Fools Motley Magazine

Deep in the nether planes, in a sub-sub-basement
of existence, a very junior demon trudged through
the frosty streets of Hell. He wore a standard-
issue student imp's uniform, a dull black jumpsuit
complete with decorative tail. His long, dark hair
was pulled back in a formal pony-tail. Except for the
glowing red eyes, his thin, elongated, beardless face
could almost have passed for human, although there
was something distinctly bat-like about the nose.

The precinct commander had a flair for the theatrical,
and prided himself on his attention to detail. This
area, which housed mostly junior demons assigned to
planet Earth, was designed to mimic a run-down
warehouse district in a large Earth city. It was
dominated by huge gray, crumbling buildings,
realistically coated with grime and peeling paint.
The perpetually leaden sky overhead proclaimed that
it was "always winter, and never Christmas."
Occasionally the commander indulged in his hobby of
weather-making: his tastes ran largely to fog,
freezing rain, and sooty snow.

A marrow-freezing wind gusted around a corner,
stirring up dust and debris from the filthy street.
Mosca shivered and wrapped his leathery wings tighter
around his frail body. He didn't mind so much being
required to manifest in this humanoid form, nor even
that he had to walk instead of flying or simply
slipping through the ethereal planes. But the human
form carried with it human senses, and Mosca lacked
sufficient substance to ward off the cold. He needed
to eat, and soon.

Mosca had only the faintest memories of long-ago
Paradise, before he was enticed by the Dark Prince's
promises into joining the ill-fated rebellion. Free
education, chances for advancement - "Be all you can
be." It was heady stuff for a low-level angel whose
biggest assignment up to then had been guarding a
particular patch of mold from an invading bacteria
colony.

He snorted in disgust. Oh, yes, the education was
free, all right. Except for supporting yourself while
you were studying. Except for the "gifts" expected by
the instructors. Except for taxes or tribute that
could be demanded of any junior demon by any senior.
After all, "might makes right." For eons he had
alternated between whatever grunt work he could get,
and giving up portions of his substance to grafting
instructors and bullies, until he was wasted away to
little more than a shadow. And for what? What good
was all his hard work at gaining an education, when
preference for jobs went to incompetents like Earwig?

Earwig. The very name was gall and ashes in his
mouth. Earwig, that obsequious, parasitical toady
with the brain of a maggot and the persistence of a
mayfly, whose only talents were flattery and
hypocrisy. Earwig, who wormed his way into the dean's
good graces, who managed to get other students to do
most of his work, who never cracked a book but was
always ready to party. Of course his clan connections
helped. Earwig was automatically part of the "in"
group, while Mosca, a nobody, was doomed forever as an
outsider, no matter how hard he worked.

Bitterly, Mosca recalled the graduation ceremonies.
The whole class had worn dress reds, complete with
horned helmets and ceremonial pitchforks. The dean,
twice as tall as any of the graduates, and so bloated
with extorted substance that he looked like a giant
tomato, had given the farewell address. After
exhorting the graduates to go forth and win territory
for the glory of the Dark Prince, he began reading off
the honors and awards. A lieutenant from the
commander's personal staff then followed with assigned
positions.

"Anthrax. Honor roll, three quarters. High marks in
guile and deceit, specialist in European and North
American politics."

"Anthrax," the lieutenant echoed. "Assigned as an
adjutant to General Zagiel's command."

"Skunkweed. Explosives and chemical weapons
specialist. The Baraquel special prize for original
pyrotechnics."

"Skunkweed. Chemical warfare unit, the 39th legion
under General Balam."

"Earwig." The dean hesitated. "Well, we're all fond
of Earwig, and we're delighted that he's finally
graduating."

"Earwig. Report to 23rd precinct, sub-sector J,
human resources office for further training and
posting as an apprentice personal demon."

There was a quickly suppressed collective gasp of
surprise amongst the students. Even the dean looked
startled. Awarding one of the coveted personal demon
positions to an inexperienced new graduate was almost
unheard of, especially a graduate with Earwig's
qualifications, or lack of them. His clan superiors
must have done some elaborate string-pulling. The
thought on every graduate's mind was, "What does
Earwig have on whom, and how can I pull off the same
thing?"

The dean pulled himself together and
continued. "Mosca. High marks in all subjects, honor
roll every quarter, the Medici Memorial Award for
excellence in human biology and poisons, and Dean's
Special Medal of Honor for his final thesis on
Exploitation of Human Psychology. Quite a performance
for a clanless student who had to work his way
through. An example the rest of you would do well to
follow." He looked sternly at the assembled group,
most of whom avoided his gaze.

Mosca glowed with the unaccustomed praise as he waited
anxiously for his assignment.

The lieutenant shuffled through his papers. He looked
a bit embarrassed. The silence grew. There were
scattered, muffled snickers from the graduates.
Finally he said, "There, uh, seems to have been a
clerical error. I don't have any listing for that
name." He smiled briefly. "I'm sure it can be
straightened out. In the meantime, you'll report to
the general labor pool. They'll find you something,
I'm sure."

Mosca still smoldered with barely suppressed envy and
resentment as he recalled watching Earwig fly off to
his first full-time assignment as a personal demon.
A human child to toy with! How easily she could be
encouraged to provoke her parents, who would irritate
the child in turn, and in time... Mosca nearly
drooled as he thought of all the delicious anger to be
consumed. But it was that fool, Earwig, who would
grow strong and fat, while Mosca, honors graduate or
not, seemed doomed to rely as before on the
capriciousness of the labor pool. He expected at best
a position as a low-level assistant in some third-rate
war effort, where he could hope for an occasional
crumb from the officers' leavings.

He would have settled for any sort of crumbs, he was
so hungry. Dimly he recalled a time when hunger had
been unknown. Far better, he thought, to have been
the lowliest of servants in the Father's house
than ... He checked his thoughts and glanced around
furtively. Was there a Proctor listening? Such
thoughts were dangerous, and there were worse things
than being hungry. He tried to still his rebellious
mind, concentrating instead on his dreary
surroundings. He forced himself to focus on the drab
gray buildings, the dirty gray streets, the gloomy
gray sky. The few demons in the area were scrawny
juniors like himself, tightly wrapped against the
wind, and intent on their own business.

There was no particular reason for this little corner
of Hell to resemble a slum district in a large city on
the human planet called Earth, no need for demons to
take on humanoid characteristics. But it amused the
Dark Prince to have it so, and that was always reason
enough. Even now, weak as he was, Mosca could have
unwrapped his wings and flown, through all the
multiple layers of Hell and beyond. He could have
thrust himself into the realm of space-time without
specific assignment, a free-lancer, preying upon
humans or humanoids on a planet of his choosing,
fattening himself on their fear. There were tales of
those who had done it, and succeeded, for a time at
least - although rumor had it that some had actually
been enslaved by clever humans. But the Dark Prince
disapproved of that sort of initiative. Yes, it was
risky business, and the possibility of failure and
punishment outweighed the potential gains. Mosca had
never seen the regions of fire, but he had heard
enough to know he didn't want to spend eternity there.

The economy, he reflected, had been better before the
Betelgeuse crisis. Of course, it had been a great
victory for the forces of the Dark Prince, but when a
planet full of humanoids blew themselves up, it put a
lot of demons out of work. The returning veterans,
enormously strong and fat after consuming all of the
negative energies of a self-destructing civilization,
had been mostly re-assigned to the Earth group, and
had promptly snatched up all of the choice positions
available. Mosca longed for the bad old days of his
youth, when Earth's human population was expanding
faster than Hell, and many demons grew fat goading two
or three humans at a time. Now he, and others like
him, would be doomed to starve until they became
powerless wraiths, were it not for occasionally
snatching a few morsels at those banquets that humans
called "wars."

On the corner ahead, a crowd of junior demons were
gathered around an impressively stout senior. He was
even bigger than most of the instructors at the
college. Judging from his bulk, he probably weighed
as much as any ten demons in the crowd. What could a
senior of such stature have to say to these puny
underlings? Curious, Mosca elbowed his way toward the
front.

"So I say, let's make use of the Betelgeuse disaster.
The enemy has experienced an influx of new talent
also. Reliable sources tell us that those previously
assigned to Betelgeuse have been largely absorbed by
the Earth group, much the same as with our returning
veterans. Consider the effects on security, with so
many new faces around. Let's seize the opportunity to
infiltrate! Are we the master deceivers or not?
Who'll give it a try?"

Mosca recognized Woodlouse, a casual
acquaintance, and nudged him. "What's going on? Who
is this guy?"

"He's recruiting for some sort of commando outfit,
wants us to disguise ourselves as guardian angels.
Can you imagine having to act like an angel, even for
an hour? And he's talking months, maybe years.
Disgusting." Woodlouse shuddered in revulsion.

"You there," said the recruiter, pointing at
Mosca. "You look like a bright young fellow who could
use a few good meals. How would you like to have all
you can eat, every day, and free training to boot?"

"Sounds good to me," said Mosca. "Who do I have to
kill?"

The crowd chuckled, but began to edge away. Only a
handful were hungry or desperate enough to try
something so radical.

****

There were a few scholars among Mosca's fellow
recruits, although he suspected most of his classmates
were just there for the free meals. As double agents,
they had to learn to think like the enemy, or at least
appear to do so. For Mosca, it was a new challenge,
applying his studies in human psychology to different
goals.

"All right, class," said the weary but patient
instructor. "Let's try this one more time. You,
Dogbane, suppose you're posing as a guardian angel, in
the process of establishing trust. The young man
you're shadowing is walking down the street, and
accidentally bumps into another man. What is your
response?"

"Sir, I would encourage anger. I would whisper to the
subject that the other man did it on purpose, that he
had better show this guy that he wasn't going to take
that from anybody. It should be simple to start a
fight, maybe even draw in a few spectators. With a
little luck, it could even become a riot." Dogbane
smirked, certain he had the right answer to this
simple question. Several others commented: "Right
on. Way to go, Dogbane."

The instructor slapped his hand to his forehead,
grimacing in frustration. "No, no, no! You're
undercover, establishing trust, remember? You're
impersonating a guardian angel. Yes, Typhus? How
would you handle it?"

"Sir, we're after long-term effects here, right? So I
would encourage him to apologize, even if he thought
it was the other guy's fault ..."

The instructor smiled encouragingly. "Good, good.?

"And then I'd keep bringing it up to him all day long,
about how he let that guy push him around, and how
everyone is always picking on him, until I had him
really smoldering and ready to take on the world,
build up the chip on his shoulder until he became
obsessed with revenge, and then ..."

"Yeah," shouted someone in the back row. "And then
you steer him to an explosives sight on the web,
right?"

"Wrong!" said the instructor. He furrowed his brow
as if in pain. "Haven't any of you been listening at
all? Mosca?"

Mosca snapped to attention. "Sir, in this phase of
the operation my goal is to act as much like a
guardian angel as possible. I would encourage the man
to apologize sincerely. If he persisted in believing
the other man was actually at fault, I would suggest
he forgive and forget. I would tell him to smile and
look for the best in others."

The instructor's face lit up. "Yes. Exactly right.
Did everyone get that?" Except for sullen muttering
here and there, the class was silent. "Okay, I know
this is a difficult concept to grasp, but it's

essential. Read over the Guardian's Handbook once
more, and we'll try again next session. Mosca, I'm
promoting you to the advanced class. Report to
Colonel Hodiel in building 236, room ten."

****

Mosca, larger and stronger than before, made a
convincing angel. The training had been long and
arduous, but he felt ready to handle anything. Well,
almost anything. The big recruiter seemed to have
taken a personal interest in him, and had accompanied
him on his flight to Earth. They had zeroed in on a
small suburban community in the continent of North
America.

Mosca had forgotten how beautiful the planet was,
especially the colors. It was late spring here. The
trees still looked newly created in their fresh-minted
leaves and everything was in bloom. The sky was a
soft blue, with a scattering of fluffy white
cloudlets. Everything was neat and clean; it was
nothing like his home in Hell. Deep in the secret
recesses of his mind, he hoped that this assignment
would last a long time. At the same time, he was a
little nervous at the prospect of putting his training
to the test.

They hovered over a pretty little cottage. "You look
okay," said the recruiter, who was also disguised as
an angel. "But there's still an odor of sulfur about
you. Stay back, and let me do the talking." He
approached a guardian angel, who snapped to attention.
The recruiter barked out instructions. "Emergency
orders, report at once to sector 923-G and ask for
Caleb. Morris, here, will take care of Elaine while
you're gone. Any problems?"

"No, sir," replied the angel. "She's an easy one.
Keeps me hopping, always asking The Boss for help for
other people, but otherwise never a moment's trouble.
That demon of hers is no competition."

Mosca glanced furtively toward the scrawny, sickly
demon lurking nearby, and was surprised to recognize
Earwig. He held his breath, hoping Earwig wouldn't
give him away.

As soon as the angel was out of earshot, the recruiter
flashed his hidden badge at Earwig. "Operation
Deception. Agent Mosca here will be posing as angel
Morris. Your job is to lay low, giving him only token
resistance while he worms his way into Elaine's
confidence. When Morris gives the word, and not a
moment before, the two of you work together to start
leading her astray in easy stages. It doesn't look
like you've been too successful with conventional
methods."

"You said a mouthful," said Earwig. "She's been
impossible from the beginning. Loving, patient
parents, lots of supportive friends, a perpetually
cheerful disposition: sixteen years of sweetness and
light. It makes me nauseous to think about it. Look
at me, I'm starving. I haven't had a mouthful of
anger in ages. If you can do anything with this one,
I'll be surprised." Turning to Mosca, he said, "You
certainly look well fed."

"Special filters in the angel mask." Mosca
explained. "You know real angels feed on love. The
filters distort it into hate. I'll admit I was
squeamish at first, but you get used to it after a
while."

"Not me," said Earwig, shaking his head and
grimacing. "I'll admit I'm hungry, but you have to
draw the line somewhere."

As the recruiter flew away, Earwig peered at Mosca
intently. "Do those filters really work" You don't
find yourself having impulses to do good or anything
like that?"

"Not at all," Mosca assured him. "And with the Enemy
cranking it out for free, I never go hungry. You
should try it."

"Maybe," said Earwig doubtfully. "I'm not that
desperate yet."

****

Mosca began with the simple tricks he had learned in
training camp, gradually getting Elaine used to the
sound of his voice. He reminded her of appointments,
found whatever she mislaid, guided her through
traffic. He prompted her to call an elderly friend,
help her brother with homework, baby-sit for the young
mother down the street. She became more joyful and
loving than ever before.

At the onset, Mosca felt a sense of pride and self-
satisfaction, that he played his role so well. If he
occasionally felt a little nauseous over promoting
peace and patience, he reminded himself that it was
only temporary, and served a greater purpose. In
time, however, his squeamishness subsided, and he
began to take a perverse pleasure in encouraging love,
joy and kindness. Tortured by self-doubt, he hid his
concerns from Earwig, boasting how easily he
had "trained" the girl.

Earwig remained skeptical about the entire operation.
On one of those rare occasions when there was no
danger of his being overheard, he whispered his doubts
to Mosca. "She listens to every word you say, now.
When are you going to start feeding her a few lies?
You aren't beginning to like this goody - goody stuff,
are you?"

"Of course not," said Mosca indignantly. "But I need
more time. I've worked too hard to take a chance on
blowing my cover."

Mosca went back to work. "No, Elaine, you don't
really want a cookie. Let's have a nice, juicy apple
and then go for a walk with Brownie. Umm, that apple
looks so good. Come on now, take a bite."
Responding to the subliminal prompting, Elaine
obediently closed the cookie jar. She ate the apple,
relishing every bite, and went to look for her dog.

"I suppose I should tell you," Earwig whispered out of
the side of his mouth, "that I let the dog out of the
yard and sent him after a cat. He also chased a
squirrel, a kid on a bicycle, and a rabbit. Right now
he's lost in the foothills east of town."

"What!" exclaimed Mosca, drawing himself up to his
full, impressive height. "Why, I ought to ..."
Earwig ducked, raising one arm defensively as if
expecting a blow. He spoke in a sullen whine. "Well,
I needed something to do. It was fun. Your high and
mighty friend didn't say I couldn't talk to the dog.
Besides," he added slyly, "It gives you another
opportunity to make points with the girl. When she
discovers the open gate, you can encourage her to get
in the car and go looking. You could guide her right
to the dog. She'll be ever so grateful." He smiled.

Mosca looked suspiciously at Earwig, but he seemed to
be sincere. Elaine had already discovered the open
gate and was looking up and down the street, calling
for Brownie.

"Elaine," whispered Mosca. "You need to get the car
keys. Let's get in the car and go looking. Come on.
Let's head east, it's as good a direction as any."

Appearing to be making a random search pattern,
Elaine slowly drifted toward the hills. Every time she
started to turn back, Mosca gently urged her
forward. "Keep going. Just a little longer. Let's
take this road."

As the road dipped down to cross the railroad tracks,
the car suddenly sputtered and died, straddling the
tracks. The lights flickered out, leaving Elaine
stranded in the gathering dark. She tried to open the
door, but the handle came loose. The windows wouldn't
operate without power. She was trapped.

A whistle sounded from around the curve. "Here it
comes, right on schedule," Earwig gloated. He tried
to hold Mosca back. "I'm doing this for you," he
said. "You've become obsessed with this goodness
thing. You have to be stopped."

"Keep calm, Elaine," Mosca shouted. "I'm coming. Let
me go, Earwig."

He wrenched himself free and began pushing the car,
but Earwig was pushing from the other end with
surprising strength, and the car remained stuck.

"Help me," Mosca cried. "Anyone, please help. Any
angels out there? This is an emergency."

Suddenly the car shot forward. The train rushed by.
Mosca glanced up to see the recruiter, looking more
like an angel than ever, and several brawny guardian
angels who had moved the heavy car as easily as if it
were thistledown. The angels went to comfort Elaine,
one opening the car door and another bringing her lost
dog to distract her.

"You did well," said the recruiter. "She'll be fine.
Her regular angel will take over now; he was never far
away. You come with me." He patted Mosca's
shoulder. "Good job, lad."

"I don't understand," said Mosca. "I failed
miserably. Earwig was right, I was starting to enjoy
doing good. I guess that means I'm out of the
program."

"Oh, no," said the recruiter. "You just passed your
first test. You're ready for the next level of
training. Don't worry about Earwig; he's not about to
admit to anyone that he's been collaborating with the
enemy, even unintentionally. I've told General
Gabriel himself about you, and he's willing to waive
desertion charges as long as you're reporting
voluntarily for rehabilitation. This is a pet project
of his. We've been very successful in retrieving a
number of fallen ones with this campaign."

"Do you mean you're really ..."

The recruiter smiled. "Come on, Mosca, or should I
call you Morris now? You're a bright boy. It should
be obvious by now that I'm not wearing a disguise, and
of course there aren't any filters in your mask."

The End

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