The Woman Who Died a Lot

“I think we’re short on poisoners,” replied Miles, “but France has a few they’ll let Smite Solutions use, and I think the ‘Butcher of Naples’ is being imported from Italy to make up the shortfall of ax murderers. Since Goliath runs the prison service, there shouldn’t be a problem getting them all together.”

“Do they know they’re going to be vaporized in a sudden flash of God’s wrath?” asked Friday.

“I’d not think they’d take to it that kindly,” replied Miles. “No, my guess is they’re being brought here on the pretext of ‘outdoor rehabilitation’ or ‘fresh-air therapy’ or some nonsense like that.”

“But that’s . . . murder,” said Friday. “They’re in custody— doing time. They can’t be just used as smite bait.”

“I know,” said Miles, starting to pack his stuff up. “It’s wholly immoral, despite their crimes. Which really leaves us with only three options. One, Tuesday figures out the Unentanglement Constant between now and midday Friday and the Anti-Smite Shield functions as normal—the city council saves a hundred million pounds, and the searing heat of His unbridled frustration at His creation’s inability to stop its morally questionable behavior is transferred into a useful twenty-two point six megawatts of electricity.”

“And option two?”

“We let Smite Solutions do their thing, and fifty-three irredeemable felons are vaporized for cash.”

Friday and I exchanged glances. No one likes ax murders— not even their mothers, if they survived—but as Friday had pointed out, the sinful were in custody. It would be like killing POWs. Murder.

“The third option is that we nobble Smite Solutions’ plans and allow much of downtown Swindon be laid to waste.”

“It would be shame to lose the cathedral,” I said, “but it’s less than fifteen years old and we could always build another. With almost six billion followers of varying enthusiasm, the GSD has certainly got some cash. And Goliath can certainly afford to rebuild the Greed Tower.”

“That’s what we thought,” said Miles as he folded up the map. “And to be honest, we never liked the cathedral much anyway— too gloomy and no provision for a canteen or Wi-Fi.”

“How do you nobble Smite Solutions?” asked Friday as Miles placed the TV screen, remote control and maps in the trunk of his car.

“Simple,” he said. “With a strategically placed righteous man.”

“A righteous man?”

“Or woman. It doesn’t matter which. Find one of those, place him or her near the sinful, and bingo— the Lord cannot smite the righteous on a matter of principle, so Goliath can kiss our arse and the downtown gets a serious smiting instead.”

He looked at us both in turn. “You don’t know of any, do you? Righteous people, I mean. We’ve a got few penciled in, but it never hurts to have a few more in reserve.”

“I know some self-righteous ones,” I said.

“That’s not really the same thing at all.”

“What about you or Joffy?” I suggested. “I don’t know anyone more selfless than you two.”

“You’re very gracious,” said Miles, “but I killed two people when I was SO-14, and although Joffy is good and just and wise, I think he actually enjoys the possibility of having a round table with God to discuss the Ultimate Question of Existence.”

“The sin of pride?”

“Right. And he’ll hide chocolate in the back of the fridge so only he can find it—something that a truly righteous man would never do. Besides, the righteous man has to be good in all known dimensions, since the Almighty is pandimensional. If our righteous man put a cat in a wheelie-bin in Dimension FX-39, then His Great Omniscience would see it and know. And the problem with Joffy and me is that there are at least seventy-eight dimensions where our relationship is seen in the eyes of some to be a heinous sin almost as bad as murder.”

“You’re kidding? Why?”

“Not a clue. But there are some seriously weird dimensions out there. Did you hear that Henshaw^F76+ had two heads?”

“Argued with himself, I heard.”

“Me, too.”

“Where do you usually find righteous men?” asked Friday.

“There are a few professionals about, but Smite Solutions is smart—they’ve booked them for other jobs at the same time as the smiting: helping a lady across the road, being with someone in a difficult moment, reminding someone of the path, that sort of thing. Trivial, one might think, and easily canceled for this job. Trouble is, righteous men would never back out on an agreed appearance—and you can’t offer them more money, because they won’t take it.”

“And if they did, they wouldn’t be righteous.”

“Exactly.”

I should have known there would be one or two snags.

“So, as you can see, we should have a few subs in case of mishaps, just in case. But they’re tricky to find, as they don’t draw attention to themselves and would never volunteer themselves as righteous because they would never see themselves as such. Plus, we have the usual problem of being swamped with volunteers, eager to promote themselves as righteous.”

“And all who can be instantly rejected for that very same reason.”

“Right.”