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The major understood her objections. The child had seen her share of death. But the time had come when she needed to understand the drama unfolding at this point in history.

“The essential terms of human existence have changed, Felix. One hundred years ago, in an age of strong monarchs and rulers, the question was which one of them would control the path to the divine. In our age, the question is, how do we transform mere rudderless humans from passive consumers into militant saints?”

Felicity experienced a sort of vertigo. She felt as if she were being examined about everything she knew.

The major continued, ignoring her panic. “The growing tide of consumers are about ready to devour the earth. Unless these consumers, through a miracle, become saints who will refrain from consumption, we won't have much of a planet left. Which is why we are going to intervene. We'll consume a few million consumers before all is consumed. Your job, love, is to convince them all to give up their greed for sainthood in the little time remaining.”

“Excuse me? Who's ‘we,' anyway?” Her bristly hair stood like a shocked porcupine.

“Your humble heralds, Felicity, are trumpeting the message everywhere.”

“That's crazy. You sound like Mullin.” She had always thought her dear uncle eccentric, but this was insane. She had taken his stories of conspiracy to be fairy tales. They had helped her sleep when she was a child. She felt now as if she were waking from the sweet sleep of childhood into a nightmare. She loved her uncle, but there was no love in his vision of her destiny. And she realized that her love for him stood somehow in the way of his horrific vision. Not sure now that he would understand, she said, “I still believe in love. You can't stop love.”

“Example?” the major demanded sarcastically, clipping the end of a new cigar. It was worse than she thought. He didn't
want
to understand.

“Example. The Mississippi and the Atchafalaya.”

She thought about the levees and dams that shackled the Mississippi River. A century of control by the Army Corps of Engineers prevented the Mississippi from joining with its love, the young, swift Atchafalaya. If they joined, the Mississippi would shorten its way to the Gulf of Mexico by 120 miles, leaving New Orleans high and dry. New Orleans without the Mississippi! One day, she exulted, Old Man River will break out to get to his love.
Amor vincit omnia
. Likewise, the earth will deal with her devourers in good time.

“The cherry soup is done.”

She had wanted to tell her uncle about her next day's meeting with Mullin, before he had sent her to these dark speculative grounds. She had thought that the major might protect her in case Mullin meant to do her harm. But now she didn't feel that it was appropriate. A crater had opened in front of her, and she had to be careful of her next step. Her anchor had come loose. It was too much to think about. She'd handle Mullin on her own. She consoled herself—childishly, she knew—with the thought of the money she'd soon have. She relished in advance the surprise on the major's face when she presented him as a gift Saint Sylvester's crib or John the Baptist's coffee mug. Perhaps he would then return to the self she had always known and loved. Tomorrow, she told herself again, I will be worth $2.1 million.

After Felicity went home, the major, in a state of uncharacteristic agitation, called his PA (psychic adviser), Carbon, to arrange a consultation. Carbon arrived promptly at Notz's door, as he always did when his favorite client called. He was a most unlikely-looking psychic, nearly as fat as the major but towering over him at six feet six inches. He dressed in the battered leather uniform of a biker, with spike-studded boots, brass-ring knuckles, and leather hood. An unruly red beard framed his cheeks and spilled forth from his chin like a waterfall. He was an eclectic practitioner, performing past-life readings, regression, aura adjustments, tarot card readings, palm readings, dream interpretation, healing massage, and above all, channeling. Major Notz had availed himself of all these services at one time or another, but he prized above all Carbon's ability as a medium. He channeled a variety of spirits—some were trustworthy and accurate, others were lying scum, but as Carbon said, why should the spirit world be any different from this one?

“Carbon,” said the major after the psychic settled his bulk in a carved armchair Notz had acquired in Domrémy, France, where Joan of Arc had been born, “I need you to ask Hermes, or his equivalent, to look into the future and apprise me of my niece's activities. What is her direction?”

As was his habit, Carbon pressed his huge leathered hands against his eyelids, and his head relaxed, falling forward into his beard. A high and oddly operatic voice issued from his ragged throat.

“Greetings, Major. It is said that the angels are awkward and don't like to be called into meetings. Some of them are large and fluffy like bread pudding, while some are no bigger than an incense stick and just as bright. For the most part they know their jobs because their missions are built in. But some have not had a mission assigned, and all they do is play all day long. Angels with a mission regard these unassigned angels as grown-ups regard children. They are all, actually, unidimensional, so that even though there are millions, maybe trillions of them, they are no thicker than a thin sheet of paper, or a flake of phyllo. The more substantial, thicker beings in charge of the angels walk about in a state of terminal annoyance at having to keep track of so many. But by far the worst job is that of the Namer.”

“Why are you giving me a lesson in angels?” Major Notz demanded, not pleased at all. “And who are you, anyway?”

“I'm Hermes, the messenger,” said the piqued entity, equally put off. “If you wanted Pythia you should have said so. It's not like we aren't busy, Miss Human.”

The major was willing to make peace. “Tell me, how serious is Felicity's involvement with entities from the past, these things called cyberbeings?”

“If you are willing to listen. As I said, the hardest job concerning angels is naming them, so the Namer is an important figure. It is said that in the waning days of the twentieth century an angel will fly into the city of New Orleans on a delicate mission. His name will be Zack, short for Hezekiah. It is not the most resonant name for an angel of such importance. On the day of his naming, the Namer on duty was absentminded and cranky. He had been recalled from a job tending the waters of life and death to fill in for a Namer who'd run out of inspiration.

“‘Name him yourselves, nard-sotted bureaucrats!' he groused when the shiny, still-wet angel pupa was brought before him. ‘Heaven's getting as specialized as the baculum of a dog! Now there are Bearers and Bathers and Namers and God knows what else, but I'm sure he doesn't! And to what purpose? You name them Ezekiel or Isaiah, but in the end they turn out to be just ornamental putti on pink puffs! Not a real Isaiah or Ezekiel in the bouquet! It's worse than earth!'

“It is said that after these dismissive and terrible words, the Namer wrote with the light of his finger on the soft chamois of the pupa and sent him off to do the jobs of the universe. As it turns out, his first big job, after a basic training period of eight angel
mok
, which corresponds to the time it takes a sequoia to grow from seed to a height of one hundred feet, is rather momentous. He is to insure the flawless unfolding of a formidable Council of the Minds, who will meet in New Orleans in order to decide whether to bring on the End of the World in the manner described by John in Revelation or in some other form.”

“Wait
one
minute!” shouted the major. “What Council of the Minds? How many? Who are they?”

“I warned you, listener,” hissed Hermes, “don't interrupt. I don't know how many, nor does the poor angel in charge of them. As I speak, he is selecting them, cursing his fate. What is certain is that they will arrive here at any moment, so be prepared. Your mental abilities lag far behind the brilliance of this event. Of course, that isn't my concern. It is the angel Zack I feel pity for. In addition to setting up the Council of the Minds, a very tall order if you truly knew the chaotic state of the spirit world, Zack has to recapitulate, in essence, two thousand years of religious quarreling, in order to insure that the Messiah is ready to proceed when the cleansing is concluded.”

“The Messiah,” whispered the major. “Well, at least we are in familiar territory. But this council—”

Hermes didn't hear him. He went on: “Then there is the question of the Evil One, the one you call the Antichrist, pretending to be the Chosen One, and the credibility gap that the impersonation will open. Simply engineering the meeting is a big job, but what the Minds will do is a mystery. It does not seem that there is enough earth time to tend to both the Messiah and the Antichrist. Angels are simultaneistic, but what about reincarnated Minds? Do they operate in angelic, or earthly time? Zack will have a time problem, given that the council will be composed inevitably of Minds with differing points of view and different historical contexts, who would quarrel for an eternity if not guided somehow. Zack suspects that the whole thing may even be some unspeakable divine trick, since these Minds have already been quarreling for eternity in the heavens. What will be so different when they incarnate?”

“He could turn down the job,” grumbled the major. “Get a superangel or something. Somebody experienced.”

“It was proposed. It is said that nobody in their right mind wanted the job. Most angels are in their right mind; otherwise they wouldn't be angels. They would be archangels or saints. Young angel Zack is in for a hell of a ride. While he does feel sorry for himself, he demands not to be pitied, because, as he would point out to you, there are perks and mitigations, not the least of which is visiting the city of New Orleans itself. Also, hell is watching with the keenest interest: if the ride is rough enough, they will put it on the menu with the shrimp diablo.”

The major wondered at Hermes' intricate knowledge of his city's fair cuisine. Was Carbon poking through, or had Hermes consulted the Bayonna Restaurant Web page on the Internet?

“One might argue, as his Namer did, that the selection of this inexperienced and potentially incompetent baby angel proves that the Ultimate does not give a rat's ass about your world. Whether it ends or not is of no great concern. One of the Namer's favorite earthlings, Buckminster Fuller, said that humans are an ‘information-gathering function' in the ‘eternally regenerative universe.' If they fail to do the job, another functionary will take over. Mushroom spores, for instance. Or fire ants. Humans are entirely too self-important. Still, charging a novice with the fate of Fuller's fellow creatures is ironic.”

Hermes fell silent. Notz couldn't help but admire the spirit's sense of humor. The communication contained important news. The Council of the Minds came as a total surprise to him, complicating his already complicated task. But for Felicity, he would have had no clue how these Minds would be arriving in New Orleans. The cyberspace site Felicity had stumbled on was one of the nodes through which these Minds were landing. The city was a train station at the moment, with trains full of the illustrious dead pulling in for their great meeting. Felicity's cyberentities were collecting information prior to their incarnations. Watching the tunnel mouth of her Web site was a good way to observe the beginning of the invasion. But the Internet was doubtless only one of the means by which these entities traveled. There were others, and they had to be found. Carbon had become indispensible.

Chapter Twelve

Wherein Sister Rodica leads Andrea and the distinguished guests on a pilgrimage to the holy places. Andrea and Lama Cohen commune at the Wailing Wall

One night Father Hernio asked Sister Rodica, “Sister, are you going to conduct one of your tours to the tomb of the Holy Sepulchre tomorrow? I would very much like to accompany you, to refresh my memory of the holy sites.”

All the others, with the exception of Father Tuiredh, who pleaded business elsewhere, declared that they would like to go as well. Andrea, whose Christian education was lagging because Sister Rodica had been so inexplicably distant, also expressed her desire to go. She liked the hospice's guests, and now that the stories had started, she had a thirst for more. In some way, the inmates of Saint Hildegard's were a lot like the inmates of the refugee camp, who for lack of anything better to do endlessly discussed matters both profound and trivial, or passed the time playing writing and singing games. They knew full well that none of their discussions made any difference to their true activity, which was
waiting
. In the camps, they all waited for the day when they would be set free. Or killed.

Andrea was not sure what the scholars were waiting for, but she liked the attention that they gave her—they made her feel she was someone important.

That night she dreamed of the Mendeleyev table of elements, only each square contained a suffix for her name, like
ani, ita, ska, ina
, or
isha
, instead of the elements' abbreviations. Thus she knew that she was dear to each one of the hospice's guests who called her privately by an endearment. Andreani, Andreita, Andreska, Andreina, Andreisha … these were her diminutive selves, each one with a weight and a function, just like the elements.

After this dream, Andrea thought more about the possibility of being a television star like Gala Keria and wanted to hear more about it (blush, blush) from the disgusting Air. Rabindranath. She remembered the young soldier from the first
Gal Gal Hamazal
show that she had watched. If she had been Gala she would have found a way to let him win, too. And if not, she would have taken him to her bed and folded her big wings over him. In her sensual fantasies, Andrea often sported a pair of fluffy white wings like the Roman statue of Victory at Ashkelon.