Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 6

Klaxons blared, and the golden creature at the computer looked up from his work and said, "We have an incoming ten, your Holiness."

"A ten? Really? What was the last ten we received?"

"One Mary Beth Patterson, age eleven. Request for a horse." The angel grinned and shook his head ruefully.

"Of course. Request answered in a timely manner?"

"Absolutely, your Holiness."

"A horse." The Almighty Creator sighed.

The angel understood. Tens were requests asked in perfect purity and sincerity and belief, by people whose minds and souls were focused only on what they asked.

"Perhaps that was a poor example." The angel ran a quick search through Heaven's databases for all tens in the past five years, then brought the results up on the computer screen. The data scrolled out, glowing gold letters in a neat calligraphic hand on a background as richly black as infinite space.

Kerahatma Qrishi—age 7—request to spare mother's life—Granted

Miguel Savarronda—age 9—job for father—Granted

Caitlan O'Shaunessy—age 10 1/2—a border collie—Granted

Brian Boucher—age 8—little brother healed of leukemia—Granted

Peter Derstman—age 9 1/2—principal punished for unfair punishment he gave—Granted

"That takes us through the last five years." The angel looked up at God and said, "I could run through the near-tens if you'd like. We have slightly more of those."

"No. That isn't necessary. My children ask with sincerity and pure hearts, and believe I will listen, and I always answer them, no matter how foolhardy their desires. What does this one want?"

The angel brought the newest request up on the screen.

Dayne Kuttner—age 28—God's sympathy for the devil, and second chance for the denizens of Hell—Status . . . Pending.

"Good heavens," God murmured. "Is that a computer error?"

The angel typed in his query again, and the same data reappeared on the screen.

"Twenty-eight? She's really twenty-eight?"

"Yes, your Holiness." The angel started typing again.

"Let me see all tens through history, petitioners older than sixteen."

The angel nodded; he had already queried the computer for that information. In the thousands of years he had been record-keeper, he had gotten good at guessing what the Most Holy would ask for next.

Searching . . .

"This may take a while."

It did take a while—Heaven had good computers, but unfortunately a lot of its information was stored in corollary sources which hadn't yet been added to the easy-retrieval databases. After a millisecond of real time—unconscionably slow by Heaven's clocks—the data started to come in. There was a ten from the first Buddha, one from an undiscovered saint in the Congo in the fifteenth century AD; there were the well-known tens from Moses and Peter, and of course a few from adults praying for the welfare of their children—the time and geographical distribution and religion of petitioner on those varied widely; and there was one from Abraham Lincoln. The angel remembered that one well. Preservation of the nation he loved—offered to pay whatever price was necessary if only his country could survive united.

There were others, too, but not many—thirty-seven all told since the first human had prayed to an unseen deity.

This one, the thirty-eighth in the entire history of humanity, was a humdinger. The angel had never seen anything even remotely like it.

"Bring up the full text as her soul phrased the request."

"You said ask and believe. So now I'm asking. Let them have the chance to repent, God. All of them. Every single soul in Hell. Let them have the chance to learn from the mistakes they made; let them into Heaven if they repent.

"Until you do this, you can consider me a conscientious objector, protesting the policies of Heaven. When I die, you can send me to Hell, because I won't go to Heaven until every soul can find a way there, God. Every soul. No matter who they were, no matter what they did.

"Eternity is too long for a loving God to condone the torture of his children."

The angel brought up a real-time picture of Dayne as she prayed—she stared straight at them out of the monitor, her eyes flashing, her jaw clenched, her expression one of both purity and fierce determination.

"We never appreciate the requests for ponies and puppies when we have them, do we?" God mused. He pointed at the "Status . . . Pending" notation at the end of Dayne Kuttner's request, and sighed again, then chuckled. "She's a real firecracker, isn't she? Gave me an in-your-face chin-up challenge, too. I like that—no mealy-mouthed lukewarm bet-hedging there." God glanced over the angel's shoulder at the routing details appended to the request. "North Carolina, USA. And only a nominal Christian, though she certainly believes in me." The Almighty chuckled again. "I like to be sure of the ground rules before I act."

The angel cleared his throat. "Holy of Holies—the Fallen can be redeemed and released from Hell at any time if they only ask for forgiveness. So too can each and every damned soul. The Christian milieu is set up that way."

"I know that, but quite obviously Dayne Kuttner doesn't know that."

"If her request is granted even before she asks, what further action could possibly be necessary?"

God rested one hand on the angel's shoulder and said softly, "This young mortal has, in total seriousness, offered her soul up as a bartering piece to force me to give the Fallen a second chance. She doesn't know all the rules we operate by here, and she has no way of anticipating how I'll react. And yet, she believes with everything in her that I will listen, and she is using the only thing she knows for sure I value to make me care. That's no empty gesture. That's real love . . . a human who loves the worst and vilest of my sinners but hates the sin. I find that magnificent." God paused and tugged thoughtfully at his beard. He always wore a beard when he was in the Christian sector of Heaven—his Christian children expected one. "Not terribly well thought-out, perhaps, but magnificent.

"Hold her request in the buffer for me. I don't imagine we're going to get another ten in here any time soon, and I want to decide how to implement this. People who offer challenges to God should expect challenges themselves."

God laughed suddenly, and the angel shivered. God was known for his sense of humor; what few realized but the angel knew was that God was the first and perfect practical joker. And sure enough, God said, "Besides, this is a perfect opportunity to stir things up a little. A few Hellish paroles might make them think. The world has become far too complacent about me lately."

"You're granting her request then, your Glorious Holiness?"

"Of course I'm granting it. I always grant tens. It isn't as if I think Lucifer and his filthy hordes are going to come crawling on bended knee after all this time, anyway. But I reserve the right to implement tens as I see fit—and this one requires a careful study of the limitations I need to impose, and the benefits Heaven can gain from what will surely be perceived as a broad stroke. So just hang onto it. I'll be back to you when I've had a chance to work out the details."

The angel watched the Creator stalk away, head lowered in thought. Then he turned his attention back to the computer and deleted the "Pending" notice. He typed in the words, "Granted—implementation in progress."

Then he nibbled thoughtfully on his lower lip and stared off into the glorious infinity of heaven. He had a few dear friends who'd gotten involved on the wrong side of that first political disagreement—friends he hadn't seen in eons. With paroles on the way, he wondered if there might be some hope of getting back in touch.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 6

Klaxons blared, and the golden creature at the computer looked up from his work and said, "We have an incoming ten, your Holiness."

"A ten? Really? What was the last ten we received?"

"One Mary Beth Patterson, age eleven. Request for a horse." The angel grinned and shook his head ruefully.

"Of course. Request answered in a timely manner?"

"Absolutely, your Holiness."

"A horse." The Almighty Creator sighed.

The angel understood. Tens were requests asked in perfect purity and sincerity and belief, by people whose minds and souls were focused only on what they asked.

"Perhaps that was a poor example." The angel ran a quick search through Heaven's databases for all tens in the past five years, then brought the results up on the computer screen. The data scrolled out, glowing gold letters in a neat calligraphic hand on a background as richly black as infinite space.

Kerahatma Qrishi—age 7—request to spare mother's life—Granted

Miguel Savarronda—age 9—job for father—Granted

Caitlan O'Shaunessy—age 10 1/2—a border collie—Granted

Brian Boucher—age 8—little brother healed of leukemia—Granted

Peter Derstman—age 9 1/2—principal punished for unfair punishment he gave—Granted

"That takes us through the last five years." The angel looked up at God and said, "I could run through the near-tens if you'd like. We have slightly more of those."

"No. That isn't necessary. My children ask with sincerity and pure hearts, and believe I will listen, and I always answer them, no matter how foolhardy their desires. What does this one want?"

The angel brought the newest request up on the screen.

Dayne Kuttner—age 28—God's sympathy for the devil, and second chance for the denizens of Hell—Status . . . Pending.

"Good heavens," God murmured. "Is that a computer error?"

The angel typed in his query again, and the same data reappeared on the screen.

"Twenty-eight? She's really twenty-eight?"

"Yes, your Holiness." The angel started typing again.

"Let me see all tens through history, petitioners older than sixteen."

The angel nodded; he had already queried the computer for that information. In the thousands of years he had been record-keeper, he had gotten good at guessing what the Most Holy would ask for next.

Searching . . .

"This may take a while."

It did take a while—Heaven had good computers, but unfortunately a lot of its information was stored in corollary sources which hadn't yet been added to the easy-retrieval databases. After a millisecond of real time—unconscionably slow by Heaven's clocks—the data started to come in. There was a ten from the first Buddha, one from an undiscovered saint in the Congo in the fifteenth century AD; there were the well-known tens from Moses and Peter, and of course a few from adults praying for the welfare of their children—the time and geographical distribution and religion of petitioner on those varied widely; and there was one from Abraham Lincoln. The angel remembered that one well. Preservation of the nation he loved—offered to pay whatever price was necessary if only his country could survive united.

There were others, too, but not many—thirty-seven all told since the first human had prayed to an unseen deity.

This one, the thirty-eighth in the entire history of humanity, was a humdinger. The angel had never seen anything even remotely like it.

"Bring up the full text as her soul phrased the request."

"You said ask and believe. So now I'm asking. Let them have the chance to repent, God. All of them. Every single soul in Hell. Let them have the chance to learn from the mistakes they made; let them into Heaven if they repent.

"Until you do this, you can consider me a conscientious objector, protesting the policies of Heaven. When I die, you can send me to Hell, because I won't go to Heaven until every soul can find a way there, God. Every soul. No matter who they were, no matter what they did.

"Eternity is too long for a loving God to condone the torture of his children."

The angel brought up a real-time picture of Dayne as she prayed—she stared straight at them out of the monitor, her eyes flashing, her jaw clenched, her expression one of both purity and fierce determination.

"We never appreciate the requests for ponies and puppies when we have them, do we?" God mused. He pointed at the "Status . . . Pending" notation at the end of Dayne Kuttner's request, and sighed again, then chuckled. "She's a real firecracker, isn't she? Gave me an in-your-face chin-up challenge, too. I like that—no mealy-mouthed lukewarm bet-hedging there." God glanced over the angel's shoulder at the routing details appended to the request. "North Carolina, USA. And only a nominal Christian, though she certainly believes in me." The Almighty chuckled again. "I like to be sure of the ground rules before I act."

The angel cleared his throat. "Holy of Holies—the Fallen can be redeemed and released from Hell at any time if they only ask for forgiveness. So too can each and every damned soul. The Christian milieu is set up that way."

"I know that, but quite obviously Dayne Kuttner doesn't know that."

"If her request is granted even before she asks, what further action could possibly be necessary?"

God rested one hand on the angel's shoulder and said softly, "This young mortal has, in total seriousness, offered her soul up as a bartering piece to force me to give the Fallen a second chance. She doesn't know all the rules we operate by here, and she has no way of anticipating how I'll react. And yet, she believes with everything in her that I will listen, and she is using the only thing she knows for sure I value to make me care. That's no empty gesture. That's real love . . . a human who loves the worst and vilest of my sinners but hates the sin. I find that magnificent." God paused and tugged thoughtfully at his beard. He always wore a beard when he was in the Christian sector of Heaven—his Christian children expected one. "Not terribly well thought-out, perhaps, but magnificent.

"Hold her request in the buffer for me. I don't imagine we're going to get another ten in here any time soon, and I want to decide how to implement this. People who offer challenges to God should expect challenges themselves."

God laughed suddenly, and the angel shivered. God was known for his sense of humor; what few realized but the angel knew was that God was the first and perfect practical joker. And sure enough, God said, "Besides, this is a perfect opportunity to stir things up a little. A few Hellish paroles might make them think. The world has become far too complacent about me lately."

"You're granting her request then, your Glorious Holiness?"

"Of course I'm granting it. I always grant tens. It isn't as if I think Lucifer and his filthy hordes are going to come crawling on bended knee after all this time, anyway. But I reserve the right to implement tens as I see fit—and this one requires a careful study of the limitations I need to impose, and the benefits Heaven can gain from what will surely be perceived as a broad stroke. So just hang onto it. I'll be back to you when I've had a chance to work out the details."

The angel watched the Creator stalk away, head lowered in thought. Then he turned his attention back to the computer and deleted the "Pending" notice. He typed in the words, "Granted—implementation in progress."

Then he nibbled thoughtfully on his lower lip and stared off into the glorious infinity of heaven. He had a few dear friends who'd gotten involved on the wrong side of that first political disagreement—friends he hadn't seen in eons. With paroles on the way, he wondered if there might be some hope of getting back in touch.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed