Читать книгу Selfish Beings - J Morris L - Страница 8

In Hell, as on Earth, the unscheduled call for a meeting of top-tier management brought with it a certain fear and confusion. Demon-Lords had spent the few precious hours after the summoning to work out what they could have possibly done wrong and how best to lay blame for those failings at someone else’s feet. The eternally damned mortals that served them sprinted between file rooms and offices as the Lords pored over reports and inventories. Almost the entire building had been a hive of furious activity up until the final minutes before the meeting.

Only one office showed no signs of movement; its black wooden doors had not even opened since the messenger delivered the summons. Mastema, Tempter of Men and Cursed Accuser, did not harbour any fears about the meeting. In the unlikely event he had made an error he knew he could shift responsibility so quickly and flawlessly it would make a human politician sit up and take notes. The Demon-Lord had instead spent the time trying to rectify his tendency to slice the ball on the drive.

The messenger that had brought news of the meeting lay in front of Mastema’s massive office window. The mortal would have been afforded a grand view of Perdition in its entire splendour, had he been able to turn his head. From Mastema’s office at the top of the tower one could view the almost endless city as well as the beginnings of the sandy plains of Perdition. Only Lucifer’s chambers sat higher than the building they were in. As it was, all the messenger could see was the white marble roof of the office and the tip of the golf tee he held between his teeth.

Mastema leant down and gingerly placed a ball on the top of it. The messenger was rigid with fear, he had already trembled once and the ball had fallen to the floor. The man remembered well the penalty for that failing. The Demon-Lord had “played it where it lay”, driving the ball with tremendous force in to the side of his head. An earthly mortal’s skull would have been demolished by the power; the damned mortal that was the messenger had a splitting headache and a golf ball permanently lodged in his temple.

Mastema kept his knees bent and arms straight, eyes on the ball as he had been taught. He let loose with all his unholy might and the ball sailed out of the window and deep into Hell. He laughed as it struck a minion two miles away square in the head. Mastema did not find the misfortune of the minor demon humorous; pleasures of such a petty nature were below a Demon-Lord. Mastema rejoiced instead because it was clear that over the morning’s practice he had progressed a long way and he anticipated a great improvement in his long game.

A glance at the clock on his wall told him the meeting would be starting in moments. Mastema dismissed the golf-ball embedded messenger and walked to the changing room adjoining his office. Most of the Lords preferred either black robes or baring their upper bodies, covering the lower with fur loincloths decorated with flayed flesh belts, skull buckles and other such nonsense. Mastema found the exposed red abdominals and fuzzy underpants look disgustingly clichéd. He liked suits. Nice suits.

Mastema had been lucky enough to stumble in to a tailor of sorts decades earlier whilst slumming it in one of Perdition’s less exclusive drinking establishments. The elderly man had helped design dress uniforms for the Gestapo and elements of the SS before his eternal soul had been sent to Hell. What Mastema had, in essence, was a wardrobe of Hugo Boss originals.

He selected his most sombre-looking black suit and an exquisite silk shirt of a slightly lighter hue. After changing, he examined himself in the gilded full-length mirror in his suite. The black attire contrasted nicely with his deep red complexion and complemented his void-like eyes and sharp features superbly. Mastema deemed the overall effect to be both professional and dashing as he left at a leisurely pace for a meeting that he was already late for.

Like all of Perdition, the Soul Reaper Tower was nothing like the imagery the foolish Mortals associated with Hell. Mastema had not set foot upon their world for centuries but he had heard the rumours - a pit of fire and despair that looked like an angry and palsied volcano was consulted as the interior decorator, it was absolute nonsense. Perdition resembled nothing more than a vast, sprawling city, with a variety of stone in every colour and type imaginable used to build it. Beyond the ever-encroaching city limits was a boundless desert of black sand. An immense fire burned in the sky but only to provide heat, light and to make up for the lack of a sun. It was majestic more than threatening and at night it smouldered with a soft glow that was almost romantic. The tower itself was a marvel of differing shades of marble, gold edging, glass and dark woods stained and polished to a sheen. If the stupid Mortals had any idea what Perdition was really like then Mastema and his fellow Lords would have had no trouble meeting their demanding and never-achieved quotas.

All eyes were on Mastema as he slammed closed the black marble doors of the Board’s chamber. No gathering of the Lords could begin without the entire Board present and Mastema’s tardiness had only prolonged the other members’ fear and anxiety at the meeting’s purpose. None of the waiting Lords commented on his late arrival; the visual daggers they threw his way were indicative enough of their anger. Like everything Mastema did, his belated entrance had been on purpose. It showed how unconcerned he was at the request; he was superior amongst his so-called equals and held none of their fears.

Let them scramble when Abaddon shouts, he thought. I come when I’m good and ready.

With a faint sneer on his lips, Mastema looked around the burnt oak table and found his usual place was already taken. The smile at his one-fingered salute to the hierarchy of Hell was quickly wiped away as the cost of his display became apparent. The only available seat was next to Samael, Bringer of Death and Destruction, a Lord who possessed the strength of a thousand demons, the IQ of a semi-retarded brick and a homicidal rage viewed as excessive, even by Perdition’s standards. There was also the issue of Samael’s stench. The strength of a thousand demons apparently brought with it the body odour of a thousand pairs of unwashed feet. As far as Mastema was concerned, Samael could keep that particular blessing. Sighing, he ignored the glares of his fellow Lords and with great resignation took his seat next to Samael.

‘Nice loincloth,’ Mastema said as he proceeded to lean forward and block the Demon’s view of the Chairman.

Samael could have easily backhanded him out of the way, several miles out of the way in fact. However, such an unprofessional display during a meeting would have brought severe penalties from the Chairman. Samael instead let out a low, threatening growl and Mastema grinned at the brute’s enforced impotence.

Abaddon, King of Demons, Voice of Lucifer and Chairman of the Board, stood before the gathered Lords in a resplendent blood-red robe with gold trim, a surprisingly calm look on his stony face. His anger at Mastema’s late arrival was gone, replaced with a quiet appreciation of the subtle way he had forced the mighty Samael to kowtow to protocol. It was a paltry display but against a great and powerful opponent. Such rivalries between Lords were expected and encouraged. In any case, if Samael’s grimace was any benchmark, Mastema would be feeling pain and punishment enough soon after the gathering. The Chairman signalled for silence with his hands and rose to address the Board. There were far more pressing matters than Mastema’s lack of respect and punctuality.

‘My fellow Lords, I have called this meeting on behalf of none other than Lucifer himself to address a grave and growing concern. Humanity is expanding at a phenomenal rate and the ratio of souls we are claiming is in no way matching it. Needless to say, Lucifer is extremely displeased with the situation and, by extension, with us.’

Abaddon took a quick account of the assembled Lords and the undivided attention he received from all pleased him. Although he was certain the Board would understand the gravity of the situation, their silent confirmation was a welcome reassurance.

‘Asteroth, our venerable Treasurer, has been going over the figures for some time. I will not overburden you with the statistics and his explanations of data-models but, even in his best case scenario, the situation is dire. Assuming half of the souls we are not claiming are going in to Limbo, which is to say the least highly optimistic, we are losing souls to the Hated One at a ratio of almost three to one.’

The assembled Lords visibly began to show distress at the news; if in the best case Hell was gaining one soul to Heaven’s three then Lucifer’s anger was well and truly justified. Mastema saw glances between the opposing factions of the Board and knew the blame-gaming and scapegoating was only moments away. In the interests of keeping the meeting brief and making his afternoon tee time, he decided to step in and redirect events.

‘Esteemed Chairman, if I may offer an opinion?’ he asked.

Abaddon, wondering which of the other Lords Mastema was about to artfully try to heap the responsibility on, nodded his permission.

‘This news is most regrettable and whilst I, and without doubt my fellow Lords, fully understand Lucifer’s anger I believe perspective is important. We play this game with the souls of humanity on behalf of our Master, yet it is the opponent who owns the board and who made the pieces. The Hated One has churches, cathedrals, magazines and missions. We have nothing of the sort. They have books that explicitly tell people what they can do to avoid Perdition’s grasp and over hundreds of years those have painted such a bleak picture of us and our realm that no mortal in their right mind would consider walking our path. I’m sure we have all seen frescoes and paintings of how they view Perdition, all volcanic rock and flames. I wouldn’t want to visit a place like that, let alone spend an eternity there.’

The surrounding Lords nodded their heads in agreement. Whilst they all detested Mastema, his attempt to fault the situation rather than themselves was most acceptable.

‘Humans have free will and an untold number of decisions to make in their average lifespan,’ Mastema continued. ‘Only a few of which lead them down our path. Even then, almost all of those must be committed in extremity. The Bible and other religious texts show them in such black and white morality that any fool with half a brain can steer well clear of us. I say the game is rigged and we need to renegotiate the rules of claiming. Was it not after Lucifer made the wager with the Hated One and we left the so-called Paradise that the Bible was given to man? Surely that is cheating, or at the very least an unfair advantage, and either we have won by default or the rules should be changed to even up the playing field.’

The Demon Lords roared in agreement as Abaddon barked a harsh laugh. He motioned for Mastema to sit down and them to be quiet.

‘Ah, Mastema,’ said the Chairman, once he could be heard, ‘it is said that a poor builder blames his tools; so instead you fault the parents of the architect. Do you not think our esteemed Master foresaw all these difficulties when he first challenged the Hated One? We have played this game for centuries and in the beginning we had no such problems. The rules are immovable and, clever rhetoric aside, the reason for the failure is not the situation; it is the complacency of the Lords assembled here. Exploiting the flaws of the Hated One’s creations should be child’s play; they are as weak and corruptible as when the wager for their souls was first made. Make no mistake, we have been derelict in our duties for some time and a radical change is needed to bring us back into this game.’

Jezebeth, Spreader of Falsehoods and Lies, lifted his voice above the growing din of the assembled Lords.

‘What would Lucifer suggest we do to rectify this situation?’ he asked.

‘Lucifer suggests we all do our bloody jobs,’ replied Abaddon. ‘The overall direction of Perdition is guided by Lucifer’s shining light; the annoying, finicky details are our problem. Each Lord is required to submit a detailed proposal on how we can fix this mess we find ourselves in at an assembly one week from today. Lucifer himself will be present to pass judgement.’

The announcement brought instant silence to the boardroom. It was almost unheard of for the Light Bearer and Son of the Morning to attend a meeting.

‘He would like to see outside of the box thinking on this one. I have been advised that Lucifer is willing to send one Lord to the Mortal realm to implement their plan, should it be worthy and require such an outlay of resources. If none of your plans are solid he may take what works from each of them and send the best Lord for the job. If even that is not an option, you and your families will be tortured then executed. I hope Lucifer’s presence at the meeting and the lengths he is willing to go to demonstrate the urgency and importance of your task. Meeting adjourned.’

In the shock caused by Abaddon’s final revelation, Mastema rushed out of the boardroom as the Lords began to launch into discussion. Samael was stupid and smelly but he was also cruel and immensely powerful. Mastema had no inclination to stay in the same room with the brute less than five minutes after angering him. He walked back to his office shoulder-barging any minion foolish enough to pass by him. Not only did he have extra work to do, but the punishment for failure was severe and the incentive was no better.

Whilst the other Lords were no doubt relishing the chance to enter the Mortal realm, Mastema knew better. He had been there centuries before and found the limitations placed on a Demon in that place unbearable. It was the speed that annoyed him the most: everything moved so slowly in the Mortal realm. A demon’s strength in mortal form was great, but a shadow of what it was in Perdition and they were just as easy to kill as the humans when in their world. Upon that death, they would be sent back to Hell in a weakened state, which was painful, very unnerving and potentially dangerous; especially if one counted Samael amongst their enemies. Worst of all, the soul cost of opening a link to the Mortal plane was so high that being killed before completing your assigned tasks received the very harshest of punishments.

Mastema had a very large problem and only one week to find a solution. He needed, for the sake of brandishing his success over the heads of his fellow Board members, to present the best plan to Lucifer. He also needed it to involve someone else going to the Mortal realm so he could avoid the horrid duty himself. This in itself presented other problems, for although there would be no shortage of Lords clamouring to go to Earth, the plan had to be masterful. Should they fail, the fault could only be seen as theirs. Mastema entered his office and gathered his briefcase. He looked longingly at his golf clubs but there would be no time for playing in the next week. With a snarl, he headed home.