It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,30
and yell, “Gotcha.” Needless to say, no actor appears and I don’t see any cameras.
What I do see is Shepard’s smiling face and I swear the entire room lights up. “I think this is an excellent plan. The question is not whether Ms. Jones has been treated in an unjust manner, but rather if her character is worthy of such unprecedented action.”
“I still don’t like it,” Marmaroth says. “Even though she would only be slipping into the moment, this interaction will change the course of the future.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Death Himself argues. “Those changes should answer your concerns about whether she will retain the lessons she learns. When she is sent back permanently, I’m sure Zachriel can ensure her old memories are replaced by the new ones. She will become the person created by those changes in her past.”
“She still might relapse,” Azbaugh points out. “There’s no guarantee.”
Death Himself groans. “The fundamental flaw of free will. Don’t blame me. That’s the Big Guy’s thing. You should bring it up with Him. I’m sure He would love to debate the merit of this design feature one more time.”
Zachriel stands, obviously ready to move on. “Actually,” he says in an even voice. “If the memories are uniquely hers and the impacts of her actions are built in to her character, it is unlikely that a complete relapse will ever occur. I would, however, caution the Tribunal about allowing Death Himself to pick the times without any parameters. He is known for being quite conniving.”
Death Himself grins and shrugs. “He’s right.”
The thought of the Tribunal being in charge of this wager fills me with dread. Shouldn’t Death Himself try to put up a better fight? Or is he worried about missing the big waves?
“Fine,” Azbaugh says. “How would you suggest we frame the parameters?”
“Four stipulations. First, the events must take place in chronological order. Second, at least one of the moments must occur during the first nine years of life. Third, each moment must be a part of the new life stream and not the old. Finally, I would require that each event be at least six months apart.”
“Is that all?” Death Himself asks.
Absently, I twist Sandy’s ring around my finger. I feel comforted, like she’s with me or at least cheering me on from the Lobby. Death Himself looks a little too confident—as if he’s winning a game no one else knows they’re playing. I really hope he’s on my team and not just using me as some pawn.
Zachriel looks pensive. He’s probably wondering if he’s walking into a trap. “Yes,” he says, drawing the word out. “I believe those parameters will allow Death Himself the flexibility to adequately test the girl without giving him free reign to manipulate the experiment.”
The Tribunal exchanges a series of glances. Finally, Azbaugh asks, “Are there any objections to this test?”
No one speaks. I start to clap, but Sal lays a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. I sit back.
“I have a few stipulations of my own,” Azbaugh states. “If, at any time, the girl fails to correct her life trajectory, the test will end and she will remain in the Lobby, or wherever Azrael wants to put her, until such time that the Akashic Records indicate her human death.”
“I have no objection,” Death Himself says.
I do. Is he saying that if I don’t satisfy their expectations, I could actually spend who knows how long with all those catatonic souls?
“In case anyone wonders, I don’t like this,” I whisper, hoping he will hear me. He doesn’t or at least he pretends not to.
“RJ will remain in my custody during the testing period. I would hate to burden anyone further,” Death Himself adds, feigning humility. “I will also arrange for the guides that will accompany her on each of the three tests.”
“She will, at no point, be left unaccompanied,” Azbaugh insists.
Death Himself gives a quick nod. “You have my word.”
“And no one speaks to any of the souls or beings unfamiliar with this situation,” Azbaugh adds, his warning loud and clear. “I reserve the right to end this test should any of the terms be violated.”
A gag order? Are you kidding me? Saint Peter said everyone was talking about me already. There’s no way the news of my situation is going to fade into the clouds.
“Do we have a deal?” Death Himself says, boredom slipping in between each word. I notice he doesn’t actually agree to the condition.