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"Have you seen the reports for the last two centuries?" Gabriel said, coming in to Michael's office without knocking. He stood there, flicking through sheaves of parchment. "It's not encouraging."
"What's not encouraging?" Michael said, not looking up from her pristine white desk. "I have to catch up on this paperwork, Gabriel. Why did we even let the humans invent paper?"
She paused as the parchment landed on her notes, smudging her ink.
"Now I have to start again," she said evenly.
"I'll say. Your people, Michael, Prince of Israel. Apparently they've been sinning like it's their purpose in life."
"Says who?" Michael said, shooting to her feet and grabbing the parchment. It crumbled a little under her fury. "This is mortal paper – what sort of nonsense has Aziraphale been sending up to you?"
Gabriel sighed. It felt remarkably satisfying, as if he were expressing righteous sorrow with his entire manifestation, so he did it again when he was sure she was looking at him.
"Read it and weep, Michael. Seriously, weep, because this has to be sent up the line. Your people are supposed to be a good example, you know that, but they've been appalling for quite some time."
"You don't have to report this," Michael said quickly. "Not until I've investigated."
"What?" Gabriel said, blinking in honest confusion at such a blatant dereliction of duty. It felt almost as good as sorrowfully sighing, and he wondered if he should manifest a few more eyes to blink a little harder. "Michael, I'm sorry, but that's impossible."
"It's not. You just have to wait for me to come back with an accurate report. You know Aziraphale probably got distracted by some foreign dessert or other and didn't really know what he was writing."
"Michael," Gabriel said gently. "It is impossible. I've already reported it; it's too high a GNP* not to."
He got a chance to sigh sorrowfully again as Michael leapt up and sprinted from the room, shouldering him aside. The sound of hasty wing beats faded into the distance.
"Sheesh," Gabriel muttered. "What an overreaction. You just have to wait a generation or two, Michael, humans replenish themselves."
He strolled out of the office, feeling that he'd done his duty. It really would have been sloppy not to send the report on. A non-measurable amount of timelessness later he came across Michael sitting on the floor, her hair down and remarkably messy, and actual dust - dust - on her clothing. Uriel was crouched beside her, an arm about her shoulders.
"I put in a request for leniency and mercy," Michael said dully. "I filled in reams of reasons why destruction wasn't a good response in this situation."
"You tried," Uriel said. "It's not your fault that good humans are still pretty bad."
"Cheer up," Gabriel said. "You'll feel better once you've done it and are back home again."
"I can't do it," Michael said, clinging on to Uriel, who embraced her tightly.
Gabriel's peptalk was forestalled by an angel fluttering nearby who came up, a scroll in their hand.
"For you, sir," they said, and flew off as fast as they could.
Odd, Gabriel thought, unrolling it. Office of the Metatron, he read, smiling. He read further, and the smile faded. No good, dutiful deed ever went unpunished, it seemed. Anybody would think he had all the time in Creation to go gallivanting across the face of the Earth, smiting left, right and centre. Honestly, that was more Sandalphon's bag. He fixed a cheerful expression back on his face; it was important to set a good example at all times.
"Hey, Uriel," he said. "You can tell Michael to cheer up. I reported this so I'm going to be the one to hand out the official response." He rolled his shoulders. "I'll be back before you even know I'm gone."
* * *
"So, I just want to be clear," Gabriel said. "I'm to wipe their defences out with embers from under the Chariot of the Almighty so the Babylonians can win? Don't we have any cleaner methods for raining down fire? I mean, it's three and a half thousand years since Creation, for goodness' sake."
"I don't see why we have to go over this again," the Metatron grumbled. "Take the embers and wipe out the sinners. It's not hard, is it?"
"No, no," Gabriel said. "I'll go and do it right now. We really should research a more hygienic method. Possibly a set of buckets to be tipped out of the windows?"
"Now, Gabriel."
Gabriel sighed and went out of the Metatron's presence. He had procured his current garments of earthly linen so recently, and they were so clean and well-cut. He stroked the smooth fabric of close-fitting tunic that showed his well-made form off so nicely. It really didn't seem fair to smudge it with soot and ash. He'd have to be careful. He went to collect the embers and bowed politely before the Chariot. It was currently unoccupied, but protocol was protocol.
"Hi," he said. "I'm here to collect some instruments of divine vengeance."
"Name?" one of the cherubs bearing up the Chariot said in a bored voice. The others sniggered and poked each other with wing tips.
Gabriel glared at them all. The heat shimmer seemed to dissipate its force, as the cherubs didn't seem impressed.
"I'm the Archangel Gabriel," he said, quite pleasantly.
"Help yourself."
Gabriel stared into the burning embers. So messy. His sleeve would very definitely get filthy and the lovely white-on-white silken embroidery around the wrist would be ruined. He shoved the sleeve as far up his arm as he could and reached in, picking up a coal with his fingertips. Almost at once a burning speck floated towards him, almost scorching the bunched-up sleeve. He dropped the coal again and stepped back. All the cherubs looked at him, eyebrows raised. They had a lot of eyebrows to raise.
"Say, buddy," he said. "You couldn't pass me a handful or two?"
". . . Sure," the nearest cherub said. He reached into the fire, took a large handful and held it out. After a second he reached further out from the flames, and poured the embers carefully and delicately into Gabriel's hands in a burning stream. "Anything else?"
"No, no, that's it, thank you. Excellent Chariot-bearing by the way."
"Thanks," another cherub said. "Enjoy destroying mortals."
"I always enjoy doing my job," Gabriel said, and took himself off to Earth. By the time he was ready to rain down fire he realized that maybe he should have asked for a dish with a well-fitting lid, or maybe an asbestos satchel to carry the embers, as they were now only glowing warmly rather than burning. They'd obviously still be effective. Everything in Heaven was effective. He dropped them one by one on the most sinful areas and people he could see beneath and flew home. He wrote a long, detailed report for the Metatron on the incredible, morale-boosting success of his mission and the total annihilation of the sinners.
He was enormously surprised to have a squadron of angels come into his office shortly thereafter, and even more surprised to be arrested for filing false reports, spreading depressing news about the destruction of created beings and irritating cherubs on Chariot duty. He was even more astonished to be sentenced to a beating with fiery whips and – even worse – losing the corner office and being locked out of the top floor.
* * *
Gabriel strode around the outer edges of Heaven, wondering what he'd done wrong. Obviously whatever it was, it was someone else's fault wrongly attributed to him. It wasn't his fault the embers had cooled down. And people enjoyed reports of success more than reports of failure; anyway he hadn't failed. Lots of sinners had died – who had authorized the ban on reports of annihilations? That hadn't gone through his office and it was ridiculous. Who was in his office? Suppose someone had been moved in and they messed up his filing system – his beautiful, intuitive, ahead-of-the-curve filing system.
"Gabriel!"
He turned and told himself that he absolutely must not appear grateful that Michael was apparently talking to him again. He hadn't spoken to another archangel, or even seen any of them, for what seemed like eons.** He struck a casual pose.
"Oh, hi, Michael. How's it going on the top floor?"
"It's different."
They stared at each other.
"So? Who's doing my job?"
Michael looked deeply depressed.
"You're not going to like it. It's Dubiel, guardian of Persia."
"What?" Gabriel realized that things had really gone downhill. It was time to ask the really hard questions. "What has he done to my office?"
"He's put in a lot of soft furnishings and carpets. He said he's not a fan of Scandinavian minimalism," she said. "And he's completely insufferable. And not like yo- I mean, like some angels. He keeps writing edicts in favour of his own department, stamping them with your seal and then he sits back and tells everyone it must be the Almighty's will. Have you seen the advances the Persian empire has made recently?"
"The Persians have an empire?" Gabriel said.
Michael thinned her lips, pulled him to a window and pointed down.
"Whoa," Gabriel said. "That's pretty big, for a human state."
"The Babylonians turned out to be a flash in the pan," Michael said. "Here –" she handed over a scroll, " – a summary of what's been going on with Earth since Dubiel started doing your job. I should probably warn you that he's insisted that Aziraphale should only work with the Persians; we keep getting reports on something called sherbet."
Gabriel skimmed down the list, shaking his head. These Persians were certainly busy little humans – with an extensive cuisine that apparently needed to be reported on in exhaustive detail.
"You've got to beg for your job back. Dubiel's got a thing about my people, he just loves rubbing his new position in by oppressing them. At least you're equal opportunity and just smug."
"Smug?" Gabriel said. "Me?" Michael was obviously still terribly upset; he could overlook such a bizarre outburst.
"Come on, I'll bring you up the back staircase. You can ask for your job back at our next meeting."
They slipped up the back staircase, normally avoided by Gabriel as beneath the dignity of an archangel, and onto the top floor. Michael smiled tightly and left him, heading for his old office. He hung around in a crowd of curious angels until he saw the archangels gathering, then he brazenly eavesdropped at the door.
" – and the next item is the vote that the Persian empire should last until the end of the world," he heard.
"No other empire can possibly ask to last that long," Michael's voice said. "It really doesn't seem fair or feasible for the Persians to be given such a favour."
"No?" the first voice said. That had to be Dubiel. He sounded like a self-satisfied idiot, totally unsuited to chairing a meeting of archangels. "Michael, you're just still smarting over the recent righteous judgment on your people. Fine. For the moment let's just say – Michael's people should pay more taxes to the Persians."
"What? No!"
"They weren't wiped out, were they? This is a mild punishment. Uriel is nodding – thank you for seconding me, Uriel."
"No, I didn't!"
"Those in favour – Raphael, I see your hand raised, thank you, Raguel and Sandalphon, I can see you agree –"
"My hands were folded in my lap!"
"I wouldn't say agree."
"Maybe we should discuss it a bit more, Dubiel?"
"Oh, very decisive, Sandalphon," Michael's voice snapped.
"And – carried. Now, next item: religious scholars amongst Michael's people pay double taxes to the Persians –"
"Is this what constitutes a good order of business these days?" Gabriel yelled through the door as Michael started yelling words that hadn't been heard in the halls of Heaven for a Very Long Time. "Those scholars should be on the fast-track up here, not getting assessed for more taxes!"
There was a break in the yelling, then Dubiel said loudly,
"Clearly some lower-ranked angels have been at the ambrosia and should get back to their own choirs instead of hanging around where they have no right to be."
Gabriel rattled the door handle in annoyance, but it refused to open.
"You're a job-stealing moron!" he yelled. He rattled the door again.
"Back to the agenda!" Dubiel said, right on the other side of the door. "Taxes on scholars - I don't see anyone objecting."
"I'm objecting!" Michael howled.
"Yes, but you're biased. I think we can say that this is carried –"
" . . . Daniel!" Gabriel yelled, remembering one line from Michael's list. "He's a fine example of piety and a good example for both Judeans and Persians! You put all the Persian scholars on one side and him on the other and he's worth more than all of them! And you're going to let Dubiel charge him more taxes?"
"Get lost!" Dubiel yelled.
The air chilled, and took on a more crystalline quality. There was a quiet ringing of silvery chimes and then the Metatron's disembodied voice said,
"Gabriel may enter the meeting."
Gabriel shouldered open the door and dashed in. He paused a second in horror, taking in the colourful curtains on the windows, the padded armchair behind the desk, the monstrous golden velvet armchair in which Michael was seated, with Raphael perched on a matching footstool, the striped silk sofa on which Sandalphon, Raguel and Uriel were crowded, and the satin cushions tossed around seemingly just for decoration. The other archangels were beginning to rise, alarmed from their seats. Dubiel stood in the centre of the room on an elaborate carpet, parchment forms in his hand. He took one look at Gabriel and leapt for the desk, grabbing for Gabriel's seal of office.
"The decrees aren’t finalized!" Michael yelled.
"Give me those, you little shit!" Gabriel cried and tackled Dubiel, who responded by whacking him soundly between the eyes with his own seal and marking his face as By permission of the Office of the Archangel Gabriel.
"This. Is. My. Office. Now!" Dubiel yelled wrestling himself free and landing a series of ineffective punches on his shoulders and chest.
"Wrong, bucko," Gabriel said, hefting a chair. Everyone else seemed to have flattened themselves against the walls, which wasn't helpful at all. Useless. Did he have to do everything himself? Dubiel looked furiously from side-to-side and was suddenly wielding a flaming sword, which sheared the chair in two.
"Oh, we're manifesting weapons in the office, are we?" Gabriel said. "You call that a sword?"
Before he could call his own sword to his hand a gleaming silver spear shaft shot between them and separated them. They both froze as it quivered in the floor, and turned to look cautiously at Michael, who really seemed like she had had enough of just about everything. Right, Gabriel thought. Remember the dignity inherent in my position. He turned back to Dubiel.
"Those decrees. Now."
Dubiel hesitated, then stuffed them in his mouth and swallowed.
"Go on, cut them out of me."
"I can sew him up, if you do," Raphael said helpfully.
"They're not sealed, you may as well give them up," Uriel said.
"Sandalphon," Gabriel said, straightening his cuffs. "Encourage Dubiel to return those decrees, would you?"
"With pleasure," Sandalphon said, stepping forward, a nasty gleam in his eyes.
Dubiel looked from face to face and reluctantly coughed the decrees back into his hand, passing them to Sandalphon, who took them with ginger disgust.
"Did you have to turn your digestive system on? Ugh."
Michael grabbed the decrees before Gabriel could take them. He was rather glad, as they looked distinctly soggy.
"They're not sealed! And the ink has run, look!"
She held them up triumphantly to reveal a mass of blurred, illegible writing.
"Blast," Dubiel muttered.
Gabriel smiled expansively at him, and drew himself up to his full height.
"Out," he said, "Of my office. And take your soft furnishings with you."
"Fine. I'm going," Dubiel said. "You can run the place into the ground again. Probably into polytheistic barbaric ground, at that. At least I'm in charge of decent, civilized –"
"Sandalphon," Gabriel said.
Sandalphon tossed Dubiel out and slammed the door. After a few seconds he threw the sofa out after him. Gabriel waved a hand and the chairs and cushions left behind transformed themselves into straight-backed upright chairs. There would be no sprawling or lounging in any more meetings. The curtains simply vanished and the room brightened considerably.
"Anybody want that?" Gabriel asked pointing at the carpet. Everyone shook their heads, so he flicked a finger at it and it crumpled itself up and shot into the wastepaper basket. He sat behind the desk and picked up the first of the stamped edicts lying there. "Well, this is obvious nonsense," he said with a snort of laughter. "The Persian empire lasting for the rest of time? This is why Dubiel needs to go and sit in a dark corner and think about what he's done. Any suggestions for ending this empire of his?"
"I was talking to the Guardian of Greece," Sandalphon said. "He's not fond of Dubiel, and his humans aren't interested in ruling the world. We could use them to give Dubiel's lot a bloody nose and then everything would settle down again."
"Right," Gabriel said. "We'll do that. It's not like the Greeks will do anything off-script."
Everyone nodded obediently, and Michael balled up the soggy failed decrees, throwing them into the wastepaper basket. Gabriel sat back and let satisfaction suffuse him. He was back in the highest Heaven and all was right with the world. Or would be, once he got his agent out of Persia and sending in sensible reports again. He looked at the meeting agenda and smiled at the other archangels in sheer pleasure.
"Next order of business – "
*Gross National Peccadillo
**It had been exactly three Heavenly weeks.