Does he? Krilid wondered. Does he really? Does God even give a shit about me? “Sure, Ezoriel, but you know, I could use some more rounds for the pistol and rifles.”
Again, the Angel’s hand crossed the Port and handed Krilid exactly one gold bullet.
Krilid laughed. “Oh, don’t empty out the entire arsenal just for me!”
“I’m sorry I can’t provide more, my brave Troll. But we mustn’t be selfish, correct? We have many operations ongoing.”
Jeez. One lousy bullet to replace the one I just popped.
Ezoriel seemed suddenly concerned. “And . . . how many rounds have you expended from your rifle?”
“Oh, the seventy-seven calibers? None.”
“Blessing to you!” Ezoriel exclaimed. “You’re as conscientious as you are sure of eye!”
“But you haven’t even told me yet who you want me to snipe,” Krilid began his next complaint.
“That’s because you don’t yet have a need to know—”
“And you haven’t told me anything about this extraction target I’m supposed to pick up, or when it will happen.”
“Again, your need to know is not yet at hand. Krilid, Christ knew well in advance that he would be betrayed, apprehended, and crucified, yet he never told the Apostles. Why? Because they did not have a need to know. Had they been forewarned, God’s plan might’ve been tainted. Trust me, my brave friend. All will be made known when the time has come.”
Krilid frowned. “And who told you that? No, let me guess! Your unimpeachable authority?”
“You sound cynical, Krilid. Remember, cynicism is spiritual death—”
“But I’m a Troll. I don’t even have a spirit.”
“That’s hardly the point.”
“I don’t know anything about your information source. Sorry, but that gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
A humming pause. “Surely you don’t think I’m lying to you—”
“No,” Krilid blurted. “But maybe they’re lying to you. Come on, I hear stories every day about Lucifer’s counterintel systems. He’s got whole complexes of Wizards and Channelers filling the Hell-Flux with phony transmissions. How do you know—”
“How do I know I haven’t been duped myself by such a trick?” the Fallen Angel challenged. “Hear me. I know because God told me.”
Krilid was hard-pressed not to laugh. “Oh, God did, huh? God—what?—he called you up on a hectophone personally and told you the intel was on the level?”
“He did it spiritually, Krilid. Calm your worries—believe me, I understand them—”
“You want to know the truth, Ezoriel? Half the time I feel like I’m on a suicide mission. Otherwise there’d be a hundred more insurgents in the Nectoport with me. For a mission like this? But, no, just little old me and no one else. Almost like someone said, ‘Well, if the intel turns out to be bad, then it’s better to lose just one guy than a whole company.’ ”
When Ezoriel laughed, there came a sensation like one’s reaction to sudden lightning.
“It’s not that funny—”
“Krilid, please. You worry too much. Best to think only of God’s glory and the entails of your mission. You’re in God’s hands; therefore . . . you’ll do fine.”
Yeah . . .
“So your reconnaissance at the Reservoir went well,” the higher being said rather than asked.
“Sure. I mean, I found the landmark and the pickup point. But the Reservoir’s still empty. Once it’s filled, it’ll be harder to relocate the extraction point—”
“Just use your sextant, and you’ll have no trouble—”
More gripes came to the Troll. “And I don’t know when they’re going to fill it, or with what. I feel like I’m standing at home plate in a headball game but I’m blindfolded . . .”
More illuminating chuckles issued from the Fallen Angel. “I’m happy to impart to you, Krilid, that I have been permitted to answer those questions now, as your particular need to know has been sparked.”
Krilid sat up stiff, keenly and suddenly attentive.
Ezoriel’s voice seemed to lower to a glittering whisper. “The time will be very soon. And just exactly what the massive Reservoir will be filled with . . . is this: six billion gallons of the Gulf of Cagliostro . . .”
“What!”
“It’s true,” Ezoriel said. “That Pipeway is impressive—hundreds of miles long and quite a feat for Lucifer’s Engineers. Oh, we might’ve been able to bomb it but then . . .” The refulgent Angel seemed to smile. “Powers far more lofty than I insisted that that not happen . . .”
Krilid refrained from sarcastic comment.
“All things for a purpose, yes? It’s all part of God’s plan, and we are tiny yet essential pieces of that plan. Expendable? Yes. But loved by God as well, even in our Damnation.”
Oh, that makes me feel MUCH better, Krilid’s thoughts sputtered.
“Have faith, in this place of the faithless.”
“Fine, fine,” Krilid interjected, “but . . . why does Lucifer want to fill that ridiculous Reservoir with six billion gallons of disgusting Bloodwater from the Gulf?”
Ezoriel’s undetectable gaze fixed on Krilid.
“All right, I get it,” Krilid droned. “I don’t have a need to know yet. You’re afraid if I get captured, I’ll spill the beans.”
The illumined presence seemed to nod. “God’s work calls me to depart. The coordinates for your next reconnaissance will be delivered telepathically very soon.” The Angel raised a finger. “Rest assured that, just as Daniel had no fear of the lion’s pit, you need not have fear of what awaits you.” Ezoriel passed Krilid a small cloth sack. “Until we meet again . . . go with God.” And then—
Sssssssssssssssss-ONK!
—the Fallen Angel’s Nectoport was gone.
Krilid opened the sack and withdrew—
“Oh, wow! What a great guy!”
—a big chunk of Ghor-Hound sausage.
(II)
What an ass I am, Gerold thought. A male intern who looked like he hadn’t slept in days wheeled him through the hospital lobby and out into blazing sun. Once outside, the stubbled assistant lit a cigarette and frowned right at Gerold.
“What?” Gerold asked.
“I’m supposed to be off now, that’s what,” the guy said. “I’ve been up thirty-six hours but now I’ve got to do this.”
“Sorry.” Gerold felt sheepish. “So . . . where am I going?”
“VA.” The guy rubbed his sandpapery chin. “You’re what we call a ‘punt.’ ”
“A . . . what?”
“A punt. We’re punting you. It’s tax dollars paying for this stunt of yours—”
Gerold’s well-developed arms tensed. “It’s wasn’t a stunt—”
“Yeah, it was. We get ‘em all the time. Look, I’m sorry you can’t walk but—shit. My brother can’t walk either—he got hit by a drunk. And you know what? He’s never pulled a stunt like this. Clogging up a busy hospital with bullshit is no way to vent your need for attention.”
Gerold winced. “You’re worse than that lady upstairs! I wasn’t trying to get attention! I was just trying to kill myself, but I fucked up!” His tempered sizzled. “And I wish to God I hadn’t.”