Dead & Godless (2 page)

“It
would seem that way,” Corwin admitted. “I can only guess that some part of my
brain is still functioning. In any case, it’s not as though I can really trust
my perception of time here. Most dreams last only a few minutes, yet they often
feel much longer. Who knows how much time has passed on the outside?”

“Well
it’s good to know that you’ve got this all figured out.” Ransom poured himself
another double shot. “Still, it’s a shame that you have to spend your last
dream stuck with me.”

“It’s
not exactly surprising,” said Corwin. “I suppose you’ve always been there, a
distant fear or hope in the supernatural, suppressed by my more rational
thoughts. As they say: ‘For the believer there will always be doubt, and for
the skeptic, always–’”

“Possibility,”
chimed Ransom.

“See!
Even the way that you finish my sentences!”

The
attorney scribbled a reminder on his notepad.

“Don’t
finish sentences,” he mumbled.

The
office’s front door swung open and in strode a young woman wearing designer
glasses, her chestnut hair in a bun. A red skirt and suit jacket hugged the curves
of her figure. Despite the sudden entrance, Corwin was too absorbed in his own thoughts
to pay any heed.

“You,
this place, it’s all a creation of my subconscious mind,” he mused, speaking as
much to himself as to Ransom.

“The
Corwin file, sir,” said the woman.

She
bent over the desk to deposit a stack of neatly organized documents.

“Thanks
Elsie,” Ransom replied.

He regarded
the file, flipping briefly through its hundred or so pages while ignoring his
client’s rambling. It took only a glimpse for the angel to memorize the
contents therein.

Corwin’s
gaze followed the secretary as she strutted away.

“She’s
definitely
a part of my subconscious.”

With
a coy smile and eyes that said “good luck,” Elsie vanished behind the door.

“Now
then,” Ransom tapped the paper stack back into shape, “how might I impress upon
you the reality of your present predicament?”

Rising,
he began to pace leisurely around the perimeter of his desk.

“As I
understand it, a human being will snap out of a dream in the event of certain
sensations,” Ransom snapped his fingers, “such as the sensation of falling.”

Corwin
squinted, broad daylight assaulting his eyes. When his vision adjusted, he saw
that his chair was no longer in the attorney’s office, but teetering precariously
atop the edge of a canyon. The Grand Canyon. Orange and brown strata striped
the cliff sides. His feet dangled over thin air, five hundred feet of jagged
rocks descending steeply to where the Colorado River snaked below.

“Um,
Mr. Ransom? I have this thing about heights,” started Corwin, clutching his
seat with a white-knuckled grip, but Ransom’s shoe was already planted on the
rear of his chair.

The
attorney’s lips curled into a wicked grin.

“Oh, I
wouldn’t worry. Maybe this is one of those flying dreams!”

Before
his client could say another word, he kicked out, sending both the chair and
its occupant sailing into the gorge. Corwin’s stomach lurched. He flailed his
arms, the fall twisting and turning him about so that the riverbed and the open
sky traded places in a mad whirl. A desperate scream echoed off the canyon
walls. Yet even as the wind roared in his ears, Ransom’s words rang out
clearly.

“Of
course, falling isn’t the only way to wake up. I’ve heard that the threat of
sudden, intense pain or death can have a similar effect.”

Wait,
I can’t die.
I’m already dead!

But
the rational voice in the back of Corwin’s mind didn’t matter. What mattered
was the rocky bank of the Colorado speeding rapidly towards him. He clenched
his teeth and shut tight his eyes.

The
bone-crunching thud made even Ransom wince a little.

Twitching
like some half-dead insect, Corwin noticed three things. First, that he was still
alive. Second, that a throbbing pain pulsed through every inch of his body. And
third, that the ground beneath him was not sand and stones, but a plush carpet.
With a miserable groan he pried one eye open.

Surrounding
him once again was the familiar décor of Ransom’s office. The angel reclined
behind his desk, savoring a long drag on a cigarette. Forcing his sore limbs
into motion, Corwin laboriously climbed back into his chair, which by all
appearances had weathered the fall without so much as a scratch. He patted the
dirt from his rumpled coat and stared flatly at his attorney.

“I
think I’ll take that drink now.”

Shades of Change

A soothing fire
seared in Corwin’s throat as he sipped the bourbon, the heat sinking like a
coal to the pit of his stomach and then radiating out to his finger tips.

“Maple.
A zesty note of citrus. And a hint of vanilla on the finish.” He cocked an
eyebrow. “Don’t tell me, is this Angel’s Envy?”

“A
man who knows his bourbon!” commended Ransom. “The Force is strong with this
one.”

The
angel swished the red-gold liquor in his glass.

“Do
you still believe yourself to be dreaming?”

“I’m
not sure,” said Corwin. “If right now I’m undergoing surgery in the emergency room,
that fall might have been a wave of pain coursing through my unconscious mind, this
bourbon a dose of anesthesia.”

Ransom
stroked the bristles on his chin thoughtfully.

“Perhaps
a higher cliff . . .”

“No!”
Corwin hastily interjected. “No more cliffs!” He raised his hands in
supplication. “Look, I get it. You want me to accept that this is my afterlife.
I don’t know that I can believe that just yet, but seeing as I’m stuck here,
let’s say I’m willing to assume that there’s a chance—a remote, absurd
possibility that what you say is true.”

“In
other words, you’re willing to play along.” Taking a brief measure of his
client, Ransom nodded with a hard-eyed grin. “I can work with that.

“Discerning
dreams from reality can be a messy business,” he continued. “I don’t suppose
you can prove that your previous life wasn’t a dream?”

Corwin
didn’t have to think long.

“No,
I don’t suppose I can.”

“All
knowledge begins not with facts, but with an assumption: the assumption that your
senses aren’t lying to you; that reality is, for the most part, as it appears.”

“That’s
funny to hear, coming from an angel. Doesn’t religion rest upon the notion that
reality is more than it appears?”

“That
there is more to reality than you can know by your senses, yes,” answered
Ransom, “but not that your senses are wrong. Like a gravitational pull
evidencing a hidden black hole, the seen gives clue to the unseen.”

“Well
I won’t deny that religion is rather like a black hole,” Corwin said dryly.

He
cracked his neck and pumped one arm, rotating his shoulder. The pain from the
fall still lingered in his joints.

“If
I’m already dead, how come it hurts so much? Shouldn’t I be haunting your
office as a disembodied spirit about now?”

“That’s
no way to spend your afterlife,” replied Ransom. “To be human is to be body and
soul. Granted, your current vessel is only temporary.”

“It’s
a pretty good replica,” noted Corwin as he glanced at his reflection in one of
the glass cabinet doors. “You even got the missing button on my coat.”

“Death
is a jarring experience. Having a familiar body tends to make things go smoother.
Just don’t start thinking that you’re invincible. That body is more resilient
than your old one, but it can still bruise and bleed. Feelings of pain or
pleasure are no less real here than in the mortal world.”

“So I’ve
noticed. Is there another afterlife waiting if by chance I manage to get myself
killed in this one?”

“Death
can be a mercy, a release from pain. You will find no such release in this
place. There are fates worse than death here.”

“Sounds
heavenly,” moaned Corwin. “So what now? As far as my ‘final judgment’ is
concerned, why not get it over with? If the lord almighty is as just and
merciful as they say, I don’t see what I’ve got to be worried about.”

“You’re
clearly not lacking for confidence.” Ransom’s gaze sharpened. “Are you so sure
that your case is airtight?”

“I
should hope so, unless your god is a tyrant! Last I checked, I did just die
saving somebody’s life.”

“An
admirable final act,” agreed Ransom, “one which secured you my invaluable services,
but I’m afraid your situation is a bit more complex than that.”

“Why?
Because I’m an atheist?”

“You
weren’t just any atheist, Corwin. You were zealous and outspoken, a veritable Saint Paul of atheism. Wherever you went, you employed that intellect of yours to the
purpose of convincing men to abandon their faith.”

“And
what of it?” challenged Corwin. “Sure, I encouraged people to embrace reason
rather than superstition, to look to science rather than an invisible old man
in the sky for answers, and what was the result? Have my words ever driven anyone
to strap on a bomb? Did I ever once cause harm to those who happened to
disagree? No. Unlike so many of your
peace-loving
believers, I’ve never
resorted to violence to advance my ideals.”

“It’s
true enough that you haven’t spilled any blood,” Ransom conceded, “but the prosecution
isn’t going to build its case upon charges of battery.

“Suppose
for a moment that such a thing as the soul exists. Unlike mortal vessels, souls
endure forever, but they can be lost, cut off from all love and happiness if
they choose to reject its source. Should it be shown that your actions were
instrumental in the loss of even one person’s eternal soul, do you not think that
that would weigh heavily against you?”

Corwin
had never seen a soul, never heard one. He considered it altogether illogical
to believe in something for which there was no material evidence, but that
wasn’t to say that he didn’t understand the concept. Of all religion’s crazy
doctrines, the idea that some part of him might transcend the physical and live
on was perhaps the most alluring.

“This
trial is not nearly as open-and-shut as you would like it to be,” said Ransom. “The
prosecution adamantly believes that your soul is rightly the property of Hell,
and they’ll stop at nothing to see you burn. You’re going to need my help.”

“Your
help
strikes me as more dangerous than the trial,” Corwin replied as he
rubbed the back of his neck, the memory of getting kicked off a cliff still
fresh in his mind. “And as for my part in this? What would I be expected to
do?”

“Only
to cooperate.” Ransom cracked his wolfish smile. “The first rule of order here
is to know thyself. We’re going to see just how godless you really are.”

That
Corwin had little choice in the matter hadn’t eluded him, but more than that,
he had always relished a good battle of ideas. Perhaps this bizarre dying dream
was what he had truly wished for all along.

“I
hope you don’t expect me to make it too easy for you.”

“I
expect you to fight me every step of the way. But do not attempt to lie.” The
attorney’s tone darkened. “We angels are not easily lied to, nor are we
forgiving of those who try.”

Corwin,
however, had no intention of deceit. Fully convinced that truth and reason were
on his side, he doubted very much that any of the angel’s tests would prove
insurmountable.

“Lies
are a coward’s defense. I won’t have need of them.”

“Excellent.”
With a clap, Ransom folded his hands. “Then let’s get started.”

He
made as if to get up, but then stopped halfway.

“One
more thing!”

Rifling
through his pockets, Ransom’s fingers finally came upon what he was looking
for, withdrawing a cross affixed to a slender chain. The golden necklace glinted
in the light, its sharp contours simple and elegant. He slid it reverently
across the desk.

“You
had best put this on.”

Corwin
eyed the cross skeptically.

“I’ve
heard of dressing for court, but isn’t this a bit much? Will your omniscient god
be fooled into thinking that I’m a good Christian if I just look the part?”

“Trust
me,” said Ransom. “It may come in handy.”

“You
know I don’t believe in your good luck charms.”

“Believe
what you will. You can think of it as a fashion statement for all I care. But
for now, I strongly suggest you shut up and do as your defense attorney asks.”

With
no small amount of disdain, Corwin gave in and looped the gold chain around his
neck, the cross dangling below his collar.

“Remember
this,” Ransom said gravely, “if ever you are separated from me and find
yourself in a desperate situation, hold onto that cross.”

The
warning stirred dark thoughts in Corwin’s head. Just what kind of “desperate
situation” might his attorney fear? Before he could dwell upon it too deeply,
Ransom sprang to his feet.

“Well
then, no point in wasting any more time.”

He
struck off for the office’s front door, motioning for his client to follow.

“Where
are we going?” asked Corwin.

“To a
place you once knew.”

Ransom
clasped the doorknob, the bolt sliding with a click as he gave it a twist. It
was the same door through which his secretary had come and gone, and Corwin half
expected to glimpse the marble halls of a heavenly law firm on the other side,
but instead a wall of white light flooded his vision, engulfing both of them in
a flash.

A
springy carpet of grass cushioned the soles of his boots. The bright light resolved
into an afternoon sky, cobalt blue and dotted with cotton clouds. In the center
of the park, a brass gentleman struck a scholarly pose amidst the maple trees. He
was flanked by Georgian buildings that harkened to an age when architects
strove to capture invisible truths in stone. The leaves had begun to turn,
painting the fields with splashes of crimson and gold.

Everywhere
students were roaming about. Some hurried to their classes while others
meandered in the park, conversing with friends or simply taking in the
pleasantly brisk day.

“Recognize
anything?” inquired Ransom as they strolled beneath a shaded walkway that
bordered the park, its ceiling upheld by a row of austere pillars to their
right.

“My
old university,” breathed Corwin.

“An
institution where young minds are molded, not always for the better.”

Corwin
smirked at the jab. “You don’t sound too fond of education.”

“On
the contrary,” replied Ransom. “The pursuit of God has long gone together with
the pursuit of knowledge about his handiwork, but the most important
lessons—those of how to live rightly—are seldom taught in your universities
anymore.”

“I
don’t know about that,” said Corwin. “They do encourage ethics of a sort. It’s
called Political Correctness.”

“Ah
yes, an ethical code in which the greatest sin is causing offense. Do you
ascribe to it?”

“No
thanks. Being considerate is well and good, but I think people ought to grow
some thicker skin. In my experience, you can’t take a stand for anything
without offending somebody.”

Ransom
seemed satisfied with the answer and they continued down the path. As a steady
flow of students filed past, Corwin couldn’t help but notice that something was
odd. No one had spared him or his sveltely-clad companion so much as a glance.

“Can
they see us?”

“No. We
are merely shades in this time and place,” explained Ransom.

“Interesting.”
Corwin snatched a textbook off the nearby balustrade, beside which two men
stood chatting. “Does that mean I’m like a poltergeist right now?” he asked as
he sent the book bobbing and swaying before them, adding a ghostly moan for
good measure.

With
a beleaguered sigh, Ransom shook his head.

“When
a shade touches something, it creates a sort of copy, one that exists on our
plane, but not theirs.”

His
hopes deflated, Corwin tossed the textbook over his shoulder, leaving the
students to carry on in their discussion, blissfully unaware. A second look confirmed
that, indeed, the original book had reappeared right in the same place. Armed
with this revelation, a new plot sprang to mind as he spotted a comely blond,
the threads of her yellow sweater showcasing an impressive degree of elasticity.

“Can
I make a copy of her?”

“It
only works for things without souls,” Ransom stiffly replied.

A
wave of Corwin’s arm proved as much. His hand passed right through the girl’s
waist as though she were nothing more than a hologram.

The
strangeness of being a shade was disconcerting, yet intriguing. Corwin felt
like a scientist having happened upon a new discovery, his mind awhirl with
questions. If touching things created copies, was there a limit to how many
copies he could make? Or was it a choice? Could he walk through walls if he
felt so inclined? What if he were to meet other shades? Did dead people make a
habit of roaming the earth like creepy, voyeuristic tourists?

As
the possibilities played out in his head, his roving gaze strayed to the
windows, where the park’s florid reflection shone in the glass. There were
joggers and picnickers and benches home to studying students. It was a scene
that could have belonged to any sunny afternoon. Almost.