Chapter Forty-One
Randi Institute of Pneumatology, the Pentagon, Arlington, VA
“I guess it’ll be a relief dealing with normal people after having that sick freak around.” There was a stir of anger in the room. Kitten’s boyfriend had started to get up, but she put her hand on his and stopped him. It was a gesture that did not go unnoticed by most of the people in the room. Martin Chestnut was one who didn’t, he looked around smugly, the angry reaction to the insult aimed at Kitten amused and satisfied him. Another thing he didn’t notice was two of the Special Forces troopers exchanging significant glances, they knew what Kitten had gone through to keep the link to the teams in Hell open. Chestnut had just scheduled himself for an old military custom, a blanket party, at the first available opportunity.
James Randi cast a very sharp look at Chestnut, he’d spent his life exposing frauds and imposters and he was convinced Chestnut was one although in what sense he wasn’t quite sure yet. There was no doubt in Randi’s mind that the man had skills though, he’d made everybody in the room hate him. Randi had caught a whispered comment from a visiting Marine, something about Chestnut being a candidate for wall-to-wall counseling. Still, business first.
“We must evaluate your ability to open a link before we can take this matter any further. We have several people now who can speak to various people in Hell, but so far Kitten is the only person we have found who can sustain a link and open a portal. She’s worked very hard for the last few weeks, and she needs a break. So, we are going to try and open a portal to a team we have on the Seventh Circle, they are desperately short of ammunition and need resupply urgently. So, Kitten’s going to talk to them, and we’ll see if you can open a portal.”
“Just keep that pervert away from me.” The Marine and the Special Forces troopers exchanged glances; the blanket party attendance had just grown. On one of the seats, Kitten relaxed and opened her mind up.
Tucker? Are you there? Can you speak?
Hey Kitten, sure can. We’re having a rest; we’ve just got a new member here. Private Joanna Cassidy, USMC. He rattled the serial number off. She’s in a bad way but she’ll mend, physically anyway.
“Got her, Marine Private Cassidy. Killed in a Humvee wreck about six months ago, in Iraq.” The Marine had typed the number into a notepad and the answer was immediate.
Confirmed Tucker. Now, we’re going to try something. We’ve got another guy here who can contact Hell so we’re going to see if he can open a portal. If he can, we’ll be able to get you some stuff, we have a sword for Ori, one he’ll like we think. It’s called a Katana, it’s a gift from the Japanese Government. A sword master over there made it from modern steel. We have more ammunition and some Semtex for you.
That’s fabulous Kitten, sure you’re not going to get hurt for this?
Quite sure, I’m not going to hurt. At the other end, Tucker noticed the satisfaction in her thoughts and wondered what was going on back there.
“Link’s set up. Martin, please make the portal.”
“It’s Mister Chestnut to you.” He relaxed on the couch and had the wiring set up around him. Meanwhile, Kitten disconnected and isolated herself from the system. Behind the control bank, the operator started running the power up to the portal threshold. Chestnut started writhing and moaning on the couch. “Shit, this hurts, you never told me it would hurt like this.”
Then, the black ellipse started to form in the room and Chestnut’s wailing reached a new level. The sword was the first thing to get thrown through, followed by some packs of Semtex and boxes of rifle ammunition. Then, the ellipse slammed down.
Kitten grabbed her headset and pushed through a contact. Tucker, did you get anything?
Yeah, thanks, the sword’s here and we got a box of ammo and five of Semtex. Guess your guy wasn’t too hot huh?
Very noisy. Bye Tucker talk to you soon.
Bye Kitten
“They got a little stuff, the sword, 5 kilos of Semtex, and 250 rounds of ammunition.” Kitten relaxed a little.
“And that’s all anybody will get until you agree to my terms.” Chestnut had a predatory grin on his face.
“What terms?” Randi spoke cautiously.
“I want a million a year retainer. A hundred thousand bonus every time I must open a portal up for you. You’ll buy an apartment for me wherever I choose to live, and I want a Ferrari. I’ll tell you which kind later.”
“That all?” Randi was beginning to lose his temper.
“No, but I’ll add the rest later. You might as well agree now though, you haven’t got any choice.”
“Actually we do.” The voice from the door was contralto and silky. For those who knew the General, this meant trouble was coming for somebody. Nobody had ever heard her swear, she’d never had to. “We have three more candidates coming in today. An Indian and a Chinese lady and a Chinese man. All have passed the initial tests you laid down James, they’re looking very good. The Indian Lady speaks very good English, so I’m told, she worked in a bank customer service center before she went mad.” The General was staring at Chestnut expressionlessly. It occurred to Randi that the lack of feeling was more terrifying than any display of dislike could have been. “General Schatten? A useful recruit this one? For the field test?”
“Yes, indeed Ma’am. Mister Chestnut.” Schatten loaded the ‘Mister’ with irony. “Here’s our counteroffer. We give you a nice green suit with a red-brown one for workwear. We will pay you one thousand two hundred and forty-five dollars and ninety cents per month, before deductions. We’ll also provide you with a nice pair of boots for walking around in. We’ll even feed you and give you a bed to sleep in.”
“Forget it. No way.”
“You don’t have any choice, Private Chestnut. You’re in the Army now. We have reinstated the draft you know.” Schatten’s voice was richly amused by the sudden change on the man’s face.
“You can’t make me do the portal thing. Or anything else. And I won’t. Not unless I get my money.”
“It’s Sir to you. No, we can’t. But I must advise you that you’re being assigned to a field test program. We know that sensitives can contact Hell, but what happens if we put a sensitive in hell and try to contact out? We need to know that, but Kitten was much, much too valuable to use that way. Still is. But you’re not. So, we’re assigning you to Camp Hell-Alpha and you’ll stay there until the program is complete. Of course, if you don’t co-operate that may take a very long time. You two.” Schatten gestured at the two Special Forces men. “Take Private Chestnut away and show him how the Army works.”
“It’ll be a pleasure, Sir.”
“I thought it might be.” The two Special Forces men led Chestnut out and closed the door behind them. A few seconds later there was a muffled thud and the door shook, followed by an apologetic “oops”. The Marine in the room suddenly developed a satisfied expression on his face,
Major General Asanee had sat down beside Kitten. “How are you doing?”
“Well, thank you, ma’am.”
“Good, for I have some news for you. If our three new recruits work out a bit better than Mis…. than Private Chestnut…. did, you’ll get some leave soon. My Learjet is waiting to take you to Bangkok for your operation, as I promised, my government will pay the account. Until then, I’d like you to meet somebody, one who has already been through the procedure. She’ll tell you what to expect and how to do things afterward. She’s waiting outside, as soon as you’re done here, you two can get together.”
Deep Tunnel Stygia 'The Slime Pit, Shaft 14, Slocum Mine, Tartarus
Captain James Shanklin stood knee-deep in the stagnant water, listlessly hacking away at an exposed copper vein. It had been something like a century now that he'd been in this literally God-forsaken place, give or take a decade. It was all so unfair. Hadn't he died for King and Country, like you were supposed to? He'd gone to church... mostly. He'd been a faithful husband... almost. There had been that one time, a year before the German shell ended his life, just after that fresh-faced young private had joined the squad. In the earthly hell of the Somme, they all thought they had only weeks to live, surely God could forgive a man for seeking whatever companionship and release he could under such conditions?
It would seem that God could not. James dimly recalled spending decades in an empty wasteland scoured by a constant terrible storm, wandering without ever finding rest or shelter. Then he was brought here, seemingly to mine copper for all eternity. The last few months had been particularly intolerable. He was sure that other prisoners were stealing ore from his crates when he wasn't looking because he'd been sentenced to work in the slime pit almost every week. Worst of all, the pointless riots meant that all the humans were now kept always chained up. The corroded bronze manacle had already rubbed his ankle raw. The formerly lax demon supervisors seemed to have found a new motivation for their calling, as they were more eager than ever to apply their whips.
The rumors had been going around the mine since the demons had first questioned them about human weapons. At first, there was nothing but a welter of speculation, but as of late, they had taken a decidedly grim turn. New workers were arriving, fresh from earth and bringing tales of their homes falling to an irresistible demonic onslaught. City after city was apparently being raped, pillaged, and burned by the fiendish legions. Some refused to believe, harping on about inconsistencies in the stories, but James knew they were just grasping at straws. He had seen what being during brutal slaughter could do to the mind firsthand, at Flanders and Neuve Chapelle; if anything, the confused ranting of the new arrivals only confirmed the horror of what they had witnessed. In his mind, all of humanity was clearly doomed to suffer, individually and collectively.
Into this, uniformly depressing picture had come an unexpected ray of hope. At the start of this shift, they had been assembled in the loading area again and Medusa had a different message for them. Reading from a slate chalked with strange runes, she had implored the workers to reveal the location of the human arsenals. Only then would the demons be able to spare the remaining cities from destruction. Any human who helped make this possible would be rewarded with dominion over one of the surviving settlements, to rule it in Satan's name for the rest of time.
For Captain Shanklin, the struggle with his conscience had been a brief one. He had been loyal to the King and the Empire had sent him to a fair approximation of this place, rendered in stinking trenches and screaming shellfire, only to throw away his life fighting over a patch of worthless French mud. He had been faithful, and his God had abandoned him. Even in this place, his fellowmen seemed to wish him only further suffering. No, he no longer gave his loyalty to anyone but himself. James resolved to grasp this chance. He was already in hell, he could hardly damn himself a second time by supping with the devil. Besides, if the people of Sheffield saw sense and surrendered, perhaps he would be able to save his home from destruction. What more noble deed could be expected of him?
A dull pounding echoed down the tunnel, muffled by the standing water. An overseer was coming; at regular intervals, the hoof beats paused and were replaced by screams as another miner was given a taste of the barbed whip. The pounding became splashing as the demon approached. James' hands began to tremble as he waited for it to reach him, sweat beaded on his forehead as he prepared to betray everything he had ever known. At last, the monstrous creature came into sight. The demon seemed to combine the worst features of a gorilla and a goat into a vast brutish humanoid. The sight of the human's motionless pick had just registered on its face, and it began to raise its great spiked lash.
“Wait!” shouted Captain Shanklin, “I can help! I can tell you where all the Empire's steel comes from! I can lead you to the forges that make Britannia's great guns and railways!”
The demon paused with whip raised, uncomprehending. James shouted desperately. “The weapons that are giving your armies pause! The metal they are made from, you call it 'enchanted iron'. I can show you where most of it is made!”
For a moment it looked like the demon would ignore him, but then it slowly lowered its whip and reached into the water. The chains confining the humans had no locks; if the demons were capable of such craftwork, they did not waste it on lowly human prisoners. Instead, there was simply an unwelded bronze link too thick for a human to bend, but which the overseer's supernatural strength could easily open and close. The demon's clawed hands emerged holding the end of the chain, with which it yanked the human forwards.
“Come.” James has no choice but to follow the brute up through the winding tunnels towards the main shaft, the chain pulling him roughly to his feet when he tripped and fell. “I hope you're lying, little human because I'd love to make a feast of your entrails.”
They turned off the main tunnel into an area James had never entered before. It seemed to be a kind of office, well-lit with numerous torches and filled with carved stone tables and stools. Slates filled with chalked runes lay on the tables and hung from the walls, along with thin fired-clay tablets covered in more runes. His eyes only had seconds to take this in before Medusa entered the room, her snake hair writhing gently. James averted his gaze as quickly as possible, falling to his knees in the manner he'd seen the lesser demons use during the rare visits of the senior overseer.
“This one claims to know where the humans make their enchanted iron.”
Lakheenahuknaasi stared at the wretched human cowering before her. Its form was still dripping with rank water. She hoped this one had something useful. Euryale had gambled a lot on this wild scheme, and if it failed, she would undoubtedly ensure her handmaidens suffered with her. Lakheenahuknaasi aimed a tentacle at the human and shot a single enthrallment dart into the man's shoulder, enough to make it difficult for him to lie to her without robbing him of his wits. He reeled, shook his head, and then tried to look at her out of the corner of his eye, in that annoying manner humans seemed to have. Lakheenahuknaasi smiled at him, unaware that her fangs made the gesture more threatening than reassuring. “So, you have something to tell me, yesss?”
Throne Room, Palace of Satan, Dis, Hell
Satan had thrown some temper tantrums in his time but this one exceeded any those present could easily remember. Most of the Orc domestic staff had died one way or another, and the only reason why the massacre had stopped there was that Satan had run out of energy. While his magic built up again, he contented himself with screaming abuse at the gathered nobles. Eventually, even that led to an exhausted silence. He looked around at the stunned nobility, his eyes flickering from one to the next, trying to catch even the slightest whiff of treason.
“How many members of my guard were killed?”
“Nine, Sire.”
“And you claim that humans did this.” There was a sly inflection on the ‘you claim’.
“They did Sire, they were seen by a Greater Herald that flew not far away. He saw the Iron Chariots killing them.” That was a trump call, Satan wouldn’t argue with testimony from one of his own Greater Heralds.
“And after the battle, they crossed over the bridge and destroyed the camp on the other side of the Phlegethon. Then they retreated to their side of the river where a Flying Chariot joined them.”
Satan screamed again, and a lightning bolt struck down the speaker where he stood. “Their side of the river? Who else thinks such treason?” His eyes ran around the room, seeking treason again, or an excuse to kill, there wasn’t much difference really. “The humans are still at the Dysprosium Bridge.”
“They are,” Beelzebub spoke carefully. “But they destroyed it. The Phlegethon is unbridged there now.”
“Then destroy them. Take your legions, all of them, and destroy them. Belial, is your plan ready to carry out? Or will you be seeing your furnaces from the inside?”
“We are ready Your Majesty. We have the information we need, and the chorus is set up.” And I can only hope that’s true Belial thought. It wasn’t when I left two days ago, and when I get back, I’ll have little time left.
“Then you will time your attack to match Beelzebub’s assault on the Human Army. How soon can you move your army.”
Beelzebub cast an eye at Belial and thought carefully. “Four days Your Majesty.”
“Then that gives you two more days Belial. Use them well.”
Behind the scenes, Deumos watched carefully, absorbing every nuance, every undercurrent in the great room. And though her mind kept running the phrase “the humans cannot lose.”
Then, the audience was disturbed by a Greater Herald who stumbled in, exhausted from a too-rapid flight. “Your Majesty, terrible news. Asmodeus is dead.”
2008 - Armageddon
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Two
Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim was concerned. This was by far the most ambitious scheme she and the Special Forces H Team assigned to her had attempted. It was taking up a frightening amount of resources, all their Semtex, their claymores, and their concentrated strength. More than twenty humans, six deceased, fourteen living, and a small group of deceased spectators. Hell was going to hell Kim thought, they’d have embedded reporters here next.
Beside her, Lieutenant Rollings watched the bottleneck in the road below. The ambush had been very carefully set up and additional troops were brought in to bring it off. The problem was, the plan depended upon the baldricks keeping to their usual, predictable, selves. Faced with a problem, they invariably responded the same way, presumably the one that had been tested and proved successful over more years than humans could comfortably contemplate. If they continued to work that way, then this ambush would also work. If they didn’t, then the team here would be seriously weakened. There was a backup plan for that, if necessary, the whole group would bail out through a portal, and the living humans would stay back on Earth while the deceased would quickly re-insert into another region of Hell to join one of the new groups that had started up.
The strategy had been in operation ever since the baldrick forces had started their campaign to suppress the PFLH. They’d begun their encampments around a massive fortification near the now-severed bridge over the Styx. They’d started building them in a checkerboard fashion, each one within sight of the next, moving slowly forward as the lines of outposts were complete. The baldrick commander didn’t seem to be short of troops, that was for certain, and his strategy was obvious. To slowly shrink the ground the PFLH had to maneuver in until they were forced to fight in a static battle against overwhelming odds. It was a familiar strategy, one that had been used against guerilla forces since the days of Caesar’s battles in Gaul and probably for a long time before that. Still, Rollings had been taught his trade well and knew how to handle this problem. After all, the U.S. Army had been taught that lesson in the jungles of Vietnam by some real experts in guerilla warfare. Idly, he wondered just where the dead Vietcong were, they’d make excellent recruits for this war.
The dance had started with attacks on the leading edge of the outpost line. When one row was completed, somewhere the next row had to start with a unit being pushed forward. That unit, nine baldricks strong had been ambushed and wiped out. There was no doubt about it, the M-107 rifles were a murderously effective tool when used right and they could cut down the baldricks from ranges that the demons couldn’t easily grasp. After losing the first couple of advance units, they’d tried pushing several forward at once. A rapid-fire series of assaults had done for them as well. As the baldrick casualties had mounted, fighting an enemy they couldn’t see or touch, their morale must have started to plummet because they were showing less and less desire to be moving forward.
Well, that had led to the next stage, the baldrick commander had started to push bigger units forward, a full 81-baldrick company rather than the nine-baldrick squad. Interesting that, Rollings thought, they’d jumped the 27-baldrick platoon completely. That might be a measure of the morale problem down there or perhaps a shortage of junior leaders. Armies that had problems with their NCO numbers frequently dropped the platoon as an effective combat element and treated it as a training ground for company-level NCOs. Whatever. The baldricks had pushed a full company out to secure the basis for their next row of outposts. They’d expected that unit to be attacked and the PFLH had obliged them. They’d taken out the two outposts behind it, isolating it from aid, and then laid siege. Of course, the baldricks had done what every army did in such circumstances and sent in a relief force, in this case, two more full companies.
They’d learned the lesson the U.S. Army had learned about that very quickly. The relief force had itself been ambushed, it had been swamped by a hail of rifle and rocket fire that had driven it back in disarray. That battle had cost the Special Forces the life of one of its troopers, fried by a lightning bolt. He’d been too keen; he’d kept firing from the same position rather than changing after every shot. He was doubtless somewhere out here, trying to escape and rejoin the fight as a trooper (deceased). If he could be located, they’d rescue him, DIMO(N) were working on that. By the time, the battle was over a couple more of the Special Forces people had been wounded and the team had to be replaced, that was where Rollings and his group had come in.
With their first rescue column mauled and repulsed, the baldricks had thrown in a bigger one, probably the rest of the battalion, almost 500 strong. It had been led by a major demon, a huge creature who had been carefully photographed, and the images sent back to DIMO(N). They’d identified him as Asmodeus, one of the Great Dukes down here. They’d added that it was the custom for senior leaders to lead in person at a critical point in a battle and that had been interesting from several points of view. Not least of which was the fact that the baldricks obviously considered this engagement a critical one. He’d lead the relief force, the PFLH had refrained from engaging it and the outpost garrison had then been relieved.
That had set the style for the next period of fighting. The PFLH would besiege an outpost, inflicting casualties on it but not taking it. If a smaller relief column set out, it would be ambushed, and its mauled remains sent scurrying back with its tail between its legs. But if Asmodeus himself led the force, it would be left unattacked. For the last couple of sieges, the baldrick commander had dispensed with the small relief column and led a full battalion himself, obviously convinced that his presence deterred any further attack.
So, the battlefield had been shaped and the blow set up. The baldricks were indeed predictable, it was easy to determine where their future outposts would be. If they had such things as checklists, Rollings could have written one for them and they wouldn’t have known the difference between his and their own. He’d been able to choose his ground carefully, the place where he would attack his outpost and the place where he would ambush the relief column. This time, the presence of Asmodeus would be the reason for the attack, not one to pull back.
“There they are Broomstick.” The column was approaching, a way off yet, but still visible, a shining black mass against the gray-green slime of the Fifth Circle. “And the Tall Fellow is leading them again.”
“What’s that above them,” Kim spoke urgently, her binoculars traversing the scene.
“Damn. Harpies. That’s a new wrinkle. They smarten up faster than we thought. They’re staying close in though; they still don’t understand how far away we can reach. Nine of them?”
“Nine, Chris. Confirm they’re close in.” Her radio blipped, and she listened briefly. “Three of my people back at Outpost 11-1 have taken a few more shots but the baldricks there have learned as well, they’re keeping their heads down. Those that still have a head that is.” Over the last few weeks, Kim and her team had pulled a dozen or so people out of the mud. Nine had been useless, civilians, ancient, modern, and in between, without any useful skills and she had sent those to Rahab. Three had been soldiers, two modern U.S. Army people. One of them had been killed in Vietnam, another in Operation Desert Storm. They’d taken little in the way of instruction and had checked out on the M107 and M114 fast. The third had been a French Poilu who’d died at Verdun. He’d taken a bit more training but his attitude to the battle had been an inspiration. His constant muttering of “they shall not pass” and his assertion that Hell was an improvement on the mud and slime of Verdun had become unit legends.
Rollings watched the column enter the killing ground he had chosen. The Tall Fellow was leading on a Giant Rhinolobster, by far the biggest that had ever been seen, right at the head of his troops where good demonic practice said he should be. Rollings judged his moment carefully and twisted the first of his detonators. The explosive pattern was the same one that Kim had used weeks earlier to kill her first baldrick rider, an X-shape of Claymores but this time, the X had six of the directional mines in each of its arms, saturating the entire head of the column with the clouds of pre-shaped metal fragments. Rollings didn’t stop to admire his handiwork, there was too much to be done. He twisted the second detonator, setting off the huge Semtex charge that was directly underneath Asmodeus. Over a thousand pounds of the Czech high explosive was buried there, covered with rocks for fragmentation, but it was the sheer blast that Rollings was relying on. The explosion had the striking power of an 8,000-pound aerial bomb and the explosive blocks had been laid in a dish-shaped to focus that blast upwards. Asmodeus disappeared in the rolling orange ball of fire and smoke, even as his troops were scythed down by the claymores.
Above the column, the harpies were flung around by the huge blast, tumbled in mid-air, and left stunned and disorientated. Several had been hit by flying rocks and dropped to the ground, others on the rim of the blast pattern started scanning the ground trying to pick up the authors of the devastating blow. Even as they did so, one burst into flame as a .50 SLAP round from an M-107 ruptured his body and his acid blood set his tissues on fire.
Two of the harpies were luckier, they had been on a far swing, away from the sight of the devastating concussion, and they spotted two humans on the ground, firing at the baldricks around the blast site and so absorbed that they simply didn’t notice the threat looming above them. The harpies dived on them, grabbing them with their claws, rending their flesh from their bodies, their calls of triumph blending with the screams of the dying humans. One of the Special Forces heavy weapons team saw the attack and swung his .50 caliber Browning machine gun onto the scene, chopping both harpies out of the sky, too late to save their victims. The machine gunner noted that grimly and made it his duty to get the rest of the harpies before they could do any more harm
On the ground, the smoke was clearing, revealing the huge crater where the head of the relief column had been. The mud had been blasted away down to bedrock, figures of baldricks were scattered around but of the Great Rhinolobster, there was no sign. It must have been part of the horrible tangle of eviscerated body parts that strewed the area. Rollings surveyed the area intently, but it was Kim who spotted Asmodeus first. He’d been shielded, partially, by the rhinolobster he had been riding but he had been thrown hundreds of feet and the lower part of his body was hideously mangled. She shouldered her M-107 and took careful aim through the telescopic sight, putting round after round into the Great Duke’s head. Asmodeus was still moving, trying to drag himself along by his hands, trying to get away from the blows that were destroying him. He felt his strength fading, then there was another blast and his struggle ended.
Kim saw the great body cease moving and watched as two rockets plowed into it, ending the work of destruction. She saw the rest of the column looking at the scene in appalled silence as the stunning realization that a Great Duke of Hell had just died sank in. For a moment everything on the battlefield was still, an eerie silence with neither humans nor baldricks firing. Then it was broken by the hammer of the .50 machine gun as it started to rake the survivors. That did it, the baldricks broke and ran.
“Sorry about your men Chris. We’ll watch out for them. If Kitten can find them, we’ll get them out for you.”
“Thanks, Broomstick. We’d better get out of here; those harpies were a nasty surprise. We want to be a long way away before the baldricks get their act together and come hunting.”
Throne Room of the Adamant Fastness, Tartaruan Range, Outer Rim of Hell
“There had better be good news.” Belial had had his days on wyvern-back to absorb the news of the death of Asmodeus and there was no upside to that story. One of the greatest Dukes of Hell was dead, killed by humans. If they could kill him, they could kill anybody. They could even kill……. Belial stopped himself, if Satan detected that thought, Belial’s end would be horrible beyond contemplation. “We must avenge Asmodeus.”
“Please tell the court what you told me, about the forges of Sheffield,” Lakheenahuknaasi asked, as sweetly as she could manage following the stunning news of the death of the Great Duke. Her mind was also calculating, if the humans could kill the Great Dukes, then they had to be stopped before they won this war. And if they couldn’t be stopped, wasn’t it time she……?
Captain Shanklin was shaking with fear at the sight of the vast ornate room filled with huge, armored demons. Their stares seemed to bore straight into his mind, rendering any notion of backing out now ludicrous.
“Well, milords and ladies, you see, all our guns, all our shells are made of steel. You call it 'enchanted iron', not that that's a bad thing to call it of course, since it just is iron with some special additives.”
This caused a minor stir in the court. One of the great armored demons spoke; “Human, do you know the secret of this alchemy? Could you transform plain molten iron into enchanted iron?”
James gulped. “Perhaps, milord, it is the case that I was a foreman at the Bessemer works before the Great War... I would see your furnaces...”
As his words trailed off the great antlered demon on the throne spoke in a thundering voice. “I am sure that Baron Trajakrithoth's question was purely hypothetical. Our lord Satan has decreed that hell does not need iron and that no demon shall attempt to make weapons from it. Our furnaces smelt bronze, brass, copper, silver, and gold, no iron.” Those words did not seem to be directed at the human, but the next ones were. “Now, what of this 'Sheffield'? It has many furnaces, many forges?”
” Aye, the city of Sheffield makes more steel than anywhere else in the Empire. The best steel too, and many things from that steel, cast and machined.” Despite all that he'd been through, there was still a hint of pride in Shanklin's voice.
The demon lord was clearly pleased, and James sagged with relief. “Excellent. Where can I find this city of steel?”
“Why, in Yorkshire, the center of the British Isles, milord. Look sixty miles north from Birmingham, or Thirtymiles west from Manchester, or even twenty miles south from Leeds.”
Belial's expression did not show any hint of recognition of the names of the various British cities, but the rough triangulation seemed to satisfy him for now. “Very good... Jaameshankel.” The count waved his hand dismissively, which Lakheenahuknaasi took as a command to lead the human away.
“You said you had another trai... ah, informant, Euryale? One who knows of the iron chariots?”
“Yes, my lord.” The gorgon queen turned to address another of her retinue. “Present your new friend, Megaaerakni.”
The second handmaiden stepped forward, her clawed hand keeping a tight grip on the shoulder of a short, bald human. The man swayed unsteadily; Megaaeraholrakni had dosed him heavily with her poison, not wanting to risk him having a last-minute change of heart. She whispered into his ear, “these... men... are very interessted in your 'tankss', please tell them what Dee'Troyt can offer them.”
Bob Reed recited his pitch by rote. “Well sirs, if it's quality you're looking for, dee-troyt has the finest workforce and the most modern production lines in the world. No need to worry about capacity either, we built twenty thousand tanks for uncle sam in double-u double-u two. Don't let the guys from cry-slur fool you, with our boys fighting the gooks in core-rea, their lines are tied up turning out em forty-sevens for the feds. It stands to reason, if you've got a big order, gee em is the logical choice. We can get a plant switched over for you in...”
The demons were throwing baffled glances at each other. Could this 'uncle sam' really afford three legions worth of chariots for his troops? More likely the human was inflating the figure to impress. 'Tank' seemed to mean 'iron chariot' but what was an 'em forty-seven'? Their lord seemed annoyed and that never bode well for the source of the annoyance.
“Enough. Human, you were asked a simple question. Is this 'Dee’Troyt' a major source of weapons for the human resistance?” Belial's tone oozed with the promise of horrible consequences should this question not be answered promptly.
Now it was Bob's chance to be confused. His eyes remained unfocused as he continued; “Why haven't you heard? Detroit is the arsenal of democracy. Eff Dee Arr said so himself.”
Belial couldn't resist taking over. “So, Detroit makes all the chariots for the state of Democracy? Which is ruled by Uncle Sam and populated by Feds? And your great general Eff'dee'ar is leading your armies against us, the ones you call the gooks?”
Bob was saved solely by his loyalty to Selfridge's mantra; 'the customer is always right’. “Well, yeah, I suppose you could put it like that...”
The tension was over now that Belial had made sense of it for them. The barons abandoned the hard task of trying to comprehend the insane humans and slipped back into the familiar territory, a flattery competition.
“Excellent deduction my lord!”
“Masterful interrogation, Count Belial!”
Belial allowed this to continue for a few more seconds before silencing the court with a chopping gesture.
“You have pleased me...” there was a slight pause as the count pulled the name from the man's mind... “Bob reed.” He turned to one of his ubiquitous minor demon servants. “Take them both to the guest rooms. See to their needs until I require them again.” The two humans were led away.
“Excellent. Euryale, you have surpassed my expectations. We now have the location of the two most critical arsenals supporting the human resistance. Once they are destroyed, the human armies will find their reinforcements either severely diminished in number or lacking the enchanted weapons that allow them to challenge us.”
Belial had been concerned that the intelligence would be dangerously out of date. The constant stream of unpleasant surprises since the heralds had first arrived on earth had driven home how much the humans had changed since the demons last visited earth in strength. But the first informant had been dead less than two human lifetimes, the second barely one. Save destruction by war, great cities could not change significantly in a mere handful of decades.
Euryale half-spread her wings, holding the leathery membranes low in folds that touched the ground and lowered her head. It was a gesture that implied respect and submission without the admission of inferiority that the more usual forms of groveling involved. “I am most glad that my humble efforts please my lord,” she said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
'I shouldn't let her get away with that' Belial thought, 'but I suppose this once she's earned it.'
The gorgon continued, “There were a few other traitors who I thought might be of use to you. They did not seem to know where the enchanted weapons were produced, like these two. But they did claim to know how to make them.”
Belial looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. “Move them to the palace. Keep them isolated and under guard. Perhaps they can be of use to Trajakrithoth, perhaps they are best used as wyvern feed, but that can wait. We have only three days left to meet Satan's deadline.” It was five, but he had already decided to keep the two extra days in hand as his last reserve.
His gaze shifted to the serpentine form of the leader of the Tartaruan naga. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, her tentacles twitching and her coils shifting irritably on the flagstones. “Baroness Yulupki, your naga are ready of course?”
“My lord, the chorusss will have no difffficulty with the firssst portal...”
Belial frowned. “And the second?”
“It isss not my fault, my lord, the additional naaaga I was promisssed, only a quarter of them have arrived. From the rate that they are arriving, three daysss hence we ssshall ssstill have barely a third.”
Belial slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne hard enough to crack the stone. Nearly every demon in the hall startled at the noise, except the court mason who merely sighed at the thought of having to carve yet another throne. “Naturally, the dukes seek to sabotage me, claiming honestly that they sent naga while knowing all the time they will not arrive quickly enough to do any good. But I shall not be denied.” he thundered.
The count pointed at Hipparferstiphasus, the leader of his meager flock of harpies. “You will take every demon that can fly, and you will search out the witches we were promised. Then you will take every wyvern we have, snatch up the naga and fly them directly to Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath.”
“Of course, my lord.” The harpy bowed low, wings spreading on the floor, then ran from the throne room.
Yulupki writhed. “My lord, without time to harmonissse the chorusss, we risssk...”
Belial smashed his fist down again, this time hard enough to spall splinters of adamantine from the side of the throne. “No excuses. Why are you still here? Take your naga up to the first portal site immediately and make ready to open it up.”
Yulupki bowed, whirled around, and slithered away through the great bronze doors. Euryale didn't even bother to hide her smirk.
“And you, Trajakrithoth?” Belial continued” Tell me you have the shrines ready.”
The baron charged with running the main forges and workshops was a huge demon with streaky brown fur, little of which was visible under his massive bronze armor, and a voice like a stone grinder. “Almost, my lord. The shrines on Okthuura Jorkastrequar are complete. I am allowing my demons no breaks, no respite. The shrines on Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath will be completed within two days.”
Belial sat back contentedly, but the forge-master had not finished. “I must warn you though, between making the shrine rods and the rebelliousness of the humans, trident production has been completely disrupted.”
Baron Guruktarqor cut in. “Stocks of refined copper and tin are running low sire; half of our smelting furnaces are out of operation. Plenty of ore in the silos sire but output from the mines is also down to less than half.” The baron was small and runtish for a demon of his station, speaking in a voice reminiscent of a squealing boar; most of the court found him intolerable, but Belial found his talent for keeping track of the minutiae of Tartaruan industry useful. “Euryale's manipulations have stopped the rioting, but we need more workers sire, demon, and human.”
“You shall get them. Already messengers have arrived from Beelzebub, Merihem, and Gressil, demanding our best tridents to equip the legions they are mobilizing. I expect there will be more shortly. I have demanded twelve humans and one lesser demon per crate. They will have no choice but to pay the tribute unless they would rather leave their legions helpless against the human pellet-throwers.”
“If I could make a request, my lord?”
The count tilted his head, inviting Euryale to continue.
“I have some ideas on how to improve the humans' enthusiasm for their work. But I will require some females. A few dozen should do to start with.”
Belial snorted; a reaction shared by most of the demons present. Tartarus had always levied male humans in return for its wares, as both sexes were equally useful to the torturers, but males were obviously far superior manual laborers. There was only one thing Euryale could want the females for and Belial didn't like that notion at all.
“Have you forgotten that we still need the psychic energy of the humans? It hardly matters if we produce a few more tridents if my serfs are rebelling because your pampered humans no longer give up enough energy.”
“My lord, I am confident that will not be the case. You see, recent events have shown how acclimatized to their condition the humans had become. When a human has nothing left to lose, the quality of anguish we can inflict is limited. For a few decades they rage and hate, but then their minds decay into apathy. By mixing in a little pleasure with their pain, by giving them something to lose again, I will heighten their suffering and inject fresh desperation even as they toil ever harder in your service.”
Again, Euryale had caught the attention of the whole court and they were nodding in appreciation of her logic. 'She does have a talent for speeches', thought Belial, 'I will find a way to make use of that.'
“Very well. I shall permit you to continue your games... as soon as Sheffield and Detroit have been reduced to glowing slag.” Belial settled back in his damaged throne with a question left unanswered. Why did the humans refer to demons as gooks?
Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“Are you sure this is going to work?” Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim was concerned. This was by far the most ambitious scheme she and the Special Forces H Team assigned to her had attempted. It was taking up a frightening amount of resources, all their Semtex, their claymores, and their concentrated strength. More than twenty humans, six deceased, fourteen living, and a small group of deceased spectators. Hell was going to hell Kim thought, they’d have embedded reporters here next.
Beside her, Lieutenant Rollings watched the bottleneck in the road below. The ambush had been very carefully set up and additional troops were brought in to bring it off. The problem was, the plan depended upon the baldricks keeping to their usual, predictable, selves. Faced with a problem, they invariably responded the same way, presumably the one that had been tested and proved successful over more years than humans could comfortably contemplate. If they continued to work that way, then this ambush would also work. If they didn’t, then the team here would be seriously weakened. There was a backup plan for that, if necessary, the whole group would bail out through a portal, and the living humans would stay back on Earth while the deceased would quickly re-insert into another region of Hell to join one of the new groups that had started up.
The strategy had been in operation ever since the baldrick forces had started their campaign to suppress the PFLH. They’d begun their encampments around a massive fortification near the now-severed bridge over the Styx. They’d started building them in a checkerboard fashion, each one within sight of the next, moving slowly forward as the lines of outposts were complete. The baldrick commander didn’t seem to be short of troops, that was for certain, and his strategy was obvious. To slowly shrink the ground the PFLH had to maneuver in until they were forced to fight in a static battle against overwhelming odds. It was a familiar strategy, one that had been used against guerilla forces since the days of Caesar’s battles in Gaul and probably for a long time before that. Still, Rollings had been taught his trade well and knew how to handle this problem. After all, the U.S. Army had been taught that lesson in the jungles of Vietnam by some real experts in guerilla warfare. Idly, he wondered just where the dead Vietcong were, they’d make excellent recruits for this war.
The dance had started with attacks on the leading edge of the outpost line. When one row was completed, somewhere the next row had to start with a unit being pushed forward. That unit, nine baldricks strong had been ambushed and wiped out. There was no doubt about it, the M-107 rifles were a murderously effective tool when used right and they could cut down the baldricks from ranges that the demons couldn’t easily grasp. After losing the first couple of advance units, they’d tried pushing several forward at once. A rapid-fire series of assaults had done for them as well. As the baldrick casualties had mounted, fighting an enemy they couldn’t see or touch, their morale must have started to plummet because they were showing less and less desire to be moving forward.
Well, that had led to the next stage, the baldrick commander had started to push bigger units forward, a full 81-baldrick company rather than the nine-baldrick squad. Interesting that, Rollings thought, they’d jumped the 27-baldrick platoon completely. That might be a measure of the morale problem down there or perhaps a shortage of junior leaders. Armies that had problems with their NCO numbers frequently dropped the platoon as an effective combat element and treated it as a training ground for company-level NCOs. Whatever. The baldricks had pushed a full company out to secure the basis for their next row of outposts. They’d expected that unit to be attacked and the PFLH had obliged them. They’d taken out the two outposts behind it, isolating it from aid, and then laid siege. Of course, the baldricks had done what every army did in such circumstances and sent in a relief force, in this case, two more full companies.
They’d learned the lesson the U.S. Army had learned about that very quickly. The relief force had itself been ambushed, it had been swamped by a hail of rifle and rocket fire that had driven it back in disarray. That battle had cost the Special Forces the life of one of its troopers, fried by a lightning bolt. He’d been too keen; he’d kept firing from the same position rather than changing after every shot. He was doubtless somewhere out here, trying to escape and rejoin the fight as a trooper (deceased). If he could be located, they’d rescue him, DIMO(N) were working on that. By the time, the battle was over a couple more of the Special Forces people had been wounded and the team had to be replaced, that was where Rollings and his group had come in.
With their first rescue column mauled and repulsed, the baldricks had thrown in a bigger one, probably the rest of the battalion, almost 500 strong. It had been led by a major demon, a huge creature who had been carefully photographed, and the images sent back to DIMO(N). They’d identified him as Asmodeus, one of the Great Dukes down here. They’d added that it was the custom for senior leaders to lead in person at a critical point in a battle and that had been interesting from several points of view. Not least of which was the fact that the baldricks obviously considered this engagement a critical one. He’d lead the relief force, the PFLH had refrained from engaging it and the outpost garrison had then been relieved.
That had set the style for the next period of fighting. The PFLH would besiege an outpost, inflicting casualties on it but not taking it. If a smaller relief column set out, it would be ambushed, and its mauled remains sent scurrying back with its tail between its legs. But if Asmodeus himself led the force, it would be left unattacked. For the last couple of sieges, the baldrick commander had dispensed with the small relief column and led a full battalion himself, obviously convinced that his presence deterred any further attack.
So, the battlefield had been shaped and the blow set up. The baldricks were indeed predictable, it was easy to determine where their future outposts would be. If they had such things as checklists, Rollings could have written one for them and they wouldn’t have known the difference between his and their own. He’d been able to choose his ground carefully, the place where he would attack his outpost and the place where he would ambush the relief column. This time, the presence of Asmodeus would be the reason for the attack, not one to pull back.
“There they are Broomstick.” The column was approaching, a way off yet, but still visible, a shining black mass against the gray-green slime of the Fifth Circle. “And the Tall Fellow is leading them again.”
“What’s that above them,” Kim spoke urgently, her binoculars traversing the scene.
“Damn. Harpies. That’s a new wrinkle. They smarten up faster than we thought. They’re staying close in though; they still don’t understand how far away we can reach. Nine of them?”
“Nine, Chris. Confirm they’re close in.” Her radio blipped, and she listened briefly. “Three of my people back at Outpost 11-1 have taken a few more shots but the baldricks there have learned as well, they’re keeping their heads down. Those that still have a head that is.” Over the last few weeks, Kim and her team had pulled a dozen or so people out of the mud. Nine had been useless, civilians, ancient, modern, and in between, without any useful skills and she had sent those to Rahab. Three had been soldiers, two modern U.S. Army people. One of them had been killed in Vietnam, another in Operation Desert Storm. They’d taken little in the way of instruction and had checked out on the M107 and M114 fast. The third had been a French Poilu who’d died at Verdun. He’d taken a bit more training but his attitude to the battle had been an inspiration. His constant muttering of “they shall not pass” and his assertion that Hell was an improvement on the mud and slime of Verdun had become unit legends.
Rollings watched the column enter the killing ground he had chosen. The Tall Fellow was leading on a Giant Rhinolobster, by far the biggest that had ever been seen, right at the head of his troops where good demonic practice said he should be. Rollings judged his moment carefully and twisted the first of his detonators. The explosive pattern was the same one that Kim had used weeks earlier to kill her first baldrick rider, an X-shape of Claymores but this time, the X had six of the directional mines in each of its arms, saturating the entire head of the column with the clouds of pre-shaped metal fragments. Rollings didn’t stop to admire his handiwork, there was too much to be done. He twisted the second detonator, setting off the huge Semtex charge that was directly underneath Asmodeus. Over a thousand pounds of the Czech high explosive was buried there, covered with rocks for fragmentation, but it was the sheer blast that Rollings was relying on. The explosion had the striking power of an 8,000-pound aerial bomb and the explosive blocks had been laid in a dish-shaped to focus that blast upwards. Asmodeus disappeared in the rolling orange ball of fire and smoke, even as his troops were scythed down by the claymores.
Above the column, the harpies were flung around by the huge blast, tumbled in mid-air, and left stunned and disorientated. Several had been hit by flying rocks and dropped to the ground, others on the rim of the blast pattern started scanning the ground trying to pick up the authors of the devastating blow. Even as they did so, one burst into flame as a .50 SLAP round from an M-107 ruptured his body and his acid blood set his tissues on fire.
Two of the harpies were luckier, they had been on a far swing, away from the sight of the devastating concussion, and they spotted two humans on the ground, firing at the baldricks around the blast site and so absorbed that they simply didn’t notice the threat looming above them. The harpies dived on them, grabbing them with their claws, rending their flesh from their bodies, their calls of triumph blending with the screams of the dying humans. One of the Special Forces heavy weapons team saw the attack and swung his .50 caliber Browning machine gun onto the scene, chopping both harpies out of the sky, too late to save their victims. The machine gunner noted that grimly and made it his duty to get the rest of the harpies before they could do any more harm
On the ground, the smoke was clearing, revealing the huge crater where the head of the relief column had been. The mud had been blasted away down to bedrock, figures of baldricks were scattered around but of the Great Rhinolobster, there was no sign. It must have been part of the horrible tangle of eviscerated body parts that strewed the area. Rollings surveyed the area intently, but it was Kim who spotted Asmodeus first. He’d been shielded, partially, by the rhinolobster he had been riding but he had been thrown hundreds of feet and the lower part of his body was hideously mangled. She shouldered her M-107 and took careful aim through the telescopic sight, putting round after round into the Great Duke’s head. Asmodeus was still moving, trying to drag himself along by his hands, trying to get away from the blows that were destroying him. He felt his strength fading, then there was another blast and his struggle ended.
Kim saw the great body cease moving and watched as two rockets plowed into it, ending the work of destruction. She saw the rest of the column looking at the scene in appalled silence as the stunning realization that a Great Duke of Hell had just died sank in. For a moment everything on the battlefield was still, an eerie silence with neither humans nor baldricks firing. Then it was broken by the hammer of the .50 machine gun as it started to rake the survivors. That did it, the baldricks broke and ran.
“Sorry about your men Chris. We’ll watch out for them. If Kitten can find them, we’ll get them out for you.”
“Thanks, Broomstick. We’d better get out of here; those harpies were a nasty surprise. We want to be a long way away before the baldricks get their act together and come hunting.”
Throne Room of the Adamant Fastness, Tartaruan Range, Outer Rim of Hell
“There had better be good news.” Belial had had his days on wyvern-back to absorb the news of the death of Asmodeus and there was no upside to that story. One of the greatest Dukes of Hell was dead, killed by humans. If they could kill him, they could kill anybody. They could even kill……. Belial stopped himself, if Satan detected that thought, Belial’s end would be horrible beyond contemplation. “We must avenge Asmodeus.”
“Please tell the court what you told me, about the forges of Sheffield,” Lakheenahuknaasi asked, as sweetly as she could manage following the stunning news of the death of the Great Duke. Her mind was also calculating, if the humans could kill the Great Dukes, then they had to be stopped before they won this war. And if they couldn’t be stopped, wasn’t it time she……?
Captain Shanklin was shaking with fear at the sight of the vast ornate room filled with huge, armored demons. Their stares seemed to bore straight into his mind, rendering any notion of backing out now ludicrous.
“Well, milords and ladies, you see, all our guns, all our shells are made of steel. You call it 'enchanted iron', not that that's a bad thing to call it of course, since it just is iron with some special additives.”
This caused a minor stir in the court. One of the great armored demons spoke; “Human, do you know the secret of this alchemy? Could you transform plain molten iron into enchanted iron?”
James gulped. “Perhaps, milord, it is the case that I was a foreman at the Bessemer works before the Great War... I would see your furnaces...”
As his words trailed off the great antlered demon on the throne spoke in a thundering voice. “I am sure that Baron Trajakrithoth's question was purely hypothetical. Our lord Satan has decreed that hell does not need iron and that no demon shall attempt to make weapons from it. Our furnaces smelt bronze, brass, copper, silver, and gold, no iron.” Those words did not seem to be directed at the human, but the next ones were. “Now, what of this 'Sheffield'? It has many furnaces, many forges?”
” Aye, the city of Sheffield makes more steel than anywhere else in the Empire. The best steel too, and many things from that steel, cast and machined.” Despite all that he'd been through, there was still a hint of pride in Shanklin's voice.
The demon lord was clearly pleased, and James sagged with relief. “Excellent. Where can I find this city of steel?”
“Why, in Yorkshire, the center of the British Isles, milord. Look sixty miles north from Birmingham, or Thirtymiles west from Manchester, or even twenty miles south from Leeds.”
Belial's expression did not show any hint of recognition of the names of the various British cities, but the rough triangulation seemed to satisfy him for now. “Very good... Jaameshankel.” The count waved his hand dismissively, which Lakheenahuknaasi took as a command to lead the human away.
“You said you had another trai... ah, informant, Euryale? One who knows of the iron chariots?”
“Yes, my lord.” The gorgon queen turned to address another of her retinue. “Present your new friend, Megaaerakni.”
The second handmaiden stepped forward, her clawed hand keeping a tight grip on the shoulder of a short, bald human. The man swayed unsteadily; Megaaeraholrakni had dosed him heavily with her poison, not wanting to risk him having a last-minute change of heart. She whispered into his ear, “these... men... are very interessted in your 'tankss', please tell them what Dee'Troyt can offer them.”
Bob Reed recited his pitch by rote. “Well sirs, if it's quality you're looking for, dee-troyt has the finest workforce and the most modern production lines in the world. No need to worry about capacity either, we built twenty thousand tanks for uncle sam in double-u double-u two. Don't let the guys from cry-slur fool you, with our boys fighting the gooks in core-rea, their lines are tied up turning out em forty-sevens for the feds. It stands to reason, if you've got a big order, gee em is the logical choice. We can get a plant switched over for you in...”
The demons were throwing baffled glances at each other. Could this 'uncle sam' really afford three legions worth of chariots for his troops? More likely the human was inflating the figure to impress. 'Tank' seemed to mean 'iron chariot' but what was an 'em forty-seven'? Their lord seemed annoyed and that never bode well for the source of the annoyance.
“Enough. Human, you were asked a simple question. Is this 'Dee’Troyt' a major source of weapons for the human resistance?” Belial's tone oozed with the promise of horrible consequences should this question not be answered promptly.
Now it was Bob's chance to be confused. His eyes remained unfocused as he continued; “Why haven't you heard? Detroit is the arsenal of democracy. Eff Dee Arr said so himself.”
Belial couldn't resist taking over. “So, Detroit makes all the chariots for the state of Democracy? Which is ruled by Uncle Sam and populated by Feds? And your great general Eff'dee'ar is leading your armies against us, the ones you call the gooks?”
Bob was saved solely by his loyalty to Selfridge's mantra; 'the customer is always right’. “Well, yeah, I suppose you could put it like that...”
The tension was over now that Belial had made sense of it for them. The barons abandoned the hard task of trying to comprehend the insane humans and slipped back into the familiar territory, a flattery competition.
“Excellent deduction my lord!”
“Masterful interrogation, Count Belial!”
Belial allowed this to continue for a few more seconds before silencing the court with a chopping gesture.
“You have pleased me...” there was a slight pause as the count pulled the name from the man's mind... “Bob reed.” He turned to one of his ubiquitous minor demon servants. “Take them both to the guest rooms. See to their needs until I require them again.” The two humans were led away.
“Excellent. Euryale, you have surpassed my expectations. We now have the location of the two most critical arsenals supporting the human resistance. Once they are destroyed, the human armies will find their reinforcements either severely diminished in number or lacking the enchanted weapons that allow them to challenge us.”
Belial had been concerned that the intelligence would be dangerously out of date. The constant stream of unpleasant surprises since the heralds had first arrived on earth had driven home how much the humans had changed since the demons last visited earth in strength. But the first informant had been dead less than two human lifetimes, the second barely one. Save destruction by war, great cities could not change significantly in a mere handful of decades.
Euryale half-spread her wings, holding the leathery membranes low in folds that touched the ground and lowered her head. It was a gesture that implied respect and submission without the admission of inferiority that the more usual forms of groveling involved. “I am most glad that my humble efforts please my lord,” she said, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm.
'I shouldn't let her get away with that' Belial thought, 'but I suppose this once she's earned it.'
The gorgon continued, “There were a few other traitors who I thought might be of use to you. They did not seem to know where the enchanted weapons were produced, like these two. But they did claim to know how to make them.”
Belial looked thoughtful for a moment before shaking his head. “Move them to the palace. Keep them isolated and under guard. Perhaps they can be of use to Trajakrithoth, perhaps they are best used as wyvern feed, but that can wait. We have only three days left to meet Satan's deadline.” It was five, but he had already decided to keep the two extra days in hand as his last reserve.
His gaze shifted to the serpentine form of the leader of the Tartaruan naga. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, her tentacles twitching and her coils shifting irritably on the flagstones. “Baroness Yulupki, your naga are ready of course?”
“My lord, the chorusss will have no difffficulty with the firssst portal...”
Belial frowned. “And the second?”
“It isss not my fault, my lord, the additional naaaga I was promisssed, only a quarter of them have arrived. From the rate that they are arriving, three daysss hence we ssshall ssstill have barely a third.”
Belial slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne hard enough to crack the stone. Nearly every demon in the hall startled at the noise, except the court mason who merely sighed at the thought of having to carve yet another throne. “Naturally, the dukes seek to sabotage me, claiming honestly that they sent naga while knowing all the time they will not arrive quickly enough to do any good. But I shall not be denied.” he thundered.
The count pointed at Hipparferstiphasus, the leader of his meager flock of harpies. “You will take every demon that can fly, and you will search out the witches we were promised. Then you will take every wyvern we have, snatch up the naga and fly them directly to Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath.”
“Of course, my lord.” The harpy bowed low, wings spreading on the floor, then ran from the throne room.
Yulupki writhed. “My lord, without time to harmonissse the chorusss, we risssk...”
Belial smashed his fist down again, this time hard enough to spall splinters of adamantine from the side of the throne. “No excuses. Why are you still here? Take your naga up to the first portal site immediately and make ready to open it up.”
Yulupki bowed, whirled around, and slithered away through the great bronze doors. Euryale didn't even bother to hide her smirk.
“And you, Trajakrithoth?” Belial continued” Tell me you have the shrines ready.”
The baron charged with running the main forges and workshops was a huge demon with streaky brown fur, little of which was visible under his massive bronze armor, and a voice like a stone grinder. “Almost, my lord. The shrines on Okthuura Jorkastrequar are complete. I am allowing my demons no breaks, no respite. The shrines on Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath will be completed within two days.”
Belial sat back contentedly, but the forge-master had not finished. “I must warn you though, between making the shrine rods and the rebelliousness of the humans, trident production has been completely disrupted.”
Baron Guruktarqor cut in. “Stocks of refined copper and tin are running low sire; half of our smelting furnaces are out of operation. Plenty of ore in the silos sire but output from the mines is also down to less than half.” The baron was small and runtish for a demon of his station, speaking in a voice reminiscent of a squealing boar; most of the court found him intolerable, but Belial found his talent for keeping track of the minutiae of Tartaruan industry useful. “Euryale's manipulations have stopped the rioting, but we need more workers sire, demon, and human.”
“You shall get them. Already messengers have arrived from Beelzebub, Merihem, and Gressil, demanding our best tridents to equip the legions they are mobilizing. I expect there will be more shortly. I have demanded twelve humans and one lesser demon per crate. They will have no choice but to pay the tribute unless they would rather leave their legions helpless against the human pellet-throwers.”
“If I could make a request, my lord?”
The count tilted his head, inviting Euryale to continue.
“I have some ideas on how to improve the humans' enthusiasm for their work. But I will require some females. A few dozen should do to start with.”
Belial snorted; a reaction shared by most of the demons present. Tartarus had always levied male humans in return for its wares, as both sexes were equally useful to the torturers, but males were obviously far superior manual laborers. There was only one thing Euryale could want the females for and Belial didn't like that notion at all.
“Have you forgotten that we still need the psychic energy of the humans? It hardly matters if we produce a few more tridents if my serfs are rebelling because your pampered humans no longer give up enough energy.”
“My lord, I am confident that will not be the case. You see, recent events have shown how acclimatized to their condition the humans had become. When a human has nothing left to lose, the quality of anguish we can inflict is limited. For a few decades they rage and hate, but then their minds decay into apathy. By mixing in a little pleasure with their pain, by giving them something to lose again, I will heighten their suffering and inject fresh desperation even as they toil ever harder in your service.”
Again, Euryale had caught the attention of the whole court and they were nodding in appreciation of her logic. 'She does have a talent for speeches', thought Belial, 'I will find a way to make use of that.'
“Very well. I shall permit you to continue your games... as soon as Sheffield and Detroit have been reduced to glowing slag.” Belial settled back in his damaged throne with a question left unanswered. Why did the humans refer to demons as gooks?
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Three
The Hellmouth, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“Let’s have any HEAD you have on board.” The voice from outside the tank combined urgency and boredom.
“Would you care to repeat that soldier?” Major Stevenson peered over the edge of her turret. She and her combat group had been waiting in the traffic jam by the Hellmouth for nearly four hours and she wasn’t in the mood for any insubordination. Besides, she was hot, tired, and sticky from being inside a tank too long, and chewing out a subordinate would be a welcome relief. As the thought crossed her mind, she decided she’d probably been in Hell too long.
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but it’s orders. All outgoing armor is to unload any HEAD ammunition on board for reissue. It’s in short supply and the units up on the Phlegethon are going to need it.”
“HEAD? You mean HEAT?”
“No Ma’am. High Explosive Anti-Demon. The new round just started getting the first shipments. Got an iron liner instead of copper. Baldricks surely do hate iron. If you got any Ma’am, we’ll unload it for you.” The Sergeant had noted the battered vehicles and suddenly decided that these units had been in Hell a lot longer than he had. And messing with this Major might be a very bad idea. Especially if the scuttlebutt about a battle brewing was true.
“Hokay. Sergeant, we’ve none of that on board. Any idea how long we’ll be hung up? I kinda hanker to see a blue sky again.”
“Dunno Ma’am and that’s the truth. There’s stuff pouring in all the time. The Russians have been coming in all morning and we had an Israeli armored division before that, and I’m told there’s a European armored division behind them. And then there’s the aircraft the brass is towing in. There’s more of our boys unloading down South, or their equipment is. Guys themselves are being flown in. Look over there, ma’am.”
‘Over there’ was the road leading through the Hellmouth. The stream of Russian armor had stopped for a few minutes, their place was taken by aircraft tractors, each one towing what looked like an A-10. Only, they were now painted red-gray, and they had a mushroom-shaped filter over the engine intakes. Stevenson lifted her mask slightly and took a cautious sniff of the air. It was a lot cleaner here than further into hell, presumably, there was some gas exchange through the Hellmouth, but there was a new smell as well. One that achingly reminded Stevenson of home in Bayonne. The smell of tar and oil refineries.
“A blacktop road in Hell. Whodathunkit.”
“Engineers all over ma’am. You should see the roads their building down from the north and up from the ports in the South. And the airfields, they’re sproutin’ like weeds after a thunderstorm. Some of the fighter jocks flew their birds through the ‘mouth but brass put a stop to it. Too risky they said. Look, ma’am, keep your engines running, I’ll get my boys to make a hole for you. Slide you out as fast as we can.”
The Sergeant did his best, but it still took more than an hour to get Stevenson’s unit out. Finally, they managed it, sliding her out between the end of the A-10 unit and the start of a Hungarian Su-25 outfit. But the military police managed it and, once again, there was the silent, undramatic transition as the cloudy red and gray overcast of Hell was replaced by the clear blue of the Earth sky. Just looking at it made Stevenson very happy. Ahead of them, a traffic direction private waved them off the road into a vast parking lot, full of Bradleys, Abrams, and Paladins. Plus, all the other vehicles that made up the order of battle of an Armored Division. Stevenson recognized the markings; they were all First Armored.
When his Bradley came to a halt, Major Warhol stretched and dropped out of the back, leaving the cramped compartment that had been his home for over a week. Some of his staff from the field operation of DIMO(N) were waiting and he got the customary back-slapping greeting. Behind them, the long cavalcade of vehicles had started moving again, the great Russian ZIL and MAZ trucks being followed by the first of the European Leopard II tanks. Warhol gestured at the convoys that stretched, nose-to-tail, as far as he could see.
“Well, if there wasn’t a Peak Oil problem before, there certainly will be now.”
One of the scientists snorted. “Peak Oil? That…. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we’re hoping we’ll hit oil in Hell. How did it go, Major?”
“Not bad, our sims were accurate. The dust is bad though. I’m surprised to see aircraft going in. Licked the filtration problem?”
“Yes and no. The filters cut airflow to the engines by about 20 – 30 percent. So that hits performance. And the time between overhauls is horrible, 50 to 60 hours before an engine must be pulled and stripped. The good news is the clogging problem’s been licked.”
Something about the way the man put that caught Warhol’s attention. Putting on his most casual voice he asked the question they’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “How did you crack it then?”
There was an embarrassed shuffling of feet. “Well, we didn’t. We designed a filter pack and a pod that would use reverse air blast to clean the filters. The only problem was the pilot would glide with the engines out while he used it. They didn’t like that. A couple of aircraftmen came up with something better, a series of tabs on the inside of the filter that interfered with the airflow and made the filter shake. The dust in there is dry and that worked like a charm. Doubled or more the time taken for the airflow loss to reach mission-ending proportions.”
Warhol laughed and shook his head. “Right, I just got to say my farewells and then you can bring me up to date on the rest.” Then he set off to where Stevenson was speaking with MacFarland.
“We’re leaving the vehicles here; First Cavalry will be taking them over. First Armored is being split up, First Brigade will be staying as the cadre for the rebuilt division, Second and Third will be cadres for two new armored divisions. We’re all going back to the States for that. Stevenson, you’ll be commanding First Battalion in the new First Brigade. Any idea what you want to name your battalion?”
Stevenson thought for a second. The spearhead was too obvious. “How about the Hellcat Battalion Sir?”
“Good choice. You did good Stevenson. So, have your crew. Got a commission for one of them, the others get to jump up the enlisted grades. Who’s the best officer material in your crew?”
Again, a quick thought. “Hey Biker? You’re an officer.”
Her driver’s head emerged from his hatch; his attention caught using the crew nickname. As the message sank in, he shook his head. “Oh no Boss, you can’t do that to me. Please. Not an Officer.”
The Hospital, Mai Xiao Village, Sinkiang.
“Every morning they came down to the village tea house to drink their morning cup of tea, well laced with an illicit portion of rice wine. There were ten of them by then. Once there had been fifteen but time and old age had taken their toll and one by one, they had quietly vanished. Even fifteen had been a dramatic fall, for sixty of them had left the village in the far-off days of 1950 and only those 15 had returned. Now, the ten survivors were old, old men. The youngest, still called ‘the boy’ by his fellows was eighty years old. The oldest, their sergeant, had been a veteran of the People’s Liberation Army even in 1950, and he was far into his mid-nineties. But his mustache still bristled even though it was snow white and his back was still straight.”
“They saved from their pensions to bribe the tea house owner to slip them their rice wine. I knew about it, of course, everybody did, but these men were heroes, and who denies a hero a little comfort in their old age? The truth was that their small savings wouldn’t buy them the drinks they needed but if the other villagers chose to make up the difference, that was their business, nobody else’s.”
“And so, every day they would come down, and gather around their table, drink their tea and tell their stories. Of how they had held the hill in Korea against the Americans. Of how they had been outnumbered and outgunned and the American artillery never stopped shooting and their planes never stopped bombing, but they had held the hill anyway. Every year the story got a little more fanciful, the attacks so much worse, their stand so much braver. They’d tell the stories to everybody who listened, and everybody did because these were old men, whose wives had long died, and they were left alone. Lonely as only old men who had outlived their time could be. So, the villagers listened to the stories and counted themselves lucky they had not gone to Korea.”
“Then there came that day. The old men hadn’t arrived yet but something else did. A monster, a hideous monster from hell, the one the Americans call the baldrick. The village went black in its middle and the creature stepped out, looking only to kill and mutilate. Most of the men were far away, working in the fields or on the road, and could not help. There were just the women and children left and they screamed when they saw the monster and they ran. But the monster could run as well, faster than they could and it started to kill them.”
“As the Party Leader I had a Type 56 rifle in my hut, and I got it. I fired a burst at the monster, and I think I hit it for it stopped and shook itself. But it wasn’t dead, it seemed hardly hurt and it turned to come for me, but it heard more screams where the children were running from the school. It forgot me and went to kill them. I fired again but it was too far away more than 100 meters.”
“Then I heard a shouted order, one that cut through the noise and screams. The old men were there, all ten of them and they had their old long 3-line rifles. They dropped to the ground in a line, their hands working the bolts of their rifles with the muscle memory of skills never forgotten. They fired all at once, in a volley and their hands worked the bolts again for another.”
“The monster staggered with the first volley and lurched with the second. It turned away from the children and came for the old men. The sergeant ordered independent fire and the rifles crackled but the monster kept coming at them. The old men’s hearts were brave, but their eyes were dim with age and their hands shook, not from fear of course, but from infirmity. I doubt if one bullet in ten they fired was biting home. The monster had a three-point spear and its lighting flashed out, killing ‘the youngster’ as he fired his rifle. The others did not pause or hesitate but kept on firing until their pouches were empty. How they had kept their rifles and ammunition I do not know and do not intend to ask.”
“With the monster close and their ammunition gone, they fixed their bayonets, they got to their feet, and they advanced on the monster, their bayonets leveled. I had changed my magazine by now and I had run over to where I also could fire on the monster. The old men had surrounded it, it was slashing at them with its claws, but they parried its slashes and thrust their bayonets home. They were old men and slow, they could not evade all the blows from the monster and their numbers shrank even as I watched. But the monster was down, on its knees, and the old men, now down to three with their sergeant still leading them, kept thrusting. I had a clean shot, and I emptied my rifle into it and saw it bleeding and dying on the ground. It fired its trident again and the lightning bolt hit me. It must have been weak with death for I did not die when the bolt hit my face.”
“So, you see Doctor, my blindness is nothing to be sorry for. What finer sight could I, Party Leader of Mai Xiao Village, treasure as my last than those ten old men saving our children by bringing down the monster with their bayonets?”
Okthuura Jorkastrequar, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
Yulupki sat unhappily atop the Great Beast as it clambered up the side of the volcano. The track was so rough as to be virtually non-existent, it was just a relatively level strip that had been cleared of boulders. It had been two months since this cone had last erupted and ash-laden smoke was still pouring out of many fissures on its sides. There was no guarantee that the lava would not again start pouring out while the ritual was in progress. However, Belial had insisted on placing the portal as deep as possible into the magma, which meant the ritual had to take place on the rim of an active crater.
She was sure the lumbering Beast had picked up on her distaste for its kind and was doing what it could to throw her off. Not that there was much chance of that, as the leather harness held her coils tightly to its back, but the lurching made it difficult to focus and prepare for the task ahead. Naga could manage short bursts of speed when pressed, but in general, their speed was much inferior to even the common demon warrior, much less the cavalry or fliers. That made this indignity necessary but not any more tolerable.
Finally, the Great Beast attained the rim of the crater, and Yulupki was afforded an expansive view of Jorkastrequar. A hundred yards below her a veritable lake of semi-congealed lava bubbled and hissed. Fortunately, the copious smoke it was spewing was carried straight up into the sky by the strong thermals, otherwise, visibility in the crater would have been near-zero. As planned, the forge demons had erected three great shrines to the barrier spirits, spaced equally around the rim. Each shrine consisted of a row of thirteen copper rods driven into the pumice at three-yard intervals, each rod Thirtyfeet tall and tapering from four inches diameter at the base to a sharp point at the top. The rods supported a great spider's web strung in copper, silver, and gold wire.
Both the pattern of the web and the bifold curve of rods were the result of millennia of painstaking trial and error, carried out by naga searching for the arrangement that best pleased the spirits that dwelt between worlds. Rumor had it that the existence of the spirits had been discovered quite by accident. Long ago a lone naga had attempted to open a portal to gate a small force of warriors to another world. As luck had it, she performed the ritual facing the warriors, who had at that moment presented their tridents in salute to a passing baron. The portal sprang into existence at twice the expected size. The passing baron commended the naga for the strength of her magery, which forced her into a desperate series of attempts to replicate the feat.
Eventually, that nameless naga discovered that a close-packed arrangement of bronze rods could multiply the effect of her ritual many-fold. This could only be the work of unknown beings existing in the strange realm the portal crossed. The creatures clearly desired the shrines but could not enter the physical world to construct them themselves. Thus, a wordless bargain was struck; the demons would build the shrines, and in return the barrier spirits would aid the naga in their work, adding their psychic strength to the task of opening the portal. If the shrines were constructed according to the prescribed traditions, Yulupki had never known the barrier spirits to renege on their end of the deal. This was just as well because they would need all the help, they could get to meet Belial's demands.
In front of each shrine, the demon workers had carved out six crude terraces, each of which held thirteen wooden pallets. Three-quarters of the pallets were already filled with the long-coiled forms of naga, each resembling a giant snake with a scaled and vaguely female humanoid torso in the place of a head. More continued to arrive as she watched, strapped to the backs of lesser Beasts that strained and staggered under their weight. For now, Yulupki was basking in the waves of heat, but she knew that it would become unpleasantly hot by the end of the ritual; the insulating pallets would prevent burns to their undersides. Eager to begin the ritual, she commanded the Great Beast to take her to the nearest shrine.
Great Hall of the Adamant Fastness, Tartaruan Range, Outer Rim of Hell
The great hall was filled with demons, including every minor noble from Count Belial's domain save a few lesser baronets that could not be spared from overseeing production. They were seated at carved stone tables more commonly used for victory feasts. There was little sound other than the padding of servants running to and fro, running errands and bringing chunks of fresh meat refreshment. Save for these minor disturbances, every demon seemed to be concentrating intensely.
The count himself paced back and forth on the raised platform in the center of the chamber. Sharing the platform with him was the great gorgon Euryale, flanked by her handmaidens Lakheenahuknaasi and Megaaeraholrakni. To a human, the trio looked quite similar. All three were clad in nothing but their shining bronze scales had for tresses a mass of tentacles each like a cyclopean snake and possessed both great bat-like wings and a pointed tail that curled about their taloned feet. On closer inspection, however, differences were apparent. Euryale's curvaceous figure and enchanting voice (at least, to other demons) clearly favored her succubus heritage. Megaaerah's anemically slim form and reputed skill at portal magery were much reminiscent of her naga cousins. Lakheenahuknaasi 's relatively compact and muscular form, not to mention her straightforward attitude, showed more of a kinship with the harpies.
Also, present on the platform was Captain James Shanklin, who was flanked by a pair of demonic guards and looked extremely pale.
“I have one!” Castellean Zatheoplekkar's shout broke the silence. “A male, in a city... called Not-Ingham.”
Within seconds Belial Kornakat was towering over his vassal. “Show me.” Belial entered Zatheoplekkar's mind and from there followed the psychic link to the possessed human. Through his eyes, he saw a cramped, cluttered room, dominated by a large glowing picture of two seated humans. Curiously, the picture seemed to be moving. Belial pressed harder, mentally wringing the mind of the man for information, faintly amused by the pain he was causing.
“His name is Christopher Hughes. He lives alone, but in a crowded part of the city.” A rasping chuckle escaped Belial's lips. “He believes us to be a fiction invented by their nobility, for the purpose of...” the demon struggled to extract sense from the human's chaotic mind “placing all nations under the dominion of the You En.” He looked questioningly at the human traitor, who had been instructed to keep close by his side.
Captain Shanklin found his hands trembling again. “My lord, I have never heard of this 'U N'. Most likely it is a wild fancy of his. But I do know of Nottingham. It is a city of two hundred thousand souls a mere twenty-five miles south of Sheffield.”
Euryale seemed less satisfied than her lord. “That is closer than 'Birmingham', but still, I would rather not send my handmaiden into the heart of a large human city. You have spoken at length on the potency of their new weapons. The chance of failure is too high.”
Belial frowned. “Keep that one possessed,” he instructed Zatheoplekkar. “Very well. I will allow you another hour, no more. Then she goes.” He gestured at Lakheenahuknaasi, who looked nearly as uncomfortable as Captain Shanklin.
Fifty minutes later, the only other Nephilim that the assembled demons could locate was in Leeds, which if their tame human were to be believed seemed little better than Nottingham. Lakheenahuknaasi considered her options. She could wait until nightfall, but if she flew low over a settlement filled with humans, she was still likely to be seen. If the rumors about the fate of Abigor's harpies were true, this could be a suicidal proposition. Perhaps it would be better to enthrall a few humans and get them to sneak her out of the city somehow. Undignified, but less likely to get her killed by the humans. On the other talon, delaying for long enough to disrupt the Count's schedule would likely get her killed on her return if she were allowed to return at all.
Lakheenahuknaasi 's musings were interrupted by an excited squeal. “Sire, sire, I have one! A human woman! She is in an uninhabited wilderness, somewhere to the west of the target.” He shrank back as the Count forced his way into the psychic link. “As you can see my lord, vanity was her undoing.”
This time Belial let loose with a full-blown maniacal laugh. “Indeed, I can Guruktarqor.” The human female was cleaning her hair in some kind of indoor waterfall. For some reason, the mysterious effect that was protecting humans from entanglement had ceased to work with this one. A few minutes of vulnerability were enough to allow the demons to find her and gain purchase in her mind. “That one will be going directly to the eighth circle.” He nodded to Euryale.
All eyes were now on the hall's central platform, which now stood empty save for the gorgon queen. She spread her wings and closed her eyes, joining the psychic link to the possessed human girl and focusing intently on that target. Static discharges resembling miniature sheet lightning danced over her wing membranes as she poured psychic force into the connection. Several pregnant seconds passed before finally the familiar black sphere of nothingness swelled into existence in the center of the room.
Belial gestured to a waiting squad of lesser demons. “Entertain me.” The small strike force was eager, loyal, and expendable. Roaring battle cries, the demon warriors charged single file into the portal and disappeared. The count closed his eyes, concentrating on distant events. A vicious grin slowly spread over his face. His eyes snapped open again and fixed on Lakheenahuknaasi. “Now it's your turn.”
The Hellmouth, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“Let’s have any HEAD you have on board.” The voice from outside the tank combined urgency and boredom.
“Would you care to repeat that soldier?” Major Stevenson peered over the edge of her turret. She and her combat group had been waiting in the traffic jam by the Hellmouth for nearly four hours and she wasn’t in the mood for any insubordination. Besides, she was hot, tired, and sticky from being inside a tank too long, and chewing out a subordinate would be a welcome relief. As the thought crossed her mind, she decided she’d probably been in Hell too long.
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but it’s orders. All outgoing armor is to unload any HEAD ammunition on board for reissue. It’s in short supply and the units up on the Phlegethon are going to need it.”
“HEAD? You mean HEAT?”
“No Ma’am. High Explosive Anti-Demon. The new round just started getting the first shipments. Got an iron liner instead of copper. Baldricks surely do hate iron. If you got any Ma’am, we’ll unload it for you.” The Sergeant had noted the battered vehicles and suddenly decided that these units had been in Hell a lot longer than he had. And messing with this Major might be a very bad idea. Especially if the scuttlebutt about a battle brewing was true.
“Hokay. Sergeant, we’ve none of that on board. Any idea how long we’ll be hung up? I kinda hanker to see a blue sky again.”
“Dunno Ma’am and that’s the truth. There’s stuff pouring in all the time. The Russians have been coming in all morning and we had an Israeli armored division before that, and I’m told there’s a European armored division behind them. And then there’s the aircraft the brass is towing in. There’s more of our boys unloading down South, or their equipment is. Guys themselves are being flown in. Look over there, ma’am.”
‘Over there’ was the road leading through the Hellmouth. The stream of Russian armor had stopped for a few minutes, their place was taken by aircraft tractors, each one towing what looked like an A-10. Only, they were now painted red-gray, and they had a mushroom-shaped filter over the engine intakes. Stevenson lifted her mask slightly and took a cautious sniff of the air. It was a lot cleaner here than further into hell, presumably, there was some gas exchange through the Hellmouth, but there was a new smell as well. One that achingly reminded Stevenson of home in Bayonne. The smell of tar and oil refineries.
“A blacktop road in Hell. Whodathunkit.”
“Engineers all over ma’am. You should see the roads their building down from the north and up from the ports in the South. And the airfields, they’re sproutin’ like weeds after a thunderstorm. Some of the fighter jocks flew their birds through the ‘mouth but brass put a stop to it. Too risky they said. Look, ma’am, keep your engines running, I’ll get my boys to make a hole for you. Slide you out as fast as we can.”
The Sergeant did his best, but it still took more than an hour to get Stevenson’s unit out. Finally, they managed it, sliding her out between the end of the A-10 unit and the start of a Hungarian Su-25 outfit. But the military police managed it and, once again, there was the silent, undramatic transition as the cloudy red and gray overcast of Hell was replaced by the clear blue of the Earth sky. Just looking at it made Stevenson very happy. Ahead of them, a traffic direction private waved them off the road into a vast parking lot, full of Bradleys, Abrams, and Paladins. Plus, all the other vehicles that made up the order of battle of an Armored Division. Stevenson recognized the markings; they were all First Armored.
When his Bradley came to a halt, Major Warhol stretched and dropped out of the back, leaving the cramped compartment that had been his home for over a week. Some of his staff from the field operation of DIMO(N) were waiting and he got the customary back-slapping greeting. Behind them, the long cavalcade of vehicles had started moving again, the great Russian ZIL and MAZ trucks being followed by the first of the European Leopard II tanks. Warhol gestured at the convoys that stretched, nose-to-tail, as far as he could see.
“Well, if there wasn’t a Peak Oil problem before, there certainly will be now.”
One of the scientists snorted. “Peak Oil? That…. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we’re hoping we’ll hit oil in Hell. How did it go, Major?”
“Not bad, our sims were accurate. The dust is bad though. I’m surprised to see aircraft going in. Licked the filtration problem?”
“Yes and no. The filters cut airflow to the engines by about 20 – 30 percent. So that hits performance. And the time between overhauls is horrible, 50 to 60 hours before an engine must be pulled and stripped. The good news is the clogging problem’s been licked.”
Something about the way the man put that caught Warhol’s attention. Putting on his most casual voice he asked the question they’d been hoping he wouldn’t. “How did you crack it then?”
There was an embarrassed shuffling of feet. “Well, we didn’t. We designed a filter pack and a pod that would use reverse air blast to clean the filters. The only problem was the pilot would glide with the engines out while he used it. They didn’t like that. A couple of aircraftmen came up with something better, a series of tabs on the inside of the filter that interfered with the airflow and made the filter shake. The dust in there is dry and that worked like a charm. Doubled or more the time taken for the airflow loss to reach mission-ending proportions.”
Warhol laughed and shook his head. “Right, I just got to say my farewells and then you can bring me up to date on the rest.” Then he set off to where Stevenson was speaking with MacFarland.
“We’re leaving the vehicles here; First Cavalry will be taking them over. First Armored is being split up, First Brigade will be staying as the cadre for the rebuilt division, Second and Third will be cadres for two new armored divisions. We’re all going back to the States for that. Stevenson, you’ll be commanding First Battalion in the new First Brigade. Any idea what you want to name your battalion?”
Stevenson thought for a second. The spearhead was too obvious. “How about the Hellcat Battalion Sir?”
“Good choice. You did good Stevenson. So, have your crew. Got a commission for one of them, the others get to jump up the enlisted grades. Who’s the best officer material in your crew?”
Again, a quick thought. “Hey Biker? You’re an officer.”
Her driver’s head emerged from his hatch; his attention caught using the crew nickname. As the message sank in, he shook his head. “Oh no Boss, you can’t do that to me. Please. Not an Officer.”
The Hospital, Mai Xiao Village, Sinkiang.
“Every morning they came down to the village tea house to drink their morning cup of tea, well laced with an illicit portion of rice wine. There were ten of them by then. Once there had been fifteen but time and old age had taken their toll and one by one, they had quietly vanished. Even fifteen had been a dramatic fall, for sixty of them had left the village in the far-off days of 1950 and only those 15 had returned. Now, the ten survivors were old, old men. The youngest, still called ‘the boy’ by his fellows was eighty years old. The oldest, their sergeant, had been a veteran of the People’s Liberation Army even in 1950, and he was far into his mid-nineties. But his mustache still bristled even though it was snow white and his back was still straight.”
“They saved from their pensions to bribe the tea house owner to slip them their rice wine. I knew about it, of course, everybody did, but these men were heroes, and who denies a hero a little comfort in their old age? The truth was that their small savings wouldn’t buy them the drinks they needed but if the other villagers chose to make up the difference, that was their business, nobody else’s.”
“And so, every day they would come down, and gather around their table, drink their tea and tell their stories. Of how they had held the hill in Korea against the Americans. Of how they had been outnumbered and outgunned and the American artillery never stopped shooting and their planes never stopped bombing, but they had held the hill anyway. Every year the story got a little more fanciful, the attacks so much worse, their stand so much braver. They’d tell the stories to everybody who listened, and everybody did because these were old men, whose wives had long died, and they were left alone. Lonely as only old men who had outlived their time could be. So, the villagers listened to the stories and counted themselves lucky they had not gone to Korea.”
“Then there came that day. The old men hadn’t arrived yet but something else did. A monster, a hideous monster from hell, the one the Americans call the baldrick. The village went black in its middle and the creature stepped out, looking only to kill and mutilate. Most of the men were far away, working in the fields or on the road, and could not help. There were just the women and children left and they screamed when they saw the monster and they ran. But the monster could run as well, faster than they could and it started to kill them.”
“As the Party Leader I had a Type 56 rifle in my hut, and I got it. I fired a burst at the monster, and I think I hit it for it stopped and shook itself. But it wasn’t dead, it seemed hardly hurt and it turned to come for me, but it heard more screams where the children were running from the school. It forgot me and went to kill them. I fired again but it was too far away more than 100 meters.”
“Then I heard a shouted order, one that cut through the noise and screams. The old men were there, all ten of them and they had their old long 3-line rifles. They dropped to the ground in a line, their hands working the bolts of their rifles with the muscle memory of skills never forgotten. They fired all at once, in a volley and their hands worked the bolts again for another.”
“The monster staggered with the first volley and lurched with the second. It turned away from the children and came for the old men. The sergeant ordered independent fire and the rifles crackled but the monster kept coming at them. The old men’s hearts were brave, but their eyes were dim with age and their hands shook, not from fear of course, but from infirmity. I doubt if one bullet in ten they fired was biting home. The monster had a three-point spear and its lighting flashed out, killing ‘the youngster’ as he fired his rifle. The others did not pause or hesitate but kept on firing until their pouches were empty. How they had kept their rifles and ammunition I do not know and do not intend to ask.”
“With the monster close and their ammunition gone, they fixed their bayonets, they got to their feet, and they advanced on the monster, their bayonets leveled. I had changed my magazine by now and I had run over to where I also could fire on the monster. The old men had surrounded it, it was slashing at them with its claws, but they parried its slashes and thrust their bayonets home. They were old men and slow, they could not evade all the blows from the monster and their numbers shrank even as I watched. But the monster was down, on its knees, and the old men, now down to three with their sergeant still leading them, kept thrusting. I had a clean shot, and I emptied my rifle into it and saw it bleeding and dying on the ground. It fired its trident again and the lightning bolt hit me. It must have been weak with death for I did not die when the bolt hit my face.”
“So, you see Doctor, my blindness is nothing to be sorry for. What finer sight could I, Party Leader of Mai Xiao Village, treasure as my last than those ten old men saving our children by bringing down the monster with their bayonets?”
Okthuura Jorkastrequar, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
Yulupki sat unhappily atop the Great Beast as it clambered up the side of the volcano. The track was so rough as to be virtually non-existent, it was just a relatively level strip that had been cleared of boulders. It had been two months since this cone had last erupted and ash-laden smoke was still pouring out of many fissures on its sides. There was no guarantee that the lava would not again start pouring out while the ritual was in progress. However, Belial had insisted on placing the portal as deep as possible into the magma, which meant the ritual had to take place on the rim of an active crater.
She was sure the lumbering Beast had picked up on her distaste for its kind and was doing what it could to throw her off. Not that there was much chance of that, as the leather harness held her coils tightly to its back, but the lurching made it difficult to focus and prepare for the task ahead. Naga could manage short bursts of speed when pressed, but in general, their speed was much inferior to even the common demon warrior, much less the cavalry or fliers. That made this indignity necessary but not any more tolerable.
Finally, the Great Beast attained the rim of the crater, and Yulupki was afforded an expansive view of Jorkastrequar. A hundred yards below her a veritable lake of semi-congealed lava bubbled and hissed. Fortunately, the copious smoke it was spewing was carried straight up into the sky by the strong thermals, otherwise, visibility in the crater would have been near-zero. As planned, the forge demons had erected three great shrines to the barrier spirits, spaced equally around the rim. Each shrine consisted of a row of thirteen copper rods driven into the pumice at three-yard intervals, each rod Thirtyfeet tall and tapering from four inches diameter at the base to a sharp point at the top. The rods supported a great spider's web strung in copper, silver, and gold wire.
Both the pattern of the web and the bifold curve of rods were the result of millennia of painstaking trial and error, carried out by naga searching for the arrangement that best pleased the spirits that dwelt between worlds. Rumor had it that the existence of the spirits had been discovered quite by accident. Long ago a lone naga had attempted to open a portal to gate a small force of warriors to another world. As luck had it, she performed the ritual facing the warriors, who had at that moment presented their tridents in salute to a passing baron. The portal sprang into existence at twice the expected size. The passing baron commended the naga for the strength of her magery, which forced her into a desperate series of attempts to replicate the feat.
Eventually, that nameless naga discovered that a close-packed arrangement of bronze rods could multiply the effect of her ritual many-fold. This could only be the work of unknown beings existing in the strange realm the portal crossed. The creatures clearly desired the shrines but could not enter the physical world to construct them themselves. Thus, a wordless bargain was struck; the demons would build the shrines, and in return the barrier spirits would aid the naga in their work, adding their psychic strength to the task of opening the portal. If the shrines were constructed according to the prescribed traditions, Yulupki had never known the barrier spirits to renege on their end of the deal. This was just as well because they would need all the help, they could get to meet Belial's demands.
In front of each shrine, the demon workers had carved out six crude terraces, each of which held thirteen wooden pallets. Three-quarters of the pallets were already filled with the long-coiled forms of naga, each resembling a giant snake with a scaled and vaguely female humanoid torso in the place of a head. More continued to arrive as she watched, strapped to the backs of lesser Beasts that strained and staggered under their weight. For now, Yulupki was basking in the waves of heat, but she knew that it would become unpleasantly hot by the end of the ritual; the insulating pallets would prevent burns to their undersides. Eager to begin the ritual, she commanded the Great Beast to take her to the nearest shrine.
Great Hall of the Adamant Fastness, Tartaruan Range, Outer Rim of Hell
The great hall was filled with demons, including every minor noble from Count Belial's domain save a few lesser baronets that could not be spared from overseeing production. They were seated at carved stone tables more commonly used for victory feasts. There was little sound other than the padding of servants running to and fro, running errands and bringing chunks of fresh meat refreshment. Save for these minor disturbances, every demon seemed to be concentrating intensely.
The count himself paced back and forth on the raised platform in the center of the chamber. Sharing the platform with him was the great gorgon Euryale, flanked by her handmaidens Lakheenahuknaasi and Megaaeraholrakni. To a human, the trio looked quite similar. All three were clad in nothing but their shining bronze scales had for tresses a mass of tentacles each like a cyclopean snake and possessed both great bat-like wings and a pointed tail that curled about their taloned feet. On closer inspection, however, differences were apparent. Euryale's curvaceous figure and enchanting voice (at least, to other demons) clearly favored her succubus heritage. Megaaerah's anemically slim form and reputed skill at portal magery were much reminiscent of her naga cousins. Lakheenahuknaasi 's relatively compact and muscular form, not to mention her straightforward attitude, showed more of a kinship with the harpies.
Also, present on the platform was Captain James Shanklin, who was flanked by a pair of demonic guards and looked extremely pale.
“I have one!” Castellean Zatheoplekkar's shout broke the silence. “A male, in a city... called Not-Ingham.”
Within seconds Belial Kornakat was towering over his vassal. “Show me.” Belial entered Zatheoplekkar's mind and from there followed the psychic link to the possessed human. Through his eyes, he saw a cramped, cluttered room, dominated by a large glowing picture of two seated humans. Curiously, the picture seemed to be moving. Belial pressed harder, mentally wringing the mind of the man for information, faintly amused by the pain he was causing.
“His name is Christopher Hughes. He lives alone, but in a crowded part of the city.” A rasping chuckle escaped Belial's lips. “He believes us to be a fiction invented by their nobility, for the purpose of...” the demon struggled to extract sense from the human's chaotic mind “placing all nations under the dominion of the You En.” He looked questioningly at the human traitor, who had been instructed to keep close by his side.
Captain Shanklin found his hands trembling again. “My lord, I have never heard of this 'U N'. Most likely it is a wild fancy of his. But I do know of Nottingham. It is a city of two hundred thousand souls a mere twenty-five miles south of Sheffield.”
Euryale seemed less satisfied than her lord. “That is closer than 'Birmingham', but still, I would rather not send my handmaiden into the heart of a large human city. You have spoken at length on the potency of their new weapons. The chance of failure is too high.”
Belial frowned. “Keep that one possessed,” he instructed Zatheoplekkar. “Very well. I will allow you another hour, no more. Then she goes.” He gestured at Lakheenahuknaasi, who looked nearly as uncomfortable as Captain Shanklin.
Fifty minutes later, the only other Nephilim that the assembled demons could locate was in Leeds, which if their tame human were to be believed seemed little better than Nottingham. Lakheenahuknaasi considered her options. She could wait until nightfall, but if she flew low over a settlement filled with humans, she was still likely to be seen. If the rumors about the fate of Abigor's harpies were true, this could be a suicidal proposition. Perhaps it would be better to enthrall a few humans and get them to sneak her out of the city somehow. Undignified, but less likely to get her killed by the humans. On the other talon, delaying for long enough to disrupt the Count's schedule would likely get her killed on her return if she were allowed to return at all.
Lakheenahuknaasi 's musings were interrupted by an excited squeal. “Sire, sire, I have one! A human woman! She is in an uninhabited wilderness, somewhere to the west of the target.” He shrank back as the Count forced his way into the psychic link. “As you can see my lord, vanity was her undoing.”
This time Belial let loose with a full-blown maniacal laugh. “Indeed, I can Guruktarqor.” The human female was cleaning her hair in some kind of indoor waterfall. For some reason, the mysterious effect that was protecting humans from entanglement had ceased to work with this one. A few minutes of vulnerability were enough to allow the demons to find her and gain purchase in her mind. “That one will be going directly to the eighth circle.” He nodded to Euryale.
All eyes were now on the hall's central platform, which now stood empty save for the gorgon queen. She spread her wings and closed her eyes, joining the psychic link to the possessed human girl and focusing intently on that target. Static discharges resembling miniature sheet lightning danced over her wing membranes as she poured psychic force into the connection. Several pregnant seconds passed before finally the familiar black sphere of nothingness swelled into existence in the center of the room.
Belial gestured to a waiting squad of lesser demons. “Entertain me.” The small strike force was eager, loyal, and expendable. Roaring battle cries, the demon warriors charged single file into the portal and disappeared. The count closed his eyes, concentrating on distant events. A vicious grin slowly spread over his face. His eyes snapped open again and fixed on Lakheenahuknaasi. “Now it's your turn.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Four
Command Building, Camo Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“When can I take my command to battle?”
“Say what?” General David Petraeus stopped admiring his fifth star and gazed at the massive baldrick in his office.
“I have over 300 tridents. Where would you like us to fight? Now that we have joined you.”
Petraeus looked slightly bewildered. “You and your men are prisoners of war. We don’t expect you to fight.”
Now is was Abigor’s turn to be bewildered. “But we surrendered to you. So, we should fight for you now.”
“Not according to our rules you don’t. When an enemy surrenders, they get put in a prisoner of war camp. We look after them and feed them until the war is over, then we send them back home.”
Abigor’s jaw dropped open. If Hellish Armies fought that way, both sides’ foot soldiers would surrender as soon as possible. In hell, surrendering meant changing sides, not a way out of the fighting. “You humans are impossible.”
Petraeus thought quickly. He guessed he would need a convincing story to make sure Abigor forgot any idea of joining the fighting. Anyway, his baldricks would be a liability on a battlefield dominated by artillery and armor. “Look, the Free Hell Army is much too valuable to us to throw away on a battlefield. We know nothing about Hell, what it’s like and how it’s run. You can do far more for us by telling us everything you know than by fighting.”
Meaning we are useless to the humans Abigor thought grimly, but if that were the case, why was he being kept alive? Still, to be a source of information was better than nothing.
“Excuse me, Sir. General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov to see you.”
“Thank you Private. Send him in.” There was a brief pause while the Russian entered the room, his jaw-dropping at the sight of Abigor’s huge form sitting sprawled in one corner. “Ivan Semenovich, it is good to have you with us. May I introduce Grand Duke Abigor, formerly in the service of Satan and now commander of our allies in the Free Hell Army.”
Dorokhov looked slightly flustered, starting to salute, changing his mind, and wondering what to do next. In the end, he settled for a curt nod of the head. Abigor was equally flustered, normally he’d have hit the ground and groveled, throwing in a good foot-licking as well but he’d quickly learned humans had nothing but contempt for such displays. In the end, he returned the nod.
“Are your troops in position, Ivan Semenovich?”
“First Shock Army is setting up along the banks of the Phlegethon. We have four armored divisions and two artillery divisions in position with the Army artillery setting up. Do you know how many enemies there are?”
“Abigor tells us 243 legions, that’s over 1.6 million Baldricks. Don’t know how they divide up yet.”
“That depends on who is their commander.” Abigor’s voice was thoughtful. “Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon were the three appointments I heard but that was for the invasion of Earth. Do you know which?”
“It’s not Asmodeus. He’s dead.”
“What?” Abigor was stunned. “Asmodeus dead? For all his mania, Satan has never dared kill a Grand Duke before. He wouldn’t even kill me, he preferred to send me where you could do this.”
“Satan didn’t kill him, we did. Or rather, the people we have fighting in the hell-pit did. Apparently, he led some of his army against our guerillas, walked into a trap and they got him. Asmodeus is dead all right. Thoroughly blown up”
Abigor was awed. “You have done the unthinkable. Even in the Celestial War, no Grand Duke was ever killed. Not even Yahweh achieved such a thing.”
“So its Dagon or Beelzebub then.” Petraeus wanted to get the conversation back on track. “What does that mean for General Dorokhov?”
“It will not be Dagon. Many of his legions are Krakens, sea creatures. It will be Beelzebub. They do not call him Lord of the Flies for nothing. His army has 27 legions of Harpies. The rest will just be infantry.”
“180,000 harpies. I hope you have plenty of triple-A Grazhdanin Ivan.”
“One Tunguska or Shilka for every three vehicles. And many brigades of surface-to-air missiles. Some are old but they still work. All are radar-guided. And all the BMPs have shoulder-fired missiles on board. Sometimes it is good to have great warehouses. We are dug in and waiting. Abigor, this Great Celestial War, what happened?”
Abigor shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Two or three million of your years. We had found this planet and on opening a gate back to our home a mistake was made, and we opened a gate to here. A place like Heaven but unoccupied except for unimportant creatures. We took it for our own. Then, Satan wanted it for his kingdom, separate from Yahweh’s Heaven. Yahweh wanted both. Satan rebelled and about a third of us joined him. The war went on for a long time, but Satan won, Hell became his kingdom and Yahweh kept Heaven.”
“That’s not the way our stories told it.” Petraeus was grimly amused.
“They were written by Yahweh’s people, weren’t they?” Abigor grinned. He’d been watching The History Channel on television.
Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
What amazed Aeanas the most about his time in Hell was the fact that he remained sane. He knew his name. Remembered his family. His wife, his two sons. Remembered dying. Knew that he had been in Hell for a long time (though the exact length of time remained elusive). And his torment never drove him insane.
Perhaps that was the most insidious aspect of Hell: they protected your mind from shattering. From becoming a shell with no feeling, no thought, no mind. After all, what use was there to torturing the mindless husk? The joy in the demon's faces came when they saw his terror, his fear, Aeanas could see this. If he had no mind, he might scream, but would he really feel the pain?
So, Aeanas feared them every time they came exactly as much as he had when they first set themselves upon him. Throughout the ages of screaming agony in the river, there had been no emotion associated with his sufferings. How did it feel to have his skin seared from his body, his eyes boiled in their sockets, his genitals burned away? He could never grasp these; such memories danced just out of reach.
That was the rub. If he could remember what it felt, perhaps he wouldn't fear the demons so much. But in the heat of the moment, any kind of mental preparation he had made vanished into a cloud of palpating terror and pain. He always begged not to be thrown back into the river, a simpering weakling, utterly without shame or pity. He screamed the same pathetic, high-pitched scream that he let out every time his body hit the flaming lava, the kind of blameless, ringing screech that only mortal injury and mortal fear can evoke.
Except it wasn't mortal in this place; each time he escaped from the river, Aeanas was made whole again. Somehow. He really didn't have time to think about it, because the respites between tortures seemed fleeting and ephemeral at best. Sometimes he saw others tormented as he, but that really didn't matter.
He was dead.
This was Hell.
And this was how he was going to spend eternity. Each soul-rending abuse seared him but did not destroy him. The memories were not his to cherish. He would never know the wondrous oblivion of insanity. He was instead doomed to repeat every torment as though it was his first, though he knew this wasn't the case.
So, as Aeanas sprawled on the bank, writhing from his burns but never dying, he was in the full grip of panic. His eyesight was only coming back, and he would have screamed if he could if his lungs had not been seared to uselessness. Breathed if he could. Instead, the hard earth of Hell smashed into Aeanas' flailing form. He nevertheless attempted to scramble away. From what, he couldn't say, because he couldn't see more than a few feet. And he couldn't get very far, because he still couldn't breathe. Then, at once, the choking fume and heat were gone. Reflexively, he gulped in the air. The sulfur-laden fumes did nothing good for his lungs, but breath was breath. Based on his fuzzy past, he expected perhaps a barrel of molten rock to be poured over him if it didn’t happen. He opened his eyes, and he saw a hand. But this hand wasn't scaled. It had no claws. It was a human hand, like his own. Following it up, he saw its owner: a man, naked, stood before him. In his far hand was a spear--no, a trident, but beyond that, the visage of Hell faded to a blurry, ruddy nihility.
Aeanas reeled and tried to scrabble away. What new torment was this? But the figure snatched Aeanas and hauled him to his feet.
"It's alright!" he said in a language that wasn't Aeanas'. But he understood it. How could that be? "What's your name, soldier?"
Aeanas gulped. His throat, long charred by the heat and flames, was already feeling better. "Aeanas," he replied finally.
"Anus?!" another voice shouted. A similarly naked figure, also carrying a trident, stepped under the tree, into the range where Aeanas could see clearly. "Your name is Anus?!" The man roared with laughter.
"Cool it, DeVanzo," the first man snapped. Again, Aeanas was forced to marvel at the fact that the two were speaking an entirely different language than his own. The first man continued: "He said, 'Aeanas.' That's Greek, right?"
Aeanas nodded, then asked with some timidity: "Who are you?"
The first man started. "Oh, right! Name's Tucker McElroy, from Tennessee originally, though most recently I found myself in the molten river. This uncouth gentleman's name is Artie DeVanzo, from New Jersey."
Aeanas nodded blankly. New Jersey? What was that? Where was Old Jersey?
McElroy regarded Aeanas for a moment, then said, "Say, you ain't a new arrival, are you? How long you been here, son?"
Aeanas shrugged. "I... could not tell you. A long time, I am sure."
"Well," DeVanzo said, stepping in, "how did you die?"
"I was struck in the heart with an arrow," Aeanas said. "Then, I believe my throat was cut."
McElroy whistled. "Ain't that a way to go. What was you doin'? Hunting? I didn't know they did that over in Greece."
Aeanas shook his head, his puzzlement now building into frustration. "Of course not. I was in battle!"
McElroy did a double-take. "Battle? Just how old are you, anyway? shit, no one's used bows and arrows in a battle for five or six hundred years!"
DeVanzo then interjected. "What battle were you in? Where was it?"
"It was in Greece, at Thermopylae," Aeanas said warily. Were these demons, trying to trick him into revealing something? What could they be after?
McElroy's eyes went wide, as did DeVanzo's. "Holy shit," McElroy said. "You died at Thermopylae? The Thermopylae? King Leonidas? Xerxes? The Persians? The Spartans?"
Aeanas nodded. "Yes. Do you know of it?"
McElroy snorted. "It's only the most famous battle in history!"
Aeanas shifted his weight. His fear was abating. Were they trying to lull him into sedition? "Why?" he asked McElroy in typical laconic bluntness. "It was a simple delaying action. What makes that so famous?"
DeVanzo sputtered, "You faced a million Persians! And there were only three hundred of you!"
"Wrong," Aeanas corrected immediately. "Thespians more than double our number stayed, and we had the Thebans."
McElroy shook his head. "That don't matter none! We got ourselves a genuine Spartiate!" McElroy was now speaking to the other man, DeVanzo. "Man, I can't wait to bring him back to base! A Spartan hoplite from Thermopylae! One of the three hundred!"
"Yeah, and the oldest member of the resistance!" DeVanzo chimed in. "I bet that'll give Ori a thing or two to chew on!"
"Ori's another old revival," McElroy said to Aeanas by way of explanation. "He's a warrior called a Samurai, from a place called Japan, that...well, shoot, it'd be outside what you'd know as the world!" The two men laughed easily together.
"Stop!" Aeanas roared. They would get no more from him; they would confuse him no longer. From this moment forward, they paid for information in blood.
He surged at McElroy and wrapped his arms around him. With fluidity that came with years of practice, he wrenched the man bodily into the air and slammed him to the ground. Most importantly, as he rose, he snatched up the trident and advanced on DeVanzo.
DeVanzo was obviously some kind of fool; he wasn't even holding his weapon properly. With three swift motions, Aeanas swatted the trident aside, forced it from his grasp, and had a point at DeVanzo's throat.
The man instantly raised his hands, and Aeanas jammed them in hard enough to draw blood. He then rotated around DeVanzo so that he was standing side by side with still-dazed McElroy. Through clenched teeth, he hissed: "Explain yourselves, else I will destroy you both!"
And much to his surprise, both men smiled broadly.
"You know, we could actually use you!" McElroy shouted, brushing the reddish dust from his body. A cut on his knee bled feebly. "Alright, here are your answers: as you've probably figured out, you're in Hell. You've been dead for over 25 centuries. That's 2,500 years. The world as you knew it does not exist anymore! Do you understand? Everyone you ever knew is dead, and probably here, being tortured. Do you have a wife? Kids? They're somewhere out there!" McElroy gestured wildly at the Hellscape surrounding them. "And they've suffered exactly as you have for the last 2,500 years! Do you hear me?"
Aeanas lowered the trident. McElroy went on, "But things have changed. The situation has changed. We're fighting back, both here in Hell, and on Earth. We're gonna free as many soldiers as we can, and we'll all fight against Hell. Most times, it’s modern soldiers, but hey, I can't wait for the guys back on Earth to hear that we got Spartan warrior and a Samurai fightin' with us. Won't that be a trip?
"Anyway, Aeanas, we are the People's Front for Liberation of Hell, and we want you to join us." McElroy held his hand out. Aeanas paused, but just for a moment, then passed the trident back to him. "Good," McElroy continued. "We could probably use some more people proficient in your type of fighting. Word is that our cell won't be getting supplied with modern weapons for a while, so for the time being, we're stuck with more... primitive means of defending ourselves and killing ba--demons. Plus, a trick or two we've learned over the centuries."
Aeanas then did something hadn't done since the day before he died, over 2,500 years ago: he smiled. "So, they can be killed."
"Betcher ass they can," DeVanzo crooned. "How do you think we got these tridents?"
"So," McElroy continued. "Will you join us? Maybe teach us how to throw a demon like you just did to me? Or maybe how to correctly hold a spear? In return, I'll show you some things that you'd call magic."
Aeanas laughed. "Has anyone said no?"
Command Building, Camo Hell-Alpha. Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“When can I take my command to battle?”
“Say what?” General David Petraeus stopped admiring his fifth star and gazed at the massive baldrick in his office.
“I have over 300 tridents. Where would you like us to fight? Now that we have joined you.”
Petraeus looked slightly bewildered. “You and your men are prisoners of war. We don’t expect you to fight.”
Now is was Abigor’s turn to be bewildered. “But we surrendered to you. So, we should fight for you now.”
“Not according to our rules you don’t. When an enemy surrenders, they get put in a prisoner of war camp. We look after them and feed them until the war is over, then we send them back home.”
Abigor’s jaw dropped open. If Hellish Armies fought that way, both sides’ foot soldiers would surrender as soon as possible. In hell, surrendering meant changing sides, not a way out of the fighting. “You humans are impossible.”
Petraeus thought quickly. He guessed he would need a convincing story to make sure Abigor forgot any idea of joining the fighting. Anyway, his baldricks would be a liability on a battlefield dominated by artillery and armor. “Look, the Free Hell Army is much too valuable to us to throw away on a battlefield. We know nothing about Hell, what it’s like and how it’s run. You can do far more for us by telling us everything you know than by fighting.”
Meaning we are useless to the humans Abigor thought grimly, but if that were the case, why was he being kept alive? Still, to be a source of information was better than nothing.
“Excuse me, Sir. General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov to see you.”
“Thank you Private. Send him in.” There was a brief pause while the Russian entered the room, his jaw-dropping at the sight of Abigor’s huge form sitting sprawled in one corner. “Ivan Semenovich, it is good to have you with us. May I introduce Grand Duke Abigor, formerly in the service of Satan and now commander of our allies in the Free Hell Army.”
Dorokhov looked slightly flustered, starting to salute, changing his mind, and wondering what to do next. In the end, he settled for a curt nod of the head. Abigor was equally flustered, normally he’d have hit the ground and groveled, throwing in a good foot-licking as well but he’d quickly learned humans had nothing but contempt for such displays. In the end, he returned the nod.
“Are your troops in position, Ivan Semenovich?”
“First Shock Army is setting up along the banks of the Phlegethon. We have four armored divisions and two artillery divisions in position with the Army artillery setting up. Do you know how many enemies there are?”
“Abigor tells us 243 legions, that’s over 1.6 million Baldricks. Don’t know how they divide up yet.”
“That depends on who is their commander.” Abigor’s voice was thoughtful. “Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Dagon were the three appointments I heard but that was for the invasion of Earth. Do you know which?”
“It’s not Asmodeus. He’s dead.”
“What?” Abigor was stunned. “Asmodeus dead? For all his mania, Satan has never dared kill a Grand Duke before. He wouldn’t even kill me, he preferred to send me where you could do this.”
“Satan didn’t kill him, we did. Or rather, the people we have fighting in the hell-pit did. Apparently, he led some of his army against our guerillas, walked into a trap and they got him. Asmodeus is dead all right. Thoroughly blown up”
Abigor was awed. “You have done the unthinkable. Even in the Celestial War, no Grand Duke was ever killed. Not even Yahweh achieved such a thing.”
“So its Dagon or Beelzebub then.” Petraeus wanted to get the conversation back on track. “What does that mean for General Dorokhov?”
“It will not be Dagon. Many of his legions are Krakens, sea creatures. It will be Beelzebub. They do not call him Lord of the Flies for nothing. His army has 27 legions of Harpies. The rest will just be infantry.”
“180,000 harpies. I hope you have plenty of triple-A Grazhdanin Ivan.”
“One Tunguska or Shilka for every three vehicles. And many brigades of surface-to-air missiles. Some are old but they still work. All are radar-guided. And all the BMPs have shoulder-fired missiles on board. Sometimes it is good to have great warehouses. We are dug in and waiting. Abigor, this Great Celestial War, what happened?”
Abigor shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Two or three million of your years. We had found this planet and on opening a gate back to our home a mistake was made, and we opened a gate to here. A place like Heaven but unoccupied except for unimportant creatures. We took it for our own. Then, Satan wanted it for his kingdom, separate from Yahweh’s Heaven. Yahweh wanted both. Satan rebelled and about a third of us joined him. The war went on for a long time, but Satan won, Hell became his kingdom and Yahweh kept Heaven.”
“That’s not the way our stories told it.” Petraeus was grimly amused.
“They were written by Yahweh’s people, weren’t they?” Abigor grinned. He’d been watching The History Channel on television.
Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
What amazed Aeanas the most about his time in Hell was the fact that he remained sane. He knew his name. Remembered his family. His wife, his two sons. Remembered dying. Knew that he had been in Hell for a long time (though the exact length of time remained elusive). And his torment never drove him insane.
Perhaps that was the most insidious aspect of Hell: they protected your mind from shattering. From becoming a shell with no feeling, no thought, no mind. After all, what use was there to torturing the mindless husk? The joy in the demon's faces came when they saw his terror, his fear, Aeanas could see this. If he had no mind, he might scream, but would he really feel the pain?
So, Aeanas feared them every time they came exactly as much as he had when they first set themselves upon him. Throughout the ages of screaming agony in the river, there had been no emotion associated with his sufferings. How did it feel to have his skin seared from his body, his eyes boiled in their sockets, his genitals burned away? He could never grasp these; such memories danced just out of reach.
That was the rub. If he could remember what it felt, perhaps he wouldn't fear the demons so much. But in the heat of the moment, any kind of mental preparation he had made vanished into a cloud of palpating terror and pain. He always begged not to be thrown back into the river, a simpering weakling, utterly without shame or pity. He screamed the same pathetic, high-pitched scream that he let out every time his body hit the flaming lava, the kind of blameless, ringing screech that only mortal injury and mortal fear can evoke.
Except it wasn't mortal in this place; each time he escaped from the river, Aeanas was made whole again. Somehow. He really didn't have time to think about it, because the respites between tortures seemed fleeting and ephemeral at best. Sometimes he saw others tormented as he, but that really didn't matter.
He was dead.
This was Hell.
And this was how he was going to spend eternity. Each soul-rending abuse seared him but did not destroy him. The memories were not his to cherish. He would never know the wondrous oblivion of insanity. He was instead doomed to repeat every torment as though it was his first, though he knew this wasn't the case.
So, as Aeanas sprawled on the bank, writhing from his burns but never dying, he was in the full grip of panic. His eyesight was only coming back, and he would have screamed if he could if his lungs had not been seared to uselessness. Breathed if he could. Instead, the hard earth of Hell smashed into Aeanas' flailing form. He nevertheless attempted to scramble away. From what, he couldn't say, because he couldn't see more than a few feet. And he couldn't get very far, because he still couldn't breathe. Then, at once, the choking fume and heat were gone. Reflexively, he gulped in the air. The sulfur-laden fumes did nothing good for his lungs, but breath was breath. Based on his fuzzy past, he expected perhaps a barrel of molten rock to be poured over him if it didn’t happen. He opened his eyes, and he saw a hand. But this hand wasn't scaled. It had no claws. It was a human hand, like his own. Following it up, he saw its owner: a man, naked, stood before him. In his far hand was a spear--no, a trident, but beyond that, the visage of Hell faded to a blurry, ruddy nihility.
Aeanas reeled and tried to scrabble away. What new torment was this? But the figure snatched Aeanas and hauled him to his feet.
"It's alright!" he said in a language that wasn't Aeanas'. But he understood it. How could that be? "What's your name, soldier?"
Aeanas gulped. His throat, long charred by the heat and flames, was already feeling better. "Aeanas," he replied finally.
"Anus?!" another voice shouted. A similarly naked figure, also carrying a trident, stepped under the tree, into the range where Aeanas could see clearly. "Your name is Anus?!" The man roared with laughter.
"Cool it, DeVanzo," the first man snapped. Again, Aeanas was forced to marvel at the fact that the two were speaking an entirely different language than his own. The first man continued: "He said, 'Aeanas.' That's Greek, right?"
Aeanas nodded, then asked with some timidity: "Who are you?"
The first man started. "Oh, right! Name's Tucker McElroy, from Tennessee originally, though most recently I found myself in the molten river. This uncouth gentleman's name is Artie DeVanzo, from New Jersey."
Aeanas nodded blankly. New Jersey? What was that? Where was Old Jersey?
McElroy regarded Aeanas for a moment, then said, "Say, you ain't a new arrival, are you? How long you been here, son?"
Aeanas shrugged. "I... could not tell you. A long time, I am sure."
"Well," DeVanzo said, stepping in, "how did you die?"
"I was struck in the heart with an arrow," Aeanas said. "Then, I believe my throat was cut."
McElroy whistled. "Ain't that a way to go. What was you doin'? Hunting? I didn't know they did that over in Greece."
Aeanas shook his head, his puzzlement now building into frustration. "Of course not. I was in battle!"
McElroy did a double-take. "Battle? Just how old are you, anyway? shit, no one's used bows and arrows in a battle for five or six hundred years!"
DeVanzo then interjected. "What battle were you in? Where was it?"
"It was in Greece, at Thermopylae," Aeanas said warily. Were these demons, trying to trick him into revealing something? What could they be after?
McElroy's eyes went wide, as did DeVanzo's. "Holy shit," McElroy said. "You died at Thermopylae? The Thermopylae? King Leonidas? Xerxes? The Persians? The Spartans?"
Aeanas nodded. "Yes. Do you know of it?"
McElroy snorted. "It's only the most famous battle in history!"
Aeanas shifted his weight. His fear was abating. Were they trying to lull him into sedition? "Why?" he asked McElroy in typical laconic bluntness. "It was a simple delaying action. What makes that so famous?"
DeVanzo sputtered, "You faced a million Persians! And there were only three hundred of you!"
"Wrong," Aeanas corrected immediately. "Thespians more than double our number stayed, and we had the Thebans."
McElroy shook his head. "That don't matter none! We got ourselves a genuine Spartiate!" McElroy was now speaking to the other man, DeVanzo. "Man, I can't wait to bring him back to base! A Spartan hoplite from Thermopylae! One of the three hundred!"
"Yeah, and the oldest member of the resistance!" DeVanzo chimed in. "I bet that'll give Ori a thing or two to chew on!"
"Ori's another old revival," McElroy said to Aeanas by way of explanation. "He's a warrior called a Samurai, from a place called Japan, that...well, shoot, it'd be outside what you'd know as the world!" The two men laughed easily together.
"Stop!" Aeanas roared. They would get no more from him; they would confuse him no longer. From this moment forward, they paid for information in blood.
He surged at McElroy and wrapped his arms around him. With fluidity that came with years of practice, he wrenched the man bodily into the air and slammed him to the ground. Most importantly, as he rose, he snatched up the trident and advanced on DeVanzo.
DeVanzo was obviously some kind of fool; he wasn't even holding his weapon properly. With three swift motions, Aeanas swatted the trident aside, forced it from his grasp, and had a point at DeVanzo's throat.
The man instantly raised his hands, and Aeanas jammed them in hard enough to draw blood. He then rotated around DeVanzo so that he was standing side by side with still-dazed McElroy. Through clenched teeth, he hissed: "Explain yourselves, else I will destroy you both!"
And much to his surprise, both men smiled broadly.
"You know, we could actually use you!" McElroy shouted, brushing the reddish dust from his body. A cut on his knee bled feebly. "Alright, here are your answers: as you've probably figured out, you're in Hell. You've been dead for over 25 centuries. That's 2,500 years. The world as you knew it does not exist anymore! Do you understand? Everyone you ever knew is dead, and probably here, being tortured. Do you have a wife? Kids? They're somewhere out there!" McElroy gestured wildly at the Hellscape surrounding them. "And they've suffered exactly as you have for the last 2,500 years! Do you hear me?"
Aeanas lowered the trident. McElroy went on, "But things have changed. The situation has changed. We're fighting back, both here in Hell, and on Earth. We're gonna free as many soldiers as we can, and we'll all fight against Hell. Most times, it’s modern soldiers, but hey, I can't wait for the guys back on Earth to hear that we got Spartan warrior and a Samurai fightin' with us. Won't that be a trip?
"Anyway, Aeanas, we are the People's Front for Liberation of Hell, and we want you to join us." McElroy held his hand out. Aeanas paused, but just for a moment, then passed the trident back to him. "Good," McElroy continued. "We could probably use some more people proficient in your type of fighting. Word is that our cell won't be getting supplied with modern weapons for a while, so for the time being, we're stuck with more... primitive means of defending ourselves and killing ba--demons. Plus, a trick or two we've learned over the centuries."
Aeanas then did something hadn't done since the day before he died, over 2,500 years ago: he smiled. "So, they can be killed."
"Betcher ass they can," DeVanzo crooned. "How do you think we got these tridents?"
"So," McElroy continued. "Will you join us? Maybe teach us how to throw a demon like you just did to me? Or maybe how to correctly hold a spear? In return, I'll show you some things that you'd call magic."
Aeanas laughed. "Has anyone said no?"
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Five
F-111C, Koala Flight, Approaching Hellmouth
“Koala Flight this is Hellmouth Air Traffic Control. Come to course three-three-fiver, altitude three thousand feet for Airstrip Delta Approach. You are cleared to use Runway 31.”
“G’day cobbers. Everything bonzer down there? Throw another shrimp on the Barbie for us.” Squadron Leader, Mackay’s weapons systems operator gave him a pained look. “Don’t blame me, that’s how the septics expect us to talk. Don’t want to disappoint them now do we?” Mackay flipped back to the ATC frequency. “Don’t get in a tizzy about our landing, we’ll go straight through.”
The voice on the air traffic control net sounded slightly strangled. “Koala flight be advised; it is against regulations to fly through the Hellmouth. Please land and your aircraft will be towed through.”
“Maybe against your regulations mate, not against ours. Anyway, you can’t tow an F-111 like that. The nose is too long, and the weight distribution won’t hack it. We’ve got to fly through.”
Mackay’s WSO looked appalled. “Sir, that is utter male bovine excrement.”
“Charlie, I know that, and you know that, but do you think the liability-obsessed septic down there knows that? It’s been almost twenty years since the USAF mothballed its Pigs, that kid wasn’t even a lecherous gleam in his father’s eyes back then. He’s not going to take the chance of these birds getting damaged on his say-so. He’ll let us go through, our responsibility, you watch.”
“Koala Flight, this is Hellmouth air traffic control. At your request, you are cleared for flight transit of the Hellmouth.”
“Told you.”
The four F-111s, three-strike aircraft loaded down with air-to-surface ordnance and an RF-111 with a full surveillance fit, dipped down and started to skim across the sand dunes towards the black ellipse of the Hellmouth. The book said that the ellipse was 800 feet high and 1,200 feet wide which gave the F-111s plenty of room to make their transitions. Beneath them, the desert was covered with armored vehicles, some parked in long lines, others forming convoys through the Hellmouth. The F-111s were low enough to see the commanders of the tanks and armored infantry carriers sitting in the turrets, to see them look up as the scream of the jet engines grabbed their attention. Some waved and Mackay rocked his wings in response.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Charlie Cartwright was awed by the armored vista spread out beneath him.
“Nobody has, not since the Second World War and not so often then. Every armored formation in the world must be closing in on this place. That’s the pattern, armor comes here, and infantry stays at home to protect the people back there. Do you see the roads and pipelines being built as we came in? Hold one, here we go.”
The ellipse was approaching with frightening speed, but Mackay wasn’t aware of having passed through it. The blue sky and brilliant yellow sun had simply gone, replaced by the murky redness of the Hell environment. Mackay could feel the engines starting to labor as they gulped air through the filters that kept the worst of the dust-out. The Pig was shaking slightly as the filters vibrated in the airflow, casting off the dust before it could choke them.
“Watch the engine temperatures like a hawk Charlie. If they start to climb, we’re out of here. You got the nav beacons?”
“Both of them. Realigning navigation computer now.” One of the purposes of this flight was to establish a comparative base between the Euclidian geometry of Earth and the non-Euclidian environment of Hell. Once that was done, navigation computers could be reprogrammed and another problem facing humans trying to fight in this, the strangest of all battlefields, would be solved. As they were all being solved, just taking one at a time.
“Koala-Three here. Cameras are rolling.”
“Roger, Koala Three. Any electronic emissions?”
“Ours. The spectrum’s full of them. Radar, comms, you name it. Nothing hostile or unidentified.”
“Friendly aircraft, this is Dysprosium Air Traffic Control. Please identify and file a flight plan.”
“This is Koala Flight, three F-111C and one RF-111C on an armed reconnaissance flight to Dis and the Hell pit. We’ll let you know the course as soon as we figure it out. This place just isn’t right.”
“You’re telling us, Koala Flight. Good luck.”
The F-111 flight soared over the Martial Plain of Dysprosium, heading towards the Phlegethon River that represented the front line of the human advance into Hell. That advance had stopped temporarily while the infrastructure needed to support the next phase was being established. More importantly, there was a lot of evidence that a huge new Hellish Army was moving up against the troops digging in along the river. That was one of the things the aircraft had been sent in to check. In the meantime, the Russians were digging in, establishing a defense in depth. The central portion of it was underneath them now, a sea of platoon-sized strongpoints, the arcs of fire of each interlocking in a maze of death and destruction. Mackay couldn’t see them, but he knew the gaps between the strong points were filled with minefields and razor wire. Backing the whole defense position up was the artillery. The Russian artillery didn’t have the flexibility or precision of its American equivalent but then, Mackay thought, the septics didn’t line their guns up, wheel to wheel, for 30 kilometers either.
“We’re in hostile airspace now Control.”
“We have you on radar, be advised, that you are the only friendly aircraft in the area. You can take it as read, if it flies, it’s hostile. You’re cleared to shoot.”
“Thank you Control. Be sure to tell the air defense guys on the ground we’re here.”
“Already done Koala Flight. If they fire on you, it will be in a friendly manner.”
“Reassuring that. Charlie, warm up the AIM-9Zs. Be good if One Squadron gets the first air-to-air in Hell. Give those upstarts in Six something to chew on.”
“Koala-Three here, look below us. I think that’s the hostile army we were told to watch out for.”
“You think?” Beneath them, the ground was covered with demons moving towards the Phlegethon River. Far, far too many to count, they turned the ground black with their number. Some were harpies, they tried to climb and challenge the racing F-111s, but they lacked the speed and the ability to climb fast enough. “Control confirms sighting of hostile force moving on the Phlegethon. Rhinolobsters, baldricks, harpies, you name it. Better tell our Russian friends to keep their powder dry.
“Roger, wilco. For your information, it’s not just gunpowder the Russkies have got back there. Any sight of Dis?”
“Ahead of us now. High stone walls, as far as the eye can see which isn’t far in this clag. Looks like an old medieval castle, not the Hollywood version, the real thing. Like they have in Wales. We’re going to try and break some glass now.”
Mackay dipped his aircraft and headed for the walls of Dis. The terrain-following radar was working perfectly as he skimmed the wall, barely a hundred feet over the crenellations. Inside was a town that looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages, a tight mass of buildings separated by narrow alley-like streets. There were baldricks down there, ones that looked up in stunned shock at the monsters that had suddenly crossed the wall and were screaming defiance at all around them as they passed low over the roofs. The demons stood and watched long after the Pigs had gone, awed by the sight and realizing that things were never going to be the same in Hell again.
Unconscious of having caused a spiritual crisis in Dis, Koala Flight arced over the great pit that formed the center of Hell. Mackay looked at the sight below, a super caldera that would be a vulcanologist’s dream but represented all of humanity’s worst nightmares. His thumb itched to pick a target and release his bombs onto it, but his orders were strict, fire on ground targets only in self-defense or to protect the reconnaissance aircraft. Still, thinking of all the humanity that had to be suffering in the nightmarish scene below and he could promise to come back with every pound of ordnance his faithful Pig could carry. “You got all that Koala-Three?”
“Affirmative.” Koala-Three’s voice was subdued.
“Let’s get out of here then.” The four F-111s made a gentle turn, trying to cover as much of Hell as possible. Mackay hoped that, down below, the souls trapped there would see them, some would know what they were, and they would spread the word. Humanity was coming with every weapon it could muster and what stood now would not be allowed to stand again.
Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“My leader wants to talk, very urgently. Anywhere you wish. It is most important.” Rahab spoke earnestly, Gaius Julius Caesar had been most explicit with his instructions. These humans, living and dead, were what he had spent two millennia waiting for. A way to fight back against the monsters that ran this place.
“Important for him? Or us?”
“For us both I think. He….” Rahab stopped speaking her voice drowned out by a terrible screaming howl.
Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim recognized the sky-ripping sound instantly, the sound of jet fighter engines. Even as she looked up, four F-111s emerged from the overcast, their wings stretched out and loaded with bombs, lazily making a turn over Hell. Then, they were gone on their way back home, just leaving their sound behind. Around her, the living and deceased members of the PFLH were jumping up and down, cheering and smacking each other on the back. Rahab looked at them in amazement.
“What is that terrible noise?”
Kim looked at her, her eyes dancing with joy. “That isn’t noise Rahab. That’s the sound of Freedom.”
High Peak Youth Hostel, Peak District, British Isles
As Lakheenahuknaasi emerged from the portal the first thing that hit her was the overpowering scent of a great deal of blood spilled in a confined space. The second thing was that this part of the earth was unpleasantly cold. She found herself in a rather small room packed with demon infantry, whose cloven hooves continued to crunch the smashed remains of wooden furniture. This chamber and the others she could see leading off from it were littered with human corpses, most of them obviously torn apart by demon claws. She stepped lightly around them for now and addressed the squad leader.
“I see that you have not so much secured the area as painted it with human blood. Did they give you any trouble?”
“Very little.” The demon seemed unsure whether he should treat the gorgon as his superior or inferior. “One of them managed to grab a fire-spear and wounded one of my warriors before perishing.”
Lakeenah's gaze followed his gesture. The injured demon was sitting on a broken table, in a white room that reeked of stewed vegetables. His left flank looked like a piece of wood riddled by termites, oozing green blood from numerous tiny holes. As she watched the demon yanked the heart out of a human corpse and stuffed it into his mouth. The dead man still held a fire spear in his hands; a chunk of carved wood with two short black metal rods sticking out of it.
“If you require nothing further?” Some of the demons had slung human corpses over their shoulders, undoubtedly as rations for their victory feast.
“Go. But take that fire spear with you. Baron Trajakrithoth may want to examine its enchantments.”
The demon warriors squeezed back through the portal, which promptly closed behind them, leaving Lakheenahuknaasi alone in the human building. It seemed to be some sort of inn. with a central common area, what was presumably a kitchen (though she could see no cooking fire), indoor latrines (which appeared to have just been emptied), and several rooms full of (mostly smashed) bunks. It could have been a barracks but for the lack of weapons. A large triangular window showed a sunset obscured by clouds, painting the landscape of rolling grassy hills and forested valleys in a mix of oranges and grays. Here and their beams of golden light broke through and highlighted an outcropping or a stream. It almost looked welcoming save for the sparse flakes of snow melting on the window.
Lakheenahuknaasi could see no other buildings, but if this was an inn travelers could arrive at any moment. She made her way down the stairs, taking care not to slip on the blood still dripping from step to step. The door barring the main entrance was broken and warped; the triple indentations and the dead human woman seemingly still trying to grasp its handle bore witness to a last desperate attempt to escape. Stepping over the body, the gorgon yanked the protesting door open and slipped out onto the moors.
Sure enough, half an hour later Tom Sullivan crested the last ridge and sighted the hostel. “Ah, there it is dear.”
Trailing behind him, his fiancée Jennifer was not in the best of moods. “You said we'd be there two hours ago. This is the last time I let you plan the route.” She paused, out of breath.” I’m never voting for Labor again. If Gordon hadn't commandeered all the planes, we could be in Italy right now. Tony was so much nicer.” Tom shook his head. He was beginning to have second thoughts about this relationship.
The couple made their way down the track to the building. What they saw there left both retching for a good five minutes. As soon as he'd regained his senses, Thomas reached for his mobile. He'd entered the number of the national demon sighting hotline just before they set off, almost as a joke, never expecting horror like this to come to sleepy Yorkshire. Five minutes later the first police units were dispatched to set up a perimeter and ten minutes after that the first territorial army trucks began to roll out of Worsley Barracks.
Lakheenahuknaasi had long since found a convenient cliff and launched herself into the air. There seemed to be no convenient thermals in this freezing place, and she was forced to hook her arm spurs into her wings and flap strenuously for altitude. She became acutely conscious of how conspicuous her metallic bronze scales made her after the first time she flew through a shaft of sunlight and lit up like a disco ball. Lakheenahuknaasi muttered a satanic curse and wished she'd had the foresight to cover herself in mud. She would've endured the mocking of the other gorgons if she'd known how much safer it would make her feel now. She considered trying to gain the relative safety of the clouds, but her wing and arm muscles were already tiring, and she didn't want to risk accidentally over-flying the target. Instead, she flew low, weaving through the valleys and trying to stay in the lengthening shadows. Though she did not know it, the decision saved her life; air defense control at RAF Boulmer began enforcing a no-fly zone over the area shortly after she descended to an area its radar could not cover. The inclement weather had kept most walkers at home and left the rest disinclined to watch the skies.
The gorgon flew an erratic course through the twisting valleys for the better part of an hour, with only her perception of the planet's strong magnetic field keeping her heading towards the target. Even using that was hard due to the sheer density of psychic emanations in this part of the earth. Clearly, the humans had not only learned the art of telepathy, but they were also using it to constantly gossip with each other. As she flew, she saw several isolated farms and the occasional village visible in the distance. Not enough to concern her, but hardly the 'uninhabited wilderness' Baron Guruktarqor had described. Most puzzling were the lights that speed along the black strips, some constant yellow, some flickering white and blue. They could have been chariots bearing torches, but for their impossible speed and brightness, matching or even outpacing her own aerial progress.
Finally, as her wing and arm muscles were ready to give up, she crested a hill and saw a great city laid out before her. It was lit so brightly that at first, it seemed to Lakheenahuknaasi that the city was already aflame. On closer inspection, however, it was clear that she was seeing thousands of torches, strung on poles, shining out of windows, and attached to moving carriages. This vast sprawling metropolis had to be the target. She could not see the smoke or fires of the forges yet, but that could wait. The immediate priority was avoiding detection while the portal was summoned. Lakheenahuknaasi glided down to a copse near the top of the hill, keeping the trees between herself and the city as much as possible. Once down she crawled into the undergrowth and crouched shivering under her wings. This world of humans was cold, unbearably cold.
The humans should be thanking me she thought, a nice lava lake is just what this place needs to warm it up a bit.' The gorgon began reaching out with her mind, straining to push through the barrier and contact her superiors. Immediately she was hit by the overwhelming babble of human telepaths. Most of the mind-speech was not speaking at all, merely indecipherable gibberish. Some of it was comprehensible though. Curiously, the humans seemed to have found a way to enchant their musical instruments to transmit their notes into the ether. Lakheenahuknaasi shook her head at the thought of wasting energy on such frivolous magery. Another particularly powerful human mage seemed to be chanting the words 'Hallam Eff Em' several times a minute, accompanied by jangling chimes. She spent a moment pondering the significance of this ritual before deciding that it must be just another symptom of human insanity.
Pushing the human transmissions aside, she broke through the barrier to contact Euryale. The force of the greater demon's mind was almost overwhelming. 'This is Lakheenahuknaasi,' she reported 'the human city lies before me. I am ready to guide the portal.” Euryale's response was swift. “I am approaching Jorkastrequar now. Keep the link open and focus your thoughts on the city. They know it not, but a wave of fire is about to carry those pitiful beings straight into our domain.”
F-111C, Koala Flight, Approaching Hellmouth
“Koala Flight this is Hellmouth Air Traffic Control. Come to course three-three-fiver, altitude three thousand feet for Airstrip Delta Approach. You are cleared to use Runway 31.”
“G’day cobbers. Everything bonzer down there? Throw another shrimp on the Barbie for us.” Squadron Leader, Mackay’s weapons systems operator gave him a pained look. “Don’t blame me, that’s how the septics expect us to talk. Don’t want to disappoint them now do we?” Mackay flipped back to the ATC frequency. “Don’t get in a tizzy about our landing, we’ll go straight through.”
The voice on the air traffic control net sounded slightly strangled. “Koala flight be advised; it is against regulations to fly through the Hellmouth. Please land and your aircraft will be towed through.”
“Maybe against your regulations mate, not against ours. Anyway, you can’t tow an F-111 like that. The nose is too long, and the weight distribution won’t hack it. We’ve got to fly through.”
Mackay’s WSO looked appalled. “Sir, that is utter male bovine excrement.”
“Charlie, I know that, and you know that, but do you think the liability-obsessed septic down there knows that? It’s been almost twenty years since the USAF mothballed its Pigs, that kid wasn’t even a lecherous gleam in his father’s eyes back then. He’s not going to take the chance of these birds getting damaged on his say-so. He’ll let us go through, our responsibility, you watch.”
“Koala Flight, this is Hellmouth air traffic control. At your request, you are cleared for flight transit of the Hellmouth.”
“Told you.”
The four F-111s, three-strike aircraft loaded down with air-to-surface ordnance and an RF-111 with a full surveillance fit, dipped down and started to skim across the sand dunes towards the black ellipse of the Hellmouth. The book said that the ellipse was 800 feet high and 1,200 feet wide which gave the F-111s plenty of room to make their transitions. Beneath them, the desert was covered with armored vehicles, some parked in long lines, others forming convoys through the Hellmouth. The F-111s were low enough to see the commanders of the tanks and armored infantry carriers sitting in the turrets, to see them look up as the scream of the jet engines grabbed their attention. Some waved and Mackay rocked his wings in response.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Charlie Cartwright was awed by the armored vista spread out beneath him.
“Nobody has, not since the Second World War and not so often then. Every armored formation in the world must be closing in on this place. That’s the pattern, armor comes here, and infantry stays at home to protect the people back there. Do you see the roads and pipelines being built as we came in? Hold one, here we go.”
The ellipse was approaching with frightening speed, but Mackay wasn’t aware of having passed through it. The blue sky and brilliant yellow sun had simply gone, replaced by the murky redness of the Hell environment. Mackay could feel the engines starting to labor as they gulped air through the filters that kept the worst of the dust-out. The Pig was shaking slightly as the filters vibrated in the airflow, casting off the dust before it could choke them.
“Watch the engine temperatures like a hawk Charlie. If they start to climb, we’re out of here. You got the nav beacons?”
“Both of them. Realigning navigation computer now.” One of the purposes of this flight was to establish a comparative base between the Euclidian geometry of Earth and the non-Euclidian environment of Hell. Once that was done, navigation computers could be reprogrammed and another problem facing humans trying to fight in this, the strangest of all battlefields, would be solved. As they were all being solved, just taking one at a time.
“Koala-Three here. Cameras are rolling.”
“Roger, Koala Three. Any electronic emissions?”
“Ours. The spectrum’s full of them. Radar, comms, you name it. Nothing hostile or unidentified.”
“Friendly aircraft, this is Dysprosium Air Traffic Control. Please identify and file a flight plan.”
“This is Koala Flight, three F-111C and one RF-111C on an armed reconnaissance flight to Dis and the Hell pit. We’ll let you know the course as soon as we figure it out. This place just isn’t right.”
“You’re telling us, Koala Flight. Good luck.”
The F-111 flight soared over the Martial Plain of Dysprosium, heading towards the Phlegethon River that represented the front line of the human advance into Hell. That advance had stopped temporarily while the infrastructure needed to support the next phase was being established. More importantly, there was a lot of evidence that a huge new Hellish Army was moving up against the troops digging in along the river. That was one of the things the aircraft had been sent in to check. In the meantime, the Russians were digging in, establishing a defense in depth. The central portion of it was underneath them now, a sea of platoon-sized strongpoints, the arcs of fire of each interlocking in a maze of death and destruction. Mackay couldn’t see them, but he knew the gaps between the strong points were filled with minefields and razor wire. Backing the whole defense position up was the artillery. The Russian artillery didn’t have the flexibility or precision of its American equivalent but then, Mackay thought, the septics didn’t line their guns up, wheel to wheel, for 30 kilometers either.
“We’re in hostile airspace now Control.”
“We have you on radar, be advised, that you are the only friendly aircraft in the area. You can take it as read, if it flies, it’s hostile. You’re cleared to shoot.”
“Thank you Control. Be sure to tell the air defense guys on the ground we’re here.”
“Already done Koala Flight. If they fire on you, it will be in a friendly manner.”
“Reassuring that. Charlie, warm up the AIM-9Zs. Be good if One Squadron gets the first air-to-air in Hell. Give those upstarts in Six something to chew on.”
“Koala-Three here, look below us. I think that’s the hostile army we were told to watch out for.”
“You think?” Beneath them, the ground was covered with demons moving towards the Phlegethon River. Far, far too many to count, they turned the ground black with their number. Some were harpies, they tried to climb and challenge the racing F-111s, but they lacked the speed and the ability to climb fast enough. “Control confirms sighting of hostile force moving on the Phlegethon. Rhinolobsters, baldricks, harpies, you name it. Better tell our Russian friends to keep their powder dry.
“Roger, wilco. For your information, it’s not just gunpowder the Russkies have got back there. Any sight of Dis?”
“Ahead of us now. High stone walls, as far as the eye can see which isn’t far in this clag. Looks like an old medieval castle, not the Hollywood version, the real thing. Like they have in Wales. We’re going to try and break some glass now.”
Mackay dipped his aircraft and headed for the walls of Dis. The terrain-following radar was working perfectly as he skimmed the wall, barely a hundred feet over the crenellations. Inside was a town that looked like something straight out of the Middle Ages, a tight mass of buildings separated by narrow alley-like streets. There were baldricks down there, ones that looked up in stunned shock at the monsters that had suddenly crossed the wall and were screaming defiance at all around them as they passed low over the roofs. The demons stood and watched long after the Pigs had gone, awed by the sight and realizing that things were never going to be the same in Hell again.
Unconscious of having caused a spiritual crisis in Dis, Koala Flight arced over the great pit that formed the center of Hell. Mackay looked at the sight below, a super caldera that would be a vulcanologist’s dream but represented all of humanity’s worst nightmares. His thumb itched to pick a target and release his bombs onto it, but his orders were strict, fire on ground targets only in self-defense or to protect the reconnaissance aircraft. Still, thinking of all the humanity that had to be suffering in the nightmarish scene below and he could promise to come back with every pound of ordnance his faithful Pig could carry. “You got all that Koala-Three?”
“Affirmative.” Koala-Three’s voice was subdued.
“Let’s get out of here then.” The four F-111s made a gentle turn, trying to cover as much of Hell as possible. Mackay hoped that, down below, the souls trapped there would see them, some would know what they were, and they would spread the word. Humanity was coming with every weapon it could muster and what stood now would not be allowed to stand again.
Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle of Hell
“My leader wants to talk, very urgently. Anywhere you wish. It is most important.” Rahab spoke earnestly, Gaius Julius Caesar had been most explicit with his instructions. These humans, living and dead, were what he had spent two millennia waiting for. A way to fight back against the monsters that ran this place.
“Important for him? Or us?”
“For us both I think. He….” Rahab stopped speaking her voice drowned out by a terrible screaming howl.
Lieutenant (deceased) Jade Kim recognized the sky-ripping sound instantly, the sound of jet fighter engines. Even as she looked up, four F-111s emerged from the overcast, their wings stretched out and loaded with bombs, lazily making a turn over Hell. Then, they were gone on their way back home, just leaving their sound behind. Around her, the living and deceased members of the PFLH were jumping up and down, cheering and smacking each other on the back. Rahab looked at them in amazement.
“What is that terrible noise?”
Kim looked at her, her eyes dancing with joy. “That isn’t noise Rahab. That’s the sound of Freedom.”
High Peak Youth Hostel, Peak District, British Isles
As Lakheenahuknaasi emerged from the portal the first thing that hit her was the overpowering scent of a great deal of blood spilled in a confined space. The second thing was that this part of the earth was unpleasantly cold. She found herself in a rather small room packed with demon infantry, whose cloven hooves continued to crunch the smashed remains of wooden furniture. This chamber and the others she could see leading off from it were littered with human corpses, most of them obviously torn apart by demon claws. She stepped lightly around them for now and addressed the squad leader.
“I see that you have not so much secured the area as painted it with human blood. Did they give you any trouble?”
“Very little.” The demon seemed unsure whether he should treat the gorgon as his superior or inferior. “One of them managed to grab a fire-spear and wounded one of my warriors before perishing.”
Lakeenah's gaze followed his gesture. The injured demon was sitting on a broken table, in a white room that reeked of stewed vegetables. His left flank looked like a piece of wood riddled by termites, oozing green blood from numerous tiny holes. As she watched the demon yanked the heart out of a human corpse and stuffed it into his mouth. The dead man still held a fire spear in his hands; a chunk of carved wood with two short black metal rods sticking out of it.
“If you require nothing further?” Some of the demons had slung human corpses over their shoulders, undoubtedly as rations for their victory feast.
“Go. But take that fire spear with you. Baron Trajakrithoth may want to examine its enchantments.”
The demon warriors squeezed back through the portal, which promptly closed behind them, leaving Lakheenahuknaasi alone in the human building. It seemed to be some sort of inn. with a central common area, what was presumably a kitchen (though she could see no cooking fire), indoor latrines (which appeared to have just been emptied), and several rooms full of (mostly smashed) bunks. It could have been a barracks but for the lack of weapons. A large triangular window showed a sunset obscured by clouds, painting the landscape of rolling grassy hills and forested valleys in a mix of oranges and grays. Here and their beams of golden light broke through and highlighted an outcropping or a stream. It almost looked welcoming save for the sparse flakes of snow melting on the window.
Lakheenahuknaasi could see no other buildings, but if this was an inn travelers could arrive at any moment. She made her way down the stairs, taking care not to slip on the blood still dripping from step to step. The door barring the main entrance was broken and warped; the triple indentations and the dead human woman seemingly still trying to grasp its handle bore witness to a last desperate attempt to escape. Stepping over the body, the gorgon yanked the protesting door open and slipped out onto the moors.
Sure enough, half an hour later Tom Sullivan crested the last ridge and sighted the hostel. “Ah, there it is dear.”
Trailing behind him, his fiancée Jennifer was not in the best of moods. “You said we'd be there two hours ago. This is the last time I let you plan the route.” She paused, out of breath.” I’m never voting for Labor again. If Gordon hadn't commandeered all the planes, we could be in Italy right now. Tony was so much nicer.” Tom shook his head. He was beginning to have second thoughts about this relationship.
The couple made their way down the track to the building. What they saw there left both retching for a good five minutes. As soon as he'd regained his senses, Thomas reached for his mobile. He'd entered the number of the national demon sighting hotline just before they set off, almost as a joke, never expecting horror like this to come to sleepy Yorkshire. Five minutes later the first police units were dispatched to set up a perimeter and ten minutes after that the first territorial army trucks began to roll out of Worsley Barracks.
Lakheenahuknaasi had long since found a convenient cliff and launched herself into the air. There seemed to be no convenient thermals in this freezing place, and she was forced to hook her arm spurs into her wings and flap strenuously for altitude. She became acutely conscious of how conspicuous her metallic bronze scales made her after the first time she flew through a shaft of sunlight and lit up like a disco ball. Lakheenahuknaasi muttered a satanic curse and wished she'd had the foresight to cover herself in mud. She would've endured the mocking of the other gorgons if she'd known how much safer it would make her feel now. She considered trying to gain the relative safety of the clouds, but her wing and arm muscles were already tiring, and she didn't want to risk accidentally over-flying the target. Instead, she flew low, weaving through the valleys and trying to stay in the lengthening shadows. Though she did not know it, the decision saved her life; air defense control at RAF Boulmer began enforcing a no-fly zone over the area shortly after she descended to an area its radar could not cover. The inclement weather had kept most walkers at home and left the rest disinclined to watch the skies.
The gorgon flew an erratic course through the twisting valleys for the better part of an hour, with only her perception of the planet's strong magnetic field keeping her heading towards the target. Even using that was hard due to the sheer density of psychic emanations in this part of the earth. Clearly, the humans had not only learned the art of telepathy, but they were also using it to constantly gossip with each other. As she flew, she saw several isolated farms and the occasional village visible in the distance. Not enough to concern her, but hardly the 'uninhabited wilderness' Baron Guruktarqor had described. Most puzzling were the lights that speed along the black strips, some constant yellow, some flickering white and blue. They could have been chariots bearing torches, but for their impossible speed and brightness, matching or even outpacing her own aerial progress.
Finally, as her wing and arm muscles were ready to give up, she crested a hill and saw a great city laid out before her. It was lit so brightly that at first, it seemed to Lakheenahuknaasi that the city was already aflame. On closer inspection, however, it was clear that she was seeing thousands of torches, strung on poles, shining out of windows, and attached to moving carriages. This vast sprawling metropolis had to be the target. She could not see the smoke or fires of the forges yet, but that could wait. The immediate priority was avoiding detection while the portal was summoned. Lakheenahuknaasi glided down to a copse near the top of the hill, keeping the trees between herself and the city as much as possible. Once down she crawled into the undergrowth and crouched shivering under her wings. This world of humans was cold, unbearably cold.
The humans should be thanking me she thought, a nice lava lake is just what this place needs to warm it up a bit.' The gorgon began reaching out with her mind, straining to push through the barrier and contact her superiors. Immediately she was hit by the overwhelming babble of human telepaths. Most of the mind-speech was not speaking at all, merely indecipherable gibberish. Some of it was comprehensible though. Curiously, the humans seemed to have found a way to enchant their musical instruments to transmit their notes into the ether. Lakheenahuknaasi shook her head at the thought of wasting energy on such frivolous magery. Another particularly powerful human mage seemed to be chanting the words 'Hallam Eff Em' several times a minute, accompanied by jangling chimes. She spent a moment pondering the significance of this ritual before deciding that it must be just another symptom of human insanity.
Pushing the human transmissions aside, she broke through the barrier to contact Euryale. The force of the greater demon's mind was almost overwhelming. 'This is Lakheenahuknaasi,' she reported 'the human city lies before me. I am ready to guide the portal.” Euryale's response was swift. “I am approaching Jorkastrequar now. Keep the link open and focus your thoughts on the city. They know it not, but a wave of fire is about to carry those pitiful beings straight into our domain.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Six
Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
Aeanas continued working with the file; he was nearly through. He'd been worrying it back and forth for some time now, and at last, the left prong of the trident was free. It clattered to the dirt floor of the cave where the right prong lay, leaving only the center on the weapon. Aeanas stood and hefted the weapon. It was heavy, like the doru to which he was accustomed, and the balance seemed correct on it now. It would make a passable weapon.
The warrior called Ori watched him silently. Like Aeanas, he didn't speak very much, and for this, he enjoyed the man's company. He was grateful and loyal to McElroy and the others, but they prattled on like children! Perhaps Aeanas didn't want to like his new companions. Sure, they were soldiers, and they found some common ground in that, but everything about them was alien and heterodox. As a Spartan, he'd spent his entire life turning his body into a weapon, turning the doru, the xiphon, and the aspis into extensions of his body. Just by holding a weapon, his muscles knew how best to move it so that he might destroy his enemies. There was nothing else to his life but killing his enemies.
But these soldiers from the future--no, from the present--were different. They knew how to read. They spoke of music and art, and of other forms of entertainment that he could not understand. For their purported superiority to other soldiers (after all, they managed to escape where he hadn't), the fact remained: their martial prowess was not their only consideration! In that way, Aeanas thought of them similar to the citizen-soldiers of the other Greek cities. Though, he mused, there was courage in that kind of man. He recalled those Thespians, those brave men who refused to abandon the Spartans at Thermopylae. The night before they all died, Aeanas recalled sharing a meal with a Thespian named Polyphanes, who was by trade an architect. And the morning before the final battle, he and Polyphanes traded cloaks and was proud to have died with that man's cloak upon his shoulders.
But everything about these soldiers was different. Much of what they said was barely comprehensible, anyway. Whatever magic allowed him to understand their speech was somehow flawed, and much of their slang was indecipherable to him. But perhaps most oddly, these alleged soldiers didn't know how to fight with a sword or spear! Well, most of them didn't. Ori was a warrior to Aeanas' liking; he was skilled in many forms of unarmed and armed combat. He had received one of his native blades from the living world, and he practiced frequently. But more than that, he was an outsider, too. He trained for war and only war, so he did not care for art or music. Like Aeanas, he couldn't even read. Ori stepped closer to Aeanas and held out his hand. Aeanas passed him the weapon. Ori tried a few maneuvers with it, then passed it back to Aeanas with a grunt.
"Graceless," he muttered. "The weapon should bend around your body."
"Why?" Aeanas asked. "A bent spear is useless to the phalanx."
"What is that?"
"It is how we fight...how we fought," he corrected, casting a glance of disdain at the modern humans nearby. "Heavy armor, large shields. Shoulder to shoulder, four ranks deep." He mimicked the pose of a man in the first row. "Make a wall of shields and spearpoints and break your enemy upon them. Never let a gap open up in your line."
"A phalanx," Ori said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "How many men wide?"
"As wide as possible. Prevents flanking." They were silent for a moment. "And how did you fight?"
"Many ways. Sometimes I would ride and fire my bow, or charge with a spear. Others I would simply fight with my katana."
Aeanas held his hand out, and Ori stiffened for a moment. Then, silently, he passed him the weapon. Drawing it out from its sheath, Aeanas commented, "A longer sword. And single-edged. Must be made of iron, yes?" Ori grunted in the affirmative.
"So, the balance would favor..." he sliced through the air, "...a two-handed grasp. You do not use a shield?"
"Not with the katana. I can parry and counterstrike to great effect with it."
Aeanas nodded, passing back the katana. "I hope to see you slay a demon with it soon."
They were silent for a moment. "And you are proficient in unarmed combat?" Ori asked.
Aeanas shrugged. "For my part, yes. I wrestle. I wrestled."
"I too grappled. We must spar sometime. To test our styles against the other."
Aeanas smiled at this. "It would be a privilege. I am sure you will be more engaging than the others. I threw McElroy as though he were a woman!"
Ori suppressed a laugh. "Yes, they are soft creatures, made so by their infernal weapons. Why fight honorably when they can strike you down from a great distance? They're so weak that they may count women as soldiers!"
"Hey, baby dick!" snapped Private Cassidy, skin newly grown, stepping in close to them. "You got a problem with me?"
Ori frowned. Aeanas thought that, wherever this Japan was, their men did not suffer the barbed tongues of their women. But they were a long way from Japan, so...
Ori grunted, "I was discussing with Aeanas the weaknesses of modern men, and how they compensate for this weakness through weapons requiring such little strength and courage that even women can wield them."
"Man, shut the hell up," Cassidy snarled, crossing her arms over her ample breasts. Aeanas thought them unappealing things, the breasts of a peasant woman with a litter of babes to feed. "If it weren't for those weapons, you'd still be cooking in that river!" For a moment, Aeanas thought that Ori would strike her, but the moment passed quickly.
"Alright, can it, you guys," McElroy said, stepping in. "Ori, take your sword and go with DeVanzo and Walsch down to the river. Walsch, you got the rifle." He turned to Aeanas. "Come on, hoss. You, Cassidy, and I are gonna go check out that cluster of villages on the other side of the northern ridge. You can bring your new spear if you want, but I dunno if these things are worth a damn against baldricks." He hefted his own trident, adding, "Better than nothing, though."
From the cover of the forest's edge, they watched the sloping grade down to the river. And waited. For Tom Walsch, it was still strange to think that millions of people were writhing in agony beneath that river at this very moment. And why were they pulling out only the military? Odds were extremely low that they'd get no civilians at all. Perhaps there was only military in this molten river, civilians went to other torments. Then again, the civilian mindset was different. Persons of weak will simply resign themselves to their torment and sink to the bottom after a few years of failed escapes. In utter misery, they would only move as a reflex to the burning, sightless, deaf, pain the only sensation they knew. Military people of all types would fight, though. Futility didn't matter; that's why military history was littered with otherwise pointless last stands. It might take longer for a soldier to break the way civilians did. After all, Walsch had only been in the river for a scant few weeks before he was pulled out, and he had the benefit of hoping that his persistence would pay off. And it did.
"There's one," DeVanzo whispered. Walsch scanned the shoreline before spotting the creature. It was an act he'd seen a dozen times. It flopped like a fish for a while, and then, as it became able to breathe and see, it started crawling further up the bank. They would continue until a baldrick sentry happened along, which could mean they'd be anywhere from ten to fifty meters from the river.
This one made it about twenty-five before Ori grunted, "Demon. Left."
Walsch chambered a round and waited. He loved this rifle; it was simple, deadly, and accurate. Though he'd always been an excellent marksman, this thing made it almost too easy. And he had a whole box of ammo to hold them over until the next official resupply.
The baldrick was a typical sentry, sporting a trident and simple bronze armor. He bellowed, as was the won’t of these sentries, and charged. The crawling creature, now looking a bit more like a human, stood up and began hobbling away.
"Alright, that's good enough for me," Walsch muttered. He lined up the shot and fired. The round took the baldrick in the throat, blowing out just about everything between his massive deltoids. Pouring blood out all over the packed, burnt earth, he stumbled, staggered, then crashed right at the feet of its target, who watched in befuddlement.
"Chump," Walsch grinned. DeVanzo clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey Ori, why don't you go finish it off, and bring the new recruit back up here, OK?"
Ori frowned but drew his katana nonetheless and began crossing the open ground to reach his feebly moving target. It was only seventy-five meters, but he covered it quickly and hacked the demon's head off without delay. As he did this, DeVanzo and Walsch took up a new position, fifteen meters to the north.
"shit," DeVanzo said suddenly. "Shit, shit, shit another baldrick!"
Walsch swung his rifle around. A baldrick within miles of another sentry was unheard of. The patrols were frequent enough to catch the escapees, and that was all that mattered. That's why they were able to pull this off with a single rifle and a spotter or two. They must be pairing the patrols. They're reacting to what we're doing. This baldrick was not like his now-dead partner. He did not bellow or scream. He stalked forward at an inhuman rate, raising his trident high. Ori didn't see it coming, and the rescued human was still half-blind. So, Tom Walsch chambered a round, took aim, and fired. The shot was hurried, but it was lucky. It winged off the baldrick's elbow, no doubt shattering bone and shredding muscle. He dropped his trident with a roar of anger and pain and stopped, looking for the source of this new attack.
"OK, Ori, time to go," DeVanzo hissed quietly. Walsch took aim and shot at the baldrick, who was now scanning the tree line. He must've spotted them because he was in motion just before the shot rang out. Instead of catching him in the chest, he moved just enough to one side that he took the round in the upper arm--the one that had already been shot. He hit the ground hard but got back up quickly.
But Walsch was quicker. He chambered a round, aimed, fired--and nothing happened.
"Fuck, misfire." Walsch groaned and worked the action of the rifle. It refused to budge. "Jammed-up."
Now the baldrick had spotted them, and he roared a monstrous battle cry. But before he could take a step, Ori was there, blade at the ready, bellowing his own challenge to the massive beast.
"What is he doing?" Walsch cried out while working to clear his weapon.
"He's starting to believe," DeVanzo stated with awe. "He's the One."
"Now is not the time for Matrix jokes!" Walsch said.
The baldrick only had one good arm, but that meant he retained eighty percent of his deadly ends. He swiped at Ori, but he dodged with blinding quickness and countered with a slice. The baldrick had the sense to offer his mangled flesh, but he hadn't counted on the blade being of iron. The wound seared as the blade bit deep, and the baldrick reared back in shock, kicking at the offending creature with one foot.
Ori was already in a position to meet the incoming appendage, and he held his blade firm. It passed between two toes, cutting the webbing there and carving deep into his foot. When Ori twisted the blade and wrenched it free, the baldrick couldn't help but scream. Now limping, he swiped again with his hand, catching nothing and receiving a flurry of slashes from that wretched iron blade. Ori was without pity or quarter, nor was he stylish. He opened as many wounds as he could, as quickly as he could, until the demon was attempting to hobble away in retreat.
But there would be no retreat. Ori feigned a lateral slash, and when the baldrick made to block it, he swooped in slow and stabbed up between the plates of his armor, entering at the armpit and piercing to the heart. Ori received three horrendous lacerations across his back for it, but it didn't matter anymore. The baldrick fell to his knees, limp and defenseless. Screaming with the strength of a half a millennium of remembered agony, Ori cleaved the baldrick's head from his shoulders in two savage blows.
The entire fight had taken less than twenty seconds.
DeVanzo and Walsch looked at each other. "Mission accomplished," Walsch whispered. "Now let's get outta Dodge." They leaped from the forest, DeVanzo running to gather up the wounded Ori, and Walsch to fetch the latest rescue. Overhead, there was a berserk scream, one that neither Ori nor Aeneas could recognize. The Americans did, and they looked up with elation at the F-111s making their slow, lazy turn overhead.
Secure Facility, Camp Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium.
“Got them.” The intelligence officer had the 10x12 inch prints in his hand. More were still coming over, but these were the critical ones, the pictures of the Hell-pit itself. The F-111s had landed a few minutes before and the digitally recorded pictures had been sent over by fiber-optic cable. Another sign of just how much things were changing; Hell, now had computer access, or rather the human army fighting there did.
General Petraeus looked at the prints. “It’s a caldera, no doubt about it. A super volcano caldera. Like the one that’s supposed to be under Yellowstone. Must be bigger though.”
“Yeah, size ain’t a problem for this thing. Explains the foul atmosphere of this place. That thing must be pumping the contaminants upwards. Look at these enlargements Sir. Shows what’s going on down there.”
Petraeus looked at the enlargements and then sharply at the third person in the room, the hulking figure of Abigor. “We knew it was bad in there, not this bad. Looks like Dante was spot-on in his description of the place though. More or less.” He paused for a second trying to regain his balance. Then, he addressed Abigor. “How could you, how could anybody do this?”
“We must.” Abigor’s voice was unapologetic. “Our survival depends on it. You kill lower animals to eat, to provide yourselves with food. This is no different, to us you are, were, lower animals to be exploited. So, we exploited you to fill our needs.”
Petraeus reflected that Abigor was going to have to be very careful how he spoke in the future. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to survive much longer. There was an old Western custom involving a tree and a rope that was likely to be reborn. “This isn’t farming for food. This is just inflicting suffering for the sheer joy of it.”
“We do not eat your kind just for food although your kidlings are great delicacies.”
Yup thought Petraeus, he was going to have to be much more careful. “Then why?”
“Because we need the energy. When you humans live, you build up energy in your bodies. When you die, that energy boosts you up from your level to ours. But the energy barrier that separates us from the next level up is much stronger than the one that separates your level from ours. We need much more energy to cross it, the energy we generate by prolonging the second deaths of your kind.”
“How do you know this?” Petraeus was genuinely curious, for the first time he was getting a real insight into the mind of Humanity’s greatest enemy.
“Because Satan told us so. Yahweh harvests energy as well for the same reason only he gathers his by making his subjects worship him. He gets the power from devotion.”
“Like the Ori.” The Intelligence officer was an avid Stargate fan.
Petraeus wasn’t but he still got the reference. “And that makes the baldricks like the Goa’uld I suppose. Abigor, you didn’t answer my question. How do you know this?”
“Because it is so. It has always been so. We must harvest energy to cross the barrier to the afterlife. Satan has us do so by the torments of the pit, Yahweh by demanding unending worship.”
“But that doesn’t make any kind of sense. How can two such totally different approaches yield the results you demand? It just doesn’t make sense.” The frustration was creeping through into Petraeus’s voice.
“As I said, it is what Yahweh and Satan both said. Why should they lie? They are Gods, they demand faith,”
“And I’m a General, I demand firepower. And we’ve seen what happens when your faith meets my firepower. The truth is Abigor, you don’t know any of this. You’ve got no proof for any of it. You’ve been sold a bill of goods, just like we were for so many thousands of years. You’ve been fooled, just like we were.”
Abigor stared at the pictures taken by the RF-111C, thoughts churning in his mind. He’d never thought this through before, those to whom he owed allegiance had demanded he accept their words and he had. But now he owed allegiance to humans and humans demanded proof. Those were their eternal replies when somebody claimed something. ‘Prove it.’ “How do you know?’ ‘What’s your proof?’ “If you can’t prove it, then it isn’t so.’ And the answer he could give to all those was ‘I can’t.’ For everything he believed was unproven. And that meant so many things.
Abigor spoke very slowly as the words formed in his mind, breaking the mental blocks of millennia. “No, I don’t know any of this. I just believed it. And if my belief was false.” His great clawed hand waved over the pictures. “Then all of this, all of it, was for nothing.
Outer Ring, Seventh Circle of Hell
Aeanas continued working with the file; he was nearly through. He'd been worrying it back and forth for some time now, and at last, the left prong of the trident was free. It clattered to the dirt floor of the cave where the right prong lay, leaving only the center on the weapon. Aeanas stood and hefted the weapon. It was heavy, like the doru to which he was accustomed, and the balance seemed correct on it now. It would make a passable weapon.
The warrior called Ori watched him silently. Like Aeanas, he didn't speak very much, and for this, he enjoyed the man's company. He was grateful and loyal to McElroy and the others, but they prattled on like children! Perhaps Aeanas didn't want to like his new companions. Sure, they were soldiers, and they found some common ground in that, but everything about them was alien and heterodox. As a Spartan, he'd spent his entire life turning his body into a weapon, turning the doru, the xiphon, and the aspis into extensions of his body. Just by holding a weapon, his muscles knew how best to move it so that he might destroy his enemies. There was nothing else to his life but killing his enemies.
But these soldiers from the future--no, from the present--were different. They knew how to read. They spoke of music and art, and of other forms of entertainment that he could not understand. For their purported superiority to other soldiers (after all, they managed to escape where he hadn't), the fact remained: their martial prowess was not their only consideration! In that way, Aeanas thought of them similar to the citizen-soldiers of the other Greek cities. Though, he mused, there was courage in that kind of man. He recalled those Thespians, those brave men who refused to abandon the Spartans at Thermopylae. The night before they all died, Aeanas recalled sharing a meal with a Thespian named Polyphanes, who was by trade an architect. And the morning before the final battle, he and Polyphanes traded cloaks and was proud to have died with that man's cloak upon his shoulders.
But everything about these soldiers was different. Much of what they said was barely comprehensible, anyway. Whatever magic allowed him to understand their speech was somehow flawed, and much of their slang was indecipherable to him. But perhaps most oddly, these alleged soldiers didn't know how to fight with a sword or spear! Well, most of them didn't. Ori was a warrior to Aeanas' liking; he was skilled in many forms of unarmed and armed combat. He had received one of his native blades from the living world, and he practiced frequently. But more than that, he was an outsider, too. He trained for war and only war, so he did not care for art or music. Like Aeanas, he couldn't even read. Ori stepped closer to Aeanas and held out his hand. Aeanas passed him the weapon. Ori tried a few maneuvers with it, then passed it back to Aeanas with a grunt.
"Graceless," he muttered. "The weapon should bend around your body."
"Why?" Aeanas asked. "A bent spear is useless to the phalanx."
"What is that?"
"It is how we fight...how we fought," he corrected, casting a glance of disdain at the modern humans nearby. "Heavy armor, large shields. Shoulder to shoulder, four ranks deep." He mimicked the pose of a man in the first row. "Make a wall of shields and spearpoints and break your enemy upon them. Never let a gap open up in your line."
"A phalanx," Ori said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "How many men wide?"
"As wide as possible. Prevents flanking." They were silent for a moment. "And how did you fight?"
"Many ways. Sometimes I would ride and fire my bow, or charge with a spear. Others I would simply fight with my katana."
Aeanas held his hand out, and Ori stiffened for a moment. Then, silently, he passed him the weapon. Drawing it out from its sheath, Aeanas commented, "A longer sword. And single-edged. Must be made of iron, yes?" Ori grunted in the affirmative.
"So, the balance would favor..." he sliced through the air, "...a two-handed grasp. You do not use a shield?"
"Not with the katana. I can parry and counterstrike to great effect with it."
Aeanas nodded, passing back the katana. "I hope to see you slay a demon with it soon."
They were silent for a moment. "And you are proficient in unarmed combat?" Ori asked.
Aeanas shrugged. "For my part, yes. I wrestle. I wrestled."
"I too grappled. We must spar sometime. To test our styles against the other."
Aeanas smiled at this. "It would be a privilege. I am sure you will be more engaging than the others. I threw McElroy as though he were a woman!"
Ori suppressed a laugh. "Yes, they are soft creatures, made so by their infernal weapons. Why fight honorably when they can strike you down from a great distance? They're so weak that they may count women as soldiers!"
"Hey, baby dick!" snapped Private Cassidy, skin newly grown, stepping in close to them. "You got a problem with me?"
Ori frowned. Aeanas thought that, wherever this Japan was, their men did not suffer the barbed tongues of their women. But they were a long way from Japan, so...
Ori grunted, "I was discussing with Aeanas the weaknesses of modern men, and how they compensate for this weakness through weapons requiring such little strength and courage that even women can wield them."
"Man, shut the hell up," Cassidy snarled, crossing her arms over her ample breasts. Aeanas thought them unappealing things, the breasts of a peasant woman with a litter of babes to feed. "If it weren't for those weapons, you'd still be cooking in that river!" For a moment, Aeanas thought that Ori would strike her, but the moment passed quickly.
"Alright, can it, you guys," McElroy said, stepping in. "Ori, take your sword and go with DeVanzo and Walsch down to the river. Walsch, you got the rifle." He turned to Aeanas. "Come on, hoss. You, Cassidy, and I are gonna go check out that cluster of villages on the other side of the northern ridge. You can bring your new spear if you want, but I dunno if these things are worth a damn against baldricks." He hefted his own trident, adding, "Better than nothing, though."
From the cover of the forest's edge, they watched the sloping grade down to the river. And waited. For Tom Walsch, it was still strange to think that millions of people were writhing in agony beneath that river at this very moment. And why were they pulling out only the military? Odds were extremely low that they'd get no civilians at all. Perhaps there was only military in this molten river, civilians went to other torments. Then again, the civilian mindset was different. Persons of weak will simply resign themselves to their torment and sink to the bottom after a few years of failed escapes. In utter misery, they would only move as a reflex to the burning, sightless, deaf, pain the only sensation they knew. Military people of all types would fight, though. Futility didn't matter; that's why military history was littered with otherwise pointless last stands. It might take longer for a soldier to break the way civilians did. After all, Walsch had only been in the river for a scant few weeks before he was pulled out, and he had the benefit of hoping that his persistence would pay off. And it did.
"There's one," DeVanzo whispered. Walsch scanned the shoreline before spotting the creature. It was an act he'd seen a dozen times. It flopped like a fish for a while, and then, as it became able to breathe and see, it started crawling further up the bank. They would continue until a baldrick sentry happened along, which could mean they'd be anywhere from ten to fifty meters from the river.
This one made it about twenty-five before Ori grunted, "Demon. Left."
Walsch chambered a round and waited. He loved this rifle; it was simple, deadly, and accurate. Though he'd always been an excellent marksman, this thing made it almost too easy. And he had a whole box of ammo to hold them over until the next official resupply.
The baldrick was a typical sentry, sporting a trident and simple bronze armor. He bellowed, as was the won’t of these sentries, and charged. The crawling creature, now looking a bit more like a human, stood up and began hobbling away.
"Alright, that's good enough for me," Walsch muttered. He lined up the shot and fired. The round took the baldrick in the throat, blowing out just about everything between his massive deltoids. Pouring blood out all over the packed, burnt earth, he stumbled, staggered, then crashed right at the feet of its target, who watched in befuddlement.
"Chump," Walsch grinned. DeVanzo clapped him on the shoulder. "Hey Ori, why don't you go finish it off, and bring the new recruit back up here, OK?"
Ori frowned but drew his katana nonetheless and began crossing the open ground to reach his feebly moving target. It was only seventy-five meters, but he covered it quickly and hacked the demon's head off without delay. As he did this, DeVanzo and Walsch took up a new position, fifteen meters to the north.
"shit," DeVanzo said suddenly. "Shit, shit, shit another baldrick!"
Walsch swung his rifle around. A baldrick within miles of another sentry was unheard of. The patrols were frequent enough to catch the escapees, and that was all that mattered. That's why they were able to pull this off with a single rifle and a spotter or two. They must be pairing the patrols. They're reacting to what we're doing. This baldrick was not like his now-dead partner. He did not bellow or scream. He stalked forward at an inhuman rate, raising his trident high. Ori didn't see it coming, and the rescued human was still half-blind. So, Tom Walsch chambered a round, took aim, and fired. The shot was hurried, but it was lucky. It winged off the baldrick's elbow, no doubt shattering bone and shredding muscle. He dropped his trident with a roar of anger and pain and stopped, looking for the source of this new attack.
"OK, Ori, time to go," DeVanzo hissed quietly. Walsch took aim and shot at the baldrick, who was now scanning the tree line. He must've spotted them because he was in motion just before the shot rang out. Instead of catching him in the chest, he moved just enough to one side that he took the round in the upper arm--the one that had already been shot. He hit the ground hard but got back up quickly.
But Walsch was quicker. He chambered a round, aimed, fired--and nothing happened.
"Fuck, misfire." Walsch groaned and worked the action of the rifle. It refused to budge. "Jammed-up."
Now the baldrick had spotted them, and he roared a monstrous battle cry. But before he could take a step, Ori was there, blade at the ready, bellowing his own challenge to the massive beast.
"What is he doing?" Walsch cried out while working to clear his weapon.
"He's starting to believe," DeVanzo stated with awe. "He's the One."
"Now is not the time for Matrix jokes!" Walsch said.
The baldrick only had one good arm, but that meant he retained eighty percent of his deadly ends. He swiped at Ori, but he dodged with blinding quickness and countered with a slice. The baldrick had the sense to offer his mangled flesh, but he hadn't counted on the blade being of iron. The wound seared as the blade bit deep, and the baldrick reared back in shock, kicking at the offending creature with one foot.
Ori was already in a position to meet the incoming appendage, and he held his blade firm. It passed between two toes, cutting the webbing there and carving deep into his foot. When Ori twisted the blade and wrenched it free, the baldrick couldn't help but scream. Now limping, he swiped again with his hand, catching nothing and receiving a flurry of slashes from that wretched iron blade. Ori was without pity or quarter, nor was he stylish. He opened as many wounds as he could, as quickly as he could, until the demon was attempting to hobble away in retreat.
But there would be no retreat. Ori feigned a lateral slash, and when the baldrick made to block it, he swooped in slow and stabbed up between the plates of his armor, entering at the armpit and piercing to the heart. Ori received three horrendous lacerations across his back for it, but it didn't matter anymore. The baldrick fell to his knees, limp and defenseless. Screaming with the strength of a half a millennium of remembered agony, Ori cleaved the baldrick's head from his shoulders in two savage blows.
The entire fight had taken less than twenty seconds.
DeVanzo and Walsch looked at each other. "Mission accomplished," Walsch whispered. "Now let's get outta Dodge." They leaped from the forest, DeVanzo running to gather up the wounded Ori, and Walsch to fetch the latest rescue. Overhead, there was a berserk scream, one that neither Ori nor Aeneas could recognize. The Americans did, and they looked up with elation at the F-111s making their slow, lazy turn overhead.
Secure Facility, Camp Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium.
“Got them.” The intelligence officer had the 10x12 inch prints in his hand. More were still coming over, but these were the critical ones, the pictures of the Hell-pit itself. The F-111s had landed a few minutes before and the digitally recorded pictures had been sent over by fiber-optic cable. Another sign of just how much things were changing; Hell, now had computer access, or rather the human army fighting there did.
General Petraeus looked at the prints. “It’s a caldera, no doubt about it. A super volcano caldera. Like the one that’s supposed to be under Yellowstone. Must be bigger though.”
“Yeah, size ain’t a problem for this thing. Explains the foul atmosphere of this place. That thing must be pumping the contaminants upwards. Look at these enlargements Sir. Shows what’s going on down there.”
Petraeus looked at the enlargements and then sharply at the third person in the room, the hulking figure of Abigor. “We knew it was bad in there, not this bad. Looks like Dante was spot-on in his description of the place though. More or less.” He paused for a second trying to regain his balance. Then, he addressed Abigor. “How could you, how could anybody do this?”
“We must.” Abigor’s voice was unapologetic. “Our survival depends on it. You kill lower animals to eat, to provide yourselves with food. This is no different, to us you are, were, lower animals to be exploited. So, we exploited you to fill our needs.”
Petraeus reflected that Abigor was going to have to be very careful how he spoke in the future. Otherwise, he wasn’t going to survive much longer. There was an old Western custom involving a tree and a rope that was likely to be reborn. “This isn’t farming for food. This is just inflicting suffering for the sheer joy of it.”
“We do not eat your kind just for food although your kidlings are great delicacies.”
Yup thought Petraeus, he was going to have to be much more careful. “Then why?”
“Because we need the energy. When you humans live, you build up energy in your bodies. When you die, that energy boosts you up from your level to ours. But the energy barrier that separates us from the next level up is much stronger than the one that separates your level from ours. We need much more energy to cross it, the energy we generate by prolonging the second deaths of your kind.”
“How do you know this?” Petraeus was genuinely curious, for the first time he was getting a real insight into the mind of Humanity’s greatest enemy.
“Because Satan told us so. Yahweh harvests energy as well for the same reason only he gathers his by making his subjects worship him. He gets the power from devotion.”
“Like the Ori.” The Intelligence officer was an avid Stargate fan.
Petraeus wasn’t but he still got the reference. “And that makes the baldricks like the Goa’uld I suppose. Abigor, you didn’t answer my question. How do you know this?”
“Because it is so. It has always been so. We must harvest energy to cross the barrier to the afterlife. Satan has us do so by the torments of the pit, Yahweh by demanding unending worship.”
“But that doesn’t make any kind of sense. How can two such totally different approaches yield the results you demand? It just doesn’t make sense.” The frustration was creeping through into Petraeus’s voice.
“As I said, it is what Yahweh and Satan both said. Why should they lie? They are Gods, they demand faith,”
“And I’m a General, I demand firepower. And we’ve seen what happens when your faith meets my firepower. The truth is Abigor, you don’t know any of this. You’ve got no proof for any of it. You’ve been sold a bill of goods, just like we were for so many thousands of years. You’ve been fooled, just like we were.”
Abigor stared at the pictures taken by the RF-111C, thoughts churning in his mind. He’d never thought this through before, those to whom he owed allegiance had demanded he accept their words and he had. But now he owed allegiance to humans and humans demanded proof. Those were their eternal replies when somebody claimed something. ‘Prove it.’ “How do you know?’ ‘What’s your proof?’ “If you can’t prove it, then it isn’t so.’ And the answer he could give to all those was ‘I can’t.’ For everything he believed was unproven. And that meant so many things.
Abigor spoke very slowly as the words formed in his mind, breaking the mental blocks of millennia. “No, I don’t know any of this. I just believed it. And if my belief was false.” His great clawed hand waved over the pictures. “Then all of this, all of it, was for nothing.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sheffield Cathedral, South Yorkshire, United Kingdom
Lakheenahuknaasi flapped clumsily over the vast human metropolis, making her way to the place where she could sense the half-open portal pushing gently against the fabric of this plane. She was freezing, aching, and frustrated. The city was supposed to be a great engine of industry, but she could see no great fires or forges, nor could she hear the ringing of hammers on anvils. Instead, there was an endless jumble of tightly packed stone buildings, tiny ones with peaked roofs and much larger boxy ones. Ahead, surrounding the place where the portal was lodged great towers thrust into the sky. Impossibly, many of them seemed to be made from glass. No; as she got closer, Lakheenahuknaasi sensed that they had skeletons of iron. She shuddered. Humans were far too fond of iron.
The gorgon sited the spot where the embryonic portal was floating and smiled faintly at the irony. Invisible to the naked eye in its current state, the inter-dimensional nexus was hovering perhaps a hundred yards above a large temple to Yahweh, the walls of which were awash with the light of human magic. Lakeenah blinked. What she had taken to be an outbuilding next to the temple revealed itself to be a giant metal snake. As she watched it whined loudly and began to haul its segmented bulk away into the city. At this point, she had ceased even trying to comprehend the purpose behind the bizarre human constructs.
In truth, she was not sure where else to put the portal. The horrid snow had stopped, but the low clouds and mist had kept visibility down to a couple of miles. She had risked one quick, wide circle around the temple and spied a few structures that appeared to be large chimneys, but no smoke issued from them. Lakeenah settled on destroying as many of the huge towers as possible. They seemed more like palaces than castles; undoubtedly, they were occupied by the city's elite, the overseers, and the most skilled artisans. Even this was not straightforward. The terrain was quite hilly and if she placed the portal in the wrong spot the lava might flow around the towers without destroying them. She settled on a monolithic black tower that stood proudly above and a little apart from the rest. It was sited on a low hill and at the top of a slight groove, which she hoped would act as a channel leading straight to the rest of the towers.
Lakheenahuknaasi finished her approach and began a slow descending glide over the temple. Bracing herself for the pain, she prepared to reach out with her psychic power to grasp the nexus. The familiar stinging sensation washed over her wings and suddenly she had it. Pumping her wings with grim determination, she strained to drag the nexus away from the temple. Immediately she could feel her queen's powerful presence.
“I have it. I am moving the nexus... into position.” Lakheenahuknaasi exclaimed, with the mental equivalent of a gasp.
Euryale replied with a curt “Good. Do not fail me now.”
Lakheenahuknaasi sensed the portal swelling as the naga back in Hell poured energy into it. She had the target in sight, but it seemed agonizingly far away. The pent-up psychic force was building to monstrous proportions, and she had to switch from 'pulling' the nexus to 'pushing' against it to prevent it from opening prematurely. At last, she was almost over the tower.
“Ready!” she shouted into the ether, hoping Euryale sensed her over the human din and howling energy of the portal itself. She released the nexus, half-folded her wings, and dropped away from the tower, racing to escape the literal piece of hell that was about to be unleashed.
MD-902 G-SYPS (South Yorkshire Police Air Support Unit)
Peter Taranaski swung the helicopter around in a lazy semi-circle, ready for another slow pass over Hillsborough. Police work didn't pay well, but it was a lot more interesting than playing air taxi to overpaid executives or spending all day creeping along power lines. Better yet, there was the regular thrill of accomplishing the mission, protecting the public, and nabbing the bad guys. Back in the army air corps, it had mostly been an endless series of make-believe exercises. Even in weather like this, he was usually eager to take to the Explorer up, but when the scramble order came through, he was expecting yet another false alarm. Now that command had confirmed baldrick activity in the peaks the tension in the cabin was palpable.
In the left seat, Sergeant Oliver Webster was staring intently at his main monitor, which was showing a thermal image of the streets below. The younger man had quickly gained a reputation for competence and calmly directing ground units through crisis situations. In Pete's opinion though, the sergeant took life a bit too seriously; in particular, his jokes were usually met with a disapproving silence. That was one good thing about the war; the second observer position had been replaced by a couple of heavily armed squaddies, who did seem to appreciate his one-liners.
The RT crackled. “Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, new baldrick sighting reported, single flyer low over the town hall, over.”
Webster was quick to respond. “Acknowledged. We'll head over there now. We've covered Hillsborough twice now, nothing to report.” His voice continued over the intercom “Peter, I'd like an orbit of the ring road.”
“Confirmed.” Pete eased the cyclic forward and the aircraft began to pick up speed until it was holding 60 knots.” I’ll take it easy. No sense wasting fuel.”
He looked over at Sergeant Webster, who nodded. Other units were scouring the Peaks for baldrick invaders, they were tasked with the rapid response should the demons slip through the net to populated areas. That meant maximizing endurance, as they'd do no good if they were down for refueling when the baldricks went on a rampage.
“Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, make that multiple sighting, at least one baldrick over Pond's Forge, priority one, over.”
“Roger control, on our way,” Webster replied. Pete had already dipped the nose and the MD 902 leaped forward, speeding towards the city center. He cut in on the RT “Have ATC got a blip this time? Over.”
There was a long silence. “Ah, negative Sierra Yankee. They've got interference though. Radar cover is compromised.”
Sergeant Webster had zoomed the IR camera and had a pulsating speck centered on his monitor. As the helicopter drew closer it took a form reminiscent of a giant long-legged bat. “Baldrick sighted! Single flyer at 600 feet AGL, heading west from the cathedral, over.”
The reply was immediate and emphatic. “Say again Sierra Yankee, one baldrick flyer over central Sheffield? We've lost your telemetry.”
Pete had a visual on the baldrick and was maneuvering the helicopter into its rear quarter, staying well back. The Explorer was quieter than most helicopters, primarily due to its lack of a tail rotor, but he was still under no illusions that the baldrick couldn't hear them. He just didn't want to force a confrontation until they were ready.
“Affirmative, baldrick flyer proceeding west towards university at about 50 knots. It's a small one...” Webster's voice trailed off. He had switched back to visual and noticed that the demon’s wings were glowing with a ghostly blue-white light. Worse, the air beneath the creature was shimmering, as if by heat haze. What the devil was it up to?
“Ack... ledged... alert... intercept com... def..” The duty officer's voice distorted and dropped out. Sergeant Webster flipped channels but the error indicator on the radio panel wouldn't go out. It had to be whatever the demon was doing if the radar was affected too. Time to make a judgment call.
“Peter, take us up over it for a shot.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Corporal, you're up. Take it down.”
The two riflemen were ready for the order and sprang immediately into action. Private Hughes slammed back the door, while Corporal Sinker heaved his AS50 anti-material rifle onto the pintle mount. The target was easy to make out despite the fog, with the bright glow emanating from its wings... but then the light suddenly went out and the bat-like shape veered off and dropped away. Sinker put his eye to the scope, hoping to line up a shot before the helo started changing position... and then recoiled from a sudden, overpowering rush of heat and light. An impossibly deep, deafeningly loud roar had a moment to pound his ears before the helicopter was sucked into the maelstrom.
The University of Sheffield, 11:26 pm GMT
The Arts Tower was a Sheffield landmark, a striking twenty-one-story monolith built in the early sixties and still the tallest university building in the British Isles. The midnight black disc of the portal swelled into existence almost directly above the tower, appearing for all the world like a flying saucer from a low-budget sci-fi movie. In the space of an eye-blink, a glowing stream of magma had burst out from the disc’s lower surface and begun to plummet towards the building, while from the upper surface a fountain of liquid rock sprayed into the air. A full four seconds passed as the magma blossomed in mid-air; those few onlookers that survived would later report being transfixed by the deadly beauty of the scene. Then the crushing stream smashed into the tower’s west side, driving it to the ground and exploding the opposite side in a spray of fire and shrapnel.
The shockwave created by the magma hitting the ground smashed windows and ruptured eardrums out to over a kilometer. The gas entrained within the rock erupted from confinement, sending clouds of choking vapor across the city. Half powered by the gas, half powered by the sheer kinetic energy of the fall, liquid rock splashed out from the impact site, smashing into the lesser tower blocks surrounding the impact point, which immediately began to collapse. After another four seconds, the canopy of glowing projectiles formed from the upper spray began to impact the surrounding area with the force of thousand-pound bombs. The campus vanished into a huge cloud of dust, lit from within by the hellish light of the magma stream. Thousands of tons of rock continued to slam into the impact site every second, creating a roar that outclassed even a Saturn rocket launch. The relatively soft ground shook and slipped under the onslaught, leading to further collapses as buildings further out were hit by the deadly combination of tremors and projectiles.
MD 902 G-SYPS
Private Jamie Hughes was being battered by noise, light, and g-forces beyond anything his worst nightmares had imagined. After the initial lurch, the helicopter spiraled out of control, shaking as shrapnel hit the fuselage. At first, his only thought was to hang on and prepare for a likely fatal impact. Finally, the aircraft began to stabilize, and he could fight through the shock to assess the situation in the cabin. Corporal Sinker was down, sprawled on the deck and unmoving. A massive pillar of fire and smoke filled the port windows. Jamie’s first thought was ‘nuclear bomb’, but surely, they’d been too close to survive a nuke going off?
He was about to check his C.O.’s wounds when he spotted a flash of movement through the open door. As he struggled to focus the bronze glint resolved itself into the shape of the Baldrick flyer, flapping furiously to escape the destruction it had wrought. Oliver’s mind filled instantly with rage and a determination not to let that bastard get away. Leaning over the corporal’s body, he grabbed the AS50 and swung it up to firing position. The helo continued to shake and buck, making it almost impossible to keep the fleeing baldrick in the sights. Private Hughes knew he had only seconds to make the shot, so he let fly with five rounds rapidly. The first one went wide, the second should’ve hit but had no visible effect, then the third one went wide again as the helo started to shudder. Somehow, he managed to bring the rifle back on target and the last two rounds hit the creature, spraying blood visibly as he watched through the scope. That was all he saw before the floor dropped away from under him.
Meanwhile, Peter Taranaski had been fighting hard to stabilize his bird, which had been thrown violently out of the flight envelope by the initial shockwave. The strong gusts and uneven thermals kept undoing his efforts – the controls didn’t seem quite right either, while all the time that pounding roar bored into his head. Glowing balls shot through the sky all around them and he flinched repeatedly at the near misses. Finally, he managed to get the Explorer back into level flight, but they’d lost most of their altitude and airspeed.
“Sergeant? Sergeant!? Corporal!!?” There was no response over the intercom, so he tore his eyes away from the instruments and glanced over at the observer’s position. Sergeant Webster was slumped forward in his seat, seemingly unconscious, but what struck him cold was the sight through the window. A massive explosion had obliterated the university and fingers of glowing lava were streaming out from the base of the smoke column. They had to get out of here, now. Peter began to pull the bird up and away from the inferno, yanking the collective just as the helicopter entered a powerful updraft created by the lava flow. The swirling air quickly formed into a vortex ring, stalling the rotors as the helicopter lost its grip on the air. The Explorer rolled sideways and began to plummet towards the ground.
A moment’s hesitation would have been instantly fatal, but fortunately, Peter had encountered this problem twice before, in a combat landing exercise. He shoved the cyclic forwards, trading his precious remaining altitude for speed in a desperate attempt to regain lift. He succeeded, but it was already too late to avoid his pressing appointment with the ground. The Explorer skimmed over a half-completed apartment block and then plowed into the corrugated metal roof of a small tow-bar factory.
‘PINDAR’, under the MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
The Prime Minister strode briskly through the underground corridor. He’d retired to Number 10 after the initial searches had turned up nothing, but in truth, he’d only been napping. He wasn’t ready to believe that the demons had simply retreated after their slaughter, and his instincts were correct.
“It’s Sheffield sir,” the aide next to him said, “massive incendiary attack. Reports of fires burning out of control and buildings collapsing. No baldricks though.”
Gordon Brown didn’t bother asking her to elaborate, as the situation room was just ahead. He spotted Lord West across the room – the Secretary for Defense probably hadn’t left since the initial attack – along with several other cabinet members. The screens showed images of fire, brimstone, and digital maps with conspicuous red outlines superimposed on them.
“How bad is it, Admiral?”
“Prime Minister. In short, the Baldricks have hit Sheffield with a weapon of mass destruction, based on their portal capability. We’re looking at a total loss of the city center, severe damage out to three miles, and significant damage to the surrounding areas.”
The PM’s expression was grim. “Comparable to a sub-strategic nuclear yield?” The scenario seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place the source of the déjà vu.
“Not exactly sir. We had one piece of luck; a police helicopter caught the deployment on video.” Lord West nodded to the comms officer, who touched a control. A pair of images appeared on a large screen, documenting G-SYPS’s initial encounter with the Baldrick.
“Right is natural color; left is the thermal image. They intercepted the demon over the cathedral, don’t know if that was significant.”
The PM was staring at the Baldrick. It looked like a grotesque cross between a woman and a bat, with bronze skin and no visible arms. There was something odd about its hair… and its wings had started to glow.
The image began to show streaks and speckles. Lord West continued to narrate. “Intercept control lost radar coverage over the city shortly before the intercept. Radio contact with the helicopter was lost about now.” The buildings began to recede, and the angle shifted. “They’re maneuvering for a shot. A little too late, unfortunately…”
The baldrick suddenly closed its wings and fell away, leaving a tower block in the center of the frame. The image flared; the visual camera quickly recovered to show a blossoming orange firework, while the thermal image stayed whited out. The room was silent as the cascade of magma obliterated the buildings below. Then the image spun crazily before blanking out.
“The helicopter went down?”
The voice came from behind him, but it was one the PM had become tiresomely familiar with. Sure enough, Deputy Prime Minister David Cameron was standing behind him.
“Actually no, though it was a close thing.” As if on cue, the video switched to showing a panoramic aerial view of the destruction. “They recorded this before they had to return to base. We’ve established that the burst height was a little over eight hundred feet. Portal diameter is about fifty feet, and the damn thing hasn’t shown any sign of closing yet.”
Threads. That was it. An old BBC documentary, about Sheffield’s destruction during a nuclear war. Gordon pushed the trivia out of his mind, but not before thinking well, at least things aren’t that bad.
"Casualties?"
"We're guessing now, but I'd be surprised if we take less than ten thousand fatalities. Still, it could've been much worse. That figure would be tripled if the attack had come at noon instead of midnight."
And that was our safest Labor seat the Prime Minister thought grimly.
“What’s our response so far?”
“We’ve got fighters up Sir. Tornados patrolling and some Hawks. They’re trainers but they’ve always had a war-emergency point defense role. They’re carrying a gun pod we’ve had in storage ever since the Phantoms were phased out.”
“Tornados? Hawks? What happened to the Typhoons? For all the money those things cost us….”
“They’re out in Iraq Sir. Anyway, the Home Guard is being mobilized and we’re moving in. With that portal still open, we’ll just be damned careful. The explosion did one hell of a lot of damage and if there’s another, we could lose all our first responders. Casualties? Quite apart from the numbers issue, we’ve got the lot. Severe burns, blunt force trauma, gas poisoning, you name it. The baldricks didn’t hit us with a nuke but they might as well have done. The first priority is to get the scene cordoned off…”
He was interrupted by the telephone ringing. One of the aides picked it up and spoke for a few seconds. “Sir, I have Dublin on the line. They’ve picked up the news, and probably intercept the transmissions we’ve been watching. The Dublin Fire Brigade is already on its way. A ferry is being held for them.”
“Word’s out then. Didn’t take long, did it? Have we any more data to give out.”
“No Sir. We’ll be getting a download from a Keyhole shortly but that’s all we can expect. All our good stuff is out in Iraq or on its way there. We can get a Nimrod down, but it’ll take time.”
“I thought BAE Systems had killed off our Nimrod fleet?”
“Not all of them sir. Just the ones they ‘upgraded’. The old ones are still flyable.” The phone rang again. “It’s Norway, Sir. They got the news about the attack but no more than that. They say, whatever they’ve got, and we want we can have.”
“Nice of them. Still no theories on why Sheffield was the target? Ground zero was the university, were they doing anything important?”
“Nothing credible Prime Minister. I checked the university… their materials department did some engineering work on the new HEAD shells, but that’s all.”
Another cold war memory bobbed unbidden into Brown’s mind; a novel in which the Russians had destroyed Birmingham with a single ICBM, then tried to sue for terms. Bad end to a good book… he couldn’t remember the title. No matter, it was a plausible scenario here. The attack might be a carefully judged attempt by Satan to demonstrate his power before opening negotiations. But it was also plausible that Sheffield was just unlucky, and that more strikes would follow as fast as the demons could manage.
“We must know why and more importantly if, when, and where the next strike will be. What about that demon general the Americans captured? If he’s supposed to be on our side, why didn’t he bother to warn us about this?”
“You must ask the Americans that Sir, he’s in their hands.”
“We’ll do just that. Mr. Cameron, if you could call the White House and the Kremlin, please, I’ll want a video conference ASAP.” Brown was more inclined to assign the twit to make tea, but alas one had to accommodate political realities.
Sheffield Cathedral, South Yorkshire, United Kingdom
Lakheenahuknaasi flapped clumsily over the vast human metropolis, making her way to the place where she could sense the half-open portal pushing gently against the fabric of this plane. She was freezing, aching, and frustrated. The city was supposed to be a great engine of industry, but she could see no great fires or forges, nor could she hear the ringing of hammers on anvils. Instead, there was an endless jumble of tightly packed stone buildings, tiny ones with peaked roofs and much larger boxy ones. Ahead, surrounding the place where the portal was lodged great towers thrust into the sky. Impossibly, many of them seemed to be made from glass. No; as she got closer, Lakheenahuknaasi sensed that they had skeletons of iron. She shuddered. Humans were far too fond of iron.
The gorgon sited the spot where the embryonic portal was floating and smiled faintly at the irony. Invisible to the naked eye in its current state, the inter-dimensional nexus was hovering perhaps a hundred yards above a large temple to Yahweh, the walls of which were awash with the light of human magic. Lakeenah blinked. What she had taken to be an outbuilding next to the temple revealed itself to be a giant metal snake. As she watched it whined loudly and began to haul its segmented bulk away into the city. At this point, she had ceased even trying to comprehend the purpose behind the bizarre human constructs.
In truth, she was not sure where else to put the portal. The horrid snow had stopped, but the low clouds and mist had kept visibility down to a couple of miles. She had risked one quick, wide circle around the temple and spied a few structures that appeared to be large chimneys, but no smoke issued from them. Lakeenah settled on destroying as many of the huge towers as possible. They seemed more like palaces than castles; undoubtedly, they were occupied by the city's elite, the overseers, and the most skilled artisans. Even this was not straightforward. The terrain was quite hilly and if she placed the portal in the wrong spot the lava might flow around the towers without destroying them. She settled on a monolithic black tower that stood proudly above and a little apart from the rest. It was sited on a low hill and at the top of a slight groove, which she hoped would act as a channel leading straight to the rest of the towers.
Lakheenahuknaasi finished her approach and began a slow descending glide over the temple. Bracing herself for the pain, she prepared to reach out with her psychic power to grasp the nexus. The familiar stinging sensation washed over her wings and suddenly she had it. Pumping her wings with grim determination, she strained to drag the nexus away from the temple. Immediately she could feel her queen's powerful presence.
“I have it. I am moving the nexus... into position.” Lakheenahuknaasi exclaimed, with the mental equivalent of a gasp.
Euryale replied with a curt “Good. Do not fail me now.”
Lakheenahuknaasi sensed the portal swelling as the naga back in Hell poured energy into it. She had the target in sight, but it seemed agonizingly far away. The pent-up psychic force was building to monstrous proportions, and she had to switch from 'pulling' the nexus to 'pushing' against it to prevent it from opening prematurely. At last, she was almost over the tower.
“Ready!” she shouted into the ether, hoping Euryale sensed her over the human din and howling energy of the portal itself. She released the nexus, half-folded her wings, and dropped away from the tower, racing to escape the literal piece of hell that was about to be unleashed.
MD-902 G-SYPS (South Yorkshire Police Air Support Unit)
Peter Taranaski swung the helicopter around in a lazy semi-circle, ready for another slow pass over Hillsborough. Police work didn't pay well, but it was a lot more interesting than playing air taxi to overpaid executives or spending all day creeping along power lines. Better yet, there was the regular thrill of accomplishing the mission, protecting the public, and nabbing the bad guys. Back in the army air corps, it had mostly been an endless series of make-believe exercises. Even in weather like this, he was usually eager to take to the Explorer up, but when the scramble order came through, he was expecting yet another false alarm. Now that command had confirmed baldrick activity in the peaks the tension in the cabin was palpable.
In the left seat, Sergeant Oliver Webster was staring intently at his main monitor, which was showing a thermal image of the streets below. The younger man had quickly gained a reputation for competence and calmly directing ground units through crisis situations. In Pete's opinion though, the sergeant took life a bit too seriously; in particular, his jokes were usually met with a disapproving silence. That was one good thing about the war; the second observer position had been replaced by a couple of heavily armed squaddies, who did seem to appreciate his one-liners.
The RT crackled. “Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, new baldrick sighting reported, single flyer low over the town hall, over.”
Webster was quick to respond. “Acknowledged. We'll head over there now. We've covered Hillsborough twice now, nothing to report.” His voice continued over the intercom “Peter, I'd like an orbit of the ring road.”
“Confirmed.” Pete eased the cyclic forward and the aircraft began to pick up speed until it was holding 60 knots.” I’ll take it easy. No sense wasting fuel.”
He looked over at Sergeant Webster, who nodded. Other units were scouring the Peaks for baldrick invaders, they were tasked with the rapid response should the demons slip through the net to populated areas. That meant maximizing endurance, as they'd do no good if they were down for refueling when the baldricks went on a rampage.
“Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, make that multiple sighting, at least one baldrick over Pond's Forge, priority one, over.”
“Roger control, on our way,” Webster replied. Pete had already dipped the nose and the MD 902 leaped forward, speeding towards the city center. He cut in on the RT “Have ATC got a blip this time? Over.”
There was a long silence. “Ah, negative Sierra Yankee. They've got interference though. Radar cover is compromised.”
Sergeant Webster had zoomed the IR camera and had a pulsating speck centered on his monitor. As the helicopter drew closer it took a form reminiscent of a giant long-legged bat. “Baldrick sighted! Single flyer at 600 feet AGL, heading west from the cathedral, over.”
The reply was immediate and emphatic. “Say again Sierra Yankee, one baldrick flyer over central Sheffield? We've lost your telemetry.”
Pete had a visual on the baldrick and was maneuvering the helicopter into its rear quarter, staying well back. The Explorer was quieter than most helicopters, primarily due to its lack of a tail rotor, but he was still under no illusions that the baldrick couldn't hear them. He just didn't want to force a confrontation until they were ready.
“Affirmative, baldrick flyer proceeding west towards university at about 50 knots. It's a small one...” Webster's voice trailed off. He had switched back to visual and noticed that the demon’s wings were glowing with a ghostly blue-white light. Worse, the air beneath the creature was shimmering, as if by heat haze. What the devil was it up to?
“Ack... ledged... alert... intercept com... def..” The duty officer's voice distorted and dropped out. Sergeant Webster flipped channels but the error indicator on the radio panel wouldn't go out. It had to be whatever the demon was doing if the radar was affected too. Time to make a judgment call.
“Peter, take us up over it for a shot.” He looked back over his shoulder. “Corporal, you're up. Take it down.”
The two riflemen were ready for the order and sprang immediately into action. Private Hughes slammed back the door, while Corporal Sinker heaved his AS50 anti-material rifle onto the pintle mount. The target was easy to make out despite the fog, with the bright glow emanating from its wings... but then the light suddenly went out and the bat-like shape veered off and dropped away. Sinker put his eye to the scope, hoping to line up a shot before the helo started changing position... and then recoiled from a sudden, overpowering rush of heat and light. An impossibly deep, deafeningly loud roar had a moment to pound his ears before the helicopter was sucked into the maelstrom.
The University of Sheffield, 11:26 pm GMT
The Arts Tower was a Sheffield landmark, a striking twenty-one-story monolith built in the early sixties and still the tallest university building in the British Isles. The midnight black disc of the portal swelled into existence almost directly above the tower, appearing for all the world like a flying saucer from a low-budget sci-fi movie. In the space of an eye-blink, a glowing stream of magma had burst out from the disc’s lower surface and begun to plummet towards the building, while from the upper surface a fountain of liquid rock sprayed into the air. A full four seconds passed as the magma blossomed in mid-air; those few onlookers that survived would later report being transfixed by the deadly beauty of the scene. Then the crushing stream smashed into the tower’s west side, driving it to the ground and exploding the opposite side in a spray of fire and shrapnel.
The shockwave created by the magma hitting the ground smashed windows and ruptured eardrums out to over a kilometer. The gas entrained within the rock erupted from confinement, sending clouds of choking vapor across the city. Half powered by the gas, half powered by the sheer kinetic energy of the fall, liquid rock splashed out from the impact site, smashing into the lesser tower blocks surrounding the impact point, which immediately began to collapse. After another four seconds, the canopy of glowing projectiles formed from the upper spray began to impact the surrounding area with the force of thousand-pound bombs. The campus vanished into a huge cloud of dust, lit from within by the hellish light of the magma stream. Thousands of tons of rock continued to slam into the impact site every second, creating a roar that outclassed even a Saturn rocket launch. The relatively soft ground shook and slipped under the onslaught, leading to further collapses as buildings further out were hit by the deadly combination of tremors and projectiles.
MD 902 G-SYPS
Private Jamie Hughes was being battered by noise, light, and g-forces beyond anything his worst nightmares had imagined. After the initial lurch, the helicopter spiraled out of control, shaking as shrapnel hit the fuselage. At first, his only thought was to hang on and prepare for a likely fatal impact. Finally, the aircraft began to stabilize, and he could fight through the shock to assess the situation in the cabin. Corporal Sinker was down, sprawled on the deck and unmoving. A massive pillar of fire and smoke filled the port windows. Jamie’s first thought was ‘nuclear bomb’, but surely, they’d been too close to survive a nuke going off?
He was about to check his C.O.’s wounds when he spotted a flash of movement through the open door. As he struggled to focus the bronze glint resolved itself into the shape of the Baldrick flyer, flapping furiously to escape the destruction it had wrought. Oliver’s mind filled instantly with rage and a determination not to let that bastard get away. Leaning over the corporal’s body, he grabbed the AS50 and swung it up to firing position. The helo continued to shake and buck, making it almost impossible to keep the fleeing baldrick in the sights. Private Hughes knew he had only seconds to make the shot, so he let fly with five rounds rapidly. The first one went wide, the second should’ve hit but had no visible effect, then the third one went wide again as the helo started to shudder. Somehow, he managed to bring the rifle back on target and the last two rounds hit the creature, spraying blood visibly as he watched through the scope. That was all he saw before the floor dropped away from under him.
Meanwhile, Peter Taranaski had been fighting hard to stabilize his bird, which had been thrown violently out of the flight envelope by the initial shockwave. The strong gusts and uneven thermals kept undoing his efforts – the controls didn’t seem quite right either, while all the time that pounding roar bored into his head. Glowing balls shot through the sky all around them and he flinched repeatedly at the near misses. Finally, he managed to get the Explorer back into level flight, but they’d lost most of their altitude and airspeed.
“Sergeant? Sergeant!? Corporal!!?” There was no response over the intercom, so he tore his eyes away from the instruments and glanced over at the observer’s position. Sergeant Webster was slumped forward in his seat, seemingly unconscious, but what struck him cold was the sight through the window. A massive explosion had obliterated the university and fingers of glowing lava were streaming out from the base of the smoke column. They had to get out of here, now. Peter began to pull the bird up and away from the inferno, yanking the collective just as the helicopter entered a powerful updraft created by the lava flow. The swirling air quickly formed into a vortex ring, stalling the rotors as the helicopter lost its grip on the air. The Explorer rolled sideways and began to plummet towards the ground.
A moment’s hesitation would have been instantly fatal, but fortunately, Peter had encountered this problem twice before, in a combat landing exercise. He shoved the cyclic forwards, trading his precious remaining altitude for speed in a desperate attempt to regain lift. He succeeded, but it was already too late to avoid his pressing appointment with the ground. The Explorer skimmed over a half-completed apartment block and then plowed into the corrugated metal roof of a small tow-bar factory.
‘PINDAR’, under the MoD Main Building, Whitehall, London.
The Prime Minister strode briskly through the underground corridor. He’d retired to Number 10 after the initial searches had turned up nothing, but in truth, he’d only been napping. He wasn’t ready to believe that the demons had simply retreated after their slaughter, and his instincts were correct.
“It’s Sheffield sir,” the aide next to him said, “massive incendiary attack. Reports of fires burning out of control and buildings collapsing. No baldricks though.”
Gordon Brown didn’t bother asking her to elaborate, as the situation room was just ahead. He spotted Lord West across the room – the Secretary for Defense probably hadn’t left since the initial attack – along with several other cabinet members. The screens showed images of fire, brimstone, and digital maps with conspicuous red outlines superimposed on them.
“How bad is it, Admiral?”
“Prime Minister. In short, the Baldricks have hit Sheffield with a weapon of mass destruction, based on their portal capability. We’re looking at a total loss of the city center, severe damage out to three miles, and significant damage to the surrounding areas.”
The PM’s expression was grim. “Comparable to a sub-strategic nuclear yield?” The scenario seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place the source of the déjà vu.
“Not exactly sir. We had one piece of luck; a police helicopter caught the deployment on video.” Lord West nodded to the comms officer, who touched a control. A pair of images appeared on a large screen, documenting G-SYPS’s initial encounter with the Baldrick.
“Right is natural color; left is the thermal image. They intercepted the demon over the cathedral, don’t know if that was significant.”
The PM was staring at the Baldrick. It looked like a grotesque cross between a woman and a bat, with bronze skin and no visible arms. There was something odd about its hair… and its wings had started to glow.
The image began to show streaks and speckles. Lord West continued to narrate. “Intercept control lost radar coverage over the city shortly before the intercept. Radio contact with the helicopter was lost about now.” The buildings began to recede, and the angle shifted. “They’re maneuvering for a shot. A little too late, unfortunately…”
The baldrick suddenly closed its wings and fell away, leaving a tower block in the center of the frame. The image flared; the visual camera quickly recovered to show a blossoming orange firework, while the thermal image stayed whited out. The room was silent as the cascade of magma obliterated the buildings below. Then the image spun crazily before blanking out.
“The helicopter went down?”
The voice came from behind him, but it was one the PM had become tiresomely familiar with. Sure enough, Deputy Prime Minister David Cameron was standing behind him.
“Actually no, though it was a close thing.” As if on cue, the video switched to showing a panoramic aerial view of the destruction. “They recorded this before they had to return to base. We’ve established that the burst height was a little over eight hundred feet. Portal diameter is about fifty feet, and the damn thing hasn’t shown any sign of closing yet.”
Threads. That was it. An old BBC documentary, about Sheffield’s destruction during a nuclear war. Gordon pushed the trivia out of his mind, but not before thinking well, at least things aren’t that bad.
"Casualties?"
"We're guessing now, but I'd be surprised if we take less than ten thousand fatalities. Still, it could've been much worse. That figure would be tripled if the attack had come at noon instead of midnight."
And that was our safest Labor seat the Prime Minister thought grimly.
“What’s our response so far?”
“We’ve got fighters up Sir. Tornados patrolling and some Hawks. They’re trainers but they’ve always had a war-emergency point defense role. They’re carrying a gun pod we’ve had in storage ever since the Phantoms were phased out.”
“Tornados? Hawks? What happened to the Typhoons? For all the money those things cost us….”
“They’re out in Iraq Sir. Anyway, the Home Guard is being mobilized and we’re moving in. With that portal still open, we’ll just be damned careful. The explosion did one hell of a lot of damage and if there’s another, we could lose all our first responders. Casualties? Quite apart from the numbers issue, we’ve got the lot. Severe burns, blunt force trauma, gas poisoning, you name it. The baldricks didn’t hit us with a nuke but they might as well have done. The first priority is to get the scene cordoned off…”
He was interrupted by the telephone ringing. One of the aides picked it up and spoke for a few seconds. “Sir, I have Dublin on the line. They’ve picked up the news, and probably intercept the transmissions we’ve been watching. The Dublin Fire Brigade is already on its way. A ferry is being held for them.”
“Word’s out then. Didn’t take long, did it? Have we any more data to give out.”
“No Sir. We’ll be getting a download from a Keyhole shortly but that’s all we can expect. All our good stuff is out in Iraq or on its way there. We can get a Nimrod down, but it’ll take time.”
“I thought BAE Systems had killed off our Nimrod fleet?”
“Not all of them sir. Just the ones they ‘upgraded’. The old ones are still flyable.” The phone rang again. “It’s Norway, Sir. They got the news about the attack but no more than that. They say, whatever they’ve got, and we want we can have.”
“Nice of them. Still no theories on why Sheffield was the target? Ground zero was the university, were they doing anything important?”
“Nothing credible Prime Minister. I checked the university… their materials department did some engineering work on the new HEAD shells, but that’s all.”
Another cold war memory bobbed unbidden into Brown’s mind; a novel in which the Russians had destroyed Birmingham with a single ICBM, then tried to sue for terms. Bad end to a good book… he couldn’t remember the title. No matter, it was a plausible scenario here. The attack might be a carefully judged attempt by Satan to demonstrate his power before opening negotiations. But it was also plausible that Sheffield was just unlucky, and that more strikes would follow as fast as the demons could manage.
“We must know why and more importantly if, when, and where the next strike will be. What about that demon general the Americans captured? If he’s supposed to be on our side, why didn’t he bother to warn us about this?”
“You must ask the Americans that Sir, he’s in their hands.”
“We’ll do just that. Mr. Cameron, if you could call the White House and the Kremlin, please, I’ll want a video conference ASAP.” Brown was more inclined to assign the twit to make tea, but alas one had to accommodate political realities.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Eight
'The Cavendish”, West Street, Central Sheffield
Alex Malcolm had saved up two weeks’ worth of alcohol rations for the pub crawl, and he was determined to use them all before the night was over. University life hadn't changed that much, at least not for the engineering students. They'd all had to join the cadets and those meant weekends wasted on the firing range and the drill ground, but that was all. Not like the humanities students, most of whom had been evicted from the halls of residence and drafted. In their place were throngs of 'mature students' being pushed through the new short technical and medical courses. In Alex's mind, the humanities students were no big loss, it's not as if they were doing real degrees anyway, though the replacement of all those hot young psychology girls with boring ugly ex-call-center workers was a crying shame.
Alex downed his sixth pint and lurched to his feet. "Back in a sec, mates." he slurred, as he made his way unsteadily to the men's restroom. Halfway through the process of relieving himself, the world exploded into noise and darkness.
He'd fallen against the wall, bruising his head against the pipework. Pain flashed across his back; he instinctively reached over to feel the wound and his hand closed around the chunk of broken glass embedded there. He pulled it out, slicing his hand open in the process. The lights were out, the windows were smashed and the whole building was shaking. Alex had only one explanation for this, earthquake, but how could an earthquake on this scale happen in England? Screams began to ring out over the rumbling and roaring, multiplying as the panic spread. Adrenaline coursed through his system, fighting the alcohol to get him moving. He had to get out of here, the earthquake was showing no sign of abating and the whole building could come down on him. He barreled forward down the corridor out of the lavatories, dripping blood and urine, and emerged into a scene of utter chaos.
Over a hundred drunken pub-goers were trying to force themselves through the building's two exits, screaming, shouting, punching, and kicking at each other. The scene was lit only by a glowing orange light streaming in through the windows. Alex couldn't understand why the earthquake was making people so desperate that they'd risk being crushed to death… wait, was that light coming from a fire? He tried to jog over to the windows but caught his foot on an overturned stool and went crashing to the ground. Ignoring the fresh bruises, he hauled himself up and stared in horror at the scene outside. A wall of glowing lava over a meter high was advancing inexorably down the street, surrounded by flames and smoke from the burning buildings and crowned by the twisted wrecks of cars being carried along by the flow.
Another crash, this one startlingly close. Someone had thrown a chair through the next window carrying most of the broken glass and wooden dividers out into the street. He turned in time to see two of his mates leap through the window. There was no time for thoughts of rescuing others, he'd be lucky to save himself. Alex clambered out through the shattered window, heedless of the fresh cuts to his hands, and recoiled from the blast of heat that scorched his skin. He began to jog away from the lava, towards the city center, but he made one crucial mistake; he looked back. The lava flow had accelerated as more rock poured into the channel, and the intense heat seemed to scorch his eyes. The world dissolved into pain as he tripped on a curb and fell sprawling. The only mercy was that his suffering lasted only seconds before the lava washed over him. Well, that part of his suffering anyway. As everybody now knew, death was only a temporary respite.
MD 902 G-SYPS
Sergeant Webster groaned as he fought his way back to consciousness. His head throbbed with pain, which the pounding roar and ragged whine were only exacerbating. He forced his eyes open. The forward cockpit canopy was a crazy patchwork of cracks and holes. The helicopter seemed to have landed on a building… no, it was partially embedded in a saw-tooth roof. The rotors were still turning; the pilot was fiddling with the flight controls, but far from shutting down, he seemed to be trying to start one of the engines.
"Taranaski? What are you doing? We must bail out."
Private Hughes' voice answered over the intercom. "Sir, Corporal Sinker has a concussion and I think a dislocated shoulder. I broke my leg in the crash. There's no way we can make it before… well… look to your right."
Sergeant Webster twisted around to look behind the aircraft. The whole area was shrouded in smoke and flames, but one thing stood out very clearly: the river of lava pouring down the hill towards them. They weren't in its direct path, but that small mercy could buy them only minutes at best.
The whine from above intensified and took on a discordant, surging character. "Got it" yelled Taranaski. "Port turbine spooling up, hang on, I'm trying it again."
Peter waited for the rotor RPMs to build to the maximum then eased back on the collective. The Explorer trembled and began to lift. The crew could barely hear the cracks and squeals of strained metal over the din as the bird struggled to free herself from the twisted metal roof supports. The cabin tilted backward and then halted, shuddering.
Private Hughes pulled himself over to the gaping opening in the side of the aircraft; the door had been ripped off in the crash. Leaning out into the ferocious downwash, he could see the problem clearly. "It's no good sir. The skids are wedged in good. The forward struts have snapped but the rear ones are holding us fast." He looked up just in time to see another of the glowing rocks slam into a nearby apartment block, shattering the few remaining windows and starting fires across several floors.
He had to cut through those struts. What tools did he have? Just one. Jamie reached for a spare .50 Cal magazine.
Royal Hallamshire Hospital, Western Sheffield
Rebecca Burdett stared out through the empty window frame at the vast lake of smoking lava that mere minutes before had been the university campus. From her vantage point on the seventeenth floor, she could see countless human forms running, staggering, and crawling away from the inferno. Everywhere she looked people were dying, caught by the flames, collapsing under the heat, or obliterated by a flaming boulder.
She turned away. There was no doubt about it, the hospital had to be abandoned. The lava seemed to be flowing away from them for now, but several of the hospital buildings had been hit by the boulders and looked ready to collapse. The ground fires were advancing steadily despite the inrushing air and the earthquake showed no signs of abating.
The fire alarm was already blaring, but the nurses she could see were still transfixed by the scene outside. "Snap out of it! We must move!" Rebecca sprinted through the ward to the reception area, where she snatched up the microphone for the P.A. system.
"Everyone, your attention, please. This is Matron Burdett. The hospital must be evacuated as quickly and calmly as possible." She delivered the words with a slightly eerie calm. "Patients, if you can walk, go to the lobby area via the stairwells, do not use the lifts. Otherwise please wait for a member of staff to assist you. Do not leave the building. Transport will be arranged."
Rebecca clicked the microphone off, then pulled out her phone and punched the button for the reception. The extension for the reception was busy, of course. Cursing, she dived into the stairwell, pushing past the throngs of people that built up steadily as she descended. By the time she emerged into the lobby, it was already packed with shouting and screaming patients.
"PLEASE REMAIN CALM" she shouted, in a tone that did not sound like a request. "THERE IS NO IMMEDIATE DANGER." Not really true but it seemed to placate the crowd for now. "Non-critical patients, move in an orderly fashion to the car park. We don't have nearly enough ambulances for you all, so we'll be using private cars."
She finally made it to the reception desk. David was usually competent, but he seemed ready to have a nervous breakdown. "Rebecca, thank…" He caught himself.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Don't know. Some sort of attack, massive fires. We must get the patients out, that's all that matters."
"I tried to call Northern General, but I couldn't get…"
"Forget it. They're probably in the same boat as us or will be soon. Now take Tracy, Mark, and anyone else you find on the way and get to the car park. I don't want anyone leaving without a full load of patients. Tell them to go straight to Manchester."
"Manchester? But…"
Rebecca grabbed the man's shoulders. "There's massive casualties out there. Everyone local will be overwhelmed. Now get moving."
She grabbed the phone from David's hand as he stumbled away and searched through the memory for the number she needed. "Whitworth? This is Matron Burdett at Royal Hallamshire. We've got a huge… explosion in Sheffield, we must evacuate. I'm sending our intensive care patients to you… yes, I know you don't have the capacity… you'll turn them out… no, listen, this is a gold-level disaster. No, I don't know who… look, I'm sure they'll contact you shortly. Meanwhile, people are dying here. You are going to send every ambulance you have to Sheffield and you are going to do it now, understand? Good."
MD 902 G-SYPS
"Control this is Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine do you copy? Over."
Sergeant Webster was still trying to get the radio working. Meanwhile, Private Hughes struggled to find a position in which he could get a shot at the rear support strut. He could see the target clearly enough, it was buried in a tangle of metal half a meter beneath the door sill, but with his broken leg, there was just no way to aim the heavy rifle at it from inside the cabin. He considered shooting through the airframe, the AS50 undoubtedly had the power to punch through, but he'd be firing blind, and, in any case, he was pretty sure the main fuel tank was under the cabin. Bad idea.
"Control this is Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine do you copy? Over."
"Oliver! I copy. What the blazes is going on? First, we thought we'd lost you, then we got a report you’d landed at Sheffield City Heliport. Everything has dropped in the pot here; nobody knows what is happening. Just what is your status, over?" The communications channels were clearing and the response from the command center at Atlas Court included the alarms and a commotion of voices in the background.
"We were knocked down by the blast, my bird is seriously damaged. Can you see what's happening out here? Over."
"Confirmed, we're seeing it over CCTV, hell we can see it out the windows. We're preparing to evacuate; at this rate, the lava will be here in less than half an hour. Are you airworthy over?"
"Negative control, we're stuck on a roof, the lava is about to surround the building. Need a pick-up urgently, over."
There was a slight pause before the duty officer responded. "Sierra Yankee, army choppers are inbound but the closest is still ten minutes out. Over."
"Acknowledged control." Sergeant Webster hadn't expected anything else. Every commander would be in triage mode now and plucking a helicopter crew off the top of a doomed building wasn't a high priority. "Situation understood. Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine out."
Private Hughes had been listening to the exchange and cut in over the intercom. "Sir, I think I can free the helo, but I'll have to climb out onto the roof."
Webster gave it only a moment's consideration; there was no viable alternative. "Roger Private, we'll hover until you're back on board."
Jamie unplugged his headset and clambered out onto the twisted girders, gritting his teeth at the pain that flared in his leg. The metal was hot to the touch and the blistering heat and swirling smoke were making it increasingly hard to see or breathe. Once he'd steadied himself, he grabbed the heavy rifle from the helicopter and began to work himself into a braced position. The pilot was watching him through the cockpit side window; Jamie gives him the thumbs up, and the engine noise intensified, as the helicopter once more struggled to lift off.
There it was, the near-side support struts clearly visible now that the helicopter's belly was clear of the corrugated iron roofing. He pulled the scope off the rail and lined up the AS50 with the iron sights, bracing it against a girder. Two sharp cracks and the job was done, the .50 caliber rounds shredding the aluminum alloy tube. The helicopter lurched upward again and shuddered, straining against the last remaining strut. Jamie struggled to maintain his balance as the roof started to collapse, chunks of metal tumbling down into the building below. A fresh wave of heat hit him and with horror, he realized that the lava was already pouring into the building. Jamie swung the heavy rifle around and unloaded his last three rounds into the tangle of metal around the back of the remaining skid.
The recoil was the final straw for the critically weakened factory roof. With a shrieking groan, the entire section collapsed into the burning interior. With both skids now sheared off, the Explorer leaped upwards into the sky, climbing away from the collapsing ruin. The last thing Private Hughes saw was the underside of the helicopter vanishing into the sky.
South Yorkshire Fire and Rescue HQ, Central Sheffield
The screens in the control center normally showed simple dots representing the incident sites. Only for the worst industrial fires did the staff have to draw rings around the affected area. Now the entire center of the city was marked in red, and that stain was growing rapidly.
"…and the second line of firebreaks go here, here, and here. That should save most of Hillsborough and Stannington. The lower Rivelin valley is a write-off, the best we can hope for is that it floods fast enough to save a few buildings. We'll worry about Fullwood if we get time, industrial areas take priority. Now get to it."
The sheer spectacle of the aerial volcano had convinced Chief Fire Officer Spurrier to dispense with the usual levels of escalation and go straight to damage limitation mode.
He turned to Assistant CFO Lloyd, who was coordinating with the other responders, category one and otherwise.
"Get anything out of Highways yet?"
"No sir, they just say they'll call me back. We'll probably send our own people out to the depots to get them moving."
"Do it. I'll have the authority sorted out by the time they arrive. Keep reminding the police that we need those construction sites stripped too. We'll need every earthmover we can get if we're going to box in that lava flow."
A young firefighter burst into the room, still in full heat-resistant gear. "Sirs, we can't hold it, there's just too much, we solidify one stream, and it comes at us from another direction. We've got to pull back."
CFO Spurrier sighed. All that effort rebuilding the city center into something actually pleasant to look at, and now it was all going to be buried in basalt. Ah well. At least the EU had footed most of the bill. For a brief second, he pitied the baldrick who would explain to the bureaucrats in Brussels what had happened to their investment. Then his momentary glee faded; having to abandon his new state-of-the-art command center was too a hard a blow.
"Okay. Tell Scott to redeploy along the Moor and Arundel Gate. You've got to keep the southern ring road and the station open if you can."
"Stephen, divert everything to Mansfield Road for now, then shut down. We'll be going straight to the forward command post at the airport."
MD 902 G-SYPS
Pete began to swing the helicopter around for a pass on the factory. Private Hughes had risked everything to save them, and Pete wasn't going to just leave him.
Sergeant Webster's voice came over the intercom, barely audible over the screaming engines and still omnipresent roar. "Peter, what are you doing?"
"Going back for him of course."
"Peter, he's gone. The entire building collapsed. I was watching as we took off, there was nothing we could do."
There was no response from the pilot, so Webster took the opportunity to contact control.
"Control, Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, do you copy?"
"Sierra Yankee! I copy, what's your status?"
"Airborne again, but we've taken a beating. Are you still receiving telemetry?" The camera pod on the helicopter's nose had jammed in place, but it could still transmit a picture. “We’ve got some more stuff for you.”
"Ah… roger. Sierra Yankee. Bloody hell."
The Explorer was circling slowly over central Sheffield, a position which afforded a fine view of the magma fountain, blurry but visible within the base of the rapidly forming mushroom cloud, as well as the rivers of lava consuming the town center. Every few seconds another building would collapse, adding further haze to the scene below. "Oliver, we must evacuate. The fires are getting close, and the lava isn't far behind. Pogo one Seven-Seven, stay up if you can then abort to the airport, acknowledge."
"Acknowledged. Switching to channel one Seven-Seven. Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine out."
Taranaski's voice came over the intercom and he did not sound happy. "We've got a seriously bent bird here, controls are wonky, the port turbine is running very hot, and I think we're leaking fuel. We should get her down Ay-Sap."
"Negative Peter. Unless you're sure she's going to drop out of the sky, we stay until we're relieved. Command must know what's happening."
"But Sergeant, the corporal needs a medic, hell we all need…"
"Pilot. As long as we can fly, we stay until we're relieved." Webster's hard tone softened slightly. "It shouldn't be long. Now bring us around, command will need an idea of how fast the fires are spreading."
Owlerthorpe, South East Sheffield
The convoy of big Bedford trucks rolled onto the field and came to a halt one by one. As soon as each vehicle had stopped moving soldiers poured out of the rear, already in full combat gear. Overhead, the grim red column of the magma stream shone through the vast pall of smoke that surrounded it, lighting up the area in a confused, scarlet glow. Just like the descriptions of Hell that had been coming back from the troops that had entered that region. The smoke pall was spreading fast, the most obvious sign of the inferno that was devouring the city. Not the only sign of course, the constant vibrations that were running through the ground were another. They could be felt through the soles of the soldier’s boots and were enough to make hands that held binoculars shake enough to blur the image. Then again, there were other causes for hands to shake as well.
Sergeant Pottington had his orders, and he knew how to execute them. He’d been a British soldier one, then he’d retired and set up a gardening business. There were plenty of houses around Sheffield where both husband and wife were working all day and didn’t have a chance to tend to the garden. There were also plenty of pensioners who were fit, healthy, and bored stiff. Putting the two together had been an easy exercise for a man who’d effectively run a company of infantry. Grimly, Pottington wondered how many of his client list or workers were left. Looking at the vast pall of smoke that was covering Sheffield, not many.
“Right, you men, get the barricades across the roads. I want three volunteers, you, you, and you, to get a GPMG set up to cover the blocks. Anybody who tries to run the roadblock, spray them.” Pottington looked at the stream of traffic that was building up as the population of Sheffield made a run for it. Understandable but not something that could be allowed. Men were needed to build firebreaks, construct barriers and dig ditches, and try and divert the lava streams away from the industrial area to where they could do the least damage. Women were needed to help the wounded and look after children. In a disaster like this, there were no useless hands. He walked into the road and held up a hand in the traditional ‘stop’ sign. Traditional in the UK anyway, he’d seen films of American police giving stop signs by waving their hands around like demented organ-grinder’s monkeys. Hysterical load of spams Pottington thought.
A car was ignoring the ‘stop’ signal, instead, it had picked up speed and was going to either intimidate him into getting out of the way or go around him. Pottington produced his pride and joy, an old Webley Mark V with a six-inch barrel. It had been his grandfather’s in the First World War and Pottington had kept it carefully hidden away during the long years of the handgun ban. Now, he had it out again and he even had the Mark III “man stopper” bullets to go with it, hollow-point rounds with a steel ball molded inside the lead to add to the effect. One round dealt with the windscreen of the approaching car very satisfactorily, shattering it and sending fragments spraying around. The car came to an abrupt halt.
“Hey what you have done to my ride?” The young man driving was aggressive and aggrieved but both emotions faded when he heard the clicking of rifle bolts being drawn back.
“Commandeered it sir. Any other occupants? No? Then, Sir, we must ask you to wait here. The civil authorities will be forming work teams shortly and you’ll have the honor of being a founder member. Simmonite? Move this vehicle off the road, it’s a four-wheel-drive so the Home Guard will be wanting it. Clegg, Dewhurst, move two-wheel drives off to that field over there. Park them neatly now, we don’t want to be slovenly soldiers. ”
Behind them, the traffic was backing up quickly. The soldiers quickly checked each vehicle, sending the ones likely to be useful off to one side, the rest into a field to be parked. With gasoline rationing in force, it was amazing how many vehicles were using this road, but Pottington guessed that fleeing lava meant more than conserving gasoline rations.
“Sergeant?” A new voice had spoken from behind him. “Lieutenant Batty, Home Guard. We’ve come to take over the roadblock when you’re ready. Midlands Command wants your unit to join the rest of the regulars in case of the Baldricks trying to follow up on this attack. Nobody knows what they’ll try next.
“Very good Sir. Quiet word sir don’t hesitate to shoot if the situation demands it. It won’t take much for panic to start here, we’ve got to keep this situation under control.”
“Understood Sergeant.” The ‘thank you’ was unspoken but there. “There’s coaches coming up to take the women and kids to a refugee center. Trucks will be coming for the men, take them back to the city. Every pair of hands needed there.”
Pottington looked at the red cloud surrounding the stream of fire and the pall that hung over the doomed city. “Did they save Park Hill Sir?”
Batty shook his head. “It’s gone. The firebreaks hung on long enough for the people to get out, but the blocks have gone.”
“Ah well, suppose that’ll end the talk about what to do with them. Good luck Sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, and the same to your men here.”
'The Cavendish”, West Street, Central Sheffield
Alex Malcolm had saved up two weeks’ worth of alcohol rations for the pub crawl, and he was determined to use them all before the night was over. University life hadn't changed that much, at least not for the engineering students. They'd all had to join the cadets and those meant weekends wasted on the firing range and the drill ground, but that was all. Not like the humanities students, most of whom had been evicted from the halls of residence and drafted. In their place were throngs of 'mature students' being pushed through the new short technical and medical courses. In Alex's mind, the humanities students were no big loss, it's not as if they were doing real degrees anyway, though the replacement of all those hot young psychology girls with boring ugly ex-call-center workers was a crying shame.
Alex downed his sixth pint and lurched to his feet. "Back in a sec, mates." he slurred, as he made his way unsteadily to the men's restroom. Halfway through the process of relieving himself, the world exploded into noise and darkness.
He'd fallen against the wall, bruising his head against the pipework. Pain flashed across his back; he instinctively reached over to feel the wound and his hand closed around the chunk of broken glass embedded there. He pulled it out, slicing his hand open in the process. The lights were out, the windows were smashed and the whole building was shaking. Alex had only one explanation for this, earthquake, but how could an earthquake on this scale happen in England? Screams began to ring out over the rumbling and roaring, multiplying as the panic spread. Adrenaline coursed through his system, fighting the alcohol to get him moving. He had to get out of here, the earthquake was showing no sign of abating and the whole building could come down on him. He barreled forward down the corridor out of the lavatories, dripping blood and urine, and emerged into a scene of utter chaos.
Over a hundred drunken pub-goers were trying to force themselves through the building's two exits, screaming, shouting, punching, and kicking at each other. The scene was lit only by a glowing orange light streaming in through the windows. Alex couldn't understand why the earthquake was making people so desperate that they'd risk being crushed to death… wait, was that light coming from a fire? He tried to jog over to the windows but caught his foot on an overturned stool and went crashing to the ground. Ignoring the fresh bruises, he hauled himself up and stared in horror at the scene outside. A wall of glowing lava over a meter high was advancing inexorably down the street, surrounded by flames and smoke from the burning buildings and crowned by the twisted wrecks of cars being carried along by the flow.
Another crash, this one startlingly close. Someone had thrown a chair through the next window carrying most of the broken glass and wooden dividers out into the street. He turned in time to see two of his mates leap through the window. There was no time for thoughts of rescuing others, he'd be lucky to save himself. Alex clambered out through the shattered window, heedless of the fresh cuts to his hands, and recoiled from the blast of heat that scorched his skin. He began to jog away from the lava, towards the city center, but he made one crucial mistake; he looked back. The lava flow had accelerated as more rock poured into the channel, and the intense heat seemed to scorch his eyes. The world dissolved into pain as he tripped on a curb and fell sprawling. The only mercy was that his suffering lasted only seconds before the lava washed over him. Well, that part of his suffering anyway. As everybody now knew, death was only a temporary respite.
MD 902 G-SYPS
Sergeant Webster groaned as he fought his way back to consciousness. His head throbbed with pain, which the pounding roar and ragged whine were only exacerbating. He forced his eyes open. The forward cockpit canopy was a crazy patchwork of cracks and holes. The helicopter seemed to have landed on a building… no, it was partially embedded in a saw-tooth roof. The rotors were still turning; the pilot was fiddling with the flight controls, but far from shutting down, he seemed to be trying to start one of the engines.
"Taranaski? What are you doing? We must bail out."
Private Hughes' voice answered over the intercom. "Sir, Corporal Sinker has a concussion and I think a dislocated shoulder. I broke my leg in the crash. There's no way we can make it before… well… look to your right."
Sergeant Webster twisted around to look behind the aircraft. The whole area was shrouded in smoke and flames, but one thing stood out very clearly: the river of lava pouring down the hill towards them. They weren't in its direct path, but that small mercy could buy them only minutes at best.
The whine from above intensified and took on a discordant, surging character. "Got it" yelled Taranaski. "Port turbine spooling up, hang on, I'm trying it again."
Peter waited for the rotor RPMs to build to the maximum then eased back on the collective. The Explorer trembled and began to lift. The crew could barely hear the cracks and squeals of strained metal over the din as the bird struggled to free herself from the twisted metal roof supports. The cabin tilted backward and then halted, shuddering.
Private Hughes pulled himself over to the gaping opening in the side of the aircraft; the door had been ripped off in the crash. Leaning out into the ferocious downwash, he could see the problem clearly. "It's no good sir. The skids are wedged in good. The forward struts have snapped but the rear ones are holding us fast." He looked up just in time to see another of the glowing rocks slam into a nearby apartment block, shattering the few remaining windows and starting fires across several floors.
He had to cut through those struts. What tools did he have? Just one. Jamie reached for a spare .50 Cal magazine.
Royal Hallamshire Hospital, Western Sheffield
Rebecca Burdett stared out through the empty window frame at the vast lake of smoking lava that mere minutes before had been the university campus. From her vantage point on the seventeenth floor, she could see countless human forms running, staggering, and crawling away from the inferno. Everywhere she looked people were dying, caught by the flames, collapsing under the heat, or obliterated by a flaming boulder.
She turned away. There was no doubt about it, the hospital had to be abandoned. The lava seemed to be flowing away from them for now, but several of the hospital buildings had been hit by the boulders and looked ready to collapse. The ground fires were advancing steadily despite the inrushing air and the earthquake showed no signs of abating.
The fire alarm was already blaring, but the nurses she could see were still transfixed by the scene outside. "Snap out of it! We must move!" Rebecca sprinted through the ward to the reception area, where she snatched up the microphone for the P.A. system.
"Everyone, your attention, please. This is Matron Burdett. The hospital must be evacuated as quickly and calmly as possible." She delivered the words with a slightly eerie calm. "Patients, if you can walk, go to the lobby area via the stairwells, do not use the lifts. Otherwise please wait for a member of staff to assist you. Do not leave the building. Transport will be arranged."
Rebecca clicked the microphone off, then pulled out her phone and punched the button for the reception. The extension for the reception was busy, of course. Cursing, she dived into the stairwell, pushing past the throngs of people that built up steadily as she descended. By the time she emerged into the lobby, it was already packed with shouting and screaming patients.
"PLEASE REMAIN CALM" she shouted, in a tone that did not sound like a request. "THERE IS NO IMMEDIATE DANGER." Not really true but it seemed to placate the crowd for now. "Non-critical patients, move in an orderly fashion to the car park. We don't have nearly enough ambulances for you all, so we'll be using private cars."
She finally made it to the reception desk. David was usually competent, but he seemed ready to have a nervous breakdown. "Rebecca, thank…" He caught himself.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Don't know. Some sort of attack, massive fires. We must get the patients out, that's all that matters."
"I tried to call Northern General, but I couldn't get…"
"Forget it. They're probably in the same boat as us or will be soon. Now take Tracy, Mark, and anyone else you find on the way and get to the car park. I don't want anyone leaving without a full load of patients. Tell them to go straight to Manchester."
"Manchester? But…"
Rebecca grabbed the man's shoulders. "There's massive casualties out there. Everyone local will be overwhelmed. Now get moving."
She grabbed the phone from David's hand as he stumbled away and searched through the memory for the number she needed. "Whitworth? This is Matron Burdett at Royal Hallamshire. We've got a huge… explosion in Sheffield, we must evacuate. I'm sending our intensive care patients to you… yes, I know you don't have the capacity… you'll turn them out… no, listen, this is a gold-level disaster. No, I don't know who… look, I'm sure they'll contact you shortly. Meanwhile, people are dying here. You are going to send every ambulance you have to Sheffield and you are going to do it now, understand? Good."
MD 902 G-SYPS
"Control this is Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine do you copy? Over."
Sergeant Webster was still trying to get the radio working. Meanwhile, Private Hughes struggled to find a position in which he could get a shot at the rear support strut. He could see the target clearly enough, it was buried in a tangle of metal half a meter beneath the door sill, but with his broken leg, there was just no way to aim the heavy rifle at it from inside the cabin. He considered shooting through the airframe, the AS50 undoubtedly had the power to punch through, but he'd be firing blind, and, in any case, he was pretty sure the main fuel tank was under the cabin. Bad idea.
"Control this is Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine do you copy? Over."
"Oliver! I copy. What the blazes is going on? First, we thought we'd lost you, then we got a report you’d landed at Sheffield City Heliport. Everything has dropped in the pot here; nobody knows what is happening. Just what is your status, over?" The communications channels were clearing and the response from the command center at Atlas Court included the alarms and a commotion of voices in the background.
"We were knocked down by the blast, my bird is seriously damaged. Can you see what's happening out here? Over."
"Confirmed, we're seeing it over CCTV, hell we can see it out the windows. We're preparing to evacuate; at this rate, the lava will be here in less than half an hour. Are you airworthy over?"
"Negative control, we're stuck on a roof, the lava is about to surround the building. Need a pick-up urgently, over."
There was a slight pause before the duty officer responded. "Sierra Yankee, army choppers are inbound but the closest is still ten minutes out. Over."
"Acknowledged control." Sergeant Webster hadn't expected anything else. Every commander would be in triage mode now and plucking a helicopter crew off the top of a doomed building wasn't a high priority. "Situation understood. Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine out."
Private Hughes had been listening to the exchange and cut in over the intercom. "Sir, I think I can free the helo, but I'll have to climb out onto the roof."
Webster gave it only a moment's consideration; there was no viable alternative. "Roger Private, we'll hover until you're back on board."
Jamie unplugged his headset and clambered out onto the twisted girders, gritting his teeth at the pain that flared in his leg. The metal was hot to the touch and the blistering heat and swirling smoke were making it increasingly hard to see or breathe. Once he'd steadied himself, he grabbed the heavy rifle from the helicopter and began to work himself into a braced position. The pilot was watching him through the cockpit side window; Jamie gives him the thumbs up, and the engine noise intensified, as the helicopter once more struggled to lift off.
There it was, the near-side support struts clearly visible now that the helicopter's belly was clear of the corrugated iron roofing. He pulled the scope off the rail and lined up the AS50 with the iron sights, bracing it against a girder. Two sharp cracks and the job was done, the .50 caliber rounds shredding the aluminum alloy tube. The helicopter lurched upward again and shuddered, straining against the last remaining strut. Jamie struggled to maintain his balance as the roof started to collapse, chunks of metal tumbling down into the building below. A fresh wave of heat hit him and with horror, he realized that the lava was already pouring into the building. Jamie swung the heavy rifle around and unloaded his last three rounds into the tangle of metal around the back of the remaining skid.
The recoil was the final straw for the critically weakened factory roof. With a shrieking groan, the entire section collapsed into the burning interior. With both skids now sheared off, the Explorer leaped upwards into the sky, climbing away from the collapsing ruin. The last thing Private Hughes saw was the underside of the helicopter vanishing into the sky.
South Yorkshire Fire and Rescue HQ, Central Sheffield
The screens in the control center normally showed simple dots representing the incident sites. Only for the worst industrial fires did the staff have to draw rings around the affected area. Now the entire center of the city was marked in red, and that stain was growing rapidly.
"…and the second line of firebreaks go here, here, and here. That should save most of Hillsborough and Stannington. The lower Rivelin valley is a write-off, the best we can hope for is that it floods fast enough to save a few buildings. We'll worry about Fullwood if we get time, industrial areas take priority. Now get to it."
The sheer spectacle of the aerial volcano had convinced Chief Fire Officer Spurrier to dispense with the usual levels of escalation and go straight to damage limitation mode.
He turned to Assistant CFO Lloyd, who was coordinating with the other responders, category one and otherwise.
"Get anything out of Highways yet?"
"No sir, they just say they'll call me back. We'll probably send our own people out to the depots to get them moving."
"Do it. I'll have the authority sorted out by the time they arrive. Keep reminding the police that we need those construction sites stripped too. We'll need every earthmover we can get if we're going to box in that lava flow."
A young firefighter burst into the room, still in full heat-resistant gear. "Sirs, we can't hold it, there's just too much, we solidify one stream, and it comes at us from another direction. We've got to pull back."
CFO Spurrier sighed. All that effort rebuilding the city center into something actually pleasant to look at, and now it was all going to be buried in basalt. Ah well. At least the EU had footed most of the bill. For a brief second, he pitied the baldrick who would explain to the bureaucrats in Brussels what had happened to their investment. Then his momentary glee faded; having to abandon his new state-of-the-art command center was too a hard a blow.
"Okay. Tell Scott to redeploy along the Moor and Arundel Gate. You've got to keep the southern ring road and the station open if you can."
"Stephen, divert everything to Mansfield Road for now, then shut down. We'll be going straight to the forward command post at the airport."
MD 902 G-SYPS
Pete began to swing the helicopter around for a pass on the factory. Private Hughes had risked everything to save them, and Pete wasn't going to just leave him.
Sergeant Webster's voice came over the intercom, barely audible over the screaming engines and still omnipresent roar. "Peter, what are you doing?"
"Going back for him of course."
"Peter, he's gone. The entire building collapsed. I was watching as we took off, there was nothing we could do."
There was no response from the pilot, so Webster took the opportunity to contact control.
"Control, Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine, do you copy?"
"Sierra Yankee! I copy, what's your status?"
"Airborne again, but we've taken a beating. Are you still receiving telemetry?" The camera pod on the helicopter's nose had jammed in place, but it could still transmit a picture. “We’ve got some more stuff for you.”
"Ah… roger. Sierra Yankee. Bloody hell."
The Explorer was circling slowly over central Sheffield, a position which afforded a fine view of the magma fountain, blurry but visible within the base of the rapidly forming mushroom cloud, as well as the rivers of lava consuming the town center. Every few seconds another building would collapse, adding further haze to the scene below. "Oliver, we must evacuate. The fires are getting close, and the lava isn't far behind. Pogo one Seven-Seven, stay up if you can then abort to the airport, acknowledge."
"Acknowledged. Switching to channel one Seven-Seven. Sierra Yankee Nine-Nine out."
Taranaski's voice came over the intercom and he did not sound happy. "We've got a seriously bent bird here, controls are wonky, the port turbine is running very hot, and I think we're leaking fuel. We should get her down Ay-Sap."
"Negative Peter. Unless you're sure she's going to drop out of the sky, we stay until we're relieved. Command must know what's happening."
"But Sergeant, the corporal needs a medic, hell we all need…"
"Pilot. As long as we can fly, we stay until we're relieved." Webster's hard tone softened slightly. "It shouldn't be long. Now bring us around, command will need an idea of how fast the fires are spreading."
Owlerthorpe, South East Sheffield
The convoy of big Bedford trucks rolled onto the field and came to a halt one by one. As soon as each vehicle had stopped moving soldiers poured out of the rear, already in full combat gear. Overhead, the grim red column of the magma stream shone through the vast pall of smoke that surrounded it, lighting up the area in a confused, scarlet glow. Just like the descriptions of Hell that had been coming back from the troops that had entered that region. The smoke pall was spreading fast, the most obvious sign of the inferno that was devouring the city. Not the only sign of course, the constant vibrations that were running through the ground were another. They could be felt through the soles of the soldier’s boots and were enough to make hands that held binoculars shake enough to blur the image. Then again, there were other causes for hands to shake as well.
Sergeant Pottington had his orders, and he knew how to execute them. He’d been a British soldier one, then he’d retired and set up a gardening business. There were plenty of houses around Sheffield where both husband and wife were working all day and didn’t have a chance to tend to the garden. There were also plenty of pensioners who were fit, healthy, and bored stiff. Putting the two together had been an easy exercise for a man who’d effectively run a company of infantry. Grimly, Pottington wondered how many of his client list or workers were left. Looking at the vast pall of smoke that was covering Sheffield, not many.
“Right, you men, get the barricades across the roads. I want three volunteers, you, you, and you, to get a GPMG set up to cover the blocks. Anybody who tries to run the roadblock, spray them.” Pottington looked at the stream of traffic that was building up as the population of Sheffield made a run for it. Understandable but not something that could be allowed. Men were needed to build firebreaks, construct barriers and dig ditches, and try and divert the lava streams away from the industrial area to where they could do the least damage. Women were needed to help the wounded and look after children. In a disaster like this, there were no useless hands. He walked into the road and held up a hand in the traditional ‘stop’ sign. Traditional in the UK anyway, he’d seen films of American police giving stop signs by waving their hands around like demented organ-grinder’s monkeys. Hysterical load of spams Pottington thought.
A car was ignoring the ‘stop’ signal, instead, it had picked up speed and was going to either intimidate him into getting out of the way or go around him. Pottington produced his pride and joy, an old Webley Mark V with a six-inch barrel. It had been his grandfather’s in the First World War and Pottington had kept it carefully hidden away during the long years of the handgun ban. Now, he had it out again and he even had the Mark III “man stopper” bullets to go with it, hollow-point rounds with a steel ball molded inside the lead to add to the effect. One round dealt with the windscreen of the approaching car very satisfactorily, shattering it and sending fragments spraying around. The car came to an abrupt halt.
“Hey what you have done to my ride?” The young man driving was aggressive and aggrieved but both emotions faded when he heard the clicking of rifle bolts being drawn back.
“Commandeered it sir. Any other occupants? No? Then, Sir, we must ask you to wait here. The civil authorities will be forming work teams shortly and you’ll have the honor of being a founder member. Simmonite? Move this vehicle off the road, it’s a four-wheel-drive so the Home Guard will be wanting it. Clegg, Dewhurst, move two-wheel drives off to that field over there. Park them neatly now, we don’t want to be slovenly soldiers. ”
Behind them, the traffic was backing up quickly. The soldiers quickly checked each vehicle, sending the ones likely to be useful off to one side, the rest into a field to be parked. With gasoline rationing in force, it was amazing how many vehicles were using this road, but Pottington guessed that fleeing lava meant more than conserving gasoline rations.
“Sergeant?” A new voice had spoken from behind him. “Lieutenant Batty, Home Guard. We’ve come to take over the roadblock when you’re ready. Midlands Command wants your unit to join the rest of the regulars in case of the Baldricks trying to follow up on this attack. Nobody knows what they’ll try next.
“Very good Sir. Quiet word sir don’t hesitate to shoot if the situation demands it. It won’t take much for panic to start here, we’ve got to keep this situation under control.”
“Understood Sergeant.” The ‘thank you’ was unspoken but there. “There’s coaches coming up to take the women and kids to a refugee center. Trucks will be coming for the men, take them back to the city. Every pair of hands needed there.”
Pottington looked at the red cloud surrounding the stream of fire and the pall that hung over the doomed city. “Did they save Park Hill Sir?”
Batty shook his head. “It’s gone. The firebreaks hung on long enough for the people to get out, but the blocks have gone.”
“Ah well, suppose that’ll end the talk about what to do with them. Good luck Sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, and the same to your men here.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Forty-Nine
Celestial Mechanics laboratory, DIMO(N), Yale, Connecticut
“…but that would still allow higher-dimensional rotation of nanoscale structures, so clearly your topology cannot be correct.”
“Why is that a problem? The molecules are still confined to…”
“Chirality.” Dr. Kuroneko regarded his colleague with a vaguely disappointed look. “Look it up. I am hardly a biologist, but I do know that if you flipped a significant fraction of the molecules in a human body the individual would be dead or dying within hours. Too many critical enzymes operate only on a specific stereoisomer.”
“Oh. Well… how about…”
The conversation was interrupted by the double doors flying open and admitting a very purposeful-looking army officer. “Doctors, we have an emergency. Follow me please.”
The two bemused scientists were quickly escorted to the conference room, which despite the late hour was filling up rapidly. Dr. Kuroneko’s gaze was drawn straight to the main screen, which was showing a lake of fire with a great glowing fountain shooting out of it. No, not fire… lava. A waterfall of magma was pouring onto an expanse of burning rubble.
“What on earth…”
“That’s Sheffield. It’s a city of half a million or so in northern England. Or was, I’d guess it’s quite a bit below half a million now.”
That flat, disinterested voice again. Kuroneko looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, it was the mysterious man who had gotten the whole Star Glider project rolling. The man was either an undercover demon with powers of personal teleportation or had an uncanny knack for turning up just as the excrement was about to hit the rotary impeller.
“The Baldricks found a way to dump magma on it… at something like a million tons a minute. Yet we don’t know why that target was chosen or when they might repeat the trick. Your team is our best bet for finding a countermeasure before we lose another city.”
“You were expecting this? And just let it happen?”
“We were expecting something Doctor. It is not the mark of an intelligent person to assume that he can administer what amounts to a historic ass-kicking and not get some form of payback. The question was never whether something would happen but what and when. We knew that we had to be able to close a portal or one day, one of them would bite us in the ass. Put the two together and we have Project Starglider. Dumping magma through a portal is an interesting concept though, it has several advantages over the way we would normally address the problem of a city we didn’t like very much.”
Kuroneko got the unpleasant feeling that he’d just seen the birth of a new part of America’s strategic arsenal. “You take this attack very lightly Sir.”
“Not in the least. I find the concept of opening a volcano directly over one of our cities to be quite disturbing. Not least because if they can do it once, they can do it again. So, we can expect to see another attack like this. That raises a lot of questions for my colleagues and me to address, one of which is why they chose Sheffield and what that might tell us about future targets. But that is for us to think about, your job Doctor is to make sure there are as few of these attacks as possible.”
Dr. Kuroneko realized that everyone was staring at him. He gulped, then stared at the table for a second. When he brought his head up, his eyes were hardened with determination.
“First, we must understand what happened. What data have the Brits sent so far?”
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom
After many years of being virtually empty, Sheffield City Airport had been scheduled for closure in early 2008. The defense build-up allowed the runway to be kept open and the ILS operational for contingency use, but there was still no scheduled traffic. Now the tiny apron was packed with transport aircraft, offloading fire trucks and earthmoving equipment before departing full of casualties on stretchers. The lava flows had crept ominously close, buffeting the approaching aircraft with thermals, but for now, the wind was blowing the smoke and toxic fumes away from the site. Less than a mile off the M1 motorway and possessing a largely vacant business park, the airport was an obvious choice for the forward command center, and control staff from all the emergency services had been streaming in all day. Not all the traffic had been civilian; the airport now featured two Rapier FSC launchers and several hastily dug machine gun emplacements.
Chief Fire Officer Howard Spurrier had been on duty for Thirtyhours now but between the adrenaline and numerous cups of black coffee he hadn’t noticed his fatigue. In fact, he had no choice but to stay focused on the details of the operation least the horror of it overwhelmed him. He’d lost over a hundred of his own people so far, with more killed by collapsing buildings and falling rocks every hour. The other services were taking similar casualties as they risked their lives to pull civilians from the rubble. As for the city itself… well, his original calm detachment had vanished as soon as he stepped out of his doomed former command center. The sight of whole crowds being pursued by the lava, screaming, blistering, bursting into flames before falling and being consumed by the rushing inferno… they’d all be haunted by it for the rest of their lives.
“CFO Spurrier I presume?”
He jerked his gaze from the electronic map projection and stared at the newcomer. She was tall, dark-haired, casually dressed, and wearing what struck him as an indecently placid expression.
“Who the hell are you?” Howard snapped.
“Keavy McManus. I’m the vulcanologist… you should’ve been told I was coming.”
Assistant CFO Colin Lloyd had spent most of the last twelve hours talking into a headset and updating the tactical picture. He cupped the microphone inside his hand for a moment and announced in a hoarse voice. “Sorry sir… slipped my mind… she’s the best available, the home secretary approved her personally.” Colin immediately went back to assigning tasks to the newly arriving units.
“You’re an academic?” Howard’s expression left no doubt that he had little time for academics telling him how to manage a disaster. “Find a desk, stay out of my way, and let me know if you discover anything relevant.” He turned back to the map.
Keavy strode over and stood in front of him, forcing the man to look at her. “Yes, I write papers and I teach. I’ve also helped plan relief and containment operations in Hawaii, Iceland, and Italy. I probably have more practical experience with lava flows than anyone in Britain – and you have none, so you’d better start listening to me.”
Howard blinked. “Ok then, Miss McManus.” He pointed at the map. “We’re trying to use the Don valley to pipe the lava through the central industrial area. The plan is to turn the Meadowhall region into a cooling pond…”
Keavy cut him short. “I know, I brought myself up to date on the plane, they emailed me all this stuff. You’re not thinking long-term enough though. I assume you want to save the motorway viaduct if possible?”
“Yes, and the new rail freight terminal, they’re finally rebuilding the Tinsley marshaling yard you know…” Even after all the destruction, Spurrier just couldn’t help letting a little pride creep into his voice. “Wait, how long do you think this eruption could last?”
Keavy was scanning the inventories, rosters, and situation reports littering the table. “It’s Mrs. McManus by the way… Anyway, can’t tell for sure of course… the survey team isn’t set up yet, and the military still wouldn’t let them through last time I heard… You see the thing is…”
She looked up. “To get that kind of pressure they had to be draining from well inside the throat – but not too deep since it isn’t spraying up thousands of meters. The flow rate slackened off in the first hour, then built up again. On earth, lava-like that would come from a shield volcano. My guess is draining all that lava off the top of the vent triggered a full-scale eruption, most of which is getting sucked through to us. Could be days, weeks, or months before it lets up… no way to tell without seeing the geology at the other end.”
It was Keavy's turn to gesture at the map. “If it doesn't let up ash buildup and fumes will render this whole area uninhabitable anyway. But we can buy the crews enough time to dismantle and move the factories. Now, about your dike placement…”
Cliffton Council Estate, Nottingham, United Kingdom
The screen flicked between grainy images of burning and collapsing buildings, streams of glowing lava progressing inexorably through city streets, and people running in terror from it all. Some were apparently less terrified than others because they'd taken the time to record the disaster on their cellphones and digicams. The later images were clearer but less dramatic; they showed bulldozers flattening buildings and creating ramparts from the rubble, lines of fire crews trying to halt the advance of the flames, and rescue crews carrying stretchers out of damaged buildings. The montage ended with images of gridlocked roads lined with armed soldiers and refugees wandering aimlessly about.
Meanwhile, the text continued to scroll across the bottom of the screen: 'Central Sheffield destroyed by volcanic activity, thousands of dead, presumed demonic attack may be linked to High Peak incident. Prime Minister asks nation to remain calm and stay vigilant for any further Baldrick activity...'
"The city has now been completely sealed off by army units. This is the closest we can get, as the government has made it clear that civilians will not be allowed through the perimeter."
The BBC News correspondent was standing on a flat roof, lit by a harsh floodlight. The sky behind him was filled entirely by a diffuse orange glow, the smoke now completely obscuring the area around the portal. A deep rumbling was clearly audible. "The lava still appears to be flowing... the fire services are starting to get the fires under control, but they're contending with toxic smoke and collapsing buildings."
A bright flare appeared in the background, hazy but quite distinct from the central glow. A couple of seconds later a crackling roar could be heard, while the speaker flinched visibly. "That was probably the gasometer at Attercliffe, we were told that there was some difficultly pumping the gas away with the power out." The speaker composed himself.
"The emergency services are making a tremendous effort to limit casualties and contain the damage. They aren't the only ones... we've heard numerous reports of ordinary people pulling casualties out of the rubble, in the first hour after the attack... I understand construction workers have been arriving at the cordon and volunteering to help with the firebreaks."
Christopher Hughes stared at the television in horror. Not that this was a matter of choice; he had tried to look away, but his limbs seemed frozen, and the effort brought only blinding pain. Their terrible presence of them made it difficult to even think clearly. It was obvious that he'd made a horrible mistake. The shadow government wasn't the enemy, after all, they'd probably been secretly preparing humanity to fight the demons for decades, if not centuries. Christopher withdrew to a corner of his own mind, mentally whimpering at the thought of how many people the demons would make him hurt before they were done with him.
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
Since the opening of the portal, Lakheenahuknaasi’s universe had consisted mostly of pain. The first shot had merely smashed a finger in her left-wing and tore a ragged hole in the membrane. The last two had ripped through her right leg, shattering the femur, mangling the knee, and nearly amputating the appendage. She had fallen from the sky, trailing a spray of blood behind her, desperately trying to extend her glide far enough to escape the tide of lava. She managed to stay in the air for almost a minute, tossed about by the blast wave and then the inrushing winds. Finally, she could manage no more and aim for a clump of foliage that had offered some scant hope of concealment. The ground rushed up Lakheenahuknaasi’s world went black.
She had awoken to a fresh agony; someone had shoved her hand into a fire. Barely able to avoid screaming with the pain, the gorgon hauled herself upright. The clump of bushes was starting to burn, nearby trees had been set on fire by a projectile thrown from the volcano. Lakheenahuknaasi could hear human screams but also shouted orders and the growling their chariots made when moving. No doubt their army had moved in to try and control the chaos and if she didn’t move right now, they would doubtless capture her and torture her to death in revenge.
The gorgon crawled forward, dragging her broken wings and mutilated leg behind her. There was a large square stone building ahead, presenting a wall full of square windows, many broken by the initial shock. She just had to hope that it had been deserted. After what seemed like an eternity she was at the base of the wall, feeling horribly exposed in the open. She could spare only seconds to rest before she had to drag herself through the nearest broken window. The jagged glass couldn’t penetrate her scales, but it tore fresh rips in her wings; a pain that seemed trivial compared to what she’d already endured. Lakheenahuknaasi had collapsed onto some sort of cot and promptly fainted from blood loss.
When she awoke again it was to a repetitive banging sound. Humans were coming. It sounded like doors opening forcefully, mixed with footsteps. Sometimes it was accompanied by a splintering crack. They were searching for the building and the sound was getting nearer. For the first time in her life, Lakheenahuknaasi was paralyzed by fear of the humans. What horrors would they inflict when they found her?
Great Hall of the Adamant Fastness, Outer Rim of Hell
Demonic laughter echoed throughout the hall, as the assembled nobles took turns forcing themselves into the human’s mind. Servants scurried about with plates of freshly slaughtered livestock and cages of live vermin delicacies. The atmosphere was entirely festive; Belial’s court lacked the sophisticated entertainments of his wealthier peers, but the strike force had taken to chanting battle songs and many of the nobles were joining in. They were not exactly skilled singers at the best of times and the copious quantities of fermented fungus being consumed were not helping matters. No one seemed to mind, however.
Euryale had just arrived back from the volcano and her normally bright bronze scales were still streaked with ash. She pushed her way through the rowdy lesser demons and arrived at the central table.
“Ah, Euryale, you return to witness my triumph.” Belial pushed a heavy goblet of faintly glowing liquid into her hand. The fine liquor was made from juices squeezed from the crushed abdomens of a rare insect; it was rarely seen in Tartarus. “The attack destroyed scores of their great towers, razed hundreds of workshops, and killed many thousands of humans.”
“Most pleasing, my Lord. However…”
The count continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. It looked like he’d already put away quite a bit of the glowing wine. “Of course, I appreciate your efforts. Such a shame Baroness Yulupki isn’t here to receive similar praise.”
Euryale snorted. It gave her great pleasure to envision the naga being hauled over to the second volcano on the back of a lurching Great Beast and hating every minute of it. She’d requested a wyvern of course but Euryale had made sure that they were ‘none available’ and then chosen the most cantankerous Great Beast in the stables.
“And what of your handmaiden? Lac-nina-urk-nasee wasn’t it?”
The gorgon rolled her eyes, confident that Belial was too drunk to notice. She put down the goblet and replied carefully, shouting to be heard over the din. “As I was about to say, my lord, neither I nor any of my servants have been able to contact her. Most likely she was killed by the humans.”
The count’s face flickered with a moment of concern before brightening again. “Oh well, no matter. She died gloriously. A gorgon for a whole city seems like a fair trade to me.”
Euryale grit her fangs. “In that case, I hope your ‘stratagem’ will not require the destruction of many more cities. Now if you would excuse me…” The gorgon queen whirled around and stormed off, the point of her tail quite deliberately flicking the goblet from the table as she went. Belial surged to his feet and began to summon the psychic force to smite the insubordinate wench, but then paused. What if he had to kill her? Best not risk that until after the second attack he had promised Satan was complete. He shrugged, laughed, and settled back into his throne. There would be plenty of time to clip the gorgon’s wings later. Hopefully, metaphorically, Belial mused, but you never knew with females.
In a corridor of the palace, Euryale was also having second thoughts. Belial’s casual willingness to sacrifice her kindred had stoked her rage. True, she was just as willing to send any number of lesser demons to their deaths to achieve her own aims. But lesser demons teemed in multitudes. Millennia after the purge, there were still precious few gorgons in existence and Euryale was not about to allow Belial to undo her progress.
Still, he was not that hard to manipulate if she applied herself. Defiance like that risked a confrontation and even if she somehow won the physical contest, she doubted she’d last long as ruler of Tartarus. Losing her temper as that risked…
The gorgon’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a servile demon trying to attract her attention. “Ah my lady, I abase myself before your glory and humbly ask…”
“What is it?” Euryale snapped, lacking the patience for the usual groveling.
“The six flights of wyvern riders that the count bid departs, which beasts should we…”
“What is this?” The gorgon queen fixed the servant with a multi-eyed stare. “Where are my wyverns going and why?”
“To the grand army, for the destruction of the human invaders!”
Euryale shook her head. Belial seemed bent on squandering precious assets. “Did he say why he is risking my, ah…, his wyverns when Beelzebub must have two score legions of harpies to throw against the human sky chariots?”
The stunted orc seemed to be trying to shrink into the floor. Likely he thought there was no safe answer to this question.
“My lady, it is my understanding… the wyverns are to be loaded with hail javelins and bags of brimstone.… I do not think they are intended to fight the human sky chariots.”
Euryale stared for a moment before she realized what the count was doing. It wasn’t about Satan’s favor, the magma attack was a far better way to gain that, it was simply a merchant taking an opportunity to demonstrate his wares.
“Very well. Attend me.” She set off for the wyvern roosts.
Celestial Mechanics laboratory, DIMO(N), Yale, Connecticut
“…but that would still allow higher-dimensional rotation of nanoscale structures, so clearly your topology cannot be correct.”
“Why is that a problem? The molecules are still confined to…”
“Chirality.” Dr. Kuroneko regarded his colleague with a vaguely disappointed look. “Look it up. I am hardly a biologist, but I do know that if you flipped a significant fraction of the molecules in a human body the individual would be dead or dying within hours. Too many critical enzymes operate only on a specific stereoisomer.”
“Oh. Well… how about…”
The conversation was interrupted by the double doors flying open and admitting a very purposeful-looking army officer. “Doctors, we have an emergency. Follow me please.”
The two bemused scientists were quickly escorted to the conference room, which despite the late hour was filling up rapidly. Dr. Kuroneko’s gaze was drawn straight to the main screen, which was showing a lake of fire with a great glowing fountain shooting out of it. No, not fire… lava. A waterfall of magma was pouring onto an expanse of burning rubble.
“What on earth…”
“That’s Sheffield. It’s a city of half a million or so in northern England. Or was, I’d guess it’s quite a bit below half a million now.”
That flat, disinterested voice again. Kuroneko looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, it was the mysterious man who had gotten the whole Star Glider project rolling. The man was either an undercover demon with powers of personal teleportation or had an uncanny knack for turning up just as the excrement was about to hit the rotary impeller.
“The Baldricks found a way to dump magma on it… at something like a million tons a minute. Yet we don’t know why that target was chosen or when they might repeat the trick. Your team is our best bet for finding a countermeasure before we lose another city.”
“You were expecting this? And just let it happen?”
“We were expecting something Doctor. It is not the mark of an intelligent person to assume that he can administer what amounts to a historic ass-kicking and not get some form of payback. The question was never whether something would happen but what and when. We knew that we had to be able to close a portal or one day, one of them would bite us in the ass. Put the two together and we have Project Starglider. Dumping magma through a portal is an interesting concept though, it has several advantages over the way we would normally address the problem of a city we didn’t like very much.”
Kuroneko got the unpleasant feeling that he’d just seen the birth of a new part of America’s strategic arsenal. “You take this attack very lightly Sir.”
“Not in the least. I find the concept of opening a volcano directly over one of our cities to be quite disturbing. Not least because if they can do it once, they can do it again. So, we can expect to see another attack like this. That raises a lot of questions for my colleagues and me to address, one of which is why they chose Sheffield and what that might tell us about future targets. But that is for us to think about, your job Doctor is to make sure there are as few of these attacks as possible.”
Dr. Kuroneko realized that everyone was staring at him. He gulped, then stared at the table for a second. When he brought his head up, his eyes were hardened with determination.
“First, we must understand what happened. What data have the Brits sent so far?”
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom
After many years of being virtually empty, Sheffield City Airport had been scheduled for closure in early 2008. The defense build-up allowed the runway to be kept open and the ILS operational for contingency use, but there was still no scheduled traffic. Now the tiny apron was packed with transport aircraft, offloading fire trucks and earthmoving equipment before departing full of casualties on stretchers. The lava flows had crept ominously close, buffeting the approaching aircraft with thermals, but for now, the wind was blowing the smoke and toxic fumes away from the site. Less than a mile off the M1 motorway and possessing a largely vacant business park, the airport was an obvious choice for the forward command center, and control staff from all the emergency services had been streaming in all day. Not all the traffic had been civilian; the airport now featured two Rapier FSC launchers and several hastily dug machine gun emplacements.
Chief Fire Officer Howard Spurrier had been on duty for Thirtyhours now but between the adrenaline and numerous cups of black coffee he hadn’t noticed his fatigue. In fact, he had no choice but to stay focused on the details of the operation least the horror of it overwhelmed him. He’d lost over a hundred of his own people so far, with more killed by collapsing buildings and falling rocks every hour. The other services were taking similar casualties as they risked their lives to pull civilians from the rubble. As for the city itself… well, his original calm detachment had vanished as soon as he stepped out of his doomed former command center. The sight of whole crowds being pursued by the lava, screaming, blistering, bursting into flames before falling and being consumed by the rushing inferno… they’d all be haunted by it for the rest of their lives.
“CFO Spurrier I presume?”
He jerked his gaze from the electronic map projection and stared at the newcomer. She was tall, dark-haired, casually dressed, and wearing what struck him as an indecently placid expression.
“Who the hell are you?” Howard snapped.
“Keavy McManus. I’m the vulcanologist… you should’ve been told I was coming.”
Assistant CFO Colin Lloyd had spent most of the last twelve hours talking into a headset and updating the tactical picture. He cupped the microphone inside his hand for a moment and announced in a hoarse voice. “Sorry sir… slipped my mind… she’s the best available, the home secretary approved her personally.” Colin immediately went back to assigning tasks to the newly arriving units.
“You’re an academic?” Howard’s expression left no doubt that he had little time for academics telling him how to manage a disaster. “Find a desk, stay out of my way, and let me know if you discover anything relevant.” He turned back to the map.
Keavy strode over and stood in front of him, forcing the man to look at her. “Yes, I write papers and I teach. I’ve also helped plan relief and containment operations in Hawaii, Iceland, and Italy. I probably have more practical experience with lava flows than anyone in Britain – and you have none, so you’d better start listening to me.”
Howard blinked. “Ok then, Miss McManus.” He pointed at the map. “We’re trying to use the Don valley to pipe the lava through the central industrial area. The plan is to turn the Meadowhall region into a cooling pond…”
Keavy cut him short. “I know, I brought myself up to date on the plane, they emailed me all this stuff. You’re not thinking long-term enough though. I assume you want to save the motorway viaduct if possible?”
“Yes, and the new rail freight terminal, they’re finally rebuilding the Tinsley marshaling yard you know…” Even after all the destruction, Spurrier just couldn’t help letting a little pride creep into his voice. “Wait, how long do you think this eruption could last?”
Keavy was scanning the inventories, rosters, and situation reports littering the table. “It’s Mrs. McManus by the way… Anyway, can’t tell for sure of course… the survey team isn’t set up yet, and the military still wouldn’t let them through last time I heard… You see the thing is…”
She looked up. “To get that kind of pressure they had to be draining from well inside the throat – but not too deep since it isn’t spraying up thousands of meters. The flow rate slackened off in the first hour, then built up again. On earth, lava-like that would come from a shield volcano. My guess is draining all that lava off the top of the vent triggered a full-scale eruption, most of which is getting sucked through to us. Could be days, weeks, or months before it lets up… no way to tell without seeing the geology at the other end.”
It was Keavy's turn to gesture at the map. “If it doesn't let up ash buildup and fumes will render this whole area uninhabitable anyway. But we can buy the crews enough time to dismantle and move the factories. Now, about your dike placement…”
Cliffton Council Estate, Nottingham, United Kingdom
The screen flicked between grainy images of burning and collapsing buildings, streams of glowing lava progressing inexorably through city streets, and people running in terror from it all. Some were apparently less terrified than others because they'd taken the time to record the disaster on their cellphones and digicams. The later images were clearer but less dramatic; they showed bulldozers flattening buildings and creating ramparts from the rubble, lines of fire crews trying to halt the advance of the flames, and rescue crews carrying stretchers out of damaged buildings. The montage ended with images of gridlocked roads lined with armed soldiers and refugees wandering aimlessly about.
Meanwhile, the text continued to scroll across the bottom of the screen: 'Central Sheffield destroyed by volcanic activity, thousands of dead, presumed demonic attack may be linked to High Peak incident. Prime Minister asks nation to remain calm and stay vigilant for any further Baldrick activity...'
"The city has now been completely sealed off by army units. This is the closest we can get, as the government has made it clear that civilians will not be allowed through the perimeter."
The BBC News correspondent was standing on a flat roof, lit by a harsh floodlight. The sky behind him was filled entirely by a diffuse orange glow, the smoke now completely obscuring the area around the portal. A deep rumbling was clearly audible. "The lava still appears to be flowing... the fire services are starting to get the fires under control, but they're contending with toxic smoke and collapsing buildings."
A bright flare appeared in the background, hazy but quite distinct from the central glow. A couple of seconds later a crackling roar could be heard, while the speaker flinched visibly. "That was probably the gasometer at Attercliffe, we were told that there was some difficultly pumping the gas away with the power out." The speaker composed himself.
"The emergency services are making a tremendous effort to limit casualties and contain the damage. They aren't the only ones... we've heard numerous reports of ordinary people pulling casualties out of the rubble, in the first hour after the attack... I understand construction workers have been arriving at the cordon and volunteering to help with the firebreaks."
Christopher Hughes stared at the television in horror. Not that this was a matter of choice; he had tried to look away, but his limbs seemed frozen, and the effort brought only blinding pain. Their terrible presence of them made it difficult to even think clearly. It was obvious that he'd made a horrible mistake. The shadow government wasn't the enemy, after all, they'd probably been secretly preparing humanity to fight the demons for decades, if not centuries. Christopher withdrew to a corner of his own mind, mentally whimpering at the thought of how many people the demons would make him hurt before they were done with him.
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
Since the opening of the portal, Lakheenahuknaasi’s universe had consisted mostly of pain. The first shot had merely smashed a finger in her left-wing and tore a ragged hole in the membrane. The last two had ripped through her right leg, shattering the femur, mangling the knee, and nearly amputating the appendage. She had fallen from the sky, trailing a spray of blood behind her, desperately trying to extend her glide far enough to escape the tide of lava. She managed to stay in the air for almost a minute, tossed about by the blast wave and then the inrushing winds. Finally, she could manage no more and aim for a clump of foliage that had offered some scant hope of concealment. The ground rushed up Lakheenahuknaasi’s world went black.
She had awoken to a fresh agony; someone had shoved her hand into a fire. Barely able to avoid screaming with the pain, the gorgon hauled herself upright. The clump of bushes was starting to burn, nearby trees had been set on fire by a projectile thrown from the volcano. Lakheenahuknaasi could hear human screams but also shouted orders and the growling their chariots made when moving. No doubt their army had moved in to try and control the chaos and if she didn’t move right now, they would doubtless capture her and torture her to death in revenge.
The gorgon crawled forward, dragging her broken wings and mutilated leg behind her. There was a large square stone building ahead, presenting a wall full of square windows, many broken by the initial shock. She just had to hope that it had been deserted. After what seemed like an eternity she was at the base of the wall, feeling horribly exposed in the open. She could spare only seconds to rest before she had to drag herself through the nearest broken window. The jagged glass couldn’t penetrate her scales, but it tore fresh rips in her wings; a pain that seemed trivial compared to what she’d already endured. Lakheenahuknaasi had collapsed onto some sort of cot and promptly fainted from blood loss.
When she awoke again it was to a repetitive banging sound. Humans were coming. It sounded like doors opening forcefully, mixed with footsteps. Sometimes it was accompanied by a splintering crack. They were searching for the building and the sound was getting nearer. For the first time in her life, Lakheenahuknaasi was paralyzed by fear of the humans. What horrors would they inflict when they found her?
Great Hall of the Adamant Fastness, Outer Rim of Hell
Demonic laughter echoed throughout the hall, as the assembled nobles took turns forcing themselves into the human’s mind. Servants scurried about with plates of freshly slaughtered livestock and cages of live vermin delicacies. The atmosphere was entirely festive; Belial’s court lacked the sophisticated entertainments of his wealthier peers, but the strike force had taken to chanting battle songs and many of the nobles were joining in. They were not exactly skilled singers at the best of times and the copious quantities of fermented fungus being consumed were not helping matters. No one seemed to mind, however.
Euryale had just arrived back from the volcano and her normally bright bronze scales were still streaked with ash. She pushed her way through the rowdy lesser demons and arrived at the central table.
“Ah, Euryale, you return to witness my triumph.” Belial pushed a heavy goblet of faintly glowing liquid into her hand. The fine liquor was made from juices squeezed from the crushed abdomens of a rare insect; it was rarely seen in Tartarus. “The attack destroyed scores of their great towers, razed hundreds of workshops, and killed many thousands of humans.”
“Most pleasing, my Lord. However…”
The count continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. It looked like he’d already put away quite a bit of the glowing wine. “Of course, I appreciate your efforts. Such a shame Baroness Yulupki isn’t here to receive similar praise.”
Euryale snorted. It gave her great pleasure to envision the naga being hauled over to the second volcano on the back of a lurching Great Beast and hating every minute of it. She’d requested a wyvern of course but Euryale had made sure that they were ‘none available’ and then chosen the most cantankerous Great Beast in the stables.
“And what of your handmaiden? Lac-nina-urk-nasee wasn’t it?”
The gorgon rolled her eyes, confident that Belial was too drunk to notice. She put down the goblet and replied carefully, shouting to be heard over the din. “As I was about to say, my lord, neither I nor any of my servants have been able to contact her. Most likely she was killed by the humans.”
The count’s face flickered with a moment of concern before brightening again. “Oh well, no matter. She died gloriously. A gorgon for a whole city seems like a fair trade to me.”
Euryale grit her fangs. “In that case, I hope your ‘stratagem’ will not require the destruction of many more cities. Now if you would excuse me…” The gorgon queen whirled around and stormed off, the point of her tail quite deliberately flicking the goblet from the table as she went. Belial surged to his feet and began to summon the psychic force to smite the insubordinate wench, but then paused. What if he had to kill her? Best not risk that until after the second attack he had promised Satan was complete. He shrugged, laughed, and settled back into his throne. There would be plenty of time to clip the gorgon’s wings later. Hopefully, metaphorically, Belial mused, but you never knew with females.
In a corridor of the palace, Euryale was also having second thoughts. Belial’s casual willingness to sacrifice her kindred had stoked her rage. True, she was just as willing to send any number of lesser demons to their deaths to achieve her own aims. But lesser demons teemed in multitudes. Millennia after the purge, there were still precious few gorgons in existence and Euryale was not about to allow Belial to undo her progress.
Still, he was not that hard to manipulate if she applied herself. Defiance like that risked a confrontation and even if she somehow won the physical contest, she doubted she’d last long as ruler of Tartarus. Losing her temper as that risked…
The gorgon’s thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a servile demon trying to attract her attention. “Ah my lady, I abase myself before your glory and humbly ask…”
“What is it?” Euryale snapped, lacking the patience for the usual groveling.
“The six flights of wyvern riders that the count bid departs, which beasts should we…”
“What is this?” The gorgon queen fixed the servant with a multi-eyed stare. “Where are my wyverns going and why?”
“To the grand army, for the destruction of the human invaders!”
Euryale shook her head. Belial seemed bent on squandering precious assets. “Did he say why he is risking my, ah…, his wyverns when Beelzebub must have two score legions of harpies to throw against the human sky chariots?”
The stunted orc seemed to be trying to shrink into the floor. Likely he thought there was no safe answer to this question.
“My lady, it is my understanding… the wyverns are to be loaded with hail javelins and bags of brimstone.… I do not think they are intended to fight the human sky chariots.”
Euryale stared for a moment before she realized what the count was doing. It wasn’t about Satan’s favor, the magma attack was a far better way to gain that, it was simply a merchant taking an opportunity to demonstrate his wares.
“Very well. Attend me.” She set off for the wyvern roosts.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty
Seafire One, over the Midlands, England.
Acting Captain Sharkey Ward, RN (yes, the ‘acting’ part of his rank did slightly irritate him) did not need to do any fancy navigation on the way to Sheffield. The waterfall of lava flowing out of the sky and the huge smoke plume rising over what had once been the center of the city was a giveaway. Below his Sea Harrier FA.2, the main roads leading towards Sheffield were a sea of blue lights. Ward, and his wingman Commander Andy Auld, RN, who was also a recently recalled former Sea Jet pilot, had been assigned to help provide reconnaissance support to ground forces, and provide local CAP if necessary. For the latter role, both aircraft were armed with four AMRAAM missiles and a pair of 30mm ADEN cannon pods, while for the former a BAE digital recce pod with the capability to down-load its imagery to ground stations was fitted to the center-line pylon between the cannons.
The Sea Jet’s Blue Vixen radar showed that the airspace around Sheffield was extremely busy. At low level there were dozens of helicopters, both military and civil, there was also a queue of transport aircraft waiting to land at Sheffield airport. Higher up there were a pair of Jaguar GR.3As each fitted with the Digital Joint Reconnaissance Pod, while above them were a pair of Tornado GR.4s fitted with RAPTOR pods. Far above these aircraft was a single Canberra PR.9 rescued from a museum, using its sophisticated recce fit to take high-altitude pictures of Sheffield and the surrounding area as part of the efforts to predict where the lava flow would go next. Those on the ground would certainly not want aerial imagery. Just to cap it off a Sentry AEW.1 was now also airborne over the area providing RAF Boulmer with assistance in traffic control, and radar coverage.
“Boulmer, Seafire One requesting permission to enter the exclusion zone. Over.”
“Roger, Seafire One. Please remain at your current altitude and avoid the airspace around the city, also remain clear of the portal area.”
“Roger that Boulmer. We are commencing our photo run; the pointy heads on the ground should be receiving our imagery in a few minutes.”
“Roger that, Seafire One. Please be aware that a water bomber flight is currently inbound and will pass five hundred meters below you. Over.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for them. Out.”
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom.
“That looks bad.” Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, late of the Scots Guards, said as he viewed the screens showing the aerial imagery now coming in. Lethbridge-Stewart had been sent in by Midland Command to take charge of all military units being sent to assist the fire service, and to serve as a senior liaison officer. The ground stations that he had brought with him were normally used in conjunction with the Sentinel R.1 but could also show imagery from the DJRP and RAPTOR pods, though it was also showing pictures taken by the high-flying Canberra.
“Mr. Benton, could you ask CFO Spurrier, and that vulcanologist woman…what’s her name?”
“Mrs. McManus, Sir.” Warrant Officer Class One John Benton replied.
“That’s a familiar name for some reason.” The Brigadier commented. “She’s not a large Scottish lady, is she?”
“That would be Michelle McManus, Sir, almost a different species I’d say.
“I’ll go get them, Sir.”
“Well, I certainly think that this will be a great help, Brigadier.” Chief Fire Officer Spurrier said a few minutes later after taking in the various picture feeds.
However, Lethbridge-Stewart could see that the vulcanologist, Keavy McManus was not looking particularly happy.
“Is there something else we can do for, Mrs. McManus?” He asked, being especially charming.
“Yes, Brigadier, you can let the survey team through the military cordon. They’re not doing us much good now.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. McManus, though actual access to the danger area is at the discretion of the fire service.
“Mr. Benton, could you ask Captain Munro to organize passes and an escort for Mrs. McManus’ survey team; it’s a top priority matter. If they need any engineering assistance, then Captain Price should be able to help.”
“I’ll get right on it, Sir.
“There’s a message from Midlands Command for you, by the way, Sir, Major General Rutledge wants to speak to you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Spurrier, Mrs. McManus, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Colonel Mace.”
Captain Marian Price, Royal Engineers, was tired and hot. She had spent the last twelve hours supervising the unloading of heavy engineering and firefighting equipment that had been flown in by heavy transporters, such as RAF and USAF C-17A Globemasters. The last thing she needed now was an additional commitment.
“I presume, Private Jenkins, that at least we won’t be required to provide an escort to this survey team?”
“No, ma’am.” Private Ross Jenkins, the messenger from the Command Post, replied. “The Red Caps will escort them in.”
“Well, that’s something at least.” Price said. “If they let me know what sort of equipment, they might need then I’ll see what we have around.”
She glanced around at the concrete parking apron. It was a chaotic scene of bulldozers, various pieces of heavy plant, fire service High Volume Pumps, and various military vehicles, both armored and soft-skinned.
“That’s if I can find anything amongst this lot.” She muttered.
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
More fire crews were arriving every hour, from increasingly distant parts of the UK and even Europe, but they hadn’t been able to prevent the flames from advancing up the hill into Broomhill. The order had come to pull back to the Rivelin fire break and that meant the last sweep for civvies trapped in the doomed buildings. Constable Matthew Hillier was one of those detailed for that, something that was a familiar duty by now. He moved briskly through the building, checking each room for anyone left behind by the original evacuation. At least that was improving; the chaos and confusion following the initial attack were diminishing as fresh command staff was flown in and a strategic response plan developed.
Another locked door. Hillier sighed and brought up the fire ax. Fortunately, the internal doors were weak and one good strike was enough to smash the lock mechanism. The door splintered and shuddered open to reveal a crumpled female form. He moved quickly to check for signs of life. Relieved to see that the girl was still breathing if only barely, he reached for his radio.
“This is unit 523, found another casualty in the dorms…” The young woman let out a horrible hacking cough and convulsed, revealing an inhaler grasped in one hand. “…looks like a reaction to the smoke, any ambulances available? Over.” Hillier already suspected what the answer would be, but he had to try. He pulled a spare filter mask from a bag hanging from webbing and drew the elastic over the girl’s head, before grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her up into a fireman’s carry.
That was enough to revive her a little. “Who are… where are we going…”
“Constable Hillier. Stay calm lass, we’ll get you out of here.” He was listening to the chatter on the radio; every channel seemed to be crammed. Finally, there was something relevant.
“Unit 523, no ambulances free for non-critical patients currently. Is she conscious?”
“Barely, control.” Matthew had nearly reached the main entrance. The conversation was interrupted by a report of looters in Walkley. The sound of shots fired came over the channel as the transmission cut off.
“All units be advised a dedicated field hospital for air poisoning casualties just went operational at evac camp beta. 523, take your casualty there.”
Hillier emerged into the car park, a surreal scene of dirty snow and drifting fireflies - or rather ash and embers. The rear doors of the white police Transit van were open and another three late evacuees were huddled inside, all wearing the same cheap filter masks. One was rocking back and forth and crying; he’d been hysterical, and Matthew had had to call his partner to help drag him out of the building. Another girl had broken her arm and several ribs and moaned constantly with the pain. He set the new arrival down on the sill and spoke to the single uninjured passenger. This man had merely been trapped in a kitchen by the partial collapse of a section of the building. “She’s having trouble breathing, I think she’s asthmatic. Try and keep her conscious.”
He nodded. “I recognize her, nursing student I think, Anna, was it?” The girl smiled weakly. "I'll do what I can Constable."
Matthew returned to the building, his thoughts returning to his wife. He still hadn’t heard anything; even away from the city center, his mobile wouldn’t connect, and everyone in control was far too busy to handle personal requests. He tried to push the worry out of his mind. At least the kids were safe, staying in Northumberland this month… That was funny. Special Constable Amstead had been making plenty of noise earlier, but now the only sounds were coming from outside. Matthew reached for his radio again.
“Unit 523 to 3861, where are you, Johnny?”
Fifteen seconds passed, with another report on the looters (one shot dead, two surrendered), but nothing from his partner. “Unit 3861 say location please.”
Constable Hillier unslung his MP5 and chambered a round, clicking the selector from ‘safe’ to ‘auto’. No one on the force ignored the possibility of a surprise Baldrick attack after the events in Belfast. It was probably nothing, but… He made his way up to the second floor of the south wing, the last place he’d sent John to sweep.
“Control this is unit 523, lost contact with my partner, moving to investigate.”
“Confirmed 523.” Now should anything happen to him, a response team would be dispatched immediately. He made his way forward down the corridor, gun at the ready, checking the rooms on each side. He made it halfway down before glimpsing the prone form of a police officer in the room to the left. There was no obvious blood and the man’s pistol was still in its holster. A quick glance showed the room to the right to be empty, so he stepped into the doorway and dropped into a crouch. “John?!” Too late, he noticed the four thin bony spines sticking out of the special constable’s back.
Constable Hillier almost anticipated the sharp pain that hit him in the spine, though not the strange sputtering crack. He whirled around, bringing the sub machine gun up. His gaze was met by a nightmarish face surrounded by snaky tentacles, the humanoid demon crouching low in the doorway opposite. The gun spat but the burst went high, and before he could correct his aim the gun slipped from his numbing fingers and clattered to the floor. Matthew collapsed, paralyzed and helpless before the demon.
Lakheenahuknaasi pulled herself upright and stared at the men for a few moments. When she spoke, it was a smooth and slightly sibilant voice.
“Two little humanss, all for me. Now, what shall I do with you?”
Hunger gnawed at the gorgon; her body desperate for materials to begin rebuilding her smashed leg but giving in to her instincts now would be suicide. She’d tried to contact Euryale, but every time she began to summon psychic force she nearly fainted again with the pain. No, emulating the tactics of her queen was the only hope for escape. Lakheenahuknaasi brought up her tentacles and prepared to lose her enthrallment darts.
Hellmouth, Field of Dysprosium, South of the River Phlegethon
As his car rolled out of the black oval, Dr. Surlethe looked out the window in awe. The long columns of tanks and other armored vehicles, which had stretched out toward the horizon under the blue Iraqi sky, continued here as though there was no break between dimensions. As the highway to hell continued, suddenly the rows of tanks were flanked by buildings, and he was aware of the car slowing down. Ahead was a squat, nondescript building with a thicket of antennas sticking out the top. On the other side was a veritable forest of flagpoles; each had a different flag flying in what looked to be a stiff breeze. The colors looked positively gaudy against the dull, orange sky.
The driver noticed what he was staring at, and commented, “That's the headquarters building, and them's the flags of all the nations that signed on in the war against Hell and Heaven.”
“That's a lot of them,” he said, half to himself. “Where's the science building?”
“Over this way,” said the driver, and he turned the car to the right as the road they were on fed into another maze of streets in front of the headquarters building. Barracks and other buildings slid by them as they drove, weaving through heavy traffic. People were everywhere – surveyors, construction crews, military types – and the place was buzzing with activity.
They passed an airstrip after a few minutes, the car shaking as some sort of jet climbed over them and thundered off into the sky. As the driver edged over into the left lane, he remarked, “F-111, Aussie bird. Must be off on another reconnaissance mission. The diggers have been working right hard.”
Dr. Surlethe nodded, preoccupied. They had not veered to the left or right as far as he could tell, which meant that they'd traveled through a right angle. That meant the Hellmouth – still close enough to be visible – should be behind and to the right. Yet it was directly behind them; he could just see it if he craned his head around the passenger seat. This was interesting. The surface geometry here was very clearly non-Euclidean, but light still traveled in straight lines. Very interesting.
The driver pulled off the road into a parking lot and stopped in front of another squat building. It looked the same as the headquarters, except without the flags in front of it. “Thanks,” said Dr. Surlethe. He hopped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and quickly strode into the building, noting the double airlock doors that excluded the polluted atmosphere of Hell.
In the building, before the receptionist could say anything, he removed his breathing filter and asked, “Where's the meeting?”
“Your name Sir?” she asked.
“Dr. Surlethe,” he said.
“Ah, welcome to Hell!” She smiled. “The department head meeting is down the hall on the left, third door. Room 108.”
“Thanks,” he said over his shoulder, already moving down the hallway. A clock over the receptionist's desk read 1:02. Inwardly he cursed; damn, two minutes late. As usual.
He took a second outside the conference room door to catch his breath and then opened it as quietly as he could. Every eye was on him; most of the scientists, with mild respect, but there was an air of disapproval about three men in uniform. Dr. Surlethe smiled. “Hello, gentlemen, ladies; sorry I'm running a little late.”
“That's perfectly fine,” said Dr. Griswold. He was the head of the geology department, his size and beard making him one of the few people who looked the part. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the head of the table.
Dr. Surlethe nodded, pulled back the chair, sat, and opened his briefcase, pulling out a tablet of paper and a pen. “Okay, let's see who's here,” he said. “Dr. Griswold, geology?”
“Here.” Dr. Surlethe nodded and made a note on the paper.
“Dr. Jamison, physics and astronomy?”
“Aye.”
“Dr. Sullivan, biology?”
“Present.”
“Dr. Fulton, geography?”
“Here.”
“And Dr. Abrams, climate science?”
“Here.”
“May I ask who these gentlemen are?” Dr. Surlethe blinked at the three military men.
“Certainly,” said one of them. “I am Major Jim Schaeder, your liaison with the military. These are my aides – Lieutenant John Grissom from the U.K. and Captain Aleksei Stepanovich Panasov of the Russian Army.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dr. Surlethe. “Now, I'm sure you all know this, but it bears saying anyway. The goal of this advanced research center is to gather as much data about Hell as possible, as quickly as possible, and start to form a coherent picture of the world that we've entered. We'll be sending the information back to Earth, but we are the scientific front line.
“Now, let's see where we stand. You have all prepared reports as I requested?” There were nods all around the room. “Dr. Jamison, you'll go first.”
Dr. Jamison, a slight, pretty redhead, stood up and shuffled some papers on the table in front of her. “We have not done too much. There are no obvious physical differences between Hell and Earth; on a basic level, at least, they're very much the same since we're all standing here.” She smiled, and chuckles drifted around the table. “However, there is some indication that the local gravitational field is maybe as much as 10% weaker than that on Earth; surely, you've all noticed it walking.” Nods. “Initially, this will obviously impact friction, vehicle performance, etc. That may be why the air is so dusty as well. Other than that, we're looking to collaborate with geology to get an idea of what's going on under the ground.
“Putting on my astronomer's hat, we've got no idea what's going on above this damnable cloud cover.” Dr. Surlethe noted that he might need to split the department soon. “We'd like to get a rocket launch pad –” this was aimed at Grissom – “but we understand we're relatively low priority here.” She turned back to Dr. Surlethe. “That's all I've got.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jamison. Next, Dr. Griswold?”
Dr. Griswold stood up. “Geologically speaking, Hell is a very interesting place. It's incredibly geologically active; the soil here, at least, is composed mostly of broken-down volcanic materials. I won't bore you with details, but I'll just say that as recently as two million years ago, this entire plain –” he stretched his hands out, obviously talking about the whole of the prairie that apparently stretched from the Phlegethon just to the north all the way to Dis – “was under a half-mile of lava from that giant caldera to the south. When I say giant, I mean it, we’ve got the first pictures back from the RF-111s, the diameter of that caldera is almost 700 kilometers. Its circumference is more than 2,000 kilometers. It must have been one hell of a bang when it let go.
“That's about as much as we can say about the geologic history of Hell; we need more data. Hopefully, as the geography grows clearer, we'll be able to say something about the underlying geology and start to construct a picture of the history. And, as Dr. Jamison said, we are working to get some geophysical measurements; hopefully, that will start to flesh out our picture some more.” Unceremoniously, Dr. Griswold sat down.
“Thank you. Dr. Fulton are you ready?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Fulton, who unfolded himself from his chair and stood up, blinking at the papers in front of him through round spectacles. “This is probably the most pressing field of exploration here since navigation and knowing what the terrain around us looks like are the most relevant issues to the military. As you all know, the terrain here is decidedly non-Euclidean.” More nods around the table. “We've been taking measurements, but this is a math problem and not one that any of us geographers have encountered before. So, is there a mathematician in the house?”
“That can be arranged,” said Dr. Surlethe.
Dr. Fulton continued. “Other than that, we've been putting together a temporary map based on surveillance pictures from the recent reconnaissance flights. Here it is.” He picked up a stack of papers and handed them out one by one as he kept talking. “As you can see, we have the Phlegethon just to the north. In the distance, there are some hills; we speculate that they are foothills to a larger mountain range. In the other direction, it's all flat, with no major rivers, to the city of Dis. There's Dis, and then it drops off into the pit.”
The handout wasn't so much a map as a collage of pictures pasted together in photoshop. The pictures seemed oddly distorted and didn't quite match up together at the edges, but the basic components of the terrain were still visible.
“The pit of hell appears to be arranged into nine concentric rings. It's eerily like Dante's description, working hypothesis, a baldrick got hold of Dante’s mind and let him know what he was in for. We don't have much data, but we surmise that the descriptions that have been given to us by the DIMO(N) counterinsurgency department match what is visible here, in the sixth ring.” He tapped an area on the map that looked like nothing more than a dark coffee stain. Through it, a river lazily wandered before apparently plunging off the side into the next level. “We surmise that is where the insurgency is located.”
Dr. Jamison raised her hand. “Is this part of Dis, here on the fifth ring?”
Dr. Fulton nodded. “You can see that a spur of the city has been built down into the pit itself, down this flat slope.” He indicated on his copy the extension of the demonic capital. “The city then extends for a way along the fifth ring to the point where the river cuts across the ring. The spur itself acts as a base for walls that separate the rings.
“Anyway, that's pretty much as far as we've gotten geographically. We await more data from reconnaissance flights. We'll take as much as you can give us. Thank you.” He sat down.
“We have Dr. Abrams and Dr. Sullivan left. Who'd like to go first?”
“I'll go,” said Dr. Sullivan, his heavy Oxford English accent being almost amusing given the environment. “Aside from the baldrick corpses dissected in Iraq, and the biological knowledge that gave us, we've got very little information about the lifeforms and ecosystem here in Hell. Because it's like life on Earth, we hypothesize that there are common ancestors involved somewhere – in fact, the data from the dissections and corpse analysis suggests that the most recent human-baldrick ancestor dates from about one point five million years ago. Evolution here has been drastic though and followed a different path from ours.
“But we need more data to test this. We're planning some expeditions out to the surrounding countryside, but if in the military advance there are any dead animals, please have them sent back to us. Thank you.” He sat down.
“Oh, I think we can guarantee you lots of corpses.” Panasov’s voice was almost droll as his mind recalled the long rows of guns awaiting the Baldrick assault.
“And, Dr. Abrams,” said Dr. Surlethe.
“Thanks,” said Dr. Abrams, an older gentleman with a fine Santa Claus beard. “We find that the atmosphere here is relatively like that of Earth, which means that there was either gaseous exchange or the life processes here are like those on Earth. The high particulate count at this location suggests some volcanic activity in the vicinity, or a hell of a lot – pardon the pun – of volcanic activity somewhere far away. Other than that, we can't really do any meaningful climate science, aside from weather observations, without getting data from the upper atmosphere. We've sent to NASA for some weather balloons to go up; hopefully, they'll get here in the next couple of days, and then we can go from there.” He sat down.
“All right,” said Dr. Surlethe. “Is there anything else?” Nobody spoke, so he continued: “Excellent. Let's plan on meeting weekly from here on out and comparing notes. Thanks, everybody!”
As the various scientists were moving out of the room, Dr. Surlethe tapped Dr. Fulton on the shoulder. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Sure,” said the taller man.
“I'm a mathematician by trade. Could you email me the data? I'll see what I can do with it in my spare time.”
“I'd love to. Our department is all geographers; none of us really have the experience or knowledge to deal with this sort of non-spherical geometry.”
“Thanks,” said Dr. Surlethe. “I look forward to it.” And he walked out of the room, contemplating just what he was going to tell the president and cabinet at the next meeting, and wondering on top of that what sort of shape could explain the curvature that was obvious here.
Seafire One, over the Midlands, England.
Acting Captain Sharkey Ward, RN (yes, the ‘acting’ part of his rank did slightly irritate him) did not need to do any fancy navigation on the way to Sheffield. The waterfall of lava flowing out of the sky and the huge smoke plume rising over what had once been the center of the city was a giveaway. Below his Sea Harrier FA.2, the main roads leading towards Sheffield were a sea of blue lights. Ward, and his wingman Commander Andy Auld, RN, who was also a recently recalled former Sea Jet pilot, had been assigned to help provide reconnaissance support to ground forces, and provide local CAP if necessary. For the latter role, both aircraft were armed with four AMRAAM missiles and a pair of 30mm ADEN cannon pods, while for the former a BAE digital recce pod with the capability to down-load its imagery to ground stations was fitted to the center-line pylon between the cannons.
The Sea Jet’s Blue Vixen radar showed that the airspace around Sheffield was extremely busy. At low level there were dozens of helicopters, both military and civil, there was also a queue of transport aircraft waiting to land at Sheffield airport. Higher up there were a pair of Jaguar GR.3As each fitted with the Digital Joint Reconnaissance Pod, while above them were a pair of Tornado GR.4s fitted with RAPTOR pods. Far above these aircraft was a single Canberra PR.9 rescued from a museum, using its sophisticated recce fit to take high-altitude pictures of Sheffield and the surrounding area as part of the efforts to predict where the lava flow would go next. Those on the ground would certainly not want aerial imagery. Just to cap it off a Sentry AEW.1 was now also airborne over the area providing RAF Boulmer with assistance in traffic control, and radar coverage.
“Boulmer, Seafire One requesting permission to enter the exclusion zone. Over.”
“Roger, Seafire One. Please remain at your current altitude and avoid the airspace around the city, also remain clear of the portal area.”
“Roger that Boulmer. We are commencing our photo run; the pointy heads on the ground should be receiving our imagery in a few minutes.”
“Roger that, Seafire One. Please be aware that a water bomber flight is currently inbound and will pass five hundred meters below you. Over.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for them. Out.”
Incident Command Center, Sheffield Airport, United Kingdom.
“That looks bad.” Brigadier Alistair Lethbridge-Stewart, late of the Scots Guards, said as he viewed the screens showing the aerial imagery now coming in. Lethbridge-Stewart had been sent in by Midland Command to take charge of all military units being sent to assist the fire service, and to serve as a senior liaison officer. The ground stations that he had brought with him were normally used in conjunction with the Sentinel R.1 but could also show imagery from the DJRP and RAPTOR pods, though it was also showing pictures taken by the high-flying Canberra.
“Mr. Benton, could you ask CFO Spurrier, and that vulcanologist woman…what’s her name?”
“Mrs. McManus, Sir.” Warrant Officer Class One John Benton replied.
“That’s a familiar name for some reason.” The Brigadier commented. “She’s not a large Scottish lady, is she?”
“That would be Michelle McManus, Sir, almost a different species I’d say.
“I’ll go get them, Sir.”
“Well, I certainly think that this will be a great help, Brigadier.” Chief Fire Officer Spurrier said a few minutes later after taking in the various picture feeds.
However, Lethbridge-Stewart could see that the vulcanologist, Keavy McManus was not looking particularly happy.
“Is there something else we can do for, Mrs. McManus?” He asked, being especially charming.
“Yes, Brigadier, you can let the survey team through the military cordon. They’re not doing us much good now.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Mrs. McManus, though actual access to the danger area is at the discretion of the fire service.
“Mr. Benton, could you ask Captain Munro to organize passes and an escort for Mrs. McManus’ survey team; it’s a top priority matter. If they need any engineering assistance, then Captain Price should be able to help.”
“I’ll get right on it, Sir.
“There’s a message from Midlands Command for you, by the way, Sir, Major General Rutledge wants to speak to you.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Spurrier, Mrs. McManus, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Colonel Mace.”
Captain Marian Price, Royal Engineers, was tired and hot. She had spent the last twelve hours supervising the unloading of heavy engineering and firefighting equipment that had been flown in by heavy transporters, such as RAF and USAF C-17A Globemasters. The last thing she needed now was an additional commitment.
“I presume, Private Jenkins, that at least we won’t be required to provide an escort to this survey team?”
“No, ma’am.” Private Ross Jenkins, the messenger from the Command Post, replied. “The Red Caps will escort them in.”
“Well, that’s something at least.” Price said. “If they let me know what sort of equipment, they might need then I’ll see what we have around.”
She glanced around at the concrete parking apron. It was a chaotic scene of bulldozers, various pieces of heavy plant, fire service High Volume Pumps, and various military vehicles, both armored and soft-skinned.
“That’s if I can find anything amongst this lot.” She muttered.
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
More fire crews were arriving every hour, from increasingly distant parts of the UK and even Europe, but they hadn’t been able to prevent the flames from advancing up the hill into Broomhill. The order had come to pull back to the Rivelin fire break and that meant the last sweep for civvies trapped in the doomed buildings. Constable Matthew Hillier was one of those detailed for that, something that was a familiar duty by now. He moved briskly through the building, checking each room for anyone left behind by the original evacuation. At least that was improving; the chaos and confusion following the initial attack were diminishing as fresh command staff was flown in and a strategic response plan developed.
Another locked door. Hillier sighed and brought up the fire ax. Fortunately, the internal doors were weak and one good strike was enough to smash the lock mechanism. The door splintered and shuddered open to reveal a crumpled female form. He moved quickly to check for signs of life. Relieved to see that the girl was still breathing if only barely, he reached for his radio.
“This is unit 523, found another casualty in the dorms…” The young woman let out a horrible hacking cough and convulsed, revealing an inhaler grasped in one hand. “…looks like a reaction to the smoke, any ambulances available? Over.” Hillier already suspected what the answer would be, but he had to try. He pulled a spare filter mask from a bag hanging from webbing and drew the elastic over the girl’s head, before grabbing her by the waist and hoisting her up into a fireman’s carry.
That was enough to revive her a little. “Who are… where are we going…”
“Constable Hillier. Stay calm lass, we’ll get you out of here.” He was listening to the chatter on the radio; every channel seemed to be crammed. Finally, there was something relevant.
“Unit 523, no ambulances free for non-critical patients currently. Is she conscious?”
“Barely, control.” Matthew had nearly reached the main entrance. The conversation was interrupted by a report of looters in Walkley. The sound of shots fired came over the channel as the transmission cut off.
“All units be advised a dedicated field hospital for air poisoning casualties just went operational at evac camp beta. 523, take your casualty there.”
Hillier emerged into the car park, a surreal scene of dirty snow and drifting fireflies - or rather ash and embers. The rear doors of the white police Transit van were open and another three late evacuees were huddled inside, all wearing the same cheap filter masks. One was rocking back and forth and crying; he’d been hysterical, and Matthew had had to call his partner to help drag him out of the building. Another girl had broken her arm and several ribs and moaned constantly with the pain. He set the new arrival down on the sill and spoke to the single uninjured passenger. This man had merely been trapped in a kitchen by the partial collapse of a section of the building. “She’s having trouble breathing, I think she’s asthmatic. Try and keep her conscious.”
He nodded. “I recognize her, nursing student I think, Anna, was it?” The girl smiled weakly. "I'll do what I can Constable."
Matthew returned to the building, his thoughts returning to his wife. He still hadn’t heard anything; even away from the city center, his mobile wouldn’t connect, and everyone in control was far too busy to handle personal requests. He tried to push the worry out of his mind. At least the kids were safe, staying in Northumberland this month… That was funny. Special Constable Amstead had been making plenty of noise earlier, but now the only sounds were coming from outside. Matthew reached for his radio again.
“Unit 523 to 3861, where are you, Johnny?”
Fifteen seconds passed, with another report on the looters (one shot dead, two surrendered), but nothing from his partner. “Unit 3861 say location please.”
Constable Hillier unslung his MP5 and chambered a round, clicking the selector from ‘safe’ to ‘auto’. No one on the force ignored the possibility of a surprise Baldrick attack after the events in Belfast. It was probably nothing, but… He made his way up to the second floor of the south wing, the last place he’d sent John to sweep.
“Control this is unit 523, lost contact with my partner, moving to investigate.”
“Confirmed 523.” Now should anything happen to him, a response team would be dispatched immediately. He made his way forward down the corridor, gun at the ready, checking the rooms on each side. He made it halfway down before glimpsing the prone form of a police officer in the room to the left. There was no obvious blood and the man’s pistol was still in its holster. A quick glance showed the room to the right to be empty, so he stepped into the doorway and dropped into a crouch. “John?!” Too late, he noticed the four thin bony spines sticking out of the special constable’s back.
Constable Hillier almost anticipated the sharp pain that hit him in the spine, though not the strange sputtering crack. He whirled around, bringing the sub machine gun up. His gaze was met by a nightmarish face surrounded by snaky tentacles, the humanoid demon crouching low in the doorway opposite. The gun spat but the burst went high, and before he could correct his aim the gun slipped from his numbing fingers and clattered to the floor. Matthew collapsed, paralyzed and helpless before the demon.
Lakheenahuknaasi pulled herself upright and stared at the men for a few moments. When she spoke, it was a smooth and slightly sibilant voice.
“Two little humanss, all for me. Now, what shall I do with you?”
Hunger gnawed at the gorgon; her body desperate for materials to begin rebuilding her smashed leg but giving in to her instincts now would be suicide. She’d tried to contact Euryale, but every time she began to summon psychic force she nearly fainted again with the pain. No, emulating the tactics of her queen was the only hope for escape. Lakheenahuknaasi brought up her tentacles and prepared to lose her enthrallment darts.
Hellmouth, Field of Dysprosium, South of the River Phlegethon
As his car rolled out of the black oval, Dr. Surlethe looked out the window in awe. The long columns of tanks and other armored vehicles, which had stretched out toward the horizon under the blue Iraqi sky, continued here as though there was no break between dimensions. As the highway to hell continued, suddenly the rows of tanks were flanked by buildings, and he was aware of the car slowing down. Ahead was a squat, nondescript building with a thicket of antennas sticking out the top. On the other side was a veritable forest of flagpoles; each had a different flag flying in what looked to be a stiff breeze. The colors looked positively gaudy against the dull, orange sky.
The driver noticed what he was staring at, and commented, “That's the headquarters building, and them's the flags of all the nations that signed on in the war against Hell and Heaven.”
“That's a lot of them,” he said, half to himself. “Where's the science building?”
“Over this way,” said the driver, and he turned the car to the right as the road they were on fed into another maze of streets in front of the headquarters building. Barracks and other buildings slid by them as they drove, weaving through heavy traffic. People were everywhere – surveyors, construction crews, military types – and the place was buzzing with activity.
They passed an airstrip after a few minutes, the car shaking as some sort of jet climbed over them and thundered off into the sky. As the driver edged over into the left lane, he remarked, “F-111, Aussie bird. Must be off on another reconnaissance mission. The diggers have been working right hard.”
Dr. Surlethe nodded, preoccupied. They had not veered to the left or right as far as he could tell, which meant that they'd traveled through a right angle. That meant the Hellmouth – still close enough to be visible – should be behind and to the right. Yet it was directly behind them; he could just see it if he craned his head around the passenger seat. This was interesting. The surface geometry here was very clearly non-Euclidean, but light still traveled in straight lines. Very interesting.
The driver pulled off the road into a parking lot and stopped in front of another squat building. It looked the same as the headquarters, except without the flags in front of it. “Thanks,” said Dr. Surlethe. He hopped out of the car, grabbed his briefcase, and quickly strode into the building, noting the double airlock doors that excluded the polluted atmosphere of Hell.
In the building, before the receptionist could say anything, he removed his breathing filter and asked, “Where's the meeting?”
“Your name Sir?” she asked.
“Dr. Surlethe,” he said.
“Ah, welcome to Hell!” She smiled. “The department head meeting is down the hall on the left, third door. Room 108.”
“Thanks,” he said over his shoulder, already moving down the hallway. A clock over the receptionist's desk read 1:02. Inwardly he cursed; damn, two minutes late. As usual.
He took a second outside the conference room door to catch his breath and then opened it as quietly as he could. Every eye was on him; most of the scientists, with mild respect, but there was an air of disapproval about three men in uniform. Dr. Surlethe smiled. “Hello, gentlemen, ladies; sorry I'm running a little late.”
“That's perfectly fine,” said Dr. Griswold. He was the head of the geology department, his size and beard making him one of the few people who looked the part. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the head of the table.
Dr. Surlethe nodded, pulled back the chair, sat, and opened his briefcase, pulling out a tablet of paper and a pen. “Okay, let's see who's here,” he said. “Dr. Griswold, geology?”
“Here.” Dr. Surlethe nodded and made a note on the paper.
“Dr. Jamison, physics and astronomy?”
“Aye.”
“Dr. Sullivan, biology?”
“Present.”
“Dr. Fulton, geography?”
“Here.”
“And Dr. Abrams, climate science?”
“Here.”
“May I ask who these gentlemen are?” Dr. Surlethe blinked at the three military men.
“Certainly,” said one of them. “I am Major Jim Schaeder, your liaison with the military. These are my aides – Lieutenant John Grissom from the U.K. and Captain Aleksei Stepanovich Panasov of the Russian Army.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Dr. Surlethe. “Now, I'm sure you all know this, but it bears saying anyway. The goal of this advanced research center is to gather as much data about Hell as possible, as quickly as possible, and start to form a coherent picture of the world that we've entered. We'll be sending the information back to Earth, but we are the scientific front line.
“Now, let's see where we stand. You have all prepared reports as I requested?” There were nods all around the room. “Dr. Jamison, you'll go first.”
Dr. Jamison, a slight, pretty redhead, stood up and shuffled some papers on the table in front of her. “We have not done too much. There are no obvious physical differences between Hell and Earth; on a basic level, at least, they're very much the same since we're all standing here.” She smiled, and chuckles drifted around the table. “However, there is some indication that the local gravitational field is maybe as much as 10% weaker than that on Earth; surely, you've all noticed it walking.” Nods. “Initially, this will obviously impact friction, vehicle performance, etc. That may be why the air is so dusty as well. Other than that, we're looking to collaborate with geology to get an idea of what's going on under the ground.
“Putting on my astronomer's hat, we've got no idea what's going on above this damnable cloud cover.” Dr. Surlethe noted that he might need to split the department soon. “We'd like to get a rocket launch pad –” this was aimed at Grissom – “but we understand we're relatively low priority here.” She turned back to Dr. Surlethe. “That's all I've got.”
“Thank you, Dr. Jamison. Next, Dr. Griswold?”
Dr. Griswold stood up. “Geologically speaking, Hell is a very interesting place. It's incredibly geologically active; the soil here, at least, is composed mostly of broken-down volcanic materials. I won't bore you with details, but I'll just say that as recently as two million years ago, this entire plain –” he stretched his hands out, obviously talking about the whole of the prairie that apparently stretched from the Phlegethon just to the north all the way to Dis – “was under a half-mile of lava from that giant caldera to the south. When I say giant, I mean it, we’ve got the first pictures back from the RF-111s, the diameter of that caldera is almost 700 kilometers. Its circumference is more than 2,000 kilometers. It must have been one hell of a bang when it let go.
“That's about as much as we can say about the geologic history of Hell; we need more data. Hopefully, as the geography grows clearer, we'll be able to say something about the underlying geology and start to construct a picture of the history. And, as Dr. Jamison said, we are working to get some geophysical measurements; hopefully, that will start to flesh out our picture some more.” Unceremoniously, Dr. Griswold sat down.
“Thank you. Dr. Fulton are you ready?”
“Certainly,” said Dr. Fulton, who unfolded himself from his chair and stood up, blinking at the papers in front of him through round spectacles. “This is probably the most pressing field of exploration here since navigation and knowing what the terrain around us looks like are the most relevant issues to the military. As you all know, the terrain here is decidedly non-Euclidean.” More nods around the table. “We've been taking measurements, but this is a math problem and not one that any of us geographers have encountered before. So, is there a mathematician in the house?”
“That can be arranged,” said Dr. Surlethe.
Dr. Fulton continued. “Other than that, we've been putting together a temporary map based on surveillance pictures from the recent reconnaissance flights. Here it is.” He picked up a stack of papers and handed them out one by one as he kept talking. “As you can see, we have the Phlegethon just to the north. In the distance, there are some hills; we speculate that they are foothills to a larger mountain range. In the other direction, it's all flat, with no major rivers, to the city of Dis. There's Dis, and then it drops off into the pit.”
The handout wasn't so much a map as a collage of pictures pasted together in photoshop. The pictures seemed oddly distorted and didn't quite match up together at the edges, but the basic components of the terrain were still visible.
“The pit of hell appears to be arranged into nine concentric rings. It's eerily like Dante's description, working hypothesis, a baldrick got hold of Dante’s mind and let him know what he was in for. We don't have much data, but we surmise that the descriptions that have been given to us by the DIMO(N) counterinsurgency department match what is visible here, in the sixth ring.” He tapped an area on the map that looked like nothing more than a dark coffee stain. Through it, a river lazily wandered before apparently plunging off the side into the next level. “We surmise that is where the insurgency is located.”
Dr. Jamison raised her hand. “Is this part of Dis, here on the fifth ring?”
Dr. Fulton nodded. “You can see that a spur of the city has been built down into the pit itself, down this flat slope.” He indicated on his copy the extension of the demonic capital. “The city then extends for a way along the fifth ring to the point where the river cuts across the ring. The spur itself acts as a base for walls that separate the rings.
“Anyway, that's pretty much as far as we've gotten geographically. We await more data from reconnaissance flights. We'll take as much as you can give us. Thank you.” He sat down.
“We have Dr. Abrams and Dr. Sullivan left. Who'd like to go first?”
“I'll go,” said Dr. Sullivan, his heavy Oxford English accent being almost amusing given the environment. “Aside from the baldrick corpses dissected in Iraq, and the biological knowledge that gave us, we've got very little information about the lifeforms and ecosystem here in Hell. Because it's like life on Earth, we hypothesize that there are common ancestors involved somewhere – in fact, the data from the dissections and corpse analysis suggests that the most recent human-baldrick ancestor dates from about one point five million years ago. Evolution here has been drastic though and followed a different path from ours.
“But we need more data to test this. We're planning some expeditions out to the surrounding countryside, but if in the military advance there are any dead animals, please have them sent back to us. Thank you.” He sat down.
“Oh, I think we can guarantee you lots of corpses.” Panasov’s voice was almost droll as his mind recalled the long rows of guns awaiting the Baldrick assault.
“And, Dr. Abrams,” said Dr. Surlethe.
“Thanks,” said Dr. Abrams, an older gentleman with a fine Santa Claus beard. “We find that the atmosphere here is relatively like that of Earth, which means that there was either gaseous exchange or the life processes here are like those on Earth. The high particulate count at this location suggests some volcanic activity in the vicinity, or a hell of a lot – pardon the pun – of volcanic activity somewhere far away. Other than that, we can't really do any meaningful climate science, aside from weather observations, without getting data from the upper atmosphere. We've sent to NASA for some weather balloons to go up; hopefully, they'll get here in the next couple of days, and then we can go from there.” He sat down.
“All right,” said Dr. Surlethe. “Is there anything else?” Nobody spoke, so he continued: “Excellent. Let's plan on meeting weekly from here on out and comparing notes. Thanks, everybody!”
As the various scientists were moving out of the room, Dr. Surlethe tapped Dr. Fulton on the shoulder. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Sure,” said the taller man.
“I'm a mathematician by trade. Could you email me the data? I'll see what I can do with it in my spare time.”
“I'd love to. Our department is all geographers; none of us really have the experience or knowledge to deal with this sort of non-spherical geometry.”
“Thanks,” said Dr. Surlethe. “I look forward to it.” And he walked out of the room, contemplating just what he was going to tell the president and cabinet at the next meeting, and wondering on top of that what sort of shape could explain the curvature that was obvious here.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-One
Secure Accommodation Block, Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
The double doors burst open, and Colonel Paschal strode in, flanked by MPs carrying menacing USAS-12 combat shotguns. The concrete room was the size of a small hangar, but the huge demon made it look like a cramped apartment. The big plasma screen was showing images of WWII aircraft attacking warships. The stack of DVD cases next to it confirmed that Abigor had been continuing to absorb military documentaries and war movies. The infernal general looked up with a surprised expression, which quickly hardened as he saw the heavy guard detail.
“General Abigor.” Paschal was carrying a ruggedized laptop, which he opened and placed on a table in front of the demon. “Can you explain this?” The colonel’s tone was not quite threatening, but clearly, the humans were not pleased.
Abigor stared in silence as the images of lava, fire and destruction played out. “Belial,” he said, in a tone of mild contempt. “This must be his doing.”
“Belial?” Paschal had studied Abigor’s profiles of the top demon leadership, but he didn’t recall the name. “Who is Belial?”
“A sniveling failure. Count Belial is the ruler of Tartarus, a barren wasteland in the part of hell furthest from Dis. Satan exiled him there many millennia ago after he walked right into a trap laid by Lahabiel and got his entire army captured or killed.”
“If he’s an exile, how did he manage to do this?”
“Belial has been trying to regain Satan’s favor, by all methods of craven and dishonorable means. His realm survives only because he makes himself useful, with his fancy tridents and his overgrown wyverns. His retinue is composed of failures like himself, mostly demons that deserted their lords instead of dying gloriously in their service.”
Abigor paused for a moment before continuing, uneasy with how close he had come to describing his own situation. Then he tapped the computer screen with a talon. “I have seen this before. Belial used a similar trick to destroy two human cities, back when we were last surveying this planet. Satan and Yahweh were competing to visit creative forms of suffering on humans. As I recall, Belial’s flashy little stunt went down quite well, well enough for Mekratrig to allow him back into his court.
Paschal frowned. “The bible speaks of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah… by Yahweh though, not by Satan or his minions.”
Abigor snorted. “Well of course. The angels were always better at propaganda than us. Whatever your books say, it was Belial’s doing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?”
“It did not occur to me that Satan would consider this a viable tactic. This is not the way wars are fought…” The demon paused for a second, considering the things he’d seen on the image panel. “At least, it is not the way we fight wars. Most likely Belial is looking for another opportunity to ingratiate himself and Satan has permitted him to proceed in the hope of distracting you while Beelzebub moves his army up for a fresh assault.”
Colonel Paschal seemed to relax fractionally. He couldn’t be sure Abigor was telling the truth, but his story was plausible given what he’d seen of demon mentality so far. “So how does this work? Is the lava coming from a volcano?”
“Most likely. The last time I was in Tartarus was during the Great War when we used it as a prison to hold high-ranking captured angels. That was a very long time ago, but I remember the prison nestled in the mountains, many of which were crowned with fire.”
“Can you give us anything more specific?”
Abigor shrugged. “Not really. I don’t know the specifics of the ritual. Large portals are always handled by the naga, they keep many of the secrets of portal magery to themselves.”
“Naga? Is that what you call the demon flying over the attack site? Looked like an anorexic harpy to me.”
A low chuckle escaped the former general’s lips. “No, that was a gorgon. Another exiled failure, not surprising that most of them took up with Belial. Naga are much more common… I’m sure I described them to one of your vassals earlier.”
Colonel Paschal hit a few keys, calling up the interrogation logs for Abigor. Sure enough, there was a page of text describing ‘naga’ along with a striking artist’s impression of the half-snake, half-humanoid demons.
“I had a coven of them in my retinue,” Abigor volunteered, ‘but I didn’t bring any with me to earth. They’re slow and soft-skinned, and I did not appreciate the power of your ranged weapons, so I didn’t see any use for them.” He wondered if it would’ve made a difference if he had brought them. Certainly not to the outcome, but perhaps the human casualties would have been a fraction higher. He thought again, a small fraction higher.
“Is the gorgon necessary to open the portal? If we shoot it down before the portal opens, will that prevent the attack?”
Abigor stared into space for a moment. “I believe the gorgon was there to ensure the portal opened over the target. You see, the larger the portal, the harder it is to predict where it will open. The one you call the ‘Hellmouth’ opened a full five leagues from the Nephilim I possessed.”
“The naga does have a means of opening portals more accurately, but it requires a portal mage at both ends. I imagine the gorgon you saw was involved in that. If you could kill Belial’s witches as they appear, then he would be reduced to striking at random in the vicinity of whatever Nephilim he could find.”
‘Better than nothing’ Paschal thought. “The target was Sheffield, a relatively small city in the British Isles. We aren’t aware of any obvious reasons to target it, other than the fact that British troops played a small but significant role in your defeat. Do you know why Belial chose that target?”
“No. Belial is fond of bizarre schemes. But then he must have used a Nephilim to open a portal for the gorgon. It may be that your counter-magic is getting so good that he was forced to take the first Nephilim he could find, and the gorgon just flew to the nearest city.”
‘So, no way of knowing where they will strike next’ Paschal thought unhappily. “We need to know when he’ll strike next. How many times can Belial do this, and how often?”
“I can’t give you firm answers Colonel. I do know that opening large portals is a great strain on the naga, they are weak and pained for many days afterward. Tartarus has a great many volcanoes. The rate at which Belial can open portals depends on how many nagas he has and how quickly he can find targets. If Satan intends to use this method to exterminate you, then he might order the dukes to loan Belial their covens until the task is done.”
“If not a firm answer, then an educated guess?”
“Belial should be able to open at least one portal a week.”
Paschal was silent for a moment. “I’ve got to relay this to my superiors. Sit tight, Ill be back shortly.” He pulled a black box from a pocket and brought it up to his ear as he left the room.
Abigor stared at the frozen image of the burning city. For a while, he was completely certain that the humans would defeat Satan, but now he was not so sure. Old traditions were being discarded, the once unthinkable was being considered. The humans had given hell an object lesson in how efficiently war could be conducted when one made decisions purely based on effectiveness, not honor, politics, auspiciousness, or tradition. How fast could hell learn?
Paschal had returned. “Ok General, let’s do this properly. I need everything you can tell me about Belial and Tartarus, starting with its grid coordinates.”
Abigor wasn’t sure what ‘grid coordinates’ meant but he got the impression it had something to do with maps. “You want to know how to get to Tartarus?” Of course, the humans wanted to stop the attacks by destroying Belial. “It is almost three thousand leagues from here, across all manner of terrain. Even with your chariots, it would take many months to fight your way there, and Satan would harass you and your supply train all the way.”
Paschal smiled grimly. “General, I have a small gift for you.” He handed over a small flat box, one that Abigor recognized immediately as a DVD. It was labeled ‘A History of the Manhattan Project’. “Abigor, you have barely begun to see what we can do when we truly wish to destroy our enemies.”
White House Communications Suite, White House, Washington DC
“Well, if we can’t shut it off, I suppose the only thing left will be to market it as a tourist attraction.”
It was probably fortunate that everybody’s attention was focused on the imagery being transmitted from the aircraft circling Sheffield. Had they been looking at Condoleezza Rice, they would have seen her eyes bulging from their sockets with sheer horror. “I can’t believe he just said that.”
Beside her Defense, Secretary Warner nodded fractionally in agreement. “I don’t know which is worse, the fact he said it or the fact that it’s true.”
“Mister President, thankful as we are for America’s usual generous aid in a time of the disaster, I must remonstrate with you. This is hardly a laughing matter for my country.” Gordon Brown looked shocked as indeed he was.
“I agree Gordon, and I am sorry if my remark sounded disrespectful of your country’s loss. But the fact remains, I do not see what we can do about this yet. We will stand by you, and fight with you to save what is left of Sheffield and its people, but I do not know how we can stop this torrent of lava. And if we cannot stop it, we must find a way to make use of it.”
“You mean for all our military forces committed to this war, we cannot stop this nightmare? That baldrick General who has defected to us. Is he of no help at all?”
“If I may interrupt Sir.” On another screen, General Petraeus spoke quietly as was his way. “We have discussed this with Grand Duke Abigor. He told us much of value, identifying the primary culprit, a minor baldrick lord called Belial. He told us how it was done and from where. Belial’s stronghold, a place called Tartarus.”
“So we can destroy it.” Three people spoke in exact unison even though they were on different continents. A minor marvel of modern communications that everybody in the room took for granted.
“That’s not so easy. Belial is a minor figure, in some disgrace and his fortress is far from our forces, three thousand leagues, in fact, we make that around 10,500 miles as a B-1 flies.”
“Can you get your bombers there?” Brown spoke urgently, the pain of Sheffield making his voice falter.
“We can Sir.” General John Corley spoke from Offutt Air Force Base. “As soon as we find out where ‘There’ is.”
“Abigor told us. Tartarus.”
“Yes, but where is it. Sir, I’ve seen the map Abigor drew for us. It’s a good map, very carefully drawn, one that Abigor obviously took great care over. But it’s a map drawn by somebody who lives far from our past. It isn’t what we call a map, it’s more a picture. You’ve seen old maps, Sir. The one Abigor gave us isn’t scaled and he doesn’t even know what projection is. Come to think of it, nor do we where Hell is concerned. We’ve got mathematicians working on that. But all we have is a picture. We’re going to be looking for a target probably about the size of a town hall, in an area the size of North America. And we’ll be doing it what amounts to dense fog. We’re modifying our B-1A to an RB-1A with sidescan radars and a lot of extra fuel and it’ll go out and look but it could be weeks before she spots a target.”
Brown thought for a few seconds. “When we find it?”
“We’ll smear it across the ground. But we must find it first. Bombers aren’t the only option of course.” Corley spoke carefully.
“A ground strike? If you need people, the SAS and SBS are ready to go. But how will they know where?”
“They won’t.” Petraeus’s voice was precise and emphatic. “We don’t have to know where a Portal is, we just have to know it’s in the right place. Then we can put a team in with beacon equipment to home the RB-1A in. And she can lead the rest of the Bones.”
“And the Tu-160s.” Prime Minister Putin’s voice was equally emphatic.”
“And the Tu-160s.” President Bush smiled engagingly at the screen. “General Corley wants to speak with you about the Tu-160.”
“One question, General.” Petraeus raised an eyebrow, “if the team is going to be pathfinders, how will they stay healthy long enough? They can’t have armor and air-locked buildings.”
“Mister Prime Minister. We do have military units that are native to Hell now. And we can reposition one of them for the job. In fact, we are selecting one for it now.”
Outer Ring, Sixth Circle of Hell
Hell made you different. It was the only way he could've reacted how he did to what he and the others had seen. But then he had felt the same way when he had heard of children dying of abuse back home. The same sick rage and desire to kill those responsible.
Aeneas, born in an older, harder time, nevertheless felt the same. He and McElroy had crossed one of the low ridges and advanced down on some of the garrisons that were starting to spread along the banks of the lava flow. Not too close, of the course, even baldricks didn’t feel a desire to be too close to that nightmare, but far enough to provide patrols. The old days, of a single baldrick patrolling the banks for days at a time, were gone. Too many had gone out and never come back. Now they patrolled in groups, never far from support. And that meant garrisons. Where there were garrisons, that meant troops who had to be supplied and the baldricks had never heard of logistics. So there had to be a market and sure enough, there was. In a cleared-out patch of land, just outside the walls of one of the fortresses, many dozens of demons plied wares, bartered, and went about their business. Aeanas kept losing count, but there had to be well over three hundred demons. The best part of a whole company perhaps?
It was in this market that he spied a particular demon, whose cart was packed with writhing bodies. Human bodies. They were too far away to hear, of course, but occasionally, a demon would come by and begin some sort of haggling. The merchant would fetch a victim from the cart and pass it to the customer who would open its throat with one of its claws, snap its neck for good measure then eat the carcass on the spot, devouring the body in a few short seconds. It did not take any of them very long to realize that the humans in the merchant's wagon were exclusively children.
Aeanas stared at the scene with cold fury. He did not angrily demand that they throw caution to the wind and charge in to save the children, a hot-blooded rage that blinded its victim to common sense would have called for that. Instead, stone-faced, he watched the merchant empty his wagon, pack up his other trinkets, and be off down the rutted dirt road. So, did Cassidy and McElroy. There would be a time for vengeance, a time when debts like this one would be paid but this was not it. Three humans attacking 300 baldricks with edged weapons was simply a way to die. Or be thrown back in the lava streams
Aeanas was a Spartan warrior. To him, nothing was more satisfying than battering his opponent down and finishing him with two or three blows. An honorable battle where one man was pitched against another with victory going to the strongest and bravest. Only that way was victory meaningful. So, when he thought about helpless children being sold as some sort of delicacy the scene just added to the anger and voluminous hate he held in his heart for his tormentors. He could not be certain, but he suspected that Cassidy and McElroy felt largely the same way. But did they? They didn’t look upon war the same way as he did, war for them was an exercise in cost-effective killing where the objective was to make sure the enemy never stood a chance. Aeneas had tried to explain where true honor lay once but McElroy had simply looked at him and said, “If it’s a fair fight, you made a mistake somewhere.”
McElroy, is it all right to talk?
Kitten?”
No, Kitten is away on leave at last. My name is Indira, I have taken over from her for a while. Have you anything to report?
Too much Indira. Far too much. McElroy went through the report on the scene at the village.
That is terrible.
This is a terrible place. Can you resupply us now?
Yes, we have rifles, ammunition, and explosives coming through. But I must also tell you that your group has been selected for a special mission. One that will take you outside the Pit.
You couldn’t have said anything better, Indira. No place could be worse than this, I guess that must be the whole point.
Secure Accommodation Block, Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
The double doors burst open, and Colonel Paschal strode in, flanked by MPs carrying menacing USAS-12 combat shotguns. The concrete room was the size of a small hangar, but the huge demon made it look like a cramped apartment. The big plasma screen was showing images of WWII aircraft attacking warships. The stack of DVD cases next to it confirmed that Abigor had been continuing to absorb military documentaries and war movies. The infernal general looked up with a surprised expression, which quickly hardened as he saw the heavy guard detail.
“General Abigor.” Paschal was carrying a ruggedized laptop, which he opened and placed on a table in front of the demon. “Can you explain this?” The colonel’s tone was not quite threatening, but clearly, the humans were not pleased.
Abigor stared in silence as the images of lava, fire and destruction played out. “Belial,” he said, in a tone of mild contempt. “This must be his doing.”
“Belial?” Paschal had studied Abigor’s profiles of the top demon leadership, but he didn’t recall the name. “Who is Belial?”
“A sniveling failure. Count Belial is the ruler of Tartarus, a barren wasteland in the part of hell furthest from Dis. Satan exiled him there many millennia ago after he walked right into a trap laid by Lahabiel and got his entire army captured or killed.”
“If he’s an exile, how did he manage to do this?”
“Belial has been trying to regain Satan’s favor, by all methods of craven and dishonorable means. His realm survives only because he makes himself useful, with his fancy tridents and his overgrown wyverns. His retinue is composed of failures like himself, mostly demons that deserted their lords instead of dying gloriously in their service.”
Abigor paused for a moment before continuing, uneasy with how close he had come to describing his own situation. Then he tapped the computer screen with a talon. “I have seen this before. Belial used a similar trick to destroy two human cities, back when we were last surveying this planet. Satan and Yahweh were competing to visit creative forms of suffering on humans. As I recall, Belial’s flashy little stunt went down quite well, well enough for Mekratrig to allow him back into his court.
Paschal frowned. “The bible speaks of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah… by Yahweh though, not by Satan or his minions.”
Abigor snorted. “Well of course. The angels were always better at propaganda than us. Whatever your books say, it was Belial’s doing.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?”
“It did not occur to me that Satan would consider this a viable tactic. This is not the way wars are fought…” The demon paused for a second, considering the things he’d seen on the image panel. “At least, it is not the way we fight wars. Most likely Belial is looking for another opportunity to ingratiate himself and Satan has permitted him to proceed in the hope of distracting you while Beelzebub moves his army up for a fresh assault.”
Colonel Paschal seemed to relax fractionally. He couldn’t be sure Abigor was telling the truth, but his story was plausible given what he’d seen of demon mentality so far. “So how does this work? Is the lava coming from a volcano?”
“Most likely. The last time I was in Tartarus was during the Great War when we used it as a prison to hold high-ranking captured angels. That was a very long time ago, but I remember the prison nestled in the mountains, many of which were crowned with fire.”
“Can you give us anything more specific?”
Abigor shrugged. “Not really. I don’t know the specifics of the ritual. Large portals are always handled by the naga, they keep many of the secrets of portal magery to themselves.”
“Naga? Is that what you call the demon flying over the attack site? Looked like an anorexic harpy to me.”
A low chuckle escaped the former general’s lips. “No, that was a gorgon. Another exiled failure, not surprising that most of them took up with Belial. Naga are much more common… I’m sure I described them to one of your vassals earlier.”
Colonel Paschal hit a few keys, calling up the interrogation logs for Abigor. Sure enough, there was a page of text describing ‘naga’ along with a striking artist’s impression of the half-snake, half-humanoid demons.
“I had a coven of them in my retinue,” Abigor volunteered, ‘but I didn’t bring any with me to earth. They’re slow and soft-skinned, and I did not appreciate the power of your ranged weapons, so I didn’t see any use for them.” He wondered if it would’ve made a difference if he had brought them. Certainly not to the outcome, but perhaps the human casualties would have been a fraction higher. He thought again, a small fraction higher.
“Is the gorgon necessary to open the portal? If we shoot it down before the portal opens, will that prevent the attack?”
Abigor stared into space for a moment. “I believe the gorgon was there to ensure the portal opened over the target. You see, the larger the portal, the harder it is to predict where it will open. The one you call the ‘Hellmouth’ opened a full five leagues from the Nephilim I possessed.”
“The naga does have a means of opening portals more accurately, but it requires a portal mage at both ends. I imagine the gorgon you saw was involved in that. If you could kill Belial’s witches as they appear, then he would be reduced to striking at random in the vicinity of whatever Nephilim he could find.”
‘Better than nothing’ Paschal thought. “The target was Sheffield, a relatively small city in the British Isles. We aren’t aware of any obvious reasons to target it, other than the fact that British troops played a small but significant role in your defeat. Do you know why Belial chose that target?”
“No. Belial is fond of bizarre schemes. But then he must have used a Nephilim to open a portal for the gorgon. It may be that your counter-magic is getting so good that he was forced to take the first Nephilim he could find, and the gorgon just flew to the nearest city.”
‘So, no way of knowing where they will strike next’ Paschal thought unhappily. “We need to know when he’ll strike next. How many times can Belial do this, and how often?”
“I can’t give you firm answers Colonel. I do know that opening large portals is a great strain on the naga, they are weak and pained for many days afterward. Tartarus has a great many volcanoes. The rate at which Belial can open portals depends on how many nagas he has and how quickly he can find targets. If Satan intends to use this method to exterminate you, then he might order the dukes to loan Belial their covens until the task is done.”
“If not a firm answer, then an educated guess?”
“Belial should be able to open at least one portal a week.”
Paschal was silent for a moment. “I’ve got to relay this to my superiors. Sit tight, Ill be back shortly.” He pulled a black box from a pocket and brought it up to his ear as he left the room.
Abigor stared at the frozen image of the burning city. For a while, he was completely certain that the humans would defeat Satan, but now he was not so sure. Old traditions were being discarded, the once unthinkable was being considered. The humans had given hell an object lesson in how efficiently war could be conducted when one made decisions purely based on effectiveness, not honor, politics, auspiciousness, or tradition. How fast could hell learn?
Paschal had returned. “Ok General, let’s do this properly. I need everything you can tell me about Belial and Tartarus, starting with its grid coordinates.”
Abigor wasn’t sure what ‘grid coordinates’ meant but he got the impression it had something to do with maps. “You want to know how to get to Tartarus?” Of course, the humans wanted to stop the attacks by destroying Belial. “It is almost three thousand leagues from here, across all manner of terrain. Even with your chariots, it would take many months to fight your way there, and Satan would harass you and your supply train all the way.”
Paschal smiled grimly. “General, I have a small gift for you.” He handed over a small flat box, one that Abigor recognized immediately as a DVD. It was labeled ‘A History of the Manhattan Project’. “Abigor, you have barely begun to see what we can do when we truly wish to destroy our enemies.”
White House Communications Suite, White House, Washington DC
“Well, if we can’t shut it off, I suppose the only thing left will be to market it as a tourist attraction.”
It was probably fortunate that everybody’s attention was focused on the imagery being transmitted from the aircraft circling Sheffield. Had they been looking at Condoleezza Rice, they would have seen her eyes bulging from their sockets with sheer horror. “I can’t believe he just said that.”
Beside her Defense, Secretary Warner nodded fractionally in agreement. “I don’t know which is worse, the fact he said it or the fact that it’s true.”
“Mister President, thankful as we are for America’s usual generous aid in a time of the disaster, I must remonstrate with you. This is hardly a laughing matter for my country.” Gordon Brown looked shocked as indeed he was.
“I agree Gordon, and I am sorry if my remark sounded disrespectful of your country’s loss. But the fact remains, I do not see what we can do about this yet. We will stand by you, and fight with you to save what is left of Sheffield and its people, but I do not know how we can stop this torrent of lava. And if we cannot stop it, we must find a way to make use of it.”
“You mean for all our military forces committed to this war, we cannot stop this nightmare? That baldrick General who has defected to us. Is he of no help at all?”
“If I may interrupt Sir.” On another screen, General Petraeus spoke quietly as was his way. “We have discussed this with Grand Duke Abigor. He told us much of value, identifying the primary culprit, a minor baldrick lord called Belial. He told us how it was done and from where. Belial’s stronghold, a place called Tartarus.”
“So we can destroy it.” Three people spoke in exact unison even though they were on different continents. A minor marvel of modern communications that everybody in the room took for granted.
“That’s not so easy. Belial is a minor figure, in some disgrace and his fortress is far from our forces, three thousand leagues, in fact, we make that around 10,500 miles as a B-1 flies.”
“Can you get your bombers there?” Brown spoke urgently, the pain of Sheffield making his voice falter.
“We can Sir.” General John Corley spoke from Offutt Air Force Base. “As soon as we find out where ‘There’ is.”
“Abigor told us. Tartarus.”
“Yes, but where is it. Sir, I’ve seen the map Abigor drew for us. It’s a good map, very carefully drawn, one that Abigor obviously took great care over. But it’s a map drawn by somebody who lives far from our past. It isn’t what we call a map, it’s more a picture. You’ve seen old maps, Sir. The one Abigor gave us isn’t scaled and he doesn’t even know what projection is. Come to think of it, nor do we where Hell is concerned. We’ve got mathematicians working on that. But all we have is a picture. We’re going to be looking for a target probably about the size of a town hall, in an area the size of North America. And we’ll be doing it what amounts to dense fog. We’re modifying our B-1A to an RB-1A with sidescan radars and a lot of extra fuel and it’ll go out and look but it could be weeks before she spots a target.”
Brown thought for a few seconds. “When we find it?”
“We’ll smear it across the ground. But we must find it first. Bombers aren’t the only option of course.” Corley spoke carefully.
“A ground strike? If you need people, the SAS and SBS are ready to go. But how will they know where?”
“They won’t.” Petraeus’s voice was precise and emphatic. “We don’t have to know where a Portal is, we just have to know it’s in the right place. Then we can put a team in with beacon equipment to home the RB-1A in. And she can lead the rest of the Bones.”
“And the Tu-160s.” Prime Minister Putin’s voice was equally emphatic.”
“And the Tu-160s.” President Bush smiled engagingly at the screen. “General Corley wants to speak with you about the Tu-160.”
“One question, General.” Petraeus raised an eyebrow, “if the team is going to be pathfinders, how will they stay healthy long enough? They can’t have armor and air-locked buildings.”
“Mister Prime Minister. We do have military units that are native to Hell now. And we can reposition one of them for the job. In fact, we are selecting one for it now.”
Outer Ring, Sixth Circle of Hell
Hell made you different. It was the only way he could've reacted how he did to what he and the others had seen. But then he had felt the same way when he had heard of children dying of abuse back home. The same sick rage and desire to kill those responsible.
Aeneas, born in an older, harder time, nevertheless felt the same. He and McElroy had crossed one of the low ridges and advanced down on some of the garrisons that were starting to spread along the banks of the lava flow. Not too close, of the course, even baldricks didn’t feel a desire to be too close to that nightmare, but far enough to provide patrols. The old days, of a single baldrick patrolling the banks for days at a time, were gone. Too many had gone out and never come back. Now they patrolled in groups, never far from support. And that meant garrisons. Where there were garrisons, that meant troops who had to be supplied and the baldricks had never heard of logistics. So there had to be a market and sure enough, there was. In a cleared-out patch of land, just outside the walls of one of the fortresses, many dozens of demons plied wares, bartered, and went about their business. Aeanas kept losing count, but there had to be well over three hundred demons. The best part of a whole company perhaps?
It was in this market that he spied a particular demon, whose cart was packed with writhing bodies. Human bodies. They were too far away to hear, of course, but occasionally, a demon would come by and begin some sort of haggling. The merchant would fetch a victim from the cart and pass it to the customer who would open its throat with one of its claws, snap its neck for good measure then eat the carcass on the spot, devouring the body in a few short seconds. It did not take any of them very long to realize that the humans in the merchant's wagon were exclusively children.
Aeanas stared at the scene with cold fury. He did not angrily demand that they throw caution to the wind and charge in to save the children, a hot-blooded rage that blinded its victim to common sense would have called for that. Instead, stone-faced, he watched the merchant empty his wagon, pack up his other trinkets, and be off down the rutted dirt road. So, did Cassidy and McElroy. There would be a time for vengeance, a time when debts like this one would be paid but this was not it. Three humans attacking 300 baldricks with edged weapons was simply a way to die. Or be thrown back in the lava streams
Aeanas was a Spartan warrior. To him, nothing was more satisfying than battering his opponent down and finishing him with two or three blows. An honorable battle where one man was pitched against another with victory going to the strongest and bravest. Only that way was victory meaningful. So, when he thought about helpless children being sold as some sort of delicacy the scene just added to the anger and voluminous hate he held in his heart for his tormentors. He could not be certain, but he suspected that Cassidy and McElroy felt largely the same way. But did they? They didn’t look upon war the same way as he did, war for them was an exercise in cost-effective killing where the objective was to make sure the enemy never stood a chance. Aeneas had tried to explain where true honor lay once but McElroy had simply looked at him and said, “If it’s a fair fight, you made a mistake somewhere.”
McElroy, is it all right to talk?
Kitten?”
No, Kitten is away on leave at last. My name is Indira, I have taken over from her for a while. Have you anything to report?
Too much Indira. Far too much. McElroy went through the report on the scene at the village.
That is terrible.
This is a terrible place. Can you resupply us now?
Yes, we have rifles, ammunition, and explosives coming through. But I must also tell you that your group has been selected for a special mission. One that will take you outside the Pit.
You couldn’t have said anything better, Indira. No place could be worse than this, I guess that must be the whole point.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Two
Secure Accommodation Block, Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“The Enemy is Dust, dust that gets in your boots, your hair, your eyes, your lungs. Dust in vital systems and gears and axles. Dust is the common enemy DRS Technologies helps to manage, banish or thwart in Hell, every minute of every day. The enemy’s DRS fights can be huge or as small as a grain of sand. And the solutions can range from providing expert service personnel to developing novel technologies. Like self-lubricating sealed axles for tank trailers. Systems that let pilots see through the clouds of dust in Hell’s atmosphere. And fully sealed fanless mobile computers. The goal: to help our forces achieve their objectives in Hell. Bring us your problems, your toughest challenges, we are always looking for a new enemy to conquer and take us one step nearer to completing our mission to save our dead.”
Memnon laid the copy of Defense News to one side, marveling at the casual ease with which the humans spoke of finding solutions to problems. As if problems were games to be won, not hardships to be endured. Almost without thinking he flexed his great wings, now regrowing strong and true. Another problem humans had solved. They’d seen the mangled stumps that had been growing before and he’d explained that the fragments of steel from the missile warheads were the problem. Iron didn’t agree with demon bodies. They’d nodded and come up with a plan. They’d amputate the new growth and remove the iron fragments, then allow new wings to grow back. They weren’t sure it would work, but it was a good chance, their “medic” had said. Memnon had agreed, he had nothing to lose after all.
They’d taken him into a section of the great building that was all white. Then they’d said they would put him to sleep for the operation. Memnon had refused that, refused angrily. Who were they to put him to sleep like a kidling? He was a Lesser Herald; he could endure whatever pain the humans had in store. The doctor had agreed and said that they’d just give him a little injection to help his muscles relax, make it easier to cut his mutilated wings off. Now, if he’d just count backward from ten……
And Memnon had woken up when it was all over, his failed wings removed, and the searing hurt of the iron fragments removed from his back. And he had learned something about “medics” and “nurses”. They could be even sneakier than other humans. But he’d watched as his new wings had regenerated and they were true wings, ones that would support him in flight.
The doors banged, and some humans came in, soldiers in the odd clothes they wore. The ones that had a strange pattern that made them hard to see. “Memnon, my name is Colonel Paschal.”
“Colonel.” Memnon stood up and tried to hold himself erect the way humans did. Not grovel on the floor and lick his boots as a high-ranking demon would demand. The Colonel looked at him and nodded slightly, like most of the human troops in Hell, he found the baldrick displays of submission sickening.
“Memnon, do you know of a place called Tartarus?”
“Certainly. It is the stronghold of a minor lord called Belial. I have had little to do with him, he is of little account. A defeated loser surrounded by others of his kind.”
“Well, he’s just become important to us. A critical question, you know where Tartarus is, can you get there?”
“Of course, Now my wings are well again, I can fly there. If I go as fast as I can, it will take me….” Memnon stared at the ceiling and calculated the distance. “A minimum of 70 of your hours.”
“Seventy hours. Nearly three days.” Now it was Paschal’s turn to think. “How soon can you leave?”
“As soon as my lord commands. I have sworn fealty to Abigor and he to you. So, when your lord orders it I will leave. What message must I give to Belial?”
“Oh, you? Nothing. We have a message for him, one he won’t forget in a hurry. Your job is just to get to Tartarus, stay close to Belial’s fortress, and wait, unseen. We will contact you there and send you the message we will wish delivered to Belial.”
Memnon nodded, now he could see why the humans had restored his wings, they needed his services as a Herald. Was Belial planning to defect to the humans as he and Abigor already had? If so, then he, Memnon, would be well placed in the favor of these strange new lords to whom he had sworn fealty.
Outer Ring, Sixth Circle of Hell
“All setup?” McElroy looked around at his unit. Well, it wasn’t his anymore, but he still had a proprietorial feel over it, even though the living troops from Earth had inflated its numbers and provided a proper command structure. The strike team was now nearly 60 humans, living or deceased, and they were about to teach the baldricks a lesson in applied firepower. And applied vengeance.
“All units, get ready. Mortar teams prepare to open fire on my command.” The voice on the radio was heavily accented. European, where Europe was beyond McElroy’s ability to identify. Their equipment was Russian, or at least Eastern European. That meant Poles? Or Czechs perhaps. No matter, they were somebody’s special forces troops and whoever they were, they were very good.
“Fire!” The accented word came over the radio and McElroy heard the coughing thump of the mortars opening fire. They were the big ones, 120mms, the biggest modern artillery deployed within the Hell-Pit. Despite their size, their crews went to work with a vengeance. A good mortar crew can get six bombs in the air before the first strikes home and these crews were better than good. McElroy watched the ripple of explosions walk across the marketplace, the fragments scything down the baldricks as they stood around the stalls. They’d never been under mortar fire before, they had no idea what it was that was killing them, and they just stood there, bewildered, while the bombs crashed down around them.
Mortars are deadly weapons, their rate of fire and high payload making them great killers of creatures caught in the open. Their worst limitation is ammunition supply; especially when the weapons were man-packed in the way these were. The crews were already running short, and they kept back one round each as a final envoi for when the humans withdrew, their role was taken over by three machinegun grenade launchers, AGS-17s, that pumped their small rounds into the target, picking off the groups of baldricks left standing by the 120s.
Down below, McElroy saw the baldricks starting to react. Cries of “human magery” echoed up the slope and figures broke from their paralysis to try and get away from the unexpected danger. The problem was, they had pitifully few places to go, and far more than half their number was already down.
“Move in.” The orders were curt, tense. McElroy brought his M115 up to his shoulder and squeezed off three rounds at a baldrick that seemed unusually active in trying to rally resistance. The figure went down, sprays of green blood erupting from its body. Then it was his section’s time to move forward. The others were laying down intense fire, pinning the baldricks in position. The deceased humans got to their feet, running forward to their next position, a shallow depression about halfway down the slope. It took seconds to reach it, seconds that seemed like hours, but they made it and spread out, giving covering fire for the next group to move forward.
It was classic stuff, fire, and maneuver, each squad moving forward while the others covered it from their own positions. There were a few bolts coming out from the beleaguered baldrick positions, but they were wild, McElroy suspected some of the enemies were just holding their tridents over whatever it was they were hiding behind and blasting away at random. It took only three jumps to close in on the marketplace and by then what few baldricks were left alive had pulled back into their camp, but doubtless, they’d be re-organizing in there. Time was short.
That wouldn’t matter much. The great cart that was the object of the attack was in front of them, the mortar and grenade crews had been careful to keep their patterns of shells and bombs away from it. McElroy saw a baldrick, his legs shattered by fragments, trying to drag himself away from the slaughterhouse that had once been a market. He didn’t even pause before shooting the crippled demon in the head.
Indira are you there?
Waiting for you. Ready now?
The biggest portal possible Indi, big as you can, it will only be for a few seconds. We’re on our way out.
In front of him, the red air of hell shimmered, and a black ellipse formed. McElroy and the rest of his unit grabbed the cart and started it rolling forward, ignoring the screams from the children inside, behind them, the mortar crews already had their weapons on their carts and were rolling them towards the hole while the rest of the special forces group gave covering fire. Then, the red/gray environment of Hell vanished, and McElroy found himself inside a large building, a hangar, lit from outside by the clear yellow light of the earth’s sun.
Behind him, the heavy weapons group was already through the portal, and the special forces troopers were backing out, firing through the black ellipse as they withdrew. Six of them were bringing three others who were obviously hurt, another carried a dead man in a fireman’s lift. Then, as the last came through, the portal shut down.
DIMO(N) Transit Facility, Moffet Field, Mountain View, California
As the last of the raiding group cleared the portal, a wave of cheering erupted across the occupants of the transit facility. The building had once been used as an airship hangar but had been quickly modified into its present role. It was a much better deal than the cramped Pentagon quarters that had been used before. The size was valuable, the great cart that had been wheeled through the ellipse was testimony to that. Around it, the deceased humans of McElroy’s unit were standing bewildered.
“You OK Sergeant?”
“It Corporal Sir, Corporal McElroy.”
“No, it’s Sergeant (deceased) McElroy and if you knew how much trouble you were causing the pay corps, you would be a very happy man.”
“I’m just happy to be here Sir. Out of that place, shit, I feel crappy.”
“You can’t stay here son. You’ll go back, but we’re linking you directly to Camp Hell-Alpha. That’s a U.S. Army facility by the Hellmouth. A Colonel Paschal will be waiting for you and your unit, he has orders for you. By the way, you’ll be losing Ori and Aeneas, the historians want to talk to them and, frankly, they’re dead weight for where you’ll be going.” Major Warhol sounded apologetic but in truth, he wasn’t. He really, really wanted to talk to somebody who had fought at Thermopylae.
“Sir, I don’t think….”
“No choice Sergeant.” Warhol softened a little. “Look over there, your mom and one of your sisters have come in. You’ve got a few minutes to say ‘Hi’ then you’re on your way to Hell-Alpha. You can’t stay here; this level will kill you soon.
Warhol looked over to the small crowd of people who were standing beside the doors of the hangar. McElroy’s men had run over to them, recognizing their relatives. Cassidy had her head buried in a young man’s chest while he stroked her hair. At their feet, a dog was sniffing at her, confused, knowing this had been his human before she’d gone but also that she wasn’t human anymore. That confused him, and dogs do not like to be confused.
‘Sir, over here!”
The staff had the gates at the back of the cart open and were quieting the children inside. They too would go back to Hell but to the area occupied by humans. What would happen to them in the longer term was anybody’s guess. People were only just beginning to realize the implications of seizing Hell and Warhol knew in his heart that the problems facing humanity when it occupied Heaven and kicked out the previous management was going to be just as bad.
“What have you got?” To his surprise, two of the troopers who had opened the cart had vomited, and three others were openly crying. This was not something he had expected to see from the “Screaming Eagles”
“Look at this Sir, just look at it.”
‘This’ was a large pot, looking for all the world like an old-fashioned chamber pot. Larger than any thunder-jug he had ever seen though. Warhol looked inside and saw a writhing mass of small red things, some looking human, others barely formed.
Warhol was confused. “What are they? Baldrick kidlings?’
“No Sir. Ours. They’re human embryos. Perhaps those that were miscarried or aborted, I don’t know. But they’re our fetuses and the baldricks just ate them like snacks.” The tears were streaming down the airborne soldier’s face, and he didn’t even bother to wipe them away.
Well, that’s the end of Roe versus Wade Warhol thought to himself, more to deny the horror of the scene than anything else. “Right, we must get this lot back into Hell. Round up McElroy’s people and get them ready. Time to reinsert.
Over by the equipment bay, Indira Singh had shifted off the couch and Jennie Kwang had taken her place. “Ready to go Jennie?” She gave a big thumbs-up and settled back to make contact.
Are you there, Private Chestnut?
Do I have any choice? The mind-voice was weak and sulky. From Jennie’s experience in the People’s Liberation Army, the Sergeants were in process of breaking down the spoiled little brat and building the man that would replace him. It was a form of rebirth as well.
No, so please open the portal. It was much easier to do it from his end and would cause her little or no pain. Even humans needed only marginal amplification when opening a portal from Hell-side. The black ellipse popped open almost immediately,
“Right, McElroy, take your people though, everybody else, get that cart through.” Warhol snapped out the orders. McElroy’s unit finished saying their goodbyes to their families and stepped through the portal to Camp Hell-Alpha. When everything that had to go was gone, Kwang snapped the portal shut. Given electronics, and a presence on the other side, humans had the best of both worlds, they could open gates easily from hellside and close them equally easily from the earthside. Would the Sheffield problem be so easy to solve.
Warhol was speaking into a mobile radio. “They’re gone General, just a few seconds ago. The kids as well and that’s a sight that I don’t want to ever see again.”
Indira was standing beside him, politely waiting for him to finish. Her normally olive skin was gray, but her tinfoil hat shone in the sun streaming through the windows, making it seem as if she was wearing a halo.
“Will they be coming back through here Sir?”
“McElroy’s people? Yes, we can’t portal from place to place in Hell, for some reason the portals can’t form when there isn’t a barrier. Like you can’t have a door without a wall to put it in, I guess. But they’ll be coming back through, in around three days if all goes well.
Oval Office, White House, Washington.
“Well, that’s the end of Roe versus Wade. The public won’t balk at ‘right to life’ legislation now.”
President Bush lifted his eyes from the report and looked steadily at the speaker. “Karl, hear me on this and don’t even think of crossing me. You will say nothing of this, do you understand, nothing. We’re classifying this report so deep that it will never be found.”
“But Dubya, it’s a prime opportunity to get that judgment reversed.”
“I don’t care. Karl, have you any idea how much suffering this report will cause if it gets out? All the women who have lost babies for any reason, natural or otherwise, read it, they’ll think of their baby in those vats, waiting to be used as a baldrick snack. You’ve read the reports on depression and stress disorders amongst women who’ve lost or aborted babies, I will not be responsible for increasing their suffering. We will have a quiet word with the Justices, and share this information with them, then when the opportunity comes, they can make the ruling that they think fits. But we will not cause the suffering and grief that results from this report by playing politics to force their hands in public.”
“But….”
“I said No Karl, what part of that don’t you understand. And I’ll repeat this, don’t try a leak or ‘arrange’ for somebody else to do it for you. Got that into your head? Because it is a warning.”
Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“McElroy? Is this your unit? Good. We’ll get you to a briefing room ASAP. We’ve got three days to train you up on operating the navigational beacons and get you prepared for the next part of this operation. Your instructors will be with you shortly.”
McElroy looked around at the Army base, its scene familiar even if its setting wasn’t. He might be out of the Hell-Pit, but he was back in the regular Army. And its habits hadn’t changed, it was still ‘hurry up and wait.’
Secure Accommodation Block, Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“The Enemy is Dust, dust that gets in your boots, your hair, your eyes, your lungs. Dust in vital systems and gears and axles. Dust is the common enemy DRS Technologies helps to manage, banish or thwart in Hell, every minute of every day. The enemy’s DRS fights can be huge or as small as a grain of sand. And the solutions can range from providing expert service personnel to developing novel technologies. Like self-lubricating sealed axles for tank trailers. Systems that let pilots see through the clouds of dust in Hell’s atmosphere. And fully sealed fanless mobile computers. The goal: to help our forces achieve their objectives in Hell. Bring us your problems, your toughest challenges, we are always looking for a new enemy to conquer and take us one step nearer to completing our mission to save our dead.”
Memnon laid the copy of Defense News to one side, marveling at the casual ease with which the humans spoke of finding solutions to problems. As if problems were games to be won, not hardships to be endured. Almost without thinking he flexed his great wings, now regrowing strong and true. Another problem humans had solved. They’d seen the mangled stumps that had been growing before and he’d explained that the fragments of steel from the missile warheads were the problem. Iron didn’t agree with demon bodies. They’d nodded and come up with a plan. They’d amputate the new growth and remove the iron fragments, then allow new wings to grow back. They weren’t sure it would work, but it was a good chance, their “medic” had said. Memnon had agreed, he had nothing to lose after all.
They’d taken him into a section of the great building that was all white. Then they’d said they would put him to sleep for the operation. Memnon had refused that, refused angrily. Who were they to put him to sleep like a kidling? He was a Lesser Herald; he could endure whatever pain the humans had in store. The doctor had agreed and said that they’d just give him a little injection to help his muscles relax, make it easier to cut his mutilated wings off. Now, if he’d just count backward from ten……
And Memnon had woken up when it was all over, his failed wings removed, and the searing hurt of the iron fragments removed from his back. And he had learned something about “medics” and “nurses”. They could be even sneakier than other humans. But he’d watched as his new wings had regenerated and they were true wings, ones that would support him in flight.
The doors banged, and some humans came in, soldiers in the odd clothes they wore. The ones that had a strange pattern that made them hard to see. “Memnon, my name is Colonel Paschal.”
“Colonel.” Memnon stood up and tried to hold himself erect the way humans did. Not grovel on the floor and lick his boots as a high-ranking demon would demand. The Colonel looked at him and nodded slightly, like most of the human troops in Hell, he found the baldrick displays of submission sickening.
“Memnon, do you know of a place called Tartarus?”
“Certainly. It is the stronghold of a minor lord called Belial. I have had little to do with him, he is of little account. A defeated loser surrounded by others of his kind.”
“Well, he’s just become important to us. A critical question, you know where Tartarus is, can you get there?”
“Of course, Now my wings are well again, I can fly there. If I go as fast as I can, it will take me….” Memnon stared at the ceiling and calculated the distance. “A minimum of 70 of your hours.”
“Seventy hours. Nearly three days.” Now it was Paschal’s turn to think. “How soon can you leave?”
“As soon as my lord commands. I have sworn fealty to Abigor and he to you. So, when your lord orders it I will leave. What message must I give to Belial?”
“Oh, you? Nothing. We have a message for him, one he won’t forget in a hurry. Your job is just to get to Tartarus, stay close to Belial’s fortress, and wait, unseen. We will contact you there and send you the message we will wish delivered to Belial.”
Memnon nodded, now he could see why the humans had restored his wings, they needed his services as a Herald. Was Belial planning to defect to the humans as he and Abigor already had? If so, then he, Memnon, would be well placed in the favor of these strange new lords to whom he had sworn fealty.
Outer Ring, Sixth Circle of Hell
“All setup?” McElroy looked around at his unit. Well, it wasn’t his anymore, but he still had a proprietorial feel over it, even though the living troops from Earth had inflated its numbers and provided a proper command structure. The strike team was now nearly 60 humans, living or deceased, and they were about to teach the baldricks a lesson in applied firepower. And applied vengeance.
“All units, get ready. Mortar teams prepare to open fire on my command.” The voice on the radio was heavily accented. European, where Europe was beyond McElroy’s ability to identify. Their equipment was Russian, or at least Eastern European. That meant Poles? Or Czechs perhaps. No matter, they were somebody’s special forces troops and whoever they were, they were very good.
“Fire!” The accented word came over the radio and McElroy heard the coughing thump of the mortars opening fire. They were the big ones, 120mms, the biggest modern artillery deployed within the Hell-Pit. Despite their size, their crews went to work with a vengeance. A good mortar crew can get six bombs in the air before the first strikes home and these crews were better than good. McElroy watched the ripple of explosions walk across the marketplace, the fragments scything down the baldricks as they stood around the stalls. They’d never been under mortar fire before, they had no idea what it was that was killing them, and they just stood there, bewildered, while the bombs crashed down around them.
Mortars are deadly weapons, their rate of fire and high payload making them great killers of creatures caught in the open. Their worst limitation is ammunition supply; especially when the weapons were man-packed in the way these were. The crews were already running short, and they kept back one round each as a final envoi for when the humans withdrew, their role was taken over by three machinegun grenade launchers, AGS-17s, that pumped their small rounds into the target, picking off the groups of baldricks left standing by the 120s.
Down below, McElroy saw the baldricks starting to react. Cries of “human magery” echoed up the slope and figures broke from their paralysis to try and get away from the unexpected danger. The problem was, they had pitifully few places to go, and far more than half their number was already down.
“Move in.” The orders were curt, tense. McElroy brought his M115 up to his shoulder and squeezed off three rounds at a baldrick that seemed unusually active in trying to rally resistance. The figure went down, sprays of green blood erupting from its body. Then it was his section’s time to move forward. The others were laying down intense fire, pinning the baldricks in position. The deceased humans got to their feet, running forward to their next position, a shallow depression about halfway down the slope. It took seconds to reach it, seconds that seemed like hours, but they made it and spread out, giving covering fire for the next group to move forward.
It was classic stuff, fire, and maneuver, each squad moving forward while the others covered it from their own positions. There were a few bolts coming out from the beleaguered baldrick positions, but they were wild, McElroy suspected some of the enemies were just holding their tridents over whatever it was they were hiding behind and blasting away at random. It took only three jumps to close in on the marketplace and by then what few baldricks were left alive had pulled back into their camp, but doubtless, they’d be re-organizing in there. Time was short.
That wouldn’t matter much. The great cart that was the object of the attack was in front of them, the mortar and grenade crews had been careful to keep their patterns of shells and bombs away from it. McElroy saw a baldrick, his legs shattered by fragments, trying to drag himself away from the slaughterhouse that had once been a market. He didn’t even pause before shooting the crippled demon in the head.
Indira are you there?
Waiting for you. Ready now?
The biggest portal possible Indi, big as you can, it will only be for a few seconds. We’re on our way out.
In front of him, the red air of hell shimmered, and a black ellipse formed. McElroy and the rest of his unit grabbed the cart and started it rolling forward, ignoring the screams from the children inside, behind them, the mortar crews already had their weapons on their carts and were rolling them towards the hole while the rest of the special forces group gave covering fire. Then, the red/gray environment of Hell vanished, and McElroy found himself inside a large building, a hangar, lit from outside by the clear yellow light of the earth’s sun.
Behind him, the heavy weapons group was already through the portal, and the special forces troopers were backing out, firing through the black ellipse as they withdrew. Six of them were bringing three others who were obviously hurt, another carried a dead man in a fireman’s lift. Then, as the last came through, the portal shut down.
DIMO(N) Transit Facility, Moffet Field, Mountain View, California
As the last of the raiding group cleared the portal, a wave of cheering erupted across the occupants of the transit facility. The building had once been used as an airship hangar but had been quickly modified into its present role. It was a much better deal than the cramped Pentagon quarters that had been used before. The size was valuable, the great cart that had been wheeled through the ellipse was testimony to that. Around it, the deceased humans of McElroy’s unit were standing bewildered.
“You OK Sergeant?”
“It Corporal Sir, Corporal McElroy.”
“No, it’s Sergeant (deceased) McElroy and if you knew how much trouble you were causing the pay corps, you would be a very happy man.”
“I’m just happy to be here Sir. Out of that place, shit, I feel crappy.”
“You can’t stay here son. You’ll go back, but we’re linking you directly to Camp Hell-Alpha. That’s a U.S. Army facility by the Hellmouth. A Colonel Paschal will be waiting for you and your unit, he has orders for you. By the way, you’ll be losing Ori and Aeneas, the historians want to talk to them and, frankly, they’re dead weight for where you’ll be going.” Major Warhol sounded apologetic but in truth, he wasn’t. He really, really wanted to talk to somebody who had fought at Thermopylae.
“Sir, I don’t think….”
“No choice Sergeant.” Warhol softened a little. “Look over there, your mom and one of your sisters have come in. You’ve got a few minutes to say ‘Hi’ then you’re on your way to Hell-Alpha. You can’t stay here; this level will kill you soon.
Warhol looked over to the small crowd of people who were standing beside the doors of the hangar. McElroy’s men had run over to them, recognizing their relatives. Cassidy had her head buried in a young man’s chest while he stroked her hair. At their feet, a dog was sniffing at her, confused, knowing this had been his human before she’d gone but also that she wasn’t human anymore. That confused him, and dogs do not like to be confused.
‘Sir, over here!”
The staff had the gates at the back of the cart open and were quieting the children inside. They too would go back to Hell but to the area occupied by humans. What would happen to them in the longer term was anybody’s guess. People were only just beginning to realize the implications of seizing Hell and Warhol knew in his heart that the problems facing humanity when it occupied Heaven and kicked out the previous management was going to be just as bad.
“What have you got?” To his surprise, two of the troopers who had opened the cart had vomited, and three others were openly crying. This was not something he had expected to see from the “Screaming Eagles”
“Look at this Sir, just look at it.”
‘This’ was a large pot, looking for all the world like an old-fashioned chamber pot. Larger than any thunder-jug he had ever seen though. Warhol looked inside and saw a writhing mass of small red things, some looking human, others barely formed.
Warhol was confused. “What are they? Baldrick kidlings?’
“No Sir. Ours. They’re human embryos. Perhaps those that were miscarried or aborted, I don’t know. But they’re our fetuses and the baldricks just ate them like snacks.” The tears were streaming down the airborne soldier’s face, and he didn’t even bother to wipe them away.
Well, that’s the end of Roe versus Wade Warhol thought to himself, more to deny the horror of the scene than anything else. “Right, we must get this lot back into Hell. Round up McElroy’s people and get them ready. Time to reinsert.
Over by the equipment bay, Indira Singh had shifted off the couch and Jennie Kwang had taken her place. “Ready to go Jennie?” She gave a big thumbs-up and settled back to make contact.
Are you there, Private Chestnut?
Do I have any choice? The mind-voice was weak and sulky. From Jennie’s experience in the People’s Liberation Army, the Sergeants were in process of breaking down the spoiled little brat and building the man that would replace him. It was a form of rebirth as well.
No, so please open the portal. It was much easier to do it from his end and would cause her little or no pain. Even humans needed only marginal amplification when opening a portal from Hell-side. The black ellipse popped open almost immediately,
“Right, McElroy, take your people though, everybody else, get that cart through.” Warhol snapped out the orders. McElroy’s unit finished saying their goodbyes to their families and stepped through the portal to Camp Hell-Alpha. When everything that had to go was gone, Kwang snapped the portal shut. Given electronics, and a presence on the other side, humans had the best of both worlds, they could open gates easily from hellside and close them equally easily from the earthside. Would the Sheffield problem be so easy to solve.
Warhol was speaking into a mobile radio. “They’re gone General, just a few seconds ago. The kids as well and that’s a sight that I don’t want to ever see again.”
Indira was standing beside him, politely waiting for him to finish. Her normally olive skin was gray, but her tinfoil hat shone in the sun streaming through the windows, making it seem as if she was wearing a halo.
“Will they be coming back through here Sir?”
“McElroy’s people? Yes, we can’t portal from place to place in Hell, for some reason the portals can’t form when there isn’t a barrier. Like you can’t have a door without a wall to put it in, I guess. But they’ll be coming back through, in around three days if all goes well.
Oval Office, White House, Washington.
“Well, that’s the end of Roe versus Wade. The public won’t balk at ‘right to life’ legislation now.”
President Bush lifted his eyes from the report and looked steadily at the speaker. “Karl, hear me on this and don’t even think of crossing me. You will say nothing of this, do you understand, nothing. We’re classifying this report so deep that it will never be found.”
“But Dubya, it’s a prime opportunity to get that judgment reversed.”
“I don’t care. Karl, have you any idea how much suffering this report will cause if it gets out? All the women who have lost babies for any reason, natural or otherwise, read it, they’ll think of their baby in those vats, waiting to be used as a baldrick snack. You’ve read the reports on depression and stress disorders amongst women who’ve lost or aborted babies, I will not be responsible for increasing their suffering. We will have a quiet word with the Justices, and share this information with them, then when the opportunity comes, they can make the ruling that they think fits. But we will not cause the suffering and grief that results from this report by playing politics to force their hands in public.”
“But….”
“I said No Karl, what part of that don’t you understand. And I’ll repeat this, don’t try a leak or ‘arrange’ for somebody else to do it for you. Got that into your head? Because it is a warning.”
Camo Hell-Alpha, Martial Plain of Dysprosium
“McElroy? Is this your unit? Good. We’ll get you to a briefing room ASAP. We’ve got three days to train you up on operating the navigational beacons and get you prepared for the next part of this operation. Your instructors will be with you shortly.”
McElroy looked around at the Army base, its scene familiar even if its setting wasn’t. He might be out of the Hell-Pit, but he was back in the regular Army. And its habits hadn’t changed, it was still ‘hurry up and wait.’
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Three
Banks of the Phlegethon River, Hell
It wasn’t the way Abigor had described in the last report he had made before his disgrace and desertion. He’d spoken of the human forces lining up behind ridges, ready to hurl their mage-fire bolts into an attacking enemy. That wasn’t how these humans were deploying at all. They were spread out, small strong points forming, each built around four of their iron chariots. There were hundreds of those little forts, arranged in staggered rows with great distances between them, stretching back as far as he could see. The iron chariots were surrounded by earthworks, the red soil of hell piled up in great banks so that only the curious round structures on top of the chariots peered over the crest. Another thing that didn’t make sense, didn’t that provide dead ground close to each little fortress? Beelzebub thought that over carefully.
“The day of glory draws closer master,” Chiknathragothem spoke deferentially to the great demon he served, Satan’s favorite and nearest-thing-to-trusted General. “Soon we shall lead the great charge that will tear these humans apart.”
“I think not.” Beelzebub was still mulling over the sight before him.
“Sire?” That had been an unexpected retort and Chiknathragothem didn’t quite know what to make of it.
“Abigor made a wild charge at the enemy and look where it got him. Defeated and disgraced. We must try to be a little more cunning. Where is Asmodeus’s Army?”
“A day’s march out Sire. Coming up from the south. Two hundred and thirtythree legions including nine cavalry and three fliers. All he had save for the ten he took down to the pit.”
“Where they did him little good eh Chiknathragothem?” The death of Asmodeus was still causing shockwaves throughout Hell. The other Great Dukes had descended on his estates and property with unparalleled avarice, hoping to divide the spoils between themselves. And what spoils there were for Asmodeus had been a rich and powerful Duke, to absorb even a portion of his holdings would enhance the power and status of any noble demon.
That was what had made the next step so inexplicable. Normally Satan encouraged infighting and maneuvering amongst his entourage on the very sensible basis that when they were conspiring against each other, they would not be conspiring against him. But this time Satan Mekratrig had stilled the struggle with a single booming command that had echoed throughout the streets of Dis. Rather like the strange flying chariots of the humans that made no noise when coming but went overhead with a dreadful crash and left a deafening scream behind them. Satan had gathered his court and harangued them all for their disloyalty and treachery, asking them why they fought each other when the humans needed destroying. Only his loyal vassals Beelzebub and Belial were standing by him, he said, while others looked only to their own gain. As a result, the holdings of Asmodeus would be distributed by Satan when the war against the humans was over, and the extent of the rewards would be measured by the service the recipients had provided. And so far, Satan had concluded darkly, that only Belial had qualified.
The thought that Belial might inherit the whole of Asmodeus’s vast holdings had horrified the demon hierarchy. All too many remembered the slights and humiliations they had visited upon him when to do so won them favor in Satan’s eyes. The destruction of Sheffield had added very real fear to the horror, was it not possible that Belial might take his vengeance by doing the same to them? And there were his gorgons to consider; Euryale was well-known for her large collection of cherished and carefully maintained grudges.
“Chiknathragothem, see here where the Phlegethon bends? It turns towards us here, then turns back to its original course for about 20 leagues, then turns away from us before one more returning to its original course.”
Chiknathragothem looked at the parchment with the line of the river drawn on it. The course of the river was primarily a straight line but here, near Dis, there was a great bulge towards the Infernal City. “The humans have set up their defenses here, fortifying this bulge. It is obvious they intend to use it as a launch point for their attack on Dis itself. So, we must strike first, to destroy this position.” Beelzebub thought for a few seconds. “Abigor told us that the humans like to encircle their enemies so that none can get away when they start to destroy them. Perhaps we should do the same.”
“But Sire, if an enemy has no means of retreat, will he not fight harder?”
“Chiknathragothem, Abigor took more than 400,000 with him, 60 Legions. The humans wiped them out, almost to the last. One demon in a thousand returned. Do you seriously think humans can fight any harder than they already have? No, I think not. You will take Asmodeus’s Army and move it here, where the river turns away from Dis. And you will thrust across the river there and move into the rear of the defense along the Phlegethon. I will assign you three additional legions of fliers for the assault. And Belial is sending us 80 Wvverns that he has trained to attack forces on the ground. We will see how humans cope with fire from the sky. My main thrust will be at the upstream bend, and I will also move into their rear. We shall meet behind the great bulge with the human army trapped against the river. And then we will destroy them.
“Think on this Chiknathragothem, had things gone as originally planned, we would be fighting on Earth, far from sight and where the news of our victories would be sung by Heralds. But now, we will win the fight within Satan’s sight, under his own walls. Much will be our glory and great our rewards.”
Conference Room, The White House, Washington D.C.
“What is the news from Sheffield?”
“Cautiously good Mr. President. Our vulcanologist, Keavy McManus, has measured the lava flow and it’s decreasing steadily. Since the eruption started, it has fallen off by around 30 percent and the rate of decline is accelerating. There are shifts in the gas content of the lava and its composition that also indicate that the magma chamber is nearly empty and that means the end of this disaster may be in sight at last.
“Mrs. McManus believes that we didn’t get the full blast from a primary volcano. Her opinion is that the structure that caused this problem is a major caldera with many daughter outlets around it. We got the output from one of those daughters. That would match up with the description of Tartarus we got from Abigor and that Herald creature. Where is he by the way?”
“Abigor, still at Hell-Alpha. Spends most of his time answering our questions or watching war movies. He’s very taken with the Hollywood definition of war. Although that Spartan spearman we found isn’t so enamored, the troops had a showing of “300” and he sat in on it. He was foaming at the mouth by the end and tried to stick his spear through the screen. I hate to think what will happen when our Japanese Samurai sees ‘Kagemusha’.”
“Kagemusha is supposed to be very accurate actually. But I think Zack Snyder had better run for his life if Aeneas finds out where he lives.”
On the great video screen, Gordon Brown drummed his fingers angrily. He wasn’t used to the way American meetings tended to wander off the point sometimes. “Mr. President, I didn’t mean Abigor, I meant the Herald thing that was with him. Menthol, or whatever his name was. What is he doing?”
“ Memnon.” Condoleezza Rice smiled engagingly at the screen. “He’s off doing what he does best, going places in Hell. We can contact him anywhere we want, any time. So, where he is can be very important to us.”
“What Doctor Rice means.” Secretary Warner threw an amused glance at his colleague. She was one of the few people who had contributed her name to the international lexicon. Across the diplomatic world, a Condolee referred to a long, impressive, and reassuring speech that, on close examination said nothing and meant nothing. “Is that Memnon is engaged in an undercover operation of critical importance and we’re not at liberty to say any more than that in case that operation is endangered.”
“That is as may be. But the British people want vengeance for Sheffield.” Brown was truculent, and the other listeners believed he had every right to be. The destruction of Sheffield with its 15,000 dead and rising, had been a hard blow.
“And they shall have it, Gordon. But we must make certain that our vengeance is both appropriate and properly targeted. That blow must make our enemies weep bitter tears, not just for the pain it inflicts but for the harm it causes.”
Brown was silent for a few seconds. He knew what the President was really saying that the vengeance for Sheffield must do real harm to the enemy. For all its horror, Sheffield had not. Which gave rise to the question that had never been satisfactorily answered, why had that city been hit. It was almost pointless, a minimal return for what had surely been a great effort.
“Aye, I can understand that. But the British people, need to see something happen. Can’t we blow something up? We have the weapons, why not use them?”
Senator Warner suddenly looked weary. “I wish we could. But we’re in a long war, we have no idea of how long. We have a rough idea of how big Hell is, and the answer is frightening. The land area of Hell exceeds that of our own world, and it’s all grouped in one great continent. It could take us most of a generation to establish our hold over it and if we’re not careful, we could end up fighting a guerilla war that would last for longer than that. And beyond that, we have the war against heaven. We can be sure those who reside there, have been watching what happens in hell and are casting their plans accordingly. We need to keep as much of our power in reserve as we can. We must release just enough at any given time to maintain our superiority and that’s it.”
“Easy for you to say, Sir. But the political pressure here to do something is overwhelming. It is politically essential that we be seen to take terrible revenge for what has been done to us. There must be some action we can take. If not, I honestly question whether our people’s morale will hold up. It is easy for you to say we should hold on and measure our revenge, but it is not your city that is now a lava pit. Our people go to sleep every night, wondering whether this is the night that a volcano will open over their heads.”
“Perhaps there are some things you can do.” From the screen, General Petraeus spoke, the red sky outside the window of his office revealing that he was speaking directly from Hell. In fact, the transmission was going out by way of a fiber optics cable to a transmitter on the other side of the Hellmouth but that was another matter. A scant few weeks earlier, anybody who claimed that a television transmission from Hell was possible would have been declared insane. That had happened all too often, but those who had been declared insane were due to a major apology. Now it was a mark of insanity not to wear the trademark tinfoil hat.
“In a few hours, perhaps no more than two days, there will be the biggest battle the world has ever seen. We’ve spotted two baldrick armies closing in on our defense line along the Phlegethon River. Between them, they number almost three and a quarter million baldricks. If our intelligence is anything to go by, and our sources have proved reliable to date, this is a major part of the baldrick professional army. We intend to destroy that army and we will be using our tactical air power to achieve a large part of that. That will let the secret of one of our most devastating weapons be out of the bag then. You have your Tornados Mister Brown; we have a map of Dis and we can suggest a few targets that might be highly satisfactory. They’ll act as a curtain-raiser to the main act.” Petraeus hesitated, what he was about to say could endanger humanity’s best hope for preventing further Sheffields. “There is another possibility also. Soon, we will be able to strike directly at the source of these volcano attacks. We need Special Forces troops to do that and our own are already thinly spread supporting the insurgent groups in Hell. Your SAS and SBS troops are well-known as being the best in the world at their trade. If you can ready a strike force, we can, when the time is right, send it in.”
“So something is happening? That is good to know. Thank you, General, I look forward to hearing from you.”
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
“And what is the news of the war?”
“The Humans have done well, oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. They have breached the defenses of Hell and even now mass for an assault on the eternal enemy in his lair of Dis. The infernal one himself is massing his army to strike back. A great battle is looming, one that will pit our enemies against each other.
“The Infernal Enemy has struck back against the humans in their homes. He has destroyed one of their cities by pouring lava over it.”
There was an affectionate laugh from the great throne that dominated the room. Around the walls, the singers carried on their complex chorus of eternal praise, but some of the words had sunk home into their minds, numbed by countless millennia of repeating the same hymns. The humans were winning the battle against hell, could salvation be at hand? Could there be salvation from salvation?
“That Belial, he always was a joker. Even when the Eternal Enemy seized credit for his destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
That was rich thought, Michael, to himself. Considering Yahweh himself had stolen credit for that particular prank.
“The humans are cowering in fear at the destruction?” The amusement in Yahweh’s voice had gone.
“No, oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. There is fear yes, but much more anger. In their own strange words, they are royally pissed off. I think the Eternal Enemy will rue the day he tried that action.”
“Who cares what he will or will not rue. It is the humans who must be made to bend. They denied me my worship. They challenged my rulings. They dared to argue with my divine truths!” The voice rose into a demented scream and for a brief second Yahweh sounded like Satan in one of his more extravagant moods. Then the voice returned to normal. “They must be brought back into the fold; they must be returned to their rightful state of obedience. If the Eternal Enemy cannot do this, then we must. Uriel has been readied; he is planning his attack now. If the humans do not fold before the might of the Eternal Enemy’s army, then they must be made to fold before our anger.”
Underground Caverns, City of Dis
She'd been this way many times, most recently to let others know about the new arrivals, who had slipped back out while she was gone. The new arrivals, were doing things that she'd never have believed if she hadn't seen them with her own eyes. Her thoughts went back to the assault she'd witnessed, how they had magicked down the walls, then moved methodically through the ruins, ruthlessly killing and killing and killing.
How they did it, she didn't know. She'd never been a fighter, preferring instead to ply a different trade, but she'd been in contact with enough soldiers to tell when someone knew what he was doing. Or she, in the case of this Kim. And, during her six to ten thousand years as a free person in Hell – she wasn't sure how many; the centuries blurred together now – she'd made contacts and met quite a few military men. Most had been just the humble rank-and-file, but not all. Some had been great leaders and one of them was just down the passage. In this small underground city hewn from the natural cave network beneath this spur of the giant encircling city of Dis, the torches lit the dark passage with a flickering, orange light that played off the dry-stone tunnel; above them was thousands of years' worth of soot staining the rock.
The passage branched; before turning left, Rahab looked at the symbol scratched in the rock, as much out of habit as to remind herself; that she'd been this way many, many times over the centuries to consult with the man who lived at its end, behind the simple wooden door that was before her now. She knocked twice, then thrice, a code as old as the resistance. If it's so old, how do we know they don't know? That was a disturbing thought, of the kind she'd been having more and more since the newcomers had arrived with their strange ways.
The door cracked open; a man with heavy eyebrows and what seemed a perpetual frown peered out underneath short golden curls. His face softened as much as it could when he saw who had knocked. “Ah, Rahab. Please come in.” He opened the door wider to allow her to enter, and then shut it behind her.
The room was much like the one she'd left a few minutes before, except that in the fireplace was a fire. In front of the fire was positioned a large wooden table strewn over with piles of dried clay tablets and some parchments. Sitting hunched with his back to her, carefully impressing on a wet tablet with a stylus, was a lithe man of average height, with thin black hair. Standing behind him and looking over his shoulder was a tall, dark, man with a short crew cut and a jutting chin.
At the sound of Rahab's entrance, the man glanced over his shoulder, then smiled broadly, standing up and stretching. “Rahab! Come in! It has been too long!”
Rahab smiled wanly back and embraced him. “Gaius Julius Caesar, it has indeed been too long.”
He returned the hug warmly, then held her at arm's length. “What brings you here, my friend? The changes shaking up this prison we live in?”
The surprise must have been evident on her face because he burst into laughter even before she could ask, “You know about it?”
“Rahab, how long have you known what I've been doing here? I have contacts all over Hell, and I have information constantly coming in.” Caesar smiled. “I know that there are rumors flying all throughout Mekatrig's domain about an invasion of Earth, about Abigor and his expeditionary force, and about a part of the Fifth Ring, along the Styx, where they dare not go. And most of all, of the assassination of Asmodeus. That news made all of the hell ring with its chimes. Have you come to give me a rumor?”
“No,” Rahab said firmly. “I have something far better than a rumor. I have seen it all firsthand.”
Caesar's smile was gone in a flash, and he pulled a chair away from the hearth. “Sit,” he said, gesturing. She sat, he sat, and then she started talking. She told about her first encounter with the four strange escapees, how she'd led them to the holding room, and how they'd disappeared. She told about the explosions that had started echoing across the swamps, how the bridge across the Styx had been destroyed as though it were built of children's blocks, and how the demonic patrols had started disappearing. She told how their shattered, lifeless bodies had started appearing, with the letters “PFLH” scrawled in the greenish blood.
After a little bit, Caesar held up his hand. “Forgive me; I was so happy to see you, I did not offer you refreshments. Pullo, please get our guest some water.” His companion nodded and moved into an adjoining chamber. Caesar nodded at Rahab. “Please. Continue.”
And she did, stopping only to take the cup of water from Titus Pullo. Now, she told of her encounter with the forces, of the assault on the castle she had witnessed. She told of the lightning speed with which the insurgents had moved, of their ability to kill from a distance and to call explosions. As she did so, Lucius Vorenus moved slightly and listened to her words. Always the eternal soldier she thought. And she told of the strange man she had been tasked to hide, the man who was so fascinated with ants. Then she was done, and Caesar stared at the wall, his face hard and unmoving in the firelight. The only clue to his thoughts was the drumming of his heel on the ground, which continued incessantly.
At last, he spoke. “Rahab, I need you to contact the leader of this PFLH. I need to talk to her as soon as possible. Tell her that we will meet on a neutral ground of her choosing. She will know that this means I am approaching her in good faith. I will send Pullo and Vorenus with you; they are to collect the man you brought with you and bring him back here. Now go; go now and may the powerful gods that caused me to be spared down here guard you also.”
Banks of the Phlegethon River, Hell
It wasn’t the way Abigor had described in the last report he had made before his disgrace and desertion. He’d spoken of the human forces lining up behind ridges, ready to hurl their mage-fire bolts into an attacking enemy. That wasn’t how these humans were deploying at all. They were spread out, small strong points forming, each built around four of their iron chariots. There were hundreds of those little forts, arranged in staggered rows with great distances between them, stretching back as far as he could see. The iron chariots were surrounded by earthworks, the red soil of hell piled up in great banks so that only the curious round structures on top of the chariots peered over the crest. Another thing that didn’t make sense, didn’t that provide dead ground close to each little fortress? Beelzebub thought that over carefully.
“The day of glory draws closer master,” Chiknathragothem spoke deferentially to the great demon he served, Satan’s favorite and nearest-thing-to-trusted General. “Soon we shall lead the great charge that will tear these humans apart.”
“I think not.” Beelzebub was still mulling over the sight before him.
“Sire?” That had been an unexpected retort and Chiknathragothem didn’t quite know what to make of it.
“Abigor made a wild charge at the enemy and look where it got him. Defeated and disgraced. We must try to be a little more cunning. Where is Asmodeus’s Army?”
“A day’s march out Sire. Coming up from the south. Two hundred and thirtythree legions including nine cavalry and three fliers. All he had save for the ten he took down to the pit.”
“Where they did him little good eh Chiknathragothem?” The death of Asmodeus was still causing shockwaves throughout Hell. The other Great Dukes had descended on his estates and property with unparalleled avarice, hoping to divide the spoils between themselves. And what spoils there were for Asmodeus had been a rich and powerful Duke, to absorb even a portion of his holdings would enhance the power and status of any noble demon.
That was what had made the next step so inexplicable. Normally Satan encouraged infighting and maneuvering amongst his entourage on the very sensible basis that when they were conspiring against each other, they would not be conspiring against him. But this time Satan Mekratrig had stilled the struggle with a single booming command that had echoed throughout the streets of Dis. Rather like the strange flying chariots of the humans that made no noise when coming but went overhead with a dreadful crash and left a deafening scream behind them. Satan had gathered his court and harangued them all for their disloyalty and treachery, asking them why they fought each other when the humans needed destroying. Only his loyal vassals Beelzebub and Belial were standing by him, he said, while others looked only to their own gain. As a result, the holdings of Asmodeus would be distributed by Satan when the war against the humans was over, and the extent of the rewards would be measured by the service the recipients had provided. And so far, Satan had concluded darkly, that only Belial had qualified.
The thought that Belial might inherit the whole of Asmodeus’s vast holdings had horrified the demon hierarchy. All too many remembered the slights and humiliations they had visited upon him when to do so won them favor in Satan’s eyes. The destruction of Sheffield had added very real fear to the horror, was it not possible that Belial might take his vengeance by doing the same to them? And there were his gorgons to consider; Euryale was well-known for her large collection of cherished and carefully maintained grudges.
“Chiknathragothem, see here where the Phlegethon bends? It turns towards us here, then turns back to its original course for about 20 leagues, then turns away from us before one more returning to its original course.”
Chiknathragothem looked at the parchment with the line of the river drawn on it. The course of the river was primarily a straight line but here, near Dis, there was a great bulge towards the Infernal City. “The humans have set up their defenses here, fortifying this bulge. It is obvious they intend to use it as a launch point for their attack on Dis itself. So, we must strike first, to destroy this position.” Beelzebub thought for a few seconds. “Abigor told us that the humans like to encircle their enemies so that none can get away when they start to destroy them. Perhaps we should do the same.”
“But Sire, if an enemy has no means of retreat, will he not fight harder?”
“Chiknathragothem, Abigor took more than 400,000 with him, 60 Legions. The humans wiped them out, almost to the last. One demon in a thousand returned. Do you seriously think humans can fight any harder than they already have? No, I think not. You will take Asmodeus’s Army and move it here, where the river turns away from Dis. And you will thrust across the river there and move into the rear of the defense along the Phlegethon. I will assign you three additional legions of fliers for the assault. And Belial is sending us 80 Wvverns that he has trained to attack forces on the ground. We will see how humans cope with fire from the sky. My main thrust will be at the upstream bend, and I will also move into their rear. We shall meet behind the great bulge with the human army trapped against the river. And then we will destroy them.
“Think on this Chiknathragothem, had things gone as originally planned, we would be fighting on Earth, far from sight and where the news of our victories would be sung by Heralds. But now, we will win the fight within Satan’s sight, under his own walls. Much will be our glory and great our rewards.”
Conference Room, The White House, Washington D.C.
“What is the news from Sheffield?”
“Cautiously good Mr. President. Our vulcanologist, Keavy McManus, has measured the lava flow and it’s decreasing steadily. Since the eruption started, it has fallen off by around 30 percent and the rate of decline is accelerating. There are shifts in the gas content of the lava and its composition that also indicate that the magma chamber is nearly empty and that means the end of this disaster may be in sight at last.
“Mrs. McManus believes that we didn’t get the full blast from a primary volcano. Her opinion is that the structure that caused this problem is a major caldera with many daughter outlets around it. We got the output from one of those daughters. That would match up with the description of Tartarus we got from Abigor and that Herald creature. Where is he by the way?”
“Abigor, still at Hell-Alpha. Spends most of his time answering our questions or watching war movies. He’s very taken with the Hollywood definition of war. Although that Spartan spearman we found isn’t so enamored, the troops had a showing of “300” and he sat in on it. He was foaming at the mouth by the end and tried to stick his spear through the screen. I hate to think what will happen when our Japanese Samurai sees ‘Kagemusha’.”
“Kagemusha is supposed to be very accurate actually. But I think Zack Snyder had better run for his life if Aeneas finds out where he lives.”
On the great video screen, Gordon Brown drummed his fingers angrily. He wasn’t used to the way American meetings tended to wander off the point sometimes. “Mr. President, I didn’t mean Abigor, I meant the Herald thing that was with him. Menthol, or whatever his name was. What is he doing?”
“ Memnon.” Condoleezza Rice smiled engagingly at the screen. “He’s off doing what he does best, going places in Hell. We can contact him anywhere we want, any time. So, where he is can be very important to us.”
“What Doctor Rice means.” Secretary Warner threw an amused glance at his colleague. She was one of the few people who had contributed her name to the international lexicon. Across the diplomatic world, a Condolee referred to a long, impressive, and reassuring speech that, on close examination said nothing and meant nothing. “Is that Memnon is engaged in an undercover operation of critical importance and we’re not at liberty to say any more than that in case that operation is endangered.”
“That is as may be. But the British people want vengeance for Sheffield.” Brown was truculent, and the other listeners believed he had every right to be. The destruction of Sheffield with its 15,000 dead and rising, had been a hard blow.
“And they shall have it, Gordon. But we must make certain that our vengeance is both appropriate and properly targeted. That blow must make our enemies weep bitter tears, not just for the pain it inflicts but for the harm it causes.”
Brown was silent for a few seconds. He knew what the President was really saying that the vengeance for Sheffield must do real harm to the enemy. For all its horror, Sheffield had not. Which gave rise to the question that had never been satisfactorily answered, why had that city been hit. It was almost pointless, a minimal return for what had surely been a great effort.
“Aye, I can understand that. But the British people, need to see something happen. Can’t we blow something up? We have the weapons, why not use them?”
Senator Warner suddenly looked weary. “I wish we could. But we’re in a long war, we have no idea of how long. We have a rough idea of how big Hell is, and the answer is frightening. The land area of Hell exceeds that of our own world, and it’s all grouped in one great continent. It could take us most of a generation to establish our hold over it and if we’re not careful, we could end up fighting a guerilla war that would last for longer than that. And beyond that, we have the war against heaven. We can be sure those who reside there, have been watching what happens in hell and are casting their plans accordingly. We need to keep as much of our power in reserve as we can. We must release just enough at any given time to maintain our superiority and that’s it.”
“Easy for you to say, Sir. But the political pressure here to do something is overwhelming. It is politically essential that we be seen to take terrible revenge for what has been done to us. There must be some action we can take. If not, I honestly question whether our people’s morale will hold up. It is easy for you to say we should hold on and measure our revenge, but it is not your city that is now a lava pit. Our people go to sleep every night, wondering whether this is the night that a volcano will open over their heads.”
“Perhaps there are some things you can do.” From the screen, General Petraeus spoke, the red sky outside the window of his office revealing that he was speaking directly from Hell. In fact, the transmission was going out by way of a fiber optics cable to a transmitter on the other side of the Hellmouth but that was another matter. A scant few weeks earlier, anybody who claimed that a television transmission from Hell was possible would have been declared insane. That had happened all too often, but those who had been declared insane were due to a major apology. Now it was a mark of insanity not to wear the trademark tinfoil hat.
“In a few hours, perhaps no more than two days, there will be the biggest battle the world has ever seen. We’ve spotted two baldrick armies closing in on our defense line along the Phlegethon River. Between them, they number almost three and a quarter million baldricks. If our intelligence is anything to go by, and our sources have proved reliable to date, this is a major part of the baldrick professional army. We intend to destroy that army and we will be using our tactical air power to achieve a large part of that. That will let the secret of one of our most devastating weapons be out of the bag then. You have your Tornados Mister Brown; we have a map of Dis and we can suggest a few targets that might be highly satisfactory. They’ll act as a curtain-raiser to the main act.” Petraeus hesitated, what he was about to say could endanger humanity’s best hope for preventing further Sheffields. “There is another possibility also. Soon, we will be able to strike directly at the source of these volcano attacks. We need Special Forces troops to do that and our own are already thinly spread supporting the insurgent groups in Hell. Your SAS and SBS troops are well-known as being the best in the world at their trade. If you can ready a strike force, we can, when the time is right, send it in.”
“So something is happening? That is good to know. Thank you, General, I look forward to hearing from you.”
The Ultimate Temple, Heaven
“And what is the news of the war?”
“The Humans have done well, oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. They have breached the defenses of Hell and even now mass for an assault on the eternal enemy in his lair of Dis. The infernal one himself is massing his army to strike back. A great battle is looming, one that will pit our enemies against each other.
“The Infernal Enemy has struck back against the humans in their homes. He has destroyed one of their cities by pouring lava over it.”
There was an affectionate laugh from the great throne that dominated the room. Around the walls, the singers carried on their complex chorus of eternal praise, but some of the words had sunk home into their minds, numbed by countless millennia of repeating the same hymns. The humans were winning the battle against hell, could salvation be at hand? Could there be salvation from salvation?
“That Belial, he always was a joker. Even when the Eternal Enemy seized credit for his destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.”
That was rich thought, Michael, to himself. Considering Yahweh himself had stolen credit for that particular prank.
“The humans are cowering in fear at the destruction?” The amusement in Yahweh’s voice had gone.
“No, oh nameless one, Lord and God of all. There is fear yes, but much more anger. In their own strange words, they are royally pissed off. I think the Eternal Enemy will rue the day he tried that action.”
“Who cares what he will or will not rue. It is the humans who must be made to bend. They denied me my worship. They challenged my rulings. They dared to argue with my divine truths!” The voice rose into a demented scream and for a brief second Yahweh sounded like Satan in one of his more extravagant moods. Then the voice returned to normal. “They must be brought back into the fold; they must be returned to their rightful state of obedience. If the Eternal Enemy cannot do this, then we must. Uriel has been readied; he is planning his attack now. If the humans do not fold before the might of the Eternal Enemy’s army, then they must be made to fold before our anger.”
Underground Caverns, City of Dis
She'd been this way many times, most recently to let others know about the new arrivals, who had slipped back out while she was gone. The new arrivals, were doing things that she'd never have believed if she hadn't seen them with her own eyes. Her thoughts went back to the assault she'd witnessed, how they had magicked down the walls, then moved methodically through the ruins, ruthlessly killing and killing and killing.
How they did it, she didn't know. She'd never been a fighter, preferring instead to ply a different trade, but she'd been in contact with enough soldiers to tell when someone knew what he was doing. Or she, in the case of this Kim. And, during her six to ten thousand years as a free person in Hell – she wasn't sure how many; the centuries blurred together now – she'd made contacts and met quite a few military men. Most had been just the humble rank-and-file, but not all. Some had been great leaders and one of them was just down the passage. In this small underground city hewn from the natural cave network beneath this spur of the giant encircling city of Dis, the torches lit the dark passage with a flickering, orange light that played off the dry-stone tunnel; above them was thousands of years' worth of soot staining the rock.
The passage branched; before turning left, Rahab looked at the symbol scratched in the rock, as much out of habit as to remind herself; that she'd been this way many, many times over the centuries to consult with the man who lived at its end, behind the simple wooden door that was before her now. She knocked twice, then thrice, a code as old as the resistance. If it's so old, how do we know they don't know? That was a disturbing thought, of the kind she'd been having more and more since the newcomers had arrived with their strange ways.
The door cracked open; a man with heavy eyebrows and what seemed a perpetual frown peered out underneath short golden curls. His face softened as much as it could when he saw who had knocked. “Ah, Rahab. Please come in.” He opened the door wider to allow her to enter, and then shut it behind her.
The room was much like the one she'd left a few minutes before, except that in the fireplace was a fire. In front of the fire was positioned a large wooden table strewn over with piles of dried clay tablets and some parchments. Sitting hunched with his back to her, carefully impressing on a wet tablet with a stylus, was a lithe man of average height, with thin black hair. Standing behind him and looking over his shoulder was a tall, dark, man with a short crew cut and a jutting chin.
At the sound of Rahab's entrance, the man glanced over his shoulder, then smiled broadly, standing up and stretching. “Rahab! Come in! It has been too long!”
Rahab smiled wanly back and embraced him. “Gaius Julius Caesar, it has indeed been too long.”
He returned the hug warmly, then held her at arm's length. “What brings you here, my friend? The changes shaking up this prison we live in?”
The surprise must have been evident on her face because he burst into laughter even before she could ask, “You know about it?”
“Rahab, how long have you known what I've been doing here? I have contacts all over Hell, and I have information constantly coming in.” Caesar smiled. “I know that there are rumors flying all throughout Mekatrig's domain about an invasion of Earth, about Abigor and his expeditionary force, and about a part of the Fifth Ring, along the Styx, where they dare not go. And most of all, of the assassination of Asmodeus. That news made all of the hell ring with its chimes. Have you come to give me a rumor?”
“No,” Rahab said firmly. “I have something far better than a rumor. I have seen it all firsthand.”
Caesar's smile was gone in a flash, and he pulled a chair away from the hearth. “Sit,” he said, gesturing. She sat, he sat, and then she started talking. She told about her first encounter with the four strange escapees, how she'd led them to the holding room, and how they'd disappeared. She told about the explosions that had started echoing across the swamps, how the bridge across the Styx had been destroyed as though it were built of children's blocks, and how the demonic patrols had started disappearing. She told how their shattered, lifeless bodies had started appearing, with the letters “PFLH” scrawled in the greenish blood.
After a little bit, Caesar held up his hand. “Forgive me; I was so happy to see you, I did not offer you refreshments. Pullo, please get our guest some water.” His companion nodded and moved into an adjoining chamber. Caesar nodded at Rahab. “Please. Continue.”
And she did, stopping only to take the cup of water from Titus Pullo. Now, she told of her encounter with the forces, of the assault on the castle she had witnessed. She told of the lightning speed with which the insurgents had moved, of their ability to kill from a distance and to call explosions. As she did so, Lucius Vorenus moved slightly and listened to her words. Always the eternal soldier she thought. And she told of the strange man she had been tasked to hide, the man who was so fascinated with ants. Then she was done, and Caesar stared at the wall, his face hard and unmoving in the firelight. The only clue to his thoughts was the drumming of his heel on the ground, which continued incessantly.
At last, he spoke. “Rahab, I need you to contact the leader of this PFLH. I need to talk to her as soon as possible. Tell her that we will meet on a neutral ground of her choosing. She will know that this means I am approaching her in good faith. I will send Pullo and Vorenus with you; they are to collect the man you brought with you and bring him back here. Now go; go now and may the powerful gods that caused me to be spared down here guard you also.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Four
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
"Come on now, clear out, we can't take you after all."
The older man was furious. "Are you insane? Two of us can barely walk and that guy is completely out of it." His mask was still on, and his voice was slightly muffled.
"I'm sorry sir, we have priority orders. There's another unit on the next road over there." Special Constable Amstead gestured towards a row of houses half-hidden by the drifting smoke. "I must ask you to move, now." He put his hand very deliberately on his holstered Smith & Wesson pistol, but it was more the blank uncaring look in his eyes that convinced the evacuees not to argue.
John watched the civvies limp away, the cursing man trying to support the two girls and the younger man trailing listlessly behind. It was a sad sight, but this a was top priority mission. He ducked back into the building, where Constable Hillier was escorting the demoness down the central corridor. He'd managed to splint and bandage her leg and even her damaged wing with a creative application of duct tape, but it was obvious that every step was still a minor agony for the creature.
"Affirmative, the weapons discharge was accidental. A piece of falling debris caught me on the arm, with no injuries. My partner's radio was out, with no cause for alarm. 523 out."
Constable Hillier clicked the radio off. It was lucky they'd found the demon defector first. She'd already been wounded by a unit that obviously shot first and interrogated any survivors later, and if those trigger-happy Home Guard amateurs had gotten to her first they'd have likely finished the job.
"Civvies are clear, we can move her into the van now," John reported.
"My apologies for what happened to you. You did a brave thing coming here." Matthew looked at the demon uncertainly, not sure if he was improving the situation. "I'm sure with your help we can prevent this from happening again."
The gorgon spoke in a silky yet slightly rasping voice. "Yess, of course, but you must get me to that meeting with your king's advisors. I was told to speak only to them."
"Right, you were flying there when you were shot down."
'Probably the SIS Matthew thought. 'Odd, but if that's what she says...' The idea that the demon might be lying was somehow unthinkable. They'd arrived at the van; the sounds of the fire teams and circling aircraft louder than ever but the thick ashen haze rendered them invisible.
"Where did you say the rendezvous was?"
"A small village, a dozen miles to the north of here. I cannot remember the name..." Lakheenahuknaasi tried her best to look sympathetic.
'Poor thing, probably scared out of its wits.' "Barnsley perhaps? No, that's a decent size town..."
"Grimethorpe?" Special Constable Amstead volunteered. He had an aunt who still lived in that run-down sinkhole.
"Yes, that's it, Grim-thorpe!" Lakheenahuknaasi was desperate to escape this awful place, anywhere would do. She climbed into the yawning interior of the iron chariot, shuddering at the feeling of the cursed metal all around her.
“Huh, lucky guess John.”
'How can she be cold in this heat?' Matthew thought. "There's some space blankets and a thermos of tea in the back there." The gorgon blinked at him. "Shout if you need anything else. We'd best be off then." The two police officers shut the rear doors and climbed into the cab. Moments later, the van pulled away and headed north.
DIMO(N) Special Devices Assembly Facility (formerly Payne Whitney Gymnasium Complex), Yale, Connecticut
The raised track formed a convenient balcony for viewing the main assembly area, one which Dr. Kuroneko had taken to spending his breaks in. The repurposed space was packed with tools, workbenches, stacked components, and half-finished subassemblies. Many would not be out of place in any light engineering shop, but some were thoroughly exotic and quite a few had been requisitioned directly from high-energy physics labs. The place was crowded with engineers and technicians of diverse specialties; DIMO(N) drafted whoever they needed (not that coercion was required often) and left no stone unturned in building their tiger team. The work went on 24/7, watched by the heavily armed guards that stood at every entrance.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
The flat voice again. Kuroneko tried not to look startled as he turned to face the newcomer.
“You’ve been approved for deployment over Sheffield.” the man continued “Your project plan implies that you’ll be ready to ship the first device in five more days, correct?”
“If everyone continues to work day and night and there are no more component problems, then yes. But remember that this is just a prototype…”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear, we won’t string you up if it’s a dud. Not the first time anyway.” The man smiled. Kuroneko tried to smile back.
“You’ve got a third prototype under production now?” he continued.
“Yes, but we’re holding further components for the weaponized version. The engineers tell me those superconductors are hell to work with, we’ve trimmed another three hundred kilos off but I’m not sure how much more we can take out.”
“These aviation types don’t look hard enough. I’ll see if I can get you some ICBM RV designers. There’s no one better at shaving ounces.”
Kuroneko didn’t know how this mysterious civilian was going to rustle up nuclear missile builders and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Both men stared out at the work in progress.
“In any case, you’ve been assigned a designation. EBU-5(V)1, prototypes will be mod 0, the first production run will be mod 1. McAlester is turning out the casings for you now, based on the GBU-43 supersize design study. C-17s will be providing emergency capability until we can dedicate B-1s for the role, crews are about to start training in Nevada. Just as soon as we can spray paint some weather balloons black to serve as the targets.”
Kuroneko wished he could tell when this guy was joking. Best to change the subject, the thought.
“What about the early warning? Would you believe, the cellphone companies told us to quit bothering them! Told us to go through the FCC, and they’re a bunch of…”
He was cut off again. “Not a problem. I have it on good authority that they’ll be a presidential order going out in the morning. You’ll have full access to network diagnostics and freedom to reprogram the base stations as needed.”
“Right. Well, that’s great. Thank you.” Kuroneko stammered. “Of course, that’s just, ahh, how do you say, ‘emergency capability’, until the production line for the dedicated sensors is running.”
“Of course.” The man looked at his watch. “Keep up the good work, Doctor.” He walked briskly away, leaving Kuroneko alone.
‘Damn’, the scientist thought, ‘now my coffee’s gone cold’.
Lady Wood, near Grimthorpe, United Kingdom
The big police Transit rolled to a halt on the loose gravel, stopping under the canopy of trees at the end of the disused lane. Two police officers got out and opened the rear doors. An unearthly humanoid form emerged, trailing oversized bat wings and gleaming bronze and silver in the fading afternoon light. The silver came from the mylar blanket that the creature had wrapped around itself like a shroud.
"Are you ok?" Constable Matthew Hillier looked at the demon dubiously.
"Well, enough, human." She flashed a fanged grin. “Your assistance is appreciated.”
"You're sure this is it? There's no sign of anyone else here."
"I was to meet them at a farmhouse, in that direction I believe." The demon pointed into the trees, seemingly at random. "You will escort me of course."
"Of course." Matthew echoed. He was feeling increasingly uneasy about this. There was something wrong here... had someone tricked the demon perhaps? To what end? In any case, they couldn't abandon her. He unslung his MP5 and moved forward.
"That was a close call back at the checkpoint." his partner remarked after a few minutes of walking. “If those yobs hadn't been making a scene, they probably would've searched us.”
“Yeah, then we'd have had some fast talking to do.” Matthew couldn't shake the feeling something was horribly wrong here. The more he thought about it – and for some reason, he hadn't until now – this scenario made no sense. Why were they here? Why had they taken that creature at its word? Suddenly he realized that the demon was no longer beside them. Clarity came a moment too late. The spray of paralyzing darts pierced his back and for the second time, his limbs went rigid before he could draw a bead on the demon. For a moment he stood like a statue, before falling to the ground stiffly. As he fell, he saw that John had suffered the same fate.
Lakheenahuknaasi limped up to the paralyzed humans. They always looked so pitiful, frozen in horror like that. And to think that they'd been trying to show her pity. “It's almost a shame after you've been so helpful.” Clinically, she reached down with a clawed hand and ripped out the first man's throat. “But I'm afraid you've become more trouble than you're worth”. The second man was staring at her in terror; he mumbled something, but it was too slurred for the gorgon to tell whether it was begging or defiance. No matter. She grabbed his throat and squeezed the life out of him. Finally giving in to her instincts, Lakheenahuknaasi dropped to her knees and began to feast.
After half an hour she'd had her fill. The demoness dragged what was left of the bodies into a nearby ditch, concealed them as best she could, and slipped away into the woods.
Underground Caverns City of Dis, Hell
Despite the oppressiveness of being cooped up underground, Richard Dawkins was fully recovered and had been for some time. The professor of biology part of him was only half-conscious of his surroundings, the rest of his mind was riveted on the world around him. As the trauma of his days of torment had slowly died, long after no trace of the hideous burns remained, he'd begun to take note of hell, his scientific training taking over.
Even here, inside this labyrinth of granite caves, he'd examined his environment. The floor was coated with mud, brown, but flecked with what looked a bit like duckweed, or algae of some sort. It was the consistency of cake batter. There were tufts of thick grass growing out of it here and there, but it wasn't like any grass he'd ever seen – short, thick, and serrated. On the walls surrounding him, were strange lichen formations. And the bugs – the bugs were like nothing in his experience.
An evolutionary etymologist by profession, Dawkins had spent his life studying insects. He knew a new species when he saw one, and right now, all the things he was seeing were new species. The flies buzzing around, flitting from wall to wall, light source to light source, were larger and faster than their counterparts back on Earth. The dragonflies that swooped in and out of the shadows that marked the natural origin of this complex did so on iridescent wings that were colored to reflect the environment of Hell, striated orange beneath and muddy brown above. Dawkins supposed that they must have a natural predator, else there would have been no need for camouflage from above.
So, in the true spirit of scientific inquiry (he would not admit to himself that he had nothing better to do at this point), he devoted himself to carefully watching the insects around him for several hours. Finally, he was vindicated as a small, dark-orange bird swept out of the shadows, caught a particularly large and (Dawkins supposed) juicy dragonfly in its beak, and perched on a convenient ledge not two meters from him. As it crunched on its meal, it looked for all the world like a little puffed-up bundle of feathers with two large, black eyes and a short, sharp beak.
Yet for all its differences, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that everything here was similar, somehow, to everything on Earth. The biosystems had to be related somehow; it was all slightly different, slightly off, from the natural ecosystem, but they were so much the same. Certainly not the entirely different life forms one would expect from a completely separated alternate universe. That fitted in with all his observations to date, wherever this place was, it shared a common ancestry with Earth. Or at least the creatures here did. He wondered briefly if they were the, he tried to think of a description, his mind rebelling from using the word soul,
It didn’t help that he wasn’t quite aware of what his exact status was here. Somewhere between a guest and a prisoner and certainly a damned nuisance (literally he reflected bitterly). The door of his room wasn’t locked but he was cautioned that the network of caves was great, and it had dangers all its own. Early in his stay, that woman, Rahab, had taken him for a walk through the tunnels and he had seen a row of ants marching from one crack in the walls to another. They had been the size of his big toe; larger and fatter than any sort of ant he'd ever heard of on Earth. And, they were dark, mud colored. Their pincers were almost certainly able to break the skin; he took some care to take a big step over the line. He’d turned to Rahab and tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
She didn't stop, but flatly shot back, “What?”
“Do you spend much time here?”
“Not as much as I would wish. Do you think I want to get caught out in the open by those demons?”
“Ah.” Dawkins was silent for a moment, then spoke. “Rahab, do you think you can answer a few questions for me?”
She audibly rolled her eyes. “All right.”
“Do you know what kind of ants those are?”
“Ants?” Rahab sounded genuinely surprised. “What ants?”
“The ants we just stepped over.”
For a moment, Rahab cast about her memory. “Ah, those ants. There are a lot of them around here. What about them?”
“Do you know anything about them?” Dawkins asked.
“Not really.” She paused for a second, looked at him, then continued walking forward. After another few minutes, she asked quietly over her shoulder, “What do you care about ants?”
Dawkins, busy scanning the ground for insects, said after a few seconds, “Well, the ecosystem here is fascinating. Those ants aren't like anything back on Earth. So, I'm trying to find out about them, and about all the other plants and animals, to learn more about Hell and what its history must have been.”
Rahab frowned. “You can tell the history of the place just by looking at its plants and animals?”
“A little bit,” said Dawkins. “We can make some surmises as to the evolutionary history of the ecosystem by studying the plants and animals. For example, we can tell how long ago their ancestors came here from Earth, and how much has occurred since then.”
She’d looked at him, bewildered, and shown him the way back to his room. And he’d been here more or less ever since. It was comfortable enough although if Dawkins made it back to Earth, he would never complain about a Ramada Inn again. He’d had nothing to do other than watch the insects and try to work out if any of them were dangerous. He was still mulling over the options there, contact poisons, bites, spitting when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Rahab entered the room, two men behind her. Dawkins recognized the type instantly. Heavies. Muscle. The names varied from country to country, but their kind never did. He didn’t know whether this was a good time to get scared or already too late for that. But, they didn’t look hostile. More curious than anything else.
“Our leader would like to speak with you. We will take you to him and then we must go outside. Do you need help?”
Dawkins relaxed. A little. “No, Rahab, I’m recovered now.” He turned to the two men. “I’m Richard Dawkins.”
“Good for you.” The fair-haired man grunted the words out.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always a bit irritable when Caesar’s alone. I’m Titus Pullo, he’s Lucius Vorenus.”
“The Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus?” Dawkins was stunned.
The big man laughed. “So, you’ve read Caesar’s book then. Spins a good yarn doesn’t he.”
“I’ve read the book, but you’re the stars of a television program as well.”
The big man looked confused. Rahab cut smoothly in. “Don’t worry Titus, none of us understand what he’s saying most of the time. He likes ants though, if you see any, take him to them. They’ll keep him happy for hours.”
Tapton Hall, Western Sheffield, United Kingdom
"Come on now, clear out, we can't take you after all."
The older man was furious. "Are you insane? Two of us can barely walk and that guy is completely out of it." His mask was still on, and his voice was slightly muffled.
"I'm sorry sir, we have priority orders. There's another unit on the next road over there." Special Constable Amstead gestured towards a row of houses half-hidden by the drifting smoke. "I must ask you to move, now." He put his hand very deliberately on his holstered Smith & Wesson pistol, but it was more the blank uncaring look in his eyes that convinced the evacuees not to argue.
John watched the civvies limp away, the cursing man trying to support the two girls and the younger man trailing listlessly behind. It was a sad sight, but this a was top priority mission. He ducked back into the building, where Constable Hillier was escorting the demoness down the central corridor. He'd managed to splint and bandage her leg and even her damaged wing with a creative application of duct tape, but it was obvious that every step was still a minor agony for the creature.
"Affirmative, the weapons discharge was accidental. A piece of falling debris caught me on the arm, with no injuries. My partner's radio was out, with no cause for alarm. 523 out."
Constable Hillier clicked the radio off. It was lucky they'd found the demon defector first. She'd already been wounded by a unit that obviously shot first and interrogated any survivors later, and if those trigger-happy Home Guard amateurs had gotten to her first they'd have likely finished the job.
"Civvies are clear, we can move her into the van now," John reported.
"My apologies for what happened to you. You did a brave thing coming here." Matthew looked at the demon uncertainly, not sure if he was improving the situation. "I'm sure with your help we can prevent this from happening again."
The gorgon spoke in a silky yet slightly rasping voice. "Yess, of course, but you must get me to that meeting with your king's advisors. I was told to speak only to them."
"Right, you were flying there when you were shot down."
'Probably the SIS Matthew thought. 'Odd, but if that's what she says...' The idea that the demon might be lying was somehow unthinkable. They'd arrived at the van; the sounds of the fire teams and circling aircraft louder than ever but the thick ashen haze rendered them invisible.
"Where did you say the rendezvous was?"
"A small village, a dozen miles to the north of here. I cannot remember the name..." Lakheenahuknaasi tried her best to look sympathetic.
'Poor thing, probably scared out of its wits.' "Barnsley perhaps? No, that's a decent size town..."
"Grimethorpe?" Special Constable Amstead volunteered. He had an aunt who still lived in that run-down sinkhole.
"Yes, that's it, Grim-thorpe!" Lakheenahuknaasi was desperate to escape this awful place, anywhere would do. She climbed into the yawning interior of the iron chariot, shuddering at the feeling of the cursed metal all around her.
“Huh, lucky guess John.”
'How can she be cold in this heat?' Matthew thought. "There's some space blankets and a thermos of tea in the back there." The gorgon blinked at him. "Shout if you need anything else. We'd best be off then." The two police officers shut the rear doors and climbed into the cab. Moments later, the van pulled away and headed north.
DIMO(N) Special Devices Assembly Facility (formerly Payne Whitney Gymnasium Complex), Yale, Connecticut
The raised track formed a convenient balcony for viewing the main assembly area, one which Dr. Kuroneko had taken to spending his breaks in. The repurposed space was packed with tools, workbenches, stacked components, and half-finished subassemblies. Many would not be out of place in any light engineering shop, but some were thoroughly exotic and quite a few had been requisitioned directly from high-energy physics labs. The place was crowded with engineers and technicians of diverse specialties; DIMO(N) drafted whoever they needed (not that coercion was required often) and left no stone unturned in building their tiger team. The work went on 24/7, watched by the heavily armed guards that stood at every entrance.
“Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
The flat voice again. Kuroneko tried not to look startled as he turned to face the newcomer.
“You’ve been approved for deployment over Sheffield.” the man continued “Your project plan implies that you’ll be ready to ship the first device in five more days, correct?”
“If everyone continues to work day and night and there are no more component problems, then yes. But remember that this is just a prototype…”
“Yes, you’ve made that clear, we won’t string you up if it’s a dud. Not the first time anyway.” The man smiled. Kuroneko tried to smile back.
“You’ve got a third prototype under production now?” he continued.
“Yes, but we’re holding further components for the weaponized version. The engineers tell me those superconductors are hell to work with, we’ve trimmed another three hundred kilos off but I’m not sure how much more we can take out.”
“These aviation types don’t look hard enough. I’ll see if I can get you some ICBM RV designers. There’s no one better at shaving ounces.”
Kuroneko didn’t know how this mysterious civilian was going to rustle up nuclear missile builders and wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Both men stared out at the work in progress.
“In any case, you’ve been assigned a designation. EBU-5(V)1, prototypes will be mod 0, the first production run will be mod 1. McAlester is turning out the casings for you now, based on the GBU-43 supersize design study. C-17s will be providing emergency capability until we can dedicate B-1s for the role, crews are about to start training in Nevada. Just as soon as we can spray paint some weather balloons black to serve as the targets.”
Kuroneko wished he could tell when this guy was joking. Best to change the subject, the thought.
“What about the early warning? Would you believe, the cellphone companies told us to quit bothering them! Told us to go through the FCC, and they’re a bunch of…”
He was cut off again. “Not a problem. I have it on good authority that they’ll be a presidential order going out in the morning. You’ll have full access to network diagnostics and freedom to reprogram the base stations as needed.”
“Right. Well, that’s great. Thank you.” Kuroneko stammered. “Of course, that’s just, ahh, how do you say, ‘emergency capability’, until the production line for the dedicated sensors is running.”
“Of course.” The man looked at his watch. “Keep up the good work, Doctor.” He walked briskly away, leaving Kuroneko alone.
‘Damn’, the scientist thought, ‘now my coffee’s gone cold’.
Lady Wood, near Grimthorpe, United Kingdom
The big police Transit rolled to a halt on the loose gravel, stopping under the canopy of trees at the end of the disused lane. Two police officers got out and opened the rear doors. An unearthly humanoid form emerged, trailing oversized bat wings and gleaming bronze and silver in the fading afternoon light. The silver came from the mylar blanket that the creature had wrapped around itself like a shroud.
"Are you ok?" Constable Matthew Hillier looked at the demon dubiously.
"Well, enough, human." She flashed a fanged grin. “Your assistance is appreciated.”
"You're sure this is it? There's no sign of anyone else here."
"I was to meet them at a farmhouse, in that direction I believe." The demon pointed into the trees, seemingly at random. "You will escort me of course."
"Of course." Matthew echoed. He was feeling increasingly uneasy about this. There was something wrong here... had someone tricked the demon perhaps? To what end? In any case, they couldn't abandon her. He unslung his MP5 and moved forward.
"That was a close call back at the checkpoint." his partner remarked after a few minutes of walking. “If those yobs hadn't been making a scene, they probably would've searched us.”
“Yeah, then we'd have had some fast talking to do.” Matthew couldn't shake the feeling something was horribly wrong here. The more he thought about it – and for some reason, he hadn't until now – this scenario made no sense. Why were they here? Why had they taken that creature at its word? Suddenly he realized that the demon was no longer beside them. Clarity came a moment too late. The spray of paralyzing darts pierced his back and for the second time, his limbs went rigid before he could draw a bead on the demon. For a moment he stood like a statue, before falling to the ground stiffly. As he fell, he saw that John had suffered the same fate.
Lakheenahuknaasi limped up to the paralyzed humans. They always looked so pitiful, frozen in horror like that. And to think that they'd been trying to show her pity. “It's almost a shame after you've been so helpful.” Clinically, she reached down with a clawed hand and ripped out the first man's throat. “But I'm afraid you've become more trouble than you're worth”. The second man was staring at her in terror; he mumbled something, but it was too slurred for the gorgon to tell whether it was begging or defiance. No matter. She grabbed his throat and squeezed the life out of him. Finally giving in to her instincts, Lakheenahuknaasi dropped to her knees and began to feast.
After half an hour she'd had her fill. The demoness dragged what was left of the bodies into a nearby ditch, concealed them as best she could, and slipped away into the woods.
Underground Caverns City of Dis, Hell
Despite the oppressiveness of being cooped up underground, Richard Dawkins was fully recovered and had been for some time. The professor of biology part of him was only half-conscious of his surroundings, the rest of his mind was riveted on the world around him. As the trauma of his days of torment had slowly died, long after no trace of the hideous burns remained, he'd begun to take note of hell, his scientific training taking over.
Even here, inside this labyrinth of granite caves, he'd examined his environment. The floor was coated with mud, brown, but flecked with what looked a bit like duckweed, or algae of some sort. It was the consistency of cake batter. There were tufts of thick grass growing out of it here and there, but it wasn't like any grass he'd ever seen – short, thick, and serrated. On the walls surrounding him, were strange lichen formations. And the bugs – the bugs were like nothing in his experience.
An evolutionary etymologist by profession, Dawkins had spent his life studying insects. He knew a new species when he saw one, and right now, all the things he was seeing were new species. The flies buzzing around, flitting from wall to wall, light source to light source, were larger and faster than their counterparts back on Earth. The dragonflies that swooped in and out of the shadows that marked the natural origin of this complex did so on iridescent wings that were colored to reflect the environment of Hell, striated orange beneath and muddy brown above. Dawkins supposed that they must have a natural predator, else there would have been no need for camouflage from above.
So, in the true spirit of scientific inquiry (he would not admit to himself that he had nothing better to do at this point), he devoted himself to carefully watching the insects around him for several hours. Finally, he was vindicated as a small, dark-orange bird swept out of the shadows, caught a particularly large and (Dawkins supposed) juicy dragonfly in its beak, and perched on a convenient ledge not two meters from him. As it crunched on its meal, it looked for all the world like a little puffed-up bundle of feathers with two large, black eyes and a short, sharp beak.
Yet for all its differences, the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that everything here was similar, somehow, to everything on Earth. The biosystems had to be related somehow; it was all slightly different, slightly off, from the natural ecosystem, but they were so much the same. Certainly not the entirely different life forms one would expect from a completely separated alternate universe. That fitted in with all his observations to date, wherever this place was, it shared a common ancestry with Earth. Or at least the creatures here did. He wondered briefly if they were the, he tried to think of a description, his mind rebelling from using the word soul,
It didn’t help that he wasn’t quite aware of what his exact status was here. Somewhere between a guest and a prisoner and certainly a damned nuisance (literally he reflected bitterly). The door of his room wasn’t locked but he was cautioned that the network of caves was great, and it had dangers all its own. Early in his stay, that woman, Rahab, had taken him for a walk through the tunnels and he had seen a row of ants marching from one crack in the walls to another. They had been the size of his big toe; larger and fatter than any sort of ant he'd ever heard of on Earth. And, they were dark, mud colored. Their pincers were almost certainly able to break the skin; he took some care to take a big step over the line. He’d turned to Rahab and tapped her on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
She didn't stop, but flatly shot back, “What?”
“Do you spend much time here?”
“Not as much as I would wish. Do you think I want to get caught out in the open by those demons?”
“Ah.” Dawkins was silent for a moment, then spoke. “Rahab, do you think you can answer a few questions for me?”
She audibly rolled her eyes. “All right.”
“Do you know what kind of ants those are?”
“Ants?” Rahab sounded genuinely surprised. “What ants?”
“The ants we just stepped over.”
For a moment, Rahab cast about her memory. “Ah, those ants. There are a lot of them around here. What about them?”
“Do you know anything about them?” Dawkins asked.
“Not really.” She paused for a second, looked at him, then continued walking forward. After another few minutes, she asked quietly over her shoulder, “What do you care about ants?”
Dawkins, busy scanning the ground for insects, said after a few seconds, “Well, the ecosystem here is fascinating. Those ants aren't like anything back on Earth. So, I'm trying to find out about them, and about all the other plants and animals, to learn more about Hell and what its history must have been.”
Rahab frowned. “You can tell the history of the place just by looking at its plants and animals?”
“A little bit,” said Dawkins. “We can make some surmises as to the evolutionary history of the ecosystem by studying the plants and animals. For example, we can tell how long ago their ancestors came here from Earth, and how much has occurred since then.”
She’d looked at him, bewildered, and shown him the way back to his room. And he’d been here more or less ever since. It was comfortable enough although if Dawkins made it back to Earth, he would never complain about a Ramada Inn again. He’d had nothing to do other than watch the insects and try to work out if any of them were dangerous. He was still mulling over the options there, contact poisons, bites, spitting when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Rahab entered the room, two men behind her. Dawkins recognized the type instantly. Heavies. Muscle. The names varied from country to country, but their kind never did. He didn’t know whether this was a good time to get scared or already too late for that. But, they didn’t look hostile. More curious than anything else.
“Our leader would like to speak with you. We will take you to him and then we must go outside. Do you need help?”
Dawkins relaxed. A little. “No, Rahab, I’m recovered now.” He turned to the two men. “I’m Richard Dawkins.”
“Good for you.” The fair-haired man grunted the words out.
“Don’t mind him. He’s always a bit irritable when Caesar’s alone. I’m Titus Pullo, he’s Lucius Vorenus.”
“The Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus?” Dawkins was stunned.
The big man laughed. “So, you’ve read Caesar’s book then. Spins a good yarn doesn’t he.”
“I’ve read the book, but you’re the stars of a television program as well.”
The big man looked confused. Rahab cut smoothly in. “Don’t worry Titus, none of us understand what he’s saying most of the time. He likes ants though, if you see any, take him to them. They’ll keep him happy for hours.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Five
Belial’s Study, Adamantine Fastness of Tartarus, Hell
Of course, Belial never sat with his back to a door. No demon made it past squad leader without learning such basic common sense. Thus, when Euryale entered, she was immediately met by the count’s calculating stare. She made no sign of having noticed it though, instead of concentrating on bringing the food she had prepared for him to his table. She’d made certain that the tray held everything he liked and nothing that he did not. Once Belial’s meal was laid out, she sat quietly on the couch beside him, saying nothing. Belial was very familiar with this game, but still drunk on the success he was in the mood to let it play out. He continued to stare at the meal laid out on the table, aware that the Euryale’s tail had curved around his leg and its tip was caressing the back of his thigh.
“Satan Mekratrig is pleased with my success. He has named me as one who stands beside him and is in his favor.”
“My Lord. Baroness Yulupki is in position with her chorus. The second attack, on Dee-Troyt, will commence when you give the word.” Her voice was quiet and respectful, but her tail continued to move suggestively up his leg, its tip now reaching his knee. The torchlight was glittering off her smooth bronze scales. Conniving little harpy. Belial thought though the constantly moving tail curling around his lower leg was rather distracting. Still as comely as ever though.
“And then Satan will indeed reward me and grant me back the power I once had. This raises the question of what to do with you, Euryale. Your display tonight was unforgivable.” Mentally, Belial gulped, her tail had now reached his groin, and thinking straight was becoming ever more difficult. “You must be punished for your insubordination.
“I am in great fear of your punishment Belial.” Euryale put a distinct tremor into her voice, one that was either lust or fear and there was no way of telling which. In fact, the answer was neither but that didn’t really matter. She twitched the tip of her tail and saw Belial jump slightly. You ignorant oaf, half your court wants to rebel against you, and the other half just wants to assassinate you. The only thing stopping them is they don’t regard Tartarus as being worth the risk. As soon as you have something worth usurping, they’ll be at your throat. If it didn’t suit me to have you on the throne… the tip of her tail had reached up and now was circling Belial’s penis.
Any hope Belial had of thinking straight had long gone. Ah well, may as well go with the flow was the one thought that was running through his mind. He lurched upwards, getting to his feet and dragging Euryale up with him at the same time. Then, he pulled the demoness off the couch and slung her over his shoulder before he carried her through an archway and flung her onto a sleeping pallet. Euryale landed heavily on her back and splayed out on the matted fungus. The briefest flicker of fear crossed her face before her features melted into a look of unbridled lust. Belial couldn’t tell if she was faking that or not, but his matching expression was certainly genuine.
Outside, the listening orcs heard the intense screams and were indeed convinced that most horrible torture was being inflicted. By the time the story had been elaborated and repeated, it was enough to chill the blood of even the most ruthless of Belial’s minions.
Half an hour later, Belial was back in his study, staring dreamily through the window (or rather, trident firing loophole). This owed less to the massage Euryale was giving him than to the series of drugged darts she’d managed to administer while the count was quite thoroughly distracted. It was a tactic she used most sparingly, due to the likely horrible consequences of him realizing what she was doing, but in this case, she’d considered it justified.
“Yes, such a shame really, losing brave Lasee-urk-nasee.”
Euryale sighed mentally. “, Lakheenahuknaasi survived. She contacted me just an hour ago, of course, I came to see you immediately. She says that she was intercepted by a human sky chariot and gravely wounded. Lakheenahuknasi thinks we must minimize the time between sending the pathfinder and the strike itself. If we do that, her sister will have a much better chance of survival.”
“Of course. Your handmaiden is alive? I expect you will want to retrieve her then?”
“Actually, I convinced her to stay for a while. She said that it may be possible to build a small cult of humans and that from them she can learn much of value to you.”
The idea of any of his subjects having a private cult didn’t sit easily with Belial, but then again, they were only humans. After the immense effort it had taken to find the first two targets, the prospect of his own intelligence network on earth was tantalizing, however modest its beginnings.
“Most pleasing, Euryale. What has she discovered so far?”
“Alas, she is still evading human pursuit and has not had time to gather much yet. But think on this my Lord, we both know how much influence Deumos gains just from her legion of succubi – yet she could not warn us of the human magery. My handmaiden has shown that given the chance, we gorgons can provide you with a superior spy network. How much would that be worth at Merkatrig’s court?”
The offer would have been tempting anyway, had she managed to get the count to hear it out, but in his current state, it was irresistible.
“Very well. We attack De Troyt immediately and we use a Nephilim as close to the target as possible. The search must begin immediately, to be sure of finding one who can travel there in time.” Suddenly energized, Belial stormed out of his chambers, bellowing for servants and messengers as he made his way to the great hall. Euryale followed behind, savoring a smug grin before she had to begin her performance for the nobles.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division Phlegethon River Front Hell
“Bratischka, many times we have said that the spirits of our ancestors look down upon us but this time, it is true. They are there, Bratischka, there beyond the river. There, the heroes who defended the Bagration flèches, who fought to hold Port Arthur, who defended the Rodina against the Germans, they wait for us. There are gallant comrades who held the ruins of Stalingrad, who broke the fascist beast on the fields of Kursk, and who chased him all the way back to his lair in Berlin, they wait for us. Everything we have we owe to them, everything we are, is because they sacrificed everything for us. Now it is our turn to fight and repay our debt to them. Now it is our turn to break the armies of hell on our armor and send them scurrying away under the lash of our guns. Bratischka, the Americans won a great victory in the desert of Iraq fighting these same enemies. Can we show ourselves to be less than them? I say no! I say we should show the Americans how a Russian Army fights! I say we should score such a victory today that the world will be in awe of our power and the enemy shall tremble at the thought of fighting us again!”
Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov, standing on the back of the BMP-2 armored personnel carrier, looked down at the cheering men in his little command. Three BMP-2s, and one Tunguska air defense system. Not so much as things went but one of the hundreds of dug-in strong points that defended the front. Miles deep, each strongpoint covering the others so not one inch of ground was left unswept by heavy automatic weapons. The BMPs had been modified, they each had two AGS-17 grenade machine guns mounted on their rear decking to provide that extra bit of close-in firepower. Outside the earth banks, the ground was covered with wire entanglements and under them were the mines, hundreds of thousands of them. As a final thought, the riverbanks were crisscrossed with trenches, each carefully calculated to be deep enough and wide enough to catch a rhino-lobster’s hooves and send it sprawling onto the ground.
And far to the rear was the Final Argument. Artillery. Guns were lined up in a density unheard of since Zhukov and Koniev had raced to capture Berlin. In fact, some of the guns had fought at the Battle of Berlin and had been taken out of the storage where they had slept for so many years. Guns, 122mm and upwards, salvo rocket launchers, and the short-range ballistic missiles that could deliver their own special kind of hell. Further behind them were the aircraft, British, American, Russian, Israeli, Indian, Chinese, and other nations too many to remember. All brought together to do one thing. To turn this stretch of the river into a killing ground the like of which had never been seen before.
Piquette Street, Detroit, Michigan
The tremors, the voices, the migraines; Donnie Cook was used to all of these. Indeed, in the long, agonizing periods between hits, he had often fancied himself to already be in hell. For three years now, heroin had been his demon, the black tar forcing him to beg, to steal, to prey on the unwary, whatever it took to keep the craving at bay. Now all that seemed like just the warm-up. Hell had come to him and made him its own.
Donnie stumbled through the abandoned factory, his emaciated body moving with the jerkiness of a puppet. In truth Baron Zatheoplekkar was having some trouble controlling the human; its whole nervous system seemed to be warped and damaged by the many cocktails of poisons it had consumed. To the demon, it almost seemed that to kill this pathetic creature would be doing it a favor, and that took the fun out of it.
The man’s wasted form jerked to a halt in the center of the ground floor, the puppet master seemingly satisfied that the ruined building was deserted. For over a minute he just stood there, twitching and staring wildly. At last, the black disc of the portal swelled into existence, briefly surrounded by a carpet of tiny sparks as the wash of energy hit the rusting junk littering the floor. The gorilla-like forms of lesser demons began to emerge from the blackness, their tridents held low as they fanned out through the structure. Another minute passed before a single final creature emerged, closer to human in form if one could ignore the writhing hairlike tentacles and great folded wings.
To Donnie, the creature seemed anorexically thin yet moved with a flowing grace that only heightened the sense of being faced by a deadly humanoid snake. The female demon was within an arm’s length of him now and her stare bored into him. Fight fought flight as he alternately wanted to scream and run, or club and stab the monstrosity, but all he managed was a series of low moans. Animal yelps and screams echoed off the crumbling walls before cutting off sharply.
Megaaeraholrakni cocked her head at the approach of the strike leader. “I ssee that they are jusst as pathetic on thiss plane as they are in the miness.” Her imperious gaze switched from the possessed human to the demon. “No others witnessed my arrival?”
“No humans here, gorgon. Just those.” He gestured at a pair of his demons approaching with the broken bodies of stray dogs dangling from their claws. Their expressions showed a clear disappointment at the lack of fresh human meat on this mission, but a determination to make the most of it anyway. “A fitting audience for your grand entrance.”
The gorgon hissed and thrust out her arm at the insolent demon. A bright bolt leaped from her claws and stuck the strike leader, leaving him reeling and roaring defiance. “Go! Before I fry the lot of you!” Megaaeraholrakni screamed, her form glowing with witchfire. She exchanged a long stare with her opponent before he decided that it wasn't worth risking the count's wrath. At a silent signal from their commander, the growling lesser demons began to file back through the black disc and disappear. “And take that wretch with you!” The last demon in line dragged the human through the portal, which promptly shimmered and vanished.
Her flickering aura relaxed as Megaaeraholrakni released the psychic force. In truth, she could not have done much more; her kind was not built to fling lightning the way the naga were and it had taken her millennia of practice just to achieve the limited aptitude she had. No need for lesser beings to know that of course. She made her way to the staircase and from there to the highest floor of the crumbling building (a disused storehouse perhaps? she couldn’t tell and didn’t particularly care). A large section had collapsed completely, revealing a panorama filled with more nondescript boxy buildings, all made of the humans' odd artificial stone and many in a similar state of disrepair.
Like Lakheenahuknaasi before her, she recoiled in distaste from the telepathic clamor which filled the human’s realm. Megaaeraholrakni was undeniably the superior witch though, or perhaps just less interested in comprehending the human babble, for within ten seconds she had pushed through the barrier to contact her queen. It was time for this place to burn so that this silly rebellion could end, and she could get back to her studies.
Free Hell, Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle, Hell
You Are Now Entering Free Hell
The sign meant that they’d done it. For the first time in its history, there was an area of Hell where humans ruled. After the assassination of Asmodeus, the baldricks had stopped their advance and dug in. A de-facto border now existed, on one side of it the Baldricks continued their network of fortifications, on the other, humans had established their own administration. An uneasy truce existed between them, one that could be summarized from the human point of view as “don’t put your hoof over the border and we won’t blow it off”. It seemed like a small, practical agreement but in reality, it was an epoch-defining defeat for the baldricks. They’d been forced to deal with the dead humans as equals and concede ground to them.
“Friend, if I could speak with thee for a moment. I have a request for thine attention.”
The archaic language snapped Lieutenant (deceased) Jade King’s attention back to the reality of Free Hell. For a moment, she thought that it was one of the recovered dead, but the breathing mask showed it was a volunteer from Earth, one who had come to help with the task of finding the victims of this place and rescuing them.
“There’s a problem?”
“There is a friend. Many have been rescued from the swamps and have recovered enough to travel. Some wish to stay here with thee to fight.” The speaker’s voice showed his dislike of that concept. “Others, they wish to leave this place. Can thou contact earth and arrange a way out for them?”
Kim relaxed; this had been anticipated. “Some don’t like our company huh. They know they can’t survive on Earth, right?”
“They have been told this, yes. And they understand but still wish to leave.”
“Well, they can. The plan is we’ll portal them back to Earth and then they’ll be relayed straight back to an area of Hell that’s under human control.” To her amusement, her companion looked around in alarm. “No, not like this one. We’re holding a pretty big area between the Phlegethon River and the sea; it is called the Martial Plain of Dysprosium. There’re refugee camps being set in there for the people we rescue. They’ll be looked after until we’ve won. I have no idea what will happen then, I don’t think anybody has. The catch is, I can’t contact out, DIMO(N) must contact me. We have a schedule for that. Next contact is in a few hours, get the evacuees ready to move then.”
“Thou are kind. Thank you.”
The man turned to leave but Kim was seized with curiosity. “Excuse me, but could I ask a question of you?”
“Certainly friend. I will answer if I can.”
“How come you people didn’t just die when we got The Message. A lot of religious people did, too many of course. But none of your people. Why?”
The Quaker smiled gently beneath his mask. “Friend, hast thou ever heard of Testimony of Integrity?” Kim shook her head. “It is one of our central beliefs. It says that we should always tell the truth, but it means more than that. It means we should always deal fairly with people; we do not believe we should trick others by making statements that are technically true but whose meaning is false. It is our belief that this is how God deals with us and we deal with others. When the Message came, it did so as an inner revelation at our meetings. Those who received it stood to testify but at once there were doubts as to whether this was a true revelation for it ran against the Testimony of Integrity. How could a God who had for so long demanded we base our lives around the concept of fair dealing countenance such an enormous betrayal? Surely this could not be so, The Message was a trick, perhaps by Satan himself. So, our meetings all decided to wait and see what would happen. Then the fighting started, we saw the baldricks invade and we heard what they did. We still do not believe that The Message came from Our God, but it does not matter. The Message was true, and we must wait to see what the whole truth is. Before then, our beliefs, the Testimony of Peace does not allow us to fight but it does allow us to come here and aid those who have suffered for all too long. So here we are.”
Rather you than me Kim thought to herself. Better to fight baldricks than spend an eternity scrambling around in the mud, finding souls in torment here and then rescuing them. Unconsciously she shifted the M115 on her shoulder. Especially since modern weapons gave her such an enormous advantage over her enemies. The baldricks had numbers but even that advantage would fade as more and more souls were liberated from the torment in which they were held. And that, of course, raised issues all its own.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a long rolling thunder, one that was very far away yet she could still feel the vibrations through her feet. The Quaker was standing politely beside her, waiting for her to speak again, but the sound made him glance up.
“I did not know that there were thunderstorms in this place.”
“There are not,” Kim spoke absently. “That’s artillery fire.”
Belial’s Study, Adamantine Fastness of Tartarus, Hell
Of course, Belial never sat with his back to a door. No demon made it past squad leader without learning such basic common sense. Thus, when Euryale entered, she was immediately met by the count’s calculating stare. She made no sign of having noticed it though, instead of concentrating on bringing the food she had prepared for him to his table. She’d made certain that the tray held everything he liked and nothing that he did not. Once Belial’s meal was laid out, she sat quietly on the couch beside him, saying nothing. Belial was very familiar with this game, but still drunk on the success he was in the mood to let it play out. He continued to stare at the meal laid out on the table, aware that the Euryale’s tail had curved around his leg and its tip was caressing the back of his thigh.
“Satan Mekratrig is pleased with my success. He has named me as one who stands beside him and is in his favor.”
“My Lord. Baroness Yulupki is in position with her chorus. The second attack, on Dee-Troyt, will commence when you give the word.” Her voice was quiet and respectful, but her tail continued to move suggestively up his leg, its tip now reaching his knee. The torchlight was glittering off her smooth bronze scales. Conniving little harpy. Belial thought though the constantly moving tail curling around his lower leg was rather distracting. Still as comely as ever though.
“And then Satan will indeed reward me and grant me back the power I once had. This raises the question of what to do with you, Euryale. Your display tonight was unforgivable.” Mentally, Belial gulped, her tail had now reached his groin, and thinking straight was becoming ever more difficult. “You must be punished for your insubordination.
“I am in great fear of your punishment Belial.” Euryale put a distinct tremor into her voice, one that was either lust or fear and there was no way of telling which. In fact, the answer was neither but that didn’t really matter. She twitched the tip of her tail and saw Belial jump slightly. You ignorant oaf, half your court wants to rebel against you, and the other half just wants to assassinate you. The only thing stopping them is they don’t regard Tartarus as being worth the risk. As soon as you have something worth usurping, they’ll be at your throat. If it didn’t suit me to have you on the throne… the tip of her tail had reached up and now was circling Belial’s penis.
Any hope Belial had of thinking straight had long gone. Ah well, may as well go with the flow was the one thought that was running through his mind. He lurched upwards, getting to his feet and dragging Euryale up with him at the same time. Then, he pulled the demoness off the couch and slung her over his shoulder before he carried her through an archway and flung her onto a sleeping pallet. Euryale landed heavily on her back and splayed out on the matted fungus. The briefest flicker of fear crossed her face before her features melted into a look of unbridled lust. Belial couldn’t tell if she was faking that or not, but his matching expression was certainly genuine.
Outside, the listening orcs heard the intense screams and were indeed convinced that most horrible torture was being inflicted. By the time the story had been elaborated and repeated, it was enough to chill the blood of even the most ruthless of Belial’s minions.
Half an hour later, Belial was back in his study, staring dreamily through the window (or rather, trident firing loophole). This owed less to the massage Euryale was giving him than to the series of drugged darts she’d managed to administer while the count was quite thoroughly distracted. It was a tactic she used most sparingly, due to the likely horrible consequences of him realizing what she was doing, but in this case, she’d considered it justified.
“Yes, such a shame really, losing brave Lasee-urk-nasee.”
Euryale sighed mentally. “, Lakheenahuknaasi survived. She contacted me just an hour ago, of course, I came to see you immediately. She says that she was intercepted by a human sky chariot and gravely wounded. Lakheenahuknasi thinks we must minimize the time between sending the pathfinder and the strike itself. If we do that, her sister will have a much better chance of survival.”
“Of course. Your handmaiden is alive? I expect you will want to retrieve her then?”
“Actually, I convinced her to stay for a while. She said that it may be possible to build a small cult of humans and that from them she can learn much of value to you.”
The idea of any of his subjects having a private cult didn’t sit easily with Belial, but then again, they were only humans. After the immense effort it had taken to find the first two targets, the prospect of his own intelligence network on earth was tantalizing, however modest its beginnings.
“Most pleasing, Euryale. What has she discovered so far?”
“Alas, she is still evading human pursuit and has not had time to gather much yet. But think on this my Lord, we both know how much influence Deumos gains just from her legion of succubi – yet she could not warn us of the human magery. My handmaiden has shown that given the chance, we gorgons can provide you with a superior spy network. How much would that be worth at Merkatrig’s court?”
The offer would have been tempting anyway, had she managed to get the count to hear it out, but in his current state, it was irresistible.
“Very well. We attack De Troyt immediately and we use a Nephilim as close to the target as possible. The search must begin immediately, to be sure of finding one who can travel there in time.” Suddenly energized, Belial stormed out of his chambers, bellowing for servants and messengers as he made his way to the great hall. Euryale followed behind, savoring a smug grin before she had to begin her performance for the nobles.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division Phlegethon River Front Hell
“Bratischka, many times we have said that the spirits of our ancestors look down upon us but this time, it is true. They are there, Bratischka, there beyond the river. There, the heroes who defended the Bagration flèches, who fought to hold Port Arthur, who defended the Rodina against the Germans, they wait for us. There are gallant comrades who held the ruins of Stalingrad, who broke the fascist beast on the fields of Kursk, and who chased him all the way back to his lair in Berlin, they wait for us. Everything we have we owe to them, everything we are, is because they sacrificed everything for us. Now it is our turn to fight and repay our debt to them. Now it is our turn to break the armies of hell on our armor and send them scurrying away under the lash of our guns. Bratischka, the Americans won a great victory in the desert of Iraq fighting these same enemies. Can we show ourselves to be less than them? I say no! I say we should show the Americans how a Russian Army fights! I say we should score such a victory today that the world will be in awe of our power and the enemy shall tremble at the thought of fighting us again!”
Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov, standing on the back of the BMP-2 armored personnel carrier, looked down at the cheering men in his little command. Three BMP-2s, and one Tunguska air defense system. Not so much as things went but one of the hundreds of dug-in strong points that defended the front. Miles deep, each strongpoint covering the others so not one inch of ground was left unswept by heavy automatic weapons. The BMPs had been modified, they each had two AGS-17 grenade machine guns mounted on their rear decking to provide that extra bit of close-in firepower. Outside the earth banks, the ground was covered with wire entanglements and under them were the mines, hundreds of thousands of them. As a final thought, the riverbanks were crisscrossed with trenches, each carefully calculated to be deep enough and wide enough to catch a rhino-lobster’s hooves and send it sprawling onto the ground.
And far to the rear was the Final Argument. Artillery. Guns were lined up in a density unheard of since Zhukov and Koniev had raced to capture Berlin. In fact, some of the guns had fought at the Battle of Berlin and had been taken out of the storage where they had slept for so many years. Guns, 122mm and upwards, salvo rocket launchers, and the short-range ballistic missiles that could deliver their own special kind of hell. Further behind them were the aircraft, British, American, Russian, Israeli, Indian, Chinese, and other nations too many to remember. All brought together to do one thing. To turn this stretch of the river into a killing ground the like of which had never been seen before.
Piquette Street, Detroit, Michigan
The tremors, the voices, the migraines; Donnie Cook was used to all of these. Indeed, in the long, agonizing periods between hits, he had often fancied himself to already be in hell. For three years now, heroin had been his demon, the black tar forcing him to beg, to steal, to prey on the unwary, whatever it took to keep the craving at bay. Now all that seemed like just the warm-up. Hell had come to him and made him its own.
Donnie stumbled through the abandoned factory, his emaciated body moving with the jerkiness of a puppet. In truth Baron Zatheoplekkar was having some trouble controlling the human; its whole nervous system seemed to be warped and damaged by the many cocktails of poisons it had consumed. To the demon, it almost seemed that to kill this pathetic creature would be doing it a favor, and that took the fun out of it.
The man’s wasted form jerked to a halt in the center of the ground floor, the puppet master seemingly satisfied that the ruined building was deserted. For over a minute he just stood there, twitching and staring wildly. At last, the black disc of the portal swelled into existence, briefly surrounded by a carpet of tiny sparks as the wash of energy hit the rusting junk littering the floor. The gorilla-like forms of lesser demons began to emerge from the blackness, their tridents held low as they fanned out through the structure. Another minute passed before a single final creature emerged, closer to human in form if one could ignore the writhing hairlike tentacles and great folded wings.
To Donnie, the creature seemed anorexically thin yet moved with a flowing grace that only heightened the sense of being faced by a deadly humanoid snake. The female demon was within an arm’s length of him now and her stare bored into him. Fight fought flight as he alternately wanted to scream and run, or club and stab the monstrosity, but all he managed was a series of low moans. Animal yelps and screams echoed off the crumbling walls before cutting off sharply.
Megaaeraholrakni cocked her head at the approach of the strike leader. “I ssee that they are jusst as pathetic on thiss plane as they are in the miness.” Her imperious gaze switched from the possessed human to the demon. “No others witnessed my arrival?”
“No humans here, gorgon. Just those.” He gestured at a pair of his demons approaching with the broken bodies of stray dogs dangling from their claws. Their expressions showed a clear disappointment at the lack of fresh human meat on this mission, but a determination to make the most of it anyway. “A fitting audience for your grand entrance.”
The gorgon hissed and thrust out her arm at the insolent demon. A bright bolt leaped from her claws and stuck the strike leader, leaving him reeling and roaring defiance. “Go! Before I fry the lot of you!” Megaaeraholrakni screamed, her form glowing with witchfire. She exchanged a long stare with her opponent before he decided that it wasn't worth risking the count's wrath. At a silent signal from their commander, the growling lesser demons began to file back through the black disc and disappear. “And take that wretch with you!” The last demon in line dragged the human through the portal, which promptly shimmered and vanished.
Her flickering aura relaxed as Megaaeraholrakni released the psychic force. In truth, she could not have done much more; her kind was not built to fling lightning the way the naga were and it had taken her millennia of practice just to achieve the limited aptitude she had. No need for lesser beings to know that of course. She made her way to the staircase and from there to the highest floor of the crumbling building (a disused storehouse perhaps? she couldn’t tell and didn’t particularly care). A large section had collapsed completely, revealing a panorama filled with more nondescript boxy buildings, all made of the humans' odd artificial stone and many in a similar state of disrepair.
Like Lakheenahuknaasi before her, she recoiled in distaste from the telepathic clamor which filled the human’s realm. Megaaeraholrakni was undeniably the superior witch though, or perhaps just less interested in comprehending the human babble, for within ten seconds she had pushed through the barrier to contact her queen. It was time for this place to burn so that this silly rebellion could end, and she could get back to her studies.
Free Hell, Banks of the River Styx, Fifth Circle, Hell
You Are Now Entering Free Hell
The sign meant that they’d done it. For the first time in its history, there was an area of Hell where humans ruled. After the assassination of Asmodeus, the baldricks had stopped their advance and dug in. A de-facto border now existed, on one side of it the Baldricks continued their network of fortifications, on the other, humans had established their own administration. An uneasy truce existed between them, one that could be summarized from the human point of view as “don’t put your hoof over the border and we won’t blow it off”. It seemed like a small, practical agreement but in reality, it was an epoch-defining defeat for the baldricks. They’d been forced to deal with the dead humans as equals and concede ground to them.
“Friend, if I could speak with thee for a moment. I have a request for thine attention.”
The archaic language snapped Lieutenant (deceased) Jade King’s attention back to the reality of Free Hell. For a moment, she thought that it was one of the recovered dead, but the breathing mask showed it was a volunteer from Earth, one who had come to help with the task of finding the victims of this place and rescuing them.
“There’s a problem?”
“There is a friend. Many have been rescued from the swamps and have recovered enough to travel. Some wish to stay here with thee to fight.” The speaker’s voice showed his dislike of that concept. “Others, they wish to leave this place. Can thou contact earth and arrange a way out for them?”
Kim relaxed; this had been anticipated. “Some don’t like our company huh. They know they can’t survive on Earth, right?”
“They have been told this, yes. And they understand but still wish to leave.”
“Well, they can. The plan is we’ll portal them back to Earth and then they’ll be relayed straight back to an area of Hell that’s under human control.” To her amusement, her companion looked around in alarm. “No, not like this one. We’re holding a pretty big area between the Phlegethon River and the sea; it is called the Martial Plain of Dysprosium. There’re refugee camps being set in there for the people we rescue. They’ll be looked after until we’ve won. I have no idea what will happen then, I don’t think anybody has. The catch is, I can’t contact out, DIMO(N) must contact me. We have a schedule for that. Next contact is in a few hours, get the evacuees ready to move then.”
“Thou are kind. Thank you.”
The man turned to leave but Kim was seized with curiosity. “Excuse me, but could I ask a question of you?”
“Certainly friend. I will answer if I can.”
“How come you people didn’t just die when we got The Message. A lot of religious people did, too many of course. But none of your people. Why?”
The Quaker smiled gently beneath his mask. “Friend, hast thou ever heard of Testimony of Integrity?” Kim shook her head. “It is one of our central beliefs. It says that we should always tell the truth, but it means more than that. It means we should always deal fairly with people; we do not believe we should trick others by making statements that are technically true but whose meaning is false. It is our belief that this is how God deals with us and we deal with others. When the Message came, it did so as an inner revelation at our meetings. Those who received it stood to testify but at once there were doubts as to whether this was a true revelation for it ran against the Testimony of Integrity. How could a God who had for so long demanded we base our lives around the concept of fair dealing countenance such an enormous betrayal? Surely this could not be so, The Message was a trick, perhaps by Satan himself. So, our meetings all decided to wait and see what would happen. Then the fighting started, we saw the baldricks invade and we heard what they did. We still do not believe that The Message came from Our God, but it does not matter. The Message was true, and we must wait to see what the whole truth is. Before then, our beliefs, the Testimony of Peace does not allow us to fight but it does allow us to come here and aid those who have suffered for all too long. So here we are.”
Rather you than me Kim thought to herself. Better to fight baldricks than spend an eternity scrambling around in the mud, finding souls in torment here and then rescuing them. Unconsciously she shifted the M115 on her shoulder. Especially since modern weapons gave her such an enormous advantage over her enemies. The baldricks had numbers but even that advantage would fade as more and more souls were liberated from the torment in which they were held. And that, of course, raised issues all its own.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a long rolling thunder, one that was very far away yet she could still feel the vibrations through her feet. The Quaker was standing politely beside her, waiting for her to speak again, but the sound made him glance up.
“I did not know that there were thunderstorms in this place.”
“There are not,” Kim spoke absently. “That’s artillery fire.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Six
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
“My Lord, this is against all our traditions.”
“And humans fighting back is not? If they defeated Abigor, then they are adversaries worthy of note. Abigor’s description of the great battle was quite clear, the Beast’s charge at the start of the fighting was a disaster for his cavalry. We must learn from those mistakes. Even if we can never admit the source of our learning.”
Lapradanultrox looked out across the array of forces now moving down on the northern flank of the great bulge in the Phlegethon River. The sight was a strange one to demonic eyes, the great square blocks of the legions divided into much smaller groups. Even more oddly, the cavalry legions had been completely broken up, dispersed amongst the infantry. One Beast supporting each group of 27 foot-soldiers. Behind the hills, the great flock of harpies, almost 180,000 of them were waiting to launch their attack. This was also unprecedented; the mores of demonic warfare were clearly established. The Harpies reconnoitered to find the enemy, the Beasts charged to crack a hole in the enemy defenses, and the infantry closed to destroy the broken army.
That was the way it had always been and that was the way Abigor had fought. And his army had been destroyed in the most catastrophic defeat ever inflicted on demonic arms. Not even the Celestial Enemy had ever done the damage the humans had inflicted on Abigor. Lapradanultrox appreciated Beelzebub’s desire not to repeat the same experience on an even more cataclysmic scale but to cast away every basic principle of warfare? Beelzebub’s decisions were courageous in more ways than one. Such a break with the past would be heroic if he won. It would be considered treason if he lost.
“But where is our great blow? How shall we defeat the enemy without the one massive strike to break his will? How can we crush their defense without the concentrated blow of the Beasts?” Lapradanultrox looked again at the strange formation.
“Look at the humans, Lapradanultrox, look at them. Where is the defense for us to breach? They have not drawn a line, not even one behind a ridgeline as Abigor described. Instead, there is a field of death ahead of us, as deep as we can see. Our cavalry cannot charge through it, they will lose speed and momentum before they get far enough to matter, and they will be destroyed. We cannot charge through the defense the humans have constructed; we must chew our way through it. The foot soldier groups, each with the extra strength of a Beast to support them, will take on those small defense positions and we will chew our way through.”
“This will be a bloody day.” Lapradanultrox adjusted his vision for long-range and scanned the human defenses that were waiting, silently, mercilessly.
“Bloody day? I think not. This battle will not be over in a day. It will go on for days until the human army has been crushed. Like it or not, Lapradanultrox, the days when a battle would be decided honorably in a single day are gone. The humans have won the first battle, we now fight on their terms and no matter what happens, things in Hell will never be the same again. Now, sound the advance to contact.”
Below them, the great Army started to move forward. Word was being passed to the assembled harpies, to swarm into the air and commence their assault on the humans. That was Beelzebub’s plan, to hit the humans with his foot soldiers, harpies, and Beasts altogether so that the humans would be overwhelmed.
Then, far away behind the human lines, beyond the region where the dust-laden atmosphere closed out the vision, Beelzebub saw something strange and inexplicable. A sheet of flickering light, like the bolts thrown by the tridents of his foot soldiers and nagas, but covering the horizon in great sheets, reflecting off the clouds overhead.
“Human magery!” Lapradanultrox’s voice rose into a scream. “The human mages have started their work. The battle is joined.”
Artillery Battalion, Rear Echelon, Phlegethon River Front
This battalion had guns that were an odd hybrid, old D-30 122mm guns mounted on a new truck chassis. A product of the emergency mobilization that had all of Russia in ferment. The guns had come from storage, the trucks had once been intended for the civilian market, although why civilians would need 8 x 8 trucks had never been quite clear. It was rumored Americans wanted them for conversion into SUVs. But the design for the self-propelled guns had been drawn up for the export market where wheeled, self-propelled artillery had been a big growth sector. Those plans had been modified quickly for the Great Salvation War and the truck-mounted guns had poured off the lines as fast as the factories could be converted. Artillery was the God of War, a God that had never let the Russian Army down.
Lieutenant Sergei Aleksandrovich Ehlakov commanded this battery of six guns, and he had his assigned fire plan. It was laid down, strictly, severely, the targets clearly designated for destruction on a finely judged schedule. It was not his place to select targets or to swing his guns from one place to another. He was not an American officer who would swing his guns from one point target to the next, his place in the scheme of things was as a part of a machine that delivered massive, total destruction. His task was to keep his guns firing, to drench the battlefield with high explosives so that the enemy could not move forward to attack the defense lines. He had his support, of course, the big trucks carrying ammunition and all around him, the little jeeps with their anti-aircraft guns welded onto the beds. His D-21s had come from storage and so had the anti-aircraft guns. Quadruple 14.5 mm machine guns, twin 23 mm cannon, whatever had been in storage was here, to protect the guns from attack.
“Battalion Control Tovarish Lieutenant. The enemy is moving. Commence fire plan in six-zero seconds.”
The gunners were waiting, the first shells already in the breeches of the guns. Who would have the honor of firing the first shell against the enemy horde descending upon them? The first of the thousands that would descend like rain on that enemy and grind his forces into the mud. Would his guns, here on the northern flank, succeed? Or would the guns further south open the battle? Ehlakov watched the figures on his clock changing as they reached the appointed second. Then, the strained silence turned into a mighty roar that crushed his eardrums and seemed to drive him to the ground. The ground was already shaking in a rolling sea-like motion as the long lines of guns recoiled, their spades digging deep into the ground before they returned to their position and their gunners could stuff more shells into their chambers and send another ‘package’ to its recipients. Now, all that Ehlakov could see were his men dropping into the methodical, routine motions as the shells were brought forward and fired. He looked down to his next target, in two minutes he would shift to the next aiming point.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division Phlegethon River Front Hell
“Here it comes Bratischka. The enemy advances and our gunners make their reply. Soon it will be our turn.”
Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov dropped into the turret of his BMP-2 and fastened it in place. There was nothing to be gained by staying outside now. The word passed down from on high was that humans were safe inside their armored vehicles. They should fight from them, not outside them. Pas’kov felt agreeably comfortable with that advice. Overhead, he could hear the express-train roar of the artillery shells overhead, heard it even though the metal shell of his BMP. “Outbound” he yelled, instinct taking over. For a quick second, he wondered what it would be like to be outside, under the tons of descending metal that was aimed at the demons, then he decided he didn’t care and certainly didn’t want to find out. Being inside his faithful BMP-2 suited him just fine.
Outside, seen through the vision blocks of the BMP, Pas’kov could see a mass of black covering the opposite banks of the river. A terrifying sight, he’d heard the numbers of the enemy were counted in the millions, but he’d never quite imagined what “millions” looked like. Now he knew. The artillery had its work cut out for it.
Tornado GR.4, 617 Squadron, Royal Air Force.
“You know, it’s a pity we phased the old JP-233 out of service.”
“You can say that you never used one.” Squadron Leader, Desmond Young had been one of the pilots who had used the JP-233 on its one and only operational deployment, 17 years ago in the Gulf War. He wasn’t quite certain which had been worse, the light displays as the submunition dispenser had fired its cargo, the violent changes in pitch as the weight distribution had changed, or the Iraqi anti-aircraft fire that had been all around them. All in all, it had been an exciting night and Young had been only too pleased to hear that the JP-233 had been withdrawn from service. Officially that was because of the anti-land mines treaty but the real reason was that the crews had made their discontent with the weapon very plain.
“Targets dead ahead.” In the back seat, Flight Lieutenant Wyngarde had the target area marked on the rolling map in front of him. Navigating in Hell was weird, nothing seemed to work quite right, an aircraft couldn’t just retrace its route to get home. A crew that relied on instinct to navigate could get hopelessly lost. Still, the navigation systems people were working on that, had the beacons set up and, with them, a modernized version of the old Gee navigation equipment first used by Bomber Command in World War Two. It might be an old system, but it worked, even in Hell. “Clear of the prohibited zone.”
That was crucial, the last thing the Tornadoes needed was to get caught in the mass of descending Russian shells. So, the bombers had flown a looped route, one that took them parallel to the Phlegethon River and over the area where the drones had said the enemy harpies had gathered. Young didn’t need navigation systems to see where his target lay, it was directly ahead, marked by the beginnings of a cloud of harpies taking to the air. The strike was a few seconds late but that didn’t matter too much.
The eight Tornadoes swept over the harpy assembly area, raining more than 60 BL-755 cluster bombs on the creatures below. The ground vanished under a rippling wave of explosions as the Tornadoes swept over the scene and turned for the run home, the airborne harpies floundering in their wake. Long before the Tornadoes crossed the Harpy grounds, they had pulled back into a steep climb, releasing their bombs as they did, so the bombs were tossed into the mass of harpies, rather than dropped on them. By the time the bombers reached the center of the target area, they were already clear of the harpy cloud and climbing steeply.
“We’re clear Peter, Dragon-one to all dragon elements, weapons delivered, time to go home and get some more.”
Wyngarde looked over his shoulder at the explosions still rolling over the ground now far below them. “Drop confirmed Boss. And to think they wanted to take our cluster bombs away.”
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
The flickering lightning seemed never to stop, it was rolling backward and forwards along the horizon. Overhead, Beelzebub heard a dreadful screaming noise, obviously the battle-cry of the human mages. It was squeezing his mind, causing his vision to blur, and as it peaked, he saw the whole of the riverbank under his army erupt into volcanoes that spewed mud, water, and bits of demon skywards. A rippling surge of explosions blanketed the whole area. That was when Beelzebub felt something very strange, a wind, a warm wind that picked up force as the human mage bolts pounded into his Army. Overhead the same winds rippled the clouds of dust that saturated the atmosphere, forming them into strange patterns that swirled and changed even as he watched them. Like the blood of a human kidling stirred into a cup of wine.
“My Lord, the magery, it is causing winds to blow and storms to form.”
So, the humans could control the weather as well as their other accomplishments. That thought did not make Beelzebub any happier. The descriptions he’d heard of the human mage-bolts had been bad enough, although he’d dismissed Abigor’s more colorful descriptions as being part of his alibi for defeat. But he’d never mentioned strange winds and patterns in the sky. The idea hardly had time to form in his mind before the explosions that were shattering his army along the banks of the Phlegethon shifted back to engulf a new zone and spread their death toll amongst another portion of his Army. Beelzebub looked at the carnage forming on the ground in front of him and knew that Abigor hadn’t lied if anything he had understated the truth. He’d mentioned the human mage bolts that struck from afar and devastated the ground, but he’d never said anything about a concentration of magery like this.
Combat Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Hertonymarkess felt himself staggering under the sheer impact of noise and the crushing power of the explosions that were all around him. He couldn’t think straight, every time a thought tried to form in his mind, the terrible screams and explosions drove it away or entered his head and shredded it. Screams dominated even the explosions, the battle cry of the human mages as their mage-bolts slammed into the army, the screams of the demons and Beasts as they were torn apart and died. He couldn’t hold his trident properly either, the shaking was too much. The ground was heaving and rolling under his feet, in ways Hell had not experienced since the great earthquakes a few millennia ago. The little quakes, the ones Hell experienced every day had nothing on the destruction the human magery was causing.
Yet Hertonymarkess knew that the magery was only part of the shaking that was causing his problems. The rest was his own muscles, shivering with fear of the mage-bolts. An enemy, even a human, was not something he feared. If there was a human in front of him now, he could have fought and, win or lose, fought ferociously. It wasn’t the prospect of fighting that was terrifying him at all. It was the human’s ability to deliver remote-controlled death. For, there was nothing to fight here, the humans were still far away, and their mage bolts just pounded the target, administering death and destruction at random. There was nothing Hertonymarkess could do about it, his skills, his courage, his training, and his spirit mattered nothing. All that mattered was the pure blind chance of whether he and his combat team would be standing where the next mage bolt, or dozen, landed. It was that utter helplessness in the face of random, pitiless fate that was so terrifying.
Without being aware of it, Hertonymarkess had entered the Phlegethon River and it was with utter astonishment he realized he was in water up to his waist. The wading was slowing him down, but he realized it mattered little. The human mage fire was concentrated on the banks of the river behind him, some of the bolts were landing in the water but they were few. Most of the bursts were behind them and he got the feeling the ones in the river were mistakes, bolts that were landing short. Ahead, he could see a target, the first of the little forts that the humans had set up. Now that was odd. Why had the humans set up lots of little forts rather than one big one? Didn’t everybody know that the bigger the fortress, the harder it would be to take?
There were Iron Chariots in the fortress, Hertonymarkess felt his stomach cringe at the thought of iron, then he set his grip firmly on his trident and closed the grip, discharging a bolt at the defenses ahead. It was immensely satisfying to strike back at last, after the helpless terror of the mage-bolts, now there was some way he could fight. Overhead, the vast cloud of harpies was closing in, with luck they would suppress the defenses long enough for his group to get close to that little fort.
Harpy Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Uxaligantivaris screamed out her battle cry and tried to launch a jet of flame at the Sky Chariot, but it was too fast for her, and it rolled away and zoomed upwards. The humans were cowards, they refused to fight, they just stood off and let fly with their fire-lances and seeker-lances, cutting her comrades out of the sky. She knew the losses already suffered by the harpies were almost beyond comprehension, the first strike by the Sky Chariots had killed hundreds before they had even taken off. Then, there were the great seeker lances that had torn into the formation from afar, their explosions killing hundreds more. Then, after that, the Sky Chariots had returned and were slashing at the harpy cloud.
Her skin was on fire, a mass of mad itching that threatened to drive her mad. If the voices in her head didn’t do that first. There were so many of them, some were human speech that made little sense, and others were a weird, intense beating noise as if somebody were pounding her with a giant hammer. Yet others were a gentle hiss that simply filled every corner of her mind and drowned out all that went on inside. The mass of electronic noise was hardly surprising, Uxaligantivaris had no means of knowing it and would not have understood the implications even if she had, but she was being painted by more than 2,000 radar sets. Those alone were doing damage to her, quite distinct from the missiles and guns that they targeted. Uxaligantivaris knew that something was wrong, but she couldn’t know how wrong the truth was she was being slowly microwaved to death in mid-air. Already her body temperature was slowly rising as the radar energy was exciting the molecules that formed the liquids in her body.
Below her, she could see the human forts that formed their defensive position. It made little sense to her, but her job wasn’t to understand, just to do as she was told. Even though that meant something she had never done before. Harpies were scouts and raiders, who intended to observe enemy formations and report on their movement. Sometimes they would attack undefended positions by night to spread fear and terror. Never had the harpies been told to attack defensive positions that were fully equipped and putting up resistance. Harpies traded protection and firepower for speed and flight. Not enough of either, of course, not compared with the human Sky Chariots, but a good trade for their proper role. Now, they were being pitched against a serious defense.
There was one advantage in doing that. Uxaligantivaris had noted that the human Sky Chariots were staying high, not dropping close to the ground. Perhaps they couldn’t, she’d noticed that their wings didn’t flap like any proper flying creature. Oh, a couple had wings that seemed to flap forward and backward but none flapped properly. Still, the message was clear, close to the ground and the Sky Chariots would leave them alone. Cheered at the thought, she folded her wings, expelled gas, and dropped like a stone on the defense position beneath.
Command HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“The battle is joined Tovarish General.” General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov was standing in front of his screen, the facilities here in hell were nowhere near as good as those General Petraeus had left behind in Baghdad but they would serve.
“Very good, Ivan Semenovich. How goes the day?”
“Well, David Howellovich.” Both men grinned at the mangled Russification of Petraeus’s middle name. “Our artillery and air strikes are hurting the baldricks badly. We estimate their casualties already must be approaching ten percent of their total.”
“A word of advice Grazhdanin Ivan, divide your estimates by three. We learned this the hard way in Iraq and before that in Vietnam and the Balkans.”
“And we learned that same lesson in Afghanistan and fighting the Hitlerites. But Gospodin David, we have hit Beelzebub’s army hard. His casualties on the northern flank are mounting and they are only now moving into our main zone of resistance. The southern flank is moving more slowly, the situation had not developed there yet. There appears to be no movement at all in the center.”
“Hmm. The baldricks are learning. Not slowly either. Whatever you need, just call. We’re lining up the support for you here.” As far as Petraeus was concerned, that was his role in this battle. Let the Russian Army do its thing and just make sure they have every tool they needed, and some that they didn’t know they needed, not yet anyway. “For your information, the BUFFS have arrived. They flew through the Hellmouth a few minutes ago and are circling to gain height. They’ll be ready when you need them.”
Dorokhov laughed. “The sight of those flying through the Hellgate must have been impressive. Is there an intact eardrum left back there?”
“Not a one. Not a one. But tell your men, the Gray Lady is coming.”
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
“My Lord, this is against all our traditions.”
“And humans fighting back is not? If they defeated Abigor, then they are adversaries worthy of note. Abigor’s description of the great battle was quite clear, the Beast’s charge at the start of the fighting was a disaster for his cavalry. We must learn from those mistakes. Even if we can never admit the source of our learning.”
Lapradanultrox looked out across the array of forces now moving down on the northern flank of the great bulge in the Phlegethon River. The sight was a strange one to demonic eyes, the great square blocks of the legions divided into much smaller groups. Even more oddly, the cavalry legions had been completely broken up, dispersed amongst the infantry. One Beast supporting each group of 27 foot-soldiers. Behind the hills, the great flock of harpies, almost 180,000 of them were waiting to launch their attack. This was also unprecedented; the mores of demonic warfare were clearly established. The Harpies reconnoitered to find the enemy, the Beasts charged to crack a hole in the enemy defenses, and the infantry closed to destroy the broken army.
That was the way it had always been and that was the way Abigor had fought. And his army had been destroyed in the most catastrophic defeat ever inflicted on demonic arms. Not even the Celestial Enemy had ever done the damage the humans had inflicted on Abigor. Lapradanultrox appreciated Beelzebub’s desire not to repeat the same experience on an even more cataclysmic scale but to cast away every basic principle of warfare? Beelzebub’s decisions were courageous in more ways than one. Such a break with the past would be heroic if he won. It would be considered treason if he lost.
“But where is our great blow? How shall we defeat the enemy without the one massive strike to break his will? How can we crush their defense without the concentrated blow of the Beasts?” Lapradanultrox looked again at the strange formation.
“Look at the humans, Lapradanultrox, look at them. Where is the defense for us to breach? They have not drawn a line, not even one behind a ridgeline as Abigor described. Instead, there is a field of death ahead of us, as deep as we can see. Our cavalry cannot charge through it, they will lose speed and momentum before they get far enough to matter, and they will be destroyed. We cannot charge through the defense the humans have constructed; we must chew our way through it. The foot soldier groups, each with the extra strength of a Beast to support them, will take on those small defense positions and we will chew our way through.”
“This will be a bloody day.” Lapradanultrox adjusted his vision for long-range and scanned the human defenses that were waiting, silently, mercilessly.
“Bloody day? I think not. This battle will not be over in a day. It will go on for days until the human army has been crushed. Like it or not, Lapradanultrox, the days when a battle would be decided honorably in a single day are gone. The humans have won the first battle, we now fight on their terms and no matter what happens, things in Hell will never be the same again. Now, sound the advance to contact.”
Below them, the great Army started to move forward. Word was being passed to the assembled harpies, to swarm into the air and commence their assault on the humans. That was Beelzebub’s plan, to hit the humans with his foot soldiers, harpies, and Beasts altogether so that the humans would be overwhelmed.
Then, far away behind the human lines, beyond the region where the dust-laden atmosphere closed out the vision, Beelzebub saw something strange and inexplicable. A sheet of flickering light, like the bolts thrown by the tridents of his foot soldiers and nagas, but covering the horizon in great sheets, reflecting off the clouds overhead.
“Human magery!” Lapradanultrox’s voice rose into a scream. “The human mages have started their work. The battle is joined.”
Artillery Battalion, Rear Echelon, Phlegethon River Front
This battalion had guns that were an odd hybrid, old D-30 122mm guns mounted on a new truck chassis. A product of the emergency mobilization that had all of Russia in ferment. The guns had come from storage, the trucks had once been intended for the civilian market, although why civilians would need 8 x 8 trucks had never been quite clear. It was rumored Americans wanted them for conversion into SUVs. But the design for the self-propelled guns had been drawn up for the export market where wheeled, self-propelled artillery had been a big growth sector. Those plans had been modified quickly for the Great Salvation War and the truck-mounted guns had poured off the lines as fast as the factories could be converted. Artillery was the God of War, a God that had never let the Russian Army down.
Lieutenant Sergei Aleksandrovich Ehlakov commanded this battery of six guns, and he had his assigned fire plan. It was laid down, strictly, severely, the targets clearly designated for destruction on a finely judged schedule. It was not his place to select targets or to swing his guns from one place to another. He was not an American officer who would swing his guns from one point target to the next, his place in the scheme of things was as a part of a machine that delivered massive, total destruction. His task was to keep his guns firing, to drench the battlefield with high explosives so that the enemy could not move forward to attack the defense lines. He had his support, of course, the big trucks carrying ammunition and all around him, the little jeeps with their anti-aircraft guns welded onto the beds. His D-21s had come from storage and so had the anti-aircraft guns. Quadruple 14.5 mm machine guns, twin 23 mm cannon, whatever had been in storage was here, to protect the guns from attack.
“Battalion Control Tovarish Lieutenant. The enemy is moving. Commence fire plan in six-zero seconds.”
The gunners were waiting, the first shells already in the breeches of the guns. Who would have the honor of firing the first shell against the enemy horde descending upon them? The first of the thousands that would descend like rain on that enemy and grind his forces into the mud. Would his guns, here on the northern flank, succeed? Or would the guns further south open the battle? Ehlakov watched the figures on his clock changing as they reached the appointed second. Then, the strained silence turned into a mighty roar that crushed his eardrums and seemed to drive him to the ground. The ground was already shaking in a rolling sea-like motion as the long lines of guns recoiled, their spades digging deep into the ground before they returned to their position and their gunners could stuff more shells into their chambers and send another ‘package’ to its recipients. Now, all that Ehlakov could see were his men dropping into the methodical, routine motions as the shells were brought forward and fired. He looked down to his next target, in two minutes he would shift to the next aiming point.
Third Platoon, Second Company, Third Battalion, Fourth Regiment, 247th Motor Rifle Division Phlegethon River Front Hell
“Here it comes Bratischka. The enemy advances and our gunners make their reply. Soon it will be our turn.”
Lieutenant Anatolii Ivanovich Pas'kov dropped into the turret of his BMP-2 and fastened it in place. There was nothing to be gained by staying outside now. The word passed down from on high was that humans were safe inside their armored vehicles. They should fight from them, not outside them. Pas’kov felt agreeably comfortable with that advice. Overhead, he could hear the express-train roar of the artillery shells overhead, heard it even though the metal shell of his BMP. “Outbound” he yelled, instinct taking over. For a quick second, he wondered what it would be like to be outside, under the tons of descending metal that was aimed at the demons, then he decided he didn’t care and certainly didn’t want to find out. Being inside his faithful BMP-2 suited him just fine.
Outside, seen through the vision blocks of the BMP, Pas’kov could see a mass of black covering the opposite banks of the river. A terrifying sight, he’d heard the numbers of the enemy were counted in the millions, but he’d never quite imagined what “millions” looked like. Now he knew. The artillery had its work cut out for it.
Tornado GR.4, 617 Squadron, Royal Air Force.
“You know, it’s a pity we phased the old JP-233 out of service.”
“You can say that you never used one.” Squadron Leader, Desmond Young had been one of the pilots who had used the JP-233 on its one and only operational deployment, 17 years ago in the Gulf War. He wasn’t quite certain which had been worse, the light displays as the submunition dispenser had fired its cargo, the violent changes in pitch as the weight distribution had changed, or the Iraqi anti-aircraft fire that had been all around them. All in all, it had been an exciting night and Young had been only too pleased to hear that the JP-233 had been withdrawn from service. Officially that was because of the anti-land mines treaty but the real reason was that the crews had made their discontent with the weapon very plain.
“Targets dead ahead.” In the back seat, Flight Lieutenant Wyngarde had the target area marked on the rolling map in front of him. Navigating in Hell was weird, nothing seemed to work quite right, an aircraft couldn’t just retrace its route to get home. A crew that relied on instinct to navigate could get hopelessly lost. Still, the navigation systems people were working on that, had the beacons set up and, with them, a modernized version of the old Gee navigation equipment first used by Bomber Command in World War Two. It might be an old system, but it worked, even in Hell. “Clear of the prohibited zone.”
That was crucial, the last thing the Tornadoes needed was to get caught in the mass of descending Russian shells. So, the bombers had flown a looped route, one that took them parallel to the Phlegethon River and over the area where the drones had said the enemy harpies had gathered. Young didn’t need navigation systems to see where his target lay, it was directly ahead, marked by the beginnings of a cloud of harpies taking to the air. The strike was a few seconds late but that didn’t matter too much.
The eight Tornadoes swept over the harpy assembly area, raining more than 60 BL-755 cluster bombs on the creatures below. The ground vanished under a rippling wave of explosions as the Tornadoes swept over the scene and turned for the run home, the airborne harpies floundering in their wake. Long before the Tornadoes crossed the Harpy grounds, they had pulled back into a steep climb, releasing their bombs as they did, so the bombs were tossed into the mass of harpies, rather than dropped on them. By the time the bombers reached the center of the target area, they were already clear of the harpy cloud and climbing steeply.
“We’re clear Peter, Dragon-one to all dragon elements, weapons delivered, time to go home and get some more.”
Wyngarde looked over his shoulder at the explosions still rolling over the ground now far below them. “Drop confirmed Boss. And to think they wanted to take our cluster bombs away.”
Command Post, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
The flickering lightning seemed never to stop, it was rolling backward and forwards along the horizon. Overhead, Beelzebub heard a dreadful screaming noise, obviously the battle-cry of the human mages. It was squeezing his mind, causing his vision to blur, and as it peaked, he saw the whole of the riverbank under his army erupt into volcanoes that spewed mud, water, and bits of demon skywards. A rippling surge of explosions blanketed the whole area. That was when Beelzebub felt something very strange, a wind, a warm wind that picked up force as the human mage bolts pounded into his Army. Overhead the same winds rippled the clouds of dust that saturated the atmosphere, forming them into strange patterns that swirled and changed even as he watched them. Like the blood of a human kidling stirred into a cup of wine.
“My Lord, the magery, it is causing winds to blow and storms to form.”
So, the humans could control the weather as well as their other accomplishments. That thought did not make Beelzebub any happier. The descriptions he’d heard of the human mage-bolts had been bad enough, although he’d dismissed Abigor’s more colorful descriptions as being part of his alibi for defeat. But he’d never mentioned strange winds and patterns in the sky. The idea hardly had time to form in his mind before the explosions that were shattering his army along the banks of the Phlegethon shifted back to engulf a new zone and spread their death toll amongst another portion of his Army. Beelzebub looked at the carnage forming on the ground in front of him and knew that Abigor hadn’t lied if anything he had understated the truth. He’d mentioned the human mage bolts that struck from afar and devastated the ground, but he’d never said anything about a concentration of magery like this.
Combat Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Hertonymarkess felt himself staggering under the sheer impact of noise and the crushing power of the explosions that were all around him. He couldn’t think straight, every time a thought tried to form in his mind, the terrible screams and explosions drove it away or entered his head and shredded it. Screams dominated even the explosions, the battle cry of the human mages as their mage-bolts slammed into the army, the screams of the demons and Beasts as they were torn apart and died. He couldn’t hold his trident properly either, the shaking was too much. The ground was heaving and rolling under his feet, in ways Hell had not experienced since the great earthquakes a few millennia ago. The little quakes, the ones Hell experienced every day had nothing on the destruction the human magery was causing.
Yet Hertonymarkess knew that the magery was only part of the shaking that was causing his problems. The rest was his own muscles, shivering with fear of the mage-bolts. An enemy, even a human, was not something he feared. If there was a human in front of him now, he could have fought and, win or lose, fought ferociously. It wasn’t the prospect of fighting that was terrifying him at all. It was the human’s ability to deliver remote-controlled death. For, there was nothing to fight here, the humans were still far away, and their mage bolts just pounded the target, administering death and destruction at random. There was nothing Hertonymarkess could do about it, his skills, his courage, his training, and his spirit mattered nothing. All that mattered was the pure blind chance of whether he and his combat team would be standing where the next mage bolt, or dozen, landed. It was that utter helplessness in the face of random, pitiless fate that was so terrifying.
Without being aware of it, Hertonymarkess had entered the Phlegethon River and it was with utter astonishment he realized he was in water up to his waist. The wading was slowing him down, but he realized it mattered little. The human mage fire was concentrated on the banks of the river behind him, some of the bolts were landing in the water but they were few. Most of the bursts were behind them and he got the feeling the ones in the river were mistakes, bolts that were landing short. Ahead, he could see a target, the first of the little forts that the humans had set up. Now that was odd. Why had the humans set up lots of little forts rather than one big one? Didn’t everybody know that the bigger the fortress, the harder it would be to take?
There were Iron Chariots in the fortress, Hertonymarkess felt his stomach cringe at the thought of iron, then he set his grip firmly on his trident and closed the grip, discharging a bolt at the defenses ahead. It was immensely satisfying to strike back at last, after the helpless terror of the mage-bolts, now there was some way he could fight. Overhead, the vast cloud of harpies was closing in, with luck they would suppress the defenses long enough for his group to get close to that little fort.
Harpy Group, Northern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge, Hell
Uxaligantivaris screamed out her battle cry and tried to launch a jet of flame at the Sky Chariot, but it was too fast for her, and it rolled away and zoomed upwards. The humans were cowards, they refused to fight, they just stood off and let fly with their fire-lances and seeker-lances, cutting her comrades out of the sky. She knew the losses already suffered by the harpies were almost beyond comprehension, the first strike by the Sky Chariots had killed hundreds before they had even taken off. Then, there were the great seeker lances that had torn into the formation from afar, their explosions killing hundreds more. Then, after that, the Sky Chariots had returned and were slashing at the harpy cloud.
Her skin was on fire, a mass of mad itching that threatened to drive her mad. If the voices in her head didn’t do that first. There were so many of them, some were human speech that made little sense, and others were a weird, intense beating noise as if somebody were pounding her with a giant hammer. Yet others were a gentle hiss that simply filled every corner of her mind and drowned out all that went on inside. The mass of electronic noise was hardly surprising, Uxaligantivaris had no means of knowing it and would not have understood the implications even if she had, but she was being painted by more than 2,000 radar sets. Those alone were doing damage to her, quite distinct from the missiles and guns that they targeted. Uxaligantivaris knew that something was wrong, but she couldn’t know how wrong the truth was she was being slowly microwaved to death in mid-air. Already her body temperature was slowly rising as the radar energy was exciting the molecules that formed the liquids in her body.
Below her, she could see the human forts that formed their defensive position. It made little sense to her, but her job wasn’t to understand, just to do as she was told. Even though that meant something she had never done before. Harpies were scouts and raiders, who intended to observe enemy formations and report on their movement. Sometimes they would attack undefended positions by night to spread fear and terror. Never had the harpies been told to attack defensive positions that were fully equipped and putting up resistance. Harpies traded protection and firepower for speed and flight. Not enough of either, of course, not compared with the human Sky Chariots, but a good trade for their proper role. Now, they were being pitched against a serious defense.
There was one advantage in doing that. Uxaligantivaris had noted that the human Sky Chariots were staying high, not dropping close to the ground. Perhaps they couldn’t, she’d noticed that their wings didn’t flap like any proper flying creature. Oh, a couple had wings that seemed to flap forward and backward but none flapped properly. Still, the message was clear, close to the ground and the Sky Chariots would leave them alone. Cheered at the thought, she folded her wings, expelled gas, and dropped like a stone on the defense position beneath.
Command HQ, Camp Hell-Alpha, Hell
“The battle is joined Tovarish General.” General Ivan Semenovich Dorokhov was standing in front of his screen, the facilities here in hell were nowhere near as good as those General Petraeus had left behind in Baghdad but they would serve.
“Very good, Ivan Semenovich. How goes the day?”
“Well, David Howellovich.” Both men grinned at the mangled Russification of Petraeus’s middle name. “Our artillery and air strikes are hurting the baldricks badly. We estimate their casualties already must be approaching ten percent of their total.”
“A word of advice Grazhdanin Ivan, divide your estimates by three. We learned this the hard way in Iraq and before that in Vietnam and the Balkans.”
“And we learned that same lesson in Afghanistan and fighting the Hitlerites. But Gospodin David, we have hit Beelzebub’s army hard. His casualties on the northern flank are mounting and they are only now moving into our main zone of resistance. The southern flank is moving more slowly, the situation had not developed there yet. There appears to be no movement at all in the center.”
“Hmm. The baldricks are learning. Not slowly either. Whatever you need, just call. We’re lining up the support for you here.” As far as Petraeus was concerned, that was his role in this battle. Let the Russian Army do its thing and just make sure they have every tool they needed, and some that they didn’t know they needed, not yet anyway. “For your information, the BUFFS have arrived. They flew through the Hellmouth a few minutes ago and are circling to gain height. They’ll be ready when you need them.”
Dorokhov laughed. “The sight of those flying through the Hellgate must have been impressive. Is there an intact eardrum left back there?”
“Not a one. Not a one. But tell your men, the Gray Lady is coming.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Seven
DIMO(N) Headquarters, Crystal City, Virginia
For the fourth time in the last half-hour, a gentle beeping filled the monitoring room. With some irritation, Technical Sergeant James Nevaquaya put aside the draft response procedure he’d been reading and glanced up at the grid of monitors.
! 2-network Anomaly Detected
! --------------------------
! VERIZON node 21633: 28% dropped frames: Detroit, MA
! VERIZON node 21638: 12% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (4.8 km)
! SPRINT node 45-3C: 15% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (2.5 km)
?
? Detailed capture triggered on 36 nodes.
One monitor was showing a map of the anomaly site – freeways snaking through a dense grid of streets, north of Detroit. Nevaquaya’s hand went to the mouse as he tried to bring up the spectrum display. The prototype was barely functional, a cobbled-together mess of mostly civilian technology, but for now, that novelty and importance of the task were keeping frustration at bay. The spectrum analyzer was still hobbled by the cell site’s receiver limitations, but it was clearly showing a broadband hump peaking in the low gigahertz.
The gentle beeping was abruptly replaced by an insistent two-tone warble. The text scrolling onto the status display snapped Nevaquaya’s mind to intense alertness.
! Multi-network Anomaly Confirmed
! -------------------------------
! VERIZON node 21633: 34% dropped frames: Detroit, MA
! VERIZON node 21638: 25% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (4.8 km)
! VERIZON node 21629: 17% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (6.5 km)
! VERIZON node 21635: 14% dropped frames Warren, MA (9.3 km)
! SPRINT node 45-3C: 31% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (2.5 km)
! CDMA2000 down
! SPRINT node 45-3A: 20% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (3.9 km)
! SPRINT node 44-8D: 16% dropped frames: Warren, MA (8.7 km)
! CINGULAR node MA335: 26% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (3.9 km)
W-CDMA down
! CINGULAR node MA334: 22% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (5.2 km)
! ALLTEL node 4775: software failure: Southfield, MA (11.2 km)
! T-MOBILE node MA5XA: W-CDMA resetting: Detroit, MA (6.3 km)
?
? Composite spectrum display enabled.
? Detailed capture triggered on 92 nodes.
! *** POSSIBLE PORTAL OPENING - heuristic match 0.82 ****
Within seconds an office chair rolled through the door from the adjoining office, carrying Graeme Wilson with it. The civilian contractor took in the situation on the monitors almost instantly.
“0.82? That’s the highest yet. What do you make of the spectrum?”
“The general spike structure sure looks like the recordings. I’ll call NORAD – can you get any more resolution out of those sites?”
Wilson had already begun typing, his fingers a chattering blur. Console windows popped up and streams of incomprehensible commands flashed past. Meanwhile, Nevaquaya had gone straight for the first entry on the speed dial.
“…big one, at four two degrees twenty-three minutes north, eighty-three degrees four minutes west. Confidence is moderate.”
Nevaquaya watched the civilian work while the duty officer at NORAD checked the radar picture. The contrast between the usual procurement process, even the usual R&D process, and what was going on here was incredible, things were happening in days that had taken years just a few months earlier. The monitoring system was crude and buggy as yet but getting even that operational in under four days was amazing. America had apparently rediscovered engineers who thrived on doing the impossible. Then Nevaquaya thought again, no not rediscovered, just set free from the demands of reaching some unattainable ideal of perfection.
The spectrum display flicked and restructured itself, crisper and with fewer gaps. Secondary windows began to fill up with phase analysis of signal components. “There, how about that?”
Nevaquaya stared at the screen for three seconds before speaking directly into the phone.
“Confirmed, we’ve got more data here too, confidence is now high, repeat, confidence high for portal opening over northern Detroit.”
He pressed mute, then another button that began sounding the incident alarm in the other offices. Finally, he turned to Graeme. “The spikes match. NOARD is seeing radar interference at that location. Looks like the demons are going for Detroit, with a big one too by the look of it. Fighters are on the way; they’ll be contacting national guard units next.” Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside as more DIMO(N) staff converged on the monitoring room. Both men stared at the screens, where the error rates and signal strengths were climbing inexorably. Both knew that their warning was better than nothing, but also that it left precious few minutes to intercept the demon targeteer. If friendly forces couldn’t stop it in time, the heart of a great American city would die in ash and fire.
Over Interstate 75, Detroit, Michigan
Megaaeraholrakni’s arm and wing muscles already ached from the exertion – she had done very little flying these last few centuries – but the demon was so enraged that she barely noticed. How could Euryale have been so incompetent? It could not have been her own fault; she had concentrated firmly on the great glass towers that stood haughtily above the human sprawl. Yet the portal had opened half a league to the north, instead of half a league to the south, almost completely in the wrong direction. ‘More likely that half-witted naga.’ she thought, as she painfully climbed through 500 feet. ‘though surely Yulupki isn’t stupid enough to try sabotaging the Count’s scheme?’
Below her streams of tiny iron boxes raced back and forth, traveling along two wide black strips set in a shallow trench. The trench cut through the human city, snaking gently and occasionally joining up with other trenches in curious curling structures reminiscent of spilled entrails. Many more of the iron boxes stood motionless on parade grounds dotted between the buildings. ‘Perhaps they worship them’ Megaaeraholrakni thought; she could think of no other reason to go to such extreme efforts for the chariot’s sake.
The gorgon could sense the nascent portal ahead; indeed, it would be hard for her to miss it, given how much psychic energy it was leaking. Belial had exhorted the naga to put every effort into this attack and they were obviously giving it everything they had. It could be that this focus on power accounted for their lousy aim. She was drawing near now and the air itself seemed to crackle with power. The portal mouth was bobbing high in the air over a dark L-shaped castle, or more precisely over the bone-white chariot-filled parade ground behind it.
Megaaeraholrakni began a slow sweeping turn, oblivious to the attention she was beginning to draw on the ground below. She reached out with her mind, the psychic force radiating down from her wings to caress the extra-dimensional nexus at the heart of the portal. Crude ‘dragging’ was for novices, one merely had to induce a desire to move in a particular direction and the portal would do the work (or rather, the teams of naga powering it would be forced to do the work, but it was all the same to the gorgon). But mere seconds after the portal had begun to move it began to oscillate wildly, shedding energy that arced to the ground as lighting. Megaaeraholrakni had no choice but to use every ounce of strength she possessed to wrestle the portal back into submission. Flying directly above it, buffeted by the thermals created by the arcing, it seemed to her that she was riding an untamed beast, ready to throw lighting back at her at any moment. The gorgon’s confidence in her own ability was supreme, however, and perhaps not unwarranted, as she soon had the unborn portal simmering in a semblance of submission. Grimly she set off towards the great gleaming towers, a corner of her mind already devising a way to gain revenge on whoever was responsible for this mess.
Tanner Firearm Supplies, Northern Detroit
“Thanks for keeping these aside for me Erwin. I know they’re hard to come by right now, what with the Brits adopting them as standard and grabbing the whole production run.”
“Hey, no problem, Danny. Wouldn’t want to see a friend short of firepower if one of those monsters makes an appearance.” The shopkeeper insisted on shaking the customer’s hand. The man then scooped up the box of .338 Lapua from the counter and made his way out of the store.
Daniel Wright had stowed the ammo in the under-seat safe and was about to start his pickup’s engine when a glint in the sky caught his eye. He considered himself something of an aircraft buff and took a closer look, trying to identify the type. It was bronze-colored, the silhouette changing as he watched… something clicked into place as he realized that it was not a plane, but a creature. A creature that looked just like the grainy news footage from England. At first, it looked like it was circling over the AA&M building. Now it was heading for downtown; the shop was built just off the I-75 and the demon was flying roughly parallel to the highway.
He leaped out of the truck, grabbing his Barrett 98 from the rack. Fortunately, the optics were still in place from his Sunday range visit. As Daniel unlocked the safe, he hesitated for a second; shooting into the sky was usually a reason to make fun of ignorant third-worlders, as what went up had to come down and it could well come down on someone’s head. But only for a second. The Sheffield death toll had now passed 16,000 and he had to stop that happening here at any cost. Daniel clicked the magazine home, braced himself on the side of the truck, brought the monster into the sights, and fired.
The shot was on the edge of effective range to start with, and without tracers, it was basically impossible to correct for the drop, deflection, and wind drift, so Daniel just had to give it his best guess. He could hear other shooters opening, and with luck one of them got lucky. He blew through the first magazine with no apparent effect on the distant flapping form and as he was reaching for the second, he noticed that other shoppers from the gun store had joined him in the parking lot. Some were staring at him, some at the sky.
“There’s a damned Baldrick up there!” he shouted, “grab a rifle and start shooting, or it’ll burn the city.” He didn’t wait to watch them respond, the fresh magazine clicked home and he soon had the rifle realigned on the target. This time the creature seemed to be hit, dropping suddenly and flapping erratically as he fired his last three rounds. No way to know if it was one of his rounds that did it, but it didn’t matter. Erwin and Bob were back with AR-15s from the store, and beside him even Emily was enthusiastically letting fly with her Smith & Wesson 586. Top marks for effort, Daniel thought, as he noticed a large, dark green, and very old half-track coming to a stop on the side of the freeway. The ready platoon of the 3rd Michigan Infantry Regiment, United States Volunteers had arrived with an M-16 quad-50 they’d “liberated” from a museum, and they wasted no time opening with their much-loved M2 mount. Wright recognized some of the volunteers as they took up their positions, the 3rd Michigan had been built around a re-enactors group and to Wright, they looked a bit odd in modern BDUs.
I75-I94 Interchange, Detroit, Michigan
The gorgon’s mood had improved somewhat as she flew south towards the human towers. This realm’s bright direct light had been painful at first, but now it felt pleasantly warm on her back. The proto-portal seemed to have settled down, and she was free to gaze at the landscape below, savoring her power to end their pitiful existences. She was death incarnate, an avatar of cleansing flame come to burn this hive of vermin. Megaaeraholrakni had always reveled in the exercise of psychic power, and now this was the culmination of all those millennia of effort.
That said she did have something of a dilemma. As she ascended it became clear that the towers were built next to a wide river. If she opened the portal over them, the lava would pool there and many of the lesser buildings would be spared. Perhaps it would be better to open it some way from the river, to ensure that the rest of the city burned? There were a great many parades of chariots here – the big flat buildings next to them could be workshops, and Belial had been quite insistent about destroying those. On the other hand, blocking the river with lava would not be so bad, the scalding steam and the flooding sure was amusing…
Megaaeraholrakni’s musings were interrupted by a sharp pain in her right wing. Suddenly she became aware of the irregular cracking sounds coming from below, coming faster and faster with each passing second. Agony flashed down her side as something tore into her flank. The gorgon looked back in disbelief at the green blood dripping from the wound. How dare they? She’d heard the rumors of the human’s newfound magery… now too late she realized how foolish she’d been to dismiss those warnings.
Another projectile slammed into the base of her tail, shattering a vertebra and sending pain shooting up her spine like a white-hot poker. Megaaeraholrakni screamed and flailed wildly in the air, an act that granted her a brief respite as the next few shots went high. The portal crackled dangerously below her, and she threw her wings out again, desperately trying to glide clear. It was at this moment that the hail of machine-gun rounds began to arrive. The heavy rounds ripped through her torso, spraying yellow blood into the air as the gorgon began to fall out of the sky, trailing limp wings behind her. Megaaeraholrakni had a final few seconds to reflect on her folly before she plummeted through the phantom portal mouth. The massive electrostatic charge building there found a convenient discharge path through her body, and the gorgon finally died in a white-hot flash of lightning, her charred and broken body tumbling down onto the interchange below.
Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
Baroness Yulupki’s eyes were closed, her coils writhing with pain as she tried to force the chorus back into harmony. The ritual had started to go wrong as soon as the portal began to form. Instead of a single unified psychic push, there was discord. The closest human sensation was ‘tone’ and ‘timbre’; the ritual needed pure chords, but some of the naga were holding the wrong notes. The situation had rapidly deteriorated as each naga tried to stay in ‘tune’ with her neighbors, magnifying the initial dissenting voices into a psychic cacophony.
“All of you, follow me!” Yulupki screamed, over the wails of her subordinates and the hissing of the lava. It was hard to know if the naga on the other platforms heard her, but telepathy was out of the question in this din. The effort had dried out the tips of her tentacles and the energy began to arc back to the surrounding flesh, charring the scales. To the naga, it seemed that her body was on fire and her brain was being squeezed in a vice, but gathering strength she didn’t know she had, she made a final push to stabilize the portal. She was somewhat surprised to find it working. Her strong, clear stream of psychic energy stood out clearly in the haze and the other naga rallied around it.
“That’s it, hold it, a little longer!” Why hadn’t that damned gorgon opened the portal yet? She couldn’t keep this up, if the signal didn’t come in another minute, they’d just … The wash of feedback hit Yulupki like a brick wall. She collapsed onto her pallet, barely hanging onto consciousness. The raging psychic turmoil had been replaced by a numb calm. ‘No, that can’t be, oh no…’ Her pitiful cry rang with the anguish of a human whose eyes had just been torn out.
From her vantage point on the crater rim, Euryale had been watching the ritual with mounting concern. She was not yet a participant, but she could sense the unbalanced forces and the resulting instability in the half-formed portal. At the same time, she could sense Megaaeraholrakni’s progress over the human city through the mental link with her handmaiden. That link had just dissolved into echoes of pain, confusion, and panic before disappearing entirely. Mere seconds later, what could only be described as a psychic shockwave had rushed out from the center of the crater. The gorgon could barely make out the great snakelike forms through the dense smoke and heat shimmer, but she could tell that nearly half the naga was down and the rest were thrashing and wailing. Behind them, the shrines were breaking out in glowing red patches, as local hotspots began to melt the metal.
Euryale launched herself from the rocks, determined to save the ritual. She pushed questions of what had gone wrong and who would pay out of her mind. That could come later. Her wings billowed taut as they caught the strong thermal and she soared over the bubbling lava. The thick smoke stung the gorgon’s eyes; she couldn’t see clearly, but the series of bright flashes and a tortured groan probably signaled the collapse of one of the shrines. She was right over the portal now and she could feel it swelling and ascending, pushed out of the volcano’s throat like a cork in a barrel.
It was the moment for Euryale’s own supreme effort. She put everything she had into a single release aimed directly down, hoping to slam the portal down into the lava in the same act as pushing it over the threshold for opening. For a split second, the smoke seemed transparent, as the entire crater was lit up by a storm of dancing lightning. Then noise and motion returned, and Euryale was falling, the air whistling through great burning rips in her wings. The lava below convulsed, dropping and splashing and throwing out great chunks of magma. Desperately she tried to ride the thermals clear of the maelstrom before she was swatted from the sky or consumed by the fire.
DIMO(N) Headquarters, Crystal City, Virginia
For the fourth time in the last half-hour, a gentle beeping filled the monitoring room. With some irritation, Technical Sergeant James Nevaquaya put aside the draft response procedure he’d been reading and glanced up at the grid of monitors.
! 2-network Anomaly Detected
! --------------------------
! VERIZON node 21633: 28% dropped frames: Detroit, MA
! VERIZON node 21638: 12% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (4.8 km)
! SPRINT node 45-3C: 15% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (2.5 km)
?
? Detailed capture triggered on 36 nodes.
One monitor was showing a map of the anomaly site – freeways snaking through a dense grid of streets, north of Detroit. Nevaquaya’s hand went to the mouse as he tried to bring up the spectrum display. The prototype was barely functional, a cobbled-together mess of mostly civilian technology, but for now, that novelty and importance of the task were keeping frustration at bay. The spectrum analyzer was still hobbled by the cell site’s receiver limitations, but it was clearly showing a broadband hump peaking in the low gigahertz.
The gentle beeping was abruptly replaced by an insistent two-tone warble. The text scrolling onto the status display snapped Nevaquaya’s mind to intense alertness.
! Multi-network Anomaly Confirmed
! -------------------------------
! VERIZON node 21633: 34% dropped frames: Detroit, MA
! VERIZON node 21638: 25% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (4.8 km)
! VERIZON node 21629: 17% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (6.5 km)
! VERIZON node 21635: 14% dropped frames Warren, MA (9.3 km)
! SPRINT node 45-3C: 31% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (2.5 km)
! CDMA2000 down
! SPRINT node 45-3A: 20% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (3.9 km)
! SPRINT node 44-8D: 16% dropped frames: Warren, MA (8.7 km)
! CINGULAR node MA335: 26% dropped frames: Detroit, MA (3.9 km)
W-CDMA down
! CINGULAR node MA334: 22% dropped frames: Detroit Metro, MA (5.2 km)
! ALLTEL node 4775: software failure: Southfield, MA (11.2 km)
! T-MOBILE node MA5XA: W-CDMA resetting: Detroit, MA (6.3 km)
?
? Composite spectrum display enabled.
? Detailed capture triggered on 92 nodes.
! *** POSSIBLE PORTAL OPENING - heuristic match 0.82 ****
Within seconds an office chair rolled through the door from the adjoining office, carrying Graeme Wilson with it. The civilian contractor took in the situation on the monitors almost instantly.
“0.82? That’s the highest yet. What do you make of the spectrum?”
“The general spike structure sure looks like the recordings. I’ll call NORAD – can you get any more resolution out of those sites?”
Wilson had already begun typing, his fingers a chattering blur. Console windows popped up and streams of incomprehensible commands flashed past. Meanwhile, Nevaquaya had gone straight for the first entry on the speed dial.
“…big one, at four two degrees twenty-three minutes north, eighty-three degrees four minutes west. Confidence is moderate.”
Nevaquaya watched the civilian work while the duty officer at NORAD checked the radar picture. The contrast between the usual procurement process, even the usual R&D process, and what was going on here was incredible, things were happening in days that had taken years just a few months earlier. The monitoring system was crude and buggy as yet but getting even that operational in under four days was amazing. America had apparently rediscovered engineers who thrived on doing the impossible. Then Nevaquaya thought again, no not rediscovered, just set free from the demands of reaching some unattainable ideal of perfection.
The spectrum display flicked and restructured itself, crisper and with fewer gaps. Secondary windows began to fill up with phase analysis of signal components. “There, how about that?”
Nevaquaya stared at the screen for three seconds before speaking directly into the phone.
“Confirmed, we’ve got more data here too, confidence is now high, repeat, confidence high for portal opening over northern Detroit.”
He pressed mute, then another button that began sounding the incident alarm in the other offices. Finally, he turned to Graeme. “The spikes match. NOARD is seeing radar interference at that location. Looks like the demons are going for Detroit, with a big one too by the look of it. Fighters are on the way; they’ll be contacting national guard units next.” Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside as more DIMO(N) staff converged on the monitoring room. Both men stared at the screens, where the error rates and signal strengths were climbing inexorably. Both knew that their warning was better than nothing, but also that it left precious few minutes to intercept the demon targeteer. If friendly forces couldn’t stop it in time, the heart of a great American city would die in ash and fire.
Over Interstate 75, Detroit, Michigan
Megaaeraholrakni’s arm and wing muscles already ached from the exertion – she had done very little flying these last few centuries – but the demon was so enraged that she barely noticed. How could Euryale have been so incompetent? It could not have been her own fault; she had concentrated firmly on the great glass towers that stood haughtily above the human sprawl. Yet the portal had opened half a league to the north, instead of half a league to the south, almost completely in the wrong direction. ‘More likely that half-witted naga.’ she thought, as she painfully climbed through 500 feet. ‘though surely Yulupki isn’t stupid enough to try sabotaging the Count’s scheme?’
Below her streams of tiny iron boxes raced back and forth, traveling along two wide black strips set in a shallow trench. The trench cut through the human city, snaking gently and occasionally joining up with other trenches in curious curling structures reminiscent of spilled entrails. Many more of the iron boxes stood motionless on parade grounds dotted between the buildings. ‘Perhaps they worship them’ Megaaeraholrakni thought; she could think of no other reason to go to such extreme efforts for the chariot’s sake.
The gorgon could sense the nascent portal ahead; indeed, it would be hard for her to miss it, given how much psychic energy it was leaking. Belial had exhorted the naga to put every effort into this attack and they were obviously giving it everything they had. It could be that this focus on power accounted for their lousy aim. She was drawing near now and the air itself seemed to crackle with power. The portal mouth was bobbing high in the air over a dark L-shaped castle, or more precisely over the bone-white chariot-filled parade ground behind it.
Megaaeraholrakni began a slow sweeping turn, oblivious to the attention she was beginning to draw on the ground below. She reached out with her mind, the psychic force radiating down from her wings to caress the extra-dimensional nexus at the heart of the portal. Crude ‘dragging’ was for novices, one merely had to induce a desire to move in a particular direction and the portal would do the work (or rather, the teams of naga powering it would be forced to do the work, but it was all the same to the gorgon). But mere seconds after the portal had begun to move it began to oscillate wildly, shedding energy that arced to the ground as lighting. Megaaeraholrakni had no choice but to use every ounce of strength she possessed to wrestle the portal back into submission. Flying directly above it, buffeted by the thermals created by the arcing, it seemed to her that she was riding an untamed beast, ready to throw lighting back at her at any moment. The gorgon’s confidence in her own ability was supreme, however, and perhaps not unwarranted, as she soon had the unborn portal simmering in a semblance of submission. Grimly she set off towards the great gleaming towers, a corner of her mind already devising a way to gain revenge on whoever was responsible for this mess.
Tanner Firearm Supplies, Northern Detroit
“Thanks for keeping these aside for me Erwin. I know they’re hard to come by right now, what with the Brits adopting them as standard and grabbing the whole production run.”
“Hey, no problem, Danny. Wouldn’t want to see a friend short of firepower if one of those monsters makes an appearance.” The shopkeeper insisted on shaking the customer’s hand. The man then scooped up the box of .338 Lapua from the counter and made his way out of the store.
Daniel Wright had stowed the ammo in the under-seat safe and was about to start his pickup’s engine when a glint in the sky caught his eye. He considered himself something of an aircraft buff and took a closer look, trying to identify the type. It was bronze-colored, the silhouette changing as he watched… something clicked into place as he realized that it was not a plane, but a creature. A creature that looked just like the grainy news footage from England. At first, it looked like it was circling over the AA&M building. Now it was heading for downtown; the shop was built just off the I-75 and the demon was flying roughly parallel to the highway.
He leaped out of the truck, grabbing his Barrett 98 from the rack. Fortunately, the optics were still in place from his Sunday range visit. As Daniel unlocked the safe, he hesitated for a second; shooting into the sky was usually a reason to make fun of ignorant third-worlders, as what went up had to come down and it could well come down on someone’s head. But only for a second. The Sheffield death toll had now passed 16,000 and he had to stop that happening here at any cost. Daniel clicked the magazine home, braced himself on the side of the truck, brought the monster into the sights, and fired.
The shot was on the edge of effective range to start with, and without tracers, it was basically impossible to correct for the drop, deflection, and wind drift, so Daniel just had to give it his best guess. He could hear other shooters opening, and with luck one of them got lucky. He blew through the first magazine with no apparent effect on the distant flapping form and as he was reaching for the second, he noticed that other shoppers from the gun store had joined him in the parking lot. Some were staring at him, some at the sky.
“There’s a damned Baldrick up there!” he shouted, “grab a rifle and start shooting, or it’ll burn the city.” He didn’t wait to watch them respond, the fresh magazine clicked home and he soon had the rifle realigned on the target. This time the creature seemed to be hit, dropping suddenly and flapping erratically as he fired his last three rounds. No way to know if it was one of his rounds that did it, but it didn’t matter. Erwin and Bob were back with AR-15s from the store, and beside him even Emily was enthusiastically letting fly with her Smith & Wesson 586. Top marks for effort, Daniel thought, as he noticed a large, dark green, and very old half-track coming to a stop on the side of the freeway. The ready platoon of the 3rd Michigan Infantry Regiment, United States Volunteers had arrived with an M-16 quad-50 they’d “liberated” from a museum, and they wasted no time opening with their much-loved M2 mount. Wright recognized some of the volunteers as they took up their positions, the 3rd Michigan had been built around a re-enactors group and to Wright, they looked a bit odd in modern BDUs.
I75-I94 Interchange, Detroit, Michigan
The gorgon’s mood had improved somewhat as she flew south towards the human towers. This realm’s bright direct light had been painful at first, but now it felt pleasantly warm on her back. The proto-portal seemed to have settled down, and she was free to gaze at the landscape below, savoring her power to end their pitiful existences. She was death incarnate, an avatar of cleansing flame come to burn this hive of vermin. Megaaeraholrakni had always reveled in the exercise of psychic power, and now this was the culmination of all those millennia of effort.
That said she did have something of a dilemma. As she ascended it became clear that the towers were built next to a wide river. If she opened the portal over them, the lava would pool there and many of the lesser buildings would be spared. Perhaps it would be better to open it some way from the river, to ensure that the rest of the city burned? There were a great many parades of chariots here – the big flat buildings next to them could be workshops, and Belial had been quite insistent about destroying those. On the other hand, blocking the river with lava would not be so bad, the scalding steam and the flooding sure was amusing…
Megaaeraholrakni’s musings were interrupted by a sharp pain in her right wing. Suddenly she became aware of the irregular cracking sounds coming from below, coming faster and faster with each passing second. Agony flashed down her side as something tore into her flank. The gorgon looked back in disbelief at the green blood dripping from the wound. How dare they? She’d heard the rumors of the human’s newfound magery… now too late she realized how foolish she’d been to dismiss those warnings.
Another projectile slammed into the base of her tail, shattering a vertebra and sending pain shooting up her spine like a white-hot poker. Megaaeraholrakni screamed and flailed wildly in the air, an act that granted her a brief respite as the next few shots went high. The portal crackled dangerously below her, and she threw her wings out again, desperately trying to glide clear. It was at this moment that the hail of machine-gun rounds began to arrive. The heavy rounds ripped through her torso, spraying yellow blood into the air as the gorgon began to fall out of the sky, trailing limp wings behind her. Megaaeraholrakni had a final few seconds to reflect on her folly before she plummeted through the phantom portal mouth. The massive electrostatic charge building there found a convenient discharge path through her body, and the gorgon finally died in a white-hot flash of lightning, her charred and broken body tumbling down onto the interchange below.
Okthuura Yal-Gjaknaath, Tartaruan Range, borderlands of Hell
Baroness Yulupki’s eyes were closed, her coils writhing with pain as she tried to force the chorus back into harmony. The ritual had started to go wrong as soon as the portal began to form. Instead of a single unified psychic push, there was discord. The closest human sensation was ‘tone’ and ‘timbre’; the ritual needed pure chords, but some of the naga were holding the wrong notes. The situation had rapidly deteriorated as each naga tried to stay in ‘tune’ with her neighbors, magnifying the initial dissenting voices into a psychic cacophony.
“All of you, follow me!” Yulupki screamed, over the wails of her subordinates and the hissing of the lava. It was hard to know if the naga on the other platforms heard her, but telepathy was out of the question in this din. The effort had dried out the tips of her tentacles and the energy began to arc back to the surrounding flesh, charring the scales. To the naga, it seemed that her body was on fire and her brain was being squeezed in a vice, but gathering strength she didn’t know she had, she made a final push to stabilize the portal. She was somewhat surprised to find it working. Her strong, clear stream of psychic energy stood out clearly in the haze and the other naga rallied around it.
“That’s it, hold it, a little longer!” Why hadn’t that damned gorgon opened the portal yet? She couldn’t keep this up, if the signal didn’t come in another minute, they’d just … The wash of feedback hit Yulupki like a brick wall. She collapsed onto her pallet, barely hanging onto consciousness. The raging psychic turmoil had been replaced by a numb calm. ‘No, that can’t be, oh no…’ Her pitiful cry rang with the anguish of a human whose eyes had just been torn out.
From her vantage point on the crater rim, Euryale had been watching the ritual with mounting concern. She was not yet a participant, but she could sense the unbalanced forces and the resulting instability in the half-formed portal. At the same time, she could sense Megaaeraholrakni’s progress over the human city through the mental link with her handmaiden. That link had just dissolved into echoes of pain, confusion, and panic before disappearing entirely. Mere seconds later, what could only be described as a psychic shockwave had rushed out from the center of the crater. The gorgon could barely make out the great snakelike forms through the dense smoke and heat shimmer, but she could tell that nearly half the naga was down and the rest were thrashing and wailing. Behind them, the shrines were breaking out in glowing red patches, as local hotspots began to melt the metal.
Euryale launched herself from the rocks, determined to save the ritual. She pushed questions of what had gone wrong and who would pay out of her mind. That could come later. Her wings billowed taut as they caught the strong thermal and she soared over the bubbling lava. The thick smoke stung the gorgon’s eyes; she couldn’t see clearly, but the series of bright flashes and a tortured groan probably signaled the collapse of one of the shrines. She was right over the portal now and she could feel it swelling and ascending, pushed out of the volcano’s throat like a cork in a barrel.
It was the moment for Euryale’s own supreme effort. She put everything she had into a single release aimed directly down, hoping to slam the portal down into the lava in the same act as pushing it over the threshold for opening. For a split second, the smoke seemed transparent, as the entire crater was lit up by a storm of dancing lightning. Then noise and motion returned, and Euryale was falling, the air whistling through great burning rips in her wings. The lava below convulsed, dropping and splashing and throwing out great chunks of magma. Desperately she tried to ride the thermals clear of the maelstrom before she was swatted from the sky or consumed by the fire.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Heavengate, Hell
The stones upon which Shakoolapicanthus walked were smoothed from the guards' tread over dozens of millennia. He could almost see his reflection in them, he thought, as he continued pacing along the top of the defensive wall.
The wall – it was massive, the work of millennia. It had been built, at first, of mounded earth, but the earthworks had long been replaced with huge blocks of granite. Fifty times the height of the tallest Dukes, the huge loop towered above the surrounding foothills. A human-looking down on it from the air would have thought it looked nothing more than a giant tire sticking out of the ground. The outer face sloped gently down toward the plain, crisscrossed with trenches and ringed with smaller fortifications, parallel to the main wall. The inner face sloped sharply down toward the large inner ring. It was faced with granite, polished by the sweat and blood of thousands of lesser demons and enslaved humans to gleam in the dull, striated light.
Faced entirely with polished granite, that is, save for a small staircase almost too narrow for the scrawniest demons to walk down. That staircase was joined to the ramparts at the top of the wall by a small, nondescript crenelation, which Shakoolapicanthus found himself approaching for the twentieth time since his shift had begun. This was the final circuit, and he was ready to be done with his portion of the guard duties. There was just one task that remained.
He passed the standing guard, taken from Satan’s personal legions. They stood fifty feet apart all around the wall for the duration of their shifts, staring impassively down at the large building in the center of the wall's inner ring – and stepped back down onto the staircase, as though he were climbing a ladder. The steps were also smoothed by continual travel, but far rougher than the smooth stone to either side. For a moment, he contemplated what a rush up that wall would be like, then shuddered at the thought of even trying, let alone in the face of tridents raining down magic on the attackers. This was a unique fortress, designed to keep attackers in, not out.
At the bottom of the wall, he straightened and turned around. The building was before him, towering over him even as it was dwarfed by the ringing wall; a giant demon-made mountain of stone is what it was. A ring of demons stood guard about it, and twenty were orderly clustered about the only entrance, staring at it as though it were a poisonous snake about to bite them. Shakoolapicanthus stopped before them and said, “I am entering the Gateway.”
The demon in charge of the guard challenged him in the ritual. “Who are you to enter the Gateway?”
“I am Shakoolapicanthus, a captain of the Guard. I see that all is well within.”
“Shakoolapicanthus, a captain of the Guard, I will permit you to enter the Gateway. Bring the word of the inner guard.”
Shakoolapicanthus nodded, the demons before he parted, and he stooped as the guard raised the iron portcullis. As he passed beneath it, he shivered; the feel of iron nearby always made his back crawl. It was the only place in all of Hell where the iron had a use; it was rumored that the gate's construction had cost the lives of fifty demons and that a thousand naga had enchanted it with the strongest spells imaginable.
The iron behind him, he made his way forward through the low, twisting passageway on his hands and knees. It was uncomfortable and certainly made walking impossible for even the lowliest demons or angels. The stone around him seemed to weigh down on him, to close in on him.
Never too soon, the inner sanctum approached, and the passage widened. The first thing that tipped him off was the stench of blood. He rolled his eyes – again. The two sides sometimes made points by bursting into the realm of the other and slaughtering the guards before dropping back to the relative safety of their own homes. Once, the raiding parties had encountered each other; it had taken two centuries to alleviate the tensions from the resulting bloodbath. Another consequence of the raiding was that only the lowliest, unluckiest demons were chosen to be the inner sanctum guards; Shakoolapicanthus speculated that the same was true of the other side.
The passage opened out into the inner sanctum, a rectangular room as small as possible. Dominating the chamber, seeming too large for the room in which it was contained, was the jet-black portal: the last one open between Heaven and Hell. The creation of portals between the realms had been forbidden at the end of the Great Celestial War, and only one had been kept open to permit contact and the occasional diplomatic delegation between Satan and Yahweh. A delegation had come through recently, Shakoolapicanthus reminded himself; according to rumor, human magery had destroyed it in the Pit. The higher-ups vehemently denied the rumors, of course, but that made him even more certain that something had happened. Certainly, strange things were happening in Hell, human armies were fighting in the Infernal Region itself and all the barrack-room rumors were of the humans in the pit rising against their tormenters. It was even whispered, that there was now an area in the pit where no demon dared go, where if one tried, the penalty was a horrible death by human magery.
The two guards were lying contorted on the ground, charred in places and dismembered in others. Blood was spattered all throughout the chamber. But something was different; standing in front of the portal was a towering white figure. It was staring at him with its pale, white eyes, and Shakoolapicanthus felt himself shudder far more than he had passed under the iron portcullis. This was no mere angel; this was a high-ranking one, one who could probably crush him as easily as it had these two unfortunates.
Slowly, like a cornered Beast, Shakoolapicanthus started to back away toward the tunnel. The angel did nothing for a moment, then flared its wings – they stretched nearly across the chamber – and said, “Stop.” Shakoolapicanthus stopped. He was shivering uncontrollably.
Slowly, the angel raised his sword. It glimmered in the torchlight; bronze lined with pale gold. The angel was gathering fearsome magic; it was already making Shakoolapicanthus' hair stand on end. Then it spoke. “Do you know who I am, fallen scum?”
“N-n-n-no, sir. I do not.”
“I am Michael-lan, commander of the forces of the Most High One. I have a message for the Fallen One from my master. You will bear it to him. Tell him that these words have come from the Throne of the Nameless One. ‘Satan Mekatrig, despite previous warnings you have failed to oppress and dominate the humans. They have forced their way into your realm and still, you cannot defeat them. Your failures in this matter have ensured that the humans are developing into a threat to the chorus. The gates of Heaven may be closed to any who may wish to enter but our hosts may leave to engage our enemies at our pleasure. As a last warning to the humans, we have gathered Uriel and the Bowls of Wrath. Your failures are causing us to intervene against our wishes, but the chorus must not cease. On your head lies what may result.’ Tell him that, and only that.”
The archangel stepped forward, over the twisted bodies, and touched Shakoolapicanthus on the forehead. As he did, he released a surge of magic; the demon howled in pain and surprise as the archangel seared a mark onto his face. Then, without a backward glance, the archangel disappeared back into the portal.
Shakoolapicanthus emerged from the gateway so disturbed he didn't even notice when he bumped his head on the iron portcullis. He said nothing to the guards but ran as fast as he could to the stairs and took them up as fast as he could. Five minutes after a brief meeting with his garrison commander, he was on the back of a surging Beast, heading from the Heavengate into the Elysian Fields, toward the city of Dis.
Camp Hell-Alpha, Hellmouth, Martial Field of Dysprosium, North of the Phlegethon, Hell
Abigor's room was pretty spartan, but someone had apparently taken the notion that he might like some plants for decoration. Ordinarily, he'd be offended at the notion that he enjoyed decorations – everyone knew that he used wealth only as a display of status and not because he was soft and decadent – but these plants were green, and had flowers on the end, rarities in Hell. They let off a sickly-sweet smell, which Abigor actually liked.
He sniffed them once more, and then sat back, taking a few minutes to try to digest everything he'd learned since his surrender. On his left was a towering pile of DVDs and books on the history of human militaries. It was rich and fascinating, full of change – nothing like the static, unchanging nature of the civilized warfare he was used to in Hell.
For centuries – he was becoming used to the human way of telling time – for centuries, humans had fought in mostly the same way. Infantry would line up and charge each other – sometimes with spears, sometimes with swords. Auxiliaries would harass the enemy lines with projectiles, arrows, and stones. Cavalry would protect the flanks, swoop in and charge the enemies. There were similarities to what Abigor knew, of course; infantry and auxiliaries would be combined in Hell since all infantry could fire projectiles. Cavalry was more important; in Hell, they made or broke battles. And in Hell, flies were an integral part of the battlefield; perhaps they were analogous to auxiliaries? Something to ponder. Humans had not taken to the air before a hundred years ago. The short human timescale still surprised Abigor; a century ago was yesterday.
But with the humans, the themes of infantry-auxiliary-cavalry interplay were repeated in so many variations. In some parts of their world, huge hordes of men armed with sticks and swords had swarmed each other; in others, disciplined infantry formed the core of armies; while in others, men had shot their arrows from horseback. One book claimed that an army made up of horsemen who could hit a teacup a hundred yards away from a galloping horse. Abigor hadn't heard of any demon who could match that feat from a galloping Beast.
And then, three centuries ago, the human inquisitiveness, curiosity – the human tendency to treat the world as a problem to be solved, rather than a place to live, their almost desperate need to know why – had apparently begun to reward humans. Three centuries ago, seemed like last week, when humans were nothing but cattle, to be tortured for the benefit and eaten as delicacies. Yet it seemed that no matter what question they asked, the answers that they found were immediately turned into weapons of destruction.
Abigor considered the benefits they had reaped. The ability to throw projectiles further, faster, more frequently, and more accurately seemed to be the chief benefit; it had reshaped the battlefield. Humans could now throw projectiles over the horizon, on long arching curves that impacted precisely where the humans wanted them. It seemed that their entire ground combat doctrine, Abigor now saw, was shaped around using these 'guns' – what he had called fire-spears – as effectively as possible. The accuracy with which humans could throw projectiles explained why they fought like cowards. Their goal was to win the battles; so instead of presenting themselves entirely and honorably, they presented as small a target as possible while still permitting themselves to throw back.
And then there was the question of flying chariots, which were known to humans as 'aircraft'. They flew higher and faster than flies and their firepower was far beyond the flies. The same magic – Abigor caught himself; there was no magic here. There were only skills he did not understand. The same ability that let humans throw projectiles such long distances and with such accuracy also permitted them to create 'bombs', which could be dropped with great accuracy. The seeker lances – 'missiles' humans called them though why was an odd thing that Abigor had yet to fathom out since they never missed – were another manifestation of the same abilities: projectiles that flew like aircraft and sought out their target.
Before the destruction of his Army, he had seen how the human aircraft had decimated his flies and he had thought that was the end of it. Now, he knew differently, human aircraft could do many things, they could wipe out flies with contemptuous ease, but they could also raid death and destruction on the ground forces. He had seen a little of that but only a thin shadow of what human aircraft could do when unleashed to use their full power. He had seen how the humans themselves had been forced to invest huge sums in the development of anti-aircraft weapons to defend themselves against aircraft. That was something Satan didn’t must worry about deploying, there wasn’t an anti-aircraft gun in all of Hell.
And then there were the human boats. They were larger than any boat he'd ever seen; anywhere you needed to go in Hell, there were roads, or Belial's wyverns if the place were inaccessible. The human boats had guns on them and could also throw missiles. Some even had aircraft on them, and some could swim under the water to throw missiles or hunt other boats. Abigor thought of the seas that surrounded Hell’s one great continent and imagined the human boats loose in them. All of Hell would be at their mercy with only Dagon’s few legions of Kraken to defend it.
So much to absorb. Abigor shook his head. Most bombs, missiles, and artillery shells exploded like injured flies, while other projectiles were solid iron. Some were thrown from guns, and others were dropped or thrown from aircraft. These new things were all so confusing in the details, but in general, he was starting to absorb the picture of how humans did things. They fought to win – that much he'd already seen. But they didn't fight to win by outmaneuvering…… Abigor stopped himself, that wasn’t true, human armies could maneuver in ways a demonic army couldn’t even dream of. To humans though, the maneuver was a way to bring overwhelming firepower to bear on their enemy with the aim of annihilating either his desire or his ability to fight – or, in some cases, both.
The DVDs he'd seen had been particularly illuminating. He'd had no idea how ferocious humans were to each other, and the scale of the battles that had raged across the human world even in the last century – the last few days, to him – stunned him. How had they come so far in so little time? He'd seen lines of chariots – trucks – stretching for miles, throwing their projectiles into the air all at once. The sound was familiar to him, the thumping of artillery and the scream of inbound shells and rockets. They still took him back to the battlefield in the human world, where he'd watched his army disintegrate around him; he still had nightmares about that.
He'd seen lines of trenches, with humans running about in them – and in between them, a charred, muddy, churned-up wasteland that was as bad as anything in the Pit. Coils of razor wire crisscrossed that little hell, and guns crashed and chattered across while artillery lobbed back and forth. Once, he saw a flood of humans boil up out of one trench and charge into hell, only to be scythed down. One had made it back to the trench.
He'd seen a coastline lined by razor wire and huge guns, and the dawn brought with it a sea of iron – boats as far as the eye could see, all firing at once, as people once more charged bravely into the crossfire from small boats that scuttled like beetles up to the beach.
He'd seen the view from above of a jungle wasteland with craters evenly spaced as far as the eye could see, as a line of explosions marched up the screen. The trees looked like grass, and the people running about looked like ants.
Abigor shook his head again. The myriad ways humans had found to destroy their enemies were mind-boggling. Then a strange thought came to his mind, based on the way the humans had suddenly changed from a primitive mob that was walking meat to a demonic army to the pitiless killers against whom no demonic army could stand. Oh, Abigor had heard the guns thundering as a human army stood against the sledgehammer blows of the combined armies of Asmodeus and Beelzebub, and in his mind’s eye he could see what was already happening, the demonic horde screaming and dying under the pounding of the human guns. One of his books expressed it so well, ‘Artillery is the King of War, Infantry is the Queen of the Battlefield. And it is well known what the King does to the Queen.’
Abigor shook his head, it had all happened so suddenly. Three centuries from helpless victims to the Lords of War. Unnaturally quickly. Had there been another hand here? The way the humans had fought each other, each set of wars driving their weapons technology further forward and setting the conditions for the next set. As if humans were being trained to fight, bred to destroy both Satan and Yahweh. Abigor could see now why Yahweh had washed his hands of them, the human’s driving need to know had caused them to reject his teachings and ready-made answers in favor of finding their own. They had even laughed at Yahweh’s pronouncements and dared his prophets to prove their doctrine. When the prophets and true believers had repeated Yahweh’s rulings, they’d been faced with the human battle-cry ‘prove it’ and ridiculed the prophets with evidence of the truth. There was even a slogan they used for such contests, one Abigor had spotted somewhere. “Sci-Fi, Science, and mockery of stupid people.” He didn’t know what Sci-Fi was, but it was quite clear who they meant by the stupid people, Yahweh himself. No wonder he had been annoyed with them.
Humans couldn’t have done it by themselves, could they? Surely, they must have had help. Were there others whose hands were involved here, perhaps the others who had once held sway on Earth but had been driven out by Yahweh and Satan? Their hand was still present, Abigor knew that there were a small number of humans who were protected by them, who lived in Hell but were free of its torments. Had they trained humanity to become the Lords of War who would drive both Satan and Yahweh away from Earth?
This was worth further thought, but one thing was bothering him. This artistic destruction, he had all experienced. All save the use of aircraft, but that did not create much more destruction than the pounding artillery had. What had the Colonel meant when he'd said that Abigor had not even begun to see what humans could do when they put their minds to it? On his right lay a single DVD case. He picked it up, delicately opening it with his claws, and popped the DVD into the player. The large screen in front of him went from off to blue to black with white letters: THE MANHATTAN PROJECT.
In the first part of the video, Abigor didn't understand. It was about things called “Adams” – wasn't Adam the first human to come to hell? He was still in Satan's palace in a little cage, if Abigor remembered correctly.
Then came the first pictures of what humans did with these Adams, and Abigor became very interested. He became very interested indeed.
An hour later, Abigor was sitting on his couch, mouth agape, staring at the screen as the credits rolled by. What sort of gods were the humans, to be able to destroy a city with a single bomb? He closed his mouth, then shook his head. A single bomb, capable of annihilating an entire city. An entire army would be nothing. They had played with him when they could have destroyed him and everyone with him with ease.
Suddenly, the part of his mind that had been bothering him since his defection, the part that continually accused him of treason, became quieter and smaller. A lot quieter, and a lot smaller. There was no doubt that the humans were going to win this, no doubt at all. He saw it now: the humans were deploying just enough firepower to utterly destroy whatever was sent at them, waiting, keeping their cards in reserve, watching their enemies see how they reacted. So simple, so logical, so utterly unconventional.
There was a knock at the door, and Abigor looked up. It opened, and a languid man walked in, flanked by two soldiers carrying nasty-looking guns – shotguns, Abigor recognized now. The lights in the ceiling seemed to flicker a little bit, casting a slightly dimmer glow. The man looked familiar, then Abigor placed him: he'd come a few days earlier to interrogate Abigor about the city of Dis and possible military targets.
“General Abigor, I'm pleased to see you again.” The voice was flat, uninflected, almost disinterested.
“Likewise.”
The visitor took a thick piece of rolled parchment from under his arm and spread it out on the table. “General, would you mind coming here to look at this?” Phrased as a request, there was no doubt it was a command.
Abigor rose and stepped over to the table and looked down. It was a copy of the map of Dis he'd looked at earlier, but now there was a set of red concentric shapes drawn on it, basically circles but strangely distorted. The shapes were colored successively darker toward the center, but the relationship was strange, distorted, darkening quickly where they overlapped, sometimes dramatically so. Some of the shapes were arranged in neat triangles. And in the center of those formations, the area of darkest red was horribly large and terrifyingly dark.
His hair was standing on end as he looked down at the map. The shapes and patterns went on and on, so that the city was completely covered by the circles. Satan's palace, on the fortified spur that stuck out into the Pit, was invisible under the triangles of overlapping circles. What could the circles mean? There was only one explanation – and it came from the DVD he had just watched and Abigor suddenly knew why it had been given to him. It made all the pieces fall into place. The humans could destroy whole cities with single bombs, and they had shown they could do so without any compunction. Dis wasn’t the only city in Hell, but it was the largest and it was the administrative center for the whole of Hell. Why would a city be a target? Hadn’t Belial just destroyed a human city with his party tricks? Was this to be the human revenge? With a rising wave of bile in his throat, Abigor began to suspect what the shapes and colors meant.
“General Abigor, what do you make of this map?” asked the Targeteer.
“It seems that ... that this is a map of the destruction caused by the explosion of atomic bombs to the city of Dis.”
The visitor raised one eyebrow. “Very good, General, though we call them 'devices', not 'bombs' and they ‘initiate’ not ‘explode’. Technically, a nuclear initiation isn’t an explosion. These circles represent the overpressure radii of each individual initiation, they’ll all be taking place at once by the way. As I'm sure you learned, one way our devices bring about the destruction of their targets is shockwave caused by the initiation; the shockwave is measured by over-pressure. Where patterns overlap, the over-pressure increases dramatically. The terrain is critically important as well, the shockwave will be channeled by some features, and reflected by others. Where it is channeled, it will extend further in one direction at the expense of others. Where it is reflected, it will cause no damage beyond the point of reflection but destruction before that point will be multiplied many times over.
“As is our way, we targeted only military installations – the barracks, production centers, command and control points, administrative buildings, and so on – but you can see that the installations are so densely concentrated in the city, the city would be destroyed by such an attack. No part of the city is subject to a shockwave of less than 5 psi overpressure; such strength guarantees the destruction of all but the most hardened targets. Most of the city, more than 90 percent of that will suffer from overpressures an order of magnitude greater.
“We did need to use very high-yield devices in ground bursts to destroy the most hardened targets. These are the earthworks and the walls which surround the city. We suspect that the construction of the buildings is so poor that the ground wave caused by the destruction of the walls would destroy the city anyway. Of course, the blast is just one way a nuclear device destroys its target. There is also a light flash that will blind every unprepared person for tens of miles, and fire. Another map for you, this one shows the anticipated firestorms. You’ve seen those films about what a firestorm in a city can be like? You can expect winds approaching 200 miles per hour, heat levels so high that it will melt steel let alone bronze, the fires will suck all the oxygen out of the air and the people trapped in the wreckage of Dis will asphyxiate. Finally, there’s direct radiation as well, but that isn’t a factor after somebody has been reduced to the size, shape, and appearance of a McDonald’s hamburger by blast, fire, and debris, irradiating them as well as a mere technicality. Of course, that doesn’t cover the fallout. The ground bursts will create horrible levels of contamination. Normally we wouldn’t worry too much about the fallout from air bursts but the atmosphere here is so dusty, even air bursts are going to generate a lot of fallout as well.”
“So,” said Abigor flatly, “you will destroy Dis.”
“No, we needed to create a plan to destroy Dis, but it is just a contingency plan.”
“Then why are you showing this to me?”
“Because, General, you need to know what we can do – what we are willing to do. The destruction of Dis would take the lives of nearly every demon living there. It would leave no building standing, and in its wake, there would be giant radioactive firestorms. After the fires died, there would be nothing of Dis left save craters; what was once a city would become a charred, radioactive wasteland. Nobody, human or demon, would live there for ten thousand years.
“We can do that, General. And we would be right to do that, after how your people have treated us in the past. Demons have enslaved humans, treated them as cattle, eaten them, and tortured them for thousands of years. As a professional, it’s not my job to make moral judgments about the people whose destruction I plan. But, just for once, I’m going to indulge myself. A quick death in a nuclear fire is the least that your race deserves.
“But we are magnanimous in victory, General, as you know. We fight to win, but once we have won, we strive for peace. If there are other options that make this plan as superfluous as all the others I have drawn up over the years, then we will prefer to use them. But I warn you, we can be pushed too far for that. This map.” He tapped it with a finger. “Is still not the worst we can do. General, if you really anger us, we will try and bring democracy to your country.”
“I see.” Abigor frowned down at the map, trying to picture the bustling city he'd known for dozens of thousands of years as a charred, smoking wasteland, trying to picture the city vanishing in a series of impossibly bright flashes. And if that was so, what was this other hideous threat? Yet he had a strange feeling there was something he didn’t quite understand because the last remark had made the two soldiers in the room grin broadly. “Who are you. What are you.”
“People call us many things. Targeteers, Contractors, The Business, The Wizards of Armageddon. The last was intended as an insult but we rather like it. And, of course, it has turned out to be a much more accurate description than its author realized.”
Abigor sighed. “You must be a great General then.”
“Actually, I’m not in the armed forces at all, in fact, I never have been. I’m a civilian who is employed by a consultancy company, something we call a think-tank, to do analytical work. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for 25 years.”
“To do this for years. Then I can assume your plans are …. complete.”
“Then you understand.” A statement, not a question. The Targeteer began to roll up the map. “Thank you for your time, General Abigor. I am sure we will meet again.” The two soldiers escorted him from the room, and Abigor's hair began to lay down. Outside the room, the thunder of artillery had never ceased but now Abigor put it into its true perspective. It was indeed just a pale shadow of what humans could do when they wanted to. He glanced at the door after the man, then looked again. He could have sworn those plants were green and flowering before the man had come in.
Heavengate, Hell
The stones upon which Shakoolapicanthus walked were smoothed from the guards' tread over dozens of millennia. He could almost see his reflection in them, he thought, as he continued pacing along the top of the defensive wall.
The wall – it was massive, the work of millennia. It had been built, at first, of mounded earth, but the earthworks had long been replaced with huge blocks of granite. Fifty times the height of the tallest Dukes, the huge loop towered above the surrounding foothills. A human-looking down on it from the air would have thought it looked nothing more than a giant tire sticking out of the ground. The outer face sloped gently down toward the plain, crisscrossed with trenches and ringed with smaller fortifications, parallel to the main wall. The inner face sloped sharply down toward the large inner ring. It was faced with granite, polished by the sweat and blood of thousands of lesser demons and enslaved humans to gleam in the dull, striated light.
Faced entirely with polished granite, that is, save for a small staircase almost too narrow for the scrawniest demons to walk down. That staircase was joined to the ramparts at the top of the wall by a small, nondescript crenelation, which Shakoolapicanthus found himself approaching for the twentieth time since his shift had begun. This was the final circuit, and he was ready to be done with his portion of the guard duties. There was just one task that remained.
He passed the standing guard, taken from Satan’s personal legions. They stood fifty feet apart all around the wall for the duration of their shifts, staring impassively down at the large building in the center of the wall's inner ring – and stepped back down onto the staircase, as though he were climbing a ladder. The steps were also smoothed by continual travel, but far rougher than the smooth stone to either side. For a moment, he contemplated what a rush up that wall would be like, then shuddered at the thought of even trying, let alone in the face of tridents raining down magic on the attackers. This was a unique fortress, designed to keep attackers in, not out.
At the bottom of the wall, he straightened and turned around. The building was before him, towering over him even as it was dwarfed by the ringing wall; a giant demon-made mountain of stone is what it was. A ring of demons stood guard about it, and twenty were orderly clustered about the only entrance, staring at it as though it were a poisonous snake about to bite them. Shakoolapicanthus stopped before them and said, “I am entering the Gateway.”
The demon in charge of the guard challenged him in the ritual. “Who are you to enter the Gateway?”
“I am Shakoolapicanthus, a captain of the Guard. I see that all is well within.”
“Shakoolapicanthus, a captain of the Guard, I will permit you to enter the Gateway. Bring the word of the inner guard.”
Shakoolapicanthus nodded, the demons before he parted, and he stooped as the guard raised the iron portcullis. As he passed beneath it, he shivered; the feel of iron nearby always made his back crawl. It was the only place in all of Hell where the iron had a use; it was rumored that the gate's construction had cost the lives of fifty demons and that a thousand naga had enchanted it with the strongest spells imaginable.
The iron behind him, he made his way forward through the low, twisting passageway on his hands and knees. It was uncomfortable and certainly made walking impossible for even the lowliest demons or angels. The stone around him seemed to weigh down on him, to close in on him.
Never too soon, the inner sanctum approached, and the passage widened. The first thing that tipped him off was the stench of blood. He rolled his eyes – again. The two sides sometimes made points by bursting into the realm of the other and slaughtering the guards before dropping back to the relative safety of their own homes. Once, the raiding parties had encountered each other; it had taken two centuries to alleviate the tensions from the resulting bloodbath. Another consequence of the raiding was that only the lowliest, unluckiest demons were chosen to be the inner sanctum guards; Shakoolapicanthus speculated that the same was true of the other side.
The passage opened out into the inner sanctum, a rectangular room as small as possible. Dominating the chamber, seeming too large for the room in which it was contained, was the jet-black portal: the last one open between Heaven and Hell. The creation of portals between the realms had been forbidden at the end of the Great Celestial War, and only one had been kept open to permit contact and the occasional diplomatic delegation between Satan and Yahweh. A delegation had come through recently, Shakoolapicanthus reminded himself; according to rumor, human magery had destroyed it in the Pit. The higher-ups vehemently denied the rumors, of course, but that made him even more certain that something had happened. Certainly, strange things were happening in Hell, human armies were fighting in the Infernal Region itself and all the barrack-room rumors were of the humans in the pit rising against their tormenters. It was even whispered, that there was now an area in the pit where no demon dared go, where if one tried, the penalty was a horrible death by human magery.
The two guards were lying contorted on the ground, charred in places and dismembered in others. Blood was spattered all throughout the chamber. But something was different; standing in front of the portal was a towering white figure. It was staring at him with its pale, white eyes, and Shakoolapicanthus felt himself shudder far more than he had passed under the iron portcullis. This was no mere angel; this was a high-ranking one, one who could probably crush him as easily as it had these two unfortunates.
Slowly, like a cornered Beast, Shakoolapicanthus started to back away toward the tunnel. The angel did nothing for a moment, then flared its wings – they stretched nearly across the chamber – and said, “Stop.” Shakoolapicanthus stopped. He was shivering uncontrollably.
Slowly, the angel raised his sword. It glimmered in the torchlight; bronze lined with pale gold. The angel was gathering fearsome magic; it was already making Shakoolapicanthus' hair stand on end. Then it spoke. “Do you know who I am, fallen scum?”
“N-n-n-no, sir. I do not.”
“I am Michael-lan, commander of the forces of the Most High One. I have a message for the Fallen One from my master. You will bear it to him. Tell him that these words have come from the Throne of the Nameless One. ‘Satan Mekatrig, despite previous warnings you have failed to oppress and dominate the humans. They have forced their way into your realm and still, you cannot defeat them. Your failures in this matter have ensured that the humans are developing into a threat to the chorus. The gates of Heaven may be closed to any who may wish to enter but our hosts may leave to engage our enemies at our pleasure. As a last warning to the humans, we have gathered Uriel and the Bowls of Wrath. Your failures are causing us to intervene against our wishes, but the chorus must not cease. On your head lies what may result.’ Tell him that, and only that.”
The archangel stepped forward, over the twisted bodies, and touched Shakoolapicanthus on the forehead. As he did, he released a surge of magic; the demon howled in pain and surprise as the archangel seared a mark onto his face. Then, without a backward glance, the archangel disappeared back into the portal.
Shakoolapicanthus emerged from the gateway so disturbed he didn't even notice when he bumped his head on the iron portcullis. He said nothing to the guards but ran as fast as he could to the stairs and took them up as fast as he could. Five minutes after a brief meeting with his garrison commander, he was on the back of a surging Beast, heading from the Heavengate into the Elysian Fields, toward the city of Dis.
Camp Hell-Alpha, Hellmouth, Martial Field of Dysprosium, North of the Phlegethon, Hell
Abigor's room was pretty spartan, but someone had apparently taken the notion that he might like some plants for decoration. Ordinarily, he'd be offended at the notion that he enjoyed decorations – everyone knew that he used wealth only as a display of status and not because he was soft and decadent – but these plants were green, and had flowers on the end, rarities in Hell. They let off a sickly-sweet smell, which Abigor actually liked.
He sniffed them once more, and then sat back, taking a few minutes to try to digest everything he'd learned since his surrender. On his left was a towering pile of DVDs and books on the history of human militaries. It was rich and fascinating, full of change – nothing like the static, unchanging nature of the civilized warfare he was used to in Hell.
For centuries – he was becoming used to the human way of telling time – for centuries, humans had fought in mostly the same way. Infantry would line up and charge each other – sometimes with spears, sometimes with swords. Auxiliaries would harass the enemy lines with projectiles, arrows, and stones. Cavalry would protect the flanks, swoop in and charge the enemies. There were similarities to what Abigor knew, of course; infantry and auxiliaries would be combined in Hell since all infantry could fire projectiles. Cavalry was more important; in Hell, they made or broke battles. And in Hell, flies were an integral part of the battlefield; perhaps they were analogous to auxiliaries? Something to ponder. Humans had not taken to the air before a hundred years ago. The short human timescale still surprised Abigor; a century ago was yesterday.
But with the humans, the themes of infantry-auxiliary-cavalry interplay were repeated in so many variations. In some parts of their world, huge hordes of men armed with sticks and swords had swarmed each other; in others, disciplined infantry formed the core of armies; while in others, men had shot their arrows from horseback. One book claimed that an army made up of horsemen who could hit a teacup a hundred yards away from a galloping horse. Abigor hadn't heard of any demon who could match that feat from a galloping Beast.
And then, three centuries ago, the human inquisitiveness, curiosity – the human tendency to treat the world as a problem to be solved, rather than a place to live, their almost desperate need to know why – had apparently begun to reward humans. Three centuries ago, seemed like last week, when humans were nothing but cattle, to be tortured for the benefit and eaten as delicacies. Yet it seemed that no matter what question they asked, the answers that they found were immediately turned into weapons of destruction.
Abigor considered the benefits they had reaped. The ability to throw projectiles further, faster, more frequently, and more accurately seemed to be the chief benefit; it had reshaped the battlefield. Humans could now throw projectiles over the horizon, on long arching curves that impacted precisely where the humans wanted them. It seemed that their entire ground combat doctrine, Abigor now saw, was shaped around using these 'guns' – what he had called fire-spears – as effectively as possible. The accuracy with which humans could throw projectiles explained why they fought like cowards. Their goal was to win the battles; so instead of presenting themselves entirely and honorably, they presented as small a target as possible while still permitting themselves to throw back.
And then there was the question of flying chariots, which were known to humans as 'aircraft'. They flew higher and faster than flies and their firepower was far beyond the flies. The same magic – Abigor caught himself; there was no magic here. There were only skills he did not understand. The same ability that let humans throw projectiles such long distances and with such accuracy also permitted them to create 'bombs', which could be dropped with great accuracy. The seeker lances – 'missiles' humans called them though why was an odd thing that Abigor had yet to fathom out since they never missed – were another manifestation of the same abilities: projectiles that flew like aircraft and sought out their target.
Before the destruction of his Army, he had seen how the human aircraft had decimated his flies and he had thought that was the end of it. Now, he knew differently, human aircraft could do many things, they could wipe out flies with contemptuous ease, but they could also raid death and destruction on the ground forces. He had seen a little of that but only a thin shadow of what human aircraft could do when unleashed to use their full power. He had seen how the humans themselves had been forced to invest huge sums in the development of anti-aircraft weapons to defend themselves against aircraft. That was something Satan didn’t must worry about deploying, there wasn’t an anti-aircraft gun in all of Hell.
And then there were the human boats. They were larger than any boat he'd ever seen; anywhere you needed to go in Hell, there were roads, or Belial's wyverns if the place were inaccessible. The human boats had guns on them and could also throw missiles. Some even had aircraft on them, and some could swim under the water to throw missiles or hunt other boats. Abigor thought of the seas that surrounded Hell’s one great continent and imagined the human boats loose in them. All of Hell would be at their mercy with only Dagon’s few legions of Kraken to defend it.
So much to absorb. Abigor shook his head. Most bombs, missiles, and artillery shells exploded like injured flies, while other projectiles were solid iron. Some were thrown from guns, and others were dropped or thrown from aircraft. These new things were all so confusing in the details, but in general, he was starting to absorb the picture of how humans did things. They fought to win – that much he'd already seen. But they didn't fight to win by outmaneuvering…… Abigor stopped himself, that wasn’t true, human armies could maneuver in ways a demonic army couldn’t even dream of. To humans though, the maneuver was a way to bring overwhelming firepower to bear on their enemy with the aim of annihilating either his desire or his ability to fight – or, in some cases, both.
The DVDs he'd seen had been particularly illuminating. He'd had no idea how ferocious humans were to each other, and the scale of the battles that had raged across the human world even in the last century – the last few days, to him – stunned him. How had they come so far in so little time? He'd seen lines of chariots – trucks – stretching for miles, throwing their projectiles into the air all at once. The sound was familiar to him, the thumping of artillery and the scream of inbound shells and rockets. They still took him back to the battlefield in the human world, where he'd watched his army disintegrate around him; he still had nightmares about that.
He'd seen lines of trenches, with humans running about in them – and in between them, a charred, muddy, churned-up wasteland that was as bad as anything in the Pit. Coils of razor wire crisscrossed that little hell, and guns crashed and chattered across while artillery lobbed back and forth. Once, he saw a flood of humans boil up out of one trench and charge into hell, only to be scythed down. One had made it back to the trench.
He'd seen a coastline lined by razor wire and huge guns, and the dawn brought with it a sea of iron – boats as far as the eye could see, all firing at once, as people once more charged bravely into the crossfire from small boats that scuttled like beetles up to the beach.
He'd seen the view from above of a jungle wasteland with craters evenly spaced as far as the eye could see, as a line of explosions marched up the screen. The trees looked like grass, and the people running about looked like ants.
Abigor shook his head again. The myriad ways humans had found to destroy their enemies were mind-boggling. Then a strange thought came to his mind, based on the way the humans had suddenly changed from a primitive mob that was walking meat to a demonic army to the pitiless killers against whom no demonic army could stand. Oh, Abigor had heard the guns thundering as a human army stood against the sledgehammer blows of the combined armies of Asmodeus and Beelzebub, and in his mind’s eye he could see what was already happening, the demonic horde screaming and dying under the pounding of the human guns. One of his books expressed it so well, ‘Artillery is the King of War, Infantry is the Queen of the Battlefield. And it is well known what the King does to the Queen.’
Abigor shook his head, it had all happened so suddenly. Three centuries from helpless victims to the Lords of War. Unnaturally quickly. Had there been another hand here? The way the humans had fought each other, each set of wars driving their weapons technology further forward and setting the conditions for the next set. As if humans were being trained to fight, bred to destroy both Satan and Yahweh. Abigor could see now why Yahweh had washed his hands of them, the human’s driving need to know had caused them to reject his teachings and ready-made answers in favor of finding their own. They had even laughed at Yahweh’s pronouncements and dared his prophets to prove their doctrine. When the prophets and true believers had repeated Yahweh’s rulings, they’d been faced with the human battle-cry ‘prove it’ and ridiculed the prophets with evidence of the truth. There was even a slogan they used for such contests, one Abigor had spotted somewhere. “Sci-Fi, Science, and mockery of stupid people.” He didn’t know what Sci-Fi was, but it was quite clear who they meant by the stupid people, Yahweh himself. No wonder he had been annoyed with them.
Humans couldn’t have done it by themselves, could they? Surely, they must have had help. Were there others whose hands were involved here, perhaps the others who had once held sway on Earth but had been driven out by Yahweh and Satan? Their hand was still present, Abigor knew that there were a small number of humans who were protected by them, who lived in Hell but were free of its torments. Had they trained humanity to become the Lords of War who would drive both Satan and Yahweh away from Earth?
This was worth further thought, but one thing was bothering him. This artistic destruction, he had all experienced. All save the use of aircraft, but that did not create much more destruction than the pounding artillery had. What had the Colonel meant when he'd said that Abigor had not even begun to see what humans could do when they put their minds to it? On his right lay a single DVD case. He picked it up, delicately opening it with his claws, and popped the DVD into the player. The large screen in front of him went from off to blue to black with white letters: THE MANHATTAN PROJECT.
In the first part of the video, Abigor didn't understand. It was about things called “Adams” – wasn't Adam the first human to come to hell? He was still in Satan's palace in a little cage, if Abigor remembered correctly.
Then came the first pictures of what humans did with these Adams, and Abigor became very interested. He became very interested indeed.
An hour later, Abigor was sitting on his couch, mouth agape, staring at the screen as the credits rolled by. What sort of gods were the humans, to be able to destroy a city with a single bomb? He closed his mouth, then shook his head. A single bomb, capable of annihilating an entire city. An entire army would be nothing. They had played with him when they could have destroyed him and everyone with him with ease.
Suddenly, the part of his mind that had been bothering him since his defection, the part that continually accused him of treason, became quieter and smaller. A lot quieter, and a lot smaller. There was no doubt that the humans were going to win this, no doubt at all. He saw it now: the humans were deploying just enough firepower to utterly destroy whatever was sent at them, waiting, keeping their cards in reserve, watching their enemies see how they reacted. So simple, so logical, so utterly unconventional.
There was a knock at the door, and Abigor looked up. It opened, and a languid man walked in, flanked by two soldiers carrying nasty-looking guns – shotguns, Abigor recognized now. The lights in the ceiling seemed to flicker a little bit, casting a slightly dimmer glow. The man looked familiar, then Abigor placed him: he'd come a few days earlier to interrogate Abigor about the city of Dis and possible military targets.
“General Abigor, I'm pleased to see you again.” The voice was flat, uninflected, almost disinterested.
“Likewise.”
The visitor took a thick piece of rolled parchment from under his arm and spread it out on the table. “General, would you mind coming here to look at this?” Phrased as a request, there was no doubt it was a command.
Abigor rose and stepped over to the table and looked down. It was a copy of the map of Dis he'd looked at earlier, but now there was a set of red concentric shapes drawn on it, basically circles but strangely distorted. The shapes were colored successively darker toward the center, but the relationship was strange, distorted, darkening quickly where they overlapped, sometimes dramatically so. Some of the shapes were arranged in neat triangles. And in the center of those formations, the area of darkest red was horribly large and terrifyingly dark.
His hair was standing on end as he looked down at the map. The shapes and patterns went on and on, so that the city was completely covered by the circles. Satan's palace, on the fortified spur that stuck out into the Pit, was invisible under the triangles of overlapping circles. What could the circles mean? There was only one explanation – and it came from the DVD he had just watched and Abigor suddenly knew why it had been given to him. It made all the pieces fall into place. The humans could destroy whole cities with single bombs, and they had shown they could do so without any compunction. Dis wasn’t the only city in Hell, but it was the largest and it was the administrative center for the whole of Hell. Why would a city be a target? Hadn’t Belial just destroyed a human city with his party tricks? Was this to be the human revenge? With a rising wave of bile in his throat, Abigor began to suspect what the shapes and colors meant.
“General Abigor, what do you make of this map?” asked the Targeteer.
“It seems that ... that this is a map of the destruction caused by the explosion of atomic bombs to the city of Dis.”
The visitor raised one eyebrow. “Very good, General, though we call them 'devices', not 'bombs' and they ‘initiate’ not ‘explode’. Technically, a nuclear initiation isn’t an explosion. These circles represent the overpressure radii of each individual initiation, they’ll all be taking place at once by the way. As I'm sure you learned, one way our devices bring about the destruction of their targets is shockwave caused by the initiation; the shockwave is measured by over-pressure. Where patterns overlap, the over-pressure increases dramatically. The terrain is critically important as well, the shockwave will be channeled by some features, and reflected by others. Where it is channeled, it will extend further in one direction at the expense of others. Where it is reflected, it will cause no damage beyond the point of reflection but destruction before that point will be multiplied many times over.
“As is our way, we targeted only military installations – the barracks, production centers, command and control points, administrative buildings, and so on – but you can see that the installations are so densely concentrated in the city, the city would be destroyed by such an attack. No part of the city is subject to a shockwave of less than 5 psi overpressure; such strength guarantees the destruction of all but the most hardened targets. Most of the city, more than 90 percent of that will suffer from overpressures an order of magnitude greater.
“We did need to use very high-yield devices in ground bursts to destroy the most hardened targets. These are the earthworks and the walls which surround the city. We suspect that the construction of the buildings is so poor that the ground wave caused by the destruction of the walls would destroy the city anyway. Of course, the blast is just one way a nuclear device destroys its target. There is also a light flash that will blind every unprepared person for tens of miles, and fire. Another map for you, this one shows the anticipated firestorms. You’ve seen those films about what a firestorm in a city can be like? You can expect winds approaching 200 miles per hour, heat levels so high that it will melt steel let alone bronze, the fires will suck all the oxygen out of the air and the people trapped in the wreckage of Dis will asphyxiate. Finally, there’s direct radiation as well, but that isn’t a factor after somebody has been reduced to the size, shape, and appearance of a McDonald’s hamburger by blast, fire, and debris, irradiating them as well as a mere technicality. Of course, that doesn’t cover the fallout. The ground bursts will create horrible levels of contamination. Normally we wouldn’t worry too much about the fallout from air bursts but the atmosphere here is so dusty, even air bursts are going to generate a lot of fallout as well.”
“So,” said Abigor flatly, “you will destroy Dis.”
“No, we needed to create a plan to destroy Dis, but it is just a contingency plan.”
“Then why are you showing this to me?”
“Because, General, you need to know what we can do – what we are willing to do. The destruction of Dis would take the lives of nearly every demon living there. It would leave no building standing, and in its wake, there would be giant radioactive firestorms. After the fires died, there would be nothing of Dis left save craters; what was once a city would become a charred, radioactive wasteland. Nobody, human or demon, would live there for ten thousand years.
“We can do that, General. And we would be right to do that, after how your people have treated us in the past. Demons have enslaved humans, treated them as cattle, eaten them, and tortured them for thousands of years. As a professional, it’s not my job to make moral judgments about the people whose destruction I plan. But, just for once, I’m going to indulge myself. A quick death in a nuclear fire is the least that your race deserves.
“But we are magnanimous in victory, General, as you know. We fight to win, but once we have won, we strive for peace. If there are other options that make this plan as superfluous as all the others I have drawn up over the years, then we will prefer to use them. But I warn you, we can be pushed too far for that. This map.” He tapped it with a finger. “Is still not the worst we can do. General, if you really anger us, we will try and bring democracy to your country.”
“I see.” Abigor frowned down at the map, trying to picture the bustling city he'd known for dozens of thousands of years as a charred, smoking wasteland, trying to picture the city vanishing in a series of impossibly bright flashes. And if that was so, what was this other hideous threat? Yet he had a strange feeling there was something he didn’t quite understand because the last remark had made the two soldiers in the room grin broadly. “Who are you. What are you.”
“People call us many things. Targeteers, Contractors, The Business, The Wizards of Armageddon. The last was intended as an insult but we rather like it. And, of course, it has turned out to be a much more accurate description than its author realized.”
Abigor sighed. “You must be a great General then.”
“Actually, I’m not in the armed forces at all, in fact, I never have been. I’m a civilian who is employed by a consultancy company, something we call a think-tank, to do analytical work. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for 25 years.”
“To do this for years. Then I can assume your plans are …. complete.”
“Then you understand.” A statement, not a question. The Targeteer began to roll up the map. “Thank you for your time, General Abigor. I am sure we will meet again.” The two soldiers escorted him from the room, and Abigor's hair began to lay down. Outside the room, the thunder of artillery had never ceased but now Abigor put it into its true perspective. It was indeed just a pale shadow of what humans could do when they wanted to. He glanced at the door after the man, then looked again. He could have sworn those plants were green and flowering before the man had come in.
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Coach Insignia Restaurant, Renaissance Center, Downtown Detroit
Gloria Hurst clearly remembered her first trip to Renaissance Center, three decades ago. The gleaming complex of glass and metal towers had promised a fresh start for the city, still struggling to get over the stigma the 1967 riots had created. The 80s rolled around and the dreams of a regenerated Detroit never came to pass; outside of the little oasis of ‘civilization’ the corporations had built, the slums had just continued to decay. Jobs kept leaving and never seemed to come back, buildings crumbled, and the criminals seemed to multiply. So many times, she’d thought of selling and moving out, but somehow, she’d never had the heart to leave. Her children had never understood that particularly after her house had been robbed twice in the same month.
The war had almost come as a relief. All the plants still open were running at full capacity and many of the closed ones were being reopened. The roads were clogged with buses (only the gas rationing had forestalled gridlock) and downtown the crowds were thicker than ever. Still, Gloria’s own neighborhood had hardly changed. All the attention was on places like Sterling Heights and Livonia, where the remaining plants were. As for the suburbs, she’d heard that the government had been requisitioning all the foreclosed McMansions and subdividing them to create cheap worker accommodation. She imagined the look on the faces of the homeowner’s association and laughed.
The ring of slums between downtown and the industrial belt was being ignored, if anything there was even less interest in regenerating it now that war production was at the top of everyone’s minds. Gloria sighed. At least the muggers were keeping a low profile. The cops weren’t playing catch-and-release anymore, the ones who got arrested tended to be drafted, and the ones who fought back usually got splattered by the huge guns all the cops were carrying now.
“Granny!” The young boy’s voice roused Gloria from her thoughts. Ah, there they were, her eldest son and his family, come to visit her at last. “Granny, what’s that?” Her grandson was staring out the windows, which had a fine view of the city due to their location near the top of the city's tallest skyscraper. The boy seemed to be pointing at something near the horizon. Gloria turned stiffly in her chair and strained to focus on the distant buildings. There was an odd flickering over an intersection, perhaps two miles to the north, and a glint that seemed to come from something falling out of the sky. Her heartbeat faster as she realized that the irregular, chattering roar that had been slowly building was the sound of many, many guns being fired. Was it the demons? Had the army shot down a demon? The sound of gunfire died away. Several people were standing at the windows now, asking out loud the same questions she was thinking.
The molten rock literally exploded out of nowhere, the unstable portal hurling great sprays of magma in every direction. Many who’d seen the images of the portal opening over Sheffield had remarked on the eerie beauty of the hellish fountain, unfolding in its first few seconds like a giant deadly firework. This attack was different, a raging beast that seemed to lash out at random without symmetry or reason. Gloria winced as the first gouts of lava reached the bottom of their arcs, smashing into buildings with a spray of fire and rubble. The freeway intersection collapsed and disappeared in a vast cloud of smoke, peppered with tiny gouts of fire as gasoline flash-vaporized and exploded. For a full ten seconds, the scene unfolded in silence, save for the screams and yells of the people in the restaurant. Glasses and plates began to rattle and fell as the first seismic vibrations made their way up the building. Then the shockwave hit, and an overpowering roar overlaid on a deep rumble that seemed to grab Gloria’s guts and shake them in her torso.
We’ve got to get out of here! Mom, come on, let’s go! Her son had grabbed her shoulders and was trying to pull her up.
“Lawrence. Lawrence! Look at that crowd.” Lunchtime was the busiest period for Coach Insignia and now it seemed that nearly everyone was trying to jam themselves through the doors at once. Some of the staff were shouting, gesturing, and trying to control the flow but without much success.
“You watch the news; you know what happened in England." Gloria was shouting hoarsely, to be heard over the din. "That lava will flow downhill, straight towards us. I’ll never get out in time, not with my arthritis.”
Her son just stood there, stunned. “We can’t leave you…”
“Of course, you can! You must save your kids! Now move!” Gloria shoved his arms away.
Lawrence Hurst’s face was full of anguish, but his mother’s reasoning was indisputable. In the distance, he could see the lava already beginning to flow down the trench the freeway sat in, heading for the river - and downtown. He hugged her tightly. “Goodbye, mom.” Then he was gone, trying to force a path through the crowd for his family, his wife dragging their screaming children behind them. Gloria turned back to the window, tears streaming down her face. The tears were not for herself; oh, fear was welling up inside her, and frankly, she hoped the building would collapse before the fire got to her. The tears though were for her city, which had suffered so much and struggled so hard to rebuild, only to have its heart burnt out by a war that nobody could even have imagined just a few months ago.
GM-Cadillac Hamtramck Assembly Plant, Detroit
It had been a hell of a job to get the plant converted over in two months flat, as much for training the workers as the retooling. Jake suspected that the Army already had a plan for the switch ready before the Message, because once the word was given the work started almost immediately – and went on 16 hours a day, 7 days a week, UAW be damned. Somehow, they’d pulled it off and now the triple-one sevens were rolling off the line. Production was already up to ten units a day and still increasing. His section was responsible for wiring and accessory fit, and they’d had some pretty horrible QC issues while the new workers were broken in. Jake O’Reilly’s temper was legendary at the plant, but truly he didn’t mind the hours or the problems; it was worth it to see his people so energized and the factory back at full capacity. The triple-one seven wasn’t as tough as a Bradley, but it was a huge step up from a Humvee and a hell of a lot easier to build than the Stryker. If the Army kept kicking Baldrick’s butt (armies even – couldn’t forget the Ruskies and the Brits, Jake thought), then they’d be a lot of escort and patrol missions coming up, and the ‘hell-model’ Guardian was the ideal tool for that job.
The attack came without warning; the factory floor was too noisy to hear the gunfire outside, and the management was still arguing on the phones when the portal opened. Tons of molten rock crashed through the roof, spraying onto sections of the line below. Sizable sections of the plant were destroyed within the first ten seconds, and fires began spreading immediately through the remainder. Shockwaves battered the staff as shrapnel zinged through the air, combining with the heaving ground to leave many workers in a state of shell shock. After Sheffield everyone had been told that this might happen, the most pessimistic staff had even expected it, but nothing could prepare them for the reality of having a volcano appear in the sky nearby. Jake’s first thought was to get his people out. His second thought was to save as many vehicles as he could. His third thought was that these goals combined nicely.
“Listen, all of you…” It was useless, the roar was overpowering. Fortunately, since the new workers had been put on the line Jake had been keeping a megaphone close at hand. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d used it to stop some butterfingered technician about to burn out a wiring harness; now he cranked the volume to the max and used it to save their lives.
“LISTEN, ALL OF YOU. TAKE ANY VEHICLE THAT CAN DRIVE AND GET CLEAR. THERE ARE PLENTY IN THE TESTING AREA. IT’S YOUR BEST HOPE FOR SURVIVING THE ROCKS AND THE SMOKE.”
The burning rocks seemed to have stopped coming for now, and Jake used the respite to herd his team into the nearly completed vehicles. The power had gone out, throwing the factory floor into a hazy twilight filled with screams, shouts, and running forms. “TODD’S TRAPPED, YOU THREE, PULL HIM OUT OF THERE. RICK, IT JUST NEEDS FUEL, GET SOME DAMN DIESEL AND DRIVE HER OUT.”
The Guardians were roaring to life and starting to move, knocking equipment aside as they sought any open path out of the chaos. Jake looked around – all his staff seemed to have gone save a few huddled in a still unfueled M1117. The smoke was already too thick to see the other sections…
The brief respite ended as a fresh wave of flying lava crashed into the plant. Jake fell to his knees, dazed by the impact of a trolley propelled by the blast. His eyes were swimming and his throat burned with the heat and the toxic smoke. He couldn’t see the Guardian… he hadn’t heard it leave, but he couldn’t see it… he struggled to regain his feet but the shaking, cracking floor seemed to defeat his efforts.
A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him up. It was Todd, and Jake had never been so grateful to see the spiky-haired brat. “She’s fueled up boss, let’s go.” Jake was half-dragged, half-clambered through the door of the Guardian. The cabin was filled with injured workers, and someone was already in the driver’s seat because no sooner was, he on board than the engine roared to life and the armored car pulled away. Flames licked at the windows as the vehicle sped through the factory, crashing through the wreckage of jigs and component bins as it made for the doors. Then they were clear, rolling across the huge parking lot, surrounded by a mass of other vehicles trying to escape the destruction. Lava continued to rain down, destroying some of the cars even as they watched, but luck smiled on their Guardian, and they were soon out of range.
Jake leaned forward to address the driver. “Get us up to the Davison intersection. The VDF is bound to set up a checkpoint there, we can drop off our wounded and refuel. They’re going to need all the help they can get.”
White House Situation Room, Washington D.C.
“Sir, it’s Detroit. City’s been hit hard, the attack started just a few minutes ago.”
“Let’s hear it, John. In a hundred words or less, please.”
“Mr. President, the Baldricks hit Detroit with a lava attack. As far as we can see right now, it’s the same mechanism as Sheffield, but bigger and nastier. We shot down the spotter demon, but the portal still opened. We’ve got something like forty thousand tons of lava a second falling out of the sky a couple of miles north of downtown.” Secretary Warner paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“The Cadillac plant took a hell of a beating and Wayne State has already become a firestorm. The freeway trenches are channeling the lava; we can’t stop it before it reaches the river. In the next half hour, we’re going to lose the Renaissance Center, plus the tunnel and the bridge to Windsor. As for casualties… haven’t got an estimate yet, but the worst case is well into six figures.”
“You know, Detroit is the Democrat-voting stronghold of Michigan, if it’s gone, then it might be enough to flip the state into our column.”
There was a stunned silence in the room. Eventually, President Bush’s voice cut through the disbelief, pitched low and frighteningly cold. “Karl, shut up, just shut up. John, could you continue please.”
“Personnel at DIMO(N) detected the portal activity at 12:43 Eastern. NORAD was informed immediately of course. We vectored in F-16s from the 127th out of Selfridge, they flew up on full reheat, but the local United States Volunteers got to the coordinates first. As far we can tell, they sighted a demon of the same type that the Sheffield footage shows, what General Abigor calls a ‘gorgon’. Local citizens already had it under fire when the USV shot it down with triple-A. Unfortunately, the damn things seem to be salvage fused.”
Blank faces stared back at him. “It’s a nuclear warfare term, it means… never mind. The point is, that shooting down the gorgon seems to cause the portal to open prematurely. We bought some time to evacuate, but not nearly enough to save everyone. Sadly, the LDV unit was directly under the portal when it opened; they were killed instantly.”
Bush stopped glaring and his face softened from his barely suppressed anger at the earlier remarks. Did they die in the line of duty? That should be recognized, it’ll put the Volunteers on the map as part of our armed forces. Medal of Honor?
Secretary Warner thought quickly. “I agree with the sentiment, yes Sir. But the Medal is a bit overdoing it. A Silver Star each for the crew would be appropriate I think, and a Presidential Unit Citation for the Third Michigan. The situation in Detroit is pure hell if you’ll forgive the phrase, sir. There’s a serious difference between this attack and Sheffield. Over there, the portal remained in one place and poured its lava over the same target. So, although it spread, the starting point was constant and to some extent the damage was self-limiting. The Baldricks have learned their lesson from that Sir, this time the portal is moving, it’s sort of dancing around at random over a two or three-mile area, a bit like a deflating balloon. So, the lava’s being spread over a much wider area and the damage is a lot greater.”
“I hope nobody ever thought the Baldricks were stupid, that could be the worst mistake we could make.” A slight surge of amusement went around the room at that point, briefly lightening the somber tone. The President himself had benefited more than once from a presumption of stupidity. “As soon as word of this second attack hits the streets, we’re going to be under pressure to do something. Remember World War Two?”
The reference caused a certain degree of bewilderment in the situation room. Eventually, the Army Chief of Staff, General George W. Casey, explained. “Back in World War Two, there was popular demand for anti-aircraft batteries around our cities. So, the President ordered 90mm anti-aircraft battery set up. Unfortunately, those guns were also badly needed as tank killers in Europe, but the Army there never got them due to the AA priority. So, a lot of our tank crews died while our cities were never attacked.” Casey settled back, mentally noting that the aide who had slipped him the explanation for the President’s remark had just earned himself a promotion and a choice assignment.
“Can we pull any triple-A back from Hell?” Bush didn’t sound hopeful.
“Not a chance Sir. The Harpies are the most effective weapon Satan has; they’re giving us a lot of trouble. They’re like aircraft but present in infantry numbers and our fighters just can’t shoot them down fast enough. We were lucky the first time around, Abigor had only one legion of them, sixty-six hundred. We believe there are at least 33 legions being thrown into the battle underway. Over 200,000 of our troops need every anti-aircraft system they’ve got. We can’t even give them air support properly now, all our planes bar a few, are killing Harpies. If anything, we need more triple-A out there not less.
“Anyway, Sir, it’s pointless. We know now that killing the gorgon pathfinder doesn’t do any good, well, not much anyway. Once it’s over a city, that city is gone. It’s like the bad old days before we had the GBIs up in Alaska, once we spotted an inbound missile, we knew the city it was aimed at was gone, it just hadn’t died yet. We can’t defend the cities because by the time the gorgon appears, it’s too late. We must pre-empt the attacks at the source. Now, there are a few things we can do there, our early warning system is based on the cell phone network. We need to give DIMO(N) all the resources they can use, that they don’t already have anyway, for early warning. It isn’t much, but it’s the best we can do until we get all our pieces into place. Other than that, all we can do is mitigate the disaster. I do hope FEMA is going to be a bit more competent this time than they were at New Orleans.”
There was an embarrassed shuffling of feet at that remark. Secretary Dirk Kempthorne took the bait elegantly. “Well, at least we’re arming the victims this time around, not disarming them. I guess the crime rate will be a bit lower.”
“Given the size of the holes the LEO community have taken to blowing in the alleged perpetrators, I think that’s a reasonable assumption.” There was a brief spasm of amusement at the sally from FBI Director Robert Mueller. “One thing about these lava attacks, we don’t get much looting, people are too busy running to think about getting a free television. Most of them anyway. And the draft is sweeping most of the candidates for street criminals out of the way into the forces where the Sergeants are straightening them out. Law and order aren’t really a problem, you’d be surprised how rarely it is in a really major disaster. How long it will stay that way is another matter, one or two more attacks like this and we’ll have a mass panic on our hands. That’ll do more damage to our industrial production than the attacks themselves.”
"Which brings us to the why? Neither Detroit nor Sheffield were important production centers, so why Detroit? Have the analysts worked out the enemy's strategy?"
"Only the obvious so far, Mr. President.” Secretary Warner took a deep breath. “Sheffield and Detroit were both industrial powerhouses until quite recently, very recently in Baldrick terms. Remember, to them, centuries are a short period. My guess is, that this 'Belial' has worked out that our military strength relies on our industrial base, but his intel is stale, and his targeting is lousy. Make no mistake though, he hit us hard this time around, this is the worst blow we've taken since this whole business started. We don't want to give him a chance to refine his aim."
“Then we must kill him at the source. Now. Prime Minister Brown was right, we can’t just let this pass. Hell must hurt for this and hurt badly. We lost under four thousand people in 9/11 and we took two countries down by way of retaliation. Now you say we’re going to lose upwards of 25 times that number.” Bush’s jaw set. “They’re going to must pay, the American people demand it. Tell me what we’ve got and how we’re going to use it. The answer ‘nothing’ won’t be accepted.”
“Sir, we have several plans in motion. We have a pathfinder of our own on the way up to Tartarus, he’s expected there in 24 to 36 hours. Once he’s in place, we can portal a deceased special forces team to his location and they’ll position navigation beacons to home a B-1 strike in. They’d devastate the area. As a backup, we have a British special force group ready to go in. If the B-1s can’t do the strike, they’ll do a ground raid. We have a B-1 searching for Tartarus as well, if our pathfinder can’t get through, she’ll find Tartarus, eventually. We have time Sir; we believe that it will be a week or more before Belial manages to get set up for a third strike. One of our options will be in place by then.”
“Not good enough, what do we do now?” Bush’s voice was dogmatic and a little petulant.
“We can hit Dis with an air strike, the B-1s won’t be able to hit Tartarus for days, we can let them loose on Dis. With conventional bombs of course. We have a nuclear strike plan; we can adapt it for a conventional bombing strike. That’s about our only serious option right now.
“In the meantime, we must think about limiting the disaster we have in hand. We have a couple of options there. We have a prototype device that is designed specifically to close portals. This prototype is too large to be carried by an existing bomber, but we do have a different alternative. We have old C-54s we’ve pulled from the boneyard, and we can refit one to carry that prototype device. The original plan was to use a Britannia and target the Sheffield portal but that’s run a long way out of steam now, the vulcanologist believes it’ll run dry in a day or less. We can test out our new device in Detroit instead.”
“There’s another thing we can do.” Doctor Surlethe’s voice was clinical. “We can deprive the baldricks of their own navigation beacons. I propose we test the entire population for the Nephilim genetic ancestry and quarantine those carrying it in isolation camps until the war is over.”
There was another stir in the room, this time of anger. In one corner, Karl Rove leaned back in relief, somebody else had made a political error of grade one levels. Secretary Kempthorne was the one who took up the cudgels though. “And we know what to look for do we?”
“Well, we will, after some investigations.”
“And then you propose to place people in indefinite confinement without them having committed an offense on the vague off-chance that a baldrick might use one of them?”
“Better that than an incinerated city.”
“Even though we already know that wearing tinfoil hats offers complete protection against mind entanglement?”
“But there are a few people out there who won’t. There are always eccentrics who deny that the tinfoil hat is absolutely essential to prevent baldricks taking over their minds.”
“And you want to indefinitely jail an unknown number of people, possibly millions, because one or two might refuse to wear their hats?”
“Well… Put like that…..”
“And that’s how it will be put ladies, gentlemen, Karl.” Rove winced; he hadn’t been forgiven after all. “We will make it a legal requirement to wear a tinfoil hat and enforce it. But there will be no mass detentions. We did that in 1941 and the stain is with us still. Thank you, we will have another meeting in six hours’ time when we can get some of the rest of the world in with us. Karl, Dr. Surlethe, I wish to speak with you privately.”
Coach Insignia Restaurant, Renaissance Center, Downtown Detroit
Gloria Hurst clearly remembered her first trip to Renaissance Center, three decades ago. The gleaming complex of glass and metal towers had promised a fresh start for the city, still struggling to get over the stigma the 1967 riots had created. The 80s rolled around and the dreams of a regenerated Detroit never came to pass; outside of the little oasis of ‘civilization’ the corporations had built, the slums had just continued to decay. Jobs kept leaving and never seemed to come back, buildings crumbled, and the criminals seemed to multiply. So many times, she’d thought of selling and moving out, but somehow, she’d never had the heart to leave. Her children had never understood that particularly after her house had been robbed twice in the same month.
The war had almost come as a relief. All the plants still open were running at full capacity and many of the closed ones were being reopened. The roads were clogged with buses (only the gas rationing had forestalled gridlock) and downtown the crowds were thicker than ever. Still, Gloria’s own neighborhood had hardly changed. All the attention was on places like Sterling Heights and Livonia, where the remaining plants were. As for the suburbs, she’d heard that the government had been requisitioning all the foreclosed McMansions and subdividing them to create cheap worker accommodation. She imagined the look on the faces of the homeowner’s association and laughed.
The ring of slums between downtown and the industrial belt was being ignored, if anything there was even less interest in regenerating it now that war production was at the top of everyone’s minds. Gloria sighed. At least the muggers were keeping a low profile. The cops weren’t playing catch-and-release anymore, the ones who got arrested tended to be drafted, and the ones who fought back usually got splattered by the huge guns all the cops were carrying now.
“Granny!” The young boy’s voice roused Gloria from her thoughts. Ah, there they were, her eldest son and his family, come to visit her at last. “Granny, what’s that?” Her grandson was staring out the windows, which had a fine view of the city due to their location near the top of the city's tallest skyscraper. The boy seemed to be pointing at something near the horizon. Gloria turned stiffly in her chair and strained to focus on the distant buildings. There was an odd flickering over an intersection, perhaps two miles to the north, and a glint that seemed to come from something falling out of the sky. Her heartbeat faster as she realized that the irregular, chattering roar that had been slowly building was the sound of many, many guns being fired. Was it the demons? Had the army shot down a demon? The sound of gunfire died away. Several people were standing at the windows now, asking out loud the same questions she was thinking.
The molten rock literally exploded out of nowhere, the unstable portal hurling great sprays of magma in every direction. Many who’d seen the images of the portal opening over Sheffield had remarked on the eerie beauty of the hellish fountain, unfolding in its first few seconds like a giant deadly firework. This attack was different, a raging beast that seemed to lash out at random without symmetry or reason. Gloria winced as the first gouts of lava reached the bottom of their arcs, smashing into buildings with a spray of fire and rubble. The freeway intersection collapsed and disappeared in a vast cloud of smoke, peppered with tiny gouts of fire as gasoline flash-vaporized and exploded. For a full ten seconds, the scene unfolded in silence, save for the screams and yells of the people in the restaurant. Glasses and plates began to rattle and fell as the first seismic vibrations made their way up the building. Then the shockwave hit, and an overpowering roar overlaid on a deep rumble that seemed to grab Gloria’s guts and shake them in her torso.
We’ve got to get out of here! Mom, come on, let’s go! Her son had grabbed her shoulders and was trying to pull her up.
“Lawrence. Lawrence! Look at that crowd.” Lunchtime was the busiest period for Coach Insignia and now it seemed that nearly everyone was trying to jam themselves through the doors at once. Some of the staff were shouting, gesturing, and trying to control the flow but without much success.
“You watch the news; you know what happened in England." Gloria was shouting hoarsely, to be heard over the din. "That lava will flow downhill, straight towards us. I’ll never get out in time, not with my arthritis.”
Her son just stood there, stunned. “We can’t leave you…”
“Of course, you can! You must save your kids! Now move!” Gloria shoved his arms away.
Lawrence Hurst’s face was full of anguish, but his mother’s reasoning was indisputable. In the distance, he could see the lava already beginning to flow down the trench the freeway sat in, heading for the river - and downtown. He hugged her tightly. “Goodbye, mom.” Then he was gone, trying to force a path through the crowd for his family, his wife dragging their screaming children behind them. Gloria turned back to the window, tears streaming down her face. The tears were not for herself; oh, fear was welling up inside her, and frankly, she hoped the building would collapse before the fire got to her. The tears though were for her city, which had suffered so much and struggled so hard to rebuild, only to have its heart burnt out by a war that nobody could even have imagined just a few months ago.
GM-Cadillac Hamtramck Assembly Plant, Detroit
It had been a hell of a job to get the plant converted over in two months flat, as much for training the workers as the retooling. Jake suspected that the Army already had a plan for the switch ready before the Message, because once the word was given the work started almost immediately – and went on 16 hours a day, 7 days a week, UAW be damned. Somehow, they’d pulled it off and now the triple-one sevens were rolling off the line. Production was already up to ten units a day and still increasing. His section was responsible for wiring and accessory fit, and they’d had some pretty horrible QC issues while the new workers were broken in. Jake O’Reilly’s temper was legendary at the plant, but truly he didn’t mind the hours or the problems; it was worth it to see his people so energized and the factory back at full capacity. The triple-one seven wasn’t as tough as a Bradley, but it was a huge step up from a Humvee and a hell of a lot easier to build than the Stryker. If the Army kept kicking Baldrick’s butt (armies even – couldn’t forget the Ruskies and the Brits, Jake thought), then they’d be a lot of escort and patrol missions coming up, and the ‘hell-model’ Guardian was the ideal tool for that job.
The attack came without warning; the factory floor was too noisy to hear the gunfire outside, and the management was still arguing on the phones when the portal opened. Tons of molten rock crashed through the roof, spraying onto sections of the line below. Sizable sections of the plant were destroyed within the first ten seconds, and fires began spreading immediately through the remainder. Shockwaves battered the staff as shrapnel zinged through the air, combining with the heaving ground to leave many workers in a state of shell shock. After Sheffield everyone had been told that this might happen, the most pessimistic staff had even expected it, but nothing could prepare them for the reality of having a volcano appear in the sky nearby. Jake’s first thought was to get his people out. His second thought was to save as many vehicles as he could. His third thought was that these goals combined nicely.
“Listen, all of you…” It was useless, the roar was overpowering. Fortunately, since the new workers had been put on the line Jake had been keeping a megaphone close at hand. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d used it to stop some butterfingered technician about to burn out a wiring harness; now he cranked the volume to the max and used it to save their lives.
“LISTEN, ALL OF YOU. TAKE ANY VEHICLE THAT CAN DRIVE AND GET CLEAR. THERE ARE PLENTY IN THE TESTING AREA. IT’S YOUR BEST HOPE FOR SURVIVING THE ROCKS AND THE SMOKE.”
The burning rocks seemed to have stopped coming for now, and Jake used the respite to herd his team into the nearly completed vehicles. The power had gone out, throwing the factory floor into a hazy twilight filled with screams, shouts, and running forms. “TODD’S TRAPPED, YOU THREE, PULL HIM OUT OF THERE. RICK, IT JUST NEEDS FUEL, GET SOME DAMN DIESEL AND DRIVE HER OUT.”
The Guardians were roaring to life and starting to move, knocking equipment aside as they sought any open path out of the chaos. Jake looked around – all his staff seemed to have gone save a few huddled in a still unfueled M1117. The smoke was already too thick to see the other sections…
The brief respite ended as a fresh wave of flying lava crashed into the plant. Jake fell to his knees, dazed by the impact of a trolley propelled by the blast. His eyes were swimming and his throat burned with the heat and the toxic smoke. He couldn’t see the Guardian… he hadn’t heard it leave, but he couldn’t see it… he struggled to regain his feet but the shaking, cracking floor seemed to defeat his efforts.
A hand gripped his wrist and pulled him up. It was Todd, and Jake had never been so grateful to see the spiky-haired brat. “She’s fueled up boss, let’s go.” Jake was half-dragged, half-clambered through the door of the Guardian. The cabin was filled with injured workers, and someone was already in the driver’s seat because no sooner was, he on board than the engine roared to life and the armored car pulled away. Flames licked at the windows as the vehicle sped through the factory, crashing through the wreckage of jigs and component bins as it made for the doors. Then they were clear, rolling across the huge parking lot, surrounded by a mass of other vehicles trying to escape the destruction. Lava continued to rain down, destroying some of the cars even as they watched, but luck smiled on their Guardian, and they were soon out of range.
Jake leaned forward to address the driver. “Get us up to the Davison intersection. The VDF is bound to set up a checkpoint there, we can drop off our wounded and refuel. They’re going to need all the help they can get.”
White House Situation Room, Washington D.C.
“Sir, it’s Detroit. City’s been hit hard, the attack started just a few minutes ago.”
“Let’s hear it, John. In a hundred words or less, please.”
“Mr. President, the Baldricks hit Detroit with a lava attack. As far as we can see right now, it’s the same mechanism as Sheffield, but bigger and nastier. We shot down the spotter demon, but the portal still opened. We’ve got something like forty thousand tons of lava a second falling out of the sky a couple of miles north of downtown.” Secretary Warner paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“The Cadillac plant took a hell of a beating and Wayne State has already become a firestorm. The freeway trenches are channeling the lava; we can’t stop it before it reaches the river. In the next half hour, we’re going to lose the Renaissance Center, plus the tunnel and the bridge to Windsor. As for casualties… haven’t got an estimate yet, but the worst case is well into six figures.”
“You know, Detroit is the Democrat-voting stronghold of Michigan, if it’s gone, then it might be enough to flip the state into our column.”
There was a stunned silence in the room. Eventually, President Bush’s voice cut through the disbelief, pitched low and frighteningly cold. “Karl, shut up, just shut up. John, could you continue please.”
“Personnel at DIMO(N) detected the portal activity at 12:43 Eastern. NORAD was informed immediately of course. We vectored in F-16s from the 127th out of Selfridge, they flew up on full reheat, but the local United States Volunteers got to the coordinates first. As far we can tell, they sighted a demon of the same type that the Sheffield footage shows, what General Abigor calls a ‘gorgon’. Local citizens already had it under fire when the USV shot it down with triple-A. Unfortunately, the damn things seem to be salvage fused.”
Blank faces stared back at him. “It’s a nuclear warfare term, it means… never mind. The point is, that shooting down the gorgon seems to cause the portal to open prematurely. We bought some time to evacuate, but not nearly enough to save everyone. Sadly, the LDV unit was directly under the portal when it opened; they were killed instantly.”
Bush stopped glaring and his face softened from his barely suppressed anger at the earlier remarks. Did they die in the line of duty? That should be recognized, it’ll put the Volunteers on the map as part of our armed forces. Medal of Honor?
Secretary Warner thought quickly. “I agree with the sentiment, yes Sir. But the Medal is a bit overdoing it. A Silver Star each for the crew would be appropriate I think, and a Presidential Unit Citation for the Third Michigan. The situation in Detroit is pure hell if you’ll forgive the phrase, sir. There’s a serious difference between this attack and Sheffield. Over there, the portal remained in one place and poured its lava over the same target. So, although it spread, the starting point was constant and to some extent the damage was self-limiting. The Baldricks have learned their lesson from that Sir, this time the portal is moving, it’s sort of dancing around at random over a two or three-mile area, a bit like a deflating balloon. So, the lava’s being spread over a much wider area and the damage is a lot greater.”
“I hope nobody ever thought the Baldricks were stupid, that could be the worst mistake we could make.” A slight surge of amusement went around the room at that point, briefly lightening the somber tone. The President himself had benefited more than once from a presumption of stupidity. “As soon as word of this second attack hits the streets, we’re going to be under pressure to do something. Remember World War Two?”
The reference caused a certain degree of bewilderment in the situation room. Eventually, the Army Chief of Staff, General George W. Casey, explained. “Back in World War Two, there was popular demand for anti-aircraft batteries around our cities. So, the President ordered 90mm anti-aircraft battery set up. Unfortunately, those guns were also badly needed as tank killers in Europe, but the Army there never got them due to the AA priority. So, a lot of our tank crews died while our cities were never attacked.” Casey settled back, mentally noting that the aide who had slipped him the explanation for the President’s remark had just earned himself a promotion and a choice assignment.
“Can we pull any triple-A back from Hell?” Bush didn’t sound hopeful.
“Not a chance Sir. The Harpies are the most effective weapon Satan has; they’re giving us a lot of trouble. They’re like aircraft but present in infantry numbers and our fighters just can’t shoot them down fast enough. We were lucky the first time around, Abigor had only one legion of them, sixty-six hundred. We believe there are at least 33 legions being thrown into the battle underway. Over 200,000 of our troops need every anti-aircraft system they’ve got. We can’t even give them air support properly now, all our planes bar a few, are killing Harpies. If anything, we need more triple-A out there not less.
“Anyway, Sir, it’s pointless. We know now that killing the gorgon pathfinder doesn’t do any good, well, not much anyway. Once it’s over a city, that city is gone. It’s like the bad old days before we had the GBIs up in Alaska, once we spotted an inbound missile, we knew the city it was aimed at was gone, it just hadn’t died yet. We can’t defend the cities because by the time the gorgon appears, it’s too late. We must pre-empt the attacks at the source. Now, there are a few things we can do there, our early warning system is based on the cell phone network. We need to give DIMO(N) all the resources they can use, that they don’t already have anyway, for early warning. It isn’t much, but it’s the best we can do until we get all our pieces into place. Other than that, all we can do is mitigate the disaster. I do hope FEMA is going to be a bit more competent this time than they were at New Orleans.”
There was an embarrassed shuffling of feet at that remark. Secretary Dirk Kempthorne took the bait elegantly. “Well, at least we’re arming the victims this time around, not disarming them. I guess the crime rate will be a bit lower.”
“Given the size of the holes the LEO community have taken to blowing in the alleged perpetrators, I think that’s a reasonable assumption.” There was a brief spasm of amusement at the sally from FBI Director Robert Mueller. “One thing about these lava attacks, we don’t get much looting, people are too busy running to think about getting a free television. Most of them anyway. And the draft is sweeping most of the candidates for street criminals out of the way into the forces where the Sergeants are straightening them out. Law and order aren’t really a problem, you’d be surprised how rarely it is in a really major disaster. How long it will stay that way is another matter, one or two more attacks like this and we’ll have a mass panic on our hands. That’ll do more damage to our industrial production than the attacks themselves.”
"Which brings us to the why? Neither Detroit nor Sheffield were important production centers, so why Detroit? Have the analysts worked out the enemy's strategy?"
"Only the obvious so far, Mr. President.” Secretary Warner took a deep breath. “Sheffield and Detroit were both industrial powerhouses until quite recently, very recently in Baldrick terms. Remember, to them, centuries are a short period. My guess is, that this 'Belial' has worked out that our military strength relies on our industrial base, but his intel is stale, and his targeting is lousy. Make no mistake though, he hit us hard this time around, this is the worst blow we've taken since this whole business started. We don't want to give him a chance to refine his aim."
“Then we must kill him at the source. Now. Prime Minister Brown was right, we can’t just let this pass. Hell must hurt for this and hurt badly. We lost under four thousand people in 9/11 and we took two countries down by way of retaliation. Now you say we’re going to lose upwards of 25 times that number.” Bush’s jaw set. “They’re going to must pay, the American people demand it. Tell me what we’ve got and how we’re going to use it. The answer ‘nothing’ won’t be accepted.”
“Sir, we have several plans in motion. We have a pathfinder of our own on the way up to Tartarus, he’s expected there in 24 to 36 hours. Once he’s in place, we can portal a deceased special forces team to his location and they’ll position navigation beacons to home a B-1 strike in. They’d devastate the area. As a backup, we have a British special force group ready to go in. If the B-1s can’t do the strike, they’ll do a ground raid. We have a B-1 searching for Tartarus as well, if our pathfinder can’t get through, she’ll find Tartarus, eventually. We have time Sir; we believe that it will be a week or more before Belial manages to get set up for a third strike. One of our options will be in place by then.”
“Not good enough, what do we do now?” Bush’s voice was dogmatic and a little petulant.
“We can hit Dis with an air strike, the B-1s won’t be able to hit Tartarus for days, we can let them loose on Dis. With conventional bombs of course. We have a nuclear strike plan; we can adapt it for a conventional bombing strike. That’s about our only serious option right now.
“In the meantime, we must think about limiting the disaster we have in hand. We have a couple of options there. We have a prototype device that is designed specifically to close portals. This prototype is too large to be carried by an existing bomber, but we do have a different alternative. We have old C-54s we’ve pulled from the boneyard, and we can refit one to carry that prototype device. The original plan was to use a Britannia and target the Sheffield portal but that’s run a long way out of steam now, the vulcanologist believes it’ll run dry in a day or less. We can test out our new device in Detroit instead.”
“There’s another thing we can do.” Doctor Surlethe’s voice was clinical. “We can deprive the baldricks of their own navigation beacons. I propose we test the entire population for the Nephilim genetic ancestry and quarantine those carrying it in isolation camps until the war is over.”
There was another stir in the room, this time of anger. In one corner, Karl Rove leaned back in relief, somebody else had made a political error of grade one levels. Secretary Kempthorne was the one who took up the cudgels though. “And we know what to look for do we?”
“Well, we will, after some investigations.”
“And then you propose to place people in indefinite confinement without them having committed an offense on the vague off-chance that a baldrick might use one of them?”
“Better that than an incinerated city.”
“Even though we already know that wearing tinfoil hats offers complete protection against mind entanglement?”
“But there are a few people out there who won’t. There are always eccentrics who deny that the tinfoil hat is absolutely essential to prevent baldricks taking over their minds.”
“And you want to indefinitely jail an unknown number of people, possibly millions, because one or two might refuse to wear their hats?”
“Well… Put like that…..”
“And that’s how it will be put ladies, gentlemen, Karl.” Rove winced; he hadn’t been forgiven after all. “We will make it a legal requirement to wear a tinfoil hat and enforce it. But there will be no mass detentions. We did that in 1941 and the stain is with us still. Thank you, we will have another meeting in six hours’ time when we can get some of the rest of the world in with us. Karl, Dr. Surlethe, I wish to speak with you privately.”
Re: 2008 - Armageddon
Chapter Sixty
Indian Air Force Jaguar-IS “JM-414” Over the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
Statistically (as confirmed by the Federal Aviation Administration) 80 percent of cockpit voice flight records recovered after aircraft crashes, end with the words ‘Oh shit.’ The speaker may have been the pilot or the co-pilot (or, it is rumored, in some cases the aircraft itself although this possibility is denied, derided, and generally rejected) but the ultimate words remain the same. So, Flight Lieutenant Anuradha Mehta’s exclamation when a wyvern came out of nowhere and removed her Jaguar’s entire vertical fin and rudder assembly was entirely in accordance with tradition. It was no consolation when the Wyvern almost thereafter immediately had a terminal encounter with a U.S. Navy F-18E and went down after taking two hits from AIR-120 rockets and a burst of 20mm cannon fire. The fact was that JM-414 was going into a flat spin and there was nothing Mehta could do about it.
Mehta hadn’t seen anything like the creature before, not outside mythology and fantasy art. It was a huge flying creature with two legs, one pair of wings, and small steering fins on the lower tail and upper neck. Mehta estimated its size as roughly 12 meters long and its wingspan around 40 meters. It had been fast; it had dived on her in a collision course with an approach speed of around 400 knots. As it had passed it had taken a swing at her aircraft with the great spiked ball on the tip of its tail, a ball covered in strong scales. It had totally wiped out his fin and that had killed JM-414 as surely as a missile hit. She looked downwards, she was over the battle area but whether she was on the baldrick, or human side was another matter. On the other hand, she had no real options in the matter, JM-414 was uncontrollable, going into a flat spin, and would soon break up. Her only choices were to eject or ride the aircraft in. She opted for the former and felt the slam in her back as the ejection rocket blasted her through the disintegrating canopy of her aircraft.
U.S. Navy F/A-18E “Eagle One” Over the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
The Indian pilot was out of her stricken aircraft, that was one good thing. What would happen on the way down and when she reached the ground was quite another. Lieutenant Commander Michael Wong really didn’t have time to worry about him. The sky was full of flying things, harpies, a wide variety of human aircraft, and now these wretched giants that had appeared out of nowhere. They were about the same size as the Greater Heralds he had killed right at the start of the Salvation War, and which were now proudly represented by the two great red kill marks under his cockpit.
“Eagle One to Regent. New sighting, a big creature, that looks a bit like a traditional dragon. One just took out an Indy Jaguar. Pilot’s out call in CAESAR for a pick-up,”
“Very good Eagle One, for your information, the new sighting is a Wyvern. They’re reported to be hitting the ground troops hard. Report status.”
“All AIM-120s gone. Two AIR-120s left, cannon and fuel low. The sky’s full of shit out there. Target rich environment.”
“Well say goodbye to it, Eagle Flight. Return to Earth-Yankee base for refuel and rearm. Also, for your information, the O-club is open there.”
That was a step in the right direction Wong thought. The tempo of flight operations precluded a beer but even soda would cut through the dust of Hell that seemed to get everywhere. His squadron was lucky, after being detached from Ronaldus Magnus they’d been assigned to one of the satellite airbases that surrounded the Hellmouth. What it must be like for the aircrews, mostly A-10 and Su-25 drivers, who were based in Hell was difficult to contemplate.
Wong swerved his aircraft around and took aim at a harpy that was coming dangerously close. He led it a little bit, squeezed the button, and saw one of his remaining AIR-120s streak across the sky towards the bird-like creature. It saw the rocket and tried to evade but it was too late, and the harpy vanished in the explosion that was a part rocket and part of its own body chemistry. “Form on me Eagle Flight, we’re outta here.”
The navigation beacon was dead ahead, closing fast. “Eagle Flight to Regent, we’re closing on the portal now.”
“We have you, Eagle Flight, you’re clear to transit. Hand over to Yankee once you’re though.” That was lucky, the amount of traffic through the portal could mean aircraft stacking up for hours. That was a disturbing thought, the whole human war effort in hell was being funneled through a bottleneck that was 1,800 feet wide and 1,200 feet high. If it closed now, the whole lot would be cut off. Then there was the quiet, undramatic switch from the red murk of Hell to the clear blue skies of Earth. Wong felt the engines surge in power as the filter vanes in the intakes rotated to clear the airflow.
“Yankee control here, Eagle Flight, you’re clear to land. Turn to oh-eight fiver and come straight in on runway 85.” Wong swung the F-18 to the bearing and saw the comforting rectangle of the new concrete strip up ahead. Something the Russian pilots, flying birds with undercarriages that looked like they could handle landing on a plowed field made fun of. The landing was proving an interesting experience, the modern aircraft were OK, but the old birds brought out of stores, or the boneyards were a different matter. Pilots used to F-16s and F-18s were having a hard time adapting to the ‘hot and heavy’ characteristics of the old types. Wong wondered how Ronaldus Magnus was getting on with her older aircraft.
The runway was approaching fast now, Wong made minute adjustments to line himself up and cut the power back, so his aircraft drifted down into the concrete. A different feeling entirely from the spine-crunching ‘controlled crash’ of a carrier landing. Over on the parking strip, Wong saw that a group of F-4s and A-7s had arrived. Rhinos and SLUFs, this war were getting more like a time machine every day. His F-18 stopped rolling and he added a touch of power to taxi off the runway onto the parking strip.
The debriefing hut was still a temporary structure, little more than a tent. Wong went inside and sighed to himself. One of the other F-18 pilots, Lieutenant George Witz, was standing over the officer behind an interview desk. One of the problems with the mobilization was that it was calling back the bad as well as the good. Witz was one of the bad, Wong believed that the first time around he’d probably resigned rather than be eased out. Now, he was cursing steadily, damning his aircraft, his missiles, the ground control. The AIR-120 was his present target and his denunciation of the unguided rocket was colorful even by fighter pilot standards. Wong sighed and went up to the first vacant desk. The officer behind it smiled at him, she already had his camera gun “film” up on her laptop. There was a lot to be said for digitization.
“Right Mike, we got you down for 14 harpies and a wyvern. Four AIM-120 kills, two-gun kills, and eight AIR-120 hits on the harpies, two AIR-120s, and gunfire into the Wyvern. That square with what you remember.”
“Sure does ma’am.” In fact, Wong could have sworn he got two more harpies with gunfire than he was being allocated but in the wild furball that was going on in Hell, who could really say what was what?
“male bovine excrement.”
“I’m sorry?” The intelligence officer’s voice had gone cold. If she’d been the speaker’s wife, the victim would shortly be due for the ‘we’ve got to talk’ treatment followed by long nights sleeping on the couch.
“I call male bovine excrement. Nobody’s getting eight kills with those bits of crap. Somebody’s faking their claims.”
The AFIO was about to blister Witz’s ears when Wong cut in ahead of her. “You have a problem with the AIR-120?”
“Sure have, damned things go all over the place. Not one flies true. Haven’t had any luck all day with them crapshoots. You claim you got eight, you’re bullshitting.”
“Camera gun doesn’t lie, Lieutenant.” The AFCIO’s voice had dropped through sub-zero. She called up White’s download, the shots clearly showing the rockets flying straight and true but passing ahead of the targets. “It’s obvious, you’re firing from too great a range and leading the target excessively. You’re using a rocket, not a gun, the lead you need is minimal. You watch Lieutenant Commander Wong’s downloads; they’ll show you how it’s done properly. We can’t give you ammunition to waste, your off-flight roster until you can get consistent hits on the simulator.”
Witz turned away, still cursing under his breath. The AFIO packed up her laptop and smiled. “O-club’s open Mike.”
“Join me for a drink, Captain?”
“Be a pleasure. My name’s Patricia.”
“Is Witz going to be all right, he doesn’t seem happy.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s just Witzless.”
Wyvern Flight, the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
If the wyverns and their riders could have seen the radar tracking plots, they’d have known they were heading at 250 knots towards the center of the human positions along the southern flank. They couldn’t so all they knew was they were heading at their normal speed to where the humans were fighting. On each side of the wyvern, on panniers made of Beast leather, were loads of sulfur, ready to be set on fire and dropped on the humans below. Brimstone, burning sulfur, was one of Hell’s great weapons, an attack that burned, crushed, and gassed all in a single blow. Far below them, they could see the human sky-chariots tearing into the harpy cloud, leaving the sky studded with the orange-and-red balls of fire as the harpies died.
Up here, more than half a league into the sky, the formation of 80 wyverns had gone unnoticed. That had to be why the human sky-chariots were ignoring them in favor of rending the harpies. Still, given the slaughter that was taking place in the harpy ranks, the wyverns and their riders were content with what small mercies they were given. There were whispers that more than seven thousand harpies had died already, more than one legion’s worth out of the six legions that had started the day’s battle.
Faranigranthis saw the wing leader up ahead make the signal, that it was time for the attack. He ran a quick glance over his equipment, the sacks of brimstone were ready, all it would need was to pull the bronze bar from the rings and the sacks would upend, pouring the burning sulfur onto the enemy below. Behind them were the bronze flechettes, hardened in Belial’s workshops and ready to be dropped on the enemy. Then, he returned his attention to the formation, already the first rank was peeling off for their dive on the enemy below. His turn came, he jabbed his spurs into the wyvern and felt it drop out of the sky as its wings folded and it howled its battle cry.
This was the bit that made a wyvern rider’s life worthwhile. The screaming dive on an enemy below, watching them disperse and run to escape the deluge that was to come. Faranigranthis saw the humans below, their fortresses built around their iron chariots besieged by harpies and with the ground forces and beasts closing in. Off to one side, he saw a strange rippling blue flash tearing at the human positions and realized that had to be the naga at work, pouring their lightning bolts into the enemy ranks. As his wyvern dropped, Faranigranthis could see them more clearly, could see the great coiled forms strapped to the back of the Great Beasts that carried them. He touched his wyvern with his mind and the creature changed the angle of its dive, so he could dump its load on the humans engaged by the naga.
It was time, nearly time. Faranigranthis calculated angle and speed, He had selected a line of three fortresses for his attack, a group that was already under heavy fire from the naga, the blue lightning bolts rippling off their armor. He touched the igniter that set the left-hand set of brimstone bags on fire, then hesitated slightly and pulled the drop bar. To his delight, he saw his aim was true and the deluge of burning yellow stones swept across the human iron chariots. Beneath him, the harpies swarmed over the stricken vehicles and the infantry floundering across the open space between the Phlegethon and the human defenses gained fresh heart. They swarmed up the banks and over the iron chariots that lay within them
Then, Faranigranthis saw how the human defenses worked. As soon as the three fortresses he had hit were in danger, those on either side opened fire on them, the little red flashes that streamed from them raking the position held by their fellows. From beneath the seething mass of harpies and infantry, he saw the iron chariots moving backward, out of the overrun fortress, back towards the safety of the line behind. Still, they were being raked by their fellows, but Faranigran saw the red fireflies bouncing off the iron chariots and he realized what was happening. The human fireflies couldn’t penetrate iron, so they bounced off and just killed those outside its protection. None of whom were human of course.
Well, Faranigranthis knew what to do about that. He still had his right-side pouches of brimstone and his flechettes. He dragged his wyvern’s nose around, touched its mind, and gave it the instructions necessary. His next run would be on the second line of fortresses, the ones that were covering the escape of his first target. Once more his aim was true, and the yellow cloud of flaming sulfur engulfed the iron chariots in their fortress. Their fireflies faded away and stopped as the chariots tried to back out from the cloud. Above them, Faranigranthis turned his wyvern again and headed for the chariots that had been the victim of his first pass. They were still there, fighting the infantry and Beasts that surrounded them and the harpies that flew over them. He aimed carefully and saw his flechettes hail down upon them. As he turned away, his load gone, he could see a rolling cloud of black smoke, laced with orange. An iron chariot was burning and he, Faranigranthis, had killed it.
It was time to go home. The Wyverns were assembling back at their original height above the battlefield and Faranigranthis could sense the exultation of the riders. They’d get in and they had struck a savage blow at the humans. Then, he did a count, there were fifty-three Wyverns flying in the formation, out of the eighty that had dived on the humans just a few minutes before.
Naga Group, the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
Baroness Yuku fought the exhaustion that was growing throughout her body. The naga was built for maintaining a constant series of discharges but the rate at which she and her fellow naga had been firing them at the humans was greater than they had ever attempted before. Yet it had to be done, the humans had to be kept under fire if the assault was to stand a chance. Yuku mentally thanked her Lord that he had had the wisdom to ‘modify’ the instructions to send his best naga to aid Belial in his mad schemes. He’d interpreted ‘best’ to mean his youngest and least experienced coven, keeping his two best groups with him for this battle. By the look of it, several other lords had done the same and that was a good thing, otherwise, the assembled covens would be collapsed into semi-consciousness by now.
Those that still lived that was. There had been 54 covens assembled for this assault, just over 700 nagas, and Chiknathragothem had grouped them in the center of his formation to punch a hole for the rest of his army to follow. That had seemed like a good idea until the holocaust of human mage-fire had descended upon them. The casualties had been dreadful but the soft, unarmored nagas had been hard hit. Less than 300 had survived the mage bolts and the churning ground. They’d forded the river and kept the human chariots under a constant series of bolts, but nobody could do much more until the wyverns had doused their positions with burning brimstone. That had forced the humans back and out of their defensive positions.
The combination of bolts and brimstone from above, the relentless fire of the nagas, and the advancing infantry and fliers had done it, they’d started to destroy the human defense. From her position on the riverbank, Yuku could see the black, rolling smoke rising from more than a dozen iron chariots that had been overwhelmed and destroyed. Around them lay the bodies of their crews, many half-eaten as they had been cut down. That might once have been a satisfying sight, but Yuku could see more. The ground was black with the bodies of Chiknathragothem’s army where human magery had caused its terrible toll.
One of the infantry cohort commanders waved her forward, the foot-soldiers and cavalry were trying to clear the evil metal snakes and exploding mage-bars that covered the ground. The mage bars could be cleared by the simple expedient of picking them up and throwing them away, if they exploded, the mage bar was gone, if it did not, it was gone. Slowly, a way was being cleared through the defenses, even though the human mage-fire never ceased and the casualties of those doing the clearing were high beyond counting. Yuku started to lead the seven surviving members of her coven forward along the cleared path, summoning up enough energy to unleash another series of bolts against the defenders. That was when the foot soldier leading her raised his trident.
“No further Highness. This is as far as we can go, the next line of human defenses is ahead of us.
And on either side of us and behind us thought Yuku. Nowhere is protected on this battlefield where the humans can see all, and their mages can strike where they will.
Then, she heard a strange whistling sound and more mage-bolt explosions. Only these were soft in comparison with those she had experienced on the banks of the Phlegethon, and they looked different. Instead of rolling clouds of black and red smoke, surrounded by thrown earth, they were gentle and white, almost angelic in the purity of their whiteness. Yuku watched confused as the white feather-like tendrils spread into a cloud that was utterly opaque yet still had the blinding white purity of the initial bursts. The clouds started to rise and that was when Yuku felt the intense heat as more of the mage bolts spread the white cloud still further.
Yuku was suddenly aware that the white cloud was irritating her eyes and her nose was running. A stray cloud of white smoke swept over her, and she coughed, an explosive cough that shook her whole body. She looked around, she and her nagas were surrounded by white fragments that were falling over the whole area. One of the fragments landed on her skin and she looked at it, curiously at first but then in horror as her scales started to bubble and smolder. The lump was eating its way into her body, she could feel it searing into her flesh as it bit deeper and deeper. The agonizing pain started to spread as more and more of the lumps touched her and started the process of her destruction. All around her, figures were on the ground, rolling and screaming, trying to brush away the fragments that brought this unbelievable horror to them. Even as they did so, more of the rounds thumped down, adding yet more smoke and fragments to the cloud that was enveloping them.
The Great Beast that bore Baroness Yuku was on the ground, writhing and bellowing in agony as the white mage fire burned into its body. Yuku was trapped underneath it, her body being crushed by the beast’s weight even as it burned from the white mage fire. As she died in searing, mind-crushing agony, Yuku learned that it was very unwise to upset humans.
Indian Air Force Jaguar-IS “JM-414” Over the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
Statistically (as confirmed by the Federal Aviation Administration) 80 percent of cockpit voice flight records recovered after aircraft crashes, end with the words ‘Oh shit.’ The speaker may have been the pilot or the co-pilot (or, it is rumored, in some cases the aircraft itself although this possibility is denied, derided, and generally rejected) but the ultimate words remain the same. So, Flight Lieutenant Anuradha Mehta’s exclamation when a wyvern came out of nowhere and removed her Jaguar’s entire vertical fin and rudder assembly was entirely in accordance with tradition. It was no consolation when the Wyvern almost thereafter immediately had a terminal encounter with a U.S. Navy F-18E and went down after taking two hits from AIR-120 rockets and a burst of 20mm cannon fire. The fact was that JM-414 was going into a flat spin and there was nothing Mehta could do about it.
Mehta hadn’t seen anything like the creature before, not outside mythology and fantasy art. It was a huge flying creature with two legs, one pair of wings, and small steering fins on the lower tail and upper neck. Mehta estimated its size as roughly 12 meters long and its wingspan around 40 meters. It had been fast; it had dived on her in a collision course with an approach speed of around 400 knots. As it had passed it had taken a swing at her aircraft with the great spiked ball on the tip of its tail, a ball covered in strong scales. It had totally wiped out his fin and that had killed JM-414 as surely as a missile hit. She looked downwards, she was over the battle area but whether she was on the baldrick, or human side was another matter. On the other hand, she had no real options in the matter, JM-414 was uncontrollable, going into a flat spin, and would soon break up. Her only choices were to eject or ride the aircraft in. She opted for the former and felt the slam in her back as the ejection rocket blasted her through the disintegrating canopy of her aircraft.
U.S. Navy F/A-18E “Eagle One” Over the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
The Indian pilot was out of her stricken aircraft, that was one good thing. What would happen on the way down and when she reached the ground was quite another. Lieutenant Commander Michael Wong really didn’t have time to worry about him. The sky was full of flying things, harpies, a wide variety of human aircraft, and now these wretched giants that had appeared out of nowhere. They were about the same size as the Greater Heralds he had killed right at the start of the Salvation War, and which were now proudly represented by the two great red kill marks under his cockpit.
“Eagle One to Regent. New sighting, a big creature, that looks a bit like a traditional dragon. One just took out an Indy Jaguar. Pilot’s out call in CAESAR for a pick-up,”
“Very good Eagle One, for your information, the new sighting is a Wyvern. They’re reported to be hitting the ground troops hard. Report status.”
“All AIM-120s gone. Two AIR-120s left, cannon and fuel low. The sky’s full of shit out there. Target rich environment.”
“Well say goodbye to it, Eagle Flight. Return to Earth-Yankee base for refuel and rearm. Also, for your information, the O-club is open there.”
That was a step in the right direction Wong thought. The tempo of flight operations precluded a beer but even soda would cut through the dust of Hell that seemed to get everywhere. His squadron was lucky, after being detached from Ronaldus Magnus they’d been assigned to one of the satellite airbases that surrounded the Hellmouth. What it must be like for the aircrews, mostly A-10 and Su-25 drivers, who were based in Hell was difficult to contemplate.
Wong swerved his aircraft around and took aim at a harpy that was coming dangerously close. He led it a little bit, squeezed the button, and saw one of his remaining AIR-120s streak across the sky towards the bird-like creature. It saw the rocket and tried to evade but it was too late, and the harpy vanished in the explosion that was a part rocket and part of its own body chemistry. “Form on me Eagle Flight, we’re outta here.”
The navigation beacon was dead ahead, closing fast. “Eagle Flight to Regent, we’re closing on the portal now.”
“We have you, Eagle Flight, you’re clear to transit. Hand over to Yankee once you’re though.” That was lucky, the amount of traffic through the portal could mean aircraft stacking up for hours. That was a disturbing thought, the whole human war effort in hell was being funneled through a bottleneck that was 1,800 feet wide and 1,200 feet high. If it closed now, the whole lot would be cut off. Then there was the quiet, undramatic switch from the red murk of Hell to the clear blue skies of Earth. Wong felt the engines surge in power as the filter vanes in the intakes rotated to clear the airflow.
“Yankee control here, Eagle Flight, you’re clear to land. Turn to oh-eight fiver and come straight in on runway 85.” Wong swung the F-18 to the bearing and saw the comforting rectangle of the new concrete strip up ahead. Something the Russian pilots, flying birds with undercarriages that looked like they could handle landing on a plowed field made fun of. The landing was proving an interesting experience, the modern aircraft were OK, but the old birds brought out of stores, or the boneyards were a different matter. Pilots used to F-16s and F-18s were having a hard time adapting to the ‘hot and heavy’ characteristics of the old types. Wong wondered how Ronaldus Magnus was getting on with her older aircraft.
The runway was approaching fast now, Wong made minute adjustments to line himself up and cut the power back, so his aircraft drifted down into the concrete. A different feeling entirely from the spine-crunching ‘controlled crash’ of a carrier landing. Over on the parking strip, Wong saw that a group of F-4s and A-7s had arrived. Rhinos and SLUFs, this war were getting more like a time machine every day. His F-18 stopped rolling and he added a touch of power to taxi off the runway onto the parking strip.
The debriefing hut was still a temporary structure, little more than a tent. Wong went inside and sighed to himself. One of the other F-18 pilots, Lieutenant George Witz, was standing over the officer behind an interview desk. One of the problems with the mobilization was that it was calling back the bad as well as the good. Witz was one of the bad, Wong believed that the first time around he’d probably resigned rather than be eased out. Now, he was cursing steadily, damning his aircraft, his missiles, the ground control. The AIR-120 was his present target and his denunciation of the unguided rocket was colorful even by fighter pilot standards. Wong sighed and went up to the first vacant desk. The officer behind it smiled at him, she already had his camera gun “film” up on her laptop. There was a lot to be said for digitization.
“Right Mike, we got you down for 14 harpies and a wyvern. Four AIM-120 kills, two-gun kills, and eight AIR-120 hits on the harpies, two AIR-120s, and gunfire into the Wyvern. That square with what you remember.”
“Sure does ma’am.” In fact, Wong could have sworn he got two more harpies with gunfire than he was being allocated but in the wild furball that was going on in Hell, who could really say what was what?
“male bovine excrement.”
“I’m sorry?” The intelligence officer’s voice had gone cold. If she’d been the speaker’s wife, the victim would shortly be due for the ‘we’ve got to talk’ treatment followed by long nights sleeping on the couch.
“I call male bovine excrement. Nobody’s getting eight kills with those bits of crap. Somebody’s faking their claims.”
The AFIO was about to blister Witz’s ears when Wong cut in ahead of her. “You have a problem with the AIR-120?”
“Sure have, damned things go all over the place. Not one flies true. Haven’t had any luck all day with them crapshoots. You claim you got eight, you’re bullshitting.”
“Camera gun doesn’t lie, Lieutenant.” The AFCIO’s voice had dropped through sub-zero. She called up White’s download, the shots clearly showing the rockets flying straight and true but passing ahead of the targets. “It’s obvious, you’re firing from too great a range and leading the target excessively. You’re using a rocket, not a gun, the lead you need is minimal. You watch Lieutenant Commander Wong’s downloads; they’ll show you how it’s done properly. We can’t give you ammunition to waste, your off-flight roster until you can get consistent hits on the simulator.”
Witz turned away, still cursing under his breath. The AFIO packed up her laptop and smiled. “O-club’s open Mike.”
“Join me for a drink, Captain?”
“Be a pleasure. My name’s Patricia.”
“Is Witz going to be all right, he doesn’t seem happy.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s just Witzless.”
Wyvern Flight, the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
If the wyverns and their riders could have seen the radar tracking plots, they’d have known they were heading at 250 knots towards the center of the human positions along the southern flank. They couldn’t so all they knew was they were heading at their normal speed to where the humans were fighting. On each side of the wyvern, on panniers made of Beast leather, were loads of sulfur, ready to be set on fire and dropped on the humans below. Brimstone, burning sulfur, was one of Hell’s great weapons, an attack that burned, crushed, and gassed all in a single blow. Far below them, they could see the human sky-chariots tearing into the harpy cloud, leaving the sky studded with the orange-and-red balls of fire as the harpies died.
Up here, more than half a league into the sky, the formation of 80 wyverns had gone unnoticed. That had to be why the human sky-chariots were ignoring them in favor of rending the harpies. Still, given the slaughter that was taking place in the harpy ranks, the wyverns and their riders were content with what small mercies they were given. There were whispers that more than seven thousand harpies had died already, more than one legion’s worth out of the six legions that had started the day’s battle.
Faranigranthis saw the wing leader up ahead make the signal, that it was time for the attack. He ran a quick glance over his equipment, the sacks of brimstone were ready, all it would need was to pull the bronze bar from the rings and the sacks would upend, pouring the burning sulfur onto the enemy below. Behind them were the bronze flechettes, hardened in Belial’s workshops and ready to be dropped on the enemy. Then, he returned his attention to the formation, already the first rank was peeling off for their dive on the enemy below. His turn came, he jabbed his spurs into the wyvern and felt it drop out of the sky as its wings folded and it howled its battle cry.
This was the bit that made a wyvern rider’s life worthwhile. The screaming dive on an enemy below, watching them disperse and run to escape the deluge that was to come. Faranigranthis saw the humans below, their fortresses built around their iron chariots besieged by harpies and with the ground forces and beasts closing in. Off to one side, he saw a strange rippling blue flash tearing at the human positions and realized that had to be the naga at work, pouring their lightning bolts into the enemy ranks. As his wyvern dropped, Faranigranthis could see them more clearly, could see the great coiled forms strapped to the back of the Great Beasts that carried them. He touched his wyvern with his mind and the creature changed the angle of its dive, so he could dump its load on the humans engaged by the naga.
It was time, nearly time. Faranigranthis calculated angle and speed, He had selected a line of three fortresses for his attack, a group that was already under heavy fire from the naga, the blue lightning bolts rippling off their armor. He touched the igniter that set the left-hand set of brimstone bags on fire, then hesitated slightly and pulled the drop bar. To his delight, he saw his aim was true and the deluge of burning yellow stones swept across the human iron chariots. Beneath him, the harpies swarmed over the stricken vehicles and the infantry floundering across the open space between the Phlegethon and the human defenses gained fresh heart. They swarmed up the banks and over the iron chariots that lay within them
Then, Faranigranthis saw how the human defenses worked. As soon as the three fortresses he had hit were in danger, those on either side opened fire on them, the little red flashes that streamed from them raking the position held by their fellows. From beneath the seething mass of harpies and infantry, he saw the iron chariots moving backward, out of the overrun fortress, back towards the safety of the line behind. Still, they were being raked by their fellows, but Faranigran saw the red fireflies bouncing off the iron chariots and he realized what was happening. The human fireflies couldn’t penetrate iron, so they bounced off and just killed those outside its protection. None of whom were human of course.
Well, Faranigranthis knew what to do about that. He still had his right-side pouches of brimstone and his flechettes. He dragged his wyvern’s nose around, touched its mind, and gave it the instructions necessary. His next run would be on the second line of fortresses, the ones that were covering the escape of his first target. Once more his aim was true, and the yellow cloud of flaming sulfur engulfed the iron chariots in their fortress. Their fireflies faded away and stopped as the chariots tried to back out from the cloud. Above them, Faranigranthis turned his wyvern again and headed for the chariots that had been the victim of his first pass. They were still there, fighting the infantry and Beasts that surrounded them and the harpies that flew over them. He aimed carefully and saw his flechettes hail down upon them. As he turned away, his load gone, he could see a rolling cloud of black smoke, laced with orange. An iron chariot was burning and he, Faranigranthis, had killed it.
It was time to go home. The Wyverns were assembling back at their original height above the battlefield and Faranigranthis could sense the exultation of the riders. They’d get in and they had struck a savage blow at the humans. Then, he did a count, there were fifty-three Wyverns flying in the formation, out of the eighty that had dived on the humans just a few minutes before.
Naga Group, the Southern Front, Phlegethon River Bulge
Baroness Yuku fought the exhaustion that was growing throughout her body. The naga was built for maintaining a constant series of discharges but the rate at which she and her fellow naga had been firing them at the humans was greater than they had ever attempted before. Yet it had to be done, the humans had to be kept under fire if the assault was to stand a chance. Yuku mentally thanked her Lord that he had had the wisdom to ‘modify’ the instructions to send his best naga to aid Belial in his mad schemes. He’d interpreted ‘best’ to mean his youngest and least experienced coven, keeping his two best groups with him for this battle. By the look of it, several other lords had done the same and that was a good thing, otherwise, the assembled covens would be collapsed into semi-consciousness by now.
Those that still lived that was. There had been 54 covens assembled for this assault, just over 700 nagas, and Chiknathragothem had grouped them in the center of his formation to punch a hole for the rest of his army to follow. That had seemed like a good idea until the holocaust of human mage-fire had descended upon them. The casualties had been dreadful but the soft, unarmored nagas had been hard hit. Less than 300 had survived the mage bolts and the churning ground. They’d forded the river and kept the human chariots under a constant series of bolts, but nobody could do much more until the wyverns had doused their positions with burning brimstone. That had forced the humans back and out of their defensive positions.
The combination of bolts and brimstone from above, the relentless fire of the nagas, and the advancing infantry and fliers had done it, they’d started to destroy the human defense. From her position on the riverbank, Yuku could see the black, rolling smoke rising from more than a dozen iron chariots that had been overwhelmed and destroyed. Around them lay the bodies of their crews, many half-eaten as they had been cut down. That might once have been a satisfying sight, but Yuku could see more. The ground was black with the bodies of Chiknathragothem’s army where human magery had caused its terrible toll.
One of the infantry cohort commanders waved her forward, the foot-soldiers and cavalry were trying to clear the evil metal snakes and exploding mage-bars that covered the ground. The mage bars could be cleared by the simple expedient of picking them up and throwing them away, if they exploded, the mage bar was gone, if it did not, it was gone. Slowly, a way was being cleared through the defenses, even though the human mage-fire never ceased and the casualties of those doing the clearing were high beyond counting. Yuku started to lead the seven surviving members of her coven forward along the cleared path, summoning up enough energy to unleash another series of bolts against the defenders. That was when the foot soldier leading her raised his trident.
“No further Highness. This is as far as we can go, the next line of human defenses is ahead of us.
And on either side of us and behind us thought Yuku. Nowhere is protected on this battlefield where the humans can see all, and their mages can strike where they will.
Then, she heard a strange whistling sound and more mage-bolt explosions. Only these were soft in comparison with those she had experienced on the banks of the Phlegethon, and they looked different. Instead of rolling clouds of black and red smoke, surrounded by thrown earth, they were gentle and white, almost angelic in the purity of their whiteness. Yuku watched confused as the white feather-like tendrils spread into a cloud that was utterly opaque yet still had the blinding white purity of the initial bursts. The clouds started to rise and that was when Yuku felt the intense heat as more of the mage bolts spread the white cloud still further.
Yuku was suddenly aware that the white cloud was irritating her eyes and her nose was running. A stray cloud of white smoke swept over her, and she coughed, an explosive cough that shook her whole body. She looked around, she and her nagas were surrounded by white fragments that were falling over the whole area. One of the fragments landed on her skin and she looked at it, curiously at first but then in horror as her scales started to bubble and smolder. The lump was eating its way into her body, she could feel it searing into her flesh as it bit deeper and deeper. The agonizing pain started to spread as more and more of the lumps touched her and started the process of her destruction. All around her, figures were on the ground, rolling and screaming, trying to brush away the fragments that brought this unbelievable horror to them. Even as they did so, more of the rounds thumped down, adding yet more smoke and fragments to the cloud that was enveloping them.
The Great Beast that bore Baroness Yuku was on the ground, writhing and bellowing in agony as the white mage fire burned into its body. Yuku was trapped underneath it, her body being crushed by the beast’s weight even as it burned from the white mage fire. As she died in searing, mind-crushing agony, Yuku learned that it was very unwise to upset humans.