more.

Mike thought for a minute, and replied: “Can you give me a spectacular structural failure without loss of life?”

“No,” I replied flatly. “You taught me the golden rule of the cub reporter: no body count, no news. Do you remember?”

I could almost read his mind: If this guy is for real, he may kill a few hundred people just to convince me, and I would be responsible. I think he’s bluffing, but I cannot risk calling his hand.

He waited a few seconds and said: “Touché, my friend. However, I still cannot make up my mind if you’re genuine or not. But on the off chance that you are real, rather than having anybody harmed, for the time being I believe you.”

“Reassuring,” I grunted.

I could imagine the poor bastard’s state of mind. To spring a friend’s reincarnation and an extraterrestrial invasion spiced with a doomsday prediction is enough to unhinge anybody’s mind. I hoped my story was believable and scared him sufficiently but did not derange his mind.

Mike Horn was tough. Apparently he managed to hang on to his sanity. “I need a drink,” he declared.

As I’d expected him to come up with a request like this, we’d procured a bottle of Cardhue earlier. I did not know how well the body of von Vardy withstood alcohol, but I was sure a shot of pure malt whisky would not kill anybody. I took three paper cups from the table and poured a finger of whisky in each of them.

“To our reunion,” I announced and raised my cup.

Esther had conditioned Ann Forrest’s body to excessive quantities of booze and drained her cup at once. Mike was a little slower, but he gave me a defiant look and remarked: “Up yours,” and raised the cup to his lips. The Cardhue disappeared as fast as if poured on the dry sand of the Sahara Desert.

“Well,” Mike said, “now that the preliminaries out of the way, tell me why you wanted to talk to me.”

“To start with,” I said, “no matter how impossible it sounds, I trust you. I know you and your reputation for efficiency, honesty, precise reporting, and good contacts in government. In addition, you represent the ruling class of this planet: I firmly believe that the civilized world is governed by the media.”

“That’s a load of bull!” he exploded.

I smiled. “You are forgetting your own teaching again, Mike. You told me that our leaders have one objective only: re-election at any price. Thus they make sure their decisions are popular according to the public opinion polls and media. Since they govern by your reports, aren’t you the real power behind the throne?”

“Well, I must admit the media has some influence.“

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I pounced. “Who do you think could speak on behalf of the planet? And how should I contact him?”

“Hard to say,” Mike mused. “Perhaps you should try the United Nations.”

“No,” I interrupted. “Even the Security Council has too many members. It’s an old rule that the fewer the participants, the more efficient a meeting is. The Security Council could not act fast enough. The matter is urgent, and I have no time to waste.”

“You’re right,” Mike nodded. “I believe you’d do better to work with a smaller group.”

“Sure,” I said, “but who to invite?”

“That’s not easy,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I think Presidents Holdsworth, Kamarov, Prince Henry, and Yoshi Yamamoto would be enough for starters. They represent the military and financial powers of the planet.”

“I understand Kamarov and Holdsworth, I’ve heard about Yoshi, the banker; but why Prince Henry?”

“Look,” Mike said slowly, “I know the London tabloids call our future king a highborn puppy, but I happen to know him well. He is the only properly trained leader in the group. Holdsworth is a vote-getting robot, Ilya a master of dirty tricks, and Yamamoto is a money machine. The group must have a proper leader to function effectively.”

“How about Kuo?” I asked.

“Naw,” Mike waved airily, “he’s just a bum. Our China specialist thinks he’ll lose the little power he has in a couple of weeks and return to planting rice in the Northern Provinces.”

“Okay,” I replied. “How do we get them together?”

“It’s not easy,” he said. “I can get you in touch with Beaufort Park, the new Prime Minister. If you convinced him, he could bring the group together for you.”

“Sounds good,” I replied as pride overwhelmed me; apparently my plan was working. “I hope you don’t want to write about my arrival just yet.”

“I don’t get it,” Mike snorted. “You want to muzzle the press, yet you ask a newsman for advice. This is ridiculous.”

“Not so,” I smiled. “Obviously I did not make myself clear. Eventually I will ask you and only you to report our arrival exactly as it happened. I don’t want some idiot creating sensational rumors of extraterrestrial invasion, occupation and eventual slavery.”

“Let me ask you something.” The newsman took over in Mike. “How did you get here?”

“By spaceship,” I replied. “If you want to see it, I can arrange it and even take you for a ride. I’m sure the trip would convince you about my extraterrestrial origins.”

“Okay, after I get my ride, I’ll do whatever you want,” Mike replied in a firm tone.

During my life as a lawyer and lately as the captain of a spaceship, nothing was ever easy, but I had always solved the problems. The next task was to find a place where no one would observe the “Baby’s” landing and takeoff.

“You’ll get your ride,” I assured him. “However, you must stay with us until we get aboard. I trust you, but I don’t want a TV crew showing up to record your historic flight.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he protested.

“Chum,” I replied, “you may know what makes politicians tick, but I know how newsmen like you think.”

To be continued...

to Challenge 352...