“Yes. Your life would be completely different and you’d be fluttering around a cloud jamming with Django Reinhardt.”
“See, now I think you’re fibbing.”
“We are who we are, Jim. There’s no changing that, back in the mortal world or here.”
“You mean there are miserable, depressed assholes in Heaven, too?”
“Of course.”
“A lot?”
“Enough.”
“And they piss everyone off?”
“They sure do.”
“Good.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “It’s nice to see you.”
“You too. You look good with a couple of scars.”
“By the time this is over I might look like you.”
“I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
She puts her hands on her knees and leans back.
“You’re going to protect me? The guy who couldn’t even manifest his Gladius a few minutes ago?”
Shit. “You saw that?”
She pats me on the arm, a mischievous grin on her face. “It’s okay. It happens to guys sometimes. No one thinks any less of you.”
“Oh, man.”
Alice stands and brushes off her armor.
“Come on. Bring your stupid cigarette and show me around this Popsicle stand.”
The repairs go quickly with five angels working wrenches at light speed, but the work still takes all night. Alice doesn’t know a damned thing about engines, so she’s a kind of unofficial angel ambassador to the havoc, answering people’s questions about Heaven, God, wing maintenance, and settling bets over whether or not angels shit (apparently, it’s their choice, which is weird even for angels). Traven, on the other hand, tries to quiz her on obscure theological arguments. French hermits in caves versus traveling German Flagellants versus a day trader from upstate New York who had a vision of the Virgin Mary at the Strawberry Panda strip club in Vegas. She took all his money, but later at his hotel he found a gram of coke in the back of a Gideon’s Bible and declared it a miracle. Alice answers each of his questions with Groucho’s lines from old Marx Brothers movies I made her watch.
“Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.”
“I once shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas I’ll never know.”
By the time she starts singing “Hooray for Captain Spaulding,” he catches on that she’s not revealing any deep, dark secrets and settles for trading stories about their favorite L.A. bookstores.
Cherry has been keeping a low profile since Alice blew her cover. All the windows in the ambulance are covered and smoke curls from a vent in the roof. She’s locked herself up doing her swami bit, trying to get back in good with the Magistrate.
But even with the angels’ help, the havoc loses more vehicles. When I came along, there were twelve semis and several pieces of construction equipment towing the flatbed. Now there are four semis, a dump truck, and the AAV we took from the dead Legionnaires. Members of the havoc and the conscripts have to squeeze into buses and the smaller trucks together, which puts everyone in an even better mood.
Before we move out, the Magistrate leaps on top of his Charger and addresses his increasingly restless flock.
“My friends, as we move out today, we embark not on a new journey, but a renewed and more powerful one. We are blessed with the presence of six angels who will guide us in these next steps. Despite all that we have been through, all the losses and dark moments, the crusade has always moved forward, and today it will move forward again. We will reach the second step of our holy campaign in just a few days, and once there, I tell you now: we will possess the Lux Occisor, the sword the Almighty used to strike down Lucifer and his rebel angels. With the weapon and the help of our angel companions, we will enter the third and final stage of our crusade, and join in the battle for Heaven itself!”
The Magistrate pauses for dramatic effect. I think he’s waiting for a roar of approval, but what he gets are a few whistles and a smattering of applause. I’ve said it before: Hell is a tough room.