Holly Lisle - Sympathy for the Devil

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Sympathy for the Devil

by Holly Lisle

ISBN: 0-671-87703-8

Cover art by Clyde Caldwell

First printing, January 1996

Dedication

For Mark Twain and C.S. Lewis, who introduced me to this territory when I was nine; and in memory

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of Cathy Kelchner, my long-time friend, who lived long enough to see this project, but not to its

completion. I miss you, Cathy.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks to my friends,

Bill Mullis and Keith Brinegar, who were willing to die for the cause; and to Bill Cleveland, Kerri

Walters,

Cathy Lovato, and Walter Spence, whose shrewd insights and wonderful critiques changed the direction

of the book and made it infinitely better than it was.

How can Hell exist if there is a Heaven, or Heaven if there is a Hell?

A Damned Hard Way To Die

Dayne flopped onto the couch, grabbed the remote, and flipped through the TV channels. There was

nothing but news on. “What the hell—” She saw something football-like flash onto the screen.

The Duke Blue Devils and the UNC Tarheels were on the field, and the Tarheel quarterback threw a

beautiful long bomb down the field—and some huge guy in an obscene bright-red devil suit, with a

pitchfork, no less, appeared out of nowhere and speared the football out of mid-air.

There was a cut to an anchorman who stood panting in front of the camera, his usually perfect hair

mussed and his tie crooked. “All across the state, we have similar reports. We take you to the Ashboro

Fan Faire where two deaths have been confirmed.”

A reporter appeared, her face set in the fake-grim expression TV reporters always seemed to wear.

“The final event of the Fan Faire ended in tragedy today when two filk singers performing ‘I Wanna Be

Seduced’ were set upon by a bevy of what seemed to be nude women who attempted to seduce them

on stage. Klingon security officers and men and women in Star Fleet uniforms acted quickly to restore

order, but it was too late. The women turned out to be neither injured . . . nor women. In this interview,

taped earlier, I talk with one, who claims she is a succubus straight from Hell.”

Chapter 1

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Friday, October 8th

Lucifer—Puissant Lord of Evil, Utmost Originator of All Things Foul, Master of the Netherworlds,

Purveyor of Anguish—glanced up from his newspaper to stare thoughtfully over the miles of open office

space that made up the central nervous system of Hell. Uncounted thousands of imps and leccubi and

damnedsouls sat at uncounted thousands of obsolete, cantankerous computer terminals, alternately typing

and swearing. The air-conditioning was on the fritz again, and Hell’s computers worked poorly in the

resulting heat.

Lucifer’s main office manager, the fallen angel Sertapius, had sent in a request for more computer techs.

Unless things improved, he wasn’t going to get them. They were hard to corrupt. They liked their work

too much, and happy people didn’t go to Hell. Lucifer had some of his top people working on a way to

convince computer techs to get involved in politics—after all, bureaucrats were easy. Hell was up to the

tips of its horns in them.

The news was about average—wars, famines, plagues, shootings, hatred, racism, sexism, politically

correct fanaticism—in other words, all good. Lucifer flipped to the entertainment section and readCalvin

and Hobbes , which he enjoyed when Calvin was being terrible. And then he read his weekend

horoscope—he always read his horoscopes. Some of his best future denizens wrote them, and he liked

to check out the talent.

libra—fellow libran, concerned by issue of fairness—like all born under your sign—intercedes on your

behalf. beginning of new week brings you unimagined opportunities.

Lucifer arched an eyebrow and rubbed thoughtfully at the base of one of the curled ram horns that

sprouted from his forehead. Promises, promises—the horoscopes were always full of them. Of course,

where he was, nothing ever came of those promises.

That was the hell of Hell.

Chapter 2

Dayne Kuttner was trying to catch up on her charting. She kept one eye on the monitors—rows of green

light slid across the black screens in a variety of ugly, irregular patterns. Nobody looked good today, and

she waited tensely for the next lethal change.

She glanced at her watch and wrote: “1432. Systems assessment—see previous notes. Changes are as

follows—both pupils now fully blown, no reaction to light. Sclerae edematous. Eyes lubricated, padded

and taped. Decerebrate posturing noted . . .” She went through the list, noting every sign that the woman

in bed 432-D wasn’t going to be getting better. Mrs. Paulley, seventy-eight years old, had fallen down

her stairs at home and fractured her skull. By the time her daughter had found her and gotten an

ambulance, the old woman’s brain had undergone irreversible damage caused by the swelling.

Her doctor was a huge believer in heroic measures, however. The old woman, at death’s door, was

given infusions to reduce the swelling inside her head, other infusions to regulate her erratic heart, further

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infusions to control her blood pressure—and then she’d been shipped upstairs to the ICU and Dayne.

And there she’d languished for over a week. When her breathing stopped, Dr. Batskold put her on a

ventilator. When her kidneys failed, he had the portable dialysis unit brought in and he’d flushed her

blood through a machine.

She was in a coma. She was never going to see anyone again, she was never going to sit up again or

laugh again or even breathe on her own again. She was never going to be a human being again, and yet

the ICU nurses had orders to treat her as a full code—to take every possible measure to keep her alive,

no matter what that measure was.

Dayne had protested this to Dr. Batskold after the first dialysis.

“We’re here to save them, Dayne,” he’d said. It was his perpetual response to Dayne’s protests against

what she saw as his excessive heroics. He shook his head and looked over at her—gave her his famous,

kindly, grandfatherly smile. “I don’t play to lose, Dayne.”

“It’s my job as this patient’s advocate to suggest that what we are doing to her isn’t in her best

interests,” Dayne told him.

Batskold raised an eyebrow. “Did you get a promotion? I didn’t hear.”

“Promotion?”

“Promotion . . . to patient advocate. How exciting for you.” He’d looked down at Mrs. Paulley’s chart.

“I must see a copy of your new job description.”

“Every nurse is a patient advocate,” Dayne had told him.

He’d finished his orders and slammed the cover shut on the chart. “Then why doesn’t every nurse give

me the kind of trouble you give me, Dayne? No. You’re out of line here—overstepping your bounds. It’s

my job to decide when we keep on trying. It’s your job to keep on trying. When God is ready for Mrs.

Paulley, He’ll take her.”

Dayne would have mentioned that God had been trying to take Mrs. Paulley for over a week, but it

wouldn’t have done any good. Batskold’s response to that was invariably, “He isn’t trying hard enough

then, is he?”

The conversation, days later, still ran through her head. She kept writing, angry. Sooner or later

someone would review one of Batskold’s charts and question his treatment of people who had no hope.

They would look at the costs he was running up for families who would never be able to pay off the

hundreds of thousands of dollars their bill would run; they’d look at the pain he was causing to those

same people, by letting them hope for miracles that weren’t going to happen; and someday, someone in

authority would do something.

In the meantime, Dayne could do nothing more than she was already doing. Write down everything,

question questionable orders . . . get written up by Batskold.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a change in the flickering pattern of light that scrolled across the

monitor. The reading was Mrs. Paulley’s, and it was bad. A run of PVCs—premature ventricular

contractions. The ventricles of Mrs. Paulley’s heart were pumping irregularly, a sign that could indicate

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they were going to quit pumping altogether at any time.

Dayne put the chart down and headed into the glass-walled room in front of her desk. She had certain

things she could do without notifying Dr. Batskold, and she did them. She increased the amount of the

cardiac medication that was running into Mrs. Paulley’s veins, she brought in the crash cart, with its heart

defibrillator and drawers full of emergency medications, and she checked to make sure Mrs. Paulley’s

IVs were still putting their medication into her bloodstream where it needed to be, and that they hadn’t

worked loose to pour it into her flesh, or into the bed. She checked to make sure the ventilator was

working correctly, and that the tube carrying oxygen into the old woman’s lungs was clear. She slipped a

blood pressure cuff around the old woman’s arm and checked her pressure—it had dropped.

Dayne looked at the over-bed monitor. She was starting to get regular runs of those same PVCs. She

waved at the ward secretary. “Stacy! Page Dr. Batskold up here. I need him to take a look at this.”

Stacy nodded and got on the phone.

Dayne increased the dose of the cardiac medication again, and looked at the old lady lying in the bed,

tiny, frail, pale and bruised, with bandages around her head and bandages over her eyes, with a huge

white plastic tube shoved down her throat and Teflon catheters shoved into the veins of her neck. The

ventilator hissed and chugged, forcing her chest up and down, the IVs clicked and beeped, the monitor

ticked overhead.

Dayne walked over to the side of the bed and took the old woman’s hand. Sometimes she sang to her

comatose patients while she worked on them—hearing was supposed to be the last sense to go, and she

wanted them to know someone was there, someone who still remembered they were human—but she

didn’t feel much like singing at that moment. Instead, she just talked.

“It’s a pretty October day out there, Mrs. Paulley. The leaves are starting to turn, and the sky is so blue

you’d think it was in a painting instead of real. Out your window I can see a mother and two little boys

sitting on the bench over by the pond. They’re feeding the ducks and a couple of Canada

geese—throwing bread to them. The littlest boy is sitting on his mother’s lap because one of the geese

came right up to him and it was as big as he is.”

She was watching the monitor—no improvement. She let go of the old lady’s rigid hand and pulled a

pre-filled syringe of the cardiac drug out of the cart. She injected it into the IV, wrote down the time

she’d given the drug and the amount she gave on a paper towel, and watched for any change in that thin

green line.

She said, “Your daughter called to tell me she and your two grandchildren would be stopping by this

evening. You have a very nice family. They love you very much.”

The ventilator hissed, the IVs dripped and beeped, and Mrs. Paulley’s cardiac rhythm got worse. Dayne

put the blood pressure cuff on automatic and set it to do a check every minute, then lowered the head of

the bed until it was flat.

“Stacy,” she yelled, “get the nursing supervisor and the respiratory therapist up here stat, and change Dr.

Batskold’s page to stat, too. She’s going to code on me!”

Mary Deiner ran into the room. She was one of the other three RNs in the unit; her patients were bad,

too, but the ICU nurses helped with each other’s codes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Defibrillate when we need it. Push drugs. I’ll do CPR.”

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Mary nodded, and warmed up the defibrillator. The high-pitched whine of that machine joined the rest of

the machine noises in the cramped room.

Stacy came in and grabbed the code log. “Should I start it now?”

Dayne was running in a second bolus dose of the cardiac drug. “Not yet. She still has a viable rhythm.”

She shook her head. “No—go ahead and write these down.” She handed the ward secretary the paper

towel with the blood pressure and the two boluses of cardiac drugs noted, as well as the changes in the

titration of the IV drips.

The blood pressure monitor showed that Mrs. Paulley’s pressure had dropped. Her heart was failing

fast in spite of everything Dayne tried.

“Increase the dose on her Nipride for me, Mary.” The machine that ran the blood pressure medicine

was closer to Mary than to Dayne.

Dayne studied the monitor. The wide, slashing Vs of the irregular ventricular beats still ran across the

screen in clumps. Then all the normal beats vanished. The monitor showed nothing but a broad band of

up-and-down slashes—its alarm went off at the desk with a scream. The blood pressure monitor

alarmed at the same instant.

The old woman’s heart was no longer moving blood through her lungs into her brain or other vital

organs. She had no blood pressure and no pulse.

“Shock her,” Dayne said to Mary. “Start at a hundred joules.” That was a low amount of electricity, but

the old woman was nothing but bones.

The supervisor and the respiratory therapist ran in as Mary pulled Mrs. Paulley’s gown up and put the

cold metal paddles on her chest. “Clear!” Mary yelled, and everyone stood away from the bed. There

was awhump as the paddles discharged their electricity, then Dayne felt for a pulse at the woman’s neck

while she watched the monitor. The line that crawled across the screen was ragged and smaller, with no

sign of a rhythm. Dayne found no pulse. “Nothing. She’s in V-fib now. Give her a dose of epi, and if that

doesn’t work, we’re going to shock her at two hundred.”

Mary injected a drug that sometimes caused the heart to restart. It didn’t work this time, though, and she

warmed up the paddles to a higher voltage. “Clear!” she yelled, and again everyone stood back.

“Why are we doing this, Dayne?” the supervisor asked. “She’s decerebrate.”

“Her pupils are blown, too,” Dayne said. “But she’s Batskold’s. He made her a full code—we’re to do

everything we can.”

“Speak of the devil,” the respiratory therapist said, as the doctor walked into the room.

“Where are we on this?” he asked.

Dayne gave him a quick rundown of all the steps she’d taken, ending with the summation that the old

woman had not responded to anything.

“Shock at three hundred joules,” he told Mary.

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The paddleswhumped again, and the room filled with the unmistakable odor of burned flesh. The old

woman’s heart rhythm remained absent.

“Start CPR.”

Dayne climbed onto the edge of the bed, locked her hands together with her fingers raised and her right

hand over her left, and began pressing into Mrs. Paulley’s sternum with the heel of her left hand.

“One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three . . .”

Everyone in the room heard the crunch as Mrs. Paulley’s sternum cracked and her ribs broke. Dayne

shuddered. Dr. Batskold said, “Keep going. If she lives, we can heal the ribs. We can’t do anything for

her if she’s dead.”

Dayne kept on compressing, forcing blood through the old woman’s body. The ribs crunched beneath

her hands with every push—a sound and a sensation she would relive in her nightmares. Meanwhile, Dr.

Batskold pumped his patient full of drugs, tested the amount of oxygen in her blood, tinkering with the

titrations of the drips he’d put her on. . . .

“There! You see?” he suddenly yelled. “We have a rhythm! Stop CPR!”

Dayne pulled back and automatically felt for a pulse. A thready one slipped beneath her fingers—but it

was definitely there. Poor old woman.

“We won!” Dr. Batskold said, and grinned cheerfully around the room. “Good work, everyone.

Okay—Dayne, standard orders. Let’s get a chest X-ray and hourly ABGs and . . .” He rattled off a long

list of orders, which Dayne wrote on the chart.

“Code status?” Dayne asked when he’d finished.

“Oh, definitely let’s keep her a full code. Definitely. We don’t concede defeat until we have to.” He

turned and, whistling, walked to the nurses’ station to begin charting the annals of another of his victories

over death.

“Wewon ?” the nursing supervisor asked with a lift of her eyebrow. She stared at the comatose body in

the bed.

“Oh, yeah,” Dayne said softly. “Dr. Bastard always plays to win.”

Chapter 3

Agonostis, Chief Fallen Angel in Charge of Lust and Fornication, buried his head in his hands and

groaned. The quarterly numbers were in, and they were bad. Very, very bad.

Lust was still running well, but any idiot could sell lust—and he knew it, and he knew Lucifer knew it.

Fornication was down, though. Adultery had dropped off a point and a third in the last quarter, down

another point from the quarter before. If this continued, he was going to be hanging in his own little

solitary space over the Infinite Nothing, like the lowliest of damned souls.

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Diseases, he thought darkly. His problems were all because of diseases. Morality was no better than it

had ever been—in fact, in many places and many ways, it was worse. But Jezerael, Chief Fallen Angel in

Charge of Plagues, Illnesses and Social Diseases had gotten in good with the Big Guy, and had wangled

out double the funding Agonostis had received on her research grants every year for the past fifteen

years. And the daughter of a motherless pissant had spent every damned solidus on communicable

diseases. Plotting, damn her eyes. She’d had this all figured out fifteen years ago—Agonostis would bet

every soul in his laboratory on it.

Now Earth had untreatable tuberculosis, virulent syphilis, AIDS, and herpes simplex type II. Everything

was becoming resistant to penicillin—Agonostis’ one-time favorite drug, since it made fornication so

safe—and other drugs were becoming less effective, too. And even if he got those problems licked—and

his lab techs were working as fast as they could to beat every single one of Jezerael’s

diseases—Agonostis figured his archenemy probably had new strains of Black Plague and typhoid

waiting in the wings.

Agonostis had worked the condom angle as hard as he could, but people were getting smarter. They

were realizing that condoms broke or slipped at inopportune times, or were defective—and they were

starting to abstain.

Business was looking bad. And fornication used to be such a fun line of work.

What I need, he thought, is a miracle.

Unfortunately, miracles were hard to come by in Hell.

Chapter 4

Pitchblende, Lucifer’s executive secretary, placed the most recent marketing reports on the Archfiend’s

glossy lacquered red desk.

Lucifer glanced through the hefty sheaf of papers—Vice, Usury, War, Disease, Famine, Telephone

Solicitation . . . all the big evils were there.

TheLust and Fornication American Quarterly report showed good movement in the Lust

Department. Mini-skirts and see-through blouses were back in, sexual harassment suits were on the rise,

and Agonostis had opened some very clever new markets by taking advantage of cutting-edge

technology—pornographic CD-ROMs, computer sex-games, and online sex services were

skyrocketing. Agonostis’ R&D people were doing wonders with virtual reality technology, too, and

expected to have their full-sensory-stimulus products on the market even before any practical VR

applications became available.

Lucifer frowned when he saw the Fornication numbers, though. Fornication had beenthe blue-chip

market since time began—an absolute sure thing guaranteed to produce steadily increasing revenues no

matter what else was going on in the world. As long as there were more people (and there were always

more people) fornication kept right on increasing. Yet Agonostis’ numbers were down—markedly down.

If Lucifer remembered correctly, they had trended downward in the past two quarters as well.

The Archfiend tapped a few keys on his keyboard to bring up Quick’N’Dead, Hell’s soul-accounting

program, then ran through the graphs for Fornication for the last year, then the last three years, and finally

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the last five. He grew angrier with every new set of graphs. He should have checked this

earlier—Agonostis had managed to counterbalance his Fornication numbers with his Lust numbers so

that his reports still showed a net damnedsoul increase, but Lucifer discovered Fornication had been

dropping off in fits and starts for five straight years. A five-year drop in a blue-chip asset could only come

from poor management.

It was about time to remind Agonostis that not all jobs in Hell were desk jobs.

Lucifer nibbled on one long, pointed talon and contemplated risky, difficult field assignments.

Agonostis needed one.

Chapter 5

Dayne stripped out of her scrubs and threw them in a pile on the floor. She fished through the dryer and

found a T-shirt, a pair of shorts and a pair of thick socks; she tugged those on angrily, then stormed

around until she managed to locate her sneakers. She didn’t pet either of the cats that twined around her

ankles hoping for attention. She didn’t check the messages on her answering machine, though the blinking

light indicated that there were four—more than usual.

She ran up the stairs two at a time to the second floor of her two-story apartment, into the spare

bedroom that she used as a gym, and moved the setting on her stair-stepper up tofast .

She was furious—angrier than she had ever been. She was angry with Dr. Batskold, with herself, with

the universe in general. She climbed on the stair-stepper, checked her watch, and started off at a running

pace.

Mrs. Paulley had died twice more on the same shift. Both times, Dr. Batskold managed to get her back,

and both times he gloated as if he’d done something wonderful.

Dayne’s other patient, a young man who’d tried to kill himself with household chemicals and who didn’t

have any kidneys anymore, had gone into withdrawal from the other drugs he apparently had been taking

without anyone knowing. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d had to do to him. He’d sobbed

and cried and begged her to just let him die—and she’d kept right on working on him, because it was her

job, because she was a nurse and that was what nurses did. The Nazis had used the same excuse when

questioned—they’d been following orders.

“Just like me. I feel like a damned Nazi. No I don’t—I feel like Hell’s chief torturer,” Dayne snarled,

pumping on the stair-stepper. She ran upstairs for twenty minutes, as fast as she could push the machine,

then jumped off, sweating and breathing hard, and dropped to the floor. She did a hundred push-ups

military-style, rested a moment, did a hundred more, rested a moment, and did a third set. She got up

and settled onto the Roman chair, and did Roman chair sit-ups, two hundred and fifty at a time.

It didn’t help. The anger still burned in her belly, hot and steady and real. She wasn’t just angry about

the things that had happened that day; the torture she’d put her patients through had wakened that other,

older anger. And as mad as Dayne was at Batskold, she was madder at God. She blew through bench

presses and flyes and lat pulldowns and rows and squats, pushing herself harder and harder, trying to

take herself to a place beyond the anger—but there was no place inside her that the anger didn’t touch.

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She put the weights down at last and stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, and she faced the

fears that ate at her.

More than once, she’d looked at herself as a torturer—as the person who did terrible things to nice little

old ladies and to sweet old men, to people who were helpless and hopeless. She was only half joking

when, talking with friends, she referred to her job as the job from Hell. One thing kept her in

nursing—the fact that sometimes the terrible things she did to her patients made them better. Sometimes

she was able to make things right.

But Dayne believed in Hell—in a real, literal Hell where the souls of the damned went to be tormented

for eternity. She believed in Heaven, too, but thoughts of Heaven hadn’t given her much solace in the four

years since her husband Torry died.

She’d loved him. He drank, he ran around on her, he got into trouble, he was a failure as a husband and

as a human being—but for the whole three years they were married, she’d loved him.

He died the way he’d lived—driving fast, stone drunk, with a woman who was not his wife in the car

with him. He’d smashed into a telephone pole going at better than a hundred miles an hour, and he and

his most recent girlfriend had flashed out of existence before they’d had a chance to know what

happened to them.

And right now, Dayne thought, down in Hell, someone was torturing Torry.

She stood in the center of that room, thinking of the pain she inflicted—and the fact that she inflicted it as

gently and quickly as she could, and of the fact that it ended—that no matter how badly she hurt the

people she cared for, their pain ended. Dr. Batskold couldn’t make them live forever, even though he

tried. Sooner or later they would die and escape.

Torry couldn’t escape. And when the universe blew out of existence and all of Time came to an end,

someone would still be torturing Torry.

He’d been twenty-four when he died—young and beautiful and foolish. His fundamentalist parents had

jammed religion down his throat until he’d thrown it up; he’d come to despise churches and religion and

everything he connected with them, and his life had been one big attempt to spit in God’s eye. Dayne had

loved him anyway—not wisely, but with her whole heart.

In spite of everything, she still loved him—and for four years, she’d gotten up every morning and gone to

bed every night, thinking of Torry in Hell.

This day, this hellish day that had come hard on the heels of a week of hellish days, had brought thoughts

of Torry to the front of her mind, and heated up her anger until she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She looked up toward Heaven, and with her eyes wide open, she said, “Okay, God. I’ve had it. I’ve

thought about this until I can’t stand to think about it anymore, and now we’re going to have to do

something about it. You said that whatever we asked of you, if we had faith, you would give to us.” She

took a deep breath, and her hands clenched into fists.

“Hell is all wrong. You claim that we have free choice—the choice to love you or not, to follow you or

not. But there isn’t any choice to it. If a thief held a gun to my head and told me to give him my car keys

or he’d kill me, I’d give him my keys . . . but nobody would say I did so of my own free will. And if he

stuck the same gun to my head and told me to love him or else, I might pretend to love him . . . at least

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SympathyfortheDevilbyHollyLisle Copyright©1996byHollyLisle ISBN:0-671-87703-8 CoverartbyClydeCaldwell Firstprinting,January1996 Dedication ForMarkTwainandC.S.Lewis,whointroducedmetothisterritorywhenIwasnine;andinmemoryGeneratedbyABCAmberLITConverter,http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlofCathyKe...

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