"Michael´s Tale" by Garon E. Whited

Michael.

I jumped.  You’d think that I wouldn’t anymore; it’s been centuries since I first heard the Voice.  But I’ve talked to some senior—and I mean senior! —ex-humans and they all agree:  you never get used to it.

I was driving a truck at the time, downshifting for a nasty grade in the Rockies.  I didn’t like the weather—way too much snow for my taste—but I was exercising restraint and leaving it alone.  My driving partner was asleep in the back of the cab; Brad was human, I was incarnate.  Still, when the Voice has something to Say, you listen.  And, when the Voice Speaks, you speak in answer.  Doubtless it would be all right; He always knew what He was doing.

“Yes, Lord?” I asked.

I have work for you to do.

Normally, I can be pretty sarcastic.  No sin in that; it’s just how I am.  If anyone had been sent to tell me that He had a job for me, I’d probably have answered, “No?  Really?”  But He is the Boss, and I didn’t even think it.

“Yes, Lord.  What do You want?”

Leave that body in Blytheville.  Then you will come to Me.

Oh my God, I thought, and I meant it.  “To You, Lord?”

Yes, Michael.

An appointment in the Presence.  I’d never had one.  I was suddenly scared.  Well, nervous. 

No, I take it back:  scared.

Thou art a good a faithful servant, Michael.

Just like that, I wasn’t scared any more.  He said things were good between us, and when He says it, you know it’s true.

“Thank you, Lord.”

And, just like that, the Voice was gone.

*   *   * 

Blytheville was a small town of about eight hundred or so.  It was centered on the truck stop as the dominant industry; that’s how small the town was.  But it wasn’t unusual for trucks to pull in pretty constantly—that highway out of the Rockies was a good route, aside from the occasional snow.  I left Brad at the coffee counter and went to the bathroom.

Jonas Morgan, the body I was wearing, had been a real jerk.  He had six kids and no wives, supported none of them, and had been blissfully cheerful about having a clear conscience.  Admittedly, he had a few redeeming qualities; he gave stranded motorists a lift whenever he could, played fair with his taxes, and never cheated at cards; that was about it for the actual plus column.  When he’d died of a stroke in the sleeper of the truck, I’d stepped in, fixed the damage to the body, and took over occupancy to unsnarl some of his worse crap.  It had been an uphill fight to keep his job as a cross-country trucker and still help make things right.

Now, though, I was done.  Time for a new assignment.  Jonas would be found on the toilet, dead of the same cerebral hemorrhage that had killed him the first time—but now he would be officially dead.  As for what happened to him when he no longer had a use for his old body . . . well, that’s not my department.  We’ve got specialists who deal with that sort of thing.  I’m more of an all-around do-gooder.

As I floated up out of the body, I wondered (not for the first time) where he had gone all those months ago.  Was he in another body to try again?  Or was he on detached duty, cleaning up and brushing down as one of us?  I doubted that he got promoted; he almost had to be on another lap around the Wheel.  He wasn’t really evil, just not all that good.  I hoped he would be better, this time.

I kept on going up, leaving the world and entering the heavens.  A moment later, I was walking out of the revolving door and glowing brightly in the anteroom.  That’s how doors work around here.  You don’t go from point to point like an incarnate human does.  You go from point to point like thoughts.  One instant, you’re thinking about the color of the curtains, the next, you’re wondering what’s for dinner.  Now imagine seeming to move like a thought.  It’s disconcerting for a while.

Pete was waiting, as usual, seated in a big leather chair behind that glass-and-gold desk of his.  I understand that it took a couple of centuries on the job before some of the guys managed to talk him out of just standing behind the old wooden lectern.  He’s a decent sort; when they told him the lectern made them nervous, he relented.  He was still wearing the same homespun robes he’d always worn—bleached to a nice white, though; the Boss likes the color scheme.

“Hi, Mike,” he said, nodding as I came in his door.

“Hi, Pete.  What’s new?” I asked

“Depends on what nanosecond we’re in.  When did you leave?”

“I was in the late twentieth century.  Earth.”

“Oh.  I understand you’re headed for one of the others.  About the same timeline, though.”

I whistled.  “I didn’t think I rated alternate Duty yet?”

Pete made a mark in his Book.  “Don’t ask me, I just work here.  The Boss is expecting you.  Go on in.”

“Um,” was my response.  “I’ve never . . . ah . . .”

He chuckled.  Pete’s a big guy, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and has a good chuckle.  I felt a little better. 

“I know you’ve never been to see the Boss, Mike; I keep track of these things.  Nobody goes in or out of the City or the Presence that I don’t know it.  Don’t worry, He won’t make you feel uncomfortable; only you will do that.”

“I imagine.”

“Exactly.  Just take what you see and run with it.  It’ll be all right.  He’s very understanding.  That’s what He does.”

“Oh,” I said, relaxing slightly.  “Junior?”

His smile broadened.  “Naturally.  Pop and the Spook are a lot more intimidating.”

I breathed again—completely unnecessary in this form.

“Thanks, Pete.  I do feel better.”

“Go on; don’t keep Him waiting.”

So I went in through the white door and was there.  In the Presence.  He was there, sitting in a recliner by a fireplace in a library.  It seemed quite homey.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Come in, come in,” He boomed, and rose to greet me.  He shook my hand—He has a good grip, a carpenter’s hands—and led me to the other chair.  He insisted that I sit—in His Presence! —and handed me a glass.  After He was seated again, He clicked the seat back and put His feet up.  I noticed His feet were bare; He wiggled His toes toward the fire.

I couldn’t help but relax.  Here I was, drinking with Him, feet up by the fire!  Doubtless He wanted me to unwind a little or He wouldn’t have done it that way.  He always has a Plan.

“Sir?” I began.  “Can I ask . . . ?”

“Of course.  Ask anything you like, Mike.”  I nearly fainted; nicknames from On High!  “What’s on your mind?”

“Well . . . you know.”

“Yes, I do,” He admitted.  “But it makes people nervous when I show it.  So just talk with Me, Mike.  Save the yes-my-Lord, as-You-say-my-Lord for Me when I have on another hat, okay?”

Informal with Him.  Okay, if that’s what He wanted… “You got it, Boss.”

He laughed.  He’s got a great laugh.  Why is it nobody ever drew pictures of Him laughing?  All I’ve ever seen are pictures of Him getting nailed to a tree or looking incredibly serious.  His laugh is pretty inspiring, too!

“That’s the Spirit, Mike!  So shoot—What’s eating you?”

“Well, You said You had some work for me.”

“So I do, so I do,” He admitted.  “It’s a little unusual, though.  You’ve never done anything like it before.”

“Boss, every assignment You’ve ever given me was unique.”

“Well, true, but this is pretty advanced for you.”

I frowned.  “Then, wouldn’t it be better to hand it to someone who knows what they’re doing?”  Then I realized what I’d just done: questioned His Judgement.  It was a good thing that I didn’t have a bladder.

He just laughed again.  “Don’t sweat it, Mike; you don’t see things like I do.  There’s nothing that says you can’t ask questions when you don’t understand; I just said that you’re supposed to do what I tell you.  Sometimes you can’t know why, just what.  But this isn’t one of those times.

“See,” He went on, “I do have people who would be better suited for this, who have done it before.  But it’s time for you to do it; you’ve grown enough.  Don’t worry; you’ll find you have the strength for any task I set you—if you choose to use it.”

“Oh,” I answered, in a very small voice.

“Yes, Mike; I’m promoting you again.  You’re a good agent, and getting steadily better.  Don’t let it go to your head, My boy, but you’re coming along splendidly.”

It had already gone to my head, or maybe it was whatever we were drinking—come to think of it, I wonder what He was drinking?  If you were Him, what would you pick?  Anyway, I felt dizzy and humbled and proud and thankful, all at once.

He rose and helped me up from the chair, then gave me a push toward the door.

“Pete’s got your assignment; I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Thank you,” I managed.  “Thank you very much.”

His eyes twinkled.  “Oh, don’t thank Me for that.  I didn’t say it would be easy.  Just that you’d find it interesting.  I think you’ll do fine.”

“I understand, Sir.  I think.”

“Close enough for now,” He agreed, and I went out to see Pete again.  Pete was all ready; he had my orders neatly rolled up on a scroll, complete with the golden seal and everything.  He handed them over without a word.

“Um,” I began, standing there and holding the scroll and feeling almost sacrilegious.  It was the first set of Orders I’d ever gotten, and I wasn’t sure that it was okay to just, well, crack the wax that He had thumbprinted.

Pete grinned at me.  “Oh, stop it.  Just open the thing and get on with it.  I’ve got people lined up.”

I’ve never seen anyone in Pete’s office, ever.  Just Pete and me, and that’s it.  I’ve never even seen an outer office, either; just wham, there you are.  But it never even occurred to me to doubt him.  He’s a busy man.

“Hey, Pete?  Do you know, uh . . . ?”

“Sure.  I wrote ‘em,” he replied, grinning through his beard.  “Someday, you may get something handed down to you direct from the Boss, but you’ll be busy spreading whatever Word He’s decided on for them, whenever and wherever you are; any Orders He gives you are likely wind up in their Apocrypha.  These are the usual stuff; just read them and they’ll go away.”

“Thanks, P—say, do you ever get tired of hearing ‘thank you’ all the time?”

He grinned wider.  “Sometimes.  Usually when someone hangs around after I’ve told ‘em to skedaddle.  It’s rare, though; only happens when they’re nervous.”  His grin grew wider.  “You’ll do fine, Mike.  Now get your tailfeathers moving; you haven’t got all eon.”

And, just like that, off I went.  I left through the same door I’d come in by and wham, I’m out in the Dispatching Office.  I know the Office is in the City; I’m pretty sure that Pete’s office is also in the City somewhere.  I wouldn’t even dream of guessing where the Boss keeps His.

I found a seat and settled into it.  I’ll say this: these seats have airport terminals beat all hollow.  Padded.  Fluffy.  Cloudlike.  Comfortable.  A man could get used to chairs like that.

I didn’t; I steeled myself and cracked the seal on my Orders.  The broken edges of the wax erupted in golden light and shone like a noonday sun for several seconds.  A few people paused to look, then went about their business; the Dispatching Office has agents moving through all the time.

I read my Orders and let out a low whistle.  Yes, this was going to be different.  And no sooner had I finished reading them than the parchment disintegrated into golden motes that swirled around me for an instant before flickering out.

Oh, yes!  I had my Orders!  I couldn’t forget them if I tried.

I was enjoying the feel of having a divine purpose when I noticed that I wasn’t alone.  There was one of the senior staff, looking down at me.  I got to my feet in a hurry.

“First set of Orders, kid?”

“Yessir!” I replied, bracing up to attention.

He chuckled and moved on, going over to stand in line like anyone else.  I relaxed, watching him go.  I’ve never even been noticed by any of the brass before, and now a conversation with Him and passing hello from a senior.  I wondered silently where he was off to; it would have to be a hel— a bitc— a darn tough assignment.

I queued up in the line to the Turnstile.  We call it the Turnstile; it’s more like a revolving door.  People go in the thing while it’s spinning and come right back out of it, constantly; what happens in between is the interesting bit.  I only know of one Turnstile, but it handles a lot of traffic.  Why the Boss set it up this way I may never know—but He has to have a good reason for making everyone stand in line like that.  I have faith.  And it wasn’t more than a thousand years before I got to the Turnstile myself and pushed on through.

No matter how many times you do it, it’s still disconcerting.  One second you’re tumbling out of a fast-moving revolving door, the next second you’re standing (or hovering, or whatever) at the scene of your incarnation.  The Dispatching Office runs the Turnstile and they’ve never made a bobble that I know of.

I was right on target, not more than three feet away from the body I would be occupying.  That’s pretty normal.  So was the guy.  He kept slipping down in the tub; looked like a booze and pills job.  I didn’t see any empty bottles, though.  Very tidy.  He’d be dead in another few minutes and I’d have to take over.  So far, all kosher, normal, and on the green.

I looked around the apartment the guy was renting.  Not too bad; spacious, if old.  Very old; the floors were hardwood and needed a good going-over.  The walls were plaster and intact, aside from one narrow crack in the dining area—it ran from floor to ceiling in the northwest corner.  A little paint, a couple of pictures, the place would look quite nice.

Bubbles came up in the tub.  Not much longer, now.

I poked around a little more, drifting through walls and looking into the closets.  The place had two bedrooms and one large bathroom.  In the spare bedroom I found something unexpected.

She was about five or six, I think.  Golden hair, very curly, and the biggest, bluest eyes you could ask for.  The Planning Department really handed out some good stuff when they were putting her together.  If she had been any cuter, they wouldn’t have allowed her to touch ground.  I was sure it was past her bedtime, but who was going to say so?

She said hello as I came through the wall.  Since she was playing with dolls, I assumed that she was talking for them or to them.  But she corrected my mistake immediately.  She looked up and looked straight at me.

“Are you an angel?”

Now, it’s not unknown for someone to see us when we aren’t really trying to hide.  It is a bit unusual, though.  Most people just can’t; their brains won’t let them.  I didn’t have anything in my Orders to cover this.

“Yes,” I answered.  Close enough, anyway.

“Oh.  Are you here to take me to Heaven?”

“Not right now.”

Her face fell.  “Oh.”

“Were you expecting to go?” I asked.

“Oh, yes!  I want to go to Heaven.  Daddy says that it’s the bestest place of all.  He talks about it all the time.”  She wrinkled her nose a little.  “Then I wouldn’t have to ever stay with Mommy again.”

“Ah.  You don’t like to stay with Mommy…?”

She shook her head solemnly.  “No.  She won’t play with me.  Daddy says that she’s very busy but still wants to see me on the weekends.  She does have a lot of toys, though.  I wish Daddy could come with me and play, too.”

“I see.  Well, I have to go do something.  You stay right here and be good, okay?”

“Okay, Mister Angel.”

I drifted back into the bathroom, thinking, This is going to be complicated.

The bubbles were done and the former occupant was drifting up.  If you could blow a smoke-body instead of a smoke-ring, that’s what he’d look like.  He resembled his old body a great deal, but the detail was fuzzy; that was normal for his stage.  As he cleaned up, he’d brighten and come into better focus.  He looked at me and his eyes widened.

“I’ll take care of things,” I promised.  “Go on.”  The last thing I needed was a ghost lurking around and making my incarnation difficult.  He tried to speak, but you can’t at that stage.  He wound up just nodding.  I pointed him in the right direction and off he went; he’d meet up with professionals from the Departures section soon.

I examined the body.  He was in pretty good shape and kept himself fit, aside from the drugs in his system.  I removed the drugs from the bloodstream and the water from the lungs, added more oxygen to the tissues, repaired the comparatively minor damage from drowning, and stepped into the flesh.

I sat up, dizzy and lightheaded, and just took a few deep breaths.  The feeling went away after a minute; it always does.  It’s a shock to go from refined energy to meat and bone.  It’s like waking up wearing hip waders and an overcoat; it takes a minute to get used to it.

Once things had settled down, I rummaged through the brain to see what I had to work with.  Robert Masters, age thirty-three, almost divorced, professional handyman, one child—Clarissa, nicknamed “Claire,” for short.  I checked the body for mannerisms and reflexes, got a feel for them, adapted to them.

I got out of the tub and dried off, found my pajamas—well, they’re mine now, at least for a while.  I have the body; pajamas aren’t much after that—and went in to check on Claire.

She was up, still playing with the dolls.  She looked up at me as I came in and I had a distinct feeling of déjà vu.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Howdy, Goldilocks.  What are you doing up?”

“Playing with Mabel and Suzie.”

“So I see.  Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Yes.”  I liked that.  She just agreed and continued to play.

“All right, put Mabel and Suzie to bed and I’ll put you to bed.”

“Okay.”  She did so.  I helped her change into her own fuzzy pajamas; mine are flannel.  Then I picked her up and set her in her bed, tucked her in.  She sat up and held out her arms; I hugged her and she squeezed my neck.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.  Now let me tuck you in again.”

She laid back down and I tucked her in; as I did so, she asked, “Daddy, do you know any angels?”

“A few,” I admitted.

“I think you look like one.”

I blinked.  I know I did.  I do that when I’m mildly startled.

“Thank you.  You look a lot like one, too.”

She snuggled down in the bed and closed her eyes.  I shut out the light and went to my bedroom.  As I lay there in the dark, I thought long and hard about this assignment.  This was going to be a long one; I could tell.  Usually, my work involves fixing things that have been screwed up by people who don’t know any better.  Mister Morgan is a classic example.  But now I’ve been promoted, and things have gotten tougher; my Orders aren’t as detailed and straightforward as they used to be.  I have to use more of my judgment in carrying them out.

“Occupy Robert Masters.  Make the world a better place.”

Bodies are really good at worrying.  They have a lifetime of practice.

It took me a while to get to sleep.