Mercury Revolts (12 page)

“Anyway,” Mercury went on, “After hearing of your plight,
I’ve decided to commit the considerable resources of my estate to your cause.
Starting by paying for your beer.”

The well-dressed man, whom Mercury took to be the leader of
the group, seemed unconvinced, but he motioned for Mercury to take a seat. “My
name is Samuel Adams,” he said. He motioned
toward a
dapper-looking gentlemen
to his right. “This is John Hancock, whom you
no doubt know by reputation.” He continued around the table: “Henry Bass,
Thomas Chase, Everett Drake, Adam Johnson, Benjamin Edes, Patrick Henry, James
Otis, Paul Revere,
Benedict
Arnold.”

Mercury nodded at the men in turn.
“Lord
Quinton Squigglebottom at your service, gentlemen.
Please, call me
Quinton. But I’ve interrupted your discussion.”

Samuel Adams nodded and gestured toward John Hancock.

“I was just saying,” said Hancock, “that we’ve received word
that the King seems intent on enforcing the Tea Act—”

“Oh!” cried Mercury suddenly. Hancock frowned, and all eyes
turned to Mercury.

“It’s nothing,” said Mercury. “Please, go on.”

“As I was saying,” Hancock went on, “if His Majesty insists
on forcing the issue by sending ships laden with…”

Mercury had his hand clamped over his mouth, and he was
bouncing up and down in his chair like a three-year-old with a secret.

“What is it, Lord Squigglebottom?” demanded Hancock.

“Quinton, please,” said Mercury. “It’s nothing, really.
Well, not
nothing
. I didn’t want to interrupt your
high-minded discussion of democratic ideals with mere facts.”

“To what facts are you referring,” said Paul Revere. “Speak
plainly, sir!”

“Oh, just the three ships on their way to Boston right now,
stacked to the jibs with British tea.”

Outraged groans and gasps escaped several men at the table.

“How do you know of this?” Hancock asked.

“They were loading the tea as my ship disembarked from
Portsmouth. I’d expect them in a fortnight, at the latest.”

“Outrageous!” cried Patrick Henry. Several of the men
murmured agreement. An animated discussion ensued about the proper response to
the ship’s arrival, and quickly turned into a contest of who could suggest the
most extreme action in the matter. At first it was suggested that the tea be
unloaded and left in a padlocked warehouse to rot. Then someone suggested
throwing the tea overboard and burning the ships. Finally, Mercury suggested
that the Sons of Liberty should dress up as Indians, burn the ships, and
slaughter the crews. This had the effect of both solidifying Mercury’s status
as a patriot and horrifying the rest of the assembly.

“That seems… a bit extreme,” said Samuel Adams. Hancock,
Revere, and several others nodded in agreement. Patrick Henry shrugged, as if
he’d been willing to go along with it but wasn’t going to argue the point.
Benedict Arnold remained silent. The man who had first suggested burning the
ships, Everett Drake, was trying to get the floor back, but Adams wouldn’t
yield.

“I think the most reasonable course of action is to leave
the ships and crews alone, but to dump the tea into the water. That makes our
point without resorting to unnecessary violence. After all, it isn’t the fault
of the East India Company or its crews that the King is illegally taxing the
tea.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Hancock and Revere.

Mercury seemed a bit put out. “Can we still dress like
Indians?” he asked hopefully.

“I’m not sure I see the point of that,” replied Adams.

“Indians are bad ass,” answered Mercury.

“Pardon me?” asked Adams, puzzled.

“I just thought it would be neat,” mumbled Mercury quietly.

“It would be a good idea to conceal our identities,” noted
Revere. “Perhaps Quinton is on to something.”

“Really?” asked Mercury, a bit surprised to hear one of his
ideas taken seriously.

“I agree that we should wear disguises,” said Revere. “But I
don’t quite grasp the Indian angle. I was thinking we would wear sheets, with
pillowcases for hoods.”

“That’s… not a good look,” said Mercury.

“I like the Indian idea,” said Hancock. “And it’s easy.
Strip down to your pants, rub on some warpaint, grab a hatchet, and start
whooping it up with war cries.”

Mercury winced. “Well, you’re not going to win any
sensitivity awards, but yeah.”

“Plus,” said Thomas Chase, “
we
can
use the hatchets to break open the crates.”

“Good point,” said Adams. “OK, then it’s agreed. When the
ship arrives, we board it dressed as Indians and throw the tea into the water.”

The men murmured agreement and then, having finished the
pitcher of beer Mercury had miraculously produced, adjourned for the evening.
Several of the Sons of Liberty proclaimed how happy they were to have such a
prestigious and wealthy nobleman on their side, and Mercury, in return,
expressed how lucky they were to have him. They said their goodbyes and Mercury
walked off alone down the darkened cobblestone streets of Boston.

“Quite a performance in there, Lord Squigglebottom,” said a
woman’s voice from the shadows.

Mercury shrank back. “Hawk your wares elsewhere, foul
harlot!” he cried, “Unless you have change for a sixpence.”

The woman stepped out of the shadows, smirking wickedly at
him.

“Oh,” said Mercury. “It’s you.”

“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” said the woman,
affecting profound disappointment. “It’s been so long.”

“What do you want, Tiamat?” asked Mercury. “I’m working.”

“I know you are,” said Tiamat. “The question is
,
who are you working
for
? You’ve got Lucifer’s
agents completely befuddled.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly difficult. Lucifer isn’t
known for the intellectual caliber of his minions. Like that Everett
Drake,
or whatever his name really is.”

Tiamat smiled. “How long did it take you to pick him out?”

“I had my suspicions as soon as I walked in the room. He’s got
that shifty, stupid look that characterizes so many of Lucifer’s agents. Like
somebody who thinks he’s clever for figuring out a joke ten minutes after
everybody else has stopped laughing. I knew for sure when he suggested burning
the ships.
Such an obvious Lucifer play.
The guy has
no sense for the big picture.”

“Exactly what I was just saying,” Tiamat said with a
chuckle.
“Unlike you.”

Mercury shrugged. “I just go with the flow.”

“You follow your instincts,” said Tiamat. “Everett Drake—his
real name is Ramiel, by the way—comes up with a bad idea, and instead of
arguing against it, you trump him with an absolutely terrible idea. Suddenly
the rabble-rousers are split between two bad ideas, and the more sensible
members realize they need to reassert control. So instead of burning the ships,
the Sons of Liberty agree to just quietly toss the tea overboard.
Understated but effective.”

“Hmm,” Mercury said. “So what’s your interest here? I
thought you were busy eviscerating Huguenots.”

“I’m taking a break,” said Tiamat.
“Doing
a favor for Lucifer.”

“I thought you hated that guy.”

“I do. I suppose I should say that Lucifer
thinks
I’m
doing him a favor. He’s frustrated that his agents haven’t been able to provoke
more mindless violence in the colonies. So I told him I could start a war
between Britain and America in less than two years.”

“What does war have to do with mindless violence?” Mercury
asked. “War takes deliberate planning and organization. There’s no natural
progression from mob violence to war.”

Tiamat sighed. “See, this is why I like you, Mercury. You
get me. Lucifer doesn’t see any arbitrary, random violence going on, so he
worries that war is never going to break out. He hasn’t grasped the fact that
the bloodiest wars happen after resentments have simmered quietly for years.”

“You really think war is going to happen within two years?”

“It better.
My plan to conquer
France is riding on it.”

“
Your
what?”

“Never mind.
Private
business between me and Lucifer.
Isn’t war what you want? I thought
that’s why you’re here.”

Mercury sighed. “You know how Heaven is. I can’t get any
straight answers. My assignment was to ‘stir up patriotic sentiment’ in the
colonies. I don’t exactly know what that means. In any case, there’s plenty of
patriotic sentiment already. Mostly I’m just trying to keep these guys from
doing anything incredibly stupid.”

“Well, you seem to be doing a fine job, from what I can
tell,” said Tiamat.

“So you aren’t going to interfere?”

“Of course not,” replied Tiamat. “I don’t care if the
so-called Sons of Liberty have a little tea party. I just came here to confirm
what I already suspected: war is going to break out, and it’s going to happen
whether Sam Adams’ little band act like bloodthirsty brigands or the paragons
of civilization.”

“Well, I guess that’s what Heaven wants too, so for once
everybody’s in agreement.”

“Except you.”

Mercury shrugged. “I’m not a big fan of war, but the matter
seems to be out of my hands. So I’ll just keep stirring up patriotic
sentiment.”

“Have fun with that,” said Tiamat. “Well, I’d better go.
Those Huguenots aren’t going to eviscerate themselves.”

With that, Tiamat disappeared into the night. Mercury shook
his head and continued on down the street. Having no need of sleep, he planned
to fly to New Hampshire overnight and
do some reconnaissance
to gauge the level of support in that area for declaring independence from
British rule. First, though, he had to get out of Boston. It wouldn’t do for
some nosy shopkeeper to see him taking flight.

As he neared the end of the cobblestone street, he heard
what sounded like a footfall behind him. He spun around, peering down the dark
street, but saw nothing but the dark outlines of rooftops against the night
sky. Even with his preternaturally acute angelic vision, he saw no sign of
anyone.

“Tiamat?” he asked, uncertainly. But there was no answer. He
doubted it was Tiamat anyway; she wasn’t known for slinking around—and
certainly not after making one of her dramatic exits.

After a moment, Mercury shrugged and continued walking. Whoever
it was, they were unlikely to be a threat to Mercury. Even if one of the locals
did see him leaving the ground, he’d be dismissed as a lunatic by his peers if
he said anything about it. Mercury walked a ways onto the muddy ground beyond
the cobblestones, took another look around, and leaped into the air.

As he arced to the south, he took a glance behind him again.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a lone figure leaning out from
behind a building, watching him.

Chapter Thirteen
             
 

Somewhere in Idaho; August 2016

Suzy held her breath as the Tercel
struggled up the steep, winding mountain road. The inside of the car was silent
except for the whine of the motor and the barely audible strains of Duran
Duran’s “Rio” squawking from the radio. Neither she nor Eddie had said a word
for at least a hundred miles, neither of them wanting to put voice to the worry
that was going through both of their heads.

“What if it’s not him?” Suzy asked at last.

Eddie sighed. “What if it
is
him?” he replied. After
walking around Milhaus, Texas for a couple of hours, they found a bartender who
recognized Mercury by Eddie’s description. The bartender said the man had
expressed a disconcerting amount of interest in the remote cabin previously
occupied by crazed bomber Chris Finlan.

Suzy’s brow furrowed and she looked over at Eddie in the
passenger’s seat. “What does that mean?”

“It means don’t borrow trouble from the future. Or be
careful what you wish for. Something
like
that.
Anyway, let’s just concentrate on getting this rust bucket to the cabin.”

“I thought you could perform miracles,” Suzy said. “Or do
they only work on domestic autos?”

“I don’t know anything about cars,” Eddie said defensively.
“I can use interplanar energy to push a car up a hill, but it’s not like I can
miraculously fix your carburetor.”

“You think something is wrong with my carburetor?” asked
Suzy, suddenly worried.

“I have no idea!” exclaimed Eddie, irritably. “I wouldn’t
know a carburetor from Carmen Sandiego. And frankly I’d have better luck
finding the latter.”

“Usually it’s not too hard,” she said.
“If
you pay attention to the clues.”

“Slow down,” said Eddie. “The turn should be just ahead.
There.”

Suzy braked and turned down the dirt track. “Are you sure
this is it? It doesn’t even look like a driveway.”

“What are you expecting, a remote mountain cabin with an
expressway up to the front door? This is it.”

They drove another three miles down the track, mostly in
first gear. The ground was uneven and peppered with rocks and potholes. After
nearly an hour of punishing conditions, the Tercel groaned to a halt in a small
clearing. On a small ridge overlooking them was a tiny, crude wooden structure
that looked vaguely like a chicken coop.

“That can’t be it,” Suzy said.

“I think that’s it,” replied Eddie.

“Chris Finlan
lived
in that thing? No wonder he went
crazy.”

“He was crazy before he moved in.”

“He’d have to be.”

They left the car and made their way up a steep path leading
toward the cabin. Two minutes later they were standing in front of it.

“We’re here,” said Eddie.

“I thought it was farther away,” replied Suzy.