Lucifer's Lottery

Incorporeals—he was a living shadow who disguised his movements by slipping into the bodies of passersby, wearing them as camouflage. He was simply a silhouette with no discernible details save for his basic outline—a horned, wedge-shaped head atop a Humanlike body. No eyes could be seen within the wedge. If anything his voice bubbled like the ichors of Hell’s deepest trenches. “And as you might suspect, I have a message for you.”

Archlock Curwen struggled not to betray his unease. With Aldehzor, messages were either good or bad. Was a terrorist attack imminent? Had a flaw been discovered in the Demonculus’s cabalistic programming?

Am I being usurped? the Master Builder wondered in restrained dread.

“I am ready for your message, Aldehzor.”

“It has been calculated that there exists a minor chance of a power shortage here.”

Curwen sat stiff. “We’ve always known that. A minor chance.”

“Any chance is unacceptable,” the hideous voice intoned. “However, in his genius, Lucifer has devised a solution.”

“Pray tell . . .”

“Much is astir in the Mephistopolis, Archlock.” The wretched voice burbled on. “Plans and projects that even one as exalted as yourself have no clue . . .”

Curwen stared. Was the Grand Messenger trying to insult him? To belittle his status? Aldehzor’s jealousy of the exalted Human Damned was well-known. He WISHES he could be me, he felt sure, but wasn’t comfortable voicing it.

The ink-blot face looked back at him. “Your own constant sacrifices in the Cauldrons won’t be enough. I’m alarmed that your own engineers weren’t able to verify that.” A protracted pause. “However, my own alarm was apparently not perceived by our lord. For some reason he holds you in the highest favor, higher than any of the Human Damned.”

“Are you trying to intimidate me, Aldehzor?”

A wet, slopping chuckle. “Certainly not, Supreme Master Builder. I honor you. Surely you’ve heard of a crucial endeavor at the Vandermast Reservoir?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces. Some mode of transposition, perhaps even a Spatial Merge, it’s been guessed.”

“Yes, but a permanent one.”

Astonishment caused Curwen’s guard to fall. “Permanent, you say? But that is . . . impossible.”

“Once upon a time, yes—if time existed. The Bio-Wizards at the De Rais Laboratories cracked the code.”

“But a permanent transposition would require multiple millions of Hellspawn and Humans to die simultaneously.”

The black shadow nodded. “Sixty-six million, to be exact. And a solution has been devised. It’s quite simple, actually. Those millions will die, all in the same instant. This shall bring the amperage of the Hell-Flux to immeasurably high levels. That much occult energy will be more than enough to effect the Merge. And the reserves will be transferred to you and your . . . Demonculus.”

Curwen felt light-headed. True, the possibility of insufficient power had already been cited, but with this?

It’s more power than has ever been generated in Hell, in all of its history . . .

“How,” the Master Builder demanded next. “How can this be, that multiple millions shall die simultaneously?”

Did the warped shadow actually shrug? “The Municipal Mutilation Squads throughout the entire Mephistopolis will do it—”

“But that’s not feasible at all! How could they all be calibrated to strike at the same moment? ”

“By psychic command.”

Curwen stalled.

“The De Rais Labs have recently invented the process,” the shadow added. “So, in spite of your own miscalculation, you needn’t worry yourself. Indeed, we are in the hands of a great lord, are we not?”

“We are,” Curwen croaked.

“You’re a brave one, Supreme Master Builder, and I must say”—Aldehzor’s invisible gaze strayed upward again, at the immense Demonculus—“that you have my utmost admiration.”

“Why?” Curwen nearly spat.

“To sacrifice forever your Hell-given Spirit Body in order to become . . . that thing? ”

“You refer to the Demonculus with vehemence, dear Messenger. It is the greatest entity to ever be manufactured here, and it is the Demonculus you’d do better to admire, not I. I am blessed like no other in this opportunity to serve Great Satan. Be he forever praised.” Curwen’s silver teeth flashed bladelike with his smile. “It almost sounds as though you’re afraid of the Demonculus’s success; for when, through me, it rids the Mephistopolis of all opposition . . . whatever shall you do to stay in our lord’s good graces?”

Aldehzor seemed to hiss.

Yes. What use will there be for a messenger with no messages to deliver?

The veiled joust was over—Curwen had won.

“Be prepared,” came Aldehzor’s whisper like the smoke off a ball of pitch. “What you long for will come soon.”

Curwen stared the Incorporeal down.

“In the name of all things unutterable, hail the Prince of Lies,” the Grand Messenger said and got out of the carriage.

Curse ye, and be gone with you, Curwen thought, and then when he saw another sixty-six Mongrels dropped at once into the Cauldron he nearly swooned as if opiated. Their screams were like the sweetest of songs to his ears.

(III)

The hollow sound in your head follows you as the Turnstile’s evil formulae are triggered and you and your guide are pressed yet again through the gauze of distance-collapsing sorcery. When the vertigo passes, you jerk your gaze to Howard.

“So that’s it? The winners of the Senary get to become Privilatos?”

“Ah, I see your observations have at last heightened the acuity of your powers of deductive reckoning. I gratefully affirm.”

You frown.

“However, our chancing upon Mr. Swikaj and his comely harem came quite by happenstance. We’re on our way to behold further facets of the abyss that should deliver a more formidable impact.”

Shylock Square is long behind you now, though curious occult graft work is still visible among passersby. One stunning woman in hot pants and a bra of the finest leaden fabric has no face at all but only smooth white skin and a belly button where her nose would be. Her face has been transplanted upon her abdomen, and when that fact finally registers, you notice that she is smiling at you. A buff man, Human save for elaborate horns, walks confidently into an enterprise called CRIPPENDALE’S; he’s wearing a vest of penises, and onto his earlobes have been sewn scrotums. Lastly, a slyly smiling She-Imp passes, her majora replaced by what appears to be a baby’s buttocks.

“I can perceive that you’re finally acclimating,” Howard remarks. “Your revulsion appears to be growing staid—quite a good sign.”

Finally you’re able to blurt, “You want me to accept the Senary, which means I’ll become a Privilato after I fucking die. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Howard says, his already long face lengthening further; his distaste obvious. “However, if I may