The Woman Who Died a Lot

Landen fell silent at this. Gavin was right. It didn’t make much sense.

Tuesday walked in, hair damp from a shower. She knew instantly that something was wrong about me. But she was less freaked out than Friday had been, and she peered closely at my skin and eyes, then asked several probing questions about metabolic functions until I felt like a frog on a dissecting table.

“What am I,” I said, “your science project?”

“Oh, boy, if only,” said Tuesday admiringly. “Where’s Mum if you’re not her and you’re here?”

I told her I was upstairs and asked her about the U_c, but she gave the same answer as Gavin.

“We’ve only been working on it since yesterday,” said Tuesday, helping herself to some orange juice. “These things generally take a lifetime. If we work really hard, we might get a small amount of preparatory work done before Gavvers bites the bullet.”

She laid a hand on Friday’s arm.

“I know that this is a whole destiny thing, but if there’s any way to avoid his early demise, I’d really appreciate it.”

They stood there together in silence for a few moments until Gavin belched, then got up to fetch some coffee from the machine.

“Oh, for all that is good and decent,” muttered Tuesday angrily, “put some trousers on, Gav—no one here wants to see your arse.”

And she took him by the hand and led him out the door, telling him he should at least have a shower—if for nothing more than to at least be clean for his own autopsy.

“She’s taking it quite well, isn’t she?” said Landen.

“Resigned to it, I guess,” I replied. “It must be her scientific mind. Once she feels that something is inevitable, then worrying is a waste of time. Mycroft was the same.”

“I wish I could feel the same way,” grumbled Friday.

My cell phone rang. It was Joffy. I paused for a moment, unwilling to answer it. I’d not spoken to Joffy since Miles had told me he was going to stay in his cathedral to be vaporized with it, and I wasn’t sure what I could say, given that my actions might assist his demise. But I wasn’t going to not answer it. I flipped open the phone to hear him laughing.

“Hello?” I said, but the laughing continued for a moment until he came onto the line.

“Hi, Thursday?”

I told him it was me and asked him with rising hope if the smiting had been canceled.

“Sadly, no,” he answered. “We were just running through the ten Bastions of the GSD and had gotten to Moment of Levity.”

He asked me if there was a chance that the Anti-Smite Shield would be up and running by midday, and I had to admit I wasn’t that hopeful, even though our best minds were working on it. I then asked him if he would reconsider leaving the Smite Zone.

“It’s complicated,” he said, “but the bottom line is this: Unless we at least get an indication of when talks might begin as to seeking the Ultimate Question of Existence, this flock might have to look for another shepherd who is more willing to listen to our requests.”

It was a dramatic disclosure and presumably, given His omniscience, would already be known to Him.

“You’re threatening to switch allegiances?” I asked incredulously.

“Nothing’s off the table,” he replied. “We thought Diana the Huntress might make a solid alternative. Strong, a good looker and more feminist in her views. Smiting would be off the agenda, and we might tip the current gender imbalance away from the malecentric.”

It was a radical notion, and not one that I thought God would accept without some degree of anger, especially as it flagrantly contravened Article One. I suggested this, but Joffy was well ahead of me.

“According to Expectation-Influenced Probability, if we stop believing in Him, He will cease to exist. It’s a last resort, of course, so He has to know we are serious, and my sacrifice would do it.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Me neither, but He’s big on self-sacrifice, martyrdom and extreme signs of loyalty. Put it this way,” added Joffy. “I’ve run out of ideas, and this seems the best bet.”

“Joffy . . . ?”

He guessed what I was thinking of.

“I know I’m asking you to do a lot,” he said, “but I can’t have Smite Solutions use the sinful as a smite magnet. You’re going to have to do your best work with this righteous man. We asked you to do it for a reason. Well,” he added with an air of finality, “I guess this is good-bye.”

“The hell it is,” I responded. “I’ll figure something out.”

He laughed, told me he loved me, that I was a good sister, none better, and that Miles would call me nearer the time to tell me where to find the righteous man—but that if I positioned myself near Chiseldon from eleven onward, it might help.

I said I would, and he hung up.

I snapped the phone shut and looked at Landen.

“He’s serious, isn’t he?”

I nodded and called Phoebe. Chiseldon was about ten minutes’ drive from the Wroughton airfield, and I’d doubtless have to fight every step of the way. Goliath would be taking no chances.

“Hey,” I said, “it’s Thursday. Do you have access to a sniper rifle?”

“Of course. What Swindon girl doesn’t?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”