CHAPTER ONE

	Sunlight spilled over the clean desert sands, sweeping the night 
away from the valley. Shadows retreated, back across the rolling dunes 
and rocks, across Westwards to take refuge in the sheltering walls of the 
town that lay on the thin green rind between the arid hills and the bitter 
inland sea.

	Before the sun had done more than paint the roofs of the temples, 
the market place was crowded, fruits and grains brought from outlying 
fields to stand in polyglot profusion with spices and metalware offloaded 
by far-travelling caravans. This place was rich with centuries of trade: its 
temples took no greatly unfair taxes on the traffic, which bent its routes 
towards the great City gates of cedarwood, rather than avoiding their 
shadows.

	Bright light spilled through a narrow window, falling on a plain bed 
of flaxen cloth. 

	"Morning!" Mitha stretched, her slim arms wide to welcome the day 
as she swung herself off the bed. For a second she looked straight into 
the sun's eye with her own bright yellow gaze, as was the custom - then, 
having reverently greeted the Provider, blinked rapidly and slid down the 
ladder to see if there was any Breakfast left.


	The water was cool in the wide, shallow bowl, freshly drawn from 
the well in the courtyard where Mitha's family had dwelt for generations. 
For a second the girl looked down at her reflection, framed by the 
innocent blue skies above her. She had the yellow-brown eyes of her 
people, so unlike the dark brown or black of the swarthy folk who roamed 
with their goats in the desert - chestnut hair framed an oval, serious face 
as she bent to wash the sleep away. 

	"Morning, sleepy!" She turned at the voice behind her. Her brother 
Satel was back from the market, his sack round with the shape of melons 
and loaves. "Big day today - you looking forward to it?"

	She looked into his laughing eyes, as he leaned in the shade of the 
doorway. Two cubits tall, he towered above her even in his sandals, sun-
bleached hair blowing in the winds. At heel was Aruk, the family's pet 
boar, who was insistently nuzzling the bag with his flat snout.

	Mitha grinned. "As if I could forget it? Father's due back today, if all 
the harvest's been sold. Come on, drop that bag in the kitchen, let's get to 
the Red gate and welcome him!"

	There was a pleased squeal from Aruk, as the two humans 
sprinted off down the street. Most houses had pigs - they rivalled dogs in 
their usefulness as watchers and herders. Pork was indeed the main meat 
on the menu in the city, though Aruk was assured of a long and happy life 
- not only was he the family pet, but he possessed a bloodline that made 
his progeny valuable indeed.

	Sunlight glittered on the brightly polished bronze spears of the 
watchmen manning the city walls as Satel and his sister raced in their 
solid shade, down to the Easternmost gate. Stallholders shouted and 
waved at them - other boars and sows squealed and grunted in pens or 
ran free in alleyways. Pulling ahead of the humans, Aruk's speed was only 
slightly lessened by backwards glances to check that they were still with 
him.

	"Beat you - again!" Mitha pulled up in the blown sand at the Red 
Gate, her heavier brother two paces behind. Their boar went charging off 
down the road: he almost reached the first irrigation ditch before noticing 
his family had fallen back. Panting and huffing happily, he trotted back to 
the cool shade of the gateway, where Mitha skritched him behind the ears 
and fished a date out from her pocket for his delight.

	There they sat, drawing their breath as the guards on the top of the 
arch watched them. There was no question but that they belonged there - 
the folk of the City could be distinguished from the nomads at two 
hundred paces. In the City, folk dressed in light robes, often stripping to 
the skin as required - the heavily cowled and veiled Easteners were often 
pitied in the hot sun.

	"Yes, it was pretty busy in the markets," Satel commented, 
stretching out a bronzed arm to join in the task of scritching their bristly 
companion. "Father's overseer just got in, says he'll be along later today - 
if there's no trouble." He frowned. "There's a new tribe of nomads coming 
across the desert from the East, sending scouts into the valley. I don't 
think we'll get along too well. You remember that one, tried to kick Aruk 
last week? They've something against pigs, and they scarcely even like 
dogs. Anyway, Aruk bit him, and he limped off swearing he was going to 
summon his God against us, or something like that." Aruk grunted, and 
rested his warm snout in his master's lap.

	Mitha looked up at the Sun, now rising above the baked clay of the 
walls. "Ours wouldn't do a thing like that. That's petty. I've heard, some of 
these folk burn animals on their altars, don't even eat them. " She 
shuddered, her eyes wide. "One of them called me a harlot - I had to ask 
what that was. I still don't believe it, though - why couldn't folk just go to 
the Temple for that, like anyone else? We don't expect them to worship 
Our goddesses, but they needn't carry on like they've got the only deity 
around. It's a good thing we've got the walls and the Guards - they'll need 
something pretty major to get past these."

	Her brother relaxed in the shade. "Shouldn't be too long now 
before Father turns up, anyway. Then I'll have to get busy - unloading the 
carts and all that." His eyes widened. "If I'm REALLY lucky, Taranak'll be 
along with him. Now, I've heard the Easteners REALLY wouldn't approve 
of that." 

	Mitha laughed. She too was looking forward to meeting her 
brother's chosen mate. Taranak was the sort of man she hoped to pick for 
herself one day - fortunately, these were enlightened times, and she could 
wed whoever she wished, or not. Fully a tenth of the City's population 
were officially Children of the Temple: all children were loved and valued 
here, regardless of their parentage. Three of her half-sisters had children 
of their own, and lived together as a happy, extended family over by the 
Sunrise Gate. Mitha grinned. After tomorrow, she could get officially 
invited to their parties. And yet, she had seen the nomads spit towards the 
temple of the Earth-Goddess. She wondered if their own God was as 
caring towards his worshippers.


	Clouds whipped by, high cirrus clouds bearing no rain and casting 
scant shadow on the desert below. Descending on a long, slanting 
trajectory from insertion at high altitude, AZ One scanned the curving 
yellow horizon to get his bearings. Back there was the coral-lined arm of 
the Gulf, and ahead... ahead was the deeper blue of the larger sea. From 
this altitude, the thin air screamed over his wings with a barely heard 
voice.

	"Going down to lo-level, brethren," he intoned, not needing to 
glance round to his wingman. AZ Two and Three were perfect, as he was 
himself. They were given missions, and they carried them out. Cleanly. 
Flawlessly. Just the way they had been told to - for everyone knew what 
happened to folk who Disobeyed Orders.

	The desert seemed to swell towards him, as the last thin veil of 
clouds flashed past in the dive. Straight ahead, the great rift valley lay like 
a split in a weather-worn plank, a splash of green bordering the brine of 
the inland sea. AZ One checked course - first marker coming up ..... Now. 
A salt-pan off the shore of the sea reflected the sunlight brilliantly, giving 
him his navigational fix. Not that he could have gone astray - his system 
was almost infallible. The desert seemed to streak by now, relative speed 
increasing as he levelled out into the attack run.

	"AZ Two, AZ three, peel off towards secondary targets.... Now." 
The second aiming point passed beneath him, the "pinch" in the little salt 
lake below. And then he was alone, as his wingmates vectored away to 
their own mission, less than half a minute's flying time away.

	Now it got Interesting. All alone, third marker coming up .... green 
fields smeared by below, the farmers working hard in the Spring sunshine. 
But nobody there was going to detect him - especially not at the target. He 
was flying at just over the speed of sound now, the tumult of his passing 
echoing like a host in the dry hills behind him. Third marker - there! The 
sandy delta where the river came into the salt lake from the North. 
Twenty-nine seconds to go.

	Locked on course, AZ One felt a sickening sensation briefly 
washing over him. Of course this was right - when had the Leader ever 
been anything but Perfect? AZ owed everything to him. And yet ... there 
were people down there, good or bad like people everywhere. Maybe 
criminally misguided, some of them - but it wasn't just those few who were 
going to be on the receiving end. Involuntarily, he checked the thing he 
had brought to this valley - all was functioning perfectly. And just twenty 
seconds to go now - his fleeting thoughts must have crowded in at 
superhuman speed, as the horizon seemed to bounce up and down while 
he skimmed across the ridge tops at what would have been treetop height 
had there been trees to avoid.....

	Angrily, he dismissed the treasonous doubt. He knew what 
happened to Rebels - hadn't his own wing's AZ Nine been caught and 
punished, along with the rest? What the Leader did to you, you wouldn't 
be coming back from, this side of Eternity. And in sixteen seconds, there 
wouldn't be a problem to worry about anyway.

	"Target - lock." He could see it now, as the shadow of his wings 
flashed over a bend in the River. Almost as if he wanted to get it over 
with, he accelerated in a shallow dive, wings vibrating as went into the 
valley itself, fighting the air drag of a turn at nearly twice the speed of 
sound. Not that he'd get hurt when what was foreordainned took place 
there - but he wanted to get this over with and go home.....

	"Target lock - checked", he confirmed. "Attack run - commencing."


	"Look!" Mitha's eyes were keenest, as she saw what was coming 
"It's Father! And he's got both waggons!" She sprang to her feet, and ran 
barefoot down the road to meet her parent, Satel and Aduk scarcely a 
dress-hem behind.

	"Whoa!" Her father pulled up his chariot, the small wild asses 
rearing slightly at the unaccustomed commands. Handing the reins over 
to his spear-carrier, Mitha's father sprang over the wicker side-armour 
panels with the grace of a warrior half his years.

	"Father!" And then she was swept up in the great bronzed arms, 
hugging him tightly, feeling the rough salt prickle of his beard, worn in the 
Assyrian style this year. For a few heartbeats he held her close - then 
held her out at arm's length, studying her like a potter with his finest firing 
of the day.

	"Well, it's my little Mitha, out to see me," His voice was a melodic 
rumble. "Or, not so little any more - you ARE growing. Chosen any mates 
for the Festival tomorrow?"

	She looked down, blushing with embarrassment, yet immensely 
glad he had noticed her fast-maturing figure. "Only one so far - he's a 
Kushite, though ... Asa-Tebo's his mother, that free trader. But I've asked 
at the Temple, he often goes there - the Priestess says he'll be good to 
me."

	"And Satel too. Ho, son - how goes it?" He cast a glance at the slim 
warrior, happily reunited with Taranak, who was driving the first goods 
waggon. "Back in Civilisation we are - Taranak's been wasting away for 
you out on the Farm there." This was, of course, a manifest joke: the 
driver's arms were like tree-trunks, though his touch was delicate as a 
falling leaf. "I can see it's Mitha who'll be doing the marrying round here. 
No matter - the city grows apace anyhow, despite what our barbarian 
friends tell us about our manners."

	Putting Mitha down, he tousled the long black fur of the boar that 
was snuffling affectionately at his knees, and patted the back step of the 
chariot. The muscular boar hopped on - helping his daughter up onto the 
fighting platform, he took up the reins again and clucked sharply. With his 
family safe on board, and the boar poking his snout out into the cooling 
wind that blew past the wicker applique armour, he moved off, heading 
back towards the security of the Red Gate.


	"Target lock set. Ready. Arming." AZ One was moving faster now 
than he remembered, this close to the ground. Even with his senses, the 
view seemed to close up into a tunnel around him. He wouldn't even be 
looking in that direction when it happened - at this speed, he'd be over the 
irrigated zone and out the other side in eleven point six seconds. 

	Straight ahead he saw the fortress walls almost leap up at him. The 
shadow of his wings fell like an avenging blade on the outermost green 
field that these people - no, not People, there is only one People, he 
instantly corrected - that the inhabitants of Ground Zero had built. Three 
seconds away.


	Mitha hopped off the chariot as it pulled to a halt outside the Red 
Gate. While her father talked to the guards that he knew, she rested in the 
shade of the mud-brick arch that towered above her. It was going to be a 
busy day, lots to do in the house - and tomorrow, the Earth-Mother's 
Temple was celebrating the mid-point of Spring, and the first official fruits 
of the harvest. After that ... she felt her heart quicken at the thought of the 
lithe Kushite who she had made her intentions known to last week. This 
too was a part of the Celebration of Spring - the Earth-Mother had filled 
the world with good things for her Children, and commanded them to 
enjoy whichever fruits seemed best to them.

	She chuckled, at the sight of her brother reunited with his love at 
last. Of course, she reminded herself - there's no accounting for tastes - 
the Earth-Mother gave folk possibilities, and never complained as long as 
they enjoyed whichever one they chose....

	Suddenly, the world seemed to stand still. She could see a lizard 
on the wall, its darting tongue frozen in mid-snatch. She perceived, rather 
than saw, the open mouth of the melon-vendor by the gate with arm 
raised in friendly greeting. In the sky was a beautiful grey thrush, just 
launching itself from a cranny in the wall where its chicks lay. And that 
was not the only thing in the skies - while the world stood still, something 
came out of the Desert towards them, wings spread like the fletching of an 
arrow - something like a glory of fire rippling behind it, the dust kicked up 
in a wake like dragging the biggest stick in the world faster than the eye 
could properly follow.....

	Mitha never saw the details. She might barely have registered the 
white flash, before her eyes and brain were seared ash and dust, blasted 
in the single wave of destruction that wiped her city out of existence like a 
pitcher of burning tar poured into a nest of fledgelings. One watcher and 
one alone saw all; the ordained and just destruction of every man, women 
and unborn child for their Evils.


	"AZ One. Target obliterated. Returning to base." Joining with AZ 
Two and Three, the flier spared a glance back at the expanding 
shockwave rolling over desert and spilling the water from the little Sea. 
Further back nearer the hills, a huge cloud was already rising where the 
secondary target had been.

	Their wings spread ever wider as they punched up into the higher 
airs, the three Strike Angels crossed another mission off their list. The 
thriving cities of Sodom and Gomorrah were no more.


CHAPTER TWO

	It was the best of places. The view was perfect, the working 
conditions as good as could possibly be expected, and there was plenty 
of time to do whatever you liked between working at whatever task suited 
your nature.

	"The trouble is," Azamael commented, swinging his heels over the 
vault of heaven, "they just don't seem to want us to DO anything down 
there anymore."

	Azamael, once listed informally as AZ One, strolled despondently 
through the Direct Divine Intervention department, manifesting his wings 
as he looked Upstairs. There had been a time when his flight had sat on 
the end of the strip, ready to roll twenty-four hours of every mortal day. In 
those days, he reflected, there weren't so many mortals around. The 
number of walled cities could still be counted on the flight feathers of his 
favourite wings, and you could keep track of things far easier. In those 
days, of course, they used to get their orders Direct.

	Standing at the base of that place where infinity pointed UP, he 
cleared his thoughts. Of course, he only followed orders - if there weren't 
any Orders, he and the other eight Strike Angels would gaze down on the 
mortal worlds for the rest of Eternity, quite happy to do so. Still - it wasn't 
actually Questioning Higher Authority, to ask to clarify a few points now 
and then ...

	"Dost thou have any labours for us this mortal year, O Creator?" 
He cast his thought up into the light. And the reply came down, as it 
infallibly did:

	CLICK. "I regret my Attention for this Universe is fully occupied at 
the present. Refer to the relevant notebooks for standing orders, and 
expect Me back when it suits Me. Carry on, you've all done very well." 
CLICK.

	Azamael wandered back to the vantage point, and gave a 
desultory wave to Azasheph, his second Wingman. The angel looked up 
from polishing his halo.

	"If that wasn't imperishable, you'd have worn it away by now," 
Azamael joked. Then he frowned. "Did I get that right?" A sense of 
humour was something they were doing their best to acquire from the 
mortals - since they had been created in the Divine Image, it seemed 
logical that their best features should be worth copying. It was not entirely 
true that everything in Heaven was unchanging - otherwise the Opposition 
would still be up there, regardless of the result of the coup.

	"Anything today?" Azasheph asked hopefully. "Looks just the sort 
of conditions we used to get called in for. See - there's Egypt, menacing 
the Chosen People! " A familiar plain swam into focus - though the 
Chobham and Blazer armour on the battle chariots had replaced wicker 
laminate, the desert remained the same. And the charioteers were 
depressingly familiar - their machines changed every time you looked 
down, but the hearts and souls of mortals had changed depressingly little 
in four thousand years.

	"You remember last time we went down there." He gave a happy 
sigh, and his aura brightened. Happy days those had been, feeling the 
power of Divine Will manifesting through themselves as they laid waste 
entire Pharonic armies and plague-blasted the evil Egyptians together 
with their Evil crops and Evil cattle. "We'd have been down there like a 
levin-bolt - those were the days. Of course, back then, we were still on the 
original Release version of the Commandments. If they'd only let us play 
by those rules now for just a day, one mortal day...."

	Azmael shook his head. "Seems like the new rules are still in force, 
till He gets back - not that He's ever really Gone, of course," he added 
quickly, looking over his shoulder "but that new Universe over the way 
seems to be taking - umm, taking his personal attention, quite awhile 
longer than we thought."

	"It's Obviously a Much better one, then!" Azasheph declared 
brightly "Once the Rules get straightened out, and the stars stop going out 
the minute He leaves them to it - and the laws of geometry should be sort 
of Interesting to see, if He ever lets us go there."

	"Humph." The senior Strike Angel reabsorbed his wings. It was yet 
another example of his limited knowledge and comprehension - almost 
incalculably greater than a mortal, but little nearer the Absolute, measured 
on the scale of nought to Infinity. He couldn't quite see the point of 
abandoning straight lines as the shortest distance between two points - it 
looked like whatever sentient races were created as soon as the laws of 
physics were finally debugged, were going to learn a lot about fractals, 
very early in their architectural career.

	Straightening up, he stretched luxuriously. "I'm going for a walk. 
Call if anyone needs me - I'll be back in a couple of centuries."


	The world turned. Left to its own devices, cities spread, 
technologies blossomed. Massive underground populations saved the 
surface of the planet for food growing and what little Conservation was 
possible after world wars Three, Four and Five (which, strictly speaking, 
was a digital remix of the first Four, available entirely on subscription.) 
With underground life in the Hive-Cities, technology could no longer be 
content to Serve Humanity - to protect, it had to Master.

	Crime dropped away to almost zero. The functions of the brain 
were mapped, understood, and became editable data. Rage, fear and 
frustration faded away from everyday behaviour - as the entire population 
reached towards an internal Nirvana, as contented as the wetware in their 
skulls would allow. Wars faded as for the first time ever, Leaders were 
truly Rational, free of uncertainty and emotional turmoil, and began to see 
that the Mutual Good was at last in their power to achieve.

	Most folk were blissfully happy until the day they died, souls free of 
the darker taints, shriven and corrected by the Societal Harmonisation 
Police. Which still caused a few malcontents to wonder - that wasn't really 
The Point.


	Azmael strolled through a sizeable fraction of the Heavenly 
Kingdom as he waited for the phone to ring. Of course, it was fairly unlike 
a mortal telephone - indeed, it was a "new" invention. That was probably 
the Point of giving Mortals free will, he mused - while the Omnipotent 
Creator did of course have the power to force any issue, He seemed to 
find it more Fun to sit back and watch how things developed. Mortals were 
funny things, and the questions they came up with were funnier.

	A decade later, he grinned at the recollection. He'd seen entire 
Universes that were almost entirely filled with one Very Big Rock apiece, 
seemingly to test if the Omnipotent Creator really could create one too big 
for him to lift. The results had not been publicly released, but Azmael 
knew the experiments had only started after Mortals had asked the 
Question in the first place.

	Suddenly, the telephone rang.

	"It's not quite the usual job for you," Saint Cheng-Lu whispered, 
averting his eyes from the horrifying brilliance Azmael generally 
manifested to mortal souls even here "But as you weren't doing anything 
right now, AZ Six said you might be interested."

	"Humph." The Archangel said archly, looking around at the new 
Reception Area decor. Much as its counterpart Below had a soull-on 
soull-off ferry service operating over the Styx, the expanding population 
had forced a few changes here. True, with limitless Dimensions to expand 
in, there could never be a lack of actual room - but he'd quite liked the 
original Golden Gates. Massed banks of Turnstiles were Not a mortal idea 
he much liked.

	"You see, we've got a bit of a Problem." The Hong Kong born Saint 
looked embarrassed. Like most Saints, he had never felt himself worthy of 
the job - but it was wonderful what a lifetime of Good Works, a highly 
original Martyrdom involving a giant paper shredder and an enthusiastic 
canonisation by Pope Clint XVI could do for your infinitely long-term 
Prospects. "It's - er, not exactly in the manuals. Since the book's clearly 
infallible, I think we've got a Logic Error in reality down there."

	"Let's take a look. What Release version are we working on now?" 
Azmael critically looked at the splendidly shining Commandments.

	"The Commandments." He read the fiery letters. "These shall stand 
for All Time as My definitive and Eternal Guide to My Will on Earth." 
Written in much smaller letters on the inside cover, "Version 6.31: updates 
to include His Will on Mars, Titan, and other such Celestial Bodies in 
Normal or Hyperspace. Replaces all previous editions."

	He put the book down with a thump, and stared at the massive 
lines of Arrivals queuing up for Inspection. Swiftly, he glanced down 
through the floor to the populous Earth below, and made a swift soul-
count.

	"That's - five billion, three hundred and two million, fifty-six 
thousand, one hundred and ten, as of ... NOW." He snapped his fingers to 
fix the microsecond. " Plus fifteen disembodied Intelligences that seem to 
have come from some sort of electric Golem." He frowned. "Looks like 
fifty-two percent are passing the Entrance Qualifications to come in here - 
that's not bad going."

	Saint Cheng-Lu winced. "But have you LOOKED at them lately? "

	Azmael began to concentrate. In the Hosts, the various ranks of 
Seraphim had special skills and abilities - although any of them Could do 
any other job if specifically Told to. It had been a long while in Mortal 
terms since he had weighed up an individual's worth.

	"Hmmmm.... 'Stanton, Six-six-nine-Jay Joseph' - funny sort of 
names folk have these days." He looked at the soul, scanning it for sins - 
and smiled. Then he scanned it for positive points - and frowned.

	"What - is - THAT?" His aureole flared like the launch plume of an 
artillery rocket. "I've seen new-born babes with more to them - it's like a 
helium balloon - maybe it soars upwards, but there's damn all IN it!"

	Cheng Lu nodded unhappily. "That's what I've been trying to tell 
you."


	Azmael stood again at the edge of the pad, a copy of 
Commandments 6.31 in his hand. Around him, were the seven other 
Strike Angels - Azasheph, Azratoline, Azardo, Azmantara, Azwantar, 
Azitrial and Azophel. A ninth seat was empty, and had been for a Long, 
Long time - they had kept it as a constant reminder of what had happened 
to Aztoreth. From here you could see down across the whole mortal 
Universe - but Az Nine was on the far side of even that lowly plane. When 
he had been forced to move Downtown, it had been a long drop.

	"Version Six Point Three One?" Azardo looked at the glowing book 
in disbelief "As I remember, the ten we dropped on Moses were meant to 
be Definitive. That was just version 1.0?""

	"Ah. Well." Azmael's wings twitched uncomfortably. "The thing is, 
you see, At The Time, they were. Those were about the most complex 
ones we'd hope to get the Chosen People to follow - only about two in the 
tribe could actually read, and the Stone Tablets didn't really lend 
themselves to fine print. And just adding more was a bit of a strain on a 
wandering tribe, you know? We were going to hand out supplementary 
versions when they settled down, but that'd have meant going down in 
person, which we haven't done since His Son delivered Version Two Point 
Zero direct. It would have been easier after that, with all those scribes and 
monks to spread the word - the upgrade path is a bit tricky with graven 
stone tablets."

	Azratoline shifted his wings to a more aggressive form - the 
feathers vanished, to be replaced by fully blown flaps and adaptive 
cambered leading edges. The lightning bolts glittered on their hardpoints, 
and on each tip pylon a DCM pod glowed with its Daemonic 
Countermeasures aura. "You know what's happened, don't you?" He was 
a late model, rushed into Being to cover the Exodus across the Red Sea, 
and was inclined to be hasty. "The Judgement Department have been 
sitting around as long as we have - mortals keep thinking up new things 
for us to approve and disapprove of - every time some crazed soul down 
there thinks an original thought, they do an update to cover it! "

	Azrasheph frowned. The trouble was, the basic design had been 
written in a tribe-oriented methodology. Updates sat rather heavily on the 
basic structure - the Judgement Department had been almost Beatifically 
Challenged for a mortal decade, while they wrangled with the Parable Of 
The Three Korean Migrant Workers And The Numerically Controlled 
Milling Lathe.

	"It's worse than that." Azardo pointed out. "Look at Appendix Four 
score and seven. There's a whole list of sins connected with misusing 
telepathic control - and the mortals haven't even Got it."

	"Yet." Azratoline said grimly. "Remember, we had to wait till they 
domesticated asses before we could tell them not to covet their 
neighbour's. That's why we didn't give the book to the Austro-Aborigines 
instead - just couldn't pound the idea of ownership into their heads no 
matter WHAT we did to them."

	"Hmmm." Azmael weighed up the book. "Well, that's the task the 
Judgement Department were Made for, like the rest of us - we can hardly 
complain about that. And - since until we get orders to the contrary, this is 
the Operating Manual - we'd better go over it, Very carefully!"


	In the mortal world, a quantum packet of photon energy travelled 
almost halfway across a hydrogen atom while the Archangels read and 
mused. 

	"What We need," Azasheph commented, putting the book down 
after the rest had read it "Is a Lawyer. " He grinned sheepishly. "Pity we 
never let any of them come up here. We can't actually make a direct 
appearance Down There, without specific orders - the Fifteenth Internal 
Memo says so. But I think I can see a few loopholes ... what's going on 
down there isn't covered in the Standing Orders. What we can DO about 
it, probably won't either."

	"Hold it!" Azophel cautioned. He nodded towards the empty chair: 
of all of them he had been closest to Aztoreth. "I seem to remember 
someone else having 'independent ideas' like that ... and it's a Long, Long 
way down."

	There was a long silence. At last, Azmael spoke. "It's not as if we 
were planning anything except what's in the spirit of the Rules .... what do 
you think's worse, taking some useful action, or just letting things slide 
down there?"

	Eight strike Angels grinned dangerously. Action, was what they 
Knew they were good at.


	The Divine Records office was, like everything else in the 
neighbourhood, of indefinite size, and limitless capacity. Nevertheless, 
with six billion mortals on Earth, half of whom were ending up in Heaven 
for want of a more suitable alternative, things were getting Busy.

	"Somebody answer that blessed phone!" Came the ringing voice of 
Methedzar. As three minor Greek Orthodox saints dived to get it, the 
Recording Angel looked at his monthly balance sheets, and frowned. It 
had been - not a mistake, since mistakes were manifestly Impossible 
round here - it had been a Challenge when Purgatory had been shut 
down, and the last inmates paid off their dues to come Upstairs. Still - he 
doubted that it would have done much good right now, in its original form. 
Basically a sin reclamation centre, Purgatory would have been little use in 
actually creating the Virtues that modern folk were so empty of. That was 
what Mortal life was meant to be doing. 

	If Archangels could have been tetchy and irritated, Methedzar 
would have been putting the ability to good use right now. As it was, he 
rapidly counted under his breath to the largest possible prime number, as 
Saint Buebelous of Para reverently handed him the phone. And then 
smiled.

	"Azmael! Haven't seen you for just Ages! " For awhile, he listened 
in silence, creating pencils and sharpening them out of existence. (As 
vaccum-dwelling Elohim were allowed to briefly create particle pairs from 
nothing to pass the time, so were the divine beaurocrats permitted this 
executive toy aspect of Creation.) Then he smiled.

	"Azmael, you old eagle - I'm sure I'll be able to find you a suitable 
Mortal who'll be willing to work for you. After all " - he manifested a wing, 
and waved it at the Very large ledger standing behind him "we've got 
plenty to choose from."


	Heaven is designed to be a Very nice place. Within limits, anything 
that you can enjoy and still get a membership, is provided. Even table-
tennis.

	So it follows that for folk who might have lived and died in 
overcrowded slums or the teeming levels of hive-cities, there exist infinite 
calm lands of solitude, where earthly and unearthly beauties stretch 
forever unpeopled and silent.

	A fair way out on the Elysian Fields, an extremely irritated mortal 
soul was putting the finishing touches to a woven branch roof in a deep, 
dark pine forest.

	He could have done it the easy way. Had he wistfully thought what 
a fine thing it would be to find a nice log cabin, with a cast-iron stove and 
a cord of firewood all stacked and ready for the fire, then right round the 
next corner - well, he could just guess.

	Konnwaldt looked down at the shelter. Its green roof was just about 
perfect - that is, it was going to leak like a fine rather than a coarse sieve 
any time it rained. For a brief moment he surveyed it, as happy as he'd 
been for quite awhile.

	Just then, came a noise as of thunder in the sky. An aura as of the 
distilled essence of the finest dawns to ever dawn on Earth, spilled out 
around him. Wincing, he looked up.

	"Reverend Walter Tildergast," came a voice of Power, from the 
upper reaches of Heaven "We think it'd be a Really Good Deed if you 
came with us. There are Good Works to be done."

	"Scheisse!" Konnwaldt spat "can't you just leave me alone?"

	The angel laughed gently, as it transported the Reverend 
Tildergast towards the Direct Divine Intervention Department. This was 
the right one, all right - mortals had Such a sense of humour...


CHAPTER THREE

	Azmael put down the phone, and smiled out over the Mortal world. 
Down there, he mused, folk had had it easy for far too long. Ease and 
tranquility were things he approved of, in their way - but they ought to be 
Earned, not mandatory.

	"We've found a mortal who's willing to go down," he turned to the 
rest of the Strike Wing. "They don't make them like they used to - 
according to Records, Reverend Tildergast's made request after request 
to get out of here, since the Twentieth Century."

	Azophel's wings and eyebrows raised. "That's what I CALL a Holy 
man. Just can't get enough of helping folk down there - give him Heaven, 
and he wants to carry on the good deeds below. " He paused. "Is this in 
the book?"

	Azmael nodded towards the glowing tome. "Doesn't say you Can't - 
I don't think anyone's actually Asked to leave before." He grinned 
conspiritorially. "So we'd better hurry up, before Justice update things to 
Version 6.32, which'll surely cover it..."

	Azophel summoned a personnel record, and read through it. "Ah 
ha! You're right - just look at this, Brethren!" A copy was instantly in their 
hands. "Walter Tildergast, born nineteen-eleven Anno Domine 
conventional format (four years off the Actual Birthday, thanks to that 
innumerate dark-age monk we kicked out just for the hell of it) - 
monastery school, reformed to Church Of England - military Chaplain, left 
after first three years of Hostilities, soldier from nineteen forty-three 
onwards, European Theatre. Genuine Crusading spirit, underwent 
considerable personal hardships - pages of the stuff - died in State Of 
Grace in mortal combat with known champion of Evil - funny, doesn't say 
who. Taken up direct, usual entry examinations waived. " He gave a 
happy sigh. "We could have used a few more like this. And he STILL 
won't quit! . Keeps asking to go back - says he doesn't care WHERE we 
send him."

	Azasheph looked thoughtful. "I thought there was something about 
"Thou Shall Not Kill" in Version One? Here's someone we let straight in, 
covered in blood - though he didn't actually despatch his final adversary, 
seems they died at the same instant, "External Causes". And he actually 
gave up being a Chaplain to be a soldier .... wasn't there something about 
Swords and Ploughshares in Revision 2.0? or "Those that live by the 
sword shall die by the sword"?"

	Azmael gave a ferocious grin, and conjured up a pile of personnel 
records half a mortal mile high. "Fighting Bishops, Crusaders, Knights Of 
Saint John - there's a difference between everyday sins and properly 
registered Holy Wars. It's OK in some circumstances - folk down on Earth 
don't always read the book properly." A pile of other golden folders 
appeared. "Inquisitors! Witchfinder-Generals! Teutonic Knights, even - all 
properly blessed and absolved. I imagine if this Reverend Tildergast 
wants any help, we'll be able to pick him a few good names off the pile."

	Azratoline summoned a transcript. "Someone asked him why he 
gave up the cloth for the sword. Good sort of answer - "I did not start a 
war. I fought so that us of the faith could End one". I think I'm going to like 
this mortal - sound fellow, like that Norman, Bishop Odo."

	Azasheph sighed in relief, confirming the updates in Release Notes 
3.0 through 5.1 inclusive. Of folk who it was mandatory to put to death on 
general principle, he noticed that street mimes had been added to the list. 
"Something about, "The Lord does move in Mysterious Ways - for which 
the copyright is His alone and no other's," I should guess," he murmured.

	Just then, there was a noise as of a host in the upper airs - a noise 
not unlike, in fact, a four-engined supersonic transport aircraft hauling 
itself off a short runway with rocket assist.

	Azmael looked up, and grinned. "Reverend Walter Tildergast," he 
gestured at the figure outlined against the brilliant glow of the Recording 
Angel's wings. "Come on Down!"


	Konnwaldt had had a hard time keeping his Faith, in the past 
several mortal centuries. It was getting to be a bit of a pain whenever he 
tried to sleep, however - the brilliant golden glow of Sainthood manifested 
like fluorescent pyjamas. As he was dropped into the centre of eight hard, 
bright pillars of immortal fire, seemingly sitting on a balcony looking out 
over Infinity, he sighed.

	"Will somebody Please just let me out of here?"


	A mortal year passed; down on the crowded hive-cities on Earth, 
the gene for deficient sensory feedback control was found and kindly 
eased out of the new-born population. With it in that generation went 
Gluttony, Avarice and a good deal of Lust, as folk became as precisely 
satiable with the good things in life as a precisely measured glass of water 
holds a saturated solution of sugar and accepts no more. It was pointed 
out in theory that this might have unpleasant repercussions in terms of 
Drive and Motivation - but in the hive-cities, there was no room for the sort 
of expansion that an individual with excessive Drive would hunger for.

	Mankind became 8.334% happier over the next generation. But not 
everybody was entirely happy with THAT.


	"So." Konnwaldt looked down on the populous Earth, eight billion 
souls with little to distinguish one from the next. "You want me to go down 
and raise a little Hell down there, eh?"

	Azasheph shivered. "Please, Rev, don't put it like that. We just 
want to produce a little - stimuli - that has folk looking out of themselves 
once in awhile. We used to lay down plaguestrikes and pillars of 
incendiaries, thousands of years ago - but first, we aren't allowed to, and 
secondly, it wouldn't have that effect any more. Used to be, we'd put down 
a simple burning bush, it'd scare the mortals right back to reconsidering 
their whole lives - "I could be next, am I REALLY ready to face 
Judgement?" Now, we could drop whole asteroids on 'em, wouldn't shift 
their mindsets a shiver's worth."

	"And then, what DO you want me to do? " The mortal soul looked 
hungrily at the triple pack of thunderbolts glistening on Azmael's wing 
pylon. The first Strike Angel had to taken to standing on the edge of the 
pad for mortal months at a time, phone at the ready - though in mortal 
terms, it mattered not a femtosecond where in all Heaven he initially was 
when (and if) the old call came through. But as he often pointed out, that 
wasn't The Point.

	Azasheph shuffled his sandal on the cold grey concrete of the pad. 
Like the rest of the neighbourhood, this was actually an ethereal structure 
of gossamer and rainbow - but millenia of associations with strike angels 
had transformed its outer appearance to a somewhat scorched and oil-
stained airstrip. Complete with landing lights, and an optical illusion of a 
control tower on High.

	"Well," he said diffidently. "We've been Thinking. If anything 
Material we did was just explained away, we'll have to do something 
genuinely Supernatural."

	Ex-mortal eyebrows raised. "I thought Direct Divine Intervention 
was your forte?"

	"Yes. Well. The trouble is," Azasheph confided, materialising a 
hefty cluster of lightning bolts on a razor-edged wing "we have to have 
Weapons Release Orders to use these, or they won't work. It wasn't 
always so - ever since some of us got Big Ideas and got kicked out for it. 
There WERE nine of us, in the Beginning."

	"And the only one of you who had independent opinions?" 
Konnwaldt could see this one coming a mile away, but pressed his point 
home.

	From the edge of the pad, Azmael pointed an ever-ready pod, its 
Daemonic Countermeasures sensor package suddenly hunting for a 
target lock. "If you want to compare notes with him, it's a Long, Long way 
down!"


	The Bridge was a remarkably concrete structure for its context, 
Konnwaldt thought to himself as he and Azmael touched down on the 
near side. Concrete indeed - the tarmac underfoot stank and smoked, 
clinging grittily to his sandals as he walked.

	"You SURE you want to do this?" Azasheph looked down sternly. 
"The last time anyone got the guided tour, was that Dante - and things are 
a Lot worse there now. Folk get their just desserts for things nobody'd 
even THOUGHT of doing, back then."

	"You wanted my opinions, didn't you?" The mortal soul snapped 
back "My opinion is, if you don't want to soil your wings with getting the 
job done, let me try and recruit some folk who it won't hurt a bit."

	Archangel senses probed deeply into the small, shoddy figure 
standing squarely on the penultimate Good Intention on the road to Hell. 
Even here, he showed no sign of fear - not of the Angel, or what was on 
the other side there. Not so much as if he's unafraid of us, Azrasheph 
thought shrewdly - more as if it's just not Relevant to him. He had seen 
neutral Diplomats brought in to settle quarreling sides, behave like this. 
But no - that was ludicrous. He who is not With me Is Against me, said the 
words in Version 2.0 - there was simply no third viewpoint to be neutral 
FROM.

	As the striped barrier began to rise on the near side of the border, 
the billowing mist began to clear. In the old days, it had been nothing 
worse than sulphur fumes and pitch vapours, he thought nostalgically - 
that had been before dioxins, nerve gasss and short-lived radionucleides. 
And although the denizens had no actual mortal bodies to suffer the 
effects, the essence of the effects carried over. Like the solid bridge over 
the Styx, Hell was a place of extreme reality.


	They walked out to the middle of the bridge, the cold waters 
lapping underneath, and waited. Behind Konnwaldt and Azrasheph stood 
two impassive Elohim, flaming swords at the ready. Like the Strike 
Angels, these had become more suited to their roles with the passing of 
the millenia - and an eternity of saying Thou Shall Not Pass wears into the 
essence of even the most ethereal of beings.

	"Here they come," Azrasheph intoned. Through the billowing 
toxins, they caught a glimpse of a similar gate being raised. For a second, 
it looked like a bizarrely distorting mirror - for there he was. Az Nine, 
Strike Angel, Dishonourably Discharged.

	Konnwaldt looked up at the Fallen Angel. Aztoreth was obviously in 
extreme discomfort, if the smouldering patches that crawled across his 
skin like glowing charcoal were any indication. But he was grinning 
manically, shading his eyes from the incandescence of the Elohim 
standing on the far side of the dotted line in the middle of the bridge.

	"Who've you brought this time?" He asked wearily "It's only, what, 
fifty generations since the last Guided tour. This newbie hear about that?"

	Konnwaldt nodded curtly. "I've read Dante. Hell was full of Greeks 
and Italians, by his account, which doesn't surprise me a bit. But it's not 
them I want to borrow."

	At the mention of the word "Borrow", there was a sharp hiss, which 
might have been an intake of breath had any of those present still used 
mortal lungs - and a sharp clang as one of the Elohim behind dropped his 
flaming sword in astonishment.

	Aztoreth crossed his arms, and glowered down, manifesting a set 
of razor-edged biconvex airfoils laden with naptha tanks. "NO! No way! 
These folk here are OURS - it's the only fun we've got down here, since 
they stopped making Soap Operas with our assistance."

	The mortal turned round to stare at his sponsor. "Think of it like 
this. They're down here for Eternity, isn't that right?"

	"Yeeeesss.." Azrasheph nodded cautiously.

	"Well. All I want to do is borrow them for - let's say, the traditional 
thing was a year and a day. What fraction of Eternity is that - say, to the 
nearest ten percent?"

	"Hmmmm. I see what you mean."

	Suddenly, the Demon burst out laughing. "You should see the 
expression on your face, Az Eight! Go on - it'll be worth it. " He looked 
through the list Konnwaldt presented. "Hmmm. We've got about ninety-
five percent of these I know of, no problem. But the rest - I'll go away and 
check."


	On Earth, things suddenly took a turn downhill in the most 
unexpected directions. Computers which had cared and nurtured 
generations of loyal citizens, suddenly began to develop distressing 
personality traits. Massive catastrophes engulfed whole cities - fusion 
power plants shutdown for no good reason, or irradiated their whole 
buildings inexplicably.

	"You know," Konnwaldt looked down on his handiwork from the 
edge of the pad, swinging his feet over Infinity. "I think I'd be able to do a 
much better job if you let me go down in person."

	Azmael looked at him warily. "That's asking a bit much. We could 
let your comrades manifest themselves in those machine intelligences - 
but an actual mortal body .... we can't Create one just for you, you know. 
And what about it's rightful owner?"

	Konnwaldt looked down to the city of Neo-New Boston, where a 
billowing white cloud was rising from the site of its nuclear power plant. 
"Look - right down there? " He zeroed in to point at one of the figures, 
frozen in "real" time for an instant. "In two seconds he's going to be dead - 
but first he'll be unconscious. You can wait till his spirit leaves, then - do a 
quick fix-up on the body, he won't be needing it. And transport me 
somewhere out of the danger area. If I could just walk on Earth for one 
last hour, I'd have the chance to .."

	"I DON'T want to know." Azmael snapped, and exerted his Will. 
After all, he reasoned - the body the Reverend had chosen, was heavily 
irradiated - he wouldn't survive the day. Which gave them all a good let-
out - they were not actually giving anyone extra life, more making use of 
the offcuts..

	Azratoline landed beside him with a totally gratuitous squeal as of 
scorching rubber. The zealous Strike Angel looked pleased: idly he flicked 
through wing-forms as he gazed down at the turmoil below.

	"Reception's getting Busy," he commented idly. "It's a bit too early 
to tell - but some of the folk coming in, did more actual helping their 
fellows in the last month than the rest of their lives put together." He 
gestured down to focus on a bucket-team struggling to put out an inferno 
half a mile down with woefully inadequate equipment. "The computer that 
should be looking after emergency services is trying to corrupt what little 
Planetary defence system they still have working down there - looks like 
there's another one of the Reverend's auxiliaries busy on the job. If 
there'd been a couple more, we'd be Really getting busy by now. Definite 
Noah job. Really stick the divine sandal in 'em." He grinned and drew a 
finger across his chin intake.

	"I don't much like the look of the ones he picked to bring up," 
Azrasheph murmured. "Wherever could he have met them? At least, we 
don't go around massacring civilians like that - not unless we have to 
make living-room for the Chosen People, like the Gomorrah strike. 
Couldn't let those heathens keep desecrating the Holy Land before we'd 
even made it Holy."

	"Yeah." Azratoline nodded. "Anyway - unlike them, we were only 
following orders. From a Boss you don't argue with."

	Suddenly, a horrible thought struck Azmael. He frowned, and 
manifested a copy of the list of names the Reverend Walter Tildergast 
had asked to be hauled out of the Infernal regions. 

	"There were six names here that he especially wanted ...." he said 
slowly. "Six of his "Closest Co-Religionists". Why didn't we get them?"

	Azratoline shrugged. "Who cares? Maybe they've just got one hell 
of a beaurocracy down there - you know, fill in six forms if you want to 
breathe in, then they tell you why it's forbidden .." He waved vaguely 
down. "They SAY they can't find them - but you know what liars they are."

	Azmael's wings suddenly manifested severe icing. "They CAN'T lie 
to US. And - these folk ..." He picked up the telephone, and urgently 
dialled Records, wondering why so many of them had Teutonic names. 
"Surely, they can't be up Here?"


	"Quite impossible". Methedzar, the Recording Angel, gestured at 
the rows of turnstiles at the Entrance to Heaven, while all eight serving 
Strike Angels hovered in close formation beside him. "Your ex-mortal 
colleague is simply mistaken - there were never any such people. Souls 
can only go one way or the other, since we shut down Purgatory."

	"Sure about that?" Azrasheph asked cautiously "I was with him on 
the Bridge - he was sincere in his beliefs. His aura's that of a saint, all 
right."

	Methedzar shrugged. "We don't Have to go individually looking for 
them. The process is quite automatic - souls rise up here, for our 
judgement one way or another. They can't get lost in the pipeline - take a 
look. There isn't a pipeline to get lost IN." The pale forms were rising up 
now in large batches - local time was having to stretch considerably to let 
them all fit in. 

	"Just today, we've received eight million applicants, all duly 
processed and collected - the records are all here. I don't know WHAT the 
Reverend Tildergast had in mind." The angel's eyes seemed to mist over. 
"Thanks to him, quality seems to be taking an upswing - though there 
aren't any Saints among the current generation. It's been awhile since we 
could let anyone straight in, like him."

	An appalled silence fell. "Could you run me past that ONE more 
time?" Azmael asked cautiously "I know it's standard procedure - but what 
does it actually Involve?"

	"Oh, well, if there's an automatic Pass, one of us goes down and 
makes the pickup manually, you might say," Methedzar waved airily 
"you've seen his aura yourself - it's not what you'd call Ordinary, is it? You 
can see his Faith from here - they don't breed them like that any more. 
Just take a look at this pickup - Saint Vlaclav of Gratz, lights and projector 
please!" The brilliance dimmed slightly as an archive record was pulled 
out of its storage, and Reverend Tildergast's Ascension was replayed. 
The scene was dim with the smoke of burning buildings - but the subject 
of their debate could be seen clearly, down to the last character trait.

	Six mortal picoseconds later, Eight Strike Angels hurled 
themselves off the pad, and plummeted straight for the Mortal world 
without filing flight plans. Something, somewhere, had gone Horribly 
Wrong.


	Konnwaldt stood on the edge of a blazing abyss - this time, a 
genuine one. His lungs were seared with smoke, but that wasn't going to 
kill him. Nor would the lethal dose of radiation this body had already 
taken, in all probability. Very soon now, someone would recognise their 
mistake, and come looking for him.

	There was a noise of thunder in the hot air, that none of the other 
refugees scrambling up from the devastated hive-city seemed to notice. 
Konnwaldt looked up - and nobody else could see the eight blinding-white 
figures hovering above him, like statues carved from the heart of the sun.

	"You're Not Walter Tildergast!" Azmael's voice was a thunderclap 
"Who Are You? And what happened to him?"

	Konnwaldt coughed, staggering in the reeking vapours. This body 
wasn't going to hold up much longer - but it might be just long enough for 
what he planned to do. Racked with pain, he looked straight up into those 
eyes. And grinned.

	"I'm not going to Tell you. You'll have to beat it out of me. Tell you 
what - even match - all eight of you against me, fight to the death, right 
Now."

	Eight Archangels looked at each other, then at the figure clutching 
at a crumbling girder for support. 

	"MORTAL! DO YOU KNOW HOW SILLY THAT SOUNDS?"

	"Yes!" Konnwaldt cried out "I AM Mortal! For the next few minutes, 
anyway - now at last I've got as much Free Will again as anyone, and 
THIS is what I intend to do - challenge the lot of you!"

	Azrasheph looked round nervously. "Er, I think that's going to break 
the rules about Direct Intervention. We don't have to bother anyway, in a 
few minutes this place is going to collapse, and he'll be ..."

	"ACCEPTED". With a roar, the other seven Strike Angels 
manifested themselves direct onto the mundane plane. Screams and 
shouts of panic rang out as they became visible to the rest of the fleeing 
survivors - in a few seconds, there was nobody left within sight of that 
shaft edge.

	Seven Strike Angels looked at the defiant figure, his aura blazing 
so savagely he could easily pass for a saint - as indeed he had. But when 
they looked, from the Mortal viewpoint, there was a strange sort of colour 
to it, that the incandescence of Heaven had bleached right out....

	"Oh, to hell with it." Azratoline snapped. A thunderbolt left his wing 
pylon at point blank range, and blasted the defiant figure to salt and 
ashes.


	"What do you mean, he hasn't turned up yet?" Azmael asked, for 
the third time. They had been covering the Pearly Gates and the Styx all 
that mortal day - and of all the thousands of applicants for entry, the one 
they had been expecting had not arrived for Judgement.

	The phone suddenly rang. Azmael snatched it up, recognising the 
calling address of the Records Office. "Hello - oh, it's you, Azrasheph. 
What is it this time?"

	"You'd better come down here and see the rest of the film." 
Archangels did not technically need mouths, but the concept of "Dry-
mouthed" translated nevertheless. "I think we - er, found something."


	Methedzar hustled the dozen minor Celtic Eighth-Century saints 
out of his office as the Strike Angels entered. He gestured towards the 
Book of Records, and motioned them to sit down.

	"The thing IS, you see," he swallowed nervously "the reason we 
keep having to, like, update the Rules, is there's so much they weren't 
designed to cover. Like - what actually HAPPENS, to all those folk who 
lived perfect lives according to their culture, before the Chosen People 
started spreading the Word around."

	Azratoline sniffed. "They end up in the First Circle Of Hell, all the 
Virtuous Pagans. It's not too bad down there, rather like North-West 
Europe on a wet weekday in February. Weren't you there on the Dante 
Expedition?"

	"Ah. Yes. Well, that was before we got re-shuffled, and Purgatory 
shut down. Now, I know there's Compatibles and Clone cultures we 
accept - "In My Father's House Are Many Mansions", and all that." He 
waved across to the distant Chinese Heaven, where wise silver dragons 
were practicing aerobatics over the Celestial Court buildings. "But what 
about all the Other ones, that we wouldn't really Approve of? After all, we 
never did let Aztecs in here, no matter HOW big a blood-sacrifice they 
offer us. They were perfectly devout in the cultures they were born into, 
so...."

	"Get to the point," snapped Azmael "Where is Reverend Tildergast 
- and where, and Who, was that we sent down to Earth?"

	The Recording Angel switched on the Recorder again. And this 
time, they all stayed to watch the film.


	It had been a cold day, rain rotting into dull dregs of snow. Smoke 
mixed with the fog, as buildings burned half-heartedly. Private Walter 
Tildergast - he had dropped his title when he took up the metaphorical 
sword - was running forward, crouched under cover of a half-demolished 
wall. Here was a pocket of resistance that had lasted days - cut off and 
hopeless, still they refused to surrender. Well, if they wouldn't face the 
justice of Man, he thought grimly, let us send them to a Higher court.

	Panting, he looked around himself. There - in the farmhouse - a 
shape! Raising his Sten, he squeezed off a careful three round burst, and 
was mechanically satisfied to see a figure tumble out of the window. 
These were not folk he would mourn - he had enough of that to do with 
his own Company. 

	Silence fell. In the distance, far off to the East the air shook with 
heavy artillery, as ever-increasing intensity of fire was brought to bear on 
ever-shrinking strongpoints. But around him - nothing. By a staggering 
twist of fate, it seemed he was the last of his Company left alive in the 
wood.

	"Preserve us!" Was his instinctive prayer, as the express-train 
shriek of a heavy shell passed overhead and impacted further in the 
wood, sending, sending lethal splinters of steel and equally dangerous 
spears of smashed timber crashing into the far side if the wall. He 
checked his Sten, and winced - two rounds left. But then another shell 
slammed in - behind him, this time - and he HAD to get into cover of those 
buildings. If there were more than two of the Heathen in there - well, at 
least it would be two less of them. A fair trade.

	Konnwaldt had seen the stealthy figure scuttle into shelter of the 
wall, before he had a chance to fire. Looking around, he winced. All gone, 
nobody left alive. In the last week, what was left of his unit had been 
winnowed away - the Politicals had slipped into the night, throwing away 
their weapons and heading Eastwards to try and disguise their pasts. But 
Konnwaldt had never been interested in Ideology - despite all the 
pressure to join, he wasn't even a Party Member, hating what they tied 
the far older Nordicism into for their own ends. Still - for the first time since 
his forbears had fought the Romans in the Teutoberger Wald, his family's 
faith had been Officially Approved. Now there was nothing to retreat to - 
and only one more thing to do.

	He pulled the unofficial rune-stones out of his jacket pocket, and 
with the unholy terror of the incoming shells as his orchestra, began to 
chant the ancient battle-hymn of his distant warrior forefathers, a 
summoning of the Gods to look down and judge his deeds. 

	Just then, the door was kicked open. He rolled instantly, and two 
rough-splintered holes erupted where he had been lying on the broken 
wooden flooring under the upper window. Flinging himself off the 
collapsing structure, he dropped down to the ground floor of the ruined 
farmhouse, and crouched like a jungle cat as he prepared to leap bare-
handed into certain death. The last ammunition had been with Florian, 
and gone with him out the window the minute before.

	Facing each other were two men of the same age, with far more in 
common than either would ever know. One could not retreat, there being 
nothing to retreat to - the other, could not but attack, there being no way 
but to destroy the heathen enemy of Faith and Civilisation. 

	Konnwaldt felt the dagger in his fist - and saw the folding bayonet 
on the stengun flick forward as its wielder yanked an empty magazine out. 
He felt nothing but elation - not anonymously would he end, crushed like a 
swatted fly by bomb or shell, or shot by a sniper he never saw - he looked 
upon the face of his foe, and dedicated his spirit to the Gods.

	"ODIN!" He roared, and leaped. But never got there - as the third 
six-inch shell ploughed into the frail roof at four hundred yards per 
second, leaving not a trace of the room or its occupants for posterity.


	Seven strike angels reviewed the scene in slow-motion. At last, 
Methedzar stopped the film. A peculiar blurring obscured one side of the 
screen - if it had been subject to mortal film limitations, he would have 
called it light leaking into the camera.

	He tapped the screen. "What I don't know," he said flatly "is what 
THAT is. It happened at exactly the same instant as both of them died - 
when one of them was taken up direct."

	"If you weren't sure who you'd got, you might have checked." 
Azratoline snapped.

	The recording angel looked embarrassed. "It was a very busy time, 
you know? We'd been following the Reverend Tildergast for years - there 
wouldn't have been TWO mortals down there with his sort of aura - the 
chances of that happening are ....."

	Azmael waved the dossier on whoever had been admitted into 
Heaven under a name he'd always seemed uncomfortable with. "The 
odds aren't relevant," he snapped. "The facts are. It Happened. So where 
did our man get to? He's definitely not down below, we've checked."


	The Reverend Walter Tildergast sat gloomily at the end of a long 
table littered with snoring, unwashed barbarians. It was a hall of trans-
finite size - reeking of roast mutton and spilled mead.

	He sighed, and strolled towards the entrance. His life had always 
been a Test - and this was no exception. For a man of strict teetotal 
principles, he had been forced to swill an Awful amount of mead in the 
last few centuries. His head pounded mercilessly - why, he asked himself, 
am I the ONLY one who gets a hangover around here?

	Outside was a huge, open landscape of towering ice-capped peaks 
and infinite cold blue skies. The gates to the hall were guarded by the 
strangest Angels he had ever seen - huge, blonde-haired amazons with 
muscles like professional Strongmen, permanently armed to the teeth. 
One of them gave him a sympathetic grin.

	"Good night again, Konnwaldt?" she asked him, idly burnishing a 
hacked shield "I'm off duty tonight - they'll let me in for a little sparring 
practice. Then - what say we take a stroll in the moonlight, hmmm?"

	The Reverend counted to ten calmly, and chalked up one more 
temptation resisted. To his left, the other Amazon (save that she was fully 
equipped in every way, his classicaly-trained mind insisted) gave a short 
laugh.

	"Yer wasting yer time with that one, Brunda. Face like he's found 
shipworm in his favourite boat's keel. Turned down a punchup with Thor 
himself, first day he got here." Suddenly, her sky-blue eyes flashed. "Ey 
up, here's Vanadia, coming in - first time we've 'ad arrivals for score-
years!" She snatched up a long, straight trumpet and blew a raucous note 
that would wake the dead. 

	Walter knew it would. He had been decisively killed a hundred and 
forty-six times already, only to wake with the rest of the barbarians in time 
for a night's carousing and temptation. Day after day, for Eternity - he 
wondered what he had done so wrong in life.

	In the sky, a golden dot appeared. As it approached, they could 
see it was a huge winged horse, dwarfing its riders - one of the warrior 
maids (maids - HA! He thought with some irony) straddling it bareback, 
and a smaller figure clutching the pillion seat. Not that the rider was any 
smaller than himself, the way it looked....

	The golden horse toughed down with a screetching of hooves, air 
blast from its eagle wings kicking up the driven snow from the dais in front 
of the Hall of Valhalla. And as the figure stepped off, he recognised him. 
When the last living face you see is the one trying to kill you, he thought 
fleetingly - THAT, you Remember.

	Bruda drew her straight, wrought-iron sword, and held it steady. 
"Halt!" Her voice was cold "by what right do you claim a seat at Valhalla's 
hall, home of Warriors? Who speaks for you?"

	"I speak," Vanadia, the third Valkeyrie, swung down off her foaming 
steed. "I thought we wouldn't see his like again - they don't make'em like 
they used to. Dedicated seven of the Archangel's spirits to Odin and fell in 
pitched combat with them - no, he's not insane or stupid either. "

	"Seven - Archangels?" Bruda's sword drooped in her brawny fist 
"they don't have jurisdiction over ours, or we over theirs - how did he, a 
mortal, get to see them in the first place?"

	Vanadia blushed. "Someone made a mistake - come on, you," she 
addressed Walter "We're taking you home."


	From the back of the sweating war-mare climbing into the 
Heavens, Walter had no choice but to hang on tight to Vanadia's 
armoured frame, the scaled armour scraping him painfully. All around was 
an endless sea of clouds, seemingly lit from some sourceless glow 
brighter than any mortal sun.

	"We don't interact," the Valkyrie shouted back in the slipstream 
"Like two waves passing through - I won't see it. Jump off when you get 
there."

	"I trust you're right," he muttered. It should scarcely be possible to 
sneak into the Divine Kingdom unnanounced, he thought wryly - if he 
made it, someone in Authority must be approving the mission without 
making it obvious. For one second, his thoughts slipped dangerously to 
considering what sort of a sense of humour that implied - but he brushed 
the impious thought away. "I didn't get where I am today without Faith."


	When the real Walter Tildergast was discovered wandering in a 
distant corner of the Elysian Fields, a collective sigh of relief was 
breathed, or would be if those doing so needed lungs.

	Azmael looked down on the Earth as the stated year and a day 
passed, and the troubles subsided as the inferno reclaimed its citizens. 
But in several ways, the place had been changed forever. With only a 
twentieth of the population left alive (since one of the medical computers 
had unexpectedly developed a liking for transplanting plague and anthrax 
genes into almost anything), the hive cities were being abandoned. They 
had taken more than human organisational skills to keep them running - 
and it would be a long, long while before anyone trusted an Artificial 
Intelligence again.

	"Folk are actually having to help each other now," Azrasheph 
pointed out happily. "Yes, so we've got crime and all sorts of grief coming 
back - but there's a reaction to that, too. Looks like things are improving, 
from our point of view."

	"Humph." Azmael looked down uncomfortably, his wings 
manifesting into a particularly inefficient plywood homebuild. "We seem to 
have come out of it all right - but that's the last time I'm meddling down 
there without orders."

	" All right? Speak for yourself." Asratoline had been manifesting 
around the place like a bear with a sore head. "I'm not looking forward to 
what'll happen when He comes back, and checks the weapon 
inventories." Try as he might, he could no longer manifest a full weapon 
load - the thunderbolt he had used on Earth was gone, leaving a glaringly 
empty pylon that felt like a missing tooth. "I should have remembered - we 
weren't actually told we Couldn't use them without Firing Orders - just that 
we Shouldn't."

	Azrasheph scratched his halo. "I don't understand it." He confessed 
- confession was good for the soul, even an immortal one. "I just don't 
understand where that other place was - there's obviously no such place 
as Valhalla. It isn't even IN the book." More embarrassing had been the 
discrepancy between the number of souls actually born, and those 
accounted for in Hell or Heaven - it being assumed an "automatic" split 
one way or another, it had been nobody's job to ever count up the figures. 
The Recording Angel had made a preliminary survey and then called an 
immediate halt to further investigation, till word was received from Higher 
Authorities. It was not only the Strike Angels who were going around 
looking worried.

	"Well, all's well that ends well," Azmael concluded, polishing a 
thunderbolt. "God's in his Heaven, and all's right with the world - at least, 
he must be in Some heaven, somewhere. We've just got this one to worry 
about, which is quite enough."


	On a mead-stained table in Valhalla, Konnwaldt faced up to Odin, 
and challenged him to arm-wrestling. Of course, he wasn't going to win - 
but it was the taking part that really counted. Odin loved a warrior, and 
would never permit a faithful one to come to lasting harm.

	And God, in one of his more relaxing modes, drained another horn 
of sour ale and prepared to wrestle.