Election, Minding the Heavens Part I

By James Pyle

Minding the Heavens is a series of three novellas that chronicle the intersection of four distinct stories.

1. Lawrence Fielding is in his mid-twenties, works for his uncle (whom he hates) and has recently broken up with his longtime girlfriend. He is determined to kill himself until a chance encounter with a man claiming to be the devil starts him down a path of curious, and seemingly inexplicable, incidence.

2. Michael, once an angel of the Host of Heaven, is now a drunk who has wandered North America for the better part of five decades.

3. Samuel is a reclusive assassin who, just as he decides to retire, is offered one final opportunity unlike anything he's ever done before.

4. Diedrich Markus was, at one time, a promising young physicist. That is, however, until he published a paper claiming to have found evidence that the fundamental laws of quantum mechanics work differently within the Trans-America building in San Francisco. After several unaccounted years, Markus resurfaces at a small, decidedly hippy-like, university in Western Washington.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Pyle
• Release date: Aug 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476068657

James Pyle

James Pyle spent a very long time, and a lot of money, in the pursuit of three marginally useful degrees at two private, and expensive, universities in Southern California. After many of years of rejection from major publishers, he finally decided to take the advice of others and digitally self-publish. The Minding the Heavens series is his first foray into that world and he hopes you enjoy it. James has worked variously at a driving range, pizza place, concert and sporting venues, a gym, several bookstores, several movie theatres, a video game company, a legal publishing company, an advertising agency, and an electronics store. He has also spent time as a TA, a freelance writer, a freelance editor, an English professor, and a college administrator. Despite the rampant divorce rate, James married his high-school sweetheart and they went on to have three children (well, two with one on the way as of August 2012). James isn't sure he enjoys writing about himself in the third person but would certainly welcome any comments, suggestions, corrections, or complaints.

Book preview

Minding the Heavens:

Part I: Election

By James Pyle

Copyright 2012 James Pyle

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter 1. Strolls Down Memory Lane Should Not Be Taken Whilst in States of Depression, Inebriation, or Capitulation

Chapter 2. An Interruption During the Inevitable Slow Spiral Downward

Chapter 3. Decisive Action in a Time of Confusion

Chapter 4. One Last Occasion to Relish the Fleeting Tranquility of Life

Chapter 5. A Day of Curious Incident

Interlude: Of Epistemological Significance

Chapter 6. Due Diligence Notwithstanding, Luck Should Never Be Discounted

Chapter 7. Indeed, No Man is Born With a Pedal Driven Recreational Vehicle Attached to His Hindquarters

Chapter 8. A Discourse in Applied Theology Or, What Should One Do When the 'Rabbit Hole' is Untrustworthy?

Chapter 9. It Remains to be Seen Whether or Not One Might Accurately Describe What Will Transpire as 'Comedy' Though, at This Point, Marriage Seems Just as Likely as Beheading

Chapter 10. Destinations, Whether Final or Not, Are Much Like a Person's Disposition in That Perspective is Often More Important than Objective Reality

Interlude: Of Cosmological Significance

About the Author

***

Foreword

First off, I want to thank you for spending some time with this story. For those readers who do not personally know me, I wanted to give some context to the work. In its original incarnation, this novel (the whole thing, not just this first novella) was titled The Zany Misadventures of Lucifer the Fallen One and was, essentially, nothing more than my adolescent attempt to write the next Good Omens (if you're not familiar, please go google that title or the names Neil Gaiman and/or Terry Pratchett). As that original title implies, the first draft of this work was much more dependent on a number of ridiculous premises woven together with the express purpose of getting the reader to laugh. And while I certainly think the early drafts were funny, they did not necessarily work as a strong, novel length narrative. What you are reading now is several evolutionary steps removed from that first full draft, and while the two share some similar physiology, many significant changes have taken place on the inner workings, if you will.

I've often read that many writers have first books stashed away that are so poorly written that those texts will never see the light of day. And I'd say that, in its original form, the same would have been true with this work. But this story has transformed such that the early draft was nothing more than inspirational material for the final version. I bring this up, at least in part, so that I could include the original title in this text. I still think The Zany Misadventures of Lucifer the Fallen One is a singularly amazing title for a novel. But I also mention all of this as a way of explaining why this is being released as three novellas instead of one complete novel. I've come to the conclusion that, after a decade plus of work on this story, I will never be satisfied. I could, literally, tinker with this thing until I die. I made the decision to release this as three novellas as a way to force my own hand, so to speak, so that once this first one is out there, I have to stop dicking around and release the next two as soon as possible.

Lastly, I wanted to take a moment and acknowledge some people who helped in this endeavor by providing thoughtful commentary, much needed copy editing, or general support.

Christina Pham(tom Menace) whose commentary is always heartfelt and appreciated.

Jennifer Barrett, thank you for the punctuation.

Will Meade, a good friend and my greatest fan…too bad neither of those things gets you much.

James P Blaylock, who has read more of my work than just about anyone else in the world, yet continues to agree to keep reading.

Katrina Pyle, without whom, nothing in life would be good.

***

Prologue

It has been said, 'the truth will make men free.' The truth alone has never made anyone free. It is only doubt which will bring mental emancipation.

-Anton Szandor LaVey

The large, balding man sat in a massive leather chair, reclining and staring out over the skyline of Hong Kong. It was nearing twilight, and the lights of the various high rises were just beginning to twinkle through the haze of too much carbon dioxide. This was generally the most relaxing time of day for the man in the chair, but on this day he couldn't keep his fingers from tapping gracelessly on the arms of his chair. After a few seconds he glanced down, as if seeing his hand for the first time, and gripped both arms, his knuckles quickly turning white from the strain.

A short beep emanated from the desk behind the man before a tinny voice piped up.

Sir, there is a man in the lobby claiming to have an appointment with you. You do have one scheduled at this time, but there is no name attached to it. Should I instruct security to let him up?

The man turned around swiftly.

Yes, send him directly up.

The large man stood and started to walk around the desk, thought better of it, sat back down and began tapping his fingers again. He calmed his hands after a few seconds, but could not keep his feet from tapping underneath the desk.

Several minutes later, the door at the opposite end of the large office opened, and a lone man strode in. The man was as nearly non-descript as a man could be; average height, and build, even with a few extra pounds. His face was obscured by a thick dark beard and dark sunglasses. He was wearing casual slacks and a simple brown jacket. The only noticeable thing about him was the large, slightly red nose protruding obscenely from the center of his otherwise average face. He could have easily hidden in any crowd in North America or Europe, but even in Hong Kong, this indistinct man of Caucasian descent would be hard to remember.

The large man behind the desk had never actually met this man in person. Looking at him, the large man wondered why he had been so nervous.

The second man shut the office door before fishing something small out of his jacket pocket and holding it up. It was a common flash drive, like any that could be bought in a million different places.

That's it? asked the man behind the desk, he couldn't keep the note of disbelief out of his voice.

The bearded man didn't respond.

I want to verify the contents first, continued the large man.

No, transfer first, as per my usual stipulations, responded the bearded man in a voice softly.

The large man swallowed unconsciously before nodding. He began tapping away at the keyboard on his desk while staring intently at his screen.

Turn it.

The large man looked up confusedly.

The monitor, turn it.

The large man had some difficulty in turning his screen so that they could both see it, and the bearded man made no effort to move. Eventually, though, the large man continued his task, and once the bearded man had seen the transfer complete, he tossed the flash drive on the desk.

You're welcome, he said brusquely before turning back toward the door.

Wait!

The bearded man stopped but didn't turn around.

I have another job...this one is a little more, um, hands on. I need...

No, responded the bearded man. He still hadn't turned around.

But, but, I'll pay the normal fee for...

I said no. I'll take no more jobs from you. This last one was a courtesy. Your father had been one of my first employers. The man started for the door again.

Please, listen to me, wailed the fat man. I will pay double.

The bearded man turned back around.

Understand this, I've never cared for this corporate intrigue and I grow weary of you. You would do well to forget me. You will no longer be able to reach me through our previous channels of communication and if anyone from your organization does somehow discover a way to contact me I will return to separate those twitchy fingers from your hands.

The large man sat frozen, mouth agape, as the bearded man walked smoothly from the room and softly shut the door behind him.

Once back in New York, Samuel had dispensed with the beard, nose, glasses, and girdle that gave him the fake paunch of a man who rarely, if ever, exercised. He was sure he would never again meet his last employer, but Samuel hadn't survived this long in life by relying on anything that was seemingly sure. He was staying in his Manhattan apartment, but would soon be leaving. He wasn't sure where, exactly. He had a dozen safe houses on four continents, but he wasn't on the run precisely. There was probably somebody in the world looking for him, but he had been pretty far under the radar of late. The last job in Hong Kong had only been his third in the last 18 months and he'd really only taken it out of boredom.

He'd spent nearly two decades as one of the most highly sought out hired men in the world. He'd stolen, blackmailed, threatened, hurt, killed and a dozen other things most people had moral objections to. But now, well, he just couldn't find motivation. He'd always believed the world was transactional. You could break down every decision, every decision, into a calculation between cost and benefit. Even the seemingly high minded and noble ideals in life were really just transaction. A person didn't attend church, and subject himself to propaganda and brain washing, for any other reason than it helped him deal with the thought of his inevitable death. There was no right or wrong in the world, as far as Samuel had ever seen, there was only cost and one's ability to pay. Samuel being paid money to kill was, essentially, no different than another person being paid to make a cup of coffee.

So it wasn't as if Samuel the Black was experiencing some sort of moral crisis. His 20 plus years of doing other people's dirty work had only strengthened his perception of the world. Even if he did walk away from his trade, some other young kid would just step in to fill the void. No, Samuel's problem was more elemental. He couldn't come up with a reason why he, personally, needed to continue in his occupation. The adrenaline rush of fighting for his life had long lost its luster. There hadn't been a theft or intrusion that had caused him difficulty in years. Even feeding false information to various intelligence agencies, a sure fire way to dispel a malaise in his youth, wasn't anything more than an occasional small distraction. On the other hand, the thought of packing up and finding a beach to lounge on for the next several decades sounded a lot like dying a very slow, very boring death.

Normally, Samuel wouldn't have spent more than one night in New York so soon after a job, but he was feeling aimless and not a bit reckless. He spent the morning sitting outside a small cafe in Greenwich village idly reading a copy of the Times and watching people float by on the street. Since leaving Hong Kong, a strange sense of anticipation had slowly washed over him. Samuel had always been a man possessed of skills not found in many others, be they physically or intellectually. And yet, Samuel had discovered early in his career that there were always others in his line of work who were stronger, faster, or smarter. Where he had always held an edge had been emotionally. Employers had named him Samuel the Black, but his fellow hired men had dubbed him the robot. Most had come to believe that he was the best at masking his emotions, but the simple fact was, he didn't really have them. When faced with a job that might give other hardened men restless nights, Samuel slept like a babe. So it was with no small amount of concern to Samuel that now, when he had finally walked away from the life he had known for his entire adult life, his emotions betrayed him. He decided that the hyper pulse of New York, and its claustrophobic walls of steel and glass, was the root of his unease. Yes, what he needed was to be somewhere remote and serene.

The next day Samuel arrived at a small one bedroom cottage he had stashed away on the Washington coast, less than 100 miles south of the Canadian border. It was late August and so the autumn gloom had not yet set in. Samuel figured that the still long days, with not a soul for miles, would be the exact prescription he needed to determine what he was going to do next. After just three days of isolation, Samuel felt he was going insane. Silence, meditation, and serenity were all well and good in theory, but pretty fucking boring in practice. He took a winding, small road covered with dense forest on either side, down to the small town an hour from his cabin and spent the better part of that fourth day sitting in a chain coffee place drinking mediocre cappuccinos and listening to the teenaged employees prattle about their various love life troubles. It was more enjoyable than staring at the walls of his cabin, but only in the way that getting your hand smashed with a hammer is more enjoyable than getting kicked in the groin by a mule.

The sun had set by the time he headed back to the cabin, but as he was pulling slowly up the one lane road that wound around the hill the cabin sat atop, he was greeted by the harsh glow of lamp light spilling from the small living room window that faced the ocean.

Samuel